Chapter 3
A prospect of Coombe-Distance lends enchantment to the view-Master Miles and his reformatory for wayward girls-His harem of adolescent beauty-Schoolgirl nymphs and tomboys-Our visit to Mr. Bowler, the man of property-Tracey, delectable nymph of sixteen-Pat and Ange, the two young wenches attending her-Having fun with Tracey on the massage-table-Girls' oiled fingers between her bare thighs-Tracey's nipples stiffened up-Loving lips and sly tongues-Caresses and bottom-smacks-How lovely Tracey looks as she has her naked orgasm while her master watches-Pat and Ange permitted a brief Lesbian embrace under their master's gaze meet the famous Mr. Bowler.
After my frolics of the previous night with Sian, you will readily believe that I rose next morning in excellent spirits. Breakfast at Coombe is of the good old English style, not the Frenchified triviality which hardly whets a mans appetite. The polished sideboard was set with silver chafing-dishes in which mutton chops, broiled mackerel, kidneys and sausages were kept piping hot. There was a good choice of muffins, toast, butter and marmalade. Being a gentleman's house, no servants wait upon us at breakfast. Each newcomer helps himself from the sideboard and carries the dishes to his place. Only in the vulgar households of the parvenus do maidservants attend at breakfast. Their proper business is to be making the beds and sweeping the upper rooms.
I opened the Times and the Morning Post-a gentlemen does not attempt conversation at such an hour-and furtively watched my two charming wards, Laura and Ruth. One so pretty, the other so solemn, I could hardly credit that they were the same girls who had been driven so lewd by the rocking-horse and saddle a few hours ago.
Breakfast was scarcely over when Heathers came up to me with a note on a silver tray. I opened it and was vastly intrigued by the invitation. Mr. Bowler, the saddler, and Master Miles of the reformatory were the two other notables of Coombe village. They and I were the three justices who sat upon the bench and dealt with the petty crimes of the neighborhood. These two gentlemen begged the honor of presenting me their compliments and of waiting upon me at my earliest convenience.
Vastly intriguing! Yet I, as a new arrival, might also choose to visit them first. I had never seen the inside of a girls' reformatory and was much provoked by the prospect. Mr. Bowler's estate was adjacent to that institution and so I decided to ride over this very morning and quench my curiosity.
In half an hour I was riding out across the grounds of Coombe towards the Shaplock road on which their properties lay. I do not mean to boast but I was monstrously proud of the house and grounds I now owned. At a little distance from my drawing-room terrace lay the stable-block built in the same classical style with its cupola and gilded weather-vane. My grounds lay along the pleasant secluded valley and up the wooded slopes to either hand. Nowhere could these gardens be overlooked by strangers. The grounds had been laid out in the eighteenth century with lawns and paths, wooded groves and secret bowers. A stream gushed down the valley forming an ornamental cascade which filled the lake near the house itself. The cascade might have been copied from a romantic view of Salvator Rosa. Here the hand of the eighteenth century had built a pretty grotto. Close by, in the taste of the age, there stood by the lake a fine Grecian folly, the Temple of the Winds.
I rode out at the side-gate of the park on to the narrow country road which links the villages of Coombe and Shaplock, a distance of about a dozen miles. My route lay between little streams and undulating fields, the hedgerows bright with primrose and harebell, even in the late summer. I went a good English mile before I saw Master Miless domain. Let me describe it.
This reformatory institution for the correction of wayward girls and young women was solidly built of golden ashlar stone. It had a collegiate look, being composed of various courtyards in which gardens were laid out. The harems of the Orient are built on the same principle, their windows inward-looking, so thatthe pleasures of the master with his slave-girls are concealed from public view. In the case of the reformatory, the outward windows were narrow and securely barred. The only entrance was through a deep archway with locked gates at either end and the door to the porters room concealed within it. Enclosing the buildings and grounds, hiding even the gates from the road, was a stone wall quite thirty feet high with a rolled-top. Neither the most agile nymph nor the most determined young woman would ever scale it. Impudent tomboys of fifteen and proud beauties of twenty-five were equally prisoners of their masters will.
This outer wall was pierced by a single arched gate of studded panels, securely locked. On the outer side hung a bell-pull. I tugged it, heard the jangle of the clapper and the footsteps of the porter. At the sight of me and the sound of my name the crook-backed fellow doffed his cap, bowed his head, and almost tore the hairs of his forelock from his head. A stable-lad took my horse and I was escorted through the entrance arch into the first courtyard.
The neatly painted windows looked inwards upon this charming secret garden, their frames embowered by red gilly-blossom and flowery climbing stock whose fragrance filled the warm air. A group of girls in striped ties, white blouses, and navy-blue skirts of their school uniform stood close by. The porter called the eldest of them, a broad-hipped lass with lively blue eyes and lank brown hair to her shoulders. This fifteen-year-old skipped forward at once, pulling up a wayward white knee-sock as she did so.
"Sandra Williams! Get to your master. Tell him that Lord Frederick is here! Pull your knee-sock straight first!"
This well-behaved fifth-form tomboy bent down to adjust the top of the white sock just below her knee. The porter flipped up the back of her skirt. Sandra's panties were revealed as being briefs of white cotton web. They fitted tightly, shaping her hips and the round healthy cheeks of her behind. Before she could straighten up, the fellow spat on his hand and administered a sizzling smack on Sandra Williams's fifteen-year-old bottom. She jumped up, gasping at the smart and bit at her lip to hold back a cry. Then she ran off on her errand, one cheek of her knicker-seat wet and the bottom-shape underneath red with a throbbing sting.
Presently a door opened and Master Miles himself appeared. He had been engaged in some vigorous labor for I saw him rolling down his shirtsleeves and pulling on his jacket. James Miles was a man of fifty or so, in the prime of physical condition. He boasted a barrel chest, a short but powerful figure, and fine mutton-chop whiskers which added to his air of authority. There was a certain roughness in his manner which might have caused remark in Park lane or the Place Vendome. However, in the countryside of England, were prize-fighting and cock-matches take precedence over manners and witty compliments, such bluff honesty is a mark of the best people. For my part, if the price of admission to his female reformatory was to tolerate his earthy talk, I would tolerate it and be glad.
"How d'ye do, sir? How d'ye do?" gasped the master, seizing my hand and pumping it. Then he recollected the difference in our social ranks. "How d'ye do, my lord!"
I returned the honours as best I could. In no time at all the fine old fellow was guiding me through his little domain, showing off his harem of thirty or forty girls and rattling off a list of polite conversational topics. We had the weather, the crops, the sad loss of John Fortesque, the iniquities of government meddling in local affairs, the monstrous amount taken from a man in rates and taxes.
But most of all Master Miles loved to show off his treasures. After talking of the decline of discipline and the lack of manners among the young, two national calamities, he asked:
"Do you whip, my lord?"
It was the identical question which my butler had put to me the afternoon before. If I were to retain the confidence of Master Miles, there was but one answer.
"As often as may be required," I said smoothly. Had I not, after all, applied the martinet to the bare cheeks of Sian's butt the previous night? My reader may be the judge.
Master Miles grinned at me. I could do no wrong, being a man after his own heart. We walked through the courtyards and he drew my attention first to the group of genteel girls in their school uniforms. Sandra I had already met.
"See there, sir!" said the master, "Was ever man so plagued by two fourth-form hussies as this pair? Pray, my lord, regard 'em!"
I looked at them. Linda was a pale and sensuous little blonde who wore her fair hair in short mane on her lapel. By contrast Valerie appeared a gamine figure with slender legs, slim buttocks, a shock of auburn hair, blue eyes and faint freckles. At the sight of a man, Linda sniggered and Valerie giggled as they whispered of penis and pleasure. These two little Messalinas at fourteen were a match for any of their kind.
I swear it was deliberate, as we passed, that Linda stood upon the raised path and stooped with her back to me, as if to tie her shoelace. I had a full view of the soft translucent pallor of her thighs, bare above her knee-socks. Her white briefs of elasticated cotton moulded the soft pussy-flesh between her legs. In the warm weather, the seat of her panties had ridden up at one side, laying bare much of one smooth pale cheek of Linda's young bottom! The little tart! The little prick-teaser! Such were the thoughts running through my head. Was I mistaken? Surely not.
Several fifteen-year-olds had been put to labor, many of them with the look of slum-girls about them. I made passing acquaintance with lewd Mich-ele, a lithe and energetic youngster whose veil of brown hair was combed aslant her forehead in a style of calculated seduction. The master also pointed out his favorite object of discipline-Elaine Cox, an adolescent tomboy in white singlet and working-trousers of smooth gray-blue, which fitted tight over her robust young hips and thighs. Tossing back the lank fair hair which framed the broad and impudent oval of her face, she bent to her task of lifting flower-bulbs from the earth for winter storage.
"Elaine Cox, a dirty little scrubber!" said Master Miles, pointing out this insolent youngster, "Just like her big sister!"
The tight-strained trouser-seat as she bent presented the full and broadened cheeks of Elaine Cox's fifth-form bottom, suggestively fattened in this posture. Any true disciplinarian would have felt his penis harden at this rear view of her. Nor would he have been content with the reformatory cane used so regularly on the bare buttocks of Michele-let alone Elaine! With this "dirty little scrubber," as Miles called her, firmly strapped down-and he confronted by the vulgar tomboy cheeks of Elaine Cox's fifteen-year-old bottom-the temptation to use a pony-lash of woven snakeskin might prove irresistible!
The secrets of the girls' reformatory must be revealed in a later volume of these memoirs. There is no space here to tell of so many nymphs and tomboys. How the master coveted her when Elaine Cox was thirteen and he first saw her walking home from school. How she was consigned to the reformatory at fourteen and her insolence rewarded by a year of bare-bottomed whip-discipline. How she was acquired by a villain who took her to a remote house beyond the Danube. How he had Elaine Cox strapped bare-bottomed over a trestle in a sinister room, from which he alone emerged. Her insolence had provoked him to the ultimate severities.
"Mr. Bowler would esteem it an honor to make your acquaintance at once, my lord," said Master Miles, breaking in upon my admiration of Elaine's tomboy backside. "If you have leisure, I could take you to him now. You are quite sure that you whip, my lord?"
"Invariably," I assured him, "Without question."
I soon learnt that in such places as this, the pretext of laying bare female beauty for moral discipline unlocked a treasure-house of sensual enjoyments for man and maid alike. Such stalwart fellows as Master Miles were paid handsomely by the government for undressing teenage girls and putting them to uses which would have cost a princes ransom in many a brothel.
"Abolish the whip," said the master confidentially, "and we shall go the way of France. Red republicanism, sir! Mark my words! The army would mutiny and the schools turn to bedlam. Empire itself would fall. When I have a young scrubber like Elaine Cox or even Michele, with her panties
"The present editor of Lord Frederiek Cyr's memoirs, trusts that he may publish a seeond volume on this topic, House of Correction, to be had of the Bibliophile Society, 13 Rue du Faubourg de Montmartre, Paris 9e. down, you may be sure I make 'em feel their position most acutely!"
"Not a government minister nor a single bishop in the House of Lords would dispute it, sir," I said, "The number of girls under your discipline and the long hours of day and night you devote to their training deserve a greater reward. You may be sure I shall mention the matter in your favor to my friend Lord Fawn who holds a preferment at the Home Office."
The good old fellow beamed at me.
"The blessings of Mrs. Miles and the little ones shall be yours, my lord," he murmured, taking my hand in a manly grasp, "Now, let us pay our respects to Mr. Bowler. He longs to make your acquaintance."
You shall hear more of Mr. Bowler presently. He was no more village saddler but a man of wealth and reputation, supplier of horse-furniture to the ceremonial detachments of our mounted regiments. In St. James's and Oxford, Bath and Harrogate, Windsor and Brighton, his shops also supplied harness and whips to gentlemen riders and the "pretty horsebreakers" of Rotten Row. His considerable estate was adjacent to Master Miles's reformatory.
The master led me into his quarters and through a private door in the high wall, so that we came out before the fine new dwelling of Bowler Park. Deci-mus Burton had a hand in its creation for it was a masterpiece of Venetian style, with the glass domes of conservatories and hot-houses adjoining it. As we approached it, Master Miles whispered to me.
"Mr. Bowler has something of a taste for strapping young wenches of nineteen or twenty. Sometimes he puts them to shopwork and sometimes they serve him here. He chooses girls whom the justices have sentenced to Bridewell for four or five years. He being a magistrate himself, the girls may serve their time as his maids. They are kept safe and secure as in any lock-up. There are three young trollops under his roof now. Noreen, Angela and Patricia. Noreen is twenty-one. Pat and Ange are a little less. Mr. Bowler is a tyrannical but loving guardian to them. Even after a year, if you were to examine them, you would find that their backsides know the taste of leather. They respond very quickly to a caress between their legs. Their lips and tongues have an aptitude for licking and sucking. Their bottom-holes appear rather more elastic than would be accounted for by a girl's natural functions."
"And do they not protest at such things?" I asked, laughing at such outlandish frolics.
Master Miles laid his finger to his nose.
"They may protest to the local bench of justices, if they choose."
"Who sits upon it?"
"Why," said the grinning old fellow, "I do. And Mr. Bowler himself is the other. The late Mr. Fortescue's place is taken by you."
Here was a delightful state of affairs. I should be a liar if I pretended that a growing sense of excitement did not swell within me at the fun which was now promised.
"Moreover," said Master Miles, "Mr. Bowler has just acquired a fourth girl of different kind. Tracey is the most beautiful and willowly nymph of sixteen with blonde hair so long and silken!"
There was a knowingness in the old fellows eyes as he glanced sidelong with these words. To tell you the truth, Master Miles acted for all the world as if he might be as much the master of this estate as Mr. Bowler himself. I was not, then, surprised when he led me round by the side of the house towards one of the fine conservatories under a wide glass dome. Its tiled floor was neatly set with terra cotta vases from which there grew young date-palms and rubber-plants, orchids and pink oleander.
"See, my lord," he said presently, "Is she not a beauty?"
He was looking through the glass and until I drew level with him I imagined he must be talking of some plant or other. But then, in a space like a jungle clearing at the centre of the hot-house, I saw a most delightful scene.
There were three young women. Two of them, though stripped to bodices and tight cotton pants, would win no prizes for beauty. They were Pat and Ange, working-girls of nineteen or twenty. Ange was a soft and even plump young slut whose tight blue cotton pants from waist to knees revealed rather heavy thighs and fattish butt-cheeks. She had a round face, though straight featured, blue eyes and dark hair which had been razor-cut as short as a boy's.
One saw at once that Ange was a cautious and apprehensive girl. Not so Pat. She showed a lewdness and vivacity quite lacking in the other. Her figure was firmer and trimmer, though with the robust look of a working lass. Her golden hair was closely waved and shaped to her head, trimmed short well above her shoulders. It was the slant of her dark hazel eyes which conveyed the hint of Pat's promiscuity. Her face also had something of that resolute hardened look which suggests determination in the pursuit of Lust. They were both Mr. Bowler's shopgirls.
What were these two young whores, Pat and Ange, doing? The answer was Tracey, who approached the table at that very moment. I looked at this delicious sixteen-year-old and felt my heart would stop. How to describe her? She had a slinky seductive beauty and yet a look of dignity. Her fair-skinned face was finely modeled and her blue eyes looked steadily in front as she walked. Her hair was of the heavy silken kind and a golden blonde in color. She wore it loose in a slanting sweep across her forehead so that it hung to her shoulder-blades. How she will make your mouth water as you hear more of her!
Yet it was not her face but her figure which would have drawn the gaze of most men. She was naked just then and, surely, her fair-skinned loveliness would have roused the envy of Venus herself. Tracey is not thin but she is tall, graceful and trimly proportioned. Her shoulders have an elegant feminine slope and her breasts rise with a youthful resilience, bobbing as she moves. Her belly is flat and her back has just the right inward curve which causes a delectable swelling out at the hips.
As the crown of her lower beauty, Tracey has a soft golden triangle of hair at the base of her young belly. Her legs have that fine branching slimness, long and elegant, which is the mark of the true nymph. Nor would you scorn to watch Tracey from the rear as she walks away. There is that lithe and sensuous sway of the hips, the rhythm of the grown woman felt naturally by this sixteen-year-old. The rear of her legs is no less fluted and graceful than the front. How fine her narrow waist and the swell of her young hips! And who could scorn the demure yet full curved ovals of Tracey s bottom-cheeks.
My heart jumped again as I realized what we were about to witness. It was no less than the exciting scene of Diana at the bath-enacted in modern guise!
From behind a palm tree, Mr. Bowler stepped forward and joined his girls. I guessed it was he-a fine stout man of forty-five with darkly gleaming eyes and a vigorous black moustache. Though a little balding, he was powerfully built and his every movement suggested energy and passion. Small wonder he had need of so many girls to supply him-or that he preferred strapping young whores like Pat and Ange.
"Lie on the table, Tracy!" he said, waiting for her to put one knee demurely up and then smacking her delicious bottom hard. Tracey caught her breath at the sting of his hand on the luscious oval of her bare ass-cheek. She scrambled quickly on top to the massage-table brushing back the slant of golden hair from her face with the edge of her hand. Sitting with her bare legs curled up like a graceful river-nymph on a rock, this sixteen-year-old beauty awaited her masters command.
"Lie down on your side, Tracey. Pat and Ange must oil and perfume you, ready for your visit to my study after lunch."
Tracey obeyed him, like a good little girl seeking to please her teacher. It was Pat, with her hard young features and the randy slant in her hazel eyes, who prepared the young nymph while Ange with her softer figure and razor-trimmed hair supplied the jars of oil and cream. At twenty years old Pat appeared a lewd young slut who, though not married, had served many a lusty young penis. She lowered the close-moulded crop of her blonde hair and kissed Tracey on the lips, easing them apart by the pressure of her mouth until she could flutter her tongue against that of the sixteen-year-old beauty.
Pat drew away, dipped her fingers in the scented oil and then touched her lips to Traceys again.
"Lie still, Trace', my love," she said gently. Playing the game of tongues with her victim, Pat worked her oiled fingers over the taut young breasts, teasing the nipples till they stood stiff and inflamed with desire. As the hand traveled lower, Tracey's flat young belly seemed to yearn towards it, begging to be caressed by the older girl whose tongue played in her mouth. I could not help feeling that Pat was a wicked young bitch who deserved some hard riding by her master.
Now the oiled fingers touched Tracey's pubic fleece, easing their way between the lithe young thighs. Though muffled by the tongue in her mouth, Tracey cried out in anticipation. Pat's fingers played and twiddled the sensitive young clitoris. How our sixteen-year-old nymph writhed in the anguish of unfulfilled desire!
"Lie still, Tracey!" said Mr. Bowler sharply, "Quite still! You must learn to control these feelings until the proper time!"
The advice was given in vain. Now Pat's lewd fingers began to caress the whole of that amorous itch, which made the younger girl's flesh creep and shudder deliciously, all the way from the cringing little clitoris.
The elegant young thighs squirmed and squeezed on the loving fingers. Tracey broke from the kiss, showering the older girl's face and neck with the passionate touch of her own lips.
"Oh, Pat!" she gasped, "Do it harder, my darling! Spare me nothing! Make me do it with you!"
If Mr. Bowler intended to cure Tracey of wanting boy-friends, he was going the right way about it! Pats fingers were moving in a firm but gentle rhythm between the graceful thighs, manualising the soft pussy-flesh, rubbing and squeezing, rubbing and squeezing, rubbing and squeezing....
Tracey s elegant young legs quivered and her agile hips jigged eagerly, like a little girl unable to wait for a treat, her hands seeking Pats panties, as if to jack off the young woman herself through the thin cotton.
"That's enough!" said Mr. Bowler presently and Pat withdrew her fingers at her master's command. "Attend to Tracey from behind."
Tracey raised her head and swept aside the slanting veil of golden hair with a sob of bereavement. Mr. Bowler looked at her tight-lipped.
"Present your backside, Tracey! You must be clean and perfumed in every detail when you appear before me after lunch!"
What! I thought. Was she to appear before him in his capacity as a justice? And how could that require this clean and perfumed state of Tracey s ass-hole? If there was a law of England requiring such hygiene in court practice, I was eager to learn of it!
Pat got down from the table, walked around it, and clambered up at the other side, kneeling behind Tracey. Mr. Bowler was clearly anxious that Tracey should not ease her longing by playing with herself between the legs. When she came to him in a little while, he intended that she should be mad with longing for the penis. Therefore her wrists were strapped together in front of her by wrist-cuffs and these, in turn, were fastened to a leather collar round her neck by a short length of light chain.
Pat caressed the graceful bow of the young girl's thighs as they branched up from her knees to her hips. Gently she kissed each of the elegant nymph-cheeks of Tracey's shapely backside. Then she parted them and examined her pupil's crack.
"Your bottom, Miss Tracey..." said Mr. Bowler sharply, "Present it properly!"
Doubt and foreboding clouded the blue eyes and the quiet beauty of the young face. Then, reluctantly, Tracey arched her hips backwards a little. With richly scented cream, Pat's fingers explored and caressed that dark forbidden rear valley. Though Tracey still seemed to mourn the loss of immediate pleasure between her legs, the stroking fingers between her buttocks had a calming and soothing effect.
"You'll learn to enjoy such toilet-sessions, Tracey, my girl!" said her master gently, "You like what Pat is doing to you now, don't you?"
It was too much to expect that Tracey should reply to this inquiry. The pride of her straight and finely-cut profile was a proof of her disposition. She lowered her face a little, as if to conceal it within the lustruous sweep of her golden-blonde hair. Pat dipped her finger in the perfumed cream a last time. On this occasion, however, she inserted the finger carefully up Tracey's butt-to the very knuckle. Tracey tensed and tried to pull away, but Pat and Ange held her.
"Lie still, Tracey," said her master, "You'll sit on Pat's finger like that for ten minutes every morning in future."
At last they helped Tracey to dress in a riding coatee and tight jodpuhrs. She was put in charge of two older women who were to keep her from spoiling herself by masturbation, ensuring that she was desperate to relieve her sexual frustration when Mr. Bowler summoned her to his study after lunch.
There was a curious sequel to this. Pat took Ange by the hand and led her to the massage-table. Each girl took her panties off and they lay facing each other in short bodices. Pat was the more randy and the more dominant. Her lips sought the other girl's mouth and soft face, kissing the boy-cut hair as well. She parted Ange's thighs and began to give the plumper nineteen-year-old a good frig. Though the victim cried out in vain protest, Pat also insisted on keeping a finger up Ange's arsehole during the process.
As she lubricated Pat's fingers with her cunt-dew, Ange's breathless writhing proclaimed that pleasure had overtaken modesty. Now it was Ange who, less skillfully, masturbated Pat at the same time. There is something about Pat which tells one that she is an experienced masturbatrix. No wonder, then, that she so controlled her spasm as to mingle her own sharp animal cries of achievement with those of plump-bottomed Ange.
And yet I have not told you of the most singular detail in all this. Perhaps you think that I alone spied upon Pat and Ange, somehow secreting myself among the palms of the conservatory? By no means. The truth is that while Patricia Prick-Sucker and Angela Fat-Arse writhed naked together, Mr. Bowler stood over them, solemnly observing every little-tickle and caress.
As soon as Pat and Ange had come on each other's fingers, their master turned and walked from the conservatory into the fragrant summer garden. He saw Master Miles and I, greeting us as calmly as if he had just come from reading the financial news in the Times.
"My lord," he said, seizing my hand in a double grip and shaking it as if I were a man of his rank rather than my own, "This is a great pleasure! A great honor to my house! I was engaged with three of my young strumpets and hope you will excuse my absence!"
Nor for a moment did he suppose I should be shocked by this. Was there some great signal, unobserved by myself, which passed between Master Miles and Mr. Bowler? I swear there must have been. From the first, it seems, Mr. Bowler knew that I "whipped," as Miles and Heathers termed it. That being the case, I must be in the habit of taking down the panties of fourteen-year-old schoolgirls and arrogant young women of twenty-eight or thirty, as if all in a days work. While their panties were down, I did all manner of other things to them as well.
So, it seems, my new friends thought. I could not bring myself to confess that they overestimated my prowess as yet. What did it matter? For the future, I promised myself, I should strive to be worthy of their high opinion of me.
Before you demur let me recall who these two gentlemen were that held me in such regard. Both are regarded as pillars of the moral order in their neighborhood. They sit upon the bench, in future with my presence too, and administer justice. Mr. Bowler is a man of the greatest prosperity who has increased the wealth of the nation and earned its gratitude. Do we blame him because he gives employment to worthless young sluts and whips them into a sense of obedience? Say, rather, it is a scandal his knighthood has been so long delayed. (Have no fear. Lord Fawn assures me he has seen the next patronage list with Bowler's name on it.) And Master Miles? What more devoted public servant could you find? He has, indeed, been honoured and well rewarded by the government he serves. Can you begrudge it? His days and nights are given to the moral correction of young scrubbers, as he says, like Elaine Cox and Sally Fenton. Midnight comes before the cane drops from his wearied hand and Sally pulls her panties up.
Say what you like in criticism of me. But never say, unless in jest, that my companions are other than the most respected men of the age. Upon such as they, England's social order and her political tranquillity depend.