A Night in a Moorish Harem/The Italian Lady's Story
|←The Moorish Lady's Story||A Night in a Moorish Harem
The Italian Lady's Story
|The Circassian Lady's Story→|
I am sorry to confess that I did not possess a maidenhead when I was married. It caused a jealousy and suspicion in my husband's mind which I could not eradicate. When I was a girl of sixteen at school in a convent, one of my companions handed me an improper book. It contained the amours of the ancient gods and goddesses. They were painted so minutely that it left nothing to be imagined, and it so fascinated me that I at once began it. I retired to my room and bolted my door to devour it undisturbed. I took off my clothes, and, putting on my dressing gown, lay on my bed to read at my ease. Alone as I was, my cheeks burned at the lascivious descriptions in the book. Then I longed to be in the place of one of the goddesses or nymphs in the wanton adventures. The blood coursed hotly through my veins. I felt the need of something which I never had before, something to quench the seething heat for the first time generated in my loins. I put my hand on the seat of desire; the young hair which grew there had not yet become thick enough to protect the lips beneath from the most casual touch. They grew sensitive under my hands, and, after I read of the rape or seduction of one goddess after another, my fingers slipped in between the lips and, by a gentle movement, afforded me some pleasure. The motion to be satisfactory had constantly to be increased until I came to the raptures of Venus in the arms of Mars. My wantonness became uncontrollable, a sensation such as was described in the book partially thrilled me, I plunged my fingers in the whole length to complete it and away went my maidenhead. It hurt me cruelly, but I did not care for that. I knew the irreparable injury which my folly had caused. I was disgusted with my folly and flung the book away. I never put my fingers on that same place again, much less let any man touch me. One night I told my husband all the pitiful truth, but he was still suspicious. We lived in Naples. He was a professor in the university. He seemed to think of nothing but science. For two or three weeks together he would go to bed with me and rise again without even having put his hand under my chemise, and still more rarely gave me the marital embrace. But I did not suffer myself to care for that. One day I accompanied him on a journey to another town to look for some rare manuscripts of which he had heard. We were going on a lonely road through a forest when a large and gaily dressed brigand stepped from the woods and stopped the horse. 'Resist at your peril,’ he said, pointing a cocked pistol and leading the horse and vehicle into a lonely side path. When we had got some distance from the main road he stopped and ordered us to get out. He fastened the horse to a tree and then procured some cord from his pocket with which he firmly bound my husband's hands behind his back; then, having also tied his feet together, he bound him to a tree and searched him for valuables. 'Now, my fair lady,’ said he, approaching me, ‘it is your turn.' 'Take my jewellery—it is all I've got—and let me go.' 'Thank you for the present,’ he said, ‘but you have got something else I prize still more.’ Then he put his arm around my waist and attempted to kiss me. I struggled to get free, while my husband alternately cursed and entreated him, but all to no purpose. I tried to get close to my husband, but it only served to make him a nearer witness of what followed. I was suddenly tripped and thrown on the grass with the brigand on top of me. He held both of my hands on the ground above my head with one of his own; with the other he tore open the front of my dress and explored my bosoms, which he rifled with his hand and sucked with his mouth. Then he pulled up the skirts of my dress and petticoat. I redoubled my exertions and even got one of my hands loose; but by this time he had forced open my thighs with his knee and lay between them. He pinioned both of my hands as before, leaving one of his hands free to get out his shaft and enter it into me. Then every struggle I made seemed to work him in further. I could only sob with rage and shame. The brigand, with his Herculean strength, did his will with me right before my husband's eyes, who had by this time howled himself hoarse with curses. Angry and mortified, as I was, it began to feel good. To escape this crowning humiliation I made one tremendous effort to get free. I was pinioned to the ground by a fierce thrust of my ravisher, and then I felt the cream of his strength entering my loins. The sensation almost thrilled me, but his powerful grasp so relaxed that by a great effort I extracted myself from beneath him. I ran to my husband and began untying him, but the brigand seized me by the wrists and dragged me some distance up the pathway. Then he suddenly thrust his hand into my bosom and gave it a parting squeeze, kissed my averted face and let me go. I ran back trembling and sobbing to my husband, whom I unbound as rapidly as possible. He unfastened the horse without saying a word or even helping me into the vehicle and drove home in silent and sullen gloom. It was too cruel. I had been able to endure his suspicions with regard to the loss of my maidenhead, because it had been the result of my own folly. But this dreadful rape had been committed without any fault of mine. He never afterward lay with me or held me in his embrace, although we continued to live together. A young woman in the bloom of vigour and just well enough initiated with the mysteries of matrimony, I was condemned to celibacy. Wanton thoughts occupied my mind until my sheath would throb and its lips moisten and swell with desire for hours together. I reverted to the means that had despoiled me of my maidenhead, but I was in a state of constant agitation. My husband suspected me; I determined to give him a cause. It seemed as if no one man could satisfy me now; I longed for an opportunity to give rein to my passions. At this time a Russian fleet came into the harbour. My sister's husband was a naval officer in the harbour and it devolved on him to help entertain the Russian officers. So my sister gave a masked ball to which they were invited. My husband would not go but he made no objections to my attending and staying all night at my sister's house. My room opened from the passage that connected the ballroom with the conservatory. I procured a long and ample nun's robe which covered me from my throat to my toes; it had also a cowl which concealed my head and face. Under this disguise I had the dress—or rather the undress—of a dancing girl; a vest of cloth of gold and a skirt of the thinnest lawn were absolutely the only articles of which it consisted, besides my stockings and slippers. The vest had no sleeves or shoulders and exposed my bosom clear to the nipples. If I moved quickly the short and gauzy skirt showed my naked thighs. As soon as the guests began to mingle on the floor I touched the arm of a stalwart Russian officer; he, like all the other guests, was masked, but I knew he was a Russian by his fair hair. ‘Follow me,’ I whispered. We entered the passageway described, and finding it clear I led him to my room. 'What a dainty bower!’ he said in French. ‘Will its sweet-voiced occupant be pleased that we both unmask?’ He removed his mask and disclosed one of those ruddy countenances with bright eyes and fair hair which always so bewitch an Italian lady. I flung back my nun's disguise and stood revealed to him in the costume of a lascivious young dancing girl. The young Russian seemed to admire my dark Italian complexion as much as I admired his northern hue. He knelt and kissed my hand.'Can you pity a bride,’ said I, ‘whose husband neglects her?' A flush of pleasure crossed the officer's face which made my looks seek the floor. ‘It would be the supremest happiness,’ he said, ‘to pity and console you.’ He clasped his arms around me and our lips met. The moment I had so long desired for had now come. I was borne in his strong arms to the bed, where I lay palpitating with desire while he stripped off his outer garments. Then the fervour of our kisses and caresses showed the length of time we had both suffered without an embrace. My dress formed no obstacle to his caresses, either to my bosom, which he fairly seemed to devour, or to my thighs, which he squeezed and patted. I guided his shaft with one hand while with the other I parted the hair encircling the lips to receive it. How stiff it was, and yet how full of life and warmth! How tight, and yet how soft and lubricated was the place it was entering! I was so eager I had not even affected to be coy. 'How delicious!’ he exclaimed. 'How exquisite!’ I replied. He gave a thrust which enabled me to take his shaft in to the hilt. Then he gave another and another, each successive one more greedily swallowed. Flesh and blood could no longer endure the rapture that was concentrated at my very loins! I thrilled from my womb to my very fingertips! I melted and bathed his hot crest; his responsive gush drenched my glowing womb. It seemed as if we were being fused together at the point of contact. Then our muscles relaxed closely in the moisture and we engaged for awhile in voluptuous repose. 'Now kiss me and go,’ said I, ‘and if you value the favour I have granted you, leave this house at once.’ My object was to fill his place with another handsome Russian, who might come fresh to the encounter, and whose genitals my wanton hands might explore and my wanton desire ravish. Months of longing were to be supplied by one night of boundless lust. Six times more before the ball broke up I took a Russian officer to my room and dismissed him as before—and each time a different one. Each time I was completely melted, and my Italian moisture mingled with the Russian sperm. The next morning my glass showed me that I had dark and sunken circles around my eyes, and I was somewhat languid, but for a few days at least I was not troubled with desire.
* * * * * *
The fat and charming Italian lady had been gently fondling my genitals all the while she had been speaking and my shaft had begun to rise at the delicate attention. When she finished her story she knelt before me with her forehead on the carpet, laughingly saying, ‘Salaam, alirkoum,’ which was the Moorish to signify she was at my service. Her large, round buttocks were elevated in the air and looked so temptingly smooth and soft that I mounted her in that position as a stallion would mount a mare. She seemed nothing loth and my halfstiffened shaft worked its way in past the swollen lips—past the extraordinary protuberance within, which my fingers had first discovered—and buried itself amid the moist and clinging folds of her sheath. My loins sank into her fat buttocks, which yielded as I pushed, till my stones were hidden in her hair like eggs in a nest. Still I kept pushing into the yielding mass without once drawing back till my shaft grew stiff with the delightful sensation, and my crest exchanged a wanton desire with her womb. I held her firmly by clasping a great, soft breast in either hand. A few minutes more and I would have paid tribute to her voluptuous loins, but Laura could not wait. With a sigh of satisfaction her frame became limp, her knees gave way and she sank flat upon her belly. My shaft drew out of her far more stiff than it went in. The same accompanying sucking noise that ended my connection with Helene set them all to laughing. 'I must take a measurement,’ said one of them and, taking off her bracelet, she clasped it around my shaft. But the clasp would not fasten. The bracelet was not large enough. Then they all tried their bracelets on with the same result. 'How shall we measure its length?’ said one of them. 'Four of you have that measure already,’ said I, ‘and you know I promised it to all of you. Please let me take some measurements now,’ I added, unwinding the garter from the leg of the nearest lady. It was a piece of strong tape and suited my purpose admirably. I measured the size of all their bosoms and the circumference of their thighs, and then, amid laughing protestations, I parted the hair between each pair of thighs and measured the length of their slits. In the last measurement they all seemed to be desirous of being the smallest, as in the other they each wished to be the largest in size. The young Persian who told her story later in the evening bore off the palm in the last contest. Her diminutive slit looked all the more cunning that the hair around it was hardly long enough to curl. Zuleika had the largest bosoms, while the thighs of Laura defied competition. 'Here, Anna, take the scarf,’ interrupted the Italian, ‘and tell the Captain something about Circassia.' The lady thus addressed was about nineteen years of age and she was very tall and slender. Her limbs were finely tapered; so was her round waist, which I could have spanned with my two hands. Her nicely cut breasts were as erect as if they had been carved from alabaster, which her skin resembled in whiteness. The hair on her small head was of the palest blonde, but that at her loins was fiery red, which I had read was a sign of uncontrollable wantonness.If so, this lady's face gave no indication of it. Her large blue eyes looked at you with the innocence of childhood, and the delicate roseate hue of her cheeks varied at every changing emotion. She did not seem sensible, however, of the privilege conferred upon her by the scarf. She stretched herself between my thighs, where she leaned with her elbow on the cushion, supporting her graceful head with her hand. Her bosom rested on my loins and my shaft was imprisoned by her snowy breasts from between which its red crest peeped out while she looked me in the face and told her lascivious story.