By ten o'clock, Marit had overcome her tears and was dressed in the most coquettish little sailor-girl costume that ever a Princess of Wales aspired to. Yet all this was to a purpose. For now that she had been dressed so finely, Mr. Bowler proposed to take her visiting, and set off to pay a call upon the Signore, our most illustrious neighbour. It was a test of Marit's ladylike qualities and the determining of whether she was still a child at heart or already a woman. The difference, Gussie, is simple but significant. When a girl-child has been smacked with the strap as Marit had just been, she blemishes the best society by forlorn little whimperings and whining for several hours afterwards. If she is a young woman, she does her best to conceal the discomfort of her burning and strap-swollen bum-cheeks under an appearance of demure compliance with every command. So Marit was taken as a guest to the Signore's villa, where she acquitted herself as a young woman of fifteen. I understand that they were extremely exacting with her. Marit was required, as a matter of politeness, to sit bolt upright on a hard little chair with a coffee-cup in her hand and to answer with extreme politeness when spoken to by her elders. The Signore was quite bowled over by the little coquette-as who could fail to be? He asked a hundred questions about her, where she came from, who her family might be, whether she would be missed if some arrangement was made for the winter months to prevent her return to the cold northern climate. He required a recital of all the bad habits which she might have acquired upon her arrival at adolescence and all the disciplines she had received even as a very little girl. In short, his fascination with Marit was unqualified, though I hear that the girl herself went into a state of the most charming blushes at some of his inquiries and could not manage to utter a word in reply. In order that their private interrogation of her should not be overheard by the servants, they dismissed the two maids and required Marit herself to be their waitress. As she moved among them, skirts rustling and the silken stockinged legs whispering together, they continued to discuss her.
Perhaps it was the embarrassment of this, or the need to bathe her smarting bottom with cool water, or even a more mundane feminine consideration which then prompted Marit to withdraw to the tiled lavabo for a few minutes. Yet she had scarcely closed the bolt upon her solitude and begun to unhook her skirt when a door in the side-wall opened and the Signore with two of his bravoes entered.
You may be sure that her skirts and panties were soon removed without any effort on her own part and that she was in a moment lying on the marble table which ran along the wall. The Signore was not taken aback by the red strap-prints on her smarting buttocks, indeed they seemed only to inflame his own passion for her. He was a most solicitous adorer. His fine waxed moustache tickled her between her slim Nordic thighs while his lips browsed on the humid mossy folds of her young cunt. He gave her just a thrill-and something of a fright!-with his knob, not going too far in. Her slim thighs almost had to “do the splits” to accommodate him thus far. To have given Marit a baby so early in her life would have been inexcusable, yet it was necessary for her to feel the flood of passion inside her. The entrance between the young nymph's buttocks was so tight that only a very daredevil would have attempted it. Yet the Signore is a hero sans pareil! It required half an hour of his teasing pillow-talk, a little vaseline, smelling salts, and the most extreme yielding on the girl's part to accomplish this. He was a loving tyrant to her in this final act, for he guessed that there could be little pleasure for her.
At last he murmured gently, preparing her for the finale. “Keep your bottom quite still, mia bella! You shall have it now!” The brown tresses swept her collar as she turned her face in some alarm. There was no ecstasy for her on the first occasion, only a slight grimace of revulsion at the feeling of warm slipperiness squirting deep in her young bottom. I may tell you that young Marit's private diary, now in my possession, confirms all this. She was disgusted at the sensation and yet secretly flattered that it had been done to her by a man famous even in the schoolbooks of Scandinavia. You see, dear Gussie, the charming paradox of pleasure. Such a girl may admire or even love the man, while hating the submission she must make. Had it been other than the seed of a sublime poet which she carried in her young backside as she walked back to the Villa Lola with such cautious demure steps and her head modestly lowered, I daresay the entry in her private diary would have been greatly different. Mr. Bowler might tell you of a case which furnishes an instructive contrast When he returns, ask him to show you his photographs of Elke Mahne, a sixteen-year-old Austrian pupil. She is a girl of medium height with straight brown hair cut short at her collar, an insolently pouting mouth, a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones which form a setting for her sly hazel eyes. Elke had been lesbianised at her school in Vienna and taught other tricks by boys in the woods of Linz. You might see her lying on a beach in black woollen singlet and pants of tight faded denim, shouting and groaning in the arms of one young fellow after another. To the scandalised English families she turned the pert high-boned face with its bell-shape of light brown hair. She also showed the seat of her tight denim-pants which was softly filled.
At sixteen years old Elke Mahne's bottom-cheeks had a slight seductive fatness to them which had not yet turned to flabbiness. The Signore had her at his disposal but, you may be sure, a young slut like Elke has no taste for sublime verses. She was less innocent, more promiscuous and rebellious than Marit. Yet the perfect artist intercepted her and commanded his valet to prepare the scene, behind the bolted door of the tiled space. It was necessary to strap her wrists to a pipe as she lay on the ceramic floor. Her denim pants were removed and with his own hands the Signore took down Elke Mahne's knickers. He spread vaseline between the buttocks of his ill-natured Austrian girl and used her just as he used Marit. In the light of her inexcusable promiscuity, most English moralists would applaud the fact that she was made to provide for the Signore's pleasure without tasting any herself. Elke gasped and cursed, she whined and grizzled, as he stretched her round the rim of his stiffness and entered her backside. Because she was indifferent to the finer things and could not appreciate his poetic reputation, she did not behave with Marit's decorum. When he pumped his gruel into Elke Mahne's sixteen-year-old bottom, she made a sound of disgust in her throat and wailed that the squirting of the warm spawn in her young rear made her feel sick with revulsion. You see the paradox, my dear Gussie? Elke Mahne retched at the outpouring, loathing the man. Marit lies and receives it with reluctance-yet thrills at knowing that the man who does it to her is a marvel in nature! When one thinks of it, after all, the greatest passion in the world may end as the meagre and brief outpouring of a substance which, if it does not cause one to avert the eyes, at least has no sublime attractiveness. For all that, life must come to an end without its aid. Hence the importance of poetry and the sublime poet of the Signore's type. It is the poetic dimension which makes palatable the continuation of our species. All honour to Petrarch, then. Would we admire him more for having splattered the thighs of his fair idol with a substance inferior to a spoonful of gruel? And is not Marit right, after all? Must we not honour the Signore for the feelings which his words planted in her heart rather than for the squirting which he left in her trim little bottom?