Draped carelessly over a chair were my clothes-dress, camisole, brassiere, and stockings. I had no recollection of having undressed nor did I know when or under what circumstances I had fallen asleep. Monty must have taken off my clothes and subsequently departed without awakening me. At what hour he had gone I had not the faintest idea.
Painfully I dragged myself from bed and went to my mirror. My hair was a tangle and there were violet shadows under my eyes. I shivered and pressed my hands to my throbbing temples. What a night! Monty had gone without awakening me. This reminded me of something, and I turned toward my dressing table. There were some bank notes there, weighted down with one of my perfume flasks, and under them a slip of paper with some penciled scribbling:
“The next time, don't have on any lipstick. You left red rings all around it.
See you next Wednesday night. Love and Kisses. Monty.”
I rubbed my fingers over my lips and smiled involuntarily as I viewed the result. Then I tore the note into shreds and threw the pieces into the wastebasket.
I did not feel like dressing so I merely bathed my face, brushed out my hair, and went back to bed after ringing for the maid. She brought me some coffee, and toast, and I asked her to tell Madame Lafronde that I had a headache and would not be down until later.
About three o'clock Madame Lafronde came up to see me.
“What's the matter, Jessie? Anything wrong?”
“No; my sleeper kept me awake all night, and I've a headache, that's all.”
“You can rest up tonight. You needn't come downstairs if you don't feel like it. How are you getting on with Austin?”
“All right. He's not so bad. I like him. He gave me another five pounds.”
“Well, be, smart, and keep him in a giving humor. I was rather doubtful about him at first. He's got a bad reputation.”
I stayed in my room the rest of the afternoon and evening, but along about ten o'clock I got restless, and hearing a great deal of laughter floating up from the parlor I decided to dress and go down.
Under the genial guidance of a gentleman who had just come from America, a game of “strip poker” was in hilarious progress. Five girls were seated around a small table, cards were dealt to them, and the penalty of a losing hand was the removal of one of the few pieces of apparel the loser wore. To keep up the morale of the players, a grand prize to the winner, and consolation prizes to the losers were being offered.
Already one of the girls was down to her panties, and another to panties, brassiere and one stocking. Even as I stood there trying to grasp the intricacies of the game, a shout went up, and the unfortunate in panties threw down her cards in disgust.
“Come on, Bobby! No welching! Take them off!”
Now it is one thing to take your panties off in the presence of a man in the privacy of a room, and quite another to take them off in front of a crowd of laughing people, and I smiled faintly as I watched the victim's flushed face.
But welching is an unforgivable sin in sporting circles, and she was game. Off came the little silk panties and the spectators, or the masculine element of them at least, had the pleasure of gazing on the patch of dark, twisted little curls that rose from the apex of her legs and spread fan-wise over her pubic mount.
“Now can I put my clothes on again?”
“No, no, no! Not until the game is finished!”
And so it continued, to the immense delight of the onlookers, until all but one of the scarlet-faced players were sitting around naked, some pretending a brazen insouciance, others trying to cover their cunnies and breasts with hands and arms.
“An insipid idea of fun,” I thought to myself as I looked on indifferently. “Why are men so crazy to look at a girl's cunt? One would think it was the prettiest thing in the world. Whatever they find pretty about one must be in their imaginations. But…” I thought, continuing my moody philosophy, “if men didn't think they were pretty, it would be just too sad for us.”
And an involuntary smile crossed my lips as there came to my mind the story about the orator for women's suffrage who shouted from the platform: “After all, ladies and gentlemen, women are only slightly different from men…” Whereupon a voice from the gallery interrupted: “Hurrah for the slight difference!”
I lingered long enough to pick up some small silver in the form of a gratuity from a pleasantly inebriated gentleman who attached himself to me and could not be dislodged until I permitted him to put his hand down the front of my dress and feel my bubbles. He wanted very badly to go to a room with me, but I managed to divert his attentions to Hester and made my escape.
The next night was Wainwright's. He came punctually as always and went through his customary nonsense. Generally I extracted some amusement from my exalted status of Fairy Princess, and although I had always to be on the alert to keep him from biting me in the moment of ecstasy, there was something about the fantastic proceeding that left me in an excited condition.
He sucked me deliciously, but rarely continued it long enough to quench the fires the caress started. Before I could have an orgasm he would jerk away from me and masturbate.
This night I was in a particularly restless mood. The exhaustion following my orgy with Monty had passed away with a day and night of rest, and I was again charged with voluptuous longings.
Wainwright had concluded his preliminary gallantries and was crouched over his Fairy Princess on his knees, his head and shoulders inclined downward and his face between her open legs. His tongue had started its tantalizing maneuvers, and the first shivers of lewd excitation were beginning to generate.
With languorous, half-closed eyes I observed his cock sticking out from his middle. It was small and slender, much smaller than the average, but it was turgidly erect. It was like a child's in comparison to Monty's.
This association of ideas put into my mind the thought of how much easier I could manipulate so small a cock in my mouth. The thought took root and sent a hot glow through me, and in a moment it was no longer a thought, but a desire.
Without a word of explanation to the puzzled Wainwright I wriggled away from him, turned around on the bed, and got on top of him, straddling his face with my thighs. After a momentary hesitation, and with a clumsiness which betrayed his unfamiliarity with this classic position, his tongue again sought out my clitoris.
As soon as I perceived that its activities were in progress anew, I put my head down and took his little cock in my mouth. The mere fact that it contrasted so in size with the only other one I had dallied with in like manner inspired me with a sort of fascination, and I set to work on it with all my recently acquired skill.
But, alas, I suffered a deception which chilled and disgusted me. Like, nectar turning to vinegar in the mouth, that erstwhile stiff little cock which I was so voluptuously sucking almost immediately began to wilt. From its former state of virile rigidity it degenerated into a flaccid, spineless, lifeless little worm, and the harder I tried to inspire it with a bit of manliness, the more fulminating was the disaster.
I released it from my mouth, disappointed, and emulating his own tactics, worked it patiently with my fingers in an effort to resuscitate it, but there was nothing substantial to, grasp; it was like trying to make a piece of string stand up, so limp and flaccid had it become.
I could do nothing with it, and disgusted, I got up from the bed. Wainwright's abasement was pitiful to behold.
“Oh, Princess!” he moaned. “Beat me if you wish!”
He sounded as though he actually did want me to beat him. It came over me that if he left under humiliating circumstances he might not return again. He was too valuable a patron to lose. It had always been profitable to humor him; it might be wise to do so in this instance. As he groveled on the floor at my feet I came to a sudden decision.