Memoirs of Fanny Hill: A New and Genuine Edition from the Original Text (London, 1749)Cleland, John
General
Memoirs of Fanny Hill: A New and Genuine Edition from the Original Text (London, 1749)
Cleland, John
England -- Fiction; Erotic fiction; Prostitutes -- Fiction
The flattering praises she intermingled with these invasions,
contributed also not a little to bribe my passiveness; and, knowing no
ill, I feared none, especially from one who had prevented all doubts of
her womanhood, by conducting my hands to a pair of breasts that hung
loosely down, in a size and volume that full sufficiently distinguished
her sex, to me at least, who had never made any other comparison.
I lay then all tame and passive as she could wish, whilst her freedom
raised no other emotion but those of a strange, and, till then, unfelt
pleasure. Every part of me was open and exposed to the licentious
courses of her hands, which, like a lambent fire, ran over my whole
body, and thawed all coldness as they went.
My breasts, if it is not too bold a figure to call so two hard, firm,
rising hillocks, that just began to shew themselves, or signify
anything to the touch, employed and amused her hands awhile, till,
slipping down lower, over a smooth track, she could just feel the soft
silky down that had but a few months before put forth and garnished the
mount-pleasant of those parts, and promised to spread a grateful
shelter over the sweet seat of the most exquisite sensation, and which
had been, till that instant, the seat of the most insensible innocence.
Her fingers played and strove to twine in the young tendrils of that
moss, which nature has contrived at once for use and ornament.
But, not contented with these outer posts, she now attempts the main
spot, and began to twitch, to insinuate, and at length to force an
introduction of a finger into the quick itself, in such a manner, that
had she not proceeded by insensible gradations that inflamed me beyond
the power of modesty to oppose its resistance to their progress, I
should have jumped out of bed and cried for help against such strange
assaults.
Instead of which, her lascivious touches had lighted up a new fire that
wantoned through all my veins, but fixed with violence in that center
appointed them by nature, where the first strange hands were now busied
in feeling, squeezing, compressing the lips, then opening them again,
with a finger between, till an “Oh!” expressed her hurting me, where
the narrowness of the unbroken passage refused it entrance to any
depth.
In the meantime, the extension of my limbs, languid stretching, sighs,
short heavings, all conspired to assure that experienced wanton that I
was more pleased than offended at her proceedings, which she seasoned
with repeated kisses and exclamations, such as “Oh! what a charming
creature thou art! What a happy man will he be that first makes a woman
of you! Oh! that I were a man for your sake!” with the like broken
expressions, interrupted by kisses as fierce and salacious as ever I
received from the other sex.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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