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
In the mean time time, one could not help observing the swell of his
shirt before, that bolstered out, and pointed out the condition of
things behind the curtain: but he soon removed it, by slipping his
shirt over his head; and now, as to nakedness, they had nothing to
reproach one another.
The young gentleman, by Phœbe’s guess, was about two and twenty; tall
and well limbed. His body was finely formed, and of a most vigorous
make, square shouldered, and broad chested: his face was not remarkable
any way, but for a nose inclining to the Roman, eyes large, black, and
sparkling, and a ruddiness in his cheeks that was the more a grace; for
his complexion was of the brownest, not of that dusky dun colour which
excludes, the idea of freshness, but of that clear, olive gloss, which
glowing with life, dazzles perhaps less than fairness, and yet pleases
more, when it pleases at all. His hair being too short to tie fell no
lower than his neck, in short easy curls; and he had a few sprigs about
his paps, that garnished his chest in a style of strength and
manliness. Then his grand movement, which seemed to rise out of a
thicket of curling hair, that spread from the root all over his thighs
and belly up to the navel, stood stiff and upright, but of a size to
frighten me, by sympathy for the small tender part which was the object
of its fury, and which now lay exposed to my fairest view; for he had,
immediately on stoppings off his shirt, gently pushed her down on the
couch, which stood conveniently to break her willing fall. Her thighs
were spread out to their utmost extention, and discovered between them
the mark of the sex, the red-centered cleft of flesh, whose lips
vermillioning inwards, expressed a small ruby line in sweet miniature,
such as Guide’s touch or colouring: could never attain to the life or
delicacy of.
Phœbe, at this, gave me a gentle jog, to prepare me for a whisper
question: “Whether I thought my little maiden-head was much less?” But
my attention was too much engrossed, too much inwrapped with all I saw,
to be able to give her any answer.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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