Gynecocracy

So Mademoiselle got up, and radiant with amusement, she reclined on the great ottoman at my side, with her left arm across me. She settled herself comfortably, and then turning her head and looking over her shoulder into my eyes, she questioned me archly as to whether her being so close to me did not make me feel naughty? I was almost suffocated by the violence of my feelings, nor did she wait for any reply, but rapidly slipping her right hand under my petticoats and moving it along the front and inside of my things, she caused me inexpressible emotion. She then caught hold of the thing in front of me.

"It is here you feel naughty, you bold boy. Another time I should whip you for this." These words made me worse.

"Yes! Yes!" I gasped in hushed tones.

"How it has grown!" she exclaimed, as she held it tightly in her hand.

Leaning close to me, she mingled a little pain with my pleasure by drawing the foreskin up and down several times, each time further back. I wriggled and said she hurt me.

"It is very tight," she remarked, and then finally grasping it and the testicles together in her hand, she squeezed and opened her hand frequently, sending a convulsive thrill each time through my body, so that several times I nearly threw her off me and jumped up. But she held me tight in that delicious thraldom and persistently continued her movement.

"Oh! Oh! Mademoiselle. Oh! Miss de Chambonnard! Oh, how nice! Oh, how I love you! How I adore you! I–I-worship" (squeeze, squeeze) "you! Oh, let me go! Oh, don't! Oh, how nice your hand" (squeeze) "is there! Oh, how I love you!" clasping her slender waist round from the back with any disengaged arm.

"Oh, take your hand away! Something awful-something dreadful will happen. I am sure it will, and I cannot prevent it. Oh! Oh!" For all answer, squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, uninterruptedly and determinedly continued.

When she worked me almost into a frenzy, and my movements, jerks, and exclamations showed me to be in extremis, still holding me and pressing me more tightly, she again turned her head to look into my eyes. I noticed her own eyes were swimming. She squeezed me and crushed me more energetically, not uttering a syllable, but pressing against me with her whole form.

At last a convulsive shudder shook my frame from head to foot, and finally centred and concentrated itself in what she had hold of. Completely beyond myself and without my control, it went into a violent spasm of throbs, causing me such a sensation of delight and satisfaction as I had never dreamt of in my wildest moments, spouting out something time after time into her dainty hand, which was now still, and only quiescently grasping me.

"Oh," I gasped as I lay exhausted, and she arose, "if only I could do that to you!"

"Where should you put it, Master Julian?" she asked, laughing.

That, I confess, puzzled me.

As I lay recovering, my eyes rivetted on Mademoiselle, I understood why women have such power over men, why men will go through so much for them, and how truly they may be named "mistress." It is because they have it in their power to do that with his body, which can convulse him with inexpressible and delirious joy. I began to feel the subtle pleasure of being wrapt in a woman's garments, which seemed hallowed from their resemblance to those which enveloped Mademoiselle herself, as she stood a little distance off, wiping her dainty hand with a handkerchief, and putting on a pretty and amused air of delicate disgust.

I had been introduced to Love, and made acquainted with one of the secrets of its influence and power. Love was no longer an abstraction, but the sweetest and most desirable reality. Venus had, however, so far only uncovered her face. I felt the want of some complement of my ecstasy, of some participation in it. The veil had fallen to the Goddess's shoulders, not yet to her feet!

Mademoiselle again ensconced herself in her easy chair, and taking up her book, turned over its leaves somewhat at random. Her breasts rose and fell more quickly than before; and upon her cheeks there was just the slightest possible flush-such a flush of pink as a delicate white rose sometimes has. And in her dark eyes shone a glorious and laughing light, which she allowed to radiate upon me, reminding me of the laughter-loving Venus, and revealing the significance of that Homeric epithet.

CHAPTER 7

A mouth with A moustache

I felt convinced that there was some way as yet undisclosed-some means by which I could comprehensively and entirely love and be loved.

I had already become sensible of the rapture of possessing in some degree the secret of the concealed springs which, duly worked upon, rose in fountains of overwhelming volume and transported one in floods of delight.