Gynecocracy

In a few minutes any further disposition on my part for reflection and analysis was cut short by a firm but gentle pressure of her dainty leg and little heel on my back. Again I glued my mouth to what seemed the compendium, the embodiment, the full divine revelation of Mademoiselle herself in her most intimate soul, and, on this occasion, with fewer scruples and with more avidity, with greater knowledge and keener skill. I bit the tender succulent lips, I inserted my tongue further and tickled the little protuberance more persistently, absorbing the yielding flesh more greedily. Mademoiselle's motions were in proportion more violent, her transport, her loss of self-control completer. All our efforts were directed to bring about a repetition of that convulsive and spasmodic agitation of her being which seemed to delight her and affected me. It took much longer this time and required more effort; her legs were thrown wider apart and she exerted herself (and I also) more vigorously. At last it came! The spasm took place more slowly and endured longer. She lay back with a sigh or gasp of relief and satisfaction, and I was becoming a little weary; no ethical questions this time presenting themselves for analysis and solution. The novelty of the situation was wearing off. Besides I felt the need of a repetition of the operation upon myself and was anxious to communicate my idea to her. However, I was not allowed to rise.

Mademoiselle read on. She moved and adjusted herself, giving me pleasure by the fresh and unavoidable contact of her flesh, each time she did so. But it seemed as though I were never to be released, and it appeared an interminable time before I again felt the signal on my back, and, on this occasion by the exercise of a little compulsion, was forced a third time to repeat the delicious process.

A few minutes later Mademoiselle threw down her book, lifted her leg off my shoulder, and told me to get up.

What a delicious flutter she was in! And how proud I felt at having been permitted to become so intimately acquainted with the secrets of her being!

"You may get up now, Julian, you dear boy, and we will have some tea. I want it, I can tell you."

I got up and stretched myself. I glanced at the Sevres clock, leisurely ticking away the hours as though it controlled Time with its fat and lazy motion.

For two hours had I been under Mademoiselle's petticoats in close communion with her!

CHAPTER 8

How babies are made — what an idea!

"Well, Julian," said Mademoiselle Hortense, looking at me with eyes full of kindness. "Well, Julian!"

How can I express the coyness, the solicitude, the tenderness with which these two words were uttered? They meant so much after all I had been permitted to learn. I was encouraged to believe that nothing could now be denied to me.

"Oh, Mademoiselle! Oh, Mademoiselle, how I love you! How I thank you!"

"Do you really? Well, you have been very good and you discharged your duty admirably. And now that you know what ladies have under their petticoats, as well as what they can do to you, are you satisfied?"

"Ah, Mademoiselle, alas, no! A bright idea has struck me which I implore you to consent to. I am sure if you would only try it, it would be Paradise."

"You greedy youth! What more can you want?"

"I want-I want you to let me put-put what I-have-got into what you have, where my tongue was; and-perhaps what happened to you and what happened to me on the sofa might occur at once, at one and the same time. And that-that would be ecstasy. Oh, Mademoiselle, do let me!"

"No, Julian, I cannot. The idea is not new; it is as old as the world. That idea brought you and me and every one into existence. It is, I admit, the sole remnant of the joys of Paradise which Adam and Eve left us; but I cannot allow you now-not for years-not under other than entirely altered circumstances. You must be content with what you can have; had I not been fond of you I should not have given you so much.

However much I should like it, I cannot give you that. It might result in-in a baby."

"In a baby?" I shouted in utter surprise. "Do you mean to say that is how babies are made?"

"Yes," she answered, "it is."

For some minutes utter silence fell upon me whilst I considered the rapture it must be to make a baby and to reproduce in a little pink and white crying thing, endowed with life and form, all the exquisite and inexpressible emotions and sensations with which one has been inspired and affected by the woman, to whom they have been communicated in that perfect mode, when beyond one's self and carried away by one's sense of all her charms, of all her loveliness-communicated at the instant of the culmination of passion with all its force.

"Oh, Mademoiselle," I exclaimed, in rapture, "what can be greater happiness, what can be holier, what can be more exquisite than-than-?"

"Than the consummation of love," she suggested, chillingly.

"Love," I exclaimed, "is not immoral."