Miss Mabel Ch 04

Miss Mabel is my first attempt at erotic writing. It is set in North London in the late 1850s, and I have tried to get the speech and manners as right as I can.

You may recognise that I have appropriated the character of Camille from Walter's tome My Secret Life.

My thanks to volunteer editor CreativeTalent.

Miss Mabel, a story in six parts

Part 4. Playing at kittens, part one.

North London, September 1858.

"Arthur dearest, what does 'playing at kittens' mean?"

It was in one of our snatched moments together. Mabel was on my lap, and her hand was creeping softly inside my trousers, seeking for the instrument that, once she had encountered it, seemed seldom far from her thoughts.

In that position the hoops of her semi-crinoline gave me easy access and my hand, likewise, had found its way to paradise. My caresses stopped abruptly, and I sat up straight, almost tipping her on the floor.

"Where did you come across that?" I asked. There was only one place she could have found it - the letter in which the phrase occurred was hidden away separated from the others, and under lock and key.

"Oh, Arthur dear, I have been awfully naughty again, and I knew you would be angry with me, but I just had to know. I am afraid that I have earned a punishment."

"Tell me how you found that letter", I asked. "It was not in the secretaire with the others. Did Miss Emily see it too?"

"Oh no, Arthur, of course not. I wouldn't dream of letting her see it. I am afraid I have been going into your room on my own. I can't help it; her letters are so beautiful and exciting. She is so lucky to have a sweetheart like you.

Usually I just lie on your bed and think about you, but the last time I went, you had left the key to the drawer on the washstand, and I just had to look."

"Well", I said, "You certainly know what to expect. It will be the cane this time."

"So, aren't you going to tell me? How do people play at kittens?"

"It is something delightful that lovers do to please each other. If we could find an afternoon on our own I should love to teach you."

"Are we lovers then, Arthur? I do so want us to be, for I know I am starting to love you."

Flashback Loughborough/Leicester 1851.

Once I was alone again, my mind travelled back to Loughborough in the July of 1851; that Summer when the news of the Great Exhibition filled the pages of the newspapers and packed excursion trains enriched every railway company in the Kingdom.

The Midlands were suffering under an oppressive heat wave, and I was at my desk, sweat running down my back as I worked. The Chief Cashier, Frank Dennis's door was open, and he called me cheerfully from within.

Frank was maybe twice my age; a slim, dapper man with an air of unconquerable affability and charm, appealing to men and women alike. Happily for me, he was chief cashier at our branch bank, and he supervised my work with meticulous care and kindness.

I was especially fortunate as he took a liking to me, and over our snap, and our occasional cups of coffee after work, I soon learned that his great passion was the ladies, and it could not escape my notice that he had great success there. He became confidential, and gave me hints and suggestions that I implemented with some success with the local girls.

"Arthur my lad, I have a treat in prospect for you. I am taking you to the Singing Rooms in Leicester. A comedian from London, the Original Joe Miller will be foot of the bill and I should like to see him.

Have you ever been to a Singing room? Well then, there really is a treat in store for you, especially if we meet up with one or two of my little friends. Don't worry about money. This one's on me".

" The original Joe Miller? He must be pretty ancient", I replied, for Joe Miller's Jest Books were the staple of my schoolboy years.

"Everyone's pretty ancient to you Arthur," he teased me. "But don't worry, you'll grow out of it."

Joe Miller was a large, elderly, red-faced man in a drab short-coat with a bludgeon sticking out of one pocket, red muffler round his neck, florid weskit and knee-breeches.

He strode about the stage, behind the flickering row of gas-lights; told a string of jokes and then sang The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington with frequent interruptions for cockney patter.

His jokes, delivered in a droll manner, in a loud, raucous voice, were very raw. Many of them passed me by, but the whole audience, men and women alike, laughed uproariously at lines that would have earned me a beating with my father's razor-strop,

About the Singing Rooms; a large, gaslit room over a hostelry in Silver Street; I remember little other then the heat, the overwhelming noise and the odour of crowds of overheated men and overscented women.

The greatest excitement of the evening was to come later. In one of the intervals, when the crowds were calling for beer, gin and pigs-feet, Frank took me to admire the Ladies of the Night, in the area at the back of the room that served as the promenade.

They were certainly a contrast with the poor, bedraggled, half-starved creatures who plied for trade in the streets around the railway station at home.

These women were well, even sumptuously dressed in bright silks and lace (Frank afterwards told me that most of them did not own the dresses they wore, but instead hired them from the inconspicuous older women who stood, eagle-eyed in the shadows.)

Their hair was elaborately done up, and they wore perfume, powder and rouge and colour on their lips. They smiled invitingly, and some greeted Frank as an old friend. Frank, meanwhile searched the bright, gay group for a familiar face, and, soon he found one.

"Camille my dear", he cried, reaching out his hand to a plump, thirtyish woman with dark hair and dark eyes, wearing an elegant evening dress in wide stripes of alternating dark and light green, out of which rose her white shoulders and the cleft of her bosom.

She smiled at him, and replied "Monsieur Frank, quel plaisir." Her voice was low, soft and beautifully modulated, with a strong French accent.

So, was this one of the legendary Parisian whores one read about in the Holywell Street press? What was she doing in a dowdy provincial town like Leicester, rather than in Shaftesbury Avenue or the Haymarket?

Frank introduced us. "Camille my dear," he announced, as I shook her gloved hand, "I want you to meet my young protégé Arthur. I hope you will take his education a little way towards completion".

"Mais certainement, avec plaisir", she replied, a sweet smile on her sweet face, "but I do hope you will be joining us, Monsieur Frank."

We left the Public House, just behind High Cross Street, and, resisting Frank's urging to take a cab, we walked down towards the house she apparently used when in Leicester, in the maze of shabby, run-down streets around the recently-built "Bastille", the Union Workhouse, where, only a few years previously, the rioting inmates had presaged the Chartist disturbances of 1842.

The house she led us to was larger and better built than its neighbours, We knocked and the door was opened by an elderly maid. Camille sent the maid out for drink, and led us up the stairs to the front bedroom.

Frank lit the colsa-oil lamp, which soon gave a bright, cheerful glow to a room furnished sparsely, with bed, chest, wash-stand, two armchairs and a rag-rug in a geometrical pattern; a counterpart to the one in my mother's front parlour. Even before the maid returned with the brandy, Frank and Camille, after a hurried and secretive consultation, began to disrobe.

In a minute they were naked, and as calm and self-possessed as if this was their attire of choice. I had never been in the room with a naked man, or woman, and had certainly not disrobed before anyone's eyes since infancy. Embarrassment and a crushing lack of confidence in my scrawny boy's body overcame me.

Frank's naked body was smooth, white and almost hairless. As he lay down lazily on the bed, a cigar in one hand and a glass of brandy in the other, he looked as handsome and as confident as if he were in his business clothes, conducting a client to his office.

"Go ahead, Frank", he said cheerfully.

Camille concurred. "Mais oui Monsieur Arthur, "shall I help you to disrobe?" I scrambled out of my clothes and she, perfectly naked; her immaculately dressed dark hair contrasting strangely with her naked body.

I stared, entranced at her round, tip-tilted breasts, with the large brown nipples, and the thick black triangle of coarse hair at her groin. She folded my clothes neatly over a chair.

As I vainly tried to hide my genitals, she sat me in an armchair and knelt before me as if about to take the sacrament. She gently removed my hands, and took my rising cock in hers. She caressed it gently and encouraged it to become fully erect.

Franked called over to me from the bed; "This is called

la minette,

Arthur, "it is one of life's great treasures, and Camille is an expert. Place yourself in her hands."

Not her hands alone. Her pointed tongue flicked out and delicately licked the head of my prick. Next she tongued all round the rim, concentrating a little on the area immediately before her face, where the sensations are the strongest. I gasped in such confusion that I hardly knew what to do with myself. I realised, as the old joke has it, that relations between the sexes in Loughborough were indeed in their infancy.

Next she took the whole head of my cock in her mouth and sucked, gently upon it, hollowing her cheeks. Her eyes searched my face and she smiled reassuringly.

"Relax and enjoy it Arthur," called Frank from the bed. I forced myself to relax. Under the unremitting stimulation of her lips and tongue my excitement grew apace.

Suddenly I began to have a horror that in my excitement I might spend in her mouth. What, I wondered would happen if I did something so gross? I imagined myself being thrown out of the house, naked into the streets, and Frank turning from me in disgust.

Both of them detected my anxiety, and responded. Camille lifted her mouth from my prick and looked at me, concerned. Frank asked outright,

What's the matter Arthur? You look as if you've seen a ghost!"

"I could only blurt it out. "I am frightened that I might spend in Camille's mouth." I replied, abashed.

To my surprise they both laughed out loud. "But of course you must", said Camille, smiling broadly. Arthur agreed. "My dear boy, that's the whole idea. Believe me, Camille would doubt her powers if you didn't."

I was reassured, and relaxed, allowing the sensations to sweep over me. Soon she was sucking deeply, and each time as her mouth rose of the head of my cock, her lips tightened over her teeth, stimulating me beyond endurance.

I felt the spend rising up my cock and jetting into her mouth. She sucked on, and then, to my complete astonishment, took up a clean handkerchief, and snorting loudly, blew my spunk down through her nose into the handkerchief -- a trick that I have never seen or heard of since that day.

She got up and went to lie on the bed beside Frank, with her white thighs spread. " I looked for the first time in my life, straight into the secret parts of a woman. The purple-brown lips were wrinkled and slightly parted showing the moist pinkness between plump mounds of soft flesh, fringed with coarse, straight black hair that spread to the tops of her parted thighs.

"Now Arthur," said Frank, "you can return the compliment. First of all, take a deep breath of her perfume."

I put my nose close to the opening and breathed deeply. I smelled an indescribably exciting aroma. Scented, moist flesh, with a salty, somewhat fishy tang and something I could not name, but which immediately started to stiffen my flaccid prick, so recently drained of its vital fluids.

I parted the folds, and opened her cleft up, to reveal pink suffused with crimson. Unable to stop myself, I leaned in and ran my tongue all the way up the cleft, tasting the delicious tastes of oysters and anchovies, wine and raspberries which is the essential taste of woman.

I afterwards learned that Camille, although scrupulously clean, would never use soap or perfume on her body, for fear of spoiling her unique flavour and scent. Neither, for the same reason, would she trim her pubic hair or the tufts under her armpits.

I set to a feverish licking, sucking, tasting and probing with lips, tongue and teeth, until Camille stopped me.

"Here", she said, touching the little pink bulb of her clitoris, set in its hood at the head of the entrance to her sex. "Here, suck on it. You need not be gentle with it."

"Lick it, suck it, nip it with your teeth, but best of all with your lips", said Frank. I did as he said, and Camille murmured encouragingly as I feasted on her flesh like some Mingrelian vampire from the penny dreadfuls. She started to pant, and her face was reddened when I looked up from my work.

Just a moment more," she said breathlessly, "quick, with your finger, press my little button against the bone and rub hard..."

After that, all was moaning and panting until, with a little shriek, she relaxed, leaving my hands and face wet. I felt as proud as if I had climbed a mountain. I did not even know that a woman could spend - yet I had made the miracle happen.

Later, after I had rested, I entered Camille at her suggestion and we fucked. Reader, if you find the frank Anglo-Saxon term offensive, forgive me, for I know no other that does justice to the most basic of all human acts.

Lying with her hips on the edge of the bed and her knees drawn up, she waited until I was well started on a rhythm, then turned her head and beckoned Frank over. She took his long, white prick in her mouth and sucked him as I fucked her.

The sight multiplied my pleasure a hundredfold, and as I watched I imagined enjoying those sensations myself. My rhythm quickened, my penetration deepened, and her body pushed down to meet mine in perfect synchronicity.

At last I felt the aura as my climax began. Not ready to finish quite yet, I stopped.

"What?" she asked hoarsely.

"I didn't want to spend already. I want to wait and spend when Frank does. And you too Camille, if I am so fortunate."

"Tu es tres gentil, Arthur," she said. Frank, ever the mentor, added his words of wisdom.

"Arthur, if you feel the spend coming too soon, put your finger and thumb down at the base of your prick, and press hard on the tube with your fingertip. You can do that whilst still fucking. Don't want to disappoint a lady, do we?"

I took his advice, after a moment the impulse to spill my seed receded and I was able to play my part in what proved to be a satisfying mutual climax.

My conclusion then as now was that whilst the sensations of being minetted are extraordinary, the spending comes as a slight anticlimax, whereas the pleasure of the fuck builds to an intense, shattering and long lasting climax.

We relaxed back on to the bed together, for the moment replete. I found myself relaxed and happy beyond my expectations. I looked at Frank's cock; the first adult male cock I had ever seen.

Of course as boys at school we got them out and compared lengths, girth, colour, shape and excitability is a boyish way, just as we competed to piss highest and furthest.

These boyish investigations revealed that mine was neither the biggest nor the smallest, but a good average in size and thickness, remarkable only for the relative largeness and redness of the head.

Now looking at Frank's prick I saw that it was long, not very thick, and white; heavily veined, with a long foreskin that bunched over the head. Camille saw me looking and said kindly,

"Monsieur Arthur, your prick is not as large as some you will see, nor as thick as others, but believe me, you will always have the means to please any woman you encounter."

To make our way back to Loughborough, Frank, who seemed to know everyone and everything, took us round to the yards behind the Railway Station on Campbell Street, and got us aboard a coal-train, and we rode home in style on the footplate. Timidly I broached the subject of money. He laughed.

"I don't often pay for female companionship, but I can well afford it when the mood takes me. That was my present to you. I hope that one day, women unknown will bless Camille and me, without ever knowing our names."

I met Camille two more times before she finally left England for her native Paris. One of those occasions was so notable, and so startling, that I shall tell of it on another occasion.