Blowhard, Esq. writes:

[NSFW so I’ve hidden the post beneath the fold.]

Gamiani, or Two Nights of Excess by Alfred de Musset, 1833

On the far side of the room, a mirrored door stood ajar. It opened on a space somewhere in size between a large closet and a small dressing room. Gowns hung from a rail at the back. Slipping behind these, I sequestered myself in the farthest corner, content to remain there for as long as might be needed to observe the demon sabbath my fevered mind anticipated.

I know not how much time elapsed before I heard the Countess enter the room. Concerned she might come straight to my hiding place, I burrowed deeper, listening to that rustle which signals only one action — a woman undressing.

By the time it became clear she would not be troubling me, I had moved to the partly open door, the better to observe the object of my desires and fantasies.

I did do just in time to see her pull tight the sash of a peignoir of midnight blue silk, slip her feet into black slippers and take a seat before the mirror of her dressing table. Standing behind her, her maid began unpinning her hair, which cascaded down over her shoulders in a sable flood.

From my coign of vantage, I appraised the maid: plump and blonde, with the kind of body that invited fantasy. Was she to be the Countess’s partner in her debauch?

Apparently not, since Gamiani said, “Julie, I won’t need you any more tonight. You can go to bed.”

But my disappointment turned to anticipation when she continued, “And if you hear sounds from my bedroom, don’t be worried. On no account should I be disturbed.”

Confident now that I would not be thwarted in my desire, and congratulating myself on my audacity, I ventured even farther from the shelter of the hanging gowns, the better to observe.

By then, the Countess had left the bedroom for her parlour. From there, I heard a voice I didn’t recognize.

“It’s so inconvenient,” said the newcomer in a voice too cultured to be that of the maid. “Pouring with rain, and no carriage.”

“It’s just as distressing to me, dear Fanny,” replied Gamiani. I’d send you home in my own carriage — but just today, my coachman took it to the harness makers.”

Fanny? Mentally, I reviewed the night’s guests. Did I remember a girl named Fanny?

Wait…

Wasn’t that the name of the Pleyel girl? I’d seen the Countess chatting with her during the evening, short curly black hair, slim but full-breasted, with enormous eyes that betrayed her mother’s Russian ancestry. But surely she was still a child, no more than fifteen years of age?

But if this was Gamiani’s choice of partner, I would be lying if I didn’t admit that the vision of them together inflamed my desire even further. With blood pounding in my ears, I only half listened to their conversation.

The Romance of Lust by Anonymous, 1873

I think it was about three days after their arrival that one afternoon I went into the spare room, which was occupied by these visitors; while there, I heard them coming upstairs. The lady entered first, and I had just time to slip into a closet and draw the door to; it was not quite closed, but nearly so. In a minute the gentleman followed, and gently shutting the door, locked it. Mrs. Benson smiled, and said—

“Well, my love, you are a sad teaser; you let me have no rest. Surely, you had enough last night and this morning without wanting it again so soon?”

“Indeed, I had not,” he said, “I never can have enough of your delicious person. So come, we must not be long about it, or our absence will be observed.”

He seized her round the waist, and drew her lips to his, and gave her a long, long kiss; squeezing her to him, and moving himself against her. Then seating himself, he pulled her on his knee, and thrust his hand up her petticoats, their mouths being glued together for some time.

“We must be quick, dear,” she murmured.

He got up, and lifted her on the edge of the bed, threw her back, and taking her legs under his arms, exposed everything to my view. She had not so much hair on her mount of Venus as Miss Evelyn, but her slit showed more pouting lips, and appeared more open. Judge of my excitement when I saw Mr. Benson unbutton his trousers and pull out an immense cock. Oh, dear, how large it looked; it almost frightened me. With his fingers he placed the head between the lips of Mrs. Benson’s sheath, and then letting go his hold, and placing both arms so as to support her legs, he pushed it all right into her to the hilt at once. I was thunderstruck that Mrs. Benson did not shriek with agony, it did seem such a large thing to thrust right into her belly. However, far from screaming with pain, she appeared to enjoy it. Her eyes glistened, her face flushed, and she smiled most graciously on Mr. B. The two appeared very happy. His large cock slipped in and out quite smoothly, and his hands pressed the large glossy buttocks and pulled them to him at each home thrust. This lasted nearly five minutes, when all at once Mr. B. stopped short, and then followed one or two convulsive shoves—he grinning in a very absurd way at her. He remained quiet for a few minutes, and the drew out his cock, all soft, with slimy drops falling from it onto the carpet. Taking a towel, he wiped up the carpet, and wrapping it round his cock, went to the basin and washed it.

Mrs. Benson lay for a few minutes longer all exposed, her quim more open than before, and I could see a white slime oozing from it.

You can hardly imagine the wild excitement this scene occasioned me. First, the grand mystery was at once explained to me, and my ignorant longings now knew to what they tended. After giving me plenty of time to realise all the beauties of her private parts, she slipped down on the floor, adjusted her petticoats, and smoothed the disordered counterpane, and then went to the glass to arrange her hair. This done, she quietly unlocked the door, and Mr. Benson went out. The door was then relocked, and Mrs. B. went to the basin, emptied and filled it, then raised up her petticoats, and bathed the parts between her legs with a sponge, and then rubbed all dry with a towel; all this time exposing everything to my ardent gaze. But, horror of horrors! she after this came straight to the closet and gave a slight scream on discovering me there. I blushed up to the ears, and tried to stammer out an excuse.

BLUE VELVET, written and directed by David Lynch, 1985