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Her face staring down girlishly, Letitia shook her head, though it was not true. Servants had quaint ideas as to what went on among 'the gentry', despite the actuality of this moment—despite the fact that Johnson had manfully pumped her a score of times now. On Letitia's wedding day, after most of the guests had gone and only her immediate relatives remained, there had been what was politely and carefully called a 'passing by'.

Still attired in her wedding gown—a wondrous frothery of white and cream silk and lace—Letitia had been taken into the morning room by Easton who had asked her, 'Are you ready?' Realising that she was not permitted to refuse, and that several sturdy champions had long been awaiting this moment, Letitia had blushed and nodded, whereat Easton had drawn her gown and underskirt up to her waist and tucked the heavily-folded rear between the wall and her bottom. Any jerky movements on her part would cause all to cascade again, and Letitia knew that, too, was not allowed. Hence she had kept very still while Easton removed her frilly, spotless drawers and laid them perfectly flat at her feet with the filled legs extended forward.

It was the tradition that her drawers were not to be trodden on. Such, curiously, would be a great discourtesy and an affront to her as a bride, even though she was about to be rogered by five gentlemen...
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In 1899, when The Convent was written, stern parents would threaten their wayward children with a stay at a nunnery if they didn't improve their conduct. If Angelica, the author of The Convent, is to be believed, monasteries and nunneries should be the last places in the world where upstanding parents should dispatch their naughty children.

Angelica has been sent to a convent and it is there that she experiences the first thrusts of love and passion. Her unusual education was not derived from visiting male relatives and friends. Angelica learned all she knew from the droll and exploring residents of the convent itself and the monks of a nearby monastery who offered the nuns more than salvation.
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The latest full-color collection of comic strips from a Pulitzer Prize-winning cartoonist offers ninety strips following the adventures of Opus the penguin, Bill the cat, Rosebud the basselope, and many others. 250,000 first printing. Tour..
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MY READERS MAY WELL think me inconsistent and fickle in coming upon this second volume of my memoirs, particularly after recalling my statement that I did not care to renew my familiarity with either Bella or Julia, those two succulent, white-skinned damsels whose acquaintance I managed in the course of my professional activities of blood-sucking. Therefore a word or two of explanation is in order.

At the conclusion of my memoirs, I said also that I emigrated, in order to put many miles between myself and these two fair young ladies and the seminary in which they finally took refuge — if yielding to the carnal ardors of fourteen virile men of the cloth can be said to furnish refuge. That much was certainly true. I left England, wafted by a favorable wind blowing to the south, and found my own refuge in a little village in Provence, aptly named Languecuisse — which, for those astute readers who are not fluent in the French language, is translated to mean, “Tongue Thigh.” I may say that I did not choose this site of my next adventure with any foreknowledge of the titillating cognomen of this village; I simply was opportunist enough to let the wind carry me where it would. Autumn was not far off, and the chilly climate of England did not appeal to me; I would have had to go into hiding or hibernation, limiting my chances of nourishment and also of diversified contact with interesting people. For even a lowly Flea may have aspirations to culture, mark that well.
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I began these memoirs when about twenty-five years old, having from youth kept a diary of some sort, which perhaps from habit made me think of recording my inner and secret life. When I began it, had scarcely read a baudy book, none of which, excepting Fanny Hill, appeared to me to be truthful: that did, and it does so still; the others telling of recherche eroticisms or of inordinate copulative powers, of the strange twists, tricks, and fancies of matured voluptuousness and philosophical lewdness, seemed to my comparative ignorance as baudy imaginings or lying inventions, not worthy of belief; although I now know, by experience, that they may be true enough, however eccentric and improbable, they may appear to the uninitiated. Fanny Hills was a woman's experience. Written perhaps by a woman, where was a maids written with equal truth? That book has no baudy word in it; but baudy acts need the baudy ejaculations; the erotic, full flavored expressions, which even the chastest indulge in when hut, or love, is in its full tide of performance. So I determined to write my private life freely as to fact, and in the spirit of the lustful acts done by me, or witnessed; it is written therefore with absolute truth and without any regard whatever for what the world calls decency. Decency and voluptuousness in its fullest acceptance cannot exist together, one would kill the other, the poetry of copulation I have only experienced with a few women, which however neither prevented them nor me from calling a spade a spade. .
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When young girls stepped into the handsome priest's confession booth, the cloth became just another garment to remove. The good monk was consumed by a sexual rampage, a ceaseless quest for satisfaction that led him to the doors of death, and beyond. Seabrous, corrupt, the virile priest committed acts in the name of salvation which became his one-way ticket to doom!.
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In America, Bob Stirling, wiped out in a stock market panic, also enters a career of service to the fairer sex. His priapic prowess takes him from bar room to bedroom, from a girl's school to a plantation where he founds a multi-generational commune, one where sex beyond compare is every man's (and woman's) share. Paradise now—for “The Town Bull.”.
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“You have no right to whip me,” she said in a cold, tight little voice. She was trying hard to keep control of her speech. She tried not to screech or let her voice tremble, as that would tell him that he had the power to frighten her. “I will not be whipped by any man or anyone else. Undo my hands at once,” she said in what she thought was an authoritative voice. “Being kept all the evening in this room without any dinner is quite punishment enough. And what have I done that calls for punishment? Refusing to wear horrid dresses which only serve to make nakedness conspicuous? If I am to be treated in this way, I shall leave tomorrow. As for promising to take off my own drawers before my own uncle, you must be mad, Sir, to think of such a thing. I would rather die first.”.
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One morning, when I came down to breakfast, I found the following letter on my plate—



The Nunnery, Wednesday

Dear Jack—What are you doing with yourself? Have come here for a few days, but find the place most terribly dull, only mother and Alice being here. Can't you come down for a long weekend and amuse three lonely females? I am writing at mother's suggestion. Do come.

Yours ever

MAUD


'I've been wanting you badly, my lover!—Oh, so badly—and I told mother that either you must come to me or I must go to you! She didn't like your having me under her own roof. I didn't want to go up to town. A sudden idea struck me. As you know, Jack, mother is still a young woman—I get my hot temperament from her, and I know how she hates her lonely bed! And she loves you, Jack! So I slipped my arm round her, and whispered coaxingly: “Look here, mummy, let us get Jack down and . . . share him!” She blushed like a schoolgirl. “Mummy,” I again whispered— “you know you want. . . something . . . very badly, just as badly as I do!”—she quivered responsively—“Won't you let me get it for you?”— again she blushed deeply— “Come, mummy darling, share Jack with me!” And I kissed her and kept whispering to her, till she murmured, “Very well, my darling—it's sweet of you! If Jack is willing it shall be as you wish!” There, sir, what do you say?'.
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It was not only her well shaped body, her ample bosom, her wide pelvis and her high rounded behind, but it was the way she walked —with a challenging air and a swishing movement as her thighs brushed together. One could almost visualize that hairy triangle where her legs met. When she walked, her boobs bounced invitingly almost asking to be stiled with a caress and her ass rolled roundly from side to side..
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