Notebooks of the Young Wife Read Online Free PDF Page A

of a Girth to shame the younger ones that have excited my Lust, and I move quickly. Clutching at my skirts I kneel up on the Seat. Nabby lifts the garments high so that I may lower myself with some Precision on to the Manhood that awaits. It is done, and what shudders begin to run through me! Quim stuff’d with Cock I rock slowly, making the Clitoris rubb’d, and to cap it all my Naughty Servant has a finger up my Bottom-Hole. Of what more could a Young Wife have need?
    (I am trapp’d by the form of a Rhetorical Question, for which I beg pardon. The reader who has dallied awhile may be pleased to return at a later date for the Answer to it).
     
    Return? Return where ? Contained between the brackets was as close as one was going to get to a ‘...to be continued’, and there was no indication in the collection that it was anything more than a one-off. I searched for clues in the preface and for footnotes or endnotes that might clarify the matter, but with no success.
    All the more reason to pin my hopes on the late Monty’s collection. If there was more, I thought, that’s where it would be found. Surely the writing of the prized young mistress would be a thing to be treasured, or at least kept safe. Uxor iuvenis . I was beginning to think of her in the Latin manner she assumed, though in classical times there was a more likely designation that would have put her firmly in her place. Domini puella : the master’s wife, or indeed, slave girl; it said a lot that the language of the day didn’t bother to differentiate. But what a gem! Something of the feistiness and humour made me think suddenly of the Irish girl I met the week before in the place in Soho.
    She was a gem, too. I picked up my mobile and scrolled through the directory.
    There it was: Niamh. We got on well enough for me to be given her number, which allowed me to distinguish myself by knowing how to spell the name. If she was answering and amenable to the idea of a pub lunch, I might be in the running for something more than a second opinion on a piece of text.
     
     
Quimshots
     
    ‘Well, I think the girlie’s for real. What a great character. And the q-word is ace.’ The way she looked up from under her shaggy fringe gave me a jolt I remember to this day. I’d returned from the bar with the two plates of goulash aimed at filling our empty stomachs and suddenly I had an ache in the groin that would need to be fixed as well. Later, with a bit of luck, is what I thought. I didn’t realise then how lucky I was going to be that Sunday afternoon. I sat down and we toasted each other with the glasses of claret before tucking in. Niamh had as good an appetite as I, and there wasn’t a lot in the way of conversation until we’d finished the food and started on a second bottle. After a quick canter round some of the classics of early pornography – in which she proved herself to be surprisingly knowledgeable – she glanced at me over her wine and said, ‘I do cunt pics. Fancy a go?’
    ‘I’m sorry?’ I just stared, no doubt looking completely stupid. I heard the words quite plainly, of course, though they’d been spoken quietly enough not to turn heads at neighbouring tables. But it was a case of the mind refusing to accept the input to the ears.
    ‘I take photographs of female genitals. Preferably wet ones. If you’ve nothing planned for the next hour or so, Jane, I reckon you’d make a good subject.’
    I didn’t need asking a third time, so we downed the rest of the bottle, paid up and headed off to her base round the corner. She had taken up a term of residence at a joint called the Art of Correction, dedicated to the induction of novices into the ways of discipline. It was situated down a side alley we ducked into through a brick arch, and was not going to attract the attention of anyone not in the know. The sign above the door was the sole indication of its purpose and that was enigmatic enough. One had to look hard at the picture of a