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- Herausgeber: Olympia Press
- Kategorie: Erotik
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
"I am a woman who for many years has attuned all my senses to one end--that my life should be a rich and tingling concerto of those pleasures so long coyly called libertine. I believe that you must learn the scales of lust before you can orchestrate the symphonies of life. So listen, dear reader, to my lesson, since I am convinced that for you as for me, the rhythms of the racing blood, the groans of passion, the creaking of bedsprings, or a lover's whispers, are the sweetest music in the world...."
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Instruments of Pleasure
Anonymous
This page copyright © 2007 Olympia Press.
Part One. GIRLISH JOYS
My name is Celeste Piano, and you may rest assured that this musical but not unpleasing cognomen with its foreign twang conceals the true identity of one who has run the full gamut of sexual adventure. I am a woman who for many years, with conscious thought and by deliberate act, has attuned all her senses towards one end—that my life should become a rich and tingling concerto of those pleasures so long and coyly called libertine. Though I am still only thirty-five and men seem to desire my body more than ever, the difference now is that I play with them: I know the score. Thus, I offer these memoirs as a skilled musician, and trust that if any of my readers at first find the substance of my narrative a trifle off-key, he or she will persevere, and that the manner of its telling will eventually seduce and delight even the most delicate ear. Mere words may excite (and I flatter myself that I have been exciting and excited in a myriad of ways!) but no one can maintain that they corrupt: I believe, dear reader, in your good sense if not your innocence; you must learn the scales of lust before you can orchestrate the symphonies of love. So listen, if you will, like a patient pupil, to your Celeste's lesson, since I am convinced that for you as for me, the rhythms of the racing blood, the groans of passion, the creaking bed-springs, or a lover's whispers, are the sweetest music in the world....
The world of my childhood was singularly empty, and I remember resenting my governess, Madame Grosdard, whose presence filled it. My father had, I suspect, at least partly intended that she should take the place of my late-lamented mother and so this austere Frenchwoman, herself a refugee from the hordes of Huns then ravaging Europe, had been instructed to instruct me.
It was 1944 and I was nine. I did not see too much of my father in those days. He would commute from our large Kentish country house near Tunbridge Wells to an unknown destination in London, which I later discovered to be the headquarters of MI5. Now I think back it seems distinctly odd that such a small, vague, absent-minded man should have been entrusted with keeping the Nation's secrets, for as I shall soon relate he could not even keep his own affairs secret from his curious little daughter. But the poor fellow had never quite recovered from my mother's sudden, fatal riding accident, and until the arrival of my governess had got into the habit of omitting to wear socks. The sight of his skinny white ankles protruding above the black toe-capped brogues would invariably confuse me. I did not know whether to stare or pretend not to notice. Most often, I would simply shut off my mind and immerse myself in my lonely child's fantasies, for I have been a dreamer from an early age.
In fact, my most potent memories are not those of that well-appointed ancestral home in its wooded park, nor of the half-dozen servants who flitted about its corridors, but of Madame Grosdard herself, seated bolt upright in one of the drawing-room windows, her face flushed with anger and her hoarsely accented voice insisting that I stop daydreaming and repeat the multiplication tables over which I had faltered.
She herself was well controlled; her strapping body in its black crepe dress would not so much as stir on these occasions. It was as if she preferred to expend her energies upon tightening and readjusting the ropes of her long black hair into an even stricter bun with the aid of numerous pronged pins which she would extract from the big square black leather bag she always carried. Once when I stumbled over a particularly pebbly decimal point she jabbed one of these same pins into the palm of my small hand, and the shock I felt pierced me to the very core. It seemed at the time my first experience of human cruelty and indeed I still remember it with a shudder. Although I experienced fear I was even more afraid that my formidable companion might withdraw even the slight vestiges of companionship she occasionally displayed, because as I have stated, I was a lonely child and had no playmates.
And so, whenever she upbraided me, I would humbly lower my gaze and between half-closed eyes sneak a submissive peep at her rather large feet in their wedge-heeled sling-back shoes firmly planted on the parquet floor. The strange thing about Madame Grosdard was that she never crossed her legs and this knees together stance fascinated me during my lessons. I knew she always wore black silk stockings and despite myself I could not prevent my thoughts wandering to the childish and obsessive question of what kind of knickers she wore. I did not think my own clothes pretty or distinguished in any way and secretly admired my statuesque teacher's funereal garb. My own knickers, I reflected sadly, were of thick navy cotton that faded with each wash and my blue serge gym slips I considered equally dreary. My father took no interest in such matters and Madame maintained a puritanical control over my wardrobe.
It occurred to me that if I were to work extra hard at my lessons Madame's unbending attitude towards me might change, her hawk features (the high cheekbones, aquiline nose and thin unsmiling lips) would perhaps soften, and she might become more of the adult elder sister or that friend for whom I longed. I knew her Christian name was Genevieve, and had guessed her age to be only about twenty. I could not understand why someone not half my father's age should be so strict with me. Sometimes her eyes grew very soft and brown and I felt sure she could be kinder than she appeared. The more I thought about this possibility the more excited I became, and one evening after I had been put to bed I decided I would venture on a journey of exploration into Madame's bedroom, which was next to mine.
I knew I would be safe, since this was the time at which Madame and my father invariably dined in the great dining-room downstairs. I had already kissed daddy goodnight, and waited for what seemed like hours of overwrought anticipation before I dared steal across the cold linoleum at the threshold of my room, and then, my white nightie billowing about my goosy thighs I darted barefoot into Madame's bedroom.
At once the forbidding and forbidden place seemed to weigh heavily down on me, the windows were shut, the long brocade curtains drawn, the Georgian four-poster bed with its dark wood seemed to dominate the entire room, and I could scarcely make out the shapes of chairs and pictures and Madame's dressing table in the autumn evening's darkness. A low banked fire flickered fitfully in the grate and its illumination was just enough for me to begin my search. My heart was pounding. The white ghost in the dressing table mirror was myself, I realized after a moment of panic. I stared at myself with interest in the half-light. My face was scared, pinched and wan, but I am sure I must have been flushed. My blonde hair had a cloudy look and was tickling my shoulder blades. On impulse I picked up a large tortoiseshell hairbrush and began to brush my hair with long sweeping strokes. I wanted Madame to find my blonde hairs on her brush the next morning. My excitement mounted. I realized I almost wanted to be caught.
After a while I laid down the brush and moved across to a large mahogany wardrobe on the far side of the room, opposite the bed. As I passed the bed I had an overwhelming urge to lie upon the white taffeta bed cover. This I dared not do however, although I eyed the vast white expanse with longing. It seemed like a beautiful beach whose sand was cool and inviting. I hesitated at the wardrobe, then slowly turned its key. I held my breath, expecting the door to creak. All I heard was the rustle of Madame's dresses as the draught made them swish upon their hangers. Something cold and slippery dropped over my bare toes. I leaped back before I understood it was an item of clothing. I stooped to pick it up and curiosity made me take it over to the fireplace, the better to examine whatever it was that had so startled me.
The fire's reddish glow showed me a truly magnificent sight. My blue eyes widened with delight. I was holding a pair of lilac satin cami-knickers across whose shimmering folds flew several tiny black butterflies. This exquisite garment with its delicate print excited my deepest admiration and I examined it further. I adored the slender little ribbons of the shoulder straps and lower down, two minute pearl buttons which appeared to fasten a kind of flap in the material. I could understand neither the design nor the purpose of this seemingly special attachment which I now know to have been a gusset. Its mystery fascinated me and I found myself burying my face in its perfumed depths. After a few sniffs, I became even more intrigued when I saw that the silky rectangle which had aroused my interest was encrusted with several stiff yellowish-white stains. These, upon further olfactory explorations, smelt quite extraordinary—uniquely acrid yet almost sweet, pungent yet by no means unpleasant. Recalling the odour of my own navy knickers after I once wet them I became puzzled. Surely this could not be Madame's urine? In that very moment my reflections were rudely shattered when I heard footsteps in the corridor outside!
Trembling with sheer fright I screwed the silken slip into a resilient bundle and clutching it to my as yet unfledged breasts sprang towards the open wardrobe. I crouched cowering in its enormous blackness and hid myself behind the long trailing dresses. I was about to close the door completely when to my horror I heard Madame's voice as she entered her bedroom. From my hiding place, which had an aroma of lavender and moth-balls, I discovered with still greater shock that my father must have entered with her for I heard his rather loud voice say something I did not quite catch, and then, to my surprise, Madame's laughter. There was the sound of coals being stoked, and the shadows of my father and Madame appeared upon the white bedcover.
'I am good with a poker,' my father said, and Madame Grosdard laughed in a way in which I had never heard her laugh before.
'My fiery Walter,' she murmured, then came some strange liquid noises.
I was uneasy if not terrified, but I dared not emerge from my hidey-hole. A few moments passed and all I could heard above the crackling fire was heavy breathing and a series of rustlings. I was afraid that Madame Grosdard might come over to the wardrobe and now I was sweating with fear.
The next moment the bed opposite me shook and creaked, as with a crash Madame Grosdard fell back gasping against the bulge of the pillows, her hair all loose and dishevelled and the buttons of her bodice undone. Her face looked very red, but I thought that this might have been a trick of the flames' light. Both her hands were raised above her head and clutched one of the bedposts and the top part of her body (which was all I could see) was heaving. I could not see my father and I wondered if Madame had been taken ill for now she began to gasp and move about on top of the bed.
'Ah oui, suce-moi cheri! Ah Walter!' she said. I realized with dawning amazement that my father must be the cause of Madame Grosdard's peculiar behaviour but from my position I could not quite see him.
The bedsprings were creaking and Madame was flailing around more than ever. I guessed that my father was somewhere by the bottom of the bed but what he was doing I could not imagine. As if answering my curious and unstated question my father's head came into view. His face was red and he was breathing heavily as if he had been working hard; indeed he had taken off his jacket and tie, and his shirt was quite undone. He looked as if he were trying to strangle Madame and I now felt very worried and held my breath for fear. They were struggling and bounding about and my father was pulling Madame's black dress off her wide shoulders. I wanted to scream so I quickly thrust the bundle of silk into my mouth as a gag. Two round white bouncing things burst out of Madame's bodice and my father immediately covered one of them with his head. Madame had always worn tight dresses but I had never realized that those two huge mounds below her neck would look quite like that. I thought them frightening, but my father was making doglike lapping noises over them, moving frenziedly from one to the other and licking their two round pink ends while Madame pulled at his hair. I could not understand why she did not fight him harder nor why my chest seemed to be so small. Would my own little coral buds one day burst forth like hers, and how could they possibly stretch so far?
There was no time for further speculation. A succession of events ensued with amazing if inexplicable rapidity. I had grown bolder, less startled, and could not (even had I wanted to) turn away. My father seemed to be in a great hurry and had torn Madame's dress past her hips exposing a full rounded stomach and a huge black hair patch below. As they turned, shifting position on the bed, I discovered I could no longer see their faces nor the tops of their bodies and with a sudden shock I found myself staring at four twisted legs that twined and untwined around each other. I had not realized that my father's legs were so hairy and I could see two red swollen dangling things hanging under his bottom. With one hand he was groping at that luxurious patch between Madame's legs. They were both bouncing and gasping as if they could not decide which way to lie. I could not understand why they did not get under the bedcover nor why my usually mild father appeared to be so rough.
'Put it in,' Madame groaned. 'Put it in!' But my father made no move to get his body into the bed and I saw him raise himself up holding a long pink thing a bit like a rhubarb stick.
'I am going to ride my Gee-Gee,' he said hoarsely. I thought this very odd because daddy had never ridden with the local Hunt since the terrible day my poor mother had been thrown, and I had never yet known him go riding by night. I soon gathered what he meant, when to my amazement Madame Grosdard whinnied 'Ah Walter, ride me do!' and turned herself over on all fours.
I was looking straight at her huge round white bottom but I did not have the chance to look at it for long... My father immediately stuck his red stave into the receptacle being offered him and began to gallop up and down. He reached across to the wooden bed-head and from under the pillow pulled out a short riding-crop with which he began to slap at Madame's muscular thighs. The ride seemed to go on and on and my father must have been very heavy for such a thin man, because Madame was moaning loudly and she gasped at every stroke of the whip. Her white thighs were criss-crossed with red weals and her toes were clenching and unclenching convulsively.
'Ha ha!' my father was laughing. 'Ho ha that's it! What buttocks! Faster! Faster!'
Why, I wondered, did not Madame, who was so much bigger than my father, merely toss him off her back? Why did she allow him to hit her so often and so hard—so much harder even than she would slap my hand with her ruler when I had done a bad dictation? Also, they did not move any further across the bed, and I could not imagine their destination. I had heard our stable-boy Arthur once mention bare-back riding and this I supposed was what he meant... My father was obviously enjoying himself, he kept repeating 'Ho, Ha' and beating Madame Grosdard all over. Madame was moaning more than ever, and she made strangled wheezing noises in her throat as though she could go no further.
'For God's sake come!' she cried.
'Take that,' shouted my father with one particularly vicious stroke across her calves and he lurched and lunged forward with his red balls jostling against Madame's vast bottom. He kept pulling out his stick which was all red and swollen and pushing it dripping back in again. This manoeuvre produced a squelching noise almost as loud as that of the bedsprings which had reached a veritable cacophony of metallic grindings. With an abrupt unexpected spasm my father came off the saddle and as he pulled away his staff squirted some sticky white stuff over Madame's back and bottom. A moment later he collapsed on top of her, breathing heavily and still clutching the crop. He rubbed the white stuff into Madame's backside.
'That's what you like,' he said.
'I want it inside,' Madame replied in a muffled voice, her head pressed into the bedcover.
'You know that's impossible,' my father answered roughly. 'You just do as you are told.' Madame began to cry and I felt very sorry for her.
The whole scene had somehow excited me and my hand had moved downward between my legs to my own tiny hairless slit. My fingers toyed with its edges which felt warm and a little swollen. I found that I too was out of breath and my heart was pounding. I dared not move and the musty air of the wardrobe had made me feel quite faint. I had almost bitten through Madame's cami-knickers and pulled them from my mouth in panic, stuffing them into a corner of the wardrobe. By the time I had done this I noticed my father had gone. Madame still lay face downward on the bed with her legs wide apart. Her back and legs were a mass of scarlet stripes and white stuff was trickling from the slit in her bottom. But she was not dead after all, and a few moments later crawled under the bed-covers and was soon snoring. I waited until it was safe and emerged from the cupboard quiet as a mouse. Once again my feet touched something, and once again I could not resist picking it up.
I padded back to my room in a highly emotional state and immediately leapt into bed. I knew that what I clutched was a pair of my governess's elasticated knickers and I sniffed them, hoping once again to smell that sharp aroma, and to feel with my infant fingers those dried blotches which I'd found so entrancing. I cannot remember if my nasal and tactile questings were rewarded but I vaguely recall that the panties seemed moist and that I pressed them for several minutes between my legs and went to sleep strangely contented. This oiled silken garment was, I thought drowsily, a much better companion than either Anita my doll or Fergus my teddy.
The next morning during my Latin lesson I noticed that Madame Grosdard was staring at me very sternly. Caesar was dividing Gaul into three parts, and to be quite frank I could not have cared less. Latin bored me. Madame Grosdard knew it, but that was not the trouble. Madame was sitting against a pile of cushions and I guessed that her back was still very sore. Perhaps that was why she was angry.
'Celeste, you are not concentrating! Latin is very good discipline for a lazy mind,' she said. 'Where is Gaul?'
'France?' I replied, and then added mischievously: 'Caesar beat the French, didn't he?'
'Correct,' said Madame, frowning. There was a moment's silence during which it occurred to me that Madame might have seen my blonde hairs in her brush. 'Do you always tell the truth, Celeste?' she asked. A pencil tapped against her even white teeth.
'Oh, yes, Madame,' I assured her.
'Well then, can you explain to me why you have removed something of mine from my room without my permission?' she enquired.
I am sure I blushed.
'What do you mean, Madame?'
'You know very well! When the maid was cleaning your room this morning she found something in your bed...' My heart sank for I knew what was coming next. '... and I wish to know exactly how you came to be in possession of a certain article of my clothing.'
Her thin red lips pursed very tight. The heady excitement of the previous night had quite overwhelmed my senses and I'd completely forgotten the crumpled booty spirited from Madame's bedroom.
'I found it,' I said, looking down at my knees and smoothing my skirt. 'I didn't know it was yours.'
'You horrid little girl,' Madame whispered half to herself. She got up abruptly and advanced towards my chair. 'Stand up!' I knocked the chair over with fright as I did so. 'Over here!' She went across to the bow window. Madame seated herself on the window seat. She grabbed me by one wrist. 'Bend over you little liar!'
'Please, Madame, what are you going to do?'
'You'll feel it soon enough,' she replied crossly as she pulled me on to her knees. She yanked up my serge skirt and to my horror ripped down my knickers.
'Please don't do it with the riding-crop!' I whimpered.
'Why you—! Where were you last night?' And before I had time to answer I felt a savage slap on my pearly rump. I bit my lip. I knew I was going to cry.
'I was hiding,' I said, before she hit me again. 'I did not mean to, Madame, but I was scared. Please forgive me.'
I burst into tears just as the second heavy blow came crashing down at the small of my back. I felt Madame's chunky ring bite into my tender flesh. I knew there would be no mercy. Hot tears coursed down my cheeks. The blows rained down thick and fast, harder and harder, and I began to scream. I straightened, struggling, and as I raised my head I saw through the window the face of Dumbrill our gardener. I thought he would come to my assistance but he only stood there with a funny expression on his face which was pressed against the leaded pane. Madame was in a fury and obviously had not seen him. I was clamped over her muscular thighs, and one forearm pinned my shoulder-blades while her relentless hand kept slapping my bottom with ever increasing vigour. Madame was breathing hard. I could no longer see for tears. At last the blows ceased. When I stopped crying I saw that Dumbrill had disappeared.
There was an awkward silence punctuated by my sobs, then to my surprise I felt Madame's previously inexorable hand massaging my inflamed buttocks as if already regretting her cruelty. After the stinging pain this came as a welcome relief. Finally, Madame turned me round and sat me on her lap. The cool black silk of her dress against my smarting haunches soothed me. I stopped sniffling and Madame suddenly hugged me. She crushed me against those huge mounds and I felt comforted. She began to stroke my hair slowly.
'Poor Celeste,' she murmured. 'It is so hard for you with no Maman. I should not spank you so.' I started sobbing again. 'Sois tranquille ma petite... do not cry,' she cooed, easing back my knickers. I liked her French accent and I liked it even more when she kissed my forehead. I suddenly felt very happy and hoped we would be friends.
The rest of the day passed very pleasantly. Madame excused me from any further lessons, and I played in the grounds. These was one little copse that I particularly liked by the ornamental lake. I enjoyed climbing the trees near this lake. And though it was autumn it was still quite warm, and I wanted to perch up in a tree and observe the swans gliding across the water's surface. I took off my little Wellington boots and socks, hitched up my skirts and shinned deftly up a small pine by the lake's edge. There was a slight breeze and I gripped the rough trunk firmly with my naked thighs. I liked the smell of pine trees, and then-tacky bark. In a few moments I was quite high up and clambered out on to a branch. Through a screen of green needles I looked out over the lake. My legs hung down on either side of the branch and I was in a dreamy trance of pleasure. I made no movement and stayed very still waiting for the swans to appear. I heard the sudden crunch of pine needles, and when I looked down I saw Dumbrill crouched in a strange position at the foot of the tree. With one horny hand he was rubbing a small pink branch stuck in his trousers and he made wheezing noises which reminded me of Madame's on the previous night. To my surprise he picked up one of my Wellingtons and bent over it.
'Hey you rotter,' I shouted. 'Leave those boots alone!' And I started pelting him with pine cones. He looked up startled, his old craggy face grinning at me.
'Hi there Missy, watch that branch,' he called up, looking very pleased with himself. Then I got him with a cone and he dropped the boot and hurriedly made off, chuckling to himself. I rushed down as quick as I could but he had vanished in the bracken. I thought I would chase him and I didn't bother to pull on my socks but immediately tugged on the boots. The left one felt very sticky inside, and I knew that Dumbrill had done something not very nice. Arthur our stable-boy always called Wellingtons 'gum-boots' but I could not see why Dumbrill wanted to pour his glue in mine. I intended to mention the incident to Madame later that evening.
I remember that my father and Madame looked very meaningfully at each other when I told them the story.
'This is no good, Genevieve,' my father said. 'No good at all. The man must go. And instead of sending Celeste to Debenham Grange next term as we have discussed, she will have to go at once, even though the Autumn Term has started.'
'What grange, Daddy?' I asked.
'A boarding school, my dear,' he replied.
'I don't want to go,' I said and burst into tears.
'It will be much better for you,' he said reassuringly. 'You'll have lots of little friends your own age.'
It was.
And I had.
My education at Debenham Grange lasted eight years during which I believe I can claim that my precocity of mind was matched by my precocity of body. The Grange was a large red brick Victorian boarding school for girls. It was situated in a secluded part of Hampshire, surrounded by rhododendrons and approached by a long gravel drive. It was, in fact, like many other schools for well-bred young ladies, but the activities I remember most clearly were extracurricular. I do not propose to bore my readers with mundane quotidian details, but, true to my promise, shall select only such incidents as have some bearing on my subsequent development and adventures.
We indulged in all the usual schoolgirl crazes and crushes. We smoked. We playfully swiped at each other with lacrosse sticks. We slid down the bannisters, relishing the slippery wood between our thighs. We made each other up, especially when it came to theatricals in the old gym, and we cherished memorable observations like this one uttered by Lucy Freely, one of my best friends:
'Ooh I wish I was the soap in Margaret Lockwood's bath!'
Our less impossible wishes, however, we tried hard to fulfil. And some of them were fulfilled for us. Which leads me to the subject of breasts, menstruation and the like. I noticed very soon after my arrival (and indeed which new girl did not) the enormous mammaries of Martha Grout who was aged sixteen and had the largest tits in the school. She had had to s [...]
