Beatrice

Vintage Erotic fiction from the late 1800s. Beatrice is the story of a young girl who is initiated into the pleasures and pains of the flesh by an older woman who is both liberal and a strict disciplinarian. At first beaten into submission, her pupil then submits willingly to being beaten into pleasure. She narrates the story of her initiation in explicit, not to say painful, not to say exquisite, detail in the course of which her growing enthusiasm for a variety of erotic pleasures, including heterosexual ones, is whipped up.

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Excerpt:

Chapter One

I do not like old rooms that are brown with the smell of time.

The ceilings in my husband's house were too high. They ran away from me. In the night I would reach up my hands but I could not touch them. When Edward asked me what I was doing I said I was reaching my hands up to touch the sky. He did not understand. Were we too young together?

Once a week he would remove my nightdress and make love to me.

Sometimes I moved, sometimes I did not. Sometimes I spoke, sometimes I did not speak. I did not know the words to speak. We quarreled. His stepmother would scold us. She could hear. In the large, high-ceilinged rooms voices carried as burnt paper flies, rising, tumbling, falling, drifting.

The doors were always half open. Sometimes - lying in bed as if upon a huge cloud - I would play with his prick, his cock, his pintle . Pintle. I do not like the nt in it. Sometimes I would turn and he would rub it against the groove in my bottom. I liked that. I lay with my nightgown up, my back to him, and had my dreams. The rubbing was nice. My cheeks squeezed tightly on his cock.

The night before I left we quarreled. Our words floated about, bubble-floating. They escaped through the door. His stepmother netted them. She entered and spoke to us. The oil lamps were still lit.

'I will bring you wine - you must be happy,' she said. Her nightgown was pale and filmy. I could see her breasts. Balloons. I could see the dark blur of her pubis, her pubic hair, her wicked.

'Wine, yes - 'twould be splendid,' Edward said. He was pale and thin. Like his pintle. I had nursed it in my palm even while we quarreled. It was the warm neck of a bird. I did not want it in my nest.

I heard his stepmother speaking to the maid downstairs. The maid was always up. There was clinking-bottle sounds, glasses sounds. We lay still, side by side. His stepmother returned and closed the door, bearing a tray. She poured wine. We sat up like people taking medicine.

'Angela, dear, lie down,' Edward said. His father had married her when Edward was fourteen. During the past months then of his father's absence in India, she had encouraged him to use her Christian name. I judged her about forty. A woman in full bloom.

Wine trickled and spilled on the sheet as she got in.