Fanny Hill: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure Letter the First – Part 7

During my visit to London for studies where we had an Old Ancestral Home, I stumbled on a family treasure. Apart from other things I also found a hump of books, dairies and notes in the treasure which contained classic, Age old, Erotic books, Novels, and Magazines probably collected by my Ancestors. They are all timeless and precious. They are a must read for all erotica lovers. I am sharing them on this site, Enjoy part 6 of Letter the First

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MEMOIRS OF A Woman of Pleasure.

Letter the First – Part 7

It was then broad day. I was sitting up in the bed, the cloaths of which were all tost, or roll’d off, by the unquietness of our motions, from the sultry heat of the weather; nor could I refuse myself a pleasure that solicited me so irresistibly, as this fair occasion of feasting my sight with all those treasures of youthful beauty I had enjoy’d, and which lay now almost entirely naked, his shirt being trust up in a perfect wisp, which the warmth of the room and season made me easy about the consequence of. I hung over him enamour’d indeed! and devour’d all his naked charms with only two eyes, when I could have wish’d them at least a hundred, for the fuller enjoyment of the gaze.

Oh! could I paint his figure as I see it now still present to my transported imagination! a whole length of an all-perfect, manly beauty in full view. Think of a face without a fault, glowing with all the opening bloom, and vernal freshness of an age, in which beauty is of either sex, and which the first down over his upper-lip scarce began to distinguish.

The parting of the double ruby-pout of his lips, seem’d to exhale an air sweeter and purer than what it drew in: Ah! what violence did it not cost me to refrain the so tempted kiss!

Then a neck exquisitely turn’d, grac’d behind and on the sides with his hair, playing freely in natural ringlets, connected his head to a body of the most perfect form, and of the most vigorous contexture, in which all the strength of manhood was conceal’d and soften’d to appearance, by the delicacy of his complexion, the smoothness of his skin, and the plumpness of his flesh.

The plat-form of his snow-white bosom, that was laid out in a manly proportion, presented on the vermilion summit of each pap, the idea of a rose about to blow.

Nor did his shirt hinder me from observing that symmetry of his limbs, that exactness of shape, in the fall of it towards the loins, where the waist ends, and the rounding swell of the hips commences, where the skin, sleek, smooth, and dazzling white, burnishes on the stretch over firm, plump, ripe flesh, that crimped and ran into dimples at the least pressure, or that the touch could not rest upon, but slid over as on the surface of the most polish’d ivory.

His thighs finely fashion’d, and with a florid glossy roundness gradually tapering away to the knees, seem’d pillars worthy to support that beauteous frame, at the bottom of which I could not, without some remains of terrour, some tender emotions too, fix my eyes on that terrible spit-fire machine, which had not long before, with such fury broke into, torn, and almost ruin’d those soft tender parts of mine, which had not yet done smarting with the effects of its rage; but behold it now! crest-fall’n, reclining its half-capt vermillion head over one of his thighs, quiet, pliant, and to all appearance incapable of the mischiefs and cruelty it had committed. Then the beautiful growth of the hair, in short and soft curls round its root, its whiteness, branch’d veins, the supple softness of the shaft, as it lay foreshorten’d, roll’d and shrunk up into a squob thickness, languid, and born up from between the thighs, by its globular appendage, that wondrous treasure bag of nature’s sweets, which rivell’d round, and purs’d up in the only wrinkles that are known to please, perfected the prospect; and all together form’d the most interesting moving picture in nature, and surely infinitely superior to those nudities furnish’d by the painters, statuaries, or any art, which are purchas’d at immense prices, whilst the sight of them in actual life is scarce sovereignly tasted by any but the few whom nature has endowed with a fire of imagination, warmly pointed by a truth of judgment to the spring-head, the originals of beauty of nature’s unequall’d composition, above all the imitation of art, or the reach of wealth to pay their price.

But every thing must have an end.