Around The World In Eighty Lays

As so many things in my life have, it was a moment of weakness which started me on the path which would eventually lead to my current fame. Long before I was a prize-winning journalist, I was a young debutante seeking out something to do with my future. Born and raised on my family's estates in Boston, with no one but myself, my French handmaiden Anne-Marie, and the hired help to keep me busy, I was well-known among my teachers and my parents' family friends as a difficult child, strong-willed, independent, and unwilling to accept any restrictions upon me based solely on the random factor of my gender. As a young girl, I found learning to knit and to wait upon a man to be intolerable and an inexcusable reduction of my value to the world. I felt instinctively that I must someday find my way to a profession, no, an avocation, which would prove my worth in the world which, at that time, was dominated by menfolk.

My interest in the sciences and erudition were evident to my mother, who, being also of a certain temperment, resolved herself to buck the trends of conventionality and good taste, and, pulling me from the girls' school I had been consigned to, brought me home to learn from only the very best of instructors in the arts and sciences, natural philosophy, and the histories and geographies of the known parts of the world. To his credit, my father, a wealthy military-industrialist who had married my mother after a drunken night in a Virginia tavern the day of the truce between the North and South resulted in my elder brother's birth, had little to hold up as interference in my mother's plans. At the time my mother approached him, he was deeply involved in the manufacture of jump packs for the Union Steam Jump Infantry units who protected our frontiers from incursions by both the Confederate States of America, and the wicked foulness of the Wendigo Territories. Father accepted with little argument my mother's plan to make me into, in his words "a boy in skirts." After all, thanks to my older brother Edward, our family was already well-known for having such a member in residence. I like to think my future adventures were in part excited by the pairing of Edie's taste in dress (and men) with his inevitable dalliance with a young Oscar Wilde (of which we shall no doubt hear more soon enough.)

What is certain to me is that my own young desires led me in no time at all to the most delicious thoughts about not only my French instructor Msr. Roland, but also my riding instructor Mam'selle Oliva. In fact, my first rough fumblings were with my own maid-servant Anne-Marie, with whom I investigated all the mysteries of Sappho long before my graduation from the independent studies my mother had arranged for me. For a full year, dear Anne-Marie and I lived in a simple loft in society Boston, where my lovely girl served me as both muse and lover. I alternated between grandiose attempts to self-publish a monograph on Maori Sexual Fetishes, and the harrowing depression at the thought I might in fact have no other purpose in a man's world than to pop out healthy strong Boston Irish babies, preferably male.

To his great credit, when George Edward Brett, scion of the New York Bretts and head of the American branch of the famous Macmillan Publishing, first met me at one of my mother's summer soirees, he was open-minded enough to give a young lady half his age time to explain her literary ambitions. And, as a gentleman, he was quite gentle when he deflowered me later that night as I was bent over my mother's bathroom sink. What began as a silly May-December fling soon matured into a friendly and mutually respected correspondence between intellectual equals. With his recommendation, I soon found myself in New York City at the offices of a small fringe magazine, handing across my writings to the curly-headed strapping youth who operated the presses at the Metropolitan Weekly World, a gentleman's magazine for the rich and famous. Of the now-famous Pericles Whyte I can add little to the current narrative, save to acknowledge my own participation in the notorious Walpurgisnacht Orgy, and to confirm those reporters who account to Peri the stamina to finish a woman as many as five times in a night. (In my own experience with him, I remember at least seven before I fell to Orpheus.)

Which, rather circuitously brings us to the moment I first referred to above, in which a lapse in self-control guided my future fate. I had just finished going thru my article on Clitoral Stimulation with Pericles; it was due for an upcoming issue and I wanted to make sure Peri was fully aware of my take. I was splayed atop Peri's desk, most of my notes, having been thoroughly digested by my editor, spread around the floor. My bare buttocks slid to and fro across the shiny surface, my own juices dribbling across my bottom to puddle there with Peri's saliva. For he was doing his very best to show how attentive to my directions he had been, and his lips were pressed firmly against my dripping labia, my cunny purring as he thumbed my clit in little circles. My panties, I had been wise enough to stuff into my own mouth, the better to silence my cries of bliss so the ladies in the steno pool wouldn't get too jealous. My hands were firmly locked in his hair, just behind his head; his hands were locked under my ass, lifting me up to his eager suckling. I was dimly aware of my screams, muffled as they were by the salty-sweet cloth between my lips, and I came hard, spending myself upon his desk, a small trickle of wetness falling onto the top of the desk. And then Peri was astride me, his ten-inch shaft spreading me open, the pulsation of his prick pleasuring every part of my pudenda.

Yes, yes, I know sordid alliteration is an amateur's technique. But I was lost in a rapture as he shoved his manhood deep inside me, as I was pounded down into the furniture, my stocking-clad legs wrapped around his tight-bunned ass. Each thrust was pure bliss, the head of his manhood knocking against the very opening of my womb such that, with each thrust, more and more of our sticky lubrication slathered along the inside of my thighs. Caught up in a wave of what seemed like an orgasm that would not end, I bucked and shivered and cried out like a newborn colt playing in the green green fields. With a gutteral cry of his own, Peri gave me one last final push, the warm heat of his seed flowing deep into every part of my being. I came one more time, hard, and then we both collapsed onto the desk top, our hearts hammering together as we found our way back to Earth.

"As always, Miss Sweetbush, your article is well thought out, beautifully written, and vastly informative," Peri murmured, kissing my neck and then standing to reach down for his trousers, which, along with his underwear, had been kicked under the chair in our hurry to fuck. "I particularly appreciate your elucidation of the oral techniques, which many American men seem to feel is somehow an unspeakable act."

I spat out my panties, and wryly inspected them before deeming them a lost cause and tossing them into the waste bin. "I'm glad you don't partake of the same superstitions," I smiled.

"It's the Irish in me," he laughed, stepping to the full length mirror to check himself. It wouldn't do to give the steno girls any more to gossip about; I joined him, adjusting my stockings and dress, cleaning myself with the towel he thoughtfully provided.

"It's a shame more people aren't educated about the various sexual practices of other cultures," I sighed, my enthusiasm for the topic coloring my cheeks. "If everyone was able to learn the techniques of, say, a Tibetan lama, an Amazonian warrior princess, or even, dare I suggest, what the dread lords of Carpathia might discover in their infinite lifetimes, perhaps then the world might be a better place.

Peri, who had been contemplating the curve of the back of my ass, no doubt with an eye to attempting to scale Mount Olympus a second time, suddenly looked up to me, his eyes twinkling as they do when his lust has been temporarily overcome by his editorial instincts. "Sort of a sexual ambassador to the world?"

Without realizing what I was about to do, I tightened one of the straps on my boustier, nodding absent-mindedly. "Precisely. Imagine what we could learn with a dedicated inspection of other peoples."

Peri strode to his desk, reaching for a telegram sheet and ringing the bell to summon a messenger boy. "You have nothing pressing in the near future?" he asked, his tone conspiratorial.

Confused, I turned to face him, taking in his broad-shouldered form highlighted by the sunlight coming through the enormous double window. A tickle in my belly advised me pleasantly that a second storming of my gates might be just the ticket to solidify my evening. Then I saw he was writing furiously, a huge grin breaking his normally restrained public visage. "Peri, why do you ask?" I said, suspicious of his motives.

"It will be the publishing coup of the century, my dear," he crowed, as the office door swung open and a well-put-together young man raced to the desk and waited for Peri to finish writing.

"What will be the publishing coup of the century?" I asked, beginning to get annoyed with his cheerful rush and flutter. I have learned that, when Pericles Whyte gets an idea into his head, there's a better chance of stopping a runaway steam velocipede than of diverting Peri from his purpose.

"Why, your trip around the world to sample all the methods and techniques of which American audiences are unaware." To their great credit, neither Peri nor the messenger boy made any mention of the spontaneous eruption of salty language which escaped my lips.