deliberately undid the buttons of his trousers. She tucked her breasts between his thighs as she knelt before him. The bed shuddered a little as she began to suck and push, kneading his stomach like a hungry cat. But they lurched off together, rocking in rhythm, a brave little ship leaving harbour and catching the first wind.
Max felt the wonderful moment of approaching darkness as the lady’s lips sucked his penis into a priapic arch. The delightful explosion ended in salvage, as the maiden expertly fielded every drop upon her handkerchief. Through his muttered groans Max heard her praising his Tremendous Engine, its magnitude and voracity; flattering practised phrases, which, nevertheless, were pleasing to hear. He kissed her forehead, and bending to undo the ribbons on her bodice, released both breasts into the fetid air. They swayed before him, gigantic and comfortable. Lying back upon the russet shawls he sucked both nipples into pyramids, resisting the temptation to forage further beneath her skirts and incur more substantial expense. He had spent all he could afford for one evening. But he felt neither guilt nor regret. During his unsteady progress in darkness, back along the unfamiliar streets, Max felt well disposed towards all mankind and a little in love with his farmer’s daughter, whom he determined to visit again, as soon as his business with the Sibyl and her dancing whiskered husband should be concluded.
But on the following morning, when he presented himself on their doorstep, he encountered Mr. and Mrs. Lewes dressed and ready to go out. Mrs. Lewes dipped her head and he found himself bowing to an enormous green bonnet trimmed with a deep red frill. The green shawl draped over her shoulders slipped a little and was immediately rescued and straightened by Lewes, who began gabbling cheerfully.
‘Ah Max! We’re on our way to your hotel to winkle you out. D’you know Meyrick? The painter? He’s offered to conduct us round his studio. Wants to paint Polly of course, but we’ll look at what he does first before we agree to anything.’
Max lifted his hat and stood aside, making polite noises of assent, and offering his arm to the Sibyl as she descended the steps like a recently awakened deity. He caught a glimpse of the slight wolfish smile as she peered cautiously up into his face. And so the little party set off through the still uncrowded streets, the dark-suited gentlemen on either side, the Sibyl cruising gently between them. The chilly air smelt of bonfires and dead leaves. Autumn now freshened the wet pavements and the street vendors seemed slower to animate their baskets and carts. The spa dozed in the early day.
Lewes chatted energetically, leaning across to Max, breaking off to greet the odd acquaintance, everyone bowed to the couple as if they were passing royalty, who had mysteriously mislaid their carriage. The Sibyl murmured the odd comment in German, but otherwise concentrated on picking her way over the cobbles as they descended into the old town and the narrow, secluded streets.
‘You must excuse me, Max,’ she whispered, when they arrived at the painter’s door. ‘I am suffering from an appalling attack of neuralgia, which came upon me in the night. But I am anxious to visit Mr. Meyrick. He has been so warmly recommended to us. Ah, we have found him at last.’
Am Mühlweg 17 towered above them, an immense wooden house. Pale, late roses mingled with Michaelmas daisies surrounded a veranda covered in dead leaves. A child eating an apple opened the door and pointed to an endless staircase lit from above by a dusty roof-light. Meyrick himself came bounding down two flights to greet them; Max and Lewes adjusted the speed of their climb to allow for the Sibyl’s toothache.
The painter leaped to and fro like an excited dog, his face encircled with very long ginger curls, but he was freshly shaven and clearly wearing his cleanest shirt. Max recognised him at once as the man
Max felt the wonderful moment of approaching darkness as the lady’s lips sucked his penis into a priapic arch. The delightful explosion ended in salvage, as the maiden expertly fielded every drop upon her handkerchief. Through his muttered groans Max heard her praising his Tremendous Engine, its magnitude and voracity; flattering practised phrases, which, nevertheless, were pleasing to hear. He kissed her forehead, and bending to undo the ribbons on her bodice, released both breasts into the fetid air. They swayed before him, gigantic and comfortable. Lying back upon the russet shawls he sucked both nipples into pyramids, resisting the temptation to forage further beneath her skirts and incur more substantial expense. He had spent all he could afford for one evening. But he felt neither guilt nor regret. During his unsteady progress in darkness, back along the unfamiliar streets, Max felt well disposed towards all mankind and a little in love with his farmer’s daughter, whom he determined to visit again, as soon as his business with the Sibyl and her dancing whiskered husband should be concluded.
But on the following morning, when he presented himself on their doorstep, he encountered Mr. and Mrs. Lewes dressed and ready to go out. Mrs. Lewes dipped her head and he found himself bowing to an enormous green bonnet trimmed with a deep red frill. The green shawl draped over her shoulders slipped a little and was immediately rescued and straightened by Lewes, who began gabbling cheerfully.
‘Ah Max! We’re on our way to your hotel to winkle you out. D’you know Meyrick? The painter? He’s offered to conduct us round his studio. Wants to paint Polly of course, but we’ll look at what he does first before we agree to anything.’
Max lifted his hat and stood aside, making polite noises of assent, and offering his arm to the Sibyl as she descended the steps like a recently awakened deity. He caught a glimpse of the slight wolfish smile as she peered cautiously up into his face. And so the little party set off through the still uncrowded streets, the dark-suited gentlemen on either side, the Sibyl cruising gently between them. The chilly air smelt of bonfires and dead leaves. Autumn now freshened the wet pavements and the street vendors seemed slower to animate their baskets and carts. The spa dozed in the early day.
Lewes chatted energetically, leaning across to Max, breaking off to greet the odd acquaintance, everyone bowed to the couple as if they were passing royalty, who had mysteriously mislaid their carriage. The Sibyl murmured the odd comment in German, but otherwise concentrated on picking her way over the cobbles as they descended into the old town and the narrow, secluded streets.
‘You must excuse me, Max,’ she whispered, when they arrived at the painter’s door. ‘I am suffering from an appalling attack of neuralgia, which came upon me in the night. But I am anxious to visit Mr. Meyrick. He has been so warmly recommended to us. Ah, we have found him at last.’
Am Mühlweg 17 towered above them, an immense wooden house. Pale, late roses mingled with Michaelmas daisies surrounded a veranda covered in dead leaves. A child eating an apple opened the door and pointed to an endless staircase lit from above by a dusty roof-light. Meyrick himself came bounding down two flights to greet them; Max and Lewes adjusted the speed of their climb to allow for the Sibyl’s toothache.
The painter leaped to and fro like an excited dog, his face encircled with very long ginger curls, but he was freshly shaven and clearly wearing his cleanest shirt. Max recognised him at once as the man
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