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Before the emancipation of the slaves, my father, who was of English origin, owned vast and rich plantations in the Antilles It was on one of them that I was born. At my baptism, I was given the name of Regine.

I do not believe that my readers will be interested in my infancy with such details as my first tooth and my childhood diseases. The first event that pertains to my subject occurred when I was sixteen years old, and I remember it as if it were yesterday.

At that time, I was given to the care of a Negress named Dora whose sole task was to look after me. Through her, I learned that my mother who died shortly after giving me birth was nothing but a favourite slave. It seems that she was a rare beauty with a complexion almost as white as that of a European woman. Dora told me that I looked very much like her.

I should mention that my nurse was very learned in herbs. She boasted that with her knowledge, she could cure any ailment known to man.

One herb that she often picked during our strolls she used in place of tea. It also possessed soporific powers. I remember always falling into a delicious sleep right after she gave me a cup of the brew.

One evening, she prepared the beverage, but I noticed it had a more penetrating odour than usual. Perhaps because of my stomach, it had a disagreeable taste. When she was not looking, I started to empty the contents of the cup in a flower pot, but she caught me. At her insistence, I did manage to get a few drops down.

The need I had for sleep undoubtedly came from the brew, but it seemed weaker for I woke up after only a few hours. Moonbeams were shining through the curtain into my room. By their light, I was able to make out the clock face. It was just a little after midnight.

I felt nervous and feverish. I put my hand on my cunt. I found the two lips and the satiny mons veneris. With my finger, I gently rubbed the crevice that separated them. I could smell a delightful scent emanating from it. I felt it half open under my fondling. It seemed to me that this organ I had just discovered was intimately and mysteriously bound to my life, to the very source of my being. At that time, I was ignorant of the marvellous key which, when inserted, starts the mysterious action.

But now that the veil had been partially lifted, my curiosity was all the more whetted. Also, many things I had only guessed at before became clearer. I made up my mind to find all I could about the subject.

I was lying in bed, wrapped up in those thoughts, when a low whistle caught my attention. Dora also had heard it, for she quickly got up and whispered: “Is that you, Dandy?”

The whistle was repeated.

“It's all right for you to come in,” she said. “The child is dead to the world.”

A dark form appeared at the window. I recognised him. He was an overseer, a good-looking mulatto who was known to be a passionate admirer of Dora. He took her in his arms and gave her a long kiss.

“Are you sure the girl is sound asleep? I'd like to take a look at that little cunt of hers,” he said.

“Of course she's asleep. My herb tea never fails.”

Walking on tiptoe, the mulatto approached my bed. Gently he lifted the sheets and slipped his hand between my thighs. I pretended that I was asleep, although I found it hard to remain motionless. His fingers were tickling me. Soon I experienced that pleasure I had before. For fear that the delightful sensation would stop, I kept myself rigid as a rock.

“What an adorable little cunt she has,” he commented. “Do you know, Dora, I'd like to be the first to pluck that enticing flower.”.
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At that, Percy dismounted and stepped toward my horse. As he leaned over to inspect the hoof, I gently but firmly applied my riding crop to his buttocks His response, quite happily, was predictable Sweeping me from the horse and into his arms, he announced with a severe smile, “Your steed is ready now, my dear.” Off came his breeches. .
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Harry, son of a well-to-do English country family, has set out to sexually conquer all the females within his immediate reach. But no sooner does he begin his exploits than he encounters the imperious beauty, Davina, who enslaves him through her remarkable power of hypnotism. Thus entranced, Harry indulges in every aspect of eroticism known to man or woman.

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The novel is narrated by a flea who tells the tale of a beautiful young girl named Bella falling into her own curiosity of her sexuality and the people who take advantage of her own ignorance. The novel serves as both erotica and also as a piece of anti-church propaganda (by portraying members of the priesthood as immoral, manipulative and hypocritical)..
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HOW will you have your little jewel treated to-day, Duchess? Shall I simply make the tip of my agile tongue frisk about this fresh clitoris perfumed with violet water? Do you wish me to take it between my lips, where I shall roll it like a crisp almond made by a confectioner a la mode? I will make it feel the shuddering touch of my teeth ready to devour this sensitive flesh. Or would you prefer this libertine tongue to entirely enter your slit? Will you hold open the red lips yourself, and whilst my finger is gently rubbing the button of love, it will seek a rose-drop at the bottom of the chalice?”

“None of these,” my mistress said to me. “Simply recite your poem on our Mother Eve, and relate to me your old amours.”

I am a poet, you see, my dear lady reader. I am also a man without prejudices. You will see this equally, very soon. I am called Richard de la Brulaye. Twenty-eight years old, rich, a handsome cavalier, a sharp blade and one who knows his way about, ready to love many women and caress all those whom I do not love and who are good-looking.
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A gentleman of very ancient family and considerable estate was married to a lady of beauty, wit, virtue, and good humor. But though he knew and acknowledged the merits of his wife, yet he was a man of so depraved a taste that the dirtiest creature he could pick up frequently provided him carnal pleasure.

It happened when they were at their country home that riding one morning, as was his usual custom, he met a ragged country wench with a pair of wallets, or coarse linen bags, thrown over her shoulder. He stopped his horse and asked what she had there? She replied, with a low curtsy that exposed the plenitude of her breasts, that it was leftovers; that her mother and she had no sustenance but what they got from the charity of the cooks at the landowners' homes. She was now going home with what they had given her.

“You need not be in haste, I suppose,” he said. “If you will step with me into yonder field, I will give you something to buy you a new gown.”
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You will readily believe that the letters you are about to read were never intended for publication They were lately exchanged between a handsome, lusty young gentleman of some thirty summers and a mischievously pretty beauty who had just completed her nineteenth year. As the letters themselves will show, both these friends are persons of the finest breeding and the most amiable liveliness of mind.

I have known handsome Charlie and pretty Lizzie for long enough to assure you that the events which this correspondence relates are utterly worthy of belief. After several months of my urging them, they have at last placed these papers in my hands with full permission to communicate them to the world. They make one stipulation, with which any sensible man or woman must concur: the full names and titles of my young friends are not revealed.

Do you deplore their reticence? Let me tell you then that both Charles and Lizzie are persons of some consequence. So, alas, the most fearful scandal might result from a too impetuous revelation of their identities. Let me say only that the father of our hero is entered in Burke's Peerage, while our heroine was presented at court in the second summer of the new King's reign. If you have the curiosity and diligence, you may thus infer their names from the peerage, the court circular, and the details of the letters themselves.

I will not detain you a moment longer than need be from the amorous frolics and ingenious orgies which these two friends witnessed. .
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Imagine what might happen to the innocent Jane O"Connor, young, raised in a parsonage by her ecclesiastic uncle following the death of her parents, fresh out of a cloistered existence, who is hired to be a secretary in an employment agency and who discovers that the "agency" is nothing less than a wild bordello. As Jane explores all of the possibilities of her job, she soon discovers "the chamber on the second floor" where diverse games are played by healthy and perverse Englishmen. She is guided in her initiation by Colonel Barrington, whom we see proceed with an Irish lass"s unusual, intimate initiation into the arts of love. With a deft hand and an unerring eye for sexual detail, Jane"s story unfolds..
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In the tradition of Fanny Hill, but far steamier! That's how to describe this once banned classic. Arabella is the story of a proud and strong-willed woman of the Victorian era. In her own words she describes the erotic escapades and kinky amours that took place behind the closed doors of 1890s society.

She chronicles a life of erotic diversions that is truly remarkable. It all begins at a very exclusive party of the era. You know the kind...the guest list is hand-picked for their sexual imaginations and discretion. Once the party begins, anything goes! And does! Fans of classic erotica will love Arabella! .
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