Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden

Sure enough, the delicate-minded girl now turned her attention to the part in question. By her incomparable gift of suction, which years of practice and not a little natural aptitude had be- stowed upon her rectum, she absorbed the bulk of the faeces ; while any unconsidered trifles stuck in her abundant and curly pubic hair. I could not restrain my enthusiasm, or my thorn-in-the-flesh from bursting my fly — the buttons were but care- lessly sewn on, for my mother was too randy with the sly sucks I was bestowing upon her acciden- tally-exposed clitoris to pay strict attention to the less fascinating pursuits of the seamstress. Laying hold of its resilient vigour I shouted, “ Give me that arse, O pig of pigs ! ” The well-trained animal pro- duced a card “ Whose ? ” I was in a dilemma. I had meant the girl’s, of course, but to say so now would be to affront, pos- sibly even to enrage, one for whom I had a deep respect. On the other hand, to offer my favours to him would be to lose the supreme suction of the lady’s turd-hole. I finessed again. The girl’s eyes were still smarting from the acrid urine of her four- footed friend, and it was with tolerable certainty of impunity from discovery that I pointed to my chan- cre and to the plate “ Masochist.” The pig picked up his concertina. “ Too late, or else too early ” he played with intense, wistful sadness, pointing with the tail of his eye to the bookshelf where stood a treatise on Syphilis, which pointed out but too clearly that the only proof of cure was re-infection. But the Archbishop’s vanity was aroused ; he saw that I was losing interest in him ; and this was no part of his plan. Dashing into the arena he frigged himself violently into the air, catching the gobs of sperm with great dexterity and tossing them up like a juggler, while moulding them little by little into a solid mass. He did not stop until (in one hundred and eighty two orgasms) he had col- [29]