Miss Emily Drew's Guide

A lady who employs all the resources of her memory and imagination to enrich the experiences of her mind and body will never hesitate to clench her lover between her thighs and utter that imperative demand which she knows well enough in two simple words,' wrote Miss Drew — a now middle-aged connoisseur of voluptuous pleasures — in our last issue.

In her thirty-plus years of loving, Emily Drew has seen and tasted all. Here she describes her earliest introduction to certain delicious secrecies of two young girls in the early nineteen thirties.

Some of Life's better delights are surely the most unexpected ones. I have found this frequently, and none more so than in my eighteenth year when I had cause to pass the weekend at the house of an old schoolfriend whom I shall call Julia, since she is still of my acquaintance and would not wish that past indiscretions should cast even the slightest shadow across her present respectability.

As I recall, my parents were not over-keen on my intended absence from home on this particular occasion — or, at least, my mother was not — for as it appeared to me only afterwards Julia's parents, the Sampsons, had gained some faint reputation for holding weekend parties at which it was said that discretion did not always obtain. With the aid of my father, however, mother was won over and at three p.m. on a rather dull but warm afternoon Julia called for me in a limousine chauffeured by her father whose well-concealed glances as I clambered into the deep back seat beside his daughter were sufficiently pleasing to evidence that I had chosen a pretty, new dress for the occasion, barely of length to cover my knees and with a cut sufficiently tight to display, through the thin blue silk hemmed with white lace, the rather impudent little knobs of my suspenders as the material was drawn tightly about my thighs in a reclining posture.

I do not mean to sound wanton; it is merely that I have never subscribed to the belief that women dress to challenge other women. For my part I have always dressed to challenge men, whether I intended to amuse myself with them or not. To my young mind — as indeed in my reflections now — to gain the overtly seeking glances of my friend's middle-aged father was sufficient to inform me that I had ridden out of the schoolgirl stage into that of womanhood. In those days, of course, one did not assume one's official majority until the age of twenty-one. In certain other matters, however, I had attained mine a year or two earlier in circumstances which I shall later divulge.

I had at this time also obtained what I might term a private form of education — quite illicitly — through the facilities of the small library in my father's study. I had been told by my mother never to enter there; such was challenge enough for me to do so, of course, since I had no intention of disturbing his desk and could not imagine that she would think that I would. I chose, naturally enough, an occasion when both my parents were out — being an only child — and might not have fastened upon the secret of my mother's timidity had I not idly but thoroughly have explored the wall-length bookshelves right up to the top shelf. It was there that I found what my mother had feared I might.

In those days, what is now generally called erotic literature was extremely hard to come by. I believe in fact that its very possession was forbidden. Would that it were so today, for people have become too accustomed to it and could never now comprehend the heart-beating sense of the forbidden with which, that very night, I read in the privacy of my bedroom two small books which I had tremblingly 'borrowed'. One, as I recall, was titled Sheaves from an Old Escritoire, and if my mouth was initially dry during the reading of it then such evidence of my excitement was amply compensated for by the increasing moisture in a more interesting place as I read — first breathlessly and then with overwhelming excitement — the adventures of a young lady of my own age who lustily surrendered her pleasing form to several attracted parties of both sexes including (quite incredibly as it seemed to me then) her brother.

There was a quite delicious episode in this book in which the heroine, becoming married, shared an extremely wicked evening, night and morning with her husband and another young couple whose general merriment during a pillow fight at bedtime eventually secured for all four the pleasures of a divine orgy during which the two girls shared and exchanged the lively lovelances of their respective husbands.

I still have Sheaves from an Old Escritorio bringing back, as it does, many pleasant memories — but this is not the moment to stray from my recollections of my visit to Julia's home which stood, as so many more houses did then, in the seclusion of its own grounds, though my mention of the book is apposite, as we shall see.

It was a heavenly party, a house-party, in fact, since a number of guests were, like myself, staying for the week-end and there was a considerable amount of merriment and drinking during the evening when, with the French windows from the drawing room opening on to the lawns, couples drifted off in the late hours on to the grass and among the bushes where, as I took a turn to walk out in the company of a young man who had been dancing exceedingly close to me, we could hear laughings and murmurings in the shadows among the shrubs and bushes. It was a night for excitement, and, since the condition of my partner's interest in me had already introduced itself stiffly against my thinly-clad form during the dancing, I allowed myself without demur to be led against a tree where we began to kiss with that sudden passion of strangers who find release in the darkness of secrecy.

Well aware that I was somewhat unlikely to encounter this young man in the near future — if at all thereafter — I permitted him certain liberties which in other circumstances I might have withheld. In a moment, as our tongues each explored the exciting moisture of the other's, the front of my dress was unbuttoned and his enquiring fingers delved, not without some skill, over the taut and fulsome skin of my melons whereon my thick brown nipples quickly became burnished and risen. In a lax moment I became overexcited and seized through the somewhat straining material of his flannel trousers that impressive tube which had already raised itself earlier in the heat of the drawing room. It was by no means the first that I had brought to attention that night during the dancing for — being rather impressionable and easily led at that age — I had become aware that a certain laxity (such as my mother had feared) already reigned in the room. I had not missed the fact, amid the noise, music and cigarette haze, that even Julia's mother was seated laughing on a settee quite close to a gentleman whose hand was placed interestingly upon her thigh, while in a corner — half behind a screen — another couple sported much more loosely, the woman being half upon the man's lap and his hand upon her leg beneath her skirt.

Such images were quite sufficient to enflame me then, however commonplace they may be now, and I became careless in a manner which I learned to control in following years. I began to toy with the protuberance which my erring hand had discovered while permitting that of my companion to desert the now impassioned surface of my breasts and insinuate itself beneath my skirt which it raised, by the movement of his arm and wrist, above my stocking tops. Perhaps it was at this exposure of my bare thighs and cami-knickers that I realised my peril — or, at least, the peril of public exposure — and I recollect even now with some sense of mischief how I momentarily struggled to remove his questing fingers from the flap of my cami-knickers while still rather possessively gripping his well-extended pole within such grasp as I could obtain of it.

It was not that I was then coy. Had we been alone I suspect that I would have lent myself to the occasion, against the rough bark of the tree, without too much hesitation. I had drunk a little more than I was accustomed to and was conscious of the fact that my thighs were already willing to part and that a mere flick of his fingers would unbutton my flap and reveal the warm and already moist condition of my offering. It was not to be, however, for to my sudden terror and embarrassment the voice of Julia's father broke between us and my erstwhile passionate companion was rather curtly told to 'be off' which he did immediately. Leaving me in a state of blushing confusion as I endeavoured to close the front of my dress which at the moment revealed more than it concealed.

It would be impertinent — not to say indiscreet of me — to suggest that in gruffly offering his assistance, Julia's father permitted (no doubt accidentally) his own fingers to undertake certain casual liberties which did nothing to ease the condition of my swollen orbs but rather encouraged to untoward evidence of my excited nipples through the strained silk of my dress as he accompanied me back to the house, murmuring that it was rather late. Even in the moonlight I noticed that his face was quite flushed, which amused me at the time in the somewhat suppressed-giggling manner of the young. Whether this encouraged or dismayed him I know not, but I suddenly felt his arm fall casually about my waist from whence it slipped, as if by chance over the slippery material of my dress, on to the roundness of my bottom which I can with modesty aver few surpassed in firmness and contour.

Nothing was said, for his hand quickly ceased upon its voyage of discovery at the sudden appearance from the house of Julia.

To be caught is one thing; there have been few occasions in my life when I have not guarded against discovery by unwanted others, but to be caught in such meaningful circumstances by a friend while in the company of her parent was quite another matter. I therefore pretended a quick, laughing remark to him and ran forward to meet Julia with some quite inane words to her which I do not recall but which evidently satisfied her that I had merely been 'retrieved' from some idle, lonely wandering in the 'pleasure garden' — as indeed such it quite obviously was in that moment.

Julia's face nevertheless held some state of embarrassment, tinged with curiosity. As it now seems to me, perhaps this was not such a rare occasion for her after all. Fortunately it was already late and I immediately acceded, as a respectful guest should, to the admonition of Julia's mother, who now approached us with a slightly wary eye on her husband to proclaim that we should take to our room.

I was to share Julia's room, though it contained only a single bed, for all the others were to be occupied. We were allowed, however, a nightcap of our own choice and some petits fours which Julia's mother brought up to us while mentioning — a trifle too casually I did even then perceive — that we should not forget to lock our door. Julia herself giggled at this immediately her mother left and, meeting her eyes, I shared in her laughter just as we shared the same thoughts which, for the moment, remained unspoken. I threw myself down on her bed with my drink still in my hand while Julia sat beside me. I do not recall much of our conversation then except that Julia suddenly giggled and asked, "Did anyone put their hands up your skirt in the garden?"

Recalling the circumstances in which she had found me I merely echoed her giggle and said nothing, being aware that silence was at that moment more expressive than speech. We began to talk in whispers, nudging each other rather naively and tittering somewhat stupidly at the occasional scuffling and whispering sounds in the corridor.

I recall that in the midst of much such silliness we both undressed in the dark and climbed into the narrow bed without bothering about our night-dresses, the noises beyond having mainly ceased though there were still occasionally low voices to be heard from the garden below. Until this moment I had read a number of episodes of what was then termed 'Sapphic love' but — rather strangely perhaps since it was even then not uncommon — had never experienced it. I quite distinctly recall that the sense of arousal I had experienced in the garden under two different pairs of male hands now began to reassert itself once more under the influence of the inevitable pressure of our naked bodies.

Julia was not unpretty. She had long, dark flowing hair quite like my own and both her breasts and bottom had sufficient ampleness and pleasingness of curves which to another woman — as I have since otherwise found — can have the distinct attractions of beauty and sensuousness. I recollect rising up for a moment beside her to adjust the top sheet over the blankets when Julia asked me yet again in somewhat bleared and silly tones whether anyone had — as she put it — 'given me a feel' in the garden. I had in mind well enough what she was getting at and suspected that she had seen a little more than I thought. I remember being at once nervous, embarrassed and annoyed and looked down for an instant at her white plump breasts in the gloom and the dark circles of desire upon them. The recollection of questing fingers upon my own earlier that night suddenly aroused me and before I knew my own intention, and as if to quell a further question that I felt might be dangerous to my reputation, I bent and placed my lips over her own while at the same time, driven by a combination of instinct and arousal, placing my palm gently over the rising mound of her breasts.

To feel the sweetness of another woman's naked breasts beneath the sensitive flesh of my palm was a totally new experience which I savoured with pleasure from the first. We were already both heady with the gins and sherries we had imbibed and our breaths intermingled with added intoxication as Julia's soft, wide mouth engaged my own with a sense of expectancy that I was only to recollect in aftermath. She gave a soft, sweet sound against my lips, wriggled slightly as if to settle herself in the complete comfort that a knowing woman demands and wound her arms tenderly up around my back.

I sank half upon her almost in the same moment, the broad top of my silken thigh engaging itself against the warm, thatched snare of her delight. Our mouths parted almost reluctantly; I laid my cheek against hers and with combined affection of desire and wickedness toyed with finger and thumb about her nipples.

'Did anyone?' she asked me softly, cloudily.

'Yes', I replied. I triumphed in saying it; I knew what she thought; we shared, I swear — by some magic of telepathy — the same vivid image that was neither wholly true nor wholly false. It seemed to excite her greatly; she turned towards me so that we were face to face in the narrow confines of her bed, breasts and bellies curving all too lewdly together, and inserted her tongue in my mouth with all the careless, rapturous, bold impudence of a woman who has teetered on the edge of wickedness and now decides to plunge into the warm abyss.

In that moment I acted, I do believe, as if I were playing the male role in our ineluctable embrace. I pressed the garden of my nest boldly to hers, passing my hand lightly over the exquisite contours of her bottom as our lips and tongues engaged in the searching eloquence of unsatisfied voluptuousness. It was to be my first lesson in a newfound joy, for in that moment we both loved one another just as equally as we silently recognised the call of evening lust that drew our longing loins together.

Slightly stronger than she — or perhaps she was the more willing to accede to whatever fantasy had seized her mind — I rolled her gently upon her back, our mouths remaining locked together as if in infinite hunger, and lay between her slightly spread thighs. A softness that was yet to become a divine stickiness made us move our bellies together in hesitant unison. We kissed like pigeons, her mouth seemed to become fuller and more yielding, until I could contain myself no longer. I slid both hands down to the tops of her thighs, pressing them into the sheet beneath us as if to hold her down while I began moving myself back and forth with increasingly loud sighs, my nether mouth enchanting itself with hers.

Julia began to pant in turn. The exquisite little bud of her delight swelled like a tiny acorn in rapturous sensitivity against my own. The bed became a turmoil as our bodies and limbs heaved with rising desire. We exchanged gasps, whispers of tenderness that flourished back and forth between wild, hissed obscenities that faded and renewed themselves with a total abandonment of pretence that we were any longer respectable young ladies. The burning trickles seized our writhing torsos with heavenly anticipation and I heard — as if from the mouth of another — my own low cries of pleasure intermingling with Julia's as a perfect ague of sprinkling release seized us, moistening the thick, dark hairs that intertwined with her own.

Thrice, nay four or five times, we renewed our rapture on that first night as the clock in the hall chimed two and three, unnoticed in the total abandonment of our moistened, heated bodies which knew no denial even as our mouths fastened hungrily at last each upon the salty, yearning arbours of love that we could no longer deny yielding completely.

To love thus and in this wise was then counted the most unspeakable (save one) of secret practices, yet many women yielded to it in the privacy of their bedrooms, and whispers of such among the knowing were counted as the very gems of gossip.

Despite the revealing shadows that encircled our eyes the next morning, Julia and I remained undiscovered, if not unsuspected, and the paleness of my face beneath my make-up did not escape the tremulous eyes of my mother on my return. My father said nothing. He had, I suspected, already made known to himself my secret pilferings from his top shelf, but remained equally discreet as to that.