The fun of her pleasant little trick sustained the poor lady on her journey, albeit she was but the shadow of her former self, walking and breathing with difficulty. She reached Lewes safely shortly after sunset and arrived at the specified hotel.
She asked for a room, and telling her name, explained how being unaccompanied, she wished to dine and sleep and meet her husband and daughter the next day. The reply came readily that Mr. Sandcross had just been in, had engaged the big room on the first floor for himself and lady, and had stepped out again.
Mrs. Sandcross, still really very ill, could not worry her enfeebled brain about this strange coincidence, and jumped at the muddled conclusion that somehow or the other she had misunderstood her husband's letter, which was in her reticule, and he was no doubt expecting her.
She replied with gasping utterances-it was strange now how the least excitement made her pant and tremble-that she was the lady in question, and would go up to her husband's room.
Once in the comfortable single-bedded, clean, old-fashioned chamber, she was glad to get off her hat and jacket and sit down to rest. There was a nice, antique, padded chair with big arms behind a light screen near the fireplace. She would recline there and have a nap until her good hubby returned. How she longed to see him and her handsome, devoted daughter! They were so good to her, so kind; such splendid nurses. The poor lady dropped a tear or two, partly out of pity for her own weakened, suffering self, and also for joy at being once more with the only two persons she loved. Really, she was very low and nervous. Doctors nowadays were great faddists. Fancy!-nothing but milk to live on for two months! No wonder she was all to pieces and starting at every sound. Wait until she got back to Paris. She would soon get her strength up with Normandy beef, grand fat fowls and fine old Bordeaux, not forgetting aged vintage Champagne. It was time for another little sip of that nasty digitalis stuff, and she must read- hubby's letter-dear Oliver!-silly mistake-Sandcross always so particular too-doctors softening her brain- no more milk-so tired-my reticule. And Mrs. Sand-cross dozed peacefully in her comfortable armchair.
It was now dusk and the low-ceilinged room was full of deep shadow when Mr. Sandcross, escorting Fanny whom he had fetched at the railway station, came gently into the bedchamber.
The door was no sooner closed and locked than by a mutual impulse, they fell into each other's arms, upstanding, and their mouths met in a kiss of long pent-up desire, tongues intertwining, lips clipping lips, and hands clasped, until Sandcross threw his arms round her, moulding her buttocks with one hand while he pressed her close to him with the other so as to feel her perfect bust crushed and throbbing against his breast. They ceased for want of breath and lost no words in idle talk. Fanny left his clasp, took off her hat, and throwing her slight bolero behind her, began feverishly unhooking her bodice. Sandcross, congested, his outstretched hands trembling, stepped towards her. Fanny waved him off.
“Undress, pa darling! We shall just have time before dinner. Make haste, I'm longing for you much more than you are for me!”
With a merry smile of denial, Sandcross tore off all the armour of civilisation, but despite his celerity, Fanny was naked, save natty nutbrown shoes and stockings, long before he had struggled out of laced boots and spun silk drawers.
He caught her again in his arms, drunk with delight as he once more felt her naked, tightly stretched, smooth skin against his sturdy, hairy body. The enamoured father would have dragged her to the bed, but she resisted.
“It will look so funny in this quaint hostelry if we go to bed before dinner. The sofa will suit, daddy love. I want to see you all over, and then you'll have to slap my bottom for being such a naughty little devil of a daughter as to play with the big thing I see sticking out from between my father's thighs. Oh! if it hadn't been for that great truncheon, I should never have seen the light of day, and also should never have had its whole length inside my body; in my hands; in my mouth- everywhere!-all over me!”
He was seated on the sofa, stark naked, and she, entirely nude too, was squatting between his open thighs admiring the gigantic, erect priapus she was so fond of. She caressed it with her fingers.
“Isn't it big? And impatient too? I can feel it throbbing in my hand. It feels for all the world like some huge, soft, warm dormouse that I might have made a prisoner. How nice you smell! What a time it is since I've enjoyed your own special perfume.” She ceased stroking his standard in order to inhale the odour of her own fingers which she pressed rapturously to her nose.
“Come now, papa,” said Fanny, excitedly, jumping up, “I've been a bad girl and have got so wicked.” She took his hand and placed it on her. “You must punish me for that and drive all these naughty thoughts out of my head!”
She pulled him gaily off the sofa and threw herself upon it on her ivory belly.
Papa stood up over her, entranced with the sight of her sloping shoulders, arched loins and the immense expanse of her rotund buttocks, as white as driven snow and as elastic as a freshly-inflated balloon. He slapped quickly and smartly with deft, stinging, spanking blows due to long practice.
“Oh, it's beautiful! You make me feel so exquisitely naughty! Harder, pa, dear! Quicker, kill me! Strike more with the tip of your fingers! Oh! oh! No-no more! It's awful now! Not so fast! Am I red? Ah! That was too bad! I'm sure the skin is broken! Don't! Oh, don't, I tell you!”
She writhed and twisted, pressing one arm to her face, and the other was bent behind her, palm upwards, in the small of her back. Papa had never ceased cruelly beating her with his hands, first one, then the other, and finally both posteriors at once, until they were black and blue, irregularly studded with small speckled wounds, whence issued tiny drops of blood as big as pin-heads.
This was quite enough for brazen Fanny, who sprang up and threw herself on her back, placing her clasped hands about her papa's neck, and pulling him down to her. He fell heavily upon her. She opened her legs.
“Make haste, my own papa! Your daughter is dying for her father's hard cruel thing that tore her to pieces when she was seventeen! Oh, put it in! Quick! Give me all of it! Don't keep me waiting! Don't tease me so, pups!”
He was so excited and trembled so much with lust and long abstention from the pleasures of the flesh that he bungled.
“There-silly pa! You've forgotten how to do it! Was that how you managed with mamma? It's a wonder you ever got her in the family way at all then? Isn't it- oh!-how beautiful! Push! Now! There! Oh, don't come yet! Let me-spend-first! I'm spe-e-ending! Oh! oh! Stop, pa!”
He remained still, admiring her form, lifting himself up a little way, pressing her large breasts.
“Now, go on again Gently at first! So! Oh, papa! I'm your wife! Enjoy your wife, Oliver darling, and make her see the angels!”
“You're not my wife, Fanny child; you're my daughter, my own offspring, sprung from your old daddy's loins nearly nineteen years ago! Oh! oh! I can't help it! I must spend now!”
“I'm spending! Oh, papa-husband! Spend with me -now! Father, make me a baby! Not so hard, you'll spoil your little wifie!”
“Oh, Fanny! I'm spending! Oh, darling It's-too- much. Ugh There There! It burns me!”
He dropped flat on her body, stifling her cries with the pressure of his hot mouth, as they both spent together.
All was still. The room was quite quiet. No sound could be heard but Fanny's sighs of pleasure, growing gradually weaker and weaker, and her father's stertorous breathing as he lay heavily upon her, his eyes closed in the oblivious repose of satisfied lust.
“Well, Fan, how did you run on just now! What would your ma say if she could have heard you?”
A slight noise resounded through the room, near the fireplace, in a corner-it seemed to Sandcross who started and turned towards the screen. Fanny sat up and her glance followed that of her father.
The flimsy barrier fell, and Fanny's mother stood stiffly erect. In one hand she held her little bottle and reticule; the other was stretched out towards her naked
husband and daughter. Although the room was nearly dark, Mrs. Sandcross's white face and staring blue eyes, showing a vast and terrifying dilatation like unto mother-o'-pearl round the pupils, gleamed out against the blackness of the shadows as if the features were illumined from within, and lighted up the space immediately surrounding her mask of agony.
“You vile wretches” she gasped out, in hoarse tones-almost like those of a man. “Curse you both! May you- I-I-oh!”
A long, low, painful sigh came from the innermost depths of her panting breast, and she dropped back in the armchair. Her eyes closed peacefully. All anger left her face. She was still, reposing, as it appeared, after the great shock.
“Oh, pa! She's fainted,” whispered the nude daughter, catching up her petticoat, by an automatic movement of long-forgotten pudicity in the presence of her mother.
Sandcross stepped forward, placing his hand on his wife's shoulder, and gazing intently into her face. All at once, he started back.
“No, Fanny. She's dead!”
The verdict was heart failure. The joyous emotion of meeting a beloved husband and dutiful daughter when still weak from prolonged illness had been too much for her. All her lady friends envied her painless, sudden, happy death in the arms of the loved ones to whom she had just been reunited.
Fanny and her father are perfectly and unreservedly happy. They never leave each other. If you are fond of visiting Parisian playhouses, on subscribers' nights, or on the second or third performance of a new piece, you cannot forego having the beautiful Miss Sandcross pointed out to you.
You will know her by the wondering infantile simplicity in the candid glance of her violet eyes. She wears a magnificent ruby and diamond brooch, in which is set a most artistic little miniature of her doting father, whom you will notice always seated behind her in the private box, and supping with her afterwards.
Alexandre Dumas, The Romance of Violette
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