The Confessions of Nemesis Hunt

We arrived at Kingstown Monday morning and went straight to the rooms for breakfast. I was bewildered with delight at the thought of a long day with Jean, but to my disgust he went out directly after the meal and did not return till five minutes late for the 4:30 meal (dinner) much the worse for liquor. He had met a lot of friends, he said. Dinner over, he went to bed in a drunken sleep, out of which we had to shake him when theatre time came.

"You mustn't worry, Kid," said Miss Latouche, "you'll find actors are all very much the same, very selfish."

At the theatre Restall took me aside. "I gather from the actress's book that you are living at the same rooms as Jean Messel. I think you're a little fool, that's all!"

I was too much in love to worry and after the theatre that night Jean more than made up for the desertion. A pleasant little supper was followed by the speedy disappearance of Miss Latouche to bed, and half an hour's indelicate fondling in front of the fire was followed by bed for us two also. It is of little use for me to attempt to describe what followed.

First fucks are bound to be much the same, all the world over. It was simply animal and brutal. He had me twice without uncunting as the vulgar put it; it was a paroxysm of gluttonous lust. How I enjoyed the contact of his naked body with mine, I cannot describe. The warm flood of his sperm within me was maddeningly joyous! He was largely built and hurt me not a little at first, but even in the pain there was pleasure. After the second fuck was completed. Jean got up and found a real "fucksome drink" as he called it—a bottle of nicely wanned Burgundy.

It's Gladys again interrupting. "I'm sorry to stop you, dearest," she apologized, "but when you start talking of fucksome drinks, you're in the presence of one who knows. This is the best drink for two persons, take one quart bottle of champagne and four eggs. Divide bottle into four large glasses, break egg in each, and drink, then fuck!"

To continue: Jean and I bathed in the warmth of each other's loving flesh, while the fingers of the clock ran round. He swore to me that he would be true, sure indeed that he had been true since he knew me, qualifying that under cross-examination, with the admission that he had allowed girls to play with it in their mouths but he didn't consider that much. And I believe that many men are of his way of thinking. Bar the actual fuck, they think that no other sexual intimacy counts as an act of infidelity.

We were too tired or too careless to make any bones about respectability that night at any rate, so after another battle of love, we fell asleep where we were, naked and gripped together, with Jean's penis still sweltering in the grip of my cunt muscles.

I shall never forget the awakening. I was in the midst of a dream that I was the cook in an expedition to the Polar regions and that the sailors had insisted on taking my clothing from me and were fucking me one by one on the ice, till I complained of the cold, so the Captain slapped my naked body all over—when my eyes struggled to open and I realized that I had been the victim of a very real slap indeed.

Written in 1902 by Erotika Biblion author George Reginald Bacchus for his friend Leonard Smithers, 'The Confessions of Nemesis Hunt' is an eroticised version of an earlier fictionalised version of the life of his wife, friend of Lewis Carroll, and once childhood actor, Isa Bowman. This classic of Victorian erotica told in sumptuously graphic prose will be sure to pique the interest of those a follower of the genre. Naughty.