Click on image to enlarge.

Category: Erotica/Classic Erotica
Description: Sex on the High Seas! Pleasure Bound relates the adventures of two frolicsome groups--one led by Maudie and her millionaire friend "Tubby," the second led by the American vamp Sylvania Jepps. Various indiscretions cause Maudie's band to flee their native England aboard a well-appointed yacht. Piracy on the high seas leads all to become "captives" to all sorts of erotic adventures.
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions,
eBookwise Release Date: January 2008

2 Reader Ratings:

Great	Good	OK	Poor

Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [113 KB]
Words: 23831
Reading time: 68-95 min.

It was a rough spring, and after the Mesopotamia had passed the Statue of Liberty and cleared Sandy Hook, she stuck her nose into the Atlantic with a robust determination, which made the purser reflect genially that he was going to save money on the meals.

The company on the liner was varied. There was the usual complement of millionaires, some who worked and some who belonged to the 'Father-made-the-money' club; assorted Anglo-Saxon nobility, quite a number of widows, grass and otherwise; and not a few very dainty American flappers (why is it that Yankee flappers are nicer than English?).

Silas Ahasuerus P. Q. Silverwood stood near the stern and, as the night came down with a rush, gazed at the receding lights of New York, blinking in the gloom. It was his first visit to 'Yerrup', and he was a bit nervous. He had his money sewed into the arse of his pants, and when Miss Sylvania Jepps from Jeppville, Ohio, whom he had met casually at the Waldorf Astoria on the preceding evening and, incidentally, not shared sheets with, sidled up to him, he instinctively covered his bum pocket with a horny and capacious hand.

'Say,' chortled Miss J, 'guess did you ever hear the bright bit about the lady on the herring pond trip, and her diary?'

'Naw.'

'Waal-a fren' o' mine found the book. Listen to the contents.

Jan. 1. Leave NY entrusted to care of captain. Cap. very pleasant and fatherly.

Jan. 2. Cap. more like a brother.

Jan. 3. Cap. tries to kiss me.

Jan. 4. Cap. makes immoral proposals to me. Refuse indignantly.

Jan. 5. Cap. repeats proposals. Threatens if I refuse to sink the ship and the five hundred passengers. Say that I will take my honour and virginity to the bottom of the vast Atlantic rather than consent.

Jan. 6. Cap. repeats threat, and displays tools with which to scuttle the ship.

Jan. 7. Save ship, crew and five hundred passengers.

'Now wasn't that real noble?' concluded Miss Jepps, 'and just the strange thing is that I have the life of this ship in my hands-just the same.'

'Well, you-' began Mr. Silverwood, in an agitated manner.

'Do you think I haven't the interests of humanity at heart? Mr. Silverwood, siree, precisely at 9.30 this evening, on my back I go, on the settee in the Cap's stateroom, open my legs, raise my skirts, and, precisely what he does to the gap nature has left between them is his business, not mine-and the interests of humanity.'

Mr. S began to ponder. He knew a bit about women who were not as pure as supposed, but this was a bit brazen.

'I guess I wish I was the Cap-' he hazarded.

'Mr. S, they tell you are a millionaire?'

'Waal-I have dollars-some.'

'Mr. S, I wish to buy new costumes in Paree. My stateroom is No. 72, and it's three hours before I meet the Cap. I'll just say, au revoir.'

Mr. Silverwood thought hard. He had money, and to spare, and Miss Jepps was very, very tempting. Very petite and dainty, she had a seventeen inch waist, a divine ankle, wore probably a two shoe, to the accompaniment of 5 1/4 gloves, and her face, especially her eyes, was something to dream about.

Half an hour later he was swallowing a Martini cocktail, with a generous drop of absinthe therein, and chatting to the purser. The name of Miss Jepps cropped up.

'Oh, yes, she's a mermaid,' said that worthy.

'A what?'

'A mermaid: guess you know what that is?'

'You don't tell she's really got a tail, and her legs are false!' Mr. Silverwood's eyes bulged.

The purser laughed, and squeezed a little more lemon into his cocktail.

'No, sir,' he said, 'it's apparent you don't know the Atlantic crossing. A mermaid, a "merm" we call them, is a dear, delightful dot of dimity, who doesn't exactly traverse this boundless waste of wave because she loves it, but because there are gents like you, sir, who have money to spend and want a little occasional diversion. We've had this particular one before. The "old man" knows her well.'

Mr. Silverwood thought a lot, and wetted his thoughts copiously. He was far too wide to want to get let in by an adventuress, but Miss J was nice.

He left the smoking-room, walked slowly down the promenade deck, and Satan gripped him.

He had more money on him than he really needed for his European tour, to say nothing of letters of credit available all over the continent.

Stateroom No. 72 tempted him like hell.

He went towards the gangway. The phosphorus glinted on the waves; the great liner sang her way through the Atlantic. Mr. Silverwood was not altogether an ordinary millionaire. He had some romance in his ample frame, and the brain dial ticked in the square-jowled head held other thoughts at times than hogs and hams and dividends.

He was an amateur of the beautiful, and his palace by the lake outside the churning turmoil of Chicago held many art treasures. There was a Rape of the Sabines by Morazioff, which people would have paid hundreds to see, and as for the statuettes and bits and things which were kept under lock and key, many an enterprising fellow millionaire had seriously considered a little burglary.

The siren hooted as the Mesopotamia cut down her speed through a big fishing fleet. A great white yacht loomed by like a ghost and loosed her siren in return. Silverwood thought of the siren in stateroom 72, hesitated, and was lost.

Miss Jepps's door was not locked. She whistled quietly an obvious acquiescence when the millionaire knocked-and Silverwood entered.

Miss J obviously expected her visitor, for she made no attempt to disguise the fact that she wasn't even in the middle of her toilet for dinner.

The shaded clusters of electric light-Miss Jepps was not travelling cheap-shone down upon a ravishing little vision. She had her stockings and shoes on-scarlet silk, both-her drawers, with scarlet silk insertions, and a chemise.

That was all.

Mr. Silverwood blinked. Little Miss J was very, very pretty, and the ankles which had made him feverish in the twilight on deck, were now supplemented by deliciously-proportioned calves, which swelled up in graceful curves to delicately moulded knees, not quite covered by the lace frills of the pantalons garnis des rubans ecarlates. There was a little bare, pink flesh above each garter which made the Chicago multimillionaire delirious.

Miss J had a very dainty china-shepherdess skin tint, obviously her own, blue and very bright eyes, naturally her own, and a mass of bronze hair which was open to doubt-at least, so Mr. S decided as he noted the gap in the little darling's drawers which disclosed a forest on her Mount of Venus which was quite a different tint.

She caught his eye, and, with a cheeky grin, put her two bejewelled hands between her thighs.

'Hullo, hullo,' she giggled, 'I know what you're thinking.'

'Well?'

'You're thinking, either my head, or my-what ma's got-is dyed. Well, my hair on my head is tinted a bit. You know the story, don't you, of the girls in the car-two sisters-in-law. They saw two girl friends, with beautiful auburn curls.

'"I'll bet you they dye," said one.

'"How do you know?"

'"I go to the same Turkish bath, Cissie," said the one who knew.'

But Mr. Silverwood didn't care whether Miss Jepps's hair was dyed or not. His whole body flamed with desire; he seemed to swell all over, and the buttons on his trousers strained at their cables. He sank on the floor by the side of Miss Jepps and flung one arm round her knees and the other round her waist, pulling her down on to the soft carpet.

Miss Jepps made no protest. She opened her mouth to let his tongue run in between her ivory teeth and laid her pretty bejewelled hand on the throbbing swelling between his legs. Mr. S nearly went mad.

He thrust his hand between her thighs, but she pushed it away--

'One minute, dear,' she murmured, softly, 'I want it as badly as you, but-I hate to say it-I make my living out of that little place you're after. Just a hundred dollars and you shall have the fuck of your lifetime.'

Mr. Silverwood did not hesitate a moment.

'Done,' he gurgled, 'open your legs.'

'Take your trousers off then, I hate being scratched by buttons.'

Mr. Silverwood hastened to obey, slipped off his breeches, and exposed a really remarkable member, as stiff as a ramrod and pulsating with lust.

Little Miss Jepps lay back and opened her legs wide, raising her knees.

'Give me the pillow for my head,' she said, and, taking it from him, rested her lovely head on it.

Mr. Silverwood wasted no time. Like a duellist who meant killing his man, he rammed his steel-stiff ramrod into the soft and slippery Abode of Love.

It was all too short: she was hot, too, and when she got him with a double nip which nearly broke his shaft in two, Mr. Silverwood let fly a stream which would have done credit to a fountain in his own ornamental garden on Lakeside.

Mr. Silverwood uncoupled with a sigh and a last passionate kiss, in which he nearly choked the little darling.

'Gee, but that was bully,' said the millionaire as he rose, panting.

'You know why kisses are like ham sandwiches?' queried the girl.

'No.'

'Because they're both the better for a bit of tongue-see.'

'Guess you're a bright bit all through,' said Mr. Silverwood.

'Well, I've been around some-I'm glad you liked it-I've had more hundreds that I can count, but you didn't find it too large, did you?'

'It was just a dream.'

'Do you know the story of the man who married a three times widow?'

'No, not that I know.'

His friend met him the morning after his first, and asked him how he liked it.

'"Alan," he said, "it was like opening a window and fucking the wide, wide world!"'

Mr. Silverwood chuckled again. 'Know any more?' he said.

'Lots. I always make it a point to remember 'em. It pleases men. I'm a whore, I admit, but I'm nothing if not thorough. Mine is one of the oldest professions in the world, and I'm not ashamed of it. Here's another on the same subject.

'A man married a widow who had had fourteen children. His pal met him and queried solicitously.

'"I hope old man, you haven't put your foot in it!"

'"No: but I could!"'

Mr. Silverwood took a wad of dollar bills from his pocket, and settled his little account.

That's the best spent hundred dollars I ever remember, and it's yours again, little lady, whenever you've any spare time, but I guess you're like to be popular this trip.'

'Oh, I can manage a deal of fucking. I'll tell you some more tales next time. Now run along.'

Miss Jepps, left alone, filled a basin from the seawater tap, and syringed (and I may tell you, gentle, and otherwise, readers, that a salt-water douche is a dead snip preventative).

With a few dexterous touches, she put up her shiny auburn locks, fixed a fillet ribbon round her white forehead, with a single small diamond and ruby star in its midst, slightly rouged her cheeks, drew a red salve stick across her little Cupid's bow of a mouth, and then turned to her dressing.

Simple, but with Paquin stamped all over it, was Miss Jepps's dinner gown. Dead black, a fine contrast to the almost scarlet hair, tiny in the waist, and Miss Jepps went easily into a seventeen corset, and very, very decoletee indeed. In fact the little crimson buttons which were the crowning glory of her snowy breasts narrowly escaped peeping over the rim of her corsage. She wore a spidery net over the decolletage, which, if anything, exaggerated its daring.

With a final twist of the skirt, and a little wriggle of the rounded shoulders she smiled approval of herself in the long cheval glass.

Mr. Silverwood walked very quickly to the smoking-room, crossed straight to the bar, and drank three cocktails very quickly. Lord Reggie Cameron, a decadent Scots chieftain, who was also attending to his ante-prandial digestion, stared in amazement.

'What, what, laddie,' he said-he always began his sentences like that-'you seem in need of spiritual comfort!'

'So would you, lord, if you'd had my little afternoon.'

'So?'

'Yes-you'll see her at dinner-she's the very last thing that ever came down the Pike.'

Lord Reggie looked inquisitive.

'Introduce me?' he queried.

'Your cheque book, I guess, will be your best introduction.'

'Das vos right,' interrupted Herr Kunst, a massive German, 'it vos alvays der payments dat mit dese most loveliness womens der affectionations make, ain't it?'

'Right oh,' chipped in Billy Neal, the well-known English actor, 'whenever I stay at a country house, I always tell my man to put my cheque book in my pyjama pocket. It does help the sacrifice to Venus.'

'It vos make it less troublessness, ain't it,' assented Herr Kunst, 'but der fucking in dese days of der jewellery der most expensive der great costliness vos, ain't it?'

'Oh, I don't know so much about that,' said a good-looking young man who was drinking as if he wanted to put paid to the ship's whisky stock before the Irish coast hove in sight; 'just listen to this story of a pal of mine.

'I'm naturally a shy chap, you know, and I'll be damned if ever I can find anything to talk about at balls and parties and things. But my pal isn't, and I just asked him how he managed about small talk.

'"Oh," he said, "when I'm first left alone with a girl, I just say to her, casual like, y'know-"Are you fond of fucking?"

'"Good God, man," I said to the bounder, "surely you get your ears boxed a lot, and get kicked out of a lot of houses?"

'"Well, I do, I admit," he answered, "but I get a hell of a lot of fucking."'

The raconteur smiled appreciation, and hastily ordered drinks for the assembled party on credit-his elder brother, the heir, was meeting him at Southampton.

The party then broke up to dress for dinner, all save Herr Kunst, who was so rich that he was excused the conventionalities and whose excuse of a 'weak chest' was allowed to keep him in morning dress.

Herr Kunst sat gloomily by the fire, contemplating the ship's dog, which lay placidly asleep, and pondering over the late conversation.

Though riche a millions-made out of a successful railway rig-he was not generous, and, though he loved the good things of life, he equally disliked paying for them. He stared long at the dog.

'Ach,' he muttered suddenly, you: you vos remind me of the dog of mein neighbour Schmidt in Chicago.

'Mein neighbour Schmidt und meinself, ve 'ad to der bierhalle been, und after ve make a backslidings into a bad house, und, vot mit der vucking mit der frauleins, und der drinkings mit, ve vos some very much late kom 'ome.

'Schmidt-he vos look at his dog.

'"You," he say, "you vos only a dog, but I vish I vos you. Tonight now, it vos time to go to bed. You, you vos turn over tree times, you vos stretch yourself, and you vos asleep. Me: I haf to piss in der fire so dat it more safeness vos, I haf to undress meinself, und ven I reach mein room der vife she vos scold because I so lateness vos. Der baby vos squeal und I half to valk mit 'im round der house until by der time it vos time to go to bed it vos time to get up.

'"I haf to make der fire, to cook der breakfast, to dress meinself. You, you stretch tree times und you vos up. I give you your breakfast, und I haf to vork all day.

'"You, you play all day, and you ven you die, you vos dead; ven I die, I have to go to Hell: ain't it?"'

Herr Kunst spat venomously into the fire, and the dinner gong sounded.

They were a mixed lot in the first class on the Mesopotamia. Silverwood, Kunst, Miss Jepps and Lord Reggie Cameron we have already met. In addition there were the usual gang of rich Americans crossing to Europe for the early season, a number of business men of no particular interest, and Lady Felicia Tittle.

Lady Tittle was the relict of a middle-aged peer, who had outrun both his purse and his constitution, but had managed to leave her just a fair income, and she lived solely for pleasure.

She had been an ugly, ill-dressed girl, and knew nothing of the world till she met the late lamented Tittle, who had her forced on him, with a comfortable dowry, by her and his parents.

He had to do his duty as a husband, and he had taught her above a bit.

From the gaucherie of the schoolroom, Lady Felicia Tittle had developed into a really bad middle-aged woman.

The arts of cosmetics and the acquirement of the art of dress had given her a strangely fascinating charm, especially for very young men. She loved lust, and took every opportunity of gratifying that love.