FILTHY VICTORIAN PHOTOGRAPHS
THE ILLUSTRATED BOOK OF FILTHY VICTORIAN PHOTOGRAPHS
the illustrated book of
the Erotic Print Society
t h e Erotic Print Society
THE
I L L U S T R AT E D B O O K OF
F I LT H Y V I C TO R I A N PH OTO G R A PH S Or The Strange and Terrible Case of the Hoxton Satyr by
Christopher Peachment
london : the Erotic Print Society 2001
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found myself enjoying the foul London weather as if it were the purest balmy breeze wafting over the Boulevard des Anglais at Nice. A spell on South African veldt will do that to a man. I was standing in the portico of my club in St James, watching the rain bounce off the pavements, and shaking the worst of it off my cape before going in. It was the standard issue short cape, but at least it came down to my upper thighs, which was a blessing for reasons I will
Tableau number three, as performed in Madame Rowena’s special house of delights, involved these two nekkid Bacchantes, celebrating the joys of the vine and mellow fruitfulness. One thing you can certainly say for the Victorian education system is that it instilled a proper respect for the Classics.
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M
adame Rowena, who had been gently but discreetly stroking my thigh up till now, began to undo my breeches. I looked around furtively, but Hoppy was amusing himself with a couple of doxies in a curtained alcove. “Sink me!” cried Madame Rowena, “I see what you mean! My, oh my!” The old fellah had sprung out at last, mercifully free of its bonds, and it was still as stiff as a telegraph pole and very nearly as long. She began running the slim cool fingers of her right hand up and down it, like little mice shinning up a table leg. And her left hand began to rummage a little lower. “My God, they are huge,” she said, “they can’t have been drained in an age.” “Three weeks,” I said sheepishly, “and the damn thing stiff as a poker all that time.” “Right,” she thundered, like a Sally Army major on a mission from God. “Deirdre! Get all the girls down here at once.”
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given a good seeing to. And still my old swizzle stick was raring to go. It may have turned the colour of a fire engine, and the poor old plums beneath were swelling more and more and turning a nasty shade of blue, but it still hadn’t done its business, and was still throbbing about like a fiddler’s elbow. So I did the remaining five girls, and left them spent and mewing, the way they do. “Well,” said Madame Rowena, “I never did. Deirdre, I think it’s time for Britannia.” And off Deirdre scampered, to do I know not what. After a few minutes, the curtain parted again from the further alcove, and there in all her glory was the figure of Britannia, mother-queen to all England, and the only woman after our own dear Victoria whom I would acknowledge as my mistress and obey without a second thought.
Many clients at Madame Rowena’s availed themselves of the historic costumes from her dressing up box. The “Brutal and Licentious Soldier practising his Yodelling up the Khyber” was always a popular item.
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