The gentleman sat in his old dressing gown. Woollen and tied with a cord. It hung a little open and through that opening stood his even older penis. He was anything but a young man. Beside his armchair stood a small and round mahogany drinks-stand with a single glass of chilled Chablis.
If the truth be told, the gentleman was settling in for a pleasant evening alone reading, the sort of thing old gentlemen like to do, and... perhaps it is not done to reveal this, but it was undoubtedly true... a slow wank by the fireside. But it was not to be. Events were conspiring against his quiet solo evening. Travelling towards him, but not knowing, came the young girl whose vagina was destined to receive his semen that evening. Neither party had any inkling, but that would be the outcome.
The fire in the grate flickered, sending wavering orange light across the room. Behind him electric light from a standard lamp cast sufficient light for him to read, creating a pool of illumination from its heavy and old shade. The recesses of the room were dark. It was how he liked to sit on winter evenings although it was almost spring, just no one seemed to have told the weather. Even the sound of the wind wuthering and moaning outside, gusting at the house and making creaking sounds in the nearby trees fitted his mood. He took pleasure in the fussy Victorian like clutter of the room, the cosy warmth of his fire and the contrast with the cold outside.
He also took pleasure in what he was reading. Not for him modern erotic literature or 'girly' or pornographic magazines. His preference was for older erotica, or at least erotica set in a different time. Tonight, he had chosen to remind himself of certain passages in 'Lady Chatterley's Lover.' Not a work of erotic literature as such but parts were very much of that nature. Very much. Open in front of him was Chapter 15:
'Do you know what I thought?' she said suddenly. 'It suddenly came to me. You are the ''Knight of the Burning Pestle''!'
'Ay! And you? Are you the Lady of the Red-Hot Mortar?'
'Yes!' she said. 'Yes! You're Sir Pestle and I'm Lady Mortar.'
'All right, then I'm knighted. John Thomas is Sir John, to your Lady Jane.'
'Yes! John Thomas is knighted! I'm my-lady-maiden-hair, and you must have flowers too. Yes!'
She threaded two pink campions in the bush of red-gold hair above his penis.
'There!' she said. 'Charming! Charming! Sir John!'
And she pushed a bit of forget-me-not in the dark hair of his breast.
'And you won't forget me there, will you?' She kissed him on the breast, and made two bits of forget-me-not lodge one over each nipple, kissing him again.
'Make a calendar of me!' he said. He laughed, and the flowers shook from his breast.
'Wait a bit!' he said.
He rose, and opened the door of the hut. Flossie, lying in the porch, got up and looked at him.
'Ay, it's me!' he said.
The rain had ceased. There was a wet, heavy, perfumed stillness. Evening was approaching.
He went out and down the little path in the opposite direction /from the riding. Connie watched his thin, white figure, and it looked to her like a ghost, an apparition moving away from her.
When she could see it no more, her heart sank. She stood in the door of the hut, with a blanket round her, looking into the drenched, motionless silence.
But he was coming back, trotting strangely, and carrying flowers. She was a little afraid of him, as if he were not quite human. And when he came near, his eyes looked into hers, but she could not understand the meaning.
He had brought columbines and campions, and newmown hay, and oak-tufts and honeysuckle in small bud. He fastened fluffy young oak-sprays round her breasts, sticking in tufts of bluebells and campion: and in her navel he poised a pink campion flower, and in her maiden-hair were forgetme-nots and woodruff.
'That's you in all your glory!' he said. 'Lady Jane, at her wedding with John Thomas.'
And he stuck flowers in the hair of his own body, and wound a bit of creeping-jenny round his penis, and stuck a single bell of a hyacinth in his navel. She watched him with amusement, his odd intentness. And she pushed a campion flower in his moustache, where it stuck, dangling under his nose.'
The old gentleman moved comfortably in his chair and sipped from the wine glass. His untouched penis reared from his dressing gown. The image of Constance adorned with flowers had a profound effect upon his mind. No less the idea of Mellors adorned with flowers and the creeping-jenny around his penis. He closed his eyes and reached, imagining the scene, preferring to think of Mellors' penis erect and strong with the binding plant running around and round it. He smiled and opened his eyes, turning back the pages into the preceding chapter where Mellors had most definitely been described erect - 'darkish and hot looking' - and had taken his mistress.
'He dropped the shirt and stood still looking towards her. The sun through the low window sent in a beam that lit up his thighs and slim belly and the erect phallos rising darkish and hot-looking from the little cloud of vivid gold-red hair. She was startled and afraid.
'How strange!' she said slowly. 'How strange he stands there! So big! and so dark and cock-sure! Is he like that?'
The man looked down the front of his slender white body, and laughed. Between the slim breasts the hair was dark, almost black. But at the root of the belly, where the phallos rose thick and arching, it was gold-red, vivid in a little cloud.
'So proud!' she murmured, uneasy. 'And so lordly! Now I know why men are so overbearing! But he's lovely, REALLY.
Like another being! A bit terrifying! But lovely really! And he comes to ME!—' She caught her lower lip between her teeth, in fear and excitement.
