Phileas Fogg - A Memoir Pt. 01-02byParis Waterman©
On the last week of March, 2004, while vacationing in Paris, I had by chance spent most of a rainy afternoon in my late aunt's attic. I was there to help in settling her estate and while perusing a series of bound letters found in a musty trunk, I came across . . . well read on and see for yourself.
~ A Memoir ~
As I read this document I came to realize that this was the memoir of THE Phileas Fogg, the famous hero of Jules Verne's "Around the World in 80 days." He was not a fictitious character, nor for that matter, were the others like Passepartout, Aouda and Inspector Fix.
On returning the United States I set to reading the "Memoirs" and found they covered a good portion of Mr. Fogg's life. I have taken the liberty of transcribing his text from the original French and further have placed some of the more pertinent material omitted from Mr. Verne's classic tale back into it at the most likely parts. No doubt some will say this is a desecration of a classic. It may be. For those with feelings strong in that regard, I say, do not read this story. For the remainder of you, read on, for this is clearly an unexpurgated version of the original text. Remember it was written in Victorian times. The year the novel takes place is 1872. But the memoir covers the main events in Mr. Fogg's life from 1834, when he was born until 1899 when the memoir ends abruptly with Mr. Fogg's passing. It touches on several very prominent personages of the times along the way. It contains very lurid descriptions of his sex life and includes some of the same with respect to Passepartout and Aouda, who became Mrs. Fogg on finishing the trip round the world.
How it arrived in my aunt's attic is quite another story.
~ A Memoir ~
This then is my life from my viewpoint. At least that part of which I wish to retain for the rest of my days ~ which are not all that many, I am sure. I was born in London in the spring of 1834. I had four brothers and three sisters and it happened that I was the fifth of the lot and the only one alive by the end of 1854. Life was hard. My parents tried to give us all an honest upbringing and decent education but could not compete with the likes of cholera, influenza and tuberculosis all so rampant at the time. They claimed the lives of both parents and those of all my siblings save Harry who would die in my arms at the siege of Balaclava.
I was but 19 when the clouds of war darkened British soil and filled to the brim with youthful enthusiasm and a loathing in following the pack, I did just that and volunteered following my brother Harry into the British Army. As he had on other occasions, Nicholas I of Russia tried again in 1853 to get an understanding with England about the position of Turkey and to prevent a rapprochement between England and France. The Russians would not tolerate the establishment of the English in Constantinople, but did not want to annex the city either. At the time Turkey controlled Palestine, Egypt, and large chunks of the Middle East. The Port (Moslem ruler of Turkey) had given privileges to protect the Christians and their churches in the Holy Land to many nations. At the time France and England had gotten more specific commitments from the Port than other nations.
Then in October 1853 Turkey took action by declaring war on Russia. The popular press in England and France became violent. In January 1854 the Anglo-French fleet sailed into the Black Sea. France, England and Turkey then made a formal alliance. When the Russian troops crossed the Danube, the Turkish war merged into a war against the European coalition. While the equipment of the Allies was clearly superior to that of the Russian, they could not win the war--or at least there was no quick victory. The strong Russian resistance at the Savastopol naval base came as a shock to the Allies.
The famous "Charge of the Light Brigade" with its long revered lines:
Forward the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do & die,
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred
Was only the most blatant example of allied military blundering. I shan't beat a dead horse (no pun intended)save to provide an account of Harry and my time in a godforsaken place called Balaclava in November,1854.
We had already taken heavy casualties at the battle of Inkerman. Now we were engaged in a siege at Balaclava. The very idea of spending the winter in place such as this caused more fear amongst us than actual combat itself. Our stores were beginning to run short; the roads were so poor it was difficult to bring in food. There was no blinking the fact that we who were besieging Sebastopol were ourselves a besieged army, living in a constant state of alarm lest our rear be attacked. The fire of our batteries, which, when we came here, was kept up with great spirit, had dwindled away to almost nothing.
The work for the English troops was dreadfully hard, and killing the men. Worst of all were the covering parties – wherein large bodies of men marched down every night to the entrenchments and remained there 24 hours; ostensibly to prevent the Russians from entering the batteries and spiking the guns. It was unbearably cold, constantly raining or snowing. Our clothing was so insufficient the men were half dead with cold. Nothing like a fire could be lit, as it would immediately bring the fire of the Russian batteries. Added to this was the thick, sticky mud in the trenches. Nearly a foot deep, we were forced to lay in the muck or risk having a sniper's bullet rip though our heads.
We were losing four or five men a day by what was commonly put down in the 'returns' as cholera, but was actually cramps brought on by lying those long periods in the wet and cold.
It got worse. I shall never forget that dreadful storm; I was in the trenches, with about 150 men some five miles from our camp. We were dreadfully exhausted by the time we were to head back. The extreme violence of the wind had ceased, but it was snowing hard and dark as pitch. We kept wandering off what passed for a road. We were four hours on that 'road,' snow and wind in our faces all the way. At one time Captain Louden called a halt to tell us anyone who fell out would have to "lie and die" as he fell. This roused us sufficiently enough so that we all made camp. It had ceased snowing, but the wind was blowing violently. Every tent in the regiment was down; the men endeavoring to shelter themselves under wet canvas as it lay on the ground. Some 160 men were lying crowded in the hospital tents; the whole of which had been blown over. The sick and dying were lying under them; with horses that had broken loose during the storm galloping about. Ten men of our regiment died on that night, including my dear brother Harry who lying there with a belly wound, was trampled by the horses as they panicked during the storm.
Sebastopol did not fall for months. Notwithstanding, not one single preparation was made during that time to provide the troops with supplies such as short poles, or a few entrenching tools, they could have hutted themselves in a week. As it was, we lived from hand to mouth, never being able to bring up more than one day's rations. There we sat, knowing full well the whole coast of Asia Minor was teeming with ponies and barley, just 48 hours' sail of us. Those vessels could bring over some 300 mules at a trip lying in the harbour unused. It is scarcely credible and a monumental shame that not one single animal was brought to us.
Yet French mules passed our camp in long lines daily. Every mule was as fat and sleek as if he were a pet. Worse, for every three mules there was a French soldier chatting to his mules as if they were his friends. This is but one of the points in which they beat us; it was the same in everything of any consequence.
On June 15th I was fortunate enough to be wounded, not enough to kill me, but sufficient to get me aboard a ship where I would undoubtedly have perished had not the Captain received orders that very day to return to England. A young nurse trained by the redoubtable Florence Nightingale herself remained by my side, giving me nourishment and hope and I recovered shortly thereafter and at 21 began life anew, but unfortunately as the last of the Fogg's.
I was fortunate to obtain employment on leaving the hospital with my discharge from the military with the banking firm of Huddleston and Bradford as a clerk in the central office. However, certain fastidiousness inherent in my personality and life experiences led me to distrust dogma and prejudice in all their forms. Huddleston and Bradford were rife with both. And so, when only a month into my tenure, one Edward Pierce -- a gentleman and also a thief as I would soon learn -- approached me offering 450 pounds for certain information regarding a shipment of gold bullion traveling by rail from London to France to pay British troops in the Crimean War. It was a princely sum and I readily accepted the offer and provided Mr. Pierce the necessary information. The rest is history. Pierce and friends would pull off what was later called, The Great Train Robbery. I was not further party to this enterprise although I, in my youthful naivety would have gladly participated. The robbery caused a huge stir throughout England at first, but slowly died down and was forgotten. But persistence by Scotland Yard and certain insurance companies paid off and ultimately Pierce and his team were apprehended. They did not, however, call the authorities attention to myself. I used the money, or some of it, to return to Oxford after leaving Huddleston and Bradford at year end.
I had just turned 23 in April of 1857, when I met the Mooring sisters, Annabelle Lee and her younger sister Katherine Ann on taking lodging at their mothers boarding house while a student at Oxford. I was there but a week, when sitting in the parlor sipping afternoon tea with Mrs. Mooring and her daughter, Annabelle Lee, a flighty thing perhaps 14 going on 15, when Mrs. Mooring remembered an appointment that could not be put off and left us with hasty instructions on cleaning up the setting properly before leaving the parlor.
I was regaling Annabelle Lee with how distracted I had gotten that afternoon at university after being unable to answer the professor's question on a relatively simple mathematical equation and she me with a similar situation with her music teacher that we didn't realize we were alone in the house. Katherine Ann, her sister, was visiting a friend and wasn't expected home for another three hours. Our conversation wound down and we sat looking at each other. Finally she put down her tea and said, "Mr. Fogg, would you do me the honor of granting me my first kiss from a man?"
At this point in my life I had limited sexual experience, that being consorting with several French whores, or camp followers before entering the field of battle.
I was surprised by her actions, but responded quickly enough, placing my cup carefully on the table beside us and putting my arms around her. Her eyes were closed and head tilted so as to present her lips to me. A moment later I was kissing the softest and sweetest pair of lips I'd ever had the pleasure of kissing. I knew enough to make the kiss soft and kept my mouth closed. It was still powerful enough to prompt the hardest erection I'd ever experienced to that point. I pulled back and Annabelle Lee sighed and looked in my eyes.
"May I have another?" She asked.
We kissed again and continued kissing for some time before her mouth opened and her tongue slipped out, inviting mine to enter. It was a novel, exhilarating experience for the both of us. She seemed to as excited as I and the game went on with me begging her to let me have her and she denying my advances by jabbering that she was only 14 and a virgin.
"Surely you're at least 16,' I countered, "A woman by any standard."
That seemed to delight her and she moved as if to kiss me again but turned her head at the last minute to whisper in my ear, "I want to, Mr. Fogg, but I cannot as I have promised my mother I would save myself for a husband."
I paid her no heed and commenced to fondle her breasts. To my surprise she allowed me to continue for some minutes before struggling to escape my hands. I kissed her and she calmed down and I renewed my explorations, getting her clothing up to her belly, my hand between her thighs. "No, no, Mr. Fogg," she cried out, but so quietly I knew she meant for me to continue. I was succeeding beyond my wildest expectations. I had groped her arse, even pinched the cheeks at which, she shrieked so raucously that I made straight for her cunt, and found as hairy a bush as I've ever seen to this day.
Still she soon began to fight me off again and I grew tired of the struggle and moved away from her to regain my composure. "What's wrong?" she said. Stunning me with the realization that I need only continue the struggle for another minute and her surrender was before me.
Hugging her to me I gave her a long, wet kiss and sent my saliva pouring into her mouth; a mouth that eagerly accepted it all and signaled that it was hungry for more. I manufactured some spit and sent it off to her tongue and at the same time, grasped her hand and placed it on my prick. Startled, she gave it a quick, exploratory squeeze then left off it. Seized with hope of a quick seduction, I yanked her petticoats up whilst beguiling her with words of her beauty and my love and feeling her resistance wane, dropped to my knees and presented my face and mouth to her petticoat covered cunt.
But Annabelle Lee wasn't done with her struggle to protect her maidenhead, and used the strength in her God-given thighs to fend me off, so easily in fact did she close me out that I all but gave up trying.
But unspoken signals bade me to struggle on. Finally, breathless and fatigued, I got mad and her mood immediately changed. We stood looking at each other. She kept one hand just over her quim, as if to defend it, while I hastened to take my prick out.
Oh, she took a good long gander at my prize.
"Tell me Annabelle Lee,' I said, all huffed up with my anger and frustration, "Why not let me fuck you?"
She seemed surprised at my anger, I later realized she was expecting me to play this cat and mouse game indefinitely. Still, Annabel Lee took a long, lingering look at my prick as it throbbed perhaps two feet from her prized cunt before answering me.
"No I won't, you frighten me so."
"Then go and be damned," I shouted and tucked my peter back into its hiding place and set about straightening the rest of my clothes. That was easily accomplished on my part. But Annabelle Lee was a shambles with one stocking down around her ankle and a tear in her petticoat from my last assault upon it.
I made ready to leave the house and get myself to the nearest tavern to drown my sorrow.
"Oh don't be leaving me here alone sir."
"And why would I want to keep you further company?' I asked imperiously, although my testicles ached for release. "You won't let me have you. Not even taste you."
"Oh, sir, I would let you, but I'm frightened. I am a virgin and must think of the future."
I soon realized that she was still playing the cat and mouse game and it was my choice as to whether to continue or take my blue balls out to the nearest tavern and dunk them into a tankard of ale.
On seeing me waiver in my leaving Annabelle Lee continued to plead her case saying, "Oh, stay only a minute, do stay sir, don't leave me here." She stood still, hands cradling her chin and gave me the most imploring look.
"Will you lay with me Annabelle Lee?" I asked with my hand on the door, ready to make my departure should she decline this time too.
"Yes," she sobbed. "No," she sobbed. "Oh, oh, oh, Mr. Fogg, I'm all fuddled," and she began to blubber as a child would on dropping their candy in the filth of the gutter.
A sentiment of compassion came over me, for I never could stand to see a woman cry. And bear in mind this woman was but 15 at most. Although it was common place for girls of that age to be married at 12, which is why I did not consider her a child and suspected as well that she not a true virgin either. The compassion in me dissolved and a heightened feeling of elation stood in its place as I threw off my hat and coat; and going up to her as she stood, kissed her.
"There then, let me feel your cunt, that can't hurt you."
There was no further resistance on her part. I lifted her clothes, and placed my fingers on her quim. I frigged hard at the right spot, but could get my fingers no further towards the sacred hole. Her massive thighs shut me off from the prick tube as closely as if it had been a closed door. I could not get my hand between them.
But my fingers were between the cunt-lips, twiddling and rubbing.
Her resistance was passive but quite effective in preventing my fervored advances.
Withdrawing my hand from betwixt her thighs, I went and poured her a glass of sherry.
"You do realize," I said, handing her the sherry, which she readily accepted, "that no one will know of this save you and I."
Annabelle Lee swallowed the sherry as if it were a draught of water and handed me the glass, which I readily refilled and brought back to her.
"Thank you, Mr. Fogg," said she and then took a long gulp of sherry and appeared to relax her limbs a little.
Up went my hand again, and with fingers rubbing her clitoris we talked and kissed side by side. Then, turning more towards her, up went my other hand round her big bum, which felt as hard, and smooth, and cold as marble. This went on a long time, but gradually I felt her beginning to yield. Then with a loud moan which surprised me enough to pull my fingers from her sodden cunt, she took firm hold of my rampant prick and began jerking it in a somewhat erratic manner. The unevenness of her stroking did not bother me a whit, for I in turn, frigged her all the harder. Annabelle Lee's head dropped over my shoulder and parted her thighs even more to grant me access to her clitoris. A little rubbing there brought on an even greater moan of satisfaction and I sent a finger directly into her hole.
"It hurts!" she yelped, pulling away and jumping to her feet. "You're hurting me there!"
"I'm sorry, dear Annabelle Lee, I'm terribly sorry. Come sit down with me. Give me a kiss."
She wavered under my entreaties and rejoined me on the couch.
"Yes, yes, my sweet," I whispered, "kiss me . . . yes, like that."
We embraced and our tongues spoke silently for a minute or so. Ending a kiss, I said, "now be a good girl and put up your legs, there's a darling, yes, yes, yes." I covered her face and neck with kisses and finally Annabelle Lee capitulated letting me have at her. For the first time I had a clear view of her hairy cunt.
"Don't hurt me,' she whined and I in turn assured her I would be as gentle as a lamb, even as I pictured myself ramming my prick in to the hilt. Then my prick entered her. There was a bit of resistance from her maidenhead, but Annabelle Lee did not cry out, or for that matter did not even wince as I broke through. I admit I was surprised to find that she had indeed been a virgin, but in my haste to finish my fuck did not trouble myself about it at the time.