Phileas Fogg - A Memoir Pt. 01-02

byParis Waterman©

It was while wiping my prick off with a linen handkerchief that I succumbed to asking a question prompted by vanity more than anything else. "Did you find it pleasurable, my sweet Annabelle Lee?"

"Yes I did, Mr. Fogg, after you had done hurting me."

"Did I really hurt you?"

"Oh, yes indeed you did."

"You gave no such indication that you were in pain," I responded defensively. For it was just occurring to me that I may indeed have caused her pain.

"Surely you heard my pleas to desist, that you were hurting me?"

"But that was before I entered you."

"And during and after!" She said, growing haughtier with each word.

"What a sham," I thought to myself, "she welcomed my prick and made not a peep when I burst her hymen, yet she says my prick hurt her."

I made no further reply on the subject, choosing to pour her another sherry which she accepted and put to her lips. Placing the half empty glass on the table, Annabelle Lee restored her clothing to its original condition and sat down, then leaned into me. My hand idly poked about her quim.

"Don't."

"What is it?"

"I'm sore."

"Why, are you still bleeding?"

"No, that is I don't think so."

"Then why should I stop, I know you enjoyed it."

"You've hurt me."

I stood and withdrew my prick, then closely examined it with Annabelle Lee's eyes fastened on it as I did so. Despite my efforts in cleansing myself, there on the very tip of my gland was a distinct trace of red.

Twas blood, unmistakably the blood of a virgin.

My prick sprang up, ready for a rematch and I waved it in front of her as a Calvary-officer his saber before leading a charge into battle. With a detachment I certainly did not feel, I removed my trowsers and asked to see her cunt once more.

Annabelle Lee looked away, but said nothing. I knelt between her thighs and pried them apart. She yielded easily this time. Using my thumbs and forefingers I spread her folds and saw my sperm oozing from within her cunt. It was speckled with particles of blood. I lined my prick up with her slit and sent it back up her hole. This time Annabelle Lee joined me in the rutting, wrapping her lustrous thighs round my arse as I clutched and pulled her buttocks to me to attain even more prick purchase within her. This assured me that Annabelle Lee was indeed enjoying this fuck as much as I.

I saw quite soon after filling her with another load of spunk that we had perhaps an hour before her sister would be arriving. I insisted on helping her clean her cunt up, making sure to keep her titillated and juicy by constantly rubbing her clitoris and the occasional tickle of her arsehole so that she was giggling throughout the cleansing. Then we fucked again and again. My, oh my -- how Annabelle Lee now loved the feel of my prick in her.

I made my excuses and left shortly before her sister came home although Annabelle Lee pleaded with me to stay. "If I do, your mother will know straight away what's occurred on this couch," I said sternly and with that she bade me adieu, but only after my affirmation that we would do it again the following day.

Feeling as grand as a young man can possible feel after an afternoon interlude of fucking, I found myself in a nearby tavern, drinking ale after ale and enjoying the company of what passed for fine company until nearly midnight. It was a moonless night that I ventured into on leaving the tavern headed back to the Moorings boarding house.

My head was clouded from the drink, but I wasn't staggering down the street like several others I had passed.

Suddenly, I heard a voice cry out, "Stop thief!" I turned in the direction of the shout and saw a man bearing a parcel under his arm running directly toward me. There was a second man a good distance behind giving chase. The first man passed me by, but I joined in the chase and remained several yards behind him as we turned a corner. The man who had hollered "Stop thief," was closing the distance but did not see a horse and carriage coming fast from the opposite direction. For my part, I gave it no thought other than to remove myself from its path as I continued in my pursuit of what was obviously a thief.

Several things happened at once, or so it seemed. Obviously not all my faculties were functioning clearly and to this day I am not totally convinced of what I thought I saw follow. In any event, the thief slipped and fell. I was but a step or two from being able to pounce upon him. To save himself the thief threw the parcel toward a sewer opening. I moved to save it allowing the thief to scamper off when I stopped to retrieve the object from being swallowed by the London sewage system. I was stooped over, picking up the package when the victim of the theft ran directly into the lead horse of the oncoming carriage and was trampled into the cobblestone street. I am positive that at least one of the horse's hooves crushed the poor man's skull. And that one if not two of the carriage wheels passed over his spine, for I surely hurt it crack and snap under the dreadful weight of the carriage.

The carriage rumbled on into the night, never stopping, the driver not even glancing back at the carnage he had wrought. Clutching the parcel to my chest, I ran to the poor man lying twisted on the cobblestones.

"Did you get it?' He gasped, blood pouring from his moth and staining his white frilly shirt. This was obviously a gentleman of fine breeding and wealth, I told myself as I set about making his last minutes on earth comfortable.

I believe I had made mention previously that I had served in the Crimean war and saw all sorts of butchery and death. But this poor soul may have been the worst of the lot, save those blown to pieces by cannon shell.

"Did you get it?" He asked again.

"Yes, yes, I have it here with me," I said hoping to appease him.

"Is it open?'

"No, it appears to be securely bound, shall I open it for you?'

Summoning up what must have been his last ounce of strength, he bellowed, "NO! I WOULD NOT LOOK ON IT NOW!"

Then after a moment or two he took a deep breath and muttered to himself, "Shouldn't be much longer." And then to me, "Thanks, may I have it, please?"

Without further ado, I handed him the parcel while using the opportunity to take a good look at it and determined it was a picture, or map of some kind bound in a frame. I took another look at the man dying in the street. My eyes went wide, for he was attempting to sit up. I hurriedly bent down to restrain him.

"Stay down, man. You're badly hurt." I did not tell him he was surely dying.

"I'll . . . be . . . all . . . right. Just . . . give me a minute," he gasped.

I did not hear the shrill whistle of the London constabulary as help was close to arriving. No, the ubiquitous police whistle, the tones of which peeling out from the fog are so familiar to those of us today was only introduced in the early 1880's. What the "Bobbies" used to summon aid was a noisemaker termed a "rattler."

I have deliberately digressed from my story at this juncture so as not to cause the reader to become overly excited by what happened next. For believe it or not, the broken-bodied gentleman then sat up! It was unbelievable! I knelt beside him and saw that his skull was no longer bashed in, but was rapidly returning to what had to be its original shape.

What manner man was this?

The constable arrived on the scene as the man managed to struggle to his feet without any help from me. It was I who staggered back, not being able to comprehend what was transpiring before my very eyes. It was I who the constable thought the victim of foul play.

"Who the devil are you?' I gasped wrenching my arm away from the befuddled constable only to have my knees give way as I sagged to the cobblestones.

"Take care man," the constable said, inadvertently warning me to mind my actions.

"Take it easy, man," the gentleman said and I could tell he meant it. For our roles had truly reversed. Now it was I who seemed wounded and not he. But I knew this wasn't possible.

"Listen to me, please,' he said, as the constable, thinking I had narrowly avoided being run down by the carriage, went to the corner to see if the carriage driver or thief were still lurking about. I looked at him carefully, as if beholding his countenance for the very first time. In retrospect, it was, indeed the first time I had a chance to study him.

"Yes," I thought, "before me was a wonderfully handsome young man, with finely-curved scarlet lips, frank blue eyes, and crisp gold hair. There was innocence in his face that made me want trust him at once. All the candour of youth was there, as well as all of youth's passionate purity. I felt a kinship with him that I could not explain. It was as if he had kept himself unspotted from the world, and yet there was the accident to consider. I could not lose sight of that, no I would not forget that.

"Listen to me," he said again, and I did; although it took extreme concentration on my part to do so.

My name is Dorian Gray. I have a flat round the corner and I should be pleased to have you join me for a brandy. I think we could both bear one, don't you think?"

Without waiting for my reply, he helped me to my feet as my mind reeled trying to sort this incident out. I could not do it and so, with Mr. Dorian Gray's assistance, made my way to his place of residence.

It was as I took a sip from my second brandy that I became aware of the splendid conditions in which Mr. Gray lived. That he was extremely wealthy was obvious. But to have acquired such wealth at such an early age meant he had inherited it.

"Sir," I said, "I am not familiar with the Gray family. Pray tell me, if I am not being too presumptuous, how your family fortune was arrived at."

"My family, sir, had nothing to do with my fortune."

"No?" I blurted out, unable to contain myself. "But you are such a young man, surely not more than one and twenty?"

He smiled condescendingly, looking at me as if I were a child lacking understanding of things. "Do you really want to know?" He said in a formally detached way.

I fought off a stammer, saying, "Apparently I have a need to know a great deal about you, sir." Then I caught myself, as I was a guest in his home. "I fear I have insulted you although that was not my intention. But let me clear the one important thing on my mind before we part."

"There is no insult intend, of that I am sure, sir. You have been of immeasurable help to me this evening, Sir,' he replied. "Anything you want to know I shall gladly share with you. I would not under normal circumstances do so, but you sir, have saved my life that I may die another day. Believe me when I say this. I shall endeavor to make it clearer as our conversation continues. But as with all things, let us put first things first. Please tell me your name that I may properly address you as we converse."

"Oh, God forgive me!" I gasped shocked at my poor manners. My name, sir, is Phileas Fogg and if I have any more of your fine brandy, sir, all conversation from myself will cease as I am close, very close to being intoxicated right now."

He laughed and once again I was taken with his pure beauty. It was unseemly on my part, to look upon another man thusly, but there was no getting around it, he was strikingly beautiful.

"Very well then, here is my story. Believe it or not, it matters not to me.

Phileas Fogg

~A Memoir~

Part Two



I am, sir," Dorian Gray went on, "a gentleman who has sold his very soul for a very foolish purpose -- to keep my youth and beauty."

"Oh, come sir do you expect me to believe . . ." I stopped, clamping my lips shut remembering the events of the last hour.

"I see you recall the rather strange sight of me being dashed against the pavement and run over rough-shod by the carriage, eh?"

I could barely nod my agreement.

He casually poured himself another brandy and offered me more of the same, but I shook my head for I had had quite enough to drink, or so I thought. I would find a brandy welcome after hearing Mr. Gray's tale.

"Here then is my story, and be it known to you that you are the first to hear it from my lips. Others may have speculated about me over the years." He pursed his almost feminine lips, then went on. "Yes suspicions ran hard, but any legitimate proof in the matter dissipated over the years." He took a sip of the brandy and continued with a sadly wry expression. "Lord knows by now most of those involved even from a peripheral perspective are no longer with us."

"What year is it, Mr. Fogg?"

"Why it's 1857. Surely you know . . ."

He waved by protest away and continued. "Please believe me there are many days when I do not recall what year it is." Gray then paused and began anew. "In 1796 here in London, there was an artist named Basil Hallward. Basil was a profoundly talented portrait painter. Not all that renown, mind you, but that was his personal choice. As it happened he was painting my portrait . . . ."

"Good God, man! That was over 60 years ago. You can't mean . . ."

"Please bear with me, my friend. Patience, please, it will become clear enough in a moment or two."

I nodded and sat back, crossing my legs and waited.

"A gentleman joined us. His name was Lord Henry Wotton. I doubt you've heard of him, but he was temptation incarnate. I was to learn that he lived selfishly for amoral pleasure. Hallward did his best to get rid of him and continue with his painting, but I . . . to my everlasting regret, urged him to stay. I recall Hallward biting his lip and saying, "If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. Dorian's whims are laws to everybody, except himself."

Lord Henry beguiled me with words as I posed for Basil. Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel. One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them. They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viola or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words?"

After a time basil grew tired and Lord Henry and I adjourned to the garden. But before long Lord Henry said, "Let us go and sit in the shade. If you stay any longer in this glare you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming."

"What can it matter?" I laughed.

"It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray."

"Why?"

"Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having."

"If only the picture could change and I could be always what I am now. For that, I would give anything. I'd give my soul for that."

It took several weeks but I began to change. Not physically, mind you, never physically. But I went from a carefree young man to one who performed wicked, malicious acts. For example, I ruined a young woman's life. I met and fell madly in love with Sibyl Vane, a beautiful and talented actress who was portraying Juliet in a cheap theatrical troupe. But the night I invited Lord Henry and Basil Hallward to meet Sibyl, her performance was lifeless. Afterward, she joyfully explained that her love for me had transformed her from a mere actress into a real woman. To my eternal regret I coldly shunned her, telling her that my love for her had died, and vowed that I would see her no more.

On returning home, I was surprised to notice that the face in my painting had changed. A touch of cruelty now lined the mouth. My wish that the painting might be seared with suffering and guilt while my own face was left untarnished appeared to have been granted!"

I found that I pitied the portrait and resolved to live a pure life. I would return to Sibyl and marry her. I would see no more of the selfish Lord Henry. I wrote Sibyl a passionate letter and fell asleep, confident that I would make amends to Sybil the following day.

It was not to be. The next morning Lord Henry brought bad news: in her grief, Sibyl had killed herself. I was devastated and allowed Lord Henry to console me. I forgot my good resolutions. If fate would deal unjustly with me, I, in turn, would give myself up to a life of pleasure and let the portrait bear the burden of his corrupting soul. Eternal youth, wild joys, infinite passion would be mine. And indeed it came to pass.

At age thirty-eight I was again visited by my old friend Basil Hallward. I invited the now elderly Hallward up to the room to see my filthy soul, face-to-face. As I drew back the curtain from the portrait, Hallward stood aghast at the hideous figure on the canvas; yes, there was his own signature that one time stood out beneath the portrait of a handsome young lad. Basil immediately begged me to pray and repent. Instead, I seized a knife and plunged it again and again into his neck and back. Then, relocking the door, I left the slumping figure in the room, secure in the fact that Basil would not be missed for months. A few days later, I coerced a former acquaintance, a chemist, to destroy Basil's body using chemicals and fire.

My jaw was undoubtedly agape with the shock of Gray's words.

"Yes, the painting, Hallward's portrait of myself, seemed to age as if cataloguing each and every nefarious deed, reflecting the true me, the monstrous Dorian Gray. That night red blood stained the hands of the loathsome image on the portrait."

"Why do you reveal yourself, your crimes to me?" I asked and for the first time that evening felt fear for my safety.

As if reading my mind, Mr. Gray replied, "You have nothing to fear from me, Mr. Fogg. You have done me a great service by allowing me to control my own destiny and not permitting someone who bears me a grudge, or who seeks a profit from me to do so."

"Do you mean, sir, that the incident with the carriage was not an accident?"

"I mean precisely that, Mr. Fogg."

I gazed upon his angelic-like countenance, unable to accept the fact that he had lived so many years and not aged one whit.

"Mr. Fogg, my time on earth is now short. It is time for me to consider doing penance for all my sins. I wish to give you a gift, sir. Mind you, I have not given anyone anything in all these years. I have been fortunate over time to have acquired great wealth; in gold, in art and in land. I hereby bequeath half of all my possessions. The other half I give freely to the church of England in the hope that they use it to help the unfortunate."

"Surely you can't . . ." I began, thinking he intended to harm himself. I stopped talking and watched as he took a pen and inkwell from a nearby desk and signed a document he pulled from his jacket. This turned out to be his will, and he put my name down as his half heir. Then he rose and motioned me close.

"Ugliness is the only reality, my friend," he said and producing a dagger from the same jacket, stabbed the picture where it hung on the wall. . I stood frozen as a horrible cry issued forth from his lips and filled the entire dwelling with its mournfulness. The servants slowly came up to the room where they joined me in staring first at the portrait on the wall -- as fresh and beautiful as the day it was painted. On the floor was a dead man. A withered, wrinkled, and loathsome looking man, with a knife in his heart. Only the rings on his fingers revealed his identify to be that of Dorian Gray, who, in a miscarried struggle to kill his conscience, had killed himself. (Note 1)

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