1904 Mrs. Fox on Film

I have had a suggestion put to me that I should write a sequel to my '1903 Only a Photograph Remains', in which a seaside photographer and his wife grasped an opportunity. I had been somewhat reluctant to do this, fearing that it could prove to be predictable; something I desperately try to avoid in my writing. Nevertheless, the characters of that story have continued to haunt me and, therefore, I have resolved to shed some light on their subsequent interactions. I hope and pray that you don't find the result disappointing.

I'll let Mrs Fox tell you all about it as she was actually there.

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I didn't think that it could happen but we had changed from being 'Victorians' to what they were now calling 'Edwardians' fairly seamlessly. Most of us had never known anything except the Queen but now we had a King.

By 1904 it just felt sort of natural. We even thought of King Edward VII's wife, Alexandra, as the queen. Despite the fact that he was an old man, by the time that he ascended to the throne, the King had brought a new mood of change to the Empire.

Fashions were gayer and the arts, particularly literature, had a renewed vigour about it. The whole country was changing.

What didn't change was Weymouth in Winter. Just like most English seaside resorts at this time of year the majority of the hotels had been mothballed. Deckchairs, windbreaks and Punch and Judy booths had been neatly stacked against the promenade wall and had been enclosed in heavy tarpaulins. Anything that could move was strapped down or tied down or weighted down. With the exception, of course, of the beach donkeys who were warmly stabled a few miles inland. They were glad to be away from the sand, salty wind and holiday makers.

The locals had reclaimed Weymouth Town Centre as their own. Those shops and public houses that had remained open were far less crowded for the simple reason that hardly anyone had money coming in at this time of the year.

In a normal year, the Winter for a seaside photographer would be dour. A few families would require portraits of weddings, christenings and the like. If your livelihood depended upon the tourist trade these rights of passage were always delayed until the slack season. An additional bonus was that there would be a reduced fee for commemorative photographs at this time of year.

But this wasn't a normal year. Mr Clive Fox, photographer to the gentry, had had an excellent twelve months. His commissions for Sir Gordon and Sir Claud and his new lines of erotic photography had left him in a healthy financial position.

My husband, the aforementioned Mr Clive Fox, had little fear of the off season. In fact the lack of work had left him time to play with his new toy (he calls it a new project), a moving picture camera.

I am one of the rarest of women, in that I am a great admirer of my husband. He seems able to grasp all sorts of innovative concepts. There is very little in this Edwardian age that he does not understand. Not just science but so many other areas of intellectual life. His range of reading material is wide, stretching from novels to philosophy.

Clive has never been one to follow a doctrine or ideology slavishly. He prefers to garner the facts, consider them carefully and then form his own opinion. Once formed he will share that opinion but never in a way that belittles the opinion of others.

His religion, if he has one, is logic.

This can sometimes become his Achilles Heel. As an admiring and dutiful wife, I wouldn't dream of contradicting my husband. This said, if I ever desire to lead him in any particular direction, I need only to point out the logic to that course of travel.

The new project of Mr Clive Fox, photographer, has proven to be quite expensive. Firstly, he travelled to Rupert Street in London. There he purchased a Bioscope Cinematographic Camera at a cost of forty-five pounds. Evidently, these cameras are manufactured in Brighton but you cannot buy them directly from there. Clive was not concerned, he was confident that Sir Gordon would commission him to produce erotic motion pictures and would pay handsomely for them.

This was only the start of it. Clive's photographic studio was solely designed to produce prints from photographic plates. The moving picture camera uses 35mm film. This requires a different set of equipment which costs even more money. The film wasn't cheap either. Still not to worry, Sir Gordon could afford it.

As soon as it was delivered, Clive took the camera down to the harbour. He wanted to film 'The Success', a ship that had taken so many convicts to Australia but which now was just a tourist attraction. The camera caused quite a stir. Fishermen, school children, matronly ladies and policemen contrived to walk nonchalantly back and forth in front of the camera while Clive turned the crank at a constant speed. Evidently, it doesn't really matter much at what speed as long as it's steady. It was all new to me but Clive very patiently explained the details whenever I enquired.

Since then, he has produced some delightful presentations of outdoor scenes of Weymouth in Winter. The absence of bright sunlight was no obstacle, for just as with a plate camera the aperture can be adjusted to let in more light.

The problem occurred when Clive tried to capture moving pictures in his photographic studio. Normally, the Lionel Lamps would flare briefly creating sufficient light for a single exposure of the plate camera. No amount of electric lighting could generate enough illumination for the Bioscope Cinematographic Camera.

Not to worry, a conservatory-like structure was built at the back of the studio. It sounded simple, it sounded inexpensive. Unfortunately, for its intended purposes it had not only to allow light in but it needed to prevent people from overlooking proceedings as well. More expense. It was a good job that Sir Gordon was made of money.

Finally, I watched as Clive steadily cranked the handle and Vera pretended that she was preparing to take a bath. We were in the Erotic Motion Picture Business at last.

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"You know Mr Turner, he has the penny arcade on the front?" enquired Freddy.

Freddy is the Concierge at The Gloucester Hotel as well as the occasional pornographic photographic model. He first introduced us to Vera, barmaid, and female counterpart to Freddy.

"I certainly do, he has made a living from separating fools from their money," replied Clive, who wasn't overly fond of Albert Turner.

"Well, he has imported some of what the Americans call Mutoscopes. You puts your penny in and turns the handle. You gets to watch a young lady dancing about in her undies. Just when it gets interesting, the light goes out and you has to put another penny in to see what 'appens next. Which is not much," explained Freddy.

Clive tutted, "That sounds like Albert Turner."

"Mr Turner says that we English won't go for a stupid name like Mutoscope so he's calling them 'Peep Show Machines'.

"He also says that the stuff that the Americans supply is alright for his arcades because nothing actually happens.

"You won't know this and I didn't tell you, but he also supplies various gaming machines to certain sorts of Gentlemen's Clubs. He thinks that his Peep Show Machines would go down a storm: if he could get the right material to go in them," said Freddy.

He layed out several small photographs on the table in front of Clive and I. They looked like smaller versions of the erotic photos that the French photographer had produced. Saucy but not sensational.

He asked Clive, "Do you think that you could print this sort of thing from the moving pictures that you take?"

"I don't see why not."

"If you can produce a full set of these cards from the film that you took of Vera getting ready for bed and fingering herself I could show them to Mr Turner."

"Freddy, you are a genius!" I exclaimed.

Clive added, "It would not only give us a source of income until Sir Gordon comes back in the Summer but it would also provide some practice material."

Clive seemed to have forgotten his dislike of Albert Turner.

"Would a week give you enough time to produce the first batch?" asked Freddy.

"Yes, I think so," confirmed Clive.

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"Yes, Mr Fox, excellent work but the young lady got to the point rather quickly. What it needs is a show that makes the gent put another coin in the slot, and then another after that," declared Albert Turner.

He was standing in the shop. At Clive's insistence, I was hiding behind the office door. He didn't want Mr Turner knowing that I had any part in that side of the business.

"Another thing was that the plot was a little standard. What the discerning gentleman wants to see is 'the unusual'. Something that intrigues him. Something that makes him wonder what she will do next.

"Do you think that you could do that?" asked Turner.

Every pore in Clive's body wanted to tell the man to leave quickly, I'm sure. But he was a realist. He knew that we needed some income to keep us afloat until Sir Gordon returned.

"Pay me what you owe me for the set that you've already had. I will produce a different creation. If you like that, we can talk about money and discuss future presentations," said Clive, calmly.

When we were alone, I enquired of Clive, "What do you have in mind for 'the unusual'?"

"I don't have the faintest idea. I'm far more practical than artistic. You've always been the creative one. Can't you think of anything?"

I thought for a moment and then said, "Well, I do have a germ of an idea. Let me talk it over with Vera. I may need Freddy's help too."

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The Concierge of a luxury hotel is a uniquely gifted individual. He has to be all things to all men, and sometimes all women. No requests must be beyond him, no task too difficult. The words 'I am afraid not' should never leave his lips.

It is my belief that Vera has a similar philosophy.

Freddy knew people, manifold people. People in high places and people in low places. In his work that was essential because he never knew what unique goods or services a guest may request at any time of the day or night.

I was amazed. I had reeled off the list of props that I required and he didn't bat an eyelid. One of them, in particular, needed the work of a skilled yet discrete craftsman.

"No bother, I know someone," said Freddy.

Ten days later and the scene was set. Clive had the camera in position. It rather reminded me of a wooden suitcase with brass fittings on top of a tripod.

Vera looked remarkably convincing in her riding habit. The jacket of bottle green woolen material with its nipped waist and leg of mutton sleeves, flowing skirt and white shirt showing at the neck and cuffs made her look as if she rode to hounds on a regular basis. It was finished off with a black top hat with veil, riding boots and crop.

As I had instructed, she strode up to the horse slowly. Not a real horse you understand, but a vaulting horse. The type that you find in gymnasia. Freddy had provided this and had arranged for one of the pommels to be removed.

Vera slapped her riding crop down hard onto the saddle loudly. Rather wasted, I thought, on a silent film.

The especially modified man's saddle was secured with the girth underneath the horse.

Slowly, very slowly, Vera unbuttoned the jacket. All the while twisting and turning to add to the tension.

She removed it in a leisurely fashion and discarded the jacket on the floor.

Another coin in the slot, I thought.

Vera unfastened a collar button.

"Now wait," I shouted, knowing that only she and Clive could hear my directions.

It felt a little unnecessary as Vera had divested herself of her clothing frequently enough at The Crown while paying customers watched through a spyhole. She knew about making them salivate.

She undid one more button of the shirt, waited and then performed the same action again. And then again, in no hurry.

Very deliberately she removed the shirt to reveal her corset. It joined the jacket on the floor.

Another coin in the slot, possibly.

She strode left and then right making the skirt drag faithfully behind her. Another slap of the crop in the saddle.

Vera released the waistband of her riding skirt but did not let it fall. She looked up as if thinking of something or someone. She rested the handle of the crop against her painted lips. Tapped the lower one twice as if commanding her lips to part. This they did and she pushed the handle softly between them.

Another coin, no doubt.

Vera pulled the leather bound grip outward. It now had a fine coating of saliva upon it.

She repeated the in and out action penetrating slightly further this time. When the handle withdrew it glistened.

Once again Vera repeated the motion, this time simultaneously allowing the skirt to lower slightly.

I told her that she should increase the pace slightly, Mr Turner's customers deserved some reward for all their coins. Vera allowed her habit train to fall to the floor and she stepped out of it. Untying her open drawers she lowered them by feeding one of the ribbons gently through her hand.

Vera stood in just her riding corset, stockings and riding boots. The top hat with its veil was still perched upon her head.

Without any instruction from me, she turned her back to the camera and bent slowly forward giving the impression that her boot laces needed some attention. This gave Clive, the camera and myself an excellent view of her plump rounded bottom and the meerest glimpse of the vagina hiding within the gap below her buttocks. It was obviously a trick she had developed in her work at the Crown.

In my head I could hear another coin enter an altogether different slot. Clink!

Standing back up, Vera put her foot in the first step of the mounting block that was positioned next to the vaulting horse.

She paused before taking the next step up. And then another pause and another step. To aid her balance Vere placed a hand on the remaining pommel.

Standing alongside the saddle she stroked the huge dark brown leather penis that the saddler had so skillfully attached to the centre of the saddle. Her hand drifted downwards to caress its large leather testicles.

Freddy had assured me that this was by no means the most bizzare item that the craftsman had produced for one of the hotel's guests.

Vera allowed her hand to drift upwards again as she enclosed the big head with the palm of her hand. She simultaneously gripped the pommel and the penis as she lifted one boot into a stirrup.

One, two, three little bounces and Vera raised herself upwards and swung her free leg over the saddle and placed the boot into the far stirrup. There she remained, fully upright, magnificent like the Queen of the Iceni.

Gracefully and slowly Vera lowered herself. As the dome of the leather penis nudged against her intimate parts she regained her grip on the pommel.

Vera was becoming the Empress of the expectant pause. Creating that electric tension that would make a man frantically search for any remaining coins in his pocket.

She inched onto the phallus and the phallus inched into her.

Finally, she could lower herself no more. I could only imagine what it felt like to have all nine inches or so deep inside you and the hard leather testicles crushed against your clitoris.

Unfortunately, that was just what I was imagining.

I made no pretence at directing the production. Vera didn't need my input.

Fortunately, I was standing a little behind Clive so he wasn't aware that I was quivering. Like a true professional, he carried on cranking at a slow steady rate. He was employing the minimum revolutions per minute in order to reduce the number of photographic cards that had to be produced. Although it wasn't necessary to make a flick card from every frame to give the impression of movement.

Vera pushed with her legs and raised herself up a little. If I had to guess I would say about eight inches. She steadied herself and then lowered herself again.

And again.

And again, into what equestrian people would call a trot.

She increased her pace. Up and down, up and hard down. On each drop, her nipples made a bid for freedom and at last they appeared above her corset.

Faster now. And faster. Into a canter. Taking with force every inch of the artificial stallion.

Before Vera could break into the full gallop, Clive called out, "Don't finish too quickly, remember the coins."

"Fuck the coins!" screamed Vera, as she shuddered and slumped forward. She pushed herself back upright. This time there was no rise and fall, just jelly-like legs trying to maintain what little movement they could.

"Cut!" shouted Clive as he pulled out the button that punches a hole in the film to mark it as a viable take.

Fearing that Vera may have trouble dismounting, I went to her assistance.

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As the final images flickered on the make-shift screen and the old hand-cranked projector that Clive had modified, spat out the end of the film, Mr Turner declared, "Excellent work Mr Fox. Just the perfect pace with enough anticipation to entice the viewer to invest another Florin at each stage.

"Can you produce ten copies on the Mutoscope cards."

From the seclusion of the office I heard Clive confirm that he could. There followed an earnest discussion in which Mr Turner tried to pay a ridiculously low price. Clive gave the impression that he had several alternative buyers. Mr Turner unsuccessfully suggested that it was a matter of total indifference to him. Clive thanked him but said he would take the product elsewhere. Common sense prevailed and a mutually acceptable price was agreed. It was better than I had hoped for.

Clive made it very clear that he would retain total ownership of the original film and that the cards were not to be reproduced.

Mr Turner confirmed that he would purchase any future output without the need to see it first.

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The New Year progressed and just the faintest prospect of Spring was in the air.

Without applying any pressure, Clive suggested that I may wish to give some thought to another unusual film production. The money from Albert Turner had eased our financial problems. If we could sell him just one more, that would carry us through to Sir Gordon's return. He would surely provide more than enough cash to make up for all the expense of purchasing the moving picture equipment. We would have examples of our work to show him and he would surely wish to commission projects to his own taste.

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I'm certain that you have all had experience of trying to think of an original idea while being told that there is no pressure. The pressure is immense.

Every time that I outlined a scenario to Clive, that I thought was exciting, he thought that it was exciting too. It resulted in some fevered love-making between us.

Unfortunately, once the passion had passed and we considered the practicalities of film production they were usually deemed unworkable.

At last, I came up with a plot that involved Vera and Freddy. It had him playing the role of a balloon seller. Every time he attached one of them to an item of Vera's clothing it drifted away, slowly undressing her. Finally, Freddy made Vera hold his bunch of balloons. Because she was afraid to let go of them, he was able to take advantage of her in various ways.

It involved me manoeuvring a complex web of strings that passed over a rafter in the studio.