Justine

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Yes, I, my own heroine, am today, eighteen years old, I have got a nice little fortune salted away in saving banks and trust companies, and I have made every cent of it myself in making men's semen spurt, and still I was a virgin until a short time ago. Shall I tell you about it?

Many men and women have made fortunes with their mouths, orators and singers; I earned mine by making my lovers sing and dance in sweet priapian spending, to the soft caress of clinging lips and the turgid touches of my tickling tongue.

At fourteen, my father and mother died, and I was left to the care of trusty Uncle Will, a bachelor of fifty, who always appeared to hate petticoats and all they contained. He had money enough and was kind to me in a rough sort of way, and treated me as a fragile piece of glass, that would break all to pieces if he touched me.

We lived in handsome apartments with one servant and a colored man of thirty. Uncle Will was fifty, I was fourteen, as I said, wearing skirts only to my ankles, a child yet, but well developed; not especially handsome but with large melting eyes and lips full and red with warm blood, and a round rosy figure, that Uncle Will, after we became well acquainted, vowed was a perfect pocket edition of Venus.

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