Dearest Cecil,

O happy day! I have finally finished Chapter Seven of my novel-in-progress The Amourous Excesses of Lord Pokeybottom. It's turned out to be quite delicious, particularly the scene where young Reginald Nectarthirst receives more than he bargained for via the ribald ministrations of Elizabeth and Eunice, the Siamese twin daughters of the Duchess of Shafthunger.

I shall post this latest installment to you once I have had a chance to make a copy. I do hope you will find it as delightfully roguish as what's come before! I do however confess that I have some concern as to whether I can maintain this grand level of lecherous ingenuity throughout the course of the book.

I cannot help but think, for example, that the cause of verisimilitude would be well served if I could contrive to have actual sexual congress with a young woman. Flogging away at my member while perusing Great-Uncle Seymour's medical textbooks and back issues of certain travel journals has served well enough as inspiration so far, but I feel something more will be needed before my Great Work is complete. Even an old woman would do, Cecil.

Though I have no wish to put you in harm's way yet again, do you think you could prevail upon your cousin Emily to reconsider my proposition of a fortnight ago? You may tell her that if she will not engage in coitus with me, I would be extremely gratified if she could merely clench the handle of a riding-crop between her buttocks and lash me with it via swift rotating motions of her pelvis, much as Lady Dropbreeches did when punishing her disobedient Scottish gardener Tavish McHugepiece on page seventy-nine.

All is well otherwise. Mrs. Brooks is well on the road to recovery from her bout with malaria, and we discovered that the hedgehog was merely sleeping.

I am, as ever, very truly yours,

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