Crateamania

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**Crateamania** is an annual orgy hosted by the Hellfire Club each spring. The orgy, of course, centers upon the amorous crate.

## The Amorous Crate

*In a letter to a local news-paper Nudeador Viking the Third told of his first experience at the Hellfire Club's Crateamania Orgy. His letter has be printed in full below:*

Dear Fellows,

As a gentleman with more than my share of experience with various amorous crates I feel I would be rather remiss if I did not put pen to paper and discuss some of the finer points of amorous crating that Mister Alston seems, through no fault of his own, to be somewhat ignorant.

Unless I am forgetting an earlier tryst in an amorous crate whilst in some opium induced haze at some point in my younger years, my first crating came the year I arrived in these United States, 1885, at an orgy held at the Hellfire Club of New York. While I had been a member of that illustrious club back home in fair Britannia, amorous crates were not particularly popular in Minoc and thus a rarely seen curiosity, but in New York, particularly at that time, they were quite beloved and were an integral part of the Club's springtime orgy, commonly referred to as Crateamania by the society pages of New York's esteemed news-papers.

The crate, is not truly a crate at all, as there is no independent bottom to it, and thus is more akin to a small shed assembled within a great hall or amphitheater. There are four walls, a roof, and a door that locks from the inside, so that none outside the box will be privy to what occurs within. Within the crate there is, of course a bed, as well as an assortment of amorous tools: belted artificial pegos, riding crops, drop clothes, ointments and unguents and the like.

Amorous crating beings with the drawing of names. Usually the gentlewomen present draw the names of gentlemen and couples are paired off, but on occasion gentlemen draw the names of ladies, or ladies will draw the names of multiple gentlemen or fellows will draw the names of other fellows. Suffice it to say names are drawn from a lottery tumbler.

At my first Crateamania, a woman some 15 years my senior drew my name. Though in her middle years she was quite well formed, with a rather lovely face and a fairly impressive bosom. As we await our turn in the crate I confessed that I due to my British ancestry had not once entered an amorous crate. The woman merely laughed and in a rustic voice that informed me she was undoubtedly "new money," told me, and I quote, "Don't worry darlin', I'll take good care of ya!"

I suppose I should have mentioned how impressive the crate appears from the outside to one who has never seen such a structure before. Impressive walls of stained mahogany with fine scrollwork that strikes fear into the hearts of those who know not what lies beyond that study oak door.

With my heart beating in my chest like a Prussian wardrum, I could not truly understand what was happening around me. I recall hearing my name called, and the busty woman in her middle years dragging me through the jeering throngs towards the crate that loomed like a titan at the other end of the great hall.

Inside the structure, the woman closed the door and latched it shut. Over the thudding of my heart I could hear a muffled roar that must have been utterly deafening on the other side of the solid mahogany walls. I began to undress, but the woman held up her hand, motioning for me to stop.

I paused and looked at the woman. Still fully clothed, she began to moan in a most wanton fashion. I was perplexed, but from behind the door I could hear a great cheer. She moaned again and again there was a roar from behind the door. I quickly understood the secret of the amorous crate and began to play along with the woman's charade, speaking in a rather rough fashion, much like the sort one would hear in a bawdy house frequented by well-knuckled dock workers which brought forth gasps of surprise from the crowd on the other side of the wall and twittering from the woman.

We carried on in this fashion for some time before I heard the crowd begin to count down from ten (10). Upon reaching zero (0) our time expired. The woman let out one last moan to great applause and after several moments of feigning reclothing ourselves, we emerged from the box and the next names were called.

That is the secret of the amorous crate my dear friends: the entire thing is paste; a rather elaborate joke perpetrated upon those who are attending their first Crateamania.

Before you put pen to paper and draft a letter offering sympathy for my rather disappointing first orgy upon American soil, I feel I should say that I did engage in the tender and loving act of blanket hornpipe with that well-formed woman in her middle years some time after emerging from the amorous crate, so the entire affair was not without its merits.

I am rather surprised that some film recordist has decided to attempt to transmogrify this rather childish joke into a series of "motion picture" films designed to dupe the public into thinking they have just witnessed a couple joining giblets when in reality nothing happens within the box save for play acting and stifled laughing.

In closing,
Yours In Odin,
Nudeador Viking the Third