In the centre of all the circles of Stonehenge lies the Altar Stone…
It was Margaret upon the stone… Her breast was bare and she seemed unconscious, or at least under the influence of some powerful spell. Simon saw her virginal face… serene, even in this hour. He saw the clustering brown hair, the parted lips.
At the noise of his approach Julius Trevis looked around. Simon did not pause, but running toward the man, shouted aloud… “Avaunt, Satan…” At the same time, he lifted the sword. The sun gleamed for an instant on the line of steel, at the cross of the hilt.. Then it hurled through the air with all the power at Simon’s command, as he threw it unerringly at Julius.
With a terrible cry Julius twisted around, clutched at the air as he fell, tugging out the sword from his breast. He slumped across the altar stone, his blood oozing over the inanimate form of the girl who lay there.
    Just as well nasty Julius pulled that sword out, or else, as he fell, he might have accidentally impaled the heroine, right in the breast with its appropriately ripped bodice. The Narrow Gate by Reginald Kirby is a odd piece—a Gothic tale of witches’ sabbats and Satanic rituals and murder on the stormy coast of Devon set in ‘historical’ times. It was weird rather than spooky as it was intended to be, but the strangest thing was that I remember all of it. Maybe it was those bare breasts that kept popping out…

Such fantasies soon began to infiltrate my dreams, and I can clearly remember the first time I dreamed of a lovely woman whom I seemed to conjure entirely from my imagination for she was in no part familiar from my real life nor movies. She knelt beside my bed in a skimpy gown, and leaned toward me, and there, like the sun rising on a hot hazy morning, slowly her complete left breast came into view. That was all it took, and I was cruelly dragged away to consciousness by a throbbing throughout my body and a stickiness about my abdomen and thighs. I lay panting, puzzled. This was getting to be fun. Until I observed the stains on the sheets and went into a mild panic. I stood and contemplated what to do, until I remembered the heedless way my mother always whipped the sheets off the beds on washing-day. There wouldn’t be a problem. So I hopped back into bed and lay there, waiting, hoping that she might come back again. About three weeks later, she did.