Archive Note: There was no section designated "CHAPTER ONE" in this pocketbook.
INTRODUCTION
The author of The Debauched Hospodar and Memoirs of a Young Rakehell is known well by a relatively few people in the United States. Even those who have heard the name of Guillaume Apollinaire in connection with French poetry, remain unaware of the extent of his accomplishments.
He was indeed a poet, one who exerted a major influence on the art both in France and elsewhere. He was also a richly fascinating personality, the most colorful of all the flamboyant bohemians in turn-of-the-century Paris. Like Cocteau after him, he has been called an "organizer of epochs," an aesthetic innovator whose influence extended to all branches of the arts.
Photographs and drawings show him to have been a large man whose girth increased as he grew older. He was not unhandsome, with a bullet-shaped head, short-cropped black hair, and a face dominated by limpid dark eyes and a dazzling grin.
He was big not only in a physical sense. The catalogue of his achievements is enormous for one whose life was so tragically short (he died at the age of 38) ... Poet, storyteller, lover of women, marathon eater and drinker, soldier, talker, columnist, editor, translator, polemicist, prankster, art critic, dramatist, letter writer, bibliographer, artistic revolutionary and "the only man in France ever to have been arrested for the theft of the Mona Lisa."
In addition to all this, he wrote the two outrageous, scabrous, hilarious and pulsatingly erotic nouvelles contained in this volume.
The role of literary eroticist is one of his least familiar, partly because he played it only briefly. But for all that, it is no less crucial in his development as an artist.
Students of Apollinaire react in two ways to his erotica. Either they ignore it completely, or they try to write it off as the forgiveable misdemeanor of an immature genius. Both approaches are a disservice to the poet.
Apollinaire's erotic writing holds a minor, but by no means unimportant, place in the body of his work. Just as his poetry was to influence Andre Breton, Paul Eluard, Hart Crane (to name but a few), so his impious pornography was to place him among the forerunners of Miller, Celine and Burroughs.
In Paris there is a street named Rue Guillaume Apollinaire, not far from the apartment on Boulevard St.-Germain where he died. A sculpture by Picasso dedicated to the poet stands in the courtyard of the ancient church of St.-Germain des Pres. On November 9, 1968, the City of Light will hold a great celebration to honor the fiftieth anniversary of his death.
By now he has been eulogized and canonized, praised and Marseillaised, and officially assigned his niche in the pantheon of the artistic heroes of France.
How did he gain such eminence? Let us turn from Apollinaire the legend and go back for a look at Apollinaire the man.
TWO
Apollinaire was born in the Trastevere section of Rome on August 26, 1880.
His mother was a femme galante named Olga de Kostro-witzky, daughter of an impoverished Polish nobleman who, at the time, was employed as a papal chamberlain. The identity of his father is to this day a matter of speculation. Mile, de Kostrowitzky had numerous lovers, and if she was certain of her son's paternity, she never revealed his father's identity.
Most scholars believe Apollinaire's father to have been an officer in the Italian army named Francesco Fluigi d'Aspermont, who emigrated to America in 1884. A few suspect Francesco's brother, Don Romarino Fluigi d'Aspermont, a bishop in the Benedictine Order. (Indeed, the poet himself was fond of pointing out in later life that his father may have been a prelate.) And the Polish poet Anatol Stern insists that Apollinaire was the great-grandson of Napoleon himself, by a liaison between a Polish girl named Melanie de Kostrowitzky and the Emperor's son, by Marie-Louise.
The truth of Apollinaire's paternity has provided scholars with the matter for delicious debate for many years, and will doubtless do so for years to come.
At any rate, Apollinaire was christened Guglielmo de Kostrowitzky, and, for reasons unknown except to his mother, referred to during his childhood as Wilhelm.
When he was three years old, his mother left Rome for the French Riviera. By this time she had borne another son, father also unknown, whom she named Alberto.
The family settled in Monaco, where Mile, de Kostrowitzky could give full rein to her passion for gambling. She had gained a fairly notorious reputation as a courtesan, and although several attempts were made to expel her from the tiny principality, she stayed on there until her eldest son was seventeen.
The family lived quite well, mainly on gifts from Olga's admirers and on her earnings as an entraineuse (literally, a "leader-on of men," in this case a shill) in the Monte Carlo casinos. When her sons were still young, she settled down with an Alsatian gambler named Jules Weil, whom she presented to her children as an "uncle" and with whom she stayed until her death, many years later.
Thanks to Olga's move to Monaco, Apollinaire, part Polish, part Italian, was to become a French poet. Monaco had been an Italianate province, but the great influx of gamblers from France had made the citizens want to Frenchify themselves, so they educated their children in the tongue of their northern neighbors.
Guillaume (or Wilhelm as lie was still called) received his schooling at the Catholic College Saint-Charles in Monaco, later in schools in Cannes and Nice. Despite the heady atmosphere of the casinos and the intrigue surrounding his mother and "uncle," he proved an excellent student, writing poetry at an early age.
In 1897, however, Mile, de Kostrowitzky withdrew him from school and they set off, together with brother Alberto and "Uncle" Jules, on a two-year-long peregrination across Europe. Very little is known about these two years, and the next we hear of the Kostrowitzkys is in 1899, when Guillaume and Alberto were indicted by a Belgian court on charges of fraud. The charges stemmed from an unpaid hotel bill in the Belgian town of Stavelot, where first Mama, then Jules had stranded them. The incident became a minor cause scandale in Belgium until Mile, de Kostrowitzky somehow managed to have the charges dropped.
It is quite important to understand the eccentric and bohemian nature of Apollinaire's home life. Unlike Rimbaud and Baudelaire, Guillaume was never subjected as a child to bourgeois restraints and, unlike them, felt no necessity to rebel against society. His work is full of a grace and freedom which, according to his biographer, Guy Dupre, could only come from "Apollinaire the man without nationality, Apollinaire the love child."
In 1899 the young poet found himself for the first time in Paris, in quite an advanced state of poverty. Three years later he recounted in a letter to a friend how he "wrote addresses in an office for four sous an hour, the lowest work imaginable, along with broken-down lawyers, jailbirds, adventurers back from the gold mines ... The lowest I ever sank."
Poverty did not deter him from writing, though, and in 1901 his first published poems appeared in a Symbolist magazine, still signed with the name "Kostrowitzky."
In the summer of 1901, he was introduced to a certain Vicomtesse de Milhau, the German widow of a Frenchman, who hired him to give French lessons to her daughter. Pleased with his instruction, the Vicomtesse offered him permanent employment as a tutor in her German villa, and Apollinaire accepted.
The estate was in Honnef-on-Rhine, and it was here, amid the natural splendors of the Rhineland, that the poet was to encounter his first great love, the first of his five "muses." Her name was Annie Playden, she was pretty, dimpled, blue-eyed, and the daughter of a middle-class and, unfortunately, puritanical London family. She had been hired as governess and English teacher to the Vicomtesse's daughter.
Guillaume and Annie were thrown together daily in the huge estate, and as the first months went by, the poet fell deeply in love with her. Sadly, his love was to go unrequited.
Annie was at first taken with his wit and charming manners, but, repressed by her moral upbringing, she refused to think of him as more than a friend. Apollinaire began to suffer more and more from her rebuffs, and his love became increasingly vio'ent. Her resistance brought on passionate fits of jealousy and even cruelty. Once, when they had climbed to the top of the Drachenfels mountain, he threatened to throw her from the precipice unless she agreed to marry him. She agreed, of course, but went back on her word as soon as she reached safety.
After a year in the service of the Vicomtesse, Apolin-aire returned to Paris. A few months later, Annie also left Germany for her family's house on Landor Road in London. In 1903, after a year of "missing her greatly," the poet traveled to London to beg Annie once again to be his wife. Again he was refused, and in May of the following year, he made a second trip to London to try again.
Baffled by his persistence and perhaps put off by his bohemian nature, Annie told him she had a fiance awaiting her in America and was about to join him. In order to avoid having her lie exposed she quickly obtained a position as a governess in California and sailed from England ten days later. Apollinaire continued to write her in care of her family, but she ordered his letters returned. He was never lo see or hear from her again.
The years of his frustrated love fcr Annie were, not surprisingly, one of his most productive periods as a poet. Most of his verses of that time were directly inspired by Annie, including two of his undisputed lyric masterpieces, "La Chanson du Mal-Aime" and "L'Emigrant de Landor Road," both of which contain all the important details of his ill-starred love.
According to critic Francis Steegmuller, "Taken together, these two poems that owe their inspiration to a puritanical English governess mark the beginning of a new age in French poetry."
It was in Germany that the poet dropped the name of Kostrowitzky and began to sign his poems "Apollinaire." The name came from his mother's father, Michal Apollin-aris Kostrowitzky. Steegmuller, in his superb biography, Apollinaire, Poet Among the Painters, says: "Born in a corner of Trastevere, assigned a name out of an alphabet by a clerk, reassigned the Slavic name of a more or less nobly born adventuress mother, his father r. silence and an absence-this French poet needed a name of his own."
And what better for a poet of any nationality than that of Apollo, the god of lyric poetry?
In 1902, Guillaume Apollinaire, poet, settled in Paris for good. With the help of a good reference from the Vicomtesse de Milhau, he obtained a job clerking in a bank, an occupation he was to hold during the day for the next five years, while at night he wrote poetry.
He soon became part of a group of artists who contributed to a Symbolist magazine called La Plume. They met every Saturday night at a Left Bank cafe, and it was at these so-called Soirees de La Plume, that Apollinaire's genius and his charismatic personality first attracted attention.
Too individualistic to remain just one part of a group for very long, he decided to start his own literary revue. The first issue of Le Festin d'Esope (Aesop's Feast) appeared in November, 1903. It was to last almost a year and to bring Apollinaire the friendship and esteem of a group of fantastically talent young artists, including poets Alfred Jarry, Max Jacob and Paul Fort, Fauvist painters Maurice Vla-minck and Andre Derain, and the founders of Cubism, Georges Braque and Pablo Picasso.
By 1906 Apollinaire was able to quit his job in the bank, and step up his activities as a writer. Not only was he turning out poems, but stories, children's books, art criticism, columns for literary journals and newspapers, translations and prefaces to a series of classic erotic books (about which, more later).
It was during this time that Picasso introduced him to the girl who was to be his mistress for the next few years, and the most deeply loved of all his women. She was Marie Laurencin, a painter and, like Apollinaire, an illegitimate child. In her self-portraits, she appears neither pretty nor homely, but with a certain gamine-like charm. In her lover's words, she was "bright, witty, kind-hearted and very talented. She's like a little sun-a feminine version of myself."
Perhaps it was for just that reason-their similarity of character-that they took to each other right away. It may also be one of the contributing factors to their traumatic (for Apollinaire) breakup in 1911. But for the meantime, they were happy and the poet was later to remember that era as the sunniest of his life.
In 1909, Apollinaire published L'Enchanteur pourissant (The Rotting Enchanter), a dream play in verse, illustrated by Andre Derain. The following year saw publication of a collection of fantastic tales under the title L'Heresiarque et Cie. (The Heresiarch and Co.), which received a nomination for the prestigious Prix Goncourt ;nd was perhaps the first book to win him widespread notice in the literary world.
Finally, in 1911, Apollinaire came out with his first book of poetry, Le Bestiare, ou Cortege d'Orphee, with woodcuts by a young painter friend, Raoul Dufy. For some reason the book was a failure. Out of the 120 copies, only 50 were sold-for 40 francs apiece; today, one copy of that first printing is worth $5000.
In spite of the failure of his first volume of verse, the year of 1911 began happily for Apoilinaire ... It was not to end the same way.
THREE
On August 22, 1911, the Mona Lisa of Leonardo da Vinci was stolen from the Louvre Museum. To this day, the only thing that many people know about Apollinaire is that he was in some way connected with the robbery. Although he had nothing to do with the theft, the scandal put his name in headlines around the world. The "Mona Lisa affair," despite its comic opera aspects, was to affect the poet profoundly for the rest of his life.
This is what happened:
In 1907 Apollinaire had become friends with a young Belgian adventurer named Gery Pieret. He was something of an oddball, but the poet took a liking to him and gave him employment as his secretary. He even used him as model for the hero of one of the stories in L'Heresiarque et Cie., calling him "Baron Ignace d'Ormespan."
But Pieret was peculiar, and his peculiarity was to make itself felt in a strange way. One day he asked Marie Laurencin if there was anything he could get her at the Louvre. Marie, assuming he meant Les Magasins du Louvre, a department store located near the museum and often referred to simply as "the Louvre," thought nothing of it. But that evening Gery did indeed return with something from the Louvre-the museum: two stone statuettes from the collection of Iberian sculpture.
Apollinaire and his friend Picasso were quite amused by what they thought a charming prank, and Picasso bought the figures from Pieret for a few francs. (He even drew parts of them in his epochal Cubist painting, "Les Demoiselles d'Avignon.") Apollinaire wrote later that he had tried to persuade Pablo to return the figurines, to no avail.
Soon after his little coup, Pieret left Paris, only to return in 1911-and steal another statuette. Down and out, he went to Apollinaire, who took him in for a while, then threw him out when he refused to return his third acquisition to the museum.
A few days later the Mona Lisa was stolen.
It is not hard to imagine the furor that broke in France when the glass frame of the Mona Lisa was found empty on a back staircase of the Louvre. The painting had been the popular symbol of the greatest in art for hundreds of years; of all France's national treasures, La Joconde was the most prized. Her theft caused an upheaval in the government and an intensive police search for the culprit.
And here was Apollinaire, who had not only just played host to a Louvre-thief, but had once been the receiver of his stolen goods. The poet was understandably nervous.
Meanwhile, Pieret had gone underground and several days after the robbery, he sent a letter to Paris-Journal, a daily newspaper to which Apollinaire occasionally contributed. Pieret disclosed his theft of the Iberian statuettes and offered to return the third one for a reward, providing his identity and whereabouts were kept secret. The newspaper, in order to boost circulation, publicized the letter and accepted his offer. Pieret returned the statuette. (To the profound embarrassment of the French government, the curator of the Louvre confessed that he hadn't even known the antiquities were missing.)
Apollinaire was now at his wits end. Pieret had not mentioned the whereabouts of the other two figurines, but were the thiefs identity to be revealed, the path would surely lead to Apollinaire.
So in a state of fear and trembling he went to Picasso, who was equally terrified, and suggested they hand over the statuary to Paris-Journal. On the night of September 5, one of them (which one is unsure, since each insisted the other did it) took the statuettes to the newspaper office.
For a day or so Apollinaire breathed a little easier. But on the evening of the 7th he was visited by the police. Either they had received an anonymous letter or someone who knew the whole story had talked. At any rate, the poet's apartment was searched, letters to him from Gery Pieret were found, and he was arrested.
During a lengthy interrogation, Apollinaire protested his innocence in the Mona Lisa theft, but finally told the whole story of Pieret and the statuettes. He was charged with "complicity in harboring a criminal," although he had not harbored Pieret at all, had indeed evicted him.
But the police believed (or claimed to believe) that Apollinaire was implicated in the Mona Lisa incident. He was referred to as the ringleader of "a gang of international thieves who came to France for the purpose of despoiling our museums," and he was held for questioning as to the whereabouts of the other alleged members-namely, poor Gery Pieret.
The Parisian artistic community, however, believed that the harassment of Apollinaire was due to his being a poet and a foreigner, one who had in the past written sharply critical articles about the police. Petitions protesting his arrest were circulated and signed, and on September 13, after a six day stay in prison, Apollinaire was released. In the course of a brief hearing, the charge brought against him could not be made to stick.
Pieret was found in Cairo near the end of 1913, and arrested. And in December of the same year, the Mona Lisa was recovered in Italy. It had been stolen by an Italian housepainter named Vincenzo Peruggia, who had become obsessed with the idea of returning the masterpiece to its native land. He had kept the painting in his Paris flat for two years and was apprehended only when he tried to sell it to an art dealer in Florence.
Although Apollinaire later referred :o himself ironically as "the only person in France arrested for the theft of the Mona Lisa," the debacle was no laughing matter to him. On the contrary, it left deep emotional scars.
He had been so thoroughly implicated by the newspapers that his name was still linked to the robbery after his innocence was a matter of record. Even after his release he was subjected to torrents of abuse from the right wing, anti-Semitic press who supposed him, falsely, to be Jewish, and from the religious press, which accused him of immorality on the grounds of his erotic writings.
Francis Steegmuller sums it up thus: "Nothing bites more savagely into the personality-especially that of Apollinaire's: bastard, foreigner, writer of erotica, poetthan first-hand evidence and public proclamation that society does indeed consider one contemptible and expendable." More than anything, Apollinaire was terrified at the possibility of being expelled from his adopted, and beloved, country.
Another casualty (near-casualty) of the affair was his friendship with Pablo Picasso. After Apollinaire was arrested, Picasso was picked up, too, and confronted with the poet. There are varying versions of the story (depending on the allegiance of the teller), but it is generally believed that the Spanish painter, in a state of abject fear, denied ever having known one of his closest friends. It was not until Apollinaire was himself allowed to question Picasso that he admitted his part in the statuette incident. The two men remained friends after that unfortunate night, but on what basis no one will ever know.
The Mona Lisa was also at least partially responsible for the schism between Apollinaire and Marie Laurencin. Their relationship had long been a stormy one, with the poet's jealousy playing no small part in the discord, but the real trouble lay with Marie's mother. She was a puritanical bourgeoise who despised her daughter's bohemian friends. As far as she was concerned, Apollinaire's arrest was the last straw, and she must have exercised a certain amount of influence over Marie.
Years later Marie Laurencin told a friend why she and Guillaume had never married. In the beginning his mother was against it, for reasons of snobbishness-Olga did not think the girl a rich enough match for her son. After the Mona Lisa case, it was Marie's mother who opposed the marriage, on grounds of moral indignation.
For whatever combination of reasons, Marie deserted Apollinaire in 1911, and although they saw each other from time to time afterwards, the break was final. In 1914 Marie married a German painter and never saw Apollinaire again.
Four love poems dealing with his lost Marie appear in Apollinaire's Alcools: "Cors de Chasse,"
"Zone,"
"Le Pont Mirabeau" and "Marie." They are among the most tragic of all his verses.
FOUR
The final chapter of Apollinaire's life begins in 1914 with the outbreak of the First World War.
By this time he was the undisputed leader of bohemian Paris, the king of artistic circles from Montmartre to Montparnasse. In addition to his growing reputation as a poet, he was enlarging his fame by acting as a propagandist for his painter friends.
In 1913 he published a collection of essays, criticism and polemics entided Les Peintres cubistes, in which he publicized and defended members of the Cubist school of painting-Picasso and Braque in particular, as well as Jacques Villon, Marcel Duchamp, Raymond Duchamp-Villon, Robert Delaunay and others.
Whatever Apollinaire's talents for art criticism (Picasso said that "his powers of visual comprehension were Limited"), his promotion repeated ample rewards for the artists and brought him renown as a pioneering critic and "discoverer."
In the same year, 1913, the publishing house of the Mercure de France brought out Apollinaire's most important volume of poetry: Alcools. Subtitled "Poems 1898-1913," with a frontispiece portrait by Picasso, it contained 55 poems, including such masterpieces as "Zone" and "Vendemiaire."
Although it only sold 350 copies the first year, it created a sensation among critics and poets, partially because of the absence of punctuation in many of the poems (then considered a daring novelty), but mainly for the freshness and vigor of the anti-traditionalist verse.
Alcools was to prove a tremendous influence on the work of young poets, both in France and abroad, and today it is one of the most popular collections of modern poetry.
Apollinaire was riding high on the wave of success, the center of attention and controversy. And then in the summer of 1914 a crazy anarchist assassinated an archduke in Bosnia, and the whole world exploded.
Apollinaire could have chosen to ignore the explosion. He was a foreigner and as such, not compelled to serve in the armed forces. Like Picasso he could have sat out the war in France, or emigrated to the United States or some neutral country.
He chose to become a French soldier. Perhaps he felt a commitment to his adopted land; perhaps the urge to redeem himself in the eyes of those who had slandered him over the Mona Lisa affair; perhaps his head was still full of romantic tales of military life told to him in his childhood by his mother, herself the daughter of one soldier and the mistress of at least another (Guillaume's presumed father).
Whatever his motives, he applied for enlistment on August 10, 1914, and by the end of the year was serving with the 38th Artillery Regiment in the French army.
His training was carried out in the south of France, and during the course of a leave in Nice he met the third of his five "muses"-Louise de Coligny-Chatillon, known to all Apollinaireans as "Lou."
They had a brief but passionate physical affair, beginning in the fall of 1914 and ending soon after the New Year. But until September, 1915, a short time before he was sent to the front, Apollinaire continued the affair by correspondence.
He sent her a veritable flood of love letters, 76 in all, each containing a poem. Many of the verses were written in what Apollinaire called "calligrammes"-that is, the lines were written to form pictures, often of the poem's subject, whether it was a bird, a fish, a boat, a woman's profile.
Only one other woman ever received greater tribute from Apollinaire, also in the form of correspondence. She was Madeleine Pages, a schoolteacher from Algeria. The poet met her on a train between Nice and Marseilles on New Year's Day, 1915.
He saw her only once more, when he spent his Christmas leave of 1915 with her family in Oran. But he had fallen in love with her and for almost two years, from the time of their train encounter, he wrote to her steadily.
The letters constitute an astonishing courtship by long distance. At first Apollinaire addressed her as "Dear Mademoiselle," then he was calling her "my little fairy," then "my adorable fairy," and finally, "mon-amour."
He wrote from the trenches, with artillery shells bursting over his head, often on scraps of wrapping paper. Although he had never known her physically, the letters became increasingly intimate and erotic. Finally he became her fiance, and an uninformed reader dipping into the correspondence at random would think he had been her lover all his life.
In 1955 the noted Apollinaire scholar, Marcel Adema, persuaded Madeleine Pages to allow publication of the letters. Tney were issued under the title, Tendre comme le souvenir (Tender as Memory). Several complete letters and parts of others were omitted by Adema as being "too free, too erotic, too personal." Even without them the book stands as one of the most vivid and moving collections of correspondence in all literature.
FIVE
The beginning of the end for Guillaume Apollinaire came on March 17, 1916, when he was wounded in the head by shell splinters. When the shell hit, he was reading the Mercure de France in the trench.
His skull was bandaged, and the next day a surgeon removed the fragments, which had lodged above his right temple. But during his convalescence in Paris at the hospital of the Val du Grace, it became apparent that more damage had been done than was at first supposed, and the doctors ordered a trepanation to relieve pressure on the brain.
The operation was performed and thought successful. When Apollinaire was released from the hospital he applied for work in one of the military offices in Paris, rather than be returned to the front. He was accepted by the periodicals department of (supreme irony!) the Office of the Censor.
He was to remain in Paris for the rest of his life ... what little of it still remained.
The year or so that remained of Appollinaire's life held three major events, two artistic and one personal.
In June, 1917, his comic drama, Les Mamelles de Tiresias, was performed at a Montmartre theatre. The play was an outrageous, impudent burlesque concerning a militant feminist who is transformed into a man (from Therese to Tiresias) after her breasts (les mamelles) fly away like balloons. She finally regains her true sex when she agrees to drop her career and return to her husband as a proper, childbearing wife. (The play is probably best known in its operatic version, set to music many years later by Francois Poulenc.)
It was to describe this comedy that Apollinaire coined the word "surrealist." He had first described the work as surnaturaliste, but changed it to surrealiste, finding the latter word "more convenient."
The term proved more than merely convenient. It found its way into common usage, and then into the dictionary, and in the next decade, a young generation of poets-led by Jean Cocteau, Andre Breton and Louis Aragon-were to adopt it as the title of a new artistic movement.
The second important event prior to Apollinaire's death was the publication of his second collection of verse, Calligrammes, subtitled "Poems of Peace and War (1913-1916)." Containing over 100 poems, many quite short, the volume was hailed for its charm and wit, meeting with an equally enthusiastic but less controversial reception than had Alcools.
Calligrammes gave Apollinaire double reason for rejoicing, since it was published on April 15, 1918, just two weeks before his marriage to Jacqueline Kolb, a pretty redhead he had met a few months before. She was to be his last muse.
The final lyric in Calligrammes is "La Jolie Pousse," written to and about Jacqueline. It is probably his most famous poem, certainly one of his most moving. Ending as it does with the line "Have pity on me," it stands as Apollinaire's valedictory. It is almost as if he knew the end was near.
One day in the fall of 1918 he developed a fit of coughing, the first symptom of a kind of influenza known as "Spanish grippe." The disease struck all the more virulently in a body still recuperating from the effects of trepanation.
On November 9, a doctor was called to *he Apollinaires' flat on the Boulevard St.-Germain. The poet begged him, "Save me, doctor! I want to live! I still have so many things to say!"
But the doctor could do nothing and, two days before the Armistice, Apollinaire died.
On November 13 he was buried in Pere Lachaise cemetery, his funeral procession winding through a city festooned with flags of victory. The poet's friends were sure that he would have approved of such a colorful finale.
SIX
Such was the life of Guillaume Apollinaire, author of The Debauched Hospodar and Memoirs of a Young Rakehell.
How did these two erotic classics come to be written, and what position do they hold in the poet's life work?
In 1906, in an effort to escape the daily drudgery of bank clerking, Apollinaire wrote two novels: Les Onze mille verges and Les Exploits d'un jeune Don Juan, in their French titles. Ralph Ginzburg in his Unhurried View of Erotica refers to the former as "without peer for extravagance of lubricity," and suggests that it may have been dashed off in a contest with two drinking buddies to see who could turn out the most outrageous book.
This idea is appealing due mainly to the romantic image of turn-of-the-century Parisian bohemia that it calls to mind-and it is certainly not outside the realm of possibility. But it seems that Apollinaire's motive was simply money; only if he could become self-supporting could he devote all his time to writing.
Both books were published "under the counter" in 1907. Les Onze miUe verges was re-issued in 1911 with the subtitle, "The Loves of a Hospodar." Subsequent limited editions were brought out in Monte Carlo in 1930 (125 copies); in Nice, 1931 (130 copies); and in Menton, 1932 (130 copies).
Les Exploits d'un jeune Don Juan has much the same history. One amusing sidelight is its citation in a clandestine catalogue of 1906-1907 as "Latest Novelty."
The first English translations of the books were published by Olympia Press in Paris, 1959, under their current titles.
How much Hospodar and Rakehell brought Apollinaire in the way of hard cash is not known. They did, however, bring him to the attention of a publisher named Briffault who was planning a line of new editions of erotic classics to be called, collectively, Les Maitres de 1'amour.
Briffault hired the poet-pornographer to translate and write prefaces to several venerable "dirty books," including writings by Aretino, as well as works of the Marquis de Sade, John Cleland and other so-called "libertine authors" of the 18th century.
This occupation was to provide Apollinaire with a steady, though no doubt modest, source of income for several years. It was also to give him the reputation as something of an authority on erotica.
His lengthy introduction to Les Memoires de Fanny Hill: Femme de plaisir shows an extremely erudite grasp of English society and sexual customs of that period; and no less an authority than critic Edmund Wilson credits him with bringing the works of the Marquis de Sade "into general currency," in 1909, thus starting the Sade-ist vogue that continues today.
It was during Apollinaire's toil in the green fields of erotica that he engineered an historic feat of bibliography. Together with his co-workers, Fernand Fleuret and Louis Perceau, he compiled a complete list of the forbidden books of the Bibliotheque Nationale. This huge collection of sexology was called the "Enfer" (Hell), and was kept strictly under lock and key; even the titles of the books were taboo.
The three young men merely bribed a porter to bring them (he books two or three at a time, and compiled the catalogue in the general reading room of the library.
The Bibliotheque was scandalized, of course, when a list of their 900 dirty books was published in the magazine Mercure de France (upon whose commission the trio had acted). But so painstakingly thorough was the work of Apollinaire and Company, that their list remains to this day the official Enfer catalogue of the French National Library.
But to return to Apollinaire's creative efforts ... In addition to the two erotic novels he was also the author of a certain amount of pornographic poetry, most of it published in clandestine fashion early in his career.
A limited edition (210 copies, illustrated, of his Complete Erotic Works appeared in France in 1934. It included, in addition to the Hospodar and the Rakehell, three slim volumes of poetry: Cortege priapique, Julie, ou la Rose, and Le Verger des Amours. The latter (in English, "The Orchard of Love") is held to be dubious by Apollinaire scholars, although Adema called it "an able pastiche" of his style. Several of the poems in Julie had already appeared in the first edition of the Hospodar.
All this should give some indication of Apollinaire's tremendous involvement with literary eroticism. It was an involvement not wholly motivated by financial need; it would be quite foolish to picture Apollinaire as a slave in a smut factory.
An important factor in Apollinaire's erotic work was his often unquestioning dedication to the New. His quest for innovation in the arts sometimes led him to lengths which more conservative writers might deem excessive. One reason for his attraction to the Marquis de Sade was that writer's value (in the words of Edmund Wilson) as "a blaster of inhibitions."
Sexuality and scatology play powerful roles in all of Apollinaire's "legitimate" writing. The exquisite poem "La Chanson du Mal-Aime" is permeated with erotic feeling, and one of its sections (the "Reply of the Zaphorizian Cossack to the Sultan of Constantinople") contains four-letter references to flatulence and excretion which might have been censored in a different context.
Eroticism played an important role in his personal life as well. Biographer Rene Guy Cadou mentions his "taste for racy and coarse words ... in the line of Rabelais and ribald tales," noting that "off-color humor was necessary to his health in the same way as tobacco and alcohol." He also had a reputation as a petomane, a lover of flatulence, who deliberately indulged his passion in the most embarrassing (for others) places.
The best interpretation of Apollinaire's fascination with the erotic comes from Marcel Adema;
"There was no question that Apollinaire had and always would have a great taste for literary eroticism. His poetic works swarm with audacious verses and his prose never hesitates calling attention to the obscene detail. His thorough knowledge of the libertine authors of the 19th Century enriched his vocabulary and would influence his later poetic expression. The mechanics of his memory came to the fore, sometimes subconsciously, in erotic images that are violent but not destitute of charm. We should not see in all this the mark of an unhealthy obsession, but rather that of an erudite and impassioned curiosity about matters of the flesh. His sexual appetitie was equal to the appetite he showed at table, and his verbal eroticism the counterpoise of a romantic sentimentality from which he derived no little suffering. The obvious pleasure he had in frequenting certain "houses" owed more to their picturesque qualities than to the employment of their personnel. The freedom, indeed the disarray, of his conversations with friends was only the manifestation of a rather typically Eastern European penchant for four-letter words. There is nothing morbid in his eroticism, (italics added) simply the taste for pleasure, and the accomplishment of an act eminently useful to the mental balance of humanity in general and his own in particular."
Doubtless, the idea of pornography appealed to the naughty little boy in Apollinaire. His desire to shock came not so much from a Baudelairean compulsion to epater le bourgeois, as from a puckish spirit that delighted in outraging anybody, just for the fun of it.
He had a well-earned reputation as a prankster. We have seen how this got him into trouble in the affair of the Louvre statuettes (how delighted he and Picasso must have been-at first-by Gery Pieret's demented trick!) And Les Mamelles de Tiresias owes its creation to the same mischievous flippancy.
One of his literary pranks is amusing enough to merit a close look. For many years Apollinaire wrote a kind of gossip column called "La Vie Anecdotique" for the literary revue, Mercure de France, It was usually devoted to anecdotes and trivia relating to literature and the arts.
In the spring of 1913 the column purported to be an eye-witness account of the funeral of Walt Whitman, related in now-it-can-be-told style by an American who had been there. The report was, of course, an outrageous fantasy by Apollinaire, who describes the funeral of the American bard as an orgiastic debauch held on an old circus ground near Camden, New Jersey.
To quote: "There were 3500 people ... The pederasts showed up in full force and all nocked around Peter Connelly, a young man in his early twenties, celebrated for his beauty, an Irish streetcar conductor whom Whitman had loved above all others ... It is thought that many of the poet's children were there with their mothers, both black and white, but this is not certain. Whitman used to say that he had known six of his children but that there were doubtless many others."
The "reporter" goes on to say that "to the accompaniment of ragtime music, the casket was carried to the mausoleum by six drunks," and ends with a mischievously phallic image of the coffin being slipped into a too-narrow slot on the back of the pallbearers.
Members of the American colony in Paris were enraged by the supposedly true account, even after it was pointed out to them that the magazine was dated April 1-All Fools' Day!
Even in this little joke it is easy to see the inventor of the colossal comedy of The Debauched Hospodar.
Francis Steegmuller, with his usual acute perception, calls the Hospodar "a high-spirited parody of a holocaust by the Marquis de Sade; as such it is a tour de force, and indeed Picasso once owlishly pronounced it Apollinaire's masterpiece."
He points out that the book "has not always been recognized as the romp it is" and is often regarded as a grimly pornographic catalogue of perversions.
No one who has read even a few of the works of the "divine Marquis" can quarrel with this evaluation.
In The Debauched Hospodar every exhibit in the Sadist chamber of horrors is wheeled out for inspection and then gleefully mocked. Rape, sodomy, fellation, flogging, bestiality, etc., etc., all have their innings. And not just once, but again and again and again.
Humor (except of the unintentional kind) is noticeably lacking in the Sade originals; but in Apollinaire's burlesque, perversions are piled on top of each other with a delirious zest reminiscent of Marx Brothers' slapstick. Only the totally humorless, or the pathologically disturbed, can fail to respond with laughter.
Take, for instance, the marathon beating-raping scene in Chapter 7. Four characters-Prince Mony, a Tartar, a Dane and his wife-exchange all manner of physical and sexual abuse in all possible comtinations. Prince abuses Tartar, Tartar abuses wife, Prince abuses "united bodies" of Tartar and wife, Tartar and wife abuse Prince, Dane abuses wife and Tartar, Prince abuses Dane ... on and on into the realm of comic unreality. It is a brilliant mockery of the collective wet dreams of a club of beat-freaks, and it also brings to mind a Mack Sennett pie-throwing orgy on a Sadist level.
The book teems with absurd characters and situations:
Fedor, the Russian officer with three testicles; Mariette, the maid who gets strangled to death by her mistress' legs while performing cunnilingus in a four-way sex bout; the general who pontificates, "There is only one way today of saving our unfortunate Mother Russia, and that is through pederasty," and then discharges "into the charming arse-hole of his son."
And the institution of Maternal Love will probably never receive a deadlier blow than that dealt by the story of Captain Katache, whose insane mother imagined herself a chamber pot and kept crying for the lavatory attendant to come and empty her, all the while childing her son: "Son, you don't love your mother any more-you frequent other toilets."
Then there are the two male brothel-keepers of Port Arthur: "They dressed like women and called themselves lesbians, without renouncing their moustaches and masculine names." Apollinaire refers to them as "formerly Symbolist poets," then quotes two of their poems, both acid parodies of Symbolist verse. By 1906, when the book was written, Apollinaire had developed an intense dislike for the Symbolists, whom he felt were responabile for the decadence into which French poetry had fallen. Surely there could be no more devastating way of making this point than by these two transvestite caricatures.
It should be clear to the serious reader that The Debauched Hospodar is no common piece of erotica.
Aside from its parodic aspects, the book can be read simply as a black-humorous picaresque novel of a young libertine's adventures in Paris and Manchuria at the time of the Russo-Japanese War. There is a wealth of plot invention that would be stunning in any "legitimate" novel, and a riotousness of imagery similar (though on a different level) to that in Apollinaire's poetry.
No translation can give an adequate idea of the many puns and jeux de mots, of which Apollinaire was so fond, that appear in the writing. The book's French title, Les Onze mille verges, is itself a pun. "Verge" means "switch," and in one sense the title refers to the 11,000 switches with which the hero is flogged to death. But the word is also French slang for "penis," so the title could also be read, "The Eleven Thousand Cocks."
The word-play in the French title of Memoirs of a Young Rakehell-D'un Jeune Don Juan-is charming, and that, indeed, is an apt descriptive word for the book as a whole.
Les Expoits d'un jeune Don Juan is also a parody of sorts, and the work believed to be the butt of the fun is a novel by Henri de Regnier called Les Vacances d'un jeune homme sage. De Regnier was a late Symbolist poet who also wrote fiction, and his work has been described as "politely sensual."
It is not surprising that Apollinaire chose to satirize such a writer. We have already mentioned his feelings toward the Symbolists, and his revulsion for anything "polite" should not have to be pointed out.
However, there is nothing mean about the satire in Rakehell. Rather, it is gentle, nostalgic and good humored-a charming piece of erotic writing. If it lacks the apocalyptic invention of the Hospodar, it is simply because of the different nature of the work being parodied.
Rakehell might even be described as a kind of erotic continuation of a great tradition in French literature: the novel dealing with the coming of age of a young man and the women who help him along the way. In its offbeat way, Memoirs of a Young Rakehell is in the line of Chateaubriand's Rene, Stendhal's Le Rouge et le noir, Flaubert's Une Education sentimentale and Radiquet's Le Diable au corps.
The Debauched Hospodar, on the other hand, is best-viewed not as the tail end of an old tradition but the beginning of a new one.
It is certainly not claiming too much to suggest that the book has exercised an important influence on one school of contemporary writing. The work of Henry Miller (the Tropics), William Burroughs (Naked Lunch), and Terry Southern (Candy) bear the unmistakable print of the Hospodar's boots.
These three writers all spent at least part of their formative creative years in Paris and were almost certainly exposed to Apollinaire's comic version of de Sade, with its curiously intoxicating mixture of erotic realism and black humor.
And if one counts the writers influenced by Miller and Burroughs, one can see Guillaume Apollinaire sitting at the source of an important tributary to the mainstream of modern literature.
It is to be hoped that scholars will recognize the importance of his erotic writing rather than attempt to apologize for it, and that the two short novels printed here will one day be accorded their well-deserved positions of respect in the Apollinaire canon.
David B. Lewis Los Angeles, 1967
SUGGESTIONS FOR FURTHER READING: Poetry
Apollinaire: Oeuvres Poetiques. Preface by Andre Billy. Paris, Gallimard, 1962
Apollinaire: Selected Writings. Translated, with a critical introduction by Roger Shattuck. New Directions, New York, 1950
Biography and Criticism
Adema, Marcel. Guillaume Apollinaire, le Mal-Aime. Paris, 1952.
Bowra, C. M. The Creative Experiment. London and New York, 1949.
Cadou, Rene Guy. Testament d'Apollinaire. Paris, 1945. Faure-Favier, Louise. Souvenirs sur Apollinaire. Paris 1945.
Fowlie, Wallace. Age of Surrealism. New York, 1950.
Rouveyre, Andre. Apollinaire. Paris, 1945.
Shattuck, Roger. The Banquet Years; the Arts in France, 1885-1918. New York 1958.
Soupault, Philippe. Guillaume Apollinaire. Marseille, 1927.
Steegmuller, Francis. Apollinaire, Poet Among the Painters. New York, 1963.
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THE DEBAUCHED HOSPODAR
(Les Onze mille verges)
CHAPTER ONE
Bucharest is a beautiful city where East and West seem to commingle. If you take account only of the geographical situation, you are still in Europe, but you are already in Asia if you are considering certain customs of the country and if you look at the Turks, the Serbs and ether Macedonians who are there in all their color in the streets. Still, it is a Latin country: the thoughts of the Roman soldiers who colonised it were without doubt turned towards Rome, at that time the capital and cultural center of the world.
This Western nostalgia was transmitted to their descendants: the Rumanians think continuously of a city in which luxury is normal, and where life is full of joy. But the splendor of Rome has fallen into decay, the queen of cities has surrendered its crown to Paris, and it is hardly surprising if, by some atavistic process, the thoughts of the Rumanians are unceasingly turned toward Paris, which has so completely supplanted Rome as the hub of the universe.
Like other Rumanians, the handsome Prince Vibescu dreamed of Paris, the City of Light, where the women were all beautiful and hot thighed. While he was still at college in Bucharest, he had only to think of a Parisian woman, a la Parisienne, to get an erection and to be compelled to toss himself off slowly, into beatitude. Later he had come into many grottos and buttocks of succulent Rumanian women. But he felt strongly that he had to have a woman of Paris.
Mony Vibescu came of a very wealthy family. His great-grandfather had been a Hospodar, which is equivalent to the title of Sub-Prefect in France. But this title became attached to the family name and both the grandfather and father of Mony had borne it. Mony Vibescu ought equally to have carried this title in honor of his ancestor.
But he had read enough French novels to have a cynical view of Sub-Prefects. "Isn't it ridiculous," he said, "to call yourself Sub-Prefect because your great-grandfather was one? It's absurd, simply ludicrous!" And to be less grotesque he had replaced the title of Hospodar by that of Prince. "There," he cried, "is a title which is transferable by heredity. Hospodar is an administrative function, and it is only right that those who distinguish themselves in the administration should be able to bear a title. I ennoble myself. In effect, I am an ancestor. My children and my grandchildren will be thankful to me for it."
Prince Vibescu was very intimate with the Vice-Consul of Serbia, Bandi Fornoski, who, as rumored about the town, buggered the charming Mony with zeal. One day the prince dressed himself correctly and set out for the Vice-Consulate. In the streets everybody looked at him and the women stared and said, "What a Parisian air he has got!"
Indeed, Prince Vibescu was walking as a native of Bucharest might suppose the Parisians to walk, that is to say, with little hurried steps and waggling his behind. Isn't it charming! When a man walks like that in Bucharest not a single woman, be she even the wife of the Prime Minister, can resist him.
When he arrived in front of the door of the Vice-Consulate, Mony relieved himself lengthily against the front porch and then he rang the bell. An Albanian clothed in a white blouse came to open the door for him. Prince Vibescu climbed quickly to the first floor.
The Vice-Consul Bandi Fornoski was stark naked in his salon. He was stretched out, his staff stiff, on a Turkish divan, and close to him was Mira, a dusky woman from Montenegro who was tickling his stones. She too was naked and her bent position made her beautiful thick-fleshed arse stick out, brown and downy, over which the delicate skin was stretched like a drum. Between the two buttocks, embedded in the superb line of her deeply indented slit, fringed at its edges with brown hairs, you could see the forbidden hole, round as a nut. Below, quivering longly and downwards, were her thighs, and, as her position forced her to have them apart, you could see her cleft, fat, thick, deep as a wound, and shadowed by a thick chevron of coarse black hair.
She was not in the least put out by Mony's entrance. On a chaise lounge in another corner, two pretty plump-bottomed girls were goosing one another with hot little cries of lust. Mony undressed himself quickly, then, staff in the air and stiff as a ramrod, he threw himself on the two lesbians in an attempt to drag them apart, but his hands slipped off their wet shining bodies which were coiling about like snakes.
Then, seeing that they were frothing with lust, and furious at being unable to take part in it, he began to slap the plump white arse that was nearest to him. As that seemed to excite the owner of this beautiful behind, he began to slap it for all he was worth, so brutally that the pain overcame the lust, and the pretty girl whose pretty white bottom he had made pink got up in a fury.
"You dirty bugger, don't disturb us! We don't want any of you! Go and stick your barley sugar in Mira and let us play in peace, eh Zulme?"
"You said it, Tone," the other girl replied.
"What, you young bitches! still and always playing sticknnger with your behinds!" Then, seizing one of them, he tried to kiss her on the mouth. It was Tone, a pretty brunette, whose snow-white body was all the more beautiful for the little beauty spots which in certain places enhanced her fair skin. The face of this sinuous girl was just as white and a little mole on her right cheek gave her a coquettish look. She had two superb titties, hard as marble, ringed with blue, and topped by a delicate strawberry pink; the right one was prettily blemished by a beauty spot, stuck there like a fly, a butchered fly.
Mony Vibescu had, in laying hold of her, slipped his hands round under her plump buttocks, buttocks which resembled a fruity melon which had swelled from dawn till dusk so that it was white and firm and full. Each buttock seemed to have been carved from faultless marble, and her thighs which moved downwards from them were as perfect as the columns of a Greek temple. But what a difference! Her thighs were hot and her buttocks were cold, which is a sign of good health. The spanking had made them a little pink so that you could have said of them that they were made of raspberries and cream.
This vision brought poor Vibescu to the limit of excitement. His mouth nuzzled in turn the two firm nipples of Tone or else sucked at her throat or shoulder bruising the skin. He grasped her swelling arse like a hard and pulpy watermelon firmly between his hands. He was squeezing these regal buttocks and had stuck his index finger into her anus. His big tool which was getting harder and harder began to jab at the breach of her charming coral-colored slit, stiff at the tuft of her gleaming black hair.
She cried out in Rumanian: "No, you are not going to put it into me!" and at the same time smacked her plump round thighs together. The red and inflamed knob of Mony's big beet had already tasted the hot wet groove between her legs. She was still fighting to get loose from him, but in doing so she broke wind, not in a vulgar way; it was of a crystalline sound which made her burst into nervous laughter.
All resistance collapsed, her thighs peeled open, and Mony's big organ had already buried its head in her crack when Zulme, Tone's friend and partner in goosing, seized Mony's eggs roughly and, squeezing them in her little hand, caused him such pain that his smoking tool slid out again, to the great disappointment of Tone, who was beginning to stir her arse under her slender waist.
Zulme was a blonde whose thick hair fell in a cascade to her heels. She was smaller than Tone, but in her slimness and grace just as desirable. Her eyes were black with circles round them. As soon as she had let go of his eggs, the prince hurled himself upon her, saying, "All right, you're going to pay for Tone!" Then, snatching one of her pretty breasts, he began to suck its point.
Zulme wriggled. To make a fool of Mony she tilted and waggled her belly, at the base of which danced a delicious little beard, blonde and frizzy. At the same time she brought up a pretty slit which was cunk deep in her little plump mound. Between the lips of this rosy slit a good-sized clitoris wriggled, testifying to her lesbian propensities. The prince's staff was trying vainly to sink itself in her crack.
Finally, he gripped her buttocks and was about to penetrate when Tone, angry at having been cheated out of the discharge of this superb member, began to tickle the young man's heels with a peacock feather. He began to laugh and squirm. The peacock feather tickled relentlessly; from the heels it moved upwards to the thighs, to the anus, to the tool which subsided rapidly.
The two rogues, Tone and Zulme, delighted by their farce, laughed for a good minute, then, red and out of breath, they returned to their goosing, kissing and tonguing one another in front of the abashed and stupefied prince. Their arses rose in cadence, the hairs of their slits mingled, their teeth clicked against one another's, and the satin of their firm and palpitating breasts rumpled at the meeting of their bodies. At last, twisting and glistening in lust, they wet each other reciprocally.
Meanwhile, the prince began again to get a hard on, but seeing them both so weary from their goosing he turned towards Mira, who was still cultivating the vice-consul's pole. Vibescu approached softly and, passing his fine shaft through Mira's plump buttocks, he thrust it into her hot wet opening. No sooner had she felt the head of the knob which pentrated than Mira lurched backwards with her arse to make the penetration complete. Then she continued her abandoned movements while with one hand the prince fingered her clitoris and with the other tickled her breasts.
This see-saw motion in her tight sheath gave great pleasure to Mira; she evinced that pleasure in cries of lust.
Vibescu's belly was beating against Mira's behind, and the coolness of her body caused as pleasurable a sensation in him as the heat of his belly caused in her. Soon their movements became more lively and abrupt; the prince thrust himself against Mira, who was panting as she fixed her buttocks. The prince bit her on the shoulder and held her there. She cried out: "Ah that's wonderful ... there ... harder ... harder ... ooh ... ah ... take me! Give me your juice ... all of it ... give ... ah ... now!" And in a sudden simultaneous discharge they dropped and remained for a moment utterly obliterated.
Tone and Zulme, their limbs latticed together on the chaise lounge, were watching them and laughing. The Vice-Consul of Serbia had lit a slender cigarette of oriental tobacco. When Mony had got up again he said to him, "And now, my dear Prince, it is my turn. While I was waiting for you to come I was pleased to allow Mira to fondle me, but I have reserved the fruition for you. Come here my pretty boy, my darling little buggered one, here! So that I can give it to you."
Vibescu looked at him for a moment, and then, spitting on the staff the vice-consul was offering to him, he said, "I've had enough! I'm sick and tired of being buggered by you. It's the talk of the town!" But the vice-consul had stood up, his tool stiff, and had seized a revolver.
He leveled the pistol at Mony, who, trembling with fright, held out his buttocks towards him, stammering, "Bandi, dear old Bandi, you know that I love you! Bugger me! Bugger me!" Bandi, smiling, thrust home his great penis into the elastic hole which nestled between the buttocks of the prince. Glued firm there, with the three women watching, he struggled like a madman, crying out: "Oh God! how I love it. Tighten your hole, my pretty bumboy! Tighten! how I love it! Close your beautiful buttocks!" And, his eyes haggard, his hands contracting on the delicate shoulders, he came in a spasm.
Mony washed himself, dressed again and left, saying that he would come back again after dinner. But when he got home he wrote this letter:
My dear Bandi, I have had enough of being buggered by you, I have had enough of the woman of Bucharest, I have had enough of wasting here my fortune with which I should be so happy in Paris. I shall have set out within two hours. I hope to amuse myself enormously there and I am saying goodbye to you.
Mony, Prince Vibescu Hereditary Hospodar
The prince sealed the letter and wrote another one to his lawyer, requesting the lawyer to realize his assets and to send the money to Paris as soon as he knew his address. Mony took all the money he had available, about 50,000 francs, and set out for the railway station. He posted the two letters and caught the Orient Express for Paris.
CHAPTER TWO
"Mademoiselle, I had no sooner set eyes upon you than, mad with love, I felt my genitals drawn towards your immaculate beauty, and I found myself hotter than if I had drunk a glass of raki."
"At whose place?"
"I lay my fortune and my love at your feet. If I had you in my arms in bed, I would prove my passion for you twenty times over. May the eleven thousand virgins or even the eleven thousand birches chastise me if I lie!"
"Huh!"
"My feelings are not false. I do not speak thus to all women. I am no rake."
"Tell it to the Marines!"
This conversation was exchanged on the Boulevard Malesherbes one sunny morning. The month of May caused trees and flowers to bloom again, and the Paris sparrows twittered their love in the fresh green trees. Prince Mony Vibescu broached these matters gallantly to a slender young girl who was going down towards the Madeleine. She walked so quickly that he could scarcely keep up with her. Suddenly she turned brusquely and burst out laughing.
"Let's get this over quickly," she said. "I've no time just now. I'm going to see a girlfriend of mine in the rue Duphot, but if you are ready to take on two women who are mad for luxury and love-if you are, that's to say, a man with the means and the sexual powers-, come with me.
He rose to his full height, saying: "I am a Rumanian prince, and a hereditary Hospodar."
"And I," said she, "am Culculine d'Ancone, I am nineteen, I have already emptied the sacks of ten exceptional men in sex play, and the purses of fifteen millionaires."
And chatting agreeably about various things, trifling or serious, the prince and Culcuiine arrived in the rue Duphot. They went up in the lift to the first floor.
"Prince Mony Vibescu ... my friend Alexine Mange-tout." The introduction was made very gravely by Culculine in a bedroom luxuriously decorated with obscene Japanese prints.
The two friends kissed and tongued one another. They were tall, both of them, but not too tall. Culculine was a brunette whose grey eyes sparkled with roguishness, and a beauty spot with a little sprout of hair adorned the bottom of her left cheek. Her complexion was sallow, with the blood suffused under the skin of her cheeks, while her cheeks and her forehead wrinkled easily attesting to her preoccupation with money and love.
Alexine was blonde, of that peculiar ash blonde color that one sees only in Paris. Her clear fleshtint appeared almost transparent. This pretty girl wore a charming pink neglige, as delicate and as unruly as a roguish marquise of the century before last.
The acquaintance was soon established and Alexine, who had had a Rumanian lover, went to look for his photograph in the bedroom. The prince and Culculine followed in her wake. Both of them threw themselves upon her and undressed her laughingly. Her neglige fell from her, leaving her in a cambric slip through which her charming body glowed, rounded and dimpled in the right places.
Mony and Culculine turned her up on the bed and brought to light her beautiful pink breasts, full and hard, the nipples of which Mony began to suck. Culculine stooped down and, raising the slip, disclosed the round fleshy thighs which met together under a blonde grotto, ash colored like her hair. With little cries of pleasure, Alexine brought her pretty feet onto the bed, allowing her mules to clack to the floor. Her legs spread out from her crotch and her buttocks rose toward her friend's licking while her hands clasped Mony round the neck.
The result was not long in coming; her buttocks tightened, her kicking became more violent and she discharged, saying, "You bastards, you are exciting me. You must satisfy me."
"He promised to do it twenty times," said Culculine, undressing herself. The prince swiftly followed her example. They were entirely naked at the same time, and while Alexine lay swooning on the bed, they were able to admire each other's body. Culculine's meaty buttocks were deliriously poised under her slender waist and Mony's big eggs swelled underneath his enormous tool which Culculine took hold of. "Do her first. You can do me afterwards," she said.
The prince brought his shaft close to Alexine's gaping slit which quivered at his approach. "You're killing me!" she cried. But he sank in right up to his jewels and rose again and fell like a piston.
Culculine climbed on to the bed and laid her black triangle on Alexine's mouth while .Mony licked her little fig-hole. Alexine eddied her buttocks back and forth like a crazy woman; she put a finger in Mony's buggered hoie and his tool grew even bigger under her caress. He tightened his grip under Alexine's buttocks while she clenched her parts about him with incredible force; gripped in her smoking slit, his huge penis could scarcely oscillate.
Soon the struggles of the three were so frenzied that their breaths came in gasps. Alexine came three times, and then it was Culculine's turn and she moved downwards soon to nibble at Mony's eggs. Aiexine began to cry out like one of the damned and as Mony spurted his Rumanian juice into her belly she twisted frantically about like a snake. At that moment Culculine tore his tool from her friend's hole and her mouth took its place to lap up the sperm which flowed out of the crack in a huge broth.
A moment later, the prince threw himself on Culculine, but his shaft remained at the shallow part of her aperture, tickling her clitoris. He held one of the young woman's titties in his mouth. Meanwhile, Alexine was caressing them both. "Put it into me!" cried Culculine, "I can't stand any more!"
But his tool titivated, relentlessly. She came twice and seemed driven almost to desperation when the shaft pierced her rudely up to her uterus. At that point, mad with excitement and lust, she bit Mony so hard on the ear that a piece of it remained in her mouth. Crying out at the top of her voice, she swallowed it and bucked her pelvis peremptorily. This wound from which the blood flowed in waves seemed to excite Mony, for he began to thrust all the harder and didn't come out of her until he had discharged three times and Culculine ten.
When he withdrew out of her both of them were surprised to see that Alexine had disappeared. She came back soon with some stuff from the chemist's to dress Mony and an enormous coachman's whip. "I bought it for fifty francs;" she exclaimed, "from the driver of Hackney 3269, and it's going to help us get the Rumanian to stand again. Let him bandage his ear, Culculine, and we'll do to get excited."
While he staunched his blood, Mony watched this happy spectacle: top to bottom, Culculine and Alexine sucked and slobbered at one another avidly. Alexine's big derriere, white and dense, scrubbed itself on Culculine's face; their tongues, long as children's tools, probed, the slobber and their hot juices combined; the sodden hairs stuck together and sighs-heart-breaking if they had not been sighs of lust-rose from the bed which creaked and groaned under the voluptuous weight of the pretty girls.
"Come and bugger me!" cried Alexine. But Mony was losing so much blood that he had no desire to get a hard on. Alexine got up and, seizing the whip of Hackney 3269, a superb brand-new perpignan; brandished it and lashed Mony's back and buttocks. Under this new pain he began to yell. But Alexine, naked like a delirious Bacchante, went on beating him.
"Come and spank me too," she cried to Culculine, whose eyes were flaming and who was soon there, thrashing Alexine's agitated buttocks with the flat of her hand. Culculine was becoming excited, too.
"Thrash me, Mony!" she cried. He, used to the punishment by this time even though his body was becoming bloody, began to slap at the beautiful dark buttocks which opened and closed rhythmically. When he began to get an erection the blood flowed not only from his ear but also from the cruel whipmarks.
Alexine turned round again and offered her prettily flushed arse to his great shaft. He thrust it into her little rosy hole and she, impaled, cried out and shook her arse and titties frenziedly. But laughingly, Culculine separated them. The two women resumed their sucking off while Mony, bloody, and up to the hilt in Alexine's arse, bucked with a vigor which gave her excruciating pleasure. His eggs, like the bells of Notre Dame, dangled against Culculine's nose. All of a sudden, Alexine's ringpiece tightened with tremendous force round the base of Mony's tool and he could no longer oscillate. Thus he discharged a long jet of sperm sucked in avidly by Alexine's anus.
During the time a crowd had collected in the street around Hackney 3269 whose coachman was without a whip. A police sergeant asked him what he had done with it.
"I sold it to a woman in the rue Duphot."
"Go and buy it back or I'll put you on a charge."
"All right, I'm going," the driver said. He was a Norman of unusual strength. Then, having taken instructions from the concierge, he rang the bell on the first floor.
Alexine went to open the door for him in her short hairs. The hackney driver was dazzled by the sight, and, as she escaped into the bedroom, he bounded after her, pinioned her, and mounted her from the rear. His tool was big enough. Soon he ejaculated, crying out, "Thunder of Brest, Brothel of God, Whore of Whore!"
Alexine with a few arse strokes came at the same time.
Meanwhile, Mony and Culculine were nearly bursting their sides with laughter. The coachman, thinking they were making a fool of him, flew into a terrible rage. "Ah, whores, pimp, carrion, dung, cholera! You're taking the water out of me! My whip, where's my whip!" And catching sight of it, he laid hold of it and thrashed about him with all his strength at Mony, Culculine and Alexine, whose naked bodies leapt about under weals from the onslaught. Then he began again to get a hard on and, leaping on Mony, he began to bugger him.
The front door had remained open all this time and the police sergeant, as the coachman had not returned, had followed upstairs, and at this very moment he entered the bedroom. He did not take long to produce his regulation staff. He poked it into Culculine's rear; she clucked like a hen and shivered at the cold contact of the uniform buttons.
Alexine, who was at that moment unoccupied, took hold of the white baton which hung in the leather sheath at the sergeant's side. She shoved it up herself and soon all five of them were in ecstasy. Meanwhile, the blood from the wounds ran on to the carpets, the sheets and the furniture. At the same time outside in the street the abandoned Hackney 3269 was led away into the shed; the horse as it walked along broke wind and the street was polluted in a foul fashion.
CHAPTER THREE
Several days after the scene, which the driver of Hackney 3269 and the policeman had completed in so strange a fashion, Prince Vibescu had scarcely recovered from the shock. The marks of his flagellation had healed and he was lazily stretched out on a sofa in a room of the Grand Hotel.
To excite himself he was reading the various gobbets in a newspaper. One story gripped him. The dishwasher in a restaurant had roasted the buttocks of a young scullion. Then he had buggered it while it was still hot and bloody, eating the roasted pieces which flaked off the youth's backside. At the shrieks of the young cook the neighbors came on the scene and the sadistic dishwasher was arrested. The story was recounted in all its details and the prince savored it slowly while he stroked his tool which had come out.
At his moment there was a knock on the door. An affable chambermaid, fresh and very pretty in her bonnet and apron, entered at the word of the prince. She was carrying a letter and blushed when she saw Mony button up his disordered trousers.
"Don't go away, my pretty blonde miss, I have something to say to you." At the same time he shut the door behind her and, grasping the pretty Mariette round the waist, he kissed her gluttonously on the mouth. At first she fought against him, closing her lips tightly, but soon, in his powerful hold, she began to abandon herself. Then her mouth opened and the prince's tongue penetrated and was held between the teeth of Mariette, whose own mobile tongue began to tickle the extremity of Mony's.
With one hand the young man encircled her waist, and with the other he lifted up her skirt; she was not wearing drawers. His hand was soon between two fat round thighs which one would not have supposed her to possess, for she was tall and thin. She had a very hairy grotto. She was hot with sex and as his hand slipped into her moist slit she thrust her belly forward, abandoning herself.
At the same time her hand was straying on Mony's fly and she began to unbutton it. Then she drew out the superb joystick which she had only glimpsed on entering the room. They felt one another, he pinching her clitoris, and she pressing her thumb on the hole of his shaft. He pushed her on to the sofa where she fell in a sitting position and then he raised her legs onto his shoulders. She unhooked herself to allow her two superb and hardening titties to spring out. In that position and sucking them turnabout, he rammed his hot tool into her sheath.
Soon she began to cry out, "Oh, that's good, that's so good ... how good you are!" Then she bucked with complete abandon and he felt her ejaculate and cried, "Oh ... it's good ... oh take everything!"
Soon afterwards, she took hold of his staff roughly and said, "Enough for here." She pulled it from her slit and put it into another round hole placed a little lower down, like the eye of a Cyclops between two cool white fleshy globes. His shaft, well lubricated by the woman's slime, went in easily, and, after having buggered vigorously, the prince released his load of sperm into the tight arse of the pretty chambermaid.
Then he drew out his shaft, which went "floe" as when one uncorks a bottle, and on the tip of it there were traces of juices mixed with traces of dung.
At that moment there was a noise in the corridor and Mariette said, "I must go and see." After kissing Mony, who pressed two louis into her hand, she fled from the room. As soon as she had gone, Mony washed his tail and then opened the letter, which read as follows:
My handsome Rumanian, What has become of you? You ought to have recovered from your fatigue, but do you remember what you said to me? 'If I don't make love twenty times in succession, may the eleven thousand virgins chastise me." You didn't do it twenty times, so much the worse for you.
The other day you were received in Alexine's sex-flat, rue Duphot. But now that we know you, you can come to my house. Alexine's house is impossible. She cannot even receive me there. That's why she has a sex-flat. Her senator is too jealous. For myself, I'm fed up, my lover is an explorer. At the moment he is threading pearls with the Negresses of the Ivory Coast. You can come to my place, 214, rue de Prony. We expect you at 4 p.m.
Culculine d'Ancone.
As soon as he had read this letter the prince looked at the clock. It was 11 a.m. He rang to send for the masseur, who massaged him and buggered him properly. This performance brought new life to him. He took a bath and felt clean and fit when he sent for the hairdresser, who dressed his hair and buggered him artistically. The manicurist came up next. He attended to his nails and buggered him vigorously.
Then the prince felt completely at ease. He went down into the boulevards, lunched well, then took a hackney carriage to the rue de Prony. It was a small mansion, and the whole place was Culculine's. An old maid let him in. This house was furnished with exquisite taste.
From there he was led into a bedroom where there was a very low, very broad bed made of copper. The parquet flooring was covered with animal skins which muffled the sound of one's footsteps. The prince undressed himself quickly and was already in the nude when Alexine and Culculine came in, dressed in ravishing negliges. They began to laugh and kissed him.
He began by sitting down. Then he took the young women one on each knee, but lifting their skirts so that he could feel their naked arses on his thighs at the same time as they remained decently clad. Then he rubbed one with each hand while they were tickling his staff. When he felt that they were good and hot, he said to them, "Now we are going to have a lesson." He made them sit in a chair facing him and after a moment's reflection said, "Mesdemoiselles, I have just felt that you are not wearing panties. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. Go quickly and put them on."
When they returned he began the lesson. "Mademoiselle Alexine Mangetout, what is the King of Italy called?"
"If you think I care a damn about that, I don't," said Alexine.
"Get on to the bed," cried the teacher.
He made her kneel on the bed with her back turned towards him, then he made her lift the skirt of her neglige and spread wide the slit of her undies through which the gleaming white globes of her buttocks protruded. Then he began to slap her bottom with the palm of his hand and soon it began to redden.
This excited Alexine, who was a beautiful color, and soon the prince could not restrain himself any longer. He put his hands round the young woman's bust and gripped her breasts underneath the thin dressing gown. Then, moving downwards with one hand, he tickled her clitoris and found that her nest was hot and sticky.
Her hands had not been inactive; she had grasped the prince's tool and directed it towards the narrow path of Sodom. Alexine was leaning forward in such a way as to make her buttocks stick out better and facilitate the entry of Mony's shaft.
Soon the glans penis was inside. The rest followed and his eggs came to beat against the young woman's lower buttocks. Culculine, who was annoyed, got onto the bed, too, and licked Alexine's slit, and Alexine, feasted on two sides, broke into sobs of joy. Her body, driven by lust, threshed about as though she were in agony. Voluptuous cries came from her throat. The big shaft filled her, moving forwards from behind, and knocked against the membrane which separated it from Culculine's tongue which lapped up the juice occasioned by this pastime.
Mony's belly was beating against Alexine's arse. The prince buggered more vigorously. He began to bite the young woman's throat. His tool swelled. Alexine could no longer bear so much pleasure; she dropped her fanny on top of Culculine's face. Culculine did not stop tonguing her. His shaft in her buttocks, the prince collapsed in her wake, and after a few more kidney blows he shot his load into her.
She remained stretched out on the bed while Mony went to wash himself and Culculine went to urinate. She took a bucket, stood it underneath, her legs apart, lifted her skirt and made water voluminously. Then, to blow away the last drops which clung to her short hairs, she emitted a little wind, at once discreet and tender, which excited Mony considerably.
"Crap in my hands, crap in my hands!" he cried. She smiled and he got behind her while she lowered her buttocks a little and began to strain. She was wearing transparent little cambric panties through when you could see her beautiful nervous thighs. Black net stockings came up to above her knees and molded her superb calves, beautifully formed and neither too fat nor too thin. Her rear stuck out in this position, admirably framed by the split of the panties.
Mony regarded the brown and rosy buttocks attentively; they were downy and the blood under the skin made them glow. Below the well-pronounced bottom of her spine he noticed that the channel between her buttocks began, broad at first and then narrowing and becoming deeper in proportion as the thickness of the buttocks increased. Thus one arrived at a little round brown fig-hole which was all creased up.
The young woman's efforts first caused her arsehole to dilate and to push out a little skin, smooth and pink like the inside of a lip.
"Now!" cried Mony. A little knob of crap appeared, pointed and insignificant, like a rodent's nose, returning immediately in its hole. When it appeared again, it was followed slowly and majestically by the rest of the sausage which, in size and luxuriance, was one of the most beautiful turds that a great intestine had ever produced.
Without interruption, the unctuous crap ran smoothly outwards like a ship's cable. It dangled graciously between the pretty, gradually spreading buttocks. The hole dilated still more; this helped a little, and the crap fell, all hot and odorous, into Mony's hands which were there expectantly to receive it.
Then he cried, "Stay like that," and, bending down, he licked her thoroughly, rolling the bolt of dung in his hands. Afterwards, he crushed it voluptuously and coated his entire body with it. Following Alexine's example, Culculine was taking her clothes off. Meanwhile, Alexine was showing her fat transparently blonde rear to Mony. "Crap on me," he cried to Alexine, stretching himself out on the floor.
She squatted above him so that he could enjoy the spectacle about to be enacted by her hole. Her first efforts dislodged a pale globule of mucous which Mony had put there. Afterwards came the crap, soft and yellow, which fell in several spurts and, as she was laughing and wiggling her backside, the stuff fell all over Mony's body. His belly was soon strewn with several of these smelly slugs.
Alexine had watered at the same time, and the hot jet, falling on his tool, reawakened his animal spirits. His skittle stirred under the stream, grew little by little more inflated until the moment when, arrived at its normal dimensions, the glans penis offered itself, red like a fat plum, under the eyes of the young woman who, drawing nearer to it, squatted lower and lower to allow the rampant shaft to ride between the hairy flanges of her gaping slit.
Mony enjoyed the spectacle. Alexine's descending rear became more and more appetizingly round. Its alluring curves became fuller and the split between her buttocks became more and more pronounced. She came to rest with his shaft completely embedded in it; she rose again and began a pretty see-saw motion which constantly' modified its more significant proportions-a most delicious spectacle! Mony was covered in crap and his joy was profound. Soon he felt her vagina close like a vise and Alexine said in a strangled voice, "Bastard! it's coming ... oh, wonderful...." And she let go of her seed.
But Culculine, who had watched this operation and who seemed to be very hot, drew her roughly off the stake which impaled her, and, throwing herself on Mony without being put out at all by the crap which filthied her also, fitted his shaft to her sheath with a sigh of satisfaction. Then she began to buck violently, saying "Han!" at each loin stroke.
Alexine, vexed at being cheated out of what was hers, opened a drawer and took out a copper-thonged cat-o'-nine-tails. She set about thrashing Culculine's buttocks. Culculine's bucking became more passionate. Alexine, excited by the spectacle, beat hard and with a will. The blows rained on the superb backside. Mony, leaning his head a little to one side watched the rising and falling of Culculine's fat rear in a mirror which faced him.
At the rise the buttocks opened, and her little rose appeared for an instant to disappear at the fall when her beautiful quivering buttocks tightened. Below, the distended lips of her slit engulfed the enormous staff which, bared at the rise, glistened with slime. Alexine's blows had soon reddened the helpless buttocks which were now quivering with orgiastic lust. Soon a blow drew blood.
Both of them, the whipper and the whipped, became as delirious as Bacchantes and the one seemed to enjoy it as much as the other. Mony himself began to share their fury and his fingernails ploughed into Culculine's satin back. Alexine, to be in a comfortable position to thrash Culculine, knelt down in front of the pair. Her big derriere, which quivered and shook at each blow she dealt, was at two fingers' distance from Mony's mouth.
His tongue was soon inside. Then, driven on by his voluptuous rage, he sank his teeth into the right buttock. The young woman uttered a cry of pain. The teeth had pierced the skin and a fresh and vermilion blood slaked his gullet. He lapped it up, tasting distinctly the flavor of slightly salted iron.
Culculine's upturned eyes at that moment showed only white and her bucking became wild. Her mouth was stained by the crap on Mony's body; she groaned and discharged at the same time as he. Utterly exhausted, Alexine fell across them, her teeth clicking and grinding furiously, and Mony, who thrust his mouth in her slit, had only to give two or three pokes of his tongue to bring forth a discharge. And then, after several somersaults their nerves relaxed, and the trio was stretched out in the crap, the blood and their own juices. They all fell asleep like that, and when they awoke the clock in the room was striking midnight.
"Don't move. I heard a noise," said Culculine. "It's not my maid. She's used to this kind of thing and doesn't bother me. Anyway, she must be in bed by now."
A cold sweat ran down the foreheads of Mony and the young women. Their hair stood on end and a shiver ran through their naked, stained bodies.
"Someone's there," said Alexine.
"Yes," Mony agreed.
At that moment the door opened and the little light that percolated inwards from the dark street threw into relief two human shadows clad in overcoats with upturned collars and wearing bowler hats. The first one quickly switched on an electric torch he was carrying, sending a clear beam of light across the room. But at first the house-breakers did not see the group which was straddled on the floor.
"Smells bloody awful," said the first.
"Go in all the same." There ought to be some stuff in the drawers," replied the second. At that moment, Culculine, who had dragged herself towards the electric light switch, quickly turned on the light.
The burglars stood dumbfounded before the nudes. "Good crap!" cried the first, "Faith of Cornaboeux! You stink! Whew!" He was a massive dark man with hairy hands. His brisding beard made him even more hideous.
"Christ Almighty!" said the second, "for me the crap's O.K. It's good luck." He was a pale one-eyed street-Arab and he was chewing the butt of an extinguished cigarette.
"You're right, La Chaloupe," said Cornaboeux, "I'm just going to sink my boots in it, and for the first piece of good luck I'm going to have a go at Mademoiselle. But first, what about His Lordship?"
And throwing themselves on the startled Mony, the burglars gagged him and bound his arms and legs. Then, turning on the two shivering but slightly amused women, la Chaloupe said: "And you girlies try to be nice see? Or else I'll tell your pa."
He had a stick in his hand and he gave it to Culculine and ordered her to whip Mony as hard as she could. Placing himself behind her, he brought out a tool as thin as your little finger but much longer. Culculine began to enjoy herself, La Chaloupe began by slapping his buttocks and saying, "Eh eh, my little jellyroll, you're going to play the flute! Me, I'm for the arse country!" He fingered and squeezed her big downy arse, and passing one hand round the front, he manipulated her clitoris. Then, brutally, he thrust in with his thin long tool.
Culculine began to waggle her buns. At the same time she thrashed Mony, who could neither defend himself nor cry out. He squirmed like a worm at each stroke of the switch which cut into his purpling flesh. Then, in proportion as the buggering increased, the delirious Culculine thrashed more viciously, saying, "Bastard! Take that for a filthy swine ... La Chaloupe, in with that toothpick of yours, deep as you can!" Mony's body was soon covered with blood.
While this was going on, Cornaboeux had grabbed hold of Alexine and had thrown her onto the bed. He began by biting her teats, which swelled up in excitement. Then he went down to her nest. He took it completely into his mouth and began to chew the pretty blonde short-hairs of her mound. He got up again and took out a short but enormous staff whose knob was violet.
Turning her over, he began to bugger her big rosy arsehole; from time to time passing his hand along the rut between her buttocks. Then he took the young woman by her left arm in such a way that her slit was pulled round to the right. His other hand held her by her short-hairs-this caused her a great deal of pain.
She began to cry and her sobs grew as Cornaboeux began once again to bugger her with all the force of his arm. Her big pink thighs trembled and her arse shivered each time the robber's huge hammer-paw drove home. In the end she tried to defend herself. With her small hands she began to claw at the bearded face. She tore out the hairs of his beard as he tore out the hair of her slit. "Fair do," said Cornaboeux and he turned her over.
At that moment she witnessed the spectacle of La Chaloupe buggering Culculine, who, in a terrible frenzy, was still thrashing Mony's bloody body. Cornaboeux's big beet began to strike against her behind, but he missed his mark, poking to right and left of it or else a little too high or a little too low. Then, when he found the hole, he placed his hands on her smooth downy loins and pulled her towards him with all his might. The pain which this enormous tool, tearing her hole caused her would have made her scream in agony had she not been so excited by everything that was happening.
As soon as he had entered her with his tool, Cornaboeux brought it out again. Then, turning her over again, he drove his instrument into her belly. It could scarcely enter because of its gargantuan size, but as soon as he was inside, Alexine crossed her legs behind him and held him so tightly that even if he had wanted to get out he could not have done so.
The thrusting was raging. Cornaboeux sucked her teats and his tickling beard excited her. She put her hand inside his pants and pierced his anus with a finger. And then, rocking madly, they bit at each other like wild beasts. They discharged frenziedly. But Cornaboeux's shaft throttled by Alexine's vagina, began to get hard again. Alexine closed her eyes, the better to savor this new embrace; she discharged fourteen times and Cornaboeux thrice.
When she came back to her wits, she noticed that both her arsehole and her slit were bloody; they had been wounded by Cornaboeux's enormous beet. She noticed Mony, who was turning convulsive somersaults on the floor. His body was one massive sore.
Culculine, at the order of the one-eyed La Chaloupe, was sucking his shaft, on her knees like a handmaiden in front of him.
"All right, on your feet, girl," cried Cornaboeux.
Alexine obeyed and he gave her a kick in the arse which sent her sprawling on top of Mony. Cornaboeux, heedless of her prayers, bound and gagged her, and, seizing the switch, he began to stripe her beautiful body with lashes. Her bum quivered under each blow. Then it was the back, the belly, the thighs, the breasts, which received the deluge.
In her writhings, Alexine met Mony's shaft, which was standing up like a dead man's. By chance, it hooked the young woman's slit and penetrated. Cornaboeux redoubled his blows. He was thrashing them both indiscriminately. They enjoyed it atrociously. Soon the delicate pink skin of the young blonde was no longer visible under the lash marks and the blood which welled from them. Mony had fainted. She fainted soon afterwards.
Cornaboeux, whose arm was getting tired, turned towards Culculine, who was trying to suck off La Chaloupe. But the bugger could not come. Cornaboeux ordered the beautiful brunette to spread out her thighs. He had great difficulty in poking her backwards. She suffered a great deal, but stoically, not letting go of La Chaloupe's shaft which she was sucking.
When Cornaboeux was properly installed in Culculine's sheath, he made her lift her right arm and he bit at the thick tuft which grew there. When the climax came, Culculine bit La Chaloupe's tool violently and fainted. He uttered a horrible scream of anguish, but the glans penis had come right off. Cornaboeux, who had just discharged, came out of Culculine as she fell fainting to the floor. La Chaloupe, who was also fainting, lost all his blood.
"My poor La Chaloupe!" said Cornaboeux. "You're screwed right enough! Better end it here and now," and so saying, he extracted a knife and delivered a mortal blow to La Chaloupe at the same time as he was shaking off the last drops of semen which hung on his tool. He did that onto Culculine's prostrate body. La Chaloupe died saying "Ouf!"
Cornaboeux buttoned himself up carefully, rifled all the drawers for money, clothes, jewels and watches, and then, seeing Culculine, who was unconscious on the floor, thought: "I must avenge La Chaloupe." He drew his knife once again and delivered a terrible blow between her buttocks. She did not come out of her faint. Cornaboeux left the knife sticking in her rear.
Three o'clock in the morning struck. Then he left as he had entered, leaving four bodies stretched out on the floor of the room, left leaving a room full of blood, crap, semen and nameless disorder. In the street he turned quickly towards Menilmontant, singing:
An arse ought to smell like an arse
And not like Eau de Cologne....
and also:
Little g.......ass jet
Little g.........ass jet
Light up, light up my little wick....
CHAPTER FOUR
It was a great scandal. The newspapers spoke of the affair for eight days. Culculine, Alexine and Prince Vibescu remained in bed for two months. During his convalescence Mony went one night to a bar near Montparnasse. One drank kerosene here-a delightful drink for palates weary of ordinary liqueurs.
While sampling this infamous rotgut, the prince glanced around the company. One of them, a colossal bearded man, was dressed like a market porter, and his immense dusty hat gave him the look of a fabulous demi-god ready to accomplish heroic deeds.
The prince thought he recognized the sympathetic face of the housebreaker, Cornaboeux. Suddenly he heard him ask for kerosene in a thundering voice. It was certainly the voice of Cornaboeux. Mony got up and went over to him with his hand extended.
"How are you, Cornaboeux? I see you're at the markets now!"
"Me!" said the surprised giant. "How do you know me?"
"I saw you at 213, rue de Prony," said Mony casually.
"It wasn't me," said Cornaboeux. "I don't know you at all. I've been at the markets for three months now and I'm well known there. Leave me alone."
"Don't be a damn fool, Cornaboeux," answered Mony. "You belong to me. I can hand you over to the police. But I like you and if you want to follow me you'll be my valet. You'll come with me everywhere and you'll be able to take part in my pleasures. You will help me and defend me if necessary. Then, if you're faithful to me, I'll make your fortune. Answer me now."
"You're a brick, and you know what you're talking about. Your hand on it, I'm your man."
Several days later, Cornaboeux, promoted to the rank of valet, was buckling up the suitcases. Prince Mony had been hastily recalled to Bucharest. His close friend, the Vice-Consul of Serbia, had just died, leaving him the bulk of his fortune. It was a question of tin mines which had been very productive for several years but which needed looking over on the spot so that the appraisal value was not lowered.
Prince Mony, as one has seen, did not value money for itself. He desired to be as rich as possible, but only to procure those pleasures for himself which gold alone could buy. The maxim uttered by one of his ancestors-"Everything is for sale; one can buy anything so long as one can pay for it"-was always on his lips.
Prince Mony and Cornaboeux had taken their seats in the Orient Express and the vibration of the train was not long in having its effect. Mony's shaft stood like a Cossack's and he threw inflamed glances at Cornaboeux. Outside, the beautiful countryside of eastern France unrolled in all its smooth and tranquil magnificence.
The car was nearly empty. An old gouty man, richly clothed, prattled and groaned over the Figaro which he was trying to read. Mony, who was clothed in an ample raglan coat, took Cornaboeux's hani and, passing it through the vent in the pocket of this commodious garment, brought it to his trouser flap. The massive valet understood his master's wish. His broad hand was hairy but downy and softer than one would have supposed. His fingers gently unbuttoned the prince's trousers. They gripped the excited prick whose erected state only goes to prove the famous distich of Alphonse Allais:
The exciting shaking of trains Sets fire to marrow in loins.
But an employee of the Compagnie des Wagons-Lits came in at that moment and announced that it was dinnertime and that many travelers were already in the restaurant car. "An excellent idea!" said Mony. "We'll dine first, Cornaboeux." The hand of his man came out of the vent in the coat.
They went towards the dining car. The prince still had a hard on and, as he had not buttoned up, a prominent bump appeared underneath his clothing. The dinner began without further hindrance, rocked by the friction of the wheels on the rails and by the diverse clickings of the china, the silverware, and the crystalware, troubled occasionally by the sudden plop of a cork from a bottle of Apollinaris.
At one table at the back, opposite that at which Mony was dining, were two pretty blonde women. Cornaboeux, who was facing them, pointed them out to Mony. The prince turned round and recognized one of them who was clothed more modestly than the other; it was Mariette, the exquisite chambermaid of the Grand Hotel. He got up immediately and approached the young ladies. He greeted Mariette and then turned to the other young woman, who was very pretty and artfully made up. Her peroxide hair gave her a modern air which delighted Mony.
"Madame," he said to her, "pray excuse my coming across like this; I take the liberty of introducing myself, since on this train it would be virtually impossible to find a mutual acquaintance to effect the introduction. I am Prince Mony Vibescu, Hereditary Hospodar. The mademoiselle here, Mariette, who without doubt has left the service of the Grand Hotel for yours, was gracious enough to allow me to contract a debt of recognition towards her which I should like to repay this very day. I want to marry her to my valet and I shall bestow a dowry of 50,000 francs on each of them."
"I don't see anything inconvenient in that," said the lady. "As a matter-of-fact it doesn't seem to be badly arranged at all. And what about yourself?"
Mony's shaft, having found a gap in the raglan between two buttons, reared its ruby head before the eyes of the astonished prince, who blushed and made haste to remove the engine from sight. The lady broke into a laugh.
"Fortunately you're not in a position where anyone can see you-that would have made a pretty ... But do tell me, whom is the formidable engine for?"
"Permit me," said Mony gallantly, "to let it pay homage to your sovereign beauty."
"We shall see," said the lady. "Meanwhile, as you have already introduced yourself, I'm going to introduce myself. Estelle Romange...."
"The great actress of the Comedie-Francaise?" asked Mony.
The lady inclined her head.
Mony, mad 'with joy, cried: "Estelle, I ought to have recognized you! I have been your passionate admirer for a long time. Have I not spent whole evenings at the Theatre Francaise watching you play amorous roles! And to calm myself down, not being able to stroke myself in public, I used to stick my fingers in my nose and pull out and eat the little snotcrusts. It was good. Oh, it was good!"
"Mariette, go and have dinner with your fiance," said Estelle. "Prince, you dine with me."
As soon as they were facing one another across the table, the prince and the actress looked at one another amorously.
"Where are you going?" asked Mony.
"To Vienna to play before the Emperor."
"And the decree of Moscow?"
"I'm fed up with the decree of Moscow. I'm going to send in my resignation tomorrow to Claretie. They've been giving me the go-by-pushing me into poor parts. I was refused the role of Eoraka in Mounet-Sully's new play. I'm leaving. They're not going to smother my talent."
"Recite something to me," said Mony eagerly, "poetry...."
While the plates were being changed she recited the Invitation au Voyage. As the admirable poem, into which Baudelaire had put a little of his sad love, of his passionate nostalgia, was being uttered, Mony felt the actress' small feet moving up the length of his legs. Under the raglan they reached his shaft which was hanging sadly outside his fly. There the feet came to a halt, and, gently taking it between them, they moved in a curious little see-saw motion. Hard at once, the young man's tool let itself be stroked by the delicate soles of Estelle Romange's feet. Soon he began to derive great pleasure from it and he improvised this sonnet which he recited to the actress, whose footwork did not cease until he had ccme to the end of it!
EPITHALAMION
Your hands will guide my handsome member in,
Into the sacred brothel deep between your thighs:
Let me confirm, in spite of Avinain,
I am your love if you accept with sighs.
Mouthing white breasts like smooth rich cream,
Abject, will honor your ambrosial teats;
From male shaft and your shy feminine seam
The sperm will fall like pearls at our feet.
My whore! Whose buttocks have pillaged the terse
And savory mystery from all pulpy fruits,
From earth, the humble sexless nothing of a ball!
And moon, each month so vain of its arse!
And from your eyes, even silkily veiled, there shoots
The obscure clearness that makes stars fall.
And as his shaft had arrived at the limit of excitation, Estelle lowered her feet and said, "My dear Prince, let us not spit it out in the dining car. Whatever would they think of us! Allow me to thank you for the homage paid to Corneille in the inspiration of your sonnet. Even though I'm leaving the Comedie-Fransaise, I am constantly concerned with everything that interests the company."
"But after you have played in front of Francois-Joseph," said Mony, "what do you intend to do?"
"My dream," said Estelle, "would be to become a cabaret star."
"Take care," said Mony with a smile. "The obscure M. Claretie makes the stars falll You will have endless lawsuits."
"Don't you worry about that, Mony! Make up some more poetry before we go to bye-bye."
"All right," said Mony, and he improvised these delicate mythological sonnets:
HERCULES AND OMPHALUS
The fat bum Of Omphalus
Overcome
Est descendus
"Do you feel
The grain Of my keel?"
"What a man!"
The dog
At my seam!
A dream?
How's log?
Hercules
Buggered heem!
PYRAMUS AND THISBE
Madame
Thisbe
Fainting:
"Baby!"
Pyramus
Bending
Rending
"Hebe!"
The belle
Said "Out!"
Then she
Came
The same
As he.
"That's exquisite! delicious! Admirable, Mony; you're a divine poet! Come and screw me in the sleeping car. I'm in a screwing mood."
Mony paid the bills. Mariette and Cornaboeux were looking at each other languorously. In the corridor Mony slipped 50 francs to the attendant, who let the two couples into the same cabin.
"You'll arrange everything with the customs," said Mony to the man in the skipper cap. "We have nothing to declare. And make sure to give us a knock two minutes before we cross the frontier."
In the cabin they all stripped to their short-hairs. Mariette was the first one naked. Mony had never seen her thus, but he recognized the fat round thighs and the forest of short-hairs which shadowed her plump slit. Her teats grew big with excitement like the tools of Mony and Cornaboeux.
"Cornaboeux," said Mony, "bugger me while I furbish this delightful girl."
Estelle took longer to undress and by the time she was in her short-hairs, Mony had his shaft in Mariette's nest from the rear. Mariette, beginning to enjoy herself, agitated her fat arse and made it slap against Mony's belly. Cornaboeux had thrust his short thick member into Mony's dilated anus.
"Bloody train," Mony was saying, "we're not going to able to keep our balance."
Mariette clucked like a hen and piped like a thrush in the vines. Mony had his arms round about her and was crushing her teats. He admired the beauty of Estelle whose hard hair betrayed the hand of a skillful hairdresser. She was a modern woman in every sense of the word. Her wavy hair was held in place by shell combs whose color blended skillfully with the bleached hairstyle.
Her body was charmingly pretty. Her nervous buttocks were tilted in a provocative fashion. Her artfully painted face gave her the piquant air of an expensive harlot. Her breasts drooped a little, but it became her very well. They were small, almost minute, and pear shaped. They were soft and silky to the touch. One would have though one was touching the udder of a milking goat, and when she turned around they hopped about like a cambric handkerchief, rolled into a ball and tossed in one's hand.
On her mound she had only a little tuft of silky hairs. She was capering about on the bunk; she threw her long nervous thighs around Mariette's neck, while Mariette, having her mistress' grotto in front of her mouth, began to suck at it gluttonously, burying her nose between her buttocks. Estelle had already poked her tongue into her maid's nest and was simultaneously sucking Money's big beet which was throbbing there with ardor.
Cornaboeux was in ecstasy at this spectacle. His big shaft up to the hilt in the hairy arse of the prince, came and went slowly. He let go one or two big bursts of wind which flavored the atmosphere, augmenting the pleasure of the prince and the two women.
Suddenly, Estelle began to quiver frightfully; her rear began to dance in front of Mariette's nose and the latter's slobberings and thrusts became more violent. Estelle kicked out right and left, her long legs sheathed in black silk stockings and her feet in high-heeled Louis XV shoes. In doing so she delivered a terrible nose blow to Cornaboeux, who became giddy from it and began to bleed abundantly.
"Whore!" yelled Cornaboeux, and to avenge himself he pinched Mony's rump cruelly. Mony, beside himself with rage, bit deeply into Mariette's shoulder, and so painful was the bite that she discharged with a bellow and sank her teeth into the slit of her mistress who hysterically tightened her thighs around her maid's neck.
"I'm suffocating!" gasped Mariette with difficulty, but no one heard her. The thighs gripped all the harder. Mariette's face became purple and her foaming mouth remained glued at the actress' nest. Mony discharged with a bellow into an inert vagina. Cornaboeux, his eyes popping from their sockets, let go his load into Mony's arsehole, saying in a thick voice, "If you don't become pregnant you're not a man!"
The four people had sunk down and stretched on the bunk. Estelle ground her teeth, punching out in all directions, her legs quivering. Cornaboeux urinated out of the window. Mony tried to draw himself from Mariette's nest but he couldn't. The maid's body no longer moved.
"Let me get out," said Mony, caressing her. Then, when she didn't, he pinched her arse and bit her, but nothing happened.
"Open her thighs for me," said Mony to Cornaboeux. "She's fainted."
Her slit was so terribly contracted that he got his member out with great difficulty. They tried to waken Mariette but nothing happened. "Damn!" said Cornaboeux, "she's croaked!" And it was true. Mariette had been strangled by her mistress' legs.
She was dead, irremediably dead.
"We've had it," said Mony.
"It's that bitch there who caused it all," said Cornaboeux, pointing to Estelle, who was beginning to calm down, and, taking the hairbrush from Estelle's toilet bag, he began to thrash her with it violently. The bristles pierced at each blow. This punishment seemed to excite her enormously.
At that moment there was a knock on the door. "It's the arranged signal," said Mony. "In several moments we'll be crossing the frontier. By God, we must break a bit off half in France and half in Germany! Screw the body!" Mony, his shaft rising, hurled himself on Estelle, who, her thighs wide open, received him in her burning sheath, crying, "Give me every inch of it, oh, oh!"
There was something demonic about the jerks of her buttocks; her mouth slobbered and the slobber mixed with the pain on her face and dribbled on to her chin and breast. Mony put his tongue in her mouth and jammed the handle of the brush up her arsehole. This new caper caused her to bite Mony's tongue so hard that he had to pinch her until he drew blood to make her let go.
Meanwhile, glancing down at the shocking purple face of Mariette, Cornaboeux turned the body over. He stretched the buttocks apart and penetrated into her hole of Sodom with his enormous shaft. Then he gave free rein to his natural ferocity. Tuft by tuft he ripped out the blonde hairs, his teeth lacerated the snow-white back, and the scarlet blood which flowed from it coagulated at once and had the appearance of blood drops on the snow. A little before he came, he thrust his hand into her still warm vagina and, following it with his entire arm, began to pull at the bowels of the unfortunate chambermaid. He had already pulled out two metres of entrails and had twisted them about his waist like a lifebelt.
He discharged, vomiting up his meal, as much from the vibrations of the train as from the experience he had undergone. Mony discharged and looked with stupefaction at his valet, who was hiccoughing violently and regurgitating on to the lamentable corpse. Among the bloody hairs the bowels and the blood mixed with the vomit.
"You filthy swine!" cried the prince. "May the violence done to that dead girl whom you were to marry weigh heavily on you on your deathbed! If I didn't like you so much, I would kill you like a dog!"
Cornaboeux got up bleeding and vomited the last gobbets of his sickness. He pointed to Estelle, whose staring eyes were transfixed by the unearthly spectacle.
"She caused it all," he said.
"Don't be unfair." said Mony, "She made it possible for you to satisfy your necrophiliacal desires."
And as the train was crossing a bridge, Mony leaned out of the window to take in the romantic panorama of the Rhine which unwound its green splendors into a countryside which rolled back in meandering waves as far as the horizon. It was 4 o'clock in the morning. Cows grazed in the pastures and children were already dancing under the German lime trees. Pipe music, monotonous and funereal, testified to the presence of a Prussian regiment, and the melody mixed sadly with the iron noises of the bridge and the moving train. Happy villages animated the river banks dominated by ancient castles, and the Rhineland vines glimmered in the distance, a patterned and precious mosaic.
When Mony turned round again, he saw the sinister Cornaboeux sitting on Estelle's face. His colossal arse covered the face of the actress entirely. He had crapped and the soft stinking stuff had fallen on all sides. He was holding an enormous knife with which he was working over her palpitating belly. The body of the actress went into a few brief convulsions.
"Listen," said Mony, "stay seated like that." And lying down on the dying woman he slipped his shaft into her moribund sheath. Thus he played with the last spasms of the assassinated woman whose agony must have been horrible, steeping his arms in the hot blood which flowed from her lacerated belly. When he discharged, the actress was no longer moving and her recoiling eyes were full of crap.
"Now." said Cornaboeux, "we'd better get the hell out of here."
They cleaned themselves and dressed. It was 6 o'clock in the morning. They climbed out of the window and courageously lay down on the footboards of the swiftly moving train. Then, at a signal from Cornaboeux, they allowed themselves to drop softly on to the sandy embankment of the track. They got up a little dizzy but with no broken bones and ironically waved to the train which was already growing smaller as it moved into the distance.
"Just in time," Mony said.
They reached the first town and rested there for two days. Then they took another train for Bucharest.
The double murder in the Orient Express fed the newspapers for six months. The murderers were not found and the crime was attributed to Jack the Ripper-who had broad shoulders.
At Bucharest the prince came into the fortune of the vice-consul. His relations with the Serbian colony were such that he was invited to spend the evening at the house of Natacha Kolovitch, the wife of a colonel who had been imprisoned for his hostility towards the Obrenovitch dynasty. Mony and Cornaboeux arrived about eight in the evening. The beautiful Natacha was in a room whose walls were black and which was lit by long yellow candles and decorated with skulls and shinbones.
"Prince Vibescu," said the lady, "you are going to be present at a secret meeting of the anti-dynastic committee of Serbia. Without doubt we shall decide tonight on the death of the infamous Alexander and his whore of a wife, Draga Machin. The idea is to restablish King Peter Kara-georgevitch on the throne of his ancestors. If you reveal what you see and hear you will be killed by an invisible hand wherever you are."
Mony and Cornaboeux bowed their heads.
The conspirators arrived one by one. Andre Bar, the Parisian journalist, was the instigator of the plot. He arrived, like death, in a Spanish cape. All the assembled conspirators got undressed and the beautiful Natacha exhibited her wonderful nudity. Her splendid mound and her belly disappeared under a tuft of crinkly black hair which reached to her navel.
She lay down on a table covered with black cloth. A Russian priest entered clothed in sacerdotal garments and began to say mass on Natacha's belly. Mony was standing near Natacha; she seized his shaft and sucked it as the mass progressed.
Cornaboeux had thrown himself on Andre Bar and was buggering him while Bar was saying, lyrically, "I swear by this enormous staff which buggers me to the bottom of my soul that the Obrenovitch dynasty must be extinguished before long. Push, Cornaboeux! Your buggering is making me stand." Placing himself behind Mony, he buggered him while Mony discharged his sperm into the beautiful Natacha's mouth. At this sight, all the conspirators began to bugger each other frantically. The room was filled with nothing but quivering men's arses stuck by formidable rods. The Russian priest got Natacha to stroke him twice and his ecclesiastical juices glittered on the body of the beautiful colonel's wife.
"Let the bride and groom be brought in!" cried the priest. A strange couple was ushered in; a small boy of ten years of age in formal dress, his cocked hat under his arm, accompanied by a ravishing young girl no more than eight years of age who wore a wedding dress of white satin decorated with bouquets of orange blossoms. The priest made a speech and married them by an exchange of rings. Then they were urged to fornicate.
The boy pulled out a little thing about the size of a little finger and the newlywed drew up her skirts to the peplum and showed her tiny white thighs, at the top of which gaped a little slit, beardless and pink, like the interior of the open beak of a newly born jay. A religious silence fell on the assembled crowd. The little boy made an effort to stick the little girl. As he could not manage it, his trousers were taken off to excite him. Mony buggered him gently while Natacha titillated his little knob and eggs with the end of her tongue. The little boy began to stand and was thus able to deflower the little girl.
When the boy and girl had fenced together for ten minutes they were separated, and Cornaboeux, seizing the boy, stove him in to the depths with his powerful shaft. Mony could no longer restrain his desire to poke the little girl. He seized her, mounted her, and forced his lively rod into her miniature vagina. The two children uttered terrible cries of pain and the blood flowed around the staffs of Mony and Cornaboeux.
The the little girl was placed on Natacha, and the priest, who had just finished mass, pulled up her skirts and began to bugger her white and charming little buttocks. Natacha got up again then and, bestriding Andre Bar in an armchair, pierced herself with that conspirator's enormous shaft. They began a vigorous St. George, as the English say.
The little boy, on his knees in front of Cornaboeux, was pumping his shaft for him and crying hot tears. Mony was buggering the little girl, who struggled like a rabbit about to be eaten by a ferret. The other conspirators were buggering one another with terrible looks. Then Natacha got up, turned round, and proffered her arse for the conspirators, who began to kiss it in turn.
At that moment a Madonna-faced wet nurse was brought in. Her enormous titties were swelled up generously with milk. She was made to get down on all fours and the priest began to milk her like a cow into the sacred vessels. Mony buggered the wet nurse, whose ravishing white bum was stretched to breaking point. The little girl was made to fill the chalice with pee. Then the conspirators took communion under the sacraments of milk and urine. The evening ended in an infamous way. Old women, of whom the youngest was 74, were brought up and screwed in every conceivable way. Mony and Cornaboeux retired disgusted towards three o'clock in the morning. Returned home, the prince stripped to his short hairs and proffered his beautiful arse to the cruel Cornaboeux, who buggered him eight times in succession without dismounting. They called these daily affairs their penetrating pleasures.
Mony led this monotonous life at Bucharest for some time. The King of Serbia and his wife were assassinated at Belgrade. Their murder belongs now to history and has been variously commented upon. Following that, the war broke out between Russia and Japan.
One Morning Prince Mony Vibescu, naked and beautiful like Apollo of Belvedere, was playing 69 with Cornaboeux. They were sucking gluttonously their respective barley-sugars, voluptuously appraising cylinders which had nothing to do with gramophones. They discharged simultaneously, and the prince had his mouth full of juice when an English footman, clothed correctly, entered bearing a letter on a scarlet plate.
The letter announced that Prince Vibescu had been given the rank of lieutenant in Russia, "foreign appointments," in the army of General Kuropatkin. The prince and Cornaboeux manifested their enthusiasm by reciprocal buggerings. Then they equipped themselves and set off for St. Petersburg before joining their unit.
"The war suits me," said Cornaboeux, "and Japanese holes ought to be savory!"
"The slits of Japanese women are certainly delightful," replied the prince, twisting his moustache.
CHAPTER FIVE
"His Excellency, General Kokodryoff, cannot see anyone at the moment. He is steeping his bread in his boiled egg."
"But I am not an orderly officer," replied Mony to the concierge. "You people, you natives of St. Petersburg, are ridiculous with your continual suspicions. You see my uniform! I was called to St. Petersburg, and not, I suppose, to put up with affronts from porters!"
"Show me your papers," said the watchdog, a colossal Tartar.
"There!" said the prince drily, putting his revolver under the nose of the terrified porter, who bowed to allow the officer to pass. Mony went upstairs quickly, clanking his spurs, to the first floor of the palace of the general with whom he had to set out for the Far East. Everything was deserted, and Mony, who had seen the general only the day before at the czar's, was astonished at this reception. The general had made the rendezvous and this was the exact time which had been agreed upon.
Mony opened a door and went into a large room which was empty and sombre. He walked across it, murmuring, "Well, too bad. The bottle's opened, it's got to be drunk. Let's look into this further."
He opened a new door which closed itself after him. He found himself in another room darker even than the previous one. A soft feminine voice raid in French: "Is that you, Fedor?"
"Yes, it's I, my love," Mony said in a low voice, his heart beating madly.
He went forward quickly towards where the voice had come from and found a bed. A woman was lying on it, fully clothed. She clasped Mony passionately, darting her tongue into his mouth. He responded to her caress. He lifted up her skirts. She spread her thighs. Her legs were naked and a delicious scent of verbena emanated from her satin skin, mixed with emanations of the odor di femina. Her grotto, where Mony's hand was, was wet and humid.
She murmured. "Kiss now, darling. I can't take any more ... naughty, it's eight days since you were last here."
But, instead of replying, Mony had pulled out his menacing staff and, ready for war, he got onto the bed and thrust home his engine into the hairy slit of the unknown woman, who agitated her buttocks, saying, "Go right in ... you are making me come...."
At the same time she put her hand to the base of his rod which was feasting on her and handled the two little balls that are its appendages and which one calls testicles, not, as one says ordinarily, because they serve as witnesses to the consummation of the act of love, but rather because they are the little heads which conceal the cervical matter which flows from the little brain or intelligence, in the same way as the head contains the brain which is the seat of all mental functions.
The unknown woman's hand fondled Mony's eggs carefully. Suddenly she cried out, and bucking her arse, dislodged her lover. "You are cheating me, sir!" she cried. "My lover has three!"
She leaped from the bed and turned on the lights. The room was simply furnished: a bed, chairs, a table, a dressing table, a stove. There were several photographs on the table, one of which was that of en officer with a brutal air clothed in the uniform of the Preobrajenski Regiment.
The unknown woman was big. Her beautiful chestnut hair was slightly ruffled. Her open bodice failed to conceal a plump bosom, two blue-veined breasts which reposed softly in a nest of lace. Her skirts were chastely lowered. Standing, her face registering horror and stupefaction in front of Mony, who was seated on the bed with his shaft in the air and his hands crossed on the handle of his sabre.
"Sir, your insolence is worthy of the country you serve. Never would a Frenchman have such bad manners as to take advantage of a woman in a situation like this. I order you to get out."
"Madame or Mademoiselle," said Mony in reply, "I am a Rumanian prince, a new senior officer of Prince Kokodryoff. Lately arrived in St. Petersburg, I am ignorant of the customs of the city, and, despite the fact that I had a rendezvous with my chief here, I was only able to get in by menacing the porter with a revolver. Now, surely it would have been ridiculous of me not to have satisfied a woman who appeared to need the feel of a shaft in her vagina."
"You ought at least," said the unkown woman, eyeing his erection which was beating time, "to have turned away when you were not Fedor. And now, get out."
"Alas," cried Mony, "and yet you are a Parisian. You ought not to be a prude ... ah! Who will bring me back Alexine Mangetout and Culculine d'Ancone!"
"Culculine," exclaimed the young woman. "You know Culculine? I am her sister, Helen Verdier-Verdier, that's also her real name-and I am the governess of the general's daughter. I have a lover, Fedor. He is an officer. He has three testicles."
At that moment, a great commotion came from the street. Helen went to see. Mony watched from behind her. The Preobrajenski Regiment was passing. The band was playing an old tune which the soldiers were singing sadly:
Ah! How your mother is screwed!
Poor bumpkin goes off to the war,
Your wife will be stuck
By the bulls of your byre.
You, you will tickle your staff
With the Siberian flies
But don't give them your rod!
Friday is a lean day
And on that day don't give them sugar either.
It's made with the bones of the dead
Oh, screw, farmer boys, screw
The fat mare of your officer
Though she's got a smaller hole
Than any Tartar's daughter!
Ah! how your mother is screwed!
Suddenly the music ceased. Helen called out. An officer turned his head. Mony, who had just seen the photograph, recognized Fedor, who saluted with his sabre and cried, "Farewell, Helen! I'm off to the war. We'll never see each other again!"
Helen became white as death and fell fainting in Mony's arms. He carried her to the bed. First he unhooked her bodice and her breasts sprang out. They were superb pink-tipped titties; he sucked them a little. Then he unbuttoned the skirt, which he took off, and then the petticoats and corsets. Helen remained in her chemise.
Very excited, Mony raised the white cloth which hid the incomparable treasure of two faultless legs. The stockings came halfway up her thighs, which were round and smooth as ivory towers. At the base of her belly a mysterious grotto was hidden in a sacred wood, tawny like autumn. Because of the tonsure of thick hair, only a thin line of the slit was visible, like a mnemonic groove on the poles which served as calendars for the Incas.
Mony respected Helen's faint. He took off her stockings and began to play at "salted pork." Her feet were pretty, downy like the feet of a baby. The prince's tongue began with the toes of the right foot. Conscientiously, he cleaned the nail of the big toe, then he passed between the toes. He stopped for a little while at the little toe which was darling, darling! He found that the right foot had a raspberry taste. His lecherous tongue went on to excavate the folds of the left foot, which had a flavor which reminded him of Mayence ham.
At that moment Helen stirred and opened her eyes. Mony stopped playing "salted pork" and watched the big downy woman stretch herself into wakefulness. She opened her mouth in a yawn and showed her pink tongue between ivory teeth. She smiled.
"Prince, what have you done to me?"
"Helen, it was for your own good that I put you at your ease. I have been a good Samaritan to you. But a good favor is never lost and I have found an excellent reward in contemplating your charms. You are exquisite and Fedor is a lucky devil."
"I shall never see him again, alas! The Japanese are going to kill him."
"I should love to replace him, but unfortunately I haven't got three testicles.
"Don't talk like that, Mony, you haven't got three of them, that's true, but those that you have are just as good as his."
"Is that true, my little pig? Wait till I take off my belt ... that's it. Show me your arse ... how big, round and juicy it is ... like a cherub blowing ... ah! I must bugger you in honor of your sister!"
"Aie! Aie! Aie! you're making me hot! I'm all wet and sticky."
"What thick hair you've got. I must absolutely make you red, that big bumface of yours is not angry when you move a little, it's as though it was smiling."
"Come close so that I can unbutton you. Show me that big babydoll who wants to get back in momma's womb. How pretty he is! He has a little red head and no hair. But then he has hair at the roots, it's black and hard ... the orphan! He's beautiful! Put it in me ... oh, Mony, I want to stroke him, suck him, make ... him ... come...."
"Wait till I do your little rose-leaf...."
"Ah! that's wonderful! I feel your tongue in my arse-slit. It's going in and cleaning out the little wrinkles of my rosette. Don't stretch my arsehole too much. Mony ... eh, ooh! I'm making you a wonderful arse! Ah, you have stuffed your whole face between my buttocks. Ah, I'm flatulent. Oh, sorry, I couldn't hold it in any longer. Ehh! your moustche prickles and you're slobbering ... pig! You're slobbering ... give me your big rod and I'll suck it.
I'm thirs ... ty!
"Ah, Helen, how used your tongue is to it! If you teach spelling as well as you play flutes you must be a won ... derful teacher! Aha! you're tickling the little hole on the tip with your tongue. Now you're at the base of the knob ... cleaning ... cleaning the little fold with your hot tongue ... aah! Little concubine ... no one gluttonises like you! Don't suck so hard ... you've the whole knob in your mouth ... you're hurting ... ah! Ah ... ah . you're tickling my whole rod. Ah! ... don't crush my testicles ... your teeth are sharp. That's right, pull back the head of the nest ... it's there you must work ... you love it, don't you? You love the knob, eh? Little sow ... ah ... ooh ... I ... am ... com ... m ... m ...ing! Pig ... she has swallowed it all. Come to me baby, give me your big juicy hole and I'll suck you off while I stand again."
"Go quicker ... rub your tongue hard against the little button. Do you feel it growing, my clitoris? Listen, make scissors of me ... that's right. Force your tongue right into me and your index finger in my arse. That's right ... aah! It's good, it's good ... oh! You hear my belly growling with pleasure? That's right. Your hand on my tits ... crush the strawberries ... I'm coming! Ooh! Feel my arse curves, feel my bottom jump! Ooh, you bastard, that's good! Come screw me honey ... your big rod quick! ... I'll suck it. make ... it ... hard ... 69 ... you and me....
"You're standing like a trooper ... pig! Not for long ... burst rne wide open. Wait ... some hairs caught ... suck my bubs. That's right ... like that ... that's right ... get well in ... there ... stay like that. I've got you tight now ... I'm gripping your buttocks. Oh, I'm floating ... I'm dying. Mony ... my sister ... did you make her come too?
Harder you bastard ... go all the way in ... right into the pit of my soul. That's making me come ... like I was dying. I can't take any more. Mony, darling, let's go together ... aah! Can't take any more ... I'm letting go everything ... co ... ome!...."
Mony and Helen discharged at the same time. Then he cleaned her with his tongue and she cleaned his rod with her. While he adjusted himself and she put on her clothes again the cry of a woman in pain was heard.
"That's nothing," said Helen. "Someone's buggering Na-dia that's Wanda's chambermaid. Wanda's the general's daughter and my pupil."
"I'd like to watch it,' said Mony.
Helen, half-clothed, led Mony into a dark half-furnished room whose false interior window gave on to the young girl's room. Wanda, the general's daughter, was quite a pretty girl of seventeen. She brandished a cobra whip at arm's length and was thrashing a pretty girl who was squatting on all fours in front of her with her skirts raised. It was Nadia. Her arse was marvelous, enormous, plump; it dangled under a magnificently slender waist. Each stroke of the cobra made it jump and the arse seemed to swell; it was stroked like the Cross of St. Andrew, weals that the terrible whip left there.
"Mistress, I can't go on!" cried the girl who was being flogged, and, straightening her arse, she showed a gaping slit shadowed by a forest of tow-colored hairs.
"Get out of here now!" cried Wanda, letting fly a kick at Nadia's arse. The blubbering girl fled away.
Then the girl went and opened the door of a little dressing room and a little girl came out. She was thirteen or fourteen years old, thin, brunette, and vicious looking.
"That's Ida, the daughter of the dragoman at the Austro-Hungarian Embassy," murmured Helen in Mony's ear. "She gooses with Wanda."
Indeed, the little girl threw Wanda on the bed at once, lifted her skirts and brought to light a forest of short hairs, a virgin forest as yet, from which there emerged a clitoris as long as a little finger, which Ida began to suck frantically-
" "Suck hard, Ida," said Wanda lovingly. "I'm very excited and you ought to be, too. Nothing is so exciting as to flog a big fat arse like Nadia's. Don't suck any more now ... I'm going to screw you."
The little girl got into place, her skirts raised, near the big one. The legs of the big girl contrasted strangely with the thin thighs, so nervous and dusky, of the little one.
"It's funny," said Wanda, "how I've upped you with my clitoris and yet I'm still a virgin."
But the business had begun; Wanda clasped her little friend ferociously. For a moment she caressed the almost hairless little slit. Ida was saying, "Little Wanda, my little husband, how hairy you are! Screw me!" Soon her clitoris penetrated Ida's little vent and the beautiful downy arse of Wanda bucked like a bronco.
Mony, beside himself at the sight, put his hand beneath Helen's skirt and stroked her skillfully. She did the same to him and, taking hold of his big rod, while the two lesbians crushed one another into ecstasy, she manipulated it delicately. Bared, it fumed. Mony was holding her hams and pinching her little button of a clitoris lightly.
Suddenly, Wanda, red in the face and her hair disordered, got up from on top of her partner who, seizing a candle in a candlestick, brought to fruit the work begun by the well-developed clitoris of the general's daughter. Wanda went to the door and called Nadia, who came back again. She was obviously frightened. The pretty blonde unhooked her corsets at the command of her mistress and brought out her big tits, then she raised her skirts and proffered her arse.
Wanda's erected clitoris soon penetrated between the satin buttocks between which she came and went like a man. The girl Ida, whose breast, now bare, was charming but flat, went on with her candle game seated between Nadia's legs and sucking her mistress skillfully. Mony discharged at that moment under the pressure of Helen's fingers and the semen spurted glistening on to the window which separated them from the lesbians. They were frightened that their presence would be noticed and so they went away then.
They passed, still feeling one another, into a corridor. "What did the porter mean by saying the general was steeping his bread in his boiled egg?" said Mony.
"Look," replied Helen, and through an open door which gave into the general's office Mony saw his chief standing behind and in the process of buggering a pretty boy whose curling chestnut hair fell to his shoulders. His angelic blue eyes possessed the innocence of youth, struck down because loved by God. His beautiful white firm arse seemed to accept, but with modesty, the virile gift which the general, who looked very like Socrates, rammed into him.
"The general brings up his twelve-year-old son himself," said Helen. "The metaphor of the porter was badly taken, for, rather than to nourish himself, the general has found this convenient method to nourish and form the spirit of his male progeny. He is inculcating at the base a science which seems to me solid enough, and the young prince will be able in the future to cut a fine self-assured figure in Empire society."
"Incest," said Mony, "produces miracles."
The general seemed to be at the height of his pleasure; he rolled his bloodshot eyes. "Serge," he said in a broken voice, "do you feel the instrument which, not satisfied with having begotten you, has also taken upon itself the task of making a perfect young gentleman of you? Remember, Sodom is a civilising symbol. Homosexuality has placed man again on a footing with the gods, and all miseries arise from the desire that the different sexes pretend to have towards one another. There is only one way today of saving our unfortunate holy Russia, and that is through pederasty, by men's definitely professing Socratic love for the anus, while the women go to the Rock of Leucade to take lessons in Sapphism."
And, crying out with lust, he discharged into the charming arsehole of his son.
CHAPTER SIX
The siege of Port Arthur had begun. Mony and his orderly, Cornaboeux, were cut off there with the troops of the brave Stoessel. While the Japanese were trying to force their way into the barbed wire enclosed precincts, the defenders, menaced each minute by death from artillery fire, consoled themselves by assiduously frequenting the nightclubs and brothels which remained open.
On this particular evening, Mony, in the company of Cornaboeux and several journalists, had dined well. They had eaten an excellent horse steak, fish from the port itself, and pineapple conserve-all washed down with excellent champagnes.
Actually, the dessert had been interrupted by the unexpected arrival of a shell which exploded, destroying part of the restaurant and killing several of the company. This made Mony very sprightly; he had coolly lit his cigar from the tablecloth which had caught fire. Then he went away with Cornaboeux to a nightclub.
"That bloody General Kokodryoff," he said on the way, "is certainly a remarkable strategist. He evidently foresaw the siege of Port Arthur and sent me here to get his own back on me for having surprised him during his incestuous relations with his son. Like Ovid, I am expiating the crime of my eyes, but I shall write neither Tristia nor Epistles from Pontus. I prefer to spend what time remains to me in lechery."
Several cannonballs whistled over their heads; they stepped over the body of a woman who had been torn in two by a cannonball and thus came to the door of "Les Delices du Petit Pere."
It was the chic nightclub of Port Arthur. They entered. The room was filled with smoke. A redfaced German woman with pendulous flesh was singing in a Berlin accent and was applauded by those spectators who understood German. Then came four English "girls," some kind of sisters, who danced a type of jig with cake-walk and can-can variations.
They were very pretty girls. They lifted their skirts high above their knees to exhibit their frilly panties, but fortunately they had a split in them and sometimes one could see their heavy buttocks framed by the cambric of the panties, or the short hairs which darkened their gleaming white bellies. When they kicked their legs their slits peeped out, wet from sweat and excitement. They sang:
My cozy corner girl and were far more applauded than the ridiculous German woman who preceded them.
Some Russian officers, probably too poor to pay for women, tossed themselves off conscientiously, contemplating wide-eyed this paradisical, almost Mohammedan spectacle. From time to time, a powerful jet of semen gushed from one of their staffs and splashed on the uniform or beard of a neighbor.
After the girls, the orchestra broke into a noisy march and the star turn of the evening commenced. It consisted of two Spaniards, a man and a woman. Their toreador costumes produced a lively impression amongst the audience, who thundered a Boje tsaria Krany in applause.
The Spanish woman was a superb girl, wonderfully supple. Her brilliant jet-black eyes were perfectly oval. Her hips were rounded and spangles glittered on her costume. The toreador, slim and strong, twisted his male buttocks, which being male, were doubtless in some ways superior.
With the left hand resting on the rounded hip, this interesting couple threw two kisses into the room with the right hand and were cheered madly. Then they danced lasciviously after the fashion of their own country. The Spanish woman lifted her skirt up to her navel and fastened it there so that she remained uncovered from the belly-button down. Her long legs were sheathed in red silk stockings which came more than halfway up her thighs. They were attached to her corset by gilt suspenders to which were twisted the silk ribbons which supported a mask of black velvet placed on the buttocks to shroud the arsehole. Her slit was hidden by a little tonsure of blue-black hair which quivered like an animal.
The toreador, without interrupting his dance, took out a long hard tool. Thus they danced, belly to belly, swaying, pursuing, retreating. The young woman's belly rolled like a smooth but heavy sea. Thus the Mediterranean spume condensed to form the pure belly of Aphrodite. Suddenly, as though by magic, the rod and the sheath of these actors came together and they seemed to be about to copulate there in front of the audience. But no.
The torero drew the young woman off his deeply embedded rod like a glove, and she bent her legs so that her feet no longer touched the ground. He walked for a moment. Then the stagehands stretched a tightrope three yards above the heads of the spectators and he climbed onto it, obscene rope dancer that he was, and walked his mistress over the congested crowd, right across the hall. The spectators applauded for all they were worth and gazed with longing at the charms of the Spanish woman, whose masked arse seemed to smile, for it was dimpled all over.
Then it was the woman's turn. The toreador bent his knees and, solidly embedded in his partner's crotch was walked, too, on the rigid wire.
This tightrope fantasy had excited Mory. "Let's go to the brothel," he said to Cornaboeux.
"The Joyous Samurais" was the agreeable name of this fashionable brothel during the siege of Port Arthur. It was run by two men, formerly Symbolist poets, who, marrying one another for love in Paris, had come to hide their happiness in the Far East. They did very well out of exercising their lucrative profession of brothel keeper. They dressed like women and called themselves lesbians, without renouncing their moustaches and masculine names.
One was Adolphe Terre. He was the more vicious of the two. The younger had had his day of celebrity in Paris. Who doesn't remember the pearl-grey cloak and the high ermine collar of Tristan de Vinaigre?
"We want women," said Mony in French to the cash girl, who was none other than Adolphe Terre. Terre began one of his poems:
One evening between Versailles and Fontainebleau
I followed a nymph in the rustling forests
My staff stood suddenly for the bald chance
That passed, slender and straight, in sylvan devilry.
I screwed her three times and was drunk for three weeks
My urine was hot but the gods protect
The poet. Wistarias replaced my short-hairs
And Vergil shat this distich Versaillaise on me....
"Enough," said Cornaboeux. "Women, for God's sake!"
"Here is the under-mistress," said Adolphe respectfully.
The under-mistress, that is to say the blonde Tristan de Vinaigre, came forward graciously. Darting his blue eyes at Mony, he chanted the following historical poem:
My rod got red with crimson joy
In the spring of my age
My testicles balanced like heavy fruits
Waiting to be plucked.
The sumptuous tonsure where my rod is paddocked
Its thick clout
From the arse to the groin, from the groin to the navel
(indeed, at every level)
To notice my frail slats,
Are immobile and curly when I have to crap.
The too high table, the paper shiny,
The hot turds of my thoughts....
"For God's sake," said Mony, "Is this a brothel or an almshouse?"
"All ladies to the salon!" cried Tristan and, at the same time, he gave a towel to Cornaboeux, adding. "One towel for two, gentlemen. You understand-because of the siege."
Adolphe collected the 360 rubles, the price of fornication with prostitutes at Port Arthur. The two friends went into the salon. An incomparable spectacle awaited them there. The whores, clad in negliges, gooseberry color, crimson, mauve, or maroon, were playing bridge and smoking pale Virginia cigarettes.
At that moment there was a terrible fracas; a shell, piercing the ceiling, fell heavily on the ground right in the midst of the bridge players; it buried itself there like a meteor. Fortunately, it did not explode. The screaming women toppled backwards. Thei legs sprawled and they presented the Ace of Spades to the gaze of the lecherous soldiers.
It was an admirable display of arses of all nationalities, for this model whorehouse had whores of all races. The pear-shaped arses of the Frisian women contrasted with the, plump arses of the Parisians, with the marvelous buttocks of the English, the square behinds of the Scandinavian women, and the plunging arses of the Catalans. One Negress exhibited a tormented mass which looked more like a volcanic crater than a woman's backside. As soon as she had picked herself up she declared that the enemy had made a grand slam: so quickly does one become accustomed to the horrors of war.
"I'm taking the Negress," said Cornaboeux, while that Queen of Sheba, rising on hearing herself called for, saluted her Solomon with these pleasant words, "Going to prick my big sweet potato, general?"
Cornaboeux kissed her gallantly. But Mony was not satisfied with this international exhibition. "Where are the Japanese?" he demanded.
"That costs 50 rubles more," said the under-mistress, twisting his moustache upwards. "That's the enemy, you understand!"
Mony paid up and twenty Japanese girls in their national costume were brought in.
The prince chose a charming one and the under-mistress led the two couples into a retiring room furnished for more private purposes.
The Negress, who was called Cornelie, and the Japanese girl, who answered to the delicate name of Kilyemu, that's to say, button-flower of the medlartree, got undressed singing, the one in a Levantine dialect, the other in Volapiik.
Mony and Cornaboeux got undressed.
The prince left his valet and the Negress in one corner and concerned himself only with Kilyemu, whose beauty, at once childish and solemn, fascinated him. He made love to her tenderly and from time to time during this beautiful night the noise of the bombardment was heard. The shells exploded softly. It was as though an Oriental prince were offering a fireworks' display in honor of an unspoiled Georgian princess.
Kilyemu was small but well-made; her body was yellow like a peach. Her little pointed breasts were as hard as tennis balls. Her short-hairs were a rough black tuft, like a slimy little paintbrush. She lay on her back, drew her thighs on to her belly, knees bent, and opened her legs like a book. This un-likely and non-European position amazed Mony.
He soon tasted her charms. His big staff sank right up to the beak in her elastic hole which, big at the beginning, tightened in an astonishing way. This little girl who seemed scarcely to have reached puberty had a veritable nutcracker. Mony noticed it when, after the last somersaults of lust, he came into a vagina which was madly tight and which sucked his juices to the last drop....
"Tell me about yourself," said Mony to Kilyemu while the cynical hiccoughing of Cornaboeux and the Negress came from the corner.
Kilyemu sat down. "I am daughter of a sammisen player," she said. "It's a kind of guitar which is played in the theatre. My father used to represent the chorus, playing sad tunes, reciting lyric and rhythmic histories in a little railed box frontstage. My mother, the beautiful peach of July, played principal roles in those long pieces beloved by Japanese playwrights.
"I remember when the Forty-seven Ronin, the Beautiful Siguenai, and Taiko too were played. Our troupe went from town to town, and this wonderful background against which I grew up comes back to me always in moments of abandoned love.
"I climbed in the matsous, these giant conifers; I went to see the handsome naked samurais bathe in the rivers; their enormous rods had no significance for me at that time, and I laughed with the hilarious pretty servants who came to wash them. Ah, to make love in my ever-blossoming country! To love a stocky wrestler under the rosy cherry trees and to go down the hillsides with his arms about you!
"A sailor, on leave from the Nippon Josen Kaisha Company, my cousin, robbed me of my virginity one day. My mother and father were playing The Great Thief and the hall was crowded. My cousin took me walking. I was thirteen. He had journeyed in Europe and he told me about all the wonders of the world of which I knew nothing. He led me into a deserted garden full of iris, dark red camelias, yellow lilies, and lotus flowers as pink as my tongue.
There he kissed me and asked me if I had ever made love: I told him no. Then he undid my kimono and tickled my breasts; that made me laugh. But I became very serious when he put his big hard rod in my hand.
"What do you want me to do with it?" I asked him.
"Without answering me, he laid me down, uncovered my legs and, darting his tongue into my slit, he broke my maidenhead. I was still able to cry out and must have troubled the grasses and the beautiful chrysanthemums of the deserted garden, but soon lust awakened in me.
"A gunsmith took me up next; he wac handsome like Daibutsu of Kamakura, and one must speak religiously of his rod, which seemed to be made of gilded bronze and which was inexhaustible. Every evening before I made love I believed myself to be insatiable, but when I had felt his hot semen flow into my vulva fifteen times I had to offer my weary arse to satisfy him or, when I was too tired, I took him in my mouth and sucked him until he ordered me to stop. He killed himself in accordance with the code of bushido, and in accomplishing this chivalrous act, left me alone and inconsolable.
"An Englishman of Yokohama took me up next. He had a special smell like all Europeans and for a long time I couldn't stand it. Also, I begged him to bugger me so that I wouldn't have to see his bestial red-bearded face in front of me. However, in the end I got used to him and as I had him in my power I made him lick my slit until his tongue got cramp and couldn't move any more.
"A girlfriend whose acquaintance I had made in Tokyo and whom I loved madly came to console me. She was as pretty as the spring, and it seemed that two bees were forever perched on her breasts. We would satisfy ourselves with a piece of yellow marble sculpted at both ends in the form of a penis. We were insatiable in one another's arms, distracted, frothing, yelling, and we bucked about furiously like two dogs who wanted to gnaw the same bone.
"One day the Englishman became mad; he believed himself to be the shogun and wanted to bugger the mikado. They took him away and my friend and I became prostitutes until I fell in love with a big strong beardless German who had a massive, unexpendable rod. He used to beat me and I would embrace him in tears. In the end, when I was red with blows, he did me the charity of his tool and I ejaculated like one possessed, clasping him to me with all my strength.
"One day we went by boat to Shanghai, where he sold me to a pimp. Then he went away, my beautiful Egon, without turning his head, leaving me desperate in the company of the women of the brothel who were laughing at me. They taught me the trade well, but when I have plenty of money I'm going to go away an honest woman into the world to find my Egon and feel him again in my vulva and die thinking of the rose trees in Japan."
The little Japanese, erect and serious, went away like a shadow, leaving Mony with tears in his eyes to think of the fragility of human passions. Then he heard a sonorous snoring and, turning his head, saw the Negress and Cornaboeux sleeping chastely in one another's arms. But they were monstrous, both of them. Cornelie's big buttocks stuck out, reflecting the moon whose light came in an open window. Mony unsheathed his sabre and pricked this great hunk of meat.
Someone was shouting in the main room. Cornaboeux and Mony went out with the Negress. The main room was full of smoke. Several big drunken Russian officers had entered, swearing like troopers, and had thrown themselves on the English whores in the brothel who, disgusted by the vulgar look of these old soldiers, muttered "bloodies" and "damns" in an attempt to outdo one another.
Cornaboeux and Mony contemplated the rape of the whores for a moment and then went out during a collective and prodigious buggering, leaving Adolphe Terre and Tristan de Vinaigre in a desperate state trying to re-establish order and, gesticulating vainly, fettered in their women's skirts.
In the same moment General Stoessel entered and everybody calmed down, including the Negress. The Japanese had just assaulted the besieged town for the first time. Mony almost wanted to retrace his steps to see what his chief would do, but savage cries were heard at the other side of the ramparts.
Soldiers arrived leading a prisoner. He was a big young man, a German who had been found robbing corpses at the front line. He was crying out in German, "I'm not a thief. I love the Russians. I came bravely across the Japanese lines to offer myself as a skirt, a drummer, an arse-boy. Without doubt you're short of women and you won't be annoyed to have me."
"To death with him!" cried the soldiers, "to death! He's a spy, a looter, a robber of the dead!"
No officer accompanied the soldiers. Mony went forward and asked for an explanation.
"You're mistaken," he said to the stranger, "we have plenty of women here, but your crime must be avenged. You're going to be buggered on the spot by the soldiers who captured you and afterwards you're going to be impaled. Thus you will die as you have lived; from the point of view of moralists, an adequately fit death. What's your name?"
"Egon Muller," said the trembling man.
"That's fine," said Mony drily. "You come from Yokohama, a true pimp, and you have trafficked shamefully with your own mistress, a Japanese woman called Kilyemu. Arse-crawler, spy, pimp and looter, you're the whole bag of tricks. Prepare the spit, soldiers, and bugger him. You don't get a chance like this every day."
The handsome Egon was stripped naked. He was admirably built and his breasts were round like those of a hermaphrodite. At the sight of his charms the soldiers brought out their rods.
Cornaboeux was touched; with tears in his eyes he implored his master to spare Egon, but Mony was inflexible and would only permit his orderly to suck the charming youth's rod while the youth, his arse stretched, received in turn into his dilated anus the beaming nobs of the soldiers who, beautiful brutes, sang religious hymns to celebrate their capture. The spy, after he had received the third spout of semen, began to come furiously and, sucking Cornaboeux's staff, began to buck about with his arse as though he had still thirty years of life in front of him.
Meanwhile the iron stake which was to be used on the bugger's seat was made ready. When all the soldiers had buggered the prisoner, Mony spoke several words in Cornaboeux's ear; his valet was still enraptured at having been sucked off.
Cornaboeux went into the brothel and soon came out again accompanied by the young Japanese whore, who was wondering what they wanted her' for. Suddenly she noticed Egon, who had just been thrust, perforated, on the iron stake. He was writhing and the point penetrated little by little into his fundament. His rod was standing fit to burst.
Mony explained about Kilyemu to the soldiers; the poor little woman was looking at her impaled lover with eyes in which terror, love and compassion mingled with supreme desolation. The soldiers stripped her naked and hoisted her little bird-like body on to that of the impaled.
They stretched the legs of the unhappy woman wide and the tool which she had desired so much penetrated her once again.
The poor little simple soul understood nothing of this barbarous behavior, but the staff which filled her sheath excited the lust in her and, stuck on the spear, she beat about madly, causing the body of her lover to slide gradually down the length of the stake. He died as he discharged.
This bayonetted man and the woman who bucked about on him, her slit gaping wide, was a strange banner indeed. A dark blood formed a puddle at the foot of the stake.
"Soldiers, salute the dying!" commanded Mony, and, turning to Kilyemu, he said, "I have fulfilled your dearest wish. At this very moment the cherries are blossoming in Japan and the lovers are wandering in a snow of falling roses petals."
Then, leveling his revolver, he shot her in the head, and, as though the little courtesan had wished to spit on her executioner, her brains spurted into his face.
CHAPTER SEVEN
After the summary execution of the spy, Egon Muller, and his little Japanese whore, Prince Vibescu became very popular in Port Arthur.
One day, General Stoessel called him and gave him a sealed envelope, saying; "Prince Vibescu, even although you are not Russian, you are one of the finest officers in the place. We are waiting for relief but General Kuropat-kin must make haste. If there is much more delay we shall have to capitulate. These dogs of Japanese are watching us and their fanaticism will one day get the better of our resistance. You must cross the Japanese lines and deliver this dispatch to the generalissimo."
A balloon was prepared. For eight days Mony and Cornaboeux practiced the handling of the airship. It was inflated one fine morning. The two passengers got into the basket, pronounced the traditional "Let go!" and soon, having attained the region of the clouds, the earth appeared very small and the war zone appeared to them very clearly with the armies and the fleets at sea; a match which they struck to light their cigarettes left a trail more luminous than the giant cannonballs which the opposing armies used.
A good wind pushed the balloon in the direction of the Russian armies and, after several days, they grounded and were received by a tall officer who made them welcome. It was Fedor, the three-egged man and the old lover of Helen Verdier, the sister of Culculine d'Ancone.
"Lieutenant," said Prince Vibescu to him as he jumped out of the basket, "you are an honest man and the reception you have given us well repays us for the fatiguing experience we have undergone. Allow me to ask pardon for having cuckolded you at St. Petersburg with your mistress, Helen, the French governess of General Koko-dryoff's daughter."
"You have done very well," replied Fedor. "Imagine! I have found her sister, Culculine, here. She is a wonderful girl, a waitress in a women's snackbar frequented by our officers. She left Paris to make her fortune in the Far East. She earns a fortune here, because the officers, not having much time to live, are all out for a good time. Her friend, Alexine Mangetout, is with her."
"My God," cried Mony, "Culculine and Alexine are here! Take me quickly before General Kuropatkin. I must accomplish my mission first, and then you can take me over to the restaurant."
Genearl Kuropatkin received Mony kindly in his headquarters. It was a well-furnished railway carriage. The generalissimo read the message, then said, "We shall do all in our power to relieve Port Arthur. Meanwhile, Prince Vibescu, I appoint you chevalier de Saint-George."
Decorated for his gallantry, Mony found himself half an hour later in the restaurant "The Sleeping Cossack" in the company of Fedor and Cornaboeux. Two women made haste to serve them. They were Culculine and Alexine, charming as ever. They were clothed in Russian soldiers' dress and wore lace aprons in front of their baggy pants which were tucked in their boots. Their arses and their breasts jutted outwards pleasantly and caused the uniforms to bulge. A little cap, perched on their coiffures, completed this military uniform, setting it off in an exciting way. They had the look of extras in an operetta.
"Mony, darling!" cried Culculine. The prince kissed the two women and asked them what had happened since he saw them last.
"Of course," said Culculine, "but you must tell us how you got here. After that fatal night when the robbers left us half-dead near the body of the one whose member I cut off with my teeth in a moment of mad enjoyment, I woke up to find myself surrounded by doctors. They found me with a knife stuck in my arse!
"Alexine was taken care of in her own house and we did not hear any more news of you. But we learned when we were able to go out again that you had gone back to Serbia. The affair caused an immense scandal! My explorer left me when he came back and Alexine's senator didn't want to keep her any longer.
"Our star was beginning to wane in Paris. The war broke out between Russia and Japan. The bluebeard of one of my girlfriends organised a contingent of women to serve in the canteen brothels which followed the Russian army. We were hired and there you are!"
Mony then told them what had happened to him, omitting only what had happened on the Orient Express. He introduced Cornaboeux to the two women, but without saying that he was the robber who had planted the knife between Culculine's buttocks.
All these stories were accompanied by much drinking. The room was filled with capped officers who were singing at the top of their voices and groping the waitresses.
"Let's go," said Mony. Culculine and Alexine followed them and all five went out of the retrenchments in the direction of Fedor's tent.
The night had become starry. Mony had a caprice passing in front of the wagon of the generalissimo. He took off Alexine's pants. Her big buttocks seemed constrained in the trousers and while the others continued walking he handled the superb arse, like a pale face under a pale moon. Then, taking out his ferocious tool, he rubbed it for a moment in her bumslit, sometimes pricking the arsehole.
Then, hearing a dry trumpet sound accompanied by the rolling of drums, he suddenly made up his mind. His shaft descended between the fresh buttocks and came to grips within a valley which ended at the grotto. The young man's hands in front of her fingered her tuft and worked her clitoris. He came and went, exploring Alexine's furrow with ploughstrokes. She screwed by agitating her lunar arse, whose upper side, another moon, seemed to smile and admire him.
Suddenly the monotonous call of sentries began. Their cries were repeated throughout the night. Alexine and Mony bucked silently and, as they sighed deeply, coming almost simultaneously, a shell cut through the air and killed several soldiers who were sleeping in a ditch. They blabbered and groaned like children calling for their mother. Quickly becoming serious, Mony and Alexine ran to Fedor's tent. There they found Cornaboeux, his fly open, on his knees beside Culculine who was taking off her pants and showing him her arse. He was saying :"It doesn't show. No one would ever say you'd been stabbed in the arse."
Then, on his feet again, and crying out some Russian phrases he had learned, he poked her arse. Fedor got in front of her and put his rod in her nest. One would have thought that Culculine was a pretty boy whom someone was buggering while he poked his tail into a woman. Indeed she was clothed like a man and Fedor's member seemed to belong to her, but the heavy mold of her buttocks soon dispelled that thought. And her slender waist and the bulge of her breasts similarly denied that possibility. The trio bucked in cadence. Alexine drew near to them to tickle Fedor's three appendages.
At that moment from outside the tent a soldier called out in a loud voice for Prince Vibescu. Mony went out. The soldier came as a courier from General Munin, who was sending for Mony on the field. He followed the soldier and, across the encampment, they arrived at a luggage van into which Mony climbed. The soldier announced, "Prince Vibescu."
The interior of the luggage van resembled a bedroom, but an Oriental bedroom. It was unimaginably luxurious, and General Munin, a huge man of fifty, received Mony with great politeness. He showed him a pretty woman of about twenty who was nonchalantly stretched out on a sofa. She was a Circassian, his wife.
"Prince Vibescu," said the general, "my wife, hearing your exploits spoken of today, wanted to congratulate you. At the same time, she is three months pregnant and a pregnant woman's desire has driven her irresistibly to want to sleep with you. There she is! Do just as you wish. I shall satisfy myself in another way."
Without replying, Mony stripped and began to undress the beautiful Haidyn, who appeared to be in a state of extraordinary excitement. She bit Mony while he undressed her. She was admirably made and her pregnancy didn't show yet. Her breasts, molded by the Graces, sat round as cannonballs. Her body was supple, tall and slender. She had such a beautiful disproportion between the grossness of her arse and the slenderness of her waist that Mony felt his member stand up like a Norwegian fir. She grabbed it while he felt her thighs, which were-plump high up and became thinner towards the knee.
When she was nude he got on top of her and, neighing like a stallion, poked it into her while she closed her eyes to savor the pleasure of it. General Munin, meanwhile, had ushered in a little Chinese boy, darling and frightened. His bridled eyes blinked as they fell on the couple making love.
The general undressed him and sucked his little tail which was scarcely as big as a small worm. He turned him round then and spanked his little thin yellow arse. He seized a great sabre and placed it near him. Then he poked deep into the little boy's arsehole; the boy was evidently acquainted with this method of civilising Manchuria for he was agitating his little bit of celestial body in an experienced fashion.
The general was saying, "Come well, my Haidyn, I'm going to come too." His staff came nearly all the way out of the body of the Chinese child to re-enter vigorously. When he arrived at the climax he took hold of the sabre, clenched his teeth, and, without interrupting his buggering motion, cut off the head of the Chinese boy whose last spasms procured a wounderful ejaculation for him; simultaneously, the blood splashed from the severed neck like water from a fountain.
The general came out of the arsehole and cleaned his tail with a handkerchief. He then cleaned his sabre and, picking up the head of the little boy, he showed it to Mony and Haidyn, who had now changed positions. The Circassian was horsing Mony with rage. Her titties danced and her arse bucked frantically; Mony's hands kneaded the wonderful plump thighs.
"Look," said the general, "how prettily the little Chinese boy smiles!"
The head grimaced horribly, but his look redoubled the erotic rage of the two, who bucked their arses with all the more ardor. The general dropped the head, and seizing his wife by the hips, he introduced his member into her arse.
The joy of the poke was augmented for Mony. The two rods, separated only by a thin wall, came to knock together at the snout, increasing the pleasure of the young woman, who bit Mony and coiled like a viper. The trio came apart, and the general, as soon as he was on his feet, brandished his sabre and cried, "And now, Prince Vibescu, you must die. You have seen too much!"
But Mony disarmed him without difficulty. Then he bound his feet and hands and laid him down in the corner of the luggage van near the body of the little Chinese. Having done so, he continued his delightful play with the general's wife until dawn. When he left, she was tired out and asleep. The general was asleep also, but with his feet and wrists bound.
Mony went away quickly to Fedor's tent. There they had similarly screwed all night. Alexine, Culculine, Cornaboeux and Fedor were sleeping naked, stretched out pell-mell on some coats. Their juices were sticky on the women's short hairs and the staffs of the men hung lamentably.
Mony let them sleep and began to wander about the camp. A new combat with the Japanese was being announced. The soldiers were equipping themselves or eating breakfast. The horsemen were grooming their horses.
A Cossack whose hands were cold was reheating them in the arse of his mare. The beast whinnied softly. Suddenly the heated Cossack hoisted himself onto a chair behind the beast and, taking out a tool as long as a wooden lance, stuck it delightedly into the animal's vulva, which salivated a powerfully aphrodisiac horseslime, for the human beast came three times with great arse strokes before he de-slitted.
An officer who noticed this act of bestiality approached the soldier with Mony. He reproached him in a lively way for having given way to his passion. "My friend," he said to him, "masturbation is a soldierly virtue. Every good soldier ought to know that in time of war onanism is the only amorous act that is permitted. Toss yourself off, but touch neither woman nor beast.
"Besides, masturbation is a laudable act, for it permits men and women to habituate themselves to their next and definitive separation. Customs, the spirit, clothes and the tastes of the two sexes differ more and more. It would be a happy day if people recognized this fact, and it appears to me to be necessary, if one wants to dominate on earth, to take account of this natural law which will soon impose itself." The officer went away, leaving Mony, pensive, to go back to Fedor's tent.
Suddenly a strange rumor came to the prince's ears. They were saying that some tearful Irish women were lamenting over the body of an unknown. Getting nearer to it, the noise lessened. It became rhythmic, a snapping sound, as though a mad orchestra conductor were tapping his baton on his stand while the orchestra was playing softly.
The prince ran more quickly and a strange spectacle presented itself to him. A troop of soldiers commanded by an officer took turns at beating a man with long flexible switches; the man under punishment was stripped to the waist.
Mony, whose grade was superior to that of the officer who commanded the punishment detail, wanted to take charge of it. A new victim was brought. He was a beautiful Tartar boy who spoke hardly any Russian. The prince made him strip completely naked, then the soldiers scourged him in such a way that the early morning cold bit him at the same time as the rods that cut his back.
He was impassive and his calm irritated Mony; he spoke a word in the ear of the officer, who soon brought back a waitress from the canteen. She was a full-bodied woman whose arse and breasts filled out her uniform indecently, ful big girl, her movements constricted by her clothing. The uniform itself was laced tightly about her. This beauti-waddled like a duck.
"You are indecent, my girl," Mony said to her. "When one is a woman like you, one does not clothe oneself like a man. A hundred strokes of the switch to teach you!"
The unhappy girl trembled in all her limbs, but, at a sign from Mony, the soldiers stripped her. Her nudity contrasted strangely with that of the Tartar. He was tall, with an emaciated face, small eyes, villainous and calm; his limbs were of that thinness usually accorded to those of John the Baptist after he had lived for some time like a grasshopper. His arms, his chest, and his heron-like legs were hairy; his circumcised penis had swelled up because of the scourging and its gland was purple, the color of a drunkard's vomit.
The waitress, a beautiful German specimen from Brunswick, was heavy arsed-a robust Luxemburgian mare let loose among the stallions. Her blonde two-colored hair made her poetical enough; the Rhenish water nymphs must have resembled her. Very light blonde hairs hung shaggily between her thighs. This mop covered her plump mound completely. She breathed robust health and all the soldiers felt their virile members present arms.
Mony asked for a knout and it was brought to him. He put it into the hand of the Tartar. "Pig of a whipmaster!" he cried at him. "If you wish to save your own hide don't spare this whore's!"
Without reply, the Tartar examined the instrument of torture like a connoisseur; it was composed of thongs of leather to which iron filings were stuck.
The woman was sobbing and crying for mercy in German. Her pink and white body was trembling. Mony made her kneel down and with a kick of his boot he forced her big buttocks upwards. The Tartar was testing the scourge in the air, then, raising his arm energetically, he was about to strike her when the unhappy waitress, who was trembling in all her limbs, let out a savorous explosion which made all the spectators and the Tartar himself burst out laughing; the knout was dropped. Mony, a switch in hand, struck him across the face, saying: "Idiot! I told you to scourge her, not to laugh!"
Then he gave him the switch and commanded him first of all to thrash the German woman with that to get her used to punishment. The Tartar began to strike with regularity. His member, not far behind the fat arse of his victim, was standing, but in spite of his concupiscence his arm fell rhythmically. The switch was very flexible. Each stroke whistled through the air and fell with a dry thwack on the tightened skin, stripping it off.
The Tartar was an artist and the blows which he inflicted united to .form a word. On the base of the back, just above the buttocks, the word "whore" soon appeared distinctly. The applause increased and the cries of the German woman became more raucous. Her arse at each stroke of the switch waggled about a bit and then rose like the prow of a ship. The tight buttocks slackened immediately and it was possible then to see the arsehole and the slit beneath it, yawning and moist.
Gradually, she seemed to get used to the blows. At each slash of the switch the back rose up sluggishly, the arse half opened, and the slit gaped easily as if an unexpected pleasure were taking hold of it.
She soon fell as though suffocated by the pleasure and at that moment Mony restrained the Tartar's hand. He gave him back the scourge and the man, very excited and mad with desire, began to beat the German woman's back cruelly with it. Each blow left several deep and bloody marks, for, instead of lifting the scourge after each blow, the Tartar drew it towards home in such a way that the iron filings which adhered to the thongs brought away strips of skin and flesh which fell on all sides, the small drops of blood spattering the uniforms of the soldiers.
The German woman no longer felt the pain. She was coiling around, twisting and blowing with lust. Her face was red. She slobbered. And when Mony commanded the Tartar to stop, all traces of the word "whore" had disappeared, for the back was nothing more than an open wound.
The Tartar was standing still, the bloody scourge in his hand, as though waiting for approval, but Mony looked at him contemptuously: "You began well but you finished badly. You've made a filthy job of it. You hit like an ignorant fool! Soldiers, take away this woman and bring me one of her friends-into that tent there, it's empty. I'm going to have a word or two there with this miserable Tartar."
He dismissed the soldiers, several of whom carried away the German woman, and the prince went away with the man under punishment into the tent. He selected two switches and began to beat him with all his force. The Tartar, excited by the spectacle he had just seen and in which he had played the leading part, could not restrain for long the sperm which brothed about in his sack. His rod became rampant under Mony's blows and the semen which spurted from it spangled against the canvas of the tent.
At that moment, another woman was brought. She was in her chemise because she had been surprised in bed. Her face expressed stupefaction and terror. She was a mute, and coarse inarticulate sounds came from her throat.
She was a beautiful girl, originally from Sweden. The daughter of the director of the canteen, she had married a Dane, an associate of her father. She had given birth to a child four months before and was feeding it herself. She could have been about twenty-four. Her breasts, inflated with milk-for she was a good wet-nurse-filled out the chemise.
As soon as Mony saw her he sent away the escort of soldiers and lifted up her chemise. The Swedish woman's fat thighs resembled the main supporting columns of a superb building. Her short-hairs were gold and slightly frizzy. Mony ordered the Tartar to scourge her while he himself sucked her off. The blows rained on the arms of the beautiful dummy, but the prince's mouth, like the mouth of an obscene fish, gathered up the amorous liqueur which this northern wench distilled.
The woman was all hot and sweaty. After having removed her chemise, he placed her naked on the bed. She got on top of him and his shaft entered deeply between the blinding white thighs. Her massive firm buttocks rose and fell rhythmically. The prince took one of her breasts in his mouth and began to sup a delicious milk.
The Tartar did not remain inactive for long; making the switch whistle, he administered severe blows on the starry map of the dummy, whose pleasure was thereby increased. He beat her like a madman, marking this sublime arse. He pitted the beautiful plump white shoulders carelessly, leaving cruel furrows on her back. Mony, who had already worked a great deal, took a long time to come, and the dummy, excited by the switch, came fifteen times during the time he took to let fly once.
Then he got up, and, seeing the Tartar in a magnificently erected state, he ordered him to poke the beautiful wet-nurse from the rear-she seemed still to be unsatisfied-and he himself, taking the bloody knout, began to bloody the back of the soldier, who thrust with inhuman cries.
The Tartar did not desert his post. Stoically accepting the terrible scourging, he excavated without letting up the amorous rut in which he was niched. Five times he deposited his boiling offering there. Then he lay unmoving on the woman, who was still shuddering voluptuously.
But the prince abused him; he had lit a cigarette and he burned the Tartar's shoulders in several places with it. Then he put a lighted match under his eggs. The burn had the effect of reanimating the indefatigable tool. The Tartar advanced towards a new discharge. Mony took up the scourge again and with all his might thrashed the united bodies of the Tartar and the dummy.
The blood gushed, the blows fell with a dry clear sound. Mony swore in French, in Rumanian, and in Russian. The Tartar was in a terrible state of lust, but a look of hatred for Mony passed into his eyes. He knew the dummy language and with his hand in front of the woman's face he made signs which she understood very well.
Towards the end, Mony had a new idea. He applied his glowing cigarette to the tip of the dummy's sweaty breast. A small drop of milk beading from her elongated tit extinguished the cigarette but the woman roared with terror as she went into her orgasm.
Then she made a sign and the Tartar dismounted immediately. Both of them threw themselves on Mony and disarmed him. The women took a switch and the Tartar took the scourge. With eyes full of hatred and glimmering with the hope of vengeance, they began to thrash the officer who had made them suffer. Mony cried out in vain, and struggled. The blows did not spare any part of his body. Meanwhile, the Tartar, fearing that his vengeance on an officer would have fatal consequences, soon threw away the knout and contented himself like the woman with a simple switch. Mony's body swelled up under the thrashing and the woman set about striking his belly, his eggs and his rod especially.
During this time, the Dane, the husband of the mute, had noticed her disappearance because the little girl was crying for her mother's milk. He took the suckling child in his arms and set out to find his wife. A soldier pointed out the tent where she was without telling him what she was doing there. Mad with jealousy, the Dane hurled himself forwards, lifted the tent flap and went in. The spectacle was a trifle banal. His wife, naked and bleeding, along with a naked and bleeding Tartar, was beating a young man.
The scourge was on the ground. The Dane placed his child there and, lifting the scourge, set about thrashing his wife and the Tartar. They fell to the ground crying with pain.
Under these blows Mony's shaft had stiffened. It became stiff as a ramrod as he witnessed this conjugal scene. The baby girl was crying on the ground. Mony grabbed her and unswathed her. Then he kissed her little pink bottom and her chubby hairless little slit. Then, covering her mouth with one hand, he applied her slit to his shaft and violated her. His rod tore the child's flesh. Mony didn't take long to come. He was ejaculating when the father and the mother, perceiving the crime too late, hurled themselves upon him.
The mother lifted up the child. The Tartar clothed himself hastily and cut out. But the Dane, his eyes bloodshot, raised the scourge. He was going to strike a mortal blow on Mony's head when he noticed an officer's uniform on the ground. His arm fell to his side for he knew that a Russian officer is sacred. He may violate, plunder, do what he will, but an army contractor who dared to lay a hand on him would be hanged immediately.
Mony understood all that had passed in the Dane's mind. He took advantage of it. He got up quickly and produced his revolver. With a scornful air he ordered the Dane to take his pants off. Then, the revolver leveled, he ordered the Dane to screw his daughter. The Dane argued in vain. He had to put his mean staff into the tender bottom of the suckling child who had fainted.
During this time, Mony, armed again with a switch and holding his revolver in his left hand, struck a rain of blows on the dummy's back. She sobbed and twisted with pain. The switch was striking again and the flesh which had swollen up under the previous blows and the pain which the poor woman underwent was a horrible sight. Mony, however, bore up under the experience with admirable courage and his arms remained firm until the moment the unhappy father came into the arse of his daughter.
Mony got dressed then and ordered the Dane to do likewise. Then he gently aided the couple to revive the child. "Mother without entrails!" he shouted at the dummy, "do you not see the child wants to suck?"
The Dane made signs to the dummy, who chastely brought out her breast and gave suck to the baby.
"As for you," said Mony to the Dane, "be careful. You violated your daughter in front of me. I can hang you. So be discreet. My word would always be taken against yours. Go in peace. Your future business depends on my good will. If you keep your trap shut, I will protect you, but if you tell anyone what happened here you'll be hanged."
The Dane kissed the hand of the dapper officer and, crying tears of gratitude, he led his wife and child away. Mony set off towards Fedor's tent.
The sleepers had awakened and had dressed after washing themselves. During the day, preparations for the battle were made; it began that evening. Mony, Cornaboeux and the two women remained in Fedor's tent while Fedor went off to fight in the front line. Soon the first sounds of cannon were heard and the stretcher-bearers returned with the wounded. The tent was requisitioned for a Red Cross station. Cornaboeux and the two women were detailed to bring in the dying. Mony remained alone with three wounded Russian soldiers who were delirious.
Then a Red Cross nurse arrived. She wore a clean unbleached smock with the Red Cross insignia on her right arm. She was a very pretty voman of the Polish aristocracy. She had a suave voice, almost like an angel's, and when they heard her speak the wounded men turned their dying eyes towards her in the belief that they were seeing the Virgin.
She gave Mony orders in a dry business-like voice. He obeyed like a child, astonished at the pretty girl's energy and at the strange light which glowed in her green eyes. From time to time her seraphic face became hard and a cloud of unpardonable vice seemed to obscure her brow. It seemed that this innocent woman had criminal moments. Mony watched her. He soon saw that her fingers lingered longer than necessary in the open wounds.
A wounded man, horrible to see, was brought in. His face was bloody and his chest was split open. The nurse dressed him eagerly, almost voluptuously. She had put her right hand in the gaping wound and seemed to enjoy the contact of the throbbing flesh. Suddenly the ghoul raised her eyes and saw Mony in front of her at the other side of the stretcher. He was looking at her with a disdainful smile.
She blushed but he reassured her. "Calm yourself. Don't be afraid of me. I understand better than anyone the perversion you want to experience. I myself have guilty hands. Enjoy these wounded men, but don't refuse my advances."
She lowered her eyes in silence. Mony was soon behind her. He lifted her skirt and uncovered her marvelous arse whose buttocks were so tightly closed that Uey seemed to have sworn never to separate. She was rending feverishly now in the dying man's wound, and there was an angelic smile on her lips. She bent forward the better to allow Mony to enjoy the sight of her arse. He introduced his dart between the satin lips of her slit, mounting her from behind, and with his right hand he caressed her buttocks while his left hand searched for her clitoris under her skirt.
The nurse screwed silently, contracting her fingers in the wound of the dying man who uttered a blood-curdling death-rattle. He died at the moment at which Mony discharged. The nurse ousted Mony immediately and, taking off the trousers of the dead man whose member was like a rod of iron, she passed it into her slit and began to screw in deathly silence with her face more angelic than ever.
First of all, Mony spanked this big arse which was dangling there and whose lips vomited and swallowed the corpse's rigid column. His rod soon attained its first rigidity and putting it behind the bucking nurse he buggered her like a madman.
Later they readjusted themselves and a young man was brought in whose arms and legs had been shot away by grapeshot. This human trunk possessed a beautiful shaft whose firmness was ideal. As soon as she was alone with Mony, the nurse sat on the mutilated man at whose throat there was already a death-rattle. During this wild ride she sucked Mony's shaft. He soon discharged like a Carmelite friar.
The truncated man was not yet dead. His trunk bled abundantly at all four stumps. The ghoul then sucked his rod and under this horrible caress she watched him die. She swore to Mony that the sperm which came from this sucking off was quite cold, and she appeared so excited that Mony, who felt exhausted, asked her to unhook herself. He then sucked her teats and she knelt down and tried to reanimate the prince's shaft by masturbating it between her breasts.
"Alas!" cried Mony, "cruel woman to whom God has given the task of finishing off wounded men, who are you? Who are you?"
"I am the daughter of John Morncs' i," she said, "the revolutionary prince whom the infamous Gcurko sent to his death at Tobolsk. To avenge myself and to avenge Poland, my mother, I finish off Russian soldiers. I would like to kill Kuropatkin and I pray for the death of the Romanoffs.
"My brother, who is also my lover and who deflowered me during a pogrom in Warsaw lest my virginity fall prey to a Cossack, feels the same way about it as I do. He led astray the regiment he commanded and drowned it in Lake Baikal. He told me what he intended to do before his departure. That is how we Poles avenge Muscovite tyranny.
"These patriotic furies have reacted on my senses and my most noble passions have given way to my cruelest ones. I am cruel, you see, like Tamerlaine, Attila and Ivan the Terrible. I used to be as pious as a saint. Today, Messalina and Catherine are no more than soft sheep as compared with me!"
It was not without a shudder that Mony heard these declarations of the exquisite whore. He wished at all costs to lick her arse in honor of Poland and he told her how he had indirectly played a part in the conspiracy which led to the death of Alexander Obrenovitch at Belgrade.
She listened to him with admiration. "If I could only see the Czar thrown out of a window one day!" she sighed.
Mony, who was a loyal officer, protested against this particular violence and avowed his support of the legitimate autocracy. "I admire you," he said to the Polish woman, "but if I were the czar I would destroy all the Poles en bloc. Those inept drunkards never stop making bombs and making the world uninhabitable. Even in Paris these sadistic bastards are at work. As many of them come out again from the Court of Assizes as from la Salpetriere and they worry the life out of peaceable citizens."
"It's true," said the Polish woman, "that my countrymen are a little wanton, but let them be given back their homeland, allow them to speak their native language and Poland will again become the country of chivalric honor, of luxury, and of beautiful women."
"You're right," cried Mony, and, pushing the nurse on to a stretcher, he cultivated her lazily. They ignored their surroundings and chatted about gallant and distant things. They might have been composing a Decameron, surrounded on all sides by the plague.
"Wonderful woman that you are," said Mony, "let us plight our troth with our souls!"
"Yes," she said, "we shall get married after the war and we'll fill the world with the clamor of our cruelties."
"Perhaps you're right," the nurse said, "there is nothing so sweet as to accomplish what is not allowed." There on the stretcher, they went into a trance, their bodies pressed together, twisting and enjoying themselves profoundly.
At that moment there were cries. The routed Russian army was letting itself be overwhelmed by the Japanese. Terrible cries of the wounded were heard, the fracas of artillery, the sinister roll of ammunition wagons and the cracking of rifle fire.
The tent was opened brusquely and a troop of Japanese soldiers invaded it. Mony and the Red Cross nurse had scarcely time to readjust their clothing. A Japanese officer advanced towards Prince Vibescu.
"You are my prisoner," he said to him, but with a shot from his revolver Mony stretched him out dead as a doornail. Then, in front of the eyes of the stupefied Japanese soldiers, he broke his sword across his knees.
Another Japanese officer advanced and Mony was surrounded by soldiers who took him prisoner. He did not resist. As he was going out of the tent in the company of the little Japanese officer he saw in the distance across the plain the lagging fugitives who were wearily trying to rejoin the routed Russian army.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A prisoner on parole, Mony was free to come and go as he pleased in the Japanese camp. He searched for Cornaboeux in vain. In his comings and goings he noticed that he was being watched by the officer who had made him prisoner. He wished to befriend him and perhaps to lie with him. He was a Shintoist, a lecher enough, who told him wonderful things about the wife he had left in Japan.
"She is laughing and charming," he said, "and I adore her as I adore the trinity Ameno-Mina-Kanoussi-no Kami. She is fertile like Isanagi and Isanami, the creators of the earth and the generators of men, and beautiful as Ama-terasu, daughter of the gods and the sun himself. While she waits for me she is thinking all the time of me and she plucks the thirteen strings of her imperial ko-to of Polonia or plays the seventeen-piped sio."
"And you," asked Mony, "have you never felt like screwing since you've been at the war?"
"For myself," said the officer, "when the urge is too strong I toss myself off and look at obscene pictures."
And he showed Mony little books of wood-engravings, the last word in the obscene. One of these books depicted women making love with all sorts of beasts: cats, birds, tigers, dogs, fish, even the octopi which, hideously depicted, wound their sucker-tipped tentacles round the smooth bodies of hysterical Japanese maidens.
"All our officers and soldiers have books of this kind," said the officer. "They can thus do without women. They can toss themselves off contemplating these priapic drawings."
Mony went often to visit the wounded Russians. There he found again the Polish Red Cross nurse who had given him lessons of cruelty in Fedor's tent. Among the wounded men was a captain who came from Archangelsk. His wound was not very grave and Mony conversed often with him, seated at his bedside.
One day, the wounded man, who was called Katache, handed him a letter and told him to read it. The letter said that Katache's wife was betraying him with a fur dealer.
"I adore her," said the captain. "I love this woman more than myself and I suffer terribly to know that she is with another man, but I am happy, terribly happy."
"How do you reconcile the two feelings?" asked Mony. "They are contradictory."
"They are all mixed up with me," said Katache. "I cannot conceive of sexual pleasure without grief."
"You are a masochist then?" asked Mony with lively interest.
"Put it that way if you like," said the officer. "Besides, masochism conforms to the precepts of the Christian religion. Here, since you are interested in me, I shall tell you about myself."
"I'd like to hear very much," replied Mony. "But first of all drink this lemonade to refresh your throat."
Captain Katache began thus: "I was born in 1874 at Archangelsk and since my early years I have experienced bitter pleasure every time anyone has punished me. Every mishap which befell my family developed and whetted this faculty of deriving pleasure out of misfortune.
"Undoubtedly that came of too much tenderness. My father was assassinated when I was fifteen and I remember that I derived my first sexual pleasure from his death. The thrill and terror of it made me ejaculate. My mother went mad. I used to visit her at the asylum. I used to toss myself off when I heard her extravasate in her unearthly way. For she believed that she had been changed into a chamberpot, sir, and she would describe the imaginary arses that crapped into her. She had to be shut up the day that she thought the bowl was full. She became dangerous and cried out for the lavatory attendant to come and empty her. It used to grieve me to listen to her. She recognized me.
"'My son,' she would say, 'you don't love your mother any more-you frequent other toilets. Sit on me and crap at your ease.
"'Where better to do it than in one's mother's breast?
"'And then, son, don't forget the hole is full. Yesterday a beer merchant with the cholic came and used me. I'm overflowing. I can't hold any more. The lavatory attendant must definitely be sent for."
"Believe me, sir, I was profoundly disgusted, and sad too, for I adored my mother, but I felt at the same time an unspeakable pleasure on hearing her unearthly conversation. I derived pleasure from it and I tossed myself off.
"I was pushed into the army and I was able, thanks to influence, to remain in the north. I frequented the house of a Protestant pastor who was established in Archangelsk. He was English and he had a daughter so marvelous that no description of mine could come close to the beauty she was in actuality. One day during a tea dance we were dancing together and after the waltz, as though by chance, Florence put her hand between my thighs and said: 'Have you got a hard on?'
"She noticed that I was in a terrible state of erection, but she smiled and said to me, 'Me too, I'm all wet, but not on your account. I'm like this for Dyre."
"And she went wheedling across to Dyre, who was a Norwegian commercial traveler. They joked for a moment and then, when the band struck up a tune, they went off laced together and looking at one another amorously. I suffered like a martyr. Jealousy gnawed at my heart.
"And if Florence was desirable, I desired her even more the day I knew she didn't love me. I discharged when I saw her dancing with my rival. I imagined them in one another's arms and I had to turn away to hide my tears.
"Well, incited by the demon of concupiscence and jealousy, I swore to myself that she would become my wife. She was strange, Florence was, she spoke four languages-French, German, Russian and English-but she really understood none of them and the jargon which she employed had a savor of savagery about it. For myself, I speak French very well and I have a deep understanding of French literature, especially the poets of the end of the 19th century. I wrote verses for Florence which I called Symbolist and which, in a simple way, reflected my sadness.
The anemone flowered in Archangel's name
When the angels wept to be angels
And Florence's name sighed to be done
With the dizzy oaths from the rungs of the ladder.
White voices singing in the name of Archangel
Have absolved the funeral chants of Florence
Whose returning flowers thickly entranced
The oozily thawing ceilings and walls.
O Florence! Archangel!
One, a laurel berry, but the other an heavenly herb.
One by one the women lean over the brink
And overwhelm the dark well with flowers and relics,
Relics of the Archangel and Archangel's flowers.
"Garrison life in Archangelsk in peacetime is full of leisure. Hunting and worldly duties share with the military life. Hunting held little attraction for me and my worldly occupations could be summed up in a few words: to win Florence whom I loved and who did not love me. This was a hard task.
"I suffered death a thousand times over because Florence detested me more and more, made fun of me and flirted with the white bear hunters, the Scandinavian merchants and even, one day, when a miserable French operetta company had come to perform in our distant mists, I came upon Florence during an aurora borealis skating hand in hand with the tenor, a repugnant goat born in Carcassonne.
"But I was rich, sir, my suit was not received indifferently by Florence's father. I married her finally.
"We set out for France and on the way she would not permit me to make love to her. We arrived in Nice in February during the carnival. We rented a villa, and on a day on which there was a flower battle, Florence told me that she had decided to lose her virginity that very evening. I believed that at last my love for her was going to be recompensed. Alas! My voluptuous calvary was only beginning!
"Florence added that it was not I that she had chosen to fulfill this function.
"'You are too ridiculous,' said she, 'and you would not know how. I want a Frenchman. The French are gallant and know all about love. I myself will choose my violator during the fete."
"Used to obedience, I bowed my head. We went to the battle of the flowers. A young man with a Nice or Monaco accent looked at Florence. She turned her head, smiling. I suffered more than anyone suffered in all of Dante's circles of Hell.
"During the flower battle we saw him again. He was alone in a carriage decorated with a profusion of rare flowers. We were in a madly decorated Victoria because she had insisted it be entirely covered with roses. When the young man's carriage passed ours, he threw roses at Florence, who was looking at him lovingly. She threw bouquets of roses at him. Then, in a trice, enervated by it all, she threw a bouquet very hard. The soft and viscous flowers and stems left a stain on the coxcomb's flannel clothing. Immediately, Florence excused herself and, getting out of the carriage without further ado, she climbed into his.
"He was a young man from Nice, rich from an olive oil business which his father had left him. Prospero-that was his name-received my wife without ceremony and at the end of the battle his carriage had first place and mine had second. The music was playing. I saw my wife holding the banner won by my rival whom she was kissing bang slap on the mouth!
"In the evening she insisted that we dine with Prospero, whom she had brought to our villa. She was exquisite and I was suffering.
"My wife took us both into the bedroom, me sad to death and Prospero a little astonished and a little uneasy at his good fortune. She pointed out an armchair to me saying: 'You are going to watch a lesson in lust; try to derive some profit from it."
"Then she told Prospero to undress her. He did so rather gracefully. Florence was charming. Her firm flesh, fatter than one would have supposed, palpitated under the young man's hands. He undressed himself as well and his shaft was standing. I noticed with pleasure that his was no bigger than mine. It was even smaller and it was pointed. In short, it was a fit instrument for a maiden. Both of them were charming; she, her hair done beautifully, her eyes sparkling with desire, pink in her lace chemise.
"Prospero sucked her teats which were pointed like cooing doves and, passing his hand under the chemise, he fingered her a little while she amused herself by pulling down his shaft and letting go suddenly so that it came to smack against the young man's belly. I cried in my armchair. Suddenly Prospero took my wife in his arms and lifted up her chemise from behind. Her pretty pink bum appeared, indented with little creases.
"She laughed as Prospero spanked her and the roses mixed with the lilies on her behind. Soon she became serious and said, 'Take me."
"He carried her on to the bed and I heard a cry of pain from my wife when the hymen was rended to allow the passage of her conqueror. They did not pay any more attention to me. I was sobbing but taking pleasure in my grief all the same and unable to restrain myself any longer, I took out my tool and tossed myself off in their honor.
"They must have come fifteen times. Then my wife, as if she had noticed my presence, said to me, 'Come and see, my dear husband, what a beautiful job Prospero has done."
"I approached the bed, my rod in the air, and my wife, seeing that I was bigger than Prospero, became scornful of him. She stroked me and said, 'Prospero, your tool is not worth a damn, for my husband is an idiot and he has a bigger one than you have. You have deceived me. My husband is going to avenge me. Andre-that's me-whip the skin off this man's back!'
"I hurled myself upon him, and seizing a dog whip that was on the night table, I horsewhipped him with all the strength which my jealousy lent to me. I whipped him for a long time. I was stronger than he was and in the end my wife took pity on him. She made him get dressed and sent him away with a final farewell.
"When he was gone I believed that my miseries were at an end. Alas! She said to me, 'Andre, give me your rod here.' She stroked me but did not permit me to touch her. Then she called her dog, a handsome great dane, and she stroked his tool for a moment. When his pointed fool was in a state of erection, she put the dog on top of her and ordered me to help the beast. Its tongue was hanging out and it was snorting with lust.
"I suffered so much that I fainted as I ejaculated. When I came to myself, Florence was calling me with wild cries. The dog's penis, once it was in, did not want to come out. Both of them, the woman and the beast, spent half an hour in unfruitful efforts to detach themselves. But a gristly part of the great dane's tool retained it in the frightened slit of my wife. I applied cold water and they were soon free again. Since then my wife has never had the desire to make love to dogs. To reward me, she tossed me off and then she sent me to bed in my own room.
"The next evening I begged my wife to allow me to fulfill my marital rights. 'I adore you,' I said. 'No one loves you as I do. I am your slave. Do what you will with me."
"She was naked and delicious. Her hair was scattered on the bed. Her strawberry-tipped breasts drew me and I wept. She took out my rod and slowly, with little motions of her hand, she stroked me. Then she rang the bell and a young chambermaid whom we had hired in Nice came in. She was in her nightgown, for she had been in bed. My wife made me take my place in the armchair again and I witnessed the frolics of the two bitches who screwed and blew and slobbered at the mouth. They were playing pussy, rubbing one another with their thighs, and I watched young Ninette's heavy arse rise from on top of my wife, whose eyes were swimming with lust.
"I wanted to approach them but Florence and Ninette made a fool of me. They knocked my rod about. Then they plunged once again into their unnatural lust.
"The next day my wife did not call on Ninette; it was an officer of the Chasseurs Alpins who came to make me suffer. His tool was blackish and very large. He was brutal. He insulted and beat me. When he had screwed my wife he ordered me to come close to the bed and, lifting the dog whip, he struck me across the face with it. Alas, a burst of laughter from my wife caused in me again that bittersweet pain with which I was familiar. I allowed myself to be undressed by the cruel soldier-he needed to flog someone to excite himself. When I was naked he insulted me. He called me a cuckold, a supernumerary, and asked me where my horns were, ther; he lifted the dog whip and beat me on the behind with it.
"The first blows were cruel. But I saw that my wife had an appetite for my suffering and her pleasure became mine. I took pleasure in suffering. Each stroke fell violently, and-oh, voluptuously!-on my buttocks. The first smarting gradually became an exquisite tickling and I began to get a hard on. The blows soon ripped my skin and the blood which flowed from my buttocks excited me strangely. It actually increased my pleasure.
"My wife's finger was poking around in the froth which decorated her pretty slit. With her other hand she was stroking my torturer. Then, suddenly, the blows doubled in their intensity, and I felt that the moment of my orgasm was approaching. I was transported; martyrs whom the Church honors must have had such moments. Bleeding like a dog, I got up, my rod hard, and threw myself on my wife. Neither she nor her lover could restrain me. I fell into her arms and my shaft had only grazed the adored short-hairs of her slit when I came with a horrible cry.
"Immediately, the Alpine soldier dragged me from my haven. My wife, red with rage, said that he must punish me.
"She took some hairpins and stuck them into my body, one by one, voluptuously. I uttered frightful cries of pain. Any man would have had pity on me! But my indignant wife, red in the face, lay down again on the bed. She had her legs wide open and she pulled her lover towards her by his enormous donkey's tool. Then, pulling apart the intermingled mass of hairs and lips, she forced his member in up to the stones, while her lover bit her on the breast and I, I rolled about like a madman on the ground, forcing the cruel hairpins to penetrate more deeply.
"I woke up in the arms of the pretty Ninette, who, bending over me, was extracting the hairpins. I heard my wife in the next room. She was swearing and moaning with pleasure in the arms of her officer. The pain caused by the extraction of the hairpins coupled with that caused in me by my wife's pleasure made my shaft stand like a ten-pound cod.
"Ninette, as I have said, was bending over me. I seized her by the short-hairs and felt her humid vent under my fingers. But alas! At that moment the door opened and a horrible botcha; that's to say a Piedmontese bricklayer's laborer, came in.
"It was Ninette's lover and he was in a great rage. He lifted his mistress' skirts and began to spank her in front of me. Then he took off his leather belt and thrashed her with that.
"She was crying out, 'I didn't make love with my master!'
"'It's for that,' said the bricklayer, 'that I've got you by the arse hairs!'
"Ninette defended herself in vain. Her great brown arse leapt about under the cuts of the belt which whistled and ran through the air like a striking snake. Her behind was soon on fire. She must have loved this punishment, for she turned round and, seizing her lover by the trouser flap, she opened his trousers and brought out a shaft and sack which must have weighed at least three and a half kilos.
"The pig was standing like a rod! He lay down on top of Ninette, who crossed her slender and nervous legs around his workman's back. I saw the huge member enter the hairy slit which swallowed it like a lozenge and vomited it up again like a piston. They took a long time to come and their cries mingled with those of my wife.
"When it was over, the botcha, who was red as a tomato, got up again and, seeing me tossing myself off, he insulted me. Then he took up his belt again and began to scourge me all over with it. The belt caused me terrible pain, for I was feeble by this time and no longer had enough strength to feel lust. The buckle bit deeply into my flesh. I cried out 'Mercy!'
"But at that moment my wife came in with her lover and, as a barrel organ was playing a waltz under our windows, the two disheveled couples began to dance on my body, crushing my testicles, my nose, and making me bleed at every pore.
"I became ill. But I was avenged too, because the botcha fell from a scaffolding and broke his skull and the Alpine officer insulted one of his colleagues and was killed by him in a duel. I was recalled to serve in the Extreme Orient by His Majesty. I left my wife. She is always deceiving me."
Thus it was that Katache ended his story. He had excited Mony and the Polish nurse who had entered towards the end and listened intently, quivering with repressed lust.
The prince and the nurse threw themselves on the unfortunate wounded man and, uncovering him, began to beat him. They used some Russian flagstaffs which had been taken in the last battle and which were lying scattered on the ground. His arse leapt at each blow. He was delirious.
"Oh my dear Florence! Is it still your divine hand that is beating me? You're making me hard ... each blow is making me come ... don't forget to toss me off ... oh! That's wonderful! ... you're hitting too hard on the shoulders ... oh! That stroke drew blood ... it's bleeding for you, darling! ... My turtledove ... my darling little fly."
The whore of a nurse beat him as no one had ever been beaten before The arse of the unhappy man rose up livid and splotched in places with a pale blood. Mony felt a wrench at his heart. Suddenly he realized his own cruelty and his fury turned against the nurse. He lifted her skirts and began to beat her. She fell on the ground, raising her sodden buttocks upwards and exhibiting a beauty spot. Mony struck her with all his might, bringing the blood up through the satin flesh. She turned over, crying out as though she were possessed by a devil. Mony's stick beat on her belly with vicious thwacks.
At that moment he had an inspiration of genius. Lifting up the stick which the nurse had dropped, he began to play the drum on the Polish woman's belly. The rat-tat-tat became a flac-flac-flac with dizzy rapidity. Little Bara, whose memory we all cherish, did not drum so well for the charge of Arcole Bridge.
Finally the belly stove in, but Mony went on beating it and, outside the hospital, the Japanese soldiers, thinking it was a call to arms, fell in. The bugles sounded the alert in the camp. Everywhere, regiments formed, and well might they have done so, for the Russions had taken the offensive and were advancing towards the Japanese camp. If it had not been for the drumming of Prince Mony Vibescu the Japanese camp would certainly have been taken. That was, moreover, the decisive victory of the Japanese. It was due to a sadistic Rumanian.
Suddenly several stretcherbearers carrying wounded came into the room. They saw the wounded man, naked and bloody on his bed. They threw themselves on the prince, bound hirn, and led him away.
A council of war condemned him to death by flagellation, and nothing would make the Japanese judges flinch from their verdict. An appeal before the mikado had no success.
Prince Vibescu accepted his lot bravely and prepared to die, a true Hereditary Hospodar of Rumania.
CHAPTER NINE
The day of the execution arrived. Prince Vibescu took confession, communion, made his will, and wrote to his parents. Then a young girl of twelve was led into the prison. This astonished him, but seeing that they were left alone, he began to spoon with her.
She was charming and told him in Rumanian that she was from Bucharest and had been taken prisoner by the Japanese in the rearguard of the Russian army where her parents had been army contractors. She had been asked if she wanted to lose her maidenhead to a Rumanian who was condemned to death and she had accepted.
Mony lifted her skirt and sucked her little plump mound on which there were no hairs as yet, then he spanked her softly and she stroked him. Then he put the head of his rod between the childish legs of the little Rumanian girl but he couldn't get in. She tried to help him by bucking her arse and offering her little breasts, round as tangerines, for the prince to kiss. He penetrated with erotic fury, his tool finally sundering her maidenhead and making her innocent blood flow. Then Mony got up, and, as he had nothing more to hope from human justice, he strangled the little girl. But first, amidst her shocking screams, he gouged her eyes out.
The Japanese soldiers entered then and dragged him out. A herald read the sentence of death in the prison courtyard, an ancient Chinese pagoda of marvelous architecture. The sentence was brief. The condemned man was to receive one stroke of the switch from each man in the Japanese army which was camped in that spot. This army was composed of eleven thousand men.
While he listened to the sentence, the prince looked back over his violent life: the women of Bucharest, the Vice-Consul of Sdrbia, Paris; the murder in the sleeping car, the little Japanese girl in Port Arthur-all these things came back to him.
One fact stood out: he remembered the Boulevard Male-sherbes, Culculine in a spring frock trotting towards the Madeleine and himself, Mony, and he was saying to her, "If I don't make love twenty times running may the eleven thousand virgins or even the eleven thousand switches chastise me!"
He had not come twenty times running and the day had arrived when the eleven thousand switches were going to chastise him.
He was there in his daydream when the soldiers shook him and led him to his executioners. The eleven thousand Japanese were ranged in two rows facing one another. Each man held a flexible cane. Mony was undressed. Then he had to march along this cruel road bordered on either side by his cruel executioners. The first strokes merely startled him. They fell upon his satin skin and left dark red marks. Stoically, he bore the first thousand cuts before he fell in his own blood, his shaft erect.
Then he was put onto a barrow and the lugubrious walk proceeded, punctuated by the dry thwacks of the canes which beat on his swollen and bloody flesh. Soon his rod could no longer withhold its jet of sperm and rising up several times it spat its whitish liquid into the faces of the soldiers, who beat the tattered human frame all the harder.
At the 2,000th blow, Mony gave up the ghost. The sun was radiant. The songs of the Manchurian birds made the spring morning even more gay. The sentence was executed and the last soldiers struck their blows on a mere formless tatter, a sort of pork mincemeat in which one could no longer distinguish anything except for the face which had been carefully respected and whose wide open glassy eyes seemed to contemplate the divine majesty of the world beyond.
At that moment a convoy of Russian prisoners passed by the place of execution. They were brought to a halt there to impress the Muscovites.
But a cry followed by two others rang out. Three prisoners threw themselves forwards and, as they were not chained, fell on the body of the executed man who had just received ten thousand cuts of the rod. They fell on their knees and with tears streaming down their cheeks they kissed Mony's head devotedly.
Momentarily taken aback, the Japanese soldiers soon became aware that of one of the prisoners was a man, even a colossus, the other two were pretty women disguised as soldiers. They were indeed Cornaboeux, Culculine and Alexine, who had been captured after the disaster which had overtaken the Russian army. At first the Japanese soldiers respected their grief and then, lured on by two women, they began to tease them.
Cornaboeux was left on his knees beside the body of his master and Culculine and Alexine, who fought vainly, had their trousers taken off. The beautiful rippling white arses of the pretty Paris women soon came to light. The soldiers marveled. Then, softly, they began to cane these charming posteriors which sailed about under the blows like drunken moons, and when the pretty girls tried to get up again, their gaping slits were visible beneath their short hairs.
Falling flat but not too hard, the strokes cut through the air and marked the fat arses of the Parisian women, but in such a manner that the marks soon disappeared and reformed in a new spot at which the switch had begun to strike. When they were excited enough, they were led away to a tent by two Japanese officers, and there they were screwed ten times by men famished from long abstinence.
These Japanese officers were gentlemen of prominent families. They had undertaken espionage in France and knew Paris very well. Culculine and Alexine had no trouble in getting them to promise that the body of Prince Vibescu would be delivered to them. They pretended that they were sisters and that he was their cousin.
There was among the prisoners a French journalist, a correspondent of a provincial newspaper. Before the war he had been a sculptor, not without talent, and he was called Genmolay. Culculine went in search of him to beg him to sculpt a dignified monument to the memory of Prince Vibescu.
Flogging was Genmolay's only passion. He only demanded of Culculine that he be allowed to flog her. She accepted and came at the prearranged hour with Alexine and Cornaboeux. The two women and the two men got undressed. Alexine and Culculine got onto the beds with their heads down and their arses in the air, and the two robust Frenchmen, armed with switches, began to beat them in such a way that most of the blows fell in the arse slits or on their plump mounds which, in the position they were in, stuck out prettily. The thrashing went on and everybody was excited. The two women accepted martyrdom. The idea that their suffering was going to procure a decent sepulchre for Mony sustained them to the end of their singular trial.
Then Genmolay and Cornaboeux sat down and began to suck each other's big sap-filled rod. At the same time they went on thrashing the trembling buttocks of the two pretty girls.
The next day Genmolay went to work. He had soon finished an astonishing memorial. An equestrian statue of the prince surmounted it. On the pedestal bas-reliefs represented the renowned actions of the prince. On one side he was to be seen leaving the besieged Port Arthur by balloon. And on the other he was represented as the protector of the arts which he came to study in Paris.
The traveler who wanders about the Manchurian countryside between Mukden and Dalny notices all of a sudden, not far from a field of battle still sewn with bones, a monumental tomb of white marble. The Chinese who labor round about it respect it and the Manchurian mother in reply to her child's questions, says to him; "It is a giant cavalier who protected Manchuria against the devils of West and East."
But the traveler generally prefers to ask the porter of the Trans-Manchurian. This guard is a Japanese with bridled eyes. He is clothed like an employee of the P.L.M. He replies modestly, "It is a Japanese drum major who brought about the victory of Mukden."
But if curious to have exact information, the traveler approaches the statue, he remains for a long time pensive after reading this verse which is engraved on the pedestal: Here lies Prince Vibescu Unique lover of eleven thousand switches It is better, traveler, be certain! To deflower eleven thousand bitches
THE ENDMEMOIRS OF A YOUNG RAKEHELL
(Les Exploits d'un jeune Don Juan)
CHAPTER ONE
Summer was back again; my mother had returned to the country, to the estate which we had acquired only recently. My father, engrossed in his business, had remained in the city. He regretted having purchased this estate which he had acquired at my mother's insistence.
"You're the one who wanted this country house," he said. "Go out there if you wish but don't force me to go. Besides, my dear Anna, you can rest assured that I'm going to resell it at the first opportunity."
"But, dear," said my mother, "you have no idea how much good the country air will do the children."
"Yes, yes, I know," replied my father, consulting his notebook and taking his hat. "I gave way to your whim but I was wrong."
So my mother left for her campagne, as she put it, intending to make the most of what might prove to be a short stay. She was accompanied by a younger, still unmarried sister, a maid, by myself, her only son, and by one of my sisters who was a year older than I.
We arrived in the best of spirits at the country house, which the people of that district had nicknamed Le Chateau. Le Chateau, which was an old dwelling no doubt dating from the 17th century, had once belonged to wealthy farmers.
The interior was spacious but the arrangement of the rooms was so extraordinary that the house was really rather inconvenient to live in, with numerous wasted steps occasioned by the architectural disorder. The rooms were not disposed as in ordinary houses, but were separated by a mass of dark passages, winding corridors, spiral staircases. In short, the place was a veritable labyrinth and it took several days of exploring the house before one had any real notion of the layout of the apartments.
The outbuildings, where the farm and stables were located, were separated from the main house by a courtyard. Adjoining these buildings was a chapel which could be entered as easily from courtyard, main house, or outbuilding. This chapel was in a good state of repair. Formerly a monk had officiated there. He had lived in the chateau and administered to the spiritual needs of the little village round about.
Since the last one died, the office had never been filled again, and only on Sundays and feast days, as well as from time to time to hear confessions, did a chaplain from the neighboring monastery come to our chapel to conduct those services indispensable for the eternal salvation of the worthy peasants.
When the monk came, he inevitably stayed to dinner, and a room was prepared for him near the chapel in case he cared to spend the night there. My mother, my aunt and the maid, Kate, were busy getting the room ready; the bailiff, the farm valet, and a servant were helping them.
Since the harvest was already almost completely in, my sister and I were permitted to go for walks where we pleased. We rambled throughout the chateau, through all its nooks and crannies, from cellar to roof. We played hide-and-seek around the columns, or else one of us, taking refuge behind a staircase, lay in ambush for the other to pass, then sprang out with a bloodcurdling shriek.
The wooden staircase leading to the attic was very steep. One day I had preceded Berthe down and hidden myself between two chimney flues where, in contrast to the staircase which was lighted by a skylight in the roof, it was very dark. When she appeared, coming down cautiously, I sprang out, imitating the barking of a ferocious dog. Berthe, who had not suspected I was there, was so frightened that she slipped, missed the next stair down, and fell so that her head was at the bottom of the staircase while her legs remained above on the steps.
Her dress was naturally umbrellaed upwards until it covered her face, leaving her legs exposed. When I approached her, laughing, I noticed that her blouse had slipped up above her navel. Berthe was not wearing any panties, because, as she told me later, hers were dirty, and we had not yet had time to unpack the linen. So it was that for the first time I saw my sister in an immodest state.
To tell the truth I had already seen her naked because we had often been bathed together during the past few years. But I had seen only the backside of her body, or at most a side, because my mother and my aunt had placed us back to back with our little buttocks towards each other as they washed us. Both ladies took good care to see that I didn't peep, and when they handed us our little nightgowns, they bade us place our hands carefully in front of us.
So it was that Kate, one day when she had taken my aunt's place in giving Berthe her bath, had been scolded for forgetting to bid Berthe to put her hands in front of her. I was always bathed either by my mother or by my aunt. When I was in the large bathtub I was told, "All right, Roger, now you can remove your hand."
And as you can well imagine, it was always one of them who soaped and scrubbed me. My mother, who believed in the principle that children should be treated as children as long as possible, had kept this system in practice.
At that time I was thirteen years old and my sister Berthe fourteen. I knew nothing at all about love or even about the difference between sexes. But when I felt myself naked in front of women, when I felt their soft, feminine hands wandering here and there over my body, I experienced a curious sensation.
I remember very well that every time my aunt Margaret washed and dried my sexual parts I was conscious of an unfamiliar, vague, but extremely agreeable sensation. I noticed that my little penis suddenly became as stiff as steel, and that instead of drooping as before, it reared its head. Instinctively I drew closer to my aunt and pushed and thrust my belly forward as far as I could.
One day when this happened, my aunt Margaret blushed suddenly, and that made her delicate features even more beautiful. She had noticed that my little knob was erect, and, feigning ignorance, beckoned to my mother who was bathing her feet with us. Kate was then busy washing Berthe, but she, too, immediately became attentive.
As a matter-of-fact I had noticed that she much preferred to take charge of me than of my sister, and that she never missed an opportunity of helping my mother and aunt when they attended to me. Now she too wanted to see what was going on. She turned her head and looked at me without the least constraint while my aunt and my mother exchanged significant glances.
My mother was in petticoats and had tucked them up above her knees so that she could cut her toenails more easily. I had caught a glimpse of her pretty, plump feet, her beautiful, nervous calves, and her round, white knees. The sight of my mother's legs had affected my virility as much as had my aunt's caresses. My mother probably realized this, because she blushed and let her petticoats tumble down.
The ladies smiled and Kate began to laugh, until she was stopped by the disapproving glances of my aunt and mother. But she tried to justify herself by saying, "Berthe also laughs when I come to that spot with a warm sponge." My mother ordered her to hold her tongue.
At that very moment the bathroom door opened, and my elder sister Elise came in. She was fifteen years old and went to high school. Although my aunt had adroitly thrown a shirt over my bare body, Elise had time to see me, and that irritated me no end. For although I was not at all ashamed in front of Berthe, I didn't like Elise seeing me naked, because for four years now she had no longer taken her bath with us, but bathed either with the ladies or with Kate.
I was vaguely annoyed that all the women of the household had the right to come into the bathroom when I was there, whereas this same right was denied me. And I found it absolutely outrageous that I was denied entry even when only my sister Elise was being bathed, for I saw no earthly reason why she should be treated any differently from us in spite of her young lady's affectations.
Berthe herself was incensed by Elise's unjust pretensions, for Elise had one day refused to undress in front of her, and yet did not hesitate to do so when my aunt and my mother were alone with her in the bathroom. We could not understand such behavior, which actually stemmed from the fact that Elise had reached the age of puberty. Her hips were rounded, her nipples were beginning to swell, and, as I learned later, the first pubic hair had appeared on her mound.
That day Berthe had merely heard my mother say to my aunt as they were leaving the bathroom, "With Elise it came on surprisingly early."
"Yes, mine was a year later."
"And mine two years later."
"We'll have to give her a bedroom to herself now."
"She can share mine," my aunt had replied.
Berthe had related all this to me, and naturally understood as little about it as I did.
But on that particular occasion, as soon as my sister Elise had come in and seen me completely naked with my little staff standing as stiff as an angry little cock, I noticed that her gaze was riveted on that spot, and that she could not conceal a movement of profound astonishment. But she did not drop her eyes. On the contrary.
When my mother asked her suddenly if she too would like to take a bath, she blushed and stammered, "Yes, mama."
"Roger and Berthe have already finished theirs," my mother said, "you can get undressed."
Elise obeyed without hesitation and stripped down to her chemise. I had just time enough to see that she was more developed than Berthe, but that was all before they hustled me out of the bathroom.
After that I was no longer bathed with Berthe. Either my aunt Margaret or my mother was still present, because ever since my mother had read somewhere of a child's having drowned in his bath she had been morbidly afraid to let me bathe alone. But the ladies, though they continued to wash the rest of my body, henceforth refrained from touching my tool or ballbearings.
Nevertheless there were still times when I got an erection in front of my mother or aunt Margaret. The ladies noticed it all right, although my mother turned her head away when she lifted me out of the tub and helped me on with my nightshirt, and my aunt dropped her gaze to the floor.
My aunt Margaret was twenty-six, ten years younger than my mother, but since she had always refrained from giving her heart away, she bore her age extremely well and appeared to be a young girl. My nakedness seemed to make quite an impression on her, for each time she bathed me she spoke to me in a soft flutey voice.
Once when she had soaped and rinsed me vigorously her hand brushed my little rod. She recoiled as though she had touched a snake. I noticed it and, slightly peeved, said to her, "Dearest darling auntie, why don't you wash your little Roger all over?"
She blushed deeply. "But I did wash you all over," she said to me nervously.
"Come now auntie, wash my prickly pear as well."
"For shame, you wicked little boy! You are perfectly capable of washing it yourself."
"No auntie, please, you wash it. I can't do it nearly as well as you can."
"Oh the little rascal!" said my aunt, smiling. And taking the sponge she carefully washed my genitals.
"Come, auntie dear, let me give you a great big kiss for being so sweet," I said.
And I kissed her pretty cherry red lips behind which sparkled her beautifully white teeth.
As soon as I was out of the bathtub I beseeched her to dry me. So my aunt dried me, lingering perhaps even longer than was necessary over my sensitive parts.
This so excited me that, holding fast to the edge of the bathtub in order to protrude my belly even farther, I became so agitated that my aunt told me gently, "That's enough, Roger, you're no longer a little boy. From now on you'll take your bath alone."
"Oh no, auntie, please not alone! You must bathe me. I enjoy it ever so much more when you bathe me than when mama does it."
"Get dressed, Roger."
"Be a nice auntie and take a bath with me some time."
"Get dressed, Roger," she said, moving to the window. "No! I want to see you take a bath, too," I said. "Roger!"
"Auntie, if you don't I'll tell Daddy that you've taken my knob in your mouth again."
My aunt blushed deeply. As a matter-of-fact she really had done that, but only for a second, one day when I had not wanted to take my bath. The water had been too cold and I'd run off to my room to hide. My aunt had come looking for me and at length had taken my little penis in her mouth, squeezing it between her lips for a second. I had enjoyed it so much that I had finally relented and become docile as a lamb.
Besides, in a similar circumstance my mother had done the same, and I know many instances of this practice. Women who bathe little boys often do it. For them the effect is the same as that produced for us when, as men, we see and touch a young girl's tender crevice, but women know better than men how to vary their pleasures.
During my earliest years I had an elderly child's nurse who tickled my tiddley when I couldn't get to sleep or even gently sucked at it. I even remember that one day she placed me on her warm belly and kept me there for a long time. But as all that happened so long ago I remember it only vaguely.
As soon as my aunt had recovered her composure she said to me angrily, "That was only a joke, Roger, and you were only a little boy then. But I see that it's impossible to joke with you any longer, you're a man now." And she glanced again at my erection. "What's more, you're a wicked little scamp, I don't love you any more." And so saying she gave my rod a little slap.
Then she began to leave and I held her back, saying, "Excuse me, auntie dear, I won't say anything to anyone even if you get into the bathtub."
"I suppose I can do that at least," she said smiling. She slipped her bare feet out of her red slippers, pulled her dressing gown above her knees and climbed into the bath. The water reached the top of her calves.
"Now I've done what you asked, Roger, be good and get dressed like a nice boy or else I'll never look at you again."
She said it with such conviction that I realized she meant it. By then I no longer had a hard-on. I took my nightshirt and slipped into it while my aunt was bathing her feet. But then, so that I wouldn't make any further demands on her, she announced that she wasn't feeling well and that she wouldn't take a bath after all.
When I was dressed she got out of the tub to dry herself. The towel, the same one which I had used, was wet. I got down on my knees and wiped my aunt's dainty feet. She made no protest. When I wiped between her toes she laughed and when I touched and tickled the soles of her feet her good humor returned completely and she agreed to let me dry her calves.
When I reached her knees, however, she told me not to go any higher. I obeyed, although for a long time I had had a burning desire to know just what it was that women carried beneath their skirts which was so precious that they were always frantic to hide it.
My aunt and I were friends once again but from then on I bathed alone. My mother no doubt learned these things from my aunt but she never gave me any indication of it.
Now it is time to turn aside from these observations, which were necessary for what is to follow, and to return to pick up the thread of our story.
CHAPTER TWO
My sister had fallen to the foot of the stairs and was lying with her skirts all topsy-turvy. Even when she saw me standing right beside her, she made no effort to get up.
It was as though, from fear and the shock of her fall, she had been struck by lightning. Thinking she was merely trying to frighten me, I let my curiosity get the better of any feelings of pity I might otherwise have had.
My eyes were riveted on her nakedness. Where the lower part of her belly joined her thighs, I saw a peculiar elevation in the form of a fleshy triangular mound, on which a few blonde hairs were visible. Approximately where the thighs joined I noticed that the mound was cleft by a large crevice about an inch and a half long, on either side of which two lips opened left and right. I glimpsed the spot where that cleft came to an end just as my sister started to scramble to her feet.
She probably had not had the faintest notion that she was lying so exposed, for otherwise she would immediately have arranged her clothes. But suddenly, as she drew her feet down beneath her, her thighs spread and I noticed that the lips, only part of which I had seen when the thighs had been closed, continued until they came together near the buttocks.
During this quick movement of her legs she had half-opened her slit, which at that time must have been from three to three and a half inches long, and I was able to see that the flesh inside was red, in contrast to the milk whiteness of the rest of her body. Only one spot between her thighs, near the lips, was slightly red. But that pale red had doubtless been caused by sweat and moisture.
The width of a few fingers separated her slit, whose form resembled the split in an apricot, from her buttocks. There in all its splendor lay Berthe's pot-hole, which I glimpsed when she turned her back to me as she was getting up. The hole, of a darker color, was no larger than the tip of my finger. Between her cheeks the skin was slightly reddened by the sweat which the day's heat had provoked.
My curiosity had been so aroused that I had not realized how badly my sister must have hurt herself in falling, but finally awakening to that possibility, I flew to her rescue. That whole scene had certainly not lasted for more than a minute. I helped Berthe to her feet. She was unsteady on her pins and complained of a headache.
There was of course an ample supply of cold water in the courtyard well, but had we gone there we would certainly have been spotted and called to account, with the result that all further excursions throughout the chateau would have been forbidden us. So I suggested that we go to the little pond at the end of the garden which we had one day espied from the rooftop.
Upon reaching this spot we found, almost hidden amongst dense undergrowth, some artificial rocks, whence a spring flowed into the pond.
Berthe sat down on a stone bench. I made some compresses with our handkerchiefs. She was .slightly overheated and out of breath. But it was well before noon, and at the end of half an hour she was feeling much better, although she still sported an impressive lump on her head. Fortunately, however, her hair concealed it.
During that half hour I had catalogued all I had just seen, and fully enjoyed letting my mind linger over these new discoveries. But I had no idea how, in the light of them, I should act with Berthe.
Finally I decided what I should do. While Berthe had been lying there naked I had noticed that under her feathery bush she had a beauty spot at the point where her slit ended.
It so happened that I had one too, in exactly the same place, just behind my sack. My mother and aunt had one day looked at it laughingly, and I had never understood why. Later I had examined my buttocks in the mirror and discovered it.
When I told Berthe about it she appeared surprised and blushed profusely. At first she pretended not to understand, and when I carefully described its position to her, stretching out on the ground with my legs spread to show her how I had happened to see it, she became horribly embarrassed.
I had to make sure that we were alone in the garden. The surrounding vegetation was high enough to hide us from any distant eye, and we could easily see if anyone was approaching. I unbuttoned my suspenders and, letting fall my light summer trousers, lay down on my back directly in front of my sister.
"Oh, goodness, Roger, if anyone were to see you!" she said half aloud, without, however, shifting her gaze.
"There's nobody around here, Berthe," I replied in the same half-hushed tone. Then, getting up, I stood in front of her, lifted my shirt and said, "Since I saw all of you, you can see all of me."
Berthe's curiosity was aroused, and she looked at me without constraint. Her gaze was beginning to affect me; my member began to stir, then rose and, stiffening, bared its head.
"You see, Berthe, I make water out of that little hole, but now I can't, even though I want to."
"I've had to go for a long time," she said softly, "but I'm ashamed to. Don't look at me, Roger."
"Now, Berthe, don't be such a prissy. If you hold it too long your bladder will burst and you'll die. That's what our old nurse used to say."
Berthe got up, glanced all round, then squatted beside the bench and began to urinate. I bent down quickly so as not to miss a trick, and saw a thin but steady stream spurting from the top of her cleft and falling obliquely to the ground.
"No, Roger!" she said tearfully, "that's hot nice." She finished and stood up.
"But Berthe, nobody can see us," I protested. "Don't be like that." I smiled and added, "Look at me, I'm not shy in front of you." I began to urinate, but in jerks, because my member was still stiff. Berthe burst out laughing. Taking advantage of her good mood, I deftly raised her skirts, forced her to squat and made her pee.
She no longer resisted, but spread her legs and bent forward slightly. I saw the stream which fell to the ground with a splash before it slackened off. My sister seemed to be forcing at the end, and her crevice opened near the top, revealing the red flesh.
All this lasted only a few seconds. The stream had dried to a mere dribble. Suddenly I seized the lips of her Lady Jane and drew them apart. She seemed to enjoy it immensely, for otherwise she would never have lifted her skirts so obligingly.
In so doing, I discovered that her crack, which might be compared to a half opened mussel, contained two additional lips, smaller than the outside ones. These inner lips, a beautiful red, were shut tight. At the top was the little hole through which she had just peepeed. A little jut of flesh the size of a pea was also visible. I touched it and found it to be extremely hard.
My caresses seemed to please my sister, for she remained motionless, pushing her belly out slightly. She became very excited and lifted her skirt even higher to above her navel. Then I caressed her belly, moving my hands exploringly across her flesh. I tickled her navel and tongued around it.
Then I moved off to get a better view, and saw for the first time the lovely down adorning her soft rectangular mound. The hair was sparse, short and downy, so blonde that one would really have had to be close to see it. Not that I had much more myself, but mine was darker. I twisted the hair a bit and told Berthe how surprised I was to find that the color of our pubic hair was so different.
"It's always like that," she replied.
"How do you know?"
"Kate told me so once when we were alone in the bath. Besides, I'm going to have my periods soon."
"What are they?"
"There's a flow of blood every month for several days from your Lady Jane. Kate had her periods and hair when she was my age."
"Does she have hair like yours?"
"Don't be silly!" Berthe said with evident superiority.
And letting her clothes fall back into place she added, "Kate has red hair and mine is blonde. She uses oil on her head to make her hair seem darker. Besides, she has so much hair down below that you can only see her thingama-jig if she spreads her legs apart."
While Berthe had been saying all this my member had unstiffened.
Berthe noticed it and said, "You see, your tiddley had shrunk again. Kate told me all about it one day when I asked her why she had laughed in the bathroom. She told me that Roger's member had stood up straight like a man's. As a matter-of-fact, she says that it's pretty big. If he were a man, she said, I'd let him stick me. Watch your step that he doesn't try to stick you, Berthe."
"What's that mean, to stick someone?"
"Well, you know, when two people stroke each other. Kate's already done it to me, and she made me do it to her, too. I enjoy what she does much more than what you did to me just now. She always wets her finger.
"She made me use my thumb, because it seems that that's the finger which goes in the farthest. So I moved it back and forth as fast as I could and she loved it. She did it to me and I loved it, too, but the first time she made me do it to her she scared me 'most to death. She began to sigh and pant, and then when she started to shout and shake all over I thought I'd hurt her and was going to stop. But she said, 'No, Berthe, don't stop,' and became ever so excited and cried out, 'Oh Berthe, it's coming, oh, oh, oh!'
"And then she fell back on the bed as though she had fainted. When I took my finger out of her crack it was covered with something gluey. She made me wash and promised to make me come when I was a little older and had hair on my mound."
A thousand thoughts raced across my mind. I had a hundred questions I wanted to ask, for there was much of all this that I didn't quite understand.
Who knows what might have happened if the dinner bell had not rung? I cast a final glance at Berthe's treasures, and showed her mine. Then we both set our clothes in order and kissed, promising, on our word of honor, to say nothing to anyone of what had transpired between us. We were on the point of leaving when the sound of voices detained us.
CHAPTER THREE
But then we realized that the bell which had just rung was not for us, but to call the servants to lunch. And since we were respectable, we were in no special hurry to leave, since anyone coming upon us there would have had absolutely no inkling of what we had just been doing.
The noise we had heard close by had come from beyond the garden. We soon saw that the voices belonged to some servant girls who had been working in the fields directly behind the garden. But since the servants' lunch began only fifteen minutes after the first bell, we could watch their sport.
It had rained the night before. The freshly ploughed earth clung to the girls' feet, and their skirts-in truth they each appeared to be wearing only one-were extremely short, reaching barely to their knees. They were not extraordinarily pretty, but they were nevertheless sturdy sun-tanned peasant girls, whose ages ranged between 20 and 30.
When they reached the spring they sat down on the grass along the bank of the stream and dipped their feet into the water. As they bathed their feet they set to chattering like a flock of magpies.
They were directly in front of us and not 30 feet away. The contrast between their bronzed calves and white knees was clearly visible, and in some cases even the hint of the thighs.
Berthe did not seem to be enjoying this spectacle in the least, and began tugging on my arm for us to leave. But then we heard footsteps close by and saw three hired men approaching along a little path which ran beside our hiding place. .
Some of the girls set to arranging their clothes when they saw the men approaching, and in particular one girl whose coal-black hair and clear grey roguish eyes led one to believe that she was of Spanish descent.
The first of the hirelings, a dull looking clod, took no notice of the women's presence and, standing directly in front of our hiding place, unbuttoned his trousers to pee. He took out his member, which looked much the same as mine, except that his glans was completely hidden. He uncovered it to pee. He had lifted his shirttail so high that the hair surrounding his genitals was visible. He had also pulled his eggs out of his trousers and was scratching them with his left hand while holding his member in his right.
I was as bored by all this as Berthe had apparently been when I had pointed out the peasant girls' calves to her, but now she was all eyes. The girls pretended not to notice him. The second hired man likewise unbuttoned his trousers and brought forth a rod which was smaller than his companion's, but brown and half uncovered. He began to urinate. At that the girls all burst out laughing, and their shrieks grew even more hilarious when the third also assumed the position.
By this time the first fellow had finished. He uncovered his rod completely, and shaking off the last bit of dew, bent his knees slightly to replace the package in his pants. In so doing he let fly a clear, emphatic gust of wind and gave a deep sigh of satisfaction-which set the girls to laughing even more.
The hilarity increased when they noticed the third fellow's joy stick. He had placed himself on a slope, so that we could see both his member and the peasant girls seated beyond. He raised it skyward and sent his fountain arching high. The girls' laughter reached a new pitch.
Then the men approached the maids, and one of the latter began to splash water playfully on the stupid looking hired man. The third man remarked to the brunette who, upon seeing the men arrive, had settled her skirts, "A lot of good it does you to hide it, Ursula. I've already seen that article you hold so dear."
"There's plenty of things you haven't seen yet, Valentin! And a lot you'll never see," Ursula replied coquettishly.
"Oh you think so, do you?" said Valentin, who was now standing directly behind her.
And seizing her shoulders he forced her backward to the ground. She tried to remove her feet from the water, but neglected to keep her light skirt and blouse from billowing upward, so that she wound up in the same position as my sister had been in a little while before. Unfortunately, this enjoyable spectacle lasted only a few seconds.
But it had nevertheless lasted long enough for me to see that Ursula, who had already shown herself to be the proud owner of a pair of splendid calves, also possessed a pair of thighs which in themselves were worthy of the highest honors, and buttocks whose cheeks left absolutely nothing to be desired.
Between her thighs, at the bottom of her belly, lay a bush of dark hair which extended far enough to envelop both pretty lips of her slit. But there the hair was more sparsely scattered than above, where it covered an area whose dimensions my hand would scarcely have sufficed to cover.
"You see, Ursula," said Valentin, by now quite excited, "now I've seen your black marmot." And without flinching he took the series of blows and insults which the girl, now really angry, rained upon him.
The second hireling wanted to pull the same stunt with another of the girls as Valentin had tried with Ursula. This second peasant girl was fairly pretty. Her face, neck and arms were so covered with freckles that it was almost impossible to distinguish the real color of her skin. Her legs were also freckled, but the freckles there were larger and more dispersed. She had an intelligent look about her; her eyes were a deep brown, her hair red and crinkly.
She wasn't really pretty, but nevertheless a tempting enough morsel to give a man ideas. And the hired man, Michel, seemed to have a few. "Helen," he said, "you should have a red mound. If it proves to be black, that means you've stolen it somewhere."
"Dirty dog!" spat the lovely peasant girl.
He grabbed her as Valentin had done. But she had time to get to her feet, and instead of getting a glimpse of her pretty mound, Michel received such a storm of blows full in the face that he must have seen all the planets and half the stars.
The other two girls joined in the fracas and began to pummel him. But at last he broke away and, pursued by the three girls' mocking laughter, ran to catch up with his companions.
The girls had finished bathing their feet and had left. Only Ursula and Helen remained, and they were getting ready to go. They were whispering together. Ursula burst out laughing and, wrinkling her forehead, made a wry face. Helen was looking at her and nodding her head in assent.
The former seemed to be thinking over what Helen had told her. Helen shot a glance around her to make sure that everyone had left, then quickly lifted her skirts in front and, holding them high with her left hand, slipped her right hand between her thighs at the spot where one could see the forest of red hair. By the movement of the hair, which was much thicker than Ursula's, one could see that she was squeezing her love lips between her fingers.
Ursula was watching her intently. Suddenly a stream shot forth from the bush; instead of falling straight to the ground, it arched and described a half circle in the air. Both Berthe and I were astonished to see it, for neither of us had ever imagined that women could make water like that.
Ursula likewise seemed surprised, and apparently wanted to try it herself, but she gave up the idea, for just then the second and last bell for lunch rang, and the two girls set off posthaste.
CHAPTER FOUR
When Berthe and I returned to the chateau we found the table already laid. But my mother and my aunt had not quite finished arranging the dining room. While Berthe was helping them I picked up the newspaper which my father had forwarded us, and read a short article which related how a Mr. X had raped a Miss A. I looked up the meaning of the word "rape" in the dictionary, and found "to deflower"-which didn't help matters much, although it gave me another subject for thought.
At table Berthe and I, contrary to our wont, did not exchange a single word. My aunt and mother were surprised by our silence, but the latter concluded merely, "They've probably been fighting again." It seemed wiser to us to conceal our newfound intimacy beneath the fictitious veil of spite.
My mother explained how she had arranged the rooms for my father and herself, and for my aunt. Their rooms were on the first floor, along with Berthe's and Kate's.
Mine was on the ground floor, behind the stairway leading to the library. After lunch I went up to the library to look around. It contained an impressive number of old books and a smattering of modern works.
The room prepared for the friar was right next to the library. It was separated from the chapel by a corridor. The chapel contained two large stalls set near the altar, where the former proprietors had sat at mass. Behind one of these stalls was the master's confessional, whereas the servant's confessional was tucked at the far end of the chapel.
I had time to note all these details after dinner, since Berthe had been called to help the ladies, and I had scarcely had time to give her a stealthy kiss when I had gone out to see if I could be of any help.
Several days passed without anything noteworthy happening. Berthe was still kept busy by the ladies, who had not yet finished getting the house into order.
Since the weather had turned bad, I spent most of my time in the library, where I had been pleasantly surprised to come across an anatomic adas in which I found an illustrated description of the intimate parts of both sexes. The book also contained an explanation of pregnancy and of all the phases of maternity, none of which I had known before.
This last interested me especially because the bailiffs wife was then pregnant, and the sight of her enormous belly had greatly aroused my curiosity. I once had heard her discussing the matter with her husband. Their quarters were on the ground floor right next to mine near the garden.
Needless to say, the events of that memorable day, when I had seen my sister naked, and afterwards the sport of the peasant girls and men, had been constantly with me. My mind returned to them again and again, with the result that I had an erection most of the time. I frequently examined and played with my member. The pleasure I felt when handling it incited me to continue. In bed I amused myself by lying on my belly and rubbing myself against the sheets. My feelings grew more and more sensitive every day. A week passed in this way.
One day when I was sitting in the old leather chair in the library, the atlas opened in front of me to the page describing the female genital organs. I had such an erection that I unbuttoned my trousers and took out my stiff rod. From constant rubbing it now uncovered easily.
I was as a matter-of-fact sixteen by now, and considered myself a man. My hair had grown thicker and resembled a handsome moustache. That particular day I felt such a profound and unaccustomed voluptuousness as I rubbed it that my breathing grew short. I tightened the grip on my member, loosened it, stroking back and forth. I uncovered the tip completely, tickled my sack and my arsehole, then examined my glans, which was deep red in color and as shiny as lacquer.
The pleasure I felt was beyond words. I ended up by discovering the rules for the fine art of masturbation, and stroked my rod regularly and rhythmically, until finally something about which I had previously been unaware happened.
The feeling was so voluptuous that I was led to stretch my legs out in front of me and push against the legs of the table. My body slipped down and was pressing against the back of the chair.
I felt the blood surging into my face. My breathing was becoming difficult I closed my eyes; my mouth dropped slightly open. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind in the space of a minute.
My aunt, in front of whom I had stood naked; my sister, whose pretty little nest I had explored; the powerful thighs of the two maids-all these images flew across my mind. My hand stroked my rod faster and faster. An electric shock coursed through my body.
My aunt! Berthe! Ursula! Helen! ... I felt my member swell, and from the dark red glans gushed forth a whitish liquid, first with a powerful spurt, then in a series of less potent jets. I had just discharged for the first time.
My tool fell limp. I now looked with interest and curiosity at the sperm which had spilled into my right palm. It both looked and smelled like the white of an egg and had the consistency of glue. I licked it and found it to taste like a raw egg. I shook off the last few drops clinging to the tip of my member, which was now completely subdued, and wiped it on my shirt.
From what I had previously read, I knew that I had just given myself up to the pleasures of onanism. I looked the word up in the dictionary and found a long article on the subject, in such detail that anyone who had not previously been aware of the practice would inevitably have been fully enlightened.
The article had once again excited me. The fatigue resulting from my first ejaculation was past. The only tangible evidence of my act was a devouring appetite. At table my aunt and mother remarked upon my appetite but dismissed it as merely due to growth.
I soon came to realize that onanism is like drink; the more you indulge, the more you want.
My member was constantly hard, and my thoughts increasingly voluptuous, but the pleasures of Onan could not satisfy me forever. I thought more and more about the opposite sex; it seemed a shame for me to waste my sperm masturbating.
My tool became darker, my pubic hair a handsome beard, my voice deepened and a few microscopic hairs appeared on my upper lip. I realized that I lacked only one experience of manhood, coitus, which is the term by which the books designate that act which I had never as yet tried.
All the women of the household noticed the changes that had taken place in me, and I was no longer treated as a child.
CHAPTER FIVE
The feast day of the chateau's patron saint was at hand. It was the occasion for a major celebration, which was to be preceded by the confession of all members of the household.
Both my aunt and mother had decided to go to confession, and the others intended to follow their example. I had succeeded in feigning illness, and had kept to my room since the previous evening in order to avoid arousing anyone's suspicions.
The Capuchin friar had arrived and had dinner with us. Coffee had been served in the garden, and after Kate had finished clearing the table, I found myself alone. Since time was weighing heavy on my hands, I wandered into the library, where I chanced upon a hidden door that I had never noticed before. It gave on to a dark and narrow concealed staircase which was lighted only by a small circular window at the end of the upstairs corridor.
The staircase led to the chapel, and from behind the locked door, which was rusted from long years of disuse, drifted the voice of the friar. He was telling my mother that he would hear her confession on the following day in the same place.
The confessional was set against a wooden partition, through which every word could be distinctly heard. So it seemed to me that here would be an ideal vantage point from which to eavesdrop. I was of the opinion that this stairway must have been installed in years past by some jealous lord desirous of listening to his wife's confessions.
The next day, after my morning coffee, the bailiff's wife came in to clean up my room. I've already mentioned that she was pregnant, and I carefully studied the enormous contour of her belly and the unusual size of her nipples which bounced to and fro beneath her light blouse.
She was a pleasant looking woman with pretty features. Until the bailiff had put her in the family way she had been one of the chateau's maids. I had already seen women's breasts in pictures and on statues, but never in the flesh.
The bailiff's wife was in a great hurry. She had buttoned only one of her blouse buttons. When she leaned over to straighten my bed this solitary button came undone, and I saw her entire bosom, for the V-necked jacket she was wearing was very low cut.
I sprang to my feet. "Madam, you're going to be cold!" And pretending to help her rebutton her dress, I untied the ribbon holding it on her shoulders. As I did, the two nipples seemed actually to leap out of their hiding place, and I sensed their bulk and firmness.
The buttons on each breast stood out; they were red and surrounded by a large brownish halo. Her titties were as firm as a pair of buttocks' cheeks, and as I fondled them I could have sworn they were a pretty girl's behind. The woman was so taken aback that I had time, before she recovered her wits, to kiss her nipples at leisure.
She smelled of sweat, but in a way that excited me. It was that odor di femina which, as I was later to learn, emanates from a woman's body and, according to the individual, provokes either desire or disgust.
"Oh, ooh! What are you thinking of? No ... that's not right! I'm a married woman. Not for anything in the world."
These were her words as I steered her towards the bed. I had opened my dressing gown and lifted my nightshirt, revealing my member in a state of hyper-excitement.
"Let me alone. I'm pregnant. Oh, Lord God, if anyone should see us!"
She was still resisting, but less forcefully. As a matter-of-fact her gaze was fixed steadily on my sexual parts. She was supporting herself against the bed onto which I was trying to force her.
"You're hurting me!"
"My dear woman, no one can see or hear you."
She was by now sitting on the edge of the bed. I was still pushing. She lay back and closed her eyes.
My state of excitement was beyond all bounds. I lifted her dress, her petticoat, and saw a pair of thighs which fired my enthusiasm even more than had the peasant girls'. Between the closed thighs I caught sight of a small tangle of chestnut-colored hairs, among which the crack was concealed.
I dropped to my knees, seized her thighs, let my hands roam caressingly, laid my cheeks upon them and covered them with kisses. My lips advanced from the thighs to her mound of Venus, where the smell of urine only added fuel to my excitement.
I lifted her skirt even higher and looked with astonishment at the enormous bulk of her belly, upon which the navel was raised instead of in a hollow as was Berthe's.
I licked her belly button. She lay motionless, her breasts flopping down on either side. I lifted one of her legs and placed it on the bed. Her slit came into view. At first I was frightened by the two thick and puffy reddish-brown lips.
Her pregnancy gave me a chance to revel in that sight. Her lips were spread and when I darted a glance inside I discovered a real butcher's stall of moist red meat. Near the top of the lips was the peepee hole, crowned by a small grain of flesh which my anatomical research had informed me was called the clitoris.
The upper part of her slit was lost in the hair covering her overly fleshy mound of Venus. The lips were almost hairless, and the skin between the thighs was damp and red from sweat.
All in all it was not a very appetizing picture, but I appreciated it nevertheless because the woman was very clean. I could not help inserting my tongue into her crevice and licking it hastily before moving to the clitoris, which hardened under my passionate tonguing.
I soon tired of this sport, and since the crevice was by now well moistened, I replaced my tongue with my finger. Then I laid hold of her nipples, taking the tips in my mouth and sucking them by turns. I kept my index on the clitoris, which grew harder and larger until it had assumed the proportions of my little finger or thereabouts.
But at that point the woman came to her senses and began to whimper, but without, however, leaving the position into which I had forced her. I felt slightly sorry for her, but I was too worked up to really care. I talked to her cajolingly, trying to comfort her, and ended up by promising to stand as godfather for the child she was expecting.
I went over and, taking some money from the drawer, handed it to her. She had by then got herself decent again. So I lifted my nightshirt, but felt somewhat ashamed to find myself naked again in front of a woman, especially one who was married and pregnant.
I took her moist hand and placed it on my member. The touch was exquisite. She squeezed, gently at first, then more firmly. I had grasped her nipples, which held a strange fascination for me. I kissed her on the mouth, and she readily gave me her lips. My whole being was attuned to pleasure.
I placed myself between her thighs, but she exclaimed, "Not on top of me, It hurts too much. I can't do it the front way any more."
She got off the bed, turned round and bent over with her face on the bed. She said nothing else, but my instinct supplied me with the solution of the enigma. I remembered once having seen two dogs going at it that way. Following Medor's example, I lifted Diana's skirt.
For Diana was her name.
Her buttocks hove into sight, buttocks such as I had never even dreamed existed. Berthe's may have been pleasing, but it was really nothing next to this. My two cheeks put together wouldn't have made even one of this extraordinary rump, whose flesh, surprisingly enough, was not at all flabby. Like all breasts and handsome buttocks, hers were a gleaming white.
In the slit were some blonde hairs, and the crack itself was like a chasm dividing her superb cheeks. Below the colossal buttocks, between the thighs, lay the fat juicy slit, in which my probing finger burrowed. I placed my chest against the woman's bare buttocks and with my arms tried to encircle her elusive belly, which hung down like some stately globe.
I caressed her cheeks, then rubbed my member against them. But my curiosity was not yet satisfied. I spread her cheeks and inspected her arse-hole. Like her navel, it was elevated and though brown, was very clean. I started to insert my finger, but she gave such a start that I was afraid I had hurt her, so I didn't press the point.
I placed my burning sword in her sheath; it was like a knife cutting into a mound of butter. Then I bestirred myself like a cock on a hot griddle, bouncing my belly against her elastic behind. I was like one possessed. I was no longer conscious of what I was doing, but I reached the voluptuous climax, and for the first time in my life shot my sperm into a woman.
After the discharge I wanted to stay for a while in that agreeable position, but the bailiffs wife turned round and chastely arranged her clothes. While she was rebuttoning her sleeveless jacket, I heard the sound of something dripping: it was my sperm running from her onto the floor. She smeared it underfoot, and dried her thighs on her skirt.
When she saw me standing in front of her, with my red, moist prick partly erect, she smiled, took out her handkerchief and meticulously dried it. "Get dressed, now, Master Roger," she said. "I've got to leave. But for the love of God," she added, blushing, "don't let anyone hear about what happened just now or I'll never forgive you."
We embraced, exchanged kisses, and she departed, leaving me lost in such a flood of new sensations that I almost forgot that confession had doubtless already begun.
CHAPTER SIX
Wearing slippers, I threaded my way as quietly as possible along the narrow corridor until I reached the wooden partition. I soon found the most likely spot from which to eavesdrop. The Capuchin had arranged things so that the person confessing was alone in the oratory, while those waiting their turn remained in the chapel.
It was therefore unnecessary for anyone to speak in a whisper, and the conversation was quite distinct. I surmised by the voice that a peasant was presently in the confessional.
The confession must have been already well along, for the Capuchin was speaking.
The Confessor--So you say that you always play with your member in the toilet? Why do you? How long do you play with it, and how often?
The Peasant.-Generally twice a week, but sometimes every day, until I come. I can't help it. I just plain enjoy it too much.
The Confessor.-And haven't you ever done it with women?
The Peasant.-Once, with an old woman. The Confessor.-Tell me about it, and don't keep anything back.
The Peasant.-Once I was up in the hayloft with old Rosalie. I began to get a hard on, and I said, "Rosalie, is it a long time since you've had a man?"
And she said: "Oh, you scoundrel you! Heavens to Betsy, can I have rightly heard my ears? At least 40 years. And I can't say that I'm hankering to have one now. I'm already 60 years old."
So I said to her: "Come off it, Rosalie, I'd sure love to see a woman stark naked once in my life. Come on and get undressed."
She said: "I'd be afraid, the devil might appear."
Then I said: "The last time you did it he didn't appear." And then I pulled the ladder up, so that no one could take us by surprise. I took out my member and showed it to her.
She looked at it and said: "Lordy Lou! It's even bigger than my buggered Jean's was."
So I said to her, "And now Rosalie, you've got to show me your box." She didn't want to show it to me, but I pulled her skirts up over her head and took a good look.
The Confessor.-Come now, what happened next?
The Peasant.-At the bottom of her belly she had a large slit, purple as a late autumn plum, and above it a bush of grey hair.
The Confessor.-That's not what I asked you. I asked what you did.
The Peasant.-I shoved my sausage into her slit, right up to the sack, which I couldn't get in. As soon as I had it in, Rosalie began to shake her belly back and forth, and hollered to me, "Take me under the buttocks, Pig. Put your hands there and do like I'm doing." So we started shaking together, both of us, so that I began to get hot, and Rosalie, saving your presence, got so worked up that she discharged five or six times. And I discharged myself once, saving your presence.
Then Rosalie began shouting, "Squeeze me tighter, Pig, it's coming, it's coming!" and damned if I didn't come again myself. But they fired her, poor Rosalie, because one of the stable girls had overheard us and went tattling over hill and dale. And that's why I never wanted to go running after the young skirts.
The Confessor.-Well, if that's not a nice kettle of mortal sins! What else do you have on your conscience?
The Peasant.-I never forgot Rosalie. One day in the cow barn while the servant girls were out eating, I noticed that one of the cows was in heat. "She's got a hole just like Rosalie's," I said to myself. I took out my tool and shoved it into her. But the cow didn't stay put like Rosalie had. But I lifted her tail up and was able to keep it in. And I managed to screw her all right, and enjoyed it more than with Rosalie. But, saving your presence, she crapped all over me; my tool and trousers were covered with the stuff. That's why I never tried to screw her again.
The Confessor.-Yes, but what makes you stoop to such acts?
The Peasant.-Our shepherd does the same thing with his goats, and our hired girl Lucie one day lay down with a big gander between her thighs, because it's so very good for the belly, as she said to one of the neighbors. And the neighbor also gave it a try.
The rest of the confession was without interest. I left my hiding place and dashed into the chapel to see what the penitent looked like. I was astonished to discover that it was the dull looking clod who had so stupidly yielded to the peasant girls' frolics beside the pond.
He was the last of the men to confess. My mother rose to take her place in the oratory. My aunt and the saucy Kate were kneeling beside her. All the chateau's maids were behind them in one of the back pews. I was surprised to notice that my sister Berthe was absent. The bailiffs wife had been excused because of her advanced state of pregnancy.
My mother's confession was quite innocent, but interesting nonetheless. "I've got something else to ask you, father," she said, after enumerating the list of her daily sins. "For some time now my husband has been making certain demands of me.
"On the night of our marriage he made me strip completely, and on several occasions since he has made me do the same thing. But now he persists in seeing me naked, and he even showed me an ancient book, written by a priest, in which it says, among other things, 'Married couples shall perform the carnal act completely naked, so that the man's seed may mix more intimately with the woman's.' But the older I grow, the more qualms I have on the subject."
The Confessor.-This book was written in the Middle Ages, when it was still not customary to wear nightshirts. Only persons of high station wore them. Common folk slept shirtless in the conjugal bed, and there are still some places in the country where that custom persists today. Our peasants, for instance, almost all sleep thus, especially because of bedbugs. The Church refuses to look upon this practice with an approving eye, but it does not, however, expressly forbid it.
My Mother.-You've reassured me on this point, Father. But my husband also makes me assume certain positions I'm ashamed of. Lately I had to get down naked on all fours while he watched me from behind. Each time he gives me a cane and makes me parade naked around the room shouting orders at me as though he were commanding a military drill. 'Forward, March!' or 'Halt!' or 'By the right flank, March!' 'By the left flank, March!'
The Confessor.-This should not be, but if it is only by obedience that you submit to it, you are not committing a sin.
My Mother.-Ah, I have something else weighing on my heart, but I'm ashamed to speak of it.
The Confessor.-There is no sin too great to be absolved, my daughter. Unburden your conscience.
My Mother.-My husband is forever wanting to take me from behind, and he acts so that I come close to fainting with shame. Lately I feel him putting his finger, covered with ointment, in my ... in my ... anus. I try to get up, he reassures me, but nevertheless I feel him inserting his member. At first it hurt, but, why I don't know, after a little while I enjoyed it, and when he'd finished I had the same sensation as if he'd gone in the natural way. (The rest was spoken in such hushed tones that I couldn't make it out.)
The Confessor.-This is indeed a sin. Send your husband to me for confession.
The rest of her confession was boring.
Shortly thereafter, my aunt took her place in the confessional, and I heard the pleasant sound of her voice. From what I could hear, she was admitting having often missed confession. But you could have bowled me over with a feather when she added, in a low, halting tones, that although she had never before felt any carnal desires, she had been moved to passion upon seeing her young nephew in his bath, and had libidinously touched his body, but fortunately had been able to dominate these wicked desires.
Except once when her nephew was sleeping. The blanket had slipped off the bed, leaving his sexual parts exposed. She had stood there looking at him for a long time, and had even taken his member in her mouth. She spoke with difficulty, as though the words were sticking in her throat. I experienced an extraordinary surge of emotion.
The Confessor.-Haven't you ever sinned with men, or haven't you ever polluted yourself alone?
My Aunt.-I am still a virgin, at least as far as men are concerned. I've often looked at myself in the mirror, and caressed my private parts with my hand. Once ... (she hesitated).
The Confessor.-Courage, my child, conceal nothing from your confessor.
My Aunt.-Once my sister said to me: "Our maid uses an exorbitant number of candles. She's certainly reading novels in bed, and one of these nights she's going to set the house on fire. You sleep near her, you want to be careful!"
That very evening, seeing a light in Kate's room, here's what I did. I'd left the door open, and noiselessly entered her room. She was sitting on the floor, her back half turned towards me, leaning forward in the direction of the bed. In front of her was a chair on which a mirror was placed, and on the left and right of the mirror two candles were burning.
Kate was in a nightgown, and I clearly saw in the mirror that she was holding something long and white which she was manipulating back and forth between her well-spread thighs. She was sighing deeply and trembling all over. Suddenly I heard her cry out, "Oh! Oh! It feels so good!" She bowed her head, closed her eyes and seemed completely out of this world.
Then I moved. She sprang to her feet and I saw that she was holding an almost concealed candle in her hand. Whereupon she explained to me that she was doing this in memory of her lover who had been drafted into the army. I expresssed amazement that one could do such a thing, but she begged me not to tell anyone.
I left, but this performance had made such an impression on me that from then on, my Father, I couldn't help trying the same thing, which, alas, I've often repeated since. Yes, I've fallen low, Father. I've often lifted my nightgown and, following Kate's example, given myself up to these sinful pleasures.
The reader can easily guess, in the light of my aunt's and mother's revelations, what Kate's confession consisted of. But I learned besides that she was more and more desirous of having a man, and that her friendship with Berthe was growing by leaps and bounds. They often slept together, and frequently compared their buttocks in the mirror, after having mutually examined each other's bodies.
The maids' confessions were all simple. They'd let the hired men screw them, but their tales were stripped of all adornment. And they had never allowed the men to enter the room in which they all slept together naked. But during the military maneuvers their precautions proved to be in vain. A whole regiment had passed through the neighborhood. Thus all the girls, and even one who was pretty well along in years, were obliged to take them on, even from behind, which last, moreover, seemed to the maids a mortal sin. When the friar asked them if they had ever masturbated alone or with a girlfriend, they replied, "Who'd want to stick her hand in such a smelly slit?"
But they didn't consider it sinful to watch each other evacuate, or to have used chickens, pigeons or geese to make them come. One of them had once let a dog lick her love lips. When asked if she had let him screw her, she answered, "I would have been only too glad to, but he wasn't big enough."
I took every possible precaution to escape being seen as I returned to my room.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Shortly after I had returned to my room, my aunt and mother came in to announce that my father was coming to pay us a visit. They also told me that Berthe was not feeling well, and had been put to bed. They added that she was not seriously ill, and would soon be better, but that it would be preferable for me not to go to see her.
The announcement aroused my curiosity, and in two shakes of a lamb's tail I'd decided what I should do. I knew that my aunt and mother were to spend the afternoon in the village with the friar, visiting a poor sick lady, and that Kate was going with them to take a basket of clothes for her.
While the ladies were conversing, I studied them attentively and saw them in a completely new light as a result of the confessions I had overheard. The dark clothing they were wearing acted as a foil to their appearance, accentuating my mother's blossoming countenance and my aunt's tightly laced figure.
Each was as desirable as the other: one, whose virginity was as yet unsoiled by masculine contact, holding out the promise of undreamed-of voluptuousness; the other, whose exciting maturity and conjugal experience with an imaginative husband had led her through a maze of sensual caprices.
I was washing as they came in, and explained that I had tried to go to bed, for in reality my pretended illness was beginning to bore me considerably. My aunt, who had never seen either my room or the library, wandered into the latter. My mother hurried off to the kitchen to supervise the preparations for lunch.
Being alone with my aunt, who now seemed doubly desirable to me, excited me no end. But I was still feeling the effects of my session with the bailiffs wife, and I realized full well that I would easily compromise my plans by being over hasty.
Margaret, after having inspected the library, had approached the table and was standing there looking at what was on it. She could well have made some interesting discoveries. The volume "O" of the encyclopedia was lying on the table with a bookmark stuck in the page dealing with onanism. I had penciled a question mark in the margin beside it.
I heard her close the book, and then the Atlas of Anatomy, over certain of whose plates she had lingered for quite some time. So I was not surprised, upon entering the library, to find her cheeks a burning red.
I pretended not to notice her embarrassment, and said to her in a quiet voice, "You, too, must get bored sometimes, auntie dear. The priest who lived here before had quite a collection of interesting books dealing with the problems of human life. Why don't you take some with you to your room?"
I took two and slipped them into her pocket: Marriage Unveiled and Love and Marriage. When she affected reluctance, I added, "Naturally, this is between you, me and the lamppost. We're not children any longer, are we, auntie?" And I suddenly seized her and gave her an emphatic kiss.
She had her hair arranged in a pretty chignon, and the nape of her neck was extraordinarily lovely. Pretty chignons and necks have always had a tremendous effect on me, and the series of resounding kisses that I planted on my aunt's neck intoxicated me completely. But Margaret was still under the sway of her recent confession. She pushed me away, but not harshly, and after darting a final glance in the direction of my room, she left, carrying the books in her pocket.
In the course of the afternoon I heard the friar and the ladies leave for the village. I decided to go and find Berthe and ask her what had prompted her to feign illness to get out of confession. But such was not the case. She was in bed and really appeared to be sick. My visit cheered her up enormously however.
My blackguardism was not long in awakening. But when I tried to reach under the covers to touch her, she turned away and said: "No, Roger, I had my period the day before yesterday."
"Ah, your menstruas," I said. "So you're no longer a little girl, but a woman now. And do you know that I've also become a man, Berthe," I added proudly. And unbuttoning my trousers I showed her my pubic hair and the bared head of my penis. "And I've done it too, you know. Though I can't tell you with whom."
"You've done it," she queried. "Done what?"
So I explained coitus to my attentive sister. "And do you know what," I concluded, "mama and papa do it too all the time."
"Not really! How disgusting!"
But since her tone implied exactly the opposite, I added, "Disgusting? Why were two sexes created then, Berthe? You've no idea how good it feels, much better than when you do it alone."
"Yes, I always did enjoy it more when Kate did it to me than when I did it myself. The day before yesterday, oh, really, I thought I was in heaven! Then Kate said to me, 'Now that you've come, Berthe, watch out, you'll be having your period soon.' That very day I had a stomach ache, and all of a sudden something wet ran down my thighs. When I saw it was blood I was frightened half out of my wits.
Kate burst out laughing and went to find mama, who came and looked at me. 'Get yourself to bed now, my Berthe.' she said, 'you'll be having these every month from now on for three or four days. When you stop bleeding you should change your nightgown, and be sure not to wash yourself before the bleeding's stopped. By the way, you shan't be wearing little girl dresses any more.' I'm going to begin wearing long dresses like mama and auntie," Berthe concluded proudly.
"Come on, Berthe, let's do it," and drawing her close, I hugged her.
"You must be careful not to hurt my breasts," Berthe said. "I'm very sensitive now."
But she offered no protest when I opened her nightgown to see her little breasts, which were just beginning to blossom. They were a pair of gently sloping hillocks, which reminded me of Psyche's or Hebe's. But they already had the classical form, and were firm, culminating in two little rose-colored sweetmeats.
I whispered reassuring words to her and she willingly let me fondle her and even suck her titties. In fact she was becoming excited. After a few unconvincing protests, she let me see her Lady Jane, but only after she had rolled up her blood-stained nightdress. She already had more hair than I. A little watery blood was trickling along her thighs; it was certainly not the most appetizing sight in the world, but I was too excited to care.
She was holding her thighs tightly together, but my probing finger soon found her clitoris. Under the pressure of my hand, her thighs began to spread. Finally I was able to get my finger into her slit, but not very far, for she drew back. I pressed against her hymen, in the middle of which there was already a little hole. Berthe gave a short cry of pain, and tightened up again.
By now worked up to a high pitch of excitement, I undressed hastily, lifted my shirt and climbed on top of my sister with the intention of forcing my member, which was hard as a rock, into her. Berthe protested weakly, began to cry, then gave a sharp cry of pain, when I went well into her vagina. But her short-lived pain soon appeared to melt into a feeling of sensual pleasure. Her cheeks were hot, her pretty eyes shone bright, her lips were slightly parted. She clasped me in her arms and began to respond to my movements.
Before I had finished, nectar had started to flow from her slit. Her eyes, half closed, were fluttering nervously. She cried out, but her cries were of pleasure. "Roger, ah! Oh! Ro-oger. I ... I ... aah!" She was completely beside herself with pleasure. I had just plucked my sister's cherry.
Because of my morning's session with the bailiff's wife, and because of my excitation, I had not yet come. But seeing my sister's sensual delight, I became even more excited and stepped up the rhythm of my movements. But suddenly I felt something warm in Berthe's sheath. I withdrew, and a dark red mass of sperm mixed with the blood caused by the piercing of the maidenhead and the menstruation flowed out.
We were both frightened. My member was covered with blood, which stuck to my glands and hair. But imagine our fright when we heard a voice behind us saying: "My, my my! what a pleasant conversation the young ones are having." Kate was standing beside us.
She had forgotten something and had been sent back to fetch it. So absorbed had we been in what we were doing that we had not heard her climb the stairs, but apparently she'd been watching us for some time from the hallway, and had then opened the door quietly and tiptoed into the room during Berthe's voluptuous orgasm.
Her roguish face reflected the excited state into which the sight and sound of our play had worked her. Berthe and I were so taken aback that for half a minute we did not even think to arrange our disorderly clothes. Kate had ample time to observe Berthe's serious bleeding, as well as the decline and fall of my tool, which my fright had caused to unstiffen.
"When you do such things, at least have the foresight to shut the door," and she went over and shot the bolt. "Berthe, your mother forgot to tell you not to do it during your periods. But," she laughed, "I know how it is, that's just when you most want to.
"Now put a dry cloth between your legs and stay in bed like a good girl. But be sure not to put your shirt in the dirty clothes' basket, Roger, unless you've also started having periods."
And looking, I saw that my shirt was spotted with blood. Kate poured some water into a hand basin and approached me. "Luckily it comes out easily," she said. "Get up, Roger, and let me wash you."
I stood up in front of her so she could wash my shirt in the basin. She lifted my shirttail high, exposing me again to the view of the two girls.
She washed my shirt, poking fun at me as she did so, then said seriously, "Come here now," and washed the blood off me with a sponge.
At this contact, my tool slowly began to rear its sleepy head. "Oh, you wicked little rod, going into Berthe's slit like that!" And she gave it a few saucy slaps with the palm of her hand. Suddenly she grabbed me, forced me to my knees, and spanked me as hard as she could.
I started to howl bloody murder, while Berthe almost split her sides laughing.
My fanny was stinging, but my state of excitement was even greater than before.
When I was younger, then or thereabouts, my mother had often hoisted me between her thighs after I'd done something or other I shouldn't have, lowered my trousers and spanked the devil out of me. But I remember that after the first sting of pain had subsided, a feeling of sensual pleasure had lingered with me the rest of the day.
When Kate noticed that my rod was once again respectable, she broke out laughing. "Goodness gracious, what a big handle!" She took it in her hand, squeezed it, then uncovered it.
That was just too much. I grabbed Kate's breasts; she pretended to resist. So I slipped my hand beneath her skirt.
She wasn't wearing panties. I seized her apricot. She tried to draw away, but I held her by her love hair, encircled her buttocks with my left arm, dropped to my knees, and drove the thumb of my right hand into her warm box, maneuvering it back and forth.
Kate lost possession of herself and fell back onto the bed. I lifted her dress and laid bare her mound. Her hair was red, not as thick as I would have imagined from what Berthe had told me, but fairly long and moist with sweat. Her skin was as white as milk, and soft as silk. Her white thighs were well rounded, and she was wearing pretty black stockings in which a pair of firm round calves were enclosed.
I threw myself upon her, forced my shaft between her thighs until it eased gently into her slit. But I drew it out again almost immediately. I was in an extremely poor position, with nothing to brace my feet against.
But by now Kate was hot and bothered. She jumped up, pushed me into a chair near the bed, and threw herself on top of me. Before I had time to say Jack Robinson, my member was imprisoned in her sheath. I felt her long hair against my belly. She held my shoulders and was rocking back and forth. At each stroke her large lips touched my eggs. She took off her muslin jumper and told me to play with her boobies, because "it feels so good," she said.
Her nipples were naturally more developed than Berthe's, and harder though much smaller that those of the bailiffs wife. Her breasts were as white as her thighs and belly, and were tipped by two red points, surrounded by a yellow crown on which there were a few tiny hairs.
Kate was very excited, and was approaching the climax. So violent were her movements that my rod had twice slipped out of her slit, and she had hurt me in putting it back in, though she seemed to be getting her share of pleasure from the operation.
I was lagging behind her, whereas she, in pleasure-filled tones, was exulting. "Now ... now ... no ... it's coming ... ah! Ah! God A'mighty! How good your tool feels!"
And with that she came, and there was an increased flow of her love juice. At the tail end of her climax, the sensitive chambermaid bit my shoulder. Feeling her boiling ejaculation, I realized that my own climax was not far off.
Kate had quickly regained control of herself. "Roger, your tail's becoming hotter and hotter; you're on the point of discharging." And she stood up abruptly, seized my sperm-covered member in her right hand and began to stroke it violently, saying, "Otherwise I might become pregnant."
I'd also risen to my feet, Kate pulled me toward her with her right arm; I tongued her nipples. I must have spread my legs. Standing there naked as the day I was born in front of the two attentive girls, my belly was seized by a fit of convulsions. Suddenly my sperm went flying.
Berthe watched the ejaculation intently, and gazed curiously at the white liquid which had fallen onto the bed. While I was discharging, Kate had tickled my buttocks and encouraged me with: "There now, my Roger, how nicely you're coming, that's it, that's it!"
My orgasm was beyond all description.
I fell back onto the chair. Kate was acting as if nothing had happened. She was arranging everything; she wiped my rod with her handkerchief, rebuttoned her blouse, picked up her basket and, in her customary gay voice said, "God be praised that things turned out as they did. Now let's all be good children. You Berthe, remain quiet and get some rest. And you, Roger, return to your room."
She left, and I went down to my room, after having got dressed again and kissed Berthe good-bye.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The day's events had worn me to a frazzle. My one desire was to rest. When I awoke the next morning, I was lying on my back, a position which usually gives me an erection. Shortly thereafter I heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
Wanting to play a joke on the bailiff's wife, I lifted my nightshirt, threw the blankets off me, and pretended to be asleep. But instead of the bailiff's wife, it was her sister-in-law, a woman of thirty-five or so, the age when a woman is at the height of sensuality.
In her younger days she had been a housemaid. Having married an elderly butler who managed to amass a neat pile of savings, she presently lived with her husband and three children (a son and two daughters of ten, eleven and thirteen, respectively) in her brother the bailiff's quarters.
Madame Muller was neither ugly nor beautiful. She was tall, had a strikingly good figure, a dark complexion and her hair, like her eyes, was pitch-black. She seemed intelligent, and fully worthy of a bout with John Thomas. And you could bet your last penny that she'd seen more than one such animal in her lifetime. So, I reasoned, why not let her see mine as well. I lay there motionless.
Madame Muller set the coffee on the nightstand. Then seeing John Thomas standing stiffly at attention, she had a moment's hesitation. But she was a resolute woman, free from all false modesty. She spent several seconds gazing at me with apparent pleasure. Then she coughed discreetly to awaken me, and as I stretched my limbs in such a way as to give my rod an even more insolent air, she approached the bed, looked down for a second, then pulled the covers up and said, "Your coffee, Master Roger."
I opened my eyes, wished her good morning, and complimented her on how well she was looking, etc. Then I suddenly jumped out of the bed, seized her and assured her that she was the most beautiful. woman in the whole chateau.
She resisted weakly; slipping my hand beneath her skirts, I discovered a very hairy mound. Then I drove my finger into her slit. As is the case with all sensual women, hers was dry, but my fingerwork soon remedied that. Her clitoris was extremely hard.
"But what's come over you? Stop that! What would my husband say if he knew!"
"Mr. Muller's in the chapel."
"Yes, I know. He does nothing but pray all day long. But stop that now, you're hurting me. My sister-in-law might come in. She's waiting for me. That's enough now! I'll come back tonight. My husband's leaving today for two or three days in the country. But now we're liable to be interrupted."
And with that, she took her leave. That evening, after having eaten a hearty dinner, I took some wine, ham and dessert back with me to my room. The chateau was soon asleep. Finally, after what seemed like hours, Madame Muller came in. My heart was beating like a triphammer. I embraced her, and gave her a French kiss, which she returned. I undressed quickly and showed her my rod in a most presentable condition.
"Don't get so excited," she warned, "or we'll waken the whole house and set the tongues to wagging."
She bolted the door. I fastened her mound in a tight grip, and found it slightly swollen, and her clitoris extremely hard. I stripped her down to her petticoat, and lifted it high. Seeing her dressed you'd have taken her for thin, but she wasn't in the least. In fact if anything she was on the fleshy side. Her dark pubic hair, I noticed, climbed all the way up to her navel.
She must just have washed, for her Lady Jane was odorless. Then I stripped her completely and was amazed to find how firm her breasts were. They were only moderately large, and her nipples were set in a small field of light brown hair. Lifting her breasts, I saw that she also had some short, fine black hairs underneath. Her armpits were likewise covered with hair as thick as a man's.
What surprised me most as I examined her more closely, were her well raised buttocks, whose cheeks were set close together. Along her backbone ran a fine line of black hair, from top to bottom. The sight of all this healthy fleece caused John Thomas to harden even more. I ripped off my nightshirt and straddled the lovely creature, whose rhythmic movements set my pickle slapping back and forth against her belly.
We were in such a position that we could clearly see ourselves in the mirror. I led her towards the bed, where she sat down and said, "I know you want to see all of me." She raised her legs and displayed her hairy self right up to her pot hole. I immediately set to tonguing her, and lingered at the task for quite some time. Her lips began to swell. When I went to insert my tool, she laughed and said, "Not like that. Get on the bed."
I got onto the bed. She climbed on top of me and I thus had her whole beautiful body before my eyes. She told me to play with her boobies. Then she grasped my rod, paraded it awhile against her love lips, and at the same time asked me to be sure not to come inside her. Then she suddenly shoved my tool in right up to the ballbearings. She was riding me so strenuously that it was almost painful. Round about that time she came, and I could feel all the warmth of her sheath, hear her heaving sighs, and see her eyes roll back in her head.
Realising that I was also on the point of coming, she got quickly to her feet. "Hold on a minute, young fellow my lad," she said in a voice still trembling with emotion. "I know still another that'll satisfy you without making, me pregnant."
She turned round; her buttocks were now facing me. She bent down and took my rod in her mouth. I followed her example and began tonguing her love lips, lapping up the female love-juice which tasted like a raw egg. She stepped up the play of her tongue against my glans, and with one hand she tickled my eggs and buttocks, while with the other she gripped my penis.
I stiffened with pleasure. She thrust my rod as far in her mouth as possible. Her most secret parts were staring me full in the face. I seized her buttocks, and plunged my tongue into her pot hole. I lost control of myself and ejaculated in her mouth.
When I recovered from my momentary rapture, she was lying beside me and had pulled the blankets up over us. She was caressing me, thanking me for the pleasure I had given her, and asked me if I had enjoyed it as much as she. I had to admit that I had enjoyed that position even more than normal coitus. And then I asked her why she hadn't let me come inside her, since she was married.
"For that very reason," she said. "My husband is impotent, and can tell-whenever I cheat on him. Oh, God in Heaven! what I have to put up with from that man!"
I asked her to tell me all about it. She said that her husband could get an erection only if she beat him with a rod until she drew blood. She likewise had to let him strike her, but only with his hand, and now she was so used to it that she enjoyed it more than it hurt her. He also made her peepee and crap in his presence, so eager was he not to miss a trick. And he got especially worked up when she had her periods.
After she had struck him fifty or even a hundred times, she had to hurry and slip his half-erect member inside, for otherwise it fell limp, except when she licked his buttocks or let him lick her between the toes. Whenever that happened he was able to keep a good hard on, but all these things were pretty disagreeable. "And on top of all that," she concluded, "the old rascal spends all his time in church."
Her story had aroused the flagging spirits of my John Thomas. Madame Muller had hastened the resurrection by tickling my sack. She had me get between her legs, and turned over on her side. She scissored my buttocks with her legs, so that we were both lying on our sides, face to face. It was a good position, allowing us to lie closely interlaced, and at the same time leaving her titties exposed to my tongue.
I was holding her slit, which the bout of pleasure had caused to narrow, with my hand. Both of us thrust our fingers into the other's arse hole. I let my rod slide softly into her slit, and began to rock as before, sucking her nipples all the while.
I kept my finger moving in her throbbing arse hole. She came a second time with a cry of delight. She had taken hold of my eggs from behind and was squeezing them so tightly that she hurt me, and I had to ask her to let them go.
After having caressed me gently, she turned her head towards the pillow, so that her magnificent buttocks were prominently displayed. I had her rise to her knees and lift her buttocks high. I sent a wad of spit flying into her pot hole, and thrust my rod in easily. At each stroke I felt my eggs bounce off her buttocks cheeks.
She kept telling him how good it felt. I could touch her hairy slit with one hand and fondle her breasts with the other. Just as I was about to come I started to withdraw but she contracted her buttock muscles around my glans, and I ejaculated squarely into her arse hole. Afterwards she told me that that was the first time she'd done it that way, and that, although it had hurt in the beginning, in the end she'd enjoyed it.
Feeling my rod harden in her buttocks hole, her sensual forces had awakened and she had had another orgasm at the same time as mine. "But that's about enough for today," she decided, smiling.
That was about all I could take too. I offered her some dessert, but she insisted that I come and have a short liqueur in her room instead-after which, I came back to my room and fell into bed.
CHAPTER NINE
One day my mother decided that all the maids would henceforth sleep on the top story of the chateau, right under the eaves. They began moving their goods and chattel upstairs, and were to start sleeping there the same evening.
I watched them move.
As one of them, her mattress under her arm, was climbing the last flight of stairs, I sneaked up behind her and lifted her petticoats.
The first thing I grabbed was a pair of firm buttock cheeks, which I drew back against me, at the same time thrusting my thumb into her moist slit. She raised no cry, but turning round and recognizing me, smiled as if nattered by my gallantry.
It was Ursula, the brunette. I led her up to the top floor and embraced her. She reacted favorably to the first kiss, and responded actively to the second. Whereupon I seized her blouse at the bosom, and had soon succeeded in slipping inside to caress the firm, brown-tipped hemispheres. A swift movement of the left hand beneath her short dress, and the well-grassed mound was mine.
She squeezed her thighs together and bent slightly forward. I took a nipple in my mouth and sucked it gently, while my finger played with her excited clitoris. Soon I had managed to slip my hand between her thighs, until one, two, three fingers had penetrated her.
She tried to get away, but I pushed her against the wall. I felt her whole body trembling beneath her flimsy clothing. I deftly extracted my John Thomas and thrust it into her box. The position was awkward, the girl was tall and strong, and I would never have been able to screw her unless she had done her share of the work.
So I screwed her standing up. She must have been as hot as an oven, for she quickly reached the climax. I too was on the point of coming, due to the fatiguing position we were in, but just then we heard a noise in one of the adjoining rooms, and Ursula broke away. But the sound soon died away. I showed her my dark, red shaft, dripping wet from her discharge. She looked at it, and was moved because, as she said, it was the first time she'd ever seen a city fellow's tool.
"All right now, tit for tat," I said. "Let's see yours."
She responded modestly. I raised her skirt, laid bare a pair of lovely legs and, between her thighs, an impressive mop of black hair. Thanks be to God she was not wearing panties, as the city bred girls do, who put on all sorts of airs when you meddle with their slits, despite the fact that they really like it as much, if not more, than the peasant girls.
Then I stuck my nose into her Lady Jane; it gave off the odor of raw egg-due to her recent discharge-and of urine. When I began to tongue her clitoris she laughed and let her skirt fall back into place. But I held on tight and, squatting beneath the folds of her dress, let my tongue wander at random across the length and breadth of her body, as a result of which I got an even more impressive hard on. But the sounds began anew, and Ursula broke away again, this time for good.
I was obliged to leave, but as Ursula turned to go I lifted her skirts one last time from behind, revealing a pair of really splendid, extraordinarily firm buttocks. "Just a wee bit more, Ursula," I said, retaining her by her blouse.
I kissed the cheeks of her rump, manipulated them, opened them to smell her arse hole, which gave off no odor of crap, but only of urine. But finally she broke away, remarking that it was beyond her powers of comprehension how a fellow like myself could get any pleasure from sniffing a poor peasant girl's stinking parts.
That evening, at dinner, I discreetly asked Berthe if I couldn't please screw her. She said no. I went upstairs later to see if I might perhaps find the opportunity of doing what I so badly wanted to do. Result: zero.
The covers of my bed were already turned down. I undressed and, stretching out on my belly, spread a handkerchief beneath me, hugged my pillow and, thinking of my aunt, my sister, of all the slits and buttocks with which I'd ever come in contact, I softly began to stroke alone. Then I rested awhile before starting the procedure all over again. Just as I felt my sperm coming, I heard a voice from behind the door say, "Are you already asleep, Master Roger? I've brought you your water."
I rose, slipped on a dressing gown, and opened the door. It was Helen, one of the girls who worked in the kitchen. As soon as she was inside, I locked the door. So great was my desire that my shaft was throbbing like a pendulum.
I grabbed the lovely, prettily dressed peasant girl's sturdy buttocks and as I fondled her breasts, planted a pair of savory kisses full on her mouth.
She took it in the right spirit, but when I reached her love lips she said, blushing, "It's my period."
Just my luck! I was as erect as a bare-footed friar, and she was looking at my shaft good naturedly. She played with it prettily. At least I could amuse myself with her hanging gardens. I opened her jacket and her breasts slipped into my waiting hands. Like the girl herself, they were freckled, but aside from that I saw nothing to reproach them for.
I didn't stop pestering her till she let me see, although against her will, her buttocks and Lady Jane, to whose crinkly, reddish hair blood was sticking. I pushed her onto a chair and let her place my rod between her breasts. A most practical method: it disappeared among the fleshy folds of her delectable hillocks. But it would have been better with a bit of lubrication. I told her so. She spat on it and squeezed it tightly between her boobies. On top the glans peeked out, and at the bottom my eggs were hanging down.
I began to rock back and forth, whispering sweet words to her and at the same time caressing her face or playing with the wisps of curls along her neck. A powerful discharge followed, which she watched attentively, for the position was as novel for her as it was for me.
Having had my fill, I made her a gift of a silk scarf, which she gratefully accepted, once again excusing herself for her condition. She added that the girls who worked with her in the kitchen were late in going to bed, but that they slept much later in the morning than the others who rose early to go milking. Should I venture up there some morning, I'd find more than enough to keep me happy.
I was overjoyed by the news. The following morning I gave out that I was going to build a birdhouse for the doves under the eaves in order to have an excuse for climbing to the maids' garret. But I was constantly interrupted and my project came to naught.
Once I managed to watch Berthe in the toilet, and once Kate, and so got a peek at tiieir slits. But because of the inclement weather my aunt and mother sewed assiduously. Neither Kate nor Berthe dared touch my rod as they went by.
To pass the time more pleasantly, I'd drilled a hole in the toilet partition; the toilet itself was nothing more than a hole in the ground. And I could thus spend my afternoons watching all the girls and ladies. I could study buttocks, pot holes and Lady Janes in all their glory, and I remarked that among them there was little to choose from except difference of hair color and size.
I became convinced of the truth of a statement attributed to a farm lad whom a countess had allowed to screw her. Asked how it had been, the lad replied, "The blouse was of finer material, but aside from that just like with any other woman."
I thus passed my time contemplating all the slits and buttocks in the chateau, and the sight of even those I had already had was a source of constant pleasure to me.
Meanwhile, I'd given Ursula a pretty shawl, for it had not been her fault that I hadn't been able to screw her completely. The other girls had noticed it, and without exception became extremely nice to me, for they were no dummies, and were quick to realise how pleasant it must be both to be screwed and to receive a present to boot.
At least that's what one of them told me one morning early, when the profound silence was broken only by the distant rumor of goings and coming in the stables. I had gone upstairs and discovered an unlocked door which led into two of the maids' bedroom.
The room's atmosphere was one of the mixed odors emanating from the girl's bodies. Their clothes were hanging in disarray from wooden pegs, or were draped across the foot of the bed. At first these odors were disagreeable, but as soon as one got used to them they became exciting rather than suffocating-the veritable odor di femina-the perfume which gives an erection.
The beds, made in the ancient style, were double. They were all empty except one, in which a lass lay snoring deeply. She was lying on her side, turned towards the wall. One of her feet was on the wooden bedstead, and her buttocks were nicely exposed, since she was sleeping in the nude.
Her coarse nightdress was draped over a wooden chair, on which the rest of her clothes were also strewn. The sleeping beauty, whose name was Babette, had not the faintest notion that she was being scrutinized from head to toe. Her skin could have been softer, but her frame, though rough-hewn, was not skinny.
I brought my head close to her buttocks and inhaled the penetrating odor of sweat. Her arse hole showed a few traces of her last movement. Below it her well-formed slit, crowned by chestnut hair, was clearly visible. I softly tickled her buttocks' cheeks and slit.
As soon as I had inserted my finger she gave a start and turned round, and I could contemplate her from in front. Her fleece was crinkly and smelled strongly of urine, which fact I remarked when I stuck my nose against it.
I might add that the maids washed themselves only on Sundays. As a matter-of-fact, there are many fine ladies who seldom have the time to wash themselves. But coming back to that odor, it had aroused me, and I was already hard.
I bolted the door and stripped. Then I spread her thighs apart. She half opened her eyes. "Babette," I said, thrusting three fingers into her box, "you're my little sweetheart. Look what an erection I've got!"
She stirred, pointed towards the other room, and said, "Ursula's in there too."
"No matter. We've got time to have a go before she wakes up. Look what I've brought you."
And I handed her a little imitation jewel ring that I'd bought from a passing peddler. Then without another word I kneeled between her thighs, which she willingly spread. I let her play with my tool awhile, and reciprocated by tickling her slit. When she was well oiled, I drove it in up to the end, took her under the buttocks and tickled her arse hole. She clasped me about the neck and we plunged into a frenzy of voluptuousness which, after a brief bout, ended in a violent discharge on both sides.
During the act she had perspired profusely, and her healthy peasant odor made me hope that we could start all over again. But she was afraid of becoming pregnant. Besides, it was high time for her to be up, for it was Ursula's day to sleep late. I had completely forgotten that Ursula was there, and Babette laughed heartily when I said that I'd certainly like to wake her up.
While Babette was wiping her private parts with her nightdress, I entered the other room. Ursula was lost in a deep sleep. She was also lying in the nude, but had the blankets pulled up to her bosom. She was sleeping on her back, with her arms cocked behind her head so that the thick black bushes of her armpits were in full view.
Her pretty breasts were thrown into fuller relief by the position of her arms, on either side of which her long rich locks tumbled gracefully down. The whole picture was charming to behold. What a pity she was a mere peasant! I have never understood how a man could prefer a lady's affected charms to the natural beauty of a peasant girl. , Her impeccably clean nightdress was lying beside her. I sniffed it and was astonished by the healthy odor with which it was impregnated. Softly, softly, I drew the blankets back and stood there admiring her naked form. I remained motionless an instant, amaztd by the beauty of her well-proportioned legs, her grassy Venus mound, whose heavy hair extended from her love lips to her thighs.
She awoke when I began to caress her breasts. At first startled, she hastily drew the cover over her. Then she recognized me and gave me a broad smile.
Just then Babette stuck her head inside and said: "Stay in bed, Ursula, I'll take care of your work for you." And with that she left.
I covered Ursula with kisses until she was hot. I asked her to get up and had her walk about the room while I examined her lovely body from head to foot and from all sides, marveling at her beauty. Then I took her in my arms, and for a long time we stood there in a close embrace.
I placed my hands on the cheeks of her behind and pulled her belly close against mine. She could feel the full stiffness of my rod, her love hair tickled me.
She enjoyed the sport. She put her arms around my neck, hugged me to her. I plucked some hairs from her armpits. She was completely beside herself with desire. I put my hand into her slit, which was moist and distended. Her clitoris was very hard.
We got into bed. I made her rise to her knees and hold her buttocks high. I experimented feverishly with her pot hole. Her slit, crowned by jet-black hair, was half opened, and after revelling in the sight of the red interior, I rubbed my glans against her lips.
She enjoyed the stroking and seconded my movements. Softly I pushed it till it was all the way in, then r'rew it out again, back and forth, until I felt myself on the point of coming.
She acted like one possessed. Her slit, completely distended, gripped my member tightly. I thrust it in up to the hilt, hugged her buttocks, seized her hanging beauties, and rocked like a maniac, completely gone. She sighed deeply at every stroke. With one hand I pressed her boobies, with the other I tickled her clitoris. We came simultaneously. I heard my shaft slapping inside her wet sheath. We lay there as though dead.
When I withdrew I still had a hard on. Ursula was ashamed, because she had never done it that way. What she'd most enjoyed had been the slapping of my eggs against the lower part of her slit. I had not yet had my fill, and would gladly have stayed a while longer with that lovely, blooming lass. Had it been possible, I would have married her.
She told me that she had to get downstairs. She slipped on her blouse and I helped her to dress. She smiled at me amicably. I examined her from all sides once more before leaving. I promised to buy her a fine souvenir, and she agreed to come and spend the night with me sometime soon.
CHAPTER TEN
The chateau was still asleep when I came back downstairs and climbed into bed. My mother woke me up when she brought my breakfast. She informed me that I'd have to go to the station the next day to meet my father, who was arriving with my eldest sister, Elise.
My mother was in an excellent mood, but not so Berthe, who was upset by the arrival of her extremely pretty sister. She told me that Elise was having a flirtation with the son of one of our father's business associates, and that the young man would probably marry her when he had finished his military service.
She told me besides that there were many things that she had not understood before which were now clear as crystal to her. Kate and Elise must certainly have wrestled for a long time together and they had once again remained alone for an hour in the bathroom.
The next day I was happy to note that my mother was taking a bath in anticipation of her husband's visit.
At the station I was astonished to discover upon the arrival of the train that my sister had blossomed into a charming young woman. Her pretty little feet were encased in a pair of elegant shoes, and she fluttered about with such grace that I found myself growing jealous of her Frederick. I had decided that every female in the immediate vicinity should become a member of my harem, and the sight of my sister only confirmed that idea in my mind.
My jealousy increased when I perceived that my father had brought a friend with him, Mr. Franck, an elderly bachelor who entertained hopes concerning my aunt. The introductions were cordial. My sister was as surprised by my development as I was by hers, and our embrace was more than fraternal.
We had not counted on Mr. Franck, and since the carriage was large enough for only two people I suggested that papa and Mr. Franck use it, while Elise and I went home on foot. My sister concurred. The way home was very pretty.
The conversation soon became interesting. My sister was extremely flattered by the compliments I paid to her beauty. When she enquired about Berthe, I replied that she had her periods and was nubile. She looked at me with amazement.
"She stays locked in the bathroom as long as you used to," I added. Then watching her closely, I continued: "They sleep together in the same room, if you know what I mean."
My sister blushed deeply but said nothing.
"There is no reason to be embarrassed, Elise," I said amicably, "I'm no longer a little boy. Besides you must have noticed when we were little and they bathed us together that my rod's no worse than your Frederick's."
"Why, Roger!"
"We've got hair between our legs now and we know that there's something better than playing stickfinger."
She was as red as a beet, her bosom was heaving, but she was at a loss for words. Suddenly she shot a glance round about to make sure no one was watching us, and asked, "Is it true, Roger, that before becoming soldiers young men have to strip and let themselves be examined naked? I heard auntie and mama saying something of the sort and at the boarding-house they were also discussing it."
"Frederick, my future brother-in-law, could have enlightened you on that matter. Certainly they have to. They examine them like a bride on her wedding night. But they don't get erections because they're reared. No doubt Frederick didn't get a hard on either."
"Not really! But how ashamed they must be. Is it public? Can women see that?"
"Unfortunately not," I said seriously. "But I'd have no qualms in front of you, Elise." I embraced her in a friendly manner. We were in a little copse near the chateau.
"Do you imagine," I added, "that there's a bride anywhere in the world who doesn't have to strip on her wedding night and be duly inspected by her husband? He strips too, you know."
"But it's not the same thing for a man."
"Why not? If I stripped in front of you, you could see everything I've got: my hair, my pendulum, my sack; but if you undressed I could only see your hair. Your slit would remain hidden. Do you have much hair, Elise?"
"Oh, look at the lovely strawberries, Roger!" she said.
I helped her pick some. We went deeper into the woods. Erect as a boar, I hugged her.
"What's that over there?" she asked.
"A hunting lodge that belongs to us. I've got the key." The building was set in a thicket of trees.
"Wait for me, Roger, I'll be back in a second. Watch that nobody comes."
She went behind the lodge. I heard her making water. I watched her. She was squatting, bent slightly forward with her legs apart and holding her skirt high enough so that I could see her pretty calves.
Beneath her knees the lace of her panties was dangling. A stream was spurting between her legs. When it stopped flowing, I withdrew, but she remained in a squatting position. She hoisted her skirts above her loins, and slipped her panties down. The buttocks hole was in full view as well as her firm, spotless cheeks. Her efforts gave birth to a thin sausage which slipped from her arsehole, dangled an instant, and then wriggled to the ground. A bit of juice followed, then she watered a trifle more.
This time I clearly saw the stream spurt from between the thick, chestnut-colored hairs. When she had finished, she hunted about for some paper and when I saw that she had found none, I appeared and gave her some.
"Here, Elise."
For a moment I though she was going to be angry.
"Don't be that way," I told her, "I have to go too." I pulled out my rod and, although it was still erect, began to pee. Recalling the hired man, I aimed so high that my sister couldn't help laughing. She'd finished with the paper.
We heard voices and Elise became frightened. I pushed her into the hunting lodge and pulled the door shut behind us. We watched through a crack. A peasant and a man, with a roguish air about them, approached. He threw her on to the ground and climbed on top of her, took out his John Thomas, raised her skirts and they went at it hammer and tongs, groaning like a couple of wild animals.
I had encircled Elise's waist and pulled her close to me. Her scented breath warmed my cheeks. Her bosom was heaving deeply as silently we watched the sport. I pulled out my rod and placed it in her warm hand whose touch was soft as silk. The couple moved off. I couldn't resist and seized Elise. In spite of her resistance, I deftly slipped off her panties and jacket. My hand played with her hair. The thighs were locked, but I could feel that her clitoris was hard.
"No, Roger, you're carrying this too far! Aren't you ashamed! I'll scream!"
"If you scream the'll hear you in the chateau. No one'll know. Adam and Eve did the same thing."
"But we aren't Adam and Eve, Roger."
"Elise, what if we were on a desert island ...!"
I managed to get my finger in.
"If my Frederick only knew what was happening!"
"He won't know. Come on, sweetheart."
I sat down on a chair and drew my sister on top of me. When she felt the enormous rod against her love lips she gave up the struggle. She was not a virgin and admitted having done it once with her Frederick. Her slit was very narrow, warm, and pleasantly moist.
She responded to my kisses. I opened her blouse and brought forth her lovely breasts which shook as I sucked them. I placed my hands on her lower spheres, those magnificent buttocks. She became hot as a firecracker. We reached the climax together. Afterwards, we vowed eternal discretion. We examined each other at our leisure, then set off to the chateau.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
At table everyone was very gay. My father was taking good care of my mother. Mr. Franck was most attentive to my aunt. I chatted with my sisters. They had given my room to the guest. I was to sleep on the same floor as the women, in Elise's room, while she shared Kate's and Berthe's.
When everyone was asleep I peeked into my sisters' room. Berthe was sleeping but Elise wasn't there. I noticed a light, hid myself, and was able to see Elise and my aunt standing in their nightgowns spying through a crack in my parents' door.
The sound of healthy slaps on a bare fanny was audible to us all. Then my father's voice. "Now, drop your nightgown, Anna. How lovely you are with your black hair."
Kisses and whispers.
"March, Anna. Forward, march! Halt! Arms up in the air. What a lot of hair you have under your arms. Look at my erection, Anna, take it. Present arms! Shoulder arms! Come here!"
"Now, Charles, don't get so excited ... you're hurting me. You've seen me for long enough now. I'm ashamed to let you look at me from behind."
"Don't worry, my child. Get on the bed ... feet up ... there! My treasure...."
You could hear the bed creaking.
"Coming, Anna?"
"Nearly, Charles...."
"Oh ... ah, Anna ... a ... I'm coming...!"
"Oh yes! ... yes! wonderful Charles...."
The sound of Kate's voice came from the direction of the stairs. Elise heard it and disappeared quickly into her room. My aunt slipped into hers without shutting the door. She came out again. My parents turned out their light.
I slipped into my aunt's room. When she returned she started with fright. I blurted out my feelings for her. She turned on the light. I kissed her without saying a word and felt the pressure of her mature body against mine. She was trembling. I moved my hand beneath her nightdress and groped at her slit. She fought; I whispered reassuringly, "Let's be husband and wife, beautiful, darling Margaret."
My finger played with her clitoris and all the resistance went out of her. I uncovered her beautiful breasts which were as white as snow and at the same time I coaxed her gently towards the bed. I took out my rod. The champagne she had drunk had excited her. I placed her hand on my rod and began to rub myself against her-the pleasure was too great. She wriggled about and her clitoris swelled. I moved my finger to her slit and sucked at her teats. Then I lifted her nightdress right up over her haunches and pressed her against me, mouth to mouth, and with a forward belly stroke launched my rod into her virginal crevice.
She uttered a short cry before her whole body gave way to the sudden, almost immediate pleasure of it. An inflamed woman now, she abandoned herself to her own pure voluptuousness. A short encounter, but whose sensations were infinite, brought us both to the limit of the most frenzied ecstasy, and it was with the most brutal strokes that I filled her with my life-giving balm.
The pleasure had been too great; I was still stiff as a ramrod. I caressed her and then relighted the candle. She had her face in the pillows; her modesty had returned to her, but I drew the covers back to examine her Venus' body. There was a slight trace of blood on her short-hair, mixed with our sperm. I wiped her with my handkerchief, turned her round, caressed her back and her buttocks and thrust my tongue up her arse hole.
Then I mounted her, my head buried in the perfumed waves of her hair. I girdled her body with my arm, raised her slightly and plunged home my John Thomas into her moist slit again. A long battle ensued during which we perspired through every pore in our bodies. Shouting like a mad woman, she was the first to reach the climax. Mine felt so good that it almost hurt. That was enough; we separated.
For several weeks I amused myself in various ways. Mr. Franck was courting my aunt more and more assiduously. One day, Elise and my aunt came into my room in tears. They were pregnant. But neither dared say in the other's presence that I was the guilty party. I sized up the situation quickly.
"Elise, marry Frederick, and you, auntie, marry Mr. Franck. I'll be your best man."
On the morning of the following day the door opened and Ursula entered. She also was pregnant. I advised her to marry the bailiff's cousin who'd been making cow's eyes at her, and I promised to stand as godfather to her child. Then I undressed her and licked around her slit and buttocks. I washed myself with eau-de-cologne and had her lick my arse, which trick so excited me that I screwed her with a gusto that made her hair tremble on the bed.
These marriages soon took place. All's well that ends well, and I continued sleeping with the members of my harem, each in her turn. Each knew what I was doing with the others and they were all sympathetic.
Ursula soon gave birth to a boy, and shortly afterwards Elise and my aunt to girls. I became godfather to Ursula's Roger, Elise's little Louise and my aunt's little Anna on the same day, all children of the same father, though they will never know it.
I trust that I shall have many mere, and in doing so I shall be fulfilling my patriotic duty, that of increasing my country's population.
