There is no irrefutable evidence to prove Francois Marie Arouet, known to the world's literati as Voltaire, is the author of Pink Pussette. Equally, there is no irrefutable evidence to prove he is not the author. In the ninety-nine volumes which contain his works, he gives no hint of having written this delightful tale of erotic love, yet if one is to believe a preponderance of contemporaneous evidence, he is the author.
Empress Elizaveta of Russia, to whom the story is dedicated, was confident he penned it. So was Fredrick the Great. Voltaire's niece, Mile. Clairon, who lived with her uncle till his death, claimed to friends she read the original manuscript. Most impressive of all; Pink Pussette was first published in Paris in 1779 by Jean-Jaques Rousseau, Voltaire's congenial enemy of long standing, who states without equivocation the genius of Fernay authored it.
Certainly the era in which Voltaire lived was conducive to such a work as Pink Pussette.
"He who has not lived in the Eighteenth Century," said Diderot, "has not known the pleasures of life."
It is hard to define morality, for each age makes its own definition according to its temperament and sins. Frenchmen of Voltaire's day relieved monogamy with adultery, as Americans relieve it with divorce. Perversions and prostitution ran rampant. To have at least one mistress was as necessary to status as to have money, and love was frankly sensual. Baucher painted it en rose, Fragonard gave it lace and grace, Buff on, who attributes to Voltaire the coining of the phrase 'mercy fucking', said brutally, "There is nothing good in love but the flesh." And for the Paris of his day, Buffon may well have been right.
The city abounded in Carnaval de Sexes (sex carnivals). At one of these, for the price of a sou, one could witness or participate in any sex variation the fertile imagination the French mind had conceived. It was quite the ordinary for a gentleman to squire his lady friend to one of these establishments, much in the manner an American couple today might go out for an evening's entertainment. Whore houses were almost as plentiful as leaves of the trees around the Champs de Mars, but the Faire Sauters, which were as numerous, set Voltaire's Paris apart from any other city in the world. They catered to the casual sexual needs of the ladies.
In formal French the term 'faire sauter' means 'to explode', but in the Eighteenth Century Parisian argot it had quite a different meaning. These Faire Sauters were elegant salons offering masculine attention to any lady passer-by who suddenly found a fire in her loins. Dropping in for a spot of cunnilingus or coitus or any preferential form of sexual relief was quite the vogue among ladies out shopping and such, and it goes without saying many a Frenchman has proudly announced the birth of his offspring that in reality had been sired in a Faire Sauter.
In view of these permissive circumstances, whomever the author of Pink Pussette, surely he never lacked material for research.
To assist today's reader in forming an opinion on this question of authorship, a brief glimpse of Voltaire the man will be invaluable.
Vain, flippant, lusty, obscene, unscrupulous, even at times dishonest-Voltaire was a man with the faults of his time and place, missing hardly one. And yet this same Voltaire turns out to have been tirelessly kind, considerate, lavish of his energy and purse, as sedulous in helping friends as in crushing enemies, able to kill with a stroke of his pen and yet disarmed by the first advance of conciliation-so contradictory a person was Voltaire. Beyond all question he was thoroughly capable of turning out a story such as Pink Pussette.
Nevertheless, we should interest ourselves here with the narrative itself, a narrative that capers blithely through page after page of graphic details of the erotic adventures of the fifteen-year-old Countess Therese d'Epinay Becu, widowed within the hour of her marriage and desperately anxious to learn all about sex, and the stalwart satyr-about-town, Count Jaques Maurice de Falconet, whose sexual prowess is legendary before he reaches thirty and to whom Countess d'Epinay appeals for guidance and instructions. The fact that love blossoms between them is, decidedly, an added spice.
Therefore, the question of authorship is of minor importance. To paraphrase the Bard of Avon-'the story is the thing'. We sincerely hope you enjoy it.
CHAPTER ONE
With giddy-headed excitement I followed the rotund butler from the foyer to the salon where his recently widowed young mistress, the Countess d'Epinay-Becu, awaited my attendance. She had invited me here this evening, though for what purpose I knew not, for we had never met.
Pink Pussette!
Such was the name my innermost heart bequeathed her that sunny morning but a month past when I chanced to espy her emerging from the Cathedral of Notre Dame midst a throng of well wishers, a new bride on the arm of her elderly husband. Minutes earlier she had been wed. Minutes later she was a widow. Count d'Epinay-Becu dropped dead on the cathedral steps. Paris buzzed again, as it had from the Count's announcement he would take to wife a girl of fifteen from the provinces.
Pink Pussette! An intimate, secret name for secret love, for I had fallen helplessly in love with her by the time my carriage stopped and I joined those gathered about her deceased spouse.
Since then she had constantly been on my mind, and none of my amours had been able to relieve my tortured emotions or my longing to see her again. Last night at dusk I bedded two fascinating beauties, had romped between their legs till dawn, but all to no avail. There was no replacement in my thoughts, in my heart, in my soul, for dainty little Pink Pussette.
There are times in certain men's lives when they become so enamored by the stunning beauty of a member of the opposite sex their movements become sluggish, uncertain; their thoughts muddled, unclear. Such had been my almost constant condition since that fateful day at Notre Dame. Such was the breathtaking loveliness of Pink Pussette.
No taller than my shoulder, small-boned and fine; hair the shimmering gold of sun-ripened wheat rippled by a gentle breeze; deep blue eyes that sent a man to transports of delight, could make him seek to conquer worlds yet unknown; soft dewy lips, red as the kiss of ripe cherries, and complexion so smooth, so pure and flawless it seemed translucent.
This was Pink Pussette.
Could any mortal man refrain from loving her?
Tone in keeping with the dignity of his station, the waddling butler announced: "Count Jaques Maurice Falconet, Madame."
I looked across the room, thudding heart the muffled roll of distant cannon in my ears-and there she was!
"Monsieur Le Count." She spoke the words and angels sang. The flowing grace of her approach with hand affront to take my kiss bespoke of breeding plus a poise beyond her years.
"Monsieur Le Count de Falconet," she said again. "How kind you are to come." She smiled at me. Odes of love welled inside my chest. By force of will I strove to calm my turbulent emotions, to make myself feel and think more rationally.
"Mine is the honor, dear Countess," I replied, bending low over her hand. "Though I confess a woeful ignorance of the cause behind your invitation."
Before she gave reply she locked the door through which the butler had departed.
For several minutes we pattered our way through the customary courtesies and small talk; until she said, "Pray take a seat, Monsieur Falconet." The tinkle of her laughter filled the room. "That which I have to say may knock you off your feet."
"I doubt a creature of your rare and priceless loveliness could shock a man like me." How wrong, ah, how wrong I was. Her next words proved me so.
She breathed deeply, blushed slightly, said in a voice of restraint, "I would like for Count Jaques Maurice de Falconet to teach Countess Therese d'Epinay-Becu all he knows about sex."
I boggled on recovering from the jarring pronouncement. To deny the fleeting thought she might be out to make the fool of me would be a lie, but the frankness of her tone, the earnest pleading in her eyes, dissolved the thought to nothing. Nor will I deny the hot, crouching visions of erotic raptures her words invoked.
Holy Mary, Mother of God! I must be living right! It had to be!
Ere I recovered completely from surprise enough to speak she raised a hand.
"Please, let me explain." She stood erect, began to pace the floor in nervous concentration.
"My mother died when I was born, my father soon thereafter. I grew up on an estate belonging to two maiden aunts, in Czerny Province, a week by stage the north of here. These aunts were so immersed in duties to the church my life was not unlike a novice nun's, with no men around save the caretaker, who received his instructions through a small opening in the wall. No male relative pictures, no novels or poetry of love, no thing that hinted of the existence of an opposite sex was permitted in their home.
"When Count d'Epinay-Becu, whose summer estate bordered theirs, saw me whilst out riding several times and later proposed marriage, my aunts wept for days, were so scandalized they refused to show their faces in the village, and finally took to their beds-you may correctly assume my marriage to the Count was but a means of escaping this ghastly life. Therefore my knowledge of sexual intimacies between man and woman was truly meager when I came to Paris to be wed. My stay thus far in Paris has improved my knowledge of these things but little.
"But I do not intend to remain ignorant. In addition to learning what there is to be known of male-female practices, I want to be escorted to a sex carnival-I've heard D'Arcy's offers the greatest-uh-variety of entertainment; then to round out my education, I would like to spend some time making the rounds of the better Faire Sauters."
In a different era, under different standards of morality, I might have been even more surprised at her abrupt disclosures. As it was, within seconds, I came to view her request with perfect equanimity. The path she had chosen to dispel her ignorance was a logical one. Yet something here was amiss-or seemed to be. The tone of her voice was not that of a quiveringly excited girl of fifteen feverishly anxious to be introduced into womanhood, but more nearly resembled the dispassionate tone of one explaining the dry, dusty facts of a geometrical equation. Then from her nervous pacing and quick, unsure gestures I realized this belied her true feelings. What superb self-control!
Soon I would find out her true feelings. There was no question of my refusing her proposal. But I was curious.
"Why are you so determined to learn all this at once? And why did you choose me as your instructor?"
"To your first question, Count Falconet: I am young, full of zest for life, and sometime shall marry again. I will not suffer the humiliation of going to a marriage bed as ignorant of sex as I am now. As for your second question: your sexual escapades and prowess are hardly any secret, but almost legendary." A twinkle came into her eyes, an impish smile tilted the corners of her full-lipped mouth. "When one buys a cabbage, one wants the best. Rumor says in matters sexual you are a man of unchallengeable expertise."
"Do you honestly know nothing at all of human sex?" This was a bit hard to grasp. "Not even how offspring are begotten?"
"I-I suspect. The caretaker I mentioned did keep farm animals and I watched through the hole in the stone wall. Then there is Barbe, my personal maid since my becoming the Count's widow. During our conversations I have learned certain things. But words alone are poor teachers in so intimate a matter as sex. Do you not agree?"
"Yes, I do agree."
"Then you will accept the task of teaching me? I have but one reservation."
"Yes," I said again, with pounding heart. "I accept. And what is your reservation?"
"A condition born of information gleaned from Barbe's words. It seems there is that be longing to each maid prior to her initial sexual relationship with a man which a husband highly prizes and is vastly pleased to find his bride in possession of on their wedding night, but which, once destroyed, can never be repaired. I ask only that you do not take advantage of me in this respect. May I have your word of honor as a Frenchman, Monsieur Le Count?"
"Of course." On my life I could not have answered otherwise, though how I could teach her what I knew of sex with her retaining her virginity for some probable husband in the indefinite future I knew not. That problem would be faced in its time. "But I too have a condition. Since we are to be together on such intimate terms I would prefer we forsook the awkwardness of formalities. Please call me Jaques."
"And henceforth I am Therese, and again henceforth-Jaques, in these matters under discussion I am in your hands."
"I have a name for you other than Therese."
"What name?"
When I told her she looked at me steadily, blushed prettily, again her tinkling laughter flitting about the room. "Pink Pussette," she marveled. "How delightful."
I shall not attempt to describe the state of my emotions since first I heard her proposition, other than to say they were even more turbulent than when I arrived. I decided against revealing the affection clamoring in my chest. This I would harbor till a more propitious time. Should I throw myself at her feet now with terms of undying love, as I wanted to do, this naive little sex novice, this ingenue from the provinces, might be frightened from her purpose.
"I hope you are in capable hands," was all I said.
"I'm sure of it. Where shall we begin? I'm fierce anxious."
"First I must increase your vocabulary," which I proceeded forthwith to do, relating to her, and having her repeat after me, all the various names and words and phrases without which the language of love and sex would be an awkward tongue indeed. When we finished she sat silent, as though breathless.
I rose to my feet, pushed aside the large table under the chandelier, brought a low stool from near the door and placed it directly under the light.
"Now remove all your clothes," I said, "and stand upon the stool."
"Oh!-all of them?"
"All of them. Every single garment. An instructor must see the material with which he has to work."
With lowered lids she got slowly to her feet, began untying the ribbon laces of her bodice. As she continued to undress, exposing more and more of her fair flesh to my avid eyes, I pretended nonchalance by resting my rear against the table for support, in reality fearing I might faint from excitement. She completed her task and stepped upon the stool.
Seen now together, of face and form there never was her equal. Her small naked body, bathed in the light from overhead, was a blond Aphrodite reincarnated to sensuous perfection. The plump, juicy breasts at mid-maturity, pink-crowned and succulent as honey dew melons; the wasp-waist above a gentle flare of hips and loins that could squirm greedily around pistoning male meat, and the soft thighs that could embrace a man's waist hotly in eager acquiescence-is there any wonder my sense faltered? What lusty man's would not have done the same?
"Is this the way you mean Jaques?" she murmured demurely, timbre of her voice informing me any feeling of reluctance she might have had was quickly fading. Her next words supported this. "If I seemed hesitant about undressing, please understand I have never undressed completely in any person's presence before."
I didn't answer. I wasn't sure I could, tongue trying to cling to the roof of my mouth as it was.
Height of the stool brought her breasts level with my eyes and I stepped forward, circled her slowly as might a horse trader inspecting a prize filly. Cannon rumbled in my ears again. This time much nearer. My crotch ached. My swollen penis protested bitterly against the confining cloth of my trousers. A silent groan of abject misery welled inside me. The bond of my word prevented my finding surcease from this male torment between her thighs.
Pink Pussette!
I returned to the front, stood devouring with my eyes her immaculate beauty, gaze coming to rest at the juncture of her thighs. Through the sparse shield of blond pubic frizz peeked the upper extremity of her dainty little cunt, and the unmistakable incense of unsullied virgin in my nostrils raised hackles of lust on my neck.
I feared to proceed too rapidly, fearing her decision to have me teach her sex a whim that might vanish should I cause her alarm. The herculean effort it took to retreat left my body clammy in its clothes. I began to remove them.
She had never seen a naked man before; nor did she tell me this in words, but looks. She watched with unfeigned fascination as the garments were shed. My trousers were last. Her eyes popped, her jaw sagged at sight of my suffering penis bursting angrily forth in escape. My balls ached in famishment.
"I think we would be more comfortable in your boudoir." I strove to keep my voice steady. "Is it nearby?"
Moments passed ere she pulled her gaze from my genitals, indicated a door opposite that which I had entered, stepped down from the stool and led the way toward it. My face felt hot and loose and full. My eyes feasted on the twin mounds of her buttocks working saucily against each other as she went in front of me. Sacre bleu! To get my prick in her cleavage, to bore through the puckered brown hidden there between into her darling rectum, to feel the heat of sperm blossom hotly, slipperily about my rod as I spasmed my release into her bowels-what heaven this would be! And I meant to do it. Not tonight, perhaps, but soon.
The boudoir was large. To accommodate the giant bed so much the rage in Paris at the time it had to be. She stopped beside it, turned toward me.
"You will not secretly foreswear your oath not to-?"
"Say the word. I taught it to you minutes back."
Her plump breast lifted in a deep breath. "You will not foreswear your oath not to fuck me?" At voicing this newly acquired word I sensed as well as saw a transformation break over her, destroying that last remnant of reserve she had evinced till now. A big, eager grin overspread her features, she hugged herself deliciously.
"You have my promise," I said, at the same time promising myself to obtain her consent to first-fuck her if it were humanly possible.
She threw her arms about my neck in gladness, pulled my lips down to hers, the torrid enthusiasm of the kiss hinting she might know a bit more about sex than she'd led me to believe. Her dewy lips were soft and fragrant. The gossamer silkiness of her pink tongue darted into my mouth, seeking mine. Down along the length of me her body burned my flesh, pressed against mine with such vigor the resilience of her tummy held my genitals captive. The soft brush of her loin's-hair tickled my balls. I thought my breath would stop.
"Come," she said. "The bed. Lie down on your back and let me review my lesson in vocabulary."
I crawled upon the great bed, lay down on my back, hands behind my neck to keep from seizing her, while she sat beside me braced on an arm.
"Now these," she pointed to my crotch, smiling, "are your genitals-but Jaques, if they are plural, why have you only one?"
"Because the separate members also have names."
She cut her eyes at me in teasing mirth. "Perhaps I shall not make a good student, Jaques-Ah! Now I remember." Her dainty finger almost touched me. "This noble fellow with the great head and little snout you call a prick, no?"
I nodded in the dumb ache of ecstasy.
"Has it any other names?"
"Several." The word was the croak of a frog. "They all mean the same." I was dying of her sweet torture and didn't give a damn.
"What a manly instrument he is," she sighed pensively. "Doubtless, from what I hear, he has served half the women of Paris. And those two large hairy creatures lying in repose below him; these you said were testicles. Is that not so?"
"Yes," I groaned. "Or balls, nuts, seeds-they also have several names.
"Zut," she mused. "Barbe has mentioned the unspeakable joy a prick can give a woman; yet it seems strange she would delight in such a hugeness inserted into her body. I am truly thankful for your promise not to fuck me. I could never accommodate it. I fear my future husband, whoever he happens to be, will cause me pain no end. This," she pointed again. "Of this you have not spoken. What is it called, Jaques?"
"The foreskin."
"And where is the aft-skin?"
"The what?"
"The aft-skin. To have a foreskin implies you also have an aft-skin. Or so it seems to me."
I was forced to struggle with my emotions ere I could give reply.
"That-it-the foreskin becomes the aft-skin when pushed back." My penis had never known the surgeon's knife of circumcision. In early youth, in learning to masturbate, I had ruptured the adhesive mucous membranes between the shoulder of the glans and inner-fore-skin, rendering circumcision unnecessary. A rather painful process, true, and one that had taken several weeks because the membranes kept re-adhering, but the results had served me well since my first lay.
"La me," Pussette marveled, enjoying herself immensely. "The foreskin becomes the aft-skin. How can it be? Hmmm. Pushed back, you say?" Her cool fingers curled about my hot meat and slid toward the base, revealing the glistening glans. Her touch shoved me past the point of all endurance.
The soundless shatter of my balls exploding brought from her ruby lips a squeak of dismay. She gasped as a barrage of blessed relief shot from my agonizing prick, arched over my head and spattered against the wall. She stared in open-mouth wonder till the salvo ceased.
"Wha-what happened, Jaques?" She honestly did not know.
I shuddered to a halt. "That was the male orgasm." I gritted. "Earlier I spoke of it to you."
"Zut," she marveled, eyes aglow. "And la creme? Is it always so abundant?"
I remained silent till after she secured a towel from the bureau and did the necessaries. "Not always, but most of the time."
She returned to her former position to continue her inspection, me only flinching this time under the delicate probe of her fingers. "Jaques?"
"Pussette?"
Happy laughter bubbled from her lips. "I love for you to call me that. But why Pink Pussette?"
"Who can explain the workings of the human mind? The 'pink' just came along."
"Ah, mais oui, and it is not the subject I have in mind anyway."
"What subject is that?"
"What I just did for you-masturbate, no?-that is not the only way a woman can relieve a man without fucking, is it?"
"What do you have in mind?"
"There is sucking, is there not?"
I cringed with joy inside my skin. "Yes, there is sucking."
"Together. Or singly?"
"Both. Together it is called the sixty-nine." A thoughtful frown creased the smoothness of her brow. "I see. But I think we should perform these one at a time to proceed with my education slowly. In this manner I shall learn faster and become more adept."
The words tumbled from my lips. "You are going to suck me?"
"Should I not?"
"Do you want to?" I had trouble breathing. Inside me something squeezed my lungs.
"Is that not part of it?" Her voice took on a very submissive tone. "Yes, Jaques. I want very much to suck you."
Holy Mary, Mother of God, I prayed silently not to go insane with ecstasy.
"But you must teach me, Jaques. I don't know how."
I showed her. She laughed gaily.
"But it's so simple, Jaques. Not complicated at all, as I imagined."
I ached to slip a hand around and fondle her little cunt, so easily within reach, but feared it might divert her attention. I wanted to be blown. I needed it. The first orgasm had brought some relief, yes, but also further whetted my appetite.
She levered my gudgeon upright, shifted her position to a more comfortable one, candlelight doing wonderful things to her darling face as she smiled at me. She began by laving my glans thoroughly with the gossamer smoothness of her pert little tongue, licking the knob all over, tracing her tongue's tip a number of times between the shoulder of the glans and the thick collar of rolled-back foreskin. Icy-hot flashes of pure ecstasy seared my skin. Next she brought her tongue to its sharpest point and worried the lone aperture of my prick, as though attempting to push her tongue inside it. The while she was thus employed, the hand not uprighting my goad trickled on little bird's feet down and around my throbbing seeds and searched my crotch beneath the scrotum. I lay supine, grunting desperately.
"Do I please you?" she queried, lifting her head.
I only grunted more, fearing to pass out. At her next words my heart dropped.
"Don't look at me with those eyes, dear Jaques," she pouted. "One would think I've stolen your heart. We have only met and this is only sex, not love. I am being groomed to please the husband I hope someday to have."
Under less erotic circumstances her words might have dropped my heart more yet, but my enthrallment with our situation rushed in to prevent it. Besides, I had faith in my ability with the fairer sex.
"Your education is suffering," I managed. "Proceed."
She did, though slowly. Again she spent some time licking and teasing the naked head of my cock, kept at it till the entire length of my root vibrated with mad impatience. Satisfied at last, she pursed her mouth to a tiny circle and blew a stream of air upon it, chilling it to the core.
"What in God's name?" I rasped in passion.
Her answer hit me like an avalanche. The hot oval of her ruby lips capped the chilled glans, plunged down my rigid meat. A sledgehammer blow hit me low in the gut. I bucked, lurched crazily, gagged for air, a scalding stream of semen geysering from my loins. The world trembled. The room spun.
Nor did she withdraw her sweet mouth when all evidence of the seizure had flown, but sucked and pooled at my prick with eager endeavor. It remained firm and ready for more. And got it.
After two explosive orgasms I had something of my wits about me, and expected her to desist so I could reciprocate by doing the same for her. This did not happen. Not at once. Instead, she began to raise and lower her head, slowly at first, but with increasing speed till it bobbed rapidly, the soft, fleshy pressures of her mouth bathing my prick with delicious sensations. Each time her head raised her tongue purled about the glans, tormenting it, pulling the storm again gathering in my loins toward the surface.
Before long the storm broke like a rush of a mighty wind and for the third time the elixir of lust surged upward and once again my vision blurred and I floundered about on the bed like a landed fish.
This time when I quieted she straightened to sit beside me, soft laughter of her gladness music to my ears.
"You never did answer my question, Jaques. Do I please you?"
How does a man of my sensuous bent, under circumstances such as mine at the moment, answer a question like that? There was no way.
I sat up, pulled her to me, the warmth of her small, exquisite nakedness against me breathtaking.
"Now you lie down as I did," I told her. "Rest your legs on the bed, only spread them out wide."
She did as I said. "Are you going to suck my pussy, Jaques?"
I nodded, mounted to all fours for greater maneuverability and leaned toward her breasts-plump, ripe juicy breast-fruit. My little Pussette! She shivered deliciously, gasped desperately from the attack. My lips captured the closest nipple and a whimper of passion fluttered from her throat. Easily I began to tug, taking care to be gentle, my tongue stroking the firm, pinkish-tan peak the same time my hand crept silently across the tremulous plain of her turn my toward the demure little cunt nestling snugly between the tops of her thighs. The small pleasure mound the hand found beneath the misty spray of blond fleece twitched involuntarily under my fingers. A low, sobbing moan issued from her parted lips. I moved my lips down the satiny bevel of her breasts, licking and kissing as I went, circled the enrapturing hillocks completely before moving to the other She started, gasped again, as my mouth captured it; started a second time, one leg jerking violently, when my finger began to probe cautiously into the top of her cleft. Her straddle was hot, wet.
My fingers located the taut, inflamed spur of her clitoris and she cried my name piteously.
"Jaques, you're killing me!"
I paid no heed, but traced the finger down the steamy cranny of her labia, investigating. Yes, she was virgin. The expertise with which she had sucked my meat had raised a tiny doubt about her innocence. The doubt now disappeared. The small orifice I found was comfortably large enough to accommodate my finger, but hardly more so. I pressed only half the first joint into her untried womb, then drew it back, content for the moment. Breath panted passionately from her lips.
From her breasts I traveled my lips down to her rib cage, licking, nipping, sucking, crisscrossing as I went, taking my time, building the fires in her loins ever higher. At her cute little navel I paused a bit, probing and teasing it with the tip of my tongue. Then I removed my hand from her little pussette and went lower; to the resilience of her tummy, criss-crossing again.
A whispered half-scream poured from her throat when I halted at the upper edge of her pubic growth. The leg again perked violently and she pawed aimlessly at my head till it was beyond reach; moving slowly toward her feet as I kissed and licked my way down the inside surface of her near thigh. On reaching the knee I maneuvered around between her out-flung legs and, starting at the other knee, licked my way up along that thigh toward her crotch. Soon now. But not too soon.
By this time both her legs jerked like the legs of a puppet under the guidance of an inexperienced puppeteer, her head rolled from side to side in an agony of desire and her hands clutched and released the bed covers repeatedly.
"Jaques," she sobbed raggedly. "Jaques. Jaques."
Out of compassion I speeded my lip's trek up the last few inches of her thigh. The soft brush of her immature cunt hair against my lips all but cracked my control. I scooted my hands under her buttocks, levered her hips up toward my face for comfortable access, and placed a thumb on either side of her quivering vagina. Reverently I spread these innocent lips, stuck my nose between them and breathed deeply.
The rich, delicious perfume of virgin cunt smote my nostrils, made them flange till they hurt. A muted growl of lust rumbled in my chest. Has any man ever been so blessed? I doubt it. Again I inhaled, savoring the pure aphrodisiacal aroma, which filled me with primeval passions never felt before, emotions so raw and savage I was forced to struggle to overcome, lest I rape her on the spot.
Directly in front of my lips, in tongue's easy range, was my shy, dainty Pink Pussette. I wanted to scream my joy. Instead I took one side of her vagina between my lips, exulting in the faintly saline flavor of fresh young cunt, and worked my mouth from one end to the other of the sensitive fold of flesh. When I was satisfied with this, I moved to the other side, doing the same. Strangled sounds of intense passion gurgled from her throat.
Next I began at the bottom of the small valley forming her cleft, sucking and licking the inflamed flesh as I gradually worked my way up to her petite opening. Here I paused, placed my tongue against the winking aperture, and began working it inside her. In addition to all other obvious reasons for doing this, I had a very definite purpose in mind. I wanted to begin expanding her passage. If the time ever came when she would consent to me putting my prick into her belly, the larger her channel the less her discomfort would be.
I moved with caution, proceeding slowly, first easing the tip of my tongue into her little cunt, then squirming as much of it as possible inside. In front of my eyes her tummy heaved from her labored breathing. Her legs had not ceased to jerk and her balled fists beat the bed in erratic rhythm. With great care I began to push my tongue in and out of her tender, virgin quim.
She shoved herself erect on straight arms, stared wildly at my face buried in her crotch, then emitted a ghostly, unearthly screech and collapsed back on the bed. I knew the time had come to bring her to fruition.
I took a firmer grip on her buttocks, hooking the first two fingers of each hand over her hip bones, slipped my tongue from her seething cunt and plunged my mouth down on her clitoris, sucking voraciously.
Her second wild, inhuman cry rent the silence of the room, then she grabbed the bed with both hands, clamped her hot thighs about my ears, crossed her ankles between my shoulders and surged upward, arching her torso toward the ceiling. A moment later a deep, inner quaking seized her and again she fell back on the bed, but slowly this time, like a falling bridge, babbling incoherencies as her young body submitted completely to the ravages of excruciating ecstasy and the perfumed maiden juices of her rapture flowed sweetly into my adoring mouth.
The seizure showed no haste in leaving, but departed gradually as I continued to suck lovingly on her little clit, watching her twinge spastically on occasion, the muscles of her belly knotting and twitching. Finally, at last, she gave a gladsome, voluptuous sigh.
"Jaques?" Her voice was still weak from the onslaught.
I raised my head. "Yes, Pussette?"
She began hunching her open straddle out and down in my direction, attempting to rub it against my face.
"Do it again, Jaques," she begged fervently. "Please do it again."
I lowered my head, lips searching.
CHAPTER TWO
They had no trouble finding what they sought, since they had relinquished the darling little object but moments before. A charming squeal of joyous lust sprang from her as my mouth closed once more over the hot, sensitive flesh nestling between the folds of her enrapturing cunt. A great shiver of eagerness coursed through her small nakedness the instant I commenced a rhythmic, persistent tugging on her clit.
And so it went most of the night-though certainly not always with me as the attender. On numerous occasions during my delicious repast between her thighs she would stop me at the conclusion of an upheaval and insist on attending to my needs. Dawn was filtering through the windows when we at last succumbed to the coxy fatigue of sexual appeasement and went to sleep in each other's arms.
It is my habit to awaken quickly in full, immediate control of all my faculties, and thus it happened when I awakened in Pussette's bedroom, afternoon sunlight all about. On going to sleep we had not bothered with getting under the covers, and now we lay atop them, I on my back and Pussette hard by on her side, head on my shoulder still and one thigh drawn across mine to my scrotum. My rigid cock lay flat up over my belly and in her sleep, as though instinctively, Pussette's soft hand had found it, for the feather-light touch of her fingers circled it just below the blood swollen head.
Fierce joy surged in my chest at recollection of the night before and my present situation: last night had been spent in lustful intimacies with the one creature on earth I loved more than life itself. We had slept together and now reclined in naked repose on her big bed in ideal readiness to resume at once our erotic endeavor the moment she awakened.
When I surfaced from the bottomless abyss of slumber I had not opened my eyes or made any move to indicate awareness, but lay there perfectly motionless, savoring the pleasures of my new circumstances, which fortune had possessed the grace to bestow upon me. I was not particularly conscious of any passage of time, so knew not how long it was before a sixth sense informed me Pussette and I were not alone in the room. Cautiously, I lifted my lids the barest fraction. The information was correct. We were not alone. A lovely young woman of eighteen or twenty stood within arm's reach beside the bed.
Her complexion was a deep mahogany brown and so were her large, expressive eyes. Her hair, held in a bun atop her well-shaped head, was a glossy, midnight black. From her coloring and the cast of her features I knew without being told she was of Arabian extraction; probably from Oran or Algiers or some other city along the North African coast. I also knew from her uniform that she was Barbe, the personal maid Pussette had mentioned the night before. Arab maids were the vogue among the wealthy in Paris this season.
It did not seem possible, but I fancy my prick got harder still as I lay there cautiously scanning her maidenly charms from behind slitted lids. Her body was lush and ripe for fucking. The expression on her face was that of rapt fascination and lustful tingles trickled along my spine as I realized the object of her enthrallment was my hard prick. Once she leaned forward, right hand extended tentatively as though she meant to caress it, but right then Pussette stirred sleepily beside me, and the girl withdrew a pace. My darling stirred a second time, her hand wandering aimlessly over my genitals in a caress that ignited sparks of lust in my balls, and the dark girl stared at us, immobile, transfixed to the floor, her face a living portrait of raw sexual desire. Beyond question the girl was in a state of fierce erotic excitement.
To a small measure I found this puzzling, for the night before I had received from Pussette the impression her maid was of the type to keep herself well fucked. Obviously I was wrong in this, or else the girl had an enormous sexual appetite-in either case a condition meeting my hearty approval. Nor did I think my darling would protest my attitude. Last night there had not been mentioned in our agreement any provision preventing me from having sex with whom I chose and, since I was not to indulge in conventional coitus with Pussette, I was reasonably sure she would have no objection to me fucking her maid, Barbe.
Again sparks of lust flashed through my nuts, was immediately followed by a surge of inexplicably joyous sensation over the sudden idea that my student, in order to further her sexual education more rapidly, might consent to becoming an audience of one while I fucked the dark Arab girl. And that I would fuck her was in no wise presumption on my part. Past experience with the opposite sex had developed certain of my perceptive talents, inherent in all men in varying quantities, to a degree that brooked no question. I refer to that masculine trait which enables the male to determine when the female is greedy for a hard prick in her belly.
Barbe was ready to be fucked; was nearly famished to feel a man's rigid sex-staff working in her cunt. Of this I had no doubt. Yet my feeling of puzzlement remained. Why would a girl of her undeniable beauty and unmistakable willingness let herself get into her present state of brutal sexual need? If I were any judge at all, and if my nose was not lying, (which it was not,) she was at that very moment approaching a condition only to be described as a borderline sexual frenzy. Unless some man serviced her in short order, the intensity of her passion could easily have dire mental and physical repercussions.
I continued to regard her secretly till Pussette stirred yet again, then groaned as though about to awaken. At this Barbe retreated from my range of vision with one parting look at my rod, her face reflecting despair. Seconds later I caught a brief glimpse of her back as she stepped around the foot of the bed and left the room. Something in the forlorn set of her shoulders caused me to feel grievously sorry for the girl.
"I do believe she is captivated by you."
I jumped like a startled roe at the hushed whisper.
"How long have you been awake?" I blurted.
Beside me Pussette stretched long and luxuriously and gave me a slow, impish grin.
"Even before you were, I think," she said. "But I didn't let on either." The warm, joyous laughter over simply being alive bubbled from her lips as she stretched a second time. "Are you going to fuck her?"
"Who? Barbe? That was your maid Barbe, wasn't it?"
"It was; and don't ignore my question. Do you not want to fuck her?"
"I do."
"I'm sure I can arrange it for you then." She reached over and gently thumped my glans with a forefinger. Giddy exultation galloped through me. I could barely voice the next question, knowing her answer even before I asked it.
"So you can watch me fuck her?"
Fleeting surprise shown through her happiness.
"Jaques! How did you know? Are you clairvoyant?"
"It was but a guess."
"A very accurate guess. Am I evil or depraved to want it?"
"To want to watch me fuck Barbe? Don't be ridiculous. It will serve to increase your knowledge of sex. Do you feel guilty for wanting to watch?"
She hugged herself with gladness and shook her head, still grinning.
"Not a bit. And I'm sure Barbe won't mind having me as a spectator."
This seemed the cue I had been half-expecting, so I said, "During our conversation last night I got the opinion Barbe was a woman of the world who would never deny herself sexual gratification, yet in observing her a few minutes ago I feel certain a long time has passed since she enjoyed a man."
"You are right, Jaques. In the latter instance, I mean. A long time has passed since she enjoyed a man. Months, really. You see, Barbe is from Tunis, where she had been going with a young man she hoped to marry when he came to Paris. But now he will not come for her. A week ago she received word he had wed another girl. All these months she has been waiting for this young man, she has been saving herself for him, but now that their ties are no more, she is in desperate need of a thorough fucking."
"But surely there can be no lack of men. I can name at least half a hundred who would rush to perform the service."
"No doubt, Jaques, but in some respects Barbe is not unlike many other girls, including me. She is particular." Pussette sat up with a roguish wink. "Zut. I can imagine that no woman likes to be fucked by just anything."
I made no direct reply to this, knowing her to be mistaken. She too would recognize the error when I squired her to D'Arcy's Car-naval de Sex. She continued in dreamy tones, rubbing her chaste little cunt reflectively.
"You know, Jaques, each time you sucked my pussy last night I died of raptures unspeakable. Can it possibly be any better when a man-my husband-sticks his penis into me?"
"That I can't say, not being a woman," I laughed. "But the conventional sex form is the one most couples use most frequently. I'm sure you won't have any complaints from ordinary coitus." I could not resist uttering the next words, for swiftly an idea of how I might further my own cause with this darling creature formed in my thoughts. "Though you may never know for sure."
She stared at me from round eyes tinged with alarm.
"Wha-why, whatever on earth do you mean, Jaques?"
"What I say is based on conclusions drawn from what you told me last night. You intend to preserve your virginity till you fall in love and marry, right? But you may never fall in love and therefore will never have a husband. As a consequence you will pass through life a virgin, similar to the two aunts who raised you back in Czerny."
At the mention of her two kinswomen her face became the pallor of death and a piteous gasp of terror sprang from her lips.
"Jaques!" she cried, flinging herself at me. "Before I'll submit to a life such as theirs, I'll become the biggest prostitute in Paris!"
My heart leapt with joy. Reminding her of the two aunts had been a stroke of pure genius and, in the end, if circumstances so demanded in order to persuade her to let me fuck her, I would use these aunts to paint such a dreadful picture my little darling Pussette would plead for me to take her cherry. But I could be patient for a while; had already decided I should do so, and if the gods of luck smiled on me as favorably again as they had in the past, Pussette might come to care for me without external pressures, and of her own accord. I yearned for such a moment. In the meantime we would continue as we had the night before. And then there was Barbe.
"You offered to arrange with Barbe for me to fuck her," I said, pushing Pussette up to a seated position, relieved that her normal coloring was returning. "Were you serious?"
She nodded, though a bit jerkily, a somewhat stricken look still about her eyes. The possibility of her falling heiress to a fate paralleling her aunts had shaken her to the core.
"Yes," she said slowly after a time, her composure gradually reappearing. "Shall I do so now, or would you rather wait till after breakfast-?" She glanced at the afternoon sun flooding the room. "-Or till after we eat?"
"Do you think Barbe would rather we waited till after we ate?" I asked.
"I know she wouldn't," Pussette said, giggling suddenly and bounding from the big bed. "Wait in there." She pointed to a small ante-chamber beyond the window and separated from the bedroom by a beaded curtain. "I'll bring Barbe in here and when she's undressed, you come out."
Ere I could form a reply, though I cannot imagine what I might have said, my darling skipped blithely from the room, all eagerness and anticipation to arrange the tryst wherein she would watch me fuck her maid. To my way of thinking, very little arranging took place, for I had hardly reached the ante-chamber before she reentered the room, followed by the Arabian girl.
Dancing sunbeams did glorious things to Pussette's pink and cream complexion as she minced toward the bed. Barbe walked behind with stiff steps, as though on legs made of wood, fluttering hands plucking at buttons and bows of her maids' uniform. On her face was frozen an expression of dumb ecstasy. Her eyes were glassy. The tip of her tongue kept darting out to moisten her lips. By the time the pair reached the bed Barbe was as naked as Pussette, her garments strewn over the floor behind her.
When first I'd lain eyes on the girl I had noted her feminine charms were far in excess of the ordinary. But that had been with her clothes on. Peering through the ante-chamber curtain, I was in no way prepared for the stunning vision of erotica personified she presented naked. A mighty wave of lust rolled over me as my eyes devoured the plump resilience of her dark breast-fruit, the narrow waist that flared into lush hips over columnar thighs of such immaculate perfection hackles of lust rose on the back of my neck. Sweet blue eyes of Jesus-God! The girl was the ultimate of sexual enticements. And she waited for me to fuck her. Not for long would she wait. I stepped through the curtain into the bedroom.
It was strange, really, the way it , happened from there on, though I did not recall this for sometime later.
Pussette sat on the edge of the bed, near the head of it, and Barbe stood at the foot, one hand on a tall corner post. Both girls watched as I approached. Pussette's blue eyes sparkled with youthful zest; Barbe's still held that glassy look. No one spoke. Not one of us uttered so much as a single syllable when I reached them, turned Barbe to face the bed and motioned for her to mount the edge of it on her knees. She did, resting her elbows and spreading her thighs to afford me unobstructed access. Strong about us was the nostril-flanging scent of female animal in fierce lust-heat. I inhaled deeply, the aphrodisiacal perfume causing my blood to race madly. My cock was so hard a cat could not have scratched it.
I stepped back a distance sufficient to permit a full view of Barbe's new position. Woman parts greeted my eyes. The lust-hackles on my neck grew straighter. Where Pussette had but a sparse stand of downy fleece shielding her dainty straddle, Barbe had a great mass of curly black bristles thickly matted over every external fraction of her vagina. Sight of this, for a reason unknown to me, filled me with a quivering anxiety and brought to mind the old adage that says the thornier the briar patch the sweeter the berry. If this be true I was in for the fuck of a lifetime, for this Arab girl had the hairiest, shaggiest cunt I'd ever seen on female form. Truly the berry would be a sweet one.
I moved forward, stopped between her parallel forelegs protruding from over the edge of the bed for one final glance downward, and fancied I saw her waiting passage gulping hungrily toward my genitals. Down the center of her crinkly cunt-hair a pink strip of flesh indicated an open labia, and all the hair in its immediate vicinity was wet and sticky from her lubricating secretions. I was glad of this; appreciated it. I was in no mood for a gentle, sedate lay, but needed a struggling, fighting fuck to make up for the poontang I had not gotten from Pussette the night before.
Pussette scrambled down toward us for a better view when I inched closer toward the mark. Save for a constant trembling, which seemed to pervade her entire body, Barbe was motionless, and remained so till I felt cautiously with one hand under her buttocks. At the touch of my fingers her back snapped into a bow and a harsh, desperate sound wrenched from her lips. I placed my other palm in the small of her back, pressed gently and she slowly relaxed to her former position.
Her crotch was steamy hot; soppy wet with lymphatic fluids. Just as I had never seen a hairier cunt than hers, at the moment I could not recall having ever seen any female in greater need of male attention.
Perhaps there is a bit of the sadist in me, or perhaps a perverse quirk to my nature, for now that the moment of fucking had arrived I wanted to hold off a little in order to intensify Barbe's sweet female agony. It was not that I actually wanted to torture the girl. I merely wanted to tease her in a manner that would increase the fire in her loins, thereby increasing the vigor of her orgasm and the degree of gratification she received from it.
With this in mind I used both hands to pull farther apart the folds of her labia, inched forward to the proper distance; then with one hand depressed the boom of my cock till it was against her seething flesh. Barbe grunted explosively at the light touch. Pussette maneuvered quickly into a hands-and-knees position that brought her face almost directly above and not ten inches from the point of contact. She gaped in silence, completely agog.
I then began torturing the girl in front of me by swabbing the bald knob of my rigid prick up and down through the juicy hotness of her open, defenseless cunt. Until that instant not one of us had spoken or made an articulate sound, but now she did.
"My god!" she whimpered thinly, the words followed at once by a low, guttural howl of lust. Then she cried aloud in anguish: "Fuck me!" she begged. "For the love of god, put it in!"
I ignored her pleas, continued to swipe my cock through her cunt with increasing rapidity, unaccountably exhilarated by her reaction; deriving a strange delight from knowing of her ravenous hunger to have my prick inside her. But it was an activity that could not continue unabated for I, being no less human than she, was all too well aware of the mighty storm gathered to break in my loins. Unless I soon sunk the bit I would be spewing semen into the hairs matting her vagina and in the cleavage of her ass, which could be called nothing if not the ruin of a prime orgasm and a waste of good come.
At that very instant, however, gaffing her with my cunt-bolt was considerably easier contemplated than accomplished, for her famished eagerness to have me stab her was working a hindrance to prevent my so doing. In truth, her posterior snapped and jerked and waggled from such frenzied efforts to capture the end of my cock with her cunt and swallow it I had difficulty holding her still long enough to locate the entrance of her channel with the tip of my prick.
But at last I succeeded, and lost no further time, but seized her roughly by the hips and in one long, surging lunge drove the entire length of my hard sex-meat into the burning depths of her inflamed cunt.
CHAPTER THREE
A strange cry of shock and surprise tore itself from my lips. For one tiny pinpoint in time I knew my cock was scalded. Her sex-flesh was that hot.
I was not alone in giving vent to unexpected noises. Barbe's atavistic, non-human shriek of fiendish joy shattered the room with sound when aching cock plunged hilt-deep into her belly. The next instant the fiery, fleshy tube of her womb seized upon my cock, clamped down around it with surprising strength from all angles, then commenced a wondrous munching, sucking action that turned my asshole inside out with flashes of raw ecstasy.
Great bolts of man-seed gushed through the connecting tube of my cunt-churner to explode in silent thunder in the mysterious regions of her body, me not unaware of the boiling maiden juices flushing around my root in spastic torrents-silent evidence that revealed the magnitude of her orgasm. Yet this was far from being the only evidence, with that remaining so physically violent and so vociferous it was alarming. Nor did the vigor of her seizure wane in normal time, as mine did.
Final remnants of bliss from my massive unloading were fading fast while she still struggled in the merciless clutches of her orgastic holocaust. Sharp, quick screams of unendurable rapture continued to bark from her throat when I recovered enough to observe objectively.
She fought like a maniac and there was absolutely nothing I could do but keep my feet planted solidly on the floor, retain my grip on her hips-this was not easy-and keep her bottom drawn back hard against me so her contortions could not divest from her lathered cunt the male sex-meat stuffing it. At one point I began assuming her ecstatic ordeal about to conclude when, to my surprise, I felt the hot flesh of her passage clamp down and begin chewing on my cock once more, which heralded the arrival of her second orgasm.
Yet this should not have surprised me. This little dark-skinned piece of Arabian fuck-fruit undoubtedly had the hottest, and the hungriest, cunt in the whole of Paris. Nor was there any doubt that she, at the moment, was sole bent on subduing the fires in her loins and satisfying her hunger.
She went berserk the instant her cunt began gnawing on my prick, bathing it round about again with female fluids. Her wild screech of utter submission sliced about the room as her rapture mounted. With balled fists she smote the bed with amazing strength for a woman, all the while flinging her head hither and yon, flailing her black hair about as she lunged blindly this way and that. It took all my strength to keep her impaled on my cock. Then she almost escaped. She gave a powerful heave toward the far side of the bed, which all but caught me off balance, and commenced bucking from me with such persistent determination I was forced to mount the bed on my knees to prevent her escape. Peculiar sounds came from her throat as she floundered aimlessly over the bed, lost in a sexual frenzy and clawing at the covers with both hands as though she meant to burrow down into the mattress.
Happily, in this new position, with me following behind on my knees, I found it much easier to keep up with her. In fact, I released her hips and leaned forward along her back, my arms down alongside hers, pleased no end to discover our bodies fitted so perfectly I was able to begin a comfortable hunching action. Even so, I was not prepared for Barbe's response to this action.
Heretofore, from the moment I made the coupling, the vigor of her lustful cavorting had reduced my participation to little more than trying to keep our coupling intact. My sex-meat had been more or less stationary in her cunt, and thus it was that when I began fucking into her, the action assailed her with additional raptures which all but drove her mad. She ceased to move about on the bed, and just hunkered there on hands and knees under me, babbling in a tongue I took to be Arabic, and squirming her buttocks back into my loins as my thick-veined prick pistoned into her frothy cunt with measured rhythm. Before long I would be coming again also, but I felt no urge to hurry matters. The need of the girl beneath me was enormous and I had plenty of time, which made it my gentlemanly responsibility to see her well satisfied. No Frenchman worthy of the name would have done less. Such a thing was a point of national pride.
At the moment Barbe was unconcerned with pride or anything else except the gigantic orgasm wracking her dark frame, and the demanding tube of male meat nudging amongst her secret places. She had ceased to move save for a vast quivering that shook her now and then. Occasionally a spongy sob sprang from her lips as I continued to fuck smoothly into her, pressing my cock in all the way, then adding the little extra hunch women find so gratifying.
Gradually the earthquake in my loins gathered its forces, and just as Barbe's visitation died away the earthquake struck. This time when she felt the great globs of goo erupting in her belly she only moaned and whimpered my name.
"Sacre bleu!"
The hushed exclamation sounded loud in the stillness of the room, and it was only then I remembered the Arabian girl and I were not alone. My little Pink Pussette sat within arms reach, her expression one of mingled wonder and fascination. Her eyes kept going from me to Barbe to the point where my cock was buried in her maid's body.
"Sacre bleu," Pussette said again, but with no less feeling than before. "It was something to watch-and something that must be seen to be believed. I-we-" Words failed her as she burst into merry laughter. "Never have I witnessed the like!"
"And never have I experienced the like," Barbe said in a clear, even voice. She gave no indication of wanting me to dismount, so I remained where I was. Then she too gave forth with gladsome laughter, trying to twist her head around to look at me.
"It has just occurred to me," she laughed warmly, "that you and I have never even so much as spoken to each other. Perhaps we should introduce ourselves."
Under the circumstances this last remark struck me as extremely funny and I laughed heartily, deciding to join her little joke.
"Permit me, Mile. Barbe," I said with all the gravity I could muster. "Count Jaques Maurice de Falconet. And since it would be somewhat awkward to kiss your hand properly-" I jerked my hips far to the rear and snapped them forward vigorously, slamming my sex-meat back into her cunt with unfeigned relish. "-perhaps this will suffice."
Her responsive grunt of pleasure ended in a lustful whine.
"Another lick or two like that and it won't make any difference what your name is," she said.
"Are you going to fuck again?" Pussette asked. I glanced up quickly at the note of anxiety in her tone. She smiled, wrinkled her nose and made a little moue at me through the smile. "I'm starved." She pretended a pout. "And I want my pussy sucked some more."
Barbe moved in preparation to rising and I shoved myself up off her.
"I'll run fix something to eat," she said. "Huh-uh," Pussette told her, watching me ready to withdraw. "You and Jaques go wash up and I'll have something cold ready by the time you finish."
She leaned forward, inches from the coupling, and out of consideration for her interest I severed my connection with Barbe slowly, pulling my sex-meat out of her cunt as gradually as if performing some delicate operation. The dark-skinned girl sighed wistfully when it was done. My darling little Pink Pussette went slack-jawed at the sight, leaning closer still. On being released from its wondrous imprisonment my rod snapped up to strike my abdomen with a meaty thwack.
"Mother of God," Pussette gulped noisily. "There's so much of it. Of you I mean, Jaques. I-I-" She focused her blue on Barbe's posterior. "Look at that!"
She was not referring to the puckered anus between the cheeks of her maid's ass, or the vast wealth of bristly black hair covering the girl's straddle, but to Barbe's cunt itself. From it oozed a stream of thick, pearl gray yang of such abundance that even as we watched it seeped through the hairs attempting to restrain it and coursed slowly down her thighs.
"Zut!" Pussette giggled suddenly, slipping the case off a pillow and handing it to the other girl. "You're overflowing with la Creme, which surprises me not a whit. Jaques always has so much. He almost strangled me several times last night." She smacked playfully at my cock and scrambled off the bed. "Now go wash up, the two of you, whilst I see to the food."
Barbe rolled to her back and gave me a puzzled look as Pussette left the room.
"Can it be possible you spent the night in her bed and failed to fuck her?" she asked in wonder.
"I didn't fail. I didn't even try to fuck her." For a long moment she sat regarding my hard cock with a look akin to reverence, but made no attempt to conceal her suspicions. I was lying when she raised her eyes to mine.
"To believe Jaques Maurice de Falconet slept the night with such a beauty without fucking her strains credulity."
"Not when the honor of a Frenchman's word is at stake," I replied, then proceeded to tell her of my arrangement with Pussette, withholding nothing save the fact I was deeply in love with her young mistress. When I finished the account Barbe sat silent a moment, then shrugged philosophically.
"It is past time-what is the name you have given her? Pussette? It is past time Pussette learned of sex, and it is noble and generous of you to consent to instruct her, but this strange notion of hers to fuck only the man she loves enough to marry-well-I am anxious to see how long it takes her to find this man and marry him." She gave me a searching look. "Perhaps the man will be you."
"I doubt it," I said without really knowing why, unless it was to somehow insure my secret love for Pussette remained a secret till I was ready to reveal it. "Last night she emphasized our relationship was to remain purely academic." I got to my feet. "Come. Let's hurry. I'm hungry enough to eat a carriage wheel."
Barbe was leading the way down a long hall toward the dining room some minutes later when she stopped abruptly and turned.
"Jaques." Her voice was fraught with emotion.
"Yes?"
"I can never thank you enough for what you've done for me this day. My need was so enormous I was in physical pain. How can I ever return the favor?"
"Well," I said as though pondering the subject with great seriousness. Then I could not restrain the grin. "You might return it by joining me in a repeat performance as frequently as convenient."
With a glad cry she threw herself into my arms. "Be assured of it," she said. "Whenever and wherever you say. Even in public."
As we were still naked, the firm press of her hot flesh down the length of me was swiftly fostering a situation that could easily cause our next fuck-session to be right there in the hall. My throbbing cock was pressed upward at an angle between our bodies and my balls began to swell with lust.
"Hey!" Pussette grinned at us from a doorway a few feet beyond. "There's plenty of time for that later. If you're hungry as I, you'll join me in here at the table."
We joined her, with me across from the two of them as we partook of a variety of cold meats, cheeses, an assortment of pickles, plus a number of other dishes, the all of which was enhanced by a Burgundy wine lightly flavored with orange peel. Due to our hunger most of the meal was carried on in relative silence, but when appetites grew satisfied conversation became more pronounced, especially with the girls.
As for myself, I was still no little overwhelmed by the priceless situation I had come upon, and joined their gay banter but seldom. Actually, now that I had a brief respite to review the circumstances, I realized I was even yet a bit stunned by my good fortune. Submerged as I was in blissful reverie, I did not realize Barbe was addressing me till she called my name a third time.
"I asked if you've ever heard of a Faire Sauter owned by a Madame Rue, Jaques," she said. "I've been telling Pussette of some rumors I've heard of the place. Do you know of it?"
I knew of it, not only because it was the most popular Faire Sauter with wealthy Parisian matrons, but also because Madame Ra-monde Rue was a very close personal friend with whom I had spent many a delightful hour of erotic dalliance. Raymonde was a person of great understanding of human nature and of vivid imagination. Not only did her establishment cater to the more conventional sexual needs of her lady customers, but also to those females who developed peculiar whims or nursed unusual yearnings or harbored weird cravings that no other Faire Sauter in Paris could appease-such as the rich old dowager who insisted on being fucked by a specially carved marble statue of her famous late husband. An even dozen carefully trained men were necessary to operate the cumbersome mechanical contraption that powered the statue, and all other Faire Sauters in the city had flatly refused to accommodate the old woman. Not so Raymonde Rue. She viewed the request as a challenge. And it was precisely this willingness to accept any challenge in order to please a customer that had made Raymonde's Faire Sauter the most fabulous and sought after of them all.
"Yes," I said to Barbe. "I know of Madame Rue's place. The owner is an old and dear acquaintance. I've visited her Faire Sauter many times."
"You?" both girls blurted in unison, staring at me in surprise. Pussette was first to speak.
"For what reason did you go there?" she demanded. "As one of the men-What is it they call them? Studs-who attend to the customers?"
I laughed, feeling good inside. The hint of jealous anger in her tone was gratifying indeed. True, she had arranged for me to fuck her maid-a far from uncommon but little known French custom should a wife become incapable of receiving her spouse-but the possibility I had offered for stud on the open market to females all and sundry seemed to irritate my darling little Pink Pussette. This was a fact I meant to remember. It, along with my knowledge of her attitude toward her aunts in Czerny could well serve as additional inducement to her letting me take her maidenhead. Oh happy day!
"No," I told Pussette. "I've never played the stud at Madame Rue's, though there's been opportunity enough, and-"
"But you said you'd been there many times."
"And I have, but I also said Raymonde Rue is a close friend of long standing. Because of this friendship I am granted a certain privilege there which, to my knowledge, has never been enjoyed by any other person except Madame Rue herself. Beyond question it is the most fantastic means of whiling away tedious hours human kind has yet discovered."
"What is this privilege, Jacques?" Barbe asked, of a sudden all interest.
I shook my head. "To tell would betray a confidence. I'm sorry." This was in no wise the truth, but rather the exact opposite. On numerous occasions Raymonde had said I might bring along anyone whose discretion I trusted implicitly. So far I had encountered no such persons, but if I could not trust Pussette and Barbe....
On impulse I changed my mind, decided to take them.
"I must have your promise never to reveal what this privilege is, or that it even exists," I told them across the table, noting that their feminine curiosity was nearing fever pitch. Their promises were valuable and prompt, and I watched their flickering changes of expression when I told them I was permitted to witness any and all erotic activities at Madame Rue's that I chose. When I finished they fairly boggled at me.
"You mean you're allowed to watch any woman who patronizes the place do-whatever she comes there to do?" Barbe asked at last. "If the rumors I've heard are correct, some of the women go there for pretty weird reasons."
"That's true," I said. "Very true." Then I told them of the old dowager, going into graphic detail as to how she got fucked by the marble statue of her late husband.
An absolute, dumbfounded silence fell upon the room when I finished. The silence continued till it was shattered by uninhibited screams of girlish laughter, which continued without pause or sign of abating the better part of five minutes; continued till they fought for breath and tears streamed down their cheeks and I feared they might become ill from the violence and longevity of their mirth. However, and as all things must, this mirth at last came to an end and they sat wiping their eyes, in control of themselves once again but silent until Pussette asked, "Jacques, will you take us to Madame Rue's; Barbe and me, so we can see some of these things ourselves? Will you take us? Today? This afternoon? As soon as we can get dressed?"
It had been in the back of my mind to oblige them all the time.
"But you must remember to never tell."
"We won't," Barbe swore solemnly. "Never."
"Then you will take us?" Pussette almost shouted, apparently having been of the mind I would refuse.
I nodded. "Of course I'll take you." Then I thought to tease her a mite. "But you must be of great care that none of Madame Rue's studs take advantage of you by force."
"Can that happen?" she asked thoughtfully. "It most certainly can," I said, knowing the small lie I was about to tell could do no harm.
"And it does. The last such incident took place less than two weeks ago. The girl was your age but somewhat larger of stature. Her older sister left her waiting in the carriage while she, the sister, went into Madame Rue's for a quick blow-job. When this sister failed to return within a reasonable length of time the girl grew anxious and went in search of her. It was the slack period of the morning, with most of the studs lolling about trying to entertain themselves till the rush hour started, when the girl entered."
"But did she not protest when they approached her?" Barbe asked, totally absorbed by the story.
"Naturally, but it did little good. The studs merely assumed it was her first visit to a Faire Sauter and ignored her protests. It is not unusual for a first-time patron to march boldly into the place for a casual fucking and suddenly lose her nerve, becoming panic-stricken. For business reasons the studs are instructed to press their attention, it being known that once a visitor is well attended she will become a repeat customer. Therefore it seemed not out of the ordinary that which happened-except to the girl of course."
"What did happen?" Pussette's gaze locked with mine and I was hard put to keep a straight face.
"They fucked her bow-legged," I managed evenly. "And silly. And in the process introduced her to all other sex-forms."
"You mean-?" Barbe began.
I nodded gravely. "Cunnilingus, fellatio, anal-coitus-everything in the book. The number of times she got screwed nobody knows, but for days the poor girl went about mumbling to herself and counting her fingers. Shock, I suppose."
"What happened to her after that?" my darling asked.
"After that?" I repeated slowly, the laughter coming on. "Well, it is said she has taken up semi-permanent residence at Madame Rue's and engages four studs full-time to attend her." Then I could restrain the laughter no longer and both girls began hurling sugar biscuits across the table on realizing my fabrication.
"Let's bite him where it'll hurt the most," Pussette squealed in high glee, springing to her feet. "Right on his-engine."
"Wait!" I jumped erect and held up my hands. "I thought you wanted me to squire you to Madame Rue's."
"We do," Barbe said. "But-"
"If we get to scuffling, it could go on for hours," I said pointedly. Actually I had no special desire to visit Raymonde's Faire Sauter, but I was curious to learn the girls' reaction while observing some of the things that took place there.
"Very well," Pussette said, pretending reluctance but face aglow with eagerness. "This time you win, but next time you joke with us ... She stopped, dusted sugar from her hands and looked from her maid to me. "Let's hurry and get dressed. I'd like to be there before sundown."
CHAPTER FOUR
We were there by sundown, but just barely. The sun was about to descend behind the horizon as the three of us dismounted from the carriage in the vast courtyard of Raymonde Rue's Faire Sauter. During the short ride from Pussette's chateau I had hoped Raymonde's clientele of the evening would be of sufficient size and variety to furnish my charges with ample entertainment. I need not have considered the matter with concern. The courtyard was packed with vehicles, a goodly number of which I recognized as belonging to women I knew personally. Of a certainty there would be no lack of sport this evening.
Raymonde was delighted to see us and tremendously pleased that I had brought along my two companions. She was a tall, stately woman of statuesque build and bold Gaelic features. One night five years ago she had been careless enough to go traipsing through a rowdy section of the city and had been set upon by a bunch of street ruffians. It had been my good fortune to rescue her. We had been fast friends since that night, and something more than friends when I learned of her passion for anal-coitus.
"And you came only to watch, Jacques?" she asked, eyes missing nothing as they traveled over every inch of Pussette and Barbe's expensively dressed figures. "I'm sure my boys could provide adequate entertainment for your friends."
"Another time perhaps," I told her. "Tonight we'd rather just look."
"Tonight there's plenty to look at; and you know your way about as well as I, so I'll leave the three of you to your own devices and go see to other matters."
"She left so quickly," Pussette pouted. "I wanted to ask her if we could see the marble statue fuck that old woman."
Barbe hugged herself in laughter. I grinned at my secret darling.
"I doubt it," I said. "The old woman rarely comes here at night. But there'll be other things to watch just as interesting, if not more so."
"More interesting than watching a woman get fucked by a statue?" Pussette sounded incredulous.
"Have you ever considered the spectacle of one woman accommodating five men, all at the same time?"
This got to Barbe, as well as Pussette, and both regarded me in suspicious disbelief, thinking I was about to play another joke.
"But it's true," I insisted. "The woman comes all the way from St. Remy once or twice a month."
"To accommodate five men all at once is impossible," Barbe stated with flat finality.
"Just be patient," I told her. "You'll see. Now, where shall we start? I know you told Raymonde you would not be needing any of the services she offered-is that right?"
"For me it is," Pussette said, slipping a soft hand through my arm. I looked from her to Barbe.
"Well," the dark girl hedged with lowered eyes. "I-"
"Come on," I said. "Let's go down the hall. Perhaps a few minutes in a certain chair will help you find an answer."
The chair I referred to was in a large curtained room at the end of the hall, on the right. It was a huge, over-stuffed affair, draped on all sides and on a small dais. It tilted slightly backward when sat in. The only real oddity about the chair was that its bottom was shaped like a horseshoe. And, of course, the male attendant on duty in the dais beneath it.
"Now slip off your pantaloons, raise the back of your skirts and take a seat in the chair," I told Barbe. She complied without hesitation, though she and Pussette looked at me questioningly. I led Pussette to a sofa against the wall. As from out of nowhere a lad in Raymonde's livery appeared with a tray of wine and tarts, which I waved away. We were not going to be in the Throne Room, as it was called, long enough for refreshments.
The questioning look was still on Barbe's face as she adjusted herself in the chair. A look of amazement replaced it a moment later, then this dissolved into one of gladsome surprise. I didn't wonder. Raymonde maintained she employed the most expert cunnilingus artists in the business.
"What's happening?" Pussette asked, squeezing my arm.
"She's being blown. There's an attendant under the chair."
"You mean-Jacques, you mean she's getting her pussy sucked? There? In that chair?"
"That's what it's for."
"But it looks as if she's sitting in an ordinary chair that tilts back a little."
"So it does," I laughed. "That's exactly what it looks like, and exactly what it is meant to look like. I daresay it's one of the most famous chairs in Paris. Look at Barbe."
The Arabian girl had begun to squirm and clutch at the padded arms of the chair, slowly twisting her head from side to side. Suddenly she lurched forward from the waist, as though trying to drive her bottom through the chair, then emitted a tiny squeak as a massive shivering seized her.
"Oh," Pussette said from beside me. "She's coming-and so quick."
I got to my feet and so did she. If I were to do the girls justice in escorting them around the Faire Sauter, we could not waste too much time in the Throne Room. Even so, it was only with considerable reluctance, plus numerous backward glances, that Barbe left the chair. From her expression I read her staunch determination to return and smiled to myself. Apparently I had just acquired for Raymonde another customer.
"Where to now?" Pussette asked.
"Yes," Barbe said. "And where that could offer greater entertainment?"
"We came to be entertained by watching, not participating," I told them. "And first we'll go see Mile. Dubois. I saw her carriage outside a while ago. She comes here to get beaten."
"How awful," Barbe said. "Why would she want to get beaten?"
"Who knows why she wants it?" I replied. The peculiar sex whims of many of Raymonde's customers had long since ceased to puzzle me. "But it's a special sort of beating. Be very quiet now, and follow me."
With this I turned down a dim, secret passage so narrow two persons could not walk abreast comfortably. The building had several such passages leading to different sections, with each allowing concealed access to certain rooms. Raymonde had ordered these passageways added to the architecture as her business expanded. I felt Pussette's soft little hand in mine as I led them through the faint light and stopped at a heavy curtain composed of narrow panels of thick fabric. All one had to do to see what was going on in the room beyond the curtain was merely part a couple of the panels and peek through. Strange noises were coming from the other side of the curtain. At least they were strange to the girls. I knew their source.
When Pussette parted the panels sufficiently to see through a hand flew to her lips to stifle a gasp of surprise. Mile. Dubois' favorite sex-form was to be beaten about the head and shoulders with hard male pricks, and I had witnessed her indulgence in this weird preference before. It was, she had once confided to Raymonde, the way she achieved her most gratifying sexual orgasm. From the looks of things in the room at the moment, this seemed to be what was about to take place.
The woman had a trim, elegant figure and fine-boned features. She sat naked on a low stool, and around her were gathered four Faire Sauter studs, selected especially for the length of their cocks. Each stood close enough to reach her with his hard on, which he did, pulling it to one side, then releasing it, letting it spring back to smack her in the face and on the head. The woman's climax must have been approaching when we arrived, for now she began whining and mewling, the while pleading for the studs to strike her harder. The four men complied with alacrity, drumming blows on her in a steady flow of sound, and suddenly she squalled like a frightened cat and fell to the floor, clutching her crotch with both hands and frothing at the mouth, eyes rolled back in her head.
"Merciful heavens!" Pussette's tone was fraught with shock. "It-it isn't natural. There's something unwholesome about it. I want to go home."
"Please," Barbe said. "I want to see the woman accommodate five men at once. Must we leave now? We've only arrived."
"I want to go home," Pussette repeated almost grimly. "Jaques?"
I thought I caught a hint of fear in her eyes, but the light was too dim to be sure. Still, I thought her request an unusual one, considering her enthusiasm to visit the Faire Sauter earlier. She must have sensed my thoughts, for she said quickly:
"That woman in there; Mile. Dubois, I know her. Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime. Now will you please take me home, Jaques?"
The ride back to her chateau was made without incident, with Barbe staring out the carriage window in moody silence while I tried to fathom a reason for my darling's change of attitude. Despite my efforts, they were in vain, with the only conclusion arrived at being that sometime in the past Mile. Dubois must have been very close to my little Pink Pussette to have affected her in such a manner.
I would be lying if I claimed to be thoroughly disappointed by her abrupt decision to return home, however, I was not. In the courtyard of the Faire Sauter, and in the great building itself, I had noticed unmistakable signs that Raymonde was about to throw another of her famous parties-I had previously heard the rumor another such fabulous event was in the offing-and in spite of my unwillingness to part company for the evening with Pussette and her maid, I meant to attend the affair. I could have taken the girls with me, of course, or told them of it earlier, but to be completely honest in the matter, I did not want them to be present. By taking them along I would have felt a strong sense of responsibility, especially toward Pussette, and at one of Raymonde Rue's parties no one should feel any responsibility toward anyone save oneself. Madame Rue's parties were not soon forgotten, and tomorrow the one given tonight would be the rave of Parisian salons. Also to have taken Pussette would have exposed her to the possibility of her first fucking, for everybody there would likely fuck everybody else, and fuck her first was a delightful chore I meant to perform myself.
Barbe did not pretend to hide her disappointment when I announced I would be leaving them for the evening, but Pussette accepted my decision as a sort of penance for having spoiled our evening's entertainment, and all she did was make me promise to return on the morrow. This I did willingly enough, and took my leave.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I demanded of Raymonde when I reached her Faire Sauter a second time that evening.
Her classic features dissolved into a huge grin.
"Because I wanted to surprise your friends, especially the little pink and cream one. Didn't I recognize her? Isn't she the Countess Terese d'Epinay-Becu?"
"She is. But why would you want to surprise her?"
"The gossip is that she led a very sheltered life in Czerny, and her husband, the old count, died within an hour of their marriage, so unless you have introduced her to the ways of a man with a maid-have you?"
I shook my head. "Not yet."
"Then she's a virgin and, as you well know, virgins at these affairs of mine are rare indeed. Her deflowerment would have set Paris aflame with eagerness to attend my next party."
I was unable not to grin at her line of reasoning. Raymonde Rue, ever the business woman. And her reasoning was accurate to the nuance. Pussette's first fucking before the assemblage already gathered would have spread the fame of her Faire Sauter to every nook and cranny of France.
"Huh-uh," I told her. "Deflowerment of the little Countess is a chore I propose to attend to personally."
Raymonde eyed me solemnly for a moment. "Do I detect a note of something more than casual interest in the girl?"
I shrugged. I never had been able to hide anything from Raymonde. "It has caught up with me at last," I said. "I'm in love with her, and have been since I first saw her on the steps of Notre Dame the day of her husband's death."
"Zut," she said softly, with perhaps a touch of envy in her voice. "So the gay and dashing Jaques has finally been hit by Cupid." She took a deep breath, and with a toss of her head, continued: "I suppose I can expect your visits to my own boudoir to become less and less frequent now."
"I can't see why they should. My feelings for the Countess didn't prevent my returning here this evening."
"Ah-touche, and I'm glad of it. But go on into the ballroom. I'll join you shortly. We have a special guest this evening. A sultan from Tunis is bringing his harem."
There was a very distinct difference between the customary activity carried on at Madame Rue's Faire Sauter and that about to take place. Tonight clothes were worn, at least in the beginning, and the affair was attended not only by women, but by men as well, and, in many cases, by liberal-minded married couples. Such a mixture, on occasion, gave rise to unusual situations, sometimes irritating but frequently hilarious-such as the farting contest put on by two portly gentlemen at the last party.
The musicians were all in their places, tuning up and making ready for the last of the arrivals, when I reached the main ballroom. Studs serving as butlers ran back and forth between stations and maids smoothed their uniforms, all seemingly as tense as soldiers going into battle. I wanted to play spectator a bit before participating, and located a comparatively isolated spot in a small 'room to one side of the library.
Suddenly, as if touched off by some invisible switch, the several orchestras commenced clamoring from four or five different side rooms, all of them playing the same tune as loudly as they could, but each one a fraction out of phase with all the others. This resulted in a flabbergasting cacophony, especially since the piece was an Arabian number, probably in honor of the visiting sultan and his harem.
From my vantage point I looked over the gathering; full, flouncy evening gowns, flamboyant corsages, silken-gloved hands, diamond brooches on the ladies, with their male escorts in attire so elegant and dignified they might have been attending an affair of state.
Cries of admiration sounded in the hallways as the guests discovered the lavish decorations of the place, though at the one thousand francs per head Raymonde charged she could well afford to be lavish. As it was, I heard them complimenting her as the last, and certainly the most ostentatious, group of guests arrived.
The group was led by the Tunisian sultan, in flowing robe and turban, followed by a coterie of, according to the whispers about, first-string concubines. In all, these numbered about twenty, and they wore pink and yellow robes adorned with flowered patterns. They were of mixed heights and weights, running from a gangling six-feet-ten to a diminutive four-feet-one. The tall ones were long and bony; the short ones, by calculated foresight, plump and round. Apparently the sultan, about whom I sensed something very familiar, had no strict tastes in female companions, but was obviously a born eclectic. It goes without saying the sultan and his women received more curious stares than any other person or group present.
Raymonde introduced me to the sultan some time later, and once again I felt there was something vaguely familiar about the man, felt as if I had known him somewhat more than casually at a period in my past. Yet for the life of me I could not dredge from memory any inkling to when we had met before.
He shook my hand warmly and grinned a wide, toothy grin, saying he was happy indeed to make my acquaintance, that he had heard of a number of my sexual exploits and hoped we would become friends. I took to the fellow immediately. I admired the way he downed a tall glass of cognac and spat through his teeth from the side of his mouth. His name, he said, was Abdul Mohammed Yusif, the XXIII, but insisted that I call him Pierre because he was fond of French names.
The moment he said this something in the back of my mind clicked, and, in memory, I was taken back through time to my school days on the Left Bank.
"Pierre!" I almost shouted. "Pierre La Blanche! What in God's name is all this Abdul Mohammed Yusif the XXIII stuff? Some kind of elaborate farce?"
He bellowed with laughter, capering a little jig as he pounded me on the back.
"Jaques, you old stud-horse," he roared affectionately. "I thought you would never recognize me."
"But this sultan get-up," I said when I finished gaping. "And this string of concubines. Again, is it a farce?"
"No," he chuckled. "All this isn't. But Pierre La Blanche was. That's the name I took when I came to France to enter the University. If you'll think back, Arabs, and particularly Arabs from Tunis, weren't too well liked in Paris in those days, because a large band of Bedouins had massacred a troop of French Foreign Legion soldiers at a garrison one hundred miles north of the Tunisian border. Remember?"
I remembered. News of the massacre had caused riots in the streets.
"But the public soon forgot. They usually do."
"True enough, but by then I was already Pierre La Blanche. Besides, that was my grandfather's name and I'd always admired him. My mother was French, you know."
I had not known till that moment, but nodded as if I had and he continued.
"She was the number one wife of Abdul Mohammed Yusif the XXII. They met when he visited Paris to sign some kind of treaty between France and Tunisia."
"My information concerning sultans and their harems must be woefully inaccurate," I said, nodding to the group of veiled young women huddled nearby. "I'm not a little bit surprised you'd bring them. In all probability you'll be thoroughly cuckolded before this party is over."
"I hope so," he said fervently to my surprise. "I certainly hope so-that they get fucked, I mean. As for me getting cuckolded-well, that's hardly possible. They aren't my wives, but favorite daughters of various powerful sheikhs under me. Their fathers insisted I bring them along in hopes they'd find a French husband. For some damned reason French husbands are outrageously popular in Tunis right now." He gave me a speculative look. "Saaay-"
"Oh no," I laughed. "Not me. I'm already caught."
"She must be a looker."
"She is. If you're in Paris long enough I'll introduce you to her." Again I indicated the group of veiled women. "This is not exactly the sort of social gathering for a shy young maid to find a husband."
"That's what I told them, but they insisted. You ever try to reason with twenty stubborn females who've already got their minds made up? By the balls of Allah! It's impossible! They wouldn't hear of not coming-but I doubt if they get screwed, as you implied. I suspect the father of each had his daughter fitted all nice and snug into a chastity belt before she left home, keeping the key himself." He snapped his fingers, motioned toward the group, and spoke in the same guttural tongue Barbe had jabbered in earlier in the day when I was fucking her. At his command Pierre's supposed concubines formed a single line, each removing her veil and smiling coyly as he introduced them to me one by one.
Nor did any seem in the least disappointed when Pierre informed them in my own language, which they also seemed to speak as well as their own, that I was not on the marriage market. From the looks they sized me up with I suspected marriage was not exactly the focal point of their thoughts right then. If I were any judge these girls were after hard cocks-and had come to the right place to get them. That Raymonde's uniformed studs were serving as butlers and such for the evening did not mean these duties prevented them from servicing any guest unable to find satisfactory companionship otherwise. Chastity belts or not, I was willing to gamble there would be some little half-French bastards seeing the light of day in Tunis nine months hence.
CHAPTER FIVE
"Some place, this Faire Sauter," Pierre said, finishing the introductions and casting an appreciative eye over the surroundings. "I've half a mind to make Madame Rue an offer and have this place shipped back to Tunis. I'd be the envy of every god damned sultan in North Africa-a palace like this? Zowie!"
"What's wrong with your own palace?" I asked, assuming all sultans had palaces.
"Not a single thing," was his prompt reply. "Except relatives. You see, I've got over a hundred wives and each damned relative, no matter how distant, of every single one of them thinks he has the right to move in with me. And he has, with all his family and their relatives, according to Islamic law. Most of the time my place is too crowded to turn around.
"If you moved this palace back to Tunis do you think your relatives would not hear of it?"
"Hell yes," he said dejectedly. "And clutter it up as bad as the other, the sonsabitches. I was only dreaming. You know any of these people here tonight?"
"I have a speaking acquaintance with most," I said. "Why?"
"Then before things get going full swing introduce me around, especially to the ladies. There's some real prime cunt here this evening."
None of the men present had Pierre's dash or flair; but were mostly stuffed shirts with government positions, who spent their days behind a high-level functionary's desk-if they did anything-in order to line their family coffers with taxpayer's gold. About these leeches I didn't give a damn, but the women were more diverse and I introduced Pierre to each whose name I could remember. From the open, lascivious glances that transpired during these introductions to the women, from the unfeigned wanton drooling, and from the uninhibited enthusiasm that seemed, more often than not, to spring spontaneously between the introductees, I knew the Tunisian sultan I had attended school with as Pierre La Blanche would get the opportunity to prove himself at his fucking best before the party was over. Just as the introductions were completed, Raymonde descended upon us, and whisked Pierre away for a dance.
"Jaques," he called over his shoulder. "Give some of the girls who come with me a treat and dance with them."
I selected a girl at random, and happened to get a tall one whose name I was lucky enough to remember as Rezell. Though my eyes barely reached her chin she seemed delighted I had selected her. Beneath the many folds of the voluminous gown that reached to her ankles her body felt as if it consisted solely of ligaments and rippling muscle stretched over a wiry frame. Her pubis clacked against my belt buckle and her knees kept prodding my thighs as she warmed to the dance. Each time Pierre danced near he gave me a conniving wink, which said he hoped I'd breed the girl.
"You are royalty, are you not?" she said in a deep, stentorian voice.
"In a manner of speaking-yes. I'm a count."
She bumped her pubic area against my lower abdomen significantly. "Unless I am terribly mistaken," she said, "you are royalty in any manner of speaking."
Only then did I realize she referred to my hard cock angling up over my belly under the confining fabric of my trousers. Suddenly she laughed and the long muscles of her thighs gripped at my prick as we danced. Several times I had slid my hands over her buttocks, about which there was a peculiar hardness I could not understand. I tried to imagine them in the raw, and was stricken by an overpowering urge to strip her naked and see what she looked like. I was sure her thoughts ran on the same track, for her thighs kept clamping and releasing my 'badge of royalty'. I began maneuvering her toward a doorway leading outside into a small garden.
Heavy night had fallen when we reached it and silhouettes of manicured trees loomed about us. A priest friend of Raymonde's, who attended her parties regularly, hammered determinedly at a section of the stone wall he thought a door.
"Whashamatte, God damnit!" he brayed drunkenly. "Open thish fuggin' door and hear the word of the Lord." He caught sight of us as we passed and turned, glowering balefully through piggish little blood-shot eyes as he pissed on himself. "Evil doers," he muttered darkly. "Sons of Satan."
"How clever you are," Rezell said as I led her through the trees, over her shoulder staring at the priest and making a vulgar sound with her mouth.
"Not really," I said. "Just curious. I want to see what you look like under that gown you're wearing."
"I'll show you if you'll show me this." Her fingers touched my hard penis.
"Agreed. You go first."
The words were hardly out of my mouth before she lifted the hem of her garment, exhibiting a pair of long and slender but powerful limbs joined by narrow hips. Then came the surprise, which should not have been a surprise at all, and I understood the reason for the peculiar hardness of her buttocks. There was a strange contraption in the order of a girdle but made of iron about her waist.
"Damn my eyes!" I blurted. "A chastity belt!"
"Yes," she gritted bitterly. "And every girl who came to Paris with Sultan Yusif wears one. Our fathers made us; and all because of a holy man." She glared in the direction of the priest. "Like him." Then she sighed resignedly. "So I'm afraid fucking me is out of the question. And I'll have to content myself with fondling and admiring your manhood. You agreed to let me see it, you know."
I loosed buttons at the front of my trousers and my favorite member plunged into sight. Rezell marveled at it with bated breath a full minute before moving, then bent forward swiftly and planted a moist kiss on the glans. On straightening she complained bitterly about the armor protecting her cunt, and said something about a holy man 'back home' that I did not catch.
"Then turn around and bend over that bird-bath back of you," I told her. "Your father cannot have thwarted us in all respects."
"You mean you're going to-" She studied my face in the moonlight.
"I am unless you object."
"Oh I don't object. Truthfully, I've always been curious about how it would feel to be fucked in the behind."
A quick grin burst over her face. "All right, Count Jaques, that's the way we do it." Because of her height and long legs she was forced to assume a quarter-squat in order to rest her torso on the birdbath; a position which placed her in comfortable reach of my rod. Yet there was one small problem. The muscles of her nether throat were tight and resisting and only by anointing the head of my cock with saliva and pushing with exceptional fervor was I able to force it through the tight ring of her asshole and into the stygian blackness of her intestines.
The drunk priest had ceased his idiotic pounding on the wall and now staggered in our direction, hiccoughing rapidly and with such violence each one almost jerked him off his feet. His evil little eyes bulged when they came into focus on what Rezell and I were doing. With a final, massive, gut-wrenching hiccough he tripped over his priestly robes and plunged to the ground at our feet, in limbo for the time from an overdose of alcohol. Rezell spat contemptuously at his slack, open-mouth face, somehow obscene in the moonlight. Then she forgot about him as I began a measured pistoning of my prick in and out of her asshole. The bony protuberance of her backside, which was accented by the infernal chastity belt, repeatedly made a depression in my abdomen as my cock bored into her tube to the hilt at each stroke. Once I slowed the cadence to prolong the arrival of my orgasm and she shoved herself partially upright on the birdbath, thinking me about to stop.
"Don't quit!" she cried. "Don't quit now!"
I obliged her by returning to the previous rhythm, feeling my balls tingle and my sex-meat swell with sensations of the nearing climax. Long and bony and encased in a chastity belt she might be, but she was a prime anal-fuck. As good as Raymonde Rue-almost.
Without varying my speed or stopping occasionally it was impossible to hold back the orgasm any longer. On second thought I did not want to. There was too much other prime cunt to be fucked back in the ballroom. So I let fly; grabbed her by the chastity belt for support, gnashed my teeth at the moon and pumped into her asshole hot come in such copious amounts that from the interstices of the metal cunt-guard blobs of love juice showered down on the relaxed face of the drunk priest, reviving him to a point where a long, eel-like tongue snaked out and lashed about collecting the semen, which he slurped into his mouth midst mumbles of something about manna from Heaven.
The storm passed, the fire in my loins cooled for the moment. I stepped rearward, hauling my sex-meat from between Rezell's scant buttocks with a spongy plop. She grunted harshly and straightened to face me, lowering eyes centered on my still hard cock. Her expression altered, became cold and merciless, when she shifted her eyes to the supine priest.
"You ever fuck a holy man?" she demanded bluntly. The abruptness, plus the nature of her question, took me aback.
"No," I said. "Nor ever even considered it; or fucking any man, for that matter. Women are too plentiful and eager. Why?"
"A god damned holy man back home, just like him laying there, is responsible for me and the other girls with Sultan Yusif wearing these chastity belts." From somewhere on her person she produced an object the size of a pigeon's egg that glittered like cold fire in the moonlight when she extended it toward me in the palm of her hand.
"It's a diamond," she said, grim determination creeping into her voice. "Let me and the other girls of my group watch you fuck that drunken holy man and it's yours."
For a moment her proposition stunned me. There was no doubting her seriousness. Nor can I deny a certain temptation tugged at me, for even in my ignorance of jewels I knew the stone in her palm was worth at least a million francs. I had never fucked a man before, or even had any inclination to do so, but a million francs is hard to turn one's back on. I felt no hesitation because the man was a priest, for I knew him as a whiskey-priest and a whore-mongering-priest who managed to keep his churchly vestments and station in some mysterious manner that puzzled all who knew him.
Then I remembered where I was and, in that strange way the mind sometimes works, in a twinkle was in possession of a plan whereby I might obtain the jewel and at the same time give Rezell much more than she asked for by getting the priest fucked several times-with out having to ever touch the vile little beast myself.
When I made her my proposition she agreed on the spot, clapping her hands in glee while I reentered the house in search of two or three of Raymonde's most lusty studs. For a hundred francs apiece they would gang-fuck that priest till the sun came up. I was not long in finding the ones I sought; four of them, all bored to apathy at playing butler and waiter for the evening and itching for any excitement to break the monotony. I got essentially the same answer from all four:
"Mais oui, Monsieur le Count. And for a hundred francs apiece we'll fuck the lecherous old hypocrite for a week. Lead us to him."
I did. Along the way I collected the remainder of the girls that had come with Pierre from Tunis. In the garden once more, while the four studs removed their garments and those of the priest in preparation for the exhibition, Rezell explained the situation to the girls. Not a one of them but what offered vociferous approval of the event. All holy men, in their eyes, were of a level considerably lower than whale shit, which lies on the bottom of the ocean.
The naked priest was spread-eagled, face down when I made my way back toward the main ballroom a second time. Once I glanced over my shoulder. A naked stud had maneuvered into position between the drunken man's out-flung legs, preparing to stab him in the ass. The other studs held the man securely against his protest should he regain consciousness.
He regained consciousness, all right. At the doorway I halted, looked back, saw the mounted stud hunch vigorously with his hips, then commence an energetic fuck-dance. A split second later the priest's horrified squeal of pain and surprise sliced the night. He struggled to break free, but the other studs held him fast, the one on his back fucking him with passionate zeal while the girls clapped their hands and made joyful sounds, urging the stud to fuck harder. On my life I could feel no pity for the man being raped. If he did not deserve what he was getting, he did not deserve any less.
I looked down at the breathtaking beauty of the diamond Rezell had slipped into my hand, then put it into an inside vest pocket, and went On into the main ballroom. The scene was very similar to what it had been earlier, except now not so many couples occupied the dance floor and more occupied the numerous couches and sofas placed strategically behind potted plants along the wall.
"I don't know why I bother with the plants," Raymonde had once said to me. "When a couple locks in a sex-clutch everybody knows they're fucking and the plants serve for nothing. But still I use them. And if I didn't someone would complain."
In my opinion the plants always helped these parties get warmed up. And though it was far from it, at least it seemed a little more discreet to fuck a man's wife behind a potted plant rather than in wide open view of him and all the others present. At the beginning of the frolic, anyway. Later on, when everybody had divested themselves of those final shreds of conventional social conduct and thrown all inhibitions to the four winds, the plants were as useless as tits on a boar hog, for then few even cared whose wife he was fucking, much less where the husband was, with not infrequently the husbands themselves getting fucked.
"Jaques," a feminine voice sang out. "Why haven't I seen you before now? I didn't know you were attending this one."
It was Gerta von Runstadt, daughter of the German ambassador to France and undeniably the sexiest thing ever produced by the land of kraut and pig knuckles. She was blond and fair, with plump, overhanging breasts ripe for sucking, which swayed and jiggled with such maddening enticement from her body movements they could easily have given a dead man a hard on. Her chin reached my shoulder and now, as she drew near, I felt that old familiar yearning in the pit of my stomach. She stopped only when our bodies met, her lush thighs rubbing against mine sending through me tremors of lust. She had big, widely spaced, intelligent gray eyes and a full-lipped, expressive mouth. The mere thought of us in bed, clamped together in lustful embrace, made even my tongue get hard. But Gerta von Runstadt was far from being an ideal sex partner.
Gerta was nobody's sex partner, because Gerta was the world's greatest prick-tease and practically every man in Paris knew it. Whether she had ever been fucked I knew not, but I did know she would tease a man till he was so hot his nuts pained like a mouthful of angry teeth, would lead him on to the very last moment, even to climbing into bed naked with him, then refuse to go any further. This was no hearsay. I had once fallen victim to her wiles, and lain there in aching misery while she sprang from the bed laughing, dressed and minced coyly from the room. I had spent many long and bitter hours dreaming of sweet revenge.
On more than one occasion I had asked Raymonde why she permitted Gerta to attend her parties, and always I got the same answer.
"Money," she said. "Besides, one of those times some horny young buck will give her her comeuppance. He'll force a fuck on her and I want to be around when it happens."
I thought of Raymonde's words now as Gerta stood pressing the lush heat of her fragrant body against mine-and I also thought of the arrangement I had recently made with the four Faire Sauter studs to rape the drunken priest. This latter had definite possibilities. I had never raped a woman, had never used force of any kind in getting a woman to submit to me sexually, but a hackneyed old adage says there is a first time for everything. I wondered, regarding Gerta closely, nostrils filled with the female animal scent of her nearness.
"Would you like to fuck me tonight, Count Jaques?" she murmured, a sly chuckle behind the words.
I gave her my most disarming smile, recalling with agonizing clarity the day she had cajoled me into bed and left me to suffer.
"Of course I would," I said, knowing this was what she wanted to hear. "Anytime you say."
"With all the other women available," she asked doubtfully, "you'd risk me leaving you suffering again?" The look she gave me said she did not quite believe me, and, at that very instant, as it had once before that evening, without conscious volition on my part my mind devised a scheme whereby I might be able to hunch a hard cock up into her belly.
"With you I'll always be willing to take such a risk," I told her, making my voice tremble as if from passion. A light sprang into her gray eyes, a light I knew from the past and my heart leaped. Sacre blue! She was going to take the bait.
"I can borrow a bedroom in Raymonde's own private quarters upstairs if you'd rather go where we can be alone," I said with urgency.
She gave me a long speculative look, slowly nodding her blond head.
"Very well," she said at last. "You go see Raymonde."
In a matter of minutes it was arranged, as I knew it would be, Raymonde giving me a wry grin as she said, "So you're going to try again, eh? Better luck this time."
"But why aren't you coming with me?" Greta asked suspiciously when I told her to go wait for me upstairs in the bedroom, that I'd join her shortly.
"Because there is something I must do first," I said, showing her the diamond Rezell had given me and watching her eyes grow large at sight of it. "First I must put this in Raymonde's safe, then I'll be up." But this was not all I intended doing before I joined her in the bedroom.
I waited a reasonable time after she disappeared up the broad staircase, then did the same thing I had in arranging for the girls from Tunis to see the priest get corn-holed-I approached four more of Raymonde's stalwart studs with the offer of a hundred francs apiece if they would go to their mistress' bedroom and tie Gerta von Runstadt to the bedposts, securely, both hands and feet. Their response was the same as that of the first four. One hundred francs was a lot of money for such a minor service. Then, to add zest to the matter, I had the butler call together all those remaining on the dance floor and offered to bet at odds of two-to-one I would fuck Gerta van Runstadt before the morning sun rose.
Raymonde, along with several servants, recorded the wagers, were kept furiously busy for some minutes doing so. All bets were against me. No one thought I could win. A number of the men had been Gerta's victims and avidly craved to know some man had rodded her, yet foolishly assumed if they could not fuck her, no man could. These placed the largest bets. The women who knew Gerta were next. They wanted the German girl to become as they so she would cease her everlasting preening before them as the female-body-beautiful-but-un-fuckable. I saw more than one pair of feminine eyes blaze with avarice, wanting to lose their money but doubting my ability to make good my boast.
When all the bets were recorded I had more than two hundred thousand francs at risk. A breathless hush fell over the entire ballroom as I confidently mounted the stairs.
CHAPTER SIX
A raw scream of animal rage greeted me AS I opened the bedroom door and stepped inside. The studs had given full value for their money. Gerta was not only securely tied spread-eagle to the four corners of the bed, she was also as naked as at the moment of her birth. Her ripped and tattered garments were strewn over the floor and light from a lamp on a nearby dressing table glowed warmly on her bare flesh, rays of it glistening off her blond-haired pussy. After the first scream she glared at me in towering silence, gray eyes murky with stifling rage. But her eyes held something else, and that something was fear. I noticed it as I moved around to the side of the bed and began removing my clothes. There was only a little of it, but the fear was there.
I grinned at her. "You plan to jump out of bed and leave me this time?"
She spat at me, cursing in German-but no longer fighting the bonds that held her. Apparently she had given up this fight as hopeless, had mostly given it up before I arrived. Her wrists and ankles were pink-tinged from her pulling at the ropes, and a thin sheen of perspiration covered her body. Without seeming to do so I checked her bonds-soft cotton cords taken from the curtains-and saw she was in no physical discomfort.
Some of the rage in her eyes gave way to curiosity when the last of my clothes fell away and my cock sprang into view. She seemed unable to remove her gaze from it, and it occurred to me she was evincing inordinate interest in an object with which she would have nothing to do. Pricks, to her, were only for teasing. I wondered at the why of this. I would never have a better opportunity than the present to probe the matter. Besides, delving into the subject dovetailed ideally with my purpose.
Gerta von Runstadt was convinced beyond all doubt she was about to be fucked, but whether she was depended on a number of factors, the four hundred thousand francs I stood to lose notwithstanding. Despite the wild clamoring inside me to climb into her saddle and thrust a hard prick into her belly, rape still simply was not part of my make-up. But I had no intention of allowing Gerta to discover this. At least not yet; not before I had put to use all the tricks and techniques experience with the opposite sex had taught me.
Then there was the mystery of why she was such a dedicated prick-tease; the most dedicated in the city of Paris, in fact, and known by all to be so, for one of her brazen tactics could not keep such a secret. I considered this as good a point to start my little project as any.
"Why did you jump out of bed from me that time?" I asked, stretching my own naked body as close down beside her as her position would allow. I propped my head on a palm, and within inches of her face, achingly aware of her ripe lushness. "Why is it you almost make a profession of rousing men, then deserting them in their agony?"
No sound passed her lips. She only glared at me. If it were possible for looks to kill, I would have died then and there. When I realized she meant not to communicate via the spoken word, I proceeded to the second phase of the little plan I had in mind, wherein I would communicate flesh to flesh. Without saying anything further I extended a hand and trailed my fingers lightly over the satiny, slightly-beveled surface of her tummy.
She flinched at my touch, ground her teeth in silent fury, but gasped sharply and cringed when I shifted my hand to the low, blond-thatched rise of her pleasure mound. I returned her stare, looking her straight in the eyes, trying to fathom in their grayness the depth of her emotion. I read nothing but her stony anger-and the fear was still there.
Close by, within easy tonguing distance, was her near breast, because of its hugeness leaning toward me. The nipple was a dark, mature brown supported by the large resilient hillock.
I dipped my head, captured the nipple with my lips, began to tug at it gently, teasing with my tongue. Gerta loosed a loud feminine grunt at this and I sensed rather than saw a change in her expression. I twisted my head so I could see her face. It was blank; completely devoid of all emotion-the look some women get just before an orgasm. Silent laughter welled in my throat. Gerta von Runstadt was not nearly the tough nut to crack I had supposed her to be.
I stayed with the breast, laving, licking, sucking till I had encompassed the scented flesh several times about. Then I shifted to its twin and began giving it the same treatment. A sob of passion escaped the naked girl on the bed, and she stared at me with peculiar eyes, as though I was some rare animal she was seeing for the first time. From the corner of my eye I saw a muscle on the inside of a thigh twitch. Carefully I combed my fingers through the blond bristles of her pleasure mound, then sent a finger probing gently into the upper extremity of her labia. Breath hissed from her with the sound of escaping steam and she moaned in passion, animal heat beginning to lift from her body in waves.
I removed my hand from her cunt, deciding to leave that till later, and when I had finished with her breasts, which now strained up at me, I began tracing my lips with consummate care over her rib cage, nipping, kissing, tickling ; missing not a tiny fraction of the creamy expanse. Her stomach muscles jerked and she gave a full-bodied sigh of submission.
"Please, Jaques," she whispered, voice hoarse with lust. "Fuck me if you're going to."
I gave no sign I heard her; completely ignoring her request, and her stomach muscles jerked again, harder this time, when my lips descended to the velvety plain of her belly and began working their way with torturing slowness toward the brushy triangle inches below.
A raspy grunt burst from her at the feel of my tongue in her navel. She commenced to squirm, grinding her buttocks into the bed and jerking her legs against the bonds that fastened her to it. The heat flowing from her body was growing more intense now, and her face was flushed a hot pink. Her eyes glittered with erotic excitement. Each few seconds her tongue darted out and around her mouth to moisten her lips.
I buried my face in the blond brush of her cunt and exhaled hotly into it. A thin, trembly whimper of lust fluttered from her lips. The cry hung on the still air of the bedroom like a lost soul, was followed by a series of short, jerky sobs that shook her bodily. She was rapidly approaching the exploding point. I thought to touch her clit with my tongue, but feared she would orgasm, which might return to her sufficient self-control to defeat my little plan should she be so minded-a likelihood I could not ignore.
So I removed my mouth from the bristles at the top of her cleft and took my time sucking and licking my way down the inside of one w thigh, then back up the other. By the time I finished, her head rolled from side to side in an agony of lust, her gray eyes were dulled by it. Her mouth formed strange shapes.
The time was now!
Swiftly, with minimum lost motion, I loosed the knots securing her bonds. For the space of half a dozen heartbeats she lay there staring at me in total bafflement, apparently unable to realize the import of my actions. Her voice was thick with emotion when she found it.
"You released me," she mumbled. "You untied me. Why?"
"Isn't that what you wanted-to be free so you could leave at the last minute as you did before?"
"Do you want me to go?"
"No, do you want to?"
"No, Jaques."
"Why not?"
"I don't know, but I'm not going unless you make me."
"Stay here and you'll get fucked."
"That's the reason I mean to stay."
I studied her closely. "Why this abrupt change? Aren't you Paris' most notable prick-tease any longer?"
"I've been such a silly, unthinking fool," she wailed suddenly, throwing herself into my arms and bringing our naked bodies hard together. The soft female heat of her succulent form burned down the length of me. "I'm not really a tease. But three years ago, the summer I was sixteen, I made love with a boy who refused to speak to me afterwards, and I resolved to make each man I met who was attracted to me as miserable as I had been. I-I-" She smothered my face with kisses; eyes closed and holding me close. "Don't be angry with me for what I did to you the other time we were like this, Jaques," she pleaded against my cheek. "We are going to fuck this time, are we not?"
We were. That was a fact. I told her so and she rolled to her back, near leg straight, other knee raised, waiting. She was about to become the most expensive fuck the city of Paris had ever seen-with a possible exception the priest being corn-holed downstairs. Also, the girl on the bed with me was as ready to be fucked as it is possible for a woman to get. Heady aroma of her lubricating secretions were dense about us.
Then her hand went down toward my crotch; her nails scraped gently over my genitals and the caress shot through me like a streak of lightning. I seized her, pulled her toward me, writhing and murmuring, and crushed her naked flesh against mine. She bit my neck hard, then bit me on the chin. I felt the full, lush imprint of her lust-hot body against mine; the dark brown nipples digging into my chest, the soft, luscious flesh of her thighs and belly and loins rubbing against my counterpart flesh as we squirmed closer together.
I pushed her to her back again and scrambled atop her. She clawed at my head in a fit of passion.
"Fuck me," she sobbed. "Fuck me quick."
Her fingers trembled on the thick, stiff branch of my cock. She rolled the foreskin back delicately with a thumb, fondled the glans till I thought my balls would crack.
She pulled her thighs wider, feet suspended in air, and caught at the back of my neck.
"Please," she gasped desperately. "Fuck me."
I adjusted my body till it snugged into the contours of her flesh. Her thighs closed in on me on either side, pressing convulsively against my hips. Then she pulled her thighs back a little and reached down, searching for my cock again. She found it, drew it toward her panting cunt, placed the glans against the channel opening.
"There now," she said, a break in her voice.
I pushed with my hips, felt her yielding flesh expand and enclose the end of my cock, then spread out in hot, juicy eagerness as I pushed again and slid the entire length of my aching sex-meat into her tremulous belly.
She uttered a long, low whine of animal acceptance. Her eyes closed, her hips wriggled sexily under the weight of mine. She arched her back so that a vein stood out on her neck and her breasts pushed harder than ever against my chest. Breath heaved in her throat and broke from her lips in tiny sobs of lust.
I was pervaded by a gigantic and delicious pain that found its apex in the very tip of my prick and extended downwards to my toes. I ran my hands over her lovely flesh, clutching at her shoulders, her arms and breasts and waist as I fucked up and up into her. Then I slipped my hands under the round, warm buttocks from either side, cupping one in either hand. I squeezed her flesh, weighed the cheeks of her ass in my hands, hardly able to believe it was Gerta von Runstadt speared on my cock-except that the lovely body writhed, tormented, and adored the torment, underneath me. I socked my rod all the way into her starving cunt and held it there a second or so.
"Again," she whispered. "Do that again; right up there and leave it."
I did and she closed her eyes and jiggled on my cock like an impaled insect, letting out little gasps of breath between half-opened lips.
Her fingers clawed at my chest and I pounded into her again and again, each in-thrust banging my balls against the unprotected anus in the spread cleavage of her buttocks, the halves of which were still cupped in my hands. I stretched them farther apart, found the puckered rosebud of her anus and dug a forefinger into it to the second knuckle joint. She clawed my back in a frenzy of lust.
Her thighs scissored and churned wildly at my waist. Her whole body heaved and swayed in a storm of mounting passion that grew with increasing rapidity over the moving mass of our fucking flesh, producing a rough skin-to skin friction which made us glow and sweat and flush with the luscious effort.
I could not seem to get hold of enough of this prime cunt who had been so impossible to fuck for so long. I wanted to eat those buttocks cupped in my palms, to crush to a powder the breasts that poked so hard at me, to shatter into a million pieces the hot channel contracting around my pistoning cock. And this destructive urge was bound up with a great, overwhelming pleasure. Perhaps this was caused by the thought that such power to affect me resided in another body. My knees dug pits in the bed against her buttocks. I arched my hips at the yoke of her upturned thighs and tried to force my prick further and further into the soft, squeezing delight of her cunt.
I clinched her shoulders in a convulsive movement, gripping them so hard her face contorted and she dug deep weals across my back in her passion.
Her lovely breasts splayed out under my weight and I lifted my torso off her to get a better view of them as I fucked into her. I watched them sway and shiver; watched the flesh, tight and revealing over the bones of her ribs, stretching like satin as she wriggled her tortured, naked body. Shifting my gaze further down I watched the rigid, veined connecting link that was my prick piston erotically in and out of her quivering cunt.
Her belly heaved in great strangled sobs and her thighs trembled about my waist. Her head flung from side to side, her face twisted into a tight grimace of impending lust. Every once in a while her eyes would open and she would stare about with a look of tormented desperation that grew more intense as I hammered into her cunt.
My stomach shook like a leaf. My toes tingled. It was as if she were sucking all my emotions from me with a vacuuming vagina; sucking it from my mind, letting it linger at various points in my body where it was transformed into physical ecstasy that quivered like quicksilver in every nerve. I savored her body at every point of contact. My hands seemed transformed to the tenderness of penes. So did my lips. My whole body seemed one giant, strangely shaped penis, throbbing and pulsating.
"Darling! Darling!" she cried. "I can't stand it!"
She clutched and clawed at me so furiously I felt the pain of it even through the ecstasy, and retaliated for the pain with strikes of redoubled fury into her lathering cunt. I quickened my fuck-rhythm to a rapid, rabbit-like thrusting, and felt my loins respond with that hint of liquid feeling so deliciously unbelievable.
"Gah! Gah! Gah!" she cried, pulling her thighs so high and so far back her knees touched her shoulders, seemingly coming in accord with my destructive urge moments ago. I sensed she wanted me to gouge out the hole she presented, like a knife twisting in a potato.
"I'm dying," she wailed. "You're killing me."
She closed her eyes, as one about to swoon, and her teeth began to chatter. Her tongue kept moistening her lips, which she sucked on from time to time. She panted like a winded runner.
Her biting scream of orgasm rent the air, her inner-cunt muscles attacked my pistoning prick with a vengeance, squeezing and caressing like a meat-vise as the scalding gush of her maiden juices flushed repeatedly around my cock in such amounts they overflowed in gooey abundance to coat my scrotum and ooze down the crack of her ass. I heard her choke as she jack-knifed under me, another wild, unearthly cry wrenching from her lips.
I was aware of this only through the steamy vapors of lust that rose from our lunging bodies, for I too was on the verge of orgastic bliss. When it came it was a great liquid explosion that shattered my plundering prick into a billion tender morsels of rapturous sensation.
It took us half an hour to revive completely, during which time I told her of the bets I had taken before coming upstairs. This delighted her beyond description.
"But you stood to lose a fortune," she marveled. "What if I'd left you when you untied me?"
"I was gambling you wouldn't," I grinned. "And I won."
Then we made love again, fucking in a leisurely, luxurious manner that knew nothing of the rest of the world. When this was over she stroked me into erection and knelt over for me to take her from behind, her rounded buttocks expanding and contracting as I fucked her with a zeal so great it almost knocked her flat on the bed when I orgasmed. After this we decided it was time to go downstairs.
"How can you collect your bets unless I tell them I've been fucked?" she mused dreamily. "I was no virgin, and once a cake is cut, a small slice or two is never missed."
"Do you have any ideas?" I asked as I finished dressing. She was returning to the ballroom naked.
"I do. I'll simply tell them what happened." And she did exactly that. We stopped at the top of the stairs, she got the attention of those not occupied, and gave a brief account of our interlude. Actually very few people heard her, but enough did to confirm I had won the bet.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Most of those below were engaged in some form of sex, and though I did not learn it till later, one of the guests was a magician and slight-of-hand artist. It was he who had fashioned a crude but effective master key from a lady's hat pin and freed all the Tunisian maidens from their chastity belts. Evidence of his success at lock-picking was scattered all over the ballroom in the form of naked, fiery young Arabian ladies impaled on assorted hard pricks. Thighs glistened with lust-sweat, female legs beat the air and male asses waggled in fuck-tempo. A more lustful, or delightful, sight I have rarely seen. Little wonder Raymonde Rue's Faire Sauter enjoyed such fame.
Whether that which happened as Gerta and I descended the stairs would add to this fame was a matter of conjecture. I refer to the drunken priest whom I had arranged earlier to be corn-holed by four of Raymonde's studs for the revenge-entertainment of Pierre's Tunisian maidens. The German girl and I had almost reached the foot of the stairs when a desperate, inhuman screech of pure terror ripped through the ballroom. The direction whence came this mortal plea for help was the doorway through which I had passed on leaving Rezell and the others in the garden. Through this doorway the naked priest scrambled on hands and knees. He was no longer drunk, having been shocked into crystal clear awareness earlier on realizing he was being used as a woman. Nor was he alone. Hard behind the priest, on his knees and gripping the pudgy man's hips firmly, was one of the studs I had hired, fucking the fake man of the cloth like a sex-starved buck rabbit. His three companions trailed behind, yelling encouragement. That the Arabian girls were no longer interested in the French 'holy man' since being freed of their chastity belts was of little moment to the four studs. They had been hired to do a job and they meant to do it. Besides, it wasn't every day they got to fuck a direct representative of God, Himself, and they were having a helluva lot of fun.
Not so the plump little priest. His small, piggish eyes bulged alarmingly as he scrambled toward the center of the ballroom floor, seemingly caring aught his plight was witnessed by the elite of Paris cafe society. Tomorrow his name would be on every lip in town. So would the story of his getting gang-fucked. What a delicious tidbit for the Church to chew on-at a time when priests, who privately wagered amongst themselves as to who could out-cuckold the husbands of their respective parishes, were seriously considering the feasibility of declaring themselves infallible.
As I watched, it occurred to me that now would be a good time for this little dough-bellied bastard to announce his infallibility. Perhaps it would remove the beam from his eye-and his ass. This latter seemed to be his sole interest at the moment; he was not concerned with cleansing his spiritual self or mending his ways, which was entirely understandable. I cannot recall any man who took pleasure from being sodomized, especially in public. But with this priest it was different. Had he been other than a flagrant hypocrite, I might have intervened. Or someone else might have. But all knew the nature of the little shit, so all they did was watch. Even a number of those couples industriously copulating separated and became witnesses to the spectacle. All at once, in the center of the ballroom floor, the stud screwing the priest pitched forward, crushed him flat on the floor and held the squirming man there, hunching spastically, obviously in the throes of orgasm. When it passed he quickly rolled aside, was just as quickly replaced by one of his companions.
The priest gave forth with the piteous bleat of a mortally wounded goat when he felt the new hard male cock plunge into his rectum, but it happened so fast he was given no chance to escape; only the chance to regain his hand-and-knees position, which he did, and continued his scrambling, buck-jumping gait across the floor, the stud latched tightly onto him and boring into his ass with a vengeance.
When I made partial arrangements to collect my winnings on the morrow, retrieved the diamond from Raymonde and bid farewell to Gerta, and left word for Pierre La Blanche, or Sultan Abdul Muhammad Yusif the XXIII to call on me at his leisure, all the guests were gathered around the priest and his tormentor of the moment, placing bets of various kinds, mainly as to how long the priest could hold out.
I left the Faire Sauter with light heart over the fortune I had gained that evening, yet also with a strong sense of guilt because for several hours I had not so much as thought of my darling little Pink Pussette-a grave fault I proposed to rectify forthwith by a visit, despite the late hour. The coachman must have divined my thoughts, for he turned toward the d'Epinay-Becu chateau when we left the Faire Sauter's courtyard.
"Jaques!"
It was Barbe. She dashed from the house the instant the carriage drew to a halt. She wore only the thinnest whisper of a nightgown, which did nothing to hide the dark outline of her figure as she raced toward me. I fancy the coachman drove away with no less than a rigid tongue from sight of her erotic loveliness.
"Jaques!" she cried again, throwing herself into my arms. It was then I caught the note of distress in her voice.
"Is something the matter?" Apprehension grabbed me. What if-?
"It's Terese-Pussette. She's been in a terribly black mood since returning from Madame Rue's."
A chilly wind blew across my heart. "Tell me." I could not keep the alarm from my voice as I shook the dark-skinned girl by the shoulders. "Is she ill?"
"Not physically," Barbe replied. "Or not in a manner I can perceive. She reminds me of a person suffering from shock. Is that possible?"
"In this modern age anything is possible. Has she spoken of anything in particular?"
"Only Mile. Dubois, whom we saw being beaten with hard pricks at the Faire Sauter."
"I'll speak to Pussette and-"
"No!" Barbe took my arm as we entered the chateau. "Later, please! Not now! She's asleep-at last. Let her rest."
"And Mile. Dubois was the only person she mentioned?" This was indeed a mystery, yet I could fathom no cause as to why it might be."
"No, Jaques. Not the only one. She also kept making reference to the two aunts she left in Czerny when she married Count d'Epinay-Becu, all of which I found very odd."
This information took me aback, gave me pause. I could reason no purpose why Pussette should be concerned with her aunts in Czerny. True, I had needled her about them by paralleling her life with theirs unless she found some one to love, and marry and thereby get fucked, but I could not design a cause for her becoming depressed over this. And there being a relationship between Mile. Dubois and her aunts in Czerny was too ridiculous to contemplate. I stood there in the middle of the salon wondering about my Pussette but unable not to admire Barbe's trim lines showing through the vaporous material of her gown. I had but recently enjoyed a dream-fuck with Gerta von Runstadt, still....
"I hope she's more herself when she awakens," Barbe said, handing me the drink. "But I hope she does not awaken before morning and I doubt if she will. I put a sleeping powder in the warm milk she drank just before going to bed."
A great wave of immense relief broke over me. Until that moment I did not realize my nerves had become taut as a fiddler's bow strings. In my mind I had been seeing one catastrophe after another befalling my darling, but now that I knew she was safely asleep in her bedroom, a trembling of such strength seized me I was forced to seek a chair, extending the brandy glass to Barbe a second before I collapsed into it.
"Poor Jaques," Barbe soothed, standing beside me. "My thoughtlessness gave you quite a turn, didn't it? I'm dreadfully sorry. But I was so concerned over Pussette's strange deportment I was near distraction. Besides," her voice took on an unmistakable note of intimacy. "I am selfish enough to have been looking forward to your return." She sat down on the arm of the chair and began combing her fingers through my hair. More than ever I became aware of her ripe charms beneath the thin material of her single garment, and caught in my nostrils the undeniable scent of her arousal. I barely caught her low whisper.
"Jaques."
"Yes?"
"My bedroom is just down the hall from Pussette's. Could we not go there? Even if Pussette awakens we will hear her."
In spite of the rollicking fucks I'd had at Raymonde's, I could not figure the sweet tingling in my loins as I followed Barbe to her bedroom.
The next morning all three of us, Barbe, Pussette and myself, were finishing breakfast in the great vaulted dining room when the rumble of carriage wheels sounded from without. Truly it was an early hour for anyone to be paying their respects to the Countess d'Epinay-Becu; or to anybody else, for that matter. But here they were.
Breakfast had been a somewhat silent affair, with both Barbe and I hoping our disuse of conversation might incline Pussette to offer an explanation for her peculiar conduct of the night before. It did not. My darling picked at her food, a look of bewilderment in her lovely eyes, rarely making a sound save deep, and to me at least, heart-wrenching sighs.
I was soon to learn these sighs were aught but sounds of well-concealed rage.
The cultured tones of a woman's voice came from the stopped carriage outside, and as mistress of Chateau Becu, Pussette rose to her feet in preparation of receiving the visitor. This act of standing enabled her to see the newly-arrived vehicle through a dining room window, and sight of it brought from her a sharp cry of rage. Her ruby lips twisted in a grimace of disgust and her face darkened with the blood of passion.
"Look who our early morning caller is." Her young voice dripped disdain as she pointed through the windows. "Mile. Dubois, whom we last night saw being beaten with hard pricks-and who is also my Aunt Amelia Cravet from Czerny, one of the two religious hypocrites who made my life miserable before I married the Count." The sound of her gritted teeth could be heard throughout the room.
Barbe and I, now also standing, gaped in amazement. Could it be one of Pussette's aunts was leading a double life? There was no question of this, unless my darling was losing her wits.
"Quickly!" she whispered to me and her maid. "Those curtains near the alcove. Hide behind them quickly. I want Aunt Amelia to believe us alone-at first anyway."
We had barely time to conceal ourselves be fore the pudgy butler who had announced me two nights previously waddled into the room, followed closely by the stately, graceful figure of Pussette's Aunt Amelia. She lost no time in coming to the reason for her early morning visit. The butler was not yet out of the room before Mile. Cravet fixed Pussette with a piercing eye and said, "It's that despicable Count Jaques Maurice de Falconet. It is rumored you have been seen in his company. I insist you stop it at once."
If I expected the abruptness, or the unfairness, of this ridiculous onslaught to catch Pussette off balance I was mistaken. It ruffled her not a whit as she poured her aunt a cup of cafe au lait.
"That's right, Aunt Amelia," she beamed. "Jaques is teaching me how to fuck properly. Do you not think it wonderful of him."
"Wha-what?" The older woman stared as though she had been slapped in the face with a dead fish; incapable of additional utterance, but sat with mouth working.
From our concealment Barbe clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress a squeal of mirth.
"Jaques has the most marvelous technique, Aunt Amelia," Pussette continued in a voice of glowing enthusiasm, though I sensed she was putting great restraint on it to keep her anger hidden. "When he has taught me all he knows I shall be able to out-fuck any woman in Paris. Isn't it marvelous?"
Aunt Amelia made a dry, croaking sound.
Barbe shivered from head to foot in effort to control her glee. As for myself, I felt a surge of pride in Pussette because she had so quickly gained control of the situation and apparently, meant to maintain control, for she kept applying pressure on her stupefied aunt.
"You know, Aunt Amelia," she gushed, "Jaques took me to Madame Rue's Faire Sauter last night and I saw a woman of such weird sexual tastes she had to be beaten about the head and shoulders with hard pricks before she could orgasm. Have you ever heard of anything so odd." Pussette leaned forward, patted her aunt's hand, her voice dropping to a confidential whisper. "Come to think of it, Aunt Amelia-" Here a note of malicious joy crept into my darling's tone and I began to suspect what she was about. "-the woman looked surprisingly like you."
Mile. Cravet sat at the littered breakfast table as one turned to stone; except no graven image would ever match her purple-bloated face, with its bulging eyes and expression of paralyzed shock. Once she made sounds not unlike those of a gaggle of startled geese, but save for this she was silent, and motionless, as Pussette revealed her little impromptu plan of revenge.
"In return for all the misery and deprivation you and Aunt Emma forced me to endure in the name of religion before my marriage, dear Aunt Amelia, I am going to repay you with a kindness, providing I can enlist Jaques' cooperation," Pussette said sweetly. "And of course I'll get your cooperation-else I shall return to Czerny and tell what I saw at Madame Rue's last night."
Mile. Cravet at last discovered her voice enough to croak, "What kindness?"
"One you'll greatly enjoy, I doubt not," Pussette replied. "I'm going to ask that despicable Count Jaques Maurice de Falconet to give you a royal fucking in the manner that pleases him most."
The horror-filled, terrified Mile. Cravet flopped from her chair like a pole-axed steer, lay there on the floor quivering and jerking as one in a fit might do. Barbe, unable to longer contain herself, exploded with a gale of laughter as Pussette motioned toward the concealing curtains for us to appear. We did, and stood there watching while she took a pair of scissors from a sewing basket on a china cabinet and proceeded calmly to cut every last stitch of her aunt's clothes off, looking inquiringly at me as she finished and got to her feet.
"You heard what I told her, Jaques. Will you do it for me?"
"You're serious in this? You really want me to fuck her?" I had no compunction against so doing, actually, but the circumstances struck me as being a little odd. I indicated the woman on the floor. "She doesn't seem to be in any condition to be fucked."
"She will be in a minute." Pussette lifted the pitcher of cold water from the table. "Soon as I stop her play-acting. I'm sure that's all it is. I've seen her act this way before, in Czerny, when my other aunt, who is much older, wouldn't let her do exactly as she pleased." With this she threw the contents of the pitcher on her naked aunt, who sprang to her feet with a startled fart and dashed helter-skelter about the room.
"It'll do you no good to try escaping, Aunt Amelia," Pussette said with firm resolution when the other quieted down. "If you do I'll keep my promise; I'll tell everyone in Czerny about your visits to Madame Rue's."
"You wouldn't dare!" the woman said, trying to cover breasts and cunt with both hands at the same time, the while darting wild glances to where Barbe and I were taking off my garments. "Sister Emma would-"
"Emma is my other aunt in Czerny," Pussette said to me and Barbe. Then back to Amelia: "Aunt Emma won't do a damned thing and you know it." My darling's blue eyes became suspicious. "Unless Aunt Emma also sneaks out to some Faire Sauter. Does she?"
"Merciful heavens no!" Amelia almost shouted.
"Are you a virgin?" I asked her bluntly. Fuck her I meant to, but put up with the protesting mewls of a novice I would not. I'd make her suck me first.
She drew herself up to full height, glared at me with all the hauteur she could muster-if a frightened, naked woman can glare haughtily. "I am thirty years old," she snapped.
The answer was good enough. Thirty year old virgins in Paris were as rare as chicken fangs.
"You're about to get fucked," I told her roughly. Something about the woman's attitude rubbed me the wrong way.
"I am not," she retorted with heat. "No man fucks me against my will. It has never happened and it won't happen now." She pouted coquettishly at Pussette. "You won't tell Emma what you saw at Madame Rue's last night, will you, Therese dear."
My darling regarded her aunt interestedly for half a minute, hugged herself in delicious anticipation, then turned to me. "Fuck her, Jaques," she said distinctly. "In the ass."
Barbe squealed her delight, clapped her hands and jumped up and down with joy. Not so Amelia. She looked agog at her niece, flicked her eyes to where the Arab girl was larding my cock with butter, then whirled and shot toward the door like a streak of scared light-and ran head-on into me. I had suspected what her reaction to prospects of being fucked in the ass might be, and had reached the door a fraction before her. Contact of our naked bodies knocked from her lips a harsh sound of protest. I grabbed for her but she slipped free, attempted to slither past me just as Pussette slammed the door and locked it.
"Now we'll see if you get fucked or not," I growled at Amelia. Because of her arrogant attitude, her hypocrisy, to say nothing of the revenge my darling sought, I meant to fuck her now if it were my last act on earth; and fuck her exactly as Pussette wanted-in the ass.
It need not here be pointed out this is far easier said than done. It was no great advantage that I was locked in the room with the woman, or that Pussette and Barbe secured all other exits from her escape. Corn-holing a person who vigorously protests said corn-holing-and I doubted not Amelia would protest vigorously-is very nearly impossible. Unless, of course, the person is knocked unconscious or otherwise incapacitated, and I had no intention of using brute violence on Pussette's aunt. Which left only one other recourse. I had to wear her down, had to chase her about the room ' she became so exhausted she could not resist.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I did not relish this prospect, knowing I, myself, might well be near exhaustion by the time the chase was over.
I am very fond of anal-coitus, but enjoy it most while relaxed and at ease, not panting for breath and covered with sweat. This latter, I fear, would have been my lot had it not been for Pussette and Barbe. For some inexplicable reason I had not considered they would be of value in this case of asshole banditry. I was wrong. They were of such value I might have failed in the project, and my darling might have been forced to forego her vengeance, had they not come to my aid.
Surprisingly, Amelia was so quick in dodging about the table, so adept at wheeling chairs and other objects in my path, that I soon began to despair of even touching her, much less holding her still long enough to get my cock in her rectum, when Pussette and Barbe began closing in to assist me. The glow of triumph which had been stealing over Amelia's face quickly vanished as she became aware of this new threat, the glow replaced by honest alarm. Evade me well she might. To evade the three of us was impossible and she cried out in fear when she realized it.
It was Barbe who actually caused her capture. Amelia whipped around a corner of the table, apparently misjudging the dark-skinned girl's proximity. And Barbe merely extended a foot that sent Amelia plunging to the floor face down.
Before she could move we pounced upon her like three ravening cats, Pussette and Barbe at a shoulder each, me on my knees between her thighs, which she struggled vainly to scissor together. Both my darling and her maid had, since the beginning of the chase, been hilariously enjoying themselves, and now, as we held the struggling Amelia face down, they were afflicted with such a seizure of giggles it seemed they might swoon. However, they did not. Each girl grabbed one of the captives' wrists and pulled it high up her back toward the shoulder-blades, rendering her relatively helpless. At this point my part of the operation was comparatively simple; I only had to raise Amelia's buttocks to the level of my genitals, which I did. Then things became a bit more complicated, all because Amelia, knowing I was engineering to plunder her anus, commenced throwing her shapely hips hither and yon with such utter abandon it was impossible to lodge my cock in her cleavage. This time it was Pussette who came to the rescue. With considerable effort she controlled her giggles and landed a stinging slap on her aunt's naked ass.
"Be still," she snapped in pretended rage. "How ever can Jaques fuck you properly if you wiggle like a worm on a hot rock?"
"Right!" Barbe chortled gleefully. "Wait till he gets it in. Then you can wiggle all you like."
"Please," Amelia sobbed against the floor. "Please don't fuck me. At least not this way." With another person I might have been inclined to heed her plea, but she had charged in here accusing Pussette of consorting with that despicable Count Jaques Maurice de Falconet-as though such an association were a heinous crime-when she had been parading around town as Mile. Dubois to conceal her real identity so she could visit Raymonde Rue's Faire Sauter. And, of course, there was the ill treatment she had accorded Pussette before my darling's marriage, and for which Pussette now craved vengeance. I had no detailed knowledge of what this ill treatment had consisted, nor cared. Pussette viewed it as unpleasant. For me this was enough to make me ignore her aunt's pleas for mercy.
From surprise, or perhaps shock, Amelia went perfectly still following Pussette's sharp slap. Whether she would have remained still I did not know, nor was I so minded to risk finding out. Opportunity was presenting itself. My duty was to take advantage of it. I did. Before the helpless woman could move again I spread her buttocks, lodged the buttered glans of my cock against the tightly puckered brown ring of her asshole, clamped my hands on her hips and shoved.
She screamed-a piercing, throat-rending scream that lashed through the room like the wrath of God as she exploded into a frenzy of action, trying to escape. There was no escape. Not until my purpose was fulfilled. My first lunge had driven half the length of my greasy cock into her asshole. A second hunch completed the connection with a thoroughness that crushed the pubic hair at the base of my shaft hard against the tightly stretched flesh of her anus. Yet her struggles were not entirely fruitless. She did manage somehow, someway, to break free of the girls, shoving herself upright to a hands-and-knees position-precisely the position I would have chosen for her to take.
I .was but dimly aware of Pussette's suggesting she and Barbe withdraw and watch; that I now seemed to have the situation in hand. I was too enraptured at that moment to acknowledge her comments.
The hot, quivering flesh of Amelia's anal passage clamped around my prick in a manner that filled me with delicious erotic sensations. My balls felt as though they might split from the goodness. My hands grew clammy, my mouth cotton-dry as I began to slowly fuck her in the ass. Regardless of the factors which had brought the circumstance about, Amelia Cravet, or Mile. Dubois, or whatever in hell else she called herself, was going to be a real prime fuck. Needless to say, the woman in no wise agreed with me, for she loosed another nightmarish scream the instant she felt my rigid sex-meat begin to piston in her nether throat. She lunged forward, strove to divest herself of the hard male prick impaling her asshole, but I expected the move, was ready for it, and maintained our coupling by pulling her buttocks firmly back into my loins, at the same time advancing several inches on my knees. She lunged again, with the same results, then began a sort of weird bucking-gallop, performed largely in place at the onset, but which gradually moved us over the floor as she grew more adept at the exercise. All this was to my benefit. With her cavorting and capering on my prick there was no need for action on my part. Therefore I quit fucking and concentrated on keeping my cock in her ass-not exactly a simple matter, to be honest.
Pussette and Barbe were wallowing in an orgy of uninhibited glee at the spectacle. After I had plunged my cock up Amelia's ass they had withdrawn, but only to positions from which they could better observe the goings on-these positions being on either side of me and close to my shoulders. Midst their squeals and giggles and fits of laughter came their cries of encouragement and their warnings for me to hold fast to the struggling female speared on my root.
There was little chance Amelia would break the coupling, though certainly she was trying hard enough. And yet, unexpected as the idea was, it occurred to me suddenly she now seemed less determined to escape, though her physical display was no less vigorous. In fact, and not infrequently, she actually seemed to be attempting the impossible by further impaling herself on the hard round of sex-meat in her anus. Neither Pussette or Barbe was long in becoming aware of this phenomenon, for my darling commented on the matter to her maid.
"Watch her, Barbe," she said, awe replacing the hilarity in her tone. "I believe she's beginning to like it. I do believe she's actually beginning to enjoy getting fucked in the ass." Wonder crept into her voice. "Can it be so? Can a woman really obtain a sexual climax from being so fucked?"
Barbe shook her head. "I don't know. It's new to me. But if it's possible, I want to try it sometime."
I said nothing, too enthralled with the process under discussion to pause long enough to tell them the ancient Greeks had learned anal-orgasm was not only a fact of nature, but was also not entirely uncommon, especially among females. Had I paused to recount this to the girls I might have missed the start of Amelia's anal-orgasm. I had seen many before. Ray-monde Rue's favorite sex-form was a rousing anal-fuck, usually by me, but I would not have wanted to miss the orgiastic avalanche that struck Pussette's aunt. And it happened so quickly I was almost taken by surprise-was surprised to abruptly discover I no longer need retain a hold on her hips.
All at once her face was against the floor, her arms straight out beside her, rigid but quivering, and the long low howl of a rutting cat poured from her lips. Then, with the force of a charging bull, she reversed herself and lunged rearward, driving the firmly fleshed points of her buttocks into my loins so hard I rocked back on my heels, was forced to keep the position for the simple reason that, under her attack, I was unable to change it. So I merely sat there, hands on the floor at my sides for braces as Amelia pitched a convulsive fit on my rod. Her ass worked against me in such frenzy it created an alarming friction-I fancied my nostrils caught a whiff of scorching pubic hair-while her claw-shaped hands raked at the floor and the empty air with equal desperation, the while there spewing from her throat such a cacophony of yelps, snorts, whines and barks it would have, under other circumstances, been positive proof of her hopeless madness.
I cannot be sure how long she continued her vociferous and vigorous display, though I knew she was in the midst of it when my climax sledge-hammered me low in the gut, Amelia was then not the only one transmitting odd noises; as I clutched her hips once more and ground my teeth, my congested face toward the ceiling, I was shaken repeatedly by recoil of the great salvos of semen my exploding balls shot into her ass.
"Sacre Bleu!" Pussette said quietly with feeling when the world ceased to vibrate before my eyes.
I revived to complete awareness to find myself slumped forward across Amelia's back, our bodies snugged tightly-and still tightly joined by my coupling meat.
"Sacre bleu," Barbe echoed her young mistress' exclamation. "Never in all my days-if I live to be a thousand-" Then, all other words seeming to fail her, she said again, "Sacre bleu."
I pushed myself up to my knees once more and Amelia moved sluggishly to her elbows, waiting for me to extract my prick. I did, with savoring slowness, and she acquiesced with an enormous grunt. The end of my freed prick was capped with a little pointed turd of brindle-colored shit.
Amelia was just getting to her feet when I returned from washing up several minutes later, but I could see she and Pussette had been deep in conversation. There was a new look of respect in her eyes for the young niece who had ordered her corn-holed. I sensed their relationship hereafter would be on quite a different plain. The barriers which naturally develop between guardian and ward seemed to have disappeared. Of this, I was glad. All things being equal, I looked forward to more of the older woman's round-eye in the future.
"My behind burns like fire," she smiled at me as I rejoined the group. It was the first time I'd seen her smile and it turned her austere countenance into one of warm beauty. She slowly got to her feet and stood rubbing her posterior tenderly, eyes on me with a look which said I'd have no trouble partaking of her round-eye in the future.
Pussette and Barbe had not yet recovered from their reaction to witnessing the frolic, though my darling had more so than her maid. Nevertheless, both girls were still a bit groggy; their hilarity having dissolved minutes before I severed the coupling. Amelia took a seat on the breakfast couch beside her niece, eyes still on me.
"So you are the famous Count Jaques Maurice de Falconet," she mused in a half-questioning tone. "I am beginning to understand your reputation; especially if the stories I've already heard about you this morning are true."
I bowed as gracefully as a naked man can, my semi-hard cock bobbing suggestively, found a seat near my darling and waited patiently while Amelia related a detailed account of my exploits at Raymonde's the previous evening. Since the events were of too recent occurrence to have been embellished by anyone's imagination, Amelia had the facts so nearly correct I saw no point in revising them. When she finished the two younger girls sat staring at me in silent wonder. The enormous diamond I had received from Rezell for having the false priest sodomized, plus the four hundred thousand francs I had won by fucking Gerta von Runstadt, were a bit difficult for them to absorb at such an early morning hour. It was Barbe who spoke first.
"So His Magnificence, the Sultan Abdul Muhammad Yusif the XXIII is a friend of yours, is he?" she asked with a certain grimness in her tone. "I'd like to get my hands on his young brother Saheed. He's the son of a mangy goat who jilted me and took another as his first wife. She's older than Saheed, mind you, and I hear she has-UGH!-warts." She stood up, adjusting her clothes. "I must talk with Sultan Yusif immediately."
Amelia gave her niece a questioning look as the Arabian girl left the room. Pussette shook her head.
"Barbe is no maid," she laughed softly. "She was only playing at being a maid for the novelty of it-because Arab maids are all the rage in Paris this season-when Count d'Epinay-Becu and I were married. She was visiting elderly friends of her family in Paris when she planned the harmless subterfuge for the sake of excitement; as a diversion to break the monotony of her staid hosts' routine existence. These family friends agreed to keep her secret, of course." She turned in my direction, a look coming into her blue eyes that thrilled me to the core. "And what are your plans for the day, Jaques?"
I explained it was necessary to deposit the diamond I'd got from Rezell with my banker and finish arrangements to collect the four hundred thousand francs I'd won. These two projects were likely to consume a large part of the day.
"And quick as you can replace the clothes your scissors ruined," Amelia told Pussette, "I must return to Czerny-" she sighed wearily, "-and sister Emma."
"Why not tell sister Emma you're visiting your bereaved niece in Paris for awhile?" I suggested. With all my other obligations, journeying to Czerny to fuck her could prove a problem.
"Zut!" Pussette said in disappointment. "I was hoping the four of us might visit D'Arcy's Carnaval de Sexes this afternoon."
"That's a wonderful suggestion," Amelia glowed at me with enthusiasm, ignoring Pussette's remark. "But this time I must return to Czerny. Emma expects me and I fear she might raise a howl unless I show up on schedule. But the next time I return to Paris...." Her words trailed off as her expression grew rapt.
"Very well," Pussette said, tone going haughty. "Barbe and I shall visit D'Arcy's by ourselves-when Barbe returns from Madame Rue's."
"During daylight hours is no time to visit any of the sex carnivals," I said kindly. "There is so little to see then. Why not be patient till I finish my business and I shall be delighted to squire you through D'Arcy's."
She looked at me, frost melting from her eyes, and said humbly, "Forgive me, Jaques. I cannot imagine what has come over me the past day or so. I am nervous and ill-tempered as an-I don't know what."
My heart leapt at these words, and the older woman looked at her young niece with understanding eyes.
"I know what," Amelia said mysteriously, shifting her gaze from Pussette to me. "But don't ask me to tell you what it is, for one best discovers it for himself."
Pussette was regarding her aunt with a small frown of concentration when I silently took my leave, hoping to attend to my affairs quickly in order to soon return.
CHAPTER NINE
I found it impossible to return soon for several reasons, all of them associated with my exploits of the previous evening. My banker went into orgies of delight when I deposited with him the big diamond for safe keeping, and I thought he would kiss me over the information I would ere long bring him an additional four hundred thousand francs. But this in itself was not what slowed my progress. This was left up to my friends and acquaintances.
News I had received a million-franc diamond for arranging to have the hypocritical priest corn-holed, then won another sizable fortune by fucking the unfuckable prick-tease Gerta von Runstadt, apparently was the talk of the city that morning and I was continually being stopped by someone I knew who wanted the details first hand. I realized before long that without even trying, or with any such possible results in mind, I had become the toast of Parisian cafe society and as one close acquaintance beamingly chortled, could well become a legend in my own time. In all honesty I can say this had no adverse effect on my masculine ego. I can say, however, it had a decided effect on events that befell me within the next twenty-four hours. Or within the next twelve, for that matter, for they began as soon as Pussette and I reached D'Arcy's famous Carnaval de Sex at sundown that evening.
My darling clung to my arm, glowing with anticipation and excitement over her first visit to a sex carnival. Only the two of us attended. It seems Barbe had sent Pussette a note sometime that day, which informed Pussette that she, Barbe, was tied up with the Sultan and was likely to remain so for some time.
I sensed a certain subtle change in the atmosphere the moment Pussette and I entered D'Arcy's. There was nothing tangible I could put a finger on, but the change was there. Pussette, of course, noticed nothing. She was too busy staring in round-eyed wonder at the donkey fucking Big Louise dog-fashion; at the ten male performers on hands and knees in a tight circle, each sodomizing the person in front of him; at the woman seated astride a man's hips, impaled on his cock while another screwed her in the bung as she sucked one kneeling in front, all the while masturbating the two who knelt on either side of her, and the numerous other attractions.
D'Arcy, a florid-faced, goateed giant of a man, saw us as we entered and lumbered forward with outstretched hands. Perhaps it was his verbose greeting, wherein he said nothing about the diamond, the priest or Gerta von Runstadt, that gave me the feeling everything was not as usual.
A sex carnival is exactly what the name implies, though fundamentally it differs from a Faire Sauter only in a few minor respects. One of these is that at a carnival there are no private rooms, save living quarters for certain of the staff. The performers are hired by the carnival operator and everything is carried on in the open for the benefit of the general public-though any paying customer may participate in any of the numerous acts he chooses. Another difference is that the carnivals, in order to remain solvent, use various and sundry promotional stunts to attract a steady flow of customers.
Had I known I was to be a leading participant in one of these stunts at D'Arcy's that evening, Pussette and I might have remained at her chateau. As it was, I would have refused anyway had she not been so enraptured by the idea that the famous D'Arcy's had declared me King-Saytr-About-Town. This was a coveted cafe society award bestowed upon only very few men, and my darling insisted so prettily it would have been caddish to refuse.
"If you accept the honor," she said, blushing, "I'll have something special for you when we return home." By her tone, by the endearing look in her eyes as she spoke, there was no need to ask what that 'something special' was. My heart began a mad pounding. Earlier in the day, Amelia, with her woman's intuition, had discovered what I had only suspected but ardently prayed for-Pussette had already fallen in love with me.
"Very well," I told D'Arcy. "I accept the award, but let us dispense with all formalities and get on with the more interesting parts of the coronation. Who is first?"
"A young artist from Sweden," D'Arcy told me. "Name's Ingrid Bjorklund. Claims she has a personal philosophy and procedural technique which enables her to out-fuck any man alive." His voice dropped to a confidential rumble. "And I understand, from reliable sources, that thus far she has succeeded."
"This personal philosophy and procedural technique," I said. "What are they?"
D'Arcy shrugged hugely. "The philosophy is simply that of mind over matter. She is convinced she can out-fuck any man alive and therefore she has succeeded. As for the procedural technique-she sketches you."
"She what?"
"That's right. Sketch and fuck, sketch and fuck. There's no connection between the philosophy and the technique, unless sketching and fucking are the two things she does best in the world. And another thing. There is to be no audience for this. She insists. Says it distracts her."
"But I want to watch!" Pussette wailed. D'Arcy shook his big head. "Mile. Bjorklund is adamant on this point, Countess." He looked around cautiously. "But someone must judge the bout, and that someone is I-which is the reason I had a few holes bored into the walls of the bedroom where this part of the-ah-coronation is to be held." He winked sagely. "I had in mind another person to assist me as second witness, but if the Countess would care to accompany me-"
"I will!" Pussette said quickly, grinning. She squeezed my arm as she took D'Arcy's, saying to me, "Jaques, you teach this Swedish tart what it means to make love to a Frenchman." I had no difficulty in following D'Arcy's directions to a bedroom in his private quarters at the rear of the building.
"Come in," a feminine voice called in perfect French in answer to my knock.
Ingrid Bjorklund was a large young woman with wide hips and shoulders and an hourglass waist. She stood before an easel when I entered, and wore nothing but a knee-length robe of some fuzzy material which was thrust forward by her breasts and, seemingly, held from her body by them all the way down the front. I could not be positive there was a belligerent gleam in her eyes when they met mine.
"Count de Falconet?" Her voice was rich and throaty.
I nodded. "Mile. Bjorklund?"
"I am," she said. But call me Ingrid. Under the circumstances I think there is little call for formality."
"My name is Jaques-"
"I'm aware of that, Jaques." She got busy putting sketch paper on the easel. "We'll begin by your modeling for me in the nude. You may hang your clothes behind that curtain in the corner over there."
I had no compunction about appearing naked before this perfect stranger, but the order was given so matter-of-factly I found myself obeying without thinking. She glanced once in my direction, then motioned me toward a low, sturdy stool before the easel.
"Stand on that and I'll get your measurements," she said.
"Measurements?"
"So I can finish this sketch later without your being here to model." With a tape she began measuring my calves, thighs, torso, biceps, neck-all parts of my body; saving till last my prick, which thus far dangled limply-and scratched the figures on a small pad. At last she put the tape and pad down and stepped back, hands on hips and looking at me critically.
"I knew the proper lighting couldn't be achieved at night," she said. "I suppose there's nothing left but the oil."
"The oil?"
"To capture the proper highlights."
From back of the easel she took a large bottle of perfumed olive oil', unscrewed the lid and poured some into the palms of her hands. I flinched from the coolness of it on my skin, but heat from her hand quickly dispelled this cool ness. I noted a quickness in her breathing as she moved her hands slowly, caressingly along my lower back and over the cheeks of my ass. With each additional application of oil, with each touch of her slippery hand, my cock got straighter and harder.
She moved from back to front without seeming to notice the huge organ standing out before me. She applied the oil to my shoulders, and chest, and I felt the brush of pubic hair on my leg as she reached up to spread oil on my arms and under my armpits. I glanced down and saw that the robe she wore had fallen all the way open. Her large, firm breasts tipped with hard, pink nipples seemed to hold it open. My breath quickened when her body brushed mine lightly.
She worked her way down my chest and stomach, smoothing the oil, then seemed to be suddenly aware of the huge jutting erection that was my cock pointing toward the ceiling.
"Well," she said hoarsely. "We'll have to do something about that."
She poured another palm full of oil and carefully began to grease my cock, lingering maddeningly as she slid her hand down to the base of the root onto my balls.
"It might ruin the sketch," she muttered, breathing with difficulty and leaning against me now as she focused her entire attention on my genitals. The smooth, silky caressing was finally too much for me. I pulled her into my arms and headed blindly for the couch across the room.
"Must do something about it or it'll ruin the sketch," she moaned, then swarmed up me as if climbing a tree. Her arms went around my neck and her legs gripped my back till she was high on my chest, then she sank slowly down on my cock, her teeth biting my earlobe.
I carried her to the couch, wondering if D'Arcy and Pussette were in their concealed places. I staggered and weaved as her frantic legs tightened and slid around my back as she forced her way down upon my throbbing cock. She did not spare herself, but eagerly enveloped me, moaning and squealing in my ear at each additional inch of penetration.
When we reached the couch, Ingrid's arms around my neck and her wildly gripping legs pulled me on top of her; she was groaning with pleasure at my fierce thrusting as we hit the couch.
I plunged with all my might, thrusting deeply then withdrawing, and though I was ablaze with passion, I could not match her fire. And yet, if she meant to out-fuck me, she had best regulate herself.
Her fingernails were in my back and her heels kicked and strained at the cheeks of my pile-driving ass to pull me more deeply into her frothing cunt. Even when she had engulfed my cock completely and my balls were banging against her asshole she seemed unsatisfied and drew her knees to either side of my chest, sliding the inside of her calves and thighs along my oil-slippery body, to draw me even deeper.
The furious movement of her body under me, the frantic caressing of her legs and the slap of her belly against mine as I flexed up to match her actions drove me to the edge of orgasm. Ingrid's strangled moans and the trembling in her belly told me she was also near climax. As the fire mounted, I plunged and thrust with ever-increasing intensity, and Ingrid responded with lustful vigor, throwing her hips at me with each thrust, flexing back with each withdrawal, her legs working and stretching on my back to provide for the greatest contact and erotic stimulations. I had a fleeting thought it was more like a battle than a passage of love, but the heat in my loins drove out all thought and I thrust fiercely until my cock and balls exploded in a great pounding orgasm. Ingrid shrieked and sobbed and melted in her own fire as she was also consumed by the thrilling blaze of her climax.
For a long moment I lay heavily on her, breathing deeply and savoring the after throbs of a real rollicking fuck. Then I eased away; hauled my cock out of her belly and lay down to rest beside her. She lay studying my face and body in repose, then rose from the couch and stretched languorously, smiling into my eyes, cupping her breasts and running her hands down over her belly to draw my eyes to the slimness of her waist, the womanly flair of the hips, the triangle of curly hair at the mouth of her cunt. Her fingers fluttered over the tender flesh of the inside of her thighs, then she tossed her head and walked away from me, swinging her hips.
She was humming as she walked to a small bar in the corner of the room. She stood, legs apart, flicking her naked ass at me as she took one of the bottles by the neck, deliberately presenting me with a profile. She swayed back to the couch with the bottle and two glasses.
"A restorative," she said, kneeling beside the couch and resting her breast on my arm. "I love your French cognac."
I wondered about this initial phase of my coronation as King-Saytr-About-Town. This girl could prolong the bout all night, but I wondered if she had the ability. She handed me a glass of cognac and looked into my eyes. She raised her glass to me and tossed off her drink, hair swirling on her shoulders.
"Now you must do me," she said, placing our empty glasses on the floor. Apparently she saw from my expression I did not understand her, for she got to her feet, retrieved the bottle of perfumed olive oil, handed it to me when I stood up, then stretched out face down on the couch, resting her head on folded arms. "Oil me," she said.
I knelt beside the couch and poured oil in my palm. I had just begun to spread oil over her shoulders when she stopped me.
"Not like that," she said. She spread her legs wide and pulled a cushion under her belly, propping up her ass. "Get between my legs and put just the tip of your wonderful cock in my vagina, then smooth the oil over my skin slowly."
I knelt behind her, stationed the head of my prick in the hairy orifice between her legs. Heat of her cunt traveled along my rod to my balls, setting them aglow, and before she could stop me I had a couple of inches inside her.
"Not now," she said quickly. "First the oil."
I smoothed the oil into the nape of her neck and down her back, my fingers working around her ribs and down the taper of her waist. I poured more oil and felt the soft flesh of her lower back and the swell of her hips under my hands. I had to raise myself a bit to smooth the oil into her buttocks, and I marveled that beneath the incredibly tender skin her muscles were as firm as an athlete's. My fingers smoothed oil through the cleavage of her ass and I was touching her inner thighs when she sighed gustily and turned onto her back.
"Now the other side," she said, cupping her head in her hands to watch.
I slowed the oiling, feeling this young Swedish woman most definitely held the upper hand of the situation. I dropped the oil, gripped her rib cage and tried to plunge my cock into her vitals, but she twisted beneath me, turning on her side. I struggled to bring her back into position, but my hands kept slipping and I couldn't get a firm grip. We were sitting up now, and before I could say anything, she said, "Just take it easy now, and go slowly. You won't regret it."
I slouched in a relaxed position on the couch, my ass slipping slowly towards the edge, a bit confused, then picked up the bottle of oil, poured it on my hands and started at her neck and shoulders, moving down to her breasts. With her hands under her head, her shoulders were drawn back, and the skin was taut and felt like silk under my fingers. My hands moved, spreading oil in the curly hair of her unshaven armpits, then over her breasts.
I eased the head of my prick through the lips of her cunt as my fingers cupped the outer swell of her breasts and fingers touched and tumbled her nipples, which were hard with pleasure. My hands moved down her belly to the hairy triangle and she sighed. Then she moved quickly upon my body, tucked my erection between the cheeks of her ass and, putting her arms around my neck, rubbed and teased her oiled breasts and belly against mine. I moved with her, trying to find the target, but she was too quick, countering everyone of my thrusts with a sideways or backward or forward slipping that defeated all my attempts. I found myself, instead of penetrating, merely following her horizontal dance of the contact of oiled bodies.
Then, suddenly, she sat up. "We need a drink," she said, and again went to the small, bedroom bar.
I could still feel the touch of her breasts and cunt in my hands as I watched in a bit of amazement. The woman's technique was, indeed, masterful, and I began to ponder as to whom would win this session. No wonder D'Arcy said she had thus far out-fucked all comers.
"Will another cognac do?" she asked over her shoulder.
The question annoyed me. I did not want to be bothered about making a choice over a damned drink when all I had on my mind was fucking.
"Cognac," was all I said.
It was good and hot on my tongue, but right then I could have been interested in nothing less.
"Now let's go again," she said, and knelt at my head, knees touching my ears. She bent low and nuzzled my face, then moved on to my chest, not kissing, but caressing my flesh with her cheeks, moving her hands before her down my body. As she moved down, her oiled breasts fell on either side of my face, and I touched them with nose and lips. The feeling of their softness, blending with the sensuousness of the oiled skin sliding over my face was indescribably voluptuous. Her face was now nuzzling my belly and her hands on the skin of my inner thighs were sliding through the creases between my legs and genitals. Her belly was over my face and I followed her lead in nuzzling and touching.
My fingers and the sensitive skin of my upper arms flowed over her sides and back to the flair of her hips. The movement of her face on my belly, the touch of her hands near my genitals, burned like fire, and my hips flexed to bury my throbbing cock in her long hair. In response, she slid down my body and nuzzled and fondled my prick and balls, rubbing her cheeks and lips over and around the pulsating shaft. The lust-swollen lips of her cunt were directly above my face, and the touch of her face on my cock was maddeningly pleasurable.
I was beyond the point of returning her caresses adequately and tried to release myself from under her. My whole will was bent to the goal of quenching the fire in my loins by drilling my aching sex-meat into her seething cunt. But she would not let me rise. Instead, she turned herself on my body and placed the head of my cock in the lips of her cunt. I strove to thrust home.
She sank down on the impaling prick an inch at a time, rising, bringing my glans to the lips of her vagina again before sinking gently down once more. This process continued till my cock was totally imbedded. The sensation of my cock sliding smoothly through the walls of her vagina was almost too much to bear. I commenced to thrust, but again she stopped me, the whole weight of her body on my groin forcing me to be still.
"Not so fast," she said. "Not all at once." She took a deep breath, exhaling loudly. "But I think we can begin now."
She then raised herself and once more began her maddeningly slow journey down my cock, obviously savoring every tingling segment of pleasure as my cock slid voluptuously into her body. Then again and again, till I was once more brought to the edge of explosion. This time my need would not be denied. I grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to my chest as my hips lunged violently upward, pounding out a furious rhythm in her cunt.
She was also in white heat, and matched my thrusts, driving downward to meet me, stroke for stroke. The intensity of the rhythm increased until both of us were moaning and gasping with passion; until with one final convulsion we catapulted into the blinding bliss of consummation.
"Well now, Count Jaques Maurice de Falconet," she said. "We're two down and more to go." She glanced at my hard cock. "Which is obvious. And it's also obvious some of the tales I've heard of your sexual prowess are true. You want more fucking, right? Very well. Let's just see what that famous cock of yours can do. But be warned. I'm going to fuck you right through the floor." She collected our glasses and the bottle of cognac, poured two drinks and handed me one. "Drink up," she said. "You're going to need all the strength you can get." She sat down on the couch beside me and leaned back. "This is your coronation, King Satyr. Let's have some action."
My cock, going semi-flaccid on my thighs till that moment, bucked upright to its full size and pointed toward the ceiling. Ingrid squared herself on her back and spread her thighs.
"All right, Count Falconet, have at it."
I climbed aboard and had at it-the moment of free rein I'd been waiting and hoping for. I meant to fuck the wench silly.
She seemed like a woman suddenly gone sexually mad. She strained upwards, kicked, scratched and bit with utter abandon. And even before the after throbs of orgasm had passed, she was at my cock with mouth, tongue and teeth in fear it might go soft. She need not have worried.
It was her turn then to mount me. And it was again she who set the pace, plunging and twisting down on my cock till she had wrung out another orgasm. Both of us were covered with sweat and I thought she was at last satisfied, but she let me rest for only a moment before she began again.
After another orgasm the gleam of victory began showing in her eyes. She got off the couch and helped me to my feet. "Here," she handed me another drink of cognac. "Now please stand there in a natural stance on that stool. I want to sketch some more."
I got up on the stool and noticed that Ingrid moved awkwardly in going around to her easel, yet the sparkle was still in her eyes and her voice had taken on the exultation of one expounding a newly discovered truth. She cast a furtive glance at my cock, now dangling limply from my crotch, and the exultation of her tone increased. I could almost hear the thoughts clicking in her mind. She had triumphed again, She had won the contest. She, a stranger in a strange land, had out-fucked the famous Count Jaques de Falconet.
She began sketching me with swift, sure strokes, all the while keeping up a running fire of lively chatter. Inexplicably I was carried away with her dialogue and as I remembered the touch of her hands and mouth and body, my prick responded. I wasn't interested in what she was saying; the sound of her voice seemed enough. Suddenly, she went stone still, eyes focused on my upright cock. The look of disappointment on her face almost made me feel sorry for her.
From somewhere around us I was positive I heard D'Arcy's muffled chuckle.
Ingrid left her easel, advanced on me and took my arm, leading me to the couch.
"I must have gone wrong somewhere." She stooped and swigged from the bottle of cognac. "Perhaps I've erred in my procedural technique." She pulled me down on the couch atop her. "Come on, Count. There's fucking to be done."
Then her voice grew sexy and interested-sounding, but underneath I caught overtones of grim determination, as if the upcoming joust was more than any pleasure frolic.
I sunk my cock to the hilt in her cunt and once more began a rhythm of lust. She responded even more wildly than before in order to drain me quickly, and this time, completely. I put my back into the work and when we climaxed, allowed my cock to go limber, and watched with great interest her furious attempts to raise it. But I succeeded in keeping it limber, refused to allow it to respond to the most cunning pulling, patting, caressing, tonguing and sucking.
"There," she said at last, wearily but triumphantly. "It's dead as a door knob. Now stand upon the stool again."
I watched her from the stool, the easel with the pad of drawing paper hiding the upper portion of her naked body. She sketched furiously and my eyes traveled to her slightly muscular but beautifully formed legs, up past the taper of her thighs to the triangle of pubic hair framed by the swell of her hips. My cock swelled silently to its uttermost dimensions and when I raised my eyes to her face I found it a mask of anger and frustration mingled with a hint of terror.
"Again?" she shivered to the room at large. "It can't be." Her voice lifted to a near-scream. "My theory and technique are sound. Hundreds of men I have met and bested. I have never failed!"
I started to speak, to tell her she'd had only a very small chance of winning our little contest from the beginning, but she ignored me. She seemed stunned, muttered to herself as she moved, zombie-like, toward me on the stool.
"He is man born of woman," she mumbled inanely. "He can be worn down, drained, destroyed." She glared at my cock as though it were some monster set to devour her, walked around me to avoid it, slipped an arm about my waist and once more drew me toward the couch.
"One more time," she said, fatigue and soreness putting the edge of desperation on her voice. "When I get through with you this round you won't be able to walk, let alone get a hard on." As if steeling herself for a mighty endeavor she swigged long and deep from the bottle of cognac. "Now, Jaques," she said with renewed dedication. "Lie down here and in me and out me. You can't last forever."
CHAPTER TEN
I put my clothes on as quickly as possible in order not to disturb Ingrid Bjorklund, though I doubt if a herd of stampeding elephants could have awakened her. She lay on the couch, dead to the world in the sleep of utter exhaustion. I had gone two more times before she had fallen asleep. The last time the poor girl had almost gone into hysterics at sight of my cock swelling to full erection, and her crying and wild carryings-on were a bit frightening. Winning our little fuck-feud had meant a lot to her.
D'Arcy was literally beside himself with pride that I had overcome the girl from Sweden and my darling little Pink Pussette beamed on me with possessive pride-which reminded me yet again of that 'something special' she had promised me when we returned to her chateau. This, in itself, was enough to make me insist we go home, but neither she nor D'Arcy would hear a word of it.
"Come," D'Arcy said fulsomely, pulling my arm. "One of my lady entertainers will show the Countess d'Epinay-Becu around while I explain the next phase of your coronation ceremony."
"Go on, Jaques," Pussette insisted. "I'll be with you later, but right now I want to see the carnival."
"The next phase of your coronation is a sort of masked ball," D'Arcy explained enthusiastically in a small lounge at one side of the building some minutes later. "Everybody is naked except for a hood-mask that completely covers the head and fastens about the neck with a drawstring. There will be no identification except a number painted on chest and back. Men have the odd numbers, women the even. You, of course, are number one."
I didn't like it a damn bit and I told him so. I had nothing against further erotic adventure to fill the evening, but I kept thinking about Pussette's 'something special'. It was her I wanted to fuck, not some stranger. But D'Arcy was insistent; and I recalled my darling's eagerness for me to participate.
"As a special favor to me," D'Arcy leaned forward confidently, "I want you to pair-off with number two. She's the daughter of a friend of mine from Le Harve. She's only sixteen and her name is Nevis. They're in Paris for a few weeks and she sneaked out for the night. Only thing is," he frowned ponderously, "she might be a virgin, so go easy, huh?"
I still didn't like it, but allowed myself to go along, nevertheless. The big D'Arcy smacked his lips zestfully and dry-washed his hands when I agreed. Tomorrow the fame of his Carnival de Sex would flame throughout Paris.
"Come." He rose quickly. "I'll show you where to go."
It was a giant room with a giant fireplace in back of the main Carnival building. D'Arcy left me in a small ante-chamber, where I undressed and put on the hood-mask he had given me. Frankly, I was beginning to feel a little foolish. Ridiculous, even. Then I opened the door and stepped inside the great room lighted by the biggest fireplace I'd ever seen. Just inside the door I was halted. A large 'I' was hastily painted on my chest and between my shoulder-blades with dark chalk. All of a sudden I didn't feel foolish or ridiculous any more. The scene that greeted my eyes would have gladdened the heart of any lusty male.
There were eight or ten couples in the room, all naked save for the hood-masks, and most of them were engaged in some form of sex. Each, male and female, had numbers on back and chest. Firelight flickered off wagging male asses and thrashing female legs, and the low, melodious music coming from the small orchestra huddled against the far wall was interspersed with sobs and gasps of lust. I was automatically counting the couples when my eyes came upon a small dark form facing me from near the orchestra. She had a white '2' between her budding Nubian breasts and was so erotically exciting my cock lifted its head in lustful anxiety. I sensed a mysterious familiarity about the rapturous creature, or thought I did, and searching my memory hurriedly, but I did not know any Negro girls. D'Arcy had said she was the daughter of a friend and that her name was Nevis.
She turned and spoke quietly to the orchestra as I devoured her with my eyes, and the music instantly shifted from its low, throbbing tempo to become strident, wildly pagan, sensual and erotic with a decided African flavor. From somewhere she took a pair of finger cymbals, slipped them on thumb and forefinger and began to dance. Her eyes never left me. I could feel their heat as they clung to my naked body.
And it was a good fuggin feeling. My coronation as King-Satyr-About-Town was going to be considerably less than boring, after all.
A man with the number five on his chest uncoupled with number eight and threw more logs on the fire. In the sudden blaze of light, Nevis' magnificent little body, twisting and swaying in erotic display and invitation, became Aphrodite calling her worshipers to dance. One of the men donned another pair of cymbals and joined her, his lean, muscular body a perfect counterpart for her dainty curves. They danced before the fireplace, the clatter, whirring and tingling of the cymbals bouncing from walls and ceiling; Nevis wantonly bumping her belly and hips like a belly dancer, now shielding her breasts and cunt behind her hands, the flickering fingers with the brass cymbals tinged red and yellow from the fireplace, leading the eyes to her young breasts and the sparse curly black fleece at the apex of her working thighs.
The man dancing with her, number seven, gradually circled her in the dance, approaching and retreating, nearly touching, then withdrawing, while I stood there admiring the beauty of Nevis' body and savoring her almost tangible sexuality. The music and the sight of the two were compelling, and couple after couple rose from the floor to join in the dance.
Soon I was caught up by it myself. I tried to resist its lure, but the music and sight of Nevis was too inviting. My body began to sway, then I found my feet moving, and I joined the others.
Everybody tried to emulate Nevis and '7', luring and attracting, dancing around each other but not touching; but they could only maintain this for a few minutes. Then the dancing became wilder and the people in the room drew more closely together. Hands flung out of balance found themselves touching breast, belly, back, cock, hair or lips. As one would withdraw from his partner his back would be caressed by the flesh of another behind him. It was as if each body was a magnet, attracting all others. Soon all were crowded in the large space before the fireplace.
There was no more dancing, merely an undulating mass of erotically supercharged flesh, rubbing, touching, fingering, fondling, caressing, kissing, tonguing indiscriminately. Any couple rubbing their bellies together could push their arms through the couples around them and touch hot skin of three or four other people. I was near the center of the group, near Nevis, my stiff, throbbing cock fondled and clutched at by so many female hands I couldn't tell who they belonged to.
The mass of undulating flesh seemed to waver for a moment, then began to splinter as the demands of the bodies overcame the cohesion of the whole. A couple behind me dropped to the floor, commenced fucking frantically, and I tripped backwards over their bodies, bringing a shriek from some girl whose cunt I'd been fingering. Then I was on the floor midst the milling legs of the dancers and had to bring up arms to ward off their feet. All at once the ceiling had turned into legs, thighs, asses and genitals.
Suddenly three girls were trying to position themselves on my cock all at the same time. One would no sooner get seated when she would be pushed off and another would take her place, only to be dragged away by the third. I rather enjoyed this till one of them stepped on my stomach in attempting to wrestle another away by her armpits. The floor was a heaving sea of naked, writhing bodies. I stretched out my legs, propped them on number seven's heaving back and reached over my head and caught some girl by the leg and arm, pulling her toward me' till I could rest my head on her contorting belly. Another girl, a number four, was astride me and had the end of my cock wedged between the lips of her cunt. She began a bouncy attack, which stopped almost at once.
"I-I can't take it!" she wailed in astonishment and despair. "It's too bi-big!"
"Then get off!" number six rasped in a mannish voice. She was tall and thin with a bony frame. Through the twin holes of her mask her eyes burned with aggressive determination. Number four rolled to the floor, gasping, and number six mounted my loins.
"All right, big cock," she growled at me. "It's time the new King-Satyr-About-Town got taught a lesson."
She pounced upon my cock, choking in the head and a couple of inches before she paused. I thrust upward twice, quickly, sending in another two inches before she was ready. She ground her teeth, too game to retreat, but held me, then sank down another two inches. I didn't relent, but flexed upward again, driving in an inch and a half that caused her to lift away quickly, gasping.
It was then I felt the soft lips against my ear, felt the hot breath of the whispered words: "You promised D'Arcy not to neglect me. Is the word of Count Falconet no longer to be depended upon?"
I glanced up and back to find black little number two kneeling beside my head. I got the disturbing impression again that I knew her, or at least felt I should, yet at the same time I knew I was very much mistaken. Not with a voice the timbre of hers. She spoke in a trembling, off-key falsetto I would never have forgotten had I heard it before.
"You're right," I said over the melee about us, suddenly wanting to be free of the whole mess. "I did make D'Arcy a promise. Where can we go for me to keep it?"
"I know a bedroom," she almost shouted. Her eagerness to be gone was a very nearly tangible thing. I tried to see beyond the mask covering her face, but was unsuccessful. "Can you get free of-that?" She pointed to number six stubbornly trying to impale herself on my cock.
"Easily." I heaved the woman to one side, onto a quartet of squirming flesh engaged in a double sixty-nine. She screamed derisively as I got to my feet, but I didn't even look as I worked my way behind number two while we got out of the orgy.
I was threading my way behind her, admiring the saucy swish of her young buttocks, when I was stricken by a revelation so jarring it burst over me like a flash of blinding light. I stumbled, stunned, and gasped for breath. It could not be, it was not possible, yet I knew it was true and the bellow of my uproarious laughter drowned the music of the orchestra when we passed it and entered a broad hall with bedrooms on either side. I was still laughing when she led me into one of these.
"What's wrong?" she demanded, her ebony body flashing in the light as she stopped beside the bed and turned.
"Where did you get that voice?" I laughed happily, heart singing. For a long moment the eyes behind the mask regarded me levelly, then I heard her soft laughter.
"How did you find out?" she asked. "What gave me away?"
"Your walk. You disguised everything perfectly but that."
"I gargled with vinegar and sour wine to change my voice. One of D'Arcy's women entertainers showed me how. This black body-paint came from her, too."
"But why?" I asked, removing my mask as Pussette followed suit. The sharp contrast of her sable-hued body and her fair face and honey-colored hair was nothing short of incongruous. Her blue eyes shone with the light of love as she threw herself at me, arms clasping my neck. She stood on her toes.
"Oh, Jaques, Jaques, Jaques," she whispered fiercely against my neck. "Must you ask why? Do you really not know?"
There was no need to answer. My heart leapt like a wild gazelle as I snugged her hot little naked body to mine.
"And also," she continued tartly, leaning backward to look up at my face. "I got tired of all those other women enjoying what is rightfully mine." She squirmed the soft pubic brush of her cunt hair against my suddenly tortured and suffering sex-meat. I thought my balls would crack from the goodness of it. "I arranged the whole thing with D'Arcy while you were fucking that Bjorklund woman." She studied my expression intently. "Are you angry, Jaques?"
Holy Mary Mother of God! Was I angry? I gathered her small nakedness closer to me.
"I am about to show you how angry I am," I whispered. "But it's going to be a bit painful at first."
"Maybe not," she whispered in return.
"But you were a virgin when we first met."
"And I'm still a virgin, technically at least, but I have fingers, silly, and when I realized I wanted you to render my first-fucking I-well-I did things to myself. Your engine is not the smallest in the world, you know."
"And now?" I was beginning to have trouble with my breathing.
"And now we get on with my first-fucking, Jaques dear."
I swung her into my arms, held her tightly against my chest a moment before depositing her on the bed. Seconds later I was in position atop her, the bald knob of my cock ensconced hotly between the tender lips of her young cunt.
