On the summit of a little hill, one can see in outline the chateau of Quail Rock which proudly and authoritatively dominates the little village which belongs to it. This ancestral dwelling, which has always sheltered the dynasty of the de Chavignacs, has become renowned, neither for its architecture nor wealth — the many sculptuaries and paintings by masters which decorate its interior, nor again for its fabulous underground tunnel whose origin is obscured by the centuries, but principally for the births of its heirs, some of whom have having brought it a sinister fame through behavior which recalls that of the infamous Gilles de Rais in his own terrible chateau of Tiffauges in the Vendee.
In 1549, Louis de Brow, father-in-law of the beautiful Princess Charlotte de Chavignac, seduced this delectable young woman. In return, he was delivered up to the villagers by his own victim, who denounced his odious rape to these serfs who were her subjects as they were his. His punishment was hideous indeed: despite his mature age and his noble blood, Louis de Brow was tied by the wrists to the tail of a wild horse and dragged through the fields till he was torn to shreds. Then, unsatisfied with their grisly work, the peasants fried the remnants of his carcass and fed those morsels to their pigs and cows, all except de Brow's testicles, which were preserved for their reproductive powers. These were nailed to the wall of a villager's hut till they were dry and resembled prunes.
But let us briefly recall how this tragedy came about. Louis de Brow, 55, married and the father of an only son, took advantage of a morning when he found himself alone in the chateau with Charlotte, his twenty-two-year-old daughter-in-law, to enter her bedchamber. Charlotte, in the midst of a deep sleep, was startled into waking by feeling a hand caress her bottom. Her father-in-law, having long coveted her body, had seized his opportunity to enter and lifting her long nightgown, had begun to caress her. She tried to call for help, but de Brow clamped his hand over her mouth, and mounting her, kneed open her pink firm thighs. His glittering eyes beheld the thick, curly, black triangle at the apex of those deliriously rounded thighs.
One hand on his stiffened cock which he delicately caressed to rouse himself to heroic fortitude, he caressed her cunny with his other hand, while the frantic young beauty twisted and writhed to escape the penetration by that taut red weapon which awaited her. But thanks to his expert frigging, Charlotte could not contract her slit against his inroads; then, as his massive tool entered her lovecavern and began its ardent probing, she lost all control and swooned as his generous lust-libation spurted deep into her chasm.
When she came to, Charlotte denounced her amorous assailant and turned him over to the infuriated villagers, exhorting them to avenge her shameful dishonor. Before tying him to the horse's tail, several peasant women stripped off his trousers and underclothes and then masturbated him till he bled, while other harpies, still more sadistically lustful, bit his testicles to the blood before they cut them off with a pair of wool shears.
Years after this tragedy, one could admire the testicles of Louis de Brow, which, after having been dried, were eventually nailed to a barn door with a yellowing paper on which this inscription could still be read: “Like Pierre Abelard, celebrated for his passion for Heloise, Louis de Brow endured the same fate as that illustrious theologian and philosopher by losing his balls forever.”
In 1780, Duke Julien Faustin de Chavignac, the eighteen-year-old grandson of a daughter of this same Charlotte, put his mother to death after having ravished her, by throwing her into a red-hot brazier which had been lighted in the court of the chateau to celebrate St. Joan of Arc's Day. The indignant peasants who watched this horrifying scene fell on this unnatural son with their cudgels, and cast him into the fire where his ashes mingled with his mother's.
We discovered the details of this somber drama in an old, brittle-paged book, given in brief but graphic resume:
“Madame Carrol de Chavignac had just taken her bath. Standing before her mirror, she was admiring her artistically molded body. Through the double curtains, a ray of the sun illumined her sculptural curves. Gently, the velvet portals were lifted: a young man stood in ecstasy before this divine beauty. But the mirror betrayed his presence. Slowly, the woman turned her head towards her indiscreet admirer and smiling said, “My son!”
“Startled, Julian came forward and kissed his mother's naked shoulder. Anne-Marie offered him her lips, and he crushed them in a burning kiss. Then this incestuous son fondled the bottom cheeks of this Venus, while she with her soft white hand frigged his cock and balls. When she felt his hand press commandingly on her back, she bent over, straddling her legs. And then, with all the vigor of his youth, Duke Julian buggered his mother, till at last the hot ferocious jet of his gism brought her to her own ecstatic come, abetted by the frigging of her own passionate fingers.
“Yet in aftermath, the young Duke was horrified by the lustful acquiescence of his beautiful mother. He foresaw that her attractiveness to him and her own noble rank and power might prejudice his ascent to the title of lord of this province, and so he decided without more ado to execute her who had given him birth and then been first to teach him the delights of fucking and bugger. But we see how cruelly he was punished for his incestuous crime.”
In our own times, the chateau of Quail Rock has once again won fame through an exploit that imperiled its dignity but which also brought the name of the Chavignacs to public attention.
In order to facilitate the reading of this text, we believe it useful to tell our readers that only two heirs of this great house of Quail Rock still exist: Count Fabian Luce de Chavignac, 52, rich owner of plantations at Fort-Lamy, and the Baron Prosper Agrume, his brother, forty and a bachelor. The Vicountess Anne-Marie de Chavignac, sister of these two, died and was buried in the family vault at the tender age of three. The chateau itself, dilapidated over the years, was sold, and Prosper Agrume went to live in Paris, while his brother Fabian left for tropical climes and was not heard from for years.
Fifteen years before, on a beautiful spring day, Count Fabian Luce took as his bride Countess Marguerite de la Moyse. It was a love marriage. Count Fabian was then nearly 38, his young countess only twenty. A year later, after an ecstatic honeymoon, Marguerite gave birth to a girl named Martine-Chantal. Count Fabian's joy in his daughter was short-lived, for his beautiful wife died a few days later, thanks to the clumsiness of the midwife. Martine was put in charge of a nurse to give her suck. Crushed by his grief, Count Fabian left the chateau and went to Fort-Lamy. The years rolled by, and then one day, realizing that he would never return to the chateau which symbolized all his despair, Count Fabian sent for his daughter Martine, then fourteen, she being his only reason to live.
When, after her long journey, she stood before him, he could not stifle a cry of astonishment: “How beautiful you are!”
And he thought to himself, “She is the image of her mother.” Indeed, the young girl was a living likeness of Countess Marguerite: tall, well-fleshed, blond hair, chestnut brown eyes, and already deliciously formed considering her tender years. Her languorous look, her smile, recalled his wife to him, that blond, passionate spouse so tender in the lists of love. The young girl had the same gestures, the same supple gait which is always the sign of a good fucker, the elegant allure — all these attributes which she had inherited from a mother who, in her own expert knowledge of fucking, had known how to give pleasure to a husband so much older than herself. He stared at Mar-tine, with a look that conveyed his secret desires, a look that neither of them could efface even with fond smiles and idle chatter. And on the evening of that first day, Count Fabian surprised his daughter in deshabille, busying herself with combing her hair before the mirror. In the diary he regularly kept, he himself relates the facts:
“After dinner, I had just left Martine and I went to the orange grove to smoke a cigar as is my custom. En route, as I passed in front of Martine's room, I glanced inside. The door was ajar, and despite myself I stopped short when I saw my daughter admiring herself before her mirror. Martine was wearing a transparent combination; I could see the whiteness and tempting shape of her thighs, the roundness of her bottom, the prominence of her titties and her bare shoulders. The vision which had seduced me fifteen years ago was reflected once again in that mirror, and made me stand dreaming before that door which under ordinary circumstances I would have closed out of a concern for modesty.
“At last I did close it and tiptoed silently away. Seated in my rocking chair, I saw Martine in my mind's eye, no longer in combination but naked as a houri. In my daughter, I beheld a woman; I saw again her pointed titties, her supple waist, her long, elegant legs. I laughed at the sudden, capricious notion which had leaped into my mind: to fuck Mar-tine. In vain I tried to banish this idea, but like an importunate fly it buzzed ceaselessly within my brain. I asked myself what my daughter would do if I burst into her room, intent on such an act? Would she cover herself with the bedsheet out of comprehensible modesty, or, conversely, would she unveil herself and offer me her delicate maidenhead? At this latter thought, a flood of blood suffused my face; I had before my eyes the clear vision of that naked body; I saw once more the long golden curls caressing her white, round shoulders. And her beautiful chestnut eyes were like two somber little lakes into which I should love drowning my lustful fever.
“I remembered, too, how the titties thrust out their pink crests, full and firm, as if demanding caresses, while her suave, soft belly quivered as with an innate voluptuousness. The golden triangle of her cunt garden served as the showcase of the most delicious jewel one could imagine, a jewel made for dispensing divine delights. And at this evocation, my hands trembled violently; I could no longer think of such an adorable naked creature without feeling myself the prey of an insensate, savage desire which destroyed all that was compassionate and good in me. And always the same lacerating thought tortured my suffering brain: what would she do if I went in to her? Was Marguerite really reborn in my Martine? Would I revive a second time the burning joys of my youth? Here I was, in my fifties — dare I dream of such follies?
“I cast away my cigar, sprang up, walking through the orange grove as a man possessed. I struck my chest, I coughed, I wanted to bring myself to the reality that I was simply a father, an aging man. But my mind wandered. When the door had been ajar and I had seen Martine's titties clearly reflected in the mirror, Martine had surely seen me too. Why hadn't she reacted? Why hadn't she made some gesture of modesty, frightened by the sight of a bold father? No, she hadn't budged; on the contrary, she had lifted her combination, letting me see her silk drawers. Should I consider that she possessed the same heritage of incestuous passion which motivated ill-fated Marie-Anne, mother of Julian whose tragic end I recalled from the memoirs of the old chateau? Was that gesture of hers in showing me her dainty drawers to be interpreted as a provocative act?
“I was about to descend the stone stairway to take a long walk in the park, at an hour when night slyly descends and caresses with gentle zephyrs. Suddenly, I trembled; before me, Martine, smiling, clad all in white, bathed in the light coming from the salon, appeared more beautiful than ever. Her arms circled my neck and her full lips imparted a sweet kiss on my forehead. My entire being violently reacted to this contact. I cupped her cheeks in my hands, bending her slightly back. Like a golden cascade, her hair flowed onto her bare shoulders. Martine closed her eyes. Without a word, I greedily merged my lips to hers. She shivered, her eyes fluttered half-open, and in that glance which came from her very soul, I comprehended the mute desire that shook her. I pressed that supple body in my arms, felt her titties rise and fall against my chest, and my kisses grew longer, heedless of the distant servant who was drawing the curtains in rooms beyond. Then, suddenly realizing the folly of my gesture, I released her and quickly went to my room. I heard the strokes of midnight sounding from the bell-tower…
“There was silence everywhere now. However, in the right wing of the mansion, a light shone through the badly adjusted Venetian shutters. I lay down my book on the marble table, rose and silently left my room, crossed the corridor and stopped at the door opposite mine, carefully opened it. Martine was seated on her bed. She looked occupied in reading a love novel, as I learned from a glance at the illustrated cover. She stretched out on the lace-trimmed drape one lovely arm, her hand still grasping the book; and with the other hand made an instinctive gesture to put some order into her toilette, but she did not finish that gesture, and thus I could still espy the peak of a thrillingly firm, jutting tittie, bared and proudly uplifted to my gaze.
“Martine stared at me with her great dark eyes. A smile, that same kind of smile which had inspired in me the future acts of lust I was now ready to commit, saluted my entry at this late hour. I spoke to her rather hoarsely and awkwardly: “You haven't said good night to me, my child, and till you do, I can't sleep.”
“I knew I was lying. Besides, in the years that I'd been separated from Martine I'd surely slept well enough without her daily good night. Without a word, she now offered me her forehead for the paternal kiss. But just as on the stairway to the orange grove, I again cupped her cheeks and sought her lips. My tongue sought hers, and met. I felt her shivering. My right hand released her golden curls, then slyly glided under the drape, striking her body, then found her thighs, firm and lissome as velvet. I felt sure now that in a movement of modesty Martine would stiffen and repulse me, revolted by my audacity. But instead, gently and very slowly, her thighs parted. My hand crept toward her little cunny. My fingers grazed the soft frizzy blond down, and then adroitly, my forefinger — expert in this kind of exercise — burrowed into her little slit. I felt her cunny tighten against my inroads and I began to frig her.
“Having found that dainty button of her clitoris, I concentrated on stroking it till at last I felt the warm stickying liqueur of her spend. Her eyes were drowning, humid and huge, her head rolled from side to side, and, her arms locking round me, drew me to her. In her haste to make love, by this frenzied desire to taste enjoyment which her carnal senses demanded despite her youth, she reminded me so well of her beautiful mother Marguerite. Would I know again my grand passion? Would there be the same games, the same sweet diversions, or should I steel myself and flee from this child now swooning, palpitating and surrendering from the science of my frigging finger in her warm, moist yearning little cunt?
“Martine had flung back her covers. She showed herself naked to my greedy eyes. I told myself I was her father, that in the pose of her fresh, soft white body stretched before me there was nothing of the provocative slut — and yet, is nature aware of man's law that rebukes incest, when it so overpoweringly evokes the urge to fuck? I could not endure the torment longer; I stripped naked and stretched out beside my daughter.
“Her little hand, which I had guided, had taken hold of my cock, stiffer than justice itself. She squeezed my prick as if fearful it would escape her. Then, wiser now, after having at last met this object which had been unknown to her till now, she caressed the shaft of my turgid weapon. The delicate, slim fingers of that darling hand scampered up and down my throbbing prong. Arrived at the head, they made a soft collar over the groove, squeezing it and setting off the red plump of my prick head in bold relief. While she thus learned my manhood, I sucked her pointed little titties. I felt her other hand steal hesitantly down my belly till she discovered that a swollen pair of balls awaited her as well as the appendage she already gripped. Her soft fingers balanced, weighed my sacks of lust; and then, to my astonished ecstasy, as if en-flamed by her discoveries, the naked darling got onto her knees over my head and took my cock in her mouth. My cheeks were clasped between two plump, velvety warm thighs, and my tongue, in retaliation, furled into her dainty slit. I felt her love dew given down to this new titillation, and I could hold back no longer; I shot my bubbling essence into her mouth.
“I feared for a moment that, not having warned her of the consequences of her exquisite Frenching, she might detest me. No! Enervated by the tickling of her lovebutton by which my tongue had procured for her a second spend, she twisted round and flung her arms round my neck as might the most passionate mistress. At first, shame filled me, but little by little desire overtook that emotion. Pressing her down onto her back again, I covered her with kisses and getting astride her, I rubbed the end of my prick against her swollen little button.
“Seized by a delirious fever, she pronounced incoherent words and flung her legs round my hips, imprisoning me to make sure I belonged to her. I amused myself at first by rubbing the tip of my cock over the lips of her cunny, and so tantalized her that she seized my prick in one intrepid hand, adjusted it herself to her still virgin entryway, and arched her loins to yield to my complete possession. So, unhesitatingly, I pressed onward. She started; I resumed again, she recoiled slightly; then again, her eyes half closed, baptizing me with a flood of obscene little terms which both enchanted and startled me as to their young owner's awareness of such matters, again took hold of my bulging prick and directed it into her quim. Ah, those sweet, lascivious words she had uttered: they were the same her own dear mother had uttered in the throes of fucking-bliss. Hence, without warning, with a keener thrust, I at last penetrated into that narrow orifice, shattering the frail barrier of her vaginal defense. Martine uttered first a cry, then a stifled gasp. I was afraid, I dared neither push onward or withdraw. But a wriggling of her ass commanded me to continue. I shoved forward till the hilt of my prick was swallowed up within her sweet, tight vagina. My prick hairs rasped the soft down of her cunny garden, we were belly to belly, and just as I had fucked her mother, I did the same to her. Martine returned my caresses with interest, and both of us spent madly.
“After having washed her little pussy, I aided her to go back to bed. She fell asleep at once, and I stayed near the bed to contemplate her. A mad desire to fuck her again took hold of me, but this time I contented myself with frigging my cock as I devoured with my eyes the treasures of her lissome body. Indeed, I pretended I was fucking her sweet tight cunt again so ardently that a clot of gism flew onto her thigh. I carefully wiped the stain away, drew the covers over her and was about to leave the room on tiptoe when Mar-tine murmured, half asleep, 'You're a fine one to jack off in front of me, Daddy darling — what a waste, when you could have done it inside of me again!'
“Enchanted, I went back to bed without the slightest remorse for what I had done.”
And thus was perpetuated the legend concerning the descendants of the Chateau of Quail Rock which dominates, from its peak atop the little hill, the village which belongs to it…
When the morning dawned, announcing already a scorching day in prospect, Count Fabian rose, dressed and told his servant Bouzian that he would be back late that evening, as he had to meet one of his overseers working in a cotton plantation. “Don't forget to tell Marivol to take good care of Mademoiselle. I confide her to you, you understand?”
Bouzian, who had served the Count for two years, was a perfect specimen of Negro manhood, intelligent, athletic and devoted to his master. The cook was a mulatress named Marivol. Though she was twenty-five, the same age as Bouzian, they had not fucked together. Bouzian had little interest in women who didn't like being buggered; and since Marivol belonged to that category, he never touched her, so they lived together as brother and sister might. She loved cooking little treats for her venerated master, and hence was overjoyed to be given charge of his daughter Martine.
When the ornate clock on the mantelpiece struck nine, Martine's door was opened by Bouzian, who carried a tray encrusted in mother-of-pearl, on which, smoking hot, was a bowl of beautiful ceramic cast containing the thick hot chocolate which, in this tropical country, was a breakfast custom. Thus awakened, Martine accorded her servant a ravishing smile. He placed the tray on a tarbouret and drew the blinds. Wishing her good appetite, he began to withdraw, bowing obsequiously. Martine seemed to emerge from a dream, beholding this handsome negro in a white shirt that accentuated the gleaming ebony of his skin.
“Bouzian!”
“Mademoiselle?”
“Come here. Where is my father?”
“The master went to X-, and will not be back till this evening, very late.”
“And Marivol?”
“She went to market.”
“Good. Come here, then. Now, don't be afraid. How are you dressed underneath?”
Lifting his shirt, she disclosed two superbly athletic thighs and a prodigious swelling between them which his loincloth scarcely dissembled. Martine touched that prominent object, asking: “And that there, what is it?”
Not at all stupid, he replied deferentially, “Let Mademoiselle see for herself.”
Martine was waiting for just that. She unfastened the loincloth and a superb prick adorned with heavy, thickly laden balls was exposed to her view. She was hypnotized by the enormity and length of that prick, whose shaft was really spectacular in its rigidity and breadth. With curiosity, she weighed his balls; then, casting aside the covers, drew the handsome Negro to her, who, overjoyed with this unexpected turn of affairs, gutturally said, “Me put banana in your coconut!”
Martine understood that banana meant prick, but what was coconut? She analyzed the word; coco, fruit of the coconut tree, furnished an excellent butter. But Bouzian's interpretation vastly differed; he put his hand on his young mistress' bottom. Martine comprehended; she knelt down, offering her bottom to him. Completely naked now, Bouzian thrust his enormous cock between her thighs, rubbing her soft, golden pussy down, and for a few moments thus tickled her sensitive perineum, as preparation for the supreme act. Martine, enraptured, looked through her widened thighs to see his huge balls jiggling with each movement. As for Bouzian, he considered the dainty bung of his young mistress, not wishing to punish her for such sweet complaisance this first time by causing her undue pain; at last he found a means of easing the act. Stretching out one hand, he scraped off some of the butter spread on the cakes Marivol had prepared for Martine's breakfast, and then anointed Martine's delicious little bunghole. When he deemed it sufficiently lubricated, he adjusted his prick. Martine, her head still bowed between her legs, watched his balls swing back and forth and impatiently yearned to feel them lash against her naked bottom cheeks. Then she felt the first dig of his monstrous ramrod. Her lips compressed, but she courageously tendered her bottom that it might swallow the promised banana. But Bouzian did not make her languish for it; indeed, showing strangely little tenderness for his willing young partner, he buried three quarters of his prick in a single mighty thrust deep into her virgin ass hole.
Martine uttered a piercing cry, the cry of a wounded animal. As it chanced, the Count de Chavignac, who had had to return because a wheel of his carriage had broken down heard that cry and bounded up the stairs. He hurried to her room and stood there, nailed to the spot; through the half-open door, he beheld Bouzian in the act of buggering his naked daughter, who, impaled by that colossal black prick, was wriggling with commingled joy and suffering.
At the sight, the Count realized the part he had played in this debauchery, and bitterly resented the infidelity of his perverse daughter. So, leaving them in the prey of their furious lust, he went back to his workroom and remained there with his sad thoughts till evening.
During this time, Martine, planted on palms and knees, uttered savage cries. Her golden hair mantled her contorted face, her body shivered, her white chiseled thighs yawned apart, the young girl gave herself up to spend after spend till her sheets were wet. When she felt that massive prick spurt its hot lava into her entrails, she nearly swooned, her head buried on the pillow, her hair sticking to her perspiring face, but that abandoned pose made her all the more appetizing.