Meanwhile, the Count took stock of himself. It had taken only his daughter's arrival, after the long years of separation, to change him from an honest man into a despicable being, the plaything of unholy passions. He took a firm resolve; he must disappear before such abominations happen again; so, without waiting any longer, he rang her on the private house telephone.
It was just past noon, and the chocolate had been finished, mouthful by mouthful after each seance: buggering, fucking, gamahuching and Frenching. Martine took the receiver: “Ah, it's you, Papa? Where are you? Yes… I understand… you'll be back in a week? Don't worry, Marivol will look after me… yes… I'll kiss you when you come back.” Then, as she replaced the phone, she giggled, “Ouf! Now I can fuck all I want. Papa won't be back for a whole week!”
Bouzian, hearing this happy news, did a little jig, thereby inflaming his young white mistress who promptly beckoned him back to bed. There, she sucked him off again, and when his spunk shot forth vigorously, she swallowed it without losing a single drop. Exhausted, they fell asleep side by side; it was a miracle that Marivol, who had come back from market, didn't find them together.
But Count Fabian had lied; in reality, he hadn't gone away for just a week, as he'd told Martine, but forever. He had gone to an isolated spot on the plantation and put a bullet through his brain. Yet if his sin and its self-inflicted punishment had ended his life, it had also opened the door of happiness to Martine by granting her a freedom of which, as we shall see later on, she made singular use.
The rest of the day passed calmly for the young girl, since tropical heat destroys all will and energy. Not suspecting her father's suicide, she could hardly know that she was already the sole mistress and ruler of this plantation. But when the freshness of the evening cast its welcome veil on the plantation, life seemed to revive little by little. The colony of Tchad numbers many people from the Ubangi and Mid-Cameroons, from Anglo-Egyptian Sudan and Nigeria. A large part of this population is itinerant; they are in the main members of groups that follow their ethnic affinities and each keeps his own religious beliefs, his traditional way of life as much as that is possible in so distant a setting where inbreeding, crossbreeding and foreign influences are so powerful.
These peoples who speak twenty different languages and dialects, give the city a bizarre aspect. During the moonlit nights, everyone is outside. The little vendors in the street of the Mosque light feeble lamps which hardly illumine their paltry wares. It is the hour when the wealthy choose to stage, before the doors of their dwellings, festivals and parties which display their finest possessions. The women wear bejeweled loincloths on which are patterned the most unusual motifs, and through the widely open folds, one can glimpse the bare bottoms, as well as the bellies and tempting thighs; sometimes even their breasts are nearly bared. Sometimes the late traveler, losing his way in the torturous streets of this city, finds himself accosted by certain creatures whose shadows fall in profile on the white walls. These women, of rare beauty, sometimes drop their loincloths and unveil their charms, and the man, maddened by lust and wanting to fuck her who most entices him, accomplishes the act standing on the narrow sidewalk against the wall.
Yet, at one end of this agitated labyrinth of professional lust, one finds a sumptuous pavilion, belonging to the Count de Chavignac. A soiree was taking place, in the great salon whose shutters were drawn to keep out the eyes of the profane. Martine was surrounded by two men and two women, magnificently black. The carnival was beginning. “Here is Pamela in her number,” cries Bouzian, a megaphone in his hands. Pamela, who is Martine, appears clad in a dancer's tutu made of fiber, and her face, limbs and body are covered with a tan ointment which makes her resemble Josephine Baker. She writhes, her rounded bottom keeping time to the chant which the two women call out, clapping their hands. Women? One is only thirteen, the other twelve, but both seemed sixteen, ripely developed as they are. They are harmoniously formed, and their naked titties are delicious to the sight. Pamela, a monocle in one eye, a gold-topped cane tucked under one armpit, a top hat over her golden curls, executes a kind of Parisian cancan at each step of which, because the short tutu cannot conceal her loins, one can see her little pussy whose rosy lips betray her true racial origin. Bouzian and his two male companions, pricks grasped in their hands, form Indian file as they open the carnival; Pamela and her two companions sing as they march around the table. Someone cries “Stop!” And everyone stands still; Pamela cries out, “Save yourself if you can!” At this cry, Bouzian and his two friends seek to seize the young women who run around the arm chairs, laughing shrilly in their lustful glee. Then, two minutes later, each female is seized by a wrist and promptly thrown down on a divan or the table, or, better still, made to sit astride a man comfortably seated in an arm chair with prick tendered aloft for her own self-impalement.
Pamela had the pleasure of being caught by one of the male guests, a tall rogue whose prick is even thicker than Bouzian's. Lying on the table, her back on a cushion, her legs wound round the loins of Lakian — the name of this giant — Martine palpitates with anguish at the thought of being fucked by so mighty a cock. “Pamela,” she whimpers to him.
Is that the name of a girl? Ah no. It is Negro dialect for “Don't put it in there — ne la mets pas la — but bugger me instead.” She repeats it twice. But Lakian laughs, showing his strong white teeth. Like a mischievous child, he amuses himself by holding his massive cock and rubbing the tip against Martine's soft cunny. Martine pouts with vexation; she grasps his cock and steers it toward her eager, brown hole. But Lakian defeats her; yawning apart her cunny with the fingers of his left hand, he buries his prickhead in that pink gap, thrusts with little jerky digs, onward within the tight crevice. Pamela, swooning, babbles endlessly the most incoherent, lustful words.
Lifting her legs around his shoulders, after two or three shoves which waken her from her swoon, Lakian commences a vigorous cramming with his massive tool, and then discharges the seething contents of his gnarled heavy balls deep into her dainty pussy. Martine, with a wail of thwarted bliss, falls back into her lethargy. But when she revives, not yet satisfied by the pleasure thus granted, she sucks Lakian's prick. Stood up on her feet at last, Martine, naked as the day she was born, is seized by Bouzian and Lakian. As she stands, Bouzian grasps her hair and drags down her head till she can reach his swollen prick with her panting mouth; in that bent-over pose, she then sucks him off while Lakian buggers her. Then the two young Negresses also receive their share of male homage, and the orgy does not end till dawn.
The next morning, Marivol finds her little mistress sleeping in her bed, so lovely to look at that Marivol thinks it a shame to waken this angel with features so pure, so she goes out quietly and closes the door behind her.
Evening comes once again and Martine, unbeknownst to devoted Marivol, seeks out her companions of the night before to revel in new and yet more shameless orgies.
But now let us leave these characters of our drama whom we shall meet again, and pay a visit to Count Fabian's brother, Baron Prosper Agrume de Chavignac, for he too has a vital role to play in our history.
Baron Prosper lived, very much like a recluse, in his magnificent town mansion in Paris. He devoted most of his time to his hobby of collecting rare stamps. Indeed, thanks to his wealth, he had even transformed one of the rooms of his huge house into a kind of stamp museum. Endowed with a stay-at-home nature, he had no use for his brother after the death of the Marquis de Chavignac because of the disproportionate share the latter had received from the legacy. He had never seen Fabian since that time, did not even know that he had married and had a child or even that his brother was still alive. As a bachelor, despite being in his forties, he had never enjoyed the pleasures of love. His only servant was a young valet, twenty-five years of age, a Parisian by birth, named Patrick Dumas.
This young man had served in the colonies and was bored to death to have to live in an austere house which had never seen a woman's smile. He-himself was no monk, and could nostalgically recall voluptuous pleasures experienced with beautiful Negresses with jutting, stiff-nippled titties and rounded, undulating bottoms, scienced in every kind of lustful caress. He pined after those ebony statues of amorous flesh which had brought him such thrilling sensations in times gone by, and yearned for their return.
One morning the postman brought him a letter for the Baron Prosper, who, after adjusting his monocle and reading a few lines, cried out: “Good Lord!” As Patrick was treated by his master as a trustworthy confidant rather than as a servant, he asked: “A misfortune?”
The Baron finished reading the letter, folded it and finally explained: “I've been called back posthaste to Fort-Lamy by Monsieur Honome, the notary in that city, on the matter of settling the effects of my brother Fabian, who has just died. I am to be the guardian of his only child, his daughter Martine.” Seeing the glow of curiosity in Patrick's eyes, the Baron added: “My brother — may God rest his soul — was found in the fishpond, and a verdict of suicide was decided at the inquest. I'm to be at his villa precisely at eight o'clock on the date of May 7th. It's the 5th already, so we've little time to pack. You will of course come with me.”
Patrick, delighted at this unforeseen change in the boring monotony of his days, did not have to be told twice and hurried off to pack for his master, already dreaming of future hours with beautiful accommodating females who would know how to ease the long-pent-up tension of his virile young prick.
On May 6th, an Air France plane took off from Orly airfield towards Tchad, and landed at nine that night at the airport of Fort-Lamy. This arrival and the events which followed it were faithfully related by Patrick in the diary which he punctiliously kept and which he allowed your translator to read. Here are the main passages:
“When we landed, Baron Prosper, who was completely out of touch with this tropical country, gave me carte blanche to make all arrangements for his comfort. After an excellent dinner in one of the city's best restaurants, my master asked me to find a convenient hotel where we might spend the night. Since his request would ruin the plans I had already worked out, I said to him: 'Monsieur the Baron surely can't be thinking of going to bed at an hour when everyone in town is on the go! Let Monsieur remember that he is the heir of Count Fabian, with whom he was on bad terms, and that this event must be celebrated. Monsieur must amuse himself before putting on mourning for his brother. Now I know a place where Monsieur the Baron will have a great deal of enjoyment, and I should be honored if he would allow me to take him there.'
“The Baron followed me without argument. We went down the Street of the Mosque, and, turning to the left, arrived at a little alleyway where we beheld a heavy door decorated with embossed silver, its tops curiously ornamented with the figure of a little squirrel in green neon lights. I rang the bell, and we were admitted into the lobby of this strange house, a kind of huge hall where an imposing matron beamed at us and purred, 'If the gentlemen come to be amused, please enter, for the spectacle this evening is really sensational.' She opened a door and we entered a room where my dazzled master saw women dancing on a wooden runway balanced on the edges of tables at which spectators sat and sipped iced drinks.
“On this runway, four superb half naked Negresses, wearing bracelets and necklaces of cowrie shells, executed lascivious dances to the rhythm of the tambourine. They had the characteristic charm of women of the tropics, always ready to fuck. Their ripe curves fairly cried out to be fondled, kissed, bitten, crushed and embraced. My master, his eyes wide and glazed, no longer thought about his stamp collection, I'm quite sure. After the dances, which simulated the basic thirty-two poses of fucking, I had a gigantic hard on and I asked my master whether he wasn't sexually roused, too. He eyed me solemnly, and, glancing back at the runway, timidly agreed that he was beginning to feel some emotion.
“After a short intermission, the master of ceremonies, through his megaphone, announced in English, then in French: 'And now, you may admire a number unique in all this world. Pamela — I repeat, Pa-me-la.' The orchestra tuned up, the lights dimmed, and Pamela, graceful and supple, came out onto the runway. 'A Frenchwoman!' I exclaimed, astonished. Indeed, she was quite a young white girl, wearing only a tutu made of fibers, and high-heeled clogs which made her lovely calves and thighs flex deliciously with each dancing step. She performed a series of ballet-like movements and leaps, which enabled us all to admire the most intimate parts of her anatomy, for she was naked under her raffia loincloth. I winked at my master and whispered, 'She's a beauty, Monsieur the Baron. You should make her acquaintance after the number.' But he didn't say a word. As the enthusiastically-applauded number came to an end and the waiter appeared at our table for our order, I profited by slipping him a hastily written note and whispered into his ear. He made a gesture showing that he understood. Pamela, despite the cheers and whistles and bravos that acclaimed her, did not return to take a bow. I thought to myself that there were about fifty men here with their female companions — wives or mistresses or whores, as it might be — and that every one of those fifty, like the Baron and myself, must be having agonizing hard ons by now.
“Then a native male dancer came out completely naked, and made us roar with laughter at his contortions, which had to do with the most ingenious ways of twisting himself about to suck his own cock. However, my master and I would have been ultimately bored if Pamela hadn't now approached our table, accompanied by one of the luscious Negresses who had been among those first dancers. The Baron ordered champagne for everyone, and we then followed the young women into a private room, luxuriously furnished for the particular use which was generally made of them.
“My master at once began to try to grab Pamela and pull her to him, but she laughingly escaped and, dancing about in the room in a kind of bewitching striptease, slowly removed, one by one, the gossamer garments she wore, letting us see first an expanse of milky thigh or the proud peak of one beautiful firm tittie, till at last she lay naked on the huge bed covered with red velvet drapes. Her splendidly lissome white body was magnificently accentuated by that hue. Baron Prosper, beside himself, stripped naked; showing a rather vigorous body for his age, but his usual timidity was certainly belied by the proudly erect staff that thrust forth from his graying pubic mane. He approached the bed, bent over and timidly grazed that alabaster flesh with his lips. As Pamela did not repulse him, he continued to salute her charms with his mouth, adoring her arms and shoulders, her belly, moving thence to her bosom and lingering over the tasty strawberries of her nipples, then descended to the mount of Venus and glued his lips to the fine golden down which scarcely hid the rosy lips of her cunny.
“Despite his lack of amorous experience, he quickly comprehended what he had to do; delicately spreading those sweet cunny corals apart, he drove his tongue into the tabernacle, seeking out that sensitive button, which he soon discovered. Then he began to suck it till Pamela groaned with bliss. But as she didn't want to have orgasm in that way, she pushed him away; then, grasping him, forced him to stretch out on the bed where she began to pay him back for his tribute. Kneeling in the pose of sixty-nine over my master, she began to graze with the tip of her tongue the hardening nipples of his chest, his swollen cock, lingering a long while over the turgid shaft, then descending to the hairy testicles. She displayed such science in her Frenching that he began to groan and clench his hands against the yawning thighs above his head, and again he plunged his greedy mouth into the juicy slit. “Divining that he was near spending, Pamela's soft lips glued over the head of his ramrod with a series of soft little suckings, then swallowed as much of his shaft as she could, furling her moist, hot tongue along its crannies. Then, as a further diversion, she began to flick the urethral slit at the tip of his taut meatus with rapid little pressures of her nimble tongue. Finally, to conclude this menu of Frenching, she insinuated her little finger into his anus, which finished him off; he shot his turbulent lava into her mouth. Greedily, Pamela kept that throbbing organ, avidly swallowing the sticky jet, while her own love dew moistened his lips, and he in turn sucked and swallowed without losing a drop of her nectared essence.
“Watching this spectacle, I was not to be outdone; stripping naked, I seized my Negress, who too had undressed as she watched the thrilling scene. I bent her over a thick cushion so I might bugger her. But, not suspecting my real desire, she put her fingers to her fleshy, juicy cunny and spread the lips invitingly. Not deterred, I pointed my arrow towards that dainty rosette as my hands gripped the succulent ebony cheeks of her bottom. The Negress was surprised, but, lending herself complacently to my desire once she knew it, put her hands back to her bottom cheeks and aided me to yawn them to extreme. My prick slowly buried itself in her tight orifice, and then I paused. It was not the first time I had entered the temple of Sodom, and I wished to spare my partner a little and enter her gently and lingering, to prolong my pleasure. Then, another thrust of my loins, and my prick disappeared entirely within her channel, while my balls bumped against her gapping humid pussy.
“I pulled my prick back as far as the head so that I might bury it once again in that scabbard of hot flesh, for this beautiful Negress was like a furnace of lust. I recalled four years ago, when as a soldier, I fucked and buggered the beautiful Negresses of Ubangi-Chari — and, when there were no Negresses available, the Sengalese with gleaming black skin who were endowed with cocks that would terrify the boldest whore of the Casbah, for they could give a man pleasure too in their own way. These memories inspired my powers and I furrowed my beautiful black partner with fury, digging it into the deepest recesses of her bumhole, while I slid my hand towards her humid pussy and, seizing her clitoris between thumb and forefinger, frigged her so as to bring about the delicious quakings of her muscles against my imbedded prong. “Soon raucous, guttural sounds of ecstasy escaped her panting lips. I too felt climax nearing; at first, a spark of heat in my belly, which spread like a tongue of fire that constantly increases, devours all and suddenly shatters into explosive fury, and thus I drenched the burning entrails of my passionate partner with a copious flow of love-lava. I did not release her, however, and continued to thrust back and forth into that well oiled sheath to bring her to a similar spasm. I felt my cock softening, the last drops of life-essence ebbing from it, when suddenly orgasm seized her, she uttered a cry and stiffened, flooding my fingers still lodged inside her pussy-with her sticky love-cream, while violent quakings seized her glistening bare body. With a last sigh, she rolled onto the cushion, and, withdrawing, I sat down on the rug, depleted and appeased.
“But Pamela did not wish to remain un-solaced, and so after a few moments of repose necessary to restore my master to his vigor, she grasped his slowly stiffening tool between her slim long fingers, covering its length with delicate caresses, tickling his balls and then upwards along the head till his weapon pointed rigidly to the ceiling. Judging him at least readied for the fray, she lay down on her back, drawing him upon her, and guided his furiously reawakened manhood towards her sweet oasis. The waiter had told us she was only fifteen, and yet despite that extreme youth her cunny swallowed up the entirety of his vigorous organ, till I saw her golden pubis merge with his grey fleece. With rhythmic jerks of her loins, she showed my master the cadence she desired, murmuring: 'Follow me, darling… push in deep… there… now back… now push in again — ah — that's the way!'
“The baron, a virgin till that hour, one might say, adapted himself quickly to this maneuver, and his well oiled piston rose and fell within that dainty cunny, which absorbed it with an exquisite sucking sound in the very cadence Pamela had decreed. At last she too began to feel delight growing in her womb, and accompanied him in the gait towards a divine orgasm, wriggling her loins furiously as might a cavalry steed at the gallop. She uttered inarticulate little cries as his noble cock furrowed her groove: 'Ahh! Harder, deeper, darling, ahh!' she groaned. Excited by her cries, my master quickened his cadence, grinding his teeth, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. Now, unleashed, Pamela writhed, her face contorted, eyes blazing with passion: 'Ahh — Baron — I'm coming — push deeper still — ohh, I'm coming — I'm com — ing — ahh — ahhhh!' Her hands dug into his shoulders, her body arched like a bow, then shook with convulsive spasms. He too tasted the bliss of come, as prolonged 'Ahhhhhs!' exuded from his throat. With a final thrust, he poured out his baronial sperm into that excited cunny. And their bodies writhed and fused in a last galvanic surging, then clung in the gelid aftermath of spent passion savouring the fleshy pleasures they had just procured each other.
“After a little rest, I aided him in dressing, while Pamela and her Negress disappeared to perform their ablutions. He made them a handsome gift for their services, promising to summon them another evening, and they covered him with kisses as they joyously accepted. We left them, for the hour was late, and we went back on foot to our hotel. Dawn was nearly breaking, the air was cool, the best part of a tropical day in such a land.
“'My dear Patrick, you're a precious jewel of a servant. You've given me an unforgettable night; my master said to me. 'I'd no idea one could have such pleasure in this shabby city.'
“'Oh, if Monsieur the Baron will forget his stamp collection for a bit and have confidence in me, I'll promise even greater delights,' I told him. 'One must concentrate on flesh, not stamps or legacies, however. And, if the Baron will pardon my frankness, I've noted that he is endowed with a superbly virile cock; one must make use of this, nature has given it for that reason.'
“'You're right, my dear fellow, you're quite right! But, you see, in Paris, such pleasures are abominably commercialized, so much so that it disgusts me. Whereas here, those two girls just now, why, you saw how eagerly they made love.'
“'Here,' I laughingly interposed, 'all women are alike. They have a fire in their cunnies and bumholes. The climate does that… the cooking and the spices contribute to it, too, Baron.'
“'Well, then, Patrick, I give you a free hand in organizing another evening identical to this one. However, not every evening — or we'd soon be shadows of ourselves, eh?' he chuckled, nudging me in the ribs. When we got back to our hotel, we asked the desk clerk to waken us so that we wouldn't be late for the appointment with the notary. However, it took some little time to waken us from the deep slumber into which we fell at once — and no wonder! — but a taxi had been called by the hotel manager and was waiting to take us to Monsieur Honome.
“When the taxi stopped in front of Count Fabian's dwelling, the notary and his clerk had already arrived ahead of us, and my master appeared pale, listless and exhausted; I ascribed this fatigue, you may be sure, not to our nocturnal adventure but to the fatigue of the long journey we had made. Seated at the table, the notary informed my master that the young girl whose guardian he was to be was an adolescent of 15, named Martine. A few moments later, a young girl opened the door and smilingly entered. When he saw her, the Baron gasped: 'Oh, it's not possible!' Mar-tine, on the threshold, stared at him; they had recognized each other. Master Honome made the introductions: 'Monsieur the Baron Prosper Agrume de Chavignac, your uncle.' Then turning to the young girl: 'Mademoiselle de Chavignac, your niece. You may kiss each other. It is permitted.'
“The girl and my master fell into each other's arms, quite moved. They regarded each other, remembering the delicious hours of the night before. Then the papers were signed, and it was decided that my master would remain for an unspecified time here with his niece whose welfare was now legally his concern. He did not stop admiring her, and when they were alone in the room, he said to her, 'You're the very portrait of your mother. The same kind of face, even the same hair, the same color eyes, and I can say also, the same amorous temperament. When your mother lived with my brother, she shocked me a little with her physical exuberance. It's true that I'm a real puritan.'
“'But tell me now, Unkie — for I must call you that from now on,' Martine giggled, while she cast me a malicious smile, 'last night, you know, there was nothing puritanical about you.'
“'Yes, last night I discovered a new face in Martine's life, or, Pamela, in fact. But why do you call yourself Pamela at the Green Squirrel, my little one?'
“'I can't help it, Unkie. I've always dreamed of dancing on a runway, of being in a music hall, but at Fort-Lamy one doesn't have much choice, and I'm not an international star, after all. At the Green Squirrel, as long as a girl wriggles her hips and shows her legs, the customers are happy. And Pamela is a warm name that suits me. Now that you told me my mother had an ardent temperament, it's only natural that since I'm her daughter, I follow in her ways. Here, the Negroes are very insipid in their lovemaking, aside from a very few who know the refinements that make a woman have a climax. So last night, when I saw a chance to meet two white men, I didn't hesitate for a minute. But devil take me if I thought you were my uncle! Anyway, it stays in the family. And you know, Unkie,' here Martine cajolingly wound her milky arms round my master's neck, 'you made me come in a really formidable way. And to think you were inexperienced — why, it was like having an affair with a virgin of my own age — except that he had a much, much longer cock,' she finished saucily and gave him a stinging little kiss on the mouth.
“' I, too, Martine, retain delicious memories of that night. You revealed incredible sources of pleasure to me, things I never even dreamed of. No, I'm not a virgin, but I was almost one, and that was why last night will never be forgotten.'
“Dear Unkie, since fate has thus brought us together, we can have our little games whenever we wish. I noticed that your handsome servant didn't disdain the pleasures of a girl's behind. My, didn't he bugger my partner perfectly, with a real technique! I'm even asking myself if the two of you — you know?'
“'Never, Martine! Never, between men — what a horror!'
“'Oh, yes, between men is a custom quite in vogue here, even though so many sex-hungry women beg only to be used,' Martine laughingly replied. 'But in case your valet likes that, well I have my Negro servant Bouzian, who will let him do it to him, and do it to him, too! And wait till you see what a big tool, what an enormous tool, Bouzian has!'
“'Come now, Martine, you don't mean to tell me you've made love with him?' my master gasped.
“'Why, of course, Unkie. Now, he took me by force the first time, but he made me spend so wonderfully I just couldn't do without him. Can I help it if there's a fire in my little slit every now and then? And besides, Unkie,' she wheedled, 'there's also our cook Marlvol. She has a very soft velvety tongue, and she adores being buggered. She and Patrick will get along famously, you'll see.'
“My master couldn't get over the thought of such orgiastic delights in this almost austere mansion; it was beyond his imagination at the start. But he soon got used to the notion, finding the inspiration from realizing that he had been endowed, thanks to his brother's suicide, a magnificent estate and a beautiful young niece who was expert in erotic games and who asked only to be his scienced tutress. Yes, fate had decided for him, and its motto henceforth would be: 'Live to fuck and fuck to live; enjoyment is the only law!'
“A bell rang elsewhere in the house, and Martine explained, 'Dinner is ready.'