Martine rose, escorting me to the dining room, where I found Patrick, my valet, who had already met Marivol. I don't know what he'd told her, but she was laughing hilariously. Her face was attractive, and her figure quite appetizing, especially the jutting cheeks of her bottom which suggested the specialty of love that she preferred. Moreover, she was an excellent cook, and our first family repast was a great success. After coffee and cigars, I sent Patrick to settle our bill at the hotel, and Martine — or Pamela, as Marivol always called her — sent for Bouzian.
He was a splendid, sturdy, ebony-skinned male, and I could at once imagine the lascivious contrast between his gleaming black skin and my niece's white flesh. Just from seeing how tall and strapping he was, I had a fair notion that he must be prodigiously equipped between his thighs. My niece then asked me if I wanted to tour the estate, perhaps on horseback, and I at once agreed.
“Prepare Azalie and Zephyr for us,” Pamela ordered her Negro servant.
“At once, mistress.”
“They are two nice mares,” Pamela explained, “and they'll give us a pleasant ride.” I walked with her to the courtyard, where Bouzian was already waiting, holding the bridles. He aided Martine to clamber up, then did me the same service. Dressed as I was in a business suit, I knew I looked ridiculous, but since I wasn't going into town, it didn't matter. As the heat was suffocating, I took off my vest and handed it to Bouzian, who, removing his widebrimmed straw hat, offered it to me in return: “You take hat, otherwise sun knock you out,” he warned.
I took his advice and followed Pamela, who served as guide. We rode through fields of nut trees, coffee bean trees and rubber trees. The implacable sun scorched us, and so finally Martine turned her mare towards a clump of palm trees. A little spring appeared, gushing from a huge rock, and both of us knelt down and refreshed ourselves. Then we lay down on our backs on the thick grass near the rock. “I adore this place,” she confided, “and whenever we tour the plantation, I stop here to rest.”
“I share your opinion, Martine,” I murmured, “and besides, the leaves of these palm trees cast a particularly desirable shade.” I stretched out, yawning in complete relaxation. She emulated me; turning onto my side, I admired her bosom, naked under a thin white shirt, rising and falling to the rhythm of her breathing. I could make out under that fragile fabric the erect, prominent buds of her nipples and a prickling wave of lust seared my loins.
With a gentle hand, I delicately stroked her young but beautifully firm titties. Pamela pretended to be asleep. Emboldened, I cupped both her titties and squeezed them, then I began to pinch her nipples gently. Cooing sounds escaped her lips, and she opened her eyes and smiled at me: “How divinely you caress, mon uncle!” She stretched again, spreading her legs, and in that movement her linen skirt hiked up above her knees to disclose the flawless curves of her young thighs. Thus encouraged, I unfastened the buttons of her blouse, and my hands greedily fondled her naked titties. Now she was beginning to groan and to rub her legs together; I was sure her cunny was beginning to get wet. Releasing her titties, I slipped a hand under her skirt and probed two fingers into her slit. She tightened her legs, but I was already too well placed to be deterred. I attained the button of her clitoris, which I began to roll between my fingers. At that very moment, I felt Pamela's hand nervously unbutton my fly and, grasping hold of my stiffened cock, begin to frig me in the most exquisite way imaginable.
Her pussy got wetter and wetter, and she groaned: “Press harder on my button, Unkie — ooooh, I'm going to come — ohh, how good it is — ahh — there it is — ooooh, I'm com-mmmmminnnnggg!!”
Indeed she was, for my fingers were inundated by her sticky love cream; yet I kept tickling her clitoris till at last I felt my own discharge burst from me. She lay there a long moment in the exquisite oblivion which always follows a good spend. I put my fingers to my nose, out of curiosity, and inhaled the mystic fragrance of her feminine essence; it had a kind of aphrodisiacal quality to it that made my limpened penis throb with yearning once again. Yes, I had abandoned my puritanism for fair!
After she had washed herself in the spring, Martine adjusted her clothing and climbed onto her mare. We went back to the house. While awaiting dinner, we toured the buildings, admiring the spacious stables and warehouses. My brother had modernized everything, and I had to admire his business acumen. The dinner bell summoned us, and I found Patrick already at the table. He winked at me and asked, “Then Monsieur the Baron had an inspection tour?”
“Yes, I saw just about everything, and I must say it's a vast estate, Patrick.”
“As for me, I had a marvelously recuperative siesta. Damned if I didn't need it, though. And if Marivol hadn't wakened me, I swear I'd still be asleep.”
What my rogue of a valet didn't say was how Marivol had wakened him. Indeed, when she had come into his room, she'd found him naked on the bed, having an amorous nightmare. She bent down and stared at his stiffened cock, and since she adored sucking such instruments, she couldn't resist the temptation. Kneeling down, she sucked him so lightly and delicately that Patrick woke only when his sperm was flooding Marivol's mouth. But when he tried to pull her down to him to reward her, she laughingly begged off because of the nearness of dinnertime, promising him his revenge in the not far distant future.
Marivol served us couscous, which were excellent though a trifle overspiced; happily, there was good chilled white wine to wash them down. If my brother had seen us, he would have turned over in his grave, I'm sure. After the repast, we sat down on cushions, and the two servants Marivol and Bouzian related to us some legends of their own country, tales wherein phantoms sent by Allah visit the living mortals to assuage their own deathless passions.
(Now our account is taken once more from Patrick's journal:)
“At last night fell, enveloping Fort-Lamy with its opaque veil. About two in the morning, my master wakened with a start, for the legends of the phantoms had haunted him. Hiding under his covers, he awaited the apparition of the demonaic spirits, perhaps by seeing walls shaken by bony, fleshless hands or a cloud of phosphorescent, greenish powder filling the bedchamber from which would emerge the horrifying spectres. Pale with fear, he wondered whether they would cut off his head or boil him in oil; in his mind's eye, as he later told me, he could see that ambidextrous, loose-jointed negro of the Green Squirrel bending his head down to his penis, uttering savage cries.
He heard the floor creak under the weight of footsteps that slowly advanced towards his bed. There was a deep silence, and then he felt a hand groping against his covers; he couldn't stir, his throat contracted with fright.
Very gently the covers were lifted and drawn to the foot of the bed. Then a hand began to frig his penis, which at once stiffened, fright or no fright. But what was his astonishment when he felt himself turned over and then experienced the sensation of a warm, thick object pressed between his buttocks. Not wishing to anger the evil spirit, he did not call out, but surrendered himself, and his anus swallowed up the enormous cock. Gaining confidence that he hadn't yet been put to death, he essayed a shifting movement, which created delicious sensations inside his anal channel. The ghostly hand crept under him to frig him till he spent, and then Prosper felt a warm shoot of hot lava lash his anal canal. He thanked Allah for having saved him from a hideous death, but only after the phantom had disappeared after having baptised him in the style of this tropical land. And he fell asleep, happy that his life had been spared.
During this time, I went to Martine's room, desirous of learning whether my twenty-five years and sturdier fortitude might please her more than my master's forty-odd years and comparatively lesser vigor. But I was surprised to see Marivol and her in the act of sixty-nine. Naked as Adam, I joined the fray and clambered onto the bed. Getting behind Martine, I fucked her. Noiselessly, Bouzian entered, who imitated me by taking Marivol for himself, and fucking her for the first time — since hitherto he had desired only to bugger her.
Marivol was a beautiful Negress of medium height, with plump thighs on short legs, and her pussy was thickly, frizzily covered with black ringlets, though the custom of the country was to shear the love-mane or entirely depilate it. However, that didn't displease me at all. Both of us, Bouzian and myself, fucked these two beauties for four long hours, till we were utterly exhausted. One can imagine how late we all awoke the next day!
In fact, we were wakened by a loud knocking at the door of the house; it was a messenger with a telegram from Paris addressed to the Baron Prosper. Reading it, he learned that a rich Swiss philatelist had just died and that his fabulous collection was to be sold at auction at the Hotel Drouot. My master had known him well, and knew practically every item in that unique collection; he couldn't pass up the opportunity to acquire it. So he told Martine and me his desire to return to Paris at once. She begged him to remain until the rainy season, and Bouzian and Marivol were desolate over his decision. But he refused to change his mind, and ordered me to pack all our baggage. Martine burst into tears, then locked herself in her room. “Bah,” my master thought. “Childish grief, she'll be over it soon enough.” But when dinnertime came, she was still in her room.
“Marivol,” my master ordered, “go tell Mar-tine to stop this nonsense and come eat with us.” Marivol hastened to obey, but when she returned, she was terrified, and babbled, “Oh, Msieu Prosper, Pamela's lost her wits, she sings, she laughs, she cries — oh, she's terribly ill!”
The Baron and I hurried to her room, where we found Martine wrapped in a sheet, standing very stiffly, her arm flung out and declaiming a dramatic scene from Shakespeare, then turning to a song by Luis Mariano. When we tried to approach her, she screamed and tried to claw us with her fingernails. So my master had to call a psychiatrist who, witnessing her singular behavior, declared that she was subject to a cerebral derangement which he was sure would pass, but that she should be confined to a sanitarium. Overwhelmed with despair and believing himself responsible, Baron Prosper tore up the telegram — the cause of all the trouble — and cancelled his trip so he might remain with his niece.
When we visited her the next day in the courtyard of the luxurious sanitarium to which my master had had her taken, she was talking aloud as if many persons were there, and her bodice was unfastened, showing the two pink-tipped globes of her titties. Her eyes sparkled, and her chiseled fingers unconsciously made gestures of caressing — as if she were fondling a stiff prick between them. She made a little grimace with her soft rosy mouth and murmured, “Why did they bring me here, so far from those I love. I've only one desire and one need: to come, to come again, always to come.”
She seemed to quiver with an incredible voluptuousness; walking to a tree and planting her back against it, she suddenly produced a dildo and buried it into her pussy. Shivering and gasping with delight at its probing, she did not see a young nun appear, for all the nurses at this sanitarium were sisters. And the nun asked: “What are you doing, my child?”
Martine replied, “I'm trying to come, my sister.”
“Let me see that instrument!” Martine docilely removed it and handed it to the young nun, who examined it, then said sternly: “You must tell me where you found this.”
“On the shelf of a little closet on the first floor.”
“That is my closet!”
“My sister,” Martine pleaded, “I beg of you, let me have it, I need it so, I must come, oh have pity, my sister!”
“You shall have it — come with me now!” Sister Marie-Therese — for that was the lovely young nun's name — led Martine to a little barn which had formerly been used as a storeroom. Once the door had been securely bolted, Sister Marie-Therese took off her robes, strapped the dildo round her waist, made Mar-tine kneel down, then lofted her clothes over her head. Lowering Martine's drawers, and first kissing that lovely pair of bottom cheeks, the young nun probed the dildo between Martine's thighs. Then, expert in the art, Sister Marie-Therese fucked her as well as any man could do.
Under the delicious friction, Martine regained her sanity and took once again pleasure in life; she was drawn to climax and she kept repeating: “Ohh, deeper, my sister, deeper, it's so good, don't stop!” The young nun squeezed the dildo, and spirited into Martine's pussy a jet of liquid, simulating male sperm, and thereby completing the perfect illusion that a man was making Martine spend and spending in her as well.
That evening, Sister Concepcion took Martine into her room, stripped her naked and accorded her a pleasure which nature has accorded solely to men, thanks to this ingenious artificial device which usurps the male equipment. Stripping naked in turn, Sister Concepcion knelt down on her bed, bowing her head to the covers and arching up her bottom. Enchanted, Martine approached and was ready to slip the dildo into her hairy slit, but the attractive young nun pushed it away and, opening her bottom cheeks with one hand, guided the prong into the forbidden temple. She was accustomed to this, for the dildo burrowed in up to the very hilt, and Martine thus comprehended what was expected of her. Grasping the nun's titties with both hands, and with rhythmic thrusts, she buggered Sister Concepcion vigorously, drawing the dildo back to the very tip, then plunging it back pitilessly, aided by the ardent nun who met these charges by thrusting back her bottom eagerly. To quicken the nun's pleasure, Martin put a hand to the sticky cunny and frigged the hardening clitoris. Thus doubly besieged by carnal bliss, the young nun, in a voice strangled by emotion, poured out a strange litany:
“Ohh… prick full of… mercy… prick divine… cast into the entrails of her who offers herself in holocaust your celestial manna… oh, my God… I feel you in me… you burn me… refresh with your spurt of holy water the burning of hell inside me!” And she spent. By reaching back and squeezing the testicles of this dildo, she caused the jet of water to surge into her bowels, while Martine's fingers drew her to the giving down of her own furiously pent up lovecream. And she called out: “Oh, my God, I've come… may the liqueur drawn from my pussy, as well as that which comes from the divine prick, dispenser of eternal pleasure, be blessed… amen!”
After thus having said grace for her blessings, Sister Concepcion got up and led Mar-tine back to her room.
But if Martine had been initiated at a tender age in the games of love. Sister Marie-Therese could go her one better; she had lost her illusions at an age when one does not even begin to think of such naughty games. Her parents had been very pious and very wealthy and wanted her to become a nun, hoping that one day she might be the Mother Superior of a convent. That did not displease her, as even as a child she had a somewhat mystic temperament, being keenly intelligent and precocious. So her mother arranged with the priest of their parish to teach her rudimentary theology. And it was arranged that Therese go every Thursday afternoon to the priest's quarters for her lessons — I may add that I learned all these events from Martine herself.
On the second Thursday, a very warm day, the priest had removed his cassock, while Therese wore only a little pleated skirt and thin blouse. Tall for her age and well formed, she was seated on his knees listening attentively as the priest asked her: “Have you already seen the little Jesus?”
“Yes, Father, in his cradle.”
“Would you like to see him again?”
“Very much, Father.”
He drew his cock out of his underclothes. “Here, darling, here he is.”
“Oh,” Therese exclaimed, “how handsome he is!”
“Caress him, then, give him your hand.”
Docily, Therese caressed the cock, to find it stiffening at once to her touch.
“He's standing up!” she cried in astonishment.
“Not so loud, little one! Yes, you see he likes that — would you like him to go into your cradle?”
Innocently, Therese responded, “But it's not Christmas, and there isn't any cradle here.”
“No?” Then what is this, my child?” The priest put his hand under the little skirt and touched the girl's enchanting little pussy. Therese began to giggle, let herself be carried to his bed and stretched out on it, then watched him as he took off her drawers and his own shorts. Her eyes grew very big at the sight of his heavy balls. He approached the bed, and Therese took hold of his vigorous shaft, sliding her left hand between his legs to investigate these unfamiliar big hairy sacks. Then, at his instruction, she tickled the huge plumhead of his cock, after which he knelt over her and tickled her little pussy with the inflamed arrow her fingers had so exquisitely attuned.