By what renewed chance did I encounter Mauricette a second time on the stairway a few steps from my door? I don't know, but I must admit that I was scarcely surprised. Chance of this sort repeats itself, strangely enough, more often 'than it varies.
Silent and pouting, she turned her head away from me when I attempted to kiss her, but followed me freely into my room — in order to make a scene. I was waiting for it, and I deserved it: I had mounted her first of all; she gave herself to me; she had sent me her mother and her sisters out of a sense of family loyalty; but for two days now I had completely forgotten her-she to whom I owed so much.
I was remorseful at first; in a few minutes I was even more so, for Ricette suddenly seemed to me even prettier than she had before. And I must admit that our remorse usually mirrors the fluctuations of our attractions very faithfully.
What was she going to say? I quickly prepared several responses to reproaches that I anticipated. But if I anticipated a sentence it was always a sure thing that it was not the one that Ricette had on her lips.
“You're going to break my cherry,” she said calmly.
And since my face clearly showed that I was much more stupified than impressed, Ricette did not wait for my reply.
“Ah! That's great! You're a nice one! The day before yesterday I showed you my cherry and today when I offer it to you you don't want it!”
I took her on my knees unprotestingly, but before I could say a word she continued:
“What a character! You always do the opposite of what one wants. For three hours Charlotte pleaded with you to call her whore; it excites her when she's going to come; and you didn't want to; she told us that she never before met such a headache in all her life. But the next day you called mama whore ten times because she doesn't like it. You're a queer one!”
“Not queer at all.”
“Oh yeah? I'm not even finished. You know that mama and Charlotte like to be cornholed. So what do you do? You tell them that the only thing you like is to screw. But when I have my virginity to sell, and I decide to give it to you…”
“You're a dear!”
“Go on! When Charlotte wants it from the rear, you want to give it to her from the front.
And when I offer it to you from the front, you don't want it at all.”'
I sighed deeply. To be obliged to give a long explanation, knowing in advance that it will not be understood, is a terrible situation. I there-fore renounced my best arguments in favor of those which Ricette would understand most easily. “Listen. You're fourteen and a half?”
“Yes, and I should be able to fuck if I can be cornholed.”
“Good. You can screw. But did you know that it will hurt you a lot worse from the front than it ever did from the rear?”
“That's okay,” she said tenderly. “And did you know that it won't make me any happier than you?”
“I care even less about that,” she said gayly. “And then what's going to happen in the evening? Since all four of you are lesbians your mother and sisters are going to see right away that something is missing. Teresa will be furious. We'll all get shot together when she gets wind of it. And what'll we have left after all that? The memory of half an hour in which we had a lot more pain and trouble than pleasure, and all the while I will be regretting that you will be in the process of fucking others. Let's do the contrary. Let's have someone else take your cherry, and then we'll screw as much as you want.”
Mauricette remained thinking. I realized later that she undoubtedly wanted to ask me why it was worth two thousand francs if I didn't want to do it for nothing. But she remained silent, and while she was lost in thought, an idea came to me that ended by winning her over.
“Why don't you give me your other cherry instead?”
“Which one?” she said surprised.
She didn't get it. Since she was still on my lap I pressed her against me and said in a low voice, “Let's see. I won't be lowering you in front of your sisters, but no one will hear us. Aren't you ashamed of yourself, at your age, not to know how to suck yet? Is that it?”
She certainly was! She blushed like a child whose confessor has reproached her for a mortal sin.
“How is it that you're almost fifteen and you still don't know that?”
“Ah! If I told you…”
“Yes, but that was childishness. We have to cure you of all that once and for all. Do you want to try? Would you like to try it once with me — all alone?”
She put her arms around my neck and, hiding her head between my cheek and shoulder, replied, “Yes. I'd like to try it with you.”
Hardly had she accepted my proposition when I regretted having made it. How in the hell, I asked myself, could I refuse this kid's virginity because I didn't want to spatter myself with blood, even when it would have made her very happy, and then accept something that might leave her with just as bad a memory? I'm running the risk of bringing on a nasty case of nausea for her and getting myself drenched with vomit at the same time. That will be gay if it ends like that!
These depressing thoughts slowly disappeared before the more attractive one of giving a lesson in sex to one of Teresa's daughters. And then even the difficulty posed a challenge, a problem, to resolve. I hoped that with me it might not be the same as it had been with the others; no one likes to think that he is one of the herd; and since she had to learn to do it some day anyway, why not make it myself who gave her the taste. Yes, I said the taste. I don't doubt anything any more.
Mauricette returned from the toilet nude, and her first words plucked up my courage.
“I think it will be all right.”
Then she added, unfortunately:
“Where can I spit it?”
“Spit it out? But you don't spit it out! That's the principle of the thing! You mean to say you left a boarding school filled with young girls getting set to go into society and no one told you that you're supposed to swallow it?”
“Oh, yes! They told me and God knows the things they swallowed! There were some there who could have taught things to Lili. But I'm not a society girl, so I'll do it like at a whorehouse. I'll spit.”
“You'll swallow, my dear girl, and right away too. There'll be none of this holding it in your mouth two or three minutes until you've gotten it all. Understand? You were certainly badly brought up in your family.”
Without replying, she threw herself on me and, with her lips against mine, said in a much warmer voice, “You're really going to come in my mouth? Then give me your tongue first… And promise that you'll give it to me again afterwards… And I'll tell you something on my honor: I've never before drunk the come of a man, never! So if I fail you it will be because of that, see? And if I succeed, you don't need to think that I love you! I don't love you at all! Not at all! at all! at all! at all!”
Upon which she gave me the nicest, sweetest kiss I had yet received from that family of diverse personalities. I thought of a verse from Clement Marot, but I didn't have time to dream. Mauricette was already at work.
“Easy! Easy!” I said. “You're taking it like you would a lesbian. We haven't reached the advanced studies yet. Just try to give me a little pleasure at first, and the only person you need worry about is you. I don't have a young nymph abandoning herself to nothing but lewdness before my eyes. Not that at all. I only have a delicious little Ricette who is as pretty and shy as a fawn and who is going to say, 'Is that all there is to it?' when she has finished.”
“But you're stopping me from…”
“Quiet! When you are sucking you don't speak. First principle: don't open your mouth to ask the man how his grandmother's health is. And you're not supposed to laugh either. This is serious.”
“But it's you that…”
“Quiet! Now continue. I'd warn you in time. Do you want me to hurry it? I can do that quite easily. You hurry too, but remember the rules: you swallow immediately, you say how good it is, and you ask for more. Ricette my darling! How good it is in your mouth!”
This last sentence, as I should have foreseen, gave her a great deal of pleasure and increased her zeal. The praise that we cherish the most is always that which is made on our weakest points. And besides, young girls who have never sucked before do it exactly as they make love; therefore they have to be brought to a certain pitch of passion.
I continued in the same vein, and in only a few words Ricette was worked up to the necessary point… I warned her… She shuddered, closed her eyes, paled as if she were accomplishing some great feat of prowess in the face of danger… and when she had finished she sat up on her heels, her mouth open, completely stupefied.
She looked at me out of dazed eyes. I opened my arms for her. She threw herself into them, at once proud, surprised, ashamed, tender, and above all so moved that I could feel her heart beating beneath her little left breast.
“I did it,” she said. “It's not possible! I could never do it before and this time I swallowed everything, but everything! Just like you said.”
“And it's not so bad either, is it? There are a lot of girls who really like it.”
“I don't know if it was good or not,” she said dreamily, “but it made me happy — because you came.”
And after I had kissed her for that, she took up the thread once more:
“And besides… and besides… do you think your come is like everyone else's?”
“Certainly.”
“No, it isn't.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
She was dreaming again and said, crossing her hands, “Mama is the one who will be surprised! She'll never believe it!”
“What'll we do?”
“Do it again!” cried Ricette. “We'll do it again in front of her!”
The idea was worth a reward; we both thought of this at the same time, but Ricette spoke first and I was a thousand miles from guessing what she was going to ask me.
With her arms still around my neck, she said softly, “I want something. Say yes.”
“All right. Yes. What is it?”
“You've been trapped. I know that you don't like it, but you said yes already, and I feel like it.”
“Feel like what?”
She took a few minutes like a young actress; then bent to my ear and said loudly, despite herself, and in a voice that trembled with laughter:
“I feel like beating myself off.”
“Little horror! And you think that I'm going to let you do it? Ask me for anything, but…”
“Nothing else. Later on I will. But now you said yes in advance, and besides, you know that I'm in the habit of doing it. I told you the last time I was here.”
“Then you're as bad as Charlotte? When you feel like the finger, you finger yourself? Even in front of a man?”
“Especially.”
“And can't I offer you anything in its place?”!
“Later. It won't stop us from doing anything.”
It was really the family vice, all right, but I still couldn't get used to it and I felt a sort of jealousy at seeing the girl taking her pleasure by herself. She hardly touched herself and went very slowly, never jerking her finger. At first, seeing that I had given in, she was teasing.
“Look at my cherry! Look!” she said, opening her thighs.
“Will you finish?”
“I have to finger it since you refuse to take it.”
The joke made me furious, but her face remained so kind that I forced myself to joke too.
“My dear young lady, is flagellation one of your habits also?”
“Oh, yes sir. Just like my sister Charlotte.”
“Fine. Go get the whip. What you've just said is worth a good thirty lashes on the behind.”
“Oh! And when I'm all bloody, you'll cornhole me won't you?” She was laughing. “Do you think I take you for a man who would whip me?
“You know that I can't take your cherry because I'd never see you again, so you stick it under my nose and beat it off as if I weren't capable of taking it? And you don't think this is worth the whip?”
Between the four women in that family I went from surprise to surprise. Mauricette this time became suddenly serious and said simply, “Give it to me.”
Then she had a little crisis that reminded me in a lesser degree of those of Charlotte and Teresa. Trembling in my arms, she repeated, “I want you to hurt me.”
“Who? My darling? The little fourteen-year-old girl who came all nude into my bed? But I'd be a monster!”
“You already did it without knowing. The day before yesterday I only moistened my ass with a little saliva when you cornholed me. It was good. It was as if you skinned my behind and the more I suffered the more I beat off.”
“What? You're as vicious as all that?”
“No. But I like you to hurt me a little when I'm fingering myself,” she repeated, her eyes narrowing, her fine white teeth beginning to sink into her lower lip.
“And that's what you really want?”
“Take the ends of my breasts between your teeth and bite! And I'll give you my cherry from in front so that you can hurt me some more with your prick, so that you can rip it, so that I'll bleed. Now that I have drunk your come, I'm yours. Hold me tight, I'm going to come. Hold me with all your might. Crush me. Break me…”
Decidedly, I thought to myself, Lili the only sane one in this melange. The other three are batty.
However, I was beginning to understand why Charlotte had said, “That kid will end up by disgusting all three of us.” Charlotte, though she was twenty years old, was still almost a child. Mauricette at fourteen was a woman. While the eldest sister had a slow mind and little spirit, the second girl was precocious both mentally and physically, had flesh that was prompt to respond, and a real, instinct for vice.
It was too early to tell what Lili would become at puberty, but that year, that day, it was Mauricette that reminded me most of her mother.
However, at that point I wanted to make Ricette talk, and I spoke a phrase to her that I'm as ashamed of as if it had been a crime. There are no prettier Latin verses than those in which Tibulus smiled at the white lies of love. But I can't smile at the one I told. This is a confession. I am being perfectly frank, telling everything; but I would have taken much more pleasure in inventing a story where I could give myself (so easily!) a sympathetic role.
Recall Mauricette's age, her precocity, her ardor… Imagine above this base the unlimited sentiment which she must have had for the sacrifice she wanted to make! And how much… But why say any more? I've already written enough to hang myself in the eyes of my readers. I loved Mauricette, but I didn't love her like you love a lover. So to make her speak, and with no other reason, I said to her, my lips against hers:
“I adore you.”
“I adore you too,” she whispered, without knowing that it was almost the same reply that Melisande had given. And as I had foreseen, she spoke; but immediately, without any transition. She spoke with the same brusque crescendos as Teresa.
“Yea don't believe me? Okay! You'll see! You'll lash my behind with a whip yet and then cornhole me in my flowing blood!”
“I'll do that to you!”
“Yes, you'll do it if you love me. I've just done something {or you that I had never done for anyone before. I swallowed your come… You never whipped a kid? So much the better! You have a horror of that sort of thing? Better yet! Then I can teach you something, too!”
I never for a second dreamed of consenting, but instead of replying to this effect, I questioned her some more.
“How come you have the taste for that sort of thing at your age?”
“Because I'm mama's daughter.”
“What do you mean? That your blood is the same? Or that…”
“Or that she trained me? Co ahead and say it! It's her own word. Yes, she trained me like a trick dog. And I like it. I'd like to be able to do as much as she.”
“How did she train you to…?”
“Oh, it wasn't hard or long! Since she has the same taste herself she saw right away that I too… It was just like in the circus. I had my exercises every day before… Oh, but you know how they train dogs; they do their tricks before they can eat; for me it was before coming. And little by little mama saw how far I could go…”
I raised my eyebrows. She hesitated and then, in that voluptuous voice that very young girls can sometimes assume when they wish, said, “You want me to say it? It excites me almost as much to think it when I'm next to you as to have you do it to me.”
“And I'd a hundred times rather listen to you than to beat you.”
“Beat me? If it was only that! I can see you still don't know mama!”
And in concise, definite sentences, she drew up the following summary of her family.
“I can't make Lili understand that mama isn't I a whore. But you've seen her, haven't you? Charlotte is a good girl. Lili is a whore — she's the only one of us that is. Mama is a whoremonger. When she gives a performance in front of a customer it's she that gets really excited, that comes… And I'm like her! I'm a whoremonger too, and when I received your come in my mouth…”
“Is that right? And I suppose you'll give me a present as a token of your satisfaction?”
“Yes, and a brand-new one: my cherry.”
By the quickness and agility of her reply she quickly hoisted herself once more to the height from which my stupid wisecrack had attempted to hurl her. And, quickly, she re-undertook her narrative in the same light-hearted tone.
“You know how she handled it, mama, when she saw that I… that I liked that sort of thing. She simply said to me that we would see how far I could go in taking punishment without it keeping me from coming.”
“Nothing simpler!” I repeated. “And was it she who did the beating?”
“Naturally,” said the girl innocently. “And she made me do a lot more than the others ever did.”
“I don't follow you.”
“Didn't Charlotte tell you that there's no one who can finger or suck a girl like mama. So when it was her, she could really make me a martyr and I'd still come.”
“Make you a martyr?”
“And how! Even Charlotte was crying and had to leave the room. She couldn't stand to see it. But I never cried. I clamped my teeth together so I wouldn't cry out or… Ah! You don't know what you're going to hear! Look at my knockers. You see anything?”
“I hope so.”
“No, I mean any marks.”
“No.”
“That's because the needles were sterilized.”
“What needles?”
“When she used to finger me like she could, stopping every time just when I was on the verge of coming, she could stick thirty-two needles into my breasts! Thirty-two! Before I said I couldn't take any more!”
“Your mother!”
“That's nothing. There aren't any marks on it either, are there? You think she doesn't know how to do things like this? Well, there where it's even more tender she tore out my pubic hairs in groups of four hairs each. That hurt me more even than the needles! But the thing that Charlotte couldn't stand was when mama would stop beating me off to chew me.”
“Chew your cunt?”
“Yes. The lips. Oh! That really hurt! The last few times, she chewed until she drew blood and then…”
Ricette threw her arms around my neck as if to excuse herself to me for all this, and after a short silence, said:
“Oh, well! You know mama! I told you: she's not a whore, she's a whoremonger. While she was sucking my blood I thought she'd go crazy. She had to have Charlotte come save her… then she beat herself off while she was grinding her teeth on my lips, and I was more afraid than hurt. I thought that when she came she would rip me away in pieces! Oh! But… I've said enough. You don't understand these things anyway.”
“Not enough, if you want me to understand. The way I get it, your mother taught you the art of coming while you were suffering, and now you have to suffer before you can come. Is that right?”
“That's it. Good. I'll tell you some more then. Do you know how I finger myself at the dinner table?”
“Can't say that I do.”
“As if you didn't know that we all beat ourselves off right after lunch! But I… You'll see if I like to suffer when I'm coming! I smear my snatch with mustard and then I finger myself all awkwardly so it rubs in. But pimento salad is the best. When I can get it I always use pimento salad.”
God! This one was the worst of the three! She was completely mad! I asked one last question. “And what do you let men do to you?”
“Oh! Not what mama does! Nothing but whips and rods with men.”
She started to smile, but lowered her eyes and said in a sad little voice, “Poor Charlotte! If you could see us next to each other at times like that! I get all excited and stick out my behind. But she, from the first stroke of the whip, starts crying; and since I love her I can't hit her any more when she does that. They hardly ever take us together any more because of that. But they always want to take me with mama because, for that, mama and I are exactly the same. You know it as well as I do.”
“I know it as well as you do?” I asked uncomprehendingly. “Oh!”
Mauricette's cry was so frankly indignant that you would have thought that I'd lied to her. She sat up quickly on her heels, her hands on her knees.
“I have to teach that to you too? The day before yesterday when mama came back from here she said that you grabbed her pubic hair and hurt her so much that she almost came.”
“If you think I did it for that, you're crazy!”
“And she told me this morning that she finally got you to hit her, but that it was so…”
“Oh, I socked her a couple of times on the shoulder, but that's got nothing to do with flagellation.”
“Maybe not for you! But for mama, yes! You mean to say that you have slept with her three times and you still don't know what she likes?”
“Her daughters.”
“You don't know how right you are! She has to have one of us under her when she's being whipped, and then you can do anything to her you want to! It's frightening. She cries, she comes, I've got blood in my hair and come in my face…!”
She was wild-eyed and excited, and she interrupted herself to shake her head and throw herself onto me.
“If you really love me, if it was the truth, I'll take her place. I'll get on top of her and you can cornhole me in my blood while she sucks me off. Then it will be her turn to have my blood in her hair and my come on her face while your prick is in my behind!”
I had never seen Ricette in so excited and exalted a state, and I thought that she had reached her peak when her exaltation suddenly leaped even higher as she thought of a new infamy.
“No!” she cried. “You can take my cherry dog-fashion while she catches the blood and come with her face from underneath!”
And what a tone of voice she said that in! At that instant I knew what it was to receive an order.
She spoke curtly and warmly as she continued.
“I know you'd rather fuck me than cornhole me. I'd rather have you cornhole me and hurt me while I'm beating off, but since you like to fuck, we'll fuck. I know better than you do why you don't want to take my cherry. It's because you never try to buy them from girls and you think that mine is for sale, so you don't want to steal it. Well, it isn't for sale. I'm going to tell mama this evening that I'm giving it away and that she'll see who's getting it soon enough because she'll have her mouth underneath when it happens.”
Shaking her head and hair, she smiled, and then she had an explosion of sincerity that revealed to me something I had never suspected.
“You think that she will be angry? You think that she will say no? Ha! She'll be only too happy, the cow! When I tell her that you are going to fuck me on top of her, that she'll have her mouth full of blood and come, she'll be beating herself off for fourteen hours at the very thought… Did I tell you that I loved her? Yes, I love her tongue, her finger, her body, and she excites me. And I told you that she wasn't a whore, didn't I? Well, she isn't. She's a slut!”
Mauricette's outburst surprised me much less than Charlotte's had before her. First of all it was a second changed viewpoint that I had unearthed. That is the trouble with memoires: they get monotonous. In a novel, this kind of repetition can never be excused, but in life it has to be accepted. As M. Ingres once said, “Bread and pencil are one and the same.” For a novelist, these words of a painter should be dogma. For those who write memories they should not. In the latter case, the pencil should never change life to conform to the interests of dramatics.
Secondly… But you have to know the two girls. There was to be found in them a series of contrasts that you wouldn't have the patience to listen to if I had it to write them down. At the age of fifteen, Ricette pranced through every word she spoke, while Charlotte, at twenty, was languor itself. The precocity of the younger girl left less room for surprises than the tired, passive, character of the sad Charlotte.
However, I don't think this is the place for me to keep a distraught silence in order to better deliver an exercise on the psychology of comparison and parallel.
I must get on with the story. I have digressed long enough already.
A young girl had come to offer me her virginity as if it had been gold or myrrh or incense.
Eternal misunderstanding. Young girls always overestimate the pleasure that we take in receiving such a gift; and young men rarely understand that if their virgins, through an error caused by innocence, think that their present is worth all the young men's love and that they are offering it to them with all their heart, then it is worth what they think it is and should be received accordingly.
I had proven to this girl that imprudence had separated us forever, and she had discovered a way to circumvent the difficulty. The method was as extravagant as a theorem in spatial geometry, but, at first sight, it was irrefutable. Irrefutable, that is, unless I brought into play the principles of chastity, something I could never again do except out of audacity, or rather out of ridicule. I therefore agreed with all the tender eagerness and thankfulness that one demonstrates through one's kisses in situations such as this.
The calm tone of the remarks I have made here are simply out of distraction (for this story excites me as little as if I were explaining to you how I finally learned Greek grammar)… In fact, I am becoming so distracted that I have now begun to start sentences without knowing how to finish them, something that never happened to me before. For the beauty of the example, I will not strike anything out.
To resume, you have probably forgotten by this time that we left Mauricette in a state bordering on delirium, a Mauricette changed into bacchante — disheveled, purple, convulsive, spitting out insults and obscenities against her mother that she wouldn't have dreamed of an hour ago.
My “yes” changed the current of her nervous system from one pole to another. Contrary to the ancient philosophy of which Renan speaks, and in which the sperm, once excited, mounts to the brain. Mauricette's desire now left her imagination and took possession of her flesh.
“I feel like, fucking,” she murmured. “I feel like fucking because you like to fuck and so that you can give me a taste for it. Did I really swallow your come? Is it true that I drank the come of a man for the first time and that it was yours? What's fucking after that? And don't be afraid of hurting me! When mama is fucking me I can't feel anything but her tongue unless I want to; but for you the more you hurt me and tear me the more I'll come.”
Suddenly, with her facility for metamorphosis, she raised her head and reminded me with a phrase of her real age.
“Do you want to come?”
“Sure; but not taking your virginity.”
“Yes. Why not take my virginity where I'm not a virgin!” She' laughed.
“What a kid you are! And what a laugh you have! Who is this? Not the same Ricette that has just been telling me stories of blood, sperm, incest, saphism, sadism…”
“Oh! And what else! Where did you get all those two-dollar words?”
“You're fourteen and a half? No. There are times when you're at least thirty-nine and others when you're about seven.”
“Mama too.”
This reply left me speechless. It was one of the truest and most extraordinary remarks I had ever heard. It seemed to me that Ricette was thinking, “You're more of a kid than I am if you don't know that that's true of all women no matter how old they are.” She might have thought it, but she would never say it, for young girls never want to believe that they're smarter than their lovers. Every excellence they attribute to their man they use as an excuse: who could resist being seduced by a person of so many perfections?
And, sure of the adornments they have given us in their own eyes, they cover us with qualities to our faces solely out of generosity.
Mauricette returned to her original idea. “You will have taken two cherries out of three, and I'd like to give you the third too, or rather the first… Anyway, the one I don't have any more… I mean the one I sold… The one in my behind… Do you understand?”
“You want to make it tight again with some alum water?”
“Oh, you dog!” she said laughing. “Don't think now that my cherry in front has been re-done. Cherries that have been fixed up aren't given away. They cost a lot of money.”
And she burst out laughing again at what she had just said. Then, rubbing her body against mine, she once again climbed to a point just between childishness and lasciviousness: two words that are practically synonyms.
“We'll play some more. Forget that you cornholed me a couple days ago. Forget it.”
“Can't remember a thing.”
“I'm just a kid again. Mama doesn't exist. I don't know anything, not even what a prick is. You're a satyr and you're going to rape me through the ass.”
“Rape you?”
“Don't you want to play? You just want to say no every time I try to do something with you? I use the word 'no' because I'm a whore. If I were a society girl I'd say 'shit.'“
“Listen, my dear little Ricette,” I replied laughing. “Don't go telling me now that you're a whore. I never understood better the young satyr that you are. You're as full of vice as an old magistrate. But, unfortunately, I'm incapable of raping a woman. Resistance freezes me instead of warming me up. To play at rape… if it's only a game, we'll do it… But it I fail you? I'd be despaired. I'll do it if you want…”
“But virgins who are being raped never resist! I'll just do like them. I'll cry into my arms and open my thighs.”
“But how will you know that I'm raping you?”
“How will I know it?” she repeated, gritting her teeth. “I've never been cornholed completely dry. You go ahead and do it and then ask me afterwards how I knew I was being raped. How do you think I could imagine I was losing my cherry back there?”
“All right, I'll do it if you want. But tell me again that you really want me to, that you'll like it. Otherwise, I swear to you, I won't be able to.”
“I want it! I want it! I want it!” she said softly, her eyes wide. “Rape me through the ass! And the more I cry that it hurts, the more I'll be saying that I love you!”
It's really more than painful for me to relate the following scene in detail. In fact, I cannot. It makes me ashamed of myself. I did not have the first instinct for the vice that Mauricette wanted me to satisfy. I've had to beat women that wanted to be beaten, but that's nothing, nothing at all after the memory of those terrible five minutes…
In short, when I “raped” Mauricette, I felt through my flesh more than I had ever understood in my mind how much both pleasure and pain were necessary to delight her senses. I remembered the last of her secrets, or rather her temptations and, as I would have stroked a woman who loved to be caressed, I crushed the lips of that virginity that so loved to be bitten. I crushed them between my fingers, slowly, unceasingly, and probably more cruelly than Teresa had bitten them, for after a few moments of an equally extraordinary endurance and sexual excitement, Mauricette burst out sobbing. I will never forget that moment as long as I live.
And it was nothing but an instant. Immediately, her body bleeding, but nevertheless turning towards me to hold me, she said, she cried, her mouth against mine, between twenty kisses:
“Oh, I'm sorry! I'm sorry I cried! I'm… but will you shut up! I'm the one that's ashamed! Ah! You tortured me so well! It was good! I came as if I were dying! And then… I don't know why… I started crying like a baby…! It's just that… It's just that…”
She sobbed and sucked in her breath until I thought that she was suffocating; then she burst out crying again, held me with all her might and with admiration in her voice she found this sentence to express her love:
“No one ever hurt me as much as you did!”