Four hours slid by, and I was dining in a little restaurant by myself, alone without women, trying to recover first of all my strength and most of all my spirits.
The first was easy, the latter not so.
And when I returned to my apartment around eleven o'clock I was still having a little difficulty understanding exactly what had happened.
I had just acquired for a neighbor a beautiful Italian woman who sold her daughters. That I should have taken one of them was nothing extraordinary. Students and girls of fourteen have been sleeping together since antiquity. That the mother, a woman used to sharing lovers with her daughters, should have rung at my door soon after was also perfectly normal. But why had she sent Lili to me? And why had she promised that the other would…
There was a knock. It was repeated… I went to open the door and a voice at once both soft and mild said, “It seems that it's my turn now.”
I was stunned. Teresa had warned me that Charlotte was the most beautiful of her three daughters, but I had never hoped or thought that she was that good. And I said it to her face.
“My God, but you're beautiful!”
“Please don't say that,” she said sadly. “It'«worthy of any woman.”
“Are you Charlotte?”
“Yes. Do you like me?”
“Do I like you!”
She interrupted me to say, with a sort of relief and lassitude, “That's good because I can only give myself like I am… I'm not going to play the coquette, and… and…”
“And we kiss?”
“As often as you want.”
I took her mouth passionately. The kiss that she gave was soft rather than tender, but there was a welcome in it. Only when I put my hand beneath her skirts did she say, “Let me undress.”
“I don't know if I have enough time.”
“You've got all night.”
And unhurriedly, with all the simplicity of a model taking off her clothes before a painter, she removed her black dress, her stockings, her slip, and, nude before me, sighed, “You can see that I'm just like all the rest.”
The only word to describe her is delicious. A little less dark-skinned than her mother, but with the same black hair, she had a wonderfully soft figure, and, in fact, everything about her was of a quiet softness: her look, her voice, her skin, her caress.
When she was on my bed and in my arms she murmured almost humbly into my ear, “I want to make you happy… Just ask me to do whatever you want, however you want it.”
This time, an overwhelming desire seized me to possess this girl in the most natural and normal of all ways, and I told her, in such a way, I thought, as not to leave any doubt as to my wishes, that I loved her and that I only wanted her pleasure first.
But Charlotte lifted her eyebrows and with supreme innocence asked, “Fuck? Oh, if you wish. But if it's really for my pleasure, I… But no! I'm not a very complicated girl, you know, and there's only one thing I really like.”
“What?”
“When I'm fucking, the fear I have of becoming pregnant destroys all my pleasure. I don't like fucking. I don't like people to eat me either because it tires me out. Mother loves it and I do it for her, but I won't let her return it to me.”
“Then what do you do when you feel like sex?”
“I do the same as any other young girl. I finger myself,” said Charlotte with a sad smile.
I was dumbfounded. I asked her to repeat what she'd said.
“What? You're no longer a virgin, you make love in every possible way, everyday you have both men and women, and… and you finger yourself? I can understand a kid like Ricette, but you're twenty years old!”
“You're nothing but an overgrown kid yourself,” she said. “Don't you know that almost all whores do it?”
“Charlotte, you shouldn't treat yourself like a whore.”
“Excuse me,” she said drolly. “Didn't you know that all virgins do it?”
I scarcely smiled. I was annoyed. Charlotte paid no attention and continued:
“I don't ever try to hide anything. I don't care who I'm in front of, I finger myself whenever I feel like it.”
“Do you feel like it often?”
“Certainly… I don't like to get excited. It tires me out. This morning I didn't do it before getting up, but the water in my bidet was hot, my snatch began to expand… I fingered myself.”
“Sitting on your bidet?”
“It was hardly worth going back to bed for. Then later, after lunch, because… But you'll laugh at me.”
“No. Tell me everything.”
“Lili stuck a cookie into, my crotch and I had to finger myself on it before she would eat it.”
“Because you're a good girl, I suppose?”
“Oh, I do everything I'm asked to. Then after dinner they were talking about you, and since I haven't slept with a young man for eight days, I began to think of certain things… and because of that… because I felt like…”
Without finishing her sentence, she slid a finger between her legs and, giving me her lips, began slowly and peacefully to masturbate.
“Oh no you don't!” I cried. “Not in my bed! When I'm lucky enough to have as beautiful a girl as you in my bed, you don't think that I don't want to play with her myself, do you?”
“And don't you understand that you will be doing the playing if you have your prick in my behind and your mouth on my mouth while I finger myself?”
“I'll be damned,” I said loudly, “I can't corn-hole all four of you!”
There was so much ill-humor in my voice that poor Charlotte began to cry.
“There go my chances,” she said through the tears. “Everyone always says that I'm so nice, but it's always me nevertheless that gets trapped into these things. You've been charming for my mother and sisters, but when I come to stay all night I have a scene on my hands right from the start.”
She cried simply, without a single sob, and only seemed all the more pitiful to me for it. I took her in my arms and stammered, “Charlotte, don't cry any more. I beg you!”
“And naturally now you're losing your hard-on,” she said with an absolute desolation that made me smile despite myself.
“Charlotte, my love!”
“I'm not your love, because you're losing your hard-on. You got erections for mama, for Ricette, for Lili, but for me… that!”
The tears flooded on, and I was despaired. I was wondering how and if I should ever stop that unreasonable tide of sadness when Charlotte did it herself and, with the logic and clarity that is the property of simple souls, said in her slow, musical voice:
“I told you that you could do whatever you wished. You can play in my pussy if you want, in my ass, in my mouth, between my breasts, under my arms, in my hair, on my face, in my nose if that will amuse you. I can't do any better than that, can I? Could I be any kinder to you?”
“Charlotte, my Charlotte…”
“But my dear, you asked me what my greatest pleasure would be and I told you that it would be to finger myself while you cornhole me. All four of us are like that; it's in our blood and I can't help myself. And we're not the only ones, God knows. When I was a kid, the things I saw… School girls and shop girls who have told me in strictest confidence, 'I like being cornholed too.'“
“But…”
“But do what you want to me if it's your pleasure you're after. Only if it's mine, cornhole me and let me beat myself off in my own way. Understand?”
Our mouths met again passionately, and the first effect of our reconciliation was to put me once more in a state worthy of her. I gave in to her wishes, but she never said a word to me en route. Then after reminding me that she didn't like to have her cunt eaten, she turned to sixty-nine me for a few minutes first.
Charlotte had one of the prettiest cunts I have ever seen, possibly because it was so seldom used… But no, because her other hole, the one that was so much more exercised, was absolutely faultless also, like Teresa's.
Soft and calm as she was, Charlotte had a really moist cunt. She was one of those girls who could say, “I flow for you.” like others gay, “I'm on fire.” Her pubic hair was long and well planted, not so long as her mother's, but more lustrous. And, like Teresa's, it crossed and tangled at the top of her thighs and filled her ass.
After everything that she had just told me, I didn't want to leave Charlotte in any doubt as to my intentions. I opened her buttocks with my hands and touched the spot she offered me with my finger. I remember doing that once to a girl who immediately began crying, “Oh! Your cock! Your cock! Your cock!” Charlotte, however, emitted a considerable flow but scarcely shuddered and didn't cry at all. She was much more accustomed to giving caresses than to receiving them, and by a mistake that was easily explained considering her profession., took my touch for a signal and, since she had only been licking my testicles, immediately gave me her tongue lower yet.
But there was nothing nasty about Charlotte.
Most men are so ignorant of the psychology of the adolescent female that they would find it impossible to understand how a girl could admit her taste for fingering herself while being corn-holed without, at the same time, having the least sense of the vice of it. You women will understand what I am trying to say much better, and that's a good deal of consolation, for this book will obviously be more read by free women than by husbands.
Charlotte, therefore, had absolutely no sense of vice whatsoever, happily for both herself and me. But she was certainly sensitive. And without either cries or sighs or little flutterings of her ass, her fountains flowed so abundantly that Lili (there was one with a real sense of vice) had been able to dip three cookies into the foaming stream. It overflowed her vulva and passed through the forest of hairs… I got out of the way just in time. I was a little consoled by what I saw for not having been able to take her through this flooded passage.
When we were again side by side, face to face, a new incident stopped us momentarily. Charlotte would neither propose nor suggest a position. She had neither taste, nor caprice, inventiveness, nor the imagination for the task. To decide or imagine was tiring for her.
“As long as you cornhole me and I finger myself, I don't care,” she said.
“Then put your head over the edge of the bed onto the floor and leave your ass up here,” I replied.
“If you wish,” she said simply. When she suddenly saw that I wasn't really serious, she took my face between her hands and said with a smile, but without bitterness, “You like to make fun of me, don't you? All right. Do it all night if you want, and any time we sleep together. That's the simplest of all games. I believe anything anyone tells me, and nothing makes me mad.”
“You're completely disarming,” I told her. “I'm the one who's disarmed,” she said, “because I know that I'm nothing more than an animal.”
What an unfortunate, tragic word! I will never forget the tone of Charlotte's voice when she said that word to me. And women are crazy to think that they can seduce us through the art of beautifying themselves. Charlotte, in all of her simplicity, missed taking my heart completely only by the margin of that avowal she made.
She lay nude before me, her head on the pillow, her hands crossed on her stomach where the hair began, and it seemed to me that I was really seeing her for the first time. I saw that her beauty, like her character, was absolutely true and unpretentious. She wore neither rouge nor paint, nothing on her eyelids nor on her eyebrows, and I found her so simple, so beautiful, and so good that I took her by the elbows and hips and said, “Yes, you're nothing but a poor animal, Charlotte, if you don't believe what I am now going to tell you. Listen, Charlotte, to every word. You're lovely from head to foot. There isn't an expression on your face, a hair on your stomach, a nail on your toes that isn't pretty. And you're as good as you are beautiful. I know you now and it's up to me to say this: do what you will on my bed. There is only one thing I forbid you to do and that is to injure the woman I love and against whom I am now pressing my rod. If you ever again treat her like a whore or an idiot…”
“No,” she said gayly. “I'm going to make a little love to her. I'm going to finger her because I know that she wants it now. And I'll open her buttocks for you myself so that you can cornhole her.”
“Show me how.”
She was lying next to me and she turned over without the least intention of proposing a position. Nevertheless, I quickly followed her example.
All of this was done with an extraordinary facility that I was able to confirm many other times. Charlotte's anus resembled one of those rigid, but perfectly adjusted scabbards where the blade literally enters by itself. To put it crudely but clearly, as soon as I pressed my cock between Charlotte's buttocks I entered. And this despite the fact that her entry was as firm as it was supple. I might also add that through a series of qualities' that it would be indecent to go into too much detail over, it was much easier to get into her than get out.
Charlotte cornholed was even more Charlotte than before: softer, sweeter, moister, more tenderly abandoned. I had turned over, almost to the point where she was lying on her back on me in order to allow her to open her thighs as far as she could spread them. I placed my hand in front of her and found a lake. Thinking that she had not yet started to finger herself, I began to wonder what sort of phenomenon I would witness when she got going in earnest.
Her moans began at the first moment she put her fingers into her hole and lasted eight or ten minutes without crescendo, without effect. It didn't seem necessary to her to either hide her pleasure or to cry it out like an actress. She rubbed herself so slowly that her hand seemed scarcely to move, and I, knowing that she preferred a calm voluptuousness to a violent one, contented myself with slow imperceptible movements in her warm entrails. Towards the end, with a sudden odd scruple that was entirely typical of her, she turned a languid eye towards me and asked feebly, “Do you want m? to talk to you? You see how happy I am when you cornhole me? Do you want me to tell you each time how it feels to have your prick in my asshole?”
“No. Only tell me when…'
“When I come?”
“Yes.”
“When you want me to. As many times as you want. I did it once when I was kissing you before and I'm ready to do it again now.'
“Soon?”
“Yes, of course. Haven't you noticed that I've been rubbing myself around instead of in? When you tell me to do it, I'll do it.”
There are some things you just don't signal like that. I told her that I would wait for her to come again, and when she did I came just a few seconds after. It probably increased her pleasure because women take longer to finish their orgasms than we do.
In the moments that followed, we did not separate. Charlotte remained in my arms looking at me with that expression of gratitude that all lovers know.
“I love your breasts,” I said, caressing them.
I hadn't said anything else and was hoping to find something a little better when she interrupted me with an exclamation of surprise.
“Oh! You're very kind! — You love my breasts now, my dear? You've just finished coming and you love my breasts? You've just cornholed your Charlotte and you're not disgusted with her?”
“Disgusted? You're crazy.”
“If you knew what the life a whore leads is like…”
“I thought I forbade you to talk of yourself like that.”
“Then what am I if I've lived the last twelve years with four or five men taking me through the behind every day dad any idiot that comes along rubbing his ass against my mouth? If I tell you that almost every whore who exists fingers herself there must be a reason. When you're working you have to do it, otherwise you'd never get anything out of it; otherwise the girls would hardly ever do it. In any case you always know one thing: when you've finished by pleasing the man you remain nothing for him but a whore and the daughter of a whore.”
“My 'poor Charlotte,' as you call yourself, I assure you that…”
“I'm just not used to people making compliments about my teats when they've just cornholed me, that's all.”
She had tears in her eyes again. I didn't know what to say. Did I love her enough to make her love me?
In order to give myself a little time to order my thoughts and reflect on what was in my bed and in my mind, I asked her one or two questions which she answered by telling me a whole story: that of her life.