Debauched Hospodar and Memoirs Of A Young Rakehell
by Guillaume Apollinaire 


Archive Note: There was no section designated "CHAPTER ONE" in this 
pocketbook. 

INTRODUCTION 

The author of The Debauched Hospodar and Memoirs of a Young Rakehell is 
known well by a relatively few people in the United States. Even those who 
have heard the name of Guillaume Apollinaire in connection with French 
poetry, remain unaware of the extent of his accomplishments. 

He was indeed a poet, one who exerted a major influence on the art both in 
France and elsewhere. He was also a richly fascinating personality, the most 
colorful of all the flamboyant bohemians in turn-of-the-century Paris. Like 
Cocteau after him, he has been called an "organizer of epochs," an aesthetic 
innovator whose influence extended to all branches of the arts. 

Photographs and drawings show him to have been a large man whose girth 
increased as he grew older. He was not unhandsome, with a bullet-shaped 
head, short-cropped black hair, and a face dominated by limpid dark eyes and 
a dazzling grin. 

He was big not only in a physical sense. The catalogue of his achievements 
is enormous for one whose life was so tragically short (he died at the age 
of 38) ... Poet, storyteller, lover of women, marathon eater and drinker, 
soldier, talker, columnist, editor, translator, polemicist, prankster, art 
critic, dramatist, letter writer, bibliographer, artistic revolutionary and 
"the only man in France ever to have been arrested for the theft of the Mona 
Lisa." 

In addition to all this, he wrote the two outrageous, scabrous, hilarious 
and pulsatingly erotic nouvelles contained in this volume. 

The role of literary eroticist is one of his least familiar, partly because 
he played it only briefly. But for all that, it is no less crucial in his 
development as an artist. 

Students of Apollinaire react in two ways to his erotica. Either they ignore 
it completely, or they try to write it off as the forgiveable misdemeanor of 
an immature genius. Both approaches are a disservice to the poet. 

Apollinaire's erotic writing holds a minor, but by no means unimportant, 
place in the body of his work. Just as his poetry was to influence Andre 
Breton, Paul Eluard, Hart Crane (to name but a few), so his impious 
pornography was to place him among the forerunners of Miller, Celine and 
Burroughs. 

In Paris there is a street named Rue Guillaume Apollinaire, not far from the 
apartment on Boulevard St.-Germain where he died. A sculpture by Picasso 
dedicated to the poet stands in the courtyard of the ancient church of 
St.-Germain des Pres. On November 9, 1968, the City of Light will hold a 
great celebration to honor the fiftieth anniversary of his death. By now he 
has been eulogized and canonized, praised and Marseillaised, and officially 
assigned his niche in the pantheon of the artistic heroes of France. 

How did he gain such eminence? Let us turn from Apollinaire the legend and 
go back for a look at Apollinaire the man. 


TWO 

Apollinaire was born in the Trastevere section of Rome on August 26, 1880. 

His mother was a femme galante named Olga de Kostro-witzky, daughter of an 
impoverished Polish nobleman who, at the time, was employed as a papal 
chamberlain. The identity of his father is to this day a matter of 
speculation. Mile, de Kostrowitzky had numerous lovers, and if she was 
certain of her son's paternity, she never revealed his father's identity. 

Most scholars believe Apollinaire's father to have been an officer in the 
Italian army named Francesco Fluigi d'Aspermont, who emigrated to America in 
1884. A few suspect Francesco's brother, Don Romarino Fluigi d'Aspermont, a 
bishop in the Benedictine Order. (Indeed, the poet himself was fond of 
pointing out in later life that his father may have been a prelate.) And the 
Polish poet Anatol Stern insists that Apollinaire was the great-grandson of 
Napoleon himself, by a liaison between a Polish girl named Melanie de 
Kostrowitzky and the Emperor's son, by Marie-Louise. 

The truth of Apollinaire's paternity has provided scholars with the matter 
for delicious debate for many years, and will doubtless do so for years to 
come. 

At any rate, Apollinaire was christened Guglielmo de Kostrowitzky, and, for 
reasons unknown except to his mother, referred to during his childhood as 
Wilhelm. 

When he was three years old, his mother left Rome for the French Riviera. By 
this time she had borne another son, father also unknown, whom she named 
Alberto. 

The family settled in Monaco, where Mile, de Kostrowitzky could give full 
rein to her passion for gambling. She had gained a fairly notorious 
reputation as a courtesan, and although several attempts were made to expel 
her from the tiny principality, she stayed on there until her eldest son was 
seventeen. 

The family lived quite well, mainly on gifts from Olga's admirers and on her 
earnings as an entraineuse (literally, a "leader-on of men," in this case a 
shill) in the Monte Carlo casinos. When her sons were still young, she 
settled down with an Alsatian gambler named Jules Weil, whom she presented 
to her children as an "uncle" and with whom she stayed until her death, many 
years later. 

Thanks to Olga's move to Monaco, Apollinaire, part Polish, part Italian, was 
to become a French poet. Monaco had been an Italianate province, but the 
great influx of gamblers from France had made the citizens want to Frenchify 
themselves, so they educated their children in the tongue of their northern 
neighbors. 

Guillaume (or Wilhelm as lie was still called) received his schooling at the 
Catholic College Saint-Charles in Monaco, later in schools in Cannes and 
Nice. Despite the heady atmosphere of the casinos and the intrigue 
surrounding his mother and "uncle," he proved an excellent student, writing 
poetry at an early age. 

In 1897, however, Mile, de Kostrowitzky withdrew him from school and they 
set off, together with brother Alberto and "Uncle" Jules, on a two-year-long 
peregrination across Europe. Very little is known about these two years, and 
the next we hear of the Kostrowitzkys is in 1899, when Guillaume and Alberto 
were indicted by a Belgian court on charges of fraud. The charges stemmed 
from an unpaid hotel bill in the Belgian town of Stavelot, where first Mama, 
then Jules had stranded them. The incident became a minor cause scandale in 
Belgium until Mile, de Kostrowitzky somehow managed to have the charges 
dropped. 

It is quite important to understand the eccentric and bohemian nature of 
Apollinaire's home life. Unlike Rimbaud and Baudelaire, Guillaume was never 
subjected as a child to bourgeois restraints and, unlike them, felt no 
necessity to rebel against society. His work is full of a grace and freedom 
which, according to his biographer, Guy Dupre, could only come from 
"Apollinaire the man without nationality, Apollinaire the love child." 

In 1899 the young poet found himself for the first time in Paris, in quite 
an advanced state of poverty. Three years later he recounted in a letter to 
a friend how he "wrote addresses in an office for four sous an hour, the 
lowest work imaginable, along with broken-down lawyers, jailbirds, 
adventurers back from the gold mines ... The lowest I ever sank." 

Poverty did not deter him from writing, though, and in 1901 his first 
published poems appeared in a Symbolist magazine, still signed with the name 
"Kostrowitzky." 

In the summer of 1901, he was introduced to a certain Vicomtesse de Milhau, 
the German widow of a Frenchman, who hired him to give French lessons to her 
daughter. Pleased with his instruction, the Vicomtesse offered him permanent 
employment as a tutor in her German villa, and Apollinaire accepted. 

The estate was in Honnef-on-Rhine, and it was here, amid the natural 
splendors of the Rhineland, that the poet was to encounter his first great 
love, the first of his five "muses." Her name was Annie Playden, she was 
pretty, dimpled, blue-eyed, and the daughter of a middle-class and, 
unfortunately, puritanical London family. She had been hired as governess 
and English teacher to the Vicomtesse's daughter. 

Guillaume and Annie were thrown together daily in the huge estate, and as 
the first months went by, the poet fell deeply in love with her. Sadly, his 
love was to go unrequited. 

Annie was at first taken with his wit and charming manners, but, repressed 
by her moral upbringing, she refused to think of him as more than a friend. 
Apollinaire began to suffer more and more from her rebuffs, and his love 
became increasingly vio'ent. Her resistance brought on passionate fits of 
jealousy and even cruelty. Once, when they had climbed to the top of the 
Drachenfels mountain, he threatened to throw her from the precipice unless 
she agreed to marry him. She agreed, of course, but went back on her word as 
soon as she reached safety. 

After a year in the service of the Vicomtesse, Apolin-aire returned to 
Paris. A few months later, Annie also left Germany for her family's house on 
Landor Road in London. In 1903, after a year of "missing her greatly," the 
poet traveled to London to beg Annie once again to be his wife. Again he was 
refused, and in May of the following year, he made a second trip to London 
to try again. 

Baffled by his persistence and perhaps put off by his bohemian nature, Annie 
told him she had a fiance awaiting her in America and was about to join him. 
In order to avoid having her lie exposed she quickly obtained a position as 
a governess in California and sailed from England ten days later. 
Apollinaire continued to write her in care of her family, but she ordered 
his letters returned. He was never lo see or hear from her again. 

The years of his frustrated love fcr Annie were, not surprisingly, one of 
his most productive periods as a poet. Most of his verses of that time were 
directly inspired by Annie, including two of his undisputed lyric 
masterpieces, "La Chanson du Mal-Aime" and "L'Emigrant de Landor Road," both 
of which contain all the important details of his ill-starred love. 

According to critic Francis Steegmuller, "Taken together, these two poems 
that owe their inspiration to a puritanical English governess mark the 
beginning of a new age in French poetry." 

It was in Germany that the poet dropped the name of Kostrowitzky and began 
to sign his poems "Apollinaire." The name came from his mother's father, 
Michal Apollin-aris Kostrowitzky. Steegmuller, in his superb biography, 
Apollinaire, Poet Among the Painters, says: "Born in a corner of Trastevere, 
assigned a name out of an alphabet by a clerk, reassigned the Slavic name of 
a more or less nobly born adventuress mother, his father r. silence and an 
absence-this French poet needed a name of his own." 

And what better for a poet of any nationality than that of Apollo, the god 
of lyric poetry? 

In 1902, Guillaume Apollinaire, poet, settled in Paris for good. With the 
help of a good reference from the Vicomtesse de Milhau, he obtained a job 
clerking in a bank, an occupation he was to hold during the day for the next 
five years, while at night he wrote poetry. 

He soon became part of a group of artists who contributed to a Symbolist 
magazine called La Plume. They met every Saturday night at a Left Bank cafe, 
and it was at these so-called Soirees de La Plume, that Apollinaire's genius 
and his charismatic personality first attracted attention. 

Too individualistic to remain just one part of a group for very long, he 
decided to start his own literary revue. The first issue of Le Festin 
d'Esope (Aesop's Feast) appeared in November, 1903. It was to last almost a 
year and to bring Apollinaire the friendship and esteem of a group of 
fantastically talent young artists, including poets Alfred Jarry, Max Jacob 
and Paul Fort, Fauvist painters Maurice Vla-minck and Andre Derain, and the 
founders of Cubism, Georges Braque and Pablo Picasso. 

By 1906 Apollinaire was able to quit his job in the bank, and step up his 
activities as a writer. Not only was he turning out poems, but stories, 
children's books, art criticism, columns for literary journals and 
newspapers, translations and prefaces to a series of classic erotic books 
(about which, more later). 

It was during this time that Picasso introduced him to the girl who was to 
be his mistress for the next few years, and the most deeply loved of all his 
women. She was Marie Laurencin, a painter and, like Apollinaire, an 
illegitimate child. In her self-portraits, she appears neither pretty nor 
homely, but with a certain gamine-like charm. In her lover's words, she was 
"bright, witty, kind-hearted and very talented. She's like a little sun-a 
feminine version of myself." 

Perhaps it was for just that reason-their similarity of character-that they 
took to each other right away. It may also be one of the contributing 
factors to their traumatic (for Apollinaire) breakup in 1911. But for the 
meantime, they were happy and the poet was later to remember that era as the 
sunniest of his life. 

In 1909, Apollinaire published L'Enchanteur pourissant (The Rotting 
Enchanter), a dream play in verse, illustrated by Andre Derain. The 
following year saw publication of a collection of fantastic tales under the 
title L'Heresiarque et Cie. (The Heresiarch and Co.), which received a 
nomination for the prestigious Prix Goncourt ;nd was perhaps the first book 
to win him widespread notice in the literary world. 

Finally, in 1911, Apollinaire came out with his first book of poetry, Le 
Bestiare, ou Cortege d'Orphee, with woodcuts by a young painter friend, 
Raoul Dufy. For some reason the book was a failure. Out of the 120 copies, 
only 50 were sold-for 40 francs apiece; today, one copy of that first 
printing is worth $5000. 

In spite of the failure of his first volume of verse, the year of 1911 began 
happily for Apoilinaire ... It was not to end the same way. 

 THREE 

On August 22, 1911, the Mona Lisa of Leonardo da Vinci was stolen from the 
Louvre Museum. To this day, the only thing that many people know about 
Apollinaire is that he was in some way connected with the robbery. Although 
he had nothing to do with the theft, the scandal put his name in headlines 
around the world. The "Mona Lisa affair," despite its comic opera aspects, 
was to affect the poet profoundly for the rest of his life. 

This is what happened: 

In 1907 Apollinaire had become friends with a young Belgian adventurer named 
Gery Pieret. He was something of an oddball, but the poet took a liking to 
him and gave him employment as his secretary. He even used him as model for 
the hero of one of the stories in L'Heresiarque et Cie., calling him "Baron 
Ignace d'Ormespan." 

But Pieret was peculiar, and his peculiarity was to make itself felt in a 
strange way. One day he asked Marie Laurencin if there was anything he could 
get her at the Louvre. Marie, assuming he meant Les Magasins du Louvre, a 
department store located near the museum and often referred to simply as 
"the Louvre," thought nothing of it. But that evening Gery did indeed return 
with something from the Louvre-the museum: two stone statuettes from the 
collection of Iberian sculpture. 

Apollinaire and his friend Picasso were quite amused by what they thought a 
charming prank, and Picasso bought the figures from Pieret for a few francs. 
(He even drew parts of them in his epochal Cubist painting, "Les Demoiselles 
d'Avignon.") Apollinaire wrote later that he had tried to persuade Pablo to 
return the figurines, to no avail. 

Soon after his little coup, Pieret left Paris, only to return in 1911-and 
steal another statuette. Down and out, he went to Apollinaire, who took him 
in for a while, then threw him out when he refused to return his third 
acquisition to the museum. 

A few days later the Mona Lisa was stolen. 

It is not hard to imagine the furor that broke in France when the glass 
frame of the Mona Lisa was found empty on a back staircase of the Louvre. 
The painting had been the popular symbol of the greatest in art for hundreds 
of years; of all France's national treasures, La Joconde was the most 
prized. Her theft caused an upheaval in the government and an intensive 
police search for the culprit. 

And here was Apollinaire, who had not only just played host to a 
Louvre-thief, but had once been the receiver of his stolen goods. The poet 
was understandably nervous. 

Meanwhile, Pieret had gone underground and several days after the robbery, 
he sent a letter to Paris-Journal, a daily newspaper to which Apollinaire 
occasionally contributed. Pieret disclosed his theft of the Iberian 
statuettes and offered to return the third one for a reward, providing his 
identity and whereabouts were kept secret. The newspaper, in order to boost 
circulation, publicized the letter and accepted his offer. Pieret returned 
the statuette. (To the profound embarrassment of the French government, the 
curator of the Louvre confessed that he hadn't even known the antiquities 
were missing.) 

Apollinaire was now at his wits end. Pieret had not mentioned the 
whereabouts of the other two figurines, but were the thiefs identity to be 
revealed, the path would surely lead to Apollinaire. 

So in a state of fear and trembling he went to Picasso, who was equally 
terrified, and suggested they hand over the statuary to Paris-Journal. On 
the night of September 5, one of them (which one is unsure, since each 
insisted the other did it) took the statuettes to the newspaper office. 

For a day or so Apollinaire breathed a little easier. But on the evening of 
the 7th he was visited by the police. Either they had received an anonymous 
letter or someone who knew the whole story had talked. At any rate, the 
poet's apartment was searched, letters to him from Gery Pieret were found, 
and he was arrested. 

During a lengthy interrogation, Apollinaire protested his innocence in the 
Mona Lisa theft, but finally told the whole story of Pieret and the 
statuettes. He was charged with "complicity in harboring a criminal," 
although he had not harbored Pieret at all, had indeed evicted him. 

But the police believed (or claimed to believe) that Apollinaire was 
implicated in the Mona Lisa incident. He was referred to as the ringleader 
of "a gang of international thieves who came to France for the purpose of 
despoiling our museums," and he was held for questioning as to the 
whereabouts of the other alleged members-namely, poor Gery Pieret. 

The Parisian artistic community, however, believed that the harassment of 
Apollinaire was due to his being a poet and a foreigner, one who had in the 
past written sharply critical articles about the police. Petitions 
protesting his arrest were circulated and signed, and on September 13, after 
a six day stay in prison, Apollinaire was released. In the course of a brief 
hearing, the charge brought against him could not be made to stick. 

Pieret was found in Cairo near the end of 1913, and arrested. And in 
December of the same year, the Mona Lisa was recovered in Italy. It had been 
stolen by an Italian housepainter named Vincenzo Peruggia, who had become 
obsessed with the idea of returning the masterpiece to its native land. He 
had kept the painting in his Paris flat for two years and was apprehended 
only when he tried to sell it to an art dealer in Florence. 

Although Apollinaire later referred :o himself ironically as "the only 
person in France arrested for the theft of the Mona Lisa," the debacle was 
no laughing matter to him. On the contrary, it left deep emotional scars. 

He had been so thoroughly implicated by the newspapers that his name was 
still linked to the robbery after his innocence was a matter of record. Even 
after his release he was subjected to torrents of abuse from the right wing, 
anti-Semitic press who supposed him, falsely, to be Jewish, and from the 
religious press, which accused him of immorality on the grounds of his 
erotic writings. 

Francis Steegmuller sums it up thus: "Nothing bites more savagely into the 
personality-especially that of Apollinaire's: bastard, foreigner, writer of 
erotica, poetthan first-hand evidence and public proclamation that society 
does indeed consider one contemptible and expendable." More than anything, 
Apollinaire was terrified at the possibility of being expelled from his 
adopted, and beloved, country. 

Another casualty (near-casualty) of the affair was his friendship with Pablo 
Picasso. After Apollinaire was arrested, Picasso was picked up, too, and 
confronted with the poet. There are varying versions of the story (depending 
on the allegiance of the teller), but it is generally believed that the 
Spanish painter, in a state of abject fear, denied ever having known one of 
his closest friends. It was not until Apollinaire was himself allowed to 
question Picasso that he admitted his part in the statuette incident. The 
two men remained friends after that unfortunate night, but on what basis no 
one will ever know. 

The Mona Lisa was also at least partially responsible for the schism between 
Apollinaire and Marie Laurencin. Their relationship had long been a stormy 
one, with the poet's jealousy playing no small part in the discord, but the 
real trouble lay with Marie's mother. She was a puritanical bourgeoise who 
despised her daughter's bohemian friends. As far as she was concerned, 
Apollinaire's arrest was the last straw, and she must have exercised a 
certain amount of influence over Marie. 

Years later Marie Laurencin told a friend why she and Guillaume had never 
married. In the beginning his mother was against it, for reasons of 
snobbishness-Olga did not think the girl a rich enough match for her son. 
After the Mona Lisa case, it was Marie's mother who opposed the marriage, on 
grounds of moral indignation. 

For whatever combination of reasons, Marie deserted Apollinaire in 1911, and 
although they saw each other from time to time afterwards, the break was 
final. In 1914 Marie married a German painter and never saw Apollinaire 
again. 

Four love poems dealing with his lost Marie appear in Apollinaire's Alcools: 
"Cors de Chasse," 

"Zone," 

"Le Pont Mirabeau" and "Marie." They are among the most tragic of all his 
verses. 

 FOUR 

The final chapter of Apollinaire's life begins in 1914 with the outbreak of 
the First World War. 

By this time he was the undisputed leader of bohemian Paris, the king of 
artistic circles from Montmartre to Montparnasse. In addition to his growing 
reputation as a poet, he was enlarging his fame by acting as a propagandist 
for his painter friends. 

In 1913 he published a collection of essays, criticism and polemics entided 
Les Peintres cubistes, in which he publicized and defended members of the 
Cubist school of painting-Picasso and Braque in particular, as well as 
Jacques Villon, Marcel Duchamp, Raymond Duchamp-Villon, Robert Delaunay and 
others. 

Whatever Apollinaire's talents for art criticism (Picasso said that "his 
powers of visual comprehension were Limited"), his promotion repeated ample 
rewards for the artists and brought him renown as a pioneering critic and 
"discoverer." 

In the same year, 1913, the publishing house of the Mercure de France 
brought out Apollinaire's most important volume of poetry: Alcools. 
Subtitled "Poems 1898-1913," with a frontispiece portrait by Picasso, it 
contained 55 poems, including such masterpieces as "Zone" and "Vendemiaire." 

Although it only sold 350 copies the first year, it created a sensation 
among critics and poets, partially because of the absence of punctuation in 
many of the poems (then considered a daring novelty), but mainly for the 
freshness and vigor of the anti-traditionalist verse. 

Alcools was to prove a tremendous influence on the work of young poets, both 
in France and abroad, and today it is one of the most popular collections of 
modern poetry. 

Apollinaire was riding high on the wave of success, the center of attention 
and controversy. And then in the summer of 1914 a crazy anarchist 
assassinated an archduke in Bosnia, and the whole world exploded. 

Apollinaire could have chosen to ignore the explosion. He was a foreigner 
and as such, not compelled to serve in the armed forces. Like Picasso he 
could have sat out the war in France, or emigrated to the United States or 
some neutral country. 

He chose to become a French soldier. Perhaps he felt a commitment to his 
adopted land; perhaps the urge to redeem himself in the eyes of those who 
had slandered him over the Mona Lisa affair; perhaps his head was still full 
of romantic tales of military life told to him in his childhood by his 
mother, herself the daughter of one soldier and the mistress of at least 
another (Guillaume's presumed father). 

Whatever his motives, he applied for enlistment on August 10, 1914, and by 
the end of the year was serving with the 38th Artillery Regiment in the 
French army. 

His training was carried out in the south of France, and during the course 
of a leave in Nice he met the third of his five "muses"-Louise de 
Coligny-Chatillon, known to all Apollinaireans as "Lou." 

They had a brief but passionate physical affair, beginning in the fall of 
1914 and ending soon after the New Year. But until September, 1915, a short 
time before he was sent to the front, Apollinaire continued the affair by 
correspondence. 

He sent her a veritable flood of love letters, 76 in all, each containing a 
poem. Many of the verses were written in what Apollinaire called 
"calligrammes"-that is, the lines were written to form pictures, often of 
the poem's subject, whether it was a bird, a fish, a boat, a woman's 
profile. 

Only one other woman ever received greater tribute from Apollinaire, also in 
the form of correspondence. She was Madeleine Pages, a schoolteacher from 
Algeria. The poet met her on a train between Nice and Marseilles on New 
Year's Day, 1915. 

He saw her only once more, when he spent his Christmas leave of 1915 with 
her family in Oran. But he had fallen in love with her and for almost two 
years, from the time of their train encounter, he wrote to her steadily. 

The letters constitute an astonishing courtship by long distance. At first 
Apollinaire addressed her as "Dear Mademoiselle," then he was calling her 
"my little fairy," then "my adorable fairy," and finally, "mon-amour." 

He wrote from the trenches, with artillery shells bursting over his head, 
often on scraps of wrapping paper. Although he had never known her 
physically, the letters became increasingly intimate and erotic. Finally he 
became her fiance, and an uninformed reader dipping into the correspondence 
at random would think he had been her lover all his life. 

In 1955 the noted Apollinaire scholar, Marcel Adema, persuaded Madeleine 
Pages to allow publication of the letters. Tney were issued under the title, 
Tendre comme le souvenir (Tender as Memory). Several complete letters and 
parts of others were omitted by Adema as being "too free, too erotic, too 
personal." Even without them the book stands as one of the most vivid and 
moving collections of correspondence in all literature. 

 FIVE 

The beginning of the end for Guillaume Apollinaire came on March 17, 1916, 
when he was wounded in the head by shell splinters. When the shell hit, he 
was reading the Mercure de France in the trench. 

His skull was bandaged, and the next day a surgeon removed the fragments, 
which had lodged above his right temple. But during his convalescence in 
Paris at the hospital of the Val du Grace, it became apparent that more 
damage had been done than was at first supposed, and the doctors ordered a 
trepanation to relieve pressure on the brain. 

The operation was performed and thought successful. When Apollinaire was 
released from the hospital he applied for work in one of the military 
offices in Paris, rather than be returned to the front. He was accepted by 
the periodicals department of (supreme irony!) the Office of the Censor. 

He was to remain in Paris for the rest of his life ... what little of it 
still remained. 

The year or so that remained of Appollinaire's life held three major events, 
two artistic and one personal. 

In June, 1917, his comic drama, Les Mamelles de Tiresias, was performed at a 
Montmartre theatre. The play was an outrageous, impudent burlesque 
concerning a militant feminist who is transformed into a man (from Therese 
to Tiresias) after her breasts (les mamelles) fly away like balloons. She 
finally regains her true sex when she agrees to drop her career and return 
to her husband as a proper, childbearing wife. (The play is probably best 
known in its operatic version, set to music many years later by Francois 
Poulenc.) 

It was to describe this comedy that Apollinaire coined the word 
"surrealist." He had first described the work as surnaturaliste, but changed 
it to surrealiste, finding the latter word "more convenient." 

The term proved more than merely convenient. It found its way into common 
usage, and then into the dictionary, and in the next decade, a young 
generation of poets-led by Jean Cocteau, Andre Breton and Louis Aragon-were 
to adopt it as the title of a new artistic movement. 

The second important event prior to Apollinaire's death was the publication 
of his second collection of verse, Calligrammes, subtitled "Poems of Peace 
and War (1913-1916)." Containing over 100 poems, many quite short, the 
volume was hailed for its charm and wit, meeting with an equally 
enthusiastic but less controversial reception than had Alcools. 

Calligrammes gave Apollinaire double reason for rejoicing, since it was 
published on April 15, 1918, just two weeks before his marriage to 
Jacqueline Kolb, a pretty redhead he had met a few months before. She was to 
be his last muse. 

The final lyric in Calligrammes is "La Jolie Pousse," written to and about 
Jacqueline. It is probably his most famous poem, certainly one of his most 
moving. Ending as it does with the line "Have pity on me," it stands as 
Apollinaire's valedictory. It is almost as if he knew the end was near. 

One day in the fall of 1918 he developed a fit of coughing, the first 
symptom of a kind of influenza known as "Spanish grippe." The disease struck 
all the more virulently in a body still recuperating from the effects of 
trepanation. 

On November 9, a doctor was called to *he Apollinaires' flat on the 
Boulevard St.-Germain. The poet begged him, "Save me, doctor! I want to 
live! I still have so many things to say!" 

But the doctor could do nothing and, two days before the Armistice, 
Apollinaire died. 

On November 13 he was buried in Pere Lachaise cemetery, his funeral 
procession winding through a city festooned with flags of victory. The 
poet's friends were sure that he would have approved of such a colorful 
finale. 

 SIX 

Such was the life of Guillaume Apollinaire, author of The Debauched Hospodar 
and Memoirs of a Young Rakehell. 

How did these two erotic classics come to be written, and what position do 
they hold in the poet's life work? 

In 1906, in an effort to escape the daily drudgery of bank clerking, 
Apollinaire wrote two novels: Les Onze mille verges and Les Exploits d'un 
jeune Don Juan, in their French titles. Ralph Ginzburg in his Unhurried View 
of Erotica refers to the former as "without peer for extravagance of 
lubricity," and suggests that it may have been dashed off in a contest with 
two drinking buddies to see who could turn out the most outrageous book. 

This idea is appealing due mainly to the romantic image of 
turn-of-the-century Parisian bohemia that it calls to mind-and it is 
certainly not outside the realm of possibility. But it seems that 
Apollinaire's motive was simply money; only if he could become 
self-supporting could he devote all his time to writing. 

Both books were published "under the counter" in 1907. Les Onze miUe verges 
was re-issued in 1911 with the subtitle, "The Loves of a Hospodar." 
Subsequent limited editions were brought out in Monte Carlo in 1930 (125 
copies); in Nice, 1931 (130 copies); and in Menton, 1932 (130 copies). 

Les Exploits d'un jeune Don Juan has much the same history. One amusing 
sidelight is its citation in a clandestine catalogue of 1906-1907 as "Latest 
Novelty." 

The first English translations of the books were published by Olympia Press 
in Paris, 1959, under their current titles. 

How much Hospodar and Rakehell brought Apollinaire in the way of hard cash 
is not known. They did, however, bring him to the attention of a publisher 
named Briffault who was planning a line of new editions of erotic classics 
to be called, collectively, Les Maitres de 1'amour. 

Briffault hired the poet-pornographer to translate and write prefaces to 
several venerable "dirty books," including writings by Aretino, as well as 
works of the Marquis de Sade, John Cleland and other so-called "libertine 
authors" of the 18th century. 

This occupation was to provide Apollinaire with a steady, though no doubt 
modest, source of income for several years. It was also to give him the 
reputation as something of an authority on erotica. 

His lengthy introduction to Les Memoires de Fanny Hill: Femme de plaisir 
shows an extremely erudite grasp of English society and sexual customs of 
that period; and no less an authority than critic Edmund Wilson credits him 
with bringing the works of the Marquis de Sade "into general currency," in 
1909, thus starting the Sade-ist vogue that continues today. 

It was during Apollinaire's toil in the green fields of erotica that he 
engineered an historic feat of bibliography. Together with his co-workers, 
Fernand Fleuret and Louis Perceau, he compiled a complete list of the 
forbidden books of the Bibliotheque Nationale. This huge collection of 
sexology was called the "Enfer" (Hell), and was kept strictly under lock and 
key; even the titles of the books were taboo. 

The three young men merely bribed a porter to bring them (he books two or 
three at a time, and compiled the catalogue in the general reading room of 
the library. 

The Bibliotheque was scandalized, of course, when a list of their 900 dirty 
books was published in the magazine Mercure de France (upon whose commission 
the trio had acted). But so painstakingly thorough was the work of 
Apollinaire and Company, that their list remains to this day the official 
Enfer catalogue of the French National Library. 

But to return to Apollinaire's creative efforts ... In addition to the two 
erotic novels he was also the author of a certain amount of pornographic 
poetry, most of it published in clandestine fashion early in his career. 

A limited edition (210 copies, illustrated, of his Complete Erotic Works 
appeared in France in 1934. It included, in addition to the Hospodar and the 
Rakehell, three slim volumes of poetry: Cortege priapique, Julie, ou la 
Rose, and Le Verger des Amours. The latter (in English, "The Orchard of 
Love") is held to be dubious by Apollinaire scholars, although Adema called 
it "an able pastiche" of his style. Several of the poems in Julie had 
already appeared in the first edition of the Hospodar. 

All this should give some indication of Apollinaire's tremendous involvement 
with literary eroticism. It was an involvement not wholly motivated by 
financial need; it would be quite foolish to picture Apollinaire as a slave 
in a smut factory. 

An important factor in Apollinaire's erotic work was his often unquestioning 
dedication to the New. His quest for innovation in the arts sometimes led 
him to lengths which more conservative writers might deem excessive. One 
reason for his attraction to the Marquis de Sade was that writer's value (in 
the words of Edmund Wilson) as "a blaster of inhibitions." 

Sexuality and scatology play powerful roles in all of Apollinaire's 
"legitimate" writing. The exquisite poem "La Chanson du Mal-Aime" is 
permeated with erotic feeling, and one of its sections (the "Reply of the 
Zaphorizian Cossack to the Sultan of Constantinople") contains four-letter 
references to flatulence and excretion which might have been censored in a 
different context. 

Eroticism played an important role in his personal life as well. Biographer 
Rene Guy Cadou mentions his "taste for racy and coarse words ... in the line 
of Rabelais and ribald tales," noting that "off-color humor was necessary to 
his health in the same way as tobacco and alcohol." He also had a reputation 
as a petomane, a lover of flatulence, who deliberately indulged his passion 
in the most embarrassing (for others) places. 

The best interpretation of Apollinaire's fascination with the erotic comes 
from Marcel Adema; 

"There was no question that Apollinaire had and always would have a great 
taste for literary eroticism. His poetic works swarm with audacious verses 
and his prose never hesitates calling attention to the obscene detail. His 
thorough knowledge of the libertine authors of the 19th Century enriched his 
vocabulary and would influence his later poetic expression. The mechanics of 
his memory came to the fore, sometimes subconsciously, in erotic images that 
are violent but not destitute of charm. We should not see in all this the 
mark of an unhealthy obsession, but rather that of an erudite and 
impassioned curiosity about matters of the flesh. His sexual appetitie was 
equal to the appetite he showed at table, and his verbal eroticism the 
counterpoise of a romantic sentimentality from which he derived no little 
suffering. The obvious pleasure he had in frequenting certain "houses" owed 
more to their picturesque qualities than to the employment of their 
personnel. The freedom, indeed the disarray, of his conversations with 
friends was only the manifestation of a rather typically Eastern European 
penchant for four-letter words. There is nothing morbid in his eroticism, 
(italics added) simply the taste for pleasure, and the accomplishment of an 
act eminently useful to the mental balance of humanity in general and his 
own in particular." 

Doubtless, the idea of pornography appealed to the naughty little boy in 
Apollinaire. His desire to shock came not so much from a Baudelairean 
compulsion to epater le bourgeois, as from a puckish spirit that delighted 
in outraging anybody, just for the fun of it. 

He had a well-earned reputation as a prankster. We have seen how this got 
him into trouble in the affair of the Louvre statuettes (how delighted he 
and Picasso must have been-at first-by Gery Pieret's demented trick!) And 
Les Mamelles de Tiresias owes its creation to the same mischievous 
flippancy. 

One of his literary pranks is amusing enough to merit a close look. For many 
years Apollinaire wrote a kind of gossip column called "La Vie Anecdotique" 
for the literary revue, Mercure de France, It was usually devoted to 
anecdotes and trivia relating to literature and the arts. 

In the spring of 1913 the column purported to be an eye-witness account of 
the funeral of Walt Whitman, related in now-it-can-be-told style by an 
American who had been there. The report was, of course, an outrageous 
fantasy by Apollinaire, who describes the funeral of the American bard as an 
orgiastic debauch held on an old circus ground near Camden, New Jersey. 

To quote: "There were 3500 people ... The pederasts showed up in full force 
and all nocked around Peter Connelly, a young man in his early twenties, 
celebrated for his beauty, an Irish streetcar conductor whom Whitman had 
loved above all others ... It is thought that many of the poet's children 
were there with their mothers, both black and white, but this is not 
certain. Whitman used to say that he had known six of his children but that 
there were doubtless many others." 

The "reporter" goes on to say that "to the accompaniment of ragtime music, 
the casket was carried to the mausoleum by six drunks," and ends with a 
mischievously phallic image of the coffin being slipped into a too-narrow 
slot on the back of the pallbearers. 

Members of the American colony in Paris were enraged by the supposedly true 
account, even after it was pointed out to them that the magazine was dated 
April 1-All Fools' Day! 

Even in this little joke it is easy to see the inventor of the colossal 
comedy of The Debauched Hospodar. 

Francis Steegmuller, with his usual acute perception, calls the Hospodar "a 
high-spirited parody of a holocaust by the Marquis de Sade; as such it is a 
tour de force, and indeed Picasso once owlishly pronounced it Apollinaire's 
masterpiece." 

He points out that the book "has not always been recognized as the romp it 
is" and is often regarded as a grimly pornographic catalogue of perversions. 

No one who has read even a few of the works of the "divine Marquis" can 
quarrel with this evaluation. 

In The Debauched Hospodar every exhibit in the Sadist chamber of horrors is 
wheeled out for inspection and then gleefully mocked. Rape, sodomy, 
fellation, flogging, bestiality, etc., etc., all have their innings. And not 
just once, but again and again and again. 

Humor (except of the unintentional kind) is noticeably lacking in the Sade 
originals; but in Apollinaire's burlesque, perversions are piled on top of 
each other with a delirious zest reminiscent of Marx Brothers' slapstick. 
Only the totally humorless, or the pathologically disturbed, can fail to 
respond with laughter. 

Take, for instance, the marathon beating-raping scene in Chapter 7. Four 
characters-Prince Mony, a Tartar, a Dane and his wife-exchange all manner of 
physical and sexual abuse in all possible comtinations. Prince abuses 
Tartar, Tartar abuses wife, Prince abuses "united bodies" of Tartar and 
wife, Tartar and wife abuse Prince, Dane abuses wife and Tartar, Prince 
abuses Dane ... on and on into the realm of comic unreality. It is a 
brilliant mockery of the collective wet dreams of a club of beat-freaks, and 
it also brings to mind a Mack Sennett pie-throwing orgy on a Sadist level. 

The book teems with absurd characters and situations: 

Fedor, the Russian officer with three testicles; Mariette, the maid who gets 
strangled to death by her mistress' legs while performing cunnilingus in a 
four-way sex bout; the general who pontificates, "There is only one way 
today of saving our unfortunate Mother Russia, and that is through 
pederasty," and then discharges "into the charming arse-hole of his son." 

And the institution of Maternal Love will probably never receive a deadlier 
blow than that dealt by the story of Captain Katache, whose insane mother 
imagined herself a chamber pot and kept crying for the lavatory attendant to 
come and empty her, all the while childing her son: "Son, you don't love 
your mother any more-you frequent other toilets." 

Then there are the two male brothel-keepers of Port Arthur: "They dressed 
like women and called themselves lesbians, without renouncing their 
moustaches and masculine names." Apollinaire refers to them as "formerly 
Symbolist poets," then quotes two of their poems, both acid parodies of 
Symbolist verse. By 1906, when the book was written, Apollinaire had 
developed an intense dislike for the Symbolists, whom he felt were 
responabile for the decadence into which French poetry had fallen. Surely 
there could be no more devastating way of making this point than by these 
two transvestite caricatures. 

It should be clear to the serious reader that The Debauched Hospodar is no 
common piece of erotica. 

Aside from its parodic aspects, the book can be read simply as a 
black-humorous picaresque novel of a young libertine's adventures in Paris 
and Manchuria at the time of the Russo-Japanese War. There is a wealth of 
plot invention that would be stunning in any "legitimate" novel, and a 
riotousness of imagery similar (though on a different level) to that in 
Apollinaire's poetry. 

No translation can give an adequate idea of the many puns and jeux de mots, 
of which Apollinaire was so fond, that appear in the writing. The book's 
French title, Les Onze mille verges, is itself a pun. "Verge" means 
"switch," and in one sense the title refers to the 11,000 switches with 
which the hero is flogged to death. But the word is also French slang for 
"penis," so the title could also be read, "The Eleven Thousand Cocks." 

The word-play in the French title of Memoirs of a Young Rakehell-D'un Jeune 
Don Juan-is charming, and that, indeed, is an apt descriptive word for the 
book as a whole. 

Les Expoits d'un jeune Don Juan is also a parody of sorts, and the work 
believed to be the butt of the fun is a novel by Henri de Regnier called Les 
Vacances d'un jeune homme sage. De Regnier was a late Symbolist poet who 
also wrote fiction, and his work has been described as "politely sensual." 

It is not surprising that Apollinaire chose to satirize such a writer. We 
have already mentioned his feelings toward the Symbolists, and his revulsion 
for anything "polite" should not have to be pointed out. 

However, there is nothing mean about the satire in Rakehell. Rather, it is 
gentle, nostalgic and good humored-a charming piece of erotic writing. If it 
lacks the apocalyptic invention of the Hospodar, it is simply because of the 
different nature of the work being parodied. 

Rakehell might even be described as a kind of erotic continuation of a great 
tradition in French literature: the novel dealing with the coming of age of 
a young man and the women who help him along the way. In its offbeat way, 
Memoirs of a Young Rakehell is in the line of Chateaubriand's Rene, 
Stendhal's Le Rouge et le noir, Flaubert's Une Education sentimentale and 
Radiquet's Le Diable au corps. 

The Debauched Hospodar, on the other hand, is best-viewed not as the tail 
end of an old tradition but the beginning of a new one. 

It is certainly not claiming too much to suggest that the book has exercised 
an important influence on one school of contemporary writing. The work of 
Henry Miller (the Tropics), William Burroughs (Naked Lunch), and Terry 
Southern (Candy) bear the unmistakable print of the Hospodar's boots. 

These three writers all spent at least part of their formative creative 
years in Paris and were almost certainly exposed to Apollinaire's comic 
version of de Sade, with its curiously intoxicating mixture of erotic 
realism and black humor. 

And if one counts the writers influenced by Miller and Burroughs, one can 
see Guillaume Apollinaire sitting at the source of an important tributary to 
the mainstream of modern literature. 

It is to be hoped that scholars will recognize the importance of his erotic 
writing rather than attempt to apologize for it, and that the two short 
novels printed here will one day be accorded their well-deserved positions 
of respect in the Apollinaire canon. 

David B. Lewis Los Angeles, 1967 

 SUGGESTIONS FOR FURTHER READING: Poetry 

Apollinaire: Oeuvres Poetiques. Preface by Andre Billy. Paris, Gallimard, 
1962 

Apollinaire: Selected Writings. Translated, with a critical introduction by 
Roger Shattuck. New Directions, New York, 1950 

Biography and Criticism 

Adema, Marcel. Guillaume Apollinaire, le Mal-Aime. Paris, 1952. 

Bowra, C. M. The Creative Experiment. London and New York, 1949. 

Cadou, Rene Guy. Testament d'Apollinaire. Paris, 1945. Faure-Favier, Louise. 
Souvenirs sur Apollinaire. Paris 1945. 

Fowlie, Wallace. Age of Surrealism. New York, 1950. 

Rouveyre, Andre. Apollinaire. Paris, 1945. 

Shattuck, Roger. The Banquet Years; the Arts in France, 1885-1918. New York 
1958. 

 Soupault, Philippe. Guillaume Apollinaire. Marseille, 1927. Steegmuller, 
Francis. Apollinaire, Poet Among the Painters. New York, 1963. 

------------------- 

THE DEBAUCHED HOSPODAR (Les Onze mille verges) 

CHAPTER ONE 

Bucharest is a beautiful city where East and West seem to commingle. If you 
take account only of the geographical situation, you are still in Europe, 
but you are already in Asia if you are considering certain customs of the 
country and if you look at the Turks, the Serbs and ether Macedonians who 
are there in all their color in the streets. Still, it is a Latin country: 
the thoughts of the Roman soldiers who colonised it were without doubt 
turned towards Rome, at that time the capital and cultural center of the 
world. 

This Western nostalgia was transmitted to their descendants: the Rumanians 
think continuously of a city in which luxury is normal, and where life is 
full of joy. But the splendor of Rome has fallen into decay, the queen of 
cities has surrendered its crown to Paris, and it is hardly surprising if, 
by some atavistic process, the thoughts of the Rumanians are unceasingly 
turned toward Paris, which has so completely supplanted Rome as the hub of 
the universe. 

Like other Rumanians, the handsome Prince Vibescu dreamed of Paris, the City 
of Light, where the women were all beautiful and hot thighed. While he was 
still at college in Bucharest, he had only to think of a Parisian woman, a 
la Parisienne, to get an erection and to be compelled to toss himself off 
slowly, into beatitude. Later he had come into many grottos and buttocks of 
succulent Rumanian women. But he felt strongly that he had to have a woman 
of Paris. 

Mony Vibescu came of a very wealthy family. His great-grandfather had been a 
Hospodar, which is equivalent to the title of Sub-Prefect in France. But 
this title became attached to the family name and both the grandfather and 
father of Mony had borne it. Mony Vibescu ought equally to have carried this 
title in honor of his ancestor. 

But he had read enough French novels to have a cynical view of Sub-Prefects. 
"Isn't it ridiculous," he said, "to call yourself Sub-Prefect because your 
great-grandfather was one? It's absurd, simply ludicrous!" And to be less 
grotesque he had replaced the title of Hospodar by that of Prince. "There," 
he cried, "is a title which is transferable by heredity. Hospodar is an 
administrative function, and it is only right that those who distinguish 
themselves in the administration should be able to bear a title. I ennoble 
myself. In effect, I am an ancestor. My children and my grandchildren will 
be thankful to me for it." 

Prince Vibescu was very intimate with the Vice-Consul of Serbia, Bandi 
Fornoski, who, as rumored about the town, buggered the charming Mony with 
zeal. One day the prince dressed himself correctly and set out for the 
Vice-Consulate. In the streets everybody looked at him and the women stared 
and said, "What a Parisian air he has got!" 

Indeed, Prince Vibescu was walking as a native of Bucharest might suppose 
the Parisians to walk, that is to say, with little hurried steps and 
waggling his behind. Isn't it charming! When a man walks like that in 
Bucharest not a single woman, be she even the wife of the Prime Minister, 
can resist him. 

When he arrived in front of the door of the Vice-Consulate, Mony relieved 
himself lengthily against the front porch and then he rang the bell. An 
Albanian clothed in a white blouse came to open the door for him. Prince 
Vibescu climbed quickly to the first floor. 

The Vice-Consul Bandi Fornoski was stark naked in his salon. He was 
stretched out, his staff stiff, on a Turkish divan, and close to him was 
Mira, a dusky woman from Montenegro who was tickling his stones. She too was 
naked and her bent position made her beautiful thick-fleshed arse stick out, 
brown and downy, over which the delicate skin was stretched like a drum. 
Between the two buttocks, embedded in the superb line of her deeply indented 
slit, fringed at its edges with brown hairs, you could see the forbidden 
hole, round as a nut. Below, quivering longly and downwards, were her 
thighs, and, as her position forced her to have them apart, you could see 
her cleft, fat, thick, deep as a wound, and shadowed by a thick chevron of 
coarse black hair. 

She was not in the least put out by Mony's entrance. On a chaise lounge in 
another corner, two pretty plump-bottomed girls were goosing one another 
with hot little cries of lust. Mony undressed himself quickly, then, staff 
in the air and stiff as a ramrod, he threw himself on the two lesbians in an 
attempt to drag them apart, but his hands slipped off their wet shining 
bodies which were coiling about like snakes. 

Then, seeing that they were frothing with lust, and furious at being unable 
to take part in it, he began to slap the plump white arse that was nearest 
to him. As that seemed to excite the owner of this beautiful behind, he 
began to slap it for all he was worth, so brutally that the pain overcame 
the lust, and the pretty girl whose pretty white bottom he had made pink got 
up in a fury. 

"You dirty bugger, don't disturb us! We don't want any of you! Go and stick 
your barley sugar in Mira and let us play in peace, eh Zulme?" 

"You said it, Tone," the other girl replied. 

"What, you young bitches! still and always playing sticknnger with your 
behinds!" Then, seizing one of them, he tried to kiss her on the mouth. It 
was Tone, a pretty brunette, whose snow-white body was all the more 
beautiful for the little beauty spots which in certain places enhanced her 
fair skin. The face of this sinuous girl was just as white and a little mole 
on her right cheek gave her a coquettish look. She had two superb titties, 
hard as marble, ringed with blue, and topped by a delicate strawberry pink; 
the right one was prettily blemished by a beauty spot, stuck there like a 
fly, a butchered fly. 

Mony Vibescu had, in laying hold of her, slipped his hands round under her 
plump buttocks, buttocks which resembled a fruity melon which had swelled 
from dawn till dusk so that it was white and firm and full. Each buttock 
seemed to have been carved from faultless marble, and her thighs which moved 
downwards from them were as perfect as the columns of a Greek temple. But 
what a difference! Her thighs were hot and her buttocks were cold, which is 
a sign of good health. The spanking had made them a little pink so that you 
could have said of them that they were made of raspberries and cream. 

This vision brought poor Vibescu to the limit of excitement. His mouth 
nuzzled in turn the two firm nipples of Tone or else sucked at her throat or 
shoulder bruising the skin. He grasped her swelling arse like a hard and 
pulpy watermelon firmly between his hands. He was squeezing these regal 
buttocks and had stuck his index finger into her anus. His big tool which 
was getting harder and harder began to jab at the breach of her charming 
coral-colored slit, stiff at the tuft of her gleaming black hair. 

She cried out in Rumanian: "No, you are not going to put it into me!" and at 
the same time smacked her plump round thighs together. The red and inflamed 
knob of Mony's big beet had already tasted the hot wet groove between her 
legs. She was still fighting to get loose from him, but in doing so she 
broke wind, not in a vulgar way; it was of a crystalline sound which made 
her burst into nervous laughter. 

All resistance collapsed, her thighs peeled open, and Mony's big organ had 
already buried its head in her crack when Zulme, Tone's friend and partner 
in goosing, seized Mony's eggs roughly and, squeezing them in her little 
hand, caused him such pain that his smoking tool slid out again, to the 
great disappointment of Tone, who was beginning to stir her arse under her 
slender waist. 

Zulme was a blonde whose thick hair fell in a cascade to her heels. She was 
smaller than Tone, but in her slimness and grace just as desirable. Her eyes 
were black with circles round them. As soon as she had let go of his eggs, 
the prince hurled himself upon her, saying, "All right, you're going to pay 
for Tone!" Then, snatching one of her pretty breasts, he began to suck its 
point. 

Zulme wriggled. To make a fool of Mony she tilted and waggled her belly, at 
the base of which danced a delicious little beard, blonde and frizzy. At the 
same time she brought up a pretty slit which was cunk deep in her little 
plump mound. Between the lips of this rosy slit a good-sized clitoris 
wriggled, testifying to her lesbian propensities. The prince's staff was 
trying vainly to sink itself in her crack. 

Finally, he gripped her buttocks and was about to penetrate when Tone, angry 
at having been cheated out of the discharge of this superb member, began to 
tickle the young man's heels with a peacock feather. He began to laugh and 
squirm. The peacock feather tickled relentlessly; from the heels it moved 
upwards to the thighs, to the anus, to the tool which subsided rapidly. 

The two rogues, Tone and Zulme, delighted by their farce, laughed for a good 
minute, then, red and out of breath, they returned to their goosing, kissing 
and tonguing one another in front of the abashed and stupefied prince. Their 
arses rose in cadence, the hairs of their slits mingled, their teeth clicked 
against one another's, and the satin of their firm and palpitating breasts 
rumpled at the meeting of their bodies. At last, twisting and glistening in 
lust, they wet each other reciprocally. 

Meanwhile, the prince began again to get a hard on, but seeing them both so 
weary from their goosing he turned towards Mira, who was still cultivating 
the vice-consul's pole. Vibescu approached softly and, passing his fine 
shaft through Mira's plump buttocks, he thrust it into her hot wet opening. 
No sooner had she felt the head of the knob which pentrated than Mira 
lurched backwards with her arse to make the penetration complete. Then she 
continued her abandoned movements while with one hand the prince fingered 
her clitoris and with the other tickled her breasts. 

This see-saw motion in her tight sheath gave great pleasure to Mira; she 
evinced that pleasure in cries of lust. 

Vibescu's belly was beating against Mira's behind, and the coolness of her 
body caused as pleasurable a sensation in him as the heat of his belly 
caused in her. Soon their movements became more lively and abrupt; the 
prince thrust himself against Mira, who was panting as she fixed her 
buttocks. The prince bit her on the shoulder and held her there. She cried 
out: "Ah that's wonderful ... there ... harder ... harder ... ooh ... ah ... 
take me! Give me your juice ... all of it ... give ... ah ... now!" And in a 
sudden simultaneous discharge they dropped and remained for a moment utterly 
obliterated. 

Tone and Zulme, their limbs latticed together on the chaise lounge, were 
watching them and laughing. The Vice-Consul of Serbia had lit a slender 
cigarette of oriental tobacco. When Mony had got up again he said to him, 
"And now, my dear Prince, it is my turn. While I was waiting for you to come 
I was pleased to allow Mira to fondle me, but I have reserved the fruition 
for you. Come here my pretty boy, my darling little buggered one, here! So 
that I can give it to you." 

Vibescu looked at him for a moment, and then, spitting on the staff the 
vice-consul was offering to him, he said, "I've had enough! I'm sick and 
tired of being buggered by you. It's the talk of the town!" But the 
vice-consul had stood up, his tool stiff, and had seized a revolver. 

He leveled the pistol at Mony, who, trembling with fright, held out his 
buttocks towards him, stammering, "Bandi, dear old Bandi, you know that I 
love you! Bugger me! Bugger me!" Bandi, smiling, thrust home his great penis 
into the elastic hole which nestled between the buttocks of the prince. 
Glued firm there, with the three women watching, he struggled like a madman, 
crying out: "Oh God! how I love it. Tighten your hole, my pretty bumboy! 
Tighten! how I love it! Close your beautiful buttocks!" And, his eyes 
haggard, his hands contracting on the delicate shoulders, he came in a 
spasm. 

Mony washed himself, dressed again and left, saying that he would come back 
again after dinner. But when he got home he wrote this letter: 

My dear Bandi, I have had enough of being buggered by you, I have had enough 
of the woman of Bucharest, I have had enough of wasting here my fortune with 
which I should be so happy in Paris. I shall have set out within two hours. 
I hope to amuse myself enormously there and I am saying goodbye to you. 

Mony, Prince Vibescu Hereditary Hospodar 

The prince sealed the letter and wrote another one to his lawyer, requesting 
the lawyer to realize his assets and to send the money to Paris as soon as 
he knew his address. Mony took all the money he had available, about 50,000 
francs, and set out for the railway station. He posted the two letters and 
caught the Orient Express for Paris. 

 CHAPTER TWO 

"Mademoiselle, I had no sooner set eyes upon you than, mad with love, I felt 
my genitals drawn towards your immaculate beauty, and I found myself hotter 
than if I had drunk a glass of raki." 

"At whose place?" 

"I lay my fortune and my love at your feet. If I had you in my arms in bed, 
I would prove my passion for you twenty times over. May the eleven thousand 
virgins or even the eleven thousand birches chastise me if I lie!" 

"Huh!" 

"My feelings are not false. I do not speak thus to all women. I am no rake." 

"Tell it to the Marines!" 

This conversation was exchanged on the Boulevard Malesherbes one sunny 
morning. The month of May caused trees and flowers to bloom again, and the 
Paris sparrows twittered their love in the fresh green trees. Prince Mony 
Vibescu broached these matters gallantly to a slender young girl who was 
going down towards the Madeleine. She walked so quickly that he could 
scarcely keep up with her. Suddenly she turned brusquely and burst out 
laughing. 

"Let's get this over quickly," she said. "I've no time just now. I'm going 
to see a girlfriend of mine in the rue Duphot, but if you are ready to take 
on two women who are mad for luxury and love-if you are, that's to say, a 
man with the means and the sexual powers-, come with me. 

He rose to his full height, saying: "I am a Rumanian prince, and a 
hereditary Hospodar." 

"And I," said she, "am Culculine d'Ancone, I am nineteen, I have already 
emptied the sacks of ten exceptional men in sex play, and the purses of 
fifteen millionaires." 

And chatting agreeably about various things, trifling or serious, the prince 
and Culcuiine arrived in the rue Duphot. They went up in the lift to the 
first floor. 

"Prince Mony Vibescu ... my friend Alexine Mange-tout." The introduction was 
made very gravely by Culculine in a bedroom luxuriously decorated with 
obscene Japanese prints. 

The two friends kissed and tongued one another. They were tall, both of 
them, but not too tall. Culculine was a brunette whose grey eyes sparkled 
with roguishness, and a beauty spot with a little sprout of hair adorned the 
bottom of her left cheek. Her complexion was sallow, with the blood suffused 
under the skin of her cheeks, while her cheeks and her forehead wrinkled 
easily attesting to her preoccupation with money and love. 

Alexine was blonde, of that peculiar ash blonde color that one sees only in 
Paris. Her clear fleshtint appeared almost transparent. This pretty girl 
wore a charming pink neglige, as delicate and as unruly as a roguish 
marquise of the century before last. 

The acquaintance was soon established and Alexine, who had had a Rumanian 
lover, went to look for his photograph in the bedroom. The prince and 
Culculine followed in her wake. Both of them threw themselves upon her and 
undressed her laughingly. Her neglige fell from her, leaving her in a 
cambric slip through which her charming body glowed, rounded and dimpled in 
the right places. 

Mony and Culculine turned her up on the bed and brought to light her 
beautiful pink breasts, full and hard, the nipples of which Mony began to 
suck. Culculine stooped down and, raising the slip, disclosed the round 
fleshy thighs which met together under a blonde grotto, ash colored like her 
hair. With little cries of pleasure, Alexine brought her pretty feet onto 
the bed, allowing her mules to clack to the floor. Her legs spread out from 
her crotch and her buttocks rose toward her friend's licking while her hands 
clasped Mony round the neck. 

The result was not long in coming; her buttocks tightened, her kicking 
became more violent and she discharged, saying, "You bastards, you are 
exciting me. You must satisfy me." 

"He promised to do it twenty times," said Culculine, undressing herself. The 
prince swiftly followed her example. They were entirely naked at the same 
time, and while Alexine lay swooning on the bed, they were able to admire 
each other's body. Culculine's meaty buttocks were deliriously poised under 
her slender waist and Mony's big eggs swelled underneath his enormous tool 
which Culculine took hold of. "Do her first. You can do me afterwards," she 
said. 

The prince brought his shaft close to Alexine's gaping slit which quivered 
at his approach. "You're killing me!" she cried. But he sank in right up to 
his jewels and rose again and fell like a piston. 

Culculine climbed on to the bed and laid her black triangle on Alexine's 
mouth while .Mony licked her little fig-hole. Alexine eddied her buttocks 
back and forth like a crazy woman; she put a finger in Mony's buggered hoie 
and his tool grew even bigger under her caress. He tightened his grip under 
Alexine's buttocks while she clenched her parts about him with incredible 
force; gripped in her smoking slit, his huge penis could scarcely oscillate. 

Soon the struggles of the three were so frenzied that their breaths came in 
gasps. Alexine came three times, and then it was Culculine's turn and she 
moved downwards soon to nibble at Mony's eggs. Aiexine began to cry out like 
one of the damned and as Mony spurted his Rumanian juice into her belly she 
twisted frantically about like a snake. At that moment Culculine tore his 
tool from her friend's hole and her mouth took its place to lap up the sperm 
which flowed out of the crack in a huge broth. 

A moment later, the prince threw himself on Culculine, but his shaft 
remained at the shallow part of her aperture, tickling her clitoris. He held 
one of the young woman's titties in his mouth. Meanwhile, Alexine was 
caressing them both. "Put it into me!" cried Culculine, "I can't stand any 
more!" 

But his tool titivated, relentlessly. She came twice and seemed driven 
almost to desperation when the shaft pierced her rudely up to her uterus. At 
that point, mad with excitement and lust, she bit Mony so hard on the ear 
that a piece of it remained in her mouth. Crying out at the top of her 
voice, she swallowed it and bucked her pelvis peremptorily. This wound from 
which the blood flowed in waves seemed to excite Mony, for he began to 
thrust all the harder and didn't come out of her until he had discharged 
three times and Culculine ten. 

When he withdrew out of her both of them were surprised to see that Alexine 
had disappeared. She came back soon with some stuff from the chemist's to 
dress Mony and an enormous coachman's whip. "I bought it for fifty francs;" 
she exclaimed, "from the driver of Hackney 3269, and it's going to help us 
get the Rumanian to stand again. Let him bandage his ear, Culculine, and 
we'll do to get excited." 

While he staunched his blood, Mony watched this happy spectacle: top to 
bottom, Culculine and Alexine sucked and slobbered at one another avidly. 
Alexine's big derriere, white and dense, scrubbed itself on Culculine's 
face; their tongues, long as children's tools, probed, the slobber and their 
hot juices combined; the sodden hairs stuck together and 
sighs-heart-breaking if they had not been sighs of lust-rose from the bed 
which creaked and groaned under the voluptuous weight of the pretty girls. 

"Come and bugger me!" cried Alexine. But Mony was losing so much blood that 
he had no desire to get a hard on. Alexine got up and, seizing the whip of 
Hackney 3269, a superb brand-new perpignan; brandished it and lashed Mony's 
back and buttocks. Under this new pain he began to yell. But Alexine, naked 
like a delirious Bacchante, went on beating him. 

"Come and spank me too," she cried to Culculine, whose eyes were flaming and 
who was soon there, thrashing Alexine's agitated buttocks with the flat of 
her hand. Culculine was becoming excited, too. 

"Thrash me, Mony!" she cried. He, used to the punishment by this time even 
though his body was becoming bloody, began to slap at the beautiful dark 
buttocks which opened and closed rhythmically. When he began to get an 
erection the blood flowed not only from his ear but also from the cruel 
whipmarks. 

Alexine turned round again and offered her prettily flushed arse to his 
great shaft. He thrust it into her little rosy hole and she, impaled, cried 
out and shook her arse and titties frenziedly. But laughingly, Culculine 
separated them. The two women resumed their sucking off while Mony, bloody, 
and up to the hilt in Alexine's arse, bucked with a vigor which gave her 
excruciating pleasure. His eggs, like the bells of Notre Dame, dangled 
against Culculine's nose. All of a sudden, Alexine's ringpiece tightened 
with tremendous force round the base of Mony's tool and he could no longer 
oscillate. Thus he discharged a long jet of sperm sucked in avidly by 
Alexine's anus. 

During the time a crowd had collected in the street around Hackney 3269 
whose coachman was without a whip. A police sergeant asked him what he had 
done with it. 

"I sold it to a woman in the rue Duphot." 

"Go and buy it back or I'll put you on a charge." 

"All right, I'm going," the driver said. He was a Norman of unusual 
strength. Then, having taken instructions from the concierge, he rang the 
bell on the first floor. 

Alexine went to open the door for him in her short hairs. The hackney driver 
was dazzled by the sight, and, as she escaped into the bedroom, he bounded 
after her, pinioned her, and mounted her from the rear. His tool was big 
enough. Soon he ejaculated, crying out, "Thunder of Brest, Brothel of God, 
Whore of Whore!" 

Alexine with a few arse strokes came at the same time. 

Meanwhile, Mony and Culculine were nearly bursting their sides with 
laughter. The coachman, thinking they were making a fool of him, flew into a 
terrible rage. "Ah, whores, pimp, carrion, dung, cholera! You're taking the 
water out of me! My whip, where's my whip!" And catching sight of it, he 
laid hold of it and thrashed about him with all his strength at Mony, 
Culculine and Alexine, whose naked bodies leapt about under weals from the 
onslaught. Then he began again to get a hard on and, leaping on Mony, he 
began to bugger him. 

The front door had remained open all this time and the police sergeant, as 
the coachman had not returned, had followed upstairs, and at this very 
moment he entered the bedroom. He did not take long to produce his 
regulation staff. He poked it into Culculine's rear; she clucked like a hen 
and shivered at the cold contact of the uniform buttons. 

Alexine, who was at that moment unoccupied, took hold of the white baton 
which hung in the leather sheath at the sergeant's side. She shoved it up 
herself and soon all five of them were in ecstasy. Meanwhile, the blood from 
the wounds ran on to the carpets, the sheets and the furniture. At the same 
time outside in the street the abandoned Hackney 3269 was led away into the 
shed; the horse as it walked along broke wind and the street was polluted in 
a foul fashion. 

 CHAPTER THREE 

Several days after the scene, which the driver of Hackney 3269 and the 
policeman had completed in so strange a fashion, Prince Vibescu had scarcely 
recovered from the shock. The marks of his flagellation had healed and he 
was lazily stretched out on a sofa in a room of the Grand Hotel. 

To excite himself he was reading the various gobbets in a newspaper. One 
story gripped him. The dishwasher in a restaurant had roasted the buttocks 
of a young scullion. Then he had buggered it while it was still hot and 
bloody, eating the roasted pieces which flaked off the youth's backside. At 
the shrieks of the young cook the neighbors came on the scene and the 
sadistic dishwasher was arrested. The story was recounted in all its details 
and the prince savored it slowly while he stroked his tool which had come 
out. 

At his moment there was a knock on the door. An affable chambermaid, fresh 
and very pretty in her bonnet and apron, entered at the word of the prince. 
She was carrying a letter and blushed when she saw Mony button up his 
disordered trousers. 

"Don't go away, my pretty blonde miss, I have something to say to you." At 
the same time he shut the door behind her and, grasping the pretty Mariette 
round the waist, he kissed her gluttonously on the mouth. At first she 
fought against him, closing her lips tightly, but soon, in his powerful 
hold, she began to abandon herself. Then her mouth opened and the prince's 
tongue penetrated and was held between the teeth of Mariette, whose own 
mobile tongue began to tickle the extremity of Mony's. 

With one hand the young man encircled her waist, and with the other he 
lifted up her skirt; she was not wearing drawers. His hand was soon between 
two fat round thighs which one would not have supposed her to possess, for 
she was tall and thin. She had a very hairy grotto. She was hot with sex and 
as his hand slipped into her moist slit she thrust her belly forward, 
abandoning herself. 

At the same time her hand was straying on Mony's fly and she began to 
unbutton it. Then she drew out the superb joystick which she had only 
glimpsed on entering the room. They felt one another, he pinching her 
clitoris, and she pressing her thumb on the hole of his shaft. He pushed her 
on to the sofa where she fell in a sitting position and then he raised her 
legs onto his shoulders. She unhooked herself to allow her two superb and 
hardening titties to spring out. In that position and sucking them 
turnabout, he rammed his hot tool into her sheath. 

Soon she began to cry out, "Oh, that's good, that's so good ... how good you 
are!" Then she bucked with complete abandon and he felt her ejaculate and 
cried, "Oh ... it's good ... oh take everything!" 

Soon afterwards, she took hold of his staff roughly and said, "Enough for 
here." She pulled it from her slit and put it into another round hole placed 
a little lower down, like the eye of a Cyclops between two cool white fleshy 
globes. His shaft, well lubricated by the woman's slime, went in easily, 
and, after having buggered vigorously, the prince released his load of sperm 
into the tight arse of the pretty chambermaid. 

Then he drew out his shaft, which went "floe" as when one uncorks a bottle, 
and on the tip of it there were traces of juices mixed with traces of dung. 

At that moment there was a noise in the corridor and Mariette said, "I must 
go and see." After kissing Mony, who pressed two louis into her hand, she 
fled from the room. As soon as she had gone, Mony washed his tail and then 
opened the letter, which read as follows: 

My handsome Rumanian, What has become of you? You ought to have recovered 
from your fatigue, but do you remember what you said to me? 'If I don't make 
love twenty times in succession, may the eleven thousand virgins chastise 
me." You didn't do it twenty times, so much the worse for you. 

The other day you were received in Alexine's sex-flat, rue Duphot. But now 
that we know you, you can come to my house. Alexine's house is impossible. 
She cannot even receive me there. That's why she has a sex-flat. Her senator 
is too jealous. For myself, I'm fed up, my lover is an explorer. At the 
moment he is threading pearls with the Negresses of the Ivory Coast. You can 
come to my place, 214, rue de Prony. We expect you at 4 p.m. 

Culculine d'Ancone. 

As soon as he had read this letter the prince looked at the clock. It was 11 
a.m. He rang to send for the masseur, who massaged him and buggered him 
properly. This performance brought new life to him. He took a bath and felt 
clean and fit when he sent for the hairdresser, who dressed his hair and 
buggered him artistically. The manicurist came up next. He attended to his 
nails and buggered him vigorously. 

Then the prince felt completely at ease. He went down into the boulevards, 
lunched well, then took a hackney carriage to the rue de Prony. It was a 
small mansion, and the whole place was Culculine's. An old maid let him in. 
This house was furnished with exquisite taste. 

From there he was led into a bedroom where there was a very low, very broad 
bed made of copper. The parquet flooring was covered with animal skins which 
muffled the sound of one's footsteps. The prince undressed himself quickly 
and was already in the nude when Alexine and Culculine came in, dressed in 
ravishing negliges. They began to laugh and kissed him. 

He began by sitting down. Then he took the young women one on each knee, but 
lifting their skirts so that he could feel their naked arses on his thighs 
at the same time as they remained decently clad. Then he rubbed one with 
each hand while they were tickling his staff. When he felt that they were 
good and hot, he said to them, "Now we are going to have a lesson." He made 
them sit in a chair facing him and after a moment's reflection said, 
"Mesdemoiselles, I have just felt that you are not wearing panties. You 
ought to be ashamed of yourselves. Go quickly and put them on." 

When they returned he began the lesson. "Mademoiselle Alexine Mangetout, 
what is the King of Italy called?" 

"If you think I care a damn about that, I don't," said Alexine. 

"Get on to the bed," cried the teacher. 

He made her kneel on the bed with her back turned towards him, then he made 
her lift the skirt of her neglige and spread wide the slit of her undies 
through which the gleaming white globes of her buttocks protruded. Then he 
began to slap her bottom with the palm of his hand and soon it began to 
redden. 

This excited Alexine, who was a beautiful color, and soon the prince could 
not restrain himself any longer. He put his hands round the young woman's 
bust and gripped her breasts underneath the thin dressing gown. Then, moving 
downwards with one hand, he tickled her clitoris and found that her nest was 
hot and sticky. 

Her hands had not been inactive; she had grasped the prince's tool and 
directed it towards the narrow path of Sodom. Alexine was leaning forward in 
such a way as to make her buttocks stick out better and facilitate the entry 
of Mony's shaft. 

Soon the glans penis was inside. The rest followed and his eggs came to beat 
against the young woman's lower buttocks. Culculine, who was annoyed, got 
onto the bed, too, and licked Alexine's slit, and Alexine, feasted on two 
sides, broke into sobs of joy. Her body, driven by lust, threshed about as 
though she were in agony. Voluptuous cries came from her throat. The big 
shaft filled her, moving forwards from behind, and knocked against the 
membrane which separated it from Culculine's tongue which lapped up the 
juice occasioned by this pastime. 

Mony's belly was beating against Alexine's arse. The prince buggered more 
vigorously. He began to bite the young woman's throat. His tool swelled. 
Alexine could no longer bear so much pleasure; she dropped her fanny on top 
of Culculine's face. Culculine did not stop tonguing her. His shaft in her 
buttocks, the prince collapsed in her wake, and after a few more kidney 
blows he shot his load into her. 

She remained stretched out on the bed while Mony went to wash himself and 
Culculine went to urinate. She took a bucket, stood it underneath, her legs 
apart, lifted her skirt and made water voluminously. Then, to blow away the 
last drops which clung to her short hairs, she emitted a little wind, at 
once discreet and tender, which excited Mony considerably. 

"Crap in my hands, crap in my hands!" he cried. She smiled and he got behind 
her while she lowered her buttocks a little and began to strain. She was 
wearing transparent little cambric panties through when you could see her 
beautiful nervous thighs. Black net stockings came up to above her knees and 
molded her superb calves, beautifully formed and neither too fat nor too 
thin. Her rear stuck out in this position, admirably framed by the split of 
the panties. 

Mony regarded the brown and rosy buttocks attentively; they were downy and 
the blood under the skin made them glow. Below the well-pronounced bottom of 
her spine he noticed that the channel between her buttocks began, broad at 
first and then narrowing and becoming deeper in proportion as the thickness 
of the buttocks increased. Thus one arrived at a little round brown fig-hole 
which was all creased up. 

The young woman's efforts first caused her arsehole to dilate and to push 
out a little skin, smooth and pink like the inside of a lip. 

"Now!" cried Mony. A little knob of crap appeared, pointed and 
insignificant, like a rodent's nose, returning immediately in its hole. When 
it appeared again, it was followed slowly and majestically by the rest of 
the sausage which, in size and luxuriance, was one of the most beautiful 
turds that a great intestine had ever produced. 

Without interruption, the unctuous crap ran smoothly outwards like a ship's 
cable. It dangled graciously between the pretty, gradually spreading 
buttocks. The hole dilated still more; this helped a little, and the crap 
fell, all hot and odorous, into Mony's hands which were there expectantly to 
receive it. 

Then he cried, "Stay like that," and, bending down, he licked her 
thoroughly, rolling the bolt of dung in his hands. Afterwards, he crushed it 
voluptuously and coated his entire body with it. Following Alexine's 
example, Culculine was taking her clothes off. Meanwhile, Alexine was 
showing her fat transparently blonde rear to Mony. "Crap on me," he cried to 
Alexine, stretching himself out on the floor. 

She squatted above him so that he could enjoy the spectacle about to be 
enacted by her hole. Her first efforts dislodged a pale globule of mucous 
which Mony had put there. Afterwards came the crap, soft and yellow, which 
fell in several spurts and, as she was laughing and wiggling her backside, 
the stuff fell all over Mony's body. His belly was soon strewn with several 
of these smelly slugs. 

Alexine had watered at the same time, and the hot jet, falling on his tool, 
reawakened his animal spirits. His skittle stirred under the stream, grew 
little by little more inflated until the moment when, arrived at its normal 
dimensions, the glans penis offered itself, red like a fat plum, under the 
eyes of the young woman who, drawing nearer to it, squatted lower and lower 
to allow the rampant shaft to ride between the hairy flanges of her gaping 
slit. 

Mony enjoyed the spectacle. Alexine's descending rear became more and more 
appetizingly round. Its alluring curves became fuller and the split between 
her buttocks became more and more pronounced. She came to rest with his 
shaft completely embedded in it; she rose again and began a pretty see-saw 
motion which constantly' modified its more significant proportions-a most 
delicious spectacle! Mony was covered in crap and his joy was profound. Soon 
he felt her vagina close like a vise and Alexine said in a strangled voice, 
"Bastard! it's coming ... oh, wonderful...." And she let go of her seed. 

But Culculine, who had watched this operation and who seemed to be very hot, 
drew her roughly off the stake which impaled her, and, throwing herself on 
Mony without being put out at all by the crap which filthied her also, 
fitted his shaft to her sheath with a sigh of satisfaction. Then she began 
to buck violently, saying "Han!" at each loin stroke. 

Alexine, vexed at being cheated out of what was hers, opened a drawer and 
took out a copper-thonged cat-o'-nine-tails. She set about thrashing 
Culculine's buttocks. Culculine's bucking became more passionate. Alexine, 
excited by the spectacle, beat hard and with a will. The blows rained on the 
superb backside. Mony, leaning his head a little to one side watched the 
rising and falling of Culculine's fat rear in a mirror which faced him. 

At the rise the buttocks opened, and her little rose appeared for an instant 
to disappear at the fall when her beautiful quivering buttocks tightened. 
Below, the distended lips of her slit engulfed the enormous staff which, 
bared at the rise, glistened with slime. Alexine's blows had soon reddened 
the helpless buttocks which were now quivering with orgiastic lust. Soon a 
blow drew blood. 

Both of them, the whipper and the whipped, became as delirious as Bacchantes 
and the one seemed to enjoy it as much as the other. Mony himself began to 
share their fury and his fingernails ploughed into Culculine's satin back. 
Alexine, to be in a comfortable position to thrash Culculine, knelt down in 
front of the pair. Her big derriere, which quivered and shook at each blow 
she dealt, was at two fingers' distance from Mony's mouth. 

His tongue was soon inside. Then, driven on by his voluptuous rage, he sank 
his teeth into the right buttock. The young woman uttered a cry of pain. The 
teeth had pierced the skin and a fresh and vermilion blood slaked his 
gullet. He lapped it up, tasting distinctly the flavor of slightly salted 
iron. 

Culculine's upturned eyes at that moment showed only white and her bucking 
became wild. Her mouth was stained by the crap on Mony's body; she groaned 
and discharged at the same time as he. Utterly exhausted, Alexine fell 
across them, her teeth clicking and grinding furiously, and Mony, who thrust 
his mouth in her slit, had only to give two or three pokes of his tongue to 
bring forth a discharge. And then, after several somersaults their nerves 
relaxed, and the trio was stretched out in the crap, the blood and their own 
juices. They all fell asleep like that, and when they awoke the clock in the 
room was striking midnight. 

"Don't move. I heard a noise," said Culculine. "It's not my maid. She's used 
to this kind of thing and doesn't bother me. Anyway, she must be in bed by 
now." 

A cold sweat ran down the foreheads of Mony and the young women. Their hair 
stood on end and a shiver ran through their naked, stained bodies. 

"Someone's there," said Alexine. 

"Yes," Mony agreed. 

At that moment the door opened and the little light that percolated inwards 
from the dark street threw into relief two human shadows clad in overcoats 
with upturned collars and wearing bowler hats. The first one quickly 
switched on an electric torch he was carrying, sending a clear beam of light 
across the room. But at first the house-breakers did not see the group which 
was straddled on the floor. 

"Smells bloody awful," said the first. 

"Go in all the same." There ought to be some stuff in the drawers," replied 
the second. At that moment, Culculine, who had dragged herself towards the 
electric light switch, quickly turned on the light. 

The burglars stood dumbfounded before the nudes. "Good crap!" cried the 
first, "Faith of Cornaboeux! You stink! Whew!" He was a massive dark man 
with hairy hands. His brisding beard made him even more hideous. 

"Christ Almighty!" said the second, "for me the crap's O.K. It's good luck." 
He was a pale one-eyed street-Arab and he was chewing the butt of an 
extinguished cigarette. 

"You're right, La Chaloupe," said Cornaboeux, "I'm just going to sink my 
boots in it, and for the first piece of good luck I'm going to have a go at 
Mademoiselle. But first, what about His Lordship?" 

And throwing themselves on the startled Mony, the burglars gagged him and 
bound his arms and legs. Then, turning on the two shivering but slightly 
amused women, la Chaloupe said: "And you girlies try to be nice see? Or else 
I'll tell your pa." 

He had a stick in his hand and he gave it to Culculine and ordered her to 
whip Mony as hard as she could. Placing himself behind her, he brought out a 
tool as thin as your little finger but much longer. Culculine began to enjoy 
herself, La Chaloupe began by slapping his buttocks and saying, "Eh eh, my 
little jellyroll, you're going to play the flute! Me, I'm for the arse 
country!" He fingered and squeezed her big downy arse, and passing one hand 
round the front, he manipulated her clitoris. Then, brutally, he thrust in 
with his thin long tool. 

Culculine began to waggle her buns. At the same time she thrashed Mony, who 
could neither defend himself nor cry out. He squirmed like a worm at each 
stroke of the switch which cut into his purpling flesh. Then, in proportion 
as the buggering increased, the delirious Culculine thrashed more viciously, 
saying, "Bastard! Take that for a filthy swine ... La Chaloupe, in with that 
toothpick of yours, deep as you can!" Mony's body was soon covered with 
blood. 

While this was going on, Cornaboeux had grabbed hold of Alexine and had 
thrown her onto the bed. He began by biting her teats, which swelled up in 
excitement. Then he went down to her nest. He took it completely into his 
mouth and began to chew the pretty blonde short-hairs of her mound. He got 
up again and took out a short but enormous staff whose knob was violet. 

Turning her over, he began to bugger her big rosy arsehole; from time to 
time passing his hand along the rut between her buttocks. Then he took the 
young woman by her left arm in such a way that her slit was pulled round to 
the right. His other hand held her by her short-hairs-this caused her a 
great deal of pain. 

She began to cry and her sobs grew as Cornaboeux began once again to bugger 
her with all the force of his arm. Her big pink thighs trembled and her arse 
shivered each time the robber's huge hammer-paw drove home. In the end she 
tried to defend herself. With her small hands she began to claw at the 
bearded face. She tore out the hairs of his beard as he tore out the hair of 
her slit. "Fair do," said Cornaboeux and he turned her over. 

At that moment she witnessed the spectacle of La Chaloupe buggering 
Culculine, who, in a terrible frenzy, was still thrashing Mony's bloody 
body. Cornaboeux's big beet began to strike against her behind, but he 
missed his mark, poking to right and left of it or else a little too high or 
a little too low. Then, when he found the hole, he placed his hands on her 
smooth downy loins and pulled her towards him with all his might. The pain 
which this enormous tool, tearing her hole caused her would have made her 
scream in agony had she not been so excited by everything that was 
happening. 

As soon as he had entered her with his tool, Cornaboeux brought it out 
again. Then, turning her over again, he drove his instrument into her belly. 
It could scarcely enter because of its gargantuan size, but as soon as he 
was inside, Alexine crossed her legs behind him and held him so tightly that 
even if he had wanted to get out he could not have done so. 

The thrusting was raging. Cornaboeux sucked her teats and his tickling beard 
excited her. She put her hand inside his pants and pierced his anus with a 
finger. And then, rocking madly, they bit at each other like wild beasts. 
They discharged frenziedly. But Cornaboeux's shaft throttled by Alexine's 
vagina, began to get hard again. Alexine closed her eyes, the better to 
savor this new embrace; she discharged fourteen times and Cornaboeux thrice. 

When she came back to her wits, she noticed that both her arsehole and her 
slit were bloody; they had been wounded by Cornaboeux's enormous beet. She 
noticed Mony, who was turning convulsive somersaults on the floor. His body 
was one massive sore. 

Culculine, at the order of the one-eyed La Chaloupe, was sucking his shaft, 
on her knees like a handmaiden in front of him. 

"All right, on your feet, girl," cried Cornaboeux. 

Alexine obeyed and he gave her a kick in the arse which sent her sprawling 
on top of Mony. Cornaboeux, heedless of her prayers, bound and gagged her, 
and, seizing the switch, he began to stripe her beautiful body with lashes. 
Her bum quivered under each blow. Then it was the back, the belly, the 
thighs, the breasts, which received the deluge. 

In her writhings, Alexine met Mony's shaft, which was standing up like a 
dead man's. By chance, it hooked the young woman's slit and penetrated. 
Cornaboeux redoubled his blows. He was thrashing them both indiscriminately. 
They enjoyed it atrociously. Soon the delicate pink skin of the young blonde 
was no longer visible under the lash marks and the blood which welled from 
them. Mony had fainted. She fainted soon afterwards. 

Cornaboeux, whose arm was getting tired, turned towards Culculine, who was 
trying to suck off La Chaloupe. But the bugger could not come. Cornaboeux 
ordered the beautiful brunette to spread out her thighs. He had great 
difficulty in poking her backwards. She suffered a great deal, but 
stoically, not letting go of La Chaloupe's shaft which she was sucking. 

When Cornaboeux was properly installed in Culculine's sheath, he made her 
lift her right arm and he bit at the thick tuft which grew there. When the 
climax came, Culculine bit La Chaloupe's tool violently and fainted. He 
uttered a horrible scream of anguish, but the glans penis had come right 
off. Cornaboeux, who had just discharged, came out of Culculine as she fell 
fainting to the floor. La Chaloupe, who was also fainting, lost all his 
blood. 

"My poor La Chaloupe!" said Cornaboeux. "You're screwed right enough! Better 
end it here and now," and so saying, he extracted a knife and delivered a 
mortal blow to La Chaloupe at the same time as he was shaking off the last 
drops of semen which hung on his tool. He did that onto Culculine's 
prostrate body. La Chaloupe died saying "Ouf!" 

Cornaboeux buttoned himself up carefully, rifled all the drawers for money, 
clothes, jewels and watches, and then, seeing Culculine, who was unconscious 
on the floor, thought: "I must avenge La Chaloupe." He drew his knife once 
again and delivered a terrible blow between her buttocks. She did not come 
out of her faint. Cornaboeux left the knife sticking in her rear. 

Three o'clock in the morning struck. Then he left as he had entered, leaving 
four bodies stretched out on the floor of the room, left leaving a room full 
of blood, crap, semen and nameless disorder. In the street he turned quickly 
towards Menilmontant, singing: 

 An arse ought to smell like an arse And not like Eau de Cologne.... and 
also: Little g.......ass jet Little g.........ass jet Light up, light up my 
little wick.... 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

It was a great scandal. The newspapers spoke of the affair for eight days. 
Culculine, Alexine and Prince Vibescu remained in bed for two months. During 
his convalescence Mony went one night to a bar near Montparnasse. One drank 
kerosene here-a delightful drink for palates weary of ordinary liqueurs. 

While sampling this infamous rotgut, the prince glanced around the company. 
One of them, a colossal bearded man, was dressed like a market porter, and 
his immense dusty hat gave him the look of a fabulous demi-god ready to 
accomplish heroic deeds. 

The prince thought he recognized the sympathetic face of the housebreaker, 
Cornaboeux. Suddenly he heard him ask for kerosene in a thundering voice. It 
was certainly the voice of Cornaboeux. Mony got up and went over to him with 
his hand extended. 

"How are you, Cornaboeux? I see you're at the markets now!" 

"Me!" said the surprised giant. "How do you know me?" 

"I saw you at 213, rue de Prony," said Mony casually. 

"It wasn't me," said Cornaboeux. "I don't know you at all. I've been at the 
markets for three months now and I'm well known there. Leave me alone." 

"Don't be a damn fool, Cornaboeux," answered Mony. "You belong to me. I can 
hand you over to the police. But I like you and if you want to follow me 
you'll be my valet. You'll come with me everywhere and you'll be able to 
take part in my pleasures. You will help me and defend me if necessary. 
Then, if you're faithful to me, I'll make your fortune. Answer me now." 

"You're a brick, and you know what you're talking about. Your hand on it, 
I'm your man." 

Several days later, Cornaboeux, promoted to the rank of valet, was buckling 
up the suitcases. Prince Mony had been hastily recalled to Bucharest. His 
close friend, the Vice-Consul of Serbia, had just died, leaving him the bulk 
of his fortune. It was a question of tin mines which had been very 
productive for several years but which needed looking over on the spot so 
that the appraisal value was not lowered. 

Prince Mony, as one has seen, did not value money for itself. He desired to 
be as rich as possible, but only to procure those pleasures for himself 
which gold alone could buy. The maxim uttered by one of his 
ancestors-"Everything is for sale; one can buy anything so long as one can 
pay for it"-was always on his lips. 

Prince Mony and Cornaboeux had taken their seats in the Orient Express and 
the vibration of the train was not long in having its effect. Mony's shaft 
stood like a Cossack's and he threw inflamed glances at Cornaboeux. Outside, 
the beautiful countryside of eastern France unrolled in all its smooth and 
tranquil magnificence. 

The car was nearly empty. An old gouty man, richly clothed, prattled and 
groaned over the Figaro which he was trying to read. Mony, who was clothed 
in an ample raglan coat, took Cornaboeux's hani and, passing it through the 
vent in the pocket of this commodious garment, brought it to his trouser 
flap. The massive valet understood his master's wish. His broad hand was 
hairy but downy and softer than one would have supposed. His fingers gently 
unbuttoned the prince's trousers. They gripped the excited prick whose 
erected state only goes to prove the famous distich of Alphonse Allais: 

The exciting shaking of trains Sets fire to marrow in loins. 

But an employee of the Compagnie des Wagons-Lits came in at that moment and 
announced that it was dinnertime and that many travelers were already in the 
restaurant car. "An excellent idea!" said Mony. "We'll dine first, 
Cornaboeux." The hand of his man came out of the vent in the coat. 

They went towards the dining car. The prince still had a hard on and, as he 
had not buttoned up, a prominent bump appeared underneath his clothing. The 
dinner began without further hindrance, rocked by the friction of the wheels 
on the rails and by the diverse clickings of the china, the silverware, and 
the crystalware, troubled occasionally by the sudden plop of a cork from a 
bottle of Apollinaris. 

At one table at the back, opposite that at which Mony was dining, were two 
pretty blonde women. Cornaboeux, who was facing them, pointed them out to 
Mony. The prince turned round and recognized one of them who was clothed 
more modestly than the other; it was Mariette, the exquisite chambermaid of 
the Grand Hotel. He got up immediately and approached the young ladies. He 
greeted Mariette and then turned to the other young woman, who was very 
pretty and artfully made up. Her peroxide hair gave her a modern air which 
delighted Mony. 

"Madame," he said to her, "pray excuse my coming across like this; I take 
the liberty of introducing myself, since on this train it would be virtually 
impossible to find a mutual acquaintance to effect the introduction. I am 
Prince Mony Vibescu, Hereditary Hospodar. The mademoiselle here, Mariette, 
who without doubt has left the service of the Grand Hotel for yours, was 
gracious enough to allow me to contract a debt of recognition towards her 
which I should like to repay this very day. I want to marry her to my valet 
and I shall bestow a dowry of 50,000 francs on each of them." 

"I don't see anything inconvenient in that," said the lady. "As a 
matter-of-fact it doesn't seem to be badly arranged at all. And what about 
yourself?" 

Mony's shaft, having found a gap in the raglan between two buttons, reared 
its ruby head before the eyes of the astonished prince, who blushed and made 
haste to remove the engine from sight. The lady broke into a laugh. 

"Fortunately you're not in a position where anyone can see you-that would 
have made a pretty ... But do tell me, whom is the formidable engine for?" 

"Permit me," said Mony gallantly, "to let it pay homage to your sovereign 
beauty." 

"We shall see," said the lady. "Meanwhile, as you have already introduced 
yourself, I'm going to introduce myself. Estelle Romange...." 

"The great actress of the Comedie-Francaise?" asked Mony. 

The lady inclined her head. 

Mony, mad 'with joy, cried: "Estelle, I ought to have recognized you! I have 
been your passionate admirer for a long time. Have I not spent whole 
evenings at the Theatre Francaise watching you play amorous roles! And to 
calm myself down, not being able to stroke myself in public, I used to stick 
my fingers in my nose and pull out and eat the little snotcrusts. It was 
good. Oh, it was good!" 

"Mariette, go and have dinner with your fiance," said Estelle. "Prince, you 
dine with me." 

As soon as they were facing one another across the table, the prince and the 
actress looked at one another amorously. 

"Where are you going?" asked Mony. 

"To Vienna to play before the Emperor." 

"And the decree of Moscow?" 

"I'm fed up with the decree of Moscow. I'm going to send in my resignation 
tomorrow to Claretie. They've been giving me the go-by-pushing me into poor 
parts. I was refused the role of Eoraka in Mounet-Sully's new play. I'm 
leaving. They're not going to smother my talent." 

"Recite something to me," said Mony eagerly, "poetry...." 

While the plates were being changed she recited the Invitation au Voyage. As 
the admirable poem, into which Baudelaire had put a little of his sad love, 
of his passionate nostalgia, was being uttered, Mony felt the actress' small 
feet moving up the length of his legs. Under the raglan they reached his 
shaft which was hanging sadly outside his fly. There the feet came to a 
halt, and, gently taking it between them, they moved in a curious little 
see-saw motion. Hard at once, the young man's tool let itself be stroked by 
the delicate soles of Estelle Romange's feet. Soon he began to derive great 
pleasure from it and he improvised this sonnet which he recited to the 
actress, whose footwork did not cease until he had ccme to the end of it! 

EPITHALAMION 

 Your hands will guide my handsome member in, Into the sacred brothel deep 
between your thighs: Let me confirm, in spite of Avinain, I am your love if 
you accept with sighs. Mouthing white breasts like smooth rich cream, 
Abject, will honor your ambrosial teats; From male shaft and your shy 
feminine seam The sperm will fall like pearls at our feet. My whore! Whose 
buttocks have pillaged the terse And savory mystery from all pulpy fruits, 
From earth, the humble sexless nothing of a ball! And moon, each month so 
vain of its arse! And from your eyes, even silkily veiled, there shoots The 
obscure clearness that makes stars fall. 

And as his shaft had arrived at the limit of excitation, Estelle lowered her 
feet and said, "My dear Prince, let us not spit it out in the dining car. 
Whatever would they think of us! Allow me to thank you for the homage paid 
to Corneille in the inspiration of your sonnet. Even though I'm leaving the 
Comedie-Fransaise, I am constantly concerned with everything that interests 
the company." 

"But after you have played in front of Francois-Joseph," said Mony, "what do 
you intend to do?" 

"My dream," said Estelle, "would be to become a cabaret star." 

"Take care," said Mony with a smile. "The obscure M. Claretie makes the 
stars falll You will have endless lawsuits." 

"Don't you worry about that, Mony! Make up some more poetry before we go to 
bye-bye." 

"All right," said Mony, and he improvised these delicate mythological 
sonnets: 

 HERCULES AND OMPHALUS 

 The fat bum Of Omphalus Overcome Est descendus "Do you feel The grain Of my 
keel?" "What a man!" The dog At my seam! A dream? How's log? Hercules 
Buggered heem! 

 PYRAMUS AND THISBE 

 Madame Thisbe Fainting: "Baby!" Pyramus Bending Rending "Hebe!" The belle 
Said "Out!" Then she Came The same As he. 

 "That's exquisite! delicious! Admirable, Mony; you're a divine poet! Come 
and screw me in the sleeping car. I'm in a screwing mood." 

Mony paid the bills. Mariette and Cornaboeux were looking at each other 
languorously. In the corridor Mony slipped 50 francs to the attendant, who 
let the two couples into the same cabin. 

"You'll arrange everything with the customs," said Mony to the man in the 
skipper cap. "We have nothing to declare. And make sure to give us a knock 
two minutes before we cross the frontier." 

In the cabin they all stripped to their short-hairs. Mariette was the first 
one naked. Mony had never seen her thus, but he recognized the fat round 
thighs and the forest of short-hairs which shadowed her plump slit. Her 
teats grew big with excitement like the tools of Mony and Cornaboeux. 

"Cornaboeux," said Mony, "bugger me while I furbish this delightful girl." 

Estelle took longer to undress and by the time she was in her short-hairs, 
Mony had his shaft in Mariette's nest from the rear. Mariette, beginning to 
enjoy herself, agitated her fat arse and made it slap against Mony's belly. 
Cornaboeux had thrust his short thick member into Mony's dilated anus. 

"Bloody train," Mony was saying, "we're not going to able to keep our 
balance." 

Mariette clucked like a hen and piped like a thrush in the vines. Mony had 
his arms round about her and was crushing her teats. He admired the beauty 
of Estelle whose hard hair betrayed the hand of a skillful hairdresser. She 
was a modern woman in every sense of the word. Her wavy hair was held in 
place by shell combs whose color blended skillfully with the bleached 
hairstyle. 

Her body was charmingly pretty. Her nervous buttocks were tilted in a 
provocative fashion. Her artfully painted face gave her the piquant air of 
an expensive harlot. Her breasts drooped a little, but it became her very 
well. They were small, almost minute, and pear shaped. They were soft and 
silky to the touch. One would have though one was touching the udder of a 
milking goat, and when she turned around they hopped about like a cambric 
handkerchief, rolled into a ball and tossed in one's hand. 

On her mound she had only a little tuft of silky hairs. She was capering 
about on the bunk; she threw her long nervous thighs around Mariette's neck, 
while Mariette, having her mistress' grotto in front of her mouth, began to 
suck at it gluttonously, burying her nose between her buttocks. Estelle had 
already poked her tongue into her maid's nest and was simultaneously sucking 
Money's big beet which was throbbing there with ardor. 

Cornaboeux was in ecstasy at this spectacle. His big shaft up to the hilt in 
the hairy arse of the prince, came and went slowly. He let go one or two big 
bursts of wind which flavored the atmosphere, augmenting the pleasure of the 
prince and the two women. 

Suddenly, Estelle began to quiver frightfully; her rear began to dance in 
front of Mariette's nose and the latter's slobberings and thrusts became 
more violent. Estelle kicked out right and left, her long legs sheathed in 
black silk stockings and her feet in high-heeled Louis XV shoes. In doing so 
she delivered a terrible nose blow to Cornaboeux, who became giddy from it 
and began to bleed abundantly. 

"Whore!" yelled Cornaboeux, and to avenge himself he pinched Mony's rump 
cruelly. Mony, beside himself with rage, bit deeply into Mariette's 
shoulder, and so painful was the bite that she discharged with a bellow and 
sank her teeth into the slit of her mistress who hysterically tightened her 
thighs around her maid's neck. 

"I'm suffocating!" gasped Mariette with difficulty, but no one heard her. 
The thighs gripped all the harder. Mariette's face became purple and her 
foaming mouth remained glued at the actress' nest. Mony discharged with a 
bellow into an inert vagina. Cornaboeux, his eyes popping from their 
sockets, let go his load into Mony's arsehole, saying in a thick voice, "If 
you don't become pregnant you're not a man!" 

The four people had sunk down and stretched on the bunk. Estelle ground her 
teeth, punching out in all directions, her legs quivering. Cornaboeux 
urinated out of the window. Mony tried to draw himself from Mariette's nest 
but he couldn't. The maid's body no longer moved. 

"Let me get out," said Mony, caressing her. Then, when she didn't, he 
pinched her arse and bit her, but nothing happened. 

"Open her thighs for me," said Mony to Cornaboeux. "She's fainted." 

Her slit was so terribly contracted that he got his member out with great 
difficulty. They tried to waken Mariette but nothing happened. "Damn!" said 
Cornaboeux, "she's croaked!" And it was true. Mariette had been strangled by 
her mistress' legs. 

She was dead, irremediably dead. 

"We've had it," said Mony. 

"It's that bitch there who caused it all," said Cornaboeux, pointing to 
Estelle, who was beginning to calm down, and, taking the hairbrush from 
Estelle's toilet bag, he began to thrash her with it violently. The bristles 
pierced at each blow. This punishment seemed to excite her enormously. 

At that moment there was a knock on the door. "It's the arranged signal," 
said Mony. "In several moments we'll be crossing the frontier. By God, we 
must break a bit off half in France and half in Germany! Screw the body!" 
Mony, his shaft rising, hurled himself on Estelle, who, her thighs wide 
open, received him in her burning sheath, crying, "Give me every inch of it, 
oh, oh!" 

There was something demonic about the jerks of her buttocks; her mouth 
slobbered and the slobber mixed with the pain on her face and dribbled on to 
her chin and breast. Mony put his tongue in her mouth and jammed the handle 
of the brush up her arsehole. This new caper caused her to bite Mony's 
tongue so hard that he had to pinch her until he drew blood to make her let 
go. 

Meanwhile, glancing down at the shocking purple face of Mariette, Cornaboeux 
turned the body over. He stretched the buttocks apart and penetrated into 
her hole of Sodom with his enormous shaft. Then he gave free rein to his 
natural ferocity. Tuft by tuft he ripped out the blonde hairs, his teeth 
lacerated the snow-white back, and the scarlet blood which flowed from it 
coagulated at once and had the appearance of blood drops on the snow. A 
little before he came, he thrust his hand into her still warm vagina and, 
following it with his entire arm, began to pull at the bowels of the 
unfortunate chambermaid. He had already pulled out two metres of entrails 
and had twisted them about his waist like a lifebelt. 

He discharged, vomiting up his meal, as much from the vibrations of the 
train as from the experience he had undergone. Mony discharged and looked 
with stupefaction at his valet, who was hiccoughing violently and 
regurgitating on to the lamentable corpse. Among the bloody hairs the bowels 
and the blood mixed with the vomit. 

"You filthy swine!" cried the prince. "May the violence done to that dead 
girl whom you were to marry weigh heavily on you on your deathbed! If I 
didn't like you so much, I would kill you like a dog!" 

Cornaboeux got up bleeding and vomited the last gobbets of his sickness. He 
pointed to Estelle, whose staring eyes were transfixed by the unearthly 
spectacle. 

"She caused it all," he said. 

"Don't be unfair." said Mony, "She made it possible for you to satisfy your 
necrophiliacal desires." 

And as the train was crossing a bridge, Mony leaned out of the window to 
take in the romantic panorama of the Rhine which unwound its green splendors 
into a countryside which rolled back in meandering waves as far as the 
horizon. It was 4 o'clock in the morning. Cows grazed in the pastures and 
children were already dancing under the German lime trees. Pipe music, 
monotonous and funereal, testified to the presence of a Prussian regiment, 
and the melody mixed sadly with the iron noises of the bridge and the moving 
train. Happy villages animated the river banks dominated by ancient castles, 
and the Rhineland vines glimmered in the distance, a patterned and precious 
mosaic. 

When Mony turned round again, he saw the sinister Cornaboeux sitting on 
Estelle's face. His colossal arse covered the face of the actress entirely. 
He had crapped and the soft stinking stuff had fallen on all sides. He was 
holding an enormous knife with which he was working over her palpitating 
belly. The body of the actress went into a few brief convulsions. 

"Listen," said Mony, "stay seated like that." And lying down on the dying 
woman he slipped his shaft into her moribund sheath. Thus he played with the 
last spasms of the assassinated woman whose agony must have been horrible, 
steeping his arms in the hot blood which flowed from her lacerated belly. 
When he discharged, the actress was no longer moving and her recoiling eyes 
were full of crap. 

"Now." said Cornaboeux, "we'd better get the hell out of here." 

They cleaned themselves and dressed. It was 6 o'clock in the morning. They 
climbed out of the window and courageously lay down on the footboards of the 
swiftly moving train. Then, at a signal from Cornaboeux, they allowed 
themselves to drop softly on to the sandy embankment of the track. They got 
up a little dizzy but with no broken bones and ironically waved to the train 
which was already growing smaller as it moved into the distance. 

"Just in time," Mony said. 

They reached the first town and rested there for two days. Then they took 
another train for Bucharest. 

The double murder in the Orient Express fed the newspapers for six months. 
The murderers were not found and the crime was attributed to Jack the 
Ripper-who had broad shoulders. 

At Bucharest the prince came into the fortune of the vice-consul. His 
relations with the Serbian colony were such that he was invited to spend the 
evening at the house of Natacha Kolovitch, the wife of a colonel who had 
been imprisoned for his hostility towards the Obrenovitch dynasty. Mony and 
Cornaboeux arrived about eight in the evening. The beautiful Natacha was in 
a room whose walls were black and which was lit by long yellow candles and 
decorated with skulls and shinbones. 

"Prince Vibescu," said the lady, "you are going to be present at a secret 
meeting of the anti-dynastic committee of Serbia. Without doubt we shall 
decide tonight on the death of the infamous Alexander and his whore of a 
wife, Draga Machin. The idea is to restablish King Peter Kara-georgevitch on 
the throne of his ancestors. If you reveal what you see and hear you will be 
killed by an invisible hand wherever you are." 

Mony and Cornaboeux bowed their heads. 

The conspirators arrived one by one. Andre Bar, the Parisian journalist, was 
the instigator of the plot. He arrived, like death, in a Spanish cape. All 
the assembled conspirators got undressed and the beautiful Natacha exhibited 
her wonderful nudity. Her splendid mound and her belly disappeared under a 
tuft of crinkly black hair which reached to her navel. 

She lay down on a table covered with black cloth. A Russian priest entered 
clothed in sacerdotal garments and began to say mass on Natacha's belly. 
Mony was standing near Natacha; she seized his shaft and sucked it as the 
mass progressed. 

Cornaboeux had thrown himself on Andre Bar and was buggering him while Bar 
was saying, lyrically, "I swear by this enormous staff which buggers me to 
the bottom of my soul that the Obrenovitch dynasty must be extinguished 
before long. Push, Cornaboeux! Your buggering is making me stand." Placing 
himself behind Mony, he buggered him while Mony discharged his sperm into 
the beautiful Natacha's mouth. At this sight, all the conspirators began to 
bugger each other frantically. The room was filled with nothing but 
quivering men's arses stuck by formidable rods. The Russian priest got 
Natacha to stroke him twice and his ecclesiastical juices glittered on the 
body of the beautiful colonel's wife. 

"Let the bride and groom be brought in!" cried the priest. A strange couple 
was ushered in; a small boy of ten years of age in formal dress, his cocked 
hat under his arm, accompanied by a ravishing young girl no more than eight 
years of age who wore a wedding dress of white satin decorated with bouquets 
of orange blossoms. The priest made a speech and married them by an exchange 
of rings. Then they were urged to fornicate. 

The boy pulled out a little thing about the size of a little finger and the 
newlywed drew up her skirts to the peplum and showed her tiny white thighs, 
at the top of which gaped a little slit, beardless and pink, like the 
interior of the open beak of a newly born jay. A religious silence fell on 
the assembled crowd. The little boy made an effort to stick the little girl. 
As he could not manage it, his trousers were taken off to excite him. Mony 
buggered him gently while Natacha titillated his little knob and eggs with 
the end of her tongue. The little boy began to stand and was thus able to 
deflower the little girl. 

When the boy and girl had fenced together for ten minutes they were 
separated, and Cornaboeux, seizing the boy, stove him in to the depths with 
his powerful shaft. Mony could no longer restrain his desire to poke the 
little girl. He seized her, mounted her, and forced his lively rod into her 
miniature vagina. The two children uttered terrible cries of pain and the 
blood flowed around the staffs of Mony and Cornaboeux. 

The the little girl was placed on Natacha, and the priest, who had just 
finished mass, pulled up her skirts and began to bugger her white and 
charming little buttocks. Natacha got up again then and, bestriding Andre 
Bar in an armchair, pierced herself with that conspirator's enormous shaft. 
They began a vigorous St. George, as the English say. 

The little boy, on his knees in front of Cornaboeux, was pumping his shaft 
for him and crying hot tears. Mony was buggering the little girl, who 
struggled like a rabbit about to be eaten by a ferret. The other 
conspirators were buggering one another with terrible looks. Then Natacha 
got up, turned round, and proffered her arse for the conspirators, who began 
to kiss it in turn. 

At that moment a Madonna-faced wet nurse was brought in. Her enormous 
titties were swelled up generously with milk. She was made to get down on 
all fours and the priest began to milk her like a cow into the sacred 
vessels. Mony buggered the wet nurse, whose ravishing white bum was 
stretched to breaking point. The little girl was made to fill the chalice 
with pee. Then the conspirators took communion under the sacraments of milk 
and urine. The evening ended in an infamous way. Old women, of whom the 
youngest was 74, were brought up and screwed in every conceivable way. Mony 
and Cornaboeux retired disgusted towards three o'clock in the morning. 
Returned home, the prince stripped to his short hairs and proffered his 
beautiful arse to the cruel Cornaboeux, who buggered him eight times in 
succession without dismounting. They called these daily affairs their 
penetrating pleasures. 

Mony led this monotonous life at Bucharest for some time. The King of Serbia 
and his wife were assassinated at Belgrade. Their murder belongs now to 
history and has been variously commented upon. Following that, the war broke 
out between Russia and Japan. 

One Morning Prince Mony Vibescu, naked and beautiful like Apollo of 
Belvedere, was playing 69 with Cornaboeux. They were sucking gluttonously 
their respective barley-sugars, voluptuously appraising cylinders which had 
nothing to do with gramophones. They discharged simultaneously, and the 
prince had his mouth full of juice when an English footman, clothed 
correctly, entered bearing a letter on a scarlet plate. 

The letter announced that Prince Vibescu had been given the rank of 
lieutenant in Russia, "foreign appointments," in the army of General 
Kuropatkin. The prince and Cornaboeux manifested their enthusiasm by 
reciprocal buggerings. Then they equipped themselves and set off for St. 
Petersburg before joining their unit. 

"The war suits me," said Cornaboeux, "and Japanese holes ought to be 
savory!" 

"The slits of Japanese women are certainly delightful," replied the prince, 
twisting his moustache. 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

"His Excellency, General Kokodryoff, cannot see anyone at the moment. He is 
steeping his bread in his boiled egg." 

"But I am not an orderly officer," replied Mony to the concierge. "You 
people, you natives of St. Petersburg, are ridiculous with your continual 
suspicions. You see my uniform! I was called to St. Petersburg, and not, I 
suppose, to put up with affronts from porters!" 

"Show me your papers," said the watchdog, a colossal Tartar. 

"There!" said the prince drily, putting his revolver under the nose of the 
terrified porter, who bowed to allow the officer to pass. Mony went upstairs 
quickly, clanking his spurs, to the first floor of the palace of the general 
with whom he had to set out for the Far East. Everything was deserted, and 
Mony, who had seen the general only the day before at the czar's, was 
astonished at this reception. The general had made the rendezvous and this 
was the exact time which had been agreed upon. 

Mony opened a door and went into a large room which was empty and sombre. He 
walked across it, murmuring, "Well, too bad. The bottle's opened, it's got 
to be drunk. Let's look into this further." 

He opened a new door which closed itself after him. He found himself in 
another room darker even than the previous one. A soft feminine voice raid 
in French: "Is that you, Fedor?" 

"Yes, it's I, my love," Mony said in a low voice, his heart beating madly. 

He went forward quickly towards where the voice had come from and found a 
bed. A woman was lying on it, fully clothed. She clasped Mony passionately, 
darting her tongue into his mouth. He responded to her caress. He lifted up 
her skirts. She spread her thighs. Her legs were naked and a delicious scent 
of verbena emanated from her satin skin, mixed with emanations of the odor 
di femina. Her grotto, where Mony's hand was, was wet and humid. 

She murmured. "Kiss now, darling. I can't take any more ... naughty, it's 
eight days since you were last here." 

But, instead of replying, Mony had pulled out his menacing staff and, ready 
for war, he got onto the bed and thrust home his engine into the hairy slit 
of the unknown woman, who agitated her buttocks, saying, "Go right in ... 
you are making me come...." 

At the same time she put her hand to the base of his rod which was feasting 
on her and handled the two little balls that are its appendages and which 
one calls testicles, not, as one says ordinarily, because they serve as 
witnesses to the consummation of the act of love, but rather because they 
are the little heads which conceal the cervical matter which flows from the 
little brain or intelligence, in the same way as the head contains the brain 
which is the seat of all mental functions. 

The unknown woman's hand fondled Mony's eggs carefully. Suddenly she cried 
out, and bucking her arse, dislodged her lover. "You are cheating me, sir!" 
she cried. "My lover has three!" 

She leaped from the bed and turned on the lights. The room was simply 
furnished: a bed, chairs, a table, a dressing table, a stove. There were 
several photographs on the table, one of which was that of en officer with a 
brutal air clothed in the uniform of the Preobrajenski Regiment. 

The unknown woman was big. Her beautiful chestnut hair was slightly ruffled. 
Her open bodice failed to conceal a plump bosom, two blue-veined breasts 
which reposed softly in a nest of lace. Her skirts were chastely lowered. 
Standing, her face registering horror and stupefaction in front of Mony, who 
was seated on the bed with his shaft in the air and his hands crossed on the 
handle of his sabre. 

"Sir, your insolence is worthy of the country you serve. Never would a 
Frenchman have such bad manners as to take advantage of a woman in a 
situation like this. I order you to get out." 

"Madame or Mademoiselle," said Mony in reply, "I am a Rumanian prince, a new 
senior officer of Prince Kokodryoff. Lately arrived in St. Petersburg, I am 
ignorant of the customs of the city, and, despite the fact that I had a 
rendezvous with my chief here, I was only able to get in by menacing the 
porter with a revolver. Now, surely it would have been ridiculous of me not 
to have satisfied a woman who appeared to need the feel of a shaft in her 
vagina." 

"You ought at least," said the unkown woman, eyeing his erection which was 
beating time, "to have turned away when you were not Fedor. And now, get 
out." 

"Alas," cried Mony, "and yet you are a Parisian. You ought not to be a prude 
... ah! Who will bring me back Alexine Mangetout and Culculine d'Ancone!" 

"Culculine," exclaimed the young woman. "You know Culculine? I am her 
sister, Helen Verdier-Verdier, that's also her real name-and I am the 
governess of the general's daughter. I have a lover, Fedor. He is an 
officer. He has three testicles." 

At that moment, a great commotion came from the street. Helen went to see. 
Mony watched from behind her. The Preobrajenski Regiment was passing. The 
band was playing an old tune which the soldiers were singing sadly: 

 Ah! How your mother is screwed! Poor bumpkin goes off to the war, Your wife 
will be stuck By the bulls of your byre. You, you will tickle your staff 
With the Siberian flies But don't give them your rod! Friday is a lean day 
And on that day don't give them sugar either. It's made with the bones of 
the dead Oh, screw, farmer boys, screw The fat mare of your officer Though 
she's got a smaller hole Than any Tartar's daughter! Ah! how your mother is 
screwed! 

Suddenly the music ceased. Helen called out. An officer turned his head. 
Mony, who had just seen the photograph, recognized Fedor, who saluted with 
his sabre and cried, "Farewell, Helen! I'm off to the war. We'll never see 
each other again!" 

Helen became white as death and fell fainting in Mony's arms. He carried her 
to the bed. First he unhooked her bodice and her breasts sprang out. They 
were superb pink-tipped titties; he sucked them a little. Then he unbuttoned 
the skirt, which he took off, and then the petticoats and corsets. Helen 
remained in her chemise. 

Very excited, Mony raised the white cloth which hid the incomparable 
treasure of two faultless legs. The stockings came halfway up her thighs, 
which were round and smooth as ivory towers. At the base of her belly a 
mysterious grotto was hidden in a sacred wood, tawny like autumn. Because of 
the tonsure of thick hair, only a thin line of the slit was visible, like a 
mnemonic groove on the poles which served as calendars for the Incas. 

Mony respected Helen's faint. He took off her stockings and began to play at 
"salted pork." Her feet were pretty, downy like the feet of a baby. The 
prince's tongue began with the toes of the right foot. Conscientiously, he 
cleaned the nail of the big toe, then he passed between the toes. He stopped 
for a little while at the little toe which was darling, darling! He found 
that the right foot had a raspberry taste. His lecherous tongue went on to 
excavate the folds of the left foot, which had a flavor which reminded him 
of Mayence ham. 

At that moment Helen stirred and opened her eyes. Mony stopped playing 
"salted pork" and watched the big downy woman stretch herself into 
wakefulness. She opened her mouth in a yawn and showed her pink tongue 
between ivory teeth. She smiled. 

"Prince, what have you done to me?" 

"Helen, it was for your own good that I put you at your ease. I have been a 
good Samaritan to you. But a good favor is never lost and I have found an 
excellent reward in contemplating your charms. You are exquisite and Fedor 
is a lucky devil." 

"I shall never see him again, alas! The Japanese are going to kill him." 

"I should love to replace him, but unfortunately I haven't got three 
testicles. 

"Don't talk like that, Mony, you haven't got three of them, that's true, but 
those that you have are just as good as his." 

"Is that true, my little pig? Wait till I take off my belt ... that's it. 
Show me your arse ... how big, round and juicy it is ... like a cherub 
blowing ... ah! I must bugger you in honor of your sister!" 

"Aie! Aie! Aie! you're making me hot! I'm all wet and sticky." 

"What thick hair you've got. I must absolutely make you red, that big 
bumface of yours is not angry when you move a little, it's as though it was 
smiling." 

"Come close so that I can unbutton you. Show me that big babydoll who wants 
to get back in momma's womb. How pretty he is! He has a little red head and 
no hair. But then he has hair at the roots, it's black and hard ... the 
orphan! He's beautiful! Put it in me ... oh, Mony, I want to stroke him, 
suck him, make ... him ... come...." 

"Wait till I do your little rose-leaf...." 

"Ah! that's wonderful! I feel your tongue in my arse-slit. It's going in and 
cleaning out the little wrinkles of my rosette. Don't stretch my arsehole 
too much. Mony ... eh, ooh! I'm making you a wonderful arse! Ah, you have 
stuffed your whole face between my buttocks. Ah, I'm flatulent. Oh, sorry, I 
couldn't hold it in any longer. Ehh! your moustche prickles and you're 
slobbering ... pig! You're slobbering ... give me your big rod and I'll suck 
it. 

I'm thirs ... ty! 

"Ah, Helen, how used your tongue is to it! If you teach spelling as well as 
you play flutes you must be a won ... derful teacher! Aha! you're tickling 
the little hole on the tip with your tongue. Now you're at the base of the 
knob ... cleaning ... cleaning the little fold with your hot tongue ... aah! 
Little concubine ... no one gluttonises like you! Don't suck so hard ... 
you've the whole knob in your mouth ... you're hurting ... ah! Ah ... ah . 
you're tickling my whole rod. Ah! ... don't crush my testicles ... your 
teeth are sharp. That's right, pull back the head of the nest ... it's there 
you must work ... you love it, don't you? You love the knob, eh? Little sow 
... ah ... ooh ... I ... am ... com ... m ... m ...ing! Pig ... she has 
swallowed it all. Come to me baby, give me your big juicy hole and I'll suck 
you off while I stand again." 

"Go quicker ... rub your tongue hard against the little button. Do you feel 
it growing, my clitoris? Listen, make scissors of me ... that's right. Force 
your tongue right into me and your index finger in my arse. That's right ... 
aah! It's good, it's good ... oh! You hear my belly growling with pleasure? 
That's right. Your hand on my tits ... crush the strawberries ... I'm 
coming! Ooh! Feel my arse curves, feel my bottom jump! Ooh, you bastard, 
that's good! Come screw me honey ... your big rod quick! ... I'll suck it. 
make ... it ... hard ... 69 ... you and me.... 

"You're standing like a trooper ... pig! Not for long ... burst rne wide 
open. Wait ... some hairs caught ... suck my bubs. That's right ... like 
that ... that's right ... get well in ... there ... stay like that. I've got 
you tight now ... I'm gripping your buttocks. Oh, I'm floating ... I'm 
dying. Mony ... my sister ... did you make her come too? 

Harder you bastard ... go all the way in ... right into the pit of my soul. 
That's making me come ... like I was dying. I can't take any more. Mony, 
darling, let's go together ... aah! Can't take any more ... I'm letting go 
everything ... co ... ome!...." 

Mony and Helen discharged at the same time. Then he cleaned her with his 
tongue and she cleaned his rod with her. While he adjusted himself and she 
put on her clothes again the cry of a woman in pain was heard. 

"That's nothing," said Helen. "Someone's buggering Na-dia that's Wanda's 
chambermaid. Wanda's the general's daughter and my pupil." 

"I'd like to watch it,' said Mony. 

Helen, half-clothed, led Mony into a dark half-furnished room whose false 
interior window gave on to the young girl's room. Wanda, the general's 
daughter, was quite a pretty girl of seventeen. She brandished a cobra whip 
at arm's length and was thrashing a pretty girl who was squatting on all 
fours in front of her with her skirts raised. It was Nadia. Her arse was 
marvelous, enormous, plump; it dangled under a magnificently slender waist. 
Each stroke of the cobra made it jump and the arse seemed to swell; it was 
stroked like the Cross of St. Andrew, weals that the terrible whip left 
there. 

"Mistress, I can't go on!" cried the girl who was being flogged, and, 
straightening her arse, she showed a gaping slit shadowed by a forest of 
tow-colored hairs. 

"Get out of here now!" cried Wanda, letting fly a kick at Nadia's arse. The 
blubbering girl fled away. 

Then the girl went and opened the door of a little dressing room and a 
little girl came out. She was thirteen or fourteen years old, thin, 
brunette, and vicious looking. 

"That's Ida, the daughter of the dragoman at the Austro-Hungarian Embassy," 
murmured Helen in Mony's ear. "She gooses with Wanda." 

Indeed, the little girl threw Wanda on the bed at once, lifted her skirts 
and brought to light a forest of short hairs, a virgin forest as yet, from 
which there emerged a clitoris as long as a little finger, which Ida began 
to suck frantically- 

" "Suck hard, Ida," said Wanda lovingly. "I'm very excited and you ought to 
be, too. Nothing is so exciting as to flog a big fat arse like Nadia's. 
Don't suck any more now ... I'm going to screw you." 

The little girl got into place, her skirts raised, near the big one. The 
legs of the big girl contrasted strangely with the thin thighs, so nervous 
and dusky, of the little one. 

"It's funny," said Wanda, "how I've upped you with my clitoris and yet I'm 
still a virgin." 

But the business had begun; Wanda clasped her little friend ferociously. For 
a moment she caressed the almost hairless little slit. Ida was saying, 
"Little Wanda, my little husband, how hairy you are! Screw me!" Soon her 
clitoris penetrated Ida's little vent and the beautiful downy arse of Wanda 
bucked like a bronco. 

Mony, beside himself at the sight, put his hand beneath Helen's skirt and 
stroked her skillfully. She did the same to him and, taking hold of his big 
rod, while the two lesbians crushed one another into ecstasy, she 
manipulated it delicately. Bared, it fumed. Mony was holding her hams and 
pinching her little button of a clitoris lightly. 

Suddenly, Wanda, red in the face and her hair disordered, got up from on top 
of her partner who, seizing a candle in a candlestick, brought to fruit the 
work begun by the well-developed clitoris of the general's daughter. Wanda 
went to the door and called Nadia, who came back again. She was obviously 
frightened. The pretty blonde unhooked her corsets at the command of her 
mistress and brought out her big tits, then she raised her skirts and 
proffered her arse. 

Wanda's erected clitoris soon penetrated between the satin buttocks between 
which she came and went like a man. The girl Ida, whose breast, now bare, 
was charming but flat, went on with her candle game seated between Nadia's 
legs and sucking her mistress skillfully. Mony discharged at that moment 
under the pressure of Helen's fingers and the semen spurted glistening on to 
the window which separated them from the lesbians. They were frightened that 
their presence would be noticed and so they went away then. 

They passed, still feeling one another, into a corridor. "What did the 
porter mean by saying the general was steeping his bread in his boiled egg?" 
said Mony. 

"Look," replied Helen, and through an open door which gave into the 
general's office Mony saw his chief standing behind and in the process of 
buggering a pretty boy whose curling chestnut hair fell to his shoulders. 
His angelic blue eyes possessed the innocence of youth, struck down because 
loved by God. His beautiful white firm arse seemed to accept, but with 
modesty, the virile gift which the general, who looked very like Socrates, 
rammed into him. 

"The general brings up his twelve-year-old son himself," said Helen. "The 
metaphor of the porter was badly taken, for, rather than to nourish himself, 
the general has found this convenient method to nourish and form the spirit 
of his male progeny. He is inculcating at the base a science which seems to 
me solid enough, and the young prince will be able in the future to cut a 
fine self-assured figure in Empire society." 

"Incest," said Mony, "produces miracles." 

The general seemed to be at the height of his pleasure; he rolled his 
bloodshot eyes. "Serge," he said in a broken voice, "do you feel the 
instrument which, not satisfied with having begotten you, has also taken 
upon itself the task of making a perfect young gentleman of you? Remember, 
Sodom is a civilising symbol. Homosexuality has placed man again on a 
footing with the gods, and all miseries arise from the desire that the 
different sexes pretend to have towards one another. There is only one way 
today of saving our unfortunate holy Russia, and that is through pederasty, 
by men's definitely professing Socratic love for the anus, while the women 
go to the Rock of Leucade to take lessons in Sapphism." 

And, crying out with lust, he discharged into the charming arsehole of his 
son. 

 CHAPTER SIX 

The siege of Port Arthur had begun. Mony and his orderly, Cornaboeux, were 
cut off there with the troops of the brave Stoessel. While the Japanese were 
trying to force their way into the barbed wire enclosed precincts, the 
defenders, menaced each minute by death from artillery fire, consoled 
themselves by assiduously frequenting the nightclubs and brothels which 
remained open. 

On this particular evening, Mony, in the company of Cornaboeux and several 
journalists, had dined well. They had eaten an excellent horse steak, fish 
from the port itself, and pineapple conserve-all washed down with excellent 
champagnes. 

Actually, the dessert had been interrupted by the unexpected arrival of a 
shell which exploded, destroying part of the restaurant and killing several 
of the company. This made Mony very sprightly; he had coolly lit his cigar 
from the tablecloth which had caught fire. Then he went away with Cornaboeux 
to a nightclub. 

"That bloody General Kokodryoff," he said on the way, "is certainly a 
remarkable strategist. He evidently foresaw the siege of Port Arthur and 
sent me here to get his own back on me for having surprised him during his 
incestuous relations with his son. Like Ovid, I am expiating the crime of my 
eyes, but I shall write neither Tristia nor Epistles from Pontus. I prefer 
to spend what time remains to me in lechery." 

Several cannonballs whistled over their heads; they stepped over the body of 
a woman who had been torn in two by a cannonball and thus came to the door 
of "Les Delices du Petit Pere." 

It was the chic nightclub of Port Arthur. They entered. The room was filled 
with smoke. A redfaced German woman with pendulous flesh was singing in a 
Berlin accent and was applauded by those spectators who understood German. 
Then came four English "girls," some kind of sisters, who danced a type of 
jig with cake-walk and can-can variations. 

They were very pretty girls. They lifted their skirts high above their knees 
to exhibit their frilly panties, but fortunately they had a split in them 
and sometimes one could see their heavy buttocks framed by the cambric of 
the panties, or the short hairs which darkened their gleaming white bellies. 
When they kicked their legs their slits peeped out, wet from sweat and 
excitement. They sang: 

My cozy corner girl and were far more applauded than the ridiculous German 
woman who preceded them. 

Some Russian officers, probably too poor to pay for women, tossed themselves 
off conscientiously, contemplating wide-eyed this paradisical, almost 
Mohammedan spectacle. From time to time, a powerful jet of semen gushed from 
one of their staffs and splashed on the uniform or beard of a neighbor. 

After the girls, the orchestra broke into a noisy march and the star turn of 
the evening commenced. It consisted of two Spaniards, a man and a woman. 
Their toreador costumes produced a lively impression amongst the audience, 
who thundered a Boje tsaria Krany in applause. 

The Spanish woman was a superb girl, wonderfully supple. Her brilliant 
jet-black eyes were perfectly oval. Her hips were rounded and spangles 
glittered on her costume. The toreador, slim and strong, twisted his male 
buttocks, which being male, were doubtless in some ways superior. 

With the left hand resting on the rounded hip, this interesting couple threw 
two kisses into the room with the right hand and were cheered madly. Then 
they danced lasciviously after the fashion of their own country. The Spanish 
woman lifted her skirt up to her navel and fastened it there so that she 
remained uncovered from the belly-button down. Her long legs were sheathed 
in red silk stockings which came more than halfway up her thighs. They were 
attached to her corset by gilt suspenders to which were twisted the silk 
ribbons which supported a mask of black velvet placed on the buttocks to 
shroud the arsehole. Her slit was hidden by a little tonsure of blue-black 
hair which quivered like an animal. 

The toreador, without interrupting his dance, took out a long hard tool. 
Thus they danced, belly to belly, swaying, pursuing, retreating. The young 
woman's belly rolled like a smooth but heavy sea. Thus the Mediterranean 
spume condensed to form the pure belly of Aphrodite. Suddenly, as though by 
magic, the rod and the sheath of these actors came together and they seemed 
to be about to copulate there in front of the audience. But no. 

The torero drew the young woman off his deeply embedded rod like a glove, 
and she bent her legs so that her feet no longer touched the ground. He 
walked for a moment. Then the stagehands stretched a tightrope three yards 
above the heads of the spectators and he climbed onto it, obscene rope 
dancer that he was, and walked his mistress over the congested crowd, right 
across the hall. The spectators applauded for all they were worth and gazed 
with longing at the charms of the Spanish woman, whose masked arse seemed to 
smile, for it was dimpled all over. 

Then it was the woman's turn. The toreador bent his knees and, solidly 
embedded in his partner's crotch was walked, too, on the rigid wire. 

This tightrope fantasy had excited Mory. "Let's go to the brothel," he said 
to Cornaboeux. 

"The Joyous Samurais" was the agreeable name of this fashionable brothel 
during the siege of Port Arthur. It was run by two men, formerly Symbolist 
poets, who, marrying one another for love in Paris, had come to hide their 
happiness in the Far East. They did very well out of exercising their 
lucrative profession of brothel keeper. They dressed like women and called 
themselves lesbians, without renouncing their moustaches and masculine 
names. 

One was Adolphe Terre. He was the more vicious of the two. The younger had 
had his day of celebrity in Paris. Who doesn't remember the pearl-grey cloak 
and the high ermine collar of Tristan de Vinaigre? 

"We want women," said Mony in French to the cash girl, who was none other 
than Adolphe Terre. Terre began one of his poems: 

 One evening between Versailles and Fontainebleau I followed a nymph in the 
rustling forests My staff stood suddenly for the bald chance That passed, 
slender and straight, in sylvan devilry. I screwed her three times and was 
drunk for three weeks My urine was hot but the gods protect The poet. 
Wistarias replaced my short-hairs And Vergil shat this distich Versaillaise 
on me.... 

 "Enough," said Cornaboeux. "Women, for God's sake!" 

"Here is the under-mistress," said Adolphe respectfully. 

The under-mistress, that is to say the blonde Tristan de Vinaigre, came 
forward graciously. Darting his blue eyes at Mony, he chanted the following 
historical poem: 

 My rod got red with crimson joy In the spring of my age My testicles 
balanced like heavy fruits Waiting to be plucked. The sumptuous tonsure 
where my rod is paddocked Its thick clout From the arse to the groin, from 
the groin to the navel (indeed, at every level) To notice my frail slats, 
Are immobile and curly when I have to crap. The too high table, the paper 
shiny, The hot turds of my thoughts.... 

 "For God's sake," said Mony, "Is this a brothel or an almshouse?" 

"All ladies to the salon!" cried Tristan and, at the same time, he gave a 
towel to Cornaboeux, adding. "One towel for two, gentlemen. You 
understand-because of the siege." 

Adolphe collected the 360 rubles, the price of fornication with prostitutes 
at Port Arthur. The two friends went into the salon. An incomparable 
spectacle awaited them there. The whores, clad in negliges, gooseberry 
color, crimson, mauve, or maroon, were playing bridge and smoking pale 
Virginia cigarettes. 

At that moment there was a terrible fracas; a shell, piercing the ceiling, 
fell heavily on the ground right in the midst of the bridge players; it 
buried itself there like a meteor. Fortunately, it did not explode. The 
screaming women toppled backwards. Thei legs sprawled and they presented the 
Ace of Spades to the gaze of the lecherous soldiers. 

It was an admirable display of arses of all nationalities, for this model 
whorehouse had whores of all races. The pear-shaped arses of the Frisian 
women contrasted with the, plump arses of the Parisians, with the marvelous 
buttocks of the English, the square behinds of the Scandinavian women, and 
the plunging arses of the Catalans. One Negress exhibited a tormented mass 
which looked more like a volcanic crater than a woman's backside. As soon as 
she had picked herself up she declared that the enemy had made a grand slam: 
so quickly does one become accustomed to the horrors of war. 

"I'm taking the Negress," said Cornaboeux, while that Queen of Sheba, rising 
on hearing herself called for, saluted her Solomon with these pleasant 
words, "Going to prick my big sweet potato, general?" 

Cornaboeux kissed her gallantly. But Mony was not satisfied with this 
international exhibition. "Where are the Japanese?" he demanded. 

"That costs 50 rubles more," said the under-mistress, twisting his moustache 
upwards. "That's the enemy, you understand!" 

Mony paid up and twenty Japanese girls in their national costume were 
brought in. 

The prince chose a charming one and the under-mistress led the two couples 
into a retiring room furnished for more private purposes. 

The Negress, who was called Cornelie, and the Japanese girl, who answered to 
the delicate name of Kilyemu, that's to say, button-flower of the 
medlartree, got undressed singing, the one in a Levantine dialect, the other 
in Volapiik. 

Mony and Cornaboeux got undressed. 

The prince left his valet and the Negress in one corner and concerned 
himself only with Kilyemu, whose beauty, at once childish and solemn, 
fascinated him. He made love to her tenderly and from time to time during 
this beautiful night the noise of the bombardment was heard. The shells 
exploded softly. It was as though an Oriental prince were offering a 
fireworks' display in honor of an unspoiled Georgian princess. 

Kilyemu was small but well-made; her body was yellow like a peach. Her 
little pointed breasts were as hard as tennis balls. Her short-hairs were a 
rough black tuft, like a slimy little paintbrush. She lay on her back, drew 
her thighs on to her belly, knees bent, and opened her legs like a book. 
This un-likely and non-European position amazed Mony. 

He soon tasted her charms. His big staff sank right up to the beak in her 
elastic hole which, big at the beginning, tightened in an astonishing way. 
This little girl who seemed scarcely to have reached puberty had a veritable 
nutcracker. Mony noticed it when, after the last somersaults of lust, he 
came into a vagina which was madly tight and which sucked his juices to the 
last drop.... 

"Tell me about yourself," said Mony to Kilyemu while the cynical hiccoughing 
of Cornaboeux and the Negress came from the corner. 

Kilyemu sat down. "I am daughter of a sammisen player," she said. "It's a 
kind of guitar which is played in the theatre. My father used to represent 
the chorus, playing sad tunes, reciting lyric and rhythmic histories in a 
little railed box frontstage. My mother, the beautiful peach of July, played 
principal roles in those long pieces beloved by Japanese playwrights. 

"I remember when the Forty-seven Ronin, the Beautiful Siguenai, and Taiko 
too were played. Our troupe went from town to town, and this wonderful 
background against which I grew up comes back to me always in moments of 
abandoned love. 

"I climbed in the matsous, these giant conifers; I went to see the handsome 
naked samurais bathe in the rivers; their enormous rods had no significance 
for me at that time, and I laughed with the hilarious pretty servants who 
came to wash them. Ah, to make love in my ever-blossoming country! To love a 
stocky wrestler under the rosy cherry trees and to go down the hillsides 
with his arms about you! 

"A sailor, on leave from the Nippon Josen Kaisha Company, my cousin, robbed 
me of my virginity one day. My mother and father were playing The Great 
Thief and the hall was crowded. My cousin took me walking. I was thirteen. 
He had journeyed in Europe and he told me about all the wonders of the world 
of which I knew nothing. He led me into a deserted garden full of iris, dark 
red camelias, yellow lilies, and lotus flowers as pink as my tongue. 

There he kissed me and asked me if I had ever made love: I told him no. Then 
he undid my kimono and tickled my breasts; that made me laugh. But I became 
very serious when he put his big hard rod in my hand. 

"What do you want me to do with it?" I asked him. 

"Without answering me, he laid me down, uncovered my legs and, darting his 
tongue into my slit, he broke my maidenhead. I was still able to cry out and 
must have troubled the grasses and the beautiful chrysanthemums of the 
deserted garden, but soon lust awakened in me. 

"A gunsmith took me up next; he wac handsome like Daibutsu of Kamakura, and 
one must speak religiously of his rod, which seemed to be made of gilded 
bronze and which was inexhaustible. Every evening before I made love I 
believed myself to be insatiable, but when I had felt his hot semen flow 
into my vulva fifteen times I had to offer my weary arse to satisfy him or, 
when I was too tired, I took him in my mouth and sucked him until he ordered 
me to stop. He killed himself in accordance with the code of bushido, and in 
accomplishing this chivalrous act, left me alone and inconsolable. 

"An Englishman of Yokohama took me up next. He had a special smell like all 
Europeans and for a long time I couldn't stand it. Also, I begged him to 
bugger me so that I wouldn't have to see his bestial red-bearded face in 
front of me. However, in the end I got used to him and as I had him in my 
power I made him lick my slit until his tongue got cramp and couldn't move 
any more. 

"A girlfriend whose acquaintance I had made in Tokyo and whom I loved madly 
came to console me. She was as pretty as the spring, and it seemed that two 
bees were forever perched on her breasts. We would satisfy ourselves with a 
piece of yellow marble sculpted at both ends in the form of a penis. We were 
insatiable in one another's arms, distracted, frothing, yelling, and we 
bucked about furiously like two dogs who wanted to gnaw the same bone. 

"One day the Englishman became mad; he believed himself to be the shogun and 
wanted to bugger the mikado. They took him away and my friend and I became 
prostitutes until I fell in love with a big strong beardless German who had 
a massive, unexpendable rod. He used to beat me and I would embrace him in 
tears. In the end, when I was red with blows, he did me the charity of his 
tool and I ejaculated like one possessed, clasping him to me with all my 
strength. 

"One day we went by boat to Shanghai, where he sold me to a pimp. Then he 
went away, my beautiful Egon, without turning his head, leaving me desperate 
in the company of the women of the brothel who were laughing at me. They 
taught me the trade well, but when I have plenty of money I'm going to go 
away an honest woman into the world to find my Egon and feel him again in my 
vulva and die thinking of the rose trees in Japan." 

The little Japanese, erect and serious, went away like a shadow, leaving 
Mony with tears in his eyes to think of the fragility of human passions. 
Then he heard a sonorous snoring and, turning his head, saw the Negress and 
Cornaboeux sleeping chastely in one another's arms. But they were monstrous, 
both of them. Cornelie's big buttocks stuck out, reflecting the moon whose 
light came in an open window. Mony unsheathed his sabre and pricked this 
great hunk of meat. 

Someone was shouting in the main room. Cornaboeux and Mony went out with the 
Negress. The main room was full of smoke. Several big drunken Russian 
officers had entered, swearing like troopers, and had thrown themselves on 
the English whores in the brothel who, disgusted by the vulgar look of these 
old soldiers, muttered "bloodies" and "damns" in an attempt to outdo one 
another. 

Cornaboeux and Mony contemplated the rape of the whores for a moment and 
then went out during a collective and prodigious buggering, leaving Adolphe 
Terre and Tristan de Vinaigre in a desperate state trying to re-establish 
order and, gesticulating vainly, fettered in their women's skirts. 

In the same moment General Stoessel entered and everybody calmed down, 
including the Negress. The Japanese had just assaulted the besieged town for 
the first time. Mony almost wanted to retrace his steps to see what his 
chief would do, but savage cries were heard at the other side of the 
ramparts. 

Soldiers arrived leading a prisoner. He was a big young man, a German who 
had been found robbing corpses at the front line. He was crying out in 
German, "I'm not a thief. I love the Russians. I came bravely across the 
Japanese lines to offer myself as a skirt, a drummer, an arse-boy. Without 
doubt you're short of women and you won't be annoyed to have me." 

"To death with him!" cried the soldiers, "to death! He's a spy, a looter, a 
robber of the dead!" 

No officer accompanied the soldiers. Mony went forward and asked for an 
explanation. 

"You're mistaken," he said to the stranger, "we have plenty of women here, 
but your crime must be avenged. You're going to be buggered on the spot by 
the soldiers who captured you and afterwards you're going to be impaled. 
Thus you will die as you have lived; from the point of view of moralists, an 
adequately fit death. What's your name?" 

"Egon Muller," said the trembling man. 

"That's fine," said Mony drily. "You come from Yokohama, a true pimp, and 
you have trafficked shamefully with your own mistress, a Japanese woman 
called Kilyemu. Arse-crawler, spy, pimp and looter, you're the whole bag of 
tricks. Prepare the spit, soldiers, and bugger him. You don't get a chance 
like this every day." 

The handsome Egon was stripped naked. He was admirably built and his breasts 
were round like those of a hermaphrodite. At the sight of his charms the 
soldiers brought out their rods. 

Cornaboeux was touched; with tears in his eyes he implored his master to 
spare Egon, but Mony was inflexible and would only permit his orderly to 
suck the charming youth's rod while the youth, his arse stretched, received 
in turn into his dilated anus the beaming nobs of the soldiers who, 
beautiful brutes, sang religious hymns to celebrate their capture. The spy, 
after he had received the third spout of semen, began to come furiously and, 
sucking Cornaboeux's staff, began to buck about with his arse as though he 
had still thirty years of life in front of him. 

Meanwhile the iron stake which was to be used on the bugger's seat was made 
ready. When all the soldiers had buggered the prisoner, Mony spoke several 
words in Cornaboeux's ear; his valet was still enraptured at having been 
sucked off. 

Cornaboeux went into the brothel and soon came out again accompanied by the 
young Japanese whore, who was wondering what they wanted her' for. Suddenly 
she noticed Egon, who had just been thrust, perforated, on the iron stake. 
He was writhing and the point penetrated little by little into his 
fundament. His rod was standing fit to burst. 

Mony explained about Kilyemu to the soldiers; the poor little woman was 
looking at her impaled lover with eyes in which terror, love and compassion 
mingled with supreme desolation. The soldiers stripped her naked and hoisted 
her little bird-like body on to that of the impaled. 

They stretched the legs of the unhappy woman wide and the tool which she had 
desired so much penetrated her once again. 

The poor little simple soul understood nothing of this barbarous behavior, 
but the staff which filled her sheath excited the lust in her and, stuck on 
the spear, she beat about madly, causing the body of her lover to slide 
gradually down the length of the stake. He died as he discharged. 

This bayonetted man and the woman who bucked about on him, her slit gaping 
wide, was a strange banner indeed. A dark blood formed a puddle at the foot 
of the stake. 

"Soldiers, salute the dying!" commanded Mony, and, turning to Kilyemu, he 
said, "I have fulfilled your dearest wish. At this very moment the cherries 
are blossoming in Japan and the lovers are wandering in a snow of falling 
roses petals." 

Then, leveling his revolver, he shot her in the head, and, as though the 
little courtesan had wished to spit on her executioner, her brains spurted 
into his face. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN 

After the summary execution of the spy, Egon Muller, and his little Japanese 
whore, Prince Vibescu became very popular in Port Arthur. 

One day, General Stoessel called him and gave him a sealed envelope, saying; 
"Prince Vibescu, even although you are not Russian, you are one of the 
finest officers in the place. We are waiting for relief but General 
Kuropat-kin must make haste. If there is much more delay we shall have to 
capitulate. These dogs of Japanese are watching us and their fanaticism will 
one day get the better of our resistance. You must cross the Japanese lines 
and deliver this dispatch to the generalissimo." 

A balloon was prepared. For eight days Mony and Cornaboeux practiced the 
handling of the airship. It was inflated one fine morning. The two 
passengers got into the basket, pronounced the traditional "Let go!" and 
soon, having attained the region of the clouds, the earth appeared very 
small and the war zone appeared to them very clearly with the armies and the 
fleets at sea; a match which they struck to light their cigarettes left a 
trail more luminous than the giant cannonballs which the opposing armies 
used. 

A good wind pushed the balloon in the direction of the Russian armies and, 
after several days, they grounded and were received by a tall officer who 
made them welcome. It was Fedor, the three-egged man and the old lover of 
Helen Verdier, the sister of Culculine d'Ancone. 

"Lieutenant," said Prince Vibescu to him as he jumped out of the basket, 
"you are an honest man and the reception you have given us well repays us 
for the fatiguing experience we have undergone. Allow me to ask pardon for 
having cuckolded you at St. Petersburg with your mistress, Helen, the French 
governess of General Koko-dryoff's daughter." 

"You have done very well," replied Fedor. "Imagine! I have found her sister, 
Culculine, here. She is a wonderful girl, a waitress in a women's snackbar 
frequented by our officers. She left Paris to make her fortune in the Far 
East. She earns a fortune here, because the officers, not having much time 
to live, are all out for a good time. Her friend, Alexine Mangetout, is with 
her." 

"My God," cried Mony, "Culculine and Alexine are here! Take me quickly 
before General Kuropatkin. I must accomplish my mission first, and then you 
can take me over to the restaurant." 

Genearl Kuropatkin received Mony kindly in his headquarters. It was a 
well-furnished railway carriage. The generalissimo read the message, then 
said, "We shall do all in our power to relieve Port Arthur. Meanwhile, 
Prince Vibescu, I appoint you chevalier de Saint-George." 

Decorated for his gallantry, Mony found himself half an hour later in the 
restaurant "The Sleeping Cossack" in the company of Fedor and Cornaboeux. 
Two women made haste to serve them. They were Culculine and Alexine, 
charming as ever. They were clothed in Russian soldiers' dress and wore lace 
aprons in front of their baggy pants which were tucked in their boots. Their 
arses and their breasts jutted outwards pleasantly and caused the uniforms 
to bulge. A little cap, perched on their coiffures, completed this military 
uniform, setting it off in an exciting way. They had the look of extras in 
an operetta. 

"Mony, darling!" cried Culculine. The prince kissed the two women and asked 
them what had happened since he saw them last. 

"Of course," said Culculine, "but you must tell us how you got here. After 
that fatal night when the robbers left us half-dead near the body of the one 
whose member I cut off with my teeth in a moment of mad enjoyment, I woke up 
to find myself surrounded by doctors. They found me with a knife stuck in my 
arse! 

"Alexine was taken care of in her own house and we did not hear any more 
news of you. But we learned when we were able to go out again that you had 
gone back to Serbia. The affair caused an immense scandal! My explorer left 
me when he came back and Alexine's senator didn't want to keep her any 
longer. 

"Our star was beginning to wane in Paris. The war broke out between Russia 
and Japan. The bluebeard of one of my girlfriends organised a contingent of 
women to serve in the canteen brothels which followed the Russian army. We 
were hired and there you are!" 

Mony then told them what had happened to him, omitting only what had 
happened on the Orient Express. He introduced Cornaboeux to the two women, 
but without saying that he was the robber who had planted the knife between 
Culculine's buttocks. 

All these stories were accompanied by much drinking. The room was filled 
with capped officers who were singing at the top of their voices and groping 
the waitresses. 

"Let's go," said Mony. Culculine and Alexine followed them and all five went 
out of the retrenchments in the direction of Fedor's tent. 

The night had become starry. Mony had a caprice passing in front of the 
wagon of the generalissimo. He took off Alexine's pants. Her big buttocks 
seemed constrained in the trousers and while the others continued walking he 
handled the superb arse, like a pale face under a pale moon. Then, taking 
out his ferocious tool, he rubbed it for a moment in her bumslit, sometimes 
pricking the arsehole. 

Then, hearing a dry trumpet sound accompanied by the rolling of drums, he 
suddenly made up his mind. His shaft descended between the fresh buttocks 
and came to grips within a valley which ended at the grotto. The young man's 
hands in front of her fingered her tuft and worked her clitoris. He came and 
went, exploring Alexine's furrow with ploughstrokes. She screwed by 
agitating her lunar arse, whose upper side, another moon, seemed to smile 
and admire him. 

Suddenly the monotonous call of sentries began. Their cries were repeated 
throughout the night. Alexine and Mony bucked silently and, as they sighed 
deeply, coming almost simultaneously, a shell cut through the air and killed 
several soldiers who were sleeping in a ditch. They blabbered and groaned 
like children calling for their mother. Quickly becoming serious, Mony and 
Alexine ran to Fedor's tent. There they found Cornaboeux, his fly open, on 
his knees beside Culculine who was taking off her pants and showing him her 
arse. He was saying :"It doesn't show. No one would ever say you'd been 
stabbed in the arse." 

Then, on his feet again, and crying out some Russian phrases he had learned, 
he poked her arse. Fedor got in front of her and put his rod in her nest. 
One would have thought that Culculine was a pretty boy whom someone was 
buggering while he poked his tail into a woman. Indeed she was clothed like 
a man and Fedor's member seemed to belong to her, but the heavy mold of her 
buttocks soon dispelled that thought. And her slender waist and the bulge of 
her breasts similarly denied that possibility. The trio bucked in cadence. 
Alexine drew near to them to tickle Fedor's three appendages. 

At that moment from outside the tent a soldier called out in a loud voice 
for Prince Vibescu. Mony went out. The soldier came as a courier from 
General Munin, who was sending for Mony on the field. He followed the 
soldier and, across the encampment, they arrived at a luggage van into which 
Mony climbed. The soldier announced, "Prince Vibescu." 

The interior of the luggage van resembled a bedroom, but an Oriental 
bedroom. It was unimaginably luxurious, and General Munin, a huge man of 
fifty, received Mony with great politeness. He showed him a pretty woman of 
about twenty who was nonchalantly stretched out on a sofa. She was a 
Circassian, his wife. 

"Prince Vibescu," said the general, "my wife, hearing your exploits spoken 
of today, wanted to congratulate you. At the same time, she is three months 
pregnant and a pregnant woman's desire has driven her irresistibly to want 
to sleep with you. There she is! Do just as you wish. I shall satisfy myself 
in another way." 

Without replying, Mony stripped and began to undress the beautiful Haidyn, 
who appeared to be in a state of extraordinary excitement. She bit Mony 
while he undressed her. She was admirably made and her pregnancy didn't show 
yet. Her breasts, molded by the Graces, sat round as cannonballs. Her body 
was supple, tall and slender. She had such a beautiful disproportion between 
the grossness of her arse and the slenderness of her waist that Mony felt 
his member stand up like a Norwegian fir. She grabbed it while he felt her 
thighs, which were-plump high up and became thinner towards the knee. 

When she was nude he got on top of her and, neighing like a stallion, poked 
it into her while she closed her eyes to savor the pleasure of it. General 
Munin, meanwhile, had ushered in a little Chinese boy, darling and 
frightened. His bridled eyes blinked as they fell on the couple making love. 

The general undressed him and sucked his little tail which was scarcely as 
big as a small worm. He turned him round then and spanked his little thin 
yellow arse. He seized a great sabre and placed it near him. Then he poked 
deep into the little boy's arsehole; the boy was evidently acquainted with 
this method of civilising Manchuria for he was agitating his little bit of 
celestial body in an experienced fashion. 

The general was saying, "Come well, my Haidyn, I'm going to come too." His 
staff came nearly all the way out of the body of the Chinese child to 
re-enter vigorously. When he arrived at the climax he took hold of the 
sabre, clenched his teeth, and, without interrupting his buggering motion, 
cut off the head of the Chinese boy whose last spasms procured a wounderful 
ejaculation for him; simultaneously, the blood splashed from the severed 
neck like water from a fountain. 

The general came out of the arsehole and cleaned his tail with a 
handkerchief. He then cleaned his sabre and, picking up the head of the 
little boy, he showed it to Mony and Haidyn, who had now changed positions. 
The Circassian was horsing Mony with rage. Her titties danced and her arse 
bucked frantically; Mony's hands kneaded the wonderful plump thighs. 

"Look," said the general, "how prettily the little Chinese boy smiles!" 

The head grimaced horribly, but his look redoubled the erotic rage of the 
two, who bucked their arses with all the more ardor. The general dropped the 
head, and seizing his wife by the hips, he introduced his member into her 
arse. 

The joy of the poke was augmented for Mony. The two rods, separated only by 
a thin wall, came to knock together at the snout, increasing the pleasure of 
the young woman, who bit Mony and coiled like a viper. The trio came apart, 
and the general, as soon as he was on his feet, brandished his sabre and 
cried, "And now, Prince Vibescu, you must die. You have seen too much!" 

But Mony disarmed him without difficulty. Then he bound his feet and hands 
and laid him down in the corner of the luggage van near the body of the 
little Chinese. Having done so, he continued his delightful play with the 
general's wife until dawn. When he left, she was tired out and asleep. The 
general was asleep also, but with his feet and wrists bound. 

Mony went away quickly to Fedor's tent. There they had similarly screwed all 
night. Alexine, Culculine, Cornaboeux and Fedor were sleeping naked, 
stretched out pell-mell on some coats. Their juices were sticky on the 
women's short hairs and the staffs of the men hung lamentably. 

Mony let them sleep and began to wander about the camp. A new combat with 
the Japanese was being announced. The soldiers were equipping themselves or 
eating breakfast. The horsemen were grooming their horses. 

A Cossack whose hands were cold was reheating them in the arse of his mare. 
The beast whinnied softly. Suddenly the heated Cossack hoisted himself onto 
a chair behind the beast and, taking out a tool as long as a wooden lance, 
stuck it delightedly into the animal's vulva, which salivated a powerfully 
aphrodisiac horseslime, for the human beast came three times with great arse 
strokes before he de-slitted. 

An officer who noticed this act of bestiality approached the soldier with 
Mony. He reproached him in a lively way for having given way to his passion. 
"My friend," he said to him, "masturbation is a soldierly virtue. Every good 
soldier ought to know that in time of war onanism is the only amorous act 
that is permitted. Toss yourself off, but touch neither woman nor beast. 

"Besides, masturbation is a laudable act, for it permits men and women to 
habituate themselves to their next and definitive separation. Customs, the 
spirit, clothes and the tastes of the two sexes differ more and more. It 
would be a happy day if people recognized this fact, and it appears to me to 
be necessary, if one wants to dominate on earth, to take account of this 
natural law which will soon impose itself." The officer went away, leaving 
Mony, pensive, to go back to Fedor's tent. 

Suddenly a strange rumor came to the prince's ears. They were saying that 
some tearful Irish women were lamenting over the body of an unknown. Getting 
nearer to it, the noise lessened. It became rhythmic, a snapping sound, as 
though a mad orchestra conductor were tapping his baton on his stand while 
the orchestra was playing softly. 

The prince ran more quickly and a strange spectacle presented itself to him. 
A troop of soldiers commanded by an officer took turns at beating a man with 
long flexible switches; the man under punishment was stripped to the waist. 

Mony, whose grade was superior to that of the officer who commanded the 
punishment detail, wanted to take charge of it. A new victim was brought. He 
was a beautiful Tartar boy who spoke hardly any Russian. The prince made him 
strip completely naked, then the soldiers scourged him in such a way that 
the early morning cold bit him at the same time as the rods that cut his 
back. 

He was impassive and his calm irritated Mony; he spoke a word in the ear of 
the officer, who soon brought back a waitress from the canteen. She was a 
full-bodied woman whose arse and breasts filled out her uniform indecently, 
ful big girl, her movements constricted by her clothing. The uniform itself 
was laced tightly about her. This beauti-waddled like a duck. 

"You are indecent, my girl," Mony said to her. "When one is a woman like 
you, one does not clothe oneself like a man. A hundred strokes of the switch 
to teach you!" 

The unhappy girl trembled in all her limbs, but, at a sign from Mony, the 
soldiers stripped her. Her nudity contrasted strangely with that of the 
Tartar. He was tall, with an emaciated face, small eyes, villainous and 
calm; his limbs were of that thinness usually accorded to those of John the 
Baptist after he had lived for some time like a grasshopper. His arms, his 
chest, and his heron-like legs were hairy; his circumcised penis had swelled 
up because of the scourging and its gland was purple, the color of a 
drunkard's vomit. 

The waitress, a beautiful German specimen from Brunswick, was heavy arsed-a 
robust Luxemburgian mare let loose among the stallions. Her blonde 
two-colored hair made her poetical enough; the Rhenish water nymphs must 
have resembled her. Very light blonde hairs hung shaggily between her 
thighs. This mop covered her plump mound completely. She breathed robust 
health and all the soldiers felt their virile members present arms. 

Mony asked for a knout and it was brought to him. He put it into the hand of 
the Tartar. "Pig of a whipmaster!" he cried at him. "If you wish to save 
your own hide don't spare this whore's!" 

Without reply, the Tartar examined the instrument of torture like a 
connoisseur; it was composed of thongs of leather to which iron filings were 
stuck. 

The woman was sobbing and crying for mercy in German. Her pink and white 
body was trembling. Mony made her kneel down and with a kick of his boot he 
forced her big buttocks upwards. The Tartar was testing the scourge in the 
air, then, raising his arm energetically, he was about to strike her when 
the unhappy waitress, who was trembling in all her limbs, let out a savorous 
explosion which made all the spectators and the Tartar himself burst out 
laughing; the knout was dropped. Mony, a switch in hand, struck him across 
the face, saying: "Idiot! I told you to scourge her, not to laugh!" 

Then he gave him the switch and commanded him first of all to thrash the 
German woman with that to get her used to punishment. The Tartar began to 
strike with regularity. His member, not far behind the fat arse of his 
victim, was standing, but in spite of his concupiscence his arm fell 
rhythmically. The switch was very flexible. Each stroke whistled through the 
air and fell with a dry thwack on the tightened skin, stripping it off. 

The Tartar was an artist and the blows which he inflicted united to .form a 
word. On the base of the back, just above the buttocks, the word "whore" 
soon appeared distinctly. The applause increased and the cries of the German 
woman became more raucous. Her arse at each stroke of the switch waggled 
about a bit and then rose like the prow of a ship. The tight buttocks 
slackened immediately and it was possible then to see the arsehole and the 
slit beneath it, yawning and moist. 

Gradually, she seemed to get used to the blows. At each slash of the switch 
the back rose up sluggishly, the arse half opened, and the slit gaped easily 
as if an unexpected pleasure were taking hold of it. 

She soon fell as though suffocated by the pleasure and at that moment Mony 
restrained the Tartar's hand. He gave him back the scourge and the man, very 
excited and mad with desire, began to beat the German woman's back cruelly 
with it. Each blow left several deep and bloody marks, for, instead of 
lifting the scourge after each blow, the Tartar drew it towards home in such 
a way that the iron filings which adhered to the thongs brought away strips 
of skin and flesh which fell on all sides, the small drops of blood 
spattering the uniforms of the soldiers. 

The German woman no longer felt the pain. She was coiling around, twisting 
and blowing with lust. Her face was red. She slobbered. And when Mony 
commanded the Tartar to stop, all traces of the word "whore" had 
disappeared, for the back was nothing more than an open wound. 

The Tartar was standing still, the bloody scourge in his hand, as though 
waiting for approval, but Mony looked at him contemptuously: "You began well 
but you finished badly. You've made a filthy job of it. You hit like an 
ignorant fool! Soldiers, take away this woman and bring me one of her 
friends-into that tent there, it's empty. I'm going to have a word or two 
there with this miserable Tartar." 

He dismissed the soldiers, several of whom carried away the German woman, 
and the prince went away with the man under punishment into the tent. He 
selected two switches and began to beat him with all his force. The Tartar, 
excited by the spectacle he had just seen and in which he had played the 
leading part, could not restrain for long the sperm which brothed about in 
his sack. His rod became rampant under Mony's blows and the semen which 
spurted from it spangled against the canvas of the tent. 

At that moment, another woman was brought. She was in her chemise because 
she had been surprised in bed. Her face expressed stupefaction and terror. 
She was a mute, and coarse inarticulate sounds came from her throat. 

She was a beautiful girl, originally from Sweden. The daughter of the 
director of the canteen, she had married a Dane, an associate of her father. 
She had given birth to a child four months before and was feeding it 
herself. She could have been about twenty-four. Her breasts, inflated with 
milk-for she was a good wet-nurse-filled out the chemise. 

As soon as Mony saw her he sent away the escort of soldiers and lifted up 
her chemise. The Swedish woman's fat thighs resembled the main supporting 
columns of a superb building. Her short-hairs were gold and slightly frizzy. 
Mony ordered the Tartar to scourge her while he himself sucked her off. The 
blows rained on the arms of the beautiful dummy, but the prince's mouth, 
like the mouth of an obscene fish, gathered up the amorous liqueur which 
this northern wench distilled. 

The woman was all hot and sweaty. After having removed her chemise, he 
placed her naked on the bed. She got on top of him and his shaft entered 
deeply between the blinding white thighs. Her massive firm buttocks rose and 
fell rhythmically. The prince took one of her breasts in his mouth and began 
to sup a delicious milk. 

The Tartar did not remain inactive for long; making the switch whistle, he 
administered severe blows on the starry map of the dummy, whose pleasure was 
thereby increased. He beat her like a madman, marking this sublime arse. He 
pitted the beautiful plump white shoulders carelessly, leaving cruel furrows 
on her back. Mony, who had already worked a great deal, took a long time to 
come, and the dummy, excited by the switch, came fifteen times during the 
time he took to let fly once. 

Then he got up, and, seeing the Tartar in a magnificently erected state, he 
ordered him to poke the beautiful wet-nurse from the rear-she seemed still 
to be unsatisfied-and he himself, taking the bloody knout, began to bloody 
the back of the soldier, who thrust with inhuman cries. 

The Tartar did not desert his post. Stoically accepting the terrible 
scourging, he excavated without letting up the amorous rut in which he was 
niched. Five times he deposited his boiling offering there. Then he lay 
unmoving on the woman, who was still shuddering voluptuously. 

But the prince abused him; he had lit a cigarette and he burned the Tartar's 
shoulders in several places with it. Then he put a lighted match under his 
eggs. The burn had the effect of reanimating the indefatigable tool. The 
Tartar advanced towards a new discharge. Mony took up the scourge again and 
with all his might thrashed the united bodies of the Tartar and the dummy. 

The blood gushed, the blows fell with a dry clear sound. Mony swore in 
French, in Rumanian, and in Russian. The Tartar was in a terrible state of 
lust, but a look of hatred for Mony passed into his eyes. He knew the dummy 
language and with his hand in front of the woman's face he made signs which 
she understood very well. 

Towards the end, Mony had a new idea. He applied his glowing cigarette to 
the tip of the dummy's sweaty breast. A small drop of milk beading from her 
elongated tit extinguished the cigarette but the woman roared with terror as 
she went into her orgasm. 

Then she made a sign and the Tartar dismounted immediately. Both of them 
threw themselves on Mony and disarmed him. The women took a switch and the 
Tartar took the scourge. With eyes full of hatred and glimmering with the 
hope of vengeance, they began to thrash the officer who had made them 
suffer. Mony cried out in vain, and struggled. The blows did not spare any 
part of his body. Meanwhile, the Tartar, fearing that his vengeance on an 
officer would have fatal consequences, soon threw away the knout and 
contented himself like the woman with a simple switch. Mony's body swelled 
up under the thrashing and the woman set about striking his belly, his eggs 
and his rod especially. 

During this time, the Dane, the husband of the mute, had noticed her 
disappearance because the little girl was crying for her mother's milk. He 
took the suckling child in his arms and set out to find his wife. A soldier 
pointed out the tent where she was without telling him what she was doing 
there. Mad with jealousy, the Dane hurled himself forwards, lifted the tent 
flap and went in. The spectacle was a trifle banal. His wife, naked and 
bleeding, along with a naked and bleeding Tartar, was beating a young man. 

The scourge was on the ground. The Dane placed his child there and, lifting 
the scourge, set about thrashing his wife and the Tartar. They fell to the 
ground crying with pain. 

Under these blows Mony's shaft had stiffened. It became stiff as a ramrod as 
he witnessed this conjugal scene. The baby girl was crying on the ground. 
Mony grabbed her and unswathed her. Then he kissed her little pink bottom 
and her chubby hairless little slit. Then, covering her mouth with one hand, 
he applied her slit to his shaft and violated her. His rod tore the child's 
flesh. Mony didn't take long to come. He was ejaculating when the father and 
the mother, perceiving the crime too late, hurled themselves upon him. 

The mother lifted up the child. The Tartar clothed himself hastily and cut 
out. But the Dane, his eyes bloodshot, raised the scourge. He was going to 
strike a mortal blow on Mony's head when he noticed an officer's uniform on 
the ground. His arm fell to his side for he knew that a Russian officer is 
sacred. He may violate, plunder, do what he will, but an army contractor who 
dared to lay a hand on him would be hanged immediately. 

Mony understood all that had passed in the Dane's mind. He took advantage of 
it. He got up quickly and produced his revolver. With a scornful air he 
ordered the Dane to take his pants off. Then, the revolver leveled, he 
ordered the Dane to screw his daughter. The Dane argued in vain. He had to 
put his mean staff into the tender bottom of the suckling child who had 
fainted. 

During this time, Mony, armed again with a switch and holding his revolver 
in his left hand, struck a rain of blows on the dummy's back. She sobbed and 
twisted with pain. The switch was striking again and the flesh which had 
swollen up under the previous blows and the pain which the poor woman 
underwent was a horrible sight. Mony, however, bore up under the experience 
with admirable courage and his arms remained firm until the moment the 
unhappy father came into the arse of his daughter. 

Mony got dressed then and ordered the Dane to do likewise. Then he gently 
aided the couple to revive the child. "Mother without entrails!" he shouted 
at the dummy, "do you not see the child wants to suck?" 

The Dane made signs to the dummy, who chastely brought out her breast and 
gave suck to the baby. 

"As for you," said Mony to the Dane, "be careful. You violated your daughter 
in front of me. I can hang you. So be discreet. My word would always be 
taken against yours. Go in peace. Your future business depends on my good 
will. If you keep your trap shut, I will protect you, but if you tell anyone 
what happened here you'll be hanged." 

The Dane kissed the hand of the dapper officer and, crying tears of 
gratitude, he led his wife and child away. Mony set off towards Fedor's 
tent. 

The sleepers had awakened and had dressed after washing themselves. During 
the day, preparations for the battle were made; it began that evening. Mony, 
Cornaboeux and the two women remained in Fedor's tent while Fedor went off 
to fight in the front line. Soon the first sounds of cannon were heard and 
the stretcher-bearers returned with the wounded. The tent was requisitioned 
for a Red Cross station. Cornaboeux and the two women were detailed to bring 
in the dying. Mony remained alone with three wounded Russian soldiers who 
were delirious. 

Then a Red Cross nurse arrived. She wore a clean unbleached smock with the 
Red Cross insignia on her right arm. She was a very pretty voman of the 
Polish aristocracy. She had a suave voice, almost like an angel's, and when 
they heard her speak the wounded men turned their dying eyes towards her in 
the belief that they were seeing the Virgin. 

She gave Mony orders in a dry business-like voice. He obeyed like a child, 
astonished at the pretty girl's energy and at the strange light which glowed 
in her green eyes. From time to time her seraphic face became hard and a 
cloud of unpardonable vice seemed to obscure her brow. It seemed that this 
innocent woman had criminal moments. Mony watched her. He soon saw that her 
fingers lingered longer than necessary in the open wounds. 

A wounded man, horrible to see, was brought in. His face was bloody and his 
chest was split open. The nurse dressed him eagerly, almost voluptuously. 
She had put her right hand in the gaping wound and seemed to enjoy the 
contact of the throbbing flesh. Suddenly the ghoul raised her eyes and saw 
Mony in front of her at the other side of the stretcher. He was looking at 
her with a disdainful smile. 

She blushed but he reassured her. "Calm yourself. Don't be afraid of me. I 
understand better than anyone the perversion you want to experience. I 
myself have guilty hands. Enjoy these wounded men, but don't refuse my 
advances." 

She lowered her eyes in silence. Mony was soon behind her. He lifted her 
skirt and uncovered her marvelous arse whose buttocks were so tightly closed 
that Uey seemed to have sworn never to separate. She was rending feverishly 
now in the dying man's wound, and there was an angelic smile on her lips. 
She bent forward the better to allow Mony to enjoy the sight of her arse. He 
introduced his dart between the satin lips of her slit, mounting her from 
behind, and with his right hand he caressed her buttocks while his left hand 
searched for her clitoris under her skirt. 

The nurse screwed silently, contracting her fingers in the wound of the 
dying man who uttered a blood-curdling death-rattle. He died at the moment 
at which Mony discharged. The nurse ousted Mony immediately and, taking off 
the trousers of the dead man whose member was like a rod of iron, she passed 
it into her slit and began to screw in deathly silence with her face more 
angelic than ever. 

First of all, Mony spanked this big arse which was dangling there and whose 
lips vomited and swallowed the corpse's rigid column. His rod soon attained 
its first rigidity and putting it behind the bucking nurse he buggered her 
like a madman. 

Later they readjusted themselves and a young man was brought in whose arms 
and legs had been shot away by grapeshot. This human trunk possessed a 
beautiful shaft whose firmness was ideal. As soon as she was alone with 
Mony, the nurse sat on the mutilated man at whose throat there was already a 
death-rattle. During this wild ride she sucked Mony's shaft. He soon 
discharged like a Carmelite friar. 

The truncated man was not yet dead. His trunk bled abundantly at all four 
stumps. The ghoul then sucked his rod and under this horrible caress she 
watched him die. She swore to Mony that the sperm which came from this 
sucking off was quite cold, and she appeared so excited that Mony, who felt 
exhausted, asked her to unhook herself. He then sucked her teats and she 
knelt down and tried to reanimate the prince's shaft by masturbating it 
between her breasts. 

"Alas!" cried Mony, "cruel woman to whom God has given the task of finishing 
off wounded men, who are you? Who are you?" 

"I am the daughter of John Morncs' i," she said, "the revolutionary prince 
whom the infamous Gcurko sent to his death at Tobolsk. To avenge myself and 
to avenge Poland, my mother, I finish off Russian soldiers. I would like to 
kill Kuropatkin and I pray for the death of the Romanoffs. 

"My brother, who is also my lover and who deflowered me during a pogrom in 
Warsaw lest my virginity fall prey to a Cossack, feels the same way about it 
as I do. He led astray the regiment he commanded and drowned it in Lake 
Baikal. He told me what he intended to do before his departure. That is how 
we Poles avenge Muscovite tyranny. 

"These patriotic furies have reacted on my senses and my most noble passions 
have given way to my cruelest ones. I am cruel, you see, like Tamerlaine, 
Attila and Ivan the Terrible. I used to be as pious as a saint. Today, 
Messalina and Catherine are no more than soft sheep as compared with me!" 

It was not without a shudder that Mony heard these declarations of the 
exquisite whore. He wished at all costs to lick her arse in honor of Poland 
and he told her how he had indirectly played a part in the conspiracy which 
led to the death of Alexander Obrenovitch at Belgrade. 

She listened to him with admiration. "If I could only see the Czar thrown 
out of a window one day!" she sighed. 

Mony, who was a loyal officer, protested against this particular violence 
and avowed his support of the legitimate autocracy. "I admire you," he said 
to the Polish woman, "but if I were the czar I would destroy all the Poles 
en bloc. Those inept drunkards never stop making bombs and making the world 
uninhabitable. Even in Paris these sadistic bastards are at work. As many of 
them come out again from the Court of Assizes as from la Salpetriere and 
they worry the life out of peaceable citizens." 

"It's true," said the Polish woman, "that my countrymen are a little wanton, 
but let them be given back their homeland, allow them to speak their native 
language and Poland will again become the country of chivalric honor, of 
luxury, and of beautiful women." 

"You're right," cried Mony, and, pushing the nurse on to a stretcher, he 
cultivated her lazily. They ignored their surroundings and chatted about 
gallant and distant things. They might have been composing a Decameron, 
surrounded on all sides by the plague. 

"Wonderful woman that you are," said Mony, "let us plight our troth with our 
souls!" 

"Yes," she said, "we shall get married after the war and we'll fill the 
world with the clamor of our cruelties." 

"Perhaps you're right," the nurse said, "there is nothing so sweet as to 
accomplish what is not allowed." There on the stretcher, they went into a 
trance, their bodies pressed together, twisting and enjoying themselves 
profoundly. 

At that moment there were cries. The routed Russian army was letting itself 
be overwhelmed by the Japanese. Terrible cries of the wounded were heard, 
the fracas of artillery, the sinister roll of ammunition wagons and the 
cracking of rifle fire. 

The tent was opened brusquely and a troop of Japanese soldiers invaded it. 
Mony and the Red Cross nurse had scarcely time to readjust their clothing. A 
Japanese officer advanced towards Prince Vibescu. 

"You are my prisoner," he said to him, but with a shot from his revolver 
Mony stretched him out dead as a doornail. Then, in front of the eyes of the 
stupefied Japanese soldiers, he broke his sword across his knees. 

Another Japanese officer advanced and Mony was surrounded by soldiers who 
took him prisoner. He did not resist. As he was going out of the tent in the 
company of the little Japanese officer he saw in the distance across the 
plain the lagging fugitives who were wearily trying to rejoin the routed 
Russian army. 

 CHAPTER EIGHT 

A prisoner on parole, Mony was free to come and go as he pleased in the 
Japanese camp. He searched for Cornaboeux in vain. In his comings and goings 
he noticed that he was being watched by the officer who had made him 
prisoner. He wished to befriend him and perhaps to lie with him. He was a 
Shintoist, a lecher enough, who told him wonderful things about the wife he 
had left in Japan. 

"She is laughing and charming," he said, "and I adore her as I adore the 
trinity Ameno-Mina-Kanoussi-no Kami. She is fertile like Isanagi and 
Isanami, the creators of the earth and the generators of men, and beautiful 
as Ama-terasu, daughter of the gods and the sun himself. While she waits for 
me she is thinking all the time of me and she plucks the thirteen strings of 
her imperial ko-to of Polonia or plays the seventeen-piped sio." 

"And you," asked Mony, "have you never felt like screwing since you've been 
at the war?" 

"For myself," said the officer, "when the urge is too strong I toss myself 
off and look at obscene pictures." 

And he showed Mony little books of wood-engravings, the last word in the 
obscene. One of these books depicted women making love with all sorts of 
beasts: cats, birds, tigers, dogs, fish, even the octopi which, hideously 
depicted, wound their sucker-tipped tentacles round the smooth bodies of 
hysterical Japanese maidens. 

"All our officers and soldiers have books of this kind," said the officer. 
"They can thus do without women. They can toss themselves off contemplating 
these priapic drawings." 

Mony went often to visit the wounded Russians. There he found again the 
Polish Red Cross nurse who had given him lessons of cruelty in Fedor's tent. 
Among the wounded men was a captain who came from Archangelsk. His wound was 
not very grave and Mony conversed often with him, seated at his bedside. 

One day, the wounded man, who was called Katache, handed him a letter and 
told him to read it. The letter said that Katache's wife was betraying him 
with a fur dealer. 

"I adore her," said the captain. "I love this woman more than myself and I 
suffer terribly to know that she is with another man, but I am happy, 
terribly happy." 

"How do you reconcile the two feelings?" asked Mony. "They are 
contradictory." 

"They are all mixed up with me," said Katache. "I cannot conceive of sexual 
pleasure without grief." 

"You are a masochist then?" asked Mony with lively interest. 

"Put it that way if you like," said the officer. "Besides, masochism 
conforms to the precepts of the Christian religion. Here, since you are 
interested in me, I shall tell you about myself." 

"I'd like to hear very much," replied Mony. "But first of all drink this 
lemonade to refresh your throat." 

Captain Katache began thus: "I was born in 1874 at Archangelsk and since my 
early years I have experienced bitter pleasure every time anyone has 
punished me. Every mishap which befell my family developed and whetted this 
faculty of deriving pleasure out of misfortune. 

"Undoubtedly that came of too much tenderness. My father was assassinated 
when I was fifteen and I remember that I derived my first sexual pleasure 
from his death. The thrill and terror of it made me ejaculate. My mother 
went mad. I used to visit her at the asylum. I used to toss myself off when 
I heard her extravasate in her unearthly way. For she believed that she had 
been changed into a chamberpot, sir, and she would describe the imaginary 
arses that crapped into her. She had to be shut up the day that she thought 
the bowl was full. She became dangerous and cried out for the lavatory 
attendant to come and empty her. It used to grieve me to listen to her. She 
recognized me. 

"'My son,' she would say, 'you don't love your mother any more-you frequent 
other toilets. Sit on me and crap at your ease. 

"'Where better to do it than in one's mother's breast? 

"'And then, son, don't forget the hole is full. Yesterday a beer merchant 
with the cholic came and used me. I'm overflowing. I can't hold any more. 
The lavatory attendant must definitely be sent for." 

"Believe me, sir, I was profoundly disgusted, and sad too, for I adored my 
mother, but I felt at the same time an unspeakable pleasure on hearing her 
unearthly conversation. I derived pleasure from it and I tossed myself off. 

"I was pushed into the army and I was able, thanks to influence, to remain 
in the north. I frequented the house of a Protestant pastor who was 
established in Archangelsk. He was English and he had a daughter so 
marvelous that no description of mine could come close to the beauty she was 
in actuality. One day during a tea dance we were dancing together and after 
the waltz, as though by chance, Florence put her hand between my thighs and 
said: 'Have you got a hard on?' 

"She noticed that I was in a terrible state of erection, but she smiled and 
said to me, 'Me too, I'm all wet, but not on your account. I'm like this for 
Dyre." 

"And she went wheedling across to Dyre, who was a Norwegian commercial 
traveler. They joked for a moment and then, when the band struck up a tune, 
they went off laced together and looking at one another amorously. I 
suffered like a martyr. Jealousy gnawed at my heart. 

"And if Florence was desirable, I desired her even more the day I knew she 
didn't love me. I discharged when I saw her dancing with my rival. I 
imagined them in one another's arms and I had to turn away to hide my tears. 

"Well, incited by the demon of concupiscence and jealousy, I swore to myself 
that she would become my wife. She was strange, Florence was, she spoke four 
languages-French, German, Russian and English-but she really understood none 
of them and the jargon which she employed had a savor of savagery about it. 
For myself, I speak French very well and I have a deep understanding of 
French literature, especially the poets of the end of the 19th century. I 
wrote verses for Florence which I called Symbolist and which, in a simple 
way, reflected my sadness. 

 The anemone flowered in Archangel's name When the angels wept to be angels 
And Florence's name sighed to be done With the dizzy oaths from the rungs of 
the ladder. White voices singing in the name of Archangel Have absolved the 
funeral chants of Florence Whose returning flowers thickly entranced The 
oozily thawing ceilings and walls. O Florence! Archangel! One, a laurel 
berry, but the other an heavenly herb. One by one the women lean over the 
brink And overwhelm the dark well with flowers and relics, Relics of the 
Archangel and Archangel's flowers. 

"Garrison life in Archangelsk in peacetime is full of leisure. Hunting and 
worldly duties share with the military life. Hunting held little attraction 
for me and my worldly occupations could be summed up in a few words: to win 
Florence whom I loved and who did not love me. This was a hard task. 

"I suffered death a thousand times over because Florence detested me more 
and more, made fun of me and flirted with the white bear hunters, the 
Scandinavian merchants and even, one day, when a miserable French operetta 
company had come to perform in our distant mists, I came upon Florence 
during an aurora borealis skating hand in hand with the tenor, a repugnant 
goat born in Carcassonne. 

"But I was rich, sir, my suit was not received indifferently by Florence's 
father. I married her finally. 

"We set out for France and on the way she would not permit me to make love 
to her. We arrived in Nice in February during the carnival. We rented a 
villa, and on a day on which there was a flower battle, Florence told me 
that she had decided to lose her virginity that very evening. I believed 
that at last my love for her was going to be recompensed. Alas! My 
voluptuous calvary was only beginning! 

"Florence added that it was not I that she had chosen to fulfill this 
function. 

"'You are too ridiculous,' said she, 'and you would not know how. I want a 
Frenchman. The French are gallant and know all about love. I myself will 
choose my violator during the fete." 

"Used to obedience, I bowed my head. We went to the battle of the flowers. A 
young man with a Nice or Monaco accent looked at Florence. She turned her 
head, smiling. I suffered more than anyone suffered in all of Dante's 
circles of Hell. 

"During the flower battle we saw him again. He was alone in a carriage 
decorated with a profusion of rare flowers. We were in a madly decorated 
Victoria because she had insisted it be entirely covered with roses. When 
the young man's carriage passed ours, he threw roses at Florence, who was 
looking at him lovingly. She threw bouquets of roses at him. Then, in a 
trice, enervated by it all, she threw a bouquet very hard. The soft and 
viscous flowers and stems left a stain on the coxcomb's flannel clothing. 
Immediately, Florence excused herself and, getting out of the carriage 
without further ado, she climbed into his. 

"He was a young man from Nice, rich from an olive oil business which his 
father had left him. Prospero-that was his name-received my wife without 
ceremony and at the end of the battle his carriage had first place and mine 
had second. The music was playing. I saw my wife holding the banner won by 
my rival whom she was kissing bang slap on the mouth! 

"In the evening she insisted that we dine with Prospero, whom she had 
brought to our villa. She was exquisite and I was suffering. 

"My wife took us both into the bedroom, me sad to death and Prospero a 
little astonished and a little uneasy at his good fortune. She pointed out 
an armchair to me saying: 'You are going to watch a lesson in lust; try to 
derive some profit from it." 

"Then she told Prospero to undress her. He did so rather gracefully. 
Florence was charming. Her firm flesh, fatter than one would have supposed, 
palpitated under the young man's hands. He undressed himself as well and his 
shaft was standing. I noticed with pleasure that his was no bigger than 
mine. It was even smaller and it was pointed. In short, it was a fit 
instrument for a maiden. Both of them were charming; she, her hair done 
beautifully, her eyes sparkling with desire, pink in her lace chemise. 

"Prospero sucked her teats which were pointed like cooing doves and, passing 
his hand under the chemise, he fingered her a little while she amused 
herself by pulling down his shaft and letting go suddenly so that it came to 
smack against the young man's belly. I cried in my armchair. Suddenly 
Prospero took my wife in his arms and lifted up her chemise from behind. Her 
pretty pink bum appeared, indented with little creases. 

"She laughed as Prospero spanked her and the roses mixed with the lilies on 
her behind. Soon she became serious and said, 'Take me." 

"He carried her on to the bed and I heard a cry of pain from my wife when 
the hymen was rended to allow the passage of her conqueror. They did not pay 
any more attention to me. I was sobbing but taking pleasure in my grief all 
the same and unable to restrain myself any longer, I took out my tool and 
tossed myself off in their honor. 

"They must have come fifteen times. Then my wife, as if she had noticed my 
presence, said to me, 'Come and see, my dear husband, what a beautiful job 
Prospero has done." 

"I approached the bed, my rod in the air, and my wife, seeing that I was 
bigger than Prospero, became scornful of him. She stroked me and said, 
'Prospero, your tool is not worth a damn, for my husband is an idiot and he 
has a bigger one than you have. You have deceived me. My husband is going to 
avenge me. Andre-that's me-whip the skin off this man's back!' 

"I hurled myself upon him, and seizing a dog whip that was on the night 
table, I horsewhipped him with all the strength which my jealousy lent to 
me. I whipped him for a long time. I was stronger than he was and in the end 
my wife took pity on him. She made him get dressed and sent him away with a 
final farewell. 

"When he was gone I believed that my miseries were at an end. Alas! She said 
to me, 'Andre, give me your rod here.' She stroked me but did not permit me 
to touch her. Then she called her dog, a handsome great dane, and she 
stroked his tool for a moment. When his pointed fool was in a state of 
erection, she put the dog on top of her and ordered me to help the beast. 
Its tongue was hanging out and it was snorting with lust. 

"I suffered so much that I fainted as I ejaculated. When I came to myself, 
Florence was calling me with wild cries. The dog's penis, once it was in, 
did not want to come out. Both of them, the woman and the beast, spent half 
an hour in unfruitful efforts to detach themselves. But a gristly part of 
the great dane's tool retained it in the frightened slit of my wife. I 
applied cold water and they were soon free again. Since then my wife has 
never had the desire to make love to dogs. To reward me, she tossed me off 
and then she sent me to bed in my own room. 

"The next evening I begged my wife to allow me to fulfill my marital rights. 
'I adore you,' I said. 'No one loves you as I do. I am your slave. Do what 
you will with me." 

"She was naked and delicious. Her hair was scattered on the bed. Her 
strawberry-tipped breasts drew me and I wept. She took out my rod and 
slowly, with little motions of her hand, she stroked me. Then she rang the 
bell and a young chambermaid whom we had hired in Nice came in. She was in 
her nightgown, for she had been in bed. My wife made me take my place in the 
armchair again and I witnessed the frolics of the two bitches who screwed 
and blew and slobbered at the mouth. They were playing pussy, rubbing one 
another with their thighs, and I watched young Ninette's heavy arse rise 
from on top of my wife, whose eyes were swimming with lust. 

"I wanted to approach them but Florence and Ninette made a fool of me. They 
knocked my rod about. Then they plunged once again into their unnatural 
lust. 

"The next day my wife did not call on Ninette; it was an officer of the 
Chasseurs Alpins who came to make me suffer. His tool was blackish and very 
large. He was brutal. He insulted and beat me. When he had screwed my wife 
he ordered me to come close to the bed and, lifting the dog whip, he struck 
me across the face with it. Alas, a burst of laughter from my wife caused in 
me again that bittersweet pain with which I was familiar. I allowed myself 
to be undressed by the cruel soldier-he needed to flog someone to excite 
himself. When I was naked he insulted me. He called me a cuckold, a 
supernumerary, and asked me where my horns were, ther; he lifted the dog 
whip and beat me on the behind with it. 

"The first blows were cruel. But I saw that my wife had an appetite for my 
suffering and her pleasure became mine. I took pleasure in suffering. Each 
stroke fell violently, and-oh, voluptuously!-on my buttocks. The first 
smarting gradually became an exquisite tickling and I began to get a hard 
on. The blows soon ripped my skin and the blood which flowed from my 
buttocks excited me strangely. It actually increased my pleasure. 

"My wife's finger was poking around in the froth which decorated her pretty 
slit. With her other hand she was stroking my torturer. Then, suddenly, the 
blows doubled in their intensity, and I felt that the moment of my orgasm 
was approaching. I was transported; martyrs whom the Church honors must have 
had such moments. Bleeding like a dog, I got up, my rod hard, and threw 
myself on my wife. Neither she nor her lover could restrain me. I fell into 
her arms and my shaft had only grazed the adored short-hairs of her slit 
when I came with a horrible cry. 

"Immediately, the Alpine soldier dragged me from my haven. My wife, red with 
rage, said that he must punish me. 

"She took some hairpins and stuck them into my body, one by one, 
voluptuously. I uttered frightful cries of pain. Any man would have had pity 
on me! But my indignant wife, red in the face, lay down again on the bed. 
She had her legs wide open and she pulled her lover towards her by his 
enormous donkey's tool. Then, pulling apart the intermingled mass of hairs 
and lips, she forced his member in up to the stones, while her lover bit her 
on the breast and I, I rolled about like a madman on the ground, forcing the 
cruel hairpins to penetrate more deeply. 

"I woke up in the arms of the pretty Ninette, who, bending over me, was 
extracting the hairpins. I heard my wife in the next room. She was swearing 
and moaning with pleasure in the arms of her officer. The pain caused by the 
extraction of the hairpins coupled with that caused in me by my wife's 
pleasure made my shaft stand like a ten-pound cod. 

"Ninette, as I have said, was bending over me. I seized her by the 
short-hairs and felt her humid vent under my fingers. But alas! At that 
moment the door opened and a horrible botcha; that's to say a Piedmontese 
bricklayer's laborer, came in. 

"It was Ninette's lover and he was in a great rage. He lifted his mistress' 
skirts and began to spank her in front of me. Then he took off his leather 
belt and thrashed her with that. 

"She was crying out, 'I didn't make love with my master!' 

"'It's for that,' said the bricklayer, 'that I've got you by the arse 
hairs!' 

"Ninette defended herself in vain. Her great brown arse leapt about under 
the cuts of the belt which whistled and ran through the air like a striking 
snake. Her behind was soon on fire. She must have loved this punishment, for 
she turned round and, seizing her lover by the trouser flap, she opened his 
trousers and brought out a shaft and sack which must have weighed at least 
three and a half kilos. 

"The pig was standing like a rod! He lay down on top of Ninette, who crossed 
her slender and nervous legs around his workman's back. I saw the huge 
member enter the hairy slit which swallowed it like a lozenge and vomited it 
up again like a piston. They took a long time to come and their cries 
mingled with those of my wife. 

"When it was over, the botcha, who was red as a tomato, got up again and, 
seeing me tossing myself off, he insulted me. Then he took up his belt again 
and began to scourge me all over with it. The belt caused me terrible pain, 
for I was feeble by this time and no longer had enough strength to feel 
lust. The buckle bit deeply into my flesh. I cried out 'Mercy!' 

"But at that moment my wife came in with her lover and, as a barrel organ 
was playing a waltz under our windows, the two disheveled couples began to 
dance on my body, crushing my testicles, my nose, and making me bleed at 
every pore. 

"I became ill. But I was avenged too, because the botcha fell from a 
scaffolding and broke his skull and the Alpine officer insulted one of his 
colleagues and was killed by him in a duel. I was recalled to serve in the 
Extreme Orient by His Majesty. I left my wife. She is always deceiving me." 

Thus it was that Katache ended his story. He had excited Mony and the Polish 
nurse who had entered towards the end and listened intently, quivering with 
repressed lust. 

The prince and the nurse threw themselves on the unfortunate wounded man 
and, uncovering him, began to beat him. They used some Russian flagstaffs 
which had been taken in the last battle and which were lying scattered on 
the ground. His arse leapt at each blow. He was delirious. 

"Oh my dear Florence! Is it still your divine hand that is beating me? 
You're making me hard ... each blow is making me come ... don't forget to 
toss me off ... oh! That's wonderful! ... you're hitting too hard on the 
shoulders ... oh! That stroke drew blood ... it's bleeding for you, darling! 
... My turtledove ... my darling little fly." 

The whore of a nurse beat him as no one had ever been beaten before The arse 
of the unhappy man rose up livid and splotched in places with a pale blood. 
Mony felt a wrench at his heart. Suddenly he realized his own cruelty and 
his fury turned against the nurse. He lifted her skirts and began to beat 
her. She fell on the ground, raising her sodden buttocks upwards and 
exhibiting a beauty spot. Mony struck her with all his might, bringing the 
blood up through the satin flesh. She turned over, crying out as though she 
were possessed by a devil. Mony's stick beat on her belly with vicious 
thwacks. 

At that moment he had an inspiration of genius. Lifting up the stick which 
the nurse had dropped, he began to play the drum on the Polish woman's 
belly. The rat-tat-tat became a flac-flac-flac with dizzy rapidity. Little 
Bara, whose memory we all cherish, did not drum so well for the charge of 
Arcole Bridge. 

Finally the belly stove in, but Mony went on beating it and, outside the 
hospital, the Japanese soldiers, thinking it was a call to arms, fell in. 
The bugles sounded the alert in the camp. Everywhere, regiments formed, and 
well might they have done so, for the Russions had taken the offensive and 
were advancing towards the Japanese camp. If it had not been for the 
drumming of Prince Mony Vibescu the Japanese camp would certainly have been 
taken. That was, moreover, the decisive victory of the Japanese. It was due 
to a sadistic Rumanian. 

Suddenly several stretcherbearers carrying wounded came into the room. They 
saw the wounded man, naked and bloody on his bed. They threw themselves on 
the prince, bound hirn, and led him away. 

A council of war condemned him to death by flagellation, and nothing would 
make the Japanese judges flinch from their verdict. An appeal before the 
mikado had no success. 

Prince Vibescu accepted his lot bravely and prepared to die, a true 
Hereditary Hospodar of Rumania. 

 CHAPTER NINE 

The day of the execution arrived. Prince Vibescu took confession, communion, 
made his will, and wrote to his parents. Then a young girl of twelve was led 
into the prison. This astonished him, but seeing that they were left alone, 
he began to spoon with her. 

She was charming and told him in Rumanian that she was from Bucharest and 
had been taken prisoner by the Japanese in the rearguard of the Russian army 
where her parents had been army contractors. She had been asked if she 
wanted to lose her maidenhead to a Rumanian who was condemned to death and 
she had accepted. 

Mony lifted her skirt and sucked her little plump mound on which there were 
no hairs as yet, then he spanked her softly and she stroked him. Then he put 
the head of his rod between the childish legs of the little Rumanian girl 
but he couldn't get in. She tried to help him by bucking her arse and 
offering her little breasts, round as tangerines, for the prince to kiss. He 
penetrated with erotic fury, his tool finally sundering her maidenhead and 
making her innocent blood flow. Then Mony got up, and, as he had nothing 
more to hope from human justice, he strangled the little girl. But first, 
amidst her shocking screams, he gouged her eyes out. 

The Japanese soldiers entered then and dragged him out. A herald read the 
sentence of death in the prison courtyard, an ancient Chinese pagoda of 
marvelous architecture. The sentence was brief. The condemned man was to 
receive one stroke of the switch from each man in the Japanese army which 
was camped in that spot. This army was composed of eleven thousand men. 

While he listened to the sentence, the prince looked back over his violent 
life: the women of Bucharest, the Vice-Consul of Sdrbia, Paris; the murder 
in the sleeping car, the little Japanese girl in Port Arthur-all these 
things came back to him. 

One fact stood out: he remembered the Boulevard Male-sherbes, Culculine in a 
spring frock trotting towards the Madeleine and himself, Mony, and he was 
saying to her, "If I don't make love twenty times running may the eleven 
thousand virgins or even the eleven thousand switches chastise me!" 

He had not come twenty times running and the day had arrived when the eleven 
thousand switches were going to chastise him. 

He was there in his daydream when the soldiers shook him and led him to his 
executioners. The eleven thousand Japanese were ranged in two rows facing 
one another. Each man held a flexible cane. Mony was undressed. Then he had 
to march along this cruel road bordered on either side by his cruel 
executioners. The first strokes merely startled him. They fell upon his 
satin skin and left dark red marks. Stoically, he bore the first thousand 
cuts before he fell in his own blood, his shaft erect. 

Then he was put onto a barrow and the lugubrious walk proceeded, punctuated 
by the dry thwacks of the canes which beat on his swollen and bloody flesh. 
Soon his rod could no longer withhold its jet of sperm and rising up several 
times it spat its whitish liquid into the faces of the soldiers, who beat 
the tattered human frame all the harder. 

At the 2,000th blow, Mony gave up the ghost. The sun was radiant. The songs 
of the Manchurian birds made the spring morning even more gay. The sentence 
was executed and the last soldiers struck their blows on a mere formless 
tatter, a sort of pork mincemeat in which one could no longer distinguish 
anything except for the face which had been carefully respected and whose 
wide open glassy eyes seemed to contemplate the divine majesty of the world 
beyond. 

At that moment a convoy of Russian prisoners passed by the place of 
execution. They were brought to a halt there to impress the Muscovites. 

But a cry followed by two others rang out. Three prisoners threw themselves 
forwards and, as they were not chained, fell on the body of the executed man 
who had just received ten thousand cuts of the rod. They fell on their knees 
and with tears streaming down their cheeks they kissed Mony's head 
devotedly. 

Momentarily taken aback, the Japanese soldiers soon became aware that of one 
of the prisoners was a man, even a colossus, the other two were pretty women 
disguised as soldiers. They were indeed Cornaboeux, Culculine and Alexine, 
who had been captured after the disaster which had overtaken the Russian 
army. At first the Japanese soldiers respected their grief and then, lured 
on by two women, they began to tease them. 

Cornaboeux was left on his knees beside the body of his master and Culculine 
and Alexine, who fought vainly, had their trousers taken off. The beautiful 
rippling white arses of the pretty Paris women soon came to light. The 
soldiers marveled. Then, softly, they began to cane these charming 
posteriors which sailed about under the blows like drunken moons, and when 
the pretty girls tried to get up again, their gaping slits were visible 
beneath their short hairs. 

Falling flat but not too hard, the strokes cut through the air and marked 
the fat arses of the Parisian women, but in such a manner that the marks 
soon disappeared and reformed in a new spot at which the switch had begun to 
strike. When they were excited enough, they were led away to a tent by two 
Japanese officers, and there they were screwed ten times by men famished 
from long abstinence. 

These Japanese officers were gentlemen of prominent families. They had 
undertaken espionage in France and knew Paris very well. Culculine and 
Alexine had no trouble in getting them to promise that the body of Prince 
Vibescu would be delivered to them. They pretended that they were sisters 
and that he was their cousin. 

There was among the prisoners a French journalist, a correspondent of a 
provincial newspaper. Before the war he had been a sculptor, not without 
talent, and he was called Genmolay. Culculine went in search of him to beg 
him to sculpt a dignified monument to the memory of Prince Vibescu. 

Flogging was Genmolay's only passion. He only demanded of Culculine that he 
be allowed to flog her. She accepted and came at the prearranged hour with 
Alexine and Cornaboeux. The two women and the two men got undressed. Alexine 
and Culculine got onto the beds with their heads down and their arses in the 
air, and the two robust Frenchmen, armed with switches, began to beat them 
in such a way that most of the blows fell in the arse slits or on their 
plump mounds which, in the position they were in, stuck out prettily. The 
thrashing went on and everybody was excited. The two women accepted 
martyrdom. The idea that their suffering was going to procure a decent 
sepulchre for Mony sustained them to the end of their singular trial. 

Then Genmolay and Cornaboeux sat down and began to suck each other's big 
sap-filled rod. At the same time they went on thrashing the trembling 
buttocks of the two pretty girls. 

The next day Genmolay went to work. He had soon finished an astonishing 
memorial. An equestrian statue of the prince surmounted it. On the pedestal 
bas-reliefs represented the renowned actions of the prince. On one side he 
was to be seen leaving the besieged Port Arthur by balloon. And on the other 
he was represented as the protector of the arts which he came to study in 
Paris. 

The traveler who wanders about the Manchurian countryside between Mukden and 
Dalny notices all of a sudden, not far from a field of battle still sewn 
with bones, a monumental tomb of white marble. The Chinese who labor round 
about it respect it and the Manchurian mother in reply to her child's 
questions, says to him; "It is a giant cavalier who protected Manchuria 
against the devils of West and East." 

But the traveler generally prefers to ask the porter of the 
Trans-Manchurian. This guard is a Japanese with bridled eyes. He is clothed 
like an employee of the P.L.M. He replies modestly, "It is a Japanese drum 
major who brought about the victory of Mukden." 

But if curious to have exact information, the traveler approaches the 
statue, he remains for a long time pensive after reading this verse which is 
engraved on the pedestal: Here lies Prince Vibescu Unique lover of eleven 
thousand switches It is better, traveler, be certain! To deflower eleven 
thousand bitches 

------------------------------------------------------ 

THE ENDMEMOIRS OF A YOUNG RAKEHELL (Les Exploits d'un jeune Don Juan) 

 CHAPTER ONE 

Summer was back again; my mother had returned to the country, to the estate 
which we had acquired only recently. My father, engrossed in his business, 
had remained in the city. He regretted having purchased this estate which he 
had acquired at my mother's insistence. 

"You're the one who wanted this country house," he said. "Go out there if 
you wish but don't force me to go. Besides, my dear Anna, you can rest 
assured that I'm going to resell it at the first opportunity." 

"But, dear," said my mother, "you have no idea how much good the country air 
will do the children." 

"Yes, yes, I know," replied my father, consulting his notebook and taking 
his hat. "I gave way to your whim but I was wrong." 

So my mother left for her campagne, as she put it, intending to make the 
most of what might prove to be a short stay. She was accompanied by a 
younger, still unmarried sister, a maid, by myself, her only son, and by one 
of my sisters who was a year older than I. 

We arrived in the best of spirits at the country house, which the people of 
that district had nicknamed Le Chateau. Le Chateau, which was an old 
dwelling no doubt dating from the 17th century, had once belonged to wealthy 
farmers. 

The interior was spacious but the arrangement of the rooms was so 
extraordinary that the house was really rather inconvenient to live in, with 
numerous wasted steps occasioned by the architectural disorder. The rooms 
were not disposed as in ordinary houses, but were separated by a mass of 
dark passages, winding corridors, spiral staircases. In short, the place was 
a veritable labyrinth and it took several days of exploring the house before 
one had any real notion of the layout of the apartments. 

The outbuildings, where the farm and stables were located, were separated 
from the main house by a courtyard. Adjoining these buildings was a chapel 
which could be entered as easily from courtyard, main house, or outbuilding. 
This chapel was in a good state of repair. Formerly a monk had officiated 
there. He had lived in the chateau and administered to the spiritual needs 
of the little village round about. 

Since the last one died, the office had never been filled again, and only on 
Sundays and feast days, as well as from time to time to hear confessions, 
did a chaplain from the neighboring monastery come to our chapel to conduct 
those services indispensable for the eternal salvation of the worthy 
peasants. 

When the monk came, he inevitably stayed to dinner, and a room was prepared 
for him near the chapel in case he cared to spend the night there. My 
mother, my aunt and the maid, Kate, were busy getting the room ready; the 
bailiff, the farm valet, and a servant were helping them. 

Since the harvest was already almost completely in, my sister and I were 
permitted to go for walks where we pleased. We rambled throughout the 
chateau, through all its nooks and crannies, from cellar to roof. We played 
hide-and-seek around the columns, or else one of us, taking refuge behind a 
staircase, lay in ambush for the other to pass, then sprang out with a 
bloodcurdling shriek. 

The wooden staircase leading to the attic was very steep. One day I had 
preceded Berthe down and hidden myself between two chimney flues where, in 
contrast to the staircase which was lighted by a skylight in the roof, it 
was very dark. When she appeared, coming down cautiously, I sprang out, 
imitating the barking of a ferocious dog. Berthe, who had not suspected I 
was there, was so frightened that she slipped, missed the next stair down, 
and fell so that her head was at the bottom of the staircase while her legs 
remained above on the steps. 

Her dress was naturally umbrellaed upwards until it covered her face, 
leaving her legs exposed. When I approached her, laughing, I noticed that 
her blouse had slipped up above her navel. Berthe was not wearing any 
panties, because, as she told me later, hers were dirty, and we had not yet 
had time to unpack the linen. So it was that for the first time I saw my 
sister in an immodest state. 

To tell the truth I had already seen her naked because we had often been 
bathed together during the past few years. But I had seen only the backside 
of her body, or at most a side, because my mother and my aunt had placed us 
back to back with our little buttocks towards each other as they washed us. 
Both ladies took good care to see that I didn't peep, and when they handed 
us our little nightgowns, they bade us place our hands carefully in front of 
us. 

So it was that Kate, one day when she had taken my aunt's place in giving 
Berthe her bath, had been scolded for forgetting to bid Berthe to put her 
hands in front of her. I was always bathed either by my mother or by my 
aunt. When I was in the large bathtub I was told, "All right, Roger, now you 
can remove your hand." 

And as you can well imagine, it was always one of them who soaped and 
scrubbed me. My mother, who believed in the principle that children should 
be treated as children as long as possible, had kept this system in 
practice. 

At that time I was thirteen years old and my sister Berthe fourteen. I knew 
nothing at all about love or even about the difference between sexes. But 
when I felt myself naked in front of women, when I felt their soft, feminine 
hands wandering here and there over my body, I experienced a curious 
sensation. 

I remember very well that every time my aunt Margaret washed and dried my 
sexual parts I was conscious of an unfamiliar, vague, but extremely 
agreeable sensation. I noticed that my little penis suddenly became as stiff 
as steel, and that instead of drooping as before, it reared its head. 
Instinctively I drew closer to my aunt and pushed and thrust my belly 
forward as far as I could. 

One day when this happened, my aunt Margaret blushed suddenly, and that made 
her delicate features even more beautiful. She had noticed that my little 
knob was erect, and, feigning ignorance, beckoned to my mother who was 
bathing her feet with us. Kate was then busy washing Berthe, but she, too, 
immediately became attentive. 

As a matter-of-fact I had noticed that she much preferred to take charge of 
me than of my sister, and that she never missed an opportunity of helping my 
mother and aunt when they attended to me. Now she too wanted to see what was 
going on. She turned her head and looked at me without the least constraint 
while my aunt and my mother exchanged significant glances. 

My mother was in petticoats and had tucked them up above her knees so that 
she could cut her toenails more easily. I had caught a glimpse of her 
pretty, plump feet, her beautiful, nervous calves, and her round, white 
knees. The sight of my mother's legs had affected my virility as much as had 
my aunt's caresses. My mother probably realized this, because she blushed 
and let her petticoats tumble down. 

The ladies smiled and Kate began to laugh, until she was stopped by the 
disapproving glances of my aunt and mother. But she tried to justify herself 
by saying, "Berthe also laughs when I come to that spot with a warm sponge." 
My mother ordered her to hold her tongue. 

At that very moment the bathroom door opened, and my elder sister Elise came 
in. She was fifteen years old and went to high school. Although my aunt had 
adroitly thrown a shirt over my bare body, Elise had time to see me, and 
that irritated me no end. For although I was not at all ashamed in front of 
Berthe, I didn't like Elise seeing me naked, because for four years now she 
had no longer taken her bath with us, but bathed either with the ladies or 
with Kate. 

I was vaguely annoyed that all the women of the household had the right to 
come into the bathroom when I was there, whereas this same right was denied 
me. And I found it absolutely outrageous that I was denied entry even when 
only my sister Elise was being bathed, for I saw no earthly reason why she 
should be treated any differently from us in spite of her young lady's 
affectations. 

Berthe herself was incensed by Elise's unjust pretensions, for Elise had one 
day refused to undress in front of her, and yet did not hesitate to do so 
when my aunt and my mother were alone with her in the bathroom. We could not 
understand such behavior, which actually stemmed from the fact that Elise 
had reached the age of puberty. Her hips were rounded, her nipples were 
beginning to swell, and, as I learned later, the first pubic hair had 
appeared on her mound. 

That day Berthe had merely heard my mother say to my aunt as they were 
leaving the bathroom, "With Elise it came on surprisingly early." 

"Yes, mine was a year later." 

"And mine two years later." 

"We'll have to give her a bedroom to herself now." 

"She can share mine," my aunt had replied. 

Berthe had related all this to me, and naturally understood as little about 
it as I did. 

But on that particular occasion, as soon as my sister Elise had come in and 
seen me completely naked with my little staff standing as stiff as an angry 
little cock, I noticed that her gaze was riveted on that spot, and that she 
could not conceal a movement of profound astonishment. But she did not drop 
her eyes. On the contrary. 

When my mother asked her suddenly if she too would like to take a bath, she 
blushed and stammered, "Yes, mama." 

"Roger and Berthe have already finished theirs," my mother said, "you can 
get undressed." 

Elise obeyed without hesitation and stripped down to her chemise. I had just 
time enough to see that she was more developed than Berthe, but that was all 
before they hustled me out of the bathroom. 

After that I was no longer bathed with Berthe. Either my aunt Margaret or my 
mother was still present, because ever since my mother had read somewhere of 
a child's having drowned in his bath she had been morbidly afraid to let me 
bathe alone. But the ladies, though they continued to wash the rest of my 
body, henceforth refrained from touching my tool or ballbearings. 

Nevertheless there were still times when I got an erection in front of my 
mother or aunt Margaret. The ladies noticed it all right, although my mother 
turned her head away when she lifted me out of the tub and helped me on with 
my nightshirt, and my aunt dropped her gaze to the floor. 

My aunt Margaret was twenty-six, ten years younger than my mother, but since 
she had always refrained from giving her heart away, she bore her age 
extremely well and appeared to be a young girl. My nakedness seemed to make 
quite an impression on her, for each time she bathed me she spoke to me in a 
soft flutey voice. 

Once when she had soaped and rinsed me vigorously her hand brushed my little 
rod. She recoiled as though she had touched a snake. I noticed it and, 
slightly peeved, said to her, "Dearest darling auntie, why don't you wash 
your little Roger all over?" 

She blushed deeply. "But I did wash you all over," she said to me nervously. 

"Come now auntie, wash my prickly pear as well." 

"For shame, you wicked little boy! You are perfectly capable of washing it 
yourself." 

"No auntie, please, you wash it. I can't do it nearly as well as you can." 

"Oh the little rascal!" said my aunt, smiling. And taking the sponge she 
carefully washed my genitals. 

"Come, auntie dear, let me give you a great big kiss for being so sweet," I 
said. 

And I kissed her pretty cherry red lips behind which sparkled her 
beautifully white teeth. 

As soon as I was out of the bathtub I beseeched her to dry me. So my aunt 
dried me, lingering perhaps even longer than was necessary over my sensitive 
parts. 

This so excited me that, holding fast to the edge of the bathtub in order to 
protrude my belly even farther, I became so agitated that my aunt told me 
gently, "That's enough, Roger, you're no longer a little boy. From now on 
you'll take your bath alone." 

"Oh no, auntie, please not alone! You must bathe me. I enjoy it ever so much 
more when you bathe me than when mama does it." 

"Get dressed, Roger." 

"Be a nice auntie and take a bath with me some time." 

"Get dressed, Roger," she said, moving to the window. "No! I want to see you 
take a bath, too," I said. "Roger!" 

"Auntie, if you don't I'll tell Daddy that you've taken my knob in your 
mouth again." 

My aunt blushed deeply. As a matter-of-fact she really had done that, but 
only for a second, one day when I had not wanted to take my bath. The water 
had been too cold and I'd run off to my room to hide. My aunt had come 
looking for me and at length had taken my little penis in her mouth, 
squeezing it between her lips for a second. I had enjoyed it so much that I 
had finally relented and become docile as a lamb. 

Besides, in a similar circumstance my mother had done the same, and I know 
many instances of this practice. Women who bathe little boys often do it. 
For them the effect is the same as that produced for us when, as men, we see 
and touch a young girl's tender crevice, but women know better than men how 
to vary their pleasures. 

During my earliest years I had an elderly child's nurse who tickled my 
tiddley when I couldn't get to sleep or even gently sucked at it. I even 
remember that one day she placed me on her warm belly and kept me there for 
a long time. But as all that happened so long ago I remember it only 
vaguely. 

As soon as my aunt had recovered her composure she said to me angrily, "That 
was only a joke, Roger, and you were only a little boy then. But I see that 
it's impossible to joke with you any longer, you're a man now." And she 
glanced again at my erection. "What's more, you're a wicked little scamp, I 
don't love you any more." And so saying she gave my rod a little slap. 

Then she began to leave and I held her back, saying, "Excuse me, auntie 
dear, I won't say anything to anyone even if you get into the bathtub." 

"I suppose I can do that at least," she said smiling. She slipped her bare 
feet out of her red slippers, pulled her dressing gown above her knees and 
climbed into the bath. The water reached the top of her calves. 

"Now I've done what you asked, Roger, be good and get dressed like a nice 
boy or else I'll never look at you again." 

She said it with such conviction that I realized she meant it. By then I no 
longer had a hard-on. I took my nightshirt and slipped into it while my aunt 
was bathing her feet. But then, so that I wouldn't make any further demands 
on her, she announced that she wasn't feeling well and that she wouldn't 
take a bath after all. 

When I was dressed she got out of the tub to dry herself. The towel, the 
same one which I had used, was wet. I got down on my knees and wiped my 
aunt's dainty feet. She made no protest. When I wiped between her toes she 
laughed and when I touched and tickled the soles of her feet her good humor 
returned completely and she agreed to let me dry her calves. 

When I reached her knees, however, she told me not to go any higher. I 
obeyed, although for a long time I had had a burning desire to know just 
what it was that women carried beneath their skirts which was so precious 
that they were always frantic to hide it. 

My aunt and I were friends once again but from then on I bathed alone. My 
mother no doubt learned these things from my aunt but she never gave me any 
indication of it. 

Now it is time to turn aside from these observations, which were necessary 
for what is to follow, and to return to pick up the thread of our story. 

 CHAPTER TWO 

My sister had fallen to the foot of the stairs and was lying with her skirts 
all topsy-turvy. Even when she saw me standing right beside her, she made no 
effort to get up. 

It was as though, from fear and the shock of her fall, she had been struck 
by lightning. Thinking she was merely trying to frighten me, I let my 
curiosity get the better of any feelings of pity I might otherwise have had. 

My eyes were riveted on her nakedness. Where the lower part of her belly 
joined her thighs, I saw a peculiar elevation in the form of a fleshy 
triangular mound, on which a few blonde hairs were visible. Approximately 
where the thighs joined I noticed that the mound was cleft by a large 
crevice about an inch and a half long, on either side of which two lips 
opened left and right. I glimpsed the spot where that cleft came to an end 
just as my sister started to scramble to her feet. 

She probably had not had the faintest notion that she was lying so exposed, 
for otherwise she would immediately have arranged her clothes. But suddenly, 
as she drew her feet down beneath her, her thighs spread and I noticed that 
the lips, only part of which I had seen when the thighs had been closed, 
continued until they came together near the buttocks. 

During this quick movement of her legs she had half-opened her slit, which 
at that time must have been from three to three and a half inches long, and 
I was able to see that the flesh inside was red, in contrast to the milk 
whiteness of the rest of her body. Only one spot between her thighs, near 
the lips, was slightly red. But that pale red had doubtless been caused by 
sweat and moisture. 

The width of a few fingers separated her slit, whose form resembled the 
split in an apricot, from her buttocks. There in all its splendor lay 
Berthe's pot-hole, which I glimpsed when she turned her back to me as she 
was getting up. The hole, of a darker color, was no larger than the tip of 
my finger. Between her cheeks the skin was slightly reddened by the sweat 
which the day's heat had provoked. 

My curiosity had been so aroused that I had not realized how badly my sister 
must have hurt herself in falling, but finally awakening to that 
possibility, I flew to her rescue. That whole scene had certainly not lasted 
for more than a minute. I helped Berthe to her feet. She was unsteady on her 
pins and complained of a headache. 

There was of course an ample supply of cold water in the courtyard well, but 
had we gone there we would certainly have been spotted and called to 
account, with the result that all further excursions throughout the chateau 
would have been forbidden us. So I suggested that we go to the little pond 
at the end of the garden which we had one day espied from the rooftop. 

Upon reaching this spot we found, almost hidden amongst dense undergrowth, 
some artificial rocks, whence a spring flowed into the pond. 

Berthe sat down on a stone bench. I made some compresses with our 
handkerchiefs. She was .slightly overheated and out of breath. But it was 
well before noon, and at the end of half an hour she was feeling much 
better, although she still sported an impressive lump on her head. 
Fortunately, however, her hair concealed it. 

During that half hour I had catalogued all I had just seen, and fully 
enjoyed letting my mind linger over these new discoveries. But I had no idea 
how, in the light of them, I should act with Berthe. 

Finally I decided what I should do. While Berthe had been lying there naked 
I had noticed that under her feathery bush she had a beauty spot at the 
point where her slit ended. 

It so happened that I had one too, in exactly the same place, just behind my 
sack. My mother and aunt had one day looked at it laughingly, and I had 
never understood why. Later I had examined my buttocks in the mirror and 
discovered it. 

When I told Berthe about it she appeared surprised and blushed profusely. At 
first she pretended not to understand, and when I carefully described its 
position to her, stretching out on the ground with my legs spread to show 
her how I had happened to see it, she became horribly embarrassed. 

I had to make sure that we were alone in the garden. The surrounding 
vegetation was high enough to hide us from any distant eye, and we could 
easily see if anyone was approaching. I unbuttoned my suspenders and, 
letting fall my light summer trousers, lay down on my back directly in front 
of my sister. 

"Oh, goodness, Roger, if anyone were to see you!" she said half aloud, 
without, however, shifting her gaze. 

"There's nobody around here, Berthe," I replied in the same half-hushed 
tone. Then, getting up, I stood in front of her, lifted my shirt and said, 
"Since I saw all of you, you can see all of me." 

Berthe's curiosity was aroused, and she looked at me without constraint. Her 
gaze was beginning to affect me; my member began to stir, then rose and, 
stiffening, bared its head. 

"You see, Berthe, I make water out of that little hole, but now I can't, 
even though I want to." 

"I've had to go for a long time," she said softly, "but I'm ashamed to. 
Don't look at me, Roger." 

"Now, Berthe, don't be such a prissy. If you hold it too long your bladder 
will burst and you'll die. That's what our old nurse used to say." 

Berthe got up, glanced all round, then squatted beside the bench and began 
to urinate. I bent down quickly so as not to miss a trick, and saw a thin 
but steady stream spurting from the top of her cleft and falling obliquely 
to the ground. 

"No, Roger!" she said tearfully, "that's hot nice." She finished and stood 
up. 

"But Berthe, nobody can see us," I protested. "Don't be like that." I smiled 
and added, "Look at me, I'm not shy in front of you." I began to urinate, 
but in jerks, because my member was still stiff. Berthe burst out laughing. 
Taking advantage of her good mood, I deftly raised her skirts, forced her to 
squat and made her pee. 

She no longer resisted, but spread her legs and bent forward slightly. I saw 
the stream which fell to the ground with a splash before it slackened off. 
My sister seemed to be forcing at the end, and her crevice opened near the 
top, revealing the red flesh. 

All this lasted only a few seconds. The stream had dried to a mere dribble. 
Suddenly I seized the lips of her Lady Jane and drew them apart. She seemed 
to enjoy it immensely, for otherwise she would never have lifted her skirts 
so obligingly. 

In so doing, I discovered that her crack, which might be compared to a half 
opened mussel, contained two additional lips, smaller than the outside ones. 
These inner lips, a beautiful red, were shut tight. At the top was the 
little hole through which she had just peepeed. A little jut of flesh the 
size of a pea was also visible. I touched it and found it to be extremely 
hard. 

My caresses seemed to please my sister, for she remained motionless, pushing 
her belly out slightly. She became very excited and lifted her skirt even 
higher to above her navel. Then I caressed her belly, moving my hands 
exploringly across her flesh. I tickled her navel and tongued around it. 

Then I moved off to get a better view, and saw for the first time the lovely 
down adorning her soft rectangular mound. The hair was sparse, short and 
downy, so blonde that one would really have had to be close to see it. Not 
that I had much more myself, but mine was darker. I twisted the hair a bit 
and told Berthe how surprised I was to find that the color of our pubic hair 
was so different. 

"It's always like that," she replied. 

"How do you know?" 

"Kate told me so once when we were alone in the bath. Besides, I'm going to 
have my periods soon." 

"What are they?" 

"There's a flow of blood every month for several days from your Lady Jane. 
Kate had her periods and hair when she was my age." 

"Does she have hair like yours?" 

"Don't be silly!" Berthe said with evident superiority. 

And letting her clothes fall back into place she added, "Kate has red hair 
and mine is blonde. She uses oil on her head to make her hair seem darker. 
Besides, she has so much hair down below that you can only see her 
thingama-jig if she spreads her legs apart." 

While Berthe had been saying all this my member had unstiffened. 

Berthe noticed it and said, "You see, your tiddley had shrunk again. Kate 
told me all about it one day when I asked her why she had laughed in the 
bathroom. She told me that Roger's member had stood up straight like a 
man's. As a matter-of-fact, she says that it's pretty big. If he were a man, 
she said, I'd let him stick me. Watch your step that he doesn't try to stick 
you, Berthe." 

"What's that mean, to stick someone?" 

"Well, you know, when two people stroke each other. Kate's already done it 
to me, and she made me do it to her, too. I enjoy what she does much more 
than what you did to me just now. She always wets her finger. 

"She made me use my thumb, because it seems that that's the finger which 
goes in the farthest. So I moved it back and forth as fast as I could and 
she loved it. She did it to me and I loved it, too, but the first time she 
made me do it to her she scared me 'most to death. She began to sigh and 
pant, and then when she started to shout and shake all over I thought I'd 
hurt her and was going to stop. But she said, 'No, Berthe, don't stop,' and 
became ever so excited and cried out, 'Oh Berthe, it's coming, oh, oh, oh!' 

"And then she fell back on the bed as though she had fainted. When I took my 
finger out of her crack it was covered with something gluey. She made me 
wash and promised to make me come when I was a little older and had hair on 
my mound." 

A thousand thoughts raced across my mind. I had a hundred questions I wanted 
to ask, for there was much of all this that I didn't quite understand. 

Who knows what might have happened if the dinner bell had not rung? I cast a 
final glance at Berthe's treasures, and showed her mine. Then we both set 
our clothes in order and kissed, promising, on our word of honor, to say 
nothing to anyone of what had transpired between us. We were on the point of 
leaving when the sound of voices detained us. 

 CHAPTER THREE 

But then we realized that the bell which had just rung was not for us, but 
to call the servants to lunch. And since we were respectable, we were in no 
special hurry to leave, since anyone coming upon us there would have had 
absolutely no inkling of what we had just been doing. 

The noise we had heard close by had come from beyond the garden. We soon saw 
that the voices belonged to some servant girls who had been working in the 
fields directly behind the garden. But since the servants' lunch began only 
fifteen minutes after the first bell, we could watch their sport. 

It had rained the night before. The freshly ploughed earth clung to the 
girls' feet, and their skirts-in truth they each appeared to be wearing only 
one-were extremely short, reaching barely to their knees. They were not 
extraordinarily pretty, but they were nevertheless sturdy sun-tanned peasant 
girls, whose ages ranged between 20 and 30. 

When they reached the spring they sat down on the grass along the bank of 
the stream and dipped their feet into the water. As they bathed their feet 
they set to chattering like a flock of magpies. 

They were directly in front of us and not 30 feet away. The contrast between 
their bronzed calves and white knees was clearly visible, and in some cases 
even the hint of the thighs. 

Berthe did not seem to be enjoying this spectacle in the least, and began 
tugging on my arm for us to leave. But then we heard footsteps close by and 
saw three hired men approaching along a little path which ran beside our 
hiding place. . 

Some of the girls set to arranging their clothes when they saw the men 
approaching, and in particular one girl whose coal-black hair and clear grey 
roguish eyes led one to believe that she was of Spanish descent. 

The first of the hirelings, a dull looking clod, took no notice of the 
women's presence and, standing directly in front of our hiding place, 
unbuttoned his trousers to pee. He took out his member, which looked much 
the same as mine, except that his glans was completely hidden. He uncovered 
it to pee. He had lifted his shirttail so high that the hair surrounding his 
genitals was visible. He had also pulled his eggs out of his trousers and 
was scratching them with his left hand while holding his member in his 
right. 

I was as bored by all this as Berthe had apparently been when I had pointed 
out the peasant girls' calves to her, but now she was all eyes. The girls 
pretended not to notice him. The second hired man likewise unbuttoned his 
trousers and brought forth a rod which was smaller than his companion's, but 
brown and half uncovered. He began to urinate. At that the girls all burst 
out laughing, and their shrieks grew even more hilarious when the third also 
assumed the position. 

By this time the first fellow had finished. He uncovered his rod completely, 
and shaking off the last bit of dew, bent his knees slightly to replace the 
package in his pants. In so doing he let fly a clear, emphatic gust of wind 
and gave a deep sigh of satisfaction-which set the girls to laughing even 
more. 

The hilarity increased when they noticed the third fellow's joy stick. He 
had placed himself on a slope, so that we could see both his member and the 
peasant girls seated beyond. He raised it skyward and sent his fountain 
arching high. The girls' laughter reached a new pitch. 

Then the men approached the maids, and one of the latter began to splash 
water playfully on the stupid looking hired man. The third man remarked to 
the brunette who, upon seeing the men arrive, had settled her skirts, "A lot 
of good it does you to hide it, Ursula. I've already seen that article you 
hold so dear." 

"There's plenty of things you haven't seen yet, Valentin! And a lot you'll 
never see," Ursula replied coquettishly. 

"Oh you think so, do you?" said Valentin, who was now standing directly 
behind her. 

And seizing her shoulders he forced her backward to the ground. She tried to 
remove her feet from the water, but neglected to keep her light skirt and 
blouse from billowing upward, so that she wound up in the same position as 
my sister had been in a little while before. Unfortunately, this enjoyable 
spectacle lasted only a few seconds. 

But it had nevertheless lasted long enough for me to see that Ursula, who 
had already shown herself to be the proud owner of a pair of splendid 
calves, also possessed a pair of thighs which in themselves were worthy of 
the highest honors, and buttocks whose cheeks left absolutely nothing to be 
desired. 

Between her thighs, at the bottom of her belly, lay a bush of dark hair 
which extended far enough to envelop both pretty lips of her slit. But there 
the hair was more sparsely scattered than above, where it covered an area 
whose dimensions my hand would scarcely have sufficed to cover. 

"You see, Ursula," said Valentin, by now quite excited, "now I've seen your 
black marmot." And without flinching he took the series of blows and insults 
which the girl, now really angry, rained upon him. 

The second hireling wanted to pull the same stunt with another of the girls 
as Valentin had tried with Ursula. This second peasant girl was fairly 
pretty. Her face, neck and arms were so covered with freckles that it was 
almost impossible to distinguish the real color of her skin. Her legs were 
also freckled, but the freckles there were larger and more dispersed. She 
had an intelligent look about her; her eyes were a deep brown, her hair red 
and crinkly. 

She wasn't really pretty, but nevertheless a tempting enough morsel to give 
a man ideas. And the hired man, Michel, seemed to have a few. "Helen," he 
said, "you should have a red mound. If it proves to be black, that means 
you've stolen it somewhere." 

"Dirty dog!" spat the lovely peasant girl. 

He grabbed her as Valentin had done. But she had time to get to her feet, 
and instead of getting a glimpse of her pretty mound, Michel received such a 
storm of blows full in the face that he must have seen all the planets and 
half the stars. 

The other two girls joined in the fracas and began to pummel him. But at 
last he broke away and, pursued by the three girls' mocking laughter, ran to 
catch up with his companions. 

The girls had finished bathing their feet and had left. Only Ursula and 
Helen remained, and they were getting ready to go. They were whispering 
together. Ursula burst out laughing and, wrinkling her forehead, made a wry 
face. Helen was looking at her and nodding her head in assent. 

The former seemed to be thinking over what Helen had told her. Helen shot a 
glance around her to make sure that everyone had left, then quickly lifted 
her skirts in front and, holding them high with her left hand, slipped her 
right hand between her thighs at the spot where one could see the forest of 
red hair. By the movement of the hair, which was much thicker than Ursula's, 
one could see that she was squeezing her love lips between her fingers. 

Ursula was watching her intently. Suddenly a stream shot forth from the 
bush; instead of falling straight to the ground, it arched and described a 
half circle in the air. Both Berthe and I were astonished to see it, for 
neither of us had ever imagined that women could make water like that. 

Ursula likewise seemed surprised, and apparently wanted to try it herself, 
but she gave up the idea, for just then the second and last bell for lunch 
rang, and the two girls set off posthaste. 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

When Berthe and I returned to the chateau we found the table already laid. 
But my mother and my aunt had not quite finished arranging the dining room. 
While Berthe was helping them I picked up the newspaper which my father had 
forwarded us, and read a short article which related how a Mr. X had raped a 
Miss A. I looked up the meaning of the word "rape" in the dictionary, and 
found "to deflower"-which didn't help matters much, although it gave me 
another subject for thought. 

At table Berthe and I, contrary to our wont, did not exchange a single word. 
My aunt and mother were surprised by our silence, but the latter concluded 
merely, "They've probably been fighting again." It seemed wiser to us to 
conceal our newfound intimacy beneath the fictitious veil of spite. 

My mother explained how she had arranged the rooms for my father and 
herself, and for my aunt. Their rooms were on the first floor, along with 
Berthe's and Kate's. 

Mine was on the ground floor, behind the stairway leading to the library. 
After lunch I went up to the library to look around. It contained an 
impressive number of old books and a smattering of modern works. 

The room prepared for the friar was right next to the library. It was 
separated from the chapel by a corridor. The chapel contained two large 
stalls set near the altar, where the former proprietors had sat at mass. 
Behind one of these stalls was the master's confessional, whereas the 
servant's confessional was tucked at the far end of the chapel. 

I had time to note all these details after dinner, since Berthe had been 
called to help the ladies, and I had scarcely had time to give her a 
stealthy kiss when I had gone out to see if I could be of any help. 

Several days passed without anything noteworthy happening. Berthe was still 
kept busy by the ladies, who had not yet finished getting the house into 
order. 

Since the weather had turned bad, I spent most of my time in the library, 
where I had been pleasantly surprised to come across an anatomic adas in 
which I found an illustrated description of the intimate parts of both 
sexes. The book also contained an explanation of pregnancy and of all the 
phases of maternity, none of which I had known before. 

This last interested me especially because the bailiffs wife was then 
pregnant, and the sight of her enormous belly had greatly aroused my 
curiosity. I once had heard her discussing the matter with her husband. 
Their quarters were on the ground floor right next to mine near the garden. 

Needless to say, the events of that memorable day, when I had seen my sister 
naked, and afterwards the sport of the peasant girls and men, had been 
constantly with me. My mind returned to them again and again, with the 
result that I had an erection most of the time. I frequently examined and 
played with my member. The pleasure I felt when handling it incited me to 
continue. In bed I amused myself by lying on my belly and rubbing myself 
against the sheets. My feelings grew more and more sensitive every day. A 
week passed in this way. 

One day when I was sitting in the old leather chair in the library, the 
atlas opened in front of me to the page describing the female genital 
organs. I had such an erection that I unbuttoned my trousers and took out my 
stiff rod. From constant rubbing it now uncovered easily. 

I was as a matter-of-fact sixteen by now, and considered myself a man. My 
hair had grown thicker and resembled a handsome moustache. That particular 
day I felt such a profound and unaccustomed voluptuousness as I rubbed it 
that my breathing grew short. I tightened the grip on my member, loosened 
it, stroking back and forth. I uncovered the tip completely, tickled my sack 
and my arsehole, then examined my glans, which was deep red in color and as 
shiny as lacquer. 

The pleasure I felt was beyond words. I ended up by discovering the rules 
for the fine art of masturbation, and stroked my rod regularly and 
rhythmically, until finally something about which I had previously been 
unaware happened. 

The feeling was so voluptuous that I was led to stretch my legs out in front 
of me and push against the legs of the table. My body slipped down and was 
pressing against the back of the chair. 

I felt the blood surging into my face. My breathing was becoming difficult I 
closed my eyes; my mouth dropped slightly open. A thousand thoughts raced 
through my mind in the space of a minute. 

My aunt, in front of whom I had stood naked; my sister, whose pretty little 
nest I had explored; the powerful thighs of the two maids-all these images 
flew across my mind. My hand stroked my rod faster and faster. An electric 
shock coursed through my body. 

My aunt! Berthe! Ursula! Helen! ... I felt my member swell, and from the 
dark red glans gushed forth a whitish liquid, first with a powerful spurt, 
then in a series of less potent jets. I had just discharged for the first 
time. 

My tool fell limp. I now looked with interest and curiosity at the sperm 
which had spilled into my right palm. It both looked and smelled like the 
white of an egg and had the consistency of glue. I licked it and found it to 
taste like a raw egg. I shook off the last few drops clinging to the tip of 
my member, which was now completely subdued, and wiped it on my shirt. 

From what I had previously read, I knew that I had just given myself up to 
the pleasures of onanism. I looked the word up in the dictionary and found a 
long article on the subject, in such detail that anyone who had not 
previously been aware of the practice would inevitably have been fully 
enlightened. 

The article had once again excited me. The fatigue resulting from my first 
ejaculation was past. The only tangible evidence of my act was a devouring 
appetite. At table my aunt and mother remarked upon my appetite but 
dismissed it as merely due to growth. 

I soon came to realize that onanism is like drink; the more you indulge, the 
more you want. 

My member was constantly hard, and my thoughts increasingly voluptuous, but 
the pleasures of Onan could not satisfy me forever. I thought more and more 
about the opposite sex; it seemed a shame for me to waste my sperm 
masturbating. 

My tool became darker, my pubic hair a handsome beard, my voice deepened and 
a few microscopic hairs appeared on my upper lip. I realized that I lacked 
only one experience of manhood, coitus, which is the term by which the books 
designate that act which I had never as yet tried. 

All the women of the household noticed the changes that had taken place in 
me, and I was no longer treated as a child. 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

The feast day of the chateau's patron saint was at hand. It was the occasion 
for a major celebration, which was to be preceded by the confession of all 
members of the household. 

Both my aunt and mother had decided to go to confession, and the others 
intended to follow their example. I had succeeded in feigning illness, and 
had kept to my room since the previous evening in order to avoid arousing 
anyone's suspicions. 

The Capuchin friar had arrived and had dinner with us. Coffee had been 
served in the garden, and after Kate had finished clearing the table, I 
found myself alone. Since time was weighing heavy on my hands, I wandered 
into the library, where I chanced upon a hidden door that I had never 
noticed before. It gave on to a dark and narrow concealed staircase which 
was lighted only by a small circular window at the end of the upstairs 
corridor. 

The staircase led to the chapel, and from behind the locked door, which was 
rusted from long years of disuse, drifted the voice of the friar. He was 
telling my mother that he would hear her confession on the following day in 
the same place. 

The confessional was set against a wooden partition, through which every 
word could be distinctly heard. So it seemed to me that here would be an 
ideal vantage point from which to eavesdrop. I was of the opinion that this 
stairway must have been installed in years past by some jealous lord 
desirous of listening to his wife's confessions. 

The next day, after my morning coffee, the bailiff's wife came in to clean 
up my room. I've already mentioned that she was pregnant, and I carefully 
studied the enormous contour of her belly and the unusual size of her 
nipples which bounced to and fro beneath her light blouse. 

She was a pleasant looking woman with pretty features. Until the bailiff had 
put her in the family way she had been one of the chateau's maids. I had 
already seen women's breasts in pictures and on statues, but never in the 
flesh. 

The bailiff's wife was in a great hurry. She had buttoned only one of her 
blouse buttons. When she leaned over to straighten my bed this solitary 
button came undone, and I saw her entire bosom, for the V-necked jacket she 
was wearing was very low cut. 

I sprang to my feet. "Madam, you're going to be cold!" And pretending to 
help her rebutton her dress, I untied the ribbon holding it on her 
shoulders. As I did, the two nipples seemed actually to leap out of their 
hiding place, and I sensed their bulk and firmness. 

The buttons on each breast stood out; they were red and surrounded by a 
large brownish halo. Her titties were as firm as a pair of buttocks' cheeks, 
and as I fondled them I could have sworn they were a pretty girl's behind. 
The woman was so taken aback that I had time, before she recovered her wits, 
to kiss her nipples at leisure. 

She smelled of sweat, but in a way that excited me. It was that odor di 
femina which, as I was later to learn, emanates from a woman's body and, 
according to the individual, provokes either desire or disgust. 

"Oh, ooh! What are you thinking of? No ... that's not right! I'm a married 
woman. Not for anything in the world." 

These were her words as I steered her towards the bed. I had opened my 
dressing gown and lifted my nightshirt, revealing my member in a state of 
hyper-excitement. 

"Let me alone. I'm pregnant. Oh, Lord God, if anyone should see us!" 

She was still resisting, but less forcefully. As a matter-of-fact her gaze 
was fixed steadily on my sexual parts. She was supporting herself against 
the bed onto which I was trying to force her. 

"You're hurting me!" 

"My dear woman, no one can see or hear you." 

She was by now sitting on the edge of the bed. I was still pushing. She lay 
back and closed her eyes. 

My state of excitement was beyond all bounds. I lifted her dress, her 
petticoat, and saw a pair of thighs which fired my enthusiasm even more than 
had the peasant girls'. Between the closed thighs I caught sight of a small 
tangle of chestnut-colored hairs, among which the crack was concealed. 

I dropped to my knees, seized her thighs, let my hands roam caressingly, 
laid my cheeks upon them and covered them with kisses. My lips advanced from 
the thighs to her mound of Venus, where the smell of urine only added fuel 
to my excitement. 

I lifted her skirt even higher and looked with astonishment at the enormous 
bulk of her belly, upon which the navel was raised instead of in a hollow as 
was Berthe's. 

I licked her belly button. She lay motionless, her breasts flopping down on 
either side. I lifted one of her legs and placed it on the bed. Her slit 
came into view. At first I was frightened by the two thick and puffy 
reddish-brown lips. 

Her pregnancy gave me a chance to revel in that sight. Her lips were spread 
and when I darted a glance inside I discovered a real butcher's stall of 
moist red meat. Near the top of the lips was the peepee hole, crowned by a 
small grain of flesh which my anatomical research had informed me was called 
the clitoris. 

The upper part of her slit was lost in the hair covering her overly fleshy 
mound of Venus. The lips were almost hairless, and the skin between the 
thighs was damp and red from sweat. 

All in all it was not a very appetizing picture, but I appreciated it 
nevertheless because the woman was very clean. I could not help inserting my 
tongue into her crevice and licking it hastily before moving to the 
clitoris, which hardened under my passionate tonguing. 

I soon tired of this sport, and since the crevice was by now well moistened, 
I replaced my tongue with my finger. Then I laid hold of her nipples, taking 
the tips in my mouth and sucking them by turns. I kept my index on the 
clitoris, which grew harder and larger until it had assumed the proportions 
of my little finger or thereabouts. 

But at that point the woman came to her senses and began to whimper, but 
without, however, leaving the position into which I had forced her. I felt 
slightly sorry for her, but I was too worked up to really care. I talked to 
her cajolingly, trying to comfort her, and ended up by promising to stand as 
godfather for the child she was expecting. 

I went over and, taking some money from the drawer, handed it to her. She 
had by then got herself decent again. So I lifted my nightshirt, but felt 
somewhat ashamed to find myself naked again in front of a woman, especially 
one who was married and pregnant. 

I took her moist hand and placed it on my member. The touch was exquisite. 
She squeezed, gently at first, then more firmly. I had grasped her nipples, 
which held a strange fascination for me. I kissed her on the mouth, and she 
readily gave me her lips. My whole being was attuned to pleasure. 

I placed myself between her thighs, but she exclaimed, "Not on top of me, It 
hurts too much. I can't do it the front way any more." 

She got off the bed, turned round and bent over with her face on the bed. 
She said nothing else, but my instinct supplied me with the solution of the 
enigma. I remembered once having seen two dogs going at it that way. 
Following Medor's example, I lifted Diana's skirt. 

For Diana was her name. 

Her buttocks hove into sight, buttocks such as I had never even dreamed 
existed. Berthe's may have been pleasing, but it was really nothing next to 
this. My two cheeks put together wouldn't have made even one of this 
extraordinary rump, whose flesh, surprisingly enough, was not at all flabby. 
Like all breasts and handsome buttocks, hers were a gleaming white. 

In the slit were some blonde hairs, and the crack itself was like a chasm 
dividing her superb cheeks. Below the colossal buttocks, between the thighs, 
lay the fat juicy slit, in which my probing finger burrowed. I placed my 
chest against the woman's bare buttocks and with my arms tried to encircle 
her elusive belly, which hung down like some stately globe. 

I caressed her cheeks, then rubbed my member against them. But my curiosity 
was not yet satisfied. I spread her cheeks and inspected her arse-hole. Like 
her navel, it was elevated and though brown, was very clean. I started to 
insert my finger, but she gave such a start that I was afraid I had hurt 
her, so I didn't press the point. 

I placed my burning sword in her sheath; it was like a knife cutting into a 
mound of butter. Then I bestirred myself like a cock on a hot griddle, 
bouncing my belly against her elastic behind. I was like one possessed. I 
was no longer conscious of what I was doing, but I reached the voluptuous 
climax, and for the first time in my life shot my sperm into a woman. 

After the discharge I wanted to stay for a while in that agreeable position, 
but the bailiffs wife turned round and chastely arranged her clothes. While 
she was rebuttoning her sleeveless jacket, I heard the sound of something 
dripping: it was my sperm running from her onto the floor. She smeared it 
underfoot, and dried her thighs on her skirt. 

When she saw me standing in front of her, with my red, moist prick partly 
erect, she smiled, took out her handkerchief and meticulously dried it. "Get 
dressed, now, Master Roger," she said. "I've got to leave. But for the love 
of God," she added, blushing, "don't let anyone hear about what happened 
just now or I'll never forgive you." 

We embraced, exchanged kisses, and she departed, leaving me lost in such a 
flood of new sensations that I almost forgot that confession had doubtless 
already begun. 

 CHAPTER SIX 

Wearing slippers, I threaded my way as quietly as possible along the narrow 
corridor until I reached the wooden partition. I soon found the most likely 
spot from which to eavesdrop. The Capuchin had arranged things so that the 
person confessing was alone in the oratory, while those waiting their turn 
remained in the chapel. 

It was therefore unnecessary for anyone to speak in a whisper, and the 
conversation was quite distinct. I surmised by the voice that a peasant was 
presently in the confessional. 

The confession must have been already well along, for the Capuchin was 
speaking. 

The Confessor--So you say that you always play with your member in the 
toilet? Why do you? How long do you play with it, and how often? 

The Peasant.-Generally twice a week, but sometimes every day, until I come. 
I can't help it. I just plain enjoy it too much. 

The Confessor.-And haven't you ever done it with women? 

The Peasant.-Once, with an old woman. The Confessor.-Tell me about it, and 
don't keep anything back. 

The Peasant.-Once I was up in the hayloft with old Rosalie. I began to get a 
hard on, and I said, "Rosalie, is it a long time since you've had a man?" 

And she said: "Oh, you scoundrel you! Heavens to Betsy, can I have rightly 
heard my ears? At least 40 years. And I can't say that I'm hankering to have 
one now. I'm already 60 years old." 

So I said to her: "Come off it, Rosalie, I'd sure love to see a woman stark 
naked once in my life. Come on and get undressed." 

She said: "I'd be afraid, the devil might appear." 

Then I said: "The last time you did it he didn't appear." And then I pulled 
the ladder up, so that no one could take us by surprise. I took out my 
member and showed it to her. 

She looked at it and said: "Lordy Lou! It's even bigger than my buggered 
Jean's was." 

So I said to her, "And now Rosalie, you've got to show me your box." She 
didn't want to show it to me, but I pulled her skirts up over her head and 
took a good look. 

The Confessor.-Come now, what happened next? 

The Peasant.-At the bottom of her belly she had a large slit, purple as a 
late autumn plum, and above it a bush of grey hair. 

The Confessor.-That's not what I asked you. I asked what you did. 

The Peasant.-I shoved my sausage into her slit, right up to the sack, which 
I couldn't get in. As soon as I had it in, Rosalie began to shake her belly 
back and forth, and hollered to me, "Take me under the buttocks, Pig. Put 
your hands there and do like I'm doing." So we started shaking together, 
both of us, so that I began to get hot, and Rosalie, saving your presence, 
got so worked up that she discharged five or six times. And I discharged 
myself once, saving your presence. 

Then Rosalie began shouting, "Squeeze me tighter, Pig, it's coming, it's 
coming!" and damned if I didn't come again myself. But they fired her, poor 
Rosalie, because one of the stable girls had overheard us and went tattling 
over hill and dale. And that's why I never wanted to go running after the 
young skirts. 

The Confessor.-Well, if that's not a nice kettle of mortal sins! What else 
do you have on your conscience? 

The Peasant.-I never forgot Rosalie. One day in the cow barn while the 
servant girls were out eating, I noticed that one of the cows was in heat. 
"She's got a hole just like Rosalie's," I said to myself. I took out my tool 
and shoved it into her. But the cow didn't stay put like Rosalie had. But I 
lifted her tail up and was able to keep it in. And I managed to screw her 
all right, and enjoyed it more than with Rosalie. But, saving your presence, 
she crapped all over me; my tool and trousers were covered with the stuff. 
That's why I never tried to screw her again. 

The Confessor.-Yes, but what makes you stoop to such acts? 

The Peasant.-Our shepherd does the same thing with his goats, and our hired 
girl Lucie one day lay down with a big gander between her thighs, because 
it's so very good for the belly, as she said to one of the neighbors. And 
the neighbor also gave it a try. 

The rest of the confession was without interest. I left my hiding place and 
dashed into the chapel to see what the penitent looked like. I was 
astonished to discover that it was the dull looking clod who had so stupidly 
yielded to the peasant girls' frolics beside the pond. 

He was the last of the men to confess. My mother rose to take her place in 
the oratory. My aunt and the saucy Kate were kneeling beside her. All the 
chateau's maids were behind them in one of the back pews. I was surprised to 
notice that my sister Berthe was absent. The bailiffs wife had been excused 
because of her advanced state of pregnancy. 

My mother's confession was quite innocent, but interesting nonetheless. 
"I've got something else to ask you, father," she said, after enumerating 
the list of her daily sins. "For some time now my husband has been making 
certain demands of me. 

"On the night of our marriage he made me strip completely, and on several 
occasions since he has made me do the same thing. But now he persists in 
seeing me naked, and he even showed me an ancient book, written by a priest, 
in which it says, among other things, 'Married couples shall perform the 
carnal act completely naked, so that the man's seed may mix more intimately 
with the woman's.' But the older I grow, the more qualms I have on the 
subject." 

The Confessor.-This book was written in the Middle Ages, when it was still 
not customary to wear nightshirts. Only persons of high station wore them. 
Common folk slept shirtless in the conjugal bed, and there are still some 
places in the country where that custom persists today. Our peasants, for 
instance, almost all sleep thus, especially because of bedbugs. The Church 
refuses to look upon this practice with an approving eye, but it does not, 
however, expressly forbid it. 

My Mother.-You've reassured me on this point, Father. But my husband also 
makes me assume certain positions I'm ashamed of. Lately I had to get down 
naked on all fours while he watched me from behind. Each time he gives me a 
cane and makes me parade naked around the room shouting orders at me as 
though he were commanding a military drill. 'Forward, March!' or 'Halt!' or 
'By the right flank, March!' 'By the left flank, March!' 

The Confessor.-This should not be, but if it is only by obedience that you 
submit to it, you are not committing a sin. 

My Mother.-Ah, I have something else weighing on my heart, but I'm ashamed 
to speak of it. 

The Confessor.-There is no sin too great to be absolved, my daughter. 
Unburden your conscience. 

My Mother.-My husband is forever wanting to take me from behind, and he acts 
so that I come close to fainting with shame. Lately I feel him putting his 
finger, covered with ointment, in my ... in my ... anus. I try to get up, he 
reassures me, but nevertheless I feel him inserting his member. At first it 
hurt, but, why I don't know, after a little while I enjoyed it, and when 
he'd finished I had the same sensation as if he'd gone in the natural way. 
(The rest was spoken in such hushed tones that I couldn't make it out.) 

The Confessor.-This is indeed a sin. Send your husband to me for confession. 

The rest of her confession was boring. 

Shortly thereafter, my aunt took her place in the confessional, and I heard 
the pleasant sound of her voice. From what I could hear, she was admitting 
having often missed confession. But you could have bowled me over with a 
feather when she added, in a low, halting tones, that although she had never 
before felt any carnal desires, she had been moved to passion upon seeing 
her young nephew in his bath, and had libidinously touched his body, but 
fortunately had been able to dominate these wicked desires. 

Except once when her nephew was sleeping. The blanket had slipped off the 
bed, leaving his sexual parts exposed. She had stood there looking at him 
for a long time, and had even taken his member in her mouth. She spoke with 
difficulty, as though the words were sticking in her throat. I experienced 
an extraordinary surge of emotion. 

The Confessor.-Haven't you ever sinned with men, or haven't you ever 
polluted yourself alone? 

My Aunt.-I am still a virgin, at least as far as men are concerned. I've 
often looked at myself in the mirror, and caressed my private parts with my 
hand. Once ... (she hesitated). 

The Confessor.-Courage, my child, conceal nothing from your confessor. 

My Aunt.-Once my sister said to me: "Our maid uses an exorbitant number of 
candles. She's certainly reading novels in bed, and one of these nights 
she's going to set the house on fire. You sleep near her, you want to be 
careful!" 

That very evening, seeing a light in Kate's room, here's what I did. I'd 
left the door open, and noiselessly entered her room. She was sitting on the 
floor, her back half turned towards me, leaning forward in the direction of 
the bed. In front of her was a chair on which a mirror was placed, and on 
the left and right of the mirror two candles were burning. 

Kate was in a nightgown, and I clearly saw in the mirror that she was 
holding something long and white which she was manipulating back and forth 
between her well-spread thighs. She was sighing deeply and trembling all 
over. Suddenly I heard her cry out, "Oh! Oh! It feels so good!" She bowed 
her head, closed her eyes and seemed completely out of this world. 

Then I moved. She sprang to her feet and I saw that she was holding an 
almost concealed candle in her hand. Whereupon she explained to me that she 
was doing this in memory of her lover who had been drafted into the army. I 
expresssed amazement that one could do such a thing, but she begged me not 
to tell anyone. 

I left, but this performance had made such an impression on me that from 
then on, my Father, I couldn't help trying the same thing, which, alas, I've 
often repeated since. Yes, I've fallen low, Father. I've often lifted my 
nightgown and, following Kate's example, given myself up to these sinful 
pleasures. 

The reader can easily guess, in the light of my aunt's and mother's 
revelations, what Kate's confession consisted of. But I learned besides that 
she was more and more desirous of having a man, and that her friendship with 
Berthe was growing by leaps and bounds. They often slept together, and 
frequently compared their buttocks in the mirror, after having mutually 
examined each other's bodies. 

The maids' confessions were all simple. They'd let the hired men screw them, 
but their tales were stripped of all adornment. And they had never allowed 
the men to enter the room in which they all slept together naked. But during 
the military maneuvers their precautions proved to be in vain. A whole 
regiment had passed through the neighborhood. Thus all the girls, and even 
one who was pretty well along in years, were obliged to take them on, even 
from behind, which last, moreover, seemed to the maids a mortal sin. When 
the friar asked them if they had ever masturbated alone or with a 
girlfriend, they replied, "Who'd want to stick her hand in such a smelly 
slit?" 

But they didn't consider it sinful to watch each other evacuate, or to have 
used chickens, pigeons or geese to make them come. One of them had once let 
a dog lick her love lips. When asked if she had let him screw her, she 
answered, "I would have been only too glad to, but he wasn't big enough." 

I took every possible precaution to escape being seen as I returned to my 
room. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN 

Shortly after I had returned to my room, my aunt and mother came in to 
announce that my father was coming to pay us a visit. They also told me that 
Berthe was not feeling well, and had been put to bed. They added that she 
was not seriously ill, and would soon be better, but that it would be 
preferable for me not to go to see her. 

The announcement aroused my curiosity, and in two shakes of a lamb's tail 
I'd decided what I should do. I knew that my aunt and mother were to spend 
the afternoon in the village with the friar, visiting a poor sick lady, and 
that Kate was going with them to take a basket of clothes for her. 

While the ladies were conversing, I studied them attentively and saw them in 
a completely new light as a result of the confessions I had overheard. The 
dark clothing they were wearing acted as a foil to their appearance, 
accentuating my mother's blossoming countenance and my aunt's tightly laced 
figure. 

Each was as desirable as the other: one, whose virginity was as yet unsoiled 
by masculine contact, holding out the promise of undreamed-of 
voluptuousness; the other, whose exciting maturity and conjugal experience 
with an imaginative husband had led her through a maze of sensual caprices. 

I was washing as they came in, and explained that I had tried to go to bed, 
for in reality my pretended illness was beginning to bore me considerably. 
My aunt, who had never seen either my room or the library, wandered into the 
latter. My mother hurried off to the kitchen to supervise the preparations 
for lunch. 

Being alone with my aunt, who now seemed doubly desirable to me, excited me 
no end. But I was still feeling the effects of my session with the bailiffs 
wife, and I realized full well that I would easily compromise my plans by 
being over hasty. 

Margaret, after having inspected the library, had approached the table and 
was standing there looking at what was on it. She could well have made some 
interesting discoveries. The volume "O" of the encyclopedia was lying on the 
table with a bookmark stuck in the page dealing with onanism. I had penciled 
a question mark in the margin beside it. 

I heard her close the book, and then the Atlas of Anatomy, over certain of 
whose plates she had lingered for quite some time. So I was not surprised, 
upon entering the library, to find her cheeks a burning red. 

I pretended not to notice her embarrassment, and said to her in a quiet 
voice, "You, too, must get bored sometimes, auntie dear. The priest who 
lived here before had quite a collection of interesting books dealing with 
the problems of human life. Why don't you take some with you to your room?" 

I took two and slipped them into her pocket: Marriage Unveiled and Love and 
Marriage. When she affected reluctance, I added, "Naturally, this is between 
you, me and the lamppost. We're not children any longer, are we, auntie?" 
And I suddenly seized her and gave her an emphatic kiss. 

She had her hair arranged in a pretty chignon, and the nape of her neck was 
extraordinarily lovely. Pretty chignons and necks have always had a 
tremendous effect on me, and the series of resounding kisses that I planted 
on my aunt's neck intoxicated me completely. But Margaret was still under 
the sway of her recent confession. She pushed me away, but not harshly, and 
after darting a final glance in the direction of my room, she left, carrying 
the books in her pocket. 

In the course of the afternoon I heard the friar and the ladies leave for 
the village. I decided to go and find Berthe and ask her what had prompted 
her to feign illness to get out of confession. But such was not the case. 
She was in bed and really appeared to be sick. My visit cheered her up 
enormously however. 

My blackguardism was not long in awakening. But when I tried to reach under 
the covers to touch her, she turned away and said: "No, Roger, I had my 
period the day before yesterday." 

"Ah, your menstruas," I said. "So you're no longer a little girl, but a 
woman now. And do you know that I've also become a man, Berthe," I added 
proudly. And unbuttoning my trousers I showed her my pubic hair and the 
bared head of my penis. "And I've done it too, you know. Though I can't tell 
you with whom." 

"You've done it," she queried. "Done what?" 

So I explained coitus to my attentive sister. "And do you know what," I 
concluded, "mama and papa do it too all the time." 

"Not really! How disgusting!" 

But since her tone implied exactly the opposite, I added, "Disgusting? Why 
were two sexes created then, Berthe? You've no idea how good it feels, much 
better than when you do it alone." 

"Yes, I always did enjoy it more when Kate did it to me than when I did it 
myself. The day before yesterday, oh, really, I thought I was in heaven! 
Then Kate said to me, 'Now that you've come, Berthe, watch out, you'll be 
having your period soon.' That very day I had a stomach ache, and all of a 
sudden something wet ran down my thighs. When I saw it was blood I was 
frightened half out of my wits. 

Kate burst out laughing and went to find mama, who came and looked at me. 
'Get yourself to bed now, my Berthe.' she said, 'you'll be having these 
every month from now on for three or four days. When you stop bleeding you 
should change your nightgown, and be sure not to wash yourself before the 
bleeding's stopped. By the way, you shan't be wearing little girl dresses 
any more.' I'm going to begin wearing long dresses like mama and auntie," 
Berthe concluded proudly. 

"Come on, Berthe, let's do it," and drawing her close, I hugged her. 

"You must be careful not to hurt my breasts," Berthe said. "I'm very 
sensitive now." 

But she offered no protest when I opened her nightgown to see her little 
breasts, which were just beginning to blossom. They were a pair of gently 
sloping hillocks, which reminded me of Psyche's or Hebe's. But they already 
had the classical form, and were firm, culminating in two little 
rose-colored sweetmeats. 

I whispered reassuring words to her and she willingly let me fondle her and 
even suck her titties. In fact she was becoming excited. After a few 
unconvincing protests, she let me see her Lady Jane, but only after she had 
rolled up her blood-stained nightdress. She already had more hair than I. A 
little watery blood was trickling along her thighs; it was certainly not the 
most appetizing sight in the world, but I was too excited to care. 

She was holding her thighs tightly together, but my probing finger soon 
found her clitoris. Under the pressure of my hand, her thighs began to 
spread. Finally I was able to get my finger into her slit, but not very far, 
for she drew back. I pressed against her hymen, in the middle of which there 
was already a little hole. Berthe gave a short cry of pain, and tightened up 
again. By now worked up to a high pitch of excitement, I undressed hastily, 
lifted my shirt and climbed on top of my sister with the intention of 
forcing my member, which was hard as a rock, into her. Berthe protested 
weakly, began to cry, then gave a sharp cry of pain, when I went well into 
her vagina. But her short-lived pain soon appeared to melt into a feeling of 
sensual pleasure. Her cheeks were hot, her pretty eyes shone bright, her 
lips were slightly parted. She clasped me in her arms and began to respond 
to my movements. 

Before I had finished, nectar had started to flow from her slit. Her eyes, 
half closed, were fluttering nervously. She cried out, but her cries were of 
pleasure. "Roger, ah! Oh! Ro-oger. I ... I ... aah!" She was completely 
beside herself with pleasure. I had just plucked my sister's cherry. 

Because of my morning's session with the bailiff's wife, and because of my 
excitation, I had not yet come. But seeing my sister's sensual delight, I 
became even more excited and stepped up the rhythm of my movements. But 
suddenly I felt something warm in Berthe's sheath. I withdrew, and a dark 
red mass of sperm mixed with the blood caused by the piercing of the 
maidenhead and the menstruation flowed out. 

We were both frightened. My member was covered with blood, which stuck to my 
glands and hair. But imagine our fright when we heard a voice behind us 
saying: "My, my my! what a pleasant conversation the young ones are having." 
Kate was standing beside us. 

She had forgotten something and had been sent back to fetch it. So absorbed 
had we been in what we were doing that we had not heard her climb the 
stairs, but apparently she'd been watching us for some time from the 
hallway, and had then opened the door quietly and tiptoed into the room 
during Berthe's voluptuous orgasm. 

Her roguish face reflected the excited state into which the sight and sound 
of our play had worked her. Berthe and I were so taken aback that for half a 
minute we did not even think to arrange our disorderly clothes. Kate had 
ample time to observe Berthe's serious bleeding, as well as the decline and 
fall of my tool, which my fright had caused to unstiffen. 

"When you do such things, at least have the foresight to shut the door," and 
she went over and shot the bolt. "Berthe, your mother forgot to tell you not 
to do it during your periods. But," she laughed, "I know how it is, that's 
just when you most want to. 

"Now put a dry cloth between your legs and stay in bed like a good girl. But 
be sure not to put your shirt in the dirty clothes' basket, Roger, unless 
you've also started having periods." 

And looking, I saw that my shirt was spotted with blood. Kate poured some 
water into a hand basin and approached me. "Luckily it comes out easily," 
she said. "Get up, Roger, and let me wash you." 

I stood up in front of her so she could wash my shirt in the basin. She 
lifted my shirttail high, exposing me again to the view of the two girls. 

She washed my shirt, poking fun at me as she did so, then said seriously, 
"Come here now," and washed the blood off me with a sponge. 

At this contact, my tool slowly began to rear its sleepy head. "Oh, you 
wicked little rod, going into Berthe's slit like that!" And she gave it a 
few saucy slaps with the palm of her hand. Suddenly she grabbed me, forced 
me to my knees, and spanked me as hard as she could. 

I started to howl bloody murder, while Berthe almost split her sides 
laughing. 

My fanny was stinging, but my state of excitement was even greater than 
before. 

When I was younger, then or thereabouts, my mother had often hoisted me 
between her thighs after I'd done something or other I shouldn't have, 
lowered my trousers and spanked the devil out of me. But I remember that 
after the first sting of pain had subsided, a feeling of sensual pleasure 
had lingered with me the rest of the day. 

When Kate noticed that my rod was once again respectable, she broke out 
laughing. "Goodness gracious, what a big handle!" She took it in her hand, 
squeezed it, then uncovered it. 

That was just too much. I grabbed Kate's breasts; she pretended to resist. 
So I slipped my hand beneath her skirt. 

She wasn't wearing panties. I seized her apricot. She tried to draw away, 
but I held her by her love hair, encircled her buttocks with my left arm, 
dropped to my knees, and drove the thumb of my right hand into her warm box, 
maneuvering it back and forth. 

Kate lost possession of herself and fell back onto the bed. I lifted her 
dress and laid bare her mound. Her hair was red, not as thick as I would 
have imagined from what Berthe had told me, but fairly long and moist with 
sweat. Her skin was as white as milk, and soft as silk. Her white thighs 
were well rounded, and she was wearing pretty black stockings in which a 
pair of firm round calves were enclosed. 

I threw myself upon her, forced my shaft between her thighs until it eased 
gently into her slit. But I drew it out again almost immediately. I was in 
an extremely poor position, with nothing to brace my feet against. 

But by now Kate was hot and bothered. She jumped up, pushed me into a chair 
near the bed, and threw herself on top of me. Before I had time to say Jack 
Robinson, my member was imprisoned in her sheath. I felt her long hair 
against my belly. She held my shoulders and was rocking back and forth. At 
each stroke her large lips touched my eggs. She took off her muslin jumper 
and told me to play with her boobies, because "it feels so good," she said. 

Her nipples were naturally more developed than Berthe's, and harder though 
much smaller that those of the bailiffs wife. Her breasts were as white as 
her thighs and belly, and were tipped by two red points, surrounded by a 
yellow crown on which there were a few tiny hairs. 

Kate was very excited, and was approaching the climax. So violent were her 
movements that my rod had twice slipped out of her slit, and she had hurt me 
in putting it back in, though she seemed to be getting her share of pleasure 
from the operation. 

I was lagging behind her, whereas she, in pleasure-filled tones, was 
exulting. "Now ... now ... no ... it's coming ... ah! Ah! God A'mighty! How 
good your tool feels!" 

And with that she came, and there was an increased flow of her love juice. 
At the tail end of her climax, the sensitive chambermaid bit my shoulder. 
Feeling her boiling ejaculation, I realized that my own climax was not far 
off. 

Kate had quickly regained control of herself. "Roger, your tail's becoming 
hotter and hotter; you're on the point of discharging." And she stood up 
abruptly, seized my sperm-covered member in her right hand and began to 
stroke it violently, saying, "Otherwise I might become pregnant." 

I'd also risen to my feet, Kate pulled me toward her with her right arm; I 
tongued her nipples. I must have spread my legs. Standing there naked as the 
day I was born in front of the two attentive girls, my belly was seized by a 
fit of convulsions. Suddenly my sperm went flying. 

Berthe watched the ejaculation intently, and gazed curiously at the white 
liquid which had fallen onto the bed. While I was discharging, Kate had 
tickled my buttocks and encouraged me with: "There now, my Roger, how nicely 
you're coming, that's it, that's it!" 

My orgasm was beyond all description. 

I fell back onto the chair. Kate was acting as if nothing had happened. She 
was arranging everything; she wiped my rod with her handkerchief, rebuttoned 
her blouse, picked up her basket and, in her customary gay voice said, "God 
be praised that things turned out as they did. Now let's all be good 
children. You Berthe, remain quiet and get some rest. And you, Roger, return 
to your room." 

She left, and I went down to my room, after having got dressed again and 
kissed Berthe good-bye. 

 CHAPTER EIGHT 

The day's events had worn me to a frazzle. My one desire was to rest. When I 
awoke the next morning, I was lying on my back, a position which usually 
gives me an erection. Shortly thereafter I heard the sound of approaching 
footsteps. 

Wanting to play a joke on the bailiff's wife, I lifted my nightshirt, threw 
the blankets off me, and pretended to be asleep. But instead of the 
bailiff's wife, it was her sister-in-law, a woman of thirty-five or so, the 
age when a woman is at the height of sensuality. 

In her younger days she had been a housemaid. Having married an elderly 
butler who managed to amass a neat pile of savings, she presently lived with 
her husband and three children (a son and two daughters of ten, eleven and 
thirteen, respectively) in her brother the bailiff's quarters. 

Madame Muller was neither ugly nor beautiful. She was tall, had a strikingly 
good figure, a dark complexion and her hair, like her eyes, was pitch-black. 
She seemed intelligent, and fully worthy of a bout with John Thomas. And you 
could bet your last penny that she'd seen more than one such animal in her 
lifetime. So, I reasoned, why not let her see mine as well. I lay there 
motionless. 

Madame Muller set the coffee on the nightstand. Then seeing John Thomas 
standing stiffly at attention, she had a moment's hesitation. But she was a 
resolute woman, free from all false modesty. She spent several seconds 
gazing at me with apparent pleasure. Then she coughed discreetly to awaken 
me, and as I stretched my limbs in such a way as to give my rod an even more 
insolent air, she approached the bed, looked down for a second, then pulled 
the covers up and said, "Your coffee, Master Roger." 

I opened my eyes, wished her good morning, and complimented her on how well 
she was looking, etc. Then I suddenly jumped out of the bed, seized her and 
assured her that she was the most beautiful. woman in the whole chateau. 

She resisted weakly; slipping my hand beneath her skirts, I discovered a 
very hairy mound. Then I drove my finger into her slit. As is the case with 
all sensual women, hers was dry, but my fingerwork soon remedied that. Her 
clitoris was extremely hard. 

"But what's come over you? Stop that! What would my husband say if he knew!" 

"Mr. Muller's in the chapel." 

"Yes, I know. He does nothing but pray all day long. But stop that now, 
you're hurting me. My sister-in-law might come in. She's waiting for me. 
That's enough now! I'll come back tonight. My husband's leaving today for 
two or three days in the country. But now we're liable to be interrupted." 

And with that, she took her leave. That evening, after having eaten a hearty 
dinner, I took some wine, ham and dessert back with me to my room. The 
chateau was soon asleep. Finally, after what seemed like hours, Madame 
Muller came in. My heart was beating like a triphammer. I embraced her, and 
gave her a French kiss, which she returned. I undressed quickly and showed 
her my rod in a most presentable condition. 

"Don't get so excited," she warned, "or we'll waken the whole house and set 
the tongues to wagging." 

She bolted the door. I fastened her mound in a tight grip, and found it 
slightly swollen, and her clitoris extremely hard. I stripped her down to 
her petticoat, and lifted it high. Seeing her dressed you'd have taken her 
for thin, but she wasn't in the least. In fact if anything she was on the 
fleshy side. Her dark pubic hair, I noticed, climbed all the way up to her 
navel. 

She must just have washed, for her Lady Jane was odorless. Then I stripped 
her completely and was amazed to find how firm her breasts were. They were 
only moderately large, and her nipples were set in a small field of light 
brown hair. Lifting her breasts, I saw that she also had some short, fine 
black hairs underneath. Her armpits were likewise covered with hair as thick 
as a man's. 

What surprised me most as I examined her more closely, were her well raised 
buttocks, whose cheeks were set close together. Along her backbone ran a 
fine line of black hair, from top to bottom. The sight of all this healthy 
fleece caused John Thomas to harden even more. I ripped off my nightshirt 
and straddled the lovely creature, whose rhythmic movements set my pickle 
slapping back and forth against her belly. 

We were in such a position that we could clearly see ourselves in the 
mirror. I led her towards the bed, where she sat down and said, "I know you 
want to see all of me." She raised her legs and displayed her hairy self 
right up to her pot hole. I immediately set to tonguing her, and lingered at 
the task for quite some time. Her lips began to swell. When I went to insert 
my tool, she laughed and said, "Not like that. Get on the bed." 

I got onto the bed. She climbed on top of me and I thus had her whole 
beautiful body before my eyes. She told me to play with her boobies. Then 
she grasped my rod, paraded it awhile against her love lips, and at the same 
time asked me to be sure not to come inside her. Then she suddenly shoved my 
tool in right up to the ballbearings. She was riding me so strenuously that 
it was almost painful. Round about that time she came, and I could feel all 
the warmth of her sheath, hear her heaving sighs, and see her eyes roll back 
in her head. 

Realising that I was also on the point of coming, she got quickly to her 
feet. "Hold on a minute, young fellow my lad," she said in a voice still 
trembling with emotion. "I know still another that'll satisfy you without 
making, me pregnant." 

She turned round; her buttocks were now facing me. She bent down and took my 
rod in her mouth. I followed her example and began tonguing her love lips, 
lapping up the female love-juice which tasted like a raw egg. She stepped up 
the play of her tongue against my glans, and with one hand she tickled my 
eggs and buttocks, while with the other she gripped my penis. 

I stiffened with pleasure. She thrust my rod as far in her mouth as 
possible. Her most secret parts were staring me full in the face. I seized 
her buttocks, and plunged my tongue into her pot hole. I lost control of 
myself and ejaculated in her mouth. 

When I recovered from my momentary rapture, she was lying beside me and had 
pulled the blankets up over us. She was caressing me, thanking me for the 
pleasure I had given her, and asked me if I had enjoyed it as much as she. I 
had to admit that I had enjoyed that position even more than normal coitus. 
And then I asked her why she hadn't let me come inside her, since she was 
married. 

"For that very reason," she said. "My husband is impotent, and can 
tell-whenever I cheat on him. Oh, God in Heaven! what I have to put up with 
from that man!" 

I asked her to tell me all about it. She said that her husband could get an 
erection only if she beat him with a rod until she drew blood. She likewise 
had to let him strike her, but only with his hand, and now she was so used 
to it that she enjoyed it more than it hurt her. He also made her peepee and 
crap in his presence, so eager was he not to miss a trick. And he got 
especially worked up when she had her periods. 

After she had struck him fifty or even a hundred times, she had to hurry and 
slip his half-erect member inside, for otherwise it fell limp, except when 
she licked his buttocks or let him lick her between the toes. Whenever that 
happened he was able to keep a good hard on, but all these things were 
pretty disagreeable. "And on top of all that," she concluded, "the old 
rascal spends all his time in church." 

Her story had aroused the flagging spirits of my John Thomas. Madame Muller 
had hastened the resurrection by tickling my sack. She had me get between 
her legs, and turned over on her side. She scissored my buttocks with her 
legs, so that we were both lying on our sides, face to face. It was a good 
position, allowing us to lie closely interlaced, and at the same time 
leaving her titties exposed to my tongue. 

I was holding her slit, which the bout of pleasure had caused to narrow, 
with my hand. Both of us thrust our fingers into the other's arse hole. I 
let my rod slide softly into her slit, and began to rock as before, sucking 
her nipples all the while. 

I kept my finger moving in her throbbing arse hole. She came a second time 
with a cry of delight. She had taken hold of my eggs from behind and was 
squeezing them so tightly that she hurt me, and I had to ask her to let them 
go. 

After having caressed me gently, she turned her head towards the pillow, so 
that her magnificent buttocks were prominently displayed. I had her rise to 
her knees and lift her buttocks high. I sent a wad of spit flying into her 
pot hole, and thrust my rod in easily. At each stroke I felt my eggs bounce 
off her buttocks cheeks. 

She kept telling him how good it felt. I could touch her hairy slit with one 
hand and fondle her breasts with the other. Just as I was about to come I 
started to withdraw but she contracted her buttock muscles around my glans, 
and I ejaculated squarely into her arse hole. Afterwards she told me that 
that was the first time she'd done it that way, and that, although it had 
hurt in the beginning, in the end she'd enjoyed it. 

Feeling my rod harden in her buttocks hole, her sensual forces had awakened 
and she had had another orgasm at the same time as mine. "But that's about 
enough for today," she decided, smiling. 

That was about all I could take too. I offered her some dessert, but she 
insisted that I come and have a short liqueur in her room instead-after 
which, I came back to my room and fell into bed. 

 CHAPTER NINE 

One day my mother decided that all the maids would henceforth sleep on the 
top story of the chateau, right under the eaves. They began moving their 
goods and chattel upstairs, and were to start sleeping there the same 
evening. 

I watched them move. 

As one of them, her mattress under her arm, was climbing the last flight of 
stairs, I sneaked up behind her and lifted her petticoats. 

The first thing I grabbed was a pair of firm buttock cheeks, which I drew 
back against me, at the same time thrusting my thumb into her moist slit. 
She raised no cry, but turning round and recognizing me, smiled as if 
nattered by my gallantry. 

It was Ursula, the brunette. I led her up to the top floor and embraced her. 
She reacted favorably to the first kiss, and responded actively to the 
second. Whereupon I seized her blouse at the bosom, and had soon succeeded 
in slipping inside to caress the firm, brown-tipped hemispheres. A swift 
movement of the left hand beneath her short dress, and the well-grassed 
mound was mine. 

She squeezed her thighs together and bent slightly forward. I took a nipple 
in my mouth and sucked it gently, while my finger played with her excited 
clitoris. Soon I had managed to slip my hand between her thighs, until one, 
two, three fingers had penetrated her. 

She tried to get away, but I pushed her against the wall. I felt her whole 
body trembling beneath her flimsy clothing. I deftly extracted my John 
Thomas and thrust it into her box. The position was awkward, the girl was 
tall and strong, and I would never have been able to screw her unless she 
had done her share of the work. 

So I screwed her standing up. She must have been as hot as an oven, for she 
quickly reached the climax. I too was on the point of coming, due to the 
fatiguing position we were in, but just then we heard a noise in one of the 
adjoining rooms, and Ursula broke away. But the sound soon died away. I 
showed her my dark, red shaft, dripping wet from her discharge. She looked 
at it, and was moved because, as she said, it was the first time she'd ever 
seen a city fellow's tool. 

"All right now, tit for tat," I said. "Let's see yours." 

She responded modestly. I raised her skirt, laid bare a pair of lovely legs 
and, between her thighs, an impressive mop of black hair. Thanks be to God 
she was not wearing panties, as the city bred girls do, who put on all sorts 
of airs when you meddle with their slits, despite the fact that they really 
like it as much, if not more, than the peasant girls. 

Then I stuck my nose into her Lady Jane; it gave off the odor of raw egg-due 
to her recent discharge-and of urine. When I began to tongue her clitoris 
she laughed and let her skirt fall back into place. But I held on tight and, 
squatting beneath the folds of her dress, let my tongue wander at random 
across the length and breadth of her body, as a result of which I got an 
even more impressive hard on. But the sounds began anew, and Ursula broke 
away again, this time for good. 

I was obliged to leave, but as Ursula turned to go I lifted her skirts one 
last time from behind, revealing a pair of really splendid, extraordinarily 
firm buttocks. "Just a wee bit more, Ursula," I said, retaining her by her 
blouse. 

I kissed the cheeks of her rump, manipulated them, opened them to smell her 
arse hole, which gave off no odor of crap, but only of urine. But finally 
she broke away, remarking that it was beyond her powers of comprehension how 
a fellow like myself could get any pleasure from sniffing a poor peasant 
girl's stinking parts. 

That evening, at dinner, I discreetly asked Berthe if I couldn't please 
screw her. She said no. I went upstairs later to see if I might perhaps find 
the opportunity of doing what I so badly wanted to do. Result: zero. 

The covers of my bed were already turned down. I undressed and, stretching 
out on my belly, spread a handkerchief beneath me, hugged my pillow and, 
thinking of my aunt, my sister, of all the slits and buttocks with which I'd 
ever come in contact, I softly began to stroke alone. Then I rested awhile 
before starting the procedure all over again. Just as I felt my sperm 
coming, I heard a voice from behind the door say, "Are you already asleep, 
Master Roger? I've brought you your water." 

I rose, slipped on a dressing gown, and opened the door. It was Helen, one 
of the girls who worked in the kitchen. As soon as she was inside, I locked 
the door. So great was my desire that my shaft was throbbing like a 
pendulum. 

I grabbed the lovely, prettily dressed peasant girl's sturdy buttocks and as 
I fondled her breasts, planted a pair of savory kisses full on her mouth. 

She took it in the right spirit, but when I reached her love lips she said, 
blushing, "It's my period." 

Just my luck! I was as erect as a bare-footed friar, and she was looking at 
my shaft good naturedly. She played with it prettily. At least I could amuse 
myself with her hanging gardens. I opened her jacket and her breasts slipped 
into my waiting hands. Like the girl herself, they were freckled, but aside 
from that I saw nothing to reproach them for. 

I didn't stop pestering her till she let me see, although against her will, 
her buttocks and Lady Jane, to whose crinkly, reddish hair blood was 
sticking. I pushed her onto a chair and let her place my rod between her 
breasts. A most practical method: it disappeared among the fleshy folds of 
her delectable hillocks. But it would have been better with a bit of 
lubrication. I told her so. She spat on it and squeezed it tightly between 
her boobies. On top the glans peeked out, and at the bottom my eggs were 
hanging down. 

I began to rock back and forth, whispering sweet words to her and at the 
same time caressing her face or playing with the wisps of curls along her 
neck. A powerful discharge followed, which she watched attentively, for the 
position was as novel for her as it was for me. 

Having had my fill, I made her a gift of a silk scarf, which she gratefully 
accepted, once again excusing herself for her condition. She added that the 
girls who worked with her in the kitchen were late in going to bed, but that 
they slept much later in the morning than the others who rose early to go 
milking. Should I venture up there some morning, I'd find more than enough 
to keep me happy. 

I was overjoyed by the news. The following morning I gave out that I was 
going to build a birdhouse for the doves under the eaves in order to have an 
excuse for climbing to the maids' garret. But I was constantly interrupted 
and my project came to naught. 

Once I managed to watch Berthe in the toilet, and once Kate, and so got a 
peek at tiieir slits. But because of the inclement weather my aunt and 
mother sewed assiduously. Neither Kate nor Berthe dared touch my rod as they 
went by. 

To pass the time more pleasantly, I'd drilled a hole in the toilet 
partition; the toilet itself was nothing more than a hole in the ground. And 
I could thus spend my afternoons watching all the girls and ladies. I could 
study buttocks, pot holes and Lady Janes in all their glory, and I remarked 
that among them there was little to choose from except difference of hair 
color and size. 

I became convinced of the truth of a statement attributed to a farm lad whom 
a countess had allowed to screw her. Asked how it had been, the lad replied, 
"The blouse was of finer material, but aside from that just like with any 
other woman." 

I thus passed my time contemplating all the slits and buttocks in the 
chateau, and the sight of even those I had already had was a source of 
constant pleasure to me. 

Meanwhile, I'd given Ursula a pretty shawl, for it had not been her fault 
that I hadn't been able to screw her completely. The other girls had noticed 
it, and without exception became extremely nice to me, for they were no 
dummies, and were quick to realise how pleasant it must be both to be 
screwed and to receive a present to boot. 

At least that's what one of them told me one morning early, when the 
profound silence was broken only by the distant rumor of goings and coming 
in the stables. I had gone upstairs and discovered an unlocked door which 
led into two of the maids' bedroom. 

The room's atmosphere was one of the mixed odors emanating from the girl's 
bodies. Their clothes were hanging in disarray from wooden pegs, or were 
draped across the foot of the bed. At first these odors were disagreeable, 
but as soon as one got used to them they became exciting rather than 
suffocating-the veritable odor di femina-the perfume which gives an 
erection. 

The beds, made in the ancient style, were double. They were all empty except 
one, in which a lass lay snoring deeply. She was lying on her side, turned 
towards the wall. One of her feet was on the wooden bedstead, and her 
buttocks were nicely exposed, since she was sleeping in the nude. 

Her coarse nightdress was draped over a wooden chair, on which the rest of 
her clothes were also strewn. The sleeping beauty, whose name was Babette, 
had not the faintest notion that she was being scrutinized from head to toe. 
Her skin could have been softer, but her frame, though rough-hewn, was not 
skinny. 

I brought my head close to her buttocks and inhaled the penetrating odor of 
sweat. Her arse hole showed a few traces of her last movement. Below it her 
well-formed slit, crowned by chestnut hair, was clearly visible. I softly 
tickled her buttocks' cheeks and slit. 

As soon as I had inserted my finger she gave a start and turned round, and I 
could contemplate her from in front. Her fleece was crinkly and smelled 
strongly of urine, which fact I remarked when I stuck my nose against it. 

I might add that the maids washed themselves only on Sundays. As a 
matter-of-fact, there are many fine ladies who seldom have the time to wash 
themselves. But coming back to that odor, it had aroused me, and I was 
already hard. 

I bolted the door and stripped. Then I spread her thighs apart. She half 
opened her eyes. "Babette," I said, thrusting three fingers into her box, 
"you're my little sweetheart. Look what an erection I've got!" 

She stirred, pointed towards the other room, and said, "Ursula's in there 
too." 

"No matter. We've got time to have a go before she wakes up. Look what I've 
brought you." 

And I handed her a little imitation jewel ring that I'd bought from a 
passing peddler. Then without another word I kneeled between her thighs, 
which she willingly spread. I let her play with my tool awhile, and 
reciprocated by tickling her slit. When she was well oiled, I drove it in up 
to the end, took her under the buttocks and tickled her arse hole. She 
clasped me about the neck and we plunged into a frenzy of voluptuousness 
which, after a brief bout, ended in a violent discharge on both sides. 

During the act she had perspired profusely, and her healthy peasant odor 
made me hope that we could start all over again. But she was afraid of 
becoming pregnant. Besides, it was high time for her to be up, for it was 
Ursula's day to sleep late. I had completely forgotten that Ursula was 
there, and Babette laughed heartily when I said that I'd certainly like to 
wake her up. 

While Babette was wiping her private parts with her nightdress, I entered 
the other room. Ursula was lost in a deep sleep. She was also lying in the 
nude, but had the blankets pulled up to her bosom. She was sleeping on her 
back, with her arms cocked behind her head so that the thick black bushes of 
her armpits were in full view. 

Her pretty breasts were thrown into fuller relief by the position of her 
arms, on either side of which her long rich locks tumbled gracefully down. 
The whole picture was charming to behold. What a pity she was a mere 
peasant! I have never understood how a man could prefer a lady's affected 
charms to the natural beauty of a peasant girl. , Her impeccably clean 
nightdress was lying beside her. I sniffed it and was astonished by the 
healthy odor with which it was impregnated. Softly, softly, I drew the 
blankets back and stood there admiring her naked form. I remained motionless 
an instant, amaztd by the beauty of her well-proportioned legs, her grassy 
Venus mound, whose heavy hair extended from her love lips to her thighs. 

She awoke when I began to caress her breasts. At first startled, she hastily 
drew the cover over her. Then she recognized me and gave me a broad smile. 

Just then Babette stuck her head inside and said: "Stay in bed, Ursula, I'll 
take care of your work for you." And with that she left. 

I covered Ursula with kisses until she was hot. I asked her to get up and 
had her walk about the room while I examined her lovely body from head to 
foot and from all sides, marveling at her beauty. Then I took her in my 
arms, and for a long time we stood there in a close embrace. 

I placed my hands on the cheeks of her behind and pulled her belly close 
against mine. She could feel the full stiffness of my rod, her love hair 
tickled me. 

She enjoyed the sport. She put her arms around my neck, hugged me to her. I 
plucked some hairs from her armpits. She was completely beside herself with 
desire. I put my hand into her slit, which was moist and distended. Her 
clitoris was very hard. 

We got into bed. I made her rise to her knees and hold her buttocks high. I 
experimented feverishly with her pot hole. Her slit, crowned by jet-black 
hair, was half opened, and after revelling in the sight of the red interior, 
I rubbed my glans against her lips. 

She enjoyed the stroking and seconded my movements. Softly I pushed it till 
it was all the way in, then r'rew it out again, back and forth, until I felt 
myself on the point of coming. 

She acted like one possessed. Her slit, completely distended, gripped my 
member tightly. I thrust it in up to the hilt, hugged her buttocks, seized 
her hanging beauties, and rocked like a maniac, completely gone. She sighed 
deeply at every stroke. With one hand I pressed her boobies, with the other 
I tickled her clitoris. We came simultaneously. I heard my shaft slapping 
inside her wet sheath. We lay there as though dead. 

When I withdrew I still had a hard on. Ursula was ashamed, because she had 
never done it that way. What she'd most enjoyed had been the slapping of my 
eggs against the lower part of her slit. I had not yet had my fill, and 
would gladly have stayed a while longer with that lovely, blooming lass. Had 
it been possible, I would have married her. 

She told me that she had to get downstairs. She slipped on her blouse and I 
helped her to dress. She smiled at me amicably. I examined her from all 
sides once more before leaving. I promised to buy her a fine souvenir, and 
she agreed to come and spend the night with me sometime soon. 

 CHAPTER TEN 

The chateau was still asleep when I came back downstairs and climbed into 
bed. My mother woke me up when she brought my breakfast. She informed me 
that I'd have to go to the station the next day to meet my father, who was 
arriving with my eldest sister, Elise. 

My mother was in an excellent mood, but not so Berthe, who was upset by the 
arrival of her extremely pretty sister. She told me that Elise was having a 
flirtation with the son of one of our father's business associates, and that 
the young man would probably marry her when he had finished his military 
service. 

She told me besides that there were many things that she had not understood 
before which were now clear as crystal to her. Kate and Elise must certainly 
have wrestled for a long time together and they had once again remained 
alone for an hour in the bathroom. 

The next day I was happy to note that my mother was taking a bath in 
anticipation of her husband's visit. 

At the station I was astonished to discover upon the arrival of the train 
that my sister had blossomed into a charming young woman. Her pretty little 
feet were encased in a pair of elegant shoes, and she fluttered about with 
such grace that I found myself growing jealous of her Frederick. I had 
decided that every female in the immediate vicinity should become a member 
of my harem, and the sight of my sister only confirmed that idea in my mind. 

My jealousy increased when I perceived that my father had brought a friend 
with him, Mr. Franck, an elderly bachelor who entertained hopes concerning 
my aunt. The introductions were cordial. My sister was as surprised by my 
development as I was by hers, and our embrace was more than fraternal. 

We had not counted on Mr. Franck, and since the carriage was large enough 
for only two people I suggested that papa and Mr. Franck use it, while Elise 
and I went home on foot. My sister concurred. The way home was very pretty. 

The conversation soon became interesting. My sister was extremely flattered 
by the compliments I paid to her beauty. When she enquired about Berthe, I 
replied that she had her periods and was nubile. She looked at me with 
amazement. 

"She stays locked in the bathroom as long as you used to," I added. Then 
watching her closely, I continued: "They sleep together in the same room, if 
you know what I mean." 

My sister blushed deeply but said nothing. 

"There is no reason to be embarrassed, Elise," I said amicably, "I'm no 
longer a little boy. Besides you must have noticed when we were little and 
they bathed us together that my rod's no worse than your Frederick's." 

"Why, Roger!" 

"We've got hair between our legs now and we know that there's something 
better than playing stickfinger." 

She was as red as a beet, her bosom was heaving, but she was at a loss for 
words. Suddenly she shot a glance round about to make sure no one was 
watching us, and asked, "Is it true, Roger, that before becoming soldiers 
young men have to strip and let themselves be examined naked? I heard auntie 
and mama saying something of the sort and at the boarding-house they were 
also discussing it." 

"Frederick, my future brother-in-law, could have enlightened you on that 
matter. Certainly they have to. They examine them like a bride on her 
wedding night. But they don't get erections because they're reared. No doubt 
Frederick didn't get a hard on either." 

"Not really! But how ashamed they must be. Is it public? Can women see 
that?" 

"Unfortunately not," I said seriously. "But I'd have no qualms in front of 
you, Elise." I embraced her in a friendly manner. We were in a little copse 
near the chateau. 

"Do you imagine," I added, "that there's a bride anywhere in the world who 
doesn't have to strip on her wedding night and be duly inspected by her 
husband? He strips too, you know." 

"But it's not the same thing for a man." 

"Why not? If I stripped in front of you, you could see everything I've got: 
my hair, my pendulum, my sack; but if you undressed I could only see your 
hair. Your slit would remain hidden. Do you have much hair, Elise?" 

"Oh, look at the lovely strawberries, Roger!" she said. 

I helped her pick some. We went deeper into the woods. Erect as a boar, I 
hugged her. 

"What's that over there?" she asked. 

"A hunting lodge that belongs to us. I've got the key." The building was set 
in a thicket of trees. 

"Wait for me, Roger, I'll be back in a second. Watch that nobody comes." 

She went behind the lodge. I heard her making water. I watched her. She was 
squatting, bent slightly forward with her legs apart and holding her skirt 
high enough so that I could see her pretty calves. 

Beneath her knees the lace of her panties was dangling. A stream was 
spurting between her legs. When it stopped flowing, I withdrew, but she 
remained in a squatting position. She hoisted her skirts above her loins, 
and slipped her panties down. The buttocks hole was in full view as well as 
her firm, spotless cheeks. Her efforts gave birth to a thin sausage which 
slipped from her arsehole, dangled an instant, and then wriggled to the 
ground. A bit of juice followed, then she watered a trifle more. 

This time I clearly saw the stream spurt from between the thick, 
chestnut-colored hairs. When she had finished, she hunted about for some 
paper and when I saw that she had found none, I appeared and gave her some. 

"Here, Elise." 

For a moment I though she was going to be angry. 

"Don't be that way," I told her, "I have to go too." I pulled out my rod 
and, although it was still erect, began to pee. Recalling the hired man, I 
aimed so high that my sister couldn't help laughing. She'd finished with the 
paper. 

We heard voices and Elise became frightened. I pushed her into the hunting 
lodge and pulled the door shut behind us. We watched through a crack. A 
peasant and a man, with a roguish air about them, approached. He threw her 
on to the ground and climbed on top of her, took out his John Thomas, raised 
her skirts and they went at it hammer and tongs, groaning like a couple of 
wild animals. 

I had encircled Elise's waist and pulled her close to me. Her scented breath 
warmed my cheeks. Her bosom was heaving deeply as silently we watched the 
sport. I pulled out my rod and placed it in her warm hand whose touch was 
soft as silk. The couple moved off. I couldn't resist and seized Elise. In 
spite of her resistance, I deftly slipped off her panties and jacket. My 
hand played with her hair. The thighs were locked, but I could feel that her 
clitoris was hard. 

"No, Roger, you're carrying this too far! Aren't you ashamed! I'll scream!" 

"If you scream the'll hear you in the chateau. No one'll know. Adam and Eve 
did the same thing." 

"But we aren't Adam and Eve, Roger." 

"Elise, what if we were on a desert island ...!" 

I managed to get my finger in. 

"If my Frederick only knew what was happening!" 

"He won't know. Come on, sweetheart." 

I sat down on a chair and drew my sister on top of me. When she felt the 
enormous rod against her love lips she gave up the struggle. She was not a 
virgin and admitted having done it once with her Frederick. Her slit was 
very narrow, warm, and pleasantly moist. 

She responded to my kisses. I opened her blouse and brought forth her lovely 
breasts which shook as I sucked them. I placed my hands on her lower 
spheres, those magnificent buttocks. She became hot as a firecracker. We 
reached the climax together. Afterwards, we vowed eternal discretion. We 
examined each other at our leisure, then set off to the chateau. 

 CHAPTER ELEVEN 

At table everyone was very gay. My father was taking good care of my mother. 
Mr. Franck was most attentive to my aunt. I chatted with my sisters. They 
had given my room to the guest. I was to sleep on the same floor as the 
women, in Elise's room, while she shared Kate's and Berthe's. 

When everyone was asleep I peeked into my sisters' room. Berthe was sleeping 
but Elise wasn't there. I noticed a light, hid myself, and was able to see 
Elise and my aunt standing in their nightgowns spying through a crack in my 
parents' door. 

The sound of healthy slaps on a bare fanny was audible to us all. Then my 
father's voice. "Now, drop your nightgown, Anna. How lovely you are with 
your black hair." 

Kisses and whispers. 

"March, Anna. Forward, march! Halt! Arms up in the air. What a lot of hair 
you have under your arms. Look at my erection, Anna, take it. Present arms! 
Shoulder arms! Come here!" 

"Now, Charles, don't get so excited ... you're hurting me. You've seen me 
for long enough now. I'm ashamed to let you look at me from behind." 

"Don't worry, my child. Get on the bed ... feet up ... there! My 
treasure...." 

You could hear the bed creaking. 

"Coming, Anna?" 

"Nearly, Charles...." 

"Oh ... ah, Anna ... a ... I'm coming...!" 

"Oh yes! ... yes! wonderful Charles...." 

The sound of Kate's voice came from the direction of the stairs. Elise heard 
it and disappeared quickly into her room. My aunt slipped into hers without 
shutting the door. She came out again. My parents turned out their light. 

I slipped into my aunt's room. When she returned she started with fright. I 
blurted out my feelings for her. She turned on the light. I kissed her 
without saying a word and felt the pressure of her mature body against mine. 
She was trembling. I moved my hand beneath her nightdress and groped at her 
slit. She fought; I whispered reassuringly, "Let's be husband and wife, 
beautiful, darling Margaret." 

My finger played with her clitoris and all the resistance went out of her. I 
uncovered her beautiful breasts which were as white as snow and at the same 
time I coaxed her gently towards the bed. I took out my rod. The champagne 
she had drunk had excited her. I placed her hand on my rod and began to rub 
myself against her-the pleasure was too great. She wriggled about and her 
clitoris swelled. I moved my finger to her slit and sucked at her teats. 
Then I lifted her nightdress right up over her haunches and pressed her 
against me, mouth to mouth, and with a forward belly stroke launched my rod 
into her virginal crevice. 

She uttered a short cry before her whole body gave way to the sudden, almost 
immediate pleasure of it. An inflamed woman now, she abandoned herself to 
her own pure voluptuousness. A short encounter, but whose sensations were 
infinite, brought us both to the limit of the most frenzied ecstasy, and it 
was with the most brutal strokes that I filled her with my life-giving balm. 

The pleasure had been too great; I was still stiff as a ramrod. I caressed 
her and then relighted the candle. She had her face in the pillows; her 
modesty had returned to her, but I drew the covers back to examine her 
Venus' body. There was a slight trace of blood on her short-hair, mixed with 
our sperm. I wiped her with my handkerchief, turned her round, caressed her 
back and her buttocks and thrust my tongue up her arse hole. 

Then I mounted her, my head buried in the perfumed waves of her hair. I 
girdled her body with my arm, raised her slightly and plunged home my John 
Thomas into her moist slit again. A long battle ensued during which we 
perspired through every pore in our bodies. Shouting like a mad woman, she 
was the first to reach the climax. Mine felt so good that it almost hurt. 
That was enough; we separated. 

For several weeks I amused myself in various ways. Mr. Franck was courting 
my aunt more and more assiduously. One day, Elise and my aunt came into my 
room in tears. They were pregnant. But neither dared say in the other's 
presence that I was the guilty party. I sized up the situation quickly. 

"Elise, marry Frederick, and you, auntie, marry Mr. Franck. I'll be your 
best man." 

On the morning of the following day the door opened and Ursula entered. She 
also was pregnant. I advised her to marry the bailiff's cousin who'd been 
making cow's eyes at her, and I promised to stand as godfather to her child. 
Then I undressed her and licked around her slit and buttocks. I washed 
myself with eau-de-cologne and had her lick my arse, which trick so excited 
me that I screwed her with a gusto that made her hair tremble on the bed. 

These marriages soon took place. All's well that ends well, and I continued 
sleeping with the members of my harem, each in her turn. Each knew what I 
was doing with the others and they were all sympathetic. 

Ursula soon gave birth to a boy, and shortly afterwards Elise and my aunt to 
girls. I became godfather to Ursula's Roger, Elise's little Louise and my 
aunt's little Anna on the same day, all children of the same father, though 
they will never know it. 

I trust that I shall have many mere, and in doing so I shall be fulfilling 
my patriotic duty, that of increasing my country's population. 


THE END
