Anonymous
Pamela
On the summit of a little hill, one can see in outline the chateau of Quail Rock which proudly and authoritatively dominates the little village which belongs to it. This ancestral dwelling, which has always sheltered the dynasty of the de Chavignacs, has become renowned, neither for its architecture nor wealth — the many sculptuaries and paintings by masters which decorate its interior, nor again for its fabulous underground tunnel whose origin is obscured by the centuries, but principally for the births of its heirs, some of whom have having brought it a sinister fame through behavior which recalls that of the infamous Gilles de Rais in his own terrible chateau of Tiffauges in the Vendee.
In 1549, Louis de Brow, father-in-law of the beautiful Princess Charlotte de Chavignac, seduced this delectable young woman. In return, he was delivered up to the villagers by his own victim, who denounced his odious rape to these serfs who were her subjects as they were his. His punishment was hideous indeed: despite his mature age and his noble blood, Louis de Brow was tied by the wrists to the tail of a wild horse and dragged through the fields till he was torn to shreds. Then, unsatisfied with their grisly work, the peasants fried the remnants of his carcass and fed those morsels to their pigs and cows, all except de Brow's testicles, which were preserved for their reproductive powers. These were nailed to the wall of a villager's hut till they were dry and resembled prunes.
But let us briefly recall how this tragedy came about. Louis de Brow, 55, married and the father of an only son, took advantage of a morning when he found himself alone in the chateau with Charlotte, his twenty-two-year-old daughter-in-law, to enter her bedchamber. Charlotte, in the midst of a deep sleep, was startled into waking by feeling a hand caress her bottom. Her father-in-law, having long coveted her body, had seized his opportunity to enter and lifting her long nightgown, had begun to caress her. She tried to call for help, but de Brow clamped his hand over her mouth, and mounting her, kneed open her pink firm thighs. His glittering eyes beheld the thick, curly, black triangle at the apex of those deliriously rounded thighs.
One hand on his stiffened cock which he delicately caressed to rouse himself to heroic fortitude, he caressed her cunny with his other hand, while the frantic young beauty twisted and writhed to escape the penetration by that taut red weapon which awaited her. But thanks to his expert frigging, Charlotte could not contract her slit against his inroads; then, as his massive tool entered her lovecavern and began its ardent probing, she lost all control and swooned as his generous lust-libation spurted deep into her chasm.
When she came to, Charlotte denounced her amorous assailant and turned him over to the infuriated villagers, exhorting them to avenge her shameful dishonor. Before tying him to the horse's tail, several peasant women stripped off his trousers and underclothes and then masturbated him till he bled, while other harpies, still more sadistically lustful, bit his testicles to the blood before they cut them off with a pair of wool shears.
Years after this tragedy, one could admire the testicles of Louis de Brow, which, after having been dried, were eventually nailed to a barn door with a yellowing paper on which this inscription could still be read: “Like Pierre Abelard, celebrated for his passion for Heloise, Louis de Brow endured the same fate as that illustrious theologian and philosopher by losing his balls forever.”
In 1780, Duke Julien Faustin de Chavignac, the eighteen-year-old grandson of a daughter of this same Charlotte, put his mother to death after having ravished her, by throwing her into a red-hot brazier which had been lighted in the court of the chateau to celebrate St. Joan of Arc's Day. The indignant peasants who watched this horrifying scene fell on this unnatural son with their cudgels, and cast him into the fire where his ashes mingled with his mother's.
We discovered the details of this somber drama in an old, brittle-paged book, given in brief but graphic resume:
“Madame Carrol de Chavignac had just taken her bath. Standing before her mirror, she was admiring her artistically molded body. Through the double curtains, a ray of the sun illumined her sculptural curves. Gently, the velvet portals were lifted: a young man stood in ecstasy before this divine beauty. But the mirror betrayed his presence. Slowly, the woman turned her head towards her indiscreet admirer and smiling said, “My son!”
“Startled, Julian came forward and kissed his mother's naked shoulder. Anne-Marie offered him her lips, and he crushed them in a burning kiss. Then this incestuous son fondled the bottom cheeks of this Venus, while she with her soft white hand frigged his cock and balls. When she felt his hand press commandingly on her back, she bent over, straddling her legs. And then, with all the vigor of his youth, Duke Julian buggered his mother, till at last the hot ferocious jet of his gism brought her to her own ecstatic come, abetted by the frigging of her own passionate fingers.
“Yet in aftermath, the young Duke was horrified by the lustful acquiescence of his beautiful mother. He foresaw that her attractiveness to him and her own noble rank and power might prejudice his ascent to the title of lord of this province, and so he decided without more ado to execute her who had given him birth and then been first to teach him the delights of fucking and bugger. But we see how cruelly he was punished for his incestuous crime.”
In our own times, the chateau of Quail Rock has once again won fame through an exploit that imperiled its dignity but which also brought the name of the Chavignacs to public attention.
In order to facilitate the reading of this text, we believe it useful to tell our readers that only two heirs of this great house of Quail Rock still exist: Count Fabian Luce de Chavignac, 52, rich owner of plantations at Fort-Lamy, and the Baron Prosper Agrume, his brother, forty and a bachelor. The Vicountess Anne-Marie de Chavignac, sister of these two, died and was buried in the family vault at the tender age of three. The chateau itself, dilapidated over the years, was sold, and Prosper Agrume went to live in Paris, while his brother Fabian left for tropical climes and was not heard from for years.
Fifteen years before, on a beautiful spring day, Count Fabian Luce took as his bride Countess Marguerite de la Moyse. It was a love marriage. Count Fabian was then nearly 38, his young countess only twenty. A year later, after an ecstatic honeymoon, Marguerite gave birth to a girl named Martine-Chantal. Count Fabian's joy in his daughter was short-lived, for his beautiful wife died a few days later, thanks to the clumsiness of the midwife. Martine was put in charge of a nurse to give her suck. Crushed by his grief, Count Fabian left the chateau and went to Fort-Lamy. The years rolled by, and then one day, realizing that he would never return to the chateau which symbolized all his despair, Count Fabian sent for his daughter Martine, then fourteen, she being his only reason to live.
When, after her long journey, she stood before him, he could not stifle a cry of astonishment: “How beautiful you are!”
And he thought to himself, “She is the image of her mother.” Indeed, the young girl was a living likeness of Countess Marguerite: tall, well-fleshed, blond hair, chestnut brown eyes, and already deliciously formed considering her tender years. Her languorous look, her smile, recalled his wife to him, that blond, passionate spouse so tender in the lists of love. The young girl had the same gestures, the same supple gait which is always the sign of a good fucker, the elegant allure — all these attributes which she had inherited from a mother who, in her own expert knowledge of fucking, had known how to give pleasure to a husband so much older than herself. He stared at Mar-tine, with a look that conveyed his secret desires, a look that neither of them could efface even with fond smiles and idle chatter. And on the evening of that first day, Count Fabian surprised his daughter in deshabille, busying herself with combing her hair before the mirror. In the diary he regularly kept, he himself relates the facts:
“After dinner, I had just left Martine and I went to the orange grove to smoke a cigar as is my custom. En route, as I passed in front of Martine's room, I glanced inside. The door was ajar, and despite myself I stopped short when I saw my daughter admiring herself before her mirror. Martine was wearing a transparent combination; I could see the whiteness and tempting shape of her thighs, the roundness of her bottom, the prominence of her titties and her bare shoulders. The vision which had seduced me fifteen years ago was reflected once again in that mirror, and made me stand dreaming before that door which under ordinary circumstances I would have closed out of a concern for modesty.
“At last I did close it and tiptoed silently away. Seated in my rocking chair, I saw Martine in my mind's eye, no longer in combination but naked as a houri. In my daughter, I beheld a woman; I saw again her pointed titties, her supple waist, her long, elegant legs. I laughed at the sudden, capricious notion which had leaped into my mind: to fuck Mar-tine. In vain I tried to banish this idea, but like an importunate fly it buzzed ceaselessly within my brain. I asked myself what my daughter would do if I burst into her room, intent on such an act? Would she cover herself with the bedsheet out of comprehensible modesty, or, conversely, would she unveil herself and offer me her delicate maidenhead? At this latter thought, a flood of blood suffused my face; I had before my eyes the clear vision of that naked body; I saw once more the long golden curls caressing her white, round shoulders. And her beautiful chestnut eyes were like two somber little lakes into which I should love drowning my lustful fever.
“I remembered, too, how the titties thrust out their pink crests, full and firm, as if demanding caresses, while her suave, soft belly quivered as with an innate voluptuousness. The golden triangle of her cunt garden served as the showcase of the most delicious jewel one could imagine, a jewel made for dispensing divine delights. And at this evocation, my hands trembled violently; I could no longer think of such an adorable naked creature without feeling myself the prey of an insensate, savage desire which destroyed all that was compassionate and good in me. And always the same lacerating thought tortured my suffering brain: what would she do if I went in to her? Was Marguerite really reborn in my Martine? Would I revive a second time the burning joys of my youth? Here I was, in my fifties — dare I dream of such follies?
“I cast away my cigar, sprang up, walking through the orange grove as a man possessed. I struck my chest, I coughed, I wanted to bring myself to the reality that I was simply a father, an aging man. But my mind wandered. When the door had been ajar and I had seen Martine's titties clearly reflected in the mirror, Martine had surely seen me too. Why hadn't she reacted? Why hadn't she made some gesture of modesty, frightened by the sight of a bold father? No, she hadn't budged; on the contrary, she had lifted her combination, letting me see her silk drawers. Should I consider that she possessed the same heritage of incestuous passion which motivated ill-fated Marie-Anne, mother of Julian whose tragic end I recalled from the memoirs of the old chateau? Was that gesture of hers in showing me her dainty drawers to be interpreted as a provocative act?
“I was about to descend the stone stairway to take a long walk in the park, at an hour when night slyly descends and caresses with gentle zephyrs. Suddenly, I trembled; before me, Martine, smiling, clad all in white, bathed in the light coming from the salon, appeared more beautiful than ever. Her arms circled my neck and her full lips imparted a sweet kiss on my forehead. My entire being violently reacted to this contact. I cupped her cheeks in my hands, bending her slightly back. Like a golden cascade, her hair flowed onto her bare shoulders. Martine closed her eyes. Without a word, I greedily merged my lips to hers. She shivered, her eyes fluttered half-open, and in that glance which came from her very soul, I comprehended the mute desire that shook her. I pressed that supple body in my arms, felt her titties rise and fall against my chest, and my kisses grew longer, heedless of the distant servant who was drawing the curtains in rooms beyond. Then, suddenly realizing the folly of my gesture, I released her and quickly went to my room. I heard the strokes of midnight sounding from the bell-tower…
“There was silence everywhere now. However, in the right wing of the mansion, a light shone through the badly adjusted Venetian shutters. I lay down my book on the marble table, rose and silently left my room, crossed the corridor and stopped at the door opposite mine, carefully opened it. Martine was seated on her bed. She looked occupied in reading a love novel, as I learned from a glance at the illustrated cover. She stretched out on the lace-trimmed drape one lovely arm, her hand still grasping the book; and with the other hand made an instinctive gesture to put some order into her toilette, but she did not finish that gesture, and thus I could still espy the peak of a thrillingly firm, jutting tittie, bared and proudly uplifted to my gaze.
“Martine stared at me with her great dark eyes. A smile, that same kind of smile which had inspired in me the future acts of lust I was now ready to commit, saluted my entry at this late hour. I spoke to her rather hoarsely and awkwardly: “You haven't said good night to me, my child, and till you do, I can't sleep.”
“I knew I was lying. Besides, in the years that I'd been separated from Martine I'd surely slept well enough without her daily good night. Without a word, she now offered me her forehead for the paternal kiss. But just as on the stairway to the orange grove, I again cupped her cheeks and sought her lips. My tongue sought hers, and met. I felt her shivering. My right hand released her golden curls, then slyly glided under the drape, striking her body, then found her thighs, firm and lissome as velvet. I felt sure now that in a movement of modesty Martine would stiffen and repulse me, revolted by my audacity. But instead, gently and very slowly, her thighs parted. My hand crept toward her little cunny. My fingers grazed the soft frizzy blond down, and then adroitly, my forefinger — expert in this kind of exercise — burrowed into her little slit. I felt her cunny tighten against my inroads and I began to frig her.
“Having found that dainty button of her clitoris, I concentrated on stroking it till at last I felt the warm stickying liqueur of her spend. Her eyes were drowning, humid and huge, her head rolled from side to side, and, her arms locking round me, drew me to her. In her haste to make love, by this frenzied desire to taste enjoyment which her carnal senses demanded despite her youth, she reminded me so well of her beautiful mother Marguerite. Would I know again my grand passion? Would there be the same games, the same sweet diversions, or should I steel myself and flee from this child now swooning, palpitating and surrendering from the science of my frigging finger in her warm, moist yearning little cunt?
“Martine had flung back her covers. She showed herself naked to my greedy eyes. I told myself I was her father, that in the pose of her fresh, soft white body stretched before me there was nothing of the provocative slut — and yet, is nature aware of man's law that rebukes incest, when it so overpoweringly evokes the urge to fuck? I could not endure the torment longer; I stripped naked and stretched out beside my daughter.
“Her little hand, which I had guided, had taken hold of my cock, stiffer than justice itself. She squeezed my prick as if fearful it would escape her. Then, wiser now, after having at last met this object which had been unknown to her till now, she caressed the shaft of my turgid weapon. The delicate, slim fingers of that darling hand scampered up and down my throbbing prong. Arrived at the head, they made a soft collar over the groove, squeezing it and setting off the red plump of my prick head in bold relief. While she thus learned my manhood, I sucked her pointed little titties. I felt her other hand steal hesitantly down my belly till she discovered that a swollen pair of balls awaited her as well as the appendage she already gripped. Her soft fingers balanced, weighed my sacks of lust; and then, to my astonished ecstasy, as if en-flamed by her discoveries, the naked darling got onto her knees over my head and took my cock in her mouth. My cheeks were clasped between two plump, velvety warm thighs, and my tongue, in retaliation, furled into her dainty slit. I felt her love dew given down to this new titillation, and I could hold back no longer; I shot my bubbling essence into her mouth.
“I feared for a moment that, not having warned her of the consequences of her exquisite Frenching, she might detest me. No! Enervated by the tickling of her lovebutton by which my tongue had procured for her a second spend, she twisted round and flung her arms round my neck as might the most passionate mistress. At first, shame filled me, but little by little desire overtook that emotion. Pressing her down onto her back again, I covered her with kisses and getting astride her, I rubbed the end of my prick against her swollen little button.
“Seized by a delirious fever, she pronounced incoherent words and flung her legs round my hips, imprisoning me to make sure I belonged to her. I amused myself at first by rubbing the tip of my cock over the lips of her cunny, and so tantalized her that she seized my prick in one intrepid hand, adjusted it herself to her still virgin entryway, and arched her loins to yield to my complete possession. So, unhesitatingly, I pressed onward. She started; I resumed again, she recoiled slightly; then again, her eyes half closed, baptizing me with a flood of obscene little terms which both enchanted and startled me as to their young owner's awareness of such matters, again took hold of my bulging prick and directed it into her quim. Ah, those sweet, lascivious words she had uttered: they were the same her own dear mother had uttered in the throes of fucking-bliss. Hence, without warning, with a keener thrust, I at last penetrated into that narrow orifice, shattering the frail barrier of her vaginal defense. Martine uttered first a cry, then a stifled gasp. I was afraid, I dared neither push onward or withdraw. But a wriggling of her ass commanded me to continue. I shoved forward till the hilt of my prick was swallowed up within her sweet, tight vagina. My prick hairs rasped the soft down of her cunny garden, we were belly to belly, and just as I had fucked her mother, I did the same to her. Martine returned my caresses with interest, and both of us spent madly.
“After having washed her little pussy, I aided her to go back to bed. She fell asleep at once, and I stayed near the bed to contemplate her. A mad desire to fuck her again took hold of me, but this time I contented myself with frigging my cock as I devoured with my eyes the treasures of her lissome body. Indeed, I pretended I was fucking her sweet tight cunt again so ardently that a clot of gism flew onto her thigh. I carefully wiped the stain away, drew the covers over her and was about to leave the room on tiptoe when Mar-tine murmured, half asleep, 'You're a fine one to jack off in front of me, Daddy darling — what a waste, when you could have done it inside of me again!'
“Enchanted, I went back to bed without the slightest remorse for what I had done.”
And thus was perpetuated the legend concerning the descendants of the Chateau of Quail Rock which dominates, from its peak atop the little hill, the village which belongs to it…
When the morning dawned, announcing already a scorching day in prospect, Count Fabian rose, dressed and told his servant Bouzian that he would be back late that evening, as he had to meet one of his overseers working in a cotton plantation. “Don't forget to tell Marivol to take good care of Mademoiselle. I confide her to you, you understand?”
Bouzian, who had served the Count for two years, was a perfect specimen of Negro manhood, intelligent, athletic and devoted to his master. The cook was a mulatress named Marivol. Though she was twenty-five, the same age as Bouzian, they had not fucked together. Bouzian had little interest in women who didn't like being buggered; and since Marivol belonged to that category, he never touched her, so they lived together as brother and sister might. She loved cooking little treats for her venerated master, and hence was overjoyed to be given charge of his daughter Martine.
When the ornate clock on the mantelpiece struck nine, Martine's door was opened by Bouzian, who carried a tray encrusted in mother-of-pearl, on which, smoking hot, was a bowl of beautiful ceramic cast containing the thick hot chocolate which, in this tropical country, was a breakfast custom. Thus awakened, Martine accorded her servant a ravishing smile. He placed the tray on a tarbouret and drew the blinds. Wishing her good appetite, he began to withdraw, bowing obsequiously. Martine seemed to emerge from a dream, beholding this handsome negro in a white shirt that accentuated the gleaming ebony of his skin.
“Bouzian!”
“Mademoiselle?”
“Come here. Where is my father?”
“The master went to X-, and will not be back till this evening, very late.”
“And Marivol?”
“She went to market.”
“Good. Come here, then. Now, don't be afraid. How are you dressed underneath?”
Lifting his shirt, she disclosed two superbly athletic thighs and a prodigious swelling between them which his loincloth scarcely dissembled. Martine touched that prominent object, asking: “And that there, what is it?”
Not at all stupid, he replied deferentially, “Let Mademoiselle see for herself.”
Martine was waiting for just that. She unfastened the loincloth and a superb prick adorned with heavy, thickly laden balls was exposed to her view. She was hypnotized by the enormity and length of that prick, whose shaft was really spectacular in its rigidity and breadth. With curiosity, she weighed his balls; then, casting aside the covers, drew the handsome Negro to her, who, overjoyed with this unexpected turn of affairs, gutturally said, “Me put banana in your coconut!”
Martine understood that banana meant prick, but what was coconut? She analyzed the word; coco, fruit of the coconut tree, furnished an excellent butter. But Bouzian's interpretation vastly differed; he put his hand on his young mistress' bottom. Martine comprehended; she knelt down, offering her bottom to him. Completely naked now, Bouzian thrust his enormous cock between her thighs, rubbing her soft, golden pussy down, and for a few moments thus tickled her sensitive perineum, as preparation for the supreme act. Martine, enraptured, looked through her widened thighs to see his huge balls jiggling with each movement. As for Bouzian, he considered the dainty bung of his young mistress, not wishing to punish her for such sweet complaisance this first time by causing her undue pain; at last he found a means of easing the act. Stretching out one hand, he scraped off some of the butter spread on the cakes Marivol had prepared for Martine's breakfast, and then anointed Martine's delicious little bunghole. When he deemed it sufficiently lubricated, he adjusted his prick. Martine, her head still bowed between her legs, watched his balls swing back and forth and impatiently yearned to feel them lash against her naked bottom cheeks. Then she felt the first dig of his monstrous ramrod. Her lips compressed, but she courageously tendered her bottom that it might swallow the promised banana. But Bouzian did not make her languish for it; indeed, showing strangely little tenderness for his willing young partner, he buried three quarters of his prick in a single mighty thrust deep into her virgin ass hole.
Martine uttered a piercing cry, the cry of a wounded animal. As it chanced, the Count de Chavignac, who had had to return because a wheel of his carriage had broken down heard that cry and bounded up the stairs. He hurried to her room and stood there, nailed to the spot; through the half-open door, he beheld Bouzian in the act of buggering his naked daughter, who, impaled by that colossal black prick, was wriggling with commingled joy and suffering.
At the sight, the Count realized the part he had played in this debauchery, and bitterly resented the infidelity of his perverse daughter. So, leaving them in the prey of their furious lust, he went back to his workroom and remained there with his sad thoughts till evening.
During this time, Martine, planted on palms and knees, uttered savage cries. Her golden hair mantled her contorted face, her body shivered, her white chiseled thighs yawned apart, the young girl gave herself up to spend after spend till her sheets were wet. When she felt that massive prick spurt its hot lava into her entrails, she nearly swooned, her head buried on the pillow, her hair sticking to her perspiring face, but that abandoned pose made her all the more appetizing.
Bouzian began to caress her quivering thighs and panting titties, and Martine at last opened her eyes, a smile wreathing her lips to show two rows of flawless little white teeth. Gently, she let herself be turned onto her back, while Bouzian crouched over her to gamahuch her to a seventh heaven of bliss. Spreading her legs, she drew his body down to her, and her right hand began to frig him till, seeing that his prick had achieved all its former grandeur, she rubbed it against her mouth. Overjoyed, he turned about and sheathed his mighty blade deep into her tight little cunt hole, and, after several vigorous thrusts, shot a bubbling flood of sperm deep into her innermost recesses.
Meanwhile, the Count took stock of himself. It had taken only his daughter's arrival, after the long years of separation, to change him from an honest man into a despicable being, the plaything of unholy passions. He took a firm resolve; he must disappear before such abominations happen again; so, without waiting any longer, he rang her on the private house telephone.
It was just past noon, and the chocolate had been finished, mouthful by mouthful after each seance: buggering, fucking, gamahuching and Frenching. Martine took the receiver: “Ah, it's you, Papa? Where are you? Yes… I understand… you'll be back in a week? Don't worry, Marivol will look after me… yes… I'll kiss you when you come back.” Then, as she replaced the phone, she giggled, “Ouf! Now I can fuck all I want. Papa won't be back for a whole week!”
Bouzian, hearing this happy news, did a little jig, thereby inflaming his young white mistress who promptly beckoned him back to bed. There, she sucked him off again, and when his spunk shot forth vigorously, she swallowed it without losing a single drop. Exhausted, they fell asleep side by side; it was a miracle that Marivol, who had come back from market, didn't find them together.
But Count Fabian had lied; in reality, he hadn't gone away for just a week, as he'd told Martine, but forever. He had gone to an isolated spot on the plantation and put a bullet through his brain. Yet if his sin and its self-inflicted punishment had ended his life, it had also opened the door of happiness to Martine by granting her a freedom of which, as we shall see later on, she made singular use.
The rest of the day passed calmly for the young girl, since tropical heat destroys all will and energy. Not suspecting her father's suicide, she could hardly know that she was already the sole mistress and ruler of this plantation. But when the freshness of the evening cast its welcome veil on the plantation, life seemed to revive little by little. The colony of Tchad numbers many people from the Ubangi and Mid-Cameroons, from Anglo-Egyptian Sudan and Nigeria. A large part of this population is itinerant; they are in the main members of groups that follow their ethnic affinities and each keeps his own religious beliefs, his traditional way of life as much as that is possible in so distant a setting where inbreeding, crossbreeding and foreign influences are so powerful.
These peoples who speak twenty different languages and dialects, give the city a bizarre aspect. During the moonlit nights, everyone is outside. The little vendors in the street of the Mosque light feeble lamps which hardly illumine their paltry wares. It is the hour when the wealthy choose to stage, before the doors of their dwellings, festivals and parties which display their finest possessions. The women wear bejeweled loincloths on which are patterned the most unusual motifs, and through the widely open folds, one can glimpse the bare bottoms, as well as the bellies and tempting thighs; sometimes even their breasts are nearly bared. Sometimes the late traveler, losing his way in the torturous streets of this city, finds himself accosted by certain creatures whose shadows fall in profile on the white walls. These women, of rare beauty, sometimes drop their loincloths and unveil their charms, and the man, maddened by lust and wanting to fuck her who most entices him, accomplishes the act standing on the narrow sidewalk against the wall.
Yet, at one end of this agitated labyrinth of professional lust, one finds a sumptuous pavilion, belonging to the Count de Chavignac. A soiree was taking place, in the great salon whose shutters were drawn to keep out the eyes of the profane. Martine was surrounded by two men and two women, magnificently black. The carnival was beginning. “Here is Pamela in her number,” cries Bouzian, a megaphone in his hands. Pamela, who is Martine, appears clad in a dancer's tutu made of fiber, and her face, limbs and body are covered with a tan ointment which makes her resemble Josephine Baker. She writhes, her rounded bottom keeping time to the chant which the two women call out, clapping their hands. Women? One is only thirteen, the other twelve, but both seemed sixteen, ripely developed as they are. They are harmoniously formed, and their naked titties are delicious to the sight. Pamela, a monocle in one eye, a gold-topped cane tucked under one armpit, a top hat over her golden curls, executes a kind of Parisian cancan at each step of which, because the short tutu cannot conceal her loins, one can see her little pussy whose rosy lips betray her true racial origin. Bouzian and his two male companions, pricks grasped in their hands, form Indian file as they open the carnival; Pamela and her two companions sing as they march around the table. Someone cries “Stop!” And everyone stands still; Pamela cries out, “Save yourself if you can!” At this cry, Bouzian and his two friends seek to seize the young women who run around the arm chairs, laughing shrilly in their lustful glee. Then, two minutes later, each female is seized by a wrist and promptly thrown down on a divan or the table, or, better still, made to sit astride a man comfortably seated in an arm chair with prick tendered aloft for her own self-impalement.
Pamela had the pleasure of being caught by one of the male guests, a tall rogue whose prick is even thicker than Bouzian's. Lying on the table, her back on a cushion, her legs wound round the loins of Lakian — the name of this giant — Martine palpitates with anguish at the thought of being fucked by so mighty a cock. “Pamela,” she whimpers to him.
Is that the name of a girl? Ah no. It is Negro dialect for “Don't put it in there — ne la mets pas la — but bugger me instead.” She repeats it twice. But Lakian laughs, showing his strong white teeth. Like a mischievous child, he amuses himself by holding his massive cock and rubbing the tip against Martine's soft cunny. Martine pouts with vexation; she grasps his cock and steers it toward her eager, brown hole. But Lakian defeats her; yawning apart her cunny with the fingers of his left hand, he buries his prickhead in that pink gap, thrusts with little jerky digs, onward within the tight crevice. Pamela, swooning, babbles endlessly the most incoherent, lustful words.
Lifting her legs around his shoulders, after two or three shoves which waken her from her swoon, Lakian commences a vigorous cramming with his massive tool, and then discharges the seething contents of his gnarled heavy balls deep into her dainty pussy. Martine, with a wail of thwarted bliss, falls back into her lethargy. But when she revives, not yet satisfied by the pleasure thus granted, she sucks Lakian's prick. Stood up on her feet at last, Martine, naked as the day she was born, is seized by Bouzian and Lakian. As she stands, Bouzian grasps her hair and drags down her head till she can reach his swollen prick with her panting mouth; in that bent-over pose, she then sucks him off while Lakian buggers her. Then the two young Negresses also receive their share of male homage, and the orgy does not end till dawn.
The next morning, Marivol finds her little mistress sleeping in her bed, so lovely to look at that Marivol thinks it a shame to waken this angel with features so pure, so she goes out quietly and closes the door behind her.
Evening comes once again and Martine, unbeknownst to devoted Marivol, seeks out her companions of the night before to revel in new and yet more shameless orgies.
But now let us leave these characters of our drama whom we shall meet again, and pay a visit to Count Fabian's brother, Baron Prosper Agrume de Chavignac, for he too has a vital role to play in our history.
Baron Prosper lived, very much like a recluse, in his magnificent town mansion in Paris. He devoted most of his time to his hobby of collecting rare stamps. Indeed, thanks to his wealth, he had even transformed one of the rooms of his huge house into a kind of stamp museum. Endowed with a stay-at-home nature, he had no use for his brother after the death of the Marquis de Chavignac because of the disproportionate share the latter had received from the legacy. He had never seen Fabian since that time, did not even know that he had married and had a child or even that his brother was still alive. As a bachelor, despite being in his forties, he had never enjoyed the pleasures of love. His only servant was a young valet, twenty-five years of age, a Parisian by birth, named Patrick Dumas.
This young man had served in the colonies and was bored to death to have to live in an austere house which had never seen a woman's smile. He-himself was no monk, and could nostalgically recall voluptuous pleasures experienced with beautiful Negresses with jutting, stiff-nippled titties and rounded, undulating bottoms, scienced in every kind of lustful caress. He pined after those ebony statues of amorous flesh which had brought him such thrilling sensations in times gone by, and yearned for their return.
One morning the postman brought him a letter for the Baron Prosper, who, after adjusting his monocle and reading a few lines, cried out: “Good Lord!” As Patrick was treated by his master as a trustworthy confidant rather than as a servant, he asked: “A misfortune?”
The Baron finished reading the letter, folded it and finally explained: “I've been called back posthaste to Fort-Lamy by Monsieur Honome, the notary in that city, on the matter of settling the effects of my brother Fabian, who has just died. I am to be the guardian of his only child, his daughter Martine.” Seeing the glow of curiosity in Patrick's eyes, the Baron added: “My brother — may God rest his soul — was found in the fishpond, and a verdict of suicide was decided at the inquest. I'm to be at his villa precisely at eight o'clock on the date of May 7th. It's the 5th already, so we've little time to pack. You will of course come with me.”
Patrick, delighted at this unforeseen change in the boring monotony of his days, did not have to be told twice and hurried off to pack for his master, already dreaming of future hours with beautiful accommodating females who would know how to ease the long-pent-up tension of his virile young prick.
On May 6th, an Air France plane took off from Orly airfield towards Tchad, and landed at nine that night at the airport of Fort-Lamy. This arrival and the events which followed it were faithfully related by Patrick in the diary which he punctiliously kept and which he allowed your translator to read. Here are the main passages:
“When we landed, Baron Prosper, who was completely out of touch with this tropical country, gave me carte blanche to make all arrangements for his comfort. After an excellent dinner in one of the city's best restaurants, my master asked me to find a convenient hotel where we might spend the night. Since his request would ruin the plans I had already worked out, I said to him: 'Monsieur the Baron surely can't be thinking of going to bed at an hour when everyone in town is on the go! Let Monsieur remember that he is the heir of Count Fabian, with whom he was on bad terms, and that this event must be celebrated. Monsieur must amuse himself before putting on mourning for his brother. Now I know a place where Monsieur the Baron will have a great deal of enjoyment, and I should be honored if he would allow me to take him there.'
“The Baron followed me without argument. We went down the Street of the Mosque, and, turning to the left, arrived at a little alleyway where we beheld a heavy door decorated with embossed silver, its tops curiously ornamented with the figure of a little squirrel in green neon lights. I rang the bell, and we were admitted into the lobby of this strange house, a kind of huge hall where an imposing matron beamed at us and purred, 'If the gentlemen come to be amused, please enter, for the spectacle this evening is really sensational.' She opened a door and we entered a room where my dazzled master saw women dancing on a wooden runway balanced on the edges of tables at which spectators sat and sipped iced drinks.
“On this runway, four superb half naked Negresses, wearing bracelets and necklaces of cowrie shells, executed lascivious dances to the rhythm of the tambourine. They had the characteristic charm of women of the tropics, always ready to fuck. Their ripe curves fairly cried out to be fondled, kissed, bitten, crushed and embraced. My master, his eyes wide and glazed, no longer thought about his stamp collection, I'm quite sure. After the dances, which simulated the basic thirty-two poses of fucking, I had a gigantic hard on and I asked my master whether he wasn't sexually roused, too. He eyed me solemnly, and, glancing back at the runway, timidly agreed that he was beginning to feel some emotion.
“After a short intermission, the master of ceremonies, through his megaphone, announced in English, then in French: 'And now, you may admire a number unique in all this world. Pamela — I repeat, Pa-me-la.' The orchestra tuned up, the lights dimmed, and Pamela, graceful and supple, came out onto the runway. 'A Frenchwoman!' I exclaimed, astonished. Indeed, she was quite a young white girl, wearing only a tutu made of fibers, and high-heeled clogs which made her lovely calves and thighs flex deliciously with each dancing step. She performed a series of ballet-like movements and leaps, which enabled us all to admire the most intimate parts of her anatomy, for she was naked under her raffia loincloth. I winked at my master and whispered, 'She's a beauty, Monsieur the Baron. You should make her acquaintance after the number.' But he didn't say a word. As the enthusiastically-applauded number came to an end and the waiter appeared at our table for our order, I profited by slipping him a hastily written note and whispered into his ear. He made a gesture showing that he understood. Pamela, despite the cheers and whistles and bravos that acclaimed her, did not return to take a bow. I thought to myself that there were about fifty men here with their female companions — wives or mistresses or whores, as it might be — and that every one of those fifty, like the Baron and myself, must be having agonizing hard ons by now.
“Then a native male dancer came out completely naked, and made us roar with laughter at his contortions, which had to do with the most ingenious ways of twisting himself about to suck his own cock. However, my master and I would have been ultimately bored if Pamela hadn't now approached our table, accompanied by one of the luscious Negresses who had been among those first dancers. The Baron ordered champagne for everyone, and we then followed the young women into a private room, luxuriously furnished for the particular use which was generally made of them.
“My master at once began to try to grab Pamela and pull her to him, but she laughingly escaped and, dancing about in the room in a kind of bewitching striptease, slowly removed, one by one, the gossamer garments she wore, letting us see first an expanse of milky thigh or the proud peak of one beautiful firm tittie, till at last she lay naked on the huge bed covered with red velvet drapes. Her splendidly lissome white body was magnificently accentuated by that hue. Baron Prosper, beside himself, stripped naked; showing a rather vigorous body for his age, but his usual timidity was certainly belied by the proudly erect staff that thrust forth from his graying pubic mane. He approached the bed, bent over and timidly grazed that alabaster flesh with his lips. As Pamela did not repulse him, he continued to salute her charms with his mouth, adoring her arms and shoulders, her belly, moving thence to her bosom and lingering over the tasty strawberries of her nipples, then descended to the mount of Venus and glued his lips to the fine golden down which scarcely hid the rosy lips of her cunny.
“Despite his lack of amorous experience, he quickly comprehended what he had to do; delicately spreading those sweet cunny corals apart, he drove his tongue into the tabernacle, seeking out that sensitive button, which he soon discovered. Then he began to suck it till Pamela groaned with bliss. But as she didn't want to have orgasm in that way, she pushed him away; then, grasping him, forced him to stretch out on the bed where she began to pay him back for his tribute. Kneeling in the pose of sixty-nine over my master, she began to graze with the tip of her tongue the hardening nipples of his chest, his swollen cock, lingering a long while over the turgid shaft, then descending to the hairy testicles. She displayed such science in her Frenching that he began to groan and clench his hands against the yawning thighs above his head, and again he plunged his greedy mouth into the juicy slit. “Divining that he was near spending, Pamela's soft lips glued over the head of his ramrod with a series of soft little suckings, then swallowed as much of his shaft as she could, furling her moist, hot tongue along its crannies. Then, as a further diversion, she began to flick the urethral slit at the tip of his taut meatus with rapid little pressures of her nimble tongue. Finally, to conclude this menu of Frenching, she insinuated her little finger into his anus, which finished him off; he shot his turbulent lava into her mouth. Greedily, Pamela kept that throbbing organ, avidly swallowing the sticky jet, while her own love dew moistened his lips, and he in turn sucked and swallowed without losing a drop of her nectared essence.
“Watching this spectacle, I was not to be outdone; stripping naked, I seized my Negress, who too had undressed as she watched the thrilling scene. I bent her over a thick cushion so I might bugger her. But, not suspecting my real desire, she put her fingers to her fleshy, juicy cunny and spread the lips invitingly. Not deterred, I pointed my arrow towards that dainty rosette as my hands gripped the succulent ebony cheeks of her bottom. The Negress was surprised, but, lending herself complacently to my desire once she knew it, put her hands back to her bottom cheeks and aided me to yawn them to extreme. My prick slowly buried itself in her tight orifice, and then I paused. It was not the first time I had entered the temple of Sodom, and I wished to spare my partner a little and enter her gently and lingering, to prolong my pleasure. Then, another thrust of my loins, and my prick disappeared entirely within her channel, while my balls bumped against her gapping humid pussy.
“I pulled my prick back as far as the head so that I might bury it once again in that scabbard of hot flesh, for this beautiful Negress was like a furnace of lust. I recalled four years ago, when as a soldier, I fucked and buggered the beautiful Negresses of Ubangi-Chari — and, when there were no Negresses available, the Sengalese with gleaming black skin who were endowed with cocks that would terrify the boldest whore of the Casbah, for they could give a man pleasure too in their own way. These memories inspired my powers and I furrowed my beautiful black partner with fury, digging it into the deepest recesses of her bumhole, while I slid my hand towards her humid pussy and, seizing her clitoris between thumb and forefinger, frigged her so as to bring about the delicious quakings of her muscles against my imbedded prong. “Soon raucous, guttural sounds of ecstasy escaped her panting lips. I too felt climax nearing; at first, a spark of heat in my belly, which spread like a tongue of fire that constantly increases, devours all and suddenly shatters into explosive fury, and thus I drenched the burning entrails of my passionate partner with a copious flow of love-lava. I did not release her, however, and continued to thrust back and forth into that well oiled sheath to bring her to a similar spasm. I felt my cock softening, the last drops of life-essence ebbing from it, when suddenly orgasm seized her, she uttered a cry and stiffened, flooding my fingers still lodged inside her pussy-with her sticky love-cream, while violent quakings seized her glistening bare body. With a last sigh, she rolled onto the cushion, and, withdrawing, I sat down on the rug, depleted and appeased.
“But Pamela did not wish to remain un-solaced, and so after a few moments of repose necessary to restore my master to his vigor, she grasped his slowly stiffening tool between her slim long fingers, covering its length with delicate caresses, tickling his balls and then upwards along the head till his weapon pointed rigidly to the ceiling. Judging him at least readied for the fray, she lay down on her back, drawing him upon her, and guided his furiously reawakened manhood towards her sweet oasis. The waiter had told us she was only fifteen, and yet despite that extreme youth her cunny swallowed up the entirety of his vigorous organ, till I saw her golden pubis merge with his grey fleece. With rhythmic jerks of her loins, she showed my master the cadence she desired, murmuring: 'Follow me, darling… push in deep… there… now back… now push in again — ah — that's the way!'
“The baron, a virgin till that hour, one might say, adapted himself quickly to this maneuver, and his well oiled piston rose and fell within that dainty cunny, which absorbed it with an exquisite sucking sound in the very cadence Pamela had decreed. At last she too began to feel delight growing in her womb, and accompanied him in the gait towards a divine orgasm, wriggling her loins furiously as might a cavalry steed at the gallop. She uttered inarticulate little cries as his noble cock furrowed her groove: 'Ahh! Harder, deeper, darling, ahh!' she groaned. Excited by her cries, my master quickened his cadence, grinding his teeth, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. Now, unleashed, Pamela writhed, her face contorted, eyes blazing with passion: 'Ahh — Baron — I'm coming — push deeper still — ohh, I'm coming — I'm com — ing — ahh — ahhhh!' Her hands dug into his shoulders, her body arched like a bow, then shook with convulsive spasms. He too tasted the bliss of come, as prolonged 'Ahhhhhs!' exuded from his throat. With a final thrust, he poured out his baronial sperm into that excited cunny. And their bodies writhed and fused in a last galvanic surging, then clung in the gelid aftermath of spent passion savouring the fleshy pleasures they had just procured each other.
“After a little rest, I aided him in dressing, while Pamela and her Negress disappeared to perform their ablutions. He made them a handsome gift for their services, promising to summon them another evening, and they covered him with kisses as they joyously accepted. We left them, for the hour was late, and we went back on foot to our hotel. Dawn was nearly breaking, the air was cool, the best part of a tropical day in such a land.
“'My dear Patrick, you're a precious jewel of a servant. You've given me an unforgettable night; my master said to me. 'I'd no idea one could have such pleasure in this shabby city.'
“'Oh, if Monsieur the Baron will forget his stamp collection for a bit and have confidence in me, I'll promise even greater delights,' I told him. 'One must concentrate on flesh, not stamps or legacies, however. And, if the Baron will pardon my frankness, I've noted that he is endowed with a superbly virile cock; one must make use of this, nature has given it for that reason.'
“'You're right, my dear fellow, you're quite right! But, you see, in Paris, such pleasures are abominably commercialized, so much so that it disgusts me. Whereas here, those two girls just now, why, you saw how eagerly they made love.'
“'Here,' I laughingly interposed, 'all women are alike. They have a fire in their cunnies and bumholes. The climate does that… the cooking and the spices contribute to it, too, Baron.'
“'Well, then, Patrick, I give you a free hand in organizing another evening identical to this one. However, not every evening — or we'd soon be shadows of ourselves, eh?' he chuckled, nudging me in the ribs. When we got back to our hotel, we asked the desk clerk to waken us so that we wouldn't be late for the appointment with the notary. However, it took some little time to waken us from the deep slumber into which we fell at once — and no wonder! — but a taxi had been called by the hotel manager and was waiting to take us to Monsieur Honome.
“When the taxi stopped in front of Count Fabian's dwelling, the notary and his clerk had already arrived ahead of us, and my master appeared pale, listless and exhausted; I ascribed this fatigue, you may be sure, not to our nocturnal adventure but to the fatigue of the long journey we had made. Seated at the table, the notary informed my master that the young girl whose guardian he was to be was an adolescent of 15, named Martine. A few moments later, a young girl opened the door and smilingly entered. When he saw her, the Baron gasped: 'Oh, it's not possible!' Mar-tine, on the threshold, stared at him; they had recognized each other. Master Honome made the introductions: 'Monsieur the Baron Prosper Agrume de Chavignac, your uncle.' Then turning to the young girl: 'Mademoiselle de Chavignac, your niece. You may kiss each other. It is permitted.'
“The girl and my master fell into each other's arms, quite moved. They regarded each other, remembering the delicious hours of the night before. Then the papers were signed, and it was decided that my master would remain for an unspecified time here with his niece whose welfare was now legally his concern. He did not stop admiring her, and when they were alone in the room, he said to her, 'You're the very portrait of your mother. The same kind of face, even the same hair, the same color eyes, and I can say also, the same amorous temperament. When your mother lived with my brother, she shocked me a little with her physical exuberance. It's true that I'm a real puritan.'
“'But tell me now, Unkie — for I must call you that from now on,' Martine giggled, while she cast me a malicious smile, 'last night, you know, there was nothing puritanical about you.'
“'Yes, last night I discovered a new face in Martine's life, or, Pamela, in fact. But why do you call yourself Pamela at the Green Squirrel, my little one?'
“'I can't help it, Unkie. I've always dreamed of dancing on a runway, of being in a music hall, but at Fort-Lamy one doesn't have much choice, and I'm not an international star, after all. At the Green Squirrel, as long as a girl wriggles her hips and shows her legs, the customers are happy. And Pamela is a warm name that suits me. Now that you told me my mother had an ardent temperament, it's only natural that since I'm her daughter, I follow in her ways. Here, the Negroes are very insipid in their lovemaking, aside from a very few who know the refinements that make a woman have a climax. So last night, when I saw a chance to meet two white men, I didn't hesitate for a minute. But devil take me if I thought you were my uncle! Anyway, it stays in the family. And you know, Unkie,' here Martine cajolingly wound her milky arms round my master's neck, 'you made me come in a really formidable way. And to think you were inexperienced — why, it was like having an affair with a virgin of my own age — except that he had a much, much longer cock,' she finished saucily and gave him a stinging little kiss on the mouth.
“' I, too, Martine, retain delicious memories of that night. You revealed incredible sources of pleasure to me, things I never even dreamed of. No, I'm not a virgin, but I was almost one, and that was why last night will never be forgotten.'