Pleasures and Follies Read online

  Montencon was not unknown to Conquette, whose mother he had fucked prior to the syphilitic days. He was nothing if not eager to slip it to the daughter. I found him halfway up the stair as I myself returned home. I introduced them; he stood motionless, struck with admiration and full of joy to behold so beautiful a woman. I had business to attend to, so I stayed no longer than a minute, saying I would leave my daughter to keep him company. He went with me to the door, stammering excitedly. "Ravishing creature! Faultless taste in clothes! remarkable footwear, especially the footwear! I damned pity Vitnègre made off with that pucelage!"

  "Vitnègre? Hardly, my dear Montencon. She's a maid."

  "No!"

  "Indeed she is."

  "My good Linguet, may I go and try to put at least one horn on that fool's head?"

  "Do the best you can," I replied, "but with your gray hair, I'm not so sure you'll succeed. Only a jaded bitch who's generally fed up with all the rest is apt to be willing to spar with a healthy graybeard libertine. With well-behaved maidens, you know, one must be tender and gentle, and what with your face of a satyr or a reprobate, I don't know. But try it."

  Directly I was gone. Montencon addressed himself to the task. He experimented first with gallantry and compliments and got nowhere. At the end of his patience, he hurled Conquette onto the fucking-couch and, being a vigorous fellow, he brought his prick nigh to the lips of her cunt, holding her struggling body with one hand. However, he was unable to advance farther. She contrived to kick him in the behind and the blow undid what little he had accomplished. He was at his wit's end and might have threatened her with a knife when I reappeared. Conquette adjusted her clothes without showing a hint of ill humor. I whispered to Montencon: "How did it go?"

  "She's a devil and it went damned poorly. I'll doubtless have to finish by frigging myself."

  "Courage, my friend, you'll fuck her yet."

  We sat down at the table. Conquette talked to Montencon just as if nothing had happened – and nothing had – and even laughed at his jests. He asked why she'd not let him encunt her.

  "Bless me!" she replied, "why did I not submit? Why should I?"

  "Because," he retorted, "I was as stiff as a bleeding mule."

  "You sound like Vitnègre." That however did not prevent Montencon from recounting his enterprise in the most savory language. He praised the beauty of her cunt, the silky quality of its hair, the plump fairness of her buttocks, the firmness of her bubs, the pinkness of her asshole, the ivory-colored elasticity of her belly, her thighs. He exalted her foot and leg and in brief declared a general enthusiasm for all of her. Thus approved, Conquette blushed and was only the more modest in her triumph. I explained that I alone had fucked my daughter, whose life I had saved and whom I had deflowered a week before, and I related the entire story. "You fuck her?"

  "And who has a greater right to? I am twice her father." Montencon bit his lip while Conquette embraced me.

  Throughout the meal we admired Madame Poilsoyeux's voluptuously moulded buttocks, whose splendid lines proclaimed themselves whenever she rose to ask for a plate or hand one around. She was wearing pretty green shoes with slender green heels and her silk stockings had a pink tint. I enquired whether she were wearing a garter belt. "Certainly," said she, "I always do."

  "In that case, show us more of the world's prettiest legs." She refused my request, but we besought her with such insistence that, to put an end to our importuning, she placed one foot upon a chair and, lifting her skirts, exhibited a leg sufficient to send a dying man to hell.

  We were, Montencon and I, beginning to lose our heads, but did our best to keep a grip upon ourselves. The ribald old fogy, during a moment when Conquette was in the kitchen, suggested we get her drunk by pouring champagne (he had brought me a bottle of it) into her red wine instead of water. I feigned assent, but before Conquette came back in I joined her in the kitchen and told her what we were up to. "My judicious, most reasonable girl," I added, "you're going to have to be stuffed; that's what I brought him here for. But I didn't know how to proceed. I was pondering ways and means when he made his suggestion. You'll pretend to get drunk, so shall I, and thus he'll never be able to get the upper hand. His engine's rather stout, although of medium length. After him, I'll get you Trait-d'Amour, my former secretary, a pretty lad who'll carry on with the enlarging process. He should be able to prepare your cunt for whichever client you prefer. Trait-d'Amour knows about you. I've asked him to wait a few weeks before I place you and him in the ring together. Let me handle the business, my beloved, I'll be there to put a stop to anything unseemly."

  "I am your servant, dispose of me," she said, "in any way you like. The situation from which you rescued me was so dreadful that I cannot disobey you." We returned to the dining room. An instant before entering it, she pulled one bub from her bodice and had me kiss it. Montencon had completed preparations, pouring champagne into the decanter of wine. Conquette, warned, discerned the trick and unobserved slyly managed to fill her glass with water, reserving the wine to besot Montencon himself. But the bawd was not to be made drunk on anything but the lovely eyes and other charming features of my delicious Conquette Ingénue.

  When at last Madame Poilsoyeux, who affected a convivial tipsiness, appeared to be in the state Montencon esteemed desirable, he signalled to me and, waiting for the first opportunity, I caught her around the waist with one arm and with my free hand seized her cunt. Apart from a strong desire to possess her at once, I wished to embolden her and prepare her cunt for the admission of a member more sizable than mine. I thrust her upon the bed, calling to Montencon to bring me what there was left of the butter from our meal. I deposited a lump the size of a walnut in her orifice and pushed it in out of sight.

  "I'll do that, please leave it to me," she said in the calmest of voices. However, her ass was moving with an admirable rhythm and the couch was creaking a marvelous tune. I discharged thanks to these effects, and myself emitted many musical cries of delight.

  "Well, bugger," said I, "it's your turn now."

  Standing by the bed, holding his stoutly risen prick in his hand, Montencon gazed down at us. I had no sooner disengaged than he leapt bravely upon my daughter, whose wet cunt was still aquiver, and doubly resplendent with its garnishing of butter-and-fuck sauce. Montencon lunged, penetrated ... Conquette screamed ... I stepped forward, alarmed and ready to fly to her aid, but she was already smiling brightly. "Are you well bedded in?" I asked her fucker.

  "Jesus Christ, yes! and delightfully! She's nipping my prick. What a cunt she's got. It's like satin in there ... ah! ... ah! I'm fucking her ... shake your ass, heavenly harlot, throw it about, buggress, oh delicious cunt, dance under my balls! Jump, do you hear! I'm com-ing ... I'm dis-charg-ing! ... ah! ... ah! ... ah!" The graybeard sank fainting down upon my daughter's breasts. She was swimming in fuck and joy! I'd feared that she might be shy with a stranger and lie stock-still instead of answering her antagonist blow for blow. But immediately she had felt Montencon's prick scrape in, she had thrashed about like a captive panther, roared like a young lioness, and discharged like a thoroughbred mare. Montencon, without decunting, began to fence with her again, shouting, weeping with lust, and periodically murmuring, "Divine bitch ... play the whore ... I guarantee your efforts will be rewarded." Three times over the battle was renewed; neither gave quarter; finally, dry from extreme toil, both desisted.

  "That was a fuck worth ten of the everyday variety, and that cunt's worth a thousand of the sort I used to have you stick, Linguet, even my little landlady's. One leaves it for a moment, but regrets having to do so, but I say, my friend, dig in again, why don't you? A woman's a match for sixteen men in this game. Let's not allow her to cool off nor suffer from idleness." Whereupon Conquette Ingénue, having lain motionless, save for her cunt, which she kept contracting as though a member were still stuffing it, jumped off the couch and ran to wash herself.

  She found warm water ready for her. Montencon and I cast ourselves up
on our knees before our divinity and one of us cleaned her ass, the other her cunt, then her buttocks and her thighs, for she was awash with fuck and even bleeding slightly. Taking care to wet neither her nightgown nor her stockings, we had her stand with her clothing drawn up above her waist. After a scrupulous ablution, we admired her, for she was ravishing with her ass and cunt thus exposed. We had her walk to and fro and we stared adoringly at the magic of her shifting hips and buttocks. "What enchants me," said the oldster as he watched her move towards us, "is that black cunt against a ground of lily-white skin, that silken cunt hair and that line of coral dividing it down the middle." The lovely creature turned about and exhibited further charms. "Ah!" exclaimed Montencon, transported, "what an ass! It is not one jot inferior to that peerless cunt." She came back. "Unspeakably beautiful cunt! 'Tis worthy of that divine ass." When Conquette came close to us, he kissed her fur, then getting to his feet (for we had remained kneeling the better to appreciate the drama), he carried her to the couch, begging my permission to tongue and suck all those charms before I refucked her. Great God! how she was tongued and sucked. He tickled her rosebud with his nose and tongue until her teeth chattered, then he concentrated upon her cunt. The beautiful girl shivered and trembled beneath this treatment and then, ejaculating, she neighed like a little horse into whose vulva one inserts for the first time the awe-inspiring and deep-driving engine of a vigorous stallion. The untupped mare's dimpled, superbly fleshed buttocks shook; a groan rose from her very soul and was answered by the geyser sprung from her sperm-spewing stud's prick.

  All that, and my voluptuous daughter had been merely tickled by a tongue! Mentencon abandoned her bubbling well and I, leaping upon my Conquette's heaving belly, holding her ass three inches above the bed, dived brutally into the abyss. She did naught but seem to sway gently before that onslaught and my lustful impatience required more. "Pull off one of her shoes," I said to Montencon, "and tickle the soles of her feet with it." He removed a shoe, but the scoundrel amused himself by sniffing it.

  "'Tis Cypris," quoth he, "and within her shoes have the scent of ambrosia."

  "Tickle her feet, I tell you!" I roared. He did and at her second twitch I discharged like Vesuvius in eruption. In my ecstatic joy I gave thanks to fate for having blessed me with so perfect a daughter, whose twitching cunt procured me such intense pleasures.

  "I am discharging again..." Conquette stammered. "My father's prayer drove his prick deeper into me."

  "Oh, what a worthy father! what a pious daughter!" exclaimed Montencon. I decunted. "But tell me why," said the energetic old bawd, stretching out upon my daughter again and reencunting her without having washed, "why did you have me tickle the feet of your celestial fuckeress?"

  "I obtained the recipe from a printer who was wont to fuck the wife of his confrère with the latter's enthusiastic cooperation."

  "But," my printer friend asked the fellow he cuckolded, "what in heaven's name did you do to her to make her give me such pleasure?"

  "You saw, didn't you, that her feet were bare? Well, someone told me that the sons of Mesdames Quillenpoche and Radball having chanced into the room where a barrister and a pimp were cuntstuffing their mothers, the little youngsters, loath to disturb the party, removed a delicate slipper from each lady's foot and therewith tickled their soles, the which caused those ladies to skip in a very lively fashion and to receive from their own sudden movement quite as much satisfaction as they simultaneously gave their operators. So, since that day, in like circumstances they always have their feet tickled."

  "Kindly do the same for me," said Montencon. He began coming and going in Conquette's cunt.

  "Astonishing!" he remarked. "Your own father's fuck – the fuck whereof you were created – amalgamated with yours in your sacred cunt, should, it seems to me, serve as pommade. But I can hardly get into you!" From the crimson color of my daughter's cheeks I saw he was hurting her.

  "Decunt, bugger," said I to her plumber. "Your mule's prick is giving the little hole mouthfuls it can't possibly swallow." He did withdraw his shaft, I popped a gobbet of fresh Normandy butter into her crock.

  "Ah," said the complacent child, "that ought to loosen the hinges." Montencon reencunted wrathfully. He entered with veritable majesty and struck bottom. Conquette jerked her ass.

  "There 'tis," cried the lecher. "I feel your darling little nipper. Let's clap another horn on that fuck-in-the-ass Vitnègre. Pinch your ass and fling it about, my precious bitch."

  This coarse language hurled me into an erotic furor. Unpityingly I tickled my daughter's bare feet, the while saying, "Fuck, my love, fuck like a goddess. Show him you know how to fuck and you, bugger, flood her cunt. Have you ever sunk your line in a cunt to equal my celestial, my divine whore's?" Conquette thrashed on the bed as if she were bent on breaking her back and her encunter's too (as did Mademoiselle Timon under that great personage Mirabeau), but Montencon resisted with steadfast muscle and bone. However, Conquette's ensuing discharge was so violent that the explosion nearly blasted the stopper from her hole. But, as subsiding she fell back, his prick, rasped by the velvety cunt, discharged with ravishing effects.

  He shivered four lances without quitting the lists and at the last, after I'd tickled his balls, he ejaculated quite as abundantly as he had at the first. But he was weary. "Now, by God, that Vitnègre's properly cornute," he said, parting with his seed, "for his fuckeress wife's shot off three times as often as I." Conquette smiled.

  "How many?" I enquired. "Oh, ten times, twenty, I've no idea," she explained with becoming modesty, "for it's not polite to keep count after the first score." I kissed her forehead and she retired to the bidet. I saw with clarity that she had a taste and a talent for the sport, and so I decided to take some of the sting out of her before surrendering her to her heavy-pricked favorite.

  Wishing to soothe her well-tried cunt in the bidet's cool water, with the most gracious air and sweetest blush Madame Vitnègre begged us to leave her for a time. Saluting her respectfully, as befits a beneficent goddess, we bowed and left the room.

  "I humble myself before such a man," Montencon said to me. "I'd consider it a greater glory to be her father than Marie Antoinette's. She is just as superior to ordinary fuckeresses as Mademoiselle Contat and Mademoiselle Langue are superior to a working-class whore who frigs pricks behind the carts on the Quai du Louvre."

  Upon which words we bade one another farewell. "Ah," Montencon murmured as he walked away, "how that girl was fucked!"

  Chapter Eight

  You purists must surely have raised a squawl over the preceding chapter! Purists, eh? May they go to the devil.

  I expected a little chilliness, or a pout, or a serious air the next day, but no, my Conquette chatted with me as usually she did. A week passed during which I made no effort to stuff her. On Saturday, thoroughly recovered from the worrying Montencon had given it, her gem began to itch again. She remembered I had told her she could let Timon encunt her. She took the greatest pains with her toilette, donned a shawl, and went out that evening. But I was watching her and having Madame Brideconin – or, as I jokingly called her, Madame Conbridé – keep a sharp eye on her. I was warned in time. I followed her to protect her from mishap. She entered a house and mounted a flight of stairs. I listened at the door and was able to peek through the crack. Conquette cast herself into Timon's arms. But he was ill. Hence, the lovely thing got no more than a tonguing. Instead of caressing her in the way she would certainly have preferred, Timon fell to narrating the rest of the events concerning Vitnègre, Fout-à-mort and Connilette.

  "Rather than going straight to my office – for I was feeling badly – I went to pay Vitnègre a visit. I found him in poor sorts also, this as a result of the monk's terrifying threats – they had an interview yesterday. The monk had sent someone to fetch him. Vitnègre ran to the monastery and found the entire brotherhood in the infirmary, standing by Fout-à-mort's bedside and he had listened to the enraged monk's speech. 'You snivelling w
retch, you dog!" the discourse began. "If I had the strength I'd throttle you. But as it looks as though I were going to die of this – so at least they tell me – I'm going to inform the lieutenant of police of everything. They'll hang you. D'ye hear that? A bloody shame, eh? You sold your wife to me, you did, a lovely creature. Do you know what I am dying of? The pox. Well, your wife – young, healthy, still a maid – didn't have it. I know damned well what you did. A false compassion moved you to spare your wife for whom I paid good money and you substituted a whore in her place. A filthy, scurvy trick, that, a villainous stunt, do you hear? Were I to recover, I'll have your wife, never fear. And if I die, it's the rope for you.' Vitnègre swore by every devil in hell that 'twas you he had on the bed. The monk, who had just been given a rubbing with mercury and whose tongue was swollen, nodded in a sign of disbelief. Then the doctor drew Vitnègre aside: 'Have you business to conclude with that rascal? Judging by his tongue I calculate he has no more than two hours to live. He has so terrible a case of syphilis that I've been forced to give him three times the dose I'm used to giving. I know this fellow, though: a monster. The world will be better off when rid of him. Wait a while and he'll cease being able to speak.'

  "'We've got to prevent him from writing!'

  "'Never fear, his eyes have already started to go. He can barely see and his tongue's beginning to emerge from his mouth.' The doctor took the monk's pulse. 'He's suffering the tortures of the damned. Thirty minutes more and he's done for.'

  The next morning he learned from the doctor that the monk's inflamed tongue had choked him to death a quarter of an hour afterwards. They burned everything he wrote while on his sickbed.