Anonymous: Tableaux Vivants

The next day, at two o'clock in the afternoon, I yielded.

I arrived at the Castel de Meissiat, rang, and asked for Madame. The servant who introduced me met me with a smile. I threw her on a table while crossing the kitchen, I pulled up her clothes, I tickled her. This was to whet my appetite.

I had carefully instructed Valentine to be in the corridor which led to her mother's room. I joined her there, embraced her; in short, threw myself on my knees in front of her. My head slipped under her petticoats; I kissed her stomach, her thighs. This was to give me courage.

As to what took place afterwards in the boudoir of Madame de Meissiat, O black mystery! The old woman was waiting for me, lying along an easy chair. Still warmed by the charms of her daughter, I had no wish to let my ardour freeze again in the presence of her mother. I seized this fifty-year-old bitch without saying a word. Only, to avoid kissing her, I pierced her in the greyhound fashion. “What a man!” said she. “He is a thunderbolt!”

An immense backside, fat and flabby, stuck itself up before my eyes. I believed myself to be rubbing against rancid lard; I seemed to penetrate into a sea of sticky water, and I pushed long, long, for nothing rubbed against me, nothing clasped me; I swam in the wide sea. My amorous trot gave vent to frightful yells. O the lubricous old she-devil! I left her half-dead with her stinking pleasures.

I passed into Valentine's chamber. The dear girl purified me herself, in her own wash-hand basin, from the maternal work.

I quickly stripped off all her clothes. Not only in our nocturnal meetings at the barred window had I never penetrated the charms of this pretty child, I had never even seen them. The temple appeared to me, and the god at the bottom of the sanctuary. This little, unknown god had a pretty face. And what a breath! I inhaled it deeply.

Valentine was not a virgin. Her cousin had taken her maidenhead without her having experienced anything but pain. “It is because he was too old!” she said. I placed her on the edge of the bed, I, who was young. The introduction was painful; she bore it bravely.

“Do you feel anything?”

“No.”

“What! The movements which I make in your stomach, the blows which I give you, cause you no pleasure?”

“No-not yet-but go on!”

I went on, truly, I went on! I waited for the first contraction of the whole body, the rapid jolt of her croup, a sigh, or even only a respiration shorter and more hasty, the divine preludes at last announcing that the loved woman is not insensible to the caresses of her lover. Nothing!

This body which I held pressed under mine seemed to me nevertheless made for love. Valentine was a brunette, graceful and slender. Little titties, but delicate, and full backside. A coynte burning, tight. The mouth lascivious, the eyes brilliant.

All these were but delusive appearances. My mouth wandered from her mouth to her breast, my fingers from her clitoris to her anus, and I polished and thrust! Nothing!

My strength, however, failed me, and my virility left me in a jet of flame. I seized Valentine, and, holding her lying on my knee, I commenced to clitorise her furiously. Her clitoris was so small and so fugitive that I could scarcely hold it between my fingers. I chafed it with all my force. She complained, she cried out; but she enjoyed at last with a nervous crisis.

Deceiving and icy girl, I quitted her, never to see her more. I went away humiliated, in despair at not having been able to triumph over this rebellious nature. Never, never will I again play my part of having to kiss the mother.

She was simple in everything, simple as a child. She said at every turn, “I am simplicity itself.”

This simple person was in truth doubly a wanton. I will only designate her by her Christian name, Pauline. Perhaps you will guess the name of her husband. He is a man very high in office.

I loved her. One morning I received an anonymous letter, which warned me that my chaste mistress was making love to Baptiste, her footman. I believed it, for I knew her capable of sleeping with every man on earth and seeking for lovers on the moon itself. This was why I received her a little coldly when she called on me the next day. I should willingly have closed the door against her, but she entered-simply.

She was enveloped in a long fur mantle, which she threw over an easy chair; she did the same with her hat, and came to sit at my side on an easy chair, with an innocent and at the same time deliberate air-quite simply.

“Good morning, dear,” she said to me. “I wished to come and spend a day, a whole delightful day with you. Simple as I am, I could not resist it.”

“Your simplicity is then already satiated with the ingenuity of your valet Baptiste?” I asked her, looking her straight in the eyes.

“Baptiste?” said she. “I have no longer a valet of that name-and if I had, what do you mean?”

Her hands at the same time commenced wandering. And I! O the cowardice of a man who feels the sting of pleasure-mine followed her example.

“Parbleu!” I said to my faithless one, “your dress is very heavy.”

“I will take it off,” she replied-simply.

Simple in all things, she always wore plain chemises of linen like a boarding-school girl. It gave her outwardly a most piquant feel of chilliness; she had not taken time to warm herself before the fire, she was all gooseflesh. This reddened flesh made me feel pity for her. She perceived it well enough, the hussy, and came to seat herself with her naked backside on my knees, her face turned towards the hearth. And all so simply!

Ah! but this wife of a high functionary understood well enough how to take off a gentleman's trousers quickly! Holding in her hand the object of her envy, Pauline-simply-passed it under her, and wished to plant it in her.

The sword did not enter the sheath so easily. What an astonishing sheath! It opened itself the first time that one penetrated it, but resisted the second. The pleasure swelled it, and placed a bourrelet at the entrance. It was necessary then to thrust, to force one's way in. The swelling even further increased. You would have said that it was a tumefied wound whose sides contracted themselves at the surgeon's touch. It was a sensation at once cruel and delicious. The noble strumpet writhed, cried out, frothed. Ah! it was a fine work!

She was both tall and plump; she completely covered and enveloped her man. When I had penetrated into her womb after great efforts and some complaints, she began to show off her talents. Rolling and pitching, movements in front and behind, what manoeuvres! Suddenly she drew away from me. My lady feared above all things having a child. Allowing herself to slip down to my knees, she quickly swallowed what had just encoynted her. My semen spirted forth between her lips. Wiping them with her hair, which had become loosened, “May not one do anything to her lover, although one is simple?” she said to me.

I very willingly gave her the bill of indemnity which she demanded for what she had done. But now that my desires were assuaged, my anger returned, and I began afresh to think about M. Baptiste. Pauline, however, remaining squatted on my knees, played with my sword, stiff enough a short time ago, but now nothing but a flexible reed.

“Richard, what is the name of this?” she said to me.

I did not reply.

“Its name! Tell me its true name!” she repeated, kissing it.

“It is a prickle,” I answered her harshly; “don't you know that?”

“A prickle, a prickle,” she repeated. “And that?”

At the same time she raised herself and placed my hand between her thighs, already quivering at the idea of a fresh conflict.