Madame Couer-Brulant - The Cousins,volume II

Two women were sitting in the huge living room of one of those enormous mansions, a half-palace, with which the environs of Paris are so richly endowed. Occasionally they exchanged a few words. They were occupied with needlepoint, that seemingly endless task which was about as exciting and never ending as the many love stories which are spun out in the newspapers of Paris.

One was a beautiful brunette about twenty-five years old, with a marvelous, soft complexion, dark sparkling eyes and full, red lips which betrayed the sensual nature of their charming owner.

The other one, a blonde, seemed to be around twenty years old. Her face was like that of an angel, framed by golden hair. Her slender body, her hazel eyes, and the innocent smile completed the picture of perfect innocence. It was the sort of innocence that drives men wild and makes them contemplate deeds of which their bodies are not always capable.

That was one of the reasons why the innocent looking blonde, despite her tender years, wore the black dress of widowhood.

George Vaudrez had died attempting to give his beloved son and heir a little playmate. Though he had not succeeded, he had died happily.

That night-now almost a year ago- George's hand had searched for his young wife's body. She had responded perfectly opened her thighs wide, and George had crawled right on top of her, deciding to dispense with the usual preliminaries. His whole frame was flushed with a pink heat. His prick had felt bloated, aching and growing to an ecstatic bursting point. His thighs and back ached with a downward pressure, and Florentine's bobbing crotch drove him into an even wilder frenzy. The drumming in George's ears — and he had been suffering from this condition lately-became almost unbearable. He tried desperately to force the explosion out his prick before there was one in his head or his chest.

His breathing had become a pitiful consumptive whine but his wife, in a state of continual spasms, showed no mercy for his tortured, pathetic state. George opened his watery eyes. In his aching head he suddenly felt the power of great emotion. His wife was so young, so passionate and so beautiful. He wanted to get her with child. Just one more.

“Oh, dear God,” he thought, “one more baby that bears my name.”

He wanted to hold her tight, but he no longer had the strength. He closed his eyes again and mechanically continued to push up and down. His prick seemed to be swelling larger and larger, more so than it had ever done in the past year. It seemed that it might never come out again. He writhed his loins against her, and sweat dripped from every pore of his body. The desire to come was intolerable and yet he couldn't quite seem to manage it. It would happen, he knew, but his head felt as if it was splitting and his chest was constricted. He fervently prayed that it would hurry.

Feebly he tensed his buttocks, felt a twinge of cramp and relaxed them again. He pressed his abdomen against hers, opened his eyes again and fixed her with a pleading gaze. Florentine understood. Without losing connection, she rolled over and George was now on his back, with Florentine riding him! She sensed from his writhing and his agonized gasps and groans that he was about to come. This unexpected situation, plus her new sense of mastery of the situation, made her unleash her body and she began to pummel him for all she was worth. She let herself be carried away by her own momentous passion.

She could feel her loins swarming as if a thousand snakes were writhing inside. She had not felt this way since that night, a long time ago, when she was stranded with Gordon, the young Duke of Herisey in the little village of Bretoncelles.

Florentine released a stream of gasping cries which broke through the blackness in George's head and revived him in a last flush of passion so that he thrust his loins up at her, mumbled painfully through dry lips, groaned agonizingly and clenched his fingers into her thighs with a last strength.

Dazed he opened his eyes again. His loins seemed to be covered with a sticky wetness amidst Florentine's moanings. His prick felt grazed, beaten, full of something that had to escape. He saw her head mistily, head thrown back, hair flowing about her shoulders. Her face was contorted, her lips curled, showing her pearly white teeth. His fingers dug hard into her fleshy thighs, then groped for the curly fleece which was keeping his member a prisoner of agonizing pleasure. The climax was near… it was on him… there! He gasped deliriously, and felt his organ explode as if in a hundred pieces. George fought for breath, fought for consciousness but felt himself losing both. He tried to appeal to her, but she was riding him in total frenzy, riding him till she had reached her own explosive climax. George slowly slipped off into a painful darkness.

Florentine had echoed her husband's feelings with precision. The moment he dropped off in relaxation, her own climax spasmed through her body. Her flood of sensation rose up in her crotch with a dragging, delightful agony. Just at that moment his prick had seemed to be at its biggest in her, so that she felt it would smash right through her and up into her belly.

For some seconds afterwards, still excited and hardly knowing that she had come, she had swayed about on his prostrate body and then she had flopped down on top of him. It took her almost five minutes to collect her wits.

The first thing she realized was that George Vaudrez was not just lying still through exhaustion. She tried to kiss him, but his lips were turning cold. She lifted an eyelid and death stared at her. With a terrifying scream the young wife leaped off the bed. A servant was dispatched to call the doctor. He could do nothing but declare that his good friend had died happily.

Her sister, the brunette, Donna Julia de Corriero, also wore mourning. She, too, had becomes a widow at a very young age, though in not as stormy a manner as her unfortunate, younger sister. Her honor and reputation had been saved by an old friend, the General Don Jose who in his dotage had offered his hand, heart and fortune to Julia. The girl had gratefully accepted because Count Gaston Saski, whose mistress she had been, had jilted her upon the orders of his aunt who held the purse strings in the family. Don Jose had treated her like a beloved daughter, and not once had his thoughts strayed to the possibilities of carnal pleasures with the luscious and vivacious Julia. The fact that the General was well in his nineties might have had something to do with his courtly behavior.

When he left this vale of tears, it was not because of any undue exertion. Don Jose de Corriero died peacefully one sunny morning in his sleep, leaving his enormous estate and title to his dearly beloved Donna Julia.

Pine-scented air wafted through the open window and the two young women breathed deeply. Ages ago the Vaudrez family had built their castle at the edge of the Montmorency forest, incorporating it and the few farms and villages that went with it into their feudal estate.

“Isn't springtime marvelous?” asked Florentine, the youngest of the two sisters, now mistress of all the Vaudrez possessions.

“Yes,” answered Donna Julia with a barely stifled yawn. She was visiting her sister because family, friends, acquaintances and above all society, expected her to do so. After all, it takes a lady time to recuperate from the sudden loss of one's husband.

“You don't sound very convincing to me,” said Florentine.

“Listen dear, I don't exactly know what is wrong with me, but I haven't had anything but headaches lately. I feel miserably depressed and, what worries me most, I cannot find a single earthly reason for the way I feel.”