Pierre Louys: The She-Devils

“Who in turn perverted you fifteen minutes later?”

“Yes. In her room, under her skirt. With pants that had buttons everywhere. And a pretty little pussy she had, the bitch! The hairs, the skin, the snatch, the lips, everything was wonderful. I liked to do it with her much more than with my friend. Can you top a mistress for viciousness?”

“Terrible. And you haven't told me all…”

“No. I forgot something. Do you know, she didn't even know how to use her tongue? I had to show her.”

Here, Mauricette was overcome with such hilarious laughter that she fell over backwards almost to the foot of the bed, and so gracefully did she do it that I began to be in a hurry to end the interval. I was regrettably more interested in her present than her past.

Finally, it was my turn to leave the room and go to the toilet. I must have stayed there longer than was prudent, for when I re-entered the room, Mauricette, already dressed, was putting on her slippers.

“You're leaving?” I said, slightly annoyed.

“Not entirely. There's a little lock of me that's staying. And besides, I'm not going far; just there, behind the door. I suppose you don't remember promising to let me go at four o'clock?”

“In the morning!”

“In the evening, unfortunately!” she said in my arms.

Instead of fleeing, she had come to be kissed with a confidence that restored mine. Finally, however, she disengaged herself with a start and I could no longer keep her in my room, nor even join her on the landing. She had found her own door partly open, slipped in, and disappeared.

A half hour later, her mother came in, and at first glance I could see that my little farce was already getting complicated: mother was much more beautiful than daughter. Now what was her name again? Oh yes, Teresa.

In any case, she had a-wrap thrown around her lithe and supple figure that scarcely covered it. I offered her a chair but she refused, sat down on the edge of my bed, and said point-blank, “Was it you that cornholed my daughter this afternoon?”

This is the sort of question I always find rather distasteful; I never have liked interviews of this kind. I made some sort of vague depreciating gesture intended to signify absolutely nothing, but she said, “No, no. Don't protest. She told me all about it. I would have scratched your eyes out if you'd broken her cherry, but you only went as far as I let her go… What are you blushing for?”

“Because you're beautiful.'“

“What do you know about that?”

“Enough.”

I too was getting to the point as quickly us possible. The premature departure of Mauricette had left me even more ardent than had her arrival, and, besides, with women I would rather, much rather, spend my time in demonstration than conversation.

I didn't give Teresa time to say whatever it was she had prepared, feeling that to change the direction of a touchy scene is the only way to improve it. And I'd managed to turn my corner without even slowing down. Even though she was still in a stronger position than I, she had lost her breath for a moment and she closed her thighs with a smile. She knew where we were heading before I made a move, but I could see that my sudden change of tack had not hurt my chances any. In fact, our little exchange of gestures placed us on a new level of familiarity.

“So what do you want me to show you? What I have between my legs?”

“Your heart!” I replied.

“And you think it's down there?”

“Yes.”

“Try to find it.”

She gave a low laugh. She knew that the research would not be easy. My hand wandered blindly in an impenetrable forest of hair, and I lost my way several times. The wool grew everywhere, from the top of her thighs to the base of her stomach. I began to get even hotter when Teresa, too adroit to make me look maladroit, lifted her wrap and her slip, either to console me or to distract me or perhaps to give me a second prize as encouragement.

A magnificent body, long and full, lean and brown, fell into my arms, and two ripe, full, but scarcely maternal and never pendulous breasts pressed against my chest. Two burning thighs clasped me and when I tried to…

“No. Not that. You can screw me later.”

“Why later?”

“So we can finish up there.”

She was revenging herself. It was her turn to change the direction we were taking, but she did it so skillfully that in refusing what I wanted she seemed to be according me an even greater favor.

In my silence she sensed that it was her body now that was master of the situation, and in a new tone that simultaneously questioned and offered me nothing at all, she said, “Do you want my mouth or my ass?”

“I want all of you.”

“You're not going to get my come. I don't have a drop left. They've given me too much to do since this morning.”

“Who?”

“My daughters.”

She noticed me pale. I saw Mauricette again, completely nude and saying, “I'll give you mother.” I no longer knew exactly what I felt An hour before, I had thought that Mauricette was to be the heroine of my adventure, but now her mother inflamed my senses ten times more. And she knew it even better than I. She lay on my desire, sure of her power over me and, caressing my distracted flesh with her hair and stomach, had the audacity to say, “Would you like Mauricette again? I know she's got a crush on you. She fingers herself thinking about you, and I know that you like her. Do you want me to go get her? I'll hold her behind open for you.”

“No.”

“But then you don't even know Lili, her little sister. She's even more depraved! Ricette is a virgin and she doesn't even like to suck. She's only got one talent. Lili knows how to do everything: she likes everything; and she's only ten years old. Would you like to screw her? Corn-hole her? Come in her mouth? In front of me?”

“No.”

“Don't you like little girls? Then you should take Charlotte, my oldest daughter. She's the best looking of the three. Her hair is so long it falls all the way down to her heels. And she's got breasts and buttocks like a statue. She's got the most beautiful cunt in the family. I get hot for her myself when she takes off her clothes, and I'm no kid anymore; I'm a woman who likes a good prick. Charlotte… Imagine a beautiful young girl, dark, warm, soft, without the slightest prudishness of vice, a perfect mistress accepting everything, playing any way you want, and who loves her trade. The more you ask of her the happier she is. How about her? All I have to do is call through the partition here.”

That woman was the devil in female form, and I would have given anything to have been able to take her at her word and cry out, “Yes!'“ in her face. But as I was gathering my shattered will for the effort, opening my mouth and drawing breath, Teresa said with an expression of sincere interest, “Did I give you a hard-on?”

This time the fury came. With a “You're making fun of me!” followed by a few other choice expressions of rapidly increasing strength, I began to beat her. She laughed at the top of her voice while trying to ward me off with arms and legs. Helpless with laughter she could only defend herself blindly, and I covered her with blows and squeezes that didn't seem to have the least effect; then that laugh exasperated me so that, not knowing what to do next to get at her, I grabbed a handful of hair from the most sensitive place I could find and pulled… She cried out.

Thinking I'd really done her some serious harm, I fell into her arms covered in confusion. I waited for a thousand reproaches to rain on my head, but she would never have dreamed of saying anything that might have cooled my ardor. Even through her squeals of pain she never stopped laughing except to berate herself.