Pierre Louys - The She-Devils

“Who? My darling? The little fourteen-year-old girl who came all nude into my bed? But I'd be a monster!”

“You already did it without knowing. The day before yesterday I only moistened my ass with a little saliva when you cornholed me. It was good. It was as if you skinned my behind and the more I suffered the more I beat off.”

“What? You're as vicious as all that?”

“No. But I like you to hurt me a little when I'm fingering myself,” she repeated, her eyes narrowing, her fine white teeth beginning to sink into her lower lip.

“And that's what you really want?”

“Take the ends of my breasts between your teeth and bite! And I'll give you my cherry from in front so that you can hurt me some more with your prick, so that you can rip it, so that I'll bleed. Now that I have drunk your come, I'm yours. Hold me tight, I'm going to come. Hold me with all your might. Crush me. Break me…”

Decidedly, I thought to myself, Lili the only sane one in this melange. The other three are batty.

However, I was beginning to understand why Charlotte had said, “That kid will end up by disgusting all three of us.” Charlotte, though she was twenty years old, was still almost a child. Mauricette at fourteen was a woman. While the eldest sister had a slow mind and little spirit, the second girl was precocious both mentally and physically, had flesh that was prompt to respond, and a real, instinct for vice.

It was too early to tell what Lili would become at puberty, but that year, that day, it was Mauricette that reminded me most of her mother.

However, at that point I wanted to make Ricette talk, and I spoke a phrase to her that I'm as ashamed of as if it had been a crime. There are no prettier Latin verses than those in which Tibulus smiled at the white lies of love. But I can't smile at the one I told. This is a confession. I am being perfectly frank, telling everything; but I would have taken much more pleasure in inventing a story where I could give myself (so easily!) a sympathetic role.

Recall Mauricette's age, her precocity, her ardor… Imagine above this base the unlimited sentiment which she must have had for the sacrifice she wanted to make! And how much… But why say any more? I've already written enough to hang myself in the eyes of my readers. I loved Mauricette, but I didn't love her like you love a lover. So to make her speak, and with no other reason, I said to her, my lips against hers:

“I adore you.”

“I adore you too,” she whispered, without knowing that it was almost the same reply that Melisande had given. And as I had foreseen, she spoke; but immediately, without any transition. She spoke with the same brusque crescendos as Teresa.

“Yea don't believe me? Okay! You'll see! You'll lash my behind with a whip yet and then cornhole me in my flowing blood!”

“I'll do that to you!”

“Yes, you'll do it if you love me. I've just done something {or you that I had never done for anyone before. I swallowed your come… You never whipped a kid? So much the better! You have a horror of that sort of thing? Better yet! Then I can teach you something, too!”

I never for a second dreamed of consenting, but instead of replying to this effect, I questioned her some more.

“How come you have the taste for that sort of thing at your age?”

“Because I'm mama's daughter.”

“What do you mean? That your blood is the same? Or that…”

“Or that she trained me? Co ahead and say it! It's her own word. Yes, she trained me like a trick dog. And I like it. I'd like to be able to do as much as she.”

“How did she train you to…?”

“Oh, it wasn't hard or long! Since she has the same taste herself she saw right away that I too… It was just like in the circus. I had my exercises every day before… Oh, but you know how they train dogs; they do their tricks before they can eat; for me it was before coming. And little by little mama saw how far I could go…”

I raised my eyebrows. She hesitated and then, in that voluptuous voice that very young girls can sometimes assume when they wish, said, “You want me to say it? It excites me almost as much to think it when I'm next to you as to have you do it to me.”

“And I'd a hundred times rather listen to you than to beat you.”

“Beat me? If it was only that! I can see you still don't know mama!”

And in concise, definite sentences, she drew up the following summary of her family.

“I can't make Lili understand that mama isn't I a whore. But you've seen her, haven't you? Charlotte is a good girl. Lili is a whore — she's the only one of us that is. Mama is a whoremonger. When she gives a performance in front of a customer it's she that gets really excited, that comes… And I'm like her! I'm a whoremonger too, and when I received your come in my mouth…”

“Is that right? And I suppose you'll give me a present as a token of your satisfaction?”

“Yes, and a brand-new one: my cherry.”

By the quickness and agility of her reply she quickly hoisted herself once more to the height from which my stupid wisecrack had attempted to hurl her. And, quickly, she re-undertook her narrative in the same light-hearted tone.

“You know how she handled it, mama, when she saw that I… that I liked that sort of thing. She simply said to me that we would see how far I could go in taking punishment without it keeping me from coming.”

“Nothing simpler!” I repeated. “And was it she who did the beating?”

“Naturally,” said the girl innocently. “And she made me do a lot more than the others ever did.”

“I don't follow you.”

“Didn't Charlotte tell you that there's no one who can finger or suck a girl like mama. So when it was her, she could really make me a martyr and I'd still come.”

“Make you a martyr?”

“And how! Even Charlotte was crying and had to leave the room. She couldn't stand to see it. But I never cried. I clamped my teeth together so I wouldn't cry out or… Ah! You don't know what you're going to hear! Look at my knockers. You see anything?”

“I hope so.”

“No, I mean any marks.”

“No.”

“That's because the needles were sterilized.”

“What needles?”

“When she used to finger me like she could, stopping every time just when I was on the verge of coming, she could stick thirty-two needles into my breasts! Thirty-two! Before I said I couldn't take any more!”

“Your mother!”

“That's nothing. There aren't any marks on it either, are there? You think she doesn't know how to do things like this? Well, there where it's even more tender she tore out my pubic hairs in groups of four hairs each. That hurt me more even than the needles! But the thing that Charlotte couldn't stand was when mama would stop beating me off to chew me.”

“Chew your cunt?”

“Yes. The lips. Oh! That really hurt! The last few times, she chewed until she drew blood and then…”

Ricette threw her arms around my neck as if to excuse herself to me for all this, and after a short silence, said:

“Oh, well! You know mama! I told you: she's not a whore, she's a whoremonger. While she was sucking my blood I thought she'd go crazy. She had to have Charlotte come save her… then she beat herself off while she was grinding her teeth on my lips, and I was more afraid than hurt. I thought that when she came she would rip me away in pieces! Oh! But… I've said enough. You don't understand these things anyway.”

“Not enough, if you want me to understand. The way I get it, your mother taught you the art of coming while you were suffering, and now you have to suffer before you can come. Is that right?”

“That's it. Good. I'll tell you some more then. Do you know how I finger myself at the dinner table?”