Pierre Louys - The She-Devils

She cane to me, her head raised, her hips weaving, and took me by the sleeve. “Want to have some fun, dearie?”

“No.”

“Come on. I haven't had it yet this evening and I just washed my pussy not fifteen minutes ago. Come on under the bridge. I'll lift up my skirt and you can screw me. Come on.”

“Me screw you?”

“I'm all right. I'm clean. I just went for a checkup today. And even if you don't want that we can do something else. I'm a good kid. Listen…”

“Fuck off, lady.”

“No, listen! I've had to take a piss for two hours. You want me to piss in your hands? You can wipe it on me afterwards.”

“You disgust me. Don't touch my sleeve with those hands.”

“Let me tell you at least… I'm a real pig! All you got to do is ask and I'll do whatever you want. Come on and I'll suck your dick. You can come in my mouth.”

“I don't need a whore for that! I can get a girl to do the same thing.”

“Do you think they can do the breathing fish like me? You know what that is? Listen and I'll tell you…”

“No! Hit the road! First of all I've only got ten sous and it'll take me four to catch a streetcar home,” I added, rather ashamed of these imbecilities.

“All right. Give me six sous, that's all. You'll be more generous the next time. Give me the six sous and I'll do the breathing fish for you. That's when I suck you and I blow the come out through my nose.”

Charlotte was making me nauseous. I still had a vague smile plastered across my face, but to hasten the end of the scene I said violently, “Will you get out of here or do I have to cornhole you!”

This is a formula that is often very efficacious for getting rid of streetwalkers; however, occasionally, it backfires and makes it even harder to shake them off.

Charlotte, who was playing her part up to the hilt, replied in a low, indifferent voice, as if I had asked her to do her breathing fish through either the right or left nostril, “Go ahead and cornhole me. I don't care. You don't think that I'll do it for six sous? I have to live. And then you can screw me if you want. Stick it in good and far. Don't be afraid of getting your clothes dirty. I'll wipe them off with the inside of my skirt.”

“Charlotte, you're filthy!” I whispered into one of her ears.

“This is a role I can really feel,” she replied sadly.

Despite the disagreeable sentiments with which the scene filled me, and which I hardly need to explain here, it was finally terminated by an accident which the young ladies who read this may not understand but at which the young men will be less surprised.

One thing that every young girl should learn before her first date is that there is no relation between love and the erection. On the contrary, to fail a woman is often to prove that you love her to the point where your senses are blinded. However, to unexpectedly find oneself with an erection before a woman that one does not in the least love is to treat her like a whore, gallantly but categorically.

And that's what happened to me in Charlotte's mouth. “In her mouth?” you say. “Some miracle. An octogenarian could have done as much.”

Even so, neither I nor anyone else expected it. First of all, I was supposed to remain cold, and nothing had seemed to me easier to do, for Charlotte's comedy had not in the least excited me. Then too I had just left Mauricette's arms. However, therein lies the explanation. That had been a half an hour before. Using her mouth had not been too wise.

My accident threw everyone into a turmoil. Understandably, it flattered Charlotte, but Teresa laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks. I blushed for I didn't find anything funny in it. Neither did Mauricette, although I motioned to her not to be worried.

Fortunately, Charlotte's sketch was constructed so loosely that even this unexpected development changed neither the intrigue nor the characters. It even added more force to the final scene.

Charlotte, still in her role as streetwalker, intoned dully, “I told you that I was a real bitch, that you'd get a hard-on in my mouth. And a very pretty one it is, too dearie. Listen! My brother has been fooling around with a kid and she's listening now… Listen! I don't want your sous. Cornhole me good and deep, let me finger myself, and if you make me come you don't have to give me anything. There! Look, there's my ass! Put it in there! Quick!”

She stood up, leaned forward, raised her black skirt up over her buttocks in an attitude which she assumed naturally and which represented the extreme of servility in prostitution. And then she asked in a sad voice, “Where is it?”

“I don't know,” I said distractedly. “You'll have to find another.”

“Oh! I make you hard, I suck you like I should, I tell you to cornhole me, that it won't cost you anything, and you don't lose your erection, but you fail me all the same. Do I disgust you? Doesn't it please you to cornhole a whore? What do I have to do now to get my six sous? Do you want to piss on my face while I close my eyes and open my mouth?”

“Listen, Charlotte. You're exaggerating!” I said, trying to stop her.

Then, stepping out of her role and speaking for me alone with an expression that I'll never forget, she murmured:

“No.”

Mauricette leaped up and ran to me, overjoyed that I had cut short the scene even at the expense of the drama inherent in it. She neither wished that Charlotte should be the cause of the state I was in, nor that I should fall into an indifferent lassitude for lack of solicitude.

And immediately she thought of another scene, then came out with one of those sentences that seemed to be so natural to Teresa's daughters and which always left me completely stupefied.

“Lili,” she cried. “Stick your tongue into my ass and see if there's any mustard left!”

And while Lili was lifting the panel in her clown costume, she said, “It's terrible how my asshole gets me! But no! Mama did it on purpose to get me hot and I like it. You'll have to cornhole me a dozen times tonight before you deflower me! Well, Lili?”

“Well,” began Lili, “it smells of come, garlic, cocoa, whores, marshmallow, pricks, pussy juice, Spanish fly, dildoe rubber, suppositories, the bottom of a bidet, lipstick, towels, vaseline, starch, musk, bordello shit-houses, and bitcheries I don't even dare mention.”

“That you don't dare mention!” repeated Ricette. “Oh, thanks! Come here and let me give you a slap in the head.”

“Instead of that, how about giving me what I just gave you?” said Lili, approaching without the least fear.

“Look!” said Ricette to me. “Look at her! See if she doesn't know I won't hit her! Clever for her age, isn't she? And the only whore in the family, I tell you! She just gave me one of her famous digs in the ass, and I can still feel it.”

“Sure I did,” said Lili, “but if I were really a whore it would have been worth six sous, as Charlotte said.”

“One, two, three, four, five, six! And paid!” said Ricette, giving her six kisses. “And…”

She struck a wonderful pose: a skinflint of a miser, suddenly trying to be generous. “And, in honor of the occasion, a special prize, entirely free of charge. What I am holding in my hand is mine for the night, but mama had it once in the cunt and Charlotte once in the mouth, while Lili sighed and said she was going to rub her mound to see if she could make the hairs grow.”

“And they're not growing!”

“Therefore, we have the special privilege to present, with the permission of the gentleman here, a little three-part scene in which our special guest, the schoolgirl, will have my lover for a period of time not to exceed one minute and on the condition that she return him intact at the end of that period.”