Pierre Louys: The She-Devils

“Lili stuck a cookie into, my crotch and I had to finger myself on it before she would eat it.”

“Because you're a good girl, I suppose?”

“Oh, I do everything I'm asked to. Then after dinner they were talking about you, and since I haven't slept with a young man for eight days, I began to think of certain things… and because of that… because I felt like…”

Without finishing her sentence, she slid a finger between her legs and, giving me her lips, began slowly and peacefully to masturbate.

“Oh no you don't!” I cried. “Not in my bed! When I'm lucky enough to have as beautiful a girl as you in my bed, you don't think that I don't want to play with her myself, do you?”

“And don't you understand that you will be doing the playing if you have your prick in my behind and your mouth on my mouth while I finger myself?”

“I'll be damned,” I said loudly, “I can't corn-hole all four of you!”

There was so much ill-humor in my voice that poor Charlotte began to cry.

“There go my chances,” she said through the tears. “Everyone always says that I'm so nice, but it's always me nevertheless that gets trapped into these things. You've been charming for my mother and sisters, but when I come to stay all night I have a scene on my hands right from the start.”

She cried simply, without a single sob, and only seemed all the more pitiful to me for it. I took her in my arms and stammered, “Charlotte, don't cry any more. I beg you!”

“And naturally now you're losing your hard-on,” she said with an absolute desolation that made me smile despite myself.

“Charlotte, my love!”

“I'm not your love, because you're losing your hard-on. You got erections for mama, for Ricette, for Lili, but for me… that!”

The tears flooded on, and I was despaired. I was wondering how and if I should ever stop that unreasonable tide of sadness when Charlotte did it herself and, with the logic and clarity that is the property of simple souls, said in her slow, musical voice:

“I told you that you could do whatever you wished. You can play in my pussy if you want, in my ass, in my mouth, between my breasts, under my arms, in my hair, on my face, in my nose if that will amuse you. I can't do any better than that, can I? Could I be any kinder to you?”

“Charlotte, my Charlotte…”

“But my dear, you asked me what my greatest pleasure would be and I told you that it would be to finger myself while you cornhole me. All four of us are like that; it's in our blood and I can't help myself. And we're not the only ones, God knows. When I was a kid, the things I saw… School girls and shop girls who have told me in strictest confidence, 'I like being cornholed too.'“

“But…”

“But do what you want to me if it's your pleasure you're after. Only if it's mine, cornhole me and let me beat myself off in my own way. Understand?”

Our mouths met again passionately, and the first effect of our reconciliation was to put me once more in a state worthy of her. I gave in to her wishes, but she never said a word to me en route. Then after reminding me that she didn't like to have her cunt eaten, she turned to sixty-nine me for a few minutes first.

Charlotte had one of the prettiest cunts I have ever seen, possibly because it was so seldom used… But no, because her other hole, the one that was so much more exercised, was absolutely faultless also, like Teresa's.

Soft and calm as she was, Charlotte had a really moist cunt. She was one of those girls who could say, “I flow for you.” like others gay, “I'm on fire.” Her pubic hair was long and well planted, not so long as her mother's, but more lustrous. And, like Teresa's, it crossed and tangled at the top of her thighs and filled her ass.

After everything that she had just told me, I didn't want to leave Charlotte in any doubt as to my intentions. I opened her buttocks with my hands and touched the spot she offered me with my finger. I remember doing that once to a girl who immediately began crying, “Oh! Your cock! Your cock! Your cock!” Charlotte, however, emitted a considerable flow but scarcely shuddered and didn't cry at all. She was much more accustomed to giving caresses than to receiving them, and by a mistake that was easily explained considering her profession., took my touch for a signal and, since she had only been licking my testicles, immediately gave me her tongue lower yet.

But there was nothing nasty about Charlotte.

Most men are so ignorant of the psychology of the adolescent female that they would find it impossible to understand how a girl could admit her taste for fingering herself while being corn-holed without, at the same time, having the least sense of the vice of it. You women will understand what I am trying to say much better, and that's a good deal of consolation, for this book will obviously be more read by free women than by husbands.

Charlotte, therefore, had absolutely no sense of vice whatsoever, happily for both herself and me. But she was certainly sensitive. And without either cries or sighs or little flutterings of her ass, her fountains flowed so abundantly that Lili (there was one with a real sense of vice) had been able to dip three cookies into the foaming stream. It overflowed her vulva and passed through the forest of hairs… I got out of the way just in time. I was a little consoled by what I saw for not having been able to take her through this flooded passage.

When we were again side by side, face to face, a new incident stopped us momentarily. Charlotte would neither propose nor suggest a position. She had neither taste, nor caprice, inventiveness, nor the imagination for the task. To decide or imagine was tiring for her.

“As long as you cornhole me and I finger myself, I don't care,” she said.

“Then put your head over the edge of the bed onto the floor and leave your ass up here,” I replied.

“If you wish,” she said simply. When she suddenly saw that I wasn't really serious, she took my face between her hands and said with a smile, but without bitterness, “You like to make fun of me, don't you? All right. Do it all night if you want, and any time we sleep together. That's the simplest of all games. I believe anything anyone tells me, and nothing makes me mad.”

“You're completely disarming,” I told her. “I'm the one who's disarmed,” she said, “because I know that I'm nothing more than an animal.”

What an unfortunate, tragic word! I will never forget the tone of Charlotte's voice when she said that word to me. And women are crazy to think that they can seduce us through the art of beautifying themselves. Charlotte, in all of her simplicity, missed taking my heart completely only by the margin of that avowal she made.

She lay nude before me, her head on the pillow, her hands crossed on her stomach where the hair began, and it seemed to me that I was really seeing her for the first time. I saw that her beauty, like her character, was absolutely true and unpretentious. She wore neither rouge nor paint, nothing on her eyelids nor on her eyebrows, and I found her so simple, so beautiful, and so good that I took her by the elbows and hips and said, “Yes, you're nothing but a poor animal, Charlotte, if you don't believe what I am now going to tell you. Listen, Charlotte, to every word. You're lovely from head to foot. There isn't an expression on your face, a hair on your stomach, a nail on your toes that isn't pretty. And you're as good as you are beautiful. I know you now and it's up to me to say this: do what you will on my bed. There is only one thing I forbid you to do and that is to injure the woman I love and against whom I am now pressing my rod. If you ever again treat her like a whore or an idiot…”

“No,” she said gayly. “I'm going to make a little love to her. I'm going to finger her because I know that she wants it now. And I'll open her buttocks for you myself so that you can cornhole her.”