Anonymous - Pleasures and follies

" Decunt, bugger," said I to her plumber. " Your mule' s prick is giving the little hole mouthfuls it can' t possibly swallow." He did withdraw his shaft, I popped a gobbet of fresh Normandy butter into her crock.

" Ah," said the complacent child, " that ought to loosen the hinges." Montencon reencunted wrathfully. He entered with veritable majesty and struck bottom. Conquette jerked her ass.

" There ' tis," cried the lecher. " I feel your darling little nipper. Let' s clap another horn on that fuck- in- the- ass Vitnegre. Pinch your ass and fling it about, my precious bitch."

This coarse language hurled me into an erotic furor. Unpityingly I tickled my daughter' s bare feet, the while saying, " Fuck, my love, fuck like a goddess. Show him you know how to fuck and you, bugger, flood her cunt. Have you ever sunk your line in a cunt to equal my celestial, my divine whore' s?" Conquette thrashed on the bed as if she were bent on breaking her back and her encunter' s too (as did Mademoiselle Timon under that great personage Mirabeau), but Montencon resisted with steadfast muscle and bone. However, Conquette' s ensuing discharge was so violent that the explosion nearly blasted the stopper from her hole. But, as subsiding she fell back, his prick, rasped by the velvety cunt, discharged with ravishing effects.

He shivered four lances without quitting the lists and at the last, after I' d tickled his balls, he ejaculated quite as abundantly as he had at the first. But he was weary. " Now, by God, that Vitnegre' s properly cornute," he said, parting with his seed, " for his fuckeress wife' s shot off three times as often as I." Conquette smiled.

" How many?" I enquired. " Oh, ten times, twenty, I' ve no idea," she explained with becoming modesty, " for it' s not polite to keep count after the first score." I kissed her forehead and she retired to the bidet. I saw with clarity that she had a taste and a talent for the sport, and so I decided to take some of the sting out of her before surrendering her to her heavy- pricked favorite.

Wishing to soothe her well- tried cunt in the bidet' s cool water, with the most gracious air and sweetest blush Madame Vitnegre begged us to leave her for a time. Saluting her respectfully, as befits a beneficent goddess, we bowed and left the room.

" I humble myself before such a man," Montencon said to me. " I' d consider it a greater glory to be her father than Marie Antoinette' s. She is just as superior to ordinary fuckeresses as Mademoiselle Contat and Mademoiselle Langue are superior to a working- class whore who frigs pricks behind the carts on the Quai du Louvre."

Upon which words we bade one another farewell. " Ah," Montencon murmured as he walked away, " how that girl was fucked!"

You purists must surely have raised a squawl over the preceding chapter! Purists, eh? May they go to the devil.

I expected a little chilliness, or a pout, or a serious air the next day, but no, my Conquette chatted with me as usually she did. A week passed during which I made no effort to stuff her. On Saturday, thoroughly recovered from the worrying Montencon had given it, her gem began to itch again. She remembered I had told her she could let Timon encunt her. She took the greatest pains with her toilette, donned a shawl, and went out that evening. But I was watching her and having Madame Brideconin – or, as I jokingly called her, Madame Conbride – keep a sharp eye on her. I was warned in time. I followed her to protect her from mishap. She entered a house and mounted a flight of stairs. I listened at the door and was able to peek through the crack. Conquette cast herself into Timon' s arms. But he was ill. Hence, the lovely thing got no more than a tonguing. Instead of caressing her in the way she would certainly have preferred, Timon fell to narrating the rest of the events concerning Vitnegre, Fout- a- mort and Connilette.

" Rather than going straight to my office – for I was feeling badly – I went to pay Vitnegre a visit. I found him in poor sorts also, this as a result of the monk' s terrifying threats – they had an interview yesterday. The monk had sent someone to fetch him. Vitnegre ran to the monastery and found the entire brotherhood in the infirmary, standing by Fout- a- mort' s bedside and he had listened to the enraged monk' s speech. ' You snivelling wretch, you dog!" the discourse began. " If I had the strength I' d throttle you. But as it looks as though I were going to die of this – so at least they tell me – I' m going to inform the lieutenant of police of everything. They' ll hang you. D' ye hear that? A bloody shame, eh? You sold your wife to me, you did, a lovely creature. Do you know what I am dying of? The pox. Well, your wife – young, healthy, still a maid – didn' t have it. I know damned well what you did. A false compassion moved you to spare your wife for whom I paid good money and you substituted a whore in her place. A filthy, scurvy trick, that, a villainous stunt, do you hear? Were I to recover, I' ll have your wife, never fear. And if I die, it' s the rope for you.' Vitnegre swore by every devil in hell that ' twas you he had on the bed. The monk, who had just been given a rubbing with mercury and whose tongue was swollen, nodded in a sign of disbelief. Then the doctor drew Vitnegre aside: ' Have you business to conclude with that rascal? Judging by his tongue I calculate he has no more than two hours to live. He has so terrible a case of syphilis that I' ve been forced to give him three times the dose I' m used to giving. I know this fellow, though: a monster. The world will be better off when rid of him. Wait a while and he' ll cease being able to speak.'

"' We' ve got to prevent him from writing!'

"' Never fear, his eyes have already started to go. He can barely see and his tongue' s beginning to emerge from his mouth.' The doctor took the monk' s pulse. ' He' s suffering the tortures of the damned. Thirty minutes more and he' s done for.'

The next morning he learned from the doctor that the monk' s inflamed tongue had choked him to death a quarter of an hour afterwards. They burned everything he wrote while on his sickbed.

" Calmer now, Vitnegre has just told me the whole story. The hour is late. I can' t take you home. You' d best go, my darling friend."

Such was the tale Timon recounted to my daughter, which I overheard and which later she repeated in entirety to me. She returned home, her mind occupied by gloomy thoughts. I followed twenty paces behind her, glancing left and right to guard her from any misencounter. My prick rose like a pikestaff at the sight of her moving haunches.

She entered the pension and lingered in the kitchen. I went directly down to the storeroom and hid myself. Down she came, carrying a lamp in one hand and a kettle of warm water in the other. She washed her fur, sighing all the while, and saying to herself, " Even though the villain' s dead, I' m still afraid." I tapped on the bed. Conquette raised her eyes and saw me.

I recounted everything she had been doing. That caused her a fright, but it was a salutary one and cured her of the desire to go to see Timon by herself. I told her I had met Vitnegre on the Quai des Ormes, adding, " You went there for a fuck. You' ll be fucked, too. I' m going to spend the night with you." She sought to beg off, protesting that Timon' s story had banished all desire from her; I refused to listen to such nonsense and got into bed. She soon lay down at my side.

" The appetite is restored by eating," says the proverb, and we shall see how well it applies to Conquette.

Once we were in bed together and my daughter within range, I frolicked with her breasts, sucked her teats, and encunted her. For I know not what reason – whether because put out or stubborn – my divine child lay there unstirring, inert like a slaughtered calf. I also ceased to move and remained with my sword in the scabbard. Later, having slid over upon my side, I fell asleep, my weapon still sheathed. Conquette, who had passively submitted to everything, probably went to sleep also for, when I awoke, I found I was still lodged in her trick. I began to move a little. She hugged me, squeezed her cunt, shifted her flanks, and said, " Push harder, dearest lover!" She began to jolt me with all the strength of her loins, belly and thighs. She discharged. So did I. " Who' s thy chosen fucker, oh, goddess?"