Guillame Apollinaire: Memoirs of a young Rakehell

Below the colossal buttocks, between the thighs, lay the fat juicy cunt, in which my probing finger burrowed.

I placed my chest against the woman's bare buttocks and with my arms tried to encircle her elusive belly, which hung down like some stately globe.

I caressed her cheeks, then rubbed my member against them. But my curiosity was not yet satisfied. I spread her cheeks and inspected her arse-hole. Like her navel, it was elevated and though brown, was very clean.

I started to insert my finger, but she gave such a start that I was afraid I had hurt her, so I didn't press the point. I placed my burning prick in her cunt; it was like a knife cutting into a mound of butter. Then I bestirred myself like a cock on a hot griddle, bouncing my belly against her elastic behind.

I was like one possessed. I was no longer conscious of what I was doing, but I reached the voluptuous climax, and for the first time in my life shot my sperm into a woman's cunt.

After the discharge I wanted to stay for a while in that agreeable position, but the bailiff's wife turned round and chastely arranged her clothes. While she was rebuttoning her sleeveless jacket, I heard the sound of something dripping: it was my sperm running from her cunt onto the floor. She smeared it underfoot, and dried her thighs on her skirt.

When she saw me standing in front of her, with my red, moist prick partly erect, she smiled, took out her handkerchief and meticulously dried it.

"Get dressed, now, Master Roger," she said. "I've got to leave. But for the love of God," she added, blushing, "don't let anyone hear about what happened just now or I'll never forgive you."

We embraced, exchanged kisses, and she departed, leaving me lost in such a flood of new sensations that I almost forgot that confession had doubtless already begun.

Wearing slippers, I threaded my way as quietly as possible along the narrow corridor until I reached the wooden partition. I soon found the most likely spot from which to eavesdrop. The Capuchin had arranged things so that the person confessing was alone in the oratory, while those waiting their turn remained in the chapel.

It was therefore unnecessary for anyone to speak in a whisper, and the conversation was quite distinct. I surmised by the voice that a peasant was presently in the confessional.

The confession must have been already well along, for the Capuchin was saying:

The Confessor. — So you say that you always play with your member in the toilet? Why do you? How long do you play with it, and how often?

The Peasant. — Generally twice a week, but sometimes every day, until I come. I can't help it. I just plain enjoy it too much.

The Confessor. - And haven't you ever done it with women?

The Peasant. — Once, with an old woman.

The Confessor. - Tell me about it, and don't keep anything back.

The Peasant. — Once I was up in the hayloft with old Rosalie. I began to get a hard on, and I said: "Rosalie, is it a long time since you've had a man?" And she said: "Oh, you scoundrel you! Heavens to Betsy, can I have rightly heard my ears? At least 40 years. And I can't say that I'm hankering to have one now. I'm already 60 years old." So I said to her: "Come off it, Rosalie, I'd sure love to see a woman stark naked once in my life. Come on and get undressed." She said: "I'd be afraid, the devil might appear." Then I said: "The last time you did it he didn't appear." And then I pulled the ladder up, so that no one could take us by surprise. I took out my member and showed it to her. She looked at it and said: "Lordy Lou! It's even bigger than my buggered Jean's was." So I said to her, "And now Rosalie, you've got to show me your box." She didn't want to show it to me, but I pulled her skirts up over her head and took a good look.

The Confessor. — Come now, what happened next?

The Peasant. - At the bottom of her belly she had a large slit, purple as a late autumn plum, and above it a bush of gray hair.

The Confessor. — That's not what I asked you. I asked what you did.

The Peasant. — I shoved my sausage into her slit, right up to the balls, which I couldn't get in. As soon as I had it in, Rosalie began to shake her belly back and forth, and hollered to me: "Take me under the buttocks, Pig. Put your hands there and do like I'm doing." So we started shaking together, both of us, so that I began to get hot, and Rosalie, saving your presence, got so worked up that she discharged five or six times. And I discharged myself once, saving your presence. Then Rosalie began shouting, "Squeeze me tighter, Pig, it's coming, it's coming!" and damned if I didn't come again myself. But they fired her, poor Rosalie, because one of the stable girls had overheard us and went tattling over hill and dale. And that's why I never wanted to go running after the young skirts.

The Confessor. - Well, if that's not a nice kettle of mortal sins! What else do you have on your conscience?

The Peasant. — I never forgot Rosalie. One day in the cow barn while the servant girls were out eating, I noticed that one of the cows is in heat. "She's got a cunt just like Rosalie's," I say to myself. I take out my prick and shove it into her. But the cow didn't stay put like Rosalie had. But I lifted her tail up and was able to keep it in. And I managed to screw her all right, and enjoyed it more than with Rosalie. But, saving your presence, she shit all over me; my balls and trousers were covered with the stuff. That's why I never tried to screw her again.

The Confessor. - Yes, but what makes you stoop to such acts?

The Peasant. - Our shepherd does the same thing with his goats, and our hired girl Lucie one day lay down with a big gander between her thighs, because it's so very good for the belly, as she said to one of the neighbors. And the neighbor also gave it a try.

The rest of the confession was without interest. I left my hiding place and dashed into the chapel to see what the penitent looked like.

I was astonished to discover that it was the dull-looking clod who had so stupidly yielded to the peasant girl's frolics beside the pond.

He was the last of the men to confess. My mother rose to take her place in the oratory. My aunt and the saucy Kate were kneeling beside her. All the chateau's maids were behind them in one of the back pews.

I was surprised to notice that my sister Berthe was absent.

The bailiff's wife had been excused because of her advanced state of pregnancy.

My mother's confession was quite innocent, but interesting nonetheless: "I've got something else to ask you, Father," she said, after enumerating the list of her daily sins. "For some time now my husband has been making certain demands of me.

"On the night of our marriage he made me strip completely, and on several occasions since he has made me do the same thing. But now he persists in seeing me naked, and he even showed me an ancient book, written by a priest, in which it says, among other things: 'Married couples shall perform the carnal act completely naked, so that the man's seed may mix more intimately with the woman's.' But the older I grow, the more qualms I have on the subject."

The Confessor. — This book was written in the Middle Ages, when it was still not customary to wear nightshirts. Only persons of high station wore them. Common folk slept shirtless in the conjugal bed, and there are still some places in the country where that custom persists today. Our peasants, for instance, almost all sleep thus, especially because of bedbugs. The Church refuses to look upon this practice with an approving eye, but it does not, however, expressly forbid it.