“Yes, my Lord,” Duclos replied, “I have been advised to omit no detail and to enter into the most minute particulars whenever they serve to shed light upon the human personality, or upon the species of passion; have I neglected something in connection with this one?”
“You have,” said the Président; “I have not the faintest notion of your second monk’s prick, nor any idea of its discharge. In addition, did he frig your cunt, pray tell, and did he have you dandle his device? You see what I mean by neglected details.”
“Your pardon, my Lord,” said Duclos, “I shall repair these present mistakes and avoid them in the future. Father Louis possessed a very ordinary member, greater in its length than it was around and in general of a most common shape and turn; indeed, I do recall that he stiffened rather poorly and that it was not until the crisis arrived he took on a little firmness. No, he did not frig my cunt, he was content to enlarge it with his fingers as much as possible, so as to give free issue to the urine. He brought his prick very close two or three times, and his discharge was rapid, intense, and brief; nothing came from his mouth but the words: ‘Ah, fuck! piss, my child, piss the pretty fountain, piss, d’ye hear, piss away, don’t you see me come?’ And while saying that, he intermittently sprinkled kisses on my mouth. They were not excessively libertine.”
“That’s it, Duclos,” said Durcet, “the Président was right; I could not visualize a thing on the basis of your first telling, but now I have your man well in view.”
“One moment, Duclos,” said the Bishop, upon seeing that she was about to proceed. “I have on my own account a need rather more pressing than to piss, it’s had me in its grip for an age and I have the feeling it’s got to go.”
So saying he drew Narcisse to his alcove. Fire leapt from the prelate’s eyes, his prick stood up against his belly, foam flecked his lips, it was confined fuck that wished absolutely to escape and which could not be liberated save by violent means. He dragged his niece and the little boy into his closet. Everything came to a pause; a discharge was regarded as something far too portentous not to suspend everything the moment someone was about to produce one; all was to concur to make it delicious. But upon this occasion Nature’s will did not correspond with the Bishop’s wishes, and several minutes after having retired to the closet, he emerged from it, furious, in the same state of erection and, addressing himself to Durcet, presiding officer for November:
“Put that odd little fellow down for some punishment on Saturday,” he said, flinging the child ten feet away from him, “and make it severe, if you please.”
It was apparent that the boy had not been able to satisfy Monseigneur, and Julie whispered in her father’s ear what had happened.
“Well, by God, then take another,” cried the Duc, “choose something from one of our quatrains if nothing in yours suits you.”
“Ah, my satisfaction now would be far beyond the damned little that would have been sufficient a moment ago,” said the prelate. “You know to what we are led by a thwarted desire; I’d prefer to restrain myself, but no undue leniency with that poor little fool,” he continued, “that’s what I recommend. . . .”
“But be at ease, my dear Bishop,” said Durcet, “I promise you he’ll get a good scolding, ’tis a fine idea to provide the others with an example. I’m sorry to see you in such a state; try something else; have yourself fucked.”
“Monseigneur,” spoke up Martaine, “I feel myself greatly disposed to satisfy you, were Your Excellency to wish it. . . .”
“No, no, Christ, no!” the Bishop cried, “don’t you know that there are a thousand occasions when one does not want a woman’s asshole? I’ll wait, I’ll wait . . . let Duclos continue, I’ll get rid of it tonight, I’ll have to find the one I want. Proceed, Duclos.”
And the friends having laughed right heartily at the Bishop’s libertine frankness—“there are a thousand occasions when one does not want a woman’s asshole”—the storyteller resumed in these terms:
It was not long after I had attained the age of seven that one day, following my custom of bringing one of my little comrades to Louis, I found another monk with him in his cell. As that had never happened before, I was surprised and wanted to leave, but Louis having reassured us, my little friend and I went boldly in.
“Well there, Geoffrey,” Louis said to his companion, pushing me toward him, “did I not tell you that she was nice?”
“Why yes indeed, she is,” said Geoffrey, taking me upon his knees and giving me a kiss. “How old are you, my little one?”
“Seven, Father.”
“Just fifty years younger than I,” said the good father, kissing me anew.
And during this little dialogue, the sirup was being prepared and, as was customary, each of us swallowed three big glasses of it, but, as it was not customary for me to drink when I brought Louis a toy, because he only expected a sprinkling from the girl I brought, because I did not usually stay for the ceremony but used to leave at once, for all these reasons I was astonished by their actions, and in a tone of the most naive innocence I inquired:
“And why do you have me drink, good Father? do you want me to piss?”
“To be sure, we do, my child,” quoth Geoffrey, who still had me squeezed between his thighs and whose hands were already straying over my front, “yes, you’re to piss, and the adventure is to take place with me; it will be, perhaps, a little different from the other one you experienced here. Come into my cell, let’s leave Father Louis with your little friend, and let’s get to business ourselves; we’ll return when all our needs are satisfied.”
We left; before going, Louis told me in a whisper to be very obliging with his friend, and said I’d not regret it if I were. Geoffrey’s cell was not far from Louis’, and we reached it without being seen. No sooner inside than Geoffrey, having barricaded the door, told me to get rid of my skirts. I obeyed, he himself pulled my shift above my navel and, having seated me on the edge of his bed, he spread my thighs as wide as it were possible, at the same time thrusting me back in such a way my belly came into full view and my weight rested entirely upon the base of my spine. He besought me to keep in that position and to begin to piss immediately he gave one of my thighs a little slap with his hand. Then, scrutinizing me for a moment in this attitude, with one hand he separated the lips of my cunt, with the other he unbuttoned his breeches and with quick and energetic movements began to shake a dark, stunted little member which seemed not much inclined to respond to what was required of it. To give it some encouragement, our man set about doing his duty and proceeded to his chosen custom, the one which procured him the greatest possible titillation—down he went on his knees, I say, between my legs, spent another instant peering into the little orifice I presented to his eye, several times applied his mouth to it, between his teeth muttering certain luxurious phrases I cannot remember because at the time I did not understand them, and continued to agitate that sullen little member, which, though fearfully bullied, did not budge. Finally, he sealed his lips to those of my cunt, I received the signal, and instantly draining what my bladder contained into the gentleman’s mouth, I flooded him with a stream of urine he swallowed as fast as I launched it into his gullet. Whereupon his member unfurled, and its proudly lifted head throbbed against one of my thighs: I felt it bravely spray his debilitated manhood’s sterile issue. Everything had been so well managed he swallowed the final drops at the same moment his prick, confused by his victory, wept bloody tears over it. Trembling in every limb, Geoffrey got to his feet, and I observed that he no longer had for his idol, once the incense had been extinguished, the same religious fervor he had while delirium, inflaming his homage, still sustained its glory: he rather abruptly gave me twelve sous, opened the door without asking me, as had the others, to bring him girls (he was evidently furnished by someone else) and, pointing the way to his friend’s cell, told me to go there, said that he was in a hurry, that he had his offices to perform, that he could not conduct me himself, and t
hen shut his door without affording me the chance to answer him.
“Oh yes indeed!” said the Duc, “unnumbered are they who absolutely cannot bear the instant when the illusion is shattered. It seems as if one’s pride suffers when one lets a woman see one in such a state of feebleness, and disgust would appear to be the result of the discomfiture one experiences at such moments.”
“No,” said Curval, whom Adonis, kneeling, was frigging, and whose hands were wandering over Zelmire, “no, my friend, pride has nothing to do with it, but the object which is in the profoundest sense devoid of all value save the one our lust endows it with, that object, I say, shows itself for what in truth it is once our lubricity has subsided. The more violent has been the irritation, the more this object is stripped of its attraction when this irritation ceases to sustain it, just as we are more or less fatigued after greater or lesser exertion, and this aversion we thereupon sense is nothing but the sentiment of a glutted soul whereunto happiness is displeasing because happiness has just wearied it.”
“But from this aversion, all the same,” spoke up Durcet, “is often born a plan for revenge, whose fatal consequences have often been observed.”
“Yes, but that’s another matter,” Curval replied, “and as the aftermath of these recitals will perhaps afford us examples of what you’re saying, let’s not anticipate through dissertations what will be naturally produced of itself.”
“Président, be frank,” said Durcet: “on the verge of running amuck yourself, I believe that at the present moment you prefer to prepare yourself to feel how one enjoys than to discuss how one becomes disgusted.”
“Why, not at all, not a bit of it,” said Curval, “I am as cool as ice. . . . To be sure, yes,” he continued, kissing Adonis’ lips, “this child is charming . . . but he’s not to be fucked; I know of nothing worse than your damnable regulations . . . one must reduce oneself to things . . . to things . . . Go on, Duclos, go on, continue, for I have the feeling I might perpetrate something foolish, and I want my illusion to remain intact at least until I go to bed.”
The Président, perceiving his engine beginning to rebel, sent the two children back to their posts and, lying down beside Constance, who, pretty as she was, doubtless failed to stimulate him as much, he a second time besought Duclos to resume her story; she did at once, as follows:
I rejoined my little comrade. Louis had been serviced; not very well pleased, we both left the monastery, I almost resolved not to return again. Geoffrey’s tone had wounded my little pride, and without probing further to determine the origins of my displeasure, I liked neither its apparent cause nor its consequences. However, it had been written in my destiny that I was to have yet a few more adventures in that pious retreat, and the example of my sister, who had, so she told me, done business with fourteen of its inhabitants, was to convince me that I was still far from the end of my tour. Three months after this last episode, I became aware of overtures being made to me by another one of these reverend fathers, this one a man of about sixty. He invented every kind of ruse to lure me to his room; one of them succeeded, so well in fact that one fine Sunday morning I found myself there, without knowing why or how it had happened. The old rascal, known as Father Henri, shut and locked the door as soon as I had crossed the threshold, and embraced me with exceeding warmth.
“Ah, little imp!” cried he, transported with joy, “I’ve got you now, you’ll not escape me this time, ha!”
The weather was extremely cold at the time, my little nose was running as children’s usually do in the winter; I drew out a handkerchief.
“What’s this? What’s this? Be careful there,” warned Henri, “I’m the one who’ll attend to that operation, my sweet.”
And having stretched me out upon his bed with my head a little to one side, he sat down next to me and raised my head upon his lap. He peered avidly at me, his eyes seemed ready to devour the secretion oozing from my nose. “Oh, the pretty little snotface,” said he, beginning to pant, “how I’m going to suck her.” Therewith bending down over me, and taking my nose in his mouth, not only did he devour all the mucus between my nose and mouth, but he even lewdly darted the tip of his tongue into each of my nostrils, one after the other, and with such cleverness he provoked two or three sneezes which redoubled the flow he desired and was consuming so hungrily. But ask me for no details bearing upon this fellow, Messieurs, nothing appeared, and whether because he did nothing, or because he did it all in his drawers, there was nothing to be seen, and amidst the multitude of his kisses and lecherous lickings there was nothing outstanding which might have denoted an ecstasy, and consequently it is my opinion that he did not discharge. All my clothes were in place, even his hands stayed still, and I give you my word that this old libertine’s fantasy might be performed upon the world’s most respectable and least initiated girl without her being able to suppose there was anything lewd in it at all.
But the same could not be said of the one that chance presented to my consideration the same day I turned nine years old. Father Etienne, that was the libertine’s name, had several times asked my sister to bring me to him, and she had got me to promise to go alone, for she was unwilling to accompany me, fearing lest my mother, who already scented something in the wind, might find out; well, I was planning to pay him a visit when, one day, I ran directly into him in a corner of the church, near the sacristy. His manner was so gracious, he argued so persuasively that he had no need to drag me away by main force. Father Etienne was about forty, a healthy, robust, strapping fellow. We were no sooner closeted together than he asked whether I knew how to frig a prick.
“Alas!” said I, blushing to the ears, “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Well then I’ll explain, my chit,” said he, bestowing heartfelt kisses upon my mouth and eyes, “my unique pleasure in this world is to educate little girls, and the lessons I give are so excellent they prove unforgettable. Begin by removing your skirts, for if I am to teach you how you must proceed in order to give me pleasure, ’tis only fair that at the same time I teach you what to do in order to receive it, and that lesson cannot be a success if anything hinders us. Here we go. We shall begin with you. What you behold down here,” said he, placing his hand on my mound, “is called a cunt, and this is what you must do in order to awaken very felicitous sensations in it. With one finger—one will do—lightly rub this little protuberance you feel here. It, by the way, is called the clitoris.”
I followed instructions.
“There, you see, that way, my little one, while one hand is busy there, let one finger of your other hand gradually work its way into this delicious crack. . . .”
He adjusted my hands.
“That’s the way, yes . . . Well! Don’t you feel anything?” he asked, keeping me to my task.
“No, Father, I truly don’t,” I answered most naively.
“Ah, that’s because you are still too young, but two years from now you’ll see the pleasure it gives.”
“Wait,” I interrupted, “I think something’s happening.”
And with all imaginable vigor I rubbed the places he had pointed out. . . . Yes, sure enough, a few faint titillations convinced me that what I’d begun was worth continuing, and the extensive use I have made ever since of this relief-providing exercise has more than once persuaded me of my master’s competence.
“And now ’tis my turn,” said Etienne, “for your pleasures arouse my desires, and I simply must share them, my angel. Here we are; take this,” he said, inviting me to grip a tool so monstrous my two little hands were scarce able to close around it, “take this, my child, ’tis called a prick, and this movement here,” he went on, guiding my wrist in rapid jerks, “this action is called frigging. Thus, by means of this action you frig my prick. Go to it, my child, put all your strength into it. The more rapid and persistent your movements, the more you will hasten a moment which, believe me, I cherish. But bear one essential thing in mind,” he added, all the while d
irecting my flying hands, “be careful at all times to keep the tip uncovered. Never allow this skin, we call it the prepuce, to cover it over; were this prepuce to happen to cover this part, which we call the glans, all my pleasure would vanish. That’s it; we’re shortly going to see something, my little one,” my teacher continued, “watch me do on you what you did on me.”
And pressing himself against my chest as he spoke and as I kept in motion, he placed his hands so adroitly, he wriggled his fingers with such high art that pleasure rose at last to grip me, and it is without a shadow of a doubt to him I owe my initiation. And then, my head reeling, I abandoned my task, and the reverend, not yet ready to complete it, consented to forget his pleasure for a moment in order to devote himself exclusively to cultivating mine; and when he had caused me to taste it all, he had me resume the work my ecstasy had obliged me to interrupt, and very expressly enjoined me to keep my mind strictly on what I was about and to care for naught but him. I did so with all my soul. It was only just: I surely owed him my thanks. I went so merrily to work, and I observed all his instructions so faithfully that the monster, vanquished by such rapid vibrations, finally spewed forth all its rage and covered me with its venom. Thereupon Etienne seemed to go out of his mind, borne aloft in the most voluptuous delirium; ardently he kissed my mouth, he fondled and frigged my cunt, and the wildness in his speech still more emphatically declared his disorder. Gross expressions, mingling with others of the most endearing sort, characterized this transport, which lasted quite a while, and whence at last the gallant Etienne, so unlike his piss-swallowing colleague, emerged to tell me that I was charming, that he greatly hoped I would come back to see him, and that he would treat me every time as he was going to now: pressing a silver coin into my hand, he conducted me back to the place he had brought me from and left me wonderstruck, thrilled and enchanted with this latest good fortune. Feeling much better about the monastery, I decided to return to it often in the future, persuaded that the more I advanced in age, the more agreeable adventures I would meet with there. But destiny called me elsewhere; more important events awaited me in a new world, and upon returning to my house I learned news which was soon to sober the elation produced in me by the happy outcome of my latest experience.