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Whipped women

Procured by a whipping

Erotic story (1903)


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All the versions of this article:

Jean de Villiot, Whipped women, (The confessor; Procured by a whipping; Victims of love; Daughters to marry; The colonel and his cook), Privately issued for bibliophiles and collectors only; impr. de Vve Folguy (Alençon), Paris, 1903.


PROCURED BY A WHIPPING

A few years ago, I was summoned to Le Perreux, in the environs of Paris, by a rich retired tradesman, who had asked me to paint his portrait. I belong to the school of the great artist, La Tour, who delighted in long and patient studious work, and I did not conceal from my client that two or three sittings would not be enough for me to terminate a good, finished sketch, as he had thought at first.

“Take your own time,” said he, “I am entirely at your disposal.”

We arranged the price and about the sittings. He was to stand before my easel every morning at nine o’clock, but as he was in a hurry to have his picture, and fearing that if I went backwards and forwards to Paris, I might miss a day, or be late, he begged me earnestly to remain down at Le Perreux until his portrait should be finished. He even offered to put me up in a charming little pavilion at the bottom of his garden. This building had an exit leading into a small alley, and I could thus live from each afternoon until the next morning in my own house, so to speak, and quite at liberty.

I accepted his offer, although it seemed to me a little hard to pass several weeks at Le Perreux. But my mistress was away from Paris; my afternoons were free, and this portrait, which was to be generously paid, was an interesting piece of work. My host had a most uncommon face, energetic and ferocious, the physiognomy of an audacious brigand, and I was all agog to fix its strange character on my canvas.

After the first sitting, and the exquisite little luncheon that followed, I returned to my building feeling slightly tired, for the commencement of my work is always something of a painful strain for me.

I inspected the first floor, which was destined for me, with its vast rooms, charmingly upholstered and fitted with pretty furniture, pleased to find a comfortable sofa; when through my open windows, floated a little girl’s voice which drew my attention at once.

The casement gave on to a tiny garden belonging to a little house; climbing plants and the capricious foliage of wild vines formed a sweet and light screen, serving as a shutter, through which I could see all that was going on at my neighbour’s, without it being possible to suspect that I was playing the spy.

There is something alluring for me about children, especially little girls, because their features are as yet undecided as to contours and character. Everything is left to the imagination of the beholder; and the brightness of their skin and childish, artless grace is all very engaging. We love them for their precocious promise of future beauty, and adore these wee women for the charms and adventures they seem to foreshadow. What fools are severe preachers, and anserous herds, who will not allow that a man should feel ideal, sensual rapture at the sight of a child, considering any caress savouring of sensuality bestowed on a growing lassie, or youth, as a rape and outrage! I venerate what is as yet undeveloped, the secret flower scarce showing on its stem. It would be absurd to try and pluck it before it had arrived at maturity but surely I may feast my eyes on the unopened bud? I know no more delicious and enticing pastime than to frolic with these pretty dolls. There are caresses, and punishments, in harmony with their years, which bring smiles and tears to fresh young faces, making them contract or brighten, half revealing to me the little woman hidden in the sprightly maid in her teens. Certain drawings of great masters impress me in the same manner. When we study them, we may divine the masterpiece, executed later, but which maybe pleases us more in the simple lines of the rough sketch often still vague, and startling one through the very lack of artifice, like nature herself.

Certainly there was nothing angelic about the little girl I listened to. She was between ten and eleven, plump, with a round, babyish, rosy face; fair hair falling like a young filly’s untrimmed mane on her shoulders, coquettishly tied with a knot of purple ribbon at the neck, but her face was lit up by brilliant, malicious, voluptuous eyes, which were really those of a woman.

Near her a servant girl was sewing. As she was just underneath my window, I got a glimpse of her large, shapely backside, covered by a black skirt, and of which I could see all the curves, by the tension of her body bending over her work. Her short locks of woolly, whitey-brown hair, allowing her fat and short neck to appear between the little curls of the nape and the white, high collar, next attracted my attention, together with her broad shoulders, the elegant little cap, as immaculate as the starched band under her chin, and a corner of her apron hemmed round with cheap imitation lace.

The little girl twisted herself about, writhing, stretching out her arms, shuffling in the gravel, as if not knowing where to put herself and what to do, as she even scratched her bottom, while the nurse never missed a stitch, chattering away-for dear life all the time.

“You may say what you like, Jennie,” she said, “your mother is a nasty thing. How she can treat people as she does, I can’t make out! Ah! if your papa wasn’t here, I should have given notice long ago.”

“My poor Rosalie, you needn’t tell me you’re chummy with pa, that’s easily seen. But I can’t abear him.”

“Because he gives you many a fine thrashing. But you don’t deserve them. Oh no, not at all, neither!”

Jennie seemed rather worried at being reminded in such an inopportune manner of certain moments of her young life which she doubtless had not had time to forget, judging from the reiterated rubbings with which she kept on gratifying the hinder part of her anatomy.

“Ma licks me just the same,” she rejoined, “but I don’t care. I don’t bear her any malice.”

“Your ma just pulls up your clothes in fun; but as for papa, if he corrects you, it’s in earnest—to punish you.”

“No, it’s ’cos he’s wicked. I’m sick of his snout. His face disgusts me.”

“Indeed? Well, I’ll just tell this evening what you said about him.”

“No, no, good little Rosalie, don’t, I beg you!” supplicated Jennie, joining her hands as if in prayer.

The maid did not answer, so Jennie stamped her feet in a rage.

“I’ll tell tales too. I’ll tell ma that he kissed you, yesterday, on the neck; and pinched your bum, at lunch, and—”

Rosalie, furious, stuck her needle in the bosom of her dress, and dragging little Jennnie towards her by the arm, she shook her roughly several times and threatened her with uplifted hand.

“Just repeat what you said. Go on, say it again! You don’t dare to. That’s lucky for you! Well now, just listen to what I’m going to say. If you go sneaking to your ma and say the least little thing about me, I’ll pull down your drawers and with the martinet—you know the one your pa bought—I’Il give you a whipping on your bare backside that’ll stop you sitting down for a month. Who ever heard of such a nasty little tell-tale?”

“But you’re the sneak! You tell pa all I do!”

“Begging your pardon, miss, I try to screen you as much as I can. Besides, your papa ought to know if you’ve behaved yourself or not.”

“Why he behaves badly to ma! The other day, our lady visitors all said so. I heard them myself!”

“Your ladies, indeed! They’re all bitches, and so is your ma! Only think that the night your father went up to Paris, missus comes to my room in her chemise, and wakes me up. ‘Rosalie,’ says she, ‘I’m so frightened, all alone in my bed. Come and sleep with me.’ ‘Yes, madame,’ says I, rubbing my eyes. It amused me as much as going to be hung. So I changes my linen, follows her, and gets between the sheets with her. First of all, she starts jawing like the deuce. Clatter, clatter; cackle, cackle! I shuts my eyes, just answering ‘yes’ and ‘no’ or nothing at all. But she keeps on chattering. I loses patience. ‘For goodness sake, madame,’ says I, ‘let me go to sleep, if you wants your work done to-morrow!’ She says not another word, and blows out the candle. I turns my backside to her, thinking she’d finished her gossip. But no, the real fun hadn’t yet begun! She starts caressing me, and although I shakes her off quite rude, and puffed and blowed to show her she was teazing me, she still kept on with her larks. She pinched my bum, stuck her finger in my dirty bottom-hole, so that I almost felt inclined, saving your reverence, to let go the painter, just to give her a lesson in decent behaviour and teach her manners. At last-only fancy!—she slips her hand between my legs. That was quite enough for me! I gives her a first-class kick in the shins. ‘What’s the matter with you, Rosalie?’ says she, in surprise. ‘Madame, I’m a honest girl. I ain’t a-going to let myself be touched like that!’ ‘I touch you? You’re mad or dreaming.’ ‘I ain’t dreaming, and I know what I say. Let me be, or I’m off back to my bed, and 1 swear to you that to-morrow I’ll kick up a shindy before master and everybody.’ So finally she let me alone, and I was able to go to sleep. But you may say what you like, missus is a real dirty beast!”

“What harm was there in all that?” said little Jennie, with widely-opened, astonished eyes. “Ma only wanted to tickle you, just for fun. Why did you not let her, if that would amuse her? You are a stupid. When I play with Hortense, I tickle her; she jumps, and holloas, and wriggles about, laughing fit to die. It’s so funny! Poor ma, she’s awfully bored when she’s in bed with pa. I often hear her say to him in the morning : ‘Go on, get up, you can’t do anything!’”

“My word!” replied Rosalie, “he did something when he made you! It’s true you’re no great shakes.”

“Rosalie,” said 1ittle Jennie, suddenly growing thoughtful, “explain me what this means. Papa, when he’s in a temper, shouts out to ma that he ain’t my father.”

“Ah! he says that, does he? Well, perhaps he’s right. He ought to know.”

Their amiable chat had reached thus far, when the sound of a woman’s voice issued from the villa, calling for Rosalie. The servant dropped her work, and the child bent her steps towards the middle of the garden, where some gymnastic apparatus was fitted up. She hung on to the trapeze, drew herself up, stood on the bar, and swung there for a few minutes.

She moved her body most gracefully, trying to go quicker and quicker. She would first bend her legs, crouching down in the midst of her waving skirts, and then standing erect, she flew backwards and forwards, her frock clinging to her posteriors. All of a sudden, she sat down, slipped from the trapeze, and hung by the feet, head downwards. Her hair swept the gravel path, her petticoats flew over her head, and the two plump, dimpled cheeks of her bottom, of a pinky red from her exercise and exertions, were fully exposed to my sight through the wide slit of her knickers. In this position, she resembled some strange flower; her petticoats looking like the petals, and the miniature hemispheres, the calyx. I was quite engrossed with her graceful posture, when a rather tall, thin man, with a tired face, rheumy eyes, and a red beard, rushed at her. The gymnastic little lady heard his footstep on the pebbles of the path and jumped rapidly away from the trapeze. But she had no time to stand upright. The man was quickly behind her, and kept her on her knees, her petticoats still thrown over her head.

“I’ll teach you to show your behind when you’re doing gymnastics,” he shouted.

“But it’s not my fault, pa! The buttons of my knickers are busted.”

“You ought to have sewn them on again. That’s easy enough, but I warrant you won’t be able to take off the red pair of drawers I’m going to cut out for you!”

“Oh! Oh! Don’t, pa, please! Do forgive me! Oh! Oh!”

The man pulled a leather-thonged martinet out of his overcoat pocket, and gave severe cuts with it on the cheeks of the tiny lass’s bottom.

Jennie, on her knees, held in bondage by her petticoats, trapped in her fallen drawers, tried to escape from this rigorous flagellation. She turned about on all-fours, but in vain, all round her tormentor, so that at every step she made beneath my window, I saw either her bum growing redder and more bruised, or her weeping face.

When at last, little drops of blood started on her smarting skin, the child was able to get away, and ran with her clothes still up through the garden. Her cruel corrector, satisfied with his work, did not dream of pursuing her, but was content to look at the girlish body he had just flayed, as he nodded his head menacingly at her, and threw the martinet after her retreating figure. It fell at the child’s feet. Jennie turned her face to the garden wall and hiding her features in her hands, whined and sobbed without paying attention to her dress which was still round her head, or her drawers dragging at her heels.

After having strolled round his garden for a few minutes, the father went quickly indoors. When Jennie heard him going up the stone steps leading into the house, she turned and put her tongue out at him.

“I’ll have my revenge, see if I don’t!” she muttered between her teeth.

Then, finding under her heel the instrument of torture—the wretched martinet that had just torn her bottom to pieces—the girl looked cautiously all around, and seeing no one, quickly threw the leather ‘cat’ over the wall into my host’s garden, and with her petticoats still disordered she scampered to the kitchen of her dwelling.

“Rosalie! Rosalie! Come and put me on some cold cream! Make haste!”

“Ah! Pa has given you a whipping, eh? Serves you right. D’ye think it’s decent to show your bum to everybody?”

“Rosalie! Make haste and put some cream on my bottom!”

“Do you suppose I’m servant to your backsîde? If it smarts you a little, so much the better. It’Il make a nicer girl of you.”

“Oh, good little Rosy, do please!”

“Go to the devil!” shouted the servant.

Then, as if regretting her coarse, but lively rejoinder, she added in kinder tones: “Well, where’s your cold cream pot? And I say, you know, look out so that your pa don’t see you!”

The little girl and her nurse went towards a small round building, covered with ivy, which was no doubt the private retreat of the villa, but Rosalie had scarcely opened the door halfway when she was called.

“Where are you going, Rosalie?” shouted from the top of the steps the individual I had just seen playing the part of the flogging father. “Isn’t Jennie big enough to he able to do her jobs alone? What have you got in your hand? Ah! I guess—you’re going to rub some grease or the other over her backside. I forbid that, you hear? If I’ve whipped her, it’s not that she may be at her ease. Let her feel the pain as long as possible.”

Rosalie and Jennie went back into the house, with downcast looks, the little girl murmuring under her breath, and throwing a wicked glance at her father. Then all became silent in the neighbouring garden once more.

This little scene had amused me, on account of the sensual gracefulness of the child, and it afforded me satisfaction to draw from memory in my sketch-book, certain attitudes that had struck my fancy. I was making a rapid picture of pretty Jennie on the trapeze, when I heard a knock at the door leading into the side-alley. At first I paid no heed to the rapping, but as the noise did not cease, I went to the window, and looked out to see who was disturbing me. I perceived a young woman, most elegantly dressed, and whose face was lifted towards my open casement. Our eyes met. She smiled, and I returned an answering laugh. She seemed to me to be extremely pretty, and I had not the slightest hesitation in opening the door to her, hoping that if she were not applying in mistake, as I was bound to suppose, I should nevertheless be able to frame some excuse to inveigle her into the pavilion.

I was not disappointed when I found myself face to face with her. Her figure was slight and well-proportioned, with large hips. She possessed the dark eyes of a loving woman greedy of caresses, and everything in her face and body seemed to breath promising hopes of pleasure and lust.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said, “if I come and trouble you, but I should like to have a martinet which has fallen into your garden. Look,” she added, glancing through the glass door, “I fancy I can see it. There, to the right, near the wall.”

“Take a seat, madame, I pray you,” I said, conducting her into a sitting-room. “I will go and fetch it.”

She wanted to remain standing in the entrance, but I led her gently to a sofa, and ran to pick up the martinet which I had seen fall near a cluster of young cedars.

“No doubt,” said I, inwardly, “this is the mother or the stepmother of little Jennie. I wonder if she is as cruel as her husband?”

These questions I put to myself as I lifted the teazing instrument I had been asked for off the ground. The strips of tough leather, each terminating in a knot, seemed more fitted to tan the hide of some mutinous sailor boy, than to punish the venial errors of a delicate and graceful child. There were brown stains here and there on the thongs.

1 came back to the young woman, who rose on my entrance, and held out her hand to take the martinet.

“I am not going to give it you, madame,” said I, with merry irony, “unless you promise me never again to use it for barbarous chastisement. You are too charming, and seem too good ever to flourish a whip over pretty backsides, especially if such should belong to any near relatives.”

She blushed and tried to laugh.

“But, sir, martinets are not always destined to correct naughty children. You know very well that clothes, curtains, and carpets are beaten with them. They are very handy.”

“I know a few things,” I replied, “that you may not know, and which you may doubtless be happy to learn. Shall I tell them?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, rather astonished.

I begged her to come upstairs, where we should be much more comfortable, and to help her to make up her mind, I went on:

“I shan’t give it up to you, if you refuse to listen to me.”

But she was already going up the stairs. We went into my room, and I showed her the sketches. She recognised the source of my inspiration.

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “He has been whipping her again!” She continued, as she sat down: “You must look upon me as a monster. Believe me, that when I asked you for the martinet, it was out of pity for my poor child. Hear me out, for I should be shocked if you took me to be a wicked woman. My daughter is a giddy hoyden, and the country air gets into her head and makes her very difficult to keep within bounds. You smile because I call Le Perreux the country, but for us who have lived in Paris so many years without leaving it for a day, we fancy ourselves in some free region. We might be in the wilds of America, in the Far West, and we fancy every minute that we are going to be attacked by savages. My little Jennie has become an untamable wild girl in this suburban retreat. As for me, sir, I must tell you that I was born among poor people in the quarter of the central markets, and our mothers think nothing of pulling down our drawers and applying their broomsticks. We felt a little shame and some itching for a day or so, and truly it made us better behaved. I do to Jennie what my mamma did to me. From time to time my tomboy comes in for slight spanking. If fashionable ladies bring up their children in more gentle style, I do not blame them, but I was not harmed by being educated under the rod, and see nothing wrong in my pet being thrashed as I was. But her father is a real executioner. He does not correct her—he martyrises her. He fancies that she is not his child, and he vents on my little girl all the rage he feels against me, and which he does not dare to let me see, because at bottom he is very cowardly. That is why I asked you for the wretched whip. With it, he can hurt her greatly, but the pain is transitory. Anyhow he will not maim her, but if he gets it into his head to flog her, and cannot find the martinet, he will strike her with anything that comes first to his hand—an iron bar; or a loaded cane—at the risk of killing her! It is horrible to think of, but that man is always out of temper. He hardly gets home from Paris, where he is employed by a railway company, when he begins to grumble, scold, and always finds some excuse in his fury to fall foul of the child. When he first began to beat Jennie, I tried to come between them. He frightened me so that I no longer dared. But you don’t know what splendid vengeance I invented! I got one of my female friends to write him an anonymous letter where it was set forth that I betrayed him, and that he only had to come home at a certain day and hour, and catch me with my accomplice. Instead of returning as usual at seven o’clock in the evening, he applied for leave and appeared here suddenly in the afternoon. I got plenty fun out of his surprise and disappointed looks. I recommenced the practical joke five or six times, and he has never guessed how he has been fooled. He was extremely angry, quite certain at one moment that I was unfaithful, and then wished to believe in my innocence. These ups and downs of doubt and confidence made me extremely joyful. Ah! were I not an honest woman, when he thus castigates my poor infant; when he outrages me by insulting his own flesh and blood, how I should like to really outrage him, and efface all his wretched kisses in one ardent, voluptuous, passionate pressure of other lips that—Ah ! what have I said?”

“Something that gives me cruel ideas.”

“I do not understand you,” she replied, in a tone of voice that proved she was trying to appear indifferent.

At this juncture, loud cries were heard in the neighbouring villa. We both rushed to the window, and I saw little Jennie running with drawers halfway down her legs, and her skirts uplifted. Her eyes were haggard, and her hair flying in the breeze. Her father, in his shirt sleeves, his features lighted up with an expression even more ferocious than I had noted before, pursued her, brandishing a wet napkin.

“So, crocodile, you wanted to be revenged? Well, my girl, I’m not yet tired of giving you a dose or two of sound thrashing. You can have as much flogging as you like. I’m on hand whenever you want me. Rosalie! Catch her for me, can’t you?”

The obedient servant girl had intercepted Jennie in her flight, and held her tightly in the proper posture, so that the wee cheeks of the child’s tender bottom should be advantageously exposed to the paternal punishment, and not a blow be lost. The little martyr howled in most gruesome fashion.

“Ah! mon Dieu!” cried Jennie’s mother at my elbow. “ can’t look on. It makes me feel sick!”

I sat next to her, as close as possible, inhaling the perfume of her body, enjoying the view of her palpitating bosom, upon which I placed both hands, moulding her breasts, and then I pressed her large posteriors.

“Do you remember, dear madame, what words escaped you just now?”

“What did I say?”

“That you would like to be revenged on that cruel man.”

The wild shrieks of the little girl could still be heard, preceded and followed by the sharp, cracking sound of the damp linen striking her naked flesh.

The young wife clasped my head in her two hands and inclined her supple frame towards me with an undulating movement of her hips, and then she shook her luxuriant dark hair over her eyes as if to veil her features. I clutched her roughly, and we became one, as my body joined hers, and I forced an entrance into her. She bounded under my strokes, as if possessed by the devil, and I accompanied my kisses with every kind of refined caress, sucking her lips, and pinching her vast, rotund hinder charms, as I engulphed my organ of virility deeper and deeper into her greedy, clinging cleft of lust.

She bit my mouth through her forest of hair, and with sighs of delight, held me to her in like manner, squeezing my loins and backside with the same libidinous curiosity.

In the garden, Jennie still sobbed and moaned as we relaxed our embrace.

“Quick!” exclaimed my mistress of a minute, as she drew herself up erect; and quite coldly, as if nothing had passed between us, she added : “Quick! Give me a comb! I want to put my hair to rights. You see now that if I had taken home the martinet, he would not have hurt her so much.” Then, running to the window, she went on : “Poor little thing! How she’s crying! Her tiny bum is quite raw!”

Her splendid locks were promptly in order, and she smoothed down the creases of her skirt.

“Never mind,” she said, as if speaking to herself, “I’ve made him a fine cuckold, and no mistake—the rotten beast!”

I considered it my duty now to lavish all sorts of insipid compliments upon her, although I was genuinely happy, and grateful for her unexpected visit.

“What a delicious surprise you granted me! May I hope soon to see you again?”

She did not answer me, but ran downstairs hurriedly without forgetting to take her martinet.

On the threshold, I wanted to kiss her, but she eluded my embrace. All she would do was just to touch my hand with the tips of her fingers, and reply to my eager “good bye” and proffered mouth by rapidly skimming over my moustache with her closed lips. She fled like a hare, leaving the sweet fragrance of lilies of the valley behind her.

I went back up the stairs to my room to witness her return to her home.

She made her entry laughing and singing. Her husband, as a rest from flagellation, was watering the flower-beds.

“It was bound to happen, tra la la! You are in a nice state now, tra la la!” she warbled.

“What’s the matter with you? Are you mad?” he replied, without ceasing his manoeuvres with the watering-can. “I don’t like to see you in this mood. Anybody would think you had taken a drop too much. You’re tipsy!”

“How polite you are! I merely remark that your forehead is covered with perspiration, and that you do wrong to work so hard in the hot sun.”

*
* *

1 must have looked very funny when 1 dined that evening with my host, for he said to me, laughing and rubbing his hands:

“You appear as triumphant as if you had been lucky in love!”

He so pressed me with questions that I wound up by confessing my adventure.

“Well,” said he, “your rivai is seated opposite you—oh! a very ancient one. Now, the lady don’t even trouble to look at me. This is how I had her. I noticed last year when I came to live here, that my pretty neighbour was always in a good humour with me when her husband had given his little girl a good slap-bottom. I, in my pavilion, and she, in her garden, began chatting together. We were both of one opinion: pitying the child and blaming its father, who, happily, once his ideas of disciplinary justice satisfied, would shut himself up indoors, and not show his ugly face any more. As his young wife was exactly to my taste, these conversations only half satisfied my longings. I bribed that sweet person, Rosalie, to get up some big childish peccadillo, which was to appear in the father’s eyes as if committed by his daughter, and thus draw down upon her some terrible punishment. The same evening, esconced in the pavilion you are now occupying, I soon heard a great noise of blows, raging voices, and yells of pain. The din subsided, or I should say, diminished. The sound of swishing strokes gave way to an impassioned dialogue that lasted far into the night, and at last the villa became quiet. I thought that husband, wife, and child were at rest and asleep, when I heard a knocking at the door in the alley. I went down, and saw my dear next-door friend, Jennie’s mamma. She was in her chemise, her only other garment being a large fur cape without fastenings, leaving her legs and shoulders bare.

“Oh!” she cried, “protect me, save me! My husband is a monster! He has just flayed my poor child alive. I will never again live under his roof.”

In short, to show how she had deserted him, she slept with me until the morning, and I enjoyed one of the best nights of love I ever remember.

“Would you believe that since then, although she did not seem to be displeased with my talents, she never once returned to see me. Better still, she has never even spoken to me. When we meet in the alley, or strolling about the village, which often happens, she turns her face away, and pretends she has not seen me. Strange creature! Still I hope you will be luckier than I was!”

But my adventure was exactly the same as that of my client. I did not see the father again, kept in Paris, or perhaps forced to travel for his employers. Little Jentie often suffered from a sore bottom, but the slaps of her mamma or the servant were not very frightful, and if the girl yelled or wept, it was no doubt more from temper and shame than from pain. As for her mother, she never looked in the direction of my window. We often met, when I would bow, and pay her a few compliments, but she did not answer, never even betraying by the least sign that she had seen me. I bought over Rosalie, giving her often a gold piece, and even two or three bank-notes, so that she might read my passionate ietters to her mistress, plead my cause with her, and become my go-between, but she always returned to me with my envelopes unopened, saying dolefully: “Madame won’t hear a word about you.”

“Strange creature!” I said to myself, repeating my host’s expression.

After all, she had given herself once to me so frankly and completely that she left nothing more for my desire to long for. I should have preferred to renew that adorable intertwining embrace, although it would no longer have savoured of surprise, as the perfume of lilies of the valley of her jacket and armpits; the delicate wild strawberry flavour of her melting lips; the vast, firm plenitude of her buttocks; the forest of her beautiful hair, and especially the indescribable grace, awkwardness, and amorous fury of her yielding grip had transported me to the seventh heaven of delight. But such enjoyments cannot be renewed. Once experienced, we must, at the same time as we feel them, committhem to ourmemory, embalming them in our remembrance, to serve now and again as delicious pictures with which to accompany other ordinary pleasures, that without such help would be less perfect, and incomplete.



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