And thus was perpetuated the legend concerning the descendants of the Chateau of Quail Rock which dominates, from its peak atop the little hill, the village which belongs to it…
When the morning dawned, announcing already a scorching day in prospect, Count Fabian rose, dressed and told his servant Bouzian that he would be back late that evening, as he had to meet one of his overseers working in a cotton plantation. “Don't forget to tell Marivol to take good care of Mademoiselle. I confide her to you, you understand?”
Bouzian, who had served the Count for two years, was a perfect specimen of Negro manhood, intelligent, athletic and devoted to his master. The cook was a mulatress named Marivol. Though she was twenty-five, the same age as Bouzian, they had not fucked together. Bouzian had little interest in women who didn't like being buggered; and since Marivol belonged to that category, he never touched her, so they lived together as brother and sister might. She loved cooking little treats for her venerated master, and hence was overjoyed to be given charge of his daughter Martine.
When the ornate clock on the mantelpiece struck nine, Martine's door was opened by Bouzian, who carried a tray encrusted in mother-of-pearl, on which, smoking hot, was a bowl of beautiful ceramic cast containing the thick hot chocolate which, in this tropical country, was a breakfast custom. Thus awakened, Martine accorded her servant a ravishing smile. He placed the tray on a tarbouret and drew the blinds. Wishing her good appetite, he began to withdraw, bowing obsequiously. Martine seemed to emerge from a dream, beholding this handsome negro in a white shirt that accentuated the gleaming ebony of his skin.
“Bouzian!”
“Mademoiselle?”
“Come here. Where is my father?”
“The master went to X-, and will not be back till this evening, very late.”
“And Marivol?”
“She went to market.”
“Good. Come here, then. Now, don't be afraid. How are you dressed underneath?”
Lifting his shirt, she disclosed two superbly athletic thighs and a prodigious swelling between them which his loincloth scarcely dissembled. Martine touched that prominent object, asking: “And that there, what is it?”
Not at all stupid, he replied deferentially, “Let Mademoiselle see for herself.”
Martine was waiting for just that. She unfastened the loincloth and a superb prick adorned with heavy, thickly laden balls was exposed to her view. She was hypnotized by the enormity and length of that prick, whose shaft was really spectacular in its rigidity and breadth. With curiosity, she weighed his balls; then, casting aside the covers, drew the handsome Negro to her, who, overjoyed with this unexpected turn of affairs, gutturally said, “Me put banana in your coconut!”
Martine understood that banana meant prick, but what was coconut? She analyzed the word; coco, fruit of the coconut tree, furnished an excellent butter. But Bouzian's interpretation vastly differed; he put his hand on his young mistress' bottom. Martine comprehended; she knelt down, offering her bottom to him. Completely naked now, Bouzian thrust his enormous cock between her thighs, rubbing her soft, golden pussy down, and for a few moments thus tickled her sensitive perineum, as preparation for the supreme act. Martine, enraptured, looked through her widened thighs to see his huge balls jiggling with each movement. As for Bouzian, he considered the dainty bung of his young mistress, not wishing to punish her for such sweet complaisance this first time by causing her undue pain; at last he found a means of easing the act. Stretching out one hand, he scraped off some of the butter spread on the cakes Marivol had prepared for Martine's breakfast, and then anointed Martine's delicious little bunghole. When he deemed it sufficiently lubricated, he adjusted his prick. Martine, her head still bowed between her legs, watched his balls swing back and forth and impatiently yearned to feel them lash against her naked bottom cheeks. Then she felt the first dig of his monstrous ramrod. Her lips compressed, but she courageously tendered her bottom that it might swallow the promised banana. But Bouzian did not make her languish for it; indeed, showing strangely little tenderness for his willing young partner, he buried three quarters of his prick in a single mighty thrust deep into her virgin ass hole.
Martine uttered a piercing cry, the cry of a wounded animal. As it chanced, the Count de Chavignac, who had had to return because a wheel of his carriage had broken down heard that cry and bounded up the stairs. He hurried to her room and stood there, nailed to the spot; through the half-open door, he beheld Bouzian in the act of buggering his naked daughter, who, impaled by that colossal black prick, was wriggling with commingled joy and suffering.
At the sight, the Count realized the part he had played in this debauchery, and bitterly resented the infidelity of his perverse daughter. So, leaving them in the prey of their furious lust, he went back to his workroom and remained there with his sad thoughts till evening.
During this time, Martine, planted on palms and knees, uttered savage cries. Her golden hair mantled her contorted face, her body shivered, her white chiseled thighs yawned apart, the young girl gave herself up to spend after spend till her sheets were wet. When she felt that massive prick spurt its hot lava into her entrails, she nearly swooned, her head buried on the pillow, her hair sticking to her perspiring face, but that abandoned pose made her all the more appetizing.
Bouzian began to caress her quivering thighs and panting titties, and Martine at last opened her eyes, a smile wreathing her lips to show two rows of flawless little white teeth. Gently, she let herself be turned onto her back, while Bouzian crouched over her to gamahuch her to a seventh heaven of bliss. Spreading her legs, she drew his body down to her, and her right hand began to frig him till, seeing that his prick had achieved all its former grandeur, she rubbed it against her mouth. Overjoyed, he turned about and sheathed his mighty blade deep into her tight little cunt hole, and, after several vigorous thrusts, shot a bubbling flood of sperm deep into her innermost recesses.
Meanwhile, the Count took stock of himself. It had taken only his daughter's arrival, after the long years of separation, to change him from an honest man into a despicable being, the plaything of unholy passions. He took a firm resolve; he must disappear before such abominations happen again; so, without waiting any longer, he rang her on the private house telephone.
It was just past noon, and the chocolate had been finished, mouthful by mouthful after each seance: buggering, fucking, gamahuching and Frenching. Martine took the receiver: “Ah, it's you, Papa? Where are you? Yes… I understand… you'll be back in a week? Don't worry, Marivol will look after me… yes… I'll kiss you when you come back.” Then, as she replaced the phone, she giggled, “Ouf! Now I can fuck all I want. Papa won't be back for a whole week!”
Bouzian, hearing this happy news, did a little jig, thereby inflaming his young white mistress who promptly beckoned him back to bed. There, she sucked him off again, and when his spunk shot forth vigorously, she swallowed it without losing a single drop. Exhausted, they fell asleep side by side; it was a miracle that Marivol, who had come back from market, didn't find them together.
But Count Fabian had lied; in reality, he hadn't gone away for just a week, as he'd told Martine, but forever. He had gone to an isolated spot on the plantation and put a bullet through his brain. Yet if his sin and its self- inflicted punishment had ended his life, it had also opened the door of happiness to Martine by granting her a freedom of which, as we shall see later on, she made singular use.
The rest of the day passed calmly for the young girl, since tropical heat destroys all will and energy. Not suspecting her father's suicide, she could hardly know that she was already the sole mistress and ruler of this plantation. But when the freshness of the evening cast its welcome veil on the plantation, life seemed to revive little by little. The colony of Tchad numbers many people from the Ubangi and Mid-Cameroons, from Anglo-Egyptian Sudan and Nigeria. A large part of this population is itinerant; they are in the main members of groups that follow their ethnic affinities and each keeps his own religious beliefs, his traditional way of life as much as that is possible in so distant a setting where inbreeding, crossbreeding and foreign influences are so powerful.
These peoples who speak twenty different languages and dialects, give the city a bizarre aspect. During the moonlit nights, everyone is outside. The little vendors in the street of the Mosque light feeble lamps which hardly illumine their paltry wares. It is the hour when the wealthy choose to stage, before the doors of their dwellings, festivals and parties which display their finest possessions. The women wear bejeweled loincloths on which are patterned the most unusual motifs, and through the widely open folds, one can glimpse the bare bottoms, as well as the bellies and tempting thighs; sometimes even their breasts are nearly bared. Sometimes the late traveler, losing his way in the torturous streets of this city, finds himself accosted by certain creatures whose shadows fall in
