profile on the white walls. These women, of rare beauty, sometimes drop their loincloths and unveil their charms, and the man, maddened by lust and wanting to fuck her who most entices him, accomplishes the act standing on the narrow sidewalk against the wall.
Yet, at one end of this agitated labyrinth of professional lust, one finds a sumptuous pavilion, belonging to the Count de Chavignac. A soiree was taking place, in the great salon whose shutters were drawn to keep out the eyes of the profane. Martine was surrounded by two men and two women, magnificently black. The carnival was beginning. “Here is Pamela in her number,” cries Bouzian, a megaphone in his hands. Pamela, who is Martine, appears clad in a dancer's tutu made of fiber, and her face, limbs and body are covered with a tan ointment which makes her resemble Josephine Baker. She writhes, her rounded bottom keeping time to the chant which the two women call out, clapping their hands. Women? One is only thirteen, the other twelve, but both seemed sixteen, ripely developed as they are. They are harmoniously formed, and their naked titties are delicious to the sight. Pamela, a monocle in one eye, a gold-topped cane tucked under one armpit, a top hat over her golden curls, executes a kind of Parisian cancan at each step of which, because the short tutu cannot conceal her loins, one can see her little pussy whose rosy lips betray her true racial origin. Bouzian and his two male companions, pricks grasped in their hands, form Indian file as they open the carnival; Pamela and her two companions sing as they march around the table. Someone cries “Stop!” And everyone stands still; Pamela cries out, “Save yourself if you can!” At this cry, Bouzian and his two friends seek to seize the young women who run around the arm chairs, laughing shrilly in their lustful glee. Then, two minutes later, each female is seized by a wrist and promptly thrown down on a divan or the table, or, better still, made to sit astride a man comfortably seated in an arm chair with prick tendered aloft for her own self-impalement.
Pamela had the pleasure of being caught by one of the male guests, a tall rogue whose prick is even thicker than Bouzian's. Lying on the table, her back on a cushion, her legs wound round the loins of Lakian — the name of this giant — Martine palpitates with anguish at the thought of being fucked by so mighty a cock. “Pamela,” she whimpers to him.
Is that the name of a girl? Ah no. It is Negro dialect for “Don't put it in there — ne la mets pas la — but bugger me instead.” She repeats it twice. But Lakian laughs, showing his strong white teeth. Like a mischievous child, he amuses himself by holding his massive cock and rubbing the tip against Martine's soft cunny. Martine pouts with vexation; she grasps his cock and steers it toward her eager, brown hole. But Lakian defeats her; yawning apart her cunny with the fingers of his left hand, he buries his prickhead in that pink gap, thrusts with little jerky digs, onward within the tight crevice. Pamela, swooning, babbles endlessly the most incoherent, lustful words.
Lifting her legs around his shoulders, after two or three shoves which waken her from her swoon, Lakian commences a vigorous cramming with his massive tool, and then discharges the seething contents of his gnarled heavy balls deep into her dainty pussy. Martine, with a wail of thwarted bliss, falls back into her lethargy. But when she revives, not yet satisfied by the pleasure thus granted, she sucks Lakian's prick. Stood up on her feet at last, Martine, naked as the day she was born, is seized by Bouzian and Lakian. As she stands, Bouzian grasps her hair and drags down her head till she can reach his swollen prick with her panting mouth; in that bent-over pose, she then sucks him off while Lakian buggers her. Then the two young Negresses also receive their share of male homage, and the orgy does not end till dawn.
The next morning, Marivol finds her little mistress sleeping in her bed, so lovely to look at that Marivol thinks it a shame to waken this angel with features so pure, so she goes out quietly and closes the door behind her.
Evening comes once again and Martine, unbeknownst to devoted Marivol, seeks out her companions of the night before to revel in new and yet more shameless orgies.
But now let us leave these characters of our drama whom we shall meet again, and pay a visit to Count Fabian's brother, Baron Prosper Agrume de Chavignac, for he too has a vital role to play in our history.
Baron Prosper lived, very much like a recluse, in his magnificent town mansion in Paris. He devoted most of his time to his hobby of collecting rare stamps. Indeed, thanks to his wealth, he had even transformed one of the rooms of his huge house into a kind of stamp museum. Endowed with a stay-at-home nature, he had no use for his brother after the death of the Marquis de Chavignac because of the disproportionate share the latter had received from the legacy. He had never seen Fabian since that time, did not even know that he had married and had a child or even that his brother was still alive. As a bachelor, despite being in his forties, he had never enjoyed the pleasures of love. His only servant was a young valet, twenty-five years of age, a Parisian by birth, named Patrick Dumas.
This young man had served in the colonies and was bored to death to have to live in an austere house which had never seen a woman's smile. He-himself was no monk, and could nostalgically recall voluptuous pleasures experienced with beautiful Negresses with jutting, stiff-nippled titties and rounded, undulating bottoms, scienced in every kind of lustful caress. He pined after those ebony statues of amorous flesh which had brought him such thrilling sensations in times gone by, and yearned for their return.
One morning the postman brought him a letter for the Baron Prosper, who, after adjusting his monocle and reading a few lines, cried out: “Good Lord!” As Patrick was treated by his master as a trustworthy confidant rather than as a servant, he asked: “A misfortune?”
The Baron finished reading the letter, folded it and finally explained: “I've been called back posthaste to Fort-Lamy by Monsieur Honome, the notary in that city, on the matter of settling the effects of my brother Fabian, who has just died. I am to be the guardian of his only child, his daughter Martine.” Seeing the glow of curiosity in Patrick's eyes, the Baron added: “My brother — may God rest his soul — was found in the fishpond, and a verdict of suicide was decided at the inquest. I'm to be at his villa precisely at eight o'clock on the date of May 7th. It's the 5th already, so we've little time to pack. You will of course come with me.”
Patrick, delighted at this unforeseen change in the boring monotony of his days, did not have to be told twice and hurried off to pack for his master, already dreaming of future hours with beautiful accommodating females who would know how to ease the long-pent-up tension of his virile young prick.
On May 6th, an Air France plane took off from Orly airfield towards Tchad, and landed at nine that night at the airport of Fort-Lamy. This arrival and the events which followed it were faithfully related by Patrick in the diary which he punctiliously kept and which he allowed your translator to read. Here are the main passages:
“When we landed, Baron Prosper, who was completely out of touch with this tropical country, gave me carte blanche to make all arrangements for his comfort. After an excellent dinner in one of the city's best restaurants, my master asked me to find a convenient hotel where we might spend the night. Since his request would ruin the plans I had already worked out, I said to him: 'Monsieur the Baron surely can't be thinking of going to bed at an hour when everyone in town is on the go! Let Monsieur remember that he is the heir of Count Fabian, with whom he was on bad terms, and that this event must be celebrated. Monsieur must amuse himself before putting on mourning for his brother. Now I know a place where Monsieur the Baron will have a great deal of enjoyment, and I should be honored if he would allow me to take him there.'
“The Baron followed me without argument. We went down the Street of the Mosque, and, turning to the left, arrived at a little alleyway where we beheld a heavy door decorated with embossed silver, its tops curiously ornamented with the figure of a little squirrel in green neon lights. I rang the bell, and we were admitted into the lobby of this strange house, a kind of huge hall where an imposing matron beamed at us and purred, 'If the gentlemen come to be amused, please enter, for the spectacle this evening is really sensational.' She opened a door and we entered a room where my dazzled master saw women dancing on a wooden runway balanced on the edges of tables at which spectators sat and sipped iced drinks.
“On this runway, four superb half naked Negresses, wearing bracelets and necklaces of cowrie shells, executed lascivious dances to the rhythm of the tambourine. They had the characteristic charm of women of the tropics, always ready to fuck. Their ripe curves fairly cried out to be fondled, kissed, bitten, crushed and embraced. My master, his eyes wide and glazed, no longer thought about his stamp collection, I'm quite sure. After the dances, which simulated the basic thirty-two poses of fucking, I had a gigantic hard on and I asked my master whether he wasn't sexually roused, too. He eyed me solemnly, and, glancing back at the runway, timidly agreed that he was beginning to feel some emotion.
“After a short intermission, the master of ceremonies, through his megaphone, announced in English, then in French: 'And now, you may admire a number unique in all this world. Pamela — I repeat, Pa-me-la.' The orchestra tuned up, the lights dimmed, and Pamela, graceful and supple, came out onto the runway. 'A Frenchwoman!' I exclaimed, astonished. Indeed, she was quite a young white girl, wearing only a tutu made of fibers, and high- heeled clogs which made her lovely calves and thighs flex deliciously with each dancing step. She performed a
