Yes, I had abandoned my puritanism for fair!
After she had washed herself in the spring, Martine adjusted her clothing and climbed onto her mare. We went back to the house. While awaiting dinner, we toured the buildings, admiring the spacious stables and warehouses. My brother had modernized everything, and I had to admire his business acumen. The dinner bell summoned us, and I found Patrick already at the table. He winked at me and asked, “Then Monsieur the Baron had an inspection tour?”
“Yes, I saw just about everything, and I must say it's a vast estate, Patrick.”
“As for me, I had a marvelously recuperative siesta. Damned if I didn't need it, though. And if Marivol hadn't wakened me, I swear I'd still be asleep.”
What my rogue of a valet didn't say was how Marivol had wakened him. Indeed, when she had come into his room, she'd found him naked on the bed, having an amorous nightmare. She bent down and stared at his stiffened cock, and since she adored sucking such instruments, she couldn't resist the temptation. Kneeling down, she sucked him so lightly and delicately that Patrick woke only when his sperm was flooding Marivol's mouth. But when he tried to pull her down to him to reward her, she laughingly begged off because of the nearness of dinnertime, promising him his revenge in the not far distant future.
Marivol served us couscous, which were excellent though a trifle overspiced; happily, there was good chilled white wine to wash them down. If my brother had seen us, he would have turned over in his grave, I'm sure. After the repast, we sat down on cushions, and the two servants Marivol and Bouzian related to us some legends of their own country, tales wherein phantoms sent by Allah visit the living mortals to assuage their own deathless passions.
(Now our account is taken once more from Patrick's journal:)
“At last night fell, enveloping Fort-Lamy with its opaque veil. About two in the morning, my master wakened with a start, for the legends of the phantoms had haunted him. Hiding under his covers, he awaited the apparition of the demonaic spirits, perhaps by seeing walls shaken by bony, fleshless hands or a cloud of phosphorescent, greenish powder filling the bedchamber from which would emerge the horrifying spectres. Pale with fear, he wondered whether they would cut off his head or boil him in oil; in his mind's eye, as he later told me, he could see that ambidextrous, loose-jointed negro of the Green Squirrel bending his head down to his penis, uttering savage cries.
He heard the floor creak under the weight of footsteps that slowly advanced towards his bed. There was a deep silence, and then he felt a hand groping against his covers; he couldn't stir, his throat contracted with fright.
Very gently the covers were lifted and drawn to the foot of the bed. Then a hand began to frig his penis, which at once stiffened, fright or no fright. But what was his astonishment when he felt himself turned over and then experienced the sensation of a warm, thick object pressed between his buttocks. Not wishing to anger the evil spirit, he did not call out, but surrendered himself, and his anus swallowed up the enormous cock. Gaining confidence that he hadn't yet been put to death, he essayed a shifting movement, which created delicious sensations inside his anal channel. The ghostly hand crept under him to frig him till he spent, and then Prosper felt a warm shoot of hot lava lash his anal canal. He thanked Allah for having saved him from a hideous death, but only after the phantom had disappeared after having baptised him in the style of this tropical land. And he fell asleep, happy that his life had been spared.
During this time, I went to Martine's room, desirous of learning whether my twenty-five years and sturdier fortitude might please her more than my master's forty-odd years and comparatively lesser vigor. But I was surprised to see Marivol and her in the act of sixty-nine. Naked as Adam, I joined the fray and clambered onto the bed. Getting behind Martine, I fucked her. Noiselessly, Bouzian entered, who imitated me by taking Marivol for himself, and fucking her for the first time — since hitherto he had desired only to bugger her.
Marivol was a beautiful Negress of medium height, with plump thighs on short legs, and her pussy was thickly, frizzily covered with black ringlets, though the custom of the country was to shear the love-mane or entirely depilate it. However, that didn't displease me at all. Both of us, Bouzian and myself, fucked these two beauties for four long hours, till we were utterly exhausted. One can imagine how late we all awoke the next day!
In fact, we were wakened by a loud knocking at the door of the house; it was a messenger with a telegram from Paris addressed to the Baron Prosper. Reading it, he learned that a rich Swiss philatelist had just died and that his fabulous collection was to be sold at auction at the Hotel Drouot. My master had known him well, and knew practically every item in that unique collection; he couldn't pass up the opportunity to acquire it. So he told Martine and me his desire to return to Paris at once. She begged him to remain until the rainy season, and Bouzian and Marivol were desolate over his decision. But he refused to change his mind, and ordered me to pack all our baggage. Martine burst into tears, then locked herself in her room. “Bah,” my master thought. “Childish grief, she'll be over it soon enough.” But when dinnertime came, she was still in her room.
“Marivol,” my master ordered, “go tell Mar-tine to stop this nonsense and come eat with us.” Marivol hastened to obey, but when she returned, she was terrified, and babbled, “Oh, Msieu Prosper, Pamela's lost her wits, she sings, she laughs, she cries — oh, she's terribly ill!”
The Baron and I hurried to her room, where we found Martine wrapped in a sheet, standing very stiffly, her arm flung out and declaiming a dramatic scene from Shakespeare, then turning to a song by Luis Mariano. When we tried to approach her, she screamed and tried to claw us with her fingernails. So my master had to call a psychiatrist who, witnessing her singular behavior, declared that she was subject to a cerebral derangement which he was sure would pass, but that she should be confined to a sanitarium. Overwhelmed with despair and believing himself responsible, Baron Prosper tore up the telegram — the cause of all the trouble — and cancelled his trip so he might remain with his niece.
When we visited her the next day in the courtyard of the luxurious sanitarium to which my master had had her taken, she was talking aloud as if many persons were there, and her bodice was unfastened, showing the two pink-tipped globes of her titties. Her eyes sparkled, and her chiseled fingers unconsciously made gestures of caressing — as if she were fondling a stiff prick between them. She made a little grimace with her soft rosy mouth and murmured, “Why did they bring me here, so far from those I love. I've only one desire and one need: to come, to come again, always to come.”
She seemed to quiver with an incredible voluptuousness; walking to a tree and planting her back against it, she suddenly produced a dildo and buried it into her pussy. Shivering and gasping with delight at its probing, she did not see a young nun appear, for all the nurses at this sanitarium were sisters. And the nun asked: “What are you doing, my child?”
Martine replied, “I'm trying to come, my sister.”
“Let me see that instrument!” Martine docilely removed it and handed it to the young nun, who examined it, then said sternly: “You must tell me where you found this.”
“On the shelf of a little closet on the first floor.”
“That is my closet!”
“My sister,” Martine pleaded, “I beg of you, let me have it, I need it so, I must come, oh have pity, my sister!”
“You shall have it — come with me now!” Sister Marie-Therese — for that was the lovely young nun's name — led Martine to a little barn which had formerly been used as a storeroom. Once the door had been securely bolted, Sister Marie-Therese took off her robes, strapped the dildo round her waist, made Mar-tine kneel down, then lofted her clothes over her head. Lowering Martine's drawers, and first kissing that lovely pair of bottom cheeks, the young nun probed the dildo between Martine's thighs. Then, expert in the art, Sister Marie-Therese fucked her as well as any man could do.
Under the delicious friction, Martine regained her sanity and took once again pleasure in life; she was drawn to climax and she kept repeating: “Ohh, deeper, my sister, deeper, it's so good, don't stop!” The young nun squeezed the dildo, and spirited into Martine's pussy a jet of liquid, simulating male sperm, and thereby completing the perfect illusion that a man was making Martine spend and spending in her as well.
That evening, Sister Concepcion took Martine into her room, stripped her naked and accorded her a pleasure which nature has accorded solely to men, thanks to this ingenious artificial device which usurps the male equipment. Stripping naked in turn, Sister Concepcion knelt down on her bed, bowing her head to the covers and arching up her bottom. Enchanted, Martine approached and was ready to slip the dildo into her hairy slit, but the attractive young nun pushed it away and, opening her bottom cheeks with one hand, guided the prong into the
