“Then breaking wind apparently runs in your family?”
I caught myself, for I had lowered myself down to her stupidity-and what ignorant conversation this was, indeed.
“There is an old adage saying that a horse that farts much is a very good horse. If that be the case, then I must be indeed superb among maids, m'love?”
Before I could answer, she broke wind with whamming loudness. I felt the breeze tickle and move my pubic hair. And then, to worsen matters, she laughed and only a man who has fucked a woman while she has given rise to laughter can understand what the laugh does to his prick, if said prick at that moment is deep in said cunt.
For when we laugh the belly muscles jump and sing. And this, of course, closed the cunt and, in the closing, the cunt apparently wants to rid itself of the cock within it, and a number of times-when my females have broken wind-the laugh afterwards has pushed my prick openly from their vulvas!
The same happened now. I felt my prick being forced out by the belly muscles contracting and expanding. I clutched her hips, wondering if she would spit me from her vagina.
And then, the idea occurred to me. It was such a simple proposition I wondered why I'd not thought of it before.
The idea was this, and it was quickly executed. I simply, rapidly and thoroughly, rammed my right thumb deep in her open asshole.
And what did she do? Just what I expected. She gasped in surprise, laughter cut short by surprise. She sagged ahead, her asshole closing around my thumb, and I had her then, for my prick sank deep to the balls again in her oozing cunt.
Her consternation was so great she unconsciously tweaked my testicles rather hard, and sexual pain shot through me for a grand moment, making my cock even longer and more rigid.
“You will be good?” I said.
Her solemn voice said, “I shall laugh no more, m'lord. Where did you learn such a nefarious trick? From some lady of high blood you have recently impaled?”
“No, the idea came up Adam's spur, m'maid. No longer shall you buck me off like a charger dumping old King Arthur. Shall I now withdraw my thumb from your sweet anus?”
“No, not at this moment. I am hot from this
“You wish the scissors?”
“I wish your cock in my lips, m'lord. I wish your white discharge in my throat. I tremble close to pregnancy again, I do believe. One jolt from your roaring balls and again I would be with child, I fear.”
“That is not possible. You are either pregnant or not pregnant. My cock wearies of your cunt, too. Say the word and we will make the change, m'maid.”
“Let us fuck for a while longer in this gracious position. I pray to the pope I did not harm your testicles by too much force?”
“My testicles live. And soon they will launch my whiteness into your soft body, and oh-the moment is close!”
I had made no understatement. My rocks had pulled high upward, ready at a moment to toss my whiteness into her vagina. I felt the great tingling in my buttocks, pulling my trembling flesh close to the bone-a sure sign that I was soon to ejaculate.
“All right,” she said hurriedly. “Make the shift, m'lord-at this moment, m'love- My mouth-is ready-”
How can I describe what then followed? We had done this many times; we were experts. It happened in one moment. One second my penis was in her vagina. The next, it was deep in her damp hot mouth.
And where was I? I lay atop her breasts, her belly, and her thighs were spread, my head between the white dampness of her hips, and my hungry tongue was deep in her, a ladle now that pulled from her wet whiteness her sweet honey!
She squirmed with pure delight, her red lips pulling and twisting on my prick. She was a superb sucker. She knew every nuance, every phase, of sucking. And why should she not have known? Had not my expert uncle taught her, his huge long penis piercing her white throat?
To those who have not been initiated into sucking-or being sucked-well, they miss something vital in the sexual duel, I feel sure. And then again, how can I vouch-or even guess-at that which would please another person?
Each of us, of course, has our own tastes. I shall view the matter of sucking and being sucked, then, from a personal viewpoint.
I shall tackle first the matter of
“And what does France have that England doesn't, uncle?”
“I shall be blunt. I shall say one word that the King-goddamn his limp prick! — apparently has never uttered, the God loving liar. To many the word is crude. They cover their ears while they relish its short abruptness, but I shall not digress.”
“You digress now,” I had pointed out. “What is the word, fair uncle?”
His round lips formed, “Cocksuckers.”
“You say England needs these?”
“England has a scarcity of cocksuckers compared with France, where even the most devoted housewife will suck you-a stranger-to high ejaculation for a mere franc or two.”
“Why hasn't our strong nation many of the lip, uncle?”
My uncle frowned. “I believe it is because the English are anal injection lovers. To be blunt again: English love the asshole more than the mouth where sex is concerned.”
My good uncle it was who taught this buxom maid how to suck. He worked hours with her, his penis running in and out of her red lips. There is much more to the art of sucking than having the rigidity in one's mouth, you must know. Sucking of the high degree requires a good teacher and much application and study.
My uncle had been the efficient instructor. The little maid applied herself diligently and studied hard.
Now my penis tingled and danced to her application.
The Fourth Episode
“Each novel must contain a moral,” my writer friend insists.
“Mine contains none,” I said.
“Then you are not writing a novel in the true sense of the word,” my didactic friend stubbornly maintained.
I wisely presented no argument to the contrary, but I do know this-I find delight in putting down these few reminiscences, some good and some bad, a moral. Nonetheless, I delight indulging in this form of writing.
Many Englishmen-and other nationalities — would label this bit of writing as 'obscene, filthy, dirty, and a disgrace to man's intelligence,' and I would find it hard put to understand why they applied these labels, for is it not from the womb- and a woman's cunt-that we all come?
Or do we all step from our fathers' ears, full-grown and complete, like Pantagruel did from the ear of Gargantua-or was it the other way around, not that it matters one whit?
And did the semen which created all of us in that warm, damp womb not come from the testicles of man? And did not the woman who bore us receive this man's penis in delight, her hips working in mad happiness as the father of us all applied his penis to her vulva?
And did not both secrete fluids-heavenly fluids — that when joined made the first cell of us, as the men of medicine are beginning to think?
So, then, what can be foul, obscene, filthy (and the other bad adjectives!) about writing about sexual intercourse?
If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, as some wit has written, then must not obscenity be in the same
