Ricette calls it, and mama no longer rationed the number of men that could take me, as she had before.
“I owe everything to my mother, even the character I have now — the one you see before you. She gave that to me when I was thirteen. It seems that I used to cry too much. It made my eyes red and it worried mama, because she was always afraid I was going to chuck myself out a window somewhere. So she taught me…”
She interrupted herself to change the position she was in…
“She's a wonderful woman, mama. In only eight days the made me a completely new character, the same as she would have made me a new dress.
“For a full week she slept alone with me, only taking on customers in the afternoons. She told me that I was old enough to know everything since I could now come like a woman, and that at my age it was ridiculous not to have any vices. So she wanted to give me a vice that would stand me in good stead the rest of my life.
“How did she go about it? She played with me (you're still such a kid when you're thirteen) and she beat me off while calling me all the names she could possibly think of. And since I got more of a kick out of being fingered by mama than anything else, the words that at first disgusted me ended up by exciting me. Both the words and the things. I won't say any more about that now, but I'll continue later on.
“So, in connection with the church (we certainly got a long way away from that!) one of my friends got a strange idea that same year. He wanted to cornhole me in a country church. Guess why.”
“Because you were so pious?”
“Exactly. He knew that I prayed every day to the Holy Virgin and that I often went to church for nothing except to say a little prayer. So he proposed… And, so pious was I, I immediately agreed. It was because…”
She paused, thinking a moment.
“It was because my prayers, you know… I always told everything to the Holy Virgin just like I'm telling you.”
I couldn't help smiling at that.
“Therefore,” she continued, “the Holy Virgin knew that I had been cornholed since I was eight because I always asked her to protect me there as well as in the mouth and to choose my lovers and my lesbians and to make me come as much and as often as possible. So I thought it wouldn't surprise her, the Holy Virgin, if she saw me doing it… A little vicar to whom I told that one evening in my bed said that when I did that I committed a terrible sacrilege. I hardly doubt it.
“It was even one of the gayest days of my life. We left together, alone in his auto. My friend was rather young. When we arrived in the village, where he was well known, he got the keys of the church from the beadle under the pretext of showing me the monument. In those days, I had the innocent attitude of a school girl, and I've hardly changed since then, have I? Look at me. Do I look like a whore?”
“Not in the least!”
“Mama is always saying, 'Charlotte would find a husband on a desert before she would a customer on a streetcar!' And within an hour after I asked you to treat me like a slut you couldn't.”
“No, my dear. However, continue the story of your devotions in the country church. Your hair is the longest and most beautiful in the world and you look like a Magdalene.”
“That's the first time you've ever called me whore!” she said, laughing.
But I finally got her back to her story.
“So you two entered the church with the keys. And naturally you locked up again from the inside?”
“Oh, yes. And then we were feeling so gay that we really made a scene. I went and kneeled in the Virgin's chapel and he came and said, 'Are you praying, miss?' 'No sir. I'm fingering myself.' 'Oh, but whyever for?' “Because my snatch is itching and other things are bothering me that I hardly dare tell you of.' 'Why does all that itch so?' 'Because I can never kneel down without wanting someone to cornhole me.' I was a brat! You could have had me coming from morning to night. So then he got down behind me, but the kneelers in a church are very poorly constructed for cornholing little girls.”
“You say the damndest things, Charlotte.”
“My asshole was too low. So I went and knelt on one of the altar steps and it was just right.”
“Altar steps are better planned for cornholing young girls?”
“You would have thought they were made for it! Our position there was so good that as soon as he was in me I felt like coming, and I really discharged a wad! I thanked the Holy Virgin because I thought that I owed it all to her.
“After that, I didn't know what to do with the come that I had in my ass. They don't have any bidets in churches and the Holy Water basins are all too high. Those basins are really very badly placed. But, lifting by chance one of the kneeler-covers, I found a new handkerchief that some old woman had put there for crying her sins out into the next Sunday. Instead of tears, however it received my come, and I wiped my ass properly with it. Would you like to do it sometime? Cornhole me in a church? Ill do it again if you want.”
Charlotte was excited. She fidgeted her legs about and became very red in the face.
The brutality of her last two sentences whispered to me that a new crisis was approaching, for the tone of her voice had changed along with the expression on her face. Harsh, pained, a little breathless, she continued:
“That happens to me all the time, to come when someone sticks a rod into my rear. Every-day it happens, even with old men. And all the thanks go to mama for it.
“She used to fake it in front of me so that I would get carried away until I let myself go like men do, and I would do the same things as she only with all my heart. When I was thirteen and fourteen I could already come without touching myself just from being excited in the ass. And the more the one working me over scraped me the better I liked it.
“I was still a virgin by the time I was fifteen, and mama kept on shaving my mound and my cunt, but she let the hair grow back into my ass. Nothing excited men that came to see me as much as seeing a bare scrap of a kid from the front and a hairy asshole in the back that they could cornhole or put their fingers into or rub with their tongue.
“For Mardi Gras they made me a clown a costume with a little panel of cloth over the asshole that could be removed so I wouldn't have to undress completely. I supped with seven men and a woman named Fernande who was naked. Mother was naked too but, because of my last remaining virginity, she kept me partly dressed and wouldn't let me dine alone with anyone. The seven men bet that they could cornhole me three times each and that I would have enough come in my ass when they finished to fill a champagne glass; and Fernande said that if they succeeded then she would drink the glass.
“Mother replied that she had done as well as that when she was my age and that I was old enough to do the same. And she said that she would take it upon herself to give anyone a hard-on who needed one if they couldn't get it themselves.
“I had never been cornholed more than thirteen times in a day before, but I was ready and excited and I cried, 'Done!' and raised the panel over my ass.
“It probably doesn't seem like anything to you, but twenty-one cornholings lasted from one to four in the morning?”
Charlotte, more and more excited, got astride of me, lay on me and cried with a sort of triumph in her voice:
“So! You won't treat me like the slut I am, and…”
“No! Shut up!”
She was in such a state of excitement that I had to satisfy her at all costs. And I didn't want to wait for a new outburst of frenzied filth.
For the few seconds that it took her to get into position so that I could penetrate I managed to keep my hand over her mouth; but after that, when she felt me solidly inside her, she freed herself from the gag and couldn't stop trembling.
At first she only touched me with her thighs, then began rubbing the hairs of her ass against my sex, and finally began to twist the lower part of her body down and away from me while raising the top half, as if she wanted to get her face as far away as possible from where I was screwing her. And she never stopped trembling.
From her head to her stomach to the tips of her toes she never stopped trembling.
Slowly she became more and more beautiful.
