“But it's you that…”
“Quiet! Now continue. I'd warn you in time. Do you want me to hurry it? I can do that quite easily. You hurry too, but remember the rules: you swallow immediately, you say how good it is, and you ask for more. Ricette my darling! How good it is in your mouth!”
This last sentence, as I should have foreseen, gave her a great deal of pleasure and increased her zeal. The praise that we cherish the most is always that which is made on our weakest points. And besides, young girls who have never sucked before do it exactly as they make love; therefore they have to be brought to a certain pitch of passion.
I continued in the same vein, and in only a few words Ricette was worked up to the necessary point… I warned her… She shuddered, closed her eyes, paled as if she were accomplishing some great feat of prowess in the face of danger… and when she had finished she sat up on her heels, her mouth open, completely stupefied.
She looked at me out of dazed eyes. I opened my arms for her. She threw herself into them, at once proud, surprised, ashamed, tender, and above all so moved that I could feel her heart beating beneath her little left breast.
“I did it,” she said. “It's not possible! I could never do it before and this time I swallowed everything, but everything! Just like you said.”
“And it's not so bad either, is it? There are a lot of girls who really like it.”
“I don't know if it was good or not,” she said dreamily, “but it made me happy — because you came.”
And after I had kissed her for that, she took up the thread once more:
“And besides… and besides… do you think your come is like everyone else's?”
“Certainly.”
“No, it isn't.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
She was dreaming again and said, crossing her hands, “Mama is the one who will be surprised! She'll never believe it!”
“What'll we do?”
“Do it again!” cried Ricette. “We'll do it again in front of her!”
The idea was worth a reward; we both thought of this at the same time, but Ricette spoke first and I was a thousand miles from guessing what she was going to ask me.
With her arms still around my neck, she said softly, “I want something. Say yes.”
“All right. Yes. What is it?”
“You've been trapped. I know that you don't like it, but you said yes already, and I feel like it.”
“Feel like what?”
She took a few minutes like a young actress; then bent to my ear and said loudly, despite herself, and in a voice that trembled with laughter:
“I feel like beating myself off.”
“Little horror! And you think that I'm going to let you do it? Ask me for anything, but…”
“Nothing else. Later on I will. But now you said yes in advance, and besides, you know that I'm in the habit of doing it. I told you the last time I was here.”
“Then you're as bad as Charlotte? When you feel like the finger, you finger yourself? Even in front of a man?”
“Especially.”
“And can't I offer you anything in its place?”!
“Later. It won't stop us from doing anything.”
It was really the family vice, all right, but I still couldn't get used to it and I felt a sort of jealousy at seeing the girl taking her pleasure by herself. She hardly touched herself and went very slowly, never jerking her finger. At first, seeing that I had given in, she was teasing.
“Look at my cherry! Look!” she said, opening her thighs.
“Will you finish?”
“I have to finger it since you refuse to take it.”
The joke made me furious, but her face remained so kind that I forced myself to joke too.
“My dear young lady, is flagellation one of your habits also?”
“Oh, yes sir. Just like my sister Charlotte.”
“Fine. Go get the whip. What you've just said is worth a good thirty lashes on the behind.”
“Oh! And when I'm all bloody, you'll cornhole me won't you?” She was laughing. “Do you think I take you for a man who would whip me?
“You know that I can't take your cherry because I'd never see you again, so you stick it under my nose and beat it off as if I weren't capable of taking it? And you don't think this is worth the whip?”
Between the four women in that family I went from surprise to surprise. Mauricette this time became suddenly serious and said simply, “Give it to me.”
Then she had a little crisis that reminded me in a lesser degree of those of Charlotte and Teresa. Trembling in my arms, she repeated, “I want you to hurt me.”
“Who? My darling? The little fourteen-year-old girl who came all nude into my bed? But I'd be a monster!”
“You already did it without knowing. The day before yesterday I only moistened my ass with a little saliva when you cornholed me. It was good. It was as if you skinned my behind and the more I suffered the more I beat off.”
“What? You're as vicious as all that?”
“No. But I like you to hurt me a little when I'm fingering myself,” she repeated, her eyes narrowing, her fine white teeth beginning to sink into her lower lip.
“And that's what you really want?”
“Take the ends of my breasts between your teeth and bite! And I'll give you my cherry from in front so that you can hurt me some more with your prick, so that you can rip it, so that I'll bleed. Now that I have drunk your come, I'm yours. Hold me tight, I'm going to come. Hold me with all your might. Crush me. Break me…”
Decidedly, I thought to myself, Lili the only sane one in this melange. The other three are batty.
However, I was beginning to understand why Charlotte had said, “That kid will end up by disgusting all three of us.” Charlotte, though she was twenty years old, was still almost a child. Mauricette at fourteen was a woman. While the eldest sister had a slow mind and little spirit, the second girl was precocious both mentally and physically, had flesh that was prompt to respond, and a real, instinct for vice.
It was too early to tell what Lili would become at puberty, but that year, that day, it was Mauricette that reminded me most of her mother.
However, at that point I wanted to make Ricette talk, and I spoke a phrase to her that I'm as ashamed of as if it had been a crime. There are no prettier Latin verses than those in which Tibulus smiled at the white lies of love. But I can't smile at the one I told. This is a confession. I am being perfectly frank, telling everything; but I would have taken much more pleasure in inventing a story where I could give myself (so easily!) a sympathetic role.
Recall Mauricette's age, her precocity, her ardor… Imagine above this base the unlimited sentiment which she must have had for the sacrifice she wanted to make! And how much… But why say any more? I've already written enough to hang myself in the eyes of my readers. I loved Mauricette, but I didn't love her like you love a lover. So to make her speak, and with no other reason, I said to her, my lips against hers:
“I adore you.”
“I adore you too,” she whispered, without knowing that it was almost the same reply that Melisande had given. And as I had foreseen, she spoke; but immediately, without any transition. She spoke with the same brusque crescendos as Teresa.
“Yea don't believe me? Okay! You'll see! You'll lash my behind with a whip yet and then cornhole me in my
