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Anonymous Pamela

    On the summit of a little hill, one can see in outline the chateau of Quail Rock which proudly and authoritatively dominates the little village which belongs to it. This ancestral dwelling, which has always sheltered the dynasty of the de Chavignacs, has become renowned, neither for its architecture nor wealth — the many sculptuaries and paintings by masters which decorate its interior, nor again for its fabulous underground tunnel whose origin is obscured by the centuries, but principally for the births of its heirs, some of whom have having brought it a sinister fame through behavior which recalls that of the infamous Gilles de Rais in his own terrible chateau of Tiffauges in the Vendee.
    In 1549, Louis de Brow, father-in-law of the beautiful Princess Charlotte de Chavignac, seduced this delectable young woman. In return, he was delivered up to the villagers by his own victim, who denounced his odious rape to these serfs who were her subjects as they were his. His punishment was hideous indeed: despite his mature age and his noble blood, Louis de Brow was tied by the wrists to the tail of a wild horse and dragged through the fields till he was torn to shreds. Then, unsatisfied with their grisly work, the peasants fried the remnants of his carcass and fed those morsels to their pigs and cows, all except de Brow's testicles, which were preserved for their reproductive powers. These were nailed to the wall of a villager's hut till they were dry and resembled prunes.
    But let us briefly recall how this tragedy came about. Louis de Brow, 55, married and the father of an only son, took advantage of a morning when he found himself alone in the chateau with Charlotte, his twenty-two-year-old daughter-in-law, to enter her bedchamber. Charlotte, in the midst of a deep sleep, was startled into waking by feeling a hand caress her bottom. Her father-in-law, having long coveted her body, had seized his opportunity to enter and lifting her long nightgown, had begun to caress her. She tried to call for help, but de Brow clamped his hand over her mouth, and mounting her, kneed open her pink firm thighs. His glittering eyes beheld the thick, curly, black triangle at the apex of those deliriously rounded thighs.
    One hand on his stiffened cock which he delicately caressed to rouse himself to heroic fortitude, he caressed her cunny with his other hand, while the frantic young beauty twisted and writhed to escape the penetration by that taut red weapon which awaited her. But thanks to his expert frigging, Charlotte could not contract her slit against his inroads; then, as his massive tool entered her lovecavern and began its ardent probing, she lost all control and swooned as his generous lust-libation spurted deep into her chasm.
    When she came to, Charlotte denounced her amorous assailant and turned him over to the infuriated villagers, exhorting them to avenge her shameful dishonor. Before tying him to the horse's tail, several peasant women stripped off his trousers and underclothes and then masturbated him till he bled, while other harpies, still more sadistically lustful, bit his testicles to the blood before they cut them off with a pair of wool shears.
    Years after this tragedy, one could admire the testicles of Louis de Brow, which, after having been dried, were eventually nailed to a barn door with a yellowing paper on which this inscription could still be read: “Like Pierre Abelard, celebrated for his passion for Heloise, Louis de Brow endured the same fate as that illustrious theologian and philosopher by losing his balls forever.”
    In 1780, Duke Julien Faustin de Chavignac, the eighteen-year-old grandson of a daughter of this same Charlotte, put his mother to death after having ravished her, by throwing her into a red-hot brazier which had been lighted in the court of the chateau to celebrate St. Joan of Arc's Day. The indignant peasants who watched this horrifying scene fell on this unnatural son with their cudgels, and cast him into the fire where his ashes mingled with his mother's.
    We discovered the details of this somber drama in an old, brittle-paged book, given in brief but graphic resume:
    “Madame Carrol de Chavignac had just taken her bath. Standing before her mirror, she was admiring her artistically molded body. Through the double curtains, a ray of the sun illumined her sculptural curves. Gently, the velvet portals were lifted: a young man stood in ecstasy before this divine beauty. But the mirror betrayed his presence. Slowly, the woman turned her head towards her indiscreet admirer and smiling said, “My son!”
    “Startled, Julian came forward and kissed his mother's naked shoulder. Anne-Marie offered him her lips, and he crushed them in a burning kiss. Then this incestuous son fondled the bottom cheeks of this Venus, while she with her soft white hand frigged his cock and balls. When she felt his hand press commandingly on her back, she bent over, straddling her legs. And then, with all the vigor of his youth, Duke Julian buggered his mother, till at last the hot ferocious jet of his gism brought her to her own ecstatic come, abetted by the frigging of her own passionate fingers.
    “Yet in aftermath, the young Duke was horrified by the lustful acquiescence of his beautiful mother. He foresaw that her attractiveness to him and her own noble rank and power might prejudice his ascent to the title of lord of this province, and so he decided without more ado to execute her who had given him birth and then been first to teach him the delights of fucking and bugger. But we see how cruelly he was punished for his incestuous crime.”
    In our own times, the chateau of Quail Rock has once again won fame through an exploit that imperiled its dignity but which also brought the name of the Chavignacs to public attention.
    In order to facilitate the reading of this text, we believe it useful to tell our readers that only two heirs of this great house of Quail Rock still exist: Count Fabian Luce de Chavignac, 52, rich owner of plantations at Fort-Lamy, and the Baron Prosper Agrume, his brother, forty and a bachelor. The Vicountess Anne-Marie de Chavignac, sister of these two, died and was buried in the family vault at the tender age of three. The chateau itself, dilapidated over the years, was sold, and Prosper Agrume went to live in Paris, while his brother Fabian left for tropical climes and was not heard from for years.
    Fifteen years before, on a beautiful spring day, Count Fabian Luce took as his bride Countess Marguerite de la Moyse. It was a love marriage. Count Fabian was then nearly 38, his young countess only twenty. A year later, after an ecstatic honeymoon, Marguerite gave birth to a girl named Martine-Chantal. Count Fabian's joy in his daughter was short-lived, for his beautiful wife died a few days later, thanks to the clumsiness of the midwife. Martine was put in charge of a nurse to give her suck. Crushed by his grief, Count Fabian left the chateau and went to Fort-Lamy. The years rolled by, and then one day, realizing that he would never return to the chateau which symbolized all his despair, Count Fabian sent for his daughter Martine, then fourteen, she being his only reason to live.
    When, after her long journey, she stood before him, he could not stifle a cry of astonishment: “How beautiful you are!”
    And he thought to himself, “She is the image of her mother.” Indeed, the young girl was a living likeness of Countess Marguerite: tall, well-fleshed, blond hair, chestnut brown eyes, and already deliciously formed considering her tender years. Her languorous look, her smile, recalled his wife to him, that blond, passionate spouse so tender in the lists of love. The young girl had the same gestures, the same supple gait which is always the sign of a good fucker, the elegant allure — all these attributes which she had inherited from a mother who, in her own expert knowledge of fucking, had known how to give pleasure to a husband so much older than herself. He stared at Mar-tine, with a look that conveyed his secret desires, a look that neither of them could efface even with fond smiles and idle chatter. And on the evening of that first day, Count Fabian surprised his daughter in deshabille, busying herself with combing her hair before the mirror. In the diary he regularly kept, he himself relates the facts:
    “After dinner, I had just left Martine and I went to the orange grove to smoke a cigar as is my custom. En route, as I passed in front of Martine's room, I glanced inside. The door was ajar, and despite myself I stopped short when I saw my daughter admiring herself before her mirror. Martine was wearing a transparent combination; I could see the whiteness and tempting shape of her thighs, the roundness of her bottom, the prominence of her titties and her bare shoulders. The vision which had seduced me fifteen years ago was reflected once again in that mirror, and made me stand dreaming before that door which under ordinary circumstances I would have closed out of a concern for modesty.
    “At last I did close it and tiptoed silently away. Seated in my rocking chair, I saw Martine in my mind's eye, no longer in combination but naked as a houri. In my daughter, I beheld a woman; I saw again her pointed titties, her supple waist, her long, elegant legs. I laughed at the sudden, capricious notion which had leaped into my mind: to fuck Mar-tine. In vain I tried to banish this idea, but like an importunate fly it buzzed ceaselessly within my brain. I asked myself what my daughter would do if I burst into her room, intent on such an act? Would she cover herself with the bedsheet out of comprehensible modesty, or, conversely, would she unveil herself and offer me her delicate maidenhead? At this latter thought, a flood of blood suffused my face; I had before my eyes the clear vision of that naked body; I saw once more the long golden curls caressing her white, round shoulders. And her beautiful chestnut eyes were like two somber little lakes into which I should love drowning my lustful fever.
    “I remembered, too, how the titties thrust out their pink crests, full and firm, as if demanding caresses, while her suave, soft belly quivered as with an innate voluptuousness. The golden triangle of her cunt garden served as the showcase of the most delicious jewel one could imagine, a jewel made for dispensing divine delights. And at this evocation, my hands trembled violently; I could no longer think of such an adorable naked creature without feeling myself the prey of an insensate, savage desire which destroyed all that was compassionate and good in me. And always the same lacerating thought tortured my suffering brain: what would she do if I went in to her? Was Marguerite really reborn in my Martine? Would I revive a second time the burning joys of my youth? Here I was, in my fifties — dare I dream of such follies?
    “I cast away my cigar, sprang up, walking through the orange grove as a man possessed. I struck my chest, I coughed, I wanted to bring myself to the reality that I was simply a father, an aging man. But my mind wandered. When the door had been ajar and I had seen Martine's titties clearly reflected in the mirror, Martine had surely seen me too. Why hadn't she reacted? Why hadn't she made some gesture of modesty, frightened by the sight of a bold father? No, she hadn't budged; on the contrary, she had lifted her combination, letting me see her silk drawers. Should I consider that she possessed the same heritage of incestuous passion which motivated ill-fated Marie-Anne, mother of Julian whose tragic end I recalled from the memoirs of the old chateau? Was that gesture of hers in showing me her dainty drawers to be interpreted as a provocative act?
    “I was about to descend the stone stairway to take a long walk in the park, at an hour when night slyly descends and caresses with gentle zephyrs. Suddenly, I trembled; before me, Martine, smiling, clad all in white, bathed in the light coming from the salon, appeared more beautiful than ever. Her arms circled my neck and her full lips imparted a sweet kiss on my forehead. My entire being violently reacted to this contact. I cupped her cheeks in my hands, bending her slightly back. Like a golden cascade, her hair flowed onto her bare shoulders. Martine closed her eyes. Without a word, I greedily merged my lips to hers. She shivered, her eyes fluttered half-open, and in that glance which came from her very soul, I comprehended the mute desire that shook her. I pressed that supple body in my arms, felt her titties rise and fall against my chest, and my kisses grew longer, heedless of the distant servant who was drawing the curtains in rooms beyond. Then, suddenly realizing the folly of my gesture, I released her and quickly went to my room. I heard the strokes of midnight sounding from the bell-tower…
    “There was silence everywhere now. However, in the right wing of the mansion, a light shone through the badly adjusted Venetian shutters. I lay down my book on the marble table, rose and silently left my room, crossed the corridor and stopped at the door opposite mine, carefully opened it. Martine was seated on her bed. She looked occupied in reading a love novel, as I learned from a glance at the illustrated cover. She stretched out on the lace-trimmed drape one lovely arm, her hand still grasping the book; and with the other hand made an instinctive gesture to put some order into her toilette, but she did not finish that gesture, and thus I could still espy the peak of a thrillingly firm, jutting tittie, bared and proudly uplifted to my gaze.
    “Martine stared at me with her great dark eyes. A smile, that same kind of smile which had inspired in me the future acts of lust I was now ready to commit, saluted my entry at this late hour. I spoke to her rather hoarsely and awkwardly: “You haven't said good night to me, my child, and till you do, I can't sleep.”
    “I knew I was lying. Besides, in the years that I'd been separated from Martine I'd surely slept well enough without her daily good night. Without a word, she now offered me her forehead for the paternal kiss. But just as on the stairway to the orange grove, I again cupped her cheeks and sought her lips. My tongue sought hers, and met. I felt her shivering. My right hand released her golden curls, then slyly glided under the drape, striking her body, then found her thighs, firm and lissome as velvet. I felt sure now that in a movement of modesty Martine would stiffen and repulse me, revolted by my audacity. But instead, gently and very slowly, her thighs parted. My hand crept toward her little cunny. My fingers grazed the soft frizzy blond down, and then adroitly, my forefinger — expert in this kind of exercise — burrowed into her little slit. I felt her cunny tighten against my inroads and I began to frig her.
    “Having found that dainty button of her clitoris, I concentrated on stroking it till at last I felt the warm stickying liqueur of her spend. Her eyes were drowning, humid and huge, her head rolled from side to side, and, her arms locking round me, drew me to her. In her haste to make love, by this frenzied desire to taste enjoyment which her carnal senses demanded despite her youth, she reminded me so well of her beautiful mother Marguerite. Would I know again my grand passion? Would there be the same games, the same sweet diversions, or should I steel myself and flee from this child now swooning, palpitating and surrendering from the science of my frigging finger in her warm, moist yearning little cunt?
    “Martine had flung back her covers. She showed herself naked to my greedy eyes. I told myself I was her father, that in the pose of her fresh, soft white body stretched before me there was nothing of the provocative slut — and yet, is nature aware of man's law that rebukes incest, when it so overpoweringly evokes the urge to fuck? I could not endure the torment longer; I stripped naked and stretched out beside my daughter.
    “Her little hand, which I had guided, had taken hold of my cock, stiffer than justice itself. She squeezed my prick as if fearful it would escape her. Then, wiser now, after having at last met this object which had been unknown to her till now, she caressed the shaft of my turgid weapon. The delicate, slim fingers of that darling hand scampered up and down my throbbing prong. Arrived at the head, they made a soft collar over the groove, squeezing it and setting off the red plump of my prick head in bold relief. While she thus learned my manhood, I sucked her pointed little titties. I felt her other hand steal hesitantly down my belly till she discovered that a swollen pair of balls awaited her as well as the appendage she already gripped. Her soft fingers balanced, weighed my sacks of lust; and then, to my astonished ecstasy, as if en-flamed by her discoveries, the naked darling got onto her knees over my head and took my cock in her mouth. My cheeks were clasped between two plump, velvety warm thighs, and my tongue, in retaliation, furled into her dainty slit. I felt her love dew given down to this new titillation, and I could hold back no longer; I shot my bubbling essence into her mouth.
    “I feared for a moment that, not having warned her of the consequences of her exquisite Frenching, she might detest me. No! Enervated by the tickling of her lovebutton by which my tongue had procured for her a second spend, she twisted round and flung her arms round my neck as might the most passionate mistress. At first, shame filled me, but little by little desire overtook that emotion. Pressing her down onto her back again, I covered her with kisses and getting astride her, I rubbed the end of my prick against her swollen little button.
    “Seized by a delirious fever, she pronounced incoherent words and flung her legs round my hips, imprisoning me to make sure I belonged to her. I amused myself at first by rubbing the tip of my cock over the lips of her cunny, and so tantalized her that she seized my prick in one intrepid hand, adjusted it herself to her still virgin entryway, and arched her loins to yield to my complete possession. So, unhesitatingly, I pressed onward. She started; I resumed again, she recoiled slightly; then again, her eyes half closed, baptizing me with a flood of obscene little terms which both enchanted and startled me as to their young owner's awareness of such matters, again took hold of my bulging prick and directed it into her quim. Ah, those sweet, lascivious words she had uttered: they were the same her own dear mother had uttered in the throes of fucking-bliss. Hence, without warning, with a keener thrust, I at last penetrated into that narrow orifice, shattering the frail barrier of her vaginal defense. Martine uttered first a cry, then a stifled gasp. I was afraid, I dared neither push onward or withdraw. But a wriggling of her ass commanded me to continue. I shoved forward till the hilt of my prick was swallowed up within her sweet, tight vagina. My prick hairs rasped the soft down of her cunny garden, we were belly to belly, and just as I had fucked her mother, I did the same to her. Martine returned my caresses with interest, and both of us spent madly.
    “After having washed her little pussy, I aided her to go back to bed. She fell asleep at once, and I stayed near the bed to contemplate her. A mad desire to fuck her again took hold of me, but this time I contented myself with frigging my cock as I devoured with my eyes the treasures of her lissome body. Indeed, I pretended I was fucking her sweet tight cunt again so ardently that a clot of gism flew onto her thigh. I carefully wiped the stain away, drew the covers over her and was about to leave the room on tiptoe when Mar-tine murmured, half asleep, 'You're a fine one to jack off in front of me, Daddy darling — what a waste, when you could have done it inside of me again!'
    “Enchanted, I went back to bed without the slightest remorse for what I had done.”

    And thus was perpetuated the legend concerning the descendants of the Chateau of Quail Rock which dominates, from its peak atop the little hill, the village which belongs to it…
    When the morning dawned, announcing already a scorching day in prospect, Count Fabian rose, dressed and told his servant Bouzian that he would be back late that evening, as he had to meet one of his overseers working in a cotton plantation. “Don't forget to tell Marivol to take good care of Mademoiselle. I confide her to you, you understand?”
    Bouzian, who had served the Count for two years, was a perfect specimen of Negro manhood, intelligent, athletic and devoted to his master. The cook was a mulatress named Marivol. Though she was twenty-five, the same age as Bouzian, they had not fucked together. Bouzian had little interest in women who didn't like being buggered; and since Marivol belonged to that category, he never touched her, so they lived together as brother and sister might. She loved cooking little treats for her venerated master, and hence was overjoyed to be given charge of his daughter Martine.
    When the ornate clock on the mantelpiece struck nine, Martine's door was opened by Bouzian, who carried a tray encrusted in mother-of-pearl, on which, smoking hot, was a bowl of beautiful ceramic cast containing the thick hot chocolate which, in this tropical country, was a breakfast custom. Thus awakened, Martine accorded her servant a ravishing smile. He placed the tray on a tarbouret and drew the blinds. Wishing her good appetite, he began to withdraw, bowing obsequiously. Martine seemed to emerge from a dream, beholding this handsome negro in a white shirt that accentuated the gleaming ebony of his skin.
    “Come here. Where is my father?”
    “The master went to X-, and will not be back till this evening, very late.”
    “And Marivol?”
    “She went to market.”
    “Good. Come here, then. Now, don't be afraid. How are you dressed underneath?”
    Lifting his shirt, she disclosed two superbly athletic thighs and a prodigious swelling between them which his loincloth scarcely dissembled. Martine touched that prominent object, asking: “And that there, what is it?”
    Not at all stupid, he replied deferentially, “Let Mademoiselle see for herself.”
    Martine was waiting for just that. She unfastened the loincloth and a superb prick adorned with heavy, thickly laden balls was exposed to her view. She was hypnotized by the enormity and length of that prick, whose shaft was really spectacular in its rigidity and breadth. With curiosity, she weighed his balls; then, casting aside the covers, drew the handsome Negro to her, who, overjoyed with this unexpected turn of affairs, gutturally said, “Me put banana in your coconut!”
    Martine understood that banana meant prick, but what was coconut? She analyzed the word; coco, fruit of the coconut tree, furnished an excellent butter. But Bouzian's interpretation vastly differed; he put his hand on his young mistress' bottom. Martine comprehended; she knelt down, offering her bottom to him. Completely naked now, Bouzian thrust his enormous cock between her thighs, rubbing her soft, golden pussy down, and for a few moments thus tickled her sensitive perineum, as preparation for the supreme act. Martine, enraptured, looked through her widened thighs to see his huge balls jiggling with each movement. As for Bouzian, he considered the dainty bung of his young mistress, not wishing to punish her for such sweet complaisance this first time by causing her undue pain; at last he found a means of easing the act. Stretching out one hand, he scraped off some of the butter spread on the cakes Marivol had prepared for Martine's breakfast, and then anointed Martine's delicious little bunghole. When he deemed it sufficiently lubricated, he adjusted his prick. Martine, her head still bowed between her legs, watched his balls swing back and forth and impatiently yearned to feel them lash against her naked bottom cheeks. Then she felt the first dig of his monstrous ramrod. Her lips compressed, but she courageously tendered her bottom that it might swallow the promised banana. But Bouzian did not make her languish for it; indeed, showing strangely little tenderness for his willing young partner, he buried three quarters of his prick in a single mighty thrust deep into her virgin ass hole.
    Martine uttered a piercing cry, the cry of a wounded animal. As it chanced, the Count de Chavignac, who had had to return because a wheel of his carriage had broken down heard that cry and bounded up the stairs. He hurried to her room and stood there, nailed to the spot; through the half-open door, he beheld Bouzian in the act of buggering his naked daughter, who, impaled by that colossal black prick, was wriggling with commingled joy and suffering.
    At the sight, the Count realized the part he had played in this debauchery, and bitterly resented the infidelity of his perverse daughter. So, leaving them in the prey of their furious lust, he went back to his workroom and remained there with his sad thoughts till evening.
    During this time, Martine, planted on palms and knees, uttered savage cries. Her golden hair mantled her contorted face, her body shivered, her white chiseled thighs yawned apart, the young girl gave herself up to spend after spend till her sheets were wet. When she felt that massive prick spurt its hot lava into her entrails, she nearly swooned, her head buried on the pillow, her hair sticking to her perspiring face, but that abandoned pose made her all the more appetizing.
    Bouzian began to caress her quivering thighs and panting titties, and Martine at last opened her eyes, a smile wreathing her lips to show two rows of flawless little white teeth. Gently, she let herself be turned onto her back, while Bouzian crouched over her to gamahuch her to a seventh heaven of bliss. Spreading her legs, she drew his body down to her, and her right hand began to frig him till, seeing that his prick had achieved all its former grandeur, she rubbed it against her mouth. Overjoyed, he turned about and sheathed his mighty blade deep into her tight little cunt hole, and, after several vigorous thrusts, shot a bubbling flood of sperm deep into her innermost recesses.
    Meanwhile, the Count took stock of himself. It had taken only his daughter's arrival, after the long years of separation, to change him from an honest man into a despicable being, the plaything of unholy passions. He took a firm resolve; he must disappear before such abominations happen again; so, without waiting any longer, he rang her on the private house telephone.
    It was just past noon, and the chocolate had been finished, mouthful by mouthful after each seance: buggering, fucking, gamahuching and Frenching. Martine took the receiver: “Ah, it's you, Papa? Where are you? Yes… I understand… you'll be back in a week? Don't worry, Marivol will look after me… yes… I'll kiss you when you come back.” Then, as she replaced the phone, she giggled, “Ouf! Now I can fuck all I want. Papa won't be back for a whole week!”
    Bouzian, hearing this happy news, did a little jig, thereby inflaming his young white mistress who promptly beckoned him back to bed. There, she sucked him off again, and when his spunk shot forth vigorously, she swallowed it without losing a single drop. Exhausted, they fell asleep side by side; it was a miracle that Marivol, who had come back from market, didn't find them together.
    But Count Fabian had lied; in reality, he hadn't gone away for just a week, as he'd told Martine, but forever. He had gone to an isolated spot on the plantation and put a bullet through his brain. Yet if his sin and its self-inflicted punishment had ended his life, it had also opened the door of happiness to Martine by granting her a freedom of which, as we shall see later on, she made singular use.
    The rest of the day passed calmly for the young girl, since tropical heat destroys all will and energy. Not suspecting her father's suicide, she could hardly know that she was already the sole mistress and ruler of this plantation. But when the freshness of the evening cast its welcome veil on the plantation, life seemed to revive little by little. The colony of Tchad numbers many people from the Ubangi and Mid-Cameroons, from Anglo-Egyptian Sudan and Nigeria. A large part of this population is itinerant; they are in the main members of groups that follow their ethnic affinities and each keeps his own religious beliefs, his traditional way of life as much as that is possible in so distant a setting where inbreeding, crossbreeding and foreign influences are so powerful.
    These peoples who speak twenty different languages and dialects, give the city a bizarre aspect. During the moonlit nights, everyone is outside. The little vendors in the street of the Mosque light feeble lamps which hardly illumine their paltry wares. It is the hour when the wealthy choose to stage, before the doors of their dwellings, festivals and parties which display their finest possessions. The women wear bejeweled loincloths on which are patterned the most unusual motifs, and through the widely open folds, one can glimpse the bare bottoms, as well as the bellies and tempting thighs; sometimes even their breasts are nearly bared. Sometimes the late traveler, losing his way in the torturous streets of this city, finds himself accosted by certain creatures whose shadows fall in 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 series of ballet-like movements and leaps, which enabled us all to admire the most intimate parts of her anatomy, for she was naked under her raffia loincloth. I winked at my master and whispered, 'She's a beauty, Monsieur the Baron. You should make her acquaintance after the number.' But he didn't say a word. As the enthusiastically-applauded number came to an end and the waiter appeared at our table for our order, I profited by slipping him a hastily written note and whispered into his ear. He made a gesture showing that he understood. Pamela, despite the cheers and whistles and bravos that acclaimed her, did not return to take a bow. I thought to myself that there were about fifty men here with their female companions — wives or mistresses or whores, as it might be — and that every one of those fifty, like the Baron and myself, must be having agonizing hard ons by now.
    “Then a native male dancer came out completely naked, and made us roar with laughter at his contortions, which had to do with the most ingenious ways of twisting himself about to suck his own cock. However, my master and I would have been ultimately bored if Pamela hadn't now approached our table, accompanied by one of the luscious Negresses who had been among those first dancers. The Baron ordered champagne for everyone, and we then followed the young women into a private room, luxuriously furnished for the particular use which was generally made of them.
    “My master at once began to try to grab Pamela and pull her to him, but she laughingly escaped and, dancing about in the room in a kind of bewitching striptease, slowly removed, one by one, the gossamer garments she wore, letting us see first an expanse of milky thigh or the proud peak of one beautiful firm tittie, till at last she lay naked on the huge bed covered with red velvet drapes. Her splendidly lissome white body was magnificently accentuated by that hue. Baron Prosper, beside himself, stripped naked; showing a rather vigorous body for his age, but his usual timidity was certainly belied by the proudly erect staff that thrust forth from his graying pubic mane. He approached the bed, bent over and timidly grazed that alabaster flesh with his lips. As Pamela did not repulse him, he continued to salute her charms with his mouth, adoring her arms and shoulders, her belly, moving thence to her bosom and lingering over the tasty strawberries of her nipples, then descended to the mount of Venus and glued his lips to the fine golden down which scarcely hid the rosy lips of her cunny.
    “Despite his lack of amorous experience, he quickly comprehended what he had to do; delicately spreading those sweet cunny corals apart, he drove his tongue into the tabernacle, seeking out that sensitive button, which he soon discovered. Then he began to suck it till Pamela groaned with bliss. But as she didn't want to have orgasm in that way, she pushed him away; then, grasping him, forced him to stretch out on the bed where she began to pay him back for his tribute. Kneeling in the pose of sixty-nine over my master, she began to graze with the tip of her tongue the hardening nipples of his chest, his swollen cock, lingering a long while over the turgid shaft, then descending to the hairy testicles. She displayed such science in her Frenching that he began to groan and clench his hands against the yawning thighs above his head, and again he plunged his greedy mouth into the juicy slit. “Divining that he was near spending, Pamela's soft lips glued over the head of his ramrod with a series of soft little suckings, then swallowed as much of his shaft as she could, furling her moist, hot tongue along its crannies. Then, as a further diversion, she began to flick the urethral slit at the tip of his taut meatus with rapid little pressures of her nimble tongue. Finally, to conclude this menu of Frenching, she insinuated her little finger into his anus, which finished him off; he shot his turbulent lava into her mouth. Greedily, Pamela kept that throbbing organ, avidly swallowing the sticky jet, while her own love dew moistened his lips, and he in turn sucked and swallowed without losing a drop of her nectared essence.
    “Watching this spectacle, I was not to be outdone; stripping naked, I seized my Negress, who too had undressed as she watched the thrilling scene. I bent her over a thick cushion so I might bugger her. But, not suspecting my real desire, she put her fingers to her fleshy, juicy cunny and spread the lips invitingly. Not deterred, I pointed my arrow towards that dainty rosette as my hands gripped the succulent ebony cheeks of her bottom. The Negress was surprised, but, lending herself complacently to my desire once she knew it, put her hands back to her bottom cheeks and aided me to yawn them to extreme. My prick slowly buried itself in her tight orifice, and then I paused. It was not the first time I had entered the temple of Sodom, and I wished to spare my partner a little and enter her gently and lingering, to prolong my pleasure. Then, another thrust of my loins, and my prick disappeared entirely within her channel, while my balls bumped against her gapping humid pussy.
    “I pulled my prick back as far as the head so that I might bury it once again in that scabbard of hot flesh, for this beautiful Negress was like a furnace of lust. I recalled four years ago, when as a soldier, I fucked and buggered the beautiful Negresses of Ubangi-Chari — and, when there were no Negresses available, the Sengalese with gleaming black skin who were endowed with cocks that would terrify the boldest whore of the Casbah, for they could give a man pleasure too in their own way. These memories inspired my powers and I furrowed my beautiful black partner with fury, digging it into the deepest recesses of her bumhole, while I slid my hand towards her humid pussy and, seizing her clitoris between thumb and forefinger, frigged her so as to bring about the delicious quakings of her muscles against my imbedded prong. “Soon raucous, guttural sounds of ecstasy escaped her panting lips. I too felt climax nearing; at first, a spark of heat in my belly, which spread like a tongue of fire that constantly increases, devours all and suddenly shatters into explosive fury, and thus I drenched the burning entrails of my passionate partner with a copious flow of love-lava. I did not release her, however, and continued to thrust back and forth into that well oiled sheath to bring her to a similar spasm. I felt my cock softening, the last drops of life-essence ebbing from it, when suddenly orgasm seized her, she uttered a cry and stiffened, flooding my fingers still lodged inside her pussy-with her sticky love-cream, while violent quakings seized her glistening bare body. With a last sigh, she rolled onto the cushion, and, withdrawing, I sat down on the rug, depleted and appeased.
    “But Pamela did not wish to remain un-solaced, and so after a few moments of repose necessary to restore my master to his vigor, she grasped his slowly stiffening tool between her slim long fingers, covering its length with delicate caresses, tickling his balls and then upwards along the head till his weapon pointed rigidly to the ceiling. Judging him at least readied for the fray, she lay down on her back, drawing him upon her, and guided his furiously reawakened manhood towards her sweet oasis. The waiter had told us she was only fifteen, and yet despite that extreme youth her cunny swallowed up the entirety of his vigorous organ, till I saw her golden pubis merge with his grey fleece. With rhythmic jerks of her loins, she showed my master the cadence she desired, murmuring: 'Follow me, darling… push in deep… there… now back… now push in again — ah — that's the way!'
    “The baron, a virgin till that hour, one might say, adapted himself quickly to this maneuver, and his well oiled piston rose and fell within that dainty cunny, which absorbed it with an exquisite sucking sound in the very cadence Pamela had decreed. At last she too began to feel delight growing in her womb, and accompanied him in the gait towards a divine orgasm, wriggling her loins furiously as might a cavalry steed at the gallop. She uttered inarticulate little cries as his noble cock furrowed her groove: 'Ahh! Harder, deeper, darling, ahh!' she groaned. Excited by her cries, my master quickened his cadence, grinding his teeth, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. Now, unleashed, Pamela writhed, her face contorted, eyes blazing with passion: 'Ahh — Baron — I'm coming — push deeper still — ohh, I'm coming — I'm com — ing — ahh — ahhhh!' Her hands dug into his shoulders, her body arched like a bow, then shook with convulsive spasms. He too tasted the bliss of come, as prolonged 'Ahhhhhs!' exuded from his throat. With a final thrust, he poured out his baronial sperm into that excited cunny. And their bodies writhed and fused in a last galvanic surging, then clung in the gelid aftermath of spent passion savouring the fleshy pleasures they had just procured each other.
    “After a little rest, I aided him in dressing, while Pamela and her Negress disappeared to perform their ablutions. He made them a handsome gift for their services, promising to summon them another evening, and they covered him with kisses as they joyously accepted. We left them, for the hour was late, and we went back on foot to our hotel. Dawn was nearly breaking, the air was cool, the best part of a tropical day in such a land.
    “'My dear Patrick, you're a precious jewel of a servant. You've given me an unforgettable night; my master said to me. 'I'd no idea one could have such pleasure in this shabby city.'
    “'Oh, if Monsieur the Baron will forget his stamp collection for a bit and have confidence in me, I'll promise even greater delights,' I told him. 'One must concentrate on flesh, not stamps or legacies, however. And, if the Baron will pardon my frankness, I've noted that he is endowed with a superbly virile cock; one must make use of this, nature has given it for that reason.'
    “'You're right, my dear fellow, you're quite right! But, you see, in Paris, such pleasures are abominably commercialized, so much so that it disgusts me. Whereas here, those two girls just now, why, you saw how eagerly they made love.'
    “'Here,' I laughingly interposed, 'all women are alike. They have a fire in their cunnies and bumholes. The climate does that… the cooking and the spices contribute to it, too, Baron.'
    “'Well, then, Patrick, I give you a free hand in organizing another evening identical to this one. However, not every evening — or we'd soon be shadows of ourselves, eh?' he chuckled, nudging me in the ribs. When we got back to our hotel, we asked the desk clerk to waken us so that we wouldn't be late for the appointment with the notary. However, it took some little time to waken us from the deep slumber into which we fell at once — and no wonder! — but a taxi had been called by the hotel manager and was waiting to take us to Monsieur Honome.
    “When the taxi stopped in front of Count Fabian's dwelling, the notary and his clerk had already arrived ahead of us, and my master appeared pale, listless and exhausted; I ascribed this fatigue, you may be sure, not to our nocturnal adventure but to the fatigue of the long journey we had made. Seated at the table, the notary informed my master that the young girl whose guardian he was to be was an adolescent of 15, named Martine. A few moments later, a young girl opened the door and smilingly entered. When he saw her, the Baron gasped: 'Oh, it's not possible!' Mar-tine, on the threshold, stared at him; they had recognized each other. Master Honome made the introductions: 'Monsieur the Baron Prosper Agrume de Chavignac, your uncle.' Then turning to the young girl: 'Mademoiselle de Chavignac, your niece. You may kiss each other. It is permitted.'
    “The girl and my master fell into each other's arms, quite moved. They regarded each other, remembering the delicious hours of the night before. Then the papers were signed, and it was decided that my master would remain for an unspecified time here with his niece whose welfare was now legally his concern. He did not stop admiring her, and when they were alone in the room, he said to her, 'You're the very portrait of your mother. The same kind of face, even the same hair, the same color eyes, and I can say also, the same amorous temperament. When your mother lived with my brother, she shocked me a little with her physical exuberance. It's true that I'm a real puritan.'
    “'But tell me now, Unkie — for I must call you that from now on,' Martine giggled, while she cast me a malicious smile, 'last night, you know, there was nothing puritanical about you.'
    “'Yes, last night I discovered a new face in Martine's life, or, Pamela, in fact. But why do you call yourself Pamela at the Green Squirrel, my little one?'
    “'I can't help it, Unkie. I've always dreamed of dancing on a runway, of being in a music hall, but at Fort-Lamy one doesn't have much choice, and I'm not an international star, after all. At the Green Squirrel, as long as a girl wriggles her hips and shows her legs, the customers are happy. And Pamela is a warm name that suits me. Now that you told me my mother had an ardent temperament, it's only natural that since I'm her daughter, I follow in her ways. Here, the Negroes are very insipid in their lovemaking, aside from a very few who know the refinements that make a woman have a climax. So last night, when I saw a chance to meet two white men, I didn't hesitate for a minute. But devil take me if I thought you were my uncle! Anyway, it stays in the family. And you know, Unkie,' here Martine cajolingly wound her milky arms round my master's neck, 'you made me come in a really formidable way. And to think you were inexperienced — why, it was like having an affair with a virgin of my own age — except that he had a much, much longer cock,' she finished saucily and gave him a stinging little kiss on the mouth.
    “' I, too, Martine, retain delicious memories of that night. You revealed incredible sources of pleasure to me, things I never even dreamed of. No, I'm not a virgin, but I was almost one, and that was why last night will never be forgotten.'
    “Dear Unkie, since fate has thus brought us together, we can have our little games whenever we wish. I noticed that your handsome servant didn't disdain the pleasures of a girl's behind. My, didn't he bugger my partner perfectly, with a real technique! I'm even asking myself if the two of you — you know?'
    “'Never, Martine! Never, between men — what a horror!'
    “'Oh, yes, between men is a custom quite in vogue here, even though so many sex-hungry women beg only to be used,' Martine laughingly replied. 'But in case your valet likes that, well I have my Negro servant Bouzian, who will let him do it to him, and do it to him, too! And wait till you see what a big tool, what an enormous tool, Bouzian has!'
    “'Come now, Martine, you don't mean to tell me you've made love with him?' my master gasped.
    “'Why, of course, Unkie. Now, he took me by force the first time, but he made me spend so wonderfully I just couldn't do without him. Can I help it if there's a fire in my little slit every now and then? And besides, Unkie,' she wheedled, 'there's also our cook Marlvol. She has a very soft velvety tongue, and she adores being buggered. She and Patrick will get along famously, you'll see.'
    “My master couldn't get over the thought of such orgiastic delights in this almost austere mansion; it was beyond his imagination at the start. But he soon got used to the notion, finding the inspiration from realizing that he had been endowed, thanks to his brother's suicide, a magnificent estate and a beautiful young niece who was expert in erotic games and who asked only to be his scienced tutress. Yes, fate had decided for him, and its motto henceforth would be: 'Live to fuck and fuck to live; enjoyment is the only law!'
    “A bell rang elsewhere in the house, and Martine explained, 'Dinner is ready.'
    (And now, let our readers follow the journal of Baron Prosper himself as to what followed.)
    Martine rose, escorting me to the dining room, where I found Patrick, my valet, who had already met Marivol. I don't know what he'd told her, but she was laughing hilariously. Her face was attractive, and her figure quite appetizing, especially the jutting cheeks of her bottom which suggested the specialty of love that she preferred. Moreover, she was an excellent cook, and our first family repast was a great success. After coffee and cigars, I sent Patrick to settle our bill at the hotel, and Martine — or Pamela, as Marivol always called her — sent for Bouzian.
    He was a splendid, sturdy, ebony-skinned male, and I could at once imagine the lascivious contrast between his gleaming black skin and my niece's white flesh. Just from seeing how tall and strapping he was, I had a fair notion that he must be prodigiously equipped between his thighs. My niece then asked me if I wanted to tour the estate, perhaps on horseback, and I at once agreed.
    “Prepare Azalie and Zephyr for us,” Pamela ordered her Negro servant.
    “At once, mistress.”
    “They are two nice mares,” Pamela explained, “and they'll give us a pleasant ride.” I walked with her to the courtyard, where Bouzian was already waiting, holding the bridles. He aided Martine to clamber up, then did me the same service. Dressed as I was in a business suit, I knew I looked ridiculous, but since I wasn't going into town, it didn't matter. As the heat was suffocating, I took off my vest and handed it to Bouzian, who, removing his widebrimmed straw hat, offered it to me in return: “You take hat, otherwise sun knock you out,” he warned.
    I took his advice and followed Pamela, who served as guide. We rode through fields of nut trees, coffee bean trees and rubber trees. The implacable sun scorched us, and so finally Martine turned her mare towards a clump of palm trees. A little spring appeared, gushing from a huge rock, and both of us knelt down and refreshed ourselves. Then we lay down on our backs on the thick grass near the rock. “I adore this place,” she confided, “and whenever we tour the plantation, I stop here to rest.”
    “I share your opinion, Martine,” I murmured, “and besides, the leaves of these palm trees cast a particularly desirable shade.” I stretched out, yawning in complete relaxation. She emulated me; turning onto my side, I admired her bosom, naked under a thin white shirt, rising and falling to the rhythm of her breathing. I could make out under that fragile fabric the erect, prominent buds of her nipples and a prickling wave of lust seared my loins.
    With a gentle hand, I delicately stroked her young but beautifully firm titties. Pamela pretended to be asleep. Emboldened, I cupped both her titties and squeezed them, then I began to pinch her nipples gently. Cooing sounds escaped her lips, and she opened her eyes and smiled at me: “How divinely you caress, mon uncle!” She stretched again, spreading her legs, and in that movement her linen skirt hiked up above her knees to disclose the flawless curves of her young thighs. Thus encouraged, I unfastened the buttons of her blouse, and my hands greedily fondled her naked titties. Now she was beginning to groan and to rub her legs together; I was sure her cunny was beginning to get wet. Releasing her titties, I slipped a hand under her skirt and probed two fingers into her slit. She tightened her legs, but I was already too well placed to be deterred. I attained the button of her clitoris, which I began to roll between my fingers. At that very moment, I felt Pamela's hand nervously unbutton my fly and, grasping hold of my stiffened cock, begin to frig me in the most exquisite way imaginable.
    Her pussy got wetter and wetter, and she groaned: “Press harder on my button, Unkie — ooooh, I'm going to come — ohh, how good it is — ahh — there it is — ooooh, I'm com-mmmmminnnnggg!!”
    Indeed she was, for my fingers were inundated by her sticky love cream; yet I kept tickling her clitoris till at last I felt my own discharge burst from me. She lay there a long moment in the exquisite oblivion which always follows a good spend. I put my fingers to my nose, out of curiosity, and inhaled the mystic fragrance of her feminine essence; it had a kind of aphrodisiacal quality to it that made my limpened penis throb with yearning once again. 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 forbidden temple. She was accustomed to this, for the dildo burrowed in up to the very hilt, and Martine thus comprehended what was expected of her. Grasping the nun's titties with both hands, and with rhythmic thrusts, she buggered Sister Concepcion vigorously, drawing the dildo back to the very tip, then plunging it back pitilessly, aided by the ardent nun who met these charges by thrusting back her bottom eagerly. To quicken the nun's pleasure, Martin put a hand to the sticky cunny and frigged the hardening clitoris. Thus doubly besieged by carnal bliss, the young nun, in a voice strangled by emotion, poured out a strange litany:
    “Ohh… prick full of… mercy… prick divine… cast into the entrails of her who offers herself in holocaust your celestial manna… oh, my God… I feel you in me… you burn me… refresh with your spurt of holy water the burning of hell inside me!” And she spent. By reaching back and squeezing the testicles of this dildo, she caused the jet of water to surge into her bowels, while Martine's fingers drew her to the giving down of her own furiously pent up lovecream. And she called out: “Oh, my God, I've come… may the liqueur drawn from my pussy, as well as that which comes from the divine prick, dispenser of eternal pleasure, be blessed… amen!”
    After thus having said grace for her blessings, Sister Concepcion got up and led Mar-tine back to her room.
    But if Martine had been initiated at a tender age in the games of love. Sister Marie-Therese could go her one better; she had lost her illusions at an age when one does not even begin to think of such naughty games. Her parents had been very pious and very wealthy and wanted her to become a nun, hoping that one day she might be the Mother Superior of a convent. That did not displease her, as even as a child she had a somewhat mystic temperament, being keenly intelligent and precocious. So her mother arranged with the priest of their parish to teach her rudimentary theology. And it was arranged that Therese go every Thursday afternoon to the priest's quarters for her lessons — I may add that I learned all these events from Martine herself.
    On the second Thursday, a very warm day, the priest had removed his cassock, while Therese wore only a little pleated skirt and thin blouse. Tall for her age and well formed, she was seated on his knees listening attentively as the priest asked her: “Have you already seen the little Jesus?”
    “Yes, Father, in his cradle.”
    “Would you like to see him again?”
    “Very much, Father.”
    He drew his cock out of his underclothes. “Here, darling, here he is.”
    “Oh,” Therese exclaimed, “how handsome he is!”
    “Caress him, then, give him your hand.”
    Docily, Therese caressed the cock, to find it stiffening at once to her touch.
    “He's standing up!” she cried in astonishment.
    “Not so loud, little one! Yes, you see he likes that — would you like him to go into your cradle?”
    Innocently, Therese responded, “But it's not Christmas, and there isn't any cradle here.”
    “No?” Then what is this, my child?” The priest put his hand under the little skirt and touched the girl's enchanting little pussy. Therese began to giggle, let herself be carried to his bed and stretched out on it, then watched him as he took off her drawers and his own shorts. Her eyes grew very big at the sight of his heavy balls. He approached the bed, and Therese took hold of his vigorous shaft, sliding her left hand between his legs to investigate these unfamiliar big hairy sacks. Then, at his instruction, she tickled the huge plumhead of his cock, after which he knelt over her and tickled her little pussy with the inflamed arrow her fingers had so exquisitely attuned.
    He played with her a long while, kissing her soft little titties, her sleek belly, her long shapely, slender thighs, and then ran his tongue over her rosebud of a cunny. But he decided not to deflower that rosebud, so instead he turned her over onto her belly and anointed first his cock and then the rosette of her anus with vaseline. He was thirty-five years old, and had performed this ritual with boys as well as girls, but his specialty of sucking off the boys and gamahuching the girls had won their confidence so that they would not dream of telling their parents what he had first done to them.
    Therese soon felt a thick hard object invade the dainty crevice of her bottom, thrusting inexorably forward. It was almost more than she could bear, but when he tickled her clitoris with a sage forefinger and drew her to her first girlish spending, her muscles expanded and contracted and thus aided his inroads till at last she felt the hot drench of his gism. He kissed and caressed her, praised her docility; then, washed, her clothes back in place and hair combed, she was sent away, promising to return the next Thursday.
    This little liaison lasted several years without her parents or friends suspecting. Moreover, quite apart from theology, Therese had learned many things from these singular lessons and she was always to cherish her memories and knowledge. At boarding school, she learned of games with her own sex, and when she finally entered the convent, she did not forget the joys which the priest had dispensed, for she acquired a superb dildo, realizing that in the convent there would be no men like him to satisfy her needs. She initiated several sisters, so that she might always calm the fiery urges of her passionate nature. Sent to Fort-Lamy to this sanitarium, she brought her dildo with her. I can well imagine what the customs officer must have thought when, searching her luggage, he came upon that simulacrum, but of course, since it was not prohibited, he simply closed the suitcase and wished her happiness in her new home.
    However, since she was the only nurse in the ward to which she was assigned, she was reduced to satisfying herself or, on rare occasions, with a patient who was not too ill, such as Martine. And in two all too short weeks Martine was pronounced cured, greatly to the despair of not only Therese but also Conception.
    Our little household joyously welcomed her return, especially my master Prosper who had believed her lost forever. During her stay at the sanitarium, he had given up his passion for stamps so as to devote himself entirely to this plantation and to his niece who had revealed to him the divine joys of the flesh.
    To celebrate Martine's return, I organized a little party, aided by Marivol and Bouzian, who suggested that we invite Lakian as well as the charming Creole and his mistress, Blanchette. Martine clapped her hands with joy at the idea, and Marivol surpassed herself in the kitchen. After a wealth of appetizers, she offered us delicious couscous in which curry, red pepper, and cinnamon were blended to produce an aphrodisiacal effect.
    The meal over, Marivol rose and exclaimed, “It's too hot in here. I'm going to go naked for comfort.” Blanchette followed her example, and the coffee-colored skin of her svelte body excited me enormously. Martine gleefully ordered all of us to be naked, as she pranced about the room, casting her garments hither and yon. It was the signal for action.
    Bouzian seized Blanchette whom he had long coveted, stretched her out on a mat, and began at once to fuck her. She spread her thighs eagerly, seized the rigid weapon he presented her and directed it towards her rosy slit. Her legs wound round his buttocks as she adapted herself to his vigorous ploughing rhythm. Marivol pushed my master back onto his cushion, saying, “Marivol, she always want to be fucked by you. I very hot today, you take care of me, master.” He was the only man who had not made love to her, but on this day she had vowed to enjoy him, and had plotted with Bouzian to win him, for in the past he seemed always to spurn her.
    Her mouth fused with his; seizing with one hand his swollen ramrod, she thrust it home into her fiery cunt, and then, clasping her arms round him, began the frenetic cadence to which he was constrained to follow. After the first shock of her aggressiveness, I will say that my master joined forces with her in a manner that utterly contented her furious desires.
    As for Lakian, he wanted to enjoy Martine, and stretched her out on the table. Kneeling, he bowed his head to her furry oasis and began to lick it. His thick, raspy tongue furled down along the delicate, sensitive passage connecting her two orifices of pleasure, back and forth, probing just inside the rosebud of her bottomhole, thence back to her pussy, whose stiffening lovebutton he found and saluted. Pamela — for she was thus once again — uttered a cry of bliss and wrapped her nervously flexing thighs round his neck, groaning: “Lick, Lakian — oooh, it's so good — ahh, you're making me cream — ooooh, bury your tongue deeper into me, ohhhh!”
    Her belly frantically weaved and writhed till at last she gave down her lovedew, and Lakian's expert tongue devoured every drop. Pamela fell back, assuaged. But he didn't want to stop there. Taking advantage of her abandoned pose, he pressed the head of his prodigious cock between the palpitating pink lips of her cunny. Pamela, opening her eyes, tried to evade this act, but he held her tightly, growling, “Me lick your bung good, now me fuck you too, otherwise me bugger you good and hard!” Realizing the futility of resistance, Pamela did her best to aid his entry into her tight sheath. Stoically, she let it be shoved into her, trying to facilitate the difficult passage by wriggling her abdomen. But soon the burning sensations evoked by that prodigious battering-ram of flesh and gristle rekindled the flame of lust which ceaselessly burned deep within her. Stretched though her cunny- was by his enormous spear, the maddening friction it caused her vaginal walls overcame the discomfort of that distension, and she clutched him with arms and legs, bucking and writhing to meet his vigorous digs. Lakian, enraptured by her enthusiastic collaboration, did not take long to deluge her matrix with his furious jet. Yet he went on fucking, his mighty tool still rigid, lifting Pamela's shivering naked body with every eviscerating thrust. Finally, appeased, he withdrew, while Pamela lay with arms and legs spread out, annihilated by this doubly hard and long wooing.
    And what did I do all this time, you ask? Well, for quite a time I watched with admiration these two charming tableaux, till my cock demanded satisfaction. At first I thought of using my hand to ease my anguish, but the sight of Marivol's wriggling bottom as she lay mounted over my master gave me quite a better idea. Seizing her haunches while she and my master still continued their feverish fuck, I aimed my spear at the rosebud of her anus, and soon my cock was buried to the hilt inside that tight, hot, churning sheath. At each of my thrusts, I could feel my master's cock almost join mine, separated by the thinnest of membranes. We regulated our cadence till Marivol tasted the bliss of spending. Her body heaved and quaked, her cries were deafening, and I had to cling tightly to her lest I be flung off.
    It was the first time I had ever buggered a woman while she was being fucked, and I swear that no other experience in all the annals of sexual pleasure can so gratify my cock. At last we went to our rooms to sleep, and this time, I know that no phantom crept into my master's room to disturb his deep slumber!
    He, in fact, was first to waken the next morning, and went to his niece's room to discuss with her the idea of a trip which he had thought about. He found Martine-Pamela still asleep, the covers flung off and her nightgown tucked up to escape the oppressive heat. He stood admiring her voluptuous young body, reminiscing on how Bouzian's friend Lakian had licked, then fucked that dainty cunny of hers. And the images thus evoked roused him to new exploits of desire as he felt his prick stiffen under his robe. Seating himself gently on the edge of her bed, he passed his palm over her gently swelling bare titties, insistently rubbing the dark coral tidbits of her nipples which soon hardened. Her body began to squirm, her bosom to rise and fall more quickly, and with a great sigh, she opened her eyes. “Oh, my God — then it's true, it wasn't a dream! Oh, darling Unkie, you woke me in the most delicious way!”
    My master took this as carte blanche, and at once put his lips to a turgid lovebud; from there, his lips and tongue roamed down her belly to the dark-golden fleece of her cunny. Parting those intimate petals, he revealed the diadem of her clitoris, and his tonguetip rasped against it lingeringly. Pamela went into a trance under such expert caresses; a fit of trembling seized her, and her pussy grew avid for fulfillment. Pushing his face away, she gasped, “Quick, Unkie, ooh, take me — I want to be fucked till I come! Ohh, hurry and shove that big darling cock of yours way inside me!”
    Opening her arms, she drew him down to her writhing naked body. My master plunged his cock into her impatient quim, as Pamela arched herself furiously, wanting to feel the tip of his organ scrape the very bottom of her womb. She began to buck like a mare in heat, her titties rising and falling with a feverish rhythm. “Ohh, dig it harder into me, Unkie — ooh, yes, deeper, harder, don't spare me!” she wailed. And as he quickened his tempo, she babbled, “Yes — ahh — like that — ohh, harder — still harder — ohh, Unkie, I'm coming… I'm coming… how good it is! Ahh, don't ever stop, oh do go on that way — yes — ahh, you too, you're going to come, I feel you running over in me — ohh, how hot and good it is — oh, don't stop yet, go on, fuck me hard, darling Unkie!” Her cries of pleasure gave way to languorous sighs, stifled groans, while my master, having given up his very last drop, lay panting in his niece's arms, a spasm rippling through his body from time to time to testify to the violence of his orgasm.
    He was first to regain his senses, and, leaving her there to sleep, returned to his room. After a cold shower, he went to eat a copious breakfast, served by the smiling Marivol, who asked him roguishly: “Did Master sleep good, no ghosts?”
    “None at all, Marivol! I slept so well that this morning I feel like a young man of twenty,” he chuckled.
    “Yes, Master, yesterday too, I know you felt like a young man,” she burst into laughter as she disappeared into the kitchen.
    After a late lunch, my master told us his news: “My dear friends, we've been put on earth not to be melancholy but to profit to the maximum from the pleasures life can offer. Now we must take advantage of youth while there's still time. I feel I've squandered enough of my life already, so I propose to you a little trip which I hope will meet with your approval. We'll go to the Belgian Congo, where the pygmies live, and there we'll have an unusual vacation, far from civilization and its boring conventions.”
    And so the next day our little expedition set out in a superb Cadillac. In the Belgian Congo about 400 miles to the east of Stanleyville, on the banks of the Epulu River, we met our little Bamboutis. At first sight, they seemed ugly, with their big flat noses, their sharpened teeth and their skulls shaved. The adults measured only about four feet at the tallest, with the waist of a twelve-year-old child. But if these noisy little men astonished us, our equipment earned their curiosity in turn. They were usually terrified to see men wearing white uniforms — a government doctor and his assistants — come to vaccinate them, and fled to the forest with their families and hid there several weeks. But since we had no doctors to terrify them, we made friends at once, principally by giving them gifts of cigarettes and bits of stained glass which they prized. I was official interpreter, since I alone of our party spoke the Kiswaelo dialect.
    We were presented to Moki, the chief of the Bamboutis. He was seated on a throne made of four branches tied together by strong vines, and was naked save for a bark loincloth which did not quite hide his penis, which I noticed to be rather large in proportion to his diminutive size.
    His village consisted of straw huts, some fifteen of them, one of which we were invited to enter. I saw a girl who stared at me wonderingly. About twelve, she seemed to be well developed, save for her titties which hardly showed. Like all the pygmies, she was tattooed. On her shaved skull, an artist had painted two stripes from palm oil and vegetable matter. A band was drawn from the bridge of her nose down to her upper lip, then a circle round her mouth, while on her thighs bright-colored bands rose to her pubis, which was shielded by a loincloth made of leaves. I promised myself to enjoy a girl like this simply for the unique fancy of mating with a pygmy.
    That night, we dined in front of the hut of Moki, who had organized a feast to welcome us. Women clad only in their loincloths arranged themselves in a semi-circle, while the mothers carried their babies in bark pouches strapped to them, and all began their tribal dances. As the others watched, both men and women smoked — for the pygmies adore tobacco. To the sound of their curious instruments, the dancers pantomimed all the positions of love and uttered shrill cries which the spectators chorused between puffs of their cigarettes. It was truly a weird and exciting spectacle.
    Then a dozen young girls, between fourteen and eighteen, entered the dance. They had delightfully sculptured little bodies, tattooed on their faces, thighs and bottoms, and were stark naked, even to the thick, frizzy hair on their pussies. As they writhed and twisted in cadence, they displayed the undulations of their fleshly little bottoms. Despite their diminutive size, I could not help getting a hard on, and my master was equally stirred. I had a burning desire to seize one of them as they approached, but I was somewhat repelled by the musky odor of their bodies, and I asked myself: “If I should act so boldly, would the chief be enraged? True, we're well armed, but these little devils are expert archers and use poisoned arrows.”
    As the dance ended, the girls came towards us a last time. I took advantage by passing one hand between the legs of the girl who faced me; the others all drew back, still in dancing step, save my pretty little prisoner. She did not utter a word, but glanced at the chief. I waited for the worst to happen, for although the girl looked to be fourteen, I believed her, at closer inspection, to be no more than twelve. My master stared at me as if I'd gone mad, but I had already thought of my reply should Moki show anger: “I did it as a jest.”
    However, he did not speak, but rose, with a peremptory gesture that bade the other dancers leave. I still held on to my little Negress while Moki approached, and I will admit I was trembling. He uttered a few words that filled me with joy, then kissed me on the forehead. With his left hand he drew a circle around me. And what he had said to me was this: “You fuck girl, but I bugger your master.”
    I quickly agreed, and we entered his royal hut, the Baron Prosper, Pamela, Bouzian, Marivol, myself and Moki, along with my little charmer. His hut was very spacious and there were many sleeping mats. I stretched out on one of them, keeping hold of my little prisoner, who was enchanted with my fair white skin — for of course I had stripped naked at once. Motionless beside me, she seemed to await my bidding. I took her hand and drew it to my prick, and to my surprise, she began to frig me at once. I stopped her, not wishing to spend too soon. So as to hide her face which I could not regard without laughing, I made her kneel, her head bowed to the ground, prostrated as if she were worshipping Allah, Then I parted her legs and introduced my prick between her furry cunny-lips. Despite her small stature, her cunny was superbly endowed, and as I foraged onward, my thick organ reached the depths of her hot oasis. It is true that in the pygmy tribes, girls reach puberty at nine or ten and are then initiated into the practise of the cult of Venus. Moreover, this girl proved that to me, for as soon as she felt me well planted inside of her, she wriggled to and fro, observing a rhythmic tempo that testified to her erotic prowess and which I followed as best I could. I held myself back, knowing that these Negresses take longer to arouse than white women. But the unusual thing was that while I was thus fucking the little girl, I was seized from behind, the cock of a man banged against my bottom, and my assailant forced me to lie on my side.
    Comprehending his intentions, I permitted his organ's entry into my anus. When I had spent my first three months of military service in the A.E.F., my adjutant had initiated me into such practices. I tried to recognize my aggressive partner, and found it was the chief Moki, a great honor indeed. I said to him, “You are buggering the servant, not the master!”
    But he did not reply as he continued his task. I will admit he didn't do too badly, and I derived considerable pleasure. He adapted himself to my own fucking tempo with the girl, so that when I buried my cock into the girl's pussy, he withdrew; and this in-and-out adjustment made me a human sandwich. Voluptuous ecstasy rose in me, and my partner's groans proved that her own climax was not far off. With a last thrust, I shot my bubbling sperm into her intimate depths as the girl quaked and writhed and moaned her rapture.
    Moki also discharged, shooting into my entrails Bamboutis sperm. I could then watch the other partners. Baron Prosper, naked, was licking the clitoris of a pygmy girl, while Bouzian was buggering him. Under the Baron knelt a pygmy male, busy at sucking my master's cock. Seeking Martine with my gaze, I found her at last in a tangle of black bodies from which the gleaming whiteness of her skin sometimes emerged. Marivol and two little black girls were frigging and licking Martine, who returned the courtesy. So everyone was well occupied; I am sure this royal hut had never before witnessed such orgiastic cries and amorous sighs.
    During the few days we spent with this tribe, we repeated our seances with different partners each time, and when at last we departed to continue our amorous journeying, these little beings had eloquently demonstrated that despite their strange ways and diminutive size, they practiced love much as did all others.
    After lunch one day of rest, when we had believed my master would return to Fort-Lamy, he suggested we visit the Koukouanas, who lived in the Transvaal. We would cross the Zambesi River. All of us agreed, and so the Cadillac rolled onward. After long days of traveling, we finally crossed the mighty river, disappointed because in all that time there had been no chance to indulge in fucking — save for Pamela, who had herself buggered by a complaisant native. And at last after many detours, we came within sight of Loo, the important Koukouanas village thirty miles from Pietermaritzburg, capital of Zululand. The village rose in the middle of a beautiful, fertile plain. We saw many farms, and the entire village was protected by a solid palisade of sharpened sticks.
    We arrived in the midst of a tribal ceremony, seeing the Koukouanas warriors armed with javelins, brandishing leather shields, their heads and necks adorned with white ostrich plumes. They moved their heads from left to right, in cadence, suddenly stopping, then resuming. It was quite spellbinding, for they were magnificent, sturdy men. Finally, they turned to face one another, and crashed their shields together in symbol of war. The king of the village was a kind of black Hercules about thirty-five years old, presiding over the ceremony from his throne.
    Despite their warlike appearance, these natives were very hospitable, and followed polygamy, except for the king who could have only a single official spouse, his queen. She was always made to remain in the royal hut at such ceremonies. He greeted us and bade us sit behind him. Then the dances changed, and musical instruments and floral garlands took the place of weapons and drums. Several women who were to be married came into the middle of the assemblage, and a tumult of voices arose. Everyone was distracted by it, so I stealthily crawled towards the royal hut, intending to solace the lonely queen. I lifted the fold of the tent and entered. Near a curiously carved couch, a young woman was seated on a kind of tabouret; it was the queen, who, in keeping with the custom of the tribe, emerges only at prescribed hours and days.
    Today, evidently, she had to stay inside. My face and my European clothes made her gasp with surprise. I approached and bowed low. All the queen wore was a kind of white tunic embroidered with feathers. She smiled at me, and I took out a little mirror and handed it to her. Overjoyed at this present, she left her seat and stood in front of me to rub noses, the tribal way of greeting.
    Suddenly, she unfastened her tunic and stood naked. She was a beautiful young woman, firm fleshed and handsomely curved. Her breasts sagged just a little, however. In this country, a woman of twenty-five is already considered old. As was the custom, her abdomen was shaved and there were tattoos around her navel. I approached her and my hands squeezed her gleaming round hard bottomcheeks. She showed all her white teeth in a smile, and in an incomprehensible jargon, asked: “Push-push? Cock?”
    I understood and nodded, “Yes, yes, good, good.” Taking off my shorts, I exhibited my prong, already at attention before Her Majesty. Evidently, in comparison with the mighty cocks of the Koukouanas, mine was that of a child; yet it was white, and that made it desirable for her. Squatting between my legs, she seized my cocktip in her thick lips and greedily sucked me. Her king must have loved this ritual, for she practiced it with a mastery unexpected here in this dark region of Africa. Her tongue rubbed over the urethra and the meatus with exquisite languor, or again, to diversify my sensations, she swallowed almost all my cock till I felt it virtually in her windpipe. But I had come there with the intention of fucking the Queen, and so I pushed her away and stretched her out on a nearby lion-skin rug. She smiled, opened her thighs, and her cunny appeared, rosy-lipped in contrast to the ebony of her black gleaming skin.
    I stretched out over her and thrust in my cock. I found her juicy, moist sheath a bit too wide for full enjoyment. Yet she sensed this and so, to augment our communal pleasure, she wound her muscled legs over my bottom, tightening her thighs against my flanks, and then contracted her matrix deliciously. I buried my prick to the hilt inside her, drawing out slowly; she squeezed me superbly, letting my cock go with what seemed reluctance. I could not long hold out against such talent, and, stiffening, I violently shot my offering into the Queen's avid womb. Deliciously, as she felt my jet, she shook and arched and clawed at me to absorb all of my spasm.
    After having thus satisfied my longings, I left her there on the rug and putting my clothes in order, went quietly back to my place; no one had noticed my absence.
    I laughed to myself when I looked at the King, still presiding in his lordly manner over the ceremony, and I thought: “You've been cuckolded, my old King, right under your royal nose!”
    I turned my attention to the wild dances, admiring the leaps and gambols of the warriors and the maidens, when suddenly I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. When I turned, I espied a tall devil who looked like a baboon; he made a discreet sign to me to follow him.
    When we had gone a few yards away from the King and my master and the others, he said to me in pidgin English: “You love, have fuck-fuck with Queen?”
    I turned pale and shuddered; had someone witnessed my cuckolding?
    He took my arm and said dryly, “You come with me.”
    Without releasing my arm, he dragged me towards the royal hut. I felt my legs totter under me in my terror. He pushed me inside, and I saw the Queen in tears. Seeing me, she stretched out her arm and, pointing her forefinger, said, with a smile and a look still blurred by tears, “Again once more? You like?”
    You can imagine my joyous relief, for I had thought my last hour had come. But obviously this warrior was her secret friend, for he remained watching. That, of course, chilled my ardors, so I contented myself with frigging her. Then, on a sign from the Queen who was swooning with pleasure, the tall warrior took off my shorts and, drawing out his cock, buggered me. The head of his enormous organ could scarcely enter my anus, but with a single thrust he dug himself into me. I uttered such a plaintive cry that the Queen crushed her lips to mine to console me. With her sharp nails, she caressed my balls, weighing them to test their hardness, then fondled my shaft, then caressed the tiny hole. This ritual was done with exquisite artistry which would have bested even that of a girl from Pigalle.
    But that wretched friend of hers gripped me now and shot his furious essence deep into my bowels. Fortunately, the Queen's frigging appeased my suffering. And at last he withdrew, bowed towards the Queen and murmured something I could not understand, then went out backwards, bowing low to his beautiful ruler.
    Doubtless excited by what he had done to me, the Queen, putting a hand on my cock, drew me towards a sleeping mat and, kneeling down, bowed her head to the floor. Her upreared bottom yawned to disclose a distended bottomhole which evidently was familiar with Sodom's joys. Moreover, her hand, without the slightest hesitation, directed my spectre towards those portals, in which with a single thrust I buried myself to the hilt. She had evidently been already well initiated by her king — or perhaps her friend — but in any case I found the pathway well prepared for my ploughing. While I frigged her and played with her clitoris, I conscientiously buggered her so I might leave with her a good impression of the whites, who, though their cocks might be smaller than those of her people, made up for their lack in better developed amorous technique. I held back my spasm till the Queen began to utter raucous sounds, her body writhed and jerked as from galvanizing currents of electricity. I held her solidly merged against me, and, hastening my tempo, I went off in her bowels, thus leaving my servant's sperm in her noble chalice.
    Her Majesty also spent, and a guttural onomatopoeia ceaselessly emerged from her fleshy panting lips. My fingers inside her quim felt the royal essence. At last she was appeased and, stretching out voluptuously on the mat, shivering with the waves of pleasure rippling through her, closed her eyes to revel over the sensations I had procured. I dressed, then took leave of her with a rather exaggerated bow, and for the second time I returned to the royal stand where cries and music rose in a cacophony of sheer sound.
    But if I'd thought myself cunning in having by stealth fucked, then buggered the Queen, Martine standing now in the front row of the spectators hadn't lost any time either. Wedged in like sardines, hands behind her back, she had found a way to frig a solid Koukouanas warrior. It was done quite easily while listening to the chants and watching the dances. Martine clearly felt that the spectator was opening his loincloth behind her, pressing something hard against her thinly clad bottom, and soon felt the hardness of a cock which was prodding between her legs. With her fingertips, she first tickled, then expertly frigged, and when she felt her delighted warrior close to spending, she clutched his cockhead in her palm so as to capture all his sperm and not stain her white dress. This maneuver reminded her of others of the same nature which she had practiced at rush hours in the subway, relieving young and old alike, who asked no more than to be drained by “silent hands.”
    Near Martine stood Marivol and Bouzian, with my master. The latter was regarding the dances with great interest, uttering “Ohs” and “Ahs" which I took for cries of admiration, but when I got closer I perceived they were not thus motivated at all. His body undulated in the rhythm of that dance, but these undulations were caused by a tall Negro behind him who was buggering him with a forefinger.
    Suddenly the tall devil who had honored me with his favors in the Queen's tent moved towards the platform on which the King was enthroned, and whispered something which evidently put His Highness into a towering rage. Springing up, he gave an order which halted the dancers, and, lifting his sceptre, turned towards us and designated us with a flourish of that ivory baton.
    We were seized by warriors who stripped all five of us naked. Motionless, back to back, we stared at this band of savages who brandished their javelins with feverish energy, and we were at a loss to explain their sudden change of attitude towards us. All except myself, for I told myself that the tall rogue who had satisfied himself by buggering me had decided to tell all to His Majesty and that the latter, instead of congratulating himself over being cuckolded by a white man, had seen red at the thought of his spouse's infidelity. What would they do to us, I wondered.
    When the ritual dances ended, the King of the Koukouanas cast off his garments and strode towards us, his mighty penis and balls jiggling at every step. The spectators clapped their hands and began a bizarre chant, which sounded to me like a death sentence.
    But when the King reached us, he drew Mar-tine to him, trembling with fear. He made a sign to two warriors, who, seizing the victim by her shoulders, made her bend over. Then he yawned her bottom cheeks apart, palpating it lingeringly, and finally buried his massive prick into that French rosette. Pamela could not suppress a groan, for he had an enormous prick, enough to make a mare whinny with anguish, believe me! But, wriggling and squirming her behind, she at last managed to swallow his royal cock, and his balls smacked against her gleaming white bottom. When he drew out his cock, the shaft was red from Martine's blood, but he only buried it the deeper. Hastening the tempo of his thrusts, the King finally spent. Appeased by this expiration, he withdrew while Pamela sank to her knees, groaning with attenuation.
    Returning to his throne, he pointed us out to his subjects, and uttered a command. Joyously shrieking, the spectators fell on us. Two superb warriors grasped Marivol, one taking her from behind and buggering her while his colleague fucked her. Martine endured the same fate.
    As for the three of us, we were assailed by a group of raging women who wanted to make love with white men. They stretched us out on the ground and then, to get us ready to assuage them, they demonstrated remarkable ingenuity. Some of them caressed our cocks and balls with their raspy tongues, while others tickled us with feathers. Under these repeated assaults, we were soon able to content them. They argued among themselves as to who should be first to impale herself on each man's upstanding spit. One of them even had the idea of squatting on my head and rubbing her furry cunny against my nose and mouth. Soon she was imitated by two others who did the same to Baron Prosper and Bouzian. They left us only when they had drained us of every drop of essence in our balls. As for Pamela and Marivol, they had endured violation by a good many warriors, and, being fucked while they also serviced a second man with mouths and tongues, as bidden, they were covered with sperm.
    Then, to our horror, we saw a group of warriors carrying immense iron kettles. Five in all — one for each of us! After having enjoyed us, they meant to eat us!
    All that for having fucked the Queen — if my companions only knew, they would curse my boldness! The kettles were attached to the stakes, filled, with water, and firewood piled under them. They bound us next, fixing our wrists and ankles so that we had to squat, and each of us was lifted by three husky warriors and taken to the kettles. When we were put into them, only our heads emerged. Then they began a ritual dance around us. Marivol and Bouzian had their faces smeared with ashes and their lips moved, doubtless offering incantations to the wizards they worshipped in hope of being saved. The wood had been lighted under the kettles, and I squirmed about as I felt the uncomfortable warmth of the iron receptacle in which I squatted. Then came the miracle — the roar of three airplanes overhead, followed by the rattle of machineguns.
    Shrieking with fear, the Koukouanas took flight in the fields and the nearby forests. While two of the planes pursued the savages, the third landed to free us. We abandoned without regret the warm bath which had washed away our more intimate contacts with the Koukouanas. We embraced our saviors, who bade us flee such inhospitable regions without further delay. They promised to escort us till we were safe. We went back to the Cadillac, and three days later we arrived at Fort-Lamy.
    We were delighted to see the plantation again, and it is from there that I write these half-comic, half-tragic adventures whose involuntary heros and heroines we were!