The Merry Widow

by Vonnick de Rosmadec

  The Merry Widow

  and Other Stories

  Hot Pleasures

  Vonnick de Rosmadec

  Translated by Alexandre Brunet

  The Merry Widow

  “You’re fifty years old and you’ve never had a truly ‘magical experience,’ as you put it?!”

  The marquise balked in disbelief at the woman who had stepped inside her office moments ago. She wore a pink-and-green summer skirt suit with a quaint floral pattern, ample enough to conceal her body—a body one could guess was, if not heavyset, at least plump. Strangely enough, her face was not that of a full-figured woman. One would have expected large, fleshy cheeks and the hint of a double chin, but it was quite the opposite. Her cheeks were slightly hollow, and her neck was frail; her nose, narrow and somewhat wrinkled. As for her mouth, it seemed almost devoid of lips entirely. Slightly tinted wire-frame glasses concealed the humorless gaze of Marguerite G., a widow of five years since her husband, a country doctor, was struck down by a sudden illness.

  The more Ghislaine studied her new client, the more she thought to herself, to use a phrase coined by her “handygirl” (who was truly “handy”) Mimi, that this lady belonged to the class of those with broomsticks so far up their asses that the broomsticks might as well be named Excalibur.

  The widow squirmed in her seat and dabbed at her brow quickly and nervously with her cambric handkerchief.

  “Please, make yourself comfortable! It’s so warm in here!”

  The marquise helped her visitor out of her jacket, and in doing so, noticed a buckle at her waist, whose function she knew well.

  “Oh, what have we here! You’re wearing a garter belt! How exciting! Men love this kind of thing. Let me see what we’re working with here. …”

  And, without waiting for an answer, she raised the widow’s skirt up to her waist, uncovering a handsome garter belt and a lovely pair of pink lace panties.

  “Turn around!”

  The candidate obeyed and displayed her ass to her hostess’s inquisitive eye.

  “Not bad, not bad at all!”

  She felt the newcomer’s crotch through her panties, as if to check she was indeed a woman, or the way a nanny would to see if a small child had peed. Finally, Ghislaine walked back to her desk with an affected sigh.

  “So, it’s true? This poor pussy has never known an orgasm, or pleasure of any kind? What a waste! Tell me how things were with your late husband—he was a doctor, you mentioned. How did the two of you make love?”

  A tinge of pink enlivened the fifty-year-old’s waxy complexion. Evidently, she was a bit shaken from the rather unusual examination she had just undergone.

  She downed a large gulp of the complimentary single-malt scotch offered by the marquise and launched into the tale of her tedious, gloomy, and unsatisfying sex life. Her husband wasn’t quite impotent, but was, at the very least, a premature ejaculator of the first order who, in any case, had never shown much interest in his wife. Thank God, he wasn’t a sex therapist! Ghislaine thought to herself.

  “He would never caress you sensually? He never kissed you ‘down there’?”

  “I should think not! I’m quite sure it never even crossed his mind. He was really rather inhibited and, I believe, hung-up over the small size of his penis.”

  “Here we call them rods, dicks, cocks, sausages, cucumbers even, but not penises—this isn’t a hospital. Which term would you rather use?”

  “I’m not quite sure … dick, perhaps, but it’s the first time I’ve ever used that word. …”

  “Well, I can promise you it won’t be the last. If, of course, you decide to trust me and join my little club. Our rates are high, true, but rather trivial given the services we offer here at the Château des Plaisirs. We strive to accommodate every taste. Any one of us may approach another, and everyone is free to accept or decline any offer. I do not, however, cater to the S&M crowd—too dangerous, too perverted. … I only allow a few harmless spankings, provided that they are willingly suffered. We are free to make love with whomever we like, in any way we like, but only so long as our partner is willing. That is really the cardinal rule. We have many ways to keep you entertained, as you will see. Our weekends are quite busy; we draw quite a crowd. Once a month, we also offer an extensive program over an eight-day period, during my sex festival, which some have dubbed ‘The Marquise’s Festival’—or, a little more frivolously, ‘Pussies in Heat and the School of Hard Cocks.’ After all, mothers have their special day, and so do laborers. Why shouldn’t there be a special day for a more liberated sort of love? It’s well worth attending, you will see. I can absolutely guarantee you will blossom as you revel in pleasure. It will benefit you on every level: physically, psychologically, spiritually … I’m convinced any psychological issue, any neurosis, can be cured by what I call ‘sexual shocks.’ We liberate the mind by liberating the body. But enough of this idle chatter—now that you seem a little more at ease, you can tell me what kind of man or woman you’d like to help you reach orgasm. Be as explicit as you like—trust me, I’ve heard it all.”

  The widow, as if to steady herself, opened the top two buttons of her blouse.

  “Well, I would like a man who’s … strong. A man who’s muscular, athletic. Who isn’t afraid to teach me a few things. … Naughty things. Also, I wouldn’t exactly mind if he were … a little rough with me.” She buried her face in her hands. “Oh my God, my God! I must be mad. I’ve said too much!”

  “Too little, Marguerite—may I call you Marguerite? Call me Ghislaine. With me and my guests, you may say or try anything. Anything, do you understand? So, if I understand you correctly, you would like an athletic lover. One with big, bulging muscles, rock-hard abs and pectorals, the whole package. And, really, if his cock happens to be big, fat, and hard, you wouldn’t mind, would you?”

  “Oh no, of course not. But I must be going insane. …”

  “Not at all. Quite the opposite—you are going sane, my dear.”

  The owner and president of the Château des Plaisirs, the lovers’ club, checked her diary.

  “Well, you are in luck! I have three men on hand— well, I say ‘handy’—at this very moment. They are currently using the gym.”

  The marquise opened several folders and pulled out three files.

  “Here, take a look, and take your pick from these handsome specimens. Then I’ll introduce you to whichever one you choose.”

  The country doctor’s widow, whose face had now turned a deep shade of crimson, studied the three men voraciously.

  “Oh, I would never dare …”

  “You do not find them appealing?”

  “Oh yes, yes I do!”

  The marquise put her finger on the photo portrait of a tall, impressively muscled black man. He held a basketball, smiling at the camera.

  The blushing widow couldn’t get enough of him, disregarding the other two men entirely. Ghislaine noticed her fascination and, in a soothing friendly gesture, laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “Jean-Baptiste Bongu is a fantastic basketball player. He has excellent ball skills, both on and off the court. …”

  Marguerite, missing the double entendre, was already shaking like a schoolgirl.

  She dropped back into her seat, throat dry, feeling her insides twisting in desire.

  “Do you think he’ll be interested?”

  “I think so. You’ve made an excellent choice. Jean-Baptiste never gets tired. We call him ‘Mr. Keep-It-All-In.” He can ride you for a solid hour without coming. And even then, it depends on whether he feels like it, and whether you beg him. I know what I’m talking about: he services me every now and then when I get tired of my sweet Mimi. I will ask him right away if he can take care of you. He’s li
fting weights in the gym.”

  Marguerite opened her eyes wide. This place was full of surprises. From her hostess’s liberated manner, to her non-exclusive lesbian trysts with her young chambermaid, all in the open … it was making her dizzy. But, shocking as it was, she was surprised to find the whole affair rather enticing.

  “I will see you soon, Marguerite. I will send Mimi to keep you company if Jean-Baptiste takes too long. She’s quite something, our Mimi! She’s our in-house stripper, among other things. She’s very proud of her ass, simply loves showing it to people. Don’t be surprised if she jumps in your lap; she tends to like women of your build.”

  Mrs. Marguerite G. didn’t really care about the pretty maid. The prospect of being taken for a spin by that handsome black man was the only thing on her mind. Possessed by some hitherto unknown perversion, she caught the marquise by the hand and heard herself say in a husky tone: “Tell him … Ask him if he could be … rough, coarse; if he could treat me like a dirty little …”

  Her voice trailed off. The marquise walked away, a peculiar smile on her lips, musing on human nature’s seemingly unending capacity to surprise her.

  There was, in the end, no need for Mimi’s company. The athlete, being partial to new recruits, agreed to meet Marguerite at once.

  Introductions took place in the music parlor, on the mansion’s ground floor. Marguerite was fixing her hair when Jean-Baptiste made his entrance, still wearing his red tracksuit from the gym, the zipped-down top revealing his impressive chest and slim waist. He was even taller than she had imagined. He bowed gallantly and kissed the widow’s hand, as she stammered some compliments.

  His demeanor suddenly changed when he opened his mouth.

  “All right lady, let’s get to it!”

  “To … to what, sir?”

  “To fucking, pudgy! To fucking! Isn’t that the reason you’re here? Come on, up, up we go. Oh you’re going to get it now, baby. You walk in front. That’s what you do, you high-society folk, when going up the stairs: the woman in front, and the man behind her ass! They even say it’s the best part of the whole thing, going upstairs behind a whore.”

  “What a thug! How can you talk to me in such a manner? I was a doctor’s wife!”

  Marguerite wanted to share her feigned indignation with the marquise, but Ghislaine had already left, leaving the widow alone with her half-confessed desires for verbal coarseness and controlled brutality from her first lover outside the conjugal bed.

  Said lover, following Ghislaine’s advice, did not hold back. He slapped the bouncing rump in front of him as they climbed the stairs, shoving his hands under Marguerite’s dress and grabbing and pinching her ass. Jean-Baptiste was surprised, but there was no denying it: This little charade was turning him on something fierce. As someone who prided himself on being extremely polite and reassuring during first encounters, he took a great deal of mischievous pleasure in acting the rascal.

  Once on the third floor, Jean-Baptiste led the way. He stopped at a door painted with a soothing countryside view, inscribed with the pleasant phrase: ROOM FOR DELIGHT AND FOR THE STUDY OF LOVE IN ALL ITS FORMS, WHETHER SIMPLE OR DARING. Marguerite only had time to remember two words—delight and daring—as her study partner gave her ass a brusque shove toward the bed. He sat her down unceremoniously, tearing off her dress, uncovering her legs clad in the stockings held up by the garter belt—which he left on. Ghislaine had been right: seeing these fancy undergarments made quite an impression on Jean-Baptiste, and the widow stared, trembling, at his cock growing at a right angle, seemingly wanting to burst out of his tracksuit.

  He tipped her onto the bed and removed her pink lace panties in one swift motion, before throwing them in her face.

  “There, smell your pussy, you fat bitch! Do you like your own juice?”

  He shoved his head between her thighs and gave a big lick.

  “You’re right; it tastes nice! I bet it feels nice, too!”

  Before she even realized he had pulled his enormous prick out of his pants, he forced his way into her and impaled her with a hard shove.

  Eyes glazed, mouth open wide, Marguerite lay speechless for several seconds, surprised and scared by this sudden embrace. Jean-Baptiste grabbed her wrists and held her arms above her head. She imagined herself handcuffed, in chains, and suddenly that was all she wanted. At that moment, she would have given anything to be a slave to this gorgeous ebony god who held her down, filled her mouth with his tongue, nibbled on her nipples—exquisite pain!—claiming her as his own.

  She finally recovered the ability to speak and cried out in ecstasy. “Oh my God, you are so big! You’re spearing me, you devil! Louis never filled me like this with his ridiculous little cock, his tiny worm!”

  She fixated on the steely pecs above her, groping for them, reaching out with her tongue.

  “My ass, hold on to my ass!” Jean-Baptiste ordered.

  She obeyed at once and grabbed his impossibly firm butt.

  “For crying out loud, move around a bit! Don’t just lie there getting laid like a starfish. Move your ass, make your pussy tight around my cock, get busy, goddamn it!”

  She didn’t need to be told twice and began to accompany Jean-Baptiste’s assaults, rocking her pelvis, thrusting at him at every hit, as her fingernails scratched at his muscular backside. She also tried to make herself tighter and simply couldn’t. I will get better at it, she vowed to herself, but this monster is taking up all the room there is!

  She was losing her mind and began to cry out even louder.

  “Oh, how wonderful, how wonderful this is! I’m in orbit because your stake is plowing my cunt. I’m just a vagina now. It’s what I think with, what I dream with. … I am your slave. … Do with me what you will!”

  “What I will? Get on your knees! I don’t want to see your ugly face anymore!”

  He flipped her like a pancake, giving Marguerite a glimpse of his epic phallus, so hard that it raised its purple tip almost upright.

  Jean-Baptiste didn’t make her wait long. He plowed her even harder this time. She craned her neck to see what was going on down there between her legs and glimpsed the fat balls rhythmically bouncing off her ass.

  “My God, it feels so good with your testicles whipping my behind!”

  “Here we call them balls, you stupid cow. Repeat after me: ‘I can see your fat balls and I want to touch them.’ Feel ’em, stroke ’em.”

  Marguerite obeyed, resting her weight on her left elbow as her right hand went to grope them enthusiastically as she moaned with pleasure.

  She was completely overwhelmed. She lost all control and began to thrash, her head turning and twisting on the pillow. Eyes closed, she let go completely, carried by a tide of ecstasy that rose and rose inside of her.

  She let out a series of small squeaks, closer and closer together, faster and faster, until they became one long furious howl punctuated by her thrusts, as though her insides were scrambling up the steps of pleasure.

  Now she was now actually shouting. “I’ve got you by the balls, by your beautiful giant balls! And I can’t see it, but I can feel the root of your enormous cock moving in and out of me, plowing me, tearing my pussy apart …”

  She couldn’t take it anymore. Hearing herself speak such filth made her wetter than she had ever been. Her happiness was complete.

  The basketball player leaned around her back and grabbed her bouncing breasts.

  “And I can see your big udders swinging. I like it. Your tits are alive. They dangle, but they bounce. They’re almost beautiful that way … look.”

  Hearing the athlete talk about her breasts in terms she deemed flattering, those same breasts she found flabby and veined, increased her joy even further. She couldn’t hold back, and burst out: “I’m coming, I’m coming, oh, you asshole, you got me, keep going, you big bully! Ram it in, ram it in deeper, deeper! I’ve never known anything like this; it’s my first time, my first time! Thank you, thank you, Archibald!”

&n
bsp; The basketball player pulled out of her and stared, nonplussed.

  “My name isn’t Archibald; I’m Jean-Baptiste, madame.”

  His voice had lost all trace of vulgarity.

  “Archibald or Jean-Baptiste, what does it matter? Come on, my big bad wolf, get inside me again, take me, shove it inside me, split me open!”

  He suddenly resumed his act as a rough-spoken misogynist.

  “Stay on all fours, you slut! You’re going to see what a real dick feels like.”

  She obeyed and raised her ass, head buried in a pillow, her bust supported by her elbows.

  He slapped her behind before kneeling behind her, brandishing his enormous rod, using it as a bludgeon on her offered flesh. He then licked his thumb and, once it was completely wet, pushed it into her anus, widening it. She begged him. “Oh no, please, not there!” only to increase her own desire to be sodomized for the first time.

  In a flash, she envisioned again her husband’s semi-erect, tiny penis. His pathetic tool would have been quite incapable of forcing its way inside—which was just what this long-awaited lover was doing.

  He gave another small thrust into her vagina to get his cock wet; then, he placed his large, swollen tip at the edge of her little hole and slowly, inexorably, holding her by the waist, he penetrated into hitherto unexplored territory.

  The widow bit her lips, raised her head, and took in this rider’s assault and his gigantic lance. It hurt at first, then pain and joy intermingled, and it was difficult for her to know which of the two she sensations she preferred.

  But these musings were brushed aside by the charge this conqueror was leading. He grabbed her by the hair, as one would grab a mare’s mane, and quickened to a trot, which soon transformed into a superb gallop.

  He pulled out abruptly, jumped to his feet, and went into the bathroom where the sound of water could be heard.

  “Washing my cock. I’ll be right there,” he said from inside the bathroom.

  “Oh, what an oaf! What an uncouth creature,” she said. “Speaking to me like that!”

  He came back to the room.