The pleasure I felt was beyond words. I ended up by discovering the rules for the fine art of masturbation, and stroked my dick regularly and rhythmically, until finally something about which I had previously been unaware happened.
The feeling was so voluptuous that I was led to stretch my legs out in front of me and push against the legs of the table. My body slipped down and was pressing against the back of the chair.
I felt the blood surging into my face. My breathing was becoming difficult. I closed my eyes; my mouth dropped slightly open. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind in the space of a minute.
My aunt, in front of whom I had stood naked; my sister, whose pretty little pussy I had explored; the powerful thighs of the two maids: all these images flew across my mind. My hand stroked my prick faster and faster. An electric shock coursed through my body.
My aunt! Berthe! Ursula! Helen...! I felt my member swell, and from the dark red glans gushed forth a whitish liquid, first with a powerful spurt, then in a series of less potent jets. I had just discharged for the first time.
My tool fell limp. I now looked with interest and curiosity at the sperm which had spilled into my right palm. It both looked and smelled like the white of an egg, and had the consistency of glue. I licked it and found it to taste like a raw egg. I shook off the last few drops clinging to the tip of my member, which was now completely subdued, and wiped it on my shirt.
From what I had previously read, I knew that I had just given myself up to the pleasures of onanism. I looked the word up in the dictionary, and found a long article on the subject, in such detail that anyone who had not previously been aware of the practice would inevitably have been fully enlightened.
The article had once again excited me. The fatigue resulting from my first ejaculation was past. The only tangible evidence of my act was a devouring appetite. At table my aunt and mother remarked upon my appetite, but dismissed it as merely due to growth.
I soon came to realize that onanism is like drink: the more you indulge, the more you want...
My prick was constantly hard, and my thoughts increasingly voluptuous, but the pleasures of Onan could not satisfy me forever. I thought more and more about the opposite sex; it seemed a shame for me to waste my sperm masturbating.
My tool became darker, my pubic hair a handsome beard, my voice deepened, and a few microscopic hairs appeared on my upper lip. I realized that I lacked only one experience of manhood: coitus, which is the term by which the books designate that act which I had never as yet tried.
All the women of the household noticed the changes that had taken place in me, and I was no longer treated as a child.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE FEAST DAY of the chateau's patron saint was at hand. It was the occasion for a major celebration, which was to be preceded by the confession of all members of the household.
Both my aunt and mother had decided to go to confession, and the others intended to follow their example.
I had succeeded in feigning illness, and had kept to my room since the previous evening in order to avoid arousing anyone's suspicions. The Capuchin friar had arrived and had dinner with us. Coffee had been served in the garden, and after Kate had finished clearing the table, I found myself alone. Since time was weighing heavy on my hands, I wandered into the library, where I chanced upon a hidden door that I had never noticed before. It gave on to a dark and narrow concealed staircase which was lighted only by a small circular window at the end of the upstairs corridor.
The staircase led to the chapel, and from behind the locked door, which was rusted from long years of disuse, drifted the voice of the friar. He was telling my mother that he would hear her confession on the following day in the same place.
The confessional was set against a wooden partition, through which every word could be distinctly heard. So it seemed to me that here would be an ideal vantage point from which to eavesdrop.
I was of the opinion that this stairway must have been installed in years past by some jealous lord desirous of listening to his wife's confessions.
The next day, after my morning coffee, the bailiff's wife came in to clean up my room.
I've already mentioned that she was pregnant, and I carefully studied the enormous contour of her belly, and the unusual size of her nipples which bounced to and fro beneath her light blouse.
She was a pleasant looking woman with pretty features. Until the bailiff had put her in the family way she had been one of the chateau's maids.
I had already seen women's breasts in pictures and on statues, but never in the flesh.
The bailiff's wife was in a great hurry. She had buttoned only one of her blouse buttons. When she leaned over to straighten my bed, this solitary button came undone, and I saw her entire bosom, for the V-necked jacket she was wearing was very low-cut.
I sprang to my feet: "Madam, you're going to be cold!"
And pretending to help her rebutton her dress, I untied the ribbon holding it on her shoulders. As I did, the two nipples seemed actually to leap out of their hiding place, and I sensed their bulk and firmness.
The buttons on each breast stood out: they were red and surrounded by a large brownish halo.
Her titties were as firm as a pair of buttocks' cheeks, and as I fondled them I could have sworn they were a pretty girl's behind.
The woman was so taken aback that I had time, before she recovered her wits, to kiss her nipples at leisure.
She smelled of sweat, but in a way that excited me. It was that odor di femina which, as I was later to learn, emanates from a woman's body and, according to the individual, provokes either desire or disgust.
"Oh, ooh! What are you thinking of? ...No. ...That's not right...! I'm a married woman... Not for anything in the world."
These were her words as I steered her toward the bed. I had opened my dressing gown and lifted my nightshirt, revealing my member in a state of hyper-excitement.
"Let me alone. I'm pregnant. Oh, Lord God, if anyone should see us!"
She was still resisting, but less forcefully. As a matter of fact her gaze was fixed steadily on my sexual parts. She was supporting herself against the bed onto which I was trying to force her.
"You're hurting me!"
"My dear woman, no one can see or hear you."
She was by now sitting on the edge of the bed. I was still pushing. She lay back and closed her eyes.
My state of excitement was beyond all bounds. I lifted her dress, her petticoat, and saw a pair of thighs which fired my enthusiasm even more than had the peasant girls'. Between the closed thighs I caught sight of a small tangle of chestnut-colored hairs, among which the crack was concealed.
I dropped to my knees, seized her thighs, let my hands roam caressingly, laid my cheeks upon them and covered them with kisses. My lips advanced from the thighs to her mound of Venus, where the smell of urine only added fuel to my excitement.
I lifted her skirt even higher and looked with astonishment at the enormous bulk of her belly, upon which the navel was raised instead of in a hollow as was Berthe's.
I licked her belly button. She lay motionless, her breasts flopping down on either side. I lifted one of her legs and placed it on the bed. Her cunt came into view. At first I was frightened by the two thick and puffy reddish-brown lips.
Her pregnancy gave me a chance to revel in that sight. Her lips were spread and when I darted a glance inside I discovered a real butcher's stall of moist red meat.
Near the top of the lips was the peepee hole, crowned by a small grain of flesh which my anatomical research had informed me was called the clitoris.
The upper part of her slit was lost in the hair covering her overly fleshy mound of Venus. The lips were almost hairless, and the skin between the thighs was damp and red from sweat.
All in all it was not a very appetizing picture, but I appreciated it nevertheless because the woman was very clean. I could not help inserting my tongue into her crevice and licking it hastily b
efore moving to the clitoris, which hardened under my passionate tonguing.
I soon tired of this sport, and since the crevice was by now well moistened, I replaced my tongue with my finger. Then I laid hold of her nipples, taking the tips in my mouth and sucking them by turns. I kept my index on the clitoris, which grew harder and larger until it had assumed the proportions of my little finger or thereabouts.
But at that point the woman came to her senses and began to whimper, but without however leaving the position into which I had forced her. I felt slightly sorry for her, but I was too worked up to really care. I talked to her cajolingly, trying to comfort her, and ended up by promising to stand as godfather for the child she was expecting.
I went over and, taking some money from the drawer, handed it to her. She had by then got herself decent again. So I lifted my nightshirt, but felt somewhat ashamed to find myself naked again in front of a woman, especially one who was married and pregnant.
I took her moist hand and placed it on my member. The touch was exquisite.
She squeezed, gently at first, then more firmly. I had grasped her nipples, which held a strange fascination for me.
I kissed her on the mouth, and she readily gave me her lips.
My whole being was attuned to pleasure. I placed myself between her thighs, but she exclaimed:
"Not on top of me. It hurts too much. I can't do it the front way any more."
She got off the bed, turned round and bent over with her face on the bed. She said nothing else, but my instinct supplied me with the solution of the enigma. I remembered once having seen two dogs going at it that way. Following Medor's example, I lifted Diana's skirt.
For Diana was her name.
Her buttocks hove into sight, buttocks such as I had never even dreamed existed. Berthe's may have been pleasing, but it was really nothing next to this. My two cheeks put together wouldn't have made even one of this extraordinary rump, whose flesh, surprisingly enough, was not at all flabby. Like all breasts and handsome buttocks, hers were a gleaming white.
In the slit were some blond hairs, and the crack itself was like a chasm dividing her superb cheeks.
Below the colossal buttocks, between the thighs, lay the fat juicy cunt, in which my probing finger burrowed.
I placed my chest against the woman's bare buttocks and with my arms tried to encircle her elusive belly, which hung down like some stately globe.
I caressed her cheeks, then rubbed my member against them. But my curiosity was not yet satisfied. I spread her cheeks and inspected her arse-hole. Like her navel, it was elevated and though brown, was very clean.
I started to insert my finger, but she gave such a start that I was afraid I had hurt her, so I didn't press the point. I placed my burning prick in her cunt; it was like a knife cutting into a mound of butter. Then I bestirred myself like a cock on a hot griddle, bouncing my belly against her elastic behind.
I was like one possessed. I was no longer conscious of what I was doing, but I reached the voluptuous climax, and for the first time in my life shot my sperm into a woman's cunt.
After the discharge I wanted to stay for a while in that agreeable position, but the bailiff's wife turned round and chastely arranged her clothes. While she was rebuttoning her sleeveless jacket, I heard the sound of something dripping: it was my sperm running from her cunt onto the floor. She smeared it underfoot, and dried her thighs on her skirt.
When she saw me standing in front of her, with my red, moist prick partly erect, she smiled, took out her handkerchief and meticulously dried it.
"Get dressed, now, Master Roger," she said. "I've got to leave. But for the love of God," she added, blushing, "don't let anyone hear about what happened just now or I'll never forgive you."
We embraced, exchanged kisses, and she departed, leaving me lost in such a flood of new sensations that I almost forgot that confession had doubtless already begun.
CHAPTER SIX
WEARING SLIPPERS, I threaded my way as quietly as possible along the narrow corridor until I reached the wooden partition. I soon found the most likely spot from which to eavesdrop. The Capuchin had arranged things so that the person confessing was alone in the oratory, while those waiting their turn remained in the chapel.
It was therefore unnecessary for anyone to speak in a whisper, and the conversation was quite distinct. I surmised by the voice that a peasant was presently in the confessional.
The confession must have been already well along, for the Capuchin was saying:
The Confessor. – So you say that you always play with your member in the toilet? Why do you? How long do you play with it, and how often?
The Peasant. – Generally twice a week, but sometimes every day, until I come. I can't help it. I just plain enjoy it too much.
The Confessor. – And haven't you ever done it with women?
The Peasant. – Once, with an old woman.
The Confessor. – Tell me about it, and don't keep anything back.
The Peasant. – Once I was up in the hayloft with old Rosalie. I began to get a hard on, and I said: "Rosalie, is it a long time since you've had a man?" And she said: "Oh, you scoundrel you! Heavens to Betsy, can I have rightly heard my ears? At least 40 years. And I can't say that I'm hankering to have one now. I'm already 60 years old." So I said to her: "Come off it, Rosalie, I'd sure love to see a woman stark naked once in my life. Come on and get undressed." She said: "I'd be afraid, the devil might appear." Then I said: "The last time you did it he didn't appear." And then I pulled the ladder up, so that no one could take us by surprise. I took out my member and showed it to her. She looked at it and said: "Lordy Lou! It's even bigger than my buggered Jean's was." So I said to her, "And now Rosalie, you've got to show me your box." She didn't want to show it to me, but I pulled her skirts up over her head and took a good look.
The Confessor. – Come now, what happened next?
The Peasant. – At the bottom of her belly she had a large slit, purple as a late autumn plum, and above it a bush of gray hair.
The Confessor. – That's not what I asked you. I asked what you did.
The Peasant. – I shoved my sausage into her slit, right up to the balls, which I couldn't get in. As soon as I had it in, Rosalie began to shake her belly back and forth, and hollered to me: "Take me under the buttocks, Pig. Put your hands there and do like I'm doing." So we started shaking together, both of us, so that I began to get hot, and Rosalie, saving your presence, got so worked up that she discharged five or six times. And I discharged myself once, saving your presence. Then Rosalie began shouting, "Squeeze me tighter, Pig, it's coming, it's coming!" and damned if I didn't come again myself. But they fired her, poor Rosalie, because one of the stable girls had overheard us and went tattling over hill and dale. And that's why I never wanted to go running after the young skirts.
The Confessor. – Well, if that's not a nice kettle of mortal sins! What else do you have on your conscience?
The Peasant. – I never forgot Rosalie. One day in the cow barn while the servant girls were out eating, I noticed that one of the cows is in heat. "She's got a cunt just like Rosalie's," I say to myself. I take out my prick and shove it into her. But the cow didn't stay put like Rosalie had. But I lifted her tail up and was able to keep it in. And I managed to screw her all right, and enjoyed it more than with Rosalie. But, saving your presence, she shit all over me; my balls and trousers were covered with the stuff. That's why I never tried to screw her again.
The Confessor. – Yes, but what makes you stoop to such acts?
The Peasant. – Our shepherd does the same thing with his goats, and our hired girl Lucie one day lay down with a big gander between her thighs, because it's so very good for the belly, as she said to one of the neighbors. And the neighbor also gave it a try.
The rest of the confession was without interest. I left my hiding place and dashed into the chapel to see what the penitent looked like.
I was astonished to discover that it w
as the dull-looking clod who had so stupidly yielded to the peasant girl's frolics beside the pond.
He was the last of the men to confess. My mother rose to take her place in the oratory. My aunt and the saucy Kate were kneeling beside her. All the chateau's maids were behind them in one of the back pews.
I was surprised to notice that my sister Berthe was absent.
The bailiff's wife had been excused because of her advanced state of pregnancy.
My mother's confession was quite innocent, but interesting nonetheless: "I've got something else to ask you, Father," she said, after enumerating the list of her daily sins. "For some time now my husband has been making certain demands of me.
"On the night of our marriage he made me strip completely, and on several occasions since he has made me do the same thing. But now he persists in seeing me naked, and he even showed me an ancient book, written by a priest, in which it says, among other things: 'Married couples shall perform the carnal act completely naked, so that the man's seed may mix more intimately with the woman's.' But the older I grow, the more qualms I have on the subject."
The Confessor. – This book was written in the Middle Ages, when it was still not customary to wear nightshirts. Only persons of high station wore them. Common folk slept shirtless in the conjugal bed, and there are still some places in the country where that custom persists today. Our peasants, for instance, almost all sleep thus, especially because of bedbugs. The Church refuses to look upon this practice with an approving eye, but it does not, however, expressly forbid it.
MEMOIRS OF A YOUNG RAKEHELL: The Famed French Poet's Sexual Confessions Page 3