“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.
“Bouzian!”
“Mademoiselle?”
“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.