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.