“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 journaclass="underline" )
“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!”