"' Tis Cypris," quoth he, " and within her shoes have the scent of ambrosia."
" Tickle her feet, I tell you!" I roared. He did and at her second twitch I discharged like Vesuvius in eruption. In my ecstatic joy I gave thanks to fate for having blessed me with so perfect a daughter, whose twitching cunt procured me such intense pleasures.
" I am discharging again…" Conquette stammered. " My father' s prayer drove his prick deeper into me."
" Oh, what a worthy father! what a pious daughter!" exclaimed Montencon. I decunted. " But tell me why," said the energetic old bawd, stretching out upon my daughter again and reencunting her without having washed, " why did you have me tickle the feet of your celestial fuckeress?"
" I obtained the recipe from a printer who was wont to fuck the wife of his confrere with the latter' s enthusiastic cooperation."
" But," my printer friend asked the fellow he cuckolded, " what in heaven' s name did you do to her to make her give me such pleasure?"
" You saw, didn' t you, that her feet were bare? Well, someone told me that the sons of Mesdames Quillenpoche and Radball having chanced into the room where a barrister and a pimp were cuntstuffing their mothers, the little youngsters, loath to disturb the party, removed a delicate slipper from each lady' s foot and therewith tickled their soles, the which caused those ladies to skip in a very lively fashion and to receive from their own sudden movement quite as much satisfaction as they simultaneously gave their operators. So, since that day, in like circumstances they always have their feet tickled."
" Kindly do the same for me," said Montencon. He began coming and going in Conquette' s cunt.
" Astonishing!" he remarked. " Your own father' s fuck – the fuck whereof you were created – amalgamated with yours in your sacred cunt, should, it seems to me, serve as pommade. But I can hardly get into you!" From the crimson color of my daughter' s cheeks I saw he was hurting her.
" Decunt, bugger," said I to her plumber. " Your mule' s prick is giving the little hole mouthfuls it can' t possibly swallow." He did withdraw his shaft, I popped a gobbet of fresh Normandy butter into her crock.
" Ah," said the complacent child, " that ought to loosen the hinges." Montencon reencunted wrathfully. He entered with veritable majesty and struck bottom. Conquette jerked her ass.
" There ' tis," cried the lecher. " I feel your darling little nipper. Let' s clap another horn on that fuck- in- the- ass Vitnegre. Pinch your ass and fling it about, my precious bitch."
This coarse language hurled me into an erotic furor. Unpityingly I tickled my daughter' s bare feet, the while saying, " Fuck, my love, fuck like a goddess. Show him you know how to fuck and you, bugger, flood her cunt. Have you ever sunk your line in a cunt to equal my celestial, my divine whore' s?" Conquette thrashed on the bed as if she were bent on breaking her back and her encunter' s too (as did Mademoiselle Timon under that great personage Mirabeau), but Montencon resisted with steadfast muscle and bone. However, Conquette' s ensuing discharge was so violent that the explosion nearly blasted the stopper from her hole. But, as subsiding she fell back, his prick, rasped by the velvety cunt, discharged with ravishing effects.
He shivered four lances without quitting the lists and at the last, after I' d tickled his balls, he ejaculated quite as abundantly as he had at the first. But he was weary. " Now, by God, that Vitnegre' s properly cornute," he said, parting with his seed, " for his fuckeress wife' s shot off three times as often as I." Conquette smiled.
" How many?" I enquired. " Oh, ten times, twenty, I' ve no idea," she explained with becoming modesty, " for it' s not polite to keep count after the first score." I kissed her forehead and she retired to the bidet. I saw with clarity that she had a taste and a talent for the sport, and so I decided to take some of the sting out of her before surrendering her to her heavy- pricked favorite.
Wishing to soothe her well- tried cunt in the bidet' s cool water, with the most gracious air and sweetest blush Madame Vitnegre begged us to leave her for a time. Saluting her respectfully, as befits a beneficent goddess, we bowed and left the room.
" I humble myself before such a man," Montencon said to me. " I' d consider it a greater glory to be her father than Marie Antoinette' s. She is just as superior to ordinary fuckeresses as Mademoiselle Contat and Mademoiselle Langue are superior to a working- class whore who frigs pricks behind the carts on the Quai du Louvre."
Upon which words we bade one another farewell. " Ah," Montencon murmured as he walked away, " how that girl was fucked!"
Chapter Eight
You purists must surely have raised a squawl over the preceding chapter! Purists, eh? May they go to the devil.
I expected a little chilliness, or a pout, or a serious air the next day, but no, my Conquette chatted with me as usually she did. A week passed during which I made no effort to stuff her. On Saturday, thoroughly recovered from the worrying Montencon had given it, her gem began to itch again. She remembered I had told her she could let Timon encunt her. She took the greatest pains with her toilette, donned a shawl, and went out that evening. But I was watching her and having Madame Brideconin – or, as I jokingly called her, Madame Conbride – keep a sharp eye on her. I was warned in time. I followed her to protect her from mishap. She entered a house and mounted a flight of stairs. I listened at the door and was able to peek through the crack. Conquette cast herself into Timon' s arms. But he was ill. Hence, the lovely thing got no more than a tonguing. Instead of caressing her in the way she would certainly have preferred, Timon fell to narrating the rest of the events concerning Vitnegre, Fout- a- mort and Connilette.
" Rather than going straight to my office – for I was feeling badly – I went to pay Vitnegre a visit. I found him in poor sorts also, this as a result of the monk' s terrifying threats – they had an interview yesterday. The monk had sent someone to fetch him. Vitnegre ran to the monastery and found the entire brotherhood in the infirmary, standing by Fout- a- mort' s bedside and he had listened to the enraged monk' s speech. ' You snivelling wretch, you dog!" the discourse began. " If I had the strength I' d throttle you. But as it looks as though I were going to die of this – so at least they tell me – I' m going to inform the lieutenant of police of everything. They' ll hang you. D' ye hear that? A bloody shame, eh? You sold your wife to me, you did, a lovely creature. Do you know what I am dying of? The pox. Well, your wife – young, healthy, still a maid – didn' t have it. I know damned well what you did. A false compassion moved you to spare your wife for whom I paid good money and you substituted a whore in her place. A filthy, scurvy trick, that, a villainous stunt, do you hear? Were I to recover, I' ll have your wife, never fear. And if I die, it' s the rope for you.' Vitnegre swore by every devil in hell that ' twas you he had on the bed. The monk, who had just been given a rubbing with mercury and whose tongue was swollen, nodded in a sign of disbelief. Then the doctor drew Vitnegre aside: ' Have you business to conclude with that rascal? Judging by his tongue I calculate he has no more than two hours to live. He has so terrible a case of syphilis that I' ve been forced to give him three times the dose I' m used to giving. I know this fellow, though: a monster. The world will be better off when rid of him. Wait a while and he' ll cease being able to speak.'
"' We' ve got to prevent him from writing!'
"' Never fear, his eyes have already started to go. He can barely see and his tongue' s beginning to emerge from his mouth.' The doctor took the monk' s pulse. ' He' s suffering the tortures of the damned. Thirty minutes more and he' s done for.'
The next morning he learned from the doctor that the monk' s inflamed tongue had choked him to death a quarter of an hour afterwards. They burned everything he wrote while on his sickbed.