Memoirs of a young Rakehell

CHAPTER FOUR

When Berthe and I returned to the chateau we found the table already laid. But my mother and my aunt had not quite finished arranging the dining-room. While Berthe was helping them I picked up the newspaper which my father had forwarded us, and read a short article which related how a Mr. X… had raped a Miss A… I looked up the meaning of the word "rape" in the dictionary, and found: "to deflower." Which didn't help matters much, although it gave me another subject for thought.

At table Berthe and I, contrary to our wont, did not exchange a single word. My aunt and mother were surprised by our silence, but the latter concluded merely: "They've probably been fighting again." It seemed wiser to us to conceal our new-found intimacy beneath the factitious veil of spite.

My mother explained how she had arranged the rooms for my father and herself, and for my aunt. Their rooms were on the first floor, along with Berthe's and Kate's. Mine was on the ground floor, behind the stairway leading to the library. After lunch I went up to the library to look around. It contained an impressive number of old books, and a smattering of modern works.

The room prepared for the friar was right next to the library. It was separated from the chapel by a corridor. The chapel contained two large stalls set near the altar, where the former proprietors had sat at mass. Behind one of these stalls was the master's confessional, whereas the servants' confessional was tucked at the far end of the chapel.

I had time to note all these details after dinner, since Berthe had been called to help the ladies, and I had scarcely had time to give her a stealthy kiss when I had gone out to see if I could be of any help.

Several days passed without anything noteworthy happening.

Berthe was still kept busy by the ladies, who had not yet finished getting the house into order.

Since the weather had turned bad, I spent most of my time in the library, where I had been pleasantly surprised to come across an anatomic atlas in which I found an illustrated description of the intimate parts of both sexes. The book also contained an explanation of pregnancy and of all the phases of maternity, none of which I had known before.

This last interested me especially because the bailiff's wife was then pregnant, and the sight of her enormous belly had greatly aroused my curiosity.

I once had heard her discussing the matter with her husband. Their quarters were on the ground floor right next to mine, near the garden.

Needless to say, the events of that memorable day, when I had seen my sister naked, and afterward the sport of the peasant girls and men, had been constantly with me. My mind returned to them again and again, with the result that I had an erection most of the time. I frequently examined and played with my member. The pleasure I felt when handling it incited me to continue.

In bed I amused myself by lying on my belly and rubbing myself against the sheets. My feelings grew more and more sensitive every day. A week passed in this way.

One day when I was sitting in the old leather chair in the library, the atlas open in front of me to the page describing the female genital organs, I had such an erection that I unbuttoned my trousers and took out my prick. From constant rubbing it now uncovered easily. I was as a matter of fact sixteen by now, and considered myself a man. My hair had grown thicker and resembled a handsome mustache. That particular day I felt such a profound and unaccustomed voluptuousness as I rubbed it that my breathing grew short. I tightened the grip on my member, loosened it, stroking back and forth. I uncovered the tip completely, tickled my balls and my arsehole, then examined my glans, which was deep red in color and as shiny as lacquer.

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.