Tableaux Vivants

IT ISN'T NECESSARY TO KISS THE MOTHER

Ladies, I tell you truthfully, clitorsation is a means of enjoyment more efficacious than agreeable. I am firmly of opinion that it was invented to triumph over the resistance of nature. The first person who tickled a clitoris was an unfortunate futterer.

There are disinherited creatures to whom heaven has refused the gift of pleasure. The warmest kisses, the liveliest embraces, cannot give warmth to these living lumps of marble; the finger is the last resource; no woman can resist a learned forefinger.

But those to whom this operation is necessary enjoy in the same manner as they give birth. In their pangs the lover's fingers rake into their gulf, seeking the rebellious clitoris, touching it, pressing it, furiously rubbing it. And she, “You — you are flaying me!”

And she writhes in a nervous paroxysm. The pleasure tears her like the lightning rends the cloud; it is no more lasting than the lightning.

There are clitorises, on the contrary, which you need but graze to give them life. Clitorisation is truly a touchstone; and if the mare quivers under the first touches of the finger which caresses her, use discretion and art. If she has never been touched before-

Ah! It is a delicate operation tickling a virgin. There, experience is everything. You tickle at a venture. A sigh, a start, ought to warn you that the crisis is near. Sometimes the ingenue shrinks away: “You go-you go too fast!”

A man of wit, who was also a great libertine, was accustomed to say, “God has done me the favour to give me slow fingers!”

Lightness alone does not suffice; you must in addition touch exactly. The clitoris flees, you have to seize it. You have probably never clitorised any of your mistresses without her having said to you in the course of the work, “It isn't there.”

How clumsy men are! Women know much better how to take hold of it. This is what justifies Lesbos.

Still, even when two women render to each other the eminent service of tickling one another, the business is not perfect. The most accomplished tribade sometimes touches on one side.

One is best clitorised by oneself only.

“It is not there!” said Valentine to me. The scene of our rendezvous was, to say the least of it, strange. It was a barred window, onto the sill of which Valentine had climbed. And I had hoisted myself up as well as I could to the top of a large stone. I had passed my hand through the iron bars. Needless to say it was night.

Not the slightest means of exchanging a kiss. Nothing but this sterile titillation which I could not even apply with a sure finger.

Thus I could not awaken even a symptom of pleasure in Valentine. However, she returned my caresses. Stretching her hand through the bars in her turn, she followed the lessons which I had taught her, with a playful movement. The result was prompt. My semen fell on the ground. “This is what they call plucking a goose,” said I to Valentine.

And yet to think that it only depended upon myself to enter this house, to find in it an opportunity of holding this pretty girl quite naked in my arms, of warming this living statue! Yes- but it would be necessary to kiss her mother.

One always has to kiss the mother! It is a hard necessity. Although Madame de Meissiat was well into her fifties, she was still all aflame-true Greekfire, which, once fastened to anything, never ceases biting and cannot be extinguished. She had sworn that she would possess me, that she would hold me buried in the ocean of her aged flesh. And Valentine knew it!

But this night, having in vain waited for any pleasure from my clumsy touchings through the iron bars, not having felt anything, and hoping everything from a long kiss and a real embrace taken without constraint, she said to me, “Richard, it would cost you very little to make yourself amiable to my mother!”

The next day, at two o'clock in the afternoon, I yielded.

I arrived at the Castel de Meissiat, rang, and asked for Madame. The servant who introduced me met me with a smile. I threw her on a table while crossing the kitchen, I pulled up her clothes, I tickled her. This was to whet my appetite.

I had carefully instructed Valentine to be in the corridor which led to her mother's room. I joined her there, embraced her; in short, threw myself on my knees in front of her. My head slipped under her petticoats; I kissed her stomach, her thighs. This was to give me courage.

As to what took place afterwards in the boudoir of Madame de Meissiat, O black mystery! The old woman was waiting for me, lying along an easy chair. Still warmed by the charms of her daughter, I had no wish to let my ardour freeze again in the presence of her mother. I seized this fifty-year-old bitch without saying a word. Only, to avoid kissing her, I pierced her in the greyhound fashion. “What a man!” said she. “He is a thunderbolt!”

An immense backside, fat and flabby, stuck itself up before my eyes. I believed myself to be rubbing against rancid lard; I seemed to penetrate into a sea of sticky water, and I pushed long, long, for nothing rubbed against me, nothing clasped me; I swam in the wide sea. My amorous trot gave vent to frightful yells. O the lubricous old she-devil! I left her half-dead with her stinking pleasures.

I passed into Valentine's chamber. The dear girl purified me herself, in her own wash-hand basin, from the maternal work.

I quickly stripped off all her clothes. Not only in our nocturnal meetings at the barred window had I never penetrated the charms of this pretty child, I had never even seen them. The temple appeared to me, and the god at the bottom of the sanctuary. This little, unknown god had a pretty face. And what a breath! I inhaled it deeply.

Valentine was not a virgin. Her cousin had taken her maidenhead without her having experienced anything but pain. “It is because he was too old!” she said. I placed her on the edge of the bed, I, who was young. The introduction was painful; she bore it bravely.

“Do you feel anything?”

“No.”

“What! The movements which I make in your stomach, the blows which I give you, cause you no pleasure?”

“No-not yet-but go on!”

I went on, truly, I went on! I waited for the first contraction of the whole body, the rapid jolt of her croup, a sigh, or even only a respiration shorter and more hasty, the divine preludes at last announcing that the loved woman is not insensible to the caresses of her lover. Nothing!

This body which I held pressed under mine seemed to me nevertheless made for love. Valentine was a brunette, graceful and slender. Little titties, but delicate, and full backside. A coynte burning, tight. The mouth lascivious, the eyes brilliant.

All these were but delusive appearances. My mouth wandered from her mouth to her breast, my fingers from her clitoris to her anus, and I polished and thrust! Nothing!

My strength, however, failed me, and my virility left me in a jet of flame. I seized Valentine, and, holding her lying on my knee, I commenced to clitorise her furiously. Her clitoris was so small and so fugitive that I could scarcely hold it between my fingers. I chafed it with all my force. She complained, she cried out; but she enjoyed at last with a nervous crisis.

Deceiving and icy girl, I quitted her, never to see her more. I went away humiliated, in despair at not having been able to triumph over this rebellious nature. Never, never will I again play my part of having to kiss the mother.