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Carnal Interlude


Robert Sermais


We went back to the same enchanted spot the next evening. In twilight, the naked skin absorbs the soft nocturnal perfumes emanating from the trees, the herbs, the flowers. And, this evening, the wind was moaning in a melancholy way. We lay under the moving branches which formed a kind of leafy roof over our heads. We had talked of the roles which the woman and the husband play during our dinner, and now under this nocturnal vault which hid the dark sky, we resumed our conversation.

“A woman,†I held, “is the incarnation of nature's possibilities. According to the man she will meet, she will bring forth vice or virtue, depending on what the husband has sown in her.†He rubbed his cheek against mine. “In any case,†he said slowly, “a sexual rapport must be established, if only to create children.â€

“Abstinence is not a source of virtue,†I told him.

“But then is the quest for pleasure compatible with a healthy married life?â€

Of course, Claude! Joy is the foundation, even the balance, between the man and wife.â€

“But isn't a woman tempted to pursue for herself alone the search for pleasure after her husband has taught her what it is?â€

“She will do that only if the husband has sharpened her appetite without satisfying her hunger. The elaborate development of feminine eroticism depends on the physiology of the subject. A woman derives her sensuality from the reactions which her husband inspires in her. If her husband is indifferent, brutal or vulgar, her desire changes direction in order to seek from new sources a compensation for her disappointments.â€

“Yes, Therese, but if a woman abandons her self to the pleasure of fucking, how can one tell whether she does it generously, or just to satisfy her own selfish pleasure?â€

“In all abandon of the flesh, there dwells a kind of generous egoism, ambivalent; that is what surpasses the confused sentiment which testifies to love: the greedy desire to possess everything the other owns, or the desire of the female to abandon everything of herself to him. That is why I say it is ambivalent; but the two polarities come together in perfect balance and unison when each, in his or her own greedy desire, is also generous enough to hold nothing back. I know it sounds complicated, but you will see, once you live that way with your wife, how it works out, dear Claude,†I told him.

He held me tightly in his strong arms, and I felt gently calmed when his head was next to mine. As we played at life — for to discuss the most profound mysteries, isolated in this idyllic rustic spot where no trespasser came to disturb us filled each of us with an ego-vaunting power like unto an immortal — we spoke of the true laws of nature and we agreed how wise it was to avoid the debauchery of sex, source of all human weakness. In that nocturnal atmosphere which enveloped us, everything suggested the mood, the setting, for love. The dark, heavy night hid the road by which we had driven, but we knew we could find it when we chose. Yet this time, however, we lay side by side, chastely awaiting sleep, and we did not seek the greedy lubricity of sheer sensual contact which cerebral anxiety might have proposed. Claude, too, becoming ideally sensitive to my moods, comprehended that I preferred this blissful communion without physical interlude.

The fanfare of pigeons circling overhead wakened me. I opened my eyes to see the branches of those tall trees circling us; they were moving slowly from the gentle morning breeze. I felt myself in a place far from all the world, and then I turned towards Claude, who still slept. My hand silently drew back the wool blanket which had covered us, and I knew he was naked under it. First I caressed his firm chest. He remained motionless, but his eyelids opened slowly and his dark eyes stared at me. I drew the blanket back past his belly, stopping when I saw the downy fronds of his pubic hairs. He continued to regard me wonderingly — ah, if he had only known that my woman's instinct urged me to fall on him and offer my cunt as receptacle to his cock and all its hot cream! But he believed, instead, that I was simply torturing him and I read reproach in his eyes. Quickly, I flung the blanket far to one side, and he blushed violently as he saw his stiff, throbbing cock upright in all its animal violence.

Yet his cock was admirably prepossessing; there was feline grace yet vigor in the sight of it, that weapon he had for piercing me; I conjured up with quivering anticipation the undulating movements of his hips and loins as he would rub that rosy cocktip of his against my itching pussylips. I brushed his cockhead with my lips, and I saw it throb with delight; I blew on it with my moist warm breath, and all his body shuddered. He raised himself on his elbows; then, cupping my cheeks, made me turn on my back. His mouth merged against mine, his tongue flicking between my lips, and we remained that way a long moment, deliciously merged — yet still without his cock being lodged inside my cunny.

Yet dizzying fever blinded my eyes, and when he put one hand on my knees, I could not control the convulsive start which tensed my body. Ah, his tongue in my mouth had learned what inward passion I was feeling, for now he moved himself down and his lips grazed my pussypetals, brushing them with countless tiny kisses. Was I to refuse this sweet contact, I, who had taught him the grace of love?

His gentle lips caressed my cunny ardently and drew a groan from me. But I was secretly ashamed of confessing my weakness to so young a lover, to pant in his arms like the veriest schoolgirl-virgin whose cunny was being rammed for the first time, so I had my revenge; I reversed myself over him and, grasping hold of his erect shaft with my slim fingers, I honored his cockrod with the same tender grazings of my moist warm lips. Oh, what intoxicating atmosphere; all my nerves concentrated on the two opposite polarities of cock and cunny. Here we were straddled between these two universes, the male prick, the female cunt. I sucked and breathed in on his rigid prong, while he glued his mouth between my gently moving thighs. And when his body stiffened in the supreme zenith of come, I felt my own furiously churning pussy surge down its creamy tides. We remained thus a long while. Then, after I had rolled off him and turned to lie beside him, I cupped his cheeks with my hands and stared at his handsome, voluptuous features, pacified and softened, pale as those of a wounded hero.

“Oh, my sweet cherubim, how seriously you play your role,†I murmured.

“How can I ever forget those moments of happiness?†he breathed.

“Sweet idiot, no one asks you to forget them; on the contrary, you must put them into practice, with your wife,†I told him.

I rubbed my titties against his chest, while my hands stroked his sides, his hips. He lay peacefully, learning thus new joys which a woman could give him, seeing that not all acts of love are limited to union of cunt and prick, but that there are infinite nuances of touch, of sight, of smell even. The smell of a woman's skin after she has given down her thick love juices changes infinitely from what it is just before the supreme moment when her pussywalls throb and contract and the long hidden tides within her well towards outlet. Ah, he had a lifetime of fucking to learn, that admirable youth!

I moved to one side now, to contemplate once more that powerful, sculptured membrane of his — for it was still half-erect — and to pay homage to that edifice which procures all tenderness and desire to a woman. I had the right, the duty, to see that flower blossom on its thickening stalk, that flower which flailed my cunnyflesh and he in turn had the right to see the petals of my pussyhole open to his pronging. Let prudes and hypocrites judge me severely — what does it matter! Their curses, founded on a false morality, could never attain the serenity of my healthy woman's nature!

I stretched out under the sun, my titties cupped out to him with my hands, I opened my thighs wide to his pure, natural gaze. “Look,†I murmured, “look at me, and let your fingers touch me, let your eyes observe the most hidden parts of my naked flesh.â€

I had no fear of being immoral, for my belly had never yet cradled a degenerate debauch-er, nor some clandestine pervert. No, my palpitating flesh which imposed laws on me to which I reacted and which I respected, had remained incontestably pure. For no one, unless he be a pervert, could know how to impose shame on my flesh which participates so intensely and nobly to the urge of nature. That is why a man is a man and a woman is a woman; this is the symbolical umbilical cord which links man to the astral beauty of the universe itself!

“Observe,†I whispered, “how your eyes caress my cunt with its two lips that open onto the dark corridor which leads to the fertile terrain in which future lives are engendered.â€

Yes, I discarded all the ancestral shames which have burdened man and woman through the centuries. I cried out my pride in being a sexual being and not a larva that reproduces by parthenogenesis. I proclaimed that honor and dignity reside in the cuntlips of a woman just as those attributes dwell in the stiff cock of a man!

I leaned over that upright prong, I stared at his roots, his scrotum, his dangling balls. I detailed the healthy force of his prick, its long molded, ardent lines, as if nature had seen to it that it would be long enough to attain a woman's cunt to her innermost depths. I was proud of being a woman, of being she who would welcome that handsome fruit bursting with life and pleasure, of being she who would nourish its growth within her hidden garden till the doubly delightful explosion of harvest, a harvest that, when yearned for, would create new men, new women to taste the beauties of this marvelous world.

Why hadn't I avowed my desire to be longly and deeply fucked? Why did I dissemble after I had kissed that part of him which was as worthy as all the rest of his body of my chaste lips' adoration? A Grecian statue models a man's loins with the same respect as it does his face, to represent the triumph of life. Is it because the tradition of the Middle Ages still blights our life in this century that I don't have a right to say that my cunt bubbles with hot joy when I spread my thighs and open my pussylips for my husband? Why should I not cry out my happiness in receiving his prick burrowed to its hilt, hairs to hairs, inside me, squeezing and clamping his rigid ramrod with the kissing, contracting walls of my cunthole?

“Oh, Therese, I want to get into you, become one with you,†he poetically gasped.

“Wait, wait a little,†I whispered.

“Ohh, the satiny estuary of your belly,†he breathed, setting his lips to my navel. “How nobly beautiful you are! What sweet balance to your every part. What a deliciously beautiful woman you are, the perfect epitome of all womanhood!â€

Ah, had I been one of those perverse, calculating sluts who bare their bodies only after many stupid little games to hold their lovers at bay or to enforce their will for selfish gain, I should have doubtless been applauded by hypocrites and prudes. But now that I exhibited myself under the sunlight of a pure and beloved being, showing him the rosy petals of my cunthole. I would be instead an object of scandal! Yes, that is our stupid morality these days, but it cannot be found in honest people who, far from shame and prying eyes, sing the sacred hymn of nature together as we were doing now.

“Therese, I want to feel my cock inside your sheath all the way,†he petitioned.

“Yes, later, darling,†I breathed.

“But I can't wait!â€

“Soon!†I whispered.

“When?†he anxiously demanded.

“I don't know.â€

“Therese, Therese,†he groaned, squeezing me in his strong young arms. “Oh, when?â€

“Today,†I promised.