Chapter 1
I must state emphatically that all of the fantastic sex adventures and far out sex practices which are described in the following pages are all true. Shocking as it may seem it all actually occurred. These are true events and for obvious reasons I have changed the names of the actors in this fabulous panorama of insatiable love. Or would you call it lust?
If I had put real names instead of invented ones, all would-be civilized persons would have been shocked at the behavior of the heroine of this little drama and would have judged her a depraved person. In reality she was and still is a very smart woman, so smart that most of the people she came into contact with were too inferior to her to be able to understand her.
It all started when, coming from England, I arrived in France onboard a channel steamer.
The crossing had been rather rough and I felt my stomach in revolt, so that I took time to sip a cup of coffee at the station buffet.
There was a girl there serving and she was quite a dish. She had such a gorgeous set of up-thrust knockers, curving with just the tilt I go for, and such a lush ass that I soon forgot all about my digestion. It was now my hard-on which was giving me trouble . . .
But, alas, I could not linger, for I had to catch the Zurich Express which was scheduled to leave at ll.ll (yes, that's the right time, funny though it may seem you can check if you like).
I looked at my watch and my heart missed a beat when I realized it was five past eleven.
"Cor, love a duck " I ejaculated aloud. I took one last look at the jutting nipples, the cleavage and big ass of my waitress and trying to control my hard-on, sprinted for the train.
I arrived there with only a minute to spare. The train left on time. Too bad I had to hurry, my rigid cock kept reminding me of the blonde waitress.
I had chosen an empty compartment and sat in it with a sigh, stretching my weary legs.
Of course, the compartment did not stay empty for a long while (they never do, do they?).
The door opened and a porter entered. He looked rather funny, with his walrus moustache. I imagined he must snore like a grampus. But, not being his wife, I didn't give a damn. He placed two suitcases in the rack and went cut and a dame came in. She had her back to me, for she was giving the inevitable tip.
By the way, are you for or against the abolition of tips ?
But it's neither here nor there, That piece of ass, now. I thought there was something familiar about her. But when she presented her front to me instead of her behind, I knew who she was.
That's right Rochelle Delac. She was the wife of a famous doctor whose reputation was world-wide, and she had been introduced to me (or rather I had been introduced to her but does it matter?) the year before at a Press
Gala. At once, we had felt attracted and we knew we could easily become good friends.
She had appeared to me to be a young, elegant and distinguished woman, very pretty, but not unduly aware of it. From her conversation I had judged her to be witty, pleasant and well-informed and, besides, very intelligent.
But, since that gala, I had not seen her, so I could not blame her when she sat down and did not at once recognize me. But then, she was very busy making herself comfortable for the long trip.
I did not hurry her and waited till she was comfortable and as snug as a bug in a rug before talking to her.
I got up and bowed politely, saying:
"How d'you do, Mrs. Delac?"
"Sir?"
She could not place me at first. Then, after one and half second's scrutiny, she beamed:
"Oh, Mr. Pierre Romer I'm sorry I was so engrossed in my installation that I sort of looked at you without actually seeing you, if you see what I mean."
I saw what she meant.
I ain't that dumb.
"I recognized you at once," I assured her.
Which is a subtle way of paying a compliment of a king. And you know how partial women are to them. Even with the intelligent ones, it's the first approach to a lay . . .
I helped her out of her coat and she appeared sexily before my popping eyes, dressed in a simple but clinging dress that covered her like skin.
She had finely chiseled features, crowned by fair curls. Her remarkable tits were full enough to be eloquent to any connoisseur of feminine beauty. Her body was tallish and voluptuous and her legs, as far as I could see, were the haven of a most delectable cunt.
I envied her husband, Delac. He did not need glasses to see that his wife had universal hard-on appeal.
I reflected it was quite a lucky coincidence to have such an attractive woman as a traveling companion and silently prayed that the compartment would remain as it is. I had a horrible fleeting vision of twenty over-excited, screaming and gesticulating tourists invading our privacy, and shuddered. Or perhaps a provincial family, who would have packed their victuals, including the inevitable strong smelling cheese.
But no, so far, we were still alone and undisturbed.
"I'm delighted to travel with such a charming person as you," I said.
She smiled and you could have knocked me down with a pussy-hair when she answered:
"Thank you, but it's perfectly mutual. You know, I was just thinking of you some time ago."
"Were you, really?"
I felt as proud as a cockerel ruling the roost.
"Yes," she said, "I've often recalled our pleasant conversation at the press gala, do you remember?"
"I do "
"Good. Where are you traveling to."
"Zurich."
"For a newspaper article?"
"Yes, and from there I shall eco to Berne, where I hope to be able to do a feature article on the International Red Cross."
"Yours is a very interesting profession, isn't it?"
"It has its moments," I conceded.
"And, on top of it, you are a well-known writer. I thoroughly enjoyed your last book, 'Naughty Nymphos.' "
"Have you read it?" I asked, blushing.
"But, my dear sir, I read all your books," she assured me, smiling.
"Do you, really? I'm very glad to hear it."
I thought that if everybody did like her I would be a very rich man indeed.
"I read your books," she went on, "because you are one of those very rare writers who sound true to themselves. One sees that you know life and sex thoroughly and you don't embellish it with happy endings and the punishment of the guilty, and all that sort of trash good enough for Hollywood and its moral leagues. But your best quality is perhaps your true knowledge of women and the way they really act and feel in bed. I like your point of view which is that man has qualities that woman has not and vice versa. Also, you put both sexes on an equal footing, sexually speaking, and that's what makes your strength.
"In your novels, there is none of that Victorian outlook which gives women a secondary role, none of the hypocrisy (both profane and religious) which approves of men having love-affairs, but not women.
"On the other hand, you rightly point out that women have nothing to be specially proud about when they go to bed with a man. Some women think that because they have sex with a man they do him a great honor and bestow a priceless gift. That's silly. They need the love act as much as men do. And when they give pleasure, they also receive their share of it. So there should be no feeling of superiority one way or the other."
She may have gone on in that vein for quite a while, if the loud-speaker had not put an abrupt end to her speech.
"Passengers to Brussels, Liege, Frankfort, Bonn, will be leaving in two minutes on platform four," the impersonal voice was saying.
"So we have twenty hours during which we shall be sitting opposite each other," I said, "I shall enjoy that very much."
"The pleasure will be mine, particularly.. . "
She left her sentence unfinished.
"Particularly?" I prompted.
"I'll be frank with you," she blurted out, wriggling her snatch nervously. "As I've just told you, I've read your books, and my belief is that the personality of the writer is bound to be reflected In his writings, so that I'm sure you are one of the rare persons capable of understanding me."
I sensed that I would soon hear a confession.
And a confession from a sexy female is always interesting, particularly when she is intelligent as well.
"Understanding you?" I asked, all agog with curiosity.
"Yes, for I am a very odd woman to most people."
"I don't know about odd," I said, "but anyway you're certainly intelligent, and very pretty into the bargain."
"Thanks. But, apart from that, supposing it were true, I am one of those rare women who have dared to do what most women only secretly think."
"And what is that, may I ask?"
"Well, since we have many hours to kill, would you be interested in hearing the truth about my intimate sex life?"
Would I? What do you think, readers?
Brother . . .
"My life is quite interesting I assure you," she went on. I like you as a man and as a novelist, so that, I'm giving you the benefit of firsthand material for a story which you could very well write from what I'm going to tell you, and, as I guess you'll use fictitious names I doubt if I shall be recognized. People are so silly."
She paused and I settled back, the better to listen.
"You see, I've had many lovers, I'm going to call a spade a spade, I like the act of sex or fucking very much. So far, nothing special, except that usually married women deceive their husbands not because they need it, or out of love, but from a sort of lewd curiosity they want to know if there is any difference between men. And some of them deceive their husbands for the sheer satisfaction of an inner thrill, to be able to say that they have screwed on their husbands and gotten away with it. Others do it to amuse themselves or to see if Andre makes love better than their husband or if it's true that Maurice has the knack of "sending" women with his special screw.
"But I haven't deceived my husband for any of those reasons.
"The reason why I've had many men fuck me is because I love my husband very much. I have great tenderness and affection for him.
"You look surprised. Now, I can't blame you.
"Yes, thank you, I'll have a cigarette.
"Now let me tell you . . . . "
And for the rest of that eventful train trip Rochelle, the sexy society belle, wife of a famous surgeon, neatly laid bare her sex-life. Her frank, almost crude words she used like her husband might wield a scalpel in dissecting her hump adventures right down to the "bone". .