Madame la Comtesse de Couer-Brulant
The Cousins,volume II
CHAPTER TWELVE
Two women were sitting in the huge living room of one of those enormous mansions, a half-palace, with which the environs of Paris are so richly endowed. Occasionally they exchanged a few words. They were occupied with needlepoint, that seemingly endless task which was about as exciting and never ending as the many love stories which are spun out in the newspapers of Paris.
One was a beautiful brunette about twenty-five years old, with a marvelous, soft complexion, dark sparkling eyes and full, red lips which betrayed the sensual nature of their charming owner.
The other one, a blonde, seemed to be around twenty years old. Her face was like that of an angel, framed by golden hair. Her slender body, her hazel eyes, and the innocent smile completed the picture of perfect innocence. It was the sort of innocence that drives men wild and makes them contemplate deeds of which their bodies are not always capable.
That was one of the reasons why the innocent looking blonde, despite her tender years, wore the black dress of widowhood.
George Vaudrez had died attempting to give his beloved son and heir a little playmate. Though he had not succeeded, he had died happily.
That night-now almost a year ago- George's hand had searched for his young wife's body. She had responded perfectly opened her thighs wide, and George had crawled right on top of her, deciding to dispense with the usual preliminaries. His whole frame was flushed with a pink heat. His prick had felt bloated, aching and growing to an ecstatic bursting point. His thighs and back ached with a downward pressure, and Florentine's bobbing crotch drove him into an even wilder frenzy. The drumming in George's ears — and he had been suffering from this condition lately-became almost unbearable. He tried desperately to force the explosion out his prick before there was one in his head or his chest.
His breathing had become a pitiful consumptive whine but his wife, in a state of continual spasms, showed no mercy for his tortured, pathetic state. George opened his watery eyes. In his aching head he suddenly felt the power of great emotion. His wife was so young, so passionate and so beautiful. He wanted to get her with child. Just one more.
“Oh, dear God,” he thought, “one more baby that bears my name.”
He wanted to hold her tight, but he no longer had the strength. He closed his eyes again and mechanically continued to push up and down. His prick seemed to be swelling larger and larger, more so than it had ever done in the past year. It seemed that it might never come out again. He writhed his loins against her, and sweat dripped from every pore of his body. The desire to come was intolerable and yet he couldn't quite seem to manage it. It would happen, he knew, but his head felt as if it was splitting and his chest was constricted. He fervently prayed that it would hurry.
Feebly he tensed his buttocks, felt a twinge of cramp and relaxed them again. He pressed his abdomen against hers, opened his eyes again and fixed her with a pleading gaze. Florentine understood. Without losing connection, she rolled over and George was now on his back, with Florentine riding him! She sensed from his writhing and his agonized gasps and groans that he was about to come. This unexpected situation, plus her new sense of mastery of the situation, made her unleash her body and she began to pummel him for all she was worth. She let herself be carried away by her own momentous passion.