Caricias perversas - Parte 1

Perverted Caresses - Part I


Author: Louis Priène

Adapted to Spanish Latin by TuttoErotici

1

Oh, now I'm old, but what wonderful memories the bells of Sainte-Victoire church evoke in me when, tolling in the melancholic afternoon, they disperse their peaceful song beyond the fog suspended over the field, and when quiet night falls on the small village where I was born.

Who will say one day what unexpected dreams, what confused desires slumber in the serene soul of those tender provincial beauties?... What whispered prayers do their timid lips elevate to the crucifix hung from the curtains of the alcove that, like a jeweler, harbors tender treasures?...

Perhaps this was so at home, in the small subprefecture of Z..., where my father, Justin Rebidard, had lived for twenty years. Since the day he married Mathilde Belin, daughter of the former local notary, whom my father succeeded.

My father was a good and tolerant man, but inflexible on the grounds of respectability. I must say that our family provided him with great satisfaction in this regard. At home lived Mother, with a sweet and chaste appearance, whose large clear eyes recalled the deep and stagnant waters of a lake. At thirty-eight years old, she barely seemed older than my sister Jeanne, who was eighteen springs old. Besides Mother and Jeanne, there was my little sister Henriette, fifteen years old. Frankly adorable. A maiden with beautiful green eyes and red hair that fell in braids down her back. In short: a flesh-and-blood Greuze model. Finally, Aunt Suzanne, my father's younger sister. Twenty-seven years old, somewhat subdued, but diligent. In a certain sense, the fairy of the house...

In this united family, each person dedicated themselves to activities dictated by taste and age: Henriette and I were still in school. Reserving our diversions: I, in our Catholic association, playing with my companions. She, mostly... from the times spent in the company of her best friend, Gabrielle, the youngest daughter of Dr. Delphin, whose greatest pleasure consisted in teaching catechism to young catechumens at Sainte-Victoire Church... Mom, besides the time she devoted to domestic chores that a good housewife should attend to, would frequently visit charity cases in the needy neighborhoods of the lower city... In Aunt Suzanne, Dad had an ideal secretary for the office, where a boy named Gustave also worked as an orderly. This Gustave, dumber than a bunch of beans, perpetually sucked his finger while contemplating my aunt with an air of beatitude. This would inevitably make her blush and look down. She became even more flushed one day when she realized he was staring insistently at the hem of her skirt, casually lifted, which allowed a glimpse of creamy flesh, sufficient to inspire unhealthy ideas in such a young boy. She became even more discomfited, wondering what object Gustave was agitating with rabid obstinacy in his prominent pant pocket. Whatever it was, suspecting it wasn't very pure, Aunt Suzanne, in her candor, asked in an authoritative tone but singularly lacking in security: 'Gustave! What are you dreaming about instead of working? Take off! Go to the post office and buy stamps.' The boy reluctantly obeyed. When he left, she contained a heart that was beating frantically with both hands. What had she imagined for her to experience such a shock? Mystery! Thus, in this provincial quiet, even the most trivial incident took on the proportions of a notable event, like when... butcher fled -- without forgetting the box -- on a beautiful morning with Ernest, a scoundrel who was the son of our institute's caretaker. Or, also, the day Henriette found a letter from young Dédé Lacassagne in her purse. This premature suitor did not assure her that she would wait impatiently for him to be a man to marry her... And, also, the day a photograph of Aunt Suzanne disappeared mysteriously. She felt it very much, and my father told her to console her: I'm convinced it's a theft committed by some anonymous admirer.

He wasn't far off, as will be seen later.

At night, there were gatherings: Papa would immerse himself in reading the newspaper, Henriette would play with dolls or, on the piano in the salon, interpret some sonata by Hummel or Diabelli, while the ladies prepared Jeanne's trousseau; we awaited a marriage proposal from Agénor Tardiveau, the pharmacist's son, a scoundrel who used binoculars and didn't dare declare himself... yet.

A great sigh would occasionally escape from an oppressed chest. It was because, at that point, I no longer doubted it, however comfortable life might be, this life had to result in being a bit monotonous...

It was indeed until the night when, after dinner, with all the family gathered, my father announced joyfully: Now that we're having dessert, I'll give you some good news: one of my clients, Count N..., is leaving for Spain tomorrow. He'll be there for two months. So, you should know that, in gratitude for the services rendered, he insisted I use his castle at La Ramondiére as if it were our own. Then, from Saturday, we'll go spend the weekend in the countryside.

You can't imagine the enthusiastic and jubilant applause that greeted this announcement. It was, I remember very well, my 16th birthday. Papa added: Of course, the castle staff will be at our disposal. But the lord count made me some recommendations: I shouldn't trust too much in the gardener, Justin, my namesake, nor his son, Léon, examples of good work but dubious morality. It's also not a good idea to linger too long in the forest, as there is a vagabond named Héctor who roams around, a man with deplorable habits. I won't say more because there are children. Besides, in the center of that forest there is an old hunting lodge where sometimes things happen, and women shouldn't venture into it...

When I heard these words, whose mysterious meaning escaped our innocent ears, my young aunt blushed to the roots of her hair.

So, on Saturday morning we all met at the station. Aunt Suzanne was a bit sad because she had been forced to stay behind at the buffet and wouldn't be taking part in that first trip. However, while my father and sisters were busy installing our luggage, mother was giving her last advice to aunt. I, standing next to them, didn't miss a word. The main recommendation was that, at night, I should lock the door with a latch so that - as I also found out - it wouldn't happen to me what happened to the young maid of our neighbors Duplantité, who had been assaulted last week while she was sleeping. Aunt Suzanne blushed and muttered something I couldn't understand...

I still remember that departure as if it were yesterday. I can still see mother on that platform, wearing a new skirt she had worked on all week because she wanted to wear it for the occasion. That skirt didn't please father at all, who thought it was too short. It's the fashion, mom argued.

But it was true that that skirt was very short and showed off a considerable length of legs with an unmatched profile; and it fit her so tightly that it emphasized an rounded peak that now, from the perspective that time gives me, I know... What was most disconcerting... I myself had been deeply disconcerted for some time. It was in a confused state that I couldn't explain to myself. It often happened, especially since the previous night's evening A night when Mom came to wish me goodnight. She arrived just before taking a bath; she was wearing a bathrobe. Then, when she leaned over me, the loose belt accidentally came undone, the bathrobe opened suddenly and I saw her, to some extent, naked. It was a dazzling image... I opened my eyes wide at that extraordinary and new spectacle for me. Mom's face reflected her embarrassment. In a tone of loving reproof, she said: —Oh! How ugly! It's not good to look like this. You'll soon be a man, and you need to learn to close your eyes.

I closed them immediately, and I had the joy of checking that she had forgiven me because, leaning over me again, she deposited, as if forgiving, a long kiss on my forehead. But while doing so, she leaned against the edge of the bed. It was then that, resting on my hand which lay inert, I felt a soft and wavy mass being pressed down.

I didn't dare open my eyes, but during the time that prolonged that kiss, I was so intrigued and my curiosity was so great that, to find out, I grabbed that thing with all my hand. It was soft and fluffy, and it soon got wet. I concluded that it was the bath sponge. Meanwhile, Mom whispered in my ear: —Oh! That's not good... You'll soon be a man... You shouldn't... It's not good to touch that... Oh! Stop!... Don't touch it again!

She closed her legs over my hand...

It wasn't until later, as a result of the course of events, that I understood that what chance had put in contact with my hand was her mound and that it had only taken me to touch it clumsily for it to get wet immediately. I also understood that, victim of the circumstance that had left her in such an awkward position, caught by the delicate concern... from arousing too much impatience that she already knew was too impatient, my mother had preferred to let herself be touched -- clumsily, it's true -- as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

That night I didn't sleep much, turning and tossing on the bed without stopping.

From that day on, no week went by without her coming one or two nights to wish me goodnight, and without her bathrobe, coincidentally, opening when she leaned over me, and then my hand would find the sponge automatically!

Oh! That's not right... You shouldn't..., she would sigh during the kiss, which prolonged extraordinarily, at the same time as she curiously agitated her lower belly and I would caress what I called the sponge until it ended in a violent tightening of the thighs, accompanied by breaths that confused me...

In short: she had grown fond of it and let herself be touched to the point of pleasure. But, in this specific area, my knowledge was too scarce to suspect what it was about.

I must say that Mom passed for being, with all justice, the most beautiful woman in our small town. I remember perfectly, when we left mass on Sundays, hearing murmurs of admiration raised around her; and it wasn't rare for me to notice certain men, poorly educated, who directed shameless and even concupiscent glances at her. She, modest and rather shy, would often lose control of herself, which translated into a fluttering of eyelids, a sudden blush that colored her forehead, and a kind of indignation that, though internal and mute, was perfectly readable on the altered features of her gracious face.

I also remember that she often sighed without an apparent reason, and exhibited strange behavior. Among others, I witnessed a patent example several months before these events: One afternoon, Dad and Aunt were in... The buffet, and my two sisters had gone to visit some friends' house. We were alone at home; I was in my room, whose window looked out onto an inner courtyard. Then, in the frame of one of the windows facing mine, I witnessed a singular spectacle: the priest from Sainte-Victoire church was with Eglantine, the young and refined niece of Mr. Duplessis, who had the habit of looking at me shamelessly every time we crossed paths on the stairs... At that time, she seemed to be suffering from some strange illness. The priest was lavishing her with care, and had placed her on a huge sofa, where she appeared about to faint... Was she short of air? Did she suffer from hot flashes?... I thought so, since he had undone her blouse and rolled up her skirt very high... She was stretching out her arms, eager to be comforted. In this way, he lay down beside her and put some unknown instrument into her lower belly; and, putting it in and taking it out alternately, he began to agitate with vigor at the same time as the sick woman emitted moans that reached my ears despite the twenty meters separating us. She was shaken by a series of convulsive shudders that gave a hundred turns to the agitation of the priest.

It was then that, from the adjacent room, which turned out to be my parents' bedroom, some deep sighs emerged. Was Mom also suffering? Could I open the door? I didn't dare... I spied on her through the keyhole.

She too, with her nose pressed against the glass, watched as the priest relieved young Eglantine. She seemed feverish and adopted a curious posture: one hand hidden under her dress, apparently between her thighs, which must have been searching for some flea that was bothering her. God, how skillfully she agitated that hand, it seemed without managing to catch the insect, judging by Mom's persistence in her endeavor! And what such tearing sighs! Was it compassion towards Eglantine? Possibly, because, at the same moment that the reverend emitted a strong sigh that stifled a loud shriek uttered by the unfortunate girl, which ended in a very sweet complaint, mom, in the climax of emotion, let herself fall without strength onto the bear's skin rug and nervously clutched between her thighs the hand that, without any doubt, had finally caught the flea. Her splendid body was shaken by a long shudder; a kind of wave made her oscillate visibly and she murmured, exhausted:—Ah! Aaah!… I'd like to have the reverend too!… Me too...Aaah!... This way I found out how great mom's compassion was for other people's misfortunes... Other reasons for astonishment were added that same night when I described Henriette's strange illness to Eglantine, so vigorously alleviated by the reverend...—Oh, what a curious coincidence! Yesterday afternoon I saw roughly the same scene... This time the patient was Gabrielle...—Gabrielle Delphin? Your friend?...—Yes, the same. After catechism class, when we were about to leave, the sacristan Mr. Bitar approached us and said:...—Then, Miss Gabrielle, does it seem good to you if I give you the candy we talked about today?—She smiled strangely and, without daring to look at him, replied:...—It seems good to me, Mr. Bitar. Would you be kind enough?...—Of course I will be kind... When we were alone in the church, after looking around to make sure no one was spying on us, Mr. Bitar invited Gabrielle into the sacristy and asked me to wait outside...—We won't take long... Receive a rosary while you wait...—And what about me, Mr. Bitar? Don't you think I want a candy too?...—Ah! You also want one?... Don't worry, I'll give it to you soon... They reunited in the sacristy, and I had already prayed three complete rosaries when they still hadn't come out. I was very curious. That's why... that I looked through the keyhole. I saw Gabrielle sitting on the sofa of the priest. She was sucking a raspberry lollipop, making silly faces and all kinds of coquettishness, while Mr. Bitar, who was caressing her knee that she had uncovered, seemed personified indecision. As he caressed her knee, he turned his restless gaze towards the door as if he were afraid someone might appear...

However Gabrielle, who almost finished her lollipop and now seemed to be seized by a visible anxiety, let herself fall onto her back and, with her neck resting on the top of the backrest, gave the impression of waiting, with her eyes closed, for something extraordinary to happen. Oh God, how Mr. Bitar hesitated while caressing that knee! Or maybe something higher up, because his hand had disappeared under her skirt...

It was then that Gabrielle started getting sick and said sighing:

—Mr. Bitar... I think... I think I'm sick...

—Caramba! Caramba! Sick? From where?

—I think... I think it's from my stomach, Mr. Bitar... Look... Look right away, Mr. Bitar...

—Okay... but don't tell anyone... Do you promise me?

—Yes... Yes, Mr. Bitar! Look right away... Right away...

Then he made her lie down on the sofa, lifted up her skirt and got on top of her...

—How is this like Father on Eglantine?

—I don't know because I didn't see Father. But I did see Gabrielle...

Her moans were breaking my heart. And he, who had put a big, violet thing under her petticoat, was rubbing it with force in her stomach.

—Ah! Mr. Bitar! What is this? Is it the hyssop?

—Yes... Yes... It's the hyssop...

—Show it to me, Mr. Bitar! Show it to me!

—Later! Later I'll show it to you... First let me... Let me cure you...

And he rubbed her even harder.

Then she got even sicker.

—Oh!... Oh!... Ah! Ah! Señor Bitar!... Ah! Me hurts!... Me hurts!

She started crying...

—Aah! Aah! —she gasped—. Ay, momma!... Ay, mamááá! She shouted '¡Ay, mamá!' more than ten times until he finally managed to make her fully enter. And he wouldn't stop repeating: —You wanted it… You wanted it… Then he stirred: the object was entering and leaving…, leaving and entering… —Then he did like Father. —I don't know, but as long as she entered better seemed to be, because she had stopped whining and now was also stirring, at the same time as she was sighing: '— Oh, how good, Mr. Bitar! Oh, how good!… Go on!… Go on!… Oh, you're making me see the Holy Virgin, Mr. Bitar! I see her! Oh! Ah! Aaaah! Then he, with his jaws clenched and closing his eyes, suddenly collapsed onto her, motionless… —Oh, more, Mr. Bitar! More! —No... Henriette is waiting for us... It wouldn't be prudent. And he removed from Gabrielle's bloomers what he called a mop, which had become something flaccid and viscous. —Then tell me, will you give me another one tomorrow? —Yes, that's it, we'll see each other tomorrow. She left with her cheeks blazing, redder than a poppy. —Were you sick? I asked her. —Sick? Nothing of the sort. It was Father Sacristan, who couldn't decide to give me the candy he had promised me. A little more and I would have had to grab it myself. And my sister added: '— Oh, Jacques! If only you knew how much I want to try those candies!' I must have seemed a complete fool when I replied with all the world's innocence: '— Then break open the piggy bank and buy them at the bakery.' As you can see, I was a very innocent boy and had a lot to learn about the cunning of girls. WILL CONTINUE...