The Merry Widow

by Vonnick de Rosmadec

  “Come now. You like being mistreated, don’t you? Insulted, even?”

  “Well, no, I mean, yes, but still!”

  He ordered her to sit on the bed, legs dangling, facing him.

  She complied and her mouth found itself level with her lover’s majestic member. She couldn’t take her eyes off of it, fascinated by the man’s magnificent body and this enormous organ, which seemed to gaze at her with its single eye.

  “Come on. Look at it. Touch it. Stroke it. And suck it, suck it.”

  “But I’ve never done this before! Fellatio? You want me to perform fellatio?”

  “Call it whatever you like. Blow job … Trenching. … Now, take care of me. Suck away!”

  He ran his fingers through her hair, tenderly, and circled her mouth with his finger.

  His tone changed again as he became the model of a polite gentlemen.

  “It’s your turn now, madame, to take the lead. I can’t wait to see these lovely lips wrapped around my shaft.”

  Her lips! She had always despaired at how thin they were—so much that she had wondered not long ago if she should have them surgically enhanced, to make them more full, more sensual—and now this desirable man said he could not wait to see them take him in! She could have wept in gratitude.

  She was scared of being clumsy but she pulled herself together. She had spent many evenings and many nights studying the technique of the female talent in X-rated movies, trying to identify with them, and now she wanted only one thing: to put what she had learned into practice.

  Her heart began to beat feverishly as she closed her hands around his enormous member.

  “What is your name?” asked Jean-Baptiste, who could sense her trepidation.

  “Ma-Ma-Marguerite,” she stammered.

  “May I call you Marguerite?”

  “Of course, I would like that very much.”

  He took her hand and made her size up his balls, before showing her how to stroke him the way he liked it.

  He kept speaking in a frank, nonchalant tone. In truth, he was surprised at how interested he was in his new role of ass-deflowerer to the over-fifties crowd.

  “Do you know that you turn me on terribly, Marguerite? You seem to have everything to learn. I feel I’m deflowering a soft and tenderhearted virgin.”

  She answered with the prettiest smile she could muster. It was crazy how liberated she felt now. She, who earlier had blushed when hearing the marquise’s theories, so at odds with her education, her principles of austerity and fidelity, found herself on all fours in front of an athlete’s cock—and she could do whatever she liked with it! Even her face, normally so severe, almost dour, had lit up; her eyes sparkled. She seemed twenty years younger.

  “You flatter me, but don’t be mistaken. Before you, I hadn’t had an orgasm with a man. Masturbation was a release, of course, but I’ve never known such pleasure. Thank you, Jean-Baptiste, thank you.”

  “Take me in your mouth, sweet Marguerite, don’t be afraid. … Have some fun with my big tool. It’s yours until it explodes. Put it in your mouth. Lick it, run your tongue along the shaft while you fondle my balls with your hands. Yes, like this. … Jerk me off between your kisses. … How? Give me your hand, here, put it here, yes, yes … Oh you’re a fast learner. … Too fast. … Nibble on it, you dirty little pervert. Keep going, keep going, oh, watch out! I’m going to explode!”

  She was still on her knees and kept her eyes on his rod, which seemed to never stop swelling.

  He pulled his member out from her unskilled mouth and cried out: “I’m coming, I’m coming! Oh, thank you, Marguerite.”

  And talk about coming!

  Suddenly, the athlete aimed his sperm cannon at the pair of eyes studying him, and his juice came out, gushing in long, thick spurts, covering the widow’s face.

  After the first volley, the cock let loose a few additional short bursts. The widow, swooning, smeared her cheeks and her lips, sticking out her tongue to taste the juice of her instructor. He had arched his back to better present his rod. His head bent back, stomach sticking out, he gave a series of small, satisfied groans after a howl of happiness.

  He stayed like this for a few seconds, muscles tensed, almost paralyzed, and then relaxed, opened his eyes and, holding the widow’s hands, helped her up. He pulled her into his arms, tenderly held her, and covered her neck and her shoulders with small, light kisses.

  Marguerite didn’t understand what was happening to her. She didn’t want to ever let go of this man. She wanted him for herself, only for herself. She was crazy about him; she was crazy, period. She would have liked to drag him home, keep him, give him all of her possessions, taking perverted delight in spending on him all the savings left to her by her cheerless husband. Making love to Jean-Baptiste in the marital bed would make her feel as if she were cuckolding the doctor beyond the grave. And though she would not dare confess it, she would delight in such an act. She, who had always been faithful out of respect for decorum and out of fear that their clientele would find out, only wanted one thing: to catch up on all those years, and to get caught and serviced again and again by this handsome black giant and his soft skin and his huge …

  He leaned to her ear and spoke softly, “Was it good?”

  “Better than that—extraordinary. I love you. I want you, for me, only for me. I will marry you, I will give you everything, my body, my soul …”

  Jean-Baptiste shook with a resounding laugh. He doubled over on his forearms, holding in the spasms in his stomach. He steadied himself, seeing the widow’s disappointed look; his hands on her shoulders, he looked at her straight in the eyes.

  “Marguerite, get a hold of yourself. This isn’t a matchmaking service. People come here to take care of their bodies, not their hearts. You are at the Château des Plaisirs. There are rules here. Rules that prohibit, for instance, forming exclusive relationships that could carry on in the outside world. If it happens, if two partners don’t want anyone else to touch them, they must leave and continue that love affair somewhere else. You understand, it’s all about sex here—sex is the only master of the house.”

  Disconcerted, she watched him slip back into his tracksuit. She wore a hangdog look.

  “Does this mean you will never make love to me again?”

  “Who said such a thing? Of course I will! I have much to teach you. The shocker, for instance. …”

  “The ‘shocker’?”

  “Yes, you will see, we’ll meet again one of these days. But, in the meantime, you are going to meet—and get humped by—every man in the club. We like newcomers a lot, especially wide-eyed innocents like you. … And you, you’ll take your pick from those who offer themselves to you. You’ll be free to accept or refuse. You can also, of course, hit on whoever you like, men and women alike.”

  “Women? Oh surely not, how dreadful!”

  “It won’t be long until you change your mind, my sweet. I’m willing to bet that you’ll give young Mimi a try, for instance.”

  She held on to him as he approached the door.

  “And the shocker, what’s the shocker? You’ll teach me, won’t you?”

  He gently pushed her back into the room.

  “Of course, I will teach you—and many more things, too. But I won’t be the only one. Other members of the club will turn you on to new and interesting things. Each has his or her specialty. You will be turned on by others, a great many others. … And all the better! See you soon, Marguerite.”

  She reached out to him in a pitiful gesture to hold him back. She made him think of those romantic silent pictures where you’d see a poor woman trying to hold back a satisfied or angry lover. And the abandoned woman would sink into despair, her head buried between her hands.

  He passed Ghislaine in the entrance. She felt his balls through his pants and asked about his performance.

  “So what do you think of Marguerite?”

  “A good recruit, this merry widow. Only problem: She’s innocent, and
she’s crazy.”

  “Really crazy?”

  “Yup. A real nympho, mad for ass, cock, and pussy.”

  “Well then, she’s right at home, isn’t she? She’ll be back.”

  An Exceptional Specimen

  “My name is Henri Tronchet, and I would like to become a member of your club.”

  The speaker was a puny little man, sitting there in his funny suit. He was small of stature and scrawny, his chest was hollow; he looked like the little old men painted by Albert Dubout. Add a late nineteenth century–style goatee and he would be ready for shipment to the waxworks collections of the Musée Grévin in Paris, for the “Old Farts” section.

  Just picturing him naked isn’t all that fun, so actually seeing him naked … the marquise thought to herself, sitting across from him. What was this runt thinking, coming here? None of her guests could possibly be interested. Maybe he’s some sort of voyeur; some old schmuck holding his sad little rod in a corner, watching others get it on through a peephole.

  She stared at him, thoroughly underwhelmed. Now with him she had no inclination to open her blouse or raise her skirt—as per her habit of shocking or titillating newcomers with her naked body. In fact, she did not really give a damn whether this bland character found her appealing or not.

  She began filling his form with a bored sigh.

  “Marital status?”

  “Single.”

  Well, no surprise there! Who would share her life with this guy? Ghislaine wondered.

  “Profession?”

  “Officer of the court.”

  This, however, gave the marquise a start. Had he been sent here to investigate acts of adultery by some jilted husband or wife? Here was someone who could undermine the trust she had worked so hard to build—but no, that was unlikely. If that were the case, this man would have declared himself to be a bank employee, or a government paper-pusher.

  “And to what do we owe the honor of your visit? Who told you about our rather specific leisure activities here?”

  The little man shot her a piercing glare from behind his glasses—one she didn’t appreciate one bit.

  “I’d rather keep my sources to myself. My coming here concerns me alone. I know, however, that your club is both reliable and discreet. And that it reigns supreme as the finest provider of specialties that I am sure to enjoy.”

  This funny little guy was starting to get on her nerves. He did not belong in her establishment. Maintaining a cheerful atmosphere was her number one priority as owner of the Château des Plaisirs. She leaned over her desk and looked him straight in the eye.

  “What is it exactly you came here to find, Monsieur Tronchet?”

  “Oh well, that is simple: one or several women who correspond to my standards of beauty.”

  Ghislaine raised her eyebrows inquisitively.

  “And dare I ask what those standards are?” she said, trying not to laugh.

  Monsieur Tronchet also leaned forward as though he were going to confide in her—but then spoke confidently without lowering his voice. “I’m looking for a fat, very full-figured, maybe even obese woman. Those are the women I like, and the women I need.”

  “Really? I thought, given your frame …”

  He uttered a short laugh.

  “Don’t concern yourself with that, I’m more than qualified. I’ve got just what it takes to win over and satisfy even the most prudish of ladies.”

  And he patted his fly, smiling.

  Will you look at that? The man can actually smile, Ghislaine mused, suddenly intrigued by this brief departure from this forbidding countenance. I’m going to have to see what he’s hiding in his pants. I’m not too fond of those weaklings who boast about the size of their equipment and turn out to be full of it. It took more than that to fool the marquise.

  She remained silent a few moments and suddenly remembered the enormous woman who had visited her three months ago, asking if there was someone in the club’s famous catalogs who could satisfy her. The marquise had answered in the negative without even checking, claiming that the sports played at the Château des Plaisirs (tennis, swimming, weightlifting, dance, gymnastics, and horseback riding) were incompatible with someone of her corpulence. She had spun a yarn on the spot regarding “the statistically significant medical risks of post-exertion myocardial infarction, preventing the club’s in-house doctor from delivering a certificate of good health.” In truth, although the marquise prided herself on welcoming applicants of all ages, shapes, and sizes, she had feared the waves this woman could make within her flock, unaccustomed as they were to …unusually large individuals—or worse, that no one would have wanted to approach this mass of flesh, and she wanted to spare the big lump of a woman the pain of rejection. And yet Ghislaine, in spite of her occasional austerity and fickle good humor (neither of which were always to her credit), had a heart of gold. She wanted to be seen by her guests as a goddess of pleasure, not evil—a priestess of joy, not woe.

  Therefore, she kept in mind this poor soul who must have despaired of ever finding an ideal match and placed her last hopes in the marquise’s little club. Ghislaine dug through her papers until, victorious, she held up the desired file.

  “I may have just what you need! Here’s a very, very full-figured woman I turned down a few months ago. There’s just the matter of … Well, I mean … For one thing, you’d have to be able to penetrate this mountain of flesh! I can’t quite see how your … nimble frame would find an entry point, as it were.”

  “And I’m telling you: I know exactly what I’m doing. As far as these women are concerned, I hold the key to heaven’s gates between my legs. Do you have a photograph? Show me.”

  Ghislaine hesitated a moment. The snapshots she held showed an obese, matronly woman whose very ample clothes did not conceal her shape one bit. Her face was pleasant, and her eyes smiled through her layers of fat. Granted, her chin seemed to be part of her neck, but her wide mouth and full lips hinted at a sensual nature. Maybe she’s very talented with that mouth? the marquise wondered, grasping at straws by this point.

  She handed over the photographs and saw the little man’s face light up.

  “Dear God, will you look at that beautiful woman! She’s the one I want. I can tell we will get along famously.”

  His excitement was actually visible through his pants.

  “What is the name of this callipygian goddess?” he inquired, rubbing his crotch.

  “Her name is Sylvie, but here she would rather be known as Pâquerette.”

  “Pâquerette, how nice. I want that ‘little daisy’ for myself, do you understand?”

  This insignificant character had turned into a domineering, confident male.

  “Do you happen to have a picture of her naked?”

  “Yes, I think I do.”

  The marquise flipped through her special files and pulled out other snapshots displaying Sylvie’s—Pâquerette’s—heroic proportions from the front, the side, and rear.

  “Do you still find her to your taste?”

  “More than ever!”

  He brought the pictures close to his face and studied them, looking like he wanted to inhale the images, or even lick them.

  “Would you mind terribly … ?”

  Without giving his hostess time to reply, he opened his fly and pulled out some sort of snake—or rather an elephant’s trunk, given the caliber of the thing. Ghislaine cried out in fear as much as in admiration. God knows she had seen long, thick cocks in her day, but compared to this … they paled into insignificance.

  Monsieur Tronchet was the closest thing humanly possible to being, quite literally, hung like a donkey, to having a third leg, as they say. He was tapping the snapshots with a tip the size of a small apple.

  Seeing the chatelaine’s astonishment, he smiled.

  “Now you understand why I said I could find my way even inside the largest woman in all of creation. You can touch it, if you like. At orgies, they call me the ‘Monster.’” />
  Monster? Orgies?! Monsieur Half-Pint here actually went to orgies with his tank of an appendage? Fascinated, she reached for the officer of the court’s unbelievable shaft. She briefly felt the balls, which, though by no means small, were nothing out of the ordinary. … But this rod … this staff! She temporarily let go of the phenomenal instrument to ring the small silver bell she used to summon her chambermaid.

  Not thirty seconds later, Mimi entered the directorial office and stopped, speechless, at the sight of this scrawny man in a suit holding up his monstrous protuberance. She approached cautiously, as if she were scared of burning herself on such a hot poker.

  “Zut! I’ve never seen such a beast! Incredible!”

  “That’s just from a photograph,” said the newcomer. “We can gain another good inch or two when we are in the presence of naked flesh.”

  We! He said we when talking about his rod!

  Ghislaine decided to take him at his word.

  “You hear that, Mimi? It can grow even more if we show some skin. Come on now, skirts up!”

  She raised her skirt to her waist and sat on the desk, legs open, presenting her luscious sex to the monster. Mimi imitated her at once, giggling, when the cockman’s voice rumbled.

  “Not like that. Turn around! Show me your ass and spread your cheeks.”

  The maid complied and, leaning on the desk, showed the man her behind.

  He took a step forward and laid his tip against the little ring.

  “Are you scared? You want me to fuck you in the ass?”

  “No! Please, no, you’re way too big, you’ll split my behind wide open!”

  He turned to the marquise, whose eyes were still fixed on his growing instrument.

  “And this is why I require a ‘plus-size’ woman, as they say.”

  “Yes, I see, and you are more than welcome to join our club. But before we complete your enrollment, would you mind if I gathered all the club denizens so that I can introduce you in this state?”

  “But of course, dear marquise! I do love a few admirers. Summon the entire Château des Plaisirs so they can admire us.”

  Ghislaine pulled her skirt back down and gave the maid a quick slap on the behind.