purple, but he never came close. And if he masturbated, he would do it discreetly, not for caution’s sake, of course, but because he never did anything unless standing isolated and almost utterly steady, with a dreadful muscular contraction.
“This is a very interesting place,” he said one day in regard to a church, “it’s the church of Don Juan.”
“So what?” replied Simone.
“Stay here with me,” Sir Edmund said to me. “And you, Simone, you ought to go round this church all by yourself.”
“What an awful idea!”
Nevertheless, however awful the idea, it aroused her curiosity, and she went in by herself while we waited in the street.
Five minutes later, Simone reappeared at the threshold of the church. We were dumbstruck: not only was she guffawing her head off, but she couldn’t speak or stop laughing, so that, partly by contagion, partly because of the intense light, I began laughing as hard as she, and so did Sir Edmund to a certain extent.
“Bloody girl,” he said. “Can’t you explain? By the by, we’re laughing right over the tomb of Don Juan!”
And laughing even harder, he pointed at a large church brass at our feet. It was the tomb of the church’s founder, who, the guides claimed, was Don Juan: after repenting, he had himself buried under the doorstep so that the faithful would trudge over his corpse when entering or leaving their haunt.
But now our wild laughter burst out again tenfold. In our mirth, Simone had lightly pissed down her leg, and a tiny trickle of water had landed on the brass.
We noted a further effect of her accident: the thin dress, being wet, stuck to her body, and since the cloth was now fully transparent, Simone’s attractive belly and thighs were revealed with particular lewdness, a dark patch between the red ribbons of her garter belt.
“All I can do is go into the church,” said Simone, a bit calmer, “it’ll dry.”
We burst into a larger space, where Sir Edmund and I vainly looked for the comical sight that the girl had been unable to explain. The room was relatively cool, and the light came from windows, filtering through curtains of a bright red, transparent cretonne. The ceiling was of carved woodwork, the walls were plastered but encumbered with religious gewgaws more or less gilded. The entire back wall was covered from floor to rafters by an altar and a giant Baroque retablo of gilded wood; the involved and contorted decorations conjured up India, with deep shadows and golden glows, and the whole altar at first seemed verymysterious and just right for sex. At either side of the entrance door hung two famous canvases by the painter Valdès Leal, pictures of decomposing corpses: interestingly, one of the eye sockets was being gnawed through by a rat. Yet in all these things, there was nothing funny to be found.
Quite the contrary: the whole place was sumptuous and sensuous, the play of shadows and light from the red curtains, the coolness and a strong pungent aroma of blossoming oleander, plus the dress sticking to Simone’s pussy—everything was urging me to burst loose and bare that wet cunt on the floor, when I spied a pair of silk shoes at a confessional: the feet of a penitent female.
“I want to see them leave,” said Simone.
She sat down before me, not far from the confessional, and all I could do was caress her neck, the line of her hair, or her shoulders with my cock. And that put her so much on edge that she told me to tuck my penis away immediately or she would rub it until I came.
I had to sit down and merely look at Simone’s nakedness through the soaked cloth, at its best in the open air, when she wanted to fan her wet thighs and she uncrossed them and lifted her dress.
“You’ll see,” she said.
That was why I patiently waited for the key to the puzzle. After a rather long wait, a very beautiful young brunette stepped out of the confessional, her hands folded, her face pale and enraptured: with her head thrown back
“This is a very interesting place,” he said one day in regard to a church, “it’s the church of Don Juan.”
“So what?” replied Simone.
“Stay here with me,” Sir Edmund said to me. “And you, Simone, you ought to go round this church all by yourself.”
“What an awful idea!”
Nevertheless, however awful the idea, it aroused her curiosity, and she went in by herself while we waited in the street.
Five minutes later, Simone reappeared at the threshold of the church. We were dumbstruck: not only was she guffawing her head off, but she couldn’t speak or stop laughing, so that, partly by contagion, partly because of the intense light, I began laughing as hard as she, and so did Sir Edmund to a certain extent.
“Bloody girl,” he said. “Can’t you explain? By the by, we’re laughing right over the tomb of Don Juan!”
And laughing even harder, he pointed at a large church brass at our feet. It was the tomb of the church’s founder, who, the guides claimed, was Don Juan: after repenting, he had himself buried under the doorstep so that the faithful would trudge over his corpse when entering or leaving their haunt.
But now our wild laughter burst out again tenfold. In our mirth, Simone had lightly pissed down her leg, and a tiny trickle of water had landed on the brass.
We noted a further effect of her accident: the thin dress, being wet, stuck to her body, and since the cloth was now fully transparent, Simone’s attractive belly and thighs were revealed with particular lewdness, a dark patch between the red ribbons of her garter belt.
“All I can do is go into the church,” said Simone, a bit calmer, “it’ll dry.”
We burst into a larger space, where Sir Edmund and I vainly looked for the comical sight that the girl had been unable to explain. The room was relatively cool, and the light came from windows, filtering through curtains of a bright red, transparent cretonne. The ceiling was of carved woodwork, the walls were plastered but encumbered with religious gewgaws more or less gilded. The entire back wall was covered from floor to rafters by an altar and a giant Baroque retablo of gilded wood; the involved and contorted decorations conjured up India, with deep shadows and golden glows, and the whole altar at first seemed verymysterious and just right for sex. At either side of the entrance door hung two famous canvases by the painter Valdès Leal, pictures of decomposing corpses: interestingly, one of the eye sockets was being gnawed through by a rat. Yet in all these things, there was nothing funny to be found.
Quite the contrary: the whole place was sumptuous and sensuous, the play of shadows and light from the red curtains, the coolness and a strong pungent aroma of blossoming oleander, plus the dress sticking to Simone’s pussy—everything was urging me to burst loose and bare that wet cunt on the floor, when I spied a pair of silk shoes at a confessional: the feet of a penitent female.
“I want to see them leave,” said Simone.
She sat down before me, not far from the confessional, and all I could do was caress her neck, the line of her hair, or her shoulders with my cock. And that put her so much on edge that she told me to tuck my penis away immediately or she would rub it until I came.
I had to sit down and merely look at Simone’s nakedness through the soaked cloth, at its best in the open air, when she wanted to fan her wet thighs and she uncrossed them and lifted her dress.
“You’ll see,” she said.
That was why I patiently waited for the key to the puzzle. After a rather long wait, a very beautiful young brunette stepped out of the confessional, her hands folded, her face pale and enraptured: with her head thrown back
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