Bucharest is a beautiful city where East and West seem to intermingle. If you take into account only the geographic site, you are still in Europe; but you are already in Asia, to go by certain local customs, and if you look at the Turks, the Serbs, and other Macedonian races, picturesque specimens of these may be seen in the streets. And yet this is a Latin country: the thoughts of the Roman soldiers who colonised it were no doubt turned towards Rome, at that time the capital of the world and seat of all the civilized refinements.
This Western nostalgia was handed down to their descendants: the Romanians dwell constantly upon a city where luxury is natural, life full of joy. But Rome’s splendour has decayed, the queen of cities has surrendered her crown to Paris, and it is hardly surprising if, by some atavistic phenomenon, the thoughts of the Romanians are incessantly turned towards Paris, which has so thoroughly supplanted Rome at the apex of the universe!
Just like other Romanians, the handsome Prince Vibescu dreamed of Paris, City of Light, where the women, all beautiful, are all loose too. While he was still at college in Bucharest, he needed only to think of a Parisian woman, about the Parisienne, to get an erection and be obliged to toss off slowly, beatifically. Later he had shot his come into numerous cunts and bumholes of charming Romanian women. Yet he felt a powerful urge to have a Parisienne.
Mony Vibescu came from a very wealthy family. His great-grandfather had been a hospodar, the equivalent in rank to a sub-prefect in France. But this status became hereditary and both the grandfather and father of Mony had borne the title of hospodar.
Mony Vibescu should likewise have carried this title in honour of his ancestor.
But he had read enough French novels not to give a damn about sub-prefects: ‘Come on,’ he’d say, ‘isn’t it ridiculous to call yourself sub-prefect because your great-grandfather was one? It’s quite grotesque!’ And to be less grotesque he had replaced the title of hospodar-sub-prefect by that of prince. ‘There,’ he exclaimed, ‘is a title that may be transferable by heredity. Hospodar is an administrative function, yet it’s fair enough that those who’ve distinguished themselves in the civil service should have the right to bear a title. I’m ennobling myself. Deep down, I’m an ancestor. My children and my grandchildren will thank me for it.’
Prince Vibescu was very friendly with the Serbian vice-consul, Bandi Fornovski, who, so town rumour went, was gladly buggering the charming Mony. One day the prince dressed formally and set off for the Serbian vice-consulate. In the street everyone noticed him and the women stared and said: ‘Looks quite the Parisian, doesn’t he?’
Indeed, Prince Vibescu used to walk as Bucharest folk believe Parisians walk, that’s to say with rapid little footsteps and wriggling his arse. Quite charming! and when a man walks like that in Bucharest, not a woman can resist him, not even the wife of the Prime Minister.
Arriving at the Serbian vice-consulate’s doorway, Mony pissed at some length against the house front, then rang the bell. An Albanian clad in a white fustanella came to open the door for him.
Prince Vibescu climbed swiftly to the first floor. The vice-consul Bandi Fornovski was stark naked in his drawing room. He lay on a luxurious sofa, stiff-pricked; near him was Mira, a swarthy Montenegran who was tickling his bollocks. She too was naked and, since she was leaning forward, her stance made her fine well-fleshed bum stick out, brown and downy, its delicate skin stretching taut as a drum.
Between both buttocks ran quite a deep cranny, fringed with brown hairs, and you could see the forbidden hole round as a pastille. Below, extended her two long and scrawny thighs and, as her position forced Mira to spread them, her cunt could be seen, plump, thick, deeply-cleft and shaded by a dense mane, jet-black. She was not bothered by Mony’s arrival. On a chaise-longue in another corner, two pretty girls, both broad in the beam, were goosing each other, uttering little lustful ‘Ah’s!’. Mony quickly divested himself of his clothes, then, cock aloft, fully rigid, he flung himself upon the two masturbatrices, attempting to separate them. But his hands slipped on their damp and gleaming bodies which were coiled about like snakes. Then, seeing they were dribbling with lust, and furious at being unable to be part of it, he began with the flat of his hand to slap the fat white arse nearest him. As that seemed considerably to excite the bearer of this fat butt, he started whacking it for all he was worth, so much so that pain overcame lust, the pretty girl whose pretty white bottom he had turned pink sat up angrily and said:
—— Filthy tart, you prince of pederasts, don’t mess us about, we don’t want your fat prick. Go and stuff your sugarstick up Mira. Leave us alone to get on with it. Right, Zulmé?
—— Yeah, Toné! replied the other young woman.
The prince brandished his enormous prick, bawling:
—— What, you young bitches, still playing stinkfinger forever with your arses!
Then, seizing one of them, he tried to kiss her on the mouth.
It was Toné, a pretty brunette, whose snowy white body was flecked with delectable beauty spots in certain areas, and these enhanced its whiteness; her face was equally white and a mole on her left cheek lent this pleasing girl a piquant expression. Her chest was adorned with two superb tits hard as marble, encircled by blue, and tipped with delicate strawberry pink, the right one prettily stained by a beauty spot stuck there like a fly, a dispatched fly.[1]
Mony Vibescu in laying hold of her had slid his hands beneath her plump arse, so white and full that it resembled a fine melon which might have ripened under the midnight sun. Each buttock seemed to have been carved from a block of flawless Carrara marble, and the rondure of the thighs’ descent resembled the columns of a Greek temple. But what a difference! The thighs were warm and the buttocks cold, which is one sign of good health. The spanking had turned them a bit pink, so it might have been said of these thighs that they were made of cream with raspberries stirred in.
This vista raised poor Vibescu to the height of excitement. His mouth sucked each of Toné’s firm tits in turn or else fixed upon throat or shoulder, leaving lovebites there. His hands firmly grasped that big arse swelling like a hard yet pulpy water melon. He squeezed those regal buttocks and had inserted his index finger into an arsehole of exquisite tightness. His great knob which was getting harder and harder began ramming at the breach of a charming coral-coloured cunt surmounted by a glistening black fleece. She yelled at him in Romanian: ‘No, you’re not to fuck me!’ and at the same time jerked about with her sweet round chubby thighs. The red and inflamed head of Mony’s huge tool had already reached that wet redoubt of Toné’s. The latter disengaged herself again, but in making that movement let fly a fart, not a vulgar fart, but a fart with a crystalline timbre which provoked her wild spasm of hysterical laughter. Her resistance slackened, her thighs parted and Mony’s mighty engine had already buried its head in the redoubt when Zulmé, Toné’s friend and frotting-partner, seized Mony’s balls roughly and, squeezing them in her little hand, caused him such pain that the smoking tool abandoned its residence, to the great disappointment of trim-waisted Toné, who was starting to stir that big arse of hers.
Zulmé was a blonde whose thick hair cascaded down to her heels. She was shorter than Toné, but no less slender and graceful.
Her eyes were black, dark-ringed. As soon as she’d let go of the prince’s balls, he flung himself on her, saying: ‘Right you are! you’re going to pay for Toné!’ Then, seizing on one pretty titty, he began sucking its tip. Zulmé writhed. To make fun of Mony she shifted about and undulated her belly, at whose base danced a delicious, very curly blonde beard. At the same time she raised aloft a pretty cunt which divided a fine plump motte. Between the lips of this rosy cunt quivered a rather long clitoris which attested to her tribadic habits.
The prince’s prick was vainly striving to penetrate this redoubt. At last he gripped her buttocks and was about to penetrate when Toné, annoyed at having been denied the discharge of the superb dick, began tickling the young man’s heels with a peacock feather. He started to laugh and squirm. The peacock feather went on tickling him; from the heels it moved upwards to the thighs, to the anus, to the prick which dwindled rapidly.
The two wretches, Toné and Zulmé, delighted with their pranks, laughed for quite a time, then, red and breathless, returned to their goosing, embracing and tonguing each other in front of the sheepish and astonished prince. Their arses bobbed up and down in time, their minge-hairs intermingled, their teeth clattered together, the satins of their firm and palpitating breasts were reciprocally creased. At last, writhing and groaning with lust, they came in unison, while the prince again began getting a hard-on. But seeing both of them so wearied by their mutual frigging, he turned towards Mira who was still pawing the vice-consul’s cock. Vibescu approached softly and getting his fine dibble to glide between Mira’s big buttocks, he inserted it into the half-open and humid cunt of the pretty girl who, the moment she felt the knob of the prick penetrate her, gave a jerk of her arse to make the tool’s penetration complete.
Then she continued her abandoned movements, while with one hand the prince worked her clitoris and with the other tickled her bubs.
His see-saw motion inside her tight-clenching cunt seemed to give Mira keen pleasure which she evinced in ecstatic cries.
Vibescu’s belly was beating against Mira’s behind and the coolness of Mira’s bum caused in the prince as pleasurable a sensation as his belly’s heat gave the young girl. Soon their movements grew livelier, jerkier, the prince thrust himself against Mira who was panting while she flexed her buttocks. The prince bit her on the shoulder and held her that way. She yelled out:
—— Ah! that’s good... wait... harder... harder... hey, hey, take me. Give me your load... Give me the lot... ah... oh!... oh!
And in a joint discharge they flopped down and remained for a moment obliterated. Toné and Zulmé entwined on the chaise-longue were watching them and laughing. The Serbian vice-consul had lit a slim cigarette of Oriental tobacco. When Mony was back on his feet again, he said to him:
—— Now, dear prince, it’s my turn. I was waiting for you to arrive and what I got was Mira, giving my prick a going over, but I’ve reserved the full fruits for you. Come here my pretty quim, my dear little bumboy, here! and let me slip you one.
Vibescu looked at him a moment, then, spitting on the prick being presented him by the vice-consul, he proffered these words:
—— I’ve really had enough of being buggered by you, it’s the talk of the town.
But the vice-consul had stood up, stiff-pricked, and picked up a revolver.
He aimed the pistol at the trembling Mony, who offered him his braced backside, stammering:
—— Bandi, my dear Bandi, you know I love you, bugger me, bugger me.
Smiling, Bandi forced his prick into the elastic hole hidden between the buttocks of the prince. Once in, and with the three women watching him, he flung himself about like a madman, cursing:
—— God’s shit! I’m coming, keep your arse tight, my little quean, squeeze, I’m coming. Squeeze your pretty cheeks.
And wild-eyed, his hands clutching the delicate shoulders, he spent. Afterwards Mony washed himself, dressed again and left, saying he would return after dinner. But when he was home he wrote this letter:
My dear Bandi,
I’ve had enough of being buggered by you, I’ve had enough of the women of Bucharest, I’ve had enough of wasting here my fortune – with which I’d be so happy in Paris. In less than two hours I shall have left. I hope to amuse myself enormously there and I’m bidding you farewell.
—Mony, Prince Vibescu, Hereditary Hospodar.
The prince sealed the letter and wrote another one to his lawyer, requesting him to liquidate all his assets and forward the whole sum to him in Paris as soon as he knew his address.
Mony took all the ready cash he had, about 50,000 francs, and headed for the railway station. He posted his two letters and caught the Orient Express to Paris.