If I were the main character of a cheap novel, at least I’d understand that I’m nothing but a bunch of words written by some blundering fool who is haphazardly trying to write what is supposed to be a good story.
I’d understand and I’d be angry with that fool who thinks he can write when he’s not much better than a second-grade child scratching paper with his first attempts at writing complete sentences.
Elizabeth, Sophie, Louise, then my sister Suzie. Four girls in less than a week! I wish I were my former self. I wish I were still a virgin. Life was so much simpler and quieter!
Tonight, Father will be listening to the Stanley Cup Finals game number two between the Montreal Canadiens and the Boston Bruins.
He’ll be listening to the radio set in the living room, sipping Italian coffee and sitting on the sofa with his feet on that same coffee table where Suzie and I…
A knock on the door!
I know this is Suzie. It can’t be anyone else. It is still dark in my bedroom; it must be about four or five o’clock. I didn’t sleep much. I’m very restless.
The door is opened and here she comes. The lovely pitter-patter of her feet is unmistakable. I’m already hungry for her lovely little feet. Countless times, I’ve longingly gazed at her shoes; only four and a half in size.
She presently slips into my bed, imprisoning my soul in her vanilla-scented tower of thin air.
“Suzie…” I whisper, “Suzie. Are you mad? We must not do this ag… ain…”
Her lips get in the way.
She is kissing me, imposing her lithe bosom against my confused frame. I’m broad-shouldered and taller, even stronger than the average grown man, but I’m still a sixteen-year-old boy and my passions get the better of me.
Suzie’s kissing overwhelms me. Her hands find new paths of love under my pyjamas. This is not sisterly love. It is something punishable by eternal damnation. So heavy a sin that I won’t confess it to my parish priest or anyone else.
The only exception would be the ghost of that bishop who died on Easter day, six days ago. He tasted Elizabeth two hours before he passed away; he would understand. I will never forget the expression on his elderly face as he shot the final load of his life on her jiggling breasts as she was being powerfully mounted.
“Suzie, we must stop this,” I whisper again.
“I know, my sweet brother, but I can’t help it. Gaston, undress me…”
Suzie doesn’t weigh very much, and her breasts aren’t large at all, but their graceful splendour carries me away.
She softly giggles as I lay her down under me and I dimly see her eyes through the grey darkness of predawn. I sense her gaze as I caress her sides, then, she bursts in laughter and tells me she’s ticklish.
I tell her to be silent, “Shhh!”
We remain there, listening and making sure everything’s quiet in the house. Mother and Father are still sleeping in their room at the end of the hallway and my child brothers are asleep in the next room. She stirs again and whispers her wants.
“Come on, Gaston, strip me! I know you love my breasts.”
“I… I love everything about you, sweet Suzie…”
The small fullness of her breasts softly yields through the flannel of her pajamas; what fills my hands gets me going with savage anticipation.
Letting her languish a little, the extra waiting time adds to my unfathomable joy when I finally unbutton her pajama shirt and open it wide as my eyes make out the paleness of her flesh through the dissipating darkness.
“Suzie, your date was an idiot. You’re a delicious girl!”
“Stop talking and act. Even whispering is dangerous. Just say nothing and make me happy!”
Her breasts are directly under my face and they can’t be ignored. My first kisses are for the silky valley at the bottom of her cleavage; then, her boobs get the full run of milk. My mouth and tongue and hands can’t get enough of her. My nostrils get their fill of her natural scent, which always have notes of nutmeg and vanilla.
She’s moving and breathing and getting wildly excited under me while I get a full taste of her intimate flesh.
We stop. What’s that noise?
It comes from outside the house.
“It’s just the milkman, silly! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
Through her giggling, which she immediately represses, I make out echoes of horse hooves; there’s some neighing as well. It’s the milkman all right.
“We don’t have much time left before I’ll have to go back to my room. Gaston, I can’t take you like I did in the evening; it’s too dangerous, but I still want to feel you inside me. I brought some Vaseline and you… you can use my back door. Maybe you’ll enjoy it just as well. As long as your hands are on me and you’re inside me, then I’ll be the happiest gal in Quebec City!”
She swiftly whispers all this in our usual rapid-fire French that isn’t really like the one spoken in France. Each of her words makes us dive further into sin and damnation. I’m scared, really scared.
I whisper my fear, like a little brother afraid of nightmares who wants the reassuring voice of his big sister…
“We’ll burn in Hell for this, Suzie.”
Her silent answer comes in the form of her movements as she takes off her pyjamas and gets Eve-naked right beside me. We’re crammed in my single bed, so her tight little body is pressed against me.
Before I know what’s happening, she takes off my own pyjamas, top and bottom, and she gently massages my hardening dick.
She then moves about and positions herself on all fours, where I reach out for her and lovingly caress her leg, then I let my touch travel down all the way to her ankle before making a nice halt to properly feel the firm roundness of her heel and the absolute daintiness of her girly foot.
The pirate fantasy is running in my mind. The victorious outlaws have captured the ship and are enjoying the female passengers—all of them gladly surrender and give themselves to their conquering captors. Naked on the deck, under the soot-faced pirates, the white girls become wenches as they get drowned in their cum.
Suzie is on the deck of that merchant ship and she gets a pair of manly hands on her buttocks and a hard cock pushing the entrance of her asshole.
She gives me the Vaseline jar and I coat my rammer with the viscous substance, and here comes my novice attempt at a proper anal insertion as she lowers her face against the pillow and offers me the protruding vastness of her stretched-out butt.
It’s not easy, but I manage to enter about an inch. Fortunately, I’m very hard and this allows me to push with genuine purpose. The tighter than tight opening suddenly yields and she yelps as a gripping pressure captures my pirate rod.
What follows is unbridled elation, her whimpers and moans muffled against my pillow and my victorious grunting as I go madder with each new stroke. Her anal tightness is beyond words.
The gleeful pressure is worth slowing down to enjoy the delight longer; her whimpers and her body heat agree with all of this. The risk of being heard amplifies the excitement of our shared sin.
As she gets properly hammered on the gently creaking bed, my hands run amok, unable to stop caressing the forbidden softness of her naked buttocks. This is Suzie! My elder sister. And we’ll burn in Hell.
In the meantime, we’re making love and she’s taking it in her arse so she doesn’t get pregnant. This is our first time doing it like that. Oh, the sweet buns of Suzie…
My slowing down doesn’t really alleviate the pressure. It’s going to be over soon; all my fibres are ablaze and the constant friction makes it known that I really need to brace for a wickedly powerful finish. My one job is going to make sure I don’t scream.
“Oh, Suzie… Suzie…”
Whispering her name just as I pass my edge ensures a prodigious surge that just rushes through me and explodes inside her, deep inside her rectum, as I spew my pressured jism and utter some inarticulate growls that make me sound like a sick baboon at the zoo, all this mixed with her pillow-muffled whimpers.
Moments later, we both find ourselves panting in each other’s arms, basking in our shared post-climax paradise, a brother and a sister who just did what they shouldn’t have even been thinking of.
She’s kissing me.
“Suzie, we should stop. Suzie, are you listening?”
“Don’t whisper so loud, lover. Yes, lover, we should, hmm… stop. Ooohh, it’s so good to be kissing you. Please, lover, suck me breasts again! It feels so nice. You can kiss me feet too; I know you love them, you naughty brother! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
“Yes, but please, not so loud! They mustn’t hear us. Ooh, sweet Sue…”
And I do all of this.
My breast play makes her coo as I work to improve my boob-pleasuring technique, knowing that I’m still a blundering novice. After that, I finally get to caress, explore, lick and kiss her lovely little feet, not forgetting her delightful toes, but the day is already brightening through my bedroom curtains.
With that soft pitter-patter from her small feet, my lovely sister carefully returns to her bedroom, leaving my door ajar and the vanilla-scented trail of her long hair.
Knowing that I’m not going to fall asleep and wanting to be gone before my parents get up themselves, I quickly put on some trousers and a plaid shirt that I presently catch sight of; it has a black-and-white checkered pattern similar to the shirt Armande, the landlady, loaned me on Parthenais street, on that day when I first made love with Sophie.
Louise, the girl I met on the bus on my way back to Quebec City, is the only girl I made love with who was really my age, and we have a lot in common. Both of us were born in 1937.
Then came that old fuzz! He pilfered her and he laughed at my face; he had the law on a tin badge and a gun on his belt; the pig! I hope his Sergeant scolded him! But maybe it would be better he wasn’t scolded on my account, because then he’d be bugged against me, and it’s not a good thing to have a policeman irked at you when you’re just a sixteen-year-old lad.
As I prepare enough pancakes for six people—my parents and us four, including my little brothers—an idea dawns on me. Why didn’t I think of it first? My cousin Alice likes me, she really does. She’s only thirteen and a half and as such, she’d make a nice date for me.
We would just walk down the avenue holding hands, share a milkshake at the malt shop, listen to her records and play board games like Clue or Monopoly; there would be nothing sexual and she’d be over the moon; her friends would see her walking hand in hand with me, her tall and so-called handsome cousin.
That will be arranged easily; Uncle Henri is paying us a visit tomorrow, that is, on Sunday evening. Having such a young date will allow me to slow things down and get a nice breather; I need it.
I have a hefty breakfast with pancakes and strong coffee, shared with my, ahem, beloved sister, who keeps giving me her bare foot on my lower leg under the table, while my two little brothers are devouring their pancakes, with a strict limit of two each. Mother and Father are awake in their bedroom; Suzie and I know better than disturbing them. We leave some nice pancakes for them, knowing they would need the food after such morning exertions as we dare not think about.
Leaving my brothers listening to a program on the radio set under their big sister’s care, I put on my varsity jacket and fedora hat and make sure my love telegram to Elizabeth sits in my pocket.
Suzie quickly runs to the hall before I leave and gives me the most inappropriate kiss she can think of for her beloved brother. We must stop this madness!
It’s a fine Saturday morning in Quebec City. It is still too early for the telegram office, so I head all the way East on Boulevard Saint-Cyrille, right until I walk past the 1880’s building of National Assembly to my right.
After taking the left turn to the North and descending a high flight of stairs, I find myself in Basse-Ville, the lower part of downtown.
The Gare centrale d’autobus is on Boulevard Charest near Caron Street. When I was with Louise on the intercity coach, I got so mixed up that I thought the terminus was at Gare-du-Palais, as if we were on a train. Silly me!
I also forgot to claim my luggage and that grumpy old driver must have left it at the lost objects counter, and that’s my business for being there on this fine Saturday morning under fair heavens and a cool wind.
My leather suitcase is easily recognized by the shape of its brass handle. Armande, the landlady on Parthenais Street, had some clothes that belonged to her brother who died fighting in France and he was about my size; I’m honoured to inherit the clothes of such a brave man; there are two books in there as well.
The middle-aged woman at the counter hands me my luggage and I smile and wish her a good day. It is a true relief to get my things back.
Upon exiting the Gare’s main building, I nearly bump into a fine-looking girl.
“L… Louise?!”
“Oh, you came to claim your luggage too? I forgot mine too!”
She quickly looks behind her and speaks to my ear…
“My stepfather is parking his car; come with me to the ladies room and we’ll talk.”
Louise quickly leads me over there. Since it’s only eight in the morning, there’s no one and we’re between ourselves.
She flings herself into my arms and kisses me with tears welling in her eyes.
“Look, Gaston, I’m planning to run away to Montreal so I can be with my daddy all the time. I know it’s no good and my mother will legally force me to come back, but since that awful night…”
She breaks down and cries. I tenderly press her to my heart and stroke her hair, doing my best to comfort my girlfriend.
“Louise! I’m so happy to meet you again. With all that excitement, I don’t even remember your family name and I had no idea where to find you…”
“Beaudry. I’m Louise Beaudry. I’ll give you my phone n…”
There’s a sudden knock on the door, and a man’s scowling voice bursts through…
“Louise. Are you in there? Hurry up, we don’t have all day!”
There’s power in that voice. This must be her stepfather; what a bad-mannered hooligan!
“Yes! I’ll be with you in a minute!” Louise replies sheepishly, then she quickly leads me by the hand and we enter a toilet booth and close the wooden door upon us.
“My godfather and that… that policeman are friends since they were kids in school,” she quickly whispered. “They keep watching me all the time! I’m so scared of them!”
A sudden idea dawns on me.
“Listen, Louise. When you’re in Montreal, go to this address—Rue Parthenais, 66B. Rue Parthenais, 66B. Remember it. Go there and ask for Elizabeth and tell them I sent you. Remember, Rue Parth…”
“Louise! You’re with someone! Is it a young man?”
“Gaston! He’s right here! Gaston! I’m so scared!”
A tall, broad-shouldered man violently opens the stall door; he’s a dapper man wearing a dark suit with a flower on its front, and this cheerful flower only intensifies the scowl on his face as he glares at me from under his homburg hat, turning my legs to lead with fear. Louise is scared out of her wits and clings to me for dear life.
Fear halts my breathing. I never fought a man before and I can tell this grown man is stronger than myself, but I can’t falter and be a coward in front of my girlfriend.
“With a young man all right! Louise, you’re a strumpet!”
“Don’t call my girlfriend like that, you dirty scumbag!”
“What did you just call me, young man? Go take a walk, uh?!”
He looks positively shocked as I slap him. The booth is a bit narrow and I lack the space to take a proper swing, but he’s quite surprised to see me ready to fight him. He’s also really pissed as he just lost his hat.
“Oh you, wait…”
Everything was over before I thought it was happening as in a dream. The man rushed at me, pushed Louise back, pulled me out of the stall and pummelled me bloody in a way that I vaguely remember.
When I come to, I’m alone in the ladies room and that same middle-aged woman from the counter finds me lying down, half unconscious on the tiled floor. Louise’s stepfather gave me a proper beating.
Things look quite fuzzy in my memory. There’s Louise and her loud screams, “Stop it! Stop it! You’re hurting him! He’s just sixteen! Oh, Gaston! Gaston! What a dirty scumbag lawyer you are—beating up a kid when no one’s watching! Aaaiie!”
He slapped her!
Now, I remember.
That hooligan hit her!
“He hit her! The dirty scoundrel! The sneaky alligator! I’m going to smash his head into a million pieces! The bloody bastard!” I yell, groggy, but raging, as that nice, dapper lady is trying to help me in front of the mirror. I can well picture her having tea with Armande in Montreal.
My left eye is already swollen and I don’t look too good with that bloody mouth of mine; thankfully, none of my teeth are loosened. It could have been worse.
“Calm down, my young lad. Calm down. I have a first aid kit near the counter. Let me help you.”
Getting beaten up is one thing, but he hit her, and for that alone I must get even with him. Having a…
