The grave of the beautiful cousin
Act II of an erotic tale of my youth.
We had succumbed this time, who knows why? Some times like so, we fell down at the level of the girls agreeing to play with them, to play their games; incidental moments, inexplicable situations; who knows why? When the girls found themselves out in the nature, having abandoned their dolls or the underskirt of their mothers. It is as if they had plotted to find themselves like a little flock of defenseless hinds, spying on our cavort without really investing in them, like spectators whom we never miss to dazzle with our swaggering.
It happened to us to participate in the girl's games, but rarely in group. We did never brag about it among us as if it could be perceived as a weakness from our part. In the games of girls we only act as passive figurants; we discovered, with certain uneasiness, their inclination to manage the useless.
It was so that I played the role of the powerless patient with the daughters of doctor Letendre. They were pedantic, stuck-up, like all the sons and daughters of the professionals of the village. They formed a class apart, a world separated from our world, we met only at Church or during fortuitous events. This meeting had been fortuitous and accidental; I was maintaining the earth surface of their tennis-court in exchange for the permission to throw some balls around; that day, I let myself entail by the oldest of the Letendre sisters, in this game, unknown to me till that day. I accepted, believing I was shielded from the disastrous effect on my companions of play, of having participated in some childish games with girls and particularly with the Letendre sisters who, it was known, where pedants and stuck-up.
I climbed laboriously, the dark walls of the coffin resting on the unstable floor of the hangar. Jocelyn was already there, sluggish, paralyzed by fear. When I passed over there, she was sitting down on the wooden boards; she thought she was invisible. I had difficulty to convince her to spread out inside the coffin, under cover among the fillings of white satin. Jocelyn, a small cousin of hardly my age, until then, an anonymous small doll who could hardly follow the beat, the games, the holidays, the rendez-vous; she always stay aside, passive, invisible small maid who had, for a moment, abandoned her solitude and her doll to follow us in this group game.
I had given up closing on her the lid of the coffin, paralyzed like she was by fear, she begged me to join her in the narrow coffin.
Marco Polo or the imaginary journey (Contes et légendes érotiques, translated from french, février 1999) © 1999 Jean-Pierre Lapointe
The space was restricted, she snuggled up in the heart of the coffin, her body getting lost in the fillings of white satin, showing only fragments of her frail body of girl, just escaped from childhood. Her worried face, her hands spread against her sides, her legs bared under her short skirt raised to the birth of her thighs, exposing to me, in a crystal clear whiteness, a delicate pair of underpants decorated with laces. She appeared like a small defenceless doll.
- "I am afraid,"", she said.
I skipped in her sides softly, trying for the better, not to crush her under my weight of almost adolescent young man, she was so fragile. I could do nothing else then leaning my body over her body, burying her even more profoundly in the silky fillings of white satin. Then I closed the lid of the coffin, leaving a slender opening, letting filter only a weak light.
Silence was total, only the sinister crackle of some boards disturbs this worrying peace. She did not move. Her small breast lifted up regularly under the effect of an excessive tension. She panted looking at me with her dark eyes, searching on my stance some reassuring signs, like that of a protective father, or of an attentive mother. I was uncomfortable, I leaned on to her, I had the sensation to crush her under my weight, we were head against head and I could feel on my face the light breath of her breath. We did not move any more but we look at one an other waiting for something, the raid of the pawn in our hiding, voices that sometimes emerged from far away, that faded suddenly and dipped us back into the silence of the place and the discomfort of our sinister hiding place.
My cheek leaned against her cheek. It was not a deliberate gesture. I rolled up my arms around her body to take a more comfortable position. She was frail under my body, vulnerable as a small prey cough by a trap. She was like these agile hares suddenly becoming powerless, their paws attached in the snares that we deploy in the woods surrounding the village, they looked at us, supplicants, waiting for a gesture of compassion, in front of an unavoidable death.
My mouth leaned against her cheek, delicately for nothing perhaps, or to calm her, a gesture of tenderness, unusual, a way of calming her anxiety or under the influence of a too great promiscuousness, I could not explain the reason, I kissed her timidly. She let herself do, was it under the effect of fear, she let herself kissed by mistake perhaps, not knowing how to explain that gesture. She let herself kissed on the cheek without reacting; then my lips went traveling awkwardly over her face, her eyelids, along her nose then they stopped and invested her opened lips.
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