Mythologies
The nymps Pomone and the prick of Vertumne the pious God.
BEGINNING OF THE TALE
Pomone lived under the reign of Proca
Sovereign of the Palantin country
Among the hamandryades of the Latini.
None was so much skilful
In the art of libertin art.
None other did have more tasteful
For the seed of the male.
Her name moreover, origin surely from there.
She liked neither the virgin forest,
Neither the motionless rivers,
Nor the desert plain
But only the mature fruits charged with sap
Which are balancing from among the branches of the trees.
From her hands, she drove out neither hunger, nor thirst,
But the agitation which from the branch,
Let run out the sap.
She only suffered from thirst,
She refreshed herself at any branch
Which she handled from her nimble hands
By sprinkling herself from the sap which freed from it.
All devoted to her only passion
At her favorite occupations
She had no desire for any other love
Then that that alleviates her thirst,
She had only taste for drinking.
Fearing the rape more than all,
She closed again the door of her orchard
By prohibiting the access to her flower
Of which she kept the petals, jealously closed.
What were not her victims, some Satyrs,
Young troop made for the act,
And the Pans with their apparatuses in the shape of pinnacles
And Sylvain, too young to be able to deflower her
And this God, with his fork and his male member
Who frightened all those ladies
Wanting that one shake it to him.
But Vertumne, it is the name of the God,
Surpassed himself more than any other
in the hope of being hosted by her.
Oh! how often
Undressed like a satyr
He offered to her his ear in a case
Under the appearance of a chimney sweeper!
Often to see him, a plait of hay
Tied up around his prick
One would have said that he had
Inflated by seed, his appendix.
Often he shook with a steady hand his pivot
So that one would have sworn
That he handled that of an ox.
With his billhook, he was a ploughman
And one of these pretentious males
Who believe he makes the flower, germinate.
A bowl in his sleeve
He went, one could beleive
At picking some mature fruits.
His sword made of him a soldier,
His reed, a fisherman with his line.
Lastly, favoured by a thousand disguises,
He often found the means
To approach whom from which
He wanted to give himself the agitation of an orgasm
While using the enthusiasm of his sagacious fingers.
He even went as far as giving himself
The appearance of a young and tender lady,
Whom entered the so well provided garden,
Admiring this flower she exclaimed:
"What abundance!"
She lavished to Pomone
Praises and caresses of females
Such as had never given
Any other claiming male.
Then she laid down on the ground
All bend towards the object of her fright
her eyes fixed on this all opened flower
Hiding with sorrow the place
From which agitates his dart.
"But if it rises up, says the mistress to herself,
To solitary, deprived from the fruit of the flower
And that it flows out without penetrating the flower
And that the sap, without that there where no hymenea
Runs out and soaks to the ground?"
"Oh you, who seems insensitive to my sex,
You flee the embrace of the wife, and you do not care
Unite yourself to whom resembles you.
You would not be solicited any more, if you wanted it,
By the suitors of Helene
And by Ulysses himself."
Now that in this moment
Whereas you flee the human
And forsakes the tiny-member
Of thousands of pretendants here-ahead, naked to the bottom,
In great erection in front of your well,
Picks of demigods and of pious gods,
Not counting the poisoned arrows
Of the divinities who live on the Albains mountains.
But if you are docile
If you agree to an happy copulation
To listen to the concubine whom you see,
And consents to taste the gall of Vertumne
Which have the taste of honey
More than that of the other males,
Repel their vulgar poison
And choose the food of Vertumne
For companion of your meals,
Foul-mouth his royal drinking trough
To finally appease your thirst.
Also accept in his favour my guarantee
Because he does not know himself better
Than I know him.
He does not wander all over the whole world
By seeking the pernicious adventure
But he lives in a delictuous place.
He does not get excited,
As makes a great number of your suitors,
Of the last woman whom he exhausts,
You will be his first and his last meal.
It is to you alone
That he wants to lavish his venom.
Add that he is young, that he has a very beautiful organ,
And that he can transform it
And no matter what you order him to be
He will be it, and to do, he will do it,
And how to do it, he will carry it out,
And you can order what you will want.
What to say of our common tastes
And of your tender she-cat, object of all our dreams.
The first he will enjoy from it
Joyfull of letting himself be appeased
From around your fingers let himself be shaken
Or hide it in the den of your mouth
And from around your teeth let it be wounded
And of letting it die of drying out."
When the God had, without effect
Recited its argument
He regained his male aspect and
Leaving there his aspect of mortal
he approached Pomone,
His member in full erection.
his apparatus shone like does,
The solar disc in fusion
That nothing made any more obstacle
To the blossoming of the plasma.
He did not had to employ any violence,
That was not necessary,
The nymph let herself seduced
By the only aspect of the prick of the pious God.
She felt in her turn deflowered
By the enthusiasm of his aspergillum.
She opened herself to him, all laid out,
Drawing aside with her fingers, her petals
As would have done a flower.
