I confess that I enjoyed being the object of desire of so many illustrious men. I loved the flattery, the pâtisserie, the bonbons, the money, and the jewels. Very soon, I too had indulged in and dispensed those perversions that I had disapproved of with such vehemence, and admit that after a very short time I no longer even batted an eyelid. I have to concede that I was born a petite vicieuse, what Anglo-Saxons call a sex maniac. Or a nympho.

Sarah Bernhardt by Georges Clairin

I had once thought it demeaning to put a male member in my mouth, but now I learnt to find pleasure in it, like sucking a bonbon, only infinitely more nuanced. Perhaps this was because of the changing consistency of the male member. Its tepid temperature. Just a few weeks into the job, I thought I knew it all, that after my experience with Emilien, I had earned my stripes, and I imagined that my position in the hierarchy, as far as my new profession was concerned, was comparable to that of the sociétaire at the Comédie Française.

Popol was exceptionally animated when he arrived at the Rue de Quimper one morning and told me that one of Bordeaux’ richest vignerons had asked him to find him a suitable cocotte during a business trip to Paris.

‘He is obviously loaded and will pay well,’ he said. ‘Are you interested?

‘You say he pays well, so why not?’

‘He has use of a garçonnière near the Bois de Boulogne; I think he and some fellow wine merchants have bought it jointly for the sole purpose of having a venue to indulge in some pleasurable naughtiness. Can I come and fetch you at nine? I will wait outside with Thomas the cocher and we’ll take you home before midnight if that’s all right?’

‘Why not?’

The vigneron extended his pink and podgy hand for me to shake as he welcomed me into his bachelor flat.

‘Monsieur Anaclet Fesquy, vigneron and négociant de Bordeaux, but call me Mon p’tit lapin.’

‘Sarah, chaude lapine,’ I said with a wink and a leer. Sarah, hot chick.

He was an orotund man with a perfectly circular face to match, with a toothbrush moustache so black I suspected that he had dyed it, who looked ill-at-ease, not to say uncouth, in his striped trousers and braces.

‘What a sweet voice you have,’ he said. ‘Why you’re just a little girl.’ I knew damn well that this was why I was such a success with men. They all want to fuck little their daughters, and my being petite and having this very thin childish voice made them lick heir chops with desire. Later when my voice changed, I found I could easily make it more child-like to send those latent paedophiles mad with lust.

‘I take it you like champagne,’ he said. I was never too fond of the bubbly, but nodded enthusiastically.

I downed the wine in one go. ‘At least that’s out of the way,’ I thought, but he immediately filled my glass again.

‘Good for the kidneys,’ he said when I demurred, and again I swallowed it all in one gulp.

‘You do like the stuff then,’ he said and he was on the point of filling the glass again, but I placed my hand over it. To my surprise, he pushed it away none too gently and filled it again. No power on earth is going to make me drink anything against my will, I said to myself.

He smiled and said that he had laid out a small collation in the dining room, and I was surprised to see on the table, cold meats, pâtés and cheeses and bottles of wine and more champagne. Now I eat literally like a bird, and a small one at that. I like to nibble my food, and do not like to overindulge. I told him I didn’t much care for meats and that I could happily exist on greens. Later in life I would become completely vegetarian. He said he could understand, but a drink never harmed anyone. He insisted that I sampled a Crémant de Limoux, a wine he specialised in. I declined, saying I could not possibly fit any more in my tiny stomach, but he laughed.

‘Wine has a special quality,’ he said, ‘the more you drink, the more space becomes available inside you, which is why it is served as an apéritif.’

Rubbish! I did not say.

‘Little girl, papa’s gonna get seriously angry if she doesn’t do as she is told.’

Now, if he had an idea about who I was, he’d have known that this was exactly the wrong thing to say to Sarah. I never yield to menace. He must have noticed the hardening expression on my face, for he changed tack.

‘You know, this stupid Anaclet, he’s so obsessed with his vineyards that he will think he’s a failure if a sweet little girl like you thinks his wine is piss.’

‘I think nothing of the sort, it looks like a first class product. It’s just_’

‘Just to please papa, come on.’ I thought of the two thousand francs and nodded. It was indeed an excellent cuvée.

‘Now you must have just a sip of my Graves.’ I cannot explain why, but I just shrugged and let him pour me one glass. To my amazement, I was not drunk, only slightly tipsy. My speech was not all that slurred, although as a rule I have a low tolerance for alcohol. I agreed to eat some cheese. I noticed that all the time he was pressing me to drink and eat, he partook of nothing himself. I wondered if he was perhaps trying to poison me, but I found I easier to keep drinking. I reassured myself with the knowledge that Popol was outside.

When I am tipsy I usually become aroused, and I find myself wishing my client would ask me to come to bed soon. Also the quicker I got started, the sooner I’d be sitting in the coach on my way home, my thousand franc notes safely ensconced in my little purse.

Instead Monsieur Fesquy asked me to come to the bathroom. Perhaps he has some perverted idea in his head, I thought, and followed him in.

I noticed that he had grabbed another bottle of champagne. On the washbasin I noticed a folding razor, and I shuddered. He saw my disquiet and picked it up, smiling wickedly, opened it, and slid his thumb and index finger on the blade.

‘Oh Sainte Marie mère de Dieu,’ I prayed, ‘please don’t let me be slashed or killed. Spare me and I will join a nunnery, whatever objection Youle might have.’

He opened the razor wider. ‘Don’t be afraid, I intend you no harm. Just drink more champagne, that’s all I ask.’ He placed he blade between his thumb and index finger and with a menacing glint in his eye he slid them backward and forward. I shrugged and drank.

‘Why? I don’t even like the stuff,’ I said meekly.

‘Shut up and do as you’re told.’ His tone was quite alarming, but this triggered resolve in me.

‘You can’t make me, monsieur Fesquy,’ I shouted, the defiance of my voice disguising my true terror. I was too young to die. I was destined to become the most famous thespian in France, in the whole world, even. Now this madman was going to slash my throat before I’d even got started.

There had been a spate of brutal killings of prostitutes in Paris a few months ago. Panic had now set in. I feel like my body is surrounded by a hot sheet of iron. I am sure my temperature has gone up by a couple of degrees. I become instantly feverish and my heart begins to thump. I can feel I am on the verge of tears. He brings the blade nearer his face, purses his lips and nods approval at its lethal nature, smiling darkly. Often when I go on my amorous trysts I wear no knickers, and now I am feeling the urge to piss. I twitch my legs and Anaclet Fesquy notices this. He takes two steps towards me. I try to scream but no voice comes out. I ready myself for flight but find that I am paralysed.

I can control myself no longer and water starts gushing out of me, not tears, but water from down there. I am pissing myself with fright. Anaclet who had got rid of his trousers, throws himself at my feet and looking like a saint visited upon by an angel, his face is illuminated by a strange light as he puts his body in the trajectory of my jet, rolling over to allow his whole body to benefit from my liquid emissions, an ecstatic expression on his face. With his hand he directs my urine over his face, his neck, and his eyes.

He is in a state of bliss. He purrs with joy, and I keep augmenting it by my unstoppable flow.

He is in the throes of a sexual manifestation, and I see him grab his erect member, and almost immediately his body is writhing in orgiastic spasms. I see the result on the wall, a stain resembling the map of our beloved France. ‘Thank you, thank you, Sarah,’ he keeps repeating, ‘I am in paradise now.’

I felt superior when Youle and Tante Rosine admitted that they never had any experience of water sports.

Prizewinning playwright. Mathematician. Teacher. Professional Siesta addict.

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store