Beware the night before the dawn
Beware the dark when light is gone
For there’s a phantom lust awake

Demons are a girl’s best friend

The word best suited to describe Catherine’s sex life, the one that immediately came to her mind when she thought of the delights of passionate love, this word was an adjective and this adjective was, quite simply and to her great displeasure: catastrophic. After a long series of shabby plans in which the deflated, pathetic runts unable to make her come, early ejaculators and others disturbed dicks took off before dawn had succeeded a no less long period that can be described as a desert crossing without exaggeration. Catherine had revised her selection criteria upwards, with the result that the suitors completely disappeared. In other words, the intensity of his nocturnal activities gave a fairly good idea of emptiness. The days of famine had turned into weeks, weeks into months, so that on that day she celebrated the sad anniversary of her first year of celibacy in a long time. Her girlfriends laughed at her, arguing that if she didn’t lower her male standards, she would end up single.

Catherine was there for her thoughts when she realized that her colleague Gregory’s eyes were riveted on her cleavage, much deeper than she would have liked. He must have even noticed a little lace of the bra. He must have even seen a little lace on the bra. Catherine was rather slender, even sporty, with fairly round shapes, well located on the chest and buttocks. Gregory never missed the opportunity to do to her what he thought was a compliment on this subject, a compliment vulgar enough for her to identify it as an insult and tell him to fuck off. She knew that her physique attracted this kind of people and, precisely, this attraction was part of her problem.

She gave him a reproving look over the glasses. He says with a smile:

– You always tap your lower lip with your pen when you’re thinking. It’s very sensual.

Catherine put the pen down before she sighed:

– If you come to talk to me about a case, you are welcome, otherwise I don’t want to talk to you.

Gregory snickered away, probably to pursue his main activity at the office, bragging about his weekend sexual exploits, fictional or not. Catherine spent the rest of the afternoon working, forgetting this incident.

In the evening, when she left the subway Metro, she decided to make a detour to an antique store near her home, which she knew was open until 7pm. She was just thinking about taking a look at the window. Catherine had developed a particular vice: she collected antique objects, mainly from Central Africa and Oceania. What had initially been a simple toquad had turned into a real passion over time and her small two-rooms flat was beginning to be seriously cluttered with various objects and trinkets.

At first, she noticed nothing new in the antique shop window. The Louis XV convertible chair, with its hideous green cushions, had still not found a buyer. The same 18th century paintings decorated the background of the front. A new object, placed in the middle of other knick-knacks on a coffee table, finally caught his attention. It was a small, black, painted wooden statuette, representing a grimacing creature. The thing was squatting down. Like a ram, she carried two curved horns on her head. In the middle of a thick beard opened a wide lipped mouth from which an obscene tongue sprang. In the lower part, an imposing phallus stood between two hooves, so high that it almost joined the tongue. The sculpture seemed to her to be coarse, practically raw art. She should have inspired disgust in her, but she couldn’t help but look at it. She shivered, despite the pleasant late afternoon temperature.

She decided to enter the store. Mr. Maubert, the owner, came forward to meet her, greeting her in an obsessive manner.

– What can I do for you, dear customer?
– I would like to have information on the new statuette you have in the window. A kind of satyr….
– A new statue? I don’t remember that….

Catherine had to show the object to Maubert, who pouted.

– It must have been Monique who put that… thing there. Wait, I’ll check the card.

The man went to the back shop and came back a few seconds later, with a piece of card in his hand. Catherine was always surprised by the archaism of the antique dealer by not having a digital filing system, but this contributed to the charm of the shop, she thought.

– Let’s see, he said, putting on glasses. I must admit that we know very little about the origin of this “little man”. We bought it at an auction. The expert tells us that it dates from the end of the nineteenth century, probably the work of a decadent artist who wanted to reproduce a medieval style. He also used much older models, mixing classical representations of Pan and Priape.

Catherine listened to him with a distracted ear, her gaze riveted on the statuette. She seemed small and fragile to her, but she had only one desire: to take it in her hands and caress it. The last time she felt such a sensation, it was in front of a Yoruba sculpture from Benin, which she immediately bought for an astronomical sum.

– I’ll take it, she whispered.

Maubert could not repress a slight shrug. After all, during a long career that was now coming to an end, he had learned not to discuss his clients’ tastes. If the latter wanted to rid him of this… disgusting thing, he could only welcome it. He packed the statuette and Catherine paid him the purchase price. Barely a hundred euros. While slipping her acquisition into her bag, she thought she had certainly committed more costly follies. The weight of the object surprised her, however. For a wooden object, it seemed very heavy.

It was only when she opened the door to her home that she became aware of the fatigue that had accumulated during the day. Before warming up a meal, she thinks that a bath would do her a lot of good.

The apartment was not very spacious but it offered at least one large room for toilet and hygiene. The ventilation system more than compensated for the lack of windows. The walls were covered with black ceramic tiles. Catherine appreciated this style which some would have found dark and sad but which she considered both intimate and elegant. After putting the bung in place, she opened the taps wide, placing her wrist under the jet to assess the temperature. She then poured a large quantity of bath salt. As the foam slowly rose, she went into the kitchen to open a bottle of soft jurançon. She used a tall glass and went into the room to remove her clothes. Catherine paid particular attention to her outfit. She always wanted to show up at the office properly dressed. That day she wore a blue suit and a white bodice. She carefully folded her things before removing her black stockings. Only the panties and bra remained, also white. She looked in the mirror of the room at her firm body, her generous chest. “All is not lost, my girl,” she thought to herself, “you can approach your thirties with pride. A good guy will get interested in you eventually! “With a series of slow gestures, which she wanted to be sensual but which turned out to be a little sloppy, she finished undressing and went back to the bathroom.

The bathtub seemed sufficiently full, so she activated the tap to stop the flow. A crazy idea came to her at that moment. Without taking the time to put on a bathrobe, she returned to the living room and defied the package, grabbing its acquisition and taking it with her to the bathroom. She placed the statue at the end of the bathtub, so that when she lay down in the water, the satyr seemed to observe her with his little black eyes. She placed her two feet on each side. The long tongue of the gargoyle seemed to her the most beautiful comic effect and she laughed, before bringing the glass of white wine to her lips.

The alcohol soon took effect, causing, with the combined heat of the bath, a state of torpor conducive to reverie. Catherine was not surprised by this new turn that the evening was taking, she was used to erotic thoughts, palliative to which she often resorted in this period of celibacy. That night’s was particularly spicy. She imagined the sculptor of the priapic satyr, handsome young man, friend of Huysmans, cursed poet in his spare time, squandering the family heritage in the most prestigious brothels. Catherine, for her part, was a prostitute in the whorehouse of Mrs. Auzoux, entitled madam, a former resident herself. The place had all the modern comforts and gas lighting. According to the fashion of the time, the style of the rooms was very varied and exotic, ranging from the Chinese suite to the Moorish alcove without forgetting the medieval torture chamber.

The girls waited in the main room under the light of the gas nozzles. Among all the beauties seated that evening on the large sofas in the entrance, Frida the Red, a Prussian with an opulent chest whose whiteness was only disturbed by a sprinkling of freckles, Thérèse, a young country girl with whom Catherine sometimes killed boredom by sharing a few moments of tenderness, Rose, the volcanic brown haired Spanish, a real fury in bed they said, the young man made his choice. He did not hesitate for long, taking Catherine’s hand while grabbing a bottle of champagne, dragging her to a room upstairs. The decor was rococo, the walls covered with large mirrors. Above the huge bed, covered with a red ornament, was a gold-plated cherub, a figuration of Eros, an arch stretched out towards the sky, shining with a thousand lights. Catherine laughs as she throws herself back on the bed, just before the man. His hands were busy unloading her from her blouse. With his ample chest free, he immediately started sucking on one of the nipples while pressing the other between two fingers. “Wouldn’t you rather, sir, that I take your desire in hand? “she said, with her most gluttonous smile. But no, he had only one wish, to go down lower, to the hollow of the skirts, to reach the vibrating wound between the thighs, to calm her burning irritation with the sweetness of his tongue. The man grabbed the bottle of champagne and poured a few drops on Catherine’s thighs. He immediately licked them avidly.

Catherine’s right hand had just plunged into the water, gently stroking her belly, crossing the Mount of Venus to apply the pressure lower. She didn’t have to wait long before, in the middle of the lapping, a delicious orgasm invaded her. Catherine made a sharp little cry that surprised herself.

“What a strange evening,” she thought as she wiped herself after getting out of the water. What a gripping and intense dream. For a little while, she thought she could feel the sculptor’s head, her beautiful lover, moving under her belly.

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