Vraimenterotique La Chasse Au Lapin

La Chasse au Lapin (The Rabbit Hunt)

Author’s Translation Note: The following story, set in 18th century France, contains a small number of French
words or phrases which translate as follows: ‘Allons!’ – ‘Go!’ or ‘Let’s go!’, ‘soixante-neuf’ – ‘sixty-nine’, ‘les fesses’
- the buttocks, ‘cinquante’ – ‘fifty’, ‘cent’ – one hundred, ‘trente’, ‘trente-deux’, ‘trente-trois’ – ‘thirty’, ‘thirty-two’,
‘thirty-three’ and ‘Ennui’ – ‘boredom’.

If the Marquis and his forebears had faults – and they did – a lack of fine taste was not one of them.
The gleaming ancient chateau, a jewel in any light, sparkled in the midst of magnificent ornamental
ponds, lakes and gardens. Skirted by some of the best-maintained forests in the region, it was
universally regarded as a miracle of beauty.

Over perhaps two hundred years, Kings have stayed here, courtiers and courtesans too, savouring the air, the
hunting, and the wondrous local vintages. Many, too, have savoured the somewhat special ‘sports’ the Marquis
and his line have indulged in, until this final July.

It is a pretty day, and a pretty time – for some - to end so badly.

Beyond the ornately iron-gated arch, just inside the unscaleable, creeper-covered garden wall, the does are
dawdling in a shady wing of the formal maze. The potently combined influence of Rose Bertin, the Queen’s
dressmaker, and the extraordinary artist Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun, has endowed them with a fashionable undress.
Tresses flow and ripple in natural, cascading curls beneath broad-brimmed hats decorated with flowers and
grasses, above deliciously décolletée dresses of white and ivory cotton lawn. Diaphanous muslins, floating, are
ribbon-tied beneath pinkly swelling bosoms. Hoops, panniers and stays officially abandoned outside of Sunday
court, most are naked beneath their soft, figure-hugging shifts or petticoats, save for gartered silken hose.

More often now seen in such ‘undress’ at court, none have been seen there in such undress as that which, this
morning, they laughingly proceed to.

Madeleine, auburn-haired, already stands naked save for her hat. Cool air caresses her skin, raises goose-
bumps, a thrill of eagerness aches in her loins. Precious small swellings, tinglings and murmurs of moistness
flutter in her breeze-kissed valley between her warm pink thighs.

A shout: “Allons!” and laughing, giggling, twenty naked ‘bunnies’ race the central path and enter the vast
enclosed garden. The maze its entrance, the garden comprises gently undulating greens criss-crossed with
miniature dells and valleys and dotted with hollows, close-planted coppices, shrubberies and rocky outcrops.

Children might delight in the thousand hiding places and the myriad avenues of escape from each, but children
do not play here. There are too many things here which maman et papa might not wish to explain - the statues,
in particular. Of men and women, singly or in small groups, and carved with poignant intimacy of detail, these
have few echoes in antiquity. Here a naked maiden bends, undressing, every nuance of her alabaster buttock-
cleft and vulva etched in the engraving, a patina on each from much caressing. Here reposes soixante-neuf in
stone, here stands naked Mercury, cock in a goddess’s mouth, and, in an arbour, a miniature temple to
Bacchanalian gods.

The bunnies scattered, Madeleine crouches low in a shallow ravine close by the statue of Pan, whose prodigious,
cold, carved prick she once mounted as a dare, and which is her own and her lover’s marker. In the prime of her
life the breathlessness that aches within her chest has little to do with the exertion of running, the heat of her skin
but little to do with the gentle afternoon sun. Squatting stretches the cheeks of les fesses, tautens her sphincter,
piquantly exposes her down-thrust vulva to the air and the tickling of tall grasses. Even the subtle ache of
bended knee is poignant in her waiting, wanting vulnerability.

Others, she knows, have such pre-arranged assignations with their own pursuing bucks. Sydonie will meet her
Auguste by stone Mercury and suck him, when found, in emulation of the stone goddess. Eugenie, her ass a
plum so many would choose to pit, will meet her Georges by the statue of the bending girl and let him take her
thus, as is their pleasure. St Michel will fuck his reclining Venus, Heloise, in the shallow bed of the great stone
oyster which sits at the centre of the largest pond, the cool water surging from its vent exploding about the heat
of their frantic conjunction.

Others will continue running, naked, breasts and buttocks bouncing, till they are pounced upon and tumbled, and
spread their legs upon the grass for their elected.

Alert and listening Madeleine keeps her gaze upon a nearby coppice, a refuge if she needs one. Her skin
prickles as if with dread of threat, her cunny tingles with the same anticipation, in knowing that - hidden - she
cannot see, cannot see who sees. Naked in the slender vale she vibrates in every cell of her being, tingles, is
warm.

Past the count of ‘cent’ by now, the bucks will be running in pursuit, and dear Rolande will not run fast, one leg
hampered by a wound sustained in the American war.

Even as she reflects on this there is a slithering of skin on grass and, rolling down the bank, young Bertolin
arrives and leaps naked to his feet demanding, as is his right, a boon. Bertolin a handsome youth with a
laughing mouth, his erection slender and long, she is tempted. Her boon may be as little as a kiss, a naked,
arousing embrace or more, according to her whim, and she sits down smiling on the bank, opens her legs, and
tells him he may tongue her to her count cinquante.

Bertolin between her warm thighs, she caresses the smooth pale curves of his bottom, holding him in. A gifted
linguist he proves a gifted cunnilinguist also. By trente the in- and outer- moistness of her, the shuddering,
seething ache induced by his skilful clitoral marksmanship, threatens to make her lose count.

“Trente-deux, trente-trois…” Rolande himself arrived stands grinning, continuing the count and watching.
Fleetingly hesitating, the naked youth between her legs continues with renewed vigour, tongue lapping at her
furiously.

At cinquante Bertolin leaps up nimbly, extended member bouncing, red and hard, bows comically toward her and
then towards her man, before haring off down the grassy valley in search of his Marie.

Rolande’s cock is steeply angled, thick and dark with wanting, aroused all the more for having watched them. A
soldier’s weapon, too, his not-small small-arm, bristling at attention, proud in dusky crimson uniform, stiffly
braided in blue, purple-helmeted in ardour.

As she falls back onto the bank on which she reposes the grass bristles and tickles her new-flushed shoulders,
scratchily caresses the gentle pit of the small of her back, the wide-awake, hungry inner curve of her thighs.
Smiling, happy, deep-warm and wanting, she opens her legs to him, her own velvet valley still wet from Bertolin’s
tongue.

Rolande’s tongue is good too, she squealing inside at the poignant commingling of their fluids and hers, ass
squirming on natures own blanket. His lips to her mouth now, and those mingled juices, soft taste of herself in
the honey-sweet-wet of him, his bayonet probes, gently bunting, and finds her. He, angled above her on a
soldier’s strong arms, his own fiery small-arm thrusts hotly inside her, the shot-bags that arm him bouncing and
slapping so urgent upon her soft buttocks.

Rolande’s own engorged barrel has a gentle bend, unlike that favourite pistol, with the very barrel-steel of which
he has from time to time played chilly upon her small pink target. But he never misses. Pounding into her at the
last with that same hot urgency with which his galloping charger pounds his arse in battle, he curses with joy as
he comes. Madeleine arches, mewing, the fluid waves of her engulfing passion exploding to the liquid volleys of
his soft, white shot.

In gentle embrace, now, on this glorious day, she gazes into the face of the man she loves, strokes gently the
subsiding wet weapon which has so sweetly stunned her need. His hard, soldier’s hand, miraculously gentle,
caresses her hip, and she inhales the fecund scents of their bodies, mingled with the aromas of grass and
perfumed flowers.

Only now they hear screaming, and they know the Marquis is at play.

La Chasse au Lapin had begun a happy sport of consenting, laughing adults, doe rabbits fleeing, bubbies and
arse-cheeks bouncing, naked bucks in hot pursuit. The Marquis, their solitary host, had found partners for his
game among the wives of other men, others lusting for his wealth, his station, or merely, plainly, lusting, and
these were at first, in all respects consenting. Ennui, however, has introduced a leathern strap which he carries
in his hand, and a famous man with a purse of famous depth he still finds willing partners for the game. Their
cries of pain, piercing as the cries of his peacocks, are not uncommon, nor is the sight of his welted-buttocked
naked women, tear-streaked, arse and face cheeks flushed, but Madeleine and many others do not like it.

The libertinism of their class and time, the game, the setting, the astounding picnic fare and poignant
entertainment have been enough to keep the guest list adequate. The picnics before the long, low aviary which
is the pride of the Marquis’ garden are, to say the least, exotic. Food and recipes come from as far afield as
does his extraordinary bird collection, and the wines of local vintage are not famous without reason. Together
with the sunlit expanse of the vast enclosed garden, the distant jewel of his chateau and the music of the
Marquis’ collected songbirds, coupled with the manifold opportunities for flirtation in dining au naturel, the
Marquis’ playtimes are not easy to abandon.

Nor is his parade of blindfolded entertainers, culled from the country around by a four-man gang he owns. Ex-
soldiers, former brigands, these four police and monitor the Marquis’ estate, settle disputes – if abruptly – and
muzzle local complaint. And it is they who find his chanteuses also, bring them to sing blindfold and naked to the
naked company on the promise of financial reward.

Today, however, is different, the cries are different, because it is Eugenie who is screaming and Eugenie is not
the Marquis’ bunny.

Eugenie’s Generale, it seems, has stumbled first on the Marquis’ fluffy target and happily claimed the boon that
was his due. In conquest of such a man the bunny had been pleased to offer him her scut and he to enter it, and
the Marquis arriving on the scene, temper, passion and member inflamed, had recalled a saying about sauce for
the gander and departed in search of le Generale’s goose.

Finding Eugenie, the Marquis had requested his rightful boon. Intimidated by him, still he was her host and
benefactor, a noble of rank, and in the duplicity of his nature he’d smilingly begged her, avowing that surely no
buttocks so sweet could object if he but kissed them.

Deceived, Eugenie had acquiesced, but the smack of his kiss was of leather, and hard. Forcing her pubis
against the cold stone arse of the bending maiden he had proceeded to beat her, hard.

The Generale apprised, and prised hurriedly out of his conquest, was barely dissuaded from demanding a duel,
and a consequent pall hung over the picnic, in spite of both sunshine and birdsong. Madeleine guessed she
would never return, and Madeleine was not alone.

In a different garden, in a different land, Madeleine and her soldier sport now. There are no statues, but the
grass is no less kind to the still gentle swell of her buttocks. Rolande’s own little soldier can yet stand straight on
parade in its uniform of that other time, still braided, softly helmeted, still swiftly called to arms. And soft entwined,
unseen in the garden with which the grateful Americans gifted him, his purple soldier perspires often sweetly
within her lips as his good tongue perspires within that softest garden of her own.

One may wonder if, as they lie there, they still remember that final weekend of a summer that had once seemed
endless, and the day but shortly after, in that July of ’89, when the rabbits of Paris overcame their supposed
docility, when the glory of La Revolution began a newer, and far deadlier, hunt.

Richard V Raiment.

Copyright 2004, Richard V Raiment, rvraiment@yahoo.com)
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