Erica Jong: Fanny - A True Story of the Adventures of Fanny Hackabout-Jones

He caught his fiery, raging member in his hand (which was immediately smeared with capon fat), and parting Polly's lower lips, red as rubies, he thrust it into her lovely opening straight to the hilt; then Polly sighed deeply, more from pleasure than from pain, and it even seemed as if she was helping him by thrusting her thighs forward.

Be that as it may, I threw myself at Polly's feet and kissed the hem of her dress, her ankles and, while she offered only a little resistance, her knees, and as she sighed and, it seemed, encouraged me to do so, her thighs, and then, when she sat in the chair, spread her thighs (and protested No! No! No! in exactly the same way as if she were saying Yes! Yes! Yes!), her sweet crack, rosy as a ruby, which was exposed to my gaze, for the girl was wearing nothing at all beneath her dress and petticoat.

Ah, the poor capon lay abandoned and smoking on the table (and beneath him lay my poor, barely begun verse hidden), while I pressed my lips to gentle Polly's crack and played on the tender harp with my astonished tongue. It was salty like the sea and reminiscent of sweet little oysters plucked from the sea's bosom.

- Oh, sir! Oh! Oh! Oh! - Polly moaned as I suddenly drew my tongue in and out, inflamed by her words as well as her lovely, rosy opening. But, since her petticoat was now on my head, I could not caress the two mounds of her breasts, but instead, I dared to gently caress her milky thighs, while her petticoat represented some kind of tent in which I hid from all the horrors that the male sex represented to me.

How warm and lovely it is inside a skirt! What a refuge from the horrors of the world! What a joy to be born a man and have such a refuge always at hand, to be within reach of the world of the female ring!

The sound of boots on the wooden floor brought me back to consciousness.
- Oh! - Polly exclaimed. - Someone is coming!
But before she could jump from the chair and before I could rise from the floor, the door opened and we were discovered!
- It's just Mr. Tunewell! - A big, burly lad with rosy cheeks of a German peasant and with the demeanor and gait of a blue-blooded Viking warrior. Far from being displeased, Mr. Tunewell was quite thrilled by our entertainment and clearly aroused by the juicy scene unfolding before his eyes. Instead of stopping us, he said: - Please, continue - and immediately locked the door. He sat in a comfortable chair by the table, brazenly snatched a leg from the abandoned capon, placed his boots on the tablecloth, and awaited the continuation of the performance, as if we were wandering actors brought in for the king's amusement!
- Continue, my dear - he said, this time with his mouth full of capon. - I will join you shortly. - And he sat back to enjoy his dinner while we continued our love play.

Polly seemed more excited than embarrassed by his presence; for she had now become even more reckless and reached for the fastenings of my trousers as if she wanted to remove them. I cannot allow that! And I pushed her hand away.

- Why are you shy? - she asked me.
- Unfortunately - I said what was more truthful than she could know. - Unfortunately, my dear, I am only half a man. My tongue must do what the other one could never do!

- Damn! Another poet! - said Mr. Tunewell, laughing heartily. - Come on, I'll help you, young man, since you've started something you can't finish!
And so we swapped places, me at the table with the capon, and Ned Tunewell ready to dive between Polly's legs with his well-loaded rifle, which was already almost bursting through the fastenings of his trousers.

He caught his fiery, raging member in his hand (which was immediately smeared with capon fat), and parting Polly's lower lips, red as rubies, he thrust it into her lovely opening straight to the hilt; then Polly sighed deeply, more from pleasure than from pain, and it even seemed as if she was helping him by thrusting her thighs forward.

I was now gnawing on the leg of the capon, more from desire than from hunger; for if I did not reach into my trousers with my own hand or reveal myself as a woman, what other relief was left to me but my greedy lips!

I watched them intently chewing, as they pressed and panted, first in a regular rhythm, and then as if the world were about to vanish in an instant and as if this were their last chance to unite for all eternity.
- Oh, I am dying! - Polly moaned.
- Me too, me too - responded Tunewell, at which point he made the final thrust, which not only made Polly emit a deep moan of ecstasy but also overturned the chair on which she was leaning; after that, there was such a crash when the lovers fell to the floor that for a moment they were surprised and frightened, but then fear gave way to joy and they both laughed heartily.
Polly was charmingly giggling at Tunewell's wit, and Ned took her laughter as a sign to jump between her thighs (with his penis protruding). I watched more enchanted by the scene than I would care to recall now.

- What now? Laziness? - shouted Tunewell. - Come on, poet, help us out a bit here! Look at these nipples red as rubies! Wake them with your tongue! Look at these lips like ripe cherries. Feast on them!
And intending to meet me halfway, he reared up like a young stallion (while holding onto Polly's thighs with one hand so that his huge, red master of ceremonies wouldn't lose his anchorage in her lovely opening - and with the other he pushed my head to her breasts).

What countless kisses were given and received then, I cannot say. The three of us, I am convinced, looked as if we had become one great mythological beast with twelve limbs, two mouths, six eyes, and three swift tongues. While Tunewell continued, with his representative Kurconius (as it is said) pumping as hard as he could, I learned more ways to use my tongue than a good cook has recipes for bone broth. For, if Mr. Rabelais calls the sexual organ the distributor of pleasures, (among hundreds of other names), it is certain that we can say the same for the tongue. How marvelous is that flexible organ! It licks, it tastes, it probes, it moistens, it caresses, it twirls; it stimulates the nipples and penis to stand at attention and extracts delight from capons and roosters. The sexual organ is an expert, but the tongue is truly a master of all.