The Voluptuous Army

By Drakinan

Extract: She fancied the fire with her naughtiness which sometimes often brushed against the cynical effrontery, but what kindness in this effrontery! The words came from the lips with a smile of candor that stunned and cut short the reply. What did she say then in the last waltz, when she abandoned herself to the dying eyes, to the vertigo of turning, the body almost in his arms? Yes, he remembered. A big sigh swelled his chest, the world no longer existed, it seemed to him that he possessed her, and his hands took notice of the treasures that he coveted over the toilet: Lucette's eyes rose on his, with a shudder of her eyelashes and she murmured:
“You look at me but you see me naked!”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Drakinan
• Release date: Apr 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370819409

Drakinan

Reading is my passion since my childhood. I started to write young and I was loving it. When I had my first computer I could write for hours non stop. Later, very late, I learnt English and then started to love that language and I started to make traductions. I still read alot and my favorites books are erotica and fantasy. I do love writing erotic short stories. Now I write and self-edit my books, under the pseudonyme of “Drakinan”, and then sell them. I think that litterature should not be put aside of our lives and also because reading is my passion. Everyone should read a little story once a day. The stress goes away and peace of mind come back.

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The Voluptuous Army

Author Alphonse Momas

Translation by Drakinan

Drakinan's EDITION | COPYRIGHT 2017 Drakinan

License Notes

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Table Of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 1

That morning, Emile Lodenbach got up late.

He had danced much of the night with the Comtesse de Bouttevelle, lavishing himself on the prettiest and most enraged waltzers, notwithstanding his thirty-two years advising him to begin to moderate himself, and moreover he had discussed and disputed with the beautiful Lucette de Mongellan, a discussion and quarrel which prevented him from sleeping, once in his bed, until daybreak.

Ah, Lucette, he murmured, turning and returning on his bed.

Lucette de Mongellan, grace in person, twenty-two years old, a bewitching brunette of beauty and verve, fluttered before his eyes, which he disputed without difficulty by the mere charm of her memory.

Why discuss and argue with a pretty woman? To obtain what she does not seem disposed to grant, or which she amuses herself to postpone.

Lucette, however, occasionally accused of real tenderness. Feminine spirit, who will never know what is hidden in your depths!

Emile got up late and malicious, made a scene to the cook Rosalie on his omelet not enough slobbery, as he liked them, threw his coffee by the window, giving on a small garden of the hotel that he occupied in the Rue Cortambert, and, sullenly installed in his study, made up his mind to go through his correspondence.

What profession did Emile Lodenbach perform? None, except that of receiving rents on his own account. Eighty thousand francs annuities to manage: worries and troubles for an entire existence. These unfortunate rich, they will never complain enough! Nevertheless, Emile was a good point: he was interested in a few less fortunate friends, sometimes lent them money, unconditionally, when they asked him for an idea that he found good and something no less extraordinary, the idea succeeding, his money was returned with a large share of profit, which he refused, but which he was obliged to accept, under the pretext that it would serve to increase his retirement.

He had seen his money growing up to the point of making a small fortune, and now, he had imposed on him a whole amount of accounting and correspondence, satisfied friends, recommending their friends in quest of a good-natured capitalist, whom he never rejected without being instructed in the value of man and of the idea submitted to his judgment.

His mind, distracted that day, did not read the letter. Lucette did not desert his thoughts.

Ah, Lucette, Lucette he had repeated it for the thousandth time, Why does she have to be so welcoming and so mocking, so ardent and then so icy, so easy to understand things of heart and of the senses, and so prompt to reject them! Coquette, certainly she is to damn you, but good too, it shows, in her damp eye, when one depicts to her the fire that consumes you! Yes, but it leaves you consuming. In truth, I am sick every time I meet Lucette. I warm my temper like a young deer. I put myself in states that lead me to run the next day at the Folies Bergère or the Moulin Rouge. Besides, me, a man, a serious man, for by the horns of the devil, since I have known her, I can't associate myself with any flower, the perfume of which I would wear in a more or less long time. Ah, Lucette, this evening again, I must go astray towards the Jardin de Paris! Is that reasonable?

He crumpled the letter in his hands, then, looking for a signature, noticed that there wasn't any.

What the hell is this? He re-read the letter to which he had attached no importance, and stood open-mouthed, wondering if anyone was fooling him.

"To Mr Emile Lodenbach,

Love and its pleasures are the only laws of progress.

The woman is the goddess of the temple, the man is the Levite. Prayers and offerings become the source of pleasure.

All engaged in our army accept the general communion of love which unites the soldiers and the officers in the feminine pleasures with delicacy in the nuances of all the phases of voluptuousness, thanks to the understanding, perfect among all.

To love a woman is to love God: one loves a woman only by proclaiming her as the priestess of love, opening to all her brothers the gates of the Infinite, into the drunkenness of multiple sensualities."

Examining the paper under all its faces, Emile Lodenbach sought an explanation.

Love and its pleasures, he murmured, are the laws of progress. Well, and after? What do you care about me? The woman is the goddess of the temple, the man is the Levite. Ah, Lucette, Lucette.

Once again, he uttered the exclamation. Decidedly, Lucette subjugated him. Did she know the dominion that she exercised over his being? Ah, what a woman, what a coquette!

She fancied the fire with her naughtiness which sometimes often brushed against the cynical effrontery, but what kindness in this effrontery! The words came from the lips with a smile of candor that stunned and cut short the reply. What did she say then in the last waltz, when she abandoned herself to the dying eyes, to the vertigo of turning, the body almost in his arms? Yes, he remembered. A big sigh swelled his chest, the world no longer existed, it seemed to him that he possessed her, and his hands took notice of the treasures that he coveted over the toilet: Lucette's eyes rose on his, with a shudder of her eyelashes and she murmured:

You look at me but you see me naked!

Was it possible that a man, at these simple words of a woman, could experience such a commotion? Yes, he saw her naked, he held her, she became mocking again and added:

Poor Emile, you lose your countenance!

He lost, he lost, ah, she did not withdraw his body from the soft pressure in which they whirled. He blushed like a child at fault. She held a leg almost glued to his, he trembled. Attacking the last barrier, she said softly:

Let's slow down, my friend, slow down, to stop at a door. You will be saved. You need to dry. Our evening is finished together. Thank you very much, I would be pretty, if you produced the same effect on me!

What to answer, what to reply to such a woman!

Affectionate and disconcerting, loving and mocking, adorable and hateful, ah, Lucette, Lucette!

Chapter 2

What a void in existence after these meetings at the ball! The dangerous mermaid carried off the mind and the senses of the poor Emile Lodenbach, and he had not even the power to go and relaunch her, the indefatigable mundane receiving only at her afternoons on Tuesday and in the middle of visits without number not allowing him the least moment of isolation.

Many times, in his madness, he wrote flaming letters, inspired sometimes by the sentimental style, sometimes by the erroneous style, burning them then with rage under the sudden vision of the ironic face of his lover.

Old Jericho trumpets, he cried, "proclaim it in space, it is to the skin,