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- Herausgeber: Olympia Press
- Kategorie: Erotik
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
The Adult Version of The Three Musketeers
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The Adult Version of The Three Musketeers
Anonymous
This page copyright © 2009 Olympia Press.
PREFACE
The story of “The Three Musketeers", long-accepted as the classic adventure tale, is as well-known today as when it was first published approximately one hundred years ago. This reputation achieved in spite of the limitations imposed on the book by the puritanical mores of the day. Powerful censors substituted uncovered for naked, extremity for leg, charms for breasts, strawberries for nipples, thing for penis, stones for balls, place for cunt, occupy for fuck—thus depriving the writers of the times of any freedom of realistic expression.
But suppose such limitations had been lifted? Suppose episodes, adventures, descriptions, dialogue, and vocabulary (especially where sexual in nature) were no longer blue-pencilled by a severe censorship. There can be no doubt that if this were the case, masterpieces such as “The Three Musketeers” would be even more realistic and more graphic.
The adaptation of “The Three Musketeers” by John Farrel has achieved this goal. The story, though still occurring in its original setting in time and place, has been expanded and liberated and now includes a story-line, details, and wording that would have been deleted by prudish censors.
The immaturity of the youth, D'Artagnan, is shown not only in his relationship with Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, but also in his initial encounters with women. By the end of the story, he is as capable in the bedroom as he is as a soldier. And the “One For All, All For One” camaraderie of the three musketeers is carried out not only on the battlefield but also between the sheets.
The result? A “Three Musketeers” which is modern in concept and form, but which still retains the ingredients that made it a classic....
CHAPTER ONE
“Monsieur, must you leave so early? It is not yet dawn and hours of love still linger heavy on my bosom,” the raven haired beauty whispered, pulling the coarse coverlet about her neck to warm the chilled nakedness of her over heated body.
The young Gascon sat poised at the side of the bed. Turning his handsomely chiseled profile, he glanced down at the voluptuous figure which had born his weight so well. The delicate whiteness of her cheeks were flushed scarlet and the full ripeness of her lips ruby from passionate kissing. “I must not delay any longer,” he announced in a faltering voice. “The Captain of the Musketeers is awaiting my arrival.”
“But would not Monsieur Captain be more receptive to a call after the crowing of the cock?” the young woman hastily suggested.
D'Artagnan fingered the wide band of blue that sashed the top of his boot and searched fugaciously about the sparsely furnished room. His well developed muscles tensed as he felt the tickling of delicate finger tips upon his lower spine.
“Pray, sir, lie with me for just a little longer and I promise you shall take upon your journey memories sweet with reflection.”
The inexperienced youth gave way to the sensations that crowded his loins and returned to the succulent curves of moments ago. Like a posh velvet frock his body settled over the satin smooth fineness. Although new in the sport of love, his touch was bold and adventurous for he was a dashing and fiery young man burning with a reckless and arrogant vitality for living.
His eager lips traversed the sweeping lines of her breasts as his tongue lashed and savored the rosy pinkness of her nipples. He chewed and sucked the haloed tips to pointed sharpness while his hands busily molded the pliable slopes of her arse. The woman's body churned and pulsed, responding to each assault upon her flesh. The young steed cupped her bottom and raised her fuzzy patch then guided the thick knob of his cock between her moist folds of skin until it butted the entrance. The woman's thighs shook with joy as she opened wider and felt the spongy nut peek inside. In euphoric splendor the heated youth inched onward, feeling the spray of sparks ignite his groin as the fat ridges of his cock grazed the slippery lining. The woman's hands groped feverishly at his rock hard bottom, attempting to push the throbbing foil to the neck of her womb.
A deep and long sigh escaped the youth's throat as he felt the sensitive tip snuggle beneath her cervix and come to a halt.
With practiced skill she began rippling the velvet walls, sending waves of prickling heat up and down the lodged member. D'Artagnan flexed his arse and caused his cock to jerk and jab the sensitive corner. His body was ringing with excitement and he dug his fingers into her convulsing bottom and drove his tongue in and out of her mouth. He could feel the pounding in his pouch become more intense and the welling of his cock grow larger with each throbbing beat. She began rotating her hips as he started to pump slowly in and out of the expanding cavern. Suddenly the back of her cave swelled to a giant yawn and convulsed in a series of biting spasms that shook his body and caused the gathering sperm to cluster and erupt from his spout like a volcanic explosion.
Once the young man had regained his strength he quickly disengaged himself and sprang from the bed to search his clothes.
“Will you ever pass by these parts again?” the young woman asked, feasting upon the naked youth's solidly constructed frame as he stooped to slip into his trousers.
“Perhaps....” the youth muttered, preoccupied with thoughts of encountering Monsieur de Treville, Captain of the Musketeers, that very afternoon.
“Are you to become a Musketeer?” the woman quizzed, tracing with her eyes the slightly haired chest that expanded broadly while the young man slipped into his doublet that was heavily padded and embroidered in blue velvet piping.
“Most assuredly,” D'Artagnan stated, flopping his large plumed cap to the side of his head.
The woman sighed deeply, overjoyed by the sight of the dashing cavalier standing before her. His large, deep set black eyes sparkled with lustrous determination and his mouth turned up in a half grin of cocky arrogance. Strapping his leather baldric about his shoulder, he tapped the curved head of his long sword for good luck and tipped his hat in a casual salute toward the bed.
“God be with you,” the woman cried as he strode out the door.
D'Artagnan estimated the end of his journey approximately two hours from whence he and his horse stood. Slapping the pale yellow rump of his steed, he cantered toward the city. He calculated he would find suitable lodgings with the fifteen crowns his father had given him at the outset of his journey and proposed to freshen himself before his audience with M. de Treville.
As he briskly rode the dusty clay path he recalled with pride his father's recollections of boyhood and days spent in the company of M. de Treville, growing up in Gascony together. One had remained in the village, the other enlisted in the service of his Majesty's Musketeers and had so honored himself and made his presence so indispensable as to have been appointed Head of all the King's Musketeers in a matter of ten years time. It was a well known fact that above all others the King trusted the council of M. de Treville for he was possessed with a blind loyalty to the crown. The Captain of the Musketeers was therefore admired, feared and loved; and this constituted the zenith of human fortune. Armed with this knowledge and the note his father had written by way of introducing his son to M. de Treville, the youth reached the gates of Paris in high spirits of anticipated welcome.
Settling himself in lodging near the hotel of M. de Treville's, D'Artagnan at once retired to his room to compose himself. A soft knocking on the door brought the youth about and he quickly opened it to allow a magnificently bodied servant girl to enter with a basin of water.
The young girl, barely a woman but curved handsomely to support the straps of many a boot, placed the pale blue basin upon the table and turned to ask if the tenant might desire anything else.
The youth's eyes had settled upon the girl's breasts that were pendulous and thickly haloed about the nipples. The sheerness of her blouse made their opulence visible and the young man swallowed hard, attempting to fight off his desire to grab and squeeze them.
“Will that be all, sir?” the girl tested, inching closer and seductively rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet, causing her great breasts to bob and heave with each gentle swing.
Coughing huskily, D'Artagnan readied to speak but clearly the words stuck within his throat and only the rumble of stirring which pounded his satchel grazed his ears. With sudden and accurate agility the youth's hand shot out and he ripped open the front of her blouse, exposing her wondrous breasts. They hung like two heavily juiced cantaloupe, ripe for picking.
At once the youth was all over them, nibbling and sucking at the sweet tasting fruit.
The girl wiggled and squirmed, grinding her pelvis hard against the youth's bulging member that strained and poked the thin cloth of his trousers. Pulling him toward the bed she toppled him down and fell over him. Her fingers busily struggled to untie the knot that secured his pants. In frustrated fury she finally loosened the string and at last freed his hardening tool. She gasped, seeing the largeness of his cock spring free and leap into the air. D'Artagnan slipped his hands beneath her skirt and began playing with the short hairs of her pussy. He slipped his fingers up and down the sparsely mossed ridge and dipped into the trickling opening that oozed like juice from a baking pie.
“Oh, sir....” she exclaimed, caressing the throbbing shaft and gingerly fingering the tip. “It's so magnificent,” she purred, running her tongue about the glistening knob and into the slitted eye that seeped out moisture.
The swarthy youth stretched back to his full size and folded his arms beneath his head. A broad smile curled his lips as he raised his hips to slide the standing pogo into the open mouth. A steady stream of heat charged his pole as the girl coiled her tongue about the ridges and worked her way to the base. Her uptilted nose crushed the bristly pubic hair and her throat expanded as she eagerly accepted the fat head past her larynx.
The youth groaned joyously, delighting in the wonderful excitement that pounded his groin. He reached for the maiden's head and buried his fingers into the plush silkiness of her hair. The girl gurgled in a lewd and sensual way as she repeatedly ran the edge of her teeth up and down the growing stick. Her fingers tripped to beneath his pouch and cupped their pink softness. Then in a gently pulsing manner she squeezed lightly, intensifying the already swirling sensations that were running the bloodstream like rivers to the sea.
The young man began to gasp and buck. “I'm dying, dear girl,” he called out. “I can't bear it any longer.”
The girl ignored his outburst and in a blind driving lust pulled and sucked his knob, setting off a copious flow of scalding semen. Holding his gloriously throbbing prick within her lips she swallowed and squeezed, taking as much of the salty fluid she could draw from his pouch. Then sensing it was time to stop, for she did not want to leave him flaccid, she pulled off and scrambled to straddle his hips. In a quick and educated gesture she lifted her skirt and sank down onto his still jerking tool. The young man, excited by her bold gesture sat up and began sucking her nipples. The girl's bottom wiggled and ground, sending the hardening pole clear to her womb.
The Gascon, gluttonous with passion, began lifting and lowering the girl up and down his pole. She was discharging copiously and the flood of secretion splattered his balls as she bucked and pressed, squeezing his staff to rock hard stiffness.
“You hungry little bitch,” he laughed, pinching her marble hard nipples and making her wince with pleasure. “I've never seen a wench like you before,” he exclaimed, leaving the work to the girl's well developed thighs.
Pulling back to his elbows he delighted in the lustful suction her cunt was exhibiting upon his tool and in a glazed halo of vision watched her gloriously enormous breasts jump up and down.
Quite suddenly the girl's body started to quake and her face contorted into a mask of painful splendor.
“Dear sir... dear sir....” she shrieked, jumping violently up and down his pole. “I'm there, sir... there...” she called, falling over the stretched out figure and smashing her panting bosom hard into his chest.
D'Artagnan thrust his tongue into her mouth and clutched her naked arse. He started to shake, feeling the exquisite pressure her throbbing cunt walls were delivering to his cock. Then in a low and muffled burst of rapture the young man's prick exploded and discharged an abundant flow of lather to her womb.
“Kind sir...” the young girl whispered when once her breathing had returned to normal. “You are so good to me.”
“Off with you,” the youth hastily commanded, throwing the girl from him and on to the floor. “You have delayed me enough,” he scolded, quickly walking to the basin and dipping his limp and swollen cock into the lukewarm water.
“Surely I have not offended you,” the girl asked, raising to her feet and handing the youth a fluffed towel.
“Only the hour offends me,” he snapped, hastily preparing himself for his meeting. “Here,” he added, throwing a coin to the girl. “See that I have warm water for this evening.”
The girl's face broke into a smile of understanding. “When shall I expect you, sir?”
“When you see me,” the haughty cavalier announced, tapping the top of his cap with his gloved hand and walking briskly from the room.
The court of M. De Treville's hotel resembled a camp from six in the morning to eight at night. From sixty to seventy Musketeers paraded constantly, armed to the teeth, ready for anything.
Today the assemblage was particularly imposing, particularly imposing upon D'Artagnan for his most noble dream was to become one of these illustrious men.
When he had once passed the massive door covered with long square headed nails, he fell into the midst of a troupe of swordsmen who crossed one another and called out, playing tricks, one with the other. In order to pass amidst this turbulent array it was necessary to be an officer, a great noble or a beautiful woman.
It was then, into the midst of this disorder that D'Artagnan advanced with a beating heart, holding his long rapier to his leg and keeping one hand on the edge of his cap, with a half-smile of embarrassed politeness upon his lips. When he had passed one group he began to breath more freely; but he could not help observing that they all had turned around to look at him. And for the first time in his life he felt insecure.
Arriving at the staircase it was still worse. Four Musketeers held the bottom step and amused themselves with fencing while ten others waited their turn upon the landing.
One of the men was stationed upon the step and with naked sword in hand prevented the three from ascending. At first glance the youth thought the foils to be buttoned but upon the drawing of blood realized his error. When at last the three adversaries had been wounded and the fourth had been declared the victor the steps were cleared and dueling turned to conversation, which at times astonished the young man.
By mid-way to the landing the youth's ears were scarlet with ringing. No longer fighting, the men amused themselves with stories about women. The most amorous and detailed accounts of their gallant feats were laid open and even the names connected with their liaisons boldly announced, some belonging to the most respected of households.
If the youth's sexual horizon had been broadened and somewhat shocked, his respect for the Cardinal was scandalized in the ante chamber. There, to his great astonishment, D'Artagnan heard the policy, which made all Europe tremble, criticized aloud and openly. The men boisterously denounced the Cardinal and cracked jokes about his bandy legs and crooked back. Some sang songs about his mistress while others formed parties and made plans to annoy the guards of the Cardinal.
The youth remained mute for he was ignorant of the feud that existed between M. de Treville's musketeers and the Cardinal's men and considered their cries an outrage; he had been taught to respect both King and Cardinal with equal reverence.
His state of disbelief was interrupted by a servant who asked what he wished. He stated his desire to see the Captain and gave his name and credentials. He was instructed to wait and given a promise that his message would be, in good time, transmitted to Monsieur Captain.
D'Artagnan, a little recovered from his first encounter, leaned against the landing and studied with more leisure the men about him.
In the center of the most animated group stood a Musketeer of great height and arrogant demeanor, dressed in so flamboyant a garb as to attract attention. He did not wear the uniform cloak but a brilliant blue doublet and over this a magnificent chest baldric, worked in gold which shone like water rippling in the sun. A long cloak of crimson velvet fell in graceful folds from his shoulders, disclosing the splendid sunburst from which was suspended a gigantic rapier.
This imposing Musketeer had just come off guard, complained of having a cold and coughed from time to time to prove it. It was for this reason that he explained to the others, speaking in a lofty air and twisting his mustache, that he had put on his embroidered gold front.
“What would you have?” the Musketeer said, “The fashion is coming in. It's foolish I admit to spend such a huge amount for mere ornamentation but one must somehow show their inheritance.”
“Ah, Porthos!” cried one of his companions. “Don't try to make us believe you bought that splendid front with family wealth. It was given to you by that veiled lady I met you with the other day.”
“No, upon my honor and by faith of a gentleman, I bought it with the contents of my own purse,” he answered.
“Yes, about in the same manner,” said another Musketeer, “that I bought this new purse with what my mistress put into the old one.”
“It is true,” Porthos demanded, staying his ground.
“You devilish rogue, notorious for your bedroom flights and sexual gymnastics, wish us to believe you did not sell a piece of your cock for what glows on your chest? Poof, Porthos, we are men of the world, not easily given to swallowing the timid bird's peep.”
“Is it not true, Aramis?” Porthos said, turning to his close friend and Musketeer.
This other fellow formed a perfect contrast to his companion. He was a stout man of twenty two or three, with an open and easy going countenance. His eyes were gentle set and black and his cheeks rosy and fuzzed like an autumn peach. His delicate mustache marked a perfectly straight line upon his upper lip and he pinched the tips of his ears from time to time to preserve their delicate pink transparency. Habitually he spoke little and slowly bowed frequently, laughed without noise but showed his teeth broadly which, like the rest of him, appeared as if great care had been taken to keep them spotless. He answered the appeal of his friend in the affirmative.
This casual nod seemed to dispel all doubts and the conversation changed.
“Did you not hear that the Cardinal set a spy on Monsieur Chalais and damned near had the man's throat cut?” another Musketeer announced.
“Can that be true?” Porthos exclaimed indignantly.
“Why, Porthos, you knew it yesterday. I told you about it myself. Let us say no more about it,” Aramis said.
“If I were the kin to Chalais, the spy should spend several uncomfortable minutes with me,” Porthos boastfully announced.
“You might pass several uncomfortable hours with the Duke,” Aramis snickered lightly.
“You are quite [...]
