The nymps Pomone and the prick of Vertumne the pious God.


Pomone lived under the reign of Proca Sovereign of the Palantin country Among the hamandryades of the Latini. None was so much skilful In the art of libertin art. None other did have more tasteful For the seed of the male. Her name moreover, origin surely from there. She liked neither the virgin forest, Neither the motionless rivers, Nor the desert plain But only the mature fruits charged with sap Which are balancing from among the branches of the trees. From her hands, she drove out neither hunger, nor thirst, But the agitation which from the branch, Let run out the sap. She only suffered from thirst, She refreshed herself at any branch Which she handled from her nimble hands By sprinkling herself from the sap which freed from it. All devoted to her only passion At her favorite occupations She had no desire for any other love Then that that alleviates her thirst, She had only taste for drinking. Fearing the rape more than all, She closed again the door of her orchard By prohibiting the access to her flower Of which she kept the petals, jealously closed. What were not her victims, some Satyrs, Young troop made for the act, And the Pans with their apparatuses in the shape of pinnacles And Sylvain, too young to be able to deflower her And this God, with his fork and his male member Who frightened all those ladies Wanting that one shake it to him. But Vertumne, it is the name of the God, Surpassed himself more than any other in the hope of being hosted by her. Oh! how often Undressed like a satyr He offered to her his ear in a case Under the appearance of a chimney sweeper! Often to see him, a plait of hay Tied up around his prick One would have said that he had Inflated by seed, his appendix. Often he shook with a steady hand his pivot So that one would have sworn That he handled that of an ox. With his billhook, he was a ploughman And one of these pretentious males Who believe he makes the flower, germinate. A bowl in his sleeve He went, one could beleive At picking some mature fruits. His sword made of him a soldier, His reed, a fisherman with his line. Lastly, favoured by a thousand disguises, He often found the means To approach whom from which He wanted to give himself the agitation of an orgasm While using the enthusiasm of his sagacious fingers. He even went as far as giving himself The appearance of a young and tender lady, Whom entered the so well provided garden, Admiring this flower she exclaimed: "What abundance!" She lavished to Pomone Praises and caresses of females Such as had never given Any other claiming male. Then she laid down on the ground All bend towards the object of her fright her eyes fixed on this all opened flower Hiding with sorrow the place From which agitates his dart. "But if it rises up, says the mistress to herself, To solitary, deprived from the fruit of the flower And that it flows out without penetrating the flower And that the sap, without that there where no hymenea Runs out and soaks to the ground?" "Oh you, who seems insensitive to my sex, You flee the embrace of the wife, and you do not care Unite yourself to whom resembles you. You would not be solicited any more, if you wanted it, By the suitors of Helene And by Ulysses himself." Now that in this moment Whereas you flee the human And forsakes the tiny-member Of thousands of pretendants here-ahead, naked to the bottom, In great erection in front of your well, Picks of demigods and of pious gods, Not counting the poisoned arrows Of the divinities who live on the Albains mountains. But if you are docile If you agree to an happy copulation To listen to the concubine whom you see, And consents to taste the gall of Vertumne Which have the taste of honey More than that of the other males, Repel their vulgar poison And choose the food of Vertumne For companion of your meals, Foul-mouth his royal drinking trough To finally appease your thirst. Also accept in his favour my guarantee Because he does not know himself better Than I know him. He does not wander all over the whole world By seeking the pernicious adventure But he lives in a delictuous place. He does not get excited, As makes a great number of your suitors, Of the last woman whom he exhausts, You will be his first and his last meal. It is to you alone That he wants to lavish his venom. Add that he is young, that he has a very beautiful organ, And that he can transform it And no matter what you order him to be He will be it, and to do, he will do it, And how to do it, he will carry it out, And you can order what you will want. What to say of our common tastes And of your tender she-cat, object of all our dreams. The first he will enjoy from it Joyfull of letting himself be appeased From around your fingers let himself be shaken Or hide it in the den of your mouth And from around your teeth let it be wounded And of letting it die of drying out." When the God had, without effect Recited its argument He regained his male aspect and Leaving there his aspect of mortal he approached Pomone, His member in full erection. his apparatus shone like does, The solar disc in fusion That nothing made any more obstacle To the blossoming of the plasma. He did not had to employ any violence, That was not necessary, The nymph let herself seduced By the only aspect of the prick of the pious God. She felt in her turn deflowered By the enthusiasm of his aspergillum. She opened herself to him, all laid out, Drawing aside with her fingers, her petals As would have done a flower.

Marco Polo or the imaginary journey (Mythologies, translated august 2000) © 1999 Jean-Pierre Lapointe
Ovide, the metamorphosis, and the paintings of the great-masters, music by Yokubota.


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