The Underwear of the Coquettes of the Day.

The Underwear of the Coquettes of the Day.

Attention you women who look beautiful,And appetizing outside,How many are not such,When you can see their bodies bare! I draw this guess,More than a tender adventure,And here's a fun fact:I'll make it shorthand,Without any ornament; Next,My Muse, thus instructed,Will return the effects frankly,Which he recently produced. The other day, out for a walkFrom the Cours-la-Reine, in fine attire,Two women doing several tricks,In a parade carton,They conversed smiling,

To look more attractive.

Erotica and Feminine Beauty.

These ladies, no doubt, were stunned,Or very prone to flinch,At the Tuileries swing bridge,Made their coachman stop. Each opening a door,a little too hastily,Descending thoughtlessly,Fall down and bare her backside,Without doing the slightest harm. The common people, this animal,Who of the evil willingly sneers,Began to bray like a donkey. One of those asses was so beautiful,By the structure and by the skin,That he was more worthy of homage,That number of certain faces,Who, in this instant, descending,With pride, in their carriages,Also laughed at the accident. The other behind with big buttocks,Yellowish-skinned, and ugly,Was comically adorned,Like scaramouch faces,Makeup, vermilion, flies. Their lackeys, who, for a need,Had just left the car,Seeing this misfortune,Run up, and take careTo hide the buttocks from the eyes,And raise up their mistresses. Ashamed of the event,Jokes, taunts,Who let go at this moment,Far from entering the Tuileries,Raising one and the other leg,Go back into the carton.

Sexy Lingerie for Hot Girls

Quick home, said one of themTo the coachman, who first subtractsIn the eyes of the spectators these beauties.In short, this is the fact,Which, soon sown by a hundred mouths,Made him laugh and reason a lot. What's the use of putting flies in the ass,Make-up and vermilion,asks young Clarice,In the theatre again,To Celimene, an old actress? It is a new refinement,That I didn't know, and that leads meTo believe, said Dorimène,Whose mind is adorned enough,Then a woman with an ugly ass,Yellowish or pale in colour,The makeup has two purposes:Or, to disguise this cuThe defects with which it is provided,To lovers who, by their generosity,Favourable to their love,Have the right to examine their buttocks,And all the places around:Or, fear that in a square,Everywhere else, a gust of wind,As has often happened,Dropping her on her face,Skirt and shirt on the chef,She does not have the sad mischief,By default of blush behind,To hear, in that disaster,Shout by Garguille, and by Pierre,Ah! What an ugly ass! This accident, beautiful Clarice,Happened to me a year agoA stone's throw from Saint-Sulpice.A mighty gust of wind,Which engulfed itself under my shirt,In the eyes of a big grey sister,Of a Carmelite, of two Recollets,And several small collars,who found themselves in the square,Having knocked me down on my face,Showed my ass, which, fortunately,Unvarnished has always done me honour,And profit, despite the criticism.

The Book of Women's Rights

At this aspect, a Recollect,

The Grand Carmelite, a Petit-Collet,

The sister was named Veronica,

Run charitably,

And raise me decently.

Then the obliging grey sister,

Kind, young, and well-learned,

Offered me his arm to the house.

As she rescued me

I accepted it. That I blush,

I tell him on the first street!

What a shame! what a heartbreaker!

That I blush, my good sister,

Of the singular adventure,

Including a furious gust of wind,

Offensive to my modesty,

Is caused! I guess,

She says; I blush too.

We must blush, be worried,

Unless you are not modest,

With such a public insult,

Of which you could guarantee yourself,

To avoid any repentance.

Hey! How, my sister, please,

I tell him, and in what way

Would you be guaranteed?

If you were wearing underpants,

Out of modesty, she tells me,

Of a very white and beautiful canvas,

When the strongest wind,

Or behind, or in front,

Would pick you up in the street,

In a place, or elsewhere,

The underpants striking the sight,

Would silence all the scoffers.

Nude Art & Naked Paintings of Sexy Women & Hot Girls

I got this advice from an aunt,

Who, while she was alive,

Fearing that raging winds,

Or of those curious gallants,

Runners of the daughters of Amathonte,

Pressed by loving transports,

Do not make me the horrible shame,

To exhibit that of my body,

Held me, in my tenth year,

Exactly underpants,

From the kidneys to the underside,

Two good thumbs, from my knees.

By talking like this,

And walking quite briskly,

We were soon at my door:

In the downstairs dining room,

The tablecloth being properly laid,

I say serve dinner.

I excite the young grey sister,

To chat, laugh and joke.

Let's not talk about the adventure anymore,

Of which I am no longer concerned;

My sister, since she gives me

A pleasure to see you here,

I said to him, as we sat down to eat,

And kissing her with all my heart.

Place yourself there, my very kind:

Let's cheer up, my dear sister.

We dined for a whole hour,

To speak on many matters,

To serve with excellent dishes,

As much and as little as we wanted,

And according to our thirst, we drank

Wines that the finest gourmets

Would like to have any beverage;

Because the worst was divine.

Between the pear and the cheese,

In a pinch of wine,

The sister becomes more charming,

Prelude by releasing sounds

With her silvery voice; and sing

Different beautiful songs,

With so much art and accuracy,

That the Mermaid, in turn,

Excited my heart to intoxication

Of the god of wine and love,

And then changing range,

With nobility and feeling,

Of the great Corneille she declaims,

And makes very pathetically

Various Rodogune locations.

In short, in an unusual way,

Many other good authors

For Thalia and for Melpomene,

She tells me, without losing her breath,

The most enchanting places.

I then embrace the gray sister,

Whom I found charming in everything;

And showing him my surprise

Of his talents and his taste,

I tell her to fill the craving

That I had to know his life.

Very gladly, says the sister,

I will meet your expectation;

Madam, I know it by heart.

Here it is, word for word: "Aunt

Who, I told you unceremoniously,

Put me the first underpants,

And whose death was bitter to me,

Was, in fact, my mother:

(All this be said between us :)

Who, having never had a husband,

But lovers, the right piece!

Constantly called me his niece,

For his honor and for mine.

This mother, whom I loved,

And who loved me as an idolater,

Had shone for twenty-four years,

In Paris, in more than one theatre:

Where, less still by his talents,

That by her beauty, her genius,

Its order and its economy,

She put it in her safe

One hundred and twenty thousand pounds in gold,

Of which I often made an inventory,

As well as various jewelry

That she had in her secretary,

With a number of love notes,

And different packets of letters,

Great lords, petty masters,

Robins and financiers.

Among these heaps of paper,

Which I read quietly;

Because I was curious and clever,

And I had budding desires:

I found, from one of her lovers,

A long note signed by Wolsfriche,

Baron was born in Lower Austria;

By which I knew how to conceive

That this baron was my father,

And that he had done his duty,

To have given to my mother,

Lying on the bed of death,

Two thousand five hundred louis d'or,

To put in rent, on my head,

Desiring that this honest gift,

Could make her happy forever.

As soon as my mother was educated

Of the death of this good lord,

She had it, four days in a row,

Heartbroken, tears in his eyes.

After these four days of mourning,

Both at the window

To see where a loud noise was coming from,

She gave me the letter,

Which I had reread with fruit.

So disgusted world,

Theater and lively pleasures

With which his soul was enchanted;

She renounces it, and her desires,

Who had tended only to delights,

Where are all the actresses aiming for,

Aimed at the laudable goal

To work out his salvation.

Although, at that time, I had no

That ten years two months approaching,

One evening while looking for a flea,

My mother, who came immediately,

After taking it,

Kill her, and seeing my shirt

In many places dyed with blood:

It is to be early in the row

Girls who are marriageable,

She said in astonishment.

My daughter, we must now

Imitate the most reasonable,

In actions, in feelings;

And far from reading novels,

How willingly you do,

And other nonsense books,

Which, though well or badly written,

Corrupt young minds,

Read, with fruit, the works

Many wise writers,

Who by pen and manners,

Tracing the means to live well,

These are good examples to follow.

Close your ear to sweets

Men: they tend, unceasingly,

Beautiful traps for youth,

To seduce her, and pick

The flower we call maidenhead,

That we must not, in order not to fail,

Leave picking only in marriage.

Now, my daughter, for that, of you,

In five or six years, the husband

That I'll choose you, get it,

And finds you a good Christian,

When you go to bed, and when you get up,

The day after tomorrow, early,

I will put you in a convent,

Whose worthy superior,

Called Mother Saint-Germain,

Since childhood, my friend,

To see you there burns with envy;

And I will pray to her tomorrow,

Early in the morning, by a letter,

That Jacques will give him,

To have your eyes open to you,

To preach obedience to you,

And that at the slightest of your failings,

She puts you in penance,

As soon as they are well known to him.

Make yourself worthy of my kindness:

But as, above the anus,

You have a horrible sign,

I want you to always carry,

To change it every five days,

A white cretonne underpants,

The measurement is taken at your pussy,

By myself, so that no one,

From the defect with which it is provided,

Have no knowledge; because my daughter,

This singular sign, alas!

Is more hideous than a caterpillar:

It is the imprint of a cervelat,

Or, to explain me better, it's like

The part where we know the man;

So, according to this lesson,

Always wear boxer shorts;

Because if someone, by chance,

Saw this defect of nature,

Whoever it was, would have the right

To laugh at it, and point at you;

And if, in the convent, my daughter,

We want to know your family,

Always say, for your honor,

That your mother was my sister,

And that Alexandre de Wolsfriche,

Born a baron in Lower Austria,

Falling madly in love

Of this tall and beautiful blonde,

Had married her in Paris;

But that she, in giving birth to you,

Died in childbirth at the end

From the year one thousand seven hundred and thirty-five;

And that, unfortunately, your father,

The flower of the German barons,

Only survived eight years,

Your esteemed and worthy mother.

Everything she said to me was done

The next day, and thereafter:

The day came, and I was, indeed,

In a well-driven carriage,

In this fairly good convent.

Worthy Mother Saint-Germain,

After the most tender caresses,

Which she honored our approach,

In the presence of six professed,

Led us through a corridor,

In a decorated room,

Beautiful edifying paintings,

Where on the prepared table,

Excellent soup, and tasty dishes

Composed of exquisite things,

Three conversations were put.

There, during the course of dinner,

We only have to reason

Holy things, miracles,

Than to scold the worldly spectacles,

Who, by their enchanting attractions,

Excite many spectators,

And many more spectators,

To become infatuated with several vices,

Children of seduction.

In this conversation,

Which only tended to make wise,

I have to confess today

(That twenty-five years is my age,)

I was then bored.

It is common for teenage girls,

Who doesn't like to hear talk,

Only on pleasant matters,

And who can amuse them,

Because they are crazy.

At the first bell for nuns,

The six professed, out of fervour,

Leave the table and go to the choir.

In short, at the end of the day,

My dear aunt was led

In his carriage, and went away.

His prompt departure distressed me;

I thought I was falling into weakness.

The good Mother Saint-Germain

Kiss me, and shaking my hands:

My child, to your sadness,

I judge of your good heart,

She said to me, with her sweetness

Always natural and charming;

But stop worrying.

Besides your dear aunt

Will often come to visit us,

You will find, she continued,

So much pleasure under my tutelage,

And in this peaceful abode,

That I hope that on the first day

You will find yourself enjoying it.

Come on, resume the playful air,

Go away, with Sister Claire,

Until supper, in the garden.

This sister, in all estimable,

Led me there at the moment,

where I live a friendly troop,

uniformly dressed,

In beautiful spring dresses,

Of twenty-two borders,

Who, joy was written in the eye,

honored my welcome,

With the most gracious welcome.

This is how I was received,

In this pleasant convent,

Whose beings I soon knew;

And for twelve hundred francs a year,

We have all kinds of masters.

And here are the events

In the course of seven years,

In this living room with double gates,

Where, as elsewhere, chastity

This is contrary to the wishes of the girls,

In the happy age of puberty;

And even to those of many nuns,

Who without respect for their people,

Nor for the vows they made,

To experience the sweet effects

Of the natural fire that burns them,

Test the unscrupulous man,

When they can taste it,

Without apprehending that we know it,

Because an act of love that we hide,

And what we do to be well,

Isn't, Sister Badille had told me,

Just a slight hiccup.

This sister who for six years

Ruled the borders,

And whose spirit and talents

seemed extraordinary to me,

Was, without a doubt, sisters,

On Scripture and on morals,

And morality, the most learned;

But, deep down, the least devout,

Because, in his cell, one fine day

That she pretended to be ill,

Burning for me with a lively love,

With ardor, this tribade

Did it so well,

Then undoing my underpants,

She seemed very surprised,

She did something stupid to me,

Which still causes me regret,

And on which this nun

Tells me to keep it a secret,

Without revealing it to anyone;

Secret that, until this moment,

I kept it very exact.

This is the first stupidity,

That I have been made like this,

And certainly the last;

Because I hate it so much

And all unnatural tastes:

In this dire situation,

After fucking often

All the places in my front,

And on his bed, battlefield,

Spinning the medal for me;

She exclaimed: Fair heavens!

Is this an artificial sign?

On this behind, what a prodigy!

I see a sausage& What am I saying?

She resumed at the moment,

This sign, to speak congruently,

Is the image of the ankle,

Who charms every woman and girl;

And I kiss her heartily.

I pass to this learned sister

To have led me to this evil,

Because with care, at all times,

She wisely instructed me,

Inspired by beautiful sentiments,

And a taste for belles-lettres,

Drawing, dancing, and singing;

Where, by the admission of all my masters,

I succeeded on the spot,

By singular aptitude,

And better than any other schoolgirl.

I would have for everything today,

If I told you the stories,

The contentments, the setbacks,

That I had in this stay of boredom

Until my sixteenth year,

Beautiful age when I was destined

To lose my virginity

Which I have never regretted.

It would take too long to deduce:

I will confine myself to telling you,

That at sixteen, Mother Saint-Germain,

Said to me: My daughter, is coming tomorrow,

Eve of Ash Wednesday,

A twenty-five-year-old Cordelier,

Leaving one of the convents of Flanders,

Cordelier of the most eloquent,

And with a spirit that is said to be supreme,

To preach during Lent.

Follow, my daughter, exactly

The sermons of this able man,

who must immediately

After Easter, go to Rome,

And you will fulfil my desire.

Yes, madam, with great pleasure,

I replied, to please him;

I burn to see him in the pulpit,

Preach like Saint Augustine,

And salvation paves the way.

Shrove Tuesday, early in the morning,

The whole convent came, with joy,

To receive him in the great parlor,

Were, by a brief harangue,

It was easy to conceive

That the spirit directed its tongue,

That it was boasted with reason.

We lodged him in the house

From the chaplain, all adjoining,

And from this dependent convent,

Whence this Corder goes around,

And to inspire love,

By his talents, by his genius,

And by his physiognomy,

Came to the great parlour often

To edify the whole convent,

As soon as, by his golden tongue,

Of all sacred history,

He commented on the moral sense,

With the spirit of the fire Pascal.

On the sixteenth day before Easter,

In this same parlor, from where Jacques,

My aunt's lackey was going out,

After handing me the egret

Beautiful brilliants, with which she adorned

Formerly the top of the head,

With her radiant necklace;

I saw this friar enter,

Who was called Father Bondrilles,

Who sees me, at his approach,

Quickly move away from the gates:

I feel, young beauty, my fault,

To come here to surprise you,

He told me; but with such a tender air,

Staring at my weak charms,

That I approached three steps.

Of your steps you are too sparing;

Come closer, beautiful Wolsfriche,

he continued, with a more gentle air;

There are grids between us:

Come and take back your chair;

I don't have to shut you up

My feelings. Are you not moving?

Truly, you afflict me!

I see, alas! the thing is clear,

How I have the gift of displeasing you!

Ah! Not at all, my reverend,

I replied, looking down;

You please the whole convent:

Therefore, I am convinced

Since your arrival here.

My joy is really extreme,

Provided you like me too,

he resumed. After this Lent,

When I have done my mission,

Without ever violating an idea,

Nor in fact, things decided,

My chaste broadcast wishes;

I will be relieved of it, I hope,

With a brief from our Holy Father,

That I will get through the channel

Of a learned and great cardinal,

Who honors me with his esteem:

Then I will be able to you, without crime,

If love for me speaks in you,

Make my court and soft eyes:

For then you will be sovereign

From my tender heart forever,

From a fief that I will have in Maine,

where we would spend days,

Whose happiness would be lasting?

I seized the favourable moment,

that I have been watching for a long time,

To tell you my feelings,

Whose unequalled purity,

delicacy and honour,

Tend to conjugal faith,

Where does our happiness come from?

Farewell, my beautiful angel; I am shaking

Come and surprise us together

And that to gossip one takes place.

Be very wise. At this farewell,

This virtuous Father Bondrilles,

The parlour suddenly decamps,

Without just kissing the hand

That I had outside the gates,

With the intention that he kisses her;

Because he had made my conquest.

This was the result

In the interview, face-to-face,

I had with this handsome Cordelier,

Which seemed to me so singular,

That Sister Christine and Sister Badillo

Had told me that the grey-clad,

Whose virtues are sung so much,

Near a woman or a girl,

Were enterprising roosters,

When, without witnesses and without scandal,

They could, at times,

To prove their monastic vigour.

Since this secret interview,

I did not see this discreet monk

And with exemplary conduct,

Whether in the company or in the pulpit,

Until after Easter, when he left,

Provided with a good sum,

What in the convent they made for him,

To go by car to Rome;

Whence back, to Saint Martin,

After seven months of absence, he came

In the convent, the proud countenance

To be released from his vows,

In the portress' room;

That as a lover in a hurry of his fires,

He had been seduced by money;

Were, for two good months in a row,

At least an hour every day

He courted me so much,

That it took, of this adventure,

Widen my belt a little;

And to prevent it from being known,

Or that someone noticed it,

Leaving the convent, so

Not to lose the port,

Nor my honour. It was easy.

My heart, let nothing torment you,

Said the crafty ex-Cordelier to me;

I will dispose of your aunt,

By making a frank confession

Of our love and its following,

Of which she must be instructed,

To get you out soon

From this convent with decency:

He did so much, by his eloquence,

By his way of praying to her,

That she came the very next day,

With extreme decency,

Get away with it to get married.

Two months after this marriage,

My husband, for having behaved,

Like many people his age,

Immoderately to the inferred,

where the water came to his mouth,

Departed for the dark abode.

This loss, on the same day,

Made me have a miscarriage,

Of which I thought I would also die;

But I did not, thank God:

Loss is never worth ours.

One misfortune leads to another;

It is very true. My aunt having put,

At the home of one of these rich friends,

Who passed for being an honest man,

In annuity to the penny six, the sum

One hundred and fourteen thousand francs:

And this rich man, five years old,

Exactly paid the annuity,

In advance on many occasions,

Weary of constant probity,

One day, by his escape,

Whose road we cannot know,

Presumed his bankruptcy:

At the first rumour, he heard,

My aunt died of grief.

Alas! When bad luck hits us,

What we love the most is escapes!

Many people have experienced this:

In the distressing and sad crisis

Of these misfortunes, I would have died,

If Mother Angel, old grey sister,

That my aunt loved heartily,

Would not have me, by his air of candour,

By his piety, by his morals,

That she made appearances in everything,

And with his friendly tenderness,

Comforted, and given a taste

For his condition. I was, through her,

Received into his community,

To which I made by zeal,

And in a spirit of charity,

Gift of the proceeds of the sale

Of all my aunt's belongings,

amounting to fifteen thousand francs,

And the diamond egret,

Under clauses that make me live there,

For nine years, honestly,

And in a taste that I like to follow:

This is exactly my story

Because I don't have to lie.

Ah! My sister, everyone has, I tell her,

More or less diverse pleasures,

Of prosperity, of reverses,

In this passage, in this lower world,

Where despite us evil abounds.

Take comfort in your misfortunes,

My dear sister; be together

friendship for life,

And to fulfill my other desire,

Show me the underpants,

What you wear. Sister Veronique

Trussing then unceremoniously,

Said to me: "Madam, I make some

For a long time perfectly,

In my cell deafly,

At twelve francs for labour,

For ladies, whose manoeuvre

Is to hide their low country;

Because a gallant man attaches

Fewer attractions with striking charms,

Only to those whom the underpants hide.

Mine, although already soiled,

I've been wearing it for six days,

On me do not make a single crease:

Look; it is made so,

That behind and in front,

Unbuttoning these two bralettes,

Which I believe artistically made,

We use the windmill,

And from the mill to the water without embarrassment,

For their various functions:

It is one of the inventions,

Who hides what is obscene,

Which many women make a big deal of.

At these words hearing three o'clock:

"Suffer, Madam, from this step,

Let me go to several mansions,

She said to me, from the city,

where I have pressing business,

Regarding the community,

To whom my care is necessary,

And I always take them to heart.

Dear Clarice, then the sister

Promising myself to be constant,

To love me, to see me often,

Despite the rain and the strong wind,

Left home very happy.

The End.

Discover more of our sites here.

Nude Art and Naked Paintings of Sexy Women and Hot Girls

Sexy Yellow Lingerie for Hot Girls

The Book of Women's Rights

A Hot Love Story.

Sexy Art for Women.

Copyright April 19th, 2023.