Napoleon’s Nightmare

If only Josephine had not laughed. He sat squat, upright, powerful, looking over the battlefield. But an unusual, queasy feeling pervaded his whole being, He knew, he just knew, that today was to be his Waterloo.
For twelve years their passionate affair had been the talk of Europe’s salons. All that time Josephine thought that their strangled, throbbing and thrusting jousts were just another version of the great sexual adventure which has brought such huge pleasure to the French Nation over the centuries. Her men were the suave, handsome experts at ‘le sport de la lit.’ Her females, the ‘Dames Mysterieuse,’. these fantasies of teenage bedrooms, were the courtesans who had mastered the ancient arts of seduction from the Greek nymphs, the Houris and other progressive females. So when Napoleon explained that his particular perversion was to make love in tights she just assumed this, albeit a new one to her, was but a further advance in exploration for La Belle France.
Then last night she blew it. Just as they both were screaming towards the inevitable climax she screamed and, tearing off his silken underthings, yelled ‘flesh, yes flesh, I want it now!’ When his codpiece fell off there was a moment of disbelief, then when she looked down her laughter could have emasculated him no further.
It was all in the genetics. When Napoleon Bonaparte was baptised the custom in those days was that the priest would drip a little chilled water from the font onto the baby’s head and then, perhaps in recognition of the brain and brawn equation, dripped a little more onto the genitals. In Napoleon’s case the priest, father Ignatius, looked up at the parents in wonder and said I thought you said son? I suspect the young priest may later have regretted his biological assessment as he simmered with jungle herbs in a cooking pot in the Solomon islands a few years after his rather sudden calling as a missionary to these benighted savages.
Napoleon’s father, Grandfather and at least another two prior generations had suffered from an extreme case of PM, penile minisculity. Learned professors from the Sorbonne had earnestly studied shrivelled snouts with very thick microscopes and had tried every thing known to medical science to change this familial handicap. One uncle had spent two years in the Bastille, supposedly for a crime of passion, but in truth the absolute opposite. A lead weight was attached to a leather thong which was suspended from his minuscule organ to be released only when the veins in his forehead swelled to the point of bursting. But it was no good, whatever length existed remained resolutely within his internal groin.
Napoleon himself knew nothing of this until his 11th birthday. Emmanuelle Piquant was appointed as the lady attendant to his bedchamber. She had been carefully selected. Even at that young age she had a hell of a reputation. To say she was precocious was like saying French cuisine wasn’t bad. Her virginity had been supposedly assailed by the son of a local nobleman who knew nothing of the event beyond a dim memory of a nymphet pouring a goblet of Chateau Foussant between his lips while helping him loosen his clothes. ‘Just you relax un moment Monsieur,’ then being draped in sensuous, perfumed limbs. She used and discarded the local youths like a succession of old slippers as she matured in the arts of woman. Now it was Napoleon’s turn. With a dramatic flourish she threw back the silken sheets and pulled off his pantaloons to find – nothing! The shriek she gave as Madame Guillotine slammed down on her slender neck was nothing compared with the way she expressed her amazement that night.
His father not only bought him his first codpiece the next day but decided to enlighten him into the unusual sexual mysteries of his paternal lineage. They then discussed the need to gain respect by excelling in, what were then considered as, manly attributes. Napoleon applied himself with the utmost diligence to his learning. With his rapier held erect he was soon besting the finest fencing masters of Paris. His skill with the gun on the hunt and flashing sabre at full gallop on the practice ground soon brought him to the attention of the military authorities. Then onto fame and glory.
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His mind drifted back to pleasanter things – storming fortresses in Spain and Portugal, tremendous victories at Austerleitz and Friedland (he ducked over the march back from Moscow) ----- ‘Merde, I must concentrate on this battle,’ he muttered. Proudly the Old Guard marched before him. It was time to break up Wellington’s accursed squares. As his true and most faithful passed below the mound where he sat astride his white charger their grizzled captain barked out smartly ‘Yeux a la gauche.’ Napoleon raised himself to his full 1.64 metres and snapped a smart commanding salute at his old comrades in arms. They however took one look then collapsed onto the muddy battlefield, roaring, weeping with helpless laughter. Napoleon looked down to see where they were pointing - Mon Dieux his flies were open!

Monsieur Ian 857 words