Truly fucked.
All my cavities explored.
It was some crazy scenario: the woman who services four men simultaneously.
I gave up all resistance, allowing my muscles to go slack and welcomed the shuddering invasions, disconnected my brain from the rest of my body and welcomed the mighty sensations of pleasure course through my veins, travel at the speed of light over the whole surface of my bare skin. I closed my eyes. Incandescent blackness overcame me. I beckoned it. I was just a body. An instrument of pleasure. Desire made incarnate.
The men thrust.
The men pushed against my physical limits.
The men all dug their cocks deeper than anatomy allowed.
My juices flowed. Out of control, seeping from every extremity past the attacking poles of flesh.
My lover watched.
One man came. I balanced his ejaculation on my tongue and rubbed it against the soft surface of the other man’s cock still pounding my cheeks.
The second man came, and his warm jet splashed against the walls of my vagina, drowned its flow over my swollen cervix and he withdrew instantly, sucking our now mixed fluids out of my cunt onto my stomach.
The third man came in my mouth but maintained his thick cock at full stretch, forcing its way almost down my throat, and the bitter goo slithered down into my digestive system.
The fourth man still kept on pounding into me. Savagely drilling his impossibly long cock ever deeper into my rear. Jesus, it would never be the same again, would never close up, I thought, as my bowels felt all liquid, melting under his blows and I briefly imagined the purple mushroom-like tip of his penis swimming in the inner sea of my boiling shit.
Finally, he came. He roared loudly, exhaling his pleasure in a wholesome burst. The pulleys were brought into operation again and I was levered upwards off his rigid stem. It exited my gaping rear hole with an obscene plopping noise, dripping with an unholy compound of our mingled secretions.
All of a sudden, I was thirsty again.
They left me suspended for, I reckon, another ten minutes. Then the black silk scarf that obscured my vision was pulled away and my sight restored. The men were all dressed now and ritually left the room in a single file, leaving just my lover and the tall woman.
In silence, they cleaned me with a warm wet flannel.
Liberated me from the embrace of the ropes.
Then the woman left, after a gentle peck on my cheek.
“You were wonderful,” my lover said.
Should I weep or should I cry?
“Am I forgiven?” I asked him.
“For now,” he answered.
He had new clothes for me. I liked them, he had chosen well but then he’s always been a man of good taste. Knows my fondness for waistcoats and white tops.
As we exited the castle in Milton Keynes and walked towards our red car, he looked at me with godamn so much affection in his eyes:
“So?” he enquired.
“Yes,” I confirmed. “Even with the pain, I did enjoy it.”
He smiled.
“What about you?” I asked my lover.
He said nothing and kept on smiling.
As we passed the Watford motorway services half an hour later, he said to me:
“This is only the beginning, my love. I know this dungeon in Epsom.”
I looked ahead at the road. Night was beginning to fall. Soon, we would be back in London. My hand was shaking a bit. Fear? Expectation? And inside my body the tides of lust were already rising.
THE SEX LIVES OF CHAMELEONS
Cristiana Formetta
translated by Maxim Jakubowski
for Danila who has never seen the snow
Force of will is just a question of practice.
You need a bit of training, but you learn to struggle, and you can become whatever you want to be.
When I look at myself in the mirror, my image does not correspond with the image I have of myself. So, I change it. I adopt multiple personalities. They merge and alternate.
It’s a dance with the cosmos which can last whole days and nights. Night is my baptism. I close my eyes and when I wake up I have a brand new skin.
1
“What’s happening to you?”
Mauro’s voice made me jump; it’s so typical of him to always arrive on the scene silently. “Hurry up. We’ve lost too much time already,” he continues. And throws a stack of photographs onto the table. I pick them up, look at one, then another, and then all of them.
“They look fine,” I say. But the truth is I know all too well how bad they happen to be.
“Of course. To anyone who’s not an expert, the photos will look good,” Mauro continued. “But both you and I know this is not your real face,” he concluded, pointing a finger towards one of the photographs as the light of the sun shining violently through the curtains obliged me to look away.
“At any rate, you’re done with your anger for now, I trust? Where is all the wickedness? Not in this photograph, my dear. Nor here . . .”
“I have several other projects to finish before I can focus on the book . . .” That was how Maxim advised me that the publication of the book had slipped to November.
He reiterated that I had to be patient and enjoy the wait.
For him, it’s easy. He talks about writing, he thinks like a writer. In his books, Maxim tells stories of things that appear to belong to a whole different world, a world so different from mine, a bigger and more dangerous world. Maybe that’s what brings us together, so intimately.
Maxim says I have talent, as if talent was just the act of writing a simple story in a minor mode. My stories pleased him and now his American publisher will be publishing one of them.
My stories in America, it’s hard to believe.
I just can’t believe that Mauro has refused to give me the photos.
At home, I look at myself yet again in the mirror and concur that Mauro is right. This is not my true face, just a passable imitation. If my friend Danila was here, she would realise it too. Danila isn’t easily fooled, she would soon notice that I have lost my metallic eyes.
Danila says I have metallic eyes, grey eyes that sometimes turn green, and sometimes dark blue. It’s fairly uncommon, not that many others had noticed. He, however, quickly acknowledged the fact and transformed my eyes into heavy metal. He said I had the eyes of an owl, because I am always checking who is around me, memorizing their gestures, their voice, their expression, until I think I know them intimately, even to the extent of unveiling their weak spots.
A particularity common to all predators, I think.
Photographs. I have a house full of them, pinned to the wall, stuck with adhesive tape to the mirrors. Everywhere it’s my face, on my own or with friends. Here we are, Danila and me, at the Carnival a few years back. She is dressed as a witch, and I am wearing a clown’s three-pointed hat. It must be quite late in the day, because in the photo Danila’s eyes are red. Whereas my eyes seem fixed on a distant point, my lips frozen by what looks more like a grimace than a smile.
Who knows if owls, of all feathered creatures, conceal their wrinkles beneath their deep stare?
I can’t stand in the same place for more than half an hour. It’s always been this way, ever since I was a small child I’ve had this urge to burn off energy any way I could.
Is that what consumes me inside?
Year after year, my waist narrows, my cheekbones get sharper, the dark zones beneath my eyes go hyperactive, pale brown shade changing to pale violet. The brains sucks energy from the body, and slowly it will begin to disappear.
I’m becoming transparent, Maxim. Now you can look inside of me and use all the small details I have provided you with to bring your imagination to life. Even when I ask you for a way out, because I can’t join you in London, or in New Orleans, this city you like so much. I keep on asking you because we are wasting so much time, and I don’t know what to answer, I don’t know what to say. This i
s also the truth, even if I talk to you of Toronto, although it is a lie, another dead end.
You dislike Canada, Maxim. It’s too cold there.
I walk alone through the city for almost an hour. It’s raining and my boots trace deep patterns in the mud. I quicken my pace, flinging my legs ahead as if I were participating in a military parade, if only to warm myself. It’s strange, I’ve never felt cold before at this time of year. To tell the truth, I’m seldom cold and am always wearing the same sweatshirt under my leather jacket, even in the midst of winter. Yet, today I can’t help shivering, and it’s already March.
I reach the area of older buildings in the historic part of town and ring the bell several times. The door finally opens. Trevor looks at me without saying a word. I am soaked to the bone and just can’t stop myself from trembling. Trevor does not invite me in, and neither does he order me to stay put. He just keeps on looking at me with a self-satisfied smirk on his face, his upper lip frozen in a sneer. I know that expression, that face well. It’s my face superimposed over Trevor’s features. The face of someone with definitive goals in life, and the sheer ambition to reach them.
“Come inside,” he says. Trevor speaks good Italian, although he has a distinct foreign accent.
Trevor’s apartment is always untidy. His television sets are stacked up in all four corners of the room like sacred stones in an Indian ritual. Rising above it all is a smell of paint and solvents, tobacco and perspiration, which doesn’t seem to bother him. His attention is fully focused on my hands now beginning to unbutton my faded shirt. A piece of clothing that has seen better days, as has Trevor. He has talent, he could be a great painter, but he just isn’t. The pictures he paints have no inner strength, no meaning. Trevor is no longer able to make art talk, ever since the day he recycled himself as an illustrator of children’s books. This compromise has greatly helped his finances, but it destroyed him as an artist. He could have been a wonderful painter, and now he will never be one. Yet, Trevor keeps on dreaming, believing that a trip to Italy, an exhibition and a hovel rented out on the cheap will help revive his spirit. Trevor thinks I can be his muse, and this dream sustains him. Basically if you are thirty-eight years old in 2003 and the critics haven’t had a kind word for you since 1996, you have a desperate need to dream. Trevor is finished, and he is not aware of it. Trevor is a dead man walking.
His shoulders surprise me. I would never have thought Trevor had such large shoulders. Now I understand why his jackets fit him so badly, either too large or sleeves too short. I haven’t yet seen him naked, or tasted his mouth for the first time. He probably tastes of whisky which he drinks regularly, too often and too strong. Trevor takes me into his arms and pulls me towards him, allowing his hand to caress my breast, my hip, and he does all this so silently, not even allowing himself a sigh. He is cold, detached. He knows me well and and doesn’t trust me. He is aware of the fact that I seldom do anything without a reason and is probably wondering why I am here ever since I arrived.
He pulls my shirt away, then my bra, caresses the curve of my back with his fingers, which makes me shiver. Never before have I been touched with such tenderness.
His eyes are wide open and gazing at me. They are pale green and it almost looks as if he is about to start crying.
Because it’s now happening.
But Trevor hasn’t the time to consider things long enough as my own hands are already exploring him, moving up and down his thighs until I reach his groin. I can’t help myself from touching him, kissing him, losing myself inside his smell, letting my tongue draw a thousand arabesques across his body. I watch Trevor’s eyes soften, the green become more intense, and I feel him swallow.
Everything is in the right place. Trevor’s trousers are on the floor, my legs straddle his body. I feel him lifting me by the waist and furiously entering me. His hands grip mine and pin me back, allowing me no movement that could disrupt our precarious equilibrium. Trevor brushes some strands of hair away from my face. He wants to look at my face, and he will keep on doing so all the while as he moves inside me. Our bodies are perfectly embedded in each other. Trevor plunges deeper into me, and I do my best not to scream out aloud. But I must, as he watches me. Trevor wants it all, the white skin of my breasts reddening beneath his bites, the taut muscles of my stomach as he drills into me. Every spasm, every emotion betrays me. This is truly the only way to know another: carnally.
Trevor seeks total control. Good, because so do I.
I want to capture all of him, how he moves, how he walks, how many times he brushes his teeth before he goes to bed. I want to steal his most intimate thoughts. I want to experience his sadness and make it mine, binding myself to that ironic smile of disenchantment that crosses his lips.
I want his English accent.
I want to know the reasons for his divorce, the true reasons, not the ones he tells everyone else.
I want his ash-blond hair between my thighs.
I want to devour him. Digest him.
This desire is so strong, so obvious, that it can be read all over my face. Trevor is not surprised, because he has no reason to doubt me.
My face is his face, my will is his will.
I should maybe have warned him, prepared him for this. Too late, now. Too late to hold all this at bay. Trevor is so overwhelmed by the love I have in store for him that he attempts to struggle free; he is upset and ready to lie to save himself. But the equilibrium is now broken. My hands are free, finally able to touch Trevor’s hair, while my tongue chases him, hunting him, hungry for his saliva. Our sweat mingles, cancelling out all forms of friction, we are so totally dishevelled, a total mess. To let oneself go in such a way is a benediction. Our hands wander all over, clumsily, awkwardly. To each of my caresses, Trevor answers with a moan. He’s not quite ready for this, not yet, but he knows that my madness is rising. But I am in control of him. Of his breath. It’s a death rattle. Long, unending.
Morning catches us in the throes of an embrace and confused.
Trevor moves his face closer to my breast, and his unshaven skin brushes against me. Under the bed covers I feel his legs solidly fastened to mine, a position made even more uncomfortable by the white streamlets of sperm still leaking from my cunt.
Have we slept like this all night?
Chaotically clutching one another, with our legs squeezed together higgledy-piggledy. I smile. Our bodies, in such ridiculous embrace, are an insult to the art of perspective.
“What are you thinking of?” Trevor asks, lighting a cigarette.
“I’m thinking of the book I want to write,” I answer.
“Is it that important?”
“Yes.”
“More important than me?”
I remain silent and kiss him. His mouth is both small and fleshy, like the mouth of a child. As a matter of fact, Trevor is no longer Trevor. He’s just a fifteen-year-old who does not understand the meaning of words like failure and frustration. He’s a shy high school boy with cauliflower ears who will never get used to wearing spectacles.
Trevor is no longer the man whose face is so close to mine. He is another who looks like me, but is so much weaker.
“I’d better go, now.”
“Stay a little.”
“I can’t, Trevor. I have things to do.”
I quickly slip on my sweatshirt and my jeans. I walk towards the window and note with satisfaction that it isn’t raining any more. My hair is dank with sweat, and brushing my fingers through the strands fails to revive them.
I miss my things, my house. I want to listen to my phone messages and check on my electronic mail. But Trevor takes me into his arms, holds me against those broad shoulders that make me feel both small and gracious in comparison. I have taken a decision, now is the right time.
“I will not be going to Toronto with you,” I say to him.
Trevor’s embrace tightens, becomes more insistent.
“You know all too well that my son lives there. I can’t a
bandon him. He’s only two years old; he needs me. You just can’t ask me to stay here forever . . .”
“Actually, I wasn’t asking you to.”
“What do you mean?”
“That you must return to Canada, Trevor. There’s nothing here for you, neither fame nor fortune.”
I move away. Trevor is attractive, but I no longer want him.
“So, what about this night? Why did you come here and stay the night?” he keeps on asking me.
“To fully understand that this was the right thing to do. To take control again, Trevor.”
I concentrated and stared straight at the door.
“And if you do manage to leave, it will mean once and for all that I control you, Trevor,” I said in one breath.
Trevor’s only reaction was a feeble laugh, but there was no joy in it. Right now his shoulders were so much less imposing. Hate is such a sterile emotion, so empty and impractical. Unless you have the means to avenge yourself.
“So, you’ll be going to New Orleans with Maxim, will you?”
“Yes.”
Trevor’s voice is already full of resignation.
“Will you sleep with him?”
I remain motionless and silent.
“Will you go to bed?”
On my way out, I am cheered by the fact that the rain hasn’t broadened the streets, that the night wind hasn’t blown the manhole covers away. The mild air brushes against me harmlessly. I’ve stopped shivering. I hurry along, and should be home in an hour or so. Of course, one day I should learn to drive, but for now I have no need for it. My independence will not be threatened by a spring storm. And of course there are so many advantages to travelling by foot, small occasions when you can meet people along the road. I see a photographer’s sign and walk into the shop. I speak to the owner, a quiet, pleasant man in his fifties.
The Mammoth Book of International Erotica Page 54
