On the table, right beneath her eyes, is the last hand of cards, and the courtly smile of the Excuse, and his mandolin.
Nora turns her head in her direction and kisses her, digging her tongue as far as she can into the young girl’s mouth, holding on to her tongue, both women grasping each other with the energy of despair as the continuous thrusts burrow through their arses, kissing and crying as the table shakes beneath them. There is a scream, a deep guttural roar and the black man stops, still planted deep inside her arse and she feels his come pouring out, burning her. She distractedly visualizes the powerful white jets irrigating her guts, like an unholy, boiling enema. Nora pulls herself away from her mouth and screams in turn, a shout of triumph as her flesh welcomes both pain and joy. But instead of withdrawing, the Negro inside her arse comes and goes a few more times and she climaxes yet again, maybe because of the angle of the table pressing hard against her clit or the influence of the many orgasms occurring all around her. She swims in a sea of lust.
There is a pause. Then she hears hands clapping, slowly, in the background, ironic, the Commander smiling, complimenting them all.
“Excellent, ladies. Thank you. Now you may go.”
And specifically to the young girl:
“You’re awaited in Room Four,” he says.
She knocks on the door, there is no answer but she enters anyway.
There are two men in dressing gowns sitting either side of a table, talking. But the first thing she notices is that they are identical twins, although one already sports white hair, as if he has aged prematurely. She wonders what sudden emotion one day caused his hair to turn so white. He can’t be much older than forty. She recognizes the two men, they were at dinner earlier but they were seated at the other end of the table and she hadn’t really noticed them.
The man with the white hair is handing a piece of paper to the other. The heavy dressing gown’s belt is loose and uncovers his right thigh, a heavy-set leg which she didn’t expect from his cultured facial features.
The other man, not even acknowledging the presence of the visitor, is reading aloud: “They caress each other for a few minutes. He squeezes two fingers into the swamp of her sex, two very long fingers, nails cut short, into the deep of her stomach, exploring her so much better than a penis could, his almost feminine scientific intuition aware of her innermost desires . . .”
He stopped.
“Not bad. But why ‘sex’? Or ‘penis’?”
“Why indeed? What would you have written?”
“I don’t know . . . Pussy and dick? A sex, it’s so anonymous.”
“What would a woman say when referring to her sex? ‘Vagina’ is too scientific, ‘uterus’ is too medical. In this present context, maybe ‘pussy’ is too vulgar. Or it might depend on the woman. Anyway, I’d definitely cut out the ‘swamp’. Reminds me too much of the worst of Henry Miller. In “Quiet Days in Clichy”, doesn’t he write of ‘a drooling pussy that fitted me like a glove’? No, ‘pussy’ just won’t do. So. we’re left with ‘sex’.”
“And ‘penis’?”
“Still too generic. Its so-called exploration is no more than a continuous series of thrusts into the pit of her stomach. Too prosaic for what the male member is capable of.”
“Why not use a metaphor?”
“Which? A split apricot? A dick-shaped mussel? A moustachioed wallet? As it is I’m uneasy with the ‘swamp’, although I do enjoy its muddy, soaked-earth quality, a combination of liquid and hard matter.”
“And her cunt? Just call it a cunt? Do women really think of their parts in such a way?”
“There’s just a surfeit of metaphors. You can’t just string too many of them along. ‘Her cunt’s swamp’: it just feels wrong, too strong an image.”
“The truth is you are not enamoured with metaphors.”
“That’s true. So, what would you suggest?”
“ ‘He slides two fingers into her divine gash, all the way down her magic walls, exploring her so much better than . . .’!”
“You’re getting funnier all the time. But not very practical. Laughter and fucking, you know . . . Many years ago, when I was still fumbling amongst the amatory arts, at the beginning of my literary career. I was writing erotic stories with a friend; we were trying to use every expressive resource we could, seeking to avoid all vulgarity, to retain a dash of poetry about it all. We tried everything: the subjective point of view, long sentences and little punctuation, like James Joyce in the midst of tits ands arse if you see what I mean, then more subtle metaphors – ‘under his fingers the flower of her love garden blossomed . . . at the end of the path the labyrinth of Cythera . . . exploring her so much better than all the previous arrows of desire had punctured her . . .’ all rubbish of that kind, a compost heap of mythologies. But all it proves to us is that metaphors, however deceptive and clever they might be to the intellect, just pour cold water over any hard-on; a man who thinks too much just disconnects, if I can put it that way . . . But why don’t we ask this young girl . . .”
He turns towards her. She’d been standing there silently, surprised that they hadn’t even acknowledged her presence until now, seeing they had initially summoned her here.
“My dear, what do you think? How do you refer to your sexual organ?”
She is somewhat taken aback, but replies: “Actually I seldom refer to it by any sort of name.”
“But if you had to?”
“ ‘Hole’ or ‘pussy’, most often. No, not really. It sort of depends.”
“On what?”
“On the situation. Sometimes I will enjoy shocking myself by using dirty words. Especially at the rear. I seldom use ‘sodomy’, too Biblical in essence. ‘Buggered’, that’s what I say, when it’s about me. But that’s mostly when referring to the act, not its actual happening.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, ‘I’m being buggered’ occurs so often figuratively speaking, that I can’t really use the expression properly, if I think about it . . . But ‘I want to be buggered’ presents no ambiguity.”
“And right now?”
“I’ve just been buggered,” she says. “By a very well-endowed black man. His come is still inside my arse. See how useful the right words can be . . .”
She emphasizes this as the two robes both open like a theatre’s curtains and two honourably sized cocks are standing to attention, like twins, ever so slightly curved, thick-veined, helmets shining between the folds of the material.
She moves towards the men, gets on her knees and caresses them both, although neither of her hands can grasp the full girth of the respective cocks. Slowly, delicately, she wanks them off; then, moving her head from side to side, she alternately sucks them both. They taste the same, smell the same . . .
But their reactions are different. Very soon, the man with the white hair lies down on the bed and pulls her on to him and quickly positions himself deep inside her. As this happens, she feels the other man’s hands spreading her arse cheeks and a cock, identical to the one fucking her, forces its way into her anal opening. She screams as he tears her apart, and realises she has never been filled this way. Just a moment later, all three are motionless, she is impaled on their twin cocks, and feels they are surely about to breach the thin membrane that separates them and merge into one single hammer. One of the men is gently biting her breasts; the other scratches her shoulder. She flexes her whole body, offering her crotch even more fully, tightens her sphincter muscles and feels the cock’s swollen ridge move deeper inside her, while the one in her cunt almost slips out. The invading cocks are burning her alive, but still manage to penetrate deeper within her, and as the one in her arse settles for a second, her cunt fully gapes open.
They all come almost together. The ever so slight time delay allows her to experience the stream flooding her arse, and then the waves breaking inside her stomach. Then the cocks lose some of their hardness, dilate and soften and pleasure now takes a firm grip of her ow
n body, she whimpers and squirms while still breached by the hot twin cocks and, in a moment of panic, she seeks the mouth of the man with the white hair.
They had not even undressed and, as soon as she leaves the bed, she is once again the immediate image of a perfect, if somewhat crumpled, maid.
A telephone rings all of a sudden.
One of the brothers – they are both flat out on the bed, side by side, breathless – rises and picks up the antique set from the bedside table.
“Yes?” he says.
She looks around her. Inevitably, on the wall, there is a painting featuring two men sitting, discussing literature, on either side of a small table, the man on the right hand side holding a sheet of paper. Close to them, a naked woman, kneeling, only visible from the back, her long blonde hair reaching down to her waist, seemingly sucking off the man on the left, he one with the white hair.
“You’ve been summoned,” the brown-haired man says. “Room Six.”
As she leaves the room, they are already deep in conversation on either side of the table, with the sheet of paper held by one of them. She only hears the final words, read out by the whitehaired man:
“ ‘She flexes her whole body, offering her crotch even more fully, tightens her sphincter muscles and feels the cock’s swollen ridge move deeper inside her . . .”
The other protests:
“ ‘Sphincter muscles’ What about Sybil’s Hole?”
“The Artists’s Entrance?”
“The Purple Flower?”
“St Luc’s Grotto?”
The door closes and she can no longer hear them.
Room Six?
The sperm poured into her is running down her thighs.
The scene in the new room is almost symmetrical to the previous one. Room Six and two women, both naked, are sitting on either side of a table, their position, their dark red hair held up in a chignon, not unlike a creature by Rossetti, the heaviness of their breasts, the exaggerated length of their nipples, the pale complexion of their pink skin and a haughty, almost disdainful, facial expression, all striking features including, as she moves closer to them, the colour of their eyes, grey changing into green.
However, this time around, they are not identical.
“Come, my dear,” One says. “Come.”
They ask her to stand still, between the two of them, and four hands quickly undress her, throwing the maid’s outfit aside. They only allow her to retain the stockings emphasizing the pallor of her thighs. The pale hands roam across her even paler skin.
“Look, she’s just been fucked . . .”
“In front and behind,” says the Other, “there’s a small stream of come emerging from her arse . . .”
“She’s been well fucked,” One says. “She is still very dilated.”
“So it seems,” the Other calmly declares. “I could push my finger into her arse without even touching her edges.”
The young girl is momentarily shocked by the contrast between their poised appearance and the filth of their language, and particularly the clinical way in which they are describing her, as if they were conducting an autopsy.
She stands between them and, suddenly, the two women get down on their knees and with no word of warning begin sucking her cunt and her arse, licking up the drops of come drying on her skin, biting the delicate flesh, digging their tongues into the still bruised openings.
The young girl feels dizzy. The two women are so artful, even their violence has a touch of elegance, teeth assaulting her lips, fingers sliding deep inside her . . .
No man has ever sucked or penetrated her thus. One then the Other, thrusting two then three fingers inside her cunt and her arse, withdrawing them then occupying her again but this time with four digits, as if their hands were becoming slimmer, thinner, and soon she has a whole hand inside each of her openings. She moans when the hand forces her doors, but now her cunt and arse tighten around the invading wrists and she feels delirious.
Inside her stomach, two hands are searching her, carving her innards apart, parallel hands as if in prayer, as if she were the object of a terribly ancient cult, being honoured and consumed by the members of her sect . . .
She has never experienced a vaginal orgasm this strong. Her sphincters are seizing up so hard they could cut the hands off at the wrists, to hold them captive inside her forever.
“She’s really enjoying this, the bitch,” One says.
“You’re right,” says the Other. “It feels as if her arse is breathless.”
“She’ll never want to come any other way,” says One.
They gently pull their hands out and the pain is atrocious, not just the initial one in reverse, but the very thought of losing them, to be confronted once again with the terrible void inside her stomach, the emptiness of her life . . .
“Don’t worry, my dear,” says One. “We have many ideas where you’re concerned.”
“Do you want to take her to Fifteen?” the Other asks.
“You were thinking of that too, weren’t you?”
Both women slip on an almost transparent negligée, one of those spider-like clouds a star of the silent cinema would wear, and move forward with the grace of goddesses. But as for her, they leave her naked, just slipping a dog collar around her neck and leading her thus all the way down the corridor and up to the next floor on a leash. She is herself surprised at how obedient she has become, so unlike her. Or maybe they had recognized this docile streak within her, the desire to submit to a Master’s orders, the repressed craving for slavery and the whip.
Had she known her Tarot better, she would have realized that in Room Fifteen she would find a Photographer, and one of those old-fashioned devices standing on a single leg and under the black cloth of which the operator must dive to ensure he is focused correctly on his subject.
The Photographer is visibly waiting for them. He is dressed in Second Empire attire, a short blouse and crumpled trousers, with a thin moustache and small Napoleon 3rd-type beard. Next to him is the young man she had met at dinner: now undressed, she can see he can be no more than sixteen years old at most. He sports the thin and curvy shape of a classical catamite, a lazy if gracious body spread over the bed, distractedly playing with his half erect cock as they enter the room.
“Hello, darlings,” says the tired adolescent.
“Hello, arsehole,” says the Other. “How are you?”
“So, so,” says the young man. “he’s only fucked me twice since night fell. Do you think he no longer likes me?”
“Don’t you like him any longer?” the One asks the Photographer.
“He bores me,” says the Photographer. “So what are you bringing me here?”
“Don’t you think she’s pretty?”
“Very,” the Photographer says. “I so enjoy such pale milk-like skin.”
He examines the young girl all over. She blushes at being so exposed.
“Her eyes are so shiny,” the Photographer says. “Have you just made her come?”
“Insanely,” says the Other.
“Sit down on the bed,” the Photographer tells the young girl. Take your stockings off, please. And you, little fag, come here.”
She sits herself down on a short square of black silk, in the same pose as Rembrandt’s Bethsabea. It all feels like a dream. The Photographer moves his heavy apparatus and disappears under its black cloth. She hears the muted sound of his voice, commanding her:
“No, thighs apart. Good, yes, like that. Lean backwards, steady your arms, breasts to the fore, perfect.”
He reappears briefly:
“You,” he says to the young boy who is pretending to be terribly bored, “come and suck me off while I’m working, it’ll keep you busy.”
“Yes, uncle,” says the young man with a touch of irony in his voice. “Right away, uncle.”
The Photographer again disappears under his cloth, and on his knees facing him, the boy with obvious dexterity pulls out a remarkable cock, dispropo
rtionate in places, whose fat and swollen helmet emerges triumphantly from a dry, nervous stem. The boy licks it quite methodically and witnesses the bulging fruit thicken even more under his ministrations.
“Swallow,” says the voice under the black cloth.
Obediently, the young boy opens his mouth wide and jaws set wide apart devours the strange and monstrous fruit.
All the while, the Photographer is taking picture after picture, only making appearances to change the plates and sprinkle more magnesium into his flash, just his voice emerging from below the black sheet.
“Yes . . . Now each of you suck one of her breasts . . . Like that . . . Ah, a hand on her thigh . . . Open wider, my pretty one . . . Against that black silk background, you are just sublime. Throw her backwards, now. One kissing her, the other licking her . . . Yes . . . More profile, please, I can’t see your tongue . . . No, don’t look at the camera . . . Very good, head thrown back . . . and you, there, suck a bit better than that or I’ll have you whipped right in front of these ladies . . .”
“Oh, yes,” says the catamite, interrupting his labours.
Together with her two new friends, he has her adopt the most lubricious poses, ever on the look out for the moment she comes. Under their tongues and fingers, she experiences a whole series of orgasms, until she totally forgets where she is. Only the bright explosion of the flash, from time to time, reminds her that a man is taking photographs of her while . . .
Is it the caresses that are generating her pleasure or the fact she is being photographed? The orgasms, the flashes of light, one or the other or both are levitating her out of her body. Every time her mouth opens on a silent scream, the flash of the magnesium betrays the fact that the Photographer has captured her moment of selflessness, stolen yet a further parcel of her soul, her life . . . as if she was being emptied from the inside, as if her very substance was now flowing down her thighs, captured by the photograph, disfigured, transformed . . .
The Mammoth Book of International Erotica Page 65
