“Yes, Mother. Oh, yes! Yes! What Mother? Yes, I’m coming right away.”
I could hear Mother’s voice as I felt her cunt fluttering and saw Gunilla twisting and twisting. She was so close. Then I drove into her.
“I’m coming, Mother. I’m coming!”
She came in a marvelous golden explosion. She lay with the phone cradled between her large, sumptuous, wet breasts. After a minute, she opened her eyes and said:
“Hand me my pants, little brother, Mamma is calling me.”
Chapter Ten
I hung the coats in the closet, smoothed the bed, and slipped out. Back in my own room, I took an icy shower and laid down to put my mind in order. Maybe I was going crazy. Or was already. These things couldn’t be. Already they eluded me when I tried to remember. Like those things from my childhood that would float up now and then from the secret place, sending waves of excitement ahead, only to vanish at the point of seeing. Like in the movies, when the diver is underwater and a marvelous something looms closer and closer-and is suddenly gone. And you can never decide whether it was a whale, a lost city, or Neptune striding his farm.
My mind couldn’t deal with what had happened. It automatically put such unlikely things aside. The mind must. The senses give approximate data and the mind constructs the truth. The eye sees the moon just above the roofs: the mind moves it up an endless distance. The ear tracks a giant prowling the cellar: the mind discovers the waterpump is in trouble.
It must be some kind of test to see if I was the kind of boy they wanted in their family. And I wasn’t doing very well. I put on my fine new clothes and carefully brushed my hair. I looked at the freckle-faced kid of fourteen in the mirror and knew it must be that. I looked into the wide blue innocent eyes, leaned forward and whispered: “Mother wants you to’ watch her get it! Tonight!”
At dinner, I found that everyone had dressed. Father wore a dinner jacket. Louise’s white dress draped in graceful folds on her thin body something like the togas in my Latin text. She was the cleanest, purest thing I’d ever seen. Gunilla filled an expensive, long-sleeved, high-necked bronze dress that should have been modest, since it covered everything except her hands and face; but it was made to show her ripeness. The material was tailored precisely to her bust, fitted even to the inside slopes-so that each large, jutting bowl was proclaimed individually. And each nipple pushed clearly against the cloth saying there was nothing underneath but flesh.
Mother was very elegant in a severe black dress that left her shoulders and most of her breasts bare. I was shocked. There seemed such an amount of nude flesh. Her superb shoulders and long throat and round arms glimmered in the candle light like a moonblaze. The breasts were exposed to just above the nipples. (I even glimpsed the brown circle around it when she reached for more wine.) They seemed lifted from below, offering themselves. They strained at the bodice which was supported by only two thin straps. I tried not to stare. From the compliments the others paid the dress, I knew it was proper; but it drove me wild. More even than Gunilla’s. Mother’s body was somehow both lush and slender at the same time. And there was something else. Partly it was the elaborate coiffure that piled her hair in great golden masses on her head. Also the makeup and the eye-shadow spoke of a world of sophistication far beyond Gunilla’s youth. But it was more than that. There was a mysterious quality of preciousness, an aura of maturity, grace, complexity, and aristocracy. A life-time’s accomplishment. Yet it was wholly sexual. Those luminous naked breasts so clamorous in the formal setting had the intense sensuality of night beside Gunilla’s sunny lust. Her queenly head on its sleek throat dreamed above her obscene breasts like a perfect velvety dark rose amid its heavy, sensuous perfume. Through the whole dinner she was turned inward, periodically flushing for no reason-so her eyes sparkled. Louise, like Mother, ate almost nothing. Her fawnhead with its limpid complexion bent over her plate in deep reverie. Gunilla and Father were obviously exhilarated and chatted animatedly through the meal about horses. I fed on the loveliness of the women’s heads blooming like lotus in the candlelight against the late twilight that filled the great windows.
We went into the salon and Louise played Mozart. Gunilla sat so she was behind Father and Mother, opposite me. Almost as soon as everyone was settled and the piano began, she caught my eye and smiled. She raised her knees until her feet were on the edge of the chair. Then she deliberately pulled her skirt up into her lap, uncovering her legs all the way to the hips. I gulped. It was beginning again. She slid forward and let her legs fall apart, lifting her blond cunt toward me. Her eyes flashed. Noiselessly she lifted the lamp from the table beside her and put it on the floor, adjusting it so that the light was directed into the hair. It was unbelievable. There she was lying back in the chair with the light shouting on her in the dim room, flashing on the full thighs, burning in the cunt hair. Her hands started stroking and opening the flesh. I couldn’t stand it. All they had to do was turn their heads slightly, and they’d see her! There would be no possibility of covering or equivocating. I tore my eyes from the fantastic indecency of it, stammered something about being tired, and fled.
In my room, I had just gotten my pants open when Gunilla came in.
“Well, little brother, you’re so sex starved you have to sneak up here to masturbate. Come to my room and we’ll see what can be done for you.” She took my hand and led me along the hall. “Besides, Lars, we have to get our seats because the show is going to begin soon.” Her room was a confusion of books, clothes, nude pictures, African masks, salvers of fruit, records, and the like. Everywhere was a soft rosy light.
Gunilla did something to the dress and it fell off. Her tawny body stretched out on the bed. She was lovely! She grinned up at me. “I don’t know what you do to me, Lars, but it sure is powerful. Down there m the salon, I had to do that. Because I knew how it would excite you. You make me feel like a complete whore. But marvelously so, without any ugliness or disgust.” She got up on her knees and began caressing her breasts, shaking them and holding them out to me. She took the left one and, lifting it, leaned her head down until she was able to suck the nipple, watching me all the time. She was obviously bubbling with happiness. “Oh, little brother, what a joy you have brought into this house! I’d do anything for you! But Mother did almost catch me. When you left like that, she knew something was up. I’d just gotten covered up when she turned to look. And there was that lamp on the floor. She asked me what it was doing there, and I didn’t know what to say. She really looked at me. But I don’t care, Lars, about anything now except delighting you. Come to your little whore sister and let her pleasure you.” When I got undressed and in bed, she turned out the lights, explaining that we mustn’t scare Mother, and leaning above me on her hands and knees began caressing me with her dangling breasts: teasing my lips, slapping them gently against my face (they were immense in the dark), drawing them along my stomach. Then she laid down and got me straddling her chest. She put my cock in the gorgeous valley between her smooth tits, then (pressing them together) told me to fuck. It was lovely. She cooed obscenities meanwhile until suddenly I came. Over everything: her tits, her neck, her face. This drove her mad. She smeared it on her breasts, on her face, and then began licking it from her fingers. Afterwards, she washed and came to cuddle with me.
“Nilla,” I asked, “do you really think she’ll do it? Knowing we’re over here watching?”
She giggled. “So little Lars is worried he won’t see his Mother getting fucked! Poor thing. Well, little boy, you just lie there licking my nipples like that while Nilla tells you about your Mamma.
“The thing you must understand,” she continued, “is that Mother is completely wanton. Now, I know this is hard to believe, but it’s true. At the same time, she’s terribly shy about this wantonness, so she keeps it locked up in herself. Believe me, though, it’s there. I know! In fact, some of my earliest memories are of Mother licking my cunt to comfort me when I was unhappy about something. I must have been three or four. And she trained me to lick her. I don’t know how early that started, but I remember she’d put chocolate or jam in her cunt so I would suck it out. Afterwards, when I developed a taste for these things, she’d let me lick her, or would lick me, as a special reward-like on my birthday. And I remember when I was tiny, she taught me to stick my hand inside her. I was so little that I could get my hand arid a lot of my arm in, and I’d handle her inside. You can imagine what it was like with those five fingers working around, all the way to her womb. And I’d stroke that. She’d come and come. When I got older, she grew self-conscious and pretended it had never happened. But up until then, Wow! I remember once-when she put me into bed with her dog…” ’