“I love you, you are so good.”
Gérard’s mouth and hands kept on bruising her breasts, Dominique’s cock surged on ever harder, a deep, savage lust rose inside Leone who came with a scream as Dominique spurted inside her. He briefly stayed within her, holding her up, kissing and pecking her back. Gérard pulled her away from his friend’s body and laid her down on the cot. He hurriedly tore off all his clothes, scattering them around the compartment and threw himself into Leone. He took her without consideration. She barely had enough time to register the surprise of her intense arousal before they climaxed together, in total silence.
Leone felt as if time was standing still. Her body, blissful, floated. The swinging movements of the train completed the illusion.
“I’m thirsty,” she whispered.
Dominique poured her some of the tepid champagne, she swallowed it in one gulp. He ran a wet towel over her body, which she was grateful for, and assisted her in rolling down her stockings and suspender belt. He then undressed.
Gérard grumbled. He was beginning to doze, and looking at him, Leone and Dominique began laughing.
“Here, some champagne will do you good.”
He took the bottle from Dominique’s hands and drank straight from it. The foam slipped out of his mouth, down his neck and lost itself in the hairs on his chest. He burped and apologized, lit a cigarette that he handed over to Leone and offered Dominique another. They were sitting on the cot, their legs hanging over the edge, curled up together, smoking in silence.
It was Dominique who interrupted their daydreaming, sliding down to the floor between Leone’s legs. His warm and skilful tongue soon awakened her senses again. She moaned as she held the young man’s head against her stomach. With her free hand, she searched for Gérard’s penis; aroused by his fingers, it rose. Kneeling on the bunk, he brought his cock to the level of Leone’s mouth; she lapped at it gently like a cat drinking milk. Dominique helped her slide down on the cot, and pulling her up, lowered her down on his member. Gérard, disappointed, stroked himself gently. They all three climaxed together.
Leone fell asleep in the middle of a sentence. But her sleep didn’t last long. She was woken by a cock moving inside her. Later, one of the young men sodomized her. She barely had time to register the pain before she came again, at excruciating length.
Early in the morning, when the ticket controller knocked at the door to announce their arrival in Morzine station, she thought she wouldn’t even be able to stand up again, her whole body ached so much. Aching, but satisfied. She shrieked in horror when she saw herself in the mirror. The circles around her eyes spread all the way down to her cheeks, her lips were swollen from too many kisses and bites, her tangled hair gave her the look of a wild, wanton woman.
“I can’t go out like this. It looks as if I’ve…”
“Yes, you did,” the men answered, laughing.
She shrugged and tried to make herself presentable. Her night companions weren’t much of an improvement on her. Once she had dressed, they pulled her towards them.
“You don’t regret it? You know, it’s the first time we’ve made love to the same woman, together.”
“For me too, it was the first time,” she said, still a bit red-faced.
Dominique cupped her chin.
“You musn’t be ashamed. We fell for you at first sight and you for us and it was wonderful.”
She gave them each a big fat kiss on the cheeks, like you give to good friends, or children.
“Yes, it was wonderful.”
“So, are you staying on?” asked Gérard.
“No, it’s not possible. I’ll hire a cab to Geneva and will then catch the first plane back to Paris.”
They insisted but understood that she had made her mind up. “Keep an eye on my mother and my children disembarking, I don’t want them to see me like this.”
Gérard was the look-out while Dominique and Leone stayed back, huddled together, holding each other’s hand. Leone knew she could grow attached to this tender, handsome, blue-eyed boy who made love so well. But her own life was already so full, there was no place left for further adventures. She regretted it.
Gérard returned, he’d found a cab and seen the family leave in another.
“Are you sure you don’t want us to come with you to Geneva?”
“No, thanks, I don’t enjoy farewells.”
She got into the taxi, turned back to wave at them. Dominique was running behind the car. She guessed what he was asking: “Your name, your address.” She looked away, smiled and settled down in the comfort of the seat. It was warm in the car, the snow-covered landscape was pretty in the morning light, the driver ignored her and remained silent. Images from the previous night floated back to the surface of her memory, raising exquisite feelings of pleasure. It felt like the dawn of time: before the creation of sin. She slept all the way to Geneva, a smile of ecstasy on her lips.
THE GIFT by Stella Duffy
HE HAD GONE to work. Finally gone to work after the morning ritual – pulling, dragging, wrenching him from sleep, I had parcelled him off, pressed him into his work clothes, packaging him into Anyman for another day. I stayed in the small weatherboard house, stuck in the small thin house, close and hot in early morning humidity.
Summer lingers into late damp March.
The kids – breakfasted, shouted at, washed, cried, dressed, tears dried, lunch packed, cuddled, kissed – finally at school. And outside grey drizzle fell steaming on a morning of screaming children and red angry women hidden in identical versions of the same day. All rubber gloved. All staring out of kitchen windows. Through dusty glass there never was time to wash, out on to the same grey green back gardens as the same thick rain beat on the same rusting tricycle.
But for me there is a knock at the door.
I opened the door. It was a woman. Six foot, covered in leather. Skin-tight worn leather legs, rising from heavy black boots buckles gleaming, muscled calves and smooth thighs – sinews marking the line of touch to her waist. A silver belt, two inches wide and detailed, symbols circling her torso. Cropped jacket, topped with black helmet and shiny mirror glasses. I see myself in the covers of her eyes.
I stare at the vision, the mouth the only exposure, big soft lips parted, saying something unclear, and then -
“So I wondered if I could come in? Until it stops raining… it’s not really safe out here, slipping… and sliding.”
She is Maori and takes off her boots, leaving them at the door and walks barefoot into the hall, padding into the hall. It seemed larger, as if growing to accommodate this woman. This Woman. She went through the kitchen door, removed her gloves and, with the light behind her lifted off her helmet, shaking out an elbow’s length of hair.
The Woman sat. Brown eyes deep and heavy lashed grinning at me, wide set above a broad soft nose. Her lips maroon red and wide and full like a welcome stain. There is a faint moko on her chin. Like it is just growing in. Like it comes from inside out.
I ask where from. I ask why. The Woman begins to answer me, her voice coming low and soft as a half smile.
“… and Sarah, is there coffee? It wasn’t far, but I am wet…”
I made coffee.
(She knows me. She named me.)
The kettle on, I watched as the Woman lifted off her jacket – muscled arms hanging the heavy article on the back of the chair – and straightened her dark red shirt.
She stretches forward, flings back her hair like an unwanted bedsheet.
She, swinging on her chair so I can’t help but follow my thoughts to her breasts, smiles at me. Smiles, rising and falling in thin silk.