“Come here, young one,” the man insists.
And now she finds herself on her knees by the black man, but the cock surging through his flies is already hard. It’s like a long ebony stick, shining like polished wood under the light of the room’s lamps, its skin taut like bark, an endless mast whose girth is fortunately moderate so she doesn’t have to dislocate her jaw to take it all into her mouth. However, the cock soon reaches the very back of her mouth and brings tears to her eyes, a sudden burst of nausea she represses as she moves her lips back down to the cock’s head. But soon she finds the right rhythm, the adequate depth.
“Keep at it,” says a voice.
The man exudes an animal smell, strong, tenacious. It occurs to her that she could well be sucking a horse or a wild beast. With the hand not holding on to his cards, as none of the men has stopped playing, he occasionally applies pressure to her neck, precisely communicating the changes in rhythm he wants her to follow. He holds her by the chignon, forcing her to first slow down and savour every one of the centimetres she swallows and then relinquishes, then making her speed up and suck faster and faster, as if he were about to ejaculate in under ten seconds, each time assaulting the very back of her throat, fiercer every single time.
All of a sudden, there is a clap of hands. The black man pulls her away and fully slides his cock out of her mouth. Fascinated, she looks at the glazed, obsidian member. He pulls her up, flips her round and throws her down on the table, pulling her skirt up at the same time. She is face down on the table, as are her three companions, heads aligned next to each other; her cheek touches Nora’s. The black guy bends over her and with no word of notice forces himself inside her. His saliva-coated cock plunges deep into her arsehole, quickly reaching the bottom, and never before has she felt so deeply impaled. Like an iron bar reaching for her heart, then retreating before digging into her again. Never has she been fucked in the arse so hard, so deep than by this harder than hard ebony-coloured cock, this iron cock, this cock from hell.
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 girclass="underline"
“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.”