“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 own 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.