On the table, right beneath her eyes, is the last hand of cards, and the courtly smile of the excuse card, and his mandolin.
Nora turns her head in her direction and kisses her, digging her tongue as far as she can into the 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 asses, 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 ass, 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 black man comes and goes a few more times inside her ass 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 is smiling, complimenting them all.
“Excellent, ladies. Thank you. Now you may go.” And specifically to the 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 on either side of a table, talking. 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 man. 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 belly, exploring her so much better than a penis could, his almost feminine scientific intuition aware of her innermost desires…”
He stops. “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 belly. Too prosaic for what the male member is capable of.”
“Why not use a metaphor?”
“Which? A split apricot? A dick-shaped mussel? A mustachioed 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 that way?”
“There’s just a surfeit of metaphors. You can’t just string too many of them together. ‘Her cunt’s swamp’: it just feels wrong, too strong an image.”
“The truth is you don’t like 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 among 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, we wanted 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 and ass, 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 Cytherea… 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 girl…” He turns towards her.
She’s been standing there silently, surprised that they hadn’t even acknowledged her presence until now, seeing they had 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 when it comes to the rear. I seldom use ‘sodomy’, too biblical in essence. ‘Fucked in the ass’, that’s what I say, when it’s about me. But that’s mostly when referring to the act, not when it’s actually happening.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, ‘I’m being fucked in the ass’ occurs so often figuratively speaking, that I can’t really use the expression properly, if I think about it… But ‘I want to be fucked in the ass’ presents no ambiguity.”
“And right now?”
“I’ve just been fucked in the ass,” she says. “By a very well-endowed black man. His come is still inside my ass. 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 cocks. Slowly, delicately, she jerks 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 onto him and positions himself deep inside her. As this happens, she feels the other man’s hands spreading her ass 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 realizes 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 ass settles for a second, her cunt gapes open fully.