They all come almost at the same time. The ever so slight time delay allows her to experience the stream flooding her ass, and then the waves breaking inside her belly. 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 have not even undressed and, as soon as she leaves the bed, she is once again the image of a perfect, if somewhat crumpled, maid.
All of a sudden a telephone rings.
One of the brothers – they are both lying 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. This one shows 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, visible only from the back, her long blonde hair reaching down to her waist, is seemingly sucking off the man on the left, the 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 hears only the final words, read out by the white-haired 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 artist’s entrance?” “The purple flower?” “Saint Luke’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 that in the previous one. Two women, both naked, are sitting on either side of a table, their positions, their dark-red hair held up in chignons, not unlike creatures by Rossetti, the heaviness of their breasts, the exaggerated length of their nipples, the pale complexion of their pink skin and haughty, almost disdainful, facial expressions, 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, which emphasize 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 ass…”
“She’s been well fucked,” the first one says. “She is still very dilated.”
“So it seems,” the other calmly declares. “I could push my finger into her ass without even touching her edges.”
The 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 without a word begin sucking her cunt and her ass, licking up the drops of come drying on her skin, biting the delicate flesh, digging their tongues into the still bruised openings.
The 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 like this. The first one then the other, thrusting two then three fingers inside her cunt and her ass, withdrawing them and 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 ass tighten around the invading wrists and she feels delirious.
Inside her, 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,” the first one says.
“You’re right,” says the other. “It feels as if her ass is breathless.”
“She’ll never want to come any other way,” says the first 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, the emptiness of her life…
“Don’t worry, my dear,” says the first 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 almost transparent negligees, those spiderlike 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; they just slip a dog collar around her neck and lead her all the way down the corridor and up to the next floor on a leash. She is surprised at how obedient she has become, so unlike herself. Or maybe they 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.
The photographer is waiting for them. He is dressed in Second Empire attire, a short blouse and crumpled trousers, with a thin moustache and small Napoleon III-type beard. Next to him is the young man she had met at dinner: now undressed, she can see he is no more than sixteen years old at most. He sports the thin and curvy shape of a classical catamite, a lazy if gracious body spread over the bed, distractedly playing with his half-erect cock as they enter the room.
“Hello, darlings,” says the tired adolescent.
“Hello, asshole,” says the second woman. “How are you?”
“So-so,” says the young man. “He’s only fucked me twice since night fell. Do you think he no longer likes me?”
“Don’t you like him any longer?” the first one asks the photographer.
“He bores me,” says the photographer. “So what are you bringing me here?”
“Don’t you think she’s pretty?”
“Very,” the photographer says. “I so enjoy such pale milklike skin.” He examines the young girl all over. She blushes at being so exposed. “Her eyes are so shiny,” the photographer says. “Have you just made her come?”
“Insanely,” says the second woman.