I gave myself the widest possible latitude at Daphne Oblov's whorehouse-I took on fifteen men, circumcised and uncircumcised, and one woman, during the course of that memorable evening, the most memorable evening, I daresay, in the whole of my life, the consequences of which dictated the course of the rest of my days.
Before seeking sleep, I doggedly sat down at the mahogany writing table in the suite Daphne had allotted me -replete with potted palms, velvet drapes and a reproduction of Botticelli's Aphrodite-and, in a journal I had set aside for the purpose, I put down the impressions of my voluntary servitude. With your indulgence, dear reader, they here follow… They don't ask your last name. I told them my given name was Victoria. Sometimes I asked for their Christian names, sometimes I didn't. My first gig was a chap whose first name was Olden. Pillar-of-society type. Said he was a barrister. Some six feet six inches I gauged his height as. He had a whale of a walloper hanging from a ginger-colored forest. Strange-he had a thin-lipped face, nasty eyes growing close together, but he looked immediately naive when I closed a fist around his walloper and slowly worked it with palm and fingers. He spoke the King's English quite properly but with a strong Scottish bias. Had freckles on his face and walloper. Felt rather strongly about me-said he'd keep me if I'd a mind to. Declined, of course. Courteously. Thanked him. And then guided in his walloper. He said he felt as if he were parting the Black Sea. On the other hand, I felt as if it were a big fish taking a canal route-and I raised and lowered my locks. Olden liked that and got his teeth into one of my large teats and shook it as a dog might-that drove me wild. I whipped my hips around so rapidly that he creamed in a couple of seconds, expressing astonishment. He said he thought he could last longer than that. I took the sting off by remarking it was I who couldn't-as I wiped his spatter off my belly. He said he'd visit me regularly. Dressed. Left. My second was a first-year university lad who couldn't have been more than eighteen. Hardly had a beard. Short sort of lad -I was taller than him by a head. I didn't fault him for it, though. Access to my breasts quite convenient. I was in a whirl about him-he was a virgin, he said.
Believed him. His rod and redeemer was thick and short and very pink.
“History of masturbation?” I asked. Agape, he gazed at me.
I lessened the shock by saying, “Come, come, sir-I know a few terms.” “I suspect you know several more,” he said. “Anyhow,” he said, “do call me Arthur and would you take care of me right away?
I've been imagining it for years.” “My pleasure, Arthur.”
“Really? I thought your sort rather have a minimum of that.”
“Not in my case,” I said. I thought his physical build odd but took it as it came. He had a standing-out type of body. His ears stood out, his chin stood out, his shoulders and hips stood out. And he had long feet. I made matters last-this was his fledgling flight, so to speak. I had him probe me with his long toes until he was as wild as I was. Then, to really turn the screw, I squatted on his face for several minutes. I wanted him to appreciate what precious viands could be found in such matted vegetation. Arthur gasped. That was his last gasp. After that he learned very rapidly. He learned he could have dessert as the first item on the menu. He spooned me up with great enthusiasm. It was then time for the curtain thoroughly to rise. I introduced his lingam with great care. It slipped out. Arthur was chagrined. “Again,” I said.
He nodded. I introduced his barrow once more. It was a good barrow- stiff against my clitoris. But it slipped out again.
“Arthur,” I said, “you are too anxious. You must not yourself, at least not as yet, initiate the action. I will do so. Is that clear?”
He nodded. I put him in touch again and I said, “Don't move.” “All right,” he said, cowed. I got a finger down there to get the balls rolling. For so stubby a stem, he had very big balls. Be prepared for a volcanic eruption and a lava flow of mammoth proportions, I told myself. I had made a very accurate prediction-Arthur flooded my ark. And he kept coming. I said, “Arthur, we will never reach dry land.” “Shalom,” he said.
Some of my best friends were Jews so I knew the Hebrew word.
“Yes,” I said, “I am all peace.” His copious outpouring had inspired me afresh. I wanted to turn on his barrels again but Arthur said his duct was finished for the night. He put on his clothes and limped out of my suite without so much as a good night. The bastard. I needed a durable magnetic needle, now! A middle-aged man by the name, he said, of Martin Tripplette, who was just about my height, with lank blond hair and a wizened face-was next. He had a bad skin, splotched with boils-nothing contagious, Daphne Oblov had forewarned me.
Whatever, I was not repelled. It would take a bullet to repel me when I wanted cock to nestle within me, and Tripplette had the kind of long skinny one that gave any kind of woman who was a woman the sensation that she was coiling a length of rope about her windlass-clitoris. And it did turn out that Tripplette was a seafaring man, so we made a trim ship and he gave me a full-speed-ahead rudder. Three times the bells in the engine room jangled, and three times Tripplette had to bail himself out. I was more than game for a fourth and Tripplette looked at me queerly. “Try and give yourself a rest, lass,” he said tenderly, and shut the door behind him. The fourth prospect who opened my door was a lightsome lad in his mid-twenties-he seemed afloat. I myself wasn't in the least fatigued. There seemed to be no end to my pleasure. But it was slipping into phantasmagoria… and that's how I'm writing it down… Lightsome lad. Jeremy. “Hello, Victoria.”
“Good evening, Jeremy.” “I don't do this as a rule…
“Of course not, Jeremy.” He was fluffy. Fat, and a ton of featheriness. I felt him and yet felt only a whiff. It was like standing on a rim at the edge of the end of the world… Richard.
Lancelot. Henry. One of them-I've forgotten which-handed me a whip. I demurred. He insisted. He was paying Daphne double for the privilege, of which I would be given a percentage. All right, I said, yes, yes, yes. My vulva lips were bulging as I slashed him across the buttocks. Blood lust-I liked it, God help me. I wanted to blot up the blood and the semen at the same time. He lay on his back, indicated his upper thighs-and then his penis. I thought he was mad-but I was just as daft as he was. I brought the whip down where he wanted it. He screamed-and sperm gushed. It was impossible, then, to control myself. I bent down. To the blood. Then the sperm. Mingled them in my mouth. And then, as if in a dream, I watched my hips thrash about after I fell to the floor-as if they had a life of their own-until I reached my apogee and I felt rent in twain, as if my very womb had exploded in crimson-creamy streamers… Neville. Reyner. Astley.
Waves of orgasm by now. I was running a high tide of orgasm. A storm, a typhoon, a hurricane of orgasm-a veritable concerto of it, my hips a kettledrum on which I pounded and triphammered the mallet of sex. Bodies. Then the bodies no longer had bodies. Just pricks.
Just cocks-triumphant, stupendous, volcanic-and finally snails.
Then, toward the end, there was this Mongol. He grumbled his name. “Call me Khirkiz,” he said. “Khirkiz, you understand? You will have a long devotion to Khirkiz,” he rumbled. And then laughed, his great bony head lifted back, his teeth big and yellow, his seven-foot height awesome. But I wasn't awed. I would swallow the whole seven feet-I'd shrink the bastard. I will tell you-I sweated over Khirkiz. He had a horse's hang. I grant you, I wasn't the size of a horse's, no, but Khirkiz could have played cricket with that bat. And he took it and waved it at me, contemptuously. “No woman can make this go down,” he said scornfully, “until I, Khirkiz, will it so.” I wanted to say pigshit, Khirkiz. But I wanted no fight. I wanted to experience a limit to my wanting to fuck. So far, and it was nearing the end of the evening, there was no sign of such a limit. I wanted to fuck as intensely as I had at the start of the night. I did everything to Khirkiz-he was a fucking challenge. But his horn of plenty yielded not-though, yea, I did lave him and stir my yoni to a froth with his mighty mace. I was indeed a froth.
I had already climaxed twice with this Khirkiz. And no fountain had as yet issued from him. I had him glide it into me posteriorly.
Nothing. Except for Victoria-salvos and rockets. On the side, my thigh over his thickly corded thigh. A position always sufficiently snug to send me vibrating into the far spaces.
Nothing. Khirkiz was supremely in control. He laughed. He bellowed with laughter. I saw his horsey yellow gigantic teeth.
Teeth. That gave me the idea. You bastard, I said under my breath. Teeth. I bent down, crooning over the Mongol's cannon, tickling it with my tongue. Khirkiz laughed and pulled brutally at my teats. I began sucking it. Khirkiz stopped laughing.
His body stiffened. But his body stiffening had happened many times before. I kept sucking. The Mongol snarled at me, “It is a monotony. I do no pay you for the monotony-” It was precisely then that I sank my teeth into the Mongol's cannon. He reared up from the bed, an expression of utter astonishment on his bony features. He shrieked-exactly like a woman. Shrieked, and looked down at his cannon, a little bloody-but then at the cataract of sperm spouting as if from a whale… I grinned. Khirkiz was very gentle with me then-and I wanted and had that cannon of his again, and again, and again '… He finally quit the field of battle, thanking me rather tenderly. But I was beyond thanks. I was muttering to myself, staggering about the suite, that unassuageable cunt between my thighs. I rubbed it, I hair-brushed it; I unguented it, I masturbated it-simply waiting for the next man. It was the finish, then. It was about four o'clock in the morning. My face was ashen. I felt bruised, beaten-but still prickly in the saddle. As the summit of the occasion of my maiden voyage at Daphne Oblov's, I took on two men and a girl simultaneously. I had asked Daphne to arrange that. I would have requested a dog to be present as well, but I felt that would have been gilding the lily. I could always obtain a dog, if that were my whimsy. At this point, further, I wanted to issue no instructions…
And nobody did issue any instructions. I wanted to find out if there were anything that could be done of a sexual nature, or that involved a substitute for actual sexual intercourse, that would have the effect of lowering my desire. To that end, for example, the girl-whose name, I recall, was Anne-squatted over my face and urinated on it. Not only did the act not repel me-it was, rather, a goad. I bit savagely into Anne's sweet arse, stinking though it was from her discharge. I say sweet arse because it was small, like the rest of her-she resembled a sort of figurine-and of a delectable shape, although her face some how reminded me of a lizard's, horned and scaly, which is probably why she had to buy her sex. One of the men-Lionel-had me then sit astride his prong while the other-Max-stood with his bull piece akimbo and on a level with my mouth. Anne again had her arse up-she was a sucker, as the American might say, for that sort of position- but on this occasion I was undulating four fingers in her vagina. Tableau. Excepting for the fact that none of us was static. With Lionel, a hangdog man nevertheless built like an Atlas, with a hangdog prick when it wasn't in erection-with Lionel I was as on a carousel. With Max, a dapper sort of man with a finely etched mustache and with suddenly astonishing equipment something like a combination of a rearing crocodile and a rampaging bull-with Max I was all but masticating him as far down as my larynx.
I exaggerate, of course, but his dimensions were indeed impressive -and fulfilling. With Anne I had no fear whatsoever that my fingers would develop a cramp. She was lubricating like a dream. The air was rustling through her arched throat like a whistle, her lizardy face a study in tender reptilian lust. From that point on the experience was a farrago of images and dialog. I remember some of them in a kind of patchwork… “By God, that's a good go, Victoria-”
I laughed and laughed and laughed. The two men were holding my legs apart while Anne was smearing cream on my black forest…
“Go on, Victoria, let's watch you a sec masturbating with the dildo…” I sweated with it, and came. Lionel sweated with it-and I came. Max tackled it and used it with incredible speed-and I came.
Anne got harnessed with it and sank in me and sank and sank-and I came. “Fantastic, this Victoria, eh? Look at her. Touch her anywhere and she'll rut with one of the velvet draperies.” I remember rubbing the velvet between my legs… And Ann's lizardy nose oscillating my clitoris… “Give her one in the arse, Max…” I shrieked from the pain but it was sheer bliss. It was sort of icy fucking, and very tight. Icy and tight. I vomited first and then I loved it. Concentrating on my teats, my big, firm, elastic, hot-nippled teats. Throwing them into his teeth… Or hers… Whose? But what difference? I rubbed somebody's prick as if I were making fire with a stick and he erupted like Vesuvius.
Anne… figurine… slithering on the floor like a lizard- and then I pissed on her, by God-and she dried my cunt off with a parched rough tongue. “I love you all,” I remember shouting-“all of you good hot rum-toddy pricks and all of you slithering cunts…” Her vagina had the shape of a lizard, recumbent… The shape of my own vagina had yet to be determined. For all I know it could have been serrated-to accommodate the saw-toothed penis… Max left.
Lionel left. Neither of them said goodbye. They simply walked out, their gait somewhat peculiar, as though something hurt between their legs. I was very tired, really. But my lust was undimmed. Anne recognized that and kept running her knee back and forth across my clitoris. Scratching my long nails across Anne's breasts and nipples. She was whining like a dog and then she shook convulsively as she peaked… In a little while she started dressing. “No,” I said. “Yes,” Anne said. “Point is that somebody like you can go on indefinitely.” “Yes,” I said.
“Most of us can't,” she said. And then she left. I was alone. Unfulfilled, I drank half a tumbler of gin, asking the walls, “Will Victoria Collins discover limits to her need for sex?”