A half hour later, her mother came in, and at first glance I could see that my little farce was already getting complicated: mother was much more beautiful than daughter. Now what was her name again? Oh yes, Teresa.
In any case, she had a-wrap thrown around her lithe and supple figure that scarcely covered it. I offered her a chair but she refused, sat down on the edge of my bed, and said point-blank, “Was it you that cornholed my daughter this afternoon?”
This is the sort of question I always find rather distasteful; I never have liked interviews of this kind. I made some sort of vague depreciating gesture intended to signify absolutely nothing, but she said, “No, no. Don't protest. She told me all about it. I would have scratched your eyes out if you'd broken her cherry, but you only went as far as I let her go… What are you blushing for?”
“Because you're beautiful.'“
“What do you know about that?”
“Enough.”
I too was getting to the point as quickly us possible. The premature departure of Mauricette had left me even more ardent than had her arrival, and, besides, with women I would rather, much rather, spend my time in demonstration than conversation.
I didn't give Teresa time to say whatever it was she had prepared, feeling that to change the direction of a touchy scene is the only way to improve it. And I'd managed to turn my corner without even slowing down. Even though she was still in a stronger position than I, she had lost her breath for a moment and she closed her thighs with a smile. She knew where we were heading before I made a move, but I could see that my sudden change of tack had not hurt my chances any. In fact, our little exchange of gestures placed us on a new level of familiarity.
“So what do you want me to show you? What I have between my legs?”
“Your heart!” I replied.
“And you think it's down there?”
“Yes.”
“Try to find it.”
She gave a low laugh. She knew that the research would not be easy. My hand wandered blindly in an impenetrable forest of hair, and I lost my way several times. The wool grew everywhere, from the top of her thighs to the base of her stomach. I began to get even hotter when Teresa, too adroit to make me look maladroit, lifted her wrap and her slip, either to console me or to distract me or perhaps to give me a second prize as encouragement.
A magnificent body, long and full, lean and brown, fell into my arms, and two ripe, full, but scarcely maternal and never pendulous breasts pressed against my chest. Two burning thighs clasped me and when I tried to…
“No. Not that. You can screw me later.”
“Why later?”
“So we can finish up there.”
She was revenging herself. It was her turn to change the direction we were taking, but she did it so skillfully that in refusing what I wanted she seemed to be according me an even greater favor.
In my silence she sensed that it was her body now that was master of the situation, and in a new tone that simultaneously questioned and offered me nothing at all, she said, “Do you want my mouth or my ass?”
“I want all of you.”
“You're not going to get my come. I don't have a drop left. They've given me too much to do since this morning.”
“Who?”
“My daughters.”
She noticed me pale. I saw Mauricette again, completely nude and saying, “I'll give you mother.” I no longer knew exactly what I felt An hour before, I had thought that Mauricette was to be the heroine of my adventure, but now her mother inflamed my senses ten times more. And she knew it even better than I. She lay on my desire, sure of her power over me and, caressing my distracted flesh with her hair and stomach, had the audacity to say, “Would you like Mauricette again? I know she's got a crush on you. She fingers herself thinking about you, and I know that you like her. Do you want me to go get her? I'll hold her behind open for you.”
“No.”
“But then you don't even know Lili, her little sister. She's even more depraved! Ricette is a virgin and she doesn't even like to suck. She's only got one talent. Lili knows how to do everything: she likes everything; and she's only ten years old. Would you like to screw her? Corn-hole her? Come in her mouth? In front of me?”
“No.”
“Don't you like little girls? Then you should take Charlotte, my oldest daughter. She's the best looking of the three. Her hair is so long it falls all the way down to her heels. And she's got breasts and buttocks like a statue. She's got the most beautiful cunt in the family. I get hot for her myself when she takes off her clothes, and I'm no kid anymore; I'm a woman who likes a good prick. Charlotte… Imagine a beautiful young girl, dark, warm, soft, without the slightest prudishness of vice, a perfect mistress accepting everything, playing any way you want, and who loves her trade. The more you ask of her the happier she is. How about her? All I have to do is call through the partition here.”
That woman was the devil in female form, and I would have given anything to have been able to take her at her word and cry out, “Yes!'“ in her face. But as I was gathering my shattered will for the effort, opening my mouth and drawing breath, Teresa said with an expression of sincere interest, “Did I give you a hard-on?”
This time the fury came. With a “You're making fun of me!” followed by a few other choice expressions of rapidly increasing strength, I began to beat her. She laughed at the top of her voice while trying to ward me off with arms and legs. Helpless with laughter she could only defend herself blindly, and I covered her with blows and squeezes that didn't seem to have the least effect; then that laugh exasperated me so that, not knowing what to do next to get at her, I grabbed a handful of hair from the most sensitive place I could find and pulled… She cried out.
Thinking I'd really done her some serious harm, I fell into her arms covered in confusion. I waited for a thousand reproaches to rain on my head, but she would never have dreamed of saying anything that might have cooled my ardor. Even through her squeals of pain she never stopped laughing except to berate herself.
“That's what happens when you have so many hairs on your ass! When you sleep with Lib! I defy you to try that.”
The incident ended my violence and hastened the denouement of our little piece. Teresa didn't waste a minute in offering me her favors as a pardon for what I had done and she offered them without a word, with a facility of movement and coordination of body that smacked almost of the art of juggling.
Lying on her side next to me and taking my buttocks between her spread thighs, she put one of her hands beneath herself and did something that I couldn't see… Then directed my body as she wanted it.
The magic that some courtesans effect can often work some really incredible wonders… Like a young stage hero that awakens in the garden of a sorceress I could have sighed, “Where am I?” for my enchantress was lying absolutely still and I wasn't at all sure where I had entered. I kept silent to preserve a doubt that left me a little hope.' But both vanished with her first words.
“Don't bother with me,” she said. “Don't move. Don't try to prove that you know how to take me there. Ricette just told me all about it. I don't give a damn this evening. When you cornhole me I can come without touching myself, but now I'm going to cornhole myself. You'll see in a minute! I don't feel like coming tonight.”
“And if I'd rather you came than I did myself? If I decide to give you the works?”
“The works, eh? Be careful, young one, or I'll empty your balls with a twist of my asshole… There! There! There!”
She was maddening. The violence and agility with which she could use her ass surpassed anything I had ever experienced before. Her motion didn't last more than a moment, but it was enough to put me in serious trouble. Then she stopped and lay still again.
Despite the fact that she had me on the very brink of coming, I still did not want to separate our bodies; I wanted her to know that I did not like to be hurried.
I told her mat I thought she was beautiful and desirable, but that since I was twenty years old I was no longer a child; that I was not the type that liked to be run by a woman. I don't know how I ever managed to get all that out, for she had worked me up to a point where I could hardly hold myself in. She could have easily told me that she was just finishing something I had already started, but she said nothing, merely remained silent with a secret little smile that seemed to reflect some inner thought.
Then finally she said tenderly, “Don't worry, I won't break your tail. I'm sucking you. Can you feel it? I'm sucking you with my ass.”
I didn't know what she was doing, but it was true that her mouth couldn't have excited me more than her ass was doing. It was becoming difficult for me to speak at all.
She watched the reflection in my face of the sensations that were pouring through my body and, without ever needing to ask a question to find out how close I was, began to increase bit by bit the excitement of her loins to a slow crescendo. I think that I must have said, “Faster!” but that she refused. I have only a very vague memory of those last few seconds, for the spasm that she wrung out of my flesh was a sort of unconscious convulsion that I do not know how to describe.
The first question I could regain composure enough to ask her came after several full minutes of silence.
“What did you do to me?”
“A pretty little trick with my asshole,” she said, laughing. “But you've already cornholed so many women…”
“Yes, an hour ago. A pretty little girl that didn't do too badly either, but…”
“Not badly at all. She's got a muscle there, hasn't she? And she can really move.”
“But you…”
“But I'm the first one who ever sucked you with her asshole, eh? You want to know how I did it? I'll tell you tomorrow, but let me get up now. You want to know the reason for that too, I suppose? To put the little child to bed that you just gave me: the little sister of my three daughters.”
When she returned, arranging the hair at the nape of her neck, but still nude, my mouth failed to realize that she was less interested in repairing her coiffure than in showing off the breasts of which she was very proud.
I'm not one of those children who pine away for older women, but a thirty-six year-old seductress, when she's beautiful from head to foot and at all points between is what a sculptor would call a real “woman,” and what a lover would call a real “piece.”
“And which one was not this woman?” Put the question to a contest and she would have had the vote of every man in existence going both ways.
Nude, Teresa resembled an operatic mezzo. To a whore, in other words, you will say. But I answer, not at all. You murmur that it is much the same thing? No. Not unless night and day are the same. If the only way you know actresses is through smoking-room conversations, don't say any more.
The type of beautiful singer that practically lives in her bed, and the often even more beautiful women that sing out their inner souls on the primrose path have scarcely any more in common than their habits of walking around nearly nude and treating themselves like whores.
However, the woman of the theatre always aspires with all her heart to greater and yet greater freedom, while the woman of the bordello needs more than anything else to enslave herself. Of the two, the profession that seems the most servile is the first, but in most cases the woman who follows it does so out of a spirit of independence: in order to free herself from a family or a lover. The whore throws herself into her career out of a need to obey the caprices of others rather than in order to carve for herself the path of her “daily life.
From her first year at the conservatory, the daughter of the theatre also makes herself a student of every crudity of the language. She considers it great sport to group fifteen words around an idea that doesn't merit one, and it is one of her talents to detach each from the other according to the strictest rules of articulation. The whore, on the other hand, has neither the taste nor the talent to make a science of cynical language. Freedom of language tempts her as little as does freedom of life. Thus there is no mistaking your woman when you don't know where she comes from. It suffices simply to listen to her cries in the act of love to determine whether a woman comes from a bordello or a theatre. Many men are fooled solely because they fail to realize this.
I had more proof than I needed in order to guess in Teresa's case what no one had told me. Her body, the unrestraint of her character and the crudity of her expression all pointed in the same direction.
“Are you an actress?” I asked her.
“No more. I used to be, but how did you know? Did Mauricette tell you?”
“No. It's easy to see. Or hear. Where have you been on the stage?”
Without answering, she lay down next to me on her stomach. I replied a little maliciously:
“You'll tell me tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“Stay here until then.”
“Until tomorrow morning? You want me to?”
She smiled and I thought she was going to accept. I was still a little weak, but she inspired me so that I was almost as ready to go as if I had not just finished. She lay stretched out next to me and said, “What do you want with me from now until tomorrow morning?”
“First to make love.”
“That's not hard.”
“Don't say that. You exasperate me. Why are you staying now, then?”
“Because my little work in the toilet would be ruined if I got up now. And then what would you want?”
“Everything.”
“How many times?”
“Oh, I don't know. With you I don't think I'd be keeping count. However, that shouldn't be hard either.”
Teresa gave me one of those long, silent looks of hers that I had so much difficulty in reading and understanding. And I suddenly felt that this woman who refused to answer any of my questions had suddenly inspired in me the most unexplainable and unexpected confidence, as if the certainty that she now had of being able to attract me could assure her also of my discretion. Or guard any secret if I happened to hear it from lips other than her own.
“Ricette told me that you kept your word to her. Can I tell you a secret? Yes? All right then, I used to live in Marseilles with my three daughters in an apartment. I had to leave because they changed their chief of police. There it is. You understand? Here I can probably stay quite a while without moving; but since I have a daughter with fire in her behind who was come to be cornholed by you the very first day… and her mother after her.”
Upon this, she began to laugh again, first to convince me that her secret really was quite unimportant, and secondly because she wanted to see me in a good humor before she told me the rest of her plans.
From the laugh she passed to caresses, and when she was sure of my state of mind as well as body she posed me a question in such a way that it was also the extraction of a confession.
“You're not enough of a virgin not to know what it's like with a little girl, are you? A real one, without hair, without teats: ever screw one like that?”
“Yes, but not often. Two, maybe four in all. Two real ones; the other two not quite as authentic.”
“Two, that's enough. You know that you don't run it into a kid like you do with a woman; you can only stick it in as far as the head. They can't take any more. You know that?”
“Sure. Why do you ask?”
“Because I'm going to send you my little Lili since you seem to have this mania for fucking. I don't want you knocking me up.”
The patient persons of both sexes that assumed the charge of my education taught me that when at a party, if one should invite a woman to dance and she should reply, “Dance with my daughter.” I should show neither regret, nor pleasure, nor indifference. The situation is very complex.
I knew it, but, completely nude, my polite education was less at my fingertips than usual. And then again I am much like Alexander. I destroy complexities rather than circumventing them.
“I don't think I'd exactly know how to handle myself with her. You'd better give me a lesson.” I said.
She suddenly became a little nervous and turning her head, gave a little laugh.
“You've never even seen what you're asking me for.”
“Show it to me.”
“Not from the front. You cornholed me from the front before, now you can see my pussy from the rear. But you know what I said?”
“And that will be the end?”
“Poor thing! If I stuff your cock into my mouth you'll be something to be pitied. And if I make your balls dance at the end of my tongue… You don't know my tongue, do you? Hold it… There, look!”
Still looking, I tried to take Teresa in a simpler, though not less agreeable manner, but she shut her thighs and held my arm.
“Don't you understand that you can't keep three daughters on a chain like three monkeys on a string? You think if they make love in Marseilles they're not going to do it in Paris? That if I take a lover they won't take six? Listen. You want me? You can have me. But you're going to have all four of us.”
I almost asked, horrified, “Every day?” but held myself in and tried to mask my anxiety with a thankful expression.
“I'm going to send you Lili,” she continued, “because she has to go to bed early and because kids like that are like society women: they get itchy asses in the afternoon. This evening I'll send you Charlotte for the night and tomorrow evening I'll come again. And if that doesn't satisfy you, you can go to the exchange department and get your money back.”
“I'm overwhelmed… Unfortunately, you seem to be getting ready to leave…”
“Not yet. In five minutes when I've kept my promise. But on two conditions. First, no coming. I won't either. Second, I'm not going to show you my beauties because I don't want you sucking them.”
That was all right with me. I would much rather prove my virility than try to compete with lesbians. And this preference becomes an unbreakable rule when the woman has other lovers. Always supple and agile, Teresa flipped around quickly to face the other way on my prone body. She was keeping her promise, all right. And the parts that I now had before my eyes I can only call extraordinary. Each was abnormal in one way or another: a protruding clitoris, great thin delicate lips, as black and red as the petals of an orchid. Within them, the throat of her vagina narrowed suddenly making the lips seem monstrous by comparison, while her anus formed a strange rosette of blackish brown on purple. But all around each one of these objects was the strangest of all her singularities — namely, her hair. Never before had I had a so thoroughly furred woman in my bed. The hair was everywhere: on her stomach, thighs, groin, crossing between her buttocks, mounting all the way up her rump, even climbing to…
Suddenly I could see nothing more. Teresa's tongue had touched my skin. My stung muscles tightened and knotted, and her tongue wandered everywhere, turning, probing, going under…
I shuddered… Teresa raised her head and jumped from the bed.
“Enough for now,” she said.
“You promised to leave me up in the air like this? You'd leave me in such a-state?”
“For Lili. I'm going to get her now. Make her think that you're hot for her. And tomorrow, you and I… all night. Okay?”
There's nothing I hate more than changing partners in mid-fuck. To desire one woman and have to possess another is really odious. So when Teresa had gone I decided that little Miss Lili would have to make me want her on her own, or else do without.
That resolved, I took from my library a heady novel by Henri Bordeaux that I had purchased expressly for the purpose of beating down rebellious erections.
By the seventh line it had achieved its purpose.