“Where were we?” she asked. “I can't remember. I don't feel the same as usual. What did you make me drink?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? When I drank your come with my mouth and my ass? I'm blotto. Tell me where we were in my story.”
“You said that when you were thirteen you came like a woman and that with your shaven cunt you…”
“The lesbians! The lesbians! Yes and it used to hurt me because I didn't know how to hold myself in. I remember one woman that wasn't much to look at, but what a tongue! The old cow! She used to make me sit on her face so that she wouldn't lose a drop. She once made me come three times in a row and every time she drained out more come than I thought I had in my whole body. The third time my legs were trembling as if she were sucking my blood.
“And I used to take on lesbians in all kinds of ways: there was a young English girl who never took off her clothes and who beat herself off while she was kissing my cunt! And a huge woman who always did it lying on her back and who tried to hide it the first time she came so that she could come twice for the price of once! And a kid of about fourteen who couldn't come yet and whose friend had mama and I work on her for about an hour. Then when her pussy was covered with saliva we made her think that she had come! And a hermaphrodite that dressed like a man and cornholed me with a dildoe while mama did the same to it with another.
“And all this time I was a virgin! It didn't seem to bother anyone. Mama used to say that it didn't make any difference whether or not a prostitute had a cunt.”
Charlotte laughed at her own words. And her laugh was so frank that I smiled despite the absurdity of the saying. But she took my smile for approbation and, sprawled on the bed, her arms stretched over her head, her knees in the air, seemed to be enjoying herself hugely.
“Ah! You don't know how happy it makes me to be able to show myself as I really am to you, to tell everything all night long! With every word of filth that leaves my mouth, I feel cleaner, as if I were washing myself.”
“Whoever invented the confession knew what he was doing.”
“But then again… (and she laughed once more)… with every word of filth I utter I feel like saying another yet.”
“Those who oppose the confession claim that you're right.”
“I once had a girlfriend whose mother made her confess every Saturday. The poor kid could never confess without fingering herself, so she had to hurry and beat herself off before going to receive absolution. Otherwise, she got so excited by what she'd just said that she'd have to go and get fucked as soon as she left the church.”
“Charlotte! Hands on the table, as they say at school!”
“But I too feel like…”
“You're completely crazy. Try to hold off for a quarter of an hour.”
“Oh well, it's your funeral. You know what you're risking.”
And, hands behind her head, legs crossed, she continued:
“While we're on the subject of churches… But first, I haven't said anything yet but you can guess: I had four times as many cornholers when I was thirteen as when I was ten. It was then that I first got my 'solid' asshole, as Ricette calls it, and mama no longer rationed the number of men that could take me, as she had before.
“I owe everything to my mother, even the character I have now — the one you see before you. She gave that to me when I was thirteen. It seems that I used to cry too much. It made my eyes red and it worried mama, because she was always afraid I was going to chuck myself out a window somewhere. So she taught me…”
She interrupted herself to change the position she was in…
“She's a wonderful woman, mama. In only eight days the made me a completely new character, the same as she would have made me a new dress.
“For a full week she slept alone with me, only taking on customers in the afternoons. She told me that I was old enough to know everything since I could now come like a woman, and that at my age it was ridiculous not to have any vices. So she wanted to give me a vice that would stand me in good stead the rest of my life.
“How did she go about it? She played with me (you're still such a kid when you're thirteen) and she beat me off while calling me all the names she could possibly think of. And since I got more of a kick out of being fingered by mama than anything else, the words that at first disgusted me ended up by exciting me. Both the words and the things. I won't say any more about that now, but I'll continue later on.
“So, in connection with the church (we certainly got a long way away from that!) one of my friends got a strange idea that same year. He wanted to cornhole me in a country church. Guess why.”
“Because you were so pious?”
“Exactly. He knew that I prayed every day to the Holy Virgin and that I often went to church for nothing except to say a little prayer. So he proposed… And, so pious was I, I immediately agreed. It was because…”
She paused, thinking a moment.
“It was because my prayers, you know… I always told everything to the Holy Virgin just like I'm telling you.”
I couldn't help smiling at that.
“Therefore,” she continued, “the Holy Virgin knew that I had been cornholed since I was eight because I always asked her to protect me there as well as in the mouth and to choose my lovers and my lesbians and to make me come as much and as often as possible. So I thought it wouldn't surprise her, the Holy Virgin, if she saw me doing it… A little vicar to whom I told that one evening in my bed said that when I did that I committed a terrible sacrilege. I hardly doubt it.
“It was even one of the gayest days of my life. We left together, alone in his auto. My friend was rather young. When we arrived in the village, where he was well known, he got the keys of the church from the beadle under the pretext of showing me the monument. In those days, I had the innocent attitude of a school girl, and I've hardly changed since then, have I? Look at me. Do I look like a whore?”
“Not in the least!”
“Mama is always saying, 'Charlotte would find a husband on a desert before she would a customer on a streetcar!' And within an hour after I asked you to treat me like a slut you couldn't.”
“No, my dear. However, continue the story of your devotions in the country church. Your hair is the longest and most beautiful in the world and you look like a Magdalene.”
“That's the first time you've ever called me whore!” she said, laughing.
But I finally got her back to her story.
“So you two entered the church with the keys. And naturally you locked up again from the inside?”
“Oh, yes. And then we were feeling so gay that we really made a scene. I went and kneeled in the Virgin's chapel and he came and said, 'Are you praying, miss?' 'No sir. I'm fingering myself.' 'Oh, but whyever for?' “Because my snatch is itching and other things are bothering me that I hardly dare tell you of.' 'Why does all that itch so?' 'Because I can never kneel down without wanting someone to cornhole me.' I was a brat! You could have had me coming from morning to night. So then he got down behind me, but the kneelers in a church are very poorly constructed for cornholing little girls.”
“You say the damndest things, Charlotte.”
“My asshole was too low. So I went and knelt on one of the altar steps and it was just right.”
“Altar steps are better planned for cornholing young girls?”
“You would have thought they were made for it! Our position there was so good that as soon as he was in me I felt like coming, and I really discharged a wad! I thanked the Holy Virgin because I thought that I owed it all to her.
“After that, I didn't know what to do with the come that I had in my ass. They don't have any bidets in churches and the Holy Water basins are all too high. Those basins are really very badly placed. But, lifting by chance one of the kneeler-covers, I found a new handkerchief that some old woman had put there for crying her sins out into the next Sunday. Instead of tears, however it received my come, and I wiped my ass properly with it. Would you like to do it sometime? Cornhole me in a church? Ill do it again if you want.”
Charlotte was excited. She fidgeted her legs about and became very red in the face.
The brutality of her last two sentences whispered to me that a new crisis was approaching, for the tone of her voice had changed along with the expression on her face. Harsh, pained, a little breathless, she continued:
“That happens to me all the time, to come when someone sticks a rod into my rear. Every-day it happens, even with old men. And all the thanks go to mama for it.
“She used to fake it in front of me so that I would get carried away until I let myself go like men do, and I would do the same things as she only with all my heart. When I was thirteen and fourteen I could already come without touching myself just from being excited in the ass. And the more the one working me over scraped me the better I liked it.
“I was still a virgin by the time I was fifteen, and mama kept on shaving my mound and my cunt, but she let the hair grow back into my ass. Nothing excited men that came to see me as much as seeing a bare scrap of a kid from the front and a hairy asshole in the back that they could cornhole or put their fingers into or rub with their tongue.
“For Mardi Gras they made me a clown a costume with a little panel of cloth over the asshole that could be removed so I wouldn't have to undress completely. I supped with seven men and a woman named Fernande who was naked. Mother was naked too but, because of my last remaining virginity, she kept me partly dressed and wouldn't let me dine alone with anyone. The seven men bet that they could cornhole me three times each and that I would have enough come in my ass when they finished to fill a champagne glass; and Fernande said that if they succeeded then she would drink the glass.
“Mother replied that she had done as well as that when she was my age and that I was old enough to do the same. And she said that she would take it upon herself to give anyone a hard-on who needed one if they couldn't get it themselves.
“I had never been cornholed more than thirteen times in a day before, but I was ready and excited and I cried, 'Done!' and raised the panel over my ass.
“It probably doesn't seem like anything to you, but twenty-one cornholings lasted from one to four in the morning?”
Charlotte, more and more excited, got astride of me, lay on me and cried with a sort of triumph in her voice:
“So! You won't treat me like the slut I am, and…”
“No! Shut up!”
She was in such a state of excitement that I had to satisfy her at all costs. And I didn't want to wait for a new outburst of frenzied filth.
For the few seconds that it took her to get into position so that I could penetrate I managed to keep my hand over her mouth; but after that, when she felt me solidly inside her, she freed herself from the gag and couldn't stop trembling.
At first she only touched me with her thighs, then began rubbing the hairs of her ass against my sex, and finally began to twist the lower part of her body down and away from me while raising the top half, as if she wanted to get her face as far away as possible from where I was screwing her. And she never stopped trembling.
From her head to her stomach to the tips of her toes she never stopped trembling.
Slowly she became more and more beautiful.
“The first series of seven went quickly; the second slowly; the third seemed as if it would never end. The thing that hurt me the most was the fact that we were doing all this in a private room at a restaurant and they didn't even have a sofa. I was three hours, prick in ass, on the floor or on a table. You can see why I began to get a little tired.
“But finally I won the bet, and Fernande won it too… I filled it right to the brim and… oh! I'll say it until you cry out! That's what I did when I was fifteen! I got myself cornholed twenty-one times in a row and after that I filled a champagne glass with come and I gave it to a woman to drink… What else do I have to tell you for you to admit that I'm a slut?”
She fell back on the bed weak and exhausted, as if she had just relived her story. I thought that she had finished talking and was going to quiet down at last, so I replied in a low voice, “Nothing. Be quiet now and go to sleep. I'm going to stretch out myself…”
She suddenly arose, leaning on one elbow, and began talking again, but so calmly that I let her go on. I never suspected what I was to hear.
“Do you know Mr. W- who is (she gave me his title) at Aix? The year before last, when I was eighteen, he took me for the first time one June evening. I could see that he was the vicious type, and he had a huge dog with him, so I proposed to him to suck the dog.”
“Charlotte!”
“Dog's come tastes terrible and it's very tiring to suck them because they never finish coming, the poor beasts. But I was used to it. And when you're a whore a mutt is less disgusting than a magistrate. Unfortunately though, this guy had never seen his dog sucked by a woman and it excited him so much that for fifteen Sundays in a row, until the end of September…”
She interrupted herself, with a sigh, turning her head as if she had just lost her breath.
“Excuse me… Listen… You'll never guess… He had a house in the country with a barnyard… He used to give all his servants the Sunday off… even the gardener, and he brought me… I was there alone with him… always naked with my hair loose down my back, it was in the summer… To do what? Make love? Oh, no! Not with a whore! It amused him tremendously every Sunday to see an eighteen year old girl drinking the come of all his animals.
“He had a carpenter make him a kind of small wooden stable or corral like those they use to hold cows and mares when they're breeding them. But instead of putting the female in it, he would put the males into it, and when the stallion or bull was tied up, I would get underneath them… I didn't have a big enough mouth for the horses, but with my hands and my tongue…”
She saw me grow pale and, obeying that quirk of her character that made her rise around the word “whore” and its connotations from the plaintive to the exalted, she began to grow more excited from sentence to sentence.
“You know, I drank the come of horses, donkeys, bulls, dogs, even pigs. The fourth Sunday he gave me a bowl with the come of a donkey in it and asked me what it was. I knew easily. I know the different kinds of come better than the different kinds of wine. I've emptied more balls than bottles in my life.
“And it's nothing at all to do that sort of thing. Even the horse is easy as long as you swallow right. All you do is stick your head underneath, do you follow me? Put it between his chest and his parts so that you get his milk on your palate and not down your throat. That way you don't strangle on it. I swallowed everything like that. Believe me, I wasn't thirsty afterwards.”
“For God's sake, shut up! This is worse than anything you've said!”
“Oh, no. The wont of all is the goat! I'm brave when I'm fingering myself, but what stuff…! I had to get rid of it, spit it out! When my lover, I mean my customer, saw that I couldn't stand it like that, he still wanted his goat to do something, so he had me sucking his donkey, his bull, his dog, and his dogs for four or five Sundays and then he had the goat mount me… He put me on all fours in the garden, completely nude… You still don't want to call me a slut? But I came, you hear? I came all the time the goat was fucking me.
“And after that I drank the goat's come the last few Sundays. Listen to me… Look at me… I drank the goat's come five times! So to pay me for it he bought me a monkey, and the monkey cornholed me too and I drank its come just like I would a man's. You wouldn't believe the things I did between the twentieth of August and the end of September!
“That's when he got tired of making me suck the male animals and decided to have me eat out the females. He had three: another goat, a heifer, and a female ass, and I ate them out on my knees. Then he screwed them himself, saying that he would rather come in an animal than to give his wad to a whore like me, but that I could look for it in their cunts… or in their asses when he cornholed them.”'
“You're delirious! You're mad! You're making all this up!”
“On my mother's head. I swear to you that it's true! You want proof? Do it in front of me and I'll tell you in advance how it is. You don't know anything, you. How would I know how it all goes if I hadn't done it myself five Sundays in a row? In an animal's cunt, the come goes in deeply, you have to fish it out with your finger. But in their asses, it comes out by itself and you can just lick it off!”
“Charlotte, I can't take any more! That's enough! Don't say any more, for God's sake! Go to sleep! Lie down! Calm yourself! I don't know what to say to you… You're crazy, you're pretty, you love me, you don't ever fuck… You love me and yet you'd do more to disgust me than you'd ever do to attract someone…”
“You'll never put your mouth against mine again?”
“No.”
“Tell me that I'm a slut.”
“No. You're too beautiful. Go ahead and roll your beauty in filth, it will still be your beauty.”
“Tell me that I'm a slut just the same.”
“You're a poor unfortunate girl! I don't believe all this stuff you've been saying, and I've scarcely even heard it! You can only make me feel two things towards you: desire, despite what you say, and pity, a great deal of pity.”
Two things? I felt rather three. The weakest was desire; the strongest what I hadn't mentioned. Don't think it was disgust. I pitied Charlotte so much that I could cover the rest of her life, her unknown life, with this cloak. My strongest feeling and instinct was to go to sleep.
The tremendous upsetting emotions that are left in residue when our most tragic moments wash away exact a heavy toll from our minds, our hearts, our memories. I think that Shakespeare was the only man who ever used the word “sleepy” after a terrible scene. It was the supreme, the only apt word. And I felt like sleeping. To sleep without ever dreaming, to roll even my most intimate and subconscious thought? away in sleep. To sleep like a dead man.
“I'll do anything. I defy you to find something I won't do with you, for you, under you. Order me; you'll see how I'll obey you.”
She was trembling from head to foot, but her craze was none the less frightening to me because she was no longer mysterious. And what struck me the most was that Charlotte became more and more beautiful the wilder became her delirium.
Very seriously, with an expression I might even call tragic, and holding her face away from mine to show that she wasn't even worthy of a kiss, she ceased for the moment to imagine all the things that I wouldn't ask her to do or to tell me everything that she would do and (I've already mentioned the logical instinct of those persons with essentially simple souls) she recovered her spirit on a basis of reality.
“You cornhole me,” she said, “and you've been doing it for my pleasure, but it's also my trade. I'm nothing but a girl who earns her living with her asshole. What is a slut if I'm not one? I'm twenty years old, I come to your rooms without ever knowing you, strip myself, finger myself, spread my thighs, and say, 'Cornhole me!' And you cornhole me three times like the whore that I am! And the more you do it the more I love you!”
She fell against me with her mouth open against my shoulder and said in a plaintive voice:
“I beg you… You see, I'm not touching myself and yet I'm going to come… But while you're getting a hard-on in my ass, tell me… tell me… what you're going to do later in my mouth. Please! Tell me when you discharge… Call me slut! I… I-And I'll say… Yes, oh, yes!”
Then, as if even that idea wouldn't do in her present state, she shouted, almost crying:
“No, I love you too much now… That wouldn't be enough… You'll have to do it to me first! You'll do it to me now, tonight! I want you to do it to me so I can forget the others. But then… tomorrow… you can show me that I'm the lowest of all whores… You'll bring one of your girlfriends here and fuck her in front of me without even looking to see if I'm fingering myself or crying…”
“You think I'd do that?”
“And then when you've cornholed her she can be the one to…”
“You're not going to say another word!” I cried, putting my hand over her mouth.
“I'm coming! I'm coming!” she shouted between my fingers.
This time, Charlotte, in coming, cried like she was being stabbed, then fell into a sudden deep torpor and immediately went to sleep.
As pale as the young man in “The Crimson Curtain,” I was trying to wake her from her swoon when I heard three small knocks on my door.
I opened the door to Teresa dressed only in a slip.
“What are you doing? Cutting her up in pieces?” said she with an expression like a good-humored procuress that simultaneously shocked me, reassured me, and left me speechless.
I brought her into the room and showed her the body of her daughter. She caught at first glance the tiny tremblings of her hips, like the nervous twitch of a horse's flank, and without the least anxiety drew me into the adjoining room and closed the door.
“What's wrong with her?” I asked.
“Virgin!” she replied.
“That's a little stiff! I know that I'm twenty years old, an age at which you let yourself be intimidated by every strange woman that comes along, but nevertheless I've had one woman, two girls, and one kid in the last twelve hours and I don't think that I missed…”
“No, but do you think that we let anyone miss any of us?” Teresa said merrily.
“Even so, I got six shots in and…”
“So… That makes three with Charlotte. And you're asking what's wrong with her! Don't look at me with that stupid expression, as if you were getting ready to say, 'I think maybe she needs a couple more.'“
“Thanks for prompting me.”
“I sent you Charlotte last because she's the ideal companion for tired men.”
“Thanks again.”
“You had just had three odalisques, so I said to myself, 'Charlotte is a good girl and she'll suck him. They'll talk for an hour or so and then they'll go to sleep.' Charlotte is gentleness-itself; «he was born for sleeping at a man's side.”
“Oh yeah? You're as crazy as she is. She's nuts, your daughter, for screwing. She's a nymphomaniac, that girl, with her innocent, lazy attitude. She's an onanist and a masochist extraordinary. She's everything you can think of that ends in 'ist' and 'mane'!”
“Like you say, she's everything that one could want,” said Teresa, her temper rising. “You can mold her to your wishes like a lump of dough, and if she went crazy tonight it's because you made her like that. Did I come in your bed? How was I supposed to know that in saving my daughter for you that you would fuck her into heat without doing anything for her?”
With a smile she softened the harshness of her word? and went into the bedroom. Taking off her slip, she laid down on the bed next to Charlotte, took her into her arms, awakened her, and from her first words, I understand that she knew a lot better than I what the girl needed.
With her first words, Charlotte opened her eyes. Her mother drew her close and said with a loving tenderness, “What's wrong, my poor little chippie?”
“Mama!” cried Charlotte in a tiny voice, throwing her arms around her neck.
“Do you think I'd let you kiss me with that whore's mouth of yours? What have you been doing? I can smell come on your tongue.”
“I drank some,” said Charlotte, half closing her eyes.
“Little slut! Why don't you ever sleep with your mother? How come I find you naked in a young man's bed at three in the morning? What do you deserve?”
Bewildered, I sat on the end of the bed listening to this dialogue.
Do I have to remind you that I was twenty years old at the time and that Charlotte was the same age? And that a girl of that age can dominate a boy her equal just about as she pleases? And beneath my very eyes I saw her accepting a scolding like a little child…! And this Charlotte that fought me in my arms when I treated her like a woman found it completely natural for her mother to speak to her as if she were a seven year old.
Teresa shot me a glance that said, “Please be quiet!” or perhaps, “Keep your damned trap shut!” I couldn't tell which. The vocabulary of glances is at best a little uncertain. Then she began again with Charlotte:
“What have you just been doing here? Answer me!”
“I've just been cornholed,” sighed Charlotte.
“You mean he wanted to cornhole a whore like you?”
“He didn't want me to be a whore,” she said quickly, her eyes closed. “The first time he cornholed me while I fingered myself and he came in my ass. Then the second time I came before he did, so I took his dick out of my ass and put it my mouth…”
“What a little slut!”
“Oh, that's not all!” said Charlotte, with a twist of her body that startled me. “I asked him to” (and she spoke so low that I couldn't hear what she said). “And when he cornholed me the third time, I didn't even touch myself, I was so excited. I wanted to come just from him being in my ass and I wanted him to say it when I came…”
“Don't you have any shame at all?”
“Yes, I'm ashamed. But I wanted him to do it, only he's even stupider than me. He didn't want either to do it or to say it or anything! anything! anything!”
Then, like a nurse or a nun speaking from the bedside of a patient who can't hear anything, Teresa said to me in a loud voice, “She needs someone to beat her off once more.”
Completely nude, Charlotte's mother got up from the bed, left the room, and came back in a few minutes later carrying something wrapped in paper. With all the authority of a mother-in-law caring for her daughter in her son-in-law's presence, she said, “Lei me alone for a while. You don't have to do anything now. You've had your six shots, now take it easy. Sit down at the foot of the bed and relax.”
Teresa hadn't warned me for nothing, because from the very first words the dialogue took on a strangely urgent tone. Pulling at her own flesh and in a trembling and plaintive voice, Charlotte groaned:
“Look, mama. Look what's coming out of my asshole. The crack in my behind is full of come, and he still doesn't want to say that I'm a whore.”
“The trouble is you haven't done enough yet.”
“But it's him! I'd do everything, but he won't!”
“He doesn't know that you're the lowest of all the sluts.”
“Oh! You'll say it to me while you finger me! You're the only one that understands me, mama!”
All of this was intended to make me think that Teresa was going to beat her daughter off in order to relax her; but I wasn't as much of a novice as the Italian woman thought and, without ever letting the slightest trace of surprise cross my face, I saw that beyond the shadow of a doubt she was masturbating poor Charlotte only in order to drive her even wilder. My young female readers will have understood by this time what I'm getting at, but for the others I will explain that Teresa, instead of hastening Charlotte's spasm, was indefinitely retarding it, making the girl wait and hope for it from one moment to the next.
I think that this little trick amazed me more than the entire preceding scene, and I must confess that I began to wonder exactly what Teresa was trying to do and what she was expecting it all to lead to.
“Let's show him,” said Charlotte, breathing hard.
“Let's show him that I'm really the lowest of all whores. You told me that I've got the mouth of a whore and that my tongue smells like come. Now tell me to stick it into his ass! But the whole thing! All of my tongue right into the hole!”
“And you'll be happy?”
“Oh, yes! Yes! And another thing… I want him to make love to you in front of me and then I want him to make me get underneath you two. You'll be his mistress and I'll be his whore. And then you'll see how much I want his prick! But even so I'll put it into your body myself, and I'll lick his balls while he's cornholing you, and then I'll… I'll do the two things…”
“Tell us what you'll do in a loud voice.”
“I'll suck his dick afterwards without cleaning it, and then you can shit his come out into my mouth! Oh, mama! Mama! Why can't I come?”
I knew why all right and the whole purpose behind the scene became suddenly clear when, with a quick spontaneous movement, Charlotte threw herself around and jammed her head between Teresa's thighs as if she were looking there for her own pleasure. It was obvious that Teresa had known what was coming.
“Me first?”
“Yes, right away!”
“What about the thing I brought in for you?”
She unfolded the paper and took out the object that she had gone into her room looking for such a short time ago: a dildoe, large, well-worn, and stained.
Charlotte laughed, and the laugh halted her crisis for a moment. She turned towards me and said, but in the gayest and most natural voice, as if it were the simplest thing in the world to do: “Cornhole mama.”
Teresa didn't protest.
“Cornhole mama,” she repeated. I'll eat her out at the same tune, and then afterwards I'll suck your dick. I want your come and hers and if I get them both I'll be the happiest of the three of us.”
Since she was silent for a moment awaiting my reply, Teresa said, “Look at this big booby crossing his legs because he's shot six wads and can't get another hard-on.”
“Try not to get an erection for my cunt, so try not to get one for my ass either.”
Even in the face of her mocking voice, I hesitated to say that the little scene which she and Charlotte had just performed had cooled me off much more than it had tempted me. I kept my mouth shut because my temptress was deliberately defying me. Teresa had done practically nothing to awaken my loins, but she attracted them with her cunt, as she had said, and with a science that I can only call remarkable.
In fact she soon had me back into a state of excitement, which, when she became aware of it, in turn had Charlotte trembling with passion. It would have given her less than half as much pleasure if I had taken her instead of taking her mother in front of her.
“My tongue first,” she cried. “Look! Look how I can cornhole mama with my tongue! Now give me your prick, I'll open her buttocks… Ha! Ha! I told you that I earned my living with my asshole, but no! I'm even lower than that! I'm the kind that is only good for licking asses and opening the cheeks of a woman when you're getting set to cornhole her! That's the kind of woman I am!”
Then, since Teresa turned towards me while she was opening her thighs for her daughter's mouth, Charlotte, getting more and more excited, said, “You want to say something mama? You want to say something? I know him. He won't say anything… and I, I can't. So say something. Keep talking all the time or I'll quit and beat myself off.”
Teresa must have been used to this caprice of her daughter's because she began to speak and never stopped for an instant.
“Quick, your tongue! And I absolutely forbid you to beat yourself off while you're sucking me. What are you doing attacking my snatch like that? You want me to start coming in fifteen seconds? What's wrong, you have another customer waiting behind the door that you haven't finished sucking yet, whore? Don't press so hard. Lick my lips, you can return to the snatch when I tell you.”
She shot me a glance that said, “That's how you have to talk to her!” and continued without stopping:
“What rottenness this girl is! There are children you nurse at the breast with milk, but I nursed her at my ass with come. And now that she's twenty years old she still sticks her tongue into my behind. How could such a slut ever have come from my pussy?
“Who could you do the things to that I've done to you? I come into your lover's room, I take him away from you right under your eyes, and in the same bed while he's making me wet myself you come and lick my ass. You're lower than any whore I've ever seen! Even a procuress wouldn't do the things you do!
“You're mad, too! You spend your days beating yourself off in front of your sisters and crying that it's too bad to have so many lesbians in one family and even then you wind up coming all by yourself. And tonight you finally found a prick that could make you come! Now look where it is! It's in my ass right up to the root, and the only thing you have left is the balls to lick.
“Your tongue on my snatch now, dirty little lecher. But not so fast! Slow down! Your lover is cornholing me very nicely and I don't want to come before he does… What's wrong now? You thinking of the come that I'm going to piss into your mouth, sow? And it makes you tremble? If I were on you you'd see how I'd scrape your hair. I'd show you how to lick an ass! Go now! Go ahead! You can have my damned come if you want it! But it isn't for you that it's flowing, it's because of your lover's prick! Oh, it's his cock that's driving me crazy! Faster your tongue…! Faster! Ah! Again! There where you are! Ah! Slut! Slut! Ah! He's fingering my teats while he cornholes me…! And what a whore this Charlotte is when she's thirsty! Are you kissing his balls? Is that what's making him so hard way up inside me? Ah, you little… Oh, you're making me come too! Go ahead then, take it! There it is! There's my come for you! Wash your face in it you dirty little bitch! whore! slut! fairy! cocksucker!”
And Charlotte, already drunk with what she had swallowed, “washed her face in it,” as her mother put it, and what followed I was too worked up to prevent. I would have liked to have missed the whole thing after that, and even as it was it all seemed like a dream or a hallucination.
I lost and regained consciousness before it happened, and as I re-opened my eyes I saw Chariot kneeling, holding out her cupped hand… I can't finish the sentence. She was triumphant; she was crazed; she cried out to her mother: You see!” You see!”
And then she licked her hand clean with her tongue before returning once again to Teresa.
She shook her head and cried again, “Your come, mama! The come that you have left in your ass! Shit it into my mouth while I finger myself in so he can call me a slut when I come.
“In front of him?” teased Teresa.
“Yes! Yes! In front of him! Fill my mouth,” cried Charlotte, looking at me with haggard eyes.
A person crazed by love is the most tragic sight of which the mind can conceive. Where is the man so gross that he doesn't shudder at the obscene songs of Ophelia? And what other man or woman could fail to understand why, in the middle of the following scene, I suddenly saw my face as white as a shroud in one of the room's mirrors?
I'm trying to re-order my memories…
Teresa was more worried about me than about her daughter, and without listening to my feelings, said in a low voice, “Well? You saw that? Eh? Well go ahead and tell her that you saw… No? Why not? You came didn't you? Can't you see what this means to her? If she disgusts you, say so: it'll excite her.”
Excite her! 'The girl was already half crazed with excitement!
Standing, Charlotte stuck the dildoe into her behind and began working it with her left hand while she beat herself off in front with her right. She had her legs spread and her stomach working like a young madwoman masturbating herself in front of an unknown visitor to her cell; that it to say that she was using her finger, facing me directly, with an expression combining impudence and unhappiness on her face.
When I was fifteen I saw… I'm telling this to try to put off the end of this horrible narrative a little… I saw a girl fingering herself in a garden once, and she was facing me in the same position, but gayly, mockingly. I didn't know at the time that it was a gesture of the mad. I know it now.
Charlotte, still standing, still with her finger in her cunt, was spouting filth in a jerky, staccato voice. I'll let them pass. She finished like that.
“For two hours I've felt like… He doesn't want… My month disgusts him… Show him, mama… How I could have taken it under him… The way I learned… without staining anything.”
When I heard those miserable words “The way I learned… without staining anything…” But why emphasize a scene such as that one. The words she had just spoken seemed to me among the saddest I had ever heard, and yet Charlotte had spoken them with a real fervor.
She finally went into the bathroom, lay down on the ceramic-tiled floor, the top part of he body supported by a single elbow, her head thrown back, her mouth open, and began to masturbate frenziedly. She didn't seem to feel the cold of the tile floor.
The more she fingered the more avid she became to vilify herself. I used to have the words she uttered at this time written down, but I've just ripped up the page. I don't even have the courage to re-read it to the end. There are two things my reader will never know: the words that Charlotte spoke on this occasion and the haste with which I am finishing this chapter.
Scenes taken from life are much more difficult to relate than those invented by the author because the logic inherent in life is less clear and less easily seen than the logic of a tale. Do you think that the culminating point of this narration ought to be the act which I just witnessed? I don't. And I don't know if I will be able to properly explain why.
First of all I was there for a quarter of an hour and the things I imagine are generally more interesting than reality. Besides that, I can justly say that the most infamous role of the performance, Teresa's, was played with a prodigious feminine address. I consider it undescribable, probably only because my faculties for expression are limited.
Teresa had a remarkable body, as I've already said several times. She was the daughter of two acrobats, as you will learn, and she handled herself exactly like a gymnast rehearsing an exercise with her partner. And all this time she looked at me the calm expression of one performing a classic among exercises; a classic that seemed to her more natural than to my troubled mind…
Five minutes later I was alone.