The Adventures of Holly White and the Incredible Sex Machine

by Krissy Kneen

  ‘A superhero? Me? All because of a little flash of light?’

  ‘Of course. That little flash of light is just a tiny burst of power. Imagine if this accumulator could trap the full force of every orgasm you had and store it like a battery. We could light a whole city. A city powered completely by pleasure. It would change our whole relationship to sex. And think of the environment! Global warming? Fixed!’

  ‘But what if it can’t be repeated?’ She rested her fingers on the bulb at the head of the bed, cold now and dark. ‘Isn’t it true that scientists need to prove their results by repeating their experiments a number of times?’

  She could feel the soft brush of cotton against her bare bottom as she leaned back against the high side of the bed.

  He grinned. ‘I think we have depleted all the orgone in the accumulator. It takes time to regenerate when it is spent.’

  She moved forward, leaned against the side of the bed closest to where he stood. She lifted her skirt, hidden now by the tall panel of wood. Her thighs were still damp with her spilled juices, she slipped her fingers up to the cleft between them. So slippery, her fingers played at the curls of dark hair there. Her cunt was warm and open and it seemed impossible to stop her fingers from slipping inside. She stared at Nick’s trousers, noticed the shadow of the fabric peaking there.

  ‘I have time,’ she said. ‘And by the look of you the orgone is beginning to accumulate already.’ She leaned against the side of the bed, slipped a second, then a third finger into the slippery O of her vagina. She moaned a little, felt her eyelids growing heavy, her nipples hardening against the wood.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  She opened her eyes a fraction. The lump in his crotch was growing larger. ‘Take off your pants,’ she told him, surprised by the force behind her words.

  ‘Why? What are you doing to yourself behind there?’

  ‘Take off your pants and I’ll tell you.’

  She watched as he fumbled with his belt, unzipped his fly. The hard protrusion spilled out immediately, hidden only by the flimsy cotton of his underwear. He hopped and shuffled his way out of his pants. When he was free of them she nodded to his crotch and he removed his underwear.

  ‘I’ve got three of my fingers inside myself.’ She rewarded him with this information. ‘They are in right up to the knuckles. I’m so wet I can feel it dripping down my hand.’

  ‘Really?’

  She could see his hands trembling slightly as they hung uselessly at his side.

  ‘Look,’ she said, removing her hand from her crotch and holding it out towards him. The wet trail of juice spilled down over her wrist, glistening with that wonderful light. As if she had dipped her hand into a fire and pulled it white hot out of the furnace.

  ‘Here,’ she said, ‘come closer.’

  When he was close enough she reached towards the tight slap of his cock and grasped it in her slippery fist. She wiped her juices down the shaft and up again. He was completely lubricated in her wetness and he thrust forward against her hand, slipping up and back until his pleasure built to a low moan. She pressed her other equally damp hand against his mouth, stifling it as she might press her cunt against his face to silence him. She watched as his eyes rolled upwards towards the ceiling, felt his tongue lick out to taste her.

  ‘Wait,’ she told him, ‘climb inside the accumulator first. We don’t want to waste a drop of that orgone, do we?’

  And she pulled on the plaited cord until the accumulator closed around them and over their heads.

  She woke in the night and Nick was sitting at the small desk in the corner of the room writing furiously. Every few sentences he paused to run his hand through his hair. He stood, paced, stopped to peer out of the window. He seemed unsettled. He sat and turned a page and attacked the blank paper with his pen as if he wanted to scratch it into submission with his words. The little box was sitting beside him on the table and he picked it up and tapped it and peered at the dial.

  Holly turned away from him. She curled her knees up towards her chest. She dipped her hand between her legs and found a little pool of dampness waiting for her there. Her finger was stained a bright blue when she removed it and for the first time in her life she smiled at the sight of her internal light. Nick had loved the glow at her crotch. Nick had worshipped at it, fondled it, traced his lips with her glow in the dark gloss. Holly wiped her finger on his pillow and the light burned there for a minute with the intensity of a kiss.

  She was a little chilly and she pulled the covers up over her shoulders. He would come to bed soon. She waited for him patiently, but at some point her eyelids began to drift closed once more and she sank into the sweetest dreams. If Nick had climbed up into the accumulator he would have noticed Holly smiling in her sleep.

  Quiet Days in Clichy

  by HENRY MILLER

  Parisians these days didn’t dress quite as beautifully as the women in Story of O. Holly sat by herself at a café, ordered un café and felt gratified by the nod from the waitress. ‘Toilette’ afforded her a surly nod in the right direction and she pushed her luck a little with a ‘plat du jour’ which was a safer option for her than trying to untangle the words on the menu. The slices of meat that arrived were tender, and complemented perfectly by greens tossed in herbs and butter and some kind of fruity sauce. Holly took little bites to make the meal last, resisting the urge to eat the whole thing in an ecstatic frenzy.

  She looked out at the street where the Parisian women were strolling very stylishly. The dresses were plainer now, it seemed, than when Pauline Réage was observing them in 1970. The women no longer wore teetering platform clogs. Still, there was a certain sensuality in participating in everyday tasks that reminded her that she was not in Brisbane anymore.

  She watched an older lady pause at a street stall near the entryway to Le Marché des Enfants Rouges. The woman, touching a fig with the tip of her finger, might have been pressing a young girl’s breast. She was perhaps eighty. She was wrinkled, her neck was a knot of folded skin, but she held herself as if she were a girl. Walked with a gentle bounce in her step, her hand poised elegantly at her side, the fingers cupped slightly as if enjoying the sensation of frosty air held in her palm as she walked on.

  Holly wondered if a woman of eighty still found the inclination to take a lover. Discreetly leaving her husband at home to go to market, and climbing the long winding flight of stairs into some other old man’s home instead. Was Pauline Réage still sexual when she died? Would O, in Réage’s novel, have continued to enjoy her sexual submission with many men long into her twilight years? Holly, a little distracted from the task of reading by almost constant orgone accumulation, was only halfway through the book but she hoped that it ended beautifully for O.

  She watched the old woman lift her skirts lightly as she walked across the road, the automatic gesture of someone more used to gowns than the kind of mid-calf heavy woollen skirt she was wearing today. Holly imagined the woman lifting the skirt over her elegantly styled grey hair, released from the burden of her clothing, and suspected that she would be magnificent. The years played out on her skin, her breasts bowing to the weight of ardent attention, a body done with shyness, abandoning itself completely to the pursuit of pleasure, not wasting a second.
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  The waitress spoke to Holly then. The words were a jumble of pretty but meaningless syllables. Holly blinked up into a rather sweet young face and saw then that the old woman was strangely far more beautiful than the young one.

  ‘L’addition?’ She had learnt that from a phrasebook, and hoped she was asking for the bill. The pretty young girl flounced back with a receipt in a saucer and Holly searched the unfamiliar notes in her pocket for some euros to leave on the plate.

  She walked back to Nick’s apartment holding only the slightly battered copy of O in her hand. Not hiding it, proud now to be reading about sex in Paris. She took the stairs quickly, thinking all the while of the elderly woman, the slow but beautiful climb that would lead her to her gently aging lover. At the top of the stairs, as Holly knocked, she hugged the paperback to her chest. She was on her new lover’s doorstep in the city of love. It was impossible to stop herself from grinning like a simpleton with pure joy.

  He hugged her too tightly and picked her up with the awkwardness of someone unused to physical stress. He carried her to the accumulator and tried, failing, to lift her over the side. She was laughing, couldn’t stop. She felt lighter than she had since school. He struggled to perch her on the edge of the bed and she allowed herself to drop back, joyous, unburdened.

  He was at her in a second, peeling off her pants and pushing up her shirt. Her bra tugged roughly down and her nipple peeping over the edge of the cup as if to watch the proceedings. He clamped his mouth onto the glowing dampness of her slit and she felt his tongue unseal her, pushing the lips apart to expose the gape of flesh, the hungry pink O slick with his spit now and beginning to moisten with her own juices.

  He pushed her legs wide with the palms of his hands. She was stretched and open to him. He shuffled back to admire the shock of bright blue yawning through her dark thatch; he pulled at a curl and she felt her lips stretch wider. He was watching the shine of wetness gathering in the cleft, squinting at the light. She looked down to see him extend a finger, smooth the fluid around her labia. He gathered a measure of her juices on his index finger and Holly felt the shock of it slip around and down, the tip of his finger making small circles at the edge of her anus. She felt him pull her cheeks wider, watched him looking at her with an intensity that was unsettling.

  ‘We should close the curtains of the accumulator,’ she said and he paused, staring at her legs, stretched as wide as he could push them, the gape of her cunt, the glistening nub of that tighter hole, before he nodded. He let go of her legs with a little frown of disappointment. His lust was palpable. He reached up to pull the tasselled cord and she relaxed into the darkness of the bed-cave.

  The air felt thick with potential. She took advantage of the pause to unzip her skirt, to pull the shirt up and over her head, and shivered slightly in the dark. The room was heated but there was something about the close dark that affected her. The air seemed to pulse as if she had pressed her whole body against a great invisible beast and the rhythm of its blood was all around her. Holly felt hands clasp her ankles and it was as if the darkness had taken form and spread her legs wide once more, the sudden pressure on her clitoris might be a man’s tongue or a beast’s, or the tap tap tap of an erect penis bouncing against her flesh, poised to enter through that wide open orifice. Something thrust into her. A tongue. She knew this because of the size of it, a little protrusion of muscle; she was already too wet to detect saliva. The tongue flicked in and out, mimicking the thrusts of a penis and yet too small to penetrate any deeper than just past the tight soft muscular entrance of her cunt. She felt it flick up and out, circle her clitoris and then push into her once again. She arched her hips up to meet it and felt like she was pushing through water or, no, a thicker liquid, treacle or gelatine. The sensation was so pleasant that she pushed again with her hips. Her body was suspended in thick air, air with substance, with texture. She could almost taste it when she opened her mouth to gasp with pleasure. Breathing in was gulping a syrup perfumed with gardenia and just a hint of burning. She pushed her breasts up against the waxy dark and would have sworn she felt it lick at her nipples.

  The tongue retreated. Nick, unlike Culculine, had mastered the self-control it took to extricate himself from her cunt. Too bad. She didn’t want him extricated at all. She pushed her hips higher, searching for something to penetrate her gaping cunt. She felt the hard tip of it again, only this time it was slipping between the cheeks of her buttocks. A tight resistance of flesh. She felt a shot of saliva spit quickly against her skin. She flinched as the small damp protrusion fingered the tighter hole, slipping inside a fraction. Holly opened her mouth and drank the air in cupfuls. The tongue inched forward lubricated by spit and her own slippery juices as they spilled and dripped down towards her arse. A tongue…or perhaps a finger now. She felt her tight muscle relaxing incrementally. The tongue or the finger slipping further into her, pulling out again. The cloying sweetness of the atmosphere throbbing in her throat, the spill of it sliding like molasses into her lungs. She could barely breathe as, yes, a finger, then a second, massaged the rubbery muscle until it was wide enough for both fingers to enter. She pushed back against them, enjoying the feeling of openness, the trembling pleasure of yet another secret of her body opening like a picked lock. Salter knew this, Nin knew this, Apollinaire knew the exquisite pleasure of this pain. And now she knew it too.

  She slid her hips up and down on his fingers and felt a warm glow starting in her belly and spreading down over her thighs like a blush. The fingers retreated and she groaned her disappointment. The bright light between her thighs betrayed her growing lust. She settled her hips further down towards his body, wrapped her calves around his hips. His mouth was on her breast so suddenly that she flinched in surprise. The sudden sensation distracted her from the moment when his cock slipped a fraction inside her anus. She felt the head of it push past the tight barrier of muscle. She felt the ring contract as all the fears reared up in her chest, fears of disease, dirt, disgust. She reached down and felt the shaft of his cock. A relief to feel the lubed and rubbery texture of a sheath. He must have slipped a condom on in the dark.

  He edged forward and she moved her fingers up to feel the place where he was entering her. The wet and glowing, open mouth of her cunt above this, an open gasp of flesh and she let her own fingers slip into it, three of them buried easily up to the knuckle and her thumb resting against her clit, rubbing there. She could feel his cock through the thin wall of flesh, pressed her fingers against it, rubbed at the sensitive head of it through her own skin. Her mouth was full of the pulsing dark, her cunt and her anus spread wide as he pulled out a little then thrust hard against her, slipping his cock right in so that his balls bounced against her arse cheeks. She felt them hang there tickling her flesh with their wiry hairs. Her fingers followed the path of his withdrawal, spread wide and tight inside her cunt as she felt him push his whole shaft back inside in one easy movement.

  He found a rhythm then, and his thrusting pressed her hand on the beat, each shove pushing the base of her thumb that pressed against her clitoris with just a tiny delay, enough of a time lag to be a counter-rhythm. She arched up in time with it. She felt her lungs empty and fill as she did so, an accordion drawing air. Letting out a low drone of a note with each thrust of his cock, the sound of it building and the air around her vibrating, humming in harmony and with his own grunts they made a chord, endlessly repeated, just out
of tune.

  She saw sweat glinting on a chest. The light glowed at the head of the bed, faint but getting brighter by the second. Her eyes widened. The glow increased everything outlined in glare and shadow. Nick above her, fucking her. Here in the brightness it could only be called fucking, fucking her in the arse no less. His cock piercing her right to her bowels, her hand buried inside the wet yawn of her own cunt, her nipples sharp as spear heads throwing barbs of shadow across the swell of her breasts. She squeezed her eyes closed. Too bright. She was blinded. She felt him slam his hips into her, she was tearing with the force of it. She was shattering into pieces. She was ripping apart and the sound of it was a low grunt. The sound of an animal lost to a feeding frenzy, the grunting and swallowing and ripping of flesh.

  She wasn’t sure now if she was the devourer or the devoured but she heard the shriek of the final death-rattle and felt it vibrate the base of her diaphragm. Her back arched and cracked, the air around her solidified. She was trapped in it like an insect fossilised in resin. She would die of the pleasure that was almost pain. And then, just when she thought she could not bear it any longer she was plunged into darkness, the cock pulsed, great gushes of sperm spraying uselessly into the tight nipple at the end of the condom, her own cunt sucking at her fist.

  But her orgasm seemed an anticlimax to whatever had just occurred. The light at the head of the bed had burst forth, as bright as the light inside her own body. She had seen it. The flesh withdrew from her body, her legs dropped loose and wide. She was alone in the aftermath. Nick was there somewhere in the wide pillowed silence of the bed but he was of no consequence. He was a cog in a machine. She felt no urge to kiss or to hug him. She lay, perfectly content in the solitude of her own skin, feeling the trail of juice spilling down her buttocks, her hand soaked in it. For a moment she had touched it, something indescribable, but it was gone now and the memory could not do it justice. It was a long, quiet while before Nick shifted closer and took her hand in his.