The Adventures of Holly White and the Incredible Sex Machine

by Krissy Kneen

  ‘Let’s not talk about that stuff now. Not here on the brink of an adventure.’

  He kissed her on the forehead.

  ‘You are my super-conductor,’ he said to her then. ‘You are my light and my power.’

  Holly picked up her handbag. ‘Come on, mister muscle,’ she said, ‘let’s go procuring.’

  The parties were an underground legend in certain circles, particularly among the English-speaking expats of Paris. It was odd for Holly to step into a room full of people speaking English, the peacefulness of not knowing the language broken suddenly by this tumult of conversation. Words at first, recognisable English words, and then whole sentences. Holly moved from one tantalising sliver of conversation to the next. She nodded to strangers and felt glances trail after her. She knew she was the centre of attention.

  She had dressed to catch the eye, with a plunging neckline despite the cold, and because of this her nipples were clearly visible through the silky fabric draped across the swell of her breasts.

  Nick held her fingers and led her gently through the crowd. Their host was a grey-haired gentleman who appeared to be in his early sixties, smartly dressed and holding a plastic cup that may have had wine in it. He reached out to clap Nick on the back and grinned.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Nicholson.’ He had quite a broad American accent. ‘And you have brought a date.’ He winked at Holly and she saw that his olive-coloured eyes were a little cloudy. She thought he might be older than he looked, perhaps even in his late seventies. The dim light of the apartment was flattering.

  Nick introduced Holly, and their host, whose name was James, held her fingers to his lips. ‘Enchanté, mademoiselle. Always a pleasure to meet a new friend.’

  ‘You have a beautiful place.’

  Holly gestured to the huge professional cooktop that dominated the kitchen end of the open-plan apartment. A young man and two women were stirring pots and pouring ladles of an aromatic stew into paper bowls.

  ‘You’re Australian! How lovely. Are you here long?’

  James took her by the arm and Holly found herself guided once more through a sea of laughing, chattering people. English still seemed to be the dominant tongue but now she heard snatches of German, Chinese and Dutch and a few French phrases here and there. James introduced her to a sweet young man in a jaunty pork-pie hat and matching vest. She asked him what he was reading, which she thought might be the only way to get from ‘hello’ to ‘de Sade’ in one conversation. His response was to grin and to talk about China, apparently an author but possibly the country. Holly was finding it difficult to follow the conversation. He didn’t look down at her artfully plunging neckline even once, and she had begun to suspect that he might be gay when she was whisked away by their host before she could establish anything about him at all.

  Holly was buffeted from group to group. The people were all lovely but none of them seemed at all interested in her barely concealed breasts. The evening seemed too wholesome, just interesting creative people talking about art and travel and politics, and Holly began to despair of seducing anyone at all.

  She sipped Chablis from a plastic cup and excused herself from a conversation about the role of animals in a suburban family context to lean dejectedly against a wall.

  She had barely rested her shoulders against the flock wallpaper when her host was there beside her, topping up her wine from a chilled bottle. ‘You look tired, my dear.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘When I first saw you walk through my door I thought, there is a beautiful girl on a mission. I thought you were going to recruit the whole room into supporting, I don’t know, Amnesty International, Médecins Sans Frontières…You looked like a woman with a cause.’

  She smiled tiredly.

  ‘Now you look like a woman who has lost her cause, which is a shame if I may say so.’ He reached out and rested his hand on her arm. ‘If there is anything I can do to help you fight your battle, just say the word. Unless it’s network marketing. I don’t take up arms for anything with a pyramid in it, you understand.’

  ‘Entirely,’ she said, taking a large sip out of the paper cup. ‘But I’m not fighting a good fight, unfortunately. I have a wholly ignoble cause in mind.’

  ‘But ignobility is often so much more fun! Tell me.’

  ‘I’m working on an installation.’

  ‘Art? That is the most noble cause.’

  ‘It is a work of perverse sexuality, a celebration of the writings of the Marquis de Sade.’ She eyed James levelly. ‘I need participants for a “happening”.’

  James clapped his hands. Red wine slopped out of his paper cup and Holly stepped back a little to avoid staining her new high-heeled boots.

  ‘Why didn’t you just tell me, my dear? Give me five minutes.’

  And Holly watched as James raised his hands and clapped them above his head.

  ‘I need everyone’s attention immediately!’

  Holly did not know how it would begin. The threesome with Mary-Ann had been her most adventurous sexual tryst to date. Now, with no less than twenty people crammed into Nick’s room, she realised all eyes were turned towards her. She stared at the crowd of them. So many genitals and such a variation would be hidden under their party clothes. She wondered how she would fit them all together. They stood like cattle in a holding pen, staring blankly at her. The twenty or so people were the pieces of a puzzle, disparate, seemingly purposeless, but when the time came they would somehow slot together like Sadean libertines, linking their bodies in the pursuit of sexual variety. All in the name of art. Or, more accurately, power.

  She stood and faced their sunflower faces. She was the sunlight that would soon feed their blossoming lust.

  ‘When someone reads the classics of pornographic fiction out loud it will change the energy in a room,’ said Holly. ‘Have you ever been in a cinema when the people on the screen begin to make love? Have you ever had someone read a pornographic scene to you? Out loud?’

  A woman nodded, a man grunted his assent.

  ‘Speaking the unspeakable,’ said Holly. ‘It changes the very atmosphere.’

  Even the mention of pornography had begun to cause a change in her attentive students. There was a flushing of cheeks, nipples began to tighten, penises began to stir in a few pairs of trousers. The physicality of the room had shifted. Flesh seemed to swell with potential. The reaction from her audience encouraged her. Holly took a deep breath.

  ‘My lover, Nick’—he waved—‘will read from a great work of pornographic fiction. If you don’t know The 120 Days of Sodom let me just say it will scandalise you. It will shock. It’s funny. You’ll laugh, but you will also become aroused.’

  It was gathering in the room. The orgone. She could feel it. It was like popping candy exploding on her tongue, only she felt it all over her body. She knew her cunt was beginning to radiate its orgonic light. She swallowed. Coughed to clear her throat. ‘As part of our performance of this artwork I have organised for my vulva to become a beacon, signalling our collective pleasure. It may startle you. It’s a trick, but imagine that it is like a work of art made out of fluorescent tubes.

  ‘Like something by Dan Flavin,’ Jam
es added.

  More nods from the crowd. It really was an artistically literate gathering. Holly unzipped her boots and slid them off her ankles then climbed up into the accumulator, undoing the zipper at the side of her dress. She was aroused herself now. She could feel a trickle of juices run down her stocking. She glanced at her legs and there was a fat viscous drop of luminous blue making its way towards her ankle. She heard someone in her audience gasp. Holly slipped the dress off her shoulders. Her vulva had swelled, the thick lips began to pulse to the rhythm of her heartbeat. She stared down at the gathered crowd. Their desire was palpable. One of the women let her tongue slip out to moisten her lips. A man adjusted his crotch. She would fuck every one of them. She would watch them fuck.

  ‘Soon you will lose yourself to the art,’ said Holly, ‘so men, you should unroll your sheaths and put them on now.’

  Without hesitation the men unbuttoned their trousers. A forest of cocks sprang up. The saplings of flesh reached skyward, leaned slightly to the left or to the right; some of them were no more than an early shoot pushing up from the loamy earth, others were huge specimens of old growth, gnarled but sap-filled, trembling in the prelude to a great storm. She watched as their fingers worked at the little rolls of rubber. They stroked the condoms onto their pricks and she felt her juices running freely, painting the inside of both of her thighs. She saw a woman reach for the rubbered cock of the stranger beside her and Holly tutted.

  ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘We must follow the words of de Sade. We must let the great man guide us.’ She nodded to Nick who was gazing up proudly at her.

  He opened the heavy volume of The 120 Days and folded back the introduction. ‘All right,’ said Nick. ‘We begin on the first of November at exactly ten o’clock…’

  The participants climbed up into the accumulator. They could not all fit in the high-sided box. Holly stood at the centre of the bed and watched the first wave of bodies breach the ramparts. Cocks bounced against the thick wood of the box, juices spilled on the sheets, damping them before a single orifice had been breached. All eyes were trained on the gorgeous light of her cunt. Bodies sweated against each other in their urgency. All the flesh moved towards her and by the time the first hand was raised to gather her brilliance on its palm, de Sade’s Father Laurent was spraying his jism all over the faces in the fictional world.

  A groan. A lurch. Someone had come, a young man who had been telling Holly earlier about the Frankfurt School. Perhaps it was just the friction of flesh against flesh for Holly was sure that no cunt had yet been poked. It was Father Laurent’s white shower that had felled him, and the boy lay on the sheets gazing up at the hang of breasts and balls above him with an expression of transcendence on his face and a sweet subsidence at his groin.

  She saw another of her acolytes begin to sweat and tremble, and frowned. They would all shoot their loads before any consummation could occur. It was the power of the words overwhelming them. She would have to hurry things along if their happening were to succeed at all.

  Holly reached between her legs and parted the lips slightly. The woman who was closest to her crotch winced and held her hand over her eyes. The light was blinding bright but it was too late to pause in the proceedings. Holly held one finger on her clitoris and slipped the lips apart with two more.

  ‘I never see the same one twice,’ Nick was proclaiming, underlining each word with a finger travelling along with the lines on the page, ‘bring me some I don’t know.’

  Holly felt the thrust of a cock pushing between her fingers. The delightful sensation of strange flesh entering her familiar orifice. This one shove of a shaft broke the chastity of the whole adventure. She grunted with the force of the penis entering her wildly while all around she was treated to the sight of a hundred different delights of the flesh as each of the participants threw themselves bodily into the fuck.

  Beside her two men had moved to suckle at one woman’s breast, the heads bobbing in tandem, twin tongues lapping out to circle the nipple and each other. As she watched, the men kissed, tapping the nipple between their lips and involving the whole breast in their succulent embrace. The woman, seemingly frustrated that only one of her breasts was receiving such lavish attention, pulled at the other nipple with her own fingers, offering it up to whoever might be inclined to take it into their mouth. She arched her back and her bum presented itself to the crowd. Another woman, still wearing her red velvet pinafore among the increasingly undulant pile of scantily clothed bodies, settled between the legs of the aroused woman. She pushed her fingers under and up into the cunt while her tongue stretched forward to fill the smaller entrance so easily at hand.

  The woman squeezed her breast harder, pinching the nipple as she enjoyed the attention of three strangers. A tall English boy with sweet dark ringlets crawled over to oblige. Holly had had a brief conversation with him at the party and she remembered his name was Tom Brown. ‘Just like in the book?’ she asked him and he giggled and nodded. ‘There are about a million of us in the London phone book. You should look me up one day,’ he had offered, cheekily.

  Tom in polite conversation was a different beast from this Tom who now relieved the woman of responsibility for her own breast. He nipped it gently between his teeth and was rewarded with a gasp and a little flip of the woman’s hips, while the lady in red who was reaming the victim reached over with her damp hand and unzipped him. The cock that leaped out of his trousers was impressive: long and thick as a forearm. It was already as stiff as it could be but the woman gave it a couple of strokes anyway, before manoeuvring the boy’s hips to nestle between the thighs of the girl who she was still fucking with her tongue. She held him by the buttocks and pushed him forward till his cock slipped, with a little difficulty, into the slippery orifice. The woman raised her red velvet skirt and climbed onto the boy’s hips, and, like a cowboy at a rodeo, rode his arse up and down as he began the rhythmic thrusting that would lead to the first penetrative climax of the evening.

  Polite Tom Brown, transformed. That was the thing about an orgy; Holly understood it now. In the heat of a pile of fucking, each body was indistinguishable from the next. An orgy it turned out, was so egalitarian. She had never realised this before. In the writhing mass of limbs each body was of equal value. A cock was a cock was a cock. Each cunt its own unique work of art.

  Holly felt someone’s hands pulling at her nipples. She didn’t bother to find out who it was, she was too fascinated by the sight of Tom Brown’s buttocks seesawing so close to her own knees. Holly spat. The spit landed expertly on the cleft of his arse and on his next lunge forward as the boy’s huge cock rammed between the prostrate woman’s thighs, Holly slipped her thumb deep into his anus and the crowd watched, captivated as his mouth slipped off the breast he was still sucking and his back arched and his hips slammed forward, to force the full length of him into the cunt below. He opened his mouth and groaned, the sweet curtain of curls bouncing angelically on his forehead; his eyes rolled backwards till only the whites showed. His hips jerked once, twice and he collapsed onto the body of the woman who was still convulsing.

  Somebody clapped. Somebody else groaned. All around Holly clothes were abandoned, hands crept into crevices, mouths opened, then closed on various protrusions of flesh. One of the watchers vaulted over the side of the bed to join in and, like lemmings, one after another of the circle of observers did the sam
e. Nick was left alone to stand open-mouthed at the end of a chapter, his book in one hand, his orgonometer in the other.

  Holly felt herself picked up like a cloth doll, the sharp slap of a hand across her upraised arse. She felt her labia being spread wide, a tongue pushing into her as if to bring to full flower the bud that grows adjacently, as de Sade would have it. She looked down and saw the lovely couple Ronnie and Steve, who had been sipping martinis at the party, now sipping a much more potent brew. Their fingers were greedily scrabbling in her cleft, a thumb in her arse, a finger in her cunt. Beneath this their cocks were fencing, thrusting at each other, each man too preoccupied with her juices to lift the hips of the other and slam inside. Ronnie’s cock was particularly impressive, thick and long and seeming to swell more with each slap.

  She felt her breasts handled roughly, her head lifted harshly, pulled back by her hair, her mouth opened in surprise and was filled by what she thought might be a carefully manicured toe. She sucked, feeling for the toenail with her tongue and realised suddenly that it was a little stub of a penis no bigger than a toe but twice as thick, which began to pump into her stretched-wide lips, mercifully without the length that might choke her.

  She was filled now in every orifice. She breathed through her nose and it was the musk of sex that filled her. She wanted to hold back, wait till the orgy was in full swing, but she felt lips on her clitoris, sucking, licking the cock that entered her near there before flicking back to the nub of her pleasure. She tried to stay her climax, listing the names of the people who had now become reduced to their bodily attributes. Cock of Ronnie, balls of Trent, breasts of Anne-Frances, but no, the names began to fade away and all she was left with was cock and balls and clit and cunt. She couldn’t hold it. She breathed in, sucking, drawing the seed from the stubby cock into her throat, her swallowing in time with the pulsing of the twin cocks now buried to the hilt in her cunt and her arse. She felt the slamming against her flesh, the balls slapping down onto the flesh of whoever was sucking her clit, thighs rubbing on thighs slamming against her thighs, bodies piled on top of bodies, pleasure upon pleasure. She smelled sex and sweat and that scent again, like an electrical fire. She felt her flesh heating up, her cunt beginning to throb.