Desire

by Mariella Frostrup

  We were in such a position that we could clearly see ourselves in the mirror. I led her toward the bed, where she sat down and said: “I know you want to see all of me.” She raised her legs and displayed her hairy cunt right up to her pot hole. I immediately set to tonguing her, and lingered at the task for quite some time. Her lips began to swell. When I went to insert my tool, she laughed and said: “Not like that. Get on the bed.”

  I asked her to please use the familiar “thou” form with me, and to allow me to do the same with her.

  I got onto the bed. She climbed on top of me and I thus had her whole beautiful body before my eyes. She told me to play with her boobies. Then she grasped my prick, paraded it awhile against her love lips, and at the same time asked me to be sure not to come inside her. Then she suddenly shoved my tool in right up to the ballbearings. She was riding me so strenuously that it was almost painful. Round about that time she came, and I could feel all the warmth of her cunt, hear her heaving sighs, and see her eyes roll back in her head.

  Realizing that I was also on the point of coming, she got quickly to her feet.

  “Hold on a minute, young fellow, my lad,” she said in a voice still trembling with emotion, “I know still another that’ll satisfy you without making me pregnant.”

  She turned round; her buttocks were now facing me. She bent down and took my prick in her mouth. I followed her example and began tonguing her love lips, lapping up the female love-juice which tasted like a raw egg. She stepped up the play of her tongue against my glans, and with one hand she tickled my balls and buttocks, while with the other she gripped my penis.

  I stiffened with pleasure. She thrust my prick as far in her mouth as possible. Her most secret parts were staring me full in the face. I seized her buttocks, and plunged my tongue into her pothole. I lost control of myself and ejaculated in her mouth.

  When I recovered from my momentary rapture, she was lying beside me and had pulled the blankets up over us. She was caressing me, thanking me for the pleasure I had given her, and asked me if I had enjoyed it as much as she.

  I had to admit that I had enjoyed that position even more than normal coitus. And then I asked her why she hadn’t let me come inside her, since she was married.

  “For that very reason,” she said. “My husband is impotent, and can tell whenever I cheat on him. Oh, God in Heaven! what I have to put up with from that man!”

  I asked her to tell me all about it. She said that her husband could get an erection only if she beat him with a rod until she drew blood.

  She likewise had to let him strike her, but only with his hand, and now she was so used to it that she enjoyed it more than it hurt her. He also made her peepee and shit in his presence, so eager was he not to miss a trick. And he got especially worked up when she had her periods.

  After she had struck him fifty or even a hundred times, she had to hurry and slip his half-erect member inside, for otherwise it fell limp, except when she licked his buttocks or let him lick her between the toes. Whenever that happened he was able to keep a good hard on, but all these things were pretty disagreeable.

  “And on top of all that,” she concluded, “the old rascal spends all his time in church.”

  Her story had aroused the flagging spirits of my John Thomas. Madame Muller had hastened the resurrection by tickling my balls. She had me get between her legs, and turned over on her side. She scissored my buttocks with her legs, so that we were both lying on our sides, face to face. It was a good position, allowing us to lie closely interlaced, and at the same time leaving her titties exposed to my tongue.

  I was holding her cunt, which the bout of pleasure had caused to narrow, with my hand. Both of us thrust our fingers into the other’s arse-hole. I let my prick slide softly into her cunt, and began to rock as before, sucking her nipples all the while.

  I kept my finger moving in her throbbing arse-hole. She came a second time with a cry of delight. She had taken hold of my balls from behind and was squeezing them so tightly that she hurt me, and I had to ask her to let them go.

  After having caressed me gently, she turned her head toward the pillow, so that her magnificent buttocks were prominently displayed. I had her rise to her knees and lift her buttocks high. I sent a wad of spit flying into her pothole, and thrust my prick in easily. At each stroke I felt my balls bounce off her buttock cheeks.

  She kept telling me how good it felt. I could touch her hairy cunt with one hand and fondle her breasts with the other. Just as I was about to come I started to withdraw but she contracted her buttock muscles around my glans, and I ejaculated squarely into her arse-hole. Afterwards she told me that that was the first time she’d done it that way, and that, although it had hurt in the beginning, in the end she’d enjoyed it.

  Feeling my prick harden in her buttocks hole, her sensual forces had awakened and she had had another orgasm at the same time as mine.

  “But that’s about enough for today,” she decided, smiling.

  That was about all I could take too. I offered her some dessert, but she insisted that I come and have a short liqueur in her room instead. After which, I came back to my room and fell into bed.

  THE ANTIQUE WARDROBE

  Georges Bataille

  Georges Bataille was a twentieth-century French intellectual and literary figure working in literature, philosophy, anthropology, economics, sociology and history of art. At the core of his writings, which included essays, novels, and poetry, are explorations of eroticism, mysticism, sovereignty and transgression. His most famous work is Histoire de l’oeil (1928), written under the pseudonym of Lord Auch.

  That was the period when Simone developed a mania for breaking eggs with her behind. She would do a headstand on an armchair in the parlour, her back against the chair’s back, her legs bent towards me, while I jerked off in order to come in her face. I would put the egg right on the hole in her arse, and she would skillfully amuse herself by shaking it in the deep crack of her buttocks. The moment my come shot out and trickled down her eyes, her buttocks would squeeze together and she would come while I smeared my face abundantly in her ass.

  Very soon, of course, her mother, who might enter the villa parlour at any moment, did catch us in our unusual act. But still, the first time this fine woman stumbled upon us, she was content, despite having led an exemplary life, to gape wordlessly, so that we did not notice a thing. I suppose she was too flabbergasted to speak. But when we were done and trying to clean up the mess, we noticed her standing in the doorway.

  “Pretend there’s no one there,” Simone told mc, and she went on wiping her behind.

  And indeed, we blithely strolled out as though the woman had been reduced to a family portrait.

  A few days later, however, when Simone was doing gymnastics with me in the rafters of a garage, she pissed on her mother, who had the misfortune to stop underneath without seeing her. The sad widow got out of the way and gazed at us with such dismal eyes and such a desperate expression that she egged us on, that is to say, simply, with Simone bursting into laughter, crouching on all fours on the beams and exposing her cunt to my face, I uncovered that cunt completely and masturbated while looking at it.

  *

  More than a week had passed without our seeing Marcelle, when we ran into her on the street one day. The blonde girl, timid and naively pious, blushed so deeply at seeing us, that Simone embraced her with uncommon tenderness.

  “Please forgive me, Marcelle,” she murmured. “What happened the other day was absurd, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends now. I promise we’ll never lay a hand on you again.”

  Marcelle, who had an unusual lack of will power, agreed to join us for tea with some other friends at our place. But instead of tea, we drank quantities of chilled champagne.

  The sight of Marcelle blushing had completely overwhelmed us. We understood one another, Simone and I, and we were certain that from now on nothing would make us shrink from achieving our ends. Besides Marcelle,
there were three other pretty girls and two boys here. The oldest of the eight being not quite seventeen, the beverage soon took effect; but aside from Simone and myself, they were not as excited as we wanted them to be. A gramophone rescued us from our predicament. Simone, dancing a frenzied Charleston by herself, showed everyone her legs up to her cunt, and when the other girls were asked to dance a solo in the same way, they were in too good a mood to require coaxing. They did have panties on, but the panties bound the cunt laxly without hiding much. Only Marcelle, intoxicated and silent, refused to dance.

  Finally, Simone, pretending to be dead drunk, crumpled a tablecloth and, lifting it up, she offered to make a bet.

  “I bet,” she said, “that I can pee into the tablecloth in front of everyone.”

  It was basically a ridiculous party of mostly turbulent and boastful youngsters. One of the boys challenged her, and it was agreed that the winner would fix the penalty.... Naturally, Simone did not waver for an instant, she richly soaked the tablecloth. But this stunning act visibly rattled her to the quick, so that all the young fools started gasping.

  “Since the winner decides the penalty,” said Simone to the loser, “I am now going to pull down your trousers in front of everyone.”

  Which happened without a hitch. When his trousers were off, his shirt was likewise removed (to keep him from looking ridiculous). All the same, nothing serious had occurred as yet: Simone had scarcely run a light hand over her young friend, who was dazzled, drunk, and naked. Yet all she could think of was Marcelle, who for several moments now had been begging me to let her leave.

  “We promised we wouldn’t touch you, Marcelle. Why do you want to leave?”

  “Just because,” she replied stubbornly, a violent rage gradually overcoming her.

  *

  All at once, to everyone’s horror, Simone fell upon the floor. A convulsion shook her harder and harder, her clothes were in disarray, her bottom stuck in the air, as though she were having an epileptic fit. But rolling about at the foot of the boy she had undressed, she mumbled almost inarticulately:

  “Piss on me.... Piss on my cunt...” she repeated, with a kind of thirst.

  Marcelle gaped at this spectacle: she blushed again, her face was blood-red. But then she said to me, without even looking at me, that she wanted to take off her dress. I half tore it off, and straight after, her underwear. All she had left was her stockings and belt, and after I fingered her cunt a bit and kissed her on the mouth, she glided across the room to a large antique bridal wardrobe, where she shut herself in after whispering a few words to Simone.

  *

  She wanted to toss off in the wardrobe and was pleading to be left in peace.

  I ought to say that we were all very drunk and completely bowled over by what had been going on. The naked boy was being sucked by a girl. Simone, standing with her dress tucked up, was rubbing her bare cunt against the wardrobe, in which a girl was audibly masturbating with brutal gasps. And all at once, something incredible happened, a strange swish of water, followed by a trickle and a stream from under the wardrobe door: poor Marcelle was pissing in her wardrobe while masturbating. But the explosion of totally drunken guffaws that ensued rapidly degenerated into a debauche of tumbling bodies, lofty legs and arses, wet skirts and come. Guffaws emerged like foolish and involuntary hiccups but scarcely managed to interrupt a brutal onslaught on cunts and cocks. And yet soon we could hear Marcelle dismally sobbing alone, louder and louder, in the make-shift pissoir that was now her prison.

  *

  Half an hour later, when I was less drunk, it dawned on me that I ought to let Marcelle out of her wardrobe: the unhappy girl, naked now, was in a dreadful state. She was trembling and shivering feverishly. Upon seeing me, she displayed a sickly but violent terror. After all, I was pale, smeared with blood, my clothes askew. Behind me, in unspeakable disorder, brazenly stripped bodies were sprawled about. During the orgy, splinters of glass had left deep bleeding cuts in two of us. A young girl was throwing up, and all of us had exploded in such wild fits of laughter at some point or other that we had wet our clothes, an armchair, or the floor. The resulting stench of blood, sperm, urine, and vomit made me almost recoil in horror, but the inhuman shriek from Marcelle’s throat was far more terrifying. I must say, however, that Simone was sleeping tranquilly by now, her belly up, her hand still on her pussy, her pacified face almost smiling.

  Marcelle, staggering wildly across the room with shrieks and snarls, looked at me again. She flinched back as though I were a hideous ghost in a nightmare, and she collapsed in a jeremiad of howls that grew more and more inhuman.

  *

  Astonishingly, this litany brought me to my senses. People were running up, it was inevitable. But I never for an instant dreamt of fleeing or lessening the scandal. On the contrary, I resolutely strode to the door and flung it open. What a spectacle, what joy! One can readily picture the cries of dismay, the desperate shrieks, the exaggerated threats of the parents entering the room! Criminal court, prison, the guillotine were evoked with fiery yells and spasmodic curses. Our friends themselves began howling and sobbing in a delirium of tearful screams; they sounded as if they had been set afire as live torches. Simone exulted with me.

  And yet, what an atrocity! It seemed as if nothing could terminate the tragicomical frenzy of these lunatics, for Marcelle, still naked, kept gesticulating, and her agonizing shrieks of pain expressed unbearable terror and moral suffering; we watched her bite her mother’s face amid arms vainly trying to subdue her.

  Indeed, by bursting in, the parents managed to wipe out the last shreds of reason, and in the end, the police had to be called, with all the neighbours witnessing the outrageous scandal.

  From THE STORY OF O

  Pauline Réage

  Fifty years ago, an extraordinary pornographic novel appeared in Paris. Published simultaneously in French and English, Story of O (1954) portrayed explicit scenes of bondage and violent penetration in spare, elegant prose, the purity of the writing making the novel seem reticent even as it dealt with demonic desire, whips, masks and chains. The author’s pseudonym, Pauline Réage, was thought by many to be that of a man. The writer’s identity was only revealed recently, when an impeccably dressed eighty-six-year-old Dominique Aury (born Anne Desclos) acknowledged authorship. Aury was an eminent figure in literary France, and had been when she wrote the book at the age of forty-seven. A translator, editor and judge of literary prizes, Aury was the only woman to sit on the reading committee of publishers Gallimard (a body that also included Albert Camus) and was a holder of the Légion d’Honneur. She could scarcely have been more highbrow.

  When René informed her that he was leaving, night had already fallen. O was naked in her cell, waiting to be led to the refectory. For his part, her lover was dressed as usual, in the suit he wore every day in town. When he’d taken her in his arms the rough tweed of his coat had chafed her nipples. He kissed her, lay her upon the bed, lay down beside her, his face to her face, and tenderly and slowly and gently he took her, moving to and fro now in this, now in the other of the two passages offered to him, finally spilling himself into her mouth which, when he was done, he kissed again.

  “Before I go I’d like to have you whipped,” he said, “and this time I ask your permission. Are you willing?” She was willing. “I love you,” he repeated; “now ring for Pierre.” She rang. Pierre chained her hands above her head by the bed-chain. When thus bound, her lover stepped up on the bed and, his face to her face, penetrated her again, told her again that he loved her, then stepped back on to the floor and signalled to Pierre. He watched her writhe and struggle, so vainly, he listened to her groans develop into screams, these into howls. When the tears had finished flowing, he dismissed Pierre. From somewhere she found the strength to tell him again that she loved him. And then he kissed her soaking face, her gasping mouth, released her bonds, put her to bed, and left.

  To say that from the instant her lover had left her O began to a
wait his return would be no overstatement: she turned into pure waiting, darkness in waiting expectation of light. In day-time she was like a painted statue whose skin is warm and smooth, whose mouth is docile, and – it was only during this interval that she held strictly to the rule – whose eyes are forever lowered. She made and cared for the fire, poured and passed round the coffee, lighted the cigarettes, arranged the flowers and folded up the newspapers like a little girl busy in her parents’ living-room, so limpid with her exposed breast and her leather collar, her tight bodice and her prisoner’s hand-cuffs, so demure, so yielding that it was enough for the men she served to order her to stand by them while they were violating another girl for them to want to violate her too; and that surely was why she was treated worse than ever before. Had she sinned? or had her lover, in leaving her, deliberately intended to make those to whom he lent her feel freer to dispose of her? At any rate, on the second day after his departure, the day drawing to an end and after she had just taken off her clothes and was gazing at herself in her bathroom mirror, the marks Pierre’s crop had inscribed on the front of her thighs being by now almost gone, Pierre entered. Two hours still remained before dinner. He informed her that she would not dine in the common room, and bade her ready herself, nodding to the Turkish toilet in the corner where indeed he did make her squat, as Jeanne had warned her she would have to do in Pierre’s presence. All the time she was there he stood contemplating her; she saw his image reproduced in the mirrors, and saw herself incapable of holding back the water which was squirting from her body. And still he waited, until she had completed her bath and finished applying her make-up. She was about to reach for her clogs and red cape when he stopped her hand, and added, binding her hands behind her back, that she needn’t go to the bother, would she wait there just a moment. She perched herself on a corner of the bed. Outside, gusts of cold wind were blowing, cold rain spattered down, the poplar near the window swayed under the gale’s attack. From time to time a pale wet leaf pasted itself against a windowpane. The overcast sky was dark, it was as dark as the heart of the night even though seven had not yet struck, but autumn was wearing on and the days were growing shorter. Pierre returned; in his hand he carried the same blindfold they’d used that first night to prevent her from seeing. He also had, clinking in his hand, a long chain similar to the one affixed to the wall. It appeared to O that he was hesitating as to which to put on her first, the chain or the blindfold. She watched the rain, not caring about his intentions or his uncertainties, thinking only of what René had said, that he’d return, and that she had still five days and five nights to pass, and that she didn’t know where he was or if he was alone, and if he wasn’t, with whom he could be. But he’d return.