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Desire

Page 85

by Mariella Frostrup


  The prick begins to grow under her feathering touch. It is a muscular prick, grown firm and hale on push-ups. It rises to the occasion and stands up, shaftstrong, pointing up at the dark ceiling of the cold room. The head reminds her of the great mushroom she choked down earlier – a pink one this time, perfectly formed, dry, spongy to the touch.

  Olof leans over her. As he glides, he kisses her throat, then the fluttering nipple of each dove-like breast.

  His gliding has a purpose. Suddenly he is in a position to fuck her where she lies.

  A simple, gymnastic trick on his part – well-practised, competent, casual.

  He adjusts the little pillows of her rear by sliding his spadeflat hands under each buttock and lifting them into a coned and triangular target. Carefully, he parts her spindle legs until her tingling, narrow cunt is splayed apart like a pink tea-dance invitation.

  Then he moves upon her with the great long javelin of his prick.

  He sinks it deep into the oval cup of her cunt. Her juices have not yet rushed to aid her, it is a dry cunt, a very unready cunt for such a rakish thrust.

  She cries out, a rabbit on a spit.

  He ignores her purbertal bleat and grins carelessly.

  Some, he seems to feel, must learn the hard way – and the harder, the better.

  An hour at a time ought to be enough!

  He is a rabid fuckmaster, the head of the team.

  The trophies all go to Olof for such stuff. He can trot a cunt into the home stretch without a single gasp.

  He’s proving it with her.

  His prick digs deep into her heated slit. The juices are coming for her now, oozing up out of the hidden springwells of her timid flesh.

  And lubrication helps.

  Helps him, helps her.

  The oily slime generating healthily from her pussy coats his moving stiffness, allows him deeper passage, quicker strokes, stronger throbs.

  He fucks her quite athletically.

  The chill of the room becomes a myth. The place is tropical with rakehell heat. She might be a crooning lizard baking on a desert rock, a shard being stroked by flames. She opens her legs wider, lifts her happy young cunt higher, twists wantonly on the skewer of his large white prick.

  Olof is all form. His beautiful body is suspended above her on gracefully stiffened, tautly muscled arms. His body is like a diver’s. Long of line, small of hip, narrow of thigh. His legs are close together and distended so that the balls of his naked feet are braced against the strong footboard. It gives him leverage to swing up and down in an oddly lubricious, calmly pedantic fuck.

  He is teaching her. Teaching her how to be fucked. To like strong fucking, the endurance kind. Training her as if for some future, dark Olympics.

  Nothing touches her but his prick. It is a trapeze act of venery. With each downwards swoop, his long, thick cock thrusts slurpily through the gasping little wicket of her twat, submerges deeply, bluntly, to her very core – convulsing her, of course, with pleasure – then strokes out again. It never fails to brush her clit with its big, stony head. Clit-joggling is fun for her. The sport of Queens.

  Her tits grow hard. Spicy little peaks, begging for a good, long suck. She has never been fucked-sucked in unison. The idea appeals to her. Olof has such a fine, brusque mouth. She imagines his huge, Laplander tongue stimulating her nipples. They burn like blister beetles for his mouth.

  “Olof...”

  The word dies on her lips. His fucking has suddenly grown stronger. Her cunt is on fire. He is jolting it with his big birthday-toy of a prick.

  Deeper now, deeper with every plunge – a magic dolphin in her cunt, as if he would split her screaming thighs and fuck up high into her lungs!

  She moans contentedly and curls her toes to better taste the copulatory bliss.

  His citron cock-hair is tangling with the darker fur around her cunted lips. He is in her to the dregs. The soft, round hotness of his balls jounce the girlish crack of her hollowed ass. His abdomen, flat and hard as a heated anvil, kisses hers with every downward thrust.

  She is coming!

  Her brave little cunt tries to rally, to extend the bliss. But it’s no use. She is definitely coming. Definitely!

  The walls of her pussy warp around the strong invader like a dripping fist and squeeze up tight.

  She comes off like a debauched harem girl. Full of throaty gruntings and shameless explosions in her thighs. Her liquids shoot in a dozen directions, inundating Olof’s victorious and rigid prick.

  He grins as the Caesar’s head of his cock is rewarded with the laurels of her juice.

  Pleasure snorts through her with swinish greed.

  Still she is being fucked.

  It is a marathon of lust.

  She smiles and curls the little vines of her legs into a lazy cricket’s pose. His large, relentless cock is giving her freshly satisfied cunt something new to think about.

  She knows he will not stop until her slit is like a sewer swimming with his sperm.

  It may take all night.

  Forever.

  *

  She wakes under the thick coverlet on the great, strong bed.

  The sun is barely pink against the windows, but there is a heavy tramping of boots on the stairs. She wonders if it is Olof or Viktor. Both have had her. Incessantly. All night long. In relays, like runners passing a torch.

  She grins, knowing how she liked it.

  That Viking, Viktor!

  He has fucked her with the strength of ten!

  As the tramping boots hear her door, she slides a fearful hand down between her legs to see if anything is left. Is it a great kangaroo pouch of flesh?

  A gaping, empty, market bag of a cunt?

  She is amazed to find it intact – almost the size it was, except for some obvious thickening of the lips, some sensual pouting of the humps. But inside she has changed.

  She burns with emptiness.

  Prickhungry at dawn!

  She smiles. Perhaps the booted feet belong to...

  The door flies open.

  And it is not Jok.

  Two raw young mastiffs instead. Dag and Sven. Naked except for loincloths of reindeer skin – and boots. Healthy as rams!

  With shouts of youthful bravado, they pull her from the warmth of the bed and carry her like a lovely leg of lamb down the stairs and into the snow.

  She screams at the fate they have in mind for her.

  Naked, her thicker, heavier-budded nipples turning blue, she is swung between the laughing oafs like a sack of wheat and tossed into the wintry air.

  She falls, shrieking, deep into the fleecy, freezing depths of a snow bank.

  Her nipples shrivel into peas. Her cunt puckers and pulls inward, like a flap. The icy chill penetrates her bone, her very marrow.

  They pull her out with hoarse shouts of joy and laugh sportily at the snow maiden they have created.

  It is another custom.

  A healthy one, of course.

  A snowbath before breakfast. And before breakfast, something else as customary.

  They carry her blue, nude body back into the lodge and back up to her bedroom. She needs unthawing, now.

  She is placed, frozen and chattering, on her side in the middle of the bed. Then her two abductors become her comforters.

  Ripping off their meagre loincloths, dragging off their reindeer boots, they pile into bed with her. Naked and eager, they sandwich her between them, one facing her cunt and tits, one facing her rounded buttocks and her trembling shoulder blades. The warmth of their strong young bodies begins to surge through her.

  And with the warmth, erotic desire.

  It is Sven who is facing her, whose hands are cupping and massaging her gelid tits, with firm, long fingers. It is Dag behind her, his hands mauling and rubbing the frigid globes of her chilly buttocks.

  The blood circulates again, the slate-blue skin glows pink, the breathing pumps robustly once more.

  The peas of her breasts grow in
to heated plums. The core of her cunt yearns to play with the two stiff prongs she feels pressing against her from opposite directions.

  Both young Swedes are horny. Both have man-sized cocks between their strong, fun-loving legs.

  Both obviously desire very much to fuck her as dearly as their older pals.

  She becomes honey between the hard loaves of their bodies.

  Sven is the bolder of the two, devilish in his gleeful jactitation. With fingers cupped, he finds her slit and spreads it open like a mouth. He probes the itching centre with his thumb and her breath is hot upon his neck.

  He shoves his throbbing colonnade deep inside. Her eager cunt lips close over him and suck him deeper. The pornographic pose entices the spirit of Dag, behind. He fingers the brown bud of her anus, hurting her until the tip of his finger is wedged within. He wriggles it in a screwing motion until it is knuckle deep, until she feels that surely he will tickle the tip of Sven’s upthrust cock!

  When her virginal ass-hole is breached, his prick replaces his finger.

  Now she has cocks galore. In cunt and crack. Only boys would think of such early-morning games!

  They hold her still, welding her between them, only their shoving pricks in motion.

  It is a waltzing fuck that changes to a raggedy, sawhorse screw. Their cocks expand and lengthen with each jiggle and jog. And now she fancies their cocks will meet – kiss queerly in the bowels of her flaming cunt, then spit thick semen at each other.

  She loves the curiosa of it all, the salacious madness of getting humped in front and back by such bright-eyed, husky minks.

  Her tits swell into balloons of hot need. The nipples pop out like burning rocks.

  “Suck me!” she yells.

  Sven grins and wraps his obedient mouth over each nipple in turn, sucking, salivating, licking until she is a thrashing animal of lust.

  She comes for them, spitting a triple-fanged spate of juice against Sven’s moving prick.

  He likes it. It makes him harden more, drives him to suck her tits more goatishly.

  Dag cornholes with the grace of a bull. His prick’s head is like a lump of lava-stone. It digs and cores her burning rear, doubling the ruttish joy of what the one in front is doing to her.

  She comes again as they release their own spewing proof of lustiness and youth.

  Their pricks spurt molten fire into her loins. The sticky nectar of their unleashed balls runs down her legs and theirs, down the dimpled cleft of her rump and into the gristle of Dag’s snag of pubic hair.

  They dismount with the laughing, healthy shouts of boys ready for recess.

  And breakfast.

  The days take on a regimen.

  Discipline is the key to health, so saith Viktor.

  She is systematically fucked by all at night. Fucked until her cunt grows as strong as the lungs of an underwater swimmer. Strong enough to last.

  They take turns keeping her in practice. Viktor is the easy champion among the older pair. Olof may lag after two hours, but Viktor has not found a cunt able to defeat him. He could fuck a stone clitoris into dust, he brags.

  During the day, she is allowed to play games with Sven and Dag – if they do not neglect the prescribed business at hand. That is, to make her titties grow larger by the hour.

  Seven hundred strokes a day. Three hundred and fifty from Sven’s strong hands, and the same number from Dag’s. They are to use pulling strokes, the cow-milking kind, carefully executed so that the cupped male fingers and the ball of the thumb catch as much of the sphere as possible and pull slowly out to the peak. The gorged nipple must then be tweaked and pinched.

  Such petting of the breasts produces side effects, of course. In all concerned.

  Such matters, passed over lightly in whatever textbooks there might be on the subject, become an area for invention. Sven and Dag are not noticeably inventive, nor noticeably original.

  They merely fuck her while they stroke.

  But it seems to shoe the horse.

  A footnote in the instruction suggests that, for variety’s sake alone, a sucking tongue may be substituted for a stroking thumb.

  Dag is the valedictorian here. He has a tongue that would drive the deepest cunt in the world to shrieking madness.

  It’s glad to do the same for tits.

  Hers grow twice their dormant size under the punishing stroke of Dag’s hot mouth. The nipples turn to inch-long, blushing nubs. He roils them until they drool with milk, then bites them with his teeth.

  It is at such times that she is grateful to have Sven pumping away between her legs. If she could not come through her saucy cunt, she is sure her vaginal juices would make a safari to the tips of her tits and spit love juice into Dag’s grinning mouth.

  *

  It is on the eve of her departure, on Walpurgis night, that she learns how Jok has entertained himself during her long days of conditioning.

  The festival of winter’s farewell brings a holiday air to the lodge. It is to be her test, her final one, and the lodge is filled with singing voices, healthy faces, male and female.

  Before the long night begins, during which she will be fucked by some 20 husky Nords in all, she steals away to spy on Jok and the bosomy maiden she saw him take upstairs.

  The girl has hair the colour of lemons in sunlight. It reaches to her plump waist and spills like sulphurous smoke around the huge white whale-tits that adorn her. Her cunt is fringed with brownish hair, and on the bed, healthy skater’s legs thrown wide apart, her pinkish slit invites the triumph of Jok’s enormous, stiffened cock.

  She watches the idyll, the Swedish treat, from behind a half-closed door.

  Jock fucks the girl into oblivion.

  “My name is Celeste,” she whispers to the door, half-hoping Jok will hear. “I exist, too. You do this for a strange cunt on a stranger’s bed. Why not for me?”

  He chooses not to hear. He is too busy sullenly fucking the enchanted female beast.

  She turns finally from the door.

  It is the winter of her discontent – and a farewell to much more than virginity.

  From BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

  Alina Reyes

  Alina Reyes was born in Bruges, Gironde. Originally a freelance journalist, she started to write fiction after a visit to Montreal. Reyes acquired notoriety with the success of her first novel, The Butcher (1988), which was translated into numerous languages and adapted for the theatre. Like many of her later novels and essays, The Butcher revealed a concern with contemporary eroticism and how to treat it in literary fiction. Behind Closed Doors was published in 1994. She now divides her time between Paris and the Pyrenees.

  The Golden Phallus

  I entered a huge gaming room, which was so large I couldn’t see the other end. The pitiless artificial lights made everything shine brightly, especially the golden, neoclassical-kitsch décor. As far as the eye could see there were dozens of rows of one-armed bandits lined up in all directions.

  The casino staff who patrolled the alleys were all men, handsome young men, entirely naked except for headbands in their hair and laced-up leather sandals on their feet. And the clients were all female, women of all ages, sitting on stools in front of their one-armed bandits, gripping in their hands the long, thick golden phalluses which served as handles.

  The machines rang, spat out coins here and there and, when the jackpot was sufficiently large, one of the naked croupiers would run up to the winner to congratulate her and help her stack her dollars in a rack.

  This was all rather exciting but I didn’t have any change in my pocket with which to to try my luck. I crossed the room, looking for the hotel desk, for this casino undoubtedly belonged to one. It was probably the twin of a similar room reserved for men, with female lovelies on hand to provide the service.

  I found the lobby of the hotel; it was vast and gaudy. These establishments are always flashily luxurious, but offer modestly priced rooms, in order to seduce the mugs into the gaming rooms. I locate
d a lift, in front of which a fat man was waiting. I entered the lift with him.

  As soon as the doors closed, I said to him:

  “I would like to play, but I haven’t any money for my first stake.”

  And he looked me straight in the eyes. He seemed to have got the message. So I added:

  “Twenty dollars for a blow-job.”

  He took the notes out of his pocket and undid his buttons. I did the deed next to the lift buttons, so that I only had to reach out a hand to get the lift to move up or down. So we went up and down like that for as long as it took, which wasn’t very long, for I thought it was more fun to do it on the move, rather than block the lift, which might have brought on my claustrophobia, even if it was only for a couple of minutes. Also, we ran the risk of being discovered, which added a little spice to the proceedings.

  With my twenty dollars in my hand I went back to the gaming room, found a free machine and held fast to the golden phallus, which I lowered and raised vigorously with every coin I slipped into the slot. A nicely built waiter came to offer me a drink and I looked at him with interest but didn’t stare, out of shyness. Then I noticed that the other women had no qualms about exchanging compliments and pleasantries with the members of the staff, and even fondling them a bit. When the waiter returned with my drink, without hesitation I flashed him a pleasing smile while gently weighing up his balls in my hand.

  At one point I won a dozen or so dollars, then I lost the lot. So I had to go back to the lifts. Once again, I chose my prey well, for my proposition was warmly received, even though I had doubled my fee. I was particularly lucky, for another guy stepped into the lift on the eighteenth floor and caught us at it. I paused only long enough to tell him:

  “I’m working, sir.”

  So he undid his buttons as well and awaited his turn.

  So I had eighty dollars in my pocket when I returned to my assault on the one-armed bandits and their golden phalluses.

  This trick lasted all night, or perhaps all day, or all night and all day, for it was impossible to keep track of time in this place where there was no other life but the game and no other light but the neon.

  I won the jackpot several times: the machine continually coughed out dollars and immediately the croupier would appear and, in my enthusiasm, I couldn’t resist fondling him before offering him a large tip.

 

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