Any lingering doubts I may have had about my role at Black Spires, and perhaps I had none, had faded like mist in sunshine. I was born to give and receive the gift of pleasure. I would never have been satisfied with one man, with groping hands, with clumsy boys. I wasn’t built for it. I bored easily, I knew that. The sisters at the convent said that. I needed continual change and surprise, new demands and challenges. I had always considered myself special – most people do, I suppose – but now I knew in which way I was special. Just as Milly, that paragon of female perfection, recognised in Cannes that she was not born to be an actress, I knew, as I had always suspected, that the cold certainties of numbers would tire as I embraced the warm uncertainties of the flesh. I was naked, as a girl like me should be. I had found myself. This was my gift.
Of course I knew there were girls who reluctantly worked as prostitutes to feed drug habits or luxury lifestyles. Those girls hated what they were doing. It was a chore, a bore, a disgrace. They hadn’t grasped that paid sex, vanilla sex, repetitive sex is not the same as the gift of sex, that the erotic is always consensual, that the pain of being bound and spanked must be measured against the pleasure. I may have been tricked into coming to Black Spires, I may have tricked myself, but I knew the moment I descended the sweeping staircase beside Milly, an Old Basher of all things, that I was where destiny in her modest way had always been leading me.
The Duc had fallen in love with my ass. He wanted to take that precious little plaything and place it like a Teddy bear on the pillows piled like a snow drift on his four-poster bed in his castle in Spain, a place I imagined with ivy climbing the walls and white swans on a silvery lake.
Juice was running in a stream down my legs and tickling my ankles. If he kept on caressing my backside, his warm hand stirring my reservoir of sticky liquids, I would leak over the floor and flood the carpet in a scene that could have been envisioned by Isabel Allende, that syrupy substance climbing the walls, coating the mirrors, consuming us in a human sacrifice, that macabre, primitive, oddly exciting ceremony we had touched on once at school with daring Sister Nuria.
It is always the most beautiful girl in the tribe who is chosen to pacify the Gods. She is stripped of her garments and I recall the Sister saying that being naked while others are dressed is in itself a form of sacrifice, a reminder of a long-forgotten ritual, a practice remembered and acknowledged in that house of fun and commerce by those men who ruled the world.
I had always wondered why they choose only the most desirable girls as offerings, and it was suddenly clear to me: ugliness would be an affront to the Gods. Ugliness is a compromise, a stingy gift. Ugliness cannot be spoiled and to despoil as well as to caress is the interplay at the heart of eroticism. The sacrifice of beauty gives meaning to beauty as well as mortality, and I understood something I had read once in a book that I wasn’t supposed to read: that assenting to erotic pleasure is assenting to pleasure to the point of death.
My mind was turning, churning, spinning, chattering to itself, zooming off every which way. My body was electric and my head was exploding with new ideas and sensations. Sweat beads formed pearl necklaces over my back and juice dripped down my legs and slipped inside my high-heel shoes. I had come a long way since climbing into the silver Range Rover in the garage in London to set off on this miraculous journey. I had learned more about love, sex, the erotic, the gift of being a girl and the gift of giving myself as a girl in two hours than I’m sure most girls learn in a lifetime.
When Sergio ceased his caresses and slapped my bum with the flat of his hand, it woke me from my trance. For a moment, I wasn’t sure where I was and only remembered when I saw a ring of Magdalenas stretching around the walls of the room.
‘Ouch,’ I screamed.
‘This is nothing, cariña,’ he said, his perfect English slipping. ‘Now, you can bend over.’
I paused for a fraction of a second, then did as I was told. He picked up my leather belt, doubled it over, and brought it down across the curve of my protruding bottom, first one cheek, then the other, the crack ringing out and echoing over the mirrored dome.
It was painful, but not as painful as Sister Benedict’s cane, and, as the belt came down for another taste of my sweet flesh, it struck me like a revelation that the Sister had beaten me in her office with a sense of cruelty, but Sergio was thrashing me in a mood of fiery passion, that an object of beauty, like my bottom, I assumed, must first be spanked and sullied in order to be cherished and worshipped. It was another enduring symbol of the sacrifice; it was the reversal of normal conventions and the erotic, I decided, entails the breaking down of those conventions, of established patterns, of preconceived ideas.
My desires had been immature to the point of naiveté. I wanted sex, lots of sex. I was a hot, healthy young girl of eighteen with an eternal if shameful leak between my legs and breasts bursting to break through my clothes, when I was wearing them. I was constantly in rut. But that thirst for knowledge that strikes girls of my age is often disappointing.
Sex in the standard legs up, cock in, spunk over your belly sort of way leaves you wondering what all the fuss is about. Sex without orgasm is like champagne without the bubbles. I’d sneaked down to the bottom field to meet the local grammar school boys at sunset enough times to know how frustrating the experience can be, their fingers like grappling irons clawing at your knickers, the way they slip in and slip out like a thief in the night leaving little more than an empty space and a sense of inertia. Sex has to be full on, overpowering, all-absorbing and the sex that follows acts of sadomasochism had to be most gratifying. Being spanked stirs your passions, it makes your nerve endings vibrate, it releases all those boiling juices bubbling inside you.
It was good to have these thoughts passing through my mind as Sergio Buenavista dealt with the other end of my body and brought that leather strap down for another lash, much harder this time.
‘Ouch,’ I cried again.
It stung like hell and drew a surging gout of juice from my sopping pussy. It’s an odd sensation, the vinegary stripe of fire across the lower cheeks of your cute little ass, then this urgent spasm that runs parallel with the sting up your spine into that crucible in your brain where pleasure and pain are mixed into the alchemical potion I presumed was ecstasy. The body builds a tolerance for all sensation, even pain, particularly pain, and you start to need more. Sergio was burning up his energy, and I found myself relaxing, accepting the pain and drawing that energy into myself.
He kept this up, thrashing my backside with the same rhythm as the drummer beating his snare in the hall downstairs, the pace slowly gaining momentum, and it suddenly occurred to me that this was a flamenco beat. The Duc de Peralada was a matador and I was a bull being prepared for his sword.
With the next thrash across my rosy cheeks, I turned and reared up at him. I roared from deep in my throat and moved back to the curved edge of the room. I kicked off my teetering heels, scraped my toes through the black sand of that shaggy carpet and charged, head down, my forefingers making horns. He managed to pull off his jacket with the red silk lining and turn it into a cape. He was quick, but not quick enough. I caught him a glancing blow as he executed a two-handed pass they call a veronica.
‘Bravo! Bravissimo!’ he roared.
The bull in the bullring always returns to the same spot, the place where it feels safest. I did the same. I caught my breath as he pulled off his bow tie and shirt. His muscles rippled on his broad chest. His dark eyes were lit with glints of light from the chandelier. I charged again. I thought I was ready for his trick with the cape, but, as I was about to make contact, he pirouetted in an elegant swirl and I stumbled across the circular bed, the moonlight like silver daggers spearing the windows.
He jumped on top of me. ‘Now I’ve got you, my little toro,’ he said.
I wriggled to get free, but he was strong. He enjoyed the struggle and so did I. He pinned me down with his knees and took a grip on my arms. Captured game tastes sweete
st and he licked my wet underarms, my chin, my cheeks. He tasted my inflamed lips, his tongue caressing my teeth, my throat as if in search of the semen he’d left there earlier in the evening.
As he kissed me, he stretched my arms back and hooked the straps on my wrists to two of the rings set conveniently and evenly spaced around the entire edge of the bed. I was netted, bagged. I was his. He stood away from the bed and as he dropped his clothes on the floor I watched his movements repeated endlessly in the circle of mirrors.
He looked into my eyes as he jerked his cock very slowly up and down. My lips were ablaze and my mouth had dropped open.
‘Qué boca,’ he said – what a mouth.
He climbed on the bed and as he slipped his cock down my gaping gullet I had a body memory of this warm, olive-scented piece of the Spanish aristocracy conquering the soft tissues and delicate membranes of my mouth. Just as I had walked the perimeter of the room, I rimmed the outer edges of the eye of his cock with the tip of my tongue and felt him judder in spasm as he withdrew.
He was in no hurry. He left my throat to run his tongue into the dripping gash between my arched legs. I opened for him like a flower and like a little bee he buzzed around the enlarged nub of my pulsing clitoris, poking, licking, caressing, each manoeuvre taking me higher into the thin air of places where I had never been before.
And a silly thought slipped through my mind. I thought one day I would write this memoir of being eighteen so that grammar school boys would know that when girls tiptoe from the convent to find them at sunset they should seal their lips and eyes with tender kisses, gently draw down their panties and slip that talkative tongue into the honey pot of their sopping eager pussies. If only you knew, that’s what girls dream of.
I pushed my shoulders back, I spread my legs, I lifted my bottom from the round bed and wanted to draw that tongue, that head, that man inside me. I wanted to hold on to his shoulders and had to make do with pulling against the rings binding my wrists. I could receive pleasure but only in ways Sergio dictated. I could see that, once a man grants rights to a woman and removes her restraints, he imposes limits on himself.
Sergio had complete power over my pussy and took that insatiable little beast to places I never imagined existed. His tongue was a conquistador and my clitoris was an unexplored continent dreaming of being subdued, crushed, dominated. I had stopped thinking, counting, calculating and was overcome with pure sensation. There was no past, no future, just this smooth, constant motion, this perfect dance. I could feel contractions, and clenched his tongue with my powerful vaginal muscles, the action making him gag as he reached still deeper down the channel of my screaming vagina. I was going to come, and already the moment of petit mort was chasing behind my orgasm.
As the contractions grew in pace, he withdrew his tongue from my pussy and my body deflated like a Christmas balloon as he rolled me back in such a way that my toes were touching my secured wrists. He now slowly, forcefully eased that lively lingua into my tight little bottom, in and out, in and out; the man was a machine softening the anal muscles, teaching them that their task of pushing down can be reversed to draw alien objects up, up into unknown forests of sensation and pleasure, the pressure from his tongue crossing the narrow bridge of my perineum to tease the demanding fires of my clitoris.
Boys. Boys. Boys. You have so much to learn.
Girls. Girls. Girls. Let yourself go with the flow.
There is in fairgrounds an amusement where strong men wield wooden mallets, striking down on a wooden peg, the force of the blow driving a marker up a tall column towards a bell. Ring the bell and you win a prize.
That was me, the bell was my clitoris and, as the marker rose higher and higher, Sergio withdrew his tongue and filled my back passage with his fierce cock, the probing, heavy-headed mallet driving up inside me until I exploded and all my bells rang out as in the finale of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. The cannon boomed. The percussion exploded. I’d been well and truly ass-fucked, actually for the first time, though not the last that night. I was a bottle of champagne and the Duc de Peralada had filled me to the brim with bubbles.
He collapsed and lay on top of me, sweating and quivering, totally spent. He had left his essence in my mouth and, revived, rejuvenated, he had left a fresh supply in the deepest part of my body.
‘Voy a comprarte de Simon,’ he whispered. ‘Venga conmigo.’
I lay there wondering what this implied.
Sergio Buenavista was going to buy me from Simon. I was going with him. He had power over me. But I now had a certain power over him.
That is the way of the gift, I thought, the exchange.
Should I tell him now that I spoke Spanish? Did he already know? I lay there thinking so hard for a suitable remark I didn’t say anything. My breath slowly came back and my heart stilled. He rolled to one side, slipped from the bed and I watched him dress.
‘You stay,’ he said. Then he did something sweet. He leaned over and kissed me very gently on the lips.
He left me now and I studied myself in the mirrors above, my arms pulled back, my legs spread on the round bed with its white sheet stained with sperm trickling warmly from my humming ass and juice from my dizzy pussy.
The room grew silent in anticipation. A few minutes passed and another man entered. I didn’t recall having seen him before.
11
Being and Fantasy
EVERY MAN IS different. They are like snowflakes. They have their patterns and designs, their character and temperament, flavour and tempo, their fantasies and fervent thirsts. They are like boys with toys that have moveable parts.
Some are big, so meaty and solid you feel in your belly the pulse of their burning balls of fire. Others are petite, slender as lolly sticks, and it needs all the cunning vibrations of your thigh muscles and vagina walls to remunerate their feverish efforts.
Some are in a rush. Wham Bam Thank You Ma’am. In and out as if there’s a fire on the first floor, or the last virgin is about to be sacrificed. They impale you like spear fishermen on the South China Seas, like javelin throwers at the Olympics, like darts players in the pub, leaving their marker in you or over you.
I’m in there.
I’m outta here.
You’re just the quickie before more urgent things drive them onwards and upwards. They scurry and they sweat. They lose their hair. Their focus. They know there’s a secret. They feel it. Sense it. They calculate if they move fast enough they’ll get there, they’ll win the race, they’ll learn the secret.
But they never will. Those men are the progeny of the legendary hare. It is the tortoise who wins the race. Unhurried, dogged, deliberate, the tortoise knows that life is a mystery solved with persistence. He’s prehistoric. He has been among us for a million years and, when you sift through every grain of earthly promise, the seed that flowers into the brightest bloom is the slow-growing, seldom-seen erotic. The tortoise knows that.
The hares are narcissists, the alpha males, the egomaniacs terrified that just around the corner there may be a better hole to bore, a new bit of stuff that’s sexier, prettier, curvier, younger, more flexible, more intelligent, with longer legs, a longer tongue, bigger tits, a better ass, a better attitude. These guys are in such a hurry they have never found the time to learn that of all life’s pleasures the erotic is at the peak, above the treeline and clouds, that what they give out will come back a hundredfold. A thousandfold. What a sad Neanderthal bunch of brain-deads they are. They’ve never grown up from being schoolboys. They are and will remain forever on the bottom field.
Other men are patient, ponderous, like a philatelist with a rare stamp, or a scientist with a new species of flora. Like a mathematician with algebraic puzzles, or a topographer surveying land, they want to analyse every angle and turn, every hill and dale, every curve and fissure with its moist secrets and inexplicable erogenous zones where a mere touch or a breath can set pulses racing and knees atremble. These connoisseurs of the female form want to
smack you, spank you, whip and cane your white flesh until it is patterned with the geometry of their deepest lusts. Your body is an abacus and the maestro sets your beads flying.
Why does a man want to beat you?
He wants to beat you because in the thrall of domination and submission you find the chemistry of sexual oblivion. You find your true self. You find the absolute: total sexual gratification. Weird, I know, but true and I would advise every girl to try it.
To the stamp collector you are the celebrated Penny Black. He wants you in his album below a sheet of tissue, in a display case, nakedly on show. He wants you this way and that: prone as a missionary spouse doing her duty to king maker and country, looming above like a harem concubine who reminds him oddly of mummy in those days when she peered down at baby in his cot and the love in her eyes stirred the little member sleeping in his nappy. He wants to see you on the floor balanced on hands and toes, breasts swinging like pendulums striking the hour in a grandfather clock, back at an angle, the pink feast of your pussy open like a rip in the universe, soft as velvet, sweet as rose petals below the dark gaze of your puckered anus.
Agh, the angst of choice: the dripping, sweet-smelling rose or the pungent fruit from the Judas tree?
Or both!
Like the tortoise.
I felt detached, freed from the chains of choice, my nerve endings keened with a desire for esoteric wisdom, for pleasures and experiences on the very edge of my imagination. I wanted to swim like a fish and fly like a bird. When you are young and naked with your life before you, anything may happen. Every girl fantasises about having a stream of lovers. I was living the fantasy. It was hallucinogenic, a drug trip on nothing more than a flute of champagne and a feast of fresh semen. My brain was humming, my body was bathed in perspiration. I was the perfect object, the guava hanging ripe and shiny from the Tree in the Garden of Eden, ready to be used, abused, defiled and worshipped. I was the virgin sacrifice.
The Gift of Girls Page 15