It was about 2:30 in the morning and the plane was thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic, on its way to France. The few people scattered through the length of the first-class cabin were all asleep, except for one. Gaston LeFevre had been looking for a long time at the girl sleeping across the aisle from him. Her head was leaning against the window and her legs, bare from midthigh, were carelessly spread open. Her breathing was long and slow, and every time she in-haled, her wonderful round breasts lifted inside the cotton sweater she was wearing.
Gaston LeFevre's cock had been standing at attention for an uncomfortable length of time -- on the alert. Meanwhile, Gaston was thinking to himself: About eighteen years old, I'd say -- American, which means she's ripe for it if I play my cards right. She's driving me crazy!
With that, he got up from his seat, crossed the aisle, and seated himself beside her. He touched his hip to hers and moved his leg against hers from thigh to ankle. Her heat flowed into him. He watched the place where the bare skin of her open legs disappeared under the skirt. Only a few inches further on was the warm, round cunt that he knew would soon be opening to his fingers.
She seemed to be dreaming. She shifted a little, murmuring to herself, and then, to his amazement, turned her head and rested it on his shoulder, her long blonde hair like silk against his face. His cock was now straining with desire. Slowly, slowly he lifted his arm and put it round her soft shoulders. She snuggled against him, moving her hips a little. Her right breast settled smoothly against his shirt.
There was so much heat coming out of that little package that he shook like a leaf. And how much more so when, in the innocence of sleep, she shifted her arm and rested her palm square on his cock, pushing and squeezing it like a rubber toy!
He struggled to hold his load. When he found him-self under control, he began stroking her thigh, starting from her knee, back and forth, moving ever closer to the hem of her skirt. She nestled her head into his shoulder and her hand increased its friction against his quivering rod. He could feel the heat of her pussy radiating, like a little furnace. Finally his fingers touched the mound, covered with the cotton of her panties. It was as soft as if it had been filled with cream. He pressed the cloth into her slit, stroking back and forth, feeling the flesh open, the cotton be-ginning to soak with her juices and sweat.
She moaned, and then woke up, lifting her head and looking at him.
"Wha -- who are your Her voice wasn't frightened, only surprised and inquisitive. He pressed her .lit and the words died in her mouth. She leaned forward a little, breathing in little gasps, and when he hooked his middle finger inside the elastic at her crotch, and sank it to the knuckle, she leaned forward still further, groaning. He felt her hole open, the walls quivering a little before yielding. He felt the juice oozing into the passage until his finger and then his whole palm was wet and her curly pubic hairs were dewy with it. He pulled his finger out to the first knuckle and flicked it in and out at the very edge of her hole, pressing ever so slightly.
"Ohhhh," she moaned, and bent almost double. He put his free arm around her again and pulled her back in the seat. She slouched down, leaning against him, and spread her legs so wide that her dress came up to her belly, exposing the white triangle of her underpants. While she moaned and shook in his arms, he gently eased the panties off, sliding them down, first on one side then the other, until they were around her knees. Then, trembling as violently as she was, he feasted his eyes on her yellow bush, rising in a high mound between her legs, the soft hairs split at the center where her crack was open wide. Excited though he was, he teased her, rubbing his palm round and round her firm belly, running his fingertips along the line where her leg joined her belly and then along the inside of her thigh, almost but not quite touching her cunt. She was steaming. The heat coming out of her could have roasted an egg. He couldn't hold back anymore. Taking her cunt in his palm he pushed first one, then two, then three fingers into it, squirming them inside like so many worms.
"Oh God!" she cried, lifting her hips against his hand, so that her stomach muscles hardened into two rows under the skin. She began to heave her ass up and down, unable to keep still. Her hand, wandering over his body, found his cock again and stroked it frantically, from balls to tip, fumbling with his zip-per. She got it open at last and shoved her hand in-side, wrapping her fingers around that meaty sausage, and pulling at it as if she were mad. He kissed her forehead, eyes, cheeks, and chin and finally found her lips, opening her teeth with his tongue, licking the in-side of her mouth, pushing in as far as he could, as though his tongue were a cock and her hot mouth a cunt, all wet and open for him. His fingers worked double-time in her hole, working up a lather, slipping in and out as if on oil, while she twisted and squirmed in her seat, moaning against his mouth, her tongue fighting his, her hand squeezing and rubbing at his cock.
He could stand the desire no longer. Taking his hand out of her, he pulled the panties off altogether, then pushed his own pants down to the floor. His dork, with her fist still around it, stood up high, curving slightly to the right. Her hand worked it rhythmically up and down, stretching the loose skin until the head of it grew huge. He gripped her suddenly around the hips and lifted her from her seat to his, poising her above his dick, ready to sink her down.
"No!" she said suddenly, pulling herself away and withdrawing to the opposite corner of her seat. "Please, I've never gone this far before. I'm not ready for that." She put her hand over her pussy in a sudden fit of modesty.
The dim corridor light showed her blue eyes wide open -- sorrowful, beseeching, excited -- he couldn't decide which. Her face, criss-crossed by the wild strands of her blonde hair, was round, innocent, and very beautiful, with high cheekbones and lips that pouted even when she wasn't pouting. Her breasts were rising and falling very fast and at the tip of each one a hard little nipple showed through the cloth of her sweater.
"There s really not that much further to go," Gaston said by way of reply. He was breathing hard. His cock was at an excruciating pitch of excitement.
"It isn't right," she said. "I don't even know who you are."
"Let me kiss you then," Gaston "said. "That's all -- Just a kiss. You can't deny me that, not now."
The girl's face showed that she was still hot in spite of her fear. She let him pull her over and as soon as his lips met hers. she opened her mouth as wide as she could, pushing her tongue into his-mouth, moving her head from side to side. He took her face in his hands, caressing her round cheeks. He licked her tongue, and passed his mouth back and forth against hers until both their faces were wet. Then he let his right hand down from her cheek to her neck and then her shoulder, and down the front of her sweater until he had her breast cupped in his hand, a big firm hill of young flesh, with the nipple taut against his palm. When he did that, she took a sudden long breath and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him more fervently than before. He squeezed her tit gently, pressing it round and round, lifting it, feeling its womanly weight. It was so round and smooth! She grunted against his lips, her tongue searching the roof of his mouth, her body propped up on one hip, stomach extended toward him. Inhaling, she pushed her breast into his hand as if to give it to him, and herself with it.
Now he took his hand away and pulled the sweater from her waist. He pushed his palm inside and slid it across her stomach and ribs and then he had her breast again, naked in his hand. When he did that she broke her mouth away and pressed her cheek against his, sighing, "Ohhhhh!" into his ear. She put her feet on the floor and lifted herself toward him, al-most rotating her body to increase the friction of his hand against her skin. Sliding his other arm from round her shoulder, he took her left tit in his hand as well and caressed them both.
Her tongue was wild inside his mouth, her hair was wild on her face and shoulders; her eyes were closed tight and every nerve and muscle seemed concentrated in her kiss and in the sensations of his hands on her breasts. When he broke his kiss and leaned down to take her nipple in his mouth, she dug her fingers in his hair and began moaning, urged on by the suction of his lips, by the kissing sounds, by the tongue circling and licking her nipple. Meanwhile his hand stroked her side and her back, massaging her muscle with the firm pressure of his fingertips.
In a sudden movement, he sat up and. lifted her sweater to take it off. She raised her arms and he pulled it from her, her face disappearing for a moment and then re-emerging -- chin, wet mouth, nose, closed eyes and forehead, and then the lush blonde hair falling again around her face. He paused to look as she sat there waiting for his caresses, with her head leaned forward, strands of hair over her eyes, her breasts so perfect and full, their pale tips pointed, her left nipple red and moist from. his sucking. All she had on now was her skirt. She was naked to the navel and if her legs were spread any further, her cunt would show again. She sat as if poised in a dream and then sank forward against him, her mouth open for his kiss.
This time he took her completely in his arms, his fingers pressing her back. Then he moved one hand down her side and across her stomach. She raised herself a little from the seat in her excitement when his fingers brushed her belly and entered the waist-band of her skirt, pausing just at the line of pubic hair and playing with the curls. Slowly, his palm circling round and round, he pushed his hand down, coiling his fingers in her hair, until with one little push he was around and had her mound cupped in his palm.
She inhaled with a sharp sound. Once again his fingers separated the lips of her crack, now sodden with juice. Her hole was so wet and wide that three fingers slid in with no trouble.
"I've never felt a woman so wet!" he told her.
"Oh baby," she answered, licking his mouth, his nose, his chin.
He worked his fingers madly, until she was literally jumping in her seat. She heaved up her hips, breathing as if she was ready to come.
"Take the skirt off!" she gasped.
He unhitched it and pulled it off. Her hips were wide, her belly heaving, the crack between her legs slick with honey. She lifted her leg high up against the seat in front so that he could see her entire pussy, see the hole straining open for him in the middle of that red pie. Maddened by the sight of it, he pulled off his pants, revealing a hugely engorged cock standing erect at a level with his navel; the veins bulging, the head the width of a golf ball. Instantly she took it in her hand, pumping it with all her force.
"Stop it! You'll make me come."
"Come on, baby, come. Please, I want you to. Let me see your milk shoot out." She had her other fist around it now, pulling and squeezing it.
But he gripped her round the waist and lifted her into his own seat, slouching down and making her straddle him, her knees on the cushion. He flicked his cock teasingly along the length of her crack.
"No," she said, "no ..." But the more she said it, the less convincing she sounded. "Don't make me do it ... I'm new, I don't want it yet ... no, no, no, NO!" He had imbedded the tip in her hole, and was now sinking her down on it.
"N-n-no. Mmmm, no, baby. No -- AWWWW."
He had settled her down all the way. The head of his dick was high up in her belly now and only his balls remained outside her.
She sat transfixed for a little while, her blue eyes wide open and staring into his own. Her breasts were smooth against his chest and he could feel her pubic hairs mingling with his. He took one fleshy buttock in each band and lifted her until his cock was almost out of her; then he sank her down again. Soon she caught the motion from him and, slowly at first, began springing up and down on her knees. As the friction heated her, she picked up speed until she was in a frenzy, shaking her head, moaning, rubbing and bouncing her breasts against his ribs. Squish -- squish -- squish -- at every stroke the kissing of cock in cunt, the juice pouring out of her in a stream, wetting the seat, wetting his thighs -- a hot liquor that filled their nostrils with its leathery musk.
Gaston's dick was stretched practically beyond its breaking point. The walls of her cunt were new and tight and every plunge brought him closer to the edge. He kept her ass in his hands, pulling down and lifting up, occasionally flicking a finger underneath to rub the rim of her asshole. It was this that set her off. She plunged furiously, the pitch of her moans rising higher, higher until, still riding him, she gripped his shoulders tightly and cried: "Oh God, oh God, baby, honey, oh oh oh oh oh, OH OH OHHHHH!" She was coming like a freight train, and with that Gaston unloaded his balls, firing wad after wad of thick cream into her belly, lurching with the power of his spasms.
"Oh God," she cried, "I can feel it shooting into me, I can feel your come -- Ohhh!" She sprang up and down like a madwoman, holding her breasts in her hands, squeezing them, crying out as each wave rolled through.
Gaston had never felt anything like it. He kept coming as if there were no end to it. He lifted her up on his hips, driving every last millimeter inside her. Her pubic hair brushed his belly as she rose and fell. He couldn't believe the heat of her. She was like an oven-not only in her cunt, which was steaming like a molten pool; but on the surface of her skin, particularly her tits. She radiated warmth as if her pussy was a kind of nuclear fire, the source of her very life.
Finally, with one tremendous rush, his orgasm died away. She kept coming for a few seconds more, then collapsed heaving against him. His cock was still hard inside her. He held her tight to him -- pussy, stomach, breasts and face.
"I can't believe it!" he said finally.
"Oh, it was wrong!" she replied, pressing her face to his and apparently on the verge of tears.
"Oh come on. Wrong! I've never seen such a natural-born lover. You're a genius!"
"It was the first time."
"No! I don't believe it.'
"It was."
She rubbed a few tears on his cheek. At the same time she settled herself a little on his lap to be sure all of him was inside her. The walls of her pussy had contracted around his dick, holding it in a warm em-brace. She sniffled.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Charlotte."
"You're going to Paris?"
"Yes."
"So am I. That's where I live. How long will you be there?"
"Three weeks. It's my vacation." She sniffed again.
"Why don't you stay with me? I have a nice apartment in the Latin Quarter -- in the middle of every-thing."
"I have reservations in a hotel."
"Save your money! Come on," he said, squeezing her shoulder blades. "I won't do anything you don't want me to do."
The girl's cunt was doing crazy things to his dick. He seemed to feel her blood vessels beating around it, and strange muscles seemed to be pressing and feeling it. Suddenly she began breathing harder again. Her body came to life against his chest. All her heat became active once more.
"Mmm." He felt all her circuits open, her cunt grow wet and pliant, her heartbeat racing.
She lifted herself up on her knees and then settled down again. Her mouth was panting open, her eyes closed tight, her brow furrowed with concentration. She lifted herself again, and again sank down. She did it once more, and again, and again, until she was flying up and down in his arms, as mad with lust as she had been before.
It was too much for him to take in that position any longer. He lifted her up in his arms, stepped into the aisle, and laid her flat on the carpet. Then he shoved it to her for all he was worth, jamming himself in until he was literally resting on his toes and their pubic bones and pubic hair were grinding together. At each thrust she threw her hips in the air to meet him, lifting his weight easily with the strength of her desire. He couldn't believe the fury of it, the way she twisted her body and shook her hips high, bouncing her ass on the floor after each push -- the way her fingers roved over his back and pulled and curled in his hair, or the moans with which she filled the cabin. Her breasts were like pillows and moved with each motion of his body, pressing hard against his chest, flattened out, the nipples like soft rubber against his ribs.
"Push it in, honey, shove it to me -- Oh my God -- OH!"
Gaston grew aware of other noises around him -- women's sexual groans, the sounds of bodies dropping to the floor, the slappings of flesh against flesh. He could not turn around, but he knew what had happened: The other passengers, awakened by the sounds of love, had succumbed to a sexual frenzy. Newlyweds, men and women on 25th anniversary vacations, people who had never clapped eyes on each other before, were squirming in each other's arms, rolling into the aisle, squeezing each other and grunting -- urged on by the darkness and by the abandonment of Gaston and his beautiful young girl. Looking up, Gaston caught sight of a stewardess, just emerged from the captain's cabin to see what all the noise was about. She watched for a little while, then hitched up her skirts, pulled down her panties, and began masturbating -- pulling at the skin around her clit, stretching and relaxing it; leaning against the door of the cabin, pushing her haunches forward, spreading her legs, and going at it with both hands, until her slit was a wide red line, gleaming with moisture in the pale light, and her hole a big and inviting dark door framed by curls of brown hair. She pulled her skirt higher still, and pushed a hand under her bra to squeeze her breast. At this, a kid about twenty years old, who had been sitting alone -- entirely left out -- got up from his seat, loosening his pants as he came, and, whipping his cock until it stood hard as a spike, approached the stewardess and began teasing her: pushing the head of his dick into her navel, brushing it around her stomach, tickling himself in her pubic hair -- until she took it in her fingers, smiling at him and moving her hips, and put it to her hole. Bending his knees a little, he began to shove. Once -- twice -- three times, and he slid in all the way. The stewardess's eyes opened wide and then closed, as she uttered a long and ecstatic sigh. She hitched her legs around his waist, threw her arms round his shoulders, and groaned helplessly with pleasure as he backed her against the cabin door and plowed it to her in hard shoves, his ass flexing with the effort.
Gaston's little girl was bouncing him up and down on her hips as if he weighed no more than a moth ball. At the same time, he was bearing down against her thrusts with all his strength. His dick seemed to grow an inch with every stroke. The sounds and vague sights of the stewardess a few feet from him spurred him on and soon he was fucking so fast that Charlotte threw her legs around his back and held him hard, now passively taking his thrusts until the squishing sounds in her cunt became one continuous noise.
"Uh -- uh-uh! Oh honey - Uh! Take me, take me, baby, all of me, every bit -- Oh! Ohhh! My Go-o-o-d-OH! Baby! OH!" He could feel her veins beating in-side. "I'm going to -- I'm going to come! I -- Oh -- Oh! Oh! OH! OH -- OH -- OH -- OHHHHH!" She put her feet on the floor and lifted her hips high, as he jammed himself in to the hilt, his balls bouncing against her can, and he shot a powerful load hard into her belly. Time and again the muscles between his legs pumped out their cream, and as each wad sailed into her, she cried out and tightened her arms around his neck. Her own orgasms sent her bucking like a filly. Their pubic bones pressed so hard together that it hurt, but the pain just egged them on.
"Ohhhh -- it's still coming! I can feel it so hot! -- "
At last her motions began to relax. Her hips slowed their crazy motion. She sank back with a long sigh as he shot the last loads into her. Then they both lay quiet, he still on top of her and inside her, she kissing his cheek and his ear, with her legs spread wide.
Meanwhile the stewardess, with her back against the cabin door, was approaching her climax, too. Her lover plugged her hard enough to make the door shake. Her face, over his shoulder, was pink and covered with sweat, and her legs were still wrapped tight around his waist.
She didn't moan or say anything, but the concentration, in her face was tremendous. All at once her eyes opened wide, and her mouth, too, and she in-haled sharply -- she was over the edge. As the waves broke she squealed like an animal, shivering and jerking in his arms, her legs kicking, toes curling and flexing.
Just then the pilot opened the door and the pair of them fell into the flight cabin with a tremendous racket. She landed flat on her back, still coming, and the pilot, teetering backwards, almost crushed his brains against the instrument panel. But everything was all right in the end. The stewardess drifted into a dreamy stupor and was left alone with the pilot and co-pilot, who, with their eyes fixed on her cunt, shut the door immediately after her lover had got off; and in the passenger cabin everybody returned to their seats, snuggled up close, and went to sleep smiling.
Chapter 2
Next day, as soon as they'd landed and got through customs, waved good-by to all the friends they'd so suddenly made the night before, Gaston took Charlotte and their luggage from the Air France Terminal at Invalides to his apartment on the Rue St. Andr� des Arts, in the Latin Quarter.
In daylight she looked so very beautiful that he couldn't keep his eyes or his hands off her. Her body was full and tight, stretching all her clothes. But she wasn't vulgarly big at all. Everything was in proportion and just right for the hands. Everything was soft, round, and womanly. Her ass, the cheeks clearly and firmly separated, swung hypnotically when she walked. Her back was straight, her head held high, her eyes wide and blue and full of wonder and interest in everything. When she walked, her breasts moved ever so slightly under her sweater. These breasts of hers held him fascinated. They seemed so right, is the best way he could describe it to -himself. There was her belly, with the navel sunk deep into the skin, and then her rib cage -- almost, but not quite, concealed by the layer of flesh -- and then her breasts, coming out so sweetly and naturally, the way the hills rise from farmlands in Provence. The nipples were soft and flesh-colored and pointed just a little to each side. As he stood or walked or sat beside her, Gaston liked to press the side of the one nearest him, surreptitiously -- just for the pleasure of feeling it.
"Oh look!" she kept saying, pointing out of the cab window. "What's that? It's so beautiful."
She was innocent, no doubt about it. She hadn't been lying or playing coy. Her whole manner showed how young she was -- still a girl, still the wonder and the trust in her face. And, yet, how different she was in her passion! All it took to cause the change was a little solitude, a little touch -- and suddenly the child disappeared and a woman was in your arms. It was that quick, and that complete.
It was summer in Paris and the streets were full of children and lovers. The cab cruised the Boulevard St. Germain and turned left on a very narrow and very old street in front of the Medical School of the Sorbonne. Three blocks later -- and short and irregular old blocks they were -- they turned right on Gaston's street. He took his bag and her own and led her up a winding staircase, all the way to the fourth floor where he had a studio overlooking the street.
As soon as she got inside, she ran to the couch and knelt on it, with her arms on the back, and stared out the window.
"I can't believe it," she exclaimed. "Look at those roofs -- Paris!"
"Voila" he said, coning up behind her. Across the way a woman was washing her hair in front of the window. Gaston put his hands on Charlotte's shoulders and massaged them, pressing his thumbs into the muscles. Charlotte sighed and leaned her head back.
"I can't believe this," Gaston thought to himself. "It's too good to be true! It's as though she was dropped right in my hands!"
"How old are these houses, anyway?" she asked him.
Gaston had to think a minute, translating the numbers in his mind. "Three hundred years," he answered finally.
"Wow!"
The childishness of her voice as she said this trailed into a very womanly moan at the end, when Gaston pressed a particularly responsive muscle.
"Where are you from?" he asked.
"Terre Haute, Indiana."
This gets better and better, he thought to himself. Fresh from the backwoods -- or the cornfields more likely -- with a pocketful of her parents' money, which she'd likely have spent on ice cream if I hadn't come along to rescue it. Probably the first time she's been out of her backyard. Never tasted liquor, I'll bet -- smoked one cigarette on the sly, in the basement, when her parents were away, and has been feeling guilty about it ever since. Probably handled by every yokel in Terre Haute (what kind of a name is that?) but never fucked once -- before last night, that is. And yet she's so natural! She's made for it.
Just then she leaned her head way back against his chest, her blue eyes looking up at him and her breasts pushed taut as they could be, stretching the sweater. Her cleavage led his eyes down into the dark recesses, and his hands followed his eyes almost immediately. He pushed his palms inside the neck of her sweater and took her breasts in his hands.
"You like them, don't your she said, smiling up at hint
"Oh yes," he answered, squeezing gently.
"I like to feel your hands on them." And she put her own hands over his and helped him caress her.
He leaned down and gave her an upside-down kiss, which she answered by thrusting her tongue up into his mouth. Then she pulled her tongue back and bit his lower lip.
"So, a little animal, is it!" he said, turning her around. The roguish look in her face made his cock stand rigid inside his pants. Without a word he lifted her sweater up and off her. Her tits bobbed slightly with the movement.
"What are you going to do?" she asked in an inviting voice.
"I'm going to sit down beside you and kiss you so hard you won't be able to breathe. I'm going to feel your tits and suck them and I'm going to open your skirt and take it off, and take your panties off and push my fingers into your cunt. I'm going to push you down and lie on top of you and shove my cock so far up inside you that I may never come out again."
He said this with so much certainty and even ferocity that she blinked. Her chest rose and fell quicker and quicker with each sentence. When he sat down beside her and put his arm round her shoulder, she resisted at first, a little frightened. He kissed her hard on the lips, biting her as if to draw blood.
"Ow! What are you doing?"
He stopped her with a kiss, driving his tongue back almost to her throat. Meanwhile he squeezed and handled her breasts with no pretence of being gentle.
She tried to stop him, but the protest died in her throat. She squirmed, trying to get out of his arms, but little by little she began to respond. The rough hands on her tits roused her to sudden passion, and she twisted, moving her chest under his touch. She seemed to be saying, Here they are -- grab them, hurt them, the harder the better. I'm a woman, my breasts are made for you to hold, anyway you want. Her teeth sank into his lips, her fingernails tore the back of his shirt and traced lines in his skin. His hand moved violently, lifting, pressing, pulling. He slid it from her armpit over her left breast, and onto her right fit, pinching the nipple between his fingers, rubbing it, feeling the flesh moving and rolling inside the skin. And all the while his right hand massaged her shoulder blades and vertebrae and the tough, flat muscles -- striking sparks in her nerves, all of whose sensations flew directly to her cunt.
This roughing and tousling drove her frantic. She tore open his shirt, so that the buttons shot in all directions, and passing her hands through the thick curly hair, pushed her tits up against him. He held her tight, never resting his hands for a moment, savoring the sensation of skin against skin, eyeing the place where, under her skirt, her cunt throbbed and sweated.
She herself was watching the huge bulge in his pants and suddenly she put her hand on it. Her hand, stretched out, was tiny against the taut meat of his cock. She tested the width of his tool with her thumb and forefinger, and grunted to herself, aroused by the size of it alone. It was more than an inch and a half wide. Her palm didn't cover half the length of it. She eased her fingers between his legs, where the balls huddled together, big as eggs. Then she flicked open the snap of his levis and pulled down the zipper, pushing her hand inside with the quickness and curiosity of a virgin, as if she hadn't seen or felt such a thing before.
At the first touch of her fingertips on his bare rod, Gaston hardened like iron. The pleasure of it was actually painful. Watching her stare at it with such open fascination roused him still more. She experimented with different ways of feeling it -- pushing it, pulling it, squeezing it between her fingers, wrapping her fist around it and jerking it up and down. She traced the lines of blue veins with her forefinger and felt beneath the ridge where the head now swollen almost red -- joined the shaft. She hefted his balls in her palm, moving them lightly with her thumb, and stretched and pinched the loose skin of his bag. Then, at the inspiration of pure instinct, of her genius for love, she stretched her palm along the length of his shaft, pushed the shaft against his belly with a good pressure, and stroked it down from the head -- stretching and relaxing the skin again and again until Gaston was moaning, rolling his head from side to side on the back of the sofa. His cock stood straight up, rigid as a pole, almost bursting with blood. Her stroking made it a living animal -- thirsting, aching, begging for wet hot cunt, responding to her petting like an ecstatic dog.
Already Gaston could smell her excitement. The moist odor of her cunt filled his nostrils. He reached down and separated her thighs and slid his hand up her leg, the tropical warmth increasing the closer he got to the source. Her panties were wet through and the cotton felt as if it would separate like tissue pa-per. When he pushed his hand inside he found her wide open and so slick that his fingers sank immediately in all the way to the knuckles. She groaned from deep back in her throat and. pressed faster on his cock, and when he began moving his fingers in-side her she raised herself up on her heels and shoulders and made as if to roll over on him. But roused though he was, he was determined to move slowly. He took control again, slowly working his fingers in her hole, widening her until four fingers were buried inside her. His hand was wet to the wrist and her pubic hair was moist as grass on a Spring morning.
With her free hand she unhooked her skirt and pushed it down. He helped her off with it and then slid the white panties from her hips and belly. The wet crotch. clung to her pussy. He pushed them over her knees and she kicked them to the floor. The cleft of her pussy was a gleaming crimson line. The clit stood out in a little bump and he teased it, touching it without pressure, pressing the skin around it.
Her hand had never left his cock and now she pressed it with so much urgency that he felt ready to come. He leaned her back on the sofa and kneeled between her legs. She pulled at his dick, holding it now between her fingers, and guided it to her hole. He hardly needed to push. With one easy sliding shove he was in, and she let out a cry, almost of disbelief.
"Oh -- It's so deep!"
He paused, holding himself in, struggling for control. Her cunt was working at his cock again, the walls beating, changing shape, caressing, and always soaking, always flowing with juice. It was warm in-side there -- if only he could stay like that for good, just at the very edge of coming, but able to hold on, while that girl's belly and chest moved against his, her breath quick and hot on his cheek
He slid himself back, then pushed in again. The elastic walls squeezed round his dick as he re-entered. He did it again, and then again, faster each time. She held his shoulders tight, yielding completely to his control. And then he was shoving with all his might and she was calling out a hundred disconnected phrases, and moaning and crying, completely sub-merged beneath his weight and pinioned by his shaft, while those sucking noises in her cunt filled her ears. She could smell the juices of her own body, and knew that an ocean was rushing from her with every out-stroke. She could feel the head of him drive high up into her belly and the huge cool balls smacking against her ass, and all she wanted before she died was to feel the hot cream shoot from those balls through the tube of rigid meat that slid along her tunnel, to feel it fly out in a stream against the muscles and blood and flesh of her insides.
She could feel it building in her. As if struggling to bring it on she plowed her hips up against his thrusts, then threw her legs around his back to hold him there. She wanted him deeper, deeper, and she put a foot on each of his buttocks and drove him in as hard as she could, so that it hurt her. And all the time there was that energy, that electricity building inside, the loose flashes coming together, until one single spark from her clit set it off. Suddenly her belly was rolling with orgasms, one after the other, her ass jerking on the pillows, her eyes closed tight and her voice crying out as each wave rolled through.
In seconds Gaston, put over the brink by her coming, jammed himself in tight, stiffened, and let it fly. It was tremendous. With his ass muscles flexed tight, he sent thick squirts spurting up against her womb. It was as though a huge pump were working between his legs. She felt it, too. The molten heat pouring into her set loose a new flood of orgasms. He could feel them contracting her vagina around his dick She was like a Fury in his arms -- twisting, crying, scratching, turning her head from side to side until her face was covered with blonde hair.
"OH. OH. Oh. Ohhhh." Then a sigh. It was over. She relaxed her grip on him, settling back on the sofa, her eyes closed, already half asleep.
He shot his last wads into her, then lay exhausted on top of her, his face pressed against her cheek. His balls ached as if someone had flogged them with a rubber bat. _ lie eased himself out of her and put his hand over them.
After a while he rolled off her and sat up at her feet. She was fast asleep. He sat there studying her purse, which was lying on the coffee table in the center of the room. Then, still holding his balls, he got up, opened the purse, and examined its contents.
Eh, voila, he thought to himself, pulling out a wad of papers. Money, eh? He opened them up, then groaned. 'Travellers' checks. Merde!" Turning toward the sofa, where she still lay sleeping, he muttered under his breath, "So your parents didn't trust you with cash. Gahl what a pain in the ass. Now I'll have to go the whole way with you. So much the worse."
As an afterthought, he searched the pockets of her coat and came up with a wallet. It contained one ten franc note and three dollar bills. In the change purse were three centime pieces, each coin worth one fifth of one American cent. He poured them out on his palm and stared at them with disgust. The little bitch! You'd think she was expecting to be robbed. It's her parents again, damn it! I'm meeting them at every turn. He pictured them to himself -- pious yokels, the father wearing red suspenders -- a vista of corn fields behind them. "We'll see who wins," he muttered, shaking the wallet in his fist.
Charlotte yawned and stretched herself. Gaston "shoved the wallet back in her coat and snapped the purse shut. In his hurry he forgot about his balls, which swung suddenly against a corner of the table. He doubled over, his mouth gaping open, and .tiptoed in this ungainly posture back to the sofa, cradling his balls so tenderly in both hands that you'd have thought they were full of nitro-glycerine.
Charlotte yawned again and stretched herself, and sat up, looking cheerful and innocent, a child again. Try as he might, Gaston could neither sit up nor close his mouth. The thought of taking his hands off his balls made them ache even worse.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"Nothing," he croaked. "Army wound -- Foreign Legion-Algerian War -- " He tried to laugh, but laughing only jarred his nuts.
"Let me massage it," she said.
"Oh no, no ... just sit there and talk. Tell me about yourself."
So she sat up, back straight against the sofa, breasts jutting out so pertly, curls of pubic hair just visible above her haunches, and she talked about herself. She started out at birth, then named and described all her teachers. She said her favorite subject was geography.
"Wonderful," Gaston said. "What about boys -- tell me about your boyfriends."
"Oh, I have lots of them. Some of them write poetry to me. They're always calling me up at night. What a nuisance!" She put on .a mature air. "The boys I like are strong and masculine. They take over a room as soon as they walk into it. They're the ones that just -- Wow!" She tossed her head and pushed her breasts out.
Gaston put on his best French face -- worldly, sexually experienced to the point of knowing everything there was to know -- yet concerned, considerate, sympathetic, reliable, ready to lend a helping hand, or a shoulder to cry on.
"You -- you go out wis zese men?" he asked in a melting voice. But the effect was ruined by a gruesome throb in his left nut which contorted his face into such a terrific expression that she thought he was going to drop to the floor in a fit.
"Oh Gaston, what is it?" she asked, wrinkling her forehead and pressing her warm tit against his arm.
"It's nussing -- nothing -- just, when a man makes a lot of love to a woman, sometimes he hurts a little afterwards, you know? just keep talking -- tell me about your boyfriends."
"Well -- my parents, they brought me up really straight -- "
There they are again! thought Gaston.
" -- But they don't know the half of what I do. I have this boyfriend John that I go out with to football games. And then after that we go out in his car. And he just feels me up -- God bow I love it!! The way be kind of sneaks inside my pants.... Well first I let him open my shirt and take my boobies out. That gets me really excited. Mm! Then he feels me all over and tries to get in, but I keep him off. 'Don't!' I say, just when he's got his fingers in my hair. Finally he gets so worried and meek that he just sneaks his hand up my leg or down my jeans -- like I won't notice! But that's the best way of all. And I just love when his fingers curl around and sneak inside my -- hole." She said 'hole' very loud, as a defiance to her father and mother in Terre Haute. Meanwhile her fingers were imitating John's sneaking movements and had by now begun flicking inside the rim of her vagina. Gaston's balls stopped aching abruptly and his cock stirred.
"You -- you have made love wis zis John?" he asked sympathetically, with his best French face again.
"No," she said with a tender look. Her fingers were still moving. "You were the first, Baby. But once I al-most got carried away. It was when I felt his cock for the first time. Oh, it was so huge! He had me down on the car seat with my panties pulled off -- just running his hand up and down my side and over my breasts and my tummy and then fingering me -- Mm!" She fingered herself, curling up her legs on the sofa. "When all of a sudden be opened his belt and pulled down his pants, and his dick fell against my stomach. I just took it in my hand and felt it -- it was gigantic -- I never imagined such a thing. And then he started pushing it around in my pubic hair -- and he found my vagina. And I wanted him to put it in, I wouldn't even have put up a fight ... but he was so excited that he came outside me, all over my leg. Honestly, these young guys are so immature ..."
She felt her breast with her right hand while the left pulled at her snatch. Gaston, watching, was growing rigid again.
"But even so," she went on, "it was so warn against my leg, and running down my thigh -- I wouldn't have missed that feeling for anything in the world. Poor Johnny didn't know how to do it yet, but he meant well. I felt the liquid on my leg after he was finished. It was creamy and sticky. I even tasted a little. It was salty and it burnt. He'd squeezed it out all for me! Isn't that beautiful?"
"Ah, so buteeful." Gaston's cock had climbed to his navel.
"But that was the furthest I ever went -- until last night." A little shadow of guilt seemed to cross her face, but went away again. She smiled.
"Would you like -- to taste again zis liquid?" The kinder and more sympathetic he became the more his English fell apart.
"What do you mean?"
Without a word more, he put his hand gently around the back of her neck and drew her down. She resisted at first, not understanding what he wanted -- then, seeing his cock standing hard just at the spot her lips would meet it, she said: "You want me to take it in my mouth?"
"But of course!"
She wrinkled her nose. "Oooh!"
"But it is -- buteeful. You will see."
"What about -- germs?"
"Bah! I have no germs." He seemed a little annoyed.
"What do I do when I have it in my mouth?"
"Don't worry -- a little man inside your head will tell you what to do."
She thought for a little while and then let his hand push her down. At first she just took an inch or so into her mouth and held it there. Then she started moving her tongue, feeling her ground, experimenting. She took it out of her mouth and looked at it, then grunted. She'd changed already -- he could see it. Her tongue flicked out and licked the head round and round. Then her lips, like the lips of a pussy, pressed around it. She sank it in a little way, drenching it with saliva, then took it out, resting her lips against the tip. She took it in again, further this time, filling all the space around it with saliva, and licking him round the head. Out again -- slowly -- and in ... making her mouth into another cunt, pressing her lips around his shaft, pushing her tongue against it with just the right force, creating a little suction. Gaston leaned his head back. He hadn't been wrong. The girl never made a false step -- sex was in her blood. He pictured each suck, each lick in his mind, each movement of her lips. It was better than a cunt -- better than any cunt but hers. He could tell by the sounds she made that she was getting into it. She was lying on her stomach, gripping his shaft with both hands as she sucked, grunting. He slid his hand down her back and over her beautiful round ass, and found her hole from the rear.
"MMM," she breathed through her nostrils when he sank his middle finger in. She arched her back and bent her knees a little, bringing her ass up to his touch. He shoved two fingers in. She was slippery as an eel. She wiggled her ass and sucked him faster, breathing hard into his pubic hair.
The more excited he became, the faster his fingers moved in her snatch, and the more frantically she sucked at him. She screamed through her nose when he pushed his thumb into her anus -- it drove her mad. She arched her back still more, inviting his fingers to roil in her juice, and when he wiggled his thumb in her ass and reached his middle finger all the way around to play with her clit, she was lost to the world. Never had he felt anything like what she was doing to his cock. Both hands were twisting at the shaft and at the upper end her mouth was alive. Everything that could move, from lips to tongue to cheeks, was sucking, blowing, and licking at that wet and rigid tube of love. Gaston couldn't hold out any longer. He pushed up his hips, driving his dick almost into her throat, and, squirming his four fingers as far as he could into her hole, he let loose a tremendous burst of semen.
It sprayed against the back of her throat as if it were shooting from a hose. She couldn't keep up with it. For every swallow she took, his cock would fill her cheeks with more and more until it flowed from her lips and ran down his shaft, hot as milk from the cow. Every thick swallow sent it oozing down her throat and she could feel its beat from her mouth to her belly. She could hear the squirts as his come shot against her cheeks and her tongue. As if to help him come she jerked at his shaft with her hands. At each pull he grunted and unloaded another wad. As his orgasms slowed she began to hold the semen in her mouth, savoring it on her tongue, letting it burn the lining of her mouth. Her swallows became long, slow, loving. Little by little his spasms grew smaller. His fingers slowed their frantic movement in her cunt and ass. Finally he sighed and relaxed against the cushions. She squeezed the last drops from him. Then she licked his balls, licked the come from his shaft until her lips and chin were white and dripping with it. She gathered up the last dregs in her mouth and tasted them, rolling them around in her teeth, coating the roof of her mouth. Then, in one grateful gulp, she swallowed them down.
"Oh!" she cried, kissing his cock, "I never want to stop doing that, never! I never heard of anything like it -- " She rubbed her face on his dick. "Promise me I can do it again. Please, lover. I just want to suck you like that all day and night. God, it tastes so beautiful! So salty and creamy and hot -- When can you give me more? How long does it take? Put your fingers in me like that again --"
Chapter 3
Next day Charlotte and Gaston were sitting in a cafe called Deux Magots on the Boulevard St. Germain. Gaston was drinking beer and Charlotte was enjoying her first Pernod.
"It tastes just like liquorice!" she exclaimed.
"Hm," he grunted. Gaston was wearing wraparound sunglasses and his jacket was draped over his shoulders. So Continental, Charlotte had commented. So romantic. To that also he had answered: "Hm."
He wanted to get at this girl's money somehow, but the opportunity hadn't offered itself. So far, he'd been treating her to everything. There had been the trip up the Eiffel Tower that had terrified him out of his wits. Then they'd gone to see Napoleon's Tomb and he'd had to explain who Napoleon was. In the Tuileries Gardens she'd asked him the names of all the flowers and trees. She'd insisted on climbing the stairs to the top of the Arc de Triomphe instead of taking the elevator. She'd also wanted to know the name of the Unknown Soldier. He was tired.
"Oh look!" Charlotte whispered, nudging him. He turned his head and saw the stewardess from their flight, walking along arm in arm with the pilot and co-pilot. She looked as if she was in a trance -- smiling stupidly, with lipstick smeared all over her face. Her eyes were as blank as two TV screens and her skirt was on backwards. The pilot and co-pilot, their chests puffed out, were grinning from ear to ear.
Gaston smiled. She's had enough to last her for a while. Why, they've fucked her to imbecility. He stared after them. I wonder how long it took.
"Gaston," Charlotte said suddenly in a troubled voice.
"Yes, my dear?"
"I want some advice."
"But of course."
"It's about my money. I'm worried."
"Oh?" He was suddenly very interested.
"I'm such a dope that I'm sure I'm going to lose all my travellers' checks or get them stolen. Do you mind taking care of them for me?"
He shrugged. "They're in the room. How else can I take care of them?"
"Can you put them in the bank?"
"Not as they are," he answered very carefully. "You'd have to cash them, my dear. Then I could put the cash in the bank."
She sighed with relief. "That's just what I want. you think we could do that tomorrow?"
"Certainly." He patted her hand and smiled. He was in a wonderful humor. "After that we can do and see everything in Paris. I won't spare any expense, I assure you."
"Oh great!" she exclaimed. Then she put on a sly look and bent down as if to pick up her purse. In a few seconds she sat up again and held her middle finger under his nose.
"Ah!" He sniffed the leathery scent of pune, fresh from her cunt. She rubbed it on his lips and then kissed him, tasting her own salt.
"When can I take your penis in my mouth again?"
"Not now, certainly." He looked around self-consciously. Then he recovered himself and smelled her finger again. "I wonder if la toilette is occupied?"
After looking around again, he took her by the hand and led her into the cafe and through a narrow door at the rear. Then he opened another door into a kind of closet and locked it behind him.
"What's this?" she asked.
"The toilet!" he said, flicking on the light.
She looked down at the porcelain rectangle in the floor, inches in front of them, with its two upraised footpads and the hole.
"The boys' room," she commented scornfully.
"Boys and girls, my dear. For all bodily functions. In France we're not so restrained as you are in America. Put your feet on those pads ..."
"Wha -- " She backed up onto them. They spread her legs nicely. Gaston hugged her and kissed her hard, and she responded right away, throwing her arms around him and stretching her tongue into his mouth, breathing heavily. She felt his cock climb against her belly and, upraised as she was on the pads, pressed her mound against it.
He kissed her chin and neck and breasts -- sinking down until he was on his knees and his face was pressed into her crotch. He could smell the delicious, heavy fragrance through the cloth. The heat of it warmed his face. He lifted her dress, then brought it down over his head, so that he was alone inside with her cunt. His face brushed her pubic hair -- she hadn't been wearing panties. The musk inside the canopy of her dress made him drunk. He grabbed her by the cheeks of her ass, kissed the hair on her mound, and, bending his head back, set his tongue loose in her crack. She teetered in her excitement but he held her erect, and she cradled his head in her hands, rubbing the cloth of her dress against his hair. He licked her crack along its whole length, pressing the slit, biting it gently between his lips. Then, reaching far back between her legs, he stretched his tongue up her hole.
She teetered again, but he held her, squeezing her buttocks. Her hole opened; juice sweated from her tissues and he lapped it up eagerly, driving his tongue so far out that it became another penis, wriggling up that endless wet corridor, striving to reach some irresistible and unattainable goal that neither he nor any man knew anything about. Her pune was sharp and salty, and the fragrance of it mixed with his saliva brought to mind the fish market at Les Hanes that he knew as a boy. He washed his face in it from forehead to chin. He was alone with it, he kept thinking, alone with a cunt, the pure cunt, with-out a head, without a body -- the Cunt Itself, a graceful inverted little hill covered with hair, cleft neatly in the center -- pierced by a volcanic hole that streamed lava and fire -- the only thing that really mattered in the world, the focus of everything in a man's life.
He took one hand. from her ass and sank his middle finger inside her, shaking it and turning it while he licked the skin around her clit. Her voice, muffled by the skirt and by the legs that straddled his head, reached his ears as if from a distance, after echoing from the walls of the toilet. She was clutching his head, her muscular fingers twisting at the cloth, pulling the locks of hair underneath. Still he kept at it, with two fingers now, licking and stroking. Then suddenly he felt the telltale ticking at the rim of her vagina, the capillaries pulsing. She was coming. He mashed his face up against her steaming pie and licked her nectar into his throat.
Her hands stopped their rubbing on his head, her vagina contracted. He lifted the skirt from his head and re-emerged into the toilet. It was like entering the world again from a dream. Charlotte rocked to and fro and back and forth on the foot rests, her eyes closed. She seemed too astonished and overcome to react. She had been in her own world, too.
He got up from his knees, his cock stiff as a board. He hugged her, pressing it against her hip. That roused her. With a grateful look, she opened his fly and put her hand inside. She stroked him in that miraculous way of hers, pressing in and down with her palm, until with a shiver he came into her hand. She collected it all and then, carefully lifting her hand from his pants, she put it to her mouth and licked up the hot semen that had collected there. She kissed him and they mingled their sexual juices, giving them back each to the other. He squeezed and caressed her breasts.
Without a word, they took each other's hand and prepared to leave the room. As an afterthought, to keep up appearances, Gaston pulled the chain. Instantly a tremendous wave of water shot from the pipes, over spilled the rectangle, and drenched their shoes, splashing their legs up to the knees.
"Merde," Gaston muttered.
The next day Charlotte went to the Banque Nationale de Paris on the corner of St. Germain and the Rue Napoleon, and cashed all her travellers' checks, amounting to seven hundred dollars. She brought them back to the flat in the Rue St. Andre des Arts and handed them over to Gaston. He promised to put them in his own account that afternoon.
For the whole of the next week, Charlotte and Gas-ton had the time of their lives. He took her to the most expensive restaurants. They went to discotheques and nightclubs. He showed her all over Paris, from the Latin Quarter to Montparnasse to Montmartre, from the Bois de Vincennes to the Bois de Boulogne.
Charlotte particularly loved Montmartre, and this was a place, unfortunately, that she was to know well in the coming months. Gaston took her to the Moulin Rouge, where she drank her first liqueur ("It tastes like oranges!") and watched the bare-breasted women dancing on the stage. Later on there was the cancan. Whenever the cancan dancers jumped up or did somersaults, Charlotte laughed and cheered and clapped her hands. Sometimes, in her quieter moments, Gaston would reach under the table and feel her up. She always got very serious at these times and would lean over the table seeming to look very intensely at her drink or her napkin. Often she would stroke her own breast covertly with one hand as his secret finger opened her crotch. One time she said: "Don't move it -- just leave it in there for a while" -- and they sat there like that in silence, he bent over with one hand under the table and his chin resting on his fist, she leaning toward him, kissing him, his middle finger motionless in her hole, the nectar gathering around it. When he began to wriggle it just a little she came. almost instantly, big long orgasms that made her clutch at the tablecloth, her lips parted, the breath coming in sudden gasps, her forehead fur-rowed as if with study.
He took her to the Rodin Museum, where she was awestruck by the sensuality of the statues, which Rodin seemed to have carved alive out of the rock. She couldn't resist feeling a few of the marble cocks, when she thought no one was looking. Gaston kept lingering by the statue of a nude dancer leaping high, with legs wide apart, the lips of her cunt stretched open.
"He must have had the model sitting on a table with her legs spread just like that -- for months," Gas-ton commented, envisioning the scene to himself. "What a life!"
"I'll pose like that for you tonight," Charlotte told him, and he patted her on the ass. "I can open my legs as wide as that, and wider too."
One afternoon they took some bread and wine and cheese along with them to the Bois de Vincennes, a forested park at the eastern end of the city. They sat by the lake eating and drinking and watching the rowboats, and the little sailboats on the water. Charlotte lay in Gaston's lap, looking up at the clouds and rubbing her head back and forth against his cock. She was obviously tempted to pull it out and suck it right there but he stopped her in time. She contented her-self with pressing her cheek against the bulging cloth of his crotch, smiling and snuggling.
Later on, they went to the zoo. Hundreds of young couples were there, hugging and kissing, or carrying their little children. They watched the baboons for a while. Then they went to see the giraffes and the elephants. Charlotte asked about the mating habits of all of them and made a great point of staring at their genitals.
"I don't know how ostriches mate," Gaston told her in an irritated tone. "Maybe they step on each other's feet How do I know?"
They climbed to the top of the great artificial rock at the center of the zoo and stood staring out over miles of country, over the forest, and at the city of Paris itself, so hazy and gentle in the sun. It would be her home for a long time, far longer than she could have guessed. Gaston stood behind her and cupped his hands over her breasts. She leaned her head back against his shoulder.
"Oh, this is so beautiful -- so romantic."
To Gaston she was just another American kid. They always seemed too young for their bodies. They were always looking for "romance" -- a word that seemed to have mostly to do with staring at old cities from breeze-blown hills, or else looking at lights shining across bodies of water at night -- with the indispensable "Continental's" arms around them somewhere -- shoulders or hips, breasts, what have you. He didn't give a damn for it. It was a lot of hooey, as far as he was concerned, but it got him laid every night and it got him a lot of money besides -- from middle-aged ladies and young girls, too. It didn't make any difference to him.
He had returned to Paris after a long trip through the States, just as the lease on his apartment was about to expire. He'd already shipped most of his be-longings to his cousin's place in Marseilles and was ready to split any time, leaving no forwarding ad-dress. He'd spent two hundred dollars or so of the girl's money, just to show her a good time, and would pocket the rest as a fee.
He couldn't say he was quite easy in his conscience as he stood there squeezing her two full globes, her hair blowing up across his face, his cock pressing against her rump and back. She really loved him, it was clear, in her own trite way. She had given him so much of herself, so much of her wonderful body, and her affections, too. She was a genius of love. He'd said it before and it was true. He'd never done it with anybody who knew half so much by experience as she knew by sheer instinct, or who had such a sheer healthy good-hearted lust, or who was so much a woman in her body and her lovemaking.
"What are we going to do tomorrow?" she was asking him now.
"Tomorrow I have some things to do. I'll send you out on your own for a little while."
"OK, good. I'll go to the Loover."
That night he was really very tender to her. They had walked' a long way and they were both very hot and grimey.
"Why don't we take a shower and then have some-thing cool to drink?" he suggested.
They undressed in front of each other. Her body never stopped amazing him -- the way all the lines flowed and ran one into the other -- how round she was, and soft, with the wonderful soft nipples and the wide cleavage between the firm breasts. Most of all he loved the hips, and the way the lines led his eyes straight down her belly to the triangle of blonde hair through which he could clearly see her cleft. He put his hand on it. How neatly it fitted into the palm! Just a little thing -- and yet it was the most powerful magnet in the world.
They walked into the bathroom and Gaston turned the water on very warm. Then they stepped in and he took a bar of soap and rubbed the lather on her shoulders and back and face, and then over her breasts, while she leaned back against him and pushed out her chest as if to help him in his stroking. Then he put his arm around her shoulders and lathered her stomach and her belly and then her pussy, being very slow about it, pushing his hand between her locked thighs, matting the pubic hair with soap.
She turned around and took the bar of soap from him and rubbed him up and down, through the black hair of his chest and between his buttocks, and most of all over his dick. She was fascinated by it. She held the scrotum in her palm and watched his penis stir and stretch, her blue eyes wide, as if it were the greatest miracle she had ever seen, or could ever possibly see in all the world. It grew from a soft and wrinkled tube of four inches or so to a great hard log more than eight inches long. Even the blue veins that traversed it so close to the surface looked purposeful, like a network of hydraulic lines feeding an irresistibly powerful engine. As the shaft grew, his scrotum contracted, lifting his heavy balls into firing position. She watched the head expand, balloonlike, into a saddle-shaped knob, the most sensitive part of his entire body. And all of this was aching, stretching toward her, like a divining rod toward water, still changing shape, filling out, as the blood pounded into it. She opened her mouth and slipped it in, holding the shaft between the fingers of one hand and cupping the balls in the palm of the other, while the hot water of the shower drenched her back and soaked her long hair.
Gaston leaned back against the wall of the shower and let her suck, until his cock was completely hard. Then he lifted her up by the arms and kissed her, and turned her around, pressing her over with his body until she bent down with her hands flat against the wall. He put the head of his penis to her hole and, taking her by the hips, began thrusting his way in. Her breasts, hanging down, shook with each thrust and her gasps and moans echoed in the chamber. The fourth push carried him in all the way. He paused, his cock completely enclosed by warm flesh, his belly curving around her ass, his hands now squeezing at her breasts. Then he began fucking her in earnest. She was helpless with the excitement of it, helpless against the driving of his hips, against his male strength. Again and again she felt him slide up her belly and withdraw only to drive in again with a harder, a more urgent shove. The sounds of it reverberated in the stall among her own cries and the pummelling of the water. Suddenly he drove inside with a force more powerful than any she'd felt be-fore. He stiffened, and she felt the fire pouring out of the end of his cock into her vitals. Her body responded instantly. Orgasms rent her like explosions, and she jerked and wiggled her ass as if to tear his organ off. His hands reached round to play with her clit, and when she felt that she began shouting anything that came into her head, all kinds of disjointed phrases, anything to give vent to the ecstasy.
His own feelings astounded him. There was real emotion in his lovemaking and his orgasms were tremendous. They seemed to expand through his belly, to pause in there and in his crotch at the very pitch of their intensity, and then to shoot like bolts through his penis. She bucked at every charge. When he'd fucked himself dry, he backed out of her and leaned against the tiles, heaving. She sat down on the floor, her knees bent, her cunt bright red, and, closing her eyes, let the water rain on her.
Afterwards they towelled each other down. He started at her shoulders, with a good hard massage, and then down her back and over her ass, each cheek separately. Then her front, the left and then the right breast carefully dried. He couldn't resist sucking at her nipple for a little while. He was getting excited again, particularly since she couldn't keep her hands off his cock as he stood there rubbing her. When he started stroking her belly she swung her hips like a hula dancer.
"You should be on stage," he said. He stood back and watched.
She turned around and around, wiggling her hips. Every time her face came round she looked at him out of the corners of her eyes. She hummed some kind of improvised tune to the rhythm of her movements. He watched her bush swaying between the two full thighs.
Without a word of warning, he caught her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom like a captured prize. He threw her down on the mattress and hurled himself on top of her, and they went at it tooth and nail. He drove at her with a kind of fury, until she was squealing. His ass rose high in the air, paused, and shoved, again and again, and she used all her strength to meet his attacks, lifting her hips up high, her ass and back muscles flexed tight, her feet driving into the mattress.
Afterwards they lay exhausted side by side. She drifted sweetly to sleep.
I shouldn't do it, Gaston thought to himself, looking into her face. It would be the worst thing I ever did in my life. But hell, all my plans are made. All she has to do is call her parents back in that ridiculous city of theirs. They'll send her all the money she needs. But even so -- what a bastardly thing to do. ...
The following morning Gaston made her a big breakfast, with eggs and ham and sausages and croissants, and good coffee. Then he said, "Here's 250 francs. Just bold onto it for me, will you? You won't lose it, hm? Go to the Louvre for the day. I'll be back here at five o'clock or so."
She kissed him happily and went. She saw Winged Aphrodite and Venus de Milo and the Mona Lisa. She sat in the Tuileries for a while. Then she went back to the Rue St. Andre des Arts. There was no-body there. There was nobody there for the rest of that night or the night following. On the third day, the concierge stopped her on the stairs and told her that Gaston had moved. It took a long time for her to believe that anybody could do such a thing. But that was just the beginning. In the coming months she'd learn well enough the kind of things people can do to each other.
Chapter 4
For two whole days Charlotte wandered around, sick to her heart and stomach too; until she was down to her last few francs. The French language terrified her so much that she didn't talk to anybody for fear of being met with a volley of frightening and incomprehensible words. When she wanted to eat, she pointed at the menu and the waiter took down her or-der by sign language. The fact that there were no such things as hamburgers almost unhinged her.
As to the American Embassy, the idea of such an institution was so far beyond her small knowledge of things that she never gave it a thought.
So, with three or four francs in her pocket, she dragged her disconsolate feet into the Luxembourg Gardens and sat in a metal chair by the big pool be-hind the Palace, and watched the kids sailing their little boats on the water. Everybody there, even the dogs, looked so uncommonly happy, that before she knew it, she had burst into tears.
It's so unusual for people to be unhappy in the Luxembourg Gardens that everybody, children and dogs included, turned their attention from the sail-boats and watched her as she sat there with the tears running down her face. After a while, a tall and very purposeful-looking young man with glasses came over and sat down in the seat next to her.
"What's the matter?" he asked. His voice had so much authority that she felt she had to answer.
"My boyfriend ran away and I -- don't have any money. I want to go home!"
"Where's your home?"
"Terre Haute, Indiana, United States of America."
"Ter -- what?"
She repeated the whole thing.
"How do you spell it?"
She spelled it, in between sobs.
"Why, that's French' It means `high country'."
"There isn't any high country in Terre Haute," she replied dismally. "It's all flat."
"It was evidently named," smiling appreciatively to himself, "by one of our more jocose explorers." Charlotte, however, was not amused.
"I wanna go home!" she repeated.
"Don't you have a return ticket?"
"I lost it!" This unleashed a whole new flood of sobs.
"Ca va, pa va," he comforted her, massaging the back of her neck. "Well, we'll think of something."
The strong hand rubbing at her neck had already calmed her. She leaned her head back, so that the tears now ran out of the corner of her eyes toward her ears. Her occasional sobs took on a new note. Meanwhile she noticed that his leg was pressing against hers and, before long, another comforting hand placed itself on her thigh.
"What's your name?"
"Charlotte."
"Mine is Jean-Pierre." His hand moved against her cunt, briefly, and pressed. "You have nothing to worry about. Have you eaten?"
"I don't have enough money. I only have four more of these French quarters, with the woman walking on them." She produced them for him to look at. "They won't even take my American nickels."
"Come with me."
He grabbed her hand and led her up the steps, along the broad dirt walk, and out the big gate to the Boulevard St. Michel. They turned left, crossed the Rue de Medicis, and walked down the Boulevard. Thousands of students crowded the pavement. "Now look," he told her, standing her on a street corner.
She inhaled noisily. "MacDonalds!"
Yes, an outpost of plastic America, but without the golden arches. Once inside, she felt so much at home that she looked around for Bung Hickens and the other boys who used to crowd the Terre Haute MacDonalds out on Route 11, lounging in the plastic seats, eyeing the Terre Haute high school girls as they giggled through the doors.
"Big Mac, french fries, and a Coke," she ordered.
Bung Hickens! She could almost feel his breath against her face as she munched her Big Mac. Dear Bung, star of the basketball team, who lounged through the school halls with his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his eyes fixed on vacancy. All the girls in her cheerleading club had sucked him off at one time or another. "Have you sucked Bung yet?" they'd ask each other. "Did you? Could you fit it into your mouth? I couldn't, I just licked around it"
She'd only gone out with Bung once. He'd taken her to a drive-in. During the whole evening, he'd never said a word -- but that was just his way. All the girls loved him for being so strong and silent, al-though the truth was that he was a borderline moron. In the car that night, he'd suddenly put his arm around her, leaned over, and breathed against her face. She'd just sat there with her heart beating fast, waiting for him to go on. He'd fumbled with her clothes, torn them open, and squeezed her bare back and chest with his huge hands. It was the size of everything connected with him that made up for his inefficiency. He'd ,soon had her gasping, and out of the corner of her eye she could see the bulge at his crotch growing to a monstrous size, as if she were watching a time-lapse film of the growth of a cucumber. She could see, looking at it as it strained against the zipper, why none of the girls could resist trying to kiss it. But in those days, which now seemed so far off, she'd shared her parents' horror of germs and their obsession with cellophane and couldn't imagine doing something so unsanitary. How she regretted it now, knowing what she knew! Sipping her Coke, she remembered Bung's huge palm slipping under her belt, his outstretched fingers spanning her whole belly, the fingers pressing in awkward cadence. She'd been so excited by it! She'd lifted herself off the seat, stretching her belly against the pressure of his fingers and throwing her arms around his neck and had in-haled with a gasp when the fingers crossed the pubic line and brushed through her hair. It was then that she'd put her hand on his cock and felt the pulses beating inside it. Bung's middle finger -- as big as an ordinary cock -- had found her slick hole and entered it. She'd trembled from head to foot as that jointed organ probed its clumsy way up her tunnel. Bung's breath had been hot against her ear. His tongue had hung out of the corner of his mouth, like a dishrag drooping from a window. His eyes had been fixed, glazed, lustreless, and all his brains seemed to have gone to his cock. A girl felt entered and enclosed at the same time, and awkward though he was, he always did the trick. Charlotte remembered his middle finger sliding seven inches up her vagina, then turning in slow circles as if leisurely examining its surroundings. His hands were so big that he could clutch a basketball as if it were a baseball. Their effect on a cunt can well be imagined, particularly when the act was well on and he could fit two or three fingers inside -- it was like having just that many dicks climbing up your hole. And even at that, there were always the thumb and pinky to pursue their wanderings in opposite directions -- one up into the asshole, the other winding itself among the soft coils of pubic hair. Being felt up by Bung was a total experience, as all the cheerleaders knew. Charlotte recalled her friends' experiences at sucking him off: First of all the strong cheeselike odor that all the girls lovingly recalled; then the sheer size, the cracking of jawbones in the effort to take him in; and, finally, the thick spurts that spat into their mouths with the flavor of salt and lemons and that they drank down like milk shakes.
But on Charlotte's night with Bung there had been no sucking. Her hand had felt the hot cock inside his pants beating with the pounding of his heart; and when Bung, who was not particular how or where he had his orgasms, eventually came, the semen had shot right through the cloth of his pants and into her hand. The stain had spread all over the stomach of his trousers and capillary action had wet his shirt to the breast bone. Feeling all this had been too much for Charlotte -- off she'd gone with a bang, her orgasms squeezing his fingers in a wet embrace, the juice wetting the torn plastic seat between her legs. The air of the car had become close with hot breathing and moist emissions.
These were the nostalgic American visions that came back to her in the MacDonalds in Paris. Jean-Pierre had known just what to do to put her at ease. As long as an American can find himself surrounded by plastic he won't feel far from home.
With all that worthless food forming a lump in her stomach she was already looking at things with a brighter eye.
"What do you do, anyway?" she asked him.
He was a student at the Ecole Polytechnique. He had his own apartment overlooking the Seine. It was clear, as his conversation went on, that he pitied her for being an American and for having no brains and no culture.
"Have you ever been to the Opera?" he asked in a supercilious voice.
"Yeah. I saw Annie Get Your Gun in my high school gym."
"My God, I said the Opera. It's obvious you need an education. Have you a decent dress to wear in-stead of those blue jeans?"
"Yeah."
"Then tonight we shall `see the Gotterdammerung by Webenslilop, the most tremendous opera ever written. The lead role is being sung by Brunhilda Thundershitz, the greatest soprano in the world."
"Oh wow!"
So that evening the pair of them got off the Metro and stood looking up at the lighted facade of the great Paris Opera with its statues and busts and its big dome. Jean-Pierre led her up the steps and through the columns and into the marble vestibule. Charlotte was stricken dumb with awe. She climbed the red carpet of the stairs in a trance.
"This makes the Bijou in Terre Haute look small!"
Jean-Pierre, inside his rather stern intellectual head, was chortling to himself. He'd reserved an entire loge for his personal use, and his plans were definite. As soon as Charlotte became engrossed in the opera he'd make his move. ...
They climbed to the second floor, and an usherette led them to the door of their loge, which she opened with a key. Inside was a little room with a couch and through another door was the loge itself. All the walls were papered red, and the carpet was red, too.
Charlotte flopped down in the velvet couch and bounced around on the cushion. Something about her smile and her carefree, childish air made Jean-Pierre's cock stand on end. Inside the long dress her legs were apart. Her ass was big and soft.
Charlotte started laughing, she was having so much fun. "Give me a kiss," she said.
He sat down beside her, took her face in his hands, and gave her a long, intense kiss. She melted like but-ter in his arms, and stopped bouncing. The material of her dress rustled and crinkled. When Jean-Pierre pulled away, his glasses were misted over. He took them off.
"Hey, you're handsome," she said. "And you look so intense."
"Ah, ma cherie," he moaned. That was enough. Charlotte sagged against his chest, almost fainting with romance. He muttered French words into her ear, all the while running his right hand up and down her body. The dress was starched and had a papery feel, but underneath it everything was soft. He clutched her leg right at the groin, with the thumb pressing her thigh no more than half an inch from her cunt. Charlotte's mouth opened wide against his, and he thrust his tongue inside it. His thumb grew warm with the heat radiating from her hole, even through all that cloth. His cock was straining, bent, against the inside of his zipper.
Just then, as if sounding from a great distance, the audience burst into applause.
"The curtain's rising!" Jean-Pierre exclaimed. "Thor must be entering at this very moment."
He took her hand and pulled her into the loge. Down on the stage, a fat man with bare legs and a horned helmet was bellowing something that sounded like "Muh-huh-huh-huh-huh-hu-u-uh ..."
"Yes, that's Nietzsche Schmucker, the great baritone. Wait until he throws his thunderbolt."
"Huuuuuuuh!" the fat man shouted, and he threw a piece of cardboard shaped like a lightning bolt. The orchestra set up a tremendous din, with drums banging.
"A triumph of music!" Jean-Pierre cried, clapping wildly along with the audience.
The fat man stomped around the stage beating his chest and roaring in German, while his attendants and hangers-on danced around him.
"Ah, Webershlop, Webershlop," Jean-Pierre wept, shaking his head. "It's too magnificent."
Pretty soon the music became very excited again and it was clear something tremendous was going to happen.
"This is the moment when Thor's wife comei in. Brunhilda Thundershitz is made for this role. And here she comes!"
The audience burst into wild cheer's as Mademoiselle Thundershitz appeared from behind a cloud bank. Her horned helmet was bigger than Thor's, and for a moment Charlotte thought they were going to butt with them like a couple of stags. But they were only bowing to each other. Mademoiselle Thundershitz had a 59-inch bust which almost touched the floor as she bent over. Men studied her through their opera glasses.
"He ha-ha-ha-ha-haaaah," Brunhilda sang in her high-pitched voice, making eardrums ring.
Charlotte yawned for the first time.
"And now the war of the gods!" cried Jean-Pierre, beating his fists on the balustrade.
Crash! went the cymbals. Bang! went the drum's. An unearthly bawling and shrieking went up from the gods all assembled on stage, while in the center Brunhilda stretched her chest to 65 inches and howled until men's spectacles broke.
Charlotte yawned.
"Isn't this magnificent!" Jean-Pierre cried above the din.
"I liked Annie Get Your Gun better."
"Haaah-huh-huh-huh-haaaaaah ..."
"What?"
"Why do they yell so loud when they sing?"
"Uh-uh-uh-he-heeeeeehl"
"What?"
Jean-Pierre and Charlotte had to lean so close together to hear each other that before either of them knew what was happening they were kissing furiously, wrapped tight in each other's arms, and teetering backwards on their stools. They fell over and rolled around on the floor of the loge. Jean-Pierre struggled with her skirt and finally raised it above her waist. She lifted her cunt in quick heaves against his stretched cock. All she had on down there was the thinnest of cotton panties, so thin that he could feel her mat of pubic hair inside it as she dug her cunt against his shaft. He lifted himself up on one hip to undo his trousers. He opened them and pulled them down to his knees, his cock dropping against her bare leg. As soon as she felt it she lifted her head up to look and cupped his organ appraisingly in her left hand. It was soft as the skin of a baby to her touch, and pure white. When his pants were down far enough, he laid his hand on her cunt, feeling its heat through the cotton. His middle finger pushed the cot-ton into her crack so that the two lips were etched in cameo in the material. His finger was already oily from the contact. Pressing along the crack, his finger-tip found itself suddenly over a chasm -- her vagina, open wide, wetting not only the panties but the very air around her cunt, heating it to a tropical warmth. She could no longer control her movements. Her head, legs, arms, and torso squirmed spasmodically under his touch. He sank his finger against her panties at the hole, and pushed the cloth inside. She curled her body sideways and moaned. The pressure at the crotch pulled the elastic down, exposing the top of her pubic triangle. Hooking his thumb inside the band, he pulled her panties down just enough to ex-pose her pubes. A rich smell rose from them, heating his brain. His fingers now touched the cunt itself -- first the dry hair, growing thick over her mound, then down to the wet hair around the lips, and then into the crack itself. She stopped moving for a moment when she felt his finger poised for the plunge; there was that second of suspense as he edged his way along the length of her crack and paused at the rim of that little canyon like a diver gathering courage for a double somersault with jackknife; and just as Thor was getting ready to loose another thunderbolt, Jean-Pierre's middle finger eased its way inside, joint following joint until he was encased to the very knuckle. He felt the warm juices seeping into his pores like a succulent marinade; his palm rested comfortably on her cushion of pubic hair. On the stage, the war of the gods was going full blast, Webershlop's colossal music scorching the ears of the audience, Nietzsche Schmucker raising his fists at the ceiling and yelling, "Hllllllllllt ..." Jean-Pierre began to rotate his finger and at the same time he found her mouth with his own and kissed her, their tongues soon silently and lovingly battling.
Charlotte, kissing, began slowly to unbutton the front of his shirt, and when she had it open to the waist she put her hand inside it and felt the bones and muscles of his chest. She loved the soft scratching of his hair, particularly around the breast bone, where it was thickest. She put her hand over his right pectoral muscle and squeezed it as if it were a breast. The nipple, like a woman's, hardened under her touch. His body was thin but supple and he had good, long muscles. The finger in her cunt was working up a great lather, and before long she felt his index finger move up there, too.
She slid her hand down his rib cage and over his stomach and worked her fingertips past his navel. Probing down there, she suddenly touched the head of his cock. She inhaled sharply and felt some more, her fingers eager with .their discovery. She moved down along it, stretching her palm against the tender flesh, until her fingertips touched the light hairs on his scrotum. Never pausing, yet never rushing either, she sent her hand down the length of his cock until her palm was cupping his balls; and good, heavy balls they were, full of pith like barely ripe peaches. They were cool to the touch, and as she held them they drew up higher in their sack until the scrotum was a tight sphere and its hairs were standing on end like the quills of an inoffensive porcupine. With that unending woman's curiosity, she felt round with her middle finger to the place where the vagina would have been if he were a woman, and found nothing there. He was a man, a creature different from her-elf, with a hard and rubbery tube running under the skin where a slit would have been, and that same tube turning up inside him at the very place and along the same path where a hole would have gone. This realization, so endlessly amazing, turned her on to a wild heat. Her breathing quickened suddenly, scalding his face. Her hand moving back along the shaft, increased its friction against his cock. She gave him that wonderful instinctive hand job that had so astounded Gaston, and its effect on Jean-Pierre was the same. His breath came in gasps as he struggled against the urge to come into her palm. Meanwhile his fingers -- three of them now -- never ceased their twistings inside her twat. Her bush and thighs were wet with her own juice, and her mouth, in unconscious imitation, was just as wet as she kissed him. Their saliva mixed in a loving solution and covered their cheeks and chins.
Schmucker and Thundershitz, having won the war, were now clasped together singing a love song. Brunhilda was at least a foot taller than he was, and her breasts, sticking out like a couple of watermelons, kept him off at least as far. Nevertheless, they were mingling their voices in loving harmony, gesturing with their hands, helmets glinting under the stage lights. Jean-Pierre chose this moment to take his cock from Charlotte's grasp, raise his hips, position himself, and ram his penis home.
"Oh! Jean-Pierre . . ." Charlotte clutched him tight around the back with both arms and raised her hips to meet his opening thrusts. Her cunt, slippery with oil, took him in easily, gratefully stretching to accommodate him. His cock's head climbed deep inside her, then withdrew and returned again. Her belly was pressed flat under his weight, and the cheeks of her ass cushioned the force of his attacks.
Jean-Pierre loosened one hand from round her waist to lift the bra cup from her right breast. Her tit, freed from its containment, swelled against his hand. His caresses redoubled her excitement and she began to writhe under his touch. She planted his feet on the rug, bending her knees, stretching her legs as wide apart as she could, feeling Jean-Pierre's balls slap against her ass at each instroke. And all the time, though she hardly noticed it, her voice was growing louder and louder, passing further and further beyond the confines of their loge, beginning to intrude upon the delicate love song of victorious Thor and his Brunhilda. Members of the audience were be-ginning to murmur, turning their opera glasses from Brunhilda's breasts toward the apparently empty box from which these strange sounds of struggle and anguish were proceeding.
On stage, Mademoiselle Thundershitz was entering upon a tender trill whose sweet notes always moved her audiences to tears, and which, growing stronger and louder and finally triumphant, would in-variably raise the house to its feet in wild applause.
"Oooh-hooo-hooo-hooo-hooo," it began.
"Ohhhh ... ohhhh ... ohhhh," from the loge.
"Tra-la-la-la-hooooh, hoo-hoo-hoo-tree ..."
"Mmm ... nnn ... ohhh, ohhh ..."
The house put their fingers to their chins and looked back and forth between the loge and the stage. Mademoiselle Thundershitz darted glances at the box from the corner of her eye.
"Hoo-huh-huh-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoooooo!" Louder now.
"Oh! Oh Jean-Pierre! Oh!"
"Ho, ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-o-o-o-o-o!"
"Oh! Oh! Ohhh!"
"Ho ho ho ..."
"Oh! Oh! Oh!"
"Ho!"
"Oh!"
"Ho!"
"Oh!"
"Ho ho ho ho ho ho -- HO -- O -- O -- O -- O -- O -- OH!"
"Oh oh oh OH! OH! OHHHHHHHH!"
The effect of this counterpoint on the audience was electric. As the two voices trailed away a dead silence ensued, in the midst of which the flushed faces of Jean-Pierre and Charlotte appeared above the railing of the loge. At that moment, turning in a mass towards them -- and away from Mademoiselle Thundershitz -- the entire house, among them the most cultured and eminent names in Paris, exploded in tumultuous applause.
"BRAVO! BRAVO!" A broadside of bouquets steeped the loge in roses and carnations, in the midst of which the musical pair managed weak grins. On the stage, Nietzsche Schmucker and Brunhilda Thundershitz stood stupefied in their helmets watching all their accolades going to this pair of libidinous interlopers.
The crowd began shouting, "Encore, encore!" But neither Jean-Pierre nor Charlotte was fit for it under those conditions. Their only thought was to escape immediately.
"Vive l'amour!" The cry went up from a thousand throats. With a vague wave at the audience Charlotte followed Jean-Pierre out the door, down the marble steps, and out into the warm night air. They could still hear the audience shouting inside the auditorium.
"Vive l'amour! Vive l'amour!"
Chapter 5
"Charlotte, forgive me for saying this, but your ignorance of things is appalling! I've questioned you about history, music, painting, literature, and architecture, and you haven't been able to answer a single one of my questions -- not even when I put them in the `true or false' or `multiple choice' forms."
"Well suppose I asked you about how to set hair or clean chocolate stains off a print dress?"
"That won't do. A woman's world is no longer con-fined to the home. This afternoon we are going to the Louvre -- and I am determined that one way or an-other, civilized knowledge will penetrate your neglected American brain."
Accordingly they walked along the Rue de l'Universite, turned right at the Rue des Saints Peres, and crossed the Pont du Carrousel to the Louvre. They walked through the huge arch and into the Place du Carrousel. It was full of tourists. "Henry, I'm tired and I'm. hungry," one of them complained. "Now damn it -- !"
"Concentrate your mind totally on each thing I point out to you," Jean-Pierre told Charlotte as they were going in. "I'm going to open to you the wonders of Greece, Rome, and Egypt."
He paid for their tickets in the great hall, then led her up the corridor to the ancient exhibits. He showed her Winged Aphrodite and the Venus de Milo. She seemed to be paying attention, but her mind, if Jean-Pierre had only known it, was in the drive-in in Terre Haute, where Bung Hickens' fingers were edging their way down, down, into her pubic hair, exploring her with the subtlety of a mechanical claw ripping up a heap of rocks and dirt. His breathing was mounting in her ear, his lolling tongue pasted against her cheek. Her shirt was open, her bra lifted off her breasts, the windows of the car completely misted over, obscuring Annette Funicello and Fabian, and their endless beach party from view. Her body was coated with sweat. One of Bung's long arms reached all the way around her back to grab and squeeze her right breast. She leaned her head back, eyes closed, Bung's heated breath sounding like whispers in her ear. And then that long finger slid inside, still going, still going, as if never to stop its climb, until it seemed to wiggle inside her uterus.
"Oh Bung, Bung, your finger!" she moaned.
"What?" demanded Jean-Pierre. He was pointing at a Roman frieze, his explanation of which had been thus strangely interrupted.
"Huh? Oh, nothing."
"This has nothing to do, Charlotte, with the Bung Dynasty. This is Roman. How could you possibly confuse them? Notice how the Goths are being crushed under the victorious chariot wheels? ..."
Bung's finger! Now that was a miracle of Nature. A girl could really claim to have lost her virginity once she let that thing up inside her. The only thing it didn't have was a pair of balls.
Even if it just lay still inside you, even if not a joint or a muscle of it moved, the idea of it alone would set you off, make the juice pour from your vaginal walls, relax all the nerves and muscles of your body. You'd want to spread your legs and lie back against the seat, and let him caress your breast in that special way of his, and watch the great bulge grow and grow inside his pants. Soon you'd find yourself squirming in the seat, as if his finger were a spit and you were trying to turn yourself on it. Your wet odor would fill the car and cling in beads to the windshield. You'd glance down, just to see what it was like to have that big hand against your cunt, and the sight would ex-cite you and comfort you at the same time: the palm resting in your pubic hair, the fingers resting on either side of your crack, and the third finger lost to view because it was inside your body; and you, with your legs open, your cunt lovingly and deliberately exposed to his caresses... .
"And this is the great statue of Apollo ..." Jean-Pierre said.
What a beautiful cock it had! thought Charlotte, looking at the statue. Nothing big or pretentious. The cock of a man who was calm, knowing, possessed of other concerns besides sex but more than adequate for sex, too, when its right time came around. How she wished that statues had erections! Wouldn't it be something, when no one was looking, to climb up on the pedestal and sink yourself down on a marble cock -- a cock gently sculptured by the greatest gemuses of ancient Greece, and erect for all eternity? To fuck Apollo! Wasn't it the logical end of a woman's hero worship to want to mate with a god? Charlotte sighed, her pants wet, staring up at those perfect stone muscles.
Then, painfully, she thought of Gaston again. Could somebody so loving really be that vicious? She remembered him on the airplane, when she sank down on him, feeling his beautiful cock so gradually opening her and penetrating. She remembered how it felt to sit on him, her buttocks on his muscular legs, her knees wide apart on the floor, the lips of her cunt pressed against his groin, and most of all that great male organ so high up inside her that it seemed to touch the stars. When her climax came it had been like the touch of something outside herself, farther away than she could ever imagine, something that had come from far away to penetrate her and to stay, making a home of her.
"This, Charlotte, is a Roman sarcophagus. See how huge and heavy it is -- with, again, the charming frieze -- this particular one of Charon ferrying the dead across the River Styx."
"Oh, Jean-Pierre, let's sit down. My feet hurt."
There weren't any seats in the room, so they sat down on the edge of the sarcophagus. In the middle of another disquisition, Jean-Pierre noticed that she was crying.
"What's the matter?" he asked. "Was it the story of Orpheus and Eurydice?"
"No! I didn't even hear that dumb story."
"You mean you haven't listened to anything I've been telling your
"No!"
Jean-Pierre looked at her wet face and then looked down at his feet. "Don't you want to learn about the things I care about?"
"No! I don't care about all these stupid civilizations. They're all dumb."
"Do you want to leave?"
"No!"
He was beginning to be exasperated. But looking at her face, he was seized with tenderness, and he put his arm around her. She rested her head against his shoulder. So that was it? He should have known. What amount of teaching is better than a loving caress?
He lifted her face and kissed her on the lips. Her mouth dropped open right away. He stretched his tongue into that cavernous space, and, at the same time, slid his right hand over her breast. She was wearing a light shirt with a thin bra underneath and he could feel the softness inside, could even feel the nipple. This caressing made her very excited. She moved her body, over and over again, as if to thrust her breast against his hand. Her left hand was on his thigh, the fingers moving, edging upward toward his cock. When she couldn't resist anymore, she took his shaft lightly between her thumb and fingers, pressing a little to feel its stiffness, all up and down, from base to tip and back again, with a little dip to feel the balls inside his pants.
Meanwhile he was unbuttoning her shirt, and when he'd done that, he put his hand inside it, wrapping his palm around her breast and squeezing as if to mash juice from it. She responded warmly, pressing his cock against his belly and kissing harder, with tongue as well as lips. He reached around back and unhooked the strap of her bra. It fell away and her breasts, loosened, released their pent-up heat. He saw her flesh-colored nipple and covered it with his hand, rotating the full flesh with gentle pressure.
She opened his zipper and felt inside. Only the cot-ton of his jockey shorts covered it now. It was stiff as rubber. She tried to find a way inside, searching and searching with her fingers until she found the elastic waistband and pulled it down and put her hand in-side it so that the bare cock warmed her hand, flesh to flesh.
That was a cue for him: He took his palm from her tit and slid it down her body until his fingers touched the metal buckle of her. levis. He undid that, and pulled the snap of her pants open, pushing the zipper down. The room was so quiet that the sound of the zipper opening seemed very loud. She made a little noise when his fingers, passing inside her panties, touched pubic hair. But that was nothing to her reaction when his fingers slid round the bend of her crotch and invaded that wet and open country between her legs. She seemed to come alive in his arms, all her gestures and emotions tripling in intensity. Her hand was now eagerly wrapped around his dick, applying a tender pressure that made him tremble with pleasure. Her head was moving from side to side as she kissed.
As if by an implicit understanding, both of them unlocked and began pulling off their own clothes. They were very eager about it, very intent. In moments they were sitting side by side without a stitch.
"Hey -- let's make love in the sarpocaphus!" Charlotte suggested.
Jean-Pierre paled at the idea, but before he could say anything, Charlotte had climbed into the stone box and laid herself out flat on her back with her eyes closed.
"Oooh, it's spooky."
Jean-Pierre stared down at her. He didn't like this idea. Not at all.
"Oooh, it's so scary. Wooooo, Dracula. Woooooooo."
This was almost too much. Even so, in the reluctant role of Dracula, be let himself down inside and stretched out on top of her.
"Don't bite my neck or I'll just scream."
"I can't move my head to bite your neck. I can't move. This coffin's too small for me."
"Wouldn't it be neat if they closed it all of a sudden? And then what if it began to move -- and then we felt ourselves lowered into the ground ... Wooooooooooo ..."
Jean-Pierre tried bumping her, and banged hii skull against the head of the coffin. The only way he could fit himself inside was to bend his knees and stick the soles of his feet out of the top. The coffin was so narrow, that he could only open her legs a few inches. Fortunately, that was enough, as it turned out. Her little hoo-ings changed timbre as he wedged his way up her niche. Her slightest 'gasp echoed from the still walls of the room. He soon forgot where he was in his eagerness to bury himself all the way in. Some-how the inability to make big movements increased the pleasure of the movements they could make. His shoves were hardly more than strong vibrations, but they roused her to the marrow. She moaned cavernously inside the coffin.
His cock slid rapturously through her wetness. He shifted his hips a little from side to side to vary the movement, and her hips responded, lifting against his weight, her mound indenting his belly. His arms were pinned to his side, but hers were wrapped around his back and her fingers were working his muscles and scratching his spinal column. From head to foot, they were touching -- faces, chests, bellies, genitals, legs -- an enforced and joyful contact.
Charlotte was rising to it faster even than he was. Her eyes closed, she was riding his cock beyond the grave and out the other side of the earth. That cock which she had just been squeezing and playing with was inside her now, inside her very body, making havoc in her vitals. She thought she could feel the very blood beating inside it, the very semen brewing and fermenting in his balls, the pressure building up for the signal that would send that juice squirting up her cunt. Her imagination played with those images, and his imagination was just as energetic. He heard the little sticky noises that his cock made in her, with every slight movement, and in his mind's eye be saw his cock inside her cunt, her walls all glistening and wet, his dick sucking at them as it moved, little bubbles of cunt nectar growing and breaking against his shaft. He seemed to see a face beckoning him from far, far up her vagina, and he knew that even if his cock couldn't reach it, his semen could. He felt the premonitory rush of energy that told him he was about to climax, and the face that he imagined at the back of her cunt opened its mouth hungrily to catch his semen whenever it should come. He aimed for that face, concentrated all his energy on it, and then, with a cry, unbuckled. Legions of sperm flew yelling from his balls to storm that thirsty mouth. The power behind his orgasms was tremendous. It was as though, in that confined space, none of his energy was dissipated to the left or right, above or behind; it all echoed back to its center and drove every wad home with hammerstrokes. She felt it herself. Lifting him up on her hips, she let herself drift over the edge, like a leaf flowing over Niagara Falls. She lifted high, paused, then dropped into the power and thunder.
Jean-Pierre, in his mind, saw the ravished face drinking greedily of his semen, slurping and smacking its lips, its Adam's apple bobbing with each deep swallow. For a moment, he believed absolutely in the reality of his vision and sent his wads out almost violently in the effort to satiate it. With each swallow it seemed to demand more and more, and he gave in equal proportion, until, at the last wad, the face smiled and winked and licked its lips and receded into the darkness.
Charlotte bucked uncontrollably with her spasms. Jean-Pierre wouldn't have imagined that so much motion could take place in so confined a space. Their pubic bones ground almost painfully together, the hairs coiling and mingling. The fragrance of her cunt filled the small space like a penetrating vapor, which he inhaled as if it were the perfume of Nefertiti of Egypt, dead four thousand years, but more beautiful than any queen who succeeded her on earth. He thought he could catch the sound of her orgasms off the walls of their. sarcophagus and listened intently to confirm his hearing. Yes, there it was -- barely audible liquid sounds, mingled with the loud beatings of her heart. They grew fainter and fainter until the heart's sound alone remained. Then .she, lay still.
Suddenly, a little way down the hall, came foot-steps echoing loudly.
"Henry, you've been dragging me all through this boring museum, and I'm sick and tired of telling you that Pm sick and tired and I'm hungry and I just want to sit down somewhere or go back to the hotel. Now, damn it -- "
Henry paused, looking around the room, and said nothing.
"Henry, there's nothing in here but a bunch of old coffins and some boring statues that are no different from the ones in ten other rooms that we've just been through. Now damn it, my feet hurt, and listen, you can hear my stomach rumbling. What is that, a foot sticking out of that sarcophagus? Aaaaaaaaah! Henry, Henry, a living mummy!"
"Back, Mildred, stand back! It may be infected! By God, I've seen these things in the movies, and I thought it was just a josh. But I sure as heck never dreamed such things could be! Let's go get the guard."
Their footsteps padded down the corridor. Swift as lightning the guilty pair rose from their tomb and got dressed, then hurried to the safety of the Egyptian collection.
"That was close," Jean-Pierre heaved, sweat beading his brow.
"That dumb woman. I was just going to go to sleep, too."
"We couldn't have slept there. Are you mad?"
"Wouldn't it have been neat if they closed up the whole museum and we were alone in the sarpocaphus -- and then we heard these footsteps coming slowly, slowly, just like Dracula? Wooooooooooo ..."
They went upstairs to the paintings and stood for a long time in front of the Mona Lisa.
"What's she smiling at?" Charlotte asked.
"There you come near the great riddle. The riddle is, not what is she smiling at, but whether she is in fact smiling."
"Jean-Pierre, is there any place around here where I can take your penis in my mouth?"
"The -- what?"
"I really want to feel you in my mouth. Right now."
Jean-Pierre looked around.
"Well, really, this is the most crowded part of the museum. You have to do it right now?"
"Yup."
"Really, I've never heard of such a thing. I could understand such urgency if you had to go to the bathroom, but this -- why it's beyond anything, it's absurd."
Charlotte stood behind him, put her hand in his pocket, and began jiggling his dick. It stood out straight, lifting the front of his pants like the center-pole of a tent.
"Charlotte! Not here, in front of the Mona Lisa. Look at all these people around us."
"I said I wanna do it now."
"Well -- take your hand out of my pocket and let's look. My God, you'd think the appalling experience of making love in a coffin would be enough to hold anyone for a few hours, at least. I shudder at the associations even now."
"You think too much. You have too much brains for your own good"
They walked from room to room looking for a suit-able place but there were too many people around.
"All right, we'll do it in the men's room. Come on."
It was all the way across the width of the building. When they got there, Jean-Pierre stood in front of,the door rattling his keys and looking up and down for a suitable opportunity. When no one was looking he opened the door and pushed Charlotte inside. There was a man in there with his back to them, urinating. Quickly Jean-Pierre opened the door to a stall and the pair of them sneaked inside. He put his finger to his lips but Charlotte paid no attention to anything. She dropped to her knees, undid his belt buckle, drew open his zipper and, gripping the waistband of his jockey shorts in both hands, pulled the whole works down around his ankles. His cock flopped down in front of her mouth, bobbing and weaving. She caught it in her lips and sucked it in.
At first she toyed with the bulbous head, compressing her lips around it, popping it in and out of her mouth, licking it. The excruciating pleasure of it made Jean-Pierre sit abruptly down on the toilet seat. He laid his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Her sucking made the same slight kissing sounds that her cunt did when they were making love. He felt her tongue snake out along the bottom of his shaft, then curl in a circle to wet him all around. She took him in further, passing the head al-most into her throat.
Outside the stall, the man flushed the urinal, washed his hands, and walked out. In their new privacy, Jean-Pierre allowed himself a few moans, and Charlotte seemed to be holding a sort of internal conversation, his cock muting the wordlike sounds coming out of her throat. She began bobbing her head, sucking slightly on each outstroke, the cock sliding from her lips like a great worm, the breath from her nostrils cooling the saliva.
With her fingertips, she began bobbling his balls, hefting them appreciatively inside their hairy bag. Her saliva on his cock was awakening a bracing sexual odor which she sniffed greedily.
He took her head between his hands and mussed her thick yellow hair, running his fingers through it, rubbing her ears and her cheeks. He felt her teeth grating his skin very gently. All the while she was pressing his glans between her muscular tongue and the roof of her mouth like a ripe grape, the skin stretched and ready to burst, full of sharp Concord juice to soak her palate. His abdomen heaved. The signals were gathering, all the forces of his nerves rushing to his penis. His breathing quickened and his hands massaged her head more urgently. Then, with a buck, he fired. Charlotte made a surprised and joyful noise as his first sudden wad scalded her tongue. She flicked it back to her throat and returned to take on another load and then another, swallowing each as it hurtled from his balls. The lining of her mouth burned as if with ginger and cinnamon. She sucked it from him, drawing each orgasm on with welcoming contractions of her tongue, and making welcoming sounds as each one squirted in.
His orgasms trailed off, smaller and smaller, until the last few drops came out of him and he collapsed back against the wall. Charlotte finished off her sucking with a loud swallow, then licked his shaft up and down and all around to pick up any stray drops. Then she smiled at him and licked her chops.
"There," she said.
Jean-Pierre was too spent to speak for the moment. "Now you can do it to me, too," Charlotte went on. "Right?"
Jean-Pierre flipped open his eyes at this new and marvellous idea.
"Just let me sit up there and you kneel down here, like I was doing!' Charlotte enjoyed being in control for a change. "I bet you never did this, did you?"
"I certainly have," he answered, piqued.
"I bet you didn't. But it doesn't matter, though, 'cause I'll teach you all about it." She was talking to him as if they were playing house.
"My dear, I am a Frenchman, after all."
"Just unzip my pants like a good boy. That's right. Roll them right down, all the way, right to the floor ..."
"Okay, now, upsy-daily! Let me sit there."
They changed places. "Daisy," sitting on the toilet seat, opened her legs wide so that he could see her pink cunt, all wide and wet, looking like a cut tomato. Her oblong hole gaped at him.
She took him by the ears and pulled him forward. As soon as he caught the scent, he descended under his own impetus. First he kissed the lovely parted lips, in little pecks, as he would kiss her mouth. Then he darted his tongue up and down her slit until he found the little clitoris budding into daylight, and he brushed the tip of his tongue lightly around it. Her hands caressed his face, grating the light stubble of his beard. His tongue followed the gutter of her crack to the very end and then returned all the way back to her hole. It flicked round and round the rim of it, passing now and then the little distance to her clit, to keep the fire up. Then it began to sink a short way into her hole and come out again, and sink a little further on the next foray, until he had it shoved up to the root. He wiggled it around until her ass was jumping on the toilet seat.
Jean-Pierre was a sort of connoisseur of cunt nectar. It wasn't that he could tell the year or the vintage from a simple taste. No, his delight was in the subtle, and to less practiced tongues, indiscernible differences among woman. He always liked to say (to himself) that, just as no two women are alike, either in physique or personality or temperament, so no two cunts were alike in physique, personality, or temperament. All of these differences, he believed, were expressed in the nectar. He thought of it as being squeezed and ,fermented from the emotions themselves, and he believed that passionate women had a richer taste than prim ones, happy women than bitter ones, calm women than nervous ones. In Charlotte's cunt, as he soaked his taste buds in her flow, he discerned the ideal mixture. It was the equivalent of the most expensive wine. Here was a happy, uncomplicated woman whose salts and acids and sugars all blended in happy combination. Nothing bitter, nothing to repel the civilized palate. It was something to taste, savor, and nod your head over. No Thunder-bird or Ripple this; it was the finest Burgundy, from grapes grown under a smiling sky.
Presently she began to lift her hips against his face, washing his forehead, mouth, nose and chin. He stretched his tongue out to lick as her cunt passed by. Yes, it was time to satiate the grosser tastes now. He lifted her legs onto his shoulders, wrapped his arms around her hips, and mashed his face against her moving cunt. She locked her legs around his head and held him there. With his ears stopped up like that, all he could hear was the beating of his heart and the sound of his tongue lapping noisily among the petals. His face was buried from cheek to cheek. He seemed to be drinking juice down by the glassful and still there was more. It was as though her cunt were a sponge, and he were squeezing it of its precious fluids. He began to gnaw and growl, working his jaw back and forth. All of a sudden he could feel her muscles contracting and her blood beating inside the rim, and he knew he'd tripped the spring. Her cunt squirmed against his face, giving him smacking kisses, seeming actually to suck his face in like a cup on the arm of an octopus. He felt his tongue drawn into the chasm and almost pulled out by the roots. If this kept up, he felt, he would be taken in whole, squeezed up her tunnel like a tube of toothpaste, only his shoes sticking out to tell the tale to a skeptical world. Her legs held him tight with crushing force, and her hands were locked back of his neck, pulling him against her twat. Never had agony been such pleasure, or pleasure such an agony.
Meanwhile Charlotte herself felt as if her insides were turning upside down and inside out. All her lower regions were in a turmoil. Not only her sexual organs but her intestines seemed to be involved, and her stomach was on the point of joining in. The toilet seat was shiny with nectar and saliva, and her ass was slipping on it. She grabbed the chain for support and flushed the toilet.
Finally, just as she was on the point of thinking she was going to die, her orgasms passed away as a thunderstorm does, out to sea. She collapsed like a ragdoll, her ,legs dropping to the floor on either side of the toilet. Jean-Pierre, his head released, found his ears ringing. His face shone like a rubbed apple, and was the same color. The only other sound besides their heavy breathing was the hiss of the cistern filling again.
Chapter 6
Jean-Pierre drove his Citroen skillfully through the crowded streets, with that French flair that makes every turn of the wheel seem like a hair-breadth escape from a fatal accident. Charlotte was clinging to the dashboard and giving out a little cry of terror every now and then.
"What's the matter with you?" he asked, passing within an inch and a half of an old lady. If the window had been open Charlotte could have kissed her as they whizzed by.
"When are we going to get to this Versailles?"
"It's eleven kilometers from Paris. Fifteen minutes at the most. Assassinr he shrieked at another driver.
They left Paris by way of the Port de Sevres and soon were driving through little suburbs. Not long after, they drove up a wide street, and the red brick walls of a huge building appeared straight ahead. It was the Palace of Versailles, home of French kings from Louis XIV on.
They parked and, hand in hand, walked up the huge cobble-stoned courtyard, past the statue of Louis XIV, and into the entrance hall. Jean-Pierre paid for their tickets and they climbed upstairs for a look around. They passed through the ornate rooms with their inlaid wooden floors and painted ceilings and marble fireplaces, and Charlotte gaped and pointed. Jean-Pierre was in his element and he took great pleasure in explaining things.
"This is Louis XIV's bedroom. Every morning he'd wake up in front of a whole crowd of courtiers and go through a ritual of dressing. He'd even take a crap right in front of everybody."
"Did he make love with Mrs. the Fourteenth in front of everybody, too?"
"I don't think he made love with her more than he could possibly help."
In the Hall of Mirrors, Charlotte, looking around, tuned in circles so many times that she almost fell over from dizziness. When she recovered she told him that she had an urgent desire to suck him off again, on the spot.
"Here? Are you insane? Look at all these mirrors!"
"I want to see what I look like when I do it."
Jean-Pierre started walking ahead for fear she'd drop directly to her knees and made a grab for, him. She came up behind and put her hand in his pocket again.
"I've had enough of this," he cried, taking her hand out and shaking it, and her along with it. "There's a time and a place for such things, and the Hall of Mirrors in the Palace of Versailles at high noon is neither the time nor the place."
"Let's do it in Louis XIV's bathroom."
"Sex is made for the boudoir, do you understand? From this time on we make love in bed or not at all."
This terrible decree damped Charlotte's spirits. She moped through all the other rooms and took no interest in Jean-Pierre's explanations. She followed him with her lower lip sticking out and never got closer to him than five feet.
"Hey -- there's a tour. You want to take it?"
Charlotte, pouting out the window overlooking the gardens, shrugged her shoulders.
"Come on, then. They're going to the king's private apartments." He took her hand and she followed silently, nursing her grievance.
The tour went up some narrow stairs to the dressing rooms and bedrooms of the kings and their wives and mistresses. Jean-Pierre translated for Charlotte's half-listening ears the explanations of the guide.
"This is Madame du Barry's bedroom," Jean-Pierre told her, "who was the mistress of Louis XV."
"Did they make love in this bed?" Charlotte asked, interested in spite of herself.
"I suppose so."
"Gee."
"During the Revolution, though, she was guillotined."
"Oh, how romantic."
She stared at the bed, trying to imagine the king and his mistress writhing on it.
"I wonder if she ever took his penis in her mouth," she said, and then thinking about it some more: "Do you think King Louis XV ever kissed her vagina?"
"All of that information," Jean-Pierre replied with some asperity, "is lost to history."
"Boy, I bet that bed would be the most romantic place in the world to make love in." She lost herself in fantasies, smiling to herself. "Boy," she said again. Then she slid her hand into Jean-Pierre's pocket and played with his dick. "You said we could do it in a bedroom."
Jean-Pierre had suspected her thoughts were taking this turn. But with her fingers actually agitating his cock he was helpless to resist. He collapsed against a wall. Presently the guide led his tour out of the room and the pair of them were left alone.
She never let up on his cock. Opening his zipper, she pulled it out and petted it as if it were a little dachshund that he kept hidden in there against the wind and rain. All the time she made little cooing noises over it, coaxing it to stretch itself out full length. It did. Then she bent over and kissed it and licked it. Jean-Pierre sagged toward the floor. But she held him by the cock and led him -- as if it were a leash -- toward the bed where two hundred years be-fore Louis XV had cavorted with Madame du Barry. Charlotte hopped into it and tried to bounce, but it was full of feathers and yielded under her weight. She settled in, wiggling her ass.
"Oh, it's really comfortable. Come on in. Come on in, little doggy," she said, still pulling him along by his cock. "Let's get under the covers."
She pulled back the purple bedspread aid crawled under. So did Jean-Pierre. There they lay, all snug, in the King's bed. The feather mattress was very comfortable. All was silent. Charlotte's hand lay spread over his dick.
The first move was Jean-Pierre's. He crossed his arm over hers and wrapped his fingers around her cunt. His fingertips touched the very rim of her hole, finding it open and wet. He pressed.
Charlotte began stroking his dick, gently at first, then harder. Their bodies quickly heated the air under the covers, and suddenly they turned toward each other, wrapping their arms tight round each other's body, and kissing wildly. They rocked and heaved, making the old bed groan with a sound it had not made for two hundred years.
Jean-Pierre relished the feel of her body, softer than the mattress in which they lay. She pressed against him along her whole length, and he loved the cushiony pressure of her breasts, and the flat smooth curve of her belly. His cock pressed into the hairs of her cunt and stood up almost as far as her navel. His balls hung across his thigh and rested on her leg.
He massaged the muscles of her back and shoulders slowly, pressing her to him. His hands moved down her back, the fingers tapping from vertebra to vertebra on the way down, until he reached the con-vex curve of her rump. He sent his right hand into the gully between her buttocks and followed it all the way around, sinking a brief index finger into her anus and then passing over her leg to attack the vagina from the front.
He pressed the lips of her cunt together and rolled them between his thumb and index finger. His fingertips were soon immersed in oily nectar, hot from the kitchen. Meanwhile her hand was busy with his cock, stretching down the length of it, reaching under every once in a while to see how the balls were getting on. They were getting on fine, wrapped up high in the scrotum, the sperm swimming excitedly round and round, knowing that they'd be needed soon.
He stretched his middle finger back and found her vagina staring open and wet as a fish. He sank it in to the knuckle and wiggled it around up there. The walls drew back on all sides. He introduced a second finger. It was a tight fit but she seemed to like it, judging from the heat of her breathing. He drew the fingers out and sent them in again and the pressure forced a little of the juice out in a stream. She began to moan against his lips. A little later he sank an-other finger up her hole, and the speed of her cock-stroking trebled. They were both ready to make it now.
He rolled her on her back and stretched out on top of her, humping her. She lifted her legs and wrapped them around his back. Without using his hand at all he drew back and made a blind plunge. He was right on target. His shaft sank in to the hilt without impediment, the clinging walls of her pussy slowing his en-try gently as the water slows the speed of a water skier, when he's let go of the line, and then lets him sink gently on his skis. For a moment he rested there. listening to her amazed little sounds. Then he shifted his hips left and right against her belly, working his cock around as if it were a knife. She placed the soles of her feet on his buttocks and pressed him in.
His hands worked down to grip her ass and when he had a firm hold on them he started shoving. He was slow about it at first, but he built up speed in no time, and with speed, power. Each thrust was a shock that inched her backwards in the bed, until her head was touching the headboard and he had to lift her down again, never letting up his stroking all the while. Every time he shoved, she helped him along by driving him in with her feet. She rocked her hips around, crying against his ear, scratching his back with her strong fingernails.
Suddenly he rolled over and let her take command on top of him. She wasn't slow in accepting. She drove her hips against his and swivelled them at the same time, so that his cock was being stretched for-ward and back and turned in circles, each new motion a surprise and delight. Her big breasts brushed up and down, her nipples tickling his ribs. The motions of her wide woman's belly drove the blood hard into his cock, each stroke stretching it that much more, until it seemed a question whether he would come first, or burst in trying to hold it in. All the time, her face gleaming with sweat, she was murmuring to him: "Come on, baby, come on." And grunting: "Huh-huh-huh ..." while her cunt made the same sound a dry tongue makes in cleaving to and withdrawing from the roof of the mouth.
Presently, lifting herself from him completely, she knelt over his hips, placed the head of his cock into position, and sat on it, her face serious, intent, strands of blonde hair pasted to her face. She let him sink in and sat there, eyes closed, taking it all in. As for him, the feelings of having his cock stretched upright was a pleasure so intense that he could barely contain it. He lay there gasping, his hands on her hips, his eyes on her face and breasts. Her breasts hung full, the nipples pointing straight ahead. He let his eyes drop to the point on her belly behind which, he judged, the head of his cock would be standing. It was high up, almost to her navel. He rubbed his palm across her belly, then raised both hands to her tits and caressed them. She inhaled deeply, pushing them into his hands. He squeezed the heavy flesh, taut as wineskins. She put her hands over his and began to move, lifting herself on her knees and sinking down again, lifting and sinking, building momentum, and all the while helping him to caress her breasts until they were as hard and full as they could be.
Squish-squish-squish -- at every motion those musical sounds bubbled in their ears. Her soft ass cushioned the force of her descent, which grew and grew with every stroke. Everytime she lifted herself up, she drew in her belly to force the blood down into her cunt. Her face was rapt, almost angelic. She shook her head from side to side, making ecstatic sounds. Even in his excitement, which amounted almost to a trance, he was amazed at the womanly look and feel she had when she was aroused. It was almost unearthly. She began doing something with her cunt now -- palpitating it against his shaft. as if she had full control of all the nerves, blood vessels and muscles down there. He was lying back with his eyes screwed shut and his mouth open, lips pulled back, chin jutting forward. His hands rolled her tits as if they were dough that he was kneading to make bread. She leaned further back, stretching his cock to an excruciating angle.
"Mmm ... nnn ... ah, ooh, mm, baby, baby, ooh ..." Those were the sounds falling out of her lips, the expressive language of her cunt. She reached her hands down to pull at her pussy, hurrying on the sensations that were already building to a climax. She shook her head until her hair was flying in a great cloud around her head. She shifted her hips in a circle, still climbing up and down his pole, so that her motions were spiral now. Nothing could stay the moment anymore. They'd already gone beyond the point of no return. With a sudden heave that lifted her high in the air, Jean-Pierre blasted his charge into her vitals. The first smack of his semen set her off as if with a trip-wire. A huge gasping intake of breath announced her climax. There was a pause between heaven and earth and then the waves started crashing in her belly, rolling juice out of her cunt as if it were an overflow of the tide. She twisted herself like a contortionist on his cock, pulling madly at her snatch all the while, her ass bouncing on his thighs, the bed rocking and groaning under them.
"Whoa! Whoa!" he cried at each orgasm, lifting his belly as if to launch every wad on its flight. He turned her fits in wild circles, separating them, crushing them together, never still for a second. Sitting up in the bed, he wrapped his arms around her and wrestled her on her back again, and in that position he plowed it to her harder than ever, sending a wad up with each forward drive. With his fingers he separated the cheeks of her ass and sank one finger into her anus, using the rest to push her belly up to meet him as he shoved. Her nails dug ridges in his back, and her teeth sank into his earlobe, his neck, his shoulder. She lifted her legs in the air and rocked them to the rhythm of her orgasms.
Gradually their motions slowed, stabilized, stopped. Charlotte's legs sank slowly to the feather mattress. They lay coupled, heaving. Madame du Barry's sheets were a mess, but her ghost, headless or not, would have been pleased. Even Louis XV, chuckle-headed as he was, might have chortled at the sight.
Jean-Pierre slipped gently out of her. His cock, red and wet, flopped to the sheet. He turned over and lay beside her, one leg thrown over her. She rested her hand on his cock.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, relaxed and happy, they were standing at the back of the palace, looking up at the long row of windows.
"Our home," Charlotte said.
"Yes," Jean-Pierre agreed. "Let's take a walk in our garden."
The gardens of Versailles stretch as far as you can see in any direction from the rear of the palace. Jean-Pierre and Charlotte took the wide path that led straight back to the two crossed canals, each of which was about a quarter mile long. They watched the children playing and the lovers kissing, and the people fishing. They both felt as peaceful as the day. Later on they visited the Hamlet, a miniature village built by Marie Antoinette, a collection of little cabin-sized buildings with a dairy, a mill, a farm, a dove-cote and house and boudoir, and gardens. There was nobody around, except maybe the ghost of the Queen -- headless too, unfortunately.
Walking around, they found the door to the mill open. Up they climbed to the top and looked out over the forest and gardens at the palace.
"I wonder what it's like to have a king make love to you?"
"Not too great, I think. They didn't wash much in those days. And the last two kings had the brains of field mice."
"That means you're even better than a king ... oh, how romantic ..."
She dropped to her knees, opened his zipper, and fished his cock out. She stared at it as it grew before her face, the head filling out until it was as red and puffy and fat-cheeked as a little Tyrolean boy. She licked it like a lollipop, but instead of melting with each lick it grew bigger. Her tongue felt as rough as a cat's against the sensitive skirl of the head.
She's sucking me off in Marie Antoinette's mill, he thought to himself. The idea was an aphrodisiac. Marie Antoinette's mill! Ohh ...
By now she was an expert sucker. She knew that the best way to suck was to make a cunt out of her mouth, to simulate exactly the sensations of fucking, and then to go just that one step beyond -- to use all the faculties of the mouth to recreate the conditions that a man's cock loved best, and then to use Nature to go beyond Nature. What a wonderful surprise for a cock to enter a space it has every reason to believe is a vagina, only to find itself gently sucked and blown and licked in a kind of little massage parlor equipped with all sorts of unexpected devices.
Charlotte slid him back and forth inside her lips and along her tongue, filling her mouth with saliva and using it as an oil. The only difference between her mouth and a cunt at this point was that when she drew the cock out of her mouth the air evaporated her saliva and cooled the shaft; for some reason, cunt juice doesn't cool when it dries. But the cooling only brought home to him the wonderful fact: I am being sucked off -- and then, remembering again -- in Marie Antoinette's mill!
Charlotte didn't intend to have him come in her mouth this time, though. When he was good and hard, she left off sucking and, turning her back on him, knelt under the window with her head on the floor and her ass high, as though she were worship-ping an idol. Her short skirt retreated to her waist and her ass, spread open under the gleaming panties, beckoned him. He didn't delay. He pulled them down to her knees and stared at what she had to show. It was wonderful. All of her private places were there for the seeing. Her cheeks were splayed wide and her tight brown anus clenched its, lips and then gradually opened. Beneath that her dewy hole stared open, more than wide enough already to take him in. Nectar ran from it along the gully of her slit, which was visible from front to back. And all of this was surrounded and set off by the big oval of her ass which, as it faced him, seemed disembodied somehow. The sculpture stood by itself, a perfect expression.
He took all this in at a glance as he was whipping his cock to an iron toughness. He knelt behind her and stirred it in her petals, her ass wiggling as if he were tickling her with a cattle prod.
"Put it in, put it in!" she moaned.
Not yet, he wouldn't. He was in the mood for a long, slow tease. Instead of speeding up he actually eased his motion. She almost wept with desire. He stirred it all around her hole, and from the front of her slit to the rear, and beyond her hole to the anus and back again.
"What are you doing?" she asked him, and then answered herself: "You're driving me crazy!"
He dug the head of his cock into her hole, and pushed. Everything gave way before him. But he didn't follow up this easy victory right away. He pulled himself out and whipped her buttocks a few times with it, then sank himself in a little further. He pulled himself almost all the way out and sank in again still further. It was only on the fifth stroke that he let his balls touch her ass and the head of his dick penetrate as far as it could reach. She let out a long groan from deep in her throat -- "Awwww ..." -- and laid her cheek down on the wood floor, her face intently serious.
He stabbed her at will after that, shifting her ass in all directions. She stretched her arms out in front of her and sagged slowly to the floor, her breasts brushing in the dust. Her ass, with his cock in it, was the last thing to descend. When her belly was flat on the boards, he lay full length on top of her and plowed it to her without stint, reaching his hands underneath to squeeze her tits and then to press downward across her belly to her snatch, which he pulled at expertly, wetting his fingers.
Charlotte moaned deliriously. The cock had sent her right into dreamland. She felt it scouring her in-sides and it seemed to be scouring her brain as well. She lost all control over her thoughts. All she could see was that huge member slipping in and out so purposefully, the great balls making ready to unload. She saw both their bodies as transparent, all their organ's pumping and squishing, their lungs heaving, and all their blood flow concentrated at the genitals. She distinctly saw, as if she were outside herself, his cock plunging high up her tube, saw her inner lips cling to his shaft as it withdrew and then plunged again. She saw their hearts pumping crazily, the blood spurting through arteries and veins. She even saw the sparks running along their nerves, carrying ever more ex-cited messages with ever greater frequency until their bodies took on the look of a couple of fireworks.
He rolled over on his back, carrying her with him so that she lay on his stomach looking up at the ceiling. His hands toiled ceaselessly at her snatch and she herself caressed her breasts, moaning until her voice echoed from the walls of the room. He flexed his ass and relaxed again and again. His cock was hot as fire, like a steel rod just rolled in the foundry. Her body temperature seemed to have risen to the melting point of gold. Sweat pasted their bodies, and shafts of sunlight gleamed on them through the window.
Now she sat up on him, her face towards his feet, her ass on his stomach. Moving into a kneeling position, she again used her legs as springs to bounce her-self on his cock, her hands bobbling her breasts, her lips emitting delirious moans. He stared at her muscular back, at the wide curve of her hips and the beautiful full pear shape of her ass, and, his brain filling in a rush, he spurted his love into these loved things, so bard that she could distinctly feel it. Her climax wasn't long in following. She inhaled deeply, lifted her breasts in both hands, and came, announcing each orgasm with a moan until the pigeons stirred in the eaves and cooed.
It was a beautiful day at Versailles that afternoon. The sky was blue, the grass and hedges green, the flowers all big and, bright. Kings and queens had never seen it so happy.
Chapter 7
On the way back to Paris, Charlotte tried to teach Jean-Pierre all the Beatles songs she knew. He sang them out of tune and never could get the words right, but they laughed and had a good time.
"Ers combs zee sun," he sang, yelling and weaving the car from side to side.
They were still singing on the way up the stairs to Jean-Pierre apartment, and they were singing as they passed into hallway, but when they arrived in the living room, Jean-Pierre suddenly stopped short and left Charlotte so sing a tuneful solo. Then suddenly she stopped too.
There was a girl sitting on the sofa.
She looked nasty, and her eyes were on fire. She stared at Charlotte with the moist intense hatred Charlotte had ever seen on a human face. Then she looked at Jean-Pierre with an expression several times as intense as the previous one.
"Veronique!" was all that Jean-Pierre managed to say. His smile was dismal failure. He opened his arms in a gesture of embrace but it was so jerky that he looked like a mechanical toy.
"Oui," Veronique answered, staring hard, and certainly not ready to leap into his arms. "C'est moi. Qu'est-ce que c'est?" Meaning "what's that?" and referring to Charlotte.
"Une amie," was all Jean-Pierre could think to say. "A friend." He tried the smile again, but this attempt was worse than the last one.
Veronique's stare was so disconcerting that Jean-Pierre, just to take off the pressure, made the mistake of trying to introduce her to Charlotte. "My fiancee," was all he was able to get out before his fiancee broke like an overcharged steam pipe and scalded him into a state of shock. It was just as well that Charlotte didn't know French, because she was soon being referred to as "a whore," "a slut," "a harlot," and other synonyms to that effect, as well as "a pig," and other names associated with digestion. After the words ran out, Veronique went at him with her red-polished and nicely manicured fingernails, which she put to good use digging trenches in his face.
Charlotte just didn't know what to say or do, so she said and did nothing, only stood there with her mouth open. Jean-Pierre had never told her anything about a fiancee. It wasn't her fault, but somehow she felt guilty anyway. Veronique backed Jean-Pierre against the wall and went at him hand and foot, and finally tooth, too. She was a well-organized attacking machine, this Veronique. Finally Charlotte became so overwrought at seeing her lover brought low like this that she shouted: "Stop!" She was so surprised at having said it that she put her hand over her mouth. But it was too late. Veronique turned around and made a quick advance with her arms spread to both sides and her eyes 'fixed on Charlotte's the way a hawk's might be on a mouse. All the time she was calling her terrible names and saying, in French: "Oh you would would you? You'll get yours now, you little slut' You'll get your filthy little face torn off is what you'll get!" Charlotte put her little fists to her face and looked as terrified as it's possible for someone to look who isn't about to be run over by a tank.
At the first onslaught, she screamed but offered no resistance. She fell onto the floor and rolled around while Veronique pummelled her unmercifully. She stopped pummelling after a while, but it was only to devote her attention to Charlotte's hair, which she pulled so violently that Charlotte would certainly have emerged bald from the fray had not Jean-Pierre intervened. He tried to interpose himself between them but they were so tightly twined that the only thing he could think of doing was to sit on Veronique's head. This worked well enough until her perfect teeth clamped deep into the cheek of his ass. He leaped off and bounced to his rump three feet away.
Veronique was losing the first furious energy of her assaults and Jean-Pierre used the opportunity to quell her by taking hold of her arms. She twisted her head from side to side, baring her teeth like a mad dog. Charlotte was crying with her face all contorted, emitting long sobs with a jerk at the end of them like a little girl.
Jean-Pierre, by wrestling Veronique with a determination and finally a fury that would have won him wild applause at Madison Square Garden, finally managed to subdue her. She was. still fighting, but little by little the anger went out of her. What happened, actually, was that they excited each other so much in wrestling that they ended up hugging and kissing. Charlotte stopped crying, and ran her hand under her nose and sniffed, and lay there watching them. Every once in a while another sob would es-cape her, and she would sniff three or four times, and her nose stayed red for a long while, but watching the pair of them kissing like that brought her right out of herself. It was interesting to try to see the ex-act point at which violence became passion, the point at which Veronique, punching and scratching Jean-Pierre's back, changed her. scratchings to strokings, and her ferocious bitings to kisses. It wasn't sudden at all. It was hardly perceptible and somehow the change wasn't in the least contradictory. From violence into sex, from hatred into love -- like a change in the direction of a tide -- a question of flow, not of contrary states of being.
So right in front of Charlotte's eyes, Veronique, who had been vilifying and hitting her fiance just a few moments before, now held him tight on top of her and kissed him long and deeply. Jean-Pierre's hips began to move and she moaned into his mouth, spreading her legs inside her maxi-skirt. He quickened his strokes just as though he were fucking her, and her excitement grew and grew. Then, like all Frenchwomen, she began uttering those wonderful mad sounds of love, not caring how loudly she spoke or who heard.
"Oh, mon cheri, mon cheri, oh baise-moi ... oh, vite, vitel" And at the same time she began moving her hips against his strokes, pressing her cunt to his moving cock. "Ah, ma jupe, ma jupe, cheri -- ote-la" ... take off my skirt ... Jean-Pierre pushed it up to her waist, revealing long white legs. Her cunt was hidden under white lacy briefs, which he pulled off her, she lifting her legs to help him and then kicking them aside. Her pubic hair was wonderfully thick and stood out in rich curls from her mound: She watched affectionately as Jean-Pierre unzipped his trousers and pulled them down to his knees, his cock hanging loose as he struggled. She made a ring of her fingers and stroked it down from the base to the head, forcing the blood into it. His cock twitched. She spread her legs wide open, positioning herself on the floor, bracing her heels on the carpet, never letting go his cock. He knelt between her legs, his palms flat on the floor, and let her place it for him. She was very attentive about it, lifting her head to look as she poised it right at the opening to her vagina. At his first shove she smiled. At his second she lay back and closed her eyes and began to caress his shoulder blades. At the third, sounds came out of her throat again and at the fourth, which brought him all the way in, she started talking to him again in that beautiful French way, caressing and thanking him with her voice as well as her body.
"Baise-moi -- Fuck me, fuck me ... Vite,- vite, vite, faster, faster ... ah, c'est si long, si gros, it's so long, so thick ..."
All this while his cock was stirring up all the nerves and vessels of her cunt and Charlotte, crawling round behind them, was looking up at the junction of their fucking, watching the cock ooze in and out of the chamber, whose inner lips clung lovingly to it, drawing out when he drew out, following him in when he plunged, and always that thick sucking sound coming out. Charlotte saw how slow he was about it, his cock moving steadily, smoothly, all the way in and almost all the way out -- he curving it out by lifting himself up on one hip when he pulled back so that his cock looked like a scimitar. It was ruddy with friction.
Veronique's cunt meanwhile looked glutted, stretched as it was with meat. The edges gleamed wet. It was a loving meat-eater, without teeth, with-out gums or tongue, relying on voluntary sacrifice for its food. It never tore its food or swallowed it down -- it was satisfied with the mere taste.
Veronique, as she lay there, lifted her blouse up until her breasts were exposed. They were small and tight. Her ribs were all visible, but she didn't give the impression of being skinny. She was thin the way a cat is thin.
Now she began to lift her hips to his blows and Charlotte watched fascinated as their energy built and built to its explosive climax. Their flesh smacked and thudded with each collision. Her thighs and pubic hair were wet, the juice pouring from her with each outstroke. Her voice was rising, rising.
"Cheri, cheri, cheri, oh! OH! OH! OH! OH!" She let go, her ass bouncing on the floor with every orgasm, each one described in a long moan that followed the force curve of the orgasm as it rolled in and rolled away.
Jean-Pierre held onto his load. Veronique's cries trailed into whimpers and then died altogether and she lay back on the floor half asleep, her lips parted, her stomach heaving up and down.
Charlotte watched Jean-Pierre's cock curve out of her, sliding like . a worm. It was red from top to bottom. It thumped to the carpet. Charlotte was drawn to it irresistibly, without the least thought or premeditation. She lay down on her stomach, looked at it, and darted, taking the head into her mouth as if she were a robin pulling an earthworm from the ground. The sharp taste of cunt suffused her tongue. Her saliva, dissolving Veronique's juice from the shaft, made itself into a kind of cunt tea which, when swallowed, was very bracing and stimulating. The taste of it made her breathe harder. She wrapped a fist around the base of his cock, sucking and licking the upper half, not being slow or even gentle this time but wrapping her lips around her teeth and damping her mouth tight around the rod, bobbing up and down, alternately sucking and blowing. He gasped, clutching her head. She began rolling his cock between her two palms, sucking all the while, her tongue turning round and round the head.
Suddenly he lurched. His cock spat a heavy load into her mouth and others followed in quick succession. She took them straight down her throat, her Adam's apple bobbing. Some come sprayed against the roof of her mouth and she flicked it back with her tongue. More shot full against the back of her throat and her esophagal muscles caught the juice and rolled it gutward. And all the time her hands were twisting his shaft as if to squeeze the wads to their fullest power and speed, the way you turn the nozzle of a hose to harden the flow.
At last she popped her lips from his cock He was still coming and she caught the spurts with her lips. When he was through, her lips were covered with semen and it was dripping down her chin. But before she could lick it up, Veronique crawled to her, swift as a tiger, and kissed the semen on her lips, then pushed her tongue into Charlotte's mouth to gather what she could of it in there. Both their mouths were burning. But even after the semen was all taken down the pair of them kept up their kiss, breathing like steam engines. Veronique laid Charlotte back on the floor and settled down on top of her. Her skirt was still up around her waist and her shirt was still up around her shoulders and all the womanly parts of her were bare against Charlotte's clothes. As she kissed she twisted her body around, raising Charlotte's dress higher and higher until it was rumpled all the way up to her armpits. Then she reached back and unhooked Charlotte's bra and slid a hand under the right cup, holding the breast in an eager squeeze. Charlotte's legs were spread, her white panties thinly concealing what was bulging underneath. Veronique's legs were spread right on top of Charlotte's, and nothing concealed what she had. Her pussy was split open like a ripe passion fruit, the lips pouting, the hole wide enough for three fingers to enter. Her clitoris stood barely visible, tiny and vulnerable, from its surrounding skin just below the hole. Her anus clenched and unclenched by turns. She began to hump, pushing her whole body forward and back, Charlotte's underpants riding with her as she moved, adding their additional caress, their soft cotton brushing her stomach. The feeling of Veronique's mound crushing against her own and then riding up her stomach and back again excited her as much as a cock would, but in a different way. This was something new and strange, and a little evil. She was on forbid-den ground and enjoyed the danger. Veronique's hard nipples crossed the inner slopes of her breasts, rubbing. Charlotte responded, holding her round the back, massaging her shoulder blades and the muscles below her collarbone. Veronique kissed her lips so hard that Charlotte could feel her teeth through them, and sent her tongue out on a long probing expedition, licking all around. the insides of Veronique's cheeks and the roof of her mouth, and wrestling tongue-to-tongue.
Veronique was very hot. Her fierce nature led her to extremes in every emotion. Before Charlotte knew what was happening, Veronique had broken away and begun moving down her body, kissing her on the way. She kissed and bit Charlotte's chin, and licked the hollow of her throat. Then, lifting the bra off altogether, she kissed up the hillside of her right breast and, when she'd reached the summit, took the nipple in her mouth along with a sizeable hunk of the skin around it, and began sucking like a famished colt. Charlotte lifted her head up to watch. The sight aroused her so much that she leaned up further to kiss Veronique on the neck. The sensation of the rough tongue on her nipple made her moan even as she licked the loose strands of red hair on Veronique's shoulder.
But Veronique didn't stop there. She gave Charlotte's breast one last parting kiss, then descended lower, licking each rib on the way down, and licking all the way across the wide plateau of her belly, dip-ping the tip of her tongue into the sunken navel and pausing to wet a line at the border of her pubic patch, and to gather into her nostrils the first *twly whiffs of the nectar that was already brewing and bubbling between Charlotte's legs. She rubbed both cheeks in the hair, then nosed her way down the last two inches to the crack. She stuck the tip of her tongue at the very opening and coursed it down the gully until the flat of it was right over Charlotte's clitoris. Charlotte lifted her knees, bringing her cunt up to her lover's lips. The tongue gently played around the clit, then buried itself in her hole. Charlotte let out a startled moan. The tongue waggled up there, gathering the salt juices. Charlotte buried her fingers in Veronique's red curls and massaged her scalp, all the time moaning toward the ceiling with increasing vehemence. The tongue was like an eel trying to twist its way to her uterus -- always shifting, striving, straining. She fed it all the juice she could muster.
Meanwhile Jean-Pierre, whose cock, once emptied, had amazing powers of recuperation, was staring at his fiancee's cunt as she lay there on her stomach sucking at Charlotte. He couldn't tear his eyes from those two exposed lips fringed by the curling red hair, from the seeping vagina whose gates were open in expectation of a thick visitor. His cock stirred and rose. He took it in his fist and, kneeling behind Veronique, prepared it for the plunge. She lifted her ass a little to help his aim, and he needed no second try. With one shove he was in to the very balls, the wet walls enclosing his shaft in a welcoming embrace. There they all lay in a golden chain, one current of love running up and down from Charlotte's head to Jean-Pierre's feet and back again, with Veronique in the middle receiving and giving out the heavy charges.
Jean-Pierre lifted his ass and plunged, and did it again, and again, hitting his stride and staying with it. He was lying along Veronique's back, with his cheek resting against Charlotte's groin and his lips kissing Veronique's cheek. He could hear her tongue at work and smell the animal fragrances rising out of Charlotte's hole. Meanwhile his balls were jangling against his fiancee's raised ass and his cock squishing steadily into her hole and out again.
Veronique was the first to come. She cried and groaned up Charlotte's hole, her tongue licking faster and faster and her ass bucking against Jean-Pierre's shoves. She didn't try to hold it back. Front and rear she exploded, gnashing her teeth in the cunt and contracting her muscles around the cock. Her voice, muted, sounded as if it were coming through a wad of cotton.
Seeing and hearing and feeling all this, lifted Charlotte over the wall, and, with a cry, she heaved and banged her ass against the floor, pouring her orgasms into Veronique's mouth and out her cunt, where Jean-Pierre's cock received the jolt and fired immediately. The three of them rocked and jounced with it, their three separate ecstasies merging into one huge crescendo which was audible like the roll of drums. Their voices rose and twined together, baritone, alto, soprano, with an emotion and a power that would have made Nietzsche Schmucker and Brunhilda Thundershitz sound like a couple of moon-struck hounds had they tried to compete with it.
After it was all done, they lay quiet in their places. Veronique could soon be heard snoring softly against Charlotte's still open cunt. Jean-Pierre's cock slowly retracted inside Veronique's tightening hole.
After a while, rather than sleep there on the floor, they got up separately and made their way to the bedroom, where they all got under the covers and fell into deep sleep. Every once in a while one of them would wake up and masturbate against the nearest body.
Towards morning they were all disturbed by feverish dreams which made them toss and turn against one another. Cocks, cunts, and heated bodies floated in the air like visions of sugar plums at Christmas. All of them talked and groaned in their sleep.
Charlotte, half asleep and half awake, laid her cheek against Veronique's hard little French breast The nipple indented her skin. She could hear the heartbeat, very loud and strong. Her head softly lifted 'and fell with Veronique's breathing. She couldn't resist sliding her hand down the length of the girl's body to wrap her fingers in the red pubic hair. Her middle finger slipped into the crack and found it soaking wet It was only a short distance further to the hole. Charlotte sank her finger in it to the first joint. Veronique shifted in the bed with a groan. Charlotte sank it in to the second joint and Veronique's legs began twitching. When she buried it to the knuckle the girl's entire body writhed on the bed.
Charlotte's dreams had been mostly about making love with women. With all that suggestion burning in her brain she was eager to satisfy her lust and her curiosity. What was it like to eat another 'woman? It was too much to resist? She sank down to the foot of the bed so that her legs hung over the edge and, spreading Veronique's legs a little, she lowered her head against her muff. The hair was soft and dry as she put her nose and upper lip against it. Down she slid and down, around the curve, until her tongue touched slick flesh. The flavor and aroma were sharp as cheddar. She investigated with tentative probes of the tongue. She knew the clitoris as soon as her tongue touched it -- a tiny bulge budding from a fold in the skin, incredibly sensitive. She licked gingerly around it and Veronique responded by lifting her ass a little. Her hands were soon in Charlotte's hair. Charlotte put her tongue into the vagina, boldly now, not stinting a fraction of an inch. She sucked Veronique's juices down as if they were liqueur, and they went immediately to her bead. She began to behave as if drunk. She shook her head like a dog worrying a bone, washing her face from cheek to cheek, from forehead to chin, in Veronique's copious flow. Her tongue searched as far as it could up that mysterious tunnel, then licked back the golden liquor it had gathered. Her lips crushed against the cunt's lips, kissing them passionately.
Then, on a sudden inspiration, she turned her body around in the bed until she was lying on top of Veronique with her face in Veronique's pussy and her pussy in Veronique's face. Veronique, half in dreams, was not slow to gnaw on the gift.
A double-headed, double-cunted monster feeding on itself -- it was to that very dream that Jean-Pierre awoke in a beaded sweat, and found it true. He sat up on his elbows and watched, blinking the sleep away. He listened to the animal growls and chomps, and to the strange whining noises that accompanied them. The morning was shining pale through the window and he could make out their bonded figures as if in a black-and-white moving film. Their arms were wrapped tight around each other's hips and their mouths were in constant motion. The sounds coming out of their throats were like those of a jealous cat when he's trying to eat and growl at the same time.
Watching all of this, he wondered: How can I get in it? It seemed a self-enclosed unit. All the apertures were taken up and the breasts were all locked up on the inside. His cock, which had been upright all through his dreams, now ached with frustrated desire. There was only one avenue that Jean-Pierre could see and he resolved to take it. Leaping to his feet so that the mattress jounced, he straddled Charlotte's body and then carefully knelt over her ass so that his cock was pointing down the crack between her buttocks. Separating the cheeks, he squeezed his dick in there, then closed them up again. Right below, Veronique was licking away, utterly concentrated. Jean-Pierre started -- awkward though his position was -- to shove. It was no vagina, but at least it was part of a woman. It was dry and his cock had a tendency to get stuck here and there, but he kept at it, and when some-times he slipped out, he would fold himself back in patiently and start over again. He was already so highly primed that very little was needed to set him off. He concentrated his mind on the sound of Veronique's licks, and before he knew it he was flying helplessly over the edge of a tremendous climax. He inhaled with a great noise and fired his load right in her face.
"Mawgh!" she croaked. It filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks like orgasmic tears. Before the end of ten seconds her face was a flowing mask. Her eyes stung horribly and she was blinded -- permanently for all she knew. She could hardly keep up with all her functions but she tried bravely in the face of this unexpected immersion. She waggled her tongue so furiously that Charlotte came, calling up her corridor until her voice echoed again. And Veronique herself, in a ferocious burst of energy, shook her body into orgasms the way the wind shakes a flag. Flap! Flap! Flap! From head to toe she billowed with them, and all the while Jean-Pierre helplessly splattered her face and Charlotte shook her nose in her twat. It was a scene for poets to describe.
When it was all over, Jean-Pierre flopped over side-ways, dragging his softening cock out of Charlotte's butt. Charlotte rolled onto her back, her mouth, cunt, and buttocks tingling. Veronique cleaned her face in the pillow case, then rushed to the bathroom to wash the come out of her eyes. It would take all the next day, though, to purge them clean and in the mean-while she would have to look at the world through a stinging blur.
Maybe that was what made her angry again, but however it was, she wouldn't let Charlotte stay in the apartment after they were up and dressed. She kept clinging to Jean-Pierre and sulking in his arms and casting malevolent glances at Charlotte. She whispered in Jean-Pierre's ear and then looked at Charlotte and up at Jean-Pierre again and rested her head on his shoulder, pouting. Jean-Pierre looked unhappy and reluctant but there was nothing he could do. He was engaged, after at He tried to soften it as much as he could in his caressing French way, but the news was bitter, cut it how you will. In twenty minutes Charlotte was on the street again.
Chapter 8
Jean-Pierre gave her enough money to last her a week or so. She spent the days wandering around. She was constantly annoyed by men on the metro who followed her around and showed their cocks to her. She was in a terrible depression, fed up with being lifted and then dropped, with being tricked, with being wanted only for her body, or her money, or her naivete.
Angry and humiliated as she was by what Jean-Pierre had done to her, she couldn't help being sentimental, too. The night at the Opera, the afternoons at the Louvre and at Versailles -- all of that history and high culture had made her more serious. That's what she thought, anyway. Bung Hickens, cock-sized finger or no, would never satisfy her anymore.
Full of these thoughts, she walked into a laundromat with the suitcase of dirty clothes she'd accumulated over the past couple of weeks. She set it down, opened it, and shoved all the clothes in together. Soap, bleach, coins -- the dismal succession of commonplace acts that made her feel how low in the world she was, after all -- even with all this new experience and knowledge. All the misery came back on her with its full weight. She sat glumly in a plastic chair, trying to read a French magazine, but not even the pictures could hold her attention. She kept thinking on the one hand of all the love she'd been making in the last couple of weeks, and on the other hand of all the humiliation she'd taken. One minute she'd be smiling to herself and in the next- she'd be ready to cry. In her mind, she constructed a composite of Gas-ton and Jean-Pierre and went through a whole series of seductions, each more sensational than the last. She conceived herself writhing with orgasms. Inside her blue jeans her cunt was aching.
It's a strange fact about sex, that the more you get the more you want. Charlotte, from the day of her arrival in Paris, had been steeped to the gills in semen. One or two days' abstinence was enough to make her climb the walls.
She kept wondering what it would have been like to make it with Jean-Pierre in the airplane, or with Gaston in Madame du Barry's bed. Cutting up, trans-posing, switching faces, bodies, cocks -- her mind was a wonderful editing device. What would Jean-Pierre have been like with Gaston's cock? Gaston with Bung's finger and Jean-Pierre's nose? Or, to be even more particular about it, what would it have been like to take in Bung's cock if it had had Jean-Pierre's shaft, Gaston's head, and Bung's balls? Such questions filled her mind night and day.
Charlotte sighed. She hated laundromats. They were the most depressing places on God's earth. Green cement walls, green machines, the smell of soap. Just another kind of waiting room. Life going by as you wait for the dirt to fly out of your clothes.
She sighed again and dragged her feet over to the machine. It wasn't even out of the first cycle yet. She folded her arms and laid her head down on them. Then she pressed her stomach against the machine. Her body vibrated with it. She didn't think anything about it until her mind posed the question: What would it have been like to have Gaston's lips suck her cunt, with Jean-Pierre's tongue on her clitoris, Veronique's finger up her vagina, and Bung's cock in her mouth? In combination with the washer's humming and jumping, that query made her nerves light up like a pinball machine. Her eyes widened and she gasped. Her cunt flew open like a pair of jaws eager for food. She pressed her belly hard against the ma-chine, then moved her body over to the corner and pressed her cunt against it. The machine was warm, full of electricity and energy. She pressed and relaxed, and pressed again, flexing her buttocks tight. Before many minutes had gone by, she was humping the machine with all the energy of a piston. Somehow the very indifference of the machine to her caresses made her all the more excited. It went about its business, churning her soaken clothes back and forth, without the least concern for anything else. And yet there she was, pasted up against it, absorbing with star-struck eyes the least shiver of its dented frame. She was like the lover who loves most the man who ignores her. Her whole body hummed. Her clitoris loved those insistent signals. The blood shimmered in her veins and there was a dreamy smile on her face. She reached one hand behind and between her legs, and masturbated from the rear, all the while sliding up and down on the corner of the washer -- a regular jack-off-the-box.
While she was enjoying herself in this way, a young Frenchman walked in the door without seeing her and proceeded to paste a poster against the inside of the window. The poster was full of words like "Struggle" and "Against" and was illustrated with a particularly mechanistic drawing of a crowd of people with their jaws open and their fists in the air. Whatever its intention, the effect of the poster was to inspire an instantaneous and intense boredom with everything it espoused.
The young Frenchman, who had very frizzy light brown hair, smoothed the placard on the glass and stared at it for a couple of seconds, then turned to leave. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed some-thing moving in the dim back reaches of the Laundromat, and as his eyes accustomed themselves to the light, he saw Charlotte plying up and down against the machine which was now in its first spin cycle. At first he thought she was doing exercises, and since she had a very shapely little ass he moved up quietly to watch. As he got closer, the real state of things dawned on him.
Even in France, which is sexually a very free and open country, it is not usual to see a girl jerking her-self off in a public place. Thinking that in some way he was carrying out the exhortations laid down in the poster that he had just pasted to the window, he zipped open his fly, pulled his cock out, and began jerking himself off too, watching Charlotte's ass flying up and down. Exciting himself like that made him bold, and without a word of warning he moved up behind her, planted his cock full length against her ass, and put his palms over her breasts. He told himself it was a political act. Charlotte, though, didn't see it that way at first. She gasped, shrieked, and tore herself away, and she stood trembling and staring at him, her hand at her throat.
"Etes-vous une anarchister he asked eagerly, as though knowing the answer must be yes.
"I don't talk French," she answered sullenly.
"An American," he observed, a little put out. "Then you can't be an anarchist."
"I don't know what an an-ar-keest is. I'm Charlotte Jinkins and I'm from Terre Haute, Indiana, United States of America."
"Terre -- what?" He paused over it, then put the question aside. "If you're not an anarchist, and certainly if you're an American, you are the enemy. You represent everything we are struggling against."
This made Charlotte very afraid. "I didn't do any-thing. I don't know anything about that stuff."
The young Frenchman looked at her doubtfully, as though questioning his first impression that she was an agent of the CIA.
"Are you against Imperialism?" he demanded.
"What's that?"
"Are you against the Principle of the State?"
"What state? You mean Indiana?"
The Frenchman seemed to be trying to decide in his own mind whether such ignorance could possibly be real. The only test he could think of was to by to feel her breasts.
She resisted him at first, thinking that she was about to be strangled as an enemy of the people. But he was a Frenchman first and foremost and by touches here and there, he put her mind at rest. Once he got his hands on her breasts he was reassured, and when he hugged her tight and pressed her belly against his stiffened cock, he knew her politics were all right.
She was very passive in his arms. She'd been overwhelmed by his personality. He was a natural leader of men, the kind that women worship. The washing machine, now in the rinse cycle, juggled away unheeded. The thing that brushed her cunt now was more interesting than the metal edge of an electrical appliance. But he shoved her back against the ma-chine, driving his hips against her 'in hard, slow strokes, and the vibrations of the washer, shivering her from the rear this time, combined with all of that human energy in the front to give her a kind of pleasure .that even her fertile brain had never fantasized about.
He had a thin, long penis that curved off to the left. She longed to feel it bare against her skin but she didn't dare make the first move. Right now his hands were occupied under her shirt with unhooking the bra strap. She waited patiently, leaning against him, and hardly knew that the buckle was undone until her breasts suddenly dropped and she felt his warm hands coming over them from the sides. She leaned her weight against his hands and closed her eyes. The heat from his fingers radiated to the very center of her breasts like a sweet medication and coursed through the tissues and behind the ribs to the heart. He could feel it beating in there, quickly, like a little bird's. Her breathing became audible. When he judged it time, he dropped one hand to her zipper and pulled it open, then slipped his hand inside. All her underpants were in the wash and she had nothing on at all underneath the worn levis. His fingers found themselves directly entangled in her pubic hair, soft as threads of cotton. A great heat was rising from be-low. He sank his hand into it as if into a steam bath. The levis were a little too tight for his hand to curve inside comfortably, so he lifted it out for a moment, the air suddenly cooling it, and pulled her pants down a little to open the way. Charlotte let him do it, neither helping nor resisting. When he had them down far enough, he put his hand back inside, and this time had no trouble reaching around and inserting his middle finger in the right place. Charlotte sank a little in his arms, her knees buckling. He propped her up against the machine and worked his fingers eagerly, but not roughly. She opened her legs and laid her hands against the machine for support.
Feeling the urge to touch him now, she took one hand from the machine and passed it around his leg and started stroking his anus through the cloth of his pants. He dug his cock eagerly against her hip. She lifted up her head for a kiss and be planted his mouth against hers. She opened it right away, her lips al-ready wet, her tongue waiting to wrestle. As - his fingers worked her hole open, she opened her mouth wider and wider, until it was as wide as it could possibly go and she was breathing hot and fast against his cheek.
He moved his other hand from round her back and used it to attack her cunt from the rear, brushing from the vagina back over the anus and then forward again. Being right over it, only a centimeter or less away, and yet not touching -- that was so stimulating that he could hardly control his movements anymore. He started shaking with excitement and desire. She felt the same. They shivered in each other's arms like a couple of malaria victims. The effect of all this shivering, to which the washing machine contributed its share, was to lower Charlotte's slacks to her knees and to shake the anarchist's cock against it so temptingly that they couldn't forbear going all the way. He shivered, searching for the place with the head of his cock, and shivered when he found it, and shivered all the way inside it. His cock curved sleekly up her hole and Charlotte leaned her head way back and made a sound like a low deep laugh, although it 'wasn't a laugh at all but a deep satisfied groan. He lifted her legs off the floor and she let them dangle, heavy with the weight of her jeans. His finger, now that her pants were removed, touched and entered the bare anus. She wrapped her arms around his waist, the clothes inside the machine beginning to churn again in their fresh water. He slid his smooth dick two-thirds out of her, then slid it slowly back in. There was something about his cock that made her especially oily. She thought she could feel it running down her legs. He slipped in and out so cleanly that she thought his cock must be secreting lubricant as well. It was such a fine filling sensation when he came in, and every time he pulled out, ever so briefly, she felt empty, hungry. She tried wrapping her legs around him, but her levis kept her from doing any-thing. She took it all passively, hardly daring to be so aggressive as to squeeze him.
He held his load so long that they were well into the second spin cycle before he came, and the look on his face as he did it was enough to make her climax too. They held all the pleasure inside and it made them shake so hard that the machine itself seemed to become deranged and began bouncing around with a horrible noise. None of that interfered with them as they held each other close, their bodies rapt in mutual spasms. She couldn't hold all the semen he was shooting into her and, along with her rich juices, it ran down her thighs and stained the cloth of her dungarees.
With one great heave he fired his last shot. Then he pulled out of her and swung his back against the ma-chine beside her, heaving and gasping as though he'd just run a race. They leaned there recovering and then pulled all their clothes back into position and zipped and belted themselves up.
"You're all right," he assured her, with a pat on the shoulder. "The Cause needs somebody like you."
"What cause?"
"If you'll come with me to the manifestation this afternoon, you'll find out. We're all coming together to support the high school students in their struggle against the fascist imperialist principal of the 2nd Arrondissement normal school"
"What did he do?"
"He's trying to disarm the Marxist-Leninist-Maoist-Nudist-Stanlinist-Trotskyite Front for the Liberation of Ingrown Toenails."
"Gee."
"Are you a member of a revolutionary group?"
"Just Y-Teens."
"I don't know them. Are they Bakuninist or Kropotkinist?"
"I don't know. They're something like Kiwanis."
"It's no matter. All the revolutionary groups, regardless of affiliation, are going to demonstrate in support of the students."
"Are these Ingrown Toenails people an-ar-keests?"
He chuckled a little grimly. "Hardly. Their aims are almost diametrically opposed to ours. We stand with them because they oppose the established order. If once they achieve power, however, they'll find us their mortal enemies. We ourselves are in favor of mere chaos."
Charlotte had never met a person of such strong principles. She'd have followed him into the cannon's mouth if he'd asked her, and so she agreed at once to go with him to the demonstration, which was to be-gin at the Place de la Republique in a few hours.
He took her on a wandering tour of the Marais, ex-pounding his principles on the way. He was opposed to everything that was, and even to many things that weren't. He was hotly evangelical and soon made a firm convert out of Charlotte. Poor Charlotte's face even took on, by imitation, some of the angry, square-jawed determination of her new friend, whose name, incidentally, was Alain. She walked among the 17th Century houses that had already seen so many revolutions and so many repressions, and already she was starting to stomp instead of walk, and to be filled with rage at affairs she'd never given a thought to before.
The demonstration was already gathering when they arrived. The Place de la Republique with its great statue of France was full of students holding placards and stretching out big cloth signs. Traffic was snarled horrifically, and drivers leaned on their horns and threw their arms in the air, calling heaven and earth to witness their frustration.
Alain led Charlotte among the milling people until he found his own group with their black flag and their sign that read Comitc Anarchist and their other signs that said, "Non" to this and that, and still an-other sign that said, "A bas tout le monde: down with everybody."
"We're ready," Alain said. Pretty soon the six hundred or so people in the march began moving down toward the Rue du Temple, raising their fists in the air and chanting something that sounded like a nursery rhyme but in which the principal of the 2nd Arrondissement normal school, as is usual on these occasions, was referred to as an "assassin."
Charlotte didn't understand and couldn't pronounce any of the words, so she said, "Porn porn point" in place of them, to the rhythm of the chant. This gave her great satisfaction and filled her with revolutionary fervor. Pretty soon, moving down the street, every-body started singing the Internationale, to which Charlotte also sang: "Porn pom pom."
Steeped as Charlotte was hi this new commitment, the men walking behind her and beside her were experiencing exactly the opposite reaction. They were forgetting all about their commitment in staring at her. They were watching her ass swinging to the bracing beat of the Internationale and at her breasts jiggling loose inside her shirt. All of their political energy was being rechanneled to their cocks.
The first Charlotte knew of this change, she was being boxed in by a group of enthusiasts and a whole army of hands was exploring her body front and rear. She was so surprised that she stopped marching, only to be borne along with the throng, pushed and lifted and touched, until her revolutionary fervor was reduced to a simple desire for self-preservation.
Off the Rue du Temple there are many narrow side streets, intersected by other streets leading off at so many angles that it takes a long time to know them. Charlotte, afflicted by pinches and grabs as if by a human horde of mosquitoes, made a sudden bolt into the Rue des Blancs Manteaux, with her unwanted entourage in hot pursuit. She'd made it almost as far as the Rue Abriot when they overtook her. Before she knew it she was underneath a heap of squirming bodies like a quarterback caught behind the lines. Nameless hands swarmed under her clothes, fingers played tatoos in her genitals. Her clothes were gone in a flash, torn off by what seemed a kind of vacuum power. A dozen cocks fought and sweated for entrance, leechlike kisses sucked her from head to toe, hot breaths blew like a reechy wind across her skin.
She resisted as much as she could but really there was nothing she could do. Her mouth was soon stopped up by a swollen dick, and two more tried to get inside her ears. One master cock beat off all competitors for the right to get in at her cunt, and still another, strong-chested enough to bear the full weight of the entire pile, wriggled its way underneath to get at her ass. A pair of eager mouths fixed themselves one to each nipple, and there she lay, about as thoroughly dispossessed of herself as any-body could be.
She didn't know it, but similar scenes were going on all around her, in a generous spirit of anarchy. Not everybody was being coerced, though. Just a few feet from where she lay, a smiling girl was being screwed up against the wall, her whole body lifting with her lover's strokes. Her skirt was up around her waist, the crotch of her panties pushed aside, her hands swirling all over his back. Every time she was lifted up, little flakes of cement fell from the wall and dusted the pavement. She was raised up and off her toes and down again, and never stopped smiling the whole time, and never worried about her clothes being mussed and whitened against the cement. Her eyes closed appreciatively, then opened appreciatively to stare into her lover's eyes. Pretty soon her face took on a meek and rapt look and her eyes rolled halfway back into her head and she began to shiver much as Charlotte and Alain had done in the laundry. Her legs wrapped themselves almost into a knot around his waist and he shoved at her now with so much force that her ass was being skinned against the wall. But she was above feeling a meager pain like that, and the only thing that she was aware of, was the movement and the thickness of his organ in her belly, the powerful pressure of his haunches flattening her against the wall, the rough sound of his breathing in her ear. She started making sounds that were like crying and laughing at the same time and her legs started pumping, her heels kicking, and she rocked herself to a climax, inhaling finally with a loud gasp. Grunting, he came too, his leg muscles seeming to power his very spasms.
There was another couple a little farther along which was also making it against the wall, but this time the girl's face was up against it and her boyfriend was going at her from the rear. She had a small, pert ass that made access to the cunt as easy from the back as it would have been from the front. It was a pleasure to have that little backside pressing in a hump against his belly. His hands meanwhile were reaching around the front to feel her tiny breasts, each of them smaller than his palm and hard as a pomegranate, set off from the ribs in two little fruitlike lumps. He felt her breastbone and each of her piano key ribs, almost strumming her chest on the way down. Her belly was flat and the rows of muscle hard under the skin. Her hips were narrow, almost boyish. But there was nothing boyish about her cunt. It came out in a high, thickly-haired mound and the hole was tight and muscular. He covered the mound with both hands and pressed, reaching two fingers down to pull at the loose skin around the clitoris. She wriggled like a fish on a spear, dusting her chest, cheek, and legs white from the wall.
She squeezed at his cock with her cunt, making the ring of muscle at the opening of her vagina like a tourniquet which shoved the blood toward his balls on the in stroke and pulled it toward the head of his dick on the outstroke. Everything about her was tight and bony and angular and he liked it that way. She made his cock as hard as iron with her cunt like a rubber tube. There was just enough juice to help him slide and no more. It was a sort of thick sensation -- her juice was slow and heavy, like molasses shove and each withdrawal was an ooze that made seven unconscious and transported the remainder him think of swamps and hot tar. It was impossible to hold his load in there -- he shot it off helplessly, thickening her brew with his own liquors. When she came, it was with concentrated, sharp little orgasms like pistol shots that jerked her convulsively.
So it went up and down the Rue des Blanes Manteaux. The defection of so many people into the side streets for the purpose of making love completely demoralized the demonstration. Only the members of the Marxist-Leninist-Maoist-Nudist-Stalinist-Trotskyite Front for the Liberation of Ingrown Toenails remained together in a dedicated core, and that was because none of them was more than twelve years old. Seeing the demonstration falling to pieces like this encouraged the police to move in with truncheons, an instrument in the use of which police in Paris are very gifted. They moved in, hitting people over the head and throwing them into wagons. Couples who were copulating were more respectfully treated -- they were picked up gingerly, like Dresden china and, still screwing, were set down prone on the floors of the wagons.
It took a long time for them to get the pile off Charlotte. Alain tried to help, but was cracked over the head and heaved into a van, where other police-men stomped him. Charlotte's condition presented a problem because there were no fewer than seven men going after her, swarming like ants. They couldn't very well lift the whole pile of them into a truck. Understanding as the French police are in matters of sex, this presented a problem that taxed their notions. Accordingly they knocked five of the seven unconscious and transported the remainder carefully into waiting van. Charlotte was too dazed to offer any protects or explanations.
Chapter 9
All of the revolutionaries were trucked down to the Quai des Orfevres on the Ile de la Cite, which is the central police headquarters of Paris. The leaders, including the defiant Main, were questioned by Chief Inspector Maigret. He sat at his desk slowly puffing at a pipe and trying, in his stolid way, to get at the secrets of the M.L.M.N.S.T.F.L.I.T. He was met everywhere with grim silence. He ordered himself beer and sandwiches from the Brasserie Dauphin and held Alain up the whole night trying to crack his spirit and make him confess the length and breadth of the organization, but all he got for his pains were inter-minable quotations from Kropotkin.
Meanwhile all the other offenders were locked together in a common cell in the basement. They chanted the nursery rhyme again at the top of their lungs, this time substituting Chief Inspector Maigret as the "assassin." Then they sang the Internationale. The lumps on their heads made them feel that they had been martyred, and so they were in good spirits.
The girl with the breasts like pomegranates and her lover had never stopped screwing from the time they were picked up until now, and they were at it more energetically than ever. They were really like a couple of rabbits. The girl's-liard little cunt had this peculiarity, that instead of 'getting more slippery with every fuck, she became more gluey. Her thick nectar congealed with friction into a syrup and then into a paste that slowed almost to zero the motions of a man's cock as he tried to stroke. This state of affairs had its advantages, in that her lover could hold his load almost indefinitely while making her come five or six times in a night. Once aroused, she was one of the most histrionic lovers ever seen. Her voice filled the cell block -- words, sentences, whole paragraphs of love, interspersed with shrieks of ecstasy that were enough to lift the cocks of the dead. Electric particles of sex filled the cell like ions charging from her throat. There was the suspense that you feel in the moments before a thunderstorm when brief flickers of lightning play among the leaden clouds and the earth is as still as the bottom of the sea. A rainy female odor thickened the air. Something portended, no doubt about it. The girls began snuggling and looking at the men out of the corners of their eyes; the men began idly resting their hands on girls' thighs and taking sidelong looks at breasts and crotches. The girl with the pomegranate breasts was lying on her back with her hips waving and circling in the air, and her lover waving and circling on top of them, his cock slowly oozing in and out, his balls hanging below the level of her ass, the head of his cock seeming to penetrate to her very rib cage. Her mouth was wide open, her teeth white and even, the cords of her throat standing boldly out, and all the time those sound were coming from her, those mating noises that sang directly to the blood.
"Ah, c'est si bon, si bon, cheri ... ohh ...'
Her boyfriend gripped her buttocks and squeezed them tight, cementing their bellies together. He pulled the cheeks apart and pushed them together and molded them as if they were made of modelling clay. The paste in her cunt was sending out a heavy scent that was so close to the smell of something dead that it made your blood race to breathe it. The noise his cock made plowing through that glue was like that of a plunger sucking at mud. All ears, all noses, all eyes feasted on this scene; cocks strained inside pants, cunts sweated and gaped under panties. The girl suddenly stiffened, lifting her hips until her back was curved like the arch of a bridge. Her cries mounted and mounted until she reached the top and fell over the other side into a whirlpool of orgasms. She heaved and gibbered, scratching his shirt to rags. Her rib cage could be seen expanding and contracting in huge breaths and sweat coated her skin until it shone.
That was all the others needed for encouragement just as the rain begins to pour after the first great thunderclap, so all the incarcerated demonstrators turned to one another, man and woman, for comfort and heat, rolling on their stomachs and backs, fighting with one anther's buttons, zippers and snaps, hugging, kissing, touching, until one great moan echoed through the cells and down the corridor, along with the slapping of flesh against flesh and the liquid sounds of flesh in flesh.
The first girl who had been laid against the wall on the Rue des Blanes Manteaux, and whose dress was still up around her waist, lay on her back with her legs straight up in the air, toes pointed like a ballerina's. Every time her boyfriend shoved she was pushed a little further across the smooth floor of the jail cell until, the strokes quickening, she was coasting around and around like a sled, leaving a wet trail be-hind her and hardly feeling a thing when her head banged into the bars or the stone wall. Anyone standing behind could see her cunt split up the middle by his thick wang, could see his cock gleaming with her juices, see her clutching anus battered by his balls at every shove, the tendon dividing anus and vagina stretched taut.
A very pretty girl with long reddish hair falling over her shoulders was watching all of this with undivided attention. She was stark naked, leaning up against the bars of the big cell where they were all piled together. Her eyes on the couple sliding by, she was masturbating with her whole heart, both hands pulling madly at her snatch. It was all split wide open down there, and very red. She leaned her head back against the bars, closing her eyes and letting her mind take over, internalizing the thing she'd seen and transforming it into her own fantasies. In her mind's eye she concentrated on that vision of the cock stabbing into the girl's hole, saw it pull out until the head seemed just ready to drop out altogether, then push inside until the entire huge tube was buried to the balls. Her fingers stretched and relaxed the skin of her cunt. Her clitoris stood out like a rosebud. Suddenly she took one hand away, reached it around her leg, and thrust her middle finger into her hole -- attacking herself front and rear, her fingers swarming over her cunt, pulling and pushing, stroking and pressing. Her legs were spread almost into a straight line from heel to heel. You could see her pubic hair beginning in fine threads on her thighs, thickening inwards to form a bushy fringe around her pie. Her finger stretched her hole open wide enough, it seemed, for a whole hand to enter. She flicked her finger in and out quickly, massaging the rim, irritating it to a bright crimson. She began to shiver her body as the tension built, and then she let loose. Her pussy visibly twitched and her ass slipped forward on the floor, sliding in a puddle of her own juice. She bent over al-most double, her mouth stretched wide, her eyes screwed tightly shut, and her cunt twitching and twitching.
Opposite her, a man was lying on his back, hiii arms stretched out above his head, and his cock lifted up in the fist of a curly-headed girl who was lowering her head to suck him off. She wrapped her lips around the head of his dick and licked it with a thin and snakelike tongue. Her fist meanwhile shook up and down his shaft with a motion that grew quicker and quicker until her hand was just a blur.
She was kneeling between his legs with her ass sticking in the air. A boy barely seventeen years old was looking at her from behind. He watched her cunt grow red and slowly open out and then suddenly flower, the petals unfolding and the hole unsticking. He stared and stared until he had stared his cock into rigidity. It stood out before him, growing and growing until it was long and thick enough to satisfy a mare. Then he came up behind her and put his finger in her cunt and his thumb in her anus. She wiggled her ass appreciatively, sucking harder at the hot cock in her mouth, tenderly biting it, her hand squeezing tighter on the shaft. Her tits hung down, good and heavy, almost touching the floor.
The kid took his hand away and put his cock in place, stirring it round as if to mix it all really well, as if to mix all the colors and odors, the flesh and the fluids into a fine potpourri. When it was all slick and well-opened he shoved, sliding in on oil and butter. It was a fine, clean sensation. He paused, her ass against his belly, his balls nestled in her hair. He listened to the loving slurps of her tongue around the other man's cock, and to the other man's groans. Then, gripping her by the hips, he began to move. He built speed slowly, gauging himself. When he was sure, he smacked at her confidently, faster and faster, until his balls were flying in mad arcs and slapping her cunt like a pair of boleros.
With the kind of stroking and sucking he was getting, the man on the floor couldn't hold out for very long. Suddenly his hips jerked and he lurched a heavy load against the back of her throat. She took his cock out until the tip barely touched her lips and felt the cream fly back the whole length of her mouth to spatter against her dangling septum. She flicked back her tongue to gather it and she spread it around her teeth and gums and then drew it back and swallowed it. Even when his spasms ended, she kept pulling at his cock as if to draw its dregs. Then she dropped it from her mouth and laid her cheek against it, rubbing. She turned her face from side to side against it, giving it Eskimo kisses. Moving down, she took the emptied balls in her mouth one at a time and sucked them gently. Meanwhile the boy's cock was making havoc in her cunt and she was waving her ass in circles, urging him on. His energy inflamed her, cunt and brain. The semen in her mouth seemed to scald her, and what she had taken down seemed al-ready to be flowing through her veins, the sperm swimming, their tails fluttering in her blood. She began to rock forward and back with his thrusts, her breasts swinging heavily, her cheek and mouth rubbing her lover's cock. She listened to the sucking in her cunt, smelled the tropical fragrance, felt the steady plunging that seemed to push and draw all the organs of her belly in rhythm.
Steadily the pressure inside her rose. She lost control of her movements at last until, at the climax, she might have been taken for an epileptic, so violently did she contort herself. She screwed her face up into a grotesque mask, shivered her body backward from head to ass like a wet dog and, with a little jump of her ass in the air, she came, one orgasm after the other until there was no possibility of counting them anymore. At each one of them she let out a low, pro-longed cry that grew louder toward the end and broke suddenly short, to be followed by another starting deep in her lungs, growing louder, breaking off, each one accompanied by a heave forward of her body, by a squeezing shut of her anus, a clutching of her toes and fingers. Her eyes shut, so , tight that no light shone through them at all to pale the fireworks blowing open in her brain. To look at her you'd never know she was blazing inside with fire and brimstone, that she was looking down a long, long avenue lighted to the left and right by rows and rows of fiery cocks and leading to a glowing city of flesh on a mountain built of cocks piled on high, cemented one to another by semen and vaginal liquids and eternally hot under a sun shaped like a woman's buttocks.
The vision glowed, flashed, and faded; she fell for-ward, collapsing on top of her first lover, then rolling off onto her back. Her boy lover, who still hadn't climaxed, stood over her rubbing his long shaft in his fist until he came. He doused her with semen, hosing her down as you would a brushfire. Smoke rose from her as it does from hot tin rooftops after a rain. She wet her hands in his come and rubbed her body with it, rolling her breasts in her wet hands until they shone in the bare light. She washed her chest and belly and sides and bedewed the hair of her cunt, reaching further down to mix her juices with it. Then she put both hands to her face and washed it vigorously, snorting and blowing, her skin softening to moist cream color.
So it went. All around the cell scenes like that were going on. Over in the corner you might have seen two women going after one man -- a redhead sitting on his cock, a brunette with bouncy curls sitting on his face. The girl on his cock made as if she were riding a stallion high and low over the plains -- bouncing in the saddle, her breasts bobbing loose, her buttocks smacking his loins. She sprang up so high on her knees that you'd have thought the cock would drop out of her -- but she never lost it once, however fast and high she jumped. There was a lusty smile on her face, big sexy wench that she was. She had fine, broad hips, big enough to bear an army of babies. She turned her body left and right as she rose and fell, her breasts rolling in crazy motions. If her womb could hold an army of babies, those breasts of hers could suckle them. Each of them was made to be a fountain of milk, a horn of plenty. She took them lovingly in her hands and lifted them and pressed them down and around. From her throat came ruddy, loud and happy sounds that made you realize how good it is to be alive. On an impulse she leaned way back, pulling his cock to a terrific angle. He roared into the other girl's maw, sticking his cock-length tongue high up her corridor. This girl was much slighter built than the first one. She was happy in a pert and eager way, and she was smiling too, at the growls and heavy licks that he was giving to her cunt. She had tiny, tiny breasts that hardly showed, with nipples like pencil erasers, and her hips were narrow and boyish. Her belly button protruded and her belly was smooth and bare, because her pubic hair began way down, barely enough to cover her crack. The hair was thin and smooth and if you looked closely you could see the crack through it. You could see it clearly now anyway because her legs were split wide and his tongue had licked her slit bright red. She put her hands on her belly and pressed in with her fingers pushing them down towards her cunt. His tongue slid in and out of her hole, sometimes licking her slit up and down before re-entering, and every time he slipped it in she pressed harder on her belly, forcing the red blood down into her cunt.
That's how the pair of them went at it, so different each from the other and yet each so full of pure enjoyment. The little curly-haired girl began weaving her hips, washing his face with her cunt, tickling herself with his mustache, sitting on his nose and his chin. His tongue, working away, was so strong that he could almost lift her up with it. He used it to scour her vagina, flattening it inside until it stretched her walls wider than most cocks would have.
Meanwhile the bawdy redhead, her hair flying, was whipping herself into a frenzy on his big dick, slap-ping her thighs and her ass as if to say "Heigh-ho Silver!" You might have been hypnotized staring at the gyrations of her deep-sunken navel. Every. time she unsheathed his cock it seemed a deeper red and no one could have told how many thick coats of nectar she had laid on it already. Her thighs and her heavy bush were wet with it as well. Beads of sweat were beginning to run down her forehead and cheeks, and under her arms. Her ass was splayed so wide that you might have put your fist in the space between her buttocks.
Now a young man came over, his cock bobbing as he walked. He stood beside her, hands on hips, cock ready for her lips. She snapped it up on the run, the way children grab the ring on a merry-go-round, and sucked it hard, carrying it with her on her frenzied ride. It jerked up and down like the lever of a flatcar, her rough tongue rubbing the full-blown head. He couldn't hold on. In less than ten seconds, to his own amazement, he unleashed his load full into her mouth. It was like having a fire hose turned on in there. She filled instantly and the surplus sprayed from her lips and flowed down her chin, dripping onto her breasts and rolling down her chest, into and out of her navel, across her belly and into her pubic hair. Again and again he came and each wad overflowed, bursting from her lips in a white cataract. She swallowed what she could and felt it ooze down her throat like honey. And all this time she was bouncing on that other cock, the sticking noises of her fucking growing loud enough to echo down the cell block.
Suddenly the man in her cunt came too, and she was taking semen in from above and below. The heat rolled down her throat and up her cunt to meet in the center. Like nitrogen and glycerin coming together, they were jounced into explosions. She shot the cock from her mouth and cried aloud, the semen pouring out of the corners of her mouth and over her teeth and lower lip. Whenever she rose on the other cock, semen could be seen rolling down its shaft. Her orgasms shook her belly like gelatin and she squeezed and played with her breasts with mad abandon.
The girl up on the man's face felt his tongue treble its speed in her cunt, seeming literally to do a trumpet solo, so quickly did it vibrate, so musical were the sounds coming out of there. She could definitely feel the saints come marching in, feel them do the shake, the shimmy, the Charleston in her womb as that mobile tongue rattled out the tunes. The frequency mounted, the notes beginning to flash sparks along her nerves, and suddenly, as he hit the highest note obtainable on this improvised trumpet, she accompanied him with a jazz vocal, the notes rising and falling and rising again. You'd have to have been there to understand how poignant, how shaded with meanings, that cry was. It rose high, poised itself on the top of the high note his tongue was playing, then fell away again. But not into silence -- she kept up a barely audible moan as the orgasms racked her system, a half-internalized musical reverie that told more than the loudest moan how intense the passion was.
The redhead gave one last spring and then fell for-ward, her breasts flattening into pillows against the man's hairy chest, her ear turned against the slender girl's smooth buttocks. She could hear the waves breaking inside there, the foam rolling up on the beach and drawing back again. The ocean sounds grew fainter and fainter and then they could barely be heard at all. The redhead was so moved that she kissed both buttocks and licked the girl's coccyx. It sent a thrill up her spine -- all those nerves so gently caressed. The girl got off the man's face and turned and kissed the redhead full on the lips, sticking her tongue inside. Just licking the inside of her cheeks was enough to gather up a mouthful of semen. She pulled it back into her mouth and rolled it around her tongue, tasting it. The redhead watched her swallow and then smilingly kissed her again.
Just a step or two away, another young lady was kneeling on the floor sucking a good-sized cock, and jerking off two others, one in each hand. The three men were grouped in a semicircle around her, hands on hips, patiently waiting as she milked them. The cock in her left hand was thick and stubby, that in her right hand long, curved, and very thin; the one in her mouth was specially chosen for its thickness, length, and arrowlike straightness, as well as for the keg-sized balls that promised a goodly yield. Her eyes were fixed on vacancy as she sucked and stroked, and every once in a while she blinked. She had a nice, shapely body, which knelt absolutely motionless, like a casing for the simple machine that operated her hands and mouth. She was quiet, intent, and methodical. Every once in a while her tongue would slurp out to do a thorough soaking of the shaft, like the windshield rag in a car wash. Her hands, wrapped round the two other shafts, did their job, also, in a workmanlike manner. Both the short thick one and the thin long one received equal attention, and the grip around one was as firm as the grip around the other. All the time she was gauging -- as if automatically -- the pitch of excitement to which each of them had risen, and was skillfully keeping them all at the same level. For example, if she felt that the man in her mouth was rising too fast and leaving the short cock woefully behind, she would slow down the action of her tongue and give the short cock a few good pulls to bring it back up to the mark. If the long thin cock seemed in danger of coming she would leave off altogether on that hand, keeping the other dicks at a steady level until she could safely resume with all of them.
In this way the effect she wanted was accomplished, and she knew the exact moment and the ex-act way everything would end. All the men started shivering and gasping, thrusting their bellies forward, their balls drawn up inside their scrotums, the heads of their cocks like toy balloons. She increased the friction on all fronts and all the men leaned their heads back and moaned at the ceiling. Faster and faster she sucked and jerked, the men putting their arms around each other and moaning in unison like the singers in a barbershop. Then, as if on cue, they all fired at once in a superb cannonade, the central cock filling her mouth to bursting with boiling cream, the others drenching her face; unloading their balls as if to make up for all the orgasms they never had. Her face was swathed in come, and the bobbing of her Adam's apple told where all the stuff in her mouth was going. Within a few seconds she looked like Santa Claus, so thick and white was the lather on her face. It ran to the base of her jaw, hanging in drops that paused on her chin and then fell, spattering her legs. A heavy mustache collected under her nose from the semen bloating out of her upper lip.
When they'd all finished coming, she made her first expression of emotion. She took a big breath and said: "Oh! Ah! Nnng!" She started breathing heavily, repeating these exclamations and seeming to be in a trance. Meanwhile her body was shaking, her breasts shivering like Jell-O. She leaned her body back until she was resting her weight on her elbows, and spread her bent legs wide enough to show the effect the strange scene with all those cocks had had on her cunt. It was certainly a thing to see. No cunt could have been a more perfect, a more beautiful illustration of sexual desire. It was so full and so round, and the open crack was so straight, and the hole was so gently, so discreetly open. There wasn't any doubt that she wanted somebody to come to her, to kneel between her thighs, to enter her quietly, without any fuss or gymnastics.
Somebody came. A handsome young Frenchman with straight black hair, lean and well-muscled, with his cock in his hand, bent down and made her lie on her back, her feet flat on the floor and her knees raised. It took only the slightest shove to get him in-side, so wet and smooth she was.
"Awww!" she moaned, as the head of his dick penetrated her belly. He kissed the semen on her face and thrust it into her mouth with his tongue, shoving slowly all the while, his ass rising and plunging. Be-fore long she began to respond, lifting her hips, digging her pubic bone against his, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and calling out. Louder, faster, her hips swivelling in the air, she rose toward her climax.
"Nggg! Nggg! Nnnn! Oh, oh, oh OH OH OH OH!"
She was lifting him up in the air on her hips, her hair spread long and dark on the floor, her nails scratching his back. Plunging himself in all the way, he let go as well, grunting at each discharge. The se-men she couldn't hold ran out of her cunt to form a puddle on the floor.
In the morning, everybody was released. They filed from the prison, clutching each other tight, laughing and kissing.
Chapter 10
Charlotte, who was still hurting from her terrible ordeal in the Rue des Blancs Manteaux, didn't take part in the lovemaking in the cell, although she watched it appreciatively. When she walked out of the prison she was with Alain, who had been up most of the night with Inspector Maigret. They went back to Main's garret apartment and slept for the rest of the day.
In the .evening they were full of energy, so Main suggested that they go up to Montmartre. There was always something happening up there, and it would be good to walk around and to go into some of the clubs.
So off they went. They got off the metro at the Place de Clichy and walked up past the Cafe Wepler to the Rue de Clichy, and crossed the street to the right. The Rue de Clichy is something like 42nd Street in New York, the home of hard-core sex. There are sex shops and nude dancing and sex films, and prostitutes. It's tawdry enough, but there's nothing sinister about it as there is about 42nd Street. Rising in back of it is the steep hill of Montmartre, with its beautiful old white apartment houses, and the white Byzantine Church of the Sacre-Coeur at the top.
The sidewalks were so full of people that they had to walk in the street at some places. They dropped in at the arcades to play pinball and to shoot rifles at the machines. They stopped in at some sex shops where Charlotte marvelled at the plastic and rubber dildoes, mentally comparing them with the cocks she had known, and where they looked at the books that showed everything there was to show about making love and about the sexual use of fingers and dildoes and tongues.
All of this was very interesting to Charlotte, who, paging through the books, was picking up pointers at a terrific rate. Sometimes she gasped and called Main over for consultation. Could a cock possibly be this long? Did lots of women fix dildoes on chair legs and squat on them? Were there actually women who put dildoes in each other's twats, smiling in that strange way?
She became so engrossed in the magazines that Alain had to drag her out. She even asked him, shyly, if she could buy a dildo, as a souvenir. He refused, somewhat indignantly, as if the request were a reflection on his own cock.
Out on the street again, they followed the crowd to the Place Blanche, and past the Moulin Rouge, where she had spent an evening with Gaston. They paused on the corner looking at the lights and the crowds, then turned around and walked slowly back into the heart of the district, to the Place Pigalle. There were many nude dancing places there, and outside each of them was a man either in uniform or in a flashy suit, hawking the place and inviting the passersby inside.
"Nu integral," the signs said, "completely nude" There were pictures, too, showing the dancers simulating intercourse, and looking very serious about it.
"To tell the truth," Alain confessed, "I've never been in one of these places. What do you think?"
Charlotte said it was all right with her.
"True, it exploits the working classes; but even so, you can't fight the enemy without knowing him."
With this rationalization he accepted the hawker's invitation to step inside and he and Charlotte climbed the steps into a low-lit room, not very big, spread all around with a gold aluminum tinsel for decoration. There were a lot of round tables with candles on them, and Charlotte and Alain sat down at one of these. Charlotte, turning her head around the room, noticed how glum everybody looked. There were a lot of single men sitting there waiting for the show to begin and they all seemed pretty cast down and ashamed of themselves. When the spotlight fell on the stage and lighted up a few of the tables, the occupants put their hands to their collars and seemed discomfited.
Alain and Charlotte ordered a couple of whiskies at an inflated price that made Alain choke. As they drank, a comedian came out and regaled them with stories at which nobody laughed, except one man in the back who seemed deranged. In the course of his routine the comedian took off his clothes until he was standing stark naked except for his jock strap, and this seemed, if anything, to have an adverse effect on his performance. There was a small band behind him and after a while they struck up a tune and he sang a song which must have been very suggestive because a dancing girl wearing only a sequined G-string came dancing out, her breasts bobbing, and did a series of slow undulations that seemed to embarrass the audience, and make them more self-conscious than ever.
Presently another girl came out and the pair of them did a sinuous lovers' dance in which they twined their arms and bodies and threw their arms in the air. They were both big and full-bodied women, and gradually, as the embarrassment began to leave the audience, sexual desire began to take over. The men stared the women up and down unashamedly, and men with dates began to touch them discreetly under the tables. There was definitely an electricity in the air.
When that act was over, there was a pause in which Alain and Charlotte finished their drinks and ordered two others. Main's hand searched Charlotte's leg from the knee back to midthigh. Charlotte was drunk enough to want him to touch her between the legs, but she was afraid to be too blatant about it. The feeling of his fingers brushing her leg ever so lightly made her close her eyes and wet her lips.
The next act came on a few minutes later. A man in a sequined jock strap danced out with a woman naked except for a little triangle between her legs. The man flung the woman around ferociously, then lifted her above his head and threw her down and flung her around some more. The woman's full breasts lifted and fell like sandbags. All of this rough treatment was apparently intended to subdue her to his will, and it had its effect. She collapsed against his chest, throwing her arms around his neck and looking adoringly into his eyes. He still wasn't quite satisfied, though, so he threw her around a few more times until she was putty in his arms. Even then he couldn't refrain from lifting her in the air and turning her in circles over his head. Charlotte, who was watching his gleaming jockstrap, saw that he was getting a hard-on. This fascinated her to no end. The jockstrap began to twist and move as if there were an animal in there trying to get out. Charlotte wasn't the only woman watching this unexpected performance. All the ladies were fixating on that writhing elastic.
After he'd turned her around in the air and she was completely subdued to his strength, he began caressing her, in a very stylized way, and very slowly, running his hands down her back and resting them on her buttocks. Her ass was facing the audience, and she waved it slowly around, obviously humping him. All the women were very curious to see his cock again after this exercise, and sure enough, when he swung her to the side, they found the jockstrap stretched out about eight inches, and with such pressure that some of the sequins were flying off. This was clearly not intended to be part of the show, but it was forming, for the women anyway, the chief at-traction. The man's partner seemed a little agitated by it herself, and kept darting glances at it. At every movement she rubbed against it, and once -- though the audience couldn't quite tell -- she seemed, with her back to the customers, to be grabbing and pulling at it.
The caresses of the dancers now seemed to be taking on a special meaning. They were in it for themselves as much as for the audience. When they kissed it was a real kiss, and when she moved her belly round and round against his cock there was no doubt that she meant it. The band was still playing, but the two dancers had lost all thought of the rhythm. They were twining their legs together and hugging and kissing, still managing to keep up the semblance of a dance. The bare cheeks of the woman's ass, which faced the audience, could be seen tightening when-ever she pressed his cock. She kept trying to climb on him, first with one leg, then with the other.
The audience was getting very excited. Alain's hand now squeezed Charlotte's leg possessively as though he were already thinking of bed, and all around the room other hands were squeezing other legs, in a paroxysm of squeezing.
Up on the little stage, the male dancer turned his partner around and bent her over. Her face was flushed and she hardly seemed to know where she was. The audience watched her expression as the male dancer did something with his hands around back of her. Nobody could see what it was, but the woman's mouth formed itself into an O and her eyes crinkled. The man's hips moved and the woman tottered forward a few steps. His hips moved again and her eyes opened up and groans escaped her. Her breasts hung down and swung with each thrust. Was he actually inside her? That was the question in everybody's mind as they watched. His hands now gripped her hips and each shove brought a change to her expression. Now her mouth was closed tight; now she was biting her lower lip; now her jaw fell open and her head shook from side to side. Sometimes her eyes were closed; sometimes open into slits; sometimes wide, the eyeballs staring or rolling around or half-disappearing upwards into her head. A thin trail of drool ran down her chin.
The audience was in a state of trembling. All cocks were standing high, and men were unashamedly putting their hands up their dates' dresses. The dates were squirming in their seats, lusting for it.
Any doubts they might have had about what was really going on on stage was dispelled when the two dancers turned sideways. There, for all to see, was the male dancer's enormous cock spilling over the top of his jockstrap right into the female dancer's cunt. It looked like a barber's pole sticking into her. All her strange expressions were well-explained now. All over the room those expressions could be seen mirrored in the faces of women who were feeling the wiggle of middle fingers between their legs, the covert touch of palms upon their breasts.
The dancer shoved, and all the ladies watched the huge shaft disappearing as if into a magic cabinet. When it re-emerged, it shone with liquor under the stage lights. Again and again it entered and came out, and the temperature of the room climbed steadily. The women were leaning in all kinds of attitudes as the insistent fingers plied them. Charlotte's legs were spread under the table, the crotch of her panties pushed aside, and Alain's index and middle fingers hard at work. She was abstractedly tearing her nap-kin, and biting it, trying to suppress her groans. But after several other women started groaning quite openly, she let herself go. With the dim light and the strange faces and the groans, the club took on the aspect of a chamber of the damned. One woman, with a cry, went down on her back, pulling her dress up to her neck and kicking her legs in the air, writhing like a snake. Another slid off her seat, doubled over with her ass uppermost, and covered her head in her arms as if she were practising for an air raid drill. Still an-other, crashing dishes and forks all over the floor, laid herself flat out on the table, arms and legs stretched stiff, calling on her lover to mount without delay.
The men weren't slow to respond. Cocks leaped like rapiers from their zippers, whipping and swishing in the air as their owners tested their heft. Charlotte watched a bearded, black-haired man take aim from a distance of ten feet, squinting through one eye, and then lunge. He sailed through the air, arms and legs outspread, and landed with a thump on his mistress, his cock sliding in with perfect precision. She wiggled like a shark stuck on the spear, but eventually the fight went out of her. He stabbed right and left, grasping her by the buttocks, and each time he pushed in her legs flew up as if by reflex and her head banged on the table. She seemed to be allergic to his beard, too, judging by the sneezes that accompanied each concussion. Far from distracting her, though, it all seemed to be for her an exciting part of the sex act. Sneezing, legs flying, head banging -- it all fell into its own rhythm, as regular as the sound of windshield wipers on a rainy highway. As for her lover, he seemed to be afflicted with a tubercular cough that coincided rhythmically with her sneezings, and with a pair of trick knees that made his legs shoot out sideways every time hers flew up. As their excitement increased, the tempo of these manifestations quickened proportionately until they were working like an ingenious German clock and the audience were staring at them and pointing as if they were the eighth or ninth wonder of the world. By the time they reached orgasm all their workings were so rapid and convulsive that everyone was sure they were about to strike the hour and then vanish in a flash of smoke leaving only springs and gears behind. Her sneezings, his coughings, grew louder and louder, and they seemed in a virtual race to death's door.
"Chuff! Achuff l A-chuff! A-a-chuff! A-A-A-ACHUFF!"
That was the way they came. At the climax their legs quivered violently, hers stretching straight up at the ceiling, his at a 45 degree angle from his knees. Their orgasms were announced by particularly elongated and heart-rending lung and sinus attacks. It all trailed off gradually and by the time it ended they both seemed ready for blood transfusions. They were so coated with sweat that he slid backwards off her body, kissing her cunt a last despairing good-by on the way, and collapsed like a marionette on the floor.
Far from dampening the company's spirits, this only served to whet their appetites. Up on stage, the dancers were going at it with trebled vigor, the man's piston cock sledging away undaunted, the woman bent over with her hands on her knees, shaking her head in abandonment, her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth. The band had stopped playing and were all masturbating. One musician actually used his clarinet as a Hindu snake pipe, rousing his cock with a mysterious melody, making it discharge twice, then sending it delicately back to its nest. As for Charlotte, she was leaning backwards in her chair with four of Alain's fingers inside her body, her hands opening the buttons of her blouse and then going in-side to massage her breasts. Alain tipped the chair over all the way -- softly, so as not to crack her skull -- and then pulled her into a prone position. He pulled off her skirt and panties and helped her off with her blouse. Then he lay at right angles to her, sandwiching her right leg between both of his so that they were lying in a scissors position. Alain drove his penis home. It was a new angle for Charlotte and she responded with deep excitement. The interlocking of their legs made it hard for her to move, so all her out-ward energy was repressed and internalized, which made its intensity even greater. Main lay up on one elbow holding her by her left hip and shoved his cock with might and main. She put her hand down to her crotch and pulled at her clitoris. One breast, on the floor, was compressed into the shape of a half-moon, and the other hung down toward it. Meanwhile she was giving vent to her feelings in bursts of wild language.
"Oh Alain, it hurts so fine! You're so thick and heavy and long ... God, how deep it's going ... Aw-Awwwww!"
Not far away another couple was trying a different experience. She was spread-eagle on the floor, a few tablecloths folded under her stomach to raise her buttocks in the air. Another girl, kneeling beside her, was spreading open her buttocks and nodding to a man who stood by examining the proceedings with the eye of a soldier sizing up terrain. He gestured with his hands, to make the girl open the cheeks wider; then, cocking his head to the left and then to the right, and pinching his chin between his thumb and forefinger, he seemed to approve of the preparations. He took six deep breaths that made his chest stand out like an iron box; he flexed his muscles, rolling his biceps impressively; lastly, he whipped his cock into the shape and texture of a steel bar. Dropping to his knees, he took a final survey of the target and its surrounding features, then made a tentative finger-probe. His goal was the anus, tightly clenched even now, despite the spreading of the buttocks. That didn't worry him -- a normal nervous response, he reflected. He drew from his nearby jacket a vial of lubricating fluid and squeezed a liberal dose along his shaft, rubbing it in with his fist. After careful consideration he dabbed his middle finger with it and, urging the petulant muscles apart with circular slow motions, he oiled the passage as far as he could reach.
Meanwhile another young man was lying at the girl's head, patting her hair and trying to reassure her.
"Blimey," the girl was saying, "I never done such a thing as this before. Wot if 'e gives me 'emorrhages or somethin' loik that?"
"What is zis 'emorrhage'?" the man asked comfortingly.
"It's when yer bleedin' guts start bleedin' all over the bleedin' place," she answered. "Why, it's bloody awful. Yaahl Wot's 'at, a finger up me arse!"
"Be calm, cherie; he is a man who knows well what to do."
"Then 'e better cut 'is bloody fingernails, is all I can say. Aah! Why, 'e's cuttin' me to bleedin ribbons and we ain't even started yet!"
"Ve cannot schtart vitout she shuts der mouth!" the man at her buttocks exclaimed.
"Ow, so I ain't got no say in me own act of anal intacawse, is that it?"
"I must hef todal conzentration!"
"It toiks two to tango, dontcha know that, dearies?"
"Das ist not der tango! Das ist ein act of her udmost prezision. Das ist ein scientific act and der tango has nutting to do vit it."
So saying, and piqued though he was, he began wrestling his cock into her balking anus. He had his fist around his shaft and was pushing and turning and stirring it with tremendous energy.
"Ow! Ow! Gor, wot's 'e got there, a ruddy fire-plug?"
"Be calm, cherie, open your body."
" `Open me body,"e says. Lord, after t'night you'll be oible t'droive a coach and six up me arse. Aaaahl"
"Schpread der cheeks vider! I hef never egsperienced zo much resistanze." He shoved violently, anger beginning to redden his face.
"Perhaps if you would be gentle, Gottlieb," suggested the Frenchman.
"Do not presume to talk to me apout it!" Gottlieb retorted. "I hef stuttied anal intercourse for ten years and hef writtn fife books on der supject. I know more apout it than any livink authority!" He shoved straight on, walking on his toes, as if he were shovelling coal.
"Yow! Yow! 'E's bloody well Min' me!"
"No, but you cannot be doing it correctly," the Frenchman told Gottlieb.
"It is not der method but der supject vat is wronk. I - Yup! Yup! Yup!" He started making sounds like a seal's barks. Both the Frenchman and the girl wondered at these sudden expostulations, but they were amply explained when Gottlieb rolled away with a sigh of satisfaction, his cock already wilting. and the girl's posterior daubed with come.
"What!" shouted the girl, twisting her body around to examine herself. "Did the joker come already?" She stared open-mouthed from her semen-speckled ass to the German's complacently reposeful cock. "Of all the bloody gall."
"Ey! Whatsa da matta?" a voice called in from the outfield.
"I never seen the like! Why, this 'ere Gottlieb shoves 'is nose in me face and asks me if I'm a virgin; I says, 'No, for God's sake, are you an idiot?' 'E says, `But I'll wager that you're an anal virgin. Yes, I'll wager that anally you're as pure as snow.' I says, 'What the bloody 'ell are you talkin' about?' Imagine a bloke sittin' beside you and pickin' yer arse'ole as. the first thing to talk about! But 'e goes on and on about this anal virginity rubbish until I get all teary-eyed thinkin' about me long-lost schoolgirl days when I still 'ad it all t'give awoi ... and then I starts t'thinkin' 'ow I never 'ave took it up the arse, and I guesses I do 'ave that little spot o' virginity left. Why, I felt loik a bloomin' bride, I did. And 'e tells me to lay out flat, and there I lay, shy as a virgin, an' wot does 'e do but gib me loik a sheep and defile me but-ticks fer 'is own selfish lust?"
"Ey! Stomp-a da son-a-bitch!"
"Alors, alors! Silence, s'il vous plait. I shall under-take to do justice to the feline fille's expectations."
A murmur of admiration went through the crowd at the Frenchman's generosity and boldness. They all made way as he unstrung his cock and slicked it with the German's lubricant and made several passes with it, warming himself to the fray. The English girl wiped her buttocks with a napkin and, glancing a grateful look at her deliverer, laid herself flat on her stomach again, ready to be deflowered. The scene took on the solemnity of a wedding rite.
The Frenchman didn't bother to take sightings or puzzle out a plan of attack the way Gottlieb the German had. He just lay on the girl's back and rubbed his cock between the cheeks of her ass, getting a good edge on his tool. He could feel the girl trembling from the very core of her body. He was ready to try now. Lifting himself up on one side he guided his tool to the clenched mouth and pushed, using his fingers as guides and as pincers to absorb the pressure of his hips. Gradually, gradually he made head-way. The girl bit her tongue and made a grating noise in her throat, as if she were pushing a heavy stone uphill. The Frenchman's cock was bent almost double under the strain, but as he made his way in the bend grew less and less. It was slow work, but he never let up the pressure. Everybody watched his back and ass and leg muscles tighten into balls under his skin. He was in halfway now. He drew his hand from his cock -- the shaft could bear the strain alone now -- and took hold of her shoulders from underneath, using them as hoists. The tendons of his wrists showed like cords as he pulled. He oozed imperceptibly along. Meanwhile he could feel the muscles of her rectum resisting his entry -- resisting this intruder who was trying to get in at the exit as if to reverse the digestive process. She squeezed and squeezed, trying to keep those muscles open, and finally, giving up the ghost, they just relaxed. She was utterly calm, utterly free. His cock slid the rest of the way much more slowly than it would have done up a cunt, but very quickly for all that; and in a second or two his balls were hanging down against her cunt and she had a cock lodged in her bowels feeling perfectly at home.
"It's -- it's bloody gorgeous!" she gasped. "It feels loik a ruddy log ... loik -- ohhh, gaw ..."
She reached both hands under and started masturbating, moving her lower parts, cock and all inside them, against her motionless outstretched fingers. Sometimes his balls touched the long fingernails as she undulated; other times she dipped a finger or two into her vagina, that orifice deprived just this once of its lawful food. He himself reached round to take her breasts in his fists and proceeded to shake himself inside her butt to such a degree that she gibbered, snarled, and snapped, hardly behaving like a human being anymore.
"Gran .. rrrrr ... Rowwwl!" she sounded, with the last part going up into a high whine like a cat's as her jaw rubbed the floor and her toes pounded be-hind.
Her muscles pressed round his cock almost hard enough to crush it. But the harder they squeezed the better he liked it. There was no pain; he felt clamped in jaws of velvet, and the squeezing felt like the pressure of. love -- of a love that would not let go, that was as desperate and clutching as a giant clam.
On a sudden impulse he rolled over on his back, carrying her with him. Her breasts changed shape as she turned, and finally lay flattened to either side. Everyone now could see her diamond-shaped cunt laid open, could see her anus stretched to a width no one would have believed possible. They could see the big wide breasts rippling under his squeezes, the smooth belly with its deep-shadowed navel heaving, and then the fine patch of curly pubic hair rising high on its mound. They could see the tendon stretching between her vagina and her anus bulge and grow taut as she spread her legs as wide as ligaments would al-low.
Pretty soon they could see something else, too. With her head rolled back and her mouth open to let it out, her voice was climbing toward something tremendous. She screamed and then the audience saw her lower belly and her cunt convulsed with twists and spasms, the lips throwing kisses at everybody, the hole seeping nectar, the clit budding like a new rose. The Frenchman chose that time to climax. With a whoop, he poured his molten flow into her bowels. At the first touch of it her orgasms redoubled. It was as though she had a hand inside pulling and pushing at her cunt, the fist closing and opening, the fingers wiggling. The enormous pressure of her rectal muscles around his shaft made each wad a sizzling fire-bolt, a lava explosion. The red pool grew, surged, boiled. Her closed fists smacked-the floor, saliva dribbled from the corners of her lips. And suddenly she was visited with a second chain of orgasms -- anal, this time, rumpling her rectal walls, the staccato rhythm stabbing irregularly into the beat of her vaginal spasms, setting up shock waves that made her pinioned body jump. His balls were like a pair of deep-sounding wells fed by hidden springs. His semen shot through her intestines, rose lavalike into her stomach, climbed the chute of her esophagus, and before the wondering audience knew what to think, began to spew from her mouth, steaming with the heat of her body and his, bubbling and frothing like so much boiling ice cream. A murmur went around the room. Girls knelt down to kiss it as it bloated from her lips, and as they knelt, men slid cocks into their upraised cunts. Right and left women opened their legs and men lay down between them. Just as it had in the prison cell, the acrid flavor of sex floated into the air of the room like coils of cigarette smoke. On stage the dancers were still at it, the woman shaking her ass like a hula dancer, the man turning his cock around inside her like the hand-starter on a Model T. Charlotte was flat on the floor being gouged by Alain's ex-pert tool, her teeth sinking into his ear, neck, and shoulder. She was right underneath the stage, looking up into the woman dancer's expressive face, and she was close enough to hear the squishing at the jointure of their fucking. All at once she heard a big intake of breath and saw the dancer's face crumple. Her voice rose to. a wail and then she started shouting: "Je fouis! Je jouis! I'm coming!" and gave her ass such prodigious shakes that her seducer was flung around like a rodeo cowboy on a mustang. It was all he could do to hold on as she wriggled, bucked and neighed but never once did he lose the saddle. He spread his feet on the floor, gripped her hard by the hips, and rode it out. In the middle of it he, too, shouted, "Je jouis!" and Charlotte knew when the first wad had sailed home, when the woman's eyes and mouth popped open and her bucking took on a special lurch sideways which was hard for him to control. She began to walk in circles round the platform, bent over though she was, and he followed right behind, his cock never leaving off.
The sight of all of this was enough to set off Charlotte's fuse. It gave her enough sudden strength to turn Alain over on his back, where she pinned him by the shoulders and rode him back and forth, her pubis rubbing his belly with enough friction to start a fire. From behind it was quite a sight -- her body swallowing and then gorging up his slick rod, her hole swelling and contracting around its contours. It didn't take him long to come, and when he did each downstroke of her hole brought a little semen out with it.
All over the room a tide of love was growing. Many voices sounded in it, rising, falling, rising again, and rising higher, and crashing to the shore and dying away.
Chapter 11
Charlotte decided the next day that she'd been having altogether too much sex lately. Truth to say, her conscience was bothering her. Her mother's precepts had been coming back on her and her mother's face, with a halo around the bun she always made of her hair, had appeared by her bedside at night. "Charlotte," it had seemed to say, "the muffins are in the oven, bakin' just for you. C'mon home, child." And her pious father, squatting on the toilet, trying to read the newspaper over his bifocals -- he seemed to turn to her (he had a halo, too) with a kind expression mixed with some severity, saying: "Charlotte, I don't want you hangin' around that Bung Hickens boy. He's been seen with that loose Layla Hushpuppy out at that MacDonalds on Route 11. Y'hearr Tears stained Charlotte's pillow that night. She remembered Roland, their German shepherd who had bitten the balls off the mailman and was afterwards borne off to execution under the happy impression that he was going to visit Uncle Rombius and his doberman; she remembered her favorite pig Fatso, and Happy the chicken, and Quacko the duck who was always following people around.
Besides that, all her relationships in Paris had been disastrous. First Gaston, who had taken all her money; then Jean-Pierre with his secret fiancee; and now Alain, who had just abandoned her on the pre-text, obviously got up especially for the occasion, that she was a willing tool of capitalism. She was alone again and more miserable than she'd ever been in her life.
So she was wandering around Montmartre again, followed by a horde of creeps and having her ass and breasts pinched, and having incomprehensible lines spun to her by rat-faced pursuers who showed her their festering cocks at every favorable opportunity.
She was just about to start running (which would have caused a general stampede) when a friendly, easy voice that clearly was spoken through a smile, said: "Hey hey, Tll bet you you're an American, am I right?" Charlotte turned around and found herself looking at a bronzed, handsome face, with sun-bleached blond hair, dressed in a pair of cut-off jeans that were cut off so high that a pair of buttocks hung out of them. An apparition like that could only come from Southern California.
"Man, here I was just lain' along, cruisin' the old Rue de Clichy, and there up ahead, man, I see this little old chick just swayin' up the street -- and I say, wo-o-oh, that's got to be an American!" He gave out a chuckling dope-smoker's laugh.
Friendly, happy, American! Nothing Continental, nothing cultured, nothing political, except in the vaguest way -- a human slice of the good life, from sunny San Jose. Right away, she told him who she was and where she was from.
"Terre Haute! Woh, I hitched through there dozens of times! My mind is blown!"
So was hers. She told him all about herself and what a miserable life she'd been leading. He patted her on the shoulder and comforted her with many strange expressions. Then he brightened up and said: "Hey -- what say we just mosey on down to the Rue Lepic and snarf up some grunts?"
Off they went and had two French hot dogs covered with cheese, and a small bottle of wine. He told her about himself. His name was Ding and he was a surfer who supported himself by buying and selling used cars. After his last big sale he decided to come to Europe for a look around. He couldn't get hold of any good dope, but otherwise Europe seemed all right. The women were all nice to him, even though he couldn't speak anything but English.
All the while Ding was speaking, Charlotte was subtly masturbating by crossing her legs, pressing them tight together, and rocking her free leg back and forth. This, combined with Ding's voice and looks, made her very excited, and her vision started to rock and blur. She'd never wanted anybody so much in her life. He seemed completely oblivious, though -- talking about surfing, scuba diving and flying. Then he pulled out a green Michelin guide and started paging through it, reading out passages on likely places to go. One place especially appealed to his imagination, and he said: "Hey, let's lowride on down to the catacombs. They got all kinds of bones in there."
"Oh wow! Is that anything like a sarpocaphus?"
"I don't. know. It says they got several million skeletons in there, all stacked up together. Huh-huh-huh-huh-huh," he laughed, fixing her with his blue-eyed dope stare.
So they hopped into the metro and rode it under the Seine all the way down to the Place Denfert-Rochereau, with its huge statue of the lion. They went around to the entrance at the side of No. 2, paid their three francs at the window ("Suck 'em up at righteous prices," Ding muttered approvingly to him-self), bought candles to light their way through the corridors, and went in through the turnstile. They were behind a crowd of people, but what with kissing and hugging in the dark they fell behind. Down, down, down the winding stairs they went until they emerged into a passageway. Their candles were the only light. Their footsteps crunched in the gravel and echoed along the tan stone walls. It was cool in there. Charlotte kept looking for skulls and bones so she could scream, but they didn't see any. Here and there a passage, barred by an iron grate, stretched off into the distance at an angle to the one they were in. The deeper they went into the ground in that strange silence the weirder it got, bones or no bones.
"The Michelin guide says there's ghosts in here that howl up and down with these sharp teeth," Ding told her.
"Oh no. Really?"
"Huh-huh-huh-huh-huh. I'm just puffin' your chain."
Charlotte giggled, but the remark made her nervous anyway. She tried to laugh it off. "What if Dracula lives in here, with all the bones? And what if we heard him crunch crunch crunch, closer and closer, Woooooooooo!"
"Me, I'd just crunch crunch crunch in the other direction -- and twice as fast as he was crunching in mine."
Just then a strange breeze blew their candles out. Charlotte shrieked and fell against Ding.
"Oh wow!" Ding said. "Mind-blower!"
There was something more than fear in the way Charlotte held on to him, and it wasn't lost on Ding. Frankly, he could take or leave women he was so easy-going that sex was something more or less casual like eating at Taco Bob's. He never pushed it and never went out and looked for it. He probably talked and thought more about surfboards than about women. His friends even noticed something like chagrin in his face and manner whenever it looked like he was going to have to sleep with a chick. He would never talk about it afterwards and would answer all questions on the subject with an incomprehensible surfer gibberish.
He responded to Charlotte's caresses like a man petting and humoring a playful dog. When it was clear that she wanted more than that, though, he went along with it, and then grew warm. It was pitch dark and in the absence of sight all the tactile sensations were intensified. He never forgot afterwards the smooth beauty and roundness of her breast as he felt inside her shirt, or the surprise of her nipple suddenly coming into his palm. He never forgot how her breast expanded in his hand, growing firmer without losing any of the softness. Her fingers opened the buttons of his shirt and crept inside to play among the hairs of his chest, to caress his pectoral muscle just as he was caressing her breast. He opened her shirt so that her breasts hung exposed, and she opened his shirt too, and they pushed their chests together, feeling that beautiful difference between them, he the pressure of those two liquid skins compressed against his ribs, she the flat hard muscles and the ribs themselves, and both of them felt the deep, quick rise and fall of each other's breathing. Their hands went round to caress shoulderblades and thick back muscles, the fingers deeply indenting the skin, and each touch and pressure served to open the sluices of the groin. She felt his cock rise against her stomach until the trough it made led from her navel to her pubic hair. She began to move her hips against it and he transferred his hands to her butt, squeezing the cheeks, pressing her body in against him, shifting her weight flow foot to foot. She started to sag, pulling him down with her weight, until she was sitting in the gravel and he was leaning over her, kissing her and sticking his tongue into her mouth, and pulling off his shirt. Her hands meanwhile were working at his zipper, which she pulled down with a noise that echoed strangely along the corridor. His cock fell out against her lips and shQ sucked it in and swilled it with her tongue. In the darkness, her mind supplied the necessary visual details -- the length and girth of it, the irregularities of its surface, the bulge just below the head, and the thick saddle-shaped head itself, all red and swollen. As if it were a moving picture in her head, she saw her tongue swirling around it, her lips sucking at it, saw herself kneeling there with her breasts hanging out, saw him standing there shirtless, his cut-offs open, his cock standing straight out and half hidden inside her head.
As she was sucking, she opened her belt and pulled down her own zipper and shoved her hand inside it, lathering herself up. The fragrance of her sex rose up in a cloud to Ding's nostrils. He could hear her fingers working inside her pants, just as he could hear her tongue lapping his dick. Gently he drew his cock from her lips and knelt down in front of her. He kissed her again and took her hand out of her pants. He put it to his face and smelled the sharp leather scent, and kissed the fingers and licked the juice from them. Then he kissed her, brushing his lips from side to side against hers, and pushing his tongue in so that she could taste her own juices. As soon as the salts of her own body soaked her tongue she began breathing hard and fast like a steam engine, throwing her arms around his neck and crushing her mouth to his so that he could feel her teeth. He pushed his palms under her open belt and felt her bare ass, pushing the pants down all the while with his wrists. His cock was lying at a steep angle against her navel. He exposed her ass and gave it a grateful feel all over. Then he let one hand slide around her hip and descend the damp slope into her pubic hair, which grew like moss at the bottom of a well. She held her breath until be sank his finger into her sopping hole, then uttered a tremulous moan, such as the Daughters of Dracula might make on rising from their tombs. Ding's response was less ghostly, but just as intense. "Wow, far out," he muttered in her ear, slipping himself in to the knuckle. He was already thinking how good his cock would feel in there. "The slicker the thicker," he reflected expectantly. `The wetter the better." In preparation for which he churned his fingers inside until half his hand was buried in her body and his wrist was wrenched around as far as it could go with-out spraining itself. Charlotte's knees spread wide on the stones. Her lungs huffed. Suddenly he felt her fist around his cock, pulling it as if to draw it out by the roots. He was at that pitch of sexual excitement that he had to lie down, and so he shoved her backwards into the gravel and pulled her pants down around her ankles, dropping his own as well She'd never let go of his cock, and now she pulled him to the right spot, needing no eyes to direct him there. He held himself up on his hands and knees, pricking her with his first few shoves, and when he felt himself well on the way in, he lay down on her and fought the rest of the way up her cunt using his toes as a base from which to shove. She helped him by bending her knees and lifting her feet in the air, swaying her knees back toward her face every time he pushed. When he was in all the way she wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed his cheek, letting out a little Uhh! whenever he smacked home. The squishing of their organs, like all the other noises -- his mutters, her grunts, the crunching of the gravel -- were magnified and passed along the pitch black tunnels. Hundreds of yards away the dead heard them and smiled.
"Uhh ... Uhh ... Mmm ... Nnn ... Oh! Ohl" Louder and faster her voice echoed until the faraway ossuary rang with it. "Ding, Ding! Give it to me, shove it in all the way! Oh God! Oh. God! I'm going to -- I'm going to comet Oh! Ohl Ohl OH! OH OHHH!" Ding squirted her full of come as her body lurched with orgasms. Stones flew in all directions. Her cries died away and the two of them were swept over by the silence again. It seemed much deeper now. They lay there listening to it, hardly daring to breathe.
Fifteen minutes later the stillness of the ossuary was disturbed by the arrival of two pairs of nervous feet. Charlotte and Ding stopped at the entrance to the vault. On both sides of the pathway in front of them bones were stacked very neatly and cemented together with the knobs facing outwards, and sticking out from all the femurs and tibias were rows and rows of chapless skulls arranged side by side -- thousands and thousands of them going off into the distance and curving around corridors -- an . entire city of the dead, an entire society of lawyers, doctors, cooks, criminals, artisans, all heaped together staring one an-other in the sockets across the narrow spaces.
Charlotte and Ding walked very slowly among all these remnants of human beings. They were young and strong and full of blood, and they felt it more deeply than they ever had before. They realized how brief a thing. that gift is.
Live while you can! Love while you can! Try to be happy! Try to make other people happy! That's what all the skulls and bones said to them. They weren't out to frighten anybody. The dust of nostalgia hung in the air.
"I wish we could make them all happy," Charlotte said.
"I. don't think they care much, one way or the other," Ding answered. "They don't even know whose bones are whose. It's like a bunch of used motorcycle parts."
"Even so, they all made love once. All the men itched and craved after women and all the women after men."
"Well, yup."
"And they brought thousands and thousands of new little skeletons into the world to run around and make love and have other skeletons and keep the world going along."
"Yeah, right-on."
"So maybe, everything considered, making love was the most important thing they did in their life."
"Heavy, heavy."
Charlotte looked up and down at all the bones. "I don't know about you, but I want to thank them."
Ding waved his hand in the air and said: "Thank you, skeletons."
"Not like that! I think we should make love for them."
"Right in front of everybody?" Ding asked, with- an odd expression.
"Well that's the point! It would make them feel good to see people being as much alive as people can be."
"Jeez, I don't know ..."
She snuggled up to him and pushed her hand under his belt until she found his cock. It responded immediately to her light touch. A million skeletons couldn't keep it down. The thought of death sat light on Ding's mind. He let her diddle him until it was struggling against the inside of his zipper, and then he waited as she opened the zipper and extricated him. She held his cock on the flat of her hand like a fried sole, admiring its piscene contours. Then she wrapped her fingers around it and started pumping it up and down like a tire jack, and side to side, too, and all around. She flipped it and watched it fly back to its original position; she pulled the skin back and watched the head expand and grow red; she handled the balls and felt them draw up in their sack.
While she handled it, Ding undressed himself until he was standing in his splendid California nakedness under the dim electric lights of the ossuary. Then he turned his hands to her. She held her arms out and he opened and pulled off her shirt; she pushed her stomach out and he unzipped her pants, exposing , her navel and the first few inches of her belly. Then he took hold of the loose cloth and pulled it down, kneeling to draw it over her knees and down to her ankles and off. The filaments of pubic hair caught the strange light in reddish gleams. He couldn't resist leaning forward, throwing his head back, and tonguing her slit from front to back, slip-ping his tongue up her hole while his nose buried it-self in her folds. Her knees trembled and she sat on his head, crushing his face into her cunt. His tongue licked way, way up, bringing down ripples of nectar that saturated his taste buds, burning the sensitive skin. Its wiggles made her weak. She began swaying helplessly. He took his head away and guided her fall, laying her gently down on her back. She turned over and presented her ass to him, and he spread the cheeks with his fingers, looking down the deep crack to her cunt, frizzy with fringing hair. He couldn't see clearly, but aimed into the middle of the haired patch. He was right on the mark. Almost like a heat seeking missile, his warhead roared to its goal. She made the empty craniums resound with her yells when his bloated fish whipped into her guts. She got up on her hands and knees and rocked back on his thrusts, her breasts swaying.
"Give me every bit of it, Ding!" she sang, huffing and puffing between whiles. "Let me feel the head of it in my tummy! Oh my God, your balls are so big against my ass! Can you hear it? Can you hear it, Ding? God how it squishes in here! Oh, I can smell it! Like fish, like shrimp, like oysters ... Mmm, I wish I could eat myself, I smell like such a beautiful soup ..."
The sucking and squishing sounded through the chambers. The old skulls watched without a sound. Charlotte was lost to the time and place, her sap running high, her skeleton bent to the service of her flesh. Again and again Ding's prong probed her innards, always accompanied by sounds and smells, and by her own frantic wails, and by Ding's ecstatic grunts. Nothing like it had ever been seen in the catacombs, and nothing had ever been more welcome there. Ghosts smiled and clapped their hands and gibbered with joy. They danced together in their winding sheets and flew through the air yipping and howling. Men and women spirits merged one into the other in the closest thing they could come to the sex act, and turned round and round and head over heels, shaking their invisible hips. It was pretty pathetic, re-ally, but they'd never had such a good time since they died.
Charlotte wanted more and more, and she doubled .her hips, jackknifing her body until her ass rose high in the air, her back deeply arching, her breasts touching her knees. Ding stood behind her with his feet planted wide apart and shoved it for all he was worth, his back muscles moving, bulging, his ass tightening into a clean box shape every time he went in. Charlotte was doubled up so far that she seemed to be hanging from his cock like a coat from a hook. Her mouth was open against the stones and she seemed to be crunching them in her teeth as she howled.
"More, more, give me more!" she was yelling.
Groans for the bones, Ding thought to himself, and then, in a prodigious poetic outburst: "Moans and groans against the stones for all the bones."
"Oh Ding, Ding, you're so thick and strong. God I can't stand it, it's so beautiful ... so deep ... Stick it to me, shove it to me, ride me, hurt me! Ohhhh ..."
Ding answered by shoving so hard that his stomach smacked aloud against her buttocks. His cock forced juice from her in fine sprays. Every time he shoved, he felt her vaginal walls draw back before him, opening like the waters of the Red Sea, then closing again around his shaft, warm and wet, in gelatinous em-brace.
"I'm getting closer! I can feel it coming! I can ... I can ... Uhohh! Oh! OH! OHHH!" She got up off her knees and stood bent over double, gripping her toes, orgasms jerking her, while Ding spat his load in great globs that splattered against her cervix. Ghosts whirled around them hand in hand, setting up a great wind that lifted the bone dust in tornadoes round their heads.
"OH! OH! OH! OH!" Her voice echoed back again, the cries falling into one another and scattering again until it seemed a hundred or a thousand people were reeling in the ecstasies of love in that grim vault where death had so long sat unchallenged.
When Ding and Charlotte had finished, their voices kept echoing deeper and deeper into the earth, where other skeletons lay unseen. Then a great peace descended on the place, much sweeter than the silence that had been there before.
Chapter 12
Just two days later Ding and Charlotte, holding hands and smiling, boarded a 747 at Orly Airport. The plane was to take off at 9:00 A.M., and that is the exact time, six hours later, that they would land in New York, the same morning. It would be morning their entire trip, and they would be standing still in time. They would stop in New York a couple of days, and then hitch cross-country to San Jose, stopping in Terre Haute on the way.
As the pair of them climbed the steps to the door of the plane, Charlotte clapped her hand to her mouth with a gasp. The stewardess who was waiting at the 'top clapped her hand to her mouth and gasped, too. The pilot and co-pilot, who were talking with the stewardess, clapped and gasped as well. It was the same crew she'd had on her flight over, and the same plane to boot. They all welcomed her aboard with embarrassed chortles, but didn't venture to say anything.
At the appointed time, the plane took off, and the flight promised to be smooth. They watched the countryside disappearing underneath them as they flew into the sun, toward America. There were no manifestations from the crew until the plane was over the English Channel, when the co-pilot stuck his head out and stared for some time at Charlotte and Ding, as if to see how they were getting on. He popped his head in again and then the captain popped his out as if to confirm or deny the co-pilot's report. He stared, too, chewing on a piece of gum the while. Then he suddenly withdrew.
These visitations occurred once every hour or so, but no progress was visible so far as Ding and Charlotte were concerned. They talked and read and looked out the window and spent a lot of time smiling. It was obvious after a while that the stewardess had been assigned to stare at them too, because every few minutes she took a stroll up and down the aisle whistling an indistinguishable tune and giving them the once-over.
Once, in an uncontrollable fit of affection, Charlotte rubbed Ding's balls and kissed him on the cheek. This sent the stewardess headlong into the cabin, and before long the door opened just enough for three eager heads to stick through like so many kernels of newly-blown popcorn. By that time, though, Charlotte had finished her kiss and turned her attention to her magazine. Both the co-pilot, whose head was at the bottom, and the pilot, whose head was on the top, bent their reproving gaze on the stewardess's blushing head in the middle, and then withdrew indignantly. The stewardess was shoved out the door a few seconds later and stood staring at Charlotte with a sullen expression.
By the time they were halfway across the Atlantic everybody was getting tired, or else restless. Ding sat opening and closing his mouth and pasting and unpasting his tongue to and from the roof of his mouth as people do after yawning. Charlotte opened and closed one magazine after another and squirmed around in her seat. Every once in a while she'd throw a glance at the bulge in Ding's pants, trying to see whether his cock was stiff or in repose. As for herself, she was pretty hot under the skirt and was having a hard time holding it all in. She knew that the crew were waiting for her to make a move, though what they planned to do once she made it, she hadn't the slightest idea.
Eventually, as a compromise to her better instincts, she contented herself with masturbating. She wasn't too subtle about it -- she rolled up her skirt until her panties were exposed and went at it with both hands. At first she did it through her panties, keeping that last scrap of modesty, but they soon became soaked through to transparency. The stewardess, fearful of sounding another false alarm, stood watching, and just the way a photographic print soaking in the developing solution emerges gradually into sharpness and contrast from the previously blank paper, so her cunt emerged through the cotton of her panties, as her own natural juices soaked the cloth and made. it stick. The first thing to emerge was the depression marking her hole, the slight sinking of the cloth into her crotch; next the slit appeared, the cotton folding into it, making a perfect cameo; next the dewed triangular patch of hair showed through, thick and healthy as fresh grass. Ding was still opening and closing his mouth and blinking, and he didn't see it; but the stewardess saw it clearly enough. She also saw Charlotte's fingers slip inside the crotch of her under-pants and disappear into her body, and saw her bend over at the hips from the intensity of her sensations. Colors were showing through the panties now -- the flesh tone of her lips, the pink of the interior skin, the yellow of her pubic hair. The panties were now no more than a thin whitish film, a membrane over her pubes. Her fingers twiddled and skipped -- those of one hand toiling inside the vagina, those of the other stretching the skin above it. She turned her head to stare at Ding's denim-covered cock and thought -- she wasn't sure -- that he was growing in there. " The thought helped her along in her jerking off and she went at it with renewed vigor, never taking her eyes from his bulge.
Pretty soon all of this activity attracted Ding's attention. He did a double take and then observed her steadily with growing interest. He bent his head down to see things from close-up. Without much delay, he contributed his fingers to the effort -- took over the whole thing, in fact -- brushing her hands aside, pushing three fingers into her hole, making a lovely havoc. She slid forward in the seat, opening her legs. He looked through her panties at her cunt, and at his hand appended to it, three fingers missing inside. Charlotte now definitely saw his cock grow and stiffen inside his zipper, like a beanstalk. She salivated at the sight of it. Meanwhile his thumb had pushed the crotchband of her panties aside altogether, exposing her cunt to the eyes of the stewardess, who was already pressing the corner of the tea trolley hard between her legs. Across the aisle, a female passenger was watching intently, grinding her fist into her cunt. Ding was oblivious to all these onlookers. He pulled his fingers out briefly and rubbed her belly so that she lifted her ass off the seat. He pulled her little panties down first on one side and then on the other, exposing more and more until the first few yellow pubic hairs peeped over the waist-band and then half her patch came to light and then all of it, descending toward its apex between her legs. When he bared her cunt a little cloud of fragrant steam rose from it. He inhaled it deeply. The mist went right to his cock, which shot to life, throbbing and trembling. It had been stiff before, but now it was an animal, beating with a life of its own. Charlotte reached over, pulled down his zipper, and freed it from bondage. It shot out like a lion on the search for prey, looking in all directions, sniffing at the wind. She petted and stroked it and rolled the head between her thumb and fingers. By now Ding had pulled her pants around her ankles and she kicked them off and under the seat in front of her. He pushed his fingers inside again, moving them in and out. The stewardess pressed herself so hard against the tea tray that she rattled the plastic dishes. The woman across the aisle slipped one hand inside her blouse to feel her own breast while her fist still ground away cuntwards.
Ding pulled Charlotte towards him and kissed her on the lips. Her mouth opened very wide and she fought a loving duel with his tongue. The stewardess stuck her tongue out into the empty air, imagining there was a man there. The woman across the aisle stuck her tongue out at the man who was dozing next to her. He woke up with a start, and after gathering her intentions, satisfied her with a long kiss in the course of which he opened the buttons of her blouse from top to bottom and put his hand inside, gathering up the flesh of her big hefty breast and squeezing it. Up ahead they could hear the tea tray rattling. Ding by now had opened Charlotte's blouse and was playing with her breasts, lifting them and letting them slide under his hand and lifting them again. Her belly rose and fell. Ding rubbed her body down, massaging her belly until she was shifting her hips in the air, and then returning his hand to her sodden cunt. Her fingers pulled at his dick until he, too, was lifting his ass off the seat and making thrusts into the air.
The woman across the aisle had her legs lifted up against the back of the seat in front of her and her companion was making free with that whole open territory between her legs, rubbing it from anus to cunt to clit and back again, while she fingered his cock leisurely with a lazy expression that made her all the more sensual.
All of this sex had a sort of zig-zag effect. The people diagonally across from Ding and Charlotte were soon heated up enough to turn toward each other in a storm of kisses; then the people across from them caught it; and then the ones diagonal to them, and so on. Up ahead, the stewardess was the high priestess of these ceremonies, shaking plates and teacups and then riding the tray up and down the aisle. Eventually she crashed it against the door to the cabin, way, but kept at it as he walked her from one end of the plane to the other like a soldier of the Scottish Highland Regiment carrying his bagpipes through the lines to rally the troops. She was about as tuneless as the bagpipes, too. As for the troops, they didn't need any rallying, but the bracing skirl that was coming out of her set fire to their blood. Two or three couples bounced into the aisle and, joined, threw themselves around in a highland fling. The pilot appeared at the cabin door, with the stewardess walking on her hands and knees in front of him, breathing hard. His cock was up her cunt, He had to crouch as he walked to keep himself inside her, and they made a strange pair -- she crawling loose-limbed as a cat, he hopping and limping behind, sweating with the effort to stay inside.
By this time Ding had lifted Charlotte onto his lap. She straddled him and sat on his cock. Her face glowed as it slid inside. Her breasts touched his chest, very lightly, and he pressed her back so that they flattened against his chest and he could feel her nipples on his skin. She shifted her hips ever so little, smiling into his face. Very slowly she began to move, making his cock move with her. Then, never taking her eyes off his face, she started to bounce, speeding up her tempo until his eyes closed and his head was dreaming against the cushion. She kissed his face all over and squeezed her body to his, and contracted the muscles of her cunt around his shaft, and bounced and bounced until the semen ran up and out of his shaft like sap up a tree trunk "Aw, Jeez," he groaned, feeling so fine and easy. She smiled and, smiling, came, so sweetly and naturally that she just stretched herself and said, "Mmmmmmm ..."
Outside, the day was bright and blue, without a cloud. Far below the green sea rolled on and on.
