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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of o
o stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the o
o world. Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups). There is no o
o particular order other than offering them to you in alpha- o
o betical directories. o
o I don’t believe in categorizing things. "I don’t want to o
o be typed therefore I don’t type things myself." I think it’s o
o a lot more fun to browse around and find 'little' surprises o
o that you might not have even thought of looking for. o
o Lest we forget!!! This story was produced as adult en- o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors. Kristen o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
CELESTE (MF)
by Marjorie Cartwright (c) 1996
***
At the next large street a man approached on the sidewalk.
He was small, wizened and middle-aged; he might have been an
accountant or a bank clerk. Asking myself what else he could be
doing here in this quarter but be looking for a woman, I smiled
as he was about to pass and said, "Bonsoir, cheri," in my
sweetest tones. I was hardly prepared for the withering glance of
contempt he shot me, and standing alone once more, and this time
under no curious stares, I felt again the crushing humiliation
these creatures must feel, at first at least, when the offer of
their bodies, their very selves, is met with a rebuff or, worse,
ignored. I walked back onto the boulevard, past a stinking
pissoir out of which an unkempt drunk appeared buttoning his
trousers. I was nearing the last streets of the quarter. There
were no more men strolling. The boulevard and the street were
both dark, and up ahead I could see the hulk of the Porte
Saint-Denis. As I neared it, there suddenly were more girls in
the side streets, some of them gorgeous girls it seemed, gaudily
but carefully dressed. It was as I was passing them, in the
broadening of the street before the Porte, where several other
girls still lined the sidewalk, that I came upon a man so
suddenly that I almost ran into him. There had been no time to
prepare for him; nevertheless, I shot him a quick smile. He did
not return it but stared me up and down before turning away
slowly. He was perhaps in his thirties; short, chunky, dark and
balding. Nowhere in America would I have so much as looked at
him, much less considered offering myself to him. Now, however,
as I watched him turn away toward the other girls, I halted in my
path toward the boulevard and a taxi back to the pension. I
lingered self-consciously, and as far as possible from a redhead
in slacks who was giving him the eye now. But he passed by, from
one girl to the next. They were women of all shapes, but in each
case heavily rouged and daring in dress. I knew I was out of
place among them, but I remember now that I spent that minute or
two of my life counting them and measuring myself against each of
them. There were six of them in all. The redhead in slacks seemed
well-proportioned enough, and his ignoring of her buoyed my
heart. Then there was a large mulatto in lavender and a slim
brunette. Both of these he passed by, as well as two nondescript
blondes chatting together in a doorway. But the last one, the
sixth, was outstanding, and he was speaking to her now. She was
tallish and classic in line, with white skin and jet-black hair.
But most unusual, she wore a trim green suit which so became her
that I could not remove my eyes from her. My heart sank as he
stood before her, for I knew then that, had I been a man in
search of a woman, I would have chosen her.
Now they were laughing together, and he had taken her hand.
They seemed ready to disappear into the doorway behind her, and I
was about to turn and go, when suddenly he dropped her hand,
turned, and crossed the little square to where I stood. He
ignored my nervous smile, observed me coldly for a moment and
then stepped up and asked. "Combien?"
His voice was high, unmusical, unpleasant as his looks, and
once again I thought how completely I would have ignored him in
America. But I answered him clearly now.
"Twenty," I said, "but only with a rubber."
"Naked?"
"Thirty."
"Too much," he said. "Twenty-five."
I shrugged assent.
"I warn you," he said, "I like to take my time and do things
my own way. Some girls don't like that."
"I don't mind," I said, feeling my throat tighten.
"Where's your hotel?"
"Down there."
"Which street?"
"The first one," I said, unable to name it.
"All right, go ahead. I'll follow you."
I began walking, unsteadily I thought, toward the street I'd
indicated in my panic. I could hear the chunky, bald man behind
me though I couldn't see him. And I could see the other girls
watching me (with curiosity or indifference?) as I passed between
them as if running a gauntlet. I was number seven, the seventh
whore, and I'd been chosen in preference over the other six,
including the chic brunette in the green suit. Were they jealous
of me, or didn't they care? How would I have felt in their place?
The street narrowed at the entrance to the little square,
and when I turned into the next street, it was narrower still and
considerably darker than any street I had yet seen in Paris. The
women who lined its sidewalks were the ones I'd noticed in
passing; they seemed bolder, bigger-breasted, more brazenly
beautiful than any I'd yet seen. I ran this gauntlet too, down
this street which seemed to grow narrower in itself and whose end
seemed to recede as I walked, followed relentlessly by the steps
of the bald man, until I saw the first lighted sign marked Hotel,
reaching it almost with relief, almost as if it were the pension
itself and a sanctuary, and without a backward glance pushing
open the door and entering.
With the steps still following me, I penetrated a tiny
narrow corridor dark at the far end and was greeted by a seedy
old man in suspenders who appeared out of nowhere to bar my path.
"A room, please," I managed to say.
"For how long? A quarter of an hour? All night?"
I hesitated, turning and seeing again and almost with
reassurance the squat figure of the bald man behind me.
"Make it for an hour," he said. "And make it a big room.
With mirrors."
"*Entendu*."
The hotel man led the way. I followed up the dark winding
staircase, narrower still than the corridor or the street, as if
in an unbearable nightmare I was following an endless passage
into the darkness of my own inner being. And now almost
physically I could feel the eyes of the squat man on the back of
my stockings as I climbed the stairs, his eyes on my dress, on my
body.
We seemed to penetrate interminably into the labyrinth of
this hotel, until finally the man reached a door, turned a key,
and switched on a light.
"*Voil…*," he said.
I found myself in a squarish room, decorated throughout with
blood-red plush, with vertical and horizontal mirrors beside and
over the bed, and another on the ceiling directly above it. The
inside of the female womb, I mused, must somehow resemble this.
"There's the bidet, and here's a towel. Will this do?"
"This will do," answered my customer, slipping a bill into
the man's hand. The man backed out hurriedly, with a bow of
obsequious thanks, and closed the door behind him.
My companion went to the door and slid the bolt. Then he
came to the table where I stood and tossed twenty-five francs
onto it. I took the money and put it in my purse. I'd been paid
in advance and told what would be expected of me. It was up to me
now to give my customer his money's worth. Everything in the room
had been arranged to enable me to do just that.
Will power and determination are remarkable qualities. I had
long ago decided that my research into prostitution would require
at least one practical exercise. Now, thanks to my singleminded-
ness of purpose, I was about to take that step in my course of
instruction.
Should I tell what happened next? Should I recount in detail
the thousand banalities familiar to every prostitute, writing
from the experience of the prostitute I was now becoming myself?
(I knew this from the worn franc notes I had just slipped into my
purse, from the soiled crumpled slipcover on the bed, and from
the mirrors which had reflected the lustful contortions of a
thousand prostitutes and were now ready to reflect mine.) Must I
really describe it all? Yes, I must, the loathsome part as well
as the pleasurable, for this was my vow in writing a book
intended not for prostitutes but for those young students whose
purposes and aims are as disinterested and scientific as my own.
I stood there then, in this blood-red chamber of horrors,
between the bolted door, this ugly little stranger, and the bed.
He observed me silently for a minute, a mocking smile on his
thick lips. And then he asked, "What's your name?"
"Celeste," I lied, taking the name as a sort of cloak, a
protection. "What's yours?"
His eyes hardened. "None of your business." He continued to
watch me as I shrugged, embarrassed. I knew my place now, and so
with a faintly lecherous smile of provocation I began to undo the
top buttons of my suit.
"I didn't tell you to do that. Button it up."
I did so, more embarrassed and humiliated than ever.
"Turn around," he ordered. "Slowly."
I obeyed, and when I was facing him again, I saw he was
beginning to undress.
"You wouldn't be too bad looking, Celeste," he said
grudgingly, "if you didn't have that get-up on. Where were you
going, to a tea party or a funeral or something?"
"Some men like it," I said, thinking rapidly. "You must, or
you wouldn't have picked me."
"Get this straight, kid," he said. "I didn't pick you for
your clothes. I think your clothes stink."
His shirt and tie were off now, exposing hairy shoulders and
a thick torso. He was unfastening his belt, but his eyes had not
left me for an instant.
"Now walk over there and come back."
I did so, going up to myself in a mirror and returning to
see him remove his trousers.
"I like the way you walk, Celeste. You walk like you didn't
know there were men in the world. Say, what are you looking at
now?"
His trousers were gone, and his legs were as thick and hairy
as his torso, and his erection bulged out into his white
undershorts. My eyes inadvertently had been glued to the thing,
but at his sudden remark I forced a sly smile. "Nothing," I said.
He pointed at it. "Is that what you were looking at?"
"I don't see it yet," I answered cautiously.
"But you'd like to see it, isn't that right?" He pulled off
his undershirt. He was a mat of hair from his neck to his shorts.
There was lint in his navel. "What do you want to see it for? It
looks like all the others."
"I like them all," I said. I was standing in front of him,
fully clothed while be stripped himself naked, and I was saying
the words as fast as I could think of them.
"To see them or feel them?"
"Both. I like to feel them too."
"Well, here then," and he took off his shorts. The penis
stared thickly at me, club-like, from a mass of black hair. "You
like that?"
"Yes."
"Then come and feel it."
As if in a trance, I stepped forward and took the thing in
my hand, holding it like the handle of a broom. It was much
thicker than any broom handle though, and as hard. And the heat
of it almost burned my hand. My eyes gazed calmly into his.
"Where else do you want to feel it?" he asked.
My voice had thickened, and my hand was moist with
perspiration as I continued to hold the penis. I was going to say
it all now, I knew. What difference did it make not to say it?
The more I said the better it would be. "Inside me," I heard
myself saying.
"Inside your what?"
"Between my legs."
"You said inside you. Inside your what?"
I looked him straight in the eye as I said it, pronouncing
the words softly and pleasantly, but very distinctly. "Inside my
cunt," I said.
He drew in his breath. "Inside your cunt! Celeste, do you
know what that means? Do you know what I'll be doing to you if I
stick this thing inside your cunt?"
"Yes, of course," I smiled gently. "You'll be fucking me."
He seemed shocked. "You mean you really want me to stick
this thing inside your cunt and fuck you with it?"
It was easy. They were the words I had said in the dark
solitude of my boarding-school room, under the thick weight of my
quilt.
"Darling," I said, "I want to be fucked by you. I want to
feel your meat all warm and moving deep inside my cunt."
"Where else do you want to feel it?"
I gave it a little squeeze. "Right here in my hand."
"Where else?"
My eyes must have been glazed. I was answering mechanically.
"I want to feel it in my mouth."
"You may get it there, too. Where else?"
My voice was almost inaudible. "In my behind."
"Where?"
"Between my cheeks?"
"Where did you say?"
"I told you. I want you to ram it right up my ass."
He frowned. "You want a lot, don't you?"
"Darling, I want everything you'll give me."
"Well, Celeste, I'm going to give you a lot, and I hope
you're not going to be disappointed. Take off your clothes."
I released his penis and backed away. At last I was able to
break the spell of the brutal thing and the words it had brought
from me. It was in truth the first representative of the species
that I'd seen since the terrible night with Clyde Cowles, and I
reflected with satisfaction how easily I was mastering the
situation. So far I'd passed the test without difficulty. Almost
with relief I turned, unbuttoned my jacket, and hung it over the
chair. Then I stepped out of my skirt and stood before him in my
slip.
"That's enough," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed so
that his organ stood up straight, like a blind man seeking his
way. "Now let me see your legs."
I pulled up the edge of my slip, seductively I hoped.
"Turn around. The back."
I obeyed, holding the hem above my stocking tops.
"That's not the most beautiful slip I've seen," he said.
"Come here."
I approached and felt his hands on my legs under the slip.
They moved slowly up the back of my legs. "Now lift it all the
way."
As I did so, he raised his hands to my rump and pulled my
pelvis toward his face. For a second I was off balance, and then
just as suddenly he pushed me away with a cry of disgust and an
oath.
"What in the hell is that thing you're wearing?"
"Just a panty-girdle," I said. "It gives me a slim line."
"What's the matter, are you crazy or queer or something? Are
you afraid the cheeks of your ass will wiggle in the street and
attract a customer for you? Take it off and don't let me see it
any more. But leave your slip on."
I squirmed out of my American foundation garment, rolled my
stockings above my knees, and dropped my slip back into place.
Shaken by his abuse, I nevertheless noticed the immediate freeing
of my body, as if every last restraint had now been released.
Suddenly I was conscious of my near-nudity in his presence, and
yet I was strangely tranquil and fatalistic about what was going
to happen.
"Look what you did with that damned corset," he said,
displaying a sadly limp member.
"I'm sorry, darling. I'll get it up again for you."
"How?"
I was standing a few feet from him, naked under my slip.
"Like this, maybe."
I lifted the smooth nylon again, this time waist-high to
reveal everything as I turned in a graceful slow pirouette. Then
slowly I dropped it into place. The movement had had its effect.
His penis once more stood stiffly at attention. He rose
deliberately, took from his coat pocket a rubber condom which he
unrolled carefully down the length of the organ, until it
projected like a policeman's white stick. Then he walked across
the room without a word and threw his arms about me, burying his
face in my neck. I felt the club-like thing hard now against my
belly and his hands moving rapidly behind my back, one raising
the flimsy material of my slip and the other sending blunt
probing fingers deep between the cheeks of my behind. At the same
time he forced me to spread my legs and let the end of his
instrument slip spring-like between my thighs and rub hotly
against the hairs of my crotch. Then suddenly he was pushing and
carrying me toward the bed in a brutal act of rape, falling there
on top of me and driving his shaft into me. I heard him grunt
like a pig, and I smelled his sour breath as he kissed my neck
and face. He was in me now, suddenly and completely, painfully
stretching my narrow chamber and pumping like an animal as I
watched our intertwined bodies reflected in the mirror. But even
as the brutal club worked back and forth inside me, taking from
me the pleasure for which I had been paid, I remembered with a
startled realization that standing, in the instant between the
spreading of my legs and the pressure of his penis between them,
I had felt like a cool breeze the trickle of a liquid down onto
my thigh from my vagina. I had been lubricating, for how long I
could not say, but wet from desire I certainly was. Whether from
the presence of this naked brute, or the obscenities I had spoken
to him, or simply the thought of copulation, my body had prepared
me for what my sensibilities had not. In truth, my body really
did want this hot meat inside my cunt. My body did want him to
fuck me. My brain, however, remained cold and analytical. I told
myself this copulation was research, a sociological investiga-
tion.
Eventually he came. The pumping was rapid, powerful, brutal,
and without regard for my feelings. The mouth wheezed and snorted
against my neck, and with my hands I felt the sweat on his hairy
shoulders and against my belly. Then in a sudden blow like a
battering ram there was a stiffening of his whole torso as if he
were trying to drive me against the wall. I closed my eyes in the
expectation of worse. But it was all over. I had done what I had
been paid to do. I was his whore.
In that moment of repose, while his dagger still filled my
sheath and the thick wad at its end pressed against the mouth of
my womb, I thought again of Clyde Cowles. Now I've conquered you
at last, Mr, Cowles. The fear you instilled in me is gone. I've
surmounted it. And your prediction regarding me has come true. I
have indeed learned to like it, as you said I would. But the
lessons have not come from you, Mr. Cowles. I've taken my lessons
from the street rather than from you.
My customer raised himself to his hands now and gazed down
into my face, his heavy jaw projecting and his lower teeth
visible in a smile of satisfied possession. I returned his gaze
brazenly.
"Finished so soon?" I asked, feeling the thing inside me
diminish in size.
"That was long enough," he answered, withdrawing it with one
hand at its base. I felt a pulling movement inside my vagina, and
then it was out, projecting in a long heavy curve as he stood up
with the white charge of his juice swinging loosely in the
condom's rubber end.
"I thought you were planning to do more with it than that,"
I teased him, lying there with my head pillowed in my hands and
my legs still spread.
"Plenty of time for that next time, baby." He crossed to the
wash basin and pulled the rubber gingerly from his penis. His
back, and even his buttocks, were hardly less hairy than his
chest. I rose and went to the bidet beside the wash basin, sat on
it and began to soap my parts thoroughly. I ran my hand down
under my crotch and inserted my finger to cleanse the entire
passage. My finger felt slimy and inadequate after what had
preceded it, but I noticed that the sensation was not unpleasant.
I gave him a glance out of the corner of my eye and a hard smile.
This is it, I kept telling myself. I'm a real whore now. I've had
the experience, and now I can write honestly about it.
"What were you doing down here tonight, anyway?" he asked
suddenly.
"Why, I just thought I'd try a new street for a change."
He laughed shortly. "Don't kid me, baby. This is your first
time."
I felt a rush of blood to my cheeks.
"What do you think I am, a virgin?"
"I didn't say that. You've probably rolled in the hay a few
times with some rich bourgeois' son. But it's your first time in
business, isn't it?"
"You're crazy," I said indignantly. "Can't a girl change
scenery without being taken for an amateur?"
He was drying himself now. The condom oozed limply in the
basin. "No, because an amateur is what you are. How do I know? In
the first place, a real business girl doesn't insist on a rubber.
She knows how to keep clean without one. And she doesn't wear any
suit of armor like that thing around your ass, either. She knows
it spoils her attractions when she walks, and it takes too much
time to get on and off. Time counts in this business, kid."
I shrugged, pretending to be unimpressed.
"Then again, a real gonzesse doesn't wash herself out with
soap. Soap irritates, and after the third or fourth time she'd be
through working for the night. You want to hear another reason?"
I was washing the soap away, ashamedly.
"I'll tell you then. I know you're an amateur because
professionals don't just walk into other people's territory,
especially mine. That's right. This is my territory, and those
girls in the street are my girls. I'm surprised they didn't throw
you out. And one more reason. You're not a professional because
you don't know how to fuck like a professional. Oh, I don't say
you couldn't learn. You've got a pretty fair body. But you need a
lot of training. You're a long way from being a first-class
money-earner just yet."
My mortification was turning into resentment. I rubbed the
towel between my legs and dropped the slip into place to deny him
a further view of my body. It was the last time this individual
would touch me, I swore, and I quickly gathered my clothes and
wiggled into my girdle. Apparently it gave him pleasure to soil
something good. All right, let's see if he could find another
girl worth soiling.
Unfortunately for me, he'd had his pleasure and was no
longer interested. Instead, he turned his back to put on his own
clothes. When he finished he carefully tied his tie before the
glass and examined his nails. Then he turned, and a slight smile
came to his lips.
"You don't like to hear that, do you? I'll bet you thought
you were really doing me a favor and that I'd be thankful to you
for it."
"Don't worry," I shot back. "You won't have another chance
at me."
"Maybe not. And then again, who knows? Maybe I will. Now
listen, kid," he said, suddenly businesslike, his face hardening.
"I don't know why you came down here tonight, whether you had a
fight with your boyfriend or whether you needed money for
something special, or whether you were just curious. But I know
one thing. You won't make out in this racket unless somebody
takes you in hand. You need training and you need protection.
This game isn't as easy as it looks, and even if the cops don't
get you, you'll never stand up against the competition. Now I
won't give you any guarantees of an easy life, but I will give
you training and protection so you can make some money on your
own."
He gave me a card. "This is the phone number of the bar
downstairs, Ask for M. Jules. I'm usually there in the evening."