with corkscrews of bubbly hair and a thin unblemished body. The blonde girl’s pussy had been shaved, giving her a childlike look, innocent and debauched like a figure in the background of a painting by Breughel. The puffy lips of her vulva were pulled back to allow her companion’s tongue to worm its way around the swollen nub of her clitoris. Both girls were moaning, groaning, humming, the onomatopoeia of their song magnified in the quiet room where the sound of Bach seemed far away as if in another building.
The girls were immediately below a chandelier that illuminated their ivory flesh and made the men in their black suits seem like spectres drawn to the feast. The blonde girl moved faster and faster, her bottom rising and falling with a little slap back upon the table. She drew back her legs and arched her spine in a contortionist display of muscle control and rocked her shaved mound up and down in orgasm, her song losing its tune and growing in pitch.
The tall man with the jewelled belt appeared to be the conductor of this dissonant duo and, while the girl on top was still reaching for her climax, he brought his hand down on her backside, beating the plump round mounds over and over again, the white flesh turning pink. The blonde on the bottom returned her tongue to her friend’s gaping vagina until the dark-haired girl achieved what she was so urgently seeking and let go with a piercing scream, her vast roaring orgasm creating a cacophony of broken music.
‘Just look at that, they can’t get enough,’ said the tall man with what I thought was probably a Texan accent. He pulled the little blonde by her ankles, separating the girls, and lifted her legs in such a way that she was hooked on to his shoulders. He lapped at her oily orgasm, his meaty tongue reaching deep inside her gaping parts, the juices flooding from her, coating the Texan’s chin and spreading over her soft thighs.
Another man slipped his cock from his trousers and buried its length in the mouth of the dark-haired girl. She went up on her hands and knees, making the same tableau as the flame-haired girl when she was being anally pierced in the other room, an arrangement that arches the back, pulls in your tummy, shows the weight and shape of your breasts, a position that changes the definition of what it is to be merely human and shows a potential for being fully physical, part human, part animal.
I was spellbound watching this intricate scene, the dinner-suited men in bow ties, the naked girls with black straps about their ankles and wrists, the chandelier above painting fields of light and shadow on their delicate curves, their long limbs and fine bones, the depth of their poise , their composure, their ability to be living in the moment as only pure creatures in nature ever really do.
Those two girls, the one on her hands and knees, the other with her back on the table, her pussy locked into the mouth of the Texan, were denied all rights, any sense of self-determination, but this, I thought, is what being truly erotic is. Choice removes the potential to reach beyond yourself, to seek and find that certain indescribable something that poets and drug addicts try to reach and try to explain and never can. The scene was charged with vibrancy and drama. Anything could have happened. Like Caligula ripping into the stomach of his wife and dragging out his own unborn child with his teeth, the Texan might at any moment have stopped lapping at the blonde and eaten her. The man at the other end of the table could so easily have throttled the dark-haired girl and ejaculated into her dead mouth.
This didn’t happen, but the fact that the mental image ran through my mind was at once both horrifying and electrifying. It was a relief to know that deep in the dark, untamed parts of myself I possessed such an imagination. In the past I had glimpsed briefly – in distant villages across the Iberian peninsula, with the sound of flamenco echoing over the
The girls were immediately below a chandelier that illuminated their ivory flesh and made the men in their black suits seem like spectres drawn to the feast. The blonde girl moved faster and faster, her bottom rising and falling with a little slap back upon the table. She drew back her legs and arched her spine in a contortionist display of muscle control and rocked her shaved mound up and down in orgasm, her song losing its tune and growing in pitch.
The tall man with the jewelled belt appeared to be the conductor of this dissonant duo and, while the girl on top was still reaching for her climax, he brought his hand down on her backside, beating the plump round mounds over and over again, the white flesh turning pink. The blonde on the bottom returned her tongue to her friend’s gaping vagina until the dark-haired girl achieved what she was so urgently seeking and let go with a piercing scream, her vast roaring orgasm creating a cacophony of broken music.
‘Just look at that, they can’t get enough,’ said the tall man with what I thought was probably a Texan accent. He pulled the little blonde by her ankles, separating the girls, and lifted her legs in such a way that she was hooked on to his shoulders. He lapped at her oily orgasm, his meaty tongue reaching deep inside her gaping parts, the juices flooding from her, coating the Texan’s chin and spreading over her soft thighs.
Another man slipped his cock from his trousers and buried its length in the mouth of the dark-haired girl. She went up on her hands and knees, making the same tableau as the flame-haired girl when she was being anally pierced in the other room, an arrangement that arches the back, pulls in your tummy, shows the weight and shape of your breasts, a position that changes the definition of what it is to be merely human and shows a potential for being fully physical, part human, part animal.
I was spellbound watching this intricate scene, the dinner-suited men in bow ties, the naked girls with black straps about their ankles and wrists, the chandelier above painting fields of light and shadow on their delicate curves, their long limbs and fine bones, the depth of their poise , their composure, their ability to be living in the moment as only pure creatures in nature ever really do.
Those two girls, the one on her hands and knees, the other with her back on the table, her pussy locked into the mouth of the Texan, were denied all rights, any sense of self-determination, but this, I thought, is what being truly erotic is. Choice removes the potential to reach beyond yourself, to seek and find that certain indescribable something that poets and drug addicts try to reach and try to explain and never can. The scene was charged with vibrancy and drama. Anything could have happened. Like Caligula ripping into the stomach of his wife and dragging out his own unborn child with his teeth, the Texan might at any moment have stopped lapping at the blonde and eaten her. The man at the other end of the table could so easily have throttled the dark-haired girl and ejaculated into her dead mouth.
This didn’t happen, but the fact that the mental image ran through my mind was at once both horrifying and electrifying. It was a relief to know that deep in the dark, untamed parts of myself I possessed such an imagination. In the past I had glimpsed briefly – in distant villages across the Iberian peninsula, with the sound of flamenco echoing over the
Similar Books
