After a night of wanton debauchery I rid my body of foreign intrusions with a strong emetic (tincture of ipecac), douche myself with a spermicide, and hoist the red rubber bag to cleanse my bowels of the final invasion.
Preparation H works wonders for the pouches beneath the eyes. I’ve also swiped a dab across my puss a time or two. Sunglasses and a head scarf are a must, when a lady of a certain age must venture into the world.
Which I was forced to do one morning, so many, many years ago. Marcel’s last instruction, before he left for London, was for me to call at the local bookseller, and pick up something that he had ordered.
The proprietor gave me a knowing look, and a brief smile flickered across his wizened lips as he handed me the small parcel. Wrapped and taped, concealing the contents.
Marcel had said nothing about the book, so I tore the paper from it upon returning to the apartment. A slim volume, first edition, bound in red calf. Gold letters on the spine.
The Story of O.
Marcel had a wooden basket, the kind one finds on farms, filled with potatos and such. Only this one, sitting in a corner of the bedroom, overflowed with cash. Bills of all denominations. I never saw him add to or take from the contents. I once counted and arranged them in stacks on the bed; nearly fifteen thousand. I hesitated to ask its purpose, fearing retribution.
I was late for class and wanted nothing so much as to crawl back beneath the duvet. Marcel could be cruel; I knew he would want chapter and verse of my weekly studies. Freshman English Lit. European History. French 1. Geometry. I enjoyed that one; calculating angles, determining how big something was, with just a few measurements. The logic appealed to me. How tall is that flagpole?
I returned from class, finished the dregs of the wine we’d shared the night before, fell across the bed, and slept.
Hours later I awoke. Dusk had fallen, the night air was chilly. I closed the French doors to our little balcony; stripped, went into the bath. Showered, shampooed my hair, wrapped it in a towel. I’d always kept it cropped short when I danced. Used a mousse, spiked it with my fingers. Now it was shoulder length, and I thought it unbecoming. Marcel wanted it long long long. Shimmering raven locks, cascading down my back, to the swell of my buttocks. What Marcel wants, Marcel gets.
I studied myself in the triple tailor’s mirror he had installed in the bedroom. Three different views of his Little Swan stare at me. Pale skin, black hair, proud nipples capping small breasts. Bare, shaved sex; complex, protruding. Muscular thighs; a product of hours at the bar, hours on the smooth, polished hardwood. Leaping, twirling, en point in toe shoes and a tutu.
I threw on a robe, threw arugula, sliced plum tomatoes, ripe olives, crumbled feta into a majolica bowl he’d brought from Spain. Drizzled on virgin olive oil and a dash of hedonistically expensive balsamic vinegar. I sat, I ate, bahis firmaları I opened the book.
I tossed the bowl in the sink, unwashed. Took the book into the bedroom. Climbed beneath the covers, plumped big, downy pillows behind my back. And read and read and read.
Her man introduced successively larger devices into her backside. Made her wear them in her bottom, throughout the day. Then shared her with his friends. Passed her from man to man. I finished the god damn book, threw it against the wall. Wailed. Hugged myself, curled into a fetal coil beneath the sheets. After endless hours, sleep finally descended, blessedly releasing me from my pain.
Only to replace reality with tortured dreams. I awoke at dawn, drenched in sweat, less rested than the night before. I crawled from bed, stumbled into the bathroom, stood beneath a scalding shower for an eternity.
I did not hear the door open, did not see the silhouette of him watching me. I turned off the water, pulled the curtain aside. I thought my heart would stop. Marcel, fully clothed, topcoat caped across his shoulders, held the book in his hands against his chest. He smiled at me.
“You BASTARD!” I screamed. Smacked the book from his hands. Tears blinded me. Lunging forward, I stepped on it, staining its red leather binding. “You want to share me with your friends, now that you are tired of my pleasures? Is that how you feel about me? Oh, you pig, you fucking fucking fucking pig!” I forgot my nakedness; I failed at him, beat his chest, his face.
He enveloped me, pulled me against him, my wet, naked body soiling his suit. “No, no, no,” he crooned in my ear. “That was the last thought in my mind, when I ordered that book for you.”
I snuffled, let him hold me against his chest. “What, then?” I softly asked. And suddenly it dawned on me.
I pushed him away, looked into his eyes. “You want to put it in my bottom?”
Marcel picked up the book, put it on the edge of the sink. “No, my Little Swan; I am quite content to wait until YOU to want me to put it in your bottom.”
I dried and dressed myself, and Marcel exchanged his damp suit for a silk dressing gown. He sat at the kitchen table and read the morning’s paper while I prepared breakfast. In tenth grade a friend of mine had let her brother stick it in her backside. She said it hurt and he got an infection.
“Marcel,” I said, sliding two coddled eggs onto his plate, “Have you ever done it?”
He lowered the newspaper and looked at me over the tops of his reading glasses. “Done what, Swan?”
“You know. . .Put it in someone’s backside.”
He disappeared behind the paper. “Mm hm,” he said.
“Doesn’t it . . .hurt?”
He folded the paper and picked up his fork. “It can, if it’s not done properly.” He broke the yolks; yellow slowly flowed across milky albumen. “But, so can straight sex, if you’re not prepared, not wet, not receptive. Why the sudden curiosity?”
I slid into the chair across kaçak iddaa from him. “You know. . .that book. In some parts she seemed to like having that done to her bottom. Is that really true, or was it just made up?” At nineteen, I was such a stupe.
“What? The story? Yes, of course; it’s fiction. But, from my admittedly limited experience, there is also pleasure for the woman. It is, I understand, an orgasm of a different sort, but no less pleasant.”
“Can. . .we try it?”
Marcel turned his wrist and glanced at his watch, laughed. “Well, that was fast! Twenty minutes ago you were trying to kill me!”
“I’m sorry, my love, I just thought-“
“I know, I know, Swan, darling. It is I who should appologize. And yes, of course we can try it. But not now. I have business to transact in town, and I will have to pick up a few supplies, if we are to attempt this new endeavor.”
The day dragged as I forced myself from class to class. I took no notes, did not participate, remembered nothing. All I could think about was how he could possibly fit himself into me, back there.
Marcel surprised me by arriving at my college in a taxi cab. We dined at our local bistro, and walked home. An apertif, a glass of wine, a small cognac; I was a little tipsy.
He sent me into the bathroom with instructions and the enema, while he prepared the bedroom for this final invasion of my body. In the shower, the hard black tip connected to the rubber hose slipped into me with surprising ease. But, then, it was only a half inch across. Marcel is more than two. I emptied my bowels of the cleansing solution into the toilet.
He is naked. He has lit several of our candles, and re-positioned the mirrors. A small table at the foot of the bed holds a container of a viscous fluid and a clear glass dildo that swells along its length from a quarter inch to three. I stare at it, petrified. No way can I take that in my bottom!
There is a carved rosewood Victorian settee, uphostered in dusty pink velvet, that Marcel has placed beside the table. The mattress is too soft and yielding for this operation, he explains, as he has me kneel on the seat, my arms across the padded back, my chin resting on my forearms. Looking ahead, I stare into a big mirror, angled so that the equally large mirror behind gives me a view everything!
My bottom is raised slightly above my shoulders, and my legs are spread, giving the two of us a view of both my cunt and the object of his imminent intentions. He runs his hands over my buttocks, down the cleft, lightly stoking the puckered pink star centered between the twin mounds of my cheeks.
I start at the strange tingle of his touch. I watch him bend, bring his face close, blocking my view. I feel his breath, warm, then his tongue, warmer, wet.
He licks me, probes me, teases me. I squirm, breath out a sound that I shall transcribe as “Ooooooo.” Suck in the sound of “Uhhhhhh.” The tip of his tongue pentrates me. My cunt kaçak bahis is wet. I reach for it. He grasps my wrist, pulls me away. “Not yet,” he orders.
His tongue is replaced by his thumb, and I feel a cool fluid slowly creep down from the top of my buttocks. Slippery slippery slippery. He moves to one side, so I can watch. Which I do.
He watches me, watching him. Mirror, mirror, on the wall; mirror, mirror, everywhere! He rims the entrance, slides in, just past his thumbnail. Pauses. Flexes his digit up and down, side to side. Withdraws. “Oh!” I say. Dissappointed; it had started to feel good with him in there.
I feel the hard smooth tip of the glass dildo slowly enter me. An inch. Another inch. And yet another. I am being stretched. More lubricant. More dildo. “My God!” I cry. “How far is that thing into me?”
“Half way,” he quietly answers, slowly pushing it further up my bottom.
I pant. Huff. Huff. Huff. “Marcel,” I manage, “It HURTS!” He releases his grip on the base; I expell it. I feel I have gained a modicum of power over the procedure. I am relieved, but curiously empty. New sensations; I am simultaneously thrilled and terrified. Aroused.
“No. Pu-put it back in,” I say, and he does. The pain is replaced by a tingle, an itch. My cunt aches for the thickness of his cock. I watch as hours, days, centuries pass; suddenly my stretched hole closes around the base of the device. It is all the way in! He smiles as I gaze at the results of this incredible penetration of my body. He comes to the front of the settee, stoops, kisses me tenderly.
“My brave, brave Little Swan,” he says. He grasps his thick organ. “Now, pleasure yourself with your hand,” he commands. “And suck my cock.”
I take him in and strum my button. I am very, very wet. And, very, very close. I can feel the glass dildo on the other side of my passage. He quickly erupts into my mouth; I swallow, drool. My cunt spasms, I come, I cry, “Hnn! Hnn! Hnn!” around his cock. He withdraws from my mouth. He is still quite erect.
He moves behind me, places yet another mirror, this time on the floor, so I can look down and watch as he positions himself at the entrance to my cunt. “No! No way; it’ll never fit!”
He ignores my pleas, enters me, slides home with a long, single thrust. I yield to him, and it does, it does, it fits! It fits! I am packed, front and rear. Deliciously. I bite the velvet back of the seat as he goes in and out in and out in. . .
Oh dear Lord! I come again; shake my head, rip the uphostery with my teeth. I feel him shoot once more, this time deep within my cunt.
He deflates and I eject him with contracting muscles. He removes the dildo. My eyes fall to the mirror. Both of my openings are agape. My crotch, from top to bottom, is shiny with lube, our fluids. His semen runs down my legs. He lifts me, places me on the bed, lies beside me, rolls me atop him, holds me close. Runs his hand slowly up and down my spine, again and again. Kisses my eyelids.
“Marcel?” I open my eyes, look into his. “We never did it; put your cock in my bottom.”
He smiles, touches my lips with his finger. “We will, my Little Swan, we will.”
And so we did.