Pussy-Licker: Volunteered Slavery

...we return to the parked Fiat, its metallic finish mottled with dust, stippled with dirt, the sky building towards storm... Ennio suggests I ride in the back with 'our guest', naturally I do as he says, but once we're moving the American's attentions become more amorously insistent... his arm draping around my shoulders, his hand crawling the slope of my breast, openly caressing firm intimate circles through the material, thumbing my nipples to reluctant but instinctual stiffness... I'm loath to protest, fearful that my censure will alert Ennio, and provoke his displeasure, so I allow the hand free reign, now inside my blouse and squeezing warm flesh... my blouse open down the front, bare breasts hanging free, air suddenly cool on my skin, nipples inflamed. He's playing with the aureoles, lifting them tenderly, letting them collapse back, and all wordlessly, impersonally...

...now he's unzipping his threadbare Levi's, from foreplay to display, wide-eyed in fascinated dread I see his eight inches of nature's gift, sans prepuce so it's more naked than it has a right to be, and shining like he's polished its dome. A weeping erection, hugely red and stiff, angry arrowhead distended, a cyclopean eye open. His hand slides behind my head with passionate pressure, pleading, easing me down towards it. Never really had an erection this close before, never had my full concentration centred on one. It is knobbly and lumpy, all blue threads and ridges. It is animal, it is hot, and it throbs. It's something that should belong on an Alsatian or a horse, not a man. And its musk, the aroma of it! No – surely he can't expect me to...

...the wine roaring and pounding in my ears makes everything slurred and indistinct, bizarre in a numb surreal way, I panic, drawn by desire towards it, yet fighting back, my face colouring, moaning a protest, but suddenly aware of Cavellino's eyes in the rear-view mirror as he hangs a corner. He's fully aware of every movement that is occurring here. And his voice is soothing – 'please Angelina, do this thing for me, please accept what's coming, take your medicine, as though it were me'... realising that the whole thing has been set up between them, it's been arranged during lunch. Now I'm more concerned that I might seem clumsy and inadequate, un-worldly in the ways of eroticism, that I might perform beneath my husband's expectations and disappoint him. I gasp for air, gaping lips parted, the engorged penis sliding smoothly inexorably in, hard and soft at the same time, pliant flesh, so tender, so lethally primed, I hardly dare contact it, feel the blood racing through its squiggly veins with the underside of my tongue. The rear-view mirror is adjusting so that Ennio can watch...

...I feel flattered by their attentions, yet also betrayed, but that pulsing erection is pressing at the roof of my mouth, the first stiff cock I've experienced, its virile power unbearably heady. Automatically I'm sucking at it. I know I'm safe. Nothing can happen that my husband hasn't willed, I'll be his to use, to mould, the cock in my mouth is his cock, by sucking it greedily, eagerly, gluttonously, I'm making love to him by proxy. So I surrender my will and suck...

...the American is spreading my hair around his stomach in little designs, the other hand coaxing and supporting my head, easing more cock into my mouth, and I want more if that's his will. Proud to be the object of two men's lust, lapping at his lap, slobbering at it, my nostrils breathing in pubic hair, with the car purring beneath me, a powerful animal engine of sensual energy, its motion jiggling tremoring flesh up against my jaw, nudging, abusing, bruising, setting my free-hung tits and pebble-hard nipples aquiver. Suckering feverishly in an erogenous flood, an inundation of all that's irrational and libidinous pent up deep inside me, libido in limbo, until he begins groaning, and his hips bucking...

...rain spatters across the windscreen, wipers start ticking back and forth as I administer the coup de grace, the first spurts hitting the back of my throat with a slurpy animal sound. When I eventually surface from his drained and aching thighs I draw my dishevelled hair back, to display the proof of my oral violation, my mouth filmed white with his ejaculate like some expensive lip-gloss, looking directly into my husband's eyes framed in the mirror, smiling brazenly as I wipe it with the corner of my embroidered handkerchief...

...the car skews in at the verge, slows to an abrupt halt, the confused American is ordered out even before he's had time to stuff his glistening semi-hard back into his Levi's, the sound of squalling rain from outside now roaring and tactile, even more an invasion of our intimacy than what's just occurred. He's outside, hunched up, severed from us, fumbling with his pants and colouring furiously, I watch him sadly, standing in the dirty grass by the wet trees, what tales of European decadence will he have to relate when he returns home? how will he think of me? – and of this pleasantly brief togetherness we have shared?... and now he's gone from my life. From our lives. The journey continues in silence, onto the Autostrade, hermetically sealed from all exteriors.

Eventually Ennio apologises, I act petulant, offended... the weekend extends... he's even more attentive to me than usual, there are gifts, money. I enjoy his guilt, experience the stirring of a power over him exerted by an act of submission that was, on delicious reflection, by no means unpleasant. So when he suggests, tentatively, nervously, that I re-experience it for his pleasure I smile secretly. Determine to milk the best advantage I can from my compliance, and so I become his virgin with whore-lips. His Lolita, his slut. A pretty little innocent with a prostitute's disposition. With fellation, my maidenhood is retained, my virginity, my state of purity. I'm docile. I do his bidding. I'm his passive ornament, his toy. A vacuum for him to fill with his lustful obsessions. And for me – the frisson sense of risk, with the danger of the senses and the reassurance of control. The total abandonment to promiscuity with the certain freedom from pregnancy. Usually it happens in Hotel bedrooms, with me sucking strangers in the position and attitudes my husband specifies, the attitude of prayer, once a month, perhaps more. My performance technique improves with assurance, and the arrangement continues to our mutual satisfaction... until Karl."

–- 0 –-

" 'A woman may be enslaved sexually, and yet dominate men', Henry Miller wrote that" announces Mike. Horns and rhythms mate and copulate in the air around him, surging and slithering in and out like a nest of pythons.

"Why do you say that the mode of sexuality employed suggests a Right-Wing base? Sure, there's an authoritarian element to the equation, but isn't that undermined by her willing acquiescence? Her manipulation of his need to exploit the situation to her advantage?"

"Don't you see? It feeds off the contradiction imposed on women that exists right at the very heart of Catholicism. The Right-Wing is Church and State. Italy has a strong Catholic tradition that infiltrates all levels of morality and social life, more so then that it does now. The role model for Catholic femininity is Mary. The 'Virgin' Mary. The Immaculate Conception. The Italian ideal of Womanhood is therefore both Mother – and Virgin. That's an obvious contradiction. Spiritual blackmail expects her to be both the receptacle of male seed, and also the virgin. Angelina – angel, pure – becomes both. She takes men into her body, accepts their sperm into her, yet remains 'intact'. Remains a virgin, hence she's able to resolve the contradiction. The holy whore, the vestal virgin. It all figures, it all ties in. She could give parties in her mouth, all her guests could 'cum'! But should she lose that virginity, that purity, then the entire concept collapses. The whole idea is invalidated, rendered void."

A pause. Soft jazz rolling from speaker to speaker.

Then, "confession is good for the soul. Do you masturbate when you think of her?"

"It's strange you should say that. Because the answer is both 'yes', and 'no'. I lie alone on the bed, and I feel fingers on my penis, the softness and warmth of them, the gentle pressure of them. I feel hair brushing my stomach so rarefied it's near imaginary, and then the light cool kiss of lips enveloping me, as delicate as breath, as intimate as breeze. And I lie erect and ragingly aroused, eyes closed, afraid to look in case I see her, more afraid to look in case she's not there, and she fellates me. Then I ejaculate into her beautiful mouth and lie still, and when eventually I open my eyes it's spurted all over my stomach, cooling in silver snail's trails. But I don't masturbate. I don't touch myself. It's her fingers I feel, not my own."

Dave is suddenly acutely embarrassed by the intensity of tone. All at once this is no longer just an intriguing exercise in literary detection, but an encroachment into personal intimacies that are frighteningly obsessional. He glances down at the manuscript again, more from an urgent need to escape Mike's eyes than from any other motive. He riffles through the pages. Phrases and passages come adrift and snag at his attention, "...what I'm about to undergo... the lewd servility of the kneeling position I'll assume..." Until he nears the final chapters, and a name – Karl, draws him...

–- 0 –-

"Karl is German, the perfect Aryan type, blonde, physical and intense. He stays with us for a fortnight on some business assignment I never fully understand. A commodities representative for some small but ambitious company in Wuppertal attempting to forge links with my Father's retail outlets. It is beautiful late-August weather, with long warm evenings during which I laze beside our heated pool, often topless. At first I take care not to breach etiquette while Karl is around, and keep my bikini halter in place, but he's very attractive, and maddeningly indifferent to me. I find myself weaving romantic and erotic dreams around him. Although, throughout our marital activities, we'd always observed a strict anonymity, fellatio always occurring on Ennio's initiative, the more I see of Karl the more I want to do it to him, and finally pluck up courage to confide my feelings to my husband. To obtain his 'permission'. His approval for that single one-off act. Generously, he allows me this one indulgence.

Henceforth I discard bikini-top in the evenings and make sure Karl is aware of the pendulous movement of my released breasts. And soon I'm rewarded. Ennio sits on the far side of the pool, I lie on a low sun-lounger in bikini-bottom. Karl, observing me, is in brief white swimming shorts. With a purposeful glance at Ennio, who nods graciously, he walks slowly across to me, stands for a moment hesitantly at my head, his shadow falling over me, then – in a single determined movement, he skins his shorts down so his delicious penis curls naked into my defenceless face. I look up at him, lick my lips, and smile. He holds his breath as though not quite sure what to expect. So I move my head up slowly and swallow that perfectly heart-shaped cock-head and suck at it ... my husband watches contentedly as I take the cock deep into my throat...

But later, afterwards, he's still there. The following morning, as we breakfast on the terrace, dawn lighting the breakers below us, I can't escape his presence. Our eyes keep meeting, his gaze burning into me, seeking me out. Our fingers find excuses to meet, his hands brushing against me, my fingers, my cheesecloth dress, my hair. During the long morning they are away in conference and I'm left alone in the villa. I bathe, put on a burgundy silk house-coat, play some Bob Marley, and lie on the bed reading chapters from an erotic novel by Georges Bataille ('The Story Of The Eye'), a warm softening in my groin as my attention slips to thoughts of Karl, of love, of what we'd done, my lips in a halo around that fat German sausage. I lunch alone.

Now, there's a car in the drive, a sleep black Opel, Karl's car. He's returned on a pretext, his sudden presence frightening me. He smells clean, of after-shave, his eyes the palest blue I've ever seen. And playing hard to get was never in my repertoire of poses. I don't know how to react. I'm not prepared for this. Sex is easy, love is the difficult uncertainty, the oddness I'm afraid of and don't understand. But I'm in his arms and he's kissing me with hungry insistence, sucking my tongue in a fever heat until we're exchanging spit and tongues urgently and my resistance melts.

He's rising to the occasion, can hardly bear the tightness of his trousers, so I pluck at the fastening of his zip and release him dull and throbbing into my hand, a pulse-speeder. My blood up, going to crouch for him but he pulls me back – "no, not that way." And he's pulling the burgundy silk back, near attacking me, and I'm naked, the soft downy hairs between my legs stirring, more nude, more afraid and vulnerable than I've ever felt, but I can refuse him nothing. He eases me down, I lie on my back on the Japanese-print coverlets, he gently presses my legs open, really wide in a warm glow of sex, playing feelies with me...

...now he pushes me, guiding me to draw my knees up and back to my chin. I put my hands to the inside of my thighs and hold them back and apart, my bottom stretched taut. The lips of my vulva must look to resemble the opening petals of a rose, a nacreous slit of fascinating desire, a tunnel gaping wide, red at the mouth, shading to blackness at its depths. He's scattering kisses on my stomach, his chin brushing the first tufts of pubic hair, nose grazing the first crease of my vagina, seeking the hard sentry at its entry, my pussy pouting up at his face with a besotted sullen expression – it knows what it wants more than I do. His fingers and tongue trace the physical contours of the new territory he's opening up, this muscular hole, and I'm squirming the way girls only squirm when they have fingers up their cunts, the path of lust laid open, my girl-juice runs like lava, I'm deliciously hot and cold, arching my belly in little tremors that travel up my spine, my cunt clutching at his tongue, his fingers travelling my anal groove, the musculature of my bottom clenching...

...now he's lying between my legs and he's naked, his body strong, hard and blonde, the rough hair on his chest flattening on my breasts. It feels so perverse, so wrong, that imperious erection should be in my mouth – not there! For one incredible moment I think he's going to be too much for me, it seems to slide in for ever, and when I think I can't take any more I try to hold him back, but he's stronger, gives one last thrust and with a suck and a squelch he's home (but hardly dry)! It's all warm inside me and when it finally stops I'm shivering and sweaty with pussy dew and sweet perspiration...

...the hard strong smell of sex, and the odour of our bodies. I'm like an empty shell totally filled with cock. Then he's sliding back, sucking the breath out of me, leaving me aching and empty, then thrusting in again, so big it hurts, my scalp feels as if it's lifting, but as he's riding me I'm pushing myself down onto his oncoming cock, his balls going like a metronome beneath my bottom, my throat dry, making little throaty whimpers. My hands on the small of his back, dragging him inside me, he's quivering all over, working himself up by pressing his legs in together and his thighs closer to mine, and with wiggling pushes of his not-so private parts he drives me into a vulgar cum, a bone-jarring orgasm spouting baby-seed deep deep into me, where it's never been before.

And my eyes come open, and I'm looking up over his sweat-sheened shoulder, and I can see Ennio Cavellino standing there. His face reddening with a rage he cannot contain..."

–- 0 –-

"Pornography reduces all the complex metaphysical questions of existence down to one urgent need. It then satisfies that need," says Mike softly.

"Yes – but what about her? What about Angelina? If she's no longer a virgin she'll no longer fulfil the role Cavellino has designated for her."

"Well, what do you think? What do you think? Karl wants her. 'Come back to Wuppertal with me, come live with me, come love with me and be my Lay, share my life.' Would she go with him? Will she? With Cavellino she feels safe, she has her villa overlooking the lake, her pool, her leisure. She knows her role and what is expected of her, she's secure in that certainty. Why throw all that away for something as precarious and unpredictable as love, for a gamble with a commodities representative in Germany? Why should she accept a deal like that? She's not been programmed for it. That's not part of her arrangement."

"In life, or in fiction? In female motivation, or in male pornography? Which, which?"

"Either way. Their sexuality is a weapon women use to exploit men. A woman may appear to be enslaved – and yet still dominate. With Cavellino she is in control to a far greater extent than he is – for he has the need, and only she can ration the supply. Only she has the power to withdraw it completely."

The music fades. The stylus feeds into the wind-down groove, clicking audibly across the wall-mounted speakers. He makes no attempt to stop it, as if he's retracting in upon himself, in upon his fantasies.

"So... what happens?"

"They renegotiate, Angelina and Cavellino. They deal quotas and availability. She pretends remorse, concedes a little, compensates some. More men, more frequently, and a little more perversely, for a while. Two guys at once. Some bondage. She can do that, he has the need, even as he imposes it on her. She has the control, for only she can satisfy that need. In life, in literature. You draw the line, I can't any more. It gives me toothache..."

BY TRISTAN TROTSKY