1 comments/ 4499 views/ 1 favorites Pussy-Licker: Volunteered Slavery By: tristantrotsky The Sexual Politics of love and lust are more complex than they at first appear. Who controls, and who agrees to be controlled? In this story of perversity and obsession TRISTAN TROTSKY explores the rules to the limit... ***** "Pornography leads to toothache." He glances up. Mike's tall stooping frame caught against the glittering glass facets of the derelict Central Station. "How come?" "Because, ultimately – it lies. Eventually it leaves a disquiet inside, a dull nagging unease that resembles toothache." Dave halts halfway to the parked Nissan. Stands, legs apart, on the uneven concrete, chickweed and dandelions coming up through cracks in what had been the forecourt, and is now NPS. "It's tales of girls who go hump in the night. It's writing – fiction, like any other. It's just that some fictions feed the mind, and porn stimulates other parts of the body. The difference is anatomical, not qualitative." "No." With certainty. Then, after a long pause, "women use their sexuality as a weapon to exploit men. They always have, they always will. Men have the greater need, women ration the supply to get what they want. Pornography leads you to believe otherwise. Leads you to believe sex is a mutual exchange, with no strings or hidden clauses. It lies, and by lying, creates yearnings that the real world can never satisfy." He hesitates, key half-pointed at the car lock. The sun slanting in low now so the glass sections are set aflame and the garbage and debris become junk sculpture riddled with pointed shadows. "What's eating you? What's brought this onslaught of nihilism on? You getting misogynistic in your dotage?" He grins, hands thrust deep in his loose parka in a gesture of suddenly embarrassed denial. "No, nothing like that. I'm not saying this out of bitterness or anger. I'm just trying to be rational. Trying to explain it, to be honest. This is true." He pockets the car keys. His watch reads 07:18:46. He can afford to wait a little longer. "You want another drink? Where can we go? I don't really know Manchester that well." The Bus Station is a cathedral of labyrinths beneath a mile of ferrocrete autodrome. Coaches whisper contrails of blue petrol exhaust-fumes beyond the glass where people wait for services that never arrived. The Café runs in lines of chessboard lino and tubular chairs fixed to the floor. The seats are of red flexible plastic that refuses to mould correctly to the contours of the spine. "It begins with Angelina, I guess. I don't really know. Probably the seeds of it go back further than her, a long way, without my realising it. Probably a whole cul-de-sac of things develop making it inevitable, and she's just the catalyst. Perhaps – I don't know. Anyway, I receive this manuscript. In Italian. Addressed from Verona, but it arrives indirectly. It comes via a few agents who shunt it here and every-which-way, not quite sure what to do with it. And so it winds up with me for translation and sub-editing. You know Verona? Ever been there?" He shakes his head, Pyrex coffee cup enveloped in both hands, elbows on the table leaning him forward to establish conversational territory. "No, me neither." A look of disappointment. "But I imagine it. The Venetian Riviera, the lake. And I imagine her. Might be better that way, better it should stay where it is, out of touch, open to interpretation." "So come on, who is she? A writer?" "All I have is a manuscript, called 'Dolci E Perverse'. Thick, double-spaced A4's, neatly file-holed and bound. But there's no personal details and, to be honest, I'm scared to ask for them. It's autobiography, I'm sure, it's got to be. I've been over it so many times, and yet – sometimes... it's just that sometimes I feel that just possibly, say ninety-seven to three on a hundred scale, just possibly it could be pornography. Written by a man. Or written by a woman to exploit men. Or perhaps such differences are semantic, the relationships are merely those of the sexual politics of life. It's the same with Pauline Reage and 'The Story Of O' from 1954. Who wrote that? Who is Pauline Reage? It's not important. That's what I mean about the relationship of porn to life." He pauses. "There aren't too many personal details so I have to invent them. The writing is grammatically wrong, often confusing tense and narrative points of view, there are breaks in perspective and tense, so I have to re-write it extensively. First I'll try it one way, then another, until I get a draft that sounds right. Until I can imagine her, her body, her voice, her actions. And I retain the different aspects, inter-relate them to build up a composite picture of events until I understand them and feel part of them and explain them to myself." He's talking faster now, compulsively. "For example, there's a sequence seen from the perspective of one her 'lovers'. The 'lovers' she takes with her husband's collusion, and in accordance with his express wishes..." –- 0 –- "There are enormous dark eyes regarding me, the scary expression of some disturbed nocturnal creature. A lemur. A tarsier. She plays a little-girl look, investing it with something like romantic sadness. She might be about to confess some indiscretion, some 'I'm feeling naughty today', but instead her lips are moving and she's saying "I've taken the seed of a hundred men, yet – until this month, I've been a virgin." In front of her there's a green velvet bedspread trimmed with white. The room is oak-panelled. Furniture and fittings are upholstered in the same cloyingly rich materials with heavy brocade curtains at the shuttered windows. Her husband is also in the room, watching us. He sits formally with the jaded air of a world-weary Edwardian rué. "Learning fellatio is like learning to swallow oysters" he says, "or like swallowing your own snot." Perhaps I imagine it – projecting my own thoughts onto her, but momentarily her resentment and humiliation seem to burn, with images of sperm gumming her face, making her eyelashes stick together. And when she speaks, her voice is husky with cum, the taste that's still in her mouth, bitter and salt. But crouching there is affecting her. I watch, splay-legged on the bedspread. He watches us. Sees her breath coming hot, rapid and sultry, her nostrils flared. She's slightly built, small in stature with a sallow gipsy complexion. Slim, near anorexic, but for her breasts. They are contrastingly full, nipples dark and moist-shiny, pointing slightly away from each other, squinting outwards. There's a luxurious night-black pubic delta lush to her navel, a delicate Venetian fan of pubency, its musky scent makes my head spin, I could eat the heart out of it. The thought of it makes me weak at the knees and hard at the groin. Then there's the shock of heavily curling, crimped equally black hair falling to her waist, tenting her petulant face. She's brunette all the way down, and bare-foot all the way up. Her hair is all over her face and she's shaking it away, and with each tremor of her breasts her fingers melt on my skin, moving like liquid sex. I'm gritting my teeth in anticipation. And she murmurs me into her, her pursed red lipsticked lips sliding clinging wet and warm over plum-coloured springy knob-end in a snake's flicker of tongues. Her mouth closing around the swollen velvet tip, biting the purple-headed glans softly, then proceeding to take more and more of the thick veiny shaft, biting it all the time, something masochistic in the way she's accepting it. I can see her white teeth nibbling round the shiny tight rim of the big round bulb, her tongue mating it in that soft moist heaven, that slow-burning genital heat, her black hair brushing cock and balls as she sucks. Now she's chewing wantonly like a savage, performing not because she must, but because she can't hold back. An urgency that's debased and animal. Her husband's eyes gloat. My mouth opens in a silent howl as I come up tight against the restriction of her throat, my penis so stiff it hurts, tortured beyond endurance as she buries it in her face, attacking with teeth, tongue and lips. By now she's taking almost all the length down, rubbing the base hard as she jerks her mouth back and forth, riding it up and down ravenously, her cheeks blown out taut, distorted by its shape, then greedily caving, sucking, working furiously, long red-varnished fingernails playing a tingling cascade of butterflies over my testicles. I ejaculate uncontrollably, imagine semen oozing over her teeth as I'm drowning in her saliva, and when I've finished orgasming down the luscious cave of her throat, with a primitive slurping sound she's allowing the sulky brute cock to slip voluptuously out from between her well-fucked lips. Her face messy with fluid, the juice-covered cock held against her cheek dripping and dribbling like a leaky tap. Her husband watching. She turns to him passively for his approval. He nods. Perhaps he's achieved erection, which surely is the whole object of the exercise? I sense that already he's planning her next suck..." –- 0 –- Later, shunting the Nissan back through traffic towards Mike's flat, lights come up in the streets beyond, striplights, neons and argons. Dave glances across. "So you're modifying someone else's fantasy?" "Or someone else's life. That's what makes it so intriguing. Am I really getting closer to her personality, into her psyche? Understanding her true sexuality? Or just elaborating someone's masturbation fantasy? I don't know. I imagine her voice in my head. It's there all the time. It's there now. She knows I'm here with you. She knows what I'm saying. She's laughing at my doubts." "How do you imagine her?" "Different ways to suit different moods." An amused shrug. "And to suit my own tastes. But there are general guidelines. She's Italian, so I say olive, Mediterranean complexion. Dark. But not too dark, what they used to call 'dusky'. And young, twenty? Twenty-two? Sometimes I try twenty-four, but that's too old, or eighteen – but that's too early. No, it's got to be twenty. And as the narrative is set in the early Seventies, that makes her only in her late forties now, right? And she's got black hair, long black hair, thick and curled loose around her face and shoulders, sometimes to her waist, yes, that's my favourite one. An ebony tent of hair to her waist so her face, shoulders and nipples peep through a fine veil of it. Bardot lips, bee-stung lips, thick, almost Negroid, in a woman-child pout, like a Euro-movie. Bardot's sullen sensuality, and something else, something demure, innocent, even in debauchery. A face to launch dreams. Turned-up nose and huge, deep, limpid brown eyes, eyes that make you stand and deliver with just a glance. Delicately formed, doll-like, but with large full breasts, nipples the colour of copper coins and twice as large as fifty-pence pieces..." "But of course, that's all your fictions. There's no way you can even tell the author's genuine gender. Is there nothing in the style of the writing that gives clues? Isn't the way a man writes porn different to the way a woman writes it?" "I've thought about that. Certainly there are differences. I've read and studied a lot. Men write harder, they emphasise arousal, even the nipples and the clitoris become massively erect, described like the penis. Women write softer, more fluid. But even that's a double-blind because it relates to the audience they write for, they deliberately cater to the fixations of their readers. And male fantasies and female fantasies are not the same – despite what they say." "How does it all begin...?" –- 0 –- "Angelina's father, Sergio Badini, is as ruthlessly ambitious in Business as he is strict and authoritarian at home. He comes from poverty, back street petty crime, black markets, the slums, until he's briefly imprisoned during the final chaotic days of World War II. It's here he meets, and comes under the influence of Ennio Cavellino, who's jailed for Fascist political offences. Cavellino's in an old established family, aristocracy clear back to Genoese Merchant Princes. Yet they strike up a bond that remains today. Immediately following the war – on a loan from Cavellino, Badini buys his first legitimate business, a general store in Verona. He works hard, using his black market skills and contacts, expanding clear through the Italian ricostruzione of the Fifties until, with two shops, he's able to exploit the 'age of the common man', switching format to ride the Supermercato (Supermarket) boom until he owns a string of them clear across North-East Italy. While the aristocracy – already in decline, is being taxed to near extinction by successive left-of-centre Governments. Cavellino hence has social prestige and title, but no cash. Badini has commercial success, but hungers for respectability. The imbalance is corrected by an arrangement – Angelina. It could be that simple, a contract of mutual advantage to both parties, the text isn't too specific. In 'Dolci E Perverse' she writes "Cavellino is older, much older, slightly corpulent, bewhiskered, but always elegantly and expensively tailored, precise and immaculate in manners. Always more the indulgent uncle than the Lover. And he's always there, as far back as I can remember – there at Parties with my Mother, I sit on his knee as a child. He's there on outings and picnics. He's always part of the extended family, buying me presents and clothes. It's natural for me to have no modesty before him, to sunbathe fashionably topless during long languorous Julys spent in our villa garden, the shading cypress trees and the summer-house overlooking the curve of Lake Garda, and as I mature I'm flattered by his interest in my body, although it's a warm, safe, feeling. He calls me his 'Toy', his 'Little Property', and I feel protected, enclosed by his possessiveness. I strive to gain his approval. When my family applies gentle encouragement it seems natural we should marry, and that the roles should remain pretty much as they've always been. I've been brought up to respect the wishes of those I care for. My loyalties are simply transferred to my husband. I'm content to surrender all questions of freedom to his proprietorial and paternalistic authority. Our marriage is unconsummated. Ennio is impotent, unable to sustain erection, so I stay chaste. But he loves me to be naked for him, to dress provocatively – at his instigation, around the house, I might wear just frilly red garter-belt and pale mauve stockings, or outside I'll wear sheer blouses, no underwear, so my nipples are clearly outlined (everything he wishes me to wear draws attention to them) and skin-hugging slacks, or short short micro-skirts. Sometimes I feel self-conscious, but he enjoys other men's covetous glances, and through his approval, I gain my reward. It stays that way, until the American hitch-hiker..." The story seems straightforward, but there are hints, suggestions, of other factors. The 'arranged' marriage, the 'transfer of ownership', seem to be the payback of a debt. The final repayment on the original loan that funded Badini's first commercial venture? The arrangement must have been explicit, with a contract rider, a pact of some kind. A 'deliver unto me your firstborn.' There's a kind of moral queasiness about that which I find unsettling. Of course, at any point – if she'd found the arrangements not to her taste, she was well able to back out. The option was always there for her. This is not the Seventeenth Century. This is not the Third World. This is the age of Feminism and the Gender Revolution. But I feel that – to a degree Angelina was guided, if not quite conditioned or pre-programmed. In many ways a strong self-willed person, she yet writes of having taken pride in playing the role of 'property' from the beginning, while in maturity she is content to accept the material and economic benefits of accepting the part, almost, of an item of trade. So how binding an arrangement can this be? How deeply rooted? I imagine the two men isolated together in that prison cell, from vastly different social classes, but they've become comrades in some bizarre crusade. Martyrs for Fascism. Cavellino and Badini must have expected execution at any moment, and the imminence of death concentrates the mind, produces an intimacy, a bonding, like no other. I believe the social experiment begins here, with that trading of confidences, that hatching of impossible dreams and yearned-for futures that must have occurred in that bleak cell. The combination of Aristocracy with Capitalism must have seemed irresistible. Even the mode of sexuality subsequently employed suggests this. And all of the events that are to happen must have flowed from that moment. All – that is, until her actions cause the rules to be adjusted..." –- 0 –- Mike's flat consists of the upper storey of a gently decaying Regency house set back slightly from the road, fenced off by an overgrown garden, shaded in by tall unruly trees. The walls of his room are black. An angle-poise lamp illuminates the computer in one corner, green digital numbers read out from a DVD in another, beneath a silk-screen poster by Peter Blake. He ignores the CD, but places a vinyl album on the music-centre turntable instead, cues up the stylus, and Roland Kirk's 'Volunteered Slavery' pulses and dances from the wall-mounted speakers. "I still break out in a cold sweat when I think of what I make her do to me" he says, in a voice pitched just above the jazz saxophone. Mike, the Thin White Duke of the Manchester Lit-scene, hacking out translations, ghosting biographies for Rock Stars and Sports Personalities, living through various other dubious and vicarious enterprises. "I see her all the time now. She sucks on her forefinger, playfully, in a highly suggestive manner, one so lascivious it could be prosecuted under some obscenity law. She's tactile, she touches things, tiny secret touches, she does it compulsively, chair-backs, surfaces... people. People. She sticks her tongue out at me cheekily, but as the tongue protrudes between her lips it suggests a fleeting ghost of the clitoris in the vagina. She licks her lips like they do on the TV commercials, her throat moving up and down like she's swallowing. And I imagine she might be swallowing something of mine. For me she is the feminine mystique, the Belle De Jour..." "But her being inaccessible, near-mythic, has got to be a part of that attraction?" "But is that a good or a bad thing?" He shrugs expressively. Passes an A4 ring-plan folder across to him. This is 'Dolci E Perverse'. He opens it at random, reads the small tight handwriting and the areas of typescript, skipping and skimming the narrative. This section – detailing Angelina's first submission, is written in the first person... "...motoring through the lower slopes of the Alps, descending through lines of trees that spoke past the windshield and curve back, domiciles set like fossils in the valleys, swinging past us on the end of long gradients and steep beaten-earth driveways. Dust hangs on the air, the air hangs heavy with imminent thunder, but the engine swallows sound like we're travelling underwater, amputated, disconnected from what we're seeing... ...and we pick up this American student, College kid, shoulder-length auburn hair, hitch-hiking on a year's sabbatical to 'do' Europe... young, bronzed, vibrantly athletic, just a few years my senior, relaxed in the way that Americans are relaxed, flirtatious in that unconscious intimacy that American can achieve within moments of meeting. I'm wearing an expensive blouse so sheer my nipples must be clearly visible, I'm conscious of the weight and the movement of my breasts beneath the thin material. Shy of his obvious interest, but also flattered by it... a stop at a Ristoranté for lunch, drinking red wine as clear as blood, they're deep in conversation – in English, from which I'm excluded, recognising a word here or there, but unable to piece them together, so I drink more wine, its warm blur softening the words into smooth reassuring consistencies... 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