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I will leave something that you will never forget, I will give you a little parcel of joy, fill your womb with a heat that will not cool. You lay beneath me with your thighs strained apart to receive it, and your whore's mouth whispers words you have said a thousand times before to a thousand men. But that doesn't matter.
Before me there were no men, and after me there will be none. It is not your fault if you have no unused phrase for what you feel.
I club her thighs with my dong, taking it out of her and pushing it into the soft wound again and again, taking her anew time after time. They have left her ravaged and open, easy to take and easy to fuck, all those others.
But I fill her, she knows she's being fucked this time. She pulls her dress away from her shoulders again and offers me her teats. I rub my face against them, sucking and biting. I grab her ass in both hands and crush the meat while I slip my cock toward her womb. If it hurts her, neither of us know or think about it.
My balls lay in a hot pocket, a hairy nest under her tail. The boards rattle under us like the jangling bones of a skeleton. Jism gushes out of my dong as freely as water out of a hose. The whore suddenly puts her legs around me and holds me tightly. But I fuck her for a full minute longer, coming into her womb even after the fire in her has been quenched and her legs fall to my sides again. The whore lies sprawling on the pile of lumber after it's over.
She doesn't try to cover herself. But I'm afraid that she'll remember and try to wheedle her few francs out of me, want me to download her a drink, pay for a taxi, tell me of her ailing mother. I take the first bill I find in my pockets, wipe my cock on it, and lay it crumpled on her bare belly weighted with a coin. The streets receive me, as bleak and foreign as before. Tania's letters will find me, no matter where I go.
Two arrive, one in the morning and the other by late post. She is lonely! I keep thinking about that big prick and all the wonderful things it does, and I would give anything I own if I could just feel it again, and take it in my hand. I even dream about it! It isn't enough to have Peter fuck me. Sometimes it is hard to keep from coming to see you, even when I know you would probably be angry with me and not treat me nice.
Don't you ever think about me and the good times we had together? I hope that you do and that sometimes you wish I were there in bed with you, sucking you off, playing with your cock, and fucking, Mother wishes you were here to fuck her too, I can tell because she talks about you so much.
She is always asking what we did, just what happened on the times when you fucked me and even what we said! I don't think she is letting anybody but Peter fuck her now. She has Peter and me go to bed with her every night and she makes me suck her off a lot. I don't care, I like to do it, but I wish that you were here so that I would be fucked more often. The second one is longer. Tania has discovered a new thrill and, as she writes, I have to tell you about it right away. Isn't that strange? It's because I would like to have you do it to me.
Everything that anybody does to me would be better if you were the one who did it to me. I guess that's because you have such a big cock. When I think of how big your cock is I feel goosepimples come up all over me. And I was even thinking of you part of the time when he was doing it to me! I was so glad to have a man fuck me again Mother watches me like a hawk that I could hardly wait to take the time to undress when we went to his room. He wanted to lie on the bed so we could play with each other, but I kept getting so hot that I couldn't stand it, and he had to fuck me.
I was acting so crazy that he was afraid I might jump out of the window or something. Oh it was wonderful to feel a man fucking me again. Peter is kept so busy fucking Mother that he isn't so much good any more, and this was the first time that I have had a good one since you went away.
He dragged me all over the room! He had already fucked me twice when he told me that he was going to show me a new trick, but he didn't have any trouble getting his prick hard. I just let him put it in my mouth and sucked it a tiny bit, and in a minute it was just as good as ever! Then he laid me on the floor on some soft pillows and had me lie on my stomach while he started to fuck me up my ass.
It was wonderful, of course, although it wasn't as wonderful as when you ram that big cock of yours into me that way, but then I was just a little disappointed because it wasn't really new after all.
Then I suddenly felt something new and strange. At first it felt as though he had come and the jism was going into me, but then it began to squirt hard and I knew that he was making pip in me! Oh what a queer and wonderful feeling that was! His big cock was stuffed into me and nothing could get out, it all went up inside. It was so hot that I felt as though I was burning all through me, and I could feel it squeezing into every bit of my insides.
It seemed as though he would never stop, and it crept up and up in me, making me feel all swelled up like a pregnant woman. When he was all finished he took his prick out very slowly and said that if I held it in, it would all stay in me. You can't imagine how I felt after he had taken his cock out, lying there with a man's piss inside me and feeling it all through my stomach every minute. Then he took me into the bathroom and I let it come out again, litres and litres of his pipi pouring out of my ass while he stood in front of me and made me suck his Jean.
I'll confess. I know the little bitch so well. I can close my eyes and see every gesture, every move she would make. I go marching back and forth across the room with a dong that would do credit to a stud horse. I don't know why the thought of pissing up that smooth round ass should evoke such results, but I can't get rid of the damned thing. I go for a walk, feeling that one leg drags slightly. I'm bait for every whore on the streets, and they all make a pass at me.
But it isn't a whore I want. I want another Tania, but one with whom it will not be necessary to become so deeply involved. I do not find her on the streets. Ernest has a wonderful view from his window. An art class, the real thing, where the students take turns in posing for each other because they're so poor that they can't afford a professional model. When I'm up in his place we sit and watch them for a while.
I like the spirit the people in that place show. They goose the model as they go past, give her bubs a pinch, tickle her in the crotch. Ernest tells me that there was a young fellow posing the other day and the girls bothered him so much that if their sketches were honest they must all have shown him with a hard on.
It's a fine thing to see art come to life. Back in New York they used to have phoney sketching classes where the bozos who mooched around the burlesque houses used to go. Fifty cents paid at the door and they gave you a half hour of looking at a naked cunt. All done, of course, with the strict understanding that you weren't really looking at a cunt at all. But these youngsters--they're all kids, even the instructor--know what it is they're after, the girl on the soap box is a naked girl with a bush around her cunt and juice between her legs!
She's something alive, to get your hands on and your prick into, and if the boys stop to give her a feel, if they pinch her ass and do their work with their cocks up. Ernest tells me that he's always had good windows. The one he didn't like was one which gave him a view into the apartment of a couple of fairies.
It wasn't so bad just having to see them sucking each other off or sucking off their boy friends, Ernest says, but they were continually bringing home sailors and being beaten up the next morning.
The mornings were awful, he tells me, and besides there was always their wash with the silk pants hanging out the window every morning. The most convenient was at a place where he lived with a whore named Lucienne. The house she worked in was next door and Ernest could look over and see the bed where she took her clients. It was very comforting, Ernest declares, to be able to look over and see his Lucienne at work and know that the rent was being provided for.
This leads into a discussion of the women with whom Ernest has lived at one time or another. The list he makes astonishes me until I discover that he is cheating.
Any woman with whom he has spent more than ten minutes he counts as having lived with. And didn't she sleep in my bed that night? Bed and board, if you give them that they are living with you. I'm astonished myself. With all the chop suey joints back in New York you'd think I'd at least have gotten next to one of the waitresses.
The subject of races comes up, and Ernest is prepared to give me advice on all of them. Don't try the Japs or the Chinks in the whorehouses, he warns me. They're all shaved and bathed and perfumed but they carry a skull and crossbones between their legs.
They take on any man who comes along and wow!
The galloping kind that carries you off in six months, nothing that you can pass off as a bad cold. The far Eastern brand of the syph, Ernest insists, has a special deadliness for the Occidental race. It all sounds like shit to me, but Ernest is positive enough to scare me away from the Orientals forever. Then, when he has the piss scared out of me, Ernest tells me that he knows of a nice little cunt who's quite safe.
She's not a whore, just a nice Chink girl who he knows, and there's not a chance of catching anything. Her father has an art shop, one of those joints filled with salvaged junk that was probably thrown out of the palaces with the garbage a few hundred years ago, Buddhas and screens and ratty chests, and so on, and the girl helps with the place and waits on the young blades who come in looking for a jade necklace.
Ernest writes the address on an envelope and gives it to me. I may have to download something just to keep up appearances, he says, but it's a certain fuck if I work it right.
He isn't going with me. I'm afraid to go back to my old neighborhood for it. I owe them a little bill yet and they're sore because I moved away. On the way I change my mind half a dozen times, and I almost go off with a black wench who gives me the signal from a park bench.
There was a time in New York when I spent almost every night in Harlem. I was nuts about a black cunt for a few weeks and wouldn't touch anything else. I got over that, but I still like it, and this girl is so husky and black. Ernest really has frightened me with all his talk about catching something. But I pass her up and go on. I never know how these things are done. When I'm stinking drunk I can talk to any cunt on the street, make the most insulting propositions without batting an eye, but to go into this joint cold sober and make my little speech.
Especially when I find that the girl is one of those cool, poised bitches who speaks perfect French. I expected to have trouble understanding her accent, and instead she makes me feel that I speak French like an American tourist. I don't know what the fuck to say.
I haven't even the slightest idea of what I want to download, if anything. She's a pretty cunt, I'll say that, and she's as patient as she is good looking. She shows me everything in the damned shop. I like her looks, especially the odd way in which her nose is flattened against her face and pulls her upper lip up.
Nice ass and bubs, too. I've noticed that most of the Chinese women I've seen appear to have no teats, but this cunt has a beautiful set.
Still, they're not quite the thing to begin a conversation around. Using Ernest's name doesn't help matters a bit. I was sent here by a friend, I explain, and I mention Ernest, but she doesn't know him! So many people are in the shop every day, she suggests politely.
I find that I have bought a hanging, a gorgeous thing with dragons to hang on my wall. The cunt smiles and wants to give me a cup of tea. I don't care for tea, I tell her. I was thinking of going around the corner for a pernod, and I would be charmed if she would accompany me.
She accepts! I can't say a word. I stand gaping like a fish and she trots back through the shop. She comes back wearing a trick hat that makes her look more Parisienne than the Parisiennes and she carries the package under her arm.
I still haven't invented anything clever to say and our departure out of the shop is made even less graceful by a little bastard of a street urchin who tosses horse turds at us from the gutter. But the cunt has wonderful poise. She wants to know who I am, what I am, my entire history.
Also the matter of my income comes up. I don't understand what she's leading up to, but she begins to talk about jade. There is a little trinket, she tells me intimately, which has just been smuggled in, a true gem of the emperors which must be sold for a mere fraction of its worth. I'm curious. There's obviously something fishy, and I get the impression that she wants me to understand that she's shitting me. Where can this stone be seen, I ask. Ah, everything comes to light, then!
It's not safe to have it about the shop, she tells me. The download would have to be made in some secluded spot far from the shop. It's a wonderful game once I understand how it's played.
This cunt really has imagination about selling her body. But her asking price! I begin to haggle with her and over the third pernod we agree that a week's salary will be the price of this piece of jade. I'll have to live on credits until the ghost walks again.
I've never paid so much for a tail, but this cunt makes it seem to be worth it. I don't doubt that she has a French name like Marie or Jeanne, but in the taxi going to my place she coos something that sounds like the piping of a flute. Bud of Lotus, she translates it, so I call her Lotus. It's all such a marvelous fraud. I add my part to the show. As soon as I have her tucked away in my rooms, I run down to download some wine from the concierge and serve it in the small green glasses that Alexandra bought for me.
Then, when Lotus is to show me the stone, I spread the lovely old hanging on the floor for her to stand on. The bitch must have played a year in burlesque to learn a strip routine like the one she showed me. Artfully, she leaves her stockings and shoes on after everything else has been tossed off.
And there's a red silk cord around her belly with the piece of jade hanging in her bush. It looks very neat, that little piece of green stone, snuggling into that bit of black. She leaves her clothes heaped on the dragon spread and offers it for inspection. The stone is the cheapest sort of junk, of course, but it's what's under it that I'm interested in. Lotus doesn't mind when I pay no attention to the thing.
There is an odor about her that reminds me of the tiny scented cigarettes that Tania used to smoke. She says something in Chinese, and it sounds fascinatingly filthy. I've forgotten all of Ernest's dire warnings by now. With the dong I've got I'd probably fuck her even if she did have a dose, and trust to a quick cure.
She breaks the cord at her waist and drops the stone into my palm. I fuck her on the floor, right there on my new hanging with a pillow tucked under her head. I won't let her take off her stockings, not even her shoes. To the devil with the embroidered dragon. I go after her fiercely.
Do I enjoy to squeeze her teats roughly? Very well, she presses them into my hands. And if I bruise them with my mouth. I put her hand on my dong and watch her long almond-colored fingers squeeze around it.
She murmurs continually. Ah, she knows her business well. Her customers pay well for that spicy breath of the Orient and she knows what it is they download. Her legs and belly are quite hairless. Even her ass, the damp skin around her soft cul, is bare. She spreads her legs when I touch her rectum. Her thighs are beginning to feel hot and slippery close to her fig.
Her abricot-fendu is almost as small as Tania's, but it has a more mature feel about it. John Thursday interests her. She pinches his neck and pulls his whiskers. I stop feeling her up and she sits cross-legged between my knees to play with him.
Her con splits open like some ripe and rich fruit, and her stockinged thighs press against my knees. The stockings and shoes provide an anomalous touch that I like. I couldn't tell by looking at her whether she was excited or not. But that damp patch around her silky muff gives her away. It spreads and shines between her thighs, and the smell of cunt slowly cuts through the odor of the scent she uses.
She pats John Thursday's head and tickles my balls. Soon she's stretched out full length between my legs with her nose pushing along my dick and into my bush. I don't know what they teach their women in the Orient.
Her tongue curls into my hair and smooths against my balls. She licks my dong, kisses my belly with her flat lips. Her arms slip around me and her teats are warm against my balls as she sucks me off. I scramble over her. I rub her bush with my cheek and my chin, tickle her bonne-bouche with my tongue.
I lick her thighs and even the flat crease between them. I want only to feel her thighs close and draw me in, pull my mouth to that deep-split fig. I throw both arms around her waist and pinch her ass while I lick the cunt juice from her skin and from the spread mouth that offers itself.
Quickly she throws herself upon me. Her conillon presses my lips and her legs are weak and open. Her juice drips into my mouth while I suck the hairy tail. She seems to tremble when she feels my tongue in her cunt.
She can't think of enough things to do to my dong in return. She even pulls her fig further apart with her fingers, until I have my tongue so far in that it must be tickling her womb. Suddenly there's a flood.
She's come, and she almost bites my prick in two. I let her fuck my mouth with her juicy thing. I want to see what she looks like, what she'll do when John Thursday blows up in her teeth.
I lie on my back again and watch her work over him. Her head rises and falls slowly. The look of surprise. She's found something warm coming into her mouth.
Then her slant eyes close. She swallows and sucks, swallows and sucks. The Chinese, I've been told, or I've read someplace, measure a fuck by days rather than hours. When I ask Lotus about it she laughs. She'll stay all night if I want her. And could she please take her stockings off now? I'm hungry and I suggest going out for something to eat, but Lotus puts me right. When a man downloads a Chinese woman, she says, he's bought a woman, not something to fuck like a goat.
She brings all her talents to him. I like the idea, so we dress and go out to download some food. As soon as we're in the place again we take off our clothes and Lotus makes a meal with a towel pinned at her waist, covering her front but leaving her ass bare.
I lie on the couch and she pauses to kiss my cock each time she passes me. After we've eaten we try the bed. Lotus thinks it would be nice if we did the tete-beche again, but I want to fuck her. I jump onto the bed after her and immediately ram my dong up her tail. She stops talking about the so wonderful tete-beche when she feels what John Thursday is like under her ass. It doesn't make any difference to Johnny what color she is.
She's warm and wet and hairy around the edges, and that's all he requires. He really spreads himself. He fills all the cracks and crevices, and when he's in I tuck his whiskers around to cover the corners. A few swabs with him and the girl begins to glow. Her small feet cross between my knees in back. She's a positive relief! I think of Tania, remember that bookkeeper with his half grown daughter, and laugh. The white world is upside down. Lotus laughs with me, without knowing why we're laughing.
She's a good cunt. I start to fuck the hell out of her. It's a great thing to have a bitch who can laugh while you fuck her. And she's no whore!
A concubine, rather. Lotus brings her passion as well as her talent for cooking. The money simply downloads a jade trinket. If she pants in your ear, it's real, if she moans softly you may be sure it's because she feels. She has life in her body, juice to oil the works, and she gives them ungrudgingly. I play with her bubs and she wants me to suck them again. The nipples, I discover, have a lemon ring about them like a Chinese moon. Ah, Lotus, you'll soon find that you have a Chinese firecracker in your cunt.
I'll singe your ovaries with Roman candles and sky rockets will flash through your womb. The spark is catching. Lotus may fuck in Chinese, but she comes in Parisian French.
Later in the night we become very gay over our wine and Lotus teaches me a few filthy Chinese phrases, each of which I forget in turn as I learn a new one. I fuck her again and again and in the morning I find she's gone, leaving a cheap jade trinket tied with a silk cord to my tired prick. Two of them. Sid, whom I have not seen since the night when we gave Marion such a hell of a going over at his place, and a cunt. Or a female. They perch politely on the edges of their chairs and we talk delicately of the weather or literature or something equally safe.
She's a Miss Cavendish. A Miss Cavendish, with no first name. You need only hear her hoity-toity "How do you do? Miss Cavendish, Sid explains, is a friend of his sister who lives in London. The explanation seems purely conversational and it seems that the visit has no purpose save a politely social one.
But Sid goes on to say that Miss Cavendish is going to teach in Lyons and, since the job does not begin for almost two months, she plans to spend some time in getting acquainted with Paris. One has to be civil, even with a female who wears tweeds and cotton stockings.
I ask cheerful questions, just as I will cheerfully forget all about her tomorrow. And where is she staying? Her glasses gleam as she turns toward me. But there's nothing to do. Anyway, she has nice legs, and there's an outside chance that she may be good for a fuck. But what a fine fucking friend Sid is!
I wish that I could see her without her glasses. When she is settled, says Miss Cavendish, we must not forget her, for Paris can be very lonely for a single girl alone. Evening visitors. Anna, back from the grave, and ten minutes later Alexandra. Anna is sheepish about our little party of a few evenings ago.
She laughs about it, with embarrassment spilling over the edges of her laughter. About what happened to her after she ran out of here without her clothes she is very vague. I don't press the subject. As soon as Alexandra arrives Anna remembers that she has another appointment. This time I remember to get her address. Alexandra pours her troubles over my head like a libation.
She is certain now that she is going for a trip to get away from Tania and Peter. Readjustment, she calls it. She sits on the couch and shows me her thighs while she calls the roll of the great sinners of history who have ended in the arms of Jesus.
I give it as my opinion that Jesus would probably like to know the whole works. Alexandra shudders deliciously. If she could only escape the children, she says, everything would adjust itself. But they seem to have an evil grip on her. And Tania.
She comes parading her naked little body into the room and there's no escaping her. She pauses, glances at me and quickly looks away. I tell you only because I know that you understand. She tormented Peter into. In passion the mind is clouded. I believe I may have said something. I liked it. She called me a filthy name.
The mark still remains. That little depravity is passed over and forgotten. She lifts her skirt along the thigh to show me the place where Tania bit her. The white flesh bulges over her garters. And the mark, as she said, remains. She raises her knee and parts her legs while I examine it. I squeeze her leg and begin to feel her up. She didn't mean that this should happen! Not much! She's made herself and me hot with her little slide-lecture.
But if it's a sample of John Thursday she's after. I lay her skirt up to her belly and slip her pants down.
What an ass she has! She could harbor a nest of white mice in the bush between the cheeks and never know that they were there; they could live cosily with never a care in the world. I tickle the hair and she begins to warm up.
Her fingers go into my fly and John Thursday leaps out. While we lie there playing with each other she reveals more of her adventures with those fuck-nutty kids of hers. She talks more freely as she becomes excited. Peter, it seems, now believes that sucking off a man makes him more potent.
I'm glad that I'm out of that asylum, but it's nice to hear what goes on there. Do I guess, she asks me, why Tania has such a grip on her? What can I say? It's just porn porn porn. He seems to try to find the raunchiest, most scandalous scenarios to write about.
My roommate kept egging me on telling me it was leading somewhere so I kept reading. Apparently he was dicking me around because the story didn't go anywhere and I felt like I'd wasted my time reading it. There's plenty of better stuff out there to spend your t Apparently he wrote this one chapter at a time and sold them to a pornographer who compiled them into a full book. There's plenty of better stuff out there to spend your time reading. Struggling is not uncommon, for most, but Miller shows no sign of it.
This book is a struggle for most readers, I imagine. It's exhausting, in fact. Like many other reviews I read, it was my first erotica nove Jouissance! Like many other reviews I read, it was my first erotica novel and first Miller. It's more a wonderful exploration of how far one can take the topic, and it's taken in every direction imaginable.
Well, to the heterosexual male, perhaps. Miller blames it all on Paris, which is a bit of a cop out, but that reality, still, articulates the differences of what we tolerate in either culture, US or French. There are many, many golden! What was my other point? If you don't feel anything after reading this, just dig a hole in your backyard, jump on in and have someone fill it up. For good or ill, emotions stir. All the time. Boy, I need a cigarette.
If you aren't stirred, you're probably already half-dead, head to foot. Thank you, Roseanne Barr, for the recommendation. Moments: But these art students --they're all kids, even the instructor--know what it is they're after, the girl on the soap box is a naked girl with a bush around her cunt and juice between her legs!