Monsieur (33 page)

‘What do you want me to do?'

I withdrew into the pillow, unable to express ways in which he could pleasure me better, his fingers or his mouth, maybe even his cock. How could I choose? The multiple answers to Monsieur's question were making me feel dizzy, and his long, artful tongue, hard and invasive, was not making things any easier. I frowned and mumbled: ‘Do something with my cunt!'

Somehow I regained control over myself. I continued: ‘It's bloody irritating, you being so careful not to touch it.'

In a flash, he looked away from me, and behind the half-moons of my arse, I stared at him, my eyes still only half open. That luscious mouth of his was swollen by its travails to prepare me for his entry, and Monsieur in his excitement looked like an animal. My small unsteady voice was about to issue some further demand when he turned me over, and rested on his knees facing my wide-open legs, his cock unfolding, bruising the skin of my tummy with its hardness. He looked anything but a surgeon. In truth, thus unclothed, Monsieur was just a long, thin body, with his cock at its centre, the sole master of his movements, of my fate. Long gone was all the sophistication I had evoked a thousand times, outrageously praised to my girlfriends, written and dreamed about, and sought in vain in others. What now seemed to be unfolding in Monsieur's mind was as old as the world, making his lips curl up as he said loudly, his eyes fixed on my oozing slit: ‘Don't move. Let me watch you.'

Without looking away, he took hold of his cock and, out of embarrassment, I burrowed deeper into the pillow. Roughly he took hold of my neck with his free hand, and in my panic, I'm sure my eyes squawked,
Surely you're not going to strangle me?
Because it would have required just a touch of extra pressure for his fingers to force their way deeper into the soft flesh and break the pink cartilage. I must have been looking at him with intense terror in my eyes when Monsieur stroked my cheek with his thumb, whispering: ‘Don't be scared, baby mine.'

The embrace slowly relaxed and I caught my breath. Monsieur's cock quivered in his right hand and I was gaping open, unnerved by his presence.
I must look a right mess
, I thought, forcing myself to hold his gaze as he loomed above me.

You look like a whore
, Monsieur's eyes replied.
I can see your arse, your cunt, I can even see inside you and you look like a whore. Enough for me to be hard as rock just looking at you on the sheets, with your now silent mouth. As if your mouth had anything to say. As if your second mouth had more things to say. You can hide wherever you wish, even tighten your legs, if you wish, but I know what lurks between them, how voracious and willing your little cunt is as it cries with the energy of despair to be filled. Listen to yourself. Your stomach is wide open, your gullet is dilated and you want to keep your eyes closed. What does it all mean, Ellie? Why can't I own both, your soul and your arse? What right have you to place an embargo on all those twisted ideas rushing though your little blonde head, when I clearly see in front of me an interlocutor capable of so much more sincerity than you, an interlocutor willing to kill for the gift of my fingers, my cock, even my mouth. And you think you can give this to someone else? Ellie? Every time, I pass through your life with the speed of the breeze. In a few days, you will frenetically touch yourself as you recall this occasion because you're not brave enough to live it now, right now, when you have all the tools at your disposal to come properly and lacerate my back with your nails. You'll hate yourself and will compromise yourself with a series of messy, badly organized texts, and all they will say to me is that you miss me. So, look at me. Let your small slim fingers swim across the sliminess of your slit while your eyes defy me to find another slut as beautiful as you on this planet. Allow your fingers to move lower. Touch yourself.

But I would not. My lips wet, I ordered Monsieur: ‘Lick my cunt.'

Lick my cunt!

He laid both his hands at the apex of my thighs, spreading me. The wetness of the sound made me jump. This was what it meant to be open, truly open, monstrously so. His thumbs grazing across my opening made a slow bee-line towards my lips, meeting at the perfect spot, with the assurance of someone who can calculate to the nearest millimetre (surgical exactitude). I felt like a butterfly pinned to a board. Monsieur, studying my face as I became overwhelmed, quickly took hold of me between his forefinger and his second finger, as you pinch a child's nose. Even with my eyes closed, I sensed the hardness of his gaze, its penetrating intensity.

Driving in two fingers, he opened me like a wound, with his customary grave delicacy, unveiling the velvet flesh that is seldom bared, while I twisted on the bed, mumbling words I couldn't finish, the primitive language of love.

Babette and I had often wondered what silent question passed across the lips of men for us to keep saying, ‘Yes, yes, yes,' when we made love. Just as there are rhetorical questions, there are also ornamental answers that do not involve or commit you: the yes born of that specific moment, precisely forming in your throat, is a form of unchallenged approval, the very essence of approval. It does not mean that you are saying yes to fingers or a cock, however interchangeable they might be, even if at that precise instant they form the central axis of the momentary parallel world you are wading through. It's a total surrender to the moment, pleasure, feeling completely happy, way beyond anything that's ever happened before or might take place later. The only thing you can say is ‘Yes.'

And I thought again of the way Henry Miller described the sound of a finger delving inside a cunt, a sort of
squish-squish
micro-sound, while below my stomach Monsieur was distilling wet gurgles my words could barely disguise, suction noises miles away from the more elegant
squish-squish
that would rightly belong to a nineteenth-century boudoir. I heard myself say: ‘Kiss me.'

Displaying not an ounce of resistance (he probably thought I was totally under his thumb), Monsieur promptly aligned his lips against mine. In a trance, I stared at the man's head between my thighs, the hands and fingers digging small pits in the flesh of my arse cheeks. I could feel but not hear his warm breath.

‘You smell so good . . . Your cunt smells so good!'

As I caught my breath again, in anticipation of my next series of frenzied yelps, Monsieur began to lap at me, at first slowly enough for me to feel every square inch opening as his tongue travelled across my private surface,
almost as if he was licking the back of a stamp!
That was the thought that sprang to mind before he deepened his assault as if to fuck me with his tongue, and the sensation of being only partly filled set my nerves on edge. My thighs were shuddering to a maddening rhythm beside his ears. Neutralizing my frantic movements with a sharp parting of my knees, he continued to peck at me. I could almost see myself swell and harden under his lips, jut like a small, wet nipple between his teeth, between his fingers as his whole mouth encompassed my opening, drinking from me, drinking, drinking, drinking again, again and again. It had taken him only a few minutes to turn the torture, the endless wait, the months of mortification, into a necessary road travelled to reach this sublime moment of supernatural communion. The language of love is a construct of thighs rubbing against each other, the muted sound of sheets crinkling, sudden hardness and, of course, ‘Yes, yes, yes'.

It was when I least expected it (I was drowning in a whirlpool of pleasure) that Monsieur, with no word of warning, slipped two fingers into my arsehole, and I almost screamed, dear God. Actually, I think I did. I joined the ranks of the women who
know
: the small proportion of readers who will truly understand the exquisite and disgusting violence I experienced. My guts felt twisted from the speed with which I had been opened and closed again, and there I was babbling away, my legs in the throes of paralysis.

‘I'm going to fuck you in the arse now,' Monsieur whispered. ‘I'm going to fuck you in the arse, Ellie.'

‘Do it facing me, please,' I muttered, my breath sticking in the back of my throat.

‘Yes, it'll be wonderful, my cock inside your small arsehole while just above I watch your dripping cunt.'

Monsieur rose slowly above me. His cock shone in the pink darkness of the room (I had forgotten how wet some men's cocks appear after you've briefly blown them).

‘Use your fingers, spread yourself open further.'

I obeyed, holding my hole wide, subterranean sounds rising from my tight throat. Monsieur created a passage for himself, forcing open the breach he had already wetted with his spit. A brief flash of pain coursed through me as he thrust himself forward and half buried inside me, whispering: ‘That's it, darling . . . I'm in.'

I felt his hairs brush against my bum cheeks, and hot flesh filling me to the brim,
filled like a whore.

‘It's there, Ellie. Deep inside your arse.'

‘Yes, yes, yes . . .'

‘Talk to me, tell me how you feel, how good it feels when I fuck you in the arse.'

‘It's good,' I confirmed, my voice unsteady. ‘Your cock is so . . .' (total contrition as my vocabulary betrayed me while, above me, he waited for me to find the right adjective) ‘. . . so good!'

‘Just look at you.' Monsieur smiled.

I stared at his chin, disgusted by the obscene swelling of my cunt as it gaped wildly, lazily, wet and carmine. I instinctively felt I should conceal it from his gaze and began to touch myself. Monsieur immediately spread-eagled me with his outstretched hands and there I was, wallowing on the hotel bed, my thighs held apart at what seemed an impossible angle, my belly full (and that feeling of being filled was as much ecstasy as it was sheer torture), half of a painfully hard cock sticking out from my arsehole and then thrusting back inside me to its full length, and right above it, my slit gaping open. And while I felt like the lowest of the low, Monsieur kept fixing me with intense concentration, light years away from repugnance, visibly delighted by the dichotomy of my shuddering body and the remnants of civilized propriety still visible on my face. A face he often described as
doll-like
. But as the waves of pleasure rose inside me, civilization was losing ground, rapidly losing its foothold, and the whole world beneath my half-open eyelids was turning hazy, my heart was beating faster, my nerve endings were growing harder by the second. The air around us thickened. All of a sudden, everything was more beautiful, warmer, as if, without renouncing Monsieur, I was once again alone in the room, totally unconcerned that anyone could be watching me. Until Monsieur decided on something even more obscene: brutally withdrawing from my arse, he stood still, facing me like a statue, his hands still holding me down, and gazed at me, his cock high against his stomach.

‘Don't do that!' I breathed out, terrified by the sheer crudeness of the situation and by the thought – somewhat pragmatic in view of the circumstances, but after all I'm only a girl – that my cunt was so wide open it could have right there and then have hoovered up all the air in the room.

But Monsieur, on the other hand, was only a man, and the collateral damage this sort of situation could cause didn't appear to bother him in the slightest and he just kept on standing there, his fingers holding my knees back so he could watch my arsehole and my cunt in all impunity while I squirmed with embarrassment. Or maybe he was quite aware that I did not dare move even an ear, fearful the mood might change. And so I found myself pinned down motionless, just my hands frantically wriggling out of my control, half hoping not to have to picture what I looked like, all my openings open to the wind. I mumbled:

‘Fuck me!'

‘Let me look at you a little longer,' Monsieur kept saying, as he swept the burning tip of his cock along the ridge separating my arsehole from my cunt.

‘Please,' I begged, hoping my submission might weaken his resolve.

‘Keep touching yourself,' he said.

OK, OK
, I thought, my pride dented.
But there's a distinct lack of cock in all this.

And while Monsieur, fascinated, could not find it in himself to cut the spectacle short, I impaled myself on him in one single thrust, arse first, locking my legs around his back so he couldn't slip away. One of those long hands I loved and feared made its way to my neck,
Very good
, Monsieur said, and filled my cunt with God only knew how many fingers, still fucking me to a steady rhythm – is there a word to describe the perfect rhythm men sometimes miraculously come across following an eternity of trial and error? It almost brought tears to my eyes.

‘You're quite a slut, Ellie,' he smiled as I kept on warning him that I was about to come any moment now.

My name, in his mouth and this particular context, felt like the bite of a carefully handled whip. I could not hold on any longer (but the mere thought of having to
hold back
was like a victory over life and the whole wide world) to hear his sublime final remark with any semblance of precision, but I remember it with clarity in the midst of my screams, as the wave rolled over me, and he just thundered in the distance, his voice like a choral accompaniment to my orgasm:

‘You're so damn wet, my darling . . .'

Then came a few seconds when all I could think of was to begin breathing again, floating in cotton, the sole sensation of my wet thighs and Monsieur's still hard cock reaching me through a thick curtain of fog. Bathing in a sentiment of full plenitude, wallowing like a sow in the undone bed, I caught hold of my breath as best I could, now indifferent to his remaining movements all over me, the sudden stiffness of his cock deep inside my weary moist innards. It's when he dug his nails into the flesh of my thighs, kneading me hard enough to raise bruises, that I opened a grim eye. Monsieur's orgasm began like a soft breeze skimming across the surface of water; under my gaze, his torso and then his neck were caressed by a shimmering wave, and in response, his eyelashes began to flutter. Beneath his half-open eyelids two deep grey pupils searched for mine.
Fuck, he's so beautiful
, I remember thinking. The thin-winged nose and quivering nostrils, so familiar from their endless journey between my arse and my knees. The mouth that is always partly open when he makes love, the thick lower lip. His long eyelashes. The scandalous smoothness of his skin, a girl's skin on a male body. The harshness of his features, the violent beauty of his face when it vibrated, as it did now, above mine, hovering between struggle and surrender. Monsieur was no longer struggling. Monsieur watched me as we held on to each other, as my arsehole sucked at his cock, and I was overtaken by passion, observing how his lips quivered and his eyes could barely stay open.