The Adventures of Holly White and the Incredible Sex Machine (21 page)

‘Here,' she said, ‘come closer.'

When he was close enough she reached towards the tight slap of his cock and grasped
it in her slippery fist. She wiped
her juices down the shaft and up again. He was
completely lubricated in her wetness and he thrust forward against her hand, slipping
up and back until his pleasure built to a low moan. She pressed her other equally
damp hand against his mouth, stifling it as she might press her cunt against his
face to silence him. She watched as his eyes rolled upwards towards the ceiling,
felt his tongue lick out to taste her.

‘Wait,' she told him, ‘climb inside the accumulator first. We don't want to waste
a drop of that orgone, do we?'

And she pulled on the plaited cord until the accumulator closed around them and over
their heads.

She woke in the night and Nick was sitting at the small desk in the corner of the
room writing furiously. Every few sentences he paused to run his hand through his
hair. He stood, paced, stopped to peer out of the window. He seemed unsettled. He
sat and turned a page and attacked the blank paper with his pen as if he wanted to
scratch it into submission with his words. The little box was sitting beside him
on the table and he picked it up and tapped it and peered at the dial.

Holly turned away from him. She curled her knees up towards her chest. She dipped
her hand between her legs and found a little pool of dampness waiting for her there.
Her finger was stained a bright blue when she removed it and for the first time in
her life she smiled at the sight of her internal light. Nick had loved the glow at
her crotch. Nick had worshipped at it, fondled it, traced his lips with her glow
in the dark gloss. Holly wiped her finger on his pillow and the light burned there
for a minute with the intensity of a kiss.

She was a little chilly and she pulled the covers up over her
shoulders. He would
come to bed soon. She waited for him patiently, but at some point her eyelids began
to drift closed once more and she sank into the sweetest dreams. If Nick had climbed
up into the accumulator he would have noticed Holly smiling in her sleep.

Quiet Days in Clichy

by
HENRY MILLER

Parisians these days didn't dress quite as beautifully as the women in
Story of O.
Holly sat by herself at a café, ordered un café and felt gratified by the nod from
the waitress. ‘Toilette' afforded her a surly nod in the right direction and she
pushed her luck a little with a ‘plat du jour' which was a safer option for her than
trying to untangle the words on the menu. The slices of meat that arrived were tender,
and complemented perfectly by greens tossed in herbs and butter and some kind of
fruity sauce. Holly took little bites to make the meal last, resisting the urge to
eat the whole thing in an ecstatic frenzy.

She looked out at the street where the Parisian women were strolling very stylishly.
The dresses were plainer now, it seemed, than when Pauline Réage was observing them
in 1970. The women no longer wore teetering platform clogs. Still, there was a certain
sensuality in participating in everyday tasks that reminded her that she was not
in Brisbane anymore.

She watched an older lady pause at a street stall near the entryway to Le Marché
des Enfants Rouges. The woman, touching a fig with the tip of her finger, might have
been pressing a young girl's breast. She was perhaps eighty. She was wrinkled, her
neck was a knot of folded skin, but she held herself as if she were a girl. Walked
with a gentle bounce in her step, her hand poised elegantly at her side, the fingers
cupped slightly as if enjoying the sensation of frosty air held in her palm as she
walked on.

Holly wondered if a woman of eighty still found the inclination to take a lover.
Discreetly leaving her husband at home to go to market, and climbing the long winding
flight of stairs into some other old man's home instead. Was Pauline Réage still
sexual when she died? Would O, in Réage's novel, have continued to enjoy her sexual
submission with many men long into her twilight years? Holly, a little distracted
from the task of reading by almost constant orgone accumulation, was only halfway
through the book but she hoped that it ended beautifully for O.

She watched the old woman lift her skirts lightly as she walked across the road,
the automatic gesture of someone more used to gowns than the kind of mid-calf heavy
woollen skirt she was wearing today. Holly imagined the woman lifting the skirt over
her elegantly styled grey hair, released from the burden of her clothing, and suspected
that she would be magnificent. The years played out on her skin, her breasts bowing
to the weight of ardent attention, a body done with shyness, abandoning itself completely
to the pursuit of pleasure, not wasting a second.

The waitress spoke to Holly then. The words were a jumble
of pretty but meaningless
syllables. Holly blinked up into a rather sweet young face and saw then that the
old woman was strangely far more beautiful than the young one.

‘L'addition?' She had learnt that from a phrasebook, and hoped she was asking for
the bill. The pretty young girl flounced back with a receipt in a saucer and Holly
searched the unfamiliar notes in her pocket for some euros to leave on the plate.

She walked back to Nick's apartment holding only the slightly battered copy of O
in her hand. Not hiding it, proud now to be reading about sex in Paris. She took
the stairs quickly, thinking all the while of the elderly woman, the slow but beautiful
climb that would lead her to her gently aging lover. At the top of the stairs, as
Holly knocked, she hugged the paperback to her chest. She was on her new lover's
doorstep in the city of love. It was impossible to stop herself from grinning like
a simpleton with pure joy.

He hugged her too tightly and picked her up with the awkwardness of someone unused
to physical stress. He carried her to the accumulator and tried, failing, to lift
her over the side. She was laughing, couldn't stop. She felt lighter than she had
since school. He struggled to perch her on the edge of the bed and she allowed herself
to drop back, joyous, unburdened.

He was at her in a second, peeling off her pants and pushing up her shirt. Her bra
tugged roughly down and her nipple peeping over the edge of the cup as if to watch
the proceedings. He clamped his mouth onto the glowing dampness of her slit and she
felt his tongue unseal her, pushing the lips apart to expose the gape of flesh, the
hungry pink O slick with his spit now and beginning to moisten with her own juices.

He pushed her legs wide with the palms of his hands. She
was stretched and open to
him. He shuffled back to admire the shock of bright blue yawning through her dark
thatch; he pulled at a curl and she felt her lips stretch wider. He was watching
the shine of wetness gathering in the cleft, squinting at the light. She looked down
to see him extend a finger, smooth the fluid around her labia. He gathered a measure
of her juices on his index finger and Holly felt the shock of it slip around and
down, the tip of his finger making small circles at the edge of her anus. She felt
him pull her cheeks wider, watched him looking at her with an intensity that was
unsettling.

‘We should close the curtains of the accumulator,' she said and he paused, staring
at her legs, stretched as wide as he could push them, the gape of her cunt, the glistening
nub of that tighter hole, before he nodded. He let go of her legs with a little frown
of disappointment. His lust was palpable. He reached up to pull the tasselled cord
and she relaxed into the darkness of the bed-cave.

The air felt thick with potential. She took advantage of the pause to unzip her skirt,
to pull the shirt up and over her head, and shivered slightly in the dark. The room
was heated but there was something about the close dark that affected her. The air
seemed to pulse as if she had pressed her whole body against a great invisible beast
and the rhythm of its blood was all around her. Holly felt hands clasp her ankles
and it was as if the darkness had taken form and spread her legs wide once more,
the sudden pressure on her clitoris might be a man's tongue or a beast's, or the
tap tap tap of an erect penis bouncing against her flesh, poised to enter through
that wide open orifice. Something thrust into her. A tongue. She knew this because
of the size of it, a little protrusion of muscle; she was already too wet to
detect
saliva. The tongue flicked in and out, mimicking the thrusts of a penis and yet too
small to penetrate any deeper than just past the tight soft muscular entrance of
her cunt. She felt it flick up and out, circle her clitoris and then push into her
once again. She arched her hips up to meet it and felt like she was pushing through
water or, no, a thicker liquid, treacle or gelatine. The sensation was so pleasant
that she pushed again with her hips. Her body was suspended in thick air, air with
substance, with texture. She could almost taste it when she opened her mouth to
gasp with pleasure. Breathing in was gulping a syrup perfumed with gardenia and just
a hint of burning. She pushed her breasts up against the waxy dark and would have
sworn she felt it lick at her nipples.

The tongue retreated. Nick, unlike Culculine, had mastered the self-control it took
to extricate himself from her cunt. Too bad. She didn't want him extricated at all.
She pushed her hips higher, searching for something to penetrate her gaping cunt.
She felt the hard tip of it again, only this time it was slipping between the cheeks
of her buttocks. A tight resistance of flesh. She felt a shot of saliva spit quickly
against her skin. She flinched as the small damp protrusion fingered the tighter
hole, slipping inside a fraction. Holly opened her mouth and drank the air in cupfuls.
The tongue inched forward lubricated by spit and her own slippery juices as they
spilled and dripped down towards her arse. A tongue…or perhaps a finger now. She
felt her tight muscle relaxing incrementally. The tongue or the finger slipping further
into her, pulling out again. The cloying sweetness of the atmosphere throbbing in
her throat, the spill of it sliding like molasses into her lungs. She could barely
breathe as, yes, a finger, then a second, massaged the rubbery muscle until it was
wide enough for both fingers to enter. She pushed back against them, enjoying the
feeling of openness, the trembling pleasure of yet another secret of her body opening
like a picked lock. Salter knew this, Nin knew this, Apollinaire knew the exquisite
pleasure of this pain. And now she knew it too.

She slid her hips up and down on his fingers and felt a warm glow starting in her
belly and spreading down over her thighs like a blush. The fingers retreated and
she groaned her disappointment. The bright light between her thighs betrayed her
growing lust. She settled her hips further down towards his body, wrapped her calves
around his hips. His mouth was on her breast so suddenly that she flinched in surprise.
The sudden sensation distracted her from the moment when his cock slipped a fraction
inside her anus. She felt the head of it push past the tight barrier of muscle. She
felt the ring contract as all the fears reared up in her chest, fears of disease,
dirt, disgust. She reached down and felt the shaft of his cock. A relief to feel
the lubed and rubbery texture of a sheath. He must have slipped a condom on in the
dark.

He edged forward and she moved her fingers up to feel the place where he was entering
her. The wet and glowing, open mouth of her cunt above this, an open gasp of flesh
and she let her own fingers slip into it, three of them buried easily up to the knuckle
and her thumb resting against her clit, rubbing there. She could feel his cock through
the thin wall of flesh, pressed her fingers against it, rubbed at the sensitive head
of it through her own skin. Her mouth was full of the pulsing dark, her cunt and
her anus spread wide as he pulled out a little then thrust hard against her, slipping
his cock right in so that his balls bounced against her arse cheeks. She felt them
hang there
tickling her flesh with their wiry hairs. Her fingers followed the path
of his withdrawal, spread wide and tight inside her cunt as she felt him push his
whole shaft back inside in one easy movement.

He found a rhythm then, and his thrusting pressed her hand on the beat, each shove
pushing the base of her thumb that pressed against her clitoris with just a tiny
delay, enough of a time lag to be a counter-rhythm. She arched up in time with it.
She felt her lungs empty and fill as she did so, an accordion drawing air. Letting
out a low drone of a note with each thrust of his cock, the sound of it building
and the air around her vibrating, humming in harmony and with his own grunts they
made a chord, endlessly repeated, just out of tune.

She saw sweat glinting on a chest. The light glowed at the head of the bed, faint
but getting brighter by the second. Her eyes widened. The glow increased everything
outlined in glare and shadow. Nick above her, fucking her. Here in the brightness
it could only be called fucking, fucking her in the arse no less. His cock piercing
her right to her bowels, her hand buried inside the wet yawn of her own cunt, her
nipples sharp as spear heads throwing barbs of shadow across the swell of her breasts.
She squeezed her eyes closed. Too bright. She was blinded. She felt him slam his
hips into her, she was tearing with the force of it. She was shattering into pieces.
She was ripping apart and the sound of it was a low grunt. The sound of an animal
lost to a feeding frenzy, the grunting and swallowing and ripping of flesh.

She wasn't sure now if she was the devourer or the devoured but she heard the shriek
of the final death-rattle and felt it vibrate the base of her diaphragm. Her back
arched and cracked,
the air around her solidified. She was trapped in it like an
insect fossilised in resin. She would die of the pleasure that was almost pain. And
then, just when she thought she could not bear it any longer she was plunged into
darkness, the cock pulsed, great gushes of sperm spraying uselessly into the tight
nipple at the end of the condom, her own cunt sucking at her fist.