she was coiling a length of rope about her windlass-clitoris. And it did turn out that Tripplette was a seafaring man, so we made a trim ship and he gave me a full-speed-ahead rudder. Three times the bells in the engine room jangled, and three times Tripplette had to bail himself out. I was more than game for a fourth and Tripplette looked at me queerly. “Try and give yourself a rest, lass,” he said tenderly, and shut the door behind him. The fourth prospect who opened my door was a lightsome lad in his mid-twenties-he seemed afloat. I myself wasn't in the least fatigued. There seemed to be no end to my pleasure. But it was slipping into phantasmagoria… and that's how I'm writing it down… Lightsome lad. Jeremy. “Hello, Victoria.”
“Good evening, Jeremy.” “I don't do this as a rule…
“Of course not, Jeremy.” He was fluffy. Fat, and a ton of featheriness. I felt him and yet felt only a whiff. It was like standing on a rim at the edge of the end of the world… Richard.
Lancelot. Henry. One of them-I've forgotten which-handed me a whip. I demurred. He insisted. He was paying Daphne double for the privilege, of which I would be given a percentage. All right, I said, yes, yes, yes. My vulva lips were bulging as I slashed him across the buttocks. Blood lust-I liked it, God help me. I wanted to blot up the blood and the semen at the same time. He lay on his back, indicated his upper thighs-and then his penis. I thought he was mad-but I was just as daft as he was. I brought the whip down where he wanted it. He screamed-and sperm gushed. It was impossible, then, to control myself. I bent down. To the blood. Then the sperm. Mingled them in my mouth. And then, as if in a dream, I watched my hips thrash about after I fell to the floor-as if they had a life of their own-until I reached my apogee and I felt rent in twain, as if my very womb had exploded in crimson-creamy streamers… Neville. Reyner. Astley.
Waves of orgasm by now. I was running a high tide of orgasm. A storm, a typhoon, a hurricane of orgasm-a veritable concerto of it, my hips a kettledrum on which I pounded and triphammered the mallet of sex. Bodies. Then the bodies no longer had bodies. Just pricks.
Just cocks-triumphant, stupendous, volcanic-and finally snails.
Then, toward the end, there was this Mongol. He grumbled his name. “Call me Khirkiz,” he said. “Khirkiz, you understand? You will have a long devotion to Khirkiz,” he rumbled. And then laughed, his great bony head lifted back, his teeth big and yellow, his seven-foot height awesome. But I wasn't awed. I would swallow the whole seven feet-I'd shrink the bastard. I will tell you-I sweated over Khirkiz. He had a horse's hang. I grant you, I wasn't the size of a horse's, no, but Khirkiz could have played cricket with that bat. And he took it and waved it at me, contemptuously. “No woman can make this go down,” he said scornfully, “until I, Khirkiz, will it so.” I wanted to say pigshit, Khirkiz. But I wanted no fight. I wanted to experience a limit to my wanting to fuck. So far, and it was nearing the end of the evening, there was no sign of such a limit. I wanted to fuck as intensely as I had at the start of the night. I did everything to Khirkiz-he was a fucking challenge. But his horn of plenty yielded not-though, yea, I did lave him and stir my yoni to a froth with his mighty mace. I was indeed a froth.
I had already climaxed twice with this Khirkiz. And no fountain had as yet issued from him. I had him glide it into me posteriorly.
Nothing. Except for Victoria-salvos and rockets. On the side, my thigh over his thickly corded thigh. A position always sufficiently snug to send me vibrating into the far spaces.
Nothing. Khirkiz was supremely in control. He laughed. He bellowed with laughter. I saw his horsey yellow gigantic teeth.
Teeth. That gave me the idea. You bastard, I said under my breath. Teeth. I bent down, crooning over the Mongol's cannon, tickling it with my tongue. Khirkiz laughed and pulled brutally at my teats. I began sucking it. Khirkiz stopped laughing.
His body stiffened. But his body stiffening had happened many times before. I kept sucking. The Mongol snarled at me, “It is a monotony. I do no pay you for the monotony-” It was precisely then that I sank my teeth into the Mongol's cannon. He reared up from the bed, an expression of utter astonishment on his bony features. He shrieked-exactly like a woman. Shrieked, and looked down at his cannon, a little bloody-but then at the cataract of sperm spouting as if from a whale… I grinned. Khirkiz was very gentle with me then-and I wanted and had that cannon of his again, and again, and again '… He finally quit the field of battle, thanking me rather tenderly. But I was beyond thanks. I was muttering to myself, staggering about the suite, that unassuageable cunt between my thighs. I rubbed it, I hair-brushed it; I unguented it, I masturbated it-simply waiting for the next man. It was the finish, then. It was about four o'clock in the morning. My face was ashen. I felt bruised, beaten-but still prickly in the saddle. As the summit of the occasion of my maiden voyage at Daphne Oblov's, I took on two men and a girl simultaneously. I had asked Daphne to arrange that. I would have requested a dog to be present as well, but I felt that would have been gilding the lily. I could always obtain a dog, if that were my whimsy. At this point, further, I wanted to issue no instructions…
And nobody did issue any instructions. I wanted to find out if there were anything that could be done of a sexual nature, or that involved a substitute for actual sexual intercourse, that would have the effect of lowering my desire. To that end, for example, the girl-whose name, I recall, was Anne-squatted over my face and urinated on it. Not only did the act not repel me-it was, rather, a goad. I bit savagely into Anne's sweet arse, stinking though it was from her discharge. I say sweet arse because it was small, like the rest of her-she resembled a sort of figurine-and of a delectable shape, although her face some how reminded me of a lizard's, horned and scaly, which is probably why she had to buy her sex. One of the men-Lionel-had me then sit astride his prong while the other-Max-stood with his bull piece akimbo and on a level with my mouth. Anne again had her arse up-she was a sucker, as the American might say, for that sort of position- but on this occasion I was undulating four fingers in her vagina. Tableau. Excepting for the fact that none of us was static. With Lionel, a hangdog man nevertheless built like an Atlas, with a hangdog prick when it wasn't in erection-with Lionel I was as on a carousel. With Max, a dapper sort of man with a finely etched mustache and with suddenly astonishing equipment something like a combination of a rearing crocodile and a rampaging bull-with Max I was all but masticating him as far down as my larynx.
I exaggerate, of course, but his dimensions were indeed impressive -and fulfilling. With Anne I had no fear whatsoever that my fingers would develop a cramp. She was lubricating like a dream. The air was rustling through her arched throat like a whistle, her lizardy face a study in tender reptilian lust. From that point on the experience was a farrago of images and dialog. I remember some of them in a kind of patchwork… “By God, that's a good go, Victoria-”
I laughed and laughed and laughed. The two men were holding my legs apart while Anne was smearing cream on my black forest…
“Go on, Victoria, let's watch you a sec masturbating with the dildo…” I sweated with it, and came. Lionel sweated with it-and I came. Max tackled it and used it with incredible speed-and I came.
Anne got harnessed with it and sank in me and sank and sank-and I came. “Fantastic, this Victoria, eh? Look at her. Touch her anywhere and she'll rut with one of the velvet draperies.” I remember rubbing the velvet between my legs… And Ann's lizardy nose oscillating my clitoris… “Give her one in the arse, Max…” I shrieked from the pain but it was sheer bliss. It was sort of icy fucking, and very tight. Icy and tight. I vomited first and then I loved it. Concentrating on my teats, my big, firm, elastic, hot-nippled teats. Throwing them into his teeth… Or hers… Whose? But what difference? I rubbed somebody's prick as if I were making fire with a stick and he erupted like Vesuvius.
Anne… figurine… slithering on the floor like a lizard- and then I pissed on her, by God-and she dried my cunt off with a parched rough tongue. “I love you all,” I remember shouting-“all of you good hot rum-toddy pricks and all of you slithering cunts…” Her vagina had the shape of a lizard, recumbent… The shape of my own vagina had yet to be determined. For all I know it could have been serrated-to accommodate the saw-toothed penis… Max left.
Lionel left. Neither of them said goodbye. They simply walked out, their gait somewhat peculiar, as though something hurt between their legs. I was very tired, really. But my lust was undimmed. Anne recognized that and kept running her knee back and forth across my clitoris. Scratching my long nails across Anne's breasts and nipples. She was whining like a dog and then she shook convulsively as she peaked… In a little while she started dressing. “No,” I said. “Yes,” Anne said. “Point is that somebody like you can go on indefinitely.” “Yes,” I said.
“Most of us can't,” she said. And then she left. I was alone. Unfulfilled, I drank half a tumbler of gin, asking the walls, “Will Victoria Collins discover limits to her need for sex?”
