It was some crazy scenario: the woman who services four men simultaneously.
I gave up all resistance, allowing my muscles to go slack and welcomed the shuddering invasions, disconnected my brain from the rest of my body and welcomed the mighty sensations of pleasure course through my veins, travel at the speed of light over the whole surface of my bare skin. I closed my eyes. Incandescent blackness overcame me. I beckoned it. I was just a body. An instrument of pleasure. Desire made incarnate.
The men thrust.
The men pushed against my physical limits.
The men all dug their cocks deeper than anatomy allowed.
My juices flowed. Out of control, seeping from every extremity past the attacking poles of flesh.
My lover watched.
One man came. I balanced his ejaculation on my tongue and rubbed it against the soft surface of the other man’s cock still pounding my cheeks.
The second man came, and his warm jet splashed against the walls of my vagina, drowned its flow over my swollen cervix and he withdrew instantly, sucking our now mixed fluids out of my cunt onto my stomach.
The third man came in my mouth but maintained his thick cock at full stretch, forcing its way almost down my throat, and the bitter goo slithered down into my digestive system.
The fourth man still kept on pounding into me. Savagely drilling his impossibly long cock ever deeper into my rear. Jesus, it would never be the same again, would never close up, I thought, as my bowels felt all liquid, melting under his blows and I briefly imagined the purple mushroom-like tip of his penis swimming in the inner sea of my boiling shit.
Finally, he came. He roared loudly, exhaling his pleasure in a wholesome burst. The pulleys were brought into operation again and I was levered upwards off his rigid stem. It exited my gaping rear hole with an obscene plopping noise, dripping with an unholy compound of our mingled secretions.
All of a sudden, I was thirsty again.
They left me suspended for, I reckon, another ten minutes. Then the black silk scarf that obscured my vision was pulled away and my sight restored. The men were all dressed now and ritually left the room in a single file, leaving just my lover and the tall woman.
In silence, they cleaned me with a warm wet flannel.
Liberated me from the embrace of the ropes.
Then the woman left, after a gentle peck on my cheek.
“You were wonderful,” my lover said.
Should I weep or should I cry?
“Am I forgiven?” I asked him.
“For now,” he answered.
He had new clothes for me. I liked them, he had chosen well but then he’s always been a man of good taste. Knows my fondness for waistcoats and white tops.
As we exited the castle in Milton Keynes and walked towards our red car, he looked at me with godamn so much affection in his eyes:
“So?” he enquired.
“Yes,” I confirmed. “Even with the pain, I did enjoy it.”
He smiled.
“What about you?” I asked my lover.
He said nothing and kept on smiling.
As we passed the Watford motorway services half an hour later, he said to me:
“This is only the beginning, my love. I know this dungeon in Epsom.”
I looked ahead at the road. Night was beginning to fall. Soon, we would be back in London. My hand was shaking a bit. Fear? Expectation? And inside my body the tides of lust were already rising.
THE SEX LIVES OF CHAMELEONS by Cristiana Formetta
translated by Maxim Jakubowski
1
“What’s happening to you?”
Mauro’s voice made me jump; it’s so typical of him to always arrive on the scene silently. “Hurry up. We’ve lost too much time already,” he continues. And throws a stack of photographs onto the table. I pick them up, look at one, then another, and then all of them.
“They look fine,” I say. But the truth is I know all too well how bad they happen to be.
“Of course. To anyone who’s not an expert, the photos will look good,” Mauro continued. “But both you and I know this is not your real face,” he concluded, pointing a finger towards one of the photographs as the light of the sun shining violently through the curtains obliged me to look away.
“At any rate, you’re done with your anger for now, I trust? Where is all the wickedness? Not in this photograph, my dear. Nor here…”
“I have several other projects to finish before I can focus on the book…” That was how Maxim advised me that the publication of the book had slipped to November.
He reiterated that I had to be patient and enjoy the wait.
For him, it’s easy. He talks about writing, he thinks like a writer. In his books, Maxim tells stories of things that appear to belong to a whole different world, a world so different from mine, a bigger and more dangerous world. Maybe that’s what brings us together, so intimately.
Maxim says I have talent, as if talent was just the act of writing a simple story in a minor mode. My stories pleased him and now his American publisher will be publishing one of them.
My stories in America, it’s hard to believe.
I just can’t believe that Mauro has refused to give me the photos.
At home, I look at myself yet again in the mirror and concur that Mauro is right. This is not my true face, just a passable imitation. If my friend Danila was here, she would realise it too. Danila isn’t easily fooled, she would soon notice that I have lost my metallic eyes.
Danila says I have metallic eyes, grey eyes that sometimes turn green, and sometimes dark blue. It’s fairly
