seemed to be in too much of a frenzy to know what I was doing and what I wasn't. She was crying and fingering herself. Being unable to stop her tears, I decided not to stop her hand either. When she finally realized that I was letting her do as she wished, she stopped crying, raised her eyes to mine, and said in a low voice but without changing her tone, “Tell me with your own lips that I'm a slut.”
“No.”
“Yes. It would make me happy.”
I finally understood. She was speaking to me in a very low voice and trembling from head to foot.
“Call me a whore while I beat off for you. Whore and slut and trollop! Say that you'll corn-hole me for four sous, will you? You'll stick it into my asshole right to the bottom, to the bottom! You'll cornhole me for a half an hour, scraping me with all your force, and then you'll give me four sous afterwards. If you don't want to come in my ass then I'll suck you besides. I always want to have my mouth full of your come. Not only my mouth, but all my body. I'll beat you off into my face. But what do I have to say to get you to call me slut? I'm pulling out my finger; I'm hardly touching myself. Now call me whore and slut and bitch. Tell me that you'll piss on my knockers and you'll shit in my mouth! Tell me while I'm coming that you'll make me eat your shit! Say it! Say it! Say it!”
She half swooned and was silent a long time before she again opened her eyes. Her first words were, “I must be cracked!”
Then seeing that I had said nothing to contradict her, she said, “You must have a fine opinion of rue! And it's all your fault… No, it's mine. You had no way of knowing.”
“What did I do?”
“Mama always says, 'When Charlotte feels like beating herself off, it's better not to try to stop her. Hold her up for five minutes and she goes nutty.' You held me up…”
“I won't do it again.”
“Are you sure? That's funny for a man, isn't it. To see a girl that can't help shouting all kinds of dirt when she's in heat.”
I took her in my arms and, speaking in a low voice, holding her head so that she wouldn't have to look into my face, said, “Now you're going to make me a little confession. Or rather I'll make it for you and you can answer yes or now. Ready?”
“Yes.”
“The men that you have are hardly ever attractive to you; but… be frank… you like being a whore.”
“Yes.”
“Not only do you like to make men come, but you like to be at their feet, at their command, something like a slave.”
“Their whore.”
“That's less than a slave?”
“Yes. You rape a slave, but with me…”
“And something that always excites you in the arms of a man is…”
“Is for him to tell me that I'm the lowest of all sluts; that there isn't anything a girl can do that's lower than offering her asshole and her mouth to every man that comes along for him to do as he wants. Yes, I said it despite myself a few minutes ago. But, I beg you on my knees, tell me that I'm right! Try to Understand that I would kill myself if that didn't excite me a little! And instead of consoling me, hurt me. Well… Go on…”
She smiled without insisting on the tragedy of her last words. She smiled more and more. It was as if she were playing.
“Be kind to me for once. Do what I want you to do. You see? I'm not fingering myself any more; I finished coming. But now that you know what I like, do what I want. Treat me like a slut and a bitch and a whore. Tell me that I cornhole myself like a girl in a whorehouse or a gypsy behind her wagon. Are you going to call me whore? Call me whore, whore, whore. What a numbskull! He doesn't say a damn thing!”
Always smiling and trying to defy me with her impatient teasing, she insisted:
“And in my mouth? Tell me what you're going to do in my garbage pit of a mouth. You can do it… I want you to… I want to be treated like that by the man I love… And for you to fill up my mouth… Say it. Say what I'm asking you. You will…? You will…? You're as stubborn as a mule!”
I replied simply, “Are you going to finish your story?”
“Ah! Now that you know all about my character!” she said, laughing. “And then — poof! Too bad! I don't give a damn! I'm completely naked, I'm not hiding anything.”
VII
“Where were we?” she asked. “I can't remember. I don't feel the same as usual. What did you make me drink?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? When I drank your come with my mouth and my ass? I'm blotto. Tell me where we were in my story.”
“You said that when you were thirteen you came like a woman and that with your shaven cunt you…”
“The lesbians! The lesbians! Yes and it used to hurt me because I didn't know how to hold myself in. I remember one woman that wasn't much to look at, but what a tongue! The old cow! She used to make me sit on her face so that she wouldn't lose a drop. She once made me come three times in a row and every time she drained out more come than I thought I had in my whole body. The third time my legs were trembling as if she were sucking my blood.
“And I used to take on lesbians in all kinds of ways: there was a young English girl who never took off her clothes and who beat herself off while she was kissing my cunt! And a huge woman who always did it lying on her back and who tried to hide it the first time she came so that she could come twice for the price of once! And a kid of about fourteen who couldn't come yet and whose friend had mama and I work on her for about an hour. Then when her pussy was covered with saliva we made her think that she had come! And a hermaphrodite that dressed like a man and cornholed me with a dildoe while mama did the same to it with another.
“And all this time I was a virgin! It didn't seem to bother anyone. Mama used to say that it didn't make any difference whether or not a prostitute had a cunt.”
Charlotte laughed at her own words. And her laugh was so frank that I smiled despite the absurdity of the saying. But she took my smile for approbation and, sprawled on the bed, her arms stretched over her head, her knees in the air, seemed to be enjoying herself hugely.
“Ah! You don't know how happy it makes me to be able to show myself as I really am to you, to tell everything all night long! With every word of filth that leaves my mouth, I feel cleaner, as if I were washing myself.”
“Whoever invented the confession knew what he was doing.”
“But then again… (and she laughed once more)… with every word of filth I utter I feel like saying another yet.”
“Those who oppose the confession claim that you're right.”
“I once had a girlfriend whose mother made her confess every Saturday. The poor kid could never confess without fingering herself, so she had to hurry and beat herself off before going to receive absolution. Otherwise, she got so excited by what she'd just said that she'd have to go and get fucked as soon as she left the church.”
“Charlotte! Hands on the table, as they say at school!”
“But I too feel like…”
“You're completely crazy. Try to hold off for a quarter of an hour.”
“Oh well, it's your funeral. You know what you're risking.”
And, hands behind her head, legs crossed, she continued:
“While we're on the subject of churches… But first, I haven't said anything yet but you can guess: I had four times as many cornholers when I was thirteen as when I was ten. It was then that I first got my 'solid' asshole, as
