“No, I love you too much now… That wouldn't be enough… You'll have to do it to me first! You'll do it to me now, tonight! I want you to do it to me so I can forget the others. But then… tomorrow… you can show me that I'm the lowest of all whores… You'll bring one of your girlfriends here and fuck her in front of me without even looking to see if I'm fingering myself or crying…”
“You think I'd do that?”
“And then when you've cornholed her she can be the one to…”
“You're not going to say another word!” I cried, putting my hand over her mouth.
“I'm coming! I'm coming!” she shouted between my fingers.
This time, Charlotte, in coming, cried like she was being stabbed, then fell into a sudden deep torpor and immediately went to sleep.
As pale as the young man in “The Crimson Curtain,” I was trying to wake her from her swoon when I heard three small knocks on my door.
I opened the door to Teresa dressed only in a slip.
“What are you doing? Cutting her up in pieces?” said she with an expression like a good-humored procuress that simultaneously shocked me, reassured me, and left me speechless.
I brought her into the room and showed her the body of her daughter. She caught at first glance the tiny tremblings of her hips, like the nervous twitch of a horse's flank, and without the least anxiety drew me into the adjoining room and closed the door.
“What's wrong with her?” I asked.
“Virgin!” she replied.
“That's a little stiff! I know that I'm twenty years old, an age at which you let yourself be intimidated by every strange woman that comes along, but nevertheless I've had one woman, two girls, and one kid in the last twelve hours and I don't think that I missed…”
“No, but do you think that we let anyone miss any of us?” Teresa said merrily.
“Even so, I got six shots in and…”
“So… That makes three with Charlotte. And you're asking what's wrong with her! Don't look at me with that stupid expression, as if you were getting ready to say, 'I think maybe she needs a couple more.'“
“Thanks for prompting me.”
“I sent you Charlotte last because she's the ideal companion for tired men.”
“Thanks again.”
“You had just had three odalisques, so I said to myself, 'Charlotte is a good girl and she'll suck him. They'll talk for an hour or so and then they'll go to sleep.' Charlotte is gentleness-itself; «he was born for sleeping at a man's side.”
“Oh yeah? You're as crazy as she is. She's nuts, your daughter, for screwing. She's a nymphomaniac, that girl, with her innocent, lazy attitude. She's an onanist and a masochist extraordinary. She's everything you can think of that ends in 'ist' and 'mane'!”
“Like you say, she's everything that one could want,” said Teresa, her temper rising. “You can mold her to your wishes like a lump of dough, and if she went crazy tonight it's because you made her like that. Did I come in your bed? How was I supposed to know that in saving my daughter for you that you would fuck her into heat without doing anything for her?”
With a smile she softened the harshness of her word? and went into the bedroom. Taking off her slip, she laid down on the bed next to Charlotte, took her into her arms, awakened her, and from her first words, I understand that she knew a lot better than I what the girl needed.
With her first words, Charlotte opened her eyes. Her mother drew her close and said with a loving tenderness, “What's wrong, my poor little chippie?”
“Mama!” cried Charlotte in a tiny voice, throwing her arms around her neck.
“Do you think I'd let you kiss me with that whore's mouth of yours? What have you been doing? I can smell come on your tongue.”
“I drank some,” said Charlotte, half closing her eyes.
“Little slut! Why don't you ever sleep with your mother? How come I find you naked in a young man's bed at three in the morning? What do you deserve?”
Bewildered, I sat on the end of the bed listening to this dialogue.
Do I have to remind you that I was twenty years old at the time and that Charlotte was the same age? And that a girl of that age can dominate a boy her equal just about as she pleases? And beneath my very eyes I saw her accepting a scolding like a little child…! And this Charlotte that fought me in my arms when I treated her like a woman found it completely natural for her mother to speak to her as if she were a seven year old.
Teresa shot me a glance that said, “Please be quiet!” or perhaps, “Keep your damned trap shut!” I couldn't tell which. The vocabulary of glances is at best a little uncertain. Then she began again with Charlotte:
“What have you just been doing here? Answer me!”
“I've just been cornholed,” sighed Charlotte.
“You mean he wanted to cornhole a whore like you?”
“He didn't want me to be a whore,” she said quickly, her eyes closed. “The first time he cornholed me while I fingered myself and he came in my ass. Then the second time I came before he did, so I took his dick out of my ass and put it my mouth…”
“What a little slut!”
“Oh, that's not all!” said Charlotte, with a twist of her body that startled me. “I asked him to” (and she spoke so low that I couldn't hear what she said). “And when he cornholed me the third time, I didn't even touch myself, I was so excited. I wanted to come just from him being in my ass and I wanted him to say it when I came…”
“Don't you have any shame at all?”
“Yes, I'm ashamed. But I wanted him to do it, only he's even stupider than me. He didn't want either to do it or to say it or anything! anything! anything!”
Then, like a nurse or a nun speaking from the bedside of a patient who can't hear anything, Teresa said to me in a loud voice, “She needs someone to beat her off once more.”
Completely nude, Charlotte's mother got up from the bed, left the room, and came back in a few minutes later carrying something wrapped in paper. With all the authority of a mother-in-law caring for her daughter in her son-in-law's presence, she said, “Lei me alone for a while. You don't have to do anything now. You've had your six shots, now take it easy. Sit down at the foot of the bed and relax.”
Teresa hadn't warned me for nothing, because from the very first words the dialogue took on a strangely urgent tone. Pulling at her own flesh and in a trembling and plaintive voice, Charlotte groaned:
“Look, mama. Look what's coming out of my asshole. The crack in my behind is full of come, and he still doesn't want to say that I'm a whore.”
“The trouble is you haven't done enough yet.”
“But it's him! I'd do everything, but he won't!”
“He doesn't know that you're the lowest of all the sluts.”
“Oh! You'll say it to me while you finger me! You're the only one that understands me, mama!”
All of this was intended to make me think that Teresa was going to beat her daughter off in order to relax her; but I wasn't as much of a novice as the Italian woman thought and, without ever letting the slightest trace of surprise cross my face, I saw that beyond the shadow of a doubt she was masturbating poor Charlotte only in order to drive her even wilder. My young female readers will have understood by this time what I'm getting at, but for the others I will explain that Teresa, instead of hastening Charlotte's spasm, was indefinitely retarding it, making the girl wait and hope for it from one moment to the next.
I think that this little trick amazed me more than the entire preceding scene, and I must confess that I began to wonder exactly what Teresa was trying to do and what she was expecting it all to lead to.
“Let's show him,” said Charlotte, breathing hard.
“Let's show him that I'm really the lowest of all whores. You told me that I've got the mouth of a whore and that my tongue smells like come. Now tell me to stick it into his ass! But the whole thing! All of my tongue right into
