“But then you don't even know Lili, her little sister. She's even more depraved! Ricette is a virgin and she doesn't even like to suck. She's only got one talent. Lili knows how to do everything: she likes everything; and she's only ten years old. Would you like to screw her? Corn-hole her? Come in her mouth? In front of me?”
“No.”
“Don't you like little girls? Then you should take Charlotte, my oldest daughter. She's the best looking of the three. Her hair is so long it falls all the way down to her heels. And she's got breasts and buttocks like a statue. She's got the most beautiful cunt in the family. I get hot for her myself when she takes off her clothes, and I'm no kid anymore; I'm a woman who likes a good prick. Charlotte… Imagine a beautiful young girl, dark, warm, soft, without the slightest prudishness of vice, a perfect mistress accepting everything, playing any way you want, and who loves her trade. The more you ask of her the happier she is. How about her? All I have to do is call through the partition here.”
That woman was the devil in female form, and I would have given anything to have been able to take her at her word and cry out, “Yes!'“ in her face. But as I was gathering my shattered will for the effort, opening my mouth and drawing breath, Teresa said with an expression of sincere interest, “Did I give you a hard-on?”
This time the fury came. With a “You're making fun of me!” followed by a few other choice expressions of rapidly increasing strength, I began to beat her. She laughed at the top of her voice while trying to ward me off with arms and legs. Helpless with laughter she could only defend herself blindly, and I covered her with blows and squeezes that didn't seem to have the least effect; then that laugh exasperated me so that, not knowing what to do next to get at her, I grabbed a handful of hair from the most sensitive place I could find and pulled… She cried out.
Thinking I'd really done her some serious harm, I fell into her arms covered in confusion. I waited for a thousand reproaches to rain on my head, but she would never have dreamed of saying anything that might have cooled my ardor. Even through her squeals of pain she never stopped laughing except to berate herself.
“That's what happens when you have so many hairs on your ass! When you sleep with Lib! I defy you to try that.”
The incident ended my violence and hastened the denouement of our little piece. Teresa didn't waste a minute in offering me her favors as a pardon for what I had done and she offered them without a word, with a facility of movement and coordination of body that smacked almost of the art of juggling.
Lying on her side next to me and taking my buttocks between her spread thighs, she put one of her hands beneath herself and did something that I couldn't see… Then directed my body as she wanted it.
The magic that some courtesans effect can often work some really incredible wonders… Like a young stage hero that awakens in the garden of a sorceress I could have sighed, “Where am I?” for my enchantress was lying absolutely still and I wasn't at all sure where I had entered. I kept silent to preserve a doubt that left me a little hope.' But both vanished with her first words.
“Don't bother with me,” she said. “Don't move. Don't try to prove that you know how to take me there. Ricette just told me all about it. I don't give a damn this evening. When you cornhole me I can come without touching myself, but now I'm going to cornhole myself. You'll see in a minute! I don't feel like coming tonight.”
“And if I'd rather you came than I did myself? If I decide to give you the works?”
“The works, eh? Be careful, young one, or I'll empty your balls with a twist of my asshole… There! There! There!”
She was maddening. The violence and agility with which she could use her ass surpassed anything I had ever experienced before. Her motion didn't last more than a moment, but it was enough to put me in serious trouble. Then she stopped and lay still again.
Despite the fact that she had me on the very brink of coming, I still did not want to separate our bodies; I wanted her to know that I did not like to be hurried.
I told her mat I thought she was beautiful and desirable, but that since I was twenty years old I was no longer a child; that I was not the type that liked to be run by a woman. I don't know how I ever managed to get all that out, for she had worked me up to a point where I could hardly hold myself in. She could have easily told me that she was just finishing something I had already started, but she said nothing, merely remained silent with a secret little smile that seemed to reflect some inner thought.
Then finally she said tenderly, “Don't worry, I won't break your tail. I'm sucking you. Can you feel it? I'm sucking you with my ass.”
I didn't know what she was doing, but it was true that her mouth couldn't have excited me more than her ass was doing. It was becoming difficult for me to speak at all.
She watched the reflection in my face of the sensations that were pouring through my body and, without ever needing to ask a question to find out how close I was, began to increase bit by bit the excitement of her loins to a slow crescendo. I think that I must have said, “Faster!” but that she refused. I have only a very vague memory of those last few seconds, for the spasm that she wrung out of my flesh was a sort of unconscious convulsion that I do not know how to describe.
The first question I could regain composure enough to ask her came after several full minutes of silence.
“What did you do to me?”
“A pretty little trick with my asshole,” she said, laughing. “But you've already cornholed so many women…”
“Yes, an hour ago. A pretty little girl that didn't do too badly either, but…”
“Not badly at all. She's got a muscle there, hasn't she? And she can really move.”
“But you…”
“But I'm the first one who ever sucked you with her asshole, eh? You want to know how I did it? I'll tell you tomorrow, but let me get up now. You want to know the reason for that too, I suppose? To put the little child to bed that you just gave me: the little sister of my three daughters.”
When she returned, arranging the hair at the nape of her neck, but still nude, my mouth failed to realize that she was less interested in repairing her coiffure than in showing off the breasts of which she was very proud.
I'm not one of those children who pine away for older women, but a thirty-six year-old seductress, when she's beautiful from head to foot and at all points between is what a sculptor would call a real “woman,” and what a lover would call a real “piece.”
“And which one was not this woman?” Put the question to a contest and she would have had the vote of every man in existence going both ways.
Nude, Teresa resembled an operatic mezzo. To a whore, in other words, you will say. But I answer, not at all. You murmur that it is much the same thing? No. Not unless night and day are the same. If the only way you know actresses is through smoking-room conversations, don't say any more.
The type of beautiful singer that practically lives in her bed, and the often even more beautiful women that sing out their inner souls on the primrose path have scarcely any more in common than their habits of walking around nearly nude and treating themselves like whores.
However, the woman of the theatre always aspires with all her heart to greater and yet greater freedom, while the woman of the bordello needs more than anything else to enslave herself. Of the two, the profession that seems the most servile is the first, but in most cases the woman who follows it does so out of a spirit of independence: in order to free herself from a family or a lover. The whore throws herself into her career out of a need to obey the caprices of others rather than in order to carve for herself the path of her “daily life.
From her first year at the conservatory, the daughter of the theatre also makes herself a student of every crudity of the language. She considers it great sport to group fifteen words around an idea that doesn't merit one, and it is one of her talents to detach each from the other according to the strictest rules of articulation. The whore, on the other hand, has neither the taste nor the talent to make a science of cynical language. Freedom of language tempts her as little as does freedom of life. Thus there is no mistaking your woman when you don't know where she comes from. It suffices simply to listen to her cries in the act of love to determine whether a woman comes from a bordello or a theatre. Many men are fooled solely because they fail to realize this.
I had more proof than I needed in order to guess in Teresa's case what no one had told me. Her body, the unrestraint of her character and the crudity of her expression all pointed in the same direction.
“Are you an actress?” I asked her.
