to me. And women are crazy to think that they can seduce us through the art of beautifying themselves. Charlotte, in all of her simplicity, missed taking my heart completely only by the margin of that avowal she made.
She lay nude before me, her head on the pillow, her hands crossed on her stomach where the hair began, and it seemed to me that I was really seeing her for the first time. I saw that her beauty, like her character, was absolutely true and unpretentious. She wore neither rouge nor paint, nothing on her eyelids nor on her eyebrows, and I found her so simple, so beautiful, and so good that I took her by the elbows and hips and said, “Yes, you're nothing but a poor animal, Charlotte, if you don't believe what I am now going to tell you. Listen, Charlotte, to every word. You're lovely from head to foot. There isn't an expression on your face, a hair on your stomach, a nail on your toes that isn't pretty. And you're as good as you are beautiful. I know you now and it's up to me to say this: do what you will on my bed. There is only one thing I forbid you to do and that is to injure the woman I love and against whom I am now pressing my rod. If you ever again treat her like a whore or an idiot…”
“No,” she said gayly. “I'm going to make a little love to her. I'm going to finger her because I know that she wants it now. And I'll open her buttocks for you myself so that you can cornhole her.”
“Show me how.”
She was lying next to me and she turned over without the least intention of proposing a position. Nevertheless, I quickly followed her example.
All of this was done with an extraordinary facility that I was able to confirm many other times. Charlotte's anus resembled one of those rigid, but perfectly adjusted scabbards where the blade literally enters by itself. To put it crudely but clearly, as soon as I pressed my cock between Charlotte's buttocks I entered. And this despite the fact that her entry was as firm as it was supple. I might also add that through a series of qualities' that it would be indecent to go into too much detail over, it was much easier to get into her than get out.
Charlotte cornholed was even more Charlotte than before: softer, sweeter, moister, more tenderly abandoned. I had turned over, almost to the point where she was lying on her back on me in order to allow her to open her thighs as far as she could spread them. I placed my hand in front of her and found a lake. Thinking that she had not yet started to finger herself, I began to wonder what sort of phenomenon I would witness when she got going in earnest.
Her moans began at the first moment she put her fingers into her hole and lasted eight or ten minutes without crescendo, without effect. It didn't seem necessary to her to either hide her pleasure or to cry it out like an actress. She rubbed herself so slowly that her hand seemed scarcely to move, and I, knowing that she preferred a calm voluptuousness to a violent one, contented myself with slow imperceptible movements in her warm entrails. Towards the end, with a sudden odd scruple that was entirely typical of her, she turned a languid eye towards me and asked feebly, “Do you want m? to talk to you? You see how happy I am when you cornhole me? Do you want me to tell you each time how it feels to have your prick in my asshole?”
“No. Only tell me when…'
“When I come?”
“Yes.”
“When you want me to. As many times as you want. I did it once when I was kissing you before and I'm ready to do it again now.'
“Soon?”
“Yes, of course. Haven't you noticed that I've been rubbing myself around instead of in? When you tell me to do it, I'll do it.”
There are some things you just don't signal like that. I told her that I would wait for her to come again, and when she did I came just a few seconds after. It probably increased her pleasure because women take longer to finish their orgasms than we do.
In the moments that followed, we did not separate. Charlotte remained in my arms looking at me with that expression of gratitude that all lovers know.
“I love your breasts,” I said, caressing them.
I hadn't said anything else and was hoping to find something a little better when she interrupted me with an exclamation of surprise.
“Oh! You're very kind! — You love my breasts now, my dear? You've just finished coming and you love my breasts? You've just cornholed your Charlotte and you're not disgusted with her?”
“Disgusted? You're crazy.”
“If you knew what the life a whore leads is like…”
“I thought I forbade you to talk of yourself like that.”
“Then what am I if I've lived the last twelve years with four or five men taking me through the behind every day dad any idiot that comes along rubbing his ass against my mouth? If I tell you that almost every whore who exists fingers herself there must be a reason. When you're working you have to do it, otherwise you'd never get anything out of it; otherwise the girls would hardly ever do it. In any case you always know one thing: when you've finished by pleasing the man you remain nothing for him but a whore and the daughter of a whore.”
“My 'poor Charlotte,' as you call yourself, I assure you that…”
“I'm just not used to people making compliments about my teats when they've just cornholed me, that's all.”
She had tears in her eyes again. I didn't know what to say. Did I love her enough to make her love me?
In order to give myself a little time to order my thoughts and reflect on what was in my bed and in my mind, I asked her one or two questions which she answered by telling me a whole story: that of her life.
V
Charlotte lay on the bed leaning on her elbows, her breasts hanging into the hands I had cupped to receive them. She began her story in her customarily soft voice.
“As far back as I can remember I've been seeing my mother cornholed. She was like me; she did everything. From time to time she would bring home a man who would rather be sucked, or occasionally she would come back with a lesbian, and, since even in those days she had more chest than I have now, every Sunday she had a friend that came and made love to her between her breasts. That always amused me because he shot his wad into her face. And once in a while, on a few rare occasions, my mother even did a little fucking, but that was exceptional. Mother was renowned for taking it through the ass. You cornholed her and that was all there was to it.
“In that way, Mama is like me, she never played any other way. Ricette is like that too and Lili will be. Only, believe me, there are days when a young whore can be cornholed by seven or eight men without ever finding one that can excite her. And even if she does find one, there's usually no reason for wetting her nightdress or getting bags under her eyes for him.
“When I was a baby, my mother beat herself off every day on the bed, and not just once, but twice at least and always in the same way; it was always when a man had just left and she was lying completely nude on the bed. She would go to a dresser drawer and take out a candle she'd melted a little bit on the end, or a roller she'd warmed up in the oven, or, later on, a dildoe that she'd bought to screw lesbians with, and she would jam that into her rear. I never once saw her beating herself off without something in her behind. Then she would lie down in the middle of the bed and with her finger… But what more need I say. That's how whores manage to come afterwards.
“Mama always told me that when I was really small she made me suck her come at the same time as her milk. The only thing I can remember is that all through my childhood I used to watch her beat herself off and then afterwards I would go and lick her cunt. And the more come there was, the happier I used to be. She also told me that I was five years old the first time I sucked her well enough to make her come. I can't remember that time, but I know I was very small.
“But you shouldn't accuse my mother of always forcing me to do that sort of thing. I'm twenty years old now, I'm free, and I still do it to her everyday. I still get as much pleasure from it as ever. I quite enjoy sucking her.
