Sexus (The Rosy Crucifixion, book 1)

sort of intertwining—that's what she liked. There was something slightly nauseating about a stiff prick, especially dripping sperm. And the positions one had to assume! Really, sometimes she felt positively degraded by the act. Arthur Raymond had a short, stubborn prick—he was the Ram. He went at it bang-bang, as if he were chopping away at a meat block. It was over before she had a chance to feel anything. Short, quick stabs, sometimes on the floor, anywhere, whenever, wherever it happened to seize him. He didn't even give her time to take off her clothes. He just lifted her skirt and shoved it in. No, it was really «horrid». That was one of her pet words—«horrid».

O'Mara on the other hand was like a practiced snake. He had a long curved penis which slid in like greased lightning and unlatched the door of the womb. He knew how to control it. But she didn't like his way of going about it either. He used his penis as if it were a detachable apparatus. To stand over her while she was lying abed with her legs open, panting for it, to force her to admire it, take it in her mouth or shove it in her arm-pit, was his delight. He made her feel that she was at his mercy—or rather at the mercy of that long, slimy thing he carried between his legs. He could get an erection any time—at will, so to speak. He wasn't carried away by passion—his passion was concentrated in his prick. He could be very tender too, for all his practiced approach, but somehow it wasn't a tenderness that touched her—it was studied, part of his technique. He wasn't «romantic»—that's how she put it. He was too damned proud of his sexual prowess. Just the same, because it was an unusual prick, because it was long and bent, because it could hold out indefinitely, because it could make her lose herself, she was unable to resist. He had only to take it out and put in her hand and she was done for. It was disgusting too that sometimes when he took it out it was only semi-erect. Even then it was bigger, silkier, snakier than Arthur Raymond's prick, even when he was at white heat. O'Mara had a sullen sort of prick. He was Scorpio. He was like some primeval creature that waited in ambush, some huge, patient, crawling reptile which hid in the swamps. He was cold and fecund; he lived only to fuck, but he could bide his time, could wait years between fucks if necessary. Then, when he had you, when he closed his jaws on you, he devoured you piece-meal. That was O'Mara...

I looked up to see Mona standing at the threshold with tear-stained face. Arthur Raymond was behind her, holding the big awkward bundle in his two hands. A broad grin had spread over his face. He was pleased with himself, terribly pleased.

It wasn't like me to get up and make a demonstration, especially in Arthur Raymond's presence.

«Well,» said Mona, «haven't you anything to say? Aren't you sorry?»

«Sure he is,» said Arthur Raymond, fearful that she would bolt again.

«I'm not asking you,» she snapped, «I'm asking him.»

I rose from the bed and went towards her. Arthur Raymond looked on sheepishly. He would have given anything to be in my position—I knew that. As we embraced, Mona turned her head and over her shoulder she murmured: «Why don't you leave?» His face grew red as a beet. He tried to stammer out some apology but the words stuck in his throat. As he turned away Mona slammed the door shut. «The fool!» she said. «I'm sick of this place!»

As she pressed her body to mine I felt a hunger and desperation in her of a new kind. The separation, brief as it was, had been real to her. And it had frightened her too. Nobody had ever permitted her to walk away like that. She had not only been humiliated, she had become curious.

It's interesting to observe how repetitive is woman's behavior in such situations. Almost invariably there comes the question—«Why did you do such a thing?» Or—«How could you treat me like that?» If it's the man speaking he says: «Let's not talk about it... let's forget it!» But the woman reacts as if she had been shocked in her vital centers, as if perhaps she might never recover from the mortal stab. With her everything is based on the purely personal. She talks egotistically, but it is not the ego which prompts her reproaches—it's WOMAN. That the man she loves, the man to whom she has attached herself, the man whom she is creating in her own image, should suddenly become depossessed is something unthinkable. If it were a question of another woman, if there were a rival, yes, then she might understand. But to unshackle oneself for no reason, to relinquish so easily—just because of a little feminine trick!— that mystifies her. Then everything must be built on sand... then there is no firm grip anywhere.

«You knew I wouldn't stay away, didn't you?» she was saying, half-smiling, half-weeping.

To answer yes or no was equally compromising. Either way I would only be entraining a long argument. So I said: «He thought you would come back. I didn't know. I thought maybe I had lost you.»

The last phrase impressed her favorably. «To lose her»—that meant she was precious. It also implied that by coming back of her own will she was making a gift of herself, the most precious gift she could offer me.

«How could I do that?» she said softly, giving me a melting look. «I only want to know that you care for me. I do silly things sometimes... I feel as though I need proofs of your love... it's so silly.» She gripped me tight, blotting herself against me. In a moment she was passionate, her hand fumbling with my fly. «You did want me to come back?» she murmured, extricating my cock and placing it against her warm cunt. «Say it! I want to hear you say it!»

I said it. I said it with all the conviction I could muster.

«Now fuck me!» she whispered, and her mouth twisted savagely. She lay crosswise on the bed, her skirt around her neck. «Pull it off!» she begged, too feverish to find the snaps. «I want you to fuck me as thought you never had me before.»

«Wait a minute,» I said, pulling out. «I'm going to take these damned things off first.»

«Quick, quick!» she pleaded. «Put it in all the way. Jesus, Val, I could never do without you... Yes, good, good... that's it.» She was squirming like an eel. «Oh Val, you must never let me go. Tight, hold me tight! Oh God, I'm coming... hold me, hold me.» I waited for the spasm to die down. «You didn't come, did you?» she said. «Don't come yet. Leave it in. Don't move.» I did as she wished; it was jammed in tight and I could feel the silk pennants inside her fluttering like hungry birds. «Wait a minute, dear... wait.» She was gathering her forces for another explosion. Her eyes had become large and moist, relaxed, one might say. As the orgasm approached they grew concentrated, darting wildly from one corner to the other, as though frantically seeking for something to fasten on. «Do it, do it now,» she begged hoarsely. «Go on, give it to me!» Again her mouth had that savage twist, that obscene leer, which more than the most violent movements of the body unleash the male orgasm.

As I shot the hot sperm into her she went into convulsions. She was like a trapeze artist coming off near the roof. And, as happened to her frequently, the orgasms succeeded one another in rapid sequence. I was almost on the verge of slapping her face, to snap her out of it.

The next thing was a cigarette, of course. She lay back under the sheet and inhaled deep puffs, as though she were using a pulmotor.

«Sometimes I think my heart will give out... I'll die in the midst of it.» She relaxed with the ease of a panther, her legs wide apart, as if to let the sperm run out. «God,» she said, placing a hand between her legs, «it's still running out... Give me a towel, will you?»

As I was bending over her with the towel, I put my fingers up her cunt. I liked to feel it just after a fuck. So thrilly-dilly.

«Don't do that,» she begged weakly, «or I'll start all over again.» As she spoke she moved her pelvis lasciviously. «Not too rough, Val... I'm tender. That's it.» She put her hand on my wrist and held it there, directing my movements with deft and delicate pressure of the fingers. Finally I managed to withdraw my hand and quickly glued my mouth to her crack. «That's wonderful,» she sighed. She had closed her eyes. She was falling back into the dark hollow of her being.

We were lying sidewise, her legs slung around my neck. Presently I felt her lips touching my prick. I was spreading her cheeks apart with my two hands, my one eye riveted on the little brown button above her cunt. «That's her asshole,» said I to myself. It was good to look at. So small, so shrunken, as though only little black sheep droppings could come from it.

After we had a bellyful and were lying between the sheets softly snoozing there came a peremptory knock on the door. It was Rebecca. She wanted to know if we had finished—she was going to make tea and she wanted us to join them.

I told her we were taking a nap, couldn't say when we'd get up.

«May I come in a minute?» With that she pushed the door slightly ajar.

«Sure, come in!» I said, squinting at her with one «ye.

«God, you two certainly are a couple of love birds,» she said, giving a low, pleasant, earthy sort of chuckle. «Don't you ever get tired of it? I could hear you way down the other end of the hall. You make me jealous.»