Monsieur (11 page)

For a moment he was just a motionless shadow on the sunlit threshold. Lasciviousness, as I came to know it that morning, had black and golden hair. He was smiling, a childlike glee in his eyes, and staring at me, as if I added a touch of freshness to the room, the best possible accessory for the bed. He rushed to me, barely allowing me time to set my joint in the ashtray. I squeezed him between my legs with all the strength I could summon and Monsieur murmured into my ear, ‘A whole week without you!' In his frantic kisses I recognized the power I held over him, and how weak he was becoming. I hadn't known it, but I'd been yearning for him to say something like that to me. It was like a lullaby and, dear God, it shouldn't have been. Monsieur's big nose met mine, as he whispered, ‘You're such a beautiful little whore . . .' He frowned. ‘What do you smell of?'

I laughed, high on joy and smoke. ‘Grass?'

Monsieur grinned. ‘You've been smoking?'

There was half a joint in the ashtray.

‘I love that smell,' he whispered, kissing me. ‘Such a pity I can't smoke today. I have an operation lined up. One day, though, we'll share a joint.'

‘You smoke too?'

‘Whenever I can.' He rose, his back to me. ‘How the hell did I manage not to tear all your clothes off on Wednesday at the clinic?'

‘You almost did in the lift.'

‘You liked it,' Monsieur stated.

I let out a strangled sound, confirming my guilt.

‘What an arse,' he said then, his fingers kneading me carefully.

So, this was to be a morning when my arse would be the focus. My cunt was already complaining that it wasn't to be the centre of attention. Monsieur delicately pulled my knickers down. This man ran a series of operating theatres, with crowds of uniformed women at his beck and call, but this morning his powerful fingers were caressing a young student in perfect health, all for the sake of beauty – or was it?

A crude detail: Monsieur's thumbs wandered to the heart-shaped hollow separating my thighs, mapping my jewel case. I heard myself gurgle with wetness, a noise that could only have originated inside my thighs. But my idea of modesty was already twisted, and my only reaction was to place myself on all fours and arch my arse further towards him. I somehow expected him to remark on the innate vulgarity of my arousal. Not at all. Monsieur stood up and, in a flash, I remembered his text messages and realized what was about to happen. He moved into position and I was unable to escape his grip. I thrashed like an animal caught in quicksand, protesting wildly, but Monsieur ordered me to keep still. Instinctively, I curled up.

Not that, I silently implored, as if he might change his mind and proceed to make love to me politely.

In those circumstances, the grass no longer had any effect. I regained lucidity when Monsieur's mouth came down on me, his hands firmly holding my arse cheeks open. This was followed by his tongue and I screamed with sheer embarrassment, praying he would stop –
how could anyone want to do that? How could anyone like it?

(Later, when I described the whole humiliating episode to Babette, she cleverly remarked: ‘In that position there is just no way you can ever forget he's licking your arsehole. That's the point of it.')

It was a sensation I didn't want to find pleasurable, and Monsieur understood that, not even objecting to my body's rigidity. Whenever I tried to move, he pressed my face into the mattress. As a last resort, I tried another ploy. Squirming, I rubbed my cheek against his cock, although it was still beneath his grey-flannel trousers. As he watched, I undid the few buttons separating me from his penis, and took him into my mouth. Monsieur remained motionless, his hands in my hair, pulling it. Eventually he threw me back with a regal gesture, signifying that I had no choice in what would happen.

Monsieur was still fully clothed, his cock still wet with my saliva. He whispered: ‘No, I want to see your cunt first.'

I shuddered and wriggled, vainly attempting to close my legs. Out of the question: his predatory hands held me open and, for an endless few minutes, he leafed through me as if I were pages in a rare edition of the Bible, all of his fingers journeying inside me with infinite care. Whimpering in shame, I raised my eyes and saw, with a shock, that the man who loved the same books as I did was gazing at my cunt with the same reverence he would read a rare Bataille vellum edition, with words like ‘labia', ‘cunt', ‘slit', ‘clit'.
Oh, Ellie, look at the delicate firmness of his hands, the precision of his fingers, the flame deep in his eyes. This is a man who appreciates cunt. This man must dream of a world where he floats in a sea of cunts of all races, all shapes and configurations, all day, all the time.
Although instinct told me to protect myself against his curiosity, I didn't feel as if Monsieur was judging me negatively. When I was younger, I had always been afraid that one day a man might find my cunt did not fit with my puppy fat; I worried about the dichotomy between my body and my face. But he seemed to approve, evidently understanding that my cunt was the perfect spokeswoman for the whore he knew I harboured deep within. Monsieur was all appreciation. In fact, just a little later, his voice cut across the churchly silence: ‘I really like your cunt, you know.'

Right there and then, I would have liked to be a boy, so that I could make a girl get hard as he had just done. No one could have felt better than I did, facing Monsieur naked, wide open, wet, dribbling, numb and craving to be fucked. And how could it be possible to feel any better when the sharpness of freshly shaved bristle and thick lips touched me in a place I couldn't quite locate but was so full of nerve endings that a 220-volt electrical discharge raced along my spine. I think I jumped, and his smile was that of Satan, telling me: ‘You know you love it. You're depraved, and depraved women enjoy melting inside the mouths of men.'

I am lost, I thought, and there was nothing scary about it.

‘And I very much enjoy the taste of your cunt,' Monsieur added, his lips shining.

He licked with the attentive precision of a man expert in caresses, like a pianist of genius, who allows himself artistic, unstructured improvisations while never quite losing the thread of the melody. I could feel myself getting hard, harder and wetter, like a river, all slack against his face. I was captivated: this kiss was the most venomous in the world. Because it was definitely a kiss. Monsieur certainly knew what he was doing.

He rose above the bed, still pretty hard, and as he pulled my thighs apart, he licked his lips. ‘I don't know where to fuck you first,' he said, glancing from my cunt to my arsehole. Then, looking me in the face again: ‘Which would you prefer, darling?'

God alone knows why I answered, ‘Behind.'

Monsieur possibly misunderstood, accustomed as he was to using the word ‘sodomy'. He indicated that I should turn round.

‘Not like that, not on all fours.'

Which was when I realized that the grass was affecting my speech. Undoing his buttons, I tried to explain to Monsieur: ‘I want you to . . .'

‘You want me to what?'

‘I want you to fuck me in the arse. But on my back,' I added, as if I wanted him to ignore the initial clumsiness of my request.

I don't know if he grasped what a huge leap forward I had just made. I threw myself back and he moved towards me to fold my legs into position, and I knew he had been aware all along of what I had in mind, words had been unnecessary, and he fully approved. He understood that I enjoyed this position because he could see all of me, and he liked my willingness to reveal myself in such a crude way. He penetrated me very slowly, attentive to every sound he drew from me, firmly, never retreating from any territory once he had invaded it. Monsieur could feel from the way I was tightening around him when the pain was overtaken by pleasure.

I sighed, and Monsieur plunged deeper inside me, his voice interrupting the sharp buzzing in my ears: ‘You love it, don't you, darling?'

Monsieur was fucking me in the arse. Incredible how noble it was when he was involved. The supreme way in which he respected me. Ironic in the circumstances: he knew that taking me in this way illustrated my submission to him. And he was entirely aware of my desire to submit. But there was something magical, too, in the way Monsieur behaved, something I had never come across with anyone else: somehow he could convince me that what he was doing and the crude words he spoke were for my own good. And every time he called me a tramp, a whore or mentioned my cunt, all I could hear were sweet endearments that broke down my defences. But I was incapable of speech. Monsieur cooed: ‘Tell me you love it, darling. Talk to me. Tell me you like it when I fuck you in the arse.'

I shrivelled, my shoulders drawn in, red-faced, while Monsieur moved inside me with elastic ease and whispered: ‘Look at me.' With one hand he gripped my chin. ‘Look at me.' He spoke sternly. I couldn't respond. When he continued, he was all sweetness: ‘Look at me, darling. Look at me.'

Still overtaken by shame, I opened my eyes. ‘I can't.'

‘Don't you know you must always look straight into the eyes of a man who has his cock dug deep in your arse?' Monsieur said. I was listening to him as if he were reading
Lolita
to me, with the same awe. ‘You have power over me. Even if I happen to be the one buggering you.'
I bit my lip until it began to bleed
. ‘I am a prisoner of your arse, and you're driving me crazy.'

He pulled my thighs up slightly, to make the missionary position obscene. Then, in the same breath: ‘Don't you feel like a real filthy tramp the way you are now? With my cock inside your arse? Tell me how you feel.'

I half opened my eyes and saw my cunt raw and wide open and, below it, his cock slowly coming in and out of my arsehole: Monsieur was enjoying the same panorama. I shivered with delight. ‘I feel like a tramp.'

Monsieur, that infamous corruptor, took advantage of the situation, grazing my ear lobes with his lips, inhaling the true scent of me. ‘Show me how you caress yourself.'

I froze, reluctant to expose something so intimate to him. The prospect of making myself come in front of Monsieur, with his cock digging deep into me, was petrifying.

‘Do it, darling. Show me how you do it. I know you must be oh-so-beautiful when you touch yourself.'

With the pretence of a courtesan, I took flight: ‘But I've
never
done that!'

‘Do it, my love. Caress your little cunt. You can feel how wet it is.'

‘No . . .' I groaned, in an effort to move my fingers.

Finally, I allowed my hand to approach my lower belly. It came to a halt. I cried out with frustration, like a small dog pulling on the end of a leash. But Monsieur was in no mood to take pity on me.

‘Wank. Do it, or I'll stop fucking you.'

If only he'd known how much I wanted to obey, how desperate I was to do it and please him. That I felt as much a victim of my unexpected wave of shame as he was.

That word, however arousing it was coming from his mouth, had shocked me. I wasn't sure I truly wanted to
wank
in Monsieur's presence. If only I could make him understand. Then maybe he wouldn't have to resort to blackmail. Monsieur ceased all movement. I threw myself back towards him, but with both his hands on my belly, he stopped me.

‘I swear I'll stop fucking you. Wank for me. Didn't you know you'll have the strongest possible orgasm when you touch yourself while being buggered?'

(‘Buggered'. He pronounced it with the nobility of the most beautiful pages in the world of erotica. It was no longer the insulting word that my girlfriends sometimes mutter. When he said it, I could almost feel the awe in which I held it when I first came across it in a libertine novel from the seventeenth century. Ah, the treasures of language.)

Annoyed by his intransigence, I gave him a dark look. Which he ignored. Then, I yowled: ‘No, fuck me!'

But Monsieur was cleverer than I. ‘Wank.'

And, from his tone, I understood that he had meant what he'd said, that he was capable of retreating to the edge of the bed and masturbating in front of me, until sheer frustration obliged me to do likewise. I moved my fingers towards the stickiness of my yawning slit. It was awful: my whole body was on fire and I found it hard to sketch even a simulacrum of caress. When I was in motion, though, Monsieur's gaze froze me and I shrank in shame between the damp sheets. But he began to move inside me again, taking me anew, sliding inside, whispering,
Ellie Ellie Ellie oh Ellie, caress yourself, do it as if I wasn't here and you were on your own
, as if I could ever forget his presence. I was transported: his need to take sex to the ultimate shores of intimacy, this was a world to which I had never before been granted access. With Alexandre I had believed I had reached a new level of perversion, but now . . . There was undoubtedly a perverse beauty in what he was attempting to draw out of me.

Tears overcame me, my hand still reluctant to perform the ballet I knew by heart. Every time I stopped, Monsieur would hold it in position. I no longer knew who I should hate more, him or myself. My eyes pleaded, and I think he realized from the way I kept wrinkling my brow that we were heading nowhere fast. He gave me a look that told me I was a bad pupil that morning, but also that he was willing to accept that I had reached my limit. With his two thumbs, he eloquently took over my travails, and I asked myself how much of a genius this man was to have sensed from my fingers' movements the perfect way to drive me crazy. I was just seconds away from erupting, but I wanted to see Monsieur come before I did. So, with my cunt hoovering up his fingers, I squeezed his cock hard between my sphincter muscles and, my nails digging into his arse, I forced him to fuck me faster. So he could concentrate, he stopped talking, and his eyes closed. All of a sudden, he was no longer Monsieur, and it was no longer that particular room. It was more than an older guy mounting a slut of a girl who could have been his daughter in a rundown hotel in a rundown area of Paris, the two of them wallowing in filth. I wasn't sure I liked it without him gazing at me: when he looked at me, I could almost forget that our affair was worse than immoral. His eyes gazing deep into mine reminded me that we were not only sleeping together but talking, from time to time, on the telephone or in writing, which felt good. It would have been a shame to waste it. For five minutes or so, making love with him seemed boring.