The Adventures of Holly White and the Incredible Sex Machine (19 page)

She was ready to take her share of the pleasure, more than ready: her own cunt had
swelled with sympathetic excitement.
Her own clitoris was full and distended. She
lay back on the shop floor and the woman collapsed with her, her mouth falling close
to position, her lips latching onto a place at the front of her thigh. She licked
her way blindly towards her destination. Holly glanced down to see the glow of her
vagina highlighting Culculine's flushed face, throwing a spotlight into her perfect
mouth, illuminating her teeth. It was like a painting by Caravaggio. The light so
perfectly placed, the darkness serving only to lift the scene with a divine glow.
Holly watched Culculine latch onto Holly's seat of pleasure, sucking her clitoris
expertly.

Culculine reached out and pulled her wedding ring, then her engagement ring with
its fat diamond, off her finger. Holly remembered the feeling of freedom as she shed
her own abstinence ring. She gasped as the woman dropped her rings to the floor
and in one swift movement plunged her ring finger up to the knuckle in Holly's cunt.
The fingernail scratched her but she didn't flinch. This was not the pain of a hymen
pummelled out of existence by a frantic cock. This wasn't the sharp flinch of glass
embedded in her knees. This pain was an aspect of pleasure and she let herself groan
as Culculine ploughed a second finger then a third into her with hard, deft thrusts.
There was more space now to finger her. Mandy had gently navigated the space around
her hymen, Culculine thrust past the broken edges of skin. Space now for four fingers,
five, elegantly pressed into the yielding flesh.

Culculine sucked at her clitoris until it was tender and swollen and pulsing with
an imminent explosion. She let go to drag in a wavering breath.

‘Merde! You taste like cognac. Like drug. Like I am filled up with the fuck. My vagin
is like it is stuffed full of you. Like
you have your pointing inside me. The fist
you know? Like this.'

She made a fist and, as if to demonstrate she held it at the entrance to Holly's
vagina.

‘So wet in your vagin I know I can climb inside you, see?'

She pushed with her fist and Holly screamed.

‘I hurt?'

‘No!' Holly was shaking her head. She felt a rush of her juices squirt out onto the
woman's hand, lifted her head, her eyes wide, to see the woman thrust her fist once
more against her wet and glowing cunt. ‘No. Do it!' Holly shouted, groaning.

‘I do this.' The woman pushed her fist once more, straining, pushing, twisting, lubricating
her fist in the bright glow of Holly's sex. ‘But you taste…Your flavour…I must also.
I must have this.'

Culculine pushed her mouth back down onto Holly's clitoris. The pleasure of the
sensation was so great that Holly felt her cunt gulp hungrily at the woman's fist.
She felt her flesh stretch wider than she would have imagined it could. The fist
slipped easily into her, the knot of it pumping up higher and higher towards her
womb, the woman licked and sucked, drinking the juices, agitating her clitoris till
Holly could take no more. She grabbed her own breasts in her hands and squeezed.
Her nipples were hot and full. Her cunt began to clench on the woman's fist, the
pulse of it so strong that finally Culculine's hand shot out of its resting place,
pursued by a gush of viscous blue liquid that splashed out across her face and breasts.
Culculine continued to suck there even when Holly felt the pulsing pleasure subside.
Holly tried to dislodge her but Culculine shuffled forward, grabbing her arse and
burying her face in the bright blue of her juices. She lapped and lapped and
lapped
till Holly's clit was raw and sore.

‘That's enough now,' Holly whispered, hoarse, spent. ‘You can stop now.'

But Culculine would not listen. She gulped down the brightly glowing juices, she
smeared them on her chin. She cupped her hand and gathered a fistful and drank from
that and when it was gone she pushed her lips to Holly's vulva, snuffling like a
pig desperate for truffles.

‘Stop.' But she would not stop. ‘Stop! Now!'

Holly scrambled away, kicking at her with the naked soles of her feet. Culculine
tried to grab at her cunt, stretching her fingernails up to claw at her.

‘Don't take it away,' she pleaded, dipping her tongue once more into the font. ‘I
need it…'

‘No!' Holly held her back by her hair. The bun came loose and her hair spilled, damp
and blue-tinged, around her shoulders. ‘Stop!'

Holly pulled herself awkwardly up to standing. At her feet was a murder scene from
a late-night movie, the phosphorescent blue standing in for blood as if this were
an ad for sanitary products. Her lover, face still bound in Holly's scarf, dragged
herself blindly through the gore. Holly didn't know how to stop her. She grabbed
quickly for her shoes and her dress and ran naked towards the door. The woman was
reaching up for her, catching her foot just as she felt the doorhandle slip through
her fingers. Holly kicked. The woman winced but continued to drag herself towards
Holly, climbing her calf, reaching her fingers up towards her thigh, slipping one
finger into her cunt, desperate for honey despite the sting of the bees.

Holly slapped at her. She didn't know what else to do. Her
hand connected with the
woman's cheek and Culculine fell back briefly, enough for Holly to escape naked into
the street.

She glanced around. The street was almost empty. A mother and daughter walked hand
in hand, their backs mercifully turned towards Holly. She ran a few steps and hid
in a nearby doorway, struggling to pull her dress back over her head. When she was
dressed and dishevelled she looked up to see a man passing by on the other side of
the street. He watched her zipping up her dress and he held his fingers to his mouth
and pulled a kiss out into the air. Holly stooped to push her shoes onto her feet.
She hurried away and her feet left damp and shimmering footprints on the path.

Story of O

by
PAULINE RÉAGE

Roissy!

Holly slapped the book down on the café table. She looked around her at the dozens
of fellow diners, the scramble of Parisian passers-by. Each warm body held potential
sexual secrets. Each person, an adventure she was yet to try. But she was wary now.
It seemed that sex, once initiated, was more complicated than she had imagined. She
remembered the anonymous man in the phone booth staring terrified at his wet and
glowing penis. Culculine's hand gripping at Holly's calf muscle, desperate to taste
her juices. Once the door to sexual pleasure was open, Holly didn't know how to shut
it again.

She had realised she would have to study the incendiary texts—Mandy's lessons. Surely
somewhere in her bag of delights would be something about what to do once the pleasure
had taken control; how to make it stop. She'd reached for
Story of O
and immersed
herself in it.

O on the way to Roissy.

Roissy! Not Rosy, not Rolsey, but Roissy. That was what the man at Anaïs Nin's house
had said. The man in the overcoat, the man with the device that looked like a Walkman.
He would meet her at Roissy.

In the margin of her paperback Mandy had scribbled a few directions.

It is impossible to tell if Roissy is a real location or a composite. What is known
is that the Parc Montsouris is the park where René and O sat before travelling to
the fabled chateau. The Parc Montsouris is the place where O must make a decision.
To follow her destiny and become a slave to sex. To submit to pleasure. To embrace
her destiny. You should go to the park when you are ready to learn the lessons of
sex. You must decide if you will be the mistress or the slave.

Holly slipped the book into her pocket. She almost ran to the subway.
Roissy,
she
whispered with each pounding step.
Meet you at Roissy.

A park stretched along the far side of the street, the grass white with frost, trees
sparkling in the first sun. Parc Montsouris. She reached into her pocket for her
novel. Mandy's thin, messy script underlined a scene from the book. René and O strolling
around the park, sitting on a bench, resting before submitting to her fate.

She put the book back into her pocket. The park was gorgeous. A spill of wooden
stairs fenced by logs of wood that seemed to have been plucked straight from a forest
and arranged like a beautiful nouveau sculpture.

There was a man sitting on a bench. A thin but striking
figure, his face turned away.
It was him. She was sure it was the man from Anaïs Nin's house. Had he been here
every day since their first encounter? She jogged across a stretch of grass until
she could be certain. He was holding his little box. She watched him take his readings,
thrusting his instrument forward like a Geiger counter. Perhaps the places listed
in Mandy's books were radioactive, all the pent-up sexual energy poisoning the very
sites where the words were focused. The wooden rail was icy against her fingers as
she clung to it. She could almost feel the thrum in the twisted branches, a shudder
of power. The man noted something in his book, then seemed to pause for thought.

At the bottom of the stairs a vast lake spread out along the edge of the path. He
put the box back into his pocket and smoothed the pages of his notebook out onto
his knee.

Holly approached him cautiously. A few commuters walked briskly past behind him,
scurrying through the icy morning to their various jobs. She approached the bench
quietly, still uncertain about what she would do or say.

She could hear the little beeping start up. The man reached into his pocket and pulled
out his instrument once more and held it up to the sunlight. He spun around, pointing
the box in her direction. His open mouth stretched into a silent cry of delight.
She took a step forward, and the beeping increased in volume. She saw a single tear
form at the corner of his eye.

She was dressed as O might have dressed. Full skirt, naked underneath, shirt that
could be easily pulled down to reveal her breasts. This was a scene from the book.
She wondered if she was, indeed, willing to be swept away to Roissy to become a slave
to sex. But surely this thin mysterious man was not the man to subdue her, even if
it was her fate to become an O: a
nothing, a conduit for pure submissive sexual power.

‘You came.'

Holly was surprised by the tears, which were now running freely across his cheeks.
He fell to one knee as if he were a knight pledging fealty to his queen.

‘My name is Nicholson,' he told her. ‘Nick.' His head was bowed as if he was waiting
for a sword to tap his shoulder. He reached forward and took her hand. Holly felt
a sharp electric shock when he touched her and smelled an acrid odour of burning.

‘I have been waiting for you all my life,' he said.

The Bioelectrical Investigation of Sexuality and Anxiety

by
WILHELM REICH

His tiny flat was nothing like the Chateau Roissy from
Story of O.
Holly had to
climb
into
the bed. It was high-sided, like a coffin but one large enough for a group
burial.
The
sheets were soft black cotton and a mountainous landscape of pillows
sprawled
across
it. Such an elaborate bed, given the sparse decor. Nothing on the
walls,
one
simple wooden desk with a chair settled neatly under it.

Nick opened the drawer in the desk with a key hung on a chain around his neck. He
emptied his pockets into it and then locked it tight again. He climbed awkwardly
up and over the walls of the bed. This wasn't the kind of bed a man like this should
have. He sat uncomfortably in the corner of it, leaning against the softly padded
side. He looked nervous, fragile. Exhausted, like someone who had travelled a great
distance. A poet who'd just finished an epic love ballad, a conductor,
drained after
a performance of the Gothic Symphony. Holly had the sense that her presence in his
apartment was somehow an imposition. She felt like a hunter with her prey finally
in her sights. Sad for the inevitability of the kill, yet thrilling to a blood fever
that couldn't be contained.

There was no kitchen in this little apartment, just a loaf of bread on the counter
and an empty wine bottle in a basket in the corner. The room reeked of transience.
Perhaps Nick was a tourist like her. Perhaps the bed was a relic of a past resident.
Someone more confident, surely.

‘I would offer you tea,' he said, gesturing towards the bare walls as if to apologise.

‘I don't need tea,' she said. ‘I should have brought some wine.'

It was barely midday. Holly regretted mentioning alcohol at this time of the day,
but a drink would surely make her braver. She had had sex exactly three times. Her
last two attempts had ended badly. It seemed impossible now to throw herself so soon
back into the joys and terrors of the act.

‘Do you mind if I close the curtains?'

‘Go ahead.'

He stood tentatively and pulled a silk cord that hung down from one of the wooden
posts. The curtains, squealing rustily on the metal bar above, drew slowly, enclosing
them one side at a time. Soft red brocade. Finally a hint of the sexual, a little
nod to Roissy. Holly felt the excitement rise in her loins as the gloom of his monk-like
room was replaced by a soft darkness that might invite intimacy. When the curtains
were completely closed, Nick unhooked a gold cord and pulled at it. Another curtain
creaked across overhead. A roof for their tent of lust.
She looked up and blinked
through the gentle spill of dust. It seemed that Nick was unused to this kind of
visitor. The tent had not been closed over for some time.

There was a single light bulb attached to the head of the bed but despite the darkness
Nick did not move to switch it on. Instead, perhaps emboldened by the womb-like enclosure,
he shuffled across the bed, settling himself beside her, and reached gently to touch
the back of her neck. His fingers were four points of warmth. They brushed her skin
so lightly and yet hijacked her awareness completely, moving in tiny circles. Holly
felt her skin goosebumping up as if to affirm the fragile connection. Her hairs
stood on end. She felt them rush against his touch. Her whole being was concentrated
on the back of her neck. The moment stretched out, intensifying, and when she felt
like she could not take the tease of his fingers for one second longer he leaned
over and kissed the soft skin under her ear. His lips were the barest caress of flesh
to flesh, his breath escaping in a gentle puff, amplified in her ear, made into a
storm that made her shiver.