The Gift of Girls (20 page)

I lay there wondering what this implied.

Sergio Buenavista was going to
buy
me from Simon. I was going with him. He had power over me. But I now had a certain power over him.

That is the way of the gift, I thought, the exchange.

Should I tell him now that I spoke Spanish? Did he already know? I lay there thinking so hard for a suitable remark I didn’t say anything. My breath slowly came back and my heart stilled. He rolled to one side, slipped from the bed and I watched him dress.

‘You stay,’ he said. Then he did something sweet. He leaned over and kissed me very gently on the lips.

He left me now and I studied myself in the mirrors above, my arms pulled back, my legs spread on the round bed with its white sheet stained with sperm trickling
warmly
from my humming ass and juice from my dizzy pussy.

The room grew silent in anticipation. A few minutes passed and another man entered. I didn’t recall having seen him before.

11

Being and Fantasy

EVERY MAN IS
different. They are like snowflakes. They have their patterns and designs, their character and temperament, flavour and tempo, their fantasies and fervent thirsts. They are like boys with toys that have moveable parts.

Some are big, so meaty and solid you feel in your belly the pulse of their burning balls of fire. Others are petite, slender as lolly sticks, and it needs all the cunning vibrations of your thigh muscles and vagina walls to remunerate their feverish efforts.

Some are in a rush. Wham Bam Thank You Ma’am. In and out as if there’s a fire on the first floor, or the last virgin is about to be sacrificed. They impale you like spear fishermen on the South China Seas, like javelin throwers at the Olympics, like darts players in the pub, leaving their marker in you or over you.

I’m in there.

I’m outta here.

You’re just the quickie before more urgent things drive them onwards and upwards. They scurry and they sweat. They lose their hair. Their focus. They know there’s a secret. They feel it. Sense it. They calculate if they move fast enough they’ll get there, they’ll win the race, they’ll learn the secret.

But they never will. Those men are the progeny of the legendary hare. It is the tortoise who wins the race.
Unhurried
, dogged, deliberate, the tortoise knows that life is a mystery solved with persistence. He’s prehistoric. He has been among us for a million years and, when you sift through every grain of earthly promise, the seed that flowers into the brightest bloom is the slow-growing, seldom-seen erotic. The tortoise knows that.

The hares are narcissists, the alpha males, the egomaniacs terrified that just around the corner there may be a better hole to bore, a new bit of stuff that’s sexier, prettier, curvier, younger, more flexible, more intelligent, with longer legs, a longer tongue, bigger tits, a better ass, a better attitude. These guys are in such a hurry they have never found the time to learn that of all life’s pleasures the erotic is at the peak, above the treeline and clouds, that what they give out will come back a hundredfold. A thousandfold. What a sad Neanderthal bunch of brain-deads they are. They’ve never grown up from being schoolboys. They are and will remain forever on the bottom field.

Other men are patient, ponderous, like a philatelist with a rare stamp, or a scientist with a new species of flora. Like a mathematician with algebraic puzzles, or a topographer surveying land, they want to analyse every angle and turn, every hill and dale, every curve and fissure with its moist secrets and inexplicable erogenous zones where a mere touch or a breath can set pulses racing and knees atremble. These connoisseurs of the female form want to smack you, spank you, whip and cane your white flesh until it is patterned with the geometry of their deepest lusts. Your body is an abacus and the maestro sets your beads flying.

Why does a man want to beat you?

He wants to beat you because in the thrall of domination and submission you find the chemistry of sexual oblivion. You find your true self. You find the absolute: total sexual gratification. Weird, I know, but true and I would advise every girl to try it.

To the stamp collector you are the celebrated Penny Black. He wants you in his album below a sheet of tissue, in a display case, nakedly on show. He wants you this way and that: prone as a missionary spouse doing her duty to king maker and country, looming above like a harem concubine who reminds him oddly of mummy in those days when she peered down at baby in his cot and the love in her eyes stirred the little member sleeping in his nappy. He wants to see you on the floor balanced on hands and toes, breasts swinging like pendulums striking the hour in a grandfather clock, back at an angle, the pink feast of your pussy open like a rip in the universe, soft as velvet, sweet as rose petals below the dark gaze of your puckered anus.

Agh, the angst of choice: the dripping, sweet-smelling rose or the pungent fruit from the Judas tree?

Or both!

Like the tortoise.

I felt detached, freed from the chains of choice, my nerve endings keened with a desire for esoteric wisdom, for pleasures and experiences on the very edge of my imagination. I wanted to swim like a fish and fly like a bird. When you are young and naked with your life before you, anything may happen. Every girl fantasises about having a stream of lovers. I was living the fantasy. It was hallucinogenic, a drug trip on nothing more than a flute of champagne and a feast of fresh semen. My brain was humming, my body was bathed in perspiration. I was the perfect object, the guava hanging ripe and shiny from the Tree in the Garden of Eden, ready to be used, abused, defiled and worshipped. I was the virgin sacrifice.

With my wrists fastened to the bed and stretched above me, I could smell the almond scent of my underarms. My heart was beating fast, my stomach muscles clenching and unclenching. Being bound was a dance of conflicting emotions: arousal and acquiescence, and panic too, like the moment before the curtain rises and you go on stage.

After Sergio Buenavista left me with the aftershocks of that bell-ringing finale, the first man to come through the door immediately unclasped the bracelets from the rings on the side of the bed and set me on all fours. My well-tanned backside like a monkey’s mating display was waggling in the air, my back bowed in a shallow curve, my breasts swayed and my nipples were pinging like fireworks.

Men like this position, this simian pose, down on hands and knees, my spread cheeks like open curtains revealing the treasure kept hidden within the neat nips and tucks of my pretty bum which I could see in all its shiny glory in the clever arrangement of the mirrors. The man said something in a language that made no sense to me, spat on his fingers, wet the mine shaft of my back passage and shoved his cock straight inside that innocent chasm. His trousers were about his ankles, his jacket slapped about like the sail of a ship and no sooner had he started than he stopped.

‘Turn, turn about,’ he said urgently.

I turned, dropped down on my haunches, took his thrusting dagger in my mouth, massaged his balls, and in two seconds he was pumping warm sperm down my throat, a stream of one hundred per cent protein. He took the back of my head in his two hands, pushed in harder. His blunt helmet tickled my tonsils and I could taste the sweet girlie secretion of my own bottom – and it wasn’t bad at all.

He withdrew his withering apparatus and retreated from the room without a word, and I wasn’t surprised when I was later told that he was the Prime Minister from one of those anonymous countries that used to be a part of the old Soviet bloc and would have remained forgotten if it weren’t for their oil and gas, for the pipeline snaking its way underground to the new container ports built by the Americans on the Caspian Sea.

How judicious of the men of the New World Order, I thought, to draw these old communist apparatchiks into
their
complex game, this bacchanal of free market sex and global domination. And how fascinating that the delights of the flesh and the demands of commerce should be so manifestly intertwined, two lovers carved from the same block of stone.

It was an obvious market strategy, but not one that had occurred to me studying economics at Saint Sebastian. I had lived as most people live, like a horse in blinkers, and I felt as if the scales had peeled from my eyes. There is so much to this life that the man in the street doesn’t understand and I felt honoured to have this glimpse of the secret. Like Milly, I could see suddenly that being a part of this world above the clouds was a privilege as well as a pleasure.

I sighed with contentment and wriggled like a fish. The room was warm. The round bed was huge, a pearl-white dais, and I lay there like a precious stone in the jewellers, my image passing endlessly from mirror to mirror. As I gazed at my dissociated form, my only regret was that there was no time for reflection among all those reflections. The door closed and the door opened. It was like a pub door, a revolving door that led to the tower room, and another man I didn’t recall was making his way in.

He was plump around the middle and wore a clip-on bow-tie –
déclassé
, mother would have said,
nouveau riche
. He unceremoniously unclipped his tie and pulled open his shirt to reveal the lush coat of fur covering his chest. He tugged his black leather belt from the loops of his trousers with a saucy snap and doubled the length into his right hand.

‘I’m Kurt. You want to play around?’ he said; it sounded like a line from a Quentin Tarantino movie.

‘Ooo, yes please,’ I replied.

He was standing between the door and the bed. He approached, slapping his palm with the leather belt. I rolled backwards from my prone position and landed on my feet. He chased me around the perimeter of the bed,
wielding
the belt like a horse whip, but I was far too fast for him. The lash cracked the air behind me but the tongue never reached my wiggling bottom. He tried a new tactic and ran across the bed. I allowed him to get close and did a back flip, landing on my feet. His eyes came out on stalks and, as he continued the chase, I did front rolls round and round the circular room, Kurt whooping and shouting and splitting the air with the bite of his belt.

He was tired a long time before me. He made one last desperate charge, tripped over his shiny shoes and collapsed, crumpling like road-kill against the mirror. He sat up and watched, shaking his head in disbelief as I coolly stretched backwards, placed my hands on the floor behind me so that my feet were facing one way and my hands the other. I arched my body in a perfect circle, making the sign of Ω, the twenty-fourth and last letter of the Greek alphabet. In astronomy Omega refers to the density of the universe, as Pi is a mathematical constant which represents the ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter.

God, would I ever leave school behind me?

Where was I?

Aah, yes. I walked very slowly towards him like some imaginary creature from the
Island of Doctor Moreau
, my hair a long mane dragging behind me, my open pussy like the eye of the Cyclops.

Kurt stood to admire this arrangement of enticement and suppleness. He dropped his belt, flipped his erection from his trousers and cautiously slipped it inside me. In this position I could do nothing but maintain my balance and use all my powers of pussy control to clasp the length of his cock, my vaginal muscles clenching and releasing with contractions.

I got the feeling that this guy was one of those speed jockeys, the wham bam off to the races type. But with my slippery young crack presented in this unique way, he
became
a tortoise; he discovered his serene self. He took his time, filled me to the brim with his pudgy thick cock, withdrew and pushed in again, slowly, slowly, until I felt the spasm gripping his body focus like a laser beam around the head of his engulfed penis. He paused, as do the old on the stairs, or parachutists making their first jump, then released his sperm, pumping the stuff out in slow steady jerks as if wringing the last drop of water from a canteen in the middle of the desert. He was panting like an old cart horse.

‘Very gut. Very gut. You very gut,’ he moaned.

He slid from me and, pushing from my fingers, I straightened up in one effortless motion. He was spent, but I was relaxed, refreshed, re-energised. Sperm was oozing from me, creaming my thighs, coating my crotch with the aroma of lust, that mesmerising scent, that supernatural elixir that persuaded the Greeks to launch a thousand ships – it wasn’t Helen’s face that drove them to folly and war. How absurd. It was her allure, her looks, her mystery, her magic and, most of all, her smell. The Greeks understood the powers of Omega and Pi but not the whims of a woman.

I breathed in deeply through my nostrils. I could smell all about me the reek of lasciviousness, the matted copse of my glistening pubes sheltering the lips of my sodden pussy, that clump of fur I loved to stroke and fondle like a little pet or a stuffed toy.

I felt in my round room of many mirrors like a satiated little animal, like a red-assed monkey in the midst of a marvellous experiment, like a bird in a mirrored cage. I was the cocoon girl metamorphosed into the butterfly woman, ensnared by Simon Roche, yet free to be all that I am and all that I may ever be. I may with my nudity and bondage straps have lost facets of my individuality, the memory of who I thought I was, but the men who shed their seed in the dome of my vagina lost aspects of their individuality, too. Only through merging your self
into
the oneness of pure debauchery could you reach the heights of the erotic.

I realised, too, that I had been thinking along these libidinous lines for a long time. It wasn’t sudden. Not really. Didn’t I, in my quest to learn how to beat the casinos, allow Sandy Cunningham to take me on a totally licentious journey? I had told myself immediately before and immediately after that it was awful, shameful, a terrible trial, but, if truth be told, it came as easily as breathing. My clothes were off and his cock was up my bum on that hotel bed in about the same amount of time that it takes for me to swim two lengths of the swimming pool.