Authors: Florence Dugas
Tags: #Masquerade Books
1. I think she is lying (to herself). It sometimes happens that she will limit her contact with a man to this single fantasy, as in these scenes. In a car, just in front of her building, she is with a near-stranger, who can hardly believe his good fortune. She kisses him distractedly, but reaches for his cock immediately—quickly pulls it out of his pants, quickly sucks it—only because she wants to feel his sperm run into her mouth, and not lose a drop of it, and then kiss him again lightly, and go up to her place, alone, to go to bed with the taste of jism on her tongue. And another time, in a movie theater, with a guy she does not know sitting next to her—movements of knees, groping fingers, and very quickly the sound of his fly being unzipped and his cock in her mouth. The usher surprises them and shines her flashlight, but does not say anything, just watches her suck him; then extinguishes the light when, without a word, Florence gets up again, her lip shining, her mouth full. She leaves before the end of the movie—no doubt because she had nothing to say to the guy. In the hall the usher smiles at her. She is very pretty, so Florence smiles back at her, as if to dedicate the impromptu fellation to her.
2. She means no doubt to say: in the typical manner of a typical guy...
There were days when he would whip me for himself: several blows, just to mark me until the next time (and perhaps in a way to say to other lovers that he made me who I was, and that I was his).' But on certain days he would beat me for me.
I nearly always began by counting the blows; then I would lose track, lose everything at the terrible thought that today there would be no. end, that I would die under the whip. Each crack of the lash trebled my fright until I would accept the idea that I was going to die, and that it would be very nice to die.
My body would twist, my mouth cry out, imploring him, but my mind was already elsewhere, with a nearly religious resignation. Those feelings mixed with a fascination for my long-suffering body, for the immense pain that somehow grew and gained strength, that found a way to bloom. Eventually I understood that the pain I accepted was only a metaphor written on my skin for an older, lingering pain I had never agreed to bear.
As I will explain later, I had to love Nathalie enough to confuse her with myself in order to watch her be tortured in turn. Thus I was the one being hurt, if only to understand what silent presences lay at the heart of the deluges of pain. One day the cry she emitted was so torn I had the fleeting impression she was
reliving her birth, the pain of our entry Into life, in pain she had always fled, until she was able to make peace with herself only by refusing to live.
He comes in and immediately introduces us. “Florence, this is Nathalie, who has agreed to give us two hours of her time; Nathalie, Florence, whom I've told you about.”
We look at each other, judging each other, gauging each other. Is she prettier than I am? Yes, probably. Her gray-green eyes gleam in her face, nude of makeup. Her skin is very pale; her medium-length hair is curly and very blond. A pouting mouth; when she smiles, superb teeth. Very high cheekbones frame a small, straight nose that is quivering, gluttonous.
She has a better body than I do, that's for sure; at our request she takes off her clothes, and her bosom bursts forth from her demicup bra. She has sumptuous breasts—thirty-six or thirty-eight inches—that are extended like offerings, with a small, very round areola and a hard, clearly drawn nipple a rare combination in a chest that large, where everything too often has the tendency to spread, to slide.
(Even now, on command, I can relive the feeling of her breasts brushing against my back as she kisses the nape of my neck or my ear. They slide like two light little lingers over my loins as she skims over my back with her lips, and finally mash against the crook of my knees as she buries her face and tongue between my open thighs...)
She has a marvelously flat and muscular belly, with a very small waist—her breasts seem suspended like gardens over a void; her buttocks are very rounded, set high. She is maybe 5'6", but she looks striking, now nude in the room filled with lights and cameras. So striking that very quickly I stop looking at her directly and only contemplate, with a curious emotion, her reflection in the mirror.
"A little champagne, Nathalie?"
He hands her a glass full of bubbles.
Nathalie liked to drink. That was a constant until the end, and when I met her mother, it made sense.
One glass, two glasses, we chat, he and I dressed, she naked to the tips of her toes—a Dejeuner sur l'herbe shot inside, with the same intentions to follow, no doubt.
Then I notice that J. P. is completely dressed in black. "How do you see the scene, Florence?" he asks.
"I want to photograph you together," I say. "You dressed
like that, her naked. On the black side of the comforter, first. Then you'll take it off the bed and we'll keep just the white sheet as a background."
"In short, black-and-white in color, if I've understood you?" "What else?"
I photograph their faces, looking eye-to-eye, approaching each other slowly, a quarter of the frame each time, then inter- twined, as in Rodin's Le Baiser. I do a first series in full lighting, then move all the lights nearly to the ground. Stretched out on the bed, they look as if they belong in an Expressionist film, replete with immense looming shadows and violent contrasts.
"Kiss her again," I say.
The zoom lens allows me to take a close-up of their joined mouths, their tongues shamelessly seeking each other out, his hands playing with her breasts, her very pale hands on the dark fabric of his shirt.
"Keep going," I say between clicks of the shutter.
He buries his face between her breasts, licks them, sucks them, clutches them. She throws her head back in a moment of cinematic ecstasy.
"Take off your clothes " I say to J. P.
His skin is much darker than hers, making for a very satisfying contrast of tones. He has a hard-on.
What do I feel? I don't know. The camera feels it for me.
Because I am watching everything through the lens, I can distance myself—all the while confusedly knowing I can stay fifteen feet away only for so long...
And then, at the precise moment at which I ask myself what I want next, she leans over on her stomach and takes his stiff cock into her mouth.
And sucks it much better, much more greedily, than I ever could.
Her hair falls in two cascades over her cheeks, hollowed out by the back-and-forth movement. Her hips are shaped by the luminous object of her desire: shrinking to a little doll's mouth when she flutters about the glans, her brows knit as she gathers its nectar; then open and refined by the effort when she entirely swallows it; and eventually lost in the brown pubic hair rubbing against her face, as if she wants to make a furrow in his belly with her nose.
As always, watching, I feel a violent emotion. As if I were getting a hard-on.
But anyway, doesn't a woman get hard? From that moment on, I shoot only close-ups.
He crawls under her and gently bites her labia, drowns his mouth between her thighs, sticks his tongue into the wetness and drinks.
She sucks him, as I often see her do later, as if she were desperate to drink jism, as if she were a whore who has another client waiting. Each time she swallows his tense dick, ready to explode, she inhales the flesh, then comes back up nearly to the tip of the glans before going all the way back down the pillar.
He kneels behind her and penetrates her without ceremony.
I place the tripod in the diagonal formed by their haunches. He plunges into her sex as he has ravaged her mouth earlier; with each thrust driving into her very depths, then almost pulling out as if he might abandon her altogether.
She reopens her eyes and stares at me, silently panting, her lips half-open.
He pulls out of her cunt, repositions himself slightly above her, and sodomizes her, with the same irrepressible dan, without preparation. Very briefly she shuts her eyes and contracts her forehead a little, and then she looks at me again and smiles.
It's the smile that does it. I undress and join them.
Just before, I put the camera on automatic. I have thirty seconds.
A brief, very brief hesitation.
She kisses me, and from the first kiss in which her lips clasp mine, I know she has decided to be as much a woman for me as for J. P.
A sudden burst of six photos triggered by the motor. Like firing a Winchester.
Then the silence cut by the groans of the mattress, the rustling of fabric.
I drink her kisses. Her tongue is like an animal's—incisive, disturbing.
Little by little I slip beneath her. I lap at her breasts as I have drunk from her lips. She skims over my chest in the same way, but her hands are already descending towards my cunt.
The texture of her skin is extraordinarily taut, which gives it the feel and savor of barely ripened fruit.
She engulfs her face in my sex before I dare confront hers. I have never been sucked like that: practically eaten alive. I try to use my hands to slow down her mouth, but without success, so I bite her. I spread her sex with my fingers and look at her as I never have a woman. She has well-formed, very regular labia, and the entrance to her vagina, even as dilated as it is, is not the abyss mine seems to be when somebody wants to fuck me.
Two inches from my forehead, J. P.'s cock thrusts furiously between her upraised buttocks...
I explore her sex with my tongue, coming back up to play with her clitoris. So that's what female pleasure looks like, viewed
from below? I don't have time to dare to do more, because I am coming—one of the most rapid orgasms of my life.
I close my eyes. I feel displacements on the bed, then suddenly a cock pierces me...
I love being penetrated right after I have come, and he knows it, the creep.
Again I investigate that marvelous pussy, still offered to me, manhandling it with the tips of my teeth, my mouth full. So that's what a woman tastes like? Well, it tastes a lot better than a man does...
Her cunt, a mouth of dilated shadow, calls to me. I stick in my tongue.
J. P. raises my backside, spreading my buttocks, then takes my ass from behind.
Nathalie pulls away from my vulva and moves to kiss me at the same time as my other lover, lower down, fucks me to the depths.
I drown my face between her breasts, held above me, and push back with all my strength the orgasm I feel mounting in me.
He must have guessed my difficulty because, whether from compassion or a desire for suspense, he pulls out of my ass and ejaculates in long jets on my belly and breasts.
Nathalie leans forward and carefully laps up the traces of burning sperm. Then she kisses me again, infusing me with a nearly sweet mixture of sperm and saliva, all the while masturbating me very quickly—and very quickly I come again.
We rapidly empty a second bottle of champagne. J. P. puts his pants back on and photographs us a second time as we kiss and rub against one another, like two hands soaping each other.
Is it me, or is it us? Our loins are nothing but sweat and vaginal juices. I bury my fingers in her, she plants hers in me, and we sit stuck together, rooting about in each other's sex with one hand, stroking our breasts with the other. Never has a man taken such good care of my breasts. It's simple: before her, I didn't think about having any.
By the time we detach ourselves from each other, as two halves of a nut might come unstuck, J. P. has already stopped photographing us for a pretty long period of time and finished another glass of champagne. He fills our glasses, holds them out to us, and smiles.
That smile... Our first contact, our first toast to our union.
Several flashes survive in my memory, like the following scenes:
He is standing between us; kneeling, we are playing at nibbling on his cock. Regularly our mouths join about this phallic pretext, held like a lure before us.
We are lying down next to each other on the bed, both of us on our stomachs, and he runs his hands over us, one after the other, stopping wherever he finds his next, provisory haven. Nathalie's mouth is always fresh on mine.
He comes in my mouth, but she leans over and immediately drinks, in the kiss that follows, all the sperm he ejaculated in me.
How can he still be hard—or was it much later? We are lying down head-to-tail, our faces buried between each other's thighs. I am above, she is below, and J. P. pirouettes around us, passing from my raised ass to Nathalie's vagina, tucked away beneath my lips, before rinsing himself off in my mouth and beginning all over again...
In the beginning there was only pleasure.
It was on our second date that J. P. tied her up and, in front
of me, beat her three or four times on the back with a whip, then handed it to me and asked me to continue. At first I did it awkwardly, then with a debauch of energy and an absence of restraint that stupefied me.
As I was doing it, it occurred to me that it was not Nathalie I was beating. She was only the reflection of my own body—a reflection magnified, embellished, and tortured.
That it was not Nathalie became clearer as soon as we two got together without the alibi or transaction of a cock between us, susceptible at any instant to install another hierarchy—one in which she treated me as I treated her.
Here's the strange part: although I crushed myself against her, came under her tongue or fingers, and in spite of my clumsiness, made her come, too, not for an instant did I imagine myself a lesbian. I was an altered, bastard form, a hermaphrodite. I even sometimes experienced a sort of repulsion, a horror of the female sex; then the instant afterwards I would cover her with kisses. She would get enormously wet and I would get drunk on her.
Very quickly one of our favorite games became tying her up, her legs hanging halfway over the headboard, her ankles tied to the frame, her legs spread wide apart. For a long time I would whip her on her open thighs, sex, and belly.
She would never cry out during this period. When the pain was too fresh, she would let out a sort of whimper, a sound more animal than human. She would contract her legs, as if to close them, but would immediately reopen them very widely. Soon I no longer needed to tie her up when I whipped her. I only had to order her: "Push out your breasts! Open your ass cheeks! Spread yourself wider! Use your fingers! There—"
Invariably I end up leaning over and kissing her, and her tongue is always gracile and sweet. I fall into the habit of telling her I love her. She says it to me, too, in many ways, and yet I do not manage to believe her.