Chapter 3
Of the six addresses Carla had left for me, the first two were in Paris, the third was on the Riviera, the next two were in Paris, and the last was somewhere near the Pyrenees. It would have been easier to see the third and sixth consecutively, rather than return to Paris in between, but Carla must have had her reasons for insisting upon the order; and besides I had gone on so many trips because of her, one more would not put me to any great discomfort.
The same day I met Angela Arvon, I telephoned the first person on the list, a man named Peter van Drooft. It was a left-bank number. A woman answered the phone.
"May I speak with Monsieur van Drooft please."
"He's busy just now. Could I have him call you back?"
"No, I'm not going to be at my hotel all day."
"Could you call back in a half-hour or so."
"Yes, all right"
I called back but he was still busy; and when I phoned a third time the woman asked me if I ringing for an appointment. I told her yes.
"He'll be able to take you at four today," she said.
"That's fine." And I hung up wondering if he were a doctor.
I arrived at the apartment house at a quarter to four. It was an old, rather shaky-looking building, and since there was no concierge, I had to strike matches to read the list of tenants on the wall at the foot of the stairs. Van Drooft was on the fifth floor.
It was a great effort to walk the steps because the staircase was narrow and each step high. I was breathing heavily when I reach the fifth, and last, storey. There were two doors on the landing, one of which had no knob. I knocked at the other.
"Come in," said a woman's voice. It was the voice I had spoken to on the telephone.
I turned the knob and entered a small anteroom. Aside from the desk at which the woman sat, there were only three pieces of furniture: two wooden chairs and an ash-stand between them.
"Are you Mr. Cunningham?"
"That's right."
"Would you sit down? Mr. van Drooft will see you in a moment."
She was about forty and very fat. Her too-black hair was fixed in a thousand little curls, like springs, that trembled when she spoke. Her round white face was thickly powdered, and two bright spots of red glowed on her cheeks. She wore too much lipstick, too much mascara over her enormous black eyes, too much blue eye shadow, and her eyebrows had been shaved and painted over with a thin black line, like a moustache.
The lace neck of her dress was cut low over the squeezed line of her breasts: the breasts themselves made me think that two watermelons had been shoved into her bodice.
She caught me staring at her and she smiled, her thick red mouth splitting open on little yellow teeth.
Suddenly a man's voice shouted through the door behind my chair, "Colette."
Colette stood up, turned round and moved a little knob in the wall behind her desk. She looked into it. The man's voice mumbled something, and Colette said: "All right." She shut the knob, rubbed her hands on her hips and walked to the door behind me.
"Excuse me," she said.
At the moment she opened the door, something insisted I turn, and I did in time to see a barren-looking room and two naked young men, one of whom was bent over, hands on knees; the other stood behind him his penis in a state of half-erection. The door closed.
Curiosity getting the better of me, I left my chair and went to Colette's desk, then quickly turned the knob in the wall. Once open, I could see into the next room which was clearly a photographer's studio. I couldn't see the photographer himself, but I could see the two young men. They were now both standing up. Colette waddled into my line of vision and I saw her make a great effort and tug her dress over her head. She was naked underneath; line after line of loose flesh enfolded her body, and as she moved, all the folds trembled and danced. The small triangle of brown hair was almost hidden by the doughy thighs that leaned over it. Her enormous breasts hung down heavily, ending in purplish teats. She wore nothing but blue suede shoes. Walking once more she lifted herself to a white table and spread her thighs as wide as she could. The two boys approached her. One of them, the dark one, had an erection, but the blonde one was pulling his rod hurriedly, trying to get it hard.
"What's the matter?" said the voice that had called Colette from behind the door, but whose owner I couldn't see. "Can't you get it up?"
"I'd like to see you get it up if you had to fuck this old wreck," said the blonde boy.
Colette laughed. "You ought to see him get it up, kid. Isn't that right, Peter?" Then she lifted her arm and took the boy's tool in her fat hand. When it was erect, she said, "Better shove it in fast, honey-before it goes down."
She leaned back and the boy wedged himself between her thighs; in a instant his member was lost in Colette's mountain of soft brown flesh. The other young man got behind the first and inserted the tip of his penis into his friend's anus.
"Hold it now," said the photographer. They held it.
There were a few clicks and some brushing sounds, and they changed positions: one boy in front, and one behind Colette. Then there were some close-ups: Colette smiling broadly with a penis in each ear; Colette smiling broadly with a penis in her mouth and one between her breasts; Colette's woman smiling broadly as one of the young men lapped at it.
"That's all," said the photographer. "You boys get dressed in the other room."
I snapped the knob back over the opening, and returned to my chair. I was hardly seated when the door opened behind me and Colette, thrust respectably back into her dress, entered the room.
"Mr. van Drooft will see you now," she said.
She closed the door behind me as I passed into the studio. Van Drooft was fussing with a lens. He was about my age, I imagine, but because he was very thin he seemed a bit older. His smile was friendly.
"Mr. Cunningham?" he asked.
I nodded.
"What can I do for you, sir?"
"I've come at the request of-" I was about to say Baroness Arvon, but then decided that it was un likely she had told him who she was. "Carla. She had sort of platinum-blue hair. I don't know."
"Carla," he repeated with some amazement. "What a long time it's been since I saw her."
"She's dead," I told him flatly. "Ah, that's too bad."
"Yes. She left a letter for me asking me to see you. She said you would tell me things."
"Cunningham, Cunningham," he said very quietly. "You must be Howard Cunningham."
"That's right."
"Good heavens, I never thought you would actually show up. I have a package for you; I've had it ready for almost twenty years. It'll take me a while to dig it out. But first I suppose we ought to talk. Are you free now?"
"Yes."
"Well, I have no more appointments today. Why don't you come into my living-room and I'll tell you anything you'd like to know about Carla."
I followed him into the next room where the two boys were still dressing. Van Drooft showed me to a chair, then poured two glasses of wine and sat down opposite me.
"Why don't you hurry up?" Van Drooft said to the young men.
"We're hurrying," 'they answered. And we were all silent until their shoe-laces were tied and they went out through the studio.
"To our memory of Carla," van Drooft toasted and sipped his wine. "Now what shall I tell you?"
"Everything."
"Ah, but everything is too much."
"No, I'd like to know everything."
"To the last detail."
"To the last detail."
Then I begin on an autumn night many years ago. I was a very young man, a photographic artist. For me, the camera was like tubes of paint. I didn't want to be a businessman; I wanted to make pictures that would be art. And at that particular time, I was most interested in faces. I was always looking for an interesting face. When I saw Carla the first time, I thought-here is an interesting face, a face that suffers. And, I must confess, I thought it was also a beautiful face.
I saw her on the terrace of a cafe one cool autumn night so many years ago. I was only passing by, but the instant I saw that desperate face, I stopped and sat down at the table next to hers. I wondered how I could dare ask a woman so obviously unhappy to come pose for me. I was still thinking of an approach when suddenly a very abrupt young man came charging up the pavement. This, I take it, was you. Naturally, I overheard their conversation; even had I not been sitting so close to Carla, I would have heard it, for this foolish young man-yes, Mr. Cunningham, he was a foolish young man-shouted and ranted. He said: "Carla, I've come for the last time. Have you changed your mind?" And the girl said nothing. He repeated: "Have you changed your mind?"
"And she said: "How can I? You know it's impossible."
"It isn't impossible. You'll have to do as I ask-or we're through."
"No, please. I beg you not to say that."
"It's true. We're finished. I won't come back again."
"You don't know what will become of me," she said.
And he replied, rather nastily, I later realized: "You'll be all right. You'll have to be all right for Angela."
Then the young man turned and disappeared. The girl wept silently. At that point, I decided to leave; but then, in spite of myself, I spoke to her. You think it was selfish of me? Perhaps, but I was an inconsiderate young man; and although generally I was rather timid, where my art was concerned I was headstrong. So I said: "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation. Is there anything I can do for you?"
She didn't seem to hear, so I repeated the question.
"No no no," she said through her tears.
I realized it would be useless to insist, so I took a piece of paper from my pocket and wrote on it: "I'm a photographer and I should like to do some studies of your face. I'm not in a position to pay for such services but you will have copies of the pictures in payment. If you feel you might be generous enough to spare a few moments to me one day, I'll be very grateful." I wrote my name and address, put the note on her table and left the cafe.
I heard nothing from her for a week or ten days. And then late one night, as I was reading in bed, there was a knock at the door. I put my trousers and robe on over my pajamas and went through the studio and anteroom, and I opened the door.
"Mr. van Drooft," she said, handing me the note I had left her at the cafe.
I pushed the note aside, and said: "As if I would have forgotten you. Please come in." She followed me into the room where we are seated now. "This is certainly a strange time to have taken my offer up."
"I'm sorry, but it's the only time I have."
I took her coat and she sat down. My eye-both as man and photographer-drank in the body which her dress revealingly concealed. We talked only a little that evening because we were soon involved in photography. She was a very patient model and enjoyed the work immensely. Once or twice I apologized for not being able to pay her, and finally she said: "I don't need the money, and I'm perfectly delighted that my being here is of any use to you."
We continued working, with only occasional pauses, for three or four hours. During our breaks, we drank wine and coffee, and spoke a little, but the conversation was extremely impersonal. Frankly, I didn't want her to feel that I had lured her up to my place on false grounds, and so I myself never brought the talk around to ourselves. She, on the other hand, may have taken my conversation for a sign of coldness, and consequently wouldn't talk of herself. This happened not only that first night but during the many following nights, because, Mr. Cunningham, Carla began to come very frequently to my studio.
After a couple of weeks doing only studies of her face, I began to take full portraits of her with different costumes and different arrangements. She went into this with a great deal of enthusiasm and even began bringing wonderful costumes along with her. The first time I photographed her in costume, I was rather embarrassed about it and asked if she'd mind putting the dress on.
"I'd love to," she said.
"You can change in the salon," I told her.
She smiled rather strangely and said: "As you wish," and went into the unlighted salon leaving the door open behind her. I was arranging the studio for the next shot and the rustle of her clothing disconcerted me. Looking up once, I saw her standing naked in the shadows of the other room. I turned away quickly, but the suggestion of her flesh burned into me. And it was the same way every time she changed in or out of costume: there would always be that one single glance at her flesh in the darkness. Once, perhaps unconsciously, I left the light on in the salon. She said nothing about it, but she took longer making her changes, and I looked at her lengthily that time, watching her slow casual motions. After that I always left the light on, and eventually she began to dress more or less in the doorway between the two rooms. As it finally happened, she never left the studio at all when the change had to be made. And when she changed, I ceased to bother with arrangements in the studio, but instead watched her. She would move with impossible slowness: each button, each hook, would take minutes to undo. She lowered her dress gracefully, each inch of her body coming into light like a revelation. Stepping out of the dress, she stretched herself as if free at last, and then began the long process of loosing her brassiere. Her breasts emerged and the nipples stared at me like eyes asking: why don't you come closer? Every part of that body was firm yet soft. I wanted to photograph it, and at the same time, I wanted to possess it.
Once, when she was completely nude, she turned full upon me, and said: "Peter, wouldn't you like to photograph me like this?"
"I'd love to," I replied and began to arrange the composition. She was very passive for these pictures and I had to touch her to get her into the right attitudes.
It was an effort to keep calm when my hands circled her arm or her shoulder or the smooth warmth of her legs. She smiled, saying nothing, occasionally asking: "Is that better?" At times, relaxing after a picture, her thighs would move inadvertently apart and I'd glimpse the inviting line that divided her fur. I'd expect the thighs to separate even further, and they would-but only slightly, enough to hint that a feast lay between those tables. My breath growing short, heavy, I'd stare frankly down, and suddenly the thighs would close like guardsmen.
The nude photographs went on for a week or ten days, and then one evening when Carla arrived, she said: "Peter, I've been reading the most interesting article-all about color film. Have you ever tried using any?"
"Good heavens, no. Do you know how expensive that stuff is? I couldn't possibly afford it."
"I thought you'd say that, so do you know what I've done? I've ordered a great deal of it. I thought it would be fun to try out."
"I won't be able to accept it, Carla. I could not pay you for it and I can't accept a gift-"
"Oh, nonsense, Peter. You're so stodgy. It must be all your cold northern blood."
"Only my father was northern. My mother was Spanish."
She laughed tauntingly. "Who'd ever have guessed it? Do you mean to say that somewhere within you is a big, long, hard passionate streak?"
Since this big, long, hard passionate streak had been violently evident at least twice every night for the past two months, I refused to comment on it. I could not explain my behavior then, nor can I now, except under the vague and rather hypocritical-sounding word: honor.
I had asked Carla to come to me as a model, and although a change in our relationship was what I wanted more than anything else-and, clearly, Carla was not against it-possibly the time was not yet ripe. If the Spaniard in me longed to throw himself on top of this ravishing woman, the Dutchman's iron voice whispered restraint. The Dutchman seemed to be in control at present, but the Spaniard was driving both himself and his alter-ego crazy.
But to return to our conversation. I said, "I'm sorry, Carla, I don't think I ought to accept."
"Peter, honestly, you've given me so much pleasure in this studio-and I'm certain you'll give me lots more-that I'd like nothing better than to offer you a little something in return. Won't you accept?"
She was undressing as she spoke, and when she was altogether naked, she came close to me, and said: "Won't you accept?"
"I shouldn't," I replied.
"But you will...."
My hand twitched with desire. "Yes, I will."
She moved until our bodies were touching, and then abruptly, I turned away. I walked into the salon, poured myself a drink, and then another. When I returned to the studio, I was calmer, and Carla lay on the chaise-longue. She smiled and said: "I'm happy you've accepted my offer."
"The only thing is, of course," I told her, "that I don't know the first thing about color equipment. I don't have the lighting and-"
"Oh, that's all right. I've taken care of everything."
And, indeed, she had. For, one afternoon, about a week later, two men came to my. studio with a tre-m ndous crate. Carla had seen to everything: film, lighting, developing, a camera, and there was even a small chest of makeup for color photographs. The rest of that afternoon, and all through the evening, I read the books and manuals that had come with the parcel. By the time Carla arrived that night my head was whirling with all I'd learned.
"I've spent the past eight hours," I said to her, "trying to get some idea how to work all this."
"Did it come today?" she asked with some disappointment in her voice. "I didn't think they'd deliver it until tomorrow."
"It doesn't matter, does it?"
"N-no, of course it doesn't matter. But let's not begin until tomorrow."
"That's fine with me," I said. "I was going to ask if we couldn't wait because, frankly, I'm exhausted. Would you like to go out for a bit? I'd like some air."
Outside, the night was cold and, further, since it was so late, there was no one on the street. We walked for an half-hour along the Boulevard Montparnasse and then I suggested we stop in at one of the cafe on the Boulevard. I knew a great many people who frequented these cafes and most of them had begun wondering why I no longer appeared in the evenings. Now my suddenly appearing with one: of the most ravishing beauties anyone had ever seen would give them a turn.
But Carla refused.
"I'd rather not," she said. "I don't want to be seen. It's not likely, but there may be people I know."
"Are you ashamed of being with me?" I was fairly angry, particularly, since I'd just been thinking how proud I'd be to be seen with her.
"No, it has nothing to do with you, Peter. Normally, I'd be proud to be seen with as talented a man as you. But, well-look, couldn't we go to a small place down one of the side-streets, and I'll try to explain."
"All right," I said, rather sullenly.
That was the first night Carla ever talked about herself. Her story was vague and broad. How much of it was true, I still don't know. In any case, she told me of her daughter and how she didn't want the child to know of her absences. It was also that night that she spoke of you, Mr. Cunningham, and made the request that all the photographs-or, rather, copies of them-be made into a package and saved for you.
"How will he know about me if you don't intend to see him again and don't know his address?" I asked.
"He'll know. I promise you. It may be a good many years, Peter, but one day he'll come to your studio."
I have that package for you-and there are, indeed, some extraordinary pictures among them. Well, that night, Carla and I spoke a good deal-mostly about ourselves, and this turned out to be delightful, since it did, in a way, begin, the change in our relationship. We grew closer that night, just by talking until dawn. And suddenly, it was dawn, and Carla became panicky. I found a cab for her, and she pecked me on the cheek and started to climb into the car.
"I'm so glad," she said as I was shutting the door after her, "that you're prepared to accept what I offer."
She was smiling when the taxi rolled down the street.
The following night, she was strange from the moment she entered, and there was a rather mocking expression on her face. She said very little, and we decided to begin with the color-experiments at once.
"I'd better put the makeup on," she said, and opened the paint-chest that had come with the other equipment.
She undressed then, taking even more time at it than was usual for her, and she was more disorderly than usual. When she stepped out of her dress, she left it lying on the floor. Her brassiere dropped on top of it and her hands rubbed underneath her breasts, raising them so the pink roses at their tip reached toward me.
"We'll have to put some makeup here," she said, indicating her teats, "so they'll show up better in the color. Will you help me do it?"
I nodded, but found it impossible to say a word. Then, slowly, she began to roll her panties down her hips, down her thighs, down her legs. The triangle of her groin seemed somehow new to me, as if I were seeing it for the first time. It was the Spaniard in me, I suppose, whose eyes I could no longer resist using. He, I, we, saw the body that must be taken, taken violently, and in every conceivable way. I wanted to use every part of her, for every part seemed ready, pulsing, thumping, singing with anticipation.
Her panties were on the floor, and with the point of her foot she kicked them to the little pile of clothing.
"First I think you ought to powder me," she said.
I went to the makeup chest and took the soft powder-puff out of its wrapper, then broke the lid off the powder box and dipped the puff into it until it was rich with powder. Approaching Carla, I began to pat her shoulders gently with the pink dust; its perfume rose around us. She turned and I patted the powder down her back and to the tops of her buttocks; there, I hesitated.
"You'd better do it lower down, too. Don't you think so?"
I obeyed her, the puff moving across the roundness of her flesh. My fingers tingled at the contact. Beginning to powder her thighs, they moved apart gently, but slightly, so that only a few fine feathers of the puff could edge between. Abruptly, she swung round and, since I was kneeling, my face was against another powder-puff, her own. I backed away and lifted myself to my feet, not looking into her eyes, and I started powdering her neck, then chest. I circled the feathers round her breasts and she sighed; my fingers trailed back and forth across her nipples. Kneeling once more, I powdered her belly and the breadth of her hips, and let the puff run over the triangle of pale hair.
"No, not there," she said. "A darker color for the hair would be better."
"Later," I said, unwilling to stop.
I, patted the front of her thighs and again they moved open, but this time wider than I'd expected, wide enough to see the moisture glued to her hidden hair. I powdered the inside of her thighs, arching my hand so that my knuckles slid between the woolen lips. She shuddered and groaned. My heart was wild with passion, and I was about to thrust my mouth into her warmth, when her thighs clamped together.
"My knees," she said. "You're forgetting my knees."
I powdered her knees and calves quickly for my interest was concentrated above. Drawing away, Carla said: "Some rouge on my nipples." But, since I didn't move, she walked to the chest and brought the rouge to me. Standing up, I began to apply the color to her teats, stroking and patting, then working the color with my fingers. I took some more rouge and put a few pale streaks on her breasts to heighten their tone. Both my hands circled her breasts, and I squeezed them, kneading the color into the skin.
I bent once more, and applied the rouge to the hair in her groin, stroking gently, allowing my fingers to follow the bend of her body and to trail into the hot wet groove below.
"I think we're ready now," she said and turned away.
"Ready?" I repeated foolishly.
"For the pictures, of course."
"The pictures will come later," I said.
"No, no," she smiled. "The pictures will come now." And she lay down upon the chaise-longue. "Please bring me a glass of wine, Peter."
"No."
"Please ... And then we'll see about the pictures."
I went into the next room, undressed, poured out two glasses of wine, and then started back to the studio. But I stopped, put the glasses back upon the table, and stripped myself of all my clothing. I can't tell you what a relief it was to allow my howling penis its freedom from being pressed against clothing. So, undressed, I picked up the glasses again and, as I was about to enter the studio, I paused dead in the doorway, unable to move or to speak, for the most incredible little scene was being enacted before my eyes.
Carla still lay on the chaise-longue, her skin exquisite with powder, her nipples glowing with rouge, and she was looking across the studio at the door that leads to the anteroom. She was so casual I could not believe she saw what I saw there. He was a fairly short, but well-built boy of about seventeen, his large black eyes staring wildly at Carla. He wore a T-shirt and, at first, I thought he was otherwise completely naked, but then I saw that he was wearing briefs. The three of us merely stared without moving, until suddenly the boy drove his fingers through his shock of black hair; then he put both hands to the band of his briefs and pulled them down his hips. His penis burst out, large and enflamed.
"You like it?" he shouted across at her, his voice echoing in the studio.
"Yes, yes, yes," she shouted back at him, and her legs shot wide apart, so wide her flushed meat gaped at me.
The boy tore his shirt off, pulled his briefs down his legs, and lunged across the room, flinging himself with a jump on top of Carla. Their mouths were open and they slammed against each other; I saw Carla's arm twist until her hand reached the boy's member. Drawing her knees back, she held the head of his penis against her opening, and with one thump the boy drove himself all the way into her. Bouncing, pumping, swinging, grinding-they went at it like devils.
I flung the glasses of wine to the floor and raced to the chaise-longue.
"Stop it," I cried. "What are you doing?"
But they ignored me, continuing to bang themselves as if I didn't exist. I grabbed the boy's shoulder and tried to pull him away from Carla, but her legs moved until they circled his back and she kept him in place. Standing beside them, I shouted, "Stop it, stop it," and was torn between rage and passion. They had both begun to moan, and his penis made a sucking sound as it dug in and out of her juicy sheath. Carla shrieked and the boy dropped motionless upon her; there was no longer any sound but their hoarse breathing.
Taking hold of his shoulder again, I pulled at him and this time managed to dislodge him and bring him to his feet.
"How did you get in here?" I asked him.
He stared at me dumbly and then down at his red still dripping rod, the sight of which infuriated me even further.
"Answer me," I roared. "How did you get in here."
"Through the door," he said. "Who are you."
"Nobody."
"Tell me who you are."
"I'll tell you who he is," said Carla lazily. I turned upon her. "You filthy whore. Would you let anyone who walked through that door fuck you?"
"No, not anyone, Peter." She seemed offended. "But he's so cute. Come here, darling, let's do it again." (This last was spoken to the boy.)
He turned toward her.
"No, you won't do it again. Put your clothes on and get out of here."
"Me?" Carla asked, smiling.
"No, not you. I'll take care of you as soon as he's gone." I looked at the boy. "Get out."
"I don't want to," he said. "I want more of that." And he put his hand round over Carla's woman.
"That's enough," she told him. "You'd better leave now. I've got to save a little for Peter."
"I won't leave."
"Yes you will," she said, removing his hand from between her thighs. "If you don't, you'll never have anymore from me."
"All right, I'll go, but just let me suck you a little."
He knelt beside the chaise-longue and his face disappeared into the swamp of her loins.
"I won't have this," I said.
"Oh, be quiet, Peter, and come here. Yes, yes, come here."
I obeyed, leaning against the chaise-longue until the tip of my penis poked against Carla's sweet red mouth. She moved her head, forcing my rod deeper, always deeper. The warmth rugged at my blood, and her tongue circling around made me shiver. Relinquishing my organ, she put her mouth to my scrotum and lapped playfully in shore quick strokes. I edged round and then threw myself on top of her, giving the boy a sudden thrust as I dropped. He fell back to the floor and I found that now my face was at a level with Carla's groin. Moving downward, I felt her insert my penis in her mouth once more, and ar the same moment my face went between her thighs and before my eyes lay only the violent quivering pink meat, aflame with the syrups of pleasure. A world of ripe odors, of flesh, of curling hair, of heavy moisture. My tongue went up and down, eating and drinking at Carla's full table. I bit at her gently and felt her bites return mine along the length of my penis. My tongue dug into her canal, flickered in and out until everything shuddered, went hot and cold. My mouth was not big enough to enclose all the delights Carla could offer.
Suddenly she pushed my member front her.
"Fuck me, now, Peter. Fuck me," she sighed.
I lifted my face and turned my body around. Our faces met violently, mouths grinding together, tongues flung deep into each other. I felt her legs draw up under me and her cavern was arched against my throbbing organ. With one jolt, it was in-inserted deep within her. Legs went round my back, squeezing me so tightly I could barely breathe. My hands clutched at her breasts, tugging at them, molding them, and our mouths never parted. Her hips began to sway slightly, and my own joined in with her motion.. We rocked back and forth gently; then gradually I began to circle my penis in her. Ultimately I began drawing it in and out in long slow movements, taking it out as far as the head, then plunging back deep, endlessly. She was shaking with passion and I sensed that her moment was near: my thrusts became shorter and faster, but always I dug deep if her as if I must break the walls of her sheath. Each thrust made her moan and her tongue ran wild in my mouth. Our moment came together-one maddening instant when our teeth ground and we were the dripping movement of our loins.
Afterwards, we lay breathing heavily.
"Now it's my turn," I heard the boy say.
I refused to answer him.
"Get up," he said to me. "If you don't let me fuck her I'll fuck you."
I still wouldn't reply, but then abruptly I realized he meant what he'd said, for he jumped on top of me and was trying to drive his penis into me. Twisting myself, I made him drop to the floor again, and I pulled myself to my feet.
"Get out of here," I said.
"Let him stay, Peter," said Carla.
"No, I don't want him here."
"Don't you think I've got enough for both of you?"
"That isn't the point. I won't have a strange kid barging in here and playing around with my woman."
"Your woman," the boy sneered. "As it happens I got into your woman before you did."
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"I told him, Peter."
"You mean you knew him before tonight?"
"Yes," she laughed. "I met him last week on the way back from your place one night. He thought he was going to rape me and he dragged me into the courtyard of a building. Of course I could have screamed, but it was such fun to be raped, so I only fought and scratched, and the next thing I knew his wonderful tool was driving me crazy."
"I gave you a good fuck, didn't I?" he said.
"You always do, Jean. And Peter gave me a good one too. How marvelous to have two wonderful men, one warming up just as the other is cooling off."
This arrangement may have been wonderful for Carla, but it was not the sort of thing that amused me. "So you think the party is going to be for the three of is every night?" I asked her.
"Why not?"
"Well, I won't have it. You could have gone on meeting him at some other time. What was the idea of bringing him here?"
"Well, if you want to know the truth-"
"Of course, I do."
"I wanted to get you jealous. I wanted to see you go as crazy as you've been driving me these past weeks. Every night I'd steamed up and then you-you did nothing but take my picture. The night I met Jean I was so hot I could barely walk down the street. You can imagine how hot we both were to start rolling on the concrete of a courtyard on a cold night. I had it all planned for him to come here the night the color film came. I though I'd get you really worked up (and I succeeded) and then when you were most excited Jean would appear and it would happen just as it happened."
"But how could he get in with the door locked?" I asked.
"It wasn't locked," she replied. "I released the latch when you weren't looking and I'd warned him to come in quietly, undress down to his underwear, and then wait until he heard me send you for wine. At that point he was to come in. I suppose I don't have to explain the rest."
Jean was apparently uninterested in all this talk and he held his erect penis in his hand as if reining it in.
"Let me give it to you now, Carla," he said.
"Yes, yes." She closed her eyes and waited.
As he had before, he jumped and flung himself upon her.
"Let's do it," she said, "with me on top of you this time."
"And what am I supposed to do?" I asked.
"You can take pictures of us," Jean answered. "There's good money in these pictures. I can sell them for you."
"Oh, yes, Peter. Take pictures-in color. But wait, we'll have to put makeup on Jean."
She left the chaise-longue and brought the paint chest over to the boy. She applied the makeup to his face then powdered his body with the same care I had taken in powdering hers.
"We'll put some rouge on your penis," she said. "Although it's red enough now."
She applied the color to her own lips and then, by putting her mouth over Jean's member, she transferred the color to him Then she evened the rouge out by licking at his penis with her tongue. She licked a great deal, and most of the paint disappeared, and she began the process again. Doing this, she knelt on the floor, and slid my head between her thighs. She pressed down against me and her meat seemed thicker than before as it filled my mouth. I sucked her passionately and brought my hands round to fondle her buttocks. My fingers trailed into the split and I tickled her anus which began to widen. Breaking away from her, I took the jar of cream from the makeup chest and smoothed it into her anus; then, kneeling in back of her, I drove my aching member into her hole. My arms circled round her, one hand digging into her flooded woman and the other squeezing her breasts; and all the time she continued sucking the boy. I thrilled with the oily sensation of the cream and the tightness of this new hole. She kept forcing her buttocks back upon me; the pressure made me wild and I lunged in and out savagely, pulling at her woman, until I cried with the pleasure of my ooze.
"Well, the makeup's on," she said, rising away from me. "Now, we've got to try some pictures. You tell us how to pose."
There was no need to tell them anything, for they both seemed quite expert at posing. I took a great many photographs that night, and when rest-time came, the only change was that Jean climbed off Carla, and I climbed on. Toward dawn, Carla said she had to leave, but Jean decided that he liked my flat and thought he might stay a few days.
"You will not stay here for a few days or even for a few minutes. It may be possible to tolerate you for the pleasure of Carla, but when she's not here, I don't want you here either."
Since we continued arguing, Carla dressed and left the apartment without waiting for the results of the discussion. Still naked, Jean and I argued. Finally he lay down on the chaise-longue and pretended he had gone to sleep. I shook him, but he would not respond.
"You're not deceiving me," I said. "You'll have to get out of here."
A little smile came to his face, and I noticed that his penis had become erect again. He turned around suddenly and buried his face in my crotch. I backed away.
"If you let me stay here," he said, "you'll be able to have fun even when Carla's not around."
He fondled my member, and when it stiffened, put it into his mouth. He sucked as well as Carla, and doubtless had had as much experience at it as she. After several moments of this, Jean reached for the makeup cream and spread some on my organ; then he bent over and pushed back-and my hand guided my penis into its new home.
And so, he stayed that night. He stayed, in fact, for the next two weeks and the three of us had great pleasures during the night. Unfortunately, Jean saw to it that I had pleasures during the day as well, and it was perhaps best that all finally ended-or I might have been a wrecked man. I can remember no period of my life when I was in such a state of exhaustion as the last days of the two weeks with Carla and Jean.
The color photographs of the two of them making love came out reasonably well, especially the close-ups, and Jean did, as he had promised, sell them for me. This brought me more money than I'd ever had before and also began the career which I practice to this very day. Doubtless Jean cheated me out of much of the money, but I could not complain since he was a willing model.
It was primarily jealousy that broke up this happy arrangement of sex and money.' Carla was jealous because Jean was more interested in pleasing me than in pleasing her; I was jealous that Carla cared so much about Jean; and, finally, Jean was jealous because when Carla was present I preferred to fill her openings than his. (This last jealousy kept me rooted in Jean practically all the time when Carla was absent-and was the chief reason for my fatigue.) At last, the three of us had a row and we ended by actually fighting. Carla dressed and stormed out swearing she would never come back. The moment she was gone, Jean rushed at me laughing and delighted.
"Now, there's only the two of us," he said.
"Yes, and that's one too many."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you'll have to go. And I won t put up with any discussion."
"Have you forgotten our wonderful afternoons-just the two of us?"
"No, unfortunately, I haven't forgotten."
"Weren't they wonderful?"
"It was interesting for two weeks, but I'm afraid going to bed with you isn't quite to my taste."
He fell to his knees (we were both naked) and began sucking my penis.
"Stop it," I said. "You'll have to go."
But he continued, and I could see he had begun to cry. It was difficult to believe that this tearful boy sucking my penis was the same as the one who had raped Carla. In any case, I flung him away. He returned, and I pushed him again, harder than I intended. Coming back, he deliberately provoked me into hitting him, and he continued to do so. We both became a little wild, and I pounded him with all my strength. It was a while before I realized how much he was enjoying it. He moaned and sighed; his penis was in an enormous state of erection. I'd gone so far, I couldn't stop, and I continued beating him, pinching him, tearing at him until he was bloody. With each wound I inflicted, his passion rose, and he rubbed against my body giving it small wet kisses. He dropped into a heap at my feet, begging me to kick him, and I did, again and again, and each time he came back to stroke, lick, kiss my ankles, knees or thighs. Half-crazy I threw myself on him; his buttocks rose under me, and suddenly we were locked together. And while we rolled and swayed, I continued pounding him and pinching him as if this last horrible act must purge me of all the terrible degeneracy of the past two weeks. My member throbbed in and out of him, tearing at him, and finally I came.
I was so revolted afterwards that I couldn't look at him. He begged me and pleaded with me all that day and into the next night, and through that night-while I waited for Carla who never returned. I refused to talk to Jean or look at him; and twenty-four hours later he was gone.
Carla never came back, and except for one short note I never heard from or of her again, A week after she left, she sent me a letter saying she hoped I would remember to make the package of photographs up for you. And she asked two other things, one of which I was not to tell you immediately, and the other was-well, Mr. Cunningham, that you would pose for a picture-Van Drooft looked at me rather shyly. "Of course, I'd pose for a picture. Although I can't."
"I mean, a picture in the nude. The kind of picture I took of Carla."
"Why, in heaven's name, would she have wanted me to-"
"That is what I am not to tell you immediately. The whole thing shouldn't take more than a few moments. It is the least either of us can do toward the memory of such a passionate woman."
"Yes, all right. I agree."
"If you'll just wait a minute, however, I'll bring the package. It should be in back somewhere. Please help yourself to some more wine."
When he had gone, I stood up to pour some wine, and it was then I noticed the enormous shadow of Colette at the door leading into the studio. I moved and saw her, dress up, hands between her thighs tugging body at her mountainous flesh. She seemed embarrassed but didn't stop what she was doing.
"I couldn't help-I overheard the story and it excited me. Will you fuck me, Mr. Cunningham?"
She threw her dress over her head and came to me, waving bet arms. I was so startled I might have struck bet, but at that moment Van Drooft returned.
"They were easier to find than I'd thought-" He stopped short. "Ah, I see Colette is ready for the photograph, I hope you don't mind, Mr. Cunningham. It would be difficult to get another female model at this time of day. And it's best to do the thing right now."
"I'm not sure...."
"It will all be over in a moment."
Colette smiled rapturously and came to aid me undress. She was not very helpful because her hands were concentrated on my fly, but finally I managed to get out of my clothes.
"You have such a nice one," said Colette. "But it's so itty-bitty. We have to make it big for the photograph, don't we?"
I encountered the same difficulty the young man had had earlier that afternoon when he was faced with the prospect of getting an erection over Colette.
"Perhaps this will help," said Van Drooft and he handed me some of the nude studies of Carla, and some of the colored pictures he had taken of Carla and Jean. It was rather a shock to see her again, just as she had been twenty years ago. But I succumbed to the memory of her flesh, and my penis rose-Colette still laboring at it maddeningly.
In the studio, Colette eased herself onto the chaise-longue and I climbed on top of her. This was much more pleasant than I'd imagined for I sank deep into her meat. She drew her legs wide and back and I edged my rod through the meaty mound.
"Don't put all of it in," said Van Drooft. "Now, hold it."
The camera clicked once, twice, and then twice more. "That's all," said Van Drooft. "I'll develop it now." And he was gone.
"You can put all of it in now," Colette whispered and she lumbered her hips down until I found my penis lodged in her weight.
She was all wet and pasty. I fondled her breasts, round and flabby like loaves of unbaked bread.
"Oh oh oh," she whimpered and moved her hips so quickly that my penis tensed for its spurt.
Colette wanted more, but I considered it quite enough and left her to dress. When I had my clothing on, Van Drooft came back and handed me the photograph. The shock of it made my heart beat. Carla had asked Van Drooft to superimpose a picture of me on one of her and so I had replaced Jean on this photograph, and she had replaced Colette. One half was faded and one half was fresh, but the area where my half-inserted penis entered her half-filled woman was so dear it might have been photographed yesterday.