this particular
mise en scène
. I doubt your capacity for genuine PEV. I doubt your ability to endure the trufflings and mufflings beneath the patterned cover. Tough.
Some access of
jouissance
made Carol not turn aside. Made her in fact welcome Dan’s questing hand with her own and guide it towards her nipple… He lapped hungrily at her ear, as if sufficient stimulus might cause it to lactate. He nuzzled and snuffled, little bleatings issuedfrom his lips. His silky thigh slid on top of hers; his free hand went to her shoulder, and like a sailor hooking his way up on to a mast, Dan swung on board with amazing facility.
But had it not always been thus? Cast your mind back to the prologue… And can you recall those three sandpapery thrusts that accidentally coaxed our Carol into tremulous orgasm; into the most
petit
of
petit morts
? Carol had no choice, comfort alone dictated that she open her legs. She did this and despite Dan’s lower abdomen pressing into her groin, felt
it
pull free from its housing and this time perceptibly harden. Mercifully this ghastly sensation—full of bloody meaning—was at least eclipsed by Dan’s sudden entry.
Now came the acid test. And as his mouth galumphed once more on to her wet neck, and Carol turned aside to look at the glass of dusty water on the bedside table, she knew that her fate might well be decided. Would he feel
it
? Would he notice? Could he avoid
it
pressing into his pubis? A little knotty thing, a baby brother snuggling up against its older sibling.
No, he didn’t. And is it any surprise? After all Dan had never troubled to examine Carol’s cuntal area with any kind of attention. He knew nothing of her true shape. For Dan this America, this New Found Land, had always remained
terra incognita
. Beneath the hairy diadem that did Carol adorn, Dan knew there was a hole…but he knew of little else besides. His thrusts had always been into an insensate void. The sensation he received fromintercourse had always been mechanical and piston-like. Three thrusts and come; four thrusts a bogey; and five thrusts just about par for the course—and the hole.
This is exactly the handicap that Dan achieved on this particular round, to persist with our facile and demeaning golfing metaphor. And then he disembarked—again with great ease—and cushioned his slightly sodden muff and softening frond against her upper thigh. A few whispered tendernesses, in gratitude for the relieving milking, and he was gone, back to his own single.
Carol lay in the darkness. The digital alarm clock glowed and so did she. More than that—she exulted. Yes, exulted, although she was unable fully to acknowledge the source, or even the content of her feelings. For Carol it was enough that she had escaped detection… But really…absolutely
entre nous
I think it was because when
it
stiffened and Dan made his febrile stab at her, Carol thrust back. Yes! Lifted her hips a little from the mattress, using the tension of the springs to ease up and— not feel him sliding inside her oiled sheath, no. Quite the opposite. It was
she,
Carol, who thrust up inside him, just for one insidious instant. Gone just as soon as it was—oh, so barely, but nonetheless nakedly—acknowledged.
‘“Morning stirs the feet and hands
(Nausicaa and Polypheme)
Gesture of orang-outang
Rises from the sheets in steam
This withered root of knots of hair
Slitted below and gashed out with eyes
This oval O cropped out with teeth
The sickle motion from the thighs…”
‘You see, my memory for quotation improves as I progress,’
said the don, addressing me personally, directly and not simply as a unitary audience.
‘Eliot, isn’t it? Hate his stuff. Uptight he was, a frozen puritan bumhole. Scared of cunt, wouldn’t you say? But whose vagina was
dentata
in this context? Or to place the question in a more modern idiom: who was zooming who? Fucking kike Eliot. Not a lot of people know that, but you would, wooden d’jew?’
The
mise en scène
. I doubt your capacity for genuine PEV. I doubt your ability to endure the trufflings and mufflings beneath the patterned cover. Tough.
Some access of
jouissance
made Carol not turn aside. Made her in fact welcome Dan’s questing hand with her own and guide it towards her nipple… He lapped hungrily at her ear, as if sufficient stimulus might cause it to lactate. He nuzzled and snuffled, little bleatings issuedfrom his lips. His silky thigh slid on top of hers; his free hand went to her shoulder, and like a sailor hooking his way up on to a mast, Dan swung on board with amazing facility.
But had it not always been thus? Cast your mind back to the prologue… And can you recall those three sandpapery thrusts that accidentally coaxed our Carol into tremulous orgasm; into the most
petit
of
petit morts
? Carol had no choice, comfort alone dictated that she open her legs. She did this and despite Dan’s lower abdomen pressing into her groin, felt
it
pull free from its housing and this time perceptibly harden. Mercifully this ghastly sensation—full of bloody meaning—was at least eclipsed by Dan’s sudden entry.
Now came the acid test. And as his mouth galumphed once more on to her wet neck, and Carol turned aside to look at the glass of dusty water on the bedside table, she knew that her fate might well be decided. Would he feel
it
? Would he notice? Could he avoid
it
pressing into his pubis? A little knotty thing, a baby brother snuggling up against its older sibling.
No, he didn’t. And is it any surprise? After all Dan had never troubled to examine Carol’s cuntal area with any kind of attention. He knew nothing of her true shape. For Dan this America, this New Found Land, had always remained
terra incognita
. Beneath the hairy diadem that did Carol adorn, Dan knew there was a hole…but he knew of little else besides. His thrusts had always been into an insensate void. The sensation he received fromintercourse had always been mechanical and piston-like. Three thrusts and come; four thrusts a bogey; and five thrusts just about par for the course—and the hole.
This is exactly the handicap that Dan achieved on this particular round, to persist with our facile and demeaning golfing metaphor. And then he disembarked—again with great ease—and cushioned his slightly sodden muff and softening frond against her upper thigh. A few whispered tendernesses, in gratitude for the relieving milking, and he was gone, back to his own single.
Carol lay in the darkness. The digital alarm clock glowed and so did she. More than that—she exulted. Yes, exulted, although she was unable fully to acknowledge the source, or even the content of her feelings. For Carol it was enough that she had escaped detection… But really…absolutely
entre nous
I think it was because when
it
stiffened and Dan made his febrile stab at her, Carol thrust back. Yes! Lifted her hips a little from the mattress, using the tension of the springs to ease up and— not feel him sliding inside her oiled sheath, no. Quite the opposite. It was
she,
Carol, who thrust up inside him, just for one insidious instant. Gone just as soon as it was—oh, so barely, but nonetheless nakedly—acknowledged.
‘“Morning stirs the feet and hands
(Nausicaa and Polypheme)
Gesture of orang-outang
Rises from the sheets in steam
This withered root of knots of hair
Slitted below and gashed out with eyes
This oval O cropped out with teeth
The sickle motion from the thighs…”
‘You see, my memory for quotation improves as I progress,’
said the don, addressing me personally, directly and not simply as a unitary audience.
‘Eliot, isn’t it? Hate his stuff. Uptight he was, a frozen puritan bumhole. Scared of cunt, wouldn’t you say? But whose vagina was
dentata
in this context? Or to place the question in a more modern idiom: who was zooming who? Fucking kike Eliot. Not a lot of people know that, but you would, wooden d’jew?’
The
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