Read Online Dolorosa Soror by Florence Dugas - Free Book Online
Authors: Florence Dugas
Tags: Masquerade Books
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handiwork.
Below us, the Japanese guide cheeped on, her compatriots nodding their heads like mechanical dolls, marking less their acceptance than the fact that they were following the commentary.
One of them, evidently audacious enough to stop listening to the guide's no-doubt illuminating remarks, began to stare at the beautiful blond just above him, leaning on her elbows with her girlfriend. He quickly focused his camera and photographed us.
At the very moment when he depressed the button, I shifted my hand backwards and thrust my index and middle fingers into Nathalie's vagina. Surprised, she widened her eyes and parted her lips, just for an instant.
This was precisely what the click of the shutter captured on that cold day in mid-December. As if slightly disconcerted, the Japanese man lowered the camera for an instant; perhaps he wanted to verify with the naked eye what his lens had revealed to him. Again he raised his camera and aimed.
Nathalie stared at him, hiding nothing of her ascent into pleasure, though I knew her capable of coming intensely with- out batting an eyelash. As my fingers groped about inside her, I buried my thumb in her asshole and rubbed it against the slender partition of flesh separating it from my index finger. She presented the Japanese man with a singular recital of flaring nostrils and open mouth. One spasm, then another. Her chin moved with each ecstatic sigh; her tongue passed slowly over her lips, dry with desire. At each pause, the Japanese man took a photograph. Merely by watching Nathalie's oh-so-changeable face, one could guess the moment at which the click would resound. 1
Her game did not remain private for long. One after the other, the guys in the group turned their heads and whispered to each other, full of excitement. Finally the guide stopped talking and stared at us.
Nathalie played her orgasm as if she were a piano beneath my fingers.
The cameras went off in a noisy chorus.
I felt her ass contract around my thumb; she leaned her face towards me, hungry for my mouth.
I kissed her. Her lips were as cold as the air, her tongue a ball of wet fire.
A new burst of clicks.
Then everything returned to normal. We were again leaning against the balustrade, standing next to each other like good little girls. On the lichen-stained stone, Nathalie's hands, which had been clenched so tightly they were almost white, relaxed. She softly squeezed my hand, still soaked with her wetness. The Japanese group returned to their guide.
Only the man who had noticed us first still stared, and only for a brief instant. Stone-faced, he nodded his head slightly, with an infinite deference, as if to thank us.
Nathalie turned towards me. "Shall we go back?" she suggested. Her face reflected the same enigmatic, indecipherable light as the waxy face of the Japanese man.
On the way back—I was driving, she was playing with my hair—she asked:
"What's on your mind, Florence?" "Nothing," I said. I was thinking of the strange pleasure I had taken in exhibiting her to the group and the complacency with which she had participated. She could very well have assured our total privacy. I told myself I did not have a woman's libido, but a man's, or at least, what I imagined a man's to be. I had been as hard and tense as a stone. As if I had had a hard-on.
Notes
1. I remember a similar performance. One day Florence was playing Hamlet with the same spirit, if not the same pertinence, as Sarah Bernhardt did long ago. Somewhere in the first rows, an audience member was taking photos. In the silence of the room his camera made a horrible racket, and I could foresee the particular times when, with this hand movement, that facial expression, the fatal click would go off. It was very funny and also very annoying.
Chapter VIII
December: Conclusion
I have a present for you," he says.
Pretty paper, a small box made from expensive wood. "For a would-be mistress," he says. Not to be joked
Below us, the Japanese guide cheeped on, her compatriots nodding their heads like mechanical dolls, marking less their acceptance than the fact that they were following the commentary.
One of them, evidently audacious enough to stop listening to the guide's no-doubt illuminating remarks, began to stare at the beautiful blond just above him, leaning on her elbows with her girlfriend. He quickly focused his camera and photographed us.
At the very moment when he depressed the button, I shifted my hand backwards and thrust my index and middle fingers into Nathalie's vagina. Surprised, she widened her eyes and parted her lips, just for an instant.
This was precisely what the click of the shutter captured on that cold day in mid-December. As if slightly disconcerted, the Japanese man lowered the camera for an instant; perhaps he wanted to verify with the naked eye what his lens had revealed to him. Again he raised his camera and aimed.
Nathalie stared at him, hiding nothing of her ascent into pleasure, though I knew her capable of coming intensely with- out batting an eyelash. As my fingers groped about inside her, I buried my thumb in her asshole and rubbed it against the slender partition of flesh separating it from my index finger. She presented the Japanese man with a singular recital of flaring nostrils and open mouth. One spasm, then another. Her chin moved with each ecstatic sigh; her tongue passed slowly over her lips, dry with desire. At each pause, the Japanese man took a photograph. Merely by watching Nathalie's oh-so-changeable face, one could guess the moment at which the click would resound. 1
Her game did not remain private for long. One after the other, the guys in the group turned their heads and whispered to each other, full of excitement. Finally the guide stopped talking and stared at us.
Nathalie played her orgasm as if she were a piano beneath my fingers.
The cameras went off in a noisy chorus.
I felt her ass contract around my thumb; she leaned her face towards me, hungry for my mouth.
I kissed her. Her lips were as cold as the air, her tongue a ball of wet fire.
A new burst of clicks.
Then everything returned to normal. We were again leaning against the balustrade, standing next to each other like good little girls. On the lichen-stained stone, Nathalie's hands, which had been clenched so tightly they were almost white, relaxed. She softly squeezed my hand, still soaked with her wetness. The Japanese group returned to their guide.
Only the man who had noticed us first still stared, and only for a brief instant. Stone-faced, he nodded his head slightly, with an infinite deference, as if to thank us.
Nathalie turned towards me. "Shall we go back?" she suggested. Her face reflected the same enigmatic, indecipherable light as the waxy face of the Japanese man.
On the way back—I was driving, she was playing with my hair—she asked:
"What's on your mind, Florence?" "Nothing," I said. I was thinking of the strange pleasure I had taken in exhibiting her to the group and the complacency with which she had participated. She could very well have assured our total privacy. I told myself I did not have a woman's libido, but a man's, or at least, what I imagined a man's to be. I had been as hard and tense as a stone. As if I had had a hard-on.
Notes
1. I remember a similar performance. One day Florence was playing Hamlet with the same spirit, if not the same pertinence, as Sarah Bernhardt did long ago. Somewhere in the first rows, an audience member was taking photos. In the silence of the room his camera made a horrible racket, and I could foresee the particular times when, with this hand movement, that facial expression, the fatal click would go off. It was very funny and also very annoying.
Chapter VIII
December: Conclusion
I have a present for you," he says.
Pretty paper, a small box made from expensive wood. "For a would-be mistress," he says. Not to be joked
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