Read Online Dolorosa Soror by Florence Dugas - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Florence Dugas
Tags: Masquerade Books
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about.
And inside, a straight razor made from ivory and nickel.
The implement of our ancestors.
He shows me how to hold it so as not to cut my fingers. Slides it into the cups of my bra and slices them open with a simple flick of his wrist. Turns me around, glides the blade against my back (my God, how can something be so cold?) and cuts the band of elastic fabric.
My bra falls to my feet like a fruit paring. So much for Christian Dior.
With two clean and precise razor blows at my hips, he rids me of my underpants, their pale chiffon opening like a Saint Andrew's cross on the light-colored floor.
He is still behind me, his arms tightening around my back. He passes the razor slowly across my cheek, throat, breasts.
Pause. Just enough time to put on the handcuffs: pretty nickel-plated ones bought from a porno shop on the Rue Saint-Denis.
Sleight of hand. The blade plays with my skin, stops when just about to wound me. It slides across my chest, skims over my belly, coils in the slit of my sex.
Pure terror. He must have pushed a little too hard, because he nicks me, a half-inch chunk: a beautiful cut that bleeds a lot right away.
"Stop!"
Nasty game. He holds me by the hair, my head raised like a stubborn horse's. Takes his time opening his fly. I simultaneously feel his cock, hard with desire, against my buttocks, and the razor, with which he grazes me.
A burning sensation. He drives the blade into my left but- tock.
"No!" I cry out. He leans me over, spreads my tensed buttocks, caresses my sex with the razor handle, raises me up, penetrates me slightly, and then, with a thrust, completely. The polished ivory opens me like a small, cold penis, while the blade, charting an obtuse angle, pushes against the slit of my sex.
He need only push down a little more to mutilate me forever.
A catastrophe seems imminent.
His right hand passes in front of me and masturbates me gently, while the razor's handle skims over my pussy.
***
Ten o'clock in the morning. I am working on the Sophocles scenario, which is coming along very slowly, by which I mean not at all.
Somebody rings, but Nathalie enters with her key before I can get to the door. She is wearing the smile she wears on the days I love her. She kisses me, then says suddenly:
"Flo?" "Yes?"
"Would you get undressed, please?" I feel myself blush. She does not seem to notice. She goes to the window and closes the thick doubled green velvet curtains. Then she turns on all the lights. "Please," she repeats, turning towards me. I had seen J. P. the night before and he had, if I may say so, lavished me with innumerable marks of love. "Very well," I say. A striptease at that hour seems somehow indecent, especially since Nathalie keeps on her big sweater with the large, loose collar, as well as her snug pair of pants, which make her ass look as if it belongs on the Venus.
I take off my underpants last and stand in front of her. She scrutinizes me with curiosity.
"Turn around," she says.
My buttocks are creased like taffeta. First he had hit me with a crop, tidily; then he had whipped me every which way, until he had erased the clean, straight stripes of the crop. The work of a slaughterer. The skin had been broken in many places, and little superficial scabs had formed. By that morning, the marks had turned to bruises, as usual.
Nathalie draws near. "It's very pretty," she says. With her fingers she traces the embossed meanderings. "It might as well be me," she adds. She kneels behind me. Her hands fall on my hips; her mouth skims over my buttocks, from track to track, with the lightness of a bird.
Titmouse, I think, because the sound of the word pleases me. Her tongue traces the blurry scars one by one. Turtle dove.
Robin redbreast when her hands gently spread my buttocks. Skylark when she licks me, smoothes her lips over my asshole.
Sweet skylark.
Her tongue hollows out my anus; she twists her torso and puts her whole face between my
The implement of our ancestors.
He shows me how to hold it so as not to cut my fingers. Slides it into the cups of my bra and slices them open with a simple flick of his wrist. Turns me around, glides the blade against my back (my God, how can something be so cold?) and cuts the band of elastic fabric.
My bra falls to my feet like a fruit paring. So much for Christian Dior.
With two clean and precise razor blows at my hips, he rids me of my underpants, their pale chiffon opening like a Saint Andrew's cross on the light-colored floor.
He is still behind me, his arms tightening around my back. He passes the razor slowly across my cheek, throat, breasts.
Pause. Just enough time to put on the handcuffs: pretty nickel-plated ones bought from a porno shop on the Rue Saint-Denis.
Sleight of hand. The blade plays with my skin, stops when just about to wound me. It slides across my chest, skims over my belly, coils in the slit of my sex.
Pure terror. He must have pushed a little too hard, because he nicks me, a half-inch chunk: a beautiful cut that bleeds a lot right away.
"Stop!"
Nasty game. He holds me by the hair, my head raised like a stubborn horse's. Takes his time opening his fly. I simultaneously feel his cock, hard with desire, against my buttocks, and the razor, with which he grazes me.
A burning sensation. He drives the blade into my left but- tock.
"No!" I cry out. He leans me over, spreads my tensed buttocks, caresses my sex with the razor handle, raises me up, penetrates me slightly, and then, with a thrust, completely. The polished ivory opens me like a small, cold penis, while the blade, charting an obtuse angle, pushes against the slit of my sex.
He need only push down a little more to mutilate me forever.
A catastrophe seems imminent.
His right hand passes in front of me and masturbates me gently, while the razor's handle skims over my pussy.
***
Ten o'clock in the morning. I am working on the Sophocles scenario, which is coming along very slowly, by which I mean not at all.
Somebody rings, but Nathalie enters with her key before I can get to the door. She is wearing the smile she wears on the days I love her. She kisses me, then says suddenly:
"Flo?" "Yes?"
"Would you get undressed, please?" I feel myself blush. She does not seem to notice. She goes to the window and closes the thick doubled green velvet curtains. Then she turns on all the lights. "Please," she repeats, turning towards me. I had seen J. P. the night before and he had, if I may say so, lavished me with innumerable marks of love. "Very well," I say. A striptease at that hour seems somehow indecent, especially since Nathalie keeps on her big sweater with the large, loose collar, as well as her snug pair of pants, which make her ass look as if it belongs on the Venus.
I take off my underpants last and stand in front of her. She scrutinizes me with curiosity.
"Turn around," she says.
My buttocks are creased like taffeta. First he had hit me with a crop, tidily; then he had whipped me every which way, until he had erased the clean, straight stripes of the crop. The work of a slaughterer. The skin had been broken in many places, and little superficial scabs had formed. By that morning, the marks had turned to bruises, as usual.
Nathalie draws near. "It's very pretty," she says. With her fingers she traces the embossed meanderings. "It might as well be me," she adds. She kneels behind me. Her hands fall on my hips; her mouth skims over my buttocks, from track to track, with the lightness of a bird.
Titmouse, I think, because the sound of the word pleases me. Her tongue traces the blurry scars one by one. Turtle dove.
Robin redbreast when her hands gently spread my buttocks. Skylark when she licks me, smoothes her lips over my asshole.
Sweet skylark.
Her tongue hollows out my anus; she twists her torso and puts her whole face between my
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