Read Online The White Hotel by D. M. Thomas - Free Book Online Page A

into hermouth. It was horribly intimate to be eye-to-eye with that rich tulip bulb, that reeking dewy monster. Actually to take it in her mouth was as inconceivable as taking in a bull’s pizzle. But she closed her eyes and did it, fearfully, to show she loved him more than her husband. And it was not unpleasant, it was so far from unpleasant that she became curious; squeezing, caressing and sucking the shaft so that it swelled even bigger in her mouth and spurted into her throat. In his jealousy he abused her in foul terms, which stirred her most peculiarly.
    It was a new excitement, just when they thought they had reached the end of novelty. By a curious transubstantiation, about the same time her breasts began to give out milk, so endlessly had they been sucked on.
    When they went down to dinner, her breasts felt bursting. They enjoyed the hubbub of activity, the laughter of guests, the dash of waiters, the sparkle of the gypsy band, the aroma of dishes; her breasts, full and bouncing under silk as she walked between the tables, enjoyed all this. The atmosphere of the white hotel had been restored. Time had healed. Animal spirits had revived. The gypsy band had found an Italian guest who played the fiddle with one of the great orchestras and who was incomparably better than the fiddler who had died, and so, though they mourned their comrade, they rejoiced in the splendid sound they were making, because the new player challenged their own modest skills to fresh heights.
    Since several guests had moved out, the head waiter had been able to offer the young lovers a better, bigger table. They sat down to dinner with Madame Cottin and the priest. They were in a relaxed, jovial mood after a whole day in the sunshine and fresh air. The red-faced old man waved his hand in a permitting, approving gesture when the young woman opened the front ofher dress, explaining how sore and full her breasts were. He was sympathetic, because his mother had suffered from that trouble in her younger days. The young man, dabbing red wine from his lips with a napkin, leaned across to take the nipple into his mouth, but before he could do so her milk spurted out and landed on the table cloth. She blushed scarlet and was full of apologies, but Father Marek and Madame Cottin laughed deprecatingly and a waiter hurried up smiling and adroitly cleaned up the splash with his white towel, leaving just a faint stain. He asked if they would like another table cloth, but everyone said it was not necessary; it was only harmless milk.
    The young woman saw the priest looking wistfully at her plump breast as her lover sucked. He was toying with his glass of water, and inwardly yearning for something a little stronger. She asked him if he would care to take out the other breast, and drink from it.
    “Are you sure you don’t mind?” the old priest said, touched and flattered. “I admit it’s very tempting.” He glanced at Madame Cottin, who smiled agreement. “It is . Yes! We’ve had a long walk, after all.” She drained her wine glass and poured herself another. “It’ll do you good. Water is no drink for a man!” He still looked hesitant, embarrassed.
    “I really wish you would,” said the young woman. “Please.” And the young man took his mouth from the fat nipple to say, “Please do. It’s too much for me, honestly.” The priest needed no further invitation, and was soon sucking away contentedly. The young woman leaned back, no less contented and eased, and stroked her lover’s thick glossy hair and the priest’s thin dome. The top of his head had caught the sun, she noticed. Over their heads she smiled at the people at the next table, the baker and his wife and their two young children. They were sipping glassesof water. The baker had saved up for years for this holiday, but still could not afford to be extravagant. He smiled back, though, at the thirsty quartet.
    “I don’t blame them, do you?” he remarked to his wife and children.