The 7 Erotic Minutes

The 7 Erotic Minutes

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"... An underground classic, an erotic novel about a woman whose entire (and active) sex life passes before her memory (and the reader) during the seven minutes of a sexual act."

Publisher's Weekly

Seven Erotic Minutes is to the twentieth century what Fanny Hill was to the eighteenth, the new model of libertine fiction, a vibrant, luscious masterpiece of erotica. And it is certainly the most audacious novel ever written about Henry Miller's Paris.

Here is the irresistible, totally sensuous and totally dedicated confession of the girl who, lying on her back and in the course of these seven ecstatic minutes conquered the world.


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Publié par
Date de parution 07 janvier 2013
Nombre de lectures 21
EAN13 9781608726967
Licence : Tous droits réservés
Langue English

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The 7 Erotic Minutes
J.J. Jadway
This page copyright © 2005 Olympia Press. http://www.olympiapress.com
Court Bars Second 'Seven Minutes' Book
The law journal publishes today under Supreme Court , New York County, Special Term, Part I, a decision by Justice Mitchell D. Sch weitzer(Simon & Schuster, &c., v. Olympia Press, &c.) granting a motion to enjoin the publication and se lling of a book entitled “The Seven Minutes” or “The Original Seven Minutes” on the ground that it would cause “irreparable injury” to publishers of t he best-selling novel “The Seven Minutes” by Irving Wallace. Justice Schweitzer upheld arguments by the plaintif fs that the defendants were attempting to deceive the public into believing tha t their novel is in fact the best-seller published by the plaintiff. “This contention is but tressed by the fact that both covers are similar in almost every respect,” the court ruled. Since his current bestseller is a solemn tale about the evils of suppressing literature, it is surprising to find Novelist Irving Wallace en gaged in doing exactly that. Brandishing a temporary injunction against Olympia Press, the j aunty bad boys of publishing, Wallace charges that their new paperback porn book,The Seven Minutes, by a pseudonymous J.J. Jadway, threatens his own $7.50 b estseller of the same name. It just so happens that the plot of Wallace's book cen ters on the obscenity trial of a hot item he callsThe Seven Minuteswayby a mysterious J.J. Jadway. “There is no J.J. Jad except the one I created in my mind,” Wallace charg es. Life follows art? TIME February 23,1970 THE ORIGINAL SEVEN MINUTES. J. J. Jadway.Olympia Press Original By the time you read this, the whole thing may be a cademic. S & S, publisher of Irving Wallace's novel “The Seven Minutes,” is suin g Olympia Press, and this paperback may never be distributed or sold. The Wal lace novel, still on the best seller lists, is about the trial of a California bookselle r on the charge of selling obscenity. The “obscene" book in question (and on trial) is J. J. Jadway's “The Seven Minutes,” which is supposed to be an underground classic, an erotic novel about a woman whose entire (and active) sex life passes before her memory (and the reader) during the seven minutes of a sexual act. We get very little of the actual erotic novel in the Wallace book, just hints here and there in the trial testimony. I n short, the novel “The Seven Minutes” is a leading but little-seen character in Wallace's “The Seven Minutes,” although the author J. J. Jadway turns out to be a key character . [...] Do not confuse this paperback, should it eventually be released for sale, with the paperback-to-come of the Wallace novel; rights to the latter have been acquired by P ocket Books, which has made no announcement yet of when it will reprint. As to a review of the Olympia paperback, we report with reluctance that it's terrific, one of the best dirty books every written.
Publishers' Weekly February 16, 1970
PUBLISHER'S NOTE
The preceding documents will give the reader of thi s book an idea of its very recent history. Let me simply state that whatever the title under w hich this book is now finally being released by The Olympia Press—for the first time, a nd in a faithfully edited, unabridged version—we feel confident of its rare qualities. “One of the best dirty books ever written, “accordi ng to Publishers' Weekly,it is to the twentieth century whatHill wax Fanny to the eighteenth, the new model of libertine fiction, a vibrant, luscious masterpiece of erotica . And it is certainly the most audacious novel ever written about Henry Miller's Paris. Here is the irresistible, totally sensuous and tota lly dedicated confession of the girl who, lying on her back and in the course of these s even ecstatic minutes, conquered the world. Maurice Girodias March 17,1970
PREFATORY TO THE INTRODUCTION
It's too late now to scream. Too late to struggle. Too late for anything. It's all decided. There's no going back. I lie here helplessly, stripped naked, chained to a bed, in an alien state, in a foreign country, four thousand miles and five years from ho me. There's nothing I can do. Nothing I can do any more . No way of turning back the clock. I'm theirs. Completely theirs. Entirely in their po wer. All three of them. Not one of them I could say no to. All three could have me, all three would take me— s eparate or together. Tonight they'll have their way. Tonight I'll finally surren der. Tonight they'll take me, and one of them will have me and there'll be no undoing it. Why have I let it happen this way? Why did I ever g et started? Five years since I first lost my head; two years since I let them take me aw ay from America where life was safe and my future secure. Two years they've had me here now in this country where the plumbing is bad and the telephones don't work and t he natives claim to speak no English. Two years in the city of sin and temptatio n. Two years of desire and degradation. Two years at their mercy, at everyone's mercy. They're here now, all three of them and there's not hing I can do. I'm powerless. I can't resist them. No one can. They can buy anyone, charm everyone, get their way with anything. And they're here now, all three. I can't struggle a nd I can't scream. The tall one pulls the gag from my mouth, then stuffs it in with his f ist and I don't even have the strength to bite. The worldly one unties my wrists but holds them in his powerful grasp so that I can't push back. The third one unties my ankles and starts spreading my legs, spreading them wider and wider and forcing my knees up and my thighs up until I lie entirely exposed, entirely defenseless in front of them. They paw me shamelessly. One tweaks my breasts. Ano ther bites at my nipples. One forces a brutal hand up into my cunt. One tries to tear me apart at the buttocks. My mouth is forced open; I clench my jaws but fingers press at the hinge and force them apart. There's something between my lips, something long and hard, thick and rounded
at the tip, firm and intrusive, gagging and choking , being forced in deeper and deeper. I know what it is but pretend that it can't be. I wan t to bite down hard but I'm mortally afraid. I'm gagging for breath. I thrash with my sh oulders to try and break away. My legs flail and kick but it's hopeless. I'm held too tight and my legs are spread too wide and there's someone between my thighs, pushing my knees apart with all his strength and tearing me open and preparing his way and then he drives in, drives in against my will, in against my resistance, in witho ut mercy, deeper and deeper, right up to the hilt, tearing me and bruising me and making the flesh tear and the tissues bleed. He's upon me. His weight is on me. He's driving me down—crushing me, pushing me, breaking me, mauling me. One sits on my face and sq uashes me: coarse hair in my mouth, coarse hair in my nostrils, human sweat and human desire breathing into me, a massive gag choking me to the roof of my mouth. I can't move anything except my hips. I can just mo ve my hips, twisting them and turning them from side to side. But it doesn't help . The more I move the more I help them; the more I struggle the deeper they get; the more I squirm the stronger their passions. They're pulling at me now, all three together. Pull ing me over on my side. Still holding me as they've held me before. One still ins ide me between my thighs. One still on my face, gagging me in the throat. And, now they 've turned me and one of them is on my back, tearing my thighs apart from the back, parting my flanks, digging in. Oh God! Oh God! They're tearing me apart. They have no mercy. They all want me. All three of them. All three together and each for himself. Oh God! Oh God! What can I do? How did I ever get here? He's in me now. He's rammed me from the back. He's tearing into my gut. He has no shame. He's ripping the tender skin with his cleave r. He's raping me, deep inside me. They're ramming me, all three of them. God, Oh God! Holy Jesus! Holy Mother of God! Save m e! I'm being choked. I'm being killed. Don't they have one spark of decency? Isn't there any way to escape from this nightmare? Why are they all after me? Why all three of them? Wouldn't one have been enough? What can I give to three? What have I done to them? Why have I deserved this? No! NO! NO! But I can't scream. And three men are on top of me and raping me and de grading me. One between my thighs ramming me with his prick, pushing it in and out without let up, without thought for me. One is on my face, sitting on me, choking m e with his weight, strangling me with his massive penis that's pushed right against the b ack of my throat. One is humping me from the back, driving his cock into my back, up to the hilt, up to my guts, tearing me apart. I'm bleeding all over—where they've torn into me an d scratched at my skin and beaten me and bitten my skin. I'm broken entirely, not a bone left that's whole-shattered and torn by their lusts and their passion. God! God! Make them stop! Make them stop! But there's no stopping them now. Not even God can stop them. God won't stop them. Not now. Not after what I've done. And they'r e right in a way. They were right to do this after what I've done to them. They all want me and I didn't dare stop at one. I encouraged them all and now they're all after me an d all on top of me and all together
tearing me to pieces, each wanting me, each having me. God! God! I can't take any more of this. I can't take it. I'm going to die. I'm going to explode. I'm bursting. I'm being torn apart. And they won't even listen to me. They just go faster, and faster, and faster. Until I'm ready to burst. They're out of control. The whole world is out of control and I'm going with it, torn into a thous and pieces. God! God! And suddenly they all burst together. Shattering me and splattering me. Drowning me in their flow. Choking me, strangling me, killin g me. I'm bleeding all over, flooding all over, oozing all over, coming all over and nothing I can do to stop them from having their way. And they've had their way, all three, and as quick as they've come they've gone. Gone and left me. Left me entirely alone, sobbing a nd gasping and bleeding and oozing. There's no one to comfort me, no one to soothe me. My flesh is burning and my tissues bleeding. My mouth is open, gasping for bre ath. My hands reach down between my thighs to try and staunch the flow. They come aw ay wet, dripping wet, oozing wet. I try to caress the pain, the ache, the agony that's burning down there. My hand is in there, two hands are in there, to stroke and caress and to ease away the pain. And I sob with the memory of what has just passed a nd sob at the thought of what is to come. I sob and I thrill to the pain and the ach e that awaits its fill. I ache for the pain and fulfillment. I ache for the reality that is to come. My hands come away from my bleeding crack. I press them to my lips. I smell them. I look at them. They're wet it's true, glistening w et, but not wet with blood nor wet with come. Wet only with me. Wet only from me. Wet from desire, wet for longing, wet from waiting, wet from burning in ache for him to come. Wet for the one who's to come, who's to take me, who's to love me. The one of the three that will have me. The one of the three that I want for tonight and tonight and for e very night. I can't wait. Make it quick. Oh be quick. Come to me now. And here he is now, coming to me, coming to my bed. His glorious self. His wonderful self. A Greek god of a lover, a man just for me, a boy of a man and a man of a boy. I love that man, I love him, I do. I laugh and he laughs and he runs and he jumps and he's right next to my bed and on me to hug. “Oh, honey!” I moan, so glad that he' s here, so relieved it's all over, that I'm safe with him now. “Oh Cathleen!” He says, and it's love in my ears. Then he straightens by my side and I see him full h eight and his prick is full size, standing proud, standing firm. What a prick! What a prick! What a wonderful prick! And all mine to take. Priapus himself with a wonderful prick. Priapus himself, my own beautiful god. They used to have streets like that in every Greek town. A whole street of gods, all with stone pricks. Imagine a street lined with stat ues of him, a whole line of pricks, a whole line of gods, my lover in row upon row upon row. But the Greeks only had stone and I have the real t hing to love. Oh love! Oh love! I love him, my man. I wouldn't trade him for any god or any statue. Or any Greek for that matter. They weren't that hot, either. There's a va se I once saw—at the Louvre it must have been-with Greek maidens playing about with dil dos. “An abandoned maiden with olisbos” the catalog says and what it means is she was abandoned by her lover and had to console herself with a poor leather wang for a substitute. Poor Greek maiden, poor young girl on anoinochoe holding an olisbos with which to dildo-diddle her abandoned cleft while her man was off somewhere pla ying with the boys. At least she
had an olisbos which is more than Lysistrata and he r sisters had—the silly Greek maidens who went to war against love with their men , without first laying in their stock of hard dildos. Foolish Greeks, foolish girls. But I've got my dildo. My own, very own dildo. My o wn olisbos. My own Priapus. The very real thing. Real flesh and blood, his wonderfu l prick. His fat brown stubby cock. His chewable, juiceable, kissable cock. My own olisbos, my very own. My own, right now. I won't hold back. I can't hold back. My mouth gape s wide, I turn on my side, I turn to him, I swallow his cock. His lovely cock. His juicy morsel. I stifle. I gasp. The roof of my mouth is touched to its very womb. I am filled with his cock. The tip of his cock is at my tonsils. I run trills down its shaft with my tongue . Oh, so soft and so silky and yet manly and bold. And I'm filled, all of me. I'm a mouth, a big mouth, a vase, a jug that holds the fill of my love. One moment I've been carried away by my excitement, building up in my excitement, losing all reason. Nothing is rational. I am entirely abandoned to the sexual passion. The present is obliterated-even the present reality of the present fuck-and wild fantasy takes over. My mind goes wilder, reels, rises, floats away. Any mo ment, I think, my senses will take leave of my body. And then... And then: calm, repose, self-control, logic. I beco me perfectly aware of everything that goes on around me. With heightened awareness I become aware, too, of everything that goes through my mind I am an outsid e observer, totally uninvolved, yet with complete access to everything going on inside. I am omniscient. I observe myself here, slightly chilled, naked and raised on one elbow to the height of his cock which is now deeply implanted between m y happy lips. I feel joy, a multiple joy. There's joy for my observing self, somewhat ou tside of me over to my right and slightly above, and that observing self rejoices at the joy that is experienced by the participant self down there on the bed, though impa rting joy to the object of its love. All cocks are delicious, but this one produces rapt ures. The texture, first and foremost: soft and silken, overlain with slippery s litheriness. Soft lips sliding over soft skin while that skin is itself slowly and gently gl iding on its own shaft. What delights for the lips! There is nothing mortal lips can touch th at is half a patch on a rampant phallus. The lips themselves become detached, a soft, foamy cushion of sensations, suffused by tender wisps of touch; light and frothy which no souffle, no creme, no culinary delight by the most accomplished chef, could match. And hard underneath it is joy number two: the rigid ity, the firmness, the arrow-straightness of it all, directed against me, right into me and through me, impaling me at any opening I choose to present. It is miraculous t his hardness; what was once so soft and play-inviting—almost pity-evoking—a toy, sudden ly becomes engorged and round, firm, straight and proud. This is the miracle where by a woman makes a man of a boy, again and again, a proof and a test of her power. And joy number three? Why, joy number three is the capital, the crown, the tip of his prick. Pulpy and soft and slightly smothering, slig htly spongy—a texture like nothing else in the world, quite different from the soft si lkiness of the skin of the shaft. The sensation lies not so much in the surface texture a s in the shape and the underlying resiliency. The shape I think of as best described by its action, its sound:gulluph-mm.It starts off stubby, then eases to let it slide, then enlarges again to the wide and flaring rim, a temporary resister to deeper intromission. B ut once the opening has enlarged, once that rim has been admitted, there comes the ha ppy, easy rush of non-resistance.
Ph-mm.apex admitted.or vulvae relax. The point has been made, the  Lips Gulluph-mm.And as it comes out again,gulluph-mm.First distension, the slide, then last minute reluctance to let go, thenph-mm. Relax. How delightful that firmness, that pliant resiliency underneath that most remarkable of shape s. In out, in out, just the shape could be its own delight. Not that I would ignore the surface texture. Like m anna it adapts itself to any purpose or desire. Firm, ridged and rough when dry; smooth, slippery and creamed when moist. It can be distended, engorged, bursting red; it can be soft and gentle and light as a dumpling. It can glide or it can rasp; t he choice is mine. On this, the most remarkable instrument possessed by man, I, woman, p lay the tune according to my mood or wishes. Joy number four is the prodding, the ramming, the f illing. Take it all or take a part. Caress the tip or swallow the stem. Variety itself is a joy, the capacity to take it is a joy. The joy of being choked and breathing free, the des ire for more and the desire to let go. The pleasure of being reduced to nothing but an env eloping mouth, an adjunct to a penis, a mouth to a prick, a woman to a man. To be nothing by herself or to herself but to hold and contain-and by virtue of this fact to b e, to be and to love. These are the joys of the woman on this couch. Thes e are the joys that I from above can watch. These are my joys. Call me Fellatrice, a nice Italianate name, fit for an opera: Fellatrice di l'Anima-amore. And I, being calm and above it all, watching and ob serving from above, decide that this woman needs more. Though the one there below c ould suck and lick and suck and lick indefinitely, oblivious to the tired aches of jaw and tongue and lips, this one above, who watches calm and uninvolved, has decided that h er mouth deserves rest. Lethim do the work from now on. Tonight, my lover, you'll fuckme. A final pull. A lastgulluph-mm,drawn out rather sadly; and with a last final flou rish, a last joyful and triumphantph-mm,h.is out, waving undecidedly in front of her mout  it The jaws relax, the lips formed into a pout. The pr eliminaries are over. My head falls back on the sheet. My legs are parted, my knees are raised. He stands above me, towering at my side, all one-hu ndred-and-sixty-six pounds of him, ramrod straight, proud in his nakedness. And t hen he's up, a hand each side of my shoulders, his knees between my thighs raised high, kneeling, waiting for the signal in my eyes. I leave my perch and re-enter my earthly body at th e very moment that he enters too. A perfect introduction.
ONE
One thrust and he's in. Pause. Then he pushes rhyth mically forward, hinged from the waist and with elbows like struts to keep me fr om his crushing weight, three lunges in and three lunges out while I raise my hips and t ilt my pelvis, three times up to meet him, and three times down to free him. It's a littl e ritual of ours, adjusting the fit, making sure it's in well, round peg perfectly centered in an oval slot. Bull's-eye; we're right on the target. Smile and relax. We've made it again, the mechanism still works, the magic is still there. Pause. “Hello!” he says to me with his eyes. “Hello!” say I with mine.
I purse my lips, he purses his, they meet, open, to ngues dart. He relaxes his arms as I crush his weight to my breasts. How wonderful! How wonderful a man! A man all mine. Mine to hold and to love and to fuck. Strange to think how much a man can mean. Strange t o think of the time when there was no man in my life. Not so many years after all. When I was eighteen I still hadn't had one, didn't know what a man meant or why. A man was something to end up with when you're grown up, something that would make strange changes in your l ife, give you a new name, a new ring, a new personality. A man turns a girl into a woman and a woman into a mother. A man is the end of childhood and the beginning of re signation. And there was Cathleen, all of eighteen, never been properly kissed (and certainly not improperly) desiring a man and not knowing what she wanted, Catholic Cathleen, in mortal fear of mortal sin, afraid of the good siste rs and afraid of the good fathers and afraid of her mother. Afraid of herself. Afraid of a man, every man, any man. But most of all, afraid of herself. A freshman in college, safe with the sisters where no man but the priests might enter to threaten. Safe until her roommate, Millie, had i ntroduced her to her brother, an end tackle not twenty miles away at the men's college, a gorgeous hunk of a man with a cracked tooth in a cracked smile, so big and strong and so gentle and soft besides. Chuck McKenna, Chuck the end, the living end. The f irst man who'd ever stirred her— there. Chuck whom she'd watched and admired from th e bleachers after Millie pointed him out to all the girls, for whom she'd blushed wh en they shook hands before they all went off together to the local watering hole for ho t chocolate and yummy layer cake with frosted icing and all the trimmings, whose big powe rful knee had brushed hers under the marble slab of the table. She'd withdrawn, disturbed and unsure, but his knee had followed and again they touched and she drew away still further. But then h e smiled. He opened his lips just a little, a cracked, uneven lick of a little, set in a trusting boyish face. And his eyes had smiled, a trusting smile, and his hand reached out and pressed her hand on top of the table and then, not knowing what she did, she had p ressed her knee back, ever so slow, ever so timid, trembling and fearing that perhaps when it got where his knee ought to be it would be gone. But it wasn't and she pressed his hand in full view while her knee pressed his where no one could see. And as she pressed she knew she h ad sinned for no mortal can aspire to such an overwhelming sense of rapture wit hout sinning, and she knew it was the Devil himself, for who but the Devil could make a girl blush like that? And like it, too. Everybody must be watching her. All the tweedy coll egiates and all their friends. Everyone in the drugstore. They must know what was going on between her and the man whose hand she clasped, must know whom she pres sed under the table, must know how she felt in her privates, her secrets that showed on her face as plain as you'd wish for all to see, her shame, her sin, her secret exposed. She was sweating. She wanted to let go his hand butheheld too tight. She wanted to pull away her knee but she couldn't;herknee it was that pressed too tight. And in her groin, her secret place, such a twitching, such an itching, such a sweating, such a heat. She thought she'd piss in her pants. She felt wet. She thought they'd all see the drops forming on the floor in a puddle. She blushed and f roze and all her perspiration turned
to clammy cold, even down there. To clammy cold, to pricking icicles, digging into her, hanging from her lips and brows and digging into he r. Icicles... She pulled herself up. “I'm sorry, got to go.” And she was gone with a hundred pairs of eyes on her, to the powder room where she burst into the first free stall with bladder bursting and passages burning, relieving herself of the pressure and the shame. At the basin she splashed cold water on herself. He r eyes, when she dared look in the long ornate mirror, were red and rimmed with gu ilt. Cold water. Icy water. Wash it away, for shame. She had come back to the table at last, convinced t hat she was being stared at and laughed at, mocked and pitied and shunned. Her chai r was still vacant, right opposite Chuck, but she couldn't go back there. “I'll just s it here at the edge of the table if you don't mind because I have to go soon if anyone can offer me a ride I'd be very happy and I'm sorry to be leaving so soon I don't want to be a partypooper but I've really got to go, there's a paper I have to hand in and I haven't even started and my French too so if anyone is driving back now I'd be awfully glad if t hey'd give me a ride if you don't mind, it was really nice seeing you all.” All in one breath to hide her shame with a torrent of words. Amy, good old Amy, offered to leave. Cathleen rushed her good-byes and left at a near-run and didn't speak a word the whole ride back. There she was now in her room, the books piled in f ront of her dissolving into strings of letters that she couldn't form into words. She f elt hot in the cold November night and she threw open the window (with the shades down) bu t the heat persisted. She took off her sweater but she was still hot. She turned off t he light and took off her skirt but she was still burning. She took off her blouse, her sho es, her garter belt, her petticoat.' She sat down on her bed and pulled off her panties. She was still hot, but now the burning seemed to come from inside her. It had become so st rong that she felt she might die. Realizing now that the sensation was coming from be tween her legs, she pressed her thighs together to smother the fire. It was useless ; there was a roaring in her groin, and, moaning, she rubbed her legs together. Her body fel l backwards on the bed, and her hand, drawn like a moth to the flame in her loins, moved over her stomach and through the tangled patch of hair. One ringer poked down to seek out the small protuberance below. She gasped and began to stroke it with a gra dually accelerating rhythm. She continued caressing the bud of her clitoris wit h one hand while the other explored her breasts, first one and then the other, stroking and kneading. And while she burned down there, a burning that no amount of mass age would relieve and no amount of massaging of her breasts would ease, she knew sh e was burning, burning in hell, but she couldn't stop, wouldn't stop, far better to bur n in the future than to burn now. Better one fear in hell than one terror now. Better one ha nd in the bush and her hand went in, exploring the cleft she had always so carefully tri ed not to touch even when bathing. Her hand palpitated all the mysterious folds, raising h er heat even further, an unbearable heat, a fire bound to explode, that had to explode, that had to be satisfied. One finger found the opening to her vagina and then another an d another. And so she stroked and pulled and teased, one hand on the clit and three f ingers up the twat (for she knew the names that she'd never dared utter but now that was all lost anyway, she might as well use the words that so fitly described her unspeakab le self) and her body heaved and her lips moaned. She was about to burst. She dreade d it, she knew it would happen and she prayed it would, if only to release her from he r torment—but nothing happened. She didn't burst, her torment was still with her. She wanted to bite herself, to scourge herself, to scream and to burst and she almost did but then, once again, she didn't, she
couldn't. So she had to keep on massaging and rubbi ng to ease her passions. And then she knew. She knew what she knew she had k nown all the time. Only a man would cure her. Only a man could do for her wha t she needed to have done. Only a man could satisfy her and release her. If si n she must, sin she would to have a man. A man to hold to her breasts. A man to embra ce. Chuck McKenna to love and to kiss. She pressed her knees together, squeezing tig htly on her active hands, squeezing tightly on her aching parts. Squeezing, squeezing. The knee was not hers but Chuck's and inside her she had not her fingers, not even Ch uck's finger but Chuck's... She couldn't bear to face the word even in thought. But she knew what she wanted even though her fervid imagination distorted the ob ject of her longing. A man's organ she needed. She saw it like a dog's: pointed, glist ening, pulsating, red. Darting inside her where her fingers were now. Obscene and disgust ing, a darting spear, a dagger digging into her, stab-stab-stabbing her. The Devil 's own spear, the only thing that could allay her fire. And all she had to put in there were her fingers an d her fingers could afford her no relief that night. She crawled under the sheets at last, exhausted but unsatisfied, only moments before Millie returned. She fell into a troubled sl eep, waking up repeatedly, burning, shamed, startled and shocked; and each time she wok e her hand was busy in her cleft, and each time she drew it away guiltily. She finall y placed her hands firmly under her pillow to keep them from her sin but they kept, wor king their way out of this unnatural position as she tossed and turned, and each time sh e woke there they were again. She was too sick next morning to get up—feverish, h er head thick, her stomach sick. And just as well, for tomorrow was Sunday, and Sund ay was Church, and Church was Mass, the Body and the Blood and since she could ne ither accept the wafer nor reject it, bed was the best place to be. Poor little Cathleen, so full of guilt, so completely lost, so full of sin and shame and lust and ignorance. The o ne thing that could have made her happy was to be full of man, but she didn't know or didn't admit, and didn't dare. Poor little Cathleen, so long ago, a stranger to me now, stranger by far than this man in me now, in me now, in my belly, at my womb, push it in , do it now, in me now. And in and out and... slowly now. Don't rush, it's smooth. In and out like a practiced oarsman, long sweeping action from the tips of his toes to the tip of his nose. A slightly rolling motion as his muscles ripple wave-like, up one leg through the thigh and pelvis to his shoulder, with a twist to the straight colum n of his proud neck turning his head so his nose brushes mine, then rippling wave-like down the other shoulder down through his waist and torso to the toes where the motion tr ansfers its waves back to the other leg. And as his hips rock in the waves they impart a twi sting, yawning motion to my thighs. I rock in my butt, from right to left, and I twitch in my twat, grabbing his cock in my lock, in a circular twist hinged on my butt, a c ircle of cunt impaled on cock, going around, gently around, gripping tight, letting go. A long lithe greyhound loping through the grass; a fast sleek swordfish cutting through the waves; a streamlined swan swathing its wake; a diving cormorant impaling its prey—that is my love as he gently moves his lim bs, moving me, moving him, moving us. Fast and clean and light and free; his skin swe eps over mine, his muscles over mine, his shaft into me, in and out, around and aro und. I concentrate on the myriad pleasures and sensations on skin and in bone, on le gs and in breast, on thigh, on hip and, above all, right in the cunt.I feeleach side, each fold, each lip of the labia,feelhis short curling hairs,feelthe pressure on the mound, the rub against bone,feeleach stab

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