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Chapter 2
Julia spent the
remainder of the week dreaming aloud about the great show
of servitude I was going to put on for her sisters that weekend.
While we made love, as I knelt at the foot of our bed, bound
ankle and wrist with two of her silk sashes, probing her slitted
secret with my tongue, coaxing her quicksilver clit from its
hood - through all this, Julia would multiply the details
of the extravaganza we were going to stage, firing us both
up with images of my sweaty labors and my unprotesting submission
to the whims of gracious women suddenly gone bitchy. How lovely
we both found the fantasy of giddy girls slapping my face
and my incorrigible penis at will, for the mirth of it. Carefree
women traipsing over my rug-like body in their delicate pumps,
making sure to crush my penis or pinion my testicles as they
strode. As Julia lay me on my back, still bound, as she added
a blindfold in the form of her perfumed t-shirt or chemise,
as she mounted me and imperiously drew my penis into her -
all the while, she'd be whispering vivid scenarios, which
I could almost live and breathe, of my humility before Daniella,
my shameless, clumsy campaign to please Michelle, my prostration
at Lilly's feet.
At the end of
the evening, when Julia had to make her nightly decision whether
to let me ejaculate, she would curtly decide against it, three
nights in a row, an unusual severity in our relationship.
She said I would need all that concentrated manhood to live
up to our weekend plans. And I agreed. I truly agreed. I yearned
to have every wild word of Julia's vision come true.
But how could
it, really? We were talking about a meager three-day weekend,
and one much occupied with shopping. And we were talking about
civilized girls, with a penchant for giving men their way
and an unfortunate taste for men who liked having it. It didn't
seem very probable that they would turn heartless overnight.
That's an idea in pornography - under the veneer of civilization
there's a savage sexual hunger struggling to be appeased.
All you have to do is press a button, scratch a surface. Do
it, and women like Daniella will tear off their business-suits
and devour the helpless cocks of their law-partners. Do it,
and brokers like Lilly will get more bullish than their terrified
clients can bear. But it's a fable. The awful thing about
desire is that we manage to keep it under wraps even when
it's as urgent as life itself. There are people who like separating
their fantasies from reality. They're proud of the achievement.
That's well enough when your fantasies are ugly. But women's
rule is never ugly. So I don't want my fantasies in quarantine.
If a fantasy gets too fantastic, I'm turned off. I'm a guy
who has to remind himself that movie-stars are real women
with working cunts. No curtain ever closes on my submission
to Julia. It's reality, it's everyday life.
But spreading
the curtain for Julia's sisters was another thing. Wouldn't
our zealous intentions simply dissolve the minute they were
exposed, erased by cowardice and affability, dissipated in
the courtesies of luggage-handling, the weariness of jet-lag,
the wholesomeness of family-reunion? How on earth do you get
from, "Wonderful to see you again" to "Would mistress care
to clobber me now?" Too many moves for a three-day whirl.
By Friday, the
girls' arrival-day, I was nothing but service and tender solicitude
toward all of womankind. Julia's refusal to let me come for
three whole nights had left m sensitive as a watch-spring.
My balls were heavy and my penis felt like a truncheon, dense
and weighted yet quick. Three days of Julia's mincing strokes
had left it permanently lubricated. A single moment's pressure
on my lurching organ would have been enough to make me shoot.
But Julia knew how to play me. She'd trained my entire nervous
system to forward every sensation of my body to my penis.
Touch me anywhere, dear woman, as casually as you like, brush
by me and let the little breeze you make in passing flutter
the hairs on my forearm, and my penis will twitch and quiver
for you like a windsock in a squall. My taut reflexes were
perfect for the duties of the day, which involved visiting
three ternals to fetch Julia's sisters. One airport for Lilly,
a second for Michelle, and between the two a rail station
to meet Daniella. And lots of travel-time between the three.
But I drove like a master, while Julia, sitting beside me,
her hand flitting over my lap, demurely shifted my gears.
"Julia, we'll
have an accident if you keep that up," I said at some point.
"I think you've
had one already," Julia said, circling with her finger a little
dampness in my pants. "But you're right, Steve, I don't want
you to have a big one. Anyhow, you know how gorgeous Lilly
is...."
"I don't think
I'm going to come at first sight, if that's what you mean,"
I said.
"Just remember,"
Julia said, "this weekend you exist not just for me but for
my sisters. The only pleasure you know is the pleasure of
serving them. If you're going to have an accident - and I'd
rather you didn't - but if you're going to, it had better
be because you're deliriously happy under the weight of women's
bags." Julia had the sexiest mind on earth. It wasn't hard
at all to imagine my penis gushing in helpless joy as I struggled
clumsily with a brace of suitcases.
As we waited at
the gate for Lilly, Julia offered me one final piece of instruction.
"Find a way, Steve, to kneel to her. I mean right here, right
away. Find a way to do it."
Lilly was a world-class
beauty. She was a little taller than Julia, who is of average
height but leggy, and with a longer version of the same fine,
dark, glowing hair. Her eyes were round, her brows delicate,
her skin soft and slightly flushed, the muscles of her face
perfectly toned. Lilly had the wide, sensual mouth of her
clan. She wore bright lipstick, perfectly applied with a clean
crimson edge. There was something crisp and delineated about
her. Not just her face but her lean, athletic body as well.
She was wearing a cropped, sleeveless shirt, tight black jeans,
and canvas boots. Her breasts were high, her mound was high,
below her shirt there was a margin of flat, firm stomach.
At her waist you could see the curve of her hips just descending
into her jeans. She was sex and womanliness itself, but the
amazing thing was that she was abstract beauty too. Or she
was the place where beauty changes from a pleasure of the
animal senses, a matter of touch and smell, to something visual
and ideal. Lilly was more contour than cunt. She was bends
and rises and planes. What if it turned out that she had,
as those jeans that showed a man no pity suggested, only the
terse pubis of an angel, smooth, sealed, unwelcoming? Then
still she would excite frenzied desire, desire that only the
eye had any hope of allaying and even then no hope of satisfying.
She strode, almost ran, toward Julia and me with easy grace,
yet nothing about her was careless. Her sleeveless top was
slender, but no hint of a bra-strap appeared on her shoulder.
Nothing could possibly slip from place on Lilly, yet everything
sat lightly on her, even her skin-tight pants.
Lilly's smile
was large and brilliant. Her hair leapt about her beautiful
face. There was too much glory, too much femininity, to take
in.
"Isn't she gorgeous?"
Julia asked without a hint of envy as Lilly came through the
gate.
"I adore her,"
I said. "Please, Julia, make her see it."
To absorb all
of Lilly was too devastating. I had to concentrate on a single
thing. I love it that women shave under their arms, so when
Lilly called out to her sister and waved I focused on what
her wave revealed. Which was, that she had shaved with pride.
How else can I put it? She was depilated as a woman would
be if she wanted to put as much distance as possible between
her sex and the other. She was depilated as she would naturally
be if men and women were truly different species. A woman
who gives daily prayers of thanks for her womanhood, who shudders
when she recalls the narrow odds of being born a girl - such
a woman would shave as Lilly had. A woman who felt the perfect
sweetness of having female flesh and blood.
Julia and Lilly
fell into a good long hug. Their show of sisterly warmth,
involving as it did the crushing of breast against breast,
gave me an erection. It's hard for a man to believe that women
just take for granted the features that weaken men's knees.
Yes, their power to enthrall us means something to them, but
they have to step outside of themselves to enjoy it. They
may understand how to use it, they may have practical skill,
but they don't know any more than we do what it is or how
it works. They don't know the theory. Nobody knows the theory.
Julia and I have discussed all this many times.
"Of course," she
says, "like any girl, I get some pleasure from my effect on
men. A little charge from seeing them go goofy just because
of how I look. A little amusement from watching them fall
over themselves trying to please me. That doesn't mean I want
it to happen, let alone that I take the trouble to make it
happen. I look down over my so-called 'charms'. I mean, my
breasts - they're just there. I've learned to value them,
but really they're just my breasts. Just me. My hips, my legs....They're
what I walk on, you know. Julia's legs. That's it. I don't
really understand what drives men wild about them. Not really.
I mean, I've learned that they're nice as legs go, but, come
on, they're just mine."
"'The summer's
flower is to the summer sweet,'" I say, "'Though to itself
it only live and die'."
"Yeah, like that,"
Julia laughs and once again we leave the mystery unsolved.
And the mystery
is compounded when you're confronted with more than one beauty
at a time. (That's why I love living in a city big and worldly
enough to have two airports: in good weather, the streets
are rife with mystery, and the pressure of populous femininity
on an average man in good health is enough to give him the
bends. It surprises me that I'm off my knees at all. I don't
know why we're not all sinking all the time in sweet agony.)
In the presence of a lone beauty, whether she's a total stranger
or the woman you serve, there is always a part of you deciding
that she is a unique being, an exception to the rule and therefore
not really ENTITLED to rule. Of course you know better, but
part of you flees to this idea all the same, turning beauty
into some kind of monstrosity. Beauty would stop being beauty
if it were unique, just as a cunt would stop being sexy if
it were the only one (I don't mean the last one) on earth.
But put as few as two enchanting women before my eyes, and
beauty becomes a trend, the thing that womanhood's about.
It stops seeming the odd attainment of an individual and shows
itself for what it is, the realization in woman after woman
of invincible, universal femininity.
That's how it
was for me staring, erect and probably seeping, at Julia and
Lilly as they greeted one another. Their shared features were
more specific, of course, because they were sisters, but this
just amplified my sense of the power of women in numbers.
I thrilled as they pressed themselves to one another, Julia
on her toes for the purpose, their breasts, their stomachs
meeting solidly. Their behinds were so alike that, seen from
the side, their embracing bodies had a lovely symmetry - the
same concavity at the small of their backs, the same torque
at their hips, the same firm roundness of their buttocks.
Their hairstyles were altogether different, Julia's short
and straight, Lilly's long and wavy. But on the top of their
heads one could see the same whorl, two spirals as startlingly
alike as matched finger-prints. I thought, as I watched their
breasts become a single billow, that their nipples must be
alike, and the blades of their slender hips, and their triangles
of pubic hair. What if I had only that triangle to go on?
Could I tell the women apart? I doubted it. Not by sight,
not by taste. I thought, I already know Lilly intimately because
I know Julia. I thought, their clits must look alike, and
their vaginas must have the same sweet scent. So too with
Daniella and Michelle. I have yet to lay eyes on them, but
already I know something infinitely deep about them: I know
the shade of their labia, I know the furrows. I know these
sisters, I thought, the things we men try to imagine about
women when we gawk, and I felt that untenable combination
of reverence and trespass that always accompanies a man's
voyeuristic indulgences.And I knew that it wasn't right that
I keep this secret advantage.
Julia and Lilly
were now holding one another at arm's length, taking in one
another's fit condition. After a few rounds of "I can't believe
how great you look" they began to detach. For a moment Julia
fingered a small laquered pin on Lilly's shirt. "Nice pin,"
she said, lavishly plumping the syllables. "Can I just...?
Oh, how clumsy of me." She had - rather obviously, I thought
- unfastened the pin and let it drop to the floor. It was
my cue and I didn't miss a beat. Before Julia could say, "Steve,
would you?" I had dived for the the thing. I could have crouched
or even just bent down, but I was already on my knees when
the pin came to rest near Lilly's left foot.
"I have it, ma'am,"
I said before I could retract the incriminating turn of phrase.
I tried to give it a humorous spin, but it was gone from my
lips before I had the chance. I handed the pin up to Lilly
who turned toward me. Julia beamed down at me. "What did I
tell you?" she asked her sister.
I was at eye-level
with Lilly's abdomen. I could have gazed forever on the gentle
rise of her pubis, more accentuated than concealed by the
rich, dark fabric of her pants. To prolong my stay down at
her feet I pretended to notice her boots for the first time.
"These are wonderful boots," I said. "Julia, have you looked."
And I let myself touch them lightly, noting the outline of
Lilly's toes within.
"Excuse me, darling,"
Julia said. "We have another plane to meet. Besides, I believe
the airline only permits foot-worship on the baggage-level."
end of part two
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