Unquenchable Lust is the Gift that Girls Bring to Life
Unquenchable lust. Those two words went through my mind as he took a grip on the heavy flesh of my lower lip and pinched down until my lip must have been as red as a rose in full bloom. He pulled me closer, a hand on the small of my back, and transferred my stinging lip into his mouth, biting down gently and sending quivers through my entire body.
He ran his hands over my shoulders, down my arms, over the line of my waist. He stroked my prominent hip bones, my fluttering tummy. I was ready for anything, but anxious nonetheless. I wanted to be my best. My breasts were throbbing, jutting from me like the prows of pirate ships, the Jolly Roger flags of my flaming nipples demanding attention.
I thought he would reach for them, squeeze them, bite me hard. But he didn’t. He turned me round, unbuckled my belt, and dropped it on the floor at our feet. He now in the soft light of the chandelier spent a long time studying my bottom. It was pink still from the beating and he prodded me with his fingertips to see I suppose how tender it was.
When I had first arrived at the house, Lee-Sun had led me upstairs to the dressing room and produced a bottle of ointment he said was arnica. I bent over the end of the narrow bed and, swallowing my pride, allowed him to rub the pale creamy liquid into my inflamed bottom. My first instinct had been one of acute embarrassment, the hub of my sex appearing through my burning thighs, the winking diamond of my bottom thrust in the air. But Lee-Sun’s attention was solely therapeutic and I got the feeling that he had performed this task with spanked girls many times before. The fire in my bottom dampened down and the pain soon went away.
As Sergio began to caress the plumpness of my rounded cheeks, there was no pain, but I felt mortified as I started to leak, the oily juice gurgling from my pussy and coating my thighs. I was like a faulty tap that needed a new washer. And he was like a child with a toy, or a sculptor who had just finished carving a human figure and was admiring his masterpiece which he would call, no doubt, unquenchable lust.
He stroked my back and my bottom as you would stroke a horse in long, sensitive caresses from the scruff of my neck, over the sloping curve of my prickling spine and down to the sopping place between my legs, each stroke drawing more creamy liquid from that never ending well inside me. He eased my legs apart. He ran the flat of his hand between my cheeks and I was so wet there I heard sucking, slurping noises as the side of his hand sawed slowly back and forth. For some reason I visualised a knife cutting a birthday cake covered in whipped cream.
Unquenchable Lust Erotic
I would have been happy if this had gone on into eternity, just standing there below the shower of the chandelier’s light gazing at myself replicated over and over again in the curving looking glass while the Duc de Peralada, the man who owned half of Cataluña, plumbed the warm waters of my erotic nature.
Any lingering doubts I may have had about my role at Black Spires had faded like mist in sunshine. I suffered an unquenchable lust. I was born to give and receive the gift of pleasure. I would never have been satisfied with one man, with groping hands, with clumsy boys. I wasn’t built for it. I bored easily, I knew that. The sisters at the convent said that. I needed continual change and surprise, new demands and challenges.
I had always considered myself special, most people do, I suppose, but now I knew in which way I was special. Just as Milly, that paradigm of female perfection, recognised that she was not born to be an actress, I knew as I had always suspected that the cold certainties of economics would tire as I embraced the abstract uncertainties of the flesh. I was naked, as a girl like me should be. I had found myself. This was my gift.
Of course I knew there were girls who reluctantly worked as prostitutes to feed drug habits or luxury lifestyles. Those girls hated what they were doing. It was a chore, a bore, a disgrace. That hadn’t grasped that paid sex, vanilla sex, repetitive sex is not the same as the gift of sex, that the erotic is always consensual, that the pain of being bound and spanked must be measured against the pleasure. I may have been tricked into coming to Black Spires, I may have tricked myself, but I knew the moment I descended the sweeping staircase beside Milly that I was where destiny in her modest way had always been leading me.
The Duc had fallen in love with my bottom. He wanted to take that precious little plaything and place it like a Teddy bear on the pillows piled like a snow drift on his four-poster bed in his castle in Spain, a place I imaged with ivy climbing the walls and white swans on a silvery lake.
Unquenchable Lust Sacrifice
Juice was running in a stream down my legs and tickling my ankles. If he kept on caressing my backside, his warm hand stirring my reservoir of sticky liquids, I would leak over the floor and flood the carpet in a scene that could have been envisioned by Isabel Allende, that syrupy substance climbing the walls, coating the mirrors, consuming us in a human sacrifice.
It is always the most beautiful girl in the tribe who is chosen to pacify the Gods. She is stripped of her garments and I recalled Sister Nuria saying that being naked while others are dressed is in itself a form of sacrifice, a reminder of a long forgotten ritual, a practice remembered and acknowledged in Black Spires, that house of fun and commerce by those men who ruled the world.
I had always wondered why they chose only the most desirable girls as offerings, and it was suddenly clear to me: ugliness would be an affront to the Gods. Ugliness is a compromise, a stingy gift. Ugliness cannot be spoiled and to despoil as well as to caress is the interplay at the heart of eroticism. The sacrifice of beauty gives meaning to beauty as well as mortality, and I understood something I had read once in a book that I wasn’t supposed to read: that assenting to erotic pleasure is assenting to pleasure to the point of death.
My mind was turning, churning, spinning, chattering to itself, zooming off every which way. My body was electric and my head was exploding with new ideas and sensations. Sweat beads formed pearl necklaces over my back and juice dripped down my legs into my high heel shoes. I had come a long way since climbing into the silver Range Rover in the garage in London to set off on this miraculous journey. I had learned more about love, sex, the erotic, the gift of being a girl and my own unquenchable lust in two hours than I’m sure most girls learn in a lifetime.
- ‘…the bible of new erotica.’ Davo Rhinehart
- ‘…copious amounts of eroticism to keep the fires burning in more places than one. ‘ Carrie White
- ‘This is the Bildungsroman if told by Anais Nin; written in a true language of the senses. The vibrant and impassioned prose is arousing both to the libido and the literary critic.’ Adam Greves
- ‘..a joyous and wonderful read from someone who clearly has been to the edges of reality, taken a knife from their pocket, cut through and stepped beyond.’ Phaedrus
- ‘Beautifully written, totally absurd and utterly, gloriously filthy.’ Ms Bianca Mitchell