I feel something soft and hairy pressing my hand. Arms encircle my neck, and a young girl whispers in my ears while she puts her fingers into my fly… She wants me to fuck her, she says, and she rubs her naked fig against my hand again… . She has a very pretty little girl friend, who would like to be screwed too.
Her trap is wet and her breath has the sweet stink of cunt on it. I push her on her ass, and she smiles sweetly at me … but she is carried off by a man who passes by with another bitch under his arm … she grabs his dong and fights the other woman for it… .
In a corner I see a girl of about sixteen being held by two older women while a small band of men take their turns at fucking her. She’s screaming, and scratching but one of the women is obviously her mother … so it must be alright.
I watch them screw until she suddenly falls limply in a heap. She’s evidently fainted but the men go on screwing her … .
Among the women I find a few who, sobbing and writhing on the floor, are left to themselves. They are going through all the postures of women being laid, and I see one come with a violence that leaves her shuddering and too weak to move for several minutes afterward. Obviously they imagine themselves to be ridden by incubi, and their pleasures are so convincing that it gives me the creeps to watch them.
Canon Charenton has finished with the woman who acted as altar. She is lifted up now and her blood-smeared belly and breasts are licked clean. Then she is carried to the image and, much like a battering ram, shoved at it, ass first. The red prick enters her cunt, then her ass. Holding her roughly half a dozen men and women fuck her on the image… .
Something else takes my attention… . One of the women has rebelled and is reviling the entire affair, shouting prayers and screaming for a thunderbolt to strike the Canon dead. She is quickly subdued, her arms are bound, and she herself is placed on the altar, where she continues to howl … . She howls through one fucking … through two, and a third… . Then she weakens … she relents … a few moments later she is on her knees, sucking the ass of a woman who is herself licking the cunt of still another… …
My head is swimming. The din is bursting my ears, and the murky smoke is so thick that my lungs ache with it. But the crazy show goes on… . Almost at my feet, two men are grappling with a young blonde. One of them finally succeeds in getting his dong into her rectum … . then the other rams his dick into her fig!
And while both of them are fucking her that way she is chewing and sucking a large piece of red rubber formed in the shape of a cock… .
On the altar, a woman of about thirty has discovered the dead body of the chicken. Pushing the loose skin back along the bleeding neck, she exposes the raw, bony flesh. She clutches it as though she were holding a prick, moving the feathered skin backward and forward … . . then she places it suddenly into her mouth and sucks until her lips are smeared with blood … . .
A girl who walks as though drugged falters up the altar steps. Her dress has been removed, but she is still wearing her underclothes, stockings and shoes. At Canon Charenton’s feet she tears the brassiere from her teats, rips her pants to shreds, then licks his thighs and places her lips on his cock. Soon she’s lying apart from the others with a woman who is feeling her up and spreading her thighs… .
I have not seen Alexandra taking part in any of the ceremonies. Finally I discover her. She is standing near the wall naked but alone. Her eyes gleam in the flickering light . . Her expression is one of almost Satanic delight. Her teats are swelling with each heavy breath she takes, the nipples erected and dark.
Finding her clothes where she has dropped them, I push through to her side.
At first she fails to recognize me, but as I shout in her ear she starts and tries to wind her arms around my neck.
“I want to be fucked,” she moans, “I want you to fuck me…”
I have such a hard on that I can’t walk without limping, but I’m not going to fuck her in that place. Since she won’t put her clothes on and won’t even hold them when I give them to her, I put them under my arm and drag her along behind me. She doesn’t want to go … she scratches and bites my hand, kicks and screams for help.
There’s such a racket … such an infernal squeaking and pleading for help all about us that I don’t understand how she can be heard. But suddenly Canon Charenton sees us. He rushes down the altar, tripping over his habit. Knocking people to right and left, he comes at us with fury in his eye. But his worshipers undo him … women cling to his knees, pull at his clothing, fling themselves headlong into his arms. We make the door, and somehow I manage to find my way back through the vestibules.
No sooner are we outside than something in Alexandra collapses. She stumbles behind me as I drag her through the garden toward the wall. Her hand is jerked from mine as she trips, and she rises to her knees on the wet grass with both arms stretched imploringly toward me. “Alf!” she cries, “Alf! I want to go home!”
BOOK III
La Rue de Screw
Arthur’s luck is simply fantastic. Especially when you see it in action … if the amazing things that happen to him occur before your eyes there’s no discount for an active imagination, as there would be if you only heard about them. Taking a walk with Arthur is like buying a ticket to the land of the elves, and if you come across a colony of people living under toadstools it’s not to be regarded as anything out of the ordinary. Still, Arthur, himself, never grows accustomed to himself… he’s as amazed as anyone when he finds himself in these impossible situations. When he talks about them it’s not with the air of a man who believes himself and his life to be intrinsically amusing–while you, you pitiful dullard, never have any adventures–but more like a stage magician who one day discovers that his illusions are performing themselves without his trickery. He’s as mystified as anyone, he tries to make his adventures sound more plausible by deprecating them, but if you know Arthur you understand that what he manages to make sound like a bad lie is really the husk of something that has come to life from the works of the brothers Grimm.
There are times when Ernest doesn’t do so badly, either. For a while Ernest had a genuine, one hundred percent American Indian cunt to play with… . She was here teaching the students at the Academy of Design to draw swastikas …
the old primitive horse cock, and Ernest says that most of her designs come straight from the advertisements in the Metro. I forget where Ernest met her, but for a while he was playing Big Chief Standing Prick, and he swears that he got drunk one night and scalped her bush with a barber clippers. Swell cunt, he said, too, but the trouble was that he couldn’t forget she was an Indian, and Ernest is from a state where the only good Indian is a dead one or one who buys a new Buick hearse every year, and he was afraid that she might go on the warpath some night and polish him off, so he finally gave her the go-bye.
But shit, everybody knows there are Indians, and if there’s any place to find a real one it would be Paris. Arthur’s good fairy wouldn’t take up his time with anything so commonplace … if Arthur had an adventure with an Indian she would be certain to have two cunts or something equally esoteric.
Arthur and I are walking along the rue de l’Estrapade admiring the afternoon display of cunt and feeling the pernods we have tucked away under our belts.
The sun is shining . . it’s just an afternoon like any other, and there’s nothing about Arthur to tell you he has a spell on him. Then there’s a purse lying in the middle of the sidewalk, with people walking past it and over it and almost stepping on it, but never seeing it. Arthur picks it up and we sit down on the curb to see what’s in it.
No money. The fates never tempt Arthur. He doesn’t have to make a decision to be a good, honest boy and be rewarded by the good fairy. There isn’t a
