What a Hell of a racket a cunt can make! If she keeps up like this she’ll have everyone within four blocks coming on the run to watch the fun. I throw a pillow over her head and go on ramming her with the brush. She can’t stand it, of course, and I’m killing her, etc., etc., I must admit that she’s consistent too. All the time that I’m giving her the brush she keeps up the same line … . but her tone changes and gives her away. She’s having a splendid time imagining she’s being foully mistreated and she’s perfectly within her rights … I am mistreating her, and in a foul manner in the bargain. But it’s a mistreatment that ends when she comes once more, and I know that she’s really enjoying the party.
I sit on her back and look up her ass when I’ve finished. She’s limp, exhausted and those two big, fat cheeks are simply too much of a temptation. I turn the brush bristle side down and smack her with it. She gasps, but doesn’t quite howl
… . and then says “OH,” and sighs.
“Do it again,” she whispers.
I begin to spank her quite hard, and at first she whispers “Do it again … again
…” each time that the brush lands. She begins to whimper … . it hurts but she still likes it … Her ass turns pink, a mass of tiny dots that remind me of printing mats. Finally she no longer whispers… . . she simply sighs… …
When I toss the brush away and put my hand on her ass the skin is fiery hot.
Tomorrow she’ll have bruises. I leave the bedroom to get a bottle of wine and when I come back she’s still lying exactly as she was when I left her. We each have two glasses of wine in silence, and just as silently, she dresses. When she’s ready to go, as she stands with one hand on the knob, she turns to me and kisses me passionately.
“Thank you,” she says, “Thank you, thank you!”
Good-bye to Toots.
Ernest has arranged everything. He has been worrying for a couple of weeks now about his crazy inventor. Not the inventor himself so much as his women …
. his wife and daughter. Since he has found that the old boy doesn’t give two hoots who fucks either of them, or why, Ernest has been unhappy. There’s something wrong he maintains, they must have a dose or something like that. Or perhaps the old duck has detectives stationed around, all ready, when he gives the signal to them to go ahead, to pop out of somewhere with flash-cameras and get the needed evidence for a divorce. When I point out to him that the man would hardly be in need of a divorce from his daughter, Ernest is merely more than ever convinced that there is something screwy going on. He wants to lay both of the cunts, but be damned if he’s going to play old Snitzgrass’s game.
There’s even something wrong with the name, Ernest says. Did I ever hear of anyone named Snitzgrass? It’s obviously a fake … there’s something strange about it all. .
But, as I said, Ernest arranges everything. He’d like me to go to see just how the land is laid out. Maybe we can take turns in taking Fitzberg or Whistfast out for a walk to look at Orion or something, and the other one can screw whichever one of the cunts seems to need it the most. So he wangles an invitation for both of us to go to dinner.
I’m supposed to be going with the idea of getting material for an article on
“Whence Is Science Leading Us?” Ernest has as much faith in the power of the press as a Parisian madam.
Mutzborg, as the name proves to be, is a hopping little cricket of a man with a fluffy red beard, trimmed short, which he uses as a combination pen-wiper, napkin, monocle-polisher, and general catch-all. Since Ernest and I are there on an ostensibly serious errand, we are made acquainted with his inventions first and his brace of cunts afterward. He has them all strewn about in his cellar, one hundred percent of them either in disrepair through having their parts purloined for something later or not yet completed. The majority of them run to improved potatopeelers or devices to combine half a dozen handy tools in one. The only thing of any possible practical use is an improved feather-weight cement, and that crumbles to dust at the slightest touch. All in all, it’s as messy a collection of junk as I’ve seen in a long time and wholly uninspiring. Mutzborg himself is slightly more interesting, and as he talks I really regret that I’m not going to write an article on what he says … he’s so damned earnest about it all.
His wife and daughter are much better. The girl is seventeen or eighteen, I should say … her mother is somewhere between thirty-five and forty. Ernest tells me that it’s Mutzborg’s wife who has the money. Why a cunt as handsome as she is with cash in the bank, should have picked this bearded flea is one of those things which is quite beyond me … Possibly it’s because he wears his horns so casually… .
Everything is very proper and polite during dinner; nothing indiscreet. Shit, from what Ernest told me, I thought that they all sat around playing with each other between courses. Instead it’s talk about the future foreign situation, the climate of southern Italy and the wonders of America.
After dinner the fun begins. Mutzborg confesses shyly that he’s been holding out on us … there’s one little invention of his which he hasn’t yet made us acquainted with. He brings in a bottle and holds it up to the light for our inspection. It’s filled with an inky black liquid that I at first suppose is ink or a liquid explosive. In my second guess I’m not far off the track… . It’s a drink which he’s invented, distilled from a combination of wormwood, grains, certain field plants and God knows what else. Afterward I’m positive that those little green Spanish flies were included in the recipe.
He passes the stuff around in tiny liqueur glasses which hold about as much as a thimble might. It has the raw woody taste of American bootleg gin plus a few indefinite but unpalatable flavors of its own. But the potency is something I’ve never experienced before … Mutzborg, who tells us that he’s never dared drink more than one sip of it before, is persuaded to join in the second round he offers us, and he immediately begins to sing. The conversation loosens up, and Mutzborg’s wife begins to show signs of becoming quite lively.
After the third one, Ernest is the one who is singing, and the daughter is making eyes in my direction. Mutzborg goes out of the room to get some soda water, for the drink is pretty cloying after the first sip, and he’s away long enough for another glass to be emptied all around.
My hands and feet begin to buzz. It’s more than just a tingle… . I can feel the nerves stretch when I move my fingers and toes, and they vibrate like tight piano wires, all on different notes. The colors of the room become excessively bright. I’m surprised to find that I’m not paralyzed. My skin has become excessively sensitive.
Everyone’s enthusiastic about this invention, including Mutzborg. In an hour or a little longer we’ve finished the bottle. Mutzborg’s daughter is being very clever, she thinks, about showing her thighs to me without anyone else’s knowing it. Ernest is sitting on the couch beside Mutzborg’s wife; he has one hand behind her and is feeling her ass. Mutzborg wanders in and out along the borders of the conversation, hopping around to get cigarettes or this or that, and pretty soon he has hopped himself dizzy. Muttering something about free love, he slumps in his chair and passes out.
His wife says something about showing Ernest the garden by moonlight. They make a marvellously dignified exit … the strange thing about this liquid drop-hammer of Mutzborg’s is that it doesn’t seem to interfere with the powers of locomotion. Ernest rather spoils the effect by giving the woman a pinch on the ass and making her squeal just as they are going through the doorway… .
Rational conversation had been abandoned long ago, so Mutzborg’s daughter and I sit and shout nonsense at each other for another five minutes or so. I had begun to get an erection as soon as Ernest and the woman were gone, and by the end of those five minutes it’s the finest example I’ve ever had to offer. It’s not wasted on that cunt, either … . she has her eyes open, she knows what’s there…
. She moves around on her chair like someone with a bug under her ass, showing me everything right up to her white, silk pants. Mutzborg snores on.
Five minutes, and then … shall we… . . ? Like that … . shall we… ? she turns off all but one dim light in the room while I sit there with my dong jumping in my pants, then we move to the couch. The bitch, you’d think she’d at
