Oct 10, 2016

Handsheet of the erotic writer ---This is heaven --- teaser (13)


So, Ben has been tricked by Alex into answering this outcall, and the next morning we're told by Brigittå Haagen Dasz, the erotic writer, what happened next. They've met up at the Lupo di Mare, and have now progressed to Jane's mansion on Belgrave Square---the more fashionable side of Belgrave Square, we're informed. 

The more fashionable side of what? That's because we couldn't resist. Here, Fragment 1 (very short, Brigitta speaking): 



"We arrive after a brief journey at her palatial mansion in Belgrave Square.”

“There is no Belgrave Square in Georgia Beach,” I [John] say.
“The more fashionable side of Belgrave Square,” she answers.

“And now what?” Alex asks.

Oscar Wilde (1854-1900), author of "The important of being Earnest," his last play, in which Lady Bracknell interviews Jack (one of the Earnests)  as a marriage candidate of her daughter Gwendolen, asks him about his address in London (A: Belgrave Square (the most prestigious address in London, then and now)), then asks about the number (A: number 149), and then reacts: "The unfashionable side. I thought there was something."
 
Okay, and now, Fragment 2:

“Ben, the innocent lad from the pastures of Okefenokee remoteness, Ben is not used to stronger waters. Two glasses of Amaretto have had their desired effect, and two flutes of Roederer Cristal from Jane’s Belgravian cellars achieve the rest. We find Ben presently languishing on the tiger rug in the lambent light of Jane’s boudoir, the bulge in his jeans deliciously thrown into relief by rampant expectations. Jane disposes her tumbler on the Regency side-table, motions yours truly to do likewise, and says, ‘Let’s see.’



“Ben is a bit ticklish, it transpires. The first attempts to cover his mesmerizing abs with passionate kisses are met with trembly exultations.
‘Let’s take the direct route at once,’ Jane says pragmatically and relocates a few inches towards Ben’s nether regions. She proceeds unerringly with her experienced hands down his pelvis and unbuttons his fly. When the last button has snapped, Ben’s manhood, so impressive already in repose, has grown into a rutting crescent under the cotton of his colorful briefs.

“‘Look, sister,’ Jane says to me, ‘he’s clad in MuchachoMalo, the high-octane underwear brand, a gift from his mother, no doubt, no sweetheart would dare.’
I can barely hold my breath.
‘Are you partial to cotton kisses?’ Jane whispers.
‘I am partial to everything manly,’ I answer, ‘and in particular to skin so taut and veined around the forthcoming shaft, to cock lips so blue and expectant under the candlelit light, to testicles so full and tight in the black grip of his sack, I am partial to the rutting reality of lust, the lighthouse of carnal expectations…’
‘Speak no more,’ Jane says and moves the tip of her index finger under the elastic of Ben’s briefs. She lifts the band---teasingly---gleans underneath---teasingly---says ‘Ooh,’ and lets it snap back.
‘I may need your help,’ she adds.

“And there we go. While Jane holds on to his shoulder, yours tru-ly tugs at Ben’s trouser legs until the jeans come off. There’s the minor issue of the underwear proper, quickly disposed of by a forth-coming sister who pulls the briefs in one swift gesticulation, and then---don’t blush---buries her nose in the loosened pouch of the garment.
‘Aah,’ she affects with a knowing voice. She hands the cloth to me. For the first time in my life do I sniff willingly and voraciously the scent of male hidden treasures, a scent so unbuttoned and rus-tic, so intimate and strong. A touch of Marquis de Sade gets involved.”

“Really?” Alex asks. “Did you ever read de Sade?”
“I should have,” Brigittå replies.
“De Sade, you know, basically starts when they shit on you, or you shit on them.”
“Alex,” Brigittå says in not-quite-mock revulsion.
“I mean defecate,” Alex says.

_________________

"Really," Alex asks. "Did you ever read de Sade?"
_________________


“No touch of Marquis de Sade gets involved then, it’s just as well. Let me focus. You boys will have an idea what comes next.”

(We’re dwelling under the shade of the awning of the market stand, Brigittå sitting on one of the folding chairs, facing the field, Alex standing idle in his leather shorts, and me sitting on another chair half-facing Brigittå, so I’m aware of the doings behind her back.)

“Enfin, we concentrate our attention on the leading part in this---isn’t there an expression in German, ‘Lustspiel?’ ”

I don’t know how, but she suddenly holds a sheet of paper in her hand and studies it attentively. It’s titled Hand sheet for the erotic writer---yet it doesn’t seem to provide the answer. Alex flips his cell phone, swipes. “It’s German, yes,” he says, “means comedy.” A play with a happy ending.”

“Right. Happy ending, that’s what we achieved, a happy ending, although we paid a price for that, in particularly poor Ben. Let’s hope he’ll recover soon. He will, I’m confident. His reputation will spread, a bright future beckons, the nation needs him. He’ll be the hero of my next book, so much is certain, he’ll start as a run-away slave in the mid nineteen hundreds, is taken under the wings by knowing women like Jane, ascends to celebrity status, the White House gets involved---what was the name of Lincoln’s wife---the Tsarina sends a clipper from Saint Petersburg to pick him up, pirates intercept his voyage, then, enamored, treat him very well, all this in graphic detail, you can’t sell anything these days without a gay component…I don’t even have to invent anything, just rephrase it in dated language and have people dressed up like Gettysburg, and voilà.”

(“Yes,” we say.)

“You’re right,” she says, “let me concentrate. Jane, now comfort-ably installed on her knees next to Ben, lets her elegant fingers slide tentatively along his lustspiel---isn’t it charming, no word is safe in English---and lowers her head in anticipation of her role in, how do you say---okay, let’s cut to the chase---in anticipation of a vicious blow job. In mid-poise she changes her mind, however, and beckons me to join. Both girls undertake to cover Ben’s throbbing crown with passionate little kisses, kisses oh-soo-teasingly presaging the moment that our tongues get involved, licking, devouring, con-summating Ben’s penile innocence, including his precum---I don’t think Ben was still a virgin, by the way, he’s simply too handsome, nobody with his looks can make it past the age of fourteen without getting laid---let’s stick to the illusion. Virgins always sell. Meanwhile, more precum is oozing off the black delight of his lust-thing.

“The object of sisterly cravings has, in the meantime, not remained ignorant of our efforts. He begins to moan softly. Desire spreads across his abdomen as his ripped body seems to tense up. Whether he’s aware of it or not, he won’t last much longer. Jane and I share a regard.

“The pursuit of love-making, gentlemen, has a practical component. Despite the best efforts of my pen-colleagues, a male person can have only so many ejaculations during a limited period of time. We would have Ben three, at most four times during the night. Letting him come at that moment would have meant that a quarter or more of his lust had already been consumed while we weren’t quite undressed.”

“It’s funny,” Alex says, “how your voice oscillates between the practical and the romantic.”

“It’s the same with love, Alex. The sensual and the physical, it’s not an easy marriage. Women, you may have noticed, are more practical when it comes to the inevitable; they bear children, they live longer. So Jane shakes Ben’s maleness knowingly, more pre-cum oozing in all directions, then whispers: ‘He’s bursting, no way he can hold this, he would explode at the very moment of penetra-tion. Let’s enjoy this fountain while it lasts. He has enough ejaculations left, at least one for each of us, trust your sister.’

“I signal my consent. ‘Shall I?” she asks. I nod. Jane clutches Ben’s rutting rod at the bottom, cups his balls, squeezes twice, and---you’ve heard of the Fountain of Geneva, I presume, the monument built by Hadrian, the Roman emperor, to commemorate the most memorable event of his sex life---the Fountain erupts. While Jane squeezes his lustspiel one last time, the ongoing, persistent moans of its owner---hereunto a languishing, slowly building cre-scendo---burst into shouts of rampant surfeit. “Aaahhhggg,” he groans wantonly, “aaahhggg.” A first contraction of his abdomen shakes him (and us) to the bones, and now a second contraction brings forth a gush of sheer delight, a jet of man milk so pure, so sweeping, so resplendent that both of us girls gasp in pounding admiration, our hearts filled with joy, our mouth gape-wide-open, and while the fountain erupts yet again, and again, and again, his jizz, so destined for the moon and the stars, has gently reversed direction---thank the Almighty for that---and is pouring down on us, the authors of his climax. We were lightly dressed at that point, fortunately. More gushes are forthcoming, more delight is shared, more jungle jizz soars across the sky like sparks in a firework from Louis of Versailles. You get the idea.



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