Dolorosa Soror Read Online Free PDF

cocks were of every shape and size. Four were attached to very flat, hairless stomachs, adolescents no doubt, all of whom had chosen my mouth. Others were curved like bananas or twisted like the stems of stock. Thin and grainy like sausage from Auvorgne, Short and thick—fat crimson fruit with bursting shafts.
    In porno videos or magazines, you never see more than one model of dick, its size and thickness nearly unchanging, as if a standard were imposed upon scriptwriters and casting directors—somewhat like the hypertrophied, hyper reallstlc breasts of the female stars of hard-core, those miraculous, plastic-surgery Barbies.
    Cocks of all colors, too. A man with very matte skin whose mauve-colored glans had just been intimate with my lips. An Asian with barely curly pubic hair. Three very dark blacks, all of whom fucked me up the ass.
    Several photos were taken just after they had pulled out, or between visits. A close-up of my face, quickly soaked with tears—all those bastards had bored deep into my mouth. A close-up of my ass, my anus open, gaping like the mouth of a carp, incredibly dilated. My sex yawning like an oyster renouncing the protection of its pearls. Teardrops of jism frozen by the camera, oozing from all my holes.
    There is an ecstasy in degradation—a forgetfulness of self in the gift of self. Those machinelike cocks fucking me without stopping; those hands pulling on my buttocks like retractors or raising my face; those fingers tensed on my loins and shoulders like hooks: all contributed to my hypnosis. I was no longer myself—just a sack for sperm, a lay saint thrilled to have been made a martyr. With a man you often end up asking what you are doing there—and why him rather than somebody else, and what is this ridiculous swaying of a hairy backside and a pale backside, and this fury to have an orgasm—to be done with him even more quickly. But at that moment, stuffed with cocks, swollen with jism, I achieved a complete detachment, an indifference to myself that was happiness itself. It was that afternoon (in thinking it through afterwards, for at the time I was only pure sensation) that I began to understand why I loved the whip, the crop, chains. In the immense pain of tortured flesh are united all of life's little hurts: those you live with all the time, the hidden pains, burning memories, acknowledged defeats, choked-back tears, rejections. Disgust for life itself.
    "Where did you find them all?"
    "Oh, here and there. Passersby. A neighbor—I won't tell you which one. Several kids hanging out in a bar, near the school, behind it. Two students—the Chinese guy. Manual laborers from a shipyard who came and called their friends afterwards. No, it was no trouble to find them. Much less difficult to persuade strangers than to propose the same thing to friends who know me."
    "No refusals?"
    "Very few. One guy came up this far and then backed off at the last moment at the idea of mixing his sperm with the others'. At that moment, I must say, you were dripping with come. And another, who thought the whole story was only a pretext so I could fuck him at the same time."
    Nearly all of them had come too fast for me to get Into the groove: not a single real orgasm in a whole day of orgy. Hilt what I had was almost better than an orgasm: I quickly climbed to a sort of plateau of pleasure, and each new sensation kept me there. It was intense enough to make me forget my rilled vaginal walls, irritated by so many successive coining "i»d goings, my throbbing elbows, my nearly bleeding knees.
    A stroke of luck, no doubt—none of the anonymous strangers off the street gave me any diseases. That was the only time that J. P. made me run so many risks—and look them on himself, too, for after having bathed, washed, and perfumed me, and done everything a master owes to his slave, he made love to me with extreme gentleness for a good part of the night. I lost my head enough to tell him 1 loved him, 1 loved him, I