Dolorosa Soror Read Online Free PDF Page B

loved him, and to believe it when he said he loved me, too.
    Notes
    1. I think she is lying (to herself). It sometimes happens that she will limit her contact with a man to this single fantasy, as in these scenes. In a car, just in front of her building, she is with a near-stranger, who can hardly believe his good fortune. She kisses him distractedly, but reaches for his cock immediately—quickly pulls it out of his pants, quickly sucks it—only because she wants to feel his sperm run into her mouth, and not lose a drop of it, and then kiss him again lightly, and go up to her place, alone, to go to bed with the taste of jism on her tongue. And another time, in a movie theater, with a guy she does not know sitting next to her—movements of knees, groping fingers, and very quickly the sound of his fly being unzipped and his cock in her mouth. The usher surprises them and shines her flashlight, but does not say anything, just watches her suck him; then extinguishes the light when, without a word, Florence gets up again, her lip shining, her mouth full. She leaves before the end of the movie—no doubt because she had nothing to say to the guy. In the hall the usher smiles at her. She is very pretty, so Florence smiles back at her, as if to dedicate the impromptu fellation to her.
    2. She means no doubt to say: in the typical manner of a typical guy...
     
    Chapter IV
    November
    There were days when he would whip me for himself: several blows, just to mark me until the next time (and perhaps in a way to say to other lovers that he made me who I was, and that I was his).' But on certain days he would beat me for me.
    I nearly always began by counting the blows; then I would lose track, lose everything at the terrible thought that today there would be no. end, that I would die under the whip. Each crack of the lash trebled my fright until I would accept the idea that I was going to die, and that it would be very nice to die.
    My body would twist, my mouth cry out, imploring him, but my mind was already elsewhere, with a nearly religious resignation. Those feelings mixed with a fascination for my long-suffering body, for the immense pain that somehow grew and gained strength, that found a way to bloom. Eventually I understood that the pain I accepted was only a metaphor written on my skin for an older, lingering pain I had never agreed to bear.
    As I will explain later, I had to love Nathalie enough to confuse her with myself in order to watch her be tortured in turn. Thus I was the one being hurt, if only to understand what silent presences lay at the heart of the deluges of pain. One day the cry she emitted was so torn I had the fleeting impression she was reliving her birth, the pain of our entry Into life, in pain she had always fled, until she was able to make peace with herself only by refusing to live.
    ***
    He comes in and immediately introduces us. “Florence, this is Nathalie, who has agreed to give us two hours of her time; Nathalie, Florence, whom I've told you about.”
    We look at each other, judging each other, gauging each other. Is she prettier than I am? Yes, probably. Her gray-green eyes gleam in her face, nude of makeup. Her skin is very pale; her medium-length hair is curly and very blond. A pouting mouth; when she smiles, superb teeth. Very high cheekbones frame a small, straight nose that is quivering, gluttonous.
    She has a better body than I do, that's for sure; at our request she takes off her clothes, and her bosom bursts forth from her demicup bra. She has sumptuous breasts—thirty-six or thirty-eight inches—that are extended like offerings, with a small, very round areola and a hard, clearly drawn nipple a rare combination in a chest that large, where everything too often has the tendency to spread, to slide. 2
    (Even now, on command, I can relive the feeling of her breasts brushing against my back as she kisses the nape of my neck or my ear. They slide like two light little lingers over my loins