The Pleasure Quartet Read Online Free PDF Page A

he passed and fantasised about in the process was fixed on his unyieldingly hard crotch. He really had to get indoors and relieve himself.
    At last, Noah reached home.
    The airy, well-lit lounge. The Eames chair he had paid an outrageous price for, despite its age. His cluttered desk, a warren of piles of tape boxes, CDs, papers, folders, elastic bands and paper clips. The laptop booting up, its screen shifting from sky blue to pale grey. Slowly. Too slowly.
    It had been ages since he had surfed any sex sites, but the computer’s predictive ability locked on them after just a few strokes of the keyboard.
    He unbuttoned his jeans and pulled out his cock. He had gone soft again, waiting for the website to load. He shrugged at the timing.
    Had every woman in the world, at one time or another, performed in pornographic acts in the eye of a lens? It felt that way. Racing through clips, sites where the activities in question were carefully categorised: colour of hair, age, body shape, position, settings urban and bucolic and wilder, openings used solo or in unison, nationalities, even scenarios ranging from pretend lost hitchhikers to interception by border guards, casting auditions, medical examinations, school encounters, orgies, weddings, all the life sexual was present and on display and available to him and whoever else was seeking relief right now, and the choice of faces on offer was infinite. He knew he was only seeing the tip of the iceberg, and his mind felt dizzy at the thought of how many women had espoused sex on camera. The clips travelled the ages, from teased sixties hairdos and clothes and bushy genitalia to a maelstrom of smooth, exposed cunts and more modern furniture in the irrelevant backgrounds in front of which they all performed. Rarely did he recognise a woman from clip to clip, film to film. Always a new one, a fresh face. Because it wasn’t the act, the position or the combination of participants that stopped his fingers in their tracks, it was the women’s faces. There was something anonymous about the men, just an incessant parade of steadily performing cocks. Despite their obvious necessity, they were interchangeable and forgettable.
    Here, the faint smile of a young girl with a strained air of dramatised innocence at the instant of feigned violation by her supposed teacher that unconscionably gripped his heart, the emotion immediately transferring down to his cock which hardened and pulsed in his hand.
    There, the panicked look in a Czech would-be model’s eyes as she auditioned in a hotel room, was asked to strip and examined from every close-up angle by the camera and the interviewer, when the unlikely agent promising her modelling gigs makes it clear she has to suck him on camera to determine her talents.
    His cock hardens again towards the end of a lengthy sequence in which another young woman has been used repeatedly in all openings by two tattooed studs, the resigned fall of the shoulders as she is dragged towards a bath tub to be urinated on as a final insult in the story of her degradation.
    He felt ashamed at the way some images or situations could arouse him even further as he stroked away, his cock now at full length and hard in his grip, moving up and down across the ridges of his glans, his veins at bursting point, trying to hold the orgasm back just a little longer, until he reached the image, the woman, the act that would make the explosion inevitable and even painful in its intensity.
    Noah flew from clip to clip, sometimes just a few seconds here, seeking the ideal face, the right emotion.
    Still dissatisfied, he noticed a provenance link for a brief GIF of a faceless girl whose ‘master’ was tracing clumsy letters from the alphabet across her offered rump, with the letter O strategically placed to advertise the availability and popularity of her anal aperture. It was not an uncommon image, but the shape of the woman’s pale arse intrigued him and Noah clicked on the link to a