Thongs: A Novel of Pain's Pleasures
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by Alexander Trocchi
Category: Erotica/BDSM Erotica
Description: The Modern Erotic Classic of "The Painmistress"! An extremely carnal read; where passivity is an act of power, and where exercising power is shown to be ultimately an act of surrender. Follows Gertrude Gault from the ghettos of Glasgow to her rebirth as Carmenicita de Las Lunas, greatest of all painmasters.
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler, 2004
eBookwise Release Date: December 2004
3 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [196 KB]
Reading time: 130-183 min.
The first time I saw her was when he pushed her in front of him and told her to strip. Just like that. She was frightened. You could see she had been half-unwilling to come. She glanced over to where I was lying on the cot. It seemed to take her by surprise, that I was there, I mean. And that made her hesitate. My father was half drunk as he always was in those days.
"Get yer bliddy clothes off!"
She looked as though she wanted to get out. She was unsure of him. Although afterwards she told me she wanted it too. Like we all want it, hard, like a pain. I could see her body was quivering. That set me on edge. It was infectious. To see flesh shudder like that. You wanted to touch it. That night was the beginning of something new for me. I envied her. I couldn't take my eyes away.
"In front of her?"
She was looking at me.
"You go to sleep," my father said to me. But I could see he didn't care. She did. At first anyway. Not after. I thought at that time she was innocent. I didn't know.
I pretended to close my eyes.
"Now get yer bliddy clothes off!"
She didn't hesitate long. She slipped out of her canary-yellow pullover. She always wore that. It suited her. It had a roll neck. The straps of her brassiere were dirty. It was made of white satin and was taut and pearly over her full breasts. There was sweat on her belly just below her rib cage, and under her armpits where the hair was black, and wet like a soft paintbrush, not red like her hair.
Then she removed her skirt. She had big thighs, smooth and big. And they looked slightly hot and sooty near the crotch where the satin was, and that looked greasy as satin does from sweat. Hazel's cunt sweated a lot. I could see that.
My father was watching her. He had lit a cigarette. He was still wearing his cap which he wore low over his eyes, like a visor. He was looking at her feet first, the high heels, and then at the smooth stocking-clad legs, and then higher up at the white expanse of thighs, ballooned and soft under the elastic from her garter belt. She had nice flesh.
My father made a kissing sound with his lips. And then he laughed.
She was embarrassed.
"Take aff yer bosom-bag!" he said with a sneer.
Her nipples were big, not quite red. More like the color of an old dental plate. They were the firmest breasts I had ever seen. You wanted to lick them. I could see why my father wanted her. He could see she was hot.
He was still smoking, the cigarette held between his lips, and the smoke rising in a steady wisp in front of his small screwed-up eyes. I watched fascinated as his right hand unbuttoned his fly.