Ghislaine Dunant

Excepts from the novel, Brazen
Originally published in The Evergreen Review Issue 101 in 1998.

I rise, so does she. We follow one of the walks, exit on rue Nansouty. I don't know where I'm going. All I know is I want her.

I look up, read a hotel sign board. The gods have stepped in. I would never have guessed there was a hotel on rue Nansouty. An arrow directs us to a blind alley. At the desk I ask for a room with a double bed. I've got the key in my hand. I turn toward her, place my hand on her back to guide her. As though it had been agreed. We take the elevator to the second floor. The room isn't large, the bed pushed against the wall. The place is flooded with light. I draw the curtains, then the draperies. I draw near, place the palm of my hand flat on the tip of her breast, a ritual, a sign of devotion before entering the temple. Silence and the immobility of our bodies.

I open her blouse.

She's wearing a slip. I pull down the straps. Her bra contains her voluminous breasts like a dike, a dam. So strong is the pull, that I unhook it, take it off, very slowly. It is comparable to the pull I feel-flaming chest, stiff ankles, moist hands. My penis aches with desire. I reach for her nipple, taking hold of it between my two fingers. Both nipples are standing up. My hips draw close to her belly, my hands grab her breasts, knead them as though to tear them off. I bite her neck, her shoulder, go down to her breast, closing my lips about it. It's like a gag taking my breath away. Her nipple knocks against the back of my throat. My mouth lets go, and travels up under her arm, seeking the moist hair of her armpit. The humid scent of her.

She has her hands behind my head. I place mine upon her lower back, lead her to the bed, seat her down, lean back her torso. Her breasts are twin ocean islands.

Leaning on one elbow, stretched out on the bed next to her I can't take my eyes off her hip, I stroke its roundness still enclosed in her night blue skirt. I slip my hand between her and the mattress to have it crushed by her round, heavy ass. I gaze at her breasts, mouth, thighs, shoulders. I free my hand in order to unhook, unzip her skirt. I sit up. With both hands I slip off both her skirt and her slip. Her pubis is sand colored. When my hands are down at her ankles, I lean my forehead against her legs. I'm in a forest, embracing the trunk of a tree. My forehead goes right through the bark, feeling the circulation of the sap. She moves her feet. She can't bear to have her ankles imprisoned. I uncover her feet. Now she's naked.

She's closed her eyes. Her eyelids are curved, like her thighs, her belly. I lift and spread her knees, moving into the silent gap. We haven't said a word since we walked up the garden walk. Gestures, bodies, skin, nakedness, shade. Kneeling inside the gap, I'm willing to wait. Seated on my ankles, I place my hands on her legs, as on a ramp. I slide my shoulders between her thighs, my hands travel up her hips, down to the groin, spreading the inner side of the thigh. The shadow cast by her thigh hides some details. Blindly I kiss her fleece where it sits atop the labia. A good, salty smell, not too strong. I inhale it like a drug. Let it travel behind the sinuses up to the eye, behind the forehead, then down the aesophagus into the stomach, radiating through the lower abdomen, a maddening scent. I throw myself upon her to try to forget this smell. With my right hand, I attempt to enter her, violently. Try to hurt her. She's all moist. The top of my fingers, where they start at the palm, comes knocking against her vulva. I stick in three fingers, wishing I could have done so with my whole hand. I'm afraid to hurt her all of a sudden. I remove my hand, kiss the inner side of her thighs. I go up to her face, kissing her belly, the underpart of her breasts, the in between, her breasts, neck, shoulders. And her mouth. At last. Linger on her lips so as to scare up the wild game birds, just like the beaters in the woods. Let something fly up from her lips, something I can hunt and catch. All of a sudden my tongue darts into the humid orifice. Just as I withdrew my fingers, I now withdraw my tongue. Later. Some other way.

I get up, undress. Naked, I walk to the foot of the bed. I catch her toes with my teeth, stick them into my mouth. I make my way up toward her belly, her foot in my maw which has become her stirrup. Her leg goes up toward her chest as she bends her knee. I take the other foot, bend the other leg. Now her legs and feet are about me. All at once I slip my two hands under her buttocks, spread them apart, as if I could tear her in half. My penis, unhooded, erect, avid, aches with need. I pass my hands between her thighs, on her belly, I take her waist, draw her up to rest her ass upon my knees. I see her vulva opening. My hands leave her waist, open her labia. I play with her vulva. I feel her dig her feet in the mattress, her thighs grow tense. My mouth throws itself into her vulva. I plunge my tongue to seek her inside her belly. I position myself to let my prick dive in. Slowly.

Her belly is vast, so wet that I bathe in it. My tail wags joyously. Her face is raised back, she pulls on her neck, lets her chin point forward. Her upper teeth bite her lower lip. Ecstasy has pulled up the upper one. I'd like to wring her neck with both hands. I imagine the straining of her body rests in her tense neck, and that, were my hands to snap it, I'd swallow her body whole. My hands graze her neck, thumbs open around the pipe, as though my penis, raised within her, were between my hands. In a single piece. My penis may start between my thighs, but between hers it extends up the nape of her neck, and moving to and fro, these sly hits within her belly cavity, are blows I thrust at her neck, firmly held between my fingers. Her head spurts from my hands. I feel I'm giving birth to her by squeezing her neck. I've taken hold of the pump which activates her blood, throbs against my skin.

I fit right into her, my penis is on the point of spurting forth, like a sectioned vein. Her vulva is the garrot which keeps me from emptying myself. Her vulva is the temptation wherein I dissolve, lose myself, and yet it is also a brake holding me back. Her vulva is the ear in which I roar, as the sea roars at the mouth of the grotto wherein it flows, breaks on the rocks in foaming spurts. Her vulva is the belly where I am born. Rapture lets me erupt. They speak of "the little death." Why not call birth the moment when the tumescent glans becomes the head of the new-born shattering the mother's sexual organ.

She hasn't spoken. Not a word since we left the park. She placed her hands upon my shoulders, that's all. Her abandon, legs, thighs, pelvis grown heavy, bespeak her melancholy. Close to her body, I find myself in a landscape of valleys, chasms, hills, sunken paths, groves, shrubs. I'd like my head, detached from the rest of my body, to roll through this land, this terrain, coming and going like a ball upon a beach, pushed by the wind, a lightweight toy. With my penis screwed tight within her, I lean my mouth, my cheeks, my lips over her land. The lay of this land is gentle, lightly scented.

I'd like to discover at the end of a thigh, a knee, an elbow, a breast, a frontier I might cross that would take me to the other side. I'd turn back to look at what I had left behind, which no longer resembled what I had known. Might there not conceivably be at the end of a thigh avidly stroked by my lips, a passage, a threshold, leading me to an afterwards where I'd no longer be the same. I'd be in another time, another universe, in no way like those I used to know. I want her to change me utterly into someone else by means of her skin, thighs, breasts, vulva.

In her complete abandon, her body has no frontiers. No border I might cross. She gives me everything now. Enormous, immediate. Without blind corners, sharp turns, secret landscapes. Her ironic distance, in the hospital, was a barrage, a dam, in the face of a powerful flood. Behind that electric current, that fluid emanating from her and electrifying my whole being, lay her accumulated energy. At present, in my arms, she has poured herself out, like water. She absorbed my every motion. I'd like to bite her till I draw blood. Not to hurt her. Only to mark the surface of her skin. There are no marks on her body, just as water cannot be marked. She is smooth, but not like a mirror. She's like the sea, near the coast, a grey-green color. Or like the water Of Finnish lakes, sweet water containing in its depths as many underwater forests as there are birches, shrubs, moss and rock growing on their edge.

I'm tempted to become what she is. Full, heavy, unmoving. Voluptuous in my abandon. But I'm frightened. I fear death as though it were this kind of arrested time.

I react like a frolicking dog unable to tell what he must hunt next. I lick, sniff, run, stop short, like a pointer. I bury my muzzle in her catch-a muzzle at the burrow's opening. Is this where I must run? Or am I expected to bark, stand on my hind legs, wait somewhere else. But I'm not the hunter, she is. She's laid the snare. She's waiting for me. I'm doing the running, not knowing which way to turn, through where? She's fearless, forbearing. I get excited, start feeling frightened. I wonder where is this body I seek, this throbbing I expect to feel in my hand, in her belly, and which will be my own throbbing. I'm not certain that there is ecstasy beyond her, beyond the spectacle of her flesh, beyond the cult. Perhaps there's only her body, as though, crossing a wasteland, lost without a discernible direction. I had before me only this desert, over there, immense, always different and yet the same, because I see no halting-place, no passage, no signs in space or time. I've come to a stop upon her body. Stretched full length, between her slightly parted thighs, my legs within hers, then outside of hers. My penis, erect, between her open labia, my hands on her shoulders, head in her neck. When I embrace her, I'm on an island.

She has a way of swallowing, absorbing my pleasure and hers: nothing remains on the surface. She doesn't let anything show, abandoning her body. Is she abandoning me? She wonders how far she can go, what her body can offer her. She's an offering, but to herself, for herself, fascinated by what she is able to give, fascinated by her shamelessness which invites me to lead her further still.

Does she often indulge in this game? This question always haunts me when I love a woman. Is she like this with every man? I ask myself this because I wish to know who she is. Or perhaps because I feel tested, put on probation. Perhaps I can't measure up to her expectations, lacking imagination, fantasy, humor, wonderwork, genius, implacable strength, and this when it is most needed, required above all else. Our sexual parts ought to be lucky prodigies.

She electrified me, nailed me to a bed for days on end, letting me claw at my sheet with desire, and here I am, just a contact-stud. I could howl with rage. I look at her, I find her beautiful, I could drool, bark. I get up on my knees, catch her thighs, throw them over my arms, and raise her belly to have her ass and cunt open on the level of my mouth. It's still daylight and the curtains create a light shadow. I see her vulva, a breach between two mountains, yawning between her thighs. Her dark labia contrast with the whiteness of her skin. Her ass is just as I thought it would be, child-like, impish. It hides itself, as though trying to be overlooked-while her vulva is wide, with long, distended-looking lips. The ass of a child, a matron's entrance gate. I dip my tongue to raise the high labia veiling the clitoris. I've swung her thighs over my shoulders. My probing tongue issues from the neck enclosed by her thighs. With the tip of my tongue I feel her small bud, linger there till it rises, suck on it, enclose it with my lips, aspirate it. Her thighs quiver. I hear her gasp. At last.

She has a hard time breathing. I feel as though I'm tearing something from her. I resist biting her. Biting her sensitive lips sliding against mine. Biting the palpitation of her sexual parts upon my tongue, like an oyster. Her clitoris hardens and reaches up in my mouth. She digs her feet into the mattress, stretches her thighs, pushes her pubis against me with strong sly hits to my greedy lips. That's it, she's fucking me. I'm giving her a blowjob, sucking this delicious creature's cock.

She buzzes, hums, roars. Something in her comes and goes, stronger and stronger. I'm holding on to her tail, I think she'll decapitate me by rattling my head with her pubis' battering ram action. My neck stretches to hold her back, yet I feel I'm tearing off the glans that brings her to orgasm. And she gives it to me. My chin dribbles with what she's discharged. God, what a woman! She's magnificent. Her two thighs spill over her vulva, over my mouth. Her knees have fallen down as her ankles spread apart. As though she'd given birth to something terrible that had escaped from her. I turn her over by taking hold of her hips, see her face with its eyelids tight shut. I have her show me her ass, her open, relaxed buttocks. I dive down toward them to find new strength, a new start. I seek the odor of her heated ass. I spread the buttocks, see at the very end of the procession the ever so tiny opening of her anus. That's where I'm going to enter. I spread her thighs, kneel, bend over for prayer-for nothing. I spit in my fingers to oil the tip of my prick. It's scarlet red. I'd like to lunge into her from a great distance. From as far away as possible. Look for her from a distance longer than the one she expects. I gather saliva for her orifice, to prepare her. I can't deny myself the pleasure of digging in my index finger, like a narrow glans. It enters easily. I'm a small child perforating the mashed potatoes in his plate. She's distended. My finger swims in her lissomeness. I close my eyes. My eye is at the end of my finger. It's night time in my head and in her ass. I come and go. My index plunges in up to the hilt, stopped by the brake of the other folded fingers, knocking against her buttocks. My index finger is an antenna.

I want my whole body to enjoy her. I introduce my penis, allowing it to slide in delicately. I take hold of her shoulders. My belly touches her lower back, her buttocks are in the hollow of my groin, my face buried in her hair, filling my nose with its scent. I grope for her ears. Touching their rigid cartilage and their softness as well, I feel like ravishing them, biting the lobes as I do her vulva's lips. Her anus uncovers my glans and massages it. I dig and plow her with the same ambivalence a farmer feels for his land, aggressivity and affection. She receives me like rich soil, sucks in my thrusts. They sink into her. She absorbs them.

Her belly begins to move. The thrusts are now coming from her. It is she who sucks in my penis and sends it back to me. It has now become her instrument which she plays for her own enjoyment. My pelvis is resting against her buttocks. I breathe through the tip of my cock. My lungs are in my hips, or in her buttocks that swell and tighten. My penis and her ass draw breath simultaneously. She aspirates my breath and gives me hers. She's hooked up my penis as one hooks up a water pump. Hers, in her, by her. I'm not sure whether the pump, the motor of the pump is in her ass or in my pelvis. My chest is soaked, sweat streams down my back. A peculiar sound escapes when air is trapped between her back and my chest, the sound of cupping-glass, of the draining of a tub, of a foot skidding in shallow water at low tide. I may skid upon her back, but my penis is firmly hooked. My moist hands slide on her shoulders. I'm about to come. I feel my penis squeezed, massaged between my eyes, about to explode behind my forehead. Sabine is the earth I never discovered. Does she feel it? I straighten up, right myself-with great effort, as though pulling on a boat's cordage, to bring it up to its berth-I draw her pelvis toward me with both hands to make sure her ass will not leave my prick. I lift her up to me. I'm seated on my ankles. She folds her legs under her, her thighs extending into mine, full, plump, like two hills, two peninsulas. Her ass swells like a montgolfier balloon. With her torso on the bed, her face in the bed cover, the nape of her neck bent, shoulders flat, the trampoline-like curve of her lower back indented by my springing action sends soaring the balloon of her ass. Earth, admirable globe containing secret fire. Blazing mass firing my poking prick. I slide my hands up to her breasts, around her teats, brace-up, and like a dog, with total release, come gushing out. My head, blown-off, comes tumbling down.

Brazen. © Copyright Ghislaine Dunant