Pisstory Pt. 05: The Gates

All this I found out, of course, over the boozy meal we ate sitting on the living-room floor under the Indiana parody. I'd managed a reasonable imitation of Jean Delgado Senior's 'sopa de ajo'. It certainly had enough garlic in it. Before I'd started splitting the bulb into cloves for chopping I'd had a good sniff at it in case it bore any last traces of Joe's cunt, but it was impossible to say. Adding tomatoes was my own refinement, designed to cover up any deficiencies in the other flavours and compensate for my not having time to make proper stock. The soup's strong flavour complemented the earthy taste of Scylla's piss which remained in my throat.

Joe brought in the tinny stereo from the bedroom.

"You left me a present" she grinned at Scylla. "I just licked it up. I'll be wanting more later."

She stared at both of us -- a challenge if ever I saw one.

We played their entire vinyl collection through several times -- The Clash, The Slits, Métal Urbain. We drank both litres of red wine, and the white I hadn't used in the cooking. Joe had also invested the change from my 200 francs in a baggie of hash supplied by one of the Moroccan shopkeepers she routinely robbed. We smoked it with tobacco from the Marlboros. By midnight we were penniless, drunk, stoned, and very horny.

It was Joe who made the first move. As we were passing round a joint while our heads were being fucked with by the dub effects on Métal Urbain's 'Lady Coca Cola' she got to her feet and stripped naked. She had tiny white breasts, her nipples as compact, pale and pink as Scylla's were big, dark and brown. Her armpits were bare and what she had of a mons also clean shaven, a few little irritated pink spots surrounding her crack, emphasised perhaps by the sense-enhancing effects of the hash.

She swayed toward Scylla, put one leg over her shoulder, and commanded "Lick me!"

It was fascinating watching the power dynamic between the two girls, as I had been all evening. Scylla was obviously the more mature of the two. By her earlier account I would have expected her to be the dom: she pissed on Joe, Joe licked her cold piss up from the floor; she spoke to Joe with contempt even when she'd been the one to go out shoplifting for both of them, Joe just assumed it was her job to go out again; she'd made sure when she let Joe back into the flat that her face was dripping with my cum, even though she knew Joe had designs on me. Now, however, what Joe wanted Joe got.

Scylla leaned back so Joe could straddle her face. She began sucking and licking, then frantically fingering her friend, while her other hand tore at the fly of the jeans she'd changed into after our earlier episode.

"For God's sake get her strides off" Joe said to me. "She needs to wank, and I'm not depriving her of that."

I undid the buttons on her 501s and pulled them down. She wasn't wearing anything underneath.

I pushed two fingers into her cunt.

"Let her do it herself" Joe commanded. "I want you up here with your cock in my mouth, so she can watch."

I complied. Joe was vicious with her teeth. I retaliated by shoving myself as far into her as I could, noting as I did that the Métal Urbain track now playing was 'Ultra Violence.' Joe grabbed my balls and squeezed, her ragged fingernails adding a new layer of sharp pain. It may have been the drug, but although I experienced the sensation as discomfort, it seemed to be happening a long way away, as though to someone else with whom I'd established a symbiotic psychological connection.

Fascinated, I watched Scylla fucking herself with her fingers. First two, then three, then apparently trying to shove her entire hand into her glistening wet cunt.

The smell of girl was almost overwhelming. I was aware that I could cum at any moment, and yet didn't.

"Had enough yet, you two sluts?" Joe released my cock and pushed me away. Underneath her I heard Scylla breathe out deeply. Her hand stopped moving.

"Good. Let's go to the bedroom for some serious pissing."

She was in charge. We followed her through to the bedroom, which still had no curtains.

"You could sell tickets for this" I said, to no reaction whatever.

Scylla squatted against the wall bearing the mural which showed her squatting. She waited until Joe had positioned her face under her cunt, lying on her back, then started pissing. Joe opened her legs as she drank her. I slid myself into position and began fucking her tight little cunt. I don't think I'd ever been in a situation in which so many senses combined to overwhelm me: the tightness and smell of Joe's cunt, the aroma of Scylla's piss, the suddenness and unexpectedness of this extraordinary drink- and drug- aided experience.

"Don't cum yet" Scylla ordered.

Easier said than done, I thought, watching her yellow torrent splashing into Joe's mouth, in a direct line with the painted version above her head. Joe took no notice of the order. As Scylla's gush turned to a dribble, then sporadic, shining drops she bucked her hips and rasped her cunt against the shaft of my cock, her cum spilling out over it.

"You glorious filthy whore!" she said to Scylla, in a tone that could only be one of love.

I pulled out. It was the only way I was going to be able to obey Scylla's order. She seemed to approve. She lowered her face to Joe's cunt, telling me as she did so: "Take me from behind! Let her watch you."

I did as I was told, moving round to where her arse pointed obliquely at her own mural, sliding easily into her soaking cunt that still smelt powerfully of her rich, Mediterranean-exotic piss. She grasped Joe's little bare slit with both hands and pulled it apart, the delicate pink inflamed and wet, her little clit standing up like a tiny extra nipple. She began to lick at it ferociously, as though trying to wear it away.

Joe sighed. Or choked. Or made some kind of sound that combined pain with ecstasy.

"Bitch! Cunt!" she spluttered.

Now, I've always loved fucking women in the doggy position. There's something about seeing my own cock pushing in and out of a cunt, the inner lips sliding out stuck to my wet shaft as I withdraw, then slamming back in as I thrust forward. I was aware of Joe's wide eyes watching from below as I screwed her girlfriend this way, muttering filthy imprecations as she did so.

I looked down to Scylla's work on her held-open cunt. A glittering arc of piss shot out of Joe's urethra, splashing noisily across the plastic sheet before Scylla could get her mouth over the tiny cavity and begin sucking it.

I gave up. I shoved myself as far as I could inside Scylla and let go. It felt like I was discharging a gallon of cum over her cervix, which I imagined in shiny pink detail as I did so. I sat back on my haunches, against the mural, watching the end of my cock continue to ooze spunk, and a stream of excess sperm drip down over Joe's face.

She came again, splashing Scylla's mouth and chin.

If I'd thought that was the end of it I was mistaken. The girls disentangled themselves, held one other in the most classical of loving embraces, and licked their own and my cum off each other's faces. Then they sat back, entwined their thighs, and began rubbing their cunts together. Scylla orgasmed very quickly, Joe twisting her dark nipples between pale fingers. As she came round from her spasm, still rubbing her clit against Joe's and fucking her with two fingers, she said to me: "Put your cock in her mouth, now!"

It had already started hardening again, and the heat of Joe's tongue completed the job. This time she didn't use her teeth, and to my absolute astonishment I shot a fresh wad of spunk down her throat.

"Now piss on us" she said. I stood up, aimed my still semi-erect cock at her face, and the wine did the rest. I played my stream from face to tits to cunt to tits to face and back again. Scylla drank my piss as I got to her, and Joe followed suite on the next pass. Then she cried out and had her third orgasm.

The girls collapsed.

As we all lay on the mattress, uncovered now and surprisingly still dry, Joe said "I told you I'd give you a blowjob for a Marlboro."

I turned to Scylla. "Like a machine" she said.

There was a bus from outside the Metro station which would take me directly to Henri's sister and nieces' quarter. Which was just as well, since all I had in my wallet now was loose change, some traveller's cheques that were no use without a bank, and a 'carnet' of Paris metropolitan transit tickets. I may have given Scylla and Joe my family address and phone number in England, in case they ever decided to visit my home country. God alone knew what my parents would have made of them.

The Aubin family's apartment block was not dissimilar to the one in Ivry, only taller, even uglier, and right below the flightpath in and out of Orly airport.

Since they were expecting me, Doudou and Zaza answered the door. They'd definitely grown up some, but encased in the floral Sunday-best dresses their mum had evidently prevailed upon them to wear, they seemed like pale versions of the kind of grown woman that even the immature Joe had been.

They kissed me chastely on the cheeks. Emerging from shadow at the end of the entrance hallway, Marie-France, Henri's sister, shook my hand gravely and said: "I called Henri last night after we spoke. He said he needed to speak to you as soon as you arrived here. I don't know what about. I'll fetch you some coffee, then we must phone him."

Coffee cup in hand, I waited for her to dial, tell her brother I was there, and pass me the receiver. Doudou and Zaza sat staring at me from the sofa opposite my armchair. I don't think they knew what to do with me, and I certainly had no idea what to do with them. Four years had turned out to be a long time. The past two months even longer.

"Jojo, are you sitting down? Good. My friend, I have some very, very bad news for you. I'm really sorry. Little Alana's dead."

The words had a certain cognitive sense without immediately impacting on my emotions.

"How?" I said, feeling my perceptions drifting up above my body.

He told me how she'd disappeared from her aunt and uncle's place the night after Yvon Morvan had taken her there -- the night I'd made Yann drive me to Laval after Alana's and my affair had been discovered. In the morning -- the same morning I'd woken up hungover in the railway station and walked out to the highway to hitch to Angers and, later, Jean-Luc's place in Blois -- she'd found her way to a bridge over the Loire and thrown herself off it. A few hours later -- perhaps at the same time Georges had been offering me his patriotic hospitality, or perhaps when his daughter Marielle and I had been fucking -- her poor broken little drowned body had been found by fishermen out towards the sea.

Little Alana was dead. I couldn't have saved her, but I'd given up on her. What other explanation was there?

This conversation has haunted me all my life.

I thanked Henri. I ascertained that Alana had been buried a month ago. I asked him to tell Yann how sorry I was. I knew I would never speak to any of them again. I hung up. I drank my cold coffee. I asked Marie-France what was the best way to get back to the Gare d'Austerlitz.

I was sorry the girls looked so disappointed, but it was no longer my problem. Nothing was, except the fact that a young woman who had loved me was dead, and I did not know how to respond to it.

Porte de Choisy. Porte d'Ivry. Porte d'Italie. I followed the trail of gates back to the left-luggage locker at Austerlitz station. Then I used one of my few remaining tickets to get to the Gare du Nord.

I thanked whatever organising principle there was in the universe that the Bureau de Change was open there. I cashed the last of my dollar cheques and bought a one-way ticket to London. Nothing mattered other than getting home. If I hadn't had that focus -- even as I did have -- I could hear the wings of madness flapping around my head.

In the middle of the saddest afternoon of my life a scruffy train of the Société National des Chemins de Fer carried me out of Paris toward Calais.