the_carnal

Archive-name: the_carnal_days

Subject: SP fiction: THE CARNAL DAYS OF HELEN SEFERIS

Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories

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Although it's a bachelor flat, it has no Spartan qualities.
I refer of course to my own little flat off Mayfair, a district
in which a beautiful woman causes little comment. It has five
rooms, a kitchen and a bathroom, made over as follows. In the
first place, there is my own bedroom where I sleep when I sleep
alone. That is rather a bare room, with a modern bed, a dressing
table, fitted wardrobes, and three original nudes (at toilet) by
Degas. The second room is my guest bedroom -- a conventional
room, furnished in white pine, comfortable, commodious, with one
large Renoir. If it is true, as it is reported to be true, that
Renoir painted only pregnant nudes -- the pregnancy is
registered, they say, in the eye -- then my choice of a painting
was justified, for some of my friends are respectably married,
and in that room, with that picture on the wall, they can retire
with a praiseworthy lust to procreate themselves. The third room
is my study-desk, books, angle-poised lamp, oak furniture, and
etchings by Goya. Thus I'm surrounded by crime; I am, as it were,
in my element. The fourth room is my sitting room-lounge, what
you will -- which is where, regardless of their sex and purposes,
all my guests come initially, to be, as it were, graded, the
pictures here being Modigliani at his most sensual, an acid test,
I feel, of the proclivities of those who drink Martinis or
whatever is to their taste on the comfortable divans. The fifth
room is without doubt the piece de resistance. Not everyone is
allowed a glimpse of this room, a room, by the way, in which the
pretensions of art are never exhibited, the glass room. Many, as
the saying goes, were called to the sitting room, but few were
chosen for the glass room. I talk in the past tense. I really
don't know why, for I still own my little Mayfair flat and I have
no doubt that it will serve in the future as it has in the past,
a kind of selection station and delightful hatchery.
Nadya walked into the sitting room like a goddess. I
couldn't remember seeing a more beautiful woman in that
background. Before she had even removed her wrap she had crossed
the room to one of the Modigliani nudes and had uttered a little
cry of delight.
"What a beautiful painting," she exclaimed. "It looks just
like me!"
"Unfortunately, I haven't had the pleasure of making the
comparison," I said with a smile.
She laughed softly. "Help me off with my wrap," she said.
I hastened to her assistance.
She sat crosslegged on the divan while I fixed the drinks.
When I returned with her glass, she had settled back against the
cushions, her body under the beautiful white dress languorous and
soft. I shaded the lamp and sat down close to her.
"Music?"
"I'd love music," she said.
It was a mere coincidence that I selected a little pile of
Arab records and placed them on the plate of the radio-gram. The
small quavering voice of an Arab woman suddenly cut into the
silence.
"That is Arab music!"
"Yes, don't you like it?"
"Oh yes, very much! But that's where Helen is. She's
somewhere in Algeria."
"Helen Seferis," I said, enunciating the name slowly. "It's
a Greek name, isn't it?"
"I suppose it is, but she wasn't Greek."
"Wasn't? You believe she's dead then?"
"I have no idea," Nadya said softly. "It's not unlikely. But
I thought we were going to leave all that for tomorrow."
"So we were!" I laughed. "And meanwhile..." I left my
sentence unfinished and sat down beside her on the divan. At that
moment the Arab woman's voice broke out harshly from the musical
accompaniment, and we said nothing until the instruments, as
though hypnotized by the thick lust in the woman's voice, rose
and engulfed her before all was silent in a crash of percussion.
We were looking at one another.
"You're quite handsome," she said playfully.
"And you're quite beautiful," I replied.
"Do you believe," said Nadya, smiling, "in love at first
sight?"

The arm of the radio-gram clicked over and the music came
again.
Her body was warm and of a smooth plastic resiliency under
the lustrous white silk of her dress. Sometimes, with the
pressure of my hand, I felt the soft material come apart from
that more subtle, that more ambiguous smoothness that slipped
gently away under my fingertips. She was lying backwards on the
cushions, as yet entirely unruffled. But at the same time her
body seemed to exude that heavy, abandoned aura of desire, so
that while she appeared cool and apparently self-controlled, her
body was slow, soft, and exaggeratedly at ease.
My lips played at the smooth perfection of her eyelids,
delicate as shells, and then, traveling lower over the soft
hollow of her cheek, alighted on the smooth olive skin of her
neck. Her breathing came more heavily, causing her firm breasts
to rise tremulously under the frail fabric, while the muscles of
her abdomen molded themselves under my forearm that guided my
hand around and over the superb silk-clung sweep Of her buttocks
-- pale golden orbs, quite flawless, whose silhouette I could
already see in my imagination, tilted this way and that, in every
exotic posture, for, when they were finally naked, rising upwards
or sideways from their barb, they would shed their sable forms in
every mirror of my inner sanctum, the glass room, exposed in all
their secrets in the tinted mirrors, amethyst, saffron, topaz,
jade, or tawny amber, and, in the ordinary mirrors, that pearly
bare skin would appear off-white, muddy, as though smoke seeped
beneath its surfaces.
I was in no hurry. I wished to excite her passion slowly, to
see each marvel unveiled in turn, to feel her scented heat rise
gradually to me through the delicate fabrics which shrouded her
nakedness.
The Arab woman was sobbing breathlessly through a series of
half and quarter notes.
Nadya closed her eyes then, and her soft body rippled under
the dress with an already fatal impatience. Nothing of her
beautiful torso was visible save the broad vee at her neck and
the beginnings, the outer lippings of breasts that furrowed
downwards beneath the bodice of her dress. I turned her on her
side and cradled her head in my arm, teasing with the fingers of
my other hand the soft wisps of blue-black hair at the nape of
her neck. The smooth skin of her back already exuded a moistness
that caused the skin to take on the texture, the apparent
tendency to disintegrate, of chalk. It was just like that. It was
as though I were tracing with my fingertips the surface of a
broad slab of chalk, for, on raising my lingers, I felt a kind of
pollen, an accumulation of moist dust, at the pores. The palm of
my hand slid downwards, all feeling there in touch, in the mute
and sullen contact strung between our skins, and all motivation,
for my fingers soon alighted on the hooks at the back of her
dress and, when they were undone, my hand moved eagerly down the
graceful sweep of her spine to the very brink of that ravine
where her quivering globes met. At that point I desisted, but
gently, and with small finger-motions, so as not disturb the
continuity of the caress.
The husky voice of the Arab woman caused my hand to quiver
and a tightening at my own parts as -- for the upper part of the
dress was now loose -- I lifted the bodice gently from off her
breasts.
The brassiere, as I had suspected, was built into the dress
itself. And thus in one movement the wonderful pale flower of her
upper torso was bared. The fragrance of the arching breasts was
almost overpowering. Nervous, opaque, slightly lemonish, with an
almost silvery surface, due in part to the pinprick sweat of her
excitement and in part to the naturally somber color of her skin,
her breasts were studded with two magnificent black nipples,
created like the edges of rain-soft grounded leaves and giving
the impression of being rooted deeply in the full honey-colored
convexities of her flesh. They, and the supple line of her belly
-- that part of it at least which was already disclosed -- had an
almost leopard-like quality about them, the honey-colored glint
of the breasts and the startling black stipple of her strong and
purposive teats. They had been dusted with a delicate scent, and
that artifice, threaded with the pervasive sweetness of her own
passionate flesh, drew my lips downwards, at first into the
smooth and downy valley between them and then, inexorably, my
mouth loosening in sensuality, over one of the sudden rubbery
stigmatae of her womanhood. As my mouth became greedy, her
slender palms alighted at my temples, coaxing my head downwards,
inciting me to accomplish her ravishment.
Meanwhile, in response to my own rising passion, the fingers
of my right band moved upwards over the seam of one of her sheer
nylon stocking and tripped at its extreme edge on to the soft
field of her upper thigh. Her panties were as delicate as
cobwebs, and their frail substanceless filaments only added to
the attraction of the hot, thick, sensuous seams of flesh whose
presence under the silky short hairs registered itself in a
gradual, almost soapy emission at my fingertips.
Her buttocks and her body arched backwards with a sigh.
"Let me take my dress off," she whispered urgently.
I could hardly bring my head away from her breasts, but
finally I pushed myself up into an upright position and looked at
her. She was like some beautiful mythological creature, woman
from the waist up, shell-fish from the waist down, for the
corrugations of her white silk dress, in which buttocks, thighs
and sex were buried, encased her like a shell. I had often
wondered at the significance of such mythological creatures as
mermaids. At that moment, watching the beautiful honey-colored
coil of her upper torso, seeing it, for all its tawny
magnificence with its proud snailblack teats, the faint shade of
blue-black hair at the armpits, the cascade of it at her oval
face, seeing it truncated suddenly, fixed, as it were, in a hard
white shell, it struck me suddenly that the horror of mermaids
lay in their limitless powers of seductions and in their
inability to give sexual satisfaction. No wonder the mariner
feared them. Locked fast against their soft breasts his loins
nevertheless would thrash abortively against the ungiving belly
of a fish.
I stood up, found a cigarette and lit it.
Nadya, meanwhile, had stepped out of her dress and was
removing her gauze-like underclothes. Glancing at the finest of
the Modigliani nudes, I realized immediately that Nadya's
delighted remark had been no idle boast. On the contrary, she was
more beautiful than any painting could have been. Her body seemed
to contain all symmetries and every distortion of which an artist
is capable. She was vulgar and ravishing. She was superb and
lewd. Her buttocks were a shapeless mass of sex and the most
perfectly spheroid I had ever seen. Her sex was animal and lithe
as a goddess, fat, obese, cleancut and more delicate than the
lips of a child. As she turned towards me, her dark nylon
stockings still on and making lips of the soft flesh of her upper
thighs, held there by two thin black thongs gathered at her waist
by a soft ribbon of silk, I felt like going down on my knees to
worship her.
She raised one thigh as a horse might. "Do you want me to
take these off?" she said. "Mario preferred me to keep them on."
It was like being confronted with an impossibly good menu, I
mean one on which there appear such alternative succulent dishes,
dishes probably of equal merit such as one finds it impossible to
choose without the feeling of having missed out on something,
irretrievably. Thus, and sadly, I shook my head in indecision.
She laughed at my predicament.
"Are you going to fuck me or aren't you?" she said
roguishly.
That brought me back to my senses.
"Not here!" I said quickly. "The glass room! You've never
seen anything like the glass room!"
With that, I took her hand and led her through a door into
my chamber of pleasures. As soon as we were inside, Nadya's
lissome body was flung back at us from all directions, delicately
tinted by a hundred square yards of skillfully treated glass.
She stood for a moment, gazing in all directions.
"What do you think of it?"
"Oh, it's wonderful!" It's wonderful!" she said.
"From more than one point of view!" I said, lifting her
naked body into my arms.

The images remain.
Nadya with her nylon-clad legs raised, her knees bent, our
eyes locked together as I slowly thrust into her. She holds the
backs of her knees with her hands, her thighs in a barely
perceptible rocking movement. She breaks the eye-lock to look
down at our joining. I, too, look down to watch the sliding
movement of my penis in the open mouth of her sex.
Nadya mounting me, straddling my prone body, squatting over
my loins, her black teats shaking as she slowly and carefully
impales herself on my upright stalk. When she has me captured,
she reaches behind her to tug at my testicles.
"I love your cock," she says. "I love the way it fills me."
Nadya on her belly. Gracefully, she pulls her knees under
her body, lifts her torso, her buttocks rising. She keeps her
head down as she moves her knees apart. Her hand moves beneath
her belly, her fingers suddenly appearing like several snakes
wiggling over her spread labia.
"Do it," she says. "Do it to me again."
The dawn finds us sprawled beside each other like two
gladiators vanquished by the Fates.

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Last modified (12/24/96 14:13:33) by Eli-the-Bearded.

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