Feature Writer: Michael 1
Feature Title: Under the sun of Seville
Story Codes: Blasphemy, Sacrilege, Religious, WS, Necrophilia
Synopsis: A story of the French writer Georges Bataille, entitled “The story of eye”
Under the Sun of Seville
Thus, two globes of equal size and consistency had suddenly been propelled in opposite directions at once. One, the white ball of the bull, had been thrust into the “pink and dark” cunt that Simone had bared in the crowd; the other, a human eye, had spurted from Granero’s head with the same force as a bundle of innards from a belly. This coincidence, tied to death and to a sort of urinary liquefaction of the sun, first brought us back to Marcelle in a moment that was so brief and almost insubstantial, yet so uneasily vivid that I stepped forward like a sleepwalker as though about to touch her at eye level.
Needless to say, everything was promptly back to normal, though with blinding obsessions in the hour after Granero’s death. Simone was in such a foul mood that she told Sir Edmund she wouldn’t spend another day in Madrid; she was very anxious to see Seville because of its reputation as a city of pleasure, Sir Edmund took a heady delight in satisfying the whims of “the simplest and most angelic creature ever to walk the earth,” and so the next day he accompanied us to Seville, where we found an even more liquefying heat and light than in Madrid. A lavish abundance of flowers in the streets, geraniums and rose laurels, helped to put our senses on edge.
Simone walked about naked under a write dress that was flimsy enough to hint at the red garter belt underneath and, in certain positions, even at her pussy. Furthermore, everything in this city contributed to making her radiate such sensuality that when we passed through the torrid streets, I often saw cocks stretching trousers.
Indeed, we virtually never stopped having sex. We avoided orgasms and we went sightseeing, for this was the only way to keep from having my penis endlessly immersed in her fur. But we did take advantage of any opportunities when we were out. We would leave one convenient place with never any goal but to find another like it. An empty museum room, a stairway, a garden path, lined with high bushes, an open church, deserted alleys in the evenings – we walked until we found the right place, and the instant we found it, I would open the girl’s body by lifting one of her legs and shoving my cock to the bottom of her cunt in one swoop. A few moments later, I would pull my steaming member from its stable, and our promenade would continue almost aimlessly.
Usually, Sir Edmund would follow at a distance in order to surprise us: he would turn purple, but he never came close. And if he masturbated, he would do it discreetly, not for caution’s sake, of course, but because he never did anything unless standing isolated and almost utterly steady, with a dreadful muscular contraction.
“This is a very interesting place,” he said one day in regard to a church, “it’s the church of Don Juan.”
“So what?” replied Simone.
“Stay here with me,” Sir Edmund said to me. ‘And you Simone, you ought to go round this church all by yourself.”
“What an awful idea!”
Nevertheless, however awful the idea, it aroused her curiosity and she went in by herself while we waited in the street. Five minutes later, Simone reappeared at the threshold of the church. We were dumbstruck: not only was she guffawing her head off, but she couldn’t speak or stop laughing, so that, partly by contagion, partly because of the intense light, I began laughing as hard as she, and so did Sir Edmund to a certain extent.
“Bloody girl,” he said. “Can’t you explain? By the by, we’re laughing right over the tomb of Don Juan!”
And laughing even harder, he pointed at a large church brass at our feet. It was the tomb of the church’s founder, who, the guides claimed, was Don Juan: after repenting, he had himself buried under the doorstep so that the faithful would nudge over his corpse when entering or leaving their haunt.
But now our wild laughter burst out again tenfold. In our mirth, Simone had lightly pissed down her leg, and a tiny trickle of water had landed on the brass. We noted a further effect of her accident: the thin dress, being wet, stuck to her body, and since the cloth was now fully transparent, Simone’s attractive belly and thighs were revealed with particular lewdness, a dark patch between the red ribbons of her garter belt.
“All I can do is go into the church,” said Simone, a bit calmer, “it’ll dry.”
We burst into a larger space, where Sir Edmund and I vainly looked for the comical sight that the girl had been unable to explain. The room was relatively cool, and the light came from windows, filtering through curtains of a bright red, transparent cretonne. The ceiling was of carved woodwork, the walls were plastered but encumbered with religious gewgaws more or less gilded. The entire back wall was covered from floor to rafters by an altar and a giant Baroque tabernacle of gilded wood; the involved and contorted decorations conjured up India, with deep shadows and golden glows, end the whole altar at first seemed very mysterious and just right for sex, At either side of the entrance door hung two nefarious canvases by the painter Valdes Leal, pictures of decomposing corpses: interestingly, one of the eye sockets was being gnawed through by a rat. Yet in all these things, there was nothing funny to be found.
Quite the contrary: the whole place was sumptuous and sensuous, the play of shadows and light from the red curtains, the coolness and a strong pungent aroma of blossoming oleander, plus the dress sticking to Simone’s pussy-everything was urging me to burst loose and bare that wet cunt on the floor, when I spied a pair of silk shoes at a confessional: the feet of a penitent female.
“l want to see them leave,” said Simone.
She sat down before me, not far from the confessional, and all I could do was caress her neck, the line of her hair, or her shoulders with my cock. And that put her so much on edge that she told me to tuck my penis away immediately or she would rub it until I came.
I had to sit down and merely look at Simone’s nakedness through the soaked cloth, at its best in the open air, when she wanted to fun her wet thighs and she uncrossed them and lifted her dress.
“You’ll see,” she said.
That was why I patiently waited for the key to the puzzle. After a rather long wait, a very beautiful young brunette stepped out of the confessional, her hands folded, her face pale and enraptured: with her head thrown back and her eyes white and vacant, she slowly eased across the room like an opera ghost. There was something so truly unexpected about the whole thing that I desperately squeezed my legs together to keep from laughing, when the door of the confessional opened: someone else emerged, this time a blond priest, very young, very handsome, with a long thin face and the pale eyes of a saint. His arms were crossed on his chest, and he remained on the threshold of the booth, gazing at a fixed point on the ceiling as though a celestial apparition.
The priest thus moved in the same direction as the woman, and he would probably have vanished in turn without seeing anything if Simone, to my great surprise, had not brought him up sharply. Something unbelievable had occurred to her: she greeted the visionary courteously and said she wanted to confess.
The priest, still gliding in his ecstasy, indicated the confessional with a distant gesture and reentered his tabernacle, softly closing the door without a word’ Simone’s Confession and Sir Edmund’s illness, one can readily imagine my stupor at watching Simone kneel down by the cabinet of the lugubrious confessor.While she confessed her sins, I waited, extremely anxious to see the outcome of such an unexpected action. I assumed this sordid creature was going to burst from his booth, pounce upon the impious girl, and flagellate her. I was even getting ready to knock the dreadful phantom down and treat him to a few kicks; but nothing of the sort happened: the booth remained closed, Simone spoke on and on through the tiny grilled window, and that was all’
I was exchanging sharply interrogative looks with Sir Edmund when things began to grow clear: Simone was slowly scratching her thigh, moving her legs apart; keeping one knee oh the prayer stool, she shifted one foot to the floor, and she was exposing more and more of her legs over her stockings while still murmuring her confession. At times she even seemed to be tossing off: I softly drew up at the side to try and see what was happening: Simone really was masturbating, the left part of her face was pressed against the grille near the priest’s head’ her limbs tensed, her thighs splayed, her fingers rummaging deep in the fur; I was able to touch her, I bared her cunt for an instant.
At that moment, I distinctly heard her say, “Father, still have not confessed the worst sin of all.” A few seconds of silence. “The worst sin of all is very simply that I’m tossing off while talking to you.”
More seconds of whispering inside, and finally almost aloud: “If you don’t believe me, I can show you.”
And indeed, Simone stood up and spread one thigh before the eye of the window while masturbating with a quick, sure hand.
“All right, priest,” cried Simone, banging away at the confessional, “what are you doing in your shack there? Tossing off, too?”
But the confessional kept its peace.
“Well, then I`ll open.”
And Simone Pulled out the door. Inside the visionary, standing there with lowered head, was mopping a sweat-bathed brow. The girl groped for his cock under the cassock: he didn’t turn a hair. She pulled up the filthy black skirt so that the long cock stuck out, pink and hard: all he did was throw back his head with a grimace’ and a hiss escaped through his teeth, but he didn’t interfere with Simone, who shoved the bestialis into her mouth and took long sucks on it.
Sir Edmund and I were immobile in our stupor. For my part, I was spellbound with admiration, and I didn’t know what else to do, when the enigmatic Englishman resolutely strode to the confessional and, after edging Simone aside as delicately as could be, dragged the larva out of its hole by its wrists, and flung it brutally at our feet the vile priest lay there like a cadaver, his teeth to the ground, not uttering a cry. We promptly caned him to the vestry.
His fly was open, his cock dangling, his face livid and drenched with sweat, he didn’t resist, but breathed heavily: we put him in a large wooden armchair with architectural decorations’
“Senores,” the wretch sniveled, “you must think I’m a hypocrite'”
“No,” replied Sir Edmund with a categorical intonation.
Simone asked him: “What`s your name?”
“Don Aminado” he answered.
Simone slapped the sacerdotal pig, which gave him another hard-on’ we stripped off all his clothes, and Simone crouched down and pissed on them like a bitch. Then she wanked and sucked the pig while I urinated in his nostrils. Finally, to top off this cold exaltation, I fucked Simone in the ass while she violently sucked his cock. Meanwhile, Sir Edmund, contemplating the scene with his characteristic poker face’ carefully inspected the room where we had found refuge. He glimpsed a tiny key hanging from a nail in the woodwork.
“What is that key for?’he asked Don Aminado’
From the expression of dread on the priest’s face, Sir Edmund realized it was the key to the tabernacle. The Englishman returned a few moments later, carrying a ciborium of twisted gold’ decorated with a quantity of angels as naked as cupids. The wretched Don Aminado gaped at this receptacle of consecrated hosts on the floor, and his handsome moronic face, already contorted because Simone was flagellating his cock with her teeth and tongue, was now fully gasping and panting.
After barricading the door, sir Edmund rummaged through the closets until he finally lit upon a large chalice, where upon he asked us to abandon the wretch for an instant.
“Look,” he explained to Simone, “the Eucharistic hosts in the ciborium’ and here the Chalice where they Put white wine.”
“‘They smell like come,” said Simone, sniffing the unleavened wafers.
“Precisely,” continued sir Edmund. “The hosts, as you see, are nothing other than Christ’s sperm in the form of small white biscuits. And as for the wine they put in the chalice, the ecclesiastics say it is the blood of Christ, but they are obviously mistaken. If they really thought it was the blood, they would use red wine, but since they employ only white wine, they are showing that at the bottom of their hearts they are quite aware that this is urine”’.
The lucidity of this logic was so convincing that Simone and I required no further explanation, she armed with the chalice and with the ciborium, the two of us marched over to Don Aminado, who was still inert in his armchair, faintly agitated by a slight quiver through his body.
Simone began by slamming the base of the chalice against his skull, which jolted him and left him utterly dazed. Then she resumed sucking him, which provoked his ignoble rattles. After bringing his senses to a height of fury with sir Edmund’s help and mine, she gave him a hard shake.
“That’s not all,” she said in a voice that brooked no reply. “lt’s time to piss.”
And she struck his face again with the chalice, but at the same time she stripped naked before him and I finger-fucked her.
Sir Edmund’s gaze, fixed on the stunned eyes of the young cleric, was so imperious that the thing went off with barely any hitch; Don Aminado noisily poured his urine into the chalice, which Simone held under this thick cock.
“And now, drink,” commanded Sir Edmund.
The paralyzed wretch drank with a well-nigh filthy ecstasy at one long gluttonous draft. Again Simone sucked and wanked him; he continued gurgling desperately and reveling in it with a demented gesture, he bashed the sacred chamber-pot against a wall. Four robust arms lifted him up and, with open thighs, his body erect, and yelling like a pig being slaughtered, he spurted his come on the hosts in the ciborium, which Simone held in front of him while masturbating him.
The Legs of the Fly.
We dropped the swine and he crashed to the floor- Sir Edmund, Simone, and myself were coldly animated by the same determination, together with an incredible excitement and levity. The priest lay there with a limp cock, his teeth digging into the floor with rage and shame. Now that his balls were drained, his abomination appeared to him in all its horror’ He audibly sighed:
“Oh miserable sacrileges…”
And muttering other incomprehensible laments. Sir Edmund nudged him with his foot; the monster leaped up and drew back, bellowing with such ludicrous fury that we burst out laughing’
“Get on your feet,” sir Edmund ordered, “you’re going to fuck this girl.”
‘Wretches…” Don Aminado threatened in a choking voice. “Spanish police… prison… the garrote…”
“But you are forgetting that is your sperm,” observed Sir Edmund.
A ferocious grimace, a trembling like that of a cornered beast, and then: “The garrote for me too. But you three… first.”
“Poor fool,” smirked Sir Edmund. ‘First! Do you think I am going to let you wait that long? First!”
The imbecile gaped dumbstruck at the Englishman: an extremely silly expression darted across his handsome face. Something like an absurd joy began to open his mouth, he crossed his arms
over his naked chest and finally gazed at us with ecstatic eyes.
“Martyrdom…” he uttered in a voice that was suddenly feeble and yet tore out like a sob. “Martyrdom,..” A bizarre hope of purification had come to the wretch, illuminating his eyes.
“First I am going to tell you a story,” Sir Edmund said to him sedately. ‘You know that men who are hanged or garroted have such stiff cocks the instant their respiration is cut off, that they ejaculate. You are going to have the pleasure of being martyred while fucking this girl.”
And when the horrified priest rose to defend himself, the Englishman brutally knocked him down, twisting his arm. Next, Sir Edmund, slipping under his victim, pinioned his arms behind his back while I gagged him and bound his legs with a belt. The Englishman, gripping his arms from behind in a stranglehold, disabled the priest’s legs in his own. Kneeling behind, I kept the man’s head immobile between my thighs.
“And now,” said Sir Edmund to Simone, “mount this little padre.”
Simone removed her dress and squatted on the belly of this singular martyr, her cunt next to his flabby cock.
“Now,” continued Sir Edmund, “squeeze his throat, the pipe just behind the Adam’s apple: a strong, gradual pressure.”
Simone squeezed, a dreadful shudder ran through that mute, fully immobilized body, and the cock stood on end. I took it into my hands and had no trouble fitting it into Simone’s vulva, while she continued to squeeze the throat.
The utterly intoxicated girl kept wrenching the big cock in and out with her buttocks’ atop the body whose muscles were cracking in our formidable strangleholds’
At last, she squeezed so resolutely that an even more violent thrill shot through her victim, and she felt the come shooting inside her cunt. Now she let go, collapsing backwards in a tempest of joy.
Simone lay on the floor, her belly up, her thigh still smeared by the dead man’s sperm which had trickled from her vulva. I stretched out at her side to rape and fuck her in tum, but all t could do was squeeze her in my arms and kiss her mouth, because of a strange inward paralysis ultimately caused by my love for the girl and the death of the unspeakable creature’ I have never been so content.
I didn’t even stop Simone from pushing me aside and going to view her work’ she straddled the naked cadaver again, scrutinizing the purplish face with the keenest interest, she even sponged the sweat off the forehead and obstinately waved away a fly buzzing in a sunbeam and endlessly flitting back to alight on the face. All at once, Simone uttered a soft cry. Something bizarre and quite baffling had happened: this time, the insect had perched on the corpse’s eye and was agitating its long nightmarish legs on the strange orb. The girl took her head in her hands and shook it, trembling, then she seemed to plunge into an abyss of reflections.
Curiously, we weren’t the least bit worried about what might happen. I suppose if anyone had come along, Sir Edmund and l wouldn’t have given him much time to be scandalized. But no matter. Simone gradually emerged from her stupor and sought protection with Sir Edmund who stood motionless, his back to the wall; we could hear the fly flying over the corpse.
“Sir Edmund,” she said, rubbing her cheek gently on his shoulder, “l want you to do something'”
“l shall do anything you like,” he replied. “She made me come over to the corpse: she knelt down and completely opened the eye that the fly had perched on.”
“Do you see the eye?” She asked me.
“It’s an egg,” she concluded in all simplicity.
“All right,” I urged her, extremely disturbed, “What are you getting at?”
“l want to play with this eye.”
“What do you mean?”
“Listen, Sir Edmund,” she finally let it out, “you must give me this at once, tear it out at once, I want it!”
Sir Edmund was always poker-faced except when he turned purple. Nor did he bat an eyelash now; but the blood did shoot to his face. He removed a pair of fine scissors from his wallet, knelt down, then nimbly inserted the fingers of his left hand into the socket and drew out the eye, while his right hand snipped the obstinate ligaments. Next, he presented the small whitish eyeball in a hand reddened with blood.
Simone gazed at the absurdity and finally took it in her hand, completely distraught; yet she had no qualms, and instantly amused herself by fondling the depth of her thighs and inserting this apparently fluid object. The caress of the eye over the skin is so utterly, so extraordinarily gentle, and the sensation is so bizarre that it has something of a roosters horrible crowing.
Simone meanwhile amused herself by slipping the eye into the profound crevice of her ass, and after lying down on her back and raising her legs and bottom, she tried to keep the eye there simply by squeezing her buttocks together. But all at once, it spat out like a stone squeezed from a cherry, and dropped on the thin belly of the corpse, an inch or so from the cock.
In the meantime, I had let Sir Edmund undress me, so that I could pounce stark naked on the crouching body of the girl; my entire cock vanished at one lunge into the hairy crevice, and I fucked her hard while Sir Edmund played with the eye, rolling it, in between the contortions of our bodies, on the skin of our bellies and breasts. For an instant, the eye was trapped between our navels.
“Put it up my ass, sir Edmund,” Simone shouted.
And sir Edmund delicately glided the eye between her buttocks. But finally, Simone left me, grabbed the beautiful eyeball from the hands of the tall Englishman and with a staid and regular pressure from her hands, she slid it into her slobbery flesh’ in the midst of the fur. And then she promptly drew me over, clutching my neck between her arms and smashing her lips on mine so forcefully that I came without touching her and my come shot all over her fur.
Now I stood up and, while Simone lay on her side, I drew her thighs apart, and found myself facing something I imagine I had been waiting for in the same way that a guillotine waits for a neck to slice. l even felt as if my eyes were bulging from my head, erectile with horror; in Simone’s hairy vagina, I saw the wan blue eye of Marcelle, gazing at me through tears of urine.
Streaks of come in the steaming hair helped give that dreamy vision a disastrous sadness. I held the thighs open while Simone was convulsed by the urinary spasm, and the burning urine streamed out from under the eyeball to the thighs below. Two hours later, sir Edmund and I were sporting false black beards, and Simone was bedizened in a huge, ridiculous black hat with yellow flowers and a long cloth dress like a noble girl from the provinces. tn this getup, we rented a. car and left Seville. Huge valises allowed us to change our personalities at every leg of the journey in order to outwit the police investigation’ sir Edmund evinced a humorous ingenuity in these circumstances: thus we marched down the main street of the small town of Ronda, he and I dressed as Spanish priests, wearing the small hairy felt hats and priestly cloaks, and manfully puffing on big cigars; as for Simone, who was walking between us in the costume of a Seville Seminarist, she looked more angelic than ever.
In this way, we kept disappearing all through Andalusia, a country of yellow earth and yellow sky, to my eyes an immense chamber pot flooded with sunlight, where each day, as a new character, I raped a likewise transformed Simone, especially towards noon, on the ground and in the blazing sun’ under the reddish eyes of Sir Edmund on the fourth day, at Gibraltar, the Englishman purchased a yacht, and rive set sail towards new adventures with a crew of Negroes.