Alexander Trocchi - Thongs

That made him hesitate. He stood staring at me uncertainly. My breasts had grown over the last year. I was nearly a woman.

I moved before him. I lifted myself face downwards over the wooden table. The wood was cold against my naked belly and breasts. I felt my flesh quiver with excitement at the thought that there on the wood Hazel was going to be witness to my humiliation.

Perhaps it was my willingness to be thrashed that made his first strokes light. They stung but were almost purely pleasant. I gasped each time the leather belt fell. My legs had slipped apart at the crotch. Suddenly he stopped and I heard him say: "What the bliddy hell's that!" I felt his fingers between my thighs and then I had the sensation of having something ripped out of me. Only then I realized. It was the condom! I had forgotten all about it.

"Jesus Christ!" I heard him yell. "Ye bring his bliddy dirt back wi'ye! Stuck between yer stinking little legs was it!"

I knew then that I was going to be thrashed without mercy. Hazel let out a gasp. And then the belt fell like cinders on my naked buttocks. I screamed. But it came again. The pain seemed to spread like a sea over my whole shuddering torso. I screamed again, barely conscious of the mumbled reactions of the neighbors beyond the walls. Even yet, there was no tear on my cheeks. I felt I was going to explode. The belt came again and again, but each time the tears welled up in my eyes, they were sucked down again by some invisible whirlpool of lust within me. And then the tension cracked. I screamed with all my might and the tears flowed out in great sobs. Only then did I realize that Razor King had stopped. The door slammed. Somewhere beyond me my pain came back, a long shuddering wail, and it was my own lips slobbering on the wood.

A moment later I was lifted gently off the table and helped over to my cot. Something burning was forced between my lips. I had the swimming vision of Hazel holding a glass there and I realized it was whiskey. I swallowed, and then my body, reacting mechanically to all the cruelty of the last hour, I vomited until I could vomit no more. I lay quivering on the camp bed. Hazel was running her fingers through my hair. That night she said only one word to me, softly, and repeated over and over again. Her head was between my thighs and her tongue darting smoothly against my clitoris. "Come!" she was saying. "Come … come … come…"

I was in bed off and on for a week. Johnnie asked me more than once who it was who had interfered with me. I said I didn't know. Finally he lost interest. Razor King ignored me. Only Hazel seemed to take an interest in me. She had drawn closer to me. She had become like an older sister. She got the whole story out of me, how I had gone after the man into the lane and how I had knelt before him and sucked him fervently. I also told her about the condom.

"You liked being belted, didn't you, hen?" she said one night when we were sitting alone by the fire.

I was taken aback. How had she guessed my guilty secret? My words came haltingly. I did and I didn't. It had been terribly painful. But deep down I had a hunger for it, an obscene animal hunger that filled my body like a nausea.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, hen," Hazel whispered. "Some women like it. They get their pleasure that way."

"Was that possible?"

Hazel put her hand on my thigh and squeezed it.

"I've a date on Thursday night in the west end," she said. "I'll take you with me if you like."

"Will you? Oh, please, Hazel!"

"I said I would, didn't I? But mind you behave, and don't breathe a word to your father or that brother o'yours."

I promised.

Hazel still referred to Johnnie as "that brother o'yours." It was not until nearly two years later that she became his mistress. And a great deal happened in those two years.

The following Thursday Razor King was off on one of his periodic bouts of drunkenness. He would spend all his time for many days in the pubs and in the brothels. Johnnie, too, was out of the way with a gang of younger men who were planning a raid on a dance hall in the Plantation district.

We left the house at seven. That morning Hazel had gone out and bought me some new clothes, a sleek black skirt with a cut up one side, a red polo-neck pullover, and some frilly underwear. Just before we left, she handed me a pair of sheer black nylons. As soon as we were out of the Gorbals, Hazel called a taxi. I was thrilled. I had never been in a taxi in my life before. She gave an address somewhere in the west end and we sat back comfortably. She said we were going to have a good time, that I needn't worry about that. I was already having a good time. I had never looked so pretty and I was smoking a cigarette openly. "Just you do as I tell ye, hen, and everything'll be fine," Hazel said.

We drove up a quiet avenue. The houses, each in its own grounds, were hardly visible from the street. For some reason or other, Hazel stopped the taxi, paid off the driver, and we went the last hundred yards on foot. We turned in at a massive gate hung upon stone columns covered with climbing ivy. She pulled the chain of the bell. "It wouldn't be safe to drive right up here," she said. "We've got to be careful. There's too many busybodies in this world." I didn't know what she meant, but I didn't care. I had every confidence in her. To think she knew the people who lived in this mansion!

A man in a butler's uniform approached us down the short drive. He bowed politely to Hazel as he ushered us in. In the large hall he took our coats. In the rear, a wide marble staircase led up to the floors above. Even the hall was richly furnished with parquet flooring and vividly colored rugs. We were shown into one of the rooms at the side.

A serious young man with spectacles came into the room at once. He was dressed in a black suit with drainpipe trousers. He wore a white shirt with a large flopping violet cravat. He went at once to Hazel and kissed her hand.

"Mr. Oakes is not here yet," he said apologetically. "He was detained in the city. We might have a drink until he comes. I believe he is bringing some friends with him."

Hazel nodded as if she knew what he was talking about. I was looking around the room. It was almost empty except for half a dozen armchairs and the silky black rug in front of the massive open fire. The walls were entirely bare except for one large painting which hung in the center at one end. It looked like a crucifixion. When I examined it later I was amazed to find that a woman was nailed to the cross in place of Christ and that every detail of superbly rounded torso, the heavy mass of the crotch, the navel, the breasts, even the hairs under the armpits, had been painted minutely in. But from where I stood at that moment, I couldn't make out the detail, and the arc-light which was placed on the floor underneath it was not switched on.

"This is Gertrude Gault," Hazel said, interrupting my reverie. And then, to my horror, she added: "She's Razor King's daughter."

"His daughter!"

The young man, whose name turned out to be Harry Prentice, came up to me at once and kissed my hand. I must have looked startled for, as his head came up, his eyes looked into mine, curious and penetrating behind his thick spectacles.

"I have heard a great deal about your father, Miss Gault," he said, "but I'm sorry to say I've never seen him in action."

I was even more surprised. Could it possibly be that there was nothing to be ashamed of?

"Well, well!" the young man was saying. "His mistress and his daughter in one night! Mr. Oakes will certainly be pleased!"

Hazel stood with her tightly-clad young haunches turned to the fire. I thought she was really beautiful.

"And now, what will you drink?" Harry Prentice said.

"Gin and lime for me," Hazel said.