Ágost raised his prick and his testicles, and Gyöngyvér had to turn away from this sight.
She could not understand why this strange woman kept walking around in her mind and what sort of reapers were lolling about in the shade.
His penis took a long time to shrink back to normal size after the protracted excitement.
Ágost was amazed how long the aftereffects of his lovemaking could last; sometimes he could hold on to it until the following night. The swollen, sensitive rim of his bulb now touched his arm, warning him: I am bare. Its injury would cause pain.
Still, he didn’t want to examine it in front of a woman whom he’d just happened to come up and visit. But he said this to himself only out of self-defense. He pulled the foreskin over the bulb so it would not seem so shameless and defenseless, and then with showy strokes he several times ran his fingers across the swelling spine of his cock.
Come here, he said softly to the woman, who, however, did not move.
Come here, please.
But this woman was thinking about something else.
Please come here, and stand above me. Please.
Now he really wanted to eat Gyöngyvér.
But the woman did not budge, did not respond to his offer with her body, perhaps misunderstood him.
You’re afraid of me, you don’t trust me, you’re not coming here even though I’m asking you. Maybe you think I’ll go away. How else should I beg you. You’re not even here. You’re terrified of me. Now I can see it clearly.
Where do you get such an idea, the woman wondered, because she was indeed terrified, but not of him, rather of the blond woman and the reapers. I don’t understand why you’re so conceited.
To find her clitoris in the tangle of furrows and hook his tongue gingerly into it.
And why should I be here for you all the time. What are you, a tyrant or a little boy.
He wanted to feel the woman’s tangle in his throat.
You can’t even imagine that I’m by myself. I don’t want anybody, and not you either.
As if pained by thirst, he wanted her with his entire oral cavity. The familiar taste of cunt, which nevertheless differs wildly as one goes from cunt to cunt. Impossible to devour it completely and for good. Only its disgusting strangeness remains, which one cannot dissolve in one’s saliva and make one’s own. Perhaps saliva does not even have its own taste, and that is why one wants to mix it or flavor it with something else.
The woman’s shape was nicely outlined against the white door, the strong lines of her hips and the thick, swollen peaks of her diverging breasts.
From the floor, he could not see her facial features clearly for they were partly shadowed.
She remained a woman.
Come on, you can admit it.
In response Gyöngyvér absentmindedly extended her hand to the man, but not as if she meant to admit anything. And not to help him up either.
It would never occur to me to be afraid of you, but if you want to, you may leave.
All right, I’ll leave, but first pay me.
Cut out this nonsense. Go on, leave. At least I’ll lose you now and won’t have to worry later.
As she spoke she squatted in front of him as if she had to examine him carefully from close up, to understand him better.
Then you can foresee your sad fate, after all.
She does not understand.
They held each other’s hands, almost indifferently, but they both tremendously enjoyed their new positions, which showed their perfect isolation and independence.
You can’t be serious when you say you’ve never been paid for it, the man said offhandedly, as an experiment, almost contemptuously.
And what if I told you that yes, I am always paid, I wouldn’t do it otherwise, I’m a registered whore. That’s obviously what you want to hear.
Suddenly in both their faces was a flash of some profound resistance or hatred.
And instantly they became emotional in this mutuality. As they went on scrutinizing each other’s features, words and gestures became too much. As if there were no gestures or words that would not provoke them emotionally.
Gyöngyvér saw him as more beautiful than she could endure; and Ágost saw her, as always, as a little more beautiful than his mental image of her.
I think you’re a pretty spoiled person, Ágost.
I think so too.
There’s very little chance of my continuing to spoil you.
That’s a decision you have to make. I won’t interfere.
But you want to force a bit more flattery and a bit more subservience out of me. You want me to be terrified of you and serve you while you’re allowed to brutalize me.
And what can I do about it. You tell me. I’m not a prophet, I can’t see into the future, but yes, things might turn out like that.
You could protest, you could be ashamed that you’ve been like this with every woman. You could promise me it won’t be like that anymore because, for my sake, you’ll pull yourself together and turn over a new leaf.
I’m sure that would work in a kindergarten, Gyöngyvér, but I beg you, I can’t disappoint you so much.
Disappoint me, the woman asked, shocked.
It would show you what a mistake you’ve made, how you’ve miscalculated everything.
What mistake have I made.
You’ve picked a spoiled man, and you wanted a different kind.
The woman did not reply; she was clearly pondering something very seriously.
You could start looking for another man right away, the man continued, one who’s not so spoiled.
Maybe you’re right.
I’m sure I am.
But of course I can’t forgive you just like that.
If you can’t, you don’t have to, replied the man, and brushing the woman’s hand off, he jumped up from the floor.
After all, you can take your revenge anytime, any way you want to.
And with that, he threw himself on the bed, lying on his back. With his legs spread wide apart, he enjoyed his victory like a child.
Surprised, Gyöngyvér remained squatting by the wet bedcover.
The bedcover was rather embarrassing.
There was a small balcony off the kitchen; she’d hang it out there to dry.
In the afternoon, in the evening, sometime, she’d have to wash it.
What you mean to say is that I’m a silly goose who doesn’t understand her own wishes, doesn’t have enough common sense to grasp her own situation.
I’ll think about what I meant, but in the meantime, dear, you could bring me a blanket, I’m cold.
Maybe a sheet, I probably won’t find anything else, Gyöngyvér replied hesitantly.
She was beginning to be anxious about what was happening.
What had they done; what lies would she have to tell; when would she have a chance to wash the blanket in secret.
Altogether, what had the two of them done here.
God, how could she make all the telltale signs disappear. I know where she keeps the bed linen, she said aloud, but I don’t know if I can find a blanket.
She wanted to deny him the blanket, because denial felt good.
She wanted to deny him warmth.
In an apartment like this I’m sure you can find a blanket, probably more than one, said the man, yawning contentedly. Please, don’t bring me a sheet, and bring a glass of cold water too.
Anything, before I dry out completely.
He turned to the wall and curled up in a ball. It would be so nice for me under a nice warm little blanket, he whimpered. All I want is a nice warm little blanket, nothing else. And water.
And then you too should come under the blanket. And don’t bring the water in a glass, let me drink from your mouth.
Without a word Gyöngyvér left with the wet bedcover and stayed away for some time.
She felt like weeping, though she couldn’t know why, didn’t know what to cry about.