enovel Black Meat Lust Unknown [Future Story Codes]

---

.....8769 home .....8771

Black Meat Lust ....(57k)    by Unknown

1

"You're bored, Helen?" Cynthia asked. "What about me?

"I mean, here it is, this beautiful day, and I'm stuck in the city, in this fucking mausoleum in the sky."

"Yes, but all you have to do is call up Bruce and have something with a big cock sent right over."

"Helen, that is so artificial, so contrived. "I'd rather use my vibrator.

"It's quicker, it's cleaner, it's cheaper, and it doesn't leave me feeling all that much different from the real thing.

"Which isn't all that real, when it's catered.

"I grant you, Bruce runs the best of all possible escort services, but believe me, even that gets old after a while.

"I mean, it's bad enough I have to pay these clowns, but I have to treat them like they're something special, something I've never had before, you know?"

"Now Cynthia, you know you must have manners, under all circumstances.

"Part of our good breeding, you know."

"I know, I know."

"I have an idea, Cynthia.

"Why don't you come out here, to Jersey?

"That way, we could be bored together, until Chipper gets back."

Cynthia sighed.

"May as well," she said. "Nothing is going to happen around here until then, that much is for it sure.

"Why so glum, chum? "It'll be fun. you'll see.

"I mean, we can even go to the nude beach and laugh at the creep and ugly show." Cynthia smiled. "We could at that," she agreed.

And glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Nine thirty.

Still rush hour in the city for another half hour. "Give me an hour and a half, why don't you? "I hate the rush hour, so I don't want to leave just yet.

"Another glorious feature of life in the big city, right?"

"Have your chauffeur drive you, why don't you? "Let him handle the traffic."

"No, thanks.

"He'd only have to come back here, then come and pick me up when I'm ready to return."

"So?"

"I'd ... rather have my own wheels.

"I'll take the Continental and leave the limo for Carlotta and Rufe to do the shopping."

"Sounds like you're planning a very short visit, kiddo."

"I'm not planning anything.

"That's just the point.

"With my own wheels, I'm free as a bird."

"Suit yourself. See you in-what? Couple of hours?"

"At the outside.

"I really do want to see you, Helen."

"Yeah. Been a while, hasn't it?"

"Too long.

"Let's see how fast I can wear out my welcome, shall we?" They laugh.

"Never happen, you know that, Cynthia."

"I know. Ciao, dahling."

"Ciao."

And Cynthia hung up.

And sat there on the edge of the bed, reflecting.

It had been a long time since she had gotten together with Helen.

Friends since college days, debutantes together, adventuresses together, best friends and closest confidantes, they had drifted apart.

So that Cynthia dwelt in a luxurious penthouse, a palace in the sky in the city, wife of Chipper Harrington III, international businessman and financier.

Whereas Helen had married the no less affluent Randolph (Randy) Rand, moving to a mansion in New Jersey.

But if Chipper was self-made, Randy had inherited his family's wealth and the corporation that went with it, a diversified holding company.

And that was not the only difference between them.

Because Chipper was indeed chipper, always cheerful, energetic, ready for anything.

While Randy was anything but.

Thirty-six and going on sixty, Helen said, and not in kidding tones, either.

So that they seldom saw each other, drifting apart, even though their husbands were out of town (in Chipper's case, out of the country) most of the time, hut in town often enough to make their getting together inconvenient, uncomfortable for all of them.

Because, while Chipper and Cynthia talked about things intimate quite openly, sex being their favorite and principal topic of conversation, stodgy Randy would obviously be embarrassed and anxious for the subject to change.

And, as for Chipper's homecomings, those were catered affairs, orgies professionally augmented by talent from the endless supply of Bruce, of Brute's ' Travel and Tours, an escort service with a travel agency front.

And these, of course, they could not mention, could not reminisce about in front of Randy.

No, it was up to Cynthia to give Helen the blow by blow over the phone.

Over the phone.

That was how they had kept their relationship alive.

But now-why not?

Randy was out of town, not due to return for at least a week. And Chipper? A month, at least.

He had left not more than ;i week previously and his return was so far off as to be unknown at present.

"Carlotta," Cynthia said, walking into the kitchen, where her breakfast was watting, "when Rufe comes up, check with him to see that the Continental is ready to go.

"I'll be going to Helen's for at least a week."

"Ees locky joo tole me.

"I was jus' gonna buy de groceries today."

"Yes, I know.

"So just get whatever you and Rufe will be needing.

"Oh, and you may as well restock the liquor and beer.

"The homecoming last week has probably put quite a dent in it."

"Jes, ma'am. Eet choor deed!" And they chuckle at the memory. Chipper's homecomings. Always a major event.

This time, with the help of Bruce's geeks, men with small brains and big cocks.

Who would fuck Cynthia, fore and aft, as Chipper watched from the closet in the master bedroom.

And emerge when they were finished.

To eat Cynthia, fore and aft.

And only afterward fuck her himself.

Three rounds of that, the last time, involving three separate two-man teams of geeks.

So that Chipper could be provided with plenty of what made it "interesting". Chipper.

So wealthy, brilliant, energetic, charming, personable-and perverted.

Perhaps it was the contrast between his presence and his absence that made life so boring for Cynthia most of the time.

Because she did not feel inspired to use Bruce's services in Chipper's absence.

It was his enthusiasm, the avidity with which he practiced his perversion that inspired her, rather than the size of the equipment of the oversexed cretins.

Without that, without the spark of Chipper's vivacious, exuberant, sick action, such sex was lacking in spontaniety, gaiety, life.

And life was, after all, what it was all about.

So that Cynthia had done well to describe the palace in the sky as a mausoleum.

Where, like a sleeping princess, she resided in temporary death.

And not all her luxurious surroundings, not all her shopping trips, not all her pampering of herself with private massage, with days at Elizabeth Arden improving on that which, for sheer natural, blonde beauty, could not be impmved, she was not alive.

Not really.

Not in the sense of caring about, of enjoying her next breath.

Or the next or the next.

No, life had lust its spice, its zest.

It was no longer even mildly interesting for her.

And the phone calls, the conversations with Helen did nothing to change that.

Unless it was to give her some small satisfaction at hearing from someone who, to hear her tell it, was even worse off than she herself.

Although she liked Helen too much to truly enjoy her tales of boredom.

But, perhaps they would get a few chuckles.

The nude beach was always good for some laughs.

Nothing major, but it passed a few hours in something other than utter boredom.

"I call down to de garage, ma'am.

"Rufe, he say de Continental ready when joo are."

"Thanks, Carlotta.

"Have Rufe give me, oh, half an hour and I'll have some luggage for him to carry down." Jes, ma am.

And Cynthia went to pack.

* * * * *

"How have you been!"

"Kissy-kissy!

"Oh here, let me help you with those! "Maid's on vacation."

And they carry the luggage into the master bed W room of the mansion.

And Cynthia said nothing as she realized that they will be sleeping together.

But Helen hesitated, halfway through the unpacking.

"This, uh, this is okay, isn't it?

"I mean, it's been a long time, so-"

"Some things can never change, Helen.

"You know that."

"Just making sure."

"I'm insulted."

"Hey, I'm not sure about anything anymore, kiddo.

"Being buried out here in the sticks will do that for you."

"Then I guess I'll simply have to do everything in my power to convince you."

"Won't we both!"

And they finished unpacking, smiling to themselves, looking forward to night, when they would complete the physical part of their reunion.

"So," Cynthia said, when the last of her cosmetics had been arrayed on the dressing table, "what's next on the agenda?"

"Lunch and the soaps."

"Just like home."

"That's exactly the point.

"I just want you to see what I go through out here."

Lunch and the soaps. Faute de mieux, as the French say. For want of something better. And Cynthia saw that Helen followed the same soap operas as herself. Channel seven.

Hell of a way to spend an afternoon. Hell of a way to spend a life. At last, supper time. Rock Cornish game hens and salad. "Tomorrow, we hit the nude beach, right?" Helen stated/asked. "Right!"

"But for tonight, I thought you might want to go to bed early."

"Just what I need-a good night's sleep."

"Me too.

"After the appropriate tranquilizer, of course." And Cynthia can tell by the way she is looking at her that Helen doesn't mean valium.

* * * * *

Helen's melons.

That's what they both called them, back in their college days, when they shared a dorm room.

Because Helen had-has-a pair of big ones.

Not that Cynthia's were not just as large, or perhaps even slightly larger, but there was no ma'am mary reference that rhymed with "Cynthia".

And now, Cynthia is sucking the doorbell-like nipples of Helen's melons.

As Helen fondles Cynthia's big boobs hanging down as she leans over Helen's heaving chest.

And both of them realize that it has been much too long.

And that this pleasure has awaited them in vain all that wasted time.

But perhaps it is better thus, Cynthia reasons, even as Helen's huge hangers harden heartily.

As the nipples turn erect and tubbery.

As the glands beneath them turn still firmer, their twin, milk-white, blue-veined immensities solidifying as though enlarged by surgical inserts.

And Cynthia feels her own breasts tingle to vibrant life.

So that her nipples are almost uncomfortable, so engorged do they become.

And Helen is juggling bowling balls, so hard are Cynthia's breasts. . And now, they feel it.

It.

The throbbing, pulsing warmth that spreads from breast to crotch and then surges back through them, branching out, exploding in slow motion like filmed fireworks run at the wrong speed.

So that their bodies tingle with the awakening of their lascivious reeling.

So that the libidinous luxury laps lavishly at their nerve endings.

As thrill after thrill of sexual arousal surges through them like electrical current, each one stronger than the last.

And they become stimulated, then excited, then delighted.

As the two women center themselves in the bed and Cynthia, on top, reverses herself over Helen, straddling her body with her legs, making herself into a bridge over her, their faces facing their crotches.

Which have become hot.

With warm juices beginning to flow.

With pouting, separating lips.

With clits that have also become hard, erect.

And now, Cynthia lowers her hips.

And Helen sees the chestnut-thatched twat looming, closer and closer.

And the saliva forms in her mouth as she drools in hunger and anticipation.

And, at the exact instant that Helen extends her tongue toward the target, she feels "Aaah!"

Because Cynthia has burrowed into her nest. She is wallowing in the hot, juicy, hairy snatch. She is searching with her tongue for Helen's joy buzzer.

And finding it.

And now, her tongue is rolling around and around on it.

Even as her lips are sucking it like a mini-cock.

As thrill after thrill of exquisite sexual sensation shoots through Helen, adding to the growing fund of stimulation already mounting within her.

And Cynthia is no less aroused by Helen's avid tonguing.

So that she rotates the broad flare of her hips, screwing herself onto Helen's titillating tongue.

Which serves to spur Helen to faster, harder efforts with it.

So that there is excitement, there is satisfaction, and a sense of luxurious abandonment at work here now.

And there is also the realization, gratuitous perhaps in the light of cold logic, but nevertheless seeming like a revelation in intense sex, that there is nothing, nothing, nothing between them and the object of their attentions.

So that everything stands open, available.

All is permitted.

There are no restraints of any kind on them. They have broken free!

So that the boredom, the frustration, the sense of imprisonment in the shackles of their own existence have been left behind somewhere.

Behind and below.

Cast aside.

Fallen away in the gloom and dust of their old world.

As they soar effortlessly upward on the wings of their ever-mounting passion toward the light of their own sexual paradise.

Hotter and hotter they become.

So that now, faces and bodies and backs become flushed with the engorged blood of their ardent arousal.

Up, up, up they rise, turning and twisting, borne aloft by the eddying swirl of the gentle cyclone of their sexual desire in the course of its glorious fulfillment.

So that they become dizzy, disoriented. They could no longer have said where they were. And they do not care.

Because they are with and in each other and that is all that counts. The rest is superfluous detail. And unreal.

Only this, the here (wherever that is), the now (whenever that is), themselves, each other, and the action between them.

In, in, in they go, and in and out, fucking each other with stiffened, darting tongues, thickened with sexual excitement, engorged as any sex organ should be.

And they ignore the clear, hot pussy juice which smears their faces.

Because it is as though each is able to stimulate herself with perfect control by eating the pussy of the other.

So that there is no differentiation between them now.

They are become a unity, a single entity with a shared consciousness, a common awareness, a unified will.

Which is devoted to only one thing now-the next plateau of pleasure. And the next and the next. And each is a revelation to their fevered brains. This is as good as it gets. Oh yeah?

Then how about-this!?

Again and again it happens.

Now a definite jolt, a clear increment, now a smooth, tingling, thrilling glide to the next level, the next vista.

So that stimulation becomes delight.

And delight becomes ecstasy.

And ecstasy turns into rapture.

As they rise.

Higher and higher they go, through realms unheard of, if somehow vaguely recalled.

Yes, yes, yes! their passion-raddled minds shout. This is what I have been seeking! No, this! No, no! This!

Yes, this is what I have been looking for, all along!

And again and again, their humping, undulating bodies prove them wrong.

So that satisfaction leads to hunger, to the anticipation of even greater satisfaction.

So that satisfaction leads to excitement, to grasping hunger, to insatiable greed.

For the next level of sensation and the next and the next.

And time stands still for them.

Each moment is exquisite, sensation-charged, unique.

To be surpassed by the next and the next, in (hopefully) unending succession.

But they are only human, their bodies therefore finite.

Meaning having dimension, capacity.

And, while it is true that pleasure of this degree has been long denied, a long time coming, it also has its limit.

Which they have reached.

And now, they hover there, at the summit.

They stand there (lie there, actually) at the pinnacle of their passion, the height of their pleasure.

But not for long.

Because the pressure has been building within them, faster than their bodies can radiate the heat, the intensity of it beyond themselves.

So that it has nowhere to go.

Nowhere, except It explodes within them.

It gushes out of them.

The pleasure beyond pleasure, which they cannot contain.

So that engorged tongues are milked by the reflexive spasms of their multiple orgasms.

As powerful vaginal muscles contract reflexively, again and again.

As pussy juice secretes freely.

As clits rub against tongues, hot, hard, slippery with the juices of passion aroused and now passion discharging, relieving itself.

And the series is long, intense.

And only slowly, gradually do the spasms come to a halt.

And only slowly to minds, thought processes, submerged, buried beneath an all-encompassing load of ultimate sensation, begin to emerge once more.

So that yes, they know where they are once again.

And who they are, as awareness of their mundane selves returns.

And that they have just radically overheated, as witness the rivulets of sexual sweat that only now begin to dry on their bodies.

As they slowly separate, Cynthia carefully dismounting, Helen tolling with equal care to one side.

And neither looks at the other, suddenly aware that they have become totally disheveled, albeit in a good cause.

So that Helen hopes that Cynthia is not looking at what has to be a rat's nest of a hairdo as she leads the way to the shower.

And even there, they are careful to let the powerful spray cascade directly onto their straight, blonde tresses, smoothing them out as they gently rub the palms of their hands against the messed up remainder of their makeup.

And only then, hair smooth and shiny, cascading evenly onto their shoulders, facial surface obscured by the stream from on high, do they face one another.

To observe large breasts, narrow waists, and the bell-like flare of big hips over large, rounded thighs.

And each realizes that time has not been physically unkind to the other.

So that their sense of time lost, time wasted, dissipates, goes down the drain with their soapy effluents.

They have lost nothing in time or in each other.

All is as it was with them, perhaps as it ever shall be, world without end.

And they "do" each others' backs, paying meticulous attention fn their large, rounded, firm buttocks, and to the deep cleavage in between them.

And now, as though simultaneously seized by same impulse, they embrace.

It is long and lingering, as is the kiss, their tongues engaged, their eyes closed.

And it is only as they dry themselves that they become aware that what they have done is internal, closeted, hothouse, and faute de mieux.

Done for the lack of something better.

2

At the beach. And it is a good day for it. The sky is blue and almost cloudless. The sun is bright, but there is a breeze. And it is early.

So that the traffic is light, the beach as yet uncrowded.

Rut it soon will be.

Because this is a summer Saturday.

And the important thing is that they have gone out.

Out, out, out.

Not cooped up in penthouse or mansion.

Not closeted with each other.

Not using each other for what is, for all its delights, for all the intensity of its pleasure, mutual masturbation.

Which is a form of despair, of giving up, of admitting that there is nothing out there in the world for them.

Sad but true.

Probably.

So that now, as they spread their blanker and begin to coat their nude bodies with protection (sunscreen number eight), they have no reason to believe that this outing will do anything other than afford them a few laughs and get them through another few hours of their existence.

And yet-and yet.

There is a magic here.

It is a magic that they cannot envision, cannot define.

Which is a sense that something is about to happen.

An aggregation of naked people, private parts clearly exposed.

There is a potential here.

But it is one which is nebulous, uncertain, and not yet realized.

And perhaps it never will be.

Not on a grand scale, not even on a personal one.

This exposure, which would be incredible to some, outrageous to others, seems to carry with it a significance.

Which is perhaps precisely that ascribed to it by those who are outraged and those who are overwhelmed by it.

Whereas those who attend studiously ignore the magic, doggedly maintaining their casualness.

A beach like any other, only without bathing suits.

That, and nothing else.

So that they will probably leave, frustrated, disappointed that whatever was "supposed" to happen did not.

Again.

Because this same feeling permeates the atmosphere of the nude beach, apparently on a permanent basis.

Something should happen.

Something could happen.

But nothing will.

And now, people begin to arrive.

They were not the first there, by any means.

But now, the crowd begins in earnest.

Singly, in twos and threes, some bearing only a towel with their beachbags (these will not stay long, will be driven away by thirst), some burdened down with coolers of impressive weight and dimension, some with umbrellas, some with tents, they come. And come and come.

Until only the tide line remains clear of bodies.

And the path between blankets and towels is tortuous, intermittent.

And new arrivals are forced further and further down the beach, stopping near the lapping waves to rest before picking up their burdens to resume the trek.

And the parade begins.

At first only one or two, then whole groups of naked people, men and women, strolling along the wet sand, just above the thin surf.

"What do you suppose is behind this urge that ugly people seem to have for removing their clothes in public?" Cynthia asks.

And Helen laughs.

Because it is only too true.

Fat men are here in abundance, the button of their penis a dim pink nub in the shadow of the jiggling abdomens.

And thin men, skeletons whose skin hangs in bilious folds from their doddering frames.

And women, also of both types, mountains of celulite alternating with skinny, sexless androgynes.

But there are others as well.

Musclemen, not as muscular as they would like, walking the shoreline stiffly semi-flexed.

Sexy men, not as sexy as they would like, sporadically jerking their cocks to semi-hardness, so that they can call them "big".

Men and women who have discovered the sexiness of partial nudity, wearing pastel g-strings, "shit-splitters", as the afficianados of full nudity derisively term them.

Here and there, a truly sexy man or woman. Or a guy with real muscle. Or one whose cock would rival those of Bruce's geeks. And black men.

"Here we go," Cynthia says, reclining on her elbows, studying the parade from behind wraparound sunglasses, their mirrored surfaces a twin reflection of the scene.

"What?" Helen asks, puzzled.

"The black guys."

"What about them?"

"Think they're here for the tanning rays, kiddo?"

"Hmmm."

Cynthia is right, now that she thinks about it.

Of course, they could be here just to swim.

Except that nobody is.

It is too early in the season.

The sun is quite warm, but the water is numbing in its coldness.

It is not yet the temperature which shocks upon entry, but which rhen becomes livable.

No, it is uncompromisingly cold.

As they have discovered, dipping toes as they came onto the beach.

Some of them, like most of the uglies, no doubt, have come to gawk, to see what they can see, this being their only opportunity to see the human body literally in the flesh.

But there are others among them, men whose color has prefigured the action of the sun, rendering it superfluous, but who nonetheless walk, nonchalant and proud, along the wet sand.

As well they should be.

Because they are superbly muscled, magnificently hung.

So that surely they are not here to gawk.

They can have something better than ninety-nine percent of what's present here, even if it were available, and not have to advertize themselves like this.

Are they exhibitionists?

Cynthia and Helen don't think so.

Because there is no eye contact.

They do not glance, even surreptitiously, at the crowd to see who is watching them.

It is as though the crowd does not exist.

So that they are strolling naked along an empty beach.

And Cynthia and Helen find themselves looking for examples or the type-black, built, and big where it counts.

And remembering.

"Remember?" Helen asks.

"You know I do," Cynthia replies.

And she does, as though it were only yesterday that she and Helen were in college.

And pursuing their favorite sport back then.

Nigger fucking.

That's what they called it.

So that they could reassure themselves that it was merely a means of satisfying their raw lust.

So that they could be certain in their own minds that there was not, could not be, anything more to it than that.

So that, if there were any doubt at all in their minds that things were otherwise, that they were getting "serious" with one or another of their many black studs, they could dispel it at once by saying the words aloud.

"Hey, Cindy, wanna go out nigger fucking?"

"Can't tonight, Helen. Got a big Sociology exam tomorrow. Gotta study.

"Save it for the weekend, babe. Then we can go nigger fucking all you want."

Nigger fucking.

Four syllables, spoken derisively. Just the right words, just the right sounds. Cynical, self-mocking self-knowing, self-indulgent.

A primitive appeal to the primitive withir. .hem.

Deal with your heat to a jungle beat. And never, never admit, even to yourself, that there is more to it than that, no matter how great the guy is. And it's okay.

We use them and they use us.

And if any one of them makes more than that out of it, then he's an ass hole.

Funny, Cynthia thinks, how they have not thought of that, have not mentioned it to each other until right now.

Although Bruce has often been asked to provide black studs for Chipper's homecomings.

So that, again, big, black men have packed Cynthia's pussy and bung with their big cocks and their big loads.

But that was catered, and so not the same thing.

And in fact Bruce himself is black-a heavy-set, light-skinned black with a pencil-thin moustache.

And yes, he has gotten into Cynthia's pants.

But that is not the same thing, either.

That is the gathering of two mature, responsible adults who do business together.

And Bruce's being black is incidental.

It has nothing to do with "nigger fucking".

Not taking her eyes from the passing scene before them, Cynthia asks, "Did you ever, uh ... think about ... "

"No."

And she knows that Helen is telling the truth.

Because, in the reply, there is the tone of self-astonishment.

As bored as she has been, as many times as she has found herself at wits end with her boredom and frustration, never once has she thought back to their nigger fucking days.

And Cynthia knows why.

It is because there were moments.

Which they dismissed as the heat of the moment, the moment within the moment.

But nevertheless, the moments were there, however brief, however temporary.

When it was not just nigger fucking.

When it was not just two people wearing social labels that required them, under such circumstances, to limit themselves to the use of each others' bodies, in order that the one deprive herself of nothing the world has to offer, including raw jungle sex, and the other avail himself of that ultimate macho black stud status symbol, a piece of beautiful, white blonde ass.

While she reserves her "serious" self for one of her race and class and he his "serious" self for a black beauty of good family.

But that was then and this is now.

They were young back then.

They believed in levels of feeling.

They believed in the seriousness of their own emotions.

It has taken them all these years to realize the correctness of the attitudes imposed on them by society.

Society is right, but for reasons having nothing to do with morality, with the sense of propriety, meaning what is right and proper and acceptable.

No, society is right for an entirely different reason, as sad experience, disillusioning experience has shown.

People use each other.

That is the sum and substance of a relationship any relationship. And seriousness?

That is nothing more and nothing less than the depth, the degree, the frequency and manner of that usage.

Yes, society is right, but for all the wrong reasons.

Because beneath the prejudice lies the truth which eliminates the prejudice.

Use it, but don't fall in love with it, because you know And now Cynthia does know.

She knows that there is no such thing as love between people.

Any people.

If there were, she would have loved Chipper.

As it is, she merely likes him.

And she is sure that Helen does not feel even that strongly toward the singularly inappropriately named Randy.

And color has nothing to do with it.

Use each other well, because that's all there is.

And if that's all there is "See anything you like?"

MUh-huh."

And Helen feels like a college girl again.

Except that she, too, has been stripped of her romantic notions.

So that, in her mind also, there is nothing left but the urge to use and be used, stripped of all its guilt, its romantic overtones.

So that, not having to carry that burden into the sack with her, it should be even better than in the old days.

Now there is only the matter of selection and acquisition.

And, as Cynthia pointed out, these guys are not here for a tan.

* * * * *

Fuck all you flabby white motherfucker losers! James thinks, not deigning to so much as look at them.

He strolls along the narrow strip between blankets and ocean with a firm, steady gait, cock and balls swinging heavily as he moves.

And he knows.

He knows chat they are looking at him, all of them.

And seeing the smooth, firm, protrusions of his muscular, shapely ass as he passes.

And making the connection.

They cannot help it, it is there, it is implied, it is in the nature of the beast.

This goes into that.

My big, black, swinging dick goes into the slit in the middle of that hairy crotch.

Read you some fucking anatomy book if you think I'm kidding.

And other eyes watch him as well.

And yes, that's true too.

My big, black, swinging dick will also fit quite nicely between those lips, most of the way and, if you be into deep throat, even all the way.

And this angers him, this last thought.

Because he has had this dream, ever since he discovered this beach.

Which is that some beautiful, white piece of ass will see him, will be drawn to him irresistably, will very sweetly, very directly proposition him.

And he will have the statuesque, white blonde to which his endowment, his development, and his looks entitle him.

But it will not happen.

It has not happened yet, anyway.

No, they will look at him and dream and not dare tell their flabby white friends they are here with.

And some fucking piece of whale blubber will no doubt bed them down tonight.

And their eyes will close and they will dream of him while some white piece of shit packs them with his pretty pink pud.

No, he will not make out here today.

Or, worse, he will.

Because he will get hot, bothered, frustrated. And his cock and mind will both turn thick and turgid.

Until the urge is strong upon him.

And they eyes, the hungry eyes above hungry, drooling mouths will be in heads that are attached to bodies on top of legs that have feet that will follow him down, down, down the beach.

And he will not have to turn to know that this pathetic monster is behind him.

As he turns into the dunes.

And stands there, staring out to sea, legs spread, hands on hips, hidden from those on the beach by the tall grasses through which he peers.

And he will not look at the drooling monster.

Not even as it kneels before him.

Not even when his cock goes into its mouth and it begins to suck him hungrily.

Not even when he discharges his load into its mouth and it swallows, again and again.

And he will turn his head sharply away as it rises.

So that he will not see, will not know what it was that blew him.

And now scuffles away, making noises like the cockroaches in the kitchen back home.

And leaves him standing there, not wanting to look down, lest he see his cock, still tumescent, shiny with the ereature's saliva.

As the depression hits him.

And the realization that he has lost again.

And that looks and body and whang have once more been wasted, and wasted in a way that leave him despising the world and all in it and above all himself for being such a weak brained, fucking loser.

Queer bait, he thinks. That's all I've been here so far.

Every fucking time.

No friendly, beautiful women.

Only me and my sick mind and He cannot find a term for them.

Not generally, not for the ones who have won the prize from him in the past, not from the one who will-no!

No, dammit, not this time!

Yeah, he sighs to himself, that's what I say all the time.

And then the urge and the image grow strong and he stands in the dunes and his mind lies to him and his cock is in the beautiful blonde and he comes and it is once more loser bullshit.

But this time, he is firmly resolved.

He will go up and down the beach exactly ten times.

Twenty passes.

Enough chances for the white nooky to make up its mind.

More than enough chances for her to do something about it.

At the end of that time, he will go to his towel, gulp down the iced tea from his thermos, put on his shorts, and split.

Because he has enough frustration, enough disappointment in his life already, without making a fool of himself.

Yes, he may leave here a loser, but he is not going to allow some sicko to get his jollies off at his expense.

Not any more.

Because he has begun to suspect that his observers are not, are no longer random, but hunters who recognize their prey instantly and hover, vulture-like, to devour his meat, circling him until, like cattle in the desert, he gives in to the situation.

He feels himself enough of a victim already.

He does not need that.

He could not attend college because there was no money.

Yes, his mind is a terrible thing to waste. But waste it he is, working in a warehouse. And living at home with his momma. He could go to college at night, now he has an income.

But he prefers the gym, the pool hall, his car.

His car; which he has bought new, but which he dare not wash, dare not make look like anything, lest it be stolen in the neighborhood in which he lives, since, having neither garage nor driveway, he must park it in the street.

All night.

Every night.

So that it looks like a poorly maintained shitbox.

And, by next year, it will be.

Nooky?

He does not do without, he admits. But there is a hierarchy to the neighborhood nooky.

And here too, he comes up short.

Because there are too many places he cannot take a girl, too many things he cannot do with the girl, due to his having to help out with the finances at home, maintain his gym membership and make his car payments.

So that his poon is standard neighborhood fare, one cut above a public utility.

And if eyes turn to look in his direction at the movies, the drive-in, wherever, it is surely to observe the incongruity of his date and himself.

Surely he can do better than that!

And again, he closes his eyes and imagines a tall, voluptuous blonde at his side.

Then the heads would turn!

Then they would all look!

And he would say to them, by thought projection, Fuck all you bad motherfuckers!

You satisfied now?

You be shown, or what?

But it is not happening.

It will not happen.

It is his fate, his destiny, his sentence that it not happen.

James Robert Jefferson, we, the court of this world, hereby sentence you to a lifetime of doing without any nooky, poon, booty, snatch, twat worth having.

Now, get your black ass outta here, go home, and beat your meat.

And that is just what he will do.

Because he will come home hot as a Saturday night special with three rounds fired.

And stand there before the full-length mirror in his bedroom.

And pick up his throbbing rod.

And stare at his white eyes in the mirror.

And wonder briefly at what kind of a world this is when somebody with all he has to offer is reduced to this.

And resignedly devote himself to the task at hand.

And flex his legs, straining on tiptoe, head thrown back, eyes closed as he pumps the mighty pole up and down.

And look down, watching the thick, white cream ooze over knuckles and wrist, the remainder still rising from the great eye of his purple plum of a knob.

He does not look forward to that, but he views it as the lesser of two evils, those being his only options.

Except "Mind if we walk along with you?"

He cannot believe it.

Not one, but two, count them, two.

And perhaps they are nor as young as he would have wished.

But they are certainly as white, as blonde, as beautiful as anything he has seen there.

There, or in his mind.

Briefly, he glances up at the sky.

And thinks, You playin' wif me, right?

But the heavens remain their same bright, bland blue.

And he returns his gaze downward, glancing to either side, to see if there is not, in either of them, some horrible blemish, some deformity that could explain his suddenly becoming the star of a trio.

But the images hold.

Front and rear, side to side, they are exactly what he would have ordered, had he been capable of thinking in such exquisite detail.

3

The big proposition, it is not as impassioned, as dramatic as he had imagined.

But then, these are not girls; they are women.

Very straightforward, very matter-of-fact.

They could have been ordering stuff out of the warehouse, for all the desire, all the hunger for him their tone implied.

"We'd like to treat you to an afternoon in a morel somewhere, unless you have other plans."

He looks from one to the other, smiling (he hopes) suavely. Other plans?

How about going home to my room and jerking myself off?

Of course, I will consider this an entirely viable alternative.

Aloud, "Nothing that can't wait."

And they are pleased, but not ecstatic, at his acceptance.

Naturally.

They are women of the world, talking to a man of the world.

Which appears now to be adjusting itself to the proper channel, at long last.

You know what they say-screw a white chick and change your luck.

They walk back to their stuff and gather it up, the women putting on' shorts and halters, James shorts and a tank top, and proceed to the parking lot.

"We're in the white Continental. "You can follow us."

* * * * *

They paid for the room!

They did not mention it, did not hesitate.

No sooner were the cars next to each other at the motel than Cynthia was in and out of the office, key in hand.

And now, they are in the room, a double.

Cynthia checks out the bathroom, returning to say, "Shower stall. We can all take one together."

They strip.

And he notices how much bigger they are, now that they are in close quarters rather than the great outdoors.

And he hopes that their perception of him is likewise enhanced.

The big black stud and his two big blonde nymphs, about to go at it.

With a vengeance! he tells himself.

He will make up for lost time.

Already he is off to a good start, with two rather than one.

Nature paying him back for past omissions, with interest.

And now, they are in the shower stall, passing each other the soap, scrubbing everywhere, but concentrating on the parts that count most.

And James scrubs the crack of his ass carefully and in depth.

In case-in case.

And he grins to himself at the thought. Maybe-

He will see.

Because luck is that way.

It resembles tragedy, in that it never rains but what it pours.

Let it be, he prays.

And now, they are drying off.

And Cynthia helps herself to two handfuls of his protruding buttocks.

"I couldn't resist," she says.

"Why try?" he asks.

They chuckle.

And Helen strips one of the beds, down to the bottom sheet. She looks at Cynthia.

"You two go right ahead," Cynthia says. "I'll think of something."

Helen does not hesitate.

She centers herself on the bed, head on the pillow, legs raised and spread, bent at the knees, breasts billowing to either side of her chest.

James does not hesitate.

He crouches before her and wallows his face into her crotch.

His tongue finds her clit and he begins rolling it round and round with the tip.

Cynthia does not hesitate.

She gets onto the foot of the bed, spreads the cheeks of his ass apart, and begins to rim him, just as he has dared to imagine.

Magic! he thinks. I make a wish and immediately it comes true.

He has but one pessimistic thought: If this is a 'ream and I wake up, I will definitely and mmediately kill myself.

But it is not a dream.

That, or life has become one big, continuous dream for him.

Because the taste, the texture, the response of the large, writhing, voluptuous, white body-they are all real.

As is the feel of the tongue on his ass hole as Cynthia pursues her fascination with his exquisitely molded ass in intimate detail.

And now, he is fucking Helen with his tongue.

In and out it goes, its contact with the rubbery, erect clit constant at all times.

Because, for all his excitement and wonder, James is determined that he shall acquit himself with expertise as well as verve and enthusiasm.

He will show them technique as though this is but standard fare for him.

Shit yes!

I go to the beach every day and pick up white women who rake me to a motel and pay for the room and rim me before! Fuck.

All us black studs do that, didn't you know?

Shee-it, ain' nuthin' but par' fa' de course, man!

Really!

Let it be so, he thinks.

And now. he feels his prong throb to full, vibrant life.

He is up.

His mighty baton is prepared to do its thing. He moves slowly, smoothly. Because Cynthia's expert tongue is still doing its thing.

And the tip is beginning to probe the center of his large, mauve star of an ass hole.

And he does not wish to interfere with that action in any way.

On the other hand, there is this other beauty, whose hot, clear pussy drool tells him that she is ripe for the fucking.

"Aaah!"

As he shafts into her, long, thick, heavy.

And the feeling in his ass hole is exquisite, but the warm, smooth, wet, even pressure that makes every millimeter of his cock tingle with lascivious arousal is irresistible.

It seems to him as though his hips move under their own power.

So that he is, quite literally, merely along for the ride.

Because, if the insertion has yielded an irresistible impact, then motion is rendered an absolute compulsion.

The motion is reflexive, automatic.

It has been practiced, it has been done so long in his mind that the body is programmed.

And the big black cock rakes Helen back.

And she is young again.

And enthusiastic, vibrant, alive!

And she thrills to her rejuvenation.

Which continues.

So that, with each thrust of the mighty monolith, she is energized.

As Cynthia, behind them, explores the action in detail.

She spreads the cheeks of his ass so that she has a clear view of his ass hole, as he pistons in and out of Helen's drooling pussy. , And she runs her fingers over his big balls, locked tightly against the base of his heavy equipment.

And she crouches down so that she can check the insertion.

And sees Helen's juicy pussy lips stretched into a rounded mouth as the thick, long shaft plunges up and down, up and down, disappearing and reappearing with great regularity.

And now, the pace picks up.

As James warms to his task.

And Helen, in response, also becomes hotter and hotter.

So that now the two of them are in internal communication.

And they trade sensations back and forth, back and forth.

As the sexual electricity surges through the two of rhem in an unbroken circuit.

Faster and faster the waves of lascivious sensation undulate within them in a never-ending circle.

Stronger and stronger the impulses become.

And she and he, the two of them, are climbing the rainbow of their shared pleasure.

As vista after vista of sexual pleasure open up before them.

Ever novel, ever familiar, and always sought, the intimate flow, sensation after sensation in ever-strengthening, ever-quickening progression reaffirms its inner truth within them.

And now, Cynthia gets off the bed and stands beside it.

So that she can get the broader view of the action.

And see Helen's face and body, flushed with her sexual excitement.

And she knows that the action cannot continue very much longer.

They are both too far gone.

Because the action may seem effortless to James, but his body is panting and sweating and working very hard.

And he is not alone.

Because Helen's chest is heaving, the heavy mammaries rolling rhythmically round and round, responding radically to the rapid, rapacious ramrodding.

And, as she expects, they come.

Spurt after spurt of hot, thick jism inject themselves deep inside Helen's reflexively spasming vagina.

As her multiple orgasms milk the black baton of its load.

Cynthia watches, fascinated, as Helen's coming cunt coaxes creamy clots from the colossal, corded, climaxing column.

And now, they are finished, both of them.

And they get up off the bed, rolling from opposite sides.

And Helen avoids Cynthia's inquiring glance as she goes to the shower with James.

Thinking, What's the use of mere words?

Because it must be experienced to be believed.

And besides, in Cynthia's case, it just might not work.

Perhaps it is because she has missed her youth, her college days more than she thought that this, this ... rejuvenation has transpired.

Nigger fucking.

It was good then, but now it was nothing short of magic.

Unless this is a one time deal, a temporary aberration, the reaction to a protracted case of idle boredom.

Which, she considers, is not beyond the realm of possibility. Will you listen to me, she tells herself. Looking a gift horse in the mouth.

Miss Psychoanalysis here.

Knows all, sees all, understands all.

All this from one healthy boff from a very healthy black stud.

And James is thrilled.

One down, one to go.

And he has no qualms, no doubts, but that he will impress Cynthia as much as he evidently has Helen.

He has had women before.

And they have climaxed, big some of them, but nothing like this.

And he knows white women are not hotter than black.

If anything, according to the experts at the pool hall, it is the other way around.

But not today, he reflects. At least, not this first one.

"If you'd like a rest, I'll understand," Cynthia says, when they emerge from the bathroom.

"Well now," he replies, "there's rest an' then there's rest.

"Now, if I was to get onto the bed like this-"

And he flops onto the bed, hands behind his head, long cock flopping heavily onto his flat stomach, legs spread flat before him.

And Cynthia takes the cue.

"And if I were to get between your legs like this-"

And she crouches between his legs.

And takes the head of his cock into her mouth.

"Ah thuck yur khak wa thl'-"

And she begins sucking his cock.

And does not speak further.

Because all present get the picture quite explicitly.

As Cynthia crouches there, concentrating on sucking his cock.

Which very soon begins to respond.

So that Cynthia feels the large, firm head swell and tighten.

Even as the organ beneath it throbs to vibrant life.

And James casually (he can afford to be casual now; it has become his world) reaches down and weighs a heavy breast with one hand as he watches the top of her head bobbing up and down.

And he is pleased that she is so devoted to his mighty cock.

Which would have come up on its own, simply because he willed it.

But let her do her thing.

He is confident.

And ready for what comes next. Cynthia takes her time.

She has not sucked black cock since her college days.

This takes her back.

James is even the correct age.

And certainly in the correct condition.

As his huge cock is held straight up in one hand so that she can move her head at exactly the right angle to give him- Deep throat!

Even in his wildest imaginings, James has not foreseen this.

But now he squirms with pleasure, reveling in it.

All of it, not just the deep throat, not just Cynthia's ample breasts, not just Helen, whom he has just fucked, standing there watching, but the whole thing.

From the beginning.

How it happened.

It was no big deal.

Naturally.

He was as naturally entitled to this, all of it, as he was to breathe air.

It was his world, as it was meant to be.

It was the beginning of things as they should be.

And had not been, until now.

But all that was changing.

Or perhaps had already changed.

And now, he comes to a decision.

Why not push his luck."

Because, if it was as it should be, if the world had suddenly changed in his favor, there would be no such thing as pushing his luck.

His luck was boundless, infinite, a trampoline off which he could bounce as high and as often as he wished.

So he gently extracts himself from Cynthia's working head.

And gets behind her.

And spreads the cheeks of her ass.

And rims her as she rimmed him before.

Except that he does not stop with merely chewing her ass hole and sticking the tip of his tongue into the center of her anal star.

Rather, he inserts it and pushes it in, in, into her.

As her large ass hole yields to the lingual onslaught.

And she realizes what he is about to do.

And welcomes it.

And he is thorough, as he stretches her ass hole, relaxing her anal sphincter, until he is sure he will fit.

And now, he is on his knees behind her. And polishing his knob with saliva. And resting it against her slackened, waiting ass hole.

And keeping the big cheeks of her ass spread between the thumb and fingers of one hand as, with the other, he buttons the head of his engorged monster into her ass hole.

And now, he grasps the flare of her hips in both hands:

"Unnh!"

She moans with pleasure as he pushes steadily into her.

And feels the warm, smooth, wet, yielding tissues of her rectum part before the battering ram of his knob.

And embrace his long, thick, black shaft in a circular, even caress.

As Helen watches the juncture of cock and ass hole, which has become a large, round, smooth mouth surrounding the inserted cylinder of hard, hot, live meat.

And now, as she continues to watch, the meat piston begins to move.

In and out, in and out, in slow, short strokes, at first.

But now, the stroke lengthens.

Disappearing and reappearing, the long, thick shaft moves in and out of Cynthia's ass hole.

And now, he pulls back until only the head remains inside her.

And now, he shoves forward all the way, until his abdominal muscles bump against the rounded masses of her buttocks.

And James debates with himself.

Should he ride it all the way home like this?

Or should he pull out and reinsert between the lips just below?

But this feels great to him, just as it is.

As her bowels exquisitely massage his lunging, plunging cock.

And now, he continues to hold onto one hip, as he reaches forward and beneath her.

To where her heavy breasts hang hugely down.

And he weighs and fondles them.

And feels their nipples go firm and rubbery with arousal.

And continues to play with the big boobs, as though somehow memorizing them.

And now, he releases the one he was playing with.

And lets his hand travel down the center line of her body.

To where her bush begins.

And he finds her c lit.

And now, his finger rolls it, round and round. And he feels it too engorge and turn firm and rubbery.

And slippery, as her hot, clear pussy juices begin to flow.

And now, he is finger fucking her, even as he continues to plow her ass with his rampant intruder.

As the both of them grow hotter and hotter And the flush of sexual arousal turns her face and body ruddy.

And his own dark skin shows rosy beneath the dusky surface.

And he says to himself, fuck it!

Enough of technique, of control, of holding back. of proving his point.

He has proved his fucking point!

And now, the time has come to leave go, to let it happen.

And he does.

He is floating free, he and Cynthia, now become a single entity.

And Cynthia also rises, transported in time and space back to her college days.

Nigger fucking.

There is nothing like it, for losing oneself in lascivious, carefree, raw sex.

And she knows why Helen avoided eye contact when her turn was over.

It was because she was, however temporarily, not here in time and space.

She was in the thrilling yesteryear of her vanished youth.

As is Cynthia right now. Yes, this takes her back.

To the deliciousness of sensation is added that of memory.

And she revels in both.

Because she knows that he has let himself go.

So that now his fucking of her, his fingering of her, are unrestrained.

And if he is unrestrained, then she is no less so.

So that the two of them, bodies overheating, charged by the ever-increasing intensity of the sexual electricity that races through them in a closed loop, soar upward, dizzy, disoriented, crashing through level after level of sexual pleasure, racing toward the summit.

And now, they linger there, hovering, quivering.

As the pressure of the pleasure beyond pleasure bursts their safety valves.

And they are coming and coming, the two of them.

And they jerk and writhe, this way and that.

But always the contact remains firm, complete.

And it is only after they have finished completely, the spasms of her multiple orgasms and those of his spurting climax, that they pull apart, with Cynthia dropping forward and down, unplugging herself from his still tumescent cock.

And now, they shower, with Cynthia paying meticulous attention to her invaded orifices.

So that he knows, understands that this was their last act, at least for this time.

And this is confirmed when, coming out of the bathroom, he sees that Helen is already fully dressed.

And they dress in silence, James and Cynthia.

And in silence, they take their leave of each other, he and the two women.

And it is only after they have pulled out, driving a car such as only pimps and major drug suppliers would possess in his part of town, that he realizes that nobody in the real world, his world, knows what has just happened, other than himself.

So that he slumps over his steering wheel, rubbing his forehead on his wrists.

It was real, and yet, it was not.

If it was real, then his recounting of it would have credibility.

It does not.

Not even to himself, and he was there. The sound of it, in the recounting, is that of fantasy.

He would gain no points at the pool hall for this one.

They would call him a liar. And he would have to defend his honor. And they would have to defend themselves. And he would end up with teeth or nose broken. Or worse, cut or shot.

And that would be reality, his reality, the reality he had grown up with, and with which he had lived all his life.

Violence and the threat of violence.

Poverty and the threat of more poverty.

The temptations of the criminal life and the fear of apprehension and punishment.

Those things were reality.

So that they would he right and he would he wrong.

He had just lived a lascivious, beautiful lie.

4

"Nigger fucking again," Helen said.

"Felt great, didn't it?"

"Uh-huh."

"Is that an uh-huh you agree or an uh-huh, if I say so? "Both."

"Okay," Helen sighed, "What's wrong?"

"You felt it and I felt it."

"Felt what?"

"Felt the years peel off.

"Felt like a school girl again.

"For a while.

"Tell me it didn't happen."

"Okay, okay, it happened. So what?"

"Helen, we don't want, we don't need a fantasy. "We need to straighten ourselves out here, in reality.

"And turning back the clock, escaping into the past is not facing today, not solving today, it's running away from it.

"And I, for one, am too damn stubborn to run away from anything, last of all my own problems."

"You saying no more nigger fucking?"

"I'm saying no more kids."

"Blacks grow up fast."

"You know what I mean."

"No, I really don't."

"I mean we are not college girls any more. "We're mature women.

"Mature, successful women who can surely find black cock somewhere else than at the college level."

"Who said the boy was in college?"

"If he wasn't, he should have been, okay? 'Anyway, that's hardly the point. "Let's learn from ourselves, Helen. "We solved the problems, scratched the itch back then using the black cock that was in that world.

"That world is gone. "It's in the past.

"We can never go back there again. "We'll never be twenty again. "So let's find the black cock in our world and leave the post-teen stuff to the coeds. "Deal?"

"Deal.

"At least until you go back to the city." They laughed.

"Tell you what: If we can't find it and use it in our world, you can go back to that one.

"But why live the dream when you can live the life?"

Helen sighed.

"Lead the way, as always, kiddo."

"Hey, have I let you down yet?"

"There's always a first time."

* * * * *

Leroy F. Washington II, esquire. This last because he is an attorney at law. A criminal defense attorney. Except that, at the moment, he is not. Being a defense attorney, that is. He has just completed a case. And inttoduced so many irregularities in the handling of the alleged violation, from illegal search and seizure to mishandling of the evidence that the world will never know whether or not his client was (is) actually guilty. The case was dismissed.

And Leroy's fee, astronomical by some standards, paid without a blink, qualm, or murmur by the alleged importer of powdered happiness.

Who will recoup this expenditure in less than a month.

And who will, no doubt, require Leroys services once more in less than a year. Stupid, Leroy thinks.

Man has made more money than he will ever spend, tax free, most of it, and he continues to live a life of risk.

Ass hole.

But rich, powerful, successful ass hole. So far.

But how long will his luck hold?

But Leroy dismisses him from his mind.

Because he is at a card table in one of the more opulent casinos in Atlantic City.

So that the question before the jury, ladies and gentlemen, is how long will the luck of one Leroy F. (for Francis, his one personal secret) Washington numbah two, and esquire thereof, hold.

Not that he will be hurting, win of lose.

He is winning at the moment, but, should he begin losing, that shit will cease at two thou.

Not that he cannot afford more. Except that he has developed a rule early in life. Which is simply this-To avoid being a loser, you must do no losing thing. And he never has.

Although his judgment has often beer, questioned.

Such as his insistence on dating white girls, back in college.

Appealing to their sense of liberality, to their blatant lack of prejudice.

But there were enough of them worth looking at to make it worthwhile, his going after them.

And, upon graduation, the only thing black in his existence was his law firm.

And, of course, their clientele.

At whose problems, he became expert.

And this too carried its rewards.

Not only in salary and fees, not only in partnership (accepted, with a view to being on his own as quickly as possible), but in other ways.

The grateful pimps, only too happy to provide him with a sample of their finest white meat of the moment, over and above his ever-increasing fees.

But Leroy was a climber.

A climber and a joiner.

The bar association quickly spotted the personable young lawyer and needed a minority in its various official slots.

And Leroy proved himself an admirable technician and administrator and an excellent social functionary as well.

In fact, it was at a cocktail party at a judge's house that he met the cool, blonde legal secretary who was to become his cool, blonde-and legal-wife.

So that a goodly chunk of Leroy's earnings went into a mansion in which to house her.

And a steady drain was tapped into his income to keep her in furs and jewels and household expenses.

Steady, but not significant.

Because Leroy founded his own law practice, taking with him all the criminal clientele of his old firm.

And, to offset his cool, blonde wife, Leroy saw fit to acquire a warm, blonde mistress.

Whom he established in-a high rise condo uptown, in the city.

Whom he had met, quite by accident, in a courthouse where she was in the process of obtaining a divorce from her husband, an organized crime figure, minor, of Mediterranean extraction.

Who was hardly in position either to object or to provide extensive alimony, considering his then (and present) state of incarceration, having engaged counsel less competent than Leroy at a crucial juncture in his life.

So that the young lady had been quite distraught, and looking quite lovely, in fact, considering Leroy's taste in women, almost irresistible, crumpled on a bench in tears, there in the courthouse.

So that lust, masquerading as compassion, had resulted in a love-feast, masquerading as lunch, during a recess in Leroy's own involvement there.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

But now, he was alone, there in the glittering casino.

Because he wanted to be.

Because every man has his getaway, his relief, his relaxation.

And Leroy's was testing his luck.

So that he, who did not believe in luck, would nonetheless put it to the test.

To see if the powers that be still loved him, notwithstanding that he did not know and did not want to know who they were or what they were all about.

So that he who did not believe in the existence of fate should throw himself, in measured, limited degree, in minor matters, upon the mercy of fate.

Would chance, lady luck, fortune, destiny award him an unnecessary additional prize?

Why not?

After all, he does not gamble with scared money. His money has all the balls, all the confidence, of seven figures behind it.

And, as for the glittering women circulating here and there, well, perhaps there would be one blonde and beautiful enough for him.

Who would or would not turn out to be a professional.

Meaning either a whore or a gambling groupie.

Who would either charge him outright or accept a gift or perhaps merely hit him up for a champagne supper and a room for the night at the hotel upstairs.

And if she charged, fine; and if not, also fine.

And if he found nobody like that, or vice versa, that was okay, too.

He would either avail himself of a room there and get a good night's sleep or head back home or to the condo, a choice of sure things, the one a physical technician, the other a creature of passionate response, either of them ... adequate.

And now, he is winning.

"Twenty-one. House pays."

House pays.

House has been paying.

But even this has begun to lose its glow for him.

And the dealer, and the floor supervisor, are not sorry to see him pick up his chips, toss one of large denomination back at the dealer as a tip, and vacate the table.

They enjoy, they need good players, but enough is enough.

Because his publicity, his encouragement value has been exceeded by his winnings.

And Leroy takes a check father than cash at the payout window, waiting as the cashier copies information from his driver's license.

And only then turning toward the bar, tucking his billfold into the pocket of his dinner jacket.

He seats himself, alone, at a booth.

The waitress comes over and takes his order.

And he surveys the bar.

And notices not one but two, count them, two blondes assembled to the Leroy Washington specification.

Briefly, self-mocking, he raises his eyes to the ceiling, asking, What are you tryna do, turn me into a true believer?

And it is true that fate (or is that Fate?) does seem to be going overboard to convince him of an active benevolence at work in the world, where he is concerned.

And operating, in his behalf, for no discernible reason.

Whatever it is, it certainly cannot be a moral force.

He has both wife and mistress and has built a fortune defending men who, for the most part, would be worthy of only the most extreme effects of divine wrath, if such existed.

And he along with them.

That is, if there were any such thing as justice.

But, fortunately for him, there is not.

There is only due process-an administrative, political, pseudo-logical, artificial technology of which he is a master.

Due process, his stock and trade.

And the rewards of same, he adds, raising his glass to the two big blondes, who raise theirs at him in return.

And it is only as he gets up and advances toward them that he notices that they are neither hookers nor gambling groupies.

Because they are wearing plain, black cocktail dresses, one in watered silk, the other in satin.

But there is no flash to them.

They wear small earrings and strands of pearls, but nothing else by way of artificial adornment.

And wedding bands.

Real ones, conservative in cut and size of stones. "Ladies, perhaps you would care to join me at my table."

Without hesitation, they pick up their drinks and follow him.

The bartender looks up at the movement and Leroy says, "Close their tab and have it sent over, please."

"So, ladies, what brings you to this den of iniquity?"

"Iniquity," Cynthia replies, simply, looking him in the eye over the rim of her glass.

He smiles.

"As sport, as pastime, or as profession?"

And, lest they think him accusing them in a nice way of being whores, he adds, quickly, "I'm a lawyer myself and iniquity is very much a part of my profession."

'And you're on duty now?" Cynthia asks. "No, no.

"Iniquity is also a pastime for me.

"That is, if you are one of those who consider gambling a form of iniquity."

"Only for those who can't afford it," Cynthia replies. "For those who can, it is, as you say, merely a pastime."

"Ah! So then, you're here to indulge in your pastime."

Meaning, you are obviously not whores, obviously women of means.

"No, we're here for sport."

And he notices that Cynthia's companion has difficulty swallowing her latest mouthful of Baccardi cocktail.

Cynthia and Leroy ignore her.

"And just what sport might that be, if I may ask?" he asks, sipping from his glass.

"Nigger fucking."

And Leroy proves himself a master of self control, as he manages to smoothly swallow and put his glass back down quietly.

"I see."

"Do you?"

"Oh, yes.

"You wish to avail yourself of the world's facilities."

"Exactly. Do you?"

"More than you could possibly know," he replies.

"And, uh, the fact that there are two of us?"

"Shee-it! Whut ch'all be talkin"bout! Buck niggah stud lak me, ah be han'lin' me ren, twenny hot white poontang lak y'all, don' make me no nevah mine! Yowzah, yowzah, yowzah!"

And the three of them laugh.

"At this point," Leroy adds, "I customarily go into my tap dance.

"Regrettably, the floor is carpeted."

"That's okay," Cynthia replies, "we can skip that part."

"Well then, shall we?" Leroy asks. "Let's."

And Leroy signals for the tabs.

* * * * *

I do not disappoint.

That is the phrase that jumps to Leroy's mind as he strips.

And sees with pleasure that their eyes widen at the sight of his long, thick, black whang with its plum-like, dark pink head.

Take a good look, ladies, he thinks.

Because that part is worthy of the darkest of the African jungles of their minds.

So that they must think (over the years, several white girls of the pseudo-intellectual variety have told him this) that his cultured speech and manners are only a veneer of civilization.

And that it is the truth about himself, his own true self, in fact, that juts from his bush, an obscene revelation.

Which is potent beyond belief.

Which carries with it the wild, dark mysteries, the erotic power and secret sexual strength of the dark continent.

They are looking at the Root.

And Leroy?

He is looking at the voluptuous white flesh of two more examples of that which he has always desired, that which the world has ever hastened to easily provide him.

And yet, he has never taken it for granted, has never been unimpressed.

On the contrary, it is the same thrill that he has felt since his youth the first time new white nookie falls to him.

And since there are two of them, he is doubly fascinated, doubly excited at the prospect of what is to come.

Helen is on the huge bed, from which she has quickly stripped rhe covers.

And he is beside her, holding her in his arms.

And now, he begins to travel down her body, lips and tongue finding all sorts of exciting places on her neck.

And now, he is sucking and fondling a breast.

And Helen feels the glow begin deep in her abdomen, as the initial flashes of sexual lightning zap downward from the stiffening nipple.

And she thinks, Cynthia is right.

Because this is not some greedy, hungry boy grabbing what he can, reveling in his incredible luck at landing a white beauty who, for whatever reason, has been convinced (tricked? mesmerized?) into surrendering to him.

And rushing in his haste to bring things to their final, glorious denouement before he wakes up and finds it a dream or she wakes up and wonders what the hell she is doing in bed with this nigger.

No, he is calm, self-assured, expert, as lips and tongue and mouth and hands and fingers do their work of arousal.

Helen is nor aware of his full drill, but she knows that he skips no steps, leaves nothing out.

He is as thorough, as deliberate as he is calm.

And the salami may be the Great African Root, but the technique is Rudolph Valentino by way of Casanova.

Latin lovers be damned, this one is pushing all her buttons!

And now, he arrives at the button that counts most.

And his tongue works its magic on her joy buzzer.

So that what it has felt in sympathy to arousal elsewhere now blooms in full intensity, now that he has arrived there.

And Helen feels herself aroused to a degree that, other times, other places, she has only felt after a cock is in her, doing its thing full force.

So that, when he does actually mount her, when his long, thick, hot, vibrant meat does fill her pussy, even stretching it with his bulk, she is in ecstasy.

She twists and writhes, moans and shrieks her sensual delight.

And she does not know and does not care that Cynthia is seated there, on the edge of the bed, watching her, watching the action.

Cynthia is fascinated.

Because technique does not end with insertion, in Leroy's case.

Rather, it continues, as his hands reach around and under Helen.

So that her rictus of delight is punctuated, accentuated by a hand here, a finger there, supporting, delving, activating.

As though he knows where all the points, the triggers of delight on her body are to be found.

And it is only after a good quarter of an hour of this manipulation, accompanied at all time by the action of his mighty piston, that he scoops her thighs up from underneath.

Thus turning her into a package of voluptuous, sex-maddened flesh, concentrated on the great prong inserted at its base.

So that he possesses her completely, seeming to envelop her from without, surrounding her, even as he continues to shaft deep into her innermost self.

And Helen cannot be sure afterward where his head was at.

She has known lovers, men expert in the techniques of sexual arousal, before.

But, at a certain point, there was always, always their abandonment to their feelings, to the flood of sensation, to raw passion. Except in this case.

Because, even as she rises up the rainbow because of what he is doing, how he is doing it, she has no sense of accompaniment.

But, such is her sexual fever, her erotic, lascivious, intimate passion and arousal, that she does not care.

She cares only tor the feeling.

And the feeling and the feeling and the feeling.

Within her.

Filling her to overflowing, radiating out beyond her.

Making her hotter and hotter, the pressure within her greater and greater.

So that she finally explodes in the incandescent glory of her raw passion, the reflexive spasms of her multiple orgasms milking his thick, working pole of its load.

And finally, when she comes back down to earth, she looks into his dark, handsome, smiling face.

And only a few beads of perspiration on his forehead shows that he has even been there.

That, and his big cock, that he deftly slides out of her streaming cunt, thereby breaking the connection.

And in fact, he has not even worked up a good sweat.

So that, while Helen showers, he has but to wash his heavy equipment at the sink.

And Helen returns to the bedroom, drying off, only to see that he is midway through the ceremony with Cynthia.

Whose rhythmic grunts of sexual satisfaction are elicited from her with each mighty, inward, controlled thrust of the great, black prong.

And Helen knows exactly what Cynthia is feeling as she checks the side view, to see Cynthia's complexion ruddy with the blood of her sexual arousal, as are her breasts and upper body.

And she sees the flexion and release of Leroy's muscular, prominent buttocks as he ploughs away into Cynthia's juicy, responsive cunt.

And there is something of dja vu here as Leroy gathers Cynthia's big thighs from behind and braces himself against them with his arms as he continues to hump away.

And now, he is driving her all the way home.

And Cynthia's little cries of delight echo flatly in the luxurious suite as Leroy takes her to their shared climax.

Yes, Helen gives him that much-at least the climax is shared.

But she knows that, within that well-groomed, well-kept black body with its formidable sexual equipment there is a brain as dispassionate, as calculating, as manipulative as a computer, if and when a computer is designed of such exquisite complexity.

But perhaps Cynthia is right.

And perhaps not.

Because this was the same thing, him versus them, as they have done with the kids.

Drive them crazy, up the wall, give them a sexual experience unparallelled in their lives-and walk away.

She knows that he is prepared to do exactly that with them.

But then, she reasons, perhaps this is as it should he.

Perhaps this is what mature swinging is all about. And now, as his spurts and Cynthia's orgasmic spasms subside, Helen cannot help but reflect that perhaps this is what maturity itself is all about.

Because people use, have always used each other.

And this is what fucking is, biologically, all about.

But this, this is too cool and calculating for her taste.

5

And Cynthia knows. She too has noticed the uniqueness, the difference.

"I hope we're not boring you," she says to Leroy, when he pulls out, his salami still tumescent, slimy with jism and pussy juice.

"Oh, not at all," he replies, smiling. "In fact, perhaps it is I who should apologize for disappointing you."

"Please! No false modesty!

"You were terrific and you know it. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Not particularly," he replies, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Cynthia joins him.

And he pats the bed for Helen to sit on the other side of him.

She accepts the invitation, and he puts an arm around each waist.

"Then what?" Cynthia persists.

"Why, nothing, ladies.

"Nothing at all.

There is nothing to be said.

"And in fact I feel that I have disappointed you, in a way."

"How so?"

He smiles balefully at one, then the other. And looks straight ahead before replying, "Nigger fucking.

"In which the white woman, the great white huntress finds the primitive, black, half man, half beast, all urge creature.

"And descends to his level, the wild animal level.

"The sexual wild animal.

"So that she abandons her humanity-temporarily, of course-in favor of an assumed, a put on, a semi-let's pretend bestiality.

"And wallows in her own sensuous, intimate libido.

"Which is serviced by this cock-stud-prong, driven by the black beast behind it.

"And, as jungle drums beat their insistent, erotic, exotic tattoo in the background, she loses herself in her bestiality, her temporary bestiality which finds its counterpart in his reality, which is both bestial and permanent.

"And then, her passion slaked, her urge satisfied, the beast within her tamed, she washes off the filth of his obscene presence and returns, cleansed and unsullied, to her own world, the world of the white humans.

"Have I fairly well summed up nigger fucking, ladies?"

"Mmmm," Cynthia muses, calmly, not pulling away, "it's a point of view, I suppose."

While Helen says nothing.

Leroy throws back his head, laughing.

"In that sense, then, I have disappointed you, haven't I?

"The monster, the beast has learned well the ways of the white man, has he not?"

"You could certainly teach all the white men I know a thing or two," Cynthia concedes.

"So then, you went looking for the beast and came back with a lesson in civilization in the sack.

"That just has to be a disappointment."

"All right," Cynthia sighs, rising, strolling aimlessly a few paces before turning to face him, "you are a thrill and a disappointment. "To me, to Helen, to white women everywhere. "There!

"You happy now?" All of them laugh.

"What about you, Helen?" Leroy asks.

Helen shrugs, then faces him, pulling away but remaining seated.

"I have never been so well fucked or felt so utterly-used."

"Please, Helen.

The beast uses. The civilized individual, man or woman, manipulates."

"Manipulated, then.

"How the fuck can you be so hot and so cold, all at the same time?"

He looks at her, saying nothing.

Instead, it is Cynthia who replies, That is his defense."

He looks at her sharply.

This is not amusing.

This is hitting too close to home.

"What do you know about it?" he challenges, his voice a quiet growl.

And he stands, ignoring his messy cock, which hangs, slimy and flaccid, over his big balls.

"Big, successful, black lawyer," Cynthia begins.

"What did you think, that you accomplished all that you did, that you got all you have, without giving anything? "Bullshit!

"That's not the way things happen in this world and you know it!

"There's no such thing as a free ride, pal!

"And you learned that a long time ago, or you wouldn't be where you are.

"You wouldn't be in the best suite of the best hotel in Atlantic City-for which, by the way, I'll bet they do not even charge you-with two gorgeous white women, fucking the shit out of them without knowing that.

"But it cost you.

"It cost you plenty!"

"Oh, yeah? Like what, for example?"

"Like, for example, the way your body is here all the way.

"But even in the sack, even when you're shooting your wad, when your body is relieving itself of the sexual tension,-you-the real you-is standing there watching.

"You are so fucking detached you couldn't get in touch with yourself if your life depended on it, you know that?

"It's, like, if you died tomorrow, there's a part of you that would somehow be able to pick up a newspaper, say something like, 'Damn shame,' and go on about its business.

"That's how far gone you are.

"Who are you to talk to me, to criticize us, about nigger fucking?

"You're not a nigger.

"Blacks are part of the human race.

"And you resigned from that a long time ago, buster!"

His eyes show a moment of fear, a moment of anger, and then He smiles his winningest smile.

"All this, he says, "because you didn't bring our the beast in me.

"You tried and failed.

"I took you to the moon and back and you didn't do anything more than haul my ashes. "What a put-down, huh? "What can I ever do to make it up to you?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

Because there is a grain of truth in what he says.

"No, no, I insist on trying.

"Really."

Cynthia looks at him, puzzled.

"You mean, like, in the sack, you and me, us?

"Trying again?"

He laughs.

"No, no, no!

"The leopard can hardly change his spots.

"In your terms, I have been out of the jungle far coo long to change as a result of a single lecture, no matter how heartfelt or well intentioned. Or, as in the present case, spiteful.

"What I can do, however, is to provide you with the companionship of the variety you are truly seeking.

"You wish to be forked by the black beast? "Very well!

"I am meeting two such tomorrow, the, uh ... employees of a client.

"He has asked that I provide them transportation from the penitentiary, lodge them for the night, and bring them to him in the morning."

"You a lawyer or a babysitter?"

"My dear lady, I am whatever the client can afford.

"He has his reasons for not wanting himself or anyone who works for him to be seen with these two.

"Ours not to reason why, and all that.

"Suffice it to say that these two are getting out tomorrow with a three year head of steam built up.

"They are big, black, and brutal.

"And not in the least cerebral.

"Think you can handle that?"

Cynthia and Helen look at each other and nod in silent agreement.

"Where and when?"

"Why don't you two spend the night here as my guests and we'll go together in the morning."

"We already have a room here."

"Fine. Which is it?"

"Ten seventeen."

Leroy picks up the phone.

"Hello, desk?

"This is Leroy Washington, twenty twenty.

"Please arrange to put room ten seventeen and all charges on my comp ... Yes, yes, have Mr. Sherman get back to me, if there's a problem.

"Thanks so much."

He hangs up.

"Leroy Washington!" Cynthia exclaims.

"You've heard of me?"

"Yes. I mean, no. Not exactly."

"Care to choose from one of those categories?" he prompts, amused at her confusion.

"I knew I'd seen you before.

"You're on the list of the owners of the condo where I have the penthouse."

"Aha! Then that must make you-"

"Cynthia Harrington. Mts. Chipper Harrington III."

"Leroy F. Washington II, at your service," he bows.

"And this is my friend, Helen Rand."

"Pleased."

"Delighted, I can assure you both."

"I've even seen you in the lobby once or twice, now I think of it," Cynthia continues. "You were with-"

"A stunning, tall, voluptuous, beautiful blonde.

"My special preference."

"So we noticed." They laugh.

"Anyway, ladies, why don't you use the facilities to get cleaned up? "I'll wait out here."

And he puts on a house terrycloth robe from the closet.

He is sitting on the bed when they emerge, drying off.

He watches them get dressed.

"May I call on you for breakfast?" he asks.

"Please do."

"Excellent!

"Until tomorrow, then."

"Ta-ta."

* * * * *

"Don't worry about your car, now.

"It's quite safe in the hotel garage and you can redeem it free of charge when you return."

They are riding in a chauffeur-driven limo.

AH three of them are in the back seat, Leroy in the middle.

Leroy glances at his watch as they drive up to a side door, next to the front gate of the prison. The women kx)k at Leroy, expectant. "Just sit tight, ladies.

"Any minute now, I-ah! Here they come!" He reaches across Cynthia's lap and opens the door.

She gets out and he with her.

They are not particularly tall, but they are wide, and very solid looking.

Their close-cropped hair, through which their skulls gleam, adds to their air of brutal menace.

But they are happy, or at least smiling broadly, as Leroy, natty in a dark, three-piece suit, the warmth of the day notwithstanding, shakes their hands, one at a time.

And their eyes focus with interest on Cynthia, standing there in a light, off-the-shoulder summer dress.

"Gentlemen, this is Cynthia."

They look her up and down and say nothing.

"And there, in the car, is Helen.

"So.

"Barney, why don't you join Helen in the back seat?

"Fred, you and Cynthia can ride in the middle, and I and my briefcase will ride up front with the other hired help."

"Where we goin'?" Fred asks.

"Everything has been arranged," Leroy says, his tone making it clear that the question is impertinent.

Fred and Barney get in and Leroy assists Cynthia, closing both doors before ensconcing himself next to the chauffeur. He looks back.

Satisfied, he gives the order to go.

"You hired help, too?" Fred asks Cynthia.

"No, no, we're merely ... friends of Leroy.

"He asked us to take care of certain ... needs you might have.

"I understand it's been a while."

"Three mothafuckin' years!

"Cain't complain none, though.

"If not for ole Leroy up there, coulda been a helluva lot worse."

Cynthia asks him nothing.

There is nothing she wants to know from him.

She merely looks at his thickly muscled arms showing from the short-sleeved shirt he is wearing.

And casually takes the one nearest her.

And feels him flex instinctively before he relaxes.

"Nice arm!" she says, admiringly.

"Three years pumpin' am oughtta done sumpin' to 'em," he says.

As though she has observed a deformity which he must excuse rather than a compliment he has but to accept.

She places her other hand on a thick thigh, stretching the fabric of his blue jeans to the maximum.

"Got the legs too," he says, gratuitously.

Then, "Say, you know where we-nevah mine."

He is curious, but dares not ask questions, even of her.

They pull up at a motel.

Leroy and the chauffeur get out and Leroy opens the doors for the passengers.

They alight, all of them.

"Okay, guys, you'll stay here tonight.

"I'll be in the room next door.

"I'll pick you up for supper and tuck you in.

"Ma$ana, you go back on the job."

"Charlie, help 'em to the room with the stuff."

The chauffeur opens the trunk.

There are four suitcases and a carton with booze and mixers in it.

"You got everything from clothes to toothbrushes in there," Leroy says. "Ice at the end of the deck.

"Other than that, nobody goes anywhere."

Barney and Fred take two bags apiece and Charlie carries the booze.

Leroy unlocks the room and throws the key on the nightstand between the two beds.

He finds the ice bucket and goes out to get some as the two men, curious, open the suitcases.

Barney grins.

"Hey, Fred, check it out, man!" He holds up a belt.

Which has been threaded through a leather pouch that can only be a holster for a hand gun.

Fred holds up his own and says, "Lookin' good, bro!"

Leroy returns with the ice.

"Glad everybody's in such a good mood," he says.

Because they have become animated, enthusiastic as they unpack.

"Hey, listen, you kids have fun now, you hear?" he says. "I'll be back in a couple hours and take us all to supper."

And Leroy closes the door on his way out.

They finish putting their things away.

And the women are amazed at the meticulousness with which they have loaded closet and drawers and placed their toiletries in the bathroom.

Only now do they begin to undress.

And the women are not disappointed.

Because they are black bulls, their muscles rounded and bulging, their big cocks hanging low and heavy.

Truly an impressive sight.

So that Cynthia wonders if they pumped iron ten hours a day, seven days a week, for their three years.

"You ladies wanna join us?" Fred asks. "Oh! Oh, of course!" And they undress hastily.

And watch the boulder buttocks of the men as they turn and strip the beds of then covers. Animalize me! Cynthia thinks, as she sits down on the bed, next to Fred, expecting him to spring up, throw her down and ravish her. He does not.

"Been one helluva long time, babe," he says. And begins gently playing with her breasts. As she picks up his heavy, flaccid meat with one hand.

And he bends down, sucking her nipples, which turn firm and rubbery at once.

But nothing happens with the beef in her hand.

And he notices this too.

"Suck me!" he commands.

And lies down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

This is better, Cynthia thinks. Now we're getting somewhere!

Because his prod begins to respond immediately.

And soon she is bobbing her drooling, eager, hungry head up and down a massive, hard, hot, vibrant black pole, careful to retain the bulging pink knob in her mouth at all times.

Yes, yes, yes! she thinks. Black cock!

Cock of the beast, that will shortly animalize her streaming cunt, which gets all hot and bothered just thinking about it.

Oh yeah, baby! she thinks. Jam this monster into my juicy cunt! Plough the shit out of me! Drive me through the wall with this big black bastard, you big, black bastard!

As he lies there, huge chest heaving the massive slabs of his pectorals up and down, eyes closed, hands behind his head.

And, when she has gotten him hard as a rock, she stops.

He opens his eyes and gets up, ramrod hobbling stiffly above big balls, massive rhighs corded with thick muscle.

And she raises and spreads her legs.

And he is on her, just as she imagined!

And ploughing away, his thick battering ram plunging mightily into her again and again and She feels him go slack.

And slip out.

And try and try again.

But it is no use.

She does not move, does not know what is wrong, what to do.

But now, it is out of her hands.

Savagely, as though she is a rag doll, he whips her over, onto her stomach.

She feels huge, rough hands spread the cheeks of her ass apart.

And suddenly, his tongue in inside her ass hole.

In and out, in and out he plunges it, hammering it in each time.

And chewing her ass hole as he does so.

And now, he is sticking two fingers into her anal sphincter, forcing it to yield.

And it does.

And he yanks the belled flare of her hips so that she is on knees and elbows.

And she feels his monster plunge into her all the way, the muscular slab of his abdomen slapping loudly against her rounded buttocks.

And now, he is fucking her in the ass.

And there are no premiminaries.

There is no civilization, no gentleness, no restraint here.

And she can only do her best to relax.

Because, for his size, he has not stretched her properly.

So that there is tugging and some discomfort and, she is almost sure, some tearing.

But now, she manages to relax enough so that she can feel the pleasure, the stimulation of millions of nerve endings in her rectum.

And he is riding her.

She can feel it, the intensity, the power of his ass fucking.

Just the way a black, brutal powerhouse of an animal should fuck her in the ass.

So that she is content with this.

She does not need his hands all over her, playing with her breasts, toying with her clit.

Animals, beasts have no need of such refinements.

And she surrenders herself to the stimulation of her innermost self from within.

And finds herself riding, higher and higher up the rainbow of her pleasure.

And does not see his eyes shut tightly, his head thrown back, his teeth gritted, his face a grimace of concentration.

As he summons and holds the images that turn him on.

But she can look over and see that Helen is being similarly serviced by Barney.

How odd, she thinks, that both men should have decided to do their ass fucking in unison.

But she dismisses the thought at once, dismisses all thought, in fact, as the waves of sensation overtake reason with the heat and tingle of sexual electricity.

And it is a good, long ride.

So that she is able to rise and rise.

And gently, in contrast to the rough road that has gotten her there, go over the top.

And she puts a finger to her clit to enhance the exquisite feeling of her multiple orgasms as they make her shudder, again and again.

And she feels him coming deep in her bowels.

And he does not wait, but pulls out of her at once, as soon as his last spasm has passed.

And she turns over, smiling.

But her smile fades as she sees him standing there, glaring down at her, chest heaving mightily, sweat pouring from him in rivers.

As though he has been angered to the point of insanity.

Or is suffering a heart attack.

Behind him, Barney finishes with Helen.

And similarly stands beside Fred.

And looks at him with an expression of real concern.

"Uh, ladies, uh, we 'predates de piece of ass, unnastan' but I thinks y'all bes' go now," he says. And Cynthia could not agree more. "Let's just get dressed, Helen," she says. "But-"

"Do it!"

Puzzled, Helen joins her, racing her to see who can dress first, ignoring her oozing ass hole. Quickly, they leave.

So that they do not see the sweating, panting, muscular mass of Fred's body begin to quiver. Along with his lips.

So that they do not see the tears begin to form in his eyes.

So that they do not see him collapse onto the bed on his stomach, burying his face in the pillow to muffle his uncontrollable sobbing.

So that they do not see his massive shoulders shaking in paroxysms of self-disgust, self-pity.

And they do not see Barney sit down on the edge of the bed and put a hand on the bunched muscles of the broad back.

And they do not hear him say, "Easy, buddy, easy!

"Three years is a long time, ya know.

"Man git habits, ain' all dat easy ta change.

"Don'tchoo be worry in' yo'se'f none, now."

"We gon' woik evathang out."

And they do not see the hand slide down to the massive buttocks.

Or the finger begin to probe the cleavage between them.

6

"What happened, ladies?" Leroy asks, interrupted from his paperwork by the knock on the door and surprised to see them standing there. He grins.

"They were too much for you, huh?" he asks. "I'd say it was the other way around," Cynthia replies.

"Listen, could you two banter later?" Helen interjects. "Right now, I have to use your bathroom in the worst way."

"Me too," Cynthia says.

And they march by the bemused Leroy in his shirtsleeves.

He shrugs and returns to what he was doing, seated in a chair in front of the room's circular table, papers spread before him.

He really has no time for this babysitting, so he is catching up on a few loose ends as best he can without a law library or secretarial assistance being available.

In fact, but for the astronomical retainer his major client pays him, he would not have gotten himself into anything like this.

And he cannot wait until tomorrow, when he can deliver the muscle next door to his client and be on his way.

The water runs a long time behind the closed bathroom door.

Finally, they emerge.

He looks up at them.

Their faces are expressionless masks.

"Didn't work out, huh?" he asks.

"They seem to have become ... specialized."

He grins.

And Cynthia cannot help it.

She grins back.

Helen joins them.

And all three laugh raucously.

One might say that compassion is not one of their strong points. None of them.

"So," Leroy says, "life goes on."

"Any more brilliant ideas?" Cynthia asks. "Looking for the real black animal, huh?" Leroy observes.

"Something like that," Cynthia replies.

Leroy shakes his head.

"You don't wanna do this," he says.

"How would you know?"

"Hey, it's not a black thing, all right?

"It's, like, universal, you know?

"Men were meant to be men.

"Meaning civilized beings, differentiated from the lower animals, the beasts of the wild, in all things."

"That's heavy," Cynthia says, her tone sarcastic, mocking.

"I'm not kidding, Cynthia.

"When a man, any man, black, white, or purple, becomes an animal, you really don't wanna be around him."

"Suppose you let us be the judges of that," Cynthia replies, "or is the real problem simply that you can't deliver?"

He looks at her a long moment before replying, "Hey, I have no obligation to deliver you anything, Cynthia.

"I'm just giving you sound advice for your own good."

"And if I want advice from a lawyer, I'll pay for it." He grins.

"You know, you're right?

"Shows you how impressed with you I really am.

"First time I ever did that."

"I won't tell if you won't," Cynthia says.

They fall silent.

And Leroy appears to make up his mind about something.

"Okay," he says, "Lesson time."

"Oh?"

"You want animal? "You get animal."

"Go for it." He shrugs.

And removes a small, black address/telephone book from his briefcase.

He looks up a number and dials.

"He there? ... Tell 'im it's his lawyer....

"Hey, Rex! What it is?....

"Listen, Rex. Got me a couple hot white pussies lookin' for black dick....

"No, no, too much for me, pal. I tried, but they're lookin' for a real animal.

"So of course I thought of you at once....

"Yeah, ha ha ... So. You interested, or what?....

"No, no. We deliver....

"Yeah, I'll be filing for continuance, uh, Tuesday, I think ... I knew, Rex, I know. That's not why I called you. You wanna go on the clock, we'll talk, but ... Thought not.

"Okay, Rex, they will be there in, say, a couple hours ... Oh, don't mention it.

"Just remember, upon your performance rests the prowess of your people ... I know you will, Rex.

"Ciao, baby."

Turning to the women, "You ladies are all set."

"We appreciate your interest and concern."

"Not at all, not at all.

"The limo is at your disposal.

"I'll just see you off.

"Gotta tell Charlie where to go."

They troop down to the waiting limo.

Charlie, leaning against the fender of the long, sleek machine, comes to attention, folds his paper, and puts on his cap, coming around to open the rear door for his passengers.

The two women get in.

Charlie listens attentively to Leroy's instructions, then gets behind the wheel.

And Cynthia realizes that they are heading back toward the city.

And now, into it.

Midtown, uptown, the Bronx.

A hi-rise.

And a large black man, carrying a two-way radio, knocks imperiously on Charlie's window.

They see Charlie talking to the man, jerking a thumb back in their direction.

The man nods, then speaks into his radio.

He nods, as though whoever is at the other end can see him.

And walks around the limo, opening the door for them at the curb.

Everyone is black here.

And several teenagers and adults stop to watch them emerge onto the sidewalk.

"Fuck you mothafuckahs lookin' at?

"You need help movin' yo' black asses?"

They do not, not cringing, bur not sticking around, either.

To the women', "First elevator on de end. See the dude wif de rahdio."

They pass into the lobby, threading their way through trash.

Where a short, squat black man, a two-way radio in one hand, holds open the door to the thickly graffitied interior of the elevator.

An old man starts to follow them.

"Back off, mothafuckah!" the man with the walkie-talkie snarls.

And takes a threatening step toward him.

"No problem, babe, no problem," the old man says, hands before him in a calming motion, placating.

He does not back off, but neither does he advance, standing there watching as the elevator door closes slowly.

"Old sumbitch mothafuckah," the offended one mumbles, riding up with them.

Sportshirt, slacks, sunglasses and walkie-talkie, this time sported by a tall, muscular skinhead greets them.

And their escort takes the elevator back down.

Two raps on the door opposite the elevator and a long peer into the bullseye opens it.

And another sportshirt and sunglasses peeks out to peer into the foyer, this way and that, before admitting the two of them.

And it is another world from that outside, a world of chrome and glass and smooth, unbroken planes of primary colors, oversized canvasses in thin brass frames against whitewashed brick walls, large ferns breaking the geometric motif of the dcor.

A large, light-skinned black with pencil-thin moustache and shaven head reclines on an overstuffed couch in a thin robe.

Cynthia thinks, He looks like Bruce's larger, bald brother.

He is flanked by two gorgeous, light-skinned black women, similarly lightly clad, their robes raspberry and aqua respectively, in contrast to his, which is plain white.

He rises, and they look up at him, realizing that he is almost seven feet tall, and wide as a bam door.

He steps around the low, clear glass coffee table and advances, smiling.

"Understand I got what you're lookin' for," he says. "Question is, do you have anythin' that interests me?"

They look at him.

"No sweat, ladies.

"Westphalia and Chlorine here, they gonna put on a little show wif y'all.

"I like what I see, you in."

"I, uh, I don't think that you-" Helen begins.

But Cynthia grabs her wrist, silencing her.

"We need a few minutes to freshen up," Cynthia says.

"Westphalia, Chlorine, assist them."

"I don't think we need any-"

Again, Cynthia grabs Helen's wrist.

"This way ladies," one of the black girls says.

And leads them through a magnificently appointed bedroom in the ultra-modern style to a bathroom of similarly grandiose proportions, tilefloored, marble walled, with sunken tub and large, glassed-in shower stall.

Where, to the women's surprise, the black girls also strip.

To reveal their large breasts and hips and buttocks, their narrow waists.

The naked girls take their clothes from them, disappearing into the bedroom to hang them up neatly.

And their purses as well.

"Don't worry," one of them smiles, "with all the money around here, we wouldn't care if you were carry in' thousands."

"What, uh, kind of business is ... Rex in, anyway?"

"Wholesale supply of basic needs," Chlorine responds. The women look at her, puzzled. "Bulk crack," Westphalia supplies. "Uh huh."

Which explains the remark about the money.

And why Rex needs Leroy's services.

But they care nothing of this.

That is between Rex, his customers, his conscience, and the law.

They want only one thing from him.

And now, all four of them enter the shower stall.

"Don't want they to be no question about how clean who is here," Chlorine explains.

"Thass right," Westphalia says. "Fo' whut Rex wantsa see, we gots to be absolutely squeeky, all of us."

And they shower, paying the appropriate attention to detail, under the watchful eyes of their duskier counterparts.

They dry off with thick, oversized towels, of which there seem to be stacks and stacks.

And go back into the bedroom to find silken robes awaiting them, Cynthia's gold, Helen's lime.

And the girls lead them back into the living room, where Rex is watching TV.

Which he turns off with the remote as soon as they enter.

"Ah! Four lovelier creatures never existed, I'm sure!" he exclaims.

Which does not sound all that animalistic to the women.

Perhaps, they think, Leroy does not know Rex as well as he thinks.

"Blaster an' Rastus be downstairs now, Rex," Howard, the inside man, says, having just received the information on his radio.

"Later," Rex says, glaring at Howard, resenting the interruption.

"But-"

"Ah said, later, fool! "Don'tchoo lissen none?"

"Yeah, sure, but-"

"You move yo' black ass outside the do', mofo'!

"I wants you, I sends fo' you!

"Like I s'pose you cain't see ah'm busy right now.

"Go on! Git!"

Howard leaves.

"Sorry, ladies.

"Man has no sense of priorities.

"I fear he shall remain a subordinate indefinitely.

"How sad that one so young should have already peaked.

"But now, into the playroom, the four of you!"

And Chlorine and Westphalia bounce into the bedroom, Cynthia and Helen following, fighting the temptation to look back with a questioning glance at Rex.

"Okay, girls, a little hospitality!" Rex says. "Eat each othah where you shit!"

And now, the women look at him.

To see his face ruddy beneath the light tan skin.

And a glint in his eye, which smacks of dementia.

Quickly, the girls strip out of their robes, assisting the women to do the same when they hesitate.

And Cynthia and Helen cannot say by what feat of dexterity they suddenly find themselves on the huge, circular bed on their backs, the black girls reversed above them.

And spreading and raising the cheeks of the white asses, exposing the large, pink stars of their ass holes.

And going down on them at once.

As they gyrate their own hips into position on the women's faces.

So that they are indeed sucking each others' ass holes.

Much to Rex's obvious delight. And Cynthia's eyes open wide as she glances sideways, even while eating Chlorine's puffy, mauve star.

To see Rex's yardarm of a cock, darker than the rest of him, the huge plum of a head taut, shiny, purple with the engorged blood of his sexual arousal.

As it peeks out of his robe.

As he crawls around on the bed, observing in infinite detail the rimming action.

And The phone rings, on the ntght stand.

Incredulous, Rex picks it up.

And his face darkens with anger.

"Ah tole Howard and ah'm tellin' you, Bruce!

"They are to wait!....

"Say what...?

"You tell Chaka I said he is to wait with the rest!

"And Bruce, pass the word.

"The nex' dumb mothafuckah calls me, knocks on my do', does anythin' befo' ah gives de woid, he bes' make beautiful sounds, because baby, those be his last noises in this world!

"You got me? ... Good!"

And he slams down the phone.

"Now then, ladies," he says, "I see that you have followed my instructions, let's see you eat each others' pussies now."

And the women comply, following the girls' lead.

"And that's enough of that," Rex says, not really giving them the time to get warmed up.

All four females sit up, looking at him.

As he pulls a silver dollar from his pocket.

"You!" he says to Cynthia, "Call it!"

"Heads," she says, shrugging.

It lands on the bed.

"Heads it is!" he says.

And, to Helen, "That means you tails!"

And he removes his robe.

And the women see that he is indeed a magnificent beast of a man.

And the two girls flank Cynthia, as Rex straddles her chest.

And they watch closely as he inserts the great bulb of his cock into her mouth and begins pumping, fucking her face.

And this too does not continue long enough for her to really warm to the task.

Because now, he pulls back.

And the two girls, as though the movement were choreographed, lift and spread Cynthia's legs.

And the huge salami shafts smoothly into her.

And she thinks, his is even bigger than those of Bruce's geeks!

And some instinct warns her to relax her mind, to abandon herself immediately and completely.

So that she is totally opened to the sensations generated by the mammoth monolith as it begins its piston action.

And she understands that this is what a man acts like when he becomes an animal.

Which is not the abandonment of himself to his sexual instincts so much as it is the concentration on, concern with, himself, to the total exclusion of the rest of the world, from his partner in the bed to his partners in crime, down on the street.

And she sees that Leroy was correct.

She doesn't want to be around a man when he behaves like an animal.

With no concerns, no feelings for anyone or anything outside himself.

How sad, she thinks, that one so magnificently endowed should choose to turn himself into a rutting boar.

"You othah one!" he says, seeing Helen standing there, watching. "Git back there an' get busy!"

And Helen, bemused, complies.

So that now she pulls the big boulders of his buttocks apart and begins to rim him.

And Helen, too, thinks, What a shame that he is this way.

Because she would have loved to explore every facet of his magnificent body, his monstrous cock. But not like this.

Not as a command performance, a one-way, directed action.

So that now, as she sucks his ass hole, she thinks, This really sucks!

But at least Cynthia is going to get off.

No thanks to him, of course.

Since he makes it so plain that he does not care what, if anything he can do for her.

No, this hog cares only for his own jollies.

He is on an ego trip, a power trip, a one man, one way trip.

Which, even now, is coming to an end.

Because he does not restrain himself, and Cynthia finds this lack of restraint, added to his magnificent equipment, enough of a stimulating experience to come.

Which he, feeling the spasms of her multiple orgasms milking his power pole of its load, takes full credit for.

"You needed that big, black animal cock in you, huh babe?

Thass right, thass right, you jus' let Rex take keh y'all.

"This big salami is here fo' de axin'! "Ain't that right, girls?"

"Sho' 'miff, Rex!"

"Amen to that, honey!"

And, as Cynthia's final spasm passes, she thinks, the money around here must be very good indeed. Because, to massage an ego this large, the remuneration would have to be astronomical, as far as she is concerned.

In fact, were it herself in this situation, they don't print money in denominations that large.

And now, he is done.

And he does not bother to put on a robe. Naked, he strides out of the bedroom, through the living room, and opens the door. "Okay, Melvin, let 'em up, one at a time."

"Right, boss."

Then, to Howard, who is staring at his huge, wet cock, "Fuck you starin' at, niggah?

"Get choor black ass in here an' break out the goodies!"

"Melvin, have Bruce send the first one up. He goes back into the bedroom. "Ladies, thanks for stopping by. "Please, take your time cleaning up. "And just remember, what choo see here stays here.

"Leroy wouldn't have sent you if I couldn't trust you, but just so you know."

Cynthia and Helen clean up in the bathroom and get dressed.

And they are treated to the odd sight of Rex, once more in his robe, seated before the huge glass coffee table.

Which is now covered with what appear to be boxes of Jolly Clown popcorn, of which Howard piles more and more on, out of a closet.

And it is very expensive popcorn indeed.

Because Cynthia observes large bills going from the hands of a rather well dressed black man to those of Rex, in return for a few boxes, which he takes with him:

"Uh, whyn't choo hole de elevatah there, Harold?" he suggests to the man who has just bought his "popcorn" and turned to leave.

"These ladies will be goin' down.

"Ciao, ladies."

Rex is latin for king, Cynthia realizes. And the king has just dismissed them from his presence.

And Westphalia and Chlorine flank him on the couch, once more in their light, colorful robes, as the women leave.

* * * * *

"Terrific!" Helen complains. "Some neighborhood! "And no limo.

"And I didn't even get laid!"

"You didn't miss much, I can assure you.

"What a shame! All that equipment and the man's a pig."

"Yeah, that's not exactly the animal performance we had in mind."

"Excuse me, ladies!"

They turn.

He is tall and trim and a light chocolate. "My name is Chaka."

"Oh, yes, we heard-"

And Cynthia grabs Helen's wrist.

"I presume that you are the cause of this rather interesting line halfway up the block of which I am, unfortunately a part."

Cynthia looks at him a long moment, before replying, "You'll have to talk to Rex about that."

"Oh, I'm nor complaining.

"After all, Rex means king, does it not?"

"You know latin, do you?" Cynthia asks.

"Certainly," he replies. "Rex means king. Whereas rectum means ass hole."

The three of them laugh.

"I was wondering if I could possibly take you wherever you'd like to go."

"And lose your place in line?"

"Oh, don't worry about that.

"I have already made other arrangements.

"I wished to see Rex this time merely in order to tell him of the changes I have been forced to make."

"Forced?"

"Can we go somewhere and discuss this?

"The, uh ... sidewalks have ears.

"And I believe that you ladies can be of some assistance to me, if you are willing.

"In turn, perhaps I can help you with whatever might be of interest to you."

7

"Ladies, ladies, ladies," Chaka says, seated between them in the back of his limo. "What have you managed to get yourselves into, to find yourselves on the street in that part of town?

"Have you any idea how dangerous that might have been?"

"We're just on vacation and out to have a good time," Cynthia replies. "Nigger fucking," he says.

The two women stare straight ahead.

"Oh, it's quite all right, I assure you.

"After all, how else can us po' po' black mins be gittin' us a tayss ob white poon, which is, as y'all knows, de dream ob all us heavy-hung niggahs?"

Cynthia smiles faintly.

"Then you do resent it."

"No, no," he chuckles. "Just kidding.

"Actually, mutual usage can be mutually amusing, mutually ... satisfying."

"Can be," Cynthia agrees.

Which gets a laugh from him.

"I take it that Rex was not satisfying," he prompts.

"Rex was not ... mutual," Cynthia replies.

He laughs again.

"That's my man Rex, all right!

"The original one-way street.

"All for him and him for none.

"Don't feel offended, although I can certainly see why you might.

"He's that way with everyone."

"Are you defending him, then?"

"I am explaining him.

"Rex is a force of nature.

"Like mold or rot or infection."

"Then you hate him?"

"Does a man hate dog shit because he steps in it? "He may despise the vile stuff, the way it smells and feels and soils his shoes.

"But hate?

"How can one hate a natural phenomenon?

"One does not hate it; one merely ... finds a way to deal with it.

"How did you meet up with him, anyway?"

"We, uh, made the acquaintance of a lawyer."

"Now, that can only be one man, based on the connection-Leroy Washington."

"I'm impressed," Cynthia says, looking at him. "You are a very astute guesset."

Chaka shrugs.

"I can't take all that much credit, ah-"

"Cynthia. And this is Helen."

"Pleased.

"As I say, I can't make any extravagant claims to Holmes-like powers of deduction.

"Leroy is my lawyer as well, you see."

"What a coincidence."

"No, not a coincidence.

"We did not have a choice as to which counsel we could retain to look after our ... affairs."

"How's that?"

"Suffice it to say, ladies, that there is one above us all."

"How positively metaphysical!" Chaka smiles.

"No, but it is precisely to delay our contact with the realm of the metaphysical that we do as he ... suggests.

US

"And it is enough to know that he exists.

"It is not prudent to pursue this line of conversation further, ladies.'"

"Where are we headed, Chaka?"

"I've a home on Long Island.

"I should like you to be my guests.

"And to redeem whatever misimpressions you may have gotten concerning the virility and character of the tribe.

"That is, if you've no objections or other plans."

"Well, we-" Helen begins.

And is cut off by Cynthia, who says, "We'll give the tribe one last chance."

"Good for tribe, great for chief," Chaka says.

And they join his laughter.

Which is interrupted by a buzzing of a phone which, Cynthia notices, is part of the limo's bar, facing Chaka.

"Excuse me," he says, picking up the receiver.

"Yes?"

And they dimly see the chauffeur, another black man, unlike Leroy's man Charlie, talking into a phone of his own.

"Tell Phil to have factory one make the distribution and close up shop ... No, nothing. I will see Ray when he brings the money and I will have a new location for him at that time.

"Oh, and get me Leroy after that."

He replaces the receiver.

"Now then, where were we? "Oh, yes. The honor of the tribe. "I assure you, ladies, you will have no cause for complaint."

"You're the real black superstud, right?" Cynthia challenges. He chuckles.

"You will find nothing lacking in my performance, I hope; however, you will find me amply lieutenanted in the endeavor.

"You see, unlike ... certain people I could name, first of all, I do not flatter myself that I am a superstar, in or out of the sack.

"Secondly, I do not treat my subordinates like furniture.

"We are all parts of a hierarchy and it is not necessary to stress relative positions through, shall we say, imperious affectations."

"You seem quite well spoken," Cynthia says.

"By the standards of your average spade, I suppose that's true," he concedes. "However, there is something about an Ivy League college education that penetrates even the most obtuse of coconut heads."

"I see," Cynthia replies. "Then you went to school for all ... this."

And she spreads her hands vaguely.

"In a manner of speaking, that's true," he says. "Certainly, the principles were succinctly set forth there-marketing, economics, sociology, even his tory played their part in what I hope will prove to be a most successful venture."

"Will? You mean it isn't?"

"Oh, nothing of the kind.

"We are progressing nicely.

"Right on schedule, you might say.

"But, as someone once said, call no man happy until you can ascertain the nature of his final hour."

"And what is true of happiness is certainly true . of business ventures.

"Ours is such a risky thing, you know.

"I must operate through what are, by necessity, windows of vulnerability.

"And it is only by controlling-"

The phone rings and flashes again.

"Leroy? ... You will no doubt be surprised at who I am entertaining as my guests at this very moment, even as we speak....

"Yes. Certainly."

And he hands the phone to Cynthia.

"Hello, Leroy ... Oh, yes, your point was indeed well taken ... No, no. It wasn't so much a case of giving us away as of throwing us away; however, Chaka has more or less assured us of the skill of he and his merry band in massaging our bruised egos ... Oh, not at all. And we do appreciate your concern ... Oh, no. I'm sure that Chaka has more than ample facilities to see to it that we get back to Atlantic City in something resembling comfort."

And Chaka smiles and nods, confirming that this is the case.

"Yes, me too ... Of course, Helen as well....

"Looking forward to it ... You too. Here's Chaka now."

And she hands Chaka the phone.

"Leroy? Not for nothing, man, but he had a line halfway down the block ... I know, Leroy, I know! Tell me about it!

"Hell, no, I didn't stick around.

"Well, just long enough to see what the holdup was-this time.

"Glad I did, too!"

And he helps himself to a handful of Cynthia's thigh. "You kidding?

"I had a man with two suitcases on his way to Philadelphia, just to pick up the replacement stock for-never mind.

"Look, Leroy, if Big Jeff would just listen to me, we could "I see. And not before then, I suppose.

"And of course, there's no other way.

"No, no. No problem.

"I'll take care of it, Leroy....

"Of course I'm not.

"But then, my personal happiness is hardly the issue here, is it? "Yeah, ha ha.

"O-kay, Leroy. "Yeah, me too. "Ciao."

Chaka hangs up.

And sits there, motionless, lost in thought for a moment.

Then, "On to fun and games, ladies!"

"Early twentieth century, ladies.

"After the great mansions, before Levittown.

"Spaciousness without grandeur, wealth without opulence, substance without style.

"A precursor of our own times.

"An early harbinger of an era lacking great houses of great men.

"Still, one does what one can.

"And the porch, at least, is stone.

"Marble, unfortunately, has been limited to the foyer.

"But, I'm sure you'll find it more than adequate."

"We're not here for the architecture," Cynthia reminds him.

"Of course you're not," he agrees.

And waves at the guard who waves him through the gate.

The house is of brick, with white, wooden porch columns, windows, and doors.

And he is correct.

It has size and space and little else.

It could have been a building on an old, established college campus, containing either classrooms or administration.

Once inside, however, it is clearly a house, if not a home.

Five men greet him in the foyer. "Factory one close okay?"

"Just got the call.

"Ray'll be here with the money at eight, like always."

"Good, good, good. "Little treat for us, guys."

"So we see!"

"And, uh, you boys are going to be earning your keep, later on.

"But, pleasure before business, this time, anyway.

"Ladies, the master bedroom is the second door on your left, top of the stairs."

"Give us a few minutes, then let the games begin," Cynthia says.

* * * * *

Side by side, they lie there in the oversized bed. And they have not long to wait. Because now Chaka and his five cohorts enter the room.

Naked, their long, thick cocks swinging, already beginning to rise, they advance.

Chaka's only condition is that he will be in the trio that services Cynthia.

And now, they, who wanted black flesh, black cock, black sex, are about to be fulfilled to overwhelming surfeit.

Because there is black muscle, vibrant and in motion, everywhere they turn.

The men have not practiced, of course.

What would have been the occasion for that?

But there are instincts and desires at work here, on the part of the men, on the part of the women.

And there is no restraint, no holding back.

To desire is to act.

So that Chaka quickly raises and spreads Cynthia's thighs.

And wallows in her bush, mouth open, head moving from side to side.

As his tongue seeks and finds her clit and begins to roll it around and around.

So that, encouraged by this, one of the men on Helen imitates him.

So that, as the other two from each "team" sit or lie on the on the bed, watching the action, both women are being tongue-fucked.

But not for long.

Because now, inspired by the scene, one of the men on Chaka's "team" straddles Cynthia's body and leans, forward.

So that his lazy hard-on is squarely in Cynthia's face.

And she opens her mouth.

And it is not so much that she sucks his cock as that he fucks her in the mouth, which she has merely to allow to slacken.

And again, a man from "Team Two" does the same to Helen.

And now, Chaka lies down beside Cynthia, wiping his mouth.

And the man who straddles her body dismounts.

So that Cynthia is able to squat over Chaka's massive erection and lower herself onto it.

And lie down on the delighted Chaka, her cunt impaled on his cock.

And she rotates her hips, literally screwing herself with his pole.

As the man she was blowing gets on his knees at the head of the bed, facing her.

So that she is able to open her mouth and allow him to resume his fucking of her/it.

As Helen and company follow suit.

And now, the third man of Chaka's trio spreads the cheeks of her ass, observing the insertion of Chaka's cock, the action of his pole as he fucks her, or rather, she screws herself with it in a steady, round and round movement.

But not for long.

Because the third man know exactly what he wants.

First with his mouth.

Which seals its lips to her large, puffy, round anal star.

Which sucks the asshole inside itself, chewing it gently, rimming her.

Whose tongue probes the center of the star.

Which alternately permits its entry and closes up against it, as the long, thick, vibrant cock in her cunt changes position in its steady, ardent circulation.

And now, it is a finger that he inserts, a bit at a time, as fluctuating space permits.

And he is nothing if not persistent.

Managing a finger, all the way.

And now, another, lubricating them with his saliva.

Until she is sufficiently slackened that,, but for the cock which so amply fills her interior space and puts pressure on her rectum, he could actually stick his cock into her ass hole.

And, in order to make this possible, he stops the rotating, belled flare of her hips with both hands.

And she, sensing what he intends, stops on her own.

And raises her hips up, up, up. So that now, Chaka's cock is almost all the way out of her, only the massive bulb of his knob remaining within.

And the man behind polishes his knob with a gob of saliva.

And buttons it into her ass hole.

And does not hesitate, but shoves it quickly, all the way, into her, keeping the cheeks of her ass spread between thumb and fingers of one hand.

Satisfied that he is securely within her rectum, she settles back down on Chaka's cock.

And, all the while, the man before her is fucking her face.

So that she is the center of a three-way fuck. As, once more, she resumes the rotation of her hips.

So that the cocks inside ass hole and cunt slide over one another, separated only by her interior tissues.

As, next to them, the Helen team also goes into the triple insertion mode..

So that they are fucking in stereo.

And Cynthia thinks, black cock and black cock and black cock, in her and in her and in her.

So that she can feel its vibrant power in her mouth, against lips and tongue.

So that she can feel the dark life, the urgency of it in her cunt, its surface in contact with her cunt lips, her clit, her vagina.

So that she can feel it, the primal, jungle urge, making itself known in her bowels.

So that she is surrounded and invaded with the black cock for which she hungers.

And it is a hunger driven by all the days, weeks, months, and years in which she has been bored, frustrated.

Oh, there have been good times, even thrilling times.

Some as recently as yesterday, she admits.

But there is much time, much dead space in her life that requires compensation.

Yes, she has much for which to make up to herself.

And this is going a long way toward that end.

And there is power and virility here, without self-importance, without ego.

And there is staying power and determination and a lust that matches her own.

In triplicate.

So that now, she feels that there is no part of her that is not being serviced.

There is no aspect of her physical being that is not being lasciviously, intimately stimulated, just as she had imagined.

Only better.

Because, if it true that all sexual activity can only be appreciated by the mind, it is also true that the body is capable of surprising the mind with the intensity of that which is being appreciated.

So that Cynthia realizes, with a combination of excitement and relief, that she has found what she has been looking for from her nigger fucking.

And it is not so much that it takes three of them to do the job as it is that, in the satisfaction of hunger, gluttony is the surest, most complete guarantee.

And this is not like the gluttony of those who crave inordinate amounts of food.

And who make themselves sick in the satisfaction of their craving.

Rather, this is, literally, an excess of a good thing that, she tells herself, she cannot get too much of.

(Because, unlike the food glutton, she can handle it.

Is handling it.

And craving more, more, more, from each of the three cocks that penetrates her.

And the cocks oblige her.

Because there is strength here, the strength of a primitive joy, a primal joy.

Because, while this is not the only happiness there is, it is certainly the most intense, the clearest, purest example of physical happiness.

So that she and they have established a bodily communication, a sensual, sexual feedback loop.

Which, at first, surges through her in undulating waves of sexual electricity.

But which steadily becomes stronger and stronger.

Until it is a steady thrill of mounting sexual stimulation.

And sexual excitement, the effervescence of the feelings which inundate her making her dizzy, disoriented.

So that now there is no here or there, no up or down.

There is only herself and these three massive, potent, turgid black cocks.

Which continue to do their work, much to her delight.

Which show no sign of tiring or stopping.

Which, on the contrary, go faster and faster, the strokes the power behind them longer, stronger, more and more intense.

So that there is no effort required on her part.

So that all is being done for her.

So that she is being serviced in every sense of the word.

And yet, her body responds, reflexively, all on its own.

So that vaginal muscles, rectal muscles, facial muscles take on a life of their own. And they move!

They move and flex, surround and caress, squeeze and release, in a never-ending sequence of automatic motions whose effect is to make four people happier, more satisfied and more excited than ever.

They seem to know what to do to maximize the pleasure.

As they milk and suck, squeeze and fondle their rampant intruders.

And now, they are sweating, all of them.

And there is an increased glow, a ruddiness, to the even the darkest of the participants.

And the heat over-rides the central airconditioning, forming an envelope of steamy, passionate, sex-charged atmosphere over the eight people on the bed in two knots.

Squirm and writhe, twist and turn.

Become as one in feeling, in sensation, in emotion.

Rise higher and higher up the rainbow of shared pleasure.

Take and give, give and take, with pleasure added in the giving and the taking.

Until the muscles, the glands, the fluids and membranes are supercharged, permeated with the raw, fundamental ecstasy of sexual rapture.

And how, the pressure builds within them, all of them.

And expands within them faster than they can radiate it out beyond themselves.

So that they quiver at the summit of all the pleasure they are capable of containing.

And now, they let go.

And it is a total releasing of all pressure, of all emotion, as they soar upward, exploding with the pleasure beyond pleasure.

Thick, hot jism, extract of black cock injects itself into her three ways.

So that she can taste it and feel it lubricating her insides under high pressure.

Even as the spasms of her multiple orgasms force her rectal and vaginal muscles to milk their welcome guests.

Again and again, spasm after spasm rocks the four of them.

Make that the eight of them as Helen and attendants experience the identical grand finale.

And there is no letup, seemingly, to the series, as they go on and on, draining themselves, exhausting their reserves of fluids and strength.

Until, at last, two heaps of bodies, white female at the center of a pile of black muscle, adorn the bed.

And they remain thus, unmoving, except for their panting as they recover their breath.

And they remain thus, unmoving, recovering, their minds trying to assimilate the impressions, to absorb what has just happened.

And they remain thus, unmoving And the phone rings.

And only with great difficulty does Chaka manage to extract head and arm from under the pile to reach it.

"Yeah ... That figures. The hell he think would happen? He doesn't own the fucking neighbor hood ... That bad, huh? ... Okay.

"Who's on tonight? ... Then it doesn't get any better than this ... You don't do a fucking thing except be ready.

"Ciao, baby."

8

"Best there IS. "In never-ending supply, it that's what you want," Chaka says. "And I think you know now that I can deliver."

"Think he'll see us?" Cynthia asks.

"After a day like today?

"Oh, he'll see you.

"He needs an ego builder right about now, and you two are it.

"You understand what to say now?"

"Perfectly."

"Do this for me. You won't be sorry."

"I know.

"If I thought I would, I wouldn't do it. "Just one thing, though."

"Name it."

"Chlorine and Westphalia." Chaka smiles.

"No harm will come to them." And a new respect for Cynthia shows in his eyes. She understands perfectly what is about to happen.

Understands and is willing to go along with it, without tangible reward.

Because Chaka does not deceive himself concerning Cynthia and Helen.

This is a lark, a spree, a diversion.

This is not a permanent preoccupation.

Nigger fucking never is.

The taste may recur, probably will.

But as a steady diet?

Never happen.

But this also he respects.

Because he lives in a world where nothing is permanent or constant.

He lives in a world where everything keeps moving, changing.

Above all, that part of it with which he is concerned.

Any professional soldier will tell you that the surest way to get killed on the battlefield is to stand still in the line of fire.

The object of the game is to keep moving.

Open a packaging operation, close one.

Limit the hours of the day of distribution and keep changing them.

Do it one way this time, another the next.

Only thus can survival be maximized.

Not guaranteed, maximized.

If there were guarantees, he would not need Leroy.

No, he would not need a smart mouthpiece to perform rescue missions, to get people out on bail before they can be interrogated.

Or to reassure people, to calm them down, even in the midst of the trouble of a lifetime.

So that they will accept their sentences as the best obtainable under the circumstances.

So that they will keep their mouths shut without further action being necessary on his, Chaka's part.

No, the only thing guaranteed was a steadily growing personal fortune.

And the only way to guarantee that he would be able to enjoy it would be early retirement.

Because he would not be like the others, greedy, blind and foolish in that greed.

No, regardless of income, there would come a point in time at which he would seek the blessing of Big Jeff and get out of the business.

To do otherwise would be merely an elaborate and sophisticated form of suicide.

Nevertheless, this was what the others invariably did.

And where they made their fatal mistake.

Because if the law didn't get them, then rivals would.

Take Rex, for example.

And Chaka smiles.

Because that's what this is all about.

They are about to take Rex.

Big Jeff was indicating that this was the only way for Chaka, for any of them to solve their problems with Rex and his megalomaniac ego that was risking everything.

And if Chaka could manage that The king is dead. Long live the king.

Yes, Chaka would retire.

But his special retirement would be his abdication as king.

He would be the only guy in this business to go out a winner. If this works.

* * * * *

They are in a cab.

That is, it looks like a cab, right down to the meter.

At one time, in fact, it was. But the meter no longer works. And the medallion is a phony. As is the driver, who is one of Chaka's fortunate five.

As they follow a Cadillac.

Which contains another of the inner coterie.

Who has an appointment with Rex.

Who will, with surly bad grace, receive him.

Because Rex's mid-day dalliance resulted in an aggregation of high-level distributors cooling their heels on the sidewalk outside Rex's condo.

Which attracted the notice of the police.

Who took advantage of so distinguished a gathering to serve several warrants.

Which upset Big Jeff, he who is, in Chaka's words, "above them all", no end.

Because this is but the latest example of Rex's arbitary and high-handed handling of their mutual interests.

And Big Jeff has passed the word.

The next major distributor to be kept waiting, or, as Chaka has had to do, pick up from another source, will cause him to consider organizational changes of a serious and far-reaching nature.

So the man in the Cadillac, Chaka's buyer, will be received without delay.

Even though he is on the heels of, at the same time as, two beautiful, white socialites ready (naturally) for seconds.

So that much will happen at once.

But nothing that Rex's security cannot handle.

That is, if they know what's good for them.

And certainly, Howard, the head of that securit knows what's good for him.

* * * * *

"So? What do I care? Send 'em all up! "I mean, we talkin' Phil, right? "Don' wanna see that sumbitch nohow, cep'n gotta.

"Let 'im see what the king gets by way of nookie, so's he kin tell Chaka how the othah half lives."

"I don' know, Rex. "Seem to me you oughtta-"

"The fuck is this?

"Evahbody inna whole worl' tellin' me how ta operate?

"You open them fuckin' big black lips an' tel Bruce send 'em all up.

"An' you search Phil real good, you hear?

"An' you two," he adds, fuming to Chlorine and Westphalia, "you jus' keep the fuck our the way."

And they, who have never been in the way, just look at him, puzzled.

And think he's losing it.

So they retire to opposite ends of the huge, overstuffed couch, which is Rex's equivalent of a throne.

While Rex himself is (regally) seated in the center, behind the low, glass table, its surface occupied by twenty boxes of Jolly Clown popcorn.

Or, more accurately, twenty Jolly Clown popcorn boxes.

And, it must he admitted that, upon inspection, crack does resemble broken puffs of popcorn.

So that Jolly Clown is poor product indeed, to look upon.

The man outside the door is already dead.

And Helen cannot help but gaze in horror as he slides down the wall, even though the pattern of his sportshirt covers the small hole in his chest which Phil's silenced pistol has put there.

And Howard is at the bullseye, looking at Phil looking at him.

And Howard opens the door.

To admit Phil, gym bag in hand, along with the two women.

"Check the bag, check the bag!" Rex tells Howard, impatiently.

Howard checks the bag.

"Nothin' but money. Rex."

"And the man! Check the man!"

Shrugging and grinning, Phil turns around and places his hands on the wall, spreading his legs in the classic police suspect search stance.

As Howard, holding a pistol on him, feels Phil up and down.

"He's clean," Howard says. "Trouble is, ah ain't."

And plugs Rex neatly between the eyes.

So quickly that Chlorine and Westphalia do not have time to scream, in fact seem to have trouble understanding what has just happened. "Uh, you two might wanna get your things together. Fast. You're moving."

"Where, where-" Westphalia stammers, not moving.

"Just move ass, fool!" Chlorine says. And they go into the bedroom to pack. . "Popcorn?" Phil asks.

"All in shopping bags. That closet," Howard replies.

"Chaka says, 'You win'. All yours."

"What about Bruce?"

"Up to you.

"Wanna take him with you to LA?"

"I'll think about it."

"I never counted on getting into anything like this," Helen says.

"Don't feel bad," Cynthia replies, "neither did Rex."

"But-"

"Show ya something, kiddo." And Cynthia digs behind the rear cushion in the couch beside the one against which Rex sits, looking as unpleasant as he had sounded just before he lost the ability.

And pulls out an Uzi.

"How, how did you-"

"The point, Helen, is that Rex was prepared to waste you, me, or anybody else in the twinkling of an eye.

"We're talking Idi Amin here.

"Who do you want in charge of crack in this city-Chaka or Idi?"

And Howard, Phil, and Helen look at Cynthia, then at each other.

"Best give me the toy," Howard says.

And takes it from her.

And only now does Cynthia realize what she has said.

She has assigned good guy status to Chaka.

To Chaka, who has manipulated her expertly.

To Chaka, who has made her an accessory to double murder.

And even Howard and Phil would not go that far.

"Helen, could we go home right now, right this very minute?

"We can get your car out of Atlantic City some other time."

Howard dies first.

They find him in Los Angeles.

Where his death, not an accident, was described as "drug related".

And apparently, Chaka's retirement plan was defective.

For all his charm, intelligence, erudition, and planning, he failed to outlive his potential. Or perhaps he perished trying to live up to it. Meaning messing with Big Jeff. And Phil?

Phil, according to the papers, is "reputed" to be moving up in the wonderful world of drugs. Moving up.

Like the next round in the magazine of an automatic pistol.

So that he will undoubtedly be the next round fired to its own destruction.

The summer is almost ended.

And the war on drugs continues.

And the war in drugs continues as well.

And the women, who started out with the simple desire for black cock, cannot believe where their adventure has led them, or that they have managed to escape unscathed.

They are in New Jersey.

Cynthia is visiting Helen again.

And now, Cynthia has an idea.

"Know where we went wrong, kiddo?"

"Where?"

"We tried to get too fancy, too sophisticated.

"We were so smart we were actually stupid.

"Leroy was playing head games with us.

"He saw what we were doing as an adversarial game, a challenge.

"He accepted the challenge, rose to the occasion, and won."

"Won?"

"Look what the hell he got us into!

"At no risk, with no direct connection to himself, whatever happened.

"He almost got us caught up in the insane world he uses so well for fun and profit.

"Rex is dead.

"Chaka is dead.

"Howard is dead.

"We were playing with death, for heaven's sake, Helen!

"He had me out of my mind!"

"Almost, Cynthia. Almost. Remember, we got ourselves out of there, out of that world, under our own power."

"By a hair's breadth."

"Case closed."

"Bullshit!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"What I want, I intend to have, kiddo! "And nobody and nothing is going to put me off of it until I'm damned good and ready!"

"What are we saying here?"

"Back to basics!"

* * * * *

James cannot believe his luck. There they are!

And this time, he is with a friend.

So that this will not be dismissed as a tall tale.

He has a witness.

Unless, of course, they don't want to know him.

But, he thinks, in for a penny, in for a dollar.

Naked, he leaves his friend by the shore as he walks up to their blanket.

Naked, they stare up at him, faces expressionless behind dark glasses.

And they can see the doubt in his eyes.

But Cynthia smiles.

"Hello."

"Hello! You remember me, don't you?" There it is, Cynthia thinks. The awkwardness, the density of youth. But she is not going to let that get in her way, either.

Not this time, dammit!

He has what she wants.

It dangles, powerful and enticing, before him.

"I remember."

"I, uh, I have a friend with me today."

"Me too."

"Well, then, I was wondering if we could, ah-"

"We could."

James signals to his friend to come over, eager "come here" motions with his hand. "This is Larry," he says. "Hi."

"You guys ready?"

Larry looks at James, puzzled.

"Ready for what?" he asks.

And James replies, "If I was to tell you, you wouldn't believe it."

Then, to the women, "We are ready whenever you are."

Helen looks Larry up and down.

And finds him on about the same physical level as James.

Which is logical, since they work out together at the gym. He will do.

"No time like the present," she says.

* * * * *

There are not three big, black cocks in her this time. There is only one. And it represents only itself. It is not the macho symbol of an outlaw or a power-mad megalomaniac or a power-mad pseudo-intellectual or a power-mad murderer or even a power-mad professional.

It is long and thick and hard and hot black cock, pure and simple.

Which is what she should have stayed with while she was ahead of the game.

Because this is hers, as much and as long as she wants it.

Down her throat.

In her cunt.

Up her ass.

He is young and strong.

And his friend is there in the bed next to them, with Helen.

So that this is on the record.

So that this is the real thing, and not some waking dreaming fantasy.

So that, for now and forever after, it shall be known that James and Larry have scored the score of scores.

Two beautiful blondes.

Two mature, wealthy, beautiful blondes.

Whom they have eaten and who have eaten them.

So that they will be able to describe, in minute detail, their taste, their feel, their appearance.

So that to the eroticism of the actual experience will be added the stamp of authenticity.

This happened and will be so noted in the pool hall, on front stoops, at the gym, and shooting hoops.

But that is for later.

For now, the important thing is to live the dream. And they are.

Because James has scooped up Cynthia's thighs, doubling her up so that he can suck her big boobs even as he ploughs her.

And still he cannot resist a peek over at Larry, to see if he is watching him.

And they catch sight of each other, watching, checking up on each other, verifying that what is happening;-is happening.

Because they cannot, will not trust to their sensations alone.

They are too exquisite, too exciting, too delicious.

Such feelings only happen in bed, alone, in the dark.

Jerking off and summoning the images.

And now, the images are here.

And for all their solidity, for all the sensations, their reality lies in the confirming observation of another.

The feedback of such observation making it all the more luscious. They ate them, now they are fucking them. And they have seen each other eat and fuck.

And this is just the first of many rounds.

And they find that their staying power too is everything they have dreamed it would be.

Everything is calm and clear and controlled.

They could ride like this forever, driving their beautiful blonde partners higher and higher up the rainbow of sexual pleasure.

With their big, tireless, black prongs.

Which piston in and out of the pink, juicy, parted, stretched labia with an almost mechanical efficiency.

But now, they feel the heat.

And the pleasure is too much for them to maintain control.

And they reach that point at which the next increment of pleasure exceeds in desirability the extension of time afforded by control.

So that their nuts unlock and they surrender to the lascivious sensations that permeate their mammoth meat.

And they are coming and coming.

And none too soon, either.

Because their partners are experiencing multiple orgasms, free to enjoy black cock without any overtones of power and danger.

Black cock as it was meant to be.

Black cock which does not have an attitude, which does not threaten or attempt to overwhelm, to make of itself the representative of forces of struggle or triumph.

It is delicious, simple, and clean.

It is a delightful diversion.

And the interlude continues as the couples shower together, a pair at a time.

Cynthia thinks, There may be bullshit at work here.

But it is divorced from the performance.

Because she really does not care where his head is at, as long as she knows where that cock is and what it is doing.

And now, they are back in bed.

And she does not hesitate, does not object as he turns her over.

Of course he is going to fuck her in the ass.

Of course he is going to make sure that his friend sees the action.

And emulates it.

So that each of them will understand what the other is experiencing and know that they speak the truth, even if it should be embellished by description whose length and detail exceed the act itself.

To have fucked a big, beautiful blonde in the ass, and them not yet twenty-five!

Surely this will do something for them, will give them some kind of power.

Unless.

Unless it is not so much a begetting of power but a calling forth, a summoning of that power which already lies within them.

Because they have had nookie in the neighborhood.

But now, that seems like mere prelude, practice for the main event. Which this is.

And they are certainly proving themselves men of the world.

Because this is the event of events.

And, in the mind of James, there is no question but that it will happen again.

Because they were no more at the beach this time for a tan than was he.

They were looking for it!

It!

Meaning his big, black cock.

And even now, he wonders how much oral preparation he should give her prior to fucking her in her big, gorgeous ass.

Should he stretch her all the way with tongue and lingers, or should he, perhaps, leave things a little tight.

So that she will have something to remember him by between dates.

So that, ready or not, here he comes.

He has -rimmed her, fucked her in the ass with his tongue, and fingered her deeply.

To make things easier for himself, he tells himself.

And not for her sake at all.

"Unnh!"

And he is pleased that she experiences some discomfort as he shafts his long, thick, hard, vibrant, black pole into her, all the way.

So that she must force her bowels to relax, to accommodate him.

But still, the feeling is exquisite.

And she surrenders to it completely, as a hand reaches beneath her to fondle her boobs before working its way back to her juicy cunt.

And she closes her eyes with pleasure.

So that she does not see the two young men exchange glances of triumph at what they are accomplishing here today for the record.

THE END
Black Meat Lust ....(57k)    by Unknown





~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~







.....8769 home .....8771








---

	"Double for Nothing!! Tricks for Free!!!"™ A MrDouble Production: mrdouble

Page Design Copyright � 1998-2011, Mr Double, ALL Rights Reserved    
Stories Copyright respective authors.