If you are reading this book, you are probably not a slum dweller. That is a fact so elementary that it may seem unnecessary even to state... but think about it for a few moments. The apparent paradox contains some profound implications.
Since you are reading this book, you undoubtedly could afford to pay for it. Equally undoubtedly, it probably rarely if ever occurs to you that there are many people in this country who can never afford to buy any book. What to you is an everyday purchase would be to them an unheard-of luxury.
Simply stated, most of the people this book is actually about could not possibly afford to buy and read it.
There have been many great novels about life in the slums (or, as today's popular euphemism would have it, the "inner cities"). To mention Charles Dickens' Olive Twist, James T. Farrell's Studs Lonigan and others, and George Orwell's shatteringly powerful Down and Out in Paris and London is merely to skim the surface. These and many other writers have attempted to "tell it like it is"-and have produced masterpieces. But in spite of their efforts, and the pioneering work of such nonfiction researchers and writers as Studs Terkel, a general ignorance of what it is actually like to live in the slum areas of a major American city prevails.
As publishers of Dansk Blue Books, we do not think it unfair to compare Harry Oakland's The Shamed Socialite with the classics already mentioned. Harry Oakland has lived in the slums of New York and Chicago; he has witnessed shocking incidents of rape, mugging, prostitution, abandoned families, gang warfare and other things almost too ugly to describe. He has seen, over and over again, that where even the most basic necessities of life have to be savagely fought for and fiercely protected, such items as sex exist on the most primitive possible level and the mere idea of such emotions as love rarely occurs to anyone.
The Shamed Socialite is the story of Trish Lovejoy, a seventeen-year-old girl who has had her full share of parental love as well as a great wealth of material possessions. With all this, Trish lacks one thing, and knows it: a knowledge of the lives of people who are poorer than she is on an ordinary, day-to-day level. Trish, like most of us, has a vague awareness of the needs of our impoverished citizens. What she does not realize is that poverty does not merely deprive those citizens of pleasant luxuries; it actually becomes a grinding-down process that produces people who are little better than animals in their basic drives.
Trish begins by bluntly informing her wealthy and socially prominent parents that she is rejecting their upper-class world because she believes it is aimless and hypocritical. She moves from her Park Avenue home to the ghetto district. She sincerely thinks she is going to help the less fortunate whom she considers the "real" people of the world. And once there, her great beauty, dedication and obvious refinement make her an alluring and natural target for a great diversity of ghetto characters.
Trish meets the greediest of political bosses, a man who turns the noblest of motives to his own power-hungry advantage. She meets the black activist who does not know where his own actions will lead him, but only feels that he has been wrongfully hurt and wants to exact his revenge on the entire white race. She meets those who ache desperately for the next crumb of bread life will toss their way, and those who strive desperately for any form of recognition as simple human beings. And she meets sex in its rawest form.
The Shamed Socialite is not exactly a pleasant book to read. Many of its incidents are sordid, some are frightening-and all should make those of us who are reasonably well off feel a twinge of guilt. And because the residents of the ghetto take sex as they find it on the most elemental level, some readers will find it a shockingly "sexy" book. But if it is sordid, frightening, or sexy, it is so only because Harry Oakland is an uncompromisingly honest writer, and he has set down here in fiction form the facts of life as he has found them in his long, painstaking, and sometimes dangerous research in ghetto conditions.
Certainly Trish Lovejoy's stay in the ghetto teaches her a lot about sex and a lot about life in general. She does not succeed in everything she sets out to accomplish, but she emerges from her experiences a much more mature person and a complete woman instead of an overly imaginative girl. She has learned a great deal ... and it is our sincere hope that the reader, too, will learn, and gain useful new insights, from reading about her adventures.
One day in the future, perhaps, the slums will vanish, and better living conditions will be available to everyone. In the meantime, we present The Shamed Socialite as a means of enlightenment and a message of hope.
The Publishers
Chapter One
"They ought to be strung up to the nearest lamp post!" The president of the country club had a low boiling point when it came to college students. "Burning a bank! Defying authority! Fornicating in public!" His voice rose shrill and outraged as he barked out the accusations against college dissenters. "What do they want?" he asked no one in particular.
"Someone to listen to them!" Trish Lovejoy retorted, her eyes blazing. She pushed her way through the group of obsequious sheep who would have agreed with any position taken by President Fowler. They stared aghast at Trish. The mother and father of the impulsive seventeen-year-old girl tried vainly to stop her. Now they could only watch and listen with extreme disapproval. And trepidation. The party was being held on the lawn in back of their Park Avenue residence. The town house had recently been acquired by Trish's father, a johnny-come-lately to the ranks of the millionaires. And as one of the nouveau riche, it was extremely important to Mr. and Mrs. Lovejoy that he receive approval and acceptance from families who had enjoyed wealth and position when he was just another hustler with an ambitious wife. He had sent Trish to the most expensive college in the country. To his horror, she had returned for the summer, a revolutionary who could no longer accept the values of a society that she branded corrupt and phony. Both parents had begged Trish to stifle her alien and dangerous views during the lawn party. And she had promised. Now she broke that promise.
But the president didn't seem to mind the stand taken by the girl. He looked approvingly back at Trish. He especially approved of the chestnut-colored hair that hung loosely down to a waist so narrow he could have encircled it with both hands. The watery pale eyes of the president focussed on the swelling breasts which the restrictions beneath the blouse couldn't conceal or distort. There was no doubt that the breasts of the girl were large and well-developed with spear-shaped nipples that almost pierced through her blouse. The hips of the girl flared out dramatically and fused into a pair of curvaceous ass cheeks that were breath-takingly apparent beneath the pair of skin-tight hot pants. But the lips of the girl held the president's eyes with unabashed admiration and curiosity. And finally, lust. The flesh of the girl's red, full, perfectly shaped lips appeared to have a texture identical to velvet. And without any conscious effort from the girl, her lips radiated images of fellatio; the deliciously soft lips enveloping a cock so turgid the bone strained to burst through the flesh. A montage of female lips-on-cock images shuttered through the mind of the president until a unique sensation oozed out of the pit of his genitals. His penis stirred, and then charged stiffly upward. All of this happened in only a few seconds despite the gray, balding head, the widening girth, the ruddy complexion of the dedicated drinker, and the look of anxiety etched into his flabby face from all of his many fears; the fear of impotency, of growing old, of losing his position. But now, in the presence of this young girl, he felt young again; young and confident. And horny.
President Fowler stretched out his hand. "The young and beautiful daughter of our host and hostess. Charmed," he murmured with an easy smile.
Trish hesitated, and then shook hands with the president. Her first instinct had been to recoil and refuse the hand of friendship from a man who symbolized everything that was rotten and corrupt. But then Trish remembered that a man's hands revealed much of his character.
And she was fair-minded enough to give him the benefit of the doubt. The flesh on the bulky hands of the president was soft, but just beneath the surface there was plenty of hard bone. On one finger there was a diamond ring worth more than the average worker earned in an entire year. The hand of the president confirmed his character as far as Trish was concerned; soft, stubborn and clinging blindly to gaudy ornaments which blazoned his wealth and position.
Trish was about to withdraw her hand when the president, in a most discreet manner, touched the center of her palm with the tip of his forefinger. Then he waggled the fingertip back and forth in a way that could have only one meaning; he wanted sex. One of his weak eyes fluttered down in a conspiratorial wink.
Blood flushed into Trish's face until it turned crimson. Sparks flew out of her eyes and she had great difficulty in choking off the words that struggled to roar out of her mouth. Words like "dirty old man," "sex fiend," and an even more biting indictment, "establishment degenerate." Trish constrained these epithets. Instead she returned to the earlier question posed by the president; the question regarding rioting college students and the meaning behind their wrath.
Trish yanked her hand from the president's grasp, and her pretty nose wrinkled as though the older man didn't smell too good. She spat out her answer. "Students want a better world in which to live. They demand a better world. And they're going to get it even if they have to tear down the old, rotten world which still tolerates wars, hunger, neglect. A world that worships phony gods such as status in country clubs!"
Fowler looked dismayed. The girl was attacking the important role of country clubs in the country's cultural environment. And the country club was his bread and butter, his entire life. The man's thin lips snapped tightly down over his dentures. His penis softened and slid back to its normally wrinkled and pitifully small condition. "You can't mean what you're saying," he blustered. "You're old enough to know right from wrong, young lady!"
More people started to gather around the girl and the president. On the edge of the throng, Trish's father ran an agitated hand over his carefully styled hair that was supposed to impart a carefree appearance to his normally harried-looking face. "She's stabbing us in the back," he moaned to his wife. "My own daughter, a thankless viper."
Trish's mother looked equally as distressed. Mrs. Lovejoy was wearing a Parisian original that had been purchased especially for the lawn party. But she was the sort of female who could make a five-thousand-dollar creation look like a bargain basement special. Despite the hours of preparation, she still looked like hell. Trish was the one with the natural beauty and flair that could fit easily into high society. But she was throwing it all away on a bunch of freaky revolutionaries with crazy ideas. The thought enraged her, and she grabbed hold of her husband's hand. Together they charged through the gaggle of people that surrounded the president and Trish. Emerging into the center of the crowd, Trish's father pantingly informed the president, "You'll never win an argument with my daughter. She's the great ail-American put-on."
The president looked blank. "What d'you mean by that?" he snapped.
Trish's mother laughed nervously. "Our daughter talks revolution out of one side of her mouth. Yet she insists on buying five-hundred-dollar original dresses. In fact, she's the best dressed revolutionary in America. She drives to all of the meetings in the family Rolls."
Laughter bounced over the crowd. Most of the others had revolutionary sons and daughters to contend with also. By laughing at Trish, they were trying to laugh away their own fears and worries. And to further placate the president, Trish's father announced that he was making an unusually large contribution to the golf fund.
The president's anger receded. Now that he was convinced that Trish was just another normal but mixed-up college kid, the desire for her body flushed back into his blood again. Or, to be more specific, the image of Trish's mouth over his cock returned to stroke his penis into another erection. The tingle of his enlarging cock bone made the president's face glow, and his lips parted to form another toothy grin.
And aglow with anticipation of a young girl's mouth on his cock, the president raised his hands in what he considered a most magnificent gesture. "Peace," he smiled to Trish's parents. "Children will be children." Still, Trish had given him a few bad moments with her put-on. Rationalizing, the president decided that it was only fair to get a stomach-churning blow job off the girl. And sizing up the situation, he came to the conclusion that Trish's own parents would gladly assist him in such a worthwhile goal.
And to make certain he'd receive the necessary cooperation from Mr. and Mrs. Lovejoy, the president slipped a comradely arm over the shoulder of Trish's father. "That matter of your permanent status in the club is coming up next meeting," he informed the man. "I'll do everything in my power to make sure you're accepted."
Trish's father turned white. The president had offered his support in such a vague way that his acceptance in the club was not a foregone conclusion. He decided to be perfectly frank with the president. "It means a good deal to me to be accepted," he said.
Fowler winked. "I'll help you. You'll help me. Cooperation is the name of the game, isn't it?"
The other man looked puzzled. "But how can I help you? Just name it. I'll do anything for your help."
The president beamed. "I was merely talking in abstract terms. Don't worry about your election into the club now. Let's enjoy this wonderful party. I feel great, and I want to stay that way." As the president spoke, he opened the jacket of his suit and exposed the fly area of his pants. Trish's parents couldn't help but notice the bulge between the legs of the president. By now the protrusion was as large as a man's doubled fist. Trish didn't notice. Her eyes were boring into the face of the aging man who symbolized everything she stood against.
But Trish's mother was too astute a woman not to understand the president's intent immediately. She shot a meaningful glance at her husband, who nodded. He, too, understood. The president had designs on their daughter, Trish. To be more specific, the president was on fire to fuck Trish. He already had a bone on. And when he unbuttoned his coat, he was purposely exposing his lust. The president's idea of cooperation was assistance in helping him screw Trish.
Despite the fact that not a word was uttered regarding the president's sexual needs, the communications between the man and Trish's parents were vivid and unmistakably clear. And from the look on the president's face, it was also plain that he was delivering an ultimatum. Either he fucked Trish, or else he'd blackball her father from joining the country club.
Trish's parents held a silent but spirited conversation regarding the president's ultimatum. They knew each other well enough to communicate with their eyes, hands, and complicated body language. Neither parent believed for a moment that Trish was still a virgin. They'd heard about promiscuous college students, and especially the acid parties thrown by the freak-outs. And they knew Trish consorted openly with the longhairs and the freaks that attended her university. Both of her parents came to a swift and unanimous conclusion. If their daughter was giving her cunt away for free to the longhairs and the freaks, she might as well give the president a piece of her ass. At least she'd be helping her parents. Membership in the country club was vital for both business and social reasons. And raising Trish to become a Park Avenue socialite was going to take more money than earlier anticipated. By agreeing to the president's ultimatum, they were actually helping Trish. And when this rationalization was agreed upon, both man and wife nodded to the president in a way that could have only one meaning. "Yes," they said in their silent but crystal-clear way, "you may fuck our daughter provided you secure our membership in the country club."
The president quickly nodded in agreement. And now that the terms were mutually acceptable, it was up to the man and his wife to deliver their daughter's naked body to the lecherous old president.
Trish's father placed an arm around her shoulder. "Darling," he said to Trish, "why don't you show the president around our humble home?" And before Trish could object, he quickly added, "I'm sure the president respects your opinions regarding our rebellious college students."
"Peace," the president murmured.
Trish's father continued, "And I think you respect the views of the president."
Trish's mother put in quickly, "Our daughter is extremely fair-minded."
The president rubbed his hands together. "I'm all for a stroll around your lovely grounds and home. It will give me a chance to understand the views of the young people." He asked Trish. "Or are you afraid of a little open debate where our respective ideas can be exchanged openly and honestly?"
The three older people had backed Trish into a corner. Now she had to escort the president around the grounds of her parents' mansion. "I'm not afraid to debate my views with you or anyone else," she informed the president in a curt voice. She could have been mistaken about the actual meaning of his handshake. But she'd be on her guard when she escorted the old man around the place. At any rate, there were plenty of room-to-room telephones. If Fowler made any advances towards her, she'd be able to phone her parents.
The president took hold of Trish's arm. "Good," he breathed with relief. "I'd like to really understand why you young people are so riled up and go around burning down buildings." They proceeded to walk away.
"Take your time," Trish's father called after the retreating couple.
"Don't come back until you've seen everything," her mother sang out at the president.
The president called over his shoulder, "I have every intention of inspecting every nook and cranny of your lovely property."
"It's all yours to enjoy," the couple replied in unison.
And so, with a smile, a nod, and a firm grip on Trish's arm, the president guided the young girl away from the crowd on the lawn.
"I'm supposed to be leading you," Trish said, annoyed at the clawlike hands in the flesh of her arm.
But the president steered Trish back to the house. "I was hoping we could discuss the generation gap in the privacy of your library. That is," he added slyly, "if you're not afraid to hear my side of the issue."
Trish looked up at the aging man at her side. His face was flushed, his eyes were aglow. He seemed to be genuinely excited at the prospect of talking to her. The man was sincere, Trish decided. And if she could only win him over, the wealthy and influential country club leader could do a lot of good for youth groups. Most of youth's rage stemmed from one salient factor: the indifference of the older generation.
In the book-lined library, the president sat down in an easy chair opposite Trish. He was going to have to go slow, he decided. The girl was sincere in her desire to help others less fortunate. And this was the theme that the president seized upon. He, too, wanted to help young people but didn't know how to go about it. "My own youth was rather sordid, filled with struggle and hardships. Would it bore you if I were to tell you of my own humble beginnings? Then, perhaps, you'd understand how sincere I am about helping young people."
Trish started to warm to the man. All of her own fears and hesitations about his character began to vaporize. "I want to know about your youth!" Trish said sincerely and emphatically. "I just knew that, underneath it all, you were on our side."
The president stood up and then sat down beside Trish on the couch. He took hold of her hand. "I need your encouragement and support," he said.
Trish squeezed his hand. "You've got it," she said quickly. "Feel free to tell me everything."
Fowler smiled sadly. "I'm afraid I'd only shock you. You see, I started life in an orphanage. A most sordid place, I can assure you."
"Nothing you can say will shock me," Trish assured him.
The older man nestled closer against Trish, and could feel her full and shapely thighs beneath her tight-fitting hot-pants outfit. The pants fitted Trish so tightly they appeared to have been painted over her skin. The president's eyes followed the lines of her waist, her hips, her legs. The crotch of the pants hugged the flesh so firmly that he could make out the slit of the girl's cunt. Erotic images sprang full bloom into the mind of the president. The images of Trish's cunt flashed on and off in sharp and detailed focus. In one image, the cunt was a large one with a forest of brownish cunt hairs framing the love valley. The outer lips were thick and red and glistened for the feel of a man's tongue. In another image, Trish's cunt was tight, hairless, and yet athrob for the feel of cock and tongue. To tongue and lap the tight, hairless cunt of a virgin had been an exciting thought for many years now. In fact, when the president had to have intercourse with his own gray-haired and sexually unappetizing wife, he closed his eyes and conjured up the image of a virgin's tight, hairless cunt. In that way he was able to achieve an erection with his wife. But it had never really been a satisfactory experience for him. In fact, more often than not, he faked his orgasm. His wife usually blew her cunt and was too wet to detect his fakery. But he couldn't fool himself. He hadn't really blown his nuts for years. But now, in the privacy of the library, and alone with a tender and curvaceous seventeen-year-old girl, the president resolved that he wouldn't leave the room until he cracked his nuts.
And this resolve was only strengthened when Trish kept squeezing his hand. "Tell me all about your life in the orphanage," she urged. "I always felt there was a more tender side to your character."
Beads of sweat pimpled the face of the man. The shaft of his cock kept throbbing for attention from the girl. But he was smart enough to play it cool. There were ways to win a seventeen-year-old girl to his prick. But he didn't dare frighten her away by being too abrupt and unmannerly in his demands. The president's plan was to make Trish beg for his stiff prick. And now he sighed aloud. "If you promise not to be shocked, I'll try and describe the sordidness of my youth."
Trish smiled. "Nothing you can say can possibly shock me. I do want to try and understand you." She added, "Trust me."
The president now boldly took Trish's hand and held it between his own two clammy hands. "And I'm asking you to trust me," he said. Ever so slightly, he maneuvered the palm of Trish's hand down over the bulge in his crotch. Finally he felt the skin of the girl's hand contact the tip of his protrusion. Bolts of electricity streaked through the president. He shuddered to think of the excitement in store for him when he actually exposed the flesh of his cock and felt her hand drop over the head and shaft when they were unencumbered by clothes.
Trish's mind was so absorbed by the hope of finally understanding someone like the president that she was completely unaware of her hand and the object it was in contact with. The object was the fly of the president's pants. Beneath the fly was his cockhead. And that cock-head was sensitive enough to absorb the vibrations from the warm and sensuous hand of the young girl. He started to speak in a voice that sounded strangled and unnatural. It took every ounce of his willpower to restrain his compulsion to rape the girl. But he was a proud enough man to want her cunt served up on a platter by her own volition. "When I was fourteen years old," he told Trish, "I found out that the orphanage had rather special duties for me. To make a long story short, it was a place where wealthy old women came and hired boys to have sexual relations with them." His eyes darted sharply over Trish's face in order to gauge her reaction. "Do you understand what I mean?" he asked.
Trish blushed as she nodded. "Of course I do," she said and sounded sympathetic. "It even happens at our college. Wealthy old women hang around the campus in order to entice some youngster still in his teens."
"I still feel degraded when I think about it," Fowler continued. By now he had managed to work the palm of Trish's hand down over his pants where the penile shaft was concealed. That shaft was now so rigid and pulsating for action that his nuts felt heavy with boiling cock cream. It was an alien but wonderful sensation for him, since it had been many years since he'd last experienced a satisfying climax. First, he decided, he'd blow in Trish's mouth. Then, if he could get another hard-on, he'd blast her cunt.
Trinity's voice was filled with warmth and affection for the man. "I know how you feel. But get it out of your system. You'll feel much better."
Slowly, cautiously, the president wrapped Trish's fingers around the penile shaft of his cock. Then he squeezed her fingers against his cock. The sensation was so exquisite it brought tears to the man's eyes. But Trish was too charged with emotion to be fully aware of the location of her hand and the havoc it was creating in the mind of the gray-haired man. Her mind and sensitivities were almost entirely consumed by images of the president's youth in an orphanage. "One day a woman came to the orphanage," the president said. "She was over sixty-five years old, and she paid to take me home for the weekend. In her home, I had to sleep with her. To be specific, I had to fuck her." He quickly asked, "Am I shocking you?"
Trish was sensitive enough to feel humiliated for the president. The thought of a lustful, insensitive old woman forcing herself on a fourteen-year-old virgin boy nauseated her. "I'm beginning to understand you," Trish murmured quietly. Her face was crimson but she forced herself to say, "Please continue. And be explicit. It's the only way I'll get to really understand."
The president felt confident enough to press her fingers down hard over his cock. "Thank you," he replied. "To do the woman justice, she was quite handsome despite her age. Her hair was gray, but it was neatly cut and quite stylish. As I recall, she had a blueish tint to her hair which made it exude an aura of sex. And as I remember, she was quite tall, with a figure that still had all the curves in the right places. She was wealthy enough to spend a lot of time in the best beauty parlors. But they couldn't erase her wrinkles or lessen her age, which was getting close to seventy. Still, she craved cock. And that cock had to belong to a young boy."
As the president spoke, he did not for a single instance remove his eyes from Trish. Every word he spoke was selected and modulated to stimulate her passions. And when he thought he detected enough passion in her face and eyes, he'd make an open move to pump a mouth-fuck into her. But at the moment her face remained impassive and he was unable to determine whether he was exciting her or not. He decided to restrain himself a bit longer and continue with the recital of the incident that had robbed him of his virginity. "She lived in one of those beautiful homes with a long, curving staircase. After we had dinner, she asked if I'd help her up the stairs. She had undressed for dinner and was just wearing a robe. I soon found out that there wasn't a thing under the robe. I placed one arm around her waist and she leaned on my shoulder. Slowly we made it up the stairs, but I could feel her tits press up against my shoulder, and my one hand could feel the curve of her naked ass beneath the robe. This proximity of a naked female naturally had its effect on a young and impressionable boy. Despite the differences in ages, I soon had a hard-on. The woman's old eyes fastened themselves on the bulge in my pants. And by the time we reached the top of the steps, she made her move. A move to get to my prick and seduce me."
Trish asked a bit shyly, "Didn't you feel any natural instinct against having relations with a woman old enough to be your grandmother?"
"No," the president replied with emphasis. "I did not. In fact, the thought of screwing a woman old enough to be my grandmother excited me."
Trish felt she understood. "You were taken advantage of by a member of a different generation. Now you're distrustful of all people of different generations. And now that you're older, you're distrustful of younger people. Right or wrong?" Trish asked.
The president frowned. He didn't seem to be exciting Trish's libido at all. But he plunged on with the narrative of his first youthful seduction. And he tried to be as explicit as possible.
"As I was saying," he said, ignoring Trish's question, "the old woman was hot after my nuts. At the top of the steps, she pretended to drop her handkerchief. Instinctively, I dropped to my knees and picked it up. But when I was on my knees the old woman let her robe open and gave me a good look at her naked body. This was the first time in my entire life I'd ever seen a naked female body, and I can assure you I was tremendously excited despite the differences in age.
"When she saw the excitement in my face and cock, she slowly let the entire robe slip off her shoulders. And there she stood, very naked and making no attempt to conceal her lust for my prick. She smiled invitingly like an old coquette and let me ravish her naked body with my eyes. To do her justice, she wasn't badly stacked. She was a rather tall woman, and all of her curves were in proportion. Her tits sagged, of course, and so did the flesh on her ass. Her belly curved, and her arms and legs, although shapely, were slightly bony. She had a profusion of gray hair around her cunt, which was thick-lipped and slightly parted. Her navel was quite large and wrinkled in an erotic way. Then, like a model, she turned around and showed off her ass, which was still curvy with plenty of meat. Gray hairs jutted out of her rectum, and she reached back and pulled on one of them to show me how firmly they were embedded in her asshole. Then she flicked one of her cheeks aside to give me a good look between the ass cheeks and into the actual rectum.
"When she turned around, she took a step forward and stood with her cunt staring me in the face I was still on my knees, and seemed paralyzed. I couldn't seem to move. All I wanted to do was stare at her naked body. But when she stood with her cunt only a fraction of an inch away from my mouth, a strange impulse shook my entire body. No, it was more than an impulse. It was a compulsion. And that compulsion forced me to press my mouth against her hairy cunt. The old woman read my thoughts with approval. She wanted her cunt sucked, and by a boy. Discarding what remained of her reserve, she grabbed hold of my head and shoved my mouth up tight to her cunt.
"At first, I didn't know what to do. All I could feel were hairs biting into my face and eyes and mouth. Then she carefully maneuvered her cunt in such a way that I was soon tasting a sliver of flesh that seemed to be growing out of the cunt. This piece of cunt flesh resembled a miniature prick. At any rate, I noisily sucked the thing into my mouth and proceeded to eat it. She threw back her head and yelled, 'That's right, son. Eat your mommy's cunt, bite it, chew it, lap it.' And while she was hurling these obscenities at me, she gyrated her hips like a stripper and slammed her cunt back and forth against my mouth. Her female cock was thrust in and out of my mouth, which she was using in the very same way a man uses a woman's cunt.
"This, too, excited me. And while she was pumping a fuck into my mouth, I yanked out my own swollen prick and began to stroke it. By fourteen, I was already an experienced masturbator. Her eyes really lit up when she saw me jacking off. "That's right, honey son,' she called out encouragingly. 'Jack yourself off while you eat your mommy's cunt.'
"She soon approached a grinding climax. Staccato-like bursts of cunt, hairs and belly were slammed back and forth in my face as she raced towards her big blow. Cock juices were also boiling within me and surging towards the head of my cock. Finally her clawlike fingers dug into my head as she wrenched at my face in an effort to fuse my tongue deep within her throbbing cunt. And at that moment, my adolescent cock cream, which was hotter than an atomic blast, jetted out the head of my turgid prick. She continued to rock back and forth for several minutes while she was discharging every drop of her come. My nuts continued to pump cream out of my cock for an even longer period. Finally, with her face flushed, she looked triumphantly down at me. 'You're a real treasure,' she gurgled. 'Now come into the bedroom and give your mommy a real fuck like a dutiful son.'"
The president stopped talking and slyly scrutinized Trish's face. This time the young girl's face was nicely flushed, and there was a strange look in her eyes. The president felt that, at last, he had succeeded in exciting her. The time had come for him to put the pressure on Trish and induce her to go down on his cock that was straining agitatedly up against his pants. The president's hands boldly took Trish's fingers and pressed them against the crotch of his pants. A million mosquito-like impulses stung the president to unzip and expose his swollen prick, which hadn't been in such a state of agitation for many years. His goal of all those years was to be realized; the soft and lovely mouth of a seventeen-year-old girl was going to engulf the entire reddish-colored prick, shaft and head alike.
But as the president's fleshy and awkward fingers fumbled for his zipper, Trish spoke, and he hesitated for another moment. "Of course, I really understand you, now," Trish said emphatically. "I really know what you want, and what you must have if you are going to have any inner peace."
"You do?" the president said happily, a bit surprised.
Trish continued with her analysis. "You were seduced by an older woman at quite a tender age. From the very beginning you were attracted to older women. That's why you married one."
At mention of the president's wife, his cock began to sag a bit. She was older than the president, and completely sexless. He had married her for money and no other reason. He hadn't had sexual relations with her for years. And she watched him too closely to permit him a sexual release with other women who were more desirable. This afternoon she had been unable to attend the lawn party, and it would be the president's only chance to attain sexual relief. If he didn't make it now with Trish, he wouldn't make it again for a long time to come. This realization sledgehammered the president into action. "Darling," he said breathlessly, "forget about my wife. At one time in my life I was attracted to older women. Now that I'm old, I want a young girl to fuck. A girl like you!" And with this announcement, he unzipped his fly and let his cock bone shoot out into the somewhat coolish air of the library. Exposed, and with the realization that Trish was eyeing the fleshy appendage, the president struggled to prevent a premature ejaculation. "Make me happy," he begged of the girl. "Suck my cock. Please, please, make me blow in your mouth."
For a moment Trish was speechless as well as paralyzed. She had really believed in his sincerity. And while he had used the most explicit and descriptive language in recounting his seduction by the older woman, Trish was used to hearing such language on campus. It really had no effect on her, or others of her generation. Four-letter expletives were part of the language and accepted by her generation. Now she realized the old man thought he was getting her excited with his earthy description of the seduction. This was another area where her generation and the older one differed radically. But the realization that the socially prominent president of the very exclusive country club thought she was promiscuous and an easy lay filled her with such shame and humiliation that she could only struggle ineffectively to express herself. Finally she was able to scream, "Hypocrite!" at the old man and leap to her feet.
Trish lunged towards the door. But panic and desperation stung Fowler into leaping to his feet and reaching out for the girl. He managed to grab hold of her before she escaped from the library. And as they struggled near the door, the president snapped it locked. When Trish broke momentarily out of his grasp, he wasn't in the least perturbed. He was much stronger than the girl, and he stood in front of the door. She wasn't going to go any place until she sucked his cock. And the excitement of the struggle had also pumped blood into his prick, which was still athrob for the girl's mouth or cunt. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the bookcase, the president was surprised at the way he looked. His gray hair was disheveled, his puffy face was flushed. And yet he looked youthful, alive, and for the first time in many years really charged with purpose and a will to attain his goal. That goal was a young girl's mouth over his prick. And he was going to realize that goal before he left the room.
On the opposite side of the table, Trish tried to reason with the lust-maddened old man. "I won't tell," she said in a shaky voice. "Let me out of here and we'll forget it ever happened."
The president pounded his fist down on the table. "Damn your sweet cunt!" he shouted insanely. "I'm not letting you out of here until you service my prick. He grabbed hold of the shaft with one hand. "Look at it!" he ordered in a strangled voice. "Look how stiff it is. And red. For the first time in years, I can feel the cock juices filling up my nuts. Don't you know how much it means for me to feel my cock in your mouth? And even if I blow in your mouth, I know I can get another bone on to service your cunt."
When Trish remained silent, his voice rose, even more angry and crazy-sounding. "Damnit! You college kids are fucking all over the campus every day of the week. Why is it so hard for you to give me one small fuck? That's all I ask. Why?" his voice wailed, and that voice was stuffed with all the self-pity he had always felt for himself for most of his life.
"But I'm not promiscuous!" Trish yelled back at him. "For the most part, college kids aren't promiscuous. They do a lot of talking, but they don't do it. Most girls my age are just like me. They want someone special to fuck."
"I'm the president of the country club," the old man retorted. "I'm special!"
Trish spat back at him. "You're a selfish, self-centered old man. All you do is think of yourself. Try to help others less fortunate, and you'll get all the satisfaction you'll ever want or need."
"To hell with helping others!" Fowler said scornfully. "I need a blow job by a young girl."
"That's all in your mind," Trish tried to reason with him.
For answer, the president propelled himself over the top of the table and managed to grab hold of Trish around her waist. Man and girl plummeted to the floor, where Trish was pinioned by the sheer bulk of the other's bulky body. "Let me go!" Trish screamed. "I'll never give in. Never!"
Trish's resistance only seemed to fire the old man with increased passion. His fingers dug into the skin-tight hot pants and proceeded to peel them down. If he could get to her cunt and lap it, he kept reasoning, he'd melt away her resistance. The memory of his long-ago seduction by the old woman kept spurring him on. Her excited screams when he mounted her cunt and swallowed her hot, bitter-sweet cunt juices still rang in his ears.
Trish hammered her fists unceasingly over the old man's face and head. But he was more determined than ever to expose her pussy. After he tongued her cunt for a while, she'd return the favor. Of that he was certain. And that's why he kept ripping away at her clothes. Despite Trish's constantly flailing arms and legs, the fists in his eyes and face, the president drove relentlessly towards his goal. Finally, with a groaning tug, he pulled down the hot pants to reveal the creamy, naked flesh of the young girl, which spilled out before the excited eyes of the old man. "Get away from there!" Trish screamed as the president pushed his face between her legs. The space in that area was now exposed, and the president's tongue strained to lap the cunt of the young girl.
Trish was now naked from the waist down, and her cunt was very much exposed to the president's rapacious lust. He managed to wedge his face between the girl's legs and wrap each one around his neck. To his excited delight, the girl was already maturely developed in this region. Although the hair on her head was chestnut-colored, the cunt hairs were jet-black. The erotic contrast of colors excited the old man almost beyond endurance. Saliva already bubbled out around the corners of his lips, and the blood was pounding so loudly and agitatedly in his temples that he was afraid he'd rupture a blood vessel. But he had to taste the young girl's cunt or go out of his mind. And even better, he had to feel her velvety soft lips engulf his hot and sweating prick.
Every time he managed to get his tongue within striking distance of Trish's cunt, the energetic and equally determined girl twisted her body aside and Fowler's mouth rammed down against the floor carpet. Once he hit the floor with such a thud that blood started to trickle out of his mouth and mingle with the saliva. But the taste of blood made him all the more determined to lap the girl's cunt.
The president had become the leader in the Park Avenue community because he had the ability to analyze a situation and then take immediate action. He possessed a sharp and quick mind. And now Trish discovered the extent of this sharpness and quickness of mind. As long as Trish's legs were free, she'd be able to squirm and kick the president's tongue off her cunt. But if those same shapely legs were unable to move, he'd be able to plunge his tongue deep into the cunt despite her screams and protestations.
And now that he understood the situation and had quickly formulated a plan, the president acted-quickly, resolutely, boldly. He grabbed the ankles of the girl, pulled them down to the floor, and held onto them like a pair of clamps. Her freedom of movement was greatly restricted, and she was now completely unable to deny him her female cunt treasure. Without easing his grasp on her legs for a single instant, the president pushed his face up between the girl's legs, which were now spread apart in the shape of a letter V. The girl's screams were muffled under the beating and pounding of his heart. Finally the tip of her moist, black cunt hairs tickled the cheeks of his face, and he opened his mouth as wide as possible. For many years he had been denied the taste of female cunt, for his wife had been a firm believer in old-fashioned man-on-top sex without the slightest deviation. "Cunt," he breathed. "A young girl's cunt. And it's all mine!"
Cunnilingus had been often discussed on campus between Trish and her friends. But it was an act that she had never personally engaged in. She was being perfectly honest with the president when she told him that she could only perform sex with a very special person. And now Trish felt degraded; as degraded as filth.
Trish was no longer making any noise. There wasn't any point, and the effort was only tiring her. The library was in a fairly isolated wing of her parent's mansion. And all of the servants were occupied with the lawn party. Screaming, she decided, wouldn't save her. She had been saving her cunt for a very special person. Now the sight of the sight of the craven old fool with his mouth almost against the slit almost made her heave. She felt no passion for him, no lust, no desire. Only revulsion. And when his slobbering mouth at last made contact with her genitals, she held her head backwards in an effort to stave off an attack of vomiting. Then she heard another voice calling for her. She propped herself up on her elbows. "In here," she screamed out now. "In the library. Hurry on. Break in the door. Get help. I'm being raped!"
At the sound of the other man's voice, the president pulled his already moistened mouth away from her pussy and looked up with a startled expression on his face. "Who is it?" he demanded to know. Certainly it wasn't the girl's parents. The intruder had to be one of her freaky college friends.
Trish didn't reply to the president's question. She ignored him completely. Instead, her eyes were fastened to the door. On the other side of the door, a friend of hers named Acid Head was pounding and shoving and rattling the doorknob. The president leaped to his feet as the pounding grew louder, more insistent, and the door appeared to be giving way under the determined onslaught. Finally the lock broke, the door flew open, and an outlandish-looking creature stumbled into the room.
Acid Head was an apt name for the newcomer. He was tall as a professional basketball player. His face was emaciated-looking, and he had the appearance of an acid tripper who had just returned from dreamsville and was angry with the ugliness of reality. He was wearing a band around his long hair, and a beard all but concealed his face. His raglike clothes looked slept in, and the fact that he needed a bath became immediately apparent to the president who, for the first time in his life, was speechless. Finally he breathed, "Who in hell are you?"
Acid Head ignored the question. Hatred blazed out of his face. A glance at Trish and another distasteful look at the president told him about all he needed to know.. In a slow drawl, he asked Trish, "He try to fuck you against your will?"
"Yes," Trish replied. She had leaped to her feet and pulled up her pants.
"Ain't that just like the old hypocrites from the hung-up generation?" Acid Head asked. "Preachin' law and order out of one side of their mouths, and tryin' to taste a young girl's cunt out of the other side."
The president's cock bone had quickly collapsed, and he now was about to tuck it back into his pants.
"Leave your prick alone!" Acid Head ordered.
Fowler froze. His cock was still very much exposed. "What did you say?" he asked indignantly.
Acid Head withdrew a switchblade from his pocket. In a louder, more emphatic voice, the freakout replied. "I said to leave your prick alone." Then he started to walk over to the president with the knife held firmly in his hand. His intent became quickly apparent to both Trish and the president. "Gonna cut it off," he finally said, and was smiling now. But there was no mirth in his smile. There wasn't a doubt of the sincerity of his intentions. "Cut off your fat, Establishment prick!"
Fowler started to back away. "No," he cried out in a distressed voice. And his distress quickly flared into an inferno of terror. "No!"
But Acid Head kept moving relentlessly towards the president. And when the older man was trapped in a corner, the freaky intruder grabbed hold of Fowler's cock and raised his knife.
Chapter Two
The president blew his nose and dabbed away the few remaining tears from his eyes. Then he waggled an angry finger at Trish's father. "If you set me up as a pigeon, you'll regret it, Amos Lovejoy."
"I'm innocent," Lovejoy burbled. He didn't sound very convincing.
"It's all his fault," Trish's mother angrily pointed to Acid Head. "He's to blame. And don't think we're not going to press charges. Breaking and entering. And robbery." She peered at Acid Head with baleful eyes. "He looks like a hop-head, too."
Lovejoy raised his hands to remind his wife that he was the head of the family. "Please, Brenda. I'll handle this matter."
"Then handle it!" Brenda Lovejoy retorted. "Before your entire future goes down the drain." She cast an apprehensive look at the president.
The five people involved in the near castration of the president were seated in the spacious study of self-made millionaire Amos Lovejoy. The president's cock had not been severed from his body. But he was still in a state of shock from the near tragedy.
Acid Head offered an explanation, a not-too-convincing one. "I only intended to scare the old bugger." The freakout, a college chum of Trish, had at first been denied entry onto the Lovejoy estate. Then he had broken in. He was spotted by a servant. When several estate guards arrived to throw him off the grounds, they found him about to castrate the president. The guards overpowered the freakout and took away his knife.
Trish bounced to her feet. Whenever she was angry, her round, dark eyes always looked coal-black, and her pretty face grew wrinkled with meanness. Now her face looked mean and her eyes were blacker than sharkskin. "I'm going to press a few charges myself," she announced to the assemblage.
Amos and Brenda Lovejoy looked nervous and remained silent. The president found more tears to dab at with his handkerchief. Acid Head looked amused. "Let's start with rape," she said, turning to the president.
"Your word against his," her father very quickly reminded her.
With arms akimbo, Trish looked incredulously back at her father. "Whose side are you on?" she demanded.
Amos Lovejoy smiled feebly. "Your side, darling. But let's not lose sight of the facts. You have no witnesses."
Trish pointed to Acid Head. "He saw the whole thing."
Her mother cut in. "All he saw was you on the floor with your pants down. Of course the president had his penis exposed. But that doesn't make a case that will stand up in court." Jerking a thumb in the direction of the freakout, she added, "And no court of law would believe him, anyhow."
The president maintained, "I had the full and willing consent of the girl. So my flesh is weak. Is that a crime?" he asked with utmost seriousness. Trish whirled towards Fowler. Her fists were clenched, her eyes smoking. Her father leaped up and planted himself between Trish and her would-be seducer. "I seduced you?" Trish asked the president. "Dirty old man!" she screamed at him. "Liar!" And to her parents: "Are you going to bring the truth out about this old reprobate?" she asked in a way that demanded a clear-cut answer.
The clear-cut answer was quickly given her. "No!" both of her parents replied in unison.
Amos Lovejoy explained, "I can't publicly humiliate the president. It wouldn't do a bit of good." As he spoke, Lovejoy caught the eye of the president, who nodded approvingly. The country club membership was not in jeopardy after all, not as long as Lovejoy protected the president.
But Acid Head caught that look of understanding between Lovejoy and the president. For the first time, he offered a comment. The comment was made in the form of a question. The question was directed to Amos Lovejoy, the millionaire, and his wife Brenda. "Did you two affluent members of the upper middle-class Establishment contrive to have your daughter fucked by this lecherous old goat for the sake of a crummy country club membership?" And when he was greeted by stunned silence, he added, "No wonder I trip on acid all the time. What I see in the square world makes me want to puke!"
Lovejoy's face puffed out and turned a color that was slightly darker than crimson. With clenched fists, he turned to confront the freak-out. "How dare you address me and my wife in such a filthy manner? And what gives you the right to stand in my own home and make such an accusation to my face?"
Acid Head placed an arm around Trish. "The right of friendship. True friendship. Trish is a freshman in my college. I kind of adopted her. No." He cut off their question. "We're not lovers. I'm not the type for Trish. And I respect her wants. But us two have got empathy. I've got the same kind of asshole parents who would sell me out for five cents if it would make them look good. And in the same breath, they'd tell me it was all for my own good. My own good," he smiled mirthlessly. "Shit!"
"Get out of my house!" Lovejoy ordered with a rage that he could hardly contain.
"It's gratifying to know," Brenda Lovejoy put in with a stricken look, "that my daughter consorts with such high-class friends in the college that is costing us a small fortune to send her to."
Trish folded her arms. She looked calmly back at her parents, and in an even voice said, "Just answer Acid Head's question. Did you or did you not agree to let the president get into my pants in exchange for a membership in the country club?"
Brenda Lovejoy was about to answer, but her husband silenced her with a severe look and shake of the head. Trish was too intelligent to be conned any longer. At seventeen, it was time that she grew up and faced life as it existed and not as she hoped it could exist. "Darling," he began in a soft voice, "what your mother and I did was as much for your benefit as ours. I'm just a former hod carrier who struck it lucky. Money, I've got. Social contacts, I haven't got. And those contacts mean a lot to your mother and to me. And they'll mean a lot to you."
"Such as?" Trish asked evenly. She was playing it straight, marking time in much the same way as the fighter who intends to land the one big punch at the exact psychological moment.
"Such as taking your rightful place in Park Avenue society. The rewards can be tremendous. And by circulating with the right people, you'll find the right kind of a guy for you."
"And to attain this goal you were willing to let the president get into my pants. Right?" Trish asked. Her voice was so soft and pleasant that Amos Lovejoy warmed to his daughter and felt safe with his answer.
"Yes," he said. "I saw my chance for success and grabbed for it."
Acid Head grimaced. "Grabbed for it," he repeated the words with distaste. "The whole lousy Establishment stinks with those kind of people."
Brenda Lovejoy turned to the freakout, her eyes spitting venom. "Why in hell don't you just drop dead?" she asked with a most un-Park Avenue inflection in her voice.
Amos Lovejoy shrugged. "A freaky copout is criticizing me, a big success."
Trish said sadly, "It's the other way around, father. Maybe he's the success and you're the copout."
"Are you on acid, too?" Lovejoy asked with disbelief in his face.
Trish shook her head. "Acid Head doesn't sell out people he loves. He doesn't grab for things at the expense of others because the time is right." And turning to the president, she said, "A while ago, you asked what young people want. I'll tell you. They want less grabbers in the world and more helpers. Maybe then, with more people helping each other, there won't be rioting, or wars, or people who are hungry." Turning to her father, Trish said, "And without grabbers, there won't be any excuses to humiliate others."
Amos Lovejoy said nothing. His wife and the president were also silent. Trish took hold of Acid Head's hand and led him towards the door. "Let's go," she told him. "I haven't anything more to say."
"Where are you going?" her father finally asked.
Trish turned and faced Amos Lovejoy. "Acid Head and I are going into the ghetto. We want to reach out and help people for a change. Maybe it'll be contagious. And maybe I can convince those people that not everyone up here is a grabber."
Amos Lovejoy turned white. "The ghetto?" he echoed foolishly. "That's where I came from, what I fought all my life to get out of. And you want to go back?"
"I have to, father," Trish said, simply. "I have to help people. Not destroy them."
"You don't know what you're doing, or where you're really going," Lovejoy said, and the distress in his face and voice was very real.
"Let her go," Brenda Lovejoy said with contempt. "Our Park Avenue ghetto girl will come running back soon enough. And she'll become like all the rest of us."
"Never!" Trish and Acid Head replied in unison. Then they turned and walked out the door, with no intention of ever returning.
The elder Lovejoys and the president watched the departing couple through the window. Amos Lovejoy muttered, "Poor kid. She led such a sheltered life. We humiliated her when we let the president make a try for her ass."
But Brenda Lovejoy was still scornful of her daughter. She had once lived in the ghetto, and the stink and feel of the place was still very much with her. "Humiliation?" she sneered. "She'll find the real meaning of the word in the ghetto. Then she'll wake up to the fact that the president's prick would have tasted real sweet in comparison to all the ghetto fucks she'll have to endure."
Fowler's eyes remained fastened on the retreating form of Trish in her hot pants. His tongue flickered over his thin lips. The thought of her perfectly shaped lips over his cock still made him shiver. "I wanted to get to know her," he complained peevishly.
"You will," Brenda Lovejoy assured him. "Our Park Avenue ghetto girl will return!"
Chapter Three
The scars were still there: the charred, gutted buildings, the skeletal remains of steel structures that had been burned, smashed and looted during the riots. The ghetto riots had shaken the entire city. Trish had read about them in college. And when she told her parents about her desire to help people, she was referring to the dwellers in the slums of her own city.
From the window in the tenement apartment that she and Acid Head had rented, Trish had a sweeping view of the entire district in which she intended to live and work. "What's first on the agenda?" Acid Head asked.
"No grass," Trish said, more to herself than to Acid Head, as she continued to stare out the window.
"I've got grass," Acid Head said. "And I've been itching for a smoke."
"That's not the kind of grass I meant," Trish said with a smile. She never questioned the personal habits of Acid Head or any of her friends. If they had a need for grass or acid, that was their hangup. It wasn't for her. Her own personal satisfaction came from helping people. And now she knew exactly how to help the people of the ghetto. "Look out this window," she instructed her companion.
Acid Head peered out and made a face. "It's not exactly the Taj Mahal," he said, pointing to the rows of grimy brick buildings, garment factories, parking lots and gasoline stations-and everywhere the heavy and oppressive layer of soot-peppered smog that seemed to drain the color and life from everything it touched.
"It's not the Taj Mahal," Trish agreed. "There's greenery around the Taj Mahal. There isn't a blade of grass within miles from where we're now standing."
"But this is the ghetto," Acid Head reminded her.
Trish nodded. "True. But where does it say that these ghetto people aren't entitled to a little park, a few shade trees, a little something to remind them of nature, of growing things." And after a pause, "It could be a cool, green place in this dirty asphalt jungle where they could come and take hold of-themselves before they let their rage get the better of them again. What I'm saying is that just maybe a little bit of a park might be able to avert another riot."
Acid Head looked back at Trish with the wonderment and respect he'd never felt for anyone else. Trish was so much smarter than himself. And her beauty had always dazzled him from the very beginning. But ever since he'd adopted acid as a way of life, he'd been unable to raise an erection. Trish was his one great incentive to bust out of the acid trap. "Right on," he said. "A park would be just great here."
"Thanks," Trish said in a soft voice. "I've always respected your opinions. And valued your support."
Acid Head went suddenly shy. It was the only time in his life that he felt tongue-tied. "It's more than your respect that I need, Trish," he mumbled.
Trish nodded. "I know, darling. But I don't love you that way."
Acid Head sighed. "Yeah. I know. If I could only get a hard-on. If I could only give you the kind of fuck you deserve. Then you'd know how much you mean to me. And maybe I'd mean something to you. But I don't blame you for not wanting me when I can't perform."
Trish said seriously, "You're right. I could never love a man who couldn't send me into orbit with his love prick. But we've tried, darling. We've tried. And nothing happened."
"I know," Acid Head said shamefacedly. They had met during the freshman initiation week, and from the very beginning had had rapport. They both agreed that college initiation rites were for very small children, and had ducked out. Later, Trish went up to Acid Head's room, where she had already made up her mind to go to bed with him. The boy was capable of a great love, she felt. And love was something that had long been missing in her life. It was an ingredient that had been sorely lacking in her home life. At seventeen, Trish had experienced many mastubatory acts. But she was still a virgin as far as a cock was concerned. In that room, alone with her companion, she could hardly wait to feel Acid Head's prick slide into her cunt.
They both undressed and stood staring at each other's naked bodies. Acid Head had an extremely tall, lanky frame, a hollow chest, narrow, rounded shoulders, and a cock that hung down halfway between his crotch and his knees. Trish had seen a few exposed cocks, and had once studied painting with live models, but she had never seen a penis as long as the one that hung down between the long, bony legs of her college sweetheart. "It's beautiful," Trish had told him. "Simply beautiful. You'll be the first boy who has ever fucked me."
Acid Head kept looking back at Trish's naked body as though he wanted to devour her with his eyes. Her dark red nipples were shaped like long, thin pyramids. The flesh of her breasts was firm and edible-looking. There wasn't an ounce of fat on her lithe, shapely body. The stomach was flat, and the hair that curled up around her cunt seemed to have magnetic qualities. Each and every curled hair seemed to pull Acid Head down towards the girl's cunt. And when she turned around, he had gasped at the perfect shape of each ass cheek. This was one girl whose ass he could tongue and love every minute of it, he thought at the time.
But Trish was not a beautiful statue to be stared at. She was a girl, almost a full-grown woman. She wanted a male penis, stiff and throbbing and alive for cunt. Acid Head's cock remained soft. And it continued to remain soft even after she played with it, sucked on it, tongued it. And even after Acid Head had licked her cunt, lapped her ass, and attempted to blow her with his mouth, his cock still remained flaccid and lifeless-looking.
Now, alone in their tenement apartment, both girl and boy remembered that moment. A humiliating moment for Acid Head. A frustrating moment for Trish. She had finally had to masturbate to reach a climax. It was a moment in their lives that they seldom referred to. But now Acid Head wanted to talk about it. "Acid turned me into a eunuch, a creature without balls. You're the first girl I've had a desire for since I've been acid tripping. And believe me, I want to go straight again. I want to taste your cunt. I want your love. The kind of love a girl feels for a normal man."
Trish touched the boy's arm. "Don't torture yourself, darling. Someday, perhaps. And until that day happens, I'm not giving myself to anyone else. Now forget it. We've got work to do. We're going to build us a park in the ghetto."
"Groovy," Acid Head said. He took the girl in his arms. "Promise me you'll wait. Hope for you is the only thing that keeps me going."
Trish kissed him lightly on the lips. "I'll wait, dear. Now get your mind off it. I'm only human. And that cock of yours is something I've wanted for a long time."
Acid Head turned away and looked out the window again. "That park of yours," he mused. "We'll need help to get it going. My old man has got connections downtown in city hall. As much as I hate his guts, I'm going to ask for help. I won't be asking for myself."
Trish took hold of his hands. "That's why I love you, darling. There isn't a selfish bone in your body." She nodded. "All right. Go see your father. I'm not proud. We can't afford to be. The poverty and neglect down here is high as a mountain. And we're going to need all the help we can find to get it moved."
Acid Head started for the door. Then he stopped and thought a moment. "Just happened to think of something," he said. "The guy who owns this fleatrap of an apartment house. His name is Turk Crumm. He's a wheel in local ghetto politics. A ward heeler of some kind. But he's got connections with the big boys downtown."
Trish sounded elated. "He'll help us!"
"Maybe," Acid Head said. "But he's worth a try. Put a bug in his ear about the park. Get his reaction. He could be a big help if he wanted to be."
"I'm on my way," Trish said. And immediately after Acid Head left, she phoned the landlord, who was indeed listed in the directory as Turk Crumm. When the landlord didn't answer the phone, Trish walked down the steps to the first floor, where the owner's apartment was located. But a cleaning woman, slatternly in appearance and with a lewd look on her wrinkled face, informed Trish that "Crumby Crumm's in the basement."
"Would he mind if I disturbed him?" Trish asked politely. She was going to show everyone in the ghetto that she respected them regardless of their occupation.
The cleaning hag cackled at Trish's question. Then, eyeing the young girl up and down, she nodded approvingly. "Crumm ain't the type to turn down young pussy."
Blood rushed into Trish's face. The old woman's reply knocked the wind out of her for a minute. Then, recovering, she decided to dismiss the old crone as merely an eccentric. She was probably given the job out of the goodness of Mr. Crumm's heart, Trish rationalized. Then, without another word to the woman, Trish walked past her and found the way to the basement stairs.
It took a few minutes for Trish to get adjusted to the dark and musty-smelling area that was crammed with empty crates, old newspapers, and, it seemed, enough worthless junk to allow the owner to go into the business. There was no sign, however, of Mr. Crumm. Trish began to grope her way past old dressers, discarded washing machines, and kitchen tables with missing legs, but still there was no sign of any life. She was about to call out for the landlord when she heard subdued voices that floated over to her from behind the furnace. Something inside Trish warned her to remain silent and on guard, but she continued on her way. Finally she was able to make out the shape of two reclining figures. As she moved stealthily forward, she was able to definitely identify one of the figures as Mr. Crumm. The other person was a big-hipped black woman. The woman Trish recognized as a tenant in the same building who lived on the third floor with her husband and several children. Trish took a deep breath and remained very still. This episode, she decided, would help her determine the character of Turk Crumm. And Trish wasn't beneath a bit of honest blackmail if it meant getting Crumm to help with the park.
Trish sucked in her breath. She wasn't quite prepared for the scene that almost leaped up at her from the basement floor. Both Crumm and the black woman were naked. And both were engaged in a rather heated argument. Although the couple were completely nude, they had apparently struck a snag in the financial arrangements. The black woman had misunderstood Crumm's original intentions regarding payment. Or Crumm could have lied in his teeth. "I ain't giving you no free month's rent for one lousy fuck!" he said, and there was determination in his face and voice.
"You lousy, lyin' bastard," the black woman retorted. "You gets me down here, takes off my clothes, and then chickens on the payment. You're like all those whitey assholes. Well, no free rent, no fuck," she said emphatically, and struggled with her enormous bulk to stand up and dress.
Crumm reached up and pulled her back down beside him again. "Cool it, Hazel," he ordered. He was used to giving orders, and more used to having people scramble about when he spoke.
"Set your ass down, and hear what I got to say!"
The huge, black, cushiony cheeks of Hazel's ass bounced back onto the mattress. But she pushed Crumm's hand from her waist. "Talk, white man," she said, still miffed. "And keep your hands off my hide."
Crumm nodded. He respected people who could bargain with authority. "Spoke to some people downtown. They're gonna find a job for your husband. In short, he's gonna be comin' home with some bread instead of some white woman's cunt juice all over his fly."
Hazel thought about it for a moment. Having a husband come home with a paycheck would be a new switch. And a welcome one. And she knew that Crumm had the kind of political connections that could get her worthless husband a job, and a steady one. Her entire attitude changed as though she had been touched by a magic wand. "Gee, honey, that's real sweet of you. 'Course," she added with a flirtatious smile, "you'll throw in a new dress too for a piece of my chocolate-coated sugar."
Crumm thought a moment. Then: "Provided you fuck me twice a week. And every week."
"Deal," Hazel said with a broad smile on her lips. "How do you wants your fuck?"
From where Trish was hiding behind a large packing crate, she felt slightly nauseous. There was no love here, and not even much affection.
Two rather grotesque naked bodies, one white, the other black, rubbing against each other for an exchange of goods and services. Of course she realized that this sort of thing happened on Park Avenue and many other kinds of avenues in the big city. But this agreement for sex between the black woman and Crumm was made with such dispassion that the entire scene chilled Trish. They were too concerned with the material aspects. Now she became more determined than ever to build a park in the ghetto. Perhaps if these people could get out to a place where there was grass and trees and flowers, they'd become more attuned with nature. They'd grow less crass, less cold, less selfish. But selfish or not, she had to inwardly agree that Crumm and the Negress were enjoying the feel and sight of each other's naked bodies.
To do the black woman complete justice, Trish had to admit that she had a certain animal-like grace and beauty to her. And now that she could see more clearly in the gloom of the basement, Trish was surprised to realize that the black woman had quite a handsome face. Her black tits were pendulous and hung down almost to her erotically wrinkled navel. And although her skin was black, the nipples of her tits were even blacker. Those nipples were now erect and porous-looking. She fell into the arms of Crumm, whose one hand smeared itself over the broad expanse of the woman's cheeky ass. The feel of ass flesh excited Crumm, for he kept kneading and pulling on the ass like a baker shaping dough. And every now and then his fingers would plunge into the valley between the cheeks. They'd penetrate deep into the woman's asshole. And when they did, Hazel would squirm and maneuver around to assist the penetration. The rectal tube was one of her more erogenous zones. And all the while Crumm was probing her black flesh and exploring her asshole, the Negress kept whimpering, "Oh big white lover man, fuck your black cunt. It's all yours sweetheart, darlin', precious. It's all yours, white prick of my heart."
Black female flesh fired Crumm's passions. Black meat! That was his bag. And now he was literally swimming in it, drinking it, eating it. His mouth fastened, leechlike, to a tit. His mouth engulfed the nippled and almost half the entire black breast. Saliva gushed out of his mouth and slithered down the breast. And while his mouth was thus engaged, his fingers clung tenaciously to the area of her black cunt. They were digging, probing, pulling fingers. And finally they located and clung to the sugar located deep in the heart of every woman's cunt. The clitoris! And when Crumm yanked out the black female cock between his thumb and forefinger, his black sweetheart threw her head back and vomited out a groan that came from the very depths of her being. Her eyes rolled back until only the whites were visible in her round black face. "Ohhhh," she babbled on and on. "Tease my cunt. Don't ever stop. Please don't ever stop. Please don't..."
Despite her feeling of total disgust, Trish watched with a certain fascination. At the age of fourteen she had discovered the clitoris in her own body and could play with it by the hour. By manipulating it in such a way between her thumb and forefinger, or between any two fingers, she soon found that she could reach a very satisfying climax. But her own clitoris was quite small, slippery, and difficult to find. Until that very moment, she had thought that the clitorises of all women were about the same size. She couldn't have been more mistaken, as she now discovered. The clit on the Negro woman was in proportion with the rest of her body, which was huge. In fact, there were men with penes that were no larger than the colored woman's clit. And every pore of the black female sex prong was alive with nerve endings which were now in an extreme state of excitation. And that's what created another problem between the white and black couple. "Eat my cunt," the black woman moaned, and her large, black eyes rolled about as though they were transfixed by some ecstatic vision of the white man's mouth lapping her genitals. "Oh, please, white cock man," she kept up her pleas. "Go down on me. Suck my cunt in your mouth. I want to feel a hot tongue wriggling inside my pussy."
Crumm stiffened. This was an unexpected wrinkle that had caught him off guard. And he tried to dismiss her pleas with a brusque order. "Roll over on your back and spread your legs, black woman. I want my fuck!"
The black woman responded by hugging the white man's naked flesh against her black body. The grip of her thick, meaty arms was so powerful, her huge tits almost flattened out against Crumm's chest. Her desires weren't going to be so easily shrugged aside. "Eat my cunt first," she said, and her voice sounded less sweet, less submissive. She knew what her body craved, and she wasn't going to be conned out of it by a slippery white man.
Crumm was in trouble. Light from a basement window slanted down and illuminated the couple. Trish could now distinguish Crumm's features. He wasn't a particularly big man, but his blunt, high-boned face and powerful arms exuded an aura of raw, naked force. Trish couldn't help but think of a storm trooper's heavy jackboot stomping down on the exposed face of some helpless victim: Of course, Trish realized, it took this kind of brutal force for a man to become a political ward heeler in a big city ghetto district. Crumm was going to be a difficult man to deal with. But Trish was busily taking down mental notes about his weaknesses as well as his strengths. Was he cunning? Trish would soon find that out, too. Obviously Crumm had nothing but a stomach-upsetting distaste at the thought of tonguing the black woman's odoriferous cunt. How was he going to squirm out of it and still fuck her as he originally intended?
Crumm took a firm hold of the problem and turned it around the other way. "How's about you going down on my cock bone?" he asked. "Then I'll eat you all you want."
But the black woman was quickly on to his guile and was equal to the occasion. "Why sure, honey," she replied in a voice that sounded too sweet. "I'd just love to taste that white cock bone in my mouth. But you can be sniffin' and lickin' my cunt at the same time."
Crumm's face turned the color of yellowed parchment. "How in hell can I do that?" he asked.
"Sixty-nine," the Negress replied triumphantly. "You eat me. I eats you. That's the only way to go, white cock man."
Trish stiffened. For the first time she was beginning to feel a certain excitement crawl up her spine and tingle in the very pit of her genitals. The walls of her vagina began to flutter. She felt droplets of moisture ooze out of the cunt crack and lodge in the curly hairs that framed her love valley. Of course she had heard about sixty-nine at college. But college kids did more talking than acting when it came to sex. They used up all their energies demonstrating or rioting on the campus. She knew that sixty-nine involved a simultaneous act of fellatio and cunnilingus. But she had never actually seen the act performed. And as imaginative as she was about everything including sexual fantasies, she could never correctly figure out how a man and woman ate each other at the same time. Relishing every moment of her role as the discreet voyeur, Trish slipped a hand under her hot pants and felt her furnace-hot cunt. Her clitoris was in a full state of excited erection. "Ahhh," she murmured in a low whisper of relief when she seized her own female cock with her fingers and gently began to strum it.
At the moment, Crumm was anything but ecstatic. In fact, his penis was already wilting beneath the chilling thought of performing cunnilingus on a black woman. A strong sickly sweet odor flowed unremittingly from the ebony-haired cunt and skin of Hazel. But she was determined to have her way. "Me on you? Or you on me?" Hazel asked in a voice that demanded an immediate answer.
Crumm had bitten way more off than he could chew in the personage of Hazel. But there was still time for him to retreat and call the whole thing off. Crumm was still boss in his own tenement building, and a political power in the ghetto district. But Trish was to learn something about Crumm's character. He wasn't a quitter. He didn't break and run when the going got rough. As it was right now.
"You on me," Crumm replied in a barely audible voice. And then, as though he had finally cornered his guts, he roared, "You on me, black woman. And right now!"
Hazel looked back at the white man with a certain respect in her face. She understood the mental anguish Crumm was experiencing. Yet he didn't turn tail and run. Her own husband was the kind who turned tail and ran whenever the going got rough. Crumm had guts. He was the kind of man she could really go for. When she spoke, it was with a soft and caressing voice. "It won't be so bad for you, honey. You'll see."
Trish, who was massaging her clitoris with a slow, gentle stroke, grew excited enough to increase the tempo of her self-love. Crumm's guts appealed to her too, since she admired strong men. And the anticipation of actually watching a black-on-white sixty-nine excited her enough to generate a series of minor orgasms which could lead up to one terrific climax. The outer surface of her genitals was already quite moist with myriad droplets of vaginal fluid which clung and shimmered brightly in the black hairs of her cunt. And this excitement of her cunt in no way detracted from her firm belief that sex had to be a part of love, or at least affection. As she strummed her cunt, she visualized Acid Head with her, an Acid Head who was potent, vigorous and virile. Acid Head was definitely in her mind. But her eyes remained glued to the white and black couple who were preparing to engage in the sixty-nine kind of lovemaking. Someday perhaps she and Acid Head would be able to treat each other in the same way. Trish didn't want to miss a single detail, for Crumm and Hazel appeared to be experienced sixty-niners.
Crumm was still in a state of minor shock when he stretched out on his back. He looked as though he had just swallowed something very disagreeable. His cock had softened completely, and he approached the task of sucking Hazel's cunt with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner facing the firing squad. His obvious distaste and reluctance were nicely balanced by Hazel's enthusiasm and broad smiling face as she positioned herself for the simultaneous suck-off.
Trish made a mental note of the way Hazel and Crumm arranged their respective bodies. As Crumm assumed the horizontal position on his back, Hazel squatted over his face, but her mouth was aimed at the man's badly shriveled cock. Then she knelt over all the way, took hold of the flaccid penis, and stuffed it into her mouth. Now all that was visible of Crumm's body was his face and legs. Every other part was covered by black flesh.
Crumm's face was not in a very enviable position. The enormous cheeks of black Hazel's ass hovered over his mouth like twin hills of curving black flesh. Her cunt was also a fraction of an inch away from the man's lips. Hazel's genitals, like the rest of her body, were on the gargantuan side. The cunt gash was almost wide and deep enough for Crumm to penetrate with his entire face, and the brushlike cunt hairs were short, stiff and wiry. They fanned out on either side of the slit in such a wide arc that they could have completely covered Crumm's face. And Hazel's clit zoomed out at Crumm with a vibrancy and zest for the suck, as though it was a separate entity with a life and desire of its own.
Crumm ran a hand over each of Hazel's ass-cheeks and pondered the situation. The odor that flowed strongly out of both of the female cavities very clearly nauseated him. And in a few seconds, he was going to have to eat her cunt. He was fast losing his grip on the courage he'd formerly mustered with such great difficulty. But now he was in a more awkward position than ever to back out of his commitment. Panic clawed at his rough-hewn features until he looked as timid and hesitant as a fairy.
Meanwhile, Hazel was attacking his cock with the gusto of a starving man seated at a banquet table. She possessed the typically thick, black lips of a Negress, and now these lips worked to her full advantage. Spongelike in texture, the lips clamped softly down over the reluctant penis and pulled on male flesh until it slowly began to swell out again. And once the penile shaft made its first timid appearance, the woman began to noisily suck on it with the voracious abandon of a cannibal. Slowly, ever so slowly, Crumm's penile shaft slid upwards. And Hazel's mouth was never still for the merest fraction of a second. Once the cock was standing weakly upwards at a semi-vertical angle, Hazel ran her mouth up and down the shaft with the driving force of a jackhammer.
In no time at all, saliva was gushing out of Hazel's mouth and streaking down the man's cock shaft. The saliva must have been hot, for as it began to accumulate, Crumm winced. But the lines in his face no longer reflected anguish. It seemed to Trish that he was beginning to enjoy the mouth-on-cock activities of the frenzied black woman. And this again was reflected in the more rigid condition his cock was assuming.
Finally Crumm was adjusting to the sixty-nine suck-off with the black woman. But then another problem struck him and demolished these early gains in his attitude. Now, it seemed, there was going to be no end to the demands made by Hazel.
Hazel pulled her mouth reluctantly off the stiffening prick and shouted over her shoulder. "Before you eat my cunt, I wants you to tongue my asshole. A tongue inside my ass really sends me!"
"No," Crumm replied in a hoarse, almost terrified voice. "No. Eating a woman's ass. That ain't normal. I'm no goddamn degenerate!"
"Just eat my ass and shut up!" Hazel shrieked in a voice that shook with rage and contempt. And before Crumm could protest further, she slammed both cheeks of her enormous black ass over the white man's face. In fact, the entire face of the man became wedged between the woman's asscheeks. Sink or swim was an adage that was now being rudely demonstrated to Crumm. With his face firmly lodged between the huge asscheeks, he was going to have to perform, or quit and face Hazel's wrath. His mental state was again reflected in the condition of his cock shaft, which slid downwards until the entire penis was in its flaccid, wrinkled and diminutively normal state. And despite the quick return of Hazel's mouth over the cock, the male appendage refused to budge out of its dormant and useless state.
When Crumm had seen Hazel's cheeks moving downwards, he had taken a deep breath and held it. Now, finally, he was compelled to release his breath. And when he did, he made a startling discovery. The odor between the black woman's asscheeks wasn't as stomach-upsetting as he'd first imagined. Cautiously at first, he took another few sniffs. To his utter amazement, he found the odor pleasantly refreshing. And from this first cautious reaction, Crumm was able to arrive at another conclusion, a conclusion based on actual facts instead of prejudgment based on hearsay or a squeamish mental attitude. Yes, if it was possible, he'd shout it aloud. The smell in black Hazel's ass was not only a pleasant one, it was an exciting one. And this new change in attitude was reflected in a resurgence of cock bone, which slid stiffly upwards inside of Hazel's mouth and almost lodged in her throat. Hazel realized what was happening inside Crumm's mind, and she became all the more frenetic in her attack on the prick with her mouth.
On the other hand, Crumm was less hurried, and at almost a leisurely pace began to explore the valley between the cheeks with both his lips and tongue. First he pursed his lips together and kissed the fleshy but firm asscheek.
The sensation filled him immediately with lust. And then, throwing all timidity and caution to the winds, he covered almost every pore on Hazel's cheek with his lips. After which Hazel widened the cleavage by spreading her cheeks farther apart. Then she pressed backwards. There was no doubt in Crumm's mind that Hazel wanted the feel of a tongue thrust deep into her actual asshole. And for the first time in his entire life, Crumm felt psychologically prepared to undertake such a task.
Slowly at first, he pushed his tongue out and proceeded to lap at the ass flesh. The spongelike flesh gave way under his tongue, and then bounced back into place again. This flesh action intrigued him, and soon he was biting, nibbling, and pulling the ass flesh back and forth with his lips. Then, when he sensed that every pore in Hazel's ass was tingling with excitement, he thrust his tongue out as far as possible, contracted the tongue muscles until it was as taut as a spear, and then drove it deep into the cavity. He felt the wiry black rectal hairs give way under the tongue's onslaught. But the hairs didn't stop the forward advance of the tongue. The first penetration of the anus was a shallow one, but Crumm was not deterred. He pulled his tongue back and then drove it forward again with renewed vigor and determination. This time the tongue slid into the anus and down the rectal tube.
Hazel's rectal passage was one of the most erogenous areas in the black woman's body. When the soft clothlike tongue was finally stuffed entirely into the ass tube, Hazel threw back her head as her eyes rolled crazily around and her lips ripped apart to emit a silent scream. The sound of lust became lodged in her throat, and for the moment she was speechless and dazed with ecstatic lust. Now that Crumm had the hang of tongue-fucking a woman's ass, he threw himself wholeheartedly into the performance. Grabbing each cheek with his hand, he thrust his tongue as deep into the hole as possible, and then he pulled it back. As he repeated these in-and-out movements with his tongue, Hazel's ass chamber was lustfully ravaged by the white man's tongue. Saliva spilled out of the corner of his lips and streaked down his chin and throat.
When Hazel returned to mouth his cock, Crumm pushed the woman's ass up a bit, pulled out his face, and then proceeded to attack her cunt with the same educated tongue. This time the black woman almost leaped up to the basement ceiling. But Crumm had a firm grasp of her waist and kept her stationary as he alternately sucked her cunt and her ass. Hazel fell into this movement very quickly. She'd feel his tongue in her ass for a few thrusts, and then she'd lift up and expose her cunt for the same treatment.
In a very short period of time, Crumm's face was awash with sexual fluids; the fluids were secretions from both the vaginal and rectal cavities as well as from his own mouth. The excitement was strong enough to rip at Trish's genitals, and she increased the tempo of her own jack-off movements. And as she strummed her clitoris, she gyrated her hips in the same way a stripper races towards a grinding climax.
Hazel, too, knew she was going to orgasm, and in a copious way. Crumm's prick had enlarged to its maximum dimensions and the color of the penile flesh was a deeper red than the setting sun. "Ohhh," Hazel uttered in a choked voice as the walls of her vagina kept fluttering on the verge of the one tremendous spasm.
Crumm felt cock juices boiling deep within his own genitals, and nothing could impede the gushing flow of his cream as it sought an exit at the tip of his swollen cock head.
Every organ in Trish's body was pulsating for a hot mouth or prick as she continued to frantically pluck away at her clitoris. She, too, was perched perilously on the edge of a precipitous orgasm. And finally it happened. Her vaginal walls shook, and so did every organ in her body. Cunt juices flowed out the slit, and she had to very quickly yank her hot pants down below her knees lest she drench them with her own effluents.
Crumm's turgid cock exploded inside of Hazel's mouth. But she didn't even think of pulling her mouth away. On the contrary, the woman increased the tempo of the suck, for she was determined to swallow every drop of the thick, rich white cream that had spurted out of the head of Crumm's prick. And even after the penile shaft was no longer ejecting effluence, her mouth continued to hungrily work over the cock flesh. And when she noticed several rather large globules of cock cream wedged under the man's nuts, the black woman dipped her head and proceeded to lick the balls until they were shorn of all of the cream. The taste of a white man's cock cream excited Hazel, and the reason was probably rooted in the history of the black woman. But now motivations were immaterial. All that mattered was the act. And the act of sixty-nine had been consummated with perfect skill by both practitioners. Now Hazel rolled off the white man, and the couple remained side by side on the mattress. Both remained silent, and both seemed immersed in their own respective thoughts about the sixty-nine and the derived satisfaction.
Finally Crumm broke the silence. "You still owe me a fuck, black woman."
Hazel protested. "But I gotta make supper. The old man's gonna be back soon."
Crumm didn't argue. The chances of getting another erection on were quite slim. "Okay," he agreed. "Tomorrow, you give me the rest of the fuck. And that don't count towards the twice-a-week fuck you just naturally owe me."
Hazel shook her head sadly. "You don't give nothin' to nobody. You're the tightest white bastard I ever did know."
Crumm chuckled noisily. "I take that as a compliment, black woman. You gets nothing for nothing in this asshole world. And don't you forget it!" Crumm had just stated his philosophy of life, and he warmed to the subject. "I've been hustlin' ever since I was old enough to jerk off. And no one, I mean no one ever give me nothing. And I don't give nothing to anyone 'lest there's somethin' in it for me."
Hazel started to dress. "Maybe that's why I love my old man," she said. "When it comes to makin' money, he ain't worth a shit. But he's always giving something to somebody. Sometimes it ain't no more than a smile or a pat on the back. But giving is his nature."
Crumm spat disgustedly. "Sure it is. That's why the poor bastard ain't got a pot to piss in. And I'm top dog in the district. Even got connections with the big shots downtown." He gave a vicious tug to his pants as he pulled them up.
"Think that one over, black woman!"
Trish was the one who gave the most thought to the philosophy stated by Turk Crumm. The man was selfish, self-centered, tough and arrogant. He gave only if he received doublefold. There wasn't an ounce of charity in his entire makeup. The pathetic little man had been kicked and cuffed by life. Now he was kicking and cuffing his way back. And this was the man on whose assistance Trish had to rely.
Back in her apartment, Trish bathed, powdered and perfumed herself. Then she selected the tightest sweater and pair of hot pants in her wardrobe. She would have preferred to be screwed by a snake, and had absolutely no intention of letting the small-time ward heeler get in her pants. But now she was armed with a few bits of knowledge of the little man's character. The young girl felt she could deal with him effectively. But as her father had lamented when Trish left for the ghetto, "She doesn't know what she's getting into!"
Chapter Four
Turk Crumm threw his head back and roared with laughter. He laughed so hard the tears shone in his eyes. Finally, he slammed the palms of his hands down hard on the desk and looked straight up at the young girl who stood facing him. "A park," he chortled. "You wanna build a park for the poor, unfortunate slobs who live in the ghetto."
"That is correct," Trish said, refusing to be intimidated by the man's ridicule, his sarcasm, his rudeness.
Crumm suddenly stopped laughing. There was a toughness about the girl that suggested a threat to his well-being. She wasn't going to be so easily brushed off. And she could have connections behind her. That he would have to determine, and immediately. "Buildin' a park down here takes dough. You got any bread?"
"No," Trish said bluntly. "I don't have any bread. Not a nickel."
Crumm looked at her curiously. "And you don't work for one of those do-good government projects?"
"I thought I could get more done on my own," Trish informed him, and meant it. She didn't have much faith in bureaucratic organizations. "All I need is your help."
Crumm scowled. "You must be some kind of nut. Comin' into my office without bread or representing some kind of government poverty project. Then you got the gall to ask my help to build a park in this goddamn stinking slum. Who for?"
"The people who live here," Trish replied evenly. "The poor people who live here and have no place to go except the fire escape. Just maybe a park could avert another riot."
Crumm stood up to indicate the interview was at an end. "Parks cost bread. I ain't got none. You ain't got none. End of discussion. I ain't running no charity hall. That's the city's job. Now, if you don't mind running along, I've got work to do. Important work that ain't gonna wait."
"Like the kind of work you do in the basement with married colored women?" Trish asked. There was no change in the expression on her face.
The words froze in Crumm's mouth. He looked as though someone had just kicked him in the groin. His initial warnings about the girl were confirmed. She was tough and determined, and certainly off her nut. She added up to one word, and that word was trouble. "If you think you can shake me down," he said, darkly, "you're gonna be sadly disappointed."
"Blackmail?" Trish echoed, raising her eyebrows in mock surprise. "Perish the thought. But if some of the big boys downtown were to find out their ward boss was having a dangerous kind of sexual relations with a married colored woman in their district, they might be very unhappy with you. In fact, you might find yourself out on your can, and you know it, Mr. Cruram!"
Crum waved a hand for Trish to be seated. Then he sank back in his swivel chair again. The girl was right. The bigshots were sensitive about adverse publicity, especially around election time. However, there was always the possibility the girl was bluffing. "I really don't have any idea of what you are referring to, Miss Lovejoy," Crumm said.
Trish refreshed his mind. "Yesterday. In the basement. You and Hazel. And, oh yes, a little bit of perversion called the sixty-nine."
Crumm grimaced. "If there's anything I hate it's a lowdown snoop."
"I'll admit I was snooping," Trish admitted candidly. "But I'll even stoop to that if it will help the people down here."
Crumm made a face, as though he was slightly upset at the stomach. Girls like Trish were no novelty to him. For the most part they came down to the ghetto to get a piece of ass, despite their lofty motives which they used to delude others as well as themselves. Scrutinizing Trish, he couldn't quite make up his mind about her. Was she really a do-gooder, or was she in reality hoping to get her cunt serviced away from the influence of parents? Trish, Crumm decided quickly, was the kind of dish who would never have trouble finding cock. And there was an aura of electrifying sensuality that the girl naturally exuded. Crumm's eyes danced over the big, shapely tits, the narrow waist, the flaring hips, and the swelling cheeks of Trish's ass. And the shapely, nutcracker legs on the girl were the kind that Crumm like to have wrapped around his rib cage while he pounded cunt. The full, red, and perfectly shaped lips of the girl stimulated him in the exact manner in which they had ravaged the erotic fancies of the president, Crumm kept seeing wild and exciting scenes of fellatio flash before his eyes. The girl was a naturally talented cocksucker. And experiencing a bloodcurdling blow job was Crumm's highest priority, with no exceptions. The ghetto girls were too damned conservative as far as he was concerned. The uptown broads were always more imaginative and skillful when it came to a skin-scorching blow job.
But Crumm was clever enough to play it cool with a girl like Trish. The possibility existed that she could have influential parents or important connections. If he made a wrong move and she hollered, he'd be out on his ass, or could even have a rape charge hung around his neck. And there was always the possibility, also, that the girl was actually sincere and wanted nothing more than to help the ghetto people.
Crumm arrived at a conclusion that he felt would solve his problem with the young, rich and sensually shaped girl who was already making his cock stir by her mere presence. He'd describe the character of the people in the ghetto, the people she thought she wanted to help. And along with that description, he'd throw in a few sexual encounters of his own that typified ghetto life. If she wasn't nauseated, or panting for a hot cock, she had to be a sincere type of do-gooder who intended to stick it out regardless of the obstacles he threw at her. In that event, he'd give her the runaround and get rid of her as painlessly as possible. If she grew nauseated at his description of ghetto life, she'd leave of her own accord. And if she grew naturally excited by all his explicit details of ghetto life in the raw, he'd shove his cock inside her mouth before she left the room. The thought of the possibly impending blow job made his voice tremble a bit as he tried to probe the determined girl.
First he'd try reverse psychology. "The safest thing for you to do, Miss Lovejoy, is to go back home. You ain't gonna help nobody in the ghetto. And I'll tell you why. You're too damned good-looking for your own good. Every man down here who gets one look at the shapely ass of yours will want in, and quick as possible." He peered carefully at the girl to properly assess the results of his frankness. A glow crept into the face of Trish, but aside from that there was no other discernible reaction. And Crumm had no way of determining whether the blush in Trish's face was caused by his blunt language which repelled her or his reference to sex which excited her. There was only one thing to do now, and that was to plunge on and further describe the sex life of a big city ghetto.
But Trish anticipated him. She had already received experience of that nature from President Fowler who had hoped to seduce her with sexy references to his childhood. Trish announced calmly, "If you think you're going to get me all hot and bothered by some ridiculous story involving sex, forget it! Another dirty old man tried that one on me and failed miserably." She smiled sweetly. "So why don't you just help me get the ball rolling, and we'll have us a park down here in no time at all."
Crumm clenched his fists tightly, which he always did whenever he felt angry or thwarted. However, he hadn't gotten to be the ward boss by allowing some seventeen-year-old cunt to outfox him. He stifled his anger and walked around his desk. He sat down on the edge of the desk before Trish who was now seated directly in front of him. He spread his legs as though to emphasize the bulge that refused to soften. He tried to sound reasonable in a tight, restrained voice. "But you ain't got no bread. How do we build a park?" His hand dropped onto his lap in such a way that his fingertips touched the area over his nuts. Every now and then his fingers danced over the cloth that covered his erection.
But Trish paid no attention to such juvenile maneuvers. Instead she plunged on with her plan to build a park in the ghetto. "It's not going to take as much money as you think," she said enthusiastically. She opened her purse and took out a map of the ghetto district. Without permission from Crumm, she spread it over his desk and pointed to a particular area that was already circled in red. "Right here," Trish indicated on the map. "A corner on East Fifth. It's just a vacant lot that apparently no one wants. Right now it's filled with rubbish. I'll find the volunteers and clean it up. I'll even raise the money to plant the grass and trees." She looked up at Crumm. "All you have to do is get city hall to okay the lot as a city park and remove it from the list of city land that's for sale to the highest bidder."
Crumm put on his spectacles and peered closely at the spot on East Fifth that Trish had earmarked for a city park. He was compelled to stifle a laugh. That particular corner lot had already received several bids. But Crumm was holding out for the party who paid him the highest kickback. That particular piece of property represented a tidy little profit for himself. But he said, "I'll give it every consideration, Miss Lovejoy. However, I'm not a type who gladly sticks his neck out to have it chopped off. So don't be surprised if I turn down the plan, as admirable as it may be."
Trish looked at the man closely. "In what manner would you be sticking your neck out to help ghetto dwellers have a park to sit in and enjoy a few hours of every day?"
Crumm heaved a deep and meaningful sigh. "D'you think you're the first do-gooder to come down here for a bit of slumming?"
"I'm sure there have been others before me," Trish replied evenly. "But I fail to see any positive results of their presence. The people down here look miserable."
"They are miserable," Crumm said pleasantly. "'Cause that's the way they like it! For your info, I already built a park for these no-good buggers down here. And what happened?"
"I'm sure you'll tell me," Trish said skeptically. She had familiarized herself with the history of the ghetto area, and had not uncovered any period when a park had been turned over to the enjoyment of the people.
"You bet your sweet ass I'll tell you," Crumm said. "There ain't nothin' about it on the record books now. But believe you me, it happened. There was a park down here. And I was the moving power behind it. And for my pains, I almost got a jail rap hung around my neck. And balls, too," he added for good measure.
Trish's skepticism cracked and began to fall away. The man sounded too emphatic to be making up the story. And he had voluntarily and partially cleared up the reason she couldn't find any record of such a park. Something had happened to demolish the entire park project and make the city hall people erase any mention of the park from the records. But what? "What happened?" Trish asked apprehensively, for her own future in the ghetto depended on the answer.
Crumm relaxed in his chair again. But he tried to look very sober, and sad too, as he recalled the history of a good dead project that went sour and almost sent him to prison. "They tried to hang a rape charge on me," he said. "They accused me of trying to fuck a young girl, thirteen years of age."
"There seems to be no end to your talents, Mr. Crumm," Trish said with open revulsion. Where there was sexual smoke around this slob, there had to be fire, she reasoned.
"I was innocent!" Crumm snapped. "I was framed. That's how everything got dropped and hushed up. But that was the end of the park I tried so hard to build for these no-good assholes your heart is bleeding so hard to help."
Trish folded her arms. "Nothing you can say is going to dissuade me from building a park in this ghetto. But I could possibly profit from the mistakes and pitfalls you already made. Let's have it," she snapped. "And you'd better be telling the truth."
Crumm raised his one hand. "So help me, I wouldn't try to snow you, Miss Lovejoy. But please listen and pay heed to these gray hairs of experience I got the hard way. You can bet your sweet ass you'll benefit from my past errors. Got an idea you'll even turn tail and head back to Park Avenue where you can enjoy life like a nice, normal rich girl. No one will think the worse of you."
"Without the bird seed," Trish said blandly. "Just tell me what happened." She was convinced that Crumm was too coarse a person to be invested with imagination. His story would probably be partly true, she decided. It would be up to Trish to determine the part that was true and the part Crumm embellished upon.
Crumm leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. His voice sounded dreamy s as he reached back into his memory about a park in the ghetto and his near-miss with disaster. "A bunch of do-gooders sent us a bunch of dough with the orders we gotta build a park for the ghetto people." His eyes slid halfway open. "Y'see, you ain't the first one with this park idea for the ghetto assholes."
"And you actually built the park?" Trish asked incredulously.
"The park got built," Crumm said emphatically. "I saw to it personally. Lots of grass and trees, and the statue of a little kid in a fountain with water running out of his dick. I tell you, it was terrific."
"Then what happened?" Trish asked impatiently.
Crumm became melancholy-faced. "Y'see, there was only enough money to build us one John."
Trish looked wide-eyed. "The men and women used the same toilet?"
"Sure. They've been doing that in Europe for centuries. No big scene. And we even got a special permit from city hall to do the same in the park."
"A boy and a girl got caught together in the park toilet," Trish said resignedly.
"A man and a girl, to be exact," Crumm corrected.
"A man?" Trish looked suspicious.
And her suspicions were well founded. "That's right," Crumm replied. "A man and a girl. A thirteen-year-old girl, to be more exact."
"Of course, you were the man," Trish said, more as a statement than an accusation.
Crumm shrugged. "It ain't the way you think it was. Y'see, one night I happened to be in the park. Takin' a stroll like the rest of the ghetto people, of which I am one. I got the urge to take a piss. So I dropped down into the basement John we built for the park. The minute I started to relieve myself this girl walks in. And instead of going to her own side, she just stands and watches me. Or, to be exact again, watches my cock. Can't take her eyes off it. Probably it was the first man's prick she'd ever seen."
"And instead of going about your business, you took advantage of an impressionable thirteen-year-old girl," Trish said, this time with an accusatory tone of voice.
"Wrong," Crumm sniffed. "The kid took advantage of me. At first I couldn't do much when I was leaking. I had to finish and let her look at me with her round, curious, and excited eyes. When I got through and shook the dick a bit, I turned immediately to the kid. 'You ain't supposed to be here while a man is takin' a piss,' I told her.
"The kid just continued to stare back at my cock, and she didn't say a word. She was a pretty little thing with long, blonde hair down to her waist. Her eyes were round and blue, and you could tell that when she grew a bit older she was going to be a real pretty doll. Tits were already pushing out of her chest, and the tight sweater outlined the curving shape of her tits as well as the hard, pointed nipples that must have been pulsating for a suck. The kid was wearing one of those miniskirts which gave me an eyeful of legs that were firm and already shapely. The kid's cheeky ass rolled out at you, and her skirt was so tight I could almost see her asshole. The cleavage between the cheeks were very well defined. And although she couldn't have been more than thirteen years old, there was already a sensual aroma about her. I could almost sense that she thought about cock morning, noon and night. And there wasn't any doubt in my mind at all that she was an expert masturbator. Probably she jacked off four or five times a day. And her pussy must have been itching because she was roaming about late at night. Either she was looking for a fuck or was in hopes of watching a hot fucking scene between an indiscreet ghetto couple." Crumm's gappy teeth showed as he smiled. "We ghetto people ain't so modest when it comes to body functions. On a summer night, it's a common sight to see a lot of boys and girls screwing in some alley or behind a store. I've even watched a beautiful fuck between a couple standing up on a fire escape." And at the memory of the fire escape scene of copulation, he broke out into a noisy chuckle.
Trish cut in impatiently. "I said without the bird seed. Just tell me why the park was demolished. If sex is so common and open in the ghetto, I can't really believe that any great scandal was caused because a thirteen-year-old girl saw your exposed penis. I'm sure a ghetto girl is familiar with the sight of a man's exposed penis long before she's thirteen years of age."
Crumm shrugged. "It went a lot farther than a thirteen-year-old kid takin' a look at my cock."
"Yet you claim you didn't take advantage of the situation."
Crumm raised his hands and assumed the look of an innocent but much maligned character. "Gimme a chance to explain. I told the kid to get lost, but she just kept staring at my cock. In fact, she took a step closer to get a better look." He sighed. "I'll admit I was weak. After all, I ain't made outa iron. When I realized how excited she was growing at the mere sight of my prick, the shaft began to slide outwards, and the next thing I knew I had a king-sized bone on. Now the girl was really impressed. She had probably peeked at a man's exposed dick before. But she certainly never saw a cock erect before her eyes. It was a bit of magic she wasn't prepared for. She took another step closer, and all the time she never once could take her eyes off my cock flesh. And incidentally, my cock bone was getting bigger and redder by the minute. Finally the kid looked up at me and asked appealingly, 'Oh mister, it's beautiful. May I touch it?'
"My first impulse was to refuse the request and kick her little ass outa the John. But every pore in my body was aching for the touch of her soft, virginal thirteen-year-old hand over my old cock. I had never fucked a virgin before, and already I was getting this notion to feel my shaft in the tight, hairless cunt of my little virgin who was so much on fire to look at my prick.
"My throat was very dry when I answered her. And my voice sounded so strange, I thought it belonged to someone else. 'Okay,' I said. 'Just touch it, and then you'll have to get outa here. If someone came in and caught me with you, I'd be in trouble.'
"'I don't want to make any trouble, mister,' she said, wide-eyed. But instead of turning and walking away, she reached out with her shapely but firm fingers and took hold of the shaft. The feel of that kid's hand over my cock bone almost blacked me out. An explosion ripped through my entire body like an atomic bomb. And right there and then, I knew I was hooked. I just had to fuck her or go outa my mind."
Trish said disgustedly, "So you did make the first move to get into the young girl's pants."
"Oh, no," Crumm said with wide-eyed innocence. "Nothing like that at all. That kid was in charge of the scene. And believe me, she knew what she wanted. At first she was just content to hold the bone. Then her grip tightened and I thought she'd break it off. I wanted to push her away and walk outa there before it was too late. But I just stood there, paralyzed, wondering what the kid was going to do next.
"I didn't have long to find out. Her fingers relaxed their grip but started to dance up and down the shaft. She looked up at me with a mischievous smile. 'How does it feel when I do that, mister?' she asked.
"By now, the cock cream was beginning to feel real heavy in my nuts, and I gotta fight down the compulsion to grab her, pull down her pants and stick my cock inside her tight cunt. Or would it be so tight after all her jacking-off exercises? But by superhuman effort, I gained control of myself and did nothing at all. Then I felt those soft, cool and beautifully shaped fingers steal all the way towards the base of my cock shaft and very gently caress my soft nuts. I winced with agony at the effort it took to hold myself together. 'Don't,' I pleaded in a strangled voice.
"For reply, the kid started to jiggle my nuts all the harder and pull on them. Never before in my life had I ever experienced such a sensation that was charged with both ecstasy and anguish at the same time. My cock bone raised itself up even higher. In fact, I'd never seen it strive for such a high angle. There wasn't any doubt that every impulse in my brain was frantically sending out orders for me to fuck the girl and the devil with the consequences. 'Have you ever been fucked before?' I asked the girl.
"The kid shook her head. 'No. But I sure would like to feel a great big old hard cock poked into my pussy.'
"The girl's desire for sex, and the easy way in which she referred to her desires, was almost potent enough to make me blow my nuts right there and then. But I took a tight grip on my emotions. Maybe there was even time to back out of the whole thing yet. I took hold of the kid's hand and pulled it off my cock bone. With the willpower it must take to move mountains, I managed to whisper in a hoarse voice, 'I'm gettin' outa here before I get into trouble.'
"When that kid saw I meant business, she calmly stepped back and raised her miniskirt up to her waist. She wasn't wearing a thing underneath. Her tiny and fleshy little cunt was the most delicious-looking thing I'd ever seen in my life. And I'd seen many cunts before. The cunt lips weren't drawn together as tightly as I thought they'd be. In fact, there was enough space between them to suggest she'd been fucked before. Or maybe constant and determined masturbation, which I'm sure she engaged in, pried the lips apart and gave them a mature kind of look. The little darling was just beginning to sprout hairs around her pussy. But what hairs she did have were long, blonde and fluffy. The kind I wouldn't mind pulling into my mouth at all. And to my utter surprise, the kid's clitoris, her precious, little female prick, was in a state of prominent erection and was as big as the clit on most mature women. Now I felt positive that she'd been fucked before. And with that knowledge my conscience no longer bothered me."
"Your conscience?" Trish echoed in disbelief.
"Yeah! My conscience!" Crumm replied angrily. "I was a victim of circumstances. I don't go around blowing thirteen-year-old kids."
Trish felt he was going into a lot of irrelevant detail. All she wanted were the details about the park, and she told him as much.
Crumm said sourly, "Just let me tell it in my own way. I'm trying to paint the whole picture for you so you won't waste any more of your time or mine about that goddamn park. Excuse my French, but I almost got a jail sentence on account of that little piece of greenery for the ghetto bums."
"All right," Trish agreed. "But must you be so explicit? I've got the picture. Really!"
"You only think you've got the picture," Crumm said, peering at her with sharp, appraising eyes. Was he getting to her? At that particular moment, he wanted to fuck Trish a lot more than he lusted after the cunt of a thirteen-year-old kid. And before she left the room, Crumm promised himself that he'd sink his cock between Trish's legs. Crumm decided that he was definitely affecting Trish's cunt with his lurid description of the sexual encounter between himself and the sexually precocious thirteen-year-old girl. Trish's face looked redder than normal, for one thing. And she kept crossing and uncrossing her legs as though her cunt was heating up. Pleased with himself, and the warm feeling of anticipation of Trish's cunt, Crumm resumed his narrative. "I remember how I kept staring at the girl's cunt as though I was paralyzed. I couldn't move, I could hardly raise my voice above a whisper. 'Do you like it?' she asked me with a smile.
"Then she turned around and gave me a good look at the cheeks of her ass. Believe me, they were sweet as peaches. I could have dropped to my knees and taken a big bite out of each ass cheek. And to my utter surprise, that horny little kid flicked one cheek aside with her hand and gave me an unobstructed look inside her asshole. For some reason, the kid had a lot of hairs growing out of her rectum. And that profusion of long, wiry asshole hairs gave a sharp and erotic contrast to her entire body which was otherwise devoid of sex hairs. The saliva seeped out of my lips as I hungered to drive my tongue straight up her ass and feel each one of her cheeks on either side of my face. Believe me, I was a tormented man, a man who struggled every inch of the way with his baser instincts."
"And your baser instincts won the battle," Trish said, a bit on the sarcastic side. Obviously the man had the morals of a goat. And any female, white or colored, from thirteen to seventy-five could very easily seduce him. And the nucleus of an idea began to shape itself in her mind. Suppose she played him along? Not give in to him, or anything like that. But suppose she merely suggested that the possibility of a lay existed. Would she then be able to gain his much-needed support?
At the moment, Crumm was locked in the struggle with lust and the memory of the girl.
The memory of that precocious child of puberty with her edible-looking cunt, her just-formed tits, her curving ass and firm ball-breaker legs fired him up again. "Yes, I lost the struggle," he said in a choked voice. "I simply had to taste her flesh, eat her cunt, drive my pulsating prick deep in the heart of her love box. And the girl, as young as she was, kept smiling at me in her silent way, egging me on, daring me. And when I still hesitated, her face twisted in a sneer as though she doubted my manhood. Finally a scream tore out of my throat as I fell to my knees before this tiny goddess of love.
"Very calmly, the girl unfastened the belt around her miniskirt and let it drop to her feet. Then she slithered out of her sweater and stood stark and lustfully naked before my eyes. 'Eat it,' she whispered caressingly in my ear. 'Tongue it, lap it. Do the same thing to me I saw the delivery boy do to my mom.'
"The world of sanity faded away, and all that remained were two people. Me and my darling love child whose precious cunt began to moisten ever so slightly. The drops of love dew that oozed out of her crack came from the heart of her cunt. Her virginal cunt. She was offering this treasure to me, Turk Crumm, a man who had fought and kicked for everything he'd ever received. And this wonderful doll of desire was willfully offering up her delicious naked body to me alone. I would be the first in her cunt. The first to ravish her tits, her slightly curved belly, her daringly swollen ass cheeks, her firm, strong legs. She was giving herself to me alone. And like a demented fool, I had hesitated, been full of doubts and fears. I swept aside all these craven thoughts and became the bold and daring man I had always wanted to be. 'Darling, darling,' I babbled like a fool, 'you're my own true love.' And without further hesitation, I grabbed each cheek of her ass with my hands and buried my face up against her cunt. The kid's smile faded and was replaced by a lust that gripped her face and made it old-looking.
"'Suck my cunt,' she cried out, and in her innocent-looking face danced the eyes of a whore. My long, curving tongue bolted out and made contact with an almost hairless and virginal cunt. The girl's head snapped back, and she let out an unearthly sounding wail that reverberated throughout the entire lavatory and drifted upwards into the park. I didn't care. All that mattered to me or had any meaning was my tongue up against a virginal cunt. I started to lick the entire gash from top to bottom, and my head bobbed up and down like a little puppy-dog licking her own cunt.
"As I sucked, the darling child spread the cheeks of her ass out in such a way that my one finger naturally dropped into the crevice of ass and buried itself between the two cheeks and finally into the rectal love tube. This feeling of my finger stuffed deeply and tightly up her ass must have been an extremely exciting one for the girl, for her screams grew more shrill, more desperate, more perverted. And during this period, I was especially rewarded by observing the erection of her tiny clit. It jutted out like a hard and shiny white piece of gristle and seemed to cry out for a mouth. Instinctively I sucked the entire female but virginal cock into my mouth. Once again I was rewarded with a series of screams that rollercoastered out of her mouth, and ricocheted against the walls, the ceilings, and I'm positive burst out of the room and into the park. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except this beautifully pure act of cunnilingus. I sucked so hard my jaw muscles started to ache. But that didn't even matter. My goal was near, I knew. My goal of cunt juices flowing unabatedly into my mouth. I became like a man bereft of his senses. I had to make my darling come. I had to be the very first male to drink the juices of love that would gush out from deep within the box of perpetual love.
"And as I sucked so furiously, I looked up into my darling's face and eyes. Lust was still her mistress. And this was reflected in her clit, which was growing longer, harder and hotter in my mouth. Was that my imagination? It didn't matter. But I swear her tiny clit seemed to fill up the entire space inside my mouth. And now the time had come to apply my expertise as a cunt lapper. It seemed as though every cunt I had ever possessed with my mouth in the past was merely a prelude leading up to this one, great, and glorious moment. Soon, very soon, I'd be rewarded.
"The girl grabbed hold of my head and commenced to slam her cunt back and forth against my face. And as her hips thrust back and forth and gyrated, I slid my tongue over her clit and under it and alongside of it. I nibbled at the head, the shaft, and even drove my fleshy mouth cock deep into her vagina where no other tongue or cock had ever visited before me. The vagina, the true valley of cunt, felt hot and wet and steaming with lust. At one time my sucking of the valley as well as the clitoris became so noisy that the girl's screams were drowned out. Finally obscene oaths that she had learned from the ghetto streets boiled out of her tiny mouth. 'Blow me,' she burbled. 'Blow me, you motherfucking, cunt-lapping, asshole-tonguing bastard. Blow me!'
"And I did. A stream of cunt juice jetted into my mouth. This stream of love was very narrow, but the force behind it was unbelievable. It hit the roof of my mouth harder than a man's fist, and I was terrified lest my throat blister and choke me to death. But as soon as the numbness wore off, I sensed everything was going to be perfect. For one thing, the doll's cunt honey tasted sweeter than nectar, and I couldn't get enough of it. I sucked so hard my mouth felt like a suction disc. But every single drop of that cunt cream was precious to me. And I swear I felt younger, more virile, and a sense of elation flooded throughout my entire body. I had found the fountain of youth. And that fountain was contained in the love box of a thirteen-year-old girl."
Crumm stopped talking for a moment. He seemed lost in thought. Trish actually felt sorry for him. Ever since he had been a kid, Crumm had hustled, scratched and fought for a mere existence. Every ounce of his considerable energies was spent in the struggle to merely exist. There was no time for much happiness. But for a moment, with the forbidden fruit contained in the form of a thirteen-year-old Lolita-like girl, the aging Crumm found a drop of happiness, a bit of compensation for all the years of unhappiness. But it couldn't last.
"I didn't even get a chance to feel my cock inside her," he mused, as though he felt that even a smidgen of happiness in his direction had been some sort of ghastly mistake or a great big hoax played on him by the Fates.
"Someone had heard the girl scream," Trish guessed, and again a wave of sympathy for the bearlike man gripped her.
Crumm nodded slowly, as though he still didn't quite comprehend what had hit him. "The next thing I knew the whole stinkin' lavatory was filled with people. Mostly cops. And there I was on my knees with my face up against the cunt of a thirteen-year-old girl. And even then my swollen cock refused to quit on me. It stood erect as ever, and this, too, was evidence enough to damn me. The cops actually had to protect me from the mob of ghetto goons who tried to string me up." He gave an ironic laugh. "Not one of those assholes would have passed up the chance to screw the kid. But when they found someone else in her cunt, they became mean enough for a lynching." He felt his throat. "My lynching."
"And the case was never brought to court?" Trish asked incredulously.
"Naw," Crumm chortled. "I'm too valuable to the big boys uptown to ditch me. Besides, the kid run off with a truck driver, and the whole thing collapsed."
"But why take out your spite on the park?" Trish still did not comprehend the man's devious character.
"I had to," Crumm replied quite calmly. "Every time I passed that park, I almost went off my rocker. That goddamn piece of green in a ghetto almost sent me to jail. Almost ruined me-I'd have never fucked, or tried to have fucked, a thirteen-year-old girl if it hadn't been for the park. No ma'am, I wasn't going to put up with it. I convinced the boys uptown to sell off the property, and we all made a buck out of it." He was silent a moment, and then rationalized his behavior. "After all, the ghetto assholes didn't really appreciate it. Those kind would rather sit on the fire escape where they can look into the neighbors' window and watch them fuck." A throaty laugh bubbled up out of his throat. He leaned forward in his chair and smiled at Trish. "So now you know why I'm bitterly opposed to making a park in the ghetto. Besides, it ain't economical."
Trish was beginning to thoroughly understand the man. "In brief," she said, "there's nothing in it for you."
"Now you dig," Crumm said, a bit elated that she finally understood his philosophy. "You get nothing for nothing."
"What you're trying to say," Trish said sweetly, "is that you get back what you put out."
"Right on!"
"Suppose I was willing to put out?" Trish asked.
Crumm stiffened. He looked back unbelievingly at the girl. Ever since she had walked into the room, he had been on fire to screw her. But he never thought for a single second that there was going to be any cooperation on her part. And she was a doll. She was about seventeen, but there was still a virginal look about her. And at seventeen her cunt was still charged with youth-giving juices. And from the very beginning, the man of the ghetto had loved everything about the girl from Park Avenue. There was an aloof calmness to her, and yet in her lips and body and legs there was more than just a hint of a raging sensuality once her cunt was awakened from its virginal slumber. Crumm moistened his lips to speak. He could hardly force out the words. And when at last he did speak, his voice sounded strange and unnatural. "If you was willin' to put out," he said, "there ain't no telling how much I'll help you. I could even help you with the goddamn park."
Trish studied the man carefully. He did exert a certain raw, manly power that was rare in an age when men were acting and dressing more and more like women. Perhaps, in time, she could be attracted to him. And that's what she had meant when she raised the matter of her possible availability.
But Trish still didn't understand the man from the ghetto. He was a man of immediate action. Long-range relationships didn't enter his mind, and he wasn't interested in them at all. When a girl told him she was willing to put out, that meant instant cunt. Already the thought of Trish's cunt had unleashed the ever-ready sexual hormones into his bloodstream. A number of other responses, all of a sexual nature, were also triggered within the burlyframe of the ghetto man. And all of those quickened responses built up to one thing: a king-sized bone that wasn't going to soften until his nuts had been drained of cock cream. He stood up, and the bulge between his legs was now a frightening thing to behold.
Trish was aghast. She had never seen a man shaken by so many changes, so quickly, and in so many different parts of his body. The cheeks of his puffy face were stained with unsightly red splotches. There was a queer and unnatural light in his ferretlike eyes, and his breath was wheezing in and out of his flaring nostrils at a much-too-rapid pace. And it was almost impossible for Trish to associate the mountainous protrusion between his legs with a normal man's cock even when it was in an excited state of erection.
Trish leaped to her feet, alarmed. "Now, don't get any ideas," she said quickly. "I meant, in time, when we got to know each other, we might find a physical attraction and even love for each other."
Crumm replied in a silent way that had had meaning since the dawn of time. He unzipped his pants and let his mushroom-shaped tool of flesh slide out into exposure. "I don't need no time to know I'm physically attracted to you, baby," he breathed. "And you got class, doll. You're the kind I could get serious with. That fat black broad and all the others were just passing through my life. But you, baby, you I want for keeps." He began to walk around the desk towards Trish, who stood as though paralyzed. "And I'll help you get your park if that'll make you happy." He smiled in what he felt was a warm smile. To Trish, his smile had all the warmth of a striking rattler. "I'm really a big-hearted slob. A gem in the rough."
Trish's eyes fastened themselves on the man's reddening prick. Certainly it was large and impressive enough to brand its owner as a real man. And a real man was the only kind who could win Trish's affection. But not this way. She hadn't become an animal yet. "No," she said to the advancing man. "This isn't the way to make me love you. And sex was never meant to be like this."
Crumm wasn't listening. He was deafened to all other voices except those that came roaring up at him from the pit of his genitals. And those lusty voices kept pushing him forward towards Trish. "Like what?" he mumbled, not really knowing what he was saying.
Trish started to back away from him. She shouted back. "Sex wasn't meant to degrade. Between the right people, it's the most beautiful expression of love of which we're capable." Her voice rose, high and shaky. "Give us time to get acquainted. Please, let's go about it right. But not like this. Like animals devoid of feeling or respect for each other!"
Crumm moved forward towards Trish in the same relentless manner in which he had risen above the rank and file in the ghetto and had become a ward boss. "My prick tells me I gotta fuck you. That's good enough for me. We got a whole lifetime to get to know each other. So please don't fight it, baby. Let's fuck!" And with that last remark, he reached out and grabbed hold of Trish's sweater. His intent was to seize her breasts and feel their soft warmness in his hands. But Trish had been a bit too fast for him. She twisted her body backwards in time to elude his grasp, but not in time to prevent his clawlike hands from grasping hold of her sweater and pulling it over her head. Trish had never found it necessary to wear a bra. Her breasts were too firm and too perfectly shaped to require support of an artificial nature. And so now her breasts became exposed to the lust-maddened Crumm. This was another facet of Crumm's character that Trish was just being introduced to. Opposition only enraged the man and made him all the more determined to gain his goals. And right now Trish, or rather her body, was his goal.
Trish looked wildly around her at the door and windows. Crumm had bolted every avenue of escape. "I'll scream," she threatened as she still backed away from him.
Crumm's blood-red face broke into a smile that looked more like a sneer. "You can scream your fuckin' head off. People in this building are used to screaming women. This is the ghetto, baby. You ain't on Park Avenue now where those faggy men ain't interested in tasting a bit of pussy." He snarled at her for her obstinacy was beginning to rankle. "And I aim on tastin' your pussy before you get outa here. So relax and come across. You and me could make a beautiful team together."
"Not like this," Trish wailed out. But even as the words soared out of her mouth, she knew she was wasting her breath. And her desperate plight became all too apparent to her. She was trapped alone in a locked room with a bull-like creature who was more animal than human. He was devoid of any feeling or respect, and completely incapable of a single, decent act. And to make matters worse, he had political connections which could protect him regardless of what he did to her. He could rape and murder her, and still get away with it. But she tried to fight off the waves of panic that beat against her brain and garbled her senses. She was going to need every ounce of her mental and physical strength to extricate herself.
Immersed with these inner problems, Trish inadvertently lowered her guard. And at that moment, Crumm sprang at her with the determination and agility of a football tackle. He caught her around the waist and both man and girl fell backwards, onto the floor. "Cunt," Crumm breathed hoarsely. "Gotta have your cunt or I'll die." And he meant it. The man had worked himself up into such a state for intercourse with Trish that if he was thwarted in this goal he'd suffer terribly in both body and spirit. But he had no intention of being thwarted from ripping the clothes off the stubborn girl and banging her ass with all the gusto of a sex-famished con who had just been released from prison. "Cunt!" His voice broke into a roar. "Gotta have your cunt!"
For the moment, Trish was in no position to prevent Crumm from having his way. He tore the skirt from around her waist. Then he quickly pulled her panties down her legs and flung them across the room. Trish's naked body was now exposed before the ghetto man's eyes. And those eyes ravished the naked, virginal flesh of the young girl. Her tits were round, firm, and neither too large or too small. They were fleshy semi-spheres of perfection. And despite her protests, her nipples, crimson and porous, were prick stiff. There wasn't an ounce of fat on her shapely body, which was cream-colored and youthfully smooth. But the girl's cunt held his eyes more than any other part of her body. The girl's cunt was that rare piece of perfection that artists and true connoisseurs of the female form have sought after for all of their lives and, in most cases, have never found. Now Crumm had found that cunt of all cunts. And he'd never let it go. There wasn't that profusion of hair around the lips that was usually found on more mature women. There was just enough hair to nicely frame the lips and fan up the belly in an inverted triangular patch. The cunt lips were perfectly shaped also. They weren't too thick, and not too thin. They slashed up from between her legs and were just slightly distended to give Crumm a teasing peak at the fleshy, moist and warm goodness that was contained within the love valley. And to Crumm's intense joy, the girl's clitoris was in evidence. The excitement of the moment had probably pulled it out of its little hiding place. That excitement was probably born of fear. It was Crumm's job to replace that fear with lust. He felt positive that if he could only get his mouth over her clit, his goal of getting her excited would be quickly accomplished. Then he'd have her cooperation and trust. The ghetto man opened his mouth wide and bobbed his head down in the direction of her cunt.
But once again Trish was too fast for him. She twisted her body over, and the man's face bounced up against the ass of the girl. And even in this posterior region, which he didn't normally associate with love, the feel of his mouth against the flesh of her ass thrilled and delighted him. Before the girl could move again, he clamped his huge, pawlike hands around her waist and buried his face between the cheeks of the girl's ass. There was a faint odor from her ass that only excited him all the more. When he was in heat, the odor of a young girl's ass was definitely a sexual stimulant as far as Crumm was concerned. He stuck out his tongue and began to lap her ass like any dog excited by a bitch in heat.
Once again Trish was assailed by bursts of utter degradation and humiliation. "I'm not an animal!" she screamed. But to no avail. The man from the ghetto, saliva streaming out of the corners of his mouth, plunged his tongue even farther down the rectal passage until Trish could feel the entire area penetrated with the man's mouth flesh. But this was not an erogenous zone for Trish. But even if it was, she wouldn't have been able to assess her sensations under the present conditions of rape.
Crumm was under no such handicap. The taste of Trish's ass, the feel of tongue inside the rectal tube, the odors from her rectum, and the fleshy feel of her ass cheeks up against his face fevered him with such a lust that the cock juices began their relentless flow to the head of his cock. Feeling the liquid boiling and moving within him made Crumm yank his head out of Trish's rear valley of love and take instant remedial action to circumvent a premature ejaculation. He wracked his brain to think of all sorts of neutral thoughts that would deaden the lustful thoughts and soften his prick. Unimpeded, the cock juices would soon reach their exit at the head of his cock and he wouldn't be able to fuck the girl. "Can't blow now," Crumm told himself with a desperate and pleading cry. The man was actually pleading with himself to think up some sort of non-sexual thought to flush the starch out of his cock. Then, out of desperation, or perhaps inspiration, Crumm was suddenly confronted with the solution. He'd think of black Hazel, and of being confronted by her husband, who was an ugly brute, an uppity Negro who kept preaching about black rights in the ghetto. The ruse worked. The very thought of being caught with Hazel by the black woman's husband quickly dealt a karate chop to his own lusts of the moment. His cock began to wilt, and the flow of cream was averted.
With the danger of an unwanted ejaculation past, Crumm resumed his attentions to the girl's ass. But before he was able to do a thing, he was rudely awakened from his lustful anticipations by a loud pounding on the door. "Open up, you son-of-a-bitch," a voice on the other side of the door called out in an angry manner. "Open up, I say." And without waiting from Crumm to make a move, Trish recognized the sound of a heavy and broad shoulder battering against the door. The cheap lock soon broke. The most burly black man Trish had ever seen came crashing into the room.
The barrel-chested black man looked down contemptuously at the couple on the floor. He pointed a finger at Crumm. "You gonna pay for fucking my wife, you whitey bastard!" As he advanced towards Trish and Crumm, he pulled a knife from under his jacket. "I hates all whites," he cried out with a rage that had been born centuries past.
The intruder was Hazel's husband, a man who had been cuckolded by Crumm and knew it. At the moment, the man was possessed by his insane rage against all white people. And before him was the naked flesh of a white man and girl. The enraged black raised his knife and slashed out.
Chapter Five
"The nigger's full of LSD." This was Crumm's diagnosis as he bent over the unconscious form of the black man, whose body looked as de-deflated as an empty gunnysack. Moments before, the Negro's knife had lashed out at the two white targets. But the weapon missed by a country mile. And the effort was too much for the knife wielder. The next thing the terrified Trish and Crumm knew, their would-be assassin dropped the knife, closed his eyes, and plummeted to the floor like a weighted sack of garbage.
The closeness of death had stifled all feelings of lust inside Crumm. Walloped in the face by the realities of life and remembering his position as ward boss, Crumm became more sober and businesslike than an impotent temperance worker. "Gotta get this crazy schwartzer out of here," he snarled at Trish. "And you gotta get some clothes on and look halfway decent." Trish was still in the nude.
"Thanks for your concern," Trish snapped back at him. She found her panties and skirt and struggled back into them as quickly as possible. Her sweater was ripped and torn from the recent struggle, but it was better than walking around bare-titted.
Crumm then grabbed the unconscious man under the armpits and dragged him roughly towards the door. "What are you going to do with him?" Trish asked, alarmed.
Crumm's face was wrinkled with murderous intent. "I oughta call the cops and hang an assault with a deadly weapon rap around the nigger's neck." He stopped at the door. "Trouble is, I'm too decent a guy to do anything like that. Being nice to the goddamn trash in the ghetto is gonna be my downfall yet."
Trish looked back at the man, wide-eyed. Crumm really and honestly believed that he was a decent human being and brimming over with the more decent impulses of the human species. He was a rapist, a child despoiler, a thief, and probably at one time or another had permanently disposed of rivals in a way that was not exactly legal. And yet, in comparison with other, more brutal ghetto bosses, he probably was more moderate and lenient since his more inhuman impulses were blunted with lust. He was a creature of strong sexual appetites, and this constant need to express his lust pervaded all of his activities. Morals, Trish began to realize, were an intensely relative thing. Good or bad morals depended on each individual, his background, and the environment in which he functioned.
But at the moment, Trish didn't have much time to dwell on the validity of Crumm's opinion of himself or of his morals. A man was unconscious and probably needed medical help, and her total concern was for him. Whether or not he was black or white, was acid tripping or was just plain sick, didn't phase Trish. Here was someone who needed help, and she was either going to help him or see that he was attended to. "Call a doctor," Trish pleaded with Crumm when he didn't reply to her first question but continued to haul the unconscious man unceremoniously towards the door. Finally he managed to yank open the door and peer into the hallway.
Then he turned to Trish. "I ain't callin' no doctor for this psyched-out bum. He's on a trip."
"But he could have taken too much acid," Trish said. "His breathing doesn't sound normal. And he looks almost white."
This was true. The black man's skin had faded to a dirty gray color, although there was still no mistaking his Negroid features. Crumm scowled. "A white nigger or black nigger is all the same to me. Trouble. That's what he is. And especially this bastard."
Taking a firmer grip under the black man's armpits, Crumm hauled him out into the hall. Trish followed them. "Where are you taking him?" she demanded.
"Back to his own stinkin' apartment," Crumm panted. Pulling over two hundred and fifty pounds of a man's dead weight strained every muscle in Crumm's badly conditioned body.
"I'll get his wife," Trish offered.
Crumm looked at her with his angry little eyes. "Black Hazel ain't home. She's out working. If she wasn't, they'd both starve. This big shit is too busy stirring up trouble to do an honest day's work." The thought of this lazy tenant of his so angered Crumm that he handled the unconscious man with much more roughness than was necessary. Finally Crumm pushed his cargo into the elevator and sent the ancient lift lurching to the top floor. There he pulled his load to Hazel's apartment, opened the door with his master key, and with a grunt deposited the hulking, inert frame on the floor. "Better get outa here before Hazel gets home. She'll cut up any white gal she catches messin' with her black man's poontang."
"Someone's got to stay here with him until he regains consciousness," Trish said. "He could die before his wife gets back."
"Tough," Crumm said with exaggerated pity. He turned to leave.
"About the park," Trish called out after him.
Crumm stopped and turned towards her. "Sure, I'll help you. But you gotta change around your twisted kind of thinking before I put myself out for you."
"My twisted kind of thinking?" Trish echoed.
"You heard me," Crumm said with emphasis. "Your twisted kind of thinking. First you lead me on. Then you make me fight for your cunt. Next time, you better offer me your cunt like you meant it."
"Just like that!" Trish said with indignation. "I haven't become an animal yet."
Crumm gave her a pitying look. "Don't you know we're all animals, baby? When you get through your pretty little head, and act accordingly, there ain't nothin' I won't do for you. And that includes the goddamn park!" And before Trish could offer any more protests, Crumm whirled about and left the room with a slam of the door. Trish remained behind in the apartment, alone with her thoughts and the unconscious black man.
But Trish didn't have much time for meditation, and the unconscious man didn't remain unconscious for very long. In a very short period of time after Crumm had departed, the black man stirred, moaned and opened his eyes. Trish was in his direct line of vision. He blinked. "Done died and went straight to Heaven," he said as though he didn't believe his good fortune. Trish did look like an angel to even the most jaded eyes. She had long, blonde hair, blue eyes, and just the right blend of innocence and sensuality to excite the senses and quicken the heartbeat. Where was it written that an angel couldn't be blonde, good-looking, and stacked? The black man continued to stare at Trish with eyes that became so bulging they looked white in his face. "Or if I ain't dead," he further ruminated, "I'm still on a trip, and you're one of my acid-inspired visions."
Despite herself, and the gravity of the situation, Trish couldn't restrain the urge to laugh. "You're not dead," she informed the man. "And I'm not an angel. I'm Trish Lovejoy, the girl you just tried to knife in Turk Crumm's apartment."
The black man sank back on the couch. His eyes stared vacantly up at the ceiling. "Don't remember nothing about that," he said, and it sounded sincere. "I was on a trip. Anything can happen on a trip."
Trish scrutinized the black figure for a moment as though trying to make up her mind about him. "Not really," she said. But before she explained this statement, she asked, "Your name. What is it?"
The calm, rational voice of the pretty young white girl helped life to flood back into the black man. His eyes looked into her face. He sensed her goodness, her desire to help for unselfish motives. He felt he could trust her. "I've taken the name the white man gave me and obliterated it from my consciousness. In a sense, I was born nameless, soulless, a form of flesh without spirit. But when I was reborn, I got soul, I got spirit, and I got myself a real name that has meaning."
Trish said patiently, "Without the rhetoric, what do people call you?"
"Black Hammer!" He folded his arms. "I hope you're gonna ask me why."
"I know I'll regret it," Trish said. "But why do they call you Black Hammer?"
His face grew hard with fanaticism. "'Cause I'm like a black hammer. A monstrous black hammer that come to smite the white man and make believers out of them."
"Believers in what?" Trish asked hesitantly.
Black Hammer threw back his head. "Believers in giving just rights to the blacks. Believers in helping black folks to get their black asses outa the ghetto so they can live in a decent place. Believers in not believing that they rule the world by some sort of divine right of white skin. Believers in the fact that white skin can stink just as rotten as black skin."
Trish cut him short. "Why not fight to make white people respect others regardless of the color of their skin, and let it go at that? Where is all that hatred going to get you?"
Black Hammer clenched his fists. "You asking me to forget about two hundred years of injustice?"
"No!" Trish retorted, her eyes flashing. "But don't carry the two hundred years of injustice around on your back every minute of the day. It's too heavy a load for anyone to carry."
"It's my duty to carry the load. I'm a leader of my people," the black man said, as he sat up straight on the couch.
"Bullshit!" The word just naturally slipped out before Trish could check herself. And she was both surprised and shocked at herself. Was her still brief tenure in the ghetto already affecting her speech? Would her morals be affected also? Her face grew red, and she apologized immediately. "That's not what I really meant to say."
But Black Hammer was pleased. He smiled. "Say, you're okay, baby. First I thought you was some kind of stuck-up social worker who's playin' ghetto girl for the kicks. You got too much class for a social worker. Yet you knows how to converse with old Black Hammer." He chuckled throatily. "Bullshit, you say. You got an honest opinion and you spit it out. I like that."
Trish nodded. "Glad to hear it. But while we're being so honest with each other, would you mind informing me why the great big leader of his black community has to run away and hide on a LSD trip?"
Black Hammer's full lips curled downwards. "You don't understand! I wasn't running away. I was trippin' for inspiration. Inspiration on how better to lead my people, how better to get results from the stubborn white masters who use the black people for their whores."
"Bullshit," Trish replied, and this time she made no apology for the earthy but emphatic way in which she expressed herself. "Many black people are underprivileged. This I'll buy. But no one is going to help them by running away, or deluding yourself that inspiration is possible in an acid trip. It's not, and you know it."
"If you haven't tried it, don't knock it," Black Hammer said, as though lecturing an ignorant schoolchild. "The very best ideas I ever got came back with me from a trip. The very best times in my life I've had when I was 'way out on acid. And last but not least, the very best cunt I've tasted was in a psychedelic dream of lust and love."
Trish knew that sooner or later her verbal communication with the black man was going to load with sexual overtones. She was beginning to realize that sexual acts as well as all other bodily functions were openly referred to by people in the ghetto. They didn't intend to be dirty-mouthed or even dirty-minded. But since these people were closer to nature, they referred to natural functions as a matter of course. Still she still wasn't completely inured to the verbal barrage of sexual terms she'd heard since she entered the ghetto. The description of her genitals as "cunt" still brought a blush to her cheeks and made the lobes of both ears burn hotly. She tried to look and sound indifferent, but knew she didn't succeed very well. "Have you ever thought what could be accomplished without the use of drugs? By just plain hard work and a little guts?"
Black Hammer looked skeptical. "Such as?"
Trish warmed to her subject. "A park."
"A park?" the black man looked as though he was indeed conversing with an ignorant child-a well-meaning child, but still an ignorant one.
"You're putting me on, ain't you?"
"I am most decidedly not putting you on," Trish said, happy that they were now moving along constructive lines. "Have you ever thought about how much a park could mean to your people? To all ghetto people?"
"It wouldn't mean shit," Black Hammer said with distaste.
Trish leaped to her feet as though she'd just received a severe boot on her posterior. "If you weren't so lazy and stupid, you'd see that a park would mean a different way of life down here!"
Black Hammer thought that one over for a moment. Then he said, "All right, Miss Rich Bitch playing Miss Do-Good, answer me a few questions."
"Shoot!" Trish said, feeling confident that she had all the answers.
Black Hammer folded his arms as though he was a prosecuting attorney and Trish a defendant on trial for her life. "Will a park put bread in the pockets of ghetto people?"
"No," Trish said. Before she could elaborate on her answer the black man cut her off.
"Will a park bring jobs to black people who ain't got a pot to piss in?"
"No," Trish acknowledged, "but..."
"No buts!" Black Hammer cut her off. "It won't bring jobs. Our black young people gonna continue to be poolroom bums or pimps. And believe you me, white girl, they ain't nothin' lower than a pimp. He's the most lowest of the low. He even hates himself when he hustles his ho's."
"His what?" Trish asked. Her ghetto vocabulary was about to be further enriched.
"Ho is ghetto talk for a whore, a prostitute, a girl who sells her cunt, gives the pimp most of the earnings, and keeps a small amount for herself."
"But why does she need a pimp?" Trish asked, hating herself for asking.
"To get her customers. Get her out of jail. Give her a feeling of self-importance. That's real important to a ho."
"Let's get back to our park," Trish said bluntly.
"We ain't never left it," Black Hammer informed her. "And I'll tell you why. A park would be a great place for a prostie to make a contact. And we get enough of that kind of stuff already without providing a place for the prostie to further degrade herself. I want to see young black girls in this community make something of themselves. All most of them doing now is selling themselves to the white man. A park is the first place where a white man is gonna come looking for a black piece of ass."
"Maybe," Trish agreed. "But a park is also a place where a politically ambitious man like yourself can hold meetings. Gather an audience. Make a name for himself. And one day he might even become ward boss. A boss who is concerned for the people. I'm sure the people would welcome a chance to get rid of the Crumms who represent them uptown in city hall."
Black Hammer fell silent. He no longer had a quick and glib retort to demolish Trish's arguments for a park. The idea of replacing Crumm as ward boss had often flitted through his mind. But he lacked stature in the community, and he wasn't well enough known. A park with an area for speakers just might be what he needed to further his own ambitions. "Maybe a park will help my people," he mused aloud.
"Of course it will!" Trish almost shouted. Enthusiasm for the park made her eyes and face shine. She had a difficult time preventing her hands from shaking. This was the closest she'd come to convincing a ghetto man that her plan for a park was valid.
Black Hammer looked at Trish with his penetrating gaze. "I know you're long on enthusiasm. But I got an idea you're short with the bread."
Trish said, "If you're asking if I've got any money, the answer is a big no. I don't have any bread. But we'll raise it, Black Hammer. We'll knock on doors. We'll write to the newspapers, the television stations. We'll start a movement that will swell into a thunderous wave. A wave that will pound against the conscience of people like a clap of thunder from above."
"Glory hallelujah!" Black Hammer raised his voice as though in prayer. "We'll smite the heathen and slay the Philistines. Our cause will triumph because it is a righteous cause."
"Amen," Trish replied. "Amen and amen."
Black Hammer swung his legs over the side of the couch. He no longer looked like a dying man. Fired with the fervor of a cause, he couldn't wait to put it into action. His mind was churning back and forth faster than the nickel slot machines at Vegas. A ghetto-centered park would not only be an ideal place for him to launch his political career; if the park was a success, he could take credit for it. Trish, the white girl, would get lost in the shuffle. Besides, she had parents who had plenty of bread. But most important, a park would be the ideal place for him to confront his fellow ghettoites and convince them of the pureness of his soul. That, certainly, would be the most important aspect of the entire endeavor. A park would be the place for Black Hammer to proclaim his righteousness to the entire world.
Black Hammer smacked a fist into the palm of one hand. "I ain't got much bread. But I got enough to get the project started in a big way." His eyes shone like beacons as he saw that great vision of the future. "First, I buy some full-page spreads in the local newspapers. Then we distribute handbills all over the ghetto. All over this great big city, for that matter. And if it's necessary to beg for money on the street corner, I'll do that, too."
Trish clapped her hands. "A vote for Black Hammer is a vote against crooks like Crumm. That's the kind of word-of-mouth advertising we'll spread all over the ghetto." But then, deep down within the heart and mind of the girl, a warning note sounded. And this small note of caution dampened her enthusiasm, stilled her voice, made her grow silent. She suddenly remembered the scene between Hazel and Crumm. Hazel had been forced to work as a cleaning woman because her husband Black Hammer was unemployed and broke. In fact, as Trish now remembered, Hazel had refused to have intercourse with Crumm until the ward boss found a steady job for Black Hammer. Now the unemployed black man suddenly proclaimed that he had enough money to take out expensive ads in the local newspapers and buy spot advertisements at the television station. Where did he get the money?
"What difference does it make?" Black Hammer replied with a heavy frown in answer to Trish's question.
"A lot of difference," Trish said. "The money I touch has to be clean."
Black Hammer clenched his fists as though he was going to strike Trish. And an odor flowed out of the pores of his skin that made Trish slightly nauseous.
"You saying my soul ain't clean?" the black demanded to know. "If you are, you'd better get your white pussy out of this here ghetto."
"Where did you get the money?" Trish persisted.
Black Hammer thought a moment. The effort of concentration was a heavy strain on him. His eyes narrowed, and his brow wrinkled. "Won it in a crap game," he said at last.
Trish shook her head. "Try again."
"Damnit to hell, woman, are you castin' aspersions on my integrity? A man whose integrity is beyond reproach?" The man looked ugly, and pathetic too. He was enraged with Trish but seemed to be torn apart by some inner conflict that only he understood. "If that be the case," he proclaimed as he jumped to his feet, "you can take your goddamn park idea and shove it!"
But Trish didn't budge. "I asked a simple question. I deserve a simple answer. If there is a simple answer."
Trish's reply, spoken in a cool, detached, and yet needling manner, struck a nerve within the black man that unhinged him, at least for the moment. With clenched fists, he turned towards the girl. But before he could make a move, he was stopped cold in his tracks. He was stopped by the sound of a woman's footsteps in the hall outside the apartment. Sanity came flooding back into his face. And fear, too. "Black Hazel," he moaned. "My wife. If she catches me with a white woman, she'll skin us both alive."
"But I'm not with you in that way," Trish said uneasily. She remembered the size and weight of Black Hazel. And she remembered, too, the meanness of her spirit.
Hammer looked wildly around the room. "Hazel's a great one for acting first, and then askin' questions. Once she almost cut my throat." He pointed to a closet. "Get in there quick, white girl. Just remain quiet, and I'll get you outa here safely when the time is right."
Hiding from a reality, even one as big and ugly as Black Hazel, was not a natural reaction for Trish. But now there wasn't time for protests. And something within her told her that just this once perhaps discretion was better than boldness. Trish moved quickly towards the closet and managed to get inside as the apartment door was flung open. But even in her hiding place, Trish was able to hear the voice of the intruder. And it was not the voice of Black Hazel. Trish opened the door of the closet and peered out., And she was stunned. Two young girls had entered the apartment. They couldn't have been more than fourteen and fifteen years of age. The younger girl was black, the slightly older one was white. Both had mature, erotically shaped bodies. And both girls were extremely angry at Black Hammer.
The black girl flung obscenities at the man as though she was hurling horse manure in his face. "No good motherfuckin' bastard," she screamed at him in a high-pitched, nasal voice. "You ain't got me a job in a week. Why am I supposed to turn over a percentage of my trick money to a creepy cunt-lapper like you? You the world's worst pimp!" The girl's name was Daisy, and although she had the youthful softness to her fourteen-year-old skin, she was as tough as a cactus bush.
The white girl chimed in. "Old Black Hammer is too busy finding tricks for us. He's got to jack off in a corner after he flies high on LSD." The girl had yellow hair and blue eyes, and soft white skin. But her lips were slashes of red, and even as she moved them, it appeared as though she was engaged in the act of sucking.
"As though she's sucking a penis," Trish said to herself as she watched the scene between Black Hammer and his two youthful intruders. And suddenly Trish understood. The two young girls were prostitutes, or ho's as they were referred to in the ghetto. And Black Hammer was their pimp. He was responsible for getting them clients. Now she understood the source of Black Hammer's affluence, which he had been unable to properly explain. Probably even his wife Hazel didn't know about his career as a pimp. He certainly wasn't sharing any money with her if she had to labor as a cleaning woman. The man was beneath contempt, and a much lower type of specimen than Crumm. But yet she watched with fascination as the black pimp sought to extricate himself from his difficulties with the two prostitutes.
Black Hammer threw up his hands. "Now, just wait a minute, girls. You'd both starve to death if it wasn't for me, and you both know it!"
This retort brought ripples of mirthless laughter from both the white and colored girl. Despite their tender years, both girls were dressed in an extremely sexy manner which was calculated to arouse the libido of the most apathetic male. And they were dressed in a fashion that would appeal to males of the opposite race. For instance, the colored girl accented all of the physical assets that a white man would seek in a black girl. Her skin was black as ebony, and the manner in which her full but shapely lips were painted emphasized her Negroid features. The tight-fitting blouse gave the looker a lot of black body skin to admire. The V plunged halfway down her upper body and revealed a generous portion of black tits on either side. And the cheeks of her buttocks protruded in the unique and curvaceous manner of the typical well-stacked Negress. A white girl simply wasn't endowed in this particular portion of her anatomy like the colored girl. Her black skirt was so tight it appeared as though the cloth had been painted over the hillocks of black flesh. And there was no mistaking the delightful cleavage that separated one ass cheek from the other. And in front there was no mistaking either where the delightfully curved belly fused into the genital area. There wasn't any doubt in Trish's mind that the black girl catered to a white clientele.
The flaxen-haired white girl catered to black men. Trish felt certain of that fact, too. She symbolized the kind of young, fair-haired, blue-eyed, milk-complected white girl that every Negro male had always visualized in his masturbatory fantasies. But this girl was available. For a price. And most colored men in the ghetto didn't have that price. That's why she needed someone like Black Hammer to ferret out the blacks with bread who lusted after a blonde girl's white pussy. But their pimp and protector, the politically ambitious Black Hammer, was neglecting his job.
But that wasn't all he had been neglecting. "We ain't been fucked in a week," the black girl complained. And she wasn't referring to the type of intercourse she had with paid clients. She was referring to certain private and additional services rendered them by Black Hammer. Apparently, Trish reasoned, these girls received very little personal satisfaction from their sexual experience with paid customers. The only man who knew how to satisfy them in that department was Black Hammer. And once again he had been neglecting his duties. Why?
That was no mystery. "I been on a long trip," he explained.
"Will you lay off that goddamn acid and tend to your duties!" the white girl screeched at him.
The black girl, Daisy, nodded, and delivered her ultimatum. "If you ain't gonna pimp for us right, we're gonna find us another boy. Hear?"
"I'll find you both a couple of big money cocks by tomorrow," the black man promised his stable of whores. "A white cock for you," he said to Daisy. "And a big, black cock for you," he said to the blonde girl, whose name was Fanny.
"How's about a fuck right now?" the white girl asked. But her question was more of an order than a simple query.
"Now?" Black Hammer's mouth flew open in exaggerated horror. "In my own home? With my wife Hazel gonna walk in on us at any time? You outa your mind, girl."
"The hell I am!" Fanny retorted with a sneer. "Black Hazel is scrubbin' floors on the other side of town. She won't be home for hours. So what else is new?" she asked, her arms akimbo.
"Shit or get off the pot," Daisy said, and the contempt in her voice was heavy enough to sink a ship.
Black Hammer cast an uneasy glance towards the closet door. He hoped that Trish wasn't peeking. And he hoped even harder that she couldn't hear the conversation. But he knew very well that both hopes were not being realized. The closet door was open a crack, and the angry, high-pitched, querulous voices of the girls could be heard behind a vault door that was ten feet thick. The black man was intelligent enough to know that he had a decision to make, and quickly. He could assert his authority over the two whores and send them packing. This would establish his prestige in the eyes of the Park Avenue ghetto girl. She'd help him with his political ambitions. On the other hand, if he kicked the girls out now, they'd probably find another pimp. And that would mean the loss of fast, easy money of which he was certain. Political success was too far off in the future to do him any good now. Actually, he didn't have much of a choice as far as he could see. He'd have to satisfy the two girls in his stable or else rely on the pittance his wife doled out to him. That wasn't enough to keep him in pool money for a day.
Black Hammer nodded for the girls to disrobe. And as he nodded, he sighed. It seemed his entire life was a series of ups and downs. But mostly downs. Mostly reversals. And it was all the fault of whitey, the Establishment, the system that still kept him in bondage after two hundred years. How he hated the white man!
Still, as the girls undressed, his eyes automatically followed the movements of Fanny, the white girl. She reminded him of the white mistress in the plantation house when his ancestors had tilled the soil or picked cotton. That flawless white female flesh was so very much like the naked white girls in his dreams when he had jacked off as a boy. Maybe that was the reason he got a hard-on so quickly whenever he saw Fanny. He imagined himself the lowly black slave slipping into the big manor house while the white massah was out. And on the soft bed in the master's bedroom, he imagined himself fucking the white massah's wife, or daughter, or mother, or any white woman associated with the massah system of peonage. And now Fanny stood before him stark naked. The dream of his youth had become a reality. The pussy of the white master woman was attainable.
But not too attainable. Fanny, it seemed, had strange tastes. And, as a matter of fact, so did the black girl. A straight fuck was something they had to do to earn money. But for pleasure they craved something more unique, more fanciful, something that stirred the imagination and blew their cunts. In a jiffy, the white and black girls were naked and stood waiting for the reluctant Black Hammer to disrobe also. He looked into their impatient faces. "Okay, okay," he mumbled. "You'll blow your cunts. A little patience, please."
The girls were short on patience. They helped pull off the black man's shirt, his pants, his shoes, and finally his shorts. Finally he stood before them, dazzling them with his blackness and the male organ on which they feasted their eyes. Cock was their business. They saw cocks all the time of different lengths, thicknesses, colors, and appetites. But in their eyes and faces it was clear that they never got tired of eyeing with appreciation the particular male adornment possessed by Black Hammer.
"What is so unique about his cock?" Trish asked herself as she peered with greater concentration through the crack in the door. Black Hammer's cock, of course, was black. But it was a particularly impressive black. And the size was average, not small, but not monstrous. His balls, Trish thought, were large, soft and adorable-looking. But they weren't any different than the kind on most men. What was the great fascination of Black Hammer's prick? Trish wondered.
And then it became apparent. His cock bone began to slide out into a full-blown erection. Upwards zoomed bone, gristle and blood-gorged flesh. And when it finally stopped, Trish too stared at the hard cock with the curiosity of a scientist examining some new species of life. Black Hammer's cock bone curved like a bow.
Its head was almost pointing back towards his own body. This was a beautiful sight, for the curved bone was a study in grace and perfect symmetry. There weren't very many women built that could handle a curved cock bone. But actually, using the curved prick was not in the plan of action. The girls grew excited just looking at the man's unique cock. But their rather unique and strange tastes demanded a line of action that didn't require the services of Black Hammer's bone.
Trish was not surprised that the girls had to have something a little different to express their own sexual creativity. Standing naked alongside each other, the girls presented a study in erotic contrasts. One was black, the other white; one was heavy boned, the other small and fragile; the black girl's breasts were round and firm with nipples blacker than a starless night, the white girl had sharply pointed breasts that were splotched with nipples brighter than the sun; the black girl's hips flared out into a pair of ass cheeks that were firm but rubbery with plenty of hairs spiraling out of the rectum, the cheeks of the white girl's ass were smaller and firmer but with plenty of curve and only a few wispy blonde hairs curling out of her asshole. The legs of the colored girl were shapely but short, the kind that could wrap nicely around a man's rib cage during intercourse. The blonde girl was long-stemmed and looked capable of jackknifing back during intercourse and draping themselves around the man's neck.
The black and white cunts presented the most fascinating study of contrasts. The lips of the black girl's cunt were large, thick, distended and framed with a mat of short hairs that were more wiry than the hairs on a new brush. The highly ridged and black cunt lips were wide enough apart to display the pinkish flesh in the valley, and at the top the clitoris was already in a full and excited state of erection. Waiting for the action to commence, the black girl impatiently dropped one hand over her cunt and proceeded to flick her black female cock back and forth as though she were strumming a banjo.
The lips of the blonde girl's cunt were more tightly drawn together, and the gash that streaked up the body between the lips was barely discernible. The fluffy blonde cunt hairs were profuse, but they had an extremely soft texture that would feel caressingly soft in a man's face.
The sight of the two naked girls and the naked black man did not leave Trish entirely unaffected. She was only human. And while she had always associated love with sex, she had always been able to easily masturbate by imagining herself in love with her phantom lover. The sight of the naked white and black meat fevered her blood and stroked at her genitals. She quickly lifted up her skirt and dropped her panties. And even more quickly she pressed a hand over her own cunt. "Ahhh," she breathed to herself. Relief flooded through her tensed body and caressed her muscles. The black man became faceless. She'd substitute for his face the face of an imaginary lover. The black and white girls blended into one person, herself. Gently she began to massage her own clitoris, and every now and then dipped a stiffened finger into her vagina. She wouldn't increase the movement until the positions of the actual lovers became clearer.
Trish was in no way prepared for the arrangement of the white and black bodies. Daisy, the black girl, dropped to her knees and assumed the position of the dog-style fuck. She supported herself on the floor with her elbows. The cheeks of her ass were raised quite high up in the air, and her black, hairy pussy was extremely exposed and apparent. Black Hammer dropped to his knees behind the girl. The college kids had often discussed in an analytical way the various positions in which to screw. The dog-style fuck was one of them. And so the position itself came as no surprise to Trish. But her mouth flew open in stunned disbelief when she realized that Hammer was not penetrating Daisy's cunt. He was inserting his curved cock into her asshole. This was going to be a rectum-type of fuck. Daisy's rectal tube was curved in exactly the same shape as Hammer's cock bone. And so the fit was a perfect one. Daisy's round black eyes became luminous as Hammer's cock curved tightly into her rectal passage. The exquisite feel of cock flesh against the narrow walls of the rectum made the girl's entire body shiver until strange and unnatural sounds gurgled out of her throat. Her clitoris, excited anew by this lustful sensation, rolled out into a shining bright piece of gristle. Daisy reached back and took hold of her cock and began to jack it back and forth with her hand. "Uhmmmm," the sounds slithered out from between her clenched, white teeth. Trish could sympathize with her. The feel of her own clit in her hand felt just as yummy. And the sight of the dog-style fuck administered to the asshole was a very exciting act to watch, Trish soon realized.
But that was only half of the act. There was more to come, as Trish soon discovered. Fanny, the white girl, straddled Daisy's hips in such a way that she could push her entire cunt into the face of the black man. She faced Black Hammer as he faced her pussy. And his job was to eat the white pussy, which he did with a relish that blistered Trish's entire body with goose-pimples. Cunnilingus had been another act of love the kids at college had discussed. As she listened to the discussions about cunnilingus, Trish had come to the conclusion that one was either passionately in favor of eating cunt or just as passionately viewed such an act with stomach-upsetting distaste. She had remained neutral about the subject. It had never really seemed the natural thing to do. But now, as she raptly watched Black Hammer's mouth bury itself in the box that was Fanny's cunt, Trish began to warm to cunnilingus as a very natural and desirable thing to do. Nothing that brought such joy to a girl could be very bad. And at that very moment Hammer's tongue and mouth inside the cunt had rocketed Fanny into an orbit of the wildest ecstasy.
The white girl's normally ice-blue eyes became a deeper, more intense blue, the blue that was emitted by burning piles of coal. Her warm, passionate face twisted with lust and was never still for a single moment. Her arms and hands flailed through the air as though she were grabbing at passing demons of lust that only she could see with her cunt-fevered eyes. The tight, flat lips of her cunt easily parted like a sliding door to reveal the pink fleshy goodness in the valley of love. And the girl's clitoris zoomed out, a sliver of shiny pink flesh that the black man greedily sucked into his mouth.
As inexperienced as Trish was, it was readily apparent even to her that Black Hammer was a talented cunt-lapper who could please any girl with his mouth. There was no point in waiting any longer. Assuming a semi-squatting position, Trish took a much firmer position and commenced to jack herself off with a tempo that increased in speed and grew more violent with every stroke of her hand. In a very few seconds she had reached a state of delirium as the organs, pores and secretions in her body responded quickly and delightedly to the lustful pressure created by her fingers flying up and down over her own clit.
The other two girls were riding a lust orbit too. And Black Hammer was flying on a faster, higher, and more far-out trip than the kind he took with LSD. The fuel that powered this kind of a trip was lust. And very soon now there was going to be an explosion and a rapid descent to earth. The hard, curving cock bone of the black man zoomed in and out of the black girl's widening asshole. Secretions flew out of the rectal tube and covered the flesh of his cock. And the slight odor that flowed out of the same area excited him. This was another facet of sex that Trish had discussed with her college friends. During the heat of passion, the odors emanating from the body of the opposite sex were exciting. No one at college really had enough experience to verify such a statement. But now Trish knew that it was all very true. The lust-gripped Hammer distended his flaring nostrils even wider to more easily inhale the fragrant odors that flowed from the vicinity of Daisy's asshole.
What about the cunt odors? There wasn't a doubt that at that very moment Hammer believed he was eating the sweetest-tasting and most fragrant cunt in the entire world. He was consumed with lust, eaten away by it and under its control. Nothing else in the entire world existed except the feel of his cock thrusting back and forth inside Daisy's receptive asshole tube, and also the taste of cunt which he continued to lap, suck, tongue, bite and nibble with an ever-increasing vigor. He was riding in a high sexual orbit, as were Daisy, Fanny and Trish. The very air in the room felt heavy with the anticipation of imminent multiple orgasmic explosions. And then it happened!
First Fanny's cunt erupted midst a welter of bloodcurdling screams and a frenzy of hip movements as she kept slamming her cunt hard up against the mouth of her black lover. Secretions from deep within the heart of her cunt geysered out against the mouth, face and eyes of Hammer. But he kept sucking and lapping and swallowing as much of the love honey as possible. The knowledge that his tongue had exploded a bomb inside Fanny's cunt triggered the necessary devices within his own genitals. At the height of Fanny's screaming, Hammer's cock head expanded as the cock cream, boiling and urgent, blew out of the eye and into the asshole of the kneeling black girl. Then another link in the chain reaction of lust was forged. The feel of the boiling hot cock cream gushing into her asshole vaporized all of her restraints. With one final jack with her hand, her cunt vomited out vaginal secretions that drenched the balls of her black pimp lover and then slithered down her bare legs.
This chain of lust that had been so perfectly forged in the apartment of Black Hammer would not be complete until Trish experienced her own self-induced orgasm. This, too, was accomplished. With a final and mighty thrust of her hips upwards, Trish unleashed a flow of juice that gave her more pleasure and relief than she had ever felt. And during this vigorous act of masturbation, Trish had discovered during the fever and excitement of the moment a few new facts concerning her genitals. Usually she had experienced her climax by manipulating her clitoris only. But during this particular jack-off, when there was so much to watch and so much to dream about and fantasize as well, her fingers had slipped into the vaginal cavity. This simultaneous act of clitoral and vaginal excitation was a source of excitement that had almost ripped her body apart. And the post-orgasmic vibrations could be felt throughout her entire body. As she pulled up her panties and tidied her skirt, she still felt weak in the knees.
After the multiple orgasmic explosions, the three-positioned act of love quickly broke up. Black Hammer, Daisy and Fanny disengaged themselves from each other. Their naked bodies were wet with the secretions of love. But with the passing of the explosive moment, the old rancors, the old complaints returned to plague Black Hammer. The tongues of both girls flapping at the same time whipped Hammer as though he were a miserable cur. He didn't look much like the leader that Trish was looking for. "For chrissakes," he moaned as he jammed both hands over his ears, "will you two bitches get the hell off my back?"
"Not till you get us some tricks!" Daisy shot back at him.
Fanny chimed in. "Where's all the big spending black men who are hot for a blonde's cunt?"
Hammer threw out his arms. "Patience. I'll get you all the tricks you can work. Ain't I the best pimp in the whole ghetto?"
"No!" both girls retorted simultaneously. "You got one day to get us some work, and then we gonna find us another boy," Daisy said threateningly. And there wasn't a doubt that she'd keep her threat.
"All right, all right," Hammer said with a release of breath. "Tomorrow I'll hustle you up some tricks. Now get your ass outa here before my wife returns. She don't know I got a stable."
The girls dressed, but before they departed Fanny said, "Tomorrow, or else," and she made an insulting sign with one finger. The girls left with a slam of the door.
When Trish emerged from the closet, she eyed the would-be politician with a face full of disgust. As far as the park project was concerned, he'd be of no use to her at all. "Where you going?" Hammer asked.
"Does it make any difference?" Trish replied, and kept walking towards the door.
"You hear anything?" he asked.
"Everything," Trish assured him.
"That gonna make a difference about me getting the park project started?"
"Forget it," Trish advised him.
Hammer grabbed her by the arm. "Fuck you, white girl! I ain't forgetting it. At first I was against it. Then you showed me how I could better myself by taking charge of the project. Can't you see? I don't want to be a no-good pimp all my life. I want to be someone. I'm pleading with you in a nice way to give me that chance."
Trish pulled her arm free of the black man's grip. "I'll think it over," she told him. "I'll let you know later." She brushed past him. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to return to my own apartment."
Black Hammer planted his burly frame in front of the door. "Not till you gives me your word."
"I can't do that," Trish said. "Not now. Maybe later."
"Now!" the black man insisted. "Or maybe there ain't gonna be a later for you."
"Is that a threat?" Trish asked. She was beginning to get angry.
Before Black Hammer could reply, a spine-warping scream arose from the street and broke all over the apartment. Hammer rushed over to the window and looked down into the alley. "Jeezis," he muttered to himself. "They coming after me." He turned, wild-eyed, towards Trish, and in a louder, terror-stricken voice cried, "They coming to get me." Then the man turned and bolted out of the apartment.
Trish looked down to see a gang of street youths. They looked like a pack of rabid dogs- mangy, filthy, rabid, with a taste for blood in their conscienceless faces. One of the gang pointed up to the window. "That's where the motherfucker lives all right," he sang out to the others. Trish turned to run out of the apartment. But she was too late. The pounding of hobnailed boots on the steps grew louder until they reached the floor where Trish was trapped. The girl darted out of the apartment and ran down the hallway towards the fire escape. But there was no escape. A couple of members of the street gang were climbing up the ladder. One pointed up at Trish. "We're after her, too," he shouted out hoarsely. "Someone grab her. We'll all fuck her together!"
Chapter Six
An obscene polyglot of raucous voices were hurled into the air by the gang members who were white, black, and brown-skinned. A few were a mixture of all three colors. One had the slanted eyes of an Oriental, but his skin was Negro black. But they were all dressed alike: black leather jackets, tight cotton pants that bulged at the crotch, and the hobnailed boots. The back of each jacket was emblazoned with the words GHETTO GUTS GANG. At the moment, several members of the Ghetto Guts Gang were clambering up the fire escape towards Trish. The rest of the gang had climbed the steps inside the tenement and were thumping down the hallway. Trish was caught in the middle of the steamroller movement. They're like wild beasts, she thought desperately to herself. They'll tear me apart!
But they didn't tear Trish apart. In fact, they didn't even touch her. The Ghetto Guts Gang wasn't after Trish. And Trish hadn't been the object of their attentions when they exclaimed in excited unison their intention to "fuck her all together." The gang had been pointing to the apartment that adjoined Black Hammer's residence. But so awesome was the sight of the gang that Black Hammer had fled, and Trish just naturally thought they were after her. The girl on whom they intended to vent their lust was Black Hammer's neighbor, Rocio Valdez, a twenty-year-old beautiful Spanish girl who lived alone with her young brother Guido.
The thugs brushed roughly past Trish as they rushed towards Rocio's place like a river in flood. Nothing was going to stop them from stripping the girl naked and enjoying a gang rape. For some reason, Rocio or her brother had offended the gang. This was their way of exacting vengeance, and also it would act as a warning to others who defied them.
For a moment, as the thugs rushed past her, Trish was left alone and bewildered on the fire escape. She had been prepared to fight, but when the brutish gangsters rushed past and ignored her, she was left momentarily at a loss. But then, as she looked up, she saw the face of a terrified young Spanish girl in the window of the adjoining apartment. And Trish realized that she had been spared. But unlike the rest of the residents in the apartment, including Crumm, she wasn't the sort who could stand indifferently aside while a terrible crime was being committed. The code of the ghetto was, "Don't get involved." But this could never be a way of life for Trish. But what can I do! she asked herself as she still remained alone on the fire escape. It was already much too late to notify the police. By the time such help arrived, the Spanish girl would be raped and the gang far away. No one would testify against them. Crumm had no intention of incurring the wrath of the street gang. In fact, on occasion, he even used them to perform strong-arm tasks for himself. There was no one to help the Spanish girl except Trish. And she had never felt more helpless in her entire life. In fact, if she tried to interfere, there was an excellent chance of the gang's raping her, too. Warning bells clanged inside of Trish's head, and the melody they rang out all had the same lyrics. "Run away!" The words kept prodding at Trish. The girl from Park Avenue hesitated. Then, throwing back her shoulders as though berating herself for the hesitation, she turned and headed towards the apartment of the Spanish girl.
The card on the door read Miss Rocio Valdez. Underneath the nameplate, an illiterate scrawl threatened, She's gonna get fucked. This last piece of information had just been penciled across the door. And the door was partway open.
Trish looked into the apartment, and the scene that gripped her held her paralyzed, speechless, and with a sense of utter helplessness.
The apartment was a shambles. But despite the disarray, Trish was immediately struck by one salient factor. The apartment of Rocio Valdez and her young brother did not belong to the average, run-of-the mill ghettoite. For one thing, there were plenty of books in this apartment. At the moment, they were scattered all over the floor, for someone had toppled over the bookcase. But the mere fact that there were so many books distinguished the occupants of this apartment from any other that Trish had seen in the ghetto. Crumm's apartment had been barren of all reading matter, and the only printed word in Black Hammer's place had been a three-year-old magazine in the John. But a mere glance told Trish that the books in the Valdez apartment reflected a catholicity of taste and an inquiring mind.
There was one other piece of furniture that made the Valdez apartment shine as brilliantly as a beacon in a sea of mud. A piano. And from the appearance of the younger brother Guido, it was apparent to Trish that he was the musician in the Valdez family.
At the moment, sister and brother had been backed into a corner from which there was no further escape or exit. The girl Rocio not only had beauty but courage as well, Trish realized. "Pigs! Filth! Scum!" Rocio hurled the words at the gang as though each word was a weapon. Indeed, a few in the gang did flinch. But the others were all the more enraged and determined to have their vengeance. "You'll all go to the pen for breaking into my apartment!"
"Why did you and your fairy brother squeal on us?" One of the gang members demanded. For the first time, Trish's eyes scrutinized the features of Rocio's young brother. He did look a bit on the effeminate side, but this didn't necessarily mean that he was queer. Certainly he wasn't an insensitive ruffian like so many boys in the ghetto. He hadn't, as yet, been brutalized. But if he was a serious musician, and a boy of refined tastes, it was obvious he'd look a bit more effeminate than the other boys. But that was no reflection on his manhood. Yet the boy had hair that was as long and well groomed as the tresses on any boy-conscious teen-aged girl. He could be queer. But Trish was going to reserve judgment as far as that was concerned. Right now, there was only one immediate problem, and that was to scare off the gang of street thugs before they raped Rocio Valdez. But before Trish could formulate a plan of action, or even make any kind of move at all, the gang, like ravenous wolves, moved in concert.
As the gang leader, a Spanish type, dived at her waist and knocked her to the floor, several others ripped off her blouse, skirt, panties, and shoes. Almost quicker than the blink of an eye, Rocio was stark naked. Two of the gang seized her under the armpits and hauled her to her feet in order that all could get a good look at the naked female flesh. The girl was breathtakingly beautiful, and Trish couldn't help but notice that each boy in the gang got a hard-on at about the same time. There was never any secret about their intentions. And to be perfectly fair, Trish couldn't blame any normal boy form having sexual desires at the sight of the naked Rocio. She was darkly beautiful in a sensuous manner that was able to stroke any male penis into an instant erection.
Rocio couldn't have been more than twenty years old, a fruit that was ripe for the plucking. But this girl was extremely discriminatory about the type of person who did the plucking. And certainly she was much too decent and refined a girl to permit herself to be plucked by any of the brutish ghetto gang. The black-skinned boy with the slanted eyes dropped to his knees before the naked Rocio and attached his mouth hard against her cunt. "No!" the girl screamed out, and revulsion made her young and pretty face look old and wrinkled. She squirmed and tried to twist her body away from the boy's leechlike mouth, but to no avail. He sucked and tongued on the cunt until other members pulled him away. They wanted a crack at a valley of love that had long been denied them.
"We fucks her three at a time," a lust-perverted voice cackled out. The owner of the voice intended for a cock to be injected into her pussy, another into her asshole, and yet another inside her mouth.
The look of abject horror and degradation on Rocio's face was matched only by the terrified face of her brother Guido. "Let my sister go!" his thin, reedy voice broke out. He tried to struggle free of his captors, but his resistance was met only by laughter of a ribald nature and a fist in the pit of the boy's stomach. He doubled over, and all the fight drained out of him like air from a punctured balloon. The rapists paid no attention to him at all. Their eyes were unable to move from the naked, female flesh of Rocio-the luscious-looking breasts with the almost black and erected nipples, the curve of her solid body, the tangle of curling black cunt hairs that swept up her belly and reached out for her navel, and the curving cheeks of her ass that looked just as edible as any other part of her body. "Three to a fuck!" The cry leaped out of all of their throats, and each gang member unzipped his fly and took out his erected tool of flesh and bone that throbbed in unison for the body of the girl prisoner.
They pushed the girl over on her side. In this manner they'd consummate the three-handed fuck, as they called it. On her side, one stiff prick would slide easily between the cheeks of her ass, another would batter its way down into the genital love valley, and still another would be thrust roughly into her mouth.
"Please don't!" Rocio's screamed pleas were entirely ignored. And when they forced her over on her side, she instinctively knew that her body would be abused by relays of three-handed fucks. There was a total of nine gang members, and that meant a total of three three-way fucks. And when they were through with her torn and bleeding flesh, the chances were very great that they'd kill her. The members of the ghetto gang were without conscience, feeling or remorse. And certainly they wouldn't have the guts to rape a girl openly and in broad daylight if they weren't positive they were immune from prosecution. There were other gang members who'd take permanent care of any witness bold enough to testify against them. And of course they knew that the sheep in the ghetto existed from day to day with the philosophy of silence. They saw no evil under any circumstances, and even if they did they'd never testify in court against it. There couldn't have been a single resident in the apartment building who didn't hear the ghetto gang storm up the stairs. And even the deafest resident heard Rocio's screams and pleas to the gang when she begged them not to rape her. But not one ghettoite had lifted a finger to save Rocio, and no one had phoned the police. They all sat quietly in their apartments with ears and eyes blinded to anything but their own thoughts.
The first prick that made a successful penetration of Rocio's lush body was the one that was thrust at her from the rear. The thug spread the cheeks of her ass apart and plunged his already near-erupting tool between the deliciously flexible ass cheeks. The head of the cock sank into the rear valley and hammered against the hair-framed rectum. Rocio threw back her head as she felt this violation of her buttocks. "No!" she screamed out again. But this was a mistake. As she opened her mouth, another gangster arched his hips forward and his throbbing prick slid easily between the two shapely and red lips of the dusky Spanish girl. Vainly she tried to disgorge the offending piece of meat, but the feel of her hot mouth over the cock flesh charged the gangster with such body-shivering delight and ecstasy that he thrust his cock even deeper within her mouth. The girl was shaken apart with nausea, but the gangster was attuned to only one sensation-his cock inside a girl's mouth.
There was only one more cavity that had to be violated-her cunt. And that's when Trish got her chance to make her move.
The gang leader and his lieutenant started to quarrel about priority. The gang chief naturally wanted first crack at the cunt. But his lieutenant, whose prick was pulsating dangerously, had to have an immediate fuck or experience a premature ejaculation, an ejaculation that would rob him of all fun with the girl. He tried to explain his desperate situation to the chief, who could care less. A matter of status was involved now. As chief, the cunt was reserved for his special consideration unless he waived rank and permitted a lesser member the privilege. But the chief, who was a mulatto with a few Oriental features as well, wasn't about to waive rank. He had suffered enough humiliations in the course of his young life. And now that he was a gang chieftain, he wasn't about to surrender any of his prerogatives. "I get to fuck the broad first!" he spat out to his lieutenant. "You'll be next. But I'm first. I'm first in everything and don't you forget it, buddy!"
The lieutenant, who was white, snarled back. "Fuck you, nigger chinkman!" And the fight was on. The chief and the lieutenant lunged at one another. And that's when Trish dragged the fire hose in from the hallway, aimed it at the gangsters, and turned it on full blast.
The gangsters were blown into a corner of the apartment, and even the two thugs who were raping Rocio in the rectum and mouth disengaged themselves from the girl and cowered for protection behind a couch. Rocio, who was also caught in the water blast, crawled into an adjoining room and locked the door. "What the hell you doing?" the gang boss finally called out at Trish. "You crazy, or something?"
"Get out of the building. Right now!" Trish ordered. "Or I'll drown each and every one of you!"
"She's nuts," one of the other boys piped up. The gang nourished their strength when they intimidated rational people who were sane enough to be frightened of them. But they were completely helpless against the insane who knew no fear and were even crazy enough to do something like accidentally killing one of them or drowning the lot of them for crazy kicks.
The other gang members nodded in agreement. "She's nuts," they chorused. Certainly no one but an insane girl would turn a fire hose on the entire gang of the Ghetto Guts. Crumm wouldn't have tired it, or anyone else in the building. But this girl was nuts, and there'd be no dishonor in retreating from the irrationality of a mad girl. One by one the members of the Ghetto Guts Gang struggled towards the window and made their way down the fire escape.
When the last thug had reached the street below and scattered, Trish turned off the fire hose. She walked into the water-drenched apartment. The place was a shambles. Trish looked slowly around the place where Rocio Valdez and her young brother lived. Instinctively she picked up a few books. And when she bent over, Trish didn't see Rocio slip out of the next room and enter the living room. Quietly Rocio locked the door. And when the latch clicked, Trish straightened and whirled around. Rocio remained in front of the door to bar any escape. Trish sensed the fact that she was now the prisoner. She tried to explain. "I saw what they were doing to you. So I turned the hose on them. If I ruined your apartment, I'm sorry. But at least you-" and she faltered.
"I'm still pure," Rocio said mirthlessly. "I didn't get fucked."
Trish looked past Rocio at the chained door. "I don't understand," she said simply.
"As I was saying," Rocio explained. "I didn't get fucked. But you are going to. And right now!"
Chapter Seven
The door was still locked, and Trish was still a prisoner. But they were now sitting and sipping drinks and talking as though they had all been close and warm friends for many years past. Rocio was the most beautiful Spanish girl Trish had ever seen. Her hair was long and black as midnight, and there was a skin-tingling sensuality that exuded from her smooth olive-colored skin and round black eyes. Her clothes were probably self-made, but they were stylish and form-fitting and enhanced the shape of her round firm breasts, her narrow waist, her burgeoning hips and expansive but shapely ass cheeks. Her legs were long and shapely and as strong-looking as the ones on a professional dancer. Perhaps there was a gypsy heritage in the background of the girl, for despite the demure, restrained manner, there was also, on occasion, a wild look in her dark eyes, and more than just a hint of a smoldering sensuality. But the girl was also discriminatory. She could probably still be a virgin, Trish thought. Someday some lucky boy would meet her approval and explode inside her body and hear her lung-ripping screams of lust.
But the problem, as Trish soon learned, was not with Rocio but with her young brother Guido. The boy was no more than fourteen. He was extremely thin and aesthetic-faced, with the long, tapering, and almost effeminate fingers of a professional musician. Music was Guido's life, and someday he hoped to be a concert performer. But the problem at the moment was Guido's sexuality, or actually the lack of this commodity. "He's convinced he's a fairy," Rocio said with disgust. "I refuse to believe it for a minute!"
Trish looked closely at brother and sister. Rocio was without a doubt the fierce protector of her young brother, and she encouraged his musical ambitions. She explained, "The other boys in the ghetto tease him. He isn't a bully like they are. He isn't strong. He's a sensitive boy, and musically talented. This makes him queer in the eyes of the ghetto people."
The drink felt smoothly warm trickling down Trish's throat. She still didn't understand the reason Rocio had locked the door and wouldn't permit her to leave. But suspicions were beginning to whisper in her ears. These suspicions made her believe that Rocio intended for Trish to have sexual relations with Guido in order to prove to the boy he wasn't queer. And the idea didn't offend or make Trish angry. Perhaps she could save his life for the pretty-looking, young, miserably dejected girl. And ever since she had entered the ghetto, Trish had noticed that the very air reeked of sex. If she was going to have sexual relations at all, it would preferably be with this sensitive young boy. The thought of his long, tapering and sensitively attuned fingers caressing her body pinched at her flesh and made her shiver.
Trish set down her drink and smiled knowingly at Rocio. "I'm way ahead of you. You want me to prove to your brother that he's quite normal when it comes to girls."
"Yes!" Rocio almost shouted. "Yes! Oh, would you?" She pointed to the door. "I couldn't have forced you. Force isn't our way. But I locked the door until you at least heard what I had to say." She looked adoringly at Trish. "You helped us when no one else in the ghetto would lift a finger. You took on that gang of street hoodlums all by yourself. That's why I realized you were something special."
Guido still looked dismal. "It won't work, sis." And to Trish: "I wouldn't want to disappoint you. But I really think I'm queer. Sis had no right to interfere with the street gang. It'll only make things worse."
Trish learned that the Ghetto Guts Gang had been teasing Guido about his manliness. Rocio had reported them to the police. The police, of course, did nothing, since they wanted no trouble with the hoodlums. But the gang had to have vengeance, and hence the attack on Rocio's apartment and the attempted rape.
Trish felt overwhelmed with sympathy for the boy. The ghetto was an almost impossible environment for one with his talent. Were there other lost souls like Guido in the ghetto?
"Plenty of people and kids like Guido with talent live in the ghetto," Rocio said. "But their opportunities are few and far between. They have no outlet."
That's when Trish explained her idea to build a park in the ghetto.
"A park!" Rocio and Guido exclaimed in unison. "A beautiful idea," Rocio agreed.
"It could be a place to showcase talent," Guido said, and for the first time enthusiasm pulled his lips back into a smile and his eyes looked young again.
Trish told the boy, "You should smile more often, Guido. When you smile, you're beautiful."
But Guido looked sad again. "Smile," he said bitterly. "I'm not normal. I know it!"
Trish phrased her question with extreme care.
"Have you ever?" and she faltered.
"Corn-holed another boy?" Guido finished the question for her. "No. Not really."
Trish looked puzzled. "Then I don't understand why you think you're queer."
"I'm a masturbator," Guido explained, as though that answered the question clearly.
"So am I," Trish acknowledged. "And I'm not queer."
"I adore playing with myself," Rocio chimed in. "But I'd certainly love to get fucked by a boy if I could find the right one for the job."
Guido held up his hands imploringly. "Please. If you'll let me elaborate."
"Please do," Trish coaxed.
"Nothing you can say will convince me you're queer," Rocio insisted. "But please go on.
Guido pressed a hand over his face. He felt in pain. But he still found the courage to voice his fears aloud. "When I jack off, I conjure up all sorts of visions," he said. "The vision that helps me blow the easiest is one of a mouth over a cock."
Rocio cut in. "A girl's mouth over your cock bone. That's the most normal vision in the world for a boy to have when he's jacking off."
Guido gave his sister a pitying look. "You refuse to face the facts. The ugly reality of this stinking ghetto is all around us. But you insist on living in some beautiful dream world. You insist on seeing things the way you want to see them, and not the way they really are!"
Rocio replied in a quiet voice. "The only way to survive in this ghetto for people like us-is to have dreams. Someday I'll find a boy who will take me out of here. Someday you'll become a famous musician. They are dreams. But they're worthwhile dreams. And dreams with some basis in fact. Your fears about being queer have no basis in fact at all."
"Haven't they?" Guido replied quickly and heatedly. "That cock I see when I jack off isn't my cock. It belongs to someone else."
"And the mouth is yours," Trish said, and finally understood Guido's anxieties.
"Yes," Guido said. And then, "At least I think it is."
"Aren't you sure?" Trish asked, surprised.
Guido shook his head. "In that vision I have whenever I jack off, I can see a mouth. That mouth resembles my mouth. But the face is never clear. I think it's my mouth," he said.
"That's not good enough," Rocio said with disgust. "There's only one sure way to find out. Fuck a girl." And to Trish: "Would you let him? It could mean the greatest difference in his life. And you're the only girl I've seen in this ghetto I'd let touch my brother."
"Thanks," Trish said. She scrutinized Guido for a while. Finally: "Yes, I'll let him fuck me if he is able. I feel a rapport with the boy. He's the most darling thing I've seen in this ghetto yet."
Rocio leaped up and embraced Trish. "Oh, thank you, darling. I know you wouldn't let many boys get into your pants."
Trish laughed. "I'll be perfectly honest with you. I'm still a virgin."
Guido grimaced. "I couldn't. I just couldn't fuck a virgin. All that blood," he shuddered.
Trish explained. "Oh, there won't be any blood. I broke my cherry when I was twelve. That's when I was learning the correct masturbatory techniques. I'm a real expert today."
"Let's get on with it," Rocio said impatiently. "The quicker you make my brother get a bone on, the quicker you'll convince him he's not queer. And the more time he'll devote to his music." She cast a glance at the piano. "That's his future. And he's been neglecting it too much lately."
Trish stood up. "I'm ready," she said. "Where is it all going to take place?"
Rocio nodded towards the bedroom. "The living room is still quite dampish from your fire hose. The toilet is okay if one of you kids wants a blow job. But I think the actual fuck should take place in the bedroom."
"I concur," Trish smiled. "The bedroom it will be." She turned and looked at Guido, who still remained seated. "But this is one job I can't do by myself," she said to Guido.
Guido cast a desperate look towards the locked door. "Can't we postpone this experiment?" he asked his sister. "I feel like a monkey in a zoo. Are you going to referee?" he asked his sister in a bitter and sarcastic tone of voice.
Rocio stood up. "I'm going to accompany you. Let's get on with it!" she ordered in a voice that would brook no opposition.
Guido sprung to his feet. He was used to being bossed around by his older sister. And he knew when he could and when he could not argue with her. The tone of Rocio's voice told him that this was a time in which arguments would be futile. "All right," he said in a resigned tone of voice that a condemned prisoner might use on his last march to the gas chamber. "But don't blame me if nothing happens."
"Don't be so negative," Trish informed him. As she entered the bedroom, she felt very gay and carefree and extremely happy. She understood how Rocio felt about finding the right boy to fuck her. For some inexplicable reason, Trish felt strongly that she had, at long last, found the boy to let into her cunt for the first time. And she partially understood her feelings. There wasn't any doubt by now that she had a mother complex. She wanted to mother boys, men, anyone. That's why she wanted to live in the ghetto and help the less fortunate. It would be the ideal vent for her mother complex. And Guido who looked so sad, lonely and lost, would certainly respond to a girl with motherly instincts. Rocio had acted too much like a stern father for the boy. Trish would be his mother, she resolved.
Guido stood in the bedroom, shy, awkward, and reluctant to disrobe. Trish took the initiative before the approving eyes of Rocio and the furtive glances of the boy. And since Trish realized that her job was to stimulate and excite the boy, she undressed in the slow and tantalizing manner of a strip artist. As she pulled off her sweater, she let her hips grind a bit to hint at her growing sensuality. And it wasn't a put-on. For the first time in her life, Trish was actually looking forward to sexual intercourse. Of course she had once tried to make Acid Head at college. But she hadn't felt then as she did now. She wanted very much for the boy to grow savage with passion, to fill her body with his cock flesh and to explode his virginal cream in the receptacle of her love cunt. Her sweater slid off her arms and then tumbled to the floor, and she was naked to the waist.
Rocio whistled admiringly at the shape of Trish's exposed breasts. They had grown firm with desire, and the distended nipples erected as though they were begging for a suck. The nipples grew a brilliant red before the eyes of brother and sister.
Rocio prodded her brother. "Those tits were meant to be sucked," she whispered.
Guido didn't reply. Now he was staring openly, boldly at Trish. But he made no comment about her lush and naked breasts. And from the bland look on his face, it was not possible to determine whether he was responding properly to Trish's body.
But Trish didn't pay much attention to the boy as yet. She was busy creating an effect as she undressed. She let her hips grind around in suggestive bumps as she let her miniskirt drop to her feet. She stepped out of the skirt. All that remained now was her panties. Her creative mind was busily devising the proper climax to her disrobing act. Her eyes lit up. She knew what had to be done. Bending over at the waist, she dropped her panties but covered up her genitals with one hand. And then, when the panties were completely off, she held them over her crotch for just a moment. At the same time she affected a demure-looking face as though she was too shy to reveal herself completely. Then, straightening up, she flung aside the panties and revealed her totally nude body to the eyes of the Spanish couple.
"Beautiful," Rocio whispered huskily. "If I was a boy, I'd fuck you myself." Then she poked her elbow into the ribs of her backward brother. "Don't just stand there," she ordered. "Fuck her!" And before the boy could make any more comments of a negative nature, she literally ripped off his clothes until he, too, stood naked. But his cock remained soft. Unnaturally soft.
Guido looked forlornly down between his legs. His penis was not only soft but shriveled up into such a small blob of flesh that it was barely discernible. The tiny cock head was visible, but that was all. "I'm no good," he wailed. "No good. Please let me alone," he begged his sister.
"Not on your life!" Rocio said with feeling. "You're going through with the fuck if it's the last thing you do." But then her voice softened. "Guido, darling, can't you realize that your entire life depends on how well you fuck Trish? Tomorrow could be too late. A half an hour from now could be too late. It's right now that counts. What you do at this very moment. Please fuck the girl, Guido."
"I can't," he cried out like a small child. "I'm no good for a girl."
That was when Trish knew she had to intervene. Everything depended on her. An indifferent look or an inappropriate word could demolish the boy once and for all. She really didn't think the boy was queer. But at the moment she had no way of really being certain. Trish did admire the fourteen-year-old boy's naked body. He was brown-skinned like his sister, and there wasn't an ounce of fat on his lithe frame. His arms were thin and so were his legs. They looked like a bird's legs. Everything about him was boyish-looking and immature, everything but one important aspect-the cock hairs around the boy's penis. Trish had never seen such a profusion of black, curling, and thick hairs. They encircled the tiny penis like a huge black moon. And they circled lavishly up his smooth, flat belly. The hairs presented an erotic contrast to the tiny white cock head and two white balls.
A drop of saliva formed somewhere deep within Trish's throat and then slithered out between her lips. Trish knew that she'd never be happy unless her mouth closed over the adorable but tiny cock head and she could feel the wiry bite of the cock hairs against her face. Trish reclined on the bed and threw open her arms. "Come to me, sweets," she told the boy. "Let me mother my baby."
Trish actually looked like a young mother. And this look as well as the tone of her voice acted like a magnet on the boy. He walked slowly towards the bed and nestled into her arms. Trish held him close to her bosom as the boy's mouth opened and closed on a nipple. Trish closed her eyes. "Ahhh," she murmured ecstatically. "My sweet boy is sucking on his mommy's tit."
At first the boy was shy. He felt embarrassed and self-conscious about being cuddled in the arms of a girl who was play-acting as his mother. A mother was something he had never had. Rocio had Raised him, and she was too busy being breadwinner to mother him. She was more like a father or older brother. In some inexplicable way, this girl knew his needs. And he no longer had to be ashamed. "Suck your mommy," the girl kept repeating in whispered pleadings. "Suck your mommy good."
After a few minutes, Guido opened his mouth wider and sucked more of the tit inside his mouth. Then he sucked in almost half of the tit flesh and began to lap it. And while he was thus engaged with her tit, Trish dropped her hand between his legs and took hold of the shy and wrinkled penis. It seemed to wince at her touch and withdraw all the more. But when she began to rock him back and forth as though he were a child and speak to him in baby talk, the penis of the boy became less wrinkled, less shriveled. The flesh began to bloom like an awakening flower, or rather toadstool. When the shaft finally began to slide out and the cock head expanded, the penis did take on the appearance of a toadstool-a rather anaemic-looking toadstool. The cock flesh was white and sickly looking, and the consistency of the bone wasn't good enough to penetrate the cunt of a female. Yet there was hope. Life was flowing into the male appendage and swelling it out with a form and character of its own. For many years it had remained a miniscule-sized instrument that was good only to pass water through. Occasionally, when the boy masturbated, the shaft attained a certain rigidity. But that stiffness lasted for only a few seconds and quite often he didn't even achieve a climax. That's why he never knew whether the mouth in his sexual fantasies belonged to a boy or a girl.
But now, as he assumed the role of a small boy in the arms of a loving mother, Guido's penis slid out into pricklike proportions. Every now and then Trish would rub the cock head against the hairs of her cunt. On her part, Trish had no trouble whatever in getting a hard-on. An excitement she'd never before experienced plucked at her clitoris until the shiny sliver of gristle had erected and pulsated for attention. From the pit of her genitals, pulsations beat out a crescendo of lust until vaginal secretions oozed out of the cunt crack and became entangled in the fluffy cunt hairs. The hairs now glistened with a rich brilliance that almost blinded the eyes of the onlooker. Yet Rocio couldn't tear her eyes from Trish's cunt. She thought, What a wonderful gift I've given to my brother. Why doesn't he fuck that magnificent cunt? Why doesn't he adore it? He's the luckiest boy in the entire world to be the first to feel that charming receptacle of love.
The reason Guido had not as yet mounted Trish was a very good one. His cock still wasn't stiff enough to accomplish a satisfactory penetration. And Trish was growing impatient. "Fuck me," she began to moan. "My cunt's burning up for the taste of a hot cock. Please put it in."
"I can't," Guido's lips trembled. And when the now lust-fevered Trish appraised the raising member, she agreed. The cock had to be stiffer.
"Don't worry, son," Trish reassured the boy. "Mommy will fix." And she did. This time, Trish's head bobbed down between the boy's legs, and like a hungry fish after bait she spread her soft, ruby-red lips apart and engulfed the still flexible cock. The flesh of the cock head was soft and had a bittersweet taste to it. Her mouth traveled farther down the shaft, At the base of the pole, Trish's tastebuds were assailed by an entirely different kind of sensation. Here the flesh was sweet, as sweet as a bonbon. And that's where she applied the greatest pressure or suction. But she didn't concentrate on just the one spot. She pulled her mouth up the shaft and almost, but not quite, over the head. With the tip of her tongue, she probed the eye of the cock until the boy cried out. And when he cried out, his cock became rigid with pure and unadulterated lust. The bone hardened and the flesh grew red and then crimson, and then a dark crimson. Every inch of the stiffly erect cock flesh looked as though it had been stained with the juice of a million dark berries. Manhood surged through every muscle, organ and pore of the boy. Even his face became hard and shining and reflected an inner self-confidence that until then had been noticeable absent. "Fuck," he breathed aloud. "Gonna fuck you," and he pulled Trish's head away from his cock. For the first time, he was in charge of the action. The boy became a man!
Guido exerted his newly found manhood with a number of deft maneuvers that left Trish gasping and his sister Rocio brimming over with admiration for her brother. Rocio's faith in him was now being justified. Guido wasn't queer!
First of all, Guido the man literally plundered Trish's naked body. His eyes became inflamed with lust, his breathing quickened, the skin of his body tensed like a jungle cat about to make a kill. Guido struck out. He dived downwards toward the lower extremities of Trish's body, where he turned her over. The cheeks of her ass loomed up before him. They were curvaceous cheeks, firm but pliable, smooth-textured but with several tiny imperfections which quickened the senses even more.
Guido, the young Casanova, slipped his arms around each cheek and spoke to her ass as a lover would normally address the face of his sweetheart. Guido, the novice lover, was allowing his sexual capacities to have full and natural reign over his senses. And these natural senses told him almost immediately that he had a distinct and lustful preference for anal love. "Darling," Guido murmured to Trish's cheeky ass, "you're adorable."
Trish quickly caught on to the game. She moved her cheeks closer to his face and whispered, "Kiss me, darling. Thrill me with a great big wet French kiss."
"Oh yes," Guido sobbed. "Yes, I'd love to kiss you, my precious," and he closed his eyes as he stretched out his tongue to French kiss his sweetheart. Trish spread the cheeks of her ass to accent the tongue. Then, constricting her muscles, she closed each cheek tight. Then, by further constricting her rectal muscles she pulled the tongue deeper within the orifice of rectal love. When the tongue was halfway down the rear tube, Trish relaxed her buttock muscles and let the cheeks drop apart again. Free of the ass flesh, Guido partially withdrew his tongue and peppered the sides of each cheek with a series of light but heated passion kisses. And as he became more deeply immersed in anal love, the bone of his cock slid out towards a higher elevation. And with this movement, the cock flesh became even harder and darker. The entire prick, head and shaft alike, commenced to pulsate so violently that Rocio was afraid her brother would drop his load on the bed instead of Trish's cunt.
Trish sensed the danger, too. Reaching back, she took hold of the cock, which almost leaped out of her grasp. By now the cock skin was so sensitively attuned to the attentions of a young female that the cock juices within started to boil and threaten an immediate eruption. Guido pulled his head out of Trish's ass and closed his eyes tighter than a clenched fist. "Oh no," his voice rose up into a plaintive whine. "Oh no!" But it was already too late to take remedial action. The juices of lust were already streaming up the shaft and towards the exit at the head of his cock. "Oh no!" he screamed again. He had wanted so much to be the perfect lover. And now this! A premature ejaculation on the bedsheet like any adolescent kid who played with himself.
"Don't let yourself come so soon!" Rocio called out agitatedly to her brother. But she knew her admonition was an exercise in futility. Once a man, and especially a teenage boy, started to blow his cock, there wasn't anything that could stem the tide of the cock juices.
But Trish had no intention of being so easily cheated of Guido's cock cream, which was his first and true expression of his virginal passions. Flipping herself backwards like an electric eel, she managed to get her mouth over the cock head at the exact instant when the very first drop of cream squeezed its way out of the eye on the cock head. That first drop was so hot that Trish's lips were almost scalded. And before she could withdraw her mouth, a river of cream thrust itself upwards like a geyser driven skyward from the bowels of the earth. The roof of Trish's mouth was first spattered and then inundated by gobs of blistering but rich cream, which remained intact even as it dropped down her throat.
The cock cream from a teenage boy was the sweetest-tasting liquid that Trish had ever sampled. And now she drank every drop with the voracious appetite of a parched camel. She sucked and gulped until the shaft stopped discharging, and still she continued to lick the flesh dry of the virginal dew. The cock of the boy finally wilted, grew softer and shorter, and finally returned to its normal, flaccid self.
When at long last Trish pulled her mouth and face away from the shriveled piece of meat, her eyes and face were shining with a glow that warmed her entire body. She, too, had finally expressed her true sexual self. And she now understood the meaning of true sex, and of true love as well. In order to receive honest passions, one must give honest passions. And for the first time in her entire life, she had honestly and without fears or reservations given her passions to the troubled youth. There was only one last act to consummate now-the fusion of naked body to naked body. But as she turned to express this desire, the door of the room was flung open, and an intruder, angry-eyed and trembling, barged in. The intruder was Acid Head, Trish's roommate.
The gangly, awkward-looking boy clenched his fists. "My old man is willing to help us with the park. I hate his guts, but I got down on my knees and begged." He waved an agitated hand towards the bed, towards Guido. "Is this what you do to me when I'm gone?"
There was no denying the evidence. Guido was still stark naked, and his wet cock was still in a state of shriveled shock from the eruption. The boy looked exhausted from the effort of the blow. And Trish's face was still wet with the residue of the torrential pour of cock cream. Trish didn't try to deny the evidence. But she did explain. "It's just something I had to do," she told Acid Head. "I gave. He gave. Oh, Acid Head, it was beautiful."
Before the stunned Acid Head could think of an appropriate reply, Rocio walked over to him.
Naturally, as though she'd known him all of her life, she took his hand. "If you're going to blame anyone, blame me," she said, and she explained that she had instigated the relationship between Trish and her brother Guido, who could no longer be accused of being queer.
"Forgive my anger," Acid Head said apologetically. "I didn't understand." And he still didn't understand how it was possible for him to be so quickly and deeply attracted to Rocio. It was more than a mere surface attraction, too, more than an attraction to her great beauty.
And Rocio felt the same towards Acid Head. The boy had suffered because he was too sensitive for the ugly world in which they had to live. But together they could make it less ugly. She didn't withdraw her hand. They knew they were going to get together. They had to get together. In the heart of his genitals, Acid Head felt a reawakening. Even Trish had never been able to make him get a hard-on. But the love he felt for Trish was too brotherly for great passion. This heat that now surged through his body for Rocio fevered his body. He simply and honestly was on fire to fuck her. And these lustful thoughts for the body of Rocio stroked his penis into a full and durable erection. His lips parted slightly when he felt the cock shaft slide out and stiffen for the first time in many years.
"This is for real," he told Rocio.
Rocio was warmed by his passions and responded. She squeezed his hand. "Yes, darling. This is for real." In a minute, and no longer than a minute, Rocio and Acid Head would disrobe.
Trish felt happy for the couple. But her own needs were still unfulfilled. She simply had to have a fuck after that wonderful bit of fellatio on Guido's cock. His first true blow job had been too much for the boy. Guido had fallen fast asleep on the bed.
Then Trish was struck with an idea. "A beaut of an idea," she told herself as she dialed a number on the phone.
The man who answered the phone had a familiar voice. He was the president of the country club, the same man who had tried unsuccessfully to rape her. "Of course I'm happy to hear from you," he told Trish. And when Trish explained her park project for the ghetto people, the president replied, "I'd be delighted to help you with the park, dear. But let me refresh your memory. I only help people who help me. And you know how you can help me." He spoke those last words with a smile, for he fully expected the girl to slam the receiver down. But she didn't.
Trish replied with a sparkle in her voice. "Of course, I'll help you, darling. I give. You give. That's what life is all about."
President Fowler still couldn't believe his ears. He decided to be blunt. "I'm talking about your mouth over my cock!"
"Of course, darling," Trish said demurely. "We're both talking about the same thing. But you will help me with the park?"
The president couldn't keep his voice from trembling. He could still see those full, red, and perfectly shaped lips that looked as though they were made out of velvet. He had trouble with his breathing when he said, "Of course, of course, I'll help. But when? When?"
"Right now!" Trish roared into the phone. "I'm on fire for a fuck."
"Be right there," he breathed heavily. Trish's exuberance lashed his penis into a throbbing erection. But before he hung up, Fowler had to ask, "What's happened to you, Trish? You're so different."
