Lana straddled the big, mushroom-like vent pipe that she used when she was sex-peeking from the roof. The windows that faced the courtyard of the apartment house were seldom a disappointment to her sex-craving eyes. And at the age of fifteen, she seemed to have nothing but sex on her mind.
At the moment, the acne-faced boy on the second floor was standing in front of his mirror jacking off. It'll take him all day, Lana thought as she watched the skinny boy romance his long and skinny cock. Unless his mother catches him again!
She recalled the last time she had watched and he got caught in the act. His mother had entered the bedroom and was shocked to see what he was doing, smacked his bare ass and scolded him, then took him by the ear to the bathroom (which also had a window on the court). There the mother, who reminded Lana of a stern schoolteacher, made him bend over the bathtub and hold that position while she prepared an enema. The tender treatment his mother gave his ass was Lana's first clue that the old broad was getting her jollies from all this. like the way she meticulously applied the Vaseline to his buttonhole; slow, delicate applications all around it, and a slow invasion with her finger that twisted and lingered there much too long, in Lana's opinion. Then she separated his cheeks with the thumb and index finger of her left hand and delicately inserted the bulb-type syringe nozzle. As she squeezed, both faces seemed to glow. She repeated this four or five times, then didn't bother to fill the syringe any more, just knelt there looking up his ass and sliding the enema nozzle in and out of the tight opening. Bruce finally grabbed his cock and delivered his come into the tub, and his mother seemed to sigh with what Lana was certain was an orgasm of her own.
Just thinking about the bathroom scene created a dampness in Lana's bikini panties. She slid a hand up the short miniskirt and checked. A small circle of moistness greeted her fingertips. Sweet dew, she thought, and oh, so nice. Her fingers moved inside the sheer panties to touch the burning lips of her virgin cunt. Mmmmmmm! She closed her eyes and drank in the pleasure the touch of her finger created.
She went back to the window-scanning, leaving the finger to work its own sensations. All channels seemed to be showing the same dull family situation scenes, she decided. Apartment 24 was presenting a man taking a shower, and apartment 18 had a woman taking a bath. There was little interest in either situation. Then a light went on in her cousin's bedroom and she saw Gloria enter the room, taking off her clothes along the way and dropping them all over the floor.
Now entering the picture was the good-looking fireman from the apartment next to Gloria's. They both seemed tense and nervous; he obviously wasn't going to undress. He just grabbed Gloria and pulled her naked body against himself and kissed her, with one hand roaming over her back and feeling her ass.
A violent quickie, Lana decided, responding to the scene with a fresh flow of juices on her playing finger.
The fireman backed Gloria up to the bed while he feverishly sucked on her hard-nippled tits, first one, then the other, his hand playing hide-and-seek with her ass-hole. Gloria fell back on the bed, her feet still touching the floor, and watched as the fireman unzipped his pants and whipped out what Lana considered the most gorgeous cock she had ever seen...long, fat, and stiff as a board. She corrected that thought, remembering her father had the most gorgeous equipment she had ever seen. Right now I'd settle for this one, she admitted. Gloria, you lucky bitch, I wish I was in your place. Then she imagined how her cousin must feel right now: all excited and nervous inside, knowing she'd have that big meat driving into the depths of her body...actually feeling the penetration of it...stretching...snugly over every inch of it...
Mmmmmmmmm-she was getting carried away with her own imagination-mmmmm. "Ooooowww," her moan broke the dark silence of the rooftop. "Ahhhhhhh," she sighed, rocking gently and working out her orgasm on a slender finger, while she imagined that the big cock spearing Gloria was rocketing up her own insides. "Mmmmmm...good," she whispered, while the fireman and Gloria pumped away on the bed and reached their own climax. But Lana was disappointed, as was Gloria, to see him withdraw so fast and quickly pocket his still dripping prick. Gloria sprang to a sitting position and tried to retain her lover, but he was too fast-obviously nervous-and left the scene.
Stop bitching. At least you got the real thing.
Momentarily contented now, Lana decided to go downstairs and stand out in front of the building for a while. On the second floor landing she met pimple-faced Bruce, who was going out for the evening paper. His eyes avoided hers when he mumbled "Hi." And when she returned the greeting in her sweetest voice, he blushed a crimson red, so she added "dumb shit" under her breath.
In the lobby she saw the fireman's wife returning with a shopping cart full of groceries and managed a sweet "hello" for her, understanding now why he wanted to get out so fast. Your husband is really hung nice, she filled in for the lack of conversation.
"Oh, by the way, Linda...."
"Lana," she snapped back, knowing the woman had waited until they were farther apart before saying anything just so she'd have an excuse to speak louder, for everyone with their doors open to hear.
"Of course...Lana. Would you tell your father my bathroom drain is clogged again?"
"Yeah," she snapped back and walked out of the lobby. My father will fix your plumbing, bitch. His snake is the best in town.
Lana put her back to the stone wall of the Brooklyn apartment building and her breath caught in her throat somewhere.
Rrrack! Vroommmmm! The sound blasted into silence the entire hum of street noises. Neighbors, sitting squatly out on their camp chairs, wiping summer sweat from their foreheads and mouths, looked at the source of the earsplitting roar from down the street.
The motorcycle was bounding toward her, shadowed by the dim lights of the street lamps. The hairy biker, his eyes shining with that look of instant familiarity, rolled his big bike along in front of her. Lana froze as his glittering eyes looked directly into her own, as if commanding her with a grim, tight-lipped smile. For some silly reason she felt exactly like she was some sort of quarry up against the wall as the hunter closed in. She wore ankle socks and a miniskirt, and that mini, or what was under it, seemed to have the cyclist's undivided attention. Her breasts were perspiration-filmed, dampening the thin, practically see-through blouse she wore. The neighbors had been mumbling about that blouse all evening, behind palmed hands: "And she's only fifteen, yet! Well, what do you expect? The child knows no better, living with that filthy-minded family in that apartment house where everybody's screwing everybody! Why, just the other day I heard..."
The motorcycle shot past her, speed-shifting down into low gear with a gunshot, earsplitting r-r-rapp. The biker cramped the big Harley into a U-turn, blipped a little wheelie that jumped the big machine up onto the sidewalk, and laid his iron at her feet.
"Hi, chick!" he grinned coarsely.
Lana ran her eyes down over his black jeans and leathers, thinking he must be sweating like a pig in that get-up.
"You live here?"
"Split," Lana said coolly.
"Yeah, this is the right address," he said, trying to read a crumpled piece of paper that he held up to the street light. "You know a guy named Koch? Some name, eh?"
"He's my ol' man. Who's askin'? "
"No names, bitch, just lead me to him."
"You a pig?"
"Me? Shit, do I look like fuzz?"
"Guess not. He's in the basement. It's okay if you wanta go down. Better pull your bike in the alleyway, though. No chance it'll still be here when you come up, if you don't."
"The basement? Oh yeah, I dig it! They tol' me he was the janitor of this dump."
"Super, not janitor. There's a difference." She tried to guess his age. Maybe twenty-three. "What're you after, a fix?" He could be older, but not much.
"You talk too much and too loud, know that, bitch?"
"Name's Lana."
"Lana Koch. Shitty name. Watch my bike while I talk to your daddy."
Lana had her own key, and an hour later she let herself into the ground-floor apartment, looked briefly in on her parents who were in the kitchen counting a pile of ten-dollar bills, and went directly through the living room to her bedroom.
Lying in bed in the semi-dark room, lit only by an alley light, her mind went back over the evening step by step. That dude on the bike had made her feel randier than she had ever felt before, with his bunched-up crotch in those tight jeans. What a cock he must have! She could almost feel it here in bed beside her. She wondered how it would feel...right...here...where her finger was stubbornly probing. As the picture flashed through her mind, she moaned quietly. She could hear her mother nagging in a high little whine that rasped against the edges of Lana's excited nerves like a small electric saw.
"Well, you better get that girl outa the basement first thing in the morning! She ain't no more than Lana's age, if that. You fuck that kid and you'll blow everything else we got goin' here."
"Who's fucking her? The kid ain't got no place to go. So I let her sleep in the big bin overnight until the, stuff wears off. Big deal! Shut up and go to bed." After Lana's father said it, there was a long silence.
Lana shivered a little and closed her eyes, picturing her handsome forty-year-old father jabbing his big, wet prick into the girl in the basement. Her finger moved a little deeper against the lips of her still-virgin cunt.
Other times she had trouble thinking about her parents at all without almost throwing up. But it wasn't them she was thinking about now. Not what they were, but what they did. like Daddy fucking her cousin Beatrice all the time-everybody knew it, even joked about it. Some family! Did they all have to live in this lousy apartment house, just 'cause Daddy was the super and could get them in, which he'd done, one relative at a time, for the past five years? She pictured Daddy fucking fat Beatrice, who had just graduated from high school. And she pictured Daddy fucking Aunt Emma, Uncle Tony's wife and Beatrice's mother. No sweat; Momma was putting out for Uncle Tony too. Didn't she watch her mother sucking Tony's cock last winter when they didn't know she had come home from school early and was in her bedroom?
In bed, Lana rested the warmth of her moist finger against her own cheek. The finger had an exciting odor to it. Hell, all of a sudden in her life, everything was starting to have an excitement about it!
On his way to bed, Richard Koch heard the slight movement of sheets in his daughter's room.
Koch, medium tall, athletically thin despite his do-practically-nothing occupation, was only slightly gray at the temples. He knocked at the peeling paint of the door, paused a moment, then went inside.
"That guy on the motorcycle told me he had the hots for you. Better stay clear of my customers, chicken. They'll only get you in trouble."
"I'm growing up, Daddy, haven't you noticed?"
"You'll grow up when I tell you to grow up, not before."
"Oh?" She smiled her best wicked smile at him.
Then, as if performing for him, she touched herself gently with the tips of her fingers, as if she were some expensive gift; her hair, her eyes, her mouth. She stroked her arm deferentially, then moved her hand up to her breast. Softly she caressed the splendid fullness of one, then the other, and her father was bug-eyed. The hand dropped from the nipple and his stomach cramped. Then her hand returned. Dreamily she opened the buttons, then slowly pulled the pajamas wide open. He could see the faint pink of her young nipples. Slowly she let the pajama top slide down her arms and fall back against the pillow. With her shoulders pulled back, her titties sprang forward. Then, teasingly, Lana turned them toward him with her head bent looking down at the plump flesh of her breasts swelling out nakedly around her fingers. She dug her little fingers into the deep flesh.
"What's wrong, Daddy?" Don't you like them as much as Cousin Beatrice's? They're not as fat. You like 'em fatter?"
He was looking at her young, sensual, full mouth. The soft, lascivious pink tip of her tongue darted out nervously to wet her lips.
His mouth seemed to be no longer under his control. It seemed operated by his desire. It darted avidly to the flesh, to the hard nipple. A sigh came out of Lana, as though she had crossed over into another country after a long journey.
His hand worked quickly, tracing the marvelous curve, pushing deep into the virgin cleavage, stroking the sweet, round of the bottom of her girl-ass and up the swollen sides of her belly and returning to the nipple where his mouth was. Then he kissed her, full and hard on the mouth.
He felt her hand run, ever so lightly, down over his stomach, then finger-tapping at the pulsing cock that strained against his pants. His eyes were open now, looking down over their joined mouths, catching glimpses of the fantastic silhouette of jutting, strained breasts that were bouncy-full and yet tightly cupped, but all free, rigid and just waiting for his lips to lower onto them, the walnut-like nipples begging to be sucked again.
The little bundle of torment who was working on him had him wrestling with the desire rising in his chest and he went a little dizzy for a second, unable to stop himself from nibbling on her babyish beckoning-pout lips, unable to stop inhaling the girl-fume of her, and he tried not to think of those lips brushing against the cream-oiled head of his cock.
The shock of her little fist around his thick prick was like a bucket of water flung suddenly into his face. What was he doing! This was his own daughter!
She lay back on the pillow, a little smile showing her small white teeth.
"Lana," he said, "Lana-"
"Wanta kiss it for me, daddikins? I know you kiss cousin Beatrice down there. She told me."
"She-told you?"
"I'm a big girl now, haven't you noticed."
"Not-till just now."
He rose unsteadily to his feet, and her eyes caught on the great bulge in his pants. It looked alive by itself, apart from him, jumping, demanding its freedom.
With amazement, she watched it die instantly at the sound of her mother's voice from the doorway. "What on earth is the matter? Fm waiting for you. Are you all right?"
The room was dark enough.
"Feel a little dizzy, dear. Must-be coming down with something. Just need a good night's rest. I'm coming. Go to bed."
Alone again, and still smiling, Lana turned over on her side and licked her wet tongue at the dry pillow.
"Soon," she said in a low whisper. "Real soon now."
CHAPTER TWO
Dick Koch had that familiar aching feeling in his balls. They were tingling one minute and feeling like a hand was squeezing them the next. Can't wait to get at her, he thought, as he swept the sidewalk. He had his morning chores to do before he could get at that young pussy in the basement. The garbage cans had to be put out for collection and the sidewalk had to be swept before eight o'clock.
What he had planned for this morning was just what he needed. The thrill of fucking his brother's daughter up in apartment 12, or having his cock sucked by his sister's kid up in 32, was beginning to ebb. What he needed was some fresh cunt, new cunt, never-before-discovered cunt, all oiled and ready, tight, young cunt!
It was waiting for him down in the basement, he knew. She was a junkie, but a sixteen-year-old junkie. And he had got himself a glimpse of that white meat under that mini when she had sat down on the basement floor the night before and crossed her legs. Sweet, cock-consuming, white meat! But she was high then, no telling what she may have done. He was glad now that he had waited until this morning.
Crystal Bentley cuddled in the corner of the dark, damp cubicle, chills running up her backbone as she tried to drag herself from the fabric of her nightmare. It was midsummer, but she was cold all over, and she curled up in a ball. Someone had taken all her clothes and left her in this storage bin with nothing but a musty old cot to he on. She had no idea what time it was, or how long she had been cooped up in this basement cell, but she wasn't frightened. The acid she had dropped still dulled her nerves and her head hadn't completely come down yet.
"I've got acid," she remembered her boyfriend saying as they sat in the back seat of a car someone had neglected to lock. "And the super of that apartment house around the corner will let us use a room in the basement for the trip. How's that, doll? All the comforts of home and no fuzz to worry about!"
It started to fall in place now...she must still be in the apartment-house basement. But where did everyone go? Where were Dave and the super? She had the urge to cry for some reason, but it just wasn't in her. The superintendent stuck in her mind and she remembered Dave saying something about him and this house of nuts that had made them both laugh. But what was it? And she remembered the dark and penetrating eyes that seemed to be seducing her as the super talked to Dave.
Lights went on outside the door and she could hear footsteps coming closer. She became a little tense and arranged her legs to hide her cunt in thigh-flesh. Someone fumbled with a lock on the wood door and finally it opened slowly and a man's figure was silhouetted against a small window light.
It was the super. She'd know those eyes anywhere.
"Where's Dave?" she asked, and put her hand over her dark bush, pretending that that did something to cover her nudity. Then she drew her legs up tight under her chin, as if hiding behind something.
"He went home last night, don't you remember?" Dick answered in a friendly voice. "You were having a bad trip, and besides, you said you got no home to go to."
"Where's my clothes?" she snapped bitterly, trying to put him on the defensive.
"In the other bin," he said, staring at her with eyes that were methodically fucking her. "C'mon, I brought you some coffee."
"How about my clothes first?"
"Listen, girlie, get off your ass and don't go giving me orders," Dick growled, taking her by the arm and jerking her to her feet.
"I'm only sixteen. You touch me and they'll hang your balls...."
"You're in enough trouble already."
That bastard Dave should have his cock cut off for leaving me here, she thought, but said no more.
The super let her wrists go, but then moved his hands slowly over her firm young body, turning her so she faced away from him. She could feel his eyes devouring every inch of her. His hands moved up and slowly caressed her tits, just before he pulled her gently to him-her saucily protruding ass snuggling up to his slowly rising prick. She could feel it pulling as he pressed it into the crack of her cheeks. One hand held her tit firmly, nipple-squeezing, while the other slid down her stomach. A flushed chill went through her body as his fingers laced in and out of her cunny hair, fingering for the tightly closed lips.
Dick closed his eyes, breathing in the freshness of her long brown hair and finding excitement in the tender smoothness of her tight skin. Those long, well-turned legs added to his desire to eat her up, every last twisting, squirming, weeping mouthful of her.
His fingers slid gently down the delicate slit, examining it with every light touch and wiggling carefully into the lips with just the bare tip of his thumb. The motion made her press more tightly back against his cock and coal-hot balls.
He used his other hand to unbutton his shirt and drop his pants.
Naked now too, he rammed his hand up between her tightly clenched thighs, skewering mercilessly up with his finger, momentarily diddling the delightful thicket of her moistened crotch fur and expertly jabbing up and back, sinking the finger between the puffy lips, right into the hot mush of her shivering snatch, taking her easily, pushing up to find the smaller ruffled inner hole of her cream-fined cunt, in past the second knuckle, massaging smoothly the glassy channel.
Crystal gasped. "Oh, let me suck that big prick!"
"Later. First a little ride." He lowered her to the cot.
He got it all the way into her, but she was tight, very tight.
The tenement basement was dark, and they squirmed in a deep puddle of shadow, his tongue inside her mouth and working. He was going in and out of her like a knife in hot butter.
"Don't push so hard," she whispered. "It hurts my ass.
That made him laugh and he fucked her harder. He pounded it deep and she writhed and loved it.
Now he had a nipple in his mouth, sucking and fondling it with familiar expertness. Her cunt walls were as tight as a fist around his meat. He could hear the little sucking noises it made. The cot rocked.
Then Dick began to stroke it faster. His breath came shorter. He began to thrust. The sucking noises increased.
Crystal had a stranglehold on his head, massaging it and pulling it deeper into the meat of her breasts. The acrid smell of gism was soon strong in the little room, and Crystal was making slurping sounds at his ear.
The real thrill of it was that she was even tighter than he expected, and he thought this in the moment before coming, with his eyes tight shut and his face grimacing. She was guiding it, moving her hips, and he continued to thrust, though he had already come once-plunging it in, all the way, to the hair-deep and warm and satisfying.
By the time the fog cleared in his head, he had pulled limply out of her and she came back into focus there on her knees in front of him. She bent down and kissed the sleeping log, and it jerked suddenly.
"Lay off it, kid, I've had it."
"No, you ain't. Ah, look at it! That's my boy." she said thickly. "Dance for Crystal."
"You're nuts, kid, know that?"
But she still took no notice. She bent lower and licked him, all along the again hard shaft that tasted of maleness, salt sweat and her own thick juices. Suddenly she took the end of it, the whole of his tight-skinned swollen glans, into her mouth, rolling it against her tongue. He lifted his foot off the cement and straddled the cot. She never let go of him.
She said indistinctly, with her mouth still full of Dick, "Hmmmm. Thish ish the way I like it!"
Dick's eyes were closed, his fists clenched. Suddenly he began to arch his body, but Crystal just shifted one hand halfway up the shaft to hold it steady. The end she kept firmly in her mouth. His loins jerked; a small cry came from between his clenched teeth; and suddenly it was all over again. Dick's body collapsed onto the cot, and a trickle of semen escaped from between her lips and the glans. She had a mouthful and was savoring it dreamily.
Crystal pushed her hair back. Her eyes were wide open but unfocused. She still held Dick's relaxing flesh in her mouth, rolling it about. Then she opened her lips and released it, running her tongue over her lips and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
All her movements were slow, luxurious; as though she were adrift in a warm euphoric dream. Sucking it never failed to arouse her. Now she bent down again, and licked the rest of it from his hairy belly.
"You got some cock there, mister. Now can I have my clothes?"
"And you got some mouth there, girlie, some mouth. Sure."
"Okay, what now?" Crystal asked. She was dressed, just buttoning the last button of her blouse.
"Why ask me?" Dick was stepping into his pants.
" 'Cause I got no place to go. Jeez, I thought maybe you could put me up for a couple weeks, till I get some bread. I just got into this shitty town three days ago, don't know a soul except Dave. He picked me up on Forty-second Street. Good thing he did, I only had fifteen cents left."
"Run away from home?"
"Yeah. Took a bus up from Washington."
"Washington, eh? I got a brother there. Name is Max Koch, ever hear of him?"
"Should I?"
"I thought maybe. He's an artist, paints a lot of people in politics. Well, let's see. I can't leave you down here in this lousy cellar. Maybe I could talk my wife into putting you up with my daughter in her room for a week. Lana's your age and...but I wouldn't want you teachin' her anything."
"like what?"
"like how to suck a cock. That's some job you did."
"Oh, that. Colored girl down in Washington taught me. Naw, I wouldn't poison your goody-goody daughter, don't worry."
"Well, let me talk to my wife, she may not go for it."
"You make a good buck pushing pills."
"I do all right. Why."
"I thought maybe I could work for ya."
"We'll see."
CHAPTER THREE
"Who do you think turned Daddy in?" Lana asked her mother four days later.
"We already know. It was that dude on the motorcycle the other night. He turned out to be vice squad. Christ, there was a day when a cop looked like a cop! Anyway, like I said, the judge refused to fix bail on your father, so it looks like he's gonna be out of business for a while, maybe even a year."
"Well survive. Maybe Crystal will get a job today and then she can start payin' us board."
"That little slut ain't going to get no job! She's probably over to New York in a movie again. Borrowed a buck and a half from me again this morning."
"I like her."
"Glad to hear that, 'cause you and her are going to have to get along together for a while."
"What do ya mean, Mom?"
"Well, I didn't want to tell you until it was settled with your Uncle Max down in Washington, but your daddy wants I should send you down there to five; says he wants you outta this neighborhood until all the stink blows over. So's soon as I hear from your Uncle Max that it's okay by him, I'm supposed to ship you and Crystal off by bus to Washington. I think your father's flipped his cubicle, but he thinks Crystal might be good for you, show you the way around. Maybe he's right-she comes from there, ya' know."
"Washington! What the hell I wanna go to Washington for? Forget it, I'll stay right here with you. I'll quit school and we'll work it out, don't worry."
"Can't. Soon as the owner of the apartment house found out what happened, he fired me and your father one, two, six. We gotta give up the apartment by Monday. I'm gonna move upstairs with your Uncle Tony and Aunt Emma. Maybe your father's right, you better get away; it's liable to become a little hairy around here, neighbors and all."
There was a period of silence while Lana digested it all. Then she asked, "You ever met this Uncle Max, Mom? What's he like?"
"The spittin' double of your father, honey. And he's an artist."
Lana smiled. Maybe Washington was a good idea, at that! She had always dreamed of being a model.
Max Koch smiled from behind a big moustache. If it wasn't for the bush on his upper lip, he would indeed be the double of his brother Dick. The studio had looked innocent enough from the outside, and even after Lana and Crystal had let themselves into the unlighted reception room they still had no idea what they were getting themselves into. Standing there, they had heard the rumble of voices coming from the back room. As they entered the back room-a massive, barn-like place, with cameras and tripods pushed back against the walls, lights hanging from the ceiling-Crystal had giggled. There in the center of the room, and a minute later turning out to be Lana's Uncle Max, stood a mustached man-as naked as the day he was born. Drink in hand, he was leaning against a long metal table that was draped with some sort of animal skin. The darkened room had just enough illumination to reveal the outlines of some eight or ten other nude bodies, draped here and there and talking intimately.
A metallic click, and then a sudden assault of brightness-and groans of anguish came from all corners of the room as each form exploded with unusual clarity against protectively slitted eyes.
Over in the corner a young girl sat up quickly. Her nude body was finely structured, and her heavy, firm breasts heaved and fell against her sculptured rib cage. A slight trembling of her body, the stiffness of her large coral nipples, the glittering surprise of her eyes, all betrayed her somewhat awkward position on the thickly carpeted floor.
"Holy shit!" Crystal said, but only Lana, standing beside her and smiling, heard. Now Lana knew one more thing about her Uncle Max. He was endowed with one helluva love organ! Even hanging in repose, as it was then, it was as thick as a baseball bat. He just stood there, looking the two young girls over with the eyes of a wolf, like a gray-jawed pursuer, ready to clamp a bitch wolf's loins and...
"You-you aren't little Lana...are you?"
Lana nodded. "We got an earlier bus and took a cab here."
"But I thought...? When did you grow up? Shit, I thought you was still that high!" His hand came out to his hip, indicating.
"And I thought you was some kind of artist." Lana's head moved around the room. "This is my girlfriend Crystal. Mom told you about her."
He was putting a pair of white jeans on. They had bell bottoms and fit his crotch like a jock. The walrus moustache grinned, sheepishly.
"I didn't see any reason to tell the folks in New York that I was in a new and better business. Underground photography, as you can see."
"Underground what?"
"Never mind. Look, let me take your bags upstairs. I got a real swinging pad up there, you girls will love it! Even got your own bedroom."
"Why?" Crystal asked, looking at the bulge of that prick again and half smiling.
"Yes, well...let's just say I was misinformed. Faulty intelligence communications. It happens here in Washington all the time. C'mon, let me get you outta here before one of these lezzies chews the flesh off your bones.
Going out the side door, Crystal turned to look at the scene in the raunchy-smelling room again. "Cheez, it's a regular meatloaf, ain't it!"
"I can't get that whole thing in my mouth!" Crystal was saying.
"Try, kid, try!" Max had the big tool fisted and an inch from her nose.
Her tongue flicked about the swelling head of the member. Her head was down and her mouth sucked, tongue-lapping around it, until, to her surprise, the whole head of the hot tube was swallowed completely.
The soft mouth was working on it, and Max centered all his thoughts on poking his meat juicily into that pumping tunnel of tongue and lips, pushing forward, yearning to be swallowed to the stump in the firm and muscular throat.
He licked his lips and weaved above her head, jabbing at the wet, hot chamber, feeling it pulsing in there, a tongue from underneath licking to catch every bursting drop. He spurted his juices, and she licked them up, just as she had his brother's, hundreds of miles away, smiling that smile of hers again at the taste of it all; all vanilla and tangy-thick.
"You do a nice job, kid. like I said I can use you downstairs in my studio. You got good bones, should photograph well. Think we oughta wake Lana up, she's been sleeping in that bedroom for five hours."
"The kids's pooped from the trip. What do you take these pictures for, magazines?"
"That and a lot of other markets. A real moneymaker. We better wake her up, I wanna take the two of you out to dinner, show you the town."
"I know this town. I grew up here. But I, ain't one to turn down a free meal."
"What's she like? Lana, I mean. The kid's got boobies that won't quit! What a model she'll make!"
Crystal looked at him with one eyebrow raised. "She's your niece, for chrissakes! Better stick with me, unless you're sick or somethin'. "
"What's sick got to do with it? You get the urge, you do; that's what life's all about. Bet she can't suck a prick like you can, though, eh?"
"She says she's virgin, and you know, I believe her! Square, real square."
"Untapped pussy, eh? Hmmm. Interesting."
"You're a horny old man! Jeez, thinkin' about your own niece!"
"No law against thinking. Here, lay down on the couch on your stomach. I wanta corn-hole that big white ass of yours."
"Nothing doing! I hate that. Hurts like a bastard."
"That's only because you must've had some guy try it that doesn't know how to do it. Lay down and watch the work of a master. It's one of the arts of our time."
"I found out five hours ago that you ain't no artist."
"Let's just try, and then I'll ask you."
They were not on the couch but on the thick pile of carpet, Max on his knees behind her, fucking her dog-fashion. Crystal knew he couldn't do it; that big wong in her little button? Never. But she stayed quite still in the same position, on knees and elbows, eyes tightly shut, expecting the worst.
Max sat back on his hunkers and took one last look at the girl before he boarded her. He watched her; her slow shallow breathing, prone, her ass slightly elevated from the heels of her small feet. He brought his knees up level with hers. She stayed quite still, her eyes still shut. Max began to fuck her with long, slow strokes, rocking back and forth on his knees, until she began twisting her ass in time to his rhythm, his cock sliding in and out of her cunt from behind, going almost all the way out on each stroke, slowly, lovingly, each cycle growing slower and slower on the out-stroke and faster and faster on the in-stroke. Crystal's hips twisted frantically, out of phase with the muscular jerks that twitched her back and legs.
"Hmmmm," Crystal moaned.
"Easy now, easy, just getting you ready," Max whispered beside her ear.
The moan Crystal moaned was one of sublime delight. It was a moan emitted from the very depth of the unconscious. It was low; almost a groan, but it was unmistakably a moan that comes from a young girl with the unparalleled thrill she experiences as a hard, throbbing cock is thrusting deep inside her. It was lovely, unequalled by any other human pleasure.
He slid out of her and touched the head of it to her buttonhole. The touch took fire. Max sat back again.
Spreading Crystal's cheeks with his hands, Max licked all around her ass-hole, starting at the top of the crack. He licked down over the little hole to the space between it and cunt. His tongue, accompanied by the walrus moustache, moved back up to the hole and began to work its way in and his licking assumed a rhythmic character.
Two knuckles deep, he sank his finger into her pussy, creating a communication between finger and tongue through the thin stretched walls of colon and womb.
All was ready.
But it didn't really work. He barely got the end-most tip of the head of his jabber into her before she screamed in both agony and delight, coming in a series of multiple orgasms that were entirely a new experience in her sixteen-year-old life.
This surprise left Uncle Max high and dry, his fisted cock almost talking to him. But the girl, strangely enough, was fast asleep on her belly, half snoring.
Max looked at the bedroom door. Virgin eh? he thought. Meat in hand and pulsing, he stood up and made for the bedroom, where Lana was dreaming her old dream of becoming a high-priced fashion model.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lana pulled herself from the threads of her dream and experienced a salty taste in her mouth. Her lips were wet and creamy.
Her Uncle Max had her head straddled! His big cock rested limply on her lips. Lana tried to scream but his hand came over her mouth, brushing his spent prick aside.
"Cool, cool, girl. Just stay calm. Now, are you going to scream?"
Eyes bulging wide, Lana shook her head. He slid his hand away from her mouth.
"You pig!" she cried.
"I'm a pig? Ha! Baby Lana, you should have heard the words you were moaning in your dream. You must have been dreaming of sucking a big cock; I could tell by the things you were moaning...and those little nipples were like rocks! Tell me, who is Sherm?" He was lifting his body off her, and as he swung over her face she caught a glimpse of his ass-hole.
She sat up and covered her tits, brushed his drying come from her mouth. She had to admit to herself that she liked the taste of it on her tongue.
"Sherm! What do you mean?"
"Talking in your sleep, dear girl. All about how good Sherm's cock tasted, how big and hard it was. "Mmmmm, Sherman, it's delicious. Come in my mouth, Sherm. Ha-ha. Now tell old Uncle Max who Sherman was. A boyfriend back on Claxton Street in Brooklyn?"
Max was fingering her cunt, under the sheet, as he sat on the side of the bed, and Lana couldn't stand it. "Stop...please stop...."
His fingering grew more rapid and he was smiling...laughing at her.
"Oh, I'm afraid I'll have to write your mother about Sherm. She'd find it very interesting."
"No...no, don't do that, Max...I-" The fingering was driving her warmly insane!
"Tell me who Sherm is, then."
"There is no Sherm. Please...please...."
"Please what, Lana? Please fuck you? No, not tonight, kiddo. You'll have to wait for that. But you are going to tell me all about Sherm."
"He...he..." His finger was working in circles, and electric chills were climbing up and down her spine. She looked at his cock to see if it was hardening. It wasn't.
"Tell me, Lana, tell me about Sherm. I love to hear cocksucking stories. Hmmm?" His wet, slippery finger worked faster.
"He...he worked sometimes for my father. He-"
Her ass came up off the bed. "He cleaned the halls, put out the garbage cans and...ohhh, you're driving me nuts!"
"Your father's helper! Sherm...of course! I met the boy when I went through New York last year. Your father introduced me to him down in the basement! He was a black boy! Oh, Lana, beautiful Lana! You sucked a black prick, isn't that beautiful!"
Indeed, the Negro boy Sherman had seduced Lana once down in her father's basement, and he drove her crazy for cock, just as her uncle was doing now. But Sherm wouldn't fuck her after he had shot his load in her mouth. He just called her a white bitch and left her there on the bin floor. Just as her Uncle Max was leaving her hot and breathing heavy now, as he walked toward the door.
"Don't worry, it'll be our secret, love. I can use you as a model for a while. And I think now you qualify to come to my party tomorrow night to meet some of my friends. They just love cock-suckers too. Oh, by the way, I've decided that Crystal won't be staying here. She'll be much more comfortable in one of my friend's apartment, and besides I promised him a shot at her. You see, he just loves cock-suckers, too. And I've had pretty good evidence that she's more experienced at it than you are, my little nigger sucker. Ha-ha-ha!"
He went out the door laughing hysterically.
Lana lay there thinking about how black Sherm's body had been, and remembering too how her family had moved to Brooklyn from the South when she was eleven. She remembered the black boys in the South, and realized now she had always, even as a child, been sexually attracted to their strong, dark bodies. She finally fell back to sleep.
The evening was just getting under way, and Lana was drunk. At least, she thought she was drunk. It was hard to tell. She wasn't sure whether the spinning intoxication that filled her mind was brought on by the uncounted and varied cocktails she had consumed or by the laughter and sophistication that was all about her in Max's large and strangely furnished apartment. But she knew she was having one hell of a good time, a kind of fun she would never have known on Claxton Street in Brooklyn.
She handed her empty glass to the older man sitting next to her on the couch, was surprised to see that he wasn't the same man who had been there a moment before, and smiled anyhow.
"Would you mind?" She giggled as she realized that he had been feeling her leg, and that crossing the room to get the drink from Max's well-stocked bar was going to force him to give up this pleasure.
"Anything at all for the loveliest girl in the room," he said, and he squeezed her thigh, then rose to get the drink. She watched him cross the crowded floor, trying to remember if Max had introduced her to him, decided he hadn't, then returned to what she had been doing.
She had been studying the lovely contrasts Max relished so strongly. There were several racially mixed couples at the party, and it had surprised her that they were accepted so casually. When Max had introduced her to the first of them to arrive-an extremely handsome young white man, whose name she couldn't remember, and a tiny little Negress whose sensual body reminded her of Crystal's-she had tried to hide her surprise, but knew she had failed. It was this couple that she had been watching.
They were dancing in the center of the crowded floor, her arms around his neck, her lower body thrust forward, pressing her cunt tight against him, and his hands were gripping the delectably rounded cheeks of her firm-looking ass. As Lana watched them sway together, not dancing, really, but simply using the soft music as an excuse to keep their bodies locked together, she found herself trying to visualize them as they fucked, and she felt her cunt growing hotter and hotter.
"Your drink, Lana," she heard. She took the glass and downed half the drink before she realized that it was Max who had handed it to her. He was smiling, obviously very amused.
She was fully aware of the reason for his amusement, and she looked quickly away from the dancing couple. But that did no good, either. It simply focused her rather blurred vision on two girls, one black, the other white, obviously hot for each other's cunt, sitting on a sofa across the room.
"A lovely party, isn't it, my dear?" Max was openly goading her now, and it angered her to know that he knew about her sucking Sherm's cock. "Don't you think some of my friends are just lovely?"
She knew which friends he was talking about.
"Yes, they are," she said, smiling sweetly at him. "If you don't mind the smell of niggers."
She had expected that to wipe the look of amusement from his face, but it didn't; instead it only seemed to add to some private pleasure he was enjoying. He took her drink from her hand, placed it on the abstract coffee table before them, and patted the back of her wrist gently.
"I'm glad you've enjoyed yourself, child," he said, and she saw that same strange look in his eyes that had been there when she thought he was going to try to fuck her. "But I'm afraid you're going to have to excuse yourself now. The party has reached the point where, shall we say, the activities which will take place are suitable only for adults."
Lana somehow knew that he really didn't want or expect her to go to bed. What he did want, she couldn't be sure of. But she had a pretty good idea. And the liquor, combined with her dislike of being called a child, combined with the burning itch in her cunt, gave her the courage to do something about it.
"Fve been engaging in adult activities for quite a while," she said, smiling and leaning over so he would be able to see down the scoop front of her green cocktail dress, down to the pink nipples of her titties. "Remember?"
Then she reached out, very casually, and squeezed his prick.
And there it was out in the open, blatantly out in the open. Not only had she made it clear that she was willing to fuck him, even willing to take the lead, but she had reminded him that she was a woman, a woman who had emotions and a woman who needed to be fucked, needed to belong somewhere, to be taken and owned, to be loved. She looked at him, studied the expression on his face.
"Very well." Strangely enough, though she could feel the hardness of his cock, and though she saw him lick his lips as he stared at her tits, he made no move that would show that he meant to accept her offer of a fuck. "But I would prefer that you never mention this party in your letters home."
"I don't write letters home." She found herself, now that she had felt his cock, desperate for a good fuck.
He stood, and she was forced to release his crotch. "Fine. Then we'll get the real party under way."
"Uncle Max." It was the first time in her life she had ever found herself asking for it.
"Yes."
"Maybe you and I could have a little party of our own later. A fuck party."
"Perhaps," he said, then turned his back on her and began elbowing his way through the tightly packed couples in the center of the floor. She sat there, stunned.
A murmur of approval rose as the music from the stereo was silenced abruptly, and Lana could tell, by the feeling of electric anticipation that suddenly filled the room, that everyone had been waiting for just this moment, had known it was coming. Everyone but her.
As the density of the crowd shifted toward the far side of the room, where Max was standing on the small platform that served as his place of work, Lana rose and weaved her way through them, her pique at the manner in which she had been rejected overcome by her curiosity.
"Now that I've made another killing in the marketplace, it's time for my contribution to real art," Max was saying, his arms held high above his head. Everyone laughed, and Lana wondered just what in the hell was so funny. She was beginning to see that this was all some sort of ritual, but she had no idea where it was leading.
"As you've all heard me say a million times, an artist is only as good as his materials. To portray true beauty, one must have beautiful materials. And, tonight, I hope to achieve true perfection. Peggy has agreed to serve as one half my canvas." At these words from Max, there was a scattering of applause, and Lana tried to remember if she had been introduced to anyone named Peggy. She couldn't recall.
"So, if you'll please clear a path for her..." Max made a sweeping motion with the flattened palm of one hand, and Lana turned with the rest of the crowd to look at the exquisitely proportioned blonde who was making her way through the tight opening offered by the men and women. She was completely, pleasingly, naked.
As she made her way slowly toward where Max waited, obviously taking her time, Lana saw several hands take the opportunity to reach out and caress her suggestively swaying titties, the symmetrical cheeks of her slowly undulating ass, even the shimmering golden hair that surrounded her pussy. And the blonde loved it.
As she passed the man Lana had sent for her drink earlier, he wrapped his arm around her waist and began grinding his pelvis against her butt, and several of the people around them laughed. The blonde, clearly liking her place as the center of attention, turned in his arms, quickly unzipped his pants, and pulled out his cock.
"I don't mind them old, lover," she said, holding his prick in her hand. "But I do like my men to have a little more cock on 'em."
Then, leaving him red-faced and surrounded by laughter, she turned and walked the rest of the way to the platform, swinging her voluptuous ass saucily.
"And the other half of my canvas," Max said as the blonde stood beside him on the platform, posing sexily, "will be Stan."
There was another round of applause, and Lana felt a flash of shame shoot through her body as a slender young Negro she had seen earlier in the company of another white girl emerged from the bedroom. He, too, was completely naked.
The crowd, obviously eager to get on with whatever it was that was due to happen, allowed the young Negro to pass much more quickly than had the blonde, though not without some fondling of his cock. As he took his place on the platform beside the blonde, a total silence fell over the room. Lana felt a hand brush heavily across her buttocks but she ignored it. Her mind was full of the contrasts between the creamy white flesh of the delicate-looking blonde and the bony wiriness of the Negro.
"True beauty, is it not?" Max produced a painting board and camel's-hair brush, dipped the tip of the brush into a blob of paint on the board, painted a swirl of bright red around the tip of each of the blonde's tits, tossed the brush on the workbench at the rear of the platform, and reached for another one. "But let us see if we cannot add to that beauty."
He dropped to his knees and began tracing intricate designs in white paint up the thighs of the Negro. When the brush had worked its way to the juncture of those dark thighs, he took the full length of the Negro's cock into his hand, cradling it in his palm, and covered it with a delicate scrollwork. Lana could see the prick coming to a full hard-on under the touch of the brush, and she envied her uncle-envied him very much.
"And now, we shall combine the two halves of my canvas into one whole," Max said, releasing the cock and rising to his feet once again. "Come, Peggy, Stan, there's no need to be shy."
Max could have saved his breath, Lana thought. For, though the Negro called Stan did show certain traces of embarrassment, the enthusiasm shown by Peggy was more than enough to offset this. No sooner than Max had released the black meat of the man's prick, she had her arms around his body, her hands at the back of his head, drawing his lips down to hers; her temptingly beautiful titties were mashed flat against his chest, and she had one leg raised high against his thigh, her cunt grinding, trying to reach the head of his cock.
As Lana watched him grip the full underslope of her ass with one dark hand, raising her to her tiptoes, his other hand guiding the head of his prick toward the unreachable opening of her golden-haired cunt, she found herself recalling, vividly, each detail of the countless times she had watched the fucking that went on around her apartment house; always watching, never a part. She would have given anything she owned, at that moment, to be able to trade places with the girl named Peggy.
"Stanley, Pm afraid you'll never be able to fuck her from that position," Max said, and used his hands to guide the two of them into a position that would allow easier access to the girl's cunt. While the two had squirmed together, his brush had never ceased to move over their bodies and now, as he gently guided the girl around until she was bent at the waist, ready to be fucked from behind, both their bodies were covered with intricate designs that enhanced the eroticism of their fucking.
"Fm sure you'll find fucking much easier this way." Max grinned at the watchers, then moved aside to allow the man entry to the lewdly displayed cunt.
In the instant before her view was blocked by Stan's body, Lana had one fleeting look at the opened and waiting lips of Peggy's pussy, the beautifully shaped globes of her ass, and the engaging spheres of her titties hanging beneath her. Then Stan was behind her, his cock stabbing deep into her cunt, his hands beneath her body, holding tight to both her titties, his ass moving with each stroke.
Max continued to daub paint on their bodies while they fucked.
"Delicious, isn't it?" The voice startled Lana, and she realized, suddenly, that there was a hand on her ass once more. She turned and stared into the eyes of one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. "Max has a way of coming up with the most stimulating of parties, don't you agree?"
The woman waved her hand expansively around the room, and Lana was surprised to find that the act Max was encouraging was being imitated, or surpassed, in every corner of the room. Less than six couples were left standing before the platform. The others were paired off on the couches and the floor, some naked, some half clothed, some couples both males, other both women-and all of them engaged in some form of sexual act.
She had simply been blinded by her desperate need of a fucking. The woman, a stunning brunette dressed in a red gown cut so low that her tits were bared almost down to the nipples, stepped closer, and her dark eyes seemed to catch Lana in a magnetic grip.
"Steve and I promised Max that we'd see to it that you received a proper introduction to our little group," she said, smiling as she placed her hands on Lana's waist. "I'm Tammie, and we're just going to love each other."
Lana moaned deep in her throat as she was pulled into the soft encirclement of the older woman's arms. And then her lips were locked tightly with the soft lips of this strangely fascinating woman; she could feel the soft cushions of titties yielding beneath the pressure of her own smaller ones; and she felt cock pressing hard against her buttocks, sandwiching her.
He was naked. She could tell that. She knew it even before her hand, moving of its own will, reached behind her to take a grip on the hard and heated dick that was thrusting at her ass, trying to force its way through the tight sheath of her gown; she knew it even before she felt his hairy balls and before his naked arms moved around her body and pulled her gown down to her waist, tearing it and baring her throbbing tits.
As they stood locked in hungry embrace, their bodies swaying, Lana found her knees weakening, her mind almost unable to cope with the intoxicating pleasure of having one hand filled with the hard meat of a prick, the other overflowing the soft flesh of Tammie's knockers. She began to sink to the floor; her trembling hands pulled the voluptuous body with her. To her surprise, Tammie resisted.
"You'll find the bedroom is much more private, darling," she said, smiling as she pulled Lana to her and indicated, with a nod of her dark head, the numerous couplings which surrounded them. The party had degenerated into a full-scale orgy. "Steve and I have our own specialties in fucking, and there's really no reason to reveal them to the peasants."
Lana couldn't have cared less about specialties in fucking; she only knew that she was going to start screaming if her cunt wasn't satisfied soon. As she turned to follow Tammie toward one of the bedrooms, watching her sinuous ass sway as she stepped carefully around a Negro couple who were doing the sixty-nine, she got her first good look at the man called Steve. He was rather soft and flabby-looking, with a face that was now almost beet-red in color, but there was nothing soft about the one thing she was interested in. He had a nice-sized, stiff prick. And that prick was all that mattered.
Just before they stepped into the hallway that led to the bedrooms, she looked back over her shoulder toward the platform. Peggy and Stan were now a tangle of black and white flesh on the floor, a tangle which shifted and squirmed as they fucked. Max sat very close to them, his legs crossed Indian-fashion. He looked as if he were in a trance. And Lana could make no sense of his actions, no sense at all.
"You can take her clothes off, Steve, since you tore them," Tammie said when they were in the bedroom. She reached behind herself to undo the clasp of her own gown, causing her big knockers to jut out even farther, and smiled seductively at Lana. "You'll find it very enjoyable to have Steve remove your clothing, darling. I taught him how."
And it was enjoyable. He knelt before her and went to work on her torn gown, pulling it down over the swell of her hips and letting her step out of it. Then, as she stood there clad only in her thin panties, black garter belt, and hose, she felt his mouth fasten over the mound of her cunt and suck at it through the thin covering. She felt more like a model than ever.
As his hands gripped the cheeks of her ass and the wetness of his mouth reached her pussy, she felt her leg began to shake violently, and she was forced to grip his shoulders, steadying herself. She closed her eyes, letting her hips pump against his face, and then, slowly, every so slowly, she felt her panties being pulled down, his tongue following them, licking at her.
"Oh, Christ! Don't leave my cunt. Suck it for me!" she pleaded, and, opening her eyes, was surprised to see Tammie, naked, moving toward her rear as rapidly as possible.
"We're going to give you a sucking, all right," said Steve, smiling up at her. Bringing his mouth very near her cunt, he let her feel his breath. "We're going to give you a double-barreled sucking."
Then, at exactly the same moment that he gripped her thighs and dragged his tongue across the wet trench of her pussy, Lana felt a pair of softer hands seize her buttocks, and spread them, and a pair of luxuriously soft lips fasten over the small circle of her ass-hole. She writhed and turned, trying to make it easier for both of them.
"Oh, God, I can't stand it!" As she felt the fiery tip of Tammie's tongue probe into the entrance of her anus, she dropped to the floor, pulling Steve on top of her. Her hands were gripping his cock, her legs going about his body, and her cunt was straining toward him. "I've gotta have that dick, or I'll go nuts!"
"Go ahead and fuck her, Steve," Tammie said, and Lana realized, dimly, that he had been waiting for her approval. "I'll just change our plans a little. Roll her on her side and fuck her."
As she felt his cock stab into her, driving away all her other senses, Lana locked her legs around his waist and began to move her ass in a steady fuck motion. Blinded by the tremendous satisfaction of the first fucking she had known in her life, it was a moment before she saw how Tammie meant to alter her plans. And it was damned well all right with her.
Somehow, she had insinuated her dark head between their thrashing bodies, and, as Lana strained her cunt against that driving prick, trying to capture the full length of it, she could feel the stiff nipples of Tammie's tits brushing her bare skin; those expert lips that had so recently sucked at her ass-hole moving across her stomach, trying to reach her cock-filled cunt. She moved her upper body away from Steve's, making it easier for Tammie to reach her goal.
And that brought about another temptation. As she felt the exquisite delight of having an experienced tongue lap the rim of her pussy-a pussy that was wrapped around a steadily driving prick-she found a soft and shapely pair of thighs scissored open about her head, a black-haired and pink-lipped cunt above her face.
It wasn't that close; it wasn't being forced upon her. The pussy was simply there. It was hers to eat if she so chose. She stared at it a moment, hesitant, recalling the way she used to feel about girls who ate cunt.
Then, as she felt herself beginning to come beneath the combined pleasures of prick and tongue and bare flesh, she gripped the velvet-smooth globes of Tammie's ass, pulled the hairy cunt closer, and let her tongue flicker across the spongy clitoris. She licked it faster as she felt Steve shoot his hot come up her gash. She licked it until a sudden slackness of the flesh of Tammie's cunt told her that she, too, was corning.
The next hours were spent in a tangled welter of sexual confusion. How many times they fucked, switching into every sexual combination which can be achieved by three people, she was never able to recall afterward. She only remembered the feel of the carpet, rasping against her bare flesh, as she was fucked by Steve-fucked dog-fashion and fucked in ways which have no name. She remembered the taste of his prick and the sweet juices she sucked from the pretty slit of Tammie's cunt. And she remembered dropping off to sleep, there on the carpet, her naked body nestled between Steve's sweating body on one side and the erotic softness of Tammie's pulchritude on the other.
And she would also always remember waking up, sometime in the early morning hours, and finding her cunt once more filled with cockmeat, her tits gripped tight in a pair of eager hands.
"Steve," she said, and kept her eyes closed, letting her bare ass revolve ever so slowly, moving in a lazy fuck motion on the tickling carpet. "You could wear a girl's pussy right off her."
"Not Steve," a voice had said causing her to open her eyes, "it's Stan. You wanted a private party, remember?"
It was a moment before she realized that the voice came, not from the man who was fucking her, but from Max, standing across the room, naked, his cock swollen and hard. And, in her confusion, it was even longer before she realized that Steve and Tammie were both gone, and it was the young Negro who had put on the exhibition who was now fucking her with everything he had.
"All right, Stan," she whispered as she raised her arms and wrapped them about his dark body, pulling him down until her tits were mashed flat by his chest. She began weaving slow figure-eights with her cunt. "We'll have a private party. Just you and Uncle Max and I. I thought you were wasting that cock on that whore, Peggy, anyhow."
And, as they fucked, their bodies moving ever faster and faster, she couldn't help but think that it was the perfect joke on herself. For, when she chose to look, she could see her Uncle Max leaning against the wall, his eyes glowing as he watched them fuck.
He held his cock in his hand, jacking himself off.
CHAPTER FIVE
In the two weeks that followed, Lana found herself spending a good deal of her time in the apartment of Tammie Cornell. And a good deal of time in Tammie's bed, too. After the party that night, the fascinating woman had left a message for Lana to phone her, which Lana did the very next day, and the relationship had been blossoming ever since.
Beside the bedtime games, when they would hungrily suck each other's cunt, they had many long talks. Lana told her about her childhood years in the deep South, how her parents had always been prejudiced against Negroes, and even with all the trouble her father got into after moving to Brooklyn and taking over the super's job, how he would just die if he knew that his daughter coddled a secret desire for black cock. She confessed her desire to be a modelbut not the kind Uncle Max needed now.
"So, why don't you just explain to me what's so wrong with the way your uncle gets his nuts," Tammie Cornell said, and Lana began to wish she had never broken down and told her how disgusted she was ber cause she had fucked Stan Braden-and liked it. "You sit there telling me all this shit about being ashamed of yourself, and you know it's nothing but a crock of shit. The best thing you can do, honey, is forget all that crap you were raised on. If you want to fuck a man, fuck him. Let the people you left behind worry about their own hang-ups, kiddo. And as for the way Max gets his nuts off, that's his business. Is it any worse than the thing I just did to you?"
Lana blushed slightly at the obvious reference to the sexual acrobatics they had performed in the bedroom, only a few minutes before, and pulled the terry-cloth robe more adequately around her naked body. She quivered and squirmed on the couch, thrown completely off guard by Tammie's reaction to her disclosure. She had thought Tammie, out of all these strange people she had met since coming north, might be the one person who would understand.
"It ain't that...." she began, then stopped herself as she saw Tammie's lush red lips begin to curve into an amused smile. She had been trying hard, recently, to lose the drawl of her childhood, to correct her language. It was just another thing which separated her from these people, and it had been something she had constantly been kidded about in Brooklyn, too. Some-people had said it was charming, but it irritated her. She knew she'd have to lose her inhibitions to become a top model, but that wasn't the important thing. Trying to select her words with care, she began again. "I'm not tryin' to say I didn't like it with Stan. That's just the trouble-I liked it too much. A white girl shouldn't think about fucking with a nig...a black man...as much as I think about it."
"Why not?" As Tammie leaned back against the sofa and threw the loaded question at her so casually, Lana found herself wondering if it was possible for anything to ruffle this sensual creature. Even after a wild session of cunt swapping such as the one they had just finished, and after all the other sessions of the past two weeks, Tammie always managed to look as if she had just left the hairdresser's. Even her lipstick was unsmeared.
"Well," she began slowly, wondering if she would ever be able to explain why she was bothered by her own actions, by her own thoughts, wondering if she would ever be able to make any of them understand, "it just isn't right. That's why. If is was just a matter of doin' it once, I could live with that. But it's all I think about anymore. I...I keep seein' myself all wrapped up with some black man. I even think about it when...."
". . . when I'm eating your cunt?" As Lana's voice trailed off into silence, Tammie finished the statement for her, smiling at her discomfort. "So what's wrong with that? I get horny over men with blue eyes...and girls whose eyes are green."
As if to punctuate this last statement, she leaned toward Lana, obviously meaning to kiss her. Lana moved away.
"You still don't get what I'm tryin' to tell you," she said, struggling to find the words that would show why, bad as she liked and needed it, it was wrong for her to fuck a black man. "I mean, I can understand you people havin' them to your parties. I can understand a woman fuckin' one of 'em. But, God, I can't see why you and Steve and Uncle Max would go to so much trouble to make me fuck one of them. It's...it's like puttin' a girl in bed with a dog."
"A what?"
Lana wished she hadn't used the description. It was certain to anger Tammie, she knew, but it was too late to back away. "I mean they...they shouldn't be with a white girl. They don't think like us. They...they're dumb. And that's why I ain't never gonna let one other of them fuck me. Never! I ain't gonna be at no more of Max's parties. I'll leave when he has 'em."
Tammie stood up, and Lana, seeing the anger on her face, wished she had kept her mouth shut. There was no way of escaping another lecture, she knew, so she leaned back to listen to it in silence. And the expected lecture came.
"Dumb? Dumb! Jeez, that bastard of a father of yours really schooled you, didn't he?" Tammie stood before her, her hands on her hips, her large tits rising and falling in time with her heavy breathing. "That really takes the fucking cake! Do you have any idea how Stan Braden earns his living?"
Lana simply shook her head. She had spoken to Stan Braden but once since the night he fucked her, and that had been over the telephone. He had called to invite her out-an invitation she had quickly rejected by hanging up the telephone. A quick fuck in a bedroom was one thing, in her mind, but being seen in public with a black man was another.
"He's a research chemist, that's how," Tammie went on, pacing the floor. "And you don't get to be one of those by being dumb, honey. His monthly salary's about what your old man'd earn in a year."
This second reference to her father brought Lana out of her silence "If he's such a fuckin' big shot, what was he doin' at that party? How come he was up there, bare-assed naked, puttin' on that big fuck show?"
"Why was Max there? Why were Steve and I there? Why were you there? Because we're all swingers, and it was a swingers' party, that's why."
"Is that why you and Max and Steve deliberately got me drunk, fucked me till I was half crazy, then sent Stan Braden in to cock me? like hell it is!" Lana was no longer on the defensive and she flung the words up at Tammie. "I'll tell you why it was. Max is hung up on black-and-white fucking, but he can't do it hisself. So he rushes out and finds white girls who will. Swingers, my ass!"
Tammie shook her head very solemnly. "Oh, I didn't realize I was talking to a psychologist. While you're at it, would you mind analyzing Steve and myself?"
"You're damned right I will!" The vague idea which had been at the back of Lana's mind during the past two weeks was taking on clarity. "I can tell you about the whole bunch of Max's friends. You all mix with these colored people, and you say it's because you know they're as good as anyone else, but you don't mean that. You just like to point at people like me, the ones who say what they're really thinking, and talk about what dumb-assed racists we are. And you get some kind of kick out of seein' me on your level, out of seein' me fucked by a black nigger!"
Tammie's voice was subdued. "You really think that's the truth? Haven't you ever thought you might be wrong? That a person's color might not make a difference? That maybe Max was trying to show you that?"
Lana felt like laughing and crying at the same time. "By letting me wake up with a black prick stuck up me? By getting me into almost exactly the same shit that got me fucked up in the first place? By getting me so I can't think of nothin' but fuckin' some black buck?"
"No. Fd say he was trying to show you that you hadn't committed such an awful sin, after all."
And Lana began to cry. "He wanted to stand there and beat his cock, that's what he wanted to do. Watch me get fucked, and beat his cock. But he'll never do it again. Never. You won't be seein' me at any more of his swap parties. I ain't never lettin' myself do that again."
She felt, rather than saw, Tammie sit back down beside her, and felt an almost motherly arm slip about her shoulders. "I wouldn't blame you one bit if you didn't go to those affairs," Tammie said, her voice low and soothing. "But that's not the real problem at all.
Honey, you've got to face up to the fact that these are real people. No better and no worse than the rest of us. Until you do, you're going to go on punishing yourself because you think you've done something wrong. You haven't. You've fucked a man. That's all."
She nestled herself into the warm cradle of Tammie's arms, and she was blinded by her tears. "I'm so miserable. Oh, I'm so goddamned miserable."
"Oh, I want you to come here tonight." She felt a hand gently stroking her hair, and she wished she could remain here forever, cradled against her warm breast. "I'm having a few people in, and there's someone I want you to meet. You'll hate him, I think, but I think you'll learn something from him, too. I believe you'll learn that black people have every strength and weakness that we have ourselves."
Lana kept her face pressed against the warm breast. "I don't wanta ever see any more of...of them," she sobbed. "I said I ain't never gonna let myself fuck with them anymore."
"You'll come," Tammie whispered, her own eyes filling with tears as she stroked the copper hair of the sobbing young girl. "You'll come because you can't stay away until you learn that a black man is simply a man."
Then, talking only to herself, she added, "And God help you, honey, if you don't learn it."
"Ernest, I'd like you to meet Lana. She hates niggers," Tammie said, and Lana knew she must have looked almost comical as she stood there, stunned at Tammie's use of the word, feeling the blood rush to her face as she found herself unable to meet the gaze of the tall, bearded Negro with the ebony skin. "Lana, this is Ernest Kline. You two have a lot in common."
"I...I," Lana stammered as she tried to find words that would smooth over the awkward situation, then found herself growing angry as she realized he was enjoying her embarrassment. The anger halted the stammer. "I guess maybe I do. So what?"
His teeth flashed in the most brilliant smile she had ever seen, and his broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. "So, I guess it makes you one of my favorite white folks, baby. I ain't got no love for no honkies, either. Don't want nothin' from no white mother-fucker."
"I suppose that doesn't include Tammie's whiskey, though, does it?" It angered her even further that he would use such language to her, and that he would use it so casually. She pointed to the cocktail glass in his hand, and her voice was suddenly filled with the same inflection she might have used in addressing Sherm in her father's basement. "You don't want nothing from white folks. That's what you say. But you take all you can get. You sop it up just like you're soppin' up that whiskey."
"I earn my drinks, baby," he said, and the grin was on his face once more. "It's just that I don't earn them like Tammie's household niggers over there. It keeps her happy trin' to convert me into one of them Uncle Tom niggers who'll get down on his knees and crawl to keep ol' massa happy."
He lifted his glass and pointed to the far side of the spacious room where several couples were discussing something in loud voices. Among them stood Stan Braden, his arm around the waist of a young, big-titted blonde, his date for the evening. Stan, as if sensing their eyes upon him, turned and looked toward them. His eyes locked with hers briefly, then she looked away.
"Baby, you talkin' to one nigger ain't nevah gonna get down on his knees and crawl fo' no white pussy. If'n I wants it, I gonna take it. Gonna take it like we gotta take everything else." He was deliberately mocking the dialect of an uneducated Negro, which he all too clearly wasn't, and the way this seemed to accent her own leftover childhood drawl infuriated her.
"A nigger like you'd have to take it," she said, and turned, ready to walk away. "That's the only way you'll ever fuck anything but a whore!"
His hand gripped her bare upper arm like a steel vise, causing her to spill the part of the martini she held in her hand, but she refused to look back toward him.
"Is that right, Scarlet O'Hara? You tellin' me a gal raised down there in the cotton fields and then in the Brooklyn ghetto never craved a little black meat?" There was open laughter in his voice now, and his hand felt fiery hot on her arm. "I ain't believing that now, missy. Bet you used to screw all them young bucks."
"No." Her knees felt weak, and her voice was barely audible. She was staring at two young couples who stood beside the portable bar in the corner, but she wasn't seeing them. She was seeing herself as she sucked Sherm's prick; she was picturing herself as she lay on the bedroom carpet, being fucked by Stan Braden.
"No, hell!" There was a sharp jerk on her arm, and she found herself looking up into the dark, savage face of Ernest. "Let me clue you on somethin', Scarlet baby. If I wanted to fuck you-and I really ain't got the time to waste-I could make you come beggin' for it. Now get away from me. I wanta watch Tammie's pet niggers tryin' to stay on the good side of the white folks."
He released her arm and walked to the bar, where he began to mix a drink. Not once did he look back.
"Are you beginning to understand why I wanted you to meet Ernest?" Lana was startled to find Tammie standing close beside her, offering her a fresh drink. She took it and handed Tammie the empty.
"All I can understand is that you sure know how to start a fight," she said, once more looking across the room at Ernest. The feline grace with which he moved, as he sauntered to a couch and sat down, still not looking at her, was surprising in such a tall man. "Why in hell'd you have to go and tell him what you did?"
"It's true, isn't it?" Tammie gave a rather curious look as she saw the way she was staring at Ernest, who was sprawled on the couch, his legs crossed, smiling at his own secret thoughts.
"I...yes. But not because they're black. I mean...I don't know what I mean."
"Well, honey, he hates you because you're white That's what I wanted you to see. Not because of what you are or what you've done, but simply because you're white." She nodded toward the bar where three couples stood, one white, one Negro, one mixed. "You can see the hate pouring out of his eyes when he looks at people who don't think the same way he does. You've got the same kind of hate, Lana, and you'd best get rid of it."
"I hate to admit it, but Tammie's right," Stan said from behind them, and they turned to find that he had been standing close enough to overhear their conversation. Lana wondered just how much he had heard. "At least she's right about Arrogant Ernest," he went on, paying no attention at all to the blonde who was clinging to his arm. "But I don't know about you, Lana. Who do you hate?"
"Arrogant Ernest, to name one," she said, trying to treat the thing as though it was a joke, yet realizing, at the same time how well the name fit. "Is he always so lovable?"
"He can be one of the crudest, rottenest sons of bitches I know, and I hate his guts," Stan said, sipping at his drink after the words were out, as though the whiskey would wash away their taste. Lana saw that he truly meant what he said, and it surprised her to hear one black man so openly express his hatred of another; she had always thought of the race as a. single entity, a group of people who looked the same, thought the same, and talked the same. But, looking at Stan as he absent-mindedly stroked the lower curve of the blonde's tit, Lana thought she understood the reason for his hatred of Ernest Kline.
For, standing there amidst the three white women, drinking their whiskey and holding a blonde who was very obviously an easy fuck and nothing more, he was, as Lana saw him, a perfect caricature of Ernest Kline's "household nigger"-ready to get down on his knees and crawl for a piece of white pussy.
Though he was extremely handsome, with smooth features that "weren't Negroid at all," and though Lana could still recall the sensuous delight she had experienced the night he fucked her, when she compared him to the brutal-looking figure of Ernest Kline, he came in a weak second.
"I suppose I should admit, though, that the black bastard's got more guts than any man I've ever seen. It's just his way of doing things," said Stan. Lana tore her eyes away from Ernest, who suddenly turned in her direction, his eyes locking on hers with an almost magnetic stare.
"His way of doing what?" she asked, and hoped her face didn't reveal what she had been thinking, hoped it didn't show the way she had been picturing her legs thrown high about that dark body, her cunt raised and moving. Not that her desire to be fucked by a black man would have created the least amount of interest among this group; she knew it wouldn't. But she was fast becoming aware that this strange, angry man was an outsider-perhaps to the same degree as herself-and that he was being used as some sort of sordid example for her consideration.
"Ernest's a militant," Stan said, and Lana could tell by the way he ran his eyes over her tits, covered to the least possible degree by her low-cut gown, that he was using the conversation as an excuse to stay close to her. She was fully aware that she could take him away from the blonde-take him away and have an exquisite fuck-but she decided to wait and see how the evening developed.
"I suppose I should say the militant," Stan continued, and Lana saw that the blonde was growing miffed. "You see, Ernest thinks the only way we'll ever have equality is for our people to take it by killing your people."
"Don't you agree?" the blonde asked, and Lana could have slapped her face. She was the exact counterpart of Ernest's "household nigger."
"If I did, honey, you'd be the first I'd get. You're always convenient," he replied without even turning his head, then went on. "But one thing I can tell you for sure, Lana. Stay away from Ernest. He's bad news for all of us-black and white."
"If you people don't like him, how come you have him over here?" Lana asked, hoping it wouldn't sound like she was defending him. As she spoke, she realized that he had caught her staring in his direction, and was now watching her intently, half smiling, his fingers stroking his small, neatly trimmed beard, a look of burning intensity in his eyes. She remembered his words, "You'll come begging me to fuck you," and she felt that burning transfer itself to her cunt.
"I don't have him here. Not often, at least. He won't come. I just coaxed him here tonight to prove my point to you. Do you understand, now, what I was trying to tell you?" It was a moment before Tammie realized Lana wasn't going to answer, and then she reached out to touch her arm. "Do you, honey?"
"Yes." Lana hadn't even heard the question.
She broke away from the group by pretending she needed a drink, then never returned to it. Instead, she stood by herself, watching Ernest Kline, comparing him to the servile blacks she had known previously, reminding herself of the promise she had made to herself-the promise that she would never again be fucked by anything but a white man-but still feeling that delicious glow building in the depths of her cunt, filling her tits. And, finally, feeling Stan Braden's eyes on her back, she crossed the room and stood before him.
"Will you take me home, Ernest?" she asked, her face burning as he looked up at her.
"Won't take you home, Scarlet baby," he said, grinning up at her and rolling an empty crystal glass over and over in his hands. "Might take you somewhere and fuck you. If you beg for it."
"All right, then." She wanted out of this room, away from these watching eyes-and she desperately needed to be fucked.
"Say it, baby."
"I'm begging you, then. I'm begging you to fuck me.
Tammie sighed as she watched Ernest Kline rise from the couch, straighten the crease in the trousers of his suit, drape one arm around her bare shoulder, and lead her from the room. She hadn't meant things to work out this way.
Not at all.
"Get outta the gown, baby, 'less you want it tore up." Ernest said, switching off the ignition of his car and turning toward her. He ran his hand up the fabulously smooth flesh of her bare arm, across the upper domes of her tits, used one finger to tilt her chin up. "You ain't getting ready to fuck no little-pricked white trash or no tamed-down Uncle Tom, you gonna be fucked by a man-an' you damn sure gonna know it."
"I knew it soon as I saw you," she said, and letting her hand run up the inside of his leg, she found his zipper and tugged it down and gripped the hard staff of his cock. "Don't worry about the dress. Just fuck me the way a woman should be fucked-hard and often."
Then she placed her other hand at the back of his neck, placing it so hard and firm that she could pull his face to hers, and she kissed him. It was a passionate embrace, more passionate than any she had ever known, with her tongue probing into his mouth and being met by his, and her fingers gripping his hardened prick as if her very life depended on it. The feel of his beard, rasping against the delicate flesh of her face, was a fuel which stoked the fires of her cunt, and she strained her upper body against him, pressing her tits against his chest, her ass wriggling in the grasp of his knowing hands.
"Ain't like fuckin' in one of them imagine uptown apartments," he said, when at last the kiss had ended. He looked down at the white glow of her hand, moving slowly on his prick, and he grinned at her. "Of course, when a girl's done got hungry for a chunk of black prick, a car's good as any place, ain't it, Scarlet?"
"Black don't have nothin' to do with it. And I wish you'd stop callin' me that. Please?" She put her head on his shoulders, letting her titties flatten themselves against his arm, and she ran her hand down from the hard rod of his prick to the crotch of his pants, rubbing hard at his balls. "I'd be out here with you no matter what color you were. It's you. You and that big dick."
In an effort to convince him of this, she bent low on the car seat and took the head of his prick in her mouth-and very slowly lowered her head until her mouth was packed with meat.
"Don't say nobody warned you about the dress," she heard him say, dimly as he remained almost immobile, his hips moving only the slightest bit beneath the stimulation of the blowjob he was getting.
Then she felt his hands twist themselves in the material at the back of her dress and heard the harsh sound of tearing as he ripped it down the center. She raised her head from his cock to look at him and had just one glimpse of his open palm coming toward her face before it struck, filling her eyes with blinding tears and her mind with Roman candles of color.
"Ain't no way you stoppin' now, baby," he said, pushing Lana back toward his prick. "You say the black don't make no difference, huh? Well, you can just suck it till I tell you to quit. You wanted a little black cock, whitey. You gonna get all you can stand. Now suck it!"
With her face still stinging from his slap, she lowered her lips to his prick once again, forming them into a perfect circle and wrapping that circle around the swollen head of it. Though she was frightened and somewhat confused by his sudden and unexplained anger and by the remembrance of the warnings she had received at Tammie's, there was, too, a strange and unique enjoyment to be found in the fear-and even in the pain. She held his cock upright with one hand and swirled her tongue over the tip of it.
"That's it, baby. You just go on an' take your fill of that cock. They's enough there to satisfy any white whore." As she bobbed her head slowly over his prick, taking the full length of his shaft into her throat, then retreating until her mouth held only the smooth knob of its head, she felt him undo the clasp of her bra, remove it, and cup her tits in his hands.
He held her tits like that for a moment, fondling them, his hands kneading the smoothly textured flesh, and then she felt him rolling each aching nipple between a thumb and a forefinger. There was a moment of idyllic pleasure-a moment in which his hips pumped steadily upward, fucking her in the mouth-and then, suddenly, her tits were filled with a fiery pain that flowed away from them and touched every nerve in her body.
"Get your mouth back on that prick, whore!" She had raised her head in reaction to the unexpected pain, but there had been no intent to end the delectable chore she was performing; rather, the pain, though it had been sharp and cruel, was merely another pleasant sensation to add to the masochistic pleasure she was deriving from being subjected to his will.
She unhooked his belt and, urging his buttocks upward from the car seat, slid his shorts and trousers down onto his dark, muscular thighs. His hands were still upon her bared breasts, holding them more gently now, and, in spite of that gentleness, she found herself anticipating another hot shock of pain. When it failed to come, she was-for no reason she could understand-disappointed.
"You the boss, boss," she said, grinning up at him as she imitated the servile tones she had heard Sherm use on her father in Brooklyn. "You says you wants yo cock sucked, you gonna get it sucked. like no wench can suck it for you."
And then, just as she had wanted, she felt that bittersweet, luxurious pain roll through the globes of her tits once more.
Then, while her tits were still filled with that hot, exhilarating pain, and while her cunt was literally screaming in its need of relief, she went to work on his cock and balls.
Holding the hot meat of his cock in one hand and slowly jacking it off, she moved her body around until she was kneeling on the floorboards of the car, her mouth straining to reach his hairy nuts.
As she fastened her lips on the wrinkled flesh of his bag and nibbled delicately at it, drawing a few of his kinky cock hairs into her mouth along with the skin, she felt his fingers lace themselves together at the back of her neck and urge her back toward his prick. But she took her time. It would be more satisfying that way, she knew. And, more than she had ever wanted anything, even to be a model, she wanted this to be a satisfying blowjob. But she really couldn't have said why.
"Tammie was right. We had a lot in common," she whispered, then licked slowly up the side of his prick, kissed the head of it, and smiled up at him. "We both like the same things."
"Shut up." His voice was a harsh snap, but there was an underlying quiver which told that his original intention, which she believed was simply to brutalize and degrade her, was washed away by the avid caresses her hands and lips were bestowing upon his prick. As she went back to work on his cock, holding the heavy sac of his nuts in one hand while her other hand flitted up and down the length of his pulsing cock, jacking it off into her greedily sucking mouth, she felt his meat grow hotter, his hips begin to churn, and she knew he was getting ready to come.
She raised herself higher, letting the coppery silk of her hair hang down over his exposed cock, and she sucked on the head of his cock once more. As her lips slid down the hard, yet yielding length of his prick, she deliberately moved her shoulders from side to side, letting her stiffened nipples play across the bare skin of his lower legs, causing him to respond with a series of quick, short thrusts that moved his prick in and out of her mouth as if he were fucking a cunt.
And then he busted his nuts into her mouth.
As she felt the first gob of his come gush forth, filling her mouth and her throat with the sweet-tasting syrup she had tasted but once before, she withdrew slightly, intending to jack his cock until he was finished, wanting to watch him as he bucked and heaved in the throes of coming. He forced her back onto his prick.
"You ain't done yet, whitey," he said, holding the back of her head tight and driving his pumping cock at her. "You wanted a black stud. You got one. Now swallow that juice! All of it!"
And she did.
Even as she sucked at his slowly ebbing semen, draining the last of it from his pipes and savoring it as it slid down her throat, she found herself wondering which he was enjoying the most-the blowjob or the way he was dominating and degrading her, bending her to his will. But all that mattered was that he was enjoying it, and so was she.
"All right, baby, get up here," he said, and she felt his hands grip her beneath the armpits, pulling her back to the seat. "That'll do for a start, unless you've decided the black does make a difference. In that case, you can get out an' walk...just the way you're dressed."
"It doesn't make a difference," she lied, not knowing how to tell him that the color of the prick she still held so lovingly in her hand only served to increase the urgent need in her cunt. She looked down at the creamy spheroids of her tits, clearly and starkly visible even in the dim moonlight which filtered through the pines surrounding the car, and she wondered if he would really carry out his threat to make her walk. Probably, she decided, and realized that the idea of walking frightened her less than the thought of being rejected by this man.
"Was I good? Are you man enough for the rest?"
He smiled at her, a sarcastic, white smile. He gripped her wrist and jerked her hand away from his testicles. "Don't you ever doubt that one fuckin' minute! But you'd fuck just like you suck a dick. All you white cunts do. Even when you down on your knees suckin' 'cause you was told to, you'll still want somethin' from a black man. 'Was I good?' Hell, no! And I'll tell you why. Because you just like every other honkie-you wasn't givin' me no blowjob, you was just trin' to take somethin' from me."
She waited until she felt his fury had lessened. "This is what I want from you. This and nothing else."
As she moved to kiss him, her hands once again found his prick. Dimly, she realized that this was the second time in her life she had found herself forced to ask a man, or boy, to fuck her-and with this man she had done it twice.
His eyes were glazed, and she had her first real glimpse of his cold and unyielding hatred. "All right, honkie, you still wantin' more black cock, you gonna get it," he said, pushing her roughly against the door of the car. "They was a minute there you coulda went home. That minute's gone."
He grabbed her torn dress at the beltline and ripped the remainder of it from her, baring her slender nylon-clad legs and the bikini-sized strip of sheer silk which barely concealed the red-haired mound of her cunt-the cunt which was literally quivering as it anticipated the first delicious stab of his rigid cock.
He hesitated for just a moment, staring down at her open thighs, the dark shininess of her garter belt and the stray tendrils of red cunt hair which crept from beneath her well-filled panties, and she thought, briefly, that he might be going to slow down, to fuck her in a gentler manner. Then he gripped the waistband of her panties and jerked them violently down over the round curve of her hips, shredding them even though she lifted her ass from the seat of the car. She lifted with pleasure; she hadn't wanted him to slow down.
"Let's see that lily-white pussy, baby," he said, running his hand through the wet trench of her cunt, rubbing it, causing her to arch her back and wiggle her pelvis. "Well, I be damned. You natural-born redhead. First white broad I ever seen got a cunt that matches her head."
He tugged the remnants of her panties the rest of the way off, then, keeping one hand on her pussy, fingering it, he began to shed his own clothing. Only when the act of stripping forced him to do so did he take his hand from her cunt.
She opened her legs wide and drew her knees up until they were almost touching the rigid nipples of her tits, using her hands as support by gripping the backs of her firm thighs, and she shifted her ass slightly on the seat, making a more convenient target of her widespread, sopping pussy. As he braced his hands against the door above her shoulders and moved to cover her, she felt the end of his stiffened prick touch the smooth swells of her ass, probing, seeking an entrance to her cunt, and she reached down to grip the hot shaft of it, to guide it into her cunt.
"Keep your fuckin' hands off me, honkie!" His hand was suddenly gripping her tit, and her body lurched upward with a tremor of the same sensuous pain she had felt earlier. At the same moment she felt his cock part the vibrating lips of her pussy and drive deep inside her. "I want your hands on me, I'll tell you, mother-fucker!"
As he began pumping his hips in long fierce strokes that buried his cock to the hilt and filled her cunt with the spicy heat which can only be found in fucking, she wrapped her legs high about his waist, crossing her ankles behind his back, and began lifting her cunt in slow, easy revolutions that were the perfect complement to the vehemence of his fucking.
Lana couldn't make herself think of anything but the wonderful feel of his thick and solid meat that was filling her, thrilling her, driving her cunt and brain on fire at once, pumping evenly but savagely into her, deep into her.
Neither did she stop to think-as she wiggled her ass faster and ever faster, striving to gain more of the swift-moving prick which was setting her cunt on fire-that she was doing the exact thing she had reminded herself she had sworn never to do again, the thing for which she had berated herself the night of Max's party and since then. He was fucking her fast, fucking her slow, fucking her brutally, fucking her tenderly, fucking her free of her senses, fucking her loose from reality.
She was lying beneath a dark-skinned man, her cunt packed tight by his prick, her body moving to meet his every motion-fucking.
And Ernest Kline fucked like no man she had known before. Never before in all her sexual experience-black or white. He somehow managed to change the delicate and beautiful act which is so often erroneously called lovemaking into a callous and greedy test of wills-fucking her first in the standard position, then, after he had unloaded his semen into her cunt and she had come so many times as to be numberless, rolling from between her tired and wet legs, forcing her onto her hands and knees, and fucking her again, dog-fashion this time. Only when he had come this time, she had collapsed, exhausted, and he spoke to her.
"So, you've been fucked," he said sarcastically. "Now you can get out." He opened the car door.
She realized, as she saw that strange coldness return to his pitch-black eyes, that this had been his intention from the very beginning-to bring her out in the country, fuck her thoroughly, and throw her from the car, naked. Actually, she thought, reconsidering it, the fucking had probably been only secondary. The humiliation was what he had been seeking.
"I'm sorry," she said, then climbed from the car into the chill night air. For the first time, as she stood there clad only in her hose and garter belt, waiting for him to drive away, she understood what Tammie had been trying to show her all along-that both her hatred and her desire for this black man in particular and all black men in general were as senseless as the hatred this strange man, this Ernest Kline, bore toward all the people of her own color-white.
"Don't be sorry, baby," he said, almost seeing through her eyes the words in her head. He started to pull the door shut. "You're the one who's gonna have to walk."
"That ain't it. That ain't it at all. I'm just sorry you're black and I'm white, an' we gotta hate each other...whether we like it or not." She turned to walk away from the car.
She was so lost in the jungle of her confused thoughts and emotions that she didn't hear it open again behind her.
And that night she went to live with Ernest Kline.
CHAPTER SIX
She lay across his lap, her head and feet dangling, her housedress pulled up over her waist. She squirmed and clenched her buttocks, reveling in the position of exposure to his silent gaze. There was an air of febrile expectation in the room, a kind of sophisticated sniggering which spiced the simple structure of the act with intimations of the wicked. She arched her back and offered her ass for his use.
I must not succumb, she thought. I must remember to stay conscious.
He stroked the damp groove between her cheeks with a limp right hand, watching her tremble as his fingers trailed the entire length of the valley. No expression showed on his face. He operated her body with the bored ease of a locomotive engineer holding the throttle full open across a moonlit prairie. His hand moved insolently back and forth, and with each pass she grew more excited, like a child jumping up and down in anticipation of a treat. It was his greatest pleasure to rouse her to a frenzy of wild thrashing while he maintained his distance and control.
Suddenly he lifted his arm and brought it down sharply, the palm of his hand striking across the center of her buttocks. She cried out once, a sound of relief, as though a splinter had been pulled out of her skin. The shock was like a slap delivered during an attack of hysteria. It underscored her sexual cycle by punctuating it. Again his hand flew up, and again slammed down, stinging the full, firm globes of flesh. He began to hit her in earnest, until her skin grew pink and her legs kicked up and down, and the noises she made Were tinged with desperation. He hurt her to the point where she had to scream.
"Do you like that?" he said. He hit her with all his strength. "Do you like that?" he repeated.
In reply she cocked her pelvis back and shook her head from side to side, acting out the ambivalence of her condition. She hated the pain, especially as each blow fell upon progressively more tender flesh and became excruciating to bear. But being spanked thrilled her; her cunt moistened at the very thought of being upended and handled so rudely. Also, there was a kind of liberation to be found in the intense stimulation of her rear, more so as she yelled loudly each time he hit her. It had been many days before they were confident enough with one another to attempt other forms of quasi-sexual contact. The first time he had slapped her buttocks with any force was when she was straddling his cock, pumping her pelvis into him with sustained fury, and he began to beat a tattoo on her cheeks. The step to spanking as an activity related but not integral to fucking was a short one; and at that it had taken several more days before he could wade into her unabashedly while she wailed in response. Now, each time they did it, she discovered emotions that she was not ordinarily in touch with bubbling from her chest as each slap added heat, released energy in her body. It was one of the few times she was able to feel and express her anger.
When she raised her rump toward him, he stopped and looked down at the form before him. The girl lay in an attitude of utter abandon. Her ass glowed a dull red. The proud, deep-dark ass-hole held only the smallest pucker of tension. Her cunt gave off heavy odors of secretion. She never seemed so desirable to him as at moments like this.
"Little white bitch," he said. He bent forward and kissed her on the base of the spine. "You know how wanton you are."
She wiggled around and smiled to herself. He spread her cheeks with his left hand, and with his right began to spank her vertically, slapping the whole length of the crack. A higher-pitched moan escaped her lips. Each whack produced a hollow sound until he had opened her buttocks full and could hit her cunt and ass-hole cleanly. She parted her legs to expose herself even further, and again he increased the force of his blows, bruising the tender center between her thighs with his hands.
She began to lose her breath, her self-consciousness, and dove into the waters of ecstatic surrender. She knew he might hurt her but would not damage her, so she could give herself up to the pleasure of their act, letting him control its degree. She struggled against swooning altogether, for in a mindless state she had a tendency to grovel and afterwards she would have trouble realigning herself with her sense of dignity. She needed to remember that what they did was a mutually agreed upon involvement, and her role as object of punishment was purely arbitrary. She had a vision of his balling his hand into a fist and punching her cunt, and she melted as the image was reinforced by the increased tempo of his slapping. Her mouth fell open and saliva dripped from her tongue onto the floor. She grabbed his ankle and licked his foot. She hovered at the brink of total acceptance, filling up on the energy released by his power.
This is what I want, she thought, this is what I really want.
Abruptly, he stopped. A gasp of disappointment escaped her lips. She wanted it to go on forever. She had fallen out of time into the continuum of endless gratification.
"Do you want more?" he said.
The question was not a real one. It was part of their ritual, their tacit agreement to pander to one another's inner desires. If she wanted him to continue, she would have to beg. He spoke again, his voice low and insistent, suggestive of things that were vile and base, forcing her, through her own greed for sensation, to listen and assent to everything he said.
"You don't care, do you?" he said. "You're just an open hole."
"Only for you," she told him, which was not at all what he wanted to hear.
He brought the middle finger of his right hand against her cunt lips, holding just enough pressure to suggest penetration. He knew that the desire to be entered, to be filled, grew voracious as it was teased, as a hungry animal grows frantic when food is held just beyond its reach. Over the years he had come to understand woman's brute capacity for fulfillment, and he toyed with that propensity as she inched upward, straining to touch the finger with her cunt. Again and again he allowed her to think she was going to have it, and then pulled back a quarter of an inch, listened to her moan in exasperation, and then watched her lift her ass once more to reach for him. She clenched and tightened the muscles in her vagina so that her cunt opened and contracted as it sought to capture its prize, like a goldfish mouthing the surface of the water for food. And when she had raised herself as high as was physically possible, he lifted his hand and with no warning slapped her quivering cunt.
She shouted out in shock and sorrow, and then burst into deep sobbing, the immediate pain of the blow reviving in her all the suppressed pain of a lifetime, breaking through the muscular blocks of resistance, calling up memories whose engrams were covered over with the gray pall of respiration. He held himself aloof from her tears, letting her enjoy the fullness of her experience without interference. And when her crying subsided, and she had had enough time to integrate her reactions, he slowly began to arouse her once again, touching lightly, holding out the promise of entering her cunt, and then drawing her out, seducing her into baring her shamelessness once more. He hit her again, and repeated this cycle half a dozen times until she lay limp from exhaustion.
She was heavy across his thighs, cutting off circulation to his knees and calves. His cock was crushed against his belly and his back was sore from the strain of holding her. His pleasure was abstract, a blend of visual, tactile, and olfactory impressions which merged to shape an entity in his mind, a form he admired for its utter uniqueness. For him, woman was a perennial source of beauty, but in a way that would have astonished any woman he spoke to about it. The female body was a palette from which he derived the colors to create the intensely personal paintings in his soul.
She wondered what he would do next. She was having a strangely enjoyable time. With each wave of abuse she discovered deeper layers of truth. Women paid therapists as much as fifty dollars an hour to help them delve into areas of self-perception and thoroughness through sexual encounter. And none of the psychologists could really help, she bet. They couldn't fuck like Ernest!
She felt herself sliding off his knees and she twisted her body in order to land on her knees. She stared with twirling eyes at the picture before her; the insides of a man's thighs, black coarse hair, two wrinkled pouches of roughly textured flesh, and the sleek tender tube dominating the entire montage. For an instant the tableau went dark, and a bolt of terror shot through her. At the speed of thought she recalled an incident from when she was young, in the South, lying on a rug, her grandfather kneeling over her, dripping his flaccid penis toward her face, and she reaching for it as she would for a toy, and then holding it, putting it in her mouth, sucking the paradoxically dry, succulent skin. The image blended with the reality in front of her. Part of her still wanted the intimate kiss that bore such enormous connotations of guilt; and part of him was throbbing with the same indiscriminate sexuality that had possessed her grandfather.
When she focused again, he had grabbed his cock and was gently milking it, prodding it to swell. She watched like a person being hypnotized, and when the shaft was three-quarters hard, the thick vein bulging from its belly, the head beginning to expand with purple majesty, she found herself swooning into it, her jaw opening in perfect time to be exactly the right size to take his cock inside as she touched it with her lips. He took his fingers away as she swept forward and looked down in awe as the stiff organ disappeared into her mouth. He felt her tongue and then the clutching of her throat as the pulsating base of the seven-inch cock was covered by her lips and she buried her face in his pubic hair.
She's swallowed it, he thought, the idea exciting him more than the reality.
She did not move for a long time, holding her breath, relaxing so she wouldn't gag. He bunched in the middle, slowly folding in half, covering her with his shadow. He looked like a man who had just been punched in the solar plexus, stunned and helpless. She had struck at the center of his sexual vulnerability: his need to subjugate. By voluntarily assuming the character he would have liked to force her into, she robbed him of his power to enslave her. As any woman in a struggle of wills with a man, her best weapon was agility, for she would almost surely lose in any open contest of strength. The cock lodged in her throat, she made sucking sounds with her lips, as though to pull him in even farther and in imitation of someone eating a particularly delicious food.
With great delicacy she brought her teeth together until they at first rested on and then lightly bit into the rigid cock. She treated herself to a few moments of fantasizing what it would be like to bite it off. For that space of time she trembled with the actuality of her ability to destroy him at his core. She tasted the possibility of tearing the immense hunk of meat out by the root, bathing in the shower of blood spurting from the jagged hole, and the severed erection sliding down her gullet and into her stomach.
Her chest began to ache and she pulled back, licking the bottom of his cock from base to tip as she disengaged. When he was completely outside her, he drew in a long, sustained breath through his mouth, making sound like escaping steam. And at that point she remembered to suck. air into her lungs. They stayed frozen in their attitudes, breathing heavily, sorting out the wildly complex impressions they had just been immersed in.
Snapping to like a man roused from a trance, he seized her by the hair and brought her lips to his cock again. This time he used her, rocking her head around to offer different angles from which he could fuck her in the mouth. He pressed in against her temples, covered her ears, rendering her deaf, reducing her to the single function of cock-sucker. He pressed his fingers into her neck so that her jaw relaxed and she opened farther to accept his fierce thrusts. And once a momentum had been built, he released her, allowing her to go wild as she went down on him. She sank into a shaking oblivion, emerging as a slobbering animal, lapping and licking and nuzzling into his crotch, her hair wet from sweating, stringy over her shoulders and down her back. She growled as she gnawed at his cock.
He was drawn into the spectacle and began to slide from the edge of the bed. He fell forward like a wounded bear, pushing her back. She moaned and flung her arms around his thighs, gluing her mouth to his cock, begging by sucking to continue to suck. He came to his knees and then toppled over until his chest lay on the floor; she wriggled under him, pinned by the cock which was rammed between her stretched lips. She kicked her heels into the floor as he pressed the full length of his cock deep into her throat, and when he pulled out she fought to keep the erection in her mouth, her tongue flickering vainly to lick it one last time before he removed it altogether.
He rolled the bulk of his body down her stomach like lava inching downhill until he lay fully on top of her. Her warm, thick breasts bulged against his chest, her still writhing lips found his mouth, and her hot cunt pressed against his groin. He reached down to slide one hand under her ass so that he could push his cock between her buttocks as he slid the base of it against her clitoris. Their bodies rocked like buildings in an earthquake as the imperative to fuck, the deep biological spasm of coupling, seized them spontaneously. With a single motion their hips rotated, their genitals swung back until the tip of his cock was at the opening to her cunt, and they joined together in a single movement.
"Fuck...me...cock..." she said as the heavy organ split the furrows of her cunt like the prow of a boat slicing through the water.
"Oh, my dear God, yes," she said, and her arms and legs closed about him like petals of a flesh-eating plant surrounding the insect which had landed to taste its honey. Her limbs grappled him in an embrace which did not allow him any freedom of movement. Blind and driven as a mole in dark earth, she forced her way forward until she was completely impaled by the thrusting pole between her legs. The impact of penetration shocked her entire system, so that she forgot his presence as the bearer of the gift and spun off into grunting, grasping convulsions in reaction to his cock bursting enormously inside her. like a twelve-year-old being humped over a garbage can in an alley, she rejoiced in her condition. All the years she had been taught sex was filthy formed images which she now brought to life with her body. For a short, searing space of time she was being the dirtiest little girl in the world.
He could not match the assault of her unbridled fury of lust. He began to withdraw from the closeness of the contact, and placed himself at a distance, servicing her by holding himself against her, acting merely as the surface she rubbed herself against. He cursed inwardly as his cock began to wilt. But she took no notice of the shrinking penis flopping aimlessly in her cunt, for she had already begun to negotiate the upper reaches of her climb of orgasm. He gave himself up to her use and wished desperately that he could have maintained an erection in order to derive the fullest pleasure from the moment. The energy which was blocked from entering his cock went to his brain, and he became ensnared in his thoughts. And as he drifted off into an interior reality, she pumped against him like a dog in heat, her cunt seeming to want to pull his entire bone into itself.
You hot-assed bitch, you murky whore, come on my cock, went the refrain through his head. But he could not say the words. His momentary impotence made him circumspect, as though only the sustenance of an erection gave him the right to assume attitudes of power. He feared appearing ridiculous. It was best when she lay under him, his buttocks crushing her mouth, his hands invading her cunt and pinching her nipples. Now he felt like the male in the embrace of a female black widow spider, paying for his ecstasy with his potency. The sensations on his cock were exquisite, more detailed and erotic than if it had been stiff, but he wondered whether she would climax on his limp penis.
CHAPTER SEVEN
There were nights when his fucking was gentle and slow-when he held her in his arms and let his lips and tongue rove over her smooth flesh, the flat solid-ness of her stomach, down into the fiery brush of her cunt before he parted her legs and let her know the sensual hardness of his cock-and it was times like these that she was sure they could make it together.
And then there were the other times.
She knew the reason behind his behavior at these times, and, somehow, she really didn't hate him for it. It was, she knew, that he had been ashamed to have his friends know that he, Ernest Kline, the great exponent of equality by force, the leader who had preached separatism of the races, was living with a white girl. She didn't blame him for his feelings because she remembered how the black was treated in the South, remembered her first ten years of life growing up there.
Had all this been happening back there-a thing she was incapable of picturing-their position would have been, she was sure, completely reversed.
She would have been the one who abused and degraded him whenever she chose, and he would have been the one who was forced to accept it.
No, not forced to accept it. That wasn't the proper term, she realized. She was always free to leave. Painfully free. That was the worst part of the torture-that when Ernest went on one of his tangents, using her as a convenient outlet for all his hatred, he would repeatedly dare her to leave, taunting her, knowing she wouldn't.
And it wasn't as if she had no place to go. She did. Her Uncle Max, smiling, had showed up at the tiny flat with the broken-down furniture and the peeling wallpaper on the morning of the third day after she left home, asking her to return, paying no attention at all to Ernest's coldly watching eyes. When she refused, he had shrugged, nodded his head sadly, handed her some money, told her to come back when she chose, and left. Tammie, too, had been there in an attempt to take her away. She, too, had failed. So it wasn't that she had no place to go-to tear herself away from the periods of gentleness which made it all bearable. So she stayed and endured his abuse.
Just as she was enduring it now.
"Now, you take little Lana here," he was saying, his hand at the back of her thighs and creeping slowly upward toward her ass. He was tilted back in his chair, his feet propped up on the kitchen table, and he wasn't even looking at her. He was looking at the two black men who sat on the far side of the table. "Lana, she ain't never had to get out and hustle no pussy. You ever had to hustle any pussy, Lana?"
She wasn't sure if he expected an answer, so she gave a silent, negative shake of her head. And, though she closed her eyes at the same time, she could still feel the eyes of those seated at the table, watching her.
"Lana, she ain't never had to sell none of her pussy 'cause she's white. They's plenty of white whores, but they sellin' it of their free choice." She could feel his hand higher on her legs now, near the top of her hose, lifting her miniskirt even higher. "Lana, she don't know what it is to have to fuck to keep your family from starvin'. How many brothers and sisters you got, Claudette?"
Lana opened her eyes and looked at the tall and exotic black girl who was seated off to herself, against the wall. For the first time, she began to understand where Ernest was leading his conversation, but she still couldn't understand why he insisted on using her as some sort of example. That simmering hatred was the only reason she could see.
"Two of each," the girl named Claudette said, and dug a cigarette from the small jeweled purse on her lap. She placed it carefully between her heavily painted lips and lit it with an imitation gold lighter, then blew a thick cloud of smoke into the air. "But they ain't no tellin' when my old lady'll get herself knocked up again...or who'll do it." She shrugged off the thought.
"And how long you been hustling cunt to take care of them kids?" Lana was not all surprised to learn that the girl was a whore-in the tight-fitting dress that so tightly hugged the alluring mounds of her tits, and the white fish-net hose that so beautifully enhanced the appeal of her dark, shapely legs, it was very doubtful that she could have been anything else-but what did surprise her was the almost casual way Ernest asked the question.
And the casual way she replied. "Six years. Since I was fifteen."
"But don't you see, Ernest? That's what we're trying to stop, too." One of the men at the table-his name was Joe Hartnet, Lana remembered-leaned forward, one hand held out in supplication. "We-"
"Shut up!" Ernest glared at him until he looked away, then turned back toward the girl.
"And who buys that pussy from you?"
"Men," she said, grinning, then gave the answer she knew he wanted to hear. "White men, mostly; they's the only ones who can afford it. My pussy comes high."
Looking at her, Lana was willing to bet her pussy did sell for a high price. And she was willing to bet that the price didn't frighten the buyers away. She had the kind of body that would stiffen a man's prick on sight-and keep it stiff. The sharp points of her tits could be seen through the tight material of her red dress, and she had a way of moving her legs, crossing and uncrossing them, that seemed to attract the eyes to the juncture of her thighs, to the delectable mound of her pussy. Added to this was a certain amount of wildness in the pretty features of her face, a wildness that made it easy to picture her sucking a dick, taking it in the ass, performing the bizarre sexual acts which would always insure her a high price for her pussy and guarantee the man an extremely pleasurable fuck.
"I still don't see where all this is leading," Joe was saying, and Lana tore her eyes away from the prostitute to look at him. He was much more difficult to understand than was the whore. In the few times that he had been to the apartment since she had lived there, she had learned that he was the leader of one of the major civil rights groups in the city. And it puzzled her that, even though he and Ernest were supposedly working in the same interest, they argued constantly. Just as she was sure they were getting ready to do now. And she was sure that, if they did, Ernest would take it out on her later.
"You don't see where it's leadin', huh, baby?" Ernest let his chair tilt forward suddenly, dropped his feet to the floor, and slammed his fist down on the table. 'I'll tell you where it's all leadin', man. Lana ain't never had to sell no pussy 'cause she's white! White! She ain't never had to live in no dump that's crawlin' with roaches 'cause she's white! And them motherfuckers gonna keep us down just as long as they can. This here's the only thing gonna stop 'em. That's where it's leading to, man."
He picked up a pistol from the table, turned it slowly over in his hands, letting them all have a good look at it.
"You're wrong, Ernest," Joe said, and Lana knew there would be no escaping a violent argument now. "We've come a long way from where we used to be.
We'll go even further...unless we destroy it all through violence."
Ernest laughed, a laugh full of sarcasm, and waved his hand about the tiny kitchen. "Lose it all? Lose it all?! What the fuck is there to lose? You don't see no honkies livin' like this."
The other man, who had remained silent until this point, leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He was older than either Ernest or Joe-she guessed his age to be about forty-and Lana knew what was coming even before he said a word.
"What about her, Ernest?" he asked, and Lana could have killed him. "She's living here with you, ain't she? And this ain't exactly no palace."
"Her? Lana?" For a moment Ernest seemed to have forgotten she was in the room, but now he grabbed her wrist and pulled her to his side. "She's just like the rest of 'em. She wouldn't be here 'less she's gettin' somethin' she wants. And she's getting plenty of what she wants. Tell Joe why you're here, Lana."
"Because I love you, Ernest," she said, and knew it wasn't the answer he wanted to hear; at least, not while these people were present. She knew, too, that he wouldn't accept it.
"Tell them the real reason, goddamn you!" His grip tightened on her wrist, and she knew what he was going to make her say. He had done it before. "Tell 'em you just shack here 'cause I keep your cunt happy for you. Tell 'me how much you dig a good, black cock."
"Leave her alone, Ernest. She didn't do one damned thing. You're just doing to her what you'd like to do to me." As she saw Joe stand up on the other side of the table, Lana gave a shake of her head, begging him not to interfere. He was only going to make matters worse.
"Tell 'em, honkie. Don't you dig that black-type fucking I give you?" He was still seated at the table, ignoring Joe, his voice more threatening now. She saw the whore grinning at her embarrassment, and she wished she could disappear into the peeling wallpaper. "Last time I'm tellin' you, whore!"
She closed her eyes. "I stay here because I like the way Ernest fucks."
"Not the way I fuck. The way any black man fucks." His hand, the one that wasn't holding her wrist, was once more moving beneath the hem of her skirt, lifting it. "Tell him!"
"Please, Ernest."
"Tell them, whore!" His hand was on her bare buttocks-he wouldn't allow her to wear panties-massaging the velvety orbs, caressing them, and she knew though her eyes were closed, that her skirt was lifted almost high enough to allow those in the room a clear look at her pussy.
"I...I'd rather fuck Ernest because he's a black man," she said hesitantly, feeling the blood rush to her face as she uttered the words which were only half true. There were times when she felt that she enjoyed sex with him, only because of some strange attraction his color held for her, and there were times she felt her desire was there in spite of his color.
"You don't have to put up with this, miss," she heard Joe say softly, and she opened her eyes despite the shame she felt. He was looking at the smooth columns of her legs, her bared cunt, just as the other man was doing, but mixed with the want on the smooth features of his darkly handsome face was a surprising amount of sympathy. "If you want, you can walk out of here with us."
Ernest laughed, and she felt his hand move from her buttocks, between her legs, begin rubbing her cunt. "Didn't you hear the whore, Joe? She ain't leavin'. She-likes that blark dick too much. An' you standin' there, right now, wantin' some of this white cunt. You want some. Lana'll fuck you if I tell her to. Won't you, Lana?"
Lana said nothing.
"Won't you?" His hand tightened on her pussy, and she closed her eyes, hating him for the humiliation he poured on her in moments like this, hating herself even worse for not being able to leave him. "You'll fuck him, or anything else I tell you to do, won't you? Suck his cock if I tell you to. You wanta try a blowjob, Joe? She's a hell of a cock-sucker. Been thinking about puttin' her out on the streets, like Claudette here."
"She won't do no good there...too little in the knockers," she heard Claudette say, a chuckle in her throaty voice, and suddenly there was a place to direct all the anger she was unable to throw at Ernest.
"Fuck you, you two-bit whore," she said, and stepped away from Ernest, too angry to be afraid of anything now. There were tears welling up in her eyes, and she was ready to claw the eyes from the elegant face of the prostitute. "You dirty, cheap-assed, nigger whore!"
Too late, she realized what she had said.
The four of them stared silently at her.
Ernest was the one to break the silence. "See what I been trying to tell you, Joe? You can live with one of 'em, eat with her, fuck her, but to her you're still a nigger."
He sat there a moment, looking at the gun on the table, then, very slowly, he stood up. Strangely, his face showed almost no anger. Then his hand moved in a blur and knocked her off her feet.
His face, she saw when the burning tears had cleared from her eyes enough to allow her to focus them, was covered with a look of satisfaction, and she realized that she had said the very words he wanted her to say. He had been using her to prove a point, and she had played right into his hands. Still, his anger, as he bent and jerked her roughly to her feet, was real.
"So you think you're better'n a nigger whore?" He shook her roughly, then turned and beamed a triumphant smile at Joe. "See what your white friends think of us, Joe? You like these white folks plenty, don't you? Well, you just stick around. You gonna get a chance to get closer to a white cunt than you ever been before. Little Miss O'Hara here gonna show Claudette how sorry she is, then she gonna give you all the white pussy you can stand."
"You can still leave if you want, Lana." There was, in spite of her words, still some sympathy in Joe's voice, on his face. "I'll take you out of here. I'll take you home."
"You ain't takin' her no place." Ernest looked at him, then at the pistol, then into her eyes. She felt almost hypnotized by his burning gaze. "You Uncle Toms don't want no white cunt, get the fuck out! I know plenty black boys that do. Claudette! Run down to the pool room. Tell whoever's there we got a little white whore gonna put on a free show, and then fuck 'em all. Ain't that right, white whore?"
"You don't have to do this," Joe repeated for what seemed like the hundredth time. "Ernest, if you try to make her, you're worse than any white man who ever did anything to our people."
Ernest didn't even turn to look at him. "She don't wanna leave. like I said, she can't get enough black cock. Tell him!"
The room was absolutely still as they waited for her answer.
"I do what Ernest tells me. I'll stay."
Neither Joe or the other man looked at her as they silently left the apartment, leaving her staring into the expressionless, bearded face of Ernest Kline.
Claudette brought four of them back with her-all of them very young, very loud and very drunk. She could smell the cheap wine and other cheap booze the minute they stepped into the bedroom, and she knew the whole thing was going to be horrible. And she wished, once again, that she had the strength to leave, wished she had taken the chance offered her. Yet, at the same time, she was glad for some reason that she had stayed.
"Anything special you boys wanna see?" Ernest asked, grinning wickedly. "Don't worry about hurtin' no feelin's, either. Lana, she believes in equality. She believes one cock just as good as another."
"I'll just take me a quick piece of that ass, then leave," one of the boys said, stepping close to the bed where she sat, his crotch on a level with her eyes. As she looked up at his face, which was marred by a jagged scar running across his cheek, she realized that he was about her own age. Then she felt his fingers tangle in her hair, pulling her face against the swollen bulge of his hard-on. She made no effort to resist. "How about it, baby, you want some of that dick?"
He would, she thought, never know how bad she wanted it-and how bad she hated herself for wanting it.
"Uh-uh, Morris, she owes me somethin' first. She owes me an apology." Claudette's voice pierced through the veil of passion that the feel of that hard prick had pulled over Lana's senses, and suddenly the boy was no longer in front of her. Instead, she was confronted by the voluptuous figure of the prostitute, her hands on the sensual curve of her hips, her dress pulled tight against her thighs by the widespread stance of her alluring, mesh-covered legs. "How you gonna apologize to me, cunt?"
"Let her go down on your pussy, Claudette," Ernest suggested, leaning against the door and saying the words as if this were no concern of his. "Ain't never seen the time havin' your cunt licked wouldn't make you happy. Besides, it'll put a good hard-on on the fellas here. Ever eat a black pussy, Lana?"
Without looking at him, Lana shook her head. She seemed unable to take her eyes off the fascinating figure of Claudette, towering above her. And she could feel her cunt growing hot as she looked forward to eating the pussy of this beautiful and dark-skinned whore.
"Well, you sure gonna eat one now." Ernest said, and she heard one of the boys giggle nervously. "Stand up and strip naked. While you're eating it, the boys'll want a good look at what they're gonna fuck."
As if in a trance, she rose from the bed and stepped into the center of the room, her back toward Ernest. There was only one chair in the cramped bedroom, and three of the boys were squatting against the wall, watching her silently, trying to act older than their years. The other, the oldest of the four, straddled the chair, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. But, though she could feel their eyes crawling over her as she slowly unbuttoned her blouse and threw it on the floor, leaving her pink-tipped titties completely bare, she was looking at none of them.
She was looking at Claudette, sprawled on the bed, her dress pulled to the tops of her fish-net hose, smiling as she waited to have her pussy eaten.
Someone let out a low whistle, and she felt one of the boys reach up to run a hand over the compact globes of her ass, but she paid no attention to it. She was entirely captivated by the seductively smiling whore, and was actually eager to have her face buried in the wiry brush of that cunt, to know the taste of it.
She pulled the zipper at the side of her miniskirt down, let it drop down over the curves of her legs, and stepped out of it.
"God, look at the ass on that broad," she heard one of the boys moan, and there was the feel of an eager hand on the inside of her thigh, reaching for her pussy. It was brushed away by her leg as she took a step forward.
"I got first on that pussy," someone declared behind her, but there was no more grabbing for her body. She was standing beside the bed, looking down into the laughing eyes of Claudette, and she could feel them watching her, waiting for the show they had been promised.
"I'm sorry," she said, and sat down on the bed, the bare cheeks of her ass lightly touching the warmth of Claudette's leg. "I shouldn't have said it."
"Ain't good enough, honey-chile." Claudette folded her arms behind her neck, exaggerating the fullness of her tits, and smiled at her. "Tell me how you gonna make it up."
"I'm gonna eat your pussy."
"Maybe I don't want you touchin' my pussy. Maybe you ain't good enough to eat my cunt." Claudette shifted slightly on the bed, her lips curving into a sensual smile, and Lana knew she was going to be forced to humiliate herself further before the eyes she could feel watching her. "Maybe I want you to prove you're good enough at it to go down on me. Maybe I will think you ain't no good 'less I think you really want to eat it; really, I mean."
"I do." Even as she spoke the words, Lana realized they were true; for there was a new and strange excitement to be found in the thought of the sexual exhibition she was about to perform, and an even greater excitement in the knowledge of the fucking that was to follow, but neither of these matched the ferment she found growing in her pussy as she pictured herself kneeling before this dark-skinned prostitute, licking her cunt. "I really do."
"Well, show me, baby." Claudette held her arms up, smiling seductively, looking for ah the world like she was welcoming a man into her bed, a man who had just paid to fuck her.
And Lana showed her. Bending forward into the circle of those arms, she slipped one arm beneath Claudette's neck, raising her head from the pillow and fastening her mouth tight over those lush lips. As she shot her tongue deep into the open mouth, probing, feeling Claudette's own tongue rush forth to meet it, swirl around it, she slipped one hand underneath the bare apples of her titties, inside the front of the low-cut dress, and caressed a full and pliable breast.
Without breaking off the kiss, she moved completely on top of her, wedging her naked body between the widespread legs and forcing the tight dress higher on those voluptuous legs, wiggling her ass until her stomach was at the juncture of those thighs, moving against the delightful mound of Venus-which was as naked as her own.
It was a moment before she realized that, though. The enchanting feel of the big titties, yielding beneath her own, and the fiery touch of the knowing hands which were crawling over every curve of her body-over the globes of her buttocks, pulling her tighter into the squeezing vise of those legs, over her titties, pinching her nipples deliciously, even probing at the tight circle of her anus-had sent her into such a sexual hysteria that the wiry cunt hair rasping against her skin almost went unnoticed. Almost, but not quite.
She reached down and tugged at Claudette's dress, tugging it above the full curves of her hips, bunching it beneath her ass, then put one hand over her pussy, rubbing it hard.
"Please, baby? Please, Claudette?" Still rubbing at the coarse hair and supple flesh of the cunt, she raised her head and looked down into Claudette's face, watching the contortions her pretty features underwent as her pussy was stroked. "I really want to eat it for you."
To prove she wasn't lying, though Claudette was clearly too horny to care, she slipped out of the circling arms, moved slowly backward on the bed, then bent and kissed the exact center of that open and beckoning cunt.
"Man, lookit her go after that pussy!" someone shouted behind her, but she paid no attention to the words or the laughter that followed them. She was too entranced by the dark-haired cunt before her.
"Now, Claudette?" She whispered the question into the vee of Claudette's crotch, letting her breath play across the plentiful and tightly curled hairs which surrounded the claret lips of the slowly revolving cunt. It was the hairiest cunt she had ever seen-a dark red gash which was almost lost in the thick coils of pussy hair-but all the more appealing because of it. She planted another kiss at the upper edge of it and repeated her question, the slightest bit louder this time. "Now?"
"You're damn right now!" As she slipped her hands under the sleek, dark-skinned globes of Claudette's ass, lifting her cunt to a more easily reached position, she felt the rough mesh of the girl's hose rasp against her shoulders as she raised her legs and draped them there.
Then, her body trembling with passion, kneeling on the bed, her ass upraised, she went to work on the jelly-like meat of Claudette's pussy.
Then, as Claudette tangled her fingers in her hair and began to move her pelvis faster and faster, moving her pussy up and down beneath the sucking mouth and licking tongue, Lana felt a movement on the bed behind her and realized her need was about to be filled.
"Fuck this shit of watching," a voice said, and she recognized it as the same voice which had laid first claim to her fucking. "I need some of that red-haired pussy-and I need it now!"
She felt the sag of the bed as it absorbed his weight, then his hands were on the incurve of her waist, the globes of her ass, lifting her higher, getting her ready to fuck. And she cooperated fully.
"Let me do it. Let me put it in," she said, lifting her face from the dewy lips of Claudette's pussy, then reaching backward to grip the hard shaft of his tool. "Oh, God!"
As she felt the lips of her pussy being spread apart by the head of the peter she had guided there, she thrust her ass backward in a swift movement, filling her cunt with his meat, then buried her face in Claudette's pussy once more, savoring the delicious taste of it. And knowing, too, by the frantic pumping of Claudette's hips, by the flexing of the muscles in her firm thighs, by the swelling in her clitoris and the growing slackness in her pussy, that she, too, was getting ready to come.
Revolving her ass slowly, enjoying each gratifying stab of the prick she was taking from the rear, Lana licked faster and faster at her cunt, wanting her to come, anxious for the taste of it.
And come she did.
At the very moment Lana was reaching behind her to squeeze the swollen and hairy nuts she could feel swinging against the undercurve of her ass on each inward thrust of that driving prick, she felt Claudette's full thighs tighten about her head, felt a tautness in every muscle of that sensually dark body.
"Baby, you don't kid around, do you?" Claudette released her grip on the back of Lana's head, threw her arms wide, apparently satiated, and slithered backward on the bed. She seemed surprised at the dark hands which were now gripping Lana's tits, stroking them, the dark youth who knelt behind Lana, fucking her. "Let me offa this bed, huh? I've had mine."
Lana made no effort to stop her. No effort at all. Her full attention was now focused on the sensation which centered around the driving cock that filled her cunt...and filled her world.
As Claudette rolled off the bed and tugged her dress back into place, chuckling as she looked down at the two of them, Lana feU completely forward on her elbows, moaning.
"Faster! Fuck me faster!" she pleaded, now right on the brink of coming. "Oh, God! I need that dick! I gotta have it!"
Then, just as she came for the first time, she felt his hot come stream into her, squirting deep into her cunt. She brought her thighs together, clutching at his prick, holding it there until she had drained the last of his fluid.
"Baby, you gonna get all the fuckin' you want, then some." As she felt the now softened prick being withdrawn from her cunt, releasing a warm trickle of come that ran down the insides of both her thighs, one of the other boys, a thin youngster with coffee-colored skin, moved up onto the bed beside her, on his back, naked, smiling up at her. "You just try climbin' on this for a fuck or two."
He took her hand and forced it down to the hard, erect staff of his cock. "I like my women to do the fucking. Get on top."
Slowly, her eyes closed, smelling the stink of the cheap wine on his breath, keeping her fingers wrapped about the warm, pulsing rod of his dick, she raised one leg and threw it over his body, straddling him. Then, shifting her body so that she was on her knees, she slowly lowered her dripping pussy down onto the head of his rigid cock.
"Better hurry up'n get yours. This girl gonna be all fucked out, Slim." As she lowered the full weight of her body onto the slim Negro beneath her, driving his prick to the rear walls of her cunt, she felt another body join them on the bed, and she opened her eyes. "Or maybe I should say all sucked out."
It was the youngest of the boys, and he was kneeling next to the boy she was fucking, his prick in his hand, trying to find a position that would allow him to put it in her mouth. Past him, leaning against the wall, watching, she could see Claudette and the other boy, the one who had just fucked her.
"You ain't never gonna stick that cock in that little redhead's mouth, boy," he said, grinning. "White girls too good to suck a cock. Don't you know that, boy?" And both he and Claudette laughed at his little joke.
So, just to make a liar out of him, or maybe because she had gone so far that it no longer made a difference, or maybe because of the heat she was feeling as a result of the upward thrusting cock in her pussy and the hands on her tits, or maybe because she just didn't give a fuck, Lana leaned forward, cupped the boy's hairy nuts in her hand, and began sucking his cock. And she kept it up, sliding her lips over the smooth, dark flesh of his prick and grinding her cunt over the prick of the boy beneath her until she felt both their bodies grow tense, and she was being shot full of come from both directions.
Only later, much later, after lying silently on the bed with her eyes closed until she was sure Claudette and the boys were gone, did she realize she hadn't seen Ernest during the entire time she was being fucked; and, realizing that, she stirred from the bed and padded into the kitchen, looking for him. He wasn't there, either.
That, to her, was the strangest thing of all-that he would order her to prostitute herself to satisfy whatever perverse anger it was that was constantly gnawing at his insides, then walk out without witnessing his triumph. That was, she thought, the most painful thing of all about what had happened.
For she had believed, sincerely, that if she stood up under whatever humiliation he chose to subject her to, there would come a day, eventually, when he would come to see that she did it because she loved him. And, by now, she was sure that she did. But she was sure, too, that it would never matter to him. He had proved that by walking out.
She had made up her mind, that evening, that she was going to leave. Just tell him so, then walk out. She would, she promised herself, go back to her own kind of people-to white people.
And she meant it, and was ashamed of what she had become, and she kept her resolve until he came through the door, late that night, very drunk, and she saw that he had been crying.
"I'm sorry, Lana," he said. "I'm so goddamned sorry."
And she knew, then, that she'd never be able to leave.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"So you'd like me to tell you how to handle Ernest?" Joe Hartnet seemed to ponder the question for a moment, smiled at her, took another sip of his coffee, shook his head sadly, then he went on, his voice low. "I wish somebody'd tell me how to handle Ernest. The best thing I can tell you to do is to get away from him. Just as far away as you can. And stay away."
"I can't." Lana was beginning to wish she had never come to this man's apartment seeking a way out of the turmoil she was in. But she had known she had to turn to someone, and it had seemed only logical that someone of Ernest's own color would have a better understanding of his behavior. But it wasn't turning out that way.
"Why not? If anyone else treated you the way he does, wouldn't you leave?" Joe set his coffee cup down on the breakfast bar and strolled to the window, turning his back on her. She looked around the sumptuous kitchen and dinette, comparing it to the one in the shoddy apartment she shared with Ernest, and wondered if Joe's obvious affluence might not be, at least in part, the reason behind Ernest's dislike for the man. "You wouldn't stay with a white man who treated you that way, so why can't you leave Ernest?"
"Because I love him." She wished he would turn toward her, let her see his face. It was disconcerting, talking to his back this way. Besides, she wanted him to see her face, see how much she really meant it. If she could convince him of her love for Ernest, she thought, he might be willing to help her. How he could help her, she had no idea. But she was convinced that he could.
He turned, and she saw that same look of sympathy on his face she had seen at Ernest's apartment-the remembered look that had brought her here.
"No, you don't really love Ernest," he said, standing with his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his maroon dressing robe. "He's right about you, you know. You've just let yourself get hung up on this color bit, and you call it love. And it's the same thing with Ernest. The only difference between the two of you is that Ernest knows it's a kind of hate, not love...and he treats you accordingly."
"I do love Ernest. And he loves me." It surprised her that he had so closely pinpointed the very thoughts she had been having lately, the growing conviction that Ernest only kept her at hand to have a convenient outlet for his anger. Yet, in spite of this conviction, she truly believed the words she had just spoken. It was these conflicting beliefs that had brought her here, seeking help.
'I've seen it a million times," he said, and he spoke the words as if they hurt him. She sat down on a stool at the breakfast bar, leaning on her elbows, and looked into his dark face as she waited for him to go on. He was, she thought, as he thought his words over carefully, completely different from Ernest and the noisy, boisterous youths who constantly flowed through their apartment, drinking, displaying their knives and pistols as if they were badges, and speaking of violence and revolution. Though he and Ernest were about the same age-twenty-five, she guessed-and though Joe actually looked younger in the face, he seemed, somehow, the older of the two. It was his way of speaking, she decided. He used none of the ghetto slang favored by Ernest and his friends. He spoke almost-almost like a white man.
"More than a million times, I guess," he said finally, breaking into her thoughts. "It's all just a part of our society, I suppose. A little white girl, getting some sort of sordid thrill by breaking a set of rules that no longer exist. How old are you, Lana?"
"Seventeen," she lied, because she knew what reaction to expect, and because, in the past months, she had come to think of herself as older. Other than that, her age made no difference. Apparently her Uncle Max didn't care what she did, and if her mother had made an inquiry about her, she knew nothing of it.
Joe shook his head. "Seventeen, and you're in love. You have to be a lot older than that to handle love. Even without all the complications you're asking for.
Would you like to know what I think you're confusing with love."
"Yes."
"Well, I'm not a psychologist, but I've got a pretty good idea. I'd say you're just like all those other white girls I mentioned. You're punishing yourself for something, either real or imagined, and you're using Ernest as the whip. If it's not that, then you think you're punishing the entire Caucasian race."
"So you're saying it's impossible for a white girl to love a black man?" It irritated her that he had steered the conversation so neatly away from her original request-which was a simple request to help her understand Ernest-and that he seemed so sure of his own knowledge of her feelings. "Is that what you're trying to say?"
"Not at all." He dug a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his robe, lit one, offered the pack to her. She shook her head. "I'm just saying it's impossible for you to love Ernest, and for him to love you."
"You know it all, don't you?" His confidence in his words seemed to border on the arrogant, and she was angered even more by what she considered his betrayal of his own race. For, in her mind, his denial of her ability to love Ernest was also a denial of the equality both he and Ernest claimed to be seeking. "You really know something!"
He was unperturbed by her anger. "No. But I know hatred when I see it. And Ernest doesn't love you. He doesn't even like you. He hates you. He hates everything and everybody. I doubt if your color really makes that much difference. If he didn't have white people to take it out on, he'd just find something else."
"Ernest doesn't hate me. I know he doesn't. Not really." She was surprised to find herself defending Ernest to-of all people-another Negro, and she tried to convince herself of the truth in her own words even as she spoke them. "It's just that he...he gets so mad, and he..."
"Makes you go to bed with his friends? Beats you? Is that a love mark on your cheek?" He pointed his cigarette at the bruise on her cheek, a result of the beating that had sent her searching for help, and he shook his head. "That isn't love, Lana. Did you know Ernest started a riot last summer? A riot that killed three people? And one of them was black, but that doesn't stop him and his friends from planning one for this summer. Did you know that?"
She shook her head.
"Well, he did. And he means to this summer unless someone talks him out of it." He turned to stare out the window again. "We've come a long way in this city, but he's willing to wreck it all, just to satisfy himself. A man like that's incapable of love. You either get away from him, Lana, or he'll destroy you."
And that, she thought, was exactly what was happening to her. She wanted to leave and she wanted to stay, and it was tearing her apart. She hated Ernest Kline and she loved him, and she was afraid she was losing her mind.
"I can't leave," she said, and knew she was getting ready to cry. "I've tried to go, but I can't."
"Then try asking yourself another question." He turned, stabbed his cigarette into an ashtray on the walnut dining table. "You're from the South, originally, aren't you?"
"Yes, I grew up in a town called Flaxton. It's..."
"I know where it is." He interrupted her, his voice harsher now, his face emotionless. "Try asking yourself if you'd take Ernest, or any black man for that matter, back down South there with you. Ask yourself if you'd stand up in front of a crowd of those rednecks, holding hands with him, and say. T love him.' "
"I would," she said, but she was picturing the scorn that would cover the faces of the people, and somehow, she saw her own face-wearing that same look of revulsion.
"Sure," he said, "like hell you would."
She didn't say anything. Nothing at all. For her mind was far away, and she was seeing the face of her father and the face of every other person she had known in the South, and she was recalling the revulsion she would have felt there, just six years ago, toward any white girl who had dared to say she loved a Negro. She thought of her father, of his hatred of Negroes. What if he were released from prison, came after her, saw her in her present life, saw her in love with what he'd call a "nigger"? But what right would he have to talk? Some of the things he was caught doing in that apartment house were worse! And they don't put you in jail for being in love with a "nigger."
"That's why I said Ernest was right about you, Lana." Joe went on, not looking at her, and not seeing the tears. "Because you don't really love him. Not as a human being. You love him because he's a black man. And he keeps you around because you're a handy white girl for him to lay. Does he ever take you out anyplace? Show you off to his friends?"
Lana glared at his back, hating him because he knew the answer to that question, knew that Ernest didn't.
Without waiting for her answer, he went on. "That's because he'd be just as ashamed of that as you would to take him home. You two don't love each other. When you can forget about the color and accept each other for what you are, that's love. I...."
"Shut up!"
"What?" He turned now, surprised.
"I said shut your goddamn mouth, you uppity fuckin' nigger!" He was barely visible through the shield of her tears, but she could picture his face-it would be smug, complacent. After all, here he was, a black man, giving advice to her, a white girl. She went on, her voice shrill, the southern drawl she had worked so hard to lose returning and with it all of her father's quotations. "You stand there playin' all high an' mighty, an' all the time, you thinkin' 'bout gettin' yourself a little white pussy. You oughta talk about color! You're just like any of your black brothers. You'd cut off one of your nuts for a piece of white tail."
"You're wrong," he said quietly, and the words only maddened her further. "You're dead wrong."
"And you're a black bastard of a liar!" She stepped around the breakfast bar, frenetic now, and stood before him, her hands on his hips, her legs wide apart. "Tell me you wouldn't like to fuck me, and I'll tell you, you're a black-assed liar. Tell me!"
"You're a young girl," he said very softly, "and you're a good-looking girl."
"That's not what I asked you. Tell me you wouldn't ike to fuck me. Tell me you wouldn't like a piece of this white pussy."
"Not just because it's white."
She smiled into his face, knowing she could prove dm a liar, knowing it because she was convinced that was the way things were, then gripped the bottom of her cashmere sweater with both hands, pulling it slowly up to reveal the bare globes of her tits.
"Look at these tits. Look at 'em, and tell me you ain't just cravin' to suck on 'em!" She stepped even closer. "Don't look away, damn you! Say it."
He looked at her bared flesh, and she found herself sobbing even more wildly because he showed no trace of lust, because he made no effort to reach out and touch her. She grabbed his hand, placed it on the round globe of one tit.
"Now tell me you don't want that, damn you!" she shouted. "I'm offering you a piece of ass. Tell me you don't want it!"
His fingers flexed only slightly against her pliant flesh, and he nodded his head toward the hand she held clutched against her tits. It looked very, very black against the whiteness of her skin.
"Only when you can look at that without noticing the colors," he said. "I don't want it any other way."
She broke down completely then, her body shaking and her legs giving way beneath her. And she wasn't even aware that she was crying against his shoulder, that his arms were around her, holding her gently. She was only aware of what had happened, and it was a thing that she had never believed possible. She couldn't believe that a black man-any black manwould have passed up an opportunity to fuck her.
She left Ernest the next morning, and it was only partially because of the things Joe had told herthings that had kept her awake late into the night, staring at the naked, slumbering body in the bed beside her, wondering if things would ever improve. Yes, that was part of the reason, but only a part. Her final decision was brought about by, of all people, a cab driver.
They were on their way to a meeting-some sort of rally Ernest had called-and for reasons he didn't explain to her, he wanted to leave his car and take a cab. And she knew, a second after they climbed into the taxi Ernest had flagged down, that it was going to be another of the bad times. Very bad.
"Y'all got the address where you goin', or...? " The cab driver, a short, pudgy man with a red face and bloodshot eyes, smiled as she climbed into the cab, then, as if seeing for the first time that she was with a Negro, stopped in mid-sentence, his smile fading way.
"Hell, no, man," Ernest said, climbing into the rear seat close beside her, and Lana knew that he, too, had caught the driver's deep-South accent and the look of disgust that had washed over his round face. "Us niggers can't remember no addresses. We too dumb. You just take us any old place."
"Look, I..." The cab driver's face turned even redder as he sought a way out of the situation, but Ernest was turned on now.
"Course, I got me a little ol' white girl here. Keeps me aroun' just to remember, I does. That, an' she a purty good piece of ass. Tell the man that address, Lana."
With her face burning, she leaned forward and gave the driver the address of the rented storefront where Ernest held his meeting, then leaned back against the seat, hoping silence on her part would cool Ernest down. But it didn't work.
As the driver eased the car into the thick stream of traffic, she felt Ernest's hand on her upper thigh, rubbing very near her cunt. She was wearing an extremely short, white leather miniskirt with a contrasting black blouse, and as Ernest deliberately forced her skirt higher he kept up a constant stream of talk about fucking, his voice raised so the driver could hear, taunting him.
And, though the driver kept his head turned forward, she could see his bloodshot eyes in the rearview mirror, watching her. No, not just watching her-hating her. And it was easy for her to see herself through those eyes-and easy for her to hate herself.
She saw, suddenly, the way her father's eyes would have looked had she seen, only years before, a white girl in the arms of a Negro. And she remembered the question Joe had asked her.
"Could you take him home to your parents and say you love him?"
And she knew she couldn't.
Her mind was made up by the time they reached their destination.
"I'll be in in just a minute," she told him after he paid the driver and slammed the door. "I need some fresh air."
"Sure you do, baby. Sure you do." He shrugged his shoulders, gave her that crazy grin of his, then turned his back on her and walked away.
She knew, then, that he understood she was leaving him.
She walked the streets of the city for two hours, trying to decide where she could go. Max's was out of the question, and so was Tammie's. She was beginning to understand what Ernest had meant, the countless times she had heard him say that those people were just as racist as any Klansman who ever lived. The only difference was that they recognized their prejudices and chose to punish themselves for them by catering to the sexual whims of a few willing and carefully chose blacks. And the last thing she needed at this point was to become involved with another Negro. Which she was sure would happen if she was exposed to their company for any length of time.
No, she decided, that was the last thing she needed.
What she did need was much easier to see. She needed a place to stay, and she knew the two dollars in her purse wasn't enough to pay for that-and she needed to be fucked by a white man. She needed a man of her own color who would fuck her and fuck her and fuck her until every memory of Sherman and Ernest Kline, Claudette and the others was chased away along with any lingering desire for more of the same. The man and the place to stay would be easy enough to find, she decided. She selected a seedy-looking bar, went in, and seated herself on a stool.
"Just a Coke," she told the bartender, because she was sure that the strongest drink he would serve her would be carbonated soda of some kind. She half turned on the stool and looked around the bar. Making a pickup, she saw, was going to be no trouble, no trouble at all.
There were four of them, sitting in a booth; young, boisterous, apparently continuing a drunk that had started the night before. As she looked at them, one, a tall blond whose hair was combed back in a ducktail, winked at her. She pretended to ignore him, turning away, but then she crossed her legs, causing the leather skirt to ride high. If that didn't bring him running, she thought, nothing would.
But it did.
"How's about letting me buy you something stronger, Red?" he asked, taking the stool next to her, leaning one elbow on the bar, the way he was interested in more than buying her a drink. "Hot-looking little number like you needs more of a kick in what she drinks."
"Too young," the bartender said. He was standing at least six feet away, polishing a glass, and it surprised her that he had even heard the words.
"Too young for some things," she said, winking at the youth, looking him over. He was, she estimated, about twenty-three years old. He was wearing a Levi jacket and dungarees which meant he wouldn't be exactly wealthy, but he was old enough to have a place of his own. That was what she needed. "But you can bet I'm damned well old enough for others."
He laughed, and she felt his hand slide down across the tightly covered roundness of her ass. "I'll just bet you are, redhead. Such as?"
She looked at the bartender, saw that his back was turned, and dropped her hand beneath the bar. "Such as this," she said.
And she put her hand on the front of his pants, squeezing the hard swell of his cock, letting her fingers move lower to caress the spongier mass of his balls. "And a lot of other things," she added.
He nodded toward the booth. "Come on over and join us, Red. A hot little swinger like you's just what we needed to start the morning right."
She shook her head, trying to put a look on her face that would tell him she had picked him because of his attractiveness-an attractiveness which wasn't there.
"Uh-uh, baby, I don't gang-bang," she said, shifting her body so the tip of one tit lightly brushed his arm. "I usually won't even go the group route. You'll have to lose them."
"Just a minute." He patted her thigh, then headed toward the booth. She turned her back, sipping her Coke and listening to the low drone of voices coming from that direction, congratulating herself. Then he was back. As she left the bar, her arm hooked through his, she could feel the eyes of the other three, watching her legs and the slow undulations of her ass.
His name was Ron, and his apartment turned out to be a dump. It was even worse than the one she had shared with Ernest. She pushed that thought quickly from her mind. She was determined not to think of him. And Ron seemed determined to help her.
"Get ready, baby," he said, fitting both hands in the soft underslope of her buttocks, swinging her pelvis forward until the mound of her cunt was pressed tight against the front of his pants. "You may not gang-fuck, but you'll think that's what happened after I'm done."
Grinning, showing a broken tooth at the front of his mouth, he bent to kiss her. As she laced her fingers behind his neck and opened her mouth to receive the slippery snake of his tongue, keeping her tits pressed tight against his chest and moving her cunt in time to the pumping of his hips, she felt his hands leave her buttocks and tug her blouse free from the waist of her leather skirt. Then his hands were inside her blouse, cupping her tits.
"Oh, baby, you'll never know how bad I need this prick." She freed her mouth from his and, reminding herself how to forget the sour smell of his breath, the taste of his mouth: she unzipped his pants, pulled his hard cock out, and clutched it tightly in her hand. "I knew I had to have some of this, soon as I saw you."
He backed her toward the bed, both hands still on her tits. "You're damn sure gonna get it, baby. All the cock you want. Get out of that skirt and your panties."
As he bent to kiss her once more, a thought flashed through her mind, an idea she thought might just stimulate the hell out of him and improve her chances of spending a few days here. She sat down on the bed quickly, laughed impishly up at him, then lay back and kicked her legs high.
"Take care of your own business, lover," she said, keeping her legs raised only long enough to give him a fleeting look at the red hairs of her pussy, the bare cheeks of her ass. "I threw my panties away the minute I saw you. So what's holdin' you up?"
"Not one fucking thing," he said, and moved to show her he meant it. He stepped between her legs and hooked both arms under her knees, lifting them high about his waist, moving closer, his body forcing her skirt far up on her thighs. It was evident that he intended to fuck her without even bothering to take off his pants.
"Get naked, Ron," she pleaded, wiggling her body backward on the rumpled bed, feeling the hard rod of his cock brush the inside of her thighs just above the top of her hose. "I want to be the best fuck of your life-the best piece of ass you've ever had. I need to be!"
And that was the truth. As she watched him stop, think it over, then step from between her legs, she realized that she was fucking for much more than just a place to stay, and that she needed this piece much more than the man who was about to fuck her. It had to be a satisfying fuck if she was ever in her life to be satisfied by another white man's prick. She began to unbutton her blouse, meaning to strip herself.
"Leave it on," he said, stopping her. "I dig hell outa that leather skirt. I'll take your cunt just the way you've got it decorated."
Naked, he lay down on his back, his cock standing hard and erect. "Try sittin' down on that chunk of cock, baby," he said. "See if that don't fill your gap."
She saw, then, that he meant to take the passive role in their fucking, and she saw, too, that it would indeed be a provocative and stimulating position in which to fuck. As she moved to straddle his body, placing one knee on each side of his hips, she moved one hand to the base of his prick, pushing his own hand aside, feeling the swollen nuts and the downy, blond hair that covered them. She let her hand linger there for a moment, feeling a growing excitement in her pussy as she stroked his bag, then she gripped the hem of her skirt with both hands, intending to raise it about her waist, to bare her ass completely and make it easier for them to fuck. He stopped her with both his voice and his hands.
"Don't pull it up. Leave it here," he said, his voice thick with passion as he looked up at her. "I dig hell outa that outfit, and I wanna see you strain for that prick."
As she ran her eyes from the lust-twisted features of his face down across the sparse hair of his chest and to the point where her brief skirt was pulled up above the dark tops of her hose, she saw that the picture would indeed be appealing to a man. Her short skirt was so tight that the hem seemed to cut into her full thighs, adding to the allure of them, and just as he had said, forcing her to strain to reach his prick. She tugged the back of her skirt up an inch or so-making it possible for her to steer his meat where it belonged-then she slowly lowered herself onto his cock.
"It's your show, baby," she said, watching him close his eyes in delight as he felt the head of his prick being enveloped by the wet silk of her cunt. "We'll fuck any way you want."
His eyes blinked open. "Slow and easy, Red. That's the way I like my fucking. Just wiggle that little cunt slow and easy."
As she lowered herself farther onto his prick, feeling the first delectable pressure of his cock against her clitoris, his hands went beneath the bottom of her blouse, finding the top curve of her hips, guiding the speed of her fucking, and she felt his hips begin to move beneath her, first rotating slowly, then thrusting upward to allow her more of that delicious prick, then dropping back to the bed and taking it away from her.
"My tits, Ron! Get my titties!" She leaned forward and gripped his hands so fast that it seemed only one movement, forcing them up under her blouse until she felt his hot fingers cover the peaks of her breasts. "Oh, I swear to God, they're on fire!"
As she felt his fingers tighten about her aching tits, squeezing them, her rigid nipples caught against his palms, she brushed aside all memory of his foul-smelling breath, the broken tooth, and she glued her lips over his, kissing him hungrily. Then, the churning of her ass raising her skirt high enough to allow her more freedom of movement with each downward stroke she took, she began to fuck.
And it was going to be a delightful fuck, too. She knew that the moment she had captured the full length of his prick, pushing her cunt down on it until the head was lost in the depths of her body. She knew it by the way he was matching every fuck movement of her body, one of his hands now clutching the firm meat of her ass.
And the fucking was all the more delightful because each inward stroke of that prick, each movement of his tongue in her mouth, each caress his hands placed on her burning flesh was convincing her that the shadows were gone-that never again would she be plagued by dreams of fucking a black man. Never again would she pass a Negro on the streets and find herself wondering if he was hung like the cock on Sherm.... Never again would she dream of herself sucking that black cock down in the basement. She was back with her own race, back where she knew she belonged.
Then, just as she was .getting ready to come, the door opened.
"Hot damn! Lookit ol' Ron pack the meat to 'er!"
And she knew, even as she struggled to pull her short skirt down and conceal the junction of their bodies, even as she tried to lift herself off the moving cock and free herself from Ron's clutching hands, who the voice belonged to.
"Let me up, Ron," she pleaded, pushing against his chest, trying to escape his tightly circling arms. He kept his eyes closed, and the upward thrusts of his prick were faster now. "I told you I don't go the gang-bang route."
There was a whoop of laughter from behind her, and she felt a hand-a hand she was sure didn't belong to Ron-begin rubbing across her buttocks.
"Hear that, guys? She don't gang-bang."
"Way ol' Ron's puttin' the cock to her, she ain't gonna be able to. Her cunt's gonna be too sore."
There was more laughter, then she felt Ron give one final lurch of his hips, driving his cock to its limits, his body shaking as he held it there, and her pussy was flooded with come. He threw his arms out to his sides, fatigued, and she rolled from atop his body, then off the bed.
"I'll be leaving now," she said, trying to bluff her way through, but almost certain it wasn't going to work. It was the same three youths they had left sitting in the bar, and she knew, now, that this was the way they had planned it from the beginning. "That is, unless you're thinking about rapin' me...and making me call the cops."
"Hell, ain't nobody gonna rape you," one of them, a short stocky boy with curly black hair, said. He was leaning against the wall, a half-filled bottle of whiskey clutched in one hand. He waved the bottle at her, then staggered drunkenly away from the wall, coming toward her. "We ain't gonna rape you. We just gonna fuck you. Have a drink and join the party."
She stepped toward the door, but the other two, both drunk, both grinning at her, were there to block it. She turned to look back at Ron, the one she had fucked, hoping that the pleasure she had just given him might have earned her some help.
"Ron?"
"What the hell, Red?" He was still sprawled on the bed, his soft, flaccid prick lying across his inner thigh, and he gave her a look that said he was helpless. "They ain't gonna hurt you. You might even like it. Clay there, he's got a cock like an Alabama nigger."
He pointed to one of the boys blocking the door, a wiry youngster with a pockmarked face, and the rest of them laughed.
"Bigger," said the boy, grinning, and he clutched his crotch, pretending to shake his cock at her. "Wanna see it, baby?"
Instead of answering, she shook her head and looked at each of them in turn, wondering just why they had chosen that particular comparison. For it had only served as a reminder of the abuse that had caused her to leave Ernest, and pointed out the fact that she was about to be subjected to an almost identical abuse here, among the people she had thought of as her own. She stood there a moment, weighing these thoughts, decided that they weren't going to let her leave, that they couldn't have cared less about her threat of a rape charge, and then she turned toward the boy who held the bottle.
"I think I'll take that drink first," she said.
She fucked him first-the stockily built one who had held the bottle-and the others stood near the bed, watching them fuck, making coarse jokes and offering suggestions. She was on her back, fucking in the standard position, her skirt and blouse off now, her legs raised high and wrapped about his waist, and her pelvis moving in slow figure-eights as she accented and returned the driving movements of his prick.
And it was while they were fucking-as he was breathing harder and getting ready to pour his come into her-that one of the others pulled her head to the side of the bed and put his cock against her mouth, rubbing the head of it against her lips.
"Try blowing that horn, baby," he told her, moving her around so that her head was completely off the side of the bed, her red hair cascading down toward the floor. Then, putting one leg on each side of her head, his rear toward the bed, the backs of his thighs touching her shoulders and his hairy nuts hanging down over her chin, he put his hands under the back of her head and raised her face toward the shaft of his dick. "See how you like gettin' fucked both ways at the same time."
Without even looking up to see which one he was, because she knew she wasn't leaving this room until she had either fucked or sucked him, she worked her arms around his hairy thighs, gripping his cock with the fingers of one hand, slated the stiffened shaft downward until she was able to reach it, then wrapped her lips around the purplish head of it.
As she gave him his blowjob, sliding her lips over his prick as fast as her uncomfortable position would allow, feeling his cock reach even to her throat when he pumped his hips down at her, she could feel the other boy moving between her legs, feel his mouth and tongue moving on her tits, feel the lunges of his stiffened cock.
And she weaved her hips faster, letting her cunt grip and relax upon his cock, while at the same time she used her fingers to jack the other prick into her mouth, desperately wanting them to come-not because of any passion she was feeling, but simply because she knew they had to before she could leave.
The boy whose cock she was sucking was the first to unload his semen. She felt his body stiffen and his legs shake with a muscular spasm, and withdrew her lips to the head of his cock, trying to avoid the flow of sticky white come she knew was on its way. But his grip tightened on the back of her head, holding her mouth against his cock, trying to force it back to its previous depths.
"No, you don't, baby," he said, using one hand to guide his tool, moving it over her lips. "Swallow it! Swallow every damned drop of it!"
Even as she opened her lips and moved to recover the head of his cock, she saw the white stream of come erupt from the tiny hole at the center of the purple knob, felt its warmth spatter across her face, into her hair. Then she had his cock in her mouth, feeling him shudder as he pumped his slime down her throat. The same slime she could feel being shot into her pussy as the other boy groaned, gave one last, tremendous shove of his dick, then collapsed between her thighs, coming.
"One helluva cock-sucker, Clay," said the one who had just pulled his dick from her mouth, stepping from over her. She felt, rather than saw, the other boy move from between her legs. She could feel, too, a warm trickle of come making its way from her cunt, down into the deep cleft between her buttocks. "You're passing up a good thing if you don't make her blow you."
"She couldn't handle it," the one named Clay bragged, moving into a kneeling position between her open legs, holding his cock in his hand. "She'll be lucky if I don't split her clear down to her ass-hole."
And as she felt his hands slide beneath her rear and lift her, making it easier for him to fit his prick to the sopping cavity of her cunt, she remembered the comparison they had made, and she made a mental comparison of her own. She compared the size of the cock she was being fucked by to that of the boy, Sherm, and Sherm came out well ahead.
And that knowledge seemed crazily, hysterically funny. So funny that, even while he was fucking her, even as he was coming, she laughed and laughed and laughed.
And cried.
Later, standing at the door, when at last it was over, she looked them over one by one, picked out the boy named Clay.
"You know that cock you're so proud of?" she asked, tilting her head to one side and smiling sweetly at him.
"Yeah?"
"You'd better learn to use it," she said.
Then she walked out.
She hadn't come one single time.
CHAPTER NINE
"How much?" The balding man in the gray suit talked around the unlit stub of his cigar, trying to look her over while still faking an interest in the girlie magazine he held in his hands. She looked over her shoulder, checking to be sure the owner of the newsstand wasn't watching, then moved closer, letting her hip press against his.
"Twenty bucks," she said, because she had been quick to learn that this was the going price in this area. "Best stuff you're gonna find around here, sweetie, and any way you want it. Any way."
"All night?" He was still pretending to look at the nude pictures, but she knew they weren't the cause of the hard-on she could see at the front of his pants. She was.
"Sweetie, you've gotta be kiddin'. " She moved her hip slightly against his, letting him feel its roundness, and turned a page in the magazine she was holding. The owner of this shop, she had learned over the past three days, was willing to overlook a little hustling so long as it wasn't done too openly. The men who frequented his place were looking for something to get them horny, and the whores who could frequently be J found here only served to increase his business. So he I was willing to leave them alone-up to a point.
She held her magazine in front of the one the man was reading, showing him a picture of a statuesque blonde, completely nude, her hands cupped beneath a I pair of unbelievably large tits, her tawny legs spread wide to reveal the golden hair and pink lips of her cunt.
"You wouldn't expect to get something like that all night for only twenty bucks, would you?" she asked, watching the sweat bead on his upper lip as he stared at the lewdly displayed cunt of the bonde. "And, hell, I can give you a better fuck than she ever dreamed of.
I Not that I wouldn't like to spend all night with you, lover. It's just that a girl's gotta make a living."
She looked over her shoulder once more at the owner of the place, saw that he was very carefully keeping himself occupied with other things; then, to convince the man next to her that she truly regretted not being able to spend the entire night with him, she
I reached down and felt his prick.
"Mmmmm. But with something like that hanging between your legs, I may end up spending the night in the sack with you anyhow." The most important lesson she had learned, in three days of supporting herself on the money she could earn as a whore, was that every man wanted to think he was the best fuck yet-that she was enjoying the fuck even more than he.
Making them believe that was the hardest part of all.
This one seemed to be falling for the act. He squirmed uncomfortably beneath the caresses of her hands, glancing nervously past the racks of books which separated them from the counter where the owner was busily sorting books, preparing them for the racks, and he ran his deep-set eyes over her figure as if to let her know he had decided her pussy would be worth the fee.
"Have you got a place?" he asked, and started to put the magazine back on the rack. She put a hand on his wrist, stopping him.
"The Falmouth Hotel," she said, and saw him smile knowingly as he recognized the name of the rundown hotel which was, it seemed, rather famous for the laxity with which it checked the activities of its guests and for its willingness to let a room by the hour rather than insisting on a full night's rental. "Buy one of the books, huh? Doesn't look like a pickup that way."
And, she thought, it keeps him off my ass the next time I hustle this joint.
He nodded, and she smiled to herself as she watched him make his way to the back of the shop, slapping the folded magazine against his leg. He would be her third fuck of the day, which satisfied her that she was going to do all right as a whore. Only the first time had been difficult. After that, it was a very easy thing to do.
"Got something on that pretty little mind?" He slapped her lightly on the rear, startling her out of her reverie, then slipped one arm around her tiny waist, and smiled down at her. "You looked like you were a million miles away."
"Just wondering if you were gonna spend all night back there," she lied, not about to tell him that she had been thinking about the Negro whore, Claudette, and her remark that there were plenty of white whores, but that they were selling it of their own free choice-which was certainly true in her case. She had had several alternatives, a return to Ernest and the ordeal of being torn apart by the ecstasy of his quiet moments and the agony of his angry ones; a return to the home of her uncle, and the possibility of finding herself involved in the same situation with another black man; even the thought of calling her mother had occurred to her. She had chosen, instead, to become a whore.
She swayed her hips sensually beneath the guiding arm of her next customer and started for the door. "Don't you trouble yourself none about my thoughts, baby," she said. "You just think about how good it's gonna be. I want that thing nice and hard when we get there."
He laughed and opened the door for her, followed her through, patted her on the ass, then slipped his arm around her waist again.
"Don't worry none about that, baby," he said, laughing, letting his hand drop to her undulating hips, "This cock gets any harder, I won't even be able to make it to the Falmouth. I'll just have to take my pussy in one of these alleys."
She laughed as if she hadn't heard similar jokes from every man she had fucked in the past three days.
They walked the two blocks to the Falmouth Hotel, staying on the outer edge of the sidewalk in order to pass more easily through the early evening crowds who swarmed in and out of the strip joints, the pawnshops, and the grim bars. The crowd was, she thought as she looked at those they passed, made up entirely of people like themselves; men who were looking for pussy and girls who were willing to sell it. There are sections like it in every city-the three or four or five blocks where anything goes-and this one, after she had reached her decision, had reached out and drawn her to it as if it were a magnet.
"Third floor. You'll have to operate the elevator yourself," she told him as they crossed the small lobby of the hotel. She could feel the desk clerk's eyes on her back, but she knew he wouldn't say anything. She had made sure of that her first night in the hotel-the same evening of the day she had been fucked by Ron and his friends, and the same evening she had picked up her first customer-and she had earned his silence by the same method she was earning her meals.
After her customer had paid her and left her in the grubby room they had rented, she simply returned to the desk, told the clerk she wanted to keep the room, gave him a smile that said she was willing to pay for it with more than money, paid him, and wiggled her ass invitingly as she left the desk. Fifteen minutes later he had been in her room, fucking her.
He had yet to question her about her age.
"There's a bottle on the table. Or maybe you're not one of those who-likes a drink first?" She held the door open with one hand and waved toward the bottle of whiskey on the scarred table with the other. The whiskey, which she had sent the room clerk after, was there for two reasons. First, because she had some vague notion that a whore was always supposed to have whiskey on hand and, far more importantly, because she found that it was much easier to sleep after a few drinks of the burning liquid. It kept her from thinking too much.
"I like it all, baby. I like it all." He picked the bottle up, gulped at the whiskey, his Adam's apple moving, then sat back down on the table and looked around the room. "Christ, you'd think a hot-looking piece like you could do better'n a dump like this. You want the money now or later?"
She shrugged, then reached behind herself to tug at the zipper of the cheap but appealing dress she had bought to replace the leather mini outfit-the outfit she had been almost desperately anxious to be rid of. It reminded her of the mass fucking she had undergone the last day she wore it, and that, somehow, seemed worse than anything Ernest had done to her.
"It's your money, sweetheart, pay whenever you like," she said, shrugging the dress down off her shoulders, then reaching behind herself to pull the zipper the rest of the way down before letting the dress fall to the floor. "I don't think you'd cheat me. Not after the fuckin' you're gonna get."
She had found that-though there was always the possibility of not being paid at all-a satisfied customer was often-likely to pay her extra. And, since she found it easy to satisfy them, she was more than willing to take her payment after she had delivered.
"Man! What a set of tits!" She had slipped out of her lacy bra while he had his back turned to her, hanging his coat over the room's single chair, and his lips pursed in a wolf whistle as he turned and saw her smiling at him, dressed only in her hose, garter belt, and the brief red panties she had bought. He stared hungrily at her as he began tugging his necktie off. "You ain't been hustling these streets long or I'd know you. I don't miss a set of jugs like that. You gotta name, kid?"
"Oh, just Lana," she said.
That, she thought, watching him as he undressed, was one of the oddest things about these men who bought pussy. They insisted on knowing your name, then they wanted to tell you their troubles, then they wanted to know why you were selling it. She couldn't understand why they refused to think of it as she did-as a simple business transaction between two strangers. Nothing more.
"You can call me Mac," he said, tugging his shorts down and kicking them away. He grinned as he saw her looking at his cock. "And I'm gonna show you what a man's supposed to do with a set of tits like that. You got anything against sucking one?"
That was a laugh, she thought. She preferred the blowjob bit. It was usually worth a few extra bucks and it was always quicker and a lot less messy. She shook her head and stepped out to meet him as he came toward her.
"I told you, baby, I go the whole route," she said, putting one arm around his neck and flattening her tits against the thick mat of black hair on his chest. She reached down with her other hand and gripped his cock, rubbing the head of it against her thinly covered pussy, squirming as if she really wanted it. "You're paying the money, sweetheart. If you want your dick sucked, you'll get it sucked."
"Not just a blowjob, kid. A special kind of blowjob." As she felt his hand move between their bodies, cupping the orb of her tits, she gave way to the slight pressure he was exerting with his body, letting him back her toward the bed. There was a look of pure avarice on the flat features of his face-the face she knew she would forget by morning, letting it blend into the faceless group of the others who had bought her pussy. "I go for those tits, remember?"
As her knees touched the back of the bed, she released his cock and swirled out of his grip, sitting down with her back against the pillows, her legs spread, smiling seductively up at him.
"If s your money, sweetheart," she said, letting her fingers move over her bare nipples. "If you want these tits, come and get 'em. They're bought and paid for."
He didn't move. "Slide down on the bed. I want you flat on your Ijack."
"like this?" She slid lower-, not quite sure now what he wanted. First it had been the talk about the tits, then the blowjob, now this.
"Just like that, baby. Just like that." He sat down next to her on the bed, his cock stiff and upright, his bare leg touching her thighs, his hand stroking the inside of her leg for just a moment, then moving higher, covering the cushion at the front of her red panties, squeezing at her cunt. "I'm gonna give you something you've never had before, baby."
She wiggled her pussy beneath his hand, pretending an excitement she didn't feel, then reached down to curl her fingers around the hard shaft of his prick, moving them up and down. She wanted to get this finished as soon as possible to have him burst his nuts, then pay her and leave.
"You can give me that cock, sweetheart," she said, arching her back as though she was truly aroused. "You can give it to me any way you want. God, what a prick!"
She knew, even before he bent over her tits and sucked at each of them in turn, even before his hand tightened on her pussy and his hips began to pump slowly, sliding his cock through the circle of her fingers, that he had believed her. He had really believed that she was anxious for the thrust of his cock-just as all of them seemed to believe it. She ran her fingers through the thinning hair on his scalp, smiling as he sucked her nipples, and purposely made her voice low, guttural.
"Oh, sweetheart, you're gonna have me givin' it away. I can't stand much more of that."
There was one last flicker of his tongue, then he raised his head from her breast. "You like that, huh?
I'm gonna show you something you'll like better. I'm gonna show you some real tit action."
As he threw one leg over her body, straddling her just above the waist, his hairy balls rasping against the soft mound of her stomach, she shifted her body slightly to accommodate him more readily, then reached over his thighs to regain her grip on his cock, glad to be getting the blowjob underway.
"Let go my cock, baby. I told you I've gotta special way." As he moved forward over her body, he reached down to force her hands away from his prick, and she saw that he looked almost ready to come. "You're gonna need your hands for other things. Here, hold your tits together. Press 'em right up against the sides of my cock."
Taking her hands, he guided them to the pink-tipped hillocks of her breasts, then, laying his prick in the deep valley between them, he brought them together, forming a tunnel of soft flesh around the hard core he had provided.
"Think you can reach that cock, baby?" he asked.
"That depends on you. I'll do my share." She held her tits pressed together, feeling the smooth skin of the hard cock which lay there, its head pointed at her face. As she stared at it, she felt him move backward, saw the hard of his cock disappear, then saw it coming toward her face. She craned her neck forward, straining, the tip of her tongue darting forth, and she licked the head of it until it vanished in the creaminess of her tits.
"Suck it off this time, baby." His hips moved forward, slower this time, and he paused at the top of his thrust, letting her wrap her lips around the head of his prick and suck it a moment before he withdrew. Then he stabbed it at her again.
As she held her tits pressed together, letting him fuck her between them, she could hear his breath coming faster, feel the muscles in his legs tightening, and feel the heat building in his balls. Then, with a low cry escaping his lips, he pushed her hands aside and lurched forward, stabbing his cock toward her mouth. A great gush of come spattered against her lips and her chin. A second spurt, and then he was done. She wiped her face with the sheet, then lay back, tired, sweaty, listening to the sounds he made as he dressed, wondering if it would be worth the effort to go back on the street and try to pick up another fuck. She decided it wouldn't.
"Just lay the money on the table, sweetheart," she said, smiling as he pulled out his billfold. He was completely dressed, ready to go, and she was going to be glad to be rid of this one. She always was.
He flipped open the billfold, but he didn't take any money from it; instead, he held it down where she could see it. There was a badge pinned to one side.
"There won't be any money, honey," he said, closing the wallet and grinning maliciously down at her. "Hate to tell it to a hot little cunt like you, but you're under arrest."
She couldn't believe it. "You've gotta be shittin' me, mister. You pick me up, come here and get your nuts off, then tell me I'm under arrest!"
"That's just what I just told you, kid. Get your clothes on and let's go!" He grabbed her arm, pulled her to her feet, then gave her that cruel grin once more. "Hell, don't blame me. Just 'cause a man's a cop don't mean he ain't gotta get his once in a while."
"I could tell 'em that, too." She saw her last chance and she was taking it. "You might not be a cop if I told 'em how you get your evidence. And you can damned well believe I will."
"You'd be surprised how many've tried." The grin vanished and he pointed to her clothes. "Just makes it worse. Now get dressed."
She saw that he meant it, saw no other way out, and began to dress. She had been one helluva success as a whore, she thought wryly.
She had lasted just three days.
"Why'n hell'd you have to come stickin' your nose in my business?" She stared sullenly out the window of Joe Hartnet's car, not wanting to look at him, not wanting to look at anyone she knew. It was the most ludicrous thing that had ever happened to her, her being released into his custody. She had been selling herself to avoid any possible contact with a black man, to avoid giving in to the temptations, and now she found herself in the custody of one. She would have laughed-if she hadn't felt so miserable.
He swung the car around a corner, and she saw that they were nearing the neighborhood where he lived. "Maybe you'd have preferred to stay locked up in the juvenile cell at the jail until your mother came after you. That's what would have happened, you know. That judge wasn't about to release you to your uncle, and I don't blame him. Christ, letting a fifteen-year-old kid run the streets, no school, no nothing. It's a shame they couldn't lock that son of a bitch up! And another thing-you hed to me about your age."
The phrase he used to describe Uncle Max was the strongest language she had ever heard him use, and she turned to look at him. He was staring straight ahead, his hands clenched tight on the wheel.
"I'm a hell of a lot older than my birth certificate says," she told him, wondering why he had showed up at the hearing, why he had gone to the trouble of getting her released. For it was true that the judge-when it became obvious that her uncle had had no knowledge of or interest in her activities for quite some time-had made it clear that he had no intention of returning her to his custody. Only when Joe, who was clearly acquainted with both the judge and the procedures of his court, had stood and pleaded that she be released in his custody until her mother could come for her, had she seen any hope of escaping the cramped little room that had held her for two long weeks.
But she had never really believed the judge would release her into his custody. Even now it was hard to believe. Perhaps, she thought, it was because the judge was unaware of the reason she had taken to the streets in the first place.
"Why didn't you tell me you'd left Ernest?" he asked, interrupting her thoughts. He eased the car to the curb in front of the building where he had his apartment. "If you needed help, I'd have given it to you. That was a stupid thing to do-going out and trying to sell yourself like that."
"I didn't just try. I did." She hadn't said one word in court about the detective-who had really started to sweat when he learned she was a juvenile-so she decided to drop it on him like a bombshell, just to see how he'd react. "Even that cop. Except I didn't fuck him, I...."
"Look, you can spare me the dirty stories. I've heard them all. I just asked why you didn't come to me for help." He paused, looking at her, his hand on the handle of the car door. "You came to me once. Remember?"
She remembered very well, and she had been wondering, too, if that might not be the reason for his interference. "You mean why didn't I rush on over here and shack up with you? I didn't know you'd changed your mind about that offer I made you, that's why. Last I remember, you didn't want it. But I guess you got to thinkin' it over and decided to rush right down to that judge and get yourself a piece of ass delivered right into your hands, huh?"
He opened the door, swung his legs out, and looked at her, shaking his head slowly. "You just never learn, do you? You stay here until your mother gets here, and that's it. You won't find me sneaking into your room to collect the rent, either."
"If that wasn't it, then give me a better reason Joe!"
"Because you're a human being. Because you needed help." He stepped out of the car, slammed the door, then leaned back in through the open window. "But nobody'll be able to help you until you understand that. You can come in whenever you like."
She sat there in his car until after he had silently disappeared through the door of the apartment building, thinking about his words. Then, slowly, she climbed from the car and followed.
She was wondering what her father would say if he had heard those words. And she wondered what he would say when her mom told him who was keeping her.
CHAPTER TEN
"Ernest," she whispered, and it surprised her that she was still able to cry for him. She stared at the television, hoping she had heard wrong, but knowing she hadn't. She could hear the hum of Joe's razor, coming from the bathroom, and she rose to her feet to tell him what she had heard.
She stopped in the doorway, watching him move the razor over the shadow of his morning whiskers, and she tried to keep her voice steady as she spoke.
"You won't have to worry about any trouble this summer," she said, dragging the words out, liking the feel of them. "At least not from Ernest. He's dead."
A look of disbelief on his face, he turned to stare at her, and she saw that his hand was shaking. "Ernest? Dead?"
"Ain't you happy? He's shot. Shot in his apartment." She was thinking that, somehow, her leaving had caused his death. 'You won't have to explain him now. I know how I feel. You don't cry for someone you hate."
He moved toward her, and she thought he was going to reach for her. She backed away. "And you don't cry for someone who hated you."
As she turned her back on him and walked away, she heard his voice, very low, very gentle, and filled with compassion. "You can always cry when a person dies," he said. "It's the only way you'll ever learn to live."
It was much later that evening, when she heard the full details on the news, that she realized that her tears had been shed, not for Ernest, but for another human being who had passed through her life. And the circumstances surrounding his death clearly illustrated what Joe had meant when he said that Ernest would always have to have an outlet for his hatred.
For Ernest had been killed not by a white man, not by an accidental discharge of one of the numerous guns in his apartment, but by a girl, who, according to the police, he had beaten, then forced into acts of perversion. She was a young black girl.
Still, knowing this, she was saddened by his death, a death that had been brought on by his own hatred. And she could see all too clearly how that hatred had existed-she had dwelt with it for too long not to see. It was, she thought, an accumulation of bits and pieces bestowed on you by others, a burden not of your own making.
As she thought of Ernest, recalling the indignities he had subjected her to, she realized that they were no worse than those she had suffered at the hands of her own race, comparable to the torture she had heaped upon Sherm in the basement and a symbol of the same ignorance. And she remembered the night she had stood by the car and told him, "I'm sorry. Sorry because we have to hate each other...whether we like it or not."
She saw that the two of them had been playing a perverted game of emotions; she had been deriving some form of sexual pleasure by violating some social code that no longer existed; he had been doing the same by brutalizing her before her friends. It had been the exact opposite of love.
"When you can look at that hand without noticing the color, that's love," Joe had said. As she looked toward the bedroom, recalling his words, recalling the feel of his hand on her tit, she realized that he was the only man in this city who had been kind to her without asking anything in return.
That kindness seemed greater, too, because she knew the past few days hadn't been easy for him. There had been the occasions when, looking from the corner of her eye, she had caught him watching her-looking at her body. She had been sure, at moments such as those, that he was remembering the day she had offered to fuck him. Recalling, perhaps, the look of his hand on her bared breasts. And wanting her.
The fact that he had made no attempt to take what was so readily available completed the puzzle she had been slowly piecing together in her mind. For she realized, as she sat there in his living room, staring at the television without actually seeing the picture, that kindness, just like hatred, has no color. Seeing this, she wondered if the same might not be true of love.
Without taking her eyes from the closed door of his bedroom, she stood and slowly began to undress.
He said nothing when she opened the door of his bedroom, standing with her body framed in the light of the room behind her, but she could tell by the sound of his breathing that he was awake. She pushed the door half shut behind her, then stepped into the room. She was almost to his bed when she saw him sit up.
"Don't, Lana," he said, his voice very low. "Just go on back to your room. Try to forget you ever came in here. You're looking for more of what Ernest gave you, and I'm just not capable of that."
She felt the softness of the carpet beneath her bare feet as she moved to the side of his bed. "I don't want that at all. I've had enough of that to last me a lifetime."
She sat down on the edge of his bed, her bare hip very near to his thigh, feeling the warmth of his body through the white sheet that covered him from the waist down. As she reached down and found his hand, she kept her eyes on his face, trying to see his reaction in the dimness of the room.
She felt his hand tremble as she raised it from the bed and placed it over the firm dome of one tit, covering it with her own hand, holding it there.
"Remember what you told me about the color?" she asked, feeling her nipple harden beneath his hand. He was sweating now, and she knew he wanted to pull his hand away, but he didn't. "You said when I could forget about the colors that was love. Joe, I guess I know what you meant."
Now he did pull his hand away. "You're forgetting the rest of what I told you. I told you that there were enough complications to love without the ones you and Ernest were adding. I told you, you couldn't handle those complications. I doubt if I can handle them, either. Besides, you're still under age. Go back to bed."
She moved her thigh closer against him and trailed her hand down across the flat muscles of his chest. He leaned backward quickly, as if her touch had burnt him, and she saw that he was actually frightened by what was happening to him.
"I'm not sure I can handle those complications myself, Joe," she said. "Fm not even sure I understand them all. But I do know this-m have to try or spend the rest of my life thinking that it might have been different with you. And you'll think that, too. You know you will. So Fm not goin' home until I find out."
Then, leaning forward until both her breasts were flattened against his chest, she hooked her arm around his neck and kissed him. As the weight of her naked body forced him back against the headboard, she felt his body tense, his hands move to beneath her armpits, and she thought he was going to push her away; but then, as her tongue curled deep into his mouth and her body moved completely atop his, writhing, she felt his hands move on until one was between their bodies, cupping her tit, the other firmly on the sleek hillock of her rump. He held her like that for a moment, then, as if suddenly realizing what he was doing, he turned his face to one side, away from her hungry mouth.
"Lana, don't," he whispered against the sheet, his voice agonized and full of pleading. "I'm only a man. God help me, I'm only a man."
She kissed his cheek softly. "And I'm a woman, Joe."
"I didn't bring you here for that. I swear to God, I didn't. You're only a kid."
She could feel the hardness of his prick through the sheet that separated their bodies, and she knew that he was being torn between his desire and his conscience. His conscience she wanted to ease, but not his desire.
"We'll talk about it," she promised, taking his face between her hands and kissing him softly on the lips. "We'll talk it all over-later."
Then, pressing her mouth more firmly against his, letting her lips move, she slid one hand beneath the sheet, inside his shorts, and gripped the hard, pulsing shaft of his cock. And the touch of her fingers on his prick destroyed the last barriers that were in his mind.
Digging his fingers into the cheeks of her ass and sending his tongue out to meet her own, he rolled her over, tangling the sheet between them, and held her beneath him, moaning deep in his throat as they kissed. She twisted one leg around his body, letting her cunt move against his bare flesh, and tugged at the waistband of his shorts, trying to pull them down. He broke off the kiss and pulled them down himself.
"God, you don't know how long I've wanted to fuck you, Lana," he said, kicking his shorts away, then throwing the sheet from the bed. "Since that day you...."
"I wanted you to fuck me then," she said, moving back on the bed, her legs open, waiting for him. "I don't want you to fuck me now...I want you to love me.
As he moved between her outspread legs, using his hands to lift them and drape them over his elbows, raising them higher, the gentleness of his touch told her, better than any words could have done, that this was exactly what he intended to do.
As he lifted her buttocks from the bed, throwing her full weight back on her shoulders, she squeezed her legs tight against his sides, her pussy wet and tingling as she anticipated the first delightful stab of his prick. But it wasn't a stab, it was more of a caress.
Kneeling there between her legs with his elbows hooked beneath her knees, he slowly and pleasingly let his hips swing forward until the head of his cock was teasing the outer edges of her cunt-the head of it and no more. She squirmed on her back, trying to wiggle her cunt toward him, trying to claim all of his prick, but he had perfect control over their lower bodies, and he was using that control to increase her arousal and his own.
"Slow and easy, that's the way, Lana," he said, swinging his hips into the warm vee of her thighs once more, giving her a little more cock this time. "We love first, then we fuck...just the way you wanted it."
The delicious agony caused by being so near to his cock yet so far from it was becoming unendurable. She gripped his wrists and used the leverage to pull herself forward toward him, filling her cunt with the meat of his prick.
"Don't ever take that away from me," she moaned, opening her arms to receive him as he fell forward over her, his hips pumping now, his cock plunging in and out of her. "I want that cock in me for the rest of my life."
He ended her cries of ecstasy by covering her mouth with his own, kissing her softly but letting his tongue dart in and out of her mouth, moving it in time to the cock that was sliding in and out of her up-raised pussy. His fucking was slow and gentle, a stark contrast to the thrashing of her hips, the searching of her fingers.
As she felt his hands cover the aching buds of her tits, caressing them, stroking them, she ran her hands down his back, over his buttocks, beneath them-until she felt her fingers touch the wiry hair that covered his balls; the same balls that were swinging to touch the velvet flesh of her bottom with each stroke of his cock. She rubbed them.
"Oh, God, what a fuck!" As he felt her fingers probe at his testicles, Joe arched his back sharply, braced one hand on each side of her naked body, and drove his hips forward in a powerful lunge that tangled his coarse pubic hairs with the soft, red silk around her cunt and buried his prick to its base.
Lana dug her nails into his buttocks, trying to hold him there, her body shaking from the voluptuous waves rolling outward from her cunt, her back arching as she strained to match the strength of his thrust. He paused there for what seemed to be an eternity of sensuous delight, and then she felt his prick withdraw and begin fucking her with shorter, faster strokes that were every bit as delectable as his last fervid thrust. Better, because there were more of them.
Throwing her head back against the pillow, she began to let her hips roll slowly, savoring each thrust of his prick as it moved against her clitoris, flexing the inner muscles of her cunt, tightening it an imperceptible amount around the circumference of his hardened prick. Then she was coming-exquisitely, joyously, coming.
And he was ready to go, too.
When the first hot burst of his come exploded inside her cunt, she reached up to wrap her arms around his neck, holding him to her while the vigor of his fucking died, the churning of his hips ceased, and the fountain of his come went dry. Then she opened her eyes and kissed him.
"Leave it right there," she said. "I want it inside me while I sleep."
He looked down at her, blinked his eyes, and rolled from between her legs. "I'm a no-good bastard, that's what I am," he said, sitting up on the edge of the bed and covering her nakedness with the sheet. "Hell, I didn't even do what I said. I didn't make love to you-I fucked you."
"Maybe," she said, knowing he was bothered because he felt he had violated his trust, knowing he was bothered because of her age. She reached for his hand, put it to her lips, and kissed the back of it. "But there's nothin' says I can't take my loving afterward."
He looked at his hand in hers, looked at her face, then very slowly bent to take her in his arms. She didn't realize until much later that night, as she looked at his face, nestled against her breasts, that he was the first man who had ever fucked her and then thought of love.
And it was also the first time in an eternity that she had been able to enjoy the delights of being fucked without finding her mind wandering to other places.
"Oh, my darling," Lana purred. "Your cock is so thick. It's so hard. It's so long. Yummy. And your balls are all swollen. Wait till my pussy gets its lips on your prick, darling. It's going to suck on your prick so hard that it'll hurt. It's going to suck so hard your prick will get all red and raw. And then it's going to squeeze every drop of come juice out. Your big, swollen balls'll empty in my hot pussy, empty every drop. Your boner'll be bone dry when my pussy gets through with it," she laughed, pleased with herself.
"Come on, Lana. Please stick it in you," he panted, wanting her to take him, lay him, use him.
"Be patient, darling, I want to savor every moment," she grinned. "My, look. You have a big drop of cream on the tip of your hard cock," she laughed.
"The way you look at it-it gets me all excited. I could come just looking at it," he admitted helplessly.
"Well, we wouldn't want that, darling. That'd be a waste. Don't worry, now. Little Lana'll take good care of you."
"Take me...please...." he begged.
She lifted herself up, spreading her thighs, revealing her rosy cunt lips. She straddled him, but kept her slit inches above his yearning cock, swaying and hard.
"Joe, darling," she said. 'I'm going to fuck you. When I get done fucking you, you'll feel like you've been raped of your manhood. But you'll love it," she smiled, her eyes glittering with lust and power.
Joe lay on his back, naked. He felt strangely like an innocent girl about to be robbed of her virginity. He wanted to tear himself away from her, he wanted to assert his manhood-but he couldn't. He was under her spell.
He stared at the shimmering white globes of her firm buttocks, swaying and rotating above his rigid prick. He ached to plunge his hips up so that he could drive his hard cock into the creamy center of her cunt. But he didn't. He just lay there, whimpering piteously, waiting for her to use him as only she could.
"Please...please...Lana...take me," he groaned.
She smiled down at him lewdly. "Joe, baby, I've got the meanest, tightest pussy in town. Wait'll it gets ahold of that thick, stud's cock of yours!"
"Take me," he whispered.
Her slender hands moved. He trembled. Her hands teasingly slid around his hairy thighs. Her fingers moved between his thighs and began to toy with his swollen balls.
"My. How full your poor balls are, Joe," she whispered. "Oh, darling boy-what my tight little pussy's gonna do to that fat hard cock of yours! It's going to fuck it crazy. You're going to come like you've never come before!"
She slowly began to lower herself down over him, her legs straddling him, her wet pussy brushing over the hard knob of his prick, teasing them both. Joe shuddered and moaned. She laughed and sighed. She squeezed his balls with her fingers, making him groan. Her wet cunt brushed to and fro over the knobby head of his swollen prick. Joe breathed heavily, gasped at the sensuous contact of cunt and cock. The hard head of his cock was being rubbed by the open, dripping lips of her heated cunt. He felt the maddening brush of her moistened slit and begged her to pull his cock in.
"Do you like the tickle of my pussy hair on your prick?" she asked teasingly. "Yes, yes...."
"Feel how nice and warm and ready I am."
"Yes..." he groaned.
"I'm going to give you a mighty ride, Joe, baby."
"Yes, please!"
She pressed down slightly. His fat, long, hard prick touched against the lips of her wet, warm vagina. She rubbed her slit more and more roughly and rapidly over the hard, blunt head of his cock, teasing him unmercifully.
"ObJihh," he moaned. "Take me, please..."
Her dark eyes gleamed with lust and pleasure and cruelty. Slowly, slowly, she pushed her mound down on his straining prick. Slowly, slowly, the very tip of his cock began to disappear into the soft, dark puff of hair between her thighs.
"like the feel of my pussy, darling?" she whispered.
"Yes! I love it! More!" he panted.
"You love it? Good," she laughed delightedly, enjoying the agony of his humiliation. "Your cock's begging for my pussy, isn't it?"
"Ohhhh, yes!"
"That's good," she grinned, leering down at him, her lovely, cherry-tipped tits swaying.
She hovered over him, leering, a triumphant smile on her face. Then she began to slowly sink down on his hard pole. Slowly, slowly. The full, fleshy lips of her pussy parted as it sank down on the huge cock. Slowly, slowly, her parting, wet pussy lips sank down on the thick, long shaft of his swollen cock. Slowly his cock began to disappear into the clinging, tight lips of her cunt. Her cunt sucked tightly on his pole as it sank in, gripping his fleshy instrument in a hot caress.
She hissed as she sank down over him. She felt his huge cock slowly sliding into her. He grunted. The lips and inner walls of her vagina stretched to give entrance to his huge battering ram. She had now begun the complete impalement of her twat on his cock. She suddenly rammed her hips down viciously, plunging her cock-hungry cunt down hard. She twisted and turned as the cock sank into her wide-stretched pussy. It felt like a telephone pole inside her. He lay there beneath her, groaning, sighing, waiting for her to lead the way toward their ultimate climax. She was in control. He was merely a vessel of pleasure for her, to be used in her own way, in her own time.
She began to move slowly over him, undulating. His sore, welted buttocks scraped against the rough carpet, making him cry out in pain. His huge, throbbing cock was now a total captive in the wet, quivering lips of her cunt.
"Aggg!" he coughed.
"This is going to be fun," she sighed.
"Oh, God! Fuck me! Oh, please fuck me, please!" His arms flailed uselessly as he thrashed beneath her, the torture of her teasing cunt driving him wild with need. His eyes were tightly closed and he was panting, sobbing. He could feel the strong grip of her cunt in his huge prick as it throbbed deep inside of her, buried inside to the hilt. Her buttocks rested on his thighs. She just sat there, enjoying the invasion of his cock deep in her tight pussy.
Then she began to slowly roll her buttocks over him, making him gasp with pleasure.
"Ohhh, yes!" he sobbed.
"I'm going to fuck you silly," she laughed.
She hissed and began to slowly rotate her hips over him. The tight, wet walls of her pussy contracted around the hardness of his cock. Joe sobbed as he felt her inner muscles pulsating around his prick. Slowly and teasingly, she began to grind her cunt around and around over him. Her tight cunt clasped his arching prick like a hot glove. Up and down she began to move her hips over his, plunging down, lifting up, pivoting. She began to move faster and faster, controlling the pace of the screwing. She began to mew with pleasure as she took him.
She twisted and rocked over him, thrusting her body and her loins with greater and greater abandon. She took his huge cock inside the warm sheath of her pussy tunnel. Greedily her cunt lips sucked on his swollen flesh. The quivering cheeks of her firm buttocks slapped up and down on his thighs as she rode him. She began fucking him with greater and greater intensity.
"Oh, good. Oh, God, so good," Joe moaned.
"Harder. I'm going to fuck you harder!" she cried.
She rocked over him now in a world of uncontrolled lust, pounding her body over his without mercy. She loved the feel of his huge hardness driving in and out. The cheeks of her buttocks were tightly clenched as her cunt tore at his cock. She tightened her cunt's grip on his cock and sucked it in deeper and deeper. His massive cock drove in and out with long strokes as she rotated over him, her hair flying, her eyes closed with pleasure.
She churned over him, questing for more and still more thrills as she used him to her will. Her inner muscles contracted tightly around his plunging prick. She cried out, cursed him, and drove her lovely body over him with quick, rhythmic strokes. Her buttocks rotated and slapped against his thighs. She arched her back and her breasts danced as she buffeted him as he lay there beneath her. She quickened the pace with mounting urgency. She could feel the throb of his cock as it sank so deeply inside of her raping, hungry vagina.
"Good," she cried.
"Fuck me!"
She ground her hips over "him. His huge, glistening penis disappeared and reappeared in the clinging lips of her cunt. She squirmed heatedly over him, her eyes now wide and staring off into space, unseeing in her rapture. Her cunt seemed like a hot, living thing as it raced up and down and around and around on his straining cock. She groaned as she hunched over him. She moved her pussy around in small circles as she drove it up and down. She felt the push of his hard cock deep inside her. Hungrily her pussy sank down on the wet, throbbing cock. A low, animal-like groan came from her moist, parted lips.
Madly she rotated her loins over him, wiggling, squirming with utter abandon. Joe thrashed beneath her, crying out. The room was filled with the wet, sucking sounds as her cunt ate his cock avidly. Her crotch ground around and around on his dipping prick.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" she cried.
"Yes, fuck, fuck!" he answered.
She bucked and twisted, increasing the speed of the screwing. Joe was writhing and jerking with excitement as she continued to take him with wild lust. She was slewing around over him, her pelvis swiveling in rapid circles. He shoved heatedly up, driving his cock into her down-driving core of love. With rapid thrusts she took him, deep, deep into her enveloping hollow. Her body wormed and lashed furiously over him. Her legs scissored around him as she grafted her cunt to his cock, as she pivoted her hips-at the same time making miraculous friction with a frantic inner contraction, fantastic inner muscular control.
She rode him wildly, squirming her dripping cunt as her crotch thrilled to the intimate contact of their flesh. They were both crying out. She bucked and arched, rotating her hips. Joe's brain was as if on fire. The sensations were voluptuous. He felt overwhelmed. The scorching delirium they were both experiencing was nearly unbearable.
She was wriggling over him, taking him in and out of her whirlpool of hot flesh. She lifted and tossed her hips with rapid jerking motions. He could feel the way she choked his cock with strong internal contractions, seizing and squeezing his plunging cock. She had him locked in a tumultuous embrace. She was staring down at him with wild eyes as she squirmed and bucked and slammed her voracious thighs. She arched her back and lifted him up with her, gripping him with the fantastic muscular tension of her loins.
She rammed and withdrew and rammed at him again. Joe struggled desperately to stay with her. She was screaming at him, cursing him, urging him on with demented lust; she arched her back, lifting him again between her taut, squeezing legs. Joe could feel the slick, wet flesh of her belly sliding against his gut as she fucked him. She was now covering him as a man usually covers a woman. She was fucking him, lying on him, and he was under her, being screwed.
She rammed him hard against the carpet and he cried out at the rip of the carpet against his ass. He shrieked in his delirium and clawed at her back with his hands. Her feverish eyes glared at him as she fucked him wildly. She lashed her body over his wildly. She was attacking him like a starved she-wolf. She was now the totally frenzied female raping the male. He felt as if she were taking all the strength from him-he was like Samson, made powerless by Delilah.
He was helpless under the raging, lusting girl. She raged over him like an animal driven wild by unfulfilled lust. She jabbered at him but he could not understand what she was saying. Her arms and legs were wrapped tightly around him as she took him savagely. He felt her weight as she smeared her flesh over his. His breathing was frenzied. He closed his eyes and gave up to the delicious torture as she covered him, engulfed him, sending wild chills racing up his spine.
The devouring heat of her pussy clung to his cock greedily. His sensitive cock throbbed and twitched as she plunged the sheath of her vagina up and down and around. She churned and revolved her hips in what seemed to be a dozen maddening directions at once. She lay on him, screwing him, clinging to him, using him, the firm clutch of her warm pussy giving thrilling friction to both of them. She swarmed over him with hot, pressing flesh as she took him. He was being mauled by her wantonly.
And then her shrill cry split the air.
He cried out hoarsely.
They were both beginning to come at the same time.
With tremendous power she leaped over him, her hands gripping him, her pussy driving on his cock. Shudders hit them both as they erupted and began to blaze through the fiery convulsions, thrashing and clinging to each other. She rode him with demented fury.
Joe was numbed by the power of his release as she slammed down again and again on him, still seeking more, her hot female flesh surrounding him.
Hot white jets of his sperm erupted and flooded into her as she ground her hips spasmodically over him.
"Coming, Fm coming!"
"Ohhhh!"
Her inner muscles contracted, expanded, pulsed as rolling waves of climax hit her, and the hot, squeezing walls of her sucking pussy sucked every drop in from his pouring cock.
It was over. He lay under her, nearly unconscious, panting, weak, and gasping. The pungent odor of their orgasm filled their senses. She lay on him, still holding his slowly dilating cock tightly in the lips of her pussy.
"That...was a good...fuck...." she panted.
"Yes..." he managed, feeling weak and drained and used up.
"Have...you ever been fucked better?"
"No," he gasped with honesty.
She could fuck a man from the top better than any man could fuck a woman from the top. That was something of which Joe was convinced. He was spent.
"I fucked you good, didn't I, Joe, baby?"
"You fucked the shit out of me," he whispered.
"You bet I did. No man ever fucked a woman as well as I've just fucked you. Right?"
"Right...."
"How good am I, Joe."
"You're the best."
"Ever raped a girl as good as I just raped you?"
"No...you're the best there is...."
"Good!" she laughed with triumph. She knew she had completely conquered him. "We'll get up in a minute, Joe."
She searched his lips with hers, his tongue with hers. She moved her body, and their bellies and thighs rubbed together hotly.
"You're so beautiful," he breathed as the kiss finally broke.
"And you've got the greatest cock in the world, darling," she purred, pressing her lovely little body down over his.
She began to kiss him, tonguing his ear, laving his neck: She sucked and bit on his flat tongue. And then she dragged her tongue teasingly under his armpit, licking away salty moisture, making him shiver. She rubbed her tits over his hairy chest, her nipples going hard instantly.
And then she moved away.
"That's enough," she said in a husky, teasing voice. "No more for now."
She crawled off him, his limp cock sliding with a pop out of the clinging lips of her pussy. She got to her feet and stood over him as he lay there, her legs wide apart. He stared avidly up at the puckered pink and glistening lips of her pussy, the dark hair around it wet and matted.
"Poor Joe," she whispered.
She got down on her hands and knees next to him and bowed her lovely face over his limp, sticky cock. She pressed a kiss on the knob of his prick. She felt the warm, stickiness of it and she opened her lips and sucked it in, licking away the mixed cream of their comings.
It was later that Joe told her that her father had been released from prison, on parole, that he was coming to get her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Tomorrow morning," Joe said, staring thoughtfully up at the ceiling, paying no attention to Lana's hand as it stroked his bare chest. He shifted his body slightly on the bed, and Lana felt him lay his hand on her thigh. She covered his hand with her own, knowing what was on his mind, waiting for him to go on. "I wonder if time really moves fastest when you want it to stand still, or if it's just a trick of the imagination. Which do you think?"
She rolled onto her side, pressing her tits against his upper arm, and threw her leg over his. "I think it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because I ain't leavin' with him. And stop tellin' me to say I'm nof instead of 'ain't.' " She had recognized his frown and acted in time to stop the rebuke. "Besides, you promised not to talk about that tonight."
She felt his hand on her ass, feather-light. "I can stop talking about it; I can't stop thinking about it."
"You can too forget about it. You might as well." She moved her body sensually, letting her nipples rasp against his arm, trying to take his mind off her planned leaving, but knowing she couldn't. "I ain't leaving with him. If you and him make me, I'll just come back. I'll run away and come back."
He turned on his side then, moving his leg from beneath hers, taking his hand off the satin curves of her buttocks, and his face was very solemn, his eyes very serious.
"You've got to leave, Lana," he said, and she could tell the words hurt him. "Don't you understand that? He's your father. Aside from the fact that I'm probably wrong in what I'm doing, I couldn't possibly stop him. You're a minor. He could have me arrested and have you put in an institution for girls. You think he'd hesitate to do that?"
She shook her head. She knew he wouldn't.
"So, that's settled. In the long run, it may be the best thing for you, Lana."
"Would you keep me if you could? I mean, if it was just the two of us, with nobody to bother us?" She knew what his answer would be-since the first night he had fucked her, he had demonstrated in every possible way just how much he did want to keep her-but, as she thought of being taken away, she desperately needed to hear him confirm it one more time.
"Yes," he whispered painfully. "Oh, God, yes."
"Then don't talk anymore," she said, rolling flat on her back, her legs spread into a welcoming vee. "Just show me what you'd do if you could keep me. Show me good so I'll never forget it."
He knew very well how she wanted him to demonstrate this desire, for, during their fleeting nights of sexual experimentation-nights when he had shown that he possessed an inventiveness to match her own-their attempts to satisfy each other had singled out the technique which was most gratifying for both of them, the one that was a perfect prelude to their fucking. Letting his hands caress the ivory smoothness of her throat, brushing them over the rigid peaks of her tits, feeling the contact with her voluptuous, young body bring a hardness to his cock, he turned on the bed, letting his eyes follow the path taken by his hands, getting into position to eat her cunt.
"Slow and easy," she pleaded, writhing as she felt his tongue flicker in and out of the crease of her navel. Lying half on his side, he moved lower, his tongue and lips doing things across the upper reaches of her red cunt hair. His prick was moving nearer to her face, and she reached out to grip the rock-hard shaft of it, to masturbate it slowly. "Eat it slow and easy. I want this to last a long time."
"And I want it to last forever. I know I'll be able to taste this pussy for the rest of my life." As he threw one leg over her body, putting his stiffened cock and heavy nuts squarely over her face, Lana felt his breath caress her pussy and knew he was very, very close to it. She raised her ass slightly.
"Love it! Show me how you love that pussy!"
"I love it like this." She felt his lips touch her pussy ever so lightly, kissing it delicately, lovingly, not yet ready to send his tongue out to do its ambrosial task. He was making her wait for that moment. And the waiting only increased the fever that was building in her cunt. But in spite of that fever she wanted to wait, to savor the wonderful agony his lips inflicted on her as he moved his head lower between her legs, kissing his way across the slit of her pussy, down to her sinuous buttocks.
"Please! I can't stand...don't stop!" As she felt his rough tongue dip into the cleft between her buttocks, probing at the entrance to her anus, she closed her eyes tight and sank her teeth into her lower lip, completely unaware of anything but the flickering of his tongue, the pressure of his chin against her cunt, the flinty prick she held in her hand.
Throwing the calf of one leg over the back of his head, trapping his face in the white flesh and red hair of her cunt, she opened her eyes and looked at the sooty prick above her with its almost burgundy head and wrinkled scrotum which was more chocolate in color. She lifted her head until she felt his hairy balls touch her just above the eyes, then using the leg she had hooked over Joe's neck as a lever to guide the movements of his caresses, she extended the tip of her tongue and licked a slow, wet circle around the head of his prick.
His head began to move faster between her thighs, and she raised her head higher, sucking the head of his prick while sliding its skin back and forth with the fingers of one hand, teasing his nuts with the other. She could feel him sucking her clitoris into his mouth now, flipping it with his tongue, releasing it gently, drawing it in again, and she began to move her hips in a slow, rocking fashion, weaving her pussy beneath his mouth. At the same time, as if to share in the pleasure he was giving her, he lowered his hips slowly, inching his prick into her mouth. She accepted it gladly.
Bobbing her head upward between his thighs as though to match the increasing speed with which he was lapping her cunt, she filled her mouth with his cock, letting it slide into her throat until she felt sure she would strangle, then taking even more. And when almost the full shaft of his prick was in her mouth, she slowly lowered her head, keeping her lips in a feathery circle around his meat, sucking at it, until only the head remained captured between her lips.
Then, as she felt herself begin to come against his face, she held the head of his cock there, sucking it hungrily, while her fingers jacked him off, using frantic strokes that matched each pump of her wildly moving hips.
When she felt the first abrupt downward thrust of his hips-a thrust that drove his cock to the back of her greedy mouth once more-and felt the quivering in his thighs, she knew that she had brought him to the point of coming, and she knew how it felt and how he liked it best.
She relaxed her legs, letting the one fall from behind his neck, spreading them wide, enjoying the wonderful afterglow that always followed a good come, but not forgetting that he needed the same pleasure-that she needed to provide it. Slipping her arms around his churning hips, loving the smooth flesh of the cock that was gliding in and out of her throat, she dug her nails into the taut muscles of his buttocks, encouraging their movement, encouraging him to continue fucking her in the mouth. And he did.
With ever faster strokes of his prick he rammed his cock in and out of her willing mouth, using it as though it was a cunt, until a final, straining drive of his body warned of his coming.
At the very moment that his come erupted into her mouth, filling it, hanging there, then sliding thickly down her throat, she could feel him planting soft, warm kisses on the insides of her thighs, over the hairy lips of her cunt. But these kisses weren't meant to arouse, she knew. They were more like a way of expressing his enjoyment.
As she drained the last of his semen-even following his cock when he rolled lazily to his side-she wondered if he knew that her pleasure matched his own.
"I'll never get it hard again," he said, smiling up at her, when she had reversed her position and lay half on top of him, her tits pressed against his chest. "Never."
She kissed him, then grinned. "Don't bet on it."
And she proceeded to show him, just as he had known she would.
Kissing him slowly and passionately-knowing that this could be their last time together.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Oh, please fuck me," she said, "just fuck me."
For her there was nothing but waves of heat, particles of cold, currents of air, vibrations of earth. Sensations as fragile as hummingbird wings blended into a single sense of ultimate yearning. She was at the outermost limits of her ability to maintain her awareness of herself as an entity. She evaporated into the consciousness of the enormity of existence and in her careening amorphousness felt the chill breath of death upon her forehead.
"Oh, please hold me," she said.
Her breathing was a ragged sighing as he lifted and lowered himself onto her, his cock bathing in the churning froth of her gaping cunt. He fucked her gently, not letting his feelings flood his awareness of the person who provided him with such unspeakable sensations. They fucked together, each in touch with the other, both in touch with themselves. Where there had been only a him and a her, there was now an us, and in the security of that knowledge they began to fly more freely, like acrobats who have finished their preliminary testing of one another's reliability. He searched instinctively for some deep crevice inside her by following the arc of his own excitation. His cock homed in through its own intelligence. His conscious mind was relegated to the background, to act either as cheering crowd or critical audience. Her legs spread wider, her toes flexed, her heels pushed toward the ceiling. She gave him all the cunt she could.
His pelvis dropped and he brought his cock in from a lower angle. She made a cry like tearing silk and clutched his shoulders, digging her nails into his skin. He pushed his cock harder into her and held it against the spot where she had been transfixed. A long moment passed in which there was no movement, and than a long, low groan began deep in her throat and erupted as a cry of primeval pain. She felt as though she were giving birth and being born all at the same time. An electric current zipped through her and she bunched herself around him. He slid his hands under her buttocks and shook her ass until the rocking motion spread from her crotch to her belly, loosening her spine and setting her head to rolling from side to side. She wept without tears in a hot orgasm which fell upon them like thunder.
Inside the vital passage through the center of his cock, the sperm trigger trembled for the full duration of her climax, threatened to fire, and then subsided into a state of quiescence. He did not come. He could continue to fuck. And he wilted at the thought of repeating the same delirious cycle again.
As he collapsed on top of her, she once again wrapped herself around him and started the low shoveling movement which signaled the beginning of another ride. He became soft in her arms, his mind as throbbingly vacant as a nodding junkie's. In the same way that it had taken spanking and forceful fucking to bring her to the point where she could contact the feelings which flowed beneath the tensions of daily living, so it required her orgasm to relieve him of all sense of duty and allow him to relax into an unstructured exchange, one in which he did not have to dominate.
She rolled him to his side and then to his back. She sat on top of him, her legs bracketing his hips, her cunt mouthing his protruding cock. She lowered her weight onto his body and kissed him, her tongue greedy for the inside of his mouth and the responses in his lips that her pressure would give rise to. His lips were slack, and she took advantage of the relatively rare moment when he was no longer doing, but was content simply to be.
His passivity translated into defenselessness for her, and ah her tenderness was aroused. She slid her legs down outside his, and then on top of his, and moved between his thighs, forcing them to open wider. Her hands cupped his ass and pulled him into her.
He traced the outline of her face with his fingers, his eyes closed, gently caressing her nose and cheeks and ears. like a languorous woman under an energetic man he yielded his body up to her promptings, letting her take him with her rhythms, her methods, her insights. "Yes," he whispered.
The simple word was like a lash across her legs. She began to fuck him. Her knees dug into the bed and she rocked her cunt into him with a heavy beat. His knees came up to balance and grip her, and he put his arms loosely around her back. With each thrust he moaned, the sounds bubbling up involuntarily. Her own sounds began as excitement flushed her entire body and she started to flop around, her breasts slapping against each other, her head thrown back, her ass churning in all directions.
She's going wild, he thought.
The image, titillating and distracting, had the effect of a grain of sand dropped into the delicate works of a fine watch. At the high velocity at which they were operating, the thought upset the timing of their act. He was ripped away from the immediacy of his involvement like a child being torn from its mother, and the extraordinary fucking which had seemed so intensely real became at once an obscure activity indulged in by people with whom he had only a faint acquaintance. like a careless participant at a peyote ceremony glancing up the sky to the stars and introducing some cosmic insignificance into the drama, he tasted, at the peak of his sexual pleasure, the fear of his own nothingness. Immediately his cock softened and shriveled into itself. As she felt it leave her she panicked and tried to grab it by contracting her cunt. But the sudden movement startled him and he turned his face to one side as he lost his power once more.
The disgust he felt at himself was mirrored by the expression on her face. Before her humanitarian instinct made her understanding, she gnashed her teeth in frustration. Then she lay down on top of him and held him tightly. They moved into an embrace with the loving knowledge only possible between those who have fought many sexual wars together and have learned compassion through necessity. Without ever having articulated it as such, they shared a deep respect for the difficulties that man and woman share in any attempt at joining together.
"I can't do any more of these tonight," she said at last. "You'd better come now."
She edged off him and lay on her stomach next to him. She was offering her body to be used for his climax, knowing that when he became totally selfish in his fucking he was like a stoker pouring coal into the flames and she was more than happy at having her cunt be the oven he built his fire in. They looked into each other's face with the knowingness of ghouls. They grew serious. His eyes smiled. Her mouth pursed. He slithered on top of her, adjusting his position until her buttocks slipped perfectly into the hollow of his groin. She continued to hold his gaze, turning to peer at him from over her shoulder. She did not exhibit the least change of expression as he dangled his cock between her cheeks and trailed it over the entire curve. It hardened as he moved and when it was stiff he slid it between her thighs. She was watching him, and she tilted her ass up and altered the cant of her cunt to meet his desire. He pushed forward and the thick organ entered the pink hole. As he penetrated, her lids began to fall. He looked deeply into her, and she let him watch as the overwhelming power of the sensations in her cunt flooded the lighthouse of her associative intelligence. She went under, and until the very end watched him watching her succumb.
Her head dropped forward and he gently bit the tendons along her neck. She raised her haunches until she was on her knees, her thighs pressed along the tops of her calves, her back a long ski slope, her arms along her sides and going inward to her fingers which fondled her cunt lips and rubbed her clitoris. She gave up all thought of everything, including the man who was fucking her, and stepped bravely into the most frightening solitude, the loneliness of bliss.
She was wracked by four orgasms, each a jagged peak of tension which brought her to a pitch of paralysis followed by a long, fluttering release. like a man tipping his hat in the presence of a funeral procession, he toned down the raucousness of his thrusts into her bottom after each of her climaxes, but did not drop his rhythm. When she had spent the fourth time, he knew he would come soon, and pulled out all the stops. Each breath exploded in a harsh bark, his hands formed fists and flew apart into planes again and again, like a man grasping and letting go, grasping and letting go. He fixed his stare on the sight of his cock sloshing in and out with such vigor and her cunt completely relaxed, taking his fiercest plunges crazily.
The trembling began in his thighs and swept up to his pelvis and then his spine, until he shivered from his knees to his head, the whole sinuous movement transmitted to her through the single-energy focal point of his cock, which fucked her until she was white with screaming. He reared back like a man attacked by the flailing hooves of a maddened horse and let the sperm shoot from his cock in a series of bursts, spill out, and subside to a dribble; and finally he squeezed out as his pumping reflex continued and she gripped the shaft with her cunt, sucking out the last drops of fluid. He felt the exquisite pleasure that comes to the vampire's victim, the thrilling transfer of energy from one body to the next.
Before he closed his eyes and collapsed beside her, he looked at her round, mysterious ass and realized that if there were a dozen men in the room she could kneel like that for the entire night, taking one after the other, letting each fuck her until he came, allowing each of them four and five orgasms, until they were exhausted, and could then just rise, stretch her cramped legs, and feel as though, for once in her life, she had been properly satisfied.
The next day's newspapers told why her father had not arrived to pick Lana up. The crash of the airliner after it left Kennedy airport in route to Washington filled the entire first page. There had been ninety-two passengers aboard, and there were no survivors.
The passenger list included the names of her mother and father.
