Life was a patterned thing for Martha and Joan, and had been since Joan had taken the teaching position at Franklin Elementary, She still had four years to go before acquiring tenure, but the Gilberts, mother and daughter, were happy in their small apartment, and Joan had been satisfied to seek no other school. Martha had made many friends in the Ladies Auxiliary, and Joan enjoyed a moderately limited social life among the school faculty members. They managed well on two thirds of Joan's salary and the other third was building a nice nest egg in the savings and loan at four and three-quarter percent. They lived in harmony, Joan thought, because they both were careful not to intrude upon the privacies of the other, and this was Joan's doing. Lest her mother pry too closely into her affairs, Joan did not ask Martha for constant and continual confidences. Not, she felt, that her mother had any essential confidences to share, but once or twice before their pattern had been established, she had very nearly confided in her mother during earlier intimate conversations. The reason Joan did not want to confide in her mother was because she had White Meat been telling herself since her sophomore year in Cannon Normal that she was not a Lesbian, merely a lonely girl-woman who took a small measure of sensual pleasure where she found it.
She really wanted a man, a nice, understanding man of gentle nature and positive adoration. The fact that she found her private moments of respite from loneliness with young girls who were at first flattered by her attentions, then awed by her boldness and finally entranced by what she did for them with fingers and lips was incidental.
Now she sat up in bed, checking her sobs to listen to the purr of her mother's deep sleep in the other bedroom. Joan was terrified. The noon-hour ecstasies with Bonnie Price had left her quivering and shaken, unsure of herself and doubly unsure of Bonnie. The colored girl was the first to Joan's several child-darlings who had put their secret, exciting times together on a pay-as-you-go basis. Other girls, some younger and some older than Bonnie, had been pleased with small gifts and perhaps some help through difficult lessons or tests. Bonnie had been coldly commercial, and Joan had been so eager to caress and love the lithe black body she had succumbed to Bonnie's demands.
But from their first engagement together, it had been plain to Joan that the colored girl had instantly assumed command. She blushed now as she remembered the way Bonnie had outlined the price schedule for whatever Joan wanted to do with her. She had further been instantly derisive and boldly scornful of Joan, aware of the many-faceted face of racial discontent, Joan had thought Bonnie's disdain was based upon the fact that her white teacher, a symbol of the Establishment, per se, was anxious and willing to pay money to make illicit love to a black girl. By the time Joan realized this, she was too enamored of Bonnie's hot black cunt and her velvet soft skin to save her self-respect. And inevitably, Joan had come to the conclusion that Bonnie's attitude was for the best because it definitely prevented either one of them from becoming emotionally involved with each other.
As of noon, the entire affair had taken on the countenance of a gargoyle's lusting. Even now, Joan could feel those thin black arms around her neck and the hot wet kiss Bonnie's inflamed lips had wanted. And had been given. Up to that moment, the instant when Joan had felt Bonnie's restraint depart and her orgasm come on with such violence, their arrangement had been satisfactory. Shudders wracked Joan's body as she remembered her own orgasm, borne skyward as Bonnie's cunt had convulsed and clung and almost gushed with sex juices. She could still feel the tight milking of Bonnie's deeply penetrated asshole and then, a moment later, had come the kiss.
It had not been the kind of kiss Joan had given other excited girls in soothing and affection. It had been a bold, open-mouthed kiss with tongues fighting and saliva mixing and they had both been reduced to tears for the fierceness of their emotions.
"I cannot be in love with a nigger girl," Joan murmured aloud. "I am not a Lesbian, not a queer, not a-a dyke! Oh, dear God, what am I going to do? " She fell back on the bed. Her chest, rising and falling under the suddenly demanding bowls of her firm tits, seemed constricted by chains. Her thighs twitched, separated, and tensed as her cunt made movements that aggravated an ache rather than subdued one. At twenty-six, no finger but her own had ever touched her vagina, no intruder, even the size of pencil had ever passed the flesh curtain of her maidenhead. A man or two, excited by the curve of her ass and the bold roundness of her tits had tried to fuck her, and one of them had almost succeeded. But for some reason, not necessarily attuned to her college-diluted morality, she had squirmed away as his fingers had sought the underseam of her panties, and if later she had regretted her resistance, there had been some irrational, peculiar satisfaction in knowing she was a fastidious virgin. What her cunt felt now was not the need of a man as much as a need.
She slid both hands down her flat belly and let them spread over the hollow of her groin, the nervous thumbs lying over the hairy pubic mound to rest within a quarter of an inch of her quaking cunt. She pressed and rubbed lightly, then as a moan of suffering escaped her throat. She moved her thumbs inward and felt the pulsing puffiness of her cunt lips. This instantly elicited a slow rolling from her perspiring ass, her backbone curled and lifted her crotch to her fingers. Not to penetrate but to excite and somehow soothe, she felt her clitoris. It sent shrieks of need throughout her tensing body. She rubbed it, and with the other thumb, the soft wet membrane of her hymen. Like rubbing between her toes, or scratching a deep itch in her thick chestnut hair. She raised her knees, forming a broad tent in the covers, and as she settled her left finger to the tantalizing movements on her vulva, she stretched the other hand down, caressing the full rounds of her bottom, to eventually send a finger to her anus. Again, not to penetrate, but to irritate and sensitize. She longed desperately for two more hands with which to mold and squeeze her tits, but with untimely logic, accepted the fact that her cunt and asshole were more responsive than her tits. Her eyes closed, trading the light of her acrid heat of Bonnie's open and emitting cunt. Her tongue rolled in her saliva flowing mouth, and Joan let her fingers depart her body and become the eager, passionate parts of some handsome, adoring man.
She was not really a Lesbian, she thought, as long as she could dream about a man with the. taste of Bonnie's cunt hardly faded in her mouth. Momentarily, she tried to picture the man and the image became a composite of many faces and shapes, tall, short, thick and thin but they all wore clothes because Joan had never seen a man more naked than those on the beach and she had never had enough courage to buy one of the interesting nudist magazines for sale on the back shelves of newsstands. For the moment, all she needed were a man's fingers; now running over her vagina, the eager tips searched in the hot wet folds, flicking her clitoris and moving down to excite the small natural orifice in her hymen. Her hips assumed a rhythmic rolling, her breath hissed softly and even the strain of pushing to her own caresses was good. The fingertip at her asshole grew and assumed a length and thickness she imagined similar to a man's penis. A man's hot insistent cock trying to enter her rectum. The thought was devastatingly exciting and Joan moaned with indulgent pleasure. She spread her knees as far as she could, throwing a new tension across the quivering muscles of her splayed crotch, and as the flesh passion became almost too great to stand, her mind let one image fade and admitted another, with the softness of a mouth and tongue and the color of the night. Behind her eyelids, she looked down and there was Bonnie's head, the kinky, oily wool bobbing, the slender, high-boned cheeks rooting and rubbing while the sweetly thick mouth burrowed and the long scarlet tongue darted and licked. Joan's head rolled from side to side as this dream became furious and her body began a rippling whip that made the bed creak. She mewled and gasped and let Bonnie's phantom fire carry her to the high, flaming peak. The orgasm burst; Joan's fingers came free of her sex and she writhed in thumping, convulsing ecstasy, legs jerking, spine threatening to snap in frenzied tension. Then as she could seldom do when discovery and disgrace were hovering outside the cloakroom door, Joan slowly coasted into lethargy, pretending her own arms, clasped tightly around her tits, with fingers petting and palpitating the trembling flesh, were Bonnie's.
Finally, the after-glow faded and she relaxed her self-hugging and let her legs straighten out and shift together. She opened her eyes and wet her very dry lips with thick saliva. Rolling to one hip, she reached and snapped out the night light, then rolled back to sigh in nervous exhaustion.
What she needed was a man, and the very next time one made the kind of mild love most men made to her, she would reach for his penis and open her legs; Joan shuddered because she knew very well she would do no such thing. But it had to be done, just to prove to herself that she was not a Lesbian.
* * *
There were three of them, including her brother. Lean, oddly clothed, flap-mouthed and harassed by their own furies. They were long-handed, making gestures of chopping, as if their pink palms were axes and the sulky air of the Price living room were really a huge lake of white throats and soft bellies. All were different but they were the same, with scraggly beards and thinner moustaches, black eyes hidden behind large dark glasses as if to mask their non-identities from the world. From where she leaned over her spelling at the dinette table, -Bonnie tried hard to think of her brother, Sam, and his two fellow cats as she had thought of them yesterday and the days before.
They had had several cans of beer apiece and were now boasting about how they were going to make "-them mutha-fuckahs hard to find when the cats come on with the real thing, man." Bonnie didn't know what the real thing was but she had seen them pop their switchblades and flourish their .22 pistols and to her, they seemed very right and very determined. They, like herself, were part of a bad scene, like being black and poor and hated by Whitey. Bonnie squirmed. Miss Gilbert was a whitey. Bonnie tried to remember what had happened and how she had felt during the lunch-money bit. She hadn't hated her teacher and she was sure Miss Gilbert hadn't hated her. It had been wild, like no tomorrow. She had kissed a white woman and been kissed in return. The words on the page of the spelling book blurred as a fire went creeping through her slender body.
"What's with the lesson, chick?" the voice of Claw Johnson demanded at her shoulder.
"Spelling," she said without looking up. She already knew what Claw looked like. He had slope shoulders, wore cheap turtle-neck sweaters and slouched, as if to always be on point to drag his shiv and cut. He smoked a lot of pot and drank a lot of beer and laid it out like it was, man, and it was generally half hard. Now his long hard fingers were on her throat, toying with gripping and pressing. He used his left hand because another nigger had cut him good, man, and he hadn't been able to straighten out the curl of his right hand in five years. The fingers ceased their threat and slid down the neck of her dress, pressing her flesh until the tips slid under the cheap brassiere and moved to pinch and roll the nubbins pouted blackly on the tips of her tits. Bonnie still didn't look up.
"She got lessons to do," her brother said from the living room.
Claw laughed. "Sure, man, like spell shit and learn to eat it from a white ass. Hey, chick," he asked in a lower tone. "You want to go?"
"No. Let me alone, Claw," she said, surprising herself.
His chuckle turned into a raucous laugh, his fingers went to work with more intent and she could feel the pulsing weight of his cock against her shoulder, grinding as he rolled his thin hips.
"Come on, cat. She don't do her lessons pa will bang her head," came Sam's second protest.
"That's on account he an old Uncle Tom, man, and ain't figured out what a chick is for. Don't signify, man, I got a thing going."
His fingers closed hard on her left tit and Bonnie winced as he started to lift. She came up out of the chair and he turned her toward the hall door. "C-cool it, man, I'm with you," she murmured. In the living room, Sam and Snake Johnson had gone back to drinking beer and talking loud about politics, their version. Evidently satisfied that his masculinity had been too much for Bonnie, Claw released her tit and came up firmly to her back, his cock now a bulging pole in his hip-huggers. She could smell him, unwashed, musty and over all of this his breath, a mixture of pot residue and cheap beer. This was no different than other times but Bonnie suddenly wished her pa Was not across Sugartown at a lodge meeting. Like Sam, her pa was afraid of Claw, but at least, he'd try to cool the cat with talk.
She turned into her room, which was really a closed-in service porch. She had a cot and a battered dresser and a shelf under which her Sunday clothes %ere hung. The rest of the small area was crowded with a washing machine that did not work, some boxes of junk and a heap of soiled clothes.
"You grow up some, you going to be a real swinging cat, honey," Claw said, snapping open the waist of his dirty pants. "Get like some meat on them tits and that spindle ass and I know a good place where we can make bread, baby. Well, skin, chick. Claw-daddy is for cunt!"
Bonnie suddenly hated him, but when she reached under her dress to peel her threadbare panties down, there was a wet spot in the stained crotch because Claw had come for her and fuck-talk always turned her on. She reached up and back and ran the back zipper down a few inches, her eyes on Claw. He stood, his hip-huggers down around his boney shanks, his huge cock jutting out from the mass of black kinky hair at his groin like a battering ram. The head was dark red, nearly brown-purple and it was fat and sleek, almost as if it had been glued on the veined and loosely skinned shaft. He was ready, she knew, because his balls were already drawn up tightly under the thick root. She slipped her dress up and over her head. He waddled a step closer but she took a moment to unsnap her brassiere. Like her crotch, her little conical tits had come alive and the coal black nipples had pushed out in button hardness. She stared at his swaying, jerking prick and abruptly, Bonnie was for it "Come on, come on, chick," Claw hissed. "Get on it, baby!"
Bonnie giggled. She stepped closer and took his cock in her fingers, instantly thrilling at the feel of the softly layered hardness and the heat. She frigged him, not because it was fun but because the firm stripping motion would make his prick ooze if he'd hit a clapped pussy in the last week or so. The eye did not show the yellow drop, and Bonnie pulled him toward her cot, sitting down with her thin legs spread until the tendons stood out. Then she put her lips to the pulsing cock and began to suck it. Claw chuckled, pushing his cock in until she drew her head back to evade being choked. "Let it ride, Clyde," she said, working her lips over the taste of the sebaceous funk under his foreskin. "I know the gig, jig!"
The protest was automatic because Bonnie had the fever. She regained the pulsating head in her lips and curled her hands back and around the high, tensed rounds of Claw's buttocks. The feel of hard, mobile meat was good in her squeezing fingers, almost as good as the throbbing, filling flesh in her mouth. She pursed her thick, rounded lips and began the forward and back movement of her head, letting her tongue roll at will around the contours. Taking it in, she firmed her mouth and forced the foreskin back until only the naked shank formed her lips, and the drag-back raked the high coronal ridge into quivering hardness. She could feel Claw's instant reaction in the twitch of his rolling ass and Bonnie intensified her sucking, excited at the response her caress was demanding. The delightful headiness was coming on to her, the numbness to everything but the prick in her mouth and the ass cheeks in her hands. She suddenly felt better than she had felt since noon; there was nothing complicated nor frightening about Claw's dick. It was straight nigger, violent, hot and interested only in what she could do with it. No kissing, no hugging, no nothing, just prick.
She could hear Claw's breath hustling through his big wide nose, and a moment later, he pushed her off his cock. Bonnie fell back on the cot, lifting her spraddled legs, her hands remaining in a gripping shape, as if in shock over her abrupt disengagement had left her helpless. Then he was down on her, his lean hips wedging her thighs apart and down, his saliva dripping prick jabbing at her opened crotch. That was a good buy Bonnie was now impatient. She reached down between their flat, heaving bellies and seized his cock, placing the head in the oozing softness of her vulva. He just rammed it in and with a giggling squeal, Bonnie closed her arms around his shoulders and pulled herself full on to the massive intruder. Now the stink of his unwashed blackness was like perfume, the feel of his bowing back and curling belly was good. The small pain of his cock expanding and bottoming in her cunt was as sweet as the rasp and pummel of his rod against her clitoris. He fucked fast and hard but she had long ago learned to ride Claw and she managed, while her body was lifted and turned and buffeted, to screw herself onto his flesh and hold it when she wanted to, or go loose and let it hammer her into gasping, squirming ecstasy. It was coming up fine; Claw looped his arms under her legs and forced them up and back until her ass was as sharp as two thinly stretched cheeks could become. She felt her asshole bug out as his weight crushed down and in and he was going in and out of her like a piston. He did not even change his grunting when he popped. All the warning Bonnie had was the quick succession of heavier lunges, then he held one hard thrust and she felt his jism strike her distended cunt like a blast from an acetylene torch. Bonnie urged, trying to catch up with Claw but she needed more than the few, quickly weakening spurts of his sperm, and when he rested, gasping with noisy harshness, she lay quietly, feeling his slackening prick abandon her disappointed cunt sleeve. He pushed up, and the black, slimy fish dragged from her cunt with a sloshing sound.
"Yeh-yeh," he husked. "You really make it for Claw-daddy!"
Bonnie lay as he had left her, eyes closed, her body torn with anguish pains and the agony of hang-up. She heard him rinse his prick in the bathroom, and when he came back, she turned her head and looked at him.
"You want Snake?" he demanded.
Bonnie said, "Yes," because she knew it wouldn't matter what she said, Snake would come. Anyway, she could get her jollies on Snake, even when he went down on her to get Claw's load. She waited, nervous, excited but strangely confused. Something had been missing, then she decided that as bad as Claw stank, the least he could have done was kiss her or hug her some. Then she reverted back to Bonnie Prick; a twelve-year-old nigger girl couldn't expect much even if she lived in the best section of Sugartown.
Snake came, but he was too drunk to get it real hard and he wore her raw trying to cum. Bonnie got it twice before he reloaded her weary cunt. She didn't like him much because Sugartown knew he was tops, bottoms and side pockets. He only fucked her because she was for free, like her brother's beer.
When she dressed and returned to the spelling book, the three of them were smoking reefers. She sat down and stared at the columns of difficult words. Presently, she thought of what she had wanted to think of earlier. She wondered what Miss Gilbert was doing and if they could find a minute or two together on Friday.
* * *
Through breakfast, discussing mundane matters with her mother, Joan decided that she was very well in control of her scattered emotions. Friday was always a painfully pleasant day-the last of the week and if difficult to get through, tolerable because there was Saturday and Sunday to look forward to. Joan was even glad that Friday was her day to have hurried lunch and act as one of the several yard supervisors, minding the activities of the young children, settling little disputes and seeing to general law and order within the yard fence. Today, she thought, yard duty at noon would be a blessing because it precluded any chance to repeat her foolishness with Bonnie Price. Enforced discipline was better than none at all, and Joan had succumbed to her incredible desires too often in the past to trust her will power in the matter of little girls.
She was halfway through first period before the terrible tenseness and nausea of want struck her like a consuming plague. Bonnie, like all the other children had said, "Good morning, Miss Gilbert," and Joan had returned the greeting with practiced calm. There had been the usual settling in time, and finally the class had come to some state of order. Joan's calm had quickly evaporated then, because from her desk, she could look directly down the seat row to where Bonnie sat, one half bare black leg pushed out so her foot showed in the aisle. Whenever Joan looked, Bonnie's big eyes, oddly soft and sad this morning, were raised in steady staring.
Even when Joan turned her attention to other students, she was aware of the slim body, shifting, slouching, and finding many excuses to assume tantalizing positions. Afraid to look, Joan could not help but look, and her eyes as if equipped with X-ray, saw through the checkered skirt and fluttered. Her belly tightened and her crotch perspired, and the sickness grew like a monstrous tumor in her chest.
By recess time, her head was thumping furiously and she took two aspirin with a cup of tea. She spoke with no animation to several other teachers, and after two or three minutes in a toilet booth, spent in frenzied manipulation of her breasts and vagina, Joan was reduced to a state of near hysteria. The bell signifying the end of recess caught her many seconds short of orgasm, and the shock of being hung up so was almost more than she could stand. She sat for a moment, staring down at her spread thighs and the pulsing lips nested in the chestnut hair, and sight of herself, wet and quaking, only increased the terrible tensions that seemed to knot and flex as steadily as her racing heart beat under the aching bulbs of her quivering tits. And when she was once more at her desk and the civics period had begun, she glanced at Bonnie and knew instantly that she could not stand the rest of Friday.
She selected a thin stern-faced girl as temporary class monitor, and on stumbling, half skipping feet, she ran for the administration offices. By then she was gasping, because even the friction of her thighs, rubbing softly together as she had hurried, had been further irritation. She burst straight into the Vice Principal's office, unprepared to say anything yet ready to make any excuse to leave her classroom-and Bonnie Price.
"I'm sick, Miss Addelson," she blurted. "I-I must go home! Can you arrange for a substitute, immediately?"
The portly Vice Principal came to her feet and moved around the desk, her arm quickly steadying Joan, her other hand reaching for the. desk phone. Joan wanted to sag to the floor, or turn and run, to run and run until the horrible world was far behind. With the fragment of mind still capable of understanding, she knew there would be a little more to suffer. In something of a daze, she allowed the cooing and sympathizing Miss Addelson to lead her to the school nurse's office. Joan said yes and mostly no to the quick questions and allowed her temperature, which was high, to be taken and her pulse checked. Controlling the urge to scream, she lasted through the several official minutes, and when she was finally settled in the cab the Vice Principal's secretary called, it was eleven o'clock, and Joan permitted herself a long groan of relief as she was whisked toward her apartment.
* * *
Outside the apartment door, she regained some calm. Any excuse for leaving her job would excite her mother, largely because Joan was seldom ill, even during her periods. Martha would bustle around, with tea and heat pads and concern. All Joan wanted was a small chance to be alone, to rub her cunt into gulping, trembling cum, to relieve the furious need in her string-taut body. She stood a minute longer, dredging up the strength it would take to live through the next few maternally occupied minutes. She counted the grain whorls on the varnished door and forced herself to note the hardly clean hall carpet and the undusted moldings. She breathed deeply, flooding her lungs with oxygen to help clear her brain. Finally, she unlocked the door and stepped in, certain she was back in some control of herself.
The silence of the apartment did more to calm her than all of mental gymnastics she had gone through. She tipped her head in listening; there was no whir of the spinning wheel nor was there the click-clack of the loom. Joan frowned. Her mother seldom left the apartment in the mornings, to shop or stroll in the park two blocks away. There had been nothing said that morning about a church meeting of any sort.
"Mama?" Joan called, and when no answer came back, she subdued tensions and needs of her sexuality burst forth with overwhelming demand. If her mother was out, for whatever reason, then she could go to her room and stretch out, lift her legs, drag down her panties and send her fingers to her cunt and rectum with the wild abandon they wept for. A moan of excited pleasure burst from her throat. With her feet widely spread, her lush hips undulating lewdly, Joan started for her bedroom. Small sanity made her hesitate, then to be sure she was alone in the apartment, she went on to her mother's room, walking softly to be sure she did not awaken her mother were she napping.
Already frenzied by her vibrating nerves, Joan stared in pure confusion. Fear mounted swiftly as she saw how her mother was slouched in the rocker, her head fallen to one shoulder as if all life had left her. "M-Mama?" Joan could only husk. Then she saw the rest of it. Martha's bare legs were out and slackly parted. What at first appeared to be a piece of the spinning wheel was thrust well into the secret nest amid the expansive hair of her open crotch. Then Joan moved forward and plainly saw that it was not part of the spinning wheel. It was a long round shaft, the smaller end fastened to the treadle arms with a butterfly thumbscrew. Staring down, Joan saw other things. The shaft thrust firmly into her mother's cunt was nearly two inches thick and wrapped with what had to be adhesive tape. The device was so huge it turned her mother's vulva lips well out, and the flabby outer lips lay wide, exposing the moist pink inner forms, one of which was an overly developed clitoral ridge. Joan followed the white taper of Martha's leg to where a shoeless foot lay heavily on the worn treadle. With a school teacher's mind, Joan followed the obvious mechanical action that foot could induce. A single revolution of the big wheel would turn the round shaft into a piston, and by guess, Joan measured the piston travel at five or six inches.
"Ooh, Mama!" Joan gasped. But she was not done with fear. The brutal masturbating machine was one thing; she leaned and counted the slow rise and fall of Martha's chest, then laid a feathery finger to the inside of her mother's left wrist. The pulse was without a flutter, steady, firm and reassuring. She could not tell whether her mother was napping, satiated by her monstrous fucking machine, or if she had suffered some small attack of fainting. With one hand ready to shake Martha's shoulder, Joan froze.
If she were only napping, then to awaken her with the huge dildo still in her vagina, her person revealed in all its mature splendor, would be horrible. Her embarrassment, perhaps anger, perhaps hatred, would forever destroy their mother-daughter relationship. The worn place on the attached spindle where it rubbed the spinning wheel base proved that this was not a single venture into masturbatory delights. The deliberate shape of the buried dildo could not be happenstance. Joan stood up, her breath suddenly quick and hot over her open lips, her momentarily subdued passions rising to the erotic impact of this sight.
The other possibility was that her mother had suffered some small fainting spell, or at worst a minor stroke. If she had fainted, then she would recover and lake care of herself. If she had had a little stroke, then discovery at five, Joan's normal time for returning home would be inevitable. Again she checked her mother's pulse and its strength relaxed Joan's worry, changed her concern to furiously obscene interest. She giggled softly, then with trembling fingers to the big wheel, she moved it slightly. As she had guessed, the thick dildo slid out almost an inch, pulling wetness and flesh in a way that produced instant quivering in her own cunt. Martha did not stir. Joan moved the wheel a bit more. The dildo emerged enough to show the beginning swell of its enlarged end. A shock of terror at its obvious size ran straight up through Joan's belly, then she moved the wheel to send the taped cylinder back to its original depth. Turning, she staggered to the hallway, her senses reeling with the yearning in her own belly, her nose tingling with the smell of her mother's sex.
Her plight became completely clear then. With no time to spare because her mother might awaken at any moment, she had to leave the apartment. And stay gone until five, her usual returning hour. For six hours, she had to live with her own boiling blood and screaming nerves, as well as some concern over her mother's health. And most devastating, the vivid memory of the incredibly clever and brutally effective appendage Martha had invented to sate a private lust her daughter had never suspected even existed. At that moment, a picture loomed in Joan's mind; her normally active mother, lying in the long-spraddled slouch, her foot beating the treadle with rhythm and force, her ass rolling and humping and her cunt turning in and out with the roughly wrapped dildo's coursing. Did she moan and gasp? Did she grunt and twist? Perspiration broke out on Joan's forehead and she clutched frenziedly to her crotch, pressing her clothing hard to her cunt as she moved to the outer door.
Staggering, stopping every few steps to rub herself, she went down the rear service stairs, afraid that had she used the elevator or the front stairs she might have met some one her mother could know. It seemed the most important thing in the world to Joan that Martha not know she had been in the apartment that morning.
Later, walking with her thighs squeezed tightly and her hips rolling with unusual emphasis, Joan had orgasm. It wasn't very good because she had to stand at the curb until the light changed and what could have been a sweet, all-shaking ecstasy became a dull thudding, a short jerking moment of relief rather than an ascending delight.
Martha awakened, rubbing her slightly cramped neck and enjoying the complete relaxation she always felt after a fainting spell. She touched the treadle, sending a hot sensation through her belly, then gripped the rocking chair arms and hoisted herself up and back, gasping at the thrill of dragging the six inches of dildo from her cunt. She sat for a moment, staring at the up-angled cylinder. Then she found a Kleenex and lovingly wiped her cunt juices from the ram. Humming softly, she dismantled the device and put it away in its wrapping. The urge to urinate caused her to rise and slip her shoe back on. Then she walked, rolling slightly to the hallway and the bathroom. In front of the bathroom door, she stopped, her eyes wide, her mind fighting for memory. The small throw rug in front of the apartment entry was possessed of a large, unfamiliar wrinkle. As she had made the rug, she had always been very particular about wrinkles. She was very sure she had straightened the rug after vacuuming and dusting. She hurried forward and checked the door lock. It was firmly set. Martha's eyes burned. Only one person besides herself could have unlocked the door, disturbed the rug and left. She looked at her watch. It was almost one o'clock.
"Oh, dear God!" she wailed, and ran for the bathroom, her hand holding her abruptly leaking cunt. She sat down and let her urine go, breathing heavily as the significance of the wrinkled rug hammered her brain into agonizing pulp.
Joan had for some reason made a hurried trip home at noon; forgotten papers, an accidentally soiled dress, anything. Shame flushed Martha's cheeks, crept down her throat and wrapped itself around her trembling body. Joan had come home, obviously found her mother in the coma that always followed her long, deeply delicious masturbations, and had left with no word nor sign.
Weeping now, Martha raised her head and looked completely through the ceiling to some distant world. "Frankie, Frankie, help me! Oh, what am I to do? My Joan, my sweet innocent daughter. Our daughter, Frankie! Oh God, help me, help me!" she wailed.
Later, sitting at the loom, she knew there was no help for her. Only, perhaps, in the goodness of Joan's heart. She had survived the shock of discovering her mother's evil nature, her lascivious play, and had left no sign except the disturbed rug. To Martha, this meant that her understanding daughter had no intention of revealing her ugly discovery. If by five o'clock, she could master her shame and tangled thoughts, Martha thought she might play her half of the ignorance game. The secret would always be between them, if not shared. She wept copiously and made several mistakes in the rug pattern under her quivering fingers. But presently she began to imagine and envision the reaction of her daughter. Had she been horrified or had she been sympathetic? If sympathetic, why? How could Joan at twenty-six, possibly understand the massive loneliness of mind and body that could reduce her mother to the vile, if pleasant, status of an accomplished masturbator?
The loom stopped. Martha slouched slightly, her eyes blinkless and unfocused. Joan was twenty-six. The extent of her romances had been a few mild, uncontinuing acquaintances with men Martha considered neither vital nor very masculine. She read no exciting novels, avoided exotic movies. To Martha's knowledge, her half-pretty, well-formed daughter had no sexual outlet whatever. But until today, Joan would have had to say the same about her less-than-aged and positively attractive mother. Martha quivered. Perhaps Joan had respected her mother's lewdness because it was akin to her own sexual releases.
The loom started slowly and a flush of desire pervaded Martha's body; how wonderful, she thought, if somehow they could blend their needs and enjoy together, the sexless ecstasies of the spinning wheel. She looked across at the innocent looking wheel. They could do it one for the other, or without too much mechanical trouble, make a second cock that would work in unison with Martha's. They could take turns working the treadle. With a little ingenuity, they could arrange it so she could watch the dildo work in Joan's cunt while her daughter enjoyed a similar voyeuristic privilege. Together, they could try things.
Then Martha sighed, realizing the hideous extent of her lewd dreaming. She suddenly hated the spinning wheel, the grotesquely huge cock and the insidious passions they combined to induce. Never before had she considered what she did each day as anything more than pleasant and perhaps, stimulating to her aging health. Now, she saw herself as an evil person, violating God's will in making her a. widow-a fool. A foul, degraded woman who had probably taught her daughter to hate her.
Once, she almost left her weaving to go to the sewing table and find her dildo. By stripping off the tape and making a short trip to the alley ash cans, she could forever separate herself from viciousness. But her cunt still tingled and her tits throbbed and finally Martha decided that she was faced with whatever eventuality Joan presented.
It was five minutes after five when Joan found courage enough to return to the apartment. During the long, idle afternoon, she had refused to permit herself to think about what she might find and had spent the time lamenting the unhappiness of her own life. Now she look a step inside and the familiar click-clack of the loom was like a preserver thrown to a drowning man. A small happy laugh bubbled up in her throat. She hurried to her mother's bedroom and nished to plant her usual kiss on her mother's forehead. "Hi. Morn, darling!"
Oh dear," Martha said. "I hadn't any idea it was that fate! I've made so many mistakes today I've hardly accomplished anything!"
'It's all right, Mom. There are other days. Oh, I'm glad this is Friday. The darned kids were hellions!"
Slipping off her shortie jacket, Joan turned and her eyes searched the spinning wheel: There were small abrasions where the thumbscrew had been fastened to the streadle bar and the worn place where the spindle rubbed was noticeable. But suddenly, Joan did not care. Her mother had not had a stroke and the secret was secure. Suddenly freed of worry, Joan let her badly retarded excitement blossom and they were very happy together that Friday evening.
CHAPTER TWO
Saturday began as usual, although Joan thought she sensed a new warmth and affection between them. They did the extra cleaning and took inventory of the kitchen, then together, they went to the supermarket a block and a half distant. Even shopping seemed to have a special luster, and they bought a number of little delicacies not normal to their carefully planned budget. Everything seemed to amuse them, and more than once they leaned together laughing at small things of no real importance.
They kept very busy; Joan had her first bad moment when they stopped at eleven for a cup of tea and sweet roll. Sitting across from Martha, who was relaxing on the front room sofa, Joan was suddenly aware that her mother's position was very similar to the one in which she'd found yesterday morning, slouched, legs slightly apart and her huge breasts lying heavily in the confines of her wash dress. Joan's hand shook, nearly spilling her tea. A tightness came to her throat as she revived the full memory of Martha lying with the huge dildo well buried in her distended cunt. She could again feel the wheel in her fingers as she had tested the erotic movement of the taped cylinder. A fine mist of perspiration broke out on her forehead and down between her tits, and trembling began between her legs.
"I was thinking last night," she said casually. "Daddy has been gone nearly twenty years, hasn't he, Mom?"
"Twenty-one years next November, Joan. A long, long time."
"I hardly remember him, Mom. I was only six, wasn't I?"
Martha shifted her legs, bringing her dimpled knees together with what seemed to be a spasmodic jerking. Joan interpreted the movement as reaction to the abrupt mention of Frank Gilbert, which she supposed set a train of physical conditions working in her mother's body. "What started you thinking about your father, Joan?" Martha asked. "We haven't talked much about him for many years."
"I don't know, Mom," Joan lied. "Oh, are we going to the matinee this afternoon? Sound of Music at reduced prices!
"Lovely," Martha enthused as if happy to change the subject. "The one-thirty show or the five o'clock?"
"How about one-thirty? That will give us time to come home and get the roast in the oven for dinner."
Martha agreed, and Joan sat for another minute or so, marveling at how calm and at case they seemed. Her mother, who was obviously a creature of deep secret passions both mental and physical, and herself, perspiring with bold memories of her own erotic acts and her private knowledge of Martha's extreme surrender to a taped penis. Afraid of quiet reverie, Joan finished her tea and busied herself in the kitchen.
At quarter after twelve, the doorbell buzzed. Joan, now busy checking her wardrobe for things to be sent to the cleaners, called, "Mom, can you get it?"
"Yes, dear," came the response.
Then Joan stiffened with fright as the sound of a second familiar voice filtered in from the front room. It was Bonnie Price. When she hurried in, Bonnie was standing awkwardly, wearing a clean dress and a jacket and holding in one black hand a bouquet of roses.
"These are for you, Miss Gilbert," Bonnie said, thrusting the flowers forward. "I-I heard you were sick yesterday. Are you better?"
"Yes, yes," Joan replied hastily. "Thank you, Bonnie. They are beautiful. Please sit down."
"Why Joan!" Martha exclaimed. "You didn't say anything about feeling ill yesterday? What was it, dear?"
"Nothing, Mother. I had taken two aspirin and lea and it made me slightly nauseous. It wore off quickly. How did you know where I lived, Bonnie?"
"I asked in the principal's office after last bell, yesterday." Then: "You and your mother sure live in a nice place," Bonnie observed. She said something else but Joan didn't hear. Her eyes were on the slim legs, strangely smooth and dark brown in a pair of nylons. She followed them up under the short skirt and then quivered as she envisioned their shadowed juncture with Bonnie's torso. Then Martha was talking about her weaving and to Joan's relief, Bonnie was following the older woman into the back bedroom to see the loom and the half finished rug. Stunned, Joan got up and went to the kitchen to put the roses into a deep vase. Somehow, it had never occurred to her that Bonnie was more than a hot, illicit adventure in the cloakroom. She had never entertained any one of her perverse romances in any but the most dangerous circumstances, and suddenly, she had Bonnie in her home. And to Joan's shock was added fear; had the bold, often vulgar-mouthed little Negro girl broke the roses in genuine sympathy, or for some other reason? Would she keep their secret, or would her youth understand only the excitement of their relationship and fail to recognize how vital complete secrecy could be? Then Joan let the repressed shudders of eagerness vibrate from her inner being. It was a thrill merely having Bonnie close by, no matter the danger.
Three of them had hardly returned to the living room when the telephone rang. Martha excused herself and went into the hallway to answer it.
"You look all right," Bonnie said, her eyes now sharper and blacker.
"I'm fine now, Bonnie. You shouldn't have spent the money, but the roses are very nice. It was thoughtful of you, Bonnie."
"I think about you quite a lot, Miss Gilbert," Bonnie admitted, and with the words, she spread her knees, considerably farther apart than mere comfort would require. A flush fired Joan's skin, her body abruptly became one mass of pulsating desire. She wet her lips and Bonnie grinned. "Yeh-yeh," she murmured. "I didn't know you lived with your mother. That kind of makes the scene mean, doesn't it?"
"Bonnie, you-I don't know-" Then Martha was back. "Dear, that was Mrs. Fenderson. She's chairman of the next bazaar committee. I think I'll walk down to her house-it's just three blocks from here. You and your little friend can talk. I won't be more than thirty or forty minutes. Oh. Bonnie, I'm very pleased to have met you. I seldom get to meet any of Joan's students. My, the roses are beautiful in that vase, aren't they?"
And before Joan could protest or agree, her mother was out of the apartment and she was alone with Bonnie, who had already begun to move her hips in subtle summons.
Panic stricken, Joan got up and went down the hall to her bedroom; her body was a mass of aching voids and singing nerves. She stared at her mirrored reflection; despair in horn-rimmed glasses, weighty tits and squirming ass, and deep desire fighting a winning battle against self-repulsion. Then Bonnie was close behind her, looking taller and dimmer and more desirable for having left her jacket in the living room. She put one hand out and the. fingertips were like small flames as they touched Joan's shoulder.
"Are you mad at me for coming?" Bonnie asked.
Joan shook her head but did not turn. "No. No, Bonnie. I'm not mad. It is all my fault, anyway! Oh, but I wish you hadn't come!"
"Why not? This is better than that goddamned cloakroom!"
"No, no! Bonnie, we can't-here! If my mother should return! Bonnie, we can't. Not here!" Joan pleaded, but her wavering voice did not seem convincing, even to herself.
Then Bonnie's hand went down her back and over her buttocks, dropping slowly and teasingly along Joan's thigh until the fingers could go back up, under Joan's skirt. The crawling hand on the tingling flesh of her inner thigh sent flutters of delicious chill through Joan's body, then the fingers were high and intimate and under the seam of her panty leg. She felt them explore the under-round of her sates, then move into the close, perspiration damp crevice which led under and up to her vagina. Joan moaned, but she could not help the quick kink of eagerness that came to her hips. Then she shook her head and cried, "No!" and spun away from Bonnie.
"You feel real good, Joan," Bonnie said, using the intimate first name without permission. "What's the hang-up? I'm good enough to make the spread at school but not in your prissy old bedroom, huh?"
"My God, no!" Joan gasped. "Oh Bonnie, you are good enough-anywhere! It is just that-what we do together is wrong, evil! Do you know what society names women, girls who do what we do together?"
"Sure. Lesbians. So what? You haven't got a prick, so like what else? You came on to me, the first time, didn't you? How come these funny ideas all of a sudden? I'm ready, baby, and here we are!" With this, Bonnie dragged up her skirt and tucked it around her waist. A second later she had peeled down her panties and Joan's eyes opened so wide they ached with strain. She stared straight at Bonnie's cunt, and as she looked, a small drop of clear oozing escaped the bottom of the neatly lipped slit. Then Bonnie did a little lilting step and turned, to bend quickly, raising the twin black moons of her ass to Joan, and the impact of the offering, with the under shape of Bonnie's cunt snugged up in the delicious crotch was more than Joan could stand. She sagged slowly to her knees, then reached out to embrace the bowed body, her mouth going straight to the cleft in the bended ass. Her pursed kiss found Bonnie's anus, then slid down to let her tongue find the ooze, and the deep hot sleeve from which it came. The plunge from agonized sanity to complete eroticism was heady, viciously total and blindingly exquisite. But not complete until Bonnie reached back under herself and groped for Joan's body. With a wet, muffled cry, Joan used one hand to jerk her skirt up and the other to peel her panties down, and she shuffled forward on her knees so Bonnie's wriggling fingers could find her quaking cunt. But the position was awkward and as one, they crabbed sideways and tumbled onto the bed.
"Get up-over me, honey!" Joan panted, urging the slim body into position so Bonnie's crotch ground down to her face. She grasped the lean thighs, moving the sharply bended ass so her mouth could push right up to the small gaping cunt. At the same time, Bonnie's thick lips went to Joan's pussy and a tongue battered deliciously into her vulva. Bonnie giggled. "Hey! You a virgin, ain't you?"
"Yes, oh yes, Bonnie! Kiss me! Kiss me there, over and over again! Oh, Bonnie, I'm so s-sorry I didn't hurry-" The words choked oft in her throat before the doorbell's demand died away. Frozen together, it was Bonnie who recovered first. She scrambled off of Joan and by the time the bell rang again, she was into her nylon panties. Joan doubled and jerked her panties up, then slid to her feet, snugging the garment up hard to her raging crotch. From the book shelf by the head of the bed, she look a heavy volume of poetry and handed it to Bonnie.
"Pretend you are reading this," she husked, then she ran from the room, pausing to regain her breath and straighten her dress before she answered the door.
"Oh, Martha said, entering. "Sorry, dear. I went off and forgot my door key. Did the little colored girl leave?"
"No. Mom. I was showing her some of my private books. We were reading-in the bedroom."
"That's nice, dear. Oh. Would you mind very much if I didn't go to the theater with you this afternoon? Mrs. Fenderson wants me to go with her to the church and help her plan the bazaar arrangements. That's why I'm here so soon. to get my coat and purse. I know you're disappointed, Joanie, but you know how interested I am in the bazaar. Oh. Maybe you could take your friend. She seems very nice and she is probably lonely, poor thing. But anyway-" Still dazed by the sudden return from the high building of her furious passions, Joan stood in stunned silence while her mother obtained her coat and purse, all the while chattering about booths and refreshments and unreal things. Martha paused at Joan's bedroom and bid a cheery good-bye to Bonnie, then before Joan could prepare herself, her mother kissed her full on the mouth and popped out of the apartment. Her only hope was that Martha had been in too much of a hurry and too preoccupied with the bazaar to notice the flavor of Bonnie, still sweetly acrid on Joan's lips.
When she went back to Bonnie however, the spell was broken, crushed under the shock of fear and shame and revulsion.
* * *
While she still clung to some measure of control, Joan whisked Bonnie out of the apartment and on their way to the theater. Bonnie had not protested, nor made any attempt to resume their interrupted love-making, but they had been on the bus only a few minutes when the colored girl leaned close.
"Show, shit," she murmured. "Let's go to my house, Joan. All we have to do is to wait three more stops, then walk four blocks. Do you want to?"
"I-I don't know. I don't think-"
"Cool it," Bonnie enthused. "Nobody home, ever on Saturday! My daddy gets paid Friday nights and never gets home until nearly Monday morning. My brother and some cats are having a thing at City Hall. If he doesn't make the pokey, he and the other Panthers gather after the demonstration and smoke pot till they are out of their damned minds. Anyway, I came to your house-you ought to come to mine! Please?"
It was the last thing on earth Joan wanted to do, but she could not help the instant snap back of her disrupted emotions. And she was a little curious about where and how Bonnie lived. Moreover, the prospect of a movie bound to be tame and boring after her adventures of the past two days, was not very compelling. And the thought of sitting in the semi-dark, with Bonnie and her warm musky odor beside her for at least three hours was frightening. Joan hesitated only because she knew that the longer she put off departing from her weaknesses the stronger they'd be.
"This is it," Bonnie said, gripping Joans hand and getting to the aisle. With a sigh of resignation, Joan followed the tugging hand. A minute later, they were walking together toward Sugartown, the local name for the less-than-elegant colored district.
It began thinly, then gradually strengthened. Joan had been in its fringes a number of times, on school board committees to study the black-white balances in elementary schools. She was stared at, but this did not bother her. She had always considered herself a sincere integrationist, and in any case, she was a school teacher patently visiting the home of a student. As the population became nearly one hundred percent colored, she was aware of many things, the poverty, the filth and the smart-mouthed boys, who, upon seeing Bonnie, made risque remarks and laughed heartily among themselves. If there was any relief, it came when Bonnie pointed out her house, It was a two-story flat affair, more recently painted than the rest of the row, and all the windows seemed to be intact. Her belly did not roll in apprehension until Bonnie found the door key on a ledge between flower pots and opened the house.
"Come on in. It isn't very fancy, but it's better'n some. My Pa and my brother, Sam, and I have lived here coming four years-ever since my Ma died. You feel all right now?"
"I'm f-fine, Bonnie," Joan lied. Her first instinct upon entering the dingy flat was to turn and run, to eradicate the odor of stale food from her nose and clear her vision of the unhandsome interior. The rug was spotted, the furniture was dirty and coming apart. On the walls were crooked pictures in cheap frames and gloom of poverty and unknowing was as weighty as summer smog. She shuddered. On the dining room table was a water glass, containing one rose, obviously taken from the bouquet Bonnie had brought to her.
"It's very nice," Joan murmured. "Are you sure no one is home?"
"Anybody home they'd be silting right there drinking beer. It's okay. Relax. You can put your coal on that chair there. Then you can come see my room. It's a covered-in porch, Pa and Sam use the only bedroom we have, but Sam isn't home much so it is kind of Pa's room."
"D-does Sam work?"
Bonnie giggled, showing some small vanity at being the key figure in their duet. "Hustles pool and shoots crap and steals a little. Tell you the truth, he lifted the roses I brought you. From the funeral parlor down the street last night. The dead guy isn't ever going to miss them, huh? Come on, Joan. I can call you Joan, can't I?"
Their eyes met and Joan felt the wetness between her thighs again. There was no doubt in her mind what all of this was leading up to, and as she became slightly accustomed to the misery of Bonnie's house, she ceased to see it as anything other than a place. She nodded.
"You may call me Joan," she murmured. "Let's go look at your room. I'm sure it is-v-very nice.' "It's clean," Bonnie remarked. "I do all the house work."
While Joan surveyed the miserable little room with unseeing eyes, Bonnie moved to sit on the roughly made bed, suddenly quiet and seemingly shy. Overwhelmed by a sudden surge of emotion, Joan stepped forward and as Bonnie rested her face against her belly, Joan petted the wiry, half-straightened hair and let the warmth of Bonnie's cheek spread through her belly. "Bonnie, Bonnie! I'm so sorry!"
"It's okay," the girl replied. "Nigger kids get used to a lot of things. Shall we-take off all our clothes? I'll bet you're nice, all white and bulgy! Please, now?"
Helpless as if she were in the control of a master hypnotist, Joan raised one quivering hand and began to unbutton the front of her blouse. She stared at the unpainted plywood wall and saw weirdly sensual patterns, and at her bottom, Bonnie's fingers were pressing and feeling. The oil smell of Bonnie's hair mingled with the sourness of the pile of unwashed clothes and a mystic, detached feeling rose from her cunt and numbed her senses.
When they were both finally naked, Bonnie stood, feeling and adoring the nearly perfect body before her, then giggled and stooped to kiss into the bush of chestnut hair. Joan, as fascinated with Bonnie's black slimness, let her hands wander over the bowed back, then under to the sharply conical tits, her eyes feasting on the high firm mounds of Bonnie's ass. Then her cry mingled with Bonnie's nervous giggle and they sank to the bed in writhing, clutching embrace.
CHAPTER THREE
Sam didn't even notice that the front door was unlocked. He entered the house, holding a soiled handkerchief to the bleeding mouth. He had a big knot on his nearly shaved skull and the cock-suckers had taken his zip-gun and burned his eyes with the tear gas. He hated whites and only lived for the day when he could have a real gun and some cats to help him wipe out the fuzz as the sons-of-bitches came on with their hard hats and swinging clubs. At the moment, he was only glad that he'd half deballed the flatfoot who had been escorting him to the paddy wagon and had made it through the sympathetic crowd. He went into the bathroom and spent a few minutes washing the blood and grime from his wounds. Then he went into the kitchen to pop a beer. After that, he went out and sat down on the old, stuffing-feathered sofa; he saw the expensive cloth coat over the back of the chair, then he saw his sister's jacket on the other arm of the sofa. Sam blinked. The coat would bring five bucks from Nigger Jack's pawnshop, and five clams would buy a bindle of Mary. Then he wondered how the coat had come to be in the house. Maybe Bonnie had pinched it somewhere, bill maybe it meant something else. He'd fucking-well go and see what the kid was up to. He rolled his lips. The beer made the cuts smart like goddamnit.
However much he hated whites, he loved white ass and the one spraddled and hunching down to his sister's slobbering mouth and deep running tongue was the best looking butt he had ever seen, black or white. He saw the piles of clothes, the box of cheap face tissues, and the pair of glasses on the chair. Now he stared at the white body on all fours over Bonnie's skinny black nakedness and Sam's prick got so hard so quick it hurt the full seven inches of it's length. He couldn't tell whether or not she was pretty because her face was buried in his sisters bucking crotch and her hair was falling loosely around her bobbing head Behind her clasping anus the full white splay of monstrous pinkly lipped tits deformed around Bonnie's belly.. Her stomach, drawn up so her ass and head could get down to business, showed two flesh wrinkles. Stunned, excited and marveling, Sam Gilbert watched the whitey and his sweat-shining sister play 69, and suddenly he decided to add seven, which would change the name of the game; but it wasn't a game he intended to play.
Sweating with fuck-fire, Sam backed down the hallway and began to shed his clothes. He was nineteen and had been a school athlete before he'd dropped out and turned on. He had wide, sharply muscled shoulders and long strong arms. His thighs were those of a fullback and his belly was a washboard of tight, rippling muscles. He stood up straight, fondling his prick, dragging back the foreskin flexing the giant member and forcing the head into proper hardness. Then on broad bare feet, he cat-footed it back to the door of Bonnie's room.
They were moaning and muttering, wetly, with small strange throat sounds intermingled with the slap of lips and the slosh of tongues. Sam, moving to keep from becoming a shadow in the corner of the white woman's eye, approached the foot of the bed, where the fantastic ass was jerking down on Bonnie's face. In the moment before his sister looked up and saw him, Sam nearly had his jollies just watching how the plump-lipped cunt reacted to his sister's avid caress. The red tongue dragged the flesh open, plunged into it and licked it back into quivering shape his prick longed to distort. New fire speeded his blood; as he saw the tiny, puckered asshole, winking with the fury of her inner passions. It seemed rubbery, and there was a strain of brown; it looked like it had been recently entered, by a thin black finger or a mousecock. Then Bonnie's eyes became round with discovery and Sam held a big finger to his lips for silence. Bonnie stilled, her tongue still curled in the middle of a long, pushed-in lick. Her eyeballs rolled to see his cock, standing high and thick and pulsating in his fingers. She shook her head which was instantly appreciated by the white ass.
Then she screamed, loud and shrill and bubbly, Sam was beyond caring for possible repercussions. He caught the white body as it came up in scrambling. His arms closed around the slim waist, and he twisted her, lifting her from the cradle of Bonnie's thighs and arms and destroying her one chance to brace herself to the floor. Her scream was choked off by the strength of his embrace, and he hauled her close feeling the white heat of her ass with the head of his cock. He smelled her back, felt her tits beating to his arms and her chest and he hardly fell her elbows, jerking back to beat against his rock hard torso. By then, Bonnie had scrambled off the cot and was somewhere against the wall to his left. He twisted the flailing, gasping body again and hurled her to the cot, his cock now lunging like that of a dog after a bitch. He paid no attention to her frantic, halfchoked cries, nor to the futile claw of her hands at his enveloping arms. He went down over her and when she in her struggles, made the mistake of trying to brace by opening her legs, his prick hit the soft wetness in the thick pubic hair and his cock rammed home, hesitating only a second as it ripped and rounded her splitted maidenhead. He went in and in until his wool layered groin was hard and deformed against the soft white cheeks of her tensed ass. Then for a moment, she was still, impaled upon his thundering cock, breathless in his grasp and stunned by the magnificence of his rape.
The iron bonds around her belly were nothing, as were the bruises hard knees inflicted on her legs and the abrasions on her back, caused by a hard, steel-wooled chin on her soft skin. Shock and terror were gone, and all Joan could feel was the monstrous intruder in her ripped and lacerated cunt. Her hips would not move and her belly could not convulse. The rigid pole impaled and held her like a chicken on a barbecue spit. The agony was the worse she had ever known.
"B-Bonnie! God, B-Bonnie!" she managed to plead with what small breath she found.
"Don't fight, don't fight him!" Bonnie's voice camel shrill and strident. "Hell kill you! Let him fuck you M-Miss Gilbert, let him! Oh, you black mother-fucker, did you have to spoil everything, do you?"
The responsive laugh, burning her back with the heat of breath, was like the pronouncement of doom. The pole thrust deep in her cunt was like fire, the feeling of being spitted was as fearful as it was painful. Weeping in short sobs, she knew she was being fucked, by a black man with a penis like a tree trunk. Dropping her head, she could look back and see the muscular thighs and the long wide feet fighting the cot for bracing. She saw his arms, strung from wrist to elbow with bulging muscles, and far back a huge sack of plumb-sized balls in a wrinkled, hairy sack. But these were only half-sights because her inner mind saw only the huge throbbing, stirring column in her sex. The arms around her waist relaxed; she sensed that they were testing and that one quick escape move from her would bring them crushing back. And the moment the pressure eased, giving her needed breath, she began to feel, to think. The prick in her sex sleeve began to move, sliding back, pushing forward, sliding back, and with this relief, no matter how slight, she ceased to fight its thick possessiveness with her inner tensions. Her split hymen burned and hurt, but it was a peculiar hurting, somehow blending with the pain in her mind over being brutally taken. She was filled, irrevocably forced open and entered by a ruthless beast, now coming alive within the sensitive tissues of her cunt. Great thighs pressed her, a hard mobile plank battered her nates and now the arms had relaxed and big strong hands were feeling of her belly and tits, molding briefly, moving in search of other charms and coming back to knead her flesh with oddly pleasant results. The hips over hers came and went, and with this the cock rippled in her cunt and somehow soothed away the first distending shock. And finally, the good places inflamed by Bonnie's tongue and lips responded to the harder, less subtle irritation and Joan groaned with abrupt revival of her passions. Not like the creation of flavor after a bite of sweet, not the enveloping delight of slipping into a hot tub, but the slow, suggestive building of a certainty that it was going to be excruciatingly good before very long. Her head sank low and her eyes closed and after a moment, the piston in her cunt forced her to reciprocate, to move her ass and up-suck her belly to catch the fleeting touches of hot, rasping meat to the swollen end of her clitoris. She tried to push herself into the enveloping heat and the movement was new pain, quickly turned to fire which sent waves of ecstasy to the very center of her mind. She heard her cunt breathe wetly, felt the lavishly flowing juices churn high in her belly.
Then a hot breath was to her cheek and a gentle fluttering hand at her breast. She opened her eyes and Bonnie was kneeling beside the cot, her lips murmuring small endearments, small encouragements.
"It's Sam, my brother," she whispered. "It's all right. He ain't on junk and he ain't beered up. He-he just found us like we were and had to fuck! You're fine-not even bleeding! But t-try to like it, Joan, because he gets awful mad if you d-don't pop your nuts!"
"Shut up and get back in the corner, bitch!" came a rasp just in back of Joan's head.
"I-I'm all right, Bonnie, darling," Joan managed to husk.
And to her surprise, she was. He was fucking steadily now, the long in, slowly as if to enjoy each moment of her expanding vagina walls, the quick out, to lunge again, each stroke taking a half second, giving Joan the chance to twitch and writhe around the massive prick. A feeling of magnificent femininity came to her, a strange feeling of being utterly taken and thoroughly loved. She forgot that it was a black cock in her ruptured cunt, forgot that she was being raped, and gave no thought to fear nor hate nor helplessness. She moved her knees apart and involuntarily thrust her ass high and back, thrilling to the feeling of snugging to the lusty body over hers. The hands were moving now, and she thought Sam had straightened up to lend new whip to his steel corded hips. She felt his fingers squeezing and moving her nates, apart and back, sending promise from her asshole up her spine. Inside she purred because she was a woman being used, adored, brutalized, her saliva drooling lips begged for more and harder and deeper, though the sounds came out as mewling and incoherent gasps.
Then the sweet phantom of approaching orgasm rose out the mottled sensations. She knew the feeling well, but now it came with furious size, like a tidal wave moving slowly from some distant shore to inundate her flesh and smash her to some impregnable sea wall. She stilled her rolling ass, letting the pure ram of Sam's cock drag the ecstasy from her knotting nerves and tensing muscles. Again she closed her eyes, sinking slowly toward the electric blue just a few more deep and distending strokes away. She hovered, grunting hard to have it.
"Now, now, now!" she cried. "Come on, nigger! Fuck me g-good, you black son-of-a-bitch, fuck me, fuck me-Ooh, ausch-ah-h!" Her supporting arms turned to water and her thighs seemed to melt. For a moment, she hung on his thrust and holding cock, feeling it nearly in her throat and then the churning, fire-hot jism was beating a sweet tattoo into her thirst cunt and as she dove headlong into momentary oblivion, she wondered what Martha would say when the baby came out as black as coal with a prick a foot long and balls the size of apples. Then her orgasm wrapped itself around his and milked and milked until secret muscles cramped and went soft around the spewing prick. She fell forward, the body and the cock following with relentless ramming. Through the excruciating ecstasy, she heard his murmur; "Goddamn, Goddamn, Goddamn!" then a gruff chuckle of hysteric laughter and she thought, I'll never love a woman again in all my life.
She lay as he left her, lying on her belly, her still pulsating tits squashed out under her chest, her cheek lying on the not-clean blanket. She could feel the jism trickling from her belabored cunt and squeezed down with her stomach to hasten the discharging. After a moment, she opened her eyes and he was standing in an arrogant arch with his sperm-coated prick hanging out in a black rainbow arc.
"All right, cunt, start screaming," he growled.
She managed a small short shake of her head but she could not speak. Nor scream, even if she had wanted to. She felt very very good.
"I bet you hurt her with that roll of tarpaper," Bonnie said from somewhere. "Sam, she'd never been fucked before! A virgin!"
"Yeah. I felt it pop when I went in. Hey, who is she, sis?"
Joan heard herself being explained. "We kind of had a little thing going and we came here-Hey, who beat you up Sam?"
"Fuzz. They came on like kill every nigger in the world I only came home because there wasn't anywhere else to go."
"Bad scene, huh? Miss Gilbert, honey. You okay?"
Summoning all of her strength, Joan raised to one elbow, then slowly turned, wincing with small sharp pain that ran from her ruptured hymen right up to her forehead She stared at Sam, now wiping his huge limp cock with a shirt taken from the pile of unwashed clothes. He was very ugly, she thought, with his puffed lips pouting out from his scraggly beard. She narrowed her eyes-like a sleek ape. He was holding his thick foreskin back and gently wiping his cum and her juice from the dark red shank. She suddenly wanted to do that for him but her mind and body seemed completely detached from one another and the magnitude of her earlier surrender was just beginning to frighten her. Bonnie giggled. "He got you good, didn't he, Miss Gilbert? I saw you go, and were you flying! You going to call the fuzz on him?"
"No, no," Joan murmured. "Help me dress, will you, Bonnie. I w-want to go home."
Sam looked at her sternly, then his bruised lips parted and he smiled. "Why blow, babe? Hell, the party has just started!" He shook his cock at her and meaty weight slapped against his hand. "Like you and me can make it, baby!"
"I ought to have you arrested and charged with-with rape!" she blurted, spending her resentment.
"Do that, baby. Come right on with the fucking fuzz. Right after you tell 'em you and Bonnie, here, were sucking cunts when the nasty nigger came on with the meat. Anyway, bitch, you liked it and you know you did! You're just lucky my mink gave me a blow-job this morning or I'd have this up your nice white ass right now!"
"You're a beast," Joan decided. "An animal!"
"Aw, he's a pretty good cat," Bonnie protested. "Your ass hurt? Mine did the first time he screwed me. 'Course I was only nine and couldn't take as much as he wanted to give me. Hoo boy! I bled for a damned week, didn't I, Sam?"
With a wail, Joan fell back on the cot, her hands going down to cover her throbbingly painful crotch. Bonnie folded over her, kissing and petting, and after a little time, Joan hugged the slim black body to her enlivening white one, and as the ugliness of now faded, she began to laugh, hysterically at first, then with genuine mirth. "She a nut or something?" Sam demanded of his sister. "Fuck her again, Sam. I think she's signifying!"
"No," Joan said.
But when he knelt and took her hand to put it to his cock, the feel of the rubbery tube, hot, loose-skinned and pulsing, was devastating and Joan drew her legs up and apart, unable to control herself. She watched Bonnie manipulate her brother's penis into rigidity and then she lay, trembling, lost and wanting while Sam settled over her, and Bonnie guided his prick into the sore but anxious cavity of her starved sex. The thrill she hadn't expected was from the way the three of them clung together, feeling, kissing and laughing in total abandonment. She even liked the smell of Sam's unwashed armpits and the liberties his fingers took with her ass and the neat pucker between the tensing cheeks. She called herself a nigger lover and held nothing back.
* * *
Three steps out of Bonnie's house, the world came tumbling down on Joan with a shattering crash. She hesitated at the curb, leaning against a telephone pole and the dirty street and the ugly buildings went around and around. A taxi cab slid to a halt in front of her and the door flipped open. She entered it, trying not to look at the colored driver, needing only to get away from the curious and seemingly knowing eyes of the Sugartown denizens. She gave the driver an address a block away from her apartment, then settled back, a split second from hysteria and as cold and stiff as a corpse. The smell of Sam was still in her nose and the wet between her trembling legs was his jism. She had bruises from his hand and knees and elbows and her deep belly ached with the dullness of interior hurt The only positive feeling she had was the flat exhaustion the totally soothed and exquisitely satisfied weariness in her vagina.
Walking the block to her apartment stretched some tired muscles and filled her lungs with easy, afternoon air. She did not try to think because her mind was too filled with memories, thrashing twisting images of black skin and rippling muscles and obscenities she had never known could exist. When she discovered that Martha was not yet home, she began to weep and the magnitude of her destruction seemed unbearable. Her first move was to run a tub of hot water. As she stripped, she hurled her clothes into a corner, then naked, her body an ugly, lewd and hateful thing as she passed mirrors and reflective surfaces, she went to the kitchen and obtained a large brown paper bag. Before she climbed into the tub, she stuffed every stitch of clothing she had worn-and they had touched-into the bag and crushed the top closed.
The water was good, too hot but somehow, just right. Joan slumped in the steaming water and decided to think. She stared down at her mauled tits and her still pulsating belly and below that, the haired valley of her crotch, her swollen and inflamed cunt lips shimmering in the slightly distorting water. She had been raped-fucked, fucked, fucked-and that was only an all-encompassing word to describe none of the small, exciting and degrading things she had done, and had allowed to be done to her. She reached down and formed a cup over her vagina and pumped the hot water in and out, watching with horror the fine, curdled remnants of Sam's sperm. She pumped harder, making the water roil, and she tried to remember where one of her faculty had said there was a doctor, or a simulated doctor-who would do an abortion for three hundred dollars. She ceased flushing her wounded cunt only when the pain became too much and the gray-white globs of jism ceased to appear.
Finally, she lay back, her fingers toying lightly with her tits, moving down to press and soothe her exploded virginity, and in the end, lazily tantalizing her sensitized anus. He had wanted to fuck her there but his prick had been too big. Joan sucked in a huge breath and let it moan from her lips.
No matter what the repercussions could be, she had been raped and re-raped and she had enjoyed every minute of it-after the first minute. If the setting had been sordid and the man a beast, she had yet survived, and if she hated herself for such obscene conduct, she nursed the odd inside feeling that she was now a woman, not a Lesbian. More than that, she had been given a swift close-up of a segment of life, sensual, exciting and beyond the social veil. She had seen a man's cock, a black man's prick, held it in her hand, kissed its bloated head and nested it within her surprised sex. She had fondled his balls, finding there a texture and a rolling fullness like no other object she had ever touched. Shocked at the time, she now remembered the profane words dripping from Sam's saliva bubbling lips as brutally exciting, nearly as thrilling as the things he suggested.
It had not been sweet and tender and exhilarating as she had always expected her first surrender to be; it had been fiery lust and ruthless rooting bestiality, with Bonnie watching and giggling and sending her slim hands between them to test a particularly violent meshing. It had been an orgy, a repulsive, senseless plunging into total degradation. Once more the. horror of what she had done overwhelmed her memories, and weeping, Joan departed the cooling water, a hundred fears pummeling her weary mind and a hundred pains torturing her exhausted body.
Dried, she donned a robe and carried the sack of clothing to the garbage chute, then went to her room and stretched out under a quilt. The last conscious dream she had was of herself wandering through a dark forest where each tree was a huge replica of Sam's black prick. She was naked and it seemed to be raining, and when she turned her face up to the freshness, the drops became white and viscid and it wasn't rain at all, merely the downfall of the endless jism spurting up from the throbbing spewing trees.
CHAPTER FOUR
Despite the fact that Sunday morning was her time to over-sleep, Joan awakened early. She could hear her mother bustling somewhere, probably getting ready to go to church, having a poached egg on toast and rehearsing the lesson she would teach her small Sunday school class, and looking forward to a proper sermon and the mild thirty minutes of Sunday gossip after the services were completed.
Joan moved her legs and groaned softly; she was sore and stiff, and the physical distress snapped her mind alert, and this too was agony. The smell of Sam was gone from her nose and she could only remember the snarling brutal beast who had seized her from behind and violated her virgin vagina with his massive penis. Again she saw the small filthy room and the sordid house, the unreasonable glee on Bonnie's face as she watched her brother fuck the protesting white women. Had she protested? Joan could not remember but now her only emotion was revulsion. Black or white, men were animals, and women were simple chattels to be fucked and hurled aside.
She pretended sleep when her mother peeked in on her way to church, and only opened her eyes when the snap of the door lock told her Martha had left. Slowly, then, Joan sat up and shivered with misery. She slipped on her robe and went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee from the pot Martha always left simmering on the stove. Today was Sunday but tomorrow was Monday, and again she would have to face Bonnie over the heads of more innocent children. The thought gave Joan no tingling as it had once provided. She was through with Bonnie. She was through with Sam, through with all men. She looked around the neat kitchen; then carrying her coffee, she walked slowly through the small apartment.
It was a very nice apartment and secure. She and her mother were happy and comfortable without much of the world's dirt and meannesses to bother them. Safe, uncontested and satisfied with their lives. They could go on in this tiny utopia forever, she thought, keeping the ugly outside world at a long arm's length. When this thought occurred, she was at the door of her mother's room, and suddenly, she saw the spinning wheel. The instant stone in her belly seemed to melt and flow hotly to every extremity of her quivering body.
She was through with Bonnie, with men, with ugliness. This was what her mind and emotions said but even as she stood, staring at the wheel, her body rebelled. She could feel her cunt in mild spasms of irritation, and her tits under the filmy nightgown were full and throbbing. She was a woman, wounded and disillusioned, but still a woman.
Abruptly, Joan was sure she knew why her pretty mother, with the kind, religious nature, had turned the maple spinning wheel into a sterile lover. Martha was a woman, too, a full-bodied, affectionate woman, whose needs were probably exaggerated by her memories of a happy married life. Joan moved forward and turned the wheel a bit; Martha had this mindless substitute. "Oh God, what do I have?" Joan wailed. Suddenly, she began to turn and peer, and after a moment of exciting resolve, she started a search for the critical, missing segments of the wheel. In the end, she found the spindle and the dildo where she had not thought to look, in the top drawer of the sewing cabinet, directly at the right hand of anyone sitting in the rocker.
The feel of the taped cylinder was shocking; it was hard and heavy and rough in her fingers. She sniffed at it and the odor of sex was strong. It was not at all like she remembered Sam's prick, but it was also not attached to a black belly, urged by a lust as uncaring as an erupting volcano. It was big, not as frightening now as it had been the first time she had seen it buried in her mother's cunt, but sobering in its thickness and length. She could see that it had never been more than two thirds used, the discoloration was barely seven or eight inches back from the knobbed end. Joan gathered her nightgown up and laid the dildo knob-up to her low belly. Her gasp of excitement at how huge the dildo seemed preceded a sudden pinching in her cunt. She fitted the spindle into the hole in the cock-club. She moved it as Sam had moved his prick. Her vagina came alive, seeking, grasping, hurting for pain and violent distension.
She knew then, what she wanted to do, but she was afraid that her mother might somehow discover that the dildo had been used by some one-the only other some one would have to be her daughter. She held the cock down, aiming it at her crotch, her mind racing to every drawer and cupboard in the apartment, trying to discover some method of covering the taped shape, and a wail of frustration escaped her throat as only the finger of a rubber glove seemed feasible, but obviously too small. Then the solution came to her and she tucked the dildo and spindle back into their hiding place and raced to her bedroom to dress. It would take only ten minutes to visit the corner drugstore where they sold everything from pills to patent leather purses-including toys for small children, and certainly, balloons.
* * *
There were packages of balloons on a wire rack, with ten balloons to a cellophane sack. Some were round but some were long and obviously would make a huge; sausage shape when blown up. But what increased her already flushed excitement over erotic adventure was the display of toys in the glass counters and on the back shelves. Up to Sam, she had never been interested in long cylindrical shapes; she stared at the toy flutes, the long sleek rockets that could be launched with a spring and a holder, and the barrels of tin cannons. Her cunt quaked and she clutched her handbag firmly to steady her quivering fingers. Then amid a multitude of things, she saw the row of cellophane covered boxes. In the boxes were little suits, to turn a child into a soldier, a fireman, a cowboy-and a policeman. In the policeman's display, there was a billed blue cap, a web belt and shoulder strap, a snub-nosed plastic revolver and a night stick. Joan's eyes bugged hotly at sight of the night stick. It was shiny black and a foot long to the handle, which was plaited with black and white simulated leather strips.
"The policeman suit," she said to the clerk.
"Five-ninety-five," the clerk snapped.
"The club," Joan said in a husky tone. "Is it wood?"
"No, madam. It is hollow rubber so it can't possibly hurt any child your little boy hits with it."
"Y-yes. I'll take it-and five packages of these balloons!"
She hid the rest of the outfit on a high shelf her mother never bothered. Nearly breathless, Joan stood with the rubber cylinder in her fingers, squeezing it, flexing it and admiring its glistening black length. It wasn't very thick but she could wrap it some, as Martha had wrapped her original cylinder. Joan opened a package of balloons. There were no black ones so she selected a dark red one, and when she had laboriously stretched it over the inch and a quarter thick shaft of the toy club, it turned the black to a sensuous, familiar dusky scarlet, and there were three or four interesting wrinkles in the thin rubber. If there was a problem, it was that there was no hole in the handle into which she could fit the spinning wheel spindle.
Joan looked at her watch; it was eleven o'clock and she had at least an hour and a half. With a cry of quivering surrender, she laid the suggestive column on her bed and began to disrobe. Slowly, because the vicious shape had suddenly assumed a personality-and to fulfill her rising excitement-she stripped before it as if it were alive.
Feet spread, breath hissing heavily in her nose, Joan unsnapped the waist band of her skirt. Twisting in time to a tuneless melody in her throat, she peeled the light wool down, inch by inch, pausing to run her palms down her thighs and around to wipe up the full rounds of her buttocks before she rolled the skirt on down. She tried a small fucking motion with her hips and was pleased at how smooth she did it. Then she dropped the skirt around her ankles and continued her gyrations with delightful inside tingling as her muscles worked. Caught in the make-believe, she hooked a finger under the seam of her panties and did a tantalizing peek-a-boo of the crotch band, giggling as her moist cunt winked at the threat lying on the bed. Impatient, Joan unbuttoned her blouse, swinging her shoulders so her big tits swayed from side to side. They seemed extra heavy and full and when she unhooked her brassiere, they leaped free in violent quivering, the nipples thick with pounding blood. Joan stole a minute to roll and lift and milk them, the smell of her own flesh rising warmly to her nostrils.
The game was quickly played; naked, Joan began a furious grinding and bumping, less theatrical than it was lewd, her tits snapped and her cunt pouted and receded-her hands wandered over her animated flesh, delving lightly here and there, smoothing and lifting and squeezing. As her excitement grew, she began to moan and gasp in genuine distress. Suddenly, she went to her hands and knees on the bed, in precisely the position Sam had placed her before his ruthless cock had shot hard and deep into her virgin cunt. Only now, her hand holding the plaited club handle, she slid it in and in with the slow gentleness that suited the dreams she had often had of her first copulation.
"Oh-ooh-oah!" she cried and her cunt, tightly wrapped around the deep intrusion, seemed to gulp the club even deeper. Filled by joy, Joan wiggled the club around and fucked at it with subtle undulations. It seemed very big and almost alive. Remembering, she began to slide it in and out of her vagina, screwing it and mis-aiming it as Sam had done his cock while she had struggled. Joan lowered her shoulders so the flint-hard tips of her swinging tits brushed the bedspread. A thrill she hadn't counted upon came when her hand guiding and working the dildo felt the inner movements of her secret muscles. She let go of the handle and peeked back under, watching the wrist-thong swing like a pendulum as her cunt chewed hungrily at the long, resilient shaft. Places that had seemed sore now became super-sensitive, and she resumed her slow deep stroking, emphasizing every other thrust with a sweetly brutal force that caused her vagina to twitch in spasms of pleasure.
Tensions and soft burning gathered at the mouth of her vulva. Her hips began an involuntary roll and hunch and the hand manipulating the rubber cock and the shape itself separated from Joan's body, and she mewled with the pure ecstasy of being fucked. Gradually the memory of Sam began to fade and her hands and knees position became restrictive, inadequate. Still pistoning the dildo, Joan slid back and stood up, knees out-kinked, breath coming in furious heaves and her tits rolling with the under-hunch of her hips. She. opened her eyes and saw nothing until she awkwardly turned so her reflection in the dresser mirror bounded back at her with brutal impact. She turned her arm so she could see how the rubber club tucked her vulva lips in and dragged them out, and the sight of herself fucking herself concentrated her swelling sensations. With a quavering cry, she fell backward onto her bed, the released club jerking as her orgasm exploded in gigantic churning. It seemed never to end, and when it began to fade, she reached down and stirred her inner forms with a rotating moment, grunting to force her cum into endless thudding. After a minute, she could only lie and pant. Presently, she began to laugh, a soft, rippling sound that startled her. She raised to one elbow and looked down the bulged and quivering length of her body to where the plaited club handle protruded from her cunt. She pinched the shaft at the very lips of her cunt, then slid the club out, holding it up to perceive the length that had been buried in her sex sleeve. She could not span the wet, slimy length with her left hand and her laughter increased as she remembered spanning the length of Sam's cock with the some curiosity. Her belly purred and her cunt was a tube of happy flame. She put the end of the dildo to her mouth and sucked her acrid body flavors with perverse delight. She wanted to sing because she at last had something of her own. Instead, she drew her legs up and caressed her nates and between them with the rounded rubber shape. She pushed it to her anus and instantly a new excitement flooded her.
"Oh, my, my, yes!" she said to the dildo, but her erotic thoughts did not leap in growth until she checked her watch and estimated that there were still forty or fifty minutes before Martha could return.
It would not go up her asshole, though she thrilled at the firm snubbing and the lewdness of her efforts. Doubling, her legs pressed hard to her reswelling tits, she manipulated her asshole, stretching it with side pressures and finally inserting the first joint of her forefinger. It burned an twitched, but after a pleasurable moment of testing, it seemed to relax and she wet the sphincter with ooze fro her enlivening cunt. Still the blunt round of the club would not enter; Sam had tried to screw his rigid prick in and she had screamed in pain and he had cursed in frustration. She had wanted it then and she wanted it now. She rolled forward and came back with a jar of face cream, and she nearly had orgasm, rubbing the soft, cool lubricant into her anus and on the inner surfaces of her nates. She coated the wrinkled balloon, leaving a strong daub on the dildo end.
It went right in, sending a wave of pain outward from her distended asshole, until it dissipated in shock at every nerve ending in her body. Then the feeling of great filling came and as she turned and pressed the thick intruder, her asshole softened and with perverse glee, she urged the shaft in and in, surprised by the seeming bottomless of her rectum and excited by the obscenity of what she did to herself. Again sliding off the bed, she turned her back to the dresser and with her head twisted around as far as it would go, she bent slightly and stared at the monstrous invasion of her backside. The cheeks of her ass seemed to wrap themselves around the shaft, and as she flexed her belly muscles to feel the high intrusion, the handle of the club moved shortly as if planted forever in her rectum. She stood up straight and walked in small circles, feeling the down-aimed handle at the back of her taut thighs. When the natural function of her bowel started to expel the cylinder, she let it creep down and down until it seemed ready to drop to the floor, then she reached down and under to thrust it in even farther than before. Quivering, wracked with agonizing sensuality, Joan moaned and went to her knees. One elbow on the bed, her forehead on her palm, she fucked herself in the ass with short, irregular strokes and it took a long time for her orgasm to come, a deliciously extended period of ecstasy like no other she had ever known.
Finally, she lay over the edge of the bed, exhausted, satiated but inwardly alive with promises of the future. At almost twelve-thirty she got up and waddled into the bathroom, and poised over the toilet, she slid the dildo from her rectum. Her bowel evacuated copiously and even that sent shivers of pleasure through her nakedness. She washed herself and the dildo, then sought a place in her bedroom to hide the device, which now seemed so humanly inspired she murmured soft words of affection to it. In the end she put in under the mattress at the head of her bed, because after Sunday afternoon came Sunday night, and she was in love.
* * *
Martha pulled the drawer all the way out and stared down at the two wrapped shapes. The flake of paper she had placed on each of the long, wrapped shapes was two telltale white triangles on the bottom of the drawer. Softly, she closed the drawer and settled back in the rocker, her nerves singing with strange excitement. Joan had found them, which proved that the wrinkled rug had been significant. As had been the singular taste on Joan's lips yesterday and the faint but unmistakable odor coming from Joan's bedroom when the little colored girl had been ostensibly reading poetry-at a lingual level no twelve-year-old could possibly be interested in. Martha laughed mirthlessly, nervously. It was still a secret between them and a secret with each of them, but her maturity told her that some barrier had been surmounted and that before long there would have to be a confrontation.
And because of the secret's connotations, both to the discovered and the discoverer, she and her daughter were going to become very, very close-or forever apart.
When her hysterical laughter died, Martha cried, unsure of which ultimate she really wanted. Not forever apart because this would destroy her reason for living, and not too close because this would destroy them both. Sometimes, she thought, the Fates were not very kind, and it was something she did not know how to pray about.
CHAPTER FIVE
Snake turned quickly from the window and held up a long bony hand in a sign of caution.
"Three times already this morning," he said to Claw who slouched arrogantly in the one easy chair, his good left hand toying with the stiffly curled fingers of his right. They riding four to a ear and the mother-fuckers in back are holding riot guns. They looking for us, baby!"
"We are okay, here," Claw said. "If they had Sam's number they would a been on us yesterday. Cool it, man. The fuzz will wear out on this bit in a day or so. If the cop don't flake off."
He looked across to where Sam Price and his solemn-faced father, Ben, sat on the ragged sofa. Sam was all right, solid, but his old man was a put on. Not one of them had left the house since Sunday noon when it became glorious that he and Snake needed a place to hole up until the heat came off. The heat was due to a red-neck fuzz-fucker who had finished out of the money in Saturday's little melee in front of the City Hall. Somehow, the policeman had been paid off with a split kidney and Claw's right foot still tingled with the sweet trip into the blue back. He'd taught the son-of-a-bitch that a Panther could kick as well as scratch.
He heard a noise and came to his feet, spinning. It was Bonnie. She was dressed and under her arm was a book and a cheap imitation leather folder.
"What's your bag, baby?" he demanded. "I have to go to school," she said positively. He swung his long left arm and slapped her. She spun and dropped her book and folder. "Hold it, old man!" he snapped to Ben who came half to his feet in protest. "You make the line! She ain't going no damned place until I say so, and I don't! The scene is bad, y' understand? No little fat mouth going to run blabbing that me and Snake is bagged out in her house. Everything going to be just fine long as everybody remembers I'm the man, get it? Now, go on back to the kitchen and fix us something to eat, chick."
Bonnie, recovered, stood looking at him with no expression on her face. "There isn't much of anything to fix," she said.
"Fix something, goddamnit!"
"Do like he says, sis," Sam said. "There they go again," Snake said from the window. Eater, their nervousness came to a head when all Bonnie could produce from the kitchen were small portions of fried mush, watered syrup and a slice of bread apiece. Claw had them all empty their pockets and the total came to nine dollars and forty-two cents. Ben Price chuckled. "What you laughing at, old man?" Claw rasped. "You, you no-account nigger," Ben replied. "Big man. You got it all figured. You going to take over the world and teach it about Black Power-on nine dollars and forty-two cents! Hit kids and threaten old men. If I never had a reason for wanting to be white, I got one now! Just to be different than you, big man!"
"Sam, you talk like God to your old man or he ain't going to come off no better'n that fuzz with a hurt back! Ain't no old Uncle Tom going to put me down." Claw snapped his switchblade from his jeans pocket. "I got problems, old man, but you ain't one of them!"
Sam shouldered his father back. "Pa, you go ahead on to the room, huh? We got a lot on our mind and this ain't no time for speechmaking. Go on, now. Ain't nothing bad going to happen if we uptight."
Ben snorted and started to walk out of the room. Claw closed his knife and stood glowering. At the door, Ben stopped and beckoned to Bonnie, gathering the sleeked dishes from the dining room table.
"She stays, old man," Claw snarled. "You try anything like a sneak out and I want her close so I can pay you off, get it?"
"Aw, Claw," Sam protested. "We all friends here. Pa's all right. He just old and nervous-like. Anyway, we got to send somebody out for vittles. Either Pa or Bonnie. Cool it.
The logic pained Claw. He knew exactly what kind of a bind they were in. The night before, he had had visions of the Panthers coming on with maybe two carloads of cats to take him and Snake out of the slot, but they hadn't shown, The logic of that had burned in his belly half the night; Saturday they had been a roaring, rock-pitching mass, standing together in defiance and demand. Then the cop had gone down, stomped into the concrete, bleeding at the mouth and ears and kicking like a beheaded chicken. Tear gas and oak clubs had split the Panthers and the slow ones had made the bucket. One of the burrheads had talked because when he and Snake had made their pad it was coated with fuzz. A bad scene, and they were outside looking in with no bread and no way to go. Snake was wheeling. He could shave and change his clothes and skin out, but he didn't have a crooked wing to hide. Claw ground his left fist into the useless hand and cursed bitterly He fished his last joint from a shirt pocket and lit it inhaling the soothing smoke, swallowing it to extract every bit of the psuedo-narcotic, then letting the faded vapor draggle out his nostrils. No bread, no beer, no pot. And no friends coming on.
Nothing but a little skinny-assed chick to idle out on. He inhaled again, deeply, then handed the reefer to Snake's outstretched hand. He waggled a finger at Bonnie.
"Come here," he growled. "Daddy-o's hands are cold kitten."
* * *
Joan was sure that she was able mentally and delightfully, physically, to face Bonnie on Monday morning. She was also sure that she had found the answer to her unreasonable cravings and her weaknesses. Faced with Bonnie's empty seat, her practiced calm was very nearly shattered. A student's absence was not uncommon but to Joan, Bonnie's failure to appear held many connotations. All sharpened by a sense of guilt Joan could hardly explain.
Saturday afternoon had proved to Joan that a degree of sexual license had long existed between Bonnie and her brother, and it had shown beyond question the broken sexual mores of Sugartown. The only strange ingredient in Saturday's orgy had been Joan and without knowing how, she had apparently caused some problem. Then she remembered Sam, his bruised face hovering over hers as hit huge cock churned in her eagerly demanding cunt. He had nibbled at her tits with swollen lips and passed his hands over her exposing skinned knuckles. For a moment she contented herself with sharp, exciting recollections, almost feeling again the power of his squirming, curling body as they thrashed together on the sagged and squeaking cot.
Her fingers tingled with memory of how she had held his prick and fondled the weighty column, wet and sticky from its furious charging in her vagina, only to have it solidify and distend and become a lovely ram she could not seem to get enough of. But behind that weirdly wonderful experience had been something else; Bonnie had said the house would be deserted because her father was spending his paycheck and her brother Sam "-had a thing going at City Hall." Sam had come home unexpectedly because he'd been hurt.
At recess, she sipped her tea and hurriedly read the morning paper, left in the faculty room by some one with earlier interest. There had been a thing at City Hall, all right. There was a dead police officer, mangled under the feet of rioters, and a score of Negroes and white sympathizers in jail. The police were looking for several unnamed Black Panthers, the suspected killers of the Joan's stomach crawled. She searched the columns one by one until she found some reference to the time of the hideous violence. Panting, she closed her eyes and tried to remember. They had left her apartment about one o'clock, They had reached Bonnie's house in Sugartown before two. How long she and Bonnie had been making love on the cot before Sam came, she could not recall, but by every parallel she could draw, at the stated time of the police officer's maiming, Sam had been closed down around her belly, his raging penis tearing and digging into her brutally raped Joan sighed with relief; she didn't even know that Sam was a Black Panther, although he sported the small scraggly beard and the sheep turtleneck sweater, symbols she had learned were particular to the movement. But he had attended the demonstration and he had been hurt. He was a Negro and he lived in Sugartown. He hustled pool, played at dice and smoked pot.
After recess, she summoned enough courage to ask another bright eyed resident of Sugartown if she had heard anything about Bonnie Price.
"No, ma'am."
"Is there-much disturbance in your neighborhood, Marie?"
"No ma'am! No disturbance. Just everybody staying inside the house, because the police are looking for black cats. Bonnie is probably staying home because her big old brother is sure a Panther!"
"I sec. Thank you, Marie. I was just afraid Bonnie might be ill, or something."
"Better she be sick than have the trouble Sam Price got!"
"You may go back to your seat, Marie."
"Yes, ma'am. '" If Joan's sense of guilt receded, her concerns did not. She was certain she had no emotional interest in Sam Price and none any more for Bonnie, but she could not avoid a feeling of possessiveness. Sam had raped her, then turned the horror into magnificent ecstasy, and for all the rest of her life she would remember his thrusting, spewing cock her first-and probably her last. She might even be pregnant by him, a frightening thought, but nonetheless, oddly important to her worries.
Then Monday passed and Tuesday passed and Wednesday Joan was asked to appear in the principal's office to discuss a truant officer's proposed visit to the Price home.
"Absenteeism in colored districts is always very high, but we have found that a bonafide excuse is seldom available. On the other hand, if the girl is absent because of the-ah, racial situation and the civil unrest in the district, then she may need some help and encouragement," the truant officer explained. "We would like your personal opinion of the best procedure, Miss Gilbert, before we aggravate any condition over which Bonnie may not have much control."
"I-I don't know what to suggest," Joan stammered. Then she decided to gamble. "But I have been to Bonnie's home. Her father seems to be a steady worker, and her brother did not impress me-as the violent sort. Bonnie has been a favorite of mine and we have talked a great deal. I have a slight awareness that some of the rules that apply to- white children, do not apply to the students from-that area. It might be kinder to postpone your visit, Mr. Adams, until Monday. If there is a problem at the Price home, an interference might precipitate a more specific kind of trouble."
And they agreed with her because the truant officer had grown a few scabs sticking his unpopular nose into Sugartown on previous occasions.
* * *
Bonnie lay on her cot, weary, hurting and unable to think. The meaner they got, the more they screwed her, as if inventing their insatiable lust, they somehow evaded the fear that in three days, had turned them into animals. Even Sam. Her daddy they kept locked in his room, his face bruised and one eye closed because he had found out on Monday that they had not only recruited her to buy bread and cheese and a few pieces of tough, stringy meat, but they had made her clean and cook and tossed her naked, quivering body from hand to hand when their tempers needed spending.
By dark, it would be worse because the nine dollars and forty-two cents was gone and the larder was empty. She sighed. Time had ceased to mean anything. From the very beginning of her memory, she had learned to accept things as they were, to live in poverty and filth, to wear her black skin with no hope of it ever bleaching, and to walk hand in hand with trouble, no matter if it came from hunger or from the front of a black boy's pants in a shady alley.
She did know that all things passed; there was trouble now, but tomorrow when there was no food in the house, need would change the shape of trouble. The Panthers would make a run for it, or one of the cruising cars would vomit fuzz all over the house or God would quit stirring the trouble pot. She turned painfully and groaned, clinging to only one small certainty in her private mind. They could beat the hell out of her, fuck her until she was blue and curse her vilely, but she would never tell them that she had fourteen dollars hidden away, because when this trouble was over, she intended to take off. Put on her Sunday dress take a few little things and get her black ass out of Sugartown forever.
She dreamed fuzzily; maybe she could live with Joan Gilbert. It was a nice warm place, so clean and pretty. She could learn to take care of the little apartment, and she could sleep on their nice sofa, which was neither dirty nor torn. At night, she could go in and get in bed with Joan for a few delicious minutes. The. nice soft things Joan did with her tongue and fingers did not leave her cunt burning or her asshole aching. She rubbed her bruised tits; they kept pulling and sucking on them, trying to make them bigger or tear them off of her chest entirely. She quivered. The trouble with being a nigger girl was that no matter how you hated black men, they turned you on, and she rolled to her back, suddenly listening to the voices in the front room. They argued and boasted and threatened whitey all day and half the night, and when they reached some point of frenzy, they came after her. Claw-daddy first because he was the man. Then Snake, who was the man's friend and sometimes fag. Sam always came later because he was softer than the rest and he only wanted her when his cock got so hard he couldn't stand it. Abruptly, she wished Claw would hurry up.
Bonnie got up and rough-combed her half-straight hair. Then she touched her dark red mouth with a little lightener. After that, she listened to the rising din from the front room. In self-defense, she opened the half empty jar of Vaseline she used with the hot comb and with one trembling finger, ringed the lips of her swollen cunt with the lubricant, then put another daub to her asshole, rubbing it in and around. Finally she straightened the cot covers and lay down, curling her slim legs up so she could play fingers with the rounds of her bottom, and when Claw came in, she was so hot she could hardly stand it.
* * *
To her surprise, he sat down on the cot and his left hand did not grab at her tit nor her ass. It patted her cheek and ran smoothly down her neck to pet her shoulder. "You doing fine, chick," he said. "Taking care of us fine, like King Farouk never had it so good. But it is dullsville, baby, and we got no bread. Sure, we got lots of friends, but the fuzz is leaning on us kind of hard. We make a face outside the front door and we're kidney pie for whitey, y'understand?"
"Yes," Bonnie replied puzzled but not convinced enough to keep from snuggling the bend of her hips to his back. "Your bag is kind of busted, huh, Claw?" His fingers now moved down to her right breast but they were gentle and caressive. "Right, baby. We been cutting up a touch or two, Sam and Snake and me. Well, we got a way out but it's cob-rough and maybe we make it good or go like what hits the fan, right? So we think like well, we got a good chick and maybe she doesn't want to see her brother and her friends go down the tube. It's coming on dark in an hour or so. You think in your best dress and wiggly like, you could skip up in pink-town and maybe hustle a whitey or two for bread?"
"They wouldn't pay much to fuck a nigger girl-and where'd I take them?"
Claw chuckled. "You got 'em in a dark spot and come on with the fingers. Whitey'll find a place to take you. Chick, we got a hangup! Nothing to eat, no beer, no Mary, nothing! All you got to do-" Bonnie listened, and he was very persuasive, sure of her ability to get them off of the hook. She had often thought about abandoning the cheap white kids at school and taking to the uptown streets. Despite the man-handling she'd suffered during the past three days, what he said was true They were black and in a bind, black people had to stick together. And as he talked, he petted her and she began to understand just how important it was that she try to help them. Behind it all and unspoken was the alternative they'd whack her around and get mean. She was had cold and she understood it.
"You get the picture, don't you?" Claw said in a different voice. "Remember, your old man is going to get just as hungry as we do. Like it is something you got to do chick. Soon as it's dark. Now, maybe you better take a bath and fix up some, huh?"
"I can't. No quarter for the gas meter."
Claw laughed and got up. "You got a fingernail file?"
"It's pretty small."
"Give me the fucking thing and show me where the meter is!"
"Claw-" He chuckled and patted her head. "You do right, baby, and Claw-daddy will be real nice to you when you bring home the sidemeat!"
She used the alleys, taking care to find a deep shadow if a pair of headlights moved too slowly or seemed to wander. Out of Sugartown, Claw's words and the encouragements from Snake and Sam faded in a blare of neon lights and the impersonal, inattentive bustle of white town. It was almost as if Sugartown and black people did not exist, and trouble was something that happened only to colored people. Even other Negroes she saw did not seem to be of her kind. Fat mamas in clean clothes, carrying paper sacks full of recently purchased items and well-dressed bucks, with briefcases or nothing, peering, walking, moving as if there were no difference between black and white.
Bonnie shuddered. She felt very self-conscious in her brown taffeta dress with a sick zipper. Her legs were cold clear up to her ass because she'd not put on panties in the interest of a quick and dirty. She stood on a corner rehearsing in her mind what to say if she could find some pink standing alone and looking lonesome. "You want to fuck, mister?" -"How about a party, man?"- "You want to go five bucks for a blow-job, daddy?" -"You want to do something with me, stud?" and when she ran out of propositions, she felt like crying. They all seemed so niggerish nothing could come by muttering any of them-except maybe a quick trip to the police station when a startled pink turned her in. She walked along, feeling very black and very small, and terribly hungry. She had no idea of even how to start.
Back in the house, Claw and Snake and her brother would be sitting around, talking big and maybe laughing over the way out she was supposed to be providing them. Her daddy was probably silting in his room, hungry and sad and wondering about everything. The streets of Sugartown were crawling with fuzz, eyes narrowed under their helmets, hands clutching riot guns and pistols, waiting for a chance to kill. None of it made much sense to Bonnie, but what she had to do was very clear in her mind.
Then she saw him standing alone, looking into a clothing store that was closed. She wiped the street with hot, sharp eyes. Then she squared her shoulders and put a twist to her ass, and when she moved to stand beside him, he looked. She chose the direct approach.
"You want to pay a little, say for five bucks, mister?"
"What? Oh. Not really. Say, you're kind of young, aren't your "That's a complaint, mister?" Bonnie giggled. "Or aren't you for nigger girls? "
"Hm-mm. What's your name, honey?"
"Honey. What's yours, mister?"
"Mister. If I said, let's go, where would we go?"
Bonnie was suddenly tired and very hungry. "Like maybe over a hamburger and a cup of coffee we could figure that out, mister. I'm uptight."
He nodded up the street, away from the brighter lights. He took one hand from a side pocket and his fingers were warm as he put the folded bill into her palm. "You go first and get what you want. I'll be right behind you, honey."
Her eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't be fuzz, would you?"
He laughed. "So take the dollar and cut and run, honey!"
He had a nice toothy smile and kind eyes, so Bonnie shook her head and started walking toward the lunch room up the block.
CHAPTER SIX
He was cool. She couldn't guess his age and it didn't matter to Bonnie that he was nice looking or ugly. He didn't ask a lot of questions and he watched her eat with a small smile on his lips and a tiny fire in his blue eyes. No one in the big city lunchroom paid any attention to them and he came on with another dollar and some coins to pay, instead of letting her spend his first dollar. And it was all for fun because he had a car and there had been no problem of where in the first place.
Warm now with food in her belly, her courage returned and she felt very good about everything. His car was parked a block or so distant and she followed him at a discreet distance; he was already behind the wheel when she came up, and he snapped the door open for her. Bonnie was a little awkward getting in because it was the second passenger car she had ever been in. It seemed very elegant and Sugartown was a long way behind her.
"Where we going?" she asked, but not with apprehension.
"I know a place. It is quite a ways out, but I'll bring you back in town."
"Okay. You aren't putting me on, are you?"
"Oh no," he replied very positively. By the time he parked the car, Bonnie was lost. They had wound through some rich residential districts and taken a road that led up some rolling hills, and through the trees into which he drove the big car she could see the lights of the city below.
"All right?" he asked.
Bonnie giggled, suddenly embarrassed by the approaching moment. He got out of the car and walked around to open her door. She climbed out, unsure of what came next. He opened the rear door of the big sedan and left it open. The back seat was very broad and she could have stretched out on its ample length. She climbed in and sat nervously, not knowing if she should just drag her taffeta dress up or take it off. He stepped away from the car and fumbled with his trouser front. Then she saw his prick, half hard, gleamingly white and quite a lot bigger than the white boys' in school but a lot smaller than Claw's or Snake's or Sam's. He started to piss, a strong stream that made noise as it entered a bush. Bonnie sobered, her cunt suddenly twitching, her tits pumping. She, giggled again. He shook his cock and came to the car door. His prick was bigger now and nearly standing up.
"What's wrong?" he asked. "You'd better get that dress off-cock spots are hell at the cleaners."
While she hesitantly reached back to slide the broken zipper on down, he took off his suit coal and tucked his tie in between the second and third button of his white shirt. Then he unbuckled his trousers and came out of them, and his underpants with one quick stooping, sliding shuffle. The dome light threw a sharp yellow glow on his very white legs and his hairy groin. His prick was now up and after Bonnie had slipped her dress off, he climbed in and turned the light off by pulling the door closed behind him. For a moment, he made no move, then he gathered her slim, trembling nakedness into his arms and Bonnie was abruptly stiff with fear. He didn't try to kiss her but he hugged her close, and his right hand went to her hip, then to her ass cheek and she lay against him, slowly relaxing as he felt of her cool black skin from shoulder to low thigh. Afraid that he might not like her, she put a small unsure hand out and found his prick. He shifted his naked hips quickly and to her surprise, his cock seemed to distend and thicken and thrust up in her hand with a kind of fierceness she understood. "Okay?" he whispered the inquiry.
And before she remembered she was supposed to be a professional whore who didn't care, she said, "Yeah, man!" and squeezed his prick.
He turned her then and came up the inside of her leg with running fingers. She gasped as they found her cunt, feeling in, loosening the hot inner folds and testing her clitoris, which was very hard. He turned her farther back and her legs remained open, if taut, and he began to fuck her with two big fingers while his mouth smeared down from her throat and found the tight tips of her conical tits. Caught in a whirlpool that was part sex, part white, part elegance, Bonnie moaned and clung to him, breathless and excited and slightly frightened by the swift strangeness of it all. The cock in her hand was swelling and jerking and its heat went up her arm to settle in her chest like fire coals. She seemed sensitive everywhere he touched her and as he crowded her under him, her face pressed his chest and half under his arm. She felt the deep hair there, but the smell was sweet, nearly cosmetic and her hips humped to his deep feeling fingers at the thought of clean, like Joan Gilbert and a few of the white boys in Franklin Elementary. She lay, waiting, but he seemed to be in no hurry, and she mewled uselessly, afraid to end the wonderful feeling of being handled and maybe loved.
Then he seemed to tire of hugging down on her and diddling her with his fingers. He rolled away, bringing her up, and his left hand went to a switch among three or four on the car door and the dome light came on. He lay back, his cock standing high and thick, and he pulled her over. "Kiss it up a little, honey," he said. "Okay?"
Without replying, Bonnie went forward and down and as her lips closed over the blood-puffed knob, she knew she would have to do anything this panting, soft-handed white man told her to do. She let the cock slide deep, then with gentle firmness, she began to bob her head, letting her saliva thicken to ease the slip and lunge of the gigantic penis. She felt of his balls, rubbery and heavy, and her other hand moved over his hairy belly and down so she could feel the thick root of his jerking prick. Everything seemed different, marvelous and deeply important to her. His hands on her back, then up to her neck and down under to her tits were the, softest, most knowing fingers she had ever experienced. She suddenly felt very excited and giggly, and his hand, now moved down her back to her ass, was pulling and pressing her in and she squirmed with a feeling of being captured and held by the sensitive white man. She sucked with all of her memory, and wanted him to cum in her mouth. Striving, her mind and body became a jumble of unrelated dreams, of Claw's huge cock, of wanting a doll, of collard greens and ice creams and good grades in school and Joan Gilbert. She heard him breathe hard and his fingers under the cheeks of her ass found her asshole, and she could feel him tighten up, a sure sign in her childish memories that he was going to blow up in her mouth and make her cough with the stupendous volume of jism all her little nigger friends said was what made the white man superior, even to the bigger pricks of black men. Then his hands were lifting her away from the delicious headiness.
"What-what's the matter?" she asked stupidly.
"I want to fuck you. Wait a minute now."
She sat in a daze while he leaned forward and found his trousers. From the fat wallet in a rear pocket, he took a small square of substance and when he tore it open, it was a condom.
"I'm clean," she said. "I haven't got anything."
"Sure," he agreed. But he placed the rolled rubber on his wetted prick and skinned it on, running it back until the rolled end gripped his thick shaft with inadequate allowance. Bonnie stared with fascination. She had seen them rolled and she had seen kids blow them up and sometimes fill them with water at a tap in the school wall. Now she saw one like a second skin, turning the big white prick to an even whiter slickness. It made the prick seem larger, certainly fatter, and a little bit frightening. Then he turned the dome light out again.
He held her first for a half minute, his cock roaming, jabbing into her crotch with no real intent, his body curling over hers like a huge soft crab. Knowingly, Bonnie spread her thin, shaking legs as far as possible and hunched up, seeking the rubber skinned cock, thinking half thoughts and wanting half things. He was very man, she thought, but somehow different than the rough, lusty, uncaring niggers of Sugartown. They fucked because fucking was most of what they could do and cunt was cunt. Bonnie adored the feeling that this panting, searching white man was on her, and then into her, because she excited him. The cock went in and in and she flattened her back to lay her sex sleeve up for the exquisite entry. Her mind closed out comparisons and memories; she whimpered and began to fuck back at his quick thrusting and twisting and forcing. There was no pain, no deep ache, just the smoothly irritating, magnificently satisfying strokes that felt so very, very good.
Too good, too quickly. She had orgasm, pinching herself everywhere to keep him from knowing. She shuddered and gasped and kept on fucking back, her arms around his shoulders holding tightly, her legs waving and kicking, her insides absorbing the wonderful shocks and the blue-white fire that turned to molten stone. Then he husked, "I'm cumming! Take it, take it, baby! Jesus-fucking-Christ!"
* * *
She knew how to stand, body slightly bent, feet apart, and piss, because toilets in Sugartown were not always fit to sit on. He stood beside her, his hand down under so he could feel the urine spray from her pulsating cunt. His other hand milked her tits, softly, affectionately and his prick, now half hard and skinned of its rubber protection, rubbing her ribs. She giggled when he dragged his hand up and felt of her asshole. He liked her feel, and he liked her, period, she was sure. She kinked her ass back when his forefinger depressed her asshole.
"Hey, baby," he breathed down to her. "You like that?"
Bonnie giggled. "If you want to," she said.
He felt more strongly and she reached around and took firm hold of his prick, moving the foreskin back and forth in tempo with his finger at her anus. His chuckle told her he was hep; she didn't think of what she wanted, only of what he might want. Through pissing, she let him shuffle her back to the nice big car. Everything was nice, and big-a world she hadn't even known existed. Except his cock, now lifting between her tits as he bowed over and felt with both hands of her ethnically high ass and the deep crevice between the tensing cheeks. They stood this way for a minute, rubbing together, feeling, breathing each other's warmth in the cool of the night and letting their tensions build in lewd spiraling. Finally he seemed unable to stand any more.
"In the car, honey. I want to try that little black bottom! Hey, you sure you know what you're doing, honey?" He stood back a little, arching his back to present the full length of his cock up to her. Bonnie took in her fingers and skinned it back, feeling the wrinkles and pulsing veins she could not see because of the dark.
"I've been okay so far, haven't I?" she giggled. She climbed into the back seat and he was close behind her, crowding now to rub his penis to her buttocks and back. She hesitated, one knee on the seat, her other leg braced to the car floor and he came over her, panting, seeming more excited than he had been at the first. He assumed the same position she was in, but hunched down to take up the difference in their heights. She felt the head of his prick moving jerkily under her ass, then he steadied it and pushed it between the high, round cheeks. She didn't think he'd ever fucked a girl in the ass because he seemed at loss as to just how to start it in. The idea of being his first asshole excited her. She reached down under and took hold of his prick, pressing the urging head to her cunt. She smeared the wet from her to him, then moved so she could fit the hot knob to her anus, raising her ass so the angle would be right. Then she began to tuck with her fingers and screw her bottom around and he held, pushing and grunting, his breath coming harsh and hot down on her back.
"Wait now, wait!" she whispered when the head passed the tight rubbery edges of her asshole and the fire raged there for a moment. Then the alien thickness triggered her reflexes and he felt her relax. With more haste than science, he curled under and hunched up and his prick wedged her little bottom open and moved right in, sending streaks of pain up her body. "Fuck me with little short strokes, mister. Loose it up a little before you try to go all the way in!"
"All right. Goddamn, we need some Vaseline or something!"
"No, no. It'll be all right in a minute! J-just don't try to ream me, mister. That's fine. That's g-good!"
"Ooh, goddamnit, yeah!"
She bowed forward and spread herself, feeling how his cock was working in her distended asshole, drawing the flesh out, tucking it in and each time, pushing deeper, swelling her with exquisite sensations. His hands closed around the top of her thighs, his chest came down so she could feel his shirt rubbing her back. His cock was now sliding in long, easy undulations, and the friction fired her asshole and spread upward and inward, enveloping her cunt with sex hunger. She was slick now, and she could smell herself. She dropped her shoulders down and reared back and he sent the entire length of his prick in deep, his balls knocking against her vulva mouth. He was grunting and gasping and trying to send his penis straight through her, and Bonnie was glad he wasn't as big as Claw. Suddenly he stopped fucking.
"My knees!" he panted.
"Sit down. I'll get on it," she told him, and as he swung back and down to a slouched seat, she rode him and came painfully down on his unrelenting pole. Her ass fitted to his hairy groin and her slim legs straddled his jerking thighs, acting like springs to bounce her body. Now he reached around and put his fingers to her cunt and Bonnie gasped, "Like wow, mister!"
His chuckle was jerky and she began to bounce, feeling him urge up by tensing his buttocks. Bonnie liked the kneeling position best because he had been able to stroke into her but she was reacting to his grunting glee as much as she was to his churning prick and she concentrated upon making it as good for him as she could. His fingers in her pussy were scraggly and digging, rather than intently formed to help her. His other hand on her tits was rough and grasping; he seemed to be trying to shred her down around his cock and his frenzied upfucking jolted her with irregular rhythms. The advantage she had started with in showing him how to get it up her ass was fading as his lust took control of her body and his prick seemed all there was in the world. His fingers were deep in her cunt, feeling through her tissues to the solid shaft in her rectum. She wanted to cum and began to move on him for her own sake, writhing and jerking to be touched in certain places, and to hurt herself with sex pain. When she felt it swelling in her cunt, she had to quit her gymnastics and move just so.
"Oh, mister, mister!" she moaned. "I'm going to make it-Oh, goddamn, fuck me, fuck me!"
He gave a powerful jerk that nearly threw her off his cock, then he turned her and went down over her back, crushing her face to the upholstery, smashing her belly flat as he rammed down, deforming her abruptly flaccid nates with his board-like groin and driving his cock straight into the center of her cum. Then he eased his pressure and she felt his prick draw back, thicken and begin to spew. His jism driving hotly into her bowel was nice, the tiny jerks soothed her asshole and teased her orgasm into staying for a moment longer. She put one hand up and back of her head, finding his shoulder. She pulled him down and they rested, moving subtly to satiate small tingles and tiny flames. She felt his prick deflating and his breath slowing; Bonnie had a sudden urge to cry because she was happier than she had ever been.
She was still squatted in the brush, cleaning up with a handful of Kleenex from the container in his car when she heard a starter growl. The significance of it didn't dawn upon Bonnie, until she heard wheels breaking underbrush, Gasping, she ran from the brush, suddenly cold and frightened and alone. Alone because she was in lime to see the nice big car moving down the road with gathering speed.
"Mister!" she shrieked, but it was too late.
Naked except for her worn flats, she looked around, and all was quiet and dark, grayed slightly by a small thin moon behind some wispy clouds. Bonnie began to cry, once more only twelve years old. She moved to where the sedan had stood and her foot ruffled cloth. He had thrown her dress out of the car, but no amount of looking produced her little snap top purse with the dollar in it. She put on the dress. Weeping furiously, she started down the road, forlorn, lost and hating now as violently as she had loved.
She was very sure that if she ever found her way home, Claw would kill her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
After a long weary time, she came to a portion of the city she half recognized. An electric clock in a darkened service station told Bonnie it was three fifteen in the morning. Her flats were worn through and she was cold, but she had walked away the soreness in her back place and a good deal of her anger. She couldn't think very well, and sometimes she had a small fit of sobbing.
Presently, she came to a very familiar corner. She stood back in the doorway of a store, ready to run if a police car appeared, and looked across the street toward where she was sure Joan Gilbert's apartment would be, two blocks away. Bonnie knew she had no business even thinking what she did, but somehow, it was exciting and warming to know that by knocking on her teacher's door, the immediate problem of weariness and hunger and worry was over.
The other alternative was neither promising nor pleasant, but just a few blocks farther on would bring her to the fringes of Sugartown and to a more realistic end of the horrible night. She had even decided that if they gave her too bad a time, she might pop with three or four of her hidden dollars, any desperate thing to buy her the comfort of her own cot and a chance to rest. Joan's apartment and warmth would be nicer, but it had complications. She and her mother would want to know everything, and Bonnie wasn't sure she could deny them right answers. She didn't feel very strong nor determined; one wrong word and the fuzz would be swarming in on Claw and Snake and Sam and no matter anybody's guilt or innocence, the fuzz would have Christmas banging on Black Panthers. With a huge sad sigh, Bonnie stepped out of the doorway and trudged on toward home.
She was so burdened with her own woes the police car was at the curb before she even saw the headlights. "Come here, young lady," a heavy voice commanded. The passenger cop had snapped open the door and he looked very formidable in his blue and brass and the egg-shaped helmet. Bonnie debated running, but he seemed to be ready to chase her and she was too foot sore to run. "What are you doing on the street at four o'clock in the morning? What's your name? Where do you live? Come on, speak up!"
She blinked. They were not Sugartown fuzz because both were white. They were just fuzz. "I got lost," she said. "Lost from where?"
"I-I live in Sugartown. I was on the bus from downtown and went to sleep. I went clear to the end of the line, mister, and didn't have the forty cents to get b-back. I'm all right. It is just a little ways farther, I think."
The officer turned and said something to his partner behind the wheel. Then he reached back and snapped open the rear door. "Get in," he said. When she obeyed, he closed the door but left the bright dome light on. "What's your name?" he demanded. "Bonnie."
"Full name and don't be smart."
"Bonnie Price."
"Where do you live, Bonnie Price?"
"Four-ten Adler. With my father. He-he going to be some worried I'm not home. Could you take me home? My feet-" He turned back and began to talk into the hand-mike. She heard him ask questions, half words, half numbers. He consulted a clip-board with a swift running finger, then she was discussed some more. Finally, as the tears started to well up in her eyes, he said. "Will do. Ten four and out."
"Clean?" asked the driver.
"No want on her and no report. Jake says take her home and see that she gets into wherever she lives. They need another coon kid in juvenile like they need a hole in their head. Let's go."
"Adler is a tough street," the driver observed, and put the car in motion. "Been on special report since the Burnham killing."
The riding officer turned. "You know a black boy with a crooked hand? Call him Claw. Runs around with a fag called Snake Vinson."
"N-no sir. We don't have any t-truck with black cats."
This seemed to amuse him but he didn't ask any more questions until they pulled up in front of the house she pointed out.
* * *
"That dirty little shit-eating bitch!" Claw rasped. "She brought the fuzz in on us!"
Sam, half dozing on the sofa, leaped up and went to the window. They could see Bonnie sitting on the edge of the back seat while the law talked to her. But to Sam, it didn't look like Claw had guessed. It was not a special patrol, neither man was colored and there were no riot guns in evidence. And if Bonnie had de-gutted to them, they wouldn't be talking, they'd be charging.
"No sweat! They're just bringing her home. You and Snake split for the kitchen. I'll get pa!"
He dashed for the hall and turned the key of the bedroom. Ben, fully dressed and only half asleep, came to his feet. "She home?"
"Yeah-the fuzz brought her. Don't look like trouble, pa, but you better be ready to meet 'em at the door! Make like the worried father, and you make a mistake, Claw will kill you, y'understand?"
"Yes, yes," Ben gasped, rubbing his stubbled chin and trying to straighten his shirt. "You got her in trouble, didn't you?"
"Go on, man! There's no fucking time for talk!"
As his father stumbled forward, Sam eased back to the kitchen where Claw stood with his switchblade open, and Snake backed him up with the well-worn butcher knife. They had opened the small window over the battered sink but the screen was uncut.
"He got the scene straight or is he going to turn gray nigger?"
"He'll be all right. I keep telling you, man, pa's fine."
Then they went silent, crouching in the darkened kitchen, trying to hear. They heard Bonnie crying and Ben growling sympathetically, and then the cop was explaining about picking up the lost girl. Sam nudged Claw as the questions and answers came with innocent regularity. Then the cop, only one of them seemed to have come in with Bonnie-scolded Ben for letting his daughter roam the streets with no money and no supervision. Ben apologized; the cop was long-winded.
"We could take him," Claw whispered. "Get his gun-that what we need, his gun. We had a gun-"
"Yeah," Snake hissed. "How we get the one outside?"
"I get the gun, I get the one outside," Claw growled.
"You get us all killed, that's what you'll get," Sam husked. "One shot, the fuzz be in off the streets like the goddamned army!"
"I had me a gun I could take care of them," Claw said, but Sam knew it was talk. Claw made no move, and presently they heard the front door slam. Sam moved through the house to peek, and when the patrol car moved away, he called his friends.
Ben was sitting on the sofa, his arms wrapped possessively around Bonnie, his lips caressing her forehead while she cried. For a moment, Sam was very angry, and when Claw and Snake came in, he nearly turned on. Then he realized that much, if not all of the trouble was as much his fault as theirs.
"What happened, bitch?" Claw demanded. "You bring us something?"
* * *
It was more like a secondhand shop for small cheap merchandise than a pawnshop. It was long and narrow and the walls were lined with sagging shelves, displaying everything from three-stringed guitars to piles of folded shirts and electric clocks that didn't keep time. The good stuff was in the back, half-good things in a small glass counter, the quality jewelry in the huge iron safe beside Nigger Jack's old roll-top desk. He conducted most of his business at the desk, his grossly fat body seldom leaving the battered swivel chair. Now he sat, fat eyes narrowed as he stared down at the old gold watch Bonnie had placed on the desk.
"Where's Ben?" he grunted.
"He home. He feeling bad. Didn't work all week, that's why he want to pawn the watch, so's we can eat," Bonnie explained.
"And that no-good brother of yours is too hot to go out beating coinboxes, huh?"
"Hasn't been home-for a week. Pa says you always loan him five bucks. Can I have it now, please?"
Nigger Jack leaned back and folded his huge black hands over his spotted vest. He looked at her so hard she felt his eyes like knives, cutting through her gingham dress and rubbing their glistening edges over every inch of her body. Bonnie didn't care. They had cursed her out and slapped her around, but in the end, they had let her go to bed and sleep for a few hours. It wasn't so much being tired from the harassing night as it was being hungry. Her plan to give Claw and Snake and Sam four dollars had been impossible. If she had gone to her secret hiding place they would have guessed that she'd had the money all along. In the end, they would have found it all, and Bonnie had been afraid because after five days, they had become viciously mean. Hungry, scared and killer mean. They had thumped her father half to death to get his watch, and now she stared back at Nigger Jack.
"Please," she said. "Pa'll buy it back soon as he feeling better. Five bucks? "
"Three," he said. "Gold getting worn mighty thin. You want to make up the extra deuce, you say so."
She had expected that and had already made up her mind. "I guess so."
He thumbed over a fat shoulder. Bonnie nodded and walked around the desk. Nigger Jack got up with grunts and shuffling, then went to the front of the shop to lock up and put a closed sign on the door.
She knew some other Sugartown girls who had been thumbed to the pawnbroker's back room, but this was the first time she'd seen it. No wider than the shop, it was a dozen feet long, the space taken up with a three-quarter bed, badly sagged, a hot plate and a small tin sink. In one corner was a battered chest of drawers and Nigger Jack's clothes were piled, hung on nails in the plaster walls and tossed. Some dirty pictures of white girls were thumb-tacked to the back of the door. He came in and shut the door, towering above her, his bulk like a reared high bull. He put out a pudgy hand and felt of her neck with the fingers while his thumb rubbed her lips. The other hand took hold of her arm high up and his fingers dug into her moist armpit. He chuckled.
"How you want it?" she asked.
"How you do the best with it?" he countered.
"Two bucks?"
"Two bucks."
"Give it to me," she demanded, holding out a trembling hand.
He let go of her arm and brought two folded bills from a torn side pocket. Bonnie bent down and stuffed them into the instep of her shoe. Then she unbelted his pants, the buckle nearly buried in the flabby rolls of fat above and below the thin bell. She ran his zipper down and thrust her hand through the fly of his gray-white shorts. The smell of him was strong and when her hand shoveled out his huge half hard cock and his shortly sacked balls, the odor increased. He chuckled again and moved to sit down on the edge of the bed, fat thighs spread, his feet braced out. Bonnie knelt and began to frig him. The rolls of puffy foreskin were pinkish on the underside, and as she took them back, his prick shot forward, red-brown and sleekly shanked, to the thickening head. She rubbed the gray sebacious funk away with a thumb, shaking his penis so the small rolls of malodorous cock-cheese dropped to the floor. It was a funky prick, she thought and he was a dirty nigger, but to go home with only three dollars would have turned Claw and Snake into raging animals. She leaned down and took the cock in her mouth, surprised at how huge it was. Not so long, but fat, and it filled her mouth from cheek to cheek and made her drop her jaw as far as she could manage. She rolled her tongue around it, found the eye and made Nigger Jack twitch with sensation. A big hand came out and curled around her head, pulling her to his throbbing sex. It held her there, so she closed her whole mouth around the huge black club and worked her cheeks and tongue while she frigged the dry half of his cock.
"Hey now," he husked. "That's what I call paydirt!" He let go of her head and leaned back, panting, raising his fat belly so his cock seemed to gain length as it pushed up from the nest of layered groin. Not reluctant now, Bonnie came up to purse her lips around the coronal ridge, her fingers smearing her own saliva down the loose black skin to where the curly wool collared the sturdy root. A feeling she had known several times before came over her; the man above and the ugliness around her faded and she began to squirm with adoration for the pure shape of cock and the excitement it brought to her throat. She shuffled her knees apart and began to work her hips, seeming to feel the huge flesh rod in her cunt as deliciously as in her lips. She played the monstrous prick, running her fingers under to caress the thick tube through which she'd draw his jism, feeling of the cords and veins now standing out in furious response to her avid sucking. Her cunt, so deeply abused not a dozen hours before, became crawly and oozy, and she almost climbed up and on the thundering pole. Nigger Jack was beginning to hunch and urge, his fat body writhing on his massive buttocks, his thighs twitching and jerking when she did a particularly claiming thing with her mouth. Her fingers, no longer needing to frig the penis skin, moved under to feel of his balls and the fat rounds of his tensing ass. She began to need his cum; her cunt was gulping, convulsing, building tightness in tempo to his quicker twisting and urging. To sustain the tempo, to lick the pulsating column, turning her head to lave all sides and to lick the pulsating column, turning her head to lave all sides and shapes with her scarlet tongue. She had never seen a prick stand higher or stiffer, and she tensed it into even greater distension by tiny nibbles around the glans; playfully she put one nostril over the fish-mouth and distorted her broad nose with excited turnings, her tongue darting to touch the shaft with whipping fire.
"Aheioo!" Nigger Jack warned her.
Bonnie opened her mouth and went down on the jerkin' member as far as her throat would permit. She gurgled on it, feeling his balls tense, sensing the readiness of his nerves and glands. Then he gasped, and as he stiffened, she raised her head, dragging her lips over his cock shapes until she finished the long, forceful upstroke with her mouth pursed slightly open. The gigantic spew of his jism shot like a rocket into her lips, sliding back onto her tongue to be swallowed in one hasty gulp. But his penis did not spurt again. The cum boiled up and ran over the head, forming viscid streams as it flowed down his cock to soak into the deep wiry hair of his groin. She watched it in fascination, and her cunt exploded, as if the bubbling fountain were high and tight in her heaving belly. She vibrated, her hips jumped and sought something, and Bonnie fell forward, her face rubbing deep into the hair and fat, her lungs sucking in the odor of sweat and sex.
Nigger Jack patted her head, then with something nearly like affection, he rubbed his prick over her cheeks, smearing his cooling jism over her hot black skin. All he said was, "Three bucks, chick," and Bonnie started to cry. Remembering, despite the headiness that caused her feet to miss one curb, she bought fifty cents worth of heavily cut Mary from Grandma Moses, one of the old crone's newspapers, three cans of beer and two big paper sacks full of groceries. All for five dollars because the extra dollar Nigger Jack had given her was safely under the insole of her shoe. She spoke to several people who knew her, but at that afternoon hour, the colored kids she really knew were still in school. A passing police car full of grim-faced fuzz she ignored. Bonnie, felt strangely good, not counting her sore feet and belly hunger.
At least she could get Claw and Snake and her brother off her back, and she thought she knew how to make three bucks any time it was needed.
They tore into the sacks with frenzied fingers. Bonnie made three butterless sandwiches and took them into her father. When she went back out to get something for herself, the three were chewing voraciously with cheeks too full, washing the half-masticated bread and cheese and thinly cut ham down with gulps of beer. On the table were three fat joints, rolled and waiting to be enjoyed once their lean bellies were satisfied. Bonnie thought they were strangely quiet, but she was too hungry to ask why.
She did discover from Sam that the matter of the dead police officer was now a short column on page five, "-relentless search for the suspected killers, John 'Claw' Johnson, 21, and Paul 'Snake' Vinson, 19, is continuing on nearly a house to house basis in the predominately colored districts."
"See?" Claw asked Sam. "We are uptight, man!"
"But I don't know where the broad lives, I told you!"
"She knows. Don't you, chick?"
"Know what?" Bonnie wondered.
"That bull dyke school teacher Sam was telling us about.
Where she live, baby?"
Bonnie's mouth dropped open and she stared at Sam with hot accusation in her eyes. "I-I don't know where she lives, I don't!"
Claw inhaled his reefer and laughed, the smoke dribbling from his lungs like the devil's breath. "You look, bitch. We need a new cover, see. We need to get out of Sugartown into white town, where the fuzz can't get in without a search warrant, and where they wouldn't think we were, anyway! Where she live, chick? Where her pad at?"
* * *
To Bonnie, each new trouble seemed worse than the last. Now she looked around at the trio, fed, high on pot and trying to hide their fright by sounding aggressively clever. Yarn's face was as cold as the others. He was one of them, softer because he was weaker, not because he was kinder. She could expect no help from him and Bonnie was very sure she was going to need some help from somebody very soon.
"You crazy," she said. "How three skinny old niggers going to get uptown without car-fare or a car? You get caught in whitey's district you get real hurt."
"Where does she live, chick? " Claw said, leaning forward to get up. "We get hurt any district."
"She's a teacher. She doesn't show at school in the morning, they are going to come see why," Bonnie tried again.
"Got a telephone, ain't she?" Snake asked. "We need a phone. Call some of our friends to make the scene with some bread and things."
"She lives with her mother, and she's a nice old lady!"
"White, ain't she? Chick, you stalling," Claw warned her.
"I am not stalling. I just am not going to tell you anything!"
"You ain't?" Claw demanded.
"No! I didn't tell the fuzz on you, why should I tell on her?"
For a moment, she thought she was winning; few people defied Claw without getting the full benefit of his rage, which meant the switchblade or at least a brutal mauling. He seemed a little taken aback by her standing up to him and it was Sam who came on then.
"Bonnie, you got to do what Claw says. We uptight and need some help," he said. "You ain't going to sell out that white dyke when we need help, are you?"
"You always need help," she said. "You banged pa around and took his watch. You send me out to hustle a buck any way I can. You always need help. Who do you help?"
"We got big things to do," Snake told her. "You want to be a nigger all your life?"
"What else could I be?" she asked, enthused by the apparent success of her defiance. "You going to make me into what?"
"Mush," Claw said and came after her.
She evaded his first grab by shooting under his bad hand. Sam laughed and so did Snake, their wits still soggy from the marijuana. But the look on Claw's face sent panic through Bonnie, and she ran down the hall and into her room. There was no lock on the door and she knew one would have been useless anyway. Claw could kick any one of the sagging old doors in the house off of its hinges. When she fell sobbing to the cot, he was right behind her, panting slightly from the exertion of chasing her. He caught one wrist and twisted, kinking her arm up behind so she turned in anguish. The back of his crippled hand smashed across her mouth. The instant taste of blood from a cut lip added to her panic.
"Claw! Oh no! D-don't hit me, don't! I do everything you want me to do, don't I? I just can't t-tell on her! She the only whitey ever nice to me. Claw!"
His laughter was like an animal snarl. He kneed down on her belly, forcing her legs apart, then kicked up into her crotch with his lean thigh. Bonnie let go a gasping yelp, and the back of his hand struck hard into her ribs. She sensed then, that he was trying to hurt her without marking her up; she was, after all, their only connection with the world outside the Price house and they weren't through needing her. Buffeted and pummeled, she clamped her jaw and clung to her private determination not to reveal Joan's address. She could take everything the three Panthers would dish out, but she shuddered in genuine terror at what might happen if the trio ever got to Joan and her mother.
Claw was down on her now, thumping with elbows and kicking up at her flailing legs with his bony knees. He kept demanding to know where, "-the pink bitch lives" and Bonnie thrashed and evaded some blows and kept her mouth tightly closed. Presently, she thought his viciousness was changing. He was in a rage, but he seemed to only intend to flatten her, to control her twisting and struggling. Then she discovered why. His cock was a furiously hard ridge in his trousers and his movements on her were hunches and jerks. The struggle, the feel of her body under him had betrayed his anger, and Bonnie changed her own resistance, hoping to excite him into at least temporarily forgetting Joan Gilbert. Bruised and hurting, she began to move to his groin, and her legs came up to scissor around his hips. She forced a giggle.
He stared straight into her face, his nostrils flaring with the rush of different breath. Then he raised his hips and Bonnie went after his prick, her fingers managing the zipper of his pants in a flash. The instant the throbbing black flesh came to her palm, she giggled again, suddenly not afraid of him any longer. He slid back onto his knees and let his trousers drop low around his legs. Bonnie took the minute to wriggle out of her crotch-wet panties, then to increase the spell, she opened her legs until the tendons ached and fucked up at his hot gaze. To her surprise, it felt very good because despite his mauling attack, there remained some tingles and tensions from her visit to Nigger Jack. And because pain and brutality had been a big share of her life, and sex had been another, her harassed mind melted them together, and she reached for Claw, suddenly as hot as he was.
* * *
It was, Joan thought, certainly an ill wind that did not blow some good to somebody, and Bonnie's four days of absence, no matter the reason, had afforded Joan exactly the respite she needed. She had not put a hand on a little girl all week. If she had looked once or twice, because there were several other bright-eyed, lush-bodied girls in her class, there had been the memory of Sam Price to which she turned, and the ever-present consolation of the black rubber dildo under the corner of her mattress.
Her fears about being pregnant from Sam had to be postponed for a week or so; it was a tiny, buried worry but in no way as frightening as her recently discarded fears that she was a confirmed Lesbian. She was sure now, that she was a confirmed nothing. Out of doubt and concern had come certainty. As long as she had the rubber darling, she was free of her incredible urges to make love to little girls, and she was equally free of need for a man.
There was still the secret between her mother and her, but Joan could see no reason why the inventive addition to the spinning wheel needed to remain a secret forever. If there was a problem, it was the persistent urge to slowly and cleverly let her mother know that her daughter had also subscribed to the pacifying thrill of masturbation. Time and again, she had tried to plot some subtle beginning, some warm, appreciative moment that would bring them together in mutual understanding of the spinning wheel, the rubber riot stick, and the uselessness of continued sexual apartness. For years, they had shared everything and Joan desperately wanted to share this last, most important excitement. Forever, then, they could go on as they were, happy with each other and independent of the world.
The wish that they could play together always became strongest when Joan fitted her key to the apartment door after her day of work. Now, more than at any other time of the day, she needed to relax and be happy, to forget the petty problems and strains of teaching a large class of nearly unruly children things they might never appreciate. Instead, she was by propriety, required to say and do the necessary things until bedtime, and then, the private excitement of her rubber darling. Even then, it was lonely, at least until the tensions in her cunt and the tingles in her tits lifted her out of speculation and longings.
For a moment, she stood with her back to the door, listening to the whir and clack of the handloom. Instead of going in for her greeting and to plant a kiss on her mother's forehead, Martha should be running to her, bright-eyed, excited and expectant. They should be hugging and kissing and feeling, with the soft anticipations and an hour or so of passion and complete abandonment to the potentials of their similar sex. Joan shuddered with delight at the distension of her thoughts; they could run around the apartment naked, touching, kissing breast tips and exploring the intricacies of each other. The flush rising at these thoughts was almost too exciting to stand so she went back to her mother's room and entered with her usual cheery wave and kiss.
"Hi, Mom," Joan sighed, her eyes sweeping Martha's lush shapes with secret approval. "Heck of a day. How was yours?
"Not good, darling. I've only made a few inches on this pattern. I-I seem to be nervous, as if I were waiting for something and I know very well I'm not! Come on, let's go into the kitchen and I'll make us tea. I think, if you promise not to tell the Ladies Auxiliary, that there might even be a touch of medicinal brandy on the top shelf! It might-relax both of us, don't you think?"
"I won't tell the Ladies Auxiliary," Joan laughed. "I keep secrets very well!"
Martha slid her arm around Joan's waist as they moved toward the kitchen. "I know, darling," she said. "You're the very bestest daughter in the world! I'm surprised that some nice man hasn't whisked you away from me to the altar, but I suppose you have something worked out in your own mind." She sighed. "Women alone have a great deal to contend with."
A violin string in Joan's spine hummed suddenly. "It sometimes takes-a little time and thought to learn to contend, doesn't it?"
Martha, tea kettle in hand, turned and looked straight at Joan.
"I've thought about it-for days," she said quietly. "You aren't ashamed of me, darling?"
"Why should I be ashamed of you, Mama?"
Martha lighted the gas under the teakettle "You came home one morning, last week, didn't you, dear?"
"Yes, Mama." Joan tensed to leap into her mother's embrace; Martha moved a few feet away and stood looking out the kitchen window.
"At first it seemed adventurous, exciting," she said. "I was younger then, and your father had been dead only a year or so. Oh, Joan, you can't imagine-well, very soon it was something I had to do, almost every day! I even got around to telling myself that my good health and, for my age, my good figure, were the results of having-some sort of continuing sex life. But that wasn't really my motivation. Oh dear!" Martha turned around and faced Joan. "The unadulterated truth, darling, is that, Ladies Auxiliary be goddamned, I am just a dirty old woman who likes to fuck herself with a nine-inch dildo!"
Joan giggled. "I'll show you mine, Mama, if you won't scoff! I almost tried yours but it scared me! Oh, Mom, this is so-so wonderful! I wanted so to let you know-" Then they embraced, their kiss beginning as a sterile, mother-daughter thing, then as Joan's insides began to boil, she opened her lips and sent her tongue into Martha's mouth. Her hands filled with the softness of her mother's back, then she slid her hands down and cupped them possessively around the firm, tensing nates. She felt her tits deform against the hugeness of Martha's and they squirmed together.
"Oh, my God," her mother breathed. "Let's-do something!"
* * *
They had seen each other naked many times, but this was different. They stood hardly a yard apart and watched each other strip, each adoring the charms of the other, with soft words and quickly caressive fingers. While Joan stared, shocked with the suddenly strange beauty of her mother, Martha took down her hair, letting the silvery cascade hang over her rounded shoulders and huge, nearly pendulous tits. Joan, who had only seven days before gone half out of her mind for the slim, childish shape of Bonnie, abruptly surrendered to the out-curve of her mother's belly and the thickly grown hair that blanketed her low abdomen and fleshy inner thighs. The. cunt she had seen perforated by the gigantic dildo now seemed to pout and moisten, quivering in its exotic boldness and lending erotic tints to the exciting crotch shape. Her body trembled heavily, shaking her own tits and spreading the fire that exploded in her belly.
As Joan half sagged, stricken with massive involuntary orgasm, Martha moved forward and enveloped her with a lust of cushiony flesh. "Baby, what-" Joan gasped and mewled and lay her head on Martha's shoulder. "Sorry, mom, I just popped my cookies!"
"Dirty talk," Martha murmured. "Oh, my God, how necessary it is to talk dirty! I used to stand in front of the mirror and finger-fuck myself and talk dirty and think about your dear, dear father! He had a cock eight inches long, baby, and I n-never let him wash it-he never had to! Are you all right, baby?"
"Y-yes. Hoo boy!"
"Like in a dream, isn't it? Oh dear. Do-do something for me, now!"
It wasn't like Joan had imagined it could be. It wasn't calm and light-hearted, nor was it a casual sharing of individual delights; They sank to the bed together, and while Martha lay, seemingly atrophied with demanding emotions, Joan let her mouth play avidly over her mother's tits, testing the brittle nipples, holding great rounds of tit flesh in her mouth and letting her crotch crawl over one of the spread thighs. She inhaled the sweet odor of Martha's flesh, licking under the slightly perspiring tits, soaking in a sea of sensualism until she turned heady with revived desires. Her hand moved to her mother's groin, tousling the thick hair, hesitating before her fingers moved to the monstrous, gaping vagina, feeling the heavy lips, and the blood-gorged clitoris between them. Martha groaned, twitching. Joan let her mouth smear down over her mother's belly, then with a gasp of eagerness, she plunged her mouth into Martha's cunt and her tongue ran deeply, licking the throbbing tissues, seeking the hot secret folds to move and explore them.
Martha began to moan and half cry, her entire body shaking with the intensity of her urging to her daughter's adept cunnilingus. Her hands groped for Joan's head and she scrubbed the saliva-flowing mouth into her cunt, kicking her legs out to broaden the hunching valley. Then Joan pushed one hand under the bobbing rounds of Martha's ass and began to squeeze the flaccid rounds, moving her fingers furiously as they crept to the deep crevice and into the perspiring crack. "Oh, baby, baby!" Martha husked, and Joan's finger, nudging into her mother's anus, became insistent, rubbing, stretching and finally entering the winking pucker. In a moment of clarity, Joan compared the hard rosebud of Bonnie's asshole to the less-than-young tension of the eager rectum she penetrated. She thrust her index finger in a full two joints and Martha writhed, humped down and screwed herself onto the searching finger with frenzied desire.
"Can you cum, Mama?" Joan asked, raising her head while her finger fucked deep and rotated in the milking rectum.
"Oh Joanie, no-yes, in a moment, just a little m-more!"
Joan slowly slipped her index finger out of Martha's asshole and then closed her middle finger to the slick, slim shape of her index finger, and with turning, wedging pressure, thrust both fingers up her mother's ass. The extra thickness, the shock of stretching, caused Martha to yelp in lewd glee, and Joan got her mouth back to her mother's cunt as the older woman screeched and became a jerking, thrashing dervish. Her cunt seemed to open and threaten to turn inside out in Joan's mouth, the flush of glandular exudence mingled with saliva and Joan's mouth, the flush of glandular exudence mingled with saliva and Joan's tensions made her cough, her throat convulsing with overwhelming joy. While Martha lay moaning and trembling, Joan rubbed her cunt to the bedspread and had a second, spine-snapping orgasm, and after that, they crawled together, hands and lips feeling and sucking, once again separating into two bodies and two minds.
"Oh, Mama, Mama, we waited-so long!" Joan wailed. Martha only laughed, a low, throaty mirth that vibrated her body and Joan's, and didn't sound tired nor reluctant nor regretful at all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
They rested but they couldn't stop. Having their tea with brandy, they sat naked in the kitchen, making small confessions and giggling like high school freshmen. Joan hardly recognized her mother, physically and mentally, because she had never suspected until a week ago that Martha was neither old nor devoid of objective femininity.
"How did you know, Mom?"
"The rug. Sometimes, if I get too excited, I kind of black out when I cum. It only lasts a few minutes and I feel so good afterward! Well, I saw where you'd wrinkled the rug. I remembered straightening it very well-so I knew you'd been home."
Joan laughed. "I didn't know what to do! You were lying there with that great big cock up your cunt and you were all right, but out cold! I took a chance. Oh, my, Mom! We've resolved so many things-for me!"
"After tea-shall I show you how-wonderful the spinning wheel is?"
"Oh yes! After Sam, I don't think it is too big."
"Tell me about Sam-and little Bonnie, baby," Martha pleaded. "Oh, there arc so many exciting things in the world I don't know about! Just think-raped by a Negro! But I guess it is something every woman in the world thinks about. Oh my, I'm having such a wonderful time, baby! I've thought for so long I was just going to live out the rest of my life without any excitement. But now-" Through with tea, they went to Martha's bedroom. Joan's rubber dildo looked very slim and inadequate beside her mother's huge taped device. Joan stood close, rubbing the balloon covered shape over Martha's back as she stooped and fastened the spindle to the treadle. Then they stood together, hugging and giggling at the obscenity as well as their own daring. Finally Martha sat down in the rocker and slid forward, spreading her legs so Joan could fit the knob of the dildo to the seemingly expectant vagina. With an excited, shaking finger, Joan opened Martha's vulva and nudged the treadle with her foot. The sight of the huge device, wedging, spreading and deforming the hot wet tissues made Joan's head whirl with sensual drunkenness. Slowly then, her eyes absorbing every movement of her mother's flesh as it was entered, she turned the spinning wheel, and little moans of pleasure escaped Martha's throat as the dildo slipped in and out.
"Oh, oh, baby!" she husked. "This is the first t-time I've been able to just-do it. Faster, Joan, faster! Oh, my God!"
She hunched down, then raised each leg, hugging her knees so her big, twin-mooned ass was thrust forward to the plunging piston, now stroking with long smooth ease as her body fluids wet the wraps of tape. Half hysterical with voyeuristic frenzy, Joan knelt and put one hand to her mother's tensing, writhing ass, feeling of the dildo's sloshing, and the deep movement of the penetrated flesh. Her fingers moved down, petting the wetness to Martha's anus, and she once again thrust two fingers up the soft aperture. Martha jerked and slid forward, sending her body in eager seeking, grunting at every charge of the mechanical lust. The rocker's unpredictable action added sudden changes, a deeper thrust, a shallow one, then an easy rhythm slightly out of tempo with the treadle driven cock. It seemed to Joan that her mother was caught in the delicious clutches of a giant fucking machine, ruthless in its unfeeling assault and indifferent to the ecstasies of its victim. Groping behind her kneeling body, Joan found her rubber cock and when she slid her fingers from Martha's asshole, the thicker shaft slid in the slacked aperture with no effort. Not until a full five or six inches had disappeared did Martha seem to know of the substitution. Her eyes opened and she peered down between her quivering thighs, a look of surprised pleasure coming over her face.
"Oh, baby, baby! That's-so g-good! Oh dear Joan, fuck me with it, out and in, out and in!"
Eagerly, Joan gripped the plaited handle and found a counter rhythm to the treadle thrust, plunging the rubber cock in as the taped one receded. Her mother's asshole pouted out, then rolled in, and the see-sawing action soon induced Martha to a shuddering, gasping orgasm. She let go of her knees and her heavy legs flopped down. Her hands gripped Joan's shoulders and she let out several hoarse cries before the violence of her cum stiffened her except for spasms of jerking. Joan slowed the spinning wheel and let the rubber dildo rest high in her mother's milking rectum. And abruptly, Joan was so weak and exhausted she fell back on the rug, staring as if hypnotized at the beautifully lewd end of her mother's passion. "M-mama?" she queried.
"I'm all right-all right. Oh, that was the m-most wonderful thing that ever happened to me! Oh, Joanie, help me up, baby!"
Joan moved the spinning wheel back, watching the huge dildo slip free. Martha's cunt remained open and turned out until she struggled to rise. When Joan reached to slip the rubber dildo from her mother's ass, Martha giggled and squeezed her nates tight around the shaft.
"No, baby! I'll t-take it out in the bathroom. Or maybe," she added. "I'll leave the sweet thing in, forever!"
"You didn't faint this time," Joan said.
At the door, Martha laughed again. "Later, maybe! I'm not-done yet, honey. Oh my!"
Not the least of delights for Joan was to see her mother running for the bathroom, the plaited handle of the "night stick" sticking down from between the rolling, bobbing cheeks of Martha's ass. Joan rolled over on the rug, panting and shaken. She cradled her cheek on one arm and softly sobbed. She hadn't known she could be as happy as she was. Presently, she sat up and stared at the motionless dildo thrusting from the innocently wonderful spinning wheel. It lacked flesh warmth and the ability to pulsate and swell, but one of her balloons, a pink or a red one, would lend an obscenely human tint to it. Abruptly, she wanted it in her so badly she could hardly stand it. She was sitting in the rocker with her tapered legs apart when Martha came back, swinging the freshly washed club from its imitation leather thong.
"Mama, you must do it for me, now! I think it w-will go in!"
"I'll help you, dear," Martha promised and went to her dresser. She returned with a tube of handcream and put a short, white ribbon on two fingers. Kneeling then, she pressed the cool cream low between the lips of Joan's quaking cunt. She gasped, giggled, then hunched up for the delicious smearing, the tender probing of the knowing fingers. The cool quickly disappeared as Martha worked the delicate lubricant into Joan's vulva, stretching the inner lips and relaxing the tensions. It was almost enough; Joan felt the weight of Martha's tits on her thigh, her eyes adoring the jiggling animation of the lightly veined flesh, and she sighed to the sensation of being tenderly finger-fucked.
"Oh, Mama," she murmured. "In the top drawer of my dress-a plastic sack of b-balloons. Would one make it better? A red one? " Martha laughed. "Lie still a minute, baby," she said.
She returned quickly stretching a red balloon between her fingers to break the initial contraction, then while Joan watched, Martha rolled and worked the balloon over the taped dildo. Never having seen a man roll a condom onto his penis, she squinted and imagined the dildo was a real prick and that her mother's hands were those of a man. As the sleek red skin was tugged in place, the handcream brightened and toned the scarlet, and both women stared at its remarkably human look.
"Hurry, Mama!" Joan wailed and she spread her thighs as widely as they would go. Martha dragged the spinning wheel into the full vee, and the head of the dildo snugged to Joan's gaping vulva. Martha's fingers separated the puffed lips, laying them back to expose the aperture which until a week ago, had known nothing larger than a Tampax. Then Martha turned the wheel and the red monster slid in, slick and high and seemingly with human desire to split and lacerate the resisting tissues. It went up and in with ruthless force until the treadle would send it no farther, and Joan moaned as her suspended breath burst free of her constricted lungs.
"Wait, wait, wait!" she pleaded. "Don't m-move it, Mama! Oh, it's killing me! But it will be all right, it will! Oh my God, yes!"
The, final cry was because Martha had been unable to restrain her eagerness and as the wheel turned, the huge cock began its hard coursing and Joan nearly fainted, partially in agony and partially in excruciatingly wonderful sensation. At the end of each stroke, Joan jerked in pain, then came the long out-drag, ripping at her nerves and sucking her cunt inward as the thickness created furious vacuum. She trembled and moaned, and her mother's hands were suddenly all over her tits and belly, feeling under her armpits, squeezing and molding with frenzied passion, a back-pushed foot working the treadle rapidly now.
Caught by the mechanical fucking machine, Joan began to sink into a strange lethargy, broken only by the spasmodic twitches of pain and the devastating goodness that followed. Her hands found Martha's rolling tits, her fingers dug deeply, pulling and squeezing in tempo to her own sensations. She was surprised when she discovered how her ass was thrashing and rotating, trying to find more pain and accept more of the plunging dildo. She thought once about how huge the club was and how her distended vagina must look, like another balloon stretched around the monster cock. Then she could only feel her groin, afire with building tensions, straining to lift and then to seize. Safely landed on the sweet plateau of sustained passion, she opened her eyes and saw her mother, eyes wide, mouth agape, caught in the excitement of voyeuristic delight and mutual lewdness.
"I'm going to cum," Joan said with amazing calm.
"Mama!"
"Yes, baby!" Martha suddenly folded down and her lips went, to the wide open top of Joan's cunt. Her tongue slapped at the raised ridge of Joan's clitoris, her mouth closed down, nibbling, and the dildo rubbed her cheek, smearing wet on the soft round. Joan shrieked with furious ecstasy as her mother sucked and licked and the dildo plunged and receded. The blaze of orgasm was a revolving coal in her womb, and with one huge jerk, Joan smashed the. ball of fire and let it pulse all through her body as the exquisite, needle-sharp cum exploded.
When the exquisite thumping faded, Joan realized that the dildo was quite in her secret sleeve and so was her mother's mouth and tongue. Martha was resting heavily, and her only movement was the underclutch and delve of the hand between her own high thighs. Joan petted the disheveled head and cried softly. They were so happy together.
* * *
They had dinner, each in a deliberately unsashed robe, each recounting over and over how they had felt at the mercy of the spinning wheel. Martha washed the dishes and Joan dried them, moving every few seconds to rub her still quivering body to her mother's.
"I'm so tired," Martha finally admitted.
"Me too, Mama, but-"
"I know! I want to go right back and start all over again! There are so many things we haven't done-so many nice things to do! But, baby, you'll be so worn out tomorrow you can't teach, won't you?"
Joan looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. "It's only nine-fifteen, Mama. Why don't I call Miss Addelson, the Vice Principal, and tell her I've come down with something, or have a fever? Then we wouldn't have to worry about tonight, Mama, or tomorrow."
"Oh my! Do you think you should, dear?"
"Why not, Mama? I've only been off three days this semester. Anyway, I wouldn't be able to keep my mind on those damned kids tomorrow. I think I will, Mama!"
"It would be so very, very nice, wouldn't it?"
They kissed and as the flush crept back up Joan's body, she went into the hall and looked up the vice principal's number. While she made the call, Martha came to stand at her back, and the warm shape of vibrating flesh inspired Joan to feel backward while she lied to Miss Addelson and absorbed the vice principal's sympathy. "There," Joan said as she hung up the telephone. "Now, we have the whole world to ourselves, Mama. Oh, I love you so!"
Bonnie lay on the worn board floor, arms and legs sprawled at nearly impossible angles. Faintly, she could hear Claw's laughter and Snake's fatuous echoing. Sam was somewhere, but he had helped them fuck her half to death, then held her while Claw teased her tits with the switchblade. She couldn't move without streaks of pain running from her asshole both ways and her cunt oozed jism, wetting her inner thighs and low belly. She wanted to cry and couldn't. Not because she was hurt and sick, but because the tip of Claw's knife in the nipple of her left tit had smashed her resolve and she had told them where Joan lived.
They had thrown her to the floor then, naked, discarded and crushed.
"Think we can make it, Claw?" Snake asked.
"Goddamned cunt would live three miles away! Well, we got to try. This scene is deadsville and the fuzz is checking all the pads down the pike a block or two. What's Sam doing? "
"Watching. What should we do with her? We boxed her around pretty good, and she may wake up mad. She know where we heading, too."
"Yeah. You see there's something we can use to tie her up."
Bonnie was past caring what they did to her. Once they left, they wouldn't come back, she was sure, and if she felt badly about spilling her guts about Joan Gilbert, she consoled herself that Joan was white and grown-up and didn't have to stand still for a lot of crap because of a black hide and a no-good brother. And there was always the chance, not very satisfying to Bonnie, that the fuzz would get the three Black Panthers before they could find the apartment house where Joan lived.
She lay, shivering with the reaction of terror and physical abuse. If they tied her, she'd get loose. She had fifteen dollars and in the morning, she'd take some of it and buy food for her father and herself. She didn't even want to guess how badly they had beaten her father. But he was a nigger like herself, and they healed quick, Bonnie thought. They'd figure out what to do when Snake and Claw and her cheap-assed brother were gone. Gone was a nice word to Bonnie and she doted on it.
She didn't open her eyes when Snake brought the cotton clothesline and they tied her hands behind her back and her ankles together. They poked and pinched her and she still didn't say anything. Finally, they tossed her onto the cot and threw a cover over her naked body. But they didn't go right away. For a long time she could hear the three of them talking excitedly in the front room.
Big men. Trying to gab each other into enough guts to tackle the street. Finally, they came to her room and left through the window. She almost laughed. Any alley cat would panic them into a dead run. Bonnie sighed and dozed off. Gone was such a nice word.
CHAPTER NINE
Even under another circumstance, the apartment doorbell at eleven o'clock would have startled Joan and her mother. It was a long, insistent bell, snapping Joan erect, out of her mother's arms and to her feet, shocked by her nakedness and the sudden return to awareness. She hurried to her room, grabbed up her robe, then went to the door. A number of illogical speculations went through her mind; Miss Addleson perhaps though unlikely, somebody who had mistaken their apartment for the one above or below, and with a twinge of apprehension, Bonnie because of some difficulty that had kept her out of school for a week. Joan settled her glasses and gave her hair a swipe, then she opened the door.
Sight of Sam Price stunned her. He stood nervously, his pot-pie hat in hand, his dark glasses and short thin beard making him seem blacker than she had remembered. "Oh, Mr. Price!" she exclaimed. "Oh. Is Bonnie sick or something? She hasn't been to school-"
"Yeah, she sick. It is pretty late but she sent me to talk to you about it, Miss Gilbert."
"Well, please, come in! I'm not in condition for guests-but I guess-you are more of a friend than a guest."
He chuckled. "Maybe that's right." Then he stepped through the door, crowding her back and before she could even gasp, two more tall lean Negroes were into the apartment.
"What-" Then Sam spun her to a seat on the sofa. Her robe flew up, exposing her long tapered legs, sleek and white and instantly trembling. The three were all different, but somehow the same. One had a crooked hand and in the other, he held a wicked-looking knife with a long, thin blade. No one smiled, and for a moment, not one of them spoke.
"You listen, woman," Sam finally growled. "These my friends. Claw and Snake. We had a little trouble a few days ago. Law looking for us. It's a bad scene. We going to stay with you a few days. You scream or make a fuzz, zip goes your head. Bonnie says you live with your ma. Where is she?"
"You can't-can't get away with a thing like this!"
"Snake, see if you can find the old blister," the one called Claw said. "She holler, belt her good. Hey, this is a right-type pad!"
"My mother," Joan managed to say. "She's in b-bed. Let me go awaken her-she'll be terrified if she wakes up and-"
"Sit down! Go ahead on, Snake. Rack the old babe out!" Claw snapped. "Now, I'll give you the word, woman. We going to hole it out for as long as necessary. You going to be nice and feed us and see to it that the fuzz don't bust in on us, right?"
"Right!" He stared at her legs, then leaned down and ran his curled fingers, wearing long untrimmed nails, raked lightly along her flesh. "We just might be kind of right to have around, woman. Seeing you and Sam, here, understand each other! He say you're a dyke but I think different. Well see, yeah."
Tense with beginning hysteria, Joan turned her head. She heard Snake and her mother, but there was no scream. Then Snake laughed loud and harshly. Terror and shame made Joan's body turn pink with flush. Martha, like herself had been lying on the bed stark naked. The dildo was still fastened to the spinning wheel, its formidable shape coated with the red balloon. Somewhere, on the night stand, she remembered, her own rubber cock was lying. Then she heard her mother protest, and a moment later, she stumbled down the hallway, still naked, being propelled by Snake's big black hands on her back.
"Joan-Joan, what are these-these men doing here?"
"Hey, now!" Claw laughed. "That's what I call a lot of woman! Hi, old babe. You got company, or ain't you noticed?"
"You know what, Claw? They got a goddamned fucking machine in the back room!" Snake laughed, pushing Martha down into Joan's arms. "From the size of the prick on it, we come to the right place and the right time! Sam, you should-a-thought about this layout before! We been wasting a lot of time. Ain't been here five minutes and I got a hard-on a cat couldn't scratch. Man, this is the living end!"
Joan tried as best she could to cover her mother's quivering body, at least to hide her vital privates from the hot eyes of the trio. "Oh, Mama, I'm so sorry!" she whispered. "They are terrible beasts! They are in some kind of trouble and want to stay here-for a while! Oh, Mama, Mama, you poor darling."
"I'm-all right, baby, all right! Oh, they are so dirty and ugly. I feel so ashamed!"
Joan looked at Sam. "All right, you're here and there's nothing two defenseless women can do about it. But will you have the decency to bring mama a robe or something?"
"I'll get her some threads," Claw said. "I want to see the fucking machine. Snake, go check the kitchen. See if there's something for scoff and check the refrigerator for beer."
"There's no beer," Joan said. "If you want something to eat, I'll fix something. Just let us alone!"
"Sure, sure," Claw said. "Man, all that white meat and no potatoes! Sam, you watch 'em."
Claw went toward the back bedroom and Snake went to the kitchen. Sam moved close, looking down at them. "Listen. The fuzz want us for that dead cop last week. We didn't do nothing, but they want us. You sit tight and fly right, or Claw may lose his temper, see? He say jump, you ask how high! Hey, baby, you remember old Sam, some?" He grinned. "Don't get uppity. I already told the boys what a good fuck you are. How about you, grandma? You got some of her come-on-and-give-it-to-me?"
"Oh, Joan, Joan!" Martha murmured.
"I know, Mama, but these-animals are murderers!"
Claw came back, his chuckle sounding like a sputtering exhaust. He tossed a robe to Martha, then leaned down and patted her bare hip. "Any shit you come on with gets stuffed down your throat, see? Your number is on the wall, old woman! That's a real gimmick back there!"
Snake laughed. Joan felt the perspiration of fear wet her between the legs. As they took off their jackets and made themselves at home, she saw the huge ridge of Claw's stiff prick and the bulge of Snake's hard-on laying up the front of his tight trousers. She helped Martha into the robe and Sam hollered from the kitchen that there was chow like it was going out of style. "Bring the broads and let's get it going! And there's a half a bottle of brandy, too!"
* * *
They stood around the kitchen like black ghouls. The steaks in the freezer were frozen tight, so Joan sliced cold ham and filled a skillet with eggs. Martha helped with toast and the kitchen table to keep from sitting down, but even then, black hands grabbed at bottoms and breasts as the two women put together the impromptu supper. The kitchen was crowded, the air thick with menace, but it was obvious that for the moment, food interested the three Black Panthers more than did the loosely clad bodies of their hostesses. The half bottle of brandy didn't last long passing from mouth to mouth. Claw didn't believe they hadn't more liquor, and he ran a cupboard check to suit himself. Then the food was on the table, with a huge pot of strong coffee to help. The black men became jolly, derisive and foul, and they didn't pay any attention to Martha and Joan until the latter edged toward the living room door, thinking about the telephone and a frantic call for help. Claw raised his good hand.
"You fixing for a fat lip, bitch," he warned Joan. "Wise up!"
Joan moved back, slipping one arm around her mother. "I don't know what to do," she whispered.
"Only whatever they want, I guess," Martha whispered back.
"Oh, Mama!"
"Maybe, if we just-go along with them, they won't hurt us. It's just like a nightmare, isn't it? Oh, dear, if only they weren't so dirty-and so c-crude!"
Then Claw's plate was cleaned and he turned his chair around, burped noisily, and let his beady eyes strip the two women. Joan tensed as she felt him rape her mentally, then turned the same hungry look on Martha. His good hand lying across one thigh, toyed lazily with the bulge in his trouser leg but to Joan's inexperienced eye, it didn't seem hard nor as urgent as it had been.
"Whose turn is it?" he asked out of the corner of his mouth.
"Here, too? Goddamnit, whyn't we just lock 'em in a closet and sack out? I'm dead, and we don't get some decent sleep, we going to fall out, man," Sam growled.
"No dice, man. Maybe that sister of yours comes on with mouth. We got to be able to shag out fast if the fuzz comes. Anyway, until I get a chance to shake this joint out, I don't trust these broads. Okay if you're beat, I'll stand first watch. Me and four-eyes got some talking to do so she can stay up with me. Can't you, baby?"
"Yes, if you'll let my mother get some sleep-I'll stay up with you," Joan answered quickly, tightening her hug around Martha's waist.
"Don't signify, woman," Claw told her. "I want you up, you stay up. As for your mother, that's up to Snake and Sam."
Snake snickered. "Who needs her? I'm for some sleep."
"Yeah," Sam grunted. "Tomorrow's another day. I'm uptight!"
* * *
Claw set the chain-lock on the apartment door, then moved around, tucking drapes tight and turning out the apartment lights. Joan, sitting stiffly on the sofa, watched him and as the lights dimmed to one single lamp in the living room, a peculiar change came over her. She shadowed, Claw seemed less menacing, less formidable. Her nose had become used to the smell of unwashed bodies, and her mind had lost its hysteria. With Martha alone in Joan's bedroom, the first accomplishment had been made; Joan abruptly decided that unless the trio became violent, the experience could only be horrible. Claw was now standing close in front of her, his hand down to the long tube in his tight trouser leg. It was tremendous, and before she could control herself, her knees jerked slightly apart. Claw chuckled in that obscenely aware way.
"Yeah, baby," he said. Then he unzipped his trousers and shoveled out his massive black cock and the thick puff of his hairy balls. He skinned back his prick and the size of the dark purple head made Joan quiver-and close her eyes. The smell of an unclean cock wafted from Claw to her, and her cunt, pressed wetly between her thighs, did some tiny inside movement. Claw stepped forward and put one knee on the sofa, leaning forward so his prick touched her chin. Joan's head twisted away, but she could feel the maddening heat of his penis only an inch from her cheek. His clawed hand came out and the back of it knocked on her forehead, then pressed firmly. Hypnotized by her own imagination, Joan let her head be turned back and the hot thick glans rubbed back and forth across her mouth. "Yeah, baby!" he reminded her.
"No, no," she murmured and the insistent flesh knob look advantage of her momentarily parted lips to push against her quickly closed teeth. His good hand clenched itself into her loose hair, and though it didn't hurt, she seemed forced to let her jaw drop slack so her mouth came open. The cock moved hotly in, and she merely let her lips deform around it as her tongue picked up the acrid taste of sex. He began to slowly move his prick in and out of her slack mouth, picking up the rapidly flowing saliva to slip softly in her lips. Eyes tightly closed, Joan began to work her mouth, to keep the deeper pushes from choking her and to swallow the unreasonable amount of her own saliva. Her lips burned with the obscene friction, and she fought her tingling body to remain still. Finally, his hand in her hair began to hurt her scalp and she raised her head to grip his wrist. At the same moment, she let him know that surrender was imminent by tightening her mouth. "Yeah, yeah, baby!" he encouraged her, and Joan's resistance collapsed. Her brain cleared itself of every thought except about the magnificent prick so thick and heavy in her mouth. She put her hand to his groin, thrilling at the feel of the wiry hair growing from the hard, straining loin. She caught the sturdy cock root in her fingers and began to suck in earnest, pulsating her throat, moving her head forward and back with a deliciously steady rhythm. Her tongue came alive, to flick the pulsating head at the extreme of each stroke. She opened her eyes and turned them down to see the gleaming black shaft with its swelling veins and mobile skin, and the impact of watching the throbbing penis sent shivers of delight from her mouth to her cunt and back up again. Above her, Claw's breath was rushing, catching in his lungs, to be expelled as he urged to her with back slightly arched. She didn't care what he did; her hands pulled his trousers down and she cupped his rock-hard ass cheeks, feeling the under-skin man straining to her flicking, slipping caress. She pulled his nates apart and felt of the sweaty steel wool growing in the deep crack. She took his cock extra far back by pulling him strongly, then she sent her head forward swiftly, dragging his foreskin back so he winced at the tightness of her lips. She felt like one big cunt, one massive, eager receptacle for the club she sucked, and her head whirled with building passion. Suddenly, she felt him tighten and quiver and his asshole under one fingertip seemed to draw in. Joan thought he was going to cum, and for a moment, the thought of his jism spurting into her throat, nigger jism, thick and creamy and musky, and maybe diseased, nearly caused her to vomit over his vibrating prick, then she moaned and mewled and let it come straight into her mouth like a solid jet of molten fire. His gasp was followed by another, then he seized her head between his claw and his good hand, holding her while he pumped his sperm in seemingly endless spewing, filling her mouth with slime she had no chance to swallow. But presently, he eased back, permitting her throat to clear the voluminous liquid, and she started to sob on the sweet stiffness that had suddenly run dry. With a sigh of exhaustion, Joan fell over on her side, trembling hard enough to shake the sofa. Her own orgasm was a slow, inside beat, her cunt fighting one more weary time to spread the passions in fiery waves. She heard the rustle of clothing and when she opened her eyes to practical slits, Claw was naked. His cock swung in a half-hard arc, the swollen head holding the foreskin back in thick, black and gleaming wrinkles.
"Oh God, no m-more, no more!" she husked, but he was down on her, stripping aside the robe, his good hand going swiftly to her fully rounded ass, his clawed hand digging at her nearly bursting tits.
Nigger, she thought, primitive beast, insatiable man, brutal rapist, ruthless satyr. "Fuck me," she murmured. "Oh, do it, do it!"
"Yeah, baby," he assured her and she felt his cock, again rigid, jabbing at her bottom as his weight settled down on her flaccid body. She tried to raise her leg; his prick pinched the swollen lips of her cunt, wedging them apart, forcing in, until she felt the glans finding the wet inner tissues of her vulva. She did not move, could not move. He shoved and the tree moved in, distending her cunt, displacing the excited organs around it, and then he was fucking her with slow, deeply seeking strokes, and Joan's lower body came back to life. It took a brief moment for her second cum, but his was a long lime arriving. Her cunt lips burned like fire from the ruthless frictions, her tits ached and she felt herself being slowly destroyed, turned into an inferno of soaring sensations that kept striking her brain like arrows. After a minute, she discovered his thick wet mouth was nibbling at her shoulder and she twisted, raising her uppermost tit for the big demanding mouth. The wire of his beard raked her sensitized flesh and she had orgasm again, timed now to the speeding cock coursing in her vagina. Senseless; what he did then seemed exactly what he should have done. He pulled his cock out of her cunt with a slosh-sound and shoved the knob into her asshole, and his jism came instantly. She felt it fire her rectum, soften and soothe the surprised ring of her anus, then lie in a molten pool. She wondered if he could hold his hard-on and smear his sperm deep into her bowel, but it seemed not. He lay heavily over her and she almost wept as his prick went soft and slipped from her jism lubricated asshole. The thought came once that the sofa would be spotted, then she sighed contentedly and forgot to care.
CHAPTER TEN
Habit awakened Martha early, despite having been awake for several hours after they'd let her go to bed. It took a moment for her to remember that it had not been a dream. She sat up in Joan's bed, listening. Not a sound was to be heard. Hurrying for no reason she could name, Martha got up and put on her robe, lamenting the fact that her own clothes were in the wardrobe in her room, and that there were two lean, dangerous Negroes sleeping in her bed. While she used Joan's brush to straighten her hair, she worried about what staying up with the ugly Claw had meant to her daughter. And she was afraid she knew. The thought gave her two kinds of shivers; one was based on pure terror and revulsion, the other began somewhere in Martha's spine and it was not so repulsive.
Quietly, she went out into the hallway, still listening. She tip-toed toward the living room, hesitated at the telephone, debating the proper thing to do, then decided to be sure she could dial and talk without having one of the Black Panthers on her back. When she saw Sam, sitting on the sofa, his huge bare feet sticking out from the bottom of his peg-top trousers, she sighed with relief that she had not tried to telephone. He was bare to the waist, obviously having been routed out to take over Claw's job of watching for trouble.
He was dozing fitfully. Martha stood and looked at his lean youth, black, not clean, but very much a man. Her nostrils flared, remembering Joan's vivid description of how Sam had come on to her from behind, his huge penis charging straight for her daughter's virginal vagina. Raped by a Negro; driven half out of her mind with passion once the shock was over and the meaning of a big cock had reached full understanding. Martha breathed heavily. He had, seen her naked. He had seen the dildo affixed to the spinning wheel. Last night, he had felt of her ass and grabbed at her tits, and there was no doubt in her mind that sometime during the day, not only Sam, but the other two, would turn the apartment into the site of nearly a Roman orgy. Or an African orgy.
She had, she thought, two choices. She could half-crush Sam's closely cropped skull with the vase on the end table and telephone, taking a terrible risk, and perhaps endangering her life and Joan's. Or she let the robe fall loose and wake him up. Even at seven o'clock in the morning, her body trembled with sudden eagerness. It had been a very long time since she had the feel of a man's prick in her hand, and she had already admitted to Joan that the dildo on the spinning wheel had certain irrevocable faults. Like no foreskin to roll and stretch and no pulsation, and certainly, none of the sweet heat that came from an excited prick. Well past the age of feasible pregnancy, she thought about feeling the surge and fire of spewing jism. Her face flushed and her cunt twitched. Martha moved forward, letting her robe fall open slightly and when she was standing in front of him, Sam opened his eyes and jerked upright. Martha held a shush-finger to her lips and he blinked. Then he reached for her, his hands sliding through the robe front to come cool and possessive around her hips. "Wowie," he muttered.
"Sh-hh," Martha hissed, and her right hand wedged down between his hard black belly and the waistband of his trousers. Her fingertips met his cock growing and solidifying and he unsnapped his hip-huggers. Then while she took firm hold of his big black prick, he felt her ass and the smooth rounds of her inner thighs, finally finding her cunt with his long, large-knuckled fingers. She lay half off of his lap, pushing her legs apart and hunching her ample hips to his frenzied digging. He hurt her cunt, opening it roughly, stretching the tissues still sensitive from the long hours of abuse with Joan, the previous day. But the fingers were mobile, seeking and strictly male, not gentle and subtle like Joan's. Martha jacked him off with equal vigor, thrilling to the way his prick distended and thickened in her fingers. Finally, she let go of his penis and fell back, turning her opened crotch up in impatient demand.
He grunted some unintelligible words and turned over, his cock seeming to extend like a telescope and his ass reared high. It hung down, swaying stiffly, jerking with readiness and showing moistness at the little fish mouth at the tip of the glans. Martha began to lose her aggressiveness. She lay, shuddering, waiting and inhaling his sour musky odor with inverted fastidiousness. Then the cock came down and the broad head bumped her pubic mound, moving around as his ass searched for her. She reached down and gripped his organ with a full hand, and she yelped with excitement as the head snugged into her vulva. With a hard upthrust, she sent the thundering prick in a full four or five inches, then held her hips up, vibrating and clutching while Sam sent the shaft full in and let his balls lay hot and tickling to her asshole.
She took his seven-inch prick easily but not indifferently. It did not saw and ripple with mechanical consistency. It moved slowly, exploring each newly tightened segment of her sex, spreading its exciting heat and turning slick with her instantaneous exudences. His bare chest squashed heavily on her flaccid, tingling tits, and his hands were frenzied, feeling her sides, her back and finally, under to lift her ass to his thrusts. She put her hands to his sides, then up on his back, pleasantly startled by the velvet texture of his black skin. Her eyes closed; she had not gotten used to his facial ugliness, arid it was better to shut out any reminder that he was a dirty Negro, a lust machine, and a criminal. She tried to take him all, cock and swinging balls into her all and small moans of passion rode on her breath to his corded neck. She made all the movements the dildo had taught her, and a few more, spasmodically writhing to screw herself on and on to the plunging monster. She felt orgasm coming quickly and she made no effort to hold back; he would never know and she felt she could fuck forever if he could last forever. As the tensions climbed, she needed more of his organ. Her legs lifted and he sensed what she wanted. His arms hooked under her rising knees and folded her legs up until she was bent double. The rounds of her ass tautened and stretched, letting his hips come in hard. Open and seeking, she felt his prick glide up and up, and she tried to work secret muscles to hold the surging tree, only to have him drag out from the milking tissues, causing her a mewl with fresh sensation. Her cum was squeezed into convulsing and she let it thunder, fighting to extend its too-quickly fading ecstasies. Then as if nothing had occurred she intensified her fucking back, trying desperately for one more flash of paradise before Sam's cock erupted and terminated the exquisite fuck.
"Hey, you going to get it!" he abruptly gasped. "Tight, uptight! Come on, old Mama, and make the scene!"
His furious words jerked her from suspended effort into flaming need and when he rammed deep, forcing, grunting, her cunt caught the first glob of charging jism with a frenzied gulping and she cried out as her second cum split open and dragged him into the very center of her being. She thought they were making a great deal of mouth noise, but she couldn't choke back her cries and he didn't seem to care. Then she didn't care. He let her legs flop down, and he became a sweating black weight on her weary body, his prick bloating her belly, his sperm churning like sweet acid in her vagina.
"Oh, my, my!" she breathed.
He chuckled. "I bet you were something forty years ago," he panted. "Goddamnit, my balls are busted!"
"Dear boy," she murmured. "I have all the nice little pieces up inside me! I do think you need a bath, however!"
* * *
The shock came at breakfast. Joan, who had been forced by Claw to sleep between himself and Snake, who had fucked her furiously then fallen back to sleep, stood with Martha beside her and listened to the three black men laugh and make long, detailed explanations of how they had been sucked and fucked by the whitey broads. She knew then, that a second trap had closed on them; instead of softening the desperate men, they had cheapened and belittled themselves in the eyes of the ghetto denizens.
"You-you are horrible people!" she husked after Claw had described the 'real gone blow off, right up her ass' and the way she had 'come onto my cock, licking and sucking like a three-buck whore' and he laughed about her failure to get his prick hard again.
"I sure got her when Claw brought her to bed," Snake boasted. "I don't think white pussy beats black, but you got to say it's more fun. Like you're banging her white ass, knowing she's been thinking all her life about a nigger stud. Ain't that so, baby?"
"You-you beast!" Joan gasped.
Sam got up and came, with arched back, his groin pushed out, to Martha. "I'm for you, old woman. You got a real yen, and that makes up for the flab, Mama! Jesus, I got another hard-on!"
"Oh, Mama!" Joan wailed in consuming anguish.
"It's all right, darling," Martha replied. "Dirty talk, you know. I-I didn't get hurt, darling."
"Now, we got to fix that," Claw decided. "Ain't no female been taken care of right, less'n it hurts a little."
"Let's all get to the skin and see about it," Snake suggested.
Joan looked at her mother, and Martha let a small smile half break her face. Then she slowly untied the sash around her waist and let her robe fall free. "Darling, It-it can't hurt and I'm a very, very old woman!"
"Mama!"
"He said you sucked his penis," Joan was reminded.
"Like no chick I ever knew in Sugartown," Claw laughed. "For firsts, make the rounds, four-eyes!"
But there was hatred now, fear, self-revulsion and disgust. Joan stood, watching the three of them open their trousers and dig out their huge, hardening pricks. The morning light eradicated the mystic lust she had known in the half-dark living room. Every detail was sharp, from the different shapes of three rampant cocks to the filth of their clothes. "No, no!" she protested. "I-I can't!"
"Okay, Mama, come onto us like wow," Snake said.
Stunned, Joan watched her mother remove her robe and stand among the trio, her voluptuous body quivering at breast and buttock. She seemed impervious to the quickly out-thrust fingers, feeling of her fullnessess and hollows. For the instant, Joan forgot the night of weird passion she had just spent and saw only the sordidness; the small kitchen, the three ominous black men and the table littered with dirty dishes. And in the middle of it all, her mother, nearly slattern in her careless stance, looking from prick to prick as they were stroked into hardness by idling fingers.
"Mama!" she managed to gasp.
Martha turned and slid her hands from her fleshy hips upward to lift and bulge her huge tits. "Oh Joan," she protested. "After the spinning wheel, what's our-what do you call it, Sam?"
"Hang-up, old woman."
"Yes. What's our hang-up?" Martha giggled, then moved to go to one knee between Claw's lean parted thighs. Fascinated by horror, Joan watched how her mother took the huge cock in her fingers, frigged it slowly a time or two, then dropped and enveloped the blood-gorged head with her mouth. The shriek of protest rising in Joan's throat was choked off as she remembered how that same cock had seemed in her own lips. And when Snake got up and came around to stand over Martha's back, his cock a jutting black club, she seemed powerless to move, even though his intentions were obvious.
He leaned down and hooked his hands under Martha's belly and lifted; still clinging to Claw's cock with her lips, Martha came up on stiffened legs, her feet well apart, her big ass reared up to the rub and kiss of Snake's prick. There was movement, the lewd, hunching search, directed to the hairy valley under the big bold moons, then Martha's ass began its own rotating exploration, and with a grunt, Snake's prick shot in and in, urged by the curl of his spine and the strong muscles of his thin black legs. As he started to fuck, Joan's spine turned to water, and without realizing it, she sidestepped until Sam's hands found her, and she stood with her hips hard to his chest while they both watched the building drama of Martha caught between the two ebony pricks.
Sometimes the bang of Snake to Martha's ass dislodged Claw's penis from her mouth but she quickly recaptured it and resumed the up-and-down movement of her head, gradually timing it to the slosh of Snake's cock in her exuding cunt. Joan, her ass being felt and explored by Sam's, fingers, began to feel faint, her mind flowing forward into her mother's abused body. She could see how Snake's prick was coursing in the dark red nest and she could feel it ripple, as if it were in her own vagina. Claw now was holding Martha's head between his big hands and his fingers curled down to her jaw, following the movement of the muscles under the billowing and sucking cheeks. When he turned his head to grin at Sam and Joan, his eyes were half-closed, as if he didn't see them but knew they were there to appreciate his ecstasies. Then Snake howled and sent ram after ram into Martha's cunt, his legs trembling, his belly heaving with stress. He seemed to hang in her, atrophied by orgasm, stiffened by lust and shocked by the frenzy of his cum. When he was obviously spent, he fell backwards, stringing long thin lines of viscid jism as his prick left her cunt. He grunted as his black ass hit the linoleum. Martha's head came up.
"Oh shit!" she exclaimed, then after a twisting glance at the helpless Snake, she turned and sat down, wriggling and rearing until Claw's cock went into the abandoned emptiness of her cunt. He wrapped his arms around her, hand and claw filling with her swaying tits, and with a roar of glee began to fuck up as Martha screwed and bounced down. Fire splashed through Joan in furious waves. "Oh, Mama, Mama!" Joan wailed.
"Oooh, ooh, ooh-ho-hoo!" Martha cooed. "Will you shut up, baby?"
"Stick a prick down her goddamned throat," Claw gasped.
But Joan had turned and already melted down, Sam's penis found her cunt as she straddled him and she fell forward, bounding up and down so her tits rubbed to his high chest and his cock shot deep and deeper and finally, filled her vagina with massive throbbing and shrieking heat. The straight chairs creaked, the hiss and roar of breaths filled the tiny kitchen and the smell of sex overpowered the fading odor of bacon and eggs and simmering coffee. Even when Joan discovered that her smearing lips were wetting Sam's closely curled ear, she had not the power to remember anything but the thump and surge of his organ in her pussy.
* * *
She dreamed that the house was falling down on her and she couldn't escape because her hands and feet were tied; when she awakened fully, her hands and feet were still tied but the house was not causing her bruises nor hard blows. She was numb, hurting from head to foot. The converted porch-room was cold and streakily lighted from the morning sun. Bonnie lay for a long time, twisting to ease the agonies in her shoulders, trying to wriggle her swollen hands, trying desperately to think. It was probably the next day, she thought, and the house is too quiet. She shifted, groaned, then started to cry.
Presently, she had to urinate, and with whimperings she managed to turn and sit up, thrusting her bare legs over the edge of the cot. Her toes seemed to be one big flipper, the thin black feet were fat, and where the sash cord clothesline wound around her ankles, the black had turned to a sickly gray. She leaned forward and tested her weight on the flippers. She fell sideways and tried again. Standing, she swayed, nearly fell, then found a balance. "The dirty mother fuckers," she murmured without emphasis. Then she began to hop toward the bathroom. She made it, but when she sat down, exhaustion caused her to fold forward.
Her urine burned furiously through her lacerated and swollen cunt, and when she evacuated through her abused asshole, it was like big rocks. She sat there a long time, crying, gasping and cursing.
Finally, she thought about her father. Unable to wipe or flush the toilet, she stood up, whimpering at her helplessness. Then she hopped out into the hallway and down to the door of her father's room. To her surprise, the door was not locked, nor even closed. Fearfully Bonnie bumped it on open with her shoulder.
Ben Price was on the bed, apparently asleep. His hands were tied to the head of the bed and his ankles to the brass rods at the foot. A dirty rag gagged him, hiding half of his round-cheeked face.
"Pa?" Bonnie called. He didn't stir. Bonnie hopped to the bed and called again. Then she saw that his eyes were wide open and rolled up. "Pa!" she screamed.
After awhile, she determined that he was dead.
"Damn you, Sam, you should have known!" Bonnie screamed. "Oh, Pa! He knew about your nose! He knew you couldn't breathe with that fucking rag over your mouth for hours and hours! Oh, poor Pa!"
So she set to work on getting her hands free with new determination. Folding her slim body, she got her hands down under her bottom and up in front where she could use her teeth on the wrist ropes. It took a long time and left her limp and shaking. Her fingers wouldn't work very well, even after she rubbed and petted the stinging needles from them, but when her ankles were free, she lay down beside her dead father and cried until the hysteria sickened and faded away.
After that, she knew what she had to do.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Snake held one arm, Sam the other, and Joan stood, fully clothed, more frightened that she had ever been in her life. On the sofa, Claw lounged, his bad arm hooked under Martha's chin, her naked body, sprawled in an awkward revealing pose. Claw's good hand held the switchblade with the point making a small dimple in her mother's throat.
"You make a mistake and I cut her a new cunt, from ear to ear, see?" he growled. "Ain't no way the fuzz can come through the door fast enough to keep me from slicing her, y'understand?"
"Yes-I understand," Joan husked.
"And you forget the gin I peel her tits and that's a fact," he added. "A'right. Show in one hour, cunt, or it's holiday in the butcher shop, right? Right. Let her out, cats."
"Don't worry Mama. I'll do as they say," Joan assured her mother.
"Yes, baby. I'll be all right," Martha murmured.
Then Joan was in the hallway and stumbling to the elevator. A thousand hysterical thoughts tangled in her mind; the memory of Claw's cold words and the colder steel in his strong hand cleared them all. She had no choice, She would go to the supermarket, to the liquor store and go back home, trapped by viciousness and her love for her mother. Walking along a familiar street, nothing seemed familiar. In a few hours, the world had become a strange place, populated by people, filled with meaningless things and showered by sunlight, bright, happy and indifferent, Walking, she felt the soreness of her cunt and the ache in her back place. She smelled black man all over her, despite a quick bath, and her head whirled with impossible images, of spewing cocks and straining muscles and white flesh, bending, urging, seeking. She wanted to cry, but, there was little time and many things to do.
Telephones were pure torture. There was a public phone on one corner, one whole row of them in the supermarket and another in the liquor store. Twice she stood, debating. Logically, Claw would not add the murder of a helpless white woman, old enough to be his mother, or maybe grandmotber, to the crimes he already had committed, Illogically, he was pure animal, admittedly alarmed by his status, helpless without help and desperate with an innate ignorance. Finally, both arms loaded with big bulging sacks, she started home, resigned to circumstances.
Only then did she start to think of herself. And her mother.
On the face of it, they had had no choice. Joan flushed, knowing that was a lie no educated woman, or women, should consider. She wondered where, in the psychology books she had so blithely studied in college, she and Martha had become case histories. Bad enough with clean, well-groomed white men, who had some grace and some standards of decency, if only personal. To have succumbed so quickly and easily to three ruthless, filthy and brutal Negroes, to have wilted under their crude brutality and actually furthered their lusts with inventive eagerness seemed impossible, but she had laughed and her mother had giggled and neither of them had resisted anything the lean black men had desired.
She resettled the heavy sacks and looked across the street. Two women, one pushing a small laughing child in a walker. Did they, she wondered, ever feel as if their cunt were going to explode unless a huge cock rammed up and in? Did they lie helpless and trembling while rough fingers stretched and searched their vaginas, or plunged lewdly into their rectums? Joan shuddered, suddenly wracked by the unreasonable need. The word was nymphomaniac, and her single consolation was that her mother, dear sweet mother, seemed to be even more avid to submit to insane sexual extremes than her daughter. Joan speeded her steps, abruptly heady with overwhelming desires.
* * *
Martha lay across six similar thighs, black, warm but no longer tense. She sucked Claw's cock, also no longer tense. The thick weight in her mouth was limber, soft, but swollen enough to seem virile. Sam's cock equally listless, was a hot form against her belly, and Snake's fingers toyed lethargically in her cunt, his thumb playing at her tingling asshole. They were drowsy, content, obscene and overly entertained. Martha didn't know what she was. Hands were all over her back, sliding possessively around her shape, fiddling with hollows and bulges, tired.
"'Damnedest cunt I ever saw," Sam muttered.
"Yeah," Claw grunted. "How old are you, woman?"
Martha hit his cock with a sharp pointed lick. "Fifty-something. Can't you get this thing hard, Claw baby?"
He chuckled. "Ain't that something? Wait till she gets back with the gin! You want to fuck, old woman?"
Martha turned her head. "Fuck me in the ass, Snake honey."
"Shit, woman! I'm blown out! How you, Sam?"
"Uptight, man!"
Taking the first chance, Martha slid off of their legs, finding the floor, looking up at the grinning trio with derision on her face. "Men!" she said. "Well, take a nap then. I'm going out to make tea."
"Tea," Claw mumbled. "Goddamn, that's what we need!"
"Lipton's," Martha said.
"Naw, Grandma Moses," Snake said.
Martha got to her feet, trying to not show the weariness of her muscles and the flaccidity of her spine. She looked down at the three black men, lying back, eyes half closed and cocks resting limply between their splayed thighs. When she moved toward the kitchen, none of them moved nor seemed to see her.
She made no noise filling the teapot and putting it on the stove. Moving about put tone back in her weary muscles and alerted her sex-drugged mind. She thought about nothing; a necessity tugged at her mind but the weird happiness she had known for seemingly endless hours shrouded its details. Her savior was wisdom, intent and a massive certainty that however pleasant, now was impossible to tolerate and that there could be no tomorrow. She stood in the doorway and surveyed the three naked Negroes. She suddenly hated her daughter, for without Joan, Martha thought the future could be deliciously endless. Then she hated the three dozing men and loved Joan. On silent feet, she walked past them to her bedroom.
Half dressed, she remembered the dildo, and with quick hands, she removed the spindle, wrapped the balloon covered cock and put them both away. A second awareness made her pick up Joan's rubber cock and take it to her daughter's bedroom. She chose a high cupboard to hide it in and there, she saw the cardboard box. Stealing a moment, Martha took it down, and the only thing she saw was the very realistic plastic revolver. She held it in her hand, aimed it as she had seen spindle-assed television heroines do, and instantly, she had another vision. Finished dressing, Martha chanced a return to the living room. Claw and Snake seemed sound asleep; Sam was dozing, his head trying to find comfort on the sofa back. Martha laid the plastic pistol on the end table within inches of Claw's good hand. Then she stood, hating them, hating what she was going to do, and forcing herself to do it only because she had had more excitement in the terror of this situation than she had ever expected to have. Nearly sobbing, she quietly stepped backward until she reached the door to the outside hall. She manipulated the door knob soundlessly and within seconds, was standing free and unhampered in the normal, unexciting world.
* * *
They only half believed her. Bonnie sat, thin arms and legs drawn together, her cheeks flowing with tears, and tried to answer their questions. Outside on the street, two hundred Sugartown residents milled and jeered at the three patrol cars and the grim-faced officers who stood guard around the Price house. The crowd had reluctantly parted to let the ambulance carrying Ben Price's body leave, but it had closed again, more surely and imaginative than before.
"Now, look, young lady," the grizzled police sergeant said. "Let's start from the beginning again. You live here with your father and brother. For a week, you and your dad were held prisoner by two men you call Claw Johnson and Snake Vinson. We know who they are and we want them on another homicide charge. Okay Where was your brother all this time?"
Bonnie shook her head. "I don't know, mister. They kept me and poor Pa tied up all the time. I don't know where Sam is."
"The pair we want left last night, you said, and it took you until this morning to untie yourself Did you know your father was dead then?"
"N-not until I went in to see why he didn't come help me after they left," Bonnie said. She was having a bad time keeping her story straight because she couldn't think very clearly. Why she was protecting Sam she did not know, but it seemed like something she was bound to do. Through her fright at such confusion and trouble she had some small faith left in her brother; she was sure he hadn't tied the gag around her father's face although there was no doubt that he had gone along with whatever Claw and Snake had suggested. She sat stiffly, trying to hear what went on in soft voices between the policemen. There were many of them, big, stern, and in command; their uniforms were clean and precise and they spelled a kind of power to Bonnie she hadn't really understood before. When the big one in charge turned back to her, she tensed, expecting to be struck or kicked.
"You have any idea where Johnson and Vinson went after they left here? You must have heard some of their plans. Talk up now!"
It was the question she had been fearing ever since they had arrived, and she still didn't know how she wanted to answer it. She looked up at the officer, her mind racing. If she told, Sugartown would get her. If she didn't tell, then Snake and Claw and Sam, too, might go on and on, ruthless, vicious and mean. She thought of Joan Gilbert and her mother, sick, hurt or maybe even dead. She had a terrible vision of what the three hungry, desperate Panthers might have done, alone with two soft and helpless white women.
"Something about a place uptown," she said slowly. "In the white district. I-I don't know just exactly where, mister."
"You're lying, young lady. You know exactly where! Now, you'd better cop-out because when we get that pair, we'll make 'em talk and you'll wind up in Juvenile for protecting murderers, do you hear? " Bonnie's tears gushed and she began to sob hysterically. The trap into which she had stepped seemed endless in its finding. She had departed being a Negro by calling the law and now the law was making it overwhelmingly difficult to be on their side. "Somewhere on Armand Avenue," she whimpered.
The officer turned and made a finger wave at another. The latter left the house, to return in a minute or so. "Hey, the kid didn't lie! Headquarters just got a hot one from two women on Armand Avenue. The black sons-of-bitches are holed up in their apartment!"
"We'll leave two cars and the lab boys here. Let's go! Come on, girl, we are going to find out a lot of things damned quick!"
* * *
Sam awakened with a start and because it had been his turn to watch, he looked at Claw to be sure his nap had not been noticed. Then he sat up, aware that the three of them were alone in the living room and the apartment was very quiet. He stood up, dragging his pants into place, his mind rolling with lethargic memories of the hot time they'd have with the two pink broads. If he'd doubted the wisdom of crashing whitey's district and shacking in with two wild babes, he didn't question it now. He moved on big bare feet, into the hall and toward the bedrooms. He looked in the first one, shrugged, then went to the back bedroom. He frowned, alarm mounting. He stared at the spinning wheel, the big red prick-thing was gone. Turning, he went back and opened the bathroom door.
He'd half expected the old babe to be sitting on the toilet or nursing her well-hosed crotch. The emptiness of the cool, clean room was like a knife in his guts-Claw's knife when he found out the old woman was gone. Stunned, Sam moved slowly down the hall to where he could stand and look at Claw and Snake. Fear rose in his throat like a hot stone.
He had no idea how long she had been gone, but he had a certain conviction that by now, she was babbling out her story to the fuzz. With her four-eyed daughter backing her claim of robbery, rape and terror. They had been fooling the three of them all along; hung high with pussy, food and the put-on. Sam started to holler his friends awake, then a more pertinent fear stilled his voice. Even asleep, Snake and Claw looked fearsome. He knew of a hundred times when their vicious tempers and lust for blood had maimed or crippled some victim of their mugging tactics. They slept now like jungle savages, a comparison Sam shivered in the making. He stared at Claw's huge prick, half hard and swollen, and to Sam, a symbol of cat might, black power, killer man. He could rouse them and they could all cut out, but when the first dash was over and they stopped for breath, Claw and Snake would turn on him. Dumb nigger. Stupid shit. Fuck-up. Sam started to back away. Get his shoes and his shirt and split.
Then he saw the revolver almost under Claw's limp left hand.
It looked like a thirty-two, shiny, deadly and exciting. Sam frowned, trying to remember about the gun, then he decided that he had not been in on everything. He knew none of them had had a gun when they first came to the apartment. Claw had evidently snooped it out of the broads' dresser drawers, or from under something. He stooped and peered at the chambers, and each showed a small copper bullet in place. It was loaded. It needed only to be picked up and cocked, and Sam Price was boss honcho. In one of Claw's pants pockets, folded down now around his bony ankles, was the rest of the bread they'd scrounged from the white women's pocketbooks. If he had that bread and the revolver, he could make miles and the need for space weighed heavily on his back.
Suddenly, Claw snorted and the moment of decision was rammed down Sam's throat. His hand darted for the revolver as Claw came awake. Too late, Sam's nerves and mind told him the gun was a phony. Still panic-stricken, he continued to act. The feather-light plastic pistol came up and he pointed it right between Claw's eyes. His finger pulled the trigger and the snap of the cap pistol hammer seemed as loud as the thunder of doom.
"What-why, you dirty nigger mother-fucker!" Claw roared. He bent and his good hand went down beside his lean bare hip. Then another snap and Sam screamed as the switchhlade came up and caught him in the high belly Uselessly, spasmically, he pulled the toy gun's trigger again, and as he gasped for a final breath, his blood spurting from the buttonhole to his heart, he pivoted and sank down. The last thing he saw was the two uniformed police officers, crouched in the silently opened door.
Sam started to laugh, mixing sound with the blood welling up in his throat.
* * *
The drawn gun in his hand testified to the sergeant's readiness but he had never seen a man knifed before and to augment his shock, the raging black man with the bloody-knife was naked, his huge prick swinging wildly as he moved. Behind him was another equally naked Negro, grabbing for a glass vase on the coffee table. Then the knife man seemed to recover and he lunged. As the sergeant pulled the trigger of his thirty-eight, he knew it was murder because the charging Negro had obviously forgotten that his ankles were nearly shackled together by his own trousers. He dove forward, screaming curses, flinging the knife from his one good hand so he could clutch at his bony chest, and the sergeant shot the other man with more verve. The hurled vase crashed against the wall, and then all was deadly quiet except for the fading moans of dying men.
"Jesus Christ!" the sergeant gasped.
"Nope. Allah got that trio. Mac," the officer at his shoulder said. "Hell to pay in City Hall tonight, though! Oh well."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Joan's hand shook so badly she could hardly fit the key to the lock, something she wanted to do very quietly. This evening had been nearly five weeks arriving, five terrible weeks involved with policemen, a few reporters and a school board that finally granted her request for a transfer to an elementary school across town. Five weeks during which she had appeared at the Juvenile Court a dozen times, trying to convince the skeptical authorities that Bonnie Price, homeless orphan and frightened colored girl, could and would be adequately taken care of by her fifth-grade teacher and her sweet mother. Now she managed the lock and turned with a conspiratorial smile to Bonnie. Bonnie giggled.
Inside the hall of the new and larger apartment, Joan held a shushing finger to her lips, nodding to the rear bedrooms, where from the middle one of three came the clack-swish of Martha's hand loom. Joan pointed and Bonnie put down her zipper bag containing a few new clothes. She smelled slightly of a lion's den, but above the odor of Juvenile, she was clean and bright. A month of few privileges had allowed her hair to kink again, and she had fattened some. Still shaking, Joan led the tip-toe way to the weaving room, Bonnie, a warm, eager heat at her back.
Martha sat at the loom, but there was a difference. Her hair normally coiled and tucked, hung weightily down her back. In place of her usual housedress, she wore a Hong Kong silk robe, collarless and easily sashed at the waist. Her big tits rolled and shook, unfettered in the soft material as her hands worked the shuttle and bobbin of the loom. Evidently her eye caught their presence in the doorway; she left her work and turned, the strong white tapers of her bare legs breaking through the front of the robe.
She squealed and Bonnie squealed and they came together in a furious, gleeful embrace. The way her mother kissed Bonnie full on the mouth gave Joan an additional fit of quivering. Then the three of them were together, hugging, laughing and half crying.
"Oh, Bonnie, baby! It's so nice to have you-here with us!" Martha cried. "When Joan called and said they'd said yes- "Those dumb bums sure took a lot of convincing!" Bonnie exclaimed. "They been talking to me for a week! Hey, you sure are pretty, that way!"
"She has to come in every Friday so they can talk to her," Joan said. "Like today-everything nice happens on Friday!"
"Everything nice," Martha murmured and turned.
Joan followed her mother's gaze and a huge, wanting sickness flooded her as she surveyed the spinning wheel, positioned before the old rocker. At the moment it was a sterile bit of antiquity; the sewing table was to one side and Joan could almost X-ray its walnut sides with her feverish eyes. Her inner thighs began to sweat and moisture gathered between the cheeks of her ass as they led Bonnie to her freshly furnished room.
After one, encompassing look, Bonnie laughed, then gasped and threw herself on the bed, face down, crying with all of her might. Joan smiled at her mother, then moved to comfort Bonnie. She lay at her side, raised to one elbow, her other hand petting the stiff wool, patting and smoothing the small square back, then moving down with a slow slipping motion that seemed impossible to resist. When her palm came to the twin rise of Bonnie's bottom, the fingers moved, feeling the firm cheeks and the deep tight crevice between them. Joan's blood pounded and her belly rolled with exciting tensions; she massaged the little bottom and after a few seconds, Bonnie's sobs faded to soft murmurs. Unable to control herself, Joan let her fingers gather the soft wool skirt until the black of Bonnie's back thighs junctured with the fully rounded contour of her ass. Under her hand, the heat of Bonnie's flesh was like sun-baked velvet, and Joan molded the shapes, letting her own excitement climb with each new feel. Finally, she wanted the small dark moons naked and she sought the elastic waistband of Bonnie's panties. When Bonnie humped her bottom up so the nylon could be rolled down, Joan groaned with happiness and peeled the scanty garment down and down.
"Oh, Mama!" she breathed, glancing at Martha who stood, eyes hot and wide, her mouth slightly agape with fascination. "Isn't she-beautiful?"
"Put your f-finger into her," Martha husked. "I-I want to see! Oh Joanie, we are going to be so very very happy!"
That Bonnie heard was instantly obvious; her slim legs moved apart and her bottom began to move up and down with subtle invitation. Joan put her hand back to the small tight ass and let her fingers curl down between the cheeks, feeling of the snug heat, the soft rubbery flesh at the bottom of the valley, then the pucker of Bonnie's anus and below. Her fingertip found the sinewy fork of Bonnie's cunt, then pushed past and in; the soft wet tissues moved and opened and with a cry of promised ecstasy, Joan closed over the trembling body and plunged her fingers into the receptive cunt. Her own gaped and oozed as she began to massage in and out of the black delicacy she had worked so hard to possess. Bonnie turned and half climbed into her embrace, and while Martha watched, Joan loved the little body and sucked ecstasy from the fiery work of her adept fingers. Panting, eyes half closed with total absorption for what she did, Joan looked at her mother. Martha had shed her robe She stood in an obscene arch, her hairy crotch pushed out so her cunt lay open and pulsing, her hands working furiously at her huge tits. With a cry of climbing lust, Joan caught Bonnie between her legs, now bare of her wrinkled skirt and fucked her nyloned pussy to the thin hard hip of the writhing girl. Her fingers seemed inspired, she sent them deep, wriggling, plunging and stretching the vital in-shape, and through the fury, Bonnie whimpered and thrashed.
Abruptly then, Joan let go of Bonnie and fell back on the bed, laughing softly. "Gee whiz! I almost went out of my silly mind!" she gasped. "It seemed like I'd been waiting forever-and had to do it all at once!"
"It was beautiful, dear," Martha said. "I can hardly wait to see how my lovely spinning wheel makes her happy!"
"Spinning wheel?" Bonnie queried.
Martha bent and kissed the flat little black belly. "Yes, dear. You'll just love it, I know you will!"
* * *
For a while then they teased themselves, getting Bonnie settled in her room, talking and laughing about the future without a word for the past, and having dinner. They sat with eyes sparkling, as if each understood the inner passions of the others but chose to suspend action to enhance its later fury. When dinner was over and the dishes done, Bonnie was the one to trigger their beginning.
"I smell like jail," she said, turning her head to sniff at her shoulder.
"It's kind of an exciting smell, dear," Martha observed. "But if you want a bath now, it will-be just fine, won't it, Joan?"
"Oh, yes, yes!" Joan agreed and they all laughed at her eagerness. Then they all sobered, stricken by deep inner desires and again it was Bonnie who broke the mood.
"Well, let's get the little old show on the road, huh?"
Bonnie chose the tub because for thirty days in Juvenile, she had been forced to shower with a dozen other girls. While Joan regulated the water, Martha found a big fluffy towel and some lavender soap. Then Bonnie stripped and the intimate impact of the moment hit them all. "Oh my God," Joan husked and began to wriggle out of her clothes.
Martha had only to remove her robe again. The three of them stood, devouring each other with wild eyes; the toilet bowl, the washbasin and the gush of water in the tub lent an aura of illicit delight to the sensual adventure.
Martha sank to the fluffy bathmat, her flesh lying heavily as she stretched out, spreading her legs and drawing up her knees. One arm raised, fingers beckoning. Her half-closed eyes looked straight up and her broadly open crotch began a slow rolling undulation, splaying her plump nates one way and then the other so the fringe of hair in the tight crevice moved like a live feather. Joan felt her own belly roll, but before she could sink down to kiss her mother's neatly huge cunt, Bonnie had turned and dropped to her hands and knees. Her round wool cap went down and Martha's knees jerked as the thick seeking lips went full into the valley of her sex. Bonnie's fingers moved to open the plump lips even farther and her head burrowed, turning from side to side so her tongue could explore each fold and secret crease in the quaking pussy. Joan's head whirled with rising excitement as she watched the slim black body working between the soft white legs; her eyes burned hotly at the sharp bend of Bonnie's ass, with its shallowed divide and the coal black pucker riding just above the tight, hairless cunt. As Bonnie began slow hard fucking hunches, Joan thought she knew exactly what the moment needed. Hurriedly, she ran to her mother's bedroom and from the sewing table drawer, took her long rubber -police club. Shivering and tensing, Joan stood above and behind Bonnie, her lips wetting the round black form, her mind whirling with exquisite obscenities. Then she went to her knees between Bonnie's separated calves, and a strange, exciting feeling gripped her. She pressed her thighs together and thrust the plaited handle of the club into the firm vee formed by her vagina mouth and the juncture of her thighs. The long black cylinder thrust out and slightly up, exactly like a man's prick.
It was the first time she had ever assumed such a position, and the outthrust dildo completed the illusion that she was man-like. She put her hands to Bonnie's hips, moving closer, trembling with the certainty that she felt exactly as Sam had felt, coming hard in for rape as he had done that long distant afternoon at Bonnie's house. The rubber prick looked very large compared to the small black ass; the brutality of its length and girth sent fresh tremors of excitement through Joan's taut body. Then she slid a hand down and firmed the handle in its nest, and with a moan of joy, Joan sent the black rubber club into Bonnie's cunt, in and in and up, until her swiftly writhing body would take no more. Holding the club, Joan began to fuck the squirming ass, and her in and out strokes moved the plaited handle in the gash of her own quim, setting her clitoris up in blood-gorged straining.
The three of them then were a mass of intensely lewd flesh, Martha fluttering her bulbous forms from head to ass, meeting Bonnie's mouth and tongue and wincing under the pinch of the frenzied black fingers, with Joan trying to plunge the huge dildo ever in and in, her own cunt feeling both club and lips. Then Bonnie squealed wetly into Martha and her little pussy clamped hard on the dildo, causing the hunch of Joan's hips to slide forward, rasping the handle shape through her cunt lips until her hairy pubic mound was hard to Bonnie's ass. As she fell forward over Bonnie's back, the feeling of being man was doubled, and Joan did movements with her hips that hurt her vagina into monstrous orgasm. She felt Bonnie collapse under her and then the three were one, panting, squirming and murmuring tender words as the cum fires spread and melted their flesh together.
"Wow!" Bonnie finally grunted. "That has to be the mostest!"
Martha laughed. "Oh yes, but oh no! You'll see!"
Joan sat up, dazed by abandonment, shocked by her own intensity and throbbing with remaining want. She reached over and turned off the bathwater, and for a minute or two, the only sound was the gurgle of the overflow, like a weird symphony to their endless passions.
* * *
Presently they bathed Bonnie and did some lovely things together, but weariness came to them all before they managed to get back to the weaving room.
* * *
Martha awakened suddenly, fully, and there was fear. She seemed terribly afraid but she could not remember the dream. Her breath was short and fast, the blood drummed in her ears like the beat of a tom-tom. She lay very still, letting the fear fade while she regained her breath and a steady pulse. When she was all right, she began to think.
To think properly, she turned over in bed, her eyes going to the long rectangle of bright moonlight that seemed to be a pedestal upon which sat her spinning wheel and the old rocker. Sight of it gave her courage to say to herself what she had not dared to think before.
It had been a lovely evening, with a dozen new excitements and illicit thrills. Her mind tumbled and caressed the memory of lean black flesh, squirming and straining and enmeshing itself with equally eager white forms, of lips and obscene delights involving fingers and the very adequate rubber dildo. A lovely evening, with horrible overtones.
Martha knew beyond a doubt that her daughter was a Lesbian.
If she herself had entered into the orgy of perverted extremes, it had been in the spirit of adventure and excitement. Not so with Joan. From the moment she had entered the door with Bonnie, Joan had been gripped by nearly a fanatical fever; at times she had been almost incoherent with frenzy for Bonnie's willing body. She had pummeled it and penetrated it, sucked it and kissed it and after each exhausting episode, lay panting while she built new plans for a next assault. About Bonnie, Martha did not know. She was a strange, primitive girl, showing childish glee at sensation and sometimes savage fury at satisfaction.
Eventually, they had left her out, and Martha felt a twinge of loneliness now. She looked lovingly at the spinning wheel. The loneliness had begun the day-a Friday-she had been found out by Joan. Up to then, her private content with her own sexual gymnastics had been magnificent. Her life had been complete; spinning, weaving, the Ladies Auxiliary, Joan, the comfort of their little apartment, and when she felt the need, the pistoning dildo.
She suddenly felt the need.
Martha slipped out of bed, her nakedness quivering in the cooler air. For a moment, she stood feeling of herself, moving her hands as she remembered Frank had done. He had loved her big tits-and she loved them now, lifting and solidifying them as her tensions mounted. Her hips swayed. They had always played a little before making love. She played now, feeling of her ample buttocks, sliding her fingers to secret delights, tickling and teasing her vagina, surprising her flesh with small pinches and pats. He had been a little clumsy at first, but she had taught him what was exciting and what was merely nice. She pursed her lips, remembering the first time she had taken his penis in her mouth. She had sucked it too long and he had apologized for having huge orgasm in her mouth and she had loved him so much he had fucked her almost without regaining his breath.
Now she moved to the sewing table and reached past the rubber club to the wrapped shapes. She fitted the spindle to the dildo, trembling at the feel of the monstrous shaft. She fastened the assembled unit to the treadle, then she knelt, the moonlight showing her every detail of the knobbed device. Her fingers petted the tape rolls, her lips kissed the blunt tip. Her eyes half closed and her mind began the sweet imagining. Her skin flamed and her cunt started the delicious inside milking. Martha climbed up into the rocker, surprised at how heavy she seemed to be. But then she was not young, and it had been a very strenuous evening. And there had been the bad dream which she couldn't remember.
Shaking strongly, Martha slid forward in the rocking chair, her hand going to the big cock, pulling the spinning wheel closer. She moved her right leg a little more than the left so the moonlight turned her cunt to gleaming rolls of dark flesh and cast sparkling highlights in the thick hair of her crotch. Frank would love her if he could see-he'd be sixty-five had he lived, and Martha had no doubt that they would be as happy together as they had ever been.
Her toe touched the treadle and the prick slipped in, forcing her to gasp with familiar delight. She pushed her ass a bit farther to the spinning wheel, then with all her being wrapped around the coursing shaft, she began to fuck it and pet it and turn it into reality. And presently, it became very real, sweetly soothing as it was also fiercely exciting. She knew each moment, each building goodness, and when orgasm seemed imminent, she slowed the wheel, suspending herself in exquisite balance, waiting for the approaching edge to recede before working the treadle vigorously. She did this several times until the blossoming cum could not be denied. Gasping,' moaning, she prepared for it.
"Oh, Frank, Frank, I'm so s-sorry I failed with Joan! Forgive me, Frank! Forgive me and fuck me, fuck me, fuck me! Aiegh-ha, yes!"
Writhing and mewling, Martha felt the furious thudding, the screaming clutches, and when it was so good she could no longer stand it, she relaxed slowly, letting her foot slow and stop on the treadle. The night settled around her, and she was happy in its darkness.
* * *
Finally, Joan admitted that the chill of her mother's skin was the cold of death, so she slouched down and cried. Bonnie removed the dildo from the listless vagina and put it in a drawer, then she sank down beside her white lover and they cried together.
