The Devil's Sperm Is Cold (12 page)

The men at her rear and front started to move in more closely connected unison, so that her body was moved with complementary waves. From her mouth to her cunt she was a single wave of excitation. The thick cock in her pussy grew harder and hotter, and the long cock in her mouth thrust deeper and deeper. She gagged and moaned and spit and coughed and rolled her ass cheeks and contracted the muscles of her cunt and was driven crazy by the tongues on her nipples—until the breaking point was passed, and she let herself dive off the edge of all control, and the next thing she knew she was thrashing about the floor, kicking and yelling, spilling out all her inhibitions, while gobs of thick sperm spilled onto her tongue, and strong hands clenched her thighs tight, pulling them back onto a pumping cock that was reaching its own climax deep in her belly.

She rode the orgasm until its final curve, and then fell face downward on the floor. But this time she was not let alone. Hands rolled her over, and before she could open her eyes, her face was smothered in flesh. Huge buttocks covered her cheeks, and her mouth was pressed against a musty, puckered asshole. She tried to wrench herself free, for in a quick flash she saw herself buried in this pile of strange bodies, performing the most intimate services on people whose faces she did not even see, and it sent her freaking down the corridors of her rational mind.

But she could not move far. Her legs were lifted, pulled apart, and held open. She felt movement between her thighs, and then a finger went into her cunt, slid out, and lubricated her asshole with the vaginal secretions. She tried to squirm away, but the hands held her tightly, and the finger continued its patient task. She wanted to scream, but in opening her mouth, she only invited the relentless buttocks to press more heavily onto her face. She was on the verge of tears.

“I want it to stop,” she cried to herself, “just please let it stop.” And even as the plea went through her mind, she knew that she was getting a taste of something she might not be able to put out of her life. As vile as some of the activity was, she was being drawn into the orgiastic mood, finding in the enormous energy a vehicle for experience she had hungered for for a long time. She thought of Helene who had greeted her at the doorway, and the woman’s quiet scorn of Joan’s youth.

“Will I become like that?” she thought. “Or worse?” The alternative sprang before her mind’s eye, and she pictured herself as a ragged stinking syphilitic debauchee who could entice only very drunken sailors from Tenth Avenue bars. In her slightly deranged state, fantasy was indistinguishable from reality, and she could project her current situation, lying spread-eagled on a rug with someone’s ass in her face and someone else’s cock sliding up her own ass, into the prolonged future.

“What foul degradations am I not capable of?” she asked herself. “How far down this road will I travel?”

But she did not have too much time to luxuriate in her thoughts, for her buttocks were being pulled apart, and a heavy cock was sliding between the cheeks and pressing at the tiny hole at the center. She tried to relax, knowing that he would enter no matter what she did, and if she resisted it would only be painful. More hands grabbed her breasts, and she could feel someone rubbing the head of his cock against one of her nipples.

“Oh God,” she moaned, her words muffled, as the cock lunged into her ass. The pain was on the edge of being excruciating, and she pushed out with her sphincter muscles, giving the intruder easier access. She was forced to cooperate with her own rape, although, giving the fact that she had gone there of her own will, and that she was already bunching her buttocks up to receive the cock more deeply, the act could hardly be described as rape.

The man began to pump into her before he was totally in, so that she opened gradually. Her nipples being pinched, her ass beginning to taste the sweet pleasure of deep penetration, her cunt being fingered by at least two people, she let her tongue curl out and into the puckered asshole that bore down upon her, demanding contact.

It was not something she had not done before, but only in special circumstances with someone she knew. Now she began to slavishly lick the crack of the anonymous ass, stopping at each stroke to bury it deeper into the ever-loosening anus. She moved forward, her lower body spreading to accept the heavy cock which was now thrusting furiously into her ass, burying itself to the hilt, pulling out to the tip until Joan was left quivering with relief, and then crashing in again. Her mouth searched for the cock she thought would extend from the crack she was so voraciously licking.

And instead she found a cunt. The body above hers was a woman’s. Joan stopped her tonguing, partially out of confusion. But the woman above her tilted her pelvis back, bringing her cunt over Joan’s lips. The swampy tangle of hair filled her mouth, and the woman’s juices trickled onto her tongue.

“Now eat my pussy, little pilgrim,” a voice said, and she recognized Helene’s tones. She was eating Helene’s cunt! She struggled furiously against that, and before she knew what she was doing, she cried out, “No,” the magic word that would save her from any further intrusion.

And it did. As though by a miracle, the hands went off her breasts, let go of her ankles, the cock slid out from her ass, and Helene’s cunt rose into the air, away from her mouth, and disappeared.

Joan lay on her back, alone and trembling. Her body twitched of its own volition. And a sense of social disgrace, deeper than any personal feelings of disgust, crept up from her chest to her face and, blushing, she rolled over on her belly and wept silently.

“Was that the wrong thing to do?” she thought to herself. “Have I insulted them? Have I spoiled the orgy?” And all the little-girl fears that were carried intact in her psyche beneath the layer of surface sophistication appeared to haunt her. She lost sight of her age, of her dignity as an individual, of her ego rights. She forgot that her freedom to say no was granted to her not only by the rules of the orgy but also by the dictates of human life. More than all of this, she lost sight of the fact that in that context she was simply another body, another source of sensation and a focus for sexual drama, and was really no more important than any other body in the room, and that the people who had pulled away from her had set-to immediately with another group, in another configuration.

A man lay next to her. She could tell it was a man because his cock pressed up against one thigh. It was Jack.

“I warned you about all this heavy stuff,” he said, his cheerful tones at once cutting through her mood. “And here you are, in the middle of a party, an orgy, for Christ’s sake, feeling sorry for yourself and crying in the playpen.”

She turned and buried her face in his chest. Joan was only twenty-five and in many ways was terribly frightened of life. Jack understood that, and he acted as a real comfort to her.

“Oh Jack,” she gasped, “have I made a fool of myself? Have I spoiled things?”

“No,” he said. “Nobody’s even noticed, except me. And I only noticed because I invited you here and feel responsible to keep an eye on you. It’s just a little too much all at once,” he said, “that’s all. You are an extraordinary woman sexually, but all of us bite off more than we can chew sometimes. I mean, when you think of it, this whole thing is really outrageous, isn’t it?”

And with one arm he indicated the hundred others who were building to even more frantic peaks of excitement.

She raised her head and looked around. She smiled through her tears. “I guess so,” she stuttered, and then laughed. “I feel so silly,” she added.

He took her hand. “Come with me,” he said.

They stood up and Jack took her to a far corner of the room. There he lay her down, told her not to move, and brought her a drink and a cigarette. Still laughing while she wept, she blurted out, “That’s what I wanted when I was hijacked by those people in the middle of the room! I know I would have been all right if I could have just taken a break.”

Jack laughed with her. “I know so too,” he said.

They sat side by side, smoking, watching, her head on his shoulder, sharing the private moment of calm.

Then, as though speaking from a trance, she said, “Why do we do it, Jack? Why do we knock ourselves out this way?”

He gave her a hug and replied, “Deep questions. Too deep for me.”

But something in her mood made him turn and look at her. Her eyes were somber, searching. He took a drag on his cigarette, shrugged, and went on, “I don’t know. I guess it’s because our lives as we live them are nothing but a tedious waiting room, a long, long line for the available space in the graveyard. We know we’re going to die, and we know that nothing we do makes any difference. And we can’t seem to lift ourselves out of our rut, and we no longer believe the holy men who tell us that immortal life and ecstatic light are just around the corner. So we cast about to find something, anything, that will lift us out of ourselves, to make us forget ourselves for a brief while. Some try drugs, some try booze; the rich try travel and expensive toys; and the rest of us try sex. It’s the one habit we can all afford.”

She looked at him with penetrating interest. “You know,” she said, “I think you’re right.” She stroked his back. “You’re really a very wise man.”

Jack laughed to cover the nakedness of the moment. He was suddenly aware that he was almost two decades older than the girl who sat next to him. “Well, I didn’t get to be Centaur’s top salesman by being dumb.”

She impulsively put one hand on his cheek, drew his face towards hers, and kissed him softly on the lips.

“Why are you afraid to be serious?” she asked.

“Somebody’s got to remain light,” he said. “The world’s too grim as it is.”

A wave of fatigue suddenly swept over her and she leaned against him again.

“Jack.”

“Hmm?”

“Will you take me home and make love to me?”

His smile froze, and then disappeared. He gazed into space for a long time, pondering the yearning, the surrender being offered. And for a moment, an ancient dream seized him again, a fantasy in which he would be able to let himself go, to flow into the heart of a woman, and be one with her, and care for her with his entire being. He looked at Joan, at Joan the beautiful young woman, at Joan with the trenchant intelligence, at Joan who could kiss him and make him remember his loneliness, at Joan who could lie under a pile of bodies at an orgy and have orgasm after orgasm like any seasoned trouper. And for a brief instant, he thought something might be possible.

And then he focused on the wider reality of his life, his weaknesses, his fears, and he shook his head.

“No, my lovely little lady,” he said, “you would only break my heart.”

“Isn’t that what you want Jack?” she implored, “isn’t that what we all want? To have our hearts break, to die once and for all with heartbreak? To destroy this prison we live in? Isn’t that why we go to orgies? To burst free? And isn’t love the only real key to set us free in this terrible mysterious universe?”

He put his arms around her and held her tightly. They clung to each other like children in the dark, suddenly aware that they had nothing in the world at that moment except each other, and that they were eternally strangers to each other, with nothing to offer except a mirror for solitude to see its face. They rocked back and forth, like people praying.

And all around them the sounds of the orgy grew louder, the actions grew wilder, and the roomful of bodies began to find its critical mass, moving toward a single pile of inextricable shapes, a huge organism crying its sexual challenge to the indifferent stars.

They watched darkness descend over the city. From the balcony, Lou and Margaret shared that brief illusion of omnipotence that sometimes comes from standing at the edge of a height. As the lights of New York went on, each of them could sense the giant movement that marked the end of each workday, a human tide which swept over three million people onto the tiny island of Manhattan every weekday morning, and then sent them tumbling out each evening, to the other boroughs, to Jersey, to Connecticut, to Long Island. Such was the financial magnetism of the city that there were even a few score of hardy souls who commuted the hundred and ten miles to Philadelphia.

Lou sipped at his cocktail and gazed out on the scene with half-closed lids. There was an erotic crush about the view and his relationship to it. The immense power of the city throbbed through his legs, into his loins, and made his cock tingle. Power and sex had been inextricably wound up in Lou’s worldview—twin heads of a single serpent which represented the closest thing to what Lou would ever acknowledge as a god.

He glanced over at the woman standing next to him. Slim and cool in a sheath dress, the curves of her hips and breasts muted by the cut of the cloth, her hair in her usual bun, her face stark without makeup, Margaret presented a model of classic beauty. Her eyes contained the same crystal, penetrating focus that could be seen in Lou’s eyes when he wasn’t being thrown off-balance by the demands of his hectic days.

Feeling the weight of his gaze, Margaret turned to look at him, and their eyes locked. They regarded one another impassively, without tension, without expectation, without resistance. They understood each other perfectly, and they had long since given up all efforts at dissembling. Like two gunfighters who have finally come face to face, knowing that only one of them could survive, would survive, and that both might even be killed in the duel, they shared the rare camaraderie of enemies who respect one another’s strength.

“I spoke to Al this morning,” he said at last.

Margaret raised her eyebrows, giving her a mask of amusement which showed only the slightest trace of apprehension. Al was the common enemy in their habitual lexicon, the one whose name could serve to rouse them to a sense of unity. But now his appearance signified something else.

As head of Zenith Distributors, he handled everything from hard-core pornography to the most elegant art magazines, from moronic comic books to intellectual journals, and a good deal of everything in between—the bulk of middle-America’s reading diet. To him, Centaur was a minor entry in his ledgers, one of many he had acquired by getting greater and greater stock percentages in lieu of payment on debts the publishers had incurred with the distributor. To Al it was of no concern whether Centaur succeeded or failed, except insofar as he was able to use either eventuality to assist the empire at large. On the rare occasions he had visited the office, he treated everyone with aggressive indifference.

Margaret had decided to approach him and had set up an appointment. On the phone he had commented, “Decided to go over Lou’s head, eh?” and she had wondered at her own audacity.

The scene at his office was a different matter. After having her admitted, he studied her for a full minute, with a frank sexual appraisal that almost had her squirming, slowly smoking his cigar, flicking the ashes into a huge onyx ashtray which, except for a phone, was the only thing on his desk, a single slab of teak supported by one curved steel pillar in the center.

“Speak,” he said. “And skip any preliminaries. If you have business, come to the point.”

She had taken a deep breath, compressed her lips, crossed her legs, and then blurted out, “I want Lou’s job. I want control of Centaur.”

Al made a bland face. “I figured as much,” he said.

“It’s been a dead loss for months now,” she went on. “And Lou doesn’t have the foggiest notion of how to change the situation.”

“And you do?” Al replied, his voice edged with sarcasm.

“I think I can start a new trend in pornography. I think I can give the whole field a new face.”

“But can you make a profit?” he asked, openly twitting her, enjoying the role.

“If I succeed, I can make a fortune,” she said.

“And if you fail?” he said.

“Then you’re no worse off than you are now, are you?”

He gazed at her for a while through half-closed eyes. “And you don’t feel bad coming here behind Lou’s back, doing him in?”

Margaret shook her head. “I worried about it a long time, and then I realized that Lou has had his day. It’s sad to state it so baldly, but it’s a fact. He’s a tired man, he’s already had a couple of heart attacks. And he doesn’t understand that the country’s attitudes toward sex are changing radically. So what’s the point of his hanging onto a business that has outgrown him? What’s he got to look forward to there, dying behind his desk? I think I’m doing him a favor by pushing him out. He’s been talking about retiring to Puerto Rico for a long time now.”

“You have it all figured out, haven’t you?” he asked.

She lowered her eyes and her glance fell on his feet; he was wearing ankle-length desert boots. She reached down to her bag and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “Do you want to look at my ideas?” she asked.

“I’d rather see your cunt,” he told her.

The words exploded like a fragmentation bomb in the room. The reverberations bounced off their minds for a long moment. And then Al leaned forward, putting his elbows on his desk.

“I don’t want to see all that stuff you’ve written down. You wouldn’t come here with an offer like this if you didn’t have the whole thing figured out. You’re a smart woman, and you’ve been learning from Lou, so I can trust that you know what you’re doing. But I try not to bother myself with details. I go by my intuition. I give all the business facts to the accountants, and they figure out financial considerations.” He squinted into her gaze as though trying to see past her eyes and into her brain. “Sure, Lou is on the way out. We’ve all known that for a while, including Lou. But we go back a long time, him and me. So I’m not about to give him the bum’s rush. But I might suggest that he step down to make room for his charming and intelligent second-in-command.”

Margaret’s heart fluttered for several beats. She had come in to fight for the job, but had geared herself emotionally to being turned down.

“You mean you will back me?” she asked.

He leaned back in his chair again and looked at her steadily. The expression on his face was not hard to read, and his startling exclamation of a moment earlier was still ringing in her ears.

“What do you want me to do?” she said, her voice faltering.

“Why don’t you start by taking off your clothes,” he told her.

Margaret turned away from Lou now and looked back over the city again. A slight flush came to her cheeks as she remembered the rest of that afternoon, and that night. The inflection in Lou’s voice told her that Al had given him his notice, in one way or another, but she had no way of knowing whether Al had told him what Margaret had done to help bring that about.

She had stood naked in front of Al, her hair flowing down over her shoulders. He was almost sixty, heavy enough almost to be considered fat, and like many people who subconsciously fear their bodies, he was always immaculately groomed, even to having clear nail polish on all his fingernails. He looked at her with all the cupidity of an avaricious tourist in the marketplace of an impoverished village.

“Is this your standard business practice?” she asked.

“I’ve got what you want,” he told her. “Why shouldn’t I ask a price?” And then, standing up, he said, “On your hands and knees,” and she had gone down on the floor in front of him.

He strolled over to where she knelt in her position of humiliation and subservience. He lifted one foot and edged the tip of his boot into her cunt. He pulled it back and then shoved it in again, bruising the cunt lips.

“Pull your pussy open,” he ordered, “I want you to feel my shoe in your cunt.”

It was, from a sociological point of view, a bizarre scene. A fully-dressed, portly businessman standing over an attractive young woman, naked and kneeling, with his foot between her legs, the entire thing taking place in a plush office on the thirty-fifth floor of one of New York’s most elegant buildings.

“But existentially, it’s no more or less peculiar than anything else,” Margaret said to herself, rationalizing the situation neatly.

She reached behind her and pulled her cunt lips apart, revealing the still dry cavern to his unblinking eyes. He put the flat of his shoe on her ass and shoved forward, sending her sprawling on the rug. Her legs flew apart, and he stepped between them, standing near the crack between her buttocks. Then, slowly and deliberately, he began kicking her in the cunt, not hard enough to damage her, but hard enough to hurt and degrade. To her surprise, she felt her cunt begin to moisten, and in an instant she had begun to lift her ass slightly to allow the tip of his boot to hit her cunt more squarely.

“Don’t like it too much, bitch,” he said, “or you’ll get carried away.”

Having no pretensions about compassion or decency, Al used his wealth and power to buy people to do his bidding, and through that had learned some rock-bottom truths about the reflex behavior of human beings, for he was often able to study them as dispassionately as a biologist viewing microbes through a microscope. And one of the things he had learned was that when, through one means or another, a woman’s deep sexual energy is contacted, she will go wild with expression and cease to manifest the psychological states of disgust and loathing which he thrived on. Al was a connoisseur of the vile, and for his pleasure to be complete he required complete control of the situation.

He turned his ankle so that the toe of his boot slid in sideways, penetrating into the damp hair and beyond into the outer folds of her cunt. He applied a steady pressure until his shoe was embedded several inches into her hole, and she cooperated by lifting her ass higher off the floor and spreading her legs wider, giving him not only the physical satisfaction but a strong, voyeuristic rush.

“Never seen it to fail,” he said. “You’re all sluts. The more elegant you are outside, the dirtier you are underneath.”

“We’re born between piss and shit, Al,” she told him, quoting St. Augustine.

Her reply, of course, angered him, and next to hatred, Al loved anger. He pulled his boot back, leaving her quivering in midair. He walked around in front of her, stopping by her head. He slid his boot under her face.

“Lick it,” he said.

“My God, he certainly is one for stereotypes,” Margaret said to herself, attempting to rescue the situation with a flourish of mental superiority. But the brute reality of the moment intervened heavily. She could not escape from the fact that she was lying naked on her belly in front of a despicable man, licking her cunt juices off his boot.

He stepped back. “Roll over,” he said. She rolled onto her back.

“Get your hand in your cunt,” he said, “I want to see you come. And please, don’t fake it. I won’t accept anything that isn’t authentic.”

She blacked out his presence from her mind and began to masturbate, doing it as she did when she was alone, beginning slowly around the inner thighs, stroking the space around her cunt, then rubbing the cunt lips themselves, touching her clitoris from time to time, and then more frequently, slipping her finger into her cunt, wetting it, rubbing her clitoris again, sliding her palm up and down over her whole cunt.

“Put your other hand under your ass,” he told her. “Put a finger in your asshole.”

She did as she was told, and now was starting to pump her pelvis, back and forth, her ass contracting and releasing, her right hand working at her cunt, her left hand fingering her anus. She rolled from side to side and a sharp moan escaped her lips. She had succeeded in forgetting Al’s presence, but he reminded her by putting his boot on her face. She knew what he wanted without his asking, and she began to lick the bottom of his boot, lapping it with her tongue, wetting it with long, thick strokes. He pushed down harder, squashing her face under his foot.

And as he stepped on her and spat on her belly and her breasts, she put all her attention on her cunt, urging the sensations on, working them up, until the first tremors began and her thighs began to shake and tremble, and her legs clamped tight, and her hand slid up and down more furiously over her clitoris, and with a sob and a shudder she flexed into a brief tantalizing orgasm which, under less austere circumstances, would have been only the prelude to a series of climaxes that would have had her screaming with release.

Al knew that, too, and as his boot bruised her lips he said, “That’s just the beginning. I know you can come better than that.”

He stepped back from her and, to her dismay, he began to undress, revealing the corpulence he had learned to revel in. “And while you’re having a good time fucking yourself with your finger,” he went on, “I’m going to have you lick every square inch of my body.”

Then, grotesquely, he smiled. “But now, you don’t have to do this, you know. You can leave at any time. This is only if you want the key to Lou’s private bathroom and his big office.”

She looked back up at him coolly. “I’ll do what you want,” she said, “and even get a perverse pleasure out of it, and know that that’s your kick, watching me get off on your sick game. But I’ll tell you one thing. If you double-cross me, if you put me through this and then back out of the deal, I’ll get you. I don’t know how, but I’ll get you. And when I do I’ll cut your balls off with a rusty razor blade and make you eat them. You understand me, you rotten son of a bitch?”

Al chuckled. “You’re really very beautiful when you get angry,” he said. And then, squatting over her, added, “Now why don’t you get your cunt moving again and close your eyes. And keep your mouth open. I have something for you.”

Now Margaret turned back away from Lou to look out over the balcony again. She waited a long while before asking, “Oh? And what did Al say?”