The Devil's Sperm Is Cold (10 page)

Alma turned over and lay on her back under him. She looked up into his eyes.

“Manuel,” she said. “You are going to fuck me.”

He smiled. “Yes, querida,” he told her, “I am going to hoist my thick cock into your hole and fuck you until you are screaming.”

“Not like that,” she said. “Not for the first time.”

She put her hands around his back and drew him down so that he lay on top of her, their bodies touching entirely. His cock slid between her thighs. The heat from her cunt was extraordinary.

“Fuck me gently,” she said. “I want to feel all of you, not just your cock.”

Her legs parted slightly, and he moved his body up until his cock was at the opening of her pussy. The wet cunt let him in easily. And his cock entered her for a long time, each inch opening her hole wider, each inch touching a deeper part of her, until he was completely embedded in her body. Her cunt quivered and kissed the length of the cock inside of it.

“You are really here,” she said, her voice filled with wonder.

“I feel here, and then I don’t,” he told her.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “It takes time to get over the strangeness.”

“Time,” he repeated.

“We have all our lives,” she told him.

“You mean, to try again?” he asked.

Alma tightened the muscles of her cunt and grasped him tightly. Manuel shivered with pleasure.

“I’m not going to want to let you go,” she said. “You know that. You can fuck me now, and leave me in the morning. But I’m not going to want to let you go.”

Manuel began to rotate his hips, his pelvis thrusting forward. His cock swelled to its full hardness and length, and he dug it deep into her cunt. Alma groaned and opened her legs wider. Manuel pumped his cock into her a dozen times, each time changing the angle, each time penetrating more deeply. Alma began to moan continuously, and her legs opened still wider, and bent at the knees. Manuel lowered his pelvis and brought his cock into her from below so that it hit upwards into her cervix.

“Holy Mother of God,” she exclaimed. “Oh Manuel, I am all yours. My cunt is yours, my ass is yours, my tits are yours, my mouth is yours, my heart is yours. Take me, take me, my beloved.”

Manuel slid his hands down until they cupped the cheeks of her ass and he pulled her into him.

“Give it to me, baby,” he said, “give me that juicy hot cunt of yours. Make it open, make it loose. Just hold it there and let me fuck it. Let me fuck your cunt.”

And they entered that strange litany of lust, that baroque dialogue of sex, in which the words and the actions are complements to each other, serving no purpose but to bring the people involved to higher and higher levels of pleasure.

Alma lifted her legs high in the air, making her cunt and ass an open crack for Manuel’s cock to dive in and out with total abandon. His fingers dug into her buttocks and her breasts were flat against his chest. Her hands raked his shoulders, and her mouth sought his until their lips met, and their souls flew together in the breath of their kiss. Manuel rode her with the ease born of surrender, and Alma wrapped her legs around his back, clasping him in the ultimate embrace, as her hips began to rotate, and she pumped her cunt back into the thrusts of his cock, until their rhythms matched, and they were lost in the far reaches of unselfish fucking, in which there was no longer a self and an other, but a single joint movement toward climax.

With the hot juices spilling out of her cunt as his cock sloshed in and out. Alma thought over and over again, “Oh Lord, please let him stay this time, please let him know what he means to me,” and with her spiralling joy at having him in her arms, there came a chord of despair that he might not understand how deeply he had touched her.

And as he felt his orgasm approach, the rich writhing body of the luscious woman grinding into him, he said to himself, “I don’t know if this is enough. It is the best thing I will ever know with a woman, but I don’t know if I will be able to resist if Joan calls me to her.”

They fucked all night long, and when they fell asleep, it seemed that they would never leave one another’s arms again. Only the following day would tell if that were true.

Joan rang the bell with apprehension. It was the front door to a brownstone in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn. When Jack had invited her he slipped her a ten-dollar bill that morning, saying simply, “For cab fare.”

Manuel had not been to work for two days, and Joan toyed for a while with the idea of calling him at his apartment, and then dismissed the notion as foolish. Falling into a stereotypic understanding of Manuel, she assumed that her running after him would be met by scorn on his part, and she would have to play out an elaborate drama of submission before he would deign to touch her. She conveniently forgot all aspects of their encounter which pointed to something deeper in the man, since she was not ready to confront him seriously.

“It was great fun but it was just one of those things,” she hummed a number of times during the day.

It was while she was humming the tune that Jack poked his head in through the door of her cubicle. An eternally jolly man of about forty, so nondescript in appearance that she could not tell whether he was good-looking or not, he stood perhaps five feet eight inches, had loose sandy hair, and no one could remember ever seeing him without a smile.

“How’s my favorite smut sorter?” he called out to her.

Joan turned in her chair, smiling reflexively. After the inordinate heaviness of the previous several days, she was relieved to relate in a less than cataclysmic fashion. She put down the manuscript she was reading, threw her feet up on the desk, and asked Jack to come in.

He paused a moment at the doorway to look at the way her skirt slid back past her knees to reveal the first glimpses of her full thighs disappearing into the exotic shadows beyond. Joan looked at him quizzically, for he had never seemed to exhibit any sexual interest in her before.

He walked into the tiny office and sat down on a pile of manuscripts. The room was littered with paper, giving it the appearance of a used book shop or a mathematician’s study. He lit a cigarette, and took several drags before speaking.

“Been to any good orgies lately?” he asked.

Joan sighed. “The only orgies I ever get to never have more than two people.”

Jack grinned, shook his head. “I know what you mean,” he said. And he turned his head sideways to look frankly up her dress. Her ochre panties glowed dully in the dark space between her thighs, and he imagined he could feel the hot moist mound in the palm of his hand. His cock twitched once, but he did not change his cheerful and lighthearted approach.

“I’m going to one tonight that’ll have maybe seventy-five or a hundred people,” he said offhandedly.

Thinking he was joking, Joan said, “Wow, that sounds like a ball. Why don’t you invite me?”

Jack narrowed his eyes, ran his gaze up her legs and over her breasts, his face a curious split between humor and lust. “OK,” he told her, “you’re invited.”

Joan took a sip of the almost cold coffee in her cup, made a wry face, and swallowed it as though it were foul-tasting medicine. Her refreshment was often the rancid remains of coffee she would pour, forget, and then return to a half hour after it was prepared. She stuck out her tongue in an exhibition of distaste.

“Do you ever drink piss?” Jack asked her.

Joan blinked. His question, asked so calmly and matter-of-factly, took her by surprise.

“I haven’t,” she told him.

“Do you want to?” he persisted.

“I suppose if I got hot enough I would do just about anything,” she said. “Is that what you do at your orgies?”

Talking with Jack was usually a matter of staying at the edge between seriousness and whims, between fact and fancy. He was Centaur’s most successful salesman, and once, when she had an opportunity to glance at the company’s pay sheets, she was astounded to learn that he had grossed over forty thousand dollars in commissions in a single year. “And that’s nothing,” the accountant had told her, “in comparison to what he gets under the table.”

“Under the table?” Joan had repeated naively.

“That’s right,” the accountant said and slipped his hand up Joan’s skirt and bunched his fingers in her crotch. She had jumped up in surprise, only to land on his hand again, and this time his fingers were waiting to squeeze her cunt. She wriggled away, and he had laughed as though the thing had been a prank. But she retained the feeling of his hand on her pussy for hours afterwards. It was like that in a pornographer’s publishing company; people were always on the alert for sexual encounter.

Joan remembered the incident as Jack smoked with studied precision. “It’s an interesting activity,” he went on. “But, no, to answer your question, no one does anything unless he or she wants to at the orgies. The only rule is: no watching. Everyone has to do something, even if it’s only to masturbate. Having an audience creates self-consciousness. But you know that. You used to be in theater, didn’t you? That’s the trouble with theater—the audience.”

“Why did you ask me that?” she wondered out loud.

“I’m taking a survey,” he told her, “just for my private curiosity. I’ve found that most people don’t even know that urine is sterile, and if it comes from a healthy person is probably safer to drink than our beloved city’s tap water. And yet, there is something in everyone’s mind that drinking piss is one of the dirtiest things we can do. Isn’t that interesting?”

“I’ve always thought it was dirty,” she said.

“Just so,” he told her. “And thinking something is dirty is often the best way to get a thrill out of it, isn’t it?”

He looked at her so knowingly, so piercingly, that she wondered for a moment whether he too had been made privy to Lou’s movies of her. Concurrently, a flash of anger and a spasm of erotic tension went through her. She was torn in two, as always, between her dislike of being a commodity that Lou passed around via his movie projector, and her excitement at thinking of the strange eyes that watched her perform in the dramas of degradation that Lou had staged with her. “Has Jack seen me with Lou’s cock in my mouth, with the sperm dripping down my chin, spilling over my lips and tongue? Has he seen me with two men sandwiching me between them, one fucking me in the cunt and the other fucking me in the ass, while I went wild squirming and humping myself on their cocks? Has he seen me with my legs spread apart, pulling my cunt lips apart?”

“Well?” Jack asked.

“Well what?” she replied.

“Would you like to come to the orgy?” he said.

She smiled. “You mean, there really is an orgy?”

“Of course,” he told her. “There are orgies all the time, all over the place. We are living in the shadow of the fall of two thousand years of Western civilization. The witches are taking to the woods again. But this time there are hardly any woods left, so we must perform our rites in apartment houses.”

“And what happens there?”

“You take off your clothes, and sooner or later you get involved in something or other. There are no rules.” He ran his eyes down her body, pausing again at her breasts, and seeming to penetrate all her clothing to perceive that her cunt was becoming interested in the image. She had to check an impulse to put her hand between her legs.

Jack had written an address and a time on a piece of paper, and put it on her desk. Then he took ten dollars from his pocket and put it next to the information. “It’s in Brooklyn,” he said. “If you come, take a cab.”

And now she stood there, waiting for the massive wooden door to be opened. The day had grown progressively duller since Jack left, and she buried herself in detail. She went home, found herself taking a shower and putting on her most inviting skirt and not wearing a bra under the gauzy blouse she chose. Without thinking about it, she was making her decision. And when she went into the street, she began at once to look for a taxi. “Of course, I’m going,” she said to herself as she gave the driver the address, and had to promise him a large tip for the trouble of taking her all the way to Brooklyn.

A pleasant, plump middle-aged woman opened the door and looked at her inquiringly. Behind her, there seemed to be no activity of any sort.

“I’m Joan,” she said. “I’m a friend of Jack’s.”

“Oh yes,” the woman said, and Joan realized that she might have said, “I’m Suzy and I’m a friend of Henry’s,” and been met with the same response.

“Well,” she thought, “one doesn’t come to an orgy to be intimate. It’s just a matter of bodies.”

“The bodies are downstairs,” the woman said, and Joan rocked back on her heels with imagining that her thought had been read. “I’m Helene,” the woman went on, “and this is my house. Come in.”

Joan stepped into the foyer. “I’m sure Jack told you the rules,” Helene said. “You must be naked and you must not remain a mere spectator. Aside from that, you may do whatever you like with whomever is willing to do it with you. And if you feel that someone is imposing upon you, you need simply to say ‘No,’ firmly, and he or she will stop. That is the final rule.”

Helene walked with her to the end of the hallway. “Please remove your clothing here,” she said, “and hang it in that closet.”

Joan spun around. “But this is really all so cold!” she exclaimed.

“Not really,” the woman said. “Just efficient. We’ve had it the other way, and had the most terrible imbroglios looking for lost pocketbooks and skirts and wallets. Also, there is something necessarily symbolic about entering the orgy room naked. It puts everyone on an equal footing at once. There is no way to maintain social identity when you don’t have any clothes on.”

Joan began to remove her blouse, letting her large breasts fall out. They jiggled as she bent over to remove her shoes. She let her skirt drop to her ankles. Helene watched her the way a matron might watch a student preparing for a long-delayed shower. “This is weird,” Joan said as she slid her panties down her legs. Finally, she stood naked.

“Very nice body,” the woman said. “I wonder how many cocks will come in that prim pussy of yours, how many fingers will make that delicious ass wriggle with delight, how many cunts will smother those wide lips, how many mouths will feast on those tiny sensitive nipples and those lush full breasts?” Joan looked up with a flash of horror. The woman was stone-faced. “You are an infant,” she said, “and you have the advantage of having a young body. But remember, there are those of us who have been reborn in a different dimension. Think of that when you begin to judge us as being cold or unfeeling, or if you begin to condescend to me because I am old enough to be a grandmother, because I am running to fat, because I am no longer desirable. Just remember, when one is no longer desirable, it sometimes means that that person has freed herself from the chains of desire itself, chains which still are coiled tightly about your mind, and make you a slave to the promptings of your cunt.”

She reached forward abruptly and slipped her hand between Joan’s legs, and just as suddenly pulled it back. The tips of her fingers were moist. The woman smiled grimly. “Go on, little Jack’s friend, go down into the sea of flesh, and see if you can satisfy yourself.”

A fear began to creep up Joan’s spine and she was almost panicked into putting on her clothes again and leaving, but the woman took her by the arm and led her to another doorway. Opening it on a hubbub of sound, she propelled Joan inside, and closed the door behind her. Joan found herself standing on the top step of a circular stairway, and, taking a deep breath, she began to descend.

The scene that greeted her eyes made her reach for the most immediate time and space perimeters she could find. “It’s ten-thirty and I’m in Brooklyn,” she said to herself, but the words were of little meaning in the face of the timeless drama in front of her. There was the race of humanity, in the throes of its ultimate dance, the final attempt to shed all the millennia of inhibitions and conventionally defined reality that had accrued in their twentieth-century mentalities. Gone were the badges of sartorial definition, the social roles, the moral structures which imposed themselves upon the free perception of the real. It was not that they had attained any higher understanding in the essentially bourgeois expression of release they had convened to share, but that in the very attempt to become other than what their civilization would have them be, they found an odd dignity of purpose that laced the superficially riotous affair with veins of seriousness.

“Ah, Joan,” a voice cried out.

Joan looked out over the room to see Jack coming toward her. He made his way gingerly across the erotic battlefield, sidestepping couples fucking, groups of threes and fours and fives in various pretzel forms, and individuals who looked like people out for a stroll in Washington Square Park on a Sunday afternoon, somewhat self-involved and idly cruising. She could not make out any distinguishing characteristic among the people; there were old and young, the age range seeming to go from about eighteen to sixty; there were fat and thin, black and white, ugly and beautiful. The only thing they all had in common was that they seemed well-fed and healthy, products of the cream of the affluent portion of the world’s richest nation. The room did not have a focus.

Jack took her hand and led her away from the staircase to a corner of the huge basement, which was now a bare den, covered with a rug, huge pillows, and containing as its only real furniture a fifteen-foot bar that stood against one wall and was stocked with a full range of liquor. The occasional sharp smell of marijuana smoke cut through the haze of tobacco, which further obscured the dim lighting. Now and then there was a snap and a sweet aroma which Joan recognized as amyl nitrate. The space was a mélange of conversational tones and moans of excitement.

“Nice place, isn’t it?” said Jack, jovial as ever.

“I suppose,” Joan started to say. But she was interrupted. Without further ado Jack grabbed her wrists and pushed her to her knees. She found herself staring at his immense sceptered cock, an organ all out of proportion to the rest of his body. He continued the pressure and pushed her to her back.

“I want to get you first, before you get too crazy,” he said. “And then I’ll fuck you later, so I can have you at both ends of the spectrum.”