The Devil's Sperm Is Cold (16 page)

She rubbed cold cream on her face and wiped it off expertly, leaving her skin smooth and clean. And then, taking the rubber band off her pony tail, she let her hair hang down, and still floating on the cloud of her self-delusion, thinking that what she had in her head would be more pertinent to what happened than what she did with her body, she went back into the living room.

Manuel had found the stereo, put on an early Stones’ album, with a rough raw beat that left nothing to the imagination. He was standing next to the large window, the beer bottle in one hand, his other hand hooked into his belt. His strong legs bulged against his tight jeans, the thick roll of his cock hanging unashamedly down his left thigh. He had taken off his jacket, and his shirt was open down to his chest, showing the black hair and the broad muscles that caused more than one woman’s cunt to twitch in anticipation. He was looking at her with a steady, almost malevolent glare.

Her heart sank and she almost stumbled on the spot, able to do little more than to fall to the floor and bleat with surrender. But it was not to him she would surrender to, for he looked not a little ridiculous, something like a stud posing in a homosexual magazine. No, it was to the experience that she would give herself, to the blinding anonymous release of a cunt that cared for nothing except the penetration that supplied it with all the eternity it would ever hope for.

“He’s going to fuck me,” she said to herself again, and took a strange pleasure in realizing that after he spread her legs and thrust his cock inside her, a few hours later Margaret would be licking her bruised cunt lips.

“Maybe I should let his sperm stay inside me, and let Margaret suck it out,” she thought, and wondered at her wicked delight in the ramifications of her situation. “Life does get interesting at times,” she concluded, and sat down on the couch, partially because she was too shaky to stand and partially because she wouldn’t do anything on her own initiative, but would let him carry the entire scene. “If he wants me, let him take me,” she thought. “I’ve already made it easy enough for him.”

He observed her stratagem. At this point, they were only abstract representatives of types to one another. In the exigencies of their condition, they had to play more inner roles than the social structure could comfortably accommodate. And the result was that they lost the ease and spontaneity which alone would have given them what they so desperately needed: a sense of their own humanity. He looked down at her as she lit a cigarette. She was making his balls ache with lust, and yet he despised her for being at once so accessible and so distant. She was giving him permission to fuck her and putting him in his place at the same time. His desire was laced with anger, and he sensed that the only really dignified thing to do was to leave.

“Where are you going to in Puerto Rico?” she asked in her best cocktail party tones.

That she should continue the pretense of polite conversation at this juncture was both admirable and enraging in his eyes. His mouth was too dry to even speak, and he took a swig of the beer. He felt foolish, and as a man often does in such situations, he could see no way out of his predicament except through direct action. He put the bottle down and walked over to the couch. Abruptly, he put his hands on her shoulders and drew her face forcefully into his crotch.

She let out a grunt of surprise. She had provoked him to an action too precipitous to allow her to give herself to it, and she would now rebuff him. She felt vindicated, and her pride seemed stronger than whatever lust she might have felt. She pulled back and shook his hands off.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she said in her iciest tones. “I thought you wanted to say good-bye. I didn’t imagine you would behave like this.”

He couldn’t believe his ears. He knew he had moved awkwardly and without proper preparation, but he hadn’t expected to be pushed away with so much coldness. Her words shriveled his cock, as they were meant to do.

“I mean, if you want to sit down and talk, I’m perfectly willing,” she went on, “but don’t think that gives you the right…”

But she never finished the sentence. For as he stared at her, naked beneath her gown, her hair a halo of light around her face, her entire activity since he had met her in front of the building a continuous seduction, and hearing her prattle in her inane way, a bolt of anger struck him through the brain, and without thinking he raised his right arm, swung it full force, and hit her backhanded flush across the mouth.

She was hurled across the couch, turning over one and a half times before she came to rest against the far arm. A trickle of blood came from her upper lip and her eyes were dazed. She lay motionless for a second, then shook her head and sat up slowly. Her expression went from surprise to fear to rage to retaliation. She sprang to her feet.

“You dirty motherfucker,” she spat out at him. “How dare you put your filthy hands on me? You think that just because you have that big cock between your legs you can do anything you want with me?” Her fists were clenched, her shoulders raised and her arms stiff at her sides. “I let you have your chance and you blew it. Too bad. That’s all the chance you get. Now get the fuck out of here, you greasy little spic!”

The words were the final trigger on his reserve. In an oddly lucid way, he realized that he didn’t even really want to fuck her. That his lust was more in his head than in his cock. And now, he felt no desire at all for the trembling girl who stood in front of him. He just wanted to conquer her, to make her bend to his will. And he chose the means man has chosen from time immemorial over woman—brute force.

He reached out with his left hand, grabbed her hair, yanked it painfully sideways, and threw her on the couch. Her eyes widened with a flash of terror. For an instant, she thought, “My God, he might kill me.” And she instantly regretted her words, and wanted nothing more than for him to leave, to erase the entire tape, make if nonexistent. But he was already on the rampage.

He grabbed her hair again and twisted once more, only this time he held on, forcing her face into the couch. He pulled it until it seemed it would be torn out by the roots, and her entire body turned, trying to relieve the pressure. Her gown opened down the center, and her breasts fell out.

She began to moan and her voice threatened to grow into a wail. He let go of her hair, and grabbed one wrist, bending her arm behind her back.

“Come on,” he said, forcing her off the couch, “into the next room. And if you scream I’ll beat you to a pulp.”

He couldn’t believe his own behavior. The words and deeds of a rapist. He was raping her! And the first thought that accompanied that realization was: twenty years in jail.

“I don’t care, man,” he told himself. “I can’t stop now. I can’t cop out on fucking her a second time.”

He pushed her ahead of him and she half fell, half walked into the bedroom. The entire thing, which had begun with the atmosphere of a dream, was transforming itself into a nightmare. She saw headlines in the Daily News the next day: PORNOGRAPHER RAPED AND STABBED. Manuel had become a black unnamed force behind her, and she no longer knew what he was and wasn’t capable of.

“Manuel, please don’t hurt me,” she sobbed.

But in response he only twisted her arm harder, and slapped her across the neck, stunning her slightly. Then he reached down with his free arm and slipped it between her legs, grabbing her cunt with his hand. She froze midstep and gasped as his fingers grasped the tender flesh, digging in hard. But at the same time her knees buckled and she felt an insane jagged line of sexual electricity down her inner thighs.

Manuel had no intention of harming her, but he would not let her know that. He would hit her if he had to, but not so it would damage her seriously. What he wanted was to vanquish her, not to kill her. He let go of her suddenly and stepped back. She swayed and fell forward, landing on her knees. He took the back of her dressing gown and yanked, pulling the entire thing off her body in a single motion. She was naked on her knees in front of him.

“Crawl up on the bed,” he told her, “and stay on your belly.”

She hesitated for a moment, and he kicked her hard, square between the buttocks, lifting her a half inch from the floor. She cried out and he reached down and clamped his hand over her mouth. Holding her by the head, he lifted her off the floor and flung her forward onto the bed, her legs sprawling behind her, her ass bouncing, her cunt black and hairy below it. He looked around him wildly and then found what he wanted. The sash around the window curtain. He strode over, pulled it down, and went back to the bed where Joan was lying still, afraid to budge. Roughly, he tied her wrists together and then tied them to one of the bedposts, so that her arms stretched out over her head. He ripped off a piece of the dressing gown, and wrapped it over her mouth as a gag. And then he stepped back, watching her, tied and unable to make any sound louder than a stifled groan.

To his amazement he found that he was trembling violently from head to toe and drenched in sweat. The enormity of what he was doing was just beginning to dawn on him. But he put all thoughts out of his mind, knowing that if he stopped for even a few seconds to consider, he would back out. And it was already almost too late for that, for he was already responsible for assault and attempted rape.

He opened his fly and let his cock fall out. Joan still did not move. “Open your legs,” he said. She remained as she was. “All right,” he told her. He slipped his belt out from its hooks around his waist, walked to the bed, raised his arm, and brought the leather strap down on her plump ass. It whistled as it fell, hit with a loud thwack, and caused Joan to attempt to scream, a sound that only partially made it past the gag.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, “but you better do what I tell you.”

Out of some deep unwillingness to lose in this absurd struggle, she kept her legs closed, and clenched the cheeks of her ass.

“If that’s the way you want it,” he said, and hit her with the belt once more. It stung with an excruciating pain, and her entire body jumped. She rolled over to protect the abused spot, and Manuel hit her hard across the front of her thighs.

She began to weep, and with tears rolling down her cheeks, her breasts quivering on her chest, she slowly opened her legs, letting him peer between them to the precious cunt he wanted to get at.

“On your belly,” he rasped. “Get on your belly and open your legs.”

He had to have the victory totally on his terms, and he hoped she wouldn’t play the game in such a way that he would have to capitulate or really hurt her. Resigned, she rolled over, exposing the tender buttocks once more, and spread her legs apart, and then collapsed, her muscles completely lax, and sobbed unrestrainedly from the pain and fear.

Manuel threw down the belt and sat on the bed next to her. He was beginning to feel bad about the whole thing. And for a long time he did not move, but stared down at her, as her chest heaved with weeping, and her legs rolled about in sympathetic movement. He watched her ass roll around unselfconsciously, and her cunt shift as she writhed. There were no thoughts in his mind. Only the sight of her body was impressed on his brain.

Then, almost idly, he brought one hand up and laid it on her ass. She flinched, thinking he was about to hit her again, and then relaxed. He moved his hand slowly over the red welts where the belt had struck, and then ran it between the cheeks, down the musty crack, jamming it at last between her thighs, covering her asshole and her cunt with the curve that extended from the tip of his forefinger to the tip of his thumb. Her crotch was like an egg being held by a parabolic egg holder, and it was as gently as that that he embraced her.

Again, without any intent or conscious thought, he leaned forward and began to lick the angry belt marks with his tongue, soothing them, wetting them, removing the real and symbolic pain with the gesture of solace. He turned around so that he was facing in the same direction she was, and brought his other hand to meet his first, so that they were palm to palm between her thighs. With his hands in an attitude of prayer holding her cunt and ass, he came completely forward and gave himself totally to licking the stinging cheeks, going over the round white flesh again and again until Joan began to feel the first flush of pleasure creeping in past the tingling of pain. She let loose her fear he would strike her again, and turned her head from lying on her right cheek to her left, relieving the tension that had accumulated in her neck and jaw.

Manuel pulled his hands apart, gently forcing her thighs open as he did so. And with that, his mouth dipped down into the dark curve between her buttocks. His tongue found its groove and he started to lick it with total concentration. For Joan, it was more than she could keep from responding to. Tied up, gagged, beaten, she wanted to yield nothing to Manuel, but there was no way to hold back her tiny movements of pleasure as his tongue swept up and down the crack of her ass, curling from time to time to insert the tip into the puckered opening. She found herself spreading her legs wider without any urging from him.

As he felt her response, Manuel relaxed. For if she enjoyed it and cooperated, there would be no talk of rape. He shuffled his body forward until he was on his knees between her legs, and with his fingers he pressed back, indicating that he wanted her to raise her hips. She slid her knees forward until her ass was off the bed, rounded, thrust backward, spread apart. Manuel dipped his head lower and then let himself go totally.

This was his hello and good-bye to Joan, to the girl of his dreams, to the prim white representative from a world he briefly aspired to. As he burrowed into the wet pungent crack, sucking at her ass, licking her cunt, lapping her juices and setting her wriggling with caresses on her clitoris, he relived the eleven months he had known her, remembering all the times he had watched her sit down, and had envied the chair she lowered herself onto. It was extraordinary to consider there was a time when he was paralyzed with lust at the mere thought of smelling her panties, and here he was with his tongue deep inside her crevices, with her beginning to rotate her hips, to push her cunt into his mouth to allow him the fullest penetration.