by Marco Vassi
Slave Lover
The Vassi Collection: Volume X
Marco Vassi
Contents
Introduction
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Introduction
Were the Sixties put on earth so that Marco Vassi could happen? Or was Marco Vassi put on earth so that the Sixties could happen? To read his classic works of erotic fiction and his masterpiece of autobiographical fiction, THE STONED APOCALYPSE, is to realize that the man and the era were created out of the same fire and primordial elements. It is not, however, enough to say that Marco Vassi was a child of his age. It could just as accurately be said that the age was Marco Vassi’s fantasy, a fantasy so intense and compelling that it is impossible to read any of his books in one sitting: one must either jump into a cold shower, relieve oneself sexually, or go for a long contemplative walk to reflect on the profundity of his insights into human behavior.
Vassi had done many things before he became a writer, but writing was not one of them except for some translations from Chinese and critiques of manuscripts submitted to a literary agency where he was employed for a few years. He had also tried numerous identities on for size as he acted out and lived out the experiences that were to pour from his mind like water raging over the spillway of a dam. When in the late 1960s “Fred” Vassi announced that he was embarking on a journey, his friends knew that it was not to a place but to a state of mind.
The state of mind was what came to be known as the Sixties, and anyone seeking to live in that state must enter it through the vision of the author of these works. In cartographic terms it was a journey from the East Coast to California, a trip that resonates with meaning for every student of the American Experience. Speaking metaphorically, however, it was a trip into the heart of life, love, laughter, horror, and sweet pain. Fred Vassi came back Marco Vassi, having recreated himself in the name of the intrepid voyager to the ends of the known world hundreds of years ago.
Heart fecund with all that had happened to him, he started writing the work that was eventually to become THE STONED APOCALYPSE, a book that captured in coruscating words what others of his generation were capturing so brilliantly in music.
With no source of regular income he tried his hand at what were then popularly known as sex novels, a genre of tame pornography that pandered to the fantasies of repressed males still mired in postwar inhibition. With the wide-eyed innocence and self-deprecating humor that characterized every venture he undertook, he showed them to me, his friend and a fledgling literary agent. He merely hoped to raise a few dollars with them. I told him that they were the most incredibly arousing works of erotic literature since Henry Miller, and arranged for them to be brought out by Olympia Press, Miller’s publisher. Critics and reviewers confirmed my assessment. What distinguished his books from the rest of the pack was the application of Vassi’s intelligence. He knew that the mind is the most erotic organ of all. He termed this fusion of mind and sex organs “Metasex.”
For Marco Vassi, the liberation of sexual emotions, paralleling the liberation of so many others in the late 1960s and early 1970s, promised a new age of beauty, love, and honesty, and he lived his vision to the hilt—quite literally. For a long while it seemed to him impossible that this vision did not rest on the bedrock of reality.
But, in the words of Robert Frost, nothing gold can stay. The bloody hand of Vietnam and the corrupt fist of the Nixon presidency crushed the fragile beauty of the Flower Generation. The unbridled commercialism that became the 1980s captured and exploited the butterflies of Woodstock, enriching half of them and killing the other half with sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. Finally, the horror of a new scourge, AIDS, visited death upon the bodies of those who had dreamed of eternal love, irresponsible fun, and self-realization. It was then that Marco Vassi awoke from his dream of the Sixties. When he did, the virus had entered his blood. The first malady of any consequence to come along, in his case pneumonia, conquered his defenseless immune system and made short work of him.
Marco Vassi’s body died, but not the body of his work, which lives again in these new editions. Like a rainbow over a bleak landscape, his dream of the Sixties shimmers above the depressing, sordid, and tragic decades that succeeded his. And, ultimately, it triumphs over them.
– Richard Curtis
One
When she woke up, she was tied facedown on a table and a man, she could not see who it was, was fucking her slowly and rhythmically in the ass. Her surprise was less at her total situation than at the fact that she was able to take the stranger’s cock with such ease. She had only been ass-fucked twice before, and each time it had been too painful for her to bear. Now, there was a kind of pleasurable warmth, a deep loosening in her bowels, a tingling vibration which spread into her thighs and stroked the inside of her cunt. She realized that she was moist between the legs, and suffered a slight astonishment that she was capable of being turned on in such an essentially terrifying position.
Constance was a quick-minded woman, twenty-seven years old, a freelance writer who had begun to make a reputation among some of the more solid publications. Her articles had appeared in Esquire, the Village Voice, Harper’s, Cosmopolitan, Ms., Forum, and several dozen other, smaller magazines and newspapers. She had a wide-ranging intelligence, and her pieces covered everything from Middle East politics to new tendencies in American religious thought. Her latest interest had been in something that most people consider a dead issue: the white-slave trade.
The word “white” was a misnomer in the current phase of that iniquitous business. It had been accurate during the previous century when white women were kidnapped specifically for use in Arab harems and whorehouses, but the trade had evolved into an equal opportunity employer and whisked women away without regard for race, color, nationality or religion. Constance had first formulated the idea that slavers still operated after being puzzled by a pattern of disappearances she had perceived while doing research with local newspapers for another project. A 22-year-old from a small town in Kansas in April, a 19-year-old from Iowa in May, a 16-year-old from Oregon also in May, and so on. No single disappearance was enough to cause more than a local stir, but after going over a number of papers for the previous year, she discovered that more than 100 women had mysteriously vanished.
The man above her now began to move with greater speed and power. She felt his thick thighs slapping against the back of her legs, his groin grinding into her buttocks, his cock insinuating its way deep into her asshole, pushing, pulsing, raping. His breath was hot and raspy in her ear and there was a thin sheet of sweat between his hairy chest and the smooth skin between her shoulder blades.
“It feels like he’s been fucking me for hours,” she thought, and wondered what it was all about, whether there was anyone else in the room—she assumed they were in a room—or whether anyone else had fucked her.
She opened her eyes.
“Hey, this bitch is waking up!” said the man above her. “I told you I wanted her unconscious for the whole thing.”
“Sorry, Mr. Eliot,” said a silky voice somewhere to the side other. “I’ll take care of it at once.”
No more than a few seconds passed before Constance felt a sharp pin prick in her right arm. It took only an instant for her to realize that she was being injected with a hypodermic. She cried out briefly but that only brought a heavy palm down across the side of her face. The blow stunned her and she felt the salt taste of blood at the corner of her lips.
“Shut up, cunt!” the man above her said. “You’re sp
oiling my fun.”
The liquid was squeezed into her arm and almost at once she started to go under. She lay there for several minutes, hovering between consciousness and sleep as the man above her began to fuck her again. The relaxation induced by the drug had an odd effect, however, in that it sensitized her skin. Her peculiar mental state made her dramatically aware of each square millimeter of flesh. The man’s cock felt huge and hot in her ass. She thought she could feel the vein on the underbelly of the massive tool as he slid in and out. He brought his cock out to the very tip and held it there and her asshole quivered with emptiness, and then he shoved in again. She could feel the rim of the head, the relatively narrow section behind it, and then the slow, magnificent swelling to the thick base. At the end of his thrust, his bristly pubic hair pressed against her ass cheeks.
“I want to fuck her when she’s really dead,” she heard the man say just before a black veil fell over her mind.
* * *
When she woke up again the first sensation was of pain. She was blindfolded, so she couldn’t see what was being done. She had to feel the situation from within to make out what they were doing to her. She took an inventory of her body. First her ankles. Obviously tied. Her legs seemed to be pulled wide. The muscles on the insides of her thighs were sore with straining. Her knees trembled slightly. She was so fatigued from strain and so cloudy from the aftereffects of the drug that it took a while to figure out her position. She was lying on her back, her wrists tied with her arms stretched as wide as they would go. Her legs were pulled apart and lifted up. Anyone standing in front of her would have a perfect view of her naked cunt and asshole.
Her asshole throbbed. There was no way of telling how long the man had fucked her. And her nipples ached terribly. She thought it might be because they had been pinched too hard, but then realized that the pinching was still going on. Something was attached to them, something applying a sharp, hard pressure.
“There she is,” she heard a voice say. It sounded like it belonged to the same man who had injected her earlier.
“And she’s really a slave?” another voice replied.
“Kidnapped, bound, and held prisoner against her will, all in classic style,” the man she now was beginning to refer to as Smoothy replied. “She should just be waking up now, so anything you do or say to her will be registered completely. You may induce any terror you desire. But she’s new and we aren’t ready to snuff her yet, so be careful you don’t damage the goods.”
“Can I fist-fuck her?” the first man asked.
“Be my guest,” Smoothy told him. “Hurt her all you like but don’t break any bones.”
“This is fantastic,” her soon-to-be tormentor said. “She’s beautiful.”
“It’s what you’re paying for. She’s also very intelligent, and so anyone interested in the psychological aspects of her bondage will have quite a treat. But I gather the impression you’re not interested in anything that subtle.”
“No. I just want to jam my fist up her cunt and fuck her ass and fuck her mouth.”
“A word of caution here. I advise that you use one of the rubber bafflers if you want to abuse her mouth. Otherwise there is nothing to restrain her from biting your cock clean off. A woman in her situation has nothing to lose, so she might shed some of her more decent qualities.”
“If she did that . . .” the second man began.
“If she did that,” Smoothy interrupted, “you would issue a cry of excruciating pain and deadly shock and be dead within minutes.” There was a pause. “There will be an attendant nearby should you need help or if you get carried away. Have a pleasant experience.”
For Constance, the conversation held a certain bizarre fascination. It was as though she were watching a movie and getting involved in the plot and characters and wondering what would happen next. The fact that whatever happened would be happening to her didn’t strike home until she felt the first contact at her cunt. That a strange man that she couldn’t see was going to shove his fist inside her, that he would derive pleasure from hurting her, killing her, and that she was absolutely helpless, was so extraordinary an occurrence that it seemed she must be dreaming.
Her mind sped back to the circumstances which led her to this ridiculous and terrible predicament. Once she had accepted that the disappearances of young women formed a pattern, it only took a small leap of imagination to conclude that it was the result of an organized group. She was unable for a while to grasp the full implications of that, but when she did, her heart almost stopped. She became convinced, in her excitement of discovery, that slavers were at work kidnapping women to be sold as erotic objects around the world. And if she could uncover the story, document it, and publish it, her reputation would be permanently established. She would be automatically catapulted into the ranks of the great journalists of the century.
The problem was how to find them. And to do that, she enlisted the aid of a long-term lover, Chet Cooper, who was a computer designer with a Ph.D. in mathematics from Stanford. She had known Chet for four years, and over that period of time had developed an easy cycle of getting together. They spent half the weekends of the year together, and usually one night out of every week, and took ten-day vacations whenever they could both get away from work at the same time. After she had known him for a year, she stopped seeing any other men, because Chet satisfied her completely. His mind was quite the equal of hers, he was five inches taller than her five-foot-seven, and he was a skilled lovemaker. When his cock sang inside her, she spread her cunt to the heavens and humped herself into oblivion in her effort to get him lodged ever more deeply in her belly. She loved the taste of his sperm. And he would sometimes eat her for hours, even slipping strawberries in her pussy and sucking them out, or pouring wine into her hot hole and drinking it slowly, making her twitch with abandon. The one thing she had never been able to enjoy was ass-fucking, but Chet was willing to forgo that.
“After all, we should save something for when we’re married,” he told her.
“I’m not sure I want to get married,” she always replied. “We have it so good as it is. Why take the chance of spoiling it?”
“Because I want us to live together and have kids,” he said.
“I don’t want anything to stand in the way of my career,” was her constant comment.
She had gone to Chet with the problem of the disappearances and he had run all the data into one of his computers and found a possible hard pattern.
“But this is only statistical,” he had warned. “If there are men doing this, then their choices may be based on whimsy as much as on plan.”
“But it’s at least something to go on.”
He had used the longitude and latitude and times of all the places and dates on which women disappeared and come to the conclusion that the next happening would be in four days in a town called Glens Falls in New York State. He and Constance surmised that the men were probably traveling around in a van, picking the girls up and transferring them to another vehicle, then cooling off for a week and moving onto the next town.
“Now that you have a probable time and location—and I emphasize that it’s only probable—what are you going to do?” he had asked.
“Go there. Watch. Read the local papers. See if I can see anything suspicious.”
“Be careful,” he had warned, and then had hoisted up her skirt, pulled down her panties, and fucked her from behind as she bent over one of the computer terminals. It had been a bizarre experience to feel the juices running from her pulsing cunt down her thighs, to listen to her own rasping grunts of bestial pleasure, as the most sophisticated of human technology purred warmly under her belly and printouts as indecipherable as some ancient cuneiform writing danced before her eyes.
The following day she went to Glens Falls where she spent an uneventful forty-eight hours before the town was stirred by the news of a young woman’s
disappearance. However, it was generally thought that she had run off with a disreputable musician who sometimes passed through town and the matter died down quickly.
Constance wrote a long and powerful article then, outlining the details of her discoveries and theories, mentioning the use of computers to help her track the story down, and ending with the predicted kidnapping in Glens Falls. To her chagrin, no one would buy it and she ended selling it to the National Enquirer which chopped it to a thousand words and ran it as a scare feature.
She considered the matter at an end until, one evening, as she was returning to her apartment from having run out to buy cigarettes, a hand came down over her mouth and her nose was filled with the suffocating smell of chloroform. She didn’t regain consciousness until that moment when she awoke to find a man fucking her vigorously in the ass.
“Gonna ream you good, baby,” the man in front of her was now saying.
One finger went into her cunt and moved around. Constance felt her juices beginning to flow. It was absurd that her body should respond in this way when her mind wanted to keep at bay. Or did it? There was a part of her which held that she should not want to be in the situation she was in, but another voice pointed out that since she was indeed trapped there, it would be foolish to do anything but drain the situation of all it had to offer. She didn’t want to suffer or be damaged or be killed, but perhaps offering no resistance was the best way to insure her chances of surviving.
The man now had two fingers inside her.
“Gettin’ wet,” he crooned. “Little cunt is gettin’ wet. Yah, that’s what I like. I love it when they go wild.”
He had pulled his fingers back and when he slipped them back in, the number had doubled. Four fingers entered her, the width of the slab of flesh running from the top to the bottom of her cunt. But when he had gone into the widening slit up to the first knuckles, he suddenly gave a twist which made Constance gasp. He turned his hand sideways and now the full breadth of the four fingers plunged into her distended hole. Once he had established himself so far, he began to move more energetically. He pushed in and pulled out with increasing speed and force. Until he was finger-fucking her with full vehemence.