by Marco Vassi
A low whistle caressed the backs of her knees as she went through the door, and was followed by the sound of low laughter. The whole fantasy had gone through her in a split second. Her chest heaved with heavy breathing.
“Can they possibly know what I’ve just been thinking?” she wondered as the hallway tilted before her eyes.
But the moment passed, and ordinary reality returned. She went off toward the office kitchen, tailored, prim, and there was no trace of the drooling lapping animal that lurked just beneath the surface.
“I must be schizophrenic,” she thought, musing again on the fact that she was capable of diametrically opposed types of feeling and behavior within practically the same record. The idea returned her to her first meeting with Lou, in which that quality of her personality was most sharply underlined.
She had gone to his apartment, caught up in the slight sense of degradation involved. She was going to take her clothes off, lie on her back, and let a complete stranger fuck her as he wanted. And she would enjoy it, not only the sensations, but the experience of giving herself like a whore. “I wonder what it is inside me,” she thought, “that gives me pleasure in this kind of scene? Or is it that I am in touch with something that exists in all women and only I have the honesty to admit it?” It was a far cry from her teenage years when sex was considered a function of what was called love; a girl was supposed to like a boy before she let him touch her. It took many years before she understood that liking him was synonymous with wanting him to touch her. And that was the thing about Lou. She actually liked him, from the first moment she saw him, and wanted him to touch her. He was almost fifty, heavy-set, with thick features, but his physical appearance was not important.
He mixed very strong martinis, and made a great show of the splendors of his apartment. She was impressed with his obvious wealth—by the opulent Moorish furniture, by the expensive rugs, by the nine rooms and balcony which overlooked Central Park. The entire place was wired like a single electrical gadget, with stereos, radios, videotape recorders, vibrating beds, and even a movie projector. To her chagrin, as he took her coat and had her sit on his seventeen-foot kangaroo-hide couch, her knees wobbled and she felt that unmistakable quickening between her thighs which told her that her cunt was beginning to secrete.
He brought out a pile of manuscripts and while they worked their way through a third drink apiece, he talked about his concept of pornography. “It is a valid function,” he said. “Sex is at the core of the human condition. After all, what are we but the result of a meeting of cock and cunt? Sex is our origin, and our continuing fascination with it is perfectly understandable. I publish over three hundred books a year. There must be thousands of titles coming out yearly in this country alone. And considering that there are a very limited number of things that can be done with the human body, and that most sex books are a repetition of the same behavior, it is amazing that millions of people keep buying them and reading them. It proves conclusively that sex is the most important of our involvements, and pornography is perhaps the most vital of all the arts. Of course, given the nature of our civilization, it is considered the lowest.”
She ran her eyes over one of the manuscripts. It was titled Sentimental Swinger, and she opened it at random. “Marcia knew that she had lost him,” it read, “her own sweet Jim. As he pressed his cock between the undulating cheeks of the other woman’s ass, he closed his eyes and moaned, and Marcia knew that he no longer cared who it was that gave him so much pleasure. ‘Is this how it all ends?’ she asked herself, ‘the so-called sexual freedom, the experimentation? Wasn’t it better when a man and woman had sex because they loved each other, and not because they were hungry for excitement?’ But even as she watched the thoughts go through her mind, one of the men at the orgy they had come to had moved up behind her and was running his finger up and down the crack of her cunt, teasing the outer lips, pushing slightly into the moist center. And as her heart broke, her thighs moved; as her dream of romance faded, her scream of lust welled in her throat. Fuck me,’ she moaned, ‘you big-cocked stranger who doesn’t even want to know my name. Shove your hard prick up my cunt and make me come like crazy.’ He pushed her to the ground. ‘First suck it,’ he said. And then with tears in her eyes, listening to her husband’s groans of passion, she curled her tongue to lick the underbelly of the thick cock that descended to her face.”
Joan looked up from the manuscript to see Lou smiling down at her. “What do you think?” he asked.
“It’s like a soap opera with sex,” she said.
He clucked his tongue against his palate. “That’s right,” he said. “And that’s the sort of thing we want. You catch on fast.” He squinted and stared at her. “Don’t you?” he added. And after a pause, “Well, do you want the job?” he went on and glanced down at his crotch.
She leaned forward. “If I take the job,” she said, “how often do I have to be available for these private consultations?” Her breath was hot against his thighs and he swayed where he stood. Her mouth was slightly open and her tongue was a pink shadow in its depths.
“I’m a busy man,” he told her, “and my main interest is money. I love sex, but not if it distracts me from my most important direction. And quite frankly, once I satisfy my initial curiosity about a woman, she doesn’t hold too many charms for me. I don’t know. I may want you again a month from now, or six months from now, or never again. No, what I’ll enjoy is knowing that you are available to me. I’ll enjoy watching you walk around the office, all corseted and clean, knowing that whenever I want I can have you rolling naked on my rug, spreading your pussy wide for me, licking my balls, letting me fuck you up that pretty little ass of yours.”
He sat down next to her, and like an actor switching costumes he said in a gentle voice, “I hope you don’t mind my being direct. I mean, I think you’re an intelligent woman and you understand the way the world works. If you’re looking for romance, do it on your own time; if you’re looking for freedom, go live in the woods. In the office, you belong to me. I’m an old-fashioned kind of capitalist. I don’t hold with euphemisms. People who work for me are wage slaves. I pay the wage; they are my slaves. When I buy you I buy your skills and your body. Because I don’t beat about the bush, you always know where you stand, or…” he smiled, “where you kneel.”
“Well,” she said, emboldened by his honesty, “then I might as well be a whore on the street.”
He chuckled. “No,” he said, “that kind of life is too rough for a nice middle-class girl like you. The competition would kill you, or the cops would get you, or you’d wind up working for a pimp. I’m offering you a respectable job, with good pay, and regular hours. It’s not asking you to do anything that will permanently fuck up your life.”
“Except to act as your sexual plaything.”
He laughed, a deep, resounding baritone laugh, much like that used by men who play Santa Claus in department stores at Christmas. “No,” he said, “we’re doing that because you enjoy it. And because I don’t like to run an office rife with sexual hypocrisy. If you worked there and I didn’t try to fuck you, I would be lying to myself and to you, and the tension would mount. This way, we stay clear with one another.” He put one hand on her breasts, and the sudden warmth made her lean back against the arm of the couch. “Besides, it’s just perverse enough to titillate you.”
She lay back and her lids lowered as she watched him through the prism of her oddly mounting desire. He loomed over her, huge and indistinct. Her eyes went to where his right hand moved, and she could see his erection already outlining itself against the fabric of his pants. He stroked his cock slowly, and she watched like one hypnotized. Her breathing became shallow and, to her amazement, she could smell the secretions from her cunt as her ass dug into the leather couch. A strange lassitude crept over her and her mouth dropped open even wider than it had been. Her tongue wet her lips, leaving a thin glistening of saliva over the red lipstick she still wore, against the advice sh
e received about its being out of style. He laughed again.
“Yes, I know all that,” he said. “You respectable girls are the ones who want it most badly. You’re the dirtiest ones. Growing up in those small towns with those picture-postcard families, with nothing to do but dream about it, and no one to relieve you except dumb high-school kids. You build it up, year after year, until you’re eating and drinking and breathing sex. I can see you, night after night in your bed, rubbing your clitoris sore, pushing candles up your cunt, harder and deeper, never able to get enough. And the next day dressing up all neat and proper and pretending you’re a nice little girl, just like momma wants you to be. And the real you is naked and writhing, begging for cock, licking the air with your tongue and wanting desperately for there to be a man standing over you, a man who will look at you and see what you are and who you are.”
He reached forward and in one motion slid his hand under her skirt and up to her cunt. He grabbed her fiercely, pinching the sensitive flesh between his thumb and forefinger. She gasped and her knees flew apart, tossing her skirt higher on her thighs. He had her at her most vulnerable point, and they both knew it.
“And then one day you read a book,” he went on, “or see a magazine, and there they are, real people doing things you didn’t dare to dream about. And that’s what you really want, isn’t it, to do those things, those things you think deep down are dirty and nasty and depraved? Well, all right. With me you can do them all, because I understand all about it. And when we’re finished, maybe you won’t be so serious anymore, and think what a great big sin you’re committing, and maybe you’ll get over the melodrama and enjoy it for its own sake.” His hand squeezed her cunt harder and she moaned. “Now take off your clothes, and then roll over on your belly and let me see your ass while you put my cock in your mouth and suck it until you go wild.”
The effect of his words was like that of an earthquake. All the codes and inhibitions by which she attempted to define herself melted and a deep blackness overcame her. All her intelligence went into her belly, where a deep warmth began to throb and spread down into her thighs and up into her breasts. Her nipples were on fire, and her cunt was like the mouth of a volcano, hot and red and shooting fire. She itched as though she were covered with biting ants and she began to toss and writhe on the couch.
“Take off your clothes,” he reminded her.
And as he watched, she squirmed before his unflinching gaze, and began to peel her clothing off. First she kicked off her shoes, and then reached up under her skirt and unhooked her nylons. She pulled the sheer hosiery down her long legs, revealing full thighs and rounded calves. First one leg and then the other until they were naked, open to his eyes, young, firm, fresh, and inviting. He couldn’t resist and leaned forward to run his hands up and down her legs, stroking and massaging, feeling the soft flesh under his greedy fingers. His cock was aching in his pants and he wanted desperately to pull it out and sink it into her flesh, but he knew that his patience would be rewarded.
“Keep going,” he rasped. “Little copy editor, take off all your clothes and show your boss what a hot little bitch you are.”
She unhooked her skirt and yanked it down her legs and over her ankles in one motion, so that now she was bare to the crotch. Slowly, she started to undo her garter belt, but he stopped her. “Leave that on,” he said. And she hooked her thumbs into the elastic of her yellow panties and began to push them down. He watched hungrily as the small triangle of silk was worked down her legs. She brought her knees to her chest so she could slip the panties over her feet, and the globes of her ass poked out from under, opening as a succulent frame for the patch of hair between. Before he could look at her cunt, however, she brought her legs down again, and he had to be momentarily content to stare at the bristling bush which covered it. Without stopping in her dance, she pulled her blouse up, and now was naked except for bra and garter belt.
“Classic,” he said. He reached down beside the couch and took out a Polaroid camera. “This may interest you,” he said in an oddly professional voice. Before she could protest, the flash had gone off, and the timer on the back of the camera was buzzing off fifteen seconds.
“Here we go,” he told her, and peeled off the wrapping to reveal a picture of herself, looking like the cover of one of the books sold by his publishing house. She blinked. “Is that me?” she asked. The woman she looked at appeared so sexy, so voluptuous, so willing for any experience, that Joan could not relate the image to herself.
“‘Life imitates art,’” Lou Morris said and smiled to himself.
He took the picture from her hands and put it on the table next to the couch. “Get on your belly,” he told her. “We’ll take more pictures later.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice trembling.
She rolled over and pressed the front of her body against the couch. She began to pump her pelvis against the leather, feeling the mounting heat and tension as her cunt pushed into the soft hardness. The picture she had just looked at would not leave her consciousness, and she began to be aware of herself as she looked from the outside. Her young lithe body framed in a frilly bra and belt. Her ass exposed and circled by the elastic straps. Her hair falling down her naked back. And her cunt pressing frantically into the couch, silently begging to be touched, to be fucked. Lou moved next to her. “So nice,” he said, “it’s so good to let it all hang out, isn’t it?” And to punctuate his remark he put one hand on the cleft between her buttocks, lightly, his middle finger dipping down to touch the unguarded hole at the core. She clenched her ass tightly and trapped his finger, and then let loose, arching her pelvis so that her ass rose high in the air. And then clenched again, so that it became like a mouth rising and falling to pull in the desired food.
She lifted her head and found herself staring at the giant bulge in his pants. She made a low sound that was unlike anything she had ever heard come from herself before, and checked it. Lou grabbed her ass more firmly and began to move even lower, toward the already yearning cunt that opened each time she raised her hips. “Let it go,” he said. “You can do anything you want with me. I’ve had thousands of woman where you are now. And you all do the same thing. It’s all one cunt, one ass, one pair of tits, one mouth, wanting the same thing. Don’t be ashamed or think you’re any different. Let it happen and let me watch. It’s all I really want from you, you know, to see you when you’re really naked, and really beautiful.”
She sobbed again. “Lick it through the cloth,” he said.
She pressed her face into him. Her tongue found a life of its own and curled around the tube, finding the ridges around the head of his cock. She licked up and down the entire length, sensing the difference between the rough fabric and the swelling softness underneath. Added to the sensations was the picture of herself, her young innocent face buried in the crotch of this old man, this stranger for whom sex was an amusement that had to do with aesthetics only, and didn’t care who the personalities involved happened to be. She thrashed more wildly against the couch, her need growing, her ass a sea of convulsive movement, as she forced herself more deeply into his thighs.
“Oh please,” she moaned.
“Please what?” he asked.
“Please give it to me,” she whispered.
“Where do you want it?” he went on, teasing her.
“Put it in my mouth, in my ass. Stick it in my cunt. Just give it to me.” It seemed that she was the vacuum that nature is reported to abhor, and she cried out to be filled. She didn’t care what form the fulfillment took, or how it looked, or what it meant. She was ready to accept that she had to have something inside her to complete her emptiness or go raving down the corridors of her want.
But, at that very moment, he stepped back. She was left frozen in her posture, raw and ragged at the edge of her willingness to submit to anything he wanted to do with her, amazed that he was able so quickly to find just the exact switch to unleash the energies that had been so long suppressed in he
r. But then, he was one of the few great pornographers of the twentieth century.
“Would you like some coffee?” he asked in a conversational tone.
“Coffee?” she repeated stupidly.
He smiled gently. “You’re beginning to get a bit carried away,” he said. He sat down next to her. “I must confess something to you. I’ve already had one heart attack, and I’ve been told that if I don’t watch myself, I could collapse at any time. According to my doctor, I shouldn’t even look at women, much less engage in these scenes, but if I have to give up sex altogether, I might as well be dead. So, I compromise. I indulge, but I pace myself.” Seeing the look of chagrin on her face he went on, “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to frighten or disappoint you, but these are the facts of life.”