The Devil’s Sperm is Cold

by Marco Vassi

  He knelt down and brought his face up to the valley made by her panties stretching over the cleft of her ass, and did nothing but to breathe into it, letting the hot breath out with long slow exhalations. She felt nothing at first, and then slowly she began to be enveloped by the warmth, the golden warmth that spread across her buttocks, and into the crack between and finally to her cunt. His hot steady breath penetrated to her waiting pussy, and caressed it with the most delicate of touches. She almost screamed with the need it began to spark in her. She pushed back again, wanting to cover his mouth with her crotch, to have his lick her cunt, to suck it, to touch it with his fingers. She wanted him to fuck her cunt.

  But he pulled back again, leaving her trembling on the edge of frustration.

  “Manuel,” she moaned, “please.”

  His mind reeled. There she was, his “little Protestant lady,” as he called her to himself, the prim proper copy editor, the white goddess of his most persistent dreams, who had always passed by him on a cloud of untouchability, corseted and distant. And now she was ready to go on her knees to beg him for his cock. But it was more than his cock he wanted her to want. He wanted her to want him completely—his whole body, and his mind.

  He stood up and stepped forward. His hard cock bulged against his pants, and he pressed it up against her quivering ass. Cloth met cloth as his rough jeans rubbed against her silk panties. He leaned his weight into her, and began to rotate his hips slowly, pumping his throbbing crotch into the crack between he legs. For her it was a sensation she had not known for years. When she was a teenager, and all that she could conceive of was petting, if she really liked a boy after an evening of heavy necking, she would let him rub against her until he came in his pants. With a rush of poignant memory, her entire teenage came back to her, the hopes, the frustrations, the yearnings, the boys she thought she loved, with that tender vulnerable love that rarely survives adolescence in this brutal world.

  Joan became unutterably sad, for she suddenly saw a circle in her life. From bright-eyed girl being dry-humped in the back seat of a car to supposedly sophisticated pornographer’s assistant being humped over the edge of her desk…it all closed in upon itself, and all the years in between vanished like a dream.

  “It’s as though I never lived them,” she thought.

  For Manuel, the situation was critical. Having at last come to the point of sex with Joan, he found that his heart was breaking because it was so harsh and impersonal. He had been carried away by his lust, and had thrown her over the desk without thinking. Now, his cock screaming for release, he felt he couldn’t fuck her without destroying all chance for something deeper to happen between them. And yet, he couldn’t stop himself. The sight of her upturned ass, the aroma that rose from her cunt, the exquisite sensations of his cock rubbing up and down the length of her bottom, brought him closer and closer to coming.

  He dug his fingers into her hips and pulled her buttocks toward him. His hands crept around her front and went to her cunt. When he touched the springy mound he stopped short. Her panties were literally dripping. What a woman of passion she was. If only he could make love to her properly, to feel her thighs around his back, to feel her ass in his hands, her hands digging into his back, her mouth on his. He wanted to turn her around, to grasp her to him, but he was afraid that the abruptness would break the mood. He could not forget that on one level he was the mail boy and she was the copy editor, and she might suddenly turn on him with scorn and rejection. And then he would either destroy her in a rage of anger, or be destroyed himself by her loathing.

  The heat began to mount in his loins and he knew he would come soon. Joan lost all sense of time and place. Massive realizations tumbled down her mind like landslides, so strongly and rapidly that she could not even perceive their content. She was in utter turmoil, and all she could hold onto was the solidity of the desk beneath her.

  “This is my desk,” she said to herself again and again. “This is my desk, and this is my office,” she chanted, until the words lost meaning. “Oh, what is happening to me?”

  Her legs stiffened and she pressed her ass back, pushing it harder into Manuel’s body. She could not differentiate between the immediate sensations and the sensations of memory, and it was no longer important to her. The two of them were moving to a climax, she could feel that. And even though she wasn’t coming herself, that wasn’t important. It was like her teenage boyfriends. She found her pleasure in a process that was not entirely physiological. She was giving him immense enjoyment, and through his excitement, she found her own happiness.

  “Yes,” she whispered, too low for him to hear, more to herself than to anyone else in the world, perhaps to the self she had been ten years earlier, to the girl that had become a woman only to find that the girl was still alive in her. “Yes,” she said, “rub it against me, rub your cock against my ass. Feel how hot and soft my ass is for you. Rub it against my cunt, feel how wet I am. Make your cock get hotter and hotter. Let me feel how stiff it is, how terrible it is.”

  She brought her hands around and spread her cheeks for him, letting him push deeper into the cleft, closer to the cunt that was the real object of his sexual desire. He almost cried out with the outrageous wonder of seeing her that way, of having her do these things for him.

  “But it is not for me,” he thought. “She does not even know who I am. She would do this for anyone who found her the way I did. It is true. Under that mask she is just a hot pussy, a whore who will do anything if it gives her the thrill she seeks.”

  Paradoxically, as his sense of moral distance grew, so did the heat in his groin. His balls were now aching with the need to release the boiling juices inside him. There was no motion now; their bodies were perfectly still. And in that stillness came a strange realization. Without the panting and the thrusting, Joan suddenly felt more naked than she could remember feeling. There was something terribly embarrassing about the stillness. She wanted to be lost in a frenzy, for only in that excitement could she feel free.

  “No,” he told her. “I don’t want it that way. I don’t want to be just any cock. When I come inside you, I want you to know who it is that splashes your pussy with his sperm. I want you to know whose flesh it is that drives you wild. This is not one of your dirty stories that you read all day. This is real life.”

  She did not want him to talk, to ruin the magic of the moment with some drab declaration of integrity. She knew that she was running away from facing something real, but she didn’t care at that moment. She wanted completion. She answered him without speaking, by rolling her ass gently around on the hard outline of his cock. She clenched the cheeks together, pulling the throbbing rod into her.

  “Fuck me,” she whispered. “Put that big spic cock inside me. Come on, I’ve been watching you eat me with your eyes all these months. Are you a man or aren’t you? What do you want me to do? Do you want me to suck it? Do you want me to sit on it? Do you want to slide that juicy cock up my tight ass? Come on, Manuel, take my panties off, and fuck me right.”

  Her words were like lashes along the backs of his legs. He began to move again, his pelvis pumping with short chaotic pulses. His breath came in short, harsh bursts. His eyes narrowed to slits as he prepared to let himself go. Her ass loomed before him like an iceberg in thick fog. His hands reached around in front of her and pulled her thighs apart. Her feet came off the floor and her body took to the horizontal so that now he was squarely between her legs, his encased cock pressed in the hot crevice between cunt and asshole. She bent her legs at the knees and felt her breasts squashed against the desk top. She felt her excitement mount and wondered whether she could come again.

  Manuel was unable to prolong it another second. Knowing that this might be the last as well as the first chance he would ever have to get this close to Joan, he closed his eyes and let out a yell which reverberated throughout the entire suite of offices. He pumped furiously, faster, and faster, and faster, his cock tingling until he thought it woul
d burst. And then, with a gush of scalding heat up the entire tube, it did burst, sending wave after wave of sperm into the blue cloth of his jeans. It ran down his leg, soaking the material. His entire body jerked sideways, for the ejaculation was as painful as it was pleasurable, since his cock was pinned at an awkward angle inside his pants. They hung together like that for a full minute until the spasm passed and his cock started to shrink, retreating from its cramped extension.

  Slowly, he let Joan down, and she slid to her knees, her back still toward him. She knew he had come, and didn’t know what his mood might be. Would he want to take her again, or would he be momentarily disgusted, as many men are after ejaculation? She turned timidly, shuffling on her knees, until her face was level with his crotch. She could see the broad stain in his pants leg, and she pressed her mouth into it, to savor its flavor and smell. She was screamingly horny, and would have licked the jism off his thigh if he would let her. Her cunt ached for penetration, and her ass was on fire from friction.

  Manuel didn’t say a word. He was split in two—happy because he had confirmed his strongest prejudice, that Joan was like all women, a blind hungry hole once the deep part of her was reached—and sad because she was like all women, a blind hungry hole once the deep part of her was reached. And despite all that, she was still Joan, herself, and not all women, or any other women, but this woman. And he had lusted for her from a distance, and now had her kneeling at his feet, sucking his cum through the fabric of his pants, her soft tender lips making little suction kisses on his thigh.

  What could he do now? Could he fuck her? And then? He would still need to talk to her. And what could he say to this strange lady? “Come with me to Puerto Rico and we will raise chickens and corn.” She would laugh. She would try to be kind, but she would despise him. No, his dream was finished. There was no way for him to really have this woman. He saw now that the past year had been a way for him to distract himself. He would go home now, and get drunk, and go see some whore and they would fuck like dogs until dawn. And he would return to his own level.

  Abruptly, he turned and walked out of the office, leaving Joan swaying on her knees, her mouth wet with her exertions to lick him dry. His movement startled her, and for a moment she didn’t know what he was up to. When she heard the front door slam, however, she realized he had gone for the night. Her thoughts were momentarily disrupted by her feelings of surprise mixed with shame.

  “He used me and then he left me,” she said to herself. “He must think I’m a slut.” And she began to give herself to a chant of self-loathing when she remembered the things he had said when they had fallen silent. He wanted more from her than a piece of ass; he had been trying to tell her something about himself. She shook her head. And she had replied by flinging herself more violently onto his cock.

  For the first time in many years she was confused after a sexual encounter. “And we didn’t even really have sex,” she said to herself. “Just some dry-humping over a desk.”

  She reached for her sense of cynicism to rescue her. “Hold on to yourself,” she said out loud. “You’ve been frigged by the Puerto Rican mail boy, and it’s spun you around a few times. Now just calm down and don’t go reading mysteries into it. He came, he saw, he conquered, and he came; and then he went. And left you hanging. It was probably his Catholic guilt,” she concluded, explaining his rapid departure to her satisfaction.

  But on her knees, her lips moist, her eyes on the edge of tears and her cunt feeling its emptiness, aching for Manuel to fill it, she couldn’t quite believe her own story. She stood up, ran a hand through her hair, lit a cigarette, and sat down in her editor’s chair. A sharp sob pierced her pussy, and she caught her breath. For five minutes she just smoked and stared into space, her mind empty. All she could do was jump from level to level, realizing that in one context what had happened was utterly trivial, and in another context, that it had shaken her to her very roots.

  “He made me feel,” she said out loud, “more than just sensation, he gave me real feelings,” she added, echoing what Margaret had said about her that morning.

  She put out the cigarette and lit another. She glanced at her wristwatch. It was seven-fifteen. She decided that the best thing she could do was to get back to work, to do something routine to put her back on a track she felt comfortable with. “I’ll work for an hour and then go have dinner,” she thought. “And then go home and have a hot bath, and watch television, and do all the inane things that will help put my head back in shape.”

  The manuscript had been scattered over the desk top and she began to put it in order. Some of the sheets were wet from where her mouth, lying open, had dripped saliva. Once again she began to tremble. The impact of the experience assailed her once more. In terms of sexual detail, it was nothing, especially in comparison to things she had done with Lou, and just last night with Margaret. But there was a quality of contact, of emotion, that she didn’t get when in throes of orgasm with someone else.

  “I felt more with Manuel’s cock rubbing against my panties than I have with cocks shoved all the way inside my cunt,” she concluded—and wondered precisely what that would entail when she saw him the next morning.

  She stacked the sheets of the novel together, and she began to read.

  “Laura knelt in front of the row of men. Naked, spent, she begged them with her eyes to leave her alone. They had been at her for twenty-four hours now, and she couldn’t count how many had been inside her how many times. Her cunt was a raw gash, and her ass was bleeding. But they were implacable. ‘Start sucking,’ one of them said. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth. Seventeen cocks. How would she be able to suck seventeen cocks after what she had just been through?”

  Joan stood up abruptly.

  “I don’t know, Laura girl,” she said out loud. “But I’ve got my own problems to deal with.”

  And without bothering to put out the light, she picked up her coat, nodded her approval of her decision to do no more work that night, and walked out of the empty office, leaving the characters of fiction to their own perils and devices.

  FOUR

  On the street, Manuel was a different man. It was as though some fierce and nameless animal suddenly came awake, and the same body which behaved in its civilized routine at the office downtown, now smoldered with an intensity that bespoke its true energy.

  Manuel prowled the streets of East Harlem, walking without seeing or hearing, down the stone canyons that overflowed with teeming life, with men and women who had left the hot climate of their native island to find a life of bitter competition and grainy poverty that was more degrading than the hunger they had fled. The buildings seemed to ooze children and dogs and flies and unending mounds of garbage. It was almost midnight, and he had been on the move for over four hours, going from bar to bar, trying to get drunk, but becoming instead more and more sober, his thoughts lacerating him like icy rain.

  He went down streets which would have caused apprehension even in a brace of armed policemen, and certainly in any of the average hardworking church-going members of the neighborhood. They held a sinister atmosphere that could almost be smelled, for in the shadowed hallways lurked junkies almost literally dying for a hit, ready to take a life for the necessary money; muggers who enjoyed the fear they caused as much as the property they stole; rapists who waited with sharp-eyed monomania; groups of psychopathic teenagers with switchblades at the ready; and random derelicts who sometimes carried guns.

  But Manuel was impervious to harm, for he was shielded by his total introversion. From time to time he brought his fingers to his nostrils to sniff the rapidly fading aroma of Joan’s cunt.

  “Oh, if only I had fucked her,” he thought again and again. “If I had just got my cock inside her, I would have made her mine.”

  He replayed each second of the incident, starting from the moment he saw her masturbating to watching her kneeling in front of him, licking his rough sperm-soaked jeans with her tender pink tongue. And at
any one of a thousand places, he told himself, he should have done something different. But she was so open, so fragile, so lovely, that he was unmanned. He drank and he walked and he thought, and he grew cold inside, the result of the repression of a fury and despair that echoed the thirty years of frustration within himself and oppression from without.

  “I got to get her out of my mind,” he said to himself. And as the thought struck him, he saw the phone booth on the corner.

  “I’ll call Alma,” he thought, the notion taking him by surprise, for he had not spoken to her for a year, since he had gone to work for Centaur Publications and become enamored of dating white women.

  The phone rang six times before she answered.

  “Whoever this is it better be important it’s after midnight,” she said all in one breath.

  He hesitated. “Alma,” he said, and paused. He knew she recognized his voice because he could hear her gasp. “It’s Manuel,” he said, unnecessarily.

  “Manuel,” she repeated. There was a long silence, and then she asked, “Are you in trouble?”

  Manuel’s eyes misted over. He had forgotten how good-hearted and practical she was. He smiled to himself. “No, not with the police or anything. Just inside myself.”

  “Must be a woman,” she said, and the bitterness in her voice almost seared the wire. “One of your fancy ladies from downtown.”

  He hung his head. He had forgotten this too; that the other side of Alma’s enormous warmth and acceptance was a hardness that cut like razor blades. He almost hung up on the spot. Sensing his response, she relented. She could picture him as she always did, a little boy in a man’s body, someone she wanted to hold to her breasts, to comfort, and then to give herself to in an explosion of passion, totally, without reserve, with love and desire.