The Devil’s Sperm is Cold

by Marco Vassi

  “Come on,” he urged, “push that little pussy hard all over that cock. Yes, you hot little piece of ass, go down and get wild.” And his words worked as an antiaphrodisiac, delaying her orgasm, so that he had an even longer time to ravish her mouth. The two tensions built higher and higher until she could contain herself no longer and she began to wail, the sound filling the strange man’s throat, and he kissed her harder and harder as her climax sent her body writhing into contortions of release.

  And then, suddenly, she was all alone again. She shook her head, like a person waking from a dream, and there was no one around her, as though the entire thing hadn’t happened. And yet, her cunt was dripping and vibrating, and her lips were sore, and her breasts still had red rash marks from where fingers grabbed her hard. She came to a half-sitting position, supported herself on one arm, and looked around the room.

  Now there were fewer people standing by themselves, and even fewer couples. The number of groups had increased and the numbers of people in each group had grown greater. It was clear, even to her untutored perception, that the orgy was gathering steam.

  “It’s crazy,” she thought. “For a minute it’s all so intense and personal and wild, and then I’m on the outside again, and just another body in this incredible room.” Either there was more smoke or the lights had been dimmed, but it seemed to Joan that it was more difficult to make out details. She desperately wanted a cigarette and something to drink, so she set off in the direction of the bar. She began to stand, but decided it would be more polite to crawl. On her hands and knees, her tits hanging down from her chest, swaying with each movement, her ass jutting behind her, her cunt winking out from between the shifting cheeks, her hair hanging down to the floor, she looked like some mythological beast.

  She didn’t get more than ten feet before she felt a pair of arms encircle her waist. “Get her,” a voice whispered, and she was pulled back, the cleft between her buttocks hitting hard on a stiff cock. She tried to turn around to see who was assaulting her, but another pair of hands grabbed her head and pulled her face up. Her half-open mouth hit the tip of another cock, and as the one slid slowly into her cunt, causing her to gasp, the other slid between her lips, causing her to gag.

  She was worked that way for a long time. The man behind her plunged his cock into her sopping pussy, and when she began to moan with pleasure, the man in front of her thrust his cock into her throat, making her gag. When she gagged, her entire body convulsed, and her cunt bucked up and down on the unknown cock lodged between her thighs.

  “Oh yes,” she heard the voice behind her say, “ride it, ride my cock.” And she would squirm and wiggle her ass around, impaling herself on his cock, beginning to feel herself climb to another climax, when the cock in her mouth would start to insist on receiving its share of attention, and begin to slide back and forth over her wet tongue, until it lodged itself once more in her throat, starting a new cycle. Someone slid under her and began to play with her hanging breasts, slapping them and pulling them, sucking the nipples into a hot mouth, biting them gently. Joan lost all discrimination. The entire thing was reduced to the sensations produced in her. “It’s no use trying to figure it out as it happens,” she thought. “There’s obviously too much going on too fast. The thing to do is just accept it and enjoy it and think about it later.”

  The men at her rear and front started to move in more closely connected unison, so that her body was moved with complementary waves. From her mouth to her cunt she was a single wave of excitation. The thick cock in her pussy grew harder and hotter, and the long cock in her mouth thrust deeper and deeper. She gagged and moaned and spit and coughed and rolled her ass cheeks and contracted the muscles of her cunt and was driven crazy by the tongues on her nipples—until the breaking point was passed, and she let herself dive off the edge of all control, and the next thing she knew she was thrashing about the floor, kicking and yelling, spilling out all her inhibitions, while gobs of thick sperm spilled onto her tongue, and strong hands clenched her thighs tight, pulling them back onto a pumping cock that was reaching its own climax deep in her belly.

  She rode the orgasm until its final curve, and then fell face downward on the floor. But this time she was not let alone. Hands rolled her over, and before she could open her eyes, her face was smothered in flesh. Huge buttocks covered her cheeks, and her mouth was pressed against a musty, puckered asshole. She tried to wrench herself free, for in a quick flash she saw herself buried in this pile of strange bodies, performing the most intimate services on people whose faces she did not even see, and it sent her freaking down the corridors of her rational mind.

  But she could not move far. Her legs were lifted, pulled apart, and held open. She felt movement between her thighs, and then a finger went into her cunt, slid out, and lubricated her asshole with the vaginal secretions. She tried to squirm away, but the hands held her tightly, and the finger continued its patient task. She wanted to scream, but in opening her mouth, she only invited the relentless buttocks to press more heavily onto her face. She was on the verge of tears.

  “I want it to stop,” she cried to herself, “just please let it stop.” And even as the plea went through her mind, she knew that she was getting a taste of something she might not be able to put out of her life. As vile as some of the activity was, she was being drawn into the orgiastic mood, finding in the enormous energy a vehicle for experience she had hungered for for a long time. She thought of Helene who had greeted her at the doorway, and the woman’s quiet scorn of Joan’s youth.

  “Will I become like that?” she thought. “Or worse?” The alternative sprang before her mind’s eye, and she pictured herself as a ragged stinking syphilitic debauchee who could entice only very drunken sailors from Tenth Avenue bars. In her slightly deranged state, fantasy was indistinguishable from reality, and she could project her current situation, lying spread-eagled on a rug with someone’s ass in her face and someone else’s cock sliding up her own ass, into the prolonged future.

  “What foul degradations am I not capable of?” she asked herself. “How far down this road will I travel?”

  But she did not have too much time to luxuriate in her thoughts, for her buttocks were being pulled apart, and a heavy cock was sliding between the cheeks and pressing at the tiny hole at the center. She tried to relax, knowing that he would enter no matter what she did, and if she resisted it would only be painful. More hands grabbed her breasts, and she could feel someone rubbing the head of his cock against one of her nipples.

  “Oh God,” she moaned, her words muffled, as the cock lunged into her ass. The pain was on the edge of being excruciating, and she pushed out with her sphincter muscles, giving the intruder easier access. She was forced to cooperate with her own rape, although, giving the fact that she had gone there of her own will, and that she was already bunching her buttocks up to receive the cock more deeply, the act could hardly be described as rape.

  The man began to pump into her before he was totally in, so that she opened gradually. Her nipples being pinched, her ass beginning to taste the sweet pleasure of deep penetration, her cunt being fingered by at least two people, she let her tongue curl out and into the puckered asshole that bore down upon her, demanding contact.

  It was not something she had not done before, but only in special circumstances with someone she knew. Now she began to slavishly lick the crack of the anonymous ass, stopping at each stroke to bury it deeper into the ever-loosening anus. She moved forward, her lower body spreading to accept the heavy cock which was now thrusting furiously into her ass, burying itself to the hilt, pulling out to the tip until Joan was left quivering with relief, and then crashing in again. Her mouth searched for the cock she thought would extend from the crack she was so voraciously licking.

  And instead she found a cunt. The body above hers was a woman’s. Joan stopped her tonguing, partially out of confusion. But the woman above her tilted her pelvis back, bringing her cunt over Joan’s lips. The swampy ta
ngle of hair filled her mouth, and the woman’s juices trickled onto her tongue.

  “Now eat my pussy, little pilgrim,” a voice said, and she recognized Helene’s tones. She was eating Helene’s cunt! She struggled furiously against that, and before she knew what she was doing, she cried out, “No,” the magic word that would save her from any further intrusion.

  And it did. As though by a miracle, the hands went off her breasts, let go of her ankles, the cock slid out from her ass, and Helene’s cunt rose into the air, away from her mouth, and disappeared.

  Joan lay on her back, alone and trembling. Her body twitched of its own volition. And a sense of social disgrace, deeper than any personal feelings of disgust, crept up from her chest to her face and, blushing, she rolled over on her belly and wept silently.

  “Was that the wrong thing to do?” she thought to herself. “Have I insulted them? Have I spoiled the orgy?” And all the little-girl fears that were carried intact in her psyche beneath the layer of surface sophistication appeared to haunt her. She lost sight of her age, of her dignity as an individual, of her ego rights. She forgot that her freedom to say no was granted to her not only by the rules of the orgy but also by the dictates of human life. More than all of this, she lost sight of the fact that in that context she was simply another body, another source of sensation and a focus for sexual drama, and was really no more important than any other body in the room, and that the people who had pulled away from her had set-to immediately with another group, in another configuration.

  A man lay next to her. She could tell it was a man because his cock pressed up against one thigh. It was Jack.

  “I warned you about all this heavy stuff,” he said, his cheerful tones at once cutting through her mood. “And here you are, in the middle of a party, an orgy, for Christ’s sake, feeling sorry for yourself and crying in the playpen.”

  She turned and buried her face in his chest. Joan was only twenty-five and in many ways was terribly frightened of life. Jack understood that, and he acted as a real comfort to her.

  “Oh Jack,” she gasped, “have I made a fool of myself? Have I spoiled things?”

  “No,” he said. “Nobody’s even noticed, except me. And I only noticed because I invited you here and feel responsible to keep an eye on you. It’s just a little too much all at once,” he said, “that’s all. You are an extraordinary woman sexually, but all of us bite off more than we can chew sometimes. I mean, when you think of it, this whole thing is really outrageous, isn’t it?”

  And with one arm he indicated the hundred others who were building to even more frantic peaks of excitement.

  She raised her head and looked around. She smiled through her tears. “I guess so,” she stuttered, and then laughed. “I feel so silly,” she added.

  He took her hand. “Come with me,” he said.

  They stood up and Jack took her to a far corner of the room. There he lay her down, told her not to move, and brought her a drink and a cigarette. Still laughing while she wept, she blurted out, “That’s what I wanted when I was hijacked by those people in the middle of the room! I know I would have been all right if I could have just taken a break.”

  Jack laughed with her. “I know so too,” he said.

  They sat side by side, smoking, watching, her head on his shoulder, sharing the private moment of calm.

  Then, as though speaking from a trance, she said, “Why do we do it, Jack? Why do we knock ourselves out this way?”

  He gave her a hug and replied, “Deep questions. Too deep for me.”

  But something in her mood made him turn and look at her. Her eyes were somber, searching. He took a drag on his cigarette, shrugged, and went on, “I don’t know. I guess it’s because our lives as we live them are nothing but a tedious waiting room, a long, long line for the available space in the graveyard. We know we’re going to die, and we know that nothing we do makes any difference. And we can’t seem to lift ourselves out of our rut, and we no longer believe the holy men who tell us that immortal life and ecstatic light are just around the corner. So we cast about to find something, anything, that will lift us out of ourselves, to make us forget ourselves for a brief while. Some try drugs, some try booze; the rich try travel and expensive toys; and the rest of us try sex. It’s the one habit we can all afford.”

  She looked at him with penetrating interest. “You know,” she said, “I think you’re right.” She stroked his back. “You’re really a very wise man.”

  Jack laughed to cover the nakedness of the moment. He was suddenly aware that he was almost two decades older than the girl who sat next to him. “Well, I didn’t get to be Centaur’s top salesman by being dumb.”

  She impulsively put one hand on his cheek, drew his face towards hers, and kissed him softly on the lips.

  “Why are you afraid to be serious?” she asked.

  “Somebody’s got to remain light,” he said. “The world’s too grim as it is.”

  A wave of fatigue suddenly swept over her and she leaned against him again.

  “Jack.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Will you take me home and make love to me?”

  His smile froze, and then disappeared. He gazed into space for a long time, pondering the yearning, the surrender being offered. And for a moment, an ancient dream seized him again, a fantasy in which he would be able to let himself go, to flow into the heart of a woman, and be one with her, and care for her with his entire being. He looked at Joan, at Joan the beautiful young woman, at Joan with the trenchant intelligence, at Joan who could kiss him and make him remember his loneliness, at Joan who could lie under a pile of bodies at an orgy and have orgasm after orgasm like any seasoned trouper. And for a brief instant, he thought something might be possible.

  And then he focused on the wider reality of his life, his weaknesses, his fears, and he shook his head.

  “No, my lovely little lady,” he said, “you would only break my heart.”

  “Isn’t that what you want Jack?” she implored, “isn’t that what we all want? To have our hearts break, to die once and for all with heartbreak? To destroy this prison we live in? Isn’t that why we go to orgies? To burst free? And isn’t love the only real key to set us free in this terrible mysterious universe?”

  He put his arms around her and held her tightly. They clung to each other like children in the dark, suddenly aware that they had nothing in the world at that moment except each other, and that they were eternally strangers to each other, with nothing to offer except a mirror for solitude to see its face. They rocked back and forth, like people praying.

  And all around them the sounds of the orgy grew louder, the actions grew wilder, and the roomful of bodies began to find its critical mass, moving toward a single pile of inextricable shapes, a huge organism crying its sexual challenge to the indifferent stars.

  SIX

  They watched darkness descend over the city. From the balcony, Lou and Margaret shared that brief illusion of omnipotence that sometimes comes from standing at the edge of a height. As the lights of New York went on, each of them could sense the giant movement that marked the end of each workday, a human tide which swept over three million people onto the tiny island of Manhattan every weekday morning, and then sent them tumbling out each evening, to the other boroughs, to Jersey, to Connecticut, to Long Island. Such was the financial magnetism of the city that there were even a few score of hardy souls who commuted the hundred and ten miles to Philadelphia.

  Lou sipped at his cocktail and gazed out on the scene with half-closed lids. There was an erotic crush about the view and his relationship to it. The immense power of the city throbbed through his legs, into his loins, and made his cock tingle. Power and sex had been inextricably wound up in Lou’s worldview—twin heads of a single serpent which represented the closest thing to what Lou would ever acknowledge as a god.

  He glanced over at the woman standing next to him. Slim and cool in a sheath dress, the curves of her hips and breasts m
uted by the cut of the cloth, her hair in her usual bun, her face stark without makeup, Margaret presented a model of classic beauty. Her eyes contained the same crystal, penetrating focus that could be seen in Lou’s eyes when he wasn’t being thrown off-balance by the demands of his hectic days.

  Feeling the weight of his gaze, Margaret turned to look at him, and their eyes locked. They regarded one another impassively, without tension, without expectation, without resistance. They understood each other perfectly, and they had long since given up all efforts at dissembling. Like two gunfighters who have finally come face to face, knowing that only one of them could survive, would survive, and that both might even be killed in the duel, they shared the rare camaraderie of enemies who respect one another’s strength.

  “I spoke to Al this morning,” he said at last.

  Margaret raised her eyebrows, giving her a mask of amusement which showed only the slightest trace of apprehension. Al was the common enemy in their habitual lexicon, the one whose name could serve to rouse them to a sense of unity. But now his appearance signified something else.

  As head of Zenith Distributors, he handled everything from hard-core pornography to the most elegant art magazines, from moronic comic books to intellectual journals, and a good deal of everything in between—the bulk of middle-America’s reading diet. To him, Centaur was a minor entry in his ledgers, one of many he had acquired by getting greater and greater stock percentages in lieu of payment on debts the publishers had incurred with the distributor. To Al it was of no concern whether Centaur succeeded or failed, except insofar as he was able to use either eventuality to assist the empire at large. On the rare occasions he had visited the office, he treated everyone with aggressive indifference.