The Tides of Lust

  Gunner pulled away, managed to kneel, whispering, “Hey, Captain? What . . . ? Why . . . ?”

  The captain put Gunner’s hand into his crotch. The dick was half hard. “You little bastards got it all this afternoon. It goes up; nothing comes out.”

  “But . . . ?”

  He pushed the boy away. Gunner, puzzled, moved toward the line of light that should be the door, unsteady on the mattresses. Once a woman reached up to play the cords of his inner thigh. He lingered long enough to stiffen but pulled away at the kiss.

  By the door he found his pants, slipped his legs in, tied his belt and stepped into the hall.

  A breeze blew from the alley. Gunner walked to the doorway, stood with his toes over the broken top step. A breeze dried and cooled his chest.

  Nazi stood by the drain pipe, taking his dick out to piss. He saw the boy. (Does he grin or does he smile?) “Hey.” He beckoned Gunner, took his shoulder. Nazi swiveled his boot toe, then he put his bare foot on Gunner’s (the chain is cold against Gunner’s ankle; the gritty sole is hot). Gunner reached for Nazi’s cock, his small fingers slipping between the big, dirty knuckles. Nazi’s mouth broke a wide grin. He kneaded the boy’s neck. On the hard shiny arm a dragon writhed about a blue swastika. Nazi smelled.

  Gunner heard water; a hot splash on his belly. He looked down to the arc glittering: Nazi guided it to Gunner’s groin, leg, sparkling and darkening the canvas. A rain on their doubled foot. The hand on Gunner’s shoulder became a weight. Gunner gave, and his wet knees knocked Nazi’s shins. Nazi’s urine beat belly, chest, chin. He caught the boy’s hair, yanked. Gunner’s face flooded and he lost the view of the spurting cock. His eyes went tight before the burning. His head was pushed back, so his mouth opened. The taste of hot ocean foamed between his cheeks. Nazi laughed.

  Fist’s rim butted his face: then something bitter, butting, as the ocean dribbled away. He held Nazi’s pockets, and pushed his face into the wet denim. Nazi shoved his cock in Gunner’s gaping . . . gagged on the first three thrusts; then hungrily caught the hips’ rhythmic sag. Hair ground his blind face, its rush timed to the drawling—

  “—suck it up . . . drink it up . . . cocksucker . . . motherfucker . . . ass eater . . . little shit face—” Hands clamped Gunner’s ears and pulled him in, pulled him in again. “—suck that dick—yeah, yeah—eat the shit off it—make me juice you up, boy—God damn cocksucking, dick eating, piss headed, cunt faced—Ahhhhh!”

  Nazi let himself lean back on the wall. Gunner rocked on the soaked lap, leaning against the legs—the left one quivered, quivered again—listening to the gasps. Gunner felt a hand on his head. Thought it was Nazi; opened his eyes to see it was too large, and black. He looked up expecting his master. Instead, a strange, big-bellied black (spades cannot smile in this story) grinned: “You been fuckin’ that young uns’ face pretty hard, ’ey?”

  “Sure have.”

  “Shit. What did you do? Piss all over him?”

  “Yeah!”

  Hard fingers went over Gunner’s face. “Sure would like to watch that wet-head suck on my cock. He up for turn-out?”

  “Sure.” Nazi reached for the fisherman’s crotch. The black moved his legs apart. Nazi’s fingers defined a dick like a joint of pipe in grimy khaki. “Hey, chew on that, cocksucker. This nigger wants some head.”

  Thrusts his hips forward, and a falsetto laugh tumbles down into a rasping growl as Gunner opens his mouth on the shape. It thickens between his teeth. The smell of sweat and days.

  The grunt broke off: “Take that black mother out and feed it to the son of a bitch.”

  Nazi fingered apart the brass buttons, pulled out the great meat, dead black. He forced Gunner’s mouth with two fingers (they tasted of pee) and guided the dick down.

  “How do you like the way my boy sucks, nigger?”

  “Play with my balls, man.”

  Nazi pulled out the sac. Gunner put his arms around the thighs.

  “Hey, nigger, how much pussy you had on that black fucker this week?”

  “I don’ keep no count. Ten, fifteen.”

  “How does my boy suck beside them bitches?”

  “That’s right, motherfucker, mash my balls around in his face.”

  The tight skin unwrinkled under the warmth of Gunner’s chin.

  “You ever fuck a sheep, nigger?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You ever fuck a goat?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nigger, you ever fuck a pig?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How does my boy there on his knees between yours feel on that hog sticker?”

  “Squeeze my fuckin’ balls, Nazi. Yeah, you’re doing fine there, cocksucker. I’m gonna shoot his head off. Oh, yeah, a little harder—not you, Nazi, stupid bastard—yeah. Like that, like . . .”

  Scum filled the back of Gunner’s mouth, welled to the front. The man gasped, bit the gasp off, but more of it hissed out, anyway. Gunner pushed his face far forward as he could, his throat constricting. Nazi’s fingertips touched his lips.

  The nigger said: “That boy sucks like he’s still thirsty.”

  Nazi: “He drinks anything you want to give him.”

  Gunner’s face was sweating. As he came back a wind blew from the alley end.

  Nazi: “I’d sure like to watch you give him some more to drink. He ain’t had very much. Don’t know where he picked up that thirst. I guess it’s working on all the dick.”

  The fisherman pulled his dick free. It hung wet under Gunner’s cheek. The nigger said: “. . . I’d sure like to see you down there with him, white man. I mean, down where you could get a good look. I mean a good close look at me pissin’ in his face.” Two voices fell to pieces on laughter.

  Nazi grabbed the back of Gunner’s neck. With the side of his hand he wiped away the drool and urine running the boy’s chin. He squeezed his own dick; it glistened through his fingers. He kneeled behind the boy, pushed the rope belt down Gunner’s buttocks; he put a finger in the boy’s ass. It went easily; he put another one in. Opened his fingers; started his cock’s head in the opening. Pulled his hand away, jabbed forward. His stained fingers went to the boy’s chest to pinch his nipples.

  The nigger pissed.

  Nazi took the dark length to aim it. Yellow broke like glass in his face.

  “That’s right, sucker,” (Nazi growling at Gunner’s ear) “open your mouth, boy.”

  Nazi’s hips beat Gunner’s butt. The boy felt fire in him. Nazi’s hand rubbed his wet face, his belly. Gunner squirmed back on the beating lap. Once Nazi took a mouthful of the black’s urine; when Gunner turned to see, spat in his face. Gunner’s mind melted in the hot play.

  Nazi opened his lips on the cheek, touched it with his tongue. The cords of the glistening neck tightened when Nazi bit his shoulder. A red drop trickled across Gunner’s collarbone, to blur on his wet chest.

  Gunner’s hand reached for the black cock, fell back. The fisherman leaned forward into his mouth. He panted, and behind him the growl threaded his curses, looser than the laughter above.

  “Hey, man. Look at that—”

  “Yeah, look! Cocksucker lovin’ that dick, yeah! Ain’t he a hot little shit!”

  “Give it to him, Nazi! I’d sure like to get my dick into some of that.”

  “Nigger, step back! Lemme dick this white boy’s face again—”

  “Look at his cheeks go on that black meat.”

  “Long time, long time since I had a white boy’s face to piss in.”

  “See this here dick in my hand? Man, he get one hole free and I’m gonna put it in him.”

  “Save it for Proctor . . .”

  “Shit. That white boy gonna have some black dick tonight.”

  “He sure gonna get some of this one here.”

  “You keep playin’ with it, nigger, and you won’t do nothin’ but get yo’ han’ wet.”

  “I got enough to bang this kid and any pussy Proctor wants.”

  “Proctor wan
ts us now. You heard what Benny said—”

  “Look out, nigger. Nazi’s about to spill it. Look at the boy fight that dick . . .”

  Confused with new voices, Gunner held the cock deep, deeper. Nazi growled between thrusts, “Cocksucker,” and thrust, “I’m gonna give . . . now!’ and shook, “. . . Ahhhh . . .” and thrust again. “Yeah, yeah, shit, yeah . . .”

  The hot chest peeled from Gunner’s back. The cock in him flooded, had fallen, had flopped from his buttocks.

  “All right . . .” Nazi caught his breath. “Now . . . which one of you black bastards wants a chance at my boy here? How about you, Jomo? Fine meat, but don’t spoil it jerkin’ it like that. Come on, nigger. Get out of his face. You made it once already. You just playin’ now. Hey, suck on Jomo. Yeah, there you go. Mmmm. You like that, Jomo? Bet your black ass you do. Yeah, nigger, you better grin. Niggers can’t smile in this book. Hey there, you motherfuckers have been putting down some shit. You gonna let that ass go empty? I got it all slicked up for you. Hey, Sambo, where’s your little boy Nig? Or Dove? They fuck almost as good as you. Get down there to it. Go that ass, Sambo! Feels a lot better than my wet hand, huh? Look, once you God damn coons finish, get on inside to Proctor. He’s waitin’ for you. Shit, will you look at Jomo! Okay, boy. Get on inside. Your turn, Jeb—Christ, nigger, you smell like you been dickin’ a hog in a pig wallow. Motherfucker . . . I didn’t know you were that big—come on, get it down his face. He can take it. Alllll the way. Eat up that meat. Look a-here, cocksucker, you can lick my hand all you want as long as you get that dick down. These black boys got some come to come. Hey, what you hanging around here for, nigger? You had yours already. Get on inside. Proctor’s waiting.”

  “Now,” Kim whispered, “you must dress me. You’ll like that, Bull. You’ll like dressing me.”

  One big, dirty hand cupped her breast from behind. The other moved on her flank. His breath was moist in her ear; his hand was knuckled between her legs, rough nubs prodding her, piercing her. She rubbed his hairy arm; put her palm on his bony, shaved skull, moved her fingers on his fleshy neck.

  “Now, Bull,” she said. “Let’s go now.”

  He grunted as she pulled from him. Following her he felt a door sill under his bare foot, once stubbed his toe on a step. They climbed in heat and dust. Walls: a narrow stair. And still the steps sagged.

  The small slap of her feet was gone from ahead of him. In the gap, confusion: an unfrosted bulb lights, above her head, came on. She dropped her arm from the string. Shoulders, chin, and stomach shone. Behind her, against the attic wall, beside boxes, old pipes, tools and other attic accouterment, was a painting.

  A full length portrait of her: It had been put there within the day, the only object without dust.

  “Now . . .”

  He rubbed his lip with his thumb knuckle. “Did Proctor . . . ?”

  “Shhhh . . .” and nodded. She looked from the painting to the window. They could see lights from the houses of Colson Hill.

  Bull made a long, wordless sound, rubbed blunt fingers along his fat cock. Growled: “Get this pecker up your high-class Colson Hill pussy . . . pussy . . . pussy . . .” a fist around it, moving.

  Her blood-colored nails touched her thighs, her stomach, the underswell of her breast. “My boot,” she said. “You must dress me as I am in the picture.”

  He looked around. By the brick chimney that made a column in the room were the piled attire.

  She moved her foot forward on the floor boards. “My boot.”

  He bent and picked up the kneeboot. He stood, looked at her, looked at it. He held the metal-boned heel against his matted crotch. He moved his red flesh on the patent glister, walking across the floor. He stopped in front of her. Watched her. She blinked. Her face was: a small scar, not a quarter of an inch, below her mouth. Other than that, her face was. She shook her hair back off her shoulder. Blinked. Breathed in, suddenly, loosing the wrinkle from the skin under her arm. He bent his head. Dropped to his knees. The backs of his thighs on his calves sandwiched hair and sweat. He slipped his fingers beneath her instep, lifted her foot. With his other hand: touched the red nail on her second toe with his forefinger.

  She cleared her throat. He looked up, only as high as her crotch though. The ligament down from her groin shifted. She cleared her throat again.

  He looked up at her looking down. The bulb above darkened her face, exploded in the edge of her hair.

  “Dirty animal . . .”

  He fell on her foot, nipping, licking, sucking her smaller toes, barking. He curled on the floor, scraping hip and arm, to press the ball of her foot against his groin. She kicked him, twice. In the crotch; and when he gasped, in the face.

  “My boot . . .”

  On his knees, he pulled the leather around her toes, bending to let his tongue run her skin. The inside smelled of sweat, tasted of sweat.

  He fixed the flaps closed, pulled the laces—

  “Tighter!”

  —tighter, till lumped muscle glistened under the hair on his shoulders. Down, to lick the pale shin disappearing between the closing lapels. Straddling her foot, rubbing his red cock on the rough thongs, the smooth leather, he tried to pry his tongue beneath the boot’s rim, just above her knee. Now he looked up, twice. Once furtively. Then he hurled his face into her bush. She let him lick, even ran her palm over his great, shaved head. Then she pushed him away.

  He collapsed to the floor. He clutched her boot, gnawing the leather covering of her heel, the side of her sole. She kicked his face, the fifth time hard enough to make him draw back, holding his eye.

  “My . . .” She drew breath between the words, let it, and drew breath again, “. . . glove.”

  Bull rocked to his feet, panting. He went to the brick chimney. He looked at the painting behind her, stopped and began to search the pile. He pulled free the leather glove, walked back to her, rubbing it against the hair above his cock’s base.

  She held out her hand.

  He opened his lips and dropped them to her knuckles, dropped his tongue to trough between them.

  Her hand whipped his mouth: Crack, crack!

  So he put the glove on, bunching the leather about each finger, and working it back, then lowered his head again to lick the bone shapes in her wrist, her arm, as he pulled up the cuff. It stopped at the middle of her upper arm—he had twisted to touch the rougher skin of her elbow with his tongue—so he put his mouth on her breast, holding the nipple hard. He pushed his hand between her legs.

  All she did was reach down and grasp his cock with her gloved fingers, twisted, twisted harder. Pulled. He growled, and she caught his balls and squeezed. He went “Ughh . . .” and staggered back.

  She was panting.

  Her reticulated nipple with its puffed aureole glistened.

  “Go on.” The light in the saliva on her breast went on and off with her breathing.

  He looked at the painting again, then went back for the leather bra—low, black, with cut-outs to let the nipples through. While he put it on and tried to kiss her neck, she beat his face and, when he finally fell, kicked his face. He had two cuts on his face; and a bruise on one shoulder.

  He went back for the skirt. On his knees, he tried to buckle the heavy, hobbled belt. He began to nip her buttocks, stick his tongue into the wet crease, going lower to cover his nose in her smell. She turned sharply, brought her knee against his face. He fell back. “Filthy, stupid beast . . .” whispered, “. . . bring me your collar.”

  He brought the buckled strip of brass-studded leather. In the middle, a brass loop fastened to a plate fixed to the band. For the leash.

  He gave it to her. And she smiled, turning it around. Turning it.

  He breathed hard, slowly moving his hand over his hard-on. “Pussy . . .” he whispered. “Pussy . . . mama . . . pussy . . .” He reached for the little hair that was showing below the skirt. She pushed his hand away, still examining the strap.

  Suddenly he pushed forward, gra
bbed her around the shoulders, grunting. She beat at his chest, slapped the collar across his face: he mumbled, “Fuck-a-pussy . . . fuck-a-mama . . .” over bruised lips. He sank his red pole into her foaming slash. (But slashes don’t foam. Sometimes . . . sometimes? No. Sometimes everything . . .) She scratched his face, bit, spat at him. He brought her down, hard on the floor, so she cried out. Her leather grip raked his face, flailed his shoulders. Her thigh boots (he has only put one on her; she is wearing two now; and one glove.) flopped about his hips. He fell, hunching and hunching. She snarled and the sound opened to a roar; as he bit on her chest, he felt the strap go around his neck.

  “Dirty, smelly pig . . .” The buckle tinkles; the strap tightens across his windpipe. The buckle clicked closed. “Be quick, you filthy, stupid . . .” she whispers, at last. “We must be—” His cock caused her to cramp as her hand flailed. She hit the bottom of the painting. It crashes on its face. “—be ready for Proctor!” The sudden sound made Bull come.

  Perhaps in the painting she is only wearing one boot. And one glove. It is lying on its face. I cannot see.

  Proctor slapped Benny’s brown buttocks. “Pull your pecker out of that pussy. I need you.”

  Benny, groggy, pushed himself from Kirsten, rose unsteadily to his feet, bent to pull his pants up. It stuck out, all shiny. With heavy hands, he twisted at himself as he followed his master.

  The captain kneeled beside the girl. “Get up.”

  Groggy as Benny, she put her arms around the captain’s leg. The captain put his arm under her shoulder to support her.

  A black fisherman stepped over the near couple, stooped down and touched her right breast. “Hey,” at the captain, “how about lettin’ big Sambo at that cunt for a while, Captain? Sure would like some.”

  The captain was about to push the fisherman away, but Kirsten had already reached into his fly, shucked loose the foreskin from the wet head, “Oh, yeah!” kneeling and pushing out his hips: “Do it to me, honey. I want to get you back on my boat with my boys. I know the kind of pussy you are. You need a prick in each hole.”

  The captain stood. “Go on, finish it, nigger.”

  “Oh, but I want both of . . .” and she looked quietly at the captain walking away. Sambo pulled her head around. She let him slip his cock into her mouth.