FPS-210  Trisha's Torment
(David Compton)


INTRODUCTION 

If you are reading this book, you are probably not a slum dweller. That is a 
fact so elementary that it may seem unnecessary even to state... but think 
about it for a few moments. The apparent paradox contains some profound 
implications. 

Since you are reading this book, you undoubtedly could afford to pay for it. 
Equally undoubtedly, it probably rarely if ever occurs to you that there are 
many people in this country who can never afford to buy any book. What to 
you is an everyday purchase would be to them an unheard-of luxury. 

Simply stated, most of the people this book is actually about could not 
possibly afford to buy and read it. 

There have been many great novels about life in the slums (or, as today's 
popular euphemism would have it, the "inner cities"). To mention Charles 
Dickens' Olive Twist, James T. Farrell's Studs Lonigan and others, and 
George Orwell's shatteringly powerful Down and Out in Paris and London is 
merely to skim the surface. These and many other writers have attempted to 
"tell it like it is"-and have produced masterpieces. But in spite of their 
efforts, and the pioneering work of such nonfiction researchers and writers 
as Studs Terkel, a general ignorance of what it is actually like to live in 
the slum areas of a major American city prevails. 

As publishers of Dansk Blue Books, we do not think it unfair to compare 
Harry Oakland's The Shamed Socialite with the classics already mentioned. 
Harry Oakland has lived in the slums of New York and Chicago; he has 
witnessed shocking incidents of rape, mugging, prostitution, abandoned 
families, gang warfare and other things almost too ugly to describe. He has 
seen, over and over again, that where even the most basic necessities of 
life have to be savagely fought for and fiercely protected, such items as 
sex exist on the most primitive possible level and the mere idea of such 
emotions as love rarely occurs to anyone. 

The Shamed Socialite is the story of Trish Lovejoy, a seventeen-year-old 
girl who has had her full share of parental love as well as a great wealth 
of material possessions. With all this, Trish lacks one thing, and knows it: 
a knowledge of the lives of people who are poorer than she is on an 
ordinary, day-to-day level. Trish, like most of us, has a vague awareness of 
the needs of our impoverished citizens. What she does not realize is that 
poverty does not merely deprive those citizens of pleasant luxuries; it 
actually becomes a grinding-down process that produces people who are little 
better than animals in their basic drives. 

Trish begins by bluntly informing her wealthy and socially prominent parents 
that she is rejecting their upper-class world because she believes it is 
aimless and hypocritical. She moves from her Park Avenue home to the ghetto 
district. She sincerely thinks she is going to help the less fortunate whom 
she considers the "real" people of the world. And once there, her great 
beauty, dedication and obvious refinement make her an alluring and natural 
target for a great diversity of ghetto characters. 

Trish meets the greediest of political bosses, a man who turns the noblest 
of motives to his own power-hungry advantage. She meets the black activist 
who does not know where his own actions will lead him, but only feels that 
he has been wrongfully hurt and wants to exact his revenge on the entire 
white race. She meets those who ache desperately for the next crumb of bread 
life will toss their way, and those who strive desperately for any form of 
recognition as simple human beings. And she meets sex in its rawest form. 

The Shamed Socialite is not exactly a pleasant book to read. Many of its 
incidents are sordid, some are frightening-and all should make those of us 
who are reasonably well off feel a twinge of guilt. And because the 
residents of the ghetto take sex as they find it on the most elemental 
level, some readers will find it a shockingly "sexy" book. But if it is 
sordid, frightening, or sexy, it is so only because Harry Oakland is an 
uncompromisingly honest writer, and he has set down here in fiction form the 
facts of life as he has found them in his long, painstaking, and sometimes 
dangerous research in ghetto conditions. 

Certainly Trish Lovejoy's stay in the ghetto teaches her a lot about sex and 
a lot about life in general. She does not succeed in everything she sets out 
to accomplish, but she emerges from her experiences a much more mature 
person and a complete woman instead of an overly imaginative girl. She has 
learned a great deal ... and it is our sincere hope that the reader, too, 
will learn, and gain useful new insights, from reading about her adventures. 

One day in the future, perhaps, the slums will vanish, and better living 
conditions will be available to everyone. In the meantime, we present The 
Shamed Socialite as a means of enlightenment and a message of hope. 

The Publishers 

 Chapter One 

"They ought to be strung up to the nearest lamp post!" The president of the 
country club had a low boiling point when it came to college students. 
"Burning a bank! Defying authority! Fornicating in public!" His voice rose 
shrill and outraged as he barked out the accusations against college 
dissenters. "What do they want?" he asked no one in particular. 

"Someone to listen to them!" Trish Lovejoy retorted, her eyes blazing. She 
pushed her way through the group of obsequious sheep who would have agreed 
with any position taken by President Fowler. They stared aghast at Trish. 
The mother and father of the impulsive seventeen-year-old girl tried vainly 
to stop her. Now they could only watch and listen with extreme disapproval. 
And trepidation. The party was being held on the lawn in back of their Park 
Avenue residence. The town house had recently been acquired by Trish's 
father, a johnny-come-lately to the ranks of the millionaires. And as one of 
the nouveau riche, it was extremely important to Mr. and Mrs. Lovejoy that 
he receive approval and acceptance from families who had enjoyed wealth and 
position when he was just another hustler with an ambitious wife. He had 
sent Trish to the most expensive college in the country. To his horror, she 
had returned for the summer, a revolutionary who could no longer accept the 
values of a society that she branded corrupt and phony. Both parents had 
begged Trish to stifle her alien and dangerous views during the lawn party. 
And she had promised. Now she broke that promise. 

But the president didn't seem to mind the stand taken by the girl. He looked 
approvingly back at Trish. He especially approved of the chestnut-colored 
hair that hung loosely down to a waist so narrow he could have encircled it 
with both hands. The watery pale eyes of the president focussed on the 
swelling breasts which the restrictions beneath the blouse couldn't conceal 
or distort. There was no doubt that the breasts of the girl were large and 
well-developed with spear-shaped nipples that almost pierced through her 
blouse. The hips of the girl flared out dramatically and fused into a pair 
of curvaceous ass cheeks that were breath-takingly apparent beneath the pair 
of skin-tight hot pants. But the lips of the girl held the president's eyes 
with unabashed admiration and curiosity. And finally, lust. The flesh of the 
girl's red, full, perfectly shaped lips appeared to have a texture identical 
to velvet. And without any conscious effort from the girl, her lips radiated 
images of fellatio; the deliciously soft lips enveloping a cock so turgid 
the bone strained to burst through the flesh. A montage of female 
lips-on-cock images shuttered through the mind of the president until a 
unique sensation oozed out of the pit of his genitals. His penis stirred, 
and then charged stiffly upward. All of this happened in only a few seconds 
despite the gray, balding head, the widening girth, the ruddy complexion of 
the dedicated drinker, and the look of anxiety etched into his flabby face 
from all of his many fears; the fear of impotency, of growing old, of losing 
his position. But now, in the presence of this young girl, he felt young 
again; young and confident. And horny. 

President Fowler stretched out his hand. "The young and beautiful daughter 
of our host and hostess. Charmed," he murmured with an easy smile. 

Trish hesitated, and then shook hands with the president. Her first instinct 
had been to recoil and refuse the hand of friendship from a man who 
symbolized everything that was rotten and corrupt. But then Trish remembered 
that a man's hands revealed much of his character. 

And she was fair-minded enough to give him the benefit of the doubt. The 
flesh on the bulky hands of the president was soft, but just beneath the 
surface there was plenty of hard bone. On one finger there was a diamond 
ring worth more than the average worker earned in an entire year. The hand 
of the president confirmed his character as far as Trish was concerned; 
soft, stubborn and clinging blindly to gaudy ornaments which blazoned his 
wealth and position. 

Trish was about to withdraw her hand when the president, in a most discreet 
manner, touched the center of her palm with the tip of his forefinger. Then 
he waggled the fingertip back and forth in a way that could have only one 
meaning; he wanted sex. One of his weak eyes fluttered down in a 
conspiratorial wink. 

Blood flushed into Trish's face until it turned crimson. Sparks flew out of 
her eyes and she had great difficulty in choking off the words that 
struggled to roar out of her mouth. Words like "dirty old man," "sex fiend," 
and an even more biting indictment, "establishment degenerate." Trish 
constrained these epithets. Instead she returned to the earlier question 
posed by the president; the question regarding rioting college students and 
the meaning behind their wrath. 

Trish yanked her hand from the president's grasp, and her pretty nose 
wrinkled as though the older man didn't smell too good. She spat out her 
answer. "Students want a better world in which to live. They demand a better 
world. And they're going to get it even if they have to tear down the old, 
rotten world which still tolerates wars, hunger, neglect. A world that 
worships phony gods such as status in country clubs!" 

Fowler looked dismayed. The girl was attacking the important role of country 
clubs in the country's cultural environment. And the country club was his 
bread and butter, his entire life. The man's thin lips snapped tightly down 
over his dentures. His penis softened and slid back to its normally wrinkled 
and pitifully small condition. "You can't mean what you're saying," he 
blustered. "You're old enough to know right from wrong, young lady!" 

More people started to gather around the girl and the president. On the edge 
of the throng, Trish's father ran an agitated hand over his carefully styled 
hair that was supposed to impart a carefree appearance to his normally 
harried-looking face. "She's stabbing us in the back," he moaned to his 
wife. "My own daughter, a thankless viper." 

Trish's mother looked equally as distressed. Mrs. Lovejoy was wearing a 
Parisian original that had been purchased especially for the lawn party. But 
she was the sort of female who could make a five-thousand-dollar creation 
look like a bargain basement special. Despite the hours of preparation, she 
still looked like hell. Trish was the one with the natural beauty and flair 
that could fit easily into high society. But she was throwing it all away on 
a bunch of freaky revolutionaries with crazy ideas. The thought enraged her, 
and she grabbed hold of her husband's hand. Together they charged through 
the gaggle of people that surrounded the president and Trish. Emerging into 
the center of the crowd, Trish's father pantingly informed the president, 
"You'll never win an argument with my daughter. She's the great ail-American 
put-on." 

The president looked blank. "What d'you mean by that?" he snapped. 

Trish's mother laughed nervously. "Our daughter talks revolution out of one 
side of her mouth. Yet she insists on buying five-hundred-dollar original 
dresses. In fact, she's the best dressed revolutionary in America. She 
drives to all of the meetings in the family Rolls." 

Laughter bounced over the crowd. Most of the others had revolutionary sons 
and daughters to contend with also. By laughing at Trish, they were trying 
to laugh away their own fears and worries. And to further placate the 
president, Trish's father announced that he was making an unusually large 
contribution to the golf fund. 

The president's anger receded. Now that he was convinced that Trish was just 
another normal but mixed-up college kid, the desire for her body flushed 
back into his blood again. Or, to be more specific, the image of Trish's 
mouth over his cock returned to stroke his penis into another erection. The 
tingle of his enlarging cock bone made the president's face glow, and his 
lips parted to form another toothy grin. 

And aglow with anticipation of a young girl's mouth on his cock, the 
president raised his hands in what he considered a most magnificent gesture. 
"Peace," he smiled to Trish's parents. "Children will be children." Still, 
Trish had given him a few bad moments with her put-on. Rationalizing, the 
president decided that it was only fair to get a stomach-churning blow job 
off the girl. And sizing up the situation, he came to the conclusion that 
Trish's own parents would gladly assist him in such a worthwhile goal. 

And to make certain he'd receive the necessary cooperation from Mr. and Mrs. 
Lovejoy, the president slipped a comradely arm over the shoulder of Trish's 
father. "That matter of your permanent status in the club is coming up next 
meeting," he informed the man. "I'll do everything in my power to make sure 
you're accepted." 

Trish's father turned white. The president had offered his support in such a 
vague way that his acceptance in the club was not a foregone conclusion. He 
decided to be perfectly frank with the president. "It means a good deal to 
me to be accepted," he said. 

Fowler winked. "I'll help you. You'll help me. Cooperation is the name of 
the game, isn't it?" 

The other man looked puzzled. "But how can I help you? Just name it. I'll do 
anything for your help." 

The president beamed. "I was merely talking in abstract terms. Don't worry 
about your election into the club now. Let's enjoy this wonderful party. I 
feel great, and I want to stay that way." As the president spoke, he opened 
the jacket of his suit and exposed the fly area of his pants. Trish's 
parents couldn't help but notice the bulge between the legs of the 
president. By now the protrusion was as large as a man's doubled fist. Trish 
didn't notice. Her eyes were boring into the face of the aging man who 
symbolized everything she stood against. 

But Trish's mother was too astute a woman not to understand the president's 
intent immediately. She shot a meaningful glance at her husband, who nodded. 
He, too, understood. The president had designs on their daughter, Trish. To 
be more specific, the president was on fire to fuck Trish. He already had a 
bone on. And when he unbuttoned his coat, he was purposely exposing his 
lust. The president's idea of cooperation was assistance in helping him 
screw Trish. 

Despite the fact that not a word was uttered regarding the president's 
sexual needs, the communications between the man and Trish's parents were 
vivid and unmistakably clear. And from the look on the president's face, it 
was also plain that he was delivering an ultimatum. Either he fucked Trish, 
or else he'd blackball her father from joining the country club. 

Trish's parents held a silent but spirited conversation regarding the 
president's ultimatum. They knew each other well enough to communicate with 
their eyes, hands, and complicated body language. Neither parent believed 
for a moment that Trish was still a virgin. They'd heard about promiscuous 
college students, and especially the acid parties thrown by the freak-outs. 
And they knew Trish consorted openly with the longhairs and the freaks that 
attended her university. Both of her parents came to a swift and unanimous 
conclusion. If their daughter was giving her cunt away for free to the 
longhairs and the freaks, she might as well give the president a piece of 
her ass. At least she'd be helping her parents. Membership in the country 
club was vital for both business and social reasons. And raising Trish to 
become a Park Avenue socialite was going to take more money than earlier 
anticipated. By agreeing to the president's ultimatum, they were actually 
helping Trish. And when this rationalization was agreed upon, both man and 
wife nodded to the president in a way that could have only one meaning. 
"Yes," they said in their silent but crystal-clear way, "you may fuck our 
daughter provided you secure our membership in the country club." 

The president quickly nodded in agreement. And now that the terms were 
mutually acceptable, it was up to the man and his wife to deliver their 
daughter's naked body to the lecherous old president. 

Trish's father placed an arm around her shoulder. "Darling," he said to 
Trish, "why don't you show the president around our humble home?" And before 
Trish could object, he quickly added, "I'm sure the president respects your 
opinions regarding our rebellious college students." 

"Peace," the president murmured. 

Trish's father continued, "And I think you respect the views of the 
president." 

Trish's mother put in quickly, "Our daughter is extremely fair-minded." 

The president rubbed his hands together. "I'm all for a stroll around your 
lovely grounds and home. It will give me a chance to understand the views of 
the young people." He asked Trish. "Or are you afraid of a little open 
debate where our respective ideas can be exchanged openly and honestly?" 

The three older people had backed Trish into a corner. Now she had to escort 
the president around the grounds of her parents' mansion. "I'm not afraid to 
debate my views with you or anyone else," she informed the president in a 
curt voice. She could have been mistaken about the actual meaning of his 
handshake. But she'd be on her guard when she escorted the old man around 
the place. At any rate, there were plenty of room-to-room telephones. If 
Fowler made any advances towards her, she'd be able to phone her parents. 

The president took hold of Trish's arm. "Good," he breathed with relief. 
"I'd like to really understand why you young people are so riled up and go 
around burning down buildings." They proceeded to walk away. 

"Take your time," Trish's father called after the retreating couple. 

"Don't come back until you've seen everything," her mother sang out at the 
president. 

The president called over his shoulder, "I have every intention of 
inspecting every nook and cranny of your lovely property." 

"It's all yours to enjoy," the couple replied in unison. 

And so, with a smile, a nod, and a firm grip on Trish's arm, the president 
guided the young girl away from the crowd on the lawn. 

"I'm supposed to be leading you," Trish said, annoyed at the clawlike hands 
in the flesh of her arm. 

But the president steered Trish back to the house. "I was hoping we could 
discuss the generation gap in the privacy of your library. That is," he 
added slyly, "if you're not afraid to hear my side of the issue." 

Trish looked up at the aging man at her side. His face was flushed, his eyes 
were aglow. He seemed to be genuinely excited at the prospect of talking to 
her. The man was sincere, Trish decided. And if she could only win him over, 
the wealthy and influential country club leader could do a lot of good for 
youth groups. Most of youth's rage stemmed from one salient factor: the 
indifference of the older generation. 

In the book-lined library, the president sat down in an easy chair opposite 
Trish. He was going to have to go slow, he decided. The girl was sincere in 
her desire to help others less fortunate. And this was the theme that the 
president seized upon. He, too, wanted to help young people but didn't know 
how to go about it. "My own youth was rather sordid, filled with struggle 
and hardships. Would it bore you if I were to tell you of my own humble 
beginnings? Then, perhaps, you'd understand how sincere I am about helping 
young people." 

Trish started to warm to the man. All of her own fears and hesitations about 
his character began to vaporize. "I want to know about your youth!" Trish 
said sincerely and emphatically. "I just knew that, underneath it all, you 
were on our side." 

The president stood up and then sat down beside Trish on the couch. He took 
hold of her hand. "I need your encouragement and support," he said. 

Trish squeezed his hand. "You've got it," she said quickly. "Feel free to 
tell me everything." 

Fowler smiled sadly. "I'm afraid I'd only shock you. You see, I started life 
in an orphanage. A most sordid place, I can assure you." 

"Nothing you can say will shock me," Trish assured him. 

The older man nestled closer against Trish, and could feel her full and 
shapely thighs beneath her tight-fitting hot-pants outfit. The pants fitted 
Trish so tightly they appeared to have been painted over her skin. The 
president's eyes followed the lines of her waist, her hips, her legs. The 
crotch of the pants hugged the flesh so firmly that he could make out the 
slit of the girl's cunt. Erotic images sprang full bloom into the mind of 
the president. The images of Trish's cunt flashed on and off in sharp and 
detailed focus. In one image, the cunt was a large one with a forest of 
brownish cunt hairs framing the love valley. The outer lips were thick and 
red and glistened for the feel of a man's tongue. In another image, Trish's 
cunt was tight, hairless, and yet athrob for the feel of cock and tongue. To 
tongue and lap the tight, hairless cunt of a virgin had been an exciting 
thought for many years now. In fact, when the president had to have 
intercourse with his own gray-haired and sexually unappetizing wife, he 
closed his eyes and conjured up the image of a virgin's tight, hairless 
cunt. In that way he was able to achieve an erection with his wife. But it 
had never really been a satisfactory experience for him. In fact, more often 
than not, he faked his orgasm. His wife usually blew her cunt and was too 
wet to detect his fakery. But he couldn't fool himself. He hadn't really 
blown his nuts for years. But now, in the privacy of the library, and alone 
with a tender and curvaceous seventeen-year-old girl, the president resolved 
that he wouldn't leave the room until he cracked his nuts. 

And this resolve was only strengthened when Trish kept squeezing his hand. 
"Tell me all about your life in the orphanage," she urged. "I always felt 
there was a more tender side to your character." 

Beads of sweat pimpled the face of the man. The shaft of his cock kept 
throbbing for attention from the girl. But he was smart enough to play it 
cool. There were ways to win a seventeen-year-old girl to his prick. But he 
didn't dare frighten her away by being too abrupt and unmannerly in his 
demands. The president's plan was to make Trish beg for his stiff prick. And 
now he sighed aloud. "If you promise not to be shocked, I'll try and 
describe the sordidness of my youth." 

Trish smiled. "Nothing you can say can possibly shock me. I do want to try 
and understand you." She added, "Trust me." 

The president now boldly took Trish's hand and held it between his own two 
clammy hands. "And I'm asking you to trust me," he said. Ever so slightly, 
he maneuvered the palm of Trish's hand down over the bulge in his crotch. 
Finally he felt the skin of the girl's hand contact the tip of his 
protrusion. Bolts of electricity streaked through the president. He 
shuddered to think of the excitement in store for him when he actually 
exposed the flesh of his cock and felt her hand drop over the head and shaft 
when they were unencumbered by clothes. 

Trish's mind was so absorbed by the hope of finally understanding someone 
like the president that she was completely unaware of her hand and the 
object it was in contact with. The object was the fly of the president's 
pants. Beneath the fly was his cockhead. And that cock-head was sensitive 
enough to absorb the vibrations from the warm and sensuous hand of the young 
girl. He started to speak in a voice that sounded strangled and unnatural. 
It took every ounce of his willpower to restrain his compulsion to rape the 
girl. But he was a proud enough man to want her cunt served up on a platter 
by her own volition. "When I was fourteen years old," he told Trish, "I 
found out that the orphanage had rather special duties for me. To make a 
long story short, it was a place where wealthy old women came and hired boys 
to have sexual relations with them." His eyes darted sharply over Trish's 
face in order to gauge her reaction. "Do you understand what I mean?" he 
asked. 

Trish blushed as she nodded. "Of course I do," she said and sounded 
sympathetic. "It even happens at our college. Wealthy old women hang around 
the campus in order to entice some youngster still in his teens." 

"I still feel degraded when I think about it," Fowler continued. By now he 
had managed to work the palm of Trish's hand down over his pants where the 
penile shaft was concealed. That shaft was now so rigid and pulsating for 
action that his nuts felt heavy with boiling cock cream. It was an alien but 
wonderful sensation for him, since it had been many years since he'd last 
experienced a satisfying climax. First, he decided, he'd blow in Trish's 
mouth. Then, if he could get another hard-on, he'd blast her cunt. 

Trinity's voice was filled with warmth and affection for the man. "I know 
how you feel. But get it out of your system. You'll feel much better." 

Slowly, cautiously, the president wrapped Trish's fingers around the penile 
shaft of his cock. Then he squeezed her fingers against his cock. The 
sensation was so exquisite it brought tears to the man's eyes. But Trish was 
too charged with emotion to be fully aware of the location of her hand and 
the havoc it was creating in the mind of the gray-haired man. Her mind and 
sensitivities were almost entirely consumed by images of the president's 
youth in an orphanage. "One day a woman came to the orphanage," the 
president said. "She was over sixty-five years old, and she paid to take me 
home for the weekend. In her home, I had to sleep with her. To be specific, 
I had to fuck her." He quickly asked, "Am I shocking you?" 

Trish was sensitive enough to feel humiliated for the president. The thought 
of a lustful, insensitive old woman forcing herself on a fourteen-year-old 
virgin boy nauseated her. "I'm beginning to understand you," Trish murmured 
quietly. Her face was crimson but she forced herself to say, "Please 
continue. And be explicit. It's the only way I'll get to really understand." 

The president felt confident enough to press her fingers down hard over his 
cock. "Thank you," he replied. "To do the woman justice, she was quite 
handsome despite her age. Her hair was gray, but it was neatly cut and quite 
stylish. As I recall, she had a blueish tint to her hair which made it exude 
an aura of sex. And as I remember, she was quite tall, with a figure that 
still had all the curves in the right places. She was wealthy enough to 
spend a lot of time in the best beauty parlors. But they couldn't erase her 
wrinkles or lessen her age, which was getting close to seventy. Still, she 
craved cock. And that cock had to belong to a young boy." 

As the president spoke, he did not for a single instance remove his eyes 
from Trish. Every word he spoke was selected and modulated to stimulate her 
passions. And when he thought he detected enough passion in her face and 
eyes, he'd make an open move to pump a mouth-fuck into her. But at the 
moment her face remained impassive and he was unable to determine whether he 
was exciting her or not. He decided to restrain himself a bit longer and 
continue with the recital of the incident that had robbed him of his 
virginity. "She lived in one of those beautiful homes with a long, curving 
staircase. After we had dinner, she asked if I'd help her up the stairs. She 
had undressed for dinner and was just wearing a robe. I soon found out that 
there wasn't a thing under the robe. I placed one arm around her waist and 
she leaned on my shoulder. Slowly we made it up the stairs, but I could feel 
her tits press up against my shoulder, and my one hand could feel the curve 
of her naked ass beneath the robe. This proximity of a naked female 
naturally had its effect on a young and impressionable boy. Despite the 
differences in ages, I soon had a hard-on. The woman's old eyes fastened 
themselves on the bulge in my pants. And by the time we reached the top of 
the steps, she made her move. A move to get to my prick and seduce me." 

Trish asked a bit shyly, "Didn't you feel any natural instinct against 
having relations with a woman old enough to be your grandmother?" 

"No," the president replied with emphasis. "I did not. In fact, the thought 
of screwing a woman old enough to be my grandmother excited me." 

Trish felt she understood. "You were taken advantage of by a member of a 
different generation. Now you're distrustful of all people of different 
generations. And now that you're older, you're distrustful of younger 
people. Right or wrong?" Trish asked. 

The president frowned. He didn't seem to be exciting Trish's libido at all. 
But he plunged on with the narrative of his first youthful seduction. And he 
tried to be as explicit as possible. 

"As I was saying," he said, ignoring Trish's question, "the old woman was 
hot after my nuts. At the top of the steps, she pretended to drop her 
handkerchief. Instinctively, I dropped to my knees and picked it up. But 
when I was on my knees the old woman let her robe open and gave me a good 
look at her naked body. This was the first time in my entire life I'd ever 
seen a naked female body, and I can assure you I was tremendously excited 
despite the differences in age. 

"When she saw the excitement in my face and cock, she slowly let the entire 
robe slip off her shoulders. And there she stood, very naked and making no 
attempt to conceal her lust for my prick. She smiled invitingly like an old 
coquette and let me ravish her naked body with my eyes. To do her justice, 
she wasn't badly stacked. She was a rather tall woman, and all of her curves 
were in proportion. Her tits sagged, of course, and so did the flesh on her 
ass. Her belly curved, and her arms and legs, although shapely, were 
slightly bony. She had a profusion of gray hair around her cunt, which was 
thick-lipped and slightly parted. Her navel was quite large and wrinkled in 
an erotic way. Then, like a model, she turned around and showed off her ass, 
which was still curvy with plenty of meat. Gray hairs jutted out of her 
rectum, and she reached back and pulled on one of them to show me how firmly 
they were embedded in her asshole. Then she flicked one of her cheeks aside 
to give me a good look between the ass cheeks and into the actual rectum. 

"When she turned around, she took a step forward and stood with her cunt 
staring me in the face I was still on my knees, and seemed paralyzed. I 
couldn't seem to move. All I wanted to do was stare at her naked body. But 
when she stood with her cunt only a fraction of an inch away from my mouth, 
a strange impulse shook my entire body. No, it was more than an impulse. It 
was a compulsion. And that compulsion forced me to press my mouth against 
her hairy cunt. The old woman read my thoughts with approval. She wanted her 
cunt sucked, and by a boy. Discarding what remained of her reserve, she 
grabbed hold of my head and shoved my mouth up tight to her cunt. 

"At first, I didn't know what to do. All I could feel were hairs biting into 
my face and eyes and mouth. Then she carefully maneuvered her cunt in such a 
way that I was soon tasting a sliver of flesh that seemed to be growing out 
of the cunt. This piece of cunt flesh resembled a miniature prick. At any 
rate, I noisily sucked the thing into my mouth and proceeded to eat it. She 
threw back her head and yelled, 'That's right, son. Eat your mommy's cunt, 
bite it, chew it, lap it.' And while she was hurling these obscenities at 
me, she gyrated her hips like a stripper and slammed her cunt back and forth 
against my mouth. Her female cock was thrust in and out of my mouth, which 
she was using in the very same way a man uses a woman's cunt. 

"This, too, excited me. And while she was pumping a fuck into my mouth, I 
yanked out my own swollen prick and began to stroke it. By fourteen, I was 
already an experienced masturbator. Her eyes really lit up when she saw me 
jacking off. "That's right, honey son,' she called out encouragingly. 'Jack 
yourself off while you eat your mommy's cunt.' 

"She soon approached a grinding climax. Staccato-like bursts of cunt, hairs 
and belly were slammed back and forth in my face as she raced towards her 
big blow. Cock juices were also boiling within me and surging towards the 
head of my cock. Finally her clawlike fingers dug into my head as she 
wrenched at my face in an effort to fuse my tongue deep within her throbbing 
cunt. And at that moment, my adolescent cock cream, which was hotter than an 
atomic blast, jetted out the head of my turgid prick. She continued to rock 
back and forth for several minutes while she was discharging every drop of 
her come. My nuts continued to pump cream out of my cock for an even longer 
period. Finally, with her face flushed, she looked triumphantly down at me. 
'You're a real treasure,' she gurgled. 'Now come into the bedroom and give 
your mommy a real fuck like a dutiful son.'" 

The president stopped talking and slyly scrutinized Trish's face. This time 
the young girl's face was nicely flushed, and there was a strange look in 
her eyes. The president felt that, at last, he had succeeded in exciting 
her. The time had come for him to put the pressure on Trish and induce her 
to go down on his cock that was straining agitatedly up against his pants. 
The president's hands boldly took Trish's fingers and pressed them against 
the crotch of his pants. A million mosquito-like impulses stung the 
president to unzip and expose his swollen prick, which hadn't been in such a 
state of agitation for many years. His goal of all those years was to be 
realized; the soft and lovely mouth of a seventeen-year-old girl was going 
to engulf the entire reddish-colored prick, shaft and head alike. 

But as the president's fleshy and awkward fingers fumbled for his zipper, 
Trish spoke, and he hesitated for another moment. "Of course, I really 
understand you, now," Trish said emphatically. "I really know what you want, 
and what you must have if you are going to have any inner peace." 

"You do?" the president said happily, a bit surprised. 

Trish continued with her analysis. "You were seduced by an older woman at 
quite a tender age. From the very beginning you were attracted to older 
women. That's why you married one." 

At mention of the president's wife, his cock began to sag a bit. She was 
older than the president, and completely sexless. He had married her for 
money and no other reason. He hadn't had sexual relations with her for 
years. And she watched him too closely to permit him a sexual release with 
other women who were more desirable. This afternoon she had been unable to 
attend the lawn party, and it would be the president's only chance to attain 
sexual relief. If he didn't make it now with Trish, he wouldn't make it 
again for a long time to come. This realization sledgehammered the president 
into action. "Darling," he said breathlessly, "forget about my wife. At one 
time in my life I was attracted to older women. Now that I'm old, I want a 
young girl to fuck. A girl like you!" And with this announcement, he 
unzipped his fly and let his cock bone shoot out into the somewhat coolish 
air of the library. Exposed, and with the realization that Trish was eyeing 
the fleshy appendage, the president struggled to prevent a premature 
ejaculation. "Make me happy," he begged of the girl. "Suck my cock. Please, 
please, make me blow in your mouth." 

For a moment Trish was speechless as well as paralyzed. She had really 
believed in his sincerity. And while he had used the most explicit and 
descriptive language in recounting his seduction by the older woman, Trish 
was used to hearing such language on campus. It really had no effect on her, 
or others of her generation. Four-letter expletives were part of the 
language and accepted by her generation. Now she realized the old man 
thought he was getting her excited with his earthy description of the 
seduction. This was another area where her generation and the older one 
differed radically. But the realization that the socially prominent 
president of the very exclusive country club thought she was promiscuous and 
an easy lay filled her with such shame and humiliation that she could only 
struggle ineffectively to express herself. Finally she was able to scream, 
"Hypocrite!" at the old man and leap to her feet. 

Trish lunged towards the door. But panic and desperation stung Fowler into 
leaping to his feet and reaching out for the girl. He managed to grab hold 
of her before she escaped from the library. And as they struggled near the 
door, the president snapped it locked. When Trish broke momentarily out of 
his grasp, he wasn't in the least perturbed. He was much stronger than the 
girl, and he stood in front of the door. She wasn't going to go any place 
until she sucked his cock. And the excitement of the struggle had also 
pumped blood into his prick, which was still athrob for the girl's mouth or 
cunt. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the bookcase, the 
president was surprised at the way he looked. His gray hair was disheveled, 
his puffy face was flushed. And yet he looked youthful, alive, and for the 
first time in many years really charged with purpose and a will to attain 
his goal. That goal was a young girl's mouth over his prick. And he was 
going to realize that goal before he left the room. 

On the opposite side of the table, Trish tried to reason with the 
lust-maddened old man. "I won't tell," she said in a shaky voice. "Let me 
out of here and we'll forget it ever happened." 

The president pounded his fist down on the table. "Damn your sweet cunt!" he 
shouted insanely. "I'm not letting you out of here until you service my 
prick. He grabbed hold of the shaft with one hand. "Look at it!" he ordered 
in a strangled voice. "Look how stiff it is. And red. For the first time in 
years, I can feel the cock juices filling up my nuts. Don't you know how 
much it means for me to feel my cock in your mouth? And even if I blow in 
your mouth, I know I can get another bone on to service your cunt." 

When Trish remained silent, his voice rose, even more angry and 
crazy-sounding. "Damnit! You college kids are fucking all over the campus 
every day of the week. Why is it so hard for you to give me one small fuck? 
That's all I ask. Why?" his voice wailed, and that voice was stuffed with 
all the self-pity he had always felt for himself for most of his life. 

"But I'm not promiscuous!" Trish yelled back at him. "For the most part, 
college kids aren't promiscuous. They do a lot of talking, but they don't do 
it. Most girls my age are just like me. They want someone special to fuck." 

"I'm the president of the country club," the old man retorted. "I'm 
special!" 

Trish spat back at him. "You're a selfish, self-centered old man. All you do 
is think of yourself. Try to help others less fortunate, and you'll get all 
the satisfaction you'll ever want or need." 

"To hell with helping others!" Fowler said scornfully. "I need a blow job by 
a young girl." 

"That's all in your mind," Trish tried to reason with him. 

For answer, the president propelled himself over the top of the table and 
managed to grab hold of Trish around her waist. Man and girl plummeted to 
the floor, where Trish was pinioned by the sheer bulk of the other's bulky 
body. "Let me go!" Trish screamed. "I'll never give in. Never!" 

Trish's resistance only seemed to fire the old man with increased passion. 
His fingers dug into the skin-tight hot pants and proceeded to peel them 
down. If he could get to her cunt and lap it, he kept reasoning, he'd melt 
away her resistance. The memory of his long-ago seduction by the old woman 
kept spurring him on. Her excited screams when he mounted her cunt and 
swallowed her hot, bitter-sweet cunt juices still rang in his ears. 

Trish hammered her fists unceasingly over the old man's face and head. But 
he was more determined than ever to expose her pussy. After he tongued her 
cunt for a while, she'd return the favor. Of that he was certain. And that's 
why he kept ripping away at her clothes. Despite Trish's constantly flailing 
arms and legs, the fists in his eyes and face, the president drove 
relentlessly towards his goal. Finally, with a groaning tug, he pulled down 
the hot pants to reveal the creamy, naked flesh of the young girl, which 
spilled out before the excited eyes of the old man. "Get away from there!" 
Trish screamed as the president pushed his face between her legs. The space 
in that area was now exposed, and the president's tongue strained to lap the 
cunt of the young girl. 

Trish was now naked from the waist down, and her cunt was very much exposed 
to the president's rapacious lust. He managed to wedge his face between the 
girl's legs and wrap each one around his neck. To his excited delight, the 
girl was already maturely developed in this region. Although the hair on her 
head was chestnut-colored, the cunt hairs were jet-black. The erotic 
contrast of colors excited the old man almost beyond endurance. Saliva 
already bubbled out around the corners of his lips, and the blood was 
pounding so loudly and agitatedly in his temples that he was afraid he'd 
rupture a blood vessel. But he had to taste the young girl's cunt or go out 
of his mind. And even better, he had to feel her velvety soft lips engulf 
his hot and sweating prick. 

Every time he managed to get his tongue within striking distance of Trish's 
cunt, the energetic and equally determined girl twisted her body aside and 
Fowler's mouth rammed down against the floor carpet. Once he hit the floor 
with such a thud that blood started to trickle out of his mouth and mingle 
with the saliva. But the taste of blood made him all the more determined to 
lap the girl's cunt. 

The president had become the leader in the Park Avenue community because he 
had the ability to analyze a situation and then take immediate action. He 
possessed a sharp and quick mind. And now Trish discovered the extent of 
this sharpness and quickness of mind. As long as Trish's legs were free, 
she'd be able to squirm and kick the president's tongue off her cunt. But if 
those same shapely legs were unable to move, he'd be able to plunge his 
tongue deep into the cunt despite her screams and protestations. 

And now that he understood the situation and had quickly formulated a plan, 
the president acted-quickly, resolutely, boldly. He grabbed the ankles of 
the girl, pulled them down to the floor, and held onto them like a pair of 
clamps. Her freedom of movement was greatly restricted, and she was now 
completely unable to deny him her female cunt treasure. Without easing his 
grasp on her legs for a single instant, the president pushed his face up 
between the girl's legs, which were now spread apart in the shape of a 
letter V. The girl's screams were muffled under the beating and pounding of 
his heart. Finally the tip of her moist, black cunt hairs tickled the cheeks 
of his face, and he opened his mouth as wide as possible. For many years he 
had been denied the taste of female cunt, for his wife had been a firm 
believer in old-fashioned man-on-top sex without the slightest deviation. 
"Cunt," he breathed. "A young girl's cunt. And it's all mine!" 

Cunnilingus had been often discussed on campus between Trish and her 
friends. But it was an act that she had never personally engaged in. She was 
being perfectly honest with the president when she told him that she could 
only perform sex with a very special person. And now Trish felt degraded; as 
degraded as filth. 

Trish was no longer making any noise. There wasn't any point, and the effort 
was only tiring her. The library was in a fairly isolated wing of her 
parent's mansion. And all of the servants were occupied with the lawn party. 
Screaming, she decided, wouldn't save her. She had been saving her cunt for 
a very special person. Now the sight of the sight of the craven old fool 
with his mouth almost against the slit almost made her heave. She felt no 
passion for him, no lust, no desire. Only revulsion. And when his slobbering 
mouth at last made contact with her genitals, she held her head backwards in 
an effort to stave off an attack of vomiting. Then she heard another voice 
calling for her. She propped herself up on her elbows. "In here," she 
screamed out now. "In the library. Hurry on. Break in the door. Get help. 
I'm being raped!" 

At the sound of the other man's voice, the president pulled his already 
moistened mouth away from her pussy and looked up with a startled expression 
on his face. "Who is it?" he demanded to know. Certainly it wasn't the 
girl's parents. The intruder had to be one of her freaky college friends. 

Trish didn't reply to the president's question. She ignored him completely. 
Instead, her eyes were fastened to the door. On the other side of the door, 
a friend of hers named Acid Head was pounding and shoving and rattling the 
doorknob. The president leaped to his feet as the pounding grew louder, more 
insistent, and the door appeared to be giving way under the determined 
onslaught. Finally the lock broke, the door flew open, and an 
outlandish-looking creature stumbled into the room. 

Acid Head was an apt name for the newcomer. He was tall as a professional 
basketball player. His face was emaciated-looking, and he had the appearance 
of an acid tripper who had just returned from dreamsville and was angry with 
the ugliness of reality. He was wearing a band around his long hair, and a 
beard all but concealed his face. His raglike clothes looked slept in, and 
the fact that he needed a bath became immediately apparent to the president 
who, for the first time in his life, was speechless. Finally he breathed, 
"Who in hell are you?" 

Acid Head ignored the question. Hatred blazed out of his face. A glance at 
Trish and another distasteful look at the president told him about all he 
needed to know.. In a slow drawl, he asked Trish, "He try to fuck you 
against your will?" 

"Yes," Trish replied. She had leaped to her feet and pulled up her pants. 

"Ain't that just like the old hypocrites from the hung-up generation?" Acid 
Head asked. "Preachin' law and order out of one side of their mouths, and 
tryin' to taste a young girl's cunt out of the other side." 

The president's cock bone had quickly collapsed, and he now was about to 
tuck it back into his pants. 

"Leave your prick alone!" Acid Head ordered. 

Fowler froze. His cock was still very much exposed. "What did you say?" he 
asked indignantly. 

Acid Head withdrew a switchblade from his pocket. In a louder, more emphatic 
voice, the freakout replied. "I said to leave your prick alone." Then he 
started to walk over to the president with the knife held firmly in his 
hand. His intent became quickly apparent to both Trish and the president. 
"Gonna cut it off," he finally said, and was smiling now. But there was no 
mirth in his smile. There wasn't a doubt of the sincerity of his intentions. 
"Cut off your fat, Establishment prick!" 

Fowler started to back away. "No," he cried out in a distressed voice. And 
his distress quickly flared into an inferno of terror. "No!" 

But Acid Head kept moving relentlessly towards the president. And when the 
older man was trapped in a corner, the freaky intruder grabbed hold of 
Fowler's cock and raised his knife. 

Chapter Two 

The president blew his nose and dabbed away the few remaining tears from his 
eyes. Then he waggled an angry finger at Trish's father. "If you set me up 
as a pigeon, you'll regret it, Amos Lovejoy." 

"I'm innocent," Lovejoy burbled. He didn't sound very convincing. 

"It's all his fault," Trish's mother angrily pointed to Acid Head. "He's to 
blame. And don't think we're not going to press charges. Breaking and 
entering. And robbery." She peered at Acid Head with baleful eyes. "He looks 
like a hop-head, too." 

Lovejoy raised his hands to remind his wife that he was the head of the 
family. "Please, Brenda. I'll handle this matter." 

"Then handle it!" Brenda Lovejoy retorted. "Before your entire future goes 
down the drain." She cast an apprehensive look at the president. 

The five people involved in the near castration of the president were seated 
in the spacious study of self-made millionaire Amos Lovejoy. The president's 
cock had not been severed from his body. But he was still in a state of 
shock from the near tragedy. 

Acid Head offered an explanation, a not-too-convincing one. "I only intended 
to scare the old bugger." The freakout, a college chum of Trish, had at 
first been denied entry onto the Lovejoy estate. Then he had broken in. He 
was spotted by a servant. When several estate guards arrived to throw him 
off the grounds, they found him about to castrate the president. The guards 
overpowered the freakout and took away his knife. 

Trish bounced to her feet. Whenever she was angry, her round, dark eyes 
always looked coal-black, and her pretty face grew wrinkled with meanness. 
Now her face looked mean and her eyes were blacker than sharkskin. "I'm 
going to press a few charges myself," she announced to the assemblage. 

Amos and Brenda Lovejoy looked nervous and remained silent. The president 
found more tears to dab at with his handkerchief. Acid Head looked amused. 
"Let's start with rape," she said, turning to the president. 

"Your word against his," her father very quickly reminded her. 

With arms akimbo, Trish looked incredulously back at her father. "Whose side 
are you on?" she demanded. 

Amos Lovejoy smiled feebly. "Your side, darling. But let's not lose sight of 
the facts. You have no witnesses." 

Trish pointed to Acid Head. "He saw the whole thing." 

Her mother cut in. "All he saw was you on the floor with your pants down. Of 
course the president had his penis exposed. But that doesn't make a case 
that will stand up in court." Jerking a thumb in the direction of the 
freakout, she added, "And no court of law would believe him, anyhow." 

The president maintained, "I had the full and willing consent of the girl. 
So my flesh is weak. Is that a crime?" he asked with utmost seriousness. 
Trish whirled towards Fowler. Her fists were clenched, her eyes smoking. Her 
father leaped up and planted himself between Trish and her would-be seducer. 
"I seduced you?" Trish asked the president. "Dirty old man!" she screamed at 
him. "Liar!" And to her parents: "Are you going to bring the truth out about 
this old reprobate?" she asked in a way that demanded a clear-cut answer. 

The clear-cut answer was quickly given her. "No!" both of her parents 
replied in unison. 

Amos Lovejoy explained, "I can't publicly humiliate the president. It 
wouldn't do a bit of good." As he spoke, Lovejoy caught the eye of the 
president, who nodded approvingly. The country club membership was not in 
jeopardy after all, not as long as Lovejoy protected the president. 

But Acid Head caught that look of understanding between Lovejoy and the 
president. For the first time, he offered a comment. The comment was made in 
the form of a question. The question was directed to Amos Lovejoy, the 
millionaire, and his wife Brenda. "Did you two affluent members of the upper 
middle-class Establishment contrive to have your daughter fucked by this 
lecherous old goat for the sake of a crummy country club membership?" And 
when he was greeted by stunned silence, he added, "No wonder I trip on acid 
all the time. What I see in the square world makes me want to puke!" 

Lovejoy's face puffed out and turned a color that was slightly darker than 
crimson. With clenched fists, he turned to confront the freak-out. "How dare 
you address me and my wife in such a filthy manner? And what gives you the 
right to stand in my own home and make such an accusation to my face?" 

Acid Head placed an arm around Trish. "The right of friendship. True 
friendship. Trish is a freshman in my college. I kind of adopted her. No." 
He cut off their question. "We're not lovers. I'm not the type for Trish. 
And I respect her wants. But us two have got empathy. I've got the same kind 
of asshole parents who would sell me out for five cents if it would make 
them look good. And in the same breath, they'd tell me it was all for my own 
good. My own good," he smiled mirthlessly. "Shit!" 

"Get out of my house!" Lovejoy ordered with a rage that he could hardly 
contain. 

"It's gratifying to know," Brenda Lovejoy put in with a stricken look, "that 
my daughter consorts with such high-class friends in the college that is 
costing us a small fortune to send her to." 

Trish folded her arms. She looked calmly back at her parents, and in an even 
voice said, "Just answer Acid Head's question. Did you or did you not agree 
to let the president get into my pants in exchange for a membership in the 
country club?" 

Brenda Lovejoy was about to answer, but her husband silenced her with a 
severe look and shake of the head. Trish was too intelligent to be conned 
any longer. At seventeen, it was time that she grew up and faced life as it 
existed and not as she hoped it could exist. "Darling," he began in a soft 
voice, "what your mother and I did was as much for your benefit as ours. I'm 
just a former hod carrier who struck it lucky. Money, I've got. Social 
contacts, I haven't got. And those contacts mean a lot to your mother and to 
me. And they'll mean a lot to you." 

"Such as?" Trish asked evenly. She was playing it straight, marking time in 
much the same way as the fighter who intends to land the one big punch at 
the exact psychological moment. 

"Such as taking your rightful place in Park Avenue society. The rewards can 
be tremendous. And by circulating with the right people, you'll find the 
right kind of a guy for you." 

"And to attain this goal you were willing to let the president get into my 
pants. Right?" Trish asked. Her voice was so soft and pleasant that Amos 
Lovejoy warmed to his daughter and felt safe with his answer. 

"Yes," he said. "I saw my chance for success and grabbed for it." 

Acid Head grimaced. "Grabbed for it," he repeated the words with distaste. 
"The whole lousy Establishment stinks with those kind of people." 

Brenda Lovejoy turned to the freakout, her eyes spitting venom. "Why in hell 
don't you just drop dead?" she asked with a most un-Park Avenue inflection 
in her voice. 

Amos Lovejoy shrugged. "A freaky copout is criticizing me, a big success." 

Trish said sadly, "It's the other way around, father. Maybe he's the success 
and you're the copout." 

"Are you on acid, too?" Lovejoy asked with disbelief in his face. 

Trish shook her head. "Acid Head doesn't sell out people he loves. He 
doesn't grab for things at the expense of others because the time is right." 
And turning to the president, she said, "A while ago, you asked what young 
people want. I'll tell you. They want less grabbers in the world and more 
helpers. Maybe then, with more people helping each other, there won't be 
rioting, or wars, or people who are hungry." Turning to her father, Trish 
said, "And without grabbers, there won't be any excuses to humiliate 
others." 

Amos Lovejoy said nothing. His wife and the president were also silent. 
Trish took hold of Acid Head's hand and led him towards the door. "Let's 
go," she told him. "I haven't anything more to say." 

"Where are you going?" her father finally asked. 

Trish turned and faced Amos Lovejoy. "Acid Head and I are going into the 
ghetto. We want to reach out and help people for a change. Maybe it'll be 
contagious. And maybe I can convince those people that not everyone up here 
is a grabber." 

Amos Lovejoy turned white. "The ghetto?" he echoed foolishly. "That's where 
I came from, what I fought all my life to get out of. And you want to go 
back?" 

"I have to, father," Trish said, simply. "I have to help people. Not destroy 
them." 

"You don't know what you're doing, or where you're really going," Lovejoy 
said, and the distress in his face and voice was very real. 

"Let her go," Brenda Lovejoy said with contempt. "Our Park Avenue ghetto 
girl will come running back soon enough. And she'll become like all the rest 
of us." 

"Never!" Trish and Acid Head replied in unison. Then they turned and walked 
out the door, with no intention of ever returning. 

The elder Lovejoys and the president watched the departing couple through 
the window. Amos Lovejoy muttered, "Poor kid. She led such a sheltered life. 
We humiliated her when we let the president make a try for her ass." 

But Brenda Lovejoy was still scornful of her daughter. She had once lived in 
the ghetto, and the stink and feel of the place was still very much with 
her. "Humiliation?" she sneered. "She'll find the real meaning of the word 
in the ghetto. Then she'll wake up to the fact that the president's prick 
would have tasted real sweet in comparison to all the ghetto fucks she'll 
have to endure." 

Fowler's eyes remained fastened on the retreating form of Trish in her hot 
pants. His tongue flickered over his thin lips. The thought of her perfectly 
shaped lips over his cock still made him shiver. "I wanted to get to know 
her," he complained peevishly. 

"You will," Brenda Lovejoy assured him. "Our Park Avenue ghetto girl will 
return!" 

Chapter Three 

The scars were still there: the charred, gutted buildings, the skeletal 
remains of steel structures that had been burned, smashed and looted during 
the riots. The ghetto riots had shaken the entire city. Trish had read about 
them in college. And when she told her parents about her desire to help 
people, she was referring to the dwellers in the slums of her own city. 

From the window in the tenement apartment that she and Acid Head had rented, 
Trish had a sweeping view of the entire district in which she intended to 
live and work. "What's first on the agenda?" Acid Head asked. 

"No grass," Trish said, more to herself than to Acid Head, as she continued 
to stare out the window. 

"I've got grass," Acid Head said. "And I've been itching for a smoke." 

"That's not the kind of grass I meant," Trish said with a smile. She never 
questioned the personal habits of Acid Head or any of her friends. If they 
had a need for grass or acid, that was their hangup. It wasn't for her. Her 
own personal satisfaction came from helping people. And now she knew exactly 
how to help the people of the ghetto. "Look out this window," she instructed 
her companion. 

Acid Head peered out and made a face. "It's not exactly the Taj Mahal," he 
said, pointing to the rows of grimy brick buildings, garment factories, 
parking lots and gasoline stations-and everywhere the heavy and oppressive 
layer of soot-peppered smog that seemed to drain the color and life from 
everything it touched. 

"It's not the Taj Mahal," Trish agreed. "There's greenery around the Taj 
Mahal. There isn't a blade of grass within miles from where we're now 
standing." 

"But this is the ghetto," Acid Head reminded her. 

Trish nodded. "True. But where does it say that these ghetto people aren't 
entitled to a little park, a few shade trees, a little something to remind 
them of nature, of growing things." And after a pause, "It could be a cool, 
green place in this dirty asphalt jungle where they could come and take hold 
of-themselves before they let their rage get the better of them again. What 
I'm saying is that just maybe a little bit of a park might be able to avert 
another riot." 

Acid Head looked back at Trish with the wonderment and respect he'd never 
felt for anyone else. Trish was so much smarter than himself. And her beauty 
had always dazzled him from the very beginning. But ever since he'd adopted 
acid as a way of life, he'd been unable to raise an erection. Trish was his 
one great incentive to bust out of the acid trap. "Right on," he said. "A 
park would be just great here." 

"Thanks," Trish said in a soft voice. "I've always respected your opinions. 
And valued your support." 

Acid Head went suddenly shy. It was the only time in his life that he felt 
tongue-tied. "It's more than your respect that I need, Trish," he mumbled. 

Trish nodded. "I know, darling. But I don't love you that way." 

Acid Head sighed. "Yeah. I know. If I could only get a hard-on. If I could 
only give you the kind of fuck you deserve. Then you'd know how much you 
mean to me. And maybe I'd mean something to you. But I don't blame you for 
not wanting me when I can't perform." 

Trish said seriously, "You're right. I could never love a man who couldn't 
send me into orbit with his love prick. But we've tried, darling. We've 
tried. And nothing happened." 

"I know," Acid Head said shamefacedly. They had met during the freshman 
initiation week, and from the very beginning had had rapport. They both 
agreed that college initiation rites were for very small children, and had 
ducked out. Later, Trish went up to Acid Head's room, where she had already 
made up her mind to go to bed with him. The boy was capable of a great love, 
she felt. And love was something that had long been missing in her life. It 
was an ingredient that had been sorely lacking in her home life. At 
seventeen, Trish had experienced many mastubatory acts. But she was still a 
virgin as far as a cock was concerned. In that room, alone with her 
companion, she could hardly wait to feel Acid Head's prick slide into her 
cunt. 

They both undressed and stood staring at each other's naked bodies. Acid 
Head had an extremely tall, lanky frame, a hollow chest, narrow, rounded 
shoulders, and a cock that hung down halfway between his crotch and his 
knees. Trish had seen a few exposed cocks, and had once studied painting 
with live models, but she had never seen a penis as long as the one that 
hung down between the long, bony legs of her college sweetheart. "It's 
beautiful," Trish had told him. "Simply beautiful. You'll be the first boy 
who has ever fucked me." 

Acid Head kept looking back at Trish's naked body as though he wanted to 
devour her with his eyes. Her dark red nipples were shaped like long, thin 
pyramids. The flesh of her breasts was firm and edible-looking. There wasn't 
an ounce of fat on her lithe, shapely body. The stomach was flat, and the 
hair that curled up around her cunt seemed to have magnetic qualities. Each 
and every curled hair seemed to pull Acid Head down towards the girl's cunt. 
And when she turned around, he had gasped at the perfect shape of each ass 
cheek. This was one girl whose ass he could tongue and love every minute of 
it, he thought at the time. 

But Trish was not a beautiful statue to be stared at. She was a girl, almost 
a full-grown woman. She wanted a male penis, stiff and throbbing and alive 
for cunt. Acid Head's cock remained soft. And it continued to remain soft 
even after she played with it, sucked on it, tongued it. And even after Acid 
Head had licked her cunt, lapped her ass, and attempted to blow her with his 
mouth, his cock still remained flaccid and lifeless-looking. 

Now, alone in their tenement apartment, both girl and boy remembered that 
moment. A humiliating moment for Acid Head. A frustrating moment for Trish. 
She had finally had to masturbate to reach a climax. It was a moment in 
their lives that they seldom referred to. But now Acid Head wanted to talk 
about it. "Acid turned me into a eunuch, a creature without balls. You're 
the first girl I've had a desire for since I've been acid tripping. And 
believe me, I want to go straight again. I want to taste your cunt. I want 
your love. The kind of love a girl feels for a normal man." 

Trish touched the boy's arm. "Don't torture yourself, darling. Someday, 
perhaps. And until that day happens, I'm not giving myself to anyone else. 
Now forget it. We've got work to do. We're going to build us a park in the 
ghetto." 

"Groovy," Acid Head said. He took the girl in his arms. "Promise me you'll 
wait. Hope for you is the only thing that keeps me going." 

Trish kissed him lightly on the lips. "I'll wait, dear. Now get your mind 
off it. I'm only human. And that cock of yours is something I've wanted for 
a long time." 

Acid Head turned away and looked out the window again. "That park of yours," 
he mused. "We'll need help to get it going. My old man has got connections 
downtown in city hall. As much as I hate his guts, I'm going to ask for 
help. I won't be asking for myself." 

Trish took hold of his hands. "That's why I love you, darling. There isn't a 
selfish bone in your body." She nodded. "All right. Go see your father. I'm 
not proud. We can't afford to be. The poverty and neglect down here is high 
as a mountain. And we're going to need all the help we can find to get it 
moved." 

Acid Head started for the door. Then he stopped and thought a moment. "Just 
happened to think of something," he said. "The guy who owns this fleatrap of 
an apartment house. His name is Turk Crumm. He's a wheel in local ghetto 
politics. A ward heeler of some kind. But he's got connections with the big 
boys downtown." 

Trish sounded elated. "He'll help us!" 

"Maybe," Acid Head said. "But he's worth a try. Put a bug in his ear about 
the park. Get his reaction. He could be a big help if he wanted to be." 

"I'm on my way," Trish said. And immediately after Acid Head left, she 
phoned the landlord, who was indeed listed in the directory as Turk Crumm. 
When the landlord didn't answer the phone, Trish walked down the steps to 
the first floor, where the owner's apartment was located. But a cleaning 
woman, slatternly in appearance and with a lewd look on her wrinkled face, 
informed Trish that "Crumby Crumm's in the basement." 

"Would he mind if I disturbed him?" Trish asked politely. She was going to 
show everyone in the ghetto that she respected them regardless of their 
occupation. 

The cleaning hag cackled at Trish's question. Then, eyeing the young girl up 
and down, she nodded approvingly. "Crumm ain't the type to turn down young 
pussy." 

Blood rushed into Trish's face. The old woman's reply knocked the wind out 
of her for a minute. Then, recovering, she decided to dismiss the old crone 
as merely an eccentric. She was probably given the job out of the goodness 
of Mr. Crumm's heart, Trish rationalized. Then, without another word to the 
woman, Trish walked past her and found the way to the basement stairs. 

It took a few minutes for Trish to get adjusted to the dark and 
musty-smelling area that was crammed with empty crates, old newspapers, and, 
it seemed, enough worthless junk to allow the owner to go into the business. 
There was no sign, however, of Mr. Crumm. Trish began to grope her way past 
old dressers, discarded washing machines, and kitchen tables with missing 
legs, but still there was no sign of any life. She was about to call out for 
the landlord when she heard subdued voices that floated over to her from 
behind the furnace. Something inside Trish warned her to remain silent and 
on guard, but she continued on her way. Finally she was able to make out the 
shape of two reclining figures. As she moved stealthily forward, she was 
able to definitely identify one of the figures as Mr. Crumm. The other 
person was a big-hipped black woman. The woman Trish recognized as a tenant 
in the same building who lived on the third floor with her husband and 
several children. Trish took a deep breath and remained very still. This 
episode, she decided, would help her determine the character of Turk Crumm. 
And Trish wasn't beneath a bit of honest blackmail if it meant getting Crumm 
to help with the park. 

Trish sucked in her breath. She wasn't quite prepared for the scene that 
almost leaped up at her from the basement floor. Both Crumm and the black 
woman were naked. And both were engaged in a rather heated argument. 
Although the couple were completely nude, they had apparently struck a snag 
in the financial arrangements. The black woman had misunderstood Crumm's 
original intentions regarding payment. Or Crumm could have lied in his 
teeth. "I ain't giving you no free month's rent for one lousy fuck!" he 
said, and there was determination in his face and voice. 

"You lousy, lyin' bastard," the black woman retorted. "You gets me down 
here, takes off my clothes, and then chickens on the payment. You're like 
all those whitey assholes. Well, no free rent, no fuck," she said 
emphatically, and struggled with her enormous bulk to stand up and dress. 

Crumm reached up and pulled her back down beside him again. "Cool it, 
Hazel," he ordered. He was used to giving orders, and more used to having 
people scramble about when he spoke. 

"Set your ass down, and hear what I got to say!" 

The huge, black, cushiony cheeks of Hazel's ass bounced back onto the 
mattress. But she pushed Crumm's hand from her waist. "Talk, white man," she 
said, still miffed. "And keep your hands off my hide." 

Crumm nodded. He respected people who could bargain with authority. "Spoke 
to some people downtown. They're gonna find a job for your husband. In 
short, he's gonna be comin' home with some bread instead of some white 
woman's cunt juice all over his fly." 

Hazel thought about it for a moment. Having a husband come home with a 
paycheck would be a new switch. And a welcome one. And she knew that Crumm 
had the kind of political connections that could get her worthless husband a 
job, and a steady one. Her entire attitude changed as though she had been 
touched by a magic wand. "Gee, honey, that's real sweet of you. 'Course," 
she added with a flirtatious smile, "you'll throw in a new dress too for a 
piece of my chocolate-coated sugar." 

Crumm thought a moment. Then: "Provided you fuck me twice a week. And every 
week." 

"Deal," Hazel said with a broad smile on her lips. "How do you wants your 
fuck?" 

From where Trish was hiding behind a large packing crate, she felt slightly 
nauseous. There was no love here, and not even much affection. 

Two rather grotesque naked bodies, one white, the other black, rubbing 
against each other for an exchange of goods and services. Of course she 
realized that this sort of thing happened on Park Avenue and many other 
kinds of avenues in the big city. But this agreement for sex between the 
black woman and Crumm was made with such dispassion that the entire scene 
chilled Trish. They were too concerned with the material aspects. Now she 
became more determined than ever to build a park in the ghetto. Perhaps if 
these people could get out to a place where there was grass and trees and 
flowers, they'd become more attuned with nature. They'd grow less crass, 
less cold, less selfish. But selfish or not, she had to inwardly agree that 
Crumm and the Negress were enjoying the feel and sight of each other's naked 
bodies. 

To do the black woman complete justice, Trish had to admit that she had a 
certain animal-like grace and beauty to her. And now that she could see more 
clearly in the gloom of the basement, Trish was surprised to realize that 
the black woman had quite a handsome face. Her black tits were pendulous and 
hung down almost to her erotically wrinkled navel. And although her skin was 
black, the nipples of her tits were even blacker. Those nipples were now 
erect and porous-looking. She fell into the arms of Crumm, whose one hand 
smeared itself over the broad expanse of the woman's cheeky ass. The feel of 
ass flesh excited Crumm, for he kept kneading and pulling on the ass like a 
baker shaping dough. And every now and then his fingers would plunge into 
the valley between the cheeks. They'd penetrate deep into the woman's 
asshole. And when they did, Hazel would squirm and maneuver around to assist 
the penetration. The rectal tube was one of her more erogenous zones. And 
all the while Crumm was probing her black flesh and exploring her asshole, 
the Negress kept whimpering, "Oh big white lover man, fuck your black cunt. 
It's all yours sweetheart, darlin', precious. It's all yours, white prick of 
my heart." 

Black female flesh fired Crumm's passions. Black meat! That was his bag. And 
now he was literally swimming in it, drinking it, eating it. His mouth 
fastened, leechlike, to a tit. His mouth engulfed the nippled and almost 
half the entire black breast. Saliva gushed out of his mouth and slithered 
down the breast. And while his mouth was thus engaged, his fingers clung 
tenaciously to the area of her black cunt. They were digging, probing, 
pulling fingers. And finally they located and clung to the sugar located 
deep in the heart of every woman's cunt. The clitoris! And when Crumm yanked 
out the black female cock between his thumb and forefinger, his black 
sweetheart threw her head back and vomited out a groan that came from the 
very depths of her being. Her eyes rolled back until only the whites were 
visible in her round black face. "Ohhhh," she babbled on and on. "Tease my 
cunt. Don't ever stop. Please don't ever stop. Please don't..." 

Despite her feeling of total disgust, Trish watched with a certain 
fascination. At the age of fourteen she had discovered the clitoris in her 
own body and could play with it by the hour. By manipulating it in such a 
way between her thumb and forefinger, or between any two fingers, she soon 
found that she could reach a very satisfying climax. But her own clitoris 
was quite small, slippery, and difficult to find. Until that very moment, 
she had thought that the clitorises of all women were about the same size. 
She couldn't have been more mistaken, as she now discovered. The clit on the 
Negro woman was in proportion with the rest of her body, which was huge. In 
fact, there were men with penes that were no larger than the colored woman's 
clit. And every pore of the black female sex prong was alive with nerve 
endings which were now in an extreme state of excitation. And that's what 
created another problem between the white and black couple. "Eat my cunt," 
the black woman moaned, and her large, black eyes rolled about as though 
they were transfixed by some ecstatic vision of the white man's mouth 
lapping her genitals. "Oh, please, white cock man," she kept up her pleas. 
"Go down on me. Suck my cunt in your mouth. I want to feel a hot tongue 
wriggling inside my pussy." 

Crumm stiffened. This was an unexpected wrinkle that had caught him off 
guard. And he tried to dismiss her pleas with a brusque order. "Roll over on 
your back and spread your legs, black woman. I want my fuck!" 

The black woman responded by hugging the white man's naked flesh against her 
black body. The grip of her thick, meaty arms was so powerful, her huge tits 
almost flattened out against Crumm's chest. Her desires weren't going to be 
so easily shrugged aside. "Eat my cunt first," she said, and her voice 
sounded less sweet, less submissive. She knew what her body craved, and she 
wasn't going to be conned out of it by a slippery white man. 

Crumm was in trouble. Light from a basement window slanted down and 
illuminated the couple. Trish could now distinguish Crumm's features. He 
wasn't a particularly big man, but his blunt, high-boned face and powerful 
arms exuded an aura of raw, naked force. Trish couldn't help but think of a 
storm trooper's heavy jackboot stomping down on the exposed face of some 
helpless victim: Of course, Trish realized, it took this kind of brutal 
force for a man to become a political ward heeler in a big city ghetto 
district. Crumm was going to be a difficult man to deal with. But Trish was 
busily taking down mental notes about his weaknesses as well as his 
strengths. Was he cunning? Trish would soon find that out, too. Obviously 
Crumm had nothing but a stomach-upsetting distaste at the thought of 
tonguing the black woman's odoriferous cunt. How was he going to squirm out 
of it and still fuck her as he originally intended? 

Crumm took a firm hold of the problem and turned it around the other way. 
"How's about you going down on my cock bone?" he asked. "Then I'll eat you 
all you want." 

But the black woman was quickly on to his guile and was equal to the 
occasion. "Why sure, honey," she replied in a voice that sounded too sweet. 
"I'd just love to taste that white cock bone in my mouth. But you can be 
sniffin' and lickin' my cunt at the same time." 

Crumm's face turned the color of yellowed parchment. "How in hell can I do 
that?" he asked. 

"Sixty-nine," the Negress replied triumphantly. "You eat me. I eats you. 
That's the only way to go, white cock man." 

Trish stiffened. For the first time she was beginning to feel a certain 
excitement crawl up her spine and tingle in the very pit of her genitals. 
The walls of her vagina began to flutter. She felt droplets of moisture ooze 
out of the cunt crack and lodge in the curly hairs that framed her love 
valley. Of course she had heard about sixty-nine at college. But college 
kids did more talking than acting when it came to sex. They used up all 
their energies demonstrating or rioting on the campus. She knew that 
sixty-nine involved a simultaneous act of fellatio and cunnilingus. But she 
had never actually seen the act performed. And as imaginative as she was 
about everything including sexual fantasies, she could never correctly 
figure out how a man and woman ate each other at the same time. Relishing 
every moment of her role as the discreet voyeur, Trish slipped a hand under 
her hot pants and felt her furnace-hot cunt. Her clitoris was in a full 
state of excited erection. "Ahhh," she murmured in a low whisper of relief 
when she seized her own female cock with her fingers and gently began to 
strum it. 

At the moment, Crumm was anything but ecstatic. In fact, his penis was 
already wilting beneath the chilling thought of performing cunnilingus on a 
black woman. A strong sickly sweet odor flowed unremittingly from the 
ebony-haired cunt and skin of Hazel. But she was determined to have her way. 
"Me on you? Or you on me?" Hazel asked in a voice that demanded an immediate 
answer. 

Crumm had bitten way more off than he could chew in the personage of Hazel. 
But there was still time for him to retreat and call the whole thing off. 
Crumm was still boss in his own tenement building, and a political power in 
the ghetto district. But Trish was to learn something about Crumm's 
character. He wasn't a quitter. He didn't break and run when the going got 
rough. As it was right now. 

"You on me," Crumm replied in a barely audible voice. And then, as though he 
had finally cornered his guts, he roared, "You on me, black woman. And right 
now!" 

Hazel looked back at the white man with a certain respect in her face. She 
understood the mental anguish Crumm was experiencing. Yet he didn't turn 
tail and run. Her own husband was the kind who turned tail and ran whenever 
the going got rough. Crumm had guts. He was the kind of man she could really 
go for. When she spoke, it was with a soft and caressing voice. "It won't be 
so bad for you, honey. You'll see." 

Trish, who was massaging her clitoris with a slow, gentle stroke, grew 
excited enough to increase the tempo of her self-love. Crumm's guts appealed 
to her too, since she admired strong men. And the anticipation of actually 
watching a black-on-white sixty-nine excited her enough to generate a series 
of minor orgasms which could lead up to one terrific climax. The outer 
surface of her genitals was already quite moist with myriad droplets of 
vaginal fluid which clung and shimmered brightly in the black hairs of her 
cunt. And this excitement of her cunt in no way detracted from her firm 
belief that sex had to be a part of love, or at least affection. As she 
strummed her cunt, she visualized Acid Head with her, an Acid Head who was 
potent, vigorous and virile. Acid Head was definitely in her mind. But her 
eyes remained glued to the white and black couple who were preparing to 
engage in the sixty-nine kind of lovemaking. Someday perhaps she and Acid 
Head would be able to treat each other in the same way. Trish didn't want to 
miss a single detail, for Crumm and Hazel appeared to be experienced 
sixty-niners. 

Crumm was still in a state of minor shock when he stretched out on his back. 
He looked as though he had just swallowed something very disagreeable. His 
cock had softened completely, and he approached the task of sucking Hazel's 
cunt with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner facing the firing squad. His 
obvious distaste and reluctance were nicely balanced by Hazel's enthusiasm 
and broad smiling face as she positioned herself for the simultaneous 
suck-off. 

Trish made a mental note of the way Hazel and Crumm arranged their 
respective bodies. As Crumm assumed the horizontal position on his back, 
Hazel squatted over his face, but her mouth was aimed at the man's badly 
shriveled cock. Then she knelt over all the way, took hold of the flaccid 
penis, and stuffed it into her mouth. Now all that was visible of Crumm's 
body was his face and legs. Every other part was covered by black flesh. 

Crumm's face was not in a very enviable position. The enormous cheeks of 
black Hazel's ass hovered over his mouth like twin hills of curving black 
flesh. Her cunt was also a fraction of an inch away from the man's lips. 
Hazel's genitals, like the rest of her body, were on the gargantuan side. 
The cunt gash was almost wide and deep enough for Crumm to penetrate with 
his entire face, and the brushlike cunt hairs were short, stiff and wiry. 
They fanned out on either side of the slit in such a wide arc that they 
could have completely covered Crumm's face. And Hazel's clit zoomed out at 
Crumm with a vibrancy and zest for the suck, as though it was a separate 
entity with a life and desire of its own. 

Crumm ran a hand over each of Hazel's ass-cheeks and pondered the situation. 
The odor that flowed strongly out of both of the female cavities very 
clearly nauseated him. And in a few seconds, he was going to have to eat her 
cunt. He was fast losing his grip on the courage he'd formerly mustered with 
such great difficulty. But now he was in a more awkward position than ever 
to back out of his commitment. Panic clawed at his rough-hewn features until 
he looked as timid and hesitant as a fairy. 

Meanwhile, Hazel was attacking his cock with the gusto of a starving man 
seated at a banquet table. She possessed the typically thick, black lips of 
a Negress, and now these lips worked to her full advantage. Spongelike in 
texture, the lips clamped softly down over the reluctant penis and pulled on 
male flesh until it slowly began to swell out again. And once the penile 
shaft made its first timid appearance, the woman began to noisily suck on it 
with the voracious abandon of a cannibal. Slowly, ever so slowly, Crumm's 
penile shaft slid upwards. And Hazel's mouth was never still for the merest 
fraction of a second. Once the cock was standing weakly upwards at a 
semi-vertical angle, Hazel ran her mouth up and down the shaft with the 
driving force of a jackhammer. 

In no time at all, saliva was gushing out of Hazel's mouth and streaking 
down the man's cock shaft. The saliva must have been hot, for as it began to 
accumulate, Crumm winced. But the lines in his face no longer reflected 
anguish. It seemed to Trish that he was beginning to enjoy the mouth-on-cock 
activities of the frenzied black woman. And this again was reflected in the 
more rigid condition his cock was assuming. 

Finally Crumm was adjusting to the sixty-nine suck-off with the black woman. 
But then another problem struck him and demolished these early gains in his 
attitude. Now, it seemed, there was going to be no end to the demands made 
by Hazel. 

Hazel pulled her mouth reluctantly off the stiffening prick and shouted over 
her shoulder. "Before you eat my cunt, I wants you to tongue my asshole. A 
tongue inside my ass really sends me!" 

"No," Crumm replied in a hoarse, almost terrified voice. "No. Eating a 
woman's ass. That ain't normal. I'm no goddamn degenerate!" 

"Just eat my ass and shut up!" Hazel shrieked in a voice that shook with 
rage and contempt. And before Crumm could protest further, she slammed both 
cheeks of her enormous black ass over the white man's face. In fact, the 
entire face of the man became wedged between the woman's asscheeks. Sink or 
swim was an adage that was now being rudely demonstrated to Crumm. With his 
face firmly lodged between the huge asscheeks, he was going to have to 
perform, or quit and face Hazel's wrath. His mental state was again 
reflected in the condition of his cock shaft, which slid downwards until the 
entire penis was in its flaccid, wrinkled and diminutively normal state. And 
despite the quick return of Hazel's mouth over the cock, the male appendage 
refused to budge out of its dormant and useless state. 

When Crumm had seen Hazel's cheeks moving downwards, he had taken a deep 
breath and held it. Now, finally, he was compelled to release his breath. 
And when he did, he made a startling discovery. The odor between the black 
woman's asscheeks wasn't as stomach-upsetting as he'd first imagined. 
Cautiously at first, he took another few sniffs. To his utter amazement, he 
found the odor pleasantly refreshing. And from this first cautious reaction, 
Crumm was able to arrive at another conclusion, a conclusion based on actual 
facts instead of prejudgment based on hearsay or a squeamish mental 
attitude. Yes, if it was possible, he'd shout it aloud. The smell in black 
Hazel's ass was not only a pleasant one, it was an exciting one. And this 
new change in attitude was reflected in a resurgence of cock bone, which 
slid stiffly upwards inside of Hazel's mouth and almost lodged in her 
throat. Hazel realized what was happening inside Crumm's mind, and she 
became all the more frenetic in her attack on the prick with her mouth. 

On the other hand, Crumm was less hurried, and at almost a leisurely pace 
began to explore the valley between the cheeks with both his lips and 
tongue. First he pursed his lips together and kissed the fleshy but firm 
asscheek. 

The sensation filled him immediately with lust. And then, throwing all 
timidity and caution to the winds, he covered almost every pore on Hazel's 
cheek with his lips. After which Hazel widened the cleavage by spreading her 
cheeks farther apart. Then she pressed backwards. There was no doubt in 
Crumm's mind that Hazel wanted the feel of a tongue thrust deep into her 
actual asshole. And for the first time in his entire life, Crumm felt 
psychologically prepared to undertake such a task. 

Slowly at first, he pushed his tongue out and proceeded to lap at the ass 
flesh. The spongelike flesh gave way under his tongue, and then bounced back 
into place again. This flesh action intrigued him, and soon he was biting, 
nibbling, and pulling the ass flesh back and forth with his lips. Then, when 
he sensed that every pore in Hazel's ass was tingling with excitement, he 
thrust his tongue out as far as possible, contracted the tongue muscles 
until it was as taut as a spear, and then drove it deep into the cavity. He 
felt the wiry black rectal hairs give way under the tongue's onslaught. But 
the hairs didn't stop the forward advance of the tongue. The first 
penetration of the anus was a shallow one, but Crumm was not deterred. He 
pulled his tongue back and then drove it forward again with renewed vigor 
and determination. This time the tongue slid into the anus and down the 
rectal tube. 

Hazel's rectal passage was one of the most erogenous areas in the black 
woman's body. When the soft clothlike tongue was finally stuffed entirely 
into the ass tube, Hazel threw back her head as her eyes rolled crazily 
around and her lips ripped apart to emit a silent scream. The sound of lust 
became lodged in her throat, and for the moment she was speechless and dazed 
with ecstatic lust. Now that Crumm had the hang of tongue-fucking a woman's 
ass, he threw himself wholeheartedly into the performance. Grabbing each 
cheek with his hand, he thrust his tongue as deep into the hole as possible, 
and then he pulled it back. As he repeated these in-and-out movements with 
his tongue, Hazel's ass chamber was lustfully ravaged by the white man's 
tongue. Saliva spilled out of the corner of his lips and streaked down his 
chin and throat. 

When Hazel returned to mouth his cock, Crumm pushed the woman's ass up a 
bit, pulled out his face, and then proceeded to attack her cunt with the 
same educated tongue. This time the black woman almost leaped up to the 
basement ceiling. But Crumm had a firm grasp of her waist and kept her 
stationary as he alternately sucked her cunt and her ass. Hazel fell into 
this movement very quickly. She'd feel his tongue in her ass for a few 
thrusts, and then she'd lift up and expose her cunt for the same treatment. 

In a very short period of time, Crumm's face was awash with sexual fluids; 
the fluids were secretions from both the vaginal and rectal cavities as well 
as from his own mouth. The excitement was strong enough to rip at Trish's 
genitals, and she increased the tempo of her own jack-off movements. And as 
she strummed her clitoris, she gyrated her hips in the same way a stripper 
races towards a grinding climax. 

Hazel, too, knew she was going to orgasm, and in a copious way. Crumm's 
prick had enlarged to its maximum dimensions and the color of the penile 
flesh was a deeper red than the setting sun. "Ohhh," Hazel uttered in a 
choked voice as the walls of her vagina kept fluttering on the verge of the 
one tremendous spasm. 

Crumm felt cock juices boiling deep within his own genitals, and nothing 
could impede the gushing flow of his cream as it sought an exit at the tip 
of his swollen cock head. 

Every organ in Trish's body was pulsating for a hot mouth or prick as she 
continued to frantically pluck away at her clitoris. She, too, was perched 
perilously on the edge of a precipitous orgasm. And finally it happened. Her 
vaginal walls shook, and so did every organ in her body. Cunt juices flowed 
out the slit, and she had to very quickly yank her hot pants down below her 
knees lest she drench them with her own effluents. 

Crumm's turgid cock exploded inside of Hazel's mouth. But she didn't even 
think of pulling her mouth away. On the contrary, the woman increased the 
tempo of the suck, for she was determined to swallow every drop of the 
thick, rich white cream that had spurted out of the head of Crumm's prick. 
And even after the penile shaft was no longer ejecting effluence, her mouth 
continued to hungrily work over the cock flesh. And when she noticed several 
rather large globules of cock cream wedged under the man's nuts, the black 
woman dipped her head and proceeded to lick the balls until they were shorn 
of all of the cream. The taste of a white man's cock cream excited Hazel, 
and the reason was probably rooted in the history of the black woman. But 
now motivations were immaterial. All that mattered was the act. And the act 
of sixty-nine had been consummated with perfect skill by both practitioners. 
Now Hazel rolled off the white man, and the couple remained side by side on 
the mattress. Both remained silent, and both seemed immersed in their own 
respective thoughts about the sixty-nine and the derived satisfaction. 

Finally Crumm broke the silence. "You still owe me a fuck, black woman." 

Hazel protested. "But I gotta make supper. The old man's gonna be back 
soon." 

Crumm didn't argue. The chances of getting another erection on were quite 
slim. "Okay," he agreed. "Tomorrow, you give me the rest of the fuck. And 
that don't count towards the twice-a-week fuck you just naturally owe me." 

Hazel shook her head sadly. "You don't give nothin' to nobody. You're the 
tightest white bastard I ever did know." 

Crumm chuckled noisily. "I take that as a compliment, black woman. You gets 
nothing for nothing in this asshole world. And don't you forget it!" Crumm 
had just stated his philosophy of life, and he warmed to the subject. "I've 
been hustlin' ever since I was old enough to jerk off. And no one, I mean no 
one ever give me nothing. And I don't give nothing to anyone 'lest there's 
somethin' in it for me." 

Hazel started to dress. "Maybe that's why I love my old man," she said. 
"When it comes to makin' money, he ain't worth a shit. But he's always 
giving something to somebody. Sometimes it ain't no more than a smile or a 
pat on the back. But giving is his nature." 

Crumm spat disgustedly. "Sure it is. That's why the poor bastard ain't got a 
pot to piss in. And I'm top dog in the district. Even got connections with 
the big shots downtown." He gave a vicious tug to his pants as he pulled 
them up. 

"Think that one over, black woman!" 

Trish was the one who gave the most thought to the philosophy stated by Turk 
Crumm. The man was selfish, self-centered, tough and arrogant. He gave only 
if he received doublefold. There wasn't an ounce of charity in his entire 
makeup. The pathetic little man had been kicked and cuffed by life. Now he 
was kicking and cuffing his way back. And this was the man on whose 
assistance Trish had to rely. 

Back in her apartment, Trish bathed, powdered and perfumed herself. Then she 
selected the tightest sweater and pair of hot pants in her wardrobe. She 
would have preferred to be screwed by a snake, and had absolutely no 
intention of letting the small-time ward heeler get in her pants. But now 
she was armed with a few bits of knowledge of the little man's character. 
The young girl felt she could deal with him effectively. But as her father 
had lamented when Trish left for the ghetto, "She doesn't know what she's 
getting into!" 

Chapter Four 

Turk Crumm threw his head back and roared with laughter. He laughed so hard 
the tears shone in his eyes. Finally, he slammed the palms of his hands down 
hard on the desk and looked straight up at the young girl who stood facing 
him. "A park," he chortled. "You wanna build a park for the poor, 
unfortunate slobs who live in the ghetto." 

"That is correct," Trish said, refusing to be intimidated by the man's 
ridicule, his sarcasm, his rudeness. 

Crumm suddenly stopped laughing. There was a toughness about the girl that 
suggested a threat to his well-being. She wasn't going to be so easily 
brushed off. And she could have connections behind her. That he would have 
to determine, and immediately. "Buildin' a park down here takes dough. You 
got any bread?" 

"No," Trish said bluntly. "I don't have any bread. Not a nickel." 

Crumm looked at her curiously. "And you don't work for one of those do-good 
government projects?" 

"I thought I could get more done on my own," Trish informed him, and meant 
it. She didn't have much faith in bureaucratic organizations. "All I need is 
your help." 

Crumm scowled. "You must be some kind of nut. Comin' into my office without 
bread or representing some kind of government poverty project. Then you got 
the gall to ask my help to build a park in this goddamn stinking slum. Who 
for?" 

"The people who live here," Trish replied evenly. "The poor people who live 
here and have no place to go except the fire escape. Just maybe a park could 
avert another riot." 

Crumm stood up to indicate the interview was at an end. "Parks cost bread. I 
ain't got none. You ain't got none. End of discussion. I ain't running no 
charity hall. That's the city's job. Now, if you don't mind running along, 
I've got work to do. Important work that ain't gonna wait." 

"Like the kind of work you do in the basement with married colored women?" 
Trish asked. There was no change in the expression on her face. 

The words froze in Crumm's mouth. He looked as though someone had just 
kicked him in the groin. His initial warnings about the girl were confirmed. 
She was tough and determined, and certainly off her nut. She added up to one 
word, and that word was trouble. "If you think you can shake me down," he 
said, darkly, "you're gonna be sadly disappointed." 

"Blackmail?" Trish echoed, raising her eyebrows in mock surprise. "Perish 
the thought. But if some of the big boys downtown were to find out their 
ward boss was having a dangerous kind of sexual relations with a married 
colored woman in their district, they might be very unhappy with you. In 
fact, you might find yourself out on your can, and you know it, Mr. Cruram!" 

Crum waved a hand for Trish to be seated. Then he sank back in his swivel 
chair again. The girl was right. The bigshots were sensitive about adverse 
publicity, especially around election time. However, there was always the 
possibility the girl was bluffing. "I really don't have any idea of what you 
are referring to, Miss Lovejoy," Crumm said. 

Trish refreshed his mind. "Yesterday. In the basement. You and Hazel. And, 
oh yes, a little bit of perversion called the sixty-nine." 

Crumm grimaced. "If there's anything I hate it's a lowdown snoop." 

"I'll admit I was snooping," Trish admitted candidly. "But I'll even stoop 
to that if it will help the people down here." 

Crumm made a face, as though he was slightly upset at the stomach. Girls 
like Trish were no novelty to him. For the most part they came down to the 
ghetto to get a piece of ass, despite their lofty motives which they used to 
delude others as well as themselves. Scrutinizing Trish, he couldn't quite 
make up his mind about her. Was she really a do-gooder, or was she in 
reality hoping to get her cunt serviced away from the influence of parents? 
Trish, Crumm decided quickly, was the kind of dish who would never have 
trouble finding cock. And there was an aura of electrifying sensuality that 
the girl naturally exuded. Crumm's eyes danced over the big, shapely tits, 
the narrow waist, the flaring hips, and the swelling cheeks of Trish's ass. 
And the shapely, nutcracker legs on the girl were the kind that Crumm like 
to have wrapped around his rib cage while he pounded cunt. The full, red, 
and perfectly shaped lips of the girl stimulated him in the exact manner in 
which they had ravaged the erotic fancies of the president, Crumm kept 
seeing wild and exciting scenes of fellatio flash before his eyes. The girl 
was a naturally talented cocksucker. And experiencing a bloodcurdling blow 
job was Crumm's highest priority, with no exceptions. The ghetto girls were 
too damned conservative as far as he was concerned. The uptown broads were 
always more imaginative and skillful when it came to a skin-scorching blow 
job. 

But Crumm was clever enough to play it cool with a girl like Trish. The 
possibility existed that she could have influential parents or important 
connections. If he made a wrong move and she hollered, he'd be out on his 
ass, or could even have a rape charge hung around his neck. And there was 
always the possibility, also, that the girl was actually sincere and wanted 
nothing more than to help the ghetto people. 

Crumm arrived at a conclusion that he felt would solve his problem with the 
young, rich and sensually shaped girl who was already making his cock stir 
by her mere presence. He'd describe the character of the people in the 
ghetto, the people she thought she wanted to help. And along with that 
description, he'd throw in a few sexual encounters of his own that typified 
ghetto life. If she wasn't nauseated, or panting for a hot cock, she had to 
be a sincere type of do-gooder who intended to stick it out regardless of 
the obstacles he threw at her. In that event, he'd give her the runaround 
and get rid of her as painlessly as possible. If she grew nauseated at his 
description of ghetto life, she'd leave of her own accord. And if she grew 
naturally excited by all his explicit details of ghetto life in the raw, 
he'd shove his cock inside her mouth before she left the room. The thought 
of the possibly impending blow job made his voice tremble a bit as he tried 
to probe the determined girl. 

First he'd try reverse psychology. "The safest thing for you to do, Miss 
Lovejoy, is to go back home. You ain't gonna help nobody in the ghetto. And 
I'll tell you why. You're too damned good-looking for your own good. Every 
man down here who gets one look at the shapely ass of yours will want in, 
and quick as possible." He peered carefully at the girl to properly assess 
the results of his frankness. A glow crept into the face of Trish, but aside 
from that there was no other discernible reaction. And Crumm had no way of 
determining whether the blush in Trish's face was caused by his blunt 
language which repelled her or his reference to sex which excited her. There 
was only one thing to do now, and that was to plunge on and further describe 
the sex life of a big city ghetto. 

But Trish anticipated him. She had already received experience of that 
nature from President Fowler who had hoped to seduce her with sexy 
references to his childhood. Trish announced calmly, "If you think you're 
going to get me all hot and bothered by some ridiculous story involving sex, 
forget it! Another dirty old man tried that one on me and failed miserably." 
She smiled sweetly. "So why don't you just help me get the ball rolling, and 
we'll have us a park down here in no time at all." 

Crumm clenched his fists tightly, which he always did whenever he felt angry 
or thwarted. However, he hadn't gotten to be the ward boss by allowing some 
seventeen-year-old cunt to outfox him. He stifled his anger and walked 
around his desk. He sat down on the edge of the desk before Trish who was 
now seated directly in front of him. He spread his legs as though to 
emphasize the bulge that refused to soften. He tried to sound reasonable in 
a tight, restrained voice. "But you ain't got no bread. How do we build a 
park?" His hand dropped onto his lap in such a way that his fingertips 
touched the area over his nuts. Every now and then his fingers danced over 
the cloth that covered his erection. 

But Trish paid no attention to such juvenile maneuvers. Instead she plunged 
on with her plan to build a park in the ghetto. "It's not going to take as 
much money as you think," she said enthusiastically. She opened her purse 
and took out a map of the ghetto district. Without permission from Crumm, 
she spread it over his desk and pointed to a particular area that was 
already circled in red. "Right here," Trish indicated on the map. "A corner 
on East Fifth. It's just a vacant lot that apparently no one wants. Right 
now it's filled with rubbish. I'll find the volunteers and clean it up. I'll 
even raise the money to plant the grass and trees." She looked up at Crumm. 
"All you have to do is get city hall to okay the lot as a city park and 
remove it from the list of city land that's for sale to the highest bidder." 

Crumm put on his spectacles and peered closely at the spot on East Fifth 
that Trish had earmarked for a city park. He was compelled to stifle a 
laugh. That particular corner lot had already received several bids. But 
Crumm was holding out for the party who paid him the highest kickback. That 
particular piece of property represented a tidy little profit for himself. 
But he said, "I'll give it every consideration, Miss Lovejoy. However, I'm 
not a type who gladly sticks his neck out to have it chopped off. So don't 
be surprised if I turn down the plan, as admirable as it may be." 

Trish looked at the man closely. "In what manner would you be sticking your 
neck out to help ghetto dwellers have a park to sit in and enjoy a few hours 
of every day?" 

Crumm heaved a deep and meaningful sigh. "D'you think you're the first 
do-gooder to come down here for a bit of slumming?" 

"I'm sure there have been others before me," Trish replied evenly. "But I 
fail to see any positive results of their presence. The people down here 
look miserable." 

"They are miserable," Crumm said pleasantly. "'Cause that's the way they 
like it! For your info, I already built a park for these no-good buggers 
down here. And what happened?" 

"I'm sure you'll tell me," Trish said skeptically. She had familiarized 
herself with the history of the ghetto area, and had not uncovered any 
period when a park had been turned over to the enjoyment of the people. 

"You bet your sweet ass I'll tell you," Crumm said. "There ain't nothin' 
about it on the record books now. But believe you me, it happened. There was 
a park down here. And I was the moving power behind it. And for my pains, I 
almost got a jail rap hung around my neck. And balls, too," he added for 
good measure. 

Trish's skepticism cracked and began to fall away. The man sounded too 
emphatic to be making up the story. And he had voluntarily and partially 
cleared up the reason she couldn't find any record of such a park. Something 
had happened to demolish the entire park project and make the city hall 
people erase any mention of the park from the records. But what? "What 
happened?" Trish asked apprehensively, for her own future in the ghetto 
depended on the answer. 

Crumm relaxed in his chair again. But he tried to look very sober, and sad 
too, as he recalled the history of a good dead project that went sour and 
almost sent him to prison. "They tried to hang a rape charge on me," he 
said. "They accused me of trying to fuck a young girl, thirteen years of 
age." 

"There seems to be no end to your talents, Mr. Crumm," Trish said with open 
revulsion. Where there was sexual smoke around this slob, there had to be 
fire, she reasoned. 

"I was innocent!" Crumm snapped. "I was framed. That's how everything got 
dropped and hushed up. But that was the end of the park I tried so hard to 
build for these no-good assholes your heart is bleeding so hard to help." 

Trish folded her arms. "Nothing you can say is going to dissuade me from 
building a park in this ghetto. But I could possibly profit from the 
mistakes and pitfalls you already made. Let's have it," she snapped. "And 
you'd better be telling the truth." 

Crumm raised his one hand. "So help me, I wouldn't try to snow you, Miss 
Lovejoy. But please listen and pay heed to these gray hairs of experience I 
got the hard way. You can bet your sweet ass you'll benefit from my past 
errors. Got an idea you'll even turn tail and head back to Park Avenue where 
you can enjoy life like a nice, normal rich girl. No one will think the 
worse of you." 

"Without the bird seed," Trish said blandly. "Just tell me what happened." 
She was convinced that Crumm was too coarse a person to be invested with 
imagination. His story would probably be partly true, she decided. It would 
be up to Trish to determine the part that was true and the part Crumm 
embellished upon. 

Crumm leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. His voice sounded dreamy 
s as he reached back into his memory about a park in the ghetto and his 
near-miss with disaster. "A bunch of do-gooders sent us a bunch of dough 
with the orders we gotta build a park for the ghetto people." His eyes slid 
halfway open. "Y'see, you ain't the first one with this park idea for the 
ghetto assholes." 

"And you actually built the park?" Trish asked incredulously. 

"The park got built," Crumm said emphatically. "I saw to it personally. Lots 
of grass and trees, and the statue of a little kid in a fountain with water 
running out of his dick. I tell you, it was terrific." 

"Then what happened?" Trish asked impatiently. 

Crumm became melancholy-faced. "Y'see, there was only enough money to build 
us one John." 

Trish looked wide-eyed. "The men and women used the same toilet?" 

"Sure. They've been doing that in Europe for centuries. No big scene. And we 
even got a special permit from city hall to do the same in the park." 

"A boy and a girl got caught together in the park toilet," Trish said 
resignedly. 

"A man and a girl, to be exact," Crumm corrected. 

"A man?" Trish looked suspicious. 

And her suspicions were well founded. "That's right," Crumm replied. "A man 
and a girl. A thirteen-year-old girl, to be more exact." 

"Of course, you were the man," Trish said, more as a statement than an 
accusation. 

Crumm shrugged. "It ain't the way you think it was. Y'see, one night I 
happened to be in the park. Takin' a stroll like the rest of the ghetto 
people, of which I am one. I got the urge to take a piss. So I dropped down 
into the basement John we built for the park. The minute I started to 
relieve myself this girl walks in. And instead of going to her own side, she 
just stands and watches me. Or, to be exact again, watches my cock. Can't 
take her eyes off it. Probably it was the first man's prick she'd ever 
seen." 

"And instead of going about your business, you took advantage of an 
impressionable thirteen-year-old girl," Trish said, this time with an 
accusatory tone of voice. 

"Wrong," Crumm sniffed. "The kid took advantage of me. At first I couldn't 
do much when I was leaking. I had to finish and let her look at me with her 
round, curious, and excited eyes. When I got through and shook the dick a 
bit, I turned immediately to the kid. 'You ain't supposed to be here while a 
man is takin' a piss,' I told her. 

"The kid just continued to stare back at my cock, and she didn't say a word. 
She was a pretty little thing with long, blonde hair down to her waist. Her 
eyes were round and blue, and you could tell that when she grew a bit older 
she was going to be a real pretty doll. Tits were already pushing out of her 
chest, and the tight sweater outlined the curving shape of her tits as well 
as the hard, pointed nipples that must have been pulsating for a suck. The 
kid was wearing one of those miniskirts which gave me an eyeful of legs that 
were firm and already shapely. The kid's cheeky ass rolled out at you, and 
her skirt was so tight I could almost see her asshole. The cleavage between 
the cheeks were very well defined. And although she couldn't have been more 
than thirteen years old, there was already a sensual aroma about her. I 
could almost sense that she thought about cock morning, noon and night. And 
there wasn't any doubt in my mind at all that she was an expert masturbator. 
Probably she jacked off four or five times a day. And her pussy must have 
been itching because she was roaming about late at night. Either she was 
looking for a fuck or was in hopes of watching a hot fucking scene between 
an indiscreet ghetto couple." Crumm's gappy teeth showed as he smiled. "We 
ghetto people ain't so modest when it comes to body functions. On a summer 
night, it's a common sight to see a lot of boys and girls screwing in some 
alley or behind a store. I've even watched a beautiful fuck between a couple 
standing up on a fire escape." And at the memory of the fire escape scene of 
copulation, he broke out into a noisy chuckle. 

Trish cut in impatiently. "I said without the bird seed. Just tell me why 
the park was demolished. If sex is so common and open in the ghetto, I can't 
really believe that any great scandal was caused because a thirteen-year-old 
girl saw your exposed penis. I'm sure a ghetto girl is familiar with the 
sight of a man's exposed penis long before she's thirteen years of age." 

Crumm shrugged. "It went a lot farther than a thirteen-year-old kid takin' a 
look at my cock." 

"Yet you claim you didn't take advantage of the situation." 

Crumm raised his hands and assumed the look of an innocent but much maligned 
character. "Gimme a chance to explain. I told the kid to get lost, but she 
just kept staring at my cock. In fact, she took a step closer to get a 
better look." He sighed. "I'll admit I was weak. After all, I ain't made 
outa iron. When I realized how excited she was growing at the mere sight of 
my prick, the shaft began to slide outwards, and the next thing I knew I had 
a king-sized bone on. Now the girl was really impressed. She had probably 
peeked at a man's exposed dick before. But she certainly never saw a cock 
erect before her eyes. It was a bit of magic she wasn't prepared for. She 
took another step closer, and all the time she never once could take her 
eyes off my cock flesh. And incidentally, my cock bone was getting bigger 
and redder by the minute. Finally the kid looked up at me and asked 
appealingly, 'Oh mister, it's beautiful. May I touch it?' 

"My first impulse was to refuse the request and kick her little ass outa the 
John. But every pore in my body was aching for the touch of her soft, 
virginal thirteen-year-old hand over my old cock. I had never fucked a 
virgin before, and already I was getting this notion to feel my shaft in the 
tight, hairless cunt of my little virgin who was so much on fire to look at 
my prick. 

"My throat was very dry when I answered her. And my voice sounded so 
strange, I thought it belonged to someone else. 'Okay,' I said. 'Just touch 
it, and then you'll have to get outa here. If someone came in and caught me 
with you, I'd be in trouble.' 

"'I don't want to make any trouble, mister,' she said, wide-eyed. But 
instead of turning and walking away, she reached out with her shapely but 
firm fingers and took hold of the shaft. The feel of that kid's hand over my 
cock bone almost blacked me out. An explosion ripped through my entire body 
like an atomic bomb. And right there and then, I knew I was hooked. I just 
had to fuck her or go outa my mind." 

Trish said disgustedly, "So you did make the first move to get into the 
young girl's pants." 

"Oh, no," Crumm said with wide-eyed innocence. "Nothing like that at all. 
That kid was in charge of the scene. And believe me, she knew what she 
wanted. At first she was just content to hold the bone. Then her grip 
tightened and I thought she'd break it off. I wanted to push her away and 
walk outa there before it was too late. But I just stood there, paralyzed, 
wondering what the kid was going to do next. 

"I didn't have long to find out. Her fingers relaxed their grip but started 
to dance up and down the shaft. She looked up at me with a mischievous 
smile. 'How does it feel when I do that, mister?' she asked. 

"By now, the cock cream was beginning to feel real heavy in my nuts, and I 
gotta fight down the compulsion to grab her, pull down her pants and stick 
my cock inside her tight cunt. Or would it be so tight after all her 
jacking-off exercises? But by superhuman effort, I gained control of myself 
and did nothing at all. Then I felt those soft, cool and beautifully shaped 
fingers steal all the way towards the base of my cock shaft and very gently 
caress my soft nuts. I winced with agony at the effort it took to hold 
myself together. 'Don't,' I pleaded in a strangled voice. 

"For reply, the kid started to jiggle my nuts all the harder and pull on 
them. Never before in my life had I ever experienced such a sensation that 
was charged with both ecstasy and anguish at the same time. My cock bone 
raised itself up even higher. In fact, I'd never seen it strive for such a 
high angle. There wasn't any doubt that every impulse in my brain was 
frantically sending out orders for me to fuck the girl and the devil with 
the consequences. 'Have you ever been fucked before?' I asked the girl. 

"The kid shook her head. 'No. But I sure would like to feel a great big old 
hard cock poked into my pussy.' 

"The girl's desire for sex, and the easy way in which she referred to her 
desires, was almost potent enough to make me blow my nuts right there and 
then. But I took a tight grip on my emotions. Maybe there was even time to 
back out of the whole thing yet. I took hold of the kid's hand and pulled it 
off my cock bone. With the willpower it must take to move mountains, I 
managed to whisper in a hoarse voice, 'I'm gettin' outa here before I get 
into trouble.' 

"When that kid saw I meant business, she calmly stepped back and raised her 
miniskirt up to her waist. She wasn't wearing a thing underneath. Her tiny 
and fleshy little cunt was the most delicious-looking thing I'd ever seen in 
my life. And I'd seen many cunts before. The cunt lips weren't drawn 
together as tightly as I thought they'd be. In fact, there was enough space 
between them to suggest she'd been fucked before. Or maybe constant and 
determined masturbation, which I'm sure she engaged in, pried the lips apart 
and gave them a mature kind of look. The little darling was just beginning 
to sprout hairs around her pussy. But what hairs she did have were long, 
blonde and fluffy. The kind I wouldn't mind pulling into my mouth at all. 
And to my utter surprise, the kid's clitoris, her precious, little female 
prick, was in a state of prominent erection and was as big as the clit on 
most mature women. Now I felt positive that she'd been fucked before. And 
with that knowledge my conscience no longer bothered me." 

"Your conscience?" Trish echoed in disbelief. 

"Yeah! My conscience!" Crumm replied angrily. "I was a victim of 
circumstances. I don't go around blowing thirteen-year-old kids." 

Trish felt he was going into a lot of irrelevant detail. All she wanted were 
the details about the park, and she told him as much. 

Crumm said sourly, "Just let me tell it in my own way. I'm trying to paint 
the whole picture for you so you won't waste any more of your time or mine 
about that goddamn park. Excuse my French, but I almost got a jail sentence 
on account of that little piece of greenery for the ghetto bums." 

"All right," Trish agreed. "But must you be so explicit? I've got the 
picture. Really!" 

"You only think you've got the picture," Crumm said, peering at her with 
sharp, appraising eyes. Was he getting to her? At that particular moment, he 
wanted to fuck Trish a lot more than he lusted after the cunt of a 
thirteen-year-old kid. And before she left the room, Crumm promised himself 
that he'd sink his cock between Trish's legs. Crumm decided that he was 
definitely affecting Trish's cunt with his lurid description of the sexual 
encounter between himself and the sexually precocious thirteen-year-old 
girl. Trish's face looked redder than normal, for one thing. And she kept 
crossing and uncrossing her legs as though her cunt was heating up. Pleased 
with himself, and the warm feeling of anticipation of Trish's cunt, Crumm 
resumed his narrative. "I remember how I kept staring at the girl's cunt as 
though I was paralyzed. I couldn't move, I could hardly raise my voice above 
a whisper. 'Do you like it?' she asked me with a smile. 

"Then she turned around and gave me a good look at the cheeks of her ass. 
Believe me, they were sweet as peaches. I could have dropped to my knees and 
taken a big bite out of each ass cheek. And to my utter surprise, that horny 
little kid flicked one cheek aside with her hand and gave me an unobstructed 
look inside her asshole. For some reason, the kid had a lot of hairs growing 
out of her rectum. And that profusion of long, wiry asshole hairs gave a 
sharp and erotic contrast to her entire body which was otherwise devoid of 
sex hairs. The saliva seeped out of my lips as I hungered to drive my tongue 
straight up her ass and feel each one of her cheeks on either side of my 
face. Believe me, I was a tormented man, a man who struggled every inch of 
the way with his baser instincts." 

"And your baser instincts won the battle," Trish said, a bit on the 
sarcastic side. Obviously the man had the morals of a goat. And any female, 
white or colored, from thirteen to seventy-five could very easily seduce 
him. And the nucleus of an idea began to shape itself in her mind. Suppose 
she played him along? Not give in to him, or anything like that. But suppose 
she merely suggested that the possibility of a lay existed. Would she then 
be able to gain his much-needed support? 

At the moment, Crumm was locked in the struggle with lust and the memory of 
the girl. 

The memory of that precocious child of puberty with her edible-looking cunt, 
her just-formed tits, her curving ass and firm ball-breaker legs fired him 
up again. "Yes, I lost the struggle," he said in a choked voice. "I simply 
had to taste her flesh, eat her cunt, drive my pulsating prick deep in the 
heart of her love box. And the girl, as young as she was, kept smiling at me 
in her silent way, egging me on, daring me. And when I still hesitated, her 
face twisted in a sneer as though she doubted my manhood. Finally a scream 
tore out of my throat as I fell to my knees before this tiny goddess of 
love. 

"Very calmly, the girl unfastened the belt around her miniskirt and let it 
drop to her feet. Then she slithered out of her sweater and stood stark and 
lustfully naked before my eyes. 'Eat it,' she whispered caressingly in my 
ear. 'Tongue it, lap it. Do the same thing to me I saw the delivery boy do 
to my mom.' 

"The world of sanity faded away, and all that remained were two people. Me 
and my darling love child whose precious cunt began to moisten ever so 
slightly. The drops of love dew that oozed out of her crack came from the 
heart of her cunt. Her virginal cunt. She was offering this treasure to me, 
Turk Crumm, a man who had fought and kicked for everything he'd ever 
received. And this wonderful doll of desire was willfully offering up her 
delicious naked body to me alone. I would be the first in her cunt. The 
first to ravish her tits, her slightly curved belly, her daringly swollen 
ass cheeks, her firm, strong legs. She was giving herself to me alone. And 
like a demented fool, I had hesitated, been full of doubts and fears. I 
swept aside all these craven thoughts and became the bold and daring man I 
had always wanted to be. 'Darling, darling,' I babbled like a fool, 'you're 
my own true love.' And without further hesitation, I grabbed each cheek of 
her ass with my hands and buried my face up against her cunt. The kid's 
smile faded and was replaced by a lust that gripped her face and made it 
old-looking. 

"'Suck my cunt,' she cried out, and in her innocent-looking face danced the 
eyes of a whore. My long, curving tongue bolted out and made contact with an 
almost hairless and virginal cunt. The girl's head snapped back, and she let 
out an unearthly sounding wail that reverberated throughout the entire 
lavatory and drifted upwards into the park. I didn't care. All that mattered 
to me or had any meaning was my tongue up against a virginal cunt. I started 
to lick the entire gash from top to bottom, and my head bobbed up and down 
like a little puppy-dog licking her own cunt. 

"As I sucked, the darling child spread the cheeks of her ass out in such a 
way that my one finger naturally dropped into the crevice of ass and buried 
itself between the two cheeks and finally into the rectal love tube. This 
feeling of my finger stuffed deeply and tightly up her ass must have been an 
extremely exciting one for the girl, for her screams grew more shrill, more 
desperate, more perverted. And during this period, I was especially rewarded 
by observing the erection of her tiny clit. It jutted out like a hard and 
shiny white piece of gristle and seemed to cry out for a mouth. 
Instinctively I sucked the entire female but virginal cock into my mouth. 
Once again I was rewarded with a series of screams that rollercoastered out 
of her mouth, and ricocheted against the walls, the ceilings, and I'm 
positive burst out of the room and into the park. But it didn't matter. 
Nothing mattered except this beautifully pure act of cunnilingus. I sucked 
so hard my jaw muscles started to ache. But that didn't even matter. My goal 
was near, I knew. My goal of cunt juices flowing unabatedly into my mouth. I 
became like a man bereft of his senses. I had to make my darling come. I had 
to be the very first male to drink the juices of love that would gush out 
from deep within the box of perpetual love. 

"And as I sucked so furiously, I looked up into my darling's face and eyes. 
Lust was still her mistress. And this was reflected in her clit, which was 
growing longer, harder and hotter in my mouth. Was that my imagination? It 
didn't matter. But I swear her tiny clit seemed to fill up the entire space 
inside my mouth. And now the time had come to apply my expertise as a cunt 
lapper. It seemed as though every cunt I had ever possessed with my mouth in 
the past was merely a prelude leading up to this one, great, and glorious 
moment. Soon, very soon, I'd be rewarded. 

"The girl grabbed hold of my head and commenced to slam her cunt back and 
forth against my face. And as her hips thrust back and forth and gyrated, I 
slid my tongue over her clit and under it and alongside of it. I nibbled at 
the head, the shaft, and even drove my fleshy mouth cock deep into her 
vagina where no other tongue or cock had ever visited before me. The vagina, 
the true valley of cunt, felt hot and wet and steaming with lust. At one 
time my sucking of the valley as well as the clitoris became so noisy that 
the girl's screams were drowned out. Finally obscene oaths that she had 
learned from the ghetto streets boiled out of her tiny mouth. 'Blow me,' she 
burbled. 'Blow me, you motherfucking, cunt-lapping, asshole-tonguing 
bastard. Blow me!' 

"And I did. A stream of cunt juice jetted into my mouth. This stream of love 
was very narrow, but the force behind it was unbelievable. It hit the roof 
of my mouth harder than a man's fist, and I was terrified lest my throat 
blister and choke me to death. But as soon as the numbness wore off, I 
sensed everything was going to be perfect. For one thing, the doll's cunt 
honey tasted sweeter than nectar, and I couldn't get enough of it. I sucked 
so hard my mouth felt like a suction disc. But every single drop of that 
cunt cream was precious to me. And I swear I felt younger, more virile, and 
a sense of elation flooded throughout my entire body. I had found the 
fountain of youth. And that fountain was contained in the love box of a 
thirteen-year-old girl." 

Crumm stopped talking for a moment. He seemed lost in thought. Trish 
actually felt sorry for him. Ever since he had been a kid, Crumm had 
hustled, scratched and fought for a mere existence. Every ounce of his 
considerable energies was spent in the struggle to merely exist. There was 
no time for much happiness. But for a moment, with the forbidden fruit 
contained in the form of a thirteen-year-old Lolita-like girl, the aging 
Crumm found a drop of happiness, a bit of compensation for all the years of 
unhappiness. But it couldn't last. 

"I didn't even get a chance to feel my cock inside her," he mused, as though 
he felt that even a smidgen of happiness in his direction had been some sort 
of ghastly mistake or a great big hoax played on him by the Fates. 

"Someone had heard the girl scream," Trish guessed, and again a wave of 
sympathy for the bearlike man gripped her. 

Crumm nodded slowly, as though he still didn't quite comprehend what had hit 
him. "The next thing I knew the whole stinkin' lavatory was filled with 
people. Mostly cops. And there I was on my knees with my face up against the 
cunt of a thirteen-year-old girl. And even then my swollen cock refused to 
quit on me. It stood erect as ever, and this, too, was evidence enough to 
damn me. The cops actually had to protect me from the mob of ghetto goons 
who tried to string me up." He gave an ironic laugh. "Not one of those 
assholes would have passed up the chance to screw the kid. But when they 
found someone else in her cunt, they became mean enough for a lynching." He 
felt his throat. "My lynching." 

"And the case was never brought to court?" Trish asked incredulously. 

"Naw," Crumm chortled. "I'm too valuable to the big boys uptown to ditch me. 
Besides, the kid run off with a truck driver, and the whole thing 
collapsed." 

"But why take out your spite on the park?" Trish still did not comprehend 
the man's devious character. 

"I had to," Crumm replied quite calmly. "Every time I passed that park, I 
almost went off my rocker. That goddamn piece of green in a ghetto almost 
sent me to jail. Almost ruined me-I'd have never fucked, or tried to have 
fucked, a thirteen-year-old girl if it hadn't been for the park. No ma'am, I 
wasn't going to put up with it. I convinced the boys uptown to sell off the 
property, and we all made a buck out of it." He was silent a moment, and 
then rationalized his behavior. "After all, the ghetto assholes didn't 
really appreciate it. Those kind would rather sit on the fire escape where 
they can look into the neighbors' window and watch them fuck." A throaty 
laugh bubbled up out of his throat. He leaned forward in his chair and 
smiled at Trish. "So now you know why I'm bitterly opposed to making a park 
in the ghetto. Besides, it ain't economical." 

Trish was beginning to thoroughly understand the man. "In brief," she said, 
"there's nothing in it for you." 

"Now you dig," Crumm said, a bit elated that she finally understood his 
philosophy. "You get nothing for nothing." 

"What you're trying to say," Trish said sweetly, "is that you get back what 
you put out." 

"Right on!" 

"Suppose I was willing to put out?" Trish asked. 

Crumm stiffened. He looked back unbelievingly at the girl. Ever since she 
had walked into the room, he had been on fire to screw her. But he never 
thought for a single second that there was going to be any cooperation on 
her part. And she was a doll. She was about seventeen, but there was still a 
virginal look about her. And at seventeen her cunt was still charged with 
youth-giving juices. And from the very beginning, the man of the ghetto had 
loved everything about the girl from Park Avenue. There was an aloof 
calmness to her, and yet in her lips and body and legs there was more than 
just a hint of a raging sensuality once her cunt was awakened from its 
virginal slumber. Crumm moistened his lips to speak. He could hardly force 
out the words. And when at last he did speak, his voice sounded strange and 
unnatural. "If you was willin' to put out," he said, "there ain't no telling 
how much I'll help you. I could even help you with the goddamn park." 

Trish studied the man carefully. He did exert a certain raw, manly power 
that was rare in an age when men were acting and dressing more and more like 
women. Perhaps, in time, she could be attracted to him. And that's what she 
had meant when she raised the matter of her possible availability. 

But Trish still didn't understand the man from the ghetto. He was a man of 
immediate action. Long-range relationships didn't enter his mind, and he 
wasn't interested in them at all. When a girl told him she was willing to 
put out, that meant instant cunt. Already the thought of Trish's cunt had 
unleashed the ever-ready sexual hormones into his bloodstream. A number of 
other responses, all of a sexual nature, were also triggered within the 
burlyframe of the ghetto man. And all of those quickened responses built up 
to one thing: a king-sized bone that wasn't going to soften until his nuts 
had been drained of cock cream. He stood up, and the bulge between his legs 
was now a frightening thing to behold. 

Trish was aghast. She had never seen a man shaken by so many changes, so 
quickly, and in so many different parts of his body. The cheeks of his puffy 
face were stained with unsightly red splotches. There was a queer and 
unnatural light in his ferretlike eyes, and his breath was wheezing in and 
out of his flaring nostrils at a much-too-rapid pace. And it was almost 
impossible for Trish to associate the mountainous protrusion between his 
legs with a normal man's cock even when it was in an excited state of 
erection. 

Trish leaped to her feet, alarmed. "Now, don't get any ideas," she said 
quickly. "I meant, in time, when we got to know each other, we might find a 
physical attraction and even love for each other." 

Crumm replied in a silent way that had had meaning since the dawn of time. 
He unzipped his pants and let his mushroom-shaped tool of flesh slide out 
into exposure. "I don't need no time to know I'm physically attracted to 
you, baby," he breathed. "And you got class, doll. You're the kind I could 
get serious with. That fat black broad and all the others were just passing 
through my life. But you, baby, you I want for keeps." He began to walk 
around the desk towards Trish, who stood as though paralyzed. "And I'll help 
you get your park if that'll make you happy." He smiled in what he felt was 
a warm smile. To Trish, his smile had all the warmth of a striking rattler. 
"I'm really a big-hearted slob. A gem in the rough." 

Trish's eyes fastened themselves on the man's reddening prick. Certainly it 
was large and impressive enough to brand its owner as a real man. And a real 
man was the only kind who could win Trish's affection. But not this way. She 
hadn't become an animal yet. "No," she said to the advancing man. "This 
isn't the way to make me love you. And sex was never meant to be like this." 

Crumm wasn't listening. He was deafened to all other voices except those 
that came roaring up at him from the pit of his genitals. And those lusty 
voices kept pushing him forward towards Trish. "Like what?" he mumbled, not 
really knowing what he was saying. 

Trish started to back away from him. She shouted back. "Sex wasn't meant to 
degrade. Between the right people, it's the most beautiful expression of 
love of which we're capable." Her voice rose, high and shaky. "Give us time 
to get acquainted. Please, let's go about it right. But not like this. Like 
animals devoid of feeling or respect for each other!" 

Crumm moved forward towards Trish in the same relentless manner in which he 
had risen above the rank and file in the ghetto and had become a ward boss. 
"My prick tells me I gotta fuck you. That's good enough for me. We got a 
whole lifetime to get to know each other. So please don't fight it, baby. 
Let's fuck!" And with that last remark, he reached out and grabbed hold of 
Trish's sweater. His intent was to seize her breasts and feel their soft 
warmness in his hands. But Trish had been a bit too fast for him. She 
twisted her body backwards in time to elude his grasp, but not in time to 
prevent his clawlike hands from grasping hold of her sweater and pulling it 
over her head. Trish had never found it necessary to wear a bra. Her breasts 
were too firm and too perfectly shaped to require support of an artificial 
nature. And so now her breasts became exposed to the lust-maddened Crumm. 
This was another facet of Crumm's character that Trish was just being 
introduced to. Opposition only enraged the man and made him all the more 
determined to gain his goals. And right now Trish, or rather her body, was 
his goal. 

Trish looked wildly around her at the door and windows. Crumm had bolted 
every avenue of escape. "I'll scream," she threatened as she still backed 
away from him. 

Crumm's blood-red face broke into a smile that looked more like a sneer. 
"You can scream your fuckin' head off. People in this building are used to 
screaming women. This is the ghetto, baby. You ain't on Park Avenue now 
where those faggy men ain't interested in tasting a bit of pussy." He 
snarled at her for her obstinacy was beginning to rankle. "And I aim on 
tastin' your pussy before you get outa here. So relax and come across. You 
and me could make a beautiful team together." 

"Not like this," Trish wailed out. But even as the words soared out of her 
mouth, she knew she was wasting her breath. And her desperate plight became 
all too apparent to her. She was trapped alone in a locked room with a 
bull-like creature who was more animal than human. He was devoid of any 
feeling or respect, and completely incapable of a single, decent act. And to 
make matters worse, he had political connections which could protect him 
regardless of what he did to her. He could rape and murder her, and still 
get away with it. But she tried to fight off the waves of panic that beat 
against her brain and garbled her senses. She was going to need every ounce 
of her mental and physical strength to extricate herself. 

Immersed with these inner problems, Trish inadvertently lowered her guard. 
And at that moment, Crumm sprang at her with the determination and agility 
of a football tackle. He caught her around the waist and both man and girl 
fell backwards, onto the floor. "Cunt," Crumm breathed hoarsely. "Gotta have 
your cunt or I'll die." And he meant it. The man had worked himself up into 
such a state for intercourse with Trish that if he was thwarted in this goal 
he'd suffer terribly in both body and spirit. But he had no intention of 
being thwarted from ripping the clothes off the stubborn girl and banging 
her ass with all the gusto of a sex-famished con who had just been released 
from prison. "Cunt!" His voice broke into a roar. "Gotta have your cunt!" 

For the moment, Trish was in no position to prevent Crumm from having his 
way. He tore the skirt from around her waist. Then he quickly pulled her 
panties down her legs and flung them across the room. Trish's naked body was 
now exposed before the ghetto man's eyes. And those eyes ravished the naked, 
virginal flesh of the young girl. Her tits were round, firm, and neither too 
large or too small. They were fleshy semi-spheres of perfection. And despite 
her protests, her nipples, crimson and porous, were prick stiff. There 
wasn't an ounce of fat on her shapely body, which was cream-colored and 
youthfully smooth. But the girl's cunt held his eyes more than any other 
part of her body. The girl's cunt was that rare piece of perfection that 
artists and true connoisseurs of the female form have sought after for all 
of their lives and, in most cases, have never found. Now Crumm had found 
that cunt of all cunts. And he'd never let it go. There wasn't that 
profusion of hair around the lips that was usually found on more mature 
women. There was just enough hair to nicely frame the lips and fan up the 
belly in an inverted triangular patch. The cunt lips were perfectly shaped 
also. They weren't too thick, and not too thin. They slashed up from between 
her legs and were just slightly distended to give Crumm a teasing peak at 
the fleshy, moist and warm goodness that was contained within the love 
valley. And to Crumm's intense joy, the girl's clitoris was in evidence. The 
excitement of the moment had probably pulled it out of its little hiding 
place. That excitement was probably born of fear. It was Crumm's job to 
replace that fear with lust. He felt positive that if he could only get his 
mouth over her clit, his goal of getting her excited would be quickly 
accomplished. Then he'd have her cooperation and trust. The ghetto man 
opened his mouth wide and bobbed his head down in the direction of her cunt. 

But once again Trish was too fast for him. She twisted her body over, and 
the man's face bounced up against the ass of the girl. And even in this 
posterior region, which he didn't normally associate with love, the feel of 
his mouth against the flesh of her ass thrilled and delighted him. Before 
the girl could move again, he clamped his huge, pawlike hands around her 
waist and buried his face between the cheeks of the girl's ass. There was a 
faint odor from her ass that only excited him all the more. When he was in 
heat, the odor of a young girl's ass was definitely a sexual stimulant as 
far as Crumm was concerned. He stuck out his tongue and began to lap her ass 
like any dog excited by a bitch in heat. 

Once again Trish was assailed by bursts of utter degradation and 
humiliation. "I'm not an animal!" she screamed. But to no avail. The man 
from the ghetto, saliva streaming out of the corners of his mouth, plunged 
his tongue even farther down the rectal passage until Trish could feel the 
entire area penetrated with the man's mouth flesh. But this was not an 
erogenous zone for Trish. But even if it was, she wouldn't have been able to 
assess her sensations under the present conditions of rape. 

Crumm was under no such handicap. The taste of Trish's ass, the feel of 
tongue inside the rectal tube, the odors from her rectum, and the fleshy 
feel of her ass cheeks up against his face fevered him with such a lust that 
the cock juices began their relentless flow to the head of his cock. Feeling 
the liquid boiling and moving within him made Crumm yank his head out of 
Trish's rear valley of love and take instant remedial action to circumvent a 
premature ejaculation. He wracked his brain to think of all sorts of neutral 
thoughts that would deaden the lustful thoughts and soften his prick. 
Unimpeded, the cock juices would soon reach their exit at the head of his 
cock and he wouldn't be able to fuck the girl. "Can't blow now," Crumm told 
himself with a desperate and pleading cry. The man was actually pleading 
with himself to think up some sort of non-sexual thought to flush the starch 
out of his cock. Then, out of desperation, or perhaps inspiration, Crumm was 
suddenly confronted with the solution. He'd think of black Hazel, and of 
being confronted by her husband, who was an ugly brute, an uppity Negro who 
kept preaching about black rights in the ghetto. The ruse worked. The very 
thought of being caught with Hazel by the black woman's husband quickly 
dealt a karate chop to his own lusts of the moment. His cock began to wilt, 
and the flow of cream was averted. 

With the danger of an unwanted ejaculation past, Crumm resumed his 
attentions to the girl's ass. But before he was able to do a thing, he was 
rudely awakened from his lustful anticipations by a loud pounding on the 
door. "Open up, you son-of-a-bitch," a voice on the other side of the door 
called out in an angry manner. "Open up, I say." And without waiting from 
Crumm to make a move, Trish recognized the sound of a heavy and broad 
shoulder battering against the door. The cheap lock soon broke. The most 
burly black man Trish had ever seen came crashing into the room. 

The barrel-chested black man looked down contemptuously at the couple on the 
floor. He pointed a finger at Crumm. "You gonna pay for fucking my wife, you 
whitey bastard!" As he advanced towards Trish and Crumm, he pulled a knife 
from under his jacket. "I hates all whites," he cried out with a rage that 
had been born centuries past. 

The intruder was Hazel's husband, a man who had been cuckolded by Crumm and 
knew it. At the moment, the man was possessed by his insane rage against all 
white people. And before him was the naked flesh of a white man and girl. 
The enraged black raised his knife and slashed out. 

Chapter Five 

"The nigger's full of LSD." This was Crumm's diagnosis as he bent over the 
unconscious form of the black man, whose body looked as de-deflated as an 
empty gunnysack. Moments before, the Negro's knife had lashed out at the two 
white targets. But the weapon missed by a country mile. And the effort was 
too much for the knife wielder. The next thing the terrified Trish and Crumm 
knew, their would-be assassin dropped the knife, closed his eyes, and 
plummeted to the floor like a weighted sack of garbage. 

The closeness of death had stifled all feelings of lust inside Crumm. 
Walloped in the face by the realities of life and remembering his position 
as ward boss, Crumm became more sober and businesslike than an impotent 
temperance worker. "Gotta get this crazy schwartzer out of here," he snarled 
at Trish. "And you gotta get some clothes on and look halfway decent." Trish 
was still in the nude. 

"Thanks for your concern," Trish snapped back at him. She found her panties 
and skirt and struggled back into them as quickly as possible. Her sweater 
was ripped and torn from the recent struggle, but it was better than walking 
around bare-titted. 

Crumm then grabbed the unconscious man under the armpits and dragged him 
roughly towards the door. "What are you going to do with him?" Trish asked, 
alarmed. 

Crumm's face was wrinkled with murderous intent. "I oughta call the cops and 
hang an assault with a deadly weapon rap around the nigger's neck." He 
stopped at the door. "Trouble is, I'm too decent a guy to do anything like 
that. Being nice to the goddamn trash in the ghetto is gonna be my downfall 
yet." 

Trish looked back at the man, wide-eyed. Crumm really and honestly believed 
that he was a decent human being and brimming over with the more decent 
impulses of the human species. He was a rapist, a child despoiler, a thief, 
and probably at one time or another had permanently disposed of rivals in a 
way that was not exactly legal. And yet, in comparison with other, more 
brutal ghetto bosses, he probably was more moderate and lenient since his 
more inhuman impulses were blunted with lust. He was a creature of strong 
sexual appetites, and this constant need to express his lust pervaded all of 
his activities. Morals, Trish began to realize, were an intensely relative 
thing. Good or bad morals depended on each individual, his background, and 
the environment in which he functioned. 

But at the moment, Trish didn't have much time to dwell on the validity of 
Crumm's opinion of himself or of his morals. A man was unconscious and 
probably needed medical help, and her total concern was for him. Whether or 
not he was black or white, was acid tripping or was just plain sick, didn't 
phase Trish. Here was someone who needed help, and she was either going to 
help him or see that he was attended to. "Call a doctor," Trish pleaded with 
Crumm when he didn't reply to her first question but continued to haul the 
unconscious man unceremoniously towards the door. Finally he managed to yank 
open the door and peer into the hallway. 

Then he turned to Trish. "I ain't callin' no doctor for this psyched-out 
bum. He's on a trip." 

"But he could have taken too much acid," Trish said. "His breathing doesn't 
sound normal. And he looks almost white." 

This was true. The black man's skin had faded to a dirty gray color, 
although there was still no mistaking his Negroid features. Crumm scowled. 
"A white nigger or black nigger is all the same to me. Trouble. That's what 
he is. And especially this bastard." 

Taking a firmer grip under the black man's armpits, Crumm hauled him out 
into the hall. Trish followed them. "Where are you taking him?" she 
demanded. 

"Back to his own stinkin' apartment," Crumm panted. Pulling over two hundred 
and fifty pounds of a man's dead weight strained every muscle in Crumm's 
badly conditioned body. 

"I'll get his wife," Trish offered. 

Crumm looked at her with his angry little eyes. "Black Hazel ain't home. 
She's out working. If she wasn't, they'd both starve. This big shit is too 
busy stirring up trouble to do an honest day's work." The thought of this 
lazy tenant of his so angered Crumm that he handled the unconscious man with 
much more roughness than was necessary. Finally Crumm pushed his cargo into 
the elevator and sent the ancient lift lurching to the top floor. There he 
pulled his load to Hazel's apartment, opened the door with his master key, 
and with a grunt deposited the hulking, inert frame on the floor. "Better 
get outa here before Hazel gets home. She'll cut up any white gal she 
catches messin' with her black man's poontang." 

"Someone's got to stay here with him until he regains consciousness," Trish 
said. "He could die before his wife gets back." 

"Tough," Crumm said with exaggerated pity. He turned to leave. 

"About the park," Trish called out after him. 

Crumm stopped and turned towards her. "Sure, I'll help you. But you gotta 
change around your twisted kind of thinking before I put myself out for 
you." 

"My twisted kind of thinking?" Trish echoed. 

"You heard me," Crumm said with emphasis. "Your twisted kind of thinking. 
First you lead me on. Then you make me fight for your cunt. Next time, you 
better offer me your cunt like you meant it." 

"Just like that!" Trish said with indignation. "I haven't become an animal 
yet." 

Crumm gave her a pitying look. "Don't you know we're all animals, baby? When 
you get through your pretty little head, and act accordingly, there ain't 
nothin' I won't do for you. And that includes the goddamn park!" And before 
Trish could offer any more protests, Crumm whirled about and left the room 
with a slam of the door. Trish remained behind in the apartment, alone with 
her thoughts and the unconscious black man. 

But Trish didn't have much time for meditation, and the unconscious man 
didn't remain unconscious for very long. In a very short period of time 
after Crumm had departed, the black man stirred, moaned and opened his eyes. 
Trish was in his direct line of vision. He blinked. "Done died and went 
straight to Heaven," he said as though he didn't believe his good fortune. 
Trish did look like an angel to even the most jaded eyes. She had long, 
blonde hair, blue eyes, and just the right blend of innocence and sensuality 
to excite the senses and quicken the heartbeat. Where was it written that an 
angel couldn't be blonde, good-looking, and stacked? The black man continued 
to stare at Trish with eyes that became so bulging they looked white in his 
face. "Or if I ain't dead," he further ruminated, "I'm still on a trip, and 
you're one of my acid-inspired visions." 

Despite herself, and the gravity of the situation, Trish couldn't restrain 
the urge to laugh. "You're not dead," she informed the man. "And I'm not an 
angel. I'm Trish Lovejoy, the girl you just tried to knife in Turk Crumm's 
apartment." 

The black man sank back on the couch. His eyes stared vacantly up at the 
ceiling. "Don't remember nothing about that," he said, and it sounded 
sincere. "I was on a trip. Anything can happen on a trip." 

Trish scrutinized the black figure for a moment as though trying to make up 
her mind about him. "Not really," she said. But before she explained this 
statement, she asked, "Your name. What is it?" 

The calm, rational voice of the pretty young white girl helped life to flood 
back into the black man. His eyes looked into her face. He sensed her 
goodness, her desire to help for unselfish motives. He felt he could trust 
her. "I've taken the name the white man gave me and obliterated it from my 
consciousness. In a sense, I was born nameless, soulless, a form of flesh 
without spirit. But when I was reborn, I got soul, I got spirit, and I got 
myself a real name that has meaning." 

Trish said patiently, "Without the rhetoric, what do people call you?" 

"Black Hammer!" He folded his arms. "I hope you're gonna ask me why." 

"I know I'll regret it," Trish said. "But why do they call you Black 
Hammer?" 

His face grew hard with fanaticism. "'Cause I'm like a black hammer. A 
monstrous black hammer that come to smite the white man and make believers 
out of them." 

"Believers in what?" Trish asked hesitantly. 

Black Hammer threw back his head. "Believers in giving just rights to the 
blacks. Believers in helping black folks to get their black asses outa the 
ghetto so they can live in a decent place. Believers in not believing that 
they rule the world by some sort of divine right of white skin. Believers in 
the fact that white skin can stink just as rotten as black skin." 

Trish cut him short. "Why not fight to make white people respect others 
regardless of the color of their skin, and let it go at that? Where is all 
that hatred going to get you?" 

Black Hammer clenched his fists. "You asking me to forget about two hundred 
years of injustice?" 

"No!" Trish retorted, her eyes flashing. "But don't carry the two hundred 
years of injustice around on your back every minute of the day. It's too 
heavy a load for anyone to carry." 

"It's my duty to carry the load. I'm a leader of my people," the black man 
said, as he sat up straight on the couch. 

"Bullshit!" The word just naturally slipped out before Trish could check 
herself. And she was both surprised and shocked at herself. Was her still 
brief tenure in the ghetto already affecting her speech? Would her morals be 
affected also? Her face grew red, and she apologized immediately. "That's 
not what I really meant to say." 

But Black Hammer was pleased. He smiled. "Say, you're okay, baby. First I 
thought you was some kind of stuck-up social worker who's playin' ghetto 
girl for the kicks. You got too much class for a social worker. Yet you 
knows how to converse with old Black Hammer." He chuckled throatily. 
"Bullshit, you say. You got an honest opinion and you spit it out. I like 
that." 

Trish nodded. "Glad to hear it. But while we're being so honest with each 
other, would you mind informing me why the great big leader of his black 
community has to run away and hide on a LSD trip?" 

Black Hammer's full lips curled downwards. "You don't understand! I wasn't 
running away. I was trippin' for inspiration. Inspiration on how better to 
lead my people, how better to get results from the stubborn white masters 
who use the black people for their whores." 

"Bullshit," Trish replied, and this time she made no apology for the earthy 
but emphatic way in which she expressed herself. "Many black people are 
underprivileged. This I'll buy. But no one is going to help them by running 
away, or deluding yourself that inspiration is possible in an acid trip. 
It's not, and you know it." 

"If you haven't tried it, don't knock it," Black Hammer said, as though 
lecturing an ignorant schoolchild. "The very best ideas I ever got came back 
with me from a trip. The very best times in my life I've had when I was 'way 
out on acid. And last but not least, the very best cunt I've tasted was in a 
psychedelic dream of lust and love." 

Trish knew that sooner or later her verbal communication with the black man 
was going to load with sexual overtones. She was beginning to realize that 
sexual acts as well as all other bodily functions were openly referred to by 
people in the ghetto. They didn't intend to be dirty-mouthed or even 
dirty-minded. But since these people were closer to nature, they referred to 
natural functions as a matter of course. Still she still wasn't completely 
inured to the verbal barrage of sexual terms she'd heard since she entered 
the ghetto. The description of her genitals as "cunt" still brought a blush 
to her cheeks and made the lobes of both ears burn hotly. She tried to look 
and sound indifferent, but knew she didn't succeed very well. "Have you ever 
thought what could be accomplished without the use of drugs? By just plain 
hard work and a little guts?" 

Black Hammer looked skeptical. "Such as?" 

Trish warmed to her subject. "A park." 

"A park?" the black man looked as though he was indeed conversing with an 
ignorant child-a well-meaning child, but still an ignorant one. 

"You're putting me on, ain't you?" 

"I am most decidedly not putting you on," Trish said, happy that they were 
now moving along constructive lines. "Have you ever thought about how much a 
park could mean to your people? To all ghetto people?" 

"It wouldn't mean shit," Black Hammer said with distaste. 

Trish leaped to her feet as though she'd just received a severe boot on her 
posterior. "If you weren't so lazy and stupid, you'd see that a park would 
mean a different way of life down here!" 

Black Hammer thought that one over for a moment. Then he said, "All right, 
Miss Rich Bitch playing Miss Do-Good, answer me a few questions." 

"Shoot!" Trish said, feeling confident that she had all the answers. 

Black Hammer folded his arms as though he was a prosecuting attorney and 
Trish a defendant on trial for her life. "Will a park put bread in the 
pockets of ghetto people?" 

"No," Trish said. Before she could elaborate on her answer the black man cut 
her off. 

"Will a park bring jobs to black people who ain't got a pot to piss in?" 

"No," Trish acknowledged, "but..." 

"No buts!" Black Hammer cut her off. "It won't bring jobs. Our black young 
people gonna continue to be poolroom bums or pimps. And believe you me, 
white girl, they ain't nothin' lower than a pimp. He's the most lowest of 
the low. He even hates himself when he hustles his ho's." 

"His what?" Trish asked. Her ghetto vocabulary was about to be further 
enriched. 

"Ho is ghetto talk for a whore, a prostitute, a girl who sells her cunt, 
gives the pimp most of the earnings, and keeps a small amount for herself." 

"But why does she need a pimp?" Trish asked, hating herself for asking. 

"To get her customers. Get her out of jail. Give her a feeling of 
self-importance. That's real important to a ho." 

"Let's get back to our park," Trish said bluntly. 

"We ain't never left it," Black Hammer informed her. "And I'll tell you why. 
A park would be a great place for a prostie to make a contact. And we get 
enough of that kind of stuff already without providing a place for the 
prostie to further degrade herself. I want to see young black girls in this 
community make something of themselves. All most of them doing now is 
selling themselves to the white man. A park is the first place where a white 
man is gonna come looking for a black piece of ass." 

"Maybe," Trish agreed. "But a park is also a place where a politically 
ambitious man like yourself can hold meetings. Gather an audience. Make a 
name for himself. And one day he might even become ward boss. A boss who is 
concerned for the people. I'm sure the people would welcome a chance to get 
rid of the Crumms who represent them uptown in city hall." 

Black Hammer fell silent. He no longer had a quick and glib retort to 
demolish Trish's arguments for a park. The idea of replacing Crumm as ward 
boss had often flitted through his mind. But he lacked stature in the 
community, and he wasn't well enough known. A park with an area for speakers 
just might be what he needed to further his own ambitions. "Maybe a park 
will help my people," he mused aloud. 

"Of course it will!" Trish almost shouted. Enthusiasm for the park made her 
eyes and face shine. She had a difficult time preventing her hands from 
shaking. This was the closest she'd come to convincing a ghetto man that her 
plan for a park was valid. 

Black Hammer looked at Trish with his penetrating gaze. "I know you're long 
on enthusiasm. But I got an idea you're short with the bread." 

Trish said, "If you're asking if I've got any money, the answer is a big no. 
I don't have any bread. But we'll raise it, Black Hammer. We'll knock on 
doors. We'll write to the newspapers, the television stations. We'll start a 
movement that will swell into a thunderous wave. A wave that will pound 
against the conscience of people like a clap of thunder from above." 

"Glory hallelujah!" Black Hammer raised his voice as though in prayer. 
"We'll smite the heathen and slay the Philistines. Our cause will triumph 
because it is a righteous cause." 

"Amen," Trish replied. "Amen and amen." 

Black Hammer swung his legs over the side of the couch. He no longer looked 
like a dying man. Fired with the fervor of a cause, he couldn't wait to put 
it into action. His mind was churning back and forth faster than the nickel 
slot machines at Vegas. A ghetto-centered park would not only be an ideal 
place for him to launch his political career; if the park was a success, he 
could take credit for it. Trish, the white girl, would get lost in the 
shuffle. Besides, she had parents who had plenty of bread. But most 
important, a park would be the ideal place for him to confront his fellow 
ghettoites and convince them of the pureness of his soul. That, certainly, 
would be the most important aspect of the entire endeavor. A park would be 
the place for Black Hammer to proclaim his righteousness to the entire 
world. 

Black Hammer smacked a fist into the palm of one hand. "I ain't got much 
bread. But I got enough to get the project started in a big way." His eyes 
shone like beacons as he saw that great vision of the future. "First, I buy 
some full-page spreads in the local newspapers. Then we distribute handbills 
all over the ghetto. All over this great big city, for that matter. And if 
it's necessary to beg for money on the street corner, I'll do that, too." 

Trish clapped her hands. "A vote for Black Hammer is a vote against crooks 
like Crumm. That's the kind of word-of-mouth advertising we'll spread all 
over the ghetto." But then, deep down within the heart and mind of the girl, 
a warning note sounded. And this small note of caution dampened her 
enthusiasm, stilled her voice, made her grow silent. She suddenly remembered 
the scene between Hazel and Crumm. Hazel had been forced to work as a 
cleaning woman because her husband Black Hammer was unemployed and broke. In 
fact, as Trish now remembered, Hazel had refused to have intercourse with 
Crumm until the ward boss found a steady job for Black Hammer. Now the 
unemployed black man suddenly proclaimed that he had enough money to take 
out expensive ads in the local newspapers and buy spot advertisements at the 
television station. Where did he get the money? 

"What difference does it make?" Black Hammer replied with a heavy frown in 
answer to Trish's question. 

"A lot of difference," Trish said. "The money I touch has to be clean." 

Black Hammer clenched his fists as though he was going to strike Trish. And 
an odor flowed out of the pores of his skin that made Trish slightly 
nauseous. 

"You saying my soul ain't clean?" the black demanded to know. "If you are, 
you'd better get your white pussy out of this here ghetto." 

"Where did you get the money?" Trish persisted. 

Black Hammer thought a moment. The effort of concentration was a heavy 
strain on him. His eyes narrowed, and his brow wrinkled. "Won it in a crap 
game," he said at last. 

Trish shook her head. "Try again." 

"Damnit to hell, woman, are you castin' aspersions on my integrity? A man 
whose integrity is beyond reproach?" The man looked ugly, and pathetic too. 
He was enraged with Trish but seemed to be torn apart by some inner conflict 
that only he understood. "If that be the case," he proclaimed as he jumped 
to his feet, "you can take your goddamn park idea and shove it!" 

But Trish didn't budge. "I asked a simple question. I deserve a simple 
answer. If there is a simple answer." 

Trish's reply, spoken in a cool, detached, and yet needling manner, struck a 
nerve within the black man that unhinged him, at least for the moment. With 
clenched fists, he turned towards the girl. But before he could make a move, 
he was stopped cold in his tracks. He was stopped by the sound of a woman's 
footsteps in the hall outside the apartment. Sanity came flooding back into 
his face. And fear, too. "Black Hazel," he moaned. "My wife. If she catches 
me with a white woman, she'll skin us both alive." 

"But I'm not with you in that way," Trish said uneasily. She remembered the 
size and weight of Black Hazel. And she remembered, too, the meanness of her 
spirit. 

Hammer looked wildly around the room. "Hazel's a great one for acting first, 
and then askin' questions. Once she almost cut my throat." He pointed to a 
closet. "Get in there quick, white girl. Just remain quiet, and I'll get you 
outa here safely when the time is right." 

Hiding from a reality, even one as big and ugly as Black Hazel, was not a 
natural reaction for Trish. But now there wasn't time for protests. And 
something within her told her that just this once perhaps discretion was 
better than boldness. Trish moved quickly towards the closet and managed to 
get inside as the apartment door was flung open. But even in her hiding 
place, Trish was able to hear the voice of the intruder. And it was not the 
voice of Black Hazel. Trish opened the door of the closet and peered out., 
And she was stunned. Two young girls had entered the apartment. They 
couldn't have been more than fourteen and fifteen years of age. The younger 
girl was black, the slightly older one was white. Both had mature, 
erotically shaped bodies. And both girls were extremely angry at Black 
Hammer. 

The black girl flung obscenities at the man as though she was hurling horse 
manure in his face. "No good motherfuckin' bastard," she screamed at him in 
a high-pitched, nasal voice. "You ain't got me a job in a week. Why am I 
supposed to turn over a percentage of my trick money to a creepy cunt-lapper 
like you? You the world's worst pimp!" The girl's name was Daisy, and 
although she had the youthful softness to her fourteen-year-old skin, she 
was as tough as a cactus bush. 

The white girl chimed in. "Old Black Hammer is too busy finding tricks for 
us. He's got to jack off in a corner after he flies high on LSD." The girl 
had yellow hair and blue eyes, and soft white skin. But her lips were 
slashes of red, and even as she moved them, it appeared as though she was 
engaged in the act of sucking. 

"As though she's sucking a penis," Trish said to herself as she watched the 
scene between Black Hammer and his two youthful intruders. And suddenly 
Trish understood. The two young girls were prostitutes, or ho's as they were 
referred to in the ghetto. And Black Hammer was their pimp. He was 
responsible for getting them clients. Now she understood the source of Black 
Hammer's affluence, which he had been unable to properly explain. Probably 
even his wife Hazel didn't know about his career as a pimp. He certainly 
wasn't sharing any money with her if she had to labor as a cleaning woman. 
The man was beneath contempt, and a much lower type of specimen than Crumm. 
But yet she watched with fascination as the black pimp sought to extricate 
himself from his difficulties with the two prostitutes. 

Black Hammer threw up his hands. "Now, just wait a minute, girls. You'd both 
starve to death if it wasn't for me, and you both know it!" 

This retort brought ripples of mirthless laughter from both the white and 
colored girl. Despite their tender years, both girls were dressed in an 
extremely sexy manner which was calculated to arouse the libido of the most 
apathetic male. And they were dressed in a fashion that would appeal to 
males of the opposite race. For instance, the colored girl accented all of 
the physical assets that a white man would seek in a black girl. Her skin 
was black as ebony, and the manner in which her full but shapely lips were 
painted emphasized her Negroid features. The tight-fitting blouse gave the 
looker a lot of black body skin to admire. The V plunged halfway down her 
upper body and revealed a generous portion of black tits on either side. And 
the cheeks of her buttocks protruded in the unique and curvaceous manner of 
the typical well-stacked Negress. A white girl simply wasn't endowed in this 
particular portion of her anatomy like the colored girl. Her black skirt was 
so tight it appeared as though the cloth had been painted over the hillocks 
of black flesh. And there was no mistaking the delightful cleavage that 
separated one ass cheek from the other. And in front there was no mistaking 
either where the delightfully curved belly fused into the genital area. 
There wasn't any doubt in Trish's mind that the black girl catered to a 
white clientele. 

The flaxen-haired white girl catered to black men. Trish felt certain of 
that fact, too. She symbolized the kind of young, fair-haired, blue-eyed, 
milk-complected white girl that every Negro male had always visualized in 
his masturbatory fantasies. But this girl was available. For a price. And 
most colored men in the ghetto didn't have that price. That's why she needed 
someone like Black Hammer to ferret out the blacks with bread who lusted 
after a blonde girl's white pussy. But their pimp and protector, the 
politically ambitious Black Hammer, was neglecting his job. 

But that wasn't all he had been neglecting. "We ain't been fucked in a 
week," the black girl complained. And she wasn't referring to the type of 
intercourse she had with paid clients. She was referring to certain private 
and additional services rendered them by Black Hammer. Apparently, Trish 
reasoned, these girls received very little personal satisfaction from their 
sexual experience with paid customers. The only man who knew how to satisfy 
them in that department was Black Hammer. And once again he had been 
neglecting his duties. Why? 

That was no mystery. "I been on a long trip," he explained. 

"Will you lay off that goddamn acid and tend to your duties!" the white girl 
screeched at him. 

The black girl, Daisy, nodded, and delivered her ultimatum. "If you ain't 
gonna pimp for us right, we're gonna find us another boy. Hear?" 

"I'll find you both a couple of big money cocks by tomorrow," the black man 
promised his stable of whores. "A white cock for you," he said to Daisy. 
"And a big, black cock for you," he said to the blonde girl, whose name was 
Fanny. 

"How's about a fuck right now?" the white girl asked. But her question was 
more of an order than a simple query. 

"Now?" Black Hammer's mouth flew open in exaggerated horror. "In my own 
home? With my wife Hazel gonna walk in on us at any time? You outa your 
mind, girl." 

"The hell I am!" Fanny retorted with a sneer. "Black Hazel is scrubbin' 
floors on the other side of town. She won't be home for hours. So what else 
is new?" she asked, her arms akimbo. 

"Shit or get off the pot," Daisy said, and the contempt in her voice was 
heavy enough to sink a ship. 

Black Hammer cast an uneasy glance towards the closet door. He hoped that 
Trish wasn't peeking. And he hoped even harder that she couldn't hear the 
conversation. But he knew very well that both hopes were not being realized. 
The closet door was open a crack, and the angry, high-pitched, querulous 
voices of the girls could be heard behind a vault door that was ten feet 
thick. The black man was intelligent enough to know that he had a decision 
to make, and quickly. He could assert his authority over the two whores and 
send them packing. This would establish his prestige in the eyes of the Park 
Avenue ghetto girl. She'd help him with his political ambitions. On the 
other hand, if he kicked the girls out now, they'd probably find another 
pimp. And that would mean the loss of fast, easy money of which he was 
certain. Political success was too far off in the future to do him any good 
now. Actually, he didn't have much of a choice as far as he could see. He'd 
have to satisfy the two girls in his stable or else rely on the pittance his 
wife doled out to him. That wasn't enough to keep him in pool money for a 
day. 

Black Hammer nodded for the girls to disrobe. And as he nodded, he sighed. 
It seemed his entire life was a series of ups and downs. But mostly downs. 
Mostly reversals. And it was all the fault of whitey, the Establishment, the 
system that still kept him in bondage after two hundred years. How he hated 
the white man! 

Still, as the girls undressed, his eyes automatically followed the movements 
of Fanny, the white girl. She reminded him of the white mistress in the 
plantation house when his ancestors had tilled the soil or picked cotton. 
That flawless white female flesh was so very much like the naked white girls 
in his dreams when he had jacked off as a boy. Maybe that was the reason he 
got a hard-on so quickly whenever he saw Fanny. He imagined himself the 
lowly black slave slipping into the big manor house while the white massah 
was out. And on the soft bed in the master's bedroom, he imagined himself 
fucking the white massah's wife, or daughter, or mother, or any white woman 
associated with the massah system of peonage. And now Fanny stood before him 
stark naked. The dream of his youth had become a reality. The pussy of the 
white master woman was attainable. 

But not too attainable. Fanny, it seemed, had strange tastes. And, as a 
matter of fact, so did the black girl. A straight fuck was something they 
had to do to earn money. But for pleasure they craved something more unique, 
more fanciful, something that stirred the imagination and blew their cunts. 
In a jiffy, the white and black girls were naked and stood waiting for the 
reluctant Black Hammer to disrobe also. He looked into their impatient 
faces. "Okay, okay," he mumbled. "You'll blow your cunts. A little patience, 
please." 

The girls were short on patience. They helped pull off the black man's 
shirt, his pants, his shoes, and finally his shorts. Finally he stood before 
them, dazzling them with his blackness and the male organ on which they 
feasted their eyes. Cock was their business. They saw cocks all the time of 
different lengths, thicknesses, colors, and appetites. But in their eyes and 
faces it was clear that they never got tired of eyeing with appreciation the 
particular male adornment possessed by Black Hammer. 

"What is so unique about his cock?" Trish asked herself as she peered with 
greater concentration through the crack in the door. Black Hammer's cock, of 
course, was black. But it was a particularly impressive black. And the size 
was average, not small, but not monstrous. His balls, Trish thought, were 
large, soft and adorable-looking. But they weren't any different than the 
kind on most men. What was the great fascination of Black Hammer's prick? 
Trish wondered. 

And then it became apparent. His cock bone began to slide out into a 
full-blown erection. Upwards zoomed bone, gristle and blood-gorged flesh. 
And when it finally stopped, Trish too stared at the hard cock with the 
curiosity of a scientist examining some new species of life. Black Hammer's 
cock bone curved like a bow. 

Its head was almost pointing back towards his own body. This was a beautiful 
sight, for the curved bone was a study in grace and perfect symmetry. There 
weren't very many women built that could handle a curved cock bone. But 
actually, using the curved prick was not in the plan of action. The girls 
grew excited just looking at the man's unique cock. But their rather unique 
and strange tastes demanded a line of action that didn't require the 
services of Black Hammer's bone. 

Trish was not surprised that the girls had to have something a little 
different to express their own sexual creativity. Standing naked alongside 
each other, the girls presented a study in erotic contrasts. One was black, 
the other white; one was heavy boned, the other small and fragile; the black 
girl's breasts were round and firm with nipples blacker than a starless 
night, the white girl had sharply pointed breasts that were splotched with 
nipples brighter than the sun; the black girl's hips flared out into a pair 
of ass cheeks that were firm but rubbery with plenty of hairs spiraling out 
of the rectum, the cheeks of the white girl's ass were smaller and firmer 
but with plenty of curve and only a few wispy blonde hairs curling out of 
her asshole. The legs of the colored girl were shapely but short, the kind 
that could wrap nicely around a man's rib cage during intercourse. The 
blonde girl was long-stemmed and looked capable of jackknifing back during 
intercourse and draping themselves around the man's neck. 

The black and white cunts presented the most fascinating study of contrasts. 
The lips of the black girl's cunt were large, thick, distended and framed 
with a mat of short hairs that were more wiry than the hairs on a new brush. 
The highly ridged and black cunt lips were wide enough apart to display the 
pinkish flesh in the valley, and at the top the clitoris was already in a 
full and excited state of erection. Waiting for the action to commence, the 
black girl impatiently dropped one hand over her cunt and proceeded to flick 
her black female cock back and forth as though she were strumming a banjo. 

The lips of the blonde girl's cunt were more tightly drawn together, and the 
gash that streaked up the body between the lips was barely discernible. The 
fluffy blonde cunt hairs were profuse, but they had an extremely soft 
texture that would feel caressingly soft in a man's face. 

The sight of the two naked girls and the naked black man did not leave Trish 
entirely unaffected. She was only human. And while she had always associated 
love with sex, she had always been able to easily masturbate by imagining 
herself in love with her phantom lover. The sight of the naked white and 
black meat fevered her blood and stroked at her genitals. She quickly lifted 
up her skirt and dropped her panties. And even more quickly she pressed a 
hand over her own cunt. "Ahhh," she breathed to herself. Relief flooded 
through her tensed body and caressed her muscles. The black man became 
faceless. She'd substitute for his face the face of an imaginary lover. The 
black and white girls blended into one person, herself. Gently she began to 
massage her own clitoris, and every now and then dipped a stiffened finger 
into her vagina. She wouldn't increase the movement until the positions of 
the actual lovers became clearer. 

Trish was in no way prepared for the arrangement of the white and black 
bodies. Daisy, the black girl, dropped to her knees and assumed the position 
of the dog-style fuck. She supported herself on the floor with her elbows. 
The cheeks of her ass were raised quite high up in the air, and her black, 
hairy pussy was extremely exposed and apparent. Black Hammer dropped to his 
knees behind the girl. The college kids had often discussed in an analytical 
way the various positions in which to screw. The dog-style fuck was one of 
them. And so the position itself came as no surprise to Trish. But her mouth 
flew open in stunned disbelief when she realized that Hammer was not 
penetrating Daisy's cunt. He was inserting his curved cock into her asshole. 
This was going to be a rectum-type of fuck. Daisy's rectal tube was curved 
in exactly the same shape as Hammer's cock bone. And so the fit was a 
perfect one. Daisy's round black eyes became luminous as Hammer's cock 
curved tightly into her rectal passage. The exquisite feel of cock flesh 
against the narrow walls of the rectum made the girl's entire body shiver 
until strange and unnatural sounds gurgled out of her throat. Her clitoris, 
excited anew by this lustful sensation, rolled out into a shining bright 
piece of gristle. Daisy reached back and took hold of her cock and began to 
jack it back and forth with her hand. "Uhmmmm," the sounds slithered out 
from between her clenched, white teeth. Trish could sympathize with her. The 
feel of her own clit in her hand felt just as yummy. And the sight of the 
dog-style fuck administered to the asshole was a very exciting act to watch, 
Trish soon realized. 

But that was only half of the act. There was more to come, as Trish soon 
discovered. Fanny, the white girl, straddled Daisy's hips in such a way that 
she could push her entire cunt into the face of the black man. She faced 
Black Hammer as he faced her pussy. And his job was to eat the white pussy, 
which he did with a relish that blistered Trish's entire body with 
goose-pimples. Cunnilingus had been another act of love the kids at college 
had discussed. As she listened to the discussions about cunnilingus, Trish 
had come to the conclusion that one was either passionately in favor of 
eating cunt or just as passionately viewed such an act with 
stomach-upsetting distaste. She had remained neutral about the subject. It 
had never really seemed the natural thing to do. But now, as she raptly 
watched Black Hammer's mouth bury itself in the box that was Fanny's cunt, 
Trish began to warm to cunnilingus as a very natural and desirable thing to 
do. Nothing that brought such joy to a girl could be very bad. And at that 
very moment Hammer's tongue and mouth inside the cunt had rocketed Fanny 
into an orbit of the wildest ecstasy. 

The white girl's normally ice-blue eyes became a deeper, more intense blue, 
the blue that was emitted by burning piles of coal. Her warm, passionate 
face twisted with lust and was never still for a single moment. Her arms and 
hands flailed through the air as though she were grabbing at passing demons 
of lust that only she could see with her cunt-fevered eyes. The tight, flat 
lips of her cunt easily parted like a sliding door to reveal the pink fleshy 
goodness in the valley of love. And the girl's clitoris zoomed out, a sliver 
of shiny pink flesh that the black man greedily sucked into his mouth. 

As inexperienced as Trish was, it was readily apparent even to her that 
Black Hammer was a talented cunt-lapper who could please any girl with his 
mouth. There was no point in waiting any longer. Assuming a semi-squatting 
position, Trish took a much firmer position and commenced to jack herself 
off with a tempo that increased in speed and grew more violent with every 
stroke of her hand. In a very few seconds she had reached a state of 
delirium as the organs, pores and secretions in her body responded quickly 
and delightedly to the lustful pressure created by her fingers flying up and 
down over her own clit. 

The other two girls were riding a lust orbit too. And Black Hammer was 
flying on a faster, higher, and more far-out trip than the kind he took with 
LSD. The fuel that powered this kind of a trip was lust. And very soon now 
there was going to be an explosion and a rapid descent to earth. The hard, 
curving cock bone of the black man zoomed in and out of the black girl's 
widening asshole. Secretions flew out of the rectal tube and covered the 
flesh of his cock. And the slight odor that flowed out of the same area 
excited him. This was another facet of sex that Trish had discussed with her 
college friends. During the heat of passion, the odors emanating from the 
body of the opposite sex were exciting. No one at college really had enough 
experience to verify such a statement. But now Trish knew that it was all 
very true. The lust-gripped Hammer distended his flaring nostrils even wider 
to more easily inhale the fragrant odors that flowed from the vicinity of 
Daisy's asshole. 

What about the cunt odors? There wasn't a doubt that at that very moment 
Hammer believed he was eating the sweetest-tasting and most fragrant cunt in 
the entire world. He was consumed with lust, eaten away by it and under its 
control. Nothing else in the entire world existed except the feel of his 
cock thrusting back and forth inside Daisy's receptive asshole tube, and 
also the taste of cunt which he continued to lap, suck, tongue, bite and 
nibble with an ever-increasing vigor. He was riding in a high sexual orbit, 
as were Daisy, Fanny and Trish. The very air in the room felt heavy with the 
anticipation of imminent multiple orgasmic explosions. And then it happened! 

First Fanny's cunt erupted midst a welter of bloodcurdling screams and a 
frenzy of hip movements as she kept slamming her cunt hard up against the 
mouth of her black lover. Secretions from deep within the heart of her cunt 
geysered out against the mouth, face and eyes of Hammer. But he kept sucking 
and lapping and swallowing as much of the love honey as possible. The 
knowledge that his tongue had exploded a bomb inside Fanny's cunt triggered 
the necessary devices within his own genitals. At the height of Fanny's 
screaming, Hammer's cock head expanded as the cock cream, boiling and 
urgent, blew out of the eye and into the asshole of the kneeling black girl. 
Then another link in the chain reaction of lust was forged. The feel of the 
boiling hot cock cream gushing into her asshole vaporized all of her 
restraints. With one final jack with her hand, her cunt vomited out vaginal 
secretions that drenched the balls of her black pimp lover and then 
slithered down her bare legs. 

This chain of lust that had been so perfectly forged in the apartment of 
Black Hammer would not be complete until Trish experienced her own 
self-induced orgasm. This, too, was accomplished. With a final and mighty 
thrust of her hips upwards, Trish unleashed a flow of juice that gave her 
more pleasure and relief than she had ever felt. And during this vigorous 
act of masturbation, Trish had discovered during the fever and excitement of 
the moment a few new facts concerning her genitals. Usually she had 
experienced her climax by manipulating her clitoris only. But during this 
particular jack-off, when there was so much to watch and so much to dream 
about and fantasize as well, her fingers had slipped into the vaginal 
cavity. This simultaneous act of clitoral and vaginal excitation was a 
source of excitement that had almost ripped her body apart. And the 
post-orgasmic vibrations could be felt throughout her entire body. As she 
pulled up her panties and tidied her skirt, she still felt weak in the 
knees. 

After the multiple orgasmic explosions, the three-positioned act of love 
quickly broke up. Black Hammer, Daisy and Fanny disengaged themselves from 
each other. Their naked bodies were wet with the secretions of love. But 
with the passing of the explosive moment, the old rancors, the old 
complaints returned to plague Black Hammer. The tongues of both girls 
flapping at the same time whipped Hammer as though he were a miserable cur. 
He didn't look much like the leader that Trish was looking for. "For 
chrissakes," he moaned as he jammed both hands over his ears, "will you two 
bitches get the hell off my back?" 

"Not till you get us some tricks!" Daisy shot back at him. 

Fanny chimed in. "Where's all the big spending black men who are hot for a 
blonde's cunt?" 

Hammer threw out his arms. "Patience. I'll get you all the tricks you can 
work. Ain't I the best pimp in the whole ghetto?" 

"No!" both girls retorted simultaneously. "You got one day to get us some 
work, and then we gonna find us another boy," Daisy said threateningly. And 
there wasn't a doubt that she'd keep her threat. 

"All right, all right," Hammer said with a release of breath. "Tomorrow I'll 
hustle you up some tricks. Now get your ass outa here before my wife 
returns. She don't know I got a stable." 

The girls dressed, but before they departed Fanny said, "Tomorrow, or else," 
and she made an insulting sign with one finger. The girls left with a slam 
of the door. 

When Trish emerged from the closet, she eyed the would-be politician with a 
face full of disgust. As far as the park project was concerned, he'd be of 
no use to her at all. "Where you going?" Hammer asked. 

"Does it make any difference?" Trish replied, and kept walking towards the 
door. 

"You hear anything?" he asked. 

"Everything," Trish assured him. 

"That gonna make a difference about me getting the park project started?" 

"Forget it," Trish advised him. 

Hammer grabbed her by the arm. "Fuck you, white girl! I ain't forgetting it. 
At first I was against it. Then you showed me how I could better myself by 
taking charge of the project. Can't you see? I don't want to be a no-good 
pimp all my life. I want to be someone. I'm pleading with you in a nice way 
to give me that chance." 

Trish pulled her arm free of the black man's grip. "I'll think it over," she 
told him. "I'll let you know later." She brushed past him. "Now, if you 
don't mind, I'd like to return to my own apartment." 

Black Hammer planted his burly frame in front of the door. "Not till you 
gives me your word." 

"I can't do that," Trish said. "Not now. Maybe later." 

"Now!" the black man insisted. "Or maybe there ain't gonna be a later for 
you." 

"Is that a threat?" Trish asked. She was beginning to get angry. 

Before Black Hammer could reply, a spine-warping scream arose from the 
street and broke all over the apartment. Hammer rushed over to the window 
and looked down into the alley. "Jeezis," he muttered to himself. "They 
coming after me." He turned, wild-eyed, towards Trish, and in a louder, 
terror-stricken voice cried, "They coming to get me." Then the man turned 
and bolted out of the apartment. 

Trish looked down to see a gang of street youths. They looked like a pack of 
rabid dogs- mangy, filthy, rabid, with a taste for blood in their 
conscienceless faces. One of the gang pointed up to the window. "That's 
where the motherfucker lives all right," he sang out to the others. Trish 
turned to run out of the apartment. But she was too late. The pounding of 
hobnailed boots on the steps grew louder until they reached the floor where 
Trish was trapped. The girl darted out of the apartment and ran down the 
hallway towards the fire escape. But there was no escape. A couple of 
members of the street gang were climbing up the ladder. One pointed up at 
Trish. "We're after her, too," he shouted out hoarsely. "Someone grab her. 
We'll all fuck her together!" 

Chapter Six 

An obscene polyglot of raucous voices were hurled into the air by the gang 
members who were white, black, and brown-skinned. A few were a mixture of 
all three colors. One had the slanted eyes of an Oriental, but his skin was 
Negro black. But they were all dressed alike: black leather jackets, tight 
cotton pants that bulged at the crotch, and the hobnailed boots. The back of 
each jacket was emblazoned with the words GHETTO GUTS GANG. At the moment, 
several members of the Ghetto Guts Gang were clambering up the fire escape 
towards Trish. The rest of the gang had climbed the steps inside the 
tenement and were thumping down the hallway. Trish was caught in the middle 
of the steamroller movement. They're like wild beasts, she thought 
desperately to herself. They'll tear me apart! 

But they didn't tear Trish apart. In fact, they didn't even touch her. The 
Ghetto Guts Gang wasn't after Trish. And Trish hadn't been the object of 
their attentions when they exclaimed in excited unison their intention to 
"fuck her all together." The gang had been pointing to the apartment that 
adjoined Black Hammer's residence. But so awesome was the sight of the gang 
that Black Hammer had fled, and Trish just naturally thought they were after 
her. The girl on whom they intended to vent their lust was Black Hammer's 
neighbor, Rocio Valdez, a twenty-year-old beautiful Spanish girl who lived 
alone with her young brother Guido. 

The thugs brushed roughly past Trish as they rushed towards Rocio's place 
like a river in flood. Nothing was going to stop them from stripping the 
girl naked and enjoying a gang rape. For some reason, Rocio or her brother 
had offended the gang. This was their way of exacting vengeance, and also it 
would act as a warning to others who defied them. 

For a moment, as the thugs rushed past her, Trish was left alone and 
bewildered on the fire escape. She had been prepared to fight, but when the 
brutish gangsters rushed past and ignored her, she was left momentarily at a 
loss. But then, as she looked up, she saw the face of a terrified young 
Spanish girl in the window of the adjoining apartment. And Trish realized 
that she had been spared. But unlike the rest of the residents in the 
apartment, including Crumm, she wasn't the sort who could stand 
indifferently aside while a terrible crime was being committed. The code of 
the ghetto was, "Don't get involved." But this could never be a way of life 
for Trish. But what can I do! she asked herself as she still remained alone 
on the fire escape. It was already much too late to notify the police. By 
the time such help arrived, the Spanish girl would be raped and the gang far 
away. No one would testify against them. Crumm had no intention of incurring 
the wrath of the street gang. In fact, on occasion, he even used them to 
perform strong-arm tasks for himself. There was no one to help the Spanish 
girl except Trish. And she had never felt more helpless in her entire life. 
In fact, if she tried to interfere, there was an excellent chance of the 
gang's raping her, too. Warning bells clanged inside of Trish's head, and 
the melody they rang out all had the same lyrics. "Run away!" The words kept 
prodding at Trish. The girl from Park Avenue hesitated. Then, throwing back 
her shoulders as though berating herself for the hesitation, she turned and 
headed towards the apartment of the Spanish girl. 

The card on the door read Miss Rocio Valdez. Underneath the nameplate, an 
illiterate scrawl threatened, She's gonna get fucked. This last piece of 
information had just been penciled across the door. And the door was partway 
open. 

Trish looked into the apartment, and the scene that gripped her held her 
paralyzed, speechless, and with a sense of utter helplessness. 

The apartment was a shambles. But despite the disarray, Trish was 
immediately struck by one salient factor. The apartment of Rocio Valdez and 
her young brother did not belong to the average, run-of-the mill ghettoite. 
For one thing, there were plenty of books in this apartment. At the moment, 
they were scattered all over the floor, for someone had toppled over the 
bookcase. But the mere fact that there were so many books distinguished the 
occupants of this apartment from any other that Trish had seen in the 
ghetto. Crumm's apartment had been barren of all reading matter, and the 
only printed word in Black Hammer's place had been a three-year-old magazine 
in the John. But a mere glance told Trish that the books in the Valdez 
apartment reflected a catholicity of taste and an inquiring mind. 

There was one other piece of furniture that made the Valdez apartment shine 
as brilliantly as a beacon in a sea of mud. A piano. And from the appearance 
of the younger brother Guido, it was apparent to Trish that he was the 
musician in the Valdez family. 

At the moment, sister and brother had been backed into a corner from which 
there was no further escape or exit. The girl Rocio not only had beauty but 
courage as well, Trish realized. "Pigs! Filth! Scum!" Rocio hurled the words 
at the gang as though each word was a weapon. Indeed, a few in the gang did 
flinch. But the others were all the more enraged and determined to have 
their vengeance. "You'll all go to the pen for breaking into my apartment!" 

"Why did you and your fairy brother squeal on us?" One of the gang members 
demanded. For the first time, Trish's eyes scrutinized the features of 
Rocio's young brother. He did look a bit on the effeminate side, but this 
didn't necessarily mean that he was queer. Certainly he wasn't an 
insensitive ruffian like so many boys in the ghetto. He hadn't, as yet, been 
brutalized. But if he was a serious musician, and a boy of refined tastes, 
it was obvious he'd look a bit more effeminate than the other boys. But that 
was no reflection on his manhood. Yet the boy had hair that was as long and 
well groomed as the tresses on any boy-conscious teen-aged girl. He could be 
queer. But Trish was going to reserve judgment as far as that was concerned. 
Right now, there was only one immediate problem, and that was to scare off 
the gang of street thugs before they raped Rocio Valdez. But before Trish 
could formulate a plan of action, or even make any kind of move at all, the 
gang, like ravenous wolves, moved in concert. 

As the gang leader, a Spanish type, dived at her waist and knocked her to 
the floor, several others ripped off her blouse, skirt, panties, and shoes. 
Almost quicker than the blink of an eye, Rocio was stark naked. Two of the 
gang seized her under the armpits and hauled her to her feet in order that 
all could get a good look at the naked female flesh. The girl was 
breathtakingly beautiful, and Trish couldn't help but notice that each boy 
in the gang got a hard-on at about the same time. There was never any secret 
about their intentions. And to be perfectly fair, Trish couldn't blame any 
normal boy form having sexual desires at the sight of the naked Rocio. She 
was darkly beautiful in a sensuous manner that was able to stroke any male 
penis into an instant erection. 

Rocio couldn't have been more than twenty years old, a fruit that was ripe 
for the plucking. But this girl was extremely discriminatory about the type 
of person who did the plucking. And certainly she was much too decent and 
refined a girl to permit herself to be plucked by any of the brutish ghetto 
gang. The black-skinned boy with the slanted eyes dropped to his knees 
before the naked Rocio and attached his mouth hard against her cunt. "No!" 
the girl screamed out, and revulsion made her young and pretty face look old 
and wrinkled. She squirmed and tried to twist her body away from the boy's 
leechlike mouth, but to no avail. He sucked and tongued on the cunt until 
other members pulled him away. They wanted a crack at a valley of love that 
had long been denied them. 

"We fucks her three at a time," a lust-perverted voice cackled out. The 
owner of the voice intended for a cock to be injected into her pussy, 
another into her asshole, and yet another inside her mouth. 

The look of abject horror and degradation on Rocio's face was matched only 
by the terrified face of her brother Guido. "Let my sister go!" his thin, 
reedy voice broke out. He tried to struggle free of his captors, but his 
resistance was met only by laughter of a ribald nature and a fist in the pit 
of the boy's stomach. He doubled over, and all the fight drained out of him 
like air from a punctured balloon. The rapists paid no attention to him at 
all. Their eyes were unable to move from the naked, female flesh of 
Rocio-the luscious-looking breasts with the almost black and erected 
nipples, the curve of her solid body, the tangle of curling black cunt hairs 
that swept up her belly and reached out for her navel, and the curving 
cheeks of her ass that looked just as edible as any other part of her body. 
"Three to a fuck!" The cry leaped out of all of their throats, and each gang 
member unzipped his fly and took out his erected tool of flesh and bone that 
throbbed in unison for the body of the girl prisoner. 

They pushed the girl over on her side. In this manner they'd consummate the 
three-handed fuck, as they called it. On her side, one stiff prick would 
slide easily between the cheeks of her ass, another would batter its way 
down into the genital love valley, and still another would be thrust roughly 
into her mouth. 

"Please don't!" Rocio's screamed pleas were entirely ignored. And when they 
forced her over on her side, she instinctively knew that her body would be 
abused by relays of three-handed fucks. There was a total of nine gang 
members, and that meant a total of three three-way fucks. And when they were 
through with her torn and bleeding flesh, the chances were very great that 
they'd kill her. The members of the ghetto gang were without conscience, 
feeling or remorse. And certainly they wouldn't have the guts to rape a girl 
openly and in broad daylight if they weren't positive they were immune from 
prosecution. There were other gang members who'd take permanent care of any 
witness bold enough to testify against them. And of course they knew that 
the sheep in the ghetto existed from day to day with the philosophy of 
silence. They saw no evil under any circumstances, and even if they did 
they'd never testify in court against it. There couldn't have been a single 
resident in the apartment building who didn't hear the ghetto gang storm up 
the stairs. And even the deafest resident heard Rocio's screams and pleas to 
the gang when she begged them not to rape her. But not one ghettoite had 
lifted a finger to save Rocio, and no one had phoned the police. They all 
sat quietly in their apartments with ears and eyes blinded to anything but 
their own thoughts. 

The first prick that made a successful penetration of Rocio's lush body was 
the one that was thrust at her from the rear. The thug spread the cheeks of 
her ass apart and plunged his already near-erupting tool between the 
deliciously flexible ass cheeks. The head of the cock sank into the rear 
valley and hammered against the hair-framed rectum. Rocio threw back her 
head as she felt this violation of her buttocks. "No!" she screamed out 
again. But this was a mistake. As she opened her mouth, another gangster 
arched his hips forward and his throbbing prick slid easily between the two 
shapely and red lips of the dusky Spanish girl. Vainly she tried to disgorge 
the offending piece of meat, but the feel of her hot mouth over the cock 
flesh charged the gangster with such body-shivering delight and ecstasy that 
he thrust his cock even deeper within her mouth. The girl was shaken apart 
with nausea, but the gangster was attuned to only one sensation-his cock 
inside a girl's mouth. 

There was only one more cavity that had to be violated-her cunt. And that's 
when Trish got her chance to make her move. 

The gang leader and his lieutenant started to quarrel about priority. The 
gang chief naturally wanted first crack at the cunt. But his lieutenant, 
whose prick was pulsating dangerously, had to have an immediate fuck or 
experience a premature ejaculation, an ejaculation that would rob him of all 
fun with the girl. He tried to explain his desperate situation to the chief, 
who could care less. A matter of status was involved now. As chief, the cunt 
was reserved for his special consideration unless he waived rank and 
permitted a lesser member the privilege. But the chief, who was a mulatto 
with a few Oriental features as well, wasn't about to waive rank. He had 
suffered enough humiliations in the course of his young life. And now that 
he was a gang chieftain, he wasn't about to surrender any of his 
prerogatives. "I get to fuck the broad first!" he spat out to his 
lieutenant. "You'll be next. But I'm first. I'm first in everything and 
don't you forget it, buddy!" 

The lieutenant, who was white, snarled back. "Fuck you, nigger chinkman!" 
And the fight was on. The chief and the lieutenant lunged at one another. 
And that's when Trish dragged the fire hose in from the hallway, aimed it at 
the gangsters, and turned it on full blast. 

The gangsters were blown into a corner of the apartment, and even the two 
thugs who were raping Rocio in the rectum and mouth disengaged themselves 
from the girl and cowered for protection behind a couch. Rocio, who was also 
caught in the water blast, crawled into an adjoining room and locked the 
door. "What the hell you doing?" the gang boss finally called out at Trish. 
"You crazy, or something?" 

"Get out of the building. Right now!" Trish ordered. "Or I'll drown each and 
every one of you!" 

"She's nuts," one of the other boys piped up. The gang nourished their 
strength when they intimidated rational people who were sane enough to be 
frightened of them. But they were completely helpless against the insane who 
knew no fear and were even crazy enough to do something like accidentally 
killing one of them or drowning the lot of them for crazy kicks. 

The other gang members nodded in agreement. "She's nuts," they chorused. 
Certainly no one but an insane girl would turn a fire hose on the entire 
gang of the Ghetto Guts. Crumm wouldn't have tired it, or anyone else in the 
building. But this girl was nuts, and there'd be no dishonor in retreating 
from the irrationality of a mad girl. One by one the members of the Ghetto 
Guts Gang struggled towards the window and made their way down the fire 
escape. 

When the last thug had reached the street below and scattered, Trish turned 
off the fire hose. She walked into the water-drenched apartment. The place 
was a shambles. Trish looked slowly around the place where Rocio Valdez and 
her young brother lived. Instinctively she picked up a few books. And when 
she bent over, Trish didn't see Rocio slip out of the next room and enter 
the living room. Quietly Rocio locked the door. And when the latch clicked, 
Trish straightened and whirled around. Rocio remained in front of the door 
to bar any escape. Trish sensed the fact that she was now the prisoner. She 
tried to explain. "I saw what they were doing to you. So I turned the hose 
on them. If I ruined your apartment, I'm sorry. But at least you-" and she 
faltered. 

"I'm still pure," Rocio said mirthlessly. "I didn't get fucked." 

Trish looked past Rocio at the chained door. "I don't understand," she said 
simply. 

"As I was saying," Rocio explained. "I didn't get fucked. But you are going 
to. And right now!" 

Chapter Seven 

The door was still locked, and Trish was still a prisoner. But they were now 
sitting and sipping drinks and talking as though they had all been close and 
warm friends for many years past. Rocio was the most beautiful Spanish girl 
Trish had ever seen. Her hair was long and black as midnight, and there was 
a skin-tingling sensuality that exuded from her smooth olive-colored skin 
and round black eyes. Her clothes were probably self-made, but they were 
stylish and form-fitting and enhanced the shape of her round firm breasts, 
her narrow waist, her burgeoning hips and expansive but shapely ass cheeks. 
Her legs were long and shapely and as strong-looking as the ones on a 
professional dancer. Perhaps there was a gypsy heritage in the background of 
the girl, for despite the demure, restrained manner, there was also, on 
occasion, a wild look in her dark eyes, and more than just a hint of a 
smoldering sensuality. But the girl was also discriminatory. She could 
probably still be a virgin, Trish thought. Someday some lucky boy would meet 
her approval and explode inside her body and hear her lung-ripping screams 
of lust. 

But the problem, as Trish soon learned, was not with Rocio but with her 
young brother Guido. The boy was no more than fourteen. He was extremely 
thin and aesthetic-faced, with the long, tapering, and almost effeminate 
fingers of a professional musician. Music was Guido's life, and someday he 
hoped to be a concert performer. But the problem at the moment was Guido's 
sexuality, or actually the lack of this commodity. "He's convinced he's a 
fairy," Rocio said with disgust. "I refuse to believe it for a minute!" 

Trish looked closely at brother and sister. Rocio was without a doubt the 
fierce protector of her young brother, and she encouraged his musical 
ambitions. She explained, "The other boys in the ghetto tease him. He isn't 
a bully like they are. He isn't strong. He's a sensitive boy, and musically 
talented. This makes him queer in the eyes of the ghetto people." 

The drink felt smoothly warm trickling down Trish's throat. She still didn't 
understand the reason Rocio had locked the door and wouldn't permit her to 
leave. But suspicions were beginning to whisper in her ears. These 
suspicions made her believe that Rocio intended for Trish to have sexual 
relations with Guido in order to prove to the boy he wasn't queer. And the 
idea didn't offend or make Trish angry. Perhaps she could save his life for 
the pretty-looking, young, miserably dejected girl. And ever since she had 
entered the ghetto, Trish had noticed that the very air reeked of sex. If 
she was going to have sexual relations at all, it would preferably be with 
this sensitive young boy. The thought of his long, tapering and sensitively 
attuned fingers caressing her body pinched at her flesh and made her shiver. 

Trish set down her drink and smiled knowingly at Rocio. "I'm way ahead of 
you. You want me to prove to your brother that he's quite normal when it 
comes to girls." 

"Yes!" Rocio almost shouted. "Yes! Oh, would you?" She pointed to the door. 
"I couldn't have forced you. Force isn't our way. But I locked the door 
until you at least heard what I had to say." She looked adoringly at Trish. 
"You helped us when no one else in the ghetto would lift a finger. You took 
on that gang of street hoodlums all by yourself. That's why I realized you 
were something special." 

Guido still looked dismal. "It won't work, sis." And to Trish: "I wouldn't 
want to disappoint you. But I really think I'm queer. Sis had no right to 
interfere with the street gang. It'll only make things worse." 

Trish learned that the Ghetto Guts Gang had been teasing Guido about his 
manliness. Rocio had reported them to the police. The police, of course, did 
nothing, since they wanted no trouble with the hoodlums. But the gang had to 
have vengeance, and hence the attack on Rocio's apartment and the attempted 
rape. 

Trish felt overwhelmed with sympathy for the boy. The ghetto was an almost 
impossible environment for one with his talent. Were there other lost souls 
like Guido in the ghetto? 

"Plenty of people and kids like Guido with talent live in the ghetto," Rocio 
said. "But their opportunities are few and far between. They have no 
outlet." 

That's when Trish explained her idea to build a park in the ghetto. 

"A park!" Rocio and Guido exclaimed in unison. "A beautiful idea," Rocio 
agreed. 

"It could be a place to showcase talent," Guido said, and for the first time 
enthusiasm pulled his lips back into a smile and his eyes looked young 
again. 

Trish told the boy, "You should smile more often, Guido. When you smile, 
you're beautiful." 

But Guido looked sad again. "Smile," he said bitterly. "I'm not normal. I 
know it!" 

Trish phrased her question with extreme care. 

"Have you ever?" and she faltered. 

"Corn-holed another boy?" Guido finished the question for her. "No. Not 
really." 

Trish looked puzzled. "Then I don't understand why you think you're queer." 

"I'm a masturbator," Guido explained, as though that answered the question 
clearly. 

"So am I," Trish acknowledged. "And I'm not queer." 

"I adore playing with myself," Rocio chimed in. "But I'd certainly love to 
get fucked by a boy if I could find the right one for the job." 

Guido held up his hands imploringly. "Please. If you'll let me elaborate." 

"Please do," Trish coaxed. 

"Nothing you can say will convince me you're queer," Rocio insisted. "But 
please go on. 

Guido pressed a hand over his face. He felt in pain. But he still found the 
courage to voice his fears aloud. "When I jack off, I conjure up all sorts 
of visions," he said. "The vision that helps me blow the easiest is one of a 
mouth over a cock." 

Rocio cut in. "A girl's mouth over your cock bone. That's the most normal 
vision in the world for a boy to have when he's jacking off." 

Guido gave his sister a pitying look. "You refuse to face the facts. The 
ugly reality of this stinking ghetto is all around us. But you insist on 
living in some beautiful dream world. You insist on seeing things the way 
you want to see them, and not the way they really are!" 

Rocio replied in a quiet voice. "The only way to survive in this ghetto for 
people like us-is to have dreams. Someday I'll find a boy who will take me 
out of here. Someday you'll become a famous musician. They are dreams. But 
they're worthwhile dreams. And dreams with some basis in fact. Your fears 
about being queer have no basis in fact at all." 

"Haven't they?" Guido replied quickly and heatedly. "That cock I see when I 
jack off isn't my cock. It belongs to someone else." 

"And the mouth is yours," Trish said, and finally understood Guido's 
anxieties. 

"Yes," Guido said. And then, "At least I think it is." 

"Aren't you sure?" Trish asked, surprised. 

Guido shook his head. "In that vision I have whenever I jack off, I can see 
a mouth. That mouth resembles my mouth. But the face is never clear. I think 
it's my mouth," he said. 

"That's not good enough," Rocio said with disgust. "There's only one sure 
way to find out. Fuck a girl." And to Trish: "Would you let him? It could 
mean the greatest difference in his life. And you're the only girl I've seen 
in this ghetto I'd let touch my brother." 

"Thanks," Trish said. She scrutinized Guido for a while. Finally: "Yes, I'll 
let him fuck me if he is able. I feel a rapport with the boy. He's the most 
darling thing I've seen in this ghetto yet." 

Rocio leaped up and embraced Trish. "Oh, thank you, darling. I know you 
wouldn't let many boys get into your pants." 

Trish laughed. "I'll be perfectly honest with you. I'm still a virgin." 

Guido grimaced. "I couldn't. I just couldn't fuck a virgin. All that blood," 
he shuddered. 

Trish explained. "Oh, there won't be any blood. I broke my cherry when I was 
twelve. That's when I was learning the correct masturbatory techniques. I'm 
a real expert today." 

"Let's get on with it," Rocio said impatiently. "The quicker you make my 
brother get a bone on, the quicker you'll convince him he's not queer. And 
the more time he'll devote to his music." She cast a glance at the piano. 
"That's his future. And he's been neglecting it too much lately." 

Trish stood up. "I'm ready," she said. "Where is it all going to take 
place?" 

Rocio nodded towards the bedroom. "The living room is still quite dampish 
from your fire hose. The toilet is okay if one of you kids wants a blow job. 
But I think the actual fuck should take place in the bedroom." 

"I concur," Trish smiled. "The bedroom it will be." She turned and looked at 
Guido, who still remained seated. "But this is one job I can't do by 
myself," she said to Guido. 

Guido cast a desperate look towards the locked door. "Can't we postpone this 
experiment?" he asked his sister. "I feel like a monkey in a zoo. Are you 
going to referee?" he asked his sister in a bitter and sarcastic tone of 
voice. 

Rocio stood up. "I'm going to accompany you. Let's get on with it!" she 
ordered in a voice that would brook no opposition. 

Guido sprung to his feet. He was used to being bossed around by his older 
sister. And he knew when he could and when he could not argue with her. The 
tone of Rocio's voice told him that this was a time in which arguments would 
be futile. "All right," he said in a resigned tone of voice that a condemned 
prisoner might use on his last march to the gas chamber. "But don't blame me 
if nothing happens." 

"Don't be so negative," Trish informed him. As she entered the bedroom, she 
felt very gay and carefree and extremely happy. She understood how Rocio 
felt about finding the right boy to fuck her. For some inexplicable reason, 
Trish felt strongly that she had, at long last, found the boy to let into 
her cunt for the first time. And she partially understood her feelings. 
There wasn't any doubt by now that she had a mother complex. She wanted to 
mother boys, men, anyone. That's why she wanted to live in the ghetto and 
help the less fortunate. It would be the ideal vent for her mother complex. 
And Guido who looked so sad, lonely and lost, would certainly respond to a 
girl with motherly instincts. Rocio had acted too much like a stern father 
for the boy. Trish would be his mother, she resolved. 

Guido stood in the bedroom, shy, awkward, and reluctant to disrobe. Trish 
took the initiative before the approving eyes of Rocio and the furtive 
glances of the boy. And since Trish realized that her job was to stimulate 
and excite the boy, she undressed in the slow and tantalizing manner of a 
strip artist. As she pulled off her sweater, she let her hips grind a bit to 
hint at her growing sensuality. And it wasn't a put-on. For the first time 
in her life, Trish was actually looking forward to sexual intercourse. Of 
course she had once tried to make Acid Head at college. But she hadn't felt 
then as she did now. She wanted very much for the boy to grow savage with 
passion, to fill her body with his cock flesh and to explode his virginal 
cream in the receptacle of her love cunt. Her sweater slid off her arms and 
then tumbled to the floor, and she was naked to the waist. 

Rocio whistled admiringly at the shape of Trish's exposed breasts. They had 
grown firm with desire, and the distended nipples erected as though they 
were begging for a suck. The nipples grew a brilliant red before the eyes of 
brother and sister. 

Rocio prodded her brother. "Those tits were meant to be sucked," she 
whispered. 

Guido didn't reply. Now he was staring openly, boldly at Trish. But he made 
no comment about her lush and naked breasts. And from the bland look on his 
face, it was not possible to determine whether he was responding properly to 
Trish's body. 

But Trish didn't pay much attention to the boy as yet. She was busy creating 
an effect as she undressed. She let her hips grind around in suggestive 
bumps as she let her miniskirt drop to her feet. She stepped out of the 
skirt. All that remained now was her panties. Her creative mind was busily 
devising the proper climax to her disrobing act. Her eyes lit up. She knew 
what had to be done. Bending over at the waist, she dropped her panties but 
covered up her genitals with one hand. And then, when the panties were 
completely off, she held them over her crotch for just a moment. At the same 
time she affected a demure-looking face as though she was too shy to reveal 
herself completely. Then, straightening up, she flung aside the panties and 
revealed her totally nude body to the eyes of the Spanish couple. 

"Beautiful," Rocio whispered huskily. "If I was a boy, I'd fuck you myself." 
Then she poked her elbow into the ribs of her backward brother. "Don't just 
stand there," she ordered. "Fuck her!" And before the boy could make any 
more comments of a negative nature, she literally ripped off his clothes 
until he, too, stood naked. But his cock remained soft. Unnaturally soft. 

Guido looked forlornly down between his legs. His penis was not only soft 
but shriveled up into such a small blob of flesh that it was barely 
discernible. The tiny cock head was visible, but that was all. "I'm no 
good," he wailed. "No good. Please let me alone," he begged his sister. 

"Not on your life!" Rocio said with feeling. "You're going through with the 
fuck if it's the last thing you do." But then her voice softened. "Guido, 
darling, can't you realize that your entire life depends on how well you 
fuck Trish? Tomorrow could be too late. A half an hour from now could be too 
late. It's right now that counts. What you do at this very moment. Please 
fuck the girl, Guido." 

"I can't," he cried out like a small child. "I'm no good for a girl." 

That was when Trish knew she had to intervene. Everything depended on her. 
An indifferent look or an inappropriate word could demolish the boy once and 
for all. She really didn't think the boy was queer. But at the moment she 
had no way of really being certain. Trish did admire the fourteen-year-old 
boy's naked body. He was brown-skinned like his sister, and there wasn't an 
ounce of fat on his lithe frame. His arms were thin and so were his legs. 
They looked like a bird's legs. Everything about him was boyish-looking and 
immature, everything but one important aspect-the cock hairs around the 
boy's penis. Trish had never seen such a profusion of black, curling, and 
thick hairs. They encircled the tiny penis like a huge black moon. And they 
circled lavishly up his smooth, flat belly. The hairs presented an erotic 
contrast to the tiny white cock head and two white balls. 

A drop of saliva formed somewhere deep within Trish's throat and then 
slithered out between her lips. Trish knew that she'd never be happy unless 
her mouth closed over the adorable but tiny cock head and she could feel the 
wiry bite of the cock hairs against her face. Trish reclined on the bed and 
threw open her arms. "Come to me, sweets," she told the boy. "Let me mother 
my baby." 

Trish actually looked like a young mother. And this look as well as the tone 
of her voice acted like a magnet on the boy. He walked slowly towards the 
bed and nestled into her arms. Trish held him close to her bosom as the 
boy's mouth opened and closed on a nipple. Trish closed her eyes. "Ahhh," 
she murmured ecstatically. "My sweet boy is sucking on his mommy's tit." 

At first the boy was shy. He felt embarrassed and self-conscious about being 
cuddled in the arms of a girl who was play-acting as his mother. A mother 
was something he had never had. Rocio had Raised him, and she was too busy 
being breadwinner to mother him. She was more like a father or older 
brother. In some inexplicable way, this girl knew his needs. And he no 
longer had to be ashamed. "Suck your mommy," the girl kept repeating in 
whispered pleadings. "Suck your mommy good." 

After a few minutes, Guido opened his mouth wider and sucked more of the tit 
inside his mouth. Then he sucked in almost half of the tit flesh and began 
to lap it. And while he was thus engaged with her tit, Trish dropped her 
hand between his legs and took hold of the shy and wrinkled penis. It seemed 
to wince at her touch and withdraw all the more. But when she began to rock 
him back and forth as though he were a child and speak to him in baby talk, 
the penis of the boy became less wrinkled, less shriveled. The flesh began 
to bloom like an awakening flower, or rather toadstool. When the shaft 
finally began to slide out and the cock head expanded, the penis did take on 
the appearance of a toadstool-a rather anaemic-looking toadstool. The cock 
flesh was white and sickly looking, and the consistency of the bone wasn't 
good enough to penetrate the cunt of a female. Yet there was hope. Life was 
flowing into the male appendage and swelling it out with a form and 
character of its own. For many years it had remained a miniscule-sized 
instrument that was good only to pass water through. Occasionally, when the 
boy masturbated, the shaft attained a certain rigidity. But that stiffness 
lasted for only a few seconds and quite often he didn't even achieve a 
climax. That's why he never knew whether the mouth in his sexual fantasies 
belonged to a boy or a girl. 

But now, as he assumed the role of a small boy in the arms of a loving 
mother, Guido's penis slid out into pricklike proportions. Every now and 
then Trish would rub the cock head against the hairs of her cunt. On her 
part, Trish had no trouble whatever in getting a hard-on. An excitement 
she'd never before experienced plucked at her clitoris until the shiny 
sliver of gristle had erected and pulsated for attention. From the pit of 
her genitals, pulsations beat out a crescendo of lust until vaginal 
secretions oozed out of the cunt crack and became entangled in the fluffy 
cunt hairs. The hairs now glistened with a rich brilliance that almost 
blinded the eyes of the onlooker. Yet Rocio couldn't tear her eyes from 
Trish's cunt. She thought, What a wonderful gift I've given to my brother. 
Why doesn't he fuck that magnificent cunt? Why doesn't he adore it? He's the 
luckiest boy in the entire world to be the first to feel that charming 
receptacle of love. 

The reason Guido had not as yet mounted Trish was a very good one. His cock 
still wasn't stiff enough to accomplish a satisfactory penetration. And 
Trish was growing impatient. "Fuck me," she began to moan. "My cunt's 
burning up for the taste of a hot cock. Please put it in." 

"I can't," Guido's lips trembled. And when the now lust-fevered Trish 
appraised the raising member, she agreed. The cock had to be stiffer. 

"Don't worry, son," Trish reassured the boy. "Mommy will fix." And she did. 
This time, Trish's head bobbed down between the boy's legs, and like a 
hungry fish after bait she spread her soft, ruby-red lips apart and engulfed 
the still flexible cock. The flesh of the cock head was soft and had a 
bittersweet taste to it. Her mouth traveled farther down the shaft, At the 
base of the pole, Trish's tastebuds were assailed by an entirely different 
kind of sensation. Here the flesh was sweet, as sweet as a bonbon. And 
that's where she applied the greatest pressure or suction. But she didn't 
concentrate on just the one spot. She pulled her mouth up the shaft and 
almost, but not quite, over the head. With the tip of her tongue, she probed 
the eye of the cock until the boy cried out. And when he cried out, his cock 
became rigid with pure and unadulterated lust. The bone hardened and the 
flesh grew red and then crimson, and then a dark crimson. Every inch of the 
stiffly erect cock flesh looked as though it had been stained with the juice 
of a million dark berries. Manhood surged through every muscle, organ and 
pore of the boy. Even his face became hard and shining and reflected an 
inner self-confidence that until then had been noticeable absent. "Fuck," he 
breathed aloud. "Gonna fuck you," and he pulled Trish's head away from his 
cock. For the first time, he was in charge of the action. The boy became a 
man! 

Guido exerted his newly found manhood with a number of deft maneuvers that 
left Trish gasping and his sister Rocio brimming over with admiration for 
her brother. Rocio's faith in him was now being justified. Guido wasn't 
queer! 

First of all, Guido the man literally plundered Trish's naked body. His eyes 
became inflamed with lust, his breathing quickened, the skin of his body 
tensed like a jungle cat about to make a kill. Guido struck out. He dived 
downwards toward the lower extremities of Trish's body, where he turned her 
over. The cheeks of her ass loomed up before him. They were curvaceous 
cheeks, firm but pliable, smooth-textured but with several tiny 
imperfections which quickened the senses even more. 

Guido, the young Casanova, slipped his arms around each cheek and spoke to 
her ass as a lover would normally address the face of his sweetheart. Guido, 
the novice lover, was allowing his sexual capacities to have full and 
natural reign over his senses. And these natural senses told him almost 
immediately that he had a distinct and lustful preference for anal love. 
"Darling," Guido murmured to Trish's cheeky ass, "you're adorable." 

Trish quickly caught on to the game. She moved her cheeks closer to his face 
and whispered, "Kiss me, darling. Thrill me with a great big wet French 
kiss." 

"Oh yes," Guido sobbed. "Yes, I'd love to kiss you, my precious," and he 
closed his eyes as he stretched out his tongue to French kiss his 
sweetheart. Trish spread the cheeks of her ass to accent the tongue. Then, 
constricting her muscles, she closed each cheek tight. Then, by further 
constricting her rectal muscles she pulled the tongue deeper within the 
orifice of rectal love. When the tongue was halfway down the rear tube, 
Trish relaxed her buttock muscles and let the cheeks drop apart again. Free 
of the ass flesh, Guido partially withdrew his tongue and peppered the sides 
of each cheek with a series of light but heated passion kisses. And as he 
became more deeply immersed in anal love, the bone of his cock slid out 
towards a higher elevation. And with this movement, the cock flesh became 
even harder and darker. The entire prick, head and shaft alike, commenced to 
pulsate so violently that Rocio was afraid her brother would drop his load 
on the bed instead of Trish's cunt. 

Trish sensed the danger, too. Reaching back, she took hold of the cock, 
which almost leaped out of her grasp. By now the cock skin was so 
sensitively attuned to the attentions of a young female that the cock juices 
within started to boil and threaten an immediate eruption. Guido pulled his 
head out of Trish's ass and closed his eyes tighter than a clenched fist. 
"Oh no," his voice rose up into a plaintive whine. "Oh no!" But it was 
already too late to take remedial action. The juices of lust were already 
streaming up the shaft and towards the exit at the head of his cock. "Oh 
no!" he screamed again. He had wanted so much to be the perfect lover. And 
now this! A premature ejaculation on the bedsheet like any adolescent kid 
who played with himself. 

"Don't let yourself come so soon!" Rocio called out agitatedly to her 
brother. But she knew her admonition was an exercise in futility. Once a 
man, and especially a teenage boy, started to blow his cock, there wasn't 
anything that could stem the tide of the cock juices. 

But Trish had no intention of being so easily cheated of Guido's cock cream, 
which was his first and true expression of his virginal passions. Flipping 
herself backwards like an electric eel, she managed to get her mouth over 
the cock head at the exact instant when the very first drop of cream 
squeezed its way out of the eye on the cock head. That first drop was so hot 
that Trish's lips were almost scalded. And before she could withdraw her 
mouth, a river of cream thrust itself upwards like a geyser driven skyward 
from the bowels of the earth. The roof of Trish's mouth was first spattered 
and then inundated by gobs of blistering but rich cream, which remained 
intact even as it dropped down her throat. 

The cock cream from a teenage boy was the sweetest-tasting liquid that Trish 
had ever sampled. And now she drank every drop with the voracious appetite 
of a parched camel. She sucked and gulped until the shaft stopped 
discharging, and still she continued to lick the flesh dry of the virginal 
dew. The cock of the boy finally wilted, grew softer and shorter, and 
finally returned to its normal, flaccid self. 

When at long last Trish pulled her mouth and face away from the shriveled 
piece of meat, her eyes and face were shining with a glow that warmed her 
entire body. She, too, had finally expressed her true sexual self. And she 
now understood the meaning of true sex, and of true love as well. In order 
to receive honest passions, one must give honest passions. And for the first 
time in her entire life, she had honestly and without fears or reservations 
given her passions to the troubled youth. There was only one last act to 
consummate now-the fusion of naked body to naked body. But as she turned to 
express this desire, the door of the room was flung open, and an intruder, 
angry-eyed and trembling, barged in. The intruder was Acid Head, Trish's 
roommate. 

The gangly, awkward-looking boy clenched his fists. "My old man is willing 
to help us with the park. I hate his guts, but I got down on my knees and 
begged." He waved an agitated hand towards the bed, towards Guido. "Is this 
what you do to me when I'm gone?" 

There was no denying the evidence. Guido was still stark naked, and his wet 
cock was still in a state of shriveled shock from the eruption. The boy 
looked exhausted from the effort of the blow. And Trish's face was still wet 
with the residue of the torrential pour of cock cream. Trish didn't try to 
deny the evidence. But she did explain. "It's just something I had to do," 
she told Acid Head. "I gave. He gave. Oh, Acid Head, it was beautiful." 

Before the stunned Acid Head could think of an appropriate reply, Rocio 
walked over to him. 

Naturally, as though she'd known him all of her life, she took his hand. "If 
you're going to blame anyone, blame me," she said, and she explained that 
she had instigated the relationship between Trish and her brother Guido, who 
could no longer be accused of being queer. 

"Forgive my anger," Acid Head said apologetically. "I didn't understand." 
And he still didn't understand how it was possible for him to be so quickly 
and deeply attracted to Rocio. It was more than a mere surface attraction, 
too, more than an attraction to her great beauty. 

And Rocio felt the same towards Acid Head. The boy had suffered because he 
was too sensitive for the ugly world in which they had to live. But together 
they could make it less ugly. She didn't withdraw her hand. They knew they 
were going to get together. They had to get together. In the heart of his 
genitals, Acid Head felt a reawakening. Even Trish had never been able to 
make him get a hard-on. But the love he felt for Trish was too brotherly for 
great passion. This heat that now surged through his body for Rocio fevered 
his body. He simply and honestly was on fire to fuck her. And these lustful 
thoughts for the body of Rocio stroked his penis into a full and durable 
erection. His lips parted slightly when he felt the cock shaft slide out and 
stiffen for the first time in many years. 

"This is for real," he told Rocio. 

Rocio was warmed by his passions and responded. She squeezed his hand. "Yes, 
darling. This is for real." In a minute, and no longer than a minute, Rocio 
and Acid Head would disrobe. 

Trish felt happy for the couple. But her own needs were still unfulfilled. 
She simply had to have a fuck after that wonderful bit of fellatio on 
Guido's cock. His first true blow job had been too much for the boy. Guido 
had fallen fast asleep on the bed. 

Then Trish was struck with an idea. "A beaut of an idea," she told herself 
as she dialed a number on the phone. 

The man who answered the phone had a familiar voice. He was the president of 
the country club, the same man who had tried unsuccessfully to rape her. "Of 
course I'm happy to hear from you," he told Trish. And when Trish explained 
her park project for the ghetto people, the president replied, "I'd be 
delighted to help you with the park, dear. But let me refresh your memory. I 
only help people who help me. And you know how you can help me." He spoke 
those last words with a smile, for he fully expected the girl to slam the 
receiver down. But she didn't. 

Trish replied with a sparkle in her voice. "Of course, I'll help you, 
darling. I give. You give. That's what life is all about." 

President Fowler still couldn't believe his ears. He decided to be blunt. 
"I'm talking about your mouth over my cock!" 

"Of course, darling," Trish said demurely. "We're both talking about the 
same thing. But you will help me with the park?" 

The president couldn't keep his voice from trembling. He could still see 
those full, red, and perfectly shaped lips that looked as though they were 
made out of velvet. He had trouble with his breathing when he said, "Of 
course, of course, I'll help. But when? When?" 

"Right now!" Trish roared into the phone. "I'm on fire for a fuck." 

"Be right there," he breathed heavily. Trish's exuberance lashed his penis 
into a throbbing erection. But before he hung up, Fowler had to ask, "What's 
happened to you, Trish? You're so different." 

"I've grown up," Trish said. 


End
