The Devil's Sperm Is Cold (7 page)

And now, here she was, bent over the desk before his eyes, her legs shaking, her cunt sopping wet from having just fingered herself into orgasm, and she was waiting, waiting with bated breath for him to fuck her. It was so sudden, so overwhelming, that he was practically paralyzed with wonder. He had come back to the office to pick up a book he had forgotten, and when he passed her room he glanced in and almost fainted at what he saw. She was stretched out across the chair, her legs wide, one hand rubbing her breasts, the other digging at her cunt, her mouth stretched wide, her tongue curling in the air, and a stream of pornographic prose coming from her lips. He entered quietly and stood there until she came, his cock growing rock-hard in his pants, hurting with desire to break loose from the cloth and sink into her hot box.

Joan straightened her knees, lifting her ass higher into the air. She slid her feet apart, allowing her thighs to open. The situation was extraordinarily erotic, with the combination of having read the book, and having made herself come, and now pitched face-forward over her desk while the taciturn dark Manuel ravished her legs and ass with his hot eyes.

“What is he waiting for?” she thought to herself again.

Manuel stepped forward. He was weak with desire. He wanted to do everything at once. To fall to his knees and worship her cunt with his tongue. To spin her around and cover her mouth with his. To feel her firm soft breasts in his hands. To force his way between her cheeks and up her puckered asshole. To have her suck his cock. To hold her, to stroke her, to slap her. To merge with her completely.

“My God,” he said to himself, “it’s more than a man should be asked to bear. How much beauty can a person stand?”

He was now standing less than an inch from her body. His hands went forward tentatively and his knuckles grazed the insides of her thighs, gently, going from the backs of her knees to the fold of her buttocks. He stroked her a number of times, deliberately, fleetingly. She felt it like butterflies fluttering up and down her legs. She pushed her ass back an inch, wanting him to do more, to go deeper. But as she approached, he retreated. It would do little good to take her. He knew that instinctively, in a way he could never have articulated. He would not be satisfied until she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. And he had waited almost a year to come to this point, so he could wait longer until it was just right.

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

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

“Manuel,” she moaned, “please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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