Chapter 5

"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 gunny sack. 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 business-like 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 burn. 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 ghetto-ites 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."

"Dammit 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 manageoHo 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 mother-fuckin' 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 ass-bole. 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 ass-hole. 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 ass-hole 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 ass-hole. 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 ass-hole.

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 ass-hole 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 ass-hole 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 ass-hole 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 mother-fucker 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!"