Chapter 10
I stayed on in San Francisco for a few days and in that amount of time I was able to try out every drug they had, every infinite of sexual experimentation they could come up with and every position for fucking that had ever been conceived of by the human imagination. The discipline and the control and the energy of those people was amazing! But somehow I have to confess I didn't really feel at home there. Susie, on the other hand, being a few years younger than I and coming from a very different place, had seemed to fit right in with that whole drug love sort of fucking trip. But I myself found something lacking in it-I think it was all the peace and love that put me off. This may just be a quirk or a perversion of mine, but I like there to be something a little evil, a little mean in my fucking. Good vibes are wonderful, of course, but there's also something very enthralling about bad vibes, about evil feelings and the possibility of violence, of pain. And those people at the crash pad were far too gentle and mellowed out on the philosophy and their drugs to inflict pain on anyone. I think that was very beautiful about them, but after a few days I felt like I had had enough of it.
So, since I had it in mind to try to get into some more evil, a sleazier type of scene, I naturally headed down to L.A., which is of course about the most potentially sleazy and most evil place on earth. At this time, I knew L.A. by reputation, but what I found when I got there, as you will begin hearing shortly, was that everything that I had ever heard about it was confirmed. It's not necessarily that LA is a sexy place-as far as that goes San Francisco is probably sexier-but there's something very evil about it, people are all on strange sorts of head trips down there, but not of the peace and love variety-more of the leather and chain sort, and even the types who were not into it that heavily just bear traces of its influence. LA is the sort of city where I wouldn't be at all surprised if even the meekest looking little guy on the street could pick me up and want to get into some heavy whipping or bondage. It's just that sort of place.
The most difficult part of leaving San Francisco was saying goodbye to Susie. But once my mind was made up to travel, I traveled and no kind of commitment or sentimentality held me. Susie had been a great friend to me, as well as a wonderful fuck-she had kept me constantly supplied with nice lesbian encounters and with a tremendous amount of orally sensual affection, but aside from that, she had come to seem almost like a younger sister to me. It was she who first made me comfortable in the crash -pad, and it was she who was constantly urging me about what a swell hippie I'd make. I tried to explain to her a little bit about why I was leaving-I tried to explain to her my perverse longings for some sleaze and evilness-and it seemed to strike a sympathetic cord in her, in that she started diddling herself and admitted to me that she was turned on by the prospect. But she was with her kind of people, and I decided to head south to my kind of people. And since neither of us wanted to hold the other back in any way-that was the most beautiful part of our friendship-we said goodbye with one final very deep kiss and a wonderful long hug where we felt every part of each other's body for the last time, and then I left.
For those of you who have never visited it, the coast of California is one of the most beautiful places on earth. There is a small range of mountains known as the Coastal Range which in certain places come right down to the very shore line, and there's an old highway known as Highway 1 which runs the entire length of the state. Being in actual view of the water much of the time, I could just wind in and out of the hills of the coastal range, nestled between the blue-green pine and eucalyptus frees on the one hand and the surging, never-ending Pacific on the other. It's a wonderful sight, and the curves in the road are just challenging enough to make the ride interesting but not so dangerous that you can't let your mind wander over the magnificent scenery. It's about 400 miles from San Francisco to LA, and though it's a good bit shorter if you take one of the inland highways, I wouldn't have given up this ride down the coast for anything in the world.
I meandered down through Monterey and Big Sur--places that I had always heard of and which had come to have almost legendary character in my mind--and I got a special kind of thrill in passing through these famous places. The motorcycle roared beneath me, reassuring me about the power I had and of course keeping me turned on by the vibrations. But more than that, it made me feel thoroughly in control of my own destiny, it made me feel self-sufficient and every bit as good as a man.
And perhaps another one of my perversions was that whenever I start thinking or feeling like a man, I get very turned on. Call it penis envy, or call it whatever you like, there is no question that when the thought of myself acting or seeming like a man enters my mind, it instantly makes my cunt wet and turns my thoughts to brutal kinds of sex. Maybe I rebel against the stereotypes of feminine sexuality that seem to exclude brutality and assume that the desire to be mean and to be brutal were the sole prerogatives of males! No, I myself liked to experience brutality-sometimes on the receiving end and sometimes on the handing-out end, and maybe that's why the thought of taking on aspects of the male personality and sexuality turns me on so much. In any event, the farther south I got the hornier I got, and while there was still a hundred miles or so to go before I hit LA, I was planning the type of sex that I would like to have that night.
I was really letting my fantasies run wild, and they turned me on so much that at one point I had to pull over to the side of the road and open my pants and do a really good fingering job to take the edge off. I stuck a couple of fingers in myself and jiggled them around good and hard, just to use up a tiny bit of the incredible pool of energy that was the horniness in my cunt. I'm sure that I could have brought myself to orgasm in a very short time-my thoughts had been turning me on and the vibrations of the bike had been tickling me, literally for hundreds of miles, and with that kind of motorcycle foreplay, a few minutes of concentrated clit work would have been all I needed. But I didn't want to bring myself off, I only wanted to use up the very topmost layer of my horniness and to save all the rest for what I would probably find in LA.
The basic gist of my fantasies was to get as brutal and as anonymous as possible in a good fuck. After those few days of peace and love and good vibes, I was left aching for the total opposite. I wanted to be fucked hard and fast and solid, by a man, but better still, by men who had dirt on their bodies and dirt on their minds. After the sweet smell of marijuana, I wanted men who emanated the sour smell of stale beer and sweat. After the gentleness of the spiritual creatures in San Francisco who never raised their voices to each other let alone with fists, I wanted brutes who would curse me out, tell me
I was a bitch, call me a slut, and slap my face and my ass good and hard and to do anything that might please me. I was feeling like a total slut-I certainly was no flower child. I just wanted to get fucked-an all-American roadside fuck.
So I just followed the orange haze until I got to LA, and when I got there, one look at it, one whiff of it was enough to tell me that I had come to the right place for the sleazy sex I was after. LA is probably the most spread out city on earth-it lies there in the middle of the desert like a whore with her legs spread as wide as they'll go, her snatch open and dripping vapors, diseased, crawling with vermin: that was my first impression of LA. But far from being grossed out by the imagery, this blended with my excitement and enhanced it. At that moment, if I could have had my choice between being fucked in a perfumed bed chamber with satin sheets or laid down on oil and grit of one of LA's back alleys, I would have picked the back alley hands down. I was just in that sort of mood.
My fantasies had led to the decision that I would take myself to one of the Hell's Angels' hangouts and check out the scene there. I'm not one for crashing private parties but I thought that my motorcycle would be a kind of calling card, and I couldn't imagine that such gallant young men would ever turn away a damsel in distress. Yes, the sort of thing that I was most up for was to be ganged fucked by a half dozen or so big, mean, leather-clad Hell's Angels! That to me would be a very special aspect of my initiation into the world of motorcycles. I had mastered the riding, I had felt some of the aesthetic thrills of covering ground and now I wanted the other aspects-the sleazy, the cheap thrill scene, the totally lascivious and debauched aspects.
Well, LA is pretty much run by Hell's Angels, and so I didn't have too much trouble in finding my way to one of their hangouts. I must admit, a couple of the people of whom I asked directions looked at me sort of funny, but they didn't want to ride after me, afraid that I had a boyfriend who would rub them out without even thinking about it. So just a little bit after dark, I found my way to a very sleazy bar in some sort of really run-down neighborhood-I don't even remember street names or how I got there-that seemed like a very promising locale for the sort of adventure I was looking for.
The parking lot was full of bikes, choppers mostly, many of which were emblazoned with diabolical fretwork on their sissy bars-there were all sorts of Black Sabbath emblems, outlines of skulls, inverted crucifixes. The whole thing was very strange and evil, and my own bad-assed Kawasaki seemed very stale and staid and pure in comparison to these massive objects of chrome and phallic incantations. But I certainly wasn't about to chicken out-on the contrary these mechanical monsters turned me on still more. I imagined that these very evil machines would be a very accurate mirror of their owners, and that I would be meeting some of the most brutally bizarre people that I had ever seen.
With my knees shaking, just a wee bit-more from anticipation than from anxiety-I entered the bar and sat myself down at a table. The whole place was very dim and it stank of stale brew and stale piss; apparently it's the sort of place where the customers don't bother going to the John when they have to take a leak. I could just picture some burly guy who had taken in about a gallon of beer just opening his fly while standing at the bar and taking Out his battered cock, and pissing on the floor. This image may disgust some-it excites me.
Well, this didn't seem like the kind of place where unaccompanied women went as a rule, and so it wasn't long before every eye in the place was on me. The men eyed me lasciviously. They all seemed terribly big and hairy, but not hairy in the wonderful angelic sense of the San Franciscans-hairy rather in the disheveled sense of oily devils. They looked me up and down, and then they made remarks to each other in low tones, they laughed wickedly, and it entered my mind that they would probably rape me, whether or not I was willing, which I was-and I had to decide how to play my cards. Would it be more of a turn-on if I acted like I didn't want to be fucked and then let myself be fucked, or would it be even more of a turn on to come right out and admit that I was out for a gang bang!
I sat drinking my beer and planning my strategy. I soon realized that I was the only woman in the place but I felt totally on top of the situation. After all, I was feeling like a man and so I was very at home in the situation. The fact that I had a cock-hungry cunt while everyone else in the place had a cunt-hungry cock in no way separated me from the rest of the people-on the contrary, it created a tremendously exhilarating bond.
Wishing to get at least slightly drunk before the welcomed ordeal approached, I slugged down three or four beers in rapid succession and I felt myself getting more and more evil and depraved. My cunt was soaked, my nipples were straining at the inside of my light riding shirt, and I was just about at the point where I would make things happen. I decided that if no one approached me by the time I had finished the beer I was now on I would approach someone myself.
But just as I was polishing off my last swig, a guy-the biggest and nastiest looking of the lot-came over to me, and in a voice of sarcastic gallantry, but with a leer that betrayed his true intentions, he said to me, "And what, Madam, might you be interested in, in such a sleazy place as this?"
I looked at him for a few seconds, unable to speak. He had a long crescent-shaped scar that ran the entire length of his left cheek, and his nose was horribly twisted, as if it had broken many times. His teeth were crooked, some of them were missing and his leer was the filthiest thing I had ever seen. At the sight of him, I had suddenly become frightened, and my excitement increased tenfold, and, amazed at my own audacity, I looked him right in the eye and said, "Actually I was feeling like getting gang fucked."
Now it was his turn to stare at me. Finally he managed to say "Did I hear you correctly?"
"If you heard me ask to be gang fucked, then you heard me correctly."
Well, now the leader did an amazing thing. He let out a tremendous shriek, gaining the attention of everyone in the place, and then he said in a very loud voice, "Hey, fellas, this here bitch says she wants to get gang fucked;"
When I heard my own words repeated they sounded incredibly filthy, and I couldn't believe that I had said them. I regard myself as a consummate slut of course, but sometimes I surprise even myself! And I just could not believe how utterly boorish it was of him to say it out loud, so that everyone in the place could hear it. But it was I myself who had started the ball rolling, and I had no right to complain if the going now got a little rough. I started the game, but it was up to them to make the rules. I was at their mercy, and that thought excited me still more.
All eyes were now on me, expectant. I didn't quite know what was expected of me. After a couple of incredibly tense moments, the leader said to me, in a voice that was almost gentle but laden with menace, "Well then, stand up and strip."
"Right here?" I asked meekly.
"Yes," said the leader. "Right here. Do you think that we're going to take a suite at the fucking Hilton?"
So I stood up and slipped out of my clothes. I was now nude before the eyes of a dozen or so gaping men. But there was nothing wholesome or natural about this kind of nudity-no, it was pure exhibitionism, they were eating me up as greedily and as filthily as they could. I was nothing but an object, an attraction, a sexual circus act that they could enjoy and then throw away.
I stood there for a couple of minutes more and no one said a word. I could feel their eyes piercing through my erect nipples like golden needles. Like hot tongues, their eyes flicked over my cunt and their teeth seemed to nibble at the clit. I was incredibly turned on by the notion of just standing there in the midst of those boorish, brutish men in their leather and bits of chain. Finally, when my knees began to sway under me in anticipation and spaciness, the chief looked in the direction of a cluster of four men who were sitting at another table, and he told them to give him their belts.
The implications of this did not immediately get through to me-then, all at once, I realized that they meant to strap me down, they meant to bind my arms and legs, so that I would be even more fully at their mercy. I had asked to get gang fucked, and now they intended to strap me down so that I couldn't budge at all until they were through with me. Now I indeed felt fear, a fear that only increased my hominess. I watched with fascination as the four burly angels slipped off their thick leather belts and handed them to their chief. And I watched with even greater fascination as the mean-looking man with the mangled face stood before me with the four thick strands of leather in his hands, with incredibly thick and heavy silver belt buckles hanging down.
They next took one of the larger rectangular tables from its place against the wall and slid it into the middle of the room, under the sick, stark light of the bare light bulb. Not only did they mean to gang fuck me while I was bound, but they meant to have me under a spotlight as they did it, so that I would be fully exposed to them in my bondage! They were out to do a thorough job, to make it as humiliating for me as they possibly could, and they seemed to have everything down pat. No doubt they had had lots of practice.
The chief then ordered me to lie down on the table on my back. I didn't for a moment think of refusing. Everything was so utterly bizarre that no individual part of it struck me as strange. It was all of a piece, all a thoroughly unified image of a totally depraved and debauched gang fuck.
The surface of the table was soft and soggy with beer-or maybe it was piss, who knows, and it felt somehow slimy against my back. The chief arranged me carefully so that my buttocks would just barely hang over the edge of the table-that way my cunt would be exposed to the onslaught of all those greasy cocks, and the men would not have to put up with the unappealing necessity of touching me otherwise at all. Yes, they were out to make it humiliating for me, not only because I was only an object, only a cunt. They wanted nothing more from me that for me to be only a cunt, they weren't even interested in my tits, or the feel of my skin, or the texture of my hair, or my mouth-they wanted one thing and one thing only from me-a hot hole where they could put their cocks!
Once he had me properly arranged, the chief delegated a few of the Angels to strap me down. Two of the belts were wrapped around my wrists and then my arms were wrenched backwards so that they could be strapped to the legs of the table. It was rather painful when they first wrenched my arms, but soon the position began to seem comfortable in a very weird way I had been bound before, when I was a hooker in Joplin, but never had I been tied up with such formidable straps of leather, and never had I been arranged in such a blatantly whorish position. Two of the dudes strapped my knees wide apart to the other two legs of the table, and I was totally immobilized. I could move neither my arms nor my legs, and the greatest amount of motion I could manage was to rock my head from side to side. I felt the cool breeze against my wide-open cunt, and I felt the juices welling up inside of me and oozing out from my spread-apart lips.
At this point I expected my rapists to undress, that in some way the sight of their nude bodies, covered with scars and muscles and ripples of beer-drinkers' fat would be a compensation for my nudity and my bondage-at least if we were all nude we would be on some sort of equal terms, and I would feel a little less humiliated set apart. But no, to these men I wasn't even worth undressing for! All they did was to open the tops of their jeans and undo the zippers. All I saw were a dozen or so thick, erect cocks sticking out of either blue jeans or leather riding pants, like a legion of flagpoles, like an army of swordsmen going off to battle. This, to me, seemed the final humiliation, to have to remain nude while my assailants were dressed through the entire act of fucking!
The men now formed a long line between my legs. They stood one behind the other, joking and talking loudly, their stiff pricks sticking straight out in front of them, pointing toward the target, my twat. Someone asked the chief how they would do it, and the chief responded boisterously that they would first begin with a round of ten.
I had no idea what he meant by the phrase "round of ten" but I soon found out. What he meant was that everyone on line would get ten thrusts at me. It was all very fair, like shooting foul shots in a playground. Everyone would take his ten thrusts and then go to the back of the line. They would fuck me by turns, without passion, without desire, only in a very cool and disgusted sort of game. And the game was myself!
The chief was first on line, and when he first pronged me with his stiff brute's cock I thought I would scream. I was so well oiled from all the anticipation that it slipped in quite easily at first, but it was so big and thick, and the position I was in was so utterly exposed to his thrusts, that it still hurt. Involuntarily, I jerked my leg, and the unyielding leather of the strap cut into it painfully. Well, I would learn not to do that again, I would lay there and take it no matter how big the cocks were, no-matter how much it hurt. To try to move would only make it worse.
From the character of the chief's ten thrusts I could infer the kind of fucking I was in for. It was all to be straight in and out, nothing for me, everything for them. There was to be no clit play, not even any sort of side to side fucking that would soothe the walls of my twat. No, they were just going to use me as a passageway for their own lust, as a mass of hot and wet tissue for them to rub their hot cocks against. They were just going to go in and out, in and out, just using my cunt for their own pleasure each in his own way. But each in the same way.
It wasn't long before I lost count of the succession of the thrusts, of the succession of the cocks. They all fucked me the same way, totally selfishly-and there was no reason for me to tell one from the other, and yet there was an exquisitely perverse sensation that I derived from the idea that it was just a succession of cocks, nothing more, that what I had set out to do was to get fucked in the most brutal and most anonymous way possible, and this was just what I had planned. My cunt turned out tremendous amounts of lubrication against the onslaught of those big filthy pricks and I could feel the rough material of their jeans and sometimes even the hard cold metal of their zippers against my tender cunt lips when they thrust into me deeply. I was getting bruised on the inside and chafed on the outside, and all the sensations merged into one hot glow of total abandoned debauchery.
Aside from this, a couple of the guys stood over me with a pitcher which contained beer-at least I think it was beer, and they poured an almost constant stream of it down into my mouth. I had no choice but to drink, otherwise I would be choked. If I turned my face away, one of them would grab me by the chin with his strong meaty hands and force me to open my mouth again. So I swallowed, and I was fucked, and the entire evening seemed like a never-ending bout of filthy fucking.
When they had gone through the line once, the chief said. "Okay gentlemen, now we'll try a round of twenty."
There was some filthy laughing in the line and some dirty comments about the possibilities of anyone coming off too soon. I had no idea how long they intended to extend the game, but as far as I was concerned, they could be at it all night! I was feeling so wonderfully sluttish that I didn't care about anything. Let the entire city of LA come in and have a shot at my pussy, it was all the same to me.
So now they began their second round. Having twenty thrusts to work with, they were able to get more into a rhythm of fucking, and they probed me deeper and harder than they had at first. Maybe they were feeling less restrained by finding out what a slut I was. by seeing just how much fucking I could take. Then they escalated the rhythm and the intensity of their thrusts, id I in turn turned out more and more cunt p. I could feel that my lips were lying totally pen-more open than they had ever been here-and I could feel my own juices reforming the bottom of my crack and flowing down over my buttocks in a thick slippery stream. I must have actually lost consciousness from these sensations, from all the effort, because only thing I seemed to be aware of was the chief's voice announcing that now they would do round of thirty! I don't even know how many : them there were, I know it was at least ten, it may have been almost twenty. I'll do a little arithmetic and you'll realize just how much fucking I was getting! Again and again they came down into me-my cunt lay open, wider and wider, any traces of elasticity had left long ago. By this time it was simply a wide gash that could be probed and fucked by all comers.
I don't even quite know when or if I started come. The most probable theory is that I was coming the whole time, I was in such a total ecstasy, but an ecstasy of sleaze as opposed to the re wholesome one of San Francisco, that any notion of individual orgasm, of individual peaks, med absurd. My body was thoroughly racked m all the constant convulsions. I jerked ever slightly, just enough to remind me of the binding pressure of the leather straps, and my clit seemed to grow more and more sensitive "m the onslaught of dick.
And then I heard the chiefs voice say, "And now a round of forty." I couldn't believe they were starting it all over again, and increasing the ante by ten thrusts! So they went through the line again, the cocks seeming to grow stiffer a the erections were pampered by more and mo fucking, as their own excitement, their own e satisfaction and the kind of monstrosities the were performing increased. They fucked me raw. I could feel the skin of my cunt scraped an straining, my lips turning purple and still the kept fucking me.
And then the chief said "round of fifty". I was barely conscious at this point. My head lay back on the table and I was aware of nothing except the constant sensation in my cunt-which by this time had become a combination of a constant bruising and a sort of very subtle burn. It was as if all my skin had been rubbed off, and now the very bones of my pelvis had been explored by this regiment of dicks. I lay back, unable to move, barely breathing, but still somehow enjoying it in some unutterably perverse way-there was a terrific satisfaction in knowing that you are doing absolutely the filthiest thing that you can imagine. And that's the kind of satisfaction I was feeling.
I must have passed out for a while, and when I next became aware of what was happening, I saw all the men standing over me, standing in a wicked, Black Sabbath sort of circle, around the table on which I lay. I looked up and saw with horror perhaps fifteen bearded, gaping, leering faces looking down on my nude form. The image was made even more frightening by the fact that I don't know how they got there, and I had no idea how much time had passed. Had they ended their fucking at the round of fifty? Or had they kept upping the ante until they had each delivered a hundred thrusts? Had I been out for two seconds or for several hours? I didn't know. I was so disoriented, so removed from the entire world by this incredible bout of filthy fucking, that I was aware of nothing in the universe except the now severe burn in my twat and the sight of these men gaping down on me.
But then I saw something that was even more perversely exciting and horrific than the sight of all their faces. They were all pulling their pricks! Every one of them was working his huge fucked-out prick firmly with his right hand and it excited me to realize that all those cocks had been so thoroughly lubricated by the juice of my pussy. They worked their cocks in a shared and evil rhythm, and they stared down at me the whole time. Their eyes played over my body like dozens of filthy fingers and they moaned or seemed to chant some sort of devil's rite as they looked at me and gradually jerked themselves off.
And then, as if by some unspoken sign, they all began to come at the same moment! Working themselves with a never changing horny rhythm, their cocks all began to spurt jism onto my body! The chief stood at my head, his first spurt of come landed on my face and lay there in a hot viscous puddle, the other members of the group were arranged around me as if they were knights at some sort of sexual roundtable, and they began to spurt onto my breasts, and my thighs! I was being bathed in come! They kept pulling their cocks as the first short spurts lengthened into long luxurious pulses of a hot, well-earned orgasm. My whole body seemed to be covered with it! It came at me from fifteen different directions. It landed on my body in hot spurts, like bullets, or like cold sleet stinging me and burning. They worked themselves even after it seemed that there couldn't possibly be any sperm left in them; it spurted out of their cocks onto me.
And when at last their orgasms were over, I found myself totally covered with come, every part of my body totally covered with semen. And then the meaty hands of the chief came down onto my body, and with thick and rough fingers, he rubbed the sperm into my skin. He rubbed it over my breasts, my chin, he rubbed it over my face and he dabbed it onto my lips, and then he reached down over my entire body, and he rubbed one single drop of it onto my clit. That one drop of sperm, that one touch from that incredibly thick and hardened finger, sent me spiraling off into a final orgasm. I strained so hard on the table that the leather bit into my skin, but I couldn't control myself. The onslaught of all that come followed by the one surprisingly gentle touch made me lose all control. I swayed, I grit my teeth, and the fifteen of them looked down at me as I writhed beneath them like one possessed.