Chapter 7
Delaney puts his hands both the cheeks of her ass, clutching them harder than is necessary-more than a handful, both of them- spreading them wide, exposing her large, puffy, pale mauve ass hole, its segments few and irregular, the legacy of her nether portal's reaction to two-way traffic over an extended period of time in the not too recent past.
What, just what did Larry have to compare with this?
What he has to offer and what she just plain has don't, didn't belong on the same planet, Delaney reflects.
And his cock absolutely tingles as, keeping those cheeks of hers spread, squeezing them, kneading them as he holds them away from one another, Delaney seals his lips to her protruding bung.
And now, he is chewing her ass hole, sucking it, his tongue going round and round over its lumpy surface, exploring the segments as though to record them in memory, filing them away for recall under other circumstances which it will please him to convert to a repetition of these, determined as he is that that is the only way they will ever be repeated-in his mind, on the view screen of his prurient imagination, behind his closed eyelids.
Because this, this! is where it's at, what it's all about!
No question. No question at all in his mind, but that this is choice, prime, is that which admits of no improvement, no trump, no better idea.
No, he is right where he wants to be.
Gone now his hatred and contempt, banished into the far background in the face of this, this ... presence, this overwhelming, fleshy, physical, glandular thereness.
Because it is what it is.
And what it is, for him, is perfect.
However she, however they came to be here, to be together like this, whatever else they may be, to themselves, to the outside world, this conjunction, this joining together, this merger, this fusion of her and himself is, is ... right.
It is delicious beyond delight.
It is exquisite, irresistible, magic.
Yes, it is all these things and above all absolutely true, physically undeniable, the merger and reconciliation of fantasy with reality, of the ideal and the real.
There was some criticism of her, something, something he had it in mind to feel as he did to her what he is about to do, but that's gone now, fuzzy, indistinct, does not come readily to mind, is probably, was probably unimportant anyway.
As are everybody and everything else, at the moment.
Which is complete, which is lacking in nothing, which requires no additions, which is minimal and yet full, is filled with that hunger and fulfillment, that excitement and calm, that dizziness and that control, that clarity and that disorientation-all those opposites whose reconciliation in the midst of contradiction is the hallmark of great sex.
It's all here, right here, his for the taking, and taking it he is.
He cannot get enough of her ass hole, of her flesh in his hands, of the taste and the texture of her, of the thereness and the yielding, the giving of her to him.
And the past is meaningless, is, if anything, a friendly freefall which has brought them to this point.
To everything there is a season (turn, turn) and a purpose under heaven.
And the lines of the song descend upon him like balm, like the hand that patted his blanketed behind when he was an infant, the hand of reassurance that told baby Howie that it really was all right to let go, to drop off, to sleep, perchance to dream.
Except that now he is a man and this is no dream, unless it be the merger of dream with reality, of the ideal with the real, a kind of chemistry of the universe which converts fantasy into the stuff of absolute, physical truth.
That he can accept, can accept uncritically, can accept as reinforcement of his own awareness of the rightness of it all, of his being here with her like this.
As he plunges his tongue in, in into the hot, yielding depths of her rectum, even as he continues to chew the ring of muscle at the entrance which has thus easily admitted him.
And yes, there is an urgency here, a pressing need, an overwhelming desire, but, at one and the same time, no hurry, either.
Because time is standing still, past and future meaningless, absurd concepts, out of context with the truth, the reality of the moment.
They are theoretical and, like all theories, all extraneous ideas, too complex, too lacking in real content to apply here, now.
No, there is only him and her, the reality of her, the sheer physical presence of her-that, and the hunger which drives him, which controls, which owns him.
Because this, this! is surely the purpose of his life, the one true meaning and the goal of his existence.
How could it be otherwise, since the totality of all that is for him is centered right here?
And now, he is fucking her in the ass with his tongue, is holding it, stiffly extended, as though childishly mocking someone, out of his mouth as far as it wilt go, even as he hammers it in and in and into her ass with stiffened neck muscles.
Details, details, all reality is comprised of details!
And he knows every detail, every facet of her physical terrain back here, knows it, imbibes it, memorizes it.
He cannot get enough of her ass hole, of her ass.
And yet, another part of him would be, must be served.
Because his cock is painful in its hardness, its urgency, its imperative, its demand which will no longer be held in abeyance, ignored, denied.
It is as though he were filled with the lascivious power, the prurient force, the salacious pressure which she has inspired with him, to an ever increasing degree, such that his cock has been filled with it, his hunger translated, transmitted to focus, to gather at that particular portal, outlet of his being.
So yes, hell yes he, who is in no mood to deny himself anything with regard to this irresistible urge, can put off no longer doing the deed.
Delaney pulls his face back, admiring the view (details, intimate, infinite detail, clear as a bell) as, keeping her ass cheeks spread with one hand, sitting back on his heels, he grabs his prong with his other hand, then stands up on his knees.
He leans forward-and buttons his cock into the saliva-lubed, slackened ass hole.
And now, hands on the belled flare of her hips, holding her steady, he rotates his pelvis, pressing slowly, gently forward.
As the battering ram head of his turgid invader spreads apart the channel of her rectum, filling it, stretching it as he spirals, corkscrews, drills in and in and into the hot depths of her rectum, into the innermost depths of her being, into that which has been given completely to him.
And his long, thick, powerful prong fills her very being.
More and more of him goes into her, stuffing her smoothly, easily, until he is fully seated, the cheeks of her ass against his stomach, balls pressed against the moist, pouting lips of her pussy beneath the smoothly rounded orifice of her ass hole, now become a sucking, clinging mouth, the better to merge with and devour him.
And only now does a wave of resentment, a sickening sense of time wasted, time lost come over him.
Illogical, irrational, unrealistic, crazy, but there it is.
The idea, the notion that this could and should have been his for longer, for years longer, from years past.
Wasted days and wasted nights, Freddy Fender sings, unseen, somewhere out there, mocking him, mocking his life as he has lived it.
Her fault, even though he cannot say how; well, yes he can, actually.
He didn't know her, because she was all tied up with the likes of Larry, because she was busy showing all her goodies to the indifferent eye of this camcorder and that, now Murray's, now Larry's.
He didn't know her, because she was squandering all these goodies showing them off for posterity rather than reserving them for Delaney alone, rather than somehow making herself available to him in the world, his world, somehow responding to the thought waves of his blind craving for her, his urgent summons to her to realize-make real-that archetypal image of his feminine ideal which plagued and inspired his mind.
And still does.
But no, she did not know him, could not hear him, would probably have ignored him if she could, if she did, in favor of whatever it was, is that Larry has, in favor of that cretinous attraction, that obscene chemistry between them which is nothing more than Larry's manipulativeness, expertly applied and an idiot could see it and why didn't you, you fucking douchebag whore bitch?
And he is flicking her viciously, is raping her in his mind, is committing what he, what any prosecutor would call sodomy-rape.
Because she deserves it, asks for it, has it coming!
And yes, he can understand now the turgid rage, the red-visioned hatred, the all-consuming anger that possesses men, some men, that drives them irresistibly to commit such outrages.
So that it is not a question of right and wrong, of innocence or guilt, responsibility or lack thereof; rather, it is simply-point of view.
Not what did he do, but what did the woman-or man, or child-represent to him, what did he see, what did he think as a result of that vision, from that point of view, however twisted, warped, perverted and demented that view might have been?
Because right now, his cock is a battering ram, a drop forge hammer, an all-powerful, avenging force, visited upon Diedre for her stupidity, her dullness, and her lousy taste in men.
Her life is fucked up, not because she answered some ad for models and, instead of being repulsed, was actually quite pleased to discover that Murray was making porno tapes.
Her life is fucked up, not because the overabundance of her sexuality cried out for expression through exhibitionism.
No, her life is fucked up because she saw in Larry a reflection of her own perceived worthlessness, saw in him the affirmation, the confirmation of the meaninglessness, the emptiness of her existence.
In short, she is a loser because of her masochism.
She is a loser because, instead of accentuating, deploying her assets to her own best advantage, she chose, deliberately, to go the other way, to surrender to another who gave her credit for being right in her outlook-and then showed her a way to live with it.
She is unworthy, and unworthiness must be punished.
And she never caught on, never knew, the stupid bitch, the dumb cunt, that it was his own unworthiness he was punishing in her, was Larry.
He looked at her and saw reflected there his own meaningless, empty, bestial existence, his own lack of future, his own lack of everything.
Except that she was not lacking in everything.
She was gorgeous and sexy in a way Larry could never be.
So that he had to put her down, to keep her down.
He had to prevent her realizing what men saw when they looked at her-other than just so much meat that somebody other than them gets to fuck. And Larry was wrong, wrong, wrong!
But she, she! made him right!
Delaney is humping Diedre viciously now, slamming his cock into her ass, pulling back until only the bulb of his monster remains inside her ass hole, then slamming home again.
Slow down, slow down, make it last! a voice within him cautions, advises, instructs him.
But his anger, his rage drives him on and on.
He wanted-he really did, really does-to feel the communication between her and himself, between his rampant invader and her rectum, nerve ending for nerve ending, in full communication, millions of messages sent and received between them with each millimeter of movement, with each passing millisecond.
He wanted, he wants to merge with her, to fuse with her, to show her how wrong she has been, to prove to her that she has value, that she is still capable, is still worthy of being cherished-and then abandon her, having shown her up for the ass hole she has been and still is-and every shall be, forever and ever, world without end.
Because he could do that, could lose himself in her, could know that fusion, could experience things as they might have been, should have been, could have been, but for her being the total ass hole she is.
So that he could both know the supreme joy and accomplish his ulterior purpose with regard to her, walking away from here satisfied on all points, satisfying his hunger for her and his contempt for her, all in one.
But now, he cannot.
Because the rage is full upon him and he is in its grip completely. He doesn't have it; it has him.
And yes, he is beating her to death from the inside, pounding her with his mace, fucking destroying her with his flicking, tearing her a new ass hole.
As, in his mind, he turns her to a mass of ruptured guts inside herself, which he is stirring, pulverizing, ruining beyond all hope of repair with his relentless, furious onslaught.
This is a rape, dammit!
This is a rape after the fact of permission, after the act of insertion.
Surely she must know, surely she can tell, can sense his anger, his hatred of her!
Surely she must feel his towering rage, his frustration as he destroys her from within, as he uses his tool as a weapon, a deadly, unstoppable, irresistible weapon!
Yah! Yah! Yah! Take that and that and that, you fucking worthless bitch, you lump of meaningless flesh, you waste of human life!
Never has he desired another more than at this moment.
Never has he hated another more than at this moment.
He fucks her as must have flicked, in ancient times, the successful invaders of walled cities the women of their hated enemies.
Larry's woman, he is fucking-as Larry is not.
Larry's woman because the stupid fucking slut made herself his woman, gave herself to him like she was throwing out the garbage, tossing the refuse which was herself into the dumpster that was Larry.
And all the while, Delaney was out there-what?
Looking for her, looking and not finding her, because she was too busy, too tied up in an incestuous, sodomizing, lesbian ménage trios with Larry and her daughter.
How could you, how could you, how could you? he asks her, over and over, punctuating his unspoken question with slamming, jack-hammering thrusts whose seismic waves reverberate through Diedre's body, sending a ripple from buttocks to breasts, which bounce heavily beneath her, time and again.
He leans back now, watching as his thick prick sticks itself, over and over, into the depths of her ass, the distended orifice sucking his cock as he pulls back, accepting it as he lunges viciously forward.
He is disappointed that he sees no blood, that he does not see her writhing in agony, does not hear her crying out in excruciating pain, the kind he sees on the faces of some of the women, particularly the young ones, in some of the magazines in the adult book stores.
Because he knows that they're not faking it, that they are surprised at the sudden realization that what they signed up for could and did entail real pain.
Which, of course, was, had to be the plan right along, the photographer capturing the moment for posterity-the moment of truth, which is that there can be pain in the pursuit of pleasure, that it can be intense-confirmation, in a minor way (if such were needed) that yes indeed, one may suffer or die in a bad cause as well as a good, in this intrinsically meaningless life.
But Diedre here knows no such hurt, experiences no such pain, not for all Delaney's violent effort; because she is a seasoned veteran-aren't cha, douchie?
And because his devouring of her ass before has prepared her thoroughly for what followed.
And now, Delaney's rage passes, is replaced by a profound contempt.
Forget it, he tells himself. Forget the physical punishment. Concentrate instead on your own pleasure.
Use the cunt, the bitch, the flicking whore. Squeeze her as you would a lemon, extracting from her that full measure of pleasure she is so admirably equipped to provide.
Use her up and throw her away; it's what you intended all along, is it not?
And yes, Delaney admits, that much is true, is consistent, is a part of his original plan.
What does he care what happens to her, really, one way or the other? he asks himself. Because she will have to live the rest of her life with what she has done with that life-what she has and what she has not.
Enough, is it not, that she will live out her days here, wearing her housecoat, drinking her liquor, watching her Oprah, as the flesh on her bones sags and wrinkles, expands and shrivels in all the wrong places.
And he will have spared himself the sight of that, at least.
And no, he will not be back from time to time, not even to gloat, lest he be gloating at the reflection of his own mortality in process.
He will not be even that much of a Larry, will not look at himself in her, lest his condemnation of her, his contempt for her be nothing more than the pot calling the kettle black.
No, he reminds himself, this is the last rites.
And not for her, but for what might have been.
And if dreams must die, then certainly there is, there can be no more pleasant a funeral for them than this.
Eternal rest grant unto her, oh Lord, and may the perpetual light-coming, in this case, from the TV tube-shine upon her.
May her soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God-no.
He does not want her to rest in peace; rather, he wants her to rest in perpetual, nagging torment.
What's done is done and cannot be undone.
And he counts on the vestiges of some sense of justice within her to prevent her ever forgiving herself for what she has done, for what she has allowed to be done to herself and to Susan.
Damned, damned, damned for all eternity, you are, you stupid bitch-do you understand that? he asks the mass of flesh he is so ardently fucking in the ass.
And he wonders if, in the torture chambers of the Inquisition, the torturers did not succumb to the occasional temptation to interrupt the process in order to take advantage of the opportunity, given adequately endowed victims, such as this one before him now.
He knows he would have.
Just as he knows that Diedre is, somehow, a victim, except that he cannot define of just what it is that she is a victim, or how she has been victimized by anyone other than herself.
Useless, then, and redundant, that he should victimize her further, or even make the attempt to do so; what she has done to herself, he could never hope to equal.
His best efforts would be gilding the lily.
And did Larry use her or did she use him to victimize herself?
And is not he, he and others like him, are they not all victims as well? Delaney asks himself. Consider the comfort, the deep-down sexual satisfaction she could have afforded any of a million guys who would have treated her right, who would have done the best they could to please her, to make her happy.
Except that she, she! had a better idea.
Easy, big fella, he tells himself now, you've been down that road before. Just get this over with, get out of this loser's life forever and get on with your own.
And now, he releases one hip, reaching down and around, to weigh her massively hanging breasts, one at a time, to thumb her rubbery nipples.
Adding to the file, the data of the memory of her, or rather of her body-and knowing that Helen is out there, Helen and who knows how many others, just waiting for him.
And knowing as well that Murray will not be hard to deal with, will be most cooperative, will in fact be more than happy to see to it that Delaney is kept well supplied with adequate, perhaps more than adequate replacements.
And it is this last thought which adds a dimension to his excitation, to his arousal.
As this new perspective descends upon him like a coating, a balm of reassurance, at once calming and stimulating.
So that he realizes that it's time to get on with life, his life.
Already, body still responding to his virile ministrations, Diedre is in the past, is history.
And he is no historian, is not one given to dwelling long in the past.
So he redoubles his efforts now, fucking her fast and hard once more, the paces having slacked off as his flash of rage subsided.
And this time, he brings himself all the way, right over the top.
Not as grand and glorious as he thought ft would be, his climax-but then neither is Diedre all that grand or glorious, all things considered; far, very far from it, in fact.
But he creams the depths of her bowels, injecting wad after wad of his jism in and in and into her, both hands once again on her hips for balance, for leverage, and for the distance he knows he will want from her, once his last spasm has passed.
But now, he changes his mind, deciding not to pull out at once, but rather to ride her all the way down, fully inserted.
So that he lies atop her now, cock slowly detumescing inside her ass hole, until she expels him, a long, thick turd-just like she did with Larry in the tape at Murray's. Or was it here that he saw that on the tube? Or was it in both places that he saw them perform that particular closing ceremony?
Yes, he reflects, a fitting last note, that, he reflects, lying cheek to cheek with Diedre, eyes closed and smiling, turned to him in profile-as though she has anything to smile about, he thinks.
Because surely this is a living, breathing corpse on whose voluptuous curves he lies now, his cock slowly softening in her ass, Delaney tells himself.
She died-when?
Four years ago, when she first took off her clothes for Murray and his camcorder and his company of prurient players?
Or long before that, with her discovery that her life was empty and she lacked the wherewithal to fill it with anything meaningful or worthwhile?
Or was it that she discovered some horrible, fundamental personal truth that maybe, just maybe, all life is empty, worthless and devoid of any possible real meaning in the grand scheme of things, so why do anything-or why not do anything?