Chapter 2
Saturday began as usual, although Joan thought she sensed a new warmth and affection between them. They did the extra cleaning and took inventory of the kitchen, then together, they went to the supermarket a block and a half distant. Even shopping seemed to have a special luster, and they bought a number of little delicacies not normal to their carefully planned budget. Everything seemed to amuse them, and more than once they leaned together laughing at small things of no real importance.
They kept very busy; Joan had her first bad moment when they stopped at eleven for a cup of tea and sweet roll. Sitting across from Martha, who was relaxing on the front room sofa, Joan was suddenly aware that her mother's position was very similar to the one in which she'd found yesterday morning, slouched, legs slightly apart and her huge breasts lying heavily in the confines of her wash dress. Joan's hand shook, nearly spilling her tea. A tightness came to her throat as she revived the full memory of Martha lying with the huge dildo well buried in her distended cunt. She could again feel the wheel in her fingers as she had tested the erotic movement of the taped cylinder. A fine mist of perspiration broke out on her forehead and down between her tits, and trembling began between her legs.
"I was thinking last night," she said casually. "Daddy has been gone nearly twenty years, hasn't he, Mom?"
"Twenty-one years next November, Joan. A long, long time."
"I hardly remember him, Mom. I was only six, wasn't I?"
Martha shifted her legs, bringing her dimpled knees together with what seemed to be a spasmodic jerking. Joan interpreted the movement as reaction to the abrupt mention of Frank Gilbert, which she supposed set a train of physical conditions working in her mother's body. "What started you thinking about your father, Joan?" Martha asked. "We haven't talked much about him for many years."
"I don't know, Mom," Joan lied. "Oh, are we going to the matinee this afternoon? Sound of Music at reduced prices!
"Lovely," Martha enthused as if happy to change the subject. "The one-thirty show or the five o'clock?"
"How about one-thirty? That will give us time to come home and get the roast in the oven for dinner."
Martha agreed, and Joan sat for another minute or so, marveling at how calm and at case they seemed. Her mother, who was obviously a creature of deep secret passions both mental and physical, and herself, perspiring with bold memories of her own erotic acts and her private knowledge of Martha's extreme surrender to a taped penis. Afraid of quiet reverie, Joan finished her tea and busied herself in the kitchen.
At quarter after twelve, the doorbell buzzed. Joan, now busy checking her wardrobe for things to be sent to the cleaners, called, "Mom, can you get it?" "Yes, dear," came the response.
Then Joan stiffened with fright as the sound of a second familiar voice filtered in from the front room. It was Bonnie Price. When she hurried in, Bonnie was standing awkwardly, wearing a clean dress and a jacket and holding in one black hand a bouquet of roses.
"These are for you, Miss Gilbert," Bonnie said, thrusting the flowers forward. "I-I heard you were sick yesterday. Are you better?"
"Yes, yes," Joan replied hastily. "Thank you, Bonnie. They are beautiful. Please sit down."
"Why Joan!" Martha exclaimed. "You didn't say anything about feeling ill yesterday? What was it, dear?"
"Nothing, Mother. I had taken two aspirin and lea and it made me slightly nauseous. It wore off quickly. How did you know where I lived, Bonnie?"
"I asked in the principal's office after last bell, yesterday." Then: "You and your mother sure live in a nice place," Bonnie observed. She said something else but Joan didn't hear. Her eyes were on the slim legs, strangely smooth and dark brown in a pair of nylons. She followed them up under the short skirt and then quivered as she envisioned their shadowed juncture with Bonnie's torso. Then Martha was talking about her weaving and to Joan's relief, Bonnie was following the older woman into the back bedroom to see the loom and the half finished rug. Stunned, Joan got up and went to the kitchen to put the roses into a deep vase. Somehow, it had never occurred to her that Bonnie was more than a hot, illicit adventure in the cloakroom. She had never entertained any one of her perverse romances in any but the most dangerous circumstances, and suddenly, she had Bonnie in her home. And to Joan's shock was added fear; had the bold, often vulgar-mouthed little Negro girl broke the roses in genuine sympathy, or for some other reason? Would she keep their secret, or would her youth understand only the excitement of their relationship and fail to recognize how vital complete secrecy could be? Then Joan let the repressed shudders of eagerness vibrate from her inner being. It was a thrill merely having Bonnie close by, no matter the danger.
Three of them had hardly returned to the living room when the telephone rang. Martha excused herself and went into the hallway to answer it.
"You look all right," Bonnie said, her eyes now sharper and blacker.
"I'm fine now, Bonnie. You shouldn't have spent the money, but the roses are very nice. It was thoughtful of you, Bonnie."
"I think about you quite a lot, Miss Gilbert," Bonnie admitted, and with the words, she spread her knees, considerably farther apart than mere comfort would require. A flush fired Joan's skin, her body abruptly became one mass of pulsating desire. She wet her lips and Bonnie grinned. "Yeh-yeh," she murmured. "I didn't know you lived with your mother. That kind of makes the scene mean, doesn't it?"
"Bonnie, you-I don't know-" Then Martha was back. "Dear, that was Mrs. Fenderson. She's chairman of the next bazaar committee. I think I'11 walk down to her house-it's just three blocks from here. You and your little friend can talk. I won't be more than thirty or forty minutes. Oh. Bonnie, I'm very pleased to have met you. I seldom get to meet any of Joan's students. My, the roses are beautiful in that vase, aren't they?"
And before Joan could protest or agree, her mother was out of the apartment and she was alone with Bonnie, who had already begun to move her hips in subtle summons.
Panic stricken, Joan got up and went down the hall to her bedroom; her body was a mass of aching voids and singing nerves. She stared at her mirrored reflection; despair in horn-rimmed glasses, weighty tits and squirming ass, and deep desire fighting a winning battle against self-repulsion. Then Bonnie was close behind her, looking taller and dimmer and more desirable for having left her jacket in the living room. She put one hand out and the. fingertips were like small flames as they touched Joan's shoulder.
"Are you mad at me for coming?" Bonnie asked.
Joan shook her head but did not turn. "No. No, Bonnie. I'm not mad. It is all my fault, anyway! Oh, but I wish you hadn't come!"
"Why not? This is better than that goddamned cloakroom!"
"No, no! Bonnie, we can't-here! If my mother should return! Bonnie, we can't. Not here!" Joan pleaded, but her wavering voice did not seem convincing, even to herself.
Then Bonnie's hand went down her back and over her buttocks, dropping slowly and teasingly along Joan's thigh until the fingers could go back up, under Joan's skirt. The crawling hand on the tingling flesh of her inner thigh sent flutters of delicious chill through Joan's body, then the fingers were high and intimate and under the seam of her panty leg. She felt them explore the under-round of her sates, then move into the close, perspiration damp crevice which led under and up to her vagina. Joan moaned, but she could not help the quick kink of eagerness that came to her hips. Then she shook her head and cried, "No!" and spun away from Bonnie.
"You feel real good, Joan," Bonnie said, using the intimate first name without permission. "What's the hang-up? I'm good enough to make the spread at school but not in your prissy old bedroom, huh?"
"My God, no!" Joan gasped. "Oh Bonnie, you are good enough-anywhere! It is just that-what we do together is wrong, evil! Do you know what society names women, girls who do what we do together?"
"Sure. Lesbians. So what? You haven't got a prick, so like what else? You came on to me, the first time, didn't you? How come these funny ideas all of a sudden? I'm ready, baby, and here we are!" With this, Bonnie dragged up her skirt and tucked it around her waist. A second later she had peeled down her panties and Joan's eyes opened so wide they ached with strain. She stared straight at Bonnie's cunt, and as she looked, a small drop of clear oozing escaped the bottom of the neatly lipped slit. Then Bonnie did a little lilting step and turned, to bend quickly, raising the twin black moons of her ass to Joan, and the impact of the offering, with the under shape of Bonnie's cunt snugged up in the delicious crotch was more than Joan could stand. She sagged slowly to her knees, then reached out to embrace the bowed body, her mouth going straight to the cleft in the bended ass. Her pursed kiss found Bonnie's anus, then slid down to let her tongue find the ooze, and the deep hot sleeve from which it came. The plunge from agonized sanity to complete eroticism was heady, viciously total and blindingly exquisite. But not complete until Bonnie reached back under herself and groped for Joan's body. With a wet, muffled cry, Joan used one hand to jerk her skirt up and the other to peel her panties down, and she shuffled forward on her knees so Bonnie's wriggling fingers could find her quaking cunt. But the position was awkward and as one, they crabbed sideways and tumbled onto the bed.
"Get up-over me, honey!" Joan panted, urging the slim body into position so Bonnie's crotch ground down to her face. She grasped the lean thighs, moving the sharply bended ass so her mouth could push right up to the small gaping cunt. At the same time, Bonnie's thick lips went to Joan's pussy and a tongue battered deliciously into her vulva. Bonnie giggled. "Hey! You a virgin, ain't you?"
"Yes, oh yes, Bonnie! Kiss me! Kiss me there, over and over again! Oh, Bonnie, I'm so s-sorrv I didn't hurry-" The words choked oft in her throat before the doorbell's demand died away. Frozen together, it was Bonnie who recovered first. She scrambled off of Joan and by the time the bell rang again, she was into her nylon panties. Joan doubled and jerked her panties up, then slid to her feet, snugging the garment up hard to her raging crotch. From the book shelf by the head of the bed, she look a heavy volume of poetry and handed it to Bonnie.
"Pretend you are reading this," she husked, then she ran from the room, pausing to regain her breath and straighten her dress before she answered the door.
"Oh, Martha said, entering. "Sorry, dear. I went off and forgot my door key. Did the little colored girl leave?"
"No. Mom. I was showing her some of my private books. We were reading-in the bedroom."
"That's nice, dear. Oh. Would you mind very much if I didn't go to the theater with you this afternoon? Mrs. Fenderson wants me to go with her to the church and help her plan the bazaar arrangements. That's why I'm here so soon. to get my coat and purse. I know you're disappointed, Joanie, but you know how interested I am in the bazaar. Oh. Maybe you could take your friend. She seems very nice and she is probably lonely, poor thing. But anyway-" Still dazed by the sudden return from the high building of her furious passions, Joan stood in stunned silence while her mother obtained her coat and purse, all the while chattering about booths and refreshments and unreal things. Martha paused at Joan's bedroom and bid a cheery good-bye to Bonnie, then before Joan could prepare herself, her mother kissed her full on the mouth and popped out of the apartment. Her only hope was that Martha had been in too much of a hurry and too preoccupied with the bazaar to notice the flavor of Bonnie, still sweetly acrid on Joan's lips.
When she went back to Bonnie however, the spell was broken, crushed under the shock of fear and shame and revulsion.
While she still clung to some measure of control, Joan whisked Bonnie out of the apartment and on their way to the theater. Bonnie had not protested, nor made any attempt to resume their interrupted love-making, but they had been on the bus only a few minutes when the colored girl leaned close.
"Show, shit," she murmured. "Let's go to my house, Joan. All we have to do is to wait three more stops, then walk four blocks. Do you want to?"
"I-I don't know. I don't think-" "Cool it," Bonnie enthused. "Nobody home, ever on Saturday! My daddy gets paid Friday nights and never gets home until nearly Monday morning. My brother and some cats are having a thing at City Hall. If he doesn't make the pokey, he and the other Panthers gather after the demonstration and smoke pot till they are out of their damned minds. Anyway, I came to your house-you ought to come to mine! Please?"
It was the last thing on earth Joan wanted to do, but she could not help the instant snap back of her disrupted emotions. And she was a little curious about where and how Bonnie lived. Moreover, the prospect of a movie bound to be tame and boring after her adventures of the past two days, was not very compelling. And the thought of sitting in the semi-dark, with Bonnie and her warm musky odor beside her for at least three hours was frightening. Joan hesitated only because she knew that the longer she put off departing from her weaknesses the stronger they'd be.
"This is it," Bonnie said, gripping Joans hand and getting to the aisle. With a sigh of resignation, Joan followed the tugging hand. A minute later, they were walking together toward Sugartown, the local name for the less-than-elegant colored district.
It began thinly, then gradually strengthened. Joan had been in its fringes a number of times, on school board committees to study the black-white balances in elementary schools. She was stared at, but this did not bother her. She had always considered herself a sincere integrationist, and in any case, she was a school teacher patently visiting the home of a student. As the population became nearly one hundred percent colored, she was aware of many things, the poverty, the filth and the smart-mouthed boys, who, upon seeing Bonnie, made risque remarks and laughed heartily among themselves. If there was any relief, it came when Bonnie pointed out her house, It was a two-story flat affair, more recently painted than the rest of the row, and all the windows seemed to be intact. Her belly did not roll in apprehension until Bonnie found the door key on a ledge between flower pots and opened the house.
"Come on in. It isn't very fancy, but it's better'n some. My Pa and my brother, Sam, and I have lived here coming four years-ever since my Ma died. You feel all right now?"
"I'm f-fine, Bonnie," Joan lied. Her first instinct upon entering the dingy flat was to turn and run, to eradicate the odor of stale food from her nose and clear her vision of the unhandsome interior. The rug was spotted, the furniture was dirty and coming apart. On the walls were crooked pictures in cheap frames and gloom of poverty and unknowing was as weighty as summer smog. She shuddered. On the dining room table was a water glass, containing one rose, obviously taken from the bouquet Bonnie had brought to her.
"It's very nice," Joan murmured. "Are you sure no one is home?"
"Anybody home they'd be silting right there drinking beer. It's okay. Relax. You can put your coal on that chair there. Then you can come see my room. It's a covered-in porch, Pa and Sam use the only bedroom we have, but Sam isn't home much so it is kind of Pa's room."
"D-does Sam work?"
Bonnie giggled, showing some small vanity at being the key figure in their duet. "Hustles pool and shoots crap and steals a little. Tell you the truth, he lifted the roses I brought you. From the funeral parlor down the street last night. The dead guy isn't ever going to miss them, huh? Come on, Joan. I can call you Joan, can't I?"
Their eyes met and Joan felt the wetness between her thighs again. There was no doubt in her mind what all of this was leading up to, and as she became slightly accustomed to the misery of Bonnie's house, she ceased to see it as anything other than a place. She nodded.
"You may call me Joan," she murmured. "Let's go look at your room. I'm sure it is-v-very nice.' "It's clean," Bonnie remarked. "I do all the house work."
While Joan surveyed the miserable little room with unseeing eyes, Bonnie moved to sit on the roughly made bed, suddenly quiet and seemingly shy. Overwhelmed by a sudden surge of emotion, Joan stepped forward and as Bonnie rested her face against her belly, Joan petted the wiry, half-straightened hair and let the warmth of Bonnie's cheek spread through her belly. "Bonnie, Bonnie! I'm so sorry!"
"It's okay," the girl replied. "Nigger kids get used to a lot of things. Shall we-take off all our clothes? I'll bet you're nice, all white and bulgy! Please, now?"
Helpless as if she were in the control of a master hypnotist, Joan raised one quivering hand and began to unbutton the front of her blouse. She stared at the unpainted plywood wall and saw weirdly sensual patterns, and at her bottom, Bonnie's fingers were pressing and feeling. The oil smell of Bonnie's hair mingled with the sourness of the pile of unwashed clothes and a mystic, detached feeling rose from her cunt and numbed her senses.
When they were both finally naked, Bonnie stood, feeling and adoring the nearly perfect body before her, then giggled and stooped to kiss into the bush of chestnut hair. Joan, as fascinated with Bonnie's black slimness, let her hands wander over the bowed back, then under to the sharply conical tits, her eyes feasting on the high firm mounds of Bonnie's ass. Then her cry mingled with Bonnie's nervous giggle and they sank to the bed in writhing, clutching embrace.