Chapter 4
Despite the fact that Sunday morning was her time to over-sleep, Joan awakened early. She could hear her mother bustling somewhere, probably getting ready to go to church, having a poached egg on toast and rehearsing the lesson she would teach her small Sunday school class, and looking forward to a proper sermon and the mild thirty minutes of Sunday gossip after the services were completed.
Joan moved her legs and groaned softly; she was sore and stiff, and the physical distress snapped her mind alert, and this too was agony. The smell of Sam was gone from her nose and she could only remember the snarling brutal beast who had seized her from behind and violated her virgin vagina with his massive penis. Again she saw the small filthy room and the sordid house, the unreasonable glee on Bonnie's face as she watched her brother fuck the protesting white women. Had she protested? Joan could not remember but now her only emotion was revulsion. Black or white, men were animals, and women were simple chattels to be fucked and hurled aside.
She pretended sleep when her mother peeked in on her way to church, and only opened her eyes when the snap of the door lock told her Martha had left. Slowly, then, Joan sat up and shivered with misery. She slipped on her robe and went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee from the pot Martha always left simmering on the stove. Today was Sunday but tomorrow was Monday, and again she would have to face Bonnie over the heads of more innocent children. The thought gave Joan no tingling as it had once provided. She was through with Bonnie. She was through with Sam, through with all men. She looked around the neat kitchen; then carrying her coffee, she walked slowly through the small apartment.
It was a very nice apartment and secure. She and her mother were happy and comfortable without much of the world's dirt and meannesses to bother them. Safe, uncontested and satisfied with their lives. They could go on in this tiny utopia forever, she thought, keeping the ugly outside world at a long arm's length. When this thought occurred, she was at the door of her mother's room, and suddenly, she saw the spinning wheel. The instant stone in her belly seemed to melt and flow hotly to every extremity of her quivering body.
She was through with Bonnie, with men, with ugliness. This was what her mind and emotions said but even as she stood, staring at the wheel, her body rebelled. She could feel her cunt in mild spasms of irritation, and her tits under the filmy nightgown were full and throbbing. She was a woman, wounded and disillusioned, but still a woman.
Abruptly, Joan was sure she knew why her pretty mother, with the kind, religious nature, had turned the maple spinning wheel into a sterile lover. Martha was a woman, too, a full-bodied, affectionate woman, whose needs were probably exaggerated by her memories of a happy married life. Joan moved forward and turned the wheel a bit; Martha had this mindless substitute. "Oh God, what do I have?" Joan wailed. Suddenly, she began to turn and peer, and after a moment of exciting resolve, she started a search for the critical, missing segments of the wheel. In the end, she found the spindle and the dildo where she had not thought to look, in the top drawer of the sewing cabinet, directly at the right hand of anyone sitting in the rocker.
The feel of the taped cylinder was shocking; it was hard and heavy and rough in her fingers. She sniffed at it and the odor of sex was strong. It was not at all like she remembered Sam's prick, but it was also not attached to a black belly, urged by a lust as uncaring as an erupting volcano. It was big, not as frightening now as it had been the first time she had seen it buried in her mother's cunt, but sobering in its thickness and length. She could see that it had never been more than two thirds used, the discoloration was barely seven or eight inches back from the knobbed end. Joan gathered her nightgown up and laid the dildo knob-up to her low belly. Her gasp of excitement at how huge the dildo seemed preceded a sudden pinching in her cunt. She fitted the spindle into the hole in the cock-club. She moved it as Sam had moved his prick. Her vagina came alive, seeking, grasping, hurting for pain and violent distension.
She knew then, what she wanted to do, but she was afraid that her mother might somehow discover that the dildo had been used by some one-the only other some one would have to be her daughter. She held the cock down, aiming it at her crotch, her mind racing to every drawer and cupboard in the apartment, trying to discover some method of covering the taped shape, and a wail of frustration escaped her throat as only the finger of a rubber glove seemed feasible, but obviously too small. Then the solution came to her and she tucked the dildo and spindle back into their hiding place and raced to her bedroom to dress. It would take only ten minutes to visit the corner drugstore where they sold everything from pills to patent leather purses-including toys for small children, and certainly, balloons.
There were packages of balloons on a wire rack, with ten balloons to a cellophane sack. Some were round but some were long and obviously would make a huge; sausage shape when blown up. But what increased her already flushed excitement over erotic adventure was the display of toys in the glass counters and on the back shelves. Up to Sam, she had never been interested in long cylindrical shapes; she stared at the toy flutes, the long sleek rockets that could be launched with a spring and a holder, and the barrels of tin cannons. Her cunt quaked and she clutched her handbag firmly to steady her quivering fingers. Then amid a multitude of things, she saw the row of cellophane covered boxes. In the boxes were little suits, to turn a child into a soldier, a fireman, a cowboy-and a policeman. In the policeman's display, there was a billed blue cap, a web belt and shoulder strap, a snub-nosed plastic revolver and a night stick. Joan's eyes bugged hotly at sight of the night stick. It was shiny black and a foot long to the handle, which was plaited with black and white simulated leather strips.
"The policeman suit," she said to the clerk.
"Five-ninety-five," the clerk snapped.
"The club," Joan said in a husky tone. "Is it wood?"
"No, madam. It is hollow rubber so it can't possibly hurt any child your little boy hits with it."
"Y-yes. I'll take it-and five packages of these balloons!"
She hid the rest of the outfit on a high shelf her mother never bothered. Nearly breathless, Joan stood with the rubber cylinder in her fingers, squeezing it, flexing it and admiring its glistening black length. It wasn't very thick but she could wrap it some, as Martha had wrapped her original cylinder. Joan opened a package of balloons. There were no black ones so she selected a dark red one, and when she had laboriously stretched it over the inch and a quarter thick shaft of the toy club, it turned the black to a sensuous, familiar dusky scarlet, and there were three or four interesting wrinkles in the thin rubber. If there was a problem, it was that there was no hole in the handle into which she could fit the spinning wheel spindle.
Joan looked at her watch; it was eleven o'clock and she had at least an hour and a half. With a cry of quivering surrender, she laid the suggestive column on her bed and began to disrobe. Slowly, because the vicious shape had suddenly assumed a personality-and to fulfill her rising excitement-she stripped before it as if it were alive.
Feet spread, breath hissing heavily in her nose, Joan unsnapped the waist band of her skirt. Twisting in time to a tuneless melody in her throat, she peeled the light wool down, inch by inch, pausing to run her palms down her thighs and around to wipe up the full rounds of her buttocks before she rolled the skirt on down. She tried a small fucking motion with her hips and was pleased at how smooth she did it. Then she dropped the skirt around her ankles and continued her gyrations with delightful inside tingling as her muscles worked. Caught in the make-believe, she hooked a finger under the seam of her panties and did a tantalizing peek-a-boo of the crotch band, giggling as her moist cunt winked at the threat lying on the bed. Impatient, Joan unbuttoned her blouse, swinging her shoulders so her big tits swayed from side to side. They seemed extra heavy and full and when she unhooked her brassiere, they leaped free in violent quivering, the nipples thick with pounding blood. Joan stole a minute to roll and lift and milk them, the smell of her own flesh rising warmly to her nostrils.
The game was quickly played; naked, Joan began a furious grinding and bumping, less theatrical than it was lewd, her tits snapped and her cunt pouted and receded-her hands wandered over her animated flesh, delving lightly here and there, smoothing and lifting and squeezing. As her excitement grew, she began to moan and gasp in genuine distress. Suddenly, she went to her hands and knees on the bed, in precisely the position Sam had placed her before his ruthless cock had shot hard and deep into her virgin cunt. Only now, her hand holding the plaited club handle, she slid it in and in with the slow gentleness that suited the dreams she had often had of her first copulation.
"Oh-ooh-oah!" she cried and her cunt, tightly wrapped around the deep intrusion, seemed to gulp the club even deeper. Filled by joy, Joan wiggled the club around and fucked at it with subtle undulations. It seemed very big and almost alive. Remembering, she began to slide it in and out of her vagina, screwing it and mis-aiming it as Sam had done his cock while she had struggled. Joan lowered her shoulders so the flint-hard tips of her swinging tits brushed the bedspread. A thrill she hadn't counted upon came when her hand guiding and working the dildo felt the inner movements of her secret muscles. She let go of the handle and peeked back under, watching the wrist-thong swing like a pendulum as her cunt chewed hungrily at the long, resilient shaft. Places that had seemed sore now became super-sensitive, and she resumed her slow deep stroking, emphasizing every other thrust with a sweetly brutal force that caused her vagina to twitch in spasms of pleasure.
Tensions and soft burning gathered at the mouth of her vulva. Her hips began an involuntary roll and hunch and the hand manipulating the rubber cock and the shape itself separated from Joan's body, and she mewled with the pure ecstasy of being fucked. Gradually the memory of Sam began to fade and her hands and knees position became restrictive, inadequate. Still pistoning the dildo, Joan slid back and stood up, knees out-kinked, breath coming in furious heaves and her tits rolling with the under-hunch of her hips. She. opened her eyes and saw nothing until she awkwardly turned so her reflection in the dresser mirror bounded back at her with brutal impact. She turned her arm so she could see how the rubber club tucked her vulva lips in and dragged them out, and the sight of herself fucking herself concentrated her swelling sensations. With a quavering cry, she fell backward onto her bed, the released club jerking as her orgasm exploded in gigantic churning. It seemed never to end, and when it began to fade, she reached down and stirred her inner forms with a rotating moment, grunting to force her cum into endless thudding. After a minute, she could only lie and pant. Presently, she began to laugh, a soft, rippling sound that startled her. She raised to one elbow and looked down the bulged and quivering length of her body to where the plaited club handle protruded from her cunt. She pinched the shaft at the very lips of her cunt, then slid the club out, holding it up to perceive the length that had been buried in her sex sleeve. She could not span the wet, slimy length with her left hand and her laughter increased as she remembered spanning the length of Sam's cock with the some curiosity. Her belly purred and her cunt was a tube of happy flame. She put the end of the dildo to her mouth and sucked her acrid body flavors with perverse delight. She wanted to sing because she at last had something of her own. Instead, she drew her legs up and caressed her nates and between them with the rounded rubber shape. She pushed it to her anus and instantly a new excitement flooded her.
"Oh, my, my, yes!" she said to the dildo, but her erotic thoughts did not leap in growth until she checked her watch and estimated that there were still forty or fifty minutes before Martha could return.
It would not go up her asshole, though she thrilled at the firm snubbing and the lewdness of her efforts. Doubling, her legs pressed hard to her reswelling tits, she manipulated her asshole, stretching it with side pressures and finally inserting the first joint of her forefinger. It burned an twitched, but after a pleasurable moment of testing, i seemed to relax and she wet the sphincter with ooze fro her enlivening cunt. Still the blunt round of the club would not enter; Sam had tried to screw his rigid prick in and she had screamed in pain and he had cursed in frustration. She had wanted it then and she wanted it now. She rolled forward and came back with a jar of face cream, and she nearly had orgasm, rubbing the soft, cool lubricant into her anus and on the inner surfaces of her nates. She coated the wrinkled balloon, leaving a strong daub on the dildo end.
It went right in, sending a wave of pain outward from her distended asshole, until it dissipated in shock at every nerve ending in her body. Then the feeling of great filling came and as she turned and pressed the thick intruder, her asshole softened and with perverse glee, she urged the shaft in and in, surprised by the seeming bottomless of her rectum and excited by the obscenity of what she did to herself. Again sliding off the bed, she turned her back to the dresser and with her head twisted around as far as it would go, she bent slightly and stared at the monstrous invasion of her backside. The cheeks of her ass seemed to wrap themselves around the shaft, and as she flexed her belly muscles to feel the high intrusion, the handle of the club moved shortly as if planted forever in her rectum. She stood up straight and walked in small circles, feeling the down-aimed handle at the back of her taut thighs. When the natural function of her bowel started to expel the cylinder, she let it creep down and down until it seemed ready to drop to the floor, then she reached down and under to thrust it in even farther than before. Quivering, wracked with agonizing sensuality, Joan moaned and went to her knees. One elbow on the bed, her forehead on her palm, she fucked herself in the ass with short, irregular strokes and it took a long time for her orgasm to come, a deliciously extended period of ecstasy like no other she had ever known.
Finally, she lay over the edge of the bed, exhausted, satiated but inwardly alive with promises of the future. At almost twelve-thirty she got up and waddled into the bathroom, and poised over the toilet, she slid the dildo from her rectum. Her bowel evacuated copiously and even that sent shivers of pleasure through her nakedness. She washed herself and the dildo, then sought a place in her bedroom to hide the device, which now seemed so humanly inspired she murmured soft words of affection to it. In the end she put in under the mattress at the head of her bed, because after Sunday afternoon came Sunday night, and she was in love.
Martha pulled the drawer all the way out and stared down at the two wrapped shapes. The flake of paper she had placed on each of the long, wrapped shapes was two telltale white triangles on the bottom of the drawer. Softly, she closed the drawer and settled back in the rocker, her nerves singing with strange excitement. Joan had found them, which proved that the wrinkled rug had been significant. As had been the singular taste on Joan's lips yesterday and the faint but unmistakable odor coming from Joan's bedroom when the little colored girl had been ostensibly reading poetry-at a lingual level no twelve-year-old could possibly be interested in. Martha laughed mirthlessly, nervously. It was still a secret between them and a secret with each of them, but her maturity told her that some barrier had been surmounted and that before long there would have to be a confrontation.
And because of the secret's connotations, both to the discovered and the discoverer, she and her daughter were going to become very, very close-or forever apart.
When her hysterical laughter died, Martha cried, unsure of which ultimate she really wanted. Not forever apart because this would destroy her reason for living, and not too close because this would destroy them both. Sometimes, she thought, the Fates were not very kind, and it was something she did not know how to pray about.