Chapter 7
Heat seems to consume him; his skin seems to drip with sweat which courses under his shirt and on his forehead, into his eyes, blinding him. He wipes the wet from his brow, stares blearily at a high, beamed ceiling. What is this place?
From the corner of his eye he sees a figure, naked and silvered with light, move towards him -- no, not one but two naked bodies. He stares at them. Ahh Alex and the boy! And yet it does not appear to him surprising that these characters from his manuscript are gliding over a bare wood floor in his direction. It is all quite logical.
Rough and callused fingers ripping buttons off his shirt, the metal teeth of his fly zipper, are surprising because he'd imagined Alex would be more gentle; the fingers cannot be his, or the boy's, and, as his pants are torn from him and down over his shoes, a second pair of hands jerks his Jockeys off and horny fingers grip his cock. He hears a low, laughing voice... Not Alex's voice, but whose? "Looka the fucking balls on this guy! He's built like a Goddamn mule!" Callused hands cup his balls, at first not hard, almost lovingly, then clamp like a vise. "Hey!" he says aloud, "what in hell you doing, Alex?" and the low, sardonic laugh echoes in his head again.
Now, odors of another body, its slimy sweat pungent, come in close to his nose as a leering, dark face presses him closer. "You dig that, don't you, you Goddamn Anglo?" a voice sneers. Hot, wet lips touch his chest hair, move to his nipple, suck; a second voice pants, "Ahhh... oh, Jesus!" Is the voice his? Other fingers stroke and milk his erect and throbbing cock and other hands slide between his legs to squeeze his balls, which send agony ricocheting along the surface of his skin. He mutters, "Alex, Alex! Step on me harder!" submitting to his pain in a kind of delirium.
"Harder," his voice moans, body convulsed and spasming with passion, the ecstatic agony searing him. "Ahhh!" the voice moans, as love suffuses him and Alex's fingers tear at his flesh. "Ahh." Blindly, groping with his hands to find Alex, he fumbles with a opening, touches rigid skin, and a laughing voice mutters, "Go ahead, you Goddamn pervert, jack me off!" More raucous laughter as the huge pole of cockflesh in his palm jerks; ooze moistens his fingers.
The rough, callused hands forced him downward; his knee bones seem to crack on the bare wood flooring and he attempts to open his eyes wider to stare at that enormous shaft of muscle and skin, its dusky, tan color, the slippery, purple-tinted bulbous knob at its end, the drops of milky-white ooze that drip from it. Warm, raunchy-smelling air seeps from an opening as material on either side of his face is moved quickly down over hairy, thick thighs; hands jerk him forward and ram his open lips to the cock. Ahhh! The flavor of that squirming object in his mouth is excitingly masculine; he sucks the cock in until it fills his throat; balls in a crinkled sac mash to his chin as the voice above his head snarls, "Swallow the fucker, you Goddamn pervert."
He thought, I don't mind dirty words but, damn you, I don't like being called a pervert! He shoved the cock away from his face, stumbled to his feet, stared about him. Where the hell am I?
Now, two men in the room began to blend with his fantasy manuscript figures. He was not as pleased with these new participants, stared at them uncomprehendingly; voices when they spoke were in different textures -- one snarling, the other less so -- and the words they uttered seemed intelligible but confusing, appeared to come from the high ceiling overhead.
His eyesight clearing, Evan stared at a tall, naked body swaying before him, shifted his eyes from a contorted dark face to a broad spread of muscular shoulders, down to a narrow waist, noting skin color -- a dusky almond -- and the color of a huge tube of flesh hung between massive hairy thighs; shifting his eyes to the right, he saw a second naked man sprawled in a chair. Where did Alex and the boy go?
Warm currents of air on his own nakedness, he swerved his face to a stone fireplace, saw flickering flames, shivered slightly. Where are my clothes and what the hell are we doing? But the question held no particular meaning, neither interest nor fear. As his skin began to glow with the heat, he stared again at the dark, contorted face.
He said what appeared in his mind suddenly and without thinking, "No need to force me. I will do whatever you want." (Was that his voice speaking, for chrissakes?)
Hilario grinned and laughter shook the tall, naked body in Evan's vision. He glowered, jaw jutting, "Man, you Anglos are too fucking much! Nothing's gonna blow your cool, no matter how dirty, right? Shit, don't you pick up on what's in my Goddamned head yet?"
He stared at the glazed, shiny red bulb of skin dangling at the end of the sausage between hairy thighs. "If you think you'll force me into signing that paper with pain and brutality, it won't work. I don't care what you do."
The Spanish-American snarled at his brother, "Get those pliers and rope under the bar!"
Valentine rose, shuffled on bare feet to the bar, returned with a snub-nosed implement, handed it to Hilario. "You ain't gonna use this thing, are you?" he muttered in a low voice, eyed Evan.
With a swift blow of the back of his hand, Hilario struck his brother, sprawled him on the floor. "Goddamnit! I'm head of the family. You shut your yap and watch!"
As he was forced to squat on a chair, rope wound and tying him securely, powerless to move, Evan actually did not want to move, thought dully, Okay -- now what? Coarse hemp fibers stung bare arms and rubbed across hairs on his naked chest, wrapped his legs; leering wet lips close to his face sneered, "All you gotta do, you pervert Anglo, is sign and I'll set you free, okay?" Hilario waved a sheet of paper before Evan's eyes. "You will sign, you know that, don't you? How much pain can you take, man?" (The last words of this sentence seemed, as they rang in Evan's head, to have been said in a less angry tone of voice; the glittery black eyes staring into his seemed to warm with a kind of affection.) He shook his head.
The metal on his flesh was cold. Then, as the pliers closed to pinch his nipple, warm fluids flowed through him; the metal now was blazing hot. With this pleasant sensation, he relaxed tensed muscles on his legs in his groin. A hand gripping the pliers twisted as a searing flash of pain ripped him, and his cock rose, slid up his thigh until it stood erect and throbbing.
The metal released his aching nipple to reappear in his crotch; its jaws opened around his sac and balls, closed slowly. "You gonna sign now?" a voice yelled.
"Wait!" another voice interrupted. "You're going at it in the wrong way!" Valentine's trembling body moved across Evan's line of vision, leaned to stare into his face. "How about both of us fucking him? That will make the bastard sign, won't it?"
Hilario laughed. "Jesus, I think you dig Anglo ass, dummy! Okay," and he moved to the chair where Evan was tied. "Hold him while I take off the rope."
They shoved him unresisting, onto a couch, threw him on his back in cushions, raised his legs over his head, and the scratchy hemp fibers again wound him. He lay, head dangling over the side, legs bound vertically, ass raised and exposed.
A finger prodded his asshole, slid in deep, thrust further until it seemed as if an entire hand was rammed inside him; he wiggled on the cushions. "Goddamn! This Anglo's got a hole like the fucking Grand Canyon!" Hilario grunted, fell on him.
The hot, slippery rod pronging him parted membranes. Jerking up, then slumping into the cushions, Evan tried to clamp legs to a heaving naked back, moaned as the rope held him. The cock inside him was enormous, just as the cock in his manuscript fantasy had been, and, closing eyes, he imagined it was Alex fucking him, whispered, "Lover, oh, Christ, lover... Alex, Alex, Alex."
A short, barking laugh compelled him to open his eyes. A voice muttered, "I'm gonna fuck the shit outta you, Lambert," and with a violent shove the cock penetrated to his prostate, tantalizing and exciting; he opened his lips to shout but no sound came. Hands grabbing his hips roughly jerked his ass up higher as the body over him raised, then plunged down.
Now, the hot liquid sensations building inside him became a blazing sun, crept up the length of his body, and he seemed to suffocate with heat. Easing his pelvis on the cushions under him, he tried to part the cheeks of his ass wider to receive that ramming cock, lifted his head to stare at a contorted dark face which drooled saliva above him, and still could not understand who this man was. His body shivering with waves of cold washing over his nakedness, his head fell back to dangle over the couch side; it banged against the wooden frame with each ferocious shove of cock, punctuated with grunts from the lips close to his chin. His legs jerked, straining at the taut rope as the cockhead inside him extended throughout his entire body. The panting lips at his chin shifted, dropped to his chest and teeth bit his nipple. Evan spasmed, rose again with the twisting of his hips to stare into that dark complectioned, sweaty face. Was it really Alex making love to him? He could not wind bound arms around those broad, hairy shoulders but murmured, "Alex, oh, Alex, Alex!" His head fell back again to pound the couch frame, a dull thudding noise in his mind like the sound of thunder.
Spasming, he felt the hot ooze spurt from his cock, spread between his stomach and the body ramming him; a jeering, panting voice muttered: "Shoot, man, shoot!" and a second ejaculation spurted like thick jelly over his skin. He quivered with the wonderful feelings flooding him and saliva, drooling from his mouth, dripped into his eyes. God, God! Let me die like this! Let me die like this! Head lolling over the side of the couch, a black fag seemed to take him.
"Lift his head," an angry voice commanded. "He's gonna drown in his own spit in that position, for Christ's sake, lift him up!"
His head was raised, held between two naked knees, and saliva ran back into his mouth. Hilario's voice snarled, "To hell with him! Fuck him in the mouth, Goddamnit!"
A hard length of warm cockflesh ground on his chin, slid to open lips as knees holding him quivered spasmodically. A plump cockhead slipped between his lips and he stroked it with his tongue, tasted juices sharply bitter; pubic hair, harsh as wire, scratched his nose and a voice moaned, "Holy Jesus!"
Now, as in the fantasy sequences of his manuscript, he was blocked orally and anally. Behind his closed eyelids, within the circumscribed limits of his body -- its muscular systems, network of veins, throbbing glands, brain, lungs -- a kind of darkness, as if within a cave or closeness of the womb, he seemed to float free, suspended in a pulsating void. The sensation was pleasant; he was safe and remote. Pain warmed and coursed through his inner being, burst with a shivering explosion like a thousand hot needles. His mind, however, was clear, words glowing in it like blue diamonds.
In this thousand-roomed torture, chamber of sex, I dive to the bottom of the deepest abyss, into the totally unknown in order to discover something new. Nature, brandishing the whip, constantly seeking new victims, is destructive and evil, inconsistent full of contradictions. It is not I who am the demon but Nature!
All humans want to command or submit sexually; then why is my desire for pain equated with the word lust since lustful-love-of-life is a pinnacle all humans seek to attain? If my body, writhing under the whip or spasming under flame, is mine alone to do with as I choose, what difference does the manner of my passion make to others? If by means of sublime pain I break through into another world they can never know, does that infuriate these others, these stupid beast, drive them to enraged threats of vengeance?
Still, it is Nature they must look to for guidance and answers if these beast really desire enlightenment. Words of the Marquis de Sade -- the "Divine Demon" -- rising like motes in sunlight seemed to radiate in the dark interior enclosing him. A distant, faint sigh must be his own inner voice: the sound was like a faraway purring of an enormous cat among green-lush jungle foliage. He did not want to open his eyes to destroy this sublime illusion. The two Blacks -- the cock deep in his throat, the other pronging his ass -- continued to fill every muscle with trembling ecstasy, course through every vein, vibrate in every gland. He wanted these sensations to go on indefinitely, never to cease.
The bulbous slick head of the cockshaft in his ass touched his prostate, sending shivers over his entire body; he would have liked to wind his legs over that heaving naked back fucking him; enclose hips with his arms but the rope held him fast, burned his skin as he strained to release himself. He sank backward into his humid, dark void and the fantasies behind his closed eyelids, breathed regularly, felt the steady push and shove of two bodies as if they worked as one to please him.
The cock in his lips tasted of the smell of horses as if, by contact with these animals, it had soaked up the smell by repeated rubbing of a hairy crotch to a saddle. There was also the faint exciting odor of leather. Balls, bounding on the bridge of his nose and his closed eyelids, tantalized with wiry pubic tendrils, the smell of an asshole, fetid and shiny.
Slowly, he opened his eyes, his head jogging up and down with the shoving, flared at the asshole near his eyes, a crinkled pucker pouted like a dark brown mouth, the bulging seminal cord that disappeared to the enormous sausage immersed in his mouth; around the sausage base, matted and wet, brown hair stuck like a thick bush, covered inner thighs at each side of his face. The shaft sank deeper and darkness descended over him once more.
She maneuvered the car in ruts of the road, tires spinning on hard mud and snow. From the back seat, Merlinda gasped, "You want to kill us? Make her drive more sensibly, Mother!"
Rosabel's angular profile did not turn but her voice, low and threatening said, "I won't tell you again, girl, you are not family. I don't want to listen to any more of your childish hysteria, do you hear? My daughter knows what she's doing."
"There won't be any family after tonight when I tell the police what I know about Scott's murder. How do you like that?"
"I will see you dead first!"
A cackling sound was Merlinda's laugh. "Don't you threaten me, old woman! Valentine agrees with how I think about your rotten family and what you represent, the Entidad, all of it! I'm not afraid of you!"
"Valentine will do as I tell him." Rosabel turned her head to stare at Antonia. "And so will my daughter."
Held by the rutted road and deep mud furrows, the car swerved dangerously near a ditch but Antonia held a firm grip on the steering wheel, glanced at her mother, then back to snow-clogged tree trunks whirling past the windows. "I'll not permit you to continue this insane hatred, Mama. It must end. The Anglo will not die if I must hold you and Hilario at the point of a gun!" A hand on the wheel, she reached with the other to a side pocket in the car door, took out a small revolver, aimed it at her mother. "And I will use it if necessary, so do not force me!"
Merlinda shrieked, "Stop her, for God's sake, stop her!"
The Maes' matriarch sat sturdy as a stone, eyes on the road. Rosabel smiled. After a long moment of silence, she said in a calm voice, "Shut up, Merlinda. She does not understand what she's saying. That Anglo husband of hers has filled her head with Anglo absurdity, but she will do as I tell her to, won't you, Antonia?"
A thick shaft filling his throat, hips pummeled into him as he tried to swallow spit, felt the cock enlarge, blocking his windpipe, and a voice grunted with each shove. Spread on cushions, his head bumping the couch frame under the brutal pummeling, rope that bound him cut deep into his flesh. The second body plunging into him forced his ass, widened his pucker as sensations drowned him, raised his passion to fever pitch.
Hilario's voice clanged in his ears as it shouted, rammed the cock deeper and, with the loud shout, hot gism spurted, teasing his prostate. As he mumbled around the shaft in his gullet, an orgasm glued his belly and the one pressed onto him; then, the cock in his mouth flooded, and he heard another voice rise to a guttural yell. With a last brutish shove, come drooled from his lips, ran over his face. "Christ!" the guttural voice bellowed, and naked knees holding him jerked apart. His head dropped to the couch side again, dangled almost to the floor. Choking, he gulped helplessly. His head spun and he seemed to slide into a hot pit, viscous and inflamed, his pulse beat rapid.
"Pull him up!" Hilario's voice commanded. Hands raised his head, propped him on the couch arm. He opened his eyes.
The room whirled. He was barely conscious of the man who'd split him, rising, stumbling, a wet cock pendulous between legs, or of evil black eyes that stared down at him. "Jesus! You're a helluva fuck, Lambert," a laughing voice said. The black eyes left him, swiveled to glare in another direction as the voice went on, "Like I said, Val, fucking ain't punishment for Anglos. Them cocksuckers love it! Looka him! This one's never had it so good!" A clenched fist appeared in Evan's line of vision, came closer; the blow knocked back his head. Now, details around him were foggy and his ears seemed to ring with a strange sound like the humming of giant insects.
The odd humming noise comes from a great distance, far beyond a dim horizon; the foreground might be deserted beach or meadow, neutral in color; amorphous shapes that cling to the ground or sail overhead might be clouds or steam. This place is humidly warm.
He thinks. A peyote hallucination. His concentrate on that horizon, it will vanish and I'll awake to. But the dull sameness of this landscape cannot be a head dream; the drug induces visions in psychedelic colors. As he stares at a vanishing point, a perspective which diminishes to a dot of light, he sees three tiny naked figures. They grow rapidly, seem now to tower above him.
No fear or surprise: they are Jimby, Alex and the unnamed boy of his manuscript.
Ahhh! the beauty of those bodies! Alex, broad-shouldered, a chest of curly black beetle hair running to a flat belly vertically to spread into a dense pool of black pubes, narrow hips supporting heavy thighs and between them a large flaccid reed of pale flesh, and exposed head like a ruby flower.
The unnamed boy: shaggy blond hair like wheat or milkweed, cornflower-blue eyes staring at him through shocks of the air like yellowed fern; not yet defined structure of an upper body like a young elm. Long lean legs and arms with spidery muscular development feet with animal toes, and, hanging between those legs a thick cock, a tree trunk, out of proportion to that slender, willowly frame.
And Jimby: his youthful slimness, the way his hip tilts his pelvis as he stands loose, slackly indolent but wary as a fawn, and the liquid black insect eyes staring down, lashes like black flower petals, the cock, familiar and delicious, he'll never forget its taste like honey, the odor of excitement it secretes, the wonderful scent of that brawn pucker like damp earth.
At first gigantic golden images from some ancient past, the three naked bodies slowly assume normal proportions; Evan sighs, sits up on the softly caressing surface, holds out his arms. "Come to me!"
Alex and the unnamed boy sit beside him. The three entwine, lips pressed together. Their hands rove aver silky flesh. Fingers grip horny, insect-scaled cocks, slide in silken oozes. Closing his eyes, Evan's body is bird-weight, seems to float, to pulsate and shiver; he wonders how much more of this joy he can endure, then hears a crackling sound, feels hot nails claw his shoulder, rip his flesh. Jerking back, he stares wildly up at Jimby.
The boy now wears tight black leather pants that mold his thighs and glisten like dolphin skin. The fly is open and from it a long, pale cock dangles like a swan's neck. A voice echoes in the vast feathery tunnel of space; it hisses, "You wouldn't save me, Evan! When I asked you to take me to California, you refused. Why did you do that?"
A whip, held in Jimby's hand, coils, wraps the three shuddering naked bodies, jerks them forward onto naked bellies. Evan hears Alex's animal cry of rage, a whimper of pain from the unnamed boy, tries to disentangle snake leather from his flailing legs, rolls in the softly undulating surface.
"You promised, Evan! You forced me to do what I did! I didn't want to hurt anyone. It was your fault, not mine!" Leather writhes, screams through the air, whips around him and the other struggling naked bodies; claws ripping his flesh draw blood which spurts from his thighs, drips between his legs staining his cock flower-red.
"No... oh, God...! Jimby!" he yells as the snake whip streaks out, coils him, silencing his shouted words.
A voice snapped, "Shit! He passed out! Slap his face, wake the bastard!"
Alex, the unnamed boy, and Jimby dwindle slowly in the distance, their naked bodies outlined in a golden haze once more, turn into brilliant butterflies and vanish. As he opened his eyes, a stinging, hot sensation on his cheek, Evan stared at a high spider-webbed ceiling, moved his eyes to rope-snakes twining legs raised over his head. Shifted his eyes to see a tall naked man walk across the room, beetle-ugly body shining and outlined in a golden haze, an ass shiny in firelight. The man stamped behind a bar, grabbed a bottle from a shelf.
Brandishing the bottle so Evan could see what he held in his hand, Hilario leaned on the bar top, sneered, "See this, Lambert? I'm gonna ram it up your Goddamn ass, then we'll see if an Anglo will sign this paper or not, okay?"
His sphincter contracted around the bottle neck as it penetrated him. Unable to move, legs tied and ass spread, the glass sank deep as Hilario shoved, muttering, "How's that feel, you sonovabitch." His pucker, soapy with sperm, parted; the hard object spearing him forced belly muscles to contract painfully, and, though he knew he must not react or utter a sound, agony in his bowel made him groan. Laughing, Hilario leaned to stars into his eyes, pushed the bottle further. "You gonna sign, Lambert."
Sign, sign what? he thought, interns pain convulsing him as he tried to open lips to shout; no sound came but an aching intake of breath. Now, his rectum was aflame; waves of fire consumed him, burrowing deep inside, and his balls ached, seemed to burst in a shower of hot sparks. Sweat, pouring over him, cooled feverish flesh, but he imagined he heard steam hiss from his skin. Stuck to slimy, wet cushions under him, he tried to shift his hips to ease the agony fusing his body.
The bottle neck sank to its thicker, bulging width, stretched his circular ring of muscle and, with the sensation of ripping membranes, his pucker gaped wide as the bottle plunged almost to the hand that held it. Choking panting, he shut his eyelids to blot out glittery black eyes staring at him with crazy fascination, seemed to careen and slide into a red void, faintly heard a brutal voice repeat, "You gonna sign this paper?"
Valentine stood beside the couch, face ashen, eyes fearful. "How can he take that thing? What if the glass busts inside him? Then what for chrissakes, huh?"
His brother glared at the brown stain oozing over clenched fingers on the bottle; the odor of shit was overpowering. "You think I do this because I like it?" Hilario snarled, stared down at a flushed face and closed eyes. His hand shoving the bottle stopped; he turned to Valentine, muttered, "If he croaks, you know what you're gonna tell the fuzz, right?" Leaning, he placed an ear to Evan's chest. "Hell, he's still alive. Get some water from the bar, fast!"
The cabin door was shoved inward. Revolver in hand, Antonia motioned with it for the other two women to come into the room, turned to stare, horrified, at what she saw, Evan tied on the couch; Hilario and Valentine naked. As she gasped, Rosabel stepped to her and wrenched the gun from her fingers. Merlinda ignored them, walked calmly into the room, said in a scoffing voice to Valentine, "Call the police." When he didn't move, as if frozen with shock, she glared at him, strode to the bar, lifted a wall phone off its hook, dialed once.
With an angry cry of rage, Rosabel struck Antonia, sent her sprawling to the floor, turned around to face the others with the revolver in her hand. "Valentine! Get the phone away from that idiot! Hilario take your sister into a bedroom and lock the door!" Advancing threateningly toward the couch, she stood over Evan, pointed the gun at his head. "I tried to warn you, Mister Lambert. If you had left when you had the chance, you might still be alive," she said in a low voice.
Behind Rosabel, he saw Antonia lunge for her mother, and the two women tangled in a mass of flailing arms. The older woman's coil of thick black hair fell around her shoulders and, with another cry of rage, she grappled with her daughter. Sleepily, almost not caring, Evan watched the Maeses fighting, heard the men's pants and grunting noises, the scuffle of feet on the bare wood floor, a woman's voice in agonized pain, a shot a scream as something hit the floor with a loud crash.
Then, a level, practical-sounding voice said, "This is Merlinda Maes. Send a squad car to the Pecos cabin... you know which one it is? Five miles in from the Las Vegas highway. Thank you."
Fingers untied rope from his aching, cramped legs, and his arms fell limply to the cushions; a blanket was thrown over his naked body. Before he closed his eyes, Antonia's tear-stained face bent toward him. "I'm dreadfully sorry, Mister Lambert. Please forgive us. I'll have Merlinda call a doctor."
He muttered wearily, "No... no... no..." but she added quickly, "I must... Mama's been shot."
With these startling words, his mind seemed to open onto a vast space lighted by a golden sun. "Where is Jimby?" he mumbled, stared up at the sad dark eyes.
Antonia leaned closer. "Jimby killed Scott, Mister Lambert. He must have been listening outside your trailer. Please try to be calm, there's nothing we can do now. The police..."
"Where is he?"
Her face seemed to sail above him like a pale moon. "He is gone. Jimby ran away."
He seems to look into that golden haze. Walking away from him, naked bodies powdered gold and glittery like falling stars, he sees three figures, muscularly rounded asses moving like gilded apples. They stride into the distance rapidly.
"Alex! Jimby boy!" his mind calls. "Don't leave me here alone! After what I've suffered for you, don't leave me!"
There is a faraway sound of laughter. Then, a voice says, "Suffer? You did not submit for us. You enjoyed the agony. We have no further use, Evan. Be honest admit what you are!" The laughing increases, fills his mind, then silence. Evan closed his eyes.