Chapter 5
Willy is unbelievable! She does not like him any better, of course.
In fact, she confirms within herself the extent of her contempt and disgust.
Still, she must give the devil his due.
And she has discovered his one real, genuine talent.
He can fuck.
Boy, can he fuck!
Of course, the first time, it was over so quickly that she saw nothing and felt so much so fast that, when it was over, her body was not certain about what happened.
Which was mostly her fault, she supposes.
Because she could not bring herself to fuck face to face.
Not that first time, anyway.
So that she let him take her doggy style.
And take her he did. like a machine, a robot, a vibrating automaton.
One minute, they are standing there in the darkened room, she fighting down the nausea at letting this fat creep touch her.
The next, she is on hands and knees and he is shafting into her like a door bolt sliding home.
The next, her, the bed, the world shudders as he drives in and out of her with a speed of which she did not think the human body capable.
And she barely has the time to fight the mounting sensation of arousal within herself before, with a series of open-mouthed grunts, he is packing her interior with long, thick bursts of jism under high pressure.
And she notices, in passing him as he stands there at the sink washing his cock, that it is indeed quite impressive-long, thick, the head a plum in shape, size, and color.
Still she avoids looking at him as she takes a washcloth to her crotch, seated there on the toilet, careful to avoid touching his hand as she places it under the faucet, again and again.
But she cannot avoid seeing him out of the corner of her eye as they sit there in the living room, naked, on the couch, together, not because she wants to be, but because that is the only way she can see the TV sitting down.
Still, she remains as far as possible from him on the couch.
And she is surprised when they do not even make it through one whole soap opera episode-something about a bunch of white folks growing grapesbefore his pole is sprouting from his lap, massive, turgid, and yes, inviting.
As he stands and gallantly offers her a hand to help her to her feet, her eyes glued to the mighty prong that has come to such vibrant life so soon again after dying the little death.
She frees her hand from his gently clutch, following his large haunches into the bedroom.
He goes to fondle a breast as they stand there.
But she breaks away from him, quickly flopping onto her back, legs raised and spread and bent at the knees.
Letting him know that, if he is ready-and very clearly that is the case-she is ready, so go to it.
And this time, whether because the initial pressure of a long buildup has been relieved, the edge taken off as it were, or because he deliberately wishes to savor the action, he gives her a long, slow buildup.
And true, he has not fondled her body or eaten her first, actions she has long come to expect as the initial stages of her arousal and that of her partner.
Still, she finds herself becoming slowly, reluctantly aroused.
Face it, she tells herself, the man can fuck.
Being a no good mother-fucker and being able to fuck in general are not mutually exclusive properties, she supposes.
As Willy is so spectacularly proving at the moment, beyond all doubt.
Or maybe, she reflects, it is simply a case of a man whose life has become specialized, who does absolutely nothing else but fuck.
So that it is no wonder, if this is his only outlet, his only expenditure of energy in his total existence, that he can perform thus.
Because perform he does, with a power, an energy, a skill she has had equalled on occasion, but never for this length of time.
The man is a tireless dynamo.
And she supposes that he is expending masses of energy, that he is actually drawing on his reserves, stored in fat.
So that he is losing weight-whole pounds in fact-as he plows her.
But then, Willy has pounds to spare.
And will no doubt gain bad back and every one, freeloading at her mother's table tonight.
Still, for the moment, he is the world's greatest lover.
Or at least its greatest fucker. As his mighty piston moves in and out, in and out of her pussy. Which betrays her.
Which, much to her disgust, begins to respond, to welcome him.
And she tries to justify it in her own mind. It.
Not the fucking, but the feelings nascent within her cunt.
A man is not his cock, after all, and vice versa. So that she need not accept the whole man to accept just this part of him. Nature is not fair.
It has made her black, after all, instead of white and blonde.
But nature can err on the side of excess as well as to the detriment of a person.
And in this case, a wholly undeserved endowment has been bestowed on a piece of crap.
The man himself is beneath contempt; his cock is truly noble.
And now, her pussy comes to want it, to want to know it in intimate detail.
So that she feels the taut, hard roundness of the massive head as it separates the smooth, drooling lips of her pussy, moving in and out, in and out.
She feels the exquisite, distinct, added thrill of the flange at its rear as it reams her, in and out, in and out.
She feels the thick shaft, its hard, long, thick, vibrant, irregular, cylindical surface as it passes smoothly in and out, in and out.
In and out, in and out.
And each move is a thrill, a complex sensation of many sensations, many feelings, all separate and distinct, and yet, at the same time, all one exquisite, delightful thing.
Yes, she has done Willy a slight injustice.
She has always considered him good for nothing.
And now, she knows, beyond all doubt, that there is one thing he is good for.
And perhaps his one talent is so great that-no!
He was, is, and ever shall be a piece of shit.
He is a scab, a maggot, a turd.
He is a worthle-well, he is a parasite, anyway.
And a fucking machine! her body seems to exclaim.
Yes, is being serviced, no question.
For perhaps the very first time, she feels that she is, externally, unilaterally, being taken care of sexually.
So that she does not feel the obligation, the necessity, if she is to get herself off, of giving anything, of actively making an effort to contribute to his feelings, his stimulation or to her own.
She is free to simply lie back and let it happen.
And her body will-
Her body is responding.
Reflexively, automatically, on its own.
So that she is active.
She is in motion.
She is responding.
But without any sense of expending energy, of exerting herself, of initiating any action in any way.
Rather, her body is being moved, is being twisted, turned, flexed by forces within her, but not within her contol.
Of its own volition, her body is responding.
Without her trying, without her willing or even wishing it, her pussy is milking his driving piston of a cock.
Without her brain, her mind understanding the messages, her cunt and his cock are in full, intimate communication.
And now, she cannot fight him.
Well, she could, but why bother?
What is the sense, the advantage, the point?
So, reluctantly but no longer able to justify even that reluctance, she lets herself go.
Partially in contempt, in disgust at herself, at her body, she thinks, if it feels that good, you want it so bad?
Take it and be damned!
And her body's like, I will!
And it does.
Okay, okay, she links.
There is nothin; wrong with the whole body reaping the benefits of supercock down there, working away in the boiler room.
Because it is nor as though it is Willy fucking her, getting anything ... out of it.
Rather, it is his cock to which he just happens to be attached.
Hey, nobody ever said Mother Nature doesn't have a sense of humor, right?
And what is Willy, after all, if not a fucking sick joke?
So okay, no big deal.
She can use the rest, reject the rest.
Of him, that is.
And she is.
Her body and that cock. The world according to Ginny Mae. They are what matters at the moment, all that counts.
And outside them, there is nothing. It is all garbage.
The whole world is garbage, one huge open cesspool.
From which she, her body, has extracted the one, the only thing that is of any worth, any value or use.
This mighty, this all-powerful, this fantastic cock.
Which stays right in there, faithfully, fully supporting her slow, steady rise up the rainbow of her sexual pleasure.
Lascivious, intimate, infinitely luscious the feelings it creates.
Hungrily, greedily, infinitely responsive are the reactions it provokes.
Her body demands more.
His cock gives more.
And more and more, sometimes responding to, sometimes in anticipation of her ever-increasing demands.
Independent and yet responsive at one and the same time it is.
All-powerful, free, and reveling, glorying in that power, that freedom and yet at the same time captive to her body, to her grasping, clinging, sucking, devouring cunt it is.
As it works and plays and soars onward and upward through the realms of sensual pleasure, through one sexual paradise after another, each more glorious than the last.
As sensation upon sensation piles up within her.
And all of them are deep, meaningful, of the first quality.
Thrills there are, and to excess.
But no cheap thrills, no sleazy, shallow, surface tingles. The real thing. That's what this is.
With nothing strained or put on or contrived in any of it. The cock of cocks. The specialized man.
And perhaps she has been unfair with him.
Perhaps she has judged him too harshly.
All men are not created equal.
Some have more talent, some less.
Some are general, some are specialized.
And so it is with Willy, perhaps.
Perhaps he is not a waste after all.
Perhaps it is simply that he was born with the ability to do one thing well-that and nothing, absolutely nothing else.
Perhaps it is just as well that he does not try to drive a bus, for example.
He could run over somebody or crash and kill all the passengers.
Maybe the world is just a little safer over the fact that he pours no cement, drives no nail, assembles no electrical appliance.
Maybe the world is just a tad cleaner because it is not Willy swinging the mop, pushing the broom.
Maybe the world looks a little better over the fact that it is not Willy wielding the paintbrush.
And the books at the bank more balanced because it is not Willy cashing the checks, making the change.
And, on the other hand, the courts a little less busy, the jails a little emptier because Willy has not the daring to do that to which he is by nature inclined.
So that right now, as he propels her through level after level of lascivious, raw, sexual pleasure, he is not only doing the best he can, he is doing the only thing he really can.
And after all, is it his fault that there is no profession, no category of financial reward, for his particular field of expertise?
If they gave trophies or medals for fucking, surely he would qualify.
Fact: They do not.
If there were want ads in the paper for fucking, surely he would be the applicant of choice. Fact: There is not.
So that he is, in that sense, the sense of a square peg for a round hole, a walking absurdity. His fault?
She does not think so, she does not know, she is not so sure. Not any more.
And now, he propels her up, up, up and over the top.
And the pleasure beyond pleasure takes her.
Again and again, the spasms of her orgasms milk the j ism from the tool of tools, the cock of cocks.
And this time, she would not mind if he left it in for a little while, letting her pussy cling to that which gives it so much pleasure.
But he does not, as though knowing how she feels about him, as though only too well aware of it and not wishing to offend her, he removes himself from her as quickly as possible.
And does not dare look at her as they wash up again, lest she take offense at his glance and abandon the project.
So that he does not see her now, seated on the toilet, her eyes wandering to where the mighty meat is draped into the sink, flopping massively, voluptuously this way and that as he washes it off slowly, carefully.
And she, the heat now slaked within her for the moment once more thinks ill of him.
Because it is not possible, she reasons (now that reason is restored) that a man should be put on this earth without handicaps and yet be completely useless to any purpose for which the world provides recognition and reward, however slight.
And there is, there has to be, something he can do, however badly, that will provide him with at least his own sustenance.
Unless.
Unless nothing happens for nothing.
Unless everything is part of a mystical master plan.
So that he has been put here, so that, in simplest terms, he exists, in order that he should do exactly as he is doing, right here, right now.
So that his power, which seems unearthly, might in fact be the manifestation of some higher purpose.
Such as rescuing Ginny Mae and her mother from the grip of poverty.
So that he has been made cunning, dishonest, deceitful, lazy, not for his own sake and not by chance, but in order that he can say what he said, in order that he can do what he does, in order that he can be available to her.
And not even to her personally, but to the Purpose.
Let it be, let it be! she thinks, as she sits once more beside him, naked, on the couch.
Yes, if this is the case, if this is the way things are, then there is powerful magic at work here.
And she cannot miss.
And now, she sits there, actually impatient for it to happen. It.
And now, as though in response to her will, her conjuring, it does.
As his mighty stalk rears its monstrous, bulbous, one-eyed head, twitching with its power, vibrant with its imperative.
Which is to fuck Ginny Mae.
And this time, she does not pull away, does not resist as his hands help themselves to handfuls of generous, rounded, caf au lait buttocks.
And he presses his luck.
Because, this time, he dives into her muff, tasting her greedily, hungrily, strumming her clit with his tongue.
And he wallows in her, revels in her.
And she permits this, even this.
For the sake of the Purpose, she tells herself.
But still, she is no longer able in her mind to so readily divorce the magic wand from the magician who wields it.
Because it does not drive itself into her with even, powerful strokes.
It does not control length or frequency.
It does not maintain energy or enthusiasm.
It does not have its own heart, driving the blood into itself after only minimal rest.
Unless.
Unless his body is merely the slave of his cock. In which case he actually is handicapped. Because a cock has no brain to think, no eyes to see.
So that, if it is that which leads, that which is truly in charge of him, then he is as fucked in one sense as she is even now being fucked in another.
So that somebody-her mother, herself, whoever does indeed have to look after him, to take care of him.
And now, she sees here a hint of why her mother has never listened to her criticism of Willy, however vehement or eloquent, impassioned or rational the presentation.
Because, if he can do this, then what else, really, should be required of him?
And now, she revises her plan.
Now Willy can go with them.
Because, if not with them, then where can he go?
And she knows the answer to that one.
Into the street, into the gutter to which she so readily consigned him, only minutes before.
It is his idea, and his tool that will make it all happen.
And now, she has no doubts whatever but that it will come to pass, all of it, even as he has spoken, beyond what he has spoken to what she herself has projected.
And now, he is plowing away on her once again.
And he has cut short his foreplay, evidence of his impatience and of the power behind that impatience to fuck her still more, to inject her still more.
And it is probably too soon for it to do any good, she thinks.
The contraceptive chemicals of the pill have not had time to flush themselves from her body. Still, they say you mustn't miss a day, so how potent can they he?
But then, she reasons, how potent are they anyway, compared with the power of the higher purpose, of the. destiny to which they are all subject?
Let it be, let it be! she chants to herself, as she feels the warmth welling up within herself once more.
Quickly, more quickly than ever before, it builds within her.
So that he has her up and over the top in what seems to her to be record time.
Speaking of which-
"We bes' hose down an' git dressed, babe.
"Yo' mama gon' be home soon, an' ah gots ta go ovah sumthin' else wif you befo' she git here."
They shower separately, he letting her go first.
And now, they sit fully clothed in the living room and he turns off the TV with the remote.
She looks at him.
"You cain't be goin' back ta work."
"No?"
"No. You gots ta be broken-hearted, unnastan'?
"You have been thoo a severe traumatic esperi-ence, you dig?
"In othah woids, the champ has made you promises, used you, gotten you pregnant, an' then thown you out lak yestiday's trash.
"You done give him yo' whole life an' he took full advantage of yo' youth an' yo' innocence to git hisse'f jus' anothah piece of ass."
"That's uh, that's just about what happent, 'cep' fo' the pregnant part."
"Details, details!"
And he laughs quickly, turning serious again almost at once.
"Point is, you too broken up ta be any use to yo'se'f or anybody else.
"An' yo' mama, fine human bein' that she is-an' ah sincerely mean it-is mos' natch'ly gonna hope fo' de bes', teh y'all take it easy fo' a whal, an' lak 'at."
"But I don't-"
"Look. You an' me, we got us a job ta do.
"Now, ah knows you ain' neva' 'spected me ta say nuffin' 'bout a job, an' that's neithah heah no' theah, but b'leeve me, this job ah'm gon' see thoo to de end.
"But fo' me ta do whut ah gots ta do, fo' us ta do whut we gots ta do, ah gots ta hab you rat cheer, an' you know dass de troof."
Involuntarily, surprising herself, she feels a twinge of arousal in her abdomen.
Because he is talking about their being right here, all day, five days a week, while her mother is at work.
So that they can fuck and fuck and fuck, until he gets her pregnant.
And the very idea turns her on.
So that, despite herself, she finds herself warming to him.
Reminding herself that it is all for a cause, all in fulfillment of her (their?) destiny.
They are. like the astronauts, embarked upon a journey of higher meaning.
And no less technically proficient, personally dedicated, uncompromisingly determined to fulfill the mission.
Astronauts they are.
Olympians they are.
You think you're with the program, Teddy? she thinks. Shee-it!
You ain' seen nuthin' yet, bro'! You see the numbah we gon' pull off, you think you done lost by a knockout! Virginia!
"Mama! Oh, Mama!"
And she falls, sobbing, into her mother's outstretched arms.
And Willy can only look down, sinuses grasped between his fingers, shoulders heaving up and down, hoping for all the world that his snickers will be mistaken for deep sobs of sympathy, so overcome is he at the tender and pathetic .return of the prodigal daughter.
As he thinks, Cheer up, folks.
Better days are coming.
Much, much better days.