Well, there are so many experiences we can have. And yet we are searching, always searching. I traveled the country again after that, hitting the road and going from coast to coast, up and down the land, seeking and searching, getting my kicks whenever I felt like doing it. And yet I still wasn't satisfied. I still wanted something else. Let me tell you how I almost found it.
Her name was Janice and she was one of the most striking girls I've ever seen in my life. Everything about her was beautiful, and yet not terrifyingly so. She was beautiful, but you weren't frightened away by her beauty or put on your guard or angry because she was so damned beautiful. Rather she seemed pleasant in her beauty; it was that kind of beauty which attracts, never repels, intrigues, draws you closer and closer. It was the kind of beauty you even think you might want to come home to at night. Do you know the kind of beauty I mean?
Her hair was neither red nor blonde nor brown, but rather a lovely mixture of all three. It was neither short nor long, but perfect it seemed in length. It was neither elaborately coiffured nor merely done in a flip, but rather strangely lustrous and textured and done with a simple elegance which you might never seem to master or fathom.
And so it was with everything about her. For instance, her breasts were neither grotesque objects of weird excitement nor miniature spheres unworthy of mention. They were just right in that way that a girl's breasts have of being just right when you really care about her.
Oh-oh, did I make a slip? I said, "really care". Do I sound like a person who doesn't care about women? Have I accidentally, or on purpose, conveyed that impression to you? If so, it might be the right impression – until you come to talk about Janice. Then you've got to stop, because everything else goes out the window.
You see, I really cared for her. Don't ask me why. There are things in our lives over which we have no control. We go through a lifetime seeing the sham and fraud and superficiality all around us, and then a day comes when, suddenly, we see nothing but radiant beauty. We see innocence and beguilement and an absolutely irresistible substance which makes it impossible for us to go on in our cynical or callous or gravely realistic ways.
Such an instance in my life was my meeting with Janice.
Oh, it wasn't anything special. That is, I certainly didn't plan it. I just happened to see her, and of all places, on a beach. It was summer, and the girls were out in their bikinis, and I suppose I even was at the beach for the purpose of gathering a few of them for a bit of despoilation. That may have been in the back of my mind.
Then I saw Janice. She crossed my path enroute from a hamburger stand across a strip of sidewalk at the back of the beach near where I was parked and was eyeing the lush fragrant offerings the beach world can provide in its season. She wore a blue bikini, and I suppose its color attracted me before I realized I was staring at a girl who for some reason unknown to me, really attracted my attention in a manner never before encountered.
I liked everything I saw about her. I saw those lovely tits barely banded in that cloth which a bikini's cut makes most revealing as it accents the swell of a girl's breasts. And I liked the flush smooth flesh of her bare hips and which the bottom accents as well. I liked the range of her flanks where the cut of the bottom also reveals more flesh. And with it, I was attracted to her pert proud thighs as they came at me and then passed so that I saw their pleasant forward thrust in its full fleshliness as well as the rear view with its uptight pressuring thrust seen from behind.
And she smiled to me as she passed, smiled somewhat shyly and yet perhaps amusedly at the stare I gave her. She was already past before I realized that I had been frozen by her beauty, or whatever it was that attracted me to her, and that I hadn't even been able to respond to that lovely smile. And I watched her until she passed from view beyond a rise of the beach and down somewhere nearer the surf.
As a matter of reflex, I suppose, I left my car and went after her. Why did I pursue her? How do I know? We go through a lifetime on a track, building something within us that forces out the world, that drives us forward, unendingly forward, and then one day we happen upon a breach in our very armor and we see the world in a fragrant strange new light which leaves us bereft of protective covering and makes us prey to the elements that hound all men. Such a thing can happen to anybody.
I went over the rise in that beach and searched the environs until I located her. She was beside a child, a little boy of about two, and she was feeding him one of the hot-dogs she had carried from that refreshment stand. He was eating it, munching it as a little boy of his age would do. He was so very intent on the hot-dog.
And she was beautiful. Her entire interest was absorbed in feeding that little boy. She knelt before him and gave him the hot-dog to bite and wiped his mouth free of mustard with a napkin, and had eyes only for him. I felt certain she was his mother. And I was surprised to realize how young she appeared, surely not more than nineteen; and I was intrigued to go forward, to speak with her, to make her acquaintance.
Crazy? Probably. But who can know what are our destinies? I only knew that I wanted to know her. To hell with the consequences. To hell with everything except to know that girl.
Crazy, yes. Assuredly insane; for what cunt, regardless of her motherhood is worth a damn? Every cunt in order to become a mother had to fuck somebody somewhere. And the very act of her fucking pronounced her own weakness of the flesh, her own need for cock, her own inability to refuse a prick. So why be taken by a mother feeding her little child?
Yet I went to her. I sat on the beach near her, studied her lovely body, and watched her continue that feeding. The little boy was the first one to notice me. Somehow he became distracted from his exciting feast and saw me. His eyes fastened on me. He was a blonde little fellow, tan and chubby, and he suddenly grinned at me with a mouthful of hot-dog and mustard and relish. I grinned back, intrigued by his innocence, and his mother turned to see what fascinated her young son.
For a second, the look of recognition passed her lovely dark eyes as she knew exactly who I was. Then there was too that second in which those orbs swept the hill of sand in their gaze as if to see beyond that hill to the vehicle I had left and thus to confirm the fact she knew to be true: that I had followed her to that place on the beach. And I answered that sweeping gaze, saying, "I couldn't resist. I hope you'll forgive me."
"For what?" She seemed genuinely curious, and her voice was so perfect, so free from inhibitions as well as deceptions. When you meet an open person, it is such a wonderful thing.
"That I followed you," I said, and actually heard myself sounding as candid as did she. No; not as candid. I never could be as candid. My life has been a history of deceit, deception, and destruction. But I know I certainly, and quite reflexively, tried to be as open and free of contrivances as was she.
She didn't answer me when I said that. She only smiled. It was not a lavish smile. It was not intended to beguile, and yet it did beguile. Hence it was truly a lavish smile. You see, the most lavish smiles are the true smiles. In a world of violence, viciousness, and vindictive assertion, the true smile is indeed lavish; and it always beguiles.
Then she went back to feeding her son. I immediately decided to confirm my assumption that he was her son. It also was an opportunity to further our conversation. I asked her if he was her child, and when she said he was, I told her she didn't seem old enough to have a son. It was flattery, I'm sure, and yet I meant it too. But her answer was so strangely beautiful that it destroyed everything I could have intended in flattery and denied my intention of sincerity as well with a beautiful truth.
And all she said, simply was, "A girl of eleven can have a son."
"How old are you?" I asked quickly, knowing her infinite wisdom in such a small remark. And I pressed the question also to cover the strangest feeling I ever had known; a feeling of insecurity, I'm sure; a feeling that I was inadequate for the first time in such a relationship.
"Nineteen." She looked at me just long enough to indicate her desire to tell me that fact; but then concentrated anew on the feeding of her son. He was almost done with his little feast.
"What's his name?"
"Randy."
"I'm Ace."
"Hello, Ace." She looked at me again in that wonderful way, and smiled gently. "I'm Janice."
"Hello, Janice." I couldn't help repeating her own greeting. What is it about another person whom we admire that causes us to imitate him or her in some small way; causes us almost against our will; carries us on the flight of an impression.
So we began a relationship. We spoke of Randy and of his love for hot-dogs. We spoke of his age; he was two years and three months. We spoke of trivialities and the sea, the sand, and everything inconsequential in the world, it seemed. And I had no intention whatsoever about anything. Crazy? Perhaps.
A month went by, and I finally went to bed with her. You may think me insane, but it was that long; I hadn't even kissed her during our first three weeks together despite the fact I was in her apartment already on the third afternoon of our acquaintanceship.
Then came the day when sexual pressure mounted within me, and I was unable to withstand the temptation any longer. Oh yes, I admit it had been a temptation, and I admit that I had viewed it as a temptation and therefore had fought a rather losing battle to withhold myself from its lure.
But a man is a man, and so forth. And I craved her body enough to go after it when I could no longer withstand its attraction. It was in the afternoon when it happened, and I want to describe it for you.
We had been to the beach as was our custom on various days of the week. I wore swim-trunks and she wore her bikini. We put the baby to bed for a nap upon our return. On such previous occasions, we had gone to the kitchen for cold pop and had sat opposite each other, talking about all things and none. That particular afternoon, however, it was different.
Instead of drinking the pop in the kitchen, we went to the living room and sat together on the sofa. I could have sat elsewhere, but I didn't. I chose to sit beside her, very close, and our bodies touched along our flanks. It wasn't long before I playfully set my cold bottle to her warm thigh. She shivered and laughed, though uncertainly, and crossed her legs as she moved the bottle away.
I placed my hand on her thigh next, and she removed my hand. "No, Ace, please don't," she said, and gazed to me strangely. There was an uncertainty in her eyes, and her smile was weak. I could see she was nervous, and something in me told me to stop. I wanted to stop because I knew the consequences that would follow my not stopping. In other words, I was sure I could make her.
What girl can't be made? I've said that often enough. Every girl wants to be made. There is no girl anywhere in the world who doesn't really, at least secretly in her innermost heart, want to be laid. It is just the rule of the world.
So I knew I could make Janice. I always had known I could make her. But something had always kept me from making her, and now that "something" was stopping; that "something" slowly was receding from me, as a wave leaves the shore, leaving me naked to my passion.
And I moved in on her. I went after her forcefully. I wrestled with her and brought her to me despite her protests and her attempts to be free of my embraces. And I forced my lips upon hers and locked our mouths in a solid hold and drove my torrid tongue between her yielding lips. And hated what I did even while I hated her for yielding and then hated myself again for making her yield.
Yet I moved in on her. And soon I had her bikini top unsnapped and thrust upward, and I was nibbling at her titties. At first she fought me off, or tried to fight me off; but then the weakness that is part of a woman came to the fore. And her last pleas that I not touch her became blended with her first sighs and moans. And soon she was caressing my hair as a mother might stroke her baby's locks when it sucks upon her nipples. She ran her hands lovingly through my hair and squirmed beneath my adept licking.
From there on, it was simple. Though she protested again as I slipped away her bikini bottom, she didn't really protest much at all. And she even lifted her haunches accommodatingly when, purposefully, I pretended to be having difficulty removing her drawers. I slipped them off then without any trouble and knew she was just another fuck.
But such a beautiful fuck she was. There was something really lovely about her body. Her curves allured me, and I loved every fleshly inch of that wonderful creature. I loved everything about her, and I simply had to fall between her legs when I had slipped away her bikini bottom, and had to nuzzle her bush. It was a beautiful thing, brown and gold and red, just like the rest of her hair. And I dipped my tongue to its furry loveliness even while she begged me not to eat her.
Oh, it was a phony beg; that is, she meant it, but didn't mean it at all. She didn't want to be eaten, but yet she did want to be eaten. She was confused in that way every woman always is confused; and in the end, sex won out.
I plied my tongue to her slit. Her juices already were flowing. I parted her cunt lips, wielding my tongue like a spear, and went against the lining of her twat. And I licked her walls left and right, and lifted her legs over my shoulders as I dug deeply with my tongue to her hot orifice. She locked her ankles around my neck and stretched her hands to caress my hair, and she threw her head back against the top of the sofa and let out a low and pleased moan. Soon she was humping my mouth with her hot vault.
I licked her well, savagely maneuvering my tongue in and out and all around her fantastically hot hole. And I enjoyed it. That's the crazy thing. I enjoyed what I was doing; I enjoyed it for its juices. I pleasured myself to suck her hairs and taste the bittersweet acrid stuff that was her cunt juices. I loved every minute of what I did.
And soon she climbed the scales, letting out moans and groans enroute, tearing at my hair, giving me violent bumps and grinds, rocking her crotch massively against my taking mouth. And it wasn't long before she was beyond all containment, when the only thing that mattered to her was that she get her come off. She slashed and thrashed, rocked and rolled, shoved and pushed; and finally she let out a sudden scream and pierced me with all the intensity in the world, banging her snatch extraordinarily powerfully against my mouth in a mad orgasm that wouldn't stop until it ran through a series of dwindling jabs, rocking me always less harshly until she reached that point where, spent in her frenzy, she simply whimpered and threw me a weak bump, a depressed grind; and then quit her marathon; quit and surrendered, sighed, sucked air, and loosed her maniacal leg-hold on my neck.
What a beautiful eating session it had been.
And yet I hated her. Somehow suddenly I knew I hated her. And I even said to her, twisting a poisoned knife with my words, "I'll bet you've been eaten by a lot of guys."
She told me what I knew was true, that which she long had told me: that there were no other guys except the boy who had made her baby. And I answered her now, making it a cruel joke, smiling as I twisted that terrible blade again, "But he didn't marry you; so maybe there were others."
"He didn't want to marry me," she said. "You know that. I've told you already. Besides it wouldn't have worked. It…"
I broke in to say, "He didn't trust you, that's why. He figured if you fucked him, you'd fuck anybody." And I looked at her with a mean and small smile.
She gazed to me. Something flashed across her eyes, telling me she sensed a change in our relationship. She was frightened. And yet she was submissive. And she said, "Maybe you're right." She didn't put up a fight. She just said, "Maybe you're right." And then she looked away.
"Of course I'm right," I said angrily. "I'm always right. A cunt is a cunt. I've never seen a cunt yet that was any different. Every cunt is the same." When she didn't answer me, or even look at me, when she just continued to gaze sadly away, I repeated those words. "Every cunt is the same," I said more forcefully. "No cunt is different. Every cunt is the same."
Then I stood and stepped from my swim-trunks and commanded that she should get onto the carpet. She didn't look to me nor move. "Bitch," I snapped, "get on the carpet like I told you. Don't give me the sad-eyed gazing act. Don't play the sad little girl who finds out her love was misplaced. Get on the carpet like a cunt should. I want to fuck you."
When she still didn't respond in any way, I grabbed her. She suddenly screamed, bawling, begging me to let her go. I laughed at her. "Shut up," I ordered. "Shut your filthy damned mouth." And I slapped her face. She bobbled from the blow, looked at me dumbly like a broken little kid realizing the world is strange; and I laughed in her face.
Then I dropped her to the carpet; just that; I dropped her to the carpet. She fell in a bundle, and I kicked her legs apart. She didn't fight back. She put up no fight at all. It pissed me. The least she could have done was to fight me. But she didn't. And I lowered myself between her legs and determined to give her the most savage fuck she ever would have.
I wielded my dick like a weapon. I wished it was a knife that could cut her twat apart. I hated her guts and wanted to destroy her. I lashed her hole furiously with my yang and penetrated her as deeply as I could go. She was a small thing, I noticed immediately, having a narrow and short vagina, and I banged her ferociously with a purpose. She cried terrifiedly from my thrusts, and I laughed maniacally at what I did. It was a beautiful thing, believe me.
I dicked her with precision, rocking her cunt with all my might, plunging my yang powerfully into her, banging my crotch against hers. And all the while I sucked on her nipples or played with her titties or ran a couple of fingers up her asshole. It was great. She cried from the agony I gave her and I loved to hear her cries.
Then she began fucking me, the same as every other broad. No matter how much pain you give them, sooner or later they'll start reacting to the heady rhythm with which you apply that pain. Sooner or later they'll respond to your savagery. And Janice responded. Oh, how she did respond. She went into another wild drive for a solid come, forcing herself wantonly against me despite her anguished cries at her fate.
And I fucked her madly; madly and meanly. I gave her everything there was to give. I climbed the scales of love with her. We went up those scales, seeking their top, looking for that uppermost point from which together we could topple earthward in maniacal surrender. And when we neared that point, were almost to it, had barely a stroke left before we would go over the top, I halted instantly with all my will and thus made her beg me to continue the ride.
And I laughed at her when she begged me. "Bitch," I shouted, slapping her face left and right, rocking her head to and fro with my laps. "Lousy bitch. Sure, I'll give it to you. Is that what you want? You want me to give it to you? Sure. Here's how I'll give it to you." I laughed and began jacking myself off on top of her.
And then I shot my come in her face. I whacked myself to a come, and then shot the load in her face. And, as I had done on another occasion with another broad, I used my dick as a brush, and smeared her face with that cream. I smeared it all over her face and daubed some to her eyes as she bawled at what I did.
But she didn't fight me. No, she didn't fight me. And I cursed her for not fighting me. "Bitch," I shouted again. "Bitch, you wouldn't do a damned thing to protect yourself, would you? Why, whore? Because you love me? Ha. Is that why? Do you hide behind the excuse behind which every woman hides? That you'll accept anything because you love the guy? Stupid bitch." And I climbed off her, kicked her, and then jacked off another time and let my come fall to her bawling mouth. "Bombs away," I called, and dropped my come smack on her mouth.
Oh, she was the same as the rest. She was the same in every way. I knew she was, even when she refused the donkey or dog act. Even when she wouldn't go with me on club dates where we could fuck in public, I knew she was the same as the rest. And I hated her for being the same even while I hated her for not doing what the others had done. "Bitch," I would shout so often. "Filthy bitch. You pretend to be unlike the others, but you're exactly the same. You're exactly the same as them no matter what you pretend."
After awhile she asked me not to visit her anymore. She said it upset the baby. It was true the baby often began crying when I arrived at the house, something he didn't do in that first month of my courtship with his mother. And she used that as an excuse. "Besides," she said one afternoon when I arrived at her apartment, only to be left standing on the threshold, "I think it will be better for both of us."
Suddenly I was shaken. It upset me badly. I didn't want to be locked out. I didn't want her to win a victory over me. So I pleaded with her, urged her to leg me enter the apartment one last time. "For old times' sake," I pleaded. "Please let me be with you just this one afternoon, Janice. Please."
She relented and let me in. I tried to ease the situation by speaking of different matters. Soon we were drinking pop together and were again on that sofa in the living room. This time, though, she wore a dress, and she kept trying to stay away from me. She begged me to respect her on that one last occasion.
And that's when I said, "All right, Janice. Just let me fuck you one last time, and I'll never ask for anything else. Honest I won't. Will you do that? Will you let me fuck you one last time?"
She said it wouldn't work. She said there was nothing left between us. She said I ought to go. But she didn't outright refuse me, and I moved in for the kill. It wasn't long before she was in my arms begging me not to go further, and yet yielding up to me all I ever wanted. Within mere minutes, she was stripped and we were ready for action.
That's when I suggested we go into the bedroom. "No," she said. "The baby's awake. He'll cry." It was exactly what I wanted. And I finally made her go with me there for the screwing. Let that little bastard see his mother getting dicked.
He bawled, of course, in the minute I appeared. Janice fretted, tried to soothe him, but was too hot from my constant cunt-tickling the whole time she was soothing him. And, being the broad she was, a broad like all broads, she flipped and let me throw my meat to her while her kid bawled in his crib beside the wide bed where I savagely stuck my dick deep into his mama's narrow and small twat.
And I banged her with a vengeance. Oh, it was a beautiful fuck. I felt my dick's head skin back and forth against the lining of her vault, and I wanted to cream the world, so good was the feeling. And she responded in kind, forgetting totally about the bawling little bastard who stood in the crib, holding its rails, screaming his torment and fear at what he witnessed.
Then when she was again up those scales, I pulled out. But this time I didn't intend coming in her face. I had something else planned. I went off the bed and brought from my jacket pocket a series of silk scarves tied together the way magicians tie scarves together. And I began inserting them to her bunghole.
She was confounded. "What are you doing?" she asked dumbly even while she desperately tried to bring me atop her again to ride her to that come she badly wanted. "What are you doing, anyway?" And she cried out from the pain of taking scarves up her ass even while she tried to get away from the stuffing act.
I told her to shut up or I would beat the shit out of her. When she tried to fight me away, I punched her face hard, almost knocking her out, but definitely stopping her resistance. Meanwhile Randy bawled in his crib louder than ever.
Then I succeeded in getting every single one of those scarves up her bunghole. I left only the tip of the final one sticking from her rectum. It was a little red thing and looked like her clit. And then I went back to fucking her.
Oh I had her worked up beautifully, believe me. She couldn't get enough of my wonderful stuff. I had her crying for more, moaning and begging that I bring her to a solid come. And you'd never think that she had a dozen scarves tied to each other up her asshole.
Once more when I had brought her almost to the top of the ladder, I stopped. But now I went into another kind of action. Even while she begged that I not halt, I was busily pulling – yanking, and damned hard! – that long line of scarves out of her bunghole. They seared her with the velocity with which I pulled them out, and soon she was coming insanely, screeching from the pain of those scarves tearing out her very asshole in their release. And she was rocketing to the moon, crying and screeching from the agony of her sudden violation, the ecstasy of her anguish.
It was beautiful. It was a little thing, a side touch, but it was beautiful. And before she could recover, I got out an electric cock I also had brought with me in my jacket. I inserted it to her asshole, turned up its controls to the fastest speed imaginable, plugged its cord to the wall socket and set it in motion. Then I took those same scarves and bound her hands and legs, stuffed enough into her mouth to gag her, and then did the final thing of all; I poured mustard and relish, also brought for the purpose, over her tits and belly, inserted a hot-dog to her twat, and took bawling Randy from his crib and turned him loose on his mama.
It was a lovely sight. She couldn't speak, couldn't stop fucking from that crazy electric cock up her asshole, couldn't stop her son from licking her tits and belly and finally trying to eat the hot-dog out of her cunt. All she could do was watch everything in terror, and cry, cry, cry. Poor fucking stupid idiotic bitch. She deserved everything she got.
But it was too much for me, and that's why I'm here. Don't ask me why. Maybe there's a time when we can't go on any further. Maybe there's a time when we suddenly come face-to-face with ourselves, see everything we've done, and wonder why we did a thing. I don't know. That's your job to figure out; not mine. I only know that, once I had left Janice and her little boy in that scene, something in me suddenly snapped, suddenly went out of me; and I found myself crying in the middle of the street, bawling at the traffic signals as I drove my car away in some new search for value that I suddenly realized more than ever that I never would find.
It's been six months now since all that happened, and nothing since then has really mattered. I've traveled the land, crossing and criss-crossing a nation. But there's no happiness. Do you realize that? There's no happiness. I just can't find happiness. And that's why I'm here, that's why I've told you everything. Maybe by revealing my sordid soul, I'll gain some kind of grace and salvation. I don't know. I've been thinking about religion; but I'm not much of a religious man. Yet somehow I know something's missing. I don't know what's missing, but something's missing. And all I can do now is ask for help. That's all I can do; just ask for help.
Can you help me?