Darling

by AnonYMous

  DARLING

  By

  Anonymous

  A Renaissance E Books publication

  ISBN 1-929670-50-8

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2000 by Renaissance E Books

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

  For information contact:

  Renaissance E Books

  P. O. Box 494

  Clemmons, NC 27012-0494

  USA

  Email comments@renebooks.com

  CHAPTER I

  He drove the car rapidly down the street, looking occasionally at the girl's figure, huddled against the door. Mostly he watched the empty road and felt the car glide over the pavement. He turned down Seventh Avenue, and she still hadn't spoken. At Tenth Street, he stopped the car and turned toward her. She leaned her elbow against the door handle and was already half on the sidewalk, calling, "Thank you," over her shoulder, when he reached over and pulled her back into her seat.

  "What's the hurry? What's your hurry?"

  "I'm tired, Paul," she explained.

  "My God," he answered. "You're fine all night. I really think you're relaxing and having a good time, but you always make the goodnight the briefest, coldest moment of the day."

  "I'm sorry," she said again humbly. "You know me."

  "I don't know you, Gloria. Does anyone know you? Do you ever sit still long enough to be known?"

  She was getting impatient, and said, "For crying out loud. How often can you go over the same theme. No, I don't sit still. No, I don't like dragged-out goodnights. No, I don't care if I never see you again. Yes, I'm tired."

  "Look, honey," he interrupted her, "I'm not going to rape you."

  She smiled cruelly at the suggestion. "No one's going to rape me. It takes a very cooperative woman to get raped. A man might get me to the floor, but he wouldn't get further."

  Paul said, "Why speculate? Why don't you let me love you the way I want to? I swear to you Gloria, the way I feel about you, it would be wonderful for both of us. I'd really make you want it. I'd make you want it till you cried for it." And he put his open mouth on her ear. "It's not fair for a woman as beautiful and sensuous as you to put men off. You were obviously put on earth to satisfy, not torment us."

  Feeling his tongue nuzzling wet inside her ear, she shuddered with excitement and horror.

  "Get away from me," she said with anger, and he couldn't hear the terror in her voice. "When I'm willing and ready to give myself to a man, I will. I don't need you licking my face like a stupid dog to convince me."

  His fury relieved the bitterness inside her.

  The man was livid at her gross refusal. "You whore," he whispered to her. "You whore with a virgin's cunt. What are you waiting for? When are you going to give your rare gift away?"

  "It's not that," she told him tiredly. Her voice was calm. "You know it's not that. It's just that I'm not interested."

  "Not interested!" he shouted. "What the hell are you talking about? You sound as if you're returning a library book."

  "I don't want it," she screamed. "I hate the whole phony slobbering business."

  "You're a teasing bitch," he spat at her. "And you'll never know what it means to feel like a woman."

  "What does it mean," she mocked, "to feel like a woman? What's so different and special about being a woman?"

  "You fool!" Paul roared. "You'll never know what it means to spread your knees and say to a man, 'Fill me with your prick because I'm dying from emptiness.'"

  "Don't," she begged. "Don't talk to me like that. Don't dare."

  "You'll never know it from me," he continued as if he hadn't heard. "And no man is going to wait as long as I did. Give it up, baby. Put on pants and wipe the mascara off your eyes and make it with the girls. Mona's Bar is full of dykes who are just waiting for you. They've seen the dead look in your eyes, and they know it'll take a woman's hand to make you feel like a woman. You disgust me. You're worse than a whore."

  She listened with rapt pain, thinking, he's going to hit me when he's finished, and she waited with an ecstasy she did not understand. Her heart felt as though a strong hand were clutching and numbing it.

  "Why don't you hit me?" she breathlessly demanded.

  Paul looked down at her with a contempt that was as cold as his wanting of her had been hot. "I wouldn't touch you baby," he said. "I'll just let you rot untouched. The ladies like to get a virgin. When they see the blood on their hands, they know they've got them forever." He practically pushed her out of the car without so much as a glance back. She stood motionless till she heard the drone of the engine fade away around the corner of Sixth Avenue. The street lay dark ahead of her.

  Oh God, oh God

  , she thought, I hate men. I hate their hungry faces and their moving hands. I hate them when they press against me and I feel their pants bulging. I'll never let one love me. Imagine being naked on a bed and having them crawl all over you and pull your legs apart. When you lay flat and broken like a defeated enemy, and they stick their stiff prick in you, that's the only part of them that's got feeling left. They're like crazy animals till they spurt their vicious fluid in you. And then you're supposed to kiss their feet and pretend that you enjoyed it. They'll never have me. Nor will a woman. I don't want some woman's tongue and long-nailed fingers to stroke me into an excitement that interferes with my thinking and breathing. Yes, I'll do it myself. And I'll go to my grave never having been a fool for some sexual machine. Numbly, Gloria pushed her shoulders against her door. It opened for her, and she closed out the silent street behind her and placed her hand on the dimly lit banister.

  At first she didn't feel the hand that covered hers; her heart was beating so loud in her chest from the distasteful scene with Paul and her thoughts were cutting out the world around her. But as she moved up the first step, she felt the iron-like hold, paralyzing her. She looked down from her height into cruel eyes. The blue of the man's eyes was so light that his face looked like a portrait painted by a madman who had left the eyes, where the soul would have been, the dead white of the canvas. A shock of black hair covered his head. His mouth smiled grimly at her mute terror.

  "Come down off the step, lady," he whispered. "We're going to have a little party."

  She opened her mouth to scream, realizing that no sound could come out of her. And then she felt his knife edging into the small of her back, pressing against her with the frigid indifference of steel.

  "I gotta fuck some bitch and you're the lucky cunt." He laughed soundlessly. "It's an honor baby, cause I got a cock as big as the Eiffel Tower."

  Listening to him, she regained her senses. I'll talk him out of it, she thought.

  "Look, mister," she implored, "I'll give you all the money I have. I'm a virgin ... I'm a virgin and I'm getting married next week. And you'll ruin my life if you ... if you ... take me. Because then my fiancé will never marry me. You see, he wants a ... a ... pure girl."

  The man looked at her with his vacant eyes. "I like virgins," he whispered. "C'mon virgin, we'll bleed all over this fancy hall." Effortlessly, he pushed her down to the floor in the little black alcove behind the stairway. She found her voice to scream and he slapped her face until her ears were deafened with a ringing inside her head that cut off the whole world.

  "Unbutton my pants, you whore," he commanded.

  "No," she gasped, "no, I can't touch you."

  He grabbed her hand and placed it solidly across the mound in his pants.

  "Unbutton them you bitch. My prick wants to be free to dig inside of you."

  She felt his knife against her ribs. With trembling hands, she unbuckled his belt.

  "That's it! That's it! Do a good job, virgin."

  She moved her fingers to the f
irst button and he shoved her hand deep inside his pants so she could feel his hot, pulsating flesh. "Faster, faster, you cunt," he commanded. Slowly and miserably, she undid the last button. He wore no underpants.

  "Pull my fly open; pull it open."

  She did as she was told. His prick was folded primly between his thighs, covering his balls. "Now pull it out. Gently, gently ... with all the love in your fucking whore's heart," and again he laughed madly and excitedly. His cock leaped out straight beneath her fingers. It was veined and white, almost purple at the tip. It was huge and massive, bigger than anything she thought a man could fold between his legs.

  "Kiss it," he said. His voice trembled. "Open your virgin's mouth and suck it."

  She thought she would vomit with disgust and horror.

  "Suck it! Suck it, you pure cunt." She put the tip of his prick in her mouth, feeling it jump with life against her teeth.

  "Spread your teeth ... spread your teeth," he screamed under his breath. He grabbed her head, pressing it against him so that his prick went cruelly between her teeth, gagging her at the back of her throat.

  "Lick it. Lick it like it's candy. Better than the best at Fanny Farmer, huh?" He laughed again and pulled her head back, sticking his hand crudely in her mouth and pulling her tongue out.

  "Here, here," he directed. "Where the vein bulges. Suck it up and down. Play with my balls. Play with my balls and suck the shaft up and down ... ahh..." He seemed hypnotized by the motion of her unwilling head. "Enough, you bitch. I'm going to come inside you like a Fourth of July celebration. I'm going to explode inside your pure cunt."

  He threw her head down, twisting himself quickly on top of her body. Then he got on his knees and pulled her legs around his kneeling body. His prick bobbed stiff and angry before him. He took his knife out and bent his head near hers.

  Good, he's going to kill me. I'd rather die. I'd rather die.

  But delicately and surely, he slit the crotch of her panties, exposing the soft black hair of her cunt. He did not touch it, but kneeled, sucking his breath in and out and staring at the cleft in her. She grew faint with naked terror.

  Not touching her cunt, he took his heavy penis in both hands, and lowering his body, with one thrust he rammed inside her. She screamed with pain, but his hand was ready on her mouth, not letting any of the pain out ... keeping it locked in her cunt. She felt him scraping the bleeding wound in her.

  "You're dry baby – bone dry. Ain't you having fun? I'm having fun. You got the tightest cunt I ever been in. Tight cunt, sucking me in. Tight-cunted bitch."

  Her body from the waist down was writhing with pain. He put his hands beneath her hips, and she felt his fingers digging into her ass. They found the hidden hole and two fingers crushed mercilessly into it. He reamed her with them, stretching her anus until she thought the tender membranes would split. Her body was trapped and full with him. No out, no freedom for her body, stuffed and imprisoned with his intrusive prick and fingers.

  Then, miraculously, a great heat and throbbing started under her heart and moved to meet his raging penis. She burned with humiliation. Was this desire? This crazy itch and burning in her cunt? His penis rubbed against her taut clitoris and when every nerve in her body was stretched like wire, and her thighs felt aflame, all the restraints in her body let go and she felt the pendulum throb in her cunt. It was like a ballooning of her inner flesh, like a fish's mouth. Open ... close ... open ... close ... she felt herself losing consciousness. Her pussy oozed its unspent juices, smoothing the passage of the piston between her thighs. She felt it grow even more huge, as if it were a balloon inflated to the bursting point. Then that humongous cock began to jerk and spasm as it erupted a flood of burning sperm.

  She lay still, not wanting ever to move again. But he was up on his feet, more cruel than when he had thrown her to the floor.

  "Get up, you bitch," he ordered. "Button my pants." She got to her knees, her head level with his softening prick. "Put it in and button me up." She fought a desire to stroke the velvety head.

  "Put it in, bitch."

  She pressed his prick between his thighs, and numbly kneeling before him, began to button his pants. They were both silent. She lifted her head to his white eyes.

  "Come upstairs to my apartment," she begged.

  He laughed into her face. "I got what I wanted, virgin. Ask your uptown friends to carry on."

  But she knew that only this man with the white eyes could bring all the fluids of her body pulsing hot to her cunt.

  "Don't leave me," she implored. "Don't leave me to die."

  He pushed her head away from his covered prick. "I got what I wanted, cunt. Now try fucking the Eiffel Tower." And he kicked her away from him and sauntered out of the hall.

  She put her face against the tile floor and started to sob while relentless need gnawed at her body. "Come back," she cried against the tiles.

  She lay for almost an hour, hoping she would hear him turn the knob of the door. Then, knowing he was gone for the night, maybe forever, she dragged her body up the stairs.

  Gloria turned the lamp on over the bed. She fell across the mattress, dazed. Her feet, their shoes still on, touched the floor. She lay still, knowing that the last half-hour had made her a slave to a pair of white eyes. As the image of his eyes floated into her blackened mind, she felt the urgency throb in her cunt. She moved her hand to the slit pants, and pressed cold fingers against the inside of her cunt. It was wet there. She pulled the fingers before her face and saw that they were covered with blood. Like a child, she thrust her fingers in her mouth, sucking them, hoping to get a taste of him mixed with the blood. The mustiness of his sperm made her dizzy with excitement. Her fingers slid back to her cunt. Up and down they moved against the small, hard pit of her clitoris. Up and down, deadening her insides with her hungry desire. Up and down, and harder and harder, till she was hurting herself as he had. At last she felt the flow of sensation that he had given her, but weaker, much weaker than the dawning she had known with him. She gasped with frustration and the tension of near-orgasm, and fell into a restless sleep.

  CHAPTER II

  The next morning, a persistent ringing in the room brought her swimming out of a dream in which she had been floating in a pool, flat on her back, her belly facing the sky and swelling, swelling like a carnival balloon until she thought she would burst. Her eyes wandered to the diving board. There, poised as though he would fly rather than dive, was her father. He laughed with his white eyes, and started to float toward her distended belly. She shrieked, and woke up, her screams competing with the blasting of the telephone.

  "Yes, yes, yes," she called, as though it were the telephone, not a person soundlessly far from her room, urging her to respond. "Yes," she muttered, and pulled her bruised hips around. She reached out and picked up the receiver. Almost before she could speak, a husky voice said, "Gloria, is that you baby?"

  "Yes," she said blindly, still not fully conscious.

  "Look, baby, this is me, Paul. Darling, I didn't sleep all night. I'm so sorry about yesterday. Look, I just had a bit too much to drink. I'm sorry. Are you there?"

  "Yes," she answered wearily. Paul and the things he had said, she thought disconnectedly. What was it he said yesterday? What happened with him yesterday? She couldn't remember. Only something had happened after Paul. What was it? And then the white eyes floated out of her dreams, gripping her stomach, and she was completely, shockingly awake.

  "It's okay, Paul. Really. I guess I deserved what you said."

  "No, Gloria. Look, I'm just a conceited ass. If a girl doesn't sleep with me, I make a whole case study out of it."

  She pictured Paul's dark, gentle eyes, and his fine soft hands.

  "A girl should want to sleep with you," she said. "If she doesn't, then she probably does have a screw missing someplace." And she thought, My God, I really got my screws bolted in place last night. No more loose screws. Except now I'm one big loosened screw. All of me, so no one can h
ear the rattling.

  "Gloria, baby, are you there? Can we just forget about last night? I promise, I won't say another word about us ... I mean that way. It's a beautiful day, the sun is shining, the winter chill is off. Let's drive up to Westchester and have some lobster in the Rye Inn."

  "That would be great," she said. "Get me out of the city today."

  "Gloria, you're an angel. I don't think there's another girl who'd forgive me for last night. I don't know what got into my head."

  Sense

  , she thought. Last night was the first time you ever sounded like a man ... the first time you ever made me feel like a woman. She shook her head, Christ, do I have to be beaten and bullied into being a woman? Well then, beat me, bully me, I have to live. For the first time I want to live. "I'll pick you up in an hour. Is that okay?"

  "What time is it now Paul? Ten o'clock? Good. Come over for coffee and eggs at eleven, and by twelve we'll be on our way."

  "Great," he said, his voice relaxed and relieved. The husky whisper of the first few seconds of conversation had evaporated. "I'll pick up some cheese Danish and we'll have a picnic. I love you, Gloria. I love you even if I am a stupid ass."

  Too bad for me. Too bad the stupid asses go for me. And they admit it, too. The stupid asses are always very honest. I wonder if we can make a deal. I turn him into a man and he pays back by turning me into a woman. No, the only thing he could turn me into is a cow – a big, fat, contented, cud-chewing-in-the-green-fields cow.

  "In an hour then, baby," Paul sang.

  "I'll be waiting for you," she answered.

  When she hung up the phone, she was dreadfully alone again. And she realized that she was afraid. She pulled herself off the bed and kicked off the shoes she had worn all night. Her toes felt stiff and cold. She walked to the window and rolled the bamboo blind up. The windows were dirty on the outside, the way New York windows always were because you weren't allowed to sit out on the sill and wash them, the way you could in Kansas City. In Kansas City, you lived in a house that had two floors. Two floors of a wooden house, and the windows always glistening and clean. Her eyes filled with hopeless tears. Here she lived on the fourth floor. A wonderful studio with all the light she needed to paint. Of course, artists didn't really need light anymore, doing their crazy patterns of color. The artists didn't go out into the sun the way Cézanne had. It didn't matter how a tree looked with the sun coming through the leaves. Artists were city dwellers now, painting sunless images in sunless rooms.