Kevin Harding - Twice As Nice Nymph

I feel someone rubbing something oily on my ass. Vaseline probably. Then the hand is gone and I feel the giant prick start to push in. It feels like a baseball bat spreading me apart. I've never been screwed in the ass except by Hal and his cock was a pencil compared to this. I hear Rex puff and groan as he tries to stuff his big prick in. He only gets the head and a little more of it into my ass when he starts pumping in and out, driving hard against my tender skin. It hurts. It tears. It rips me apart. I thrill to the pain of it. I suck someone's cock. I rub my hands through Liz's hair as she keeps eating my pussy. Then I see Frank next to her kissing, fondling her breasts: His hand replaces her mouth on my cunt. Then his cock replaces his hand. He slips his prick easily into my pussy.

The elephant cock keeps driving into me from behind. I take the prick I am sucking deeper into my mouth. I have three cocks inside me now at once. I am filled with cock. I cum constantly. The pricks ram into me. My mouth, my cunt, my ass. Hands are all over me. Men's hands. Women's bands. I feel as if all ten of them are screwing me, eating me. I am a cunt, my whole body is a cunt and they are fucking it. I am a piece of meat being pounded into softness. I am hot raw flesh. My cunt is wet. My ass throbs. I am hot; I am burning up.

I wake. My eyes slip open. The light is dim. I am on a bed. There is someone stretched out sleeping next to me. A man. Across the room is another bed. Three people in that one. The room is quiet.

I can't orient myself at first. I strain to remember. Some of it comes back. The clapping of sixty pairs of hands. The blackness settling in. I am trembling. I get quickly out of bed and go out into the living room. I light a cigarette and suck the smoke in deep as I look at the dark deserted stage. I see the costumes all piled on the floor. The spotlight. The record player. The foam rubber pads. It all looks monstrous, twisted in the faint dawn light.

I stand there naked. My legs are numb. I am thirsty and go to the kitchen sink to get a drink. I turn on the faucet and look for a clean glass. But I can't find one. Dirty, food covered dishes are heaped in the sink. I smell garbage, spoiling meat. Cockroaches scurry at the movement of my hand.

I turn away without getting a drink and start across the room. I step on something soft and it sticks to my foot. I try to scrape it off on the rung of a chair but I can't. I stare at the pile of dresses and trousers on the stage. I can still smell the decaying meat. It sickens me, nauseates me. I stumble into the bathroom and vomit into the bowl. Again and again. My head pounds. My whole insides feel as if they are coming up. I try to keep from retching again but I can't. I spill out my stomach. I keep vomiting even when I have nothing left. I stand there bent over the bowl, waiting for the sick feeling to go away.

When I know I won't throw up again I rinse out my mouth and spit the water into the sink. I know I must get away from here. Now. Right away. Before the sick feeling comes back. I breathe through my nose to keep out the smell of it as I hurry back to the bedroom and dress. Then I go quickly out and down the steps, not glancing at the stage as I go by. A sharp gust of wind slaps my face as I step out onto the dark deserted street.

I check into Le Petit Hotel on Chartres Street. I am exhausted and need the feeling of fresh cool sheets against my skin. I undress and splash my face with warm water. I pull the drapes against the grey dawn light. I sleep a long dreamless sleep.

Sometime in the twilight before fully waking, I decide. I don't remember exactly when. I only know that when I sit up in bed I am calm, knowing what I'm going to do. My body is clammy and cold, as the feeling of the house on Dauphine Street still oozes out of me. But my mind is clear. I get up, move about the room with purpose. I take a hot bath. I study my face in the mirror.

The train pulls north from New Orleans. I sit up straight in the red velvet seat. The seat next to mine is empty except for my small suitcase. There aren't many passengers in my car. The trip along the river seems to take forever. I try to read but can't keep my mind on it. My body is trembling. I watch the river out the window. I see river birds swooping low over the water.

"Cairo…" I jump at the sound of the conductor's voice. I rub away the moistness from a spot on the window. The train pulls into the station. Slows. Comes to a stop in the midst of noise and traffic.

I change to the bus. It rolls out of Cairo north across the flat land of Illinois. My chest starts to tighten as we near Orchard Center. I think of just taking the next bus back. Too much time has passed. a dozen years. I will feel awkward. I won't know what to say. My head pounds.

I find out where he works from a directory at the bus station. I think of phoning, then decide to take a cab directly there instead.

I sit stiffly in a paneled thickly carpeted office while his secretary talks to him on the phone. The sign on his door says: Keith Brady, Vice President. The sign is gold. I can hear the whirr of an air conditioner.

"Mr. Brady will see you right away," the secretary says, surprise in he voice.

"Thank you." I get up and walk to the paneled door. I turn the big brass knob and enter.

Keith is already rising from behind a long desk at the opposite side of the room. "Carrie… I just couldn't believe it when she gave me your name."

"Hello," I say. The first thing I notice about him is the trace of grey in his temples. He is smiling but looks puzzled.

We step toward each other, stop when we are a few feet apart. Neither of us speak for a moment. I am very nervous but trying hard not to show it. "I was in Cairo," I say. "… decided to take the bus up and say hello." I force a laugh. "I see you're the vice president here or something."

He smiles again. "It doesn't mean that much. There are four of us."

"…oh."

He offers me a chair and I sit down. The chair is comfortable, leather-covered. Keith sits down in a chair across, from me. He leans forward to light my cigarette but doesn't smoke one himself. "… quit," he says. He fidgets with his hands. "I wish though now I hadn't."

I laugh. His comment, his slight nervousness relaxes me. Then as I think more about it I feel sparks shoot through me. I begin to talk rapidly, complimenting him on his office, the furniture, the thickness of the carpet. "I'm kind of surprised though to find you working in a place like this… a business… a factory, you know. I always imagined you someplace more out in the open… a farm… something like that."

The muscles of his face tighten. He freezes up. "Things change," he says. His voice is cool. He gets up and walks across the room, turns his back on me. He stares at the paneled wall.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't mean it to sound critical. I think it's fine, your being a vice president and all."

"All of it changes… everything," he goes on as if he hasn't even heard. "You get into it in a way you hadn't planned 'and you get pushed on and on." He turns to face me again. His mouth is drawn tight. I feel everything crashing down before it has even really started. He leans on a table, his hands pressing down. Pale, almost yellowish hands. Hands I do not know.

I see an elaborate pen and pencil set on the table with an inscription that I can't make out. Next to it is a colored photo of a woman and two children. The woman is very attractive. She stares out at me, chills me.

"My family," he says. "You knew of course, didn't you?"

"Not really. But I suppose I might have guessed it.

It would have been even more surprising to find out you'd never… you know…"

"You're not married?" he says.