Lawrence Block - Ronald Rabbit Is a Dirty Old Man

“I guess if I can have an irrational fear, you’re entitled to an irrational thrill.”

“That’s a good way to look at it.”

“Well,” she said. “What’s the position?”

I positioned her. On her knees on the bed, arms straight, palms of hands planted on the bed sheet, breasts hanging down like ripe fruit. I studied her from various angles, reaching out to touch and adjust, and provided a little heavy breathing.

“Perfect,” I said, huskily.

Then I positioned myself behind her, kneeling. I reached around to cup her breasts momentarily. I would have needed the hands of a basketball player to do them justice. I played with the nipples until they stiffened, but that was all the excitement she showed.

“Divine,” I murmured.

I stroked the cheeks of her bottom, pulled them gently apart, pressed them together again, pulled them apart, pressed them together.

“Magnificent,” I cooed.

I spat silently into the palm of one hand and anointed my cock with saliva, then dried my hand on the sheet and went back to playing with her buttocks.

“Paradise,” I moaned.

And then I stabbed my cock straight into her tight little asshole.

Christ, how she screamed! I’m still amazed nobody called the cops, I would have called the cops, and I never call the cops. But it was one hell of a shriek.

Once I was in, all the way in to the hilt, I clapped a hand over her mouth and pressed my body down upon her, flattening her on the bed. She was pinned like a butterfly. She couldn’t move. She could struggle, and the more she struggled the better it felt, and for the longest time I just clung to her and let her struggle while I enjoyed it.

I almost dropped the ball right then and there. That old familiar tickle started building up in my balls, and all those little sperm cells wanted to rush out and win this one for the Gipper. I didn’t go through any horseshit like figuring the multiplication tables in my head. I’ve never had much success with that sort of nonsense.

Instead, I met the problem head on. You’re going to fuck this helpless little girl into a blind stupor, I told myself, and you’re going to be so busy ramming it home you won’t have time to worry about coming.

And that is precisely what happened.

As soon as she gave up the struggle, I started to throw it to her. I was about as gentle as Attila the Hun. I gave her solid full-length strokes, delivering them as though it was my intention to knock her asshole through the top of her head. Once I had established a certain rhythm, I took my hand off her mouth. She wasn’t going to scream anymore. She just lay there whimpering from the pain and begging me to stop and invoking various saints in the hope that they might intercede.

“Oh, merciful Heart of Jesus, he’s killing me!”

Bang!

“Oh, Holy Mary, Mother of God, I’m on fire!”

Wham!

“Oh, Saint Anthony, blessed Saint Anthony, make him stop before I die!”

Pow!

Thank God she was an atheist.

Steve, old buddy, it took forever. There was a time, Steve, when I must confess I didn’t think it was going to work. I knew it was perfect in theory but I didn’t think it was really going to work in actual practice. And if it didn’t work, of course, then I was making a horrible mistake and really fucking things up for Rozanne.

One thing I’ve learned, Steve, is that once you’ve crossed the Rubicon, you might as well march right on to Rome. Even if you strongly suspect you made a mistake. Better to follow through with a wrong decision than to try changing your mind after the ball is in the air. I may have mangled the metaphors there, but you know what I mean. You just don’t switch horses in the middle of a Rubicon.

So I kept on flailing away at her, never slowing the pace, never breaking the rhythm, never easing up on the sheer brute force of it. Do that for a while and your back starts to ache. Do it a little longer and you worry that your pelvic bone isn’t going to be able to stand it.

Do it long enough and a miracle happens.

I did it long enough, and the miracle happened. I had expected the miracle, I was counting on it, and that didn’t make it any the less miraculous.

Because gradually she stopped not liking it, and gradually she began liking it, and then all at once we were over the top and into the homestretch, and she was shouting things like “Fuck me!” and “Kill me!” and “Tear me apart!” and wriggling her ass, not to escape but to cooperate, and just as she got there I put a finger on her clit and threw her off the cliff.

Christ, did she come! Her entire rectum quivered and undulated around my cock like a vibrating condom. I hammered three more strokes into her as she came, and at the end of the third the dam burst. My sperm was backed up clear to the Holland Tunnel, but she quivered and twitched and milked every drop of it out of me. You know how, when you come really great, your balls actually ache with it? (But of course you know. I’m not talking to a schoolboy, am I?)

A little while later, almost as an afterthought, I withdrew from her. There was this delightful plopping noise reminiscent of opening a champagne bottle. I stretched out next to her. She lay inert, her face on the pillow, her eyes closed, her forehead bathed in sweat.

Ultimately she opened her eyes and looked at me. Just looked at me.

Then, abruptly, she began laughing.

Not a giggle or a chuckle. A full-throated, wide-open, all-woman laugh. She roared.

“Talk about irrational fears,” she said finally.

“Yeah.”

“Jesus, I honestly thought I was going to die. And then I didn’t die. And then I lived. I’m twenty-six years old. God in Heaven, I wasted twenty-six years.”

“You really couldn’t have done much for the first thirteen, anyway.”

“Maybe not. What is it they say? ‘If they’re big enough, they’re old enough.’ Is that what they say?”

“I’ve heard the phrase.”

“If I have a daughter, that’s what I’ll tell her. But I’ll never get a daughter from what we did, will I? It’s considered perverted, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so. Almost everything is.”

“What do you call it? What we just did.”

“Anal intercourse, I guess. Sodomy. Buggery.”

“Isn’t there a good word for it?”

“You mean a polite word? Those are all about as polite as you can get.”

“I don’t mean a polite word, I mean a good word.”

“I don’t know. Ass-fucking, I guess.”

“Ass-fucking,” she said, reflectively. “You fucked me in the ass.”

“I certainly did.”

“I liked it.”

“You certainly did.”

“You fucked me in the ass and I loved it. It was even better than when you ate my cunt. I think I have to go to the bathroom. I feel as though I just had an enema.”

“You just did.”

“That’s what it feels like. I’ll be right back. Don’t go away.”

She was back before the toilet stopped flushing. “Oh, my,” she said. “I don’t feel like the same person anymore. I feel very different. First you ate my cunt and then you fucked me in the ass and now I went and took a huge crap. And now look how I’m talking. I never talked like this before. I never said words like that aloud.”

“But you said them inside your head when you played with yourself.”

“How did you know that?”

“Everybody does.”

“They do? I thought I was the only one. I used to worry about it.”

“You can stop worrying.”

“I already have. Are you going to fuck me in the cunt now?”

“Not tonight.”

“Because of your promise? I’ll release you from it.”