I. Retrograde
One of our old haunts, a repurposed manufacturing plant, still hums with life on breezy Saturday nights. Used to come here every weekend. Her great escape, a middle finger to her name. Detach from reality and just… exist. Breathe, ya’know? Be straight average for a change. Slip into the other side.
She never said it, but I could tell she hated that bitter chaos circling in her head. That suffocating truth of lucky sperm finding lucky egg to create life. Slide out naked and screamin’ and richer than the other 99’. Festering like some Civil War era gangrene. Loved having stacks of Benjamin’s. Hated what having so much of it meant for others. Paradoxes. Happiness. Wealth. Poverty. Struggle. Depression. Sanity. Frustrations of reality. The reason for being and why we are all the way we are, why we do what we do to each other… that deep existential shit of Plato and Socrates and Nietzsche in her blackest of moods. Zion 1 for the modern age. Or Lupe. Hopsin. Common. Pick your lyrical poison. Upside shadows in caves and alleys of flames and lies. Shit so far beyond me the head spins, brain screams for relief.
Maybe I’m biased, but I think she could have torched them all in debate. Spun her logic with that detached spatial flight of mind and that sultry haze of voice. Looking fine in white cloth toga.
-
I still remember how she moved, svelte form liquefying into whatever style that suited whatever alchemic mixture of emotion boiling inside her, which was always a struggle to pin down.
When her mind thrummed with too much chaos, we’d walk along the piers and end up here. And she’d flow from contemporary to jazz to ballet to styles I can’t even put a name to. Harley Quinn of dance. Crazy. Bump and grind. Wiggle and twist. Shake and spin. Leap. Vault. She was seven degrees of tragic beauty and smoky eroticism. And damn did she ever get off on flaunting it. Granny Teague would say girls like that were spawned from the devil’s seed. There’s a certain truth to that, I guess, given who her bastard of a father was. Lucifer was still an angel though, fallen or not. She inherited most of the good. But like the moth, I was never careful about how dangerously hot she could burn. Hellfire hot.
-
Beneath Technicolor laser lights, she’d ensnare strangers on the dance floor, arms circling like bear traps. Most of the time it was her nubile peers, teenagers looking to escape the brittle card they got dealt. But sometimes she’d prey on the women that came to recapture forgotten glory days. She’d nibble at their ears. Tease fingers between their thighs.
Redheads were her favorite. Likened them to cherry red fire trucks. Flashy. Powerful. Loud when their flaming slits needed to be doused with champagne and a wet tongue. The more reluctance showed, the hotter she burned. Sometimes it’d take only a thumb brush across a blushing cheek, sometimes a kiss. The most reluctant would melt like butter as soon she curled a finger inside them, stroking to the beat of whatever song thrummed in the air.
When her moods spun out of control, she’d get it into her head to rile me up by grinding her panty-less crotch against other men. Let them palm her pert model’s ass. Nip at their necks. Tease. Smear her arousal across their lips. And pull away before it got to be more than that.
And I’d sit there way up above on a catwalk looking down, and sketch her as she was. Unencumbered. Not dragged down by name or depression. She’d melt into a sea of bodies and become just another Oakland face in the crowd. I guess it was a ritual of a sort. Create a mask so thick it’ll bury everything, even the tragic girl beneath.
As the hours would wear on, she’d grow wetter and wetter. And up in my stoop, I’d get meditative and creative.
And with drugs pumping through our veins throughout the night, we’d end up fucking wildly in dimly lit restrooms and darkened corners, her leg hooked around my waist, her teeth sinking in my shoulder.
When we were really fucked up, we’d wind up in a raised cube made of evenly spaced, intricate glass and wood latticework designed to create a quasi-silhouette effect of the inside. A giant shadow box for VIPs to enter as hundreds of strangers looked on, drug addled minds enthralled as shadowed figures fucked the night away in slow motion orgies.
She’d always say it was best kind of lowbrow art drugs could manifest.
She wasn’t wrong.
But it’s not the same. The magic isn’t here anymore. It feels empty, almost unfamiliar. But a rave’s a rave and once you get what you want, the details stop mattering.
-
It melts on my tongue like a Listerine strip. Burns like Big Red gum and Tabasco sauce. I can feel the X bleed into my system.
I should feel guilty about my broken promise. But I’m saying it’s only bent. It’s not heroine. Not coke. Not even a fifth of vodka. It’s just a little chemical push to unleash the monster inside. Forget about two women, one a blurry memory, the other a reminder with bubble gum hair and green eyes. The bohemian Aphrodite who lets me call her bubbles because I’m too damn scared to say a simple fucking name. The one I know she desperately wants forming on my tongue when we’re alone together.
-
I lose myself in the swarm of bodies, hemmed in on all sides. The heat pulses and my skin tingles. A warm ass pushes against my groin, grinding to the beat of a fast-paced re-mix. I grab the stranger’s firm hips and add my own gyrations. And I finally let go.
Jekyll. Hyde.
Hide.
Get it?
He’s hiding. I’m hiding.
Everyone here is hiding, lost in the haze. Do I need a laugh track for this sad reality or what? Fuck.
Out you come, friend. Monster. Have your fun. I’m all burned out.
-
I can still smell her, the little pink bitch. He can’t seem to forget her. Barely knows that pasty white ass of hers, but her image keeps crawling and drawing itself into his head. Our head. My head. Can’t figure out why. Shit vexes. Dime-a-dozen slut. Little blonde thing from the splintered Twomps. A cheap vanilla whore desperate for some black snake is easy enough to find. This one was a poor substitute to the pretty bird that died naked on top of him. Us. You’d think he’d have gone wise. Pussy was disposable. You move on when the slick grip starts to loosen. Shit. Circle of life, man.
My eyes follow a pair of slender Barbie Doll pixies prancing by on kitten heels, dirty blonde hair damp with sweat. They’re giggling like spoiled little valley girls and dragging along two leering shitheads grinning to each other. Certain they’re gonna get their tiny white peckers wet tonight. Maybe take em both gang-style. Clap hands. Form the Eiffel Tower as they take turns spit roasting… that Great White Douche thing of mutual celebration.
Their pretty little heads turn in my direction, eyes lingering, white boys suddenly forgotten. I nod and they flush and giggle and lick their store bought lips.
I make a mental note to find them later.
Like I said. Circle of life.
-
I make the rounds until I find her at the bar and I guess you could call it delicious fate. My redhead with the 80s aerobic style-sense is sexed to the nines in a spray-painted black mini that hugs her curves like a surgical glove. A small diamond pentagram glitters between her freckled copper breasts, keeping company with a silver cross.
Paradoxes. Masked devils hiding in pretty little things, Granny Teague would say.
There’s a deep, aggravated sigh when I lay a hand on the small of her bare lower back and order a drink. Her pretty lips are a sneer when she turns around but they ghost into a smile when her eyes find mine, recognition spooling up in her brain.
“Huh,” is all she says, eyes shining with curiosity.
And that’s all either of us needs when different kinds of thirst suddenly need quenching.
She downs a blood red martini and some shit called The Glass Animals is announced as the mysterious guest performer.
The ravers erupt into deafening screams.
-
I pull her into me and her hips move to the rhythm of beats made for sex.
It’s slow burning lust out on the dance floor, magma bubbling leisurely down a mountainside, setting every damn thing it touches to fire. Bodies grind against each other. Hands grope. Hormones fire. Inhibitions loosening. Gonna be some cherry popping tonight.
There are a thousand pairs of eyes trained on her as she moves fluidly against me, the only ruby red jewel in a sea of bottle blondes and mousy brunettes.
Forgot how fun this madness was. Then remember how it took a stint in prison for Jalen to let me out. I used to just be the observer. I make a promise to have him all torn to shameful shreds when I wake up.
I spin my redhead around and she tangles hands in hair and sways her body with athletic grace, drum tight ass rocking hard with drug fueled intensity, before melting back against my groin. I pull her around into a hard kiss, feeding her one of those X-enhanced Listerine strips. She shivers and I feel the heat of her pussy pulse against my leg.
I whisper in her ear, thumb her throbbing clit under the damp hem of her gauzy dress. She moans, but shakes her head no. I pull her back around as the DJ spins another tune, grinding my heavy erection against her superheated butt. Whisper in her ear again. Weave lyrical spells of bullshit rigged together with spiced need and sugary promises I don’t intend to keep. I squeeze out every dark want her brain probably argues is disturbingly wrong… and that her sweet red snatch argues is hellishly right. Thumb at her bottom lip, hand squeezing her juicy ass under her barely there dress, she finally trembles agreement and I pull her along.
-
I recline on a leather chaise lounge, lazily fisting my meat as amber lights flicker through the tinted glass lattice of the VIP cube. It was easier than I thought… disappointingly so. I wanted a challenge. Reluctance. I wanted fear giving way to drunken fealty. I wanted to stoke the dark coals of lust in her, tiptoeing her over the plank until she’s begging to jump into the murky abyss. Sweet fuckin’ decadence. That was always the goal. Silver tongued power trip. All wiped away by the easy sort of crumble you expect from a whore who’s been playing the long game with you.
I ain’t gonna complain though. My flame haired vixen is still a supple hellion that seems to like putting on a show. The cube has that effect. You don’t even notice as it tears down your ‘impenetrable’ moral boundaries. Shatters your self-respect into glittering lurid fragments.
Armani cut slacks. Shiny Rolex. The stifling haze of fragrant sandalwood cologne more expensive than my little fire truck hellion’s entire outfit. That’s all it took for a bronzed high roller to get her on her knees, fish past his silk boxers and slurp his uncut dick into her hungry red mouth.
I fist my cock a bit faster when a gurgled moan rings out. Mr. Armani’s statuesque sidepiece is crouched behind my hellion, tasting the salty sweat of her copper back while she saws three fingers in and out of her squelching, flame-haired cunt.
Our little hellion grunts and sucks faster while Mr. Armani with the pierced nipple rings starts thrusting violently. All it takes is five pumps and a surprise anal tongue bath from a young, pale-skinned beauty with dark ringlets before he roars his release. A word from his wife has him pulling out mid-stream to paint my hellion’s freckled nose and lush lips with a violent torrent of thick spunk.
When he’s finished with his creamy masterpiece, his wife pulls her around and licks her clean. The last drop is shared in a lazy kiss that leaves my redhead a limp pile of flesh at Mr. Armani’s feet.
“Fuck yea, baby,” I grunt. “Knew you had it in you.”
The wife smacks her lips and turns to face me, smoky gray eyes zeroing in on my stiff dark meat with wanton greed. I laugh. Curl a finger. The golden blonde spanks the little hellion and rises up, long pale legs unfolding from her crouch. Silicon enhanced tits wobble as she catwalks toward me, fingers unpinning her hair to cascade down to the crease of her heart-shaped ass.
“I’ve never sampled one of you before,” she declares, accented purr dripping with high-society indifference to the questionable phrasing. She crawls slowly up the chaise lounge to straddle my thighs. “I wonder how you taste.”
I squeeze her soft butt until she squeaks and drag her expensive and neatly trimmed golden twat along my shaft. “Like recently released felon.” I bite her neck and tease a wet finger over her bleached anal ring. “I’m gonna ruin this high-society pussy,” I chuckle, thumbing her small golden triangle.
Her eyes widen and her sharp little aristocratic nose gives a little half snort of fearful desire.
I laugh and press my swollen head to her slippery entrance and yank her straight down until those downy gold curls meet wiry black ones. Her dagger-like nails and sweet scream has my dick jumping in her tight tunnel as her back arches.
Mr. Armani glances up from between my hellion’s smooth legs. An overly tended to eyebrow is raised. Lip curling. The dumb shit you do for love, huh? Trophy wife princess ain’t satisfied by monogamous cock. I pop a finger into his golden haired trophy, grinning at his frown when she tenses up and hisses the wanton kinda moan I know he’s probably never heard from her. Other bitches probably. But not his demure, reserved wife though.
“What do I taste like?” I parrot. “Blood and chocolate and iron, princess,” I growl, grinding my pelvis against hers. “Blood and chocolate and iron.”
The only response is a delicious whimper joining the high-pitched squeak of my redhead as Mr. Armani tends to her lust.
-
A dozen strokes away from blinding chaos my plastic fantastic paramour gasps in my ear that she’s not on the pill. Loathes her arrogant shit head husband. Is only doing this to spice up their dead on arrival sex wife after marriage.
Tells me she hired a PI. Caught him fucking her slutty little whore of a sister in a seedy motel. Wants to crush his balls. Emasculate him. Get his 50th floor office mocking him.
“That a fact?” I grunt, savoring the tight ripple of her kegels. Had to love vain white girls who like to keep it tight down below as they aged.
Mrs. Plastic pulls me into a kiss, trying way too hard to piss off the lame duck husband she’s trying to cuckold. He’s paying shit attention though. He’s got my hellion’s legs throw over his shoulders and he’s laying pipe, rutting into her fiery red snatch like she’s got the best hole this side of the planet.
“How do I figure?” I say.
Her hips wiggle erratically. Her $500 nails leave stinging red patterns across my chest. She bites her lip.
I repeat myself. Burrow my tongue in her ear. Spank her ass. Hard. Enjoy the hell outta the Jell-O jiggle.
“Breed me,” she skitters out with half clenched teeth. I look up and her wild declaration of want has her face burning in shameful lust. I laugh hard at the cheap porno phrasing. Words she probably never imagined she’d say. The kind of filth rich white women consider beneath them. Deny themselves until it, as it sometimes does with them, explodes out in amusing depravity.
My cock swells and she lets fly a few obscenities she’s also probably never uttered before in her sheltered life in the high-rises. Maybe I had it wrong. Not Plastic Fantastic, but Miss Cold Hearted Bitch?
She ripples her inner muscles again, a pulsating wave of sticky tight heat.
“The fuck not?” I grunt over a helpless inner scream of turmoil.
-
I leave her in an orgasmic heap on the chaise lounge after I’m finished; a thick river of semen leaks from her reddened, lewdly stretched pussy. It’s an image only outclassed when a short little thing sporting cornrows nudges her legs apart and laps at our creamy mess like a starved kitten.
“Jesus,” the golden haired blonde cries out like a sinful prayer when she opens her eyes and sees the wriggling head between her thighs. She tries pushing the girl away, which only serves to increase the intensity of the svelte teen’s carpet munching.
“Blood and chocolate and iron,” I repeat as I walk by.
Her toes curl and there it is. She’s pulling the coffee skinned teenager in, squeezing her legs around her head. A different kind of biblical name forms on her lips.
-
My little hellion is a mess. Her red-gold locks are soaked and sweat pools on the coppered skin of her back. She’s riding Mr. Armani like a prized stallion, drum tight ass flexing and contracting, muscles rippling slowly. Damn near award winning if a competition were held.
I settle onto my knees behind her, cup her ass, and drag a finger up through her dark pink crevice. Mr. Armani’s prick slows to a stop and a cracked, keening whine falls from her lips.
“Unnngh,” she cries. “Don’t. Fucking. Stop. Dammit.”
“Shh,” I promise. “It’s coming.”
“What is?” she’s able to spit out with a breathy moan.
“Best kind of sinnin’ this fucked over world can provide.”
I pull her left cheek to the side, notch my cock at her back door and push right through into her tight buttery heat while she screams bloody murder.
“Unnghhh,” my hellion grunts again, pressing forward, pulling Mr. Armani up into her teardrop tits.
Feminine murmurs of fascination, shock, and jealousy harmonize together. Words are traded. Temporary partnerships forged in raw need. Mirror images to the delight of the raucous ravers wishing they could spend even five minutes inside.
I hold her hips and pump my dick in and out her hot buttery heat. It’s got my heart bumpin’ like Ray’s sound system back in the day. I can smell her earthy arousal and taste her salty sweetness when I yank her back to bite her shoulder. And I can feel the powerful constriction of her sphincter coiling around my meat. It’s a feeling pussy just can’t match.
“Full... Oh myyyy Gaaaawwwd. So…” shudder, “fucking…” quake, “full.” Her head lolls. A silly grin of insanity splits her lips. Mr. Armani paws at her tits, pinching her cherry red nipples. “Fuck my slutty asshole,” she whimpers. “Cream it. Unngh. Fill my pussy with your nasty seed.”
We do our best to comply, finding a rhythm that mirrors the viscously erotic music bubbling outside the cube.
“I’ve never… I’ve never…” my hellion blubbers, tears of pleasure sliding from the corners of her eyes. She’s a swampy mess of arousal, fluid squirting out during a suddenly intense series of orgasms.
“Why don’t we shut that pretty little mouth of yours up,” I grunt in her ear. I snap a finger and a new cock materializes, slapping down against her forehead. “Suck it down, red. Let’s make you airtight.”
Her insides coil and clench, both vaginal and anal muscles working overtime. The white snake pushes past her lips.
Mr. Armani palms her ass, humping up into her, spreading her muscular cheeks, exposing the lewdly filled hole I’m plundering.
Three cocks take her straight to hell and an overload of pleasure she’ll likely continue to seek out now, with or without us. That knowledge brings my dick to diamond hardness and I match the pace being set, synchronizing my thrusts a half-beat off Mr. Armani’s until we’re passing the red firecracker’s hips back and forth like a basketball. Each half beat, I cram my shaft up her rectum, slamming her down, before passing over control of her hips so he can slam his dick up, rocking her hips back to me. Then we speed up, the wet slaps echoing, driving her to places she’s never been. Never dreamed.
The skinny white teen pumping her throat is the first to go, roaring into the shadows as he unloads into her mouth. She sucks down as much as she can. But he can’t hold up to the fluttering sensations of her tongue on his exploding cock and his dick slips from her lips, but continues to spurt, painting her face white.
Feeling my balls start to ignite, I speed up. The rhythm breaks and it’s just two pricks savagely racing to the end inside her pliant body. Her inner muscles ripple and clench with vice-like intensity and Mr. Armani erupts next. I feel the deliciously raw sensation of him blowing his load into her hungry snatch, cum splattering her walls like raindrops breaking against a poncho. I get another half stroke in before the bomb goes off and my balls go nuclear, sending a torrent of cum racing up my shaft to hose down her anal cavity. Her lithe body jerks spastically and her jaw drops.
No sound. Just static. Heartbeats. Jerking muscles.
Eventually her body sags back into Mr. Armani, slick copper skin twitching and pebbling. Lazily, I rotate my softening tool in her heavenly butt and pull out, frothy cum bubbling from her gaping hole. I give her a light spank and stumble dizzily to my feet. I find my golden blonde bent over the chaise, a bald pit bull of a man rutting away inside her frothing snatch. Makes me wonder if she’s decided to play some Russian roulette with the baby-daddy identity. Grin real wickedly each time she’s filled by some new strange.
I walk over to the over side, cock in hand, and rub it against her plump lips.
“Clean me off, bitch,” I order.
She looks up dazed, but complies, cramming my purple head between her lips. I rest my hands on her head and sigh, letting her talented tongue bring my dick back to full mast.
I take the time to look around and grin. Naked bodies fill every last scrap of space in the cube, light filtering in to create shadowed dots and lines over their skin. And hundreds of sets of eyes stare greedily in from the outside as they dance, wishing they had the money or connections to fuck their pains away.
-
In the far corner I spot my newest prey, a curvy Latina bent over on her elbows with her ass pointed to the moon, a feminine head wriggling between her cheeks, no doubt giving her dark star a good tongue lashing.
I walk over.
And stop in my tracks.
Pink tresses spill over the Latina’s round butt. Familiar nails, chewed up and painted neon green dig in into the supple skin. Pink hair is yanked back suddenly by a thick hand attached to a thicker foreman.
Unstable green eyes flutter, pupils dilating hard. Lips curve into a feral grin. Your eyes find mine. You hold my gaze defiantly. Invitingly. But there’s also anger there. Sadness even.
I let slip control and Jalen comes charging back in, horrified, jealous, and angry. Lost.
-
You look impossibly young. I don’t know if this is a dream or a nightmare. Past. Present. Future. Amalgamation. My tomboy Aphrodite with ageless eyes and a past more scarred than mine.
Pink fades to blonde and you bite your lower lip as the lean tattooed bull behind you skewers your dynamite ass before beginning a brutal series of spanks while pulling on your hair. Each brutal slap ages you, dulls your eyes and I, we, scream out in sorrowful rage. Your face melts and like Two-Face from the comics I read as a kid, you’re two different people. You. And her. Paradoxes. Two different blondes housed in the same tortured vessel, a reality I can’t seem to escape no matter how hard I try. Your grunts of pleasure, her grunts of pleasure, they’re all the same.
The tattooed bull smiles viciously as he pushes you hard into the curvy Latina, smothering you against her plush ass. The brutal spanks continue to rain down. Reality warps. And Jasmyn takes the place of the tattooed bull, eyes black pits of rage, working that police baton into your pussy, her pussy, while you sing out a list of names that doesn’t have mine on it.
I stumble to my knees. A freckled hand appears on my shoulder. Red hair tickles my nose. Worried words flow into my ear.
I grit my teeth.
The world tilts off axis and darkness floods in.
