If you let it, masturbation can be a merciless, poisonous death. If you let it get under your skin, it soaks right through to the bone. And how do you know you’re dying? Because you feel it, feel it draining the life blood – that’s how. That cold, depth-less shrill in your gut when the deed is done. It spreads from your stomach to your chest and you have to suck air in harder just to breathe normally. It makes you conscious of the fact that you’re not normal. Because no normal man has to try so hard just to breathe. And then you know your head is infected.
Poisonous bile of momentary pleasure turned to slow death.
You hate yourself. You’re dirt. You’re old dirt – going on your third decade on this shit-infested planet. She’s eighteen. You have no right. You’re a dirt shit. She’s vibrant and alive. You’ve already started debating whether burial or cremation is the way to go. You’ve resigned yourself to grey hairs. She’s still buying face replenishing lotions to ward off acne. You’re a shit that clogs the toilet. A shit that refuses to go down the drain with the rest of the rubbish.
She’s your friend’s sister.
He’s one of those great sort of friends, too. He kept you out of trouble when the trouble seemed to follow you around. He contributed to your survival plenty of times – when even your parents had written you off. Kept you in drinks when you were going through the hardest of times, when he gave up trying to convince you that drinking away wasn’t the answer. Everyone has a breaking point. But he’s always been there. He was there on the other side of the rabbit hole when you finally climbed out; he never threw it in your face, never said, ‘I told you so.’ Not once.
You’re a piece of corroded shit.
You try and convince yourself it isn’t your fault, formulate all manner of justifications. If only the University hadn’t flown you into town to deliver a lecture on applied mathematics for the vehicle routing problem. If only she hadn’t felt the urge to visit her older brother for the holidays. If only she hadn’t heard of you from Terrence, your friend – her big brother. If only big brother hadn’t invited you to dinner that night and introduced you right at the table. If only it hadn’t been a corner table squeezed in between two others so when you went in for a hug, you had to hold her so tight you were practically inside her. If only she hadn’t insisted on wearing such a revealing dress. If only she wasn’t so lithe, and firm, and such a breath of fresh air with her perky tits and teasing ass.
If only you hadn’t just jerked one off thinking about how sweet she felt against you.
That’s where I was.
If only … but it had felt like that, it really had. She was every inch as supple and limber as that. And she’d pressed her compact little body into me when we embraced. She’d left her mark seared into my chest and smouldering my groin with want. I’d thought of nothing else since. Every nerve and muscle pulsated with desire for her on the cab ride back to the hotel, on the walk through the massive lobby, on the elevator car, in the narrow corridor outside my room. And then, when I could do no more to control the urges, I’d stroked myself with her plundering my mind, whipping my hand up and down like a lunatic, a battering wildebeest, until the cream shot from me in torrents every which way, dousing the entire room in my shame.
The doorbell buzzed and, as if launched from the end of a cannon, like a streak of come I vaulted off the bed. I tugged my pants over my ass and scrambled to the door without checking the peephole. I should have, I know that now. If I had, the whole blundering mess might have been averted. But right then I was still listless and weak-kneed from orgasm, my mind was reeling and my legs felt strangely leaden.
I drew the door open wide, and it was none other than she, the Selena of jism-glutted dreams, that stood firmly at my threshold. She was absolutely magnificent, I couldn’t possibly rob her of that; she sported a short denim skirt the only way it was ever meant to be worn – to make slavering idiots of all men. Her tank top, that blessed lamina of gauzy fabric, moulded her tits into something otherworldly.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’ she said. I moved aside. She strolled past me, just like so, and as she did, she ran a playful hand across my crotch, tapping her fingers daintily on my cock. ‘What a lovely tent you’ve erected, Professor. Should I be flattered?’
I stuck my head out and peered down the empty corridor. Then I shut the door. She spun on her heels, her legs spruced straight, boosting her ass exquisitely, and twirling around to me. A move that worked me up something fierce, yet made her seem, if possible, that much younger, and nailed the self-loathing right to my gut. She flipped her hair back over her shoulders, unveiling the deep, sweeping cleavage gushing forth at her neckline.
‘How about a drink to wet the throat?’ she asked, twining around her fingertip the tiny ringlets of hair behind her ear.
‘Out of the question,’ I said, perhaps too anxious, because her grin curled higher. She sighed, then, arching her back and stretching the tank top down over the waist of her low-rise skirt, so the hefty bundles promised very definitely to split it in two, rend it like a portière. She stepped directly in front of me, near enough to touch, to run a finger across the sleek, tanned thighs flaunted beneath the hem, close enough to feel and relish. I wanted desperately to taste of her.
‘That’s not the way to play this, Rico,’ she advised. ‘It wastes time, can’t you see that? We have a limited window of opportunity. Resistance merely postpones the inevitable. And that inevitability is so very much fun. Believe me.’
I was caught on her every word, every flicker of her eyelids and twitch in her jaw.
‘We’ll want as long as we can possibly have to enjoy it.’ She hooked her fingers on my fly and tried to pull it down; I swatted her hand away, viciously. She winced at the sting, but damn if that filthy little bitch didn’t then crack a smile the likes of which I’d never seen on a woman, lecherous to the point of combustion. She pursed her prurient lips and blew two gusts over the red spot across the back of her knuckles. ‘Now that we can work with.’
It took every last morsel of verve I had left coursing in my veins, the bit that hadn’t been envenomed by lust, to turn my back to her, rip the door open and order her to leave. She shook her head, laughing, the rest of her jouncing provocatively.
Take it from me, it is a most daunting and revolting experience to be faced with your own moral weakness, to have it laughed back at you as proof of your succumbing to a war within, to have it skewer you in the guise of a seductress as young as only the devil could make. My spirit was willing to have her out – to kick that bubbly romp square in the middle and send it back whence it came – but the flesh, oh, dear me, the flesh was weak. I had spent my adult life struggling with profound, complex problems, differential equations, variational methods, Newtonian physics. I had conquered them all. But the pull she had on me, this transcendental weight drawing me in at all times, was somehow beyond my understanding. Beyond my strength.
‘I really don’t understand,’ she said, haughtily. ‘I thought I made it clear what my intentions were when we met.’
‘I suspected.’
‘If I’d rubbed my snapper any harder against your leg, you’d have gotten rug burn.’
‘I choose to pretend now that I was wrong.’
She shrugged her shoulders, and saying, ‘Pretend what you want,’ she yanked down on her top harder and that time her tits gave a hearty bounce, and bobbed out. I watched as her nipples furrowed and knitted into tiny studs. She slid one hand down along the robust contours of her body, beyond the skirt, to plunge into her pussy. She jolted straight as an arrow and gasped. Her breathing suddenly became heavy and ragged. I’d never wanted anything as bad as a go at her; the feeling had me wrought, my mind racing, blood pumping. Put mildly, it was overpowering, a straight flux of ardour as potent as a tidal wave. She started rapidly dipping her finger in and out, soaking in the honey that flowed from her, pooled on her sex and ran down the inside of her thighs.
I slammed the door shut again, whipping about in a near sprint. ‘Stop that shit,’ I scolded. ‘Stop it! This isn’t a fucking game.’
‘That’s the first damn thing you’ve said that made even a speck of sense, Professor. You’re right – this isn’t a game! I’m randy as hell. If you won’t scratch the itch, then I’ll do it myself.’
There must have surely been some message that passed between us, some primordial Morse code transmitted by the lids of our eyes, because it rallied us in a minute flat, no less, no more, her staring at me, me staring back, our breaths fusing together, our heat coalescing. I swallowed hard, and she pounced on that piddling sign of weakness with the stealth and agility of a leopard. Then we were trapped in a tornado of flying clothes, swiping hot, frantic touches of one another through the gale of underwear.
In mere seconds she had my pants open and got a hold of my cock, petting it with her palm vigorously, while the other hand fondled my testicles. ‘Without a sense of urgency,’ she whispered into the side of my face, all-at-once erudite beyond my expectations, ‘desire loses all of its value.’
I flung her onto the bed and turned her onto her hands and knees, her ass jutting straight up. I lunged jaw first, gripping her waist hard, and I ran the tip of my tongue along her snatch up to the tiny, puckering asshole. She had a lovely taste; I’d chew and gorge on it all day if she asked me. From her pussy, the juice seeped like a flood, sluicing over my chin.
‘Damn it, I’m dying – ram it in already, choke me with it,’ she beseeched me, hysterically, one arm clenched between her haunches, opening her snatch wide with sticky fingers. ‘Shit, I’m so fucking wet and slimy. Get over here, I want that prick this second or I swear I’ll saw it off and skewer myself with it!’
I clambered behind her, scuttled into position, rubbed the head of my cock between her quim’s lips. Without further ado, I slipped it in, all of it crammed into her box, then getting right to the dance, the tango, waltz, samba and then some. Her pussy was clutching my root, biting down like it was munching on kielbasa, as we mounted a raving tempo; I battered her, hammering my balls against her ass with every deep thrust through her slippery sex.
I spun her around, hurled her back on the bed and pushed her knees up and apart. Those rosy pink lips pouted open, damp around the cusp of her sex, her clit straining to emerge from between the curtains of flesh. I embedded my face in it, fastening my lips upon the squirmy little nub. She writhed eagerly, heaving and huffing, choking up a storm. She dug her nails into the back of my head so I wouldn’t dare to part from her quim; she crushed my nose and mouth to it as she ground her hips into my face. ‘Oh, you beautiful fuck. Oh, fuck!’ Soon after, she stopped moving and I felt her pussy clinched around my tongue, thrumming rabidly.
I crawled atop the wily bitch and pinned her down by the shoulders lest she bludgeon me in her desperate hustle for a good reaming. Quick as a wink, she got a firm grasp of me in her hand and guided me back into her. With a single lunge I buried myself deep inside. She coiled her legs around my waist and lifted herself to meet every thrust. I sucked on her nipples, grazing like some animal out to pasture, nibbling on her teats with my teeth. I pounded my prick in, over and over and over, swollen and nourished by a visceral surge of energy that drove me on, a voltage of raw, unbridled power fuelling me into the blind plunge. In that moment, I felt like a piston, a diesel machine, a mindless mechanism for the furtherance of passion. Her stiletto heels pressed into my back, stabbing the flesh like spurs into a colt.
I thrust and thrust, raving mad now, screaming, until I swore I heard a snap at the base of my skull. I keeled over the edge, then the only sound left was a low, incessant hum almost like a current sibilating just beneath the surface of my skin.
I withdrew with a sordid pop and collapsed backwards. She scampered up my body, pawing desperately at my legs, slurping my cock into her mouth. No sooner had she wrapped her lips around it than my pecker gave a tiny belch, then erupted to the very back of her gullet. She moaned and closed her eyes, as gouts of jism slid from the corners of her mouth, but she persisted, gobbling up my shaft whole, and drinking the viscous substance. Finally, and truly it seemed like years, my orgasm subsided and she released my prick.
We lay there for a long while, catching our breaths. She stretched out beside me, undulating her hips like a purring feline. Completely satisfied with herself. Her breasts were high and buoyant, breasts such as only youth can sustain: flawless orbs of flesh, years away from drooping, sagging or shrivelling. She ran her nails down the front of my chest. ‘Now, wasn’t that worth all of those petty guilt trips? Don’t they seem pointless?’
I swung my legs off the bed and was sitting on the edge. As I knew it would, the lust to which I’d succumbed evaporated with the drying of my sperm on her chin, and was replaced with a crippling sense of regret. What good is intellect, thought I? What purpose does it serve, if any, and where does it fit in the broad scheme, in the face of such powerful and overwhelming compulsions?
‘I wouldn’t worry about it much,’ she gloated, coolly, as though she were reading my mind. ‘It was something you could never hope to resist.’
‘We have to tell him,’ I said. ‘You know we do.’
She propped her legs on the mattress, spreading her knees. She glanced down at her snatch, played a finger on the smooth, moist lips. She tasted herself and me, suckled on the glutinous blend. Then she lit a cigarette, inhaled the smoke deep into her lungs and blew it out in swirling lines that weaved up to the ceiling.
‘Tell him, then,’ she said. ‘It’s not me he’ll hate. At least, not for the long haul. Me he’ll forgive – you’ll see. He has no choice, really. Family reunions, Thanksgiving, Christmas … think about it. He won’t be able to ignore me for ever. You, though. You, Professor, he can forget.’
There was logic in those words. I’d known Terrence over twenty years. He was a fair man. He could forget many things, overlook many sins. This, however, banging his little sister, tearing her open like a barnyard animal, Terrence would never forgive. If ever he learned of it –
‘I think we still need to tell him.’
‘Do what you have to do,’ she said. She got off the bed to look at herself in the mirror by the door. She liked her nakedness. I could tell from her expression, the way she groomed her hair up over her head and stirred her body in the reflection. I liked it, too, I must confess, and, falling back against the headboard, I feasted my eyes. ‘It’s funny how men are,’ she muttered, mostly to herself, I think. ‘How weak they become after fucking.’
I didn’t speak.
She turned to me. ‘You just spent almost an hour drilling into me like a madman. You pounded me like a beast, you did. I enjoyed it. But look at you now, Professor. Weak. Feeble and spineless. My brother had no place in your mind twenty minutes ago – even your brilliant mind. All you wanted was to screw me till one of us was dead. A drop in the bucket – now …’
I reached for the rum bottle on the nightstand. Poured myself a drink, my poison of choice. I lifted the glass to my lips.
‘The girl always wins, doesn’t she?’ she said, in a grandiose manner, as though she’d come finally to an epiphany that had eluded her all her life. That had eluded, perhaps, all the generations that had come before her. ‘No matter how much a man gives. No matter how much he thinks he’s pleasuring you, maddening you, punishing you … in the end, he’s got no power, no control whatsoever. He loses it all the moment he comes.’
I downed the drink in a gulp.
She spun around. Walked to the end of the bed. Peered down at me, at my slumbering prick. She licked her bottom lip, fleetingly, in that way a woman does when she fancies the bits and pieces. I started getting hard again just from the look on her face.
‘You’re not going to say anything to my brother.’
‘I – I have to.’
‘No,’ she said, slowly, ‘you don’t.’
She put one knee on the mattress. Then the other. Thus, she hovered above me on all fours.
‘He’s my best friend. My only friend.’
‘And that’s why you won’t say anything. Good friends are hard to come by.’
‘I can’t keep it from him.’
‘You can.’
Her tits were over my midsection, her rosy nipples pointed down at my shame. My cock was nearly fully erect. It betrayed me. She had me, and she knew it. She bent her head down, smacked her lips. Her eyes stayed unwaveringly on mine.
‘You won’t say anything.’
Her mouth quivered, then snapped loudly like a Venus Flytrap, Dionaea muscipula, inches from the swollen crown of my penis.
‘Oh, Jesus. Blow me,’ I pleaded. ‘Yeah, blow me, please.’
‘Will you?’
‘Take me in your mouth. Just …’ My voice sounded despairing and wretched, even to my own ears. ‘Do it now, please. Please!’
She struck her tongue out like a bullwhip and scourge, the tip of which poised just over my prick. ‘You won’t say a word.’
‘Come on, damn it to hell! Suck me off – suck me off!’
‘My brother hears nothing of this.’
I seized her shoulders, and with such savagery hauled her to me, that I could’ve literally fucked her eye socket. She clamped her lips shut, wrenched her face away.
‘Fuck, you little bitch – do it!’
‘Say it. I want to hear you say it.’
I shoved her away, disgusted – but not with her. With myself. ‘All right! All right, whatever you damn please, I won’t tell him a damn thing, nothing, just fucking do it already! Just fucking do it – for fuck’s sake!’
She smiled. She had me. She knew it. I knew it.
‘No control,’ she said.
Then she lowered her head completely. Her hair flailed over her face and onto my stomach. Her mouth closed over me. It was the damnedest thing. The torment, the curse, the tumult, wickedness and miracles vaporised as soon as she swallowed the length of my cock. Her mouth was like a vacuum of space and time, of sound and sight. The epiphany at that moment was mine. The conclusion was an uncomplicated one. We are all, at all times, dying, hurtling through a sphere of immateriality, of nothingness, so far as we live inhibited. Of one ailment or the other, it does not matter – the deaths are as varied as the diseases. If masturbation is a slow death, then I knew, at that instant, with my prick engulfed in her pretty little mouth, that friendship wasn’t a cure. That, you could only take so far. It did only so much to slow the progression into that most indolent demise of monotony – the worst, most tragic of all, for which there had only ever been one cure. A drop of poison to cure all ails.
I reclined my head on the pillow, listening to the soft, wet sucking noises she made.