Ronald Rabbit Is a Dirty Old Man - Lawrence Block [35]
“And then what?”
“Then I’ll have an orgasm.”
“Just from that?”
“It’s all in the position you’ll be in. It’s particularly exciting to me, God knows why. Maybe I saw my parents in this position as a child or something. We could ask your friend the psychiatrist.”
“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