The Second Oldest Profession

His muscles projected with the strain, the thick blue vein of that biceps pumping up more full.

"On workdays, my balls will be filling up all day, thinking of this gorgeous pussy waiting in my kitchen, sweaty and drippy from a day of cleaning and cooking, and I'm going to have to take you hard and fast and empty my balls into your sloppy bitch-cunt as soon as I get home."

"Whatever you want, daddy," she gasped. "Please fuck me. Hurry. I want more than your fingers, daddy. I want your massive meat stuffing my little pussy so full it won't be able to breathe anything but your heavy manscent."

And then she gasped, as he shoved his cock between the cloudy pillows of her white butt, taking her slowly, while her eyes widened and her mouth opened to release a soundless gasp and devour great gulps of air.

As a virgin, would I even be able to take something that huge?

"Want more, little girl?"

"Every inch of it, daddy," she managed to gasp, her throat straining, tears of glory and shame—and possibly pain—streaming from her eyes. "Nothing but every bit of it could satisfy me."

He slammed the rest of it in, with one powerful stroke of those slim, muscular hips.

She screamed in ecstasy. Her eyes glazed over and their lids drowsed, as she let out a deep breath.

His hands raptly kneading her pudgy waist, he fucked her so hard, he looked like a flipbook of sleek male musculature thrusting and dancing in place, performing some kind of savage mating ritual. Her sounds never stopped; sometimes stuttering yelps, sometimes a constant groan syncopated into spasms, her white flesh quivering.

"I'm going to cum," he said, his sweat dripping onto her, from his wet face and military-style blond hair; from his torn, soaking, grimy tanktop and sleekly-bulging arms and shoulders.

"Breed me, daddy," she murmured. "Breed me deep."

Clinging to the chains of the sling, he did just that, his straining torso tilted back, hips thrusting his huge cylinder into her guts, his tight balls jerking a voluminous load of hot nad-sauce deep inside her fat body.

Leaving me to kneel there in my own maddening and painful arousal, fondling her plump, cloudy body, he swung her with little or no effort into his strong arms and carried her up the stairs, their lips never drawing apart, except when he said, "I could fuck your pussy all night, baby girl." I wanted to call out, but was terrified this would bring repercussions more painful than my being forced to watch him pleasure someone else, allow her to pleasure him. When he entered the kitchen at the top of the stairs, he kicked the door to the basement shut, leaving me in deeper darkness, the silent murk alleviated only by the flickering candles, the pervasive waft of sex-musk and cum; of his rank manly sweat; his cooling piss and the aromatic cigar.

I imagined her curled up in those amazing arms of his, upstairs, in his lap, on the couch in the livingroom, while they watched television together, reliving their deep intimacy along a slowly-declining gradient of rapture. Somehow, this nudged the pain beyond the reach of perverse arousal, but whether because I couldn't watch their downtime, or because feelings subject to voyeurism are easier to digest than those which fade from sight almost to the point of unnerving ambiguity I couldn't or didn't want to say.

About twenty minutes later, the door opened. It was Kevin. He hurried down, now in a long, blouse-like shirt of the kind I usually wore; baggy harem-style pants; and dainty, black, unisex slip-ons.

"You're Dane, aren't you? I'm so sorry. He's such an insatiable stallion, we lose track of time. Can you believe the size of that thing? I wonder if all British men are hung like that."

He hurried over, freshly showered, scented, but still reeking of him—though maybe only in my overwrought imagination.

He uncuffed me. My arms ached. The physical pain hadn't even occurred to me till that moment. Pins and needles darted through my flesh. I massaged my shoulders. Its joints ached. I wanted to lie down. The pain in my knees was less severe than it would've been if the slack on the chains had been less generous and I hadn't been able to sit back on my heels now and then.

Suddenly, I just wanted to go home. I would jack off like crazy later, but my horniness, and my erection, had slacked off to a more equable level.

"Go on up," she said, flapping her pudgy hands at the stairs. "I have to stay down here and clean. He's a total stud, make no mistake, but he's such a messy boy. Pissing and cumming anywhere he feels like it, like an animal. Actually his piss is totally yummy—most of the time—but I'm in a more ladylike mood tonight."

"Marinating cigars?"

"Mm'hmm," she nodded. "The flavor lasts longer. Now, go on. Let me finish up here. A woman's work is never done," with a sigh of mock despair. "Your clothes are in the kitchen. He wants you to get dressed. Shoo."

I was convinced he—she—Kevin, I mean—was insane. In an almost cute and even interesting way, but he was a rival, and these gentler properties stayed out of sight.

He was sitting on the couch, wearing only his boots, his genitals totally soft; their size, even floppy, amazingly large; deliciously masculine, against the lean muscular sheaves of his thighs, against the seemingly-tenuous sheathes of fuzzy, dirty-blond hair curling against his white skin. He was smoking another cigar, which Kevin had, no doubt, lit for him. He knew I was there, but he wouldn't look at me.

I stood frozen, no longer inclined to massage my arms, though they were clearly crying out for it.

He exhaled a plume of fragrant smoke at the table, "Are you sure this is what you want?"

"Who is he?"

"Does it matter?"

"If it does to you."

"It doesn't. Is this what you want? Is this all you can be for me?"

I didn't know what to say, so I lobbed his question back at him. "What do you want?"

His boots moved against the hardwood floor, jostling his hefty lads around, balls and cock now in a more equal partnership of size than the were when he was erect.

"I want you, Dane," he said. His cock twitched its endorsement. "And until you can get rid of what highschool taught you about yourself and accept that someone could possibly want you as much as I do, this is all we'll ever have."

I couldn't move. I longed to be able to tear off my clothes again and go snuggle upto him, but my senses strained against invisible barriers.

"You can leave," he said.

I moved, as if through gelatinous fog, slowly. Finally I reached the door, on whose wood I suspected I was about to be crucified, with no hope of resurrection.

But I braved the terror and said, "Will I see you again?"

He didn't answer, for a good thirty seconds. Then he said, "Just go."

Believing I would never see him again, I glanced back at him, and his face was wet with tears.

Despite her progressive views on the Negro Question, especially with regard to an intelligent Black boy's playing maid to a brutish British male, who, with his tattoos; rugged, unpretty face; and military-style blond hair evoked some of the more savage and downright stupid Klansmen, the fortysecond element was one of my closest and, being my mother, most dependable friends. She was also the keenest person I knew, which wasn't surprising when you considered she began as a dirt-poor Black girl in Augusta and became one of the most successful criminal defense attorneys in the North East, in addition to raising a son alone and giving him an appreciation for Russian music and English literature.

"Mom?"

"Yes, baby."

"Can we talk?"

"It's that man, isn't it? I'll have him deported."

I sat down.

"I'll run his White ass out of town."

I'm making her sound racist. She isn't really. A year ago, she defended a White man who'd been framed for rape and murder by some militant Black types. The whole thing was even on Oprah. As were my mom and her client. One look at him and you would've been convinced he did it. He was about as trashy as Nigel, without the accent. Or the body and, almost certainly, the cock. I wonder what happened to him. Maybe he married his sweet Black girlfriend and settled down with her on their own little farm in Georgia.

Moll was still ranting about the hellfire she was about to rain down on this Stevenson piece of shit who'd trashed my feelings.

"Baby, I love you more life itself, and I hate to say I warned you, but what were you thinking, hooking up with some guy twenty years older than you, through some gay matchmaking website? I had a client once"—she always had a client once—"who met this guy on this dating site for straight people. She was Black, he was Black. And he turned out to be a pimp. Do you know how insulting that was, when my client went to Harvard and she was just looking for a decent man who had a healthy appreciation for B. B. King and Mozart?"

"Did he?"

"What?"

"Have a healthy appreciation for B. B. King and Mozart?"

"Yes. But he was still a pimp."

"Nigel's not a pimp."

"Sounds like he doesn't have enough class to be one. But my point is, honey"—she had a lot of points, did the fortysecond element, and, in her Georgia tones, they sounded more persuasive than the Yankees could make them—"don't get all touchy, now—these gay sites are not as respectable as the straight ones, not even close, and my client was still duped."

"Don't convict the knife for the murder, mama."

It doth slip out on occasion, a little bit of the Old South; though I was raised almost entirely in Atlantic City and Lesterville.

"And don't you try and argue with a lawyer," she wagged her finger at me.

The fortysecond element was ever-so-slightly bi, but she assumed I didn't know some of those butch Black chicks she occasionally brought home to dinner as putative colleagues, though they may've been those too, also held some romantic interest for her. One of them, Darla, who was still a close friend of the family, had actually gotten me into Shostakovich when I was thirteen. There've been men, too, mainly Black, a few White, one Spaniard, and a very distinguished and wealthy East Indian she'd had her longest fling with; but she'd as good as confessed to me once that she wasn't going to make any commitments till I was out of highschool. She was seldom hissy and raggy, either, so I figured the little fulfillment she derived from dating, with, as far as I could tell, little or no sex thrown in, did it for her. Some women—the biological kind—are like that. They don't require constant plowing the way pussyboys do.

"Now you tell me everything this fiend has done, and we'll fix him."

"I think he's fallen in love with me."

My mom was an excellent cook, and so was I, but we usually ordered in, or had a chef come in to prepare stuff, because my mom didn't have much time to cook and I, as usual, couldn't be bothered. From our chef, the fortysecond element commissioned a light supper consisting of lobster bisque, a garden salad with walnut vinaigrette; and croque norvégien. For dessert, we were to have fresh fruit and green tea crème brûlée. Nigel wore a light grey suit, which really made his eyes blaze. I wore a white shirt, coral-pink slacks, beige sandals, and a silver amethyst slave bracelet with three rings.

"What company are you with, Nigel?"

"Atlantic City Builders. It's been around since the late nineteenth century."

"O yes," said the fortysecond element. "I had a client from them once."

What did I tell you?

I could tell he was nervous. It made him seem cuter, somehow, more boyish. I wasn't sure I was in the mood for cute, for the next five years, or however long relationships last, but I was less in the mood to let him go.

"How long have you worked for them?"

"Five years. Before that I was with British Transatlantic Construction."

My mom exuded grace and authority as effortlessly as Nigel exuded raw masculine sex appeal. No suit or sit-down dinner with the folks could diminish that in him. It was there at that table with me, in our elegant diningroom.

If its exterior had impressed him, my home's interior had him developing a crick in his neck from looking around. Ours was one of five houses in The Cedars built by the great Finnish architect Ÿrjo Vehviläinen; it wasn't an æsthetic and structural masterpiece like his glass house, which belonged to some insanely rich homosexual or other, and we hadn't, like said mo, commissioned our house, which had stood here for three decades before we bought it, but it was an impressive building, if slightly Seventies, which had garnered its fair share of complementary and even exclamatory write-ups in architectural periodicals.

"Dane tells me you and he are getting close?"

"I think you have an amazing son," he said, glancing shyly at me and taking my hand under the table.

Naturally, the fortysecond element knew nothing about Nigel's basement.

I didn't think he could blush, despite his pale skin, but he did, as he articulated his opinion of me to my mom. He squeezed my hand and let it go.

We were seated on one side of the long table, and she opposite us, as if we were in her office, in consultation.

I know it was hard for him to evade the feeling that he was under the microscope, but even when I'd given him an out, he'd insisted on being here, on meeting my mother. As we'd surfaced from our brief immersion in kink, trailing an undeniable wake of consequences, he'd confessed that Kevin was someone he'd met on the site a few weeks before he'd met me. The interlude I'd witnessed was their third together. Kevin was clueless about who I was. He only knew me as someone who liked to watch rather than do. In addition to his being an excellent maid, Kevin was a cross-dressing pig-bottom whose adventures in raunch, with or without the help of drugs and alcohol, had taken him all over the country, even as far afield as Quebec City and Berlin.

Later, the fortysecond element went off to her favorite chair, the suspended one in the downstairs den, and Nigel wanted to see my room. In fact, while he had wanted to clear away any doubts my mother had about him based on his being some faceless, ominous, archetypal presence risen from the city's myth-kitty to haunt or otherwise menace my life, his main reason for visiting my house was so he could see my room, my private space, the place where I'd spent the last eight years. He stepped into as if it were an enchanted garden, trailing back circumspectly, as I held his hand.

I told him we would have to be married for ten years before I allowed him to touch my Norton Complete Works of Shakespeare.

"No problem," he said, distractedly, yet as if the matter of our being married, even for ten years, were a foregone conclusion, an immutable destination toward which we now only had to map the journey.

He walked around the room, staring closely at things, like a scholar in a museum; rearranging things here and there he thought looked out of place, or simply touching them in banal homage. Finally he came and sat on my bed near me and put a hand on my knee. He leaned down and gave me a quick kiss on the mouth. His coming to dinner with my mom, our being in my bedroom together, humanized us, brought us down from the mythic plane of Black and White, daddy and boy, master and slave; it surrendered us to the ordinary, while leaving open, for occasional exploration, the extraordinary nonsense we craved.

We ended up on the wide window-seat in my bedroom with a glittering view of Lesterville. I lit a few candles and we sat in the dark. Holding me from behind, he cuddled me against him, between his legs. He kissed my face, "Now what, babe?"

"Now everything," I said.