textfiles/sex/EROTICA/T/trinit11.txt

                       Chapter Eleven

     We had a spy among us.  National Personality, a sleazy monthly
tabloid magazine that specialized in catching anybody doing
anything, had buried a mole in Jonathan Barrett Bible College.  His
name was Paul Kennedy.  He had spent a semester as a student and had
wormed his way into the confidences of our young men and women in
the College.
     All hell broke loose when National Personality ran his first
article.  They did not give his name because he was still
undercover, but it was obvious he had first-hand information.

     The first article was on masturbation.  Now, that's nothing in
most places, but it's a sin committed by weaklings among young
preacher boys learning how to be arrogant men of God.  Kennedy's
article, under the byline "The Mole," played up our hypocrisy and
our oppressive attitude.  He said we pretended to be liberal and
accepting but condemned real sex; to us, he said, sex was just a
cute abstraction we publicly smiled and winked about like it was a
kitten playing with a ball of yarn.  But, said the article, sex
involves genitals in the real world, and all reference to or use of
our genitals was absolutely taboo.
     He described what young men did in their socks at night and the
excruciating shame they lived with because of it. Then he dropped a
bombshell:  a young man in the dormitory had committed suicide over
his sinful thoughts and secret acts. I knew one of our students had
suicided, but I didn't know him and I certainly had no idea of what
had made him do it.  I was devastated when I read the article.
     "The Mole" laid the blame directly on the church for counseling
a severely depressed nineteen-year-old who needed professional help.
He said the young man had been told he was guilty of sinning against
God Himself and that Jesus would remove his evil obsessive-compulsive
neurosis if he would but surrender to Him.  The boy surrendered, the
boy prayed, the boy threw himself into the Lord's work.
     Then, said the article, the earnest young man went to a church
play starring Jonathan Barrett's daughter as Eve.  There was a color
picture of me in my Eve outfit lying back against a large rock
eating grapes.  In the bottom right corner of the picture was an
insert of the boy looking up as though at me.  A week after the Adam
and Eve play, the young man was found hanging by his neck in his
room.  Pictures of me were scattered over the bed, some of them
smeared with his semen.
     The caption under the picture was "Boy Masturbates to Death
over Jonathan Barrett's Daughter."  That, of course, was ridiculous
-- he had hanged himself -- but it doubled the magazine's sales for
that issue.  The truth, though, was even worse:  the scene was
discovered by the boy's roommate who was persuaded by church and
school officials to cover up the part about masturbating and my
pictures.  The Mole told it all.
     It was my first knowledge of it, for I had not known about the
coverup.  God help me, I could not remember ever having even seen
the boy who made me his last fantasy.
     Every news show in the country repeated the magazine story
endlessly day after day.  Every facet of Kennedy's article was
discussed and discussed again by journalists, religious leaders,
panelists, and commentators.  I became a joke for talk show
comedians who were, in turn, attacked for capitalizing on a tragedy
and victimizing an innocent girl who did nothing wrong except be
beautiful.

     Some women go on a buying spree when faced with problems.
Others eat themselves to death.  Men get drunk or work so hard they
can't think.  Some people sleep.
     I fuck.  I fucked Daddy every night on the couch in front of
the TV, clinging to his body like a blonde monkey needing nourishment
and contact.
     It was the same position every time, too, unusual for me, and I
insisted we both be entirely nude.  I straddled his cock as he sat
on the couch, and I wrapped my arms around his neck. I needed Daddy
to hold me on his lap like that, to hold me securely.  I needed the
intimacy, the strength, the non-analytic support, the love, and his
wonderful male bigness plunged deep inside me and preoccupying me
physically.
     And his cum.  I needed my father's cum.  Daddy's substance
flooding into me was an archetypal connecting with my roots.  There
was something about it that made me feel cleansed.  I was fucking
maybe a dozen times a day, but only my father's penis and only my
father's cum gave me peace.
     Daddy knew all this.  He knew I did not need words.  God
Almighty how I did not need words.  He gave me what I needed:
himself.
     And I guess he needed me, too, for the same reasons.  He needed
to feel covered and protected, in profound contact with the only
other person on earth who was truly close to him.  Our love for each
other and our physical bonding with each other conferred a closeness
and a balm no words could provide.  No other relationship could
afford for us surcease of sorrow of the magnitude we needed in this
time of our tribulation.
     So we coupled and kissed and wrapped ourselves in each other.
It was only out of consideration for Daddy that I did not cling to
him day and night.  I fucked him, I fucked Ricky Alvarez, I fucked
Roosevelt and Cliff, I fucked Mr. Atkins in the mouth, I fucked
Freddy Moreland and Junior, I beat the piss out of Delbert Atkins,
and I wore my mask and fucked my ass off at the annex with whoever
walked through the door.  I had Christina for lunch every day.
     One day I paid Christina to wear her latex panties with the
built-in dildo.  Payment wasn't necessary except that I wanted to
feel lower.  I gave her the money on my knees as she looked down on
me.  I paid Darlene to watch my humiliation.  At my behest, Christina
pulled me up by my hair, turned me around, and forced me to bend
over.  She rammed it to me and called me names.  When she was done,
she just threw me on the floor and walked away.
     I lay there crying.  Darlene came to me and held me in her arms
and stroked my hair.
     "Trinity, sweet Trinity," she whispered.  "You're killing
yourself.  You've got to stop . . . before you become what I became
years ago."
     "Mommy."  It was the first time in my life I had ever used the
word or anything like it.  Darlene cried.
     "I killed that poor sick boy, Mommy.  I killed him."
     "No, Trinity, no.  You didn't even know him.  None of us ever
touched him.  He was sick and needed help.  It's not your fault he
didn't get the help he needed.  You were just a symbol for him, and
not the only one.  He hated himself and took his own life to escape
it.  You had nothing whatsoever to do with it."
     "I don't want to hurt Daddy.  I don't want to hurt Daddy."  I
looked suddenly in her eyes as though in them there was an answer,
some way to reverse what we had started.
     "What have I done?" she asked herself aloud.  "I'm so very
sorry, Trinity.  I'm so very sorry.  I'll think of something,
Sweetheart."  She rocked me like a baby, and I found comfort in her
arms and in her words.  With childlike faith, I believed she would
somehow make all the ugliness I felt go away and put everything back
the way it was.


     I knew The Mole.  I had fucked Paul Kennedy a few times. All
three of us had.  Nothing extraordinary about him in bed unless you
consider a take charge-fuck-roll off-smoke-a-cigarette male as
extraordinary.  It was always a nice simple fuck which I enjoyed.
     Having sex with Paul was never the most significant thing about
being with him.  He was fun and knew his way around.  Conversations
never lagged.  As far as sex was concerned, the most different thing
we had ever done was when I sucked his dick all the way down the
mountain from Tahoe in one of the church's fleet of cars.
     He got in on the scene at the annex a few times.  He fucked the
choir director's wife for us and a couple of visiting missionaries,
one of them in the ass.  He was in one of our parallel skits, as we
called them; he played one of the two men Joshua sent out of Shittim
into the city of Jericho who were hidden by the harlot Rahab.  The
Jericho whore is listed as an example of faith in the Epistle to the
Hebrews and in James as justified by faith.  The Bible doesn't hold
a woman's profession against her.  Christina played Rahab in our
porn version.
     We knew Paul was a reporter.  We brought him there, in fact.
Darlene had known him in New York, and we gave him the opportunity
of a reporter's lifetime.  He could make himself a national name in
his business.  His magazine went for it like ugly goes for moose.

     In the third week of my fucking-to-forget fever, Paul called me
and wanted to see me.  I met him at the Come Inn, a little hotel in
Reno that caters to people who want to watch adult movies and fuck.
     You would think I would have showed up with a scimitar and
lopped his balls off, but I didn't.  As soon as I walked into his
room, I fell into his arms and we kissed like two young lovers.  I
had to get fucked before I could discuss the situation.
     We undressed each other while we kissed.  I started by
unzipping his fly and reaching in and fondling his soft peter.  He
responded by pulling my tank top over my head and sucking my
titties.  His peter grew in my hand as he sucked.  I loosened his
belt and opened his pants and skinned them down his legs as I sank
to my knees.  I kept his dick in my mouth as we got his pants off.
Still sucking his growing cock sticking out of his boxer shorts, I
slipped off his shoes and socks.  I felt and kissed my way up his
body, and we wrapped our arms around each other in a long, sexy
kiss.  I undid my skirt and let it fall, kicking it and my beach
sandals behind me.
     I stood naked before him.  He bent down and kissed my stomach
while removing his shorts, then went to his knees in front of me.  I
held him firmly by the face and head and hunched his mouth
unhurriedly as he licked me and sucked me.  Pushing him down a
little, I raised one leg over his shoulder and pressed it against
the side of his face.  He rubbed his face in my cunt, rooting gently
with his nose until he actually got it up inside me.  He tried to
inhale in it, and the strange new sensation made me gasp.
     "Suck it down your throat through your nose.  Snort my woman
cum directly into your brain.  Fill your head with it."
     My words heated both of us up even more than we were, and I
tried to drown him in fuck slop while he tried to breathe my cunt
slime into his mind and soul.  I felt him making an attempt to
escape his gooey prison and tightened my hold with strong hands and
leg muscles.
     "I'm filling your brain with pussy pollution.  Breathe, snort,
suck.  Inhale my stuff deeply into your very self.  Let it seep into
your brain cells and engulf your being in a murky swamp of my ooze."
     Nearing brain damage, he broke free of me finally and doubled
up beneath me gasping and holding his stomach.  He aspirated the
stuff in his mouth and choked until his face began to turn purplish.
I stood over him not caring if he died, then walked over and relaxed
on the bed to watch him.
     When he was able to breathe, he pushed himself up and looked at
me like a murderous savage about to attack.  I wanted him to.  Tears
streamed down his face from the physical strain he had endured.  His
mouth was bleeding.  His face was a mess of blood, sweat, tears, and
cum.
     "You're insane," he growled through clenched teeth.  "You ought
to be locked up.  You tried to murder me."
     "Come here and fuck my body."
     His whole body moved with each breath he took.  His rational
fear pulled him one way and his primitive carnality another.  He
scanned his brain cells for one not immersed in my gravy and found
none that were not under the influence.  He dragged himself to his
feet, and I saw that his cock had relinquished its blood to his
starving brain and hung there flaccid and irrelevant.
     But not for long does the cock of a man remain extraneous to a
situation involving a naked personification of archaic lust older
than Reason.  It began to rise like the resurrecting monarch it was
as he lusted on me.  I slithered to the middle of the bed and,
propped up on my outspread hands, I brazenly spread my legs and
waited.
     There was no way he was going to risk any more brain cells by
plunging his face again into my inviting soaked quagmire of crotch.
No.   But the prick of a man slides in where logic fears to tread,
and he came to me intrepidly with his flagpole leading the way fully
erect.
     He entered me pole first and laid on me.  I wrapped around him
warmly and took his mighty maleness inside me.  I kissed and licked
the bizarre and intoxicating solution off his face as he screwed me
methodically, pinning me down and holding me securely for fear I
might come off my hinges again and destroy him.
     We moved together as only a copulating man and woman can.
Nowhere on earth is there a comparable machine so well oiled, its
parts fitting together so perfectly, its movements so uniquely human
and yet so singularly divine.
     When he cum in me, there was no interruption of our embrace nor
of the fluidity of our movement together.  I cum again and again as
he emptied himself in me and probed my depths with God's perfect
gift.
     We lay yoked together in the timeless posture of man and woman
long after we had spent ourselves.  He rolled off my grateful body
and out of my embrace, finally, and leaned against the bedboard.  He
took a cigarette from the pack on the end table and lit up, the last
act in all of Paul's sex scenes.
     "I called you," he said, "because Darlene and Christina were
worried about you.  They said the article really threw you for a
loop.  I knew you had no idea about the cover-up or that you were
the dead boy's masturbation fantasy.  I should have told you before
you read about it."
     "You don't owe me any apologies, Paul."
     "I didn't say I did.  As far as I'm concerned, you have to take
what comes when you enter a vicious world as the most vicious animal
in it.  To tell you the truth, I have more respect -- and less fear
-- of mafia hoods than I do good citizens like you who scheme to
destroy innocent folks for no gain just so you can hurt a man you're
in love with.  You're the kind of irrational and self-centered slime
I take great delight in exposing."
     I didn't say a word.  I got my clothes together, put them on,
and walked quietly out without so much as glancing at him.  It was as
though I had gone into a toilet, taken a shit, wiped my ass, and
left.  I had no feelings and was barely cognizant that he had been
there with me.

-end Chapter 11--