Free The Devil's Sperm Is Cold by Marco Vassi Page B

normal, and very slowly opened her eyes. And when she found herself looking up into the serious gaze of Manuel, her heart almost stopped with fright.
    He worked in the mail room, and because of his low-status position, and because he was Puerto Rican, Joan had rarely even thought of him as a person. But he was over six feet tall, and wore his two-hundred pounds with the muscular ease of an athlete. He was thirty years old, and lived in a totally self-involved world, saying little, thinking much. He was keenly aware of the caste system that operated through and around him, but his goals were in a different realm. His only ambition was to save enough money to buy land in Puerto Rico, and work it as a farmer. Although his formal education was slight, he had a deep understanding of the nature of social reality through having seen it from the vantage point of always having been low man on the totem pole. As far as he was concerned, a simple life of growing one’s own food in a land that was warm and clean, next to clear beaches, was all that one could aspire to in life, and surpassed the artificial pleasures of the tycoon and politician and urban hustler of any level.
    Joan tried to sit up, to pull herself back into the accustomed role she assumed with Manuel, to assert her white skin and college education and importance as editor. But one glance at him showed how utterly senseless all that was now. There was no way to know how long he had been watching her, listening to her. A blush crept up her throat and into her face. He had seen her completely exposed, her face in its orgasmic contortions, her body thrashing wildly about. He had seen her masturbating and was now gloating over her. “It’s like Lou says,” she thought to herself, “life imitates art. Only instead of a roomful of motorcycle freaks, I have one horny mail boy.” The last word stuck in her mind. “But he’s not a boy,” she said to herself, “he’s a man.”
    Without a word, Manuel reached down and grabbed her arms. Effortlessly he lifted her from the chair, turned her around, and bent her over the desk. She flushed even more deeply at being put in this frank posture. He pulled her skirt up and tossed it over her back, covering her head. She was in semi-darkness now, her legs bare, her ass jutting up under the thin fabric of her red panties. Her knees trembled as she waited for him to pull her panties down. She considered screaming, but there was no point in making a mess.
    “He’s caught me fair and square,” she reasoned, “and it’s foolish to be a bad sport. What on earth is he waiting for?”
    Manuel did nothing but look at her, letting the beauty of the moment sink in. He had been consumed with desire for Joan from the very first day she walked into the office. With his looks, and his strength, and his inner resolve concerning what he wanted to do with his life, there were thousands of women he could have had, of any race or nationality. Sex was easy for him, as was winning women’s hearts. But when Joan came into his life, he was like a man possessed by a demon spirit. He knew at once that he had to have her, and not just to fuck her, but to own her, to make her his cunt.
    Of course, he had very old-fashioned ideas about women. When a woman gave herself to a man, she became his. And if he loved her, he treated her with concern, and care, and tenderness; and when she needed it, he beat her. But through everything, she belonged to him, and found her deepest identity in knowing that. Given all this, he was tormented by Joan. He could see that she didn’t even see him clearly enough to despise him. To her, he was a cipher, a nothing; fucking her was going to be next to impossible; possessing her was beyond his hopes.
    So, he tried hating her, comparing her to other women, seeing that this one had a nicer ass, that one had bigger breasts, the other one was prettier, and yet another one exuded a hotter sexuality. But he was branded in his soul,