True Love At Last by Frederick K. Foote – Adult Content

Shaken to the core, foundation rattled; defenses breached, exposed, weakened, bloodied. He did it. Him walking away.

That colored boy did it. He got her new 1962 Buick out of a tight spot. Assistance not requested or desired. Walked away on her thank you. Turned his back on her. Turned back to her. Yelled, “Hey!” and she turned, faced him. He took her face in his hands, not gently, and smashed his lips against hers, rough lips, chapped and hard; bruised her lips against her teeth. Drew blood and walked away.

Him the vaguely familiar skinny colored boy assaulted her, wounded her, bloodied her in the parking lot of San Juan Junior College at about 3:30pm on a cool day in May. He did it and walked away.

He didn’t see her standing there now gritting her teeth, digging her fingernails into her hands, drawing blood, shaking her blond head rapidly from side to side, out of control. A seizure is what her doctors called it. For her it was anger building to an eruption. It was a war dance. A take no prisoners dance, a ritual prelude to death and destruction.

It lasted less than thirty seconds. She came out of it quickly, unclenched her hands, wiped them on her uniform, slowed her shaking head, relaxed her jaws, took slow deep breaths.

There was something wrong, wetness between her legs soaking through her underwear and her outfit, running down her leg. Not urine, not this time, she had cum on herself like a thunder-storm, drenched.

She watched the skinny brown boy walking away. She memorized his walk. She would take care of him, good care of him. He wasn’t the problem. She was. She let him get close to her. She saw him coming. Instinctively, she knew what he was about. He was angry at her. It was slow burning rage. She recognized it. It was an old friend come calling. He moved deliberately. It was not a speed attack or a sneak attack. He warned her, called out to her, “Hey.”

And with all the warnings and notice and instinct, she let him touch her and even worse she let him walk away unharmed. This was a major meltdown. A disaster. Her first rule, primary rule, was no touching without permission. It was her survival rule. If you can’t maintain bodily integrity how can you survive? She let him get close. She let him smash his lips into hers, and she let him walk away. Why? She was armed. She had knees and elbows. She had teeth and nails. Fully armed. Armed to the teeth. She had her car keys in her hands. She was not paralyzed with fear or drunk or semiconscious.

She had to think this through and through. She could take care of the colored boy anytime, but first she had to understand what went wrong with her, what system failed.
She slid into her extorted Buick and drove slowly to the next turn and turned left. She was soon paralleling her attacker. He kept walking, in no hurry.

Poor little colored boy you are part of the problem and therefore, part of the solution.
She turned and turned until she was slowly driving toward him. He saw her, looked mildly surprised and kept on walking.

She stopped the car beside him. He stopped. She slid over and opened the car door. He looked at her for about ten seconds and climbed in.

She had no idea where she was going or what she was going to do or why she picked up her attacker.

He sat close to his door, stiff, uncertain. He sneaked looks at her out of the corner of his eye. He was trying to be cool.

They were all so fucking cool. Floating down the halls on a cool cloud of noise and color. Flashing and laughing and touching, and feeling and pushing and hugging each other. Wearing outrageous outfits and ridiculous costumes and always so loud.

They were from the projects. They were an alien species. They just didn’t belong in her high school.

They disappeared. Where did they go? Only one or two of them in her classes, four at the most. Where did the rest of them go? Was there a special school in the school for them?
And this one was one of the ones in her class. Yes, that’s who he is. Boyd, Boyd, Boyd… awwwaa runs track, but he wasn’t one of the “fast niggers.” Todd called the colored sprinters that behind their backs.

She turned into the park and rolled down to the marina. Why here? Why bring colored boy Boyd here?

She liked this state of mind she was in. She trusted what was happening to her. She relinquished control completely and just watched her body go through the motions. In this state of mind she always prevailed, always.

She parked and got out of the car. He followed her as she unlocked the gate to the marina. He followed her down the dock and onto her father’s yacht. Not a word out of him. Perfect. Everything was perfect. She no more knew what was going to happen then he did. They were even. She rejoiced at the idea of complete surprise and fair play. She could give him a gift she never got.

She started closing the curtains on the port side of the main cabin. He started doing the same on the starboard side. They met in the front of the cabin closing the final curtains.
She tripped him. He falls on his back grunting in surprise. She is on him instantly with her forearm crushing his windpipe and her left hand groping for his balls. He dislodged her arm from his throat. His right arm was pinned under him, but his left hand had seized her right nipple.

She squeezed his balls, not too hard, just enough to get his attention.

He returned the favor twisting her nipple. His right hand was free now he could knock her off of him. He didn’t. He didn’t even try.

His face is so beautiful. Contorted with pain, tears squeezing out of his eyes teeth gritted, lips pulled back to the gums. Delicious. Intoxicating.

Her pain was exquisite radiating from her nipple to her vagina spreading like fire through her whole body.

A mutual squeeze/twist and they passed the pain barrier into wonderful, velvet, soft oblivion.

She awoke. Leaning against a stuffed chair, pain receding. Tears still wet on her cheek, swimming in cum.

He was sitting against the couch, holding a protective hand over his balls. A last tear rolled down his cheek. He was looking at her with, a longing, a need to match her own.
It hurt them to stretch out, hands to touch, fingers to curl together.

They looked into each other’s eyes and pledged more and better things to come. They promised eternal creativity, endless innovation, and escalating mutual degradation. Wordless vows, sincerely and freely given. To have, to hold, to harm to hurt until death join them together for eternity.

Love at last. A first and last love all in one.

 

Frederick K. Foote

 

Header photograph: By Beauwell (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons