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Thrill City, or The Dugpa: Dark Eroticism
by Jean Marie Stine
Category: Erotica/Paranormal Erotica/Dark Fantasy
Description: CLASSIC PUT NOIR EROTICA ON THE MAP! A place of a hundred pleasures and a thousand pains, Thrill City is the seat of the world's increasing depravity. No writer is better suited to describe the unspeakable extremes of this modern Babylon,and no generation is more likely to see itself reflected in its sharp, glittering surfaces. Hot man-woman, woman-man, man-man and woman-woman sex--rape, violence, tender romantic love, gender-bending, switch-hitting--plus spiritual redemption. This book has it all! A dark look at the nighttime sexual underbelly of the American metropolis. Reprinted only once since its first edition thirty years ago! "Observes humankind in its misery [with] a powerful sense of compassion for a world in which people are becoming increasingly brutal and brutalized."--The Secret Record: The Story of Modern Erotic Literature
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler, 2004
eBookwise Release Date: September 2004
 
8 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [158 KB]
Words: 34003
Reading time: 97-136 min.
Do you like to eat it?
Yes, it's really groovy. I think it's disgusting. My old man doesn't like it. I like it when they do it to me. I don't like to do it at all. Oh ... it's okay, if you don't have to swallow it. I like the taste. I don't like to do it. But if he's doing it to me, I don't care what happens. You should all be ashamed of yourselves, talking like this. What's wrong with her? Her husband's a minister and won't do it to her. * * * * Listen... breathing. He was most aware of her breathing. She made a heavy, throaty sound with no hollowness to it. It was hard, gasping, and primordial: the very breath of life. Her lungs worked in a bellows action, driven by ribs and diaphragm. The air rushed out in a sigh, rushed in with a moan. Rushed out and a hot, moist tongue teased his ear; rushed in and her breasts pushed up against his chest. Rushed out past his ear, into his ear, filled canal and cochlea; the sound louder, more vital than any sound he had ever heard. The most frightening sound he had ever heard. He heard: the sound of a babe's first breath the sound of the wind between the worlds the sound of acid-rock/Janis Joplin screaming with the torment of a generation the sound of blood and the pump-action of the heart the sound of elephants, trumpeting victory and destruction the sound of a woman in heat the sound of a dying man's last breath. His flesh moved on hers, skin glued to skin. His hands were thrust between her arms and ribs, supporting his weight, and, for a moment, he was lifted from her. They were joined at the crotch: grotesque Siamese twins. Her face and pubis were white, bone white, drained of blood, and her body burned like fresh coal: hot and smoldering. It was a desperate fuck, a ruthless driving of prick into cunt. His flesh slapped against hers: a steady splat, splat, splat. He worked and shoved, listening to some half-felt rhythm, the head of his cock plunging into the warmth of her womb. He did not want to touch her, or feel her, or see her, or hear her, and his prick steamed in the wetness of her cunt. She was silent. She had passed the point of moaning. She could only breathe her breath louder than his. He was suspended in a stereo unreality of time, given reality only by the fleshy need of his soul. Her eyes were closed, lashes sweat-jeweled, throat arched in the strain of... Her hips ground and slammed against his, cunt tight, pounding frantically upon his shaft. She was like a frenzied animal wild with musk. She had been beautiful when he had first seen her. Now she was no longer beautiful; she was only woman--sweat-streaked and crying, body joined to body. If, in the lassitude of aftermath, he were to roll off her, ignoring all her needs, she would cry. But would that lessen the sweetness of his come? He shoved in hard and came out quick. Her breath went away. He eased down, cheek on the up-slope of her breast, the nipple brown and hard, a tongue's breadth away. And he kissed it. She quivered like a freshly mounted doe. He took her like a stag in heat, body pulsing with molten flame, cock pounding in and out, her crack wide and lathered. The muscles of her vagina heaved, squeezing the breath from his bones, and he lurched to the edge of an enormous height. He drew out, cock dripping above the fire-pit of her thighs. He drove in, slammed down, jarred, stopped, skin glued to skin. His sperm crested, towered, roared, threatened, burst free? He erupted into her. Her scream echoed in the room. Echoed echoed echoed... * * * * In the Los Angeles metropolitan directory alone there are five hundred and seventy-three separate listings under "psychotherapist." * * * * Suddenly she knew she was going to be raped. The man stood at the entrance to the garage. He wore a long overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat, pulled low. His right hand was shoved into a pocket, holding something hard and angular. Beyond him night bells rang the hour of twelve. * * * * The hour of twelve. It is the Master's hour. He descends from his throne. The world trembles. Time stops. He is everywhere at once. No one may escape his majesty. Twelve... In the darkness of the theater someone put a hand on his genitals. * * * * Twelve... There are five million people in the city. They are all alone. * * * * Twelve... The night bells rang twelve.
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