“Form up!” The men snapped to attention, slamming their heels together, as one.
“March!” The men stomped forward, batons at the ready, a solid blue mass bristling with threat.
The belligerent crowd of protesters retreated, giving up precious street to the advancing army of cops. Then a bottle flew, along with the raucous anti-war chants and proclamations of peace. Then a rock, a brick. A barrage of profanity and debris that deadened all songs of love and brotherhood.
The line broke and the men in the riot gear charged the mob, billy clubs flailing. Hell breaking loose on the downtown streets of Chicago for the fourth bloody Democratic convention night in a row.
Desk-jockey strategies of non-violent crowd control and coffee shop chatterings of non-violent protest were lost in the vicious tumult, the righteous passion firing far past the flashpoint on both sides. Nightsticks thudded against unwashed bodies and greasy hair, fists and feet and pine placards lashing back at the Heat. Cops pounding hippies and anyone else they could lay their clubs on, lovers-not-fighters transforming into warriors and throwing everything they could tear off the Michigan Avenue battleground at the pigs.
Frank Harris butt-ended a tie-dyed Jesus Freak in the stomach with his baton, the long-haired and bearded drop-out doubling over in agony, granny glasses catapulting off his nose to shatter in the gutter. Old Testament meeting New Age in the roaring heat of battle. But just before Frank could administer final justice with a baton shot to the skull, someone dealt him a placard shiver to the ribs from behind.
He grunted, whirled around.
A tiny flower child stood there in the midst of the roiling mob; a teenaged girl in sandals and poncho and leather headband, wielding a Make Love Not War club in her little hands. She gazed up at the big cop in the riot helmet and face shield, eyes wide with what she’d done. Frank lifted his baton to strike another blow for Law & Order. Then froze.
And the war raging right there in America’s backyard was suddenly lost to him. The hate surging through his veins – for the hippies and the freaks and the druggies; the ‘love’ generation that spurned their parents’ way of life and turnedon and tuned-in to all the wrong things, turned their backs on his beloved country – went suddenly chill in his heart, as he stared at the young woman. He thumbed back his face shield and mouthed, “Mary?” She stared back at the hard-bitten man in the blue battle gear – the fascist fuzz, the enemy of the people, the state oppressor – tears welling up in her pale-blue eyes. “Daddy?” she gasped.
The generation gap yawned before them, a crack in the foundation of America that had ruptured into a gulf, swallowing entire families. And then a wild-eyed cop raised his nightstick up behind Mary’s head and Frank did what any father would do for his daughter, no matter how misguided.
He leapt forward and pushed her aside, taking the officer’s baton full-on one of his huge shoulders.
The impact was devastating, and it stunned Frank. It was the first time he’d been on the receiving end, and he didn’t like it. He shoved the cop away and spun around, searching for his little girl. But she’d already been swallowed up in the raging tide of change, lost to him forever.
He fought his way out of the riot, finally finding some peace in a dimly-lit alley that ran off Balbo. He leaned against the well-worn brick, shoulders slumped and head down, breath coming in ragged gasps. An ‘old man’, in the truest sense of the words, at fifty.
“Hey, right on, this is about the coolest place to crash right now, huh?” Frank wearily turned his head. A woman stood in the mouth of the trash-strewn alley. She was wearing a buckskin vest and a pair of jeans, a silver peace sign dangling from her neck, a couple of broken-stemmed daisies in her dark, unruly hair. “It’s, like, crazy out there, huh?” she babbled. “The pigs are running–” She caught herself. Too late. Even in the dim light, she could see the rage flood into the big cop’s bloodshot eyes.
He grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and jerked her up straight. Then marched her down the alley, shoved her through a red wooden door barely hanging onto its hinges. Back in action again, doing something to clean the garbage up off the streets of his hometown, fight the movement that had broken up his own home.
He kicked the door shut and yanked a chain that shed some light on the scene.
The room was just a dirty room with a couple of brokendown couches and chairs, but it was good enough for the purpose Frank had in mind.
“Hey, man, I didn’t mean to come down on you or nuthin’,” the woman protested, dancing to the cop’s tune on her tip-toes. “I just–” Frank slammed her against the wall. Then pulled out his baton and struck her – right across the bell-bottomed ass. She cried out, her body shuddering in his clutching hand. He struck her again, and again, his mouth open and eyes boiling, sweat pouring down his stone-cut face.
“What’s your name, freak?” he yelled in her ear.
“Peppermint,” the woman gulped. “Peppermint Pastel.” He whacked her ass. “Your real goddamn legal Christian name?” “Julie. Julie Diaz.” He grunted, kept on smacking her with his baton, the rounded cheeks shivering under the skin-tight denim. “And what the hell are you doing out on the streets – when you should be at home? Like a good girl.” Julie stared blindly at the paint-peeled wall, her teeth clenched and body rocking to the blows the cop was dishing out. “I’m not a good girl,” she gritted.
Frank knocked his helmet back off his head, and it clattered to the concrete floor. “You’re not a good girl, is damn right,” he growled, whacking her ass, wielding the baton like a judgment. “That’s why you need this.” He struck her over and over, until his arm, and then his entire body, began shaking as badly as hers. And then the yippie-stick struck the floor and Frank collapsed onto a couch, pulling Julie down on top of him, over his knees. He yanked her jeans down and her buttocks sprang out into the open, pale quivering mounds lashed with red stripes.
“You should be at home …” Frank blubbered. He raised his bare hand and delivered a blow, smack on her bare bottom, knocking the daisies out of her hair.
Tears streaked down his face, the girl’s bum flaming red where he’d hit it. He desperately spanked her, hard and fast and angry. Until the blows grew gradually slower and weaker.
Then stopped altogether. “What’s the use?” he mumbled, shaking his concrete block of a head.
Julie twisted around and looked at the sobbing man in the sweat-stained uniform, her brown eyes bright and glaring. He was rubbing her cheeks now, but it was too late to undo the damage, stop what he’d started. “Spank me,” she hissed.
He raised his head and blinked his pale-blue eyes, ran a shaking hand over his iron-grey crew-cut. What she wanted was clear to even him in her eyes, no communication gap here.
He tapped her ass, and she whimpered. He smacked one fleshy cheek and then the other, then both at once. And she moaned, dropping her head back down and going limp in his lap, obedient, taking her punishment and liking it. He whacked her young, impressionable bottom over and over, the sharp crack of his hard hand against her soft skin shattering the breathless silence of the room.
“Spank some fucking sense into me, you fucking pig,” Julie screamed, the blowtorch heat from her beaten bum flooding her whole body. Her head spun, and she jumped with the electric shocks that arced all through her with each and every blow of the big man’s big hand on her sensitive bottom, her pussy wetting the crotch of her flower-embroidered jeans.
Frank’s eyes fired with a passion other than hate, as he rained blow after blow down upon the girl. He struck her hard and fast, fanning her ass fire-engine-red and burning, his flaming hand beating out an authoritative tattoo that echoed off the barren walls for all to hear and take heed; his cock filling the front of his police-issue pants.
When her bum was nothing but a numbed brick of pain and pleasure, Julie rolled off Frank’s legs and onto the floor. She grabbed his hand, pulling him down to her level. “69,” she rasped, pushing him down flat on his back. “Let’s 69.” The straight-ahead missionary man was lost. “I don’t–” Julie already had his belt and fly open. She pulled his heavy cock out and quickly bowed her head and engulfed his swollen hood with her mouth.
“Yeah,” Frank groaned. He rubbed the girl’s blistered bottom, thrilling with the feel of her warm, wet mouth sucking on his pulsing cock.
Julie pumped the man’s vein-ribboned shaft and squeezed his big, hairy balls, her lips sliding halfway down his meat and then back up again, head bobbing and hair flying. Then, still sucking, she straddled his head with her legs, positioning her glistening black bush directly over his face.
Frank understood what he was expected to do now. He gripped Julie’s heated cheeks and stuck out his tongue, tentatively licked her moist pussy. Tasting a woman’s sex for the very first time. He licked again, not so tentatively this time. He hungrily lapped at her snatch, as she sucked and sucked on his cock.
Julie surged with the feel of the man’s wet-sandpaper tongue on her sensitive lips, shimmering with the feel of his strong hands on her beaten ass. She popped his dripping erection out of her mouth and murmured, “Spank me. Spank me while you eat me.” Then inhaled as much of his straining cock as she could.
Frank closed his eyes and groaned, slapping one of Julie’s cheeks. The other. She sucked harder, faster, deeper. He flailed her battered bum, square handprints blazing white now on the ravaged flesh.
He smacked her ass and lapped at her pussy, licking up and swallowing the warm juices, the spicy taste and smell of the girl, the wicked strangeness of it all, making his head spin. As she earnestly pulled on his cock with her lips, swabbing his shaft with her tongue and squeezing his balls with her hand, eyes closed and body blazing. The pair of them lost in the sensual moment.
Someone ran screaming down the alley, sandals flipflopping.
While someone chased after them, boots crunching.
While out in the streets all around the battle raged on, charge and counterculture-charge, bottles breaking and windows smashing, truncheons and fists flying. But inside, in the eye of the ragged storm of revolution, the only sounds were the fat, wet smack of flesh against flesh, the sloppy, wet sucking sounds of mutual oral sex; the muted moans and groans of a man and a woman getting together and loving one another.
Frank went rigid, unable to control himself any longer. He pinched Julie’s ass in warning. Then exploded in the girl’s mouth, pulsing white-hot ecstasy. She kept on sucking, though, sucking up his sperm and swallowing it down. And even as he was getting off, his body jerking with joy, he resolutely slapped Julie’s ass and licked at her pussy, brushing her swollen clit with his stroking tongue. Until she too gushed fiery orgasm, bum and body shuddering, her hot, sticky juices flooding Frank’s face.
They lay there together in that sanctuary from chaos for a very long time. Before Julie finally climbed to her feet, extended a hand, and helped Frank back onto his feet. They reassembled their uniforms.
Frank cleared his throat. “Well, uh, I just want to … thank you–” “Save it, man,” Julie said, brown eyes warm and wet.
“That’s free love for you, dig? Never having to say thanks – or ‘I do’.” She laughed. “Hey, maybe I’ll see you out there tomorrow night, huh?” Frank awkwardly holstered his baton, shaking his head.
“Convention’s over tonight.” “Oh, yeah, right. Well, there’ll be other protests, and other marches, and other sit-ins.” The flower child of the love generation smiled. “Other police riots.” The establishment Man grinned back. He picked up his police helmet and shyly rubbed it. “Yeah, sure, someone’s got to keep you … freaks in line. Whatever it takes.”
Erotiske noveller skrevet af Langdon Dixon