I kneel on the bed between her thighs and she hooks her feet behind me and opens herself, letting her knees fall wide, parting her cunthair. Her silver nailpolish penetrates her thicket.

Her body is awkward. A thick pillow bends her head forward, chin on chest, and her breasts sprawl. I can imagine what she sees as she looks down her body: first her breasts, hillocks on her landscape, then her hand, moving in her cunt, then my fist holding my cock straight out, so the purple head points at her face; and as my hand pulls at it the foreskin moves and the purple disappears and re-appears like a flashing light. She watches, waiting for the white to shoot out of it.

The dark skin of my thickening cock is pale against her skin. I press my hips forward a little, so that her squirming hand is below my balls, and I feel her knuckles brushing them.

I pick up the pace, watching my white fist as it cycles, pumping my cock up into a thick flesh-shaft full of explosives. Over her black stomach I move my hand faster, and I can see the muscles in her forearm writhe as she works herself. Above, her breasts move gently, and I hope I can reach them.

The first spurt blows out of me and I see it with her eyes, emerging from the tiny mouth like a white bullet, growing in size quickly as it approaches, until it begins to arc down and skids over her nipple, striping her with white.

Bull’s eye.

I watch the white streak as the second spurt comes, painting another stripe between her breasts. The third stripe falls short, marking her stomach.

Then the spurts stop and my come dribbles and I push my cock down, milking, filling her black navel with a white pool. And as I do this her hips rise, pressing her frantic hand up against my balls and she grunts as her stomach creases and the pool in her navel spills to the sides.

“Fuck,” I whisper, struggling to reach the light without dragging my cock through the small puddle on the sheet. I wrap my hand around my cock and pull on it, watching as last few drops ooze into the mess on the sheet. “Fuck,” I say again.

Even though it happens rarely, even though it gives me feelings I haven’t had since my youth, the dream annoys me with its wet messiness and the earthy smell of come. I roll, trying to get clear of the wet spot on the narrow bed, and feel my cock on my thigh, still thick and heavy. I take it in my hand, stroking briefly, gratefully, knowing its usual unwillingness, knowing it would simply become more limp if urged to stand up proudly.

Although I never paid her in the dream, I know she is a prostitute. As it should be. It is always the same woman, but she is not always black. Sometimes she is brown, or yellow. Sometimes she is white. When she is white, my come does not stripe her skin. I hate the white woman fuck dreams most of all.

I have never had sex with a woman who wasn’t paid for it in some way. I have never fucked for love and I’ve never been fucked for love. The women wanted money, or they wanted food and shelter, or they wanted drugs; but they never wanted me. They fucked me for gain, not for any other reason. Most of them fucked me for payment from somebody else.

They were beautiful or grotesque. The grotesque ones were caricatures of women, with large, conical wooden breasts and painted mouths that grimaced in artificial passion when I fucked them, trying to hide the discomfort of my long thick cock as I speared their dry cunts with it.

And the beautiful ones were weary. Impaled on my cock they had a distant look, as if they deserved to be somewhere else.

All of them were slutty. My hand did a better job than their cunts did. They did not love me . None of them did. I was a tool, or a prop, or a disembodied supercock in a tight shot as it plunged, as it gushed, marking them with my come.

And it ends like this, I think. I’ve fucked so many women I can’t fuck any more. Somebody poisoned my body, and here I am waiting to die, surprised when I come for the first time in half a year, maybe the last time ever.

And I’m complaining.

A taut grin comes to my cracked lips and I struggle, trying to find the strength to get out of bed. The man in the other bed starts shouting in his sleep.

“Stripes” © 2000 by Sidney Durham.All rights reserved.

Sidney Durham is the author Butterflies on a Mirror (winner of the Frankfort eBook 2000 entry), and Loveseat Stories, both available at Renaissance E Books. Sidney’s eBooks are top-notch quality erotica – titillating and wonderfully unique. The Erotica Readers Association highly recommends Mr. Durham’s books. Be sure to get your copies, an incredible bargain at $4 a shot.