Hogg sucked in his bottom lip; it slipped out of his mouth wet.

“This looks like some real good stuff!” He sucked in the top one.

The nigger was still humping underneath; her hips would rise and the blond hair pull apart over the wet pink slice.

“Goddamn …!” Leading with his tongue, Hogg dropped his face on it and began to grind his head around. She screamed. And the nigger’s hand left her tit—red where he’d squeezed—and clamped her mouth. She was shaking her head and pulling at Hogg’s hair. It didn’t stop him.

The wop stood over them, reaching for his cock with one hand, the other still a fist in his pocket. He pulled his brown meat loose. It swung up, the ring shaking from the fork of two thin veins along the foreskin. Where the metal went through, there were brown flakes of blood.

Her eyes, between the nigger’s fingers, kept flashing up—the dislodged lash finally came off against his knuckle, getting in her eye first so that she clamped the lids and shook her head; then it fell down her cheek, caught in her hair. She beat the floor with one hand, beat at Hogg’s head with the other.

The wop took his hand out of his pocket, holding something backhanded, thumb down. He shook it. About eight inches of blade fell out.

She really began to wriggle, then.

The wop stepped over Hogg, squatted, and just lay—letting it rest with no more than its own weight—the point on her breast, on the grayish bulge around her nipple. Hogg’s chewing and the nigger’s fucking kept making the flesh dimple under the blade.

She strained, all triple-chinned, to stare down at it and keep still. Hogg and the nigger were really going.

The wop, adding maybe the weight of his thumb to the knife and turning it on edge, drew the blade down her breast—a little chain of drops sprang up—and on over her ribs. One ran red down her side.

She must have done something with her legs then, because suddenly Hogg looked up. The bottom half of his face was as shiny as when he’d been at those pork-chops. “Hey, what the fuck—!” He knocked the knife from the wop’s hand with the side of his. It fell on the floor, its handle on the carpet, the blade over the floorboards. A single drop on the point slid down the edge.

The wop didn’t even get mad. He just climbed over her, his mouth wide and gasping, shoved Hogg out of the way, and pushed his dick into her bush, all stuck with Hogg’s spit; he shrugged off the shoulders of his jump suit. His back was as hairy as his chest. And there was a pink, wrinkled scar about the length of my middle finger right above his furry buttocks—they tightened on all that hair; he hunched.

“Yeah,” the nigger said. “I can feel it in there, man, against mine.”

After a few more hunches, the wop gasped: “You better watch it, nigger, I’m coming through.” Then he managed to laugh, without breaking stroke. “’Ey, Hogg, send the little cocksucker over here.…”