"Look at that!" Ralph exclaims. Ed looks, following Ralph's gaze. And sighs.
"Tell me you wouldn't want something like that sitting on your face, Ed!
"Or are you too overcome with longing to talk about it?"
"Far from it, Ralph.
"Look. For one thing, she's a lot older than we are. Figure she's gotta be almost thirty, if not more.
"For another, just look at the size of her! Hell, she'd crush your face if she ever sat on it, Ralph.
"And I'll bet that big, hairy pussy of hers'd chew your cock off, if you ever managed to get close enough to her to stick it in.
"Because first you'd have to get by those torpedoes of hers. Those aren't tits, man, they're fucking warheads!"
But Ed can tell that his admonitions are falling on deaf ears.
Because Ralph's cock is rapidly twitching to full erection.
One of the disadvantages of going to a nude beach is that, when you're a guy, everyone in sight can read your peter meter.
And Ed debated with himself before ever bringing Ralph here. Still, he wanted to do something to impress him, something that would enhance his friendship with Ralph, now that Ralph is a brand new millionaire, courtesy of his grandfather's recent demise.
Yes, there is no wealth like inherited wealth, Ed sighed, upon hearing the news. And, considering Ralph's indifferent talents and abilities, that was about the only way Ralph could ever have become rich.
Which, Ed recalls reflecting bitterly, is one more way than he will ever have.
And Ralph, to everyone's surprise, kept right on working in the shipping department, right alongside Ed, just as though nothing at all had happened to change his financial status.
Boxes of shirts, day in and day out.
Or loading and unloading the large bales of imported fabric from which they are made.
"You saying she's outta my league, Ed?"
Meaning that, now that he's rich, he is fully capable of moving up in the world, cunt-wise.
He and Ed have been best friends for many years, now.
They went to high school together, they got their jobs together, and they are roomies, sharing an apartment.
Ed fully expected Ralph to buy a house or at least move out on his own, now that he can so well afford it.
But no, he hung in there.
And the only thing that has changed, really, is Ralph's bank account.
That, and the number of people who call him, investment brokers and the like, worried about his money.
Of course, Ralph has been somewhat more considerate of late, taking his dates to motels, for example, rather than inconveniencing Ed or embarrassing the girl by bringing her to the apartment.
And even offering to "sponsor" the same deal for Ed.
But Ed has refused, not being willing to allow Ralph to spend money on him, other than picking up tabs in restaurants when they eat together.
So that he still brings his dates home to the apartment.
And Ralph either goes out or makes himself as unobtrusive as possible in such close quarters.
Still, Ed is aware at all times of the economic difference between them and thus feels compelled to somehow compensate Ralph for his continued company, thinking up places to go, things to do.
Hence, the nude beach.
Which, he is beginning to think, was a mistake.
"Just look at her, Ed!
"Like some mythical Norse goddess, she is!"
"If she's a platinum blonde, Ralph, then why is her bush black."
"Dark brown," Ralph corrects, having examined it more closely than his friend. "And it could happen that way.
"And even if it didn't, who the fuck cares? "What a phenomenon!
"All that meat and potatoes, in all the right places!"
"Easy, pal. She may be defying the law of gravity for the moment, but sooner or later, she is gonna sag like you wouldn't believe."
"And when she does, I wanna be there to pick it up as it drops," Ralph says.
"Thing like that, she's either married or has a boyfriend like the Incredible Hulk or something, Ralph.
"If they're worth having, they're not still running around loose at that age."
"Oh no? Hey, she could be at the end of round one or round two or whatever.
"You know-on the rebound?"
Ed rolls his eyes heavenward.
"Don't tell me, let me guess: It's all coming together for you, right?"
"Hey, it could happen.
"Y'know, Ed, I may not have all the answers and I may not be too bright, but I believe that nothing in this world happens by accident.
"First, grampa's fortune and now-ta-da!"
"Ta-da," Ed echoes glumly, without enthusiasm. "Besides, you can't go over to her like that," pointing to Ralph's boner. "Geez, you're right!"
And he dashes into the cold water of early summer in the North Atlantic.
And Ed winces, watching him.
People are here today to get an early jump on their tans.
With the obvious exception of the platinum blonde Amazon, who has a deep tan that says Florida, the Med, or a sunlamp.
Or, Ed reflects, some combination thereof.
Because that can, in point of fact, have its bills paid by any number of men, in some cases no doubt whether or not they can actually afford to pay them, or whether or not they are also supporting a wife and kids at the same time.
She is a physical phenomenon, no question.
That equipment is heavy duty.
And yes, there is a certain animal magnetism emanating from her.
And he and Ralph are not the only ones looking at her.
But thus far, nobody has approached her, no doubt held in check by awe.
Anything that big and blonde and tanned and one must consider himself a world class stud even to look at her and not turn away when those icy blue eyes transfix him.
Because she has removed her sunglasses, obviously in order to avoid getting raccoon eyes from her tanning.
And now, she stands there, gazing out to sea, looking very much like a naked female Viking, contemplating her next raid.
Ralph emerges from the water, drying himself vigorously, dancing around to generate sufficient body heat to dissipate his gooseflesh and convince his balls to re-emerge.
At length, he has it all together.
And he continues to stare at the blonde. "You're not seriously thinking about what I think you're seriously thinking about, are you?"
Ralph looks at him, smiling (Ed thinks) idiotically.
"A coward dies a thousand deaths, a brave man dies but once, my friend."
And Ed reflects that, ever since Ralph inherited all that money, he has become filled with wise sayings.
Which, in this particular instance, Ed considers anything but wise. But it is too late.
Because, even as he watches, his friend is striding over to the blonde goddess, the unremarkable cheeks of his ass winking in the sun as they alternate with each step.
Coming here was a mistake, Erica tells herself.
Because she reminds herself as nothing so much as a beached whale.
Her affair with Birmingham ("call me Brim, darling") Steele has been terminated by Steele's wife, the redoubtable Samantha ("call me your worst enemy, bitch") Steele, following a review of their credit card billings.
As Brim explained to her over the telephone.
Over the telephone!
The worm didn't have the balls to defy his wife by coming to see Erica in person!
He broke up with her over the goddam phone!
She still can't get over that one.
But, on balance, she can't complain, she supposes.
She did get the condo in Manhattan out of it, after all.
Only problem is the maintenance fee.
She pays more in maintenance than most people pay in rent, for heaven's sake!
Long range, that could be a problem.
So that even now, she has the condo on the market.
But Irene, her realtor, keeps telling her the market is "soft" right now and that she must have patience.
Easy for her to say, since Irene is not the one paying seven-fifty the first of every month.
Erica has thought about taking away the exclusive on the listing, but she rejected that notion, based on Irene's track record.
And, for that matter, her own.
Brim Steele wasn't her first conquest and she doubts that he will be her last.
He'd better not be.
Because she has no intention whatever of winding up behind a receptionist's desk somewhere, earning
whatever it is such people earn in return for smiling at suits with briefcases and giving them a quick fantasy at the sight of her bazooms beneath the appropriate white blouse before whoever they came to see is free. No, the workaday world is definitely not for her.
She has no time for it, for one thing.
There is diet and exercise and tanning and naps to keep it all together, at the peak of voluptuous condition.
Because it has always been very easy for her to gain weight.
So that a sedentary job would be certain death for her figure.
It would all shift, all settle.
She is sure of it.
Perhaps, she reflects, this is good, what happened.
After all, he got her the condo and the furniture and the rest was, basically maintenance, both the formal monthly charge and taking her around showing her one good time after another.
So that there was very little else she could take him for.
Oh, the occasional fur, the sometime bauble, but nothing really substantial.
And if she were to continue with him, she could never turn the condo into cash and move on to her next major conquest.
Erica, the Viking raider, that's me, she thinks. Erica, the marauder of the wallet, the pirate of the purse.
But face it, she tells herself, I'm worth it.
Look around at this beach, crowded now in the brilliant sunshine of the first really nice summer weekend.
There is nobody here to begin to compare with her- if big and blonde is what you like, that is.
If big and blonde is what you dare aspire to, by way of company.
If you can stand the pace, the intensity of companionship on this particular scale of beauty, of sexuality.
And not just this beach, either.
Ipanema, the Cote d'Azur, Baja, she has been to them all.
But coming here was definitely a mistake.
Who, or rather what, is she going to encounter here, after all?
Insurance men and plumbers on their day off?
Or maybe leering jerks, zeroes, like that imbecile over there, leering at her with his shit-eating grin and Ira-oh, no.
Can you believe this creep, this fucking geek?
He actually has a hard-on!
Is that a medical condition or are you just glad to see me? she thinks.
And she knows the answer to that one.
She has seen that reaction to her, or its near equivalent, before.
Only it was usually merely the leer, or that plus a bulge in the trousers.
This is her first blatant erection by way of body to body greeting. .
Better splash some cold water on that, loser, she tells him, mentally.
And, as though he heard her, he does in fact head into the water.
As his companion, hands on hips, disgusted look on his face, waggles his head in feigned disbelief.
So that, just for a moment, she empathizes with the would-be stud.
Why not, after all?
Why not use her image, her presence, for all he is going to get from it, from her?
Dream on, stud, she tells him, as he splashes quickly out of the water, organ detumesced.
Because the dream, the fantasy, is all he is ever going to get from her.
Which is more than his more practical friend will ever get.
Like most men, he's a coward when it comes to sex, she realizes.
He probably dates only skinny little things, she tells herself.
His friend is speaking to him even as he dries his balls and cock, no doubt remonstrating with him for daring to dream.
And yes, she sighs to herself, she will give the stud that much credit.
He has courage, however impractical its application.
And who knows?
Other times, other places, definitely other people, and he might have had a shot at something very much like herself.
Except that her path is that of the Viking.
And one cannot pillage what is not there for the taking.
So that-can you believe this, now? Because he is actually approaching her. Wait a minute, she tells herself, you've seen this before too. The big bluff.
The fake-out to impress and temporarily deceive his buddy.
So that he will walk right up to her-and keep on trucking. That's what it is! Has to be. But she is wrong.
And now, here he is, literally in her face, smiling (she thinks) idiotically. "Hello," he says.
She scoops her big jugs up in her arms, so that they are folded beneath them.
And gazes at him, not replying.
Undaunted, Ralph says, "My name's Ralph."
And he stands there, arms folded in (mocking?) imitation of hers, as though expecting a reply.
"And what's your claim to fame, Ralph?" she asks, her curiosity genuinely piqued.
Because surely he must have one. Because nobody, but nobody has ever approached her like this without having something going for him.
And it better not be some stupid beer or dope party tonight, either.
No, he thinks he has the license to talk to her and she'd like to see it.
"Claim to fame?" he asks.
"Have we met or something?" she asks, knowing full well that they haven't, voice tinged with impatience, telegraphing her next sentence, in the event of negative response.
"Met? Uh, no, no we haven't, but uh-" "But what?"
"But I'd like to. Meet you, that is. Very much, in fact." "Why?"
Putting him on the spot.
Because the answer to that is at once totally obvious and totally unacceptable. And she knows it. And he knows that she knows it.
So unless he does something very, very fast, right now, in fact, the axe of her final sentence of dismissal will fall.
"Because, because... I've uh, just had a major change in my life for the better and I think I'm ready for better things.
"I mean," he continues quickly, giving her no chance to respond, "a year ago-three months ago, even-I wouldn't of had the nerve to walk up to you like this.
"But now, I do."
"And just why is that?" she asks.
Good! Ralph thinks. He has at least got her curious.
He shrugs.
"Best reason in the world. Money.
"Either you introduce yourself and we come to an understanding or not.
"If you do-and we do-then this is definitely the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
"And if not?"
"Then, I go home and roll in my newly inherited fortune.
"Not that I'm throwing it in your face, but I'm young, virile, and rich, a combination that guarantees that the good times will roll, if not with you, then with somebody else."
"Please. I'm not in the mood for such childish jokes.
"I've just broken up with my boyfriend and-" "Well then! There you are, you see? Perfect timing!"
"Whoa there, hoss! You're going a bit too fast for me here.
"Tell me a bit more about this newfound confidence of yours.
"And for heaven's sake, sit down. People are staring at us."
"Only at you," he replies, managing this gallantry as he seats himself on her blanket and she beside him, as Ed looks on a distance, incredulous.
"Not much to tell, actually.
"It's only money.
"I don't deserve it, I didn't expect it, did nothing to earn it, but there it is, all of a sudden.
"And I haven't begun to make the changes in my life that I probably should.
"Lack of ideas, lack of inspiration.
"Until now.
"Now I've got a reason to change-I mean to invent-my lifestyle. Maybe."
"You need help spending your money? Is that what you're saying?"
He shrugs, looking down, making spirals in the sand with a finger.
"In a way, I suppose.
"That's, I don't know, a part of it, I guess. "But it's more than that.
"It's a question of where I should live, how I should live, what I should do with myself from day to day.
"It's all so new to me.
"I want the finer things that life has to offer; that is, I think I do.
"Never having had them before, I really can't say for sure.
"But I do know this.
"If I had all the women in the world from which to pick and choose, I'd want my girlfriend to look just like you."
She reaches behind her to get her sunglasses.
And the movement of her breasts gives him a fresh thrill in the pit of his stomach.
And now, she puts them on.
And rests her chin on her forearms, crossed over her knees, gazing out to sea.
And his glance takes in her udders which fill the gap between body and thighs.
"That's uh, that's quite a statement, uh, Ralph."
"I mean it, though."
"You interest me, Ralph."
"I do? I mean, that's, that's... good."
And in fact, he does interest her.
Not that she has any designs on his fortune, any specific designs, at least, at the moment.
But she is more or less stuck here until Irene gets her ass in gear or gets lucky or whatever it is that real estate ladies have to do in order to make it happen.
And she expected nothing of this outing other than a chance to improve her tan without bathing suit marks and in natural sunlight.
And here's this Ralph.
Who, to hear him tell it, is America's newest millionaire.
And who is obviously young and, as she saw so dramatically before, virile.
"I tell you what," she says, after a prolonged silence in which she continues to stare out to sea through her sunglasses. "Suppose we do have a first date, just to get acquainted.
"No promises of anything... happening, all right?"
"No, no," he affirms, "nothing you don't want to happen. Right."
And she smiles at this last.
Because apparently the money has indeed endowed him with great confidence.
As he as good as tells her that he will change her mind.
"In fact," she says, "why don't we not even go out?"
"How's that?"
"You come to my place and I'll cook supper for the two of us."
"I'd like that."
"I'm thrilled."
"No, I didn't mean it the way it sounded. I only meant, you know, that that's perfect."
"Wait 'til you taste my cooking before you say that," she says.
They laugh.
"I'd better give you my address and phone.
"Name's Erica, by the way."
And she reaches behind her, again bringing her big boobs into play, as she pulls her beach bag toward her, rummaging in it for a pad and pen.
She finds it and writes out the information, tearing out and handing the slip of paper to him.
"Nice address," he says.
And from that, an idea begins to form in Erica's mind.
"Well, I only rent the place."
"Still, to be able to afford something like-" "Look," she says, placing a hand on his knee, "suppose we save the chit-chat for tonight, as to who can afford what, what I have and don't have, all the gory details, okay?"
"Whatever you say," he shrugs.
"Shall we say seven-ish, then?" "Fine with me.
"And now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get some sun."
"Oh. Sure."
And he goes back to Ed, who quickly loses his "I toldja so" grin as Ralph says, "I got a date with Erica tonight."
"Quickie, or all nighter?" Ed asks.
Implying that Erica is a whore.
"We'll see," Ralph replies, letting it pass.
2
"Come in, Ralph," she says.
"Wow! This is some place!" he enthuses, gawking around like a rural tourist seeing skyscrapers for the first time.
Except that what he is looking at is elevated, coffered ceilings, antiques, authentic Louis Quattorze furnishings, genuine oriental rugs and a huge, sunken living room.
This has got to be the grandest private residence he has ever been in, he realizes.
In fact, this is the most elegant place of any kind he has ever visited.
Who would have believed that people actually live like this?
He has seen something of the sort in movies, of course.
But the people in them were always very formally dressed.
And in fact, Erica is wearing a cocktail dress, daring in its decolletage, but quite formal in appearance, being black.
And the single strand of pearls which ride her bosom seem to make her seem still more overdressed.
Or perhaps it is that he is under dressed.
He wears a sport shirt, loud in hue and pattern, over khaki slacks, this last an afterthought on Ed's part, since, left to his own devices, Ralph would have worn Bermuda shorts, this being his upgrade from cutoffs.
"Y'see," he says, "this is where I'm lost.
"I never had, well, anything before.
"And now, I know that everything, from my car to where I live to the way I live and dress is all wrong."
"That's a good first step," Erica says, encouragingly.
"Yeah, well, y'see, a person isn't born knowing these things," he says. "And like you say, I'm doing pretty well recognizing that something's wrong.
"Only question is, what's right."
"Why, whatever's right for you," she replies.
"No," he says, shaking his head, "that's where I can't go along with you, however much I'd like to.
"There is so much stuff available about which I know absolutely nothing, things I don't even suspect exist.
"And there's right and wrong in style, no matter who you are.
"And I can tell that, for you, this," taking everything in with a sweeping gesture, "this is right."
"It may be right, but it isn't mine."
"Oh yeah, that's right. You just rent.
"Still, it looks good on you."
They laugh.
"Well," she says, "would you like a drink before supper?"
"Uh, yeah, whatever you've got."
"How about peach schnapps?
"Always a hit with the younger set."
Telling him that she is older than he.
Because he is obviously lost, looking for guidance, direction, and that is ever so much easier to take from someone older than oneself.
"Fine," he replies.
And she serves him and herself in brandy snifters. She swirls it around in her bowl-like glass, watching the alcohol make the syrupy liquid form elaborate rings inside the glass as it evaporates, sending forth its bouquet in the process.
And he stops himself just in time from remarking how very peachy it does in fact smell.
"To your quest," she says, clinking glasses with him before sipping.
"Well put," he replies.
And drains his glass, experiencing only the delicious aftertaste.
She looks over the rim of her glass as she sips, faintly amused.
And he reddens at his gaffe.
"Y'see?" he asks, rhetorically. "Don't know how to act, how to dress, anything.
"To tell you the truth, Erica, I was happier, or at least more sure of myself, before I inherited all that money."
"You seemed pretty sure of yourself this afternoon," she observes.
"Oh, yeah, that. That was just my balls talkin'.
"Sheesh! I did it again!"
"Maybe you should let them talk for you more often," she says. He shrugs.
"Courage is one thing, brains another," he responds.
"That took courage this afternoon, did it?" she asks, giving him another shot of the liqueur. He looks at her and replies, "You know it did."
She laughs between sips.
"I'm that formidable then, am I?"
"You were out of everybody's league there and you know it."
"But not yours."
"Not mine. Not any more.
"Money talks and bullshit walks.
"I know that, you know that.
"And all I'm saying is that now I've got the price of admission."
"That almost sounds like you're trying to make some kind of financial proposal here."
"In a way yes, in a way no.
"Hey, I asked to become acquainted with you, for obvious reasons.
The question is, what does it take to show you a good time?
"Not," he continues quickly, lest she misunderstand him, "not in terms of money, but like, what do you like to do, given that I've got what it takes to make it happen.
"I mean, I could never say that before.
"What would I have done, asking some girl that question and having her say she likes ocean cruises or trips to Europe or Hawaii, or driving around in sports cars?"
"But if she is a polite, decent girl, she would know better than to mention things like that to, to uh-" "A working stiff. Right.
"Which would lead to the other problem.
"Because her tastes wouldn't change, only how she handles them, keeping her mouth shut, pretending she wants something attainable, like a couple lines of bowling or dinner and a show.
"When all the while, what she's actually doing is marking time with me until the guy who can give her what she really wants comes along.
"Unless, of course, she's tired of waiting or has given up.
"In which case she might condescend to settle down with me, her fellow loser, for the rest of her life, sucking air from one day to the next while her dreams go unfulfilled.
"But no more of that for yours truly.
"Not now, not ever.
"I am going first class, with first class."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"More like a policy."
"And on that note," she says, "let's eat."
And she leads him into the dining room, where covered chafing dishes await them, gleaming silver above their lambent alcohol flames.
"That was delicious!" he says, when they have quite finished their sumptuous repast, half of which he did not even recognize.
Thank you," she replies, and accepts his help clearing the table, going from dining room to kitchen with a large tray on which repose their soiled dinner ware.
She loads the dishwasher, puts in the detergent, and starts it up.
"Care for an after dinner drink?" she asks.
"Why not?"
And they sip Cherry Heering as the lights of the city blink on beyond the picture window of the living room.
"So," he says, "what do you do for a living, single gal, living alone like this?"
"As 1 indicated this afternoon, right now, I'm between boyfriends.
"One of your fellow millionaires. He pays- paid- the rent on this place.
"Smart wife, he has.
"We're two of a kind actually, she and I.
"Other times, other circumstances and we might actually have been friends.
After all, Madame Pompadour was hardly a stranger to the queen of France."
So, he thinks, there it is. Close but no cigar, Ed.
Because she is not a whore, but a mistress.
And there is a world of difference between the two.
The former are tawdry, in most places even considered criminals.
The latter are the courtesans of history, time honored, celebrated in song and story, the superwomen of civilization.
And it figures that she should be one of those.
She has the presence for it.
And, while there are no royal philanderers in this day and age, their place has been taken by the new royalty, which is that of personal wealth.
And it is a royalty to which he is but newly admitted.
So therefore- "How would it be if I were to, ah, pay the rent?" And she startles him by laughing. "That's very sweet, very generous of you, I'm sure. "But you've put the cart before the horse. "First I become your mistress, then you pay the rent.
"Paying the rent is only a part of it, and a very small part at that."
"Whatever it is, I'm sure that I can afford-" "Whoa! I didn't mean it like that.
"The major aspect of any relationship is the relationship itself.
"How do you feel about me, and I about you?
"If you want pay as you go, my friend, you are in the wrong place.
"And come to think of it, I don't think I care for what you're trying to imply here."
"Oh, but I wasn't, I wasn't! I swear I wasn't! "Oh, Erica, don't you see? I'm new at this being rich stuff.
"I wouldn't know the right thing to say if it jumped up and bit me!"
"Well," she says, sitting back on the couch, apparently mollified, "they do say that actions speak louder than words, so I suppose that you could, uh, show me what you say you feel for me."
"Only one real way to do that," he replies, pro-ceding from the plaintive to the cunning in the batting of an eyelash.
"This is true," she responds. "Bedroom's thataway. Why don't you give me about ten minutes and then come on in?
"There's a guest room down the hall if you'd like And he watches her hips sway, the fabric of the dress pressing against her large, rounded thighs as she moves, calves bulging above her high heels.
As soon as she is out of sight, he dashes for the guest room.
She said ten minutes.
Hell, he can completely shower in five, dry in two, and be back to her, right on schedule.
This time, he has definitely done the right thing.
to freshen up a bit first.
She's right, he reflects. He is better off thinking with his balls.
Which told him that, since they have already seen each other completely naked, there's no sense his coming into her bedroom wearing anything.
And in the event, he has been proven correct.
Because she is not under the covers or wearing a negligee.
Rather, she has stripped the covers off the bed and reclines on the pillows, the pose favored by the artist Goya (or perhaps by his model) in his famous painting, the Naked Maja, one of the few works of art with which Ralph happens to be familiar.
Except that the subject of the painting is dark-haired and petite.
Whereas here the Viking queen awaits him, ensconced on a couch on the quarterdeck of her raiding ship as her crew of berserkers below decks, out of sight, plies the oars to the beat of mallet on drum, a cadence which corresponds exactly to the pounding at Ralph's temples.
And now, he is on her.
And she takes him in her strong arms, pressing his head to one huge breast.
And he helps himself to her doorbell of a nipple, sucking it avidly, daring to knead and fondle it with his hand as he does so.
And he feels her respond to his attentions.
So that the nipple becomes firm and rubbery, the gland beneath it hard and, he suspects, blue-veined beneath her deep tan as the bronzed globe engorges with the blood of her arousal.
And now, he switches to the other one.
The quality of them!
And the quantity!
He has had women before, even big women.
But certainly not like this!
She truly is a superwoman.
She is a woman in which a man could lose himself and stay happily lost forever.
Because now it seems to him that the very air around him is electrified with the powerful aura of her rampant, all-pervasive sexuality.
She is supercharged and supercharging him with the excess of her sexual energy.
And he feels his cock go rock hard, harder than it has ever been, so great is his arousal, his sexual excitement.
And now, he travels lower down on her body, lips gently exploring, lightly kissing the mighty arc of her rib cage.
What must she do to be in such tremendous shape? he wonders.
Lower and lower he goes, his mouth circling around the deep indentation of her navel.
And he takes mouthfuls of her firm belly, chewing them gently.
And now, he wallows in her bush.
And feels an extra thrill of sexual excitement, a rush which sets his face on fire, as she raises and spreads her legs.
I'd rather eat her cunt than fuck anybody else's! he thinks.
Because now she has him radiating his own sexual electricity.
He has never been so alive!
He has never known what it is to really be alive, until just now!
And she is so powerful and so powerfully responsive!
Because her clear, hot pussy juices are flowing freely, laving his chin in response to his titillation of her big, protruding clit with the tip of his tongue.
And she is not rushing him, not manipulating him, but letting him do his own thing.
And it could not be better for him.
Because this talent of his did not originate with, nor does it depend on, his wealth.
Rather, it just comes naturally.
No, his wealth has accomplished just one thing for him.
It was, it is, just what he said it was-the price of admission.
But he did not understand until just now that this admission is to his own private sexual paradise.
Because this is the best ever.
And the second best he cannot even recall right now, so vastly inferior to this was it.
And now, he is fucking her with his tongue.
In and out, in and out he shafts it, as far as he can thrust.
And he is careful to stay in contact with her joy buzzer at all times.
As he makes her hotter and hotter.
As she writhes and twists her mighty, voluptuous torso.
As she bicycles in the air with her big legs.
As her fists clench and unclench.
As her eyes close tightly, head jammed into the pillows, chin in the air, mouth open and teeth clenched in a grimace of sexual transport.
And still he does not hurry, taking his time, doing a good job.
Because he has a lot riding on this.
He must convince her to become his mistress.
Yes, his wealth will be all but meaningless to him right now if it fails to procure what he really wants most in all the world.
Her.
He must have her!
He must own, must possess her as his exclusive property!
If his money will not do that for him, then what the fuck good is it, anyway?
You can't do better than me! he beams at her with powerful thought waves.
You can't, you can't, you can't!
And she has to know this.
Okay, the manners, the ambiance, the whatever, he's short in all those departments.
But what is that, any of it, all of it, compared to this, this, this!?
That other is merely a matter of learning or, if one has been wealthy all one's life, of breeding.
Ah, but this!
This you have or you don't!
It is what it is; it's there or it isn't.
And with him, it most certainly is.
And this, supercharging he is receiving from her inspires him to new and greater heights.
And yes, he could bring her all the way with just his tongue.
He is that powerful, that talented.
He could, but he will not.
Because she must know that, however great a tongue in groove man he may be, he is an even greater ace as a cocksman.
A man may be a veritable artist with his tongue, but still that might say nothing of his true feelings.
But you can't fake a hard-on, any hard-on, much less his baton of living rock.
So that she must know.
His body must speak to, must communicate with hers.
Yes, she must be convinced of the absolute truth of his feelings for her. And she will be!
Of this, he is certain, has absolute faith in his powers of persuasion in this regard and with this mighty persuader of his.
He will make her see the light.
He will have her fantastic body do his arguing for him.
Because it will, as it must, take over control from her brain at some point.
And when it does, she will know, and know with absolute certainty, that she is meant for him.
So that now, he pulls his face back from her drooling pussy.
And sits back on his heels.
And takes his prong in one hand as he studies the target.
And now, he leans forward, bracing himself with his free hand planted firmly in the bed beside one of her raised thighs.
And he enters here.
"Aaah!"
And it is a chorus of satisfaction and delight, emanating from the two of them.
As the hot, slippery, smooth, all-encompassing pressure of her pussy grasps his turgid invader in its wet, firm but yielding embrace.
And he is on her and in her.
And he is humping away on her.
And he is plowing her furrow deep, deep, as deep as he can go.
And his heavy equipment is performing flawlessly.
And he could hick her forever like this; he is convinced of it.
Because his movements are effortless, his energy boundless.
And he shall fuck forever and ever, world without end, amen. So be it.
Because there is nothing, nothing, nothing better than what he is doing right now.
There is no greater satisfaction, no more rewarding form of human endeavor than this, this, this!
Nothing in this world happens by accident. His grandfather dies and he inherits and he meets Erica. One, two, three.
A chain of unanticipated but perfectly ordered (and ordained?) events.
To bring him to this, the apex, the zenith of his life's experience to date.
Which must go on and on.
Which must not stop, must not be interfered with.
Because to do so would be a crime against nature, against the natural order of the universe.
And yet, even now, the nucleus of the pleasure beyond pleasure forms within his innermost depths.
A mere pinpoint of sexual intensity, it rapidly blossoms within him, growing and growing, filling him with its pressure.
So that delight burgeons irresistibly into ecstasy.
So that ecstasy explodes inexorably into rapture.
So that body takes over from mind and mind can only stand by watching, helpless and enraptured as its control is superseded.
And he is coming and coming.
And a small corner of him wails in despair at the end of that which he wanted to continue forever.
But at least he has the satisfaction of knowing that she is coming as well.
As the spasms of her series of multiple orgasms wrack her body, jerking her this way and that, so that she is, like Ralph, a helpless puppet in the throes of her passion.
Twinge after orgasmic twinge convulses them.
As her pussy milks his cock of its load, sucking it from his depths into her own.
Thus do they climax, their glandular contractions alternating, his and hers, building to crescendo and then gradually subsiding.
So that, together, they settle softly back down to earth.
Now what? he asks himself.
He has given it, given her his best shot.
And only now does he realize how overheated he is, how hard he is breathing, how much his effort has actually taken out of him.
And yet, he knows what he wants to do.
Which is to gather his forces for round two.
Except that he cannot say for sure whether or not there is to be a round two.
Or for that matter, if, properly speaking, whether or not there should be.
On the one hand, this is not bad for the first date.
Except that he does not want her for a date, he wants her for his own, as a mistress.
And this only because there is no practical way to make her more than that.
But given time, if he plays his cards right, perhaps there will be.
This is something he really wants and his desire is not a figment of his unsated lust.
Because he wants her just as badly now as he did before he came.
And now, he unplugs, lest she feel him getting small inside her.
So that the view of the aftermath will be acceptable, with him still huge and wet.
He stands on the floor, extending a hand to her and she rises, smiling.
And leads him by the hand into the bathroom, where she runs a shower for the two of them in the spacious, glassed-in enclosure.
And he knows that she has accepted him.
And the wave of gratitude that rushes over him shocks him. Shocks him to discover how fully he has allowed himself already to enter her strange environment.
How totally, even now, he needs her.
3
Too much, Ralph thinks. Too much he doesn't know. That whole scene was in another world. Erica.
Erica the mistress. His mistress?
He cannot say because she would not say, would not give him a commitment, suggesting instead that he go home and think it over.
New money calls for new thinking, she said. And on balance, he supposes that she is correct. Still, he feels a tinge of resentment. What right does she have to differentiate between new money and old, after all? Money is money. Currency. Hard cash.
The universal medium of exchange.
And what business is it of hers, why should she care, where it happens to come from?
Or can it be that there is more to the price of admission into that other world, her world, the world of the rich, than the mere sudden acquisition of wealth?
Because surely she would not have questioned, undoubtedly did not question, the source of her (previous, former, last) lover's wealth.
Nor, for that matter, did she question his disposition of any or all of it, including that portion which apparently so lavishly accrued to herself.
Of course there's more to keeping her as his mistress than just the rent!
She has to know that he has to know that.
It goes without saying.
Or is the problem that he expresses himself so badly?
That is certainly a part of it, he reflects. Has to be. So that she questions, not his generosity, or his resources, or his choice per se; rather, she questions his company, his ability to function in the circles, the society, its ambiance and customs, to which she has become accustomed. That has to be it!
Look at this fucking clunk of a car! he tells himself, as he drives back to his (and Ed's) apartment. Look at me, as far as that goes. No class, no style, no nothing. And this is what wants that for a mistress? Get real!
And yet, dammit, is it that hard, that esoteric and therefore impossible for him to attain? Can't be.
Can't be, because he has intelligence, the ability to learn things quickly, a natural sense of good taste (not thus far exercised to any extent, to be sure, but that is because of his formal financial status; he always did know better).
He is seeing her tomorrow night.
And he need not worry about her returning to the nude beach.
She already told him that she would not do that again.
So that he will have the time, will not have to feel that he is missing anything if he-geez! Tomorrow is a work day! And he has no time for that bullshit. Fuck it.
He's entitled to an occasional sick day, every now and again.
He will simply tell Ed to make his excuses.
Because he has a lot of shopping to do.
It is late, so he will not have to worry about long-winded conversations with Ed concerning his new and by no means solidified relationship.
And he wonders about the advisability of continuing to work where he is, to live where he does, more fundamentally, to be who he is, now that he's loaded.
Loaded with money, certainly, but not with class. And this is not something to be learned, to be somehow acquired overnight. An all night new stand.
That is what counts, what he must see, what he has to absorb.
That, or go to one of those boutique-like men's shops and tell the most distinguished-looking clerk, the manager perhaps, "Dress me."
Hell, he doesn't care what some ass hole behind a counter or with a tape measure draped over his shoulders thinks of him.
Right now, there is only one person he has to impress-Erica.
And impress her he will, or split a gut trying.
Right now, he would not know how to buy her a simple present.
He would not know what flowers to bring her.
Or whether, with her conditioning, her preoccupation with health and fitness, it would be proper to bring her candy.
And does one even do that any more, or has it become a cliche, a thing of the past?
What is the style of dating these days, really dating, as opposed to picking up some bimbo and just going out and having a good time?
Because he knows that Erica is used to the best.
The best treatment, the best times, whatever the fuck those are.
Fact, Ace, he tells himself, you do not know your ass hole from your elbow when it comes to how to treat a real lady.
Not his fault, really, but still there are no excuses.
She is not about to take him on as a social charity case.
She wants a real man.
And the money is but a small part of the package which he must become if he is to have her, to keep her.
Although maybe she is right. Perhaps he is rushing things a bit.
Another session with her and who knows? He could get used to her, consider her old hat. So that he would suddenly be free of his obsession with her.
And she of the somewhat awkward and embarrassing situation in which he has placed her.
Which is that a fundamentally nice, fundamentally sexy guy lacking in all polish, having not so much as a veneer of class, happens to be madly in love with her.
So that it's obviously all for the best if he were to let them both off the hook.
Hooked, he tells himself, that's me.
He wants her, wants her more than anyone or anything he has ever wanted in his whole (to date) meaningless life, he reminds himself, for the hundredth time.
And the fuck, the experiment, the sample, whatever, has done nothing to change that wanting, has not diminished her attraction, her overwhelming magnetism one iota.
And I'm not out of my league, dammit! Not any more!
Because, bottom line, he is a fucking millionaire, even if he does blow his nose through his fingers whenever he forgets to carry a handkerchief or tissues.
It's simply a matter of learning of picking things up quickly.
And this he does and does well.
True, he didn't bother with college after high school, but he does read heavily, and heavy duty stuff at that.
Class, he may be missing; culture, he has been careful to acquire.
And this last without so much as the possibility of an external outlet for it.
His buddy Ed, the bracchioles they pick up, are hardly interested in Freudian versus Jungian psychology- Or the political situation, domestic or international.
Or the trends in today's art.
And in fact Ed finds the studious side of Ralph rather boring.
Still, for the most part they get along well.
For the most part, Ralph is very much a part of that blue collar world into which he was born and where, until but recently, he could look forward to living and dying.
But what about the new Ralph? he muses, as he sits in the living room, leafing through his magazines, amazed, now that he looks closely, at the prices of what appear to be ordinary clothing.
He is definitely going to need help, he realizes.
And clothes are merely the beginning of it.
He needs a new car, a new place to live, new furnishings.
He needs a new job, provided he can find something else he can do, something that will allow him to wear a suit and tie.
Or, failing to find something along those lines, he can simply open his own office and play with his investments.
Or stay home and do the same thing, becoming a wheeler-dealer in the financial world, since finances are what he suddenly has a lot of.
He will make a gift of his share of everything in the apartment to Ed, along with a promise that he will keep in touch, a promise that he has no intention of keeping.
Face it, he tells himself, Ed is no longer good for him.
Ed is a part of the world he is leaving behind.
With the exception of his underwear, he will even leave Ed his entire wardrobe.
Which has suddenly become tacky and disgusting to him, in the light of what he is seeing in the magazines.
Geez, he begins to think, if only I looked like that, or that, or that! referring to the models, impossibly handsome men with classically chiseled features, their hair with just the right amount of tousle, waved by the breeze just so.
Hell, he thinks, these guys could substitute looks for class.
Anybody who looks like that doesn't have to be anything.
Except rich, he reminds himself. There, he has them by the fucking curlyunes.
So that he need not fear that Erica will suddenly, on a whim, pick up one of these on the sidewalk somewhere, perhaps as they are both out jogging and like that.
No, Erica is much too smart, far too well-adjusted for something like that to happen.
And she doesn't fool him with her casual de-emphasizing of money.
All that says to him is that she has enough from her last boyfriend to keep her in her palatial setting, exquisitely housed, clothed, fed, transported, whatever, for some time to come.
And with what she has to offer, she knows she won't have a problem finding somebody else.
But what if he were to move in with her?
Yeah, right, he tells himself.
Not enough class to get through twenty minutes of even routine conversation and he's ready for full time exposure.
Brilliant!
He looks around.
And cannot imagine bringing her to a dump like this.
And she would take one look at his closet and die laughing.
That's if she would even consent to get into his car to come over here.
No, he has a lot of work to do before he is ready for the next step with her.
And perhaps the easiest thing for the two of them really would be if he were to "recover" from his fixation on her, thus leaving them both free to move on.
Right now, Ace, he tells himself, you had best get yourself some shut-eye.
Big shopping day tomorrow, climaxed by the big date.
He is taking her out to dinner, at a place of her choosing, not trusting himself to so vital a selection. So he strips, showers, and goes to bed.
They walk to the restaurant, much to his relief, because he has had no time to pick up a Lamborghini today.
And he is properly attired, thanks to the emergency services of the tailor of an exclusive men's shop.
And he does manage to select the proper wine and give the order for the two of them, wading through the French of the menu with only slight faltering, grateful to have at least had the foresight to take the proper foreign language in high school and to have kept up with it from time to time by buying books in French and reading them, pocket dictionary close by at all times.
And at least, he is able to pay by credit card (the pizzerias always want cash).
And now, back at her place, the doorman smiling at him as well as saluting, remembering him from yesterday.
In the sack, much to his relief.
Because he does not know how to continue their discussion of yesterday.
One approach he considered, rejecting it as pushy.
Another seems nagging, wheedling, perhaps even begging.
Better this way, until the aftermath, when things will be more relaxed, casual, intimate.
They smooch it up, naked in each others' arms, bodies writhing against each other.
And then, to his surprise, she pulls back.
But nothing is wrong, he quickly realizes, as she smiles at him.
And turns over, onto her stomach, looking away, letting her body issue the invitation.
Which is understood immediately.
And accepted.
She even spreads her legs apart so that he can insert himself between them. Which he does.
So that now, he lies between them, admiring their size, their smooth, curvaceous firmness.
But even they are not the major feature now, as he feels himself actually salivating at the sight of the twin rotundities of her big ass and the belled flare of her hips.
As he spreads the cheeks of her ass, studying her large, round, segmented, protruding, pink asshole.
Oh yes, he thinks, the sexual mechanic within him expertly sizing up the situation. Definitely no problem here.
He will not need baby or mineral oil.
His saliva will do quite nicely.
With adequate preparation of course, he appends, chuckling inwardly with anticipation, delight, and incipient arousal.
Because the sight excites him, gets the old blood pounding.
But he ignores this, ignores his prick as it pulses to life, heating, lengthening, thickening as it responds to the inspiration of eye and hand.
Because right now, his tongue is thickening and he is salivating, having to swallow repeatedly, just to keep from drooling on her bung.
And now, he wallows his face in the crack of her ass, mouth open.
And seals his lips to her ass hole.
And sucks it into his mouth, maintaining a slight vacuum as he chews it gently.
And now, the tip of his tongue goes round and round, counting the segments of the ring of muscle, even as it zeroes in on their point of convergence.
And now, he is probing at her back door with the tip of his tongue.
Gently but insistently, he pushes it in, in, into her ass.
And he feels the ring of muscle slacken, accepting him, letting him in freely now.
And he darts his tongue in and out of her ass, each time thrusting a little deeper.
Until he is actually fucking her in the ass with his tongue, head turned sideways, the better to accommodate its shape to that of her ass hole, which is slightly elongated vertically, at this stage.
So that soon, her ass hole is a rounded, oval mouth, sucking his tongue, clinging to it as it probes her hot depths, displacing the soft, wet, yielding tissues of her rectal wall.
And he is making a meal (or at least a dessert) of her ass hole.
Until he is convinced that she is loose enough and wet enough to accept- A finger wave.
First one finger, then, very quickly, the other, the time-honored test of the accomplished ass fucker applied to the fuckee.
If it'll take two fingers easily, then the final run will be smooth.
And he takes no chances, moving the inserted digits round and round, exerting a rotating pressure of his knuckles on the entrance, widening her, slackening her still further for what is to come.
And her rectum clings to the fingers, milking them with reflexive spasms, from time to time, almost cutting off the circulation, then releasing them, leaving them free to explore her hot, wet, soft, smooth interior.
And now, he knows she is ready.
And he sits back on his heels, prong rising hugely from his lap.
And he circles his target between thumb and fingers of one hand, spreading it sideways.
Even as his other hand guides his heavy equipment toward the bulls eye.
And now, he buttons the plum of his knob into her ass hole.
And feels the warm, soft, moist entrance settle around it.
And now, rotating his hips around and around, he drills in, in, into her ass with a spiral motion, pushing gently forward as he goes.
So that the battering ram head of his rampant invader parts the walls of her rectum, the thick shaft filling and stretching it.
In, in, in he goes.
Until he is fully seated.
Until his stomach is rubbing against the large round mounds of her buttocks.
And now, using his best ass-fucking technique, he begins to rock gently back and forth, remaining fully inserted, but moving her hips with him, holding onto them with both hands.
And now, he continues the short strokes back and forth, this time holding her hips steady, so that there is actual movement of his cock within the sleeve of her bowels.
As her ass hole becomes a smoothly rounded mouth, sucking his cock as it moves in and out.
And now, he lengthens and strengthens his strokes.
So that he is pistoning in and out of her ass hole full bore, going in all the way, then pulling back until only the head of his cock is inserted.
Faster and faster he humps her ass now.
And then slows down.
So that he can release one hip.
And reach down and around to weigh one heavy breast at a time.
He kneads and fondles them, their nipples becoming rubbery and erect in the palm of his hand.
And now, he moves the groping hand down the center line of her body.
And finds her joy buzzer.
And strums it with two fingers, feeling it too go to full engorgement.
So that her hot pussy juices flow over fingers and knuckles.
So that he is stimulating her clit from inside and out.
And the double stimulation arouses her still further.
So that now, he can see her face in profile, eyes closed, mouth open, smiling faintly, complexion turning redder and redder.
Delicious! he thinks. Absolutely delightful!
Not that he is fucking ass, a thing he has done with great regularity, but that he is fucking the ass of something like this!
Because she is his ideal.
He realizes this now.
So that his idea of the feminine, the one he summons whenever his partner turns out to be less than ideal, which is invariably the case to a greater or lesser degree-that image comes into sharp focus, taking on, becoming Erica.
Or vice versa, perhaps. No matter.
The point is that he is home, that he has arrived.
The sex, of course, will always get better and better.
But Erica herself is the epitome of the female image, so far as Ralph is concerned.
And now, he too is getting hotter and hotter. And this time, he does not deceive himself that he can go on and on like this forever. He knows he can't.
He knows that Erica is too much of an inspiration for his body to resist indefinitely its tendency to reach out for more and more.
So that hunger and satisfaction are once more stair-stepping one another, alternating.
One level of arousal, of stimulation, of pleasure achieved and the body wants more.
And gets it.
And so on and on, hunger and satisfaction, elevating each other again and again, in ever more rapid succession.
Until they are both at the peak of all the pleasure their bodies can hold. And still it comes, still it increases with each stroke of the cock, in or out.
Until- They are coming and coming, her cunt milking his fingers of the pleasure beyond pleasure with the contractions of her multiple orgasms, even as the twinges of delight in her ass suck his load from him, so that he injects it into the innermost depths of her hot bowels.
Again and again they come, zooming, soaring through their shared sexual paradise.
Slowly, the twinges within them both decrease their intensity.
And she goes down, down, down, flattening her- self on the bed as she floats gently back to earth, he on top of her, fully inserted.
And they lie thus, cheek to cheek, as his cock slowly detumesces while they are catching their breath.
And this time, he leaves it inside, knowing the ideal ending to a great ass fuck. And now, it comes. It.
Meaning the peristaltic action of her bowels expelling his large, flaccid penis like a great, smooth turd. And only then does he get up, offering her a hand, which she accepts, rising from the bed and once more leading him into the bathroom, where she runs the shower.
And they step in, bodies rubbing against one another with lascivious smooth strokes of soap-lubricated skin against its like.
They take a long, leisurely shower, in total silence.
In silence, they dry off.
And she puts on a bathrobe.
And sits before her vanity, combing out her hair, then wrapping it, turban-like, with a towel.
Which he takes to indicate that they have done their thing for this evening, not unreasonable, considering the wear and tear on her ass hole, his preparations notwithstanding.
So he gets dressed.
And she, seeing his actions reflected in the vanity mirror, does not stop him.
4
"Care for a cognac?" she asks.
"Please."
And she pours them both one, into fishbowl brandy snifters.
And joins him on the couch.
They study the night skyline of the city with its pattern of lights.
And sip slowly.
Finally, he can put it off no longer.
r "Have you thought it over?" he asks.
"Have you?" she counters.
"Yes. Quite a bit, matter of fact."
"And?"
"I want you," he says, simply. "You uh, you want me," she repeats. "Just like that."
He shrugs and takes another sip from his glass before replying, "I wish I were a man of great subtlety and sophistication. I really do. Perhaps this would be easier, more convincing, whatever.
"Fact is, I have a long way to go before I can become what you deserve by way of fully rounded male companionship.
"I know this. I know it, and I intend to cover the ground quickly, very quickly.
"I can do it. I know that too.
"And when I do, I was hoping that, maybe, we could uh... get together."
"We are together."
"No, I mean, under an... arrangement."
She shrugs, looking away.
"You know what 1 am, what I do."
"Yes, well, I've been thinking it over and it doesn't have to be that way.
"I mean, the last guy, others, whatever, they were married to other women."
"Some of them," she concedes.
He looks at her sharply.
"You mean there were some who weren't?"
"Of course. Why not. After all, what's that got to do with it.
"A mistress is a mistress. It's what I was, what I am, not what they are that counts."
"But then, why didn't they, uh-" "What? What, Ralph? What was it that they were supposed to do?
"Marry me?
"Or perhaps merely move in with me, something like that?"
"Well uh, sure, I mean, like, live in at first, and then eventually, uh... do the deed?"
"And live happily ever after, is that it, Ralph?"
"Sounds reasonable," he replies, even though he realizes that she is being sarcastic.
She shakes her head slowly.
"You really don't understand, do you, Ralph?
"Read my lips. I am a mistress, a kept woman.
"For one man at a time.
"I am here for him any hour of the day or night.
"I get no vacations, except with him, no days off, except what he chooses.
"He, on the other hand, is free to be with whomever he pleases, live with, go steady with, get engaged to, and/or marry whomever he wishes.
"He is also free to terminate the arrangement at will, his or whoever has influence with him, at any time and without notice.
"And in return, I get-this."
And she gestures all around herself.
"That's exactly my point!" Ralph says. "Don't you see, Erica?
"If I were to, say, buy the place and move in with you-" "What?"
And she glares at him, eyes flashing in anger. "What, what did I say?" he asks, taken aback, alarmed.
"You said you'd buy the place and move in, is what you said!
"Right, fine! Under the old arrangement, one guy goes, another comes, and meanwhile the rent gets paid.
"They're like marathon runners, the boyfriends, passing the baton.
"Only you want to put a stop to all that. "You've got a better idea!
"This time, when you decide we're all through, I've got to go, to get out of here, to leave what is, after all, your home.
"Thanks but no thanks.
"Listen, it's been a swell couple days, but I think you'd better go." And she stands up.
"Okay, okay, okay!" he says. "I'm new at this! I fucked u-I goofed again. "Bad idea."
"I think this whole thing was a bad idea, Ralph. "Please. Leave now."
"Why are you so pissed off, all of a sudden?"
"Look," she says, jaw firm, eyes steely, "you get ahold of the owners of this condo and make them an offer if you want.
"You've got the money, whatever it takes to swing the deal, so I can't stop you.
"You got a couple pieces of ass for zip, you got a lead on a good piece of real estate into the bargain, exquisitely furnished, so you're all set.
"I see now what kind of person you really are.
"Expensive lesson," she sighs. "I'm really gonna miss this place."
She looks around her, expression sad.
"Okay, okay! I won't buy it then!
"But I'd still like to live with you.
"I mean, I know I'm still a bit rough around the edges, but-" "Rough? Ralph, you are to rough what sharp is to scalpels.
"And what's with this sudden urge to live here?
"Look, Ralph, I'm trying to be very tolerant, very understanding about what you're apparently going through.
"But there are limits, and you've exceeded them. "I mean, it's not like this is even my place. "It's rented, Ralph. Furnished. "My name is on the lease, that's all.
"I can be out of here in fifteen minutes with the stuff I personally own.
"You want the place so bad, like I say, the lease is up in three months and I'm sure the owners will be more than happy to sell it to you.
"So you don't have to do the live-in bit."
"I want you, not this place!"
"But Ralph, this place is a part of me!
"It's the setting for what I do!
"Deprived of this setting, I would simply have to find another.
"Your wanting to live in changes the relationship, don't you see?
"I mean, if I owned it, things would be different."
"They would?"
"Certainly! You could be my guest then, no problem.
"And if and when you got tired of me, you'd be free to move on.
"And you would get tired of me." "No I wouldn't."
"Believe me, Ralph, you would. The secret to being a mistress is to avoid over-exposure.
"The reason I can be so good to a man is that I don't have to be good to him for more than a few hours, a night, a weekend at most, at a time.
"But you don't want that.
"You say you want me for your mistress, but actually you want me more like property."
"Can't you see that I'm crazy about you, Erica?" "I suppose, in a certain way, you are. "But you'll get over it, sooner or later. "And with your money, you can do anything you want."
"Except, apparently, to have you." "There's having and having, Ralph," she sighs. "And the kind of having you want needs a place to happen.
"And a place where I've gotta depend on you for the roof over my head isn't it.
"You want me for your mistress but not like a mistress."
"What if you didn't have to depend on me for the roof over your head?"
"Oh, right. I'm just about to plunk down whatever it costs so I can own this place and everything in it!
"Dream on, why don't you?" "It doesn't have to be a dream." "What?"
"Look. What good does the money do if it doesn't get me what I want?"
"Ralph, what is your problem?
"You could come over here as often as you want, if we could come to an understanding."
"That's not true, Erica.
"Because I'd very quickly wear out my welcome. "I'd be in your face, day and night.
"And I'm not ready for that and I know it.
"I mean, I'm going to do whatever I have to in order to turn into the kind of a guy you'd like to have around all the time, but the best one to help me do that is you.
"So give me a break here.
"Let me do this thing for you, all right?"
"Have you any idea how much money you're talking about?"
"No."
"And neither do I. So before you go off the deep end-" "Dammit, Erica, there is no deep end for me! My deep end days are all behind me, don't you understand that?
"Now you have gotta let me do this thing for you. "I want you, all of you!
"And my gosh, if things work out as I think they will, this is no big deal.
"1 mean, we're talking community property here, down the road."
Meaning that, gauche or not gauche, he knows what he wants, long range.
Or hopefully, considering his ardor, short range.
So that, ultimately, he thinks, with animal cunning (he tells himself), he will end up having her and the place anyway.
And what taste, what culture and refinement he is short, he will have purchased.
It will almost be like another inheritance, and one with deeper meaning than his first one, actually, for all its size.
Because that was only money.
But here, here! is something more, much, much more.
If.
If he can convince her to go for it. Because she is not exactly jumping at the prospect.
"You're that sure this thing is going to work out," she says.
"If wanting it badly enough can make it happen, then it will, for sure," he responds. "So. You're gonna find out what they want for this place and let me know, right?"
"Uh, yes, if that's what you want."
"And uh, Erica?"
"Yes?"
"Please don't sit on this. "If I stay out of your face all day tomorrow, promise me you'll find out, okay?" "Find out?"
"How much the place costs, furnishings and all, okay?"
"And then what?"
"You let me worry about that, all right? "That'll be between me and the owners of the place.
"I just have to know who they are and how much they want.
"The rest is money, which is a piece of shi-a piece of cake."
And, that settled, he cannot wait to get out of here, before she changes her mind, or he says something else wrong and pisses her off all over again.
"So I'll call you tomorrow afternoon, all right?" he asks.
And kisses her quickly before striding out the door.
"Irene? Erica... No, no, I'm fine, darling, but I'm in a bit of a bind. Seems my latest boyfriend would like to buy this place for me, complete with furnishings."
Silence at the other end of the line. Then, raucous laughter.
Irene says, "I've been in this game a lot of years, kiddo, but this is a new one. "Let me get this straight.
"He doesn't know you already own the place, furnishings and all, so he wants to buy it for you, right?"
"Right. And I am going to let him do just that.
"Which is why 1 need your help.
"How do I go about doing that so that he doesn't know it's me he's buying it from as well as for?... Oh, come on, Irene, it's not that funny!"
Because Irene is cackling helplessly at the other end.
"I can't help it!" Irene manages to reply, at last. "I happen to think it's hysterical."
"You gonna help me or not?"
"For this kinda commission, you gotta ask?
"First thing you gotta do is set up a dummy corporation with a lawyer as an officer and trustee with full fiduciary powers."
"What's that?"
"You really wanna know?"
"No. Go on."
"Okay. Your fiduciary will handle the closing. You never appear, your name never comes up. Not until this putz signs the whole ball of wax over to you.
"Gosh, what a lolly this winner must be!"
"Yeah. Really.
"Anyhow, he wants to move fast.
"I gotta call him tonight and let him know who the owners are-will you stop with the yuks, Irene? We really don't have the time for this, y'know-and how much they want."
"So how much do you want?"
"A million."
"Gross or net?"
"I won't be a pig. Gross."
"Tell ya what. Because I love you, darling, what say we get you a million net?"
"Then the price will be-what?"
"Mmm, title search, closing costs, this clown I'm sending you to, my commish, tax adjustments-no, not the tax adjustments, they work the other way- anyhoo, we oughtta be save at one and a quarter mil, asking, and let him work down ten thou or so."
"That much? But Brim only paid-" "I give a shit what Brim paid, okay, dear?
"Leave everything in old mother Irene's tender loving care, okay?
"Now lemme get off the phone so I can make contact and get right back to you with some friendly neighborhood shyster.
"And I do mean a full-blown shyster, and not one merely studying for the shysterhood.
"Anything else I should know?"
"Only that my boyfriend is in a maximum rush to make it happen."
"Then let's not disappoint him. Don't move from the phone, and ciao." .
And Erica doesn't.
It takes five minutes.
"His fee is fifty from the proceeds and so is mine. "Get your buns down to this address... " "... if you will sign in the places indicated, that will create the corporation-here-appoint me chairman of the board and chief operating officer here-ratify the corporate charter empowering me here-in triplicate, that's right.
"Excuse me a moment-oh Miss Hawkins, will you come in here, please, and bring your notary seal, please."
Miss Hawkins does so and, with the air of one long practiced, proceeds to properly notify all copies of the documents.
"Here's a set for you-thank you, Miss Hawkins, that will be all-a set for me, and of course, the originals for filing.
"For which I will have to get going, if we're to have it all in order today.
"You may tell your uh... principal, that I won't take a penny less than one and a quarter mil, in behalf of-who are we this time?"
He glances at the sheaf of papers in his hand.
"Oh, yes. Silverman and Associates.
"Their offices are mine, of course, since I am the only officer of the corporation.
"Well, you can see yourself out, I believe.
"And Miss Hawkins here will be expecting a call from the buyer tomorrow, correct?"
"Absolutely."
"Then have a very nice day and pardon me for dashing off like this."
And he is out the door without awaiting her reply.
Erica shrugs, picks up her papers, stuffs them into her handbag, and leaves.
"One and a quarter million dollars," Erica says into the telephone. "Geez, that's an awful lot of money," she says. "Are you certain this is the way we want to-" "I'm certain, I'm certain!
"And who's holding the deed?"
"A holding company."
"How very appropriate. And they are?"
He takes the name and address from her.
"Very good," he says. "And I shall see you when I have taken care of business."
Spoken like a true sugar daddy, she thinks.
"You're actually going to go through with this, then," she says.
"Of course. Why wouldn't I?"
Don't you mean why shouldn't you? she thinks.
"It's your money," she says. "Damn straight it is! And you just watch what it can do!"
"Aren't you even going to bargain with them?" she asks.
"Yeah," he replies, "I suppose I really should, just on principle.
"You uh, you wanna come with me?"
"Is that necessary?"
"Well, it is if you're the one getting the place. "After all, it's only my money, but it's your property."
"If you're sure."
"Please. No more doubts. Consider it an accomplished fact, okay?
"Stick by your phone tomorrow morning and I'll call you as soon as I make the appointment for, say, ten thirty."
"If they can see you-us-then."
"For the money I'm giving them, they can damn sure see us.
"I'll be by to pick you up tomorrow ayem, okay?" "You're the bo-the man of the hour," she concedes.
"Now that I've got it in gear, that's very true," he agrees.
"Until tomorrow, then," she says. "Ciao, bay-bee."
Ciao yourself-bay-bee, she thinks, looking at the dead phone as she hangs up.
Moving along now! Ralph thinks. Got the woman he wants, the home he wants, furnished better than he ever could dream of doing, left to his own tastes and devices.
The power of money!
He's got what it takes and he knows how to use it!
Things are coming together much easier than he thought they would.
His car will be ready next week.
In the event, he has decided to buy American, something adequate but not ostentatious.
Because, according to the fashion editors of GQ, understatement shows confidence.
As in clothes, so in cars.
Later, perhaps, as a second car, he will go for the cadmium yellow Lamborghini of his dreams, strictly as a fun thing, a toy, to bomb around in with Erica.
And he sits back on the couch, relaxing.
He will have to draft a letter of resignation from work, of course.
He will pay some secretary a ten to type it up.
Later for that, though.
Tomorrow, he will be far too busy.
Because, following the paying off and the signing off, they will have to have a celebratory lunch, he and Erica.
He, whose working days are over, she, whose mistressing days are over, although she doesn't yet realize it.
And he tries to envision life with Erica, living, eating, sleeping with Erica. "How was your day?" Ed asks. And Ralph, who did not even hear him come in, looks up, startled.
"Whew! Don't do that again, old buddy! Scared the shit outta me, you did!"
And Ralph clutches his chest, mimicking a heart attack.
"Not till you make the will!" Ed says, feigning alarm.
"Who says you're gonna be in it, even if I do?" Ralph asks.
"That's right, Ralph. Build up my hopes and then break my heart, why don'tcha?" They laugh.
But the laughter fades quickly as Ralph takes his checkbook out of a hip pocket, rips out the top one and hands it to Ed.
"Hellzis for?" Ed asks.
"Oh, just my share of the rent and utilities for the rest of the lease, with maybe a little left over." "Meaning what?"
"Movin' in with Erica tomorrow, Ed."
"That was sure fast! What's the deal, anyway?"
"Buyin' a condo."
Not telling him that he is buying it for Erica. Why bore Ed with details? "Movin' out and gettin' with the program, eh?" Ed observes.
"Both, bro'," Ralph replies. "Uh-huh.
"Listen, Ralph, not fer nuthin', understand, and I've heard of guys bein' in the fast lane before, but this is a little fast, even for that, seems to me."
"Guess you're entitled to your own opinion, buddy," Ralph concedes.
Adding, to himself, and if that's how it looks from the bottom staring up, so be it.
He didn't expect Ed to understand.
How could he, after all?
You have to be in my situation, Ralph tells himself.
Ed has never had green power and never will.
He is part of a different world now.
A gulf has opened up between Ed and himself, one that cannot be closed, cannot be breeched.
So that for Ralph to stay here, even if this thing with Erica had not happened, would have been wrong.
Wrong for Ed, wrong for himself. The haves and the have-nots can't share the same space.
Because, however tactfully Ralph might handle it, there is simply no way he would not be throwing it in Ed's face.
He is glad that they have separate bedrooms as well as separate beds.
Because one look in Ralph's closet and Ed would know that, already, they are not on the same planet.
"Well," Ed says, "I wanna wish ya a lotta luck."
Telling him that he knows that this is goodbye.
And Ed isn't, can't be surprised at this turn of events.
Because it was just a matter of time, really.
It is a bit soon, true; but it was inevitable, if not today, then tomorrow, next week, next month.
"Supper's in the oven," Ralph says. "Should be about ready to come out.
"Get washed up and I'll serve."
5
"... and right there as well," Silverman says.
Ralph signs the papers in the places indicated.
"Congratulations," Irene says, hugging Erica emotionally as they do kissy-kissy in the air on either side of their faces and Ralph and Silverman look on, Ralph smiling proudly at his actual cleverness and apparent generosity, Silverman merely grinning balefully.
And Erica kisses Ralph on the lips.
Ralph, who is now her fellow millionaire, even though he does not realize it.
Ah, but he soon will, Erica thinks.
Although not in the true way.
No, he will merely be forced to abandon her, after a time.
She will see to it.
And when she does, she will own the place exclusively and forever.
After all, she does now, technically speaking.
The place is in her name.
And the contents as well.
So that basically, she is free and clear of Ralph even now.
Except that their breaking up right here in the office, while amusing, would be blatant, transparent, could (and probably would) result in litigation in which she could win nothing and possibly lose a great deal.
And besides, as long as Ralph lives with her, he will foot the bills in their entirety, including the maintenance fee for the condo.
"Well," Ralph says, impatient to move in with Erica, "I take it that this concludes our business here?"
"You are free to go," Silverman says, shrugging. But Irene says, "Not so fast!" They all look at her.
And she produces yet another sheaf of papers from her capacious handbag.
"Insurance," she says. "That is, unless you'd care to shop around."
"No, let's get that out of the way," Ralph says, sighing.
"Quickly," he appends.
But already Irene has the papers fanned on the conference table, the signature lines clearly marked with big X's.
Ralph goes to take the pen, but she stops him.
"Uh-uh," she admonishes, "the owner has to be the one signing.
"But I will take a check from you.
"See? Right here where it says binder. I need that from you now. The insurance company will bill Erica for the balance of the premium."
That's good, Ralph thinks.
In fact, the more expensive the operation of the condo, the better for him.
Because she will have to depend on him to handle it.
And of course, he will. And he will become indispensable to her. She will not have to so much as look at another man.
Or worry about her future, ever again. Because he is her future. And she is therefore and thereby his. Thus has he used his financial power.
And even with all this, he still has over a million left, even after taxes.
And a man could live on the interest from a million quite comfortably.
What am I talking about, comfortable? he asks himself.
Hell, the interest alone is four times what he used to make working in that stupid shipping department!
Speaking of which, he really should-later for that.
Right now, he just wants to get home with Erica.
"We through yet?" he asks, his tone impatient, warning that they had better be.
"Uh, yes," Silverman says, looking at Irene.
"Then you will excuse us," Ralph says, briefcase, purchased especially for the occasion, in one hand, Erica's elbow in the other, being the master, the man in charge that he is now.
And he feels exhilaration, a great sense of freedom, as they drive to the condo, their home together, now and forever.
The phone is ringing, interrupting their moment of moving in hilarity, in which he is carrying her over the threshold, barely able to sustain the weight of the big, blonde Amazon.
"Who the hi-I wonder who that could be?" he asks, putting her on her feet.
"I'd better answer it," Erica says.
She runs over to the phone, picking it up, as Ralph stands there in the doorway, framed by the tall, white double doors, heavily and ornately carved with gold accents.
He is anxious to go back down to the garage and get his stuff, but there's just the off chance- "Here," Erica says, extending the phone toward him, "it's for you. Some fellow named Ed?"
Geez! Ralph thinks. Like I need this!
Ed is behind him, a part of his past.
He never introduced Ed to Erica, not at the beach and of course not afterward.
He never so much as mentioned Ed or his former living arrangements.
Not that he's ashamed of Ed, he tells himself.
The hell you're not, he answers himself.
And takes the phone from her.
"Hello?"
"Listen uh, Ralph, I hate to bother you, but I'm callin' from work.
"Jerry wantsa know are you comin' in any more, or what?"
"What did you tell him?"
"Nothing, Ralph! You know better than that!
"We're best friends, after all, and I wouldn't presume to-" "Yeah, yeah, yeah.
"Look. Tell Jerry I'll be-fuck it. Just tell 'im I'll be in in a while and quit formally.
"Two weeks notice, which is the vacation time I've got coming.
"I don't wanna leave a bitter taste, but I'm busy, way, way too busy to do the packing and shipping bit, believe me."
"Oh, I do, I do!"
"So you just tell 'im I'm comin' in and I'll explain the facts of life to Jerry when I get there." He hangs up.
"Somethin' I gotta take care of, babe," he says.
"Be back soon's I can and we'll go out for supper or whatever, okay?"
"Suit yourself, Ralph," she says, thinking, Babe indeed!
"I intend to-soon as I get back."
He definitely has to get these people out of his life, he tells himself, wending his way impatiently through the traffic.
And he has to tell Ed not to call him again.
He knows what Ed thinks.
As soon as things settle down, he'll have Ed over, or maybe they'll go bowling, the three of them or something.
Yeah, right.
He'll see Ed again when pigs grow wings.
But Ed is simply going to have to understand.
And what he mostly has to understand is the fact that their friendship, their acquaintance, for that matter, is a thing of the past.
Sad in a way, but these things happen. Hey, Ralph tells himself, it's not like I asked to become a millionaire.
It's something that just happened, like an accident.
Not all accidents are bad, but they are all things the people they happened to didn't expect and certainly didn't control. So big deal, there's a downside feature to the situation in the form of tacky friends to be abandoned.
What choice has he got, really? Ed and Erica's vases don't belong on the same planet.
And a part of Ed has to know, has to see that he's right, that there is no longer anything for them together.
But, he tells himself, time to start acting like the gentleman he is. His first test?
Charming his way out of the shirt company, so he leaves no bitter aftertaste.
"Jerry," Ralph says, one hand grasping Jerry's reluctant mitt, the other clapped onto Jerry's slumped shoulder, "you were a helluva boss. If I decide to buy the place, I'll be sure and see to it you make traffic manager, babe!
"And I mean that sincerely."
"Uh, thanks. You're uh s'posed ta go to personnel an' fill out some kinda papers, you wanna leave, I think."
"Sure thing, Jerry! Just lemme say goodbye to the guys on the line first, okay?"
And Ralph goes down the line, clapping shoulders and shaking hands goodbye.
And he ignores the hurt look in Ed's eyes as he treats him with the same back-slapping, politician-like, impersonal affability as the rest.
And strides away quickly, a last friendly wave to Jerry, who hesitantly returns it with a flutter of his fingers.
"... and I have sincerely enjoyed working for your fine company.
"So that it is with the deepest regret and a true sense of loss that my personal circumstances compel me to take this action.
"I hereby resign from the company, effective- what's two weeks from yesterday, babe? Yeah, right, go 'head, put it down-which I will take as vacation.
"Yours very sincerely-" "Ya got sincerely in two places, Ralph."
"Oh, thanks, Sue. Make it, 'yours very truly,' an' my name down at the bottom.
"And uh, here's a ten for your trouble."
He trades her the bill for the letter, looks it over, picks up a pen from her desk, and signs it.
"Copying machine's over there," she says.
"Thanks."
He makes himself a copy, goes to the personnel manager's office, the door of which is open. He knocks softly. "Come in, uh-" "Ralph."
"Yes, Ralph. What can I do for you?"
"I'm uh, leavin' today."
"And?"
"My letter of resignation," he says. The personnel manager smiles at him, accepting the letter.
"This really wasn't necessary at your lev-I mean, thank you for giving notice."
"Well, I am and I'm not, you see. Because I'm taking my vacation as the notice period and I don't want to leave any hard feelings-" "Of course you don't! And I understand." "But I don't think you do, sir. You see, my grandfather died and-" "Listen. You don't owe me any explanation, uh, Ralph. And I respect your right to privacy. Now if you'll see Sue over there, she can help you with your final check request.
"Have a nice day and good luck to you in all future endeavors."
And the manager returns to the papers on his desk.
Why you fucking punk! Ralph thinks. I could buy and sell you ten times over!
But then, he remembers.
As far as this clown is concerned, Ralph is just another blue collar, even if his suit is Brooks Brothers while his own comes from Penney's.
And he doesn't bother stopping by Sue's desk again.
He can't wait to get out of here, like the place is dragging him down.
As though he will not really become his new self until he gets the hell out of there.
Home at last! he tells himself, as Erica opens the door to him (she has neglected to give him a set of keys) and they embrace.
"Something you'd like to do before supper?" she asks.
"You know it!" he replies. And they go into the bedroom, where they strip quickly.
And Erica removes the covers from the bed- their bed now, he realizes.
And gets in, moving over to make room for him.
"You're just a living doll for doing what you did, you know," she murmurs as they wrap each other up in arms and legs.
He just smiles and says nothing, thinking, Yeah, right, a living doll, that's me. Like I could have engineered this little coup of mine any other way.
And it may be true, he tells himself, that he's being devious, manipulative, but that's the way it is.
And he mentally pictures himself as J. R. in Dallas on TV.
And mimics that same shit-eating grin, looking over her shoulder into an imaginary camera.
He starts to go down to her breasts, but she beats him to the punch, sliding down his body instead.
And she takes the head of his prick into her mouth.
And turns sideways, lying there below him, leaning over so that she can suck his cock. Which she does.
And he responds very quickly, getting a full erection almost at once.
And she bobs up and down on his cock, tongue wrapping expertly around his cock as she plunges or pulls back, giving him thrill after thrill as she sucks him avidly.
And now, warming to her task, she slides herself between his legs.
And her head bobs up and down, faster and faster.
And he sees her becoming truly aroused, her face turning red.
She really loves that big bastard of mine in her mouth! he exalts.
Because now she is-yes! Deep throat!
As she opens the back of her mouth and he watches, fascinated, as his entire cock disappears and her lips plunge into his bush.
And she cannot get enough of him.
She cannot seem to suck him hard enough, to devour him fast enough.
She cannot pay enough attention to the entire surface of his prick in intimate detail, from the eye of his knob to its taut, hot surface to the thick flange at its rear to the fish head juncture beneath to the veiny, ridged surface of the shaft, she must know with her mouth every millimeter, as though to polish it, to cherish it, to commit its every detail to memory.
And there is no letting up, no pause, no hesitation of any kind.
On and on she plunges.
Faster, harder, more and more eager for the mighty organ.
Surely, she is not going to bring him all the way like this!
Ah, but she is!
And she does, pulling her head back to receive his copious load on her tongue, savoring quantity and quality before she swallows it, gulp after gulp of it, as he continues to pump wad after wad into her mouth.
And, when he finishes coming but is still hard, she goes deep throat one last time, clamps her lips to the base of his cock, and empties the channel of the balance of his load.
Good to the very last drop was it, babe? he thinks.
How far he has come in such a short time, he reflects.
And she is the living symbol of that progress.
From unapproachable, untouchable blonde Viking goddess to the best blowjob he has ever had, in the space of less than a week.
From glorious and distant archetype to his private stock.
Such is the power of money. But still, he reflects, he deserves some of the credit too.
But for his cleverness, his manipulation of the situation, he would even now be merely another sugar daddy, footing the bilk while wondering if he is not demanding too much for his money.
Or who else she is seeing, what insurance she is buying for her future when he isn't around.
Because he didn't buy that bullshit about her being for him exclusively, whenever he wants her.
That made no sense.
Because look at the fucking equipment on this broad!
That doesn't sit around on ice. Like her last sugar daddy never went out of town and such.
And what about weekends, when he was with his family?
Or holidays, extended trips with them?
And, but for his own cleverness, he would have had to create hollow hours, rationing his sack time with her.
Otherwise, as she said, she would not be his mistress but quite something else. And yet, he has overcome. He has triumphed.
Because, willy-nilly on her part, they are living together, an accomplished fact.
She is not his mistress in the traditional sense.
He has overcome tradition.
She is now his live-in, or rather, he is hers, technically speaking.
"That ought to hold you until after supper," she says, as they lie there, side by side, both their color and breathing returning to normal.
Thinking, he has no suspicion of why she was so excited.
He doesn't have a clue as to the symbolism at work here.
She has just drained him dry.
And that is exactly what she intends to do.
And the beauty of it is that it will all, all be his idea.
Now, she tells herself, that's exciting!
And now, they are showering together, dressing for dinner, she in black cocktail dress, he in black suit.
I really do have to get a tuxedo custom fitted one day soon, he tells himself.
And he realizes that he actually has to get quite a bit more by way of clothing and accessories. His meager collection (he has abandoned most of his wardrobe to Ed, as planned) simply will not do.
Plus, he has to see to the management of the household. Financially, that is. She-or rather they-have no maid. Yet, he appends.
And he cannot be worried about individual disbursements.
There will have to be a household account, either joint or in her name, so that he will not have to be concerned with writing some stupid nickel-and-dime check for whatever every time he turns around.
He'll take care' of that tomorrow.
And arrange to hire a maid.
Erica's choice, of course, and to be under her supervision.
Because he also cannot be bothered, directly involved in the running of the house.
And just what do you intend to be involved in? he asks himself as they dry off.
Because he cannot be simply a playboy, a man of leisure.
He knows better than to be underfoot all the time.
That will have to wear thin rather quickly.
It is a wise man who knows his own limitations, he reflects, as they dress.
And he has no intention of letting this relationship die of overexposure.
True, he has arranged things in such fashion as to guarantee that his presence here can be legitimately optimized on her terms.
But that could very well backfire if he doesn't play his cards right.
Because, face it, there is simply not that much to him as a person.
His charms are limited.
And they cannot be in bed fucking and sucking all the time.
So that is another thing he has to do-consult with one of those career management firms, see what they can come up with by way of something for him to do, a reason for being other than his boundless obsession with Erica.
So much to set up, to get, to do!
He didn't realize until just now how much hard work is involved in being a millionaire.
There are simply not enough hours in the day for him.
And now, they are walking down the street, a truly handsome couple, as he notes, checking their reflection in windows and glass doorways.
True, she is perhaps too tall for him.
And perhaps his shoulders could stand to be a bit wider, considering Erica's deltoids, delightfully, deliciously exposed in the backless, sleeveless, low-cut cocktail gown.
Because, face it, it is at her rather than himself that the passersby look.
And the men, he knows, probably look back after they have passed, checking the rear view.
Fuck them! he thinks.
They can only dream, whereas his reality exceeds even their wildest dreaming.
Yeah, that's right guys, take a real good look, he thinks. What you see is what I get, har har.
And suddenly, he finds himself partaking fully of that same gloating satisfaction that he always suspected-and now knows for a fact-that all those guys he has ever seen walking around with hot numbers felt.
I've got it, you don't. Eat your fucking horny hearts out-losers!
And he is almost sorry that they have chosen to dine in so exclusive a restaurant, Erica's presence further muted by the candle light.
He would rather be seen with her in someplace noisy and crowded, where all could see what he has, what he owns, what he possesses, what is his and none other's.
Granted, the food is delicious, one might even say exquisite.
And the service? Impeccable.
But there is an isolation here which is unnerving, a quiet which is oppressive.
The loneliness of the wealthy, he reflects. Get used to it.
And better no company than the wrong company, right? You betcha!
Because they have each other and really need nobody and nothing else.
Their troubles are all behind them and what does he care about getting involved in someone else's?
His life has been miserable enough for long enough and now that things have changed for the better, he does not intend to look back and thereby engender empathy or worse, sympathy within himself.
If he feels sorry for anyone now, then it is his old, his former self which inspires him to pity.
Yes, he could almost cry for the lost fucking slob he was.
Almost.
Except that even him he holds in lordly contempt right now.
Fuck you, you loser, you deserved it!
And if not for the likes of his former self by way of contrast, what would be the point of being rich?
And he is amused at this last.
Because the guy he used to be wouldn't know what to do with all this fucking money if he had it.
6
"I'm bored, Irene," Erica says into the telephone. "Already?"
"Come over and keep me company."
"Where's, uh, what's-his-face?"
"What's-his-face is out getting himself a new career or new clothes or whatever.
"The important thing is that he's not around right now, thank heavens!"
"See you in a while," Irene says.
And the line goes dead.
It is not so much that she is bored, really.
But she had to tell Irene something.
Because they have not had a chance to gloat and snicker properly over Erica's handling of Ralph.
An apartment-exquisitely furnished-original value six hundred fifty thou, a gift to her from Brim Steele, has been sold for a million and a quarter (in the event, Ralph decided not to quibble over the odd ten thousand this way or that; why be petty, after all?)-clearing a cold cash profit to her of over a mil-and then handed right back to her on a silver platter, with the undying (as of yet) gratitude of the donor.
Who has agreed besides to cover all expenses and obligations-present and future.
Hey, for that, she could put up with him even if he were ugly.
And in fact, he is not all that hard to take.
And in bed, she actually finds him quite exciting.
Of course, she is not entirely sure whether the excitement is due to his sexual prowess or to her lascivious delight at the coup she has managed to pull off.
And perhaps it is some combination. Because, after all, he is her sex toy. He is her sexual slot machine. Sex turns him on.
Sex keeps him going, keeps the drums spinning round and round. And, sooner or later-jackpot! Every day this happens.
And she has an endless supply of what he wants, what he apparently can't live without, to see to it that it keeps right on happening.
And in fact, she cannot even look at him as they fuck, for fear she will burst out laughing, imagining pictures of fruit spinning round and round in his eyeballs until they come to a halt, cherries in both, and he shits silver dollars out of his ass hole.
Which is part of what she wants to tell Irene.
The intercom.
"Yes?"
"Irene is here," the doorman announces.
"Well send 'er on up!"
And Erica opens the door.
"Ta-da!" Irene exclaims, holding her arms open.
They embrace.
"I can't believe what that idiot actually went and did!" Irene says.
"Yes, but I'm worth it!" Erica replies, patting the back of her head, batting her lashes.
"Honey, nobody is worth that kind of bread! I mean nobody."
"You're probably right," Erica admits. "Still, you wanna see how close I come?"
Irene looks her up and down.
"We haven't done anything like that in a long time," she says. "Tell me about it!"
"That why you asked me over here? I don't buy the boredom bit, you know."
"Got you over here, didn't it?"
"That, and the chance to join you in a real gloat."
And Irene rubs her hands together, adopting a look of fiendish greed.
So join me where it does the most good," Erica says.
"Why not?"
And Erica leads her into the bedroom. Where the bed is unmade. "Sorry about the place. Maid's day off and like that." "What maid?"
"The one Ralph told me to hire.
"Seems he thinks I have better things to do than housework."
"Coming up in the world, I see," Irene observes, wryly."
"You know I am, my dear, you just know I am."
"Yeah, well you'd best move quickly if you want to stay where you are or move forward and not end up falling backwards."
"How's that?"
"Don't be an ass hole! How's that? "You and he are not gonna last."
"I know that. So what?"
"So what do you think, that he's gonna just tip his hat and slowly walk away after what he's sunk into this place?"
"What can he do? I've got the deed."
"Yeah, right. And you also have an understanding that goes right along with it."
"That's verbal. There's nothing in writing."
"Doesn't have to be.
"The court will look at motivation, you'll be under oath and like that." "I see."
And Erica looks very reflective as she removes her robe and Irene begins to undress. "Then what's to be done?" she asks. "You've gotta insulate yourself, kiddo." "How?"
"By moving as quickly as possible to sell-really sell, meaning totally, completely, absolutely dispose of this place. "Unhook me back there, will you? Feel like I'm sawing myself in half when I have to rotate the damned thing around to get at the hooks."
Erica unhooks Irene's bra for her and Irene peels it away from her big boobs, which are just beginning to sag.
"You mean now?" Erica asks, seating herself, naked, on the edge of the bed as Irene steps out of her skirt and begins working on her garter belt, undoing her hose. "I mean right now." "Won't that be difficult?" "I can get you two mil."
"And we only charged Ralph a mil and a quarter!" Erica exclaims. "Geez, the guy got a real bargain, you know?"
Irene pauses, looking at her in surprise.
"Well, you know what I mean, Irene! Under ordinary circumstances, it would have been a real bargain."
"Yeah, right. And you would have taken a chance it was too rich for his blood, too. "But never mind that now. This place has got to go."
"Hey, for two mil more, free and clear-" "Less closing and commission," Irene reminds her, continuing to remove her stockings, seated beside her on the bed.
"Whatever. Fact is, for that kinda loot, plus this trouble I didn't even know I'd be in, which I hope you know what you're talking about, I can't afford to stay here."
And she hoists herself back on the bed and enfolds Irene's voluptuous body in her arms.
"You got that right, kiddo.
"But what a great scam you pulled on old Ralphie-boy!"
And their curvaceous bodies jiggle as they giggle.
"It was delicious, I gotta admit," Erica says. And begins to knead and fondle Irene's heavy breasts.
"Been too long since we've done this," Erica murmurs.
"We've both been pretty busy," Irene observes.
And they both get a fresh fit of the giggles.
"What a fucking loser," Erica sighs.
And slides down in the bed, helping herself to Irene's generous jugs with her mouth as Irene grabs Erica's breasts with both hands.
And Erica soon has Irene twisting and moaning with erotic pleasure, hands going from boobs to the top of Erica's head as Erica slides down still further, helping herself to mouthfuls of voluptuous flesh along the way.
Until she arrives at Irene's big, hairy cunt.
Irene raises and spreads her legs, giving Erica a better target.
And Erica is quick to take advantage.
As her tongue finds Irene's big clit and begins flickering, strumming it until it engorges, Irene's clear, hot pussy juices beginning to flow beneath it.
And now, she is fucking Irene with her tongue, driving Irene crazy as she bucks and twists, rocks and rolls.
When she has gotten Irene really hot, Erica pulls back.
And reverses herself in the bed.
And straddles Irene's face, lowering her own twat onto Irene's mouth, even as her mouth resumes its work on Irene's snatch.
So that now they are eating each other, fucking each other with their tongues.
And this will do quite nicely, Erica thinks, by way of well-deserved celebration.
Yes, she deserves this.
And in fact, she needs it as well.
She needs to be open and honest, even if it is only with her co-conspirator.
So that she can have sex for its own sake and without pretense.
Because, while it is not true that she is Ralph's sex toy, as he so obviously thinks, and while it is true that he is her sex toy, she must nevertheless be careful, although not, as it turns out, for the reasons she thought.
She thought of using him for the monthly, in fact the daily expenses of continuing to support her in the manner to which she is accustomed.
That was before Irene told her of the threat to her short-term gains.
Yes, Irene is probably correct.
She sees that now.
Clearly, a man does not go out and give someone a million dollar present-million and a quarter to be exact-without certain understandings between himself and the recipient.
So that she doesn't have the time she thought she did.
And, brought to fruition, she sees that her own plans were unrealistic.
Because this is not the same thing as her and Brim.
Brim never wanted to be with her full time, in the first place and, in the second, the dissolution of that relationship was neither his idea nor hers but that of his wife, Samantha.
And it was more or less as an act of revenge against his wife that Brim made Erica a present of the condo and its furnishings.
Even if she followed her original plan, eventually convincing him to break up with her by convincing him of his own sexual inadequacy, there would be no guarantee that he would not make a legal fuss.
People have gone to court over engagement rings, after all.
So that she owes Irene a debt of gratitude.
And she intends to pay it off in bed.
Not that Irene will value this gesture as much as either the commission she just made or the one she is about to make.
Because that other is a top priority "go".
Has to be.
She has no idea where she will go from here. But one thing's for sure-wherever it is, she'll have the money for it.
But now, she lets herself go, devoting her attention to the task at hand.
Which is to do her favorite thing with Irene.
She thinks of it as mirror imaging.
In which whatever Irene does to her, she does to Irene.
So that it is as though, by eating Irene, she is managing to eat herself.
An odd feeling but a delightful one.
As even now they strum each others' joy buzzers.
And get hotter and hotter.
So that their mouths work harder, tongues going faster and faster as they climb the rainbow of their shared arousal.
And now they are dizzy, disoriented, knowing only one another's bodies, wanting to know nothing else.
Two scheming harridans, basking in the throes of their shared passion, indulging themselves in a recreational time out.
And now, the pleasure beyond pleasure is upon them.
It seizes them in its all-powerful grip, tossing them this way and that, puppet-like, as body takes over from mind, knowing only sensation piled upon sensation.
And they are coming and coming, snapping pussies milking thrusting tongues of all the pleasure they contain.
And they soar up, up, up, through the realms of their common sexual paradise.
And slowly, gently come back down to earth.
Where Erica dismounts and lies beside Irene, recovering her breath.
So that two sets of big lungs heave up and down, up and down, the sexual perspiration drying on their bodies.
They lie there, resting, enjoying the aftermath, this interlude of calm.
And they shower together.
"So tell me," Erica says, as the soapy water runs down their voluptuous curves, "if I hadn't called you, would you still have told me about this other deal?"
"My dear, for the commission on two mil, what do you think?
"I would merely have gone about it differently.
"Same schedule, same result.
"Just that I would have brought the buyer around when he was actually ready to make the purchase."
"And when will that be?"
"Week or so, I should think.
"Why? Getting impatient, are we?"
"Aren't we?"
"Hey, the sooner the better. You know that. "For the benefit of all concerned. "After all, it's hardly fair to spend the rest of Ralph's money before you dump him.
"Look at it this way-we're actually doing him a favor.
"Half a fortune is better than none." "This is true," Erica agrees. And she means it.
Because, compared to the hit she is about to make, the daily and weekly expenses are a real drag.
And she doubts that Ralph even has two mil left after buying her the condo.
No, better to progress things as rapidly as possible.
In fact- "Can you tell your buyer to get his ass in gear?" Erica asks.
Irene laughs as they dry themselves.
"I'm afraid that nobody can make this guy get his ass in gear, as you put it.
"But it is something he's been wanting to do for a while now.
"Friend of Brim Steele's, believe it or not, which is how he happened to come to me.
"Seems Brim remembers you with great nostalgia and affection.
"He made the place sound like paradise on earth to his friend.
"So I told him I'd see what I can do.
"But then this thing with you and Ralph came up, so what's a girl to do?"
"Especially a greedy girl," Erica says, wryly.
"Especially two greedy girls," Irene corrects, unwilling to accept the criticism. "Would you rather have two mil or three, after all?"
"Better two clean than three dirty.
"You let me walk into a problem I didn't have to, to hear you tell it, anyway.
"Why do I need potential grief with Ralph when I could have made a clean, above-board sale?
"And you knew it."
"Oh, right. Like I really knew what you were up to with Ralph."
"You did when I told you."
And now, Irene shrugs as she dresses.
"I saw the chance for me to make an extra fifty thou commish and you to pocket an extra mil.
"What's wrong with a little risk, for that kind of loot?"
"I really don't know," she sighs. "I guess I'm not all that much of a gambler.
"We don't have all the answers, Irene, and it would have been better to come up with a clean deal, is all I'm saying."
"I screwed up, huh?" Irene asks.
"Not yet you haven't," Erica replies. "And maybe it'll be all right."
"Can't you at least make that a probably?"
"Probably, then."
"Listen. I'm gonna have to show this place to the client. Soon. And if Ralph's around-" "Nightmare city. I know. Why don't you just leave that to me?"
"Gonna have to, aren't I?"
"You let me know when you'll be here and I'll see to it that Ralph won't be."
"Counting on it."
"You do that. And Irene?"
"Yes?"
"Make it happen, kiddo."
Irene nods and goes to leave when- "Honey! I'm home!"
The women look at each other and shrug.
"Look who's here, Ralph!"
"Irene! How nice to see you again!"
"Same here. I was in the neighborhood and I thought I'd stop in."
"Glad you did, glad you did," Ralph says, because I think, being a businesswoman, you'll appreciate this.
"I found a really neat way to make a living." "What's that, Ralph?" Irene asks, genuinely interested.
"I sit in my stock broker's office watching the big board and putting in buy orders when the price of stocks I pick falls below a certain level and buy orders when it go above another level."
"And how did you do your first day, dear?" Erica asks.
"Broke even, according to the broker, between what I bought and sold and the equity in what I retained. "But I'll do better tomorrow. "My broker says I have a real talent for it." "Daily thing is it, then?" "Nine to four, daily, yes." Irene and Erica look at each other. "Well, that's nice. And better luck tomorrow." "Oh, it will be.
"My broker says it's very unusual that a day trader ends up exactly even. And that's what I am-a day trader.
"It's not very popular, day trading, because you can't claim capital losses on your taxes if you lose. The six month rule, it's called. You have to retain your investments for six months or you can't claim a tax loss on the transaction.
"But what the hell do I care, right?"
"Right," Irene concurs. "If you two will excuse me, then, I really do have to run.
"And Erica, we really, really must keep in close touch."
Because it is obvious to both of them that Ralph's stock broker has found a live one, raking in commissions like crazy on Ralph's new-found "profession".
"See you, Irene."
"Bye."
And she leaves.
"At last, we are alone," Ralph says. Erica smiles her most radiant smile.
And takes his hand.
And leads him into the bedroom.
The messed up bed reminds him, prompting, "You really do have to see about getting yourself a maid.
"This place is too much for you to handle.
"You should be saving yourself for... better things."
"I'll contact a domestic agency tomorrow," she promises. "Meanwhile-" And she nibs up against him, allowing her bathrobe to swing open, distracting him, lest he be curious as to why she is in her robe and receiving company that way at this late hour of the day.
And it works.
Because all he can see right now, all he can feel, is her.
And her and her and her, his mouth and hands greedily devouring her as they stand there.
"You might think about getting undressed," she prompts.
"Oh. Of course."
And he looks like a speeded up film or a cartoon, so hastily does he disrobe.
And she gets into the soiled, messed-up bed, covering the center of it with her big body, spread-eagled.
"Energize me," she murmurs, a phrase she picked up from a commercial for batteries on TV.
And he practically dives on top of her, his cock already fully erect.
So that he hastily sucks her breasts, kneading them with both hands as his mouth covers her doorbell nipples alternately, not waiting for her to become aroused before he is on top of her, shoving his cock into her, all the way.
But still, she gives him her best, using her excellent control of her vaginal muscles to suck his cock with her cunt.
"Oooh!" he marvels, stopping his piston action, hovering there, the better to enjoy what she has to offer.
And he braces himself, rock steady, on knees and elbows, as her pussy, seemingly with a life all its own, continues to suck at his cock in a steady, milking motion, a bit of body magic she has practiced for a very long time, saving it for special occasions.
And this is indeed a special occasion.
The draining of his crankcase.
But of course, he doesn't know that, yet.
And will not, until it is too late.
The beginning of the end, buddy-boy, she tells him mentally, and you haven't got a clue.
She will send him off to "work" tomorrow morning, dragging his ass, pussy-whipped.
But right now, she is the one doing the work as he hovers there, transfixed by the novelty of what is happening to him.
And there is no delay, no let-up.
Rather, her efforts intensify.
So that he is taken up, up, up the rainbow of his sexual arousal at an incredible speed, going from initial surprise and delight through ecstasy and rapture to a sexual transport with whose exquisite pleasure he is totally unfamiliar.
And he comes and comes, hemorrhaging sperm into her innermost depths as the powerful pussy continues to milk him of his load.
And she watches him, studying his red face, his contorted grimace of pleasure, teeth clenched, eyes tightly shut.
And she smirks at the manner in which she is able to control her own body, to manipulate his with hers.
So that now, she knows that she can turn him inside out if she wants to. And she does.
Because it has suddenly become urgent that she bring this affair to a successful conclusion for yet another reason.
He is going to take a plunge in the stock market, lose his ass, and then come looking to his gift to her for re-financing, in the form of a second mortgage, or whatever.
So she knows she has got to move fast, as does Irene, who is going to have to push the sale of this mausoleum.
Because fun is fun, and games are games, but the bottom line is the reason for living. Everybody knows that.
And the ones who think otherwise will learn.
7
Ralph can't believe what's happening to himself.
It is as though he has been somehow transported to a different planet, a whole new world.
That, or he is on a spaceship with Erica, its most salient feature a capsule consisting of bedroom and bath.
He wonders, vaguely, what ever happened to supper.
He wonders what ever happened to day or night. And he wonders at himself, that he should be doing this. This.
The marathon fuckathon.
He has heard of such things of course, in the exaggerations and outright lies of his former fellow shipping department workers.
He has even read of such things in those ridiculous, unrealistic fuck books the guys used to give to him or whoever wanted them when they were through reading them over their lunch hour at work.
And now, to find out that, under the right set of circumstances, it happens to be true?
Because right now, this is what? Round three.
Round three, and the sun has barely set.
And still, she is turning him on, and this in spite of himself.
In spite of himself, because she is maneuvering him in such a way that he is outperforming himself, on the one hand but, on the other, seems to be watching himself, as though seeing himself for the very first time, and wondering who this mindless sex machine is, anyway and what is he doing wearing my face?
Round two, at least, had him in the saddle and riding, if not in a particularly original, then at least in an active fashion, rather than standing there on all fours and being milked of his sperm like a stud horse donating the good stuff for artificial insemination.
And, enjoying just being with Erica, he was looking forward to his refractory period, in her company.
And he is.
But not in the manner in which he intended. Because he is not there in her company, side by side.
Rather, she is on her stomach, big boobs ballooning bounteously, both sides of her back.
While he is unable to appreciate the view.
Because his face is in the crack of her ass, hands spreading her ample cheeks apart as he rims her.
Yes, he is sucking her big ass hole, making a meal of her bung.
He sucks it.
He chews it.
He rolls his tongue round and round over its segments, spiralling in, in, in toward the center, the convergence of them.
And now, he thrusts his tongue in and out, in and out of her ass hole, fucking her in the ass with its avid, hungry thrusts.
And he pays no attention to his cock, doesn't worry about its state in the least.
He doesn't have to.
Because, even now, as he pulls on the flared bell of her hips, raising her to knees and elbows, raising the target, highlighting and isolating it, he feels the pulse, the warmth, the twitching that means that it is coming back to life.
He doesn't care, is neither pleased nor displeased at the phenomenon, at the fact that he has had a refraction period of about fifteen minutes and he is once more ready to rock and roll.
As he concentrates on her ass hole, on the heat of its interior, which he feels on the tip of his tongue.
And now, more than just the tip.
Because this is entry, this is access, this is tongue fucking.
So that he kneads and pushes on the soft, yielding tissues of her rectum with his pushing, flickering, powerful tongue as she rolls her hips with nascent pleasure.
As her motion drills her ass deeper and deeper with his tongue.
And now, he is pulling back.
She is ready.
Or perhaps she isn't.
It doesn't matter to him.
He has become desensitized.
So that he wants only to shove his prong into her, his raging erection.
And even this wanting has about it an animal dullness, a bestial drive.
Because Ralph does not understand what is happening to him.
And this lack of understanding has led him to the only place it could, which is a total withdrawal of mind and will, of planning and conjecture.
So that it is the body which is totally in charge now.
The body does not plan, does not hold back, does not have technique, expert or otherwise; rather, it only knows feeling, sensation, action and reaction, instinctive, reflexive.
But he does have staying power now.
Because the edge is off.
The body has been turned into a sex machine.
It is on automatic.
And he is being led by his body.
So that right now, the body grasps its prong in one hand and spreads her ass hole between the fingers of its other hand.
And the body thrusts forward.
And the aerodynamics of the plum of his cock head are such that, combined with the size, slackness and saliva lubrication of her ass hole are such that he enters her without effort.
Fortunately for her.
Because it is his body that wants her body. And it is a raw, animal lust which drives him now. So that he doesn't care whether he gives her pain or pleasure.
What is important, what counts is his own pleasure; that and nothing else.
Because he wants it, that sensation, that feeling. He wants more and more of it; all he can get, in fact.
And she is there for him, taking everything he's got to hand out.
As he pistons in and out of her ass hole, his long, thick, hot, vibrant cock operating on its own with total, mechanical efficiency.
And he is not worried about anything, not concerned about anything in the least, does not, at the moment, know anything except that this is himself, whoever, whatever he has become, doing exactly what comes most naturally to himself.
And he humps away on her, both hands on her hips, clutching them tightly, holding her steady as he plows her, harder and harder, faster and faster, going all out.
And yes, she is becoming aroused; but not because he cares if she does, not because he is trying to turn her on.
And yes, her boobs are becoming engorged, nipples going hard and erect; but not because he is playing with her tits, because he isn't.
And yes, her pussy is running wet with her clear, hot juices, but not because he has gone out of his way, done anything special to make it happen.
Rather, it is his sheer animal energy, his sexual drive which is communicating its excitement, its electricity to her.
So that, at the moment, she herself could not have said who started this or why they are really doing it.
Because the pleasure, the complex of lascivious sensations which are inundating, permeating her seem to be their own justification.
And the act itself needs no reason for being other than the feelings thereby engendered.
So that gone, forgotten at the moment are her ulterior motives.
So that they are just two people, man and woman, lost in the throes of their separate passions, each using the other, each dependent on the other only to be there, doing as he/she is.
Higher and higher they climb up the ladder of their common but unshared passion.
The feeling and the feeling and the feeling!
That is what matters right now.
More and more they want.
More and more Ralph is generating with his tireless thrusts.
In and in and into her ass hole he goes, again and again, as fast and as hard as he can.
Faster and harder than he can, in fact.
Because he is performing beyond his natural capabilities, like a man possessed.
So that he has no awareness of, no control over, his own efforts.
He is a supercharged sex machine, driving himself onward and upward.
He desires only the next level of pleasure.
And the next and the next.
And as he attains each level, his hunger drives him on and on.
And he is coming.
He is coming and coming and the pleasure beyond pleasure sweeps him away.
So that he collapses on top of her as she goes flat.
And he does not know, does not care whether or not she also achieved climax.
Because, at that moment, the only thing that mattered to him was the attainment of the pleasure beyond pleasure.
And he makes no apologies, aloud or within himself, for his self-absorption.
Because he does not understand it himself.
He is at a loss to explain his own insensitivity.
And yet, somehow, she is responsible for this.
He knows it, knows it and is neither grateful nor ungrateful for it.
There is a natural affinity between them, obviously, which transcends taste, thought, conscious volition on his part.
And now, lying there, cheek to cheek, watching as her color returns to normal, feeling his body laboring to catch its breath, he knows another thing.
This is not the end.
This is not the beginning of the end. Nor is it, properly speaking, the end of the beginning.
A fast clean-up and they will be back in the sack, Jack!
Because he is a fucking machine. How? Why? Who knows?
What difference does it make, anyway?
It is what it is, he and she, and the relationship, this raw, physical relationship between them.
He doesn't know her, nor she him, really.
And that doesn't matter, either.
His body knows hers and vice versa, and that's what counts.
And he doesn't need, doesn't really want anything more than that, he tells himself.
And now, as he lies there, breathing slowing to normal, sweat beginning to dry on his back, cock detumescing inside her bowels, he feels that, for the very first time, he is really free.
Meaning free of the nagging, nameless dissatisfaction with his life, with himself.
For the first time, he feels truly without frustration.
And now, as her bowels expel him, he gets up and offers her a hand.
They will need a shower after that. But he is on a roll.
He will have her right back in the sack with him.
This is marathon fuckathon.
This is the big all-nighter, the one he has imagined lo these many years, nagged by frustration as well as by the uncertainty of its physical possibility.
But he is not hungry for food, not thirsty-and not in the least doubt but that he can keep on trucking.
And keep on he will.
Sure, they may have a lifetime together, he tells himself, but he feels the need to get off on the right foot.
None of this piece here and piece there crap. None of this being limited, being tired. Of course, he tells himself, he can't do this every night.
He is not demented, after all.
But the occasional night of (sexual) love, hey, that should be a regular feature of their relationship.
Because it is the purest expression of exactly what that relationship is.
And, in the event, he is well aware that her body is on a different scale from his own.
So that the question of their continuing together can only be resolved in his favor by his proving to her that he can service her like the superman she deserves, being himself a superman in that one vital area, sex.
And he is doing just that, clarifying this, bringing the point home to her.
So that it isn't just his money or the gift of the condo to her that matters; rather, it is that the money and what it can buy has enabled, has made possible their coming together.
And that said, that done, what follows is a matter of man and woman, pure and simple.
And there are all kinds of relationships, perhaps as many as there are pairs of man and woman.
And nature has ordained, has selected that theirs be based on this, this sexual... thing.
And nature did not err.
Because, as he is even now demonstrating beyond all doubt or question, he is up to it.
And it is not even a matter of its being a challenge.
Because it isn't, not really. He did not have to rise to the occasion so much as immerse himself in it. And he did and he is.
And now, they are taking their shower together. The team.
And he is not sore, he is not tired, he is actually eager to get back into bed with her.
They dry off and they return to the sack. And this time, it is her on top of him. As she sucks him up hard. And squats over his crotch.
And feeds his cock up into her cunt, spread above him.
And settles down on him. And leans forward, her big boobs dangling in his face.
And he seizes the twin enormities with both hands.
And he sucks her hanging jugs, one at a time.
And this time, he does feel the big nipples go firm and rubbery, the glands themselves seeming to take on added substance.
And now, she is rolling her hips, round and round, reaming her cunt with his rigid prong.
And he feels himself once again rising up the rainbow of sexual arousal, going on from the basic hard-on to added thrills, surges of sexual electricity which permeate his entire body, again and again, as she rotates her hips.
The size of her!
The abundance of her!
He has fucked her more than any other woman he has ever fucked in his whole life and still he cannot get used to Erica's proportions.
His blonde, Viking goddess.
His.
And now, they are rising together up the rainbow. And she is going to climax this time, that much is evident.
Because she is controlling the action.
And taking as much of him as she wants.
And she obviously wants more and more of him.
And what she wants, she is getting.
Take all of it, babe! he wills.
And he is right up there, right in there.
Would this be possible with somebody else?
He cannot say.
What he does know is that, with her, he gives a whole new meaning to (his) potency.
Because this is no pale, tired imitation of his first (or second, or third) hard-on.
Rather, this is a rock hard prong.
This is prime, erect beef.
The old juiceroony may not be there like it was to begin with, but it's the spasms, the action of the climax that counts, not its by-product, after all.
And now, as he continues to suck and play with her tits, she continues to rotate.
And now, she changes the motion.
And, knees planted in the bed on either side of him, she begins pumping up and down, her hot, juicy cunt sucking his cock.
And this change of pace seems to him to institute an even more intense phase of their fucking.
So that he is fucking her, even though the action is under her control.
And this doesn't matter.
Because she is going every bit as fast as would he, if it were he on top and going at her.
So that her enthusiasm unquestionably equals his own.
And now, they are both getting hotter and hotter.
And they are going all the way.
Because, even though Erica is in control, she is holding nothing back.
So that they very quickly go to the peak of the pleasure which they are capable of containing.
Up, up, up- And over.
And they climax together this time, the spasms of her multiple orgasms milking his cock of its thinned down load, his spasms as powerful as ever, but generating very little juice.
Which is unimportant.
Although, down the road, he reflects, they will probably be wanting to have children, or at least a child.
With her genetics and his staying power, that would be some kid!
And now, as they float back down to earth, instead of collapsing forward onto him, Erica sirs up, his detumescing cock imprisoned in her hot, wet cunt.
And Ralph thinks she looks like nothing so much as a heroic statue come to life, sitting there, her pose symmetrical.
And now, she dismounts.
And his still elongated but now flaccid cock flops wetly onto his stomach.
He gets up and joins her in the shower again.
He feels now like an athlete, engaged in some kind of multiple event, a decathlon perhaps.
So that this is merely another phase of the continuing (and continuous) action.
My favorite sport, he thinks.
And he realizes that this is his sport, his hobby, his major and only pastime.
He may never win a trophy, but he will certainly have earned one by the time this night is over, he reflects.
And he is looking forward to the next round. And the next and the next. Which, to his great satisfaction, he manages very well.
And is careful to set the alarm, so that he will not be late to "work" tomorrow, even though Erica wants him to sleep in.
He seems to be floating as he walks along the street.
His balls are weightless, empty. Such freedom!
And so very deliciously obtained!
What a fucking stud I am! he thinks.
And he is almost giddy in his happiness and contentment as he goes into the brokerage office.
"I have some really interesting situations for you this morning, Ralph," Harvey, his broker says, rubbing his hands together, as though he is a waiter recommending the day's special to a favorite customer.
"Let's see what we've got, Harv," Ralph says, making himself comfortable in his favorite chair where he can see the postings to the big board as they come through, bright green, electronic numbers against black velvet.
"Market's open," Harvey observes, "and you might want to take a look at what your retains from yesterday are doing."
"In a minute Harve... y'know, you're right. This does look interesting. Let's do ten thousand of this one, shall we?"
"Dollars?"
"Please! Shares! If I'm in the game, I intend to play all the way."
"Irene!"
"I know, I know! Who would have thought he'd turn into a stock market player?
"I had him figured for the certificate of deposit type."
"Tell me about it! I think you can see that now we really have to move on this thing." "You willing to give it a little, uh... help?" "Help?"
"Come, come, come, Erica! Let's not be dull about this, shall we?
"As I told you before, this is a friend of Brim Steele's and his fascination with your place stems from their boy talk.
"Which means-" "Aha! Gotcha!"
"Gee, and I thought blondes were supposed to be dumb."
"Never mind the sarcasm, Irene.
"I will do what I have to do to dump this place right now, this very moment, yesterday if possible.
"I tell you, Irene, it wouldn't surprise me to find that Ralph wiped himself out when he comes home tonight. Believe me, he is in no condition to make judgments today."
"Drained him, did you?"
"Of course.
"You kidding, after that bombshell yesterday? "This idiot doesn't know what he's doing." "Tell me about it! 1 thought I was going to piss my pants when he told us what he did." "Never mind that now." "What I want to know from you is-" "Let me get off this phone and do my thing, then." "Be good, Irene. Be very, very good.
"And fast."
"Please," Irene moans, "I know what I'm doing. You just hang in there."
And she disconnects before Erica can say anything more.
Erica busies herself cleaning the condo as never before.
Because the place must look as good as possible for the prospective buyer.
It takes her all morning.
And still Irene has not called.
She wants to clean herself up as well, now that she is a part of the negotiations.
But she fears going to the shower, lest she miss Irene's call.
This is one she doesn't want the answering machine to field for her. The intercom buzzes.
Oh, no! Erica thinks. Surely Irene didn't bring the man over without calling first! "Yes?"
"This is Alfred, the doorman. Got some mail down here for you an' this guy Ralph."
"Could you, uh, bring it up, Alfred? I'm expecting an important call."
"I'll get one of the maintenance people to do that." "Whatever. I'd appreciate it."
She gives the maintenance man a five. Bill, bill, bill, ad, ad, letter for Ralph. From a lawyer.
She shrugs and puts it on a small table near the entrance.
And starts to walk away.
And goes back to it, picking up the letter.
8
Erica sits down, shaken, holding the letter in one hand, careful not to crush it.
She has steamed it open over a teakettle of boiling water.
Ralph inherited two and a half million dollars.
This was because he was the sole surviving beneficiary of his grandfather's will.
However, an uncle-his uncle, his father's brother, his grandfather's son-has reappeared from nowhere.
And is claiming half the inheritance, as is his due.
And would Ralph be so kind as to get in touch with the lawyer at his earliest opportunity in order to effect correction?
The letter concludes with an apology- "Any inconvenience this development may have cause you is deeply regretted."
And a threat.
"However, as any appreciable delay in making adjustment could conceivably result in legal action, your most urgent attention to this matter is strongly advised."
Erica sits there, shaking her head.
Ralph is wiped out.
Exactly half Ralph's inheritance went into her condo.
So the half he is at some stock broker's office playing with belongs to his uncle. What to do, what to do, what to do? She stares at the telephone, willing it to ring. It obeys. She picks it up.
"Wow, that was fast!" Irene, on the other end, says.
"Never mind that, Irene. Just listen to this!"
And she reads Irene the letter.
"And Ralph hasn't seen it?"
"Just came. I steamed it open. And a good thing, too."
"Sure was! We're all set for tomorrow morning, if that's okay with you.
"But you are going to have to sit on that letter, as I think you are well aware.
"Any problem with that?"
"No. It was addressed to his old address and the post office delivered it here because of his change of address notice."
"Okay. Lose it for twenty-four hours, then. Maybe forty-eight, okay?"
"Irene, I really, really have to close tomorrow."
"Do I know that, or what?
"Am I working for you, or what?"
"I'm sorry, Irene, it's just... the pressure, you know?"
"Hey, nobody ever said being a conniving bitch was easy." 'True, true.
"Okay, make it happen. Not before nine, but not much after, either."
"You got it. Ciao."
And the line goes dead.
Carefully, Erica replaces the letter in its envelope.
Then, she takes the reseated letter and puts it in the bottom of her nightstand, beneath the plain paper at the bottom, piling her dildo, her vibrator, her box of tampons, and her squeeze bottle of mineral oil on top of it.
Maybe, she thinks, it's all for the best.
Ralph is a fool and fools are always dangerous.
Even now, he could well be blowing his uncle's share of the two and a half million on some crummy stock deal.
Had she known that he was going to do that, she would have wanted to dump him in any event.
Because he would not have been able to pay her expenses or, for that matter, his own.
A fool and his money are soon parted, true enough.
But Ralph seems determined to set some kind of a new record.
And the sad thing is that none of it will stick to her fingers, none of part two, that is.
And part one will not really be secure until she dumps this place tomorrow.
And it almost has to be tomorrow, the day after at most.
And now, she goes over the condo in meticulous detail, making certain that everything is clean and in place.
Because she has to impress the shit out of the buyer tomorrow.
She has to make him want the place and- Wow!
She didn't even realize this, didn't make the connection until just now.
The marathon fuckathon seems to have made her somewhat slow upstairs.
She can have her cake and eat it too.
She can sell this guy the condo for two mil AND continue to live here.
Maybe.
Brim Steele has given her a good press, but she doesn't really know why the buyer, whoever he is, wants the place.
For business?
For his own mistress?
To actually move in with the wife and kiddies?
Too many imponderables.
But with three million free and clear, except for taxes, if push comes to shove, she can always move out.
And in fact, that has a lot going for it.
Take the money and run, as the saying goes.
Excellent advice, in her case.
And if she has to leave, she knows just how she is going to do it.
She will very neatly leave Ralph's stuff in the foyer, change the locks, instruct the doorman concerning disposition of the freight in the hallway (dispose of it, if Ralph doesn't cart it away), and leave.
Her forwarding address she will leave at the post office.
Better that way, actually.
Because what is to stop Ralph from making some kind of a claim on the proceeds from the sale of the condo?
Okay, so he can't ask for what she doesn't own, still, he can make a claim on her.
Although apparently so labyrinthine a procedure is not something in which the courts would be willing to exert themselves in Ralph's behalf.
But wait a minute! she tells herself. What am I worried about?
Ralph has no money!
He's broke right now, only he just doesn't know it.
His money was used for one of the more expensive presents in the twentieth century.
As for his uncle's share, well, between what he spent on wardrobe and car and what he is losing today (and she has no doubt but that he is in fact losing), the only legal action in which he will be involved short range is as a defendant.
Or not, depending on his uncle's character and attitude.
But in any case, especially in a long, drawn-out case of dubious issue, no lawyer is going to take Ralph as a client on speculation.
The only thing she has to worry about is that Ralph will do something crazy and violent.
But there is a solution for that too, if she needs one.
And now, she takes a long, leisurely shower, dressing in blouse and slacks when she is done.
So that she will look nice for Ralph when he comes home, hopefully for the last time. Speaking of which- "You look terrible, Ralph! What happened?"
"My portfolio is off by a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
"Harvey says these things happen and that 1 should give it hell tomorrow."
"Then that's what you should do. I have every confidence in the world in you to do the right thing."
Which is to be out of here tomorrow morning, come hell or high water, she adds, to herself. "You mean that, Erica?" "Of course.
"Terrific in bed, terrific in business, I'm sure. "Everybody has a bad day at the office once in a while."
"Geez, I feel beat!"
"There, there, dear. You just sit there quietly and I'll get supper started."
And she has to wake him up for supper.
"I'm sorry," he apologizes, "I just want to get some rest tonight."
And they kiss goodnight, even though the sun has not yet set.
And he retires for the night.
"Erica, this is Sheldon Fairhill III."
"Erica," he says, shaking hands, "I've heard so much about you-" And he walks past her, checking out ceiling, walls, windows, furniture.
"-and this place. Wow! Brim was sure right!"
Turning to face Erica again to add, "On both counts.
"This place and you. Perfect together. As I hope the two of you will be."
Erica smiles, replying, "The condo and its furnishings are for sale."
"But what about an arrangement such as you had with our mutual friend Brim?"
"Something to be discussed after I sell the place.
"If you don't buy it, then of course I shall be moving on."
"I can't have one without the other, is that it?"
"Oh, no, no. But what if I move to, say, California?
"I mean, you're welcome to visit me out there, but, not knowing you or your interests, business and otherwise, how can I say whether or not you'll want to do that?
"At the moment, there having been nobody since Brim, I'm afraid I have to put first things first. The fact is that, while I do own all this-merely owning it doesn't pay the maintenance.
"Or, for that matter, the groceries.
"Hence, the necessity to dispose of it. And there are others looking at it, as I'm sure Irene has told you."
"Others?" he asks, turning to Irene. Irene shrugs.
"I don't pressure, Shell. And that sounds too much like pressure."
"I would have appreciated your telling me, though."
"What can I say? My fault."
"May I see the rest of the place?" he asks.
And Erica gives him the grand tour.
They return to the living room.
"I'll take it," he says. "Are you free to go with us to file the necessary papers?"
"You mean you want to, uh, to close?"
"Right now. Today."
"Shall we?" Irene asks.
And they do.
So now she is Sheldon Fairhill's mistress. Sheldon Fairhill, investment banker, horse breeder, yachtsman, gentleman farmer. Married, no children. Principal residence, Fairfax, Virginia. To which he has to return for a couple of weeks, having given Erica, in addition to two million for the condo, a couple of thousand for expenses.
So that things have moved even faster than Erica has hoped for.
And she has been able put Ralph's belongings out in the foyer between condo door and elevator, instructed Alfred what to say to him, given Alfred the envelope from the lawyer to give to him, and is hoping for the best.
Which is that, with his balls busted eight ways from Sunday, Ralph will simply gather up his stuff from outside the door and go away.
And if not, well, that is why she has called in some special company.
The two three hundred pound wrestlers, a tag team, are her size.
That is, she is to them in stature as an ordinary woman would be to the ordinary man.
Which is what first attracted her to them and vice versa, years ago.
So they are sitting here, drinking beer and watching TV and awaiting developments, if any.
And knowing that, whatever happens, they will not go away disappointed.
What a day! Ralph thinks. Another three hundred thousand down the tubes!
But he still has a lot left, more than enough for a turn around and-what's this?
"This is for you, sir," Alfred, the doorman, says, handing Ralph the envelope from the lawyer.
"Oh, and your belongings are upstairs in the foyer, outside Mr. Fairhill's condo."
"Who the hell is Mr. Fairhill?"
"Why, the new owner of Miss Erica's condominium, sir."
"The hell are you talking about?
"Never mind," he continues, stuffing the envelope into the breast pocket of his suit and heading for the elevator.
"On his way up," Alfred says into the intercom. "Thanks, Alfred."
"Well boys, we're about to have company.
"And remember, don't hurt the guy, just be here and it'll be enough, guaranteed."
Sure enough, comes a rattling of the door, as Ralph attempts to open it with his key to no avail, the locks having been changed.
Sure enough, comes a pounding on the door, and shouts of Erica's name, interspersed with demands for entry.
Erica opens the door.
"Erica! What-" And he sees the Executioners, Blade and Club, standing behind her, hulking in their tank tops, arms folded on their massive chests.
"Ralph, these are two friends of mine, Blade and Club. You've probably seen them wrestle."
The two behemoths nod, expressions not menacing but not smiling, either.
"I've sold the place, Ralph.
"I'll be leaving shortly myself," she lies. "So I got your things together.
"My friends here will be helping me move.
"I guess this is goodbye."
"But-" "Goodbye, Ralph!" the two monsters say, in loud chorus.
Erica stands aside and they begin to advance on Ralph.
He looks from one to the other, backing through the open doorway, the one panel which Erica opened for him.
When he is through the door, still facing them, Erica slams it in his face, locking it.
"I don't think he'll be bothering us again," she says. "Shall we all get comfortable?"
The bitch! Ralph thinks, as he rides the elevator down to the lobby, his belongings contained in a suitcase and several garment bags beside him. What the fuck is she trying to pull? He'll show her!
Alfred holds the regular glass door, the one next to the revolving door, open for him.
And says, "Mr. Fairhill has left instructions that you are not to be readmitted to these premises, sir."
"Don't know any goddam Fairhill," Ralph grumbles.
But the other thing that he knows is that he will not return.
He walks down the ramp to the garage and loads his things into back seat and trunk of his car.
He gets behind the wheel and, on impulse, reaches into his breast pocket, pulls out the envelope, and opens it.
Club is eating Erica's hot, juicy cunt. As Blade hungrily, avidly sucks and fondles her big boobs.
Erica's legs bicycle in the air as Club wallows in her box.
And now, Club pulls back and Blade gets off of her as well.
Erica vacates the middle of the bed and Club, his cock hugely erect, lies on his back where Erica has just been.
And Erica promptly straddles Club's hips.
And reaches down, grasping his huge prong and feeding it up into herself as she squats.
And now, she leans forward.
And Blade promptly inserts himself between Club's legs.
And seals his mouth to Erica's ass hole, protruding further than ever now with the pressure of Club's great cock from inside her body as it fills her vagina.
And shafts his tongue into the entrance, difficult as that is with the big cock pushing her insides against it.
Still, he lubricates her with his saliva.
But he takes no chances, helping himself to the bottle of mineral oil from the nightstand drawer.
So that now, Blade is on his knees, polishing his mighty meat monolith with mineral oil.
And reaching over, putting the bottle down on the nightstand.
And giving Erica a signal, tugging gently on her hips.
And Erica understands at once.
And raises herself off of Club's big cock, until only the head is still inside her pussy.
Blade shafts smoothly into her hot ass hole, all the way.
And Erica settles back down onto Club. Erica is in a sandwich.
She has Club's club up her cunt as she lies on top of him.
And Blade has his rampant invader shoved up her ass.
They are double-fucking her, the bedsprings getting a real workout.
Their long, thick prongs alternate, one going into her cunt, the other back-stroking out of her ass hole, then the two reversing, her cunt and anus two almost identical, perfectly rounded, smooth, clinging mouths, shiny with pussy juice and mineral oil, respectively.
As the two sets of big balls are locked tightly to the bases of the pistoning pricks.
And legs, big legs, three sets, writhe against each other.
And what is Ralph's best efforts, compared to this? Erica reflects.
Two big, hot muscle studs, each of whom would make two of Ralph.
And they are filling he body completely with their long, hot, stiff cocks.
And she can feel every part of every movement they make as they piston in and out.
She can feel their huge, battering ram heads, their thick flanges, and the irregular surfaces of the two cocks as they move inside her, in full, intimate detail.
And she wants more and more of the hot, beefy action.
They are good at this. They have done this before, many times. And have it perfected to an exact science. They know to let the bedsprings do most of the work.
So that the rest of it is action and reaction, bouncing and letting the mighty meat pistons do their work.
So that the old double fuck is simultaneously one of the most exciting and most relaxing ways to have sex.
As they literally bounce their way up through the levels of their shared arousal.
Higher and higher they rise.
And the men can feel the pressure of the underside of each others' pricks inside her.
So that each man is aware of the other's motion.
As they fuck her on and on, fore and aft.
As they transport each other to their shared sexual paradise.
As together they summon the pleasure beyond pleasure from within their innermost depths.
And it responds quickly, very quickly indeed.
And it blossoms within them, the mushroom cloud of a silent atomic explosion, filling them with the pressure of its exquisite, irresistible complex of lascivious sensations.
And now, they are coming and coming together, the three of them.
And the pumping action of the discharging cocks forces thick, fresh jism to form rings of pearlescent cream at both of her nether entrances, even as the convulsions of her cunt and rectum reveal her multiple orgasms to the two men, adding still more intensity to their own climaxes.
And spasm after spasm of the pleasure beyond pleasure wracks the three of them, subsiding only gradually.
At last, they collapse in a heap, lungs heaving, the sweat pouring off the three of them, soaking into the bedding below.
And they lie there like that, fully inserted cocks slowly detumescing as they recover from what seemed effortless at the time, but in the aftermath proves to have been somewhat of an exertion, another side effect of great sex.
When at last Erica shits Blade's cock, Blade dismounts, allowing her to do the same.
And, gentlemen that they are, they allow her to take the first shower.
And she does so, then sits in the living room, watching TV, as they take theirs one at a time and get dressed.
"You all set?" Blade asks, seated beside Erica, as Club emerges, fully clothed, from the bedroom.
"Guess so, unless you need company for the night, Erica."
"Thanks but no thanks, guys.
"Gotta be sharp tomorrow.
"Lotta banking to get done. Dirty job, but somebody's gotta do it."
"Poor baby," Blade observes.
But the two men are smiling contentedly as she sees them to the door.
"Keep in touch," Blade says.
"Count on it!" Erica replies.
And locks the door.
"Geez, will ya look who's back!" Ed exclaims, as Ralph takes a position on the packing line. "What's up... buddy?"
"Can I, can we be roomies again?" Ralph asks.
"Sure," Ed shrugs, "why not?
"But what the fuck happened? I mean, I thought choo was a millionaire or somethin'."
"Or something," Ralph echoes. "Tell ya all about it some time."
Yes, he sighs to himself, sometime when his head has cleared and he can figure out just what went down and how, he will tell Ed.
He has not been to church in years and they say confession is good for the soul.
So he will confess to Ed.
You only confess your sins in church.
And he is not sure that being a total ass hole is a sin against anyone but himself.
At least, his uncle agreed not to sue him.
He even let him keep the car and the clothes, requiring only that, besides the cash, still a healthy half million, he sign over to him all the stock from his adventures in high finance.
Still, he cannot sue Erica.
A lawyer told him this.
Cost him a hundred and a half to have the fucking shyster sit there repressing giggles but obviously highly amused, only to tell him, when the tale was told, that the case would be long, complicated and expensive, ultimately consuming whatever he could get by way of an award, even if he won.
But the lawyer did give him good advice, ultimately-Easy come, easy go.
