Archive Note: The binding to this pocketbook showed the title of the book as "The New Neighbors." No inside title page exists, but headers at the top of every odd numbered page show the title as "NIGGER CHAUFFEUR." [shrug]
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CHAPTER ONE
The evening rush hour traffic between Kennedy Airport and the city was its usual stop and go, bumper to bumper mess.
But Chipper Harrington III could care less.
Because Rufe, the chauffeur, was doing the driving.
So that Chipper could sit there in the back seat, reading light on, sorting the papers which bore the evidence and, in some case the fruits, of his labors abroad these past three months.
And not experience even so much as a jostle.
So that, from time to time, he can make notes in the margins of this document, circle whole passages in that draft agreement, or write notes to himself, all without the wiggles and squiggles that would have resulted if he were, say, riding in a cab.
Because Rufe is at the wheel of the stretch limo.
Rufe, who has worked for the Harringtons for five years now.
Rufe, who sees all, knows all, Chez Harrington.
Sees all, knows all-and does all.
So that the household, indeed the world itself, holds no surprises for Rufe.
Still, the incongruity of it-the household and the world-its contradictions, its inconsistencies, never cease to amuse, if they are no longer capable of amazing him.
For example, take the man in the back seat, his boss, his male boss, at least, on those rare, brief visits home.
Chipper Harrington III.
International financier, astonishingly successful, only in his thirties, with the blond hair and pink skin of a cherub.
And yet-and yet.
He has a dark side that won't quit.
At least, Rufe thinks of it as a dark side.
What he can see of it, that is.
Which happens to be plenty, and that at very close range.
Very close indeed, on occasion. Like tonight.
Because Cynthia, Chippers gorgeous blonde wife, and Rufe's boss most of the time, has the wifely duty and obligation ot give Chipper his welcoming home parties on his returns from the paper wars abroad.
Sometimes, she uses the services of Bruce's Travel and Tours, the city's leading escort service, to see to it that the... entertainment is sufficiently novel and exotic, even for a jaded man of the world such as Chipper.
But there are other times, such as tonight, when, knowing as she does that Chipper has helped himself to the fleshpots of the various stops on a very extended itinerary, sampling freely of the best the world has to offer considering his peculiar tastes, times such as these when she prefers to keep it simple, domestic.
And enlists Rufe's assistance to that end.
And Chipper, of course, is simply delighted when this occurs.
So that the mundane becomes novel.
So that the contradictions become intriguing.
Yes, when Chipper hits the door, Rufe knows that he will not even be permitted to sort out Chipper's soiled laundry and put the luggage away.
Rather, they will ride the elevator to the penthouse suite of the condo, Chipper, Rufe, and the luggage.
And the luggage will remain in the outer hallway while Chipper and Cynthia embrace passionately, followed by Chipper's immediate disappearance.
Not that there will be any mystery as to where he has gone.
Which is-but come.
Let's follow the action as it unfolds.
* * *
"Chipper!"
"Cynthia!"
"I've missed you so!"
"And I you!"
Kissy kissy stuff, there in the outer lobby. Then, they break the clinch. "You go get ready, Chipper," Cynthia, clad only in the flimsiest of negliges says. "Right away!"
And he promptly disappears inside, through one of the large, white entrance doors which lead from the marble foyer into the penthouse itself.
"Give me five minutes," she says to Rufe. "And leave all this-" pointing to the array of luggage on the floor, "until afterward.
"In fact, tomorrow morning will do nicely, I should think."
"Yes ma'am."
And she leads him into the penthouse, he following the rounded mounds of her ass, framed by the helled flare of her hips.
They pass by the vast, sunken living room, the skyline of the city twinkling in the night sky, and Cynthia disappears into the master bedroom as Rufe continues on to his own room, which is next to that of the maid, Carlotta.
Who has been given the night off and is staying with relatives in Brooklyn.
Because, if she is not part of the action, she is not to be around.
And tonight, she isn't.
No, tonight is a solo, starring Rufe.
Who now strips completely naked, tossing the elements of his chauffeur's uniform onto the bed.
Later, he will hang them up.
But for now, he has just changed into the only uniform proper for the performance of his immediate duties.
He looks at himself in the full-length mirror on his closet door, ordinarily used to see to it that his cap is on straight, his brass-buttoned uniform sufficiently spiffy, his boots well shined, the creases in his cavalry-type trousers straight.
And he gives himself the same meticulous once over now, standing there in his birthday suit.
And sees there his superbly muscled body, an ebony statue there in the dim light of his room.
Heavily muscled, heavily hung, he is, his big cock long and thick and curving downward now, its great plum of a knob with its thick rear flange a dusky pink, lighter than the rest of him, almost matching the palms of his hands.
Yes, the hours Cynthia permits him to spend in their private, fully equipped roof garden gym have paid off handsomely, permitting him to actually progress over and above the excellent shape he was already in when he first came here.
Although, for his first two years in the Harrington service, he could not understand why she should care, one way or the other.
He only knew that he, like Carlotta, was expected to simply bring Chipper home from the airport, leave the luggage in the foyer, and then spend the night at his own apartment, across the river in Jersey, and to show up early next morning for duty.
Until that first time he was called upon to perform special duty.
Which was the same, always the same, as he is doing right now, except for the one time Cynthia arranged for him to have a helper.
Not that he needed, not that he needs any assistance.
Because he is fully capable of performing per specification all by his lonesome. And now, he will.
He goes down the hallway to the master bedroom.
And there, in the huge bed which occupies a platform in the center of the room, every lamp lit, the indirect lighting around the periphery of the ceiling as well, there lies the completely naked, fully illuminated Cynthia.
Propped up on a pillow, she is waiting for him.
It is as though they are completely alone, as though a pair of merry, twinkling bright blue eyes were not watching them through the louvred panel of a section of the wall-length closet opposite the foot of the bed.
And in fact the knowledge of that other, that hidden presence, does not bother Rufe in the least.
And in fact that presence gives the scene an added erotic dimension, so far as he is concerned.
And he does not dwell, does not reflect, at the moment on why this last should be.
Because he has better things to think about right now.
Such as the gorgeous blonde creature on the bed.
Who smiles, raising and spreading her legs, bent at the knees, at his approach.
And who sighs in luxurious contentment as he burrows into the chestnut curls of her snatch, mouth open.
And who moans with pleasure, eyes closed, head lolling back and forth, as he begins at once to fuck her with his long, thick tongue, shafting it in and out of her hot, juicy cunt, while remaining in contact with her clit at all times.
So that, very quickly, he has her face and upper body flushing with the engorged blood of her mounting passion.
Because she will not, has no need to pace herself to Rufe's own arousal.
Sufficient to the purpose, to the cause, that he should get her all hot and bothered and then take his time, giving her a long, if not particularly slow fuck.
Because the watcher in the closet wants to see his wife driven up the wall.
He wants to see her overtaken by the pleasure beyond pleasure.
And he certainly wants to see the piston action of Rufe's monster of an erection as it shafts, long and hard and thick and shiny with her clear and copious pussy juices, in and out, in and out, turning her pussy lips into a sucking, clinging, stretched mouth of an orifice, his big balls locked tightly to the base of his working organ, up and out of the way so that Chipper has the clearest, most inimate of views.
As Chipper's face and body turn pinker than ever, there in his dark concealment.
As he ignores the thin line of drool that escapes from the corner of his mouth and courses down his chin.
As his breathing becomes irregular in his mounting excitement. And Rufe lets himself go. Taking it easy on himself.
Not giving it his best performance, and this by design.
Because he doesn't care to expend his total energy, to give it his all.
He has a second, possibly even a third round to perform.
So that it is best to take it easy this first time, to let nature take its course and not use any of his wiles and sexual sophistication to control, to manipulate his own passion.
A nice, easy fuck.
And let his magnificent equipment speak for itself, do its own thing.
That's really all that's required.
And the bonus for this will be, he is sure, fabulous, as usual.
So that that too adds to the pleasure of the moment for him.
Hey, why not?
Because then, he can do-never mind.
Mind on the project at hand, he cautions himself.
Later for that other.
And he opens his mind to the full enjoyment of If the sensations which invade his body, every nerve ending in the surface of his thick plunger activated, sending message after message of lascivious pleasure radiating through his entire being.
Hotter and hotter he becomes, and Cynthia with him, she also letting herself go, surrendering to the strictly physical within herself, the craving, hungry animal.
So that they are climbing the rainbow, quickly and together.
Together, and yet individually as well.
Because this is not a coupling of anything other than bodies.
So that each takes and neither gives.
And, in the unreasonable logic of sex, this works.
So that, very quickly, they reach their peaks, arriving at the capacity of all the pleasure their bodies can hold.
While still hungering after, ardently desiring- and getting-more.
So that the pleasure beyond pleasure seizes them.
And they are coming and coming, his spurts of thick, hot jism into her fevered, juicy, undulating depths alternating with the spasms of her series of multiple orgasms.
Again and again, he shoots into her convulsing depths.
Again and again, she responds, orgasm after orgasm transporting her to the earthly paradise of the ultimate pleasure.
Over the rainbow and down the other side they come, landing softly back on earth.
And Rufe pulls out of her, ostentatiously showing his cock, marbled with sperm and pussy juice, before striding off, even as the closet door opens.
And Rufe cannot resist pausing in the doorway to look back, incredulous as always at the sight.
As Chipper, pink hard-on hobbling stiffly before him, dives onto the bed- And buries his face in Cynthia's muff.
Where he wallows, his tongue darting in and out of her freshly fucked depths, cleaning her pussy of its latest lubrication.
And only when he has eaten her out thoroughly does he mount her.
As Rufe leaves the room, thinking, he did it again.
As usual.
As he has done on other occasions with whole teams of long-cocked geeks. And muscle men. And college students. And latin lovers. And so on and so on.
Interspersed, like tonight, with Rufe, as a change of pace, as a surprise within that which is no longer surprising.
Rufe goes into the kitchen, washing his cock at the sink, drying it with a paper towel.
And helping himself to a beer from the refrigerator.
And building himself a sandwich on a paper plate from the catered buffet on the large, wooden kitchen table.
And leaning, casual and naked, against the sink, using the counter next to it to hold beer can or sandwich as he eats and drinks slowly, his long cock limber now, draped grandly between muscular thighs as he reclines thus.
And sure enough, he is not even halfway through his first sandwich when the loving couple join him there, clad in terrycloth robes.
"Excellent, Rufe, excellent first round!" Chipper exclaims, clapping him on the shoulder, looking down at his big cock.
And now, Chipper and Cynthia build themselves sandwiches.
And Chipper pulls a couple of cans of beer from the refrigerator, popping the tops and placing one on the table near where Cynthia is seated.
"Delightful change of pace, my dear!" Chipper, effusive now, exclaims. "I couldn't possibly be more pleased!"
And he munches out enthusiastically on his sandwich.
He clears his mouth with a swig from his can of beer.
And says, "This next round, Rufe, I would like you to sodomize her, if you don't mind."
"Ma pleasure," Rufe says.
"And mine as well," Chipper says.
"Then it's unanimous," Cynthia smiles.
And Chipper says, "There, you see? Who said democracy in the home doesn't work?"
They laugh.
And help themselves to a second sandwich, a second beer.
And Chipper leaves the kitchen first, followed a few minutes later by Cynthia.
And Rufe takes his time, chewing his food thoroughly, drinking his beer slowly.
One thing's sure, he says to himself, they're not gonna start without me.
This time, Cynthia is on her stomach.
And Rufe gets on the bed at the foot of it, One knee, then the other, allowing the hidden but closely watching Chipper an excellent rear view of his heavily hanging balls.
As he gently spreads Cynthia's legs apart so that he can lie between them.
He hauls the cheeks of her ass wide apart, exposing the pink star of her ass hole, large and slightly protruding.
He seals his mouth to her ass hole, sucking and gently chewing it.
And now, the tip of his tongue finds the con- vergence of the segments of her nether star.
And he pushes his tongue in, in, into her, feeling the heat of her interior, feeling the tissues of her rectal wall.
Rufe has a long, thick, powerful tongue.
So that he can stretch her ass hole with it alone.
So that no finger wave is necessary, really.
But then, they are not concerned here with stark necessity.
So that, at a certain point, even though she is already loose enough that he could get on with the main event if he so chooses, he knows better.
Because Chipper, of course, has been unable to see the actual contact between Rufe and Cynthia, thus far.
And that, after all, is one of the main objectives of the exercise.
So that now, Rufe is most careful to stand to one side of Cynthia.
As she, crouching on knees and elbows, braces herself.
And Rufe ostentatiously, theatrically wets two fingers of one hand with his tongue.
And, standing to one side of her on his knees, spreads her slackened, saliva-lubricated ass hole between thumb and fingers of his dry hand- And makes the insertion.
Round and round he goes with the two fingers, turning her ass hole into a smoothly rounded mouth, sucking and clinging to the delving digits.
Satisfied that Chipper has dug this action, Rufe pulls the fingers out, pausing to give Chipper a fresh look at the target, now that this phase of preparation has been completed.
And only now does he make the insertion of his freshly tumescent monster.
He buttons the bulging knob inside her ass hole and pauses, careful to adjust his position so that Chipper will miss none of the action, as seen from the rear.
And now, both hands on Cynthia's hips, Rufe rotates his hips, spiraling deeper and deeper into the depths of her ass.
And the battering ram of his cock head parts the channel of her rectum.
And the long thick shaft stretches and fills it as it advances.
In and in and into her, until he is fully seated, Rufe spirals.
Until he is fully seated.
And only now does he begin his regular fucking motion, rocking back and forth, feeling the sleeve of her bowels jerking him off in its hot, wet, slippery, all-encompassing embrace.
A longer ride this time, it will be.
And he is careful to spread his legs wide and to ride higher up, so that Chipper will get a perfect view of the action.
He does.
As Rufe, getting hotter and hotter, lets himself go all out, once again.
Because what would be the point of his using his finest ass fucking technique on her, when the purpose of the exercise is simply to fill Chipper's cupcake with hot, fresh cream?
Which is part of what's wrong with this deal.
But later for that.
He said it was wrong; he didn't say he couldn't live with it.
Which he most assuredly can.
As witness his steadily mounting arousal, his excitement which causes him to piston very avidly indeed in and out of her stretched, filled ass.
Stimulating her clit from the inside, he is.
But not fast enough, not efficiently enough to excite her to the same degree as himself.
But that too doesn't matter.
All that matters at the moment is- This! And this! And this!
Said to himself as he injects spurt after spurt of his sexual essence in and in and into the depths of her bowels.
Letting the pleasure beyond pleasure overtake him without any resistance whatever.
Allowing himself to be swept away on the ultimate high.
And, as soon as he comes back down, pulling out, as Chipper, smiling and in an obvious state of sexual excitement, bursts forth from the closet once more.
Will he do it again this time? Rufe, looking back, wonders.
Just as he wonders how he can.
But, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, there goes Chipper, sealing his mouth to Cynthia's ass hole.
And Rufe can see the vacuum of his cheeks as he sucks and sucks.
Yech! he thinks. .
And goes back to the kitchen to wash off his heavy equipment and prepare yet another heavy snack.
That was good and he did his duty, he reflects.
Still, he envies Chipper, picturing him in his mind's eye as, having rimmed Cynthia and, in the process, more than merely rimmed her, he now mounts her.
And, after getting his piston action inside her ass going, releases one hip, freeing a hand so that it can reach down and around and weigh her heavy breasts one at a time in his hands, thumbing the doorbells of her nipples to peak excitement- Enough of that, Rufe cautions. Why should I torture myself?
Another time, another place, another woman, and- "Perfecto once again, old buddy!" Chipper says, jovial and exuberant.
Old buddy, Rufe thinks. There's a real laugh for you now.
"We'll uh, we'll not be doing a third round tonight," Chipper continues. "My trip was rather exhausting and I haven't gotten much sleep.
"Oh, no, no! Take your time, Rufe. .
"Help yourself to all you want.
"Cynthia and I will just make ourselves a couple more sandwiches, grab a six pack, and retire for the evening.
"Just uh, when you're done here, put all this stuff back in the fridge, there's a good fellow.
"And uh, there will be a little something extra in your pay check this week.
"But then that goes without saying.
"See how it is when I'm tired? I start rattling on about the obvious.
"There was something, though, I wanted to-oh, yeah.
"Tomorrow morning, I want to show up early at the office.
"Eight o'clock, say. Can do?"
"I'll have the car ready at seven, Mista Chipper," Rufe replies.
"Very good. And then, can you wait-"
"Uh, Chipper?" Cynthia interjects.
"Tomorrow, Rufe has to take Carlotta to do the groceries."
"Oh. Okay then, drop me off at the office, do the thing with Carlotta, and then come back for me.
"I've a terrible amount of running around to do, dear," Chipper explains. "Three months out of the country and all, y'know.
"They probably think I've died, over at the club, for one thing."
CHAPTER TWO
In the natural order of things, Rufe thinks, I would be in the sack with her. Our bodies were made for each other. We belong together.
And not, as at present, her in bed with that pink cherub of a sexual pervert and financial genius, while Rufe, alone, takes a cold shower, then a warm one, soaping and rinsing several times, feeling somehow dirtier than as if he had just finished working under the hood of the limo.
And yet, not so much dirty as used.
It's wrong, he thinks, wrong for a man to be used as an object, a thing, in order to satisfy the perversions of another.
And not even the whole perversion.
Rather, he has been merely an element in Chipper's satisfaction, and an interchangeable element at that.
Yes, it did not have to be him.
It could have been any, or any combination of an almost endless variety of "talent" at the disposal of the Harringtons, of the Harrington money.
What the wallet of man can conceive, the hand of man can procure.
Which, Rufe reflects, is not entirely true.
He wanted Cynthia tonight, even as he wants her every day, in the sense that he, that any normal, healthy man would want such a woman.
So that he would have been more than happy to do the number on her, even with the special considerations, the restrictions, even if there had not been a bonus in it for him.
And yet-and yet.
Without the whole fucking setup, without the money behind it, none of this would have occurred, with or without the goddam bonus.
And this is not only true, he realizes, but true in depth.
Because she was money marrying money.
So that he can't even use the po' black man argument with which to solace himself.
You know-the one that goes, What chance does a black guy have with a beautiful blonde chick like that?
Because race is not a factor here. They belong to two different worlds, he and she. No way in hell do they meet, except under these circumstances.
Meaning mistress and hireling. Meaning user and living robot. Unfair?
Yes, the order of the universe is indeed unfair. The deck is stacked, stacked many ways, stacked in depth.
Problem with that?
Then go and fucking kill yourself, Jack, because that's the way it is!
Still, he tells himself, there is another way with her.
What if?
What if they were to do as they did for its own sake rather than for Chippers, and without his even being present.
Certainly, the opportunities are there, and there in force.
Young, healthy blonde bombshell like that, alone for weeks, months on end? " And then too, there is precedent for this.
How many times has she called that fucking pimp Bruce and ordered herself an orgy the way other people would send out for pizza?
She does it the same way-and probably for the same price-as when she stages her special homecomings for Chipper.
Except that sometimes she does not, preferring instead to do as she did last night, that is, using Rufe.
So that what if, indeed?
A fair question, now he thinks about it further.
Because, dammit, if she could do it for Chipper, then she could just as well do it for herself.
And Rufe comes to a decision.
Next time Chipper is out of town, he will force the issue.
He doesn't know how yet, but he will take action.
So that he can raise himself, in his own estimation, up from thinghood.
So that he can be, in every sense of the word, a man.
Certainly not too much to ask of himself, to ask of the world.
Not out of a sense of fairness, either. First of all, nothing in this world is fair. Not the natural order of things, even. Because, in the natural order, he is superior. That's right, dammit, he is!
Because he's built, because he's hung, and because, unlike Chipper, for example, he is completely sane.
All that money and the best his boss can do to get his rocks off is this sick, this sickening thing he insists on doing?
No, Rufe tells himself, there has got to be a way.
There has got to be some method, some procedure, some technique whereby he can obtain for himself, by himself, that which he has been permitted to sample in behalf of another's interests.
Because, Chipper or no Chipper, she had to know, had to feel how good he is, how good they are together.
That part of the natural order has to be working in his favor, anyway.
And now, he dries himself off, sets the alarm on the clock radio at his bedside, and quickly dozes off, his exertions, along with his anxieties, taking their toll.
* * *
The men in the office are friendly, helpful-and nervous.
They don't like having the boss around. If he actually had an office here, if he were around every day, it wouldn't be so bad.
But no, he shows up unexpectedly, distracting them from their daily routine.
So that the buy-sell positions on the commodities markets, second nature to the guy who handles that in Chipper's absence, in his presence become mysteries, wonders to be looked at anew, or as if for the first time.
And suddenly, his arbitrageur seems to have lost his feel on the pulse of world-wide currencies.
And will defer taking any action at all today, preferring instead to monitor the situation without doing anything, lest Chipper question the rationale behind any move he might make in his presence.
And the most unnerving thing of all is that huge black chauffeur, lingering at his shoulder like some kind of an enforcer.
Because he, more than anything else, is the symbol, the outward manifestation, of Chipper's power, of how far above them Chipper actually is.
Do they now, have or will they ever possess such a thing?
No way!
A house in the suburbs, a mortgage that would choke a horse, a car paid in full, but not the one they want, really, hand to mouth, and so it goes.
Whereas Chipper is in a whole different world.
Because that is not just any chauffeur there, but a bouncer, an enforcer of a chauffeur.
And they know that this is a civilized world, that there is no possible way that Chipper is going to order Rufe to clobber any or all of them.
Nonetheless, Rufe symbolizes difference, menace, power to them.
And yes, they are team players and it is Chipper's team, no question, and yet there is here in clear evidence a kind of opposition.
As though they are somehow on one side, with Chipper and Rufe on the opposite.
And they breath a mini-sigh of partial relief when, having lugged Chipper's briefcases into the office, Rufe deposits them and leaves.
Irrational, they know, childish, even, but there it is.
Go figure.
And Rufe?
He senses it, the feedback of their anxiety, their fear.
And he feels a kind of pride in the power, even though reflected, they see in him.
So that he does not try to reach out to them in his mind, to see in them fellow employees, fellow prostitutes of mind and body, selling themselves in order to survive.
Rather, he has the same questions in his mind that they project into Chipper's.
What have you guys been up to?
Are you doing the best you can, or have you let golden opportunities slip through your fingers due to your ineptitude or indifference?
In short, Have you or have you not done something thatt you should/should not have and, if so, should you be fired for it on the spot?
So that there is this other factor which isolates him from them as well.
Namely, that they are under performance pressures which find no analogy in his own position.
And then too, there is the social aspect of the situation.
Could Chipper, for whatever reason, seek Rufe's advice concerning them?
And if so, is there a danger lurking there?
("Waddaya think of Farley, Rufe?") ("Seem ta me lak de dude got shifty eyes, Mista Chippah, lak he 'bout ta pull sumthin' mighty crookit; bestes' thang y'all gits ridda his wimpy ass befo' he do sumthin' fuck up de woiks.") ("Maybe you're right, Rufe. Had that in the back of my mind for some time now. Thanks.") ("Enny tarn, boss.") So that, without a chance to defend themselves, they would have been tried and condemned. Which could very well happen. Because life is not fair.
Because if it were, they would be where Chipper is now.
All this, Rufe knows about. Office politics.
And there is really no such thing as being good at them.
Which is one thing his lack of education and, face it, his color, have enabled him to avoid.
Still, he is, like them, a loser, only in a different way.
Because he can never, not ever, make a significant contribution.
He is a convenience and a luxury.
He is not a contributor to success, but an appurtenance, a prerogative of success.
He is a part of the reward for having arrived in a major way.
He is at best helpful, at worst superfluous.
He is not even as essential as Carlotta.
Because cooking and cleaning, grocery shopping and supervision of maintenance are household necessities which it is impractical to expect someone like Cynthia Harrington to perform for herself and Chipper.
But what is it to get behind the wheel of something more elegant, more sporting if less grandiose than the limo?
Not much at all, he reflects, as he goes to pick up Carlotta.
Hell, it would even be cheaper for Carlotta to take a cab.
And merely pick things out and have them delivered.
This is Cynthia's idea, this chauffeured shopping trip.
But Chipper, who must surely know better and is even being inconvenienced by it this morning, does not care to contradict Cynthia in that province.
So that she is at least that much the lady of the house.
But then, he supposes, that's not so dumb, either.
Because there must be a clear differentiation in her favor between herself and all his other possessions.
In return for which he gets the stability, the harmony, and above all that individual understanding which few, if any, others would accord him and his "hobby".
So that here, now, they are what they are, loving husband and affectionate, possibly (is it still possible?) adoring wife.
To a degree, he reminds himself.
Because she has partied.
And it is true enough that she may consider this Bruce merely a provider of living toys, but the fact of the matter remains that she has experienced the ultimate pleasure with them, whoever, whatever, however she may think of them.
And he is willing to let himself be used on the same basis.
Why not?
And at least, that way, he gets to play all the games with her.
And not what is, inevitably and inescapably, someone else's game.
He pulls into the garage and uses the intercom.
Carlotta will be right down.
* * *
"Hey, beeg boy, joo do de deed las' night, or what?"
"Yeah, I did."
Said almost absent-mindedly, his eyes, his concentration on the road. Carlotta laughs.
"So tell me-he suck joor come from her poosy, her ass hole, or bot'?"
"Both. Listen, do we really have to talk about this?"
She shrugs.
"Coul' talk about anythin' joo like. "CouP talk servant chop talk, joo like. "Wadda joo thin' of Spic an' Span for bat'room floors?"
"Sorry," he says. "Just that I feel so damn used- after."
"Leesen, m'fren', we are all jused, okay? "Any time joo don' like eet, hey, there's the door, rl'?"
"One door closes an' another opens, huh?
"You really b'lieve that?"
"No' for one second. An' joo don' neither."
"You got that right."
"Face eet," she says, "we hot' got eet made. "An' we hot' take a lotta crap an' we hot' ge' jused. "Only we gotta consider, like, wha's de alternative, joo know."
"Ain't one."
"joo know eet, pal. "Joo gotta hang een there."
"Been thinkin' about that."
"Oh?"
"If I can do what I do with her when he's around, waddaya think my chances are of making it with her when he isn't?"
"Excellent.
"Weeth the rl' kine of help, that ees."
"Meaning you, I suppose."
"Who else."
"And in return?"
"Wha' choo bin theenkin' abou' for some time now.
"Or joo gonna say joo don' geeve me tha' look."
"What look?"
"The look like eef joo don' keep joor mouth close, joor tongue gonna come out."
"Oh, that look.
"Hey, I didn't know you were interested."
"Joo come een my room tonl' an' I choe joo who go' de eenteres'!"
"You have got yourself a deal, babe."
"Talk abou' joor freenge benefeets, huh? They laugh.
* * *
Rufe reads the newspaper. They are parked in the park, under a shady tree. As Chipper makes call after call on the car telephone.
He is very clearly putting something big together and is using the limo as his office.
Which, face it, is what it actually is.
Part of the hassle of his regular so-called office is that he has no desk there.
Chipper is not too cheap to get himself a larger local office, of course, but it is part of his self-discipline that he will not establish a place here which will be too comfortable for himself.
You can't do business sitting on your ass, is Chipper's adopted motto.
And this is as close as he is willing to come to doing exactly that.
But if they are not moving physically, then financially, at least, great progress is being made.
Such is Rufe's impression, anyway.
And Chipper seems more and more cheerful with the completion of each call.
Until- "Back to the office for a few minutes, Rufe, and then back home.
"If all goes as anticipated, I may have to cut short my stay here altogether.
"Situation in Europe looks very promising.
"In fact-never mind."
Remembering who he is speaking to, over the limo's intercom.
And people don't talk to furniture, right?
Oh, yes, Rufe thinks, starting the limo, I am most definitely gonna have to get into the lady's pants on my own.
Meaning with Carlotta's help.
* * *
"Jus' leev eet to me, okay."
"You got it.
"But I hope it can happen real soon.
"Chipper's leavin' in a couple days, y'know."
"I din't. But don' make no deeference.
"An' I know jus' how I gonna do it, too."
They are having their supper in the kitchen as the Harringtons use the formal dining room.
They are having guests tonight.
The Birmingham Steeles have joined them for supper.
Neighbors from ten floors down, Steele is also an entrepreneur, his philosophy and outlook the opposite of those of the flamboyant, free-wheeling Chipper, but enjoying steady, if less spectacular success nonetheless. "Is she-never mind."
He was about to ask Carlotta about a farewell party.
But that is his idea, nobody else's.
The Harringtons are not in the habit of celebrating Chipper's departures.
Only Rufe and, no doubt, the boys downtown are glad Chipper is going to be leaving again, very soon.
Rufe helps Carlotta load their dishes into the dishwasher.
And he helps himself to a couple of handfuls of her abundant charms, en passant.
And she stops in her tracks, sitting down on his lap, melting into his arms, but then remembering that she, at least, is on duty.
And there are plates to be cleared, desserts to be served.
But she is glad to see that Rufe is so enthusiastic.
"Tonight," she says to him, on one of her trips back and forth to the dining room.
So that he awaits eleven or so with great anticipation.
Once again, Rufe is impressed by how much larger the same woman seems when naked rather than clothed.
Sure he knew that Carlotta had large breasts.
In fact, he has even helped himself to some handfuls of them earlier.
But here, now, looking at her, she seems almost a different person-a larger, sexier version of her already large and sexy self.
"Oh, yeah," he says, seating himself on the edge of the bed, naked himself, twisting around to look at her, then twisting onto the bed, leaning over her, sealing his mouth to a huge nipple as she lies there, covered to just below her breasts by a single sheet.
And she lets him work on her mammaries, sucking each nipple up, erect and rubbery, even as he kneads and fondles the large glands behind them.
He wallows on her chest, between her breasts, clamping them to his head on both sides, losing himself, smothering himself in her.
As she gets hotter and hotter, face and breasts becoming flushed.
And now, he pulls the sheet off of her, exposing her full, voluptuous charms to his lascivious view.
And he slides down her body, taking mouthfuls of her, chewing and releasing them, on his way down, down, down.
Until now, he is opposite her snatch, covered with thick, jet black hair.
And he wallows in her crotch as she raises and spreads her legs to give him a better target.
As he finds her clit with his tongue and strums it, flickering at almost vibrator speed.
And she writhes and moans, tugging at her nipples in her excitement, as though to stimulate them still further.
Swiftly now, he mounts her.
"Unnnh!" she murmurs as he shafts into her in a single, smooth movement.
And he begins to fuck her, moving his hips so that his long, thick, vibrant pole pistons in and out of her in steady strokes.
And he holds back.
There will be no slavish letting go this time.
Rather, there will be a lingering, a savoring of each level of pleasure.
There is no hurry, none at all.
And no objective, but rather merely an eventual outcome.
Because the act must have meaning, content, value.
She must know that she is in the hands of an expert.
She must be convinced that he intends to uphold his part of the bargain with full talent and enthusiasm.
She must be made to understand that, between the two of them, Cynthia and herself, it is she who is to receive the brunt of his passion, of his sincerity.
While he, or he and Carlotta, will use and manipulate Cynthia even as she is accustomed to using, to manipulating them.
Except that he will be far less obvious about it.
Besides which, he does feel genuine passion for her body.
Except that she is so far removed from him that this passion is not that of one person, one human being for another.
No, for that, he has Carlotta.
Rather, for Cynthia, his is the passion for a desired goal or objective, almost on the order of scoring in a favorite sport.
And to score and to make love are two quite different things.
And rarely, if ever, do the twain meet.
So that here, now, he is giving Carlotta better than what Cynthia will ever know, ever have, at least from him.
As now he varies his technique, now pistoning in and out of her, now rotating his hips, causing surge after surge of sexual electricity to shoot through the both of them.
And now, he climbs the rainbow with her.
They have tarried enough along the way.
They have tasted sufficiently of the delights offered at each level of their ever-mounting arousal. And now, they are flying.
Level after level of their passion, reached and surpassed as hunger and satisfaction stairstep one another, higher and higher.
And the surges of sexual electricity merge now into a steady hum, echoing loudly in their ears as the pressure of the pleasure grows and grows within them.
And now, they surrender to it, not trying to prolong, to hold back, to delay.
Because now, the pressure is insistent. And now, overwhelming.
As they climax together, the pleasure beyond pleasure flowing into them, overtaking them, exploding, blowing their safety valves.
And this time, when they have finished alternating, his discharges and her multiple orgasms, he is in no great hurry to pull out, preferring to linger there in closed embrace.
CHAPTER THREE
Chipper is gone, again.
Rufe has just gotten back from the airport.
And Cynthia is unhappy.
She truly enjoys Chipper's company.
The fact of the matter is that, except for his homecomings, he is a perfectly normal, more than adequate regular bed partner.
And a fairly skilled lover as well.
So that yes, Cynthia has that reason as well for enjoying his company, and for feeling as she does at the lack of it. And it shows.
So that Rufe and Carlotta could almost feel sympathy for her. Almost.
Maybe, Rufe thinks, they're being too hard on her.
After all, it's not her fault she was born at a certain level of wealth, that she grew up thinking a certain way, and that she is as she is due to forces beyond her option or control.
Still, the same thing could be said of cockroaches, could it not?
Same principle, after all, merely a different context.
So that Cynthia, who has and has had at her disposal the data of the real world and thus every opportunity to know better, to do better, certainly rates no special consideration from the likes of them.
Besides, she's going to enjoy getting what she deserves.
Because this is hardly punitive, their intentions toward her.
Rufe wants her and Carlotta wants Rufe.
And we are talking strictly bodies here.
As people, these people don't mean all that much to one another.
Their desires are physical, visceral. Rufe could be a total ass hole, for all Carlotta knows.
And the same could be said by Rufe of Cynthia, and with much greater justification, possibly even much greater accuracy.
But it doesn't matter at all.
Because there is the truth which lies in insight and there is the truth which is of the body.
And only this last do they want to know, any of them.
Only what the body can see and taste and feel. The data of the senses. And the rest is bullshit.
Because the mind is the center of all conceit, of all deceit.
And self-deception is the most constant of all deceits.
Ah, but the body!
It knows what it knows, through direct evidence.
And this is the knowledge which Rufe and Carlotta desire.
And the knowledge in which Carlotta will attempt to interest Cynthia.
Because Carlotta knows what Rufe does not.
Which is that there have been many, many lonely nights which started out that way but ended up far differently.
Thanks to Carlotta.
Thanks to Carlotta's invited visits to Cynthia in the master bedroom.
Where a good time was had by two.
While Rufe lay there in the darkness, wasting his body and his cock, jerking off as though he were some skinny schoolboy dreaming of what was actually happening, unbeknownst to him, a few doors down the hall.
But Rufe caught on quick, almost from the moment Carlotta mentioned her willingness to intercede on his behalf.
Of course.
It had to be, all along.
And he should have known it.
And more the fool he, for not having seen it right there, under his very nose.
Oh well, better late than never, he supposes.
And now, they lie there in the darkness together.
The hour is late and there is no urgency, no need to do it all in a single night.
And the ice breaker was terrific, the shower afterward delightful.
"I suppose this means I'll have to be doin' without for a few nights while you do your convincin'," he says.
"Thass where joo wrong," Carlotta replies. "Chee de one gonna hafta do without.
"So when chee see I ain't showin' up, chee come to check eet out or come lookin' for me, an' thass when chee fine out."
"Find out what?"
"Fine out tha' joo are worth esleepin' weeth all by joorself, 'steada bein' a playthin' chee juse weeth Meester Cheeper. "Wheech chee shoul' know arready, rl'?"
"Right."
And he says nothing more. Obviously, Carlotta has the situation well in hand.
Curled up with her, they sleep.
* * *
How can Carlotta be so heartless, so unfeeling? Cynthia wonders, tears forming at the corners of her eyes, as she lies there in the darkness.
Surely she must know how badly Chipper's absence is being felt.
Especially this time, when he was planning to spend an unprecedented two weeks in a row with her, only to have this idyllic arrangement shattered by his suddenly having urgent business in Europe.
Damn him! she thinks.
Because the only urgent business Chipper ever has is that which is of his own making.
Even if there's a crisis, it's usually because he wants one and has gone out of his way to see to it that it happens.
But in this case, it was simply the capping of a deal, an opportunity too good to be missed.
So that now, he is gone, wheeling and dealing for fun and profit.
And she knows he will derive a fabulous amount of both from his present effort.
Whereas she, as usual, gets the short end of the stick.
She is the one who must wait. They also serve who only stand and wait, goes the saying.
But she wonders how many are happy doing it.
She is certainly not one of them.
And now, she has nothing.
She states up at the starry night through the skylight above the bed.
She is alone in the immensity of the universe, and with none to comfort her.
Damn that Carlotta!
She knows that the first night is always the worst!
Knows and doesn't care, really.
Because, if she did, then surely she would be here.
True, no specific arrangements were made.
But after so long, she did not think it necessary.
Still, she can see Carlotta's point.
All the other times, Cynthia said something.
So that this time, when she did not, since she did not, what was the woman, who is, after all, nothing but hired help, what was she to assume?
"I have to take the limo in for servicing real soon," Rufe says. "So whenever it's convenient."
"Today would be fine, Rufe," Cynthia replies.
* * *
Okay, okay, Cynthia says to herself, I was wrong. And now, having said that, where do we go from here?
Only one thing for it, obviously. Cynthia slides out of bed in the darkness. In darkness, naked and on tiptoe, she goes down the hallway to Carlotta's room. Where- Cynthia experiences no shock or anger. Her reaction? Of course!
How long could these two hot items be under the same roof, night after night, and this not happen?
It had to be.
Had to be, and probably has been, for years.
That, or the two of them missed many a good opportunity.
Which does nothing for her right now, of course.
But, now that she knows the score, she knows along what lines to assert herself.
And, satisfied on that point, goes back to her own bed.
"Unless-" Turning to Carlotta.
"I go' no place I gotta go today," Carlotta confirms.
"Well then, there you are, Rufe."
"They said they could take me at two-thirty.
"I expect to be back by around six and I'll leave the number of the place with Carlotta, in case I'm needed."
"Oh, I'm sure that's not necessary, Rufe. "Why don't you just run along? "Carlotta and I will simply have to muddle through without you, for a change."
"Yes, ma'am." And he leaves.
"Come, Carlotta," Cynthia says, "you and I have things we simply must discuss-in the proper setting, of course."
And Cynthia leads the secretly amused Carlotta into the master bedroom.
Where she undresses in silence, and Carlotta follows her lead.
When they are naked, Cynthia pulls back the covers and bounced onto the bed.
Carlotta promptly seats herself on the opposite side.
And they slide onto the bed together, reaching for each other.
"How could you have left me alone last night?"
Cynthia murmurs, their boobs pressing together as she locks her embrace around Carlotta.
"Joo din' axe," Carlotta replies, simply.
"Plus, you had something else to do-and someone else to do it with, right?"
Carlotta pulls back slightly before replying, "Thass rl'."
"So. Are you and Rufe uh... serious?"
"He serious abou' gettin' laid an' so am I."
Tinkling laughter from Cynthia, as she throws her head back.
"That makes three of us in that category, then," she replies, relieved that there is not a servants' romance going on here.
"So," she continues, "I have an idea.
"How about you and I have our little get-together right here and now and then, tonight, I get to see what you see in Rufe, okay?"
Carlotta shrugs, saying, "Joo de boss."
"Oh please, Carlotta, don't think of me in that way.
"Rather, think of me as someone with whom you share a common interest."
"Okay."
Cynthia stares meaningfully into Carlotta's dark eyes.
Carlotta returns her gaze without expression. But breaks into a knowing smile, as Cynthia slides down her body, until she is in perfect position to suck her big tits.
Suddenly, Cynthia reverses herself in the bed, using her mouth, glued to one of Carlotta's nipples, as the turning point.
So that now she is reversed above her.
And they can suck each others' tits.
And they do, until four big nipples are all hard and perky.
And now, Cynthia continues to glide over Carlotta, from the top down.
Until she bridges her, face hovering over her crotch.
Cynthia lowers her head and her hips at the same time.
So that, as her lips make contact with Carlotta's cunt, her own pussy finds Carlotta's mouth.
So that now, they are eating each other, tongues working away on engorged joy buzzers, clear, hot pussy juices beginning to lacquer their chins.
And now they are tongue fucking each other.
In and out, in and out go their tongues, servicing hot, juicy cunts, even as they glide back and forth over excited clits.
As Cynthia places her hands on the backs of Carlotta's legs, forcing her cunt more and more vertical.
So that the target gets better and better. And Cynthia does a better and better job of eating her.
So that now, there is no longer any gap, any awkwardness in their mutual excitation.
They are going to take each other all the way, and they both know it.
And they are both highly motivated to do the best job they can.
Cynthia wants to convince Carlotta that, in the sack, they are equal.
Carlotta, who has already succeeded in her mission, is out to convince Cynthia that whatever she has going with Rufe, it will in no way affect their relationship which, while undefined, is nonetheless valuable to her. While Cynthia wishes to convey this as well.
Especially in view of the fact that she fully intends to sleep regularly with Rufe, whenever Chipper is out of town.
Just as she has no intention of using him for any future homecoming ceremonies.
Which are something between Chipper and herself and should never have involved any of the household staff.
She knows this now.
Because there is no question in her mind but that Rufe is giving Carlotta better than he ever gave her, better than he was in fact ever allowed to give her.
So that there is no question now in her mind but that she has short-changed Rufe and thereby given Carlotta an opening to "move in on" him.
Odd, she tells herself, how she never realized how she was also short-changing herself at the same time.
This should never have happened, she tells herself, never!
She is the mistress of this household and, as such, should have arranged things in such a fashion as to insure that she would have the upper hand in all things at all times.
And now, it's too late.
Rufe and Carlotta found each other, as was inevitable, if only she had not been too blind to see it.
It is one thing to go out and literally buy sexual partners from Bruce and quite another to treat her own servants as though they too have been bought and paid for with precisely that in mind.
Ridiculous, she has been.
That, and abusive of both of them.
And the mere awarding of additional payment to them for services rendered hardly compensates for her failure to treat them as human beings.
But she forgives herself.
We live and learn, right?
And now-aah!
This is absolutely delicious!
The giving and the getting, the having and the knowing.
But above all, the flood of sensations which inundates her, which permeates the two of them, taking them to the height of pleasure, there and beyond.
So that now, they are both coming, sharing their series of multiple orgasms, twinge after exquisite twinge of unadulterated pleasure causing them to twist and writhe against each other, even as the powerful contractions of their pussies milk each others' tongues of all the pleasure they contain.
So that now, they are transported into a shared sexual paradise.
And there is nothing, nothing, nothing separating them, one from the other.
But that is a temporary state of affairs.
And now, no sooner do they land softly back on earth than Cynthia is pondering just what she can do to prevent Carlotta's sleeping with Rufe and vice versa.
And she herself doesn't understand why she should want to do this.
After all, what harm does it do? Except to leave herself out of the action. Bingo!
Hey, nobody ever said she was unselfish, she tells herself.
But now, she gets an even better idea. She had Carlotta alone just now. Tonight, she will have Rufe alone.
So then, why not?
Why not go ahead and make it a threesome, say, tomorrow night?
Certainly, there can be no harm in it, and she could gain a whole new perspective on how she feels about the latest developments in the household, developments over which she exercised no control but for which she is nevertheless responsible.
Stupid of her, really, she supposes to have paid no attention.
But then, she didn't know intelligence was required in these matters.
Apparently, she is going to have to be as sharp in her own home as she tries to be everywhere else.
No rest for the weary, right?
And now, recovering her breath as she dismounts from Carlotta, she is determined that there will be no more activities of any kind within her domaine of which she is unaware.
The only problem is how to present this policy in as gentle and tactful a light as possible to her two charges.
No problem, as she sees it.
In bed, she is just one of the gang.
So there's no reason to include her out.
And if that doesn't work-never mind.
She will cross that bridge if and when.
Right now, she feels as though it is up to her to establish a domestic situation which is acceptable to herself, utilizing present staff. She gets up off the bed.
Carlotta starts to leave the bedroom, but Cynthia says, "Let's take a shower together, okay?"
I'm learning, she tells herself, as Carlotta joins her under the spray in the large, glassed-in shower enclosure which occupies one corner of the huge bathroom, whose main feature is a sunken onyx bathtub in the midst of the marble floor.
Really, Cynthia thinks, as she observes Carlotta's voluptuous curves in the process of cleaning herself up, I have to say that I have been far, far too conservative in my use of both Carlotta and Rufe.
And this is an error she intends to correct in a big way.
* * *
"Sorry about the delay, Rufe.
"Got three men out today."
'"Sokay, Rudy. Take your time. All counts toward twenty, as they say."
And Rufe goes back to reading his magazine.
He has not realized, until just now, how oppressive is the atmosphere of the penthouse, how stagnant the air, how really mausoleum-like it actually is.
The penthouse is actually a kind of prison.
With Cynthia a bird in a gilded cage who, for whatever reason, voluntarily remains there.
The occasional shopping trip.
The even more rare trip to her friend Helen in New Jersey.
Ridiculous, really, when one stops to consider that there are all kinds of beautiful, wonderful places in the world and that she has absolutely no reason not to go to each and every one of them.
But no, she remains in her ivory tower.
Maybe, he reflects, maybe it isn't really her fault.
Probably a good deal of the blame can be laid at Chipper's feet.
How much money does one man have to make before he feels that he has enough?
Or, if not enough, then at least enough to spend a reasonable amount of time at home or in the company of his wife.
Or why not take her with him on his trips, for heaven's sake?
Because that beautiful woman is going to waste.
Just as, before now, he was going to waste jerking off alone in the dark at night.
And he finds the analogy very valid, the more he thinks about it.
Is she merely using the absence of Chipper to thus imprison herself?
If so, she is using the same lame excuse as he himself did, accepting a fate as a servant, a piece of living furniture, when, really, nobody actually asked him to, told him to, required that he do this.
He just assumed.
Is that her problem?
She is merely assuming?
Maybe this thing with him, or with him and Carlotta is exactly what she needs to break out of her shell.
"Doin' it now, Rufe!" Rudy shouts to him, from beneath the limo, now on a hydraulic lift above the garage floor.
"Take your time an' do a real good job now," Rufe cautions.
Really, he is not even curious as to how Carlotta made out, what is happening back at the penthouse.
Just to be away from there for a few hours is relief enough.
There's a whole world out here! he tells himself.
Out here, back in Jersey, wherever.
And to limit himself to the penthouse, to Carlotta or even Carlotta and Cynthia, well, he's simply not sure it's worth it.
This job oughtta be worth something, he cautions himself.
And he has to admit it-it is.
He needs this, by way of income.
But then, dammit, let it be just that, a job.
And not a fucking way of life!
Too much, they want from him, the Harringtons.
To live and die for and in the penthouse and its doings.
Hell, it's almost like, like-no.
He won't go back to that, to use that as a crutch, as the vehicle for his self-pity.
He is not, dammit, being treated like a slave.
Not in any sense of the word.
He is a wage slave, perhaps, but that's just an expression.
The same could be said of millions, perhaps billions of people, regardless of color.
So no, his being black has nothing to do with this particular situation.
A white chauffeur would have the same problem, if he were in this same situation.
And it isn't that Cynthia is a bitch.
Perhaps if she were he could flare up in rebellion, could fight her every step of the way, could thwart her.
But she gives no offense, other than her condescension, so casual, so natural as to be taken in stride, to be accepted as unobtrusive, just a part of the job, comes with the territory and like that.
And if he needs some time off, he is certain that all he need do is ask.
So then what, what, what is it, exactly, that bugs him so about the penthouse?
And he thinks he knows.
Chipper.
There is the driver, the creative force, the dynamic, hustling, bustling person, the only real live human being there! So that such action as there is in connection with the penthouse, such genuine living as there is to be done in that household-is done out of sight, is done elsewhere.
Where he is not, where he cannot go, cannot be.
So that he is slowly petrifying in the penthouse, month after month, year after year.
And he doesn't know how much longer he can stand it.
CHAPTER FOUR
If only, Rufe thinks. If only it could always be this way.
A man and a woman.
A man, a woman, and a bed.
They need nothing else, really.
The rest is just so much bullshit.
And yet, he knows that this isn't so.
Even as he says this, he knows differently.
But for her wealth, but for the entire situation, he would not be here with her right now, in bed.
Big, strong, virile black stud and beautiful blonde woman.
Drawn to each other by sheer physical attraction in a celebration of their respective physical endowments.
But it isn't that simple; never was, never can or will be.
Because the whole of a quantity is equal to the sum of its parts.
Recipe: Take one black chauffeur plus one white mistress plus a bed and what you've got is the same two people in bed together.
There is no magic here; they have not been transformed, transported to another, parallel world.
Things are not different here; here is here.
So that his enjoyment of her is that of a lucky servant.
Her enjoyment of him is that of a wealthy, horny woman being serviced by prime black beef. Much like a day at Elizabeth Arden. Or at the hairdresser's.
That is, certain sensations will be experienced, sensations deliberately, directly stimulated, aroused within herself for her pleasure.
Except that this will be the ultimate pleasure, the pleasure of which all other pleasures are symbol or substitute.
And the fact that Rufe is perfectly equipped to achieve this, to bring this out of her, to raise this to the surface within herself, to make it happen, well, what is that, if not careful selection on her part?
So that he is the outcome of her expression of taste.
And of course, in this world, to be able to express one's tastes means to be able to afford to express one's tastes.
So that she is to be complimented on her good taste and on her initiative in exploiting the world in such fashion as to indulge that taste.
As for Rufe, his contribution is nothing more than a making available of himself.
He would have been available to take her to the airport and see her off to some exotic destination, if such were her wishes.
He would have been available to run to the dry cleaner's, the liquor store, the drug store, or the market, by himself or accompanied by Carlotta or even Cynthia herself, if that were what Cynthia desired.
Were she a voyeur, he would even have been available to put on a show for Cynthia with Carlotta, as Cynthia watched and commented and touched and instructed.
So that what is this, really, except another way to spend the time that the Harrington money has bought and paid for?
Still, he tells himself, at a certain point, all this, while accepted as a given, must be pushed into the background.
Yes, the hierarchy of the world must fade into the background, however temporarily, in favor of the action itself.
Because the hierarchy is cause, but here, now, they are concerned with effect.
So that there must be a giving in, a surrender here, and this on the part of the one who need never surrender, need never compromise, need never give in on any point, no matter how small.
And yet, she must, if she is to reap the benefit of that which she and the world have so elaborately sown.
And she does.
She lies there, allowing Rufe full access to her breasts.
Allowing him to linger over them, to give them his full attention, as though memorizing them in intimate detail with eye, with hands and fingers, with mouth and tongue and lips.
Now that he need not perform for an audience.
Now that she need not be concerned as to angle of vision and pace of action.
Now that the only show they need put on is for one another.
So that it's all right, any of it, all of it.
So that she can open herself up to him in mind and body.
So that they can let the rest of the world go by, that world which has made this possible, which has authorized and permitted this under its own standing rules.
So that there is nothing, nothing, nothing separating them from each other-physically.
And the physical is all that there is in the foreground of their shared existence, at the moment.
And yes, time out is allowed in the game of life- for those who can afford it.
And now, Rufe is taking full advantage of this.
He is tasting her, savoring her, experiencing her as he has never done before, as he has never before been allowed to do.
Mouthful after mouthful of her smooth, firm flesh he takes into his mouth, chewing it gently, running his tongue around and around on that portion of her he has captured between powerful white teeth.
And he releases it, only to help himself to the next mouthful.
And the next and the next.
As he descends down, down, down her body, his hands traversing her sides.
Down the ribcage to the indentation of the waist of her hourglass figure, as though he is a sculptor in the act of creating her.
Ah, but now his mouth finds the chestnut-hued bush, soft and curly, riding its mound, its split peach.
Which he takes into his mouth and chews gently, his tongue seeking the split, as she raises and spreads her legs, giving and giving herself to him.
And now, his long, thick tongue finds her joy buzzer.
And he lingers there, strumming it with the vibrating tip of his salivating tongue until it too is erect and rubbery as he has made her nipples moments before.
And now, he fucks her with his tongue as she sighs in ecstasy, rocking back and forth and moaning softly.
As the long, thick appendage shafts, long and thick and flexible, in and out, in and out of her hot, juicy cunt, sliding back and forth, back and forth over her clit, his hands on the backs of her thighs, helping her to keep them spread wide, to keep that target of her split, drooling pussy right up there, at just the right angle.
And yes, she wants to surrender herself to him completely.
And she wants him to know that she is doing just that.
So that she kicks her legs slightly, breaking away from his firm grasp on the backs of her thighs, freeing herself.
But only in order to give herself to him all the more.
As she turns over.
As she goes onto knees and elbows.
As she braces herself thus, ass as high and as far back as she can thrust it, waiting for him to service her as he will.
Because this is the ultimate act of sexual surrender.
The giving of the ass.
The trusting to another of that which is, which has to be, the ultimate penetration.
Which is not the imitation of the natural act, not the pseudo-performance of the biological function of impregnation.
No, the fucking of the ass has, can have, but one purpose.
Which is the taking and giving of the ultimate in lascivious pleasure.
So that there is, there can be, no misunderstanding here.
Especially when the act is voluntary, completely unsolicited.
And, in their case, not prompted by the presence of an observer. Not now.
Not this time around.
This time, it is just for them, for her, for him, together and alone.
And how he wants her this way!
More than he himself ever realized, now that they are truly alone, now that he is not putting on a show for Chipper.
.So that he is avid, hungry, drooling for her ass, even as he seals his mouth to her large, protruding bung.
So that he is eager, insistent, forceful in his chewing of her ass hole, in his probing of the center of her star.
As he goes in, in, into the yielding ring of muscle. As his tongue feels her interior heat, tastes her inner self.
And thrusts in and out now, deeper and deeper as she relaxes more and more, as her entrance becomes more and more elastic.
And there will be no finger wave this time for the delectation of a superior observer. No, she is in fact loose enough already.
So that he can pull back, eye fixed on the target at all times, and, seated on his heels, polish his throbbing knob, his plum of a cock head, with a glob of saliva.
And he circles the target with thumb and fingers of one hand, pressing and spreading, making her saliva- lubricated, slackened pucker stand out all the more between the perfect globes of her ass.
As he buttons the head of his monster into her ass hole.
And puts both hands on the belled flare of her hips.
And begins to rotate his own hips, round and round, drilling, spiralling in and in and into her, the battering ram of his cock head parting the channel before it, the long, thick, vibrant shaft, rock hard and hot, feeding in behind it, keeping her ass hole a smooth, rounded mouth.
Which sucks him in.
Which clings to him in wet, smooth, warm embrace as he enters.
Which stimulates a million nerve endings in the wall of her rectum with each millimeter of its progress and is in turn stimulated by her ass, by her insides, by her innermost physical being in the same fashion.
So that more and more pleasure shoots through their bodies, a fresh surge with each advance into her depths.
Thrill after thrill of sexual electricity shoots through them, more and more of his cock participating, the pressure on her already stimulated joy buzzer increasing from the inside as he advances into her.
Until, at last, he is fully seated.
And need not worry about the angle of the action, like some porno film star, for the benefit of the observer, be it the eye of a camera or the gaze of some pervert, watching from a closet.
No, he is perfectly free to concentrate on his pleasure and hers.
And he does.
As he slowly, much more slowly than is actually necessary for their mutual comfort, experienced at this as she is, begins to hump her.
Back and forth, back and forth he moves. And his rampant invader does the same within her.
Just enough.
Just enough to let her know, to let her aroused body be aware that it is a living, aliend presence within her, the ultimate physical expression of rampant sexual power and desire and drive, its existence, its being huge and vibrant and having but a single purpose, which is sexual gratification, its own and hers.
And it is there.
And the thereness of it, in all its monstrous dimensions, is the overwhelming fact of their shared existence.
It is strength and power.
It is pleasure and delight.
It is work and play, caprice and all-important purpose.
It is theirs and they are its.
It is that which unifies them and that which controls them.
As even now, it increases its stroke.
So that, very quickly, he is pistoning in and out, in and out of her.
He is lunging and plunging, his saliva-lubed shaft thick and smooth as her ass hole sucks him in and clings in slippery but firm embrace as he pulls back.
And now, he varies his motion, rotating his hips round and round, reaming her ass, easily and delightfully, with each rotation.
And sending grand surge after grand surge of still more sexual electricity coursing through the both of them.
So that now, it seems to them that they are rising, higher and higher, up the rainbow of their shared arousal.
As indeed they are, every molecule of their bodies alive and tingling with their rampant sexuality.
And now, that phenomenon of terrific sex seizes them.
The old hunger-satisfaction two step.
The more you want, the more you get.
The more you get, the more you want.
So that, no sooner has one level of sexual arousal been achieved, its wonders explored and absorbed, than the next is ardently desired, desired with a hunger which carries with it its own intensity, its own excitement, its own drive.
So that the body has a mind and will of its own.
It knows what it wants, in terms of pure sensation.
So that the mind soon pulls back, taking its guidance, its direction from the body.
From the hunger of the body.
From the pleasure of the body, that gathering of sensation which feeds on itself.
To attain and to use that level of attainment as a platform, as a springboard to the next level.
And the next and the next.
Climbing higher and higher.
Because, good as this is, it does get better than this.
And better than this and this and this!
It can, it does, it will, it must!
As miracle after miracle of sensation thrills them, radiates out beyond them in its intensity.
And now, one hand still holding onto a hip, he reaches down and around with the other to grasp her heavy, aroused breasts, going back and forth between them, squeezing them, fondling them, thumbing their rubbery nipples.
Completing yet another circuit, another group of circuits, in the wiring of the complex, living machine they have become.
So that now he is behind her and above her, around her and below her.
He has taken physical possession of her, has enveloped her completely, even as he continues to fill and stretch her interior to capacity and beyond.
As his powerful cock continues to fuck her ass, continues to reach into every nook and cranny of her innermost self, stimulating, exciting it to tingling, lubricious sexuality.
So that the opening up of herself is complete.
So that there is no gap, no separation now between him and herself.
As he continues, his whole body active, his prick most active of all.
Because his cock is in intimate communication with her body.
They are talking body to body in the language of the body.
Sensation.
One atop the other, thousands, millions being generated anew with each movement, each fraction of a movement on his part.
So that there is here a new language, a new contact, a new manner of speaking and thinking and acting.
And he is at one with her, is united with her, is fused with her now in a continuous feedback loop of sexual electricity.
Round and round it goes, getting hotter and hotter, even as they become hotter and hotter, their sexual sweat standing out all over their bodies, the shining beads getting heavier and heavier until they run down in response to gravity.
So that Rufe's body is gleaming wetly, his sweat running down, combining with hers to flow steadily onto the satin sheet, staining a dark circle around them, which spreads slowly.
But they ignore this.
They know nothing of how it looks, how they look.
They feel nothing of their own heavy breathing, of the effort they are putting forth, of the weight of each others' bodies.
No, all that they know is what can be known by their bodies.
Which is sexual sensation.
Which is pleasure, increasing, adding to itself in facets, in volume, with each passing moment.
More and more.
More sought, more coming, more even than was sought, but still they will take it, take more and more of it.
And now, it appears within the maelstrom of their shared pleasure. It.
Faintly, a mere glowing point of light within their abdomens, it is generated into being.
The pleasure beyond pleasure.
Which begins to grow, spreading in all directions, adding itself to the pleasure, the flow of stimulation already there within them.
Like the slowly blossoming cloud of an atomic explosion, silently, steadily, it fills them with its presence, the pressure of it adding to that which has been building all along.
So that now they are at the zenith, the peak, the capacity of all the pleasure their bodies can contain.
And they hover there together, right at the brink, the breaking point.
As Rufe's muscular buttocks continue to flex and unflex, maintaining the fucking motion inside her ass.
Not daring to push and pull any faster, any harder, with any longer a stroke, lest he lose his load.
Not that his body thinks about this.
His body knows only that it wants this feeling to last, forever and ever, world without end, amen.
Ah, but it cannot!
Because, even now, his body betrays him.
Because that appetite, that perverse, mindless appetite, that appetite which is not concerned with the limitations of its host, which knows only its own hunger, wants- More.
So that now, Rufes exploring hand slides rapidly from her breasts down the center line of her body. Two fingers find her clit. And twiddle it.
And of course, this is too much.
Too much for him, too much for her.
And they blow their safety valves.
And they are coming and coming, the powerful contractions of her vaginal muscles, caught up in the throes of her series of multiple orgasms, milking his fingers of all the pleasure they hold for her, even as her bowels seem to milk his lunging, plunging cock, now that it has no need to hold back, of wad after wad of his thick, hot jism as it injects itself into their depths, again and again.
So that they alternate spasms, his spurts, her orgasms.
As they soar and zoom through their private, shared sexual paradise.
Sensation after sensation of the pleasure beyond pleasure wracks them.
They are mindless, will-less puppets, rag dolls, jerked this way and that by their own pleasure.
Which is not their own.
Which is more than they can ever hope to possess.
Because they don't have it; it has them.
And will not release them.
And will toss them, twisting and writhing and mindlessly moaning, this way and that.
And will only slowly release its grip on them. As their bodies lose their super-charged sexual energy, their climaxes winding down now.
So that yes, now they feel, are aware of their sweat, of the over-heated state of their bodies, of their labored breathing, of the energy they have expended.
So that both of them feel weak in the knees, as the last spasm passes within them both.
And Cynthia can only fall forward, onto her face.
And Rufe can only ride her all the way down, cock still fully hard, fully inserted into her ass, stretching and filling her bowels.
And they can only lie there in a conjoined, sweating, panting heap.
Wondering where their strength, their energy has gone.
Wondering how they could feel so wonderful, so full of life, so all-powerful, actually, only moments before.
And now, muscles and joints turned to water, be unable to move.
And can only lie there, sweating and panting, recovering their temperature and respiration, at least, while doubting that their strength will ever return.
Slowly, Rufe's cock detumesces inside her ass.
Slowly, the peristaltic action of her bowels expels him, causing him to ooze out of her ass hole, long and thick and flaccid, a gigantic turd.
Still they lie there, recovering.
For five minutes, or perhaps for fifteen, who can say?
Until, at last, Rufe slides off of her, to one side. And offers her a hand up, off the bed. She smiles at him and goes into the bathroom, thinking him behind her. He is not.
Surprised, she turns around in the bathroom doorway.
He is gone.
Back to his own room, apparently. And here she was prepared to spend the night with him. Ah, well.
Just as well he knows his place, perhaps.
In the event, he has proven wiser than she.
Because, had she made her wishes clear beforehand, then he would be joining her in the shower, even now.
As it is, she will not have that dark, hot, prime beef to keep her company during the night, will not have that big, black boner to which to awaken, come morning.
Because he, at least, remembers his place.
He had no right to presume that she wanted him to remain.
And so, has done the correct thing.
No question.
Good man, Rufe.
Good man in the sack and he knows his place.
But of course, only insofar as he can.
Because, after all, she is the one who defines what his place is or is not.
So that what he has done is, in essence, a default action.
Absent other instructions, he has done what he must.
But she can and will change all that. She has plans for that boy.
CHAPTER FIVE
It's no good, Rufe thinks. No fucking good.
Meaning his attaching too much importance to what he and Cynthia-make that Mizz Cynthia- have just done.
He could have had her.
That is, he could have made her his, could have become her lover. He knows this. It was that good.
He was that good. But to what end? And for how long?
Because there is such a thing as the passage of time with which he must contend.
And to assume, even for one second, that he is capable of maintaining that same image in her eyes- whatever that image happens tc be, exactly-that image with which she is in a certain kind of love, to hold that over an extended period of time, well, that is simply not possible.
So that that way lies-unemployment.
Because he can see it all now, plain as day.
The brief, incandescent affair, followed by the cooling off.
Until she can no longer bear to have him around, a constant reminder and a reproach to her for having broken up with him.
And yet, she will not backtrack, will not reconsider.
Oh, no.
Because her basic problem, as he knows only too well, does not tolerate, will not support, repetition.
Cynthia Harrington has only one problem, you see.
Boredom.
Pure and simple boredom. Meaning the lack of meaningful activity, meaning the lack of meaningful existence.
Because it would not matter what the rest of the world thought, if she could find one truly meaningful thing to do, meaningful to herself, that is, then all of this sexual athleticism would disappear in a flash.
Cynthia Harrington is a beautiful, wealthy woman.
She has nothing to prove, nothing at all, except to herself.
And Rufe can see that, day by day, this becomes harder and harder for her.
Justify that you have the right to continue sucking air, Cynthia.
Prove to yourself that your getting up or not getting up today makes one iota of difference to yourself or to the world.
And she cannot.
He has seen the desperation come over her, time and again.
Not a pretty sight.
As she frantically dials up Bruce, that fucking pimp, and practically begs him for something new, something novel by way of living sex toys for her to play with.
And takes whatever she can get from him, knowing all the while that it probably will not solve her problem, even temporarily.
No matter how hard she tries to lose herself in the novelty, the diversion of the moment.
Because he will give her this much credit; she is no nympho.
Better for her if she were.
Better for her if she could know the satisfaction, the contentment, however temporary, could find meaning in her actions, however bestial and shallow.
But she cannot. She will not.
She will get herself off with Carlotta, with Rufe, during Chipper's homecoming ceremonies, even with Chipper himself.
But how very fleeting is that relief.
It has no afterglow, other than that of exhaustion.
And no residue, other than that of depression.
So that she is now and forever a being apart.
Apart from the world, apart from reality.
She is suffering a form of sensory deprivation, in which she views the rest of the world, views reality itself through an invisible but all-powerful protective barrier.
But the price of that protection, that invulnerability is a shell of emptiness, a vacuum which surrounds her.
And if others cannot get through to her, by the same token she cannot reach them.
With Chipper, she comes closest.
Her genuine affection is reserved for him.
So that she is truly happiest, even if not truly happy even then, when he is around.
And yet, even there, she must force herself to overlook much.
His long absences, and the personal reasons which undoubtedly underlie them, so constant, so protracted are they.
His perversion, which she actively supports and augments, which, on one level, cannot help but be construed as a constant insult, in which he tells her that she, by herself, would be, is inadequate to his sexual needs.
So that, in a way, Rufe supposes, she is fortunate that she is so invulnerable.
Because, were she the opposite, or even possessed of normal sensitivity, even the slightest touch of paranoia, she would undoubtedly have to be committed to an institution for the mentally disturbed.
Where she would begin by learning simple, tangible accomplishments, like making little clay sculptures, or something.
And who knows but that one day she will crack.
Meanwhile, they were good in bed together; too good, perhaps.
Because she felt, and felt deeply that time.
And Rufe knows that she is clutching at straws right now.
And so has taken a few personal days, which she could hardly deny him. And he does have to get back to his apartment, to pick up his mail, do his laundry, get caught up with such of his life as he can still call his own.
But above all, it allows him to escape from the claustrophobic atmosphere, the closed world of the penthouse.
It is a world which stays with him, clinging to him enveloping him, even when he is driving the limo.
Because it is a powerful environment, in its own way.
Elastic enough to hold him in his clutches so long as he wears the chauffeur's uniform, it is.
And more and more he feels the urge, the need to get away from it, for longer and longer periods.
To be his own man.
To be a man at all.
Because this is not an easy job, in the long run.
Rather, it weighs upon him, day after day.
If Cynthia is aimless and purposeless, and he but an extension of her, and a hired one at that, then just what the fuck does that make him?
Not much, he tells himself.
Only when he is out here, breathing the free air, that he enjoys so much as the illusion of being a human being, as opposed to living furniture.
Here, he can go out on his own, as himself, and function.
At least, he can play on his own.
As for working on his own, resigning, breaking away, well, that is no part of his options, at the moment.
Harrington money is too fucking good. And his problems are those that others wish they had.
There are guys out there busting their asses to make one tenth of what he does for driving a luxury limo, for working out in a private gym, for working out on some first class nookie.
Still, he can count the number of hours he can truly call his own in the course of a week on his fingers.
But at least, here, now, he can know freedom, albeit on a short leash. Freedom.
To be himself, to do the things he wants to do. Except that, even here, he is limited. He has no creativity, no hobbies, no interests. In that regard, he very much resembles Cynthia. So that he too is reduced to the sexual for recreation.
In which he is skilled at the use of himself.
In which he can, with great accuracy, refer to his prick as a tool.
And now, unfortunately, as a tool of his trade.
No, fucking Cynthia was not entirely a good idea.
He sees that very clearly now.
Perhaps, were he a little more perfunctory, a bit less involved, things would be different.
But no, the one thing he can be said to do really well he had to do. Had to.
Never did he have better material to work with, never was his vanity so greatly appealed to.
So that there was no question of his pulling his punches in that situation.
It would simply not have occurred to him.
Not until afterward could he perceive the potential danger to his continued employment that it represented.
But that is soon enough turned off and thereby corrected.
All he has to do is to continue to show affection and attention to Carlotta and Cynthia's own pride of place will prevent her pursuing him in more than desultory fashion.
He will continue to be her best stud.
Meaning best toy, best dildo.
Which is fine with him, although, before he actually had her as he did, this was not at all what he was willing to settle for.
Thus are our obsessions cured.
Thus are our desires killed by fulfillment.
And in fact, he could not wait to leave this morning, to jump into his own small compact and head across the river to Jersey.
And he could not have been happier than when opening the door to his very own apartment.
Where the furniture was plain, economical, his.
And opening the door to his refrigerator.
Where the food is-nonexistent.
Yes, he will have to head for the supermarket, getting himself a few days' goodies.
And kick back, watch some TV, maybe take in a movie.
And sleep when he wants and get up when he wants.
But first, he will need some food, if he is not to end up making his usual mistake, fast food three times a day, followed by stomach trouble.
* * *
Too much, she is, Rufe thinks. And he means that literally.
Who is she trying to kid, chain-hoisting a pair of tits like that to such heights?
Who is she trying to kid, wearing shorts intended for a quite different, much less ample figure?
Who is she trying to kid, balancing herself on platform sandals intended for someone much slimmer, much more agile?
And yet, there she is, pushing her shopping cart up and down the aisles, shopping for what would appear to be quite a large brood.
And she smiles at him, stopping her cart, saying, "Hello, there! I haven't seen you in here before, I'm sure, or I'd remember."
Isn't that supposed to be my line? Rufe asks himself.
Coffee and cream, she is.
A mama, she is, and that many times over, judging by the amount of breakfast cereal, the gallons of milk which occupy her heavily laden shopping cart.
Casually, Rufe checks his own basket.
Nothing perishable there, fortunately.
So that he will not have to feel guilty, abandoning his purchases.
Because this is a pickup.
And one he is not about to turn down.
Pretty face, fantastically exaggerated body and legs, thick thighs tapering down to slender ankles.
Hourglass figure, if a bit thick about the middle, with a roll over the waistband of the too-tight, too-short shorts.
Looking for it, she is.
Not really expecting to find it, going on about het daily chores, but the radar is active.
And he is a most suitable blip, he knows.
So that here he is, here she is.
"Lotta groceries there," he observes.
"Could use me some help puttin"em away, I s'pose," she responds.
Bingo.
And what else is new?
"What about the kids, mama?" he asks. She shrugs.
"School, day care, whatever," she replies.
Whatever, indeed. Definitely the loving, caring, motherly type.
"An' befo' you be axin', if you can fine the sumbitch, you doin' a lot bettah'n the fuckin' authawties."
"Mus' be kinda rough," Rufe says.
"Body know enough, know enough ta git by."
Wink, wink.
Double, maybe triple dipping welfare, probably, he guesses.
And using her body to make sure she takes care of the authorities.
As in fucking authorities.
Hey, no skin off, he reasons.
And it looks good.
And it's making the offer.
And it's been a while since he was himself, and not some brass-buttoned, capped and booted combination symbol of affluence and mobile appliance.
Definitely a target of opportunity, he thinks, appending, for both of us.
"Why don't I catch my stuff later then, babe?" he suggests. "I'll just jump in my car and follow you home."
"Soun' lak a winnah t'me," she agrees. "You kin wait outsahd whilst ah does the food stamp bit."
"You got it."
* * *
"Nice place," he says. And means it.
Surprisingly good quality, this apartment.
"Yeah, well, they fine'ly done sumthin' right about the fuckin' housing problem.
'"Course now, ah did use ma speshul influence here an' there, unnastan'."
Proud of having what it takes and knowing how to use it.
Hell, he doesn't blame her.
After all, isn't that how Cynthia landed Chipper?
Perhaps not so blatantly, but the principle applies, he is certain.
Although this one is a bit too frenetic in her movements, a little too rapid in her speech, a bit too anxious to show him that she is hitting on all cylinders, that she is aware, sur le qui vive, as they are so fond of saying at Cynthia's intimate little dinners with a few of her and Chipper's social circle.
A woman of this much drive and intelligence, and this is the way she applies it.
So smart and yet so dumb.
But, on the other hand, he can see her point.
This way, she is socking it to the system, full time.
And the system has no chance to recover its balance, to begin hitting her back. So therefore, why not?
And now, the groceries put away, she leads him into the bedroom, without further ado.
And unceremoniously, efficiently, begins to remove her clothing.
He follows suit.
And they eye each other up and down appreciatively.
And Rufe thinks, what are we doing here, the two of us?
We belong on some tropical island where we can use what we have for the purpose for which it-and we- were so obviously created.
A silly waste to do otherwise.
But in this world, it can't happen.
The only way something like that could would be me and her at Club Med someplace.
And with the kids, we can forget that.
Still, here they are, the two of them.
And he takes her in his arms, her huge, luscious mammaries pressing against his chest, just below the pectoral muscles, as he helps himself to two generous handfuls of ass cheek.
Together, they collapse sideways, onto the bed.
And she is on his cock at once, sucking him.
So that he can see the top of her head, her short, kinky hair neatly parted.
And he can see her lips as they protrude, busily working on his prong.
And her breasts, reaching to her knees as she crouches there between his legs.
"Slide down a little, an' ah'll show you ma goodies, she says, raising her head.
Not fully understanding what she means, Rufe complies.
And she quickly reverses herself in the bed, straddling his shoulders as she bridges herself above him, going right back down on his cock.
As she lowers her wide hips down, down, down.
Until he is able to eat her cunt, his nose almost up against her ass hole.
So, he thinks, not as confident as she would like him to believe.
Because he would have been more than happy to eat her pussy, servicing her as she had serviced him.
But no, she could only ask that of him if she were doing him at the same time, lest he refuse her.
And he suspects that some of the officialdom with which she deals so deftly and so corruptly are more concerned with ego satisfaction than actually getting down with some spade chick, however voluptuously designed.
So that they are anxious mainly to be able to say to themselves, because of their position, their power, "I did it!"
It.
Meaning that they got to fuck something this delectable precisely due to their position in life.
Marvelous, is it not, the power of power to satisfy the ego?
Marvelous, but restrictive.
Let it not be said that they actually ate her box or something even more, more... disgraceful.
No, there is no help for it but that they must maintain a certain distance, even in that most intimate of acts.
And only in their minds do that other.
Not so Rufe, however.
But still, she is so used to it, the distance that men put between them and herself, that this is the best she is willing to risk, lest he become offended and leave.
As though he would, before having his way with this bod of hers.
As now he does, first pulling his face back, then gently but insistently, a handful of cheek at a time, pushing her to one side.
And reversing her in the bed, as she, seeing what he is about, raises and spreads her legs.
And he shafts his plunger smoothly into her at once.
And begins at once to fuck her full force. But no, he tells himself, I can do better for her, better for myself, than this.
And he does.
He scoops her thighs up in his muscular arms.
He holds her doubled up like that with arms and shoulders, as he changes the angle of his continuous thrust slightly.
So that he can reach her boobs with his mouth.
So that he can suck those silver dollar-sized nipples to doorbell hardness.
So that he can reach around and squeeze her breasts with his hands.
So that he can be beneath her and above her and around her, possessing her completely.
And so that she has but to open her eyes and know that it is he himself and none other who is thus servicing her.
And himself.
Because, if this is a giving, it is no less a taking as well.
So that he is fitting her over himself as he fits into her. And a perfect fit it is.
Lubricated but pressurized, passive but responsive, it is.
And hot and juicy and intimate and very much impassioned.
As she begins to breathe heavily.
As her complexion goes from caf au lait to dusky rose.
As beads of sexual perspiration form on her forehead.
As she looks down at herself, trying in vain to see the juncture which affords her such pleasure.
Thinking that in this one she has herself a real find.
Handsome, built, hung, and potent as hell.
Her dream man.
Who must remain a dream.
She knows that, even as she milks the moment for all it's worth.
Because this is a class stud with more going for him than she will ever know.
So that this is a chance encounter, the work of a moment, of the present, without past or future.
And she is used to such arrangements, has long ago learned to expect this to be the case, no matter how much it may look otherwise.
Otherwise, how does she account for Henry, Walter, some whose names and faces she no longer recalls.
And they have all left their calling cards. Which are, at the moment, in school, day care, whatever.
While she is riding higher and higher up the rainbow of her sexual arousal, toward that ultimate feeling, toward the pleasure beyond pleasure. And Rufe is staying right up there with her.
Because this is one red hot mama.
She does indeed have what it takes.
And does in fact know how to use it.
As witness the way her pussy is sucking his cock as it pistons in and out of her, like some kind of toothless mouth.
Yes, this is one talented lady.
But this fuck is almost an accomplished fact.
Delightful, but accomplished.
Meaning over and done with and behind him.
Yes, he knows that, as soon as he pops his nuts, she's history. It can be no other way.
Because he cannot afford to have his life further complicated.
One shot, and it's a delightful interlude, an intermission, a recess, a time out from life.
But the other, and she becomes trouble on the hoof, a worry and a burden.
So come pleasure, come!
And it does.
Easily, smoothly, naturally, a drifting of his jism out of himself, effortlessly, as her hot, working pussy does all the work and more, as she herself goes into her series of multiple orgasms, her cries ringing flatly off the walls of the little bedroom.
Up, up, and over the top.
And they shower together in the tub, taking a last, long, goodbye look at what might have been, on another planet.
He dresses, and is just ready to leave when there is a knock on the door.
And the woman, an old bathrobe tied with its raggedy sash around her waist, opens the door.
"Oh, its you," she says, to the pasty-faced, bespectacled little fat guy in the cheap sport coat.
He steps in and casts a disapproving look at Rufe.
"Guess I'd best be movin' along," Rufe says, stepping by the little man and closing the door softly behind himself.
So that he hears, "Listen, Ruby, if you don't stop them from coming around, I'm going to have a most difficult time approving... "
CHAPTER SIX
That Was good, Rufe thinks.
Good that he met her, good that they did it, good that he left when he did, as he did.
With no farewells, no promises, no arrangements for the future.
On the one hand, perhaps it was a shame to walk out on so fine a piece of ass.
But, on the other, he must consider her an example of nature's bounty, of the generosity of the world in its bestowal of physiques.
And to cling to her, well, that would be a sign of his bad faith, of his lack of confidence in nature, in himself.
No, he must move on in his life.
Onward and upward.
But first, he must sleep, must recover his energy. So he picks up his groceries, goes home, has lunch, and takes a nap.
* * *
He is pleased that darkness is falling as he awakens.
He must go out and see what the world after dark has to offer by way of nature's bounty.
He showers again, gets dressed in open-throated sport shirt, pastel slacks and breeze-weave shoes, and he is out for the evening.
* * *
The pool hall. Losers.
Big talkers, big doers, to hear them tell it.
But this is really grim, hanging about a dingy aggregation of pool tables, hoping to prove their worth with cue and balls.
Pass, he tells himself.
And here-what?
The bar is likewise seedy, run-down. And the girls?
They are too young, their skirts too short, their stockings too mesh, their makeup too heavy.
Hustlers, being very blatant about it as though somehow proud to be doing this, as if carrying on in some grand tradition.
The world's oldest profession it may be, but today's expert practitioners know better than to let a man off with a one-time, one-pay deal.
You're blowin' it, ladies, he tells them silently.
Because they are losers cruising losers.
And whether they tumble or whether they pass, it is a game the girls cannot win.
They are playing a lottery whose prizes are not worth the effort required to win them.
Depressing, Rufe thinks. A waste.
On this corner, a crack deal.
"Fuck you lookin' at, bro'?"
"Hey, if that's the attitude, I'll get mine some-where's else-bro'," he replies.
"Oh now hey, wait a minute, ah din' mean nuthin' ba what I-" Rufe bows his head, shaking his hands in the air, palms up.
Meaning, Forget you, punk, you're history that never even got written.
And of course, the punk does not, cannot pursue.
Because this is his corner.
And he has a certain volume of business to transact, a certain amount of time in which to do it.
Next time, he will not be so quick to display his territorial demeanor.
Next time, Rufe will not have to so much as talk to him.
And can look at him all he wants. Big fucking deal.
Another loser, who will end up behind bars if he's lucky, face down in the gutter if he isn't.
And will most likely lead an existence which will start with the one and end with the other.
Old winos in doorways he passes now.
Dreaming who knows what?
Perhaps of the day when they need dream no longer.
When a great and final truth will replace the lies they tell themselves just to pass the time, time which, for them, moves all too slowly, has gone on far, far too long.
And no use to wish them luck, because they never had, never will have any.
I needed this, Rufe tells himself.
He needed to get back out here in that other part of the real world, its underside.
To see real problems, beside which his own seem to take on all the importance of games in a pinball arcade-intense enough while they last, but having no meaning in absolute reality. Which this is.
And with which they are all, meaning this entire community, coping quite badly.
Because there is not one winner among them.
Not even one person to whom Rufe can point and truly tell himself that that individual is better off than himself.
So much of it here, the hopelessness, the losing.
He had forgotten.
Better to not go on here, he tells himself.
Because the neon flashes and the voices laugh.
But it is the neon of a dingy, hopeless world, the bright, grimy signposts that all read NO WAY OUT.
And the laughs are those of cynicism, meaningless, despait.
So that there is nothing here for him.
Nothing.
But really, he tells himself, I needed this.
To bring him back to his senses.
What the fuck was that supposed to mean before with the big woman-natural happiness?
The dream, the fantasy of himself and this, this... Ruby, he thinks he heard the social worker call her, off somewhere on some island.
While her kids do what?
While she and he-speak of the devil.
It's het.
Bopping down the street, wearing-what else-a red dress, on the arm of some nasty looking character in a dark sportshirt and light slacks.
And he cannot resist.
" 'Lo, Ruby," he says.
"Wha-what?"
"Lady's with me, bro'."
Lady is so drunk she doesn't know who the fuck she's with-bro', is what he feels like answering. But why?
For a confrontation with this loser? Enough that he draws his next breath, Rufe thinks.
Enough that he must face the next dawn and know who and what it is looking back at him in the mirror.
Enough that he knows that he has no future and no possibility of one.
So that Rufe has no intention of giving meaning to his meaningless existence by a so-called meaningful encounter.
"Her kids with you too, are they?" Rufe asks.
And he peers around as though trying to see behind them.
"Nemmine about no fuckin' keeds, bro'. That be de lady's worry, o-kay?"
"Yeah, right," Rufe sighs.
And looks at Ruby, who smiles innanely at him.
And leans heavily, nodding, on the arm of this would-be and no doubt will-be stud.
Rufe gives them both looks as though he smells something foul and disgusting, shakes his head, and moves on.
"Guess I told him, huh, babe?" he hears the stud ask her.
"Tole who?" he hears Ruby reply. And suddenly, he wants to be somewhere, anywhere other than here.
* * *
"Well, well, look who's back, Carlotta!
"The prodigal chauffeur has returned!
"Break out the fatted whatever, while I fall on his neck and kiss him."
They are wearing transparent negligees, Cynthia and Carlotta.
The TV is blaring, the champagne flowing.
And a pseudo-good time is being had by all, apparently.
Rufe looks from one to the other.
Both of them are a bit under the weather and feeling no pain.
"Care to join us?" Cynthia asks, swaying slightly, bottle in one hand, glass in the other.
But Rufe just stands there in the marbled hallway, above the sunken, carpeted living room.
"He does not care... to join us," Cynthia says to Carlotta. "What do you think of that, Carlotta?"
And Carlotta responds with a long, resounding belch.
"My sentiments exactly," Cynthia says.
Shakily, she pours herself a glass of champagne from the bottle, spilling some on the rug.
She looks down at the spill, letting the bottle slip from her hand, its contents joining the spot, inundating it completely.
"Oops," Cynthia says, giggling.
And raises her glass.
"A toast!" she exclaims. "A toast to the men in my life!
"One night with me, and off they go, into the wild blue yonder!"
So, Rufe thinks, that's what this is all about.
And he sees that the celebration has been going on all day, apparently, judging by the mess.
And obviously, this is no picnic in the park.
Which, come to think of it, is probably just what Cynthia needs.
Get the fuck out of this mausoleum and suck air, will you? Rufe urges, mentally.
But he knows that that is not the real problem here.
The real problem is Chipper.
Chipper and now, himself.
To do what they did in bed and then to bug out was, by Cynthia's lights, in bad taste, to say the least.
But not, Rufe reminds himself the disaster it would have been had he remained.
And let her suck him dry of all the male content, all the male satisfaction he has to offer him, squeezing the juices out of him like a lemon whose remainder, whose rind must inevitably be discarded afterward.
No, he has definitely chosen the lesser of two evils.
Wrong to have abandoned her as he did, still wronger to have remained.
He, at least, has done the right thing and knows it.
Because Cynthia's real problem within her real problem is boredom.
It is a fact that she has no true life of her own.
She is on hold between Chipper's rare and short-lived homecomings.
Which begin in perversion and end in sudden departure.
Still, if she had a life, any life at all of her own, she could kill two birds with one stone-her boredom and Chipper's absence.
But she doesn't, and that's that.
Not his place to advise, to influence.
To attempt to do so would only cause further resentment.
And he is not exactly in her good graces to begin with, at the moment.
"You're ju, you're just in time," Cynthia says to him. "We were just about to adjourn to the bedroom to continue the festivities."
And Rufe knows better than to ask what it is they're supposed to be celebrating.
Because she is celebrating the same thing as what he came from last night.
That was merely an extension of this celebration to a different level of society and a different location.
But it is the same hopelessness, the same despair.
All that is required here is a flashing, dingy neon sign advertising beer but meaning no way out.
They have even done a great job working on the squalor.
Really dumb on Carlotta's part, if she made any of this mess, Rufe thinks. After all, she's the one who will have to clean it up.
But then, perhaps it's worth it for her, the extra work.
To ingratiate herself with her mistress, to show her the degree to which they are kindred spirits.
But that is a woman's device, and one not available to Rufe.
He has many possibilities; being just one of the girls is not one of them.
No, this is, has been a hen party all the way.
And now, of course, it's time to bring in the male entertainment.
Well timed, Rufe, he tells himself, bitterly.
Because he did not have to come back here.
But he did, at the end of a day of introspection, of walking around museums and art galleries, going through decompression after yesterday.
He has come back to the penthouse with the attitude of a man going into the office of a Monday morning after a depressing weekend, there to resume the daily grind.
But now- "Come on, Carlotta, time to clear the decks for action!
"Get 'em off, big boy, because this is a fucking party!"
And Cynthia throws her champagne glass into the stone fireplace, smashing it, before removing her negligee.
Carlotta shrugs, not looking at Rufe, and follows suit.
So that now, both women are naked.
And Cynthia stands beside Carlotta and grasps her tits from behind, aiming them at Rufe and half saying, half singing, "If you want it, here it is, come and get it!"
And Rufe continues the old song in his mind, Make your mind up fast!
If you want it, here it is, come and get it! Better hurry, 'cause it might not last! And for him, he knows that this is only too true. So he too removes his clothes as they watch.
No harm done here, now, he tells himself.
Because this is to be an orgy of despair, a fuck of desperation, an attempt to gain feeling when the senses are dulled, and one which is destined for partial success at best.
Still, with the reduction of her inhibitions through champagne, Cynthia could actually end up deluding herself that she is in fact having a good time.
And now, the two women flank him and the trio moves unsteadily into the bedroom.
Where they all sit down in unison on the side of the bed, Rufe carefully, the women heavily, letting gravity do the work.
"You eat Carlotta's pussy, Rufe, while I suck her tits," Cynthia drunkenly instructs.
And Carlotta assumes the position at once, legs raised and spread.
And Rufe, shrugging inwardly, crouches below her, sealing his mouth to her cunt.
Lemons, he tells himself.
Meaning that the women have been peeing and not bothering to clean themselves up afterward.
And in fact-no, the bed is still clean and dry.
So that there have been no previous excursions to the sack.
He has arrived at the juncture in the celebration of boredom and despair between alcohol and the flesh.
Well timed, ass hole, he tells himself, as he works on Carlotta's clit and she begins to respond to the double stimulation of Rufe's mouth and that of Cynthia, sucking her tits.
And now, Cynthia moves around to Carlotta's head and bridges her body with drunken meticulous-ness, moving slowly, carefully as she straddles her shoulders with a knee on either side.
And lowers her crotch onto Carlotta's face, even as she tells Rufe, "Let's take turns!"
And they do.
So that now Rufe is shafting his tongue in and out of Carlotta's hot, juicy cunt and now Cynthia is strumming Carlotta's engorged nub of a clit with her tongue. And Cynthia, for some reason, finds this hilarious.
But she soon tires of the game.
"My turn, dammit!" she says.
And flops beside Carlotta on her back, glaring and petulant.
But Carlotta very calmly begins sucking and kneading Cynthia's breasts.
As Rufe tastes her lemons.
Not a bad taste, Rufe tells himself.
He prefers a clean pussy, of course, but as less than fresh meat goes, this isn't bad.
Because of course Cynthia and Carlotta keep themselves super-clean most of the time.
Why not, with facilities such as these available to them and not much else to do, under normal circumstances.
And maybe Carlotta is looking forward to tomorrow, when she will have to clean all this up and thereby justify her existence here.
Because, of the three of them, she is the only one with real duties around the place.
Rufe and Cynthia are expendable.
And therein lies a bit of Carlotta's independence of attitude.
Because she is going along with the program, but, Rufe has no doubt, at a price.
Because Cynthia will know what she has done, what she has caused.
What she is doing is abusing her authority.
What she is causing is the occasion of her own later contrition.
Contrition.
Which is at least a genuine feeling, evidence of the fact that at least a part of her is alive.
So that yes, Cynthia is setting herself up for that.
And before whom should she feel contrite, if not Carlotta.
Because Rufe, being a man, is part of the problem.
He is the symbol of manhood, and Chipper's stand- in, almost to a fatal degree, if he isn't careful.
Because Chipper is not exactly the healthiest thing in the world to represent, chez Harrington.
Not with what the mistress of the household has against him, and not with her limited powers of retaliation.
Which could very well take a very obvious, if symbolic form.
And Rufe knows this only too well.
So that he is ardent and skillful in his attentions to Cynthia right now, counting on her inebriation to offset any misinterpretation of his expertise, his intensity.
And he forces himself to excitement over her.
By letting himself once again lapse into a fantasy world, an impossible world, in which he and she can be together, equals, lovers.
A world in which she does not have to get drunk, does not have to wallow in self pity, does not have to invent trite games of the body, played out in despair and boredom, and dissipating these last only temporarily, only during the act itself.
And he suspects that her landing will leave her much worse off than did her take-off.
Still, there is nothing to be done other than what he is doing.
"That's right," she murmurs, eyes closed, "put that big bastard right into me!" And of course, he does.
So that he is fucking her, long, slow, steady strokes, letting her dulled senses reach into herself and there find that which her body seeks.
And she does.
Because even now, her face turns red and small exclamations of sexual arousal escape her parted lips.
And Rufe does not know, does not care what images play on the insides of her closed eyelids.
Hopefully, they are not of him.
Because all he wants right now is a servant's credit for doing a servant's duty.
Which is to permit the use of his physical being to service the whims of his employer, that usage being expressed now in the extreme form.
And he does a good job on her, bringing her all the way along.
So that when, at length, the pleasure beyond pleasure is summoned, it is called forth from within the depths of the two of them.
So that they have a perfect climax together, his ejaculations alternating with the spasms of her multiple orgasms.
But Rufe pulls out as soon as they have finished, suddenly finding it distasteful being in contact with her.
As though he has suddenly realized that he is fucking a corpse.
Because he senses within her both her desperation, her struggle to be alive and the fact that she is not, a fact which cannot be entirely unknown to her, he is certain.
And she proves most desperate indeed. Because- "Come, Carlotta, you get to be Chipper! "Homecoming time! "Get with it, gal!"
And Cynthia keeps her legs raised and spread, pussy lips still parted, shiny now with pussy juice and the sperm which begins to ooze from the split peach of her cunt as it starts to melt.
And Carlotta knows what is expected.
But she is most careful to pause before starting, transfixing Cynthia's drunken gaze with her own piercing dark eyes for a long moment.
Making damned sure that Cynthia will remember this.
Making damned sure that she gets the unspoken message: You owe me, bitch!
And only then does she seal her mouth to Cynthia's overly juicy crotch.
And Rufe, watching, feels a faint wave of nausea rise in his stomach.
But then, he has seen Chipper do this many times.
Same cunt, different load. Sometimes even multiple loads. Sometimes even loads in more than one orifice, giving Chipper a veritable feast.
Carlotta does a good job and pulls back.
And Cynthia, smiling, eyes closed, says, "No, no, Chipper, that's okay.
"The other fellows took care of that part.
"I just want to curl up in a little ball and... go... to... si... " And she curls up on her side and sleeps.
Carlotta covers her with a sheet.
And Rufe follows her jolly ass out of the master bedroom.
Where Carlotta whirls on him, saying, in a hissing whisper, "Where de fock deed joo go, yesser-day?
"De wooman, chee bin outta her mine."
"I was entitled to a couple of days off, so I took 'em."
"Oh, thass reel nice, that ees, amigo!
"An' joo gotta pick rl' now, an' steeck me wP that fockin' head case een there!"
"Yeah, well, I didn't exactly see you holdin' back none, babe."
"Yeah? Well I got eet jus' a leetle too knocked here to get foolish, joo know?"
"That I do, kiddo, only too well.
"Same boat, remember?
"And in that connection, don't tell me you never feel like runnin' outta here."
"Escreamin', matter of fack," she replies, grinning now.
"Well, there you are, then.
"And she started to make, to make... too much of me, y'know."
"I din' know, no."
"Yeah, well, I don't need the hot one week love affair, followed by the unemployment line.
"So I had no choice except to nip this thing in the bud."
"Tha' joo deed, pal, tha' joo deed!
"Ayayay, the poor leetle reech gal, no?
"I shout' have soch problems!"
"You an' me both, babe."
CHAPTER SEVEN
I fucked Up, Cynthia tells herself.
I haven't handled this, haven't handled myself at all well.
Chipper would not have been proud of me, the last few days.
And in fact, she reflects, Chipper has no reason to be proud of her at all.
Except as object, to be seen at the theater, the restaurant, on the street, the properly beautiful woman of a properly successful businessman, his major perk.
Face it, she tells herself, I am an object, a mere thing.
The living doll, that's me. But then, that is her function, her reason for being.
So that, viewed in that light, what she has done is not so terrible, not so disgraceful or disgusting.
It is in fact fully in keeping with her purpose, her function.
We sex toys must keep in practice, after all, she tells herself.
Must keep the juices flowing.
She is a kind of trained athlete, she reminds herself, now that she stops to think about it.
And athletes must do whatever they must, if they are to stay trained.
And yes, she thinks, as she moves to the bathroom, she has had quite a workout.
There has been strain on her innards, on her muscles, on her mind.
And she has survived.
She has- Gushers fore and aft, of such intensity and pressure as to disrupt her thought processes, explode out of her.
Thank you, Old Faithful, she says to herself, when she has finished.
She flushes and moves to the shower.
Where another surge and another gushes out of her, to be whirled down the drain of the shower.
The tingling needles of the spray bring her to her senses.
Carlotta, she will compensate royally.
And I suppose there should be a little something extra for Rufe, she sighs to herself.
For services rendered above and beyond the call, and like that.
But really, the important thing is that she pull herself, her act together.
Carlotta is no problem.
The house is a mess, granted; but no more of a mess than after, say, a medium-sized cocktail party, one of those soires she throws for their friends, hers and Chipper's, every so often.
As for Rufe- A wicked smile comes over her face.
She has not fdrgiven him for deserting her.
She was better than that.
Both of them, the two of them together, were better than that.
The only real unfairness in all this was that, his absconding from her presence when she could have used him most.
They could have been-never mind.
What's done is done and can't be undone.
Not now, not ever.
Legally speaking, he had every right to do as he did.
But is that what we're into here, Rufe, the letter of the law?
What about friendship and mutual desires and... need?
Hey, you wanna play the game that way, buddy boy, I can dig it.
And she knows just how to put him in his place.
She picks up the phone and punches in an internal code, ringing the condo of the Birmingham Steeles, ten floors below.
"Steele residence."
"Ah, Hortense! Cynthia Harrington here. Is she there?"
"Oh, yes ma'am. One moment please." Pause.
Then, "Cynthia dahling."
"Samantha dahling. It's been simply ages!"
"I meant to call," they chorus at each other.
And laugh.
"How have you-" A chorus again. More laughter.
"It's my nickel, darling, as they say," Cynthia says.
"You just go right ahead," Samantha says.
"Chipper is out of town, Samantha, and I have absolutely no more errands to be run and no plans to go anywhere.
"So I was thinking, if you and Brim would like to borrow the limo for the day-"
"Well, Brim's out of town. Again. As usual."
"Tell me about it," Cynthia says, voice tinged with bitterness.
"Yes, well, that leaves me also with no particular use for-um!"
"Yes?"
"Your limo, Cynthia. Do you still employ that chauffeur, oh, what's his name."
"Rufe."
"Exactly."
"Absolutely."
"Tell you what then, dear: Why don't you send him on down and I'll think of something, I'm sure."
"I'm sure you will, my dear. "In fact, that's why I called you. "Other than to hear your voice again, of course."
"Of course.
"So then, I can expect him-when."
"Half hour to an hour, I should think."
"Excellent! That will give me time to... prepare."
"You do that. Later then, darling. Ciao."
"Ciao."
* * *
Breakfast.
Carlotta and Rufe are in their uniforms, Cynthia in a silken robe and slippers.
Carlotta serves in silence. In silence, they eat.
"About today," Cynthia says, when they have finished. They eye her attentively.
"Carlotta, you of course have your work cut out for yourself.
"Rufe, you, on the other hand, do not have a great deal, or in fact anything at all, to do.
"So I'm lending you to Samantha Steele for the day.
"Please report to her at your earliest opportunity, as she is expecting you."
"Yes, ma'am."
Something new has been added, he tells himself. She has never loaned him out before. So that this is a message from her. You are property, to be disposed of as the whim strikes.
You are an object to be retained or loaned out.
You have been bought and paid for and therefore I am free to treat you thus.
But if these are her thoughts and intentions, if she thinks that by treating him in this fashion she is humiliating him, punishing him, then she has miscalculated.
Because Rufe is only too happy to get away from here for another day while getting paid for it.
And he is glad that Cynthia will not be using him as a crutch or whatever in the resolution of her personal crisis.
And he does not envy Carlotta.
Who, if she is lucky, will be left alone to do her housework.
And he thinks he sees envy in Carlotta's glance. He gets to get away, again. And he is out of here. "I'll go now, then."
"I'll uh, I'll not be needing you any more today, so I would appreciate it greatly if you were to uh, if you were to arrange to be out until, say, five- ish?"
"Yes, ma'am. Shall I leave right now?"
"Right now would be excellent."
"I'll just freshen up a bit, get my purse, and be on my way, ma'am."
"I would greatly appreciate that, Hortense."
Hortense does not reply, but goes quickly to her quarters.
Stop it, Samantha tells herself, just stop. Addressing these pangs of guilt which assail her, as they do each time she feels the urge to have the place to herself in order to have a certain kind of company.
Because Hortense knows exactly what she is up to.
Madame is about to have her ashes hauled again. But she will not attempt to justify herself to Hortense.
Because Hortense would never understand.
How could she, the dried-up prune?
Skinny as a rail, she is, is Hortense.
Straight up and down, she is.
Like Olive Oyl in the Popeye cartoons Samantha watches on TV.
Go explain to somebody like that the constant companionship of a pair of melons like hers own.
Or the round boulders of her ass cheeks as they grind together when she walks.
Or those rounded thighs which constantly remind one another of their presence, and of what is right there, where they join.
Or her hot, juicy cunt, so delicate, so excitable, so delightful when aroused.
And explain to the old maid the effects of her husband's prolonged business trips, the loneliness, the frustration.
What would the attempt to tell one such as her about these feelings accomplish?
Besides, it would come out like the whining self pity of some spoiled brat.
And Samantha has no need to humiliate herself in front of the hired help.
And, speaking of hired help, she cannot help but admire Cynthia's taste.
Many an idle moment Samantha has spent fantasizing about that big black chauffeur of hers.
And even that jolly latino maid. And even Cynthia and herself sharing either or both of them in the sack.
But then, there is nothing unusual in this.
Because Samantha's days are filled with sexual fantasies.
And actually, she compliments herself on her conservativeness.
Because Cynthia has given her Bruce's number.
So that she has used his services to order stud service for herself.
But she has not abused the practice.
Rather, she has very rarely, very sparingly used it.
And of course, she forgives herself for her initial indiscretions.
First dismiss Hortense for the day and then have the service in.
And not, as she did initially, have Hortense answer the door and only discover, as conversation ended and was replaced by the actual purpose of the visit, that Hortense's presence was de trop.
Because that lets Hortense know too much.
That makes her party to the illicit goings on.
Not good.
Not good, if something were to go wrong with the marriage and she should sue Brim for divorce.
Not that that is likely to happen, but why take unnecessary risks at compromising one's possible future position?
And so nowadays, Hortense must absent herself early.
And she does.
Perfect timing, Samantha tells herself as, five minutes later, there comes a knock on the door.
And there stands Rufe, cap in hand.
And Samantha finds herself somewhat overawed by his size, this close up.
So that she is assailed by doubts.
Because her fantasies may have been absurd.
She has no reason to assume that Rufe will construe as part of his duties simply removing his clothes and going to bed with her.
For all he knows, he is here to drive her somewhere.
And she momentarily considers having him do just that.
But her mind is awhirl.
She cannot think of a single place to have him take her. Except to bed.
"Come in Rufe, come in, uh, please."
He does, stooping slightly to get through the doorway, rotating his cap in his hands before him. "Sit down, Rufe, sit down."
"Yes ma'am."
And he sits down on the couch where she has indicated.
"I uh, I guess I spoke rather too quickly when Cynthia called me a few minutes ago, Rufe.
"About using you today, I mean.
"For one thing, as you can see, I'm not really dressed for going out just yet."
And she gestures down herself, dressed as she is in a silk robe and slippers in an instant replay of Cynthia's garb of the moment.
Oh no! Rufe thinks. She is not gonna send my ass back to Cynthia.
"I b'lieve she jus' didn't want me underfoot today, ma'am. House is quite a mess an' needs considerable straightnin' out an' I just be in Carlotta's way, y'see."
"Aha! So I'm to be the babysitter, then," she smiles.
He smiles back, looking down, saying, "Seems like."
"Well, now. Let me think. "Babysitting it is. "Too early for baby's nap. "So-what games does baby like to play?" And she uses both hands to suddenly widen her robe lapels.
And her large breasts with their doorbell nipples are exposed.
And Rufe feels the tingling of incipient arousal.
And his root crowding his shorts.
A voluptuous brunette, she is, older than Cynthia by about five years.
A delicious change of pace for him, she'll be.
And he is not slow to take advantage of the situation.
And does not know and does not care if Cynthia planned things to turn out this way.
He leans over and sucks her nipples, kneading her breasts with both hands.
Taking no chances.
Making sure that she won't change her mind.
Ensuring that she will move from whim to all hot and bothered.
And it works, as she gasps with pleasure, face flushed, leaning back on the couch, eyes closed.
And she does not resist as he gets up and, scooping her up in his arms, carries her into the master bedroom.
He lays her on the bed.
And she doesn't move, lying there, eyes closed, as he undresses.
And now, he is on her, face wallowing in her large, thickly haired snatch.
As he seeks and quickly finds her joy buzzer, already large, already engorged in her excitement, his tongue travelling up her slit, gliding over her pussy lips until he reaches his objective.
And he vibrates the tip of his tongue against it as, legs raised and spread, bent at the knees, she writhes with pleasure.
She rocks from side to side as he tongue fucks her, his long, thick tongue sliding across her clit both ways as he probes her hot, juicy depths.
Now here, he thinks, here is something I can linger with.
Here is something with which I can spend the night.
He is not on her payroll. Although-no. Too soon for that.
Time enough to see how things are going to work out upstairs, in the penthouse.
Time enough to see if Cynthia will get hold of herself or lose it completely.
Still, not too soon to begin working his points here.
Although he has never so much as seen Birmingham Steele in person.
Still, Mrs. Steele, Samantha here is the one who runs the household.
Although the rational behind that housekeeper of hers esapes him completely.
I mean, like, yech, you know?
Unless.
Unless he has been with Cynthia, with the Harringtons for so long he has begun to think like them.
So that he too has begun to look at the world through sex-colored glasses, as though reality had the same plot as some sleazy fuck book.
Just because the woman's a dog doesn't mean she can't cook and clean and shop for groceries and answer the phone.
But enough of this, he tells himself, as he continues to move Samantha higher and higher up the rainbow of her sexual arousal, using his tongue alone.
Time to let her know all about the main action. Which is what he is all about. And come to think of it, perhaps all that he is all about.
Too long with the Harringtons, he tells himself. A male Cynthia, he has become. And wonders if, like her, he is headed for madness.
But now, he must do his thing.
If he is to have the Steele option, he must make his best argument.
And he does.
Starting out slow.
Letting her feel his size first.
And then opening up, plowing faster and faster, accelerating slowly like a steam locomotive leaving the station, then building to his actual operating speed.
And doing his doubling up trick, scooping up her thighs in his arms, reaching all the way around them, locking his hands on her tits as he continues to fuck her.
So that now he possesses her completely, an act which seems to particularly impress the women.
Letting them know that he is going to absorb and be absorbed by them.
Telling them that he is conjoined with them in the experience, that he is not one to hang back and observe himself in action, that he is not Mister Cool tool.
He is a lover.
And if they are not his beloved, then at least they can reap the full benefit of his sexual attentions until the real thing comes along.
So he pulls out all the stops, holding nothing back.
Except, of course, his climax, careful to stay in control of himself at all times so far as that goes, to let the pleasure come upon himself only so fast and no faster.
As she gets hotter and hotter.
As the beads, then the rivulets of her sexual sweat form on her.
Because he is stimulating her all over at the same time.
He is sucking her tits, kneading them, manipulating them, even as his mighty monster reams her pussy, which is drooling its juices copiously.
And now, he rotates his hips, giving her a fresh set of thrills.
Never before and never again, babe, is the message here.
There is no time like that first time with Rufe, is what he is trying to say with his body.
You want, you need more and more of me.
As often as you can get it.
Addressing the heat of the moment, of course.
He does not need, could not handle her on a full- time basis.
But that consideration lies in the realm of practicality which, at the moment, is at a most distant remove from them.
No, what must remain-later for that.
Because now, the pleasure beyond pleasure is taking him over.
He is a strong man, but there is strength and then there is strength.
And the power of the pleasure beyond pleasure may be delayed in its action, but ultimately is not to be denied.
So that now, he has reached the point at which he must perforce surrender mind to body, must forego thought in favor of sheer sensation.
And he does.
For the last leg of the journey to their shared sexual paradise, he is humping her all out, his hips, his muscular buttocks moving at blurring speed as he pumps her all the way home.
And now, they are coming and coming, his spurts of hot jism injecting themselves, again and again, into her innermost depths.
Even as the powerful convulsions of her orgasmic spasms squeeze his discharging intruder repeatedly, milking it, milking him of all the pleasure he holds for her.
Because he has become for her the repository and the source of the pleasure beyond pleasure.
And her body knows this and is taking full advantage.
Which is fine with him.
As together they soar through the boundless empyrean of their shared sexual paradise.
And only slowly, very slowly, do their orgasmic throes subside.
And they float gently back down to earth together.
And land with his body still in full possession of hers.
And linger there while her mind tries to catch up with what her body has just experienced.
As his cock begins to detumesce, he peels himself off of her.
He offers her his hand, to assist her off the bed so that they can shower.
"Wait, wait here... a minute," she says, still recovering her breath.
And reaches for the bedside telephone.
And punches in the penthouse's internal number.
"Carlotta, let me speak to Cynthia, please. This is Samantha... Hello, Cynthia."
"Uh listen, darling, it would seem that I've a few more errands than I had anticipated, some late appointments, that sort of thing... what?... Why, how perfectly marvelous for you! And Chipper?... Meeting you there, is he, then! Fantastic, Cynthia! I'm really happy for you.
"Well, of course, darling,- he is your chauffeur, after all.
"I promise faithfully to have him on your doorstep at seven tomorrow morning.
"And uh, congratulations, I guess... Yes, I always knew Bruce had that capability, but I didn't think he ever actually... yes, yes, I understand.
"Ciao, darling."
She turns to Rufe as she hangs up.
"You're mine tonight and, as it turns out, for the next month, as needed.
"With the exception of tomorrow morning, when you are to drive Cynthia to the airport, where she leaves for Monaco on the ten thirty Alitalia."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Please, darling, we'll have a month together. Make it Samantha, won't you?"
"Okay... Samantha."
"Good! Now then, let's take that shower, shall we?"
And Rufe breathes a sigh of relief.
And surprises himself by feeling a warm glow of genuine happiness that Cynthia is somehow going to break out of her rut, at long last.
CHAPTER EIGHT
She doesn't look very happy, Rufe thinks, as he loads her luggage into the trunk of the limo, down in the garage.
She looks almost as though she is some kind of a movie star traveling incognito.
No makeup, large, dark sunglasses, hair done up in a rather unstylish turban.
White blouse, black slacks and sandals.
No manicure, no pedicure, certainly no hairdo beneath the turban, and this is a woman headed for Europe?
Rufe has seen better looking boat people on the news, for heaven's sake!
He returns to the penthouse.
"Luggage all packed, ma'am," he says. "I'll jus' pull the limo 'round-"
"Never mind that, Rufe.
"We'll leave from the garage, thanks all the same. "No need to have the doorman know our business now, is there?"
"Whatever you say, ma'am."
"And uh, Rufe."
"Yes ma'am?"
"I hope you don't think that my sudden departure has anything to do with you, with... us.
"I mean, I wouldn't like there to be any misunderstanding between us."
"Ain' nuthin' to misunnastan'-ma'am," he replies, putting on his best faithful negro retainer accent. '"Sides, if this be whut choo an' Mista (he almost said Massa) Chip be wantin'-"
"What about Chipper and what he wants?" she asks sharply.
And Rufe understands.
The lack of preparation.
The nervousness.
Chipper knows nothing of this little jaunt. This is a Cynthia solo special, perhaps the first in their marriage.
This is Cynthia trying to cope with her situation, her life.
Best to stop playing games and give her some support.
After all, she was most generous with their bonuses and their advances, hastily writing the checks, along with the household expense check to Carlotta for bills and necessities during her absence.
"I meant nothing by it, ma'am. I didn't realize that this was to be a surprise for him.
"I'm glad you brought it up, ma'am. Sure wouldn't want to say or do anything to spoil it for the two of you."
"Yes. It's a... surprise for Chipper. "And uh, should he call, just tell him I'm out and you don't know when I'll return. "Do this for today only.
"After that, if he and I haven't yet made contact, you can tell him where I'll be.
"I'll call Carlotta from the hotel where I'll be staying.
"I understand that you are going to be rather... occupied while I'm gone."
"Yes ma'am.
"How long will you be gone, ma'am."
"I'm not exactly sure.
"I do have Chipper's itinerary, so I'll get in touch with him over there.
"Should be quite a surprise indeed."
I can imagine! Rufe thinks. Still, it's all for the best.
No sense his sharing her misgivings with her.
It's enough that she is getting up and doing something about herself.
And he is kind of glad, in a way, that she is not putting a brave face on it.
She's worried, she's on the edge of a breakdown, this is her last shot at preserving what's left of her sanity, and she knows it.
So that she has enough to worry about, without maintaining a facade on top of it.
The important thing is to go and to do.
And not to let anyone or anything stand in her way.
Why Monaco?
He hasn't the foggiest idea.
And now, he can see her in his overhead mirror, looking glumly out the window of the passenger seat, chewing a knuckle.
And Rufe himself can feel her tension, her anxiety.
And he knows better than to breathe a final sigh of relief until she is on board the aircraft.
He gets her to the airport at nine o'clock.
By nine twenty, her luggage is checked, her seat assigned.
"You need not wait to see me off, Rufe," she says. "Oh, I don't mind, ma'am."
"Let me put it another way then, Rufe. I'd rather you didn't.
"Nothing personal, but that's j ust the way it is." He understands.
What she doesn't understand is that he is on her side.
Because all she sees is this powerful, uniformed figure, who has driven her from the penthouse to here in the limo.
He is one of Chipper's appurtenances, one of his appliances.
He is, after all, the Harrington chauffeur.
And Chipper, for all his absence, is the head of the house.
His penthouse, his limo, his chauffeur.
And she wants, she needs a clean break.
And will not get one if Rufe is present, a continuing reminder of her situation, of her dependency.
Mrs. Chipman Harrington III is going abroad, in large part because here, at home, she can no longer stand being Mrs. Chipman Harrington III.
He wanted to stick around to be sure that she goes through with it.
But if she doesn't, what will his presence or absence do to influence that?
Except to make it easier, more convenient for her to turn around and go home the way she came, in the limo.
But he doesn't think he has to worry, really.
For one thing, she booked the whole deal through Bruce's Travel and Tours, making use of her procurer's legitimate front, a thing which surprised Samantha, also a regular Bruce user, apparently.
And she and Bruce are friends.
So that she would hardly want to embarrass herself in front of Bruce by losing her nerve.
But now, he tells himself, on to bigger, if not necessarily better things.
* * *
"Hortense, we will be having the use of the Harrington driver and limo while they are away in Europe," Samantha tells Hortense. "Rufus here will be staying with us."
"Yes, ma'am," Hortense acknowledges. "I'll prepare the guest room."
"Very good, Hortense."
Hortense goes off to do her thing.
"Actually," Samantha says, "I thought we would simply leave the limo where it is, down in the garage, and use my car.
"It's less, we're less... conspicuous that way."
"And we'll be wanting to be less conspicuous, ma'am, I mean, Samantha?"
"Exactly.
"At the beach, in parks and forests, checking into motels and such."
"I don't quite."
"I want you to-yes, Hortense."
"Room's ready, ma'am."
"Well, fine, Hortense.
"But I have some travel requirements and I don't much fancy driving myself when we have a perfectly good chauffeur at our disposal.
"So we shan't be needing the room after all."
And Hortense looks at her mistress dubiously, not at all comprehending this sudden inspiration on her part.
For that matter, Rufe doesn't understand it, either.
"Go upstairs and pack your bags for an extended road trip, Rufe.
"Hortense, I shall be calling in from the road."
"But ma'am, I haven't packed your-"
"I'll take care of it, Hortense.
"Most of what I'll need, I'll have to buy on the road.
"Hurry now, Rufe, so that we can begin our adventure!"
Spoken like a little girl, off on a lark to the zoo or something.
"Be right back," he says.
"Oh and uh, Rufe? Lose the uniform, okay?"
"I heard that, Samantha!" he replies, grinning ear to ear.
* * *
"Joo gonna have joorselves a what?" Carlotta asks.
"An adventure," Rufe says. "An' don' even be axin' me what that's s'posed ta mean, 'cause I ain't got me clue one."
"Joo know, Rufe, I never knew that bein' a woman weeth money ees the choores' way to go out of joor fockin' mine.
"Crazy, the two of them."
"Yeah, babe, but somethin' tells me they 'bout ta hannel it real well."
"I hope so.
"Well, see joo aroun'."
"Hey, when I get back, big reunion, right."
"Thin' joo gonna be een chape for eet?" she asks. "I sincerely hope not," he replies, grinning as he closes the door behind himself.
* * *
She wears sunglasses with garish, phosphorescent lime frames, a halter which is totally inadequate for her breasts, which strain and overflow it, and short shorts that make it appear that her cunt is trying to eat the crotch out of them.
And platform sandals, white, that bring her to almost Rufe's height.
And underneath, nothing.
She eats her sandwich in large mouthfuls, washing it down with beer right out of the bottle.
And the black bartender shakes his head in disapproval.
Not of her, but obviously of Rufe.
Who is much too good looking, has too much going for him, to get mixed up with this over-upholstered piece of white trash.
And Rufe, eating his lunch opposite Samantha in the booth, can only look apologetic and embarrassed.
As Samantha issues a resounding belch, followed by, "Scuse me," said into the back of her hand as she wipes her mouth.
Rufe offers her a hand as he rises.
And ignores the unwelcome sign on the bartender's face as they leave. He gets behind the wheel of the car.
"Mmm-mmm! Jus' look at all dat nice white meat hanging out dem sho'tes!" a passing black would-be lothario enthuses, pausing to look at Samantha's exposed halfmoons oozing from beneath the straining denim.
Mistake.
Because- "Burrrt!"
"Geez!" the street lover exclaims, "don't nobody light no match!"
Samantha laughs and gets in the car.
"Find a motel as soon as we clear the city," she instructs.
* * *
"That's it, that's it, right up my fuckin' big ass!"
As Rufe shafts smoothly, evenly in and out of her ass hole.
He uses the bottle of mineral oil she has thoughtfully provided as lubricant.
Because her sanitary habits do not admit of rimming.
They will shower after, rather than before and after.
Living sleazy, she calls it; something she has always wanted to do.
And is now going about it with a vengeance.
She has graduated from inadequate halters to thin tank tops with large armholes and nothing underneath.
So that, but for her hulking escort, she is an invitation to a rape.
Provided, of course, that the rapist is not in the least fastidious.
Shape and size, she has.
But she is obviously a skank.
And what that large, handsome black guy is doing with her, those who see them can only speculate.
To a man, to a woman, they think, Surely he can do better than this.
Little do they know that he can't.
Little do they realize that he is helping a society matron fulfill a lifelong fantasy.
As she puts on exhibit for all to see this alter ego.
As she goes out of her way to gross people out.
They walk through the woods, along a hiking trail.
And there is no help for it but they must detour off the trail.
Where she braces herself against a tree so that he can fuck her from behind.
And afterward, she continues walking, the stain at her crotch turning the faded denim a dark, damp shade of blue.
As her sweat, for it is a hot day, turns her thin cotton tank top transparent.
And the rangers can only gawk and leer and think of all kinds of clever things to say to one another about the sight which confronts them.
And Rufe?
He has changed his image to match hers. His sunglasses match hers, as do his tank top and shorts, except that they actually fit him.
So that there they go, Mr. and Mrs. Sleaze, bound to offend, regardless of race, creed, or color.
Except that nobody cares to go up against his size, his muscles.
* * *
"In the dunes," she says. "Take me in the dunes and fuck me."
They are at the beach.
The day is crowded and the dunes are- "Too shallow, babe. Somebody bound ta spot us."
"Only if they're looking for us."
Rufe does his best to get low, as low as possible in the dunes.
Still, he has but to raise his head and he can see the weekend crowd.
Which means that any who care to look can see him.
But Samantha doesn't care. The blanket is spread.
And Samantha removes the bottom of her ridiculously inadequate bikini, almost a g-string.
And raises and spreads her legs.
And her lust is apparently contagious.
Because Rufe, who has serious, practical objections to this, in theory, at least, in practice finds himself becoming thoroughly aroused.
So that he removes his own skimpy bikini as an alternative to letting it strangle his rampant erec- tion.
And goes to fucking her right there, in broad daylight, in brilliant sunshine, in shallow dunes.
And knows that the crowd can see the tops of her knees and his head.
And, in case one of the bathers is less than attentive, Samantha moans loudly, her voice carrying even above th brouhaha of the throng assembled there on the sand.
And Rufe, impelled by a sense of urgency-surely the beach patrol is going to come along and arrest them-gives her the fastest, most frantic fuck of his life.
And afterward, they are both laughing so hard they can hardly get their brief bathing suits back onto themselves, between sweat and pussy juice and melting jism.
And they do not choose to acknowledge the applause which accompanies them down the dunes and into the water.
* * *
"There she goes just a'walkin' down the street, singin' oo wa diddy diddy dum diddy daw!"
And the carload of teenagers in the convertible laugh uproariously at the singular appropriateness of what is blaring from their radio as they slowly follow Samantha up the street, paralleling her progress on her platform sandals. And she smiles at them. And goes over to the car.
Which stops as she leans on the top of the door on the driver's side.
"You boys want a better look?" she asks.
"Uh yeah, right, like sure, right here in broad daylight," the driver says.
"If I'm not chicken, why should you be?" Samantha challenges.
"Hey, Tom, lady wantsa do show an' tell, what is your problem, man?"
"What about cops?"
"Her problem, man."
"My problem,, man," Samantha echoes.
"Okay, go!"
She smiles at them and turns around, back to them, unzipping the fly of her short shorts. "Ooh!"
This from the six guys, as she backs up to them and slowly lets the shorts slide over her hips until they are below the cheeks of her ass.
"Hey, hey, hey!"
And whistles.
As she sits on the top of the car door, ass hanging over it.
'"Samatter, Tommy, don'tcha wanna give it a little kiss?" As Tommy leans back away from it.
Too late, he realizes what she is up to. When he does, he tries to re-start the car and put it in gear, all at the same time. A false start.
And the thick brown rope drops heavily from her protruding ass hole. "Oh shit, she's."
"Well get it the fuck outta."
"Hey, man, I am balin'!"
But the youth who spoke is the only one who does, jumping out of the car and taking off.
As the others sit there staring, transfixed, at the unbelievable sight as Tommy frantically tries to start the car, a growing collection of brown steamers piling up on the seat and floor and arm rest beside him.
"Have a nice day, boys," she says, sweetly, when she has finished, standing up and zipping up.
"Phew!" she says, standing beside the car. "Something really stinks around here. I think you flooded the engine."
And she laughs and joins Rufe as he emerges from the convenience store with bread and sandwich meat and snacks and beer.
And Tommy who, having carefully extricated himself from his car and was stomping toward her, face red, fists clenched, changes his mind and goes back to his car, studying the situation, door open, the sight of Rufe causing him to suddenly veer in his thinking from revenge to the far more practical-and safer- problem of how to get the shit out of the car.
"What uh, what happened?" Rufe asks, as he walks with her back to her car.
"Kid has a problem getting his car started," she replies.
"I can see why," Rufe says. "Got himself a real shitbox there."
* * *
Three weeks they have been on the road. Samantha calls home daily, but there is nothing urgent, nobody looking for her, nobody missing her. Hortense knows nothing.
She can suspect whatever she likes, but when Mr. Steele calls-if Mr. Steele calls-there is only the fact of a chauffeured, open-ended tour to report.
Let Brim make of that what he will, nothing can be proven.
Rufe can see that the trip agrees with Samantha. She is tanned, relaxed.
She goes to bed early, gets up early, is enthusiastic in bed at both times of day.
No fatigue, no stomach trouble, no irritability.
All in all, she is becoming quite a healthy person, in marked contrast to her rather doughy hue and tone when they started.
But enough is enough, she apparently feels, at last.
"Let's go on a regular shopping trip and get ourselves some decent clothes," she says, her words incongruous with her appearance, causing Rufe to smile.
"What's so funny?" she asks. "If you could get a look at what's doin' the talkin' here, you wouldn't have no need ta axe me that!" She leans over to look in the rear view mirror. She grins.
It's definitely time to go home," she says. And they do, driving straight through the whole night.
* * *
Rufe wallows in Carlotta's snatch.
He has awakened from his recovery with a hell of a hard-on and she is only too ready to accommodate him, even though it is mid-afternoon.
"Meesed joo," she says as he shafts into her smoothly, stretching and filling her cunt.
He says nothing in reply.
There is nothing he can say.
Later, he will tell her all about it.
But for now, he wants only to discharge his great boner.
And she apparently means what she said about missing him.
Because, very quickly, she heats up to her full arousal.
Fine with me, he thinks.
And lets himself go.
So that they climax together naturally, easily. And afterward, lying side by side, he asks, "What did you hear from Cynthia."
"Not a thin'."
"And Chipper?"
"Mus' be he keepin' een touch wl' the office, 'cause he for choor don' call here none."
"Strange," Rufe observes.
"I figger, che mussa gotta hole him een Joorope, somehow."
"Probably."
"But joo, scummo, I don' hear from joo neither, the whole tockin' time."
"You're not gonna believe this," Rufe says, "but this is the gospel truth about what happened with me an' Samantha... "
"Thass unbilivable!" Carlotta exclaims, when he has finished.
"Yeah, but it was sumthin' she musta really needed, judgin' by how much better she looks now than when we started."
Reech wimmens, go figger," Carlotta says.
"Yeah, well I jus' hope Cynthia's vacation works as well on her."
"Me too.
"Chee gettin' pretty eempossible, joo know."
"Tell me about it!
"And-by the way, why are we lyin' here, all sweated up an' scummy?"
"I dunno, Rufe. Mus' be a nasty habit joo peeck op somewheres."
They laugh.
And shower together, using the master bedroom's facilities.
"So," she says, joo goin' back down to Samantha tomorrow, or what?"
"Don't have to. Not no mo'.
"She wants me, she knows where ta find me."
"Joor idea or hers."
"Hers. She decided that my stayin' there in the guest room makes me seem too much like a servant."
"Bu' joo are a serv-"
"I know, I know. But I'm somebody else's servant, you dig?"
"Then what are you to her?"
"Her lover," he replies, adding, "at least, for the time being."
