"Wish you had joo some beef lak dat, bro', an' don' be jivin' me othawise neithah, `cause ah am' buyin' nona dat bullshit!"
"Yeah," Jeff replies, "you right, bro', but ain't no need f'him ta stan' there fronta da mirrah, actin' lak he some kinda Mistah Galaxy or sumthin'."
"Man jus' checkin' hisse'f out is all, man!
"He gots ta check on his weak points.
"You be pumpin' dis here iron awhile, you be checkin' yo'se'f out too, an' won' be jus' so's you can see dat ugly face starin' back, neithah."
"Conceited mofo, ain' he, though?"
"Mebbe he gots him sumthin' ta be conceited about, right?"
"Right own, bro', right own," Rufe sighs.
And they watch King, watch as the huge, light- skinned black man with his close-cropped, reddish- brown hair, clad in tank top and shorts over his jockstrap whose leg straps protrude slightly from the bottoms, turns this way and that before the mirrored wall, flexing this muscle group and that, his gaze critical, absorbed in his reflection.
"Look lak some white dude widda suntan, he does," Rufe observes.
"Now, don't choo be sayin' the brothah's tryna pass, man."
"Jus' sayin' he don't need ta worry `bout no sun- lamp, is all, ta look right."
"Yeah," Rufe grins, "he got the same avvantage as you an' me."
"Right. Now all we needs ta do is lose ouahse'ves 'bout fifty pounda fat apiece, replace it wif muscle, add about twenny-fav mo', an' we be right in theah widdim."
"Fully competitive, we be den." Rufe agrees. "You plannin' on workin' on it any tam soon?" Jeff asks.
"Thinkin' seriously about it, bro'"
"Yeah, well, lemme know whut choo decide." And Rufe. and Jeff both stand there watching as King poses for himself.
And both are thinking the same thing-no way. No way can they catch up to that.
Because it seems to them that there is just naturally more to King than to their own considerable bodies.
He is simply larger than they in every dimension that counts.
And has been, for years now.
They went to high school with the guy.
Back then, he was nothing.
Nothing except will power and determination.
King did as much as he could in the school gym, in the limited hours allotted to the students for free exercise time.
And they had watched and wondered at his intensity, at the apparent lack of progress, at the display of strength from an average-looking body which did not appear to possess nearly the kind of power required to lift the weights King did.
They could not see the subcutaneous fat melting off of him beneath his grey sweats which covered his entire body, in order that he should derive maximum advantage from the heat and perspiration thus trapped.
Nor could they see the tone of his musculature improving with each workout.
Above all, they could not see what was going on in his mind.
King, his mother had named him, in honor of Martin Luther King.
His mother.
His mother who always worked hard and who had played hard once, just once, with the wrong man, the wrong kind of man.
King did not know the man's color, much less his name.
Nor did he understand what had possessed his mother, a serious woman, a withdrawn woman and not one of those loud-laughing, joking around, flirtatious types, to do what she had done.
And she never justified, never tried to explain it to him.
"You jus' worry 'bout your life, King," she would say. "What's done is done and can't be undone."
And would not go into detail about his father.
And served on a night office building cleaning crew, so that she was never around, except on weekends.
And saw him through high school.
And died without ever dispelling the mystery of his father.
And now, King works on a shipping platform by day, works out in the gym nights and weekends. And has his own apartment, now that he does not have to make do with the shabby quarters in the shabby neighborhood where he lived with his mother.
And he has taken her advice seriously.
Words to live by, even if spoken to fend him off, to leave his curiosity unsatisfied.
"You worry `bout choo, King, an' let the resta the wort' take keh itse'f."
And he does.
Worry about himself and nothing else, that is.
So that he worries about the shape of this muscle, the proportion of that muscle group to the rest of the ever-progressing ensemble.
He worries about his exercise schedule.
He worries about his diet, its meals, its supplementation.
He worries about getting enough rest.
He worries about burning out through overexercise.
He worries about worrying, reading books about psychology, about the workings of the mind, so that he will understand what's wrong with himself upstairs, if anything.
He worries about not knowing enough. So that he watches educational TV, learning about history, society, the interpretation of the news, conflicting views of events.
He intends to turn professional bodybuilder. He is almost ready for the contest circuit.
Almost, but not quite.
He intends to triumph from the outset.
He intends to blow away the competition, rather than merely competing with it.
If must be self-evident that he is in a league by himself before he will put himself up against others for comparison, for contrast.
No distractions.
He wishes to be self-absorbed, most of the time. His interest must be focussed in on himself. Rufe and Jeff, watching him, speak in whispers. But they need not.
Because King doesn't hear them, doesn't see them, not even their chance reflections in the background, as he looks at himself in the mirror. Reality is subjective to him.
He can suspend or cancel it at will.
Because he is his own reality; the rest is provisional, an illusion.
And the women?
Those he has.
Black ones, white ones, ones like himself (he strongly suspects) somewhere in between.
They come and they go.
And he can take them or leave them.
And, in the course of his daily life, he does both.
He will not ardently pursue pussy, on the one hand; on the other, he will not turn anything down, if it looks good enough.
His dates are all desultory, provisional affairs, at once technically satisfying and emotionally neutral.
They want that beef, no question.
And certainly, he is a spectacular (more to the point, an enviable) escort.
Looking at him with a date, the uninformed female observer would see in his companion a very fortunate woman indeed.
Not knowing that they will go to his place or ji hers, will fuck . once or many times, will sleep ,together or break up the party and end up sleeping alone, but whatever the evening turns into, it will leave the woman feeling more puzzled than anything All that beef, all that presence, and yet cool, distant.
So that, in the end, it is as though they have d sex with a kind of sophisticated android. Because he fucks mechanically.
And his fucking is a taking rather than a giving.
It is centered on himself and not at all on his rtner, who could be (and they sense this very early) someone, anyone else.
Because his sexuality is directed inward.
For one thing, he closes his eyes, almost the fluent they hit the sheets.
And he explores them, but not with the hunger y have come to expect, the hunger which their rms deserve.
Rather, it is a sort of rudimentary confirmation, a taking of inventory, almost as though he were going down a checklist of some kind.
He will suck their tits to arousal.
He will service their clit with his tongue, but that too is perfunctory.
Because he does not linger anywhere, orally.
It is as though his tongue and mouth work were some mandatory preliminary, to be gotten out of the way, over and done with, in order that they can get to the main event.
And yes, he has a large salami, long and thick, and hot and hard, vibrant with his life, his power. And yes, he moves well.
Too well, in fact, his mechanical humping, his piston action strong and steady, beginning to end. But passion?
He has the personality of a vibrator in bed.
All prescribed motion, cool and calculated, even as his temperature rises.
So that the woman, if not content with the action ano the presence, is forced to reach within herself, there to summon the image, the idea, the archetype of the male.
And, running her hands over his hard, warm musculature, imagine someone, built very much like King, equipped very much like King, who would give them the real fucking, the shared excitement of rampant sexuality, so lacking with King.
King has lots of dates; he has very few repeats. And actually, he prefers it this way.
His relationship is with himself.
His sex is with himself.
So far as King is concerned, all sex is masturbation.
He needs women in order to have a healthy, regular sex life, highly recommended in the more comprehensive, deeper writings of the bodybuilding experts.
And he knows enough about the workings of the mind to realize that jerking off-that is, actual masturbation-has its severe limitations.
Because there is coming and coming.
And the best coming is that which takes place in a pussy.
And it is necessary to have the depth afforded by an outstanding female partner.
Because King carries it within him, the image, the female ideal.
And it is warm and nebulous.
He knows what equipment it has, but not the exact configuration of how it is put together.
But by feel, he recognizes it.
And as long as it is there, then he is there for it.
He is not there to be the great lover, after all; he is there to be the great body, the body which is the logical extension of the great cock.
So that the two are a unity.
So that his entire physical self becomes a sex: organ.
But it is one which is bent upon its own satisfaction.
And if that's good enough for the girl, then fine; if not, tough shit.
Because the last thing he wants is a full-blown relationship between himself and any woman.
Body to body, for that form of satisfaction which is, more than anything else, relief.
A safety valve to be watched, its indicator needle held to the safe zone, possible only with regular relief.
That is how King defines healthy sex.
Genuine enthiusiasm for this or that particular partner?
That seems to him destructive, a dissipation of concentration, of energy.
He has worked too long and too hard to build himself up as he has.
And he cannot see "blowing it" on some cunt. Because there will always be another one along. And he has no interest in their tastes (except in men) or their thoughts.
He doesn't want to know their story or their problems.
He wants only to know their bodies.
And not with his mind, either; rather it is body to body that interests him.
Are they adequate to cause the appropriate discharge?
That and that alone is the criterion for the success or failure of a sexual. encounter.
And thus far, he has known no failures.
Nor is he one of those men who prefer the company of men, except for sex.
He does not revel in the company of his fellows. He has no buddies.
In fact, he has no friends.
Many have tried, guys that is, but he is not open with them, not responsive to them, and never, never takes the initiative, the lead in conversation.
There is a particular fascination that the strong man possesses, with regard to other men, very similar to that of a beautiful woman to other women.
It is not a homosexual -thing, either; rather, it is a kind of attraction to the image of what a man or woman should look like.
It is a recognition- that a given individual approaches the ideal, at least physically and is therefore, in that sense, attractive.' But there has to be something more than merely that, if a friendship is to blossom, if it is to survive. And the fact is that, in King's case, there isn't. Sad but true, all that beef has nothing behind it. What you see is what you get.
That, and absolutely nothing else.
So that King is a loner.
Even the hardcore bodybuilders give him a wide berth.
Usually, there is a fraternal hierarchy of beef at a gym; that is, at each level of development, there is the tendency for bodybuilders to talk to one another, get to know each other.
In King's case, he belongs to no such ex officio group.
Sad but true, but there it is.
He considers himself to be in a class by himself and it shows. So that the other bodybuilders, especially those who most closely resemble him from the chin down, almost to a man, having suffered King's unresponsiveness, have told him, in their minds, "Fuck you!"
But he can live with that.
Almost.
Because it bothers him that he should not be bothered by what he has caused for no apparent reason.
Why? he often asks himself. Why don't I care? And yet, it happens again and again, the same thing.
The approach (theirs), the monosyllabic response (his), the retreat, eyes puzzled, filled with resentment (theirs), and the peaceful, almost comfortable return to solitary concentration on the workout (his).
He uses no spotters on anything, regardless of how heavy the weight.
On the contrary, his heavy lifts are such that those around him in the gym give him a wide berth. If he should drop those babies, you do not wanna be in the immediate vicinity, that's for sure.
At work, he does his job.
He can drive a forklift, maneuver a hand jack, and outlift anybody else on the loading dock crew. He speaks to others in the line of duty.
He eats lunch alone and does not engage in casual conversation, does not joke around.
Nor does he encourage approaches from female employees.
He does not shit where he eats, as the saying goes.
No, his pick-ups will mostly be at the gym.
For the women, he has the briefest of smiles, the shortest of conversation.
He doesn't want those who are merely warm for his body, who are only thinking about it.
He was them red hot and ready.
Because there is no time in his schedule for jiving around.
The girl knows what she wants or she doesn't. If she does, fine; if not, see King when she does, that's all.
And he has a good word-of-mouth press.
Sort of.
Girl who has not yet been with King: "I could go for something like that in a minute!"
Girl who has: "He's all yours, kiddo."
"You mean it?
"Introduce ya, you want."
"Please do!"
And she will.
Why not, after all?
There is nothing there worth repeating, so far as she is concerned.
She expected more, much, much more. All that potential.
He could have been the stud of studs, the lover of lovers.
Could have been and was not, is not, will not be. They don't understand.
What could he be looking for in a woman? Whatever it is, they did not, do not have it. He finds them lacking?
Fuck him!
Because there are just lots and lots of guys who would only be too happy to go out with them, to give them their all, to devour them.
And this one wants to try her luck?
Be my guest.
And King is not unaware of this, is not ignorant of the change in attitude toward himself before and after And okay, he supposes it troubles him a little, but not enough for him to change his attitude, to change the face he presents to them.
To them and to the world.
Fuck it!
That's what King feels.
The important thing is weight and shape and condition and development.
The rest is all bullshit anyway.
And he is not about to be deceived on that point. He is not about to change his schedule or his outlook.
It simply isn't worth it.
How important is it, he wonders, to have people like him, anyway?
According to the books he has read, it's very important.
He readS this, but does not necessarily agree.
It may be generally applicable, but not specifically to him.
Because his problems are not the problems of others.
His problems are strictly, specifically developmental, pertaining to his ability to sculp and mould this creature, this physical entity which is his own body.
But for that, he has no problems...
And the problem within the problem, the one that looms ever larger, the more he exercises, the closer he comes to perfection, the one with which he constantly wrestles in his mind?
The upper limit of his potential.
Everybody, even King, has one, the sticking point, the point beyond which he can never go, having once attained it.
Although some experts are of the opinion that it can never actually be reached and that therefore nobody ever has to worry about it.
Still, further gains have come more slowly, requiring ever greater difficulty.
And his answer to this is simply still more effort. Which requires still more concentration. Not that he views it as a vicious cycle.
On the .contrary, he feels that he has actually arrived at a plateau, the highest one in bodybuilding, at which the builder is down to the nitty-gritty, the fine points which make all the difference between winning and losing.
Progress of a sort.
But still, it shows him that he is not . yet ready to enter the contests, any of them.
Because it is only when he has reached the point that his further progress becomes so slow as to be imperceptible that he will consider himself ready to compete.
Meaning ready to win, hands down.
* * *
"We need a mixed doubles team, Randy," Stan, the manager of the gym, says.
"Why are you telling me this?" Randy Buck, owner of this gym, of the franchise of the chain of gyms of which this is the flagship, asks.
"Because it's important.
"Because we got nobody."
"Plenty of guys, Randy, but no women ta go with 'em."
"So what I was thinkin' was that maybe we could tap one of the other gyms in the chain for a qualified female bodybuilder, put 'er together with one of our guys, and go from there.
"Not the best way in the world ta do it, I'm the first to admit, but better'n lettin' those contests go by the boards another year.
"Sides, we gotta do something to drum up more female membership.
"Look at these figures."
"Okay, okay, okay! See what I can do. We got the time for this?"
"That's why I'm bringin' it up right now, Randy. We move now, we can field something in six months, fer sure."
"Close, buddy. Any less time and we wouldn't of had a shot at all."
Stan smiles.
An Olympic gold medal winner in weightlifting, he knows only too well what it takes, time-wise, to put a team together in the iron game.
Whereas Randy Buck, owner of both a major league football team and a baseball team, a string of restaurants, this gym and the franchise for the chain, is basically an entrepreneur.
All Buck knows about bodybuilding is what he has managed to pick up here and there.
"Well," Stan says, "I'll call around, ask around, like that.
"I'll offer free membership, free supplements and togs.
"Meanwhile, you look around an' see who you want to be the boy half of the couple."
"Already got somebody in mind."
"He here now?"
"Should be."
"Then let's have a look, so I can see what I'm tryna find a partner for."
Stan leads him onto the floor from the office. "There," he says, pointing to King.
Buck nods in approval.
"Monster," he says.
"Wait'll you see 'im in six months. I know pro material when I see it, Randy, and that's exactly what we're lookin' at there."
"Steve know?"
"Not yet he doesn't. Steve works out early and this guy's still gotta work for a living in some warehouse or whatever."
"Hmm. You talk to the boy. He does well an' we can do something for `im."
CHAPTER TWO
Stan says nothing to King.
He will not, not until he sees if Buck comes up with somebody for a partner for him.
Stan watches as King, feet on a bench, lies on a mat, doing a killer series of abdominal crunches, a popular conclusion to a workout.
He watches the big man get up and move toward the locker room.
And thinks about how happy he would be if he knew about the amazing good fortune that is about to befall him.
* * *
"I'm Randy Buck."
She looks at him, up and down, seeing an overweight, middle-aged man with a suntan and iron grey, crewcut hair, dressed in rumpled sportshirt and slacks.
"And?" she prompts, wiping her face beneath the sweatband, soaked now with the sweat of her exertions.
"And I think that, with the right partner, you could win the mixed couples event in Chicago, come fall."
"Really."
A statement, not a question.
Like who's shitting who here?
Buck smiles, looking down, shaking his head.
"What part of this don't you believe?" he asks.
"You don't think that I'm Randy Buck or you don't think you can win?"
"Look. Right now, I'm getting ready for the Eastern Invitational Women's Competition."
"Outstanding! That's next week, isn't it?"
"You know it is.
"So what's this shit? A little crap in the game to mess my mind, or what?"
"No, nothing of the kind, Francine."
"How did you know my name?"
"I simply asked Roy over there."
She turns and glares at Roy, the owner, standing outside the door of his office.
He smiles and waves at her.
"Since I'm the owner of the franchise, and since you work for Roy, I didn't see the harm."
"No harm done. Talk to me in a week, that's all. Right now, I'm eating, sleeping, and breathing that contest."
"And I haven't got time to worry about the far future, or who my partner's gonna be, or anything else."
"Understood.".
"However, I would like to have some expression of interest so that I won't have to keep looking."
"I've watched you working out."
"I'm impressed."
"You're the one I'd like to see doing it; but if you can't or you won't, then I can and will find somebody else."
"In that case, lemme ask you something, uh, Randy."
"Which is this: Say I don't win next week." Buck shrugs.
"I'd say that's your problem, not mine."
"That something you can live with or not?" he asks.
"Live with, yes; accept, no."
"If I lose, it's politics."
"I'm the best there is. Best heavyweight, best overall."
"First prize and grand prize, that's me."
"If I didn't agree, we wouldn't be talking."
"So. What is it you want right now?"
"A yes. An unconditional yes, win, lose, or draw."
"Anything else I should know before I give you my answer?"
"Guy's black.
"Actually, he's a very light shade of tan, with that reddish-brown hair some of `em have. Same color as yours, only kinky."
"Any problem with that?"
"None at this end."
"Excellent."
"So then, what's it to be?"
"You cover the expenses?"
"Absolutely. And then some, especially if you win."
"Okay then, yes."
They shake hands.
* * *
"So waddaya say, King?" Stan asks.
"This isn't at all the way I planned it," King replies.
Stan shrugs.
"What ever is in life?"
"No, I mean, my first contest."
"Change the my to our an' ya got it."
"Yeah, well, I mean, like, what if she drags me down?"
Stan smiles.
"Thought cha might say somethin' like that."
"So did Buck."
"Which is why you got cherself a ticket to that contest of hers."
"You're her date for the victory celebration."
"Uh-huh."
"Not that you're askin', but my advice is to go for it."
"I'm not saying no."
"So. You up for this, then?"
And he shows him two tickets.
"Who's the other ticket for?"
"Mind if I tag along?"
"For the show or after?"
"Just the show, just the show. Although I will make the introduction, just to get you two started."
"Fine. I'll take my car and meet you there."
And he goes back to his workout, without another word.
* * *
"... and the winner of the heavyweight division is-Francine!"
The crowd roars its approval.
Of course she's the winner, King thinks. She is as far above her competition as he hopes to be against his at the Mister Galaxy.
Which is an overnight decision he has made-to compete.
Even though Steve, winner three years running, works out at the same gym, is therefore Buck's man in the same sense as himself.
Because competition is being presented to him, more or less forced upon him by fate, or destiny, or whatever is hovering over him, looking out for him, assuming that it is not pure chance, blind luck.
What was he supposed to say to Stan-no?
Especially knowing that behind Stan is none other than Randy Buck, a man who can make or break a bodybuilding career.
Of course, this goes totally against the grain for him, under normal circumstances.
Because he works alone-always.
And now, his first competition involves a partner who must, by definition, be a material factor in the outcome.
But now, seeing her up there, seeing what she will bring to their partnership, he knows he has done the right thing, made the right decision.
And now comes the determination of the overall winner.
Who is not Francine, but the middleweight class winner.
King knows that Francine deserved to win.
Undoubtedly, Francine knows this too, her congratulations to the winner perfunctory, not looking at her, head turned away from her and the crowd.
"We're uh, we're meeting Francine at the stage entrance," Stan says, obviously perturbed by the outcome.
Yeah, right, King thinks. That is, if she doesn't simply take off, after the fiasco up there on the stage.
* * *
"Francine, this is King."
They eye one another up and down, then shake hands.
"You uh, upset or anything, Francine?" Stan asks.
"Who, me? No, I love losing, especially to girls who don't have my size and definition."
"Real turn-on, y'know?"
Stan is flustered at her sarcasm, but King merely grins.
Because she is expressing all the bitterness he felt her behalf, as soon as the grand prize winner was "Stan" King says, "why don't choo run along? Francine and I have, uh, things to discuss."
"You mean you still wanna do this, after that?" Francine asks.
"Hey babe, we all know who shoulda won. "And you did win your class.
"And somethin' tells me it was a very close call. "And uh... what else do ya wanna hear that'll make you feel good?"
She laughs, extending her arm to King's who takes it.
"Night uh, Stan," she says.
And they walk off, leaving him standing there, looking after them.
"That your first contest?" he asks, bringing her back to his apartment after a heavy but healthy supper.
"My very first," she confirms. "Why? Did it show?"
"No, no. Just the overall winner showed a lot more cutesie than you did.
"All those smiles, all those winks, like promises, y'know?
"And uh, who knows? Maybe they were."
"You don't really believe that, do you?"
King shrugs.
"Like not to; still, such things have happened, or so I've heard it said."
"Yeah, me too."
"But I figure it's mostly sour grapes."
"Like in the men's competitions when somebody says the winner satisfied one of the judges' hankering for a lollipop."
"Come this winter, I find out first hand," King says.
"Mister Galaxy, huh?
"Doesn't Steve work out at your-or should I say our-gym?"
"Sure does."
"And I will use that to my advantage."
"I'll see `im close up, I'll study his moves, his weak points, his strong points, everything."
"And I'll beat `im, point by point."
"You mean the way I did Miss Small Package tonight?"
King shrugs his massive shoulders, removing his sportcoat, draping it over an armchair before replying, "Y'know, that could happen. And I can only hope that, if it does, I take it as well as you have. "
"But you have no idea of how well or how badly I'm taking it."
"Didn't see you punchin' out no judges," he says. She laughs.
"Guess that's at least a start on taking it well, isn't it?"
"Not that you should take it all that well, don't get me wrong."
"Don't worry. There's a fire inside that won't go out.
"Nice tip on the cutesie stuff, though. I'll remember it the next time I'm in individual competition.,"
"Glad joo said that, Francine. Because for the mixed couples, you looked and acted just right, far as I"m concerned."
"Well, I guess that'll be for our coach to decide," Francine replies.
"Coach? What coach? Stan didn't say nuthin' `bout no jive coach!"
"Jive coach?"
"Sorry. Just a 'spression from the old neighborhood. I get surprised an' it just slips out. Means like, you know, uh...
"Bullshit?"
"Egg-zackly!"
"Well! Care for a beer?"
"Yeah, sure, why not? One night of indulgence after the big moment.
"Especially since I'm taking a rest day tomorrow."
"Good idea. You earned it."
He goes into the kitchen, returning with two beers on a circular tray.
"Here we are," he says, as she sits on the couch, shoes off, feet up on the coffee table, changing channels on the TV with the remote.
"Thanks," she says, and eschews the glass in favor of drinking from the bottle.
"The only way," she says.
"Try it with a paper bag around it,".he replies, smiling to let her know he is not condemning her unlady-like demeanor.
She laughs and takes another swig as she continues to change channels.
"All crap, isn't it," she says, at last.
"Every bit of it," he agrees. "Onliest thang counts is this," he flexes a bared bicep, rubbing it with his hand.
She assumes the same pose for her arm.
"And this," he adds, running his hand over the thick, bulging mound of her bicep.
"C'mon," she says, standing up, extending her hand to him, "let's go get a better look at what counts, shall we?"
Grinning, he accepts the hand and leads her to the bedroom.
Yes! he thinks to himself, Yes, yes, yes!
She is what he has been seeking, the image he has summoned whenever he has had sex.
He began to suspect it, watching her up there on stage.
And now, here, with her, he knows that this is the case.
Because how could it be otherwise?
Naught loves another as itself, and surely she is the very embodiment of the idea of the feminine within him.
She is imagery made flesh, the ideal made real. So that it's all right.
He needs no intervening image.
He needs to play no mind game with himself. Because it is all here, right here, in the real world, before him, independent of him.
And yet not so independent, .either.
Because she is that which he has sought for so very long, the definition of that nebulous ideal that lurked within himself for longer than he can remember.
And he will take full advantage of this.
He will avail himself of her.
He will permit his surrender, his giving to happen now.
Because she is the extension of himself.
Does he not recognize in her his own thoughts, his own dreams, and yes, his longings, now that he can admit to himself that that is what those feelings, those waves of loneliness, of emptiness have been all along?
No question.
No question and no doubts now.
She is promise and fulfillment, premise and confirmation.
And he wants her, is hot for her, as he wants and is hot for no other woman, not even his own ideal, masked as she was by unattainability.
Until now.
Until this very moment of discovery and of revelation.
Because it is as though she has been hidden from him, witheld from him for so long, in so many ways, by so many barriers.
And yet, for all her concealment, there is also the sense that she has been waiting for him, saving herself for him until just the right moment.
And that moment has arrived.
Has arrived, is here and now.
And he is not slow to act accordingly.
Because, even now, he devours a breast, not with the perfunctory ceremony of arousal which has become his custom under like circumstances, but with genuine avidity, a full, drooling hunger, an ardent, driven desire.
So that he feels himself becoming hotter and hotter, the blood pounding at his temples as he sucks the large, firm nipple above the amazingly hard breast to full erection.
And switches at once to the other, while continuing to knead and fondle the first.
And she lets herself go, responding with impassioned writhings and twistings, even as her hands explore trapezius and deltoid, bicep and tricep.
Because she too knows.
She knows that she is with the best.
Because it is not to a feminine ideal but to a masculine one that today's female bodybuilders aspire.
And King may well sense his masculine ideal as an aggrandized version of himself, but this is not the case with Francine, who sees in his vast, bulky musculature, his sharp definition a goal for which to strive.
She has no desire to be prettier, more charming than other women.
Rather, her goal is to make of herself their overwhelming superior in development.
And it is to the masculine ideal that she attains, leaving it to nature to preserve such vestige of her femininity as may remain to her.
Buck was worried about teaming her up with a black partner.
Forget such concerns!
Because she cares nothing for color, for shade of color, but for the musculature beneath, . the musculature that threatens to burst through that skin of whatever hue.
And this, this! is the ideal, the genuine stuff, the real thing.
He is not an artificial construct, a thing of some delicacy, impressive enough when viewed from afar and carefully posed.
Because he has no weak points.
There is no part of him that she can see or feel rhich is not exactly as it should be, ideal on the ne hand and, on the other, in a state of active levelopment to further perfection.
And now, that perfection is sliding down her iody, travelling down its deep center line on its ongue, exploring with the tip the indentations ietween her cubed abdominals.
And he does not linger, does not pause.
Because he is clearly aroused, his complexion of he moment more ruddy than tan as she feels his jose-cropped, nappy hair with one hand.
And now, he is in her bush, face wallowing as die raises and spreads her muscular thighs, to reveal ps target, shaved in order to wear her super-brief petition bikini.
And now, he is sucking her pussy, tongue. shafted o the hot, moist depths.
And now, he pulls his tongue and head back, in order that the tip of his tongue can titillate her clit.
Which it does, flickering with vibrator speed. And now, he is fucking her with his tongue, shafting it in and out of her flowing cunt, maining pressure against her joy buzzer both ways.
And now, as she squirms in lascivious delight, rocking from side to side, legs bicycling in the air, he eats her, on and on, as though he cannot enough of her.
At last, he pulls back.
And sits back, buttocks resting on his heels, huge prong a flagpole rising stiffly from his crotch, looking at her, admiring that which he is about to fuck.
And now, he shafts in, in, into her, all the way.
And scoops her thighs up from below.
So that he doubles her up. So that he is above and below her, all around her, enveloping her, possessing her completely, more completely than he ever has, has ever wanted to possess another woman.
Because she is, she truly is, his female aspect, his feminine counterpart.
No question.
He wants her, wants her more than he has ever wanted anything or anyone right now.
It is as though, without her, for all his vast musculature, without her, he is incomplete.
So that this is a coupling, a joining, a unification well beyond mere sexual gratification.
And, because it is so beyond mere sexual indulgence, the intensity of it renders the sensations thrilling beyond the point of any mere fuck.
Rather, it is as though he is being energized, as if, with each thrust, each withdrawal, he is taking into himself a charge of sublime invigoration.
Because here, here! is a true conjunction of two bodies intended to become, to function as one.
As in fact they are.
They are become the two halves of a perfectly functioning machine whose purpose is the creation of pleasure for itself.
As his mighty pole pistons in and out of her hot, juicy cunt.
So that the shaft is polished, gleaming in the subdued lighting of the bedroom with its coating of her clear pussy juices.
And he arouses her with his fucking more than has any other man.
Such strength!
Such enthusiasm, as he tirelessly ploughs her, in and out, in and out, ever harder, ever faster, ever more powerfully, energetically, intensely.
Focussing, concentrating on her, her, her! Feeling, knowing, desiring nothing else but this copulation which is a ceremony of coming together, of permanent juncture.
There is no more him and her; there is only them.
They!
They have formed an alliance and an understanding which is beyond the connivings and conceits of the mind, which is above all striving, all ambition.
There is no option to be considered, no path to be planned or pursued at the moment.
There is only the two of them, the two become one.
There is only this separate and closed universe which they have become.
There is only they themselves, their bodies, and nothing, nothing, nothing else.
Because this is what it's all about.
They have been searching and striving?
Behold the true obejectivei' And now, the two-headed entity which they have become has generated at its epicenter a nuclear explosion.
Yes, they have unleashed the pleasure beyond pleasure.
Which even now blossoms, mushrooming slowly within them, an atomic blast taking place in slow, silent motion.
As the pressure of it, exquisite, irresistible, fills them with itself.
As it builds and builds within them.
As delight becomes ecstasy.
As ecstasy is smoothly, inexorably transformed into rapture.
As rapture becomes utter transport, dizzy, disoriented, no up or down, no in or out, only the two-of them soaring and zooming through the limitless spaces of their shared sexual paradise.
And they are coming and coming as they have never come before.
So that he is injecting wad after wad of hot, thick copious sperm into her innermost depths, even as the convulsions, the spasms of her pussy milk his mighty prod of its load with her body's response to her series of multiple orgasms.
Sucking his cock with her cunt, she is as both of them are tossed, this way and that, twisting and writhing in the almighy throes of their glorious conjunction.
As space becomes meaningless and time stands still and two become one.
CHAPTER THREE
It does not last.
There is a pulling apart, a sense of separation, of actual bisecting, as the spasms of their shared climax subside.
So that the one becomes two.
So that they look into each others' eyes with... embarrassment.
To fuck, okay.
To do the other guy (gal) a favor, fine.To get one another off, why not?
But this, this... other, well, that was, not, is not supposed to happen.
They are bodybuilders, for heavens' sake.
And a bodybuilder is a taker, one who is constantly adding to himself.
Feeding sexual gratification to himself as part of his super-healthy regimen.
An essential process, the exercise of the sexual function.
Necessary to hormonal balance, to circulation, to the ability to concentrate on the program. That, and nothing more.
So then, what the fuck was that?
What was that supposed to mean, to do for them? Francine says it best, as they lie there, side by side, cooling off, recovering their breath.
"That was-uh... something else."
"Sure was," he agrees.
It was great, is what it was, greater than it had any right to be, greater than either of them wants it to be, at the moment.
Each tries to rationalize now.
Hey, teamwork is what's needed here, right? But this was more than just teamwork.
Teamwork is intended to provide a pairing, a simple addition.
You add this to this, you get this.
The whole of a quantity is equal to the sum of its parts.
Nothing more, nothing less.
So then, just what the fuck is this supposed to be? What the hell happened?
Because they were transformed.
They started out as themselves, they "ended up as themselves, but in between, something happened, something unlooked-for, possibly something unwanted.
They gave.
They gave and gave.
Perhaps they gave too much.
Perhaps any giving is too much, in their case. "Tomorrow a rest day for you?" she asks.
"Is now," he replies, matter-of-factly, no humor in it.
"Good thing, too," she says, looking up at the ceiling.
"You got that right."
"Tell you what," King says, anxious now to get to the bottom of this thing, "Let's hose down, come back, and try again."
"Right," she agrees.
Try again.
Meaning do it right this time.
Meaning not lose their fucking minds.
Meaning not make of one another more than they are.
Because this is no good.
This is a distraction of the kind which could throw them off.
Supreme concentration, reserved for the workout, for the most intense periods of working out, for the crucial moments of an exercise or a program, has been diverted, possibly even misused.
No good. Not right. Something very, very wrong here.
And now, as they shower, they eye each other clinically, critically.
And find-no faults!
Amazing!
Try as they might, there is nothing either sees on the other which they would want to see changed.
Each of them carries the checklist upstairs.
They can normally go, head to toe, and automatically, almost as though by reflex, say exactly where this or that part of the body can stand improvement and what must be done to achieve it.
But here, now, all is apparent perfection.
Disturbing. Very disturbing, in fact. Almost as Disturbing as that aberration, that illusion that occurred back there in bed before.
And it won't do, really.
This cannot be, not without some suspension of their powers of judgment, powers crucial to them if they are to succeed in their chosen avocation, soon to become vocation.
So that now, this next fuck becomes all the more important.
What are they doing, anyhow, looking at each other through what the songs call the eyes of love? And now, they dry off.
And go back into the bedroom, two bedroom athletes about to perform their sport.
A good, a healthy way to look at it.
The only way to look at it, dammit!
And now, they lie down and embrace one another.
Not tenderly, but much as wrestlers would "lock up" As their upper, their free hands, explore one another.
And each once again realizes the ideal present in the other.
Because it can only get so good for them before they are in the grip of their natural, their archetypal preferences.
And they soften toward each other.
Because, after all, this is not really a compromise.
Rather, it is what it is-a realization, a making real, of that which they had until now viewed as ideal.
And there is nothing wrong in this, any of it.
It is, after all, their own ideal in whose presence they find themselves.
So that this other complies, fulfills, embodies those standards which they themselves have posed for their ideal sexual opposite number, their coun- teiparts- So that what they are seeing is basically an extension of themselves, of their thought processes. And therefore, why not?
Why not extend the concept of extension to the body?
On balance, the contest for which they are to train seems the ideal expression of what they have here discovered.
Which is that they are indeed a team, perhaps in more ways than they were at first prepared to admit to themselves.
They were prepared for cooperation, for collaboration.
But is not part of such teamwork the changing of themselves from individuals to an organically functioning pair?
They are very well suited physically, as Randy Buck was quick to realize.
But their teamwork must go beyond that.
The judges must be able to view them as a functioning entity, rather than as two individuals moving in concert.
They must create the same aura of belonging together as do competitive ballroom dancers.
Still, that doesn't necessary mean-well.
Let's get through this next round and then we'll see.
This time, it is Francine who is on top.
It is Francine whose tongue is doing the travelling, first around each, of King's nipples, stretched from the mass of the pectoral muscles beneath them.
And now, she explores the cleavage of his massive chest.
And now, she tongues his abdominal muscles, going lower and lower.
And now, she encounters the head of his cock, laying on top of the slab of his stomach muscles.
She takes it into her mouth, sucking it like a lollipop until the shaft behind it twitches to vibrant life.
As her hands explore the vast muscular masses of his bulging thighs.
And now, she is sucking his cock.
Up and down, up and down her head bobs, sucking him juicily, avidly.
And now, she has him at full, throbbing erection, one hand around the thick base of his meat monolith as she feeds him to herself.
Better, he thinks.
He has had this before.
It does not upset his orientation or perspective. It makes him hot without his losing any of himself, without giving up anything.
And now, she straddles his cock, a foot on either side of his hips as she lowers himself.
And King feels a thrill in the pit of his stomach at the sight of her, muscles gleaming dully in the indirect lighting of the bedroom.
And the magic begins anew.
The magic.
Meaning that special attraction, that magnetism between them, literally drawing him to her with a strangely intense desire, as happened their first time around.
And now, she feeds his prodigious prong up, up, up into herself as she settles down on him. And leans forward, her legs straddling his.
And he takes her into his arms.
And one arm clasps her to himself as the other explores her back and buttocks.
And he helps her movement as she rotates her hips, round and round, reaming her cunt with his rigid pole.
So that he grasps an ass cheek, moving it around ,and around with her hips.
And he is fucking her.
And more than fucking her, screwing her in, installing her onto himself.
And it is happening again, the unification.
He is not feeding her to himself, taking and taking. Rather, they are coming together, united in body and spirit.
Because the feeling is here, is here and hot and growing within him, within them.
And there is no fighting, no escaping it.
Because it is something that he wants with a desire that seems to him something ancient, something that has been within him since there first was a him, so great is his hunger, his thirst, his eagerness to possess her.
And not as some much-wanted object, something he covets.
Rather, it is as a part of himself, as something integral to his very being, that he desires her.
There is an aura of joy and of desperation.
Of joy because he has her now, is in physical possession of her; of desperation, because he feels an almost aching need for her, a need which will not be met, will not be fulfilled by this or any other temporary possession.
So that this is more than a joining, it is a fusing. It is a total commitment, intense but unspoken.
It is a coming together, a magnetism of such force that it seems to King that nothing can ever break its power.
And to Francine as well.
Because she finds her powers of judgment becoming obscured.
Her self-awareness is shifting, is softening, is being externalized.
So that she feels herself not as whole and free but as a part of something else.
And she knows only too well what that something else is.
It is this, this... thing that she became with him the first time.
Which could have been an aberration, caused by King's overwhelming presence, his uncanny correspondence (now that she has seen him) to -her ideal, combined with the novelty of what was happening, what was about to happen between him and her.
But if it is, if it is a delusion of some sort, then it is most certainly being repeated.
Because she cannot get enough of him.
She cannot draw the sensations from his cock fast enough.
She cannot give him enough action.
Her mind is awhirl, dizzy with her own desire for him.
She wants nothing so much as to draw him into herself, to fuse with him forever.
She could keep this up forever and ever, she tells herself, so good, so, so... complete does it feel.
As she continues to ream herself with his cock.
And now, she varies the motion, pumping her hips up and down, forcing the huge cock on which she is impaled to piston in and out of her, each thrust a fresh thrill, a zing of sexual electricity.
She reaches behind her, playing with his balls, locked tight to the base of his turgid invader, as though to stuff him entirely into herself.
And now, she puts both arms around him, clinging to him tightly as her hips vary their motion, now up and down, now around and around.
So that she is propelling them onward and upward.
They are rising higher and higher up the rainbow of their shared arousal.
And they are aware of this, of the sharing, of the emotional response within the other.
So that they are at the same level of stimulation, moment by moment.
Locked in each others' powerful embrace, Francine's hips free to move and doing so in an unthinking rhythm of arousal, they feel the shared pleasure growing within them.
And now, it comes.
It.
The pleasure within the pleasure.
And they know it, they recognize it for what it is and do not fight the feeling.
So that now, he is coming and coming, his sperm and the hot, clear pussy juices of her pussy causing him to move more and more easily within her, stretching and filling her vagina.
As she too comes and comes, her multiple orgasms shaking her again and again, in unison with the spasms of his discharge.
And they drift back down the rainbow together, coming back to earth.
And this time, they separate more slowly, more casually.
And she is merely mystified, rather than embarrassed.
As is he.
Because there is nothing to be ashamed of here. The reaction may not be understood, but there is nothing shameful in it, surely. _ As they recognize that first response for what it was, a sense of weakening, if not of weakness itself.
But now, they know that that is not true.
They are not being weakened by this sudden finding of value in another.
They are not diminished by it.
And if a crass, commercial, uncaring outsider such as Randy Buck can see that they do in fact belong together, then surely there is no reason for them to fight the feeling.
Or is this opinion too but a thing of the mood and the moment?
And now, they are not so quick to get up either, the same languor of their separation extending to its aftermath.
But they do get up at last.
And shower together.
She fully intends to leave.
He fully intends to get dressed, to drive her back to her car.
But, in the event, that is not what happens.
Because there is too much of him, of her, of them, to let it go just yet.
And yes, there will be other times, other nights.
And yes, they know that they will be seeing a lot of one another.
And yes, there is high enthusiasm here for their training together, competing together.
But all, all this are things to come, things of the future.
And they have each other, right here and now.
Right here, right now, they have everything they want or need, on one level, the sexual.
And they know it.
And things happen, things of which we have no inkling, but which could very well interfere, intervene, even cancel what they have in each other, what they are and can be to, for, with each other.
So that it makes no sense, it is a crime against economy of resource, to break things up now.
Make hay while the sun shines, the saying goes. And right now, the midnight sun of their passion is shining full force.
So he does go back to bed with her, she with him, the team together.
And this time, it is unhurried, almost tender, considering the muscular mass of the behemoths involved.
As King wants more and more of her, more than even he has had thus far tonight.
And she does not resist, in fact welcomes his attentions as he slides down her back, tongue exploring the deep indentation of her spine.
And she does not resist, in fact welcomes his attentions as he insinuates himself, flat on his stomach, between her legs.
And wallows his face in the crack of her ass, tongue extended.
And sucks her ass hole, taking it into his mouth as his tongue rolls round and round over the even segments.
And seeks their juncture with the tip of his tongue.
And forces it in, in, into her.
So that he can feel the heat of her interior.
So that he can feel the moist, soft, yielding tissues of her rectal wall.
So that, wriggling his tongue around and around, he can relax the ring of muscle at the entrance and begin loosening her up.
And now, grasping the flared bell of her hips, he pulls her hips up, up, up, until they are as high, as far back as he can get them.
And still he rims her, making a meal of her ass hole.
And now, he is giving her a finger wave, stretching her still more.
Until he knows she is loose enough to accommodate him.
Another King first, he thinks.
Ordinarily, he would coat his cock with baby oil and ram it in.
For any and every other woman, but not for this one, not for Francine.
Because her he wants to know, to taste in intimate detail.
There is no part of her he does not want to know physically.
And even now, buttoning his plum of a knob into the vestibule of her ass hole, he hungers for her, ardent in his desire to unite with her, to become one with her.
And now, rotating his hips and pushing slowly forward, he goes into her, the battering ram of his cock head parting the walls of her rectum, stretching and filling her as it goes.
And he is fucking her in the ass, pumping in and out of her, communicating with her, his cock with the sleeve of her ass, millions of nerve endings, his and hers, in contact with each other, stimulating each other, one on one.
So that there is an intimacy here, the warm, wet, smooth, all-encompassing grip of her bowels jerking off his pounding pud as it has never been jerked before.
It is like a blowjob and a regular fuck combined, the full, even contact of the one combining with the full penetration of the other.
But still, he wants more of her.
So that now, he releases one hand.
And reaches down and around.
And hefts one solid boob in his hand, rolling it round and round, squeezing it, feeling its nipple go hard in his hand.
And now, going on to the other one, repeating the process.
And now, moving. his hand back, back over her abdominal muscles, back over her stomach. Seeking and finding her joy buzzer.
And he twiddles it between two fingers, feeling it enlarge, as it goes firm.
And he keeps his fingers right there, finger fucking her cunt gently, rubbing the clit back and forth as he does so.
Her first ass fuck.
But not her last, she realizes, whether it is with King or somebody else that she does it.
Because he is stimulating her clit from both inside and out.
And he is again possessing her thoroughly, above, behind, around, below her.
So that here it is again, the sense of completeness. And she releases her mind now.
She gives in to the body, to the messages of feeling, of sensation, that radiate in a million silent voices, within and without.
And she feels, for the first time, that it is all right to do this.
Because King is someone different, someone with whom she can do this.
The first two times, such release was involuntary, surprising even herself.
But this time, there is no such surprise.
Rather, there is an acceptance here.
As that combination of calm and excitement, hunger and satisfaction which is the hallmark of great sex once again inundates her.
So that now, she feels herself rising through level after level of her arousal.
And she knows that this is right, that her body has discovered with King a truth, a truth which is of feeling, of sensation, a truth which only the body can elicit, can solicit from another, from just the right other.
And King is also getting hotter and hotter.
So that he redoubles his efforts, fucking her in the ass, fingering her cunt, faster and faster.
Until he is humping her all out in the ass. As he drives toward the home stretch.
As he summons the pleasure within the pleasure from his innermost depths.
As he allows it to bloom within himself untrammelled, holding back nothing.
So that it is filling him, supplanting his arousal with its overwhelming presence.
As the pressure of it builds and builds toward the pleasure beyond pleasure.
And this pressure, this feeling, this complex of pensations is transmitted to Francine.
Who knows that she, that they are on the final rise, that elevation, that soaring of the spirit into the realm of their shared sexual paradise which will cause them to Come and come and come.
And they both welcome it, even as it takes them over, jerking them this way and that, mindless puppets in the throes of a total passion.
Up, up, up they go.
And slowly, in gentle, delightfully twinging stages, they descend.
Back on earth, where he has ridden her all the way down, they lie there, he on top of her, fully inserted, not moving.
They lie there, cheek to cheek, recovering their breath.
As slowly, his cock detumesces within her.
Until it is expelled by the peristaltic action of her bowels, which shit his huge, flaccid dong like a giant turd.
CHAPTER FOUR
Do I need this? King wonders, as he does reverse lateral dumbell flyes.
With Rhino standing behind his head, watching.
Rhino, coach of champions.
Rhino, timeless, ageless, with his deep tan, his chrome dome, his opaque sunglasses, his all black costume, turtleneck to slacks to shoes.
Rhino, in from the coast to train King and Francine for the doubles competition.
Rhino, who is watching with critical eye as the huge dumbells come together above King's head, then arc back down, again and again, as he completes the set.
"Sixty seconds and counting," Rhino says. And counts down.
King lowers them to the floor a last time and leaves them there.
And sits up.
Rhino hands him his towel.
And picks up one of the dumbells.
"That was okay," Rhino says, "but try to keep your wrists out at all times so that the outer border of the pectoral will be stretched to the maximum.
"Like this, see?"
King looks, . seated, straddling the bench, recovering his breath, unable to talk, but nodding his comprehension.
Good point.
And Rhino is just full of good points.
Still, King reminds himself, I was doing all right without him.
We were doing all right.
Because Francine too is subject to Rhino, per Randy Buck.
Who decided early on that he had best put King and Francine on staff here, so that they could work out full time, during the day.
And it did not take much for King to quit his job, even less for Francine to leave Roy's gym for this one.
And neither of them misses their former employers.
But, along with their new status came Rhino.
Randy Buck wants results and Rhino is the one he uses to guarantee them.
All King's points are good, valid, well taken.
But are they necessary?
They don't know, he and Francine.
Perhaps they will never know.
If they win, then Buck will take this as evidence of Rhino's coaching proficiency rather than King's or Francine's own efforts.
But on that score, they could care less.
They don't care what Buck thinks; their sole concern is to win.
To that end, they listen to Rhino.
Even though his corrections are often awkward, often painful.
But it is not fear of Buck or Rhino that makes them follow Rhino's instructions to the letter. Rather, it is because Rhino carries with him the sense of victory.
Because Rhino does not pretend that any one thing is important.
He is not here to see to it that they develop this or that; he is here to see to it that they win, hands down.
A few months ago, King tells himself, he was a free man.
Going nowhere, perhaps, lonely perhaps, but nonetheless free.
First there was Francine.
And he became a lot less lonely, a little less free.
Then, there was the change of jobs, if this could be called a job.
Nominally, he and Francine are instructors here at Buck's gym.
In reality, they instruct only themselves, when they are not actually receiving instructions from Rhino.
Who is on their case, start to finish.
Who always has something to say about whatever they're doing.
Who is now telling them what to eat, when and how much to sleep.
And they strongly suspect what's coming next.
And have not worked out what position they will take when it does.
So that they are not surprised when Rhino hands each of them a schedule which has permissible nights specially marked.
"Important, in moderation," Rhino explains.
And they cannot see his eyes behind the dark glasses which he never removes.
"Sure you don't wanna come over and check out our technique?" King asks, jokingly.
"That an invitation?" Rhino asks.
"Only if you join us," Francine says.
And King looks at her in surprise.
What they have is special, is magic.
And yet, here she is, inviting him to participate.
What does she think, that she will back him off with this?
Even now, he does not answer her, appears to be thinking it over.
"Let me see the schedule," he says.
King hands him back his copy.
"Hmmm," Rhino says. "I see you're scheduled for tonight-if you feel like it, of course.
"So. I have an idea. Why don't you two come up to my place for supper tonight?
"Show you how to prepare an interesting meal and afterward, we can do our thing."
"Fine," Francine says.
"Give you my address when you're ready to leave," Rhino says.
And goes into the office, leaving them on the gym floor.
"What the hell didja do that for?" he asks. "Aren't you curious?" she asks in return. "Curious? About what?"
"Look. This clown has done nothing since he got here but order us around, right?
"And he works out, as we can tell by looking, but never when we're here, always after we leave.
"We've put our future in his hands, but how do we know he practices what he preaches?"
"He doesn't have to; he's just the coach, remember?"
"That's just it, King. Don't you see?
"There's not a coach in the world would have boo to say to us, the shape we're in.
"But this guy's on our case, full time."
"So then, this, this... thing we're doing tonight is to satisfy your curiosity."
"Of course! What else would it be?
"Unless there's some problem here that I don't know about."
"No. No problem."
Naturally. He is the superman, is he not? So how could he possibly have a problem?
Actually, King rationalizes, it could prove an interesting thing.
Find out about the mystery man.
All about him, har har.
* * *
"You own this?"
"Of course. This is a condominium."
"But I thought you lived in California."
"I'm bicoastal."
"Geez! I guess money's not a problem, then."
"No, it isn't."
"Well. If you like, we can start supper as soon as I wash up."
"Help yourself to the refrigerator and the TV while I take a fast shower, okay?"
"Go."
He does.
"Wierd place," Francine says.
"Yeah, it is," King agrees, looking around.
The furniture is sparse, featureless, monumental, basic geometric shapes, compilations of rectangles, neutral in color on a hard pile, grey rug.
The lamps are large spheres with plain shades.
The bookshelves are empty, with the exception of books written by Rhino himself, diet and exercise books.
"Probably has most of his stuff on the coast," Francine says.
"Probably."
But for some reason, King thinks that Rhino's place on the west coast is more likely the same as this.
Mystery man, mystery place.
"Well," Rhino says, emerging from the bedroom as they sit there watching TV, tying a grey robe around him as he advances, "shall we retire to the kitchen, there to create whatever?"
Standing behind a counter, he says, grinning, "Welcome to my show."
And they smile back.
It does, in fact, resemble the setting for one of those culinary shows.
"Today, we're going to create a tofu-based main course with a salad, also using tofu.
"The interesting thing about this, besides the high nutritional value, is that there will be no apparent relationship between main course and salad.
"The central element? The blender.
"Now, the first thing to do is to take the block of tofu and...
* * *
"That was delicious," Francine says.
"Very unusual," King observes.
"I noticed your books," Francine continues. "Yes, well, I wrote those some time ago. Still, they sell very well."
Francine truly intended to find out more about him.
But now, sitting here like this, she somehow feels constrained, as though any question she asked would be seen at once as prying.
And now, he is up, carrying the dishes to the dishwasher.
"Let me help you with that," Francine says.
And it is the work of a minute to load the thing and get it started.
"Beer for in front of the tube?" Rhino asks. "Sure!"
And he simply hands out the bottles from the refrigerator.
They sit in front of the TV, King and Francine on the couch, Rhino in an armchair.
And Francine notices that Rhino's calves, as he sits there, legs crossed, are very thick, very well formed, very impressive.
They watch ESPN, the sports network, featuring a sports medicine program which they find amateurish and uninformative.
"If that doctor's such an expert," King asks, "then how's come he's in such unimpressive shape?"
"That should tell you something, shouldn't it?" Rhino asks.
And King and Francine look at Rhino.
"Yeah, it does," King replies. "Says he doesn't practice what he preaches."
"Or what he preaches isn't worth all that much," Francine adds.
"Not the sort of man from whom one would readily accept advice or direction, eh?" Rhino asks, rhetorically.
And gets up, gesturing with his hand, inviting them into the bedroom.
They follow him in.
And the bedroom is furnished in the same sparse, massive, featureless style as the living room.
Except for the sunlamp, now turned off, there is nothing in the least remarkable about the room.
Rhino strips the covers from the bed as King and Francine remove their clothes.
When they are naked, Rhino takes off his robe. And they see why he is called Rhino.
He has what appear to be thick, plastic-coated armor plates for muscles.
It is slab against slab.
King and Francine cannot believe it.
Because they have never seen such density. He literally appears unreal.
He meets no known standard, on the one hand; on the other, he exceeds them all.
"How the hell did you ever get muscles like those?" King cannot help but ask, any attempt at tact forgotten.
"I work out a lot," Rhino replies, grinning as he removes his glasses, to reveal pale green eyes, even these seeming unreal because- he has no eyebrows.
He looks like some--kind of incomplete android, powerfully built, powerfully hung, with his long, thick cock, but totally devoid of all hair.
As though his creator had not mastered the technology of applying that detail.
But Rhino is real enough, alive enough.
"Judges'd have a ball with you," King says, "starting with tryna figure out what planet you come from."
Rhino laughs.
"Yes, I do seem to have taken a turn away from the norm, somewhere along the line."
"To say the least!" King confirms.
Rhino poses for them, turning this way and that, striking this pose and that.
The man has built himself in unusual and spectacular fashion, no question.
And King notices once more the fallacy of race being significant.
The only black present, and he is lighter than the other two, thanks to their artificially induced suntans.
And that beef of Rhino's, like his own, surely that surpasses in real meaning the shade of his skin.
And King thinks that would hold true, even if his features were negroid, instead of their obvious caucasian characteristics.
"Well," Rhino says, having completed his show and tell, "I guess you two can go ahead and get started, and I'll just join in as the occasion presents itself.
King shrugs.
This is not his idea, after all.
And he follows Francine into the bed.
Where he begins at once to suck one tit.
His first opening and Rhino is not slow to take advantage.
As he flanks Francine on the opposite side and helps himself to her other breast.
How clever of him, King thinks.
After this, there is nothing that he cannot say to them, cannot demand of them in the name of their own progress.
Because, before this is over, they will know each other in the only way that one person can possibly know another genuinely.
Which is physically.
What you see is what you get.
Perfect vision therefore implies perfect comprehension, at least physically.
So that Rhino will know them and they him.
And all this will be accomplished here, tonight.
And is being accomplished, even now.
Because King is aware of Rhino, arrayed with Francine and himself like a coat of arms in heraldry.
Francine the crest, they the supporters.
And Francine is responding, King notes, with mixed feelings.
Because this surely implies more than merely intellectual curiosity, her arousal.
As her large nipples go erect and rubbery over the firm orbs of her breasts.
And King wonders.
Should he race Rhino to the target, the objective of Francine's cunt?
But no, he will not.
Because King is curious as to just exactly what Rhino has in mind.
At first, he thought that this whole thing might be mere voyeurism on Rhino's part.
But one look at Rhino's fabulous body and his heavy equipment quickly abused him of that.
And now, he is at best an equal partner in the task at hand.
He therefore takes the initiative, unwilling to have Rhino show him up.
He slides down Francine's body, burrowing into her shaved snatch, his tongue seeking the slick slit of her cunt. And finding it.
And giving her a perfunctory pussy eating before he mounts her, raising and spreading her legs, causing the still breast feeding Rhino to have to shift his body.
Fuck you, Rhino, King thinks, I got in first.
And he fucks Francine avidly, with more strength than passion, putting on a show, giving a demonstration.
He concentrates on his work, eyes closed, forcing the movement, driving his big, hard piston into her half in arousal, half in anger at Francine for assenting to this.
He opens his eyes and looks At the protruding, muscular buttocks of Rhino.
At Rhino's balls, bouncing off of Francine's chin, as he fucks Francine in the mouth, bridging her shoulders with his thick calves as he holds onto the headboard for support.
And he watches, fascinated, the flexing and unflexing of Rhino's buttocks as he humps Francine's mouth steadily.
And King feels another surge of anger, as he hears the wet, sucking sound of Francine's mouth which, not content to simply open up and take what comes, is actively, eagerly sucking Rhino's big cock.
And he feels Francine getting hotter faster than is usually the case.
Which can only mean that Rhino is truly getting through to her.
Which means that her body is communicating with the two of them.
So, he thinks, Francine is one horny bitch. And he alone cannot satisfy all her needs. So be it, he thinks, two can play this game. He will show her..
She has taken him for granted?
Big mistake!
Because he is a stud and she his best (and at the moment only) lay.
But he has seen the looks sent his way in the gym by female members, looks he has chosen to ignore. In the past, he amends.
And Rhino and Francine will have no one but themselves to blame if his side excursions-and he is determined now that there will indeed be side excursions-interfere in any way with the training schedule.
Except that King is himself unwilling to do anything which would actually compromise their progress.
And now, sighing inwardly, King lets himself go, lets his body take over.
But not with the customary joyous abandonment. Rather, this is a kind of withdrawal, a contemptuous refusal of the mind to have anything more to. do with the procedings.
And it works well enough.
Because his body is conditioned to respond to Francine's body, her presence, her shape, her actions and reactions.
She is turning him on now, if only in the ordinary, the biological, the mundane sense.
And building to peak, taking him, taking his body with her.
So that now, Rhino is feeding her his cream, even as King injects his own into the depths of her pussy, and she sucks at both ends, her mouth draining his tube as the spasms of her multiple orgasms milk King of his load.
And they are united, if only for a long moment, three become one, however briefly, in the mindless pure sensation of the pleasure beyond pleasure. When their climaxes have passed, they separate.
King is first, of course, he being disturbed by the whole scene, and this to the point of revulsion, now that he has popped his rocks.
He goes into the bathroom, not looking at them, not looking back from the sink as he stands there washing his cock.
Not until Rhino joins him, draping his heavy equipment into the sink next to King's, sharing the soap and water, both of them interrupted by a washcloth passed under the twin streams (and over the twin cocks) by Francine, so that she can squat and swab her crotch out, removing King's melting contribution and getting ready for the next round.
And yes, there is very clearly to be a next round. Because even now, Francine is wiping herself dry, is moving back to the bed, is getting onto it, lying there, waiting.
The men dry off and Rhino gestures to King in elaborate, almost courtly politeness, the "after you" gesture, bowing slightly.
And it does appear that he is leaving the field to King.
What's the matter, old man? King thinks, Pace getting too much for you?
But he sees that that is not the case at all.
Because Francine moves to the far edge of the bed, giving King the center.
Which can only mean- She crouches beside his crotch, bending low over him, taking his prod into her mouth.
She takes her time, sucking him until he comes back to life, then goes to full erection.
So that, as Rhino merely stands there watching, she soon has King ready to rock and roll.
And she is not slow to squat over him, lowering herself onto his rampant intruder, held upright with one of her hands, lest it plaster itself, huge and stiff, to his abdomen.
And now, she is settling down on him.
Settling down and settling in, leaning forward, her breasts brushing his lips.
And this is, ordinarily, one of their favorite ways of doing it.
Ordinarily, but not at the moment, so far as King is concerned.
What a fucking slut! he thinks.
Because he knows what is coming, knows that Rhino is not about to remain content as a mere spectator.
No, he has quite something else in mind. And so, obviously, does she.
And they have not spoken a word, have not planned any of this.
King knows this, knows that there has been no opportunity, no opening for it.
And this disturbs him more than if there had. Because this means that Francine and Rhino have tween them that form of silent communication, implicit understanding which is the hallmark of ndred spirits.
And they are not about to hold back from the iplications of that understanding.
Fuck it, King says, nothing I can do about it right Not that he is sure of just exactly what he does mt. to do.
Because, in all of this, she has lost none of her scination for him.
So that he views what is happening, what she is permitted to happen, perhaps even wants to ippen, as a form of personal disappointment. But he is too mature, has too much at stake here allow this to stand in the way of his own best interests.
So that he is determined that he will perform well, that he will at all times conduct himself in the manner expected of him-in the presence of either or both of them.
So that, whatever his reaction, it will be private, although not necessarily secret.
And he relaxes, a thing he can easily do in this position, in which Francine, ordinarily to the delight of the two of them, does all the work.
And there is no question but that this works very well.
Because once again, she has him, has both of them, climbing the rainbow.
And he accepts the invitation of her hanging boobs, sucking them, alternating.
Even as Rhino climbs onto the foot of the bed.
CHAPTER FIVE
I can't believe this, King thinks.
Not that Rhino would fuck Francine in the ass, of course; that is an attractive enough target under any and all circumstances.
What he cannot believe is that Rhino would be so inaccurate in his attentions to her ass hole.
Because he could use mineral or baby oil, he could merely wet a finger, he could smear Vaseline on his cock.
But no, he is right in there, rimming her, sucking her ass hole.
Even though, from time to time, King can very clearly feel a lip or even the tip of Rhino's tongue on his cock.
It is an accident, of course.
But nevertheless, it happens.
And not just once, either.
Because King can feel it, again and again. And so, he knows, can Rhino.
Still, the bulk of Rhino's oral attentions are focussed on Francine's bung.
Getting her ready.
Or perhaps merely doing this because he wants to.
And this last certainly appears to be the case.
Because he tarries there, lingering in his attentions, letting his head go round and round, matching the motion of Francine's hips.
And there is no way he can get his tongue very far inside her ass hole, not with the pressure exerted on it from within, through the narrow barrier of tissues separating the two cavities of vagina and rectum from one another, by King's prodigious prod.
So that he is mostly confined to sucking her protruding bung, chewing it gently, running his tongue around and around over its surface, probing the hole itself but not entering, unable to do so as the great cock within her cunt presses her rectum shut.
And now, Rhino withdraws.
Looking to one side, King can see him taking a bottle of some kind from the drawer of one of the large, featureless nightstands which flank the bed.
Lubricant, obviously, King thinks, mineral , or baby oil.
He cannot see Rhino, only his hand, which disappears from view with the bottle, only to reappear a minute later, setting it down on the nightstand.
And now, Francine is interrupting her rotating motion, the reaming of her cunt with King's regal equipment.
And, bracing herself on her knees, planted either side of King as she straddles him, raises up, up, up.
So that now, only the head of his mighty invader is inside her hot, juicy pussy.
So that the pressure on her rectum of the great cock is relieved.
So that Rhino can- Enter her.
In one smooth movement, he has buttoned his plum of a knob inside her ass hole and spiralled into her ass, all the way.
And now, she settles back down on King's prick.
And both men feel the underside of the other's cock, traversing his own, narrowly separated from each other.
And somehow, this seems more intimate with Rhino than with Francine.
With Francine who has allowed herself, for whatever reason, or perhaps for no real reason at all, to be thus used.
Okay, bitch, King thinks, you asked for it.
Two big cocks, fore and aft, filling and stretching her.
He could tear her up.
He could-tear up their chances for competition. No way is he going to injure her, not if he can help it.
Because, to do so is to injure their performance.
So that she is all the more foolish, or careless, or whatever, for indulging Rhino in this peculiar and unnecessary fashion.
And yet, in the event, she seems to be taking it, meaning taking the two of them, very well.
Because now Rhino, being top man, has control of the action.
So that, while she is powerful enough to rotate her hips, even with Rhino on top of her, it is doubtful that she could do so with the ease and comfort so necessary if arousal is to be a smooth ascent.
Rather, in this position, this situation, it is the top man who, together with the bedsprings, controls the action.
And this is in fact the case.
And Rhino is apparently quite the expert. Because he begins slowly, very much in charge. Bouncing up and down, barely moving his hips.
And yet, the bedsprings seem to have a mind of their own.
Because now, the two thick, vibrant pistons begin to pump, alternating their movements.
So that an observer, watching from the foot of the bed, would see their cocks alternate, appearing and disappearing in mechanical sequence, gl' -tening with pussy juice below, mineral oil abo .
As the two sets of big balls seem to drive them with this see-saw motion.
And both cunt and ass hole are rounded pink- lipped mouths which devour and suck, devour and suck both cocks at once, as though her pelvis were some kind of double-mouthed monster.
And Rhino accelerates the motion, simply by bouncing a little harder.
So that it all seems really quite effortless.
As though the three of them were naturally meant to fuck this way. As though they are floating, the three of them, through some erotic world, surreal in its mixture of real elements, unrealistically juxtaposed.
It is not a thing that King .has done before.
Of Francine he is unsure, but Rhino is definitely a repeater and an expert.
And King finds himself relaxing, enjoying it. Why not?
After all, between Rhino, Francine, and the bedsprings, what more active motion is needed?
So that he is indeed floating.
And only a small comer of his mind still resents Rhino.
Who has proven himself correct. Again. And as usual.
Why fight it at all? King asks himself, all incipient arousal, the warmth spreading over his body.
Accept, accept, accept, the voice within him, the voice through which his body sometimes speaks to him, whispers.
And King does.
So that now, despite the fact that he is bottom man, he is weightless.
Rather, the three of them are.
Orientation has become skewed.
King is indeed on the bottom, indeed looking up. But they are suspended in space, the ceiling but one, arbitrary view.
And the intensity, the focus of what is happening is down below.
Down below, where King's cock fucks Francine.
Down below, where he can feel the bottom of Rhino's cock, its pressure, the distortion of its assigned cavity and orifice by his cock and Rhino's.
And yes, there is communication here, a three-way communication, messages, groups of sensations, flying back and forth, round and round, among and between them.
And King knows that this is certainly one very valid form of sexual intercourse, as valid as anything he has done before, even with Francine.
And in fact more valid than most, requiring less by way of internal images, thosle security blankets of the sexual act which so many, himself included under other circumstances, seen to require, if they are to perform well or even adequately.
Because there is about this the same thing he has noticed with Francine alone.
Which is a sense of completeness.
Because it is all right hero, right now, requiring no supplementation.
Nothing need be added.
Nor is there distraction, something to be taken away.
It is what it is, complete but not to excess, elaborate but not to the point of confusion.
And he finds it difficult to believe that he is actually looking forward to doing this again, and that without having yet completely done it the first time.
But he has found an enthusiasm which surprises himself.
Still, it was the mind which objected; the body knew better all along.
Because even now, he feels the tingling, the sexual excitement, the electricity that for him marks the beginning of meaningful, as opposed to -perfunctory, sex.
In and out, in and out goes Rhino's cock. Which is perceived by King, by King's body, as an added dimension of Francine's cunt.
So that he has never felt this exact sensation before.
He has never had a cunt which seems to be licking the bottom of his prick even as it sucks and devours him.
And the sensation is exquisite, as though he is fucking a- humanoid from another planet.
And now, they are climbing the rainbow together, the three of them.
Higher and higher they rise.
It rises. The ensemble.
Because there is nothing holding them down, not even the bottom man, King. Rather, they are zooming and soaring through the realms of their shared sexual paradise.
And they are dizzy, disoriented, knowing neither up nor down.
As the bedsprings continue their mechanical work of accentuating Rhino's pumping.
So that they are riding the crest of a rushing floodtide.
They are inundated, permeated with the pleasure which swells within the three of them.
And once more, delight turns to ecstasy, ecstasy becomes rapture.
And they are transported here and there, zooming and soaring, now floating dreamily, now going at the speed' of light.
And now, they feel it, the pleasure beyond pleasure.
As it takes them over completely.
As it blows their safety valves.
And they are coming and coming, the men injecting, their jism into her, fore and aft, their bouncing notion causing their mighty cocks to force their creatout of cunt and ass hole, where it forms pearlescent rings around the meat pistons, then begins to run down onto King's balls.
As the spasms of Francine's multiple orgasms are felt in both places, twinge after twinge affecting vagina and rectum.
And they collapse together, sandwiched, as they finish their shared climax.
And they lie there, recovering their breath, now feeling the after-effects of what seemed effortless when they were in the throes of their passion.
And Rhino looks over Francine's shoulder at King, smiling faintly.
And King looks back at him, expressionless.
What can I say? King thinks. That he was right again, that he has once more demonstrated that he has whole areas of knowledge of which I have no inkling?
Stupid, really.
King has concentrated on proving that a black man is just as smart as a white one, that he is his equal in every regard, if not his superior.
And here's this Rhino.
Who has shown him the other side of the coin. Ability and stature are indeed independent of race.
And because this is so, it works the other way around.
Because here is a man who seems able to beat him at his own game.
And it has nothing to do with his being white. Rather, it has to do with background, with experience.
Yes, King thought he knew all . about the body, about its development, its pleasures.
And yet, here's this Rhino who seems to possess a knowledge far more comprehensive than his own. And even has the results to show for it.
So that it would seem that King is not as far along in his personal development as he thought. The brother still has a ways to go, he tells himself. And this disturbs him.
Because he does not fall for that line touted by those who style themselves leaders of the so-called black community.
He has no interest in being equal.
Equality is for inferiors.
He does not want equality; rather, he wants what anybody who intends to rise in the world is after, namely, superiority.
The man who just wants to be equal deserves to have his face stepped on.
Because it is nothing but a cheap, shabby trick, played on the hapless black by his presumed protectors and mentors, who are themselves are striving for a position of superiority.
And succeeding only too well, at the expense of their ignorant brethren.
And it was in fact King's outrage at this very phenomenon which first caused him to look in other directions for the handling of his imputed "racial problem".
So that there was very heavy symbolism indeed at work in his decision to build his body, to do that which, more than any other area of human endeavor, literally adds to the stature of a man, any man, regardless of his color.
And his heritage, his black heritage, if you will, worked to his advantage, in having provided him with the heavy bones and thick beef of the mesomorphic constitution which typifies so many of African descent.
So okay, he has a lot to learn, more even, than he suspected.
And he forgives himself for his ignorance, or rather, his areas of ignorance.
Because Rhino has been around for-who knows?
Who knows how old he is?
Because you can't tell by looking.
He could be forty or he could be seventy. The man is encased in armor, for heaven's sake! To build that kind of muscle takes-what? Another thing King doesn't know, he admits to himself.
And now, Rhino is dismounting from the top of the pile.
And moving off toward the bathroom.
And now, Francine is getting up, getting off of him, his cock, wet and scum-soaked and flaccid, sliding out of her quite easily.
Last of all, he gets up.
Rhino is washing up at the sink.
"You two can go ahead and take your showers, if you want," he says. "I'll wait until after you leave for mine."
Telling them that the party is over.
And now, he and Francine shower together. And King senses himself mystified still further by Rhino, even more than before tonight.
And yet, he is not diminished in any way by tonight's experience.
He is more concerned with the tremendous gaps in his knowledge implied by tonight than with any feeling of rivalry, of jealousy.
Because it is obvious to him, as it must be to Francine, that the two of them are in one world, Rhino in quite another.
And the twain shall meet, can and do meet, only on Rhino's terms.
Randy Buck has chosen well in Rhino, a bodybuilding guru whose knowledge, compared to that of others, could very well be considered infinite.
Surely, it must be evident to Francine that she has bitten off more here than she can chew, if all she was expecting, looking forward to, was the lascivious':delight of a threesome.
Because here is something else, something vastly greater.
Even though it is a mystery, not something to which a name can be readily assigned.
And now, they are scrubbed clean and ready to leave.
Rhino, seated in the livingroom, wearing his grey robe and slippers, gets up from in front of the TV as they enter.
"Thank you for coming," he says.
And sees them to the door.
"We start choreography next week," he announces.
And closes the door behind them.
* * *
"That was, uh, something else," Francine says.
"Sure was," King agrees.
"I uh, I hope that changed nothing between us," she says.
"Not at all."
"Good!" she replies, obviously relieved.
And she kisses him.
Not at all, King repeats in his mind.
But he does not mean it the way she thinks he does.
What it means is that things are not at all what he thought they were between them.
He was getting stuck on her, he realizes.
Without meaning to, he was lowering all his natural defenses, opening himself up to feelings for her that were drawing them closer and closer together.
And this is good, what happened tonight, he reflects.
Straightened their relationship right out, it did. Because he was, in common parlance, falling for her.
No good.
No good at all, in the long run.
Because this mixed pairs competition is not the be all and end all of his career.
Indeed, he does not even consider it a true beginning.
That will come a little later.
The Mister Galaxy contest.
That is the make or break, the crunch point, as far as he is concerned.
So that all this thing he is doing now, with Francine, is by way of preparation.
Not that he intends to accept anything less than victory, or to give less than his full effort to that end.
It is just that he is not prepared to view the mixed pairs competition in the same light as his individual effort Still, he must do nothing to upset Francine, to let the side down.
And Rhino could well prove the best thing to come out of this, in the end.
Although surely, if Randy Buck intends that Steve win again this year, then he will divert Rhino's services to that end.
Meaning what, where he, King, is concerned?
"You don't seem to have too much to say tonight, King," Francine observes, as he drives her back to her apartment.
"I think our bodies have talked to each other quite enough for one night, don't you?"
"Guess so," she says.
Then, "You're not, uh, pissed off at me for making this thing happen tonight, are you?"
"Not at all, not at all. In fact, I found it to be quite... educational."
"Then you've got it all over me."
"I came away from there with a lot more questions than answers."
"Well, me too, far as that goes."
Still, I thought it was an eye opener, of sorts."
"That it was, Francine sighs.
"Why? Are you gonna be going back for seconds?"
"Only with you."
"Oh. So now the ball is in my court, right?"
"I didn't mean it that way.
"I just meant, you know, no... dates with him." King shrugs.
"He isn't the kind of guy a woman would actually date."
"And don't even ask why I said that."
"You know, I won't ask, but you're right."
"For some reason, I just can't picture myself going to a movie or a restaurant with him."
"Or any other woman, for that matter."
"And I can't say why."
"He's, he's like a guy from, I don't know, outer space or something."
"How old do you think he is, anyway?"
"Would you believe I have no idea?"
"I could well believe it. Because I don't either."
"And those muscles of his! I've never seen anything quite like that."
"Me neither. Its like he's composed of a completely different kind of meat."
"You got that right!"
And again, the fallacy of racial difference is proven.
Because, even though Rhino falls under the general category of "white", his deep, even tan notwithstanding, he is speaking of him with this white woman as though it is he who is the alien presence, the stranger, the outsider, the one to be, if not feared, then at least looked at askance.
She is telling him that Rhino may be many things, but that he is not "one of us", the us in question meaning a much larger group which includes both him and her.
Satisfaction of a sort.
Insight of a kind.
And he feels a kind of shame at himself because of it.
Redirected discrimination, this is.
Include oneself by excluding others.
A cheap ploy.
And one which, on balance, he decides he will not use.
So- "Everybody comes from somewhere," he says.
"Everybody has a mother and a father, a time and place of birth, a place where they grew up, and so on and so on."
"I suppose so," Francine agrees, "still, the guy is weird."
Okay Weird he can buy.
Weird is like an individual thing.
Weird is better than alien, better than outsider, better than one who is to be excluded.
"I wish I knew all that he does," King says. And is glad he did.
Because that is what he really wants from Rhino, all he wants.
And also, it's good to admit that he doesn't have a great many of the answers, the techniques that he needs to put himself over the top in the bodybuilding game.
"Me too," she agrees.
"So I guess it comes down to how close we have to get to him to get that knowledge."
"That's about it."
"Should we push or just let it come as we need it?"
"Little bit of both, I should think," Francine replies.
"I just wish I knew how much more there is that we don't know about."
He shrugs.
"Maybe, we don't hafta know it all, y'know? Maybe he knows a lotta garbage that applies to others or doesn't mean anything to anybody.
"But I'd like to know everything I need to be the absolute best I can.
"I get the feeling this bald-headed bastard is just spoon feeding us, maybe even keeping us in the dark, you know?"
"As long as we win, I'll go along with him."
And he can only agree.
Still, Rhino nags at his mind.
CHAPTER SIX
His rest day, King realizes, waking up. Francine's too, for that matter.
But he feels himself getting stale, burning out. He has to get away from it for a day.
That, after all, is why there is always a rest day in the bodybuilding routine.
And Francine?
She reminds him too much of the gym.
And he is not prepared to view her in the same light as before.
Not since Rhino.
Not that she is emotionally taken with Rhino in any sense.
In fact, she has already told King that Rhino "gives her the creeps".
But that was afterward.
Before that, before they got physically close to him, she had been far too casual, far too quick to accept Rhino's proposal that the three of them get together.
Thus enlightened about her and about what had mistaken for the nature of their relationship, he feels no obligation to spend his day off with her.
Besides, they don't have a formal understanding or a date.
So, if she is expecting him to show up at her door, she is about to be disappointed.
Because he feels like a visit to the old neighborhood.
He knows nobody and nobody knows him. Yet, he appends.
Because, if he wins the mixed pairs, they will definitely know him.
He will be a star, a celebrity.
It's been years since he's been in this neighborhood.
But nothing ever changes here, he notes. And sees that this is not quite true.
The same dingy, littered streets, the same rundown buildings, true; but now, they are interspersed here and there with incongruous new construction, high rise apartment houses.
What the story behind these last could be, he hasn't the foggiest notion.
Why would anyone build such a thing here, of all places?
Unless- Of course.
He sees now what he didn't see before.
The furtive street-comer meetings and exchanges.
Guys loitering on corners looking nervously this way and that.
That too has changed since the old days, when drug deals on the street were the exception rather than the rule.
And the apartment houses?
Hey, guy's gonna rise in the world and not be too far from his work, he's gotta live somewhere, right?
And that just has to be the connection.
It sickens King, really..
To think that the bars and pool halls, formerly considered dens of iniquity, should now be thought of as healthy by comparison!
Their proprietors would, of course, permit no drug deals on the premises, even back then, when he still loved in the area, for fear that they could lose their licenses.
No drugs, no minors allowed.
They knew that the long arm of the law might suddenly reach out and exert its tenuous claim on them out of sheer frustr~utifs-irjlityt0 seriously impact the moving targets that dominate. the streets with their illicit and deadly commerce.
King walks the dirty streets, walks past the pool hall, the clicking of the balls reminding him of long ago.
He goes to a bar that he remembers, even though it is early in the day.
That will make no difference, he is sure. And sure enough, the bar is open.
He goes in.
And sure enough, already there are a couple of heavyweight beer drinkers, sitting at tables, nodding like junkies, except for one, already snoozing.
"What'll it be, Red?"
And it takes him a long instant to realize that the barmaid is actually talking to him.
Red.
He has to come here to be called Red.
Nobody at the gym or around where he lives would ever think to call him Red, a reference to the color of his hair, which is actually more brown - than red.
But the point of the appellation is that his hair is not black.
Just as his skin is not really black, meaning one of the darker shades of brown.
So that he is considered a privileged minority within a minority by certain local standards. Hence, he is once again Red.
An odd mixture of envy and contempt, so formalized here that it is impersonal.
Could be him, could be anyone else with that particular set of chromosomes, male or female. Red. Sheesh!
"My old neighborhood," he says.
"Just lookin"roun' "
"You uh, somebody famous or sumthin'?" she asks.
"Football player, by the looka you-Red."
"No, ain't famous-yet."
"You mean it's comin'?"
He looks the barmaid up and down, trying to decide whether or not she is putting him on. And he can't tell.
She smiles at him.
And looks down at her generous cleavage.
She is a large woman, gifted with huge, heavy breasts, most of which are exposed by her low-cut blouse.
"Kinda wasted, ain't it?" he asks, looking around, then back at her dcolletage.
"Tell it to the man in chahge back there," she says. "Tole `im not ta bring me in early."
"But he a lazy mofo, see?
"Don' wanna be tendin' no bah, he don't.
"So ah gots ta stan' aroun' heah, wasted, like you say."
"Hey, that means you gettin' ovatime f Join' nuthin'. Don' be knockin' it."
"Yeah, right. All that an' free room an' board."
"Howzat?"
"Easy. I got me a 'pahtmint upstairs.
"Part of the deal."
"Don' make jack shit fum `at cheap mofo, but `tween the room, the food an' the tips, cain' handly `ford ta leave."
"You soun' lak a woman lookin' to be rescued."
"That an offah?" she asks patting the back of her straightened, upswept hairdo.
"Not really."
"Til I do get rich an' famous, ain't but so much rescuin' ah kin do."
"Sides, you prob'ly wanna staht wif sumthin' smallah, work yo' way up ta mah sazz."
"Naw, I like a big woman."
"Really?"
"I kid joo not."
She looks around the bar, sees nothing stirring, and says, "In dat case, how you lak a lI'l tayss, kine of preview of comin' attrack-shuns?"
He eyes her up and down.
It has been a while, he thinks.
But what's with this broad? What does she expect to come of this?
"Like I say, I ain' rich an' famous yet."
"In dat case," she responds, smiling, "ah'm de one be gittin' de preview "Dat is, unless y'all so use ta de white meat you don' rightly knows how ta hannel nunna de good stuff no mo'."
Great, he thinks. First Red, now this.
He has to come here for his dose of racism.
"When do you get off?" he asks.
She laughs.
"Not 'til aftah y'all gits yo' pale tan buns safely out de neighb'hood, fo' sure!"
And I'm a coward too, he thinks. Really glad I thought about coming over here.
Aloud, "Then I guess I'm not following you."
"You jus' gots ta follow me right up them stairs ovah deh, sugah!"
And she nods toward the roped off stairs leading to the second floor against the far wall.
He turns, looks, then turns back to her. "You wif de program or not, Red?" she asks. He shrugs, smiling. "Why not?"
She undoes her apron, massive mammaries jiggling as she bends to untie the knot behind her.
"Freddy!" she yells, not looking back toward the kitchen, laying her apron on the bar, "coin' upstairs fo' awhal'! Watch de bah!"
"Yeah, okay, don' be long though!" comes a voice from the kitchen.
She ignores him, raising a section of the bar at one end and slipping through.
"This way, babe," she says.
And, unhitching the theater-like velveteen rope with its chromed hook, she ushers him up the creaking stairs.
"You be wantin' a real tayss, ah'll take me a spar," she says.
He picks up on the challenge in her tone.
Daring him to really get into her, to give her something more than a perfunctory fuck.
"You got a douche bag?" he asks.
Telling her that if it's detail she wants, that's what she'll get.
"You talk a mighty good game, Red," she says', unbuttoning her blouse and removing it.
She turns around.
"Undo me back there, will ya?" she says.
And he unhooks her bra, slipping hi hands around her breasts under her armpits, between the flesh and the heavy duty undergarment.
"You ain't seen nuthin' yet," she says, slipping the bra off and tossing it on a chair.
She steps out of her flats and unhooks the back of her skirt, then lets it drop to the floor, stepping out of it before kicking it expertly onto the chair.
And he looks at her wide thighs, the flare of her wide, wide hips, her deep navel, as she slips out of her black bikini panties.
"Be right back," she says. "You jus' make yo'se'f cumftable, sugah."
And he watches the twin boulders of her ass as they grind against each other on her way into the bathroom.
He strips.
And starts to get onto the bed.
Fuck it, he thinks, let her see what she's getting, what she's been putting down.
And stands there, waiting.
And to good purpose, because- "Lookit choo now!" she exclaims.
And comes up to him.
And rubs her big boobs against his chest, hands going around behind him to grasp the portruding masses of his glutes.
"Mmm-mmm!" she enthuses. "You don' gotta do a lot ta be rich an' famous, sugah! All you gots ta do is take off yo' clothes!"
"Now, if that worked, you'da been famous a long time ago, right?" he asks, returning her embrace, helping himself to handfuls of tle mass of her ass.
"So much fo' de compliments an' bullshit, stud," she says, breaking away from him to remove the covers from the bed.
She gets onto it, moving over to make room for him, patting the bed beside; her.
And he does not hesitate, but gets on, cradling her head on an arm, beginning to fondle her mammoth mammaries with his free hand.
And sliding down, removing his hand from behind her head.
And turning onto his stomach.
And leaning over her, sealing his mouth to a giant doorbell of a nipple.
And sucking it.
And fondling and kneading the huge gland beneath.
And feeling it respond, the nipple becoming stiffly rubbery and erect.
And going on to the other one, wallowing in her massiveness Flesh and flesh and flesh!
Brown billows of it, warm and yielding, firm and So that yes, he can lose himself in her.
He an let his awareness go out of focus, crossing the invisible barrier between the outside world and the one they are creating, she with her body, he with the action.
He can become dizzy, disoriented, helping if to handfuls and mouthfuls of her as she squirms with pleasure beneath him.
She was concerned about his e-making, his willingness to get close to her?
He'll show her what close is!
And now, he slides further down her, reluctantly leaving those big boobs of hers behind for the moment.
Because the day is young.
And there will be seconds, perhaps even thirds, depending on how much time she cares to steal from the lazy Freddy downstairs.
Her problem, not his.
He has all day and yes, even all night, if he wants it.
But now, he turns his attention to the task at hand.
He spreads her big, heavy thighs wide, shoving them apart as he raises them, exposing her cunt, with its dark lips and pink interior.
He is the master technician of twat as he seals his lips to her big pussy.
"Ooooh!" she exclaims.
She did not really expect him to do this, obviously.
Why should he, after all?
Because she knows that he can have all the white nookie he wants.
He can have first class from the first class. And yet, here he is, doing this with her. Taking his root back to his roots, he is.
How else explain his being here, his doing this? And now, he is exploring her cunt with his tongue.
He is rolling her big, protruding clit round and round with the tip of his tongue.
He is sliding his tongue down the insides of her labia, slippery now with her clear juices which have begun to flow freely.
He is fucking her with his tongue, sliding it in and out, careful to glide over the clit both ways.
Deep, deep, deep, as far as he can extend his tongue he goes into her hot, juicy depths.
He turns his head to one side, the better to match insert of tongue with sleeve of pussy.
And he braces her legs with both hands, creating of them supports for her heavy legs.
He takes his time, revelling in her snatch, exploring every inch of it-interior depths, lips, clit.
And she is rocking and rolling, moaning softly to herself, craning her neck awkwardly, trying to see over her lolling breasts, as though by so doing she could see something beyond the top of his head.
She puts her hands behind her head, the better to elevate it, so that she can see, even though it is merely his`liead, handsome profile turned sideways, eyes closed, tongue extended, that she can see, her legs hiding the rest of him.
But he can tell that she wants a good look at him.
And now, he accommodates her, pulling back, sitting back, ass to heels as he crouches there, then straightens up, resting on his knees.
So that she has a full, unobstructed view of his upper body and at the cock which now rises stiffly from his bush, a thick, long flagpole, the dark, ruddy eye of the head looking back at her.
And she takes him in, all of him.
The best ever!
And he knows that this is what she is thinking.
Because she may have had bigger, if only in size of cock, body, or both, but she hasnever had it this well put together.
No question.
He gives her a good, long look, suggestively toying with his prick with one hand as he watches her watching him.
He grins knowingly.
And now, he is leaning forward, one hand bracing his body, planted firmly in the bed beside one massive thigh, which she has raises as she spreads her legs wide, preparing to receive him.
And he does not keep her waiting.
Because now, he is moving forward, one hand guiding his mighty prod toward its target.
And now, he is inserting himself into her.
He has a big cock, but she has a big cunt, one which receives him quite easily So that he shafts smoothly into the hot, wet depths of her cunt, which seems almost to reach out and grasp him in its juicy, pressurized embrace.
And now, he is fucking her, pumping up and down, causing her body to bounce heavily on the bed, legs bent at the knees, welcoming him, again and again, welcoming each thrust.
And now, he accelerates.
And he is fucking her faster and harder.
She is a large, healthy woman, well able to take all that he has to give her, by way of cock, by way of action.
So that he is her fucker, concentrating on socking it to her.
So that he is her lover of the moment, giving of himself to her totally.
So that he and she are joined in perfect communication.
His cock is transmitting message after message of lascivious sensation, of intimate, erotic delight, of fulfillment.
Her cunt is receiving thrill after thrill, each thrust, each withdrawal a surge of sexual electricity; each stronger than the last.
Because it is clear to both of them that they are building and building, becoming hotter and hotter merely his`liead, handsome profile turned sideways, eyes closed, tongue extended, that she can see, her legs hiding the rest of him.
But he can tell that she wants a good look at him.
And now, he accommodates her, pulling back, sitting back, ass to heels as he crouches there, then straightens up, resting on his knees.
So that she has a full, unobstructed view of his upper body and at the cock which now rises stiffly from his bush, a thick, long flagpole, the dark, ruddy eye of the head looking back at her.
And she takes him in, all of him.
The best ever!
And he knows that this is what she is thinking.
Because she may have had bigger, if only in size of cock, body, or both, but she hasnever had it this well put together.
No question.
He gives her a good, long look, suggestively toying with his prick with one hand as he watches her watching him.
He grins knowingly.
And now, he is leaning forward, one hand bracing his body, planted firmly in the bed beside one massive thigh, which she has raises as she spreads her legs wide, preparing to receive him.
And he does not keep her waiting.
Because now, he is moving forward, one hand guiding his mighty prod toward its target.
And now, he is inserting himself into her.
He has a big cock, but she has a big cunt, one which receives him quite easily So that he shafts smoothly into the hot, wet depths of her cunt, which seems almost to reach out and grasp him in its juicy, pressurized embrace.
And now, he is fucking her, pumping up and down, causing her body to bounce heavily on the bed, legs bent at the knees, welcoming him, again and again, welcoming each thrust.
And now, he accelerates.
And he is fucking her faster and harder.
She is a large, healthy woman, well able to take all that he has to give her, by way of cock, by way of action.
So that he is her fucker, concentrating on socking it to her.
So that he is her lover of the moment, giving of himself to her totally.
So that he and she are joined in perfect communication.
His cock is transmitting message after message of lascivious sensation, of intimate, erotic delight, of fulfillment.
Her cunt is receiving thrill after thrill, each thrust, each withdrawal a surge of sexual electricity; each stronger than the last.
Because it is clear to both of them that they are building and building, becoming hotter and hotter as they rise higher and higher up the rainbow of their shared pleasure.
Because both of them know where they are headed.
It is a place they have been manytimes before, - the paradise of sex, the realm of the pleasure beyond pleasure.
And it is ever familiar, ever novel, always wonderful, the ultimate pleasure which their", bodies are capable of experiencing.
So that now they experience that odd combination of hunger and satisfaction as they ascend, level by level.
So that their very bodies are drooling for the next delicious increment of their ever-mounting sensation.
And for the next and the next.
And he is able to bring her right along. Up and up and up they rise.
And there is no stopping them now.
They are a perfect team.
They are two halves of a flawlessly functioning machine.
And its function is to seek out and find the pleasure beyond pleasure, a task made all the easier by the fact that, in the end, it will find them.
So that there is that combination of opposites at work within them now.
Excitement is mingled with calm.
Hunger and satisfaction are stair-stepping each other.
And relaxation is combined with intensity of effort.
All these things are working within them at one and the same time.
And now, the pleasure beyond pleasure comes to them.
It has been summoned from their innermost depths.
And now balloons to fill them to their capacity to contain it.
And they hover at the peak for along moment. And then They are coming and coming, a release from the very cores of their being, a surge of ultimate satisfaction, a moment-of sensational truth.
Up, up, up over the rainbow they go.
Higher and higher, soaring through the sexual empyrian.
. - And the twinges, the spasms of their shared climax convulse their bodies, again and again. Becoming quieter and quieter.
Until they float gently back down to earth. And they linger their, plastered together by their shared sweat, recovering overin their breath.
And there is no thought at the moment.
All is a whirl of relaxation and deep, deep satisfaction.
And they are not eager to separate, their aroused sexual energy now dissipated, leaving them more or less limp.
And their breathing slowly returns to normal, their sweat beginning to dry, making them itch. He dismounts.
And stand beside her, offering her a hand out of the bed.
She accepts, grasping it as she slowly rises.
And they put an arm around each others' waists, going into the bathroom together, awkwardly turning while still embraced, she slightly ahead of him so that they can get through the doorway.
She runs the shower and he joins her,. standing in the tub, overcrowding it with the size of the two of them.
And now, flesh brushes lasciviously against flesh, slippery now with soap and water.
And their eyes wander over the contours of each others' bodies, she all undulating curves, he blocks of muscle.
It is often said that opposites attract.
And that is certainly true in this case.
They have nothing in common except the fallacy, the convention of race, their very disparateness revealing the untruth of this.
And the attraction is there, unmistakably. Because there is none of what she feared. Which is that, his nuts once popped, he having "scored" on her, he would not linger there, would, on the contrary, be most anxious to leave, getting on with life.
That, or the other thing which she has seen and recognized, post-coital depression, even though she does not know the term.
In which, nuts popped, the handsome stud gives her a look of such revulsion that she knows he can only be thinking, "What have I done!?"
But no, he sees something in her that he truly wants-still.
So that she is most careful to scrub herself up thoroughly, especially concentrating on the parts that count, where everything comes together.
As she asks herself, Dare I think? Dare I hope that he will actually-naw.
Too much.
Too much to ask, to expect.
Still, he did eat her pussy.
Got right down there, down to business, he did. And enjoyed himself thoroughly, every minute. And is looking at her even now with desire, his mind racing ahead of his cock, obviously.
And really, really wants her.
She returns to that point, dwells on it in her mind.
And she is the other half of this duet of desire. Because she too has had men that she wanted when she was hot and did not after she was satisfied, it being her hominess and not their charm which gave the green light to the action.
And, truth to tell, King is so far above that level of activity that she would still have taken some satisfaction in having had him, even should he in fact have washed quickly, gotten dressed and left her without so much as a goodbye.
So that now, yes, she will risk hope, even knowing that it might be dashed, that round two will be a mere rerun of round one.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Back in bed, they are.
And he is whispering in her ear.
"Ever had a man fuck you in the ass?"
"Sho'!"
"Like it?"
"Had good an' bad. Depends on the preparayshun, y'know "
"Oh, I know, I know!
"Say I was to do it right."
"What would you say then?"
"I'd say, 'Le's get it own!"
And he does.
Gently, he rolls her over onto her stomach. She props her upper body on her elbows, huge breasts overflowing the area between neck and bed. As he slides down, down, down.
And spreads her large, heavy legs apart.
And spreads the cheeks of her ass to reveal her large, protruding ass hole, its configuration an elongated oval, the segments few and-puffy.
And King reflects that he may have hit upon her favorite way of fucking.
Because there is no way her bung could be in this shape merely from the traffic coming out of the tunnel.
So that he could have quite an easy time of it without any great preparation.
But now, hands clutching her huge mounds, keeping them spread wide, he looks, fascinated, at the view.
And bends lower and lower, sealing his mouth to the elongated ass hole, sucking it in, chewing it as his tongue goes in, in, into her, feeling her interior heat, the yielding tissues of the rectal wall.
He wiggles his tongue, feeling the distended ring of muscle go slack.
No problem here, he confirms.
And now, he grasps the belled flare of her huge hips.
And, still crouching behind her, mouth in full contact with her ass hole at all times, he elevates her pelvis.
So that now she is on knees and elbows as he burrows into the crack of her ass.
And he does so at great length, really taking his time.
And only when he has lubricated her entrance and opening thoroughly with his saliva does he sit back on his heels.
Polishing the plum of his knob with a glob of spit, he stands up on his knees.
And he frames the target between thumb and fingers of one hand, the other guiding his prod toward her fully prepared ass.
And he is into her with a single, smooth, hand-guided thrust.
And now, he is fucking her in the ass.
He goes to full stroke almost at once, so readily does she accommodate his massive monolith of meat, so perfectly does she seem suited to the action of his piston.
And quickly, they become a flawlessly functioning team.
And now, they settle down into the rhythm of his ass fucking.
So that the seismic shocks of his repeated thrusts into her rectal depths causes her whole body to undulate, again and again.
And she is devouring his cock with her ass.
Because his cock is speaking to her body, is whispering its secret truths, the truths of feeling and sensation, the truths of the body, to her rectum, along its entire length.
So that their bodies are once more in synch, once again in full communication.
And every millimeter of the surface of his rampant invader is stimulated with messages of pleasure, transmitted directly from her ass, which it stretches and fills.
And now, he feels it growing within him, his sexual excitement.
She is working his prick with her rectum, massaging it with her insides, clinging, grasping, caressing, rubbing, sucking it.
And now, he releases one hip, reaching down and around.
And what a contrast this is from Francine! Francine's breasts are large and firm, but finite. He can weigh them with one hand.
Not so here.
Because she fills his hand to overflowing.
Her massive mammaries weigh down on his palm, but extend well beyond the radius of his spread hand.
She is huge. She is excess. She is the bounty of nature expressed in human form.
And this inspires him.
So that now, he rolls his hips, reaming her ass' with his rampant. invader.
And she, taking the heat of this delicious motion, responds, rotating her own hips in the opposite direction.
So that she gets a still more active, still more thorough reaming effect.
Hotter and hotter they become now, King's face and body flushing with the engorged blood of his aroused passion.
Higher and higher they rise up the rainbow of their shared stimulation.
- And now, King varies his motion, now pistoning in and out, now going round and round.
And everything he can give her, she wants and can take.
And her heat is also rising.
And now, his exploring hand digs beneath her, sliding between thigh and belly, squeezing between them to get at her cunt.
Which it does.
So that now, his fingers find her labia, then her clit, walking up her hot, wet cleft to encounter the bud of her joy buzzer.
And finding it.
And twiddling it now between two fingers. And polishing it, rubbing them round and round over the engorged nub, wet now with her pussy juices.
So that her clit is being stimulated now, within and without.
So that he has closed all the circuits and they are a complete entity, a singularity, a unity, a world unto themselves.
And there is nothing else there, nothing that can interfere with what is about to happen.
As he continues to fuck her ass in strong, regular strokes.
And both of them realize that they have settled into their final pattern.
So that he will ride her all the way home.
So that there will be no more surprises, but only the swelling rise of the pleasure beyond pleasure.
Which is even now awakening in the depths of their innermost selves.
And which blossoms and billows within them, filling them now with ecstasy, now with rapture.
And which now transports them to their private, intimate, erotic sexual paradise.
So that now they are rising, being borne aloft on the wings of the feedback of sensations which surge through them now in a continuous, ever intensifying loop of sexual electricity.
And now, the heat within them builds and builds, far faster than it can be dissipated in the surrounding air.
And now, the pressure of their pleasure is exceeding their capacity to contain it.
Nor do they try.
So that they blow their safety valves.
And they come and come.
And the powerful convulsions of her cunt milk his mighty prong of its load, her spasms and his alternating to inject spurt after spurt of his thick, hot, copious jism into the depths of her bowels.
Until, at last, their climactic twinges subside and they float slowly, gently, back down to earth and reality.
And they are once more relaxed, depleted, limbs suddenly turned to jelly.
As she goes flat and he on top of her.
And they lie there thus, sweating and panting, his cock still all the way up her ass.
And they do not move, content for the moment to rest, perhaps even to sleep.
And in fact, they find themselves beginning to nod off, so calm, so peaceful, so fulfilled and contented do they feel.
But now, the peristaltic action of her bowels combine with the detumescing of his cock.
And she shits him, the action rousing the both of them.
And still they lie there, amused by this.
But now, she has a job to which she must return. And he has a day to get on with.
So that, difficult as is their inertia to overcome, they realize that they have to get up and, with great reluctance, moaning audibly in protest, they do so.
So that they shower together quickly, efficiently, more quickly than they would like, more efficiently than they feel.
And they get dressed.
"You gonna be around now?" she asks.
"Yeah, sure, from time to time."
"Well," she says, opening her apartment door, "don't be a stranger, okay?"
"You got it."
He follows her down the stairs.
Where Freddy, behind the bar, glares at them. "Fuck you doin', bitch, turnin' tricks on da side?"
"This guy look like he gots to pay fo' a piece, do he?"
Freddy looks King up and down.
"Sorry," he mumbles, clearly intending the apology for King and not to his errant barmaid. "Course not."
"You unnastan', right? I mean, dis heah's a place abusiness, an' she, like, done abandoned her pos'."
"I'm a fren' of da fam'ly," King says. "You got some kinda problem wif dat?"
"No, no, no! Jus'... fagit it, okay?"
King gives him a long, slow, expressionless look. And turns on his heel and leaves.
"You got one good lookin' boyfren'," Freddy says.
"Don' ah jus' wish!" King hears her reply, before he leaves the place.
* * *
He does not linger in the neighborhood. Suddenly, it palls on him, depressing him.
And besides, he realizes he has gotten the only thing out of the place it had to offer him.
So that it would be meaningless to tarry here any longer. What else is there to see, after all?
Anything that can happen here, other than what just did, is likely to be something he is better off not seeing, not knowing about.
No, this is a place where nothing good can happen.
Perhaps, when he does become rich and famous, he will come back here, will set up a program to reclaim territory from the drugs which seem to be everywhere, between buyers and sellers.
Maybe, he tells himself, it is already too late.
Perhaps the drug traffic is the new reality in the black neighborhoods, an economic fact of life.
He does not like it, in a way wishes that he had not come here, so that he would not have to see it, would not have to know Because, after all, what can he really do about it? Nothing, he tells himself.
The dope trade could well be the coming profession, even now establishing itself here, never to leave, an integral, a fundamental part of making a living in these parts.
Still, he feels that he should do something. And he vows that, if successful in his bodybuilding career, he will.
That said, and having gotten his pipes cleaned twice over by one who, if not beautiful or even attractive is, in her own way, nevertheless spectacular, he feels justified in going back to the suburbs and his apartment.
* * *
"I called you yesterday," Francine says.
And does not follow up on that.
Enough that he should know that she did not stand on ceremony, that she did not hesitate to give him a ring.
"Yeah, well, I uh, I felt the need to go back and take a look at my old neighborhood."
"How was it?"
"Sad. Worse than it was when I lived there. "Apparently, it's not about to become a part of a kinder, gentler America."
"Sorry."
"Yeah. Me too."
Then, changing the subject, "Where's our guide and mentor?"
"Right behind you," Rhino says.
And King cannot help reddening slightly as he turns to face him.
"Sorry, Rhino. Didn't see you there."
"We guides and mentors are an unobtrusive lot," he responds.
"I didn't mean-"
"Forget it.
"Okay, today we want to go over a basic posing routine.
"The purpose of today's session is simply to see to it that we' incorporate all the poses we want into the routine.
"We do that, then we can decide on the best order.
"Right now, the problem is to see to it that, for example, your most muscular pose looks like hers and vice versa.
"If you go low and she goes high, then-never mind.
"Let's just go into the aerobics room and run through what all we want to do."
"Will we be able to get to our regular workouts after?" King asks.
"Yes. I expect to very quickly get through what is to be included.
"Shall we?"
* * *
"Great! Very pleased! You two do the same things the same way, or so close that there's no problem making it look right.
"Tomorrow, we do it in posing trunks and make some sense out of the sequence.
"Anybody got any special problems? No. Then I'll leave you two on your own for the rest of the day."
Puzzled, because this is a Rhino first since his arrival on the scene, they shrug and go on about their business.
Only to find that Rhino is very much in evidence. Not for the first two hours.
But then, they see him emerge from the office with Randy Buck, Stan-and Steve.
"Mister Galaxy," Francine says.
King says nothing.
So, he thinks. This is how it's to be.
He is to be used to achieve this mixed pairs thing for the franchise, thereby giving Buck's interests their aura of glamor and romance, with all the new memberships implicit therein.
But the serious stuff, the nitty-gritty, Mister Galaxy, that he cannot touch.
Because Rhino is going to be making Steve the one and only, again, this year.
And that really sucks.
He is, he reflects, worse off than if he had been left on his own, if there were no mixed pairs deal coming up.
Who knows to what heights of effort an achievement his exercise would have led him, left on his own, with no intervening (interfering?) contest between him and the big one?
And now, apparently, management (and face it, now that he has given up his other job, is on the payroll here, they are his management) has decided to go with Steve again this year.
And he cannot for the life of him recall.
Did Buck or did he not make a commitment to King if he and Francine took this mixed pairs thing?
He thought he did.
But obviously, he was mistaken.
Because why should Buck suddenly tire of the (his) current champion?
Useless to speak to Rhino of these things. Rhino is, like himself, merely another employee, doing as instructed.
As for Buck, he is the last King can safely confront.
Still, he does intend to compete in the Mister Galaxy, whether Randy Buck likes it or not.
But for now, there is nothing he can do except compete and compete successfully in this mixed pairs thing with Francine.
That, at least, will give him some kind of a claim on other competitions, the Mister Galaxy obviously among them.
Damn demoralizing though, he has to admit, seeing Rhino there, talking with Steve.
What secrets is he telling him, what edge is he giving him, helping him out with, that will ultimately result in his once more winning Mister Galaxy?
On the other hand, what is he going to do for Steve that he has not done in other years?
Surely, he would have built Steve to the best of his ability.
Which means that, unless something new has been added, unless the sport is becoming so refined that, like automobiles, the model is changing from year to year, all that Rhino can do for Steve is to once again hone him to (the limit of Steve's potential) perfection.
So that, actually, willy-nilly, King has gotten more help from Rhino for the Mister Galaxy corn-petition than will Steve.
Because King is doing things with his body that have never been done to it before.
Whereas all Steve can do is repeat.
And King's improvements-the fine points-show.
So that he can look at himself in the mirror and realize and appreciate the changes which Rhino has wrought in him.
His serratus muscles were never in this good a shape before!
In fact, their diamond pattern covering his ribs are like a whole min-show, all by themselves, so impressed is he, so impressed must others be, with them.
He cannot, of course, see his calves as well as his ribs, even less can he see his own back; nevertheless, he can practically feel the difference.
And Rhino himself has commented on the great progress in these areas.
Perhaps Buck really is bringing him along.
Maybe he is merely going through the motions with Steve, feeling that he has an obligation there.
Is Steve really the better built of the two of them?
King really can't say.
Because that never is the real question in bodybuilding.
Where the real competition is with yourself.
Not are you built better than the other guy but where do you stand in relation to your own potential is the question to be answered.
If you have reached your peak and that peak is insufficient, then so be it.
The difficulty, of course, is that nobody really knows what his own potential is.
King suspects that others, experts, a Rhino, say, can do something along those lines, can actually recognize the ideal lurking within the real.
And he knows that Rhino wants, is under orders to see to it, in fact, his victory, his and Francine's. But that is not the Mister Galaxy.
The best he can win in mixed pairs competition is half a title.
The most that he can take credit for is half the victory.
And even then, that's dubious.
Will he have won because he held up his end or because Francine was so overwhelming a presence that she has carried him with her?
Who can say, in the event?
So that even there, even if he wins, a doubt would remain.
And now, he is working out with a vengeance. And the corrections to his technique that Rhino has made are second nature or they are not. Right now, he could care less.
He needs concentration, intensity.
He has to focus inward, on his own body.
He has to withdraw into himself, turning himself into a specialized hydraulic jack.
And he does so.
It weighs, oh how it weighs! but he handles it. Bulk and definition are served equally at a certain weight for any given exercise.
This spake Rhino.
And now, he is working on that, declaring that weight to be slightly heavier than ever before.
Would Rhino recommend or condemn this?
He doesn't know, doesn't really care.
He knows he needs a workout, and this one will do in the absence of his trainer, withdrawn now to assist the once and future Mister Galaxy, for reasons which, accepted at face value, are indeed discouraging.
"You're taking a hell of a chance, doing that with that kind of iron." Francine says, when at last he takes a break, mopping his brow.
"What can I do?" he pants.
"You mean about that scene over there?" she asks, nodding with her chin toward where Steve and Rhino are busily conferring.
"Something like that," he replies.
"Yeah, well, don't let it shake you up".
"I know what you're after. So does Rhino. So, for that matter, does Randy Buck.
"And if it's what you want, they can't really stop you."
"Yeah, right. And if Rhino pulls some technique, some dietary thing, some who-knows-what out of his ass?"
Francine smiles.
"Look. There are no miracles in this game. I mean, okay, some guys are superstitious, or they can psych themselves out that if they do this or that, then they have an edge.
"But unless `this or that' is something that's a really good, sound, substantial practice, then it's all in their head or just plain bullshit."
"I know that," King says. "I know that and still I'm worried."
"What the hell do you want?" Francine asks. "You want Buck to refuse Steve Rhino's services?
"That's not even common courtesy, much less common sense."
King sighs.
"I suppose you're right," he says.
Then, "What happens when Randy Buck asks me not to compete in the Mister Galaxy?"
"Buck's not stupid, y'know."
"Why would he do such a thing, knowing that you'll more than likely go ahead and compete anyhow?
"Besides, if you win, you're also on the Buck payroll."
"In a way, you're Buck's insurance."
"Something goes wrong with Steve, one of the judges gets a bug up his ass, whatever, he's got a backup shot with you."
"You stand up in front of the mike and say where you work out, you tell me how that's gonna make the old franchise here look." King smiles thinly.
"You make it seem better and better," he observes. "Well, it isn't the disaster you seemed to be talking yourself into."
And both of them look over to where Rhino has stopped talking to Steve and is standing behind the champion as he begins his first bench press.
"Think they're reinventing the wheel?" Francine asks.
Because Rhino is watching intently, almost as though he has never before seen a bench press. And yet, he says nothing as Steve, his set completed, cradles the barbell in the uprights and sits up, mopping his brow.
But, as they continue to watch, they see Rhino making a note on his clipboard.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"We did It t" Francine enthuses.
"Sure did," King agrees, smiling in the glare of the cameras as they flank the trophy.
"I think that's about enough of this, don't you?" Francine asks.
"Yeah. These guys'd take pictures forever if we let `em."
"Thanks a lot, everyone?" Francine says.
And they both smile and wave, moving off stage, King taking the trophy just out of range of the TV and sitting it down. The show's promoters will have it engraved.
They head for the showers, men's and womens's, respectively.
And Randy Buck, Rhino, and, to their surprise, Steve are there to greet them when they emerge fully clothed.
* * *
"This is absolutely exquisite!" Francine enthuses. "And the food is out of this world!"
"Should be," Randy Buck responds, between mouthfuls, "I own the place."
"This is one of yours too?" King asks, surprised.
"Absolutely. Don't have much in the midwest by way of eateries, but what I do is, well, as you see."
"Speaking of which, I hate to eat and run, but if you'll excuse me-" And he leaves.
"Hope he remembered to take care of the check," King says.
"Won't be a check," Steve states. "Never is, we eat in one of Randy's places."
"What uh, what are you doing here anyway, Steve, if you don't mind my asking?" Francine asks, knowing that his presence is driving King up the wall.
"I wanted him here," Rhino interjects.
King and Francine look at Rhino.
Steve smiles wanly, looking down at his plate. "I wanted him here," Rhino continues, "so that he could come to a decision."
Rhino is a robot, a statue, his gaze impenetrable behind his dark glasses.
"I'm not going for Mister Galaxy this year," Steve says.
And it is King's turn to look down at his plate.
"Funny thing about being number one," Steve continues, "which is that if you're not gonna be number one, then suddenly you're not gonna be anything decent.
"If the judges are gonna knock ya down, they have to make a very good job of it.
"So they go out of their way to see to it that you don't even come close.
"That way, no questions remain unresolved in anybody's mind, from spectators to promoters."
"After seeing you up there, King, I've decided to give you the shot, free and clear."
"Thanks," King says.
"No thanks necessary," Rhino says. "Steve is acting in his own best interests.
"He isn't ready and he isn't going to be ready."
"Not in time. Not for the Mister Galaxy."
"I just brought him out here so he could prove it to himself."
"And I did," Steve confirms.
They continue eating and it is as if a great weight has been lifted from King's head and shoulders.
So, he thinks, that's what all the big conferences were about-not to get Steve ready, but to convince him that he was not and couldn't be.
And he was and is the new favorite.
King is king indeed.
"No, uh, hard feelings, I hope," King says.
"None at all," Steve says. "My own damn fault, actually. Spent most of the year on a maintenance' routine. Resting on my laurels, I think they call it. "
"So what are your plans?" King asks.
Steve shrugs.
"Movies, TV, whatever."
"Or I could get onto a program that'd put me back in shape for next year."
"Could," Rhino echoes.
"How serious is that?" King asks.
"Well, I'm gonna hafta do something with myself to actually get back in shape.
"I let myself go without even realizing it."
"And don't think that can't happen, either; easiest thing in the world. All ya really need is enough complacency."
"Words to live by," King says. "Indeed," Francine interjects.
They look at her.
"Anybody ever tell you guys you can be really boring if you set your minds to it?"
"Well, guys," Steve says. "Lady says she's bored. Shall we go somewhere and make things exciting for her?"
Rhino and King look at each other, then at Steve.
"We?" King asks.
After all, she is his partner, and it's no secret that he and she see each other away from the gym.
"Hey, we're out of town and this has been a pretty exciting day," Steve says. "So why not continue the festive mood?"
"Three on one, though?" King says.
Rhino smiles thinly.
"I'm game if you are," Francine affirms.
There it is again, King thinks.
Something in Francine digs this kinky stuff, sex with more than one guy.
And now, apparently, more than two.
Fuck it, then, he thinks.
He tried to take her off the spot, only to discover that she is exactly where she wants to be.
Besides, it should be very interesting-Francine with the present and future Mister Galaxies and Rhino, who is in a class by himself, physically speaking.
"Everybody have enough to eat?" Francine asks.
Sheesh! King thinks. She's even impatient to get started.
And of course, with what they have ahead of them, the men are more than ready.
* * *
No question, King thinks. One would have to look far and wide to find four bodies built as well as theirs.
He has a lazy hard-on, just like the other two men, as Francine climbs onto the king-sized bed.
"Since Steve is the new man on the team," Fran- cine says, "why don't we get started with him?"
Steve grins.
And, as she lies on her back, head propped up on pillows, Steve straddles her body, holding onto the headboard for support, and begins fucking her in the mouth.
And yet, she is sucking him as eagerly as he is pumping his hips.
So that he very quickly gets a massive hard-on.
And the other two watch Steve's vast (although apparently not competition ready) musculature in action muscular buttocks flexing and unflexing beneath his broad, flaring back.
When he is fully at the ready and beginning to really heat up, Francine deftly slides out from beneath him.
He twists around, surprised, cock huge and stiff. She smiles and pats the bed.
And he understands at once.
And lies down on his back, head comfortably supported by a pillow As she squats above him, quickly inserting his meat baton into her cunt as she settles down on him and leans forward.
Rhino very politely gestures, bowing, inviting King to go for her ass hole.
And King is not slow to comply.
He sucks her ass hole, lying between Steve's legs, Francine's being outside them.
And, because Francine is rotating her hips, his tongue accidently touches Steve's balls and cock briefly, every now and again, until he adjust his head movements to her rotations.
And now, they are coordinated.
And he feels her ass hole slacken against his lips and tongue, although Steve's prick is pressing too hard on her insides for King to actually insert his tongue into her bung.
And now, he pulls back, his cock throbbing erect, excited by sight and taste and action.
He polishes his knob with a bit of saliva.
She has a big ass hole which receives plenty of attention from him in the normal course of their seeing each other and he knows from that experience that she requires no great preparation.
And now, feeling him take his face away from her ass, she stops.
And raises her hips until only Steve's knob remains inside her cunt.
And King deftly shafts into her ass.
And she settles back down.
And he feels the underside of Steve's cock through the thin membrane of tissues separating' her rectum from her vagina.
So that now they have formed the sandwich.
And Steve, as top man, controls the action, bouncing up and down so that his piston action alternates with Steve's.
Rhino checks the action from the foot of the bed.
And he sees her ass hole and cunt turned into two smoothly rounded, pink-lipped mouths, sucking two thick cocks.
Satisfied that all is firmly in place and well underway, Rhino gets onto the bed, going on his knees cock above Steve's head.
And Francine raises her upper body as Rhino spreads his knees wider, until her mouth lines up perfectly with the bulbous head of his cock.
And now, she puts her mouth over it and begins to suck it like a lollipop.
So that the tip of her tongue is exploring the indentation of the eye, the taut, warm surface of the head itself, the thick, flaring flange at the rear of the head, the fish-head juncture beneath.
And now, she goes deeper.
And all the while, the twin pistons are going about their delightful work in cunt and ass.
And she is sucking Rhino's cock with a regular suction as he holds himself steady, on his knees in front of her, his cock a bridge between his body and her mouth, above Steve's face.
This is unreal! King thinks.
It is like some form of exercise, a kind of esoteric workout.
Perhaps it is all this muscle, male and female, all this prime beef, the blood coursing through it, sex- charged, that makes it seem like it belongs in a gym somehow.
But nevertheless, the fact remains that they are getting quite a good pump, flexing and unflexing, breaking a sweat now.
And King makes a mental note to ask Rhino about making sex a regular part of his regimen.
Rhino has implied that it is, but has not gone beyond that generality.
But now, the thought process comes to a halt. Rather, it fades away, supplanted by the lascivious sensations which inundate King's brain.
What is all the scheming, the planning and pondering, compared to this?
Because this is truth, the message of the body, the complex feeling, the stimulation which is what it is and is not illusion, distortion, conceit.
And King is tapped into this truth now, surrendering to it, giving in, letting it move him as and when it will.
And he increases his bouncing.
Which in turn increases the piston action, his own and Steve's.
Which in turn increases the flow of sensation, the sexual electricity which permeates them.
Which in turn causes Francine to redouble her attentions to Rhino's cock, opening her throat so that she can actually get his entire cock into her head.
And so they climb the rainbow of their shared pleasure.
Hotter and hotter, faster and faster they become. And now, they are pumping all out, their action looking like a speeded up porno film.
So excited is King, so thoroughly aroused is ,he that he seems to be shuddering rather than bouncing now.
It is as though they are on a vibrating bed.
And now, they are all out of control, with the possible exception of Rhino, although he too is as though frozen to the spot, paralyzed by his pleasure.
And they are coming and coming, Francine's crotch turning into a creamy mess as the alternating pistons of the two cocks which impale her force jism from both orifices.
And Rhino is loading her tongue with his sperm, which she swallows in a series of gulps.
As soon as he is finished coming, Rhino pulls away.
And goes into the bathroom, as the other three, their passion spent, collapse in a heap.
And washes and dries his prick.
And gets dressed and leaves, going to his own room, before the other three have even begun to disentangle themselves.
And King unplugs from her ass.
Because now he does feel it, the post-coital depression, his revulsion that Francine should have chosen to thus disport herself.
It was there, but much milder, with just himself and Rhino.
But this three-way fuck has caused him to renew his doubts concerning Francine.
And now, he has another reason to win the Mister Galaxy.
Because Mister Galaxy doesn't do mixed pairs competition.
Not that he ever will again, King tells himself. Because, physically speaking, there is no better partner than Francine.
She is the best there is and he knows' it. But this, he can't take.
Because he feels depressed-on what should be for him a very happy evening.
He hoses down by himself, notwithstanding that this is Francine's suite and he would ordinarily be meticulous in his observance of the "ladies first" rule.
And he cannot wait to throw his clothes on and get out of there, not bothering to look at the bed where Steve and Francine are lying there, side by side, watching him.
King is suddenly exhausted.
He wants only to drop into bed and go to sleep. Even so, he feels compelled to take another shower.
Maybe, he tells himself, it's because I really am beat that I feel so bad.
But deep down, he knows that this is not the whole truth, to say the least.
Because he is just not into the gang bang scene.
So that, unless things look a hell of a lot better to him in the morning than they do now, he and Francine are through.
He has no obligation toward her of any kind, either official or personal.
And now, he has but one task, and it is one in which she plays no part, except that of sexual relief. He will miss that body, he knows.
But apparently, she needs more than what he alone has to offer.
And it is not so much that he is insulted (he isn't), but rather that she is a sick person, for all her robust physique.
Still, she is one hell of a bod and one hell of a piece of ass.
But how can he tolerate her perversion?
On the other hand, they don't have to have anything by way of serious commitment, so-Puck it.
He will sort it all out in the morning.
This decided, he sleeps.
They all meet for breakfast (Buck's idea).
But King is unwilling to look any of them in the eye, except for Rhino, whose opaque sunglasses make a very nice shield between the two of them.
"I wanna hit the gym tomorrow and get started right away," King says.
"Attaboy!"
This from Randy Buck.
Steve merely looks down into his cornflakes and continues to spoon.
Francine says nothing, is indifferent, is a bit put off by his abrupt and uncivil departure of last night.
Rhino says, "I'll have your new diet worked out sometime this afternoon.
"We'll have to decide how best to execute the meal schedule."
"I don't understand."
"Quite simple, really; we have to work out how best to get what you need into you."
"Hey, get it to me and I'll put it through the blender."
Rhino shrugs.
"I can take it if you can," he says. "Could get awfully boring, though, four times a day."
"I don't have the time to turn into a gourmet cook," King responds. "I want no distractions. I'm going to win head and shoulders above the competition at the Mister Galaxy."
Excusing himself ahead of time for distancing himself from Francine.
Randy Buck beams.
Rhino smiles thinly.
"Now I know I made the right decision," Steve observes.
And he isn't kidding. It has been years since he felt that kind of dedication to the contest.
"See you folks back at the gym," Buck says, excusing himself.
"Sounds good to me too," King says.
And he also leaves them abruptly, lest someone get the brilliant idea of having a repeat performance of last night's festivities.
* * *
I won.
In the event, this is his simple thought, his sole reaction.
The realization of victory.
And the others were not even close.
Heavyweight and overall, he wins, hands down, just as he imagined it, just as Rhino and he planned it.
Mister Galaxy, that's me, he thinks, as people pump his hand in congratulations, the cameras flash, and the crowd extends its applause.
"And my congratulations too."
He looks her up and down, exaggerated hourglass figure bulging from tube top, adjusted low, her twin torpedos pushing it out, outline of nipples clearly revealed.
And painted on toreador pants over high heels. He looks at her, puzzled.
"Muscle groupie," Steve says between his teeth, arm around King's shoulders, smiling and waving, old Mister Galaxy in tuxedo and new, oiled body still in posing trunks, sharing the moment of transition.
"She's pretty good, too. Help yourself," Steve advises.
Why not? King thinks.
"I'll take care of these," Buck says, bustling by, herding two stage hands, each bearing a man-sized trophy.
"Lemme shower and I'll meet you outside the stage entrance," King says to the groupie.
"I'll be waiting,"
* * *
She is indeed pretty good, as Steve said.
As he lies there and she works him over, exploring every detail of his musculature with mouth and eye and hand, as though to memorize every facet of his championship form, as though she cannot get enough of the sight and the feel and the taste of him.
"Love making it with you black muscle studs," she murmurs.
And he would like to point out to her that he is not nearly as black as he seems, that he has had to spend hours under a sunlamp to achieve his rich, mahogany shade, in order to keep up with his white competition, tan-wise.
But he does not.
Instead, he remains silent as she slowly circles in on the center of his being, having tongued and kneaded and examined his upper body in intimate detail and now working on the vastness of calf and thigh, both legs, slowly wending her impassioned way upward.
And she has a truly spectacular figure, a combination of Francine and the black barmaid, lacking the former's muscularity and hard definition as well as the latter's overflowing, adipose voluptuousness.
And now, she is sucking his cock, getting it hard.
And he realizes he is having sex, the same kind of desultory, non-participational sex he used to have before this whole Mister Galaxy thing started.
And now, she is deep throating him, burying her lips in his sparse (because mostly shaved) bush, then drawing back until only the plum of his cock head remains inside her mouth, again and again.
Getting him rock hard.
And still he lies there, awaiting the moment when- There!
The body takes over from the mind.
And he, red-faced, body flushed, pulls away from her.
And she assumes the position in the middle of the bed, legs raised and spread.
And he has no thought of burrowing into her bush, of sucking her tits.
Rather, he just wants to fuck the living shit out of her.
And she seems all for that, sighing with delight as he shafts smoothly into her pussy, all the way.
And now, he fucks her, all out, all the way.
And her pussy sucks his cock, clinging to it with wet; hot, juicy embrace on the back stroke, devouring it each time he lunges forward. - He does not hold back, does not restrain himself.
He wants to drain and drain and drain himself, again and again.
He wants to feel himself pussy-whipped, like in the old days.
And she is more than adequate to the purpose.
He wants to go home beat, exhausted, there to sleep the sleep of the dead.
And wake up resurrected and Mister Galaxy, the ceremony of transition, as he has devised it, complete.
And now, he is coming and coming, she matching his spurts with the spasms of her multiple orgasms.
And they shower together, she alternating between scrubbing him and herself.
And they return for round two.
And King turns over, onto his stomach.
And she is between his legs at once, her tongue seeking the hot depths of his ass hole as she spreads the muscled mounds of his buttocks apart.
Idly, King thinks, not of himself as champion, not . of his satisfied boss, Randy Buck, and not of the over-muscled, oversexed Francine, but of Rhino.
And he is determined to learn from the master, to sit at his feet as his most ardent disciple, so that Rhino can teach him all the mysteries, all the secrets of the body.
Because he suspects that Rhino is older than he could possibly imagine, and not getting any older.
And it is that, rather than this passing show, this blink in the eye of eternity, which counts.
But now, even that is set aside as his cock, trapped between belly and bed, twitches once again to vibrant life.
And he thinks about fucking her in the ass, but does not care to make the necessary preparation, however brief.
So he contents himself once more with her comfy cunt, doggy style this time, so that he can weigh and fondle her breasts and even stick a thumb into her ass hole as he fucks her and she rotates her hips, reaming herself with his big cock, literally screwing herself onto him.
And taking her all the way, not holding back, not restraining himself, wanting only the pleasure beyond pleasure, gateway to death and resurrection.
