Enough already, with the starlets, the TV soap opera heroines and villainesses, the reigning beauty queens: Time for a change of pace.
The star quarterback of the league's three season in a row championship pro football team is bored. He is bored with his life completely.
Everything is deja vu these days, it seems.
Whatever it is, he has seen it, he has done it.
And his only excitement, his only stimulation in recent days came the morning he awoke in a cold sweat, strode over to the window of his high rise condo here in the heart of the city, and realized that his boredom included a disenchantment even with victory on the field.
And that is 'a very dangerous attitude for the heart and soul, the driving force and undisputed leader of the team, the captain of the ship, to have.
Nevertheless, he realizes, it's true.
He is stale.
Life is stale.
There are no more thrills for him.
The beauties of the day no longer have the power to stimulate him.
And they were his last refuge against the ennui which engulfs him.
Yes, those first few years, the years of struggle, the years of driving the team to the top of the league were the good ones.
When victory was truly a thrill, a thing to be desired and worked for above all else.
And the crowning glory, the reward, the game trophy?
The beauty of his choice.
And now, he turns away from the skyline of the city, engulfed in early morning smog, the night lights still blinking, their light seeming tired, pale, polluted in the filthy air.
He looks at the bed, his bed, the one in which he slept alone last night, the night before that, many nights before those.
And this is by choice.
They just don't turn him on any more.
Sad but true.
Barely into his thirties and burnt out.
And yet, he knows.
He knows that this particular burnout is that of the spirit, of the mind, of the intellect and taste, rather than of the body.
Brad has never cared for replays, instant or other- wise.
And he does not have to look at re runs of plays to know what went wrong.
So he doesn't, eyes cast down in the darkness of the conference room when Anderson, the head coach, runs the films.
And as in the game films, so it has become in the sack.
Reruns.
Fucking reruns, in every sense of the word. Maybe it's because they are stars, or starlets, or have studies drama.
Perhaps they really are scripting themselves So that their artificiality is more than a mere perception, perhaps mistaken, on his part.
Hey, it could just be that such women are accustomed to working to a script, prepared in their minds ahead of time, to cover even this intimate a situation.
Why not?
In a crazy, convoluted, ultra-sophisticated way, it would make sense.
When you're "on" twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, everything is a part of your act. And who knows?
Perhaps it isn't even their fault.
Perhaps they are only doing what they think is expected and think that he is doing the same.
So that the practice corresponds to sex as performed by certain ancient kings, except that there is the privacy required by today's social standards.
But the ceremonial aspect of it is not to be denied.
Certain people in certain roles in life are expected to perform ritual sex between one another.
Sports celebrities and entertainment celebrities are to be seen in each others' company and there is to be the basis, the valid foundation, to rumors of attraction and affairs.
So that the only thing missing in the ceremony is a gaggle of attendant courtier-observers, holding towels, running baths, or merely standing around gawking.
And Brad is frankly sick: and tired of the whole thing. Why can't things be as they were? he asks himself.Because he remembers.
He remembers the days of his youth, on beach blankets, in back seats of cars, in woods and open fields.
And yet, even these incidents he remembers as though he is watching a film.
Was not he, were not the girls playing roles, even back then?
The high school jock, most popular, most likely to succeed, making out with precisely that stratum of the female student body with "qualifying" looks and equipment.
And after that, the college level, the same thing, only on a grander scale, in more elegant settings (private homes, motel rooms), the , best looking women, sorority types, homecoming queens and the like.
And even back then, everything but the act itself was public, expected.
Just as the closed door portion of the ceremony was expected.
Hasn't the time come, he wonders, to simply say, 'Enough!'?
Yes, maybe he should take the easy way, copping out.
Meaning that he should find some sweet young thing, not a starlet, not anything in particular, and treat himself to a so-called deeper, more meaningful relationship.
But should he?
Because isn't that too merely an act, an affectation on his part, a reaction, .a retreating from that which repels, or not so much repels as no longer attracts, no longer thrills him, toward, toward--- what?
An assignment.
That's right, calling things by their proper names, an assignment.
To coldly, calculatingly assign himself the task- and face it, that's what it would be, a task-of pursuing some pretty little nonentity, to which he would assign (that word again!) all his affection, lavishing it on her with the same intensity-the same proficiency-with which he carries out his assigned tasks on the football field itself, in the planning sessions and practices which precede and follow the games.
And have the house with the white picket fence and the cute, blue-eyed, blonde babies with their pink cheeks and a lawn mower and hedge shears and a station wagon.
Yeah, right. That is no more the real him than the picture of himself with the starlets, servicing their stellar snatches.
The real him.
Another bit of a cold sweat.
Is there any such thing as the real him any more And if not, where and when did he lose himself? And how can he find himself again?
No, he doesn't know himself, he reflects. Not really.
There was a time when he and his ambition were not synonymous.
But even then, a long, long time ago, it was the ambition which drove him, which merged with him, consuming him as it did so, ultimately becoming himself.
Yes, he tells himself, bitterly, he has become the dream quarterback.
All drive, ambition, brain and brawn coordinated to yield optimal results.
And Randy Buck, the owner of the team, could not ask for a better soldier, a better general, a better field marshal.
Good for you, Randy, Buck thinks. But what about me?
Yes, Randy is very happy with Brad.
Brad is one of the very few players Randy has ever taken into his inner circle.
And in fact-oh no!
Brad groans inwardly, remembering what day this, is.
Saturday.
Saturday in the traditional one month team hiatus, in which nothing is scheduled following the season, in Brad and the team's case, the championship season.
Resting on their laurels, their rivals still licking their wounds, the college drafts, the pro trades not yet begun, it is the time of rest and recuperation.
Except that Brad needs no rest, no recuperation.
He needs--something.
The nagging but nameless dissatisfaction eats at him.
And if that were not bad enough, Randy Buck expects him at the Estate, his mansion upstate, for lunch.
Where Brad can be appropriately responsive to Randy's effusiveness, to his plans for the future of the team.
And it's all such bullshit, such sheer crap.
And Brad throws himself back into bed, naked, as thought he had been sacked.
And lies there, face down, bouncing, until the resilient bedsprings return to rest.
"Oh! 'Scuse me! Din' know they was anybody still roan'!"
Brad raises his head, looking at her.
A large black woman in a blue-green smock, pulling a vacuum cleaner behind her.
And Brad does not move, is not embarrassed, even though his bare buttocks are on prominent display.
Wearily, he cranes his neck so that he can see the face of his clock radio.
"Geez! That late already?"
"An' gittin' laytah by de minute," she says. And he gets up, sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes.
And only then realizing that he is taking her picture with his cock, highlighted by his widespread thighs.
He covers up.
"Oh! Sorry!"
"Don' make me no nevamind. Ain' nuthin' ah ain' seed befo'."
"Mind tossing me my robe anyway?" Brad asks, pointing to a chair, over which the item in question is draped.' She shrugs, smiling.
And reaches for it, handing rather than tossing it to him.
And stands there, faintly amused, as he stands up and puts it on, loosely knotting the sash at his waist, so that the lapels hang loose and wide, most of his chest still exposed.
And he looks' her up and down.
Black she is, but of that cafe-au-fait shade that makes her lighter than a white woman with a good suntan.
With a .pretty face which; made up with the art of his usual female company, could easily pass for, beautiful.
She is a big woman, her massive bosom pushing at the fabric of her smock, her thin smock, he perceives, because he can faintly see the outline of her doorbell nipples as they push against the fabric.
And he sees no hint of panty line, scanning the large hourglass of her figure, down to where her wide hips stretch the fabric of the smock taut across the slight bulge of her stomach.
They stand there, not moving, in the aftermath of this chance encounter which should have embarrassed Brad but didn't.
And for that matter, should have embarrassed her but didn't.
And she is smiling faintly.
Telling him that she rather liked what she saw.
And he smiles back at her, telling her that he understands and that he finds the sight of her far from unattractive.
"Well," he says, "I suppose we had both better go about our business."
And he turns toward the bathroom.
"You ain't s'posed ta be heah, y'know,"she says.
"What?" he says, turning back to her,. incredulous.
Then, "Oh. Oh, that's right. I'm not, am I?"
Because it is he who has set up the schedule with the cleaning service.
And the specific stipulation in their brochure, as he recalls, was this matter of arranging for the cleaning when there was nobody underfoot.
Which, normally, he would not. be.
Except that he left the curtains open, the theory being that natural daylight would awaken him, an excellent notion, had the day not begun so dark and gloomy.
"Thass okay," she says, grinning. "It was worth the view."
"The-oh. Yes."
"Hardly seems fair though, does it?"
"Fair?"
"Hey. I showed you mine and you didn't show me yours."
"You gots ta be jivin' me, right? I mean, ah seed' those chicks you always be out an' about wif. Las' thang inna wort' you be wantin' is ta hab me back dis bus up in yo' face!"
"Oh, I don't know. Frankly, I find you very attractive."
"I go for a big woman."
"Yeah, right. Big stah you mean. Thass whut choo be aimin' at. Reg'lah fuckin' astronaut, thass you, Mistah Brad football stah."
"You don't understand," he says. "Guy in my position's got no choice. It's expected."
"Maybe so," she says, looking pensive.
Then, "But whut de cleanin' service be `spectin' fum yo's truly is to git ma butt in gear, get dis place cleaned an' move on ta da flex'.
"Gots me a whole fib' of an office ta do, no sooner ah finishes heah."
"Then don't let me disturb you," Brad says. But he does not move.
Instead, he stands there, continuing to watch, as she strips the bed of its coverings and adjusts the fitted sheet.
She sees him there, but ignores ,him, moving around the bed, pulling the sheet taut.
And now, her back to him, she is bent over, smoothing the sheet with her forearms, ass in the air. And Brad cannot believe himself!
He actually-yes! No mistake and what he feels is what he is getting.
He looks down, incredulous himself that this should be happening, as the battering ram head of his mighty prong parts his robe, below the knot of the sash.
And he looks at the fabric of her flimsy smock, stretched tightly over the massive twin mounds of her ass.
And he moves like a man hypnotized, with the floating, effortless, reflexive stride of a sleepwalker._ And, as if in slow motion, he kneels behind her as she leans over, smoothing the vast expanse of his king-sized bed.
And he flips the hem of the smock over the belled flare of her hips to expose- Her ass.
As he suspected, there is nothing beneath the smock.
He expects her to straighten up and turn, facing him, angry and indignant.
Instead, she freezes there, bent over, upper body supported on her hands, waiting for whatever is to come next.
She has not long to wait.
Because even now, she feels both his hands, those deft, professional football handler's hands, as their palms go flat, one on each massive buttock.
And he separates the cheeks of her big ass.
To expose the big, round, protruding bung of her ass hole.
To get an even clearer view of the pussy below it, outer lips dark, inner ones pink and parted and looking smooth and moist.
And now, the hypnotism of his lust drives him to- Seal his lips to her ass hole, sucking it as his tongue goes round and round over its few, puffy segments.
Later on, the clever, cunning part of his mind will tell him that he did this iii order to show sincerity. Yes, later on, when he can look back and analyse what has happened. At the moment, however, he is a man driven, a man possessed, a man who desires her, not with his mind but with his body, his body which is asserting itself, asserting control, claiming the upper hand.
Although later, he will give himself credit for his automatic, built in sensitivity and consideration toward her.
Because it is one thing to merely look, or even to look and touch.
That can be caused by mere curiosity, even lascivious curiosity which limits itself, which looks and touches, content with mere titillation at sight and feel, but feels nothing toward the object of its attentions other than a pruruient impulse to know by looking and touching.
In other words, sheer stimulation rather than actual and active desire toward the object of attention.
And it is somehow imperative at the moment that she know, that she believe and understand the truth.
Which is that he is not using her to become aroused but is rather genuinely aroused toward her.
And she must know, must understand this.
Because she is braced there, bent over, not moving, allowing him to do whatever he wants to and with her.
And not only allowing, but accepting his attentions.
Because now he feels her ass hole relax. So that the tip of his tongue can enter it. And does so.
So that now, he can feel the heat of her interior.
And his tongue can touch not only the entrance but the soft, moist, yielding tissues of her rectal wall. A big ass, he thinks, inside and out.
Perfect!
Because she will be able to take his salami up her ass with ease.
And his cock wants this ass, wants to be, in it, even as his tongue is right now, thrusting in and out, in and out.
So that he is fucking her in the ass with his tongue.
And now, grasping as much of each ass cheek as he can in each hand, he lifts up on them.
And she gets the message, sees at once what is wanted here.
So that she climbs onto the bed, moving slowly, careful not to break contact.
And Brad, with athletic coordination, follows her.
So that now they are on the bed, the two of them, she on knees and elbows, the bottom of her smock drapes over the flare of her hips, he behind her, on his knees, hands still grasping and spreading her buttocks, his mouth still making a meal of her ass hole.
And he could strip her so that he could wallow in the voluptuous abundance of her body, he tells himself.
And he could stand up on his knees and shove his throbber of an erection into her great big beautiful ass, he tells himself.
But he will do none of these things.
Because such sophistication, such artifice, have no place in his raw, natural, atavistically bestial desire for her at the moment.
No, right now, he is reduced to the primitive, the primordial.
And he does indeed stand up on his knees.
And he does indeed guide his mighty monolith of meat forward with one hand, its ruddy eye that of a heat-seeking missile.
But it is into her hot, drooling, juicy pussy that he shafts with a sigh of pleasure and satisfaction.
It is all the way into her big, pouting, cunt that he glides, his abdomen bumping against the large, protruding buttocks.
So that he is fucking her doggy-style.
But the important thing here is that he is fucking her.
And that he is doing so not as a result of some social convention, because it is expected almost to the point of prescription; rather, it is because he, purely and simply, wants her.
Actually, it is even simpler than that.
Because it is possible to want intellectually, adventuristically, perhaps even casually.
But these are conceits of the mind, cultivated or attitude type wantings.
Whereas this is a matter between bodies. Such that his wants hers, period.
Such that his body has surprised him.
Such that there is nothing at all planned or calculated in any of this.
And it can be argued that, between two people, nothing ever "just happens".
And somewhere, there is some deep-seated, well hidden, truly complex psychology at work here.
Perhaps there always is, whenever people interact, however they interact.
Be that as it may, this is a thing that has come upon Brad like a fever or a chill, unplanned and unbidden.
And now, he is humping her for all he is worth. And not using technique, expertise, what have you with her.
Oh, he knows very well all the advantages to this position, in which the woman's entire body is freely accessible to him.
But he is not interested in that at the moment.
Rather, what he requires is more and more of the pleasure, the next level of pleasure and the next and the next, as he continues to pack her hockey in an all out effort toward his objective.
And hers as well, in the event.
Because, even now, her pussy begins a series of powerful, delicious contractions, sucking his cock as though with a life of its own, as her clear, hot juices flow copiously.
And he rides her thus, both hands on her bared hips, all the way.
And now, they are coming and coming, the contractions of her cunt still more powerful, now become the spasms of her multiple orgasms.
Which alternate with his own explosive bursts of thick, hot jism into her hot, flowing cunt.
Again and again, they spasm, alternating, the twinges of pleasure beyond pleasure wracking the both of them.
This way and that they jerk and twitch as her pussy milks his mighty prod of all the pleasure it contains for her.
And the series subsides.
And then ceases altogether And they float gently back down to earth together And Brad rides her all the way down as she flattens on the bed, his eyes shut tightly, wanting to delay the inevitable reaction, as he imagines it.
The old what-have-I-done scene.
Followed by post-coital depression.
Something he is not looking forward to, he tells himself So he dismounts, eyes closed, opening them only when he stands beside the bed.
And he looks down and-- He still wants her, as much as ever.
He looks at those rounded, protruding buttocks and, even though he has just come, he is ready to plunge his face right back in there.
And she just lies there, letting him admire the view to his heart's content.
CHAPTER TWO
Brad lies back down next to her, draping an arm over her shoulders.
"Listen," he murmurs, "I've got this thing I was supposed to go to."
"How's about I call up and say I can't make it, so you and I-"
"Wait, wait, wait," she says, opening her eyes, smiling. "I got work to do an' you got places to go an' thangs to do.
"Ah'm off all day tomorrah.
"You want, we can get togethah then."
"But-okay."
She's right, of course.
And he is amazed that he should have begun to propose what he was about to.
When has he ever elevated sex to an "either-or" situation.
Because to him, sex is, was, more like a "both- and" deal.
In other words, it interfered with nothing. He would not let it.
It could be scheduled conveniently or deferred until such time as it could.
And here he is, about to cancel a meeting with the boss, just so he could spend the day with the cleaning lady.
It makes no sense.
And yet, even as he tells himself this, he knows that, had she but said the word, that is exactly what would have transpired.
Even now, his cock barely detumesced from climax, he feels a stirring at its base, caused by the feel of her shoulders beneath the fabric of her smock.
All he would have to do is to reach down with that same hand and grasp a hefty buttock and he knows that "things" would start all over again down there.
Crazy, but there it is.
"I don't even know your name," he says. "Helen," she replies.
As in Helen of Troy, he thinks.
And suddenly, he sees how it might be actually possible for nations to go to war, their kings enamored of a single woman.
He remembers the lines of the Iliad from his college days.
"Is this the face that launched a thousand ships And burned the topless towers of Illium?"
You betcha, Ace!
Damn straight!
Of course, there's a big difference between going to war over a piece of ass and merely cancelling an appointment to be with one.
Still, the principle is the same, no question. Because if he would do that, what else would he do? Brad asks himself.
And does not know and does not want to think about the answer.
In the event, she has proven the more practical of the two of them.
Because yes, he can have his cake and eat it too. Like always.
She is willing to continue on that basis, obviously. So that there is not, there need be, no scheduling conflicts.
On impulse, he does slide the hand off her broad shoulders, down her back, touching, then grasping an ass cheek.
And sure enough, there comes a twinge low in his abdomen, at the base of his cock.
Magic! he grins to himself.
And gets back up.
And stands there, as she also gets up, careful to hold the bottom of her smock away from her lap. And looking, he thinks, sexy as hell doing it, too.
"Uh, you want the first shower?" he asks, at a loss as to what else to say.
"No thanks. You go 'haid. Ah'll jus' wash up real good."
They go into the bathroom.
Where she removes her smock, carefully unbuttoning the front.
She is naked beneath, a fact which causes him to stand there, transfixed, staring at the magnificence of her voluptuo-tan curves, now fully exposed to view She smiles at him, saying, "Will you get cho' white ass in de showah fo' you late fo' yo' `pointmint an' we gits all tangled up in sumthin' else?"
And he jerks his eyes away from her fabulous pontoons, forcing himself into the shower enclosure, reluctantly sliding, the glass door closed.' And turns the shower on and scrubs up by reflex, his eyes filled with the distorted view through the sheet of water cascading down the shower door, of Helen using a washcloth on herself, bending, squatting, spreading as she does so.
Too fucking much! Brad thinks. And what's with me, anyway?
Just what is so fascinating about her?
And he cannot say.
Just as he cannot determine whether it is just her or the way things came about.
Spontaneous, he was, it was, the sex, for the first time in longer than he can remember.
Nothing planned, nothing foreseen, nothing in the logic of the situation which would have indicated it as even likely to occur.
But there it is And this is somehow important, in fact vital, to him.
There is a heavy significance at work here, a deep meaning.
At least on his part, this is true, he knows. As for her, who can say?
But even that seems less important to him than the fact of the incident itself.
It was like a glimpse into another, a completely different world, where feeling, sensation holds sway and status and fame and football are unimportant, absurd, have no meaning.
How is it possible, he asks himself, that I should have been unaware of this, have completely overlooked it?
When all the time, he realizes, that is precisely what was missing from the equation of his life. Here is balm to his nagging, nervous dissatisfacwith himself, with his life.
Here is the filler for the void within his existence. Make that the void of his existence.
And now, she is finished.
And he sees her distorted image as it puts the smock back on again. And he is amused at his own reaction.
Because he felt a deep sense of loss at the sight of all those goodies suddenly eclipsed by the mundane.
Ridiculous! he scoffs at himself.
But he finishes his shower quickly, anxious to once more put himself in close proximity to her, anxious also to procure address and phone number.
He towels off in haste, for some reason draping the towel around himself before he charges out of the bathroom Only to reverse his tracks at once.
What the fuck is happening to me? he wonders. He has not brushed his teeth.
He has not shaved: Get with it! he commands himself. And everybody, himself, listens, when Brad gives an order.
So that he is all business in the bathroom. And, emerging, is not alarmed that the bedroom is in perfect order.
She is cleaning another part of the apartment, obviously, leaving him free to dress and-shit!" He can't get dressed yet.
He hasn't even had breakfast.
Quickly, Brad hangs the towel neatly back in the bathroom, gets a robe from the closet, and goes into the kitchen where- His breakfast awaits him on the table.
Bacon and eggs, courtesy of Helen.
Who is not in the kitchen, either.
Quickly, he eats, reassured by the hum of the vacuum in the background.
He goes back to the bedroom, this time spying her in the living room, hard at work, flipping the vacuum cleaner cord vigorously out of the way as she moves around the floor.
He dresses quickly, casual in turtleneck and dark blue blazer over grey slacks. He finds his oxblood loafers in the closet and puts these on over black socks.
And he is ready.
Although hardly willing.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
Because he is reluctant to leave her, even though he knows that, as soon as she is finished here, she will have to go to her next job.
Still, as she pointed out, both of them have things to do.
The world will not stand still, not for Brad, not for anybody.
So it goes.
Ah, but he remembers.
Stepping over the vacuum cord to his writing desk, he finds a pad and pen.
He approaches her and she turns off the vacuum, reciting address and phone without his having to ask.
"Call you at, say, ten?"
"Whenever."
And she turns the vacuum cleaner on, ignoring him, and so fast that he has no chance to indulge in a goodbye embrace.
A ceremony he can do without, he tells himself. Better this way anyway.
Nothing as meaningless as these ceremonies of departure.
Unless it be the ceremony of -greeting.
And of speaking, eating, and, until just now, fucking.
Everything is a goddam ceremony! he reflects. And quietly leaves the condo.
"Brad, m'boy! Come in, come in, come in!"
"Randy," Brad replies, shaking the proffered hand.
"Cranston," he says, nodding to Buck's male private secretary, attired in a three-piece suit, even though it is a Saturday, in stark contast to the rather ratty-looking cardigan Buck has over his large, heavy frame.
"You look like you could use a little hot toddy, after that long ride up from the city," Buck observes. "No, I'm okay. Beer would be fine.""
"If you would, Cranston," Buck says. `And then join Brad and I in the study. "_ Brad follows Buck across the broad expanse of the main entrance hall of the mansion, their shoes clacking on the inlaid marble tile.
Buck opens the .ornately carved, heavy wooden door of the study and motions Brad in.
Brad seats himself in an overstuffed chair, a solid wall of books in their shelves behind him. Randy Buck takes the chair opposite.
"Y'scare me, Brad," Buck says, almost at once. "How's that, Randy?"
"I'm one deep in offensive quarterbacks," he says. "What about Ted?"
"What about Ted, Brad? Think he'll ever amount to anything other than a pale imitation of you? "Ted missed his calling, Brad. "Kid shoulda been an actor.
"They ever do the story of your life, he'd be perfect to play you.
"Good in the movies, Brad; bad on the football field."
"He gets sacked, he misses a pass, whatever, he only sings one song: It shoulda worked."
"You've seen 'im, Brad, and you know I speak the truth."
"He knows how to look like you, how to act like you; he does not know how to think like you."
He studies you so he's got your moves down pat.
"But."
"Let one fucking thing go wrong out there, and where are we?"
"No, Brad, it's my club and I say I want someone beside Ted to be one heartbeat away from the heart and soul of the offense."
"Which is why you asked me here today"
"Which is why I asked you here today.
"Y'don't fool me, Brad."
"I know the only reason you give a shit, about the team is because you're on it."
"They're all your supporting cast."
"It takes a team-"
"Please, please, please, Brad. Calm down. And save the team spirit crap for guys wearing helmets, okay?"
"This is just you and me talking here, and I know- oh, thanks, Cranston."
And Brad nods his thanks as Cranston sets the tray with the bottle and glass on the end of a table near him.
"No, don't go. Have a seat. I need for you to tell Brad-we'll get to that in a moment.
"Where was I?" Buck asks, rhetorically "Rationalizing," Brad says.
Buck looks at him, glaring, - then chuckles, looking down, shaking his head.
"God, what I'd love to do with you, if you just weren't so damned good!"
Brad and Buck laugh and Cranston manages a thin smile.
"As I was saying," Buck resumes, "you and I have different perspectives, Brad."
"You are concerned with the team as tool, as support, as augmentation to yourself."
"If you're not playing, you really don't 'care who wins. Has no meaning for you, if and when you're not the driving force."
"Whereas, and for admittedly equally selfish reasons, I must concern myself with the whole team. "Which is why-"
"Which is why you've made Gary Fisher an offer." Buck chuckles again.
"Cranston, is there nothing we can do to surprise this man?"
"Perhaps the terms of our understanding with Gary will do that, Randy," Cranston says, wrily. Buck laughs.` "Geez! I'm getting it from all sides today! Lucky I got a thick skin."
"Go ahead, tell 'im the deal."
"Three year contract, option to renew, one mil, one third acceleration annually, compounded and unconditional."
And it is clear from the tone of Cranston's voice that he personally disapproves.
"I'd say that'll do it," Brad says. "You got yourself a new sparkplug."
"Another sparkplug," Buck corrects. "I don't want you feeling threatened in any way."
"I don't," Brad says. "That it?"
"Not quite, Brad.. Brad, I know you. I watched you through the season. As I have watched you ithrough other seasons."
"And?"
"Brad, what's wrong? You are not a happy camper, has they say. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were suffering from an unhappy love life.
"But that can't be it, because, and I trust you'll see this as insight and not as criticism, since I myself am basically the same way, Brad is in love with Brad.
"And again, dorr't get me wrong, that is not a bad thing. Self esteem is important in this game. In any game."
"I'm all right," Brad shrugs.
"You by any chance suffering from that rare Hawaiian disease, Brad? Because, if you are, I can rustle up some prime snatch that'll-"
"No," Brad smiles, "my problem is not lackanookie."
"Aha! Then there is a problem of some kind!"
"There was," Brad admits, "but it recently got solved-I think."
"You mean you just met the love of your life?"
"Love? No. Not exactly. In a way. I don't know."
"That would seem to about cover all the options," Buck says, leaning back in his chair.
Brad smiles thinly.
"I'm into a... relationship. I-we-are still defining it."
"Now, that does sound serious.
"I was going to invite you to stay the night, but you probably have other plans."
"Uh, yes. Matter of fact, I do."
"Well then. We'll have to get you an early supper and send you on your way early. Long trip back to the city."
"I appreciate that."
"So. Tell me about her."
"I think it's a bit soon for that, Randy. I mean, we practically just met and there's just a. whole bunch of things to be checked out before uh, before whatever happens... happens.
"Uh-huh. You've got me really curious, though, I must say."
"Like to meet the woman who can get Brad thinking this heavily about something besides football."
And there is a note of warning beneath the casual amiability.
Meaning that this woman is a threat.
She is a menace to concentration, to singularity of purpose.
That is, assuming that she is something more than just the usual fluff that is out and about and available to the likes of Brad.
Perks.
Walking trophies.
Rewards on the hoof.
That, or the hometown sweetheart they marry.
But something else, some sophisticated barricuda in a Venus suit, that could mess a player's mind, impair his efficiency, cause inattention, injury, loss of games.
"Actually, Randy, I think this'll be good for me."
"I mean, you're right. I was beginning to feel a bit down."
"It all started not to make sense, you know?"
"I don't know. Go on."
"I don't know either, Randy. Not really. It's just, like, a man gets to a certain age. Or maybe he simply finds himself in a rut, doing the same things, over and over."
"Like winning the championship three years running, Brad?"
"No, no. That part's fine. Every game is a new challenge, no two are ever the same. Hell, no. two downs are ever the same, let alone games."
"But a man gets so he needs-I don't know-something... more."
"Guy can find it in sex for a while, I suppose."
"But then, even that begins to pall."
"Until it all looks, acts, sounds the same."
"Talking meat, as ungrateful, as jaded as that sounds.
"And then, along comes something that you react to before you know you are, and suddenly, it's, `Hey! This is new and different and fascinating-"
"My God, Cranston! He's discovered boys!"
Brad throws his head back, laughing at that one, at how far from the truth Buck is, Buck and Cranston join in the mirth, mostly out of relief that this should not be the case.
"No, no. Far from it, in fact. I think I have gained a fresh, new insight into the feminine."
And he resists the tendency to bite his bottom lip. Already, he has said too much.
He has whetted Buck's natural, avid curiosity still further.
Bad. Very bad.
Because, if Buck should press "Before, I frankly felt that the old creative juices were beginning to flow a little less freely, Randy. "But now, I feel the opposite."
"This, this... thing I've got going seems to have made it possible for me to see plays I've never before envisioned."
Not true, but it could be. Still, he has to say whatever is necessary to divert Buck from the scent of the trail up which he has inadvertently led him.
"Now that IS interesting!" Buck says, leaning forward in his chair."
And the steady glare of the overhead light in Cranston's glasses tells Brad that he has his attention as well.
So, in for a penny, in for a pound, as the English say.
"Yes, I somehow thought you would find it to be. "I was saving it as a surprise.
"Come to think of it, it still can be.
"After all, the playbook isn't due from me, not even preliminary, for another two months."
"So," Buck says, leaning back in his chair, "we are going to see fireworks out there next season."
Brad looks at him sharply.
"Not," Buck adds quickly, seeing that glance, holding his hands in front of himself, flapping them in protest, "not that we haven't been getting them right along. I mean, who should know that better than I?"
"I only meant that we're about to see something completely new under the sun."
"Yes, that's it. Totally new and different."
"Am I, ah, correct, Brad?"
"You certainly are, Randy."
"Cranston, why don't you go check with cook and see about the supper?"
"After all, we must not let the flow of digestive juices interfere with the flow of creative juices."
"And Brad here is telling us that next season will be very juicy indeed!"
Cranston leaves the room.
And Brad notes with satisfaction that he has successfully diverted Buck's attention from the cause of Brad's fresh outlook to the tentative effects of it.
"Can't you, uh, give me a hint?"
Brad sighs.
"I don't want to put you through this again, Randy."
"'This?"
"The controversy. The brouhaha. I mean, you -know what happens between me and Anderson every time I come up with something a bit too radical for his tastes."
"So let me work these things out with Andy and then we'll come to you with a unified strategy, all right?, "Fuck Anderson! Who the fuck is Andy, anyway, to tell you-"
"Please, please, please, Randy. He's your head coach and a good man. And my wild stuff makes him nervous for completely understandable reasons."
"Does that sumbitch know he's still on the payroll because of your strategies, your victories?"
"Does he?"
"Because if not-" And Buck, red-faced, picks up a telephone from the table, as though preparing to dial Anderson for a showdown.
"Don't uh, don't do that, Randy."
"We always end up achieving concensus, however reluctantly on Andy's part."
"And when it comes to drilling the troops, he's second to none."
"Well, all right, if you say so," Buck growls, putting the phone down.
Cranston reappears.
"Lobster bisque in half an hour," he announces.
"Excellent!" Buck exclaims.
"Drive carefully, now," Buck says, clapping Brad on the shoulder as he shakes his hand at the front door in farewell.
Buck stands there in the doorway, waving as Brad pulls away.
And watches him disappear down the straightaway on the other side of the fountain, Brad's car disappearing in the mist of the spray.
"I believe you know what's required here, Cranston," Buck says, turning to his secretary, who was standing there, watching the departure scene.
"I've already called Frenchy. Surveillance will be in place at Brad's condo within the half hour.
CHAPTER THREE
Why did he hesitate? Brad asks himself. Perhaps, he reflects, it's because, really, what has !p ppened?
Nothing so fantastic, on balance.
Who is to say that it had to be him?
Perhaps it could have been any well-built, good poking guy in that situation.
Maybe he wouldn't even have had to be all that all that handsome.
Because she was wearing nothing beneath smock.
She was, in essence, ready for action on a moment's notice.
So that maybe she is simply a hot number look for a place-anyplace, and with anyone-to happen.
Red hot mama, available cock and away we go!
That simple, that... bestial.
Perhaps it's not even that.
It could very well be that, in her world, it is i so much a question of why she should as of why she shouldn't.
Like sharing a seat on the bus or a table in a cafeteria or a bench in the park.
That simple, that... casual.
But, he realizes, this makes no difference.
Not what she is or is not.
That is not at all what matters.
Rather, it is what happened within and to himself that made it so, so..: tragic.
But again, is he making too much of it?
Is he getting carried away, based on a single, fast fuck?
And this from a woman who has "seen it before" And who has no time for dalliance with ti world's greatest quarterback because she has to du and vacuum?
And who will see him when they both have nothing better to do, or rather, nothing to do at alP knd this by you is magic? he asks himself, with a cynical inner voice.
But she is what she is.
And he cannot put the image of her out of his mind.
The image of her, the image of the action, the image of possibilities with her not yet realized.
A territory well worth the exploration, for better or worse, he tells himself.
And it can only be for the better, really.
She loses her aura, her magic for him?
She's history.
Not even.
She's a never was, not a has been.
And that is why he didn't tell Randy Buck who she was or anything about her.
Not the only reason, of course, but the essential deciding factor.
He didn't talk about her because, as of yet, there is nothing to talk about.
So what was all that "creative juices" bullshit?
Smokescreen.
Camouflage, so that nobody knows what's there until he can figure it out himself.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow at ten, he will call her.
Across the river, in New Jersey, he will call her. And just what the fuck is your problem, man? he asks himself, his train of thought disrupted by the bulge and strain at his crotch as he drives.
The thought of calling Helen and he suddenly develops a boner?
Come on! Get real!
He can't wait to get home to take care of... things.
Something he hasn't done in a long time, in years, in fact.
But he has to do something to get control of himself.
* * *
Brad lies on the bed, there in the darkness, head on two pillows.
He is naked, spread-eagled in the center of the bed, the covers thrown off.
And his lob rests, long and thick and warm and flaccid, in the unpressurized but encircling grasp of one hand.
And he closes his eyes.
And does not have to summon her image, summon the replay of what happened this morning.
Because it is as though ongoing, requiring only the absence of external reality to assert itself full force, in intimate detail and glorious, living color.
Hot, hot, hot! he exclaims to himself, as his prod goes to full, vibrant erection, hard and stiff beneath his fingers.
And he can see and taste her ass hole.
And he can feel the flesh of the cheeks of her ass. And he can push her up onto the bed.
And he can feel her hot, juicy cunt as he shafts into her.
As his hand pumps up and down, up and down, holding his 'turgid invader upright, the eye of the bulging plum of his knob staring upward into the dimness of the room, the light-polluted night of the city streaming dully in through the picture window.
Hard as a fucking rock! he notices, even in the midst of the fevered images.
Oh yes, oh yes! Fucking her, he is.
Slamming the slab of his abdominals into her big ass, again and again, he is.
She is so, so... overwhelming, the feelings she generates within him not in any way under his control.
And he is-oh, wow!
Already, the thick, hot cream oozes from the great head of his cock, over knuckles and back of hand, dropping heavy and warm and sticky and wet onto his stomach.
And he becomes absorbed in the mechanics of making his way to the bathroom without leaving a mess on the bed or spreading that which is on him further.
One hand cupping the melting j ism on his abdominal muscles, the other awkwardly flattened, palm down, beneath the head of his still hard cock, he makes his way gingerly to the bathroom.
And drapes his lob into the sink, running his hands under the water and wiping them in the darkness before turning on the light in the bathroom.
He cleans himself up.
And the cleaner he gets, the more he thinks about what he has just done and what made him do it.
She is just too fucking much! he tells himself. He can't seem to calm down about her, can't get used to her.
That's what I should have done, he tells himself.
He should have cancelled out with Randy Buck and shacked up with her all day, fucking her again and again in every conceivable fashion, until he worked her out of his system.
Because this is truly ridiculous.
A grown man, a superstud; and she's got him pounding his pud?
Come on, pal! Get with it!
But tomorrow.
Tomorrow he will get her out of his system. Or at least have a lot of fun trying.
Just as well he did jerk off, he tells himself, justifying the practicality of his action, after the fact, as earlier he justified rimming her to show sin- ty Yeah, right.
He rimmed her to show her he was serious. And now, he jerked off in order to give himself re staying power with her tomorrow Geez! he thinks. I am one considerate guy.
So considerate, in fact, that he doesn't even realize that he is being considerate until after the. t.
He maybe-no.
That doesn't work.
He thought that, perhaps, by his relieving himself this way, her image would somehow be de-mystified,, and he might even manage to experience post-coital depression.
Because Helen both elates and disturbs him.
He is a man who prides himself on being in control of his situation.
Which, so far as Helen is concerned, is not true, at least not at the moment.- And a part of him knows that depression leaves him more in control than does obsession. .
So that now, he tries again mentally to put her down.
But that doesn't work any better now than it did this morning.
Maybe, he thinks, just maybe, if he does something truly disgusting with her tomorrow, live and in person, it will happen.
Because it is obvious that it will not, that she will not be stripped of her magic, yes, of her hold on him, in any other way.
The other thing, of course, is this Does he really want to be free of her?
Does he actually wish to return to his old quandary, the old meaninglessness, the emptiness of the last several months?
In other words, how far should he go, how hard should he try, in working through his obsession for her?
Because here is a situation in which the cure could very well leave him worse off than the disease.
So that he views with mixed feelings, almost with impartiality, his situation.
Yeah, right, pal, he tells himself. All this from one fast fuck.
But tomorrow, he will know better what is the true nature of their relationship, if indeed there even exists between them that which could rightly be called such.
And on that note, he sleeps.
* * *
And awakens nearly, with one hell of a boner. But he recognizes it for what it is, the old buongiorno, the good 'morning hard on that means nothing, except that his body is continuing to function normally.
So that he is not so much elated by its presence as he would have been disturbed by its absence.
He deliberately moves in slow motion, getting his breakfast, lounging around before taking his shower, performing the rest of his bathroom business, getting dressed.
He calls her promptly at ten.
They have not much to say.
She gives him the few added directions required to find her easily and will expect him at eleven.
She will fix them lunch, if that is acceptable.
It is.
And on that note, they hang up.
* * *
New Jersey.
And he sees why she would want to live here, rather than in the city, if her income is what he thinks it is.
He is, in fact, surprised at how nice the apartment complex in which she lives seems to be.
He finds her building easily.
He buzzes her doorbell.
And answering buzz and he is in.
He finds her door quickly and she opens it before he can knock.
She smiles and lets him in.
And he looks her up and down, eyes not believing what he is seeing.
She is wearing nothing but a transparent negligee.
Of a black, filmy material, he can see her huge nipples at the ends of her warheads as they tent the flimsy garment before her.
Telling him that they are going nowhere this afternoon.
Telling him that she is ready for action on the spot.
But instead "Shall we eat first? It's all ready."
Yeah, right.
Like he always has lunch like this.
Mozzerella cheese and tomato slices on whole wheat and red wine.
He pours for the two of them as she seats herself opposite him at the little table in her kitchen. They eat and drink.
And he drinks in the sight of her, seated opposite him, trying to get used to her size, her shape, her presence.
He can't.
Bottom line is that, try as he might, he cannot simply shrug off her presence.
There is too much of it.
And it corresponds to an image within himself that, prior to meeting her, he had not even suspected was there.
She is a new image to his psyche.
She is a total surprise, an assault on his mind. Because it is not as if he had -always dreamed of der or someone like her.
He has not. Not even close.
So that her appearance has engendered a totally tkew concept of the feminine ideal within him. She is a shock to mind and body.
Because his body didn't know that it wanted any- thing like this either, until it .reacted physically to ber presence as it did.
Crazy! he tells himself. Crazy, that a sophisticated man of the world, a celebrity athlete and accomplished stud, should be thus overwhelmed.
Why should it be?
She's just another piece of ass, right?
Except that she obviously is not.
Because, with her, it is not a question of going through the motions, of keeping up appearances in front of himself and others, of proving once again what a stud he is, of keeping score and increasing same.
Because this is something that he genuinely, with an ardent desire, a drooling hunger, wants to do for its own sake.
And he can't say when was the last time he felt like this, about sex or anything else.
Because always, always before him, ever in sight, near or far, is the objective, the ulterior motive,a the end of which the act is merely the means,-whatever it is.
But here, now, means and end have merged. And maybe that's it.
Perhaps the feelings of his youth are revived by her.
Because he never thought of beautiful girls, sexy girls, as being anything but "neat".
Neat.
Meaning complete, total package, lacking nothing for the purpose intended, which is the generation of mutual pleasure.
Even as he himself is neat, lacks nothing, is totally suited to the purpose of achieving pleasure through intercourse.
- That is both truth and image, he tells himself.
That is the be-all and end-all of sexual endeavor.
And it was only as he matured that he saw in these others-stars, starlets, beauty queens, whatever- their flaws, their incompleteness.
And perhaps it is true that she has caused him to once again become a child.
Because his judgment of her is totally uncritical.
Can it be that her completeness, that which he assigns to her, is merely an assumption based on her physical abundance?
But no, he questions this, doubts it very much.
He has seen other big women before and not been thus impressed.
So that there is something which his totality, mind and body, or perhaps body first, then mind, has recognized in her.
And he does not particularly welcome it in the strictly cerebral sense.
So that he will not be in the least disturbed if in fact their getting together today should prove to be an exorcism, leaving him free of her fascination for him.
And free to return to the old emptiness, the nameless frustration of his existence.
Because he is used to not needing other people, not depending on others for anything.
And Randy Buck saw this in him, on the one hand welcoming it, on the other seeking to control it, to control Brad.
Hence, Gary Fisher, a situation with which he would be freer to deal, far less distracted, if he can succeed in putting Helen behind him.
And now, they are finished eating and she loads the dish washer but doesn't start it.
"Damn place," she says, "use the dishwasher an' won' be enougha hot watah fo' de big clean-up detail."
Again, that practicality which has no place in true passion.
Oh, she is hot for him, no question; but her heat is relative, in context.
Whereas his for her is absolute, at least at the moment.
She leads him by the hand into the bedroom, where the covers are neatly turned down, waiting, inviting.
She removes her filmy gown and kicks off her slippers.
So that she is completely naked before he has begun to undress.
"Somethin' ah jus' know you bin wantin' to do," she says.
And turns around, grinding her big ass into his crotch.
Inviting him to fuck her in the ass.
And strips the covers from the bed.
And lies down in the center of it, on her stomach, big boobs balooning deliciously on either side of her, filling the space between body and arm as, leaning on her elbows, she looks at him, smiling in silent invitation.
Hastily, he removes his clothes.
And none too soon, either, since he must relieve the painful pressure on his cock from his bikini underpants.
Because he has a-fully erect hard-on by the time he slides that last garment quickly and efficiently, stepping out of them, catching them by one toe and kicking them onto the chair where the rest of his clothes are piled.
And he is on the bed, nestled between her big thighs, parted to admit him, her pussy lips clearly visible between the spread legs.
As her ass hole is not.
So that he places a hand on each big buttock.
And spreads them apart, to reveal her ass hole.
He studies the view a long moment, observing the big, protruding ring of muscle, its segments few and puffy.
And he wallows in the crack of her ass now, mouth open, first locating, then sucking her ass hole into his mouth, where he chews it gently, his tongue probing the center of her star.
And now, he takes his time, thrusting the tip of his tongue in and out of her ass hole as he continues to suck.
And the ring of muscle relaxes, so that he is able to thrust deeper and deeper into her ass hole, his tongue stretching the entrance until he is actually able to fuck her in the ass with it, sliding it in and out, in and out like a kind of cock.
And she is plenty big and plenty loose.
Still, he wants to give her a finger wave.
And he does.
So that he can watch, can see her ass hole forming a smooth, rounded orifice which clings wetly to his two fingers, surrounding the knuckles.
As he pulls on one flared hip, raising her to knees and elbows.
So that now she is ready.
And he has been ready, his erection a long, thick, bulb-tipped flagpole rising from his lap at a high angle.
And now, he polishes his knob with a blob of saliva.
And stands on his knees.
And guides his missile toward its target with one hand as the thumb and fingers of the other encircle her large, salivalubed, slackened, ready, waiting ass hole.
And now, he buttons the plum of his knob into her ass hole.
And pauses, feeling, the warm, wet caress of her insides against it.
The welcoming committee.
And now, he grasps both her hips with his hands. And rotates his hips as he moves slowly forward, spiralling in, in, into her.
And she feels the battering ram of his cock head as it parts the walls of her rectum before it, the flange at the rear as it spreads her still further, the thick shaft behind as it continues to fill her bowels completely.
Until he is all the way into her ass, his stomach bumping against her large, round, protruding butt- ocks.
And now, he rocks back and forth with her, staying right with her.
So that there is no movement of the mighty meat monolith within her.
But now, he steadies her hips.
And begins to fuck her in the ass slowly, in small, soft movements.
So that she can feel him now, an alien presence thin her.
Quickly, he accelerates, his strokes coming harder, faster.
Until he is fucking her in the ass full bore, pulling back until only the great knob remains within, then aging forward until he smashes into her ass, riding seismic shock waves through the undulating voluptuousness of her body.
And he is communicating with her, cock to ass hole.
A million messages, erotic, lascivious, intimate pass back and forth between them as her bowels exert their all-encompassing, even pressure on his piston of a cock, activating every nerve ending in his cock, in her rectum.
So that surge after surge of sexual electricity pass through them with each lunge.
And now, he jams it into her all the way and then rotates his hips, reaming her ass with his rock hard erection.
And now, he varies the motion.
And, holding onto only one hip, he reaches beneath her, down and around, to weigh her huge breasts in the palm of his hand, one at a time, to knead and fondle them, exciting her and himself with this added dimension of the action.
The abundance, the completeness of her! he thinks, playing with her mammoth mammaries until her nipples become erect and rubbery hard.
And now, he pulls his hand back, back, back, digging into her crotch, thrusting his hand into her cunt, finding her clit.
And twiddling it between two fingers.
So that her joy buzzer is being stimulated from within and without.
And they are getting hotter and hotter.
And now, he is finger fucking her in the front feeling her hot pussy juices ooze over knuckles and wrist.
As he himself is ascending through level after level of arousal.
As the pleasure beyond pleasure seizes him, seizes both of them.
And now, they are coming together, the spasms of her multiple orgasms alternating with those his climax.
So that she seems to be milking his cock with the twinges of her bowels as she contracts them, again and again, in unison with the convulsions her pussy, orgasm after orgasm transporting her, soaring and zooming, through her private sexual paradise.
At last, Brad's series of climactic discharges subsides, as do her orgasms.
And they float gently back to earth.
And she flattens out, he atop her, fully inserted. And they lie there thus, recovering their breaths, cooling off.
As his cock slowly detumesces within her, until the peristaltic action of her bowels shits him like a long, thick, flaccid turd.
And he raises the upper part of his body, looking at her.
And he knows that she has still lost none of her magic, her fascination for him.
CHAPTER FOUR
They shower together, even though there is very little room in the tub.
Still, that lends a note of intimacy.
And the shower curtain is transparent, so that they can see each other perfectly, as well as touch accurately.
And Brad cannot tell if Helen is merely doing an extra good job of cleaning herself up or if she merely putting on an erotic show for him, making sure that he sees it all, from every angle.
But, whatever the case, it is certainly having its effect on him.
Because, even now, he finds himself becoming aroused again.
As she massages the soap onto those big boobs of hers and then kneads them as the spray clears them of the foam.
As she bends over, scrubbing her ass hole with a soapy washcloth, not only the outside of her bung but up inside as well, spreading her cheeks apart as she bends over afterward so that the jet of the shower can do its thing.
And so that Brad misses none of the action.
And she even spreads her pussy lips, leaning back so that the spray can play on her pink interior.
And Brad knows that he is not nearly finished with this glorious aggregation of female voluptuousness.
No, he reflects, he and she have a long way to go together.
Together.
And the implications of the term hit him.
Together-where?
Casually dating, going around town together, seeing and being seen?
And sooner or later, talking to reporters, when he will say-what?
Because they will want details, intimate details.
And some of them will be satisfied with generalities, and some will not.
And some will invent that which he fails to provide.
And ascribe it to rumor.
"Rumor has it that... " Yeah, right.
Rumor that they themselves have thought up.
And my, won't the tabloids have a field day!
Because guaranteed, when Helen dresses for a night on the town, she will be showing a dcolletage second to none.
Front page stuff, she will be.
They will have her picture on the front of the rag, just so horny guys will buy it!
Yes, whatever else Brad may be, if he gets serious with this one, he is at least her ticket to fame.
And where there is fame, can fortune be far behind? He can see it now.
It might begin with voice lessons.
In which her dubious talent is more than compensated by her rampant sexuality.
So what?
Here's so what, he tells himself.
He will be good for her, obviously; but will the reverse hold true?
What will Randy Buck say about his dating the cleaning lady?
How will that affect his image with the public and the team?
And Gary Fisher is waiting in the wings, let's not forget that.
Gary Fisher.
Brad minus eight years.
Which means that he also will have a private understanding with Randy Buck.
Which means that he will be writing the playbook, in many cases over the objections of the head coach, but with Randy Buck running interference for him in that quarter, provided that the results are there.
And they will be.
They will be, because one of football's open secrets is that nobody can get a sense of what's needed out there on the field better than the man who's out there.
And all the coaching and managerial insights in the world can't make up for a single correct decision at the crucial moment.
A game of skill, `and the skill is in the playing, not in the coaching, there being only an approximate relationship between the two.
And he doesn't need this in his life right now. But, he tells himself, you sure as hell want it, pal! And want her he does.
So that he is practically drooling at the thought of what's coming next.
Time for the master of technique to go to work, he tells himself.
Time to turn her on like nobody else can. Time to make her as hot for him as he is for her. Time to wreck that composure of hers.
Who the hell is she to be so rock steady when he is so shook up, anyway?
She should be the one seeing stars, dizzy, disoriented, not knowing or caring where she is, in his presence.
Instead-well, maybe he's not all that lost, but still, he is pretty head over heels, if only on the gut level.
He is certainly not in love with her.
Even now, he doesn't even know her, really, nor she him, except by reputation, a reputation primarily on the football field.
But her fascination is that of an object, a treasure, a prize.
She is exquisite, perfect, complete, corresponding exactly to a powerful, archetypal female image within himself.
Naturally, since it is her very presence which has created that image.
But enough of this analysis, he tells himself. And slides down in the bed to tit level.
And rolls over on his stomach, reclining his upper body on her, an arm draped across the relatively narrow part of her heavy hourglass figure, even as he feeds a mighty mammary to himself, hand grasping the big jug as he sucks on the doorbell of the nipple.
And quickly raises it to erection.
And immediately goes to the other one, bringing it to full stimulation even faster, since it is. already almost there, out of sympathy with its twin.
And he wallows in her breasts, their warm firmness, their voluptuous roundness fascinating and titillating him.
And he slides down her body now, helping himself to mouthful after mouthful of her abundant flesh.
And he chews gently on her stomach now, lingering there before heading into the bush.
Which he now does.
And his hands brace themselves against the backs of her heavy thighs as she spreads and raises them.
And now, his tongue snakes out of his drooling mouth as though with a life of its own.
And finds her pussy lips.
And slides wetly up, up, up them to her joy buzzer. And begins strumming it at once.
And continues to do so, even after it has become even larger, firmer, clearly fully aroused, fully engorged.
And now he is fucking her with his tongue, sliding it across the big nub of her clit both ways.
In and out, in and out he goes, tasting her clear, hot pussy juices, feeling the pressure of her pouting pussy.
And she is getting hotter and hotter, rocking from side to side, kicking her lower legs in the air, twisting and writhing, rocking and rolling from side to side, only his powerful hands, gripped to the backs of her thighs, preventing her going totally wild.
And now, it is time.
Time for a masterful, meaningful, expert fuck.
And he braces himself with one hand beside her on the bed.
As, with the other, he guides his prong into her.
Smoothly, he shafts all the way inside her smooth, juicy, clinging cunt.
And he is very glad that he has a big one, to fit her big cunt, to stretch and fill it.
And now, he reaches down with both hands, scooping her great thighs from below.
He doubles her up, so that his prong is even deeper inside her with the foreshortening of her vagina.
So that he is in full possession of her, above, below, all around, literally tying her in a knot as he surrounds her.
And he changes his angle slightly, so that his mouth can reach her breasts, even as he fucks her.
And fuck her he is now, beginning with slow smooth strokes.
And accelerating quickly, so that he is pistoning in and out of her cunt in hard, powerful, regular strokes.
And now, he locks his nuts and settles down to what will hopefully be the greatest fuck of her life.
Because yes, he decides, he does wao put on ashow for her.
Why not?
Certainly, he has put on a show with a lot less inspiration than this.
So that the difference is that he really wants to do this, not because it is expected or to impress himself, but to prove to her how good he can be to and for her.
Which somehow seems important.
Because if he cannot strip her of her fascination for him, then what?
He is of two minds, but only one body.
And right now, it is the body which has the upper hand, which knows what to do.
And the mind need only restrain it, hold it back, lest it go out of control.
And right now, he is doing a very good job, feeling that strength, that exhilaration, that energy which tells him that he could go on like this forever and ever.
And she, already aroused to the point of being flushed in face and body, thanks to his oral administrations and her own hot nature, is appreciative of his stud service, as is evidenced by her increased moaning and contortions.
Okay, baby, Brad tells himself, here's where we go for the record.
And he rides her, transforming himself into a fucking machine, his piston performing with mechanical perfection.
Driving her up the rainbow.
As he looks on, as though watching himself, powerful, detached, in control.
Presenting his best argument in favor of-what? Why, of presenting as fact that she cannot possibly do better than him in the sack.
And telling her that it is important to him that she recognize this.
And, recognizing this, make the commitment to hold herself in readiness for him, as opposed to going around with anyone and everyone.
He is, he must be her best deal unless and until he tires of her.
As a part of him very badly wants to do. But certainly not the physical part.
And certainly not the sexual urge.
So that he wants her to want him, just this way. And she does, at least at the moment.
As he sucks her tits and fucks her, doubled up, ramming into her, again and again.
And each thrust, each withdrawal is a fresh thrill for the two of them.
On and no he fucks her, jamming it into her, ramming it into her, his piston strokes driving the two of them onward, ever onward, and up, up, up the rainbow of their shared arousal.
But now, his body stages a coup within himself..
As it takes control of his mind, thereby seizing control from his mind.
Because now, the hunger is upon him, the hunger which reaches out ahead of itself, above and beyond itself for the next level of pleasure, and the next and the next, no longer content merely to lie back and take it as it comes, as the mind, concerned with staying power, elects to release the body.
The body has managed to break these mental bonds, to release itself.
So that now, the stair-stepping action begins, hunger and satisfaction alternating, overtaking one another again and again as together they mount the ever-ascending scale of sexual arousal.
And mount it they do. This feels good, but better is to be had.
Very well, how's this?
That's great but still I hunger for better. And so it goes.
Because the ascent is self-propelled now, the very achievement of satisfaction implying that there is more to be had. More pleasure, and more and more, the hunger driving Brad on, on, on.
So that he can no longer hold back, can no longer make his clever little adjustments, slowing down at just the right moment, or speeding up, or deliberately allowing his mind to wander from its target, providing just enough distraction to cool down, to hold off.
No more of that now.
Because the pleasure beyond pleasure is within him now.
A tiny but concentrated presence, the nucleus of itself.
Which slowly, steadily balloons, becoming larger and larger within him.
The pressure of it builds and builds.
And it is exquisite, irresistible.
And yes, there is a part of him which still desires to prolong, to resist.
Because more is best, and he is headed toward discontinuity, toward disruption.
And he does not want, does not need this. He does not.
Meaning that part of him which is cerebral, which is planning and scheming.
And which is forced now to stand by, watching and helpless, as the body asserts itself, as it has its own way with him.
And they are both in the grip of the final phase of the act now.
Both of them are getting hotter and hotter, their sexual sweat first beading and now running off their bodies in rivulets, darkening the sheets beneath them.
As their breathing becomes labored, their faces and bodies more and more flushed with the unrealized exertions to which their shared passion drives them.
As Brad's hips accelerate as though with a mind of their own, assuming almost vibrator speed as he jack- hammers in and out of her flowing cunt.
And they are riding to their shared sexual paradise on the wings of their arousal.
Delight has become ecstasy, ecstasy rapture, the rapture of utter transport as they leave this world for one of their own, as they become a world, a universe unto themselves.
And they are riding on and on, zooming and soaring through the sexual empyrean as the pressure of the pleasure builds and builds within them.
Until they are at the height, the peak, the zenith of all the pleasure their bodies can hold.
And still it keeps coming, the pressure, the pleasure.
And they are not able to stop themselves, their wills over-ridden by the imperative of the pleasure beyond pleasure.
Which blows their safety valves.
And they are coming and coming, his hot, copious load injecting itself, wad after wad, into the depths of her vagina.
Even as her snapping pussy sucks his cock with the spasms of her series of multiple orgasms as she also comes and comes.
So that they are once again servicing each others' climax, she milking his from him, he lubricating hers within herself.
And he humps her all the way and beyond, not stopping until his last spasm and hers have passed.
And the body realizes its own exertions.
And is suddenly drained, suddenly out of breath, suddenly too hot.
And they once again descend slowly back to earth.
And he releases her legs, which she lowers slowly, stiffly to either side of him.
And he looks her in the face.
Is it beginning to fade, this fascination? he asks himself.
Not so's you can tell, he answers himself.
He wants her just as much as ever, wants now, not so much in the form of rampant desire, naturally, having only just popped his nuts, but in the sense of valuing, of appreciating this uncanny completeness of hers.
Which says to him, in essence, that to the extent that he likes and desires sexual intercours, to that extent, this is what he desires to have it with.
Not who, what.
Sex object, she is.
Embodiment of the female sexual principle, she is.
In short, the perfect fuck for him.
And he knows it, even without knowing the rationale behind it, assuming that in fact there is one.
He was hoping, a part of him, anyway, to work his way through her.
And that hasn't happened-yet.
Look at all the fun you're having trying, a small, cynical voice within him says.
And he has to admit it; that's true, as far as it goes. Because, whatever else comes out of this, he is having himself some goo-ood fucking!
And now, they are back in the shower.
And the thought occurs to him that she has planned this whole date in such a manner that they need never leave her apartment.
Why is that? he wonders.
Surely, any disadvantage to their being seen together would accrue to him.
He would be the one to be pressed for explanations, as he envisioned before.
So that it is almost as though she has read his mind, anticipating problems which he is not yet prepared to handle, not yet even sure that he wants to.
Oh, white man, black woman, at his level of celebrity, that's not really a problem.
There is some sort of unwritten law that says if a person is famous enough or wealthy enough, then the traditional racial reservations do not apply. In other words, if one is elevated enough in the hierarchy of fame, wealth, power, one has a license.
Except that, traditionally, that is as between two celebrities, and not where one is famous and the other not.
Then, the relationship is suspect.
What is the secret behind this particular liaison? He has what?
Gotten her pregnant, become the secret father of her child?
Done her some grievous wrong which can only be made right by his going out with her?
Been threatened by her family to "do right by" her after a night of seduction?
Because the famous are part of a world of their own, in which color is not a material factor. But this?
Oh, she would become famous soon enough, if the relationship were to continue, so that, in retrospect, she would be termed a "discovery", with respect to Brad.
As though he were somehow qualified to go out and about, discovering talent in areas other than football.
Yeah, right.
And if you believe that-never mind.
"Why aren't we going out somewhere?" he asks.
"Figured you fo' a busy man," she replies.
Meaning that she knows what he wants her for, accepts that, and has acted accordingly.
Meaning that she does not expect to be taken out, shown a good time, wined and dined, and only then surrender her charms.
In short, they have, as they say in the movies, cut to the chase.
And really, this happens to be exactly what he wants.
"Then I take it we're eating in tonight as well?" She shrugs.
"Tonight, breakfuss tomorrow, an' then you can jus' drive me over ta yo' place.
"Gots ta clean it firs' on de schedule anyways." How terribly convenient, he thinks. And how very well planned, too.
But then, there is that element of her personality. As if she too is of two minds, the one hot, passionate, desiring only perpetual intercourse, the other cool, calculating practical even in the midst of her passion.
So that they are both running on two separate etrgines, his those of desire and the wish to trans-send, to move beyond that desire, hers those of desire and the wish to place that desire within the wntext of present reality.
Amazing, Brad reflects, as they dry off, how there is that element within them both which militates against their having a true relationship, as opposed to their merely using each other.
As though both of them recognize, realize that this last is actually the preferable state of affairs, when all is said and done.
True, they are both people who have been around.
True, each sees in the other something special, something unique.
But both of them look beyond this last, to see the world, the future levelled out, as before, putting them right back where they started since, practically speaking, it cannot work any other way.
And her being black has not all that much to do with it.
Any cleaning lady, regardless of race, creed, or color, with whom Brad were to take up would be a problem from the standpoint of his image.
Not, he reminds himself, not that, if ever he were to decide that she is in fact the way to go, that she is truly to become his one and only, not that he would not be prepared to defy the world under that particular circumstance.
Which is what is disturbing him now Because things cannot long continue in this vein. What's it to be, then?
Days off shacked up together like this, now and forever?
That hardly seems fair, hardly, equitable, hardly fair to either of them.
Because this is not a question of hiding but of making up his mind, of deciding what he really wants.
If it's her, then that's it and fuck what anybody else thinks.
If not, then it's been real and no harm done. Not to anybody.
And now, she is back in the bed, extending her arms to him.
And he goes to her and enfolds her in his embrace.
And thinks, good. At last, I am becoming familiar with her body, getting used to it.
And he is, true enough, but in a way he did not anticipate.
Because, with this familiarity comes the confirmation of his desire.
First he saw what he was getting.
Then, he was getting it.
And now, having gotten it, he has gotten used to getting it.
In short, she has become the new standard.
Anything else, anything less would be unacceptable-now.
Or rather, for now.
Because there is still the possibility that he can work his way through her, through his obsession with her.
And the very fact that he wants her as badly as he does, even now, militates in favor of his accomplishing exactly that.
Or so he tells himself, as once again his prick twitches to life.
CHAPTER FIVE
"That's right, Randy," Frenchy says.
"Got the pictures if you need `em."
"Beautiful closeup of the buzzer he pushed goin' in, him and her leaving the place together."
"And we checked that name and address, just to be sure."
"She is definitely the lady who cleans his apartment."
"Works for the cleaning service, she does."
"And she's cleaning his pipes for 'im, eh?"
"Sure looks like it, Randy."
"He stayed all night and then drove 'er right to his apartment."
"Seen entering at, lemme see... here it is, ten ayem."
"Hour later, she comes out by herself and goes to another place. Spends two hours there, where she can be seen through the window running the vacuum, after which she breaks for lunch and then goes on to another place.
"Your reg'lar cleaning type person, no question."
"And the looks?"
"Big an' built."
"Funny, y'know? Never had Brad figured for the type."
"I always thought he'd go in for models or starlets, something like that."
"Change of pace, Frenchy," Buck observes. "That and nothing more."
"You sure about that?"
"No. You just keep watching."
"Him? Her? Both?"
"Leave it in your hands. Just don't miss anything."
And the line goes dead.
Randy looks at the dead phone, surprised.
He isn't used to having people hang up on him.
Still, Frenchy probably meant nothing by it, just getting on with business.
Best scout in the league, Frenchy, football and baseball.
So he knows the ins and outs of domestic espionage.
He knows who to use and for what, when it is a matter of surveillance.
And if there is something involving his star quarterback, then it most certainly is that, as far as Buck is concerned.
He is not having this guy get fucked up over a broad.
He has stopped such nonsense before and he can and will again.
He knows what the fans want and what they don't.
If she was some kind of model or celebrity, the public would understand.
She isn't.
And the tabloids will have a field day with this.
Of course, the women will find it romantic.
But it isn't the women who buy the tickets or who sit home or at the club, guzzling beer and watching the tube.
The white fan will wonder about Brad's rejection of his sister, the black one will resent Brad's takings away something that he might otherwise have as shot at, never mind that Brad doesn't know the one's sister and the other has never even met this Helen.
No, if this is serious, then it's trouble, no question.
It is an element in the equation which doesn't belong there.
Buck doesn't want it and will not tolerate it. It will hurt the team and the team's image.
But now, he shrugs.
Perhaps it's merely a passing fancy, something he did once and will not repeat.
That's it, a fling for both of them.
For Helen, a fantasy to be enjoyed and reality then quickly resumed.
For Brad, a novel experience to be savored and added to his memories.
Oobladee, ooblada, life goes on, as the Beatles used to sing.
And Buck sincerely hopes, for Brad's sake, that that is all that's involved here.
Because, if not, well, Buck tells himself, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
Push comes to shove, he'll move this Fisher right along, to the point that, by the time next season actually begins, he'll know pretty well what's what and what he has to put up with from Brad.
For one thing, Brad lied to him about the weekend.
Well, not lied, maybe,, but was certainly less than candid, not at all open with him.
And Buck resents this.
He has done everything in his power to see to it that they are one big happy family, the key players and himself.
He has backed Brad in every dispute with Anderson, the coach.
True, it was to his advantage to do so, but nonetheless, he did not have to be so adamant, so absolute in his support.
And all that he asks in return is what? Communication.
Again and again, he has said this, to Brad, to others.
Without communication there can be no under- standing.
And perhaps, in this case, that is exactly the point.
Which is that Brad doesn't want him to understand, to be privy to his innermost thoughts-what ever they are-concerning his latest boff.
And Buck doesn't want to hear that crap about being entitled to a private life, not from Brad, not from anybody who works for him.
Because what is there, what can there be in their lives that is so deep, so dark a secret that Buck can't; know about it?
And if there are such things, such secrets, then Buck doesn't want those who possess them on the team.
It's just that simple, dammit!
You live in a goldfish bowl, where Buck is concemed, or you go live somewhere else.
And Buck knits his brows, frowning at the thought of the tabloid headlines if something comes out of this.
The possibilities boggle the mind.
* * *
He watches her clean the apartment.
She said nothing all the way back here, and neither did he.
And he cannot believe himself.
He feels the stirring, ever familiar, ever novel, at the base of his cock.
This, after fucking practically all night.
A marathon fuckathon, and the sight of her still makes him horny!
Surely, this has never happened to him before. He would remember, if it had.
But he will not touch her again, not now, not here.
Because there has been lots and lots of sex, but nothing that could faintly pass for affection between them.
Theirs is a relationship.
Surely, it has that status now, in his mind, in hers. But it is strictly a physical thing, body to body.
Almost as though their minds were detached, as if the two of them were standing there, outside themselves, looking on, evaluating and finding their interaction to be truly impressive, but only as sheer physical phenomenon.
What staying power he has with her!
What brief periods of refraction!
It is as though the very air around them becomes charged with sexual electricity, whenever he is near her!
Or, he asks himself, is it to soon to make such a generality?
Best if he could work his way through her.
So that he could look back and smile at the pleasant memory, at this amazing series of events, in which he indulged himself in what, in retrospect, was an aberration, but one of exquisite and extensive pleasure.
In short, it would be best to "get over" her.
Yes, that would be best.
But not yet, not just yet.
Because she is complete, delicious, unique.
He will have her again.
He must and he will.
But not here and now.
Because that would show her more than he intends.
As a part of him resists that bondage, that captivity which is obsession.
So he goes on about his business, sitting there in the living room, a pad of blank newsprint paper in his lap, making circles and X's with a marking pen, as Helen cleans the apartment.
The play he promised Randy, he reminds himself. He looks at it and shrugs.
Original but not very impressive.
Specifically designed to gain a first down rather than a touchdown.
Anderson will absolutely hate it.
It will work well enough, considering the talent Brad knows they have to throw into the line.
It is, in fact, an incredible waste of resources, of potential.
If it works, short yardage; if it fails, disaster. And no possiblity of its suddenly, thrillingly evolving into something other, something greater than itself.
Because the whole idea is that of total commitment to short yardage, a thing not unheard of when near the goal line, needing only that extra yard to go over, but never, never seen as Brad wants to employ it.
But it has a lot going for it.
The element of surprise, the ongoing incredulity of the defense, even after they've seen it.
Brad looks at it, grins, and flips to a clean sheet. And begins to draw the next element in the strategy.
Hammer the defense two, perhaps even three times in a row with that, but then, lining up the same way, hand-do not throw, but hand-the ball to an end, have him actually scale the embattled line, and take off.
That oughtta drive `em crazy! he thinks.
And goes to call Helen over.
Not that she will know what she's looking at, but he has to tell somebody about this, because it is simply too clever to keep to himself.
And he discovers that she is gone.
Hey, why not, right?
She has a job to do, a schedule to keep. Logical, reasonable-and depressing.
And Brad cannot say why he should feel as he does.
And the thought, the image of himself, alone in bed tonight, after what he did last night and, for that matter, well into this morning, disturbs him still further.
So he comes to a decision.
That's it, he says to himself, because it makes no sense for either of them, the way things are now.
She can damn well sleep with him, every night, until they decide where this thing is going, where it is taking him.
What possible good does it do her to take the train home every night, only to come back here every morning again, when she can have free room and board right here in the city?
And certainly he will take advantage of the situation sexually; they both will.
Why not?
After last night, they are far from strangers. More accurately, their bodies are far from strangers.
And basically, what more does there have to be to it than this, what they have, what they do?
Will knowing where she was born or what her favorite color is or if she graduated from high school, will any of this statistical garbage change anything, for better or for worse, in their situation?
And what does she have to know about Brad, other than what appears on the sports pages and, in season, on the TV?
So that their completeness with regard to each other requires nothing further by way of information.
It is all attitude.
And Brad is not as in control as he would like.
But the only solution to that is to work through this, this... thing with Helen.
And what better way to do that than to have her in bed every night, to face her across the breakfast table every morning?
Yes, this is something he wants to do, the way he wants to handle the situation. He will wait until her next cleaning day here and then broach the subject to her. He could call her tonight, of course, but he doesn't want to appear too eager.
He doesn't want to wait, really; he actually is eager, his eagerness bordering on anxiety. But even with her, he has an image to maintain.
And now, Brad looks at the plays he has drawn, rehearsing the strategy which accompanies them in his mind.
He reaches for the phone.
"Cranston, this is Brad. Is he in the office this morning?... Good. I'll be right over with that play I promised him."
* * *
Buck shakes his head, smiling faintly.
And looks up from the drawings to Brad.
"Anderson is gonna shit a brick," he says.
And Brad just sits there, looking at him across the vast expanse of desk.
Why is he saying this? Brad wonders. Since when does he give a damn about what Anderson thinks, when it comes to Brad's additions or revisions to the playbook?
"The line is going to catch hell on this one."
How true. Both lines-ours and theirs-are.
"It's gonna call for split-second timing on the part of the quarterback on the pay-off down."
Of course it is! Which is why they have him as quarterback. This is not something which can be of general application, which just anyone can make happen.
What the hell is-aha!
"Why don't you say what's really bothering you, dandy?"
Buck chuckles, sitting back in his huge,padded swivel chair, gazing out the window at the skyline of the city.
Then, he turns back to face Brad, chin resting on the fingertips of hands pressed together, as though in prayer.
"Tell me about the spade chick," Brad.
His voice is very quiet, his smile gone, his gaze steady in Brad's eyes.
Brad remains calm, shrugging, returning his look. "Name's Helen. She cleans my apartment. She cleans apartments and offices for a living, working for a cleaning contractor."
"I know."
And silence reigns, as they look at each other. Obviously, Buck is waiting for more. "We've-been intimate. We've-I've-slept over."
"I know."
And Brad surprises himself with his own lack of resentment.
Randy Buck knows, and he has a right to know And he has a right to employ those means necessary that he can know.
He has a team, Brad is the key to that team, he as a right to protect his interests.
Brad knows this, is what Brad knows.
Why.
This last a monosyllable from Buck.
Ah, there's the heart of the matter now, Randy, is it not?
"Not sure."
Buck sits back in his chair, beetle-browed, frowning.
Not the answer he wanted to hear.
He wanted a shrug, an "I felt like it", or the even more obvious "she's one helluva piece of ass" and there's an end to it.
"Not sure" means there is a complexity here, emotional complications.
"You uh... done with her?"
"Not yet."
"I thought not."
And Buck heaves his bulk out of his chair, standing at the window, looking out, down into the teeming street far below.
"Sexy woman, so I understand," Buck says, not looking back at Brad.
"Very."
"Sexy to look at, and probably what you see is what you get."
"Indeed."
"You uh, you man enough for her, Brad?"
"No complaints so far."
"No, I don't imagine there would be. Not yet, anyway. The first rush, the first enthusiasm."
"Tell me, Brad," Buck says, turning, facing him, leaning over the desk, supporting himself with both hands, "you gonna quit while you're ahead, leaving her with a shining memory, or are you gonna make an ass outta yourself and hang in there until the two of you can't stand each other while the tabloids go crazy with the two of you, from first romance to the palimony suit?"
"I thought, maybe, with her face and figure, I could use my show biz connections to, uh-do something with her and-"
"And then she'd be a celebrity, you'd be a celebrity, and there's nothing scandalous about that, and the two of you would live happily ever after, that it?"
"Something like that. Maybe. I don't know. We haven't gotten that far in our, in my thinking."
"You haven't gotten as far as the front door, Brad, yours or hers."
"So far, this thing with her is all in the closet."
"You figure to keep it that way?"
"I, uh-"
"If so, how does that jibe with your plans for her future?
"What does she do, Brad? Sing? Dance?
"Got rhythm, does she? Hell of a tap dancer and like that?"
"I really can't say."
"That's right Brad, you can't."
"Because what she does mostly is suck and fuck. "And whatever she does in show biz, as you put it, the message that she radiates is raw sex."
"That sells."
"Not saying it doesn't. You'll get no argument from me on that score."
"My point is that, sooner or later, you're gonna hafta go public. That, or break it off."
"Those would seem to be the options," Brad concedes. "I feel that, in view of the impact a continuation of the situation is bound to have on team image, I have a right to know what's coming down the pike on this one.
"My gosh, Brad! A cleaning woman?"
"If she was white, would you still feel the same way?"
"Damn straight I would! Don't you lay that racist crap on me, Brad! I'd feel the same way, the tabloids'd feel the same way."
"The point is, we've got ourselves a role model here who thinks with his cock when he's off the field."
"Not to mention what these marathon fucking sessions of yours are going to do to your ability to perform on the field.
"Thank heavens we live in a free country, where a man can do as he pleases. You do whatever you .a want, Brad. But then, so will I. Understood?"
Brad understands only too well.
He understands that, if his affair with Helen gets out of hand, for which read goes public, he will no longer be the quarterback, since Buck can and will simply keep him under contract but take him out play.
True, he has the right to date anyone he chooses, but the accompanying notoriety will rapidly turn it into more than simple dating, it will be a situation in which he can't do the right thing.
If he drops her, then he exploited her.
If he keeps her, then it's an ongoing scandal of a jock with hot pants and every move they make outside closed doors will be covered in lurid detail.
So that Buck's best bet for damage control will be to de-activate Brad as a player.
Once he's a zero, who cares?
And, naturally, Buck will replace him with the likes of this Gary Fisher, college all-star and hotshot, as Brad himself once was.
"Good plays, Brad," Buck says, taking the edge off the tension between them, rolling up the sheets with the plays on them and handing them to Brad.
Telling him that he doesn't want to hear from him on anything else until he hears from him on the subject under discussion.
Because Brad is not fooling Randy Buck with his laconic replies.
Buck is too smart not to realize the intensity of Brad's feelings for Helen, even though they are strictly sexual.
Obviously, the bottom line is that Brad has never had it so good and so naturally wants to keep the party going, doing whatever it takes to make that happen.
Which, practically speaking, will indeed involve their "coming out of the closet" sooner or later.
"Brad," Buck says, seeing him to the door of his office, "I'd like to know your position on this matter as soon as possible."
"I have every confidence that you'll do the best thing for all concerned."
Brad says nothing as he leaves.
Buck goes back to his desk.
The phone rings. The private line.
"Yes?"
"Frenchy, Randy."
"Frenchy! Brad was just here. He knows that we know. I told him."
"Whatever. That's not why I'm calling."
"It's Fisher.
"You are not gonna believe this Randy, but the kid is playing touch football with some kids in his neighborhood back home, steps in a fucking gopher hole and sprains his ankle. "Our man out there just called me with the news."
"Made the local papers."
"Is it bad?"
"I've got 'im checkin' on it now."
"Just wanted to get back to you with the news right away, so's you wouldn't be makin' any final plans for Gary."
Meaning for Brad, and Buck knows this.
"Thanks, Frenchy. And you let me know soon as your man gets the straight poop."
"Will do, Randy. Tough break, huh?"
"Very."
And Buck hangs up the phone slowly, pensively. He buzzes for Cranston.
"Yes, Randy?"
"Cranston, get me Ace Johnson, Bubba Hawkins, and uh, who's that guy they room with? The fullback."
"Ben Franklin."
"Yeah," Buck chuckles, "How the hell could I forget a name like that?
"See if they're free for lunch tomorrow, will you "Right away, Randy."
There are times and then there are times, he says to himself, and one must remain flexible at all times.
Tough about that ankle of Gary Fisher's.
Changes nothing long range, of course.
A sprained ankle isn't the end of the world.
And if he's going to have one, this is certainly the best time for it.
Still, time to take out some insurance on Brad. Probably, he will do the right thing.
But the important thing is that he do it as soon is possible, before the relationship goes public.
And when this is over, he will have to pay closer attention to his star quarterback's love life.
For as long as it matters.
CHAPTER SIX
"I don't think so" she says, lying in his bed, in his arms.
"Why not? Look how nice it is, your staying here with me tonight."
"Nice got nothin' to do widdit, Brad."
"If ah was to sleep wif you ev'ry night, that'd be the same as livin' heah."
"Ah mean, what would be the point of ma even keepin' the `pahtment ovah in Jersey?"
So that we could go over there for a change of scene."
"That what we be doin' fo' a change of scene, Brad?"
And he knows at once that he fucked up.
Why should he think that she would be willing to wait around while he makes up his mind about her, content to remain in his apartment or hers each night, when he himself cannot say, does not know how long that decision might take?
Obviously, if he does intend to make her his one and only, then he is willing to go head to head with Randy Buck over her, come what may.
But, for all he knows, the magic could vanish with his next climax.
And now, with his stupid remark about changes of scene, he has shown her that he really doesn't know where he's coming from right now, that he is not prepared, or at least not yet prepared to "go public" with her...
In the event, she has shown herself more farsighted than he.
Staying in that first date had been her idea.
He was fully prepared to show her a full-scale, traditional good time, not because he was ready to be seen with her, but as part of the price he was prepared to pay for his obsession.
Fortunately, she relieved him of that mental burden.
So that he achieved his initial objective witho having to risk the scandal he was so willing t confront-before.
Because now, he isn't.
How odd, the way things get twisted up, he thinks.
"I didn't mean it the way it sounded," he says.
"I just know that, right now, I want you, all of you."
And in a way, that happens to be perfectly true.
In a selfish, obsessed, childishly possessive way.
And Helen is no fool.
She knows this, she knows men.
She knows this and uses it.
But not in an evil, way; rather, she uses it to get great sex from him.
Because there is nothing like obsession as an augmentation to passion.
She knows men, knows them well enough to know that his sexual performance is out of the ordinary, for him, for any man.
And she knows the world, knows that he is not about to take her public, at least not until he is more certain of their relationship.
And she wonders if he even suspects that she feels the same way, that she does not want the publicity, the notoriety, if the relationship is ultimately leading nowhere.
No, let it be this way for now, she thinks.
And slides down his body until her face is opposite his cock.
The head of which she covers with her moist Iips, caressing it, even as the tip of her darting 'tongue explores the eye in the head, which now f bulges and throbs in response to her attentions.
Brad had more to say to her, a mixture of truths, half truths, and the good old bullshit.
But that is forgotten now All logic, all reason, all problems are set aside, shoved into the distant background, clearing his mind to receive the truths which are of the body, the sensations that are what they are and not otherwise.
Because there is an elemental purity, a fundamental simplicity in their sexual relationship.
Labyrinthine may be the personal and professional politics surrounding it, but the sex acts themselves?
They are pure delight, unrefined and yet pristine pleasure.
As, even now, she sucks his cock, rolling the head in her mouth, licking it like a lollipop, making it vibrate within her drooling mouth with rapid vacuuming and filling of her cheeks.
As her tongue explores the flaring flange at the rear, the split of the underside, the taut, hot, rounded surface.
As her head bends low to receive the mighty prong in her mouth, as far as it will go.
And now, she swings her body . in an arc, the connection of cock and mouth the pivot point, as she carefully straddles his body, he helping her, tucking his arms behind her knees on either side of him, leaving his hands free so that he can place them on the wide flare of her hips and guide her lower, lower, lower onto his face, where, with only minor hand adjustments, he can alternately rim her and eat her pussy.
A vague attempt at logic, at self-justification, a. flash of thought strikes him.
What more could they ask for than this?
But he doesn't choose to answer this rhetorical question.
Rather, he loses himself now in the sensations which flood him from cock and tongue.
Because now they are doing perfect sixty-nine, their efforts of the same and ever-increasing intensity.
And there is nothing, nothing, nothing between them.
Not the hovering, ponderous, threatening immanence of a Randy Buck, not the drooling, lecherous yellow press, not the traditional disapproval of society in general.
There is just the two of them, going at each other, expressing their hunger for one another in a direct, physical way.
And there is no symbolism at work here.
It is what it is, what they are doing. Man and woman, eating each other.
It is not, for example, Europe meeting Africa. It is not Solomon copulating with the Queen of Sheba.
It is not Othello in reverse..
Rather, it is Brad and Helen, unique in all the world, going at each other out of raw, abandoned lust.
And it could well be that there is within each of them that image, that symbol, that archetype of the masculine and feminine ideal, which each embodies for the other.
In Brad's case, whenever he thinks of Helen (and that is all the time lately), that is certainly true enough.
But that is irrelevant right now Right here and now, what counts with Brad is the shape and mass and feel of Helen's ass and her ass hole and her cunt.
Right now, the only thought of what is not involved in the immediate action is what is about to be.
Which is all, all, all of her.
Those mammoth mammaries of hers.
The inside of her cunt, of her ass.
The feel of her body, the flare of her hips, the beauty of her face.
Her reactions as she becomes hotter and hotter.
The moans she makes, the twitches and twistings and writhings of her body in response to his lovemaking These are all that matter to him.
That, and the flood of lascivious sensation she creates within him, by her presence, her actions and reactions.
These are the things that count.
These, to the exclusion of all else. So that he could not have said, at the moment, if he is a football player or a brick mason.
Or where he is or what day of the week or what time it is.
And Helen senses this, senses and rejoices in it, glad that she has the power to thus stimulate him into sexual frenzy.
Because that is her only attachment to him, and. she knows it.
Just as she knows that it might not last.
So that right now, right now is what she is enjoying.
She has had big propositions before, charmers of all shades, promising her this and that.
In one ear and out the other, their bullshit.
And at least Brad has not tried to pull any of that crap on her.
He made a suggestion, she rejected it.
And he did not insist, did not build a fabric of fabrications in support of his argument, did not present her with some long-range scenario of earthly delight for the two of them, in which they would live happily ever after and like that.
Because that would be sheer nonsense, total crap.
She would have seen right through that.
No, this will have to go on for quite a while yet, just as is, before she will know whether or not it will ever get off the ground and fly.
Will she be content to remain here, in the great indoors, at her place or here, all the while? Probably.
Why not? she reasons.
This is some damned good, truly inspired fucking, without the accompanying load of bullshit, without some macho bastard gloating inwardly at what he has managed to "capture" and manipulate.
As though she ever was some mindless piece of black trash!
She was ever with the others as she is right now with Brad, purely and simply because she feels like it, feels like getting her ashes hauled, feels like facing the truth that, of all the feelings, all the sensations the world has to offer, none can match in amount and intensity of pleasure that of sexual intercourse.
Not that she is driven or a nymphomaniac.
That isn't true.
She is very particular what man, what men she will go with.
The men have to have something to offer in the way of both physique and personality or they will not see her as Brad is at this moment.
High standards, she always tells herself, reminding herself whenever she sees a man and is tempted, measuring him against those standards, which are never defined but ever present and she knows if a man has what it takes with an innate sense that tells her whether he will pass or fail.
But she is manipulative in her own way.
Because, once they pass, once they have measured up, then, generally speaking, one man is as good as another.
The only thing really special, really unique about Brad is the intensity of his passion for her.
Which, at the moment, seems boundless.
As he becomes more and more aroused, wallowing in her presence, burrowing into it, surrounding himself with the aura of it.
So that he forms a whole new universe with her, a universe comprised exclusively by the two of them, merged, united, connected to form a single entity.
Whose two parts compliment each other perfectly.
Whose actions are perfectly synchronized, absolutely appropriate to the moment.
As his tongue strums her clit, enlarging, engorging it as her clear,.hot pussy juices lave his chin and the heat of her body combines with that of his own to make them physically as well as emotionally hotter and hotter.
So that now, they break their sexual sweat. And their foreheads are beaded with large, clear droplets.
Which combine and run in response to gravity.
So that the sheet beneath and around them becomes rapidly soaked, the dark outline of the wetness giving them a dark halo, a different spot in the world, a dark void surrounding the separate reality into which they have propelled themselves.
And Helen is warming to her task now.
So that she opens the back of her throat, wanting more and more of him, all of him that she can get into her mouth.
So that now, she is giving him deep throat, her head going all the way down, lips touching his bush, the tops of his balls as they lock tight against the base of his cock.
And he feels this, feels her going all the way down on him and pulling back until only the bulging head of his erection remains between her lips, only to repeat the process, tentatively at first, as though testing the action and reaction, but now gaining confidence, picking up speed.
So that now she is deep throating him in regular, even strokes.
And he finds this an added stimulus, a heightening of intensity of the pleasure, the sexual electricity which shoots through him in ever more powerful waves of sheer physical delight.
So that it is not merely his cock, but rather his entire body, his very being, or so it seems to him, that is involved here.
So that he redoubles his own efforts, on the one hand wanting to actually fuck her in the worst way, on the other unwilling to interrupt the action that is even now engaging him, engaging her, engaging the unity which they have become, which they are, in a building and building toward the next plateau, the next level of pleasure.
And the next and the next.
So that they are rising steadily through the various stages of their arousal.
So that, ever novel, ever familiar, delight becomes ecstasy.
So that the transition from ecstasy to rapture is so smooth as to be unnoticeable.
So that now, hunger will not be assuaged.
So that it grows and grows within them, ever out- pacing the satisfaction which attempts to catch up with it, only to find itself short of the mark once more, a donkey in vain pursuit of the carrot which dangles ever before it.
But this too is part of the pleasure.
This climbing of the rainbow, this scaling of the ladder of their shared sensuality, their shared sexuality, their shared totality.
And yet, it is also true that their sexuality is not the same.
Because hers is that of the female, of the opening up, the taking in, the receiving of the male principle, of which Brad is the physical embodiment, at the moment, in body, in action.
Yes, she is the receiving element, the pleasure inbound right alongside the activities which so exquisitely summon it.
Whereas Brad's sexuality is a giving in order that he might take.
The more you give, the more you get.
And his is not a drawing out of her so much as it is a generation within himself of the pleasure after which he chases with his actions and attentions, of which she is both subject and object.
And thus are the male and female principles combined and unified right now.
So that Brad is consciously radiating pleasure from his cock in order that it might experience the stimulation of its outward flow from within his innermost self.
So that Brad is aware of the rapture which is being transmitted to her clit from his ever-working tongue, a terminal of the generator of pleasure that he has become.
And thus do they rise, higher and higher, up and up and up on the wings of their shared, their unified pleasure.
Which even now fills them with its pressure, its overwhelming, irresistible intensity.
So that they are at the peak of their pleasure, their capacity standing at maximum.
And still she sucks more and more pleasure into herself, causing Brad to output still more.
They hover there at the zenith of their shared passion for a long moment, and then They come.
And she is grinding her cunt into his face, even as she pulls her head back until the bulb of his knob is resting on her tongue.
Even as it disgorges its load of jism, wad after wad spurting, hot and thick and copious, into her mouth.
Where she savors and swallows it, again and again.
Even as Brad feels her pussy lips squeezing his tongue as it shafts in and outof her hot, juicy cunt, the contractions, the spasms of her multiple orgasms convulse her, causing her to roll her hips, washing his face with her clear pussy juices.
And thus do they go over the rainbow together.
And thus do they ascend, leaving the earth, flying, zooming and soaring through their shared, private sexual paradise.
So that they must, eventually, descend.
Which they do, coming back down to earth as the twinges of the pleasure beyond pleasure subside within therm.
And only when they have ceased altogether, his spurts, her orgasms, does she dismount, allowing his still hard cock to rest on his abdomen as he releases it from her mouth.
.
As she climbs of off him to one side.
And now, they lie there, side by side as he wipes his face with a tissue from the box on the nightstand closest to him, expertly tossing it into a nearby wastbasket aftewrard.
And they lie there, side by side, recovering breath and color, the rosy glow of their exertions fading slowly.
They do not look at each other, both of them staring up at the ceiling, pondering their recent absolute unity and their present separation.
And Brad wants her as much as ever.
He realizes this now, just as he realizes as well that what he was doing, in addition to having great sex, was performing a rite of exorcism.
So that her power over him, which is that of her body might end.
So that his obsession might be cured.
But it was not, is not.
And, so far as he is concerned it will not be.
So that there is no questionin his mind now, but that he must continue on with her, even if that means that, for the moment, their relationship must consist of these, behind-closed doors rendezvous.
True, what they do together, as two consenting adults, is nobody's business but their own.
But if they are to keep it that - way, then they must go on getting together as they are.
Except that now, at the thought of that, Brad thinks, Fuck that shit!
Because, dammit, he can take her anywhere he damn well pleases!
And let the fucking cameras snap, and snap and snap.
And let the reporters write whatever they want, true or false.
And let Randy Buck do his damnedest, Brad knows what it takes for the team to continue its winning streak next season.
He knows what it takes, for that matter, for the team to win a single game.
And what it takes for them to gain a single yard. That, after all, is his business and nobody is better at it than himself.
Fuck you, ladies and gentlemen of the working press.
Fuck you, loyal fans and curiosity seekers all. Fuck you, Randy Buck.
Fuck any and all of you who have a problem with this.
Yes, Brad would like nothing better than to stand above the mob assembled, say, like the Pope on his balcony at the Vatican, the square packed, the world's TV cameras on him, and tell tutto mondo, urbi et orbi, to go fuck themselves and leave him and Helen alone.
And he clenches his teeth in anger and excitement and grim satisfaction at the thought of doing exactly that.
Just like that.
And you know something?
The world wouldn't come to an end.
The sun would rise tomorrow No question.
Of course, he could never really do that.
And to perform the equivalent, to respond to reporters' questions with a standard, "Fuck you!" would only be to play right into their hands, ensuring that he would always be "good press".
Stupid, really; and self-defeating.
If he wants privacy and still wants to go out with her-meaning into the outside world-then the thing to do would be to be as natural as possible about it.
And to handle the publicity in a very low-key fashion, smiling calmly, tolerantly, knowing that the press are basically dog-brained, creatures of habit and repetition.
So that they would inevitably ask the same questions, over and over again.
And thereby give him his perfect "out" with the press and public.
("I believe I already answered that question.") ("Nothing has changed since yesterday.") ("We really have to go now Have a nice day.") So that even they, press and public, would quickly tire, of it, once the novelty of the relationship wears off and there are absolutely no new developments, So that they would be in for-what?
A rough week?
A months, tops.
Unless- Celebrity status.
But that was just a passing thought for Helen. Still, would she be content to remain here, an ornament and a plaything?
Would she not want to be something, someone in her own right?
Hey, they can talk.
Even though, thus far, there has been very little of that going on.
They always seem to have better things to do, har har.
But now, showering together, reality seems to set in.
Their going out would seem to him, on balance, an act of defiance, of deliberate provocation.
What, they don't cook, the two of them, there's nothing on TV, they have to go runnmg around all over town to get their jollies?
Just to be going out to prove a point, what is that?
Some foolishness, a piece of conceit and a challenge to a world which already faces enough .challenges, of a far more serious and far-reaching nature than this, this... thing of theirs, is what it would be.
No, it wouldn't, he argues with himself.
And that face and figure, well, those are things. to be proud of, rather than kept a secret, hidden.
In fact, he would like for her to be his date at the next victory dinner.
And he is only sorry that this is the off. season, that there will be no triumph for the team to celebrate this week.
Because then, then! he would show them, would show her, would show himself that, if he wants to, he can make this thing come out right.
"Want to go cycling or jogging next weekend?" he asks her.
"Cain' ride no bike an' ah jus' does de 'robics fronta de TV to stay in shape," she replies.
Stupid of me, he thinks. He merely wanted an excuse to specifically go out with her, to be seen in public with her, to get the show-their show-on the road, so to speak.
So he went and suggested two activities which, upon reflection, it would be clear that she has neither skill nor interest.
Dumb.
And now, he runs through a catalogue in his mind of reasons to be in the great outdoors with her.
"How about a row on the lake in one of those boats they rent?"
"Fine," she shrugs.
And turns away from him, smiling.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Welcome, welcome, welcome, gentlemen. So glad you could make it today!"
"Everything is all ready in the conference room and you fellahs can just help yourselves to whatever."
"Few things I want to discuss with you, and a matter which I feel you can help me out with, or rather, the team."
"But first, let's get this lunch under our belt, shall we? The caterers have done an excellent job, as you can see."
"I'll say they did!" Ace Johnson enthuses. "You. got enough stuff here to feed a army!"
They help themselves to paper plates and build impressive sandwiches, helping themselves to beer or soda from the iced cooler.
They sit around the conference table, covered with a white linen tablecloth for the occasion.
Buck joins them and they sit down with their lunches at the end of the table where the food isn't.
Finally, after they have refilled their plates and are. using their plastic forks on the potato salad, Buck clears his throat.
All eyes turn to him.
"No doubt you men are wondering what this is all about."
"Let me preface my remarks by saying that I'm sure you all know the quality of people our star quarterback dates."
"Sho' do! He mus' be one bad stud, all dem stahlets an' beauty queens!"
"Yeah, that ole boy done got him some fahn black stuff, as ah recalls," Bubba observes.
And Buck says nothing, his mind racing backward in time to-oh, yes!
She was a starlet, now a star, and he saw her on and off for several months about two years ago.
Good! he thinks. Couldn't be better, in fact, in view of what he is about to bring up.
"Tm very glad you recall that, uh, Bubba," Buck says. "That way you won't misunderstand what I'm about to say."
"As you all know, the sports and celebrity news hounds follow every move that Brad makes, on and off the field."
"He is one of the major drawing cards of the team, as, giving credit where credit is due, as are team's.almost hundred percent victorious record over the past several years, for which Brad is, in large part bible."
"Any uh, divergent opinions on that subject?"
Mumbled negatives.
"Good! Then what follows will not be misunderstood or taken out of context."
"Now, ordinarily, what a man does with himself during the off season is of no concern to me. However, it has come to my attention that Brad is ruining himself, ruining his health by fucking his brains out."
And he joins in the chuckling laughter.
"I agree with you that, ordinarily, this would be considered a laughing matter."
"But-" And here he pauses, fixing his serious look on each of them before continuing, "but not when it goes on for days and weeks to the exclusion of all other activities, including, gentlemen, the planning of those additions to, deletions from, and changes in the playbook which is, as you know, our blueprint for victory."
"This hot numbah somebody special!" Ben Franklin asks.
"Glad you brought that up, Ben," Buck says, "because that is the other aspect of the problem."
"It would be one thing if this were another starlet, somebody who knows the rules of the game and is an accomplished player in her own right, someone who understands that it will go on for a little while, run its course, and then she and her fellow celebrity will move on to somebody else."
"Which is exactly what happened with the starlet to which Bubba here has referred."
"Good press, glamorous press for the two of them, right?"
"But this time, we've got big trouble, right here in River City, no question."
Pause for effect. Then, "Gentlemen, we are talking cleaning lady here."
"Your ordinary, everyday dust the furniture, vacuum the rugs, empty the wastebaskets type."
"Not-" he adds quickly, "not that there is anything wrong with it as a profession."
"In fact, I feel a certain sympathy for her. She is a victim, gentlemen."
"Or do you think that the clients of a cleaning service have the right to seduce these overworked, underpaid women who work for so little reward for their honest toil?"
"Ma mama was a cleanin' lady, 'fo' ah managed ta oin enough, ta take keh her. An' ah sho' wouldn't want no white-"
"Hey! Watch, it, bro" Ace cautions, .looking at Buck, who turns his face away from them.
"No, no," Buck says, facing them once again"
"It's quite all right, I assure you. And Bubba's point is well taken."
"Because, gentlemen, in all fairness to Brad, we may well be talking infatuation, perhaps even obsession here, but first and foremost," he sighs, pausing once again for effect, "we are talking exploitation."
"Whether something comes of this or mot-and you don't have to be a genius to figure out what will happen, sooner or later-look at the example Brad is setting!
"For heaven's sake, men! Look at this precedent. Hell, if Brad can do it, then it must be open season on cleaning ladies, on secretaries, on any female worker."
"I say it's got to stop and stop quickly, before any publicity comes out of it."
"What do you say?"
They look around at each other, mumbling concurrence.
"Onlies' thang," Ace Johnson says, "whut if she be some naturally hot numbah, `joyin' herse'f widda majah stah?"
"Good point, Ace," Buck concedes. "In which case, before she wrings Brad out like a washcloth and he in turn, sooner or later, dumps her, which you just know he will, I say, let's check out that aspect of the situation as well."
"The important thing here is that we save the two of them, save them from themselves, save them from each other."
"Are we agreed and do I have your cooperation, a gentlemen?"
Mumbles of assent.
"Excellent! Now here's what we do. First thing tomorrow morning, I'm going to call Brad and tell him that we have to go over... "
* * *
"I know, I know! And it's such a beautiful day, too," Brad says, over the phone.
"No, I don't know how long I'll be tied up. I'll come over to your place as soon as we're through, okay? I mean, now that I have your key and you've got mine, that at least is no problem, so if you're out, I'll be waiting for you, and vice versa."
"Rotten fucking luck, but still, I've gotta do this. See you later, babe, and we will make up for this lost time."
Shit! Brad thinks. Shit, shit, shit!
He was making real progress with this relationship and now, this meeting with Buck and Anderson. And it's his own damned fault, coming up with controversial. new play.
Oh well, he thinks, look on the bright side. At least, it'll get Buck off the subject of private life.
Hastily, he gathers his drawings and notes and is his way to Buck's office on this beautiful morning.
* * *
Helen cleans her apartment, working quickly and efficiently, shutting out the disappointment.
She was really looking forward to going out with him, just to check out the stares, the reaction of passersby.
And now, that is deferred.
The outer buzzer.
She buzzes whoever it is in. Probably not for her anyway, but what the hell, happens all the time.
But now comes a knock on the door.
She opens it.
And there is Ace Johnson, smiling at her. "What uh-"
"Brad sent me," Ace says. "Said y'all might be wantin' some black stud to keep you company whilst he be Lakin' keh bidniss:"
"Say what?"
Ace shrugs, smiling good humoredly.
"Onlies' thang ah knows is whut he done told me ta tell ya. Said it be a lot mo int'ristin' fo' y'all than sendin' flowahs."
"So. Can ah come in or whut?"
You come right in, whilst ah makes a phone call"
"Thanks."
And Ace sits on the couch as she calls Brad, getting his answering machine.
She says, "If you're there, pick up the phone."
No answer.
She slams it down, turning an angry face to Ace. "Is this some kinda joke?"
"Joke? No, don' rightly think it be no joke."
"Think it might could be some kinda tes' though."
"Test? Test? What kinda test?"
Ace shrugs.
"Ain't dis de paht wheah y'all tells me ta piss off, ta haul ma black ass outta heah `cause you b'longs ta Brad?"
"B'long? Dis heah woman don' b'long ta nobody 'cep'n herse'f!"
"In othah woids, if you was ta see some stud such as mase'f an you was feelin' a little ho'ny, you'd he'p yo'se'f to a tayss?"
"Damn straight ah would! Tes'! Dis heah be one tes' ah'm gonna make a point of failin'!"
"You is?"
"Tes' me! Hey, dis heah be tes' day, so le's test, okay?"
"Yeah, well uh, onlies' thang, ah figgered y'all wouldn' be goin' fo' nuthin' lak `at, you an' Brad bein'-"
"Me an' Brad ain't shit! Test indeed! Ah got his tes', rat down here" And she points to her crotch.
"Thass fine an' all, but oh, ah got two, n's inns cah, `cause like ah said, ah din' think you'd wanna, like, see me, y'know?"
"See you? Ain got nuthin' ta do wif.you!"
"An' in lack-sure, why not?"
"Bring yo' fren's up heah. We gonna hab us a little pah'ty. We inta tests, how's about ah tests de three of you?"
Ace grins, shrugging as he rises.
"You callin' de shots, lady," he says.
"An' it be about tam, too, fo' a change!" she replies. "You go git yo' fren's an' ah'll make mase'f mo' comfortable, ,know what ah mean?"
"Sho' `nuff!" Ace says. "Be right back."
Ace exits, leaving her door ajar.
Quickly, she strips out of her blouse and slacks and puts on a filmy neglige.
She moves reflexively, seeing only dimly through the haze of her anger.
A test! Who the fuck is he to test her?
The big football star.
You want a test, motherfucker?
Try this one on for size!
The buzzer Ace and company are at the outer door.
A moment's hesitation and then-fuck it.
Why not?
Come one, come all, she thinks as she buzzes them in.
Three big, black studs they are, all muscle and big, healthy teeth as they grin at her in puzzled anticipation, gawking at her abundant charms which the flimsy, . transparent garment she wears only shows off as well as if she were naked.
"The fuck you grinnin' at?" she asks Ben.
"Aw nuthin', I guess."
"Well c'mon, bro'," Ace says, "let us in on it, will ya?"
"Well," Ben responds, "I mean, I know whut choo said she done said, Ace, but uh, onlies' thang ah'm not sure of is, well," turning to Helen, "didjoo mean like one at a time or uh... all at once?"
"Aw now," Ace says, before she can reply, "le's not be pushin' ouah luck here, Ben."
"Hey, Ace, I was jus'-"
"Ain' no luck to it, Ace," Helen says. "Mattah of fack, thass a damn good idea."
"Mofo wantsa be puttin' me to de tes', le's give 'im a test to remembah."
"Cain' rightly be goin' halfway now, can we?"
The men look at each other, shrugging in concert.
"Thass whut de lady want," Bubba rationalizes, "who is we to say diff'runt?"
"Y'all go inta the bathroom an' wash up real good," Helen admonishes the three of them.
They start for the bathroom.
"An' ya cain't do it wif yer clothin's on, neithah," she adds.
Grinning, they begin to strip.
Soon the three men are naked.
Big studs they are, with heavy equipment.
And she looks from one to the otherher anger at Brad dissipating, its heat replaced by that of incipient desire at the sight of three such prime examples of the fully developed male animal.
Forget Brad! she tells herself. Look at all this lovely, lovely beef!
And she realizes that this was all she was basically after-a healthy studding from somebody who was somebody, instead of the nobodies and losers whom she usually manages to attract.
Because she never deceived herself concerning Brad, never doubted for an instant but that, sooner or later, he would simply stop seeing her.
As hot as he was running, she knows that he would turn cold.
It was merely a question of time.
But this, this! had to be some kind of aberration or else sheer stupidity on Brad's part.
No question but that Ace is telling the truth, either.
How else could he have known who she was or where to find her or even about her relationship with Brad to begin with?
And she always considered Brad so intelligent, him being the big quarterback and all, even when she had never seen him face to face, being let in by the apartment house manager to clean his place when he wasn't even there.
She developed a complete picture of him in her mind, an ideal, an archetypal man among men, strong and intelligent, personable and handsome.
And now?
He's some kind of a geek!
No question.
How else explain this bizarre conduct on his part?
Unless-no.
This is mean and underhanded, outrageous and unheard of.
A test?
Why? Of what?
Of her loyalty, when she has never pledged it? Or of his hold over her, or lack thereof?
Yes, that's it, she reasons.
Has to be.
Because he is overwhelmed by her, by his strange and overweening desire for her, a thing he himself doesn't fully understand.
And that has caused him to need reassurance, a reassurance that can only come from her, and seek it in a manner as irrational, as out of control is his desire for her.
She feels a twinge of sympathy for Brad.
But it is eclipsed by her anger and contempt. No, she has made her decision.
She and he are through.
He has sent his friend to offer her service, service she is to reject out of hand if she is to Brad as he desires?
No way!
She isn't buying Brad's game, even though she fully realizes that, in his mind, it is anything but a game.
And now, he has screwed himself, as far as she is concerned.
Because he has managed to outdo himself three to one with his foolish scheming.
And now, it's payoff time.
She goes into the bedroom, where her three studs await her.
A lot of beef, but nothing she can't handle.
And in fact she wants to make a point of handling it all.
She wants a full and detailed report to get back to Brad.
And the raunchier the better.
Now she takes off her neglige, getting a thrill of feedback as their eyes go wide at the sight.
And this is what Brad wanted to test?
Shee-it!
The only test there's gonna be here is that of these three studs' stamina.
She is going to take them all on at once.
She thought she would before and now she is certain.
"Ace," she says, "you get on the bed an' we'll go from there."
Grinning, Ace lies down at once, centering himself in the bed.
She immediately gets between his legs, crouching as she bends. toward his cock, already twitching to vibrant life.
And now she is sucking his cock, bringing him to. full erection.
And now, she is squatting above his hips, feet straddling him.
She lowers herself onto his cock, feeding it up, up, up inside herself, then settling down on it, leaning forward so that her huge jugs dangle in his face.
He reaches up with both hands, kneading and fondling them as he feeds the nipples to himself, sucking them one at a time.
They respond rapidly, going rubbery and erect, the glands beneath getting fuller and firmer than ever with her arousal.
"Who wants to bring up the rear?" she asks.
And Bubba, grinning ear to ear, crouches behind between Ace's legs.
And begins sucking her ass hole, protruding more than ever because of the pressure of Ace's cock wiithin her.
And now, he is thrusting his tongue into her ass hole as best he can, with her raising up to relieve the internal pressure sufficiently to admit the stiffened, insistent tip.
So that now, he is rolling his tongue around inside her ass, lubricating her big bung with his saliva even as his powerful tongue stretches her enough to admit his now stiff prong..
And now, he gets up on his knees, guiding his missile toward its target: with one hand, the fingers of the other spreading her ass hole still further; the puffy segments glistening with his saliva.
"Unnh!" she murmurs with pleasure as he enters her, all the way.
And she settles down on Ace's cock, feeling the undersides of the two massive hard-ons pressing; against each other through the thin membrane of her insides which separate rectum and vagina.
They remain thus, not moving for a few seconds, accustoming themselves to the position, the situation.
And now, Bubba begins to bounce.
Obviously, he has done this sort of thing before, she thinks.
Because he is expertly setting up the action, so that the two cocks become alternating pistons, one shafting in as the other withdraws, each in the cylinder of its own orifice.
"Ben," she murmurs, "git cho' licorice stick up front heah so's ah kin service y'all propahly."
And Ben is quick to comply.
He gets on his knees in front of her face, balls almost touching Ace's forehead.
And now, she is sucking Ben as Bubba fucks her in the ass and Ace occupies the traditional slot for such activity.
And the three-way fuck picks up speed, the novelty adding to the eroticism.
So that they become quickly excited, all four of them, but especially Helen.
Because she is surrounded and invaded by hot, male beef.
Cock and cock and cock, as much as she could ever want, more than she could ever have imagined, big and hot and lunging and plunging in, in, into her at every available opening.
And she has never felt so hot before.
Brad?
Shee-it, that phony whitebread sumbitch mofo wouldn't know what to do with sex like this if he was lookin' at it!
Forget him!
These guys may not be as famous as he is, but they're pretty well known, football stars in their own right.
And as far as being built and hung, well, no complaints there!
And in fact, she is surprised that she is so easily able to accommodate cocks of this size.
Just to challenge herself further, she starts deep-throating Ben.
No problem.
And this is absolutely delicious! she thinks, as the cocks go deep, deep, deep within her.
And she wants, she needs nothing and nobody else.
These three are more than enough to handle her sexually.
And without the bullshit, the psychology, the hang- ups of Brad and his ridiculous (as it seems to her now) one-on-one scene.
So that now, she rises higher and higher up the rainbow of her pleasure.
And her sexual experience seems to have taken on several new dimensions at once, so that she is no longer merely having sex but is in the midst of super-sex.
And the men get hotter and hotter as well, her size, her shape, her texture, her vibrancy and passionate enthusiasm making her a human generator of ultimate sexuality.
As the big cocks fuck her faster, harder, in cunt, ass, and mouth.
And she wants it all, all, all!
And she wants themn to sock it to her faster and faster.
And they do.
So that now, all four of them are rising together, higher and higher, through delight to ecstasy to rapture to utter transport, their lascivious hunger leading them onward and upward through the levels of their shared arousal.
Furiously, the mass of the four of them is bucking, twisting, writhing, pounding.
On and on they are driving themselves and each other.
And now, the room temperature rises because of the heat of their impassioned bodies.
And they are going all out, their minds no longer in control, but only the feelings, the complex of exquisite, irresistible sensations.
And they are unstoppable now, going all the way, no holding back, not even in charge of their bodies, but giving in, completely surrendering to the pleasure beyond pleasure which overwhelms them.
And now, they are coming, all of them, all at once.
So that thick, hot jism is pumped into her cunt and ass hole, only to be pounded back out of her by the alternating pistons, even as her own multiple orgasms cause pussy and rectum to milk the mighty monsters of their loads and her head pulls back so that she can suck Ben's load out of him, swallowing after wad of his come.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"You got me started thinking, Brad," -Randy Buck says. "Kind of an anxiety attack, it was."
"I mean, here I am sitting here, fat, dumb and happy, and so far you're the only one who's come up with even a small part of the battle plan for winning next season."
"I tried to explain to Randy that ordinarily the ownership doesn't get involved in the actual playing strategy," Anderson says.
And I told Andy here that, head coach or no head coach, I would be calling the shots, as usual, something you would think that he would have gotten used to by now.
"Face it, gentlemen, we have here the formula for success."
"The star has direct access to top management, top management makes. decisions from an entrepreneurial standpoint, and Andy, we rely on you to do the .grunt work of enforcing training schedules, discipline, and play implementation through practice, practice, practice.
"And I'm sure that all of us, working together... " Buck is droning on and on, Brad listening with half an ear, wishing he was with Helen, his Helen, the Helen that he wants, the only thing in the world for which he has a longing right now.
And instead, here he sits.
And not in Buck's office but in his library at the Estate, a two hour drive, even after they break up, to get to Helen's place.
What a bummer! Brad thinks, a lump in his throat, numbed by the difference between what is and what might have been.
He could be in bed with Helen right now, the two of them fucking and sucking their brains out.
Instead- "... so I feel that the wear and tear on the team using this technique would more than offset any advantages we might gain by using it," Anderson is saying.
And Brad's attention is drawn back to the conversation by the realization that someone. besides Buck is talking.
"For example, what's the use of gaining a first down, if it's gonna cost you a man each play?"
"It just doesn't make any sense, if you simply add - . up the number of potential short yardage situations in the course of a game."
"I'm sorry, but I don't feel that these tactics take into account the casualty potential,"
"Brad?" Buck asks.
"Well, we knew that this objection would come up and," looking at Anderson, "who it would come from."
"Fine, fine," Buck says, impatiently, "but now I'd like you to address the real issue Andy brings up."
"It'll be rough on us and rough on them," Brad says. "We know this. You and I discussed this the other day, Randy."
"But we came to no conclusion," Buck responds. "How could we?" Brad asks. "I can't say, nobody can, just what the toll will be."
"And that's just in practice," Anderson observes. "Hell, we train for this all out and we're just liable to not even make it to the damned game! And even if we do, who says we could sustain that kind of casualty rate for the season?"
"Man has a point," Buck sighs.
"What. else is new?" Brad challenges.
"You just hit the nail on the head, Brad!" Buck says, delighted, clutching Brad's knee.
"But I was only-" Brad begins, stopping himself. Just as well that they did not pickup on his sarcasm.
"What else is new?" Buck repeats, rhetorically.
"'That, Brad my boy, is exactly the question that you are going to answer for us."
"Come training time, we are going to use that answer."
"As for this, this... thing you've come up with, Brad," looking at Anderson, "it's in."
"But-" he adds quickly, "only on very special, rare occasions. In fact, let's define it. Give me the best situation for it, Brad, now that it's not the backbone of our offense."
Brad shrugs.
"Third down, enemy thirty yard line or longer."
"Attaboy!"
"Andy, can you live with that?"
"Yeah, why not?" Anderson sighs.
"Excellent!" Buck says, standing up, indicating that the meeting is over. "Can I entice you gentlemen for lunch before you head back?"
"Uh, no thanks, Randy, I've gotta get going," Brad says, turning to leave at once.
"Just remember, Brad, I'll expect your usual unusual game plans before day one of training," Buck admonishes.
"You got it. See ya, Andy."
And Brad leaves, not looking back, lest there be an afterthought or further delay.
* * *
They finish their shared climax, the violent spurts of the three mighty cocks becoming more and more quiescent, then ceasing, as the twinges of her multiple orgasms also come to a hault.
Casually, Ben slides his cock out of her mouth, leaning back against the headboard, keeping his still huge cock, shiny with her saliva and his jism, right there in her. face, so that she can admire its great, bulbous head, its thick shaft, its size and shape, even in its approaching flaccid state.
Because she is choice.
She is absolutely prime.
And Ben cannot fault Brad for his taste.
The attraction is obvious, could conceivably be overwhelming.
He can see that.
But not the way Brad has handled it, has handled himself, exploiting her and thereby risking scandal for the team.
So that this is right.
This is straightening things out.
And after?
Hey, he is good for the season and she isn't going anywhere.
So that, low key, on the sly, why not?
Which is why he wants to impress her now.
And the others are no less enthusiastic concerning her.
Because, even now, they lie there in a heap, Bubba fully inserted in her ass, Ace in her cunt, a panting, sweating mound of living flesh.
Ace revels in her pressure, the weight of her, the curvaceous voluptuousness of her, a diametric contrast to the pileups he is used to, in which the weight is so much greater, the surfaces so much harder.
I could take a whole lot of this, he thinks.
He owes Brad an indirect debt of gratitude for his "discovery" and for creating a problem which it is his duty to thus delightfully resolve.
And Bubba?
He helps himself to her mammoth mammaries, reaching around her, squeezing them, kneading them as his cock slowly detuinesces in her rectum.
Even when the peristaltic action of her bowels shits him out of her ass, still he lies there, wriggling on her curves, playing with her breasts, not wanting this erotic dream come to life to come to an end.
At first, Helen tolerates their reluctance to move.
But now, she says, "How about Ben here takes a showah wit me, you othah two nex'?"
"Plenny of beer inna fridge, y'alI jus' he'p yo'se'ves."
Reluctantly; Bubba dismounts.
Helen gets up next and Ben gallantly offers. her a hand off the bed.
They go into the bathroom and into the tub, pulling the shower curtain.
The other two stand at the sink, hefty wangs draped into the basin as they wash offs the part that wunts, grinning at each other.
They pad naked into the kitchen and extract a couple of cans of beer from the refrigerator, standing there, chugging them down.
As Helen, in the shower, resists Ben's fondling and fooling around, saying, "Laytah to' that. We got people waitin' ta use the facilities. Not ta mention they ain't all that much hot watah at a time."
"Takin' you up on that laytah, babe," Ben says, meaning it.
"No problem. Seem like ah'm about ta have me a lotta free time anyways."
"Well thass good, then."
And they finish showering quickly.
"You two can go now, you want," Helen says, drying off, a towel draped around her large voluptuous frame.
Ace and Bubba look at each other and shrug, grinning.
And take their shower together to save time and hot water.
And Helen and Ben await them on the bed.
So that, very soon, they are ready to resume their three-way sex.
And Helen takes the most handy body-Ben's-positions him in the bed and starts working on him, sucking his cock until he is hard and then squatting -: above him, inserting his rampant invader up into herself, as before.
And it is Ace who claims the back door this with Bubba the face man.
And they are all going at it with a minimum of prelimiinaries, Ace's rimming of her perfunctory so that she hikes her booty into the air, leaving only head of Ben's cock inside her pussy lips until Ace has inserted himself fully into her ass hole, which he does with speed and dexterity.
So that now, they are once again bouncing and humping full force.
And quickly building up the pleasure within themselves, nurturing it rapidly into the pleasure beyond pleasure, until once more they are all coming.
And there is no delay, this time, in the dismount. Because the pattern, the plan has become clear all of them.
Which is that each of them will get one shot at each orifice of her luscious body.
And they do.
Randy; Buck!
And this meeting today was merely a ruse, a diversion to get him away from Helen so that his team mates could get in here and do their dirty work.
Which is-how dirty?
Can it be that the three men are actually raping Helen?
So that, instead of sitting here in benumbed despair, perhaps he should be in there, rescuing her?
But no, something tells him that that is not what's happening.
And this is confirmed as the sounds of climax, moans of ultimate pleasure proceed in chorus from the bedroom.
Because there is the pause of silence in the aftermath of their shared climax, and then casual conversation and laughter, some of it Helen's, as they disconnect.
And the sound of the shower running as Helen gives over to the men, since they have to clean up and leave, while she can shower at her leisure, so that she contents herself with sitting on the toilet, papering herself fore and aft as Ace, odd man out in the shower this time, washes up at the sink until it comes his turn to do the full honors.
He sees them pass from bedroom to kitchen, Ace still completely naked, Helen now covered with a thin cloth robe, not even noticing him sitting there, watching them through eyes misted over with a mix of emotions-anger, puzzlement, disappointment, indecision-the works.
So that it is not until they emerge, cans of beer in hand, laughing and talking, that they pull up short, surprised at the sight of Brad.
There is a moment of silence as they look at each other.
Then, "Well, well, well! Look who stopped by ta see if ah done passed ma little tes'!"
"Well sorry, bay-bee, but ah done flunked."
"An' had me one helluva tam doin' it too, thank you."
"So now you knows, Brad."
"You do not own me, friend! Not now an' nevah did, so there!"
"An' now that you seen whut you was aftah, whyn't choo jus' piss off?"
"What, uh, what's happening here?"
"Ah b'leeve it be called fuckin', leastways, las' ah heard. Fuckin' an' suckin', thass the name of the game!"
"Sorry, Brad."
"No, lemme correck that."
"Ah ain't sorry, not at all. An' you had joo one helluva nerve, checkin' me out lak you done!"
"What, what are you talking about? I don't understand-"
"Oh, lissen at de man would joo now!"
"An' ah uses de term loosely!"
"Ain' even man enough ta own up ta what he done did!"
"All this be a complete sooprazz ta you, that it?"
"Well uh, yeah."
"But I can explain."
"Tell `er, Ace. Randy Buck put you guys .up to this, right?"
Ace just looks at him.
"Tell `er, dammit!"
And Brad rises, fists clenched.
As Bubba and Ben, hearing the voices, come up behind Helen and Ace, still drying themselves.
And Brad, not being suicidal, unclenches his fists.
"You gonna tell `er or not?" Brad asks.
Ace rolls his eyes upward.
"Whatevah de man say, babe."
"Yeah, right," Helen says.
And Brad glares at Ace, in a quandary as to what to do next, how to make things come out right.
What can he do, after all? Call Ace down for agreeing with him?
That would be ridiculous.
"Hey, Brad, ma man," Bubba says, grinning at him, "any tam y'all got some chickadee you wants to check out, you jus' axe me direckly, dey all be fan lak dis one!"
Brad can only shake his head and turn away. He feels like screaming, ""I am innocent!"
He feels like grabbing Ace and choking the whole truth out of him.
It could only have been Randy Buck who has somehow managed to arrange this; Brad, has never been more certain of anything in his life. But how to make it right with her?
"I'd uh, I'd like for you fellahs to put your clothes on and leave now." Brad says.
And Ace and the other two have no choice but to comply, if they are to maintain the fiction that this is all Brad's doing.
Brad is the boss or he isn't on this deal, and they must act accordingly.
"If you're sure there's nothing else," Ace says, playing it to the hilt, as instructed.
The other two have already disappeared into the bedroom.
They want to keep everybody happy and only Ace is secure enough in his position on the team to be able to defy Brad and get away with it.
"Why don't you just knock it the fuck off, Ace?" Brad grumbles.
Ace casts Helen an imploring glance, shrugs, and goes to get dressed.
And Helen stands there in an archway, looking at Brad, expressionless, as Ace catches up to the other two.
When they are ready to leave, Ace asks her, "You gon' be okay?"
"Yeah, I'll be fan. You done yo' thang, now go, the three of you. Just uh, lak, don' f git ma numbah, okay?"
"That will nevah happen, sugah!" Ben enthuses. And the three of them leave.
"What happened Helen?"
"Hey! Don' han' me that sheet! You done seed what happent!"
"No, but why? Why did you let Ace and the others do what they did?"
"Say what?
"Why did joo send `em ovah ta do what dey deed? "Answer me dat-whitebread!"
He shakes his head.
"Helen, I swear to you I had nothing to do with it!"
"It's a trick, a practical joke, don't you see?"
"No, mothafuckah, ah don' see!""Okay, okay, that's not exactly true."
"No shit, Dick Tracy!"
"No, I don't mean it like that. This was all Randy Buck's doing."
"An' who da fuck is Randy Buck?"
"He owns the football team."
"Oh, right! An' lak ah'm s'posed ta b'lieve dat de ownah of de team, no less, has set up de whole fuckin' thang!"
"Look. I know it sounds fantastic, but that is the absolute truth."
"Look, Brad. You ain' doin' nuthin' now 'cep'n embarrassin' de bofe of us wif all dis jive bullshit."
"Why don'tcha jus' leave, please?
"Leave an' f git we evah met, okay?"
"An' try not ta be `roun' yo"pahtment wwhen I gots ta clean it, `cause ah needs dis job."
"Ah mean, taday done showed me you ain't got much by way of decency, but you might at leas' show me dat much."
"Show you decency? Baby, I love you!"
And she throws back her head, laughing. "You mus' think ah be some kinda total fool! "Git cho white buns outta dis heah black woman's place."
"Let me show you how much you mean to me!" he pleads, taking her in his arms.
She shrugs him off.
He drops to his knees, burrowing his face into her crotch, beneath her robe, as she stands there, pinned to the wall now that he has taken her by surprise, thrown her off balance.
And she can only stand there, legs parted, looking down at him, shocked.
Because the residue of the last fuck is still inside her, along, with traces of the first two, no doubt.
So that he is eating her pussy, and with it the residue of her last three fucks, none of them from him.
Un-fucking-believable! she tells herself.
First he sets up this ridiculous test, which she deliberately failed to pass, throwing it back in his face.
Then he tried a series of assorted lies and cock and bull stories.
And now, he's eating her pussy, knowing full-well where it's been scant minutes before.
And this is no surface browsing, either.
Because he is eating her in earnest, his tongue strumming her clit, then shafting in and out of her hot, juicy pussy, flowing now with not only her own clear juices but with the melting jism of one to three studs.
And she squats on his face now, incredulous.
Because he is actually going to take her all the way.
And she has to admit it; the boy does have talent.
So that yes, she will allow it.
She will stand here in this awkard, standing position, the spontaniety of it more than compensating for the clumsiness, the discomfort.
But she will not invite him to take a more comfortable spot, preferring instead to see him thus discommoded, after what he has put her through today.
And besides, it's working.
Because now she can feel herself getting hotter and hotter, summoning the pleasure beyond pleasure from her innermost depths with his working tongue.
And sure enough it blossoms within her, its warmth, the exquisite, irresistible sensations filling her rapidly from within.
And she is sweating now, her sexual sweat soaking the light terrycloth of the short robe she is wearing.
So that it is plastered to her large, rounded curves.
As Brad burrows still more fervently into her. muff...
Until- She is coming and coming, not the best series of multiple orgasms she has ever had, certainly far from the most comfortable, but nevertheless, a deep, thrilling, climactic series which transports her, however briefly, to a private sexual paradise before bringing her back down to earth, leaving her weak in the knees.
So that, having gotten her off this way, as Brad pulls his face back, she moves away from him to seat herself on the couch, carefully arranging the back of the robe beneath her.
He seats himself beside her.
But, with a last reserve of energy, she bounces up, going to the apartment door and opening it.
"Get the fuck outta here, you damn prevert!" she says.
"Pervert?" he echoes, correcting her unconsciously.
"Damn straight, prevert! Go thoo all dat bullshit jus' so's you could gitchoo a tayss of cream-filled cupcake!"
