Cynthia Harrington looks around the living room of the penthouse, as though getting ready to move away from it forever.
Three months at the summer place of these business friends of Chipper's seem like forever to her.
She is not looking forward to this.
Not at all her style, as she tried to tell her husband, Chipper, as in Chipman Harrington III, international financier and entrepreneur.
But Chipper had already committed her to the man who, unable to take advantage of his "summer place" because of business commitments in Europe, was desolate over the thought of the place being locked up, unused, abandoned for the season of its intent and creation, subject to vandalism and the theft of priceless antiques at the hands of the summer crowds which throng the beaches at the eastern end of Long Island every summer.
As Chipper related it to her over the telephone from Geneva, his dealings with the man were bogged down, stalled, going nowhere because of his inability to concentrate on anything but the house.
*****
"And it's not as though she couldn't accommodate me, you know, Chipper, the spoiled bitch!
"What is her problem?
"It's party, party, party all summer long anyway, either at the other houses or at the country club which, by the way, we never see all year either, except in the summer.
"But no, over and over again, I have to hear it from her, 'Sid, you know how I hate staying all by myself out there!'
"I mean, here I am, trying to do business in a market that I'm rather unfamiliar with, here you are with this thing all hot to trot, ready to roll, and I have to worry about the place on the Island?
"Wish I'd never bought the damned thing, to tell you the truth.
"I mean, what's one to do?
"Board the damned place up and hope for the best?
"Get a house sitter?
"Or depend on the handyman to visit it periodically as he does all winter, so he can report on whatever's happened after the fact?
"Nothing but grief, the damned place!
"And bought-this is the irony of it-to please her, because, after all, she didn't-doesn't want to spend the summer in the city.
"So then she comes up with this brilliant idea that, since I can't be there and she doesn't want to be out there alone, quote-unquote, she will simply winter in Buenos Aires instead of summering on the Island.
"Where, no doubt, she will spend many happy hours in the Argentine winter all snuggled up with some Latin lothario.
"That was her before, just calling to let me know she arrived safely down there.
"Where's a skyjacker when you really need one.
"Now then, where were we?
"Never mind, I just can't think about anything but the fucking house."
"Tell you what, Sid," Chipper replied, "you put your John Hancock right there on the dotted line and my wife, my housekeeper, my chauffeur, and my parrot will gladly move into your summer digs, set up full-scale house sitting for three months and keep your name alive at the country club.
"She will faithfully begin all conversations with, 'We're staying at the Roystons' summer place, you know.'
"Will that take the load off your mind?"
"You'd do that for me?"
Chipper shrugged, smiled, handed him the pen.
Quickly, Sid signed the contract.
"Gotcha!" Chipper shouted.
"You mean-"
"That's right, I lied! But only about the parrot."
"You son of a bitch!"
And they laughed.
*****
Cynthia is not laughing now.
The handyman has let her in and she has discovered that the liquor cabinets are empty, as are the refrigerator and pantry.
This after a (to her) grueling ride from Manhattan, fighting the traffic all the way, the tension of her helplessness worse than if it had been herself, rather than Rufe, at the wheel of the stretch limo.
"Where is ... anything around here?" she asks the handyman.
"Grocery and liquor store's over in East Hampton, ma'am.
"Talk to, to Juanita and Rufe, please.
"You two handle it, why don't you?
"I have some heavy sulking to do."
And she slumps down on the living room couch, complaining, "Why is it so hot in here, anyway?"
"Oh, lemme turn on the air conditioning for ya there," the handyman says. "Had ail the utilities turned on this morning, but I didn't start anything up.
"Got busy with some of the other properties and-"
"Could you? Please?
"But uh, get them started on their errands first, please."
The handyman tells Rufe how to get to the stores in town.
They leave.
And the handyman goes around the house, turning on the thermostat, the refrigerator, some ceiling fans here and there.
"That oughtta get you started okay."
"Thanks ever so much," she says. "Can I uh, give you anything for your trouble?"
"Not much I turn down these days," he replies.
And she gives him a twenty.
He pockets it, gives her the key to the place, and leaves.
And Cynthia sits there, disconsolate, looking at her matched luggage, neatly lined up by the front door.
How very different this is to her previous visits to this part of Long Island, landing by private jet at a private airport nearby, staying with whoever for some gala affair at the country club, then flying back to LaGuardia.
Speaking of the country club, however-
She reaches for the telephone book and, putting the telephone in her lap, punches in the number for the country club.
"Good evening. Evergreen Pool and Racquet Club. How may I help you?"
"This is Mrs. Chipper Harrington III. I wanted to confirm my tennis lesson for tomorrow."
"Ah yes, Mrs. Harrington, I see we have you down for ten with ... Armando. Is that convenient or shall we-"
"No, no, that will be fine."
"May I schedule anything else for you?
"Manicure? Pedicure? Massage?"
"Uh, no thank you.
"I'll take care of all that after tennis."
"Very well then, Mrs. Harrington. Anything else?"
"No uh thank you. Good night."
"Good evening."
"That too."
And she hangs up.
She cannot wait for this night to be over, her first in this unfamiliar place, all alone.
Sid's wife had the right idea, she tells herself.
Still, there's the country club, there's the beach, and this house, properly set up, won't be too bad.
And face it, summer in the penthouse is luxurious but somewhat claustrophobic.
And hopefully, Juanita and Rufe will be able to put some semblance of civilization and order into the house while she is at the club tomorrow.
She will do them that favor, staying out from underfoot.
Because all she can do is complain, and they don't need that.
She could, of course, wander down to the beach.
But that would mean that Juanita would have to prepare a blanket and a hamper and a thermos and Rufe would have to set up an umbrella down there and she would have to dig out the sunscreen and the right bathing suit and she really won't feel up to that tomorrow.
No, far better to let the hired help do their thing while she does this and that and whatever at the country club.
Because she is far, far too wealthy to have to put up with any hustle and hassle whatever.
She simply has no patience for it.
A shortcoming, she knows, but there it is and she's stuck with it.
Enough that she has to arrange for Chipper's homecoming soir�es, every couple of months or so.
But she considers that a pleasure, not work.
And she wishes he would come home more often.
In fact, wouldn't it be just perfect, she reflects, if he were to return to the States while she is still here babysitting this glass and concrete monstrosity, this monument to modernity for its own sake?
She could throw such a homecoming for him right here.
She would require an entire new wardrobe for it, of course.
Come to think of it, she will anyway.
She has not nearly enough solids and geometries in her wardrobe for this particular background.
But of course, before going overboard, she will definitely want to check out the decor of the country club to see what blends in and what contrasts there.
She doesn't know the crowd out here.
Not the crowd, not the lifestyle.
She would actually have been much more comfortable back in the city, along with her regular masseur, Steve, a former Mister Galaxy-former and future, to hear him. tell it-her circle of close friends, such as Samantha Steele who lives in the same building and her oldest and dearest friend, Helen, who lives in New jersey, and who loves to come in from what she refers to as the boonies and stay with Cynthia for a couple of weeks or so.
And of course, those very special friends, all nice and clean and bought and paid for that Bruce, of Bruce's Travel & Tours, the city's most exclusive escort service, is only too happy to provide for her, practically on a moment's notice and built to specification.
She does not miss the beach, ironically enough.
Because she gets enough of sun and sand and surf in the fall and winter, at their place in Florida.
Of course, there is the nude beach in jersey, but that is only of passing, sporadic interest, a trip there more often disappointing than otherwise, with its assortment of school teachers off for the summer giving vent to their libidos and assorted uglies and zeroes who think that something magic happens to them when they run around naked, offending the eye of the beholder.
In fact, the dunes of Fire Island would probably provide more interesting hunting, were she so inclined.
She could go wandering there, chancing the occasional delightful surprise.
But she thinks not.
Because she needs no cheap thrills, no two-dimensional encounters.
That could change, naturally, should the country club fail to provide her with sufficient diversion.
And at this point, she cannot say whether it will or it won't.
But, she sighs to herself, at the moment, she couldn't care less, one way or the other.
Because, in the end, she realizes, she has only herself.
And she needs nobody else, really.
She is totally self-sufficient.
Nobody has to do her any favors, and she need not compromise, making do.
If nothing and nobody else, she has Rufe and Juanita.
She is not inclined to abuse this privilege, however, lest she give either or both of them the wrong impression.
And they seem to understand.
Because they are merely hired help.
And any performance above and beyond the call of duty is richly and promptly rewarded, a reward which neither of them hesitates to accept, because, after all, it means so little to her and so much to them, so that the slate is promptly wiped clean, services rendered for value received.
Cynthia takes her little case, the one with basic cosmetics and toothbrush, her mini-toilette, with her up the stairs to the master bedroom.
At least, there is ample soap, towels, even shampoo and conditioner.
So that she can clean up after her long ride and the wilting feeling she got after five minutes here because that idiot forgot to create a livable climate before they arrived, and this even though he had a whole day's notice to get things in order.
And would it have killed him to get the basics in here so that she could have a drink on arrival and a decent breakfast in the morning without having to send the help foraging in the wilderness,' for heaven's sake?
And now, Juanita and Rufe are not here to unpack and put away, the luggage awaiting them faithfully next to the entrance.
Hopefully, Juanita will have the good sense to dig out something for her to wear to the breakfast table and have it ready for her tomorrow morning.
And in fact, she was rather hoping that she wouldn't have to sleep alone tonight, that Juanita would be here for her.
Not that she is up to any hanky-panky tonight, but she simply prefers not to sleep alone in a strange bed.
Still, she sighs to herself, it can't be helped.
And at least she is being of some assistance to Chipper, to his affairs, for a change.
So that what she is going through here takes on the aspect of a patriotic duty, if she chooses to see it that way.
She strips out of her clothes, allowing them to lie in a pool at her feet, stepping out of them with a grimace of distaste.
She'll not be wearing any of those things again until they've been washed.
And she can only hope that Juanita will have the good sense to remember to get whatever she needs by way of detergents, softeners, whatever.
And that she will be able to operate the washer and dryer which are undoubtedly somewhere to be found on the premises.
Details, details, details, and she wants nothing to do with any of it.
And she must be careful to put a good face on things, in case Juanita makes the mistake in trying to cope.
Coping.
I hate coping, she tells herself.
Because life is sufficiently complicated without having to cope.
It should be sufficient simply to be.
After all, it isn't as though she's lazy.
On the contrary, Cynthia reminds herself, she goes to great lengths to stay in shape.
Swimming, tennis, massage and of course, the other, in its many diverse forms.
And she doesn't go overboard on the food, preferring quality to quantity.
Still, she supposes, looking at herself in the full-length mirror in the bedroom, she supposes that she would be considered overweight in some circles-especially by the under endowed or the fat.
That's the other thing she doesn't care for about this whole situation-having to subject herself to the critical eyes of the country club's reigning matriarchs.
Because there is no way she can win approval from them.
They have their two standard buzzwords for any woman not a part of the "in" crowd.
Grotesque and emaciated.
When one has Cynthia's full, pear-shaped breasts with their large, doorbell nipples, her broad, flaring hips and well rounded buttocks, she is called grotesque, an exaggeration, a parody of a woman.
Except, of course, by the overweight portion of the local country club elite, who would consider her-and call her, to each other-emaciated.
As though she is on some starvation or fad diet, while they, poor darlings, for better or worse content themselves with eating to their heart's content, as nature intended, their overweight condition being a personal curse, the product of metabolic heredity, don't cha see.
But what does she care, really?
She doesn't know any of them, cannot even recall with whom she and Chipper stayed the last time they flew in here, or the time before.
Undoubtedly, she will see them again at the club and exercise this talent she has for greeting those whose names she cannot remember as though they were long-lost relatives, a technique she has developed into a fine art, waiting until someone else addresses them before calling them by the same name.
She is good at faces, terrible at names.
She can always remember meeting, being with someone she has not seen in a very long time, but she can never recall their names.
Nor, she thinks, should she be required to.
After all, she is, has always been the most beautiful woman in whatever crowd she happens to find herself, so it should be up to them to remember her name and not the other way around.
And in fact, she is in the rather unfortunate habit of forgetting names minutes after having been introduced to someone who has no particularly striking features or in no way appeals to her.
Still, it has never gotten her in any difficulty, or at least she has never been called down for it, so it must be okay to be as she is.
She brushes her teeth, then takes a shower.
It would be very nice if Rufe and Juanita were to return before she is ready to go to bed, but she is just so-o-o tired that she doubts that she will want to wait up for them.
And besides, she has nothing to wait up for them in, since everything is packed and only Juanita knows what's what among the luggage.
Hassle, hassle, and more hassle, Cynthia thinks. And she has no intention of dealing with any of it.
Chipper, she thinks, looking at herself in the bathroom mirror after she has dried herself off, how can you stand to be away from all this for so long at a time?
And she squeezes her breasts together, forcing the already large nipples to expand to still further hugeness.
Well, the hell with you, Chipper, she says to him, in her mind, and not for the first time.
And she resolves to show him-figuratively speaking, that is, since he will not be here to see it-that, if he finds himself able to resist her charms as he does, others will not be so cold- hearted.
At thirty-five, she looks better than she did at twenty.
There's more to her, and all, all of it in the right places.
No question.
No question but that, if a guy is at all into women, then she is the archetype, the model, the ideal of what it is that he's into.
Why kid herself? she reasons. Of what use is false modesty?
It is a piece of hypocrisy indulged in by those who perhaps speak truer than they know when putting themselves down.
As for herself, she has no such personal hang-ups.
True, she could be better.
She has never been so unrealistic as to believe for a moment that anything or anybody, herself included, cannot be improved upon.
And in fact, some days she does look better than others.
And in fact, this is hardly her finest hour, appearance-wise or any other way.
This is a setback, actually, her being in a place she doesn't want to be under less than ideal conditions.
But she never said she wasn't a fighter, she reminds herself.
Yes, the world will pay for having put her in this situation.
She does not lightly tolerate inconvenience.
And why these stuck-up bastards had to move out here, had to put their stupid country club this far away from-the center of civilization, well, surely there must be some payback, some comeuppance due them for their errant presumptuousness.
The women.
It had to be, has to be the women, she tells herself.
This location cannot be convenient for the men.
To live out here, to have to face some incredible commute or to be able to enjoy what they have only on vacations, weekends and holidays, well, this isn't something a man would go for, not all on his own.
No, Cynthia tells herself, she sees in all this the fine hand of some matriarchy, some institutionalized ruling body of women calling the shots.
So that they, they! have caused her this inconvenience, this, this ... isolation.
Didn't Chipper tell her that this summer place was Sid Royston's wife's idea?
And now, who has to suffer because of it?
Not Mrs. Sid, no indeed; at the moment, Mrs. Royston is no doubt disporting herself between the sheets with some swarthy, passionate South American playboy.
Whereas she herself, the one, the only Cynthia Harrington, as she is at pains to point out to herself, is stuck here, all alone, in a place whose very existence is far, far from the thoughts of the one responsible for its being here-hence her being here.
So that she is less than an infinitesimal part of someone else's casual afterthought.
Sid's problem is solved, of course.
The house is open and operating for the season.
Chipper's problem, ditto.
He has his deal, his contract, his whatever.
And Mrs. Sid can always point out that the house is hardly going to waste, that it is, on the contrary, being used, being very well used, as a matter of fact.
That is, she could point this out if she can be bothered to think about the place at all.
So that only Cynthia, she alone, in all the world, is being inconvenienced by all this, is nothing more than a pawn, being manipulated by a situation in which she has no voice and no part of which is of her own devising.
Does this not, then, call for some kind of, of ... revenge?
She certainly thinks it does.
But against whom?
She doesn't blame them men directly responsible for her being here, oddly enough.
Sid and Chipper were simply reacting to a situation no more of their creation than hers.
Ah, but Mrs. Sid!
There, there! is a horse, a mare, an old nag of a different color, now.
Her and the other women of means who had nothing better to do with those means than to manipulate a part thereof into this present form of (for Cynthia) torture.
And all so that they, they! could create for themselves a private, a personal paradise, regardless of how great an inconvenience to others this might be.
And all for the sake of showing off to one another, to being out here, playing hostess with the hostess and impressing the hell out of each other while gossiping behind one another's backs.
All well and good for them, Cynthia thinks, and they admittedly didn't have her in mind as they rode roughshod over the sensibilities of anyone and everyone to get their way, but still, they need a lesson.
CHAPTER II
Cynthia breakfasts in silence, and Rufe and Juanita know better than to try and change this.
Already in her tennis whites, high skirt showing the shape of her ass over white panties that are, perhaps, somewhat too skimpy, she morosely ingests her morning meal, delicious but, they all know, not nearly as delicious as it would have been, had she been eating it back at the penthouse, back in civilization.
But she is not.
Perhaps, as Rufe and Juanita discussed during last night's shopping, once she goes to the country club, once she is back in the swing of things, she will cheer up.
Because right now, she is sitting there, munching away, glaring off into space, radiating anger and frustration.
"Got everything?" she asks Rufe, when she has finished eating.
"Racket and eyeshade on de back seat, sof'side all packed wif evathang you be needed fo' cleanin' up an' changin' out, right, Juanita?"
"Thass rl', Meez Seent'ia. Joo all set."
"Then let's go," she says, sounding much as General Patton must have when he led his troops into battle.
And she and Rufe move out smartly.
*****
"Like this," Armando says.
And he is practically cheek to cheek with her, as he guides her 'arm through a lower arc, demonstrating the underhand return, one arm around her waist.
"You give the ball its own space, you see, allowing it to do its own thing, moving away from it rather than into it.
"Let your racket meet the ball as it drops at a low angle, so that the ball barely clears the net before dropping to the court."
"I see."
And she sees as well a couple of the women watching her as well, her and Armando, watching the lesson instead of getting on with their own game.
From the veranda where brunch is being served, she sees a few men watching as well, their eyes concealed by sunglasses, hands spooning melon into their mouths by memory, as they stare at the lesson in progress.
"All right now, let's practice the return, shall we?"
And they do, Armando lobbing the balls over the net at her, watching as, ballet-like, she steps aside to permit the two natural arcs, the trajectory of the fuzzy yellow ball and the swing of her racket, to intercept each other.
"Almost too perfect," Armando says. "Excellent form, but your return is centered, affording the opponent the least challenge.
"Here, I'll show you.
"To return to your left, step right and back.
"To return to your right, step left and to one side." And it is as though they are dancing together, cheek to cheek, performing some pre-lambada erotic steps.
"Let's do that in action."
As they do, he says, "You see how you run me from one side to the other?
"With such a technique, you become a real menace."
"That's exactly what I want to be, Armando-a real menace."
"Well now, shall we continue our discussion in my quarters?"
She checks to see that the women are still watching.
And she smiles as, leaving the courts with Armando, she sees them both looking at their sport watches, as though the movement is choreographed.
Checking, of course, to see how much time is left on her lesson and finding it, naturally to be quite a bit.
*****
"I remember you from last year," Armando says, pouring them both orange juice, the glasses on the divider of the small, apartment-like cabin. "You were here with your husband for that fundraiser weekend bash."
"How nice that you should have remembered," she responds.
"One does not easily forget one such as yourself."
"That must be true," she says, taking the glass from him, "especially since I did nothing to cause you to remember me."
"I remember that too," he replies, and they laugh.
"Shall we take a shower together and we can remedy that unfortunate state of affairs?"
"You've a really lovely tan," Cynthia says, "all over your body."
"Sunlamp," he explains. "My schedule makes it so that I would end up looking very odd indeed, tan-wise, since I must spend the daylight hours on the courts.
"And this, of course, I cannot do in a bathing suit or less."
"What a shame," she replies, "considering what a sight that would be."
And she lifts the bulbous head of his heavy equipment, letting it flop back down, there in the shower.
They finish quickly, drying themselves rapidly.
He leads her to the bed, stripping it of its covers.
And they practically fall into it together.
And she is on him at once, her breasts eluding his grasp, so rapidly does she slide down his body.
And takes his knob into her mouth, as she crouches between his legs.
And sucks him up rapidly.
And of course, he is pleased at this, since he does have an eleven o'clock lesson to give.
He is pleased that she seems to understand this.
That, or she is really horny.
But, whatever the case, she is being very, very efficient, and behaving very much as though she knows exactly what she is doing.
Fire and ice, he thinks. His favorite combination.
Because he has seen this, has known this before.
Cold, calculating women, hot for his body, hot for his big lob, scheduling him, penciling him into their calendar as surely as if he were the hairdresser.
And not caring who is watching, who knows.
Because there are enough times when the men are away, and they are sufficiently rulers of their own households, these women, that they are almost like men in their exercise of sexual prerogative.
Nobody can prove anything, of course.
Nobody can see, can say for sure exactly what goes on in Armando's cabin, but if it is a secret, then it is a very open one indeed.
Because this is why Cynthia scheduled this lesson, right off the bat.
Because, if he remembers her, then she remembers him, remembers him going off with another woman, remembers reading the situation like a book, saving it for future reference.
And behold, the future has arrived, is here today.
As now she is sucking his cock, going beyond the knob, having done it full justice, having explored it in infinite detail, the tip of her tongue probing the deep indentation of the eye, then traversing, round and round, circling over the taut, hot surface until it was going round and round the thickly flared flange at the rear, until it was busily flickering against the fish head juncture beneath.
So that now, her head is bobbing up and down, the pressure of tongue and cheeks and roof of mouth being orchestrated perfectly to create just the right smooth, wet, even pressure, simulating or perhaps advertising that which is to come.
And now, she is opening the back of her throat, relaxing it.
So that she can take him in, in, into her head, all the way.
Giving him deep throat, she is.
And raising him higher and higher up the rainbow of his arousal.
And being, she sees, too good, actually.
Getting him much too hot, much too soon, for her purposes.
So that now, she slacks off, goes back to regular cocksucking.
And slows everything down.
Manipulating him.
And he grins, eyes closed.
Fire and ice, his kind of woman.
Oh, he knows that he will not be able to keep this up forever, this life of sun and tennis and hot, horny women.
Still, he has a few good years to go, before he picks his mark, before he catches just the right widow, young enough to ensure his fidelity, rich enough to achieve his security.
Until then, let it be, he tells himself.
Because he is also fire and ice.
Although, for a minute there, he thought she was going to turn him into a regular fireball.
But now, she calms it down, slows it down.
Good.
Because they have time and he wishes to impress her with his control, his staying power, wishes to become an addiction with her.
Planting the seeds, as it were.
Because it doesn't have to be a death.
Divorce is also quite fashionable these days, even among the rich.
Or is it especially among the rich?
Because that too is fire and ice in action, this methodical transferring of assets through use of the body.
And he knows, because he does his homework, his research.
This is Mrs. Chipman Harrington III, who is alone, all alone, for months on end, year in and year out.
So that she could very well do better than old Chipman (young Chipman, actually, but who cares?), "call me Chipper".
Because he's not around long enough, often enough for her to call him anything except long distance.
So that here is a flower which could very well be ripe for the plucking.
So he stays right up there, hard as a rock, letting his mind consider the possibilities.
Fire and ice. Mister Cool, that's me, Armando tells himself.
And right now, he has the chance to be very cool indeed, he sees.
Because all he has to do at the moment is to sit back and take it, letting Cynthia do all the work.
As she straddles him, a foot on either side of his hips.
As now she lowers herself, squatting down, down, down, picking up his stiff prick which has plastered itself to his abdomen the second her mouth released it.
And feeds it up, up, up into her hot, juicy cunt, impaling herself on it.
Until, fully seated, his cock all the way up inside her, she leans forward.
So that her large breasts dangle heavily in his face, nipples brushing cheek and nose as she swings them back and forth.
Until he grabs them with both hands and begins feeding them to himself, one at a time.
And yes, he notices, he is definitely getting through to her.
Because these are very responsive nipples, very reactive breasts.
Because the two large pink doorbells go rubbery and erect, even as the organs behind them turn firmer than ever.
As she begins to ride his pole, playing horsie on his merry-go-round.
Up and down, up and down she goes, feeling the head of his cock, its flange, the long, thick shaft's smooth, slippery but pressurized contact with the walls, the lips of her cunt, with the nub of her joy buzzer.
As every move sends a fresh surge of sexual electricity coursing through her body, giving her a thrill of arousal.
And he too is becoming aroused.
Because they are in communication now, body to body.
As her hot insides talk to his prick in the language of the body, which is that of stimulation, of sensation.
So that here, now, they are both getting hot.
And that initial reddening of their faces, that first blush of passion awakened, makes its appearance.
So that they are well underway.
There will be no failure, no termination of the mission here.
We have liftoff.
And yes, they are talking to each other now in the million voices of a million separate nerve endings, giving and taking, broadcasting their chorus of lascivious desire, of luscious, drooling intent, of greedy, grasping reaching out for more and more pleasure.
As now, she varies her technique, rotating her hips, rolling them round and round, reaming her hot, drooling cunt with his mighty marauder.
Oh yes, he thinks, she is indeed fire and ice.
The fire of desire, the ice of her competency, her self-control.
Because here is no bestial spontaneity, no blind reaching out for the brass ring of raw sexual pleasure.
Rather, here is that which is born of culture, of civilization, of sophistication, experience, refinement.
No animal lust in action, this.
Hers is the ultimate in technique.
And yes, the thrills are indeed genuine, spontaneous.
But they are things of the body, things of pure feeling, stimulation of that which cannot think, cannot plan, cannot reason or manipulate.
But their origin?
That, that! is of the mind, of education, of knowledge of action and reaction, of memory and practice.
No novice lover she, that's for sure.
This one has been around, has been an arouna, in fact.
To know how to work her body this way, to force it to function in a manner which optimizes every nuance of every sensation, which conducts her musculature, her glands with the proficiency of a concert master- that, she did not learn over night.
So that, of the two of them, Armando realizes that he is the freshman here, she the senior, and not merely in the few years which separate them.
And he changes his mind now.
He would look elsewhere than here for his future security.
Because she is too much in charge, in charge of herself, in charge of him.
He wouldn't stand a chance with her.
No will but her will would prevail in any life they might have together.
And that, he does not need.
He is not that desperate, not that low on options.
He can well look elsewhere.
But perhaps she can teach him a thing or two.
Even now, she seems to be doing just that.
As she rides him expertly.
As her snapper of a pussy milks his cock of the next increment of pleasure.
And the next and the next.
So that she is the driving force here, propelling him, propelling both of them up and up and up the rainbow of their shared arousal.
Which is not that of the beasts of the forest or jungle but of the elegantly appointed bedrooms of the highest order of civilization, the most advanced ' of cultures.
Passion, yes.
Heat, yes.
But within the passion, within the heat, calculation, manipulation, control.
No question.
She doesn't have a spontaneous bone in her body.
As he wallows in the amplitude of her bosom.
As he continues to knead and fondle and suck and surround his face with her mammoth mammaries.
Form follows function.
What else are they good for, after all, if not this? And this and this and this! he thinks, as he loses himself in them.
Because these, these! appeal to the beast in him.
And she is at least that much of an animal, to the extent that she too is aware of them as sources of sheer sexual excitement.
As is her whole body, for that matter.
Because, face it, he tells himself, she was made for this.
If he were to design a specialized female body just for fucking, this would surely be the ideal, the prototype.
And he cannot get enough of them, enough of her, of her body, of her heat, of her action and reaction.
Oh, he knows, he knows! that she has him outclassed.
She is cooler than he is, smarter than he is, has been around more than he has.
She is his superior in all things.
But still, he could cast all that aside in return for being able to have exclusive rights to this fucking body of hers.
Except.
That could never happen, and the part of him which is ice knows it.
But the fire within him knows how and by what it can best be served.
And it is his passion which cries out for her, which hungers after her and which, he knows, will conjure her memory, the memory of what is happening between them right here and now, again and again in the future.
Women fuck with their eyes closed, men with them open, generally speaking, he knows.
And yet, he is even now having his last open-eyed sex.
Because what can compare, what can hold a candle to this, to this and the memory of this?
So that sex with all others will be but masturbation, as the image on the view screen of his mind shows him this scene, over and over again.
And he smiles to himself at the thought of this.
Because that will be his talisman, the source and secret of his heightened sexual prowess.
All women from here on out will find in him the perfect lover.
And never know, never suspect that it is only their bodies he requires with which to perform mechanically as the picture of Cynthia and himself does its delightful work of inspiration within himself.
Yes, compared to this, he realizes, sex with anybody else is mere masturbation.
Because here, here! is an image which will not dissipate, which will not fade with the passage of time.
Rather, it will be with him forever and ever, world without end.
Or it will die, will be extinguished only when he - is.
How? he asks himself. How can she know so very well exactly what to do at every instant?
How can she put together a program so uniquely well suited to his sexual needs, his sexual responses?
Because this, this! is nothing but perfection in the saddle.
As she rides and rides.
As she raises them both smoothly, inexorably up, up, up the rainbow of their shared arousal.
Level after level, she surpasses, grinding away on his cock, servicing it as it has never been serviced before.
As she draws forth from his far inner distances the pleasure beyond pleasure.
And he feels it awakening within himself.
And he both welcomes and dreads it.
He welcomes it as the ultimate human experience, he dreads it as the harbinger of the end of this most exquisite of all his sexual experiences to date.
Still, he knows that they cannot go on like this forever.
He knows that all good things must come to an end.
But must the end come just yet?
Cannot he push it back for just a little while longer?
Obviously, he cannot.
Because, even now, the pleasure beyond pleasure is advancing within him, blossoming out, filling him with its presence.
Not now! Not yet!
But yes now, right now, his body insists.
Because, if you thought that felt good, just wait 'til you get a load of this!
And this and this and this!
Because now they are flying onward and upward toward climax.
As delight becomes ecstasy.
As ecstasy turns into rapture.
As the ultimate pleasure pumps itself up within him like a balloon, taking all that has gone before and adding it to itself, absorbing, eclipsing it.
So that now, Armando feels himself filled to capacity with this pleasure that is within him and yet greater than himself.
Because he does not have it; it has him.
And have him it does, over-riding his thought processes, his will, his mind.
So that now, he is dizzy, disoriented, not caring where he is, or which way is up.
He merely wants more and more of that which he can no longer contain.
Until-
He is coming and coming.
And the powerful contractions of her vaginal muscles, in the throes of her series of multiple orgasms, are milking his big baton of all the pleasure it contains for her.
Which is the ultimate pleasure, the pleasure beyond pleasure.
And yet, even her letting herself go, even her release of mind to body, her surrender to the ultimate pleasure, was controlled, was not done until she was fully ready for it.
So that here, now, she has that satisfaction as an added dimension to her release, to the repeated thrills of her orgasmic series.
As she sees the possibilities now of her forced evacuation of the penthouse.
As the last shared spasm of their shared climax passes, the pumping flow of his jism into her cunt ceasing with the last orgasmic twinge of her pussy, and they float gently back down to earth.
Still, he clings to her breasts, fondling them, sucking their nipples.
Until, at last, she dismounts, sliding back before raising herself up, so that his cock, slowly detumescing, oozes out of her pussy to flop, wet and heavy, against his abdomen.
And there is a knock on the door.
And Armando looks at Cynthia, then at his clock radio.
And realizes that he is already late for his next lesson.
"One moment, please," he says, quickly grabbing a terrycloth robe from a closet and slipping it on, knotting the sash tightly, as Cynthia goes into the bathroom.
He opens the door, saying, "Look, I'm terribly sorry.
"I, I was taken suddenly ill and must have fallen asleep.
"Can you give me another fifteen minutes and I'll be right with you?
"This is entirely my fault and I've no excuse to offer, only my sincerest-"
And he winces, as the shower turns on noisily in the bathroom.
And the woman laughs.
"Some things never change around here, I guess," she observes.
And she taps him lightly on the chest with her tennis racket, saying, "A real stud would have managed both sessions, you know."
CHAPTER III
Cynthia ignores the whispers and stares of the other diners as she lunches on the patio, overlooking the tennis court, with its clear view of the pro's abode.
There are only players on the court now, some singles, some pairs playing doubles.
Armando is in his little house, no doubt reflecting on his situation over lunch.
His eleven o'clock cancelled, just to teach him a lesson, no doubt.
And it was rather foolish of him, Cynthia reflects.
He could even get in trouble with the directors over what he did.
Not fucking her, of course; that probably happens all the time.
But not sticking to his schedule.
Probably, though, the woman will not complain-not this time.
Still, it was a bad precedent to set, on Armando's part.
Not his fault, but hers, it was, keeping him there past his appointment, his obligation.
Creating disruption and discord, she is.
Too bad the woman was such a good sport.
She could have used the notoriety.
As it is, however, she's not doing too bad, she reflects.
Because-the whispers at the tables and from table to table, surely they are all about her.
And in fact, she sees one of the older gentlemen who watched her lesson, what there was of it, then her departure with the pro snags the arm of a passerby.
Who leans down in order that the oldster can whisper hoarsely into his ear as the others cackle.
The one leaning down starts to look her way, only to be urgently restrained from so doing by a tug on the sleeve of his blazer.
The whisper continues for another minute, and then the sleeve is released.
The man has his back to her, she sees.
He is rather tall, younger, much younger than the seated ones, broad-shouldered and tight-bunned, she notices.
And handsome too, she notes, with his black hair streaked with charcoal.
And proud of his looks, choosing to emphasize them with his apricot ascot over his open-throated dress shirt, even though the day is more worthy of light sport shirts, perhaps even tees, although she suspects that that would somehow violate the dress code of the club.
He stops before her table.
"Mrs. Harrington?"
"Why, yes.
"Have we met before?"
"No, we haven't.
"I'm Roy Appleton, the club manager.
"May I join you for lunch?"
"Suit yourself, but I'm almost finished."
"Well, in that case, I'll be brief," he says, seating himself.
"First of all, welcome, or should I say welcome back to the club.
"Seems you and your husband predate me here.
"Understand you're staying at the Roystons for the summer."
"Which is more than one can say for the Roystons, yes."
"Will your husband be joining you?"
"Not that I know of."
"I see."
Looking down, frowning.
And she knows what he's thinking.
One little fast fling before hubby gets here to tighten the reins, that the old Evergreen can live with, can take in stride.
Every woman is entitled to kick up her heels once in a while.
Especially if she happens to be rich, and thus subject to the frustrations and inconveniences of living the life of today's nobility.
One peccadillo, however indiscrete, does not infidelity, does not unseemly behavior make.
But.
What if?"
What if an extremely beautiful, extremely sexy woman, one who has already caused the tennis pro to become derelict in his duties, is to be prowling the grounds, tigress-like, for the next three months, seeking to devour whom she may?
Surely, under those circumstances, there is a threat to the membership in general.
Surely someone's husband could be the next to fall.
Or perhaps many husbands.
So that the wives will feel threatened.
So that they will have to speak up, lest the club, this club, their club, be turned into her private meat rack.
Yes, they will have to cry scandal.
They will have to proclaim infamy, disgrace, shame.
And Mr. Roy Appleton, scion, no doubt, of a genteel but impoverished family, will be called upon to take action.
Quickly, before it's too late, he will have to expel her, expel the Harrington membership, lest other memberships threaten cancellation of themselves.
How sad for you, Mr. Roy Appleton, that you should be faced with this problem.
And no, Chipper is not coming here to save you, to save your job, to save the club.
So that such handling of the tigress as there is to be done will have to be done by you.
Obviously, Mister Tennis down there will be of no help.
However-hey, you take the sweet with the bitter, right?
"Since uh, since your husband is not going to be around, perhaps I could offer myself as a suitable escort to whatever going on around the club you feel you'd like to attend which require a male partner.
"Dinner dances and such?"
"How very kind of you," Cynthia replies.
"Good of you to say so, but the pleasure will be mine, I assure you, "And in fact, should you require anything at all, however personal in nature, I hope you'll feel free to call on me."
"Or perhaps you can call on me," Cynthia says, smiling faintly.
"Now there's a possibility that's not without its attractions, I must say!" he responds.
Then, more intently, "Give me a chance to satisfy all your needs and I shall do my very best not to disappoint you."
"All of them, huh?"
"Absolutely."
"How very reassuring.
"Are you certain you're, shall we say, equal to the task?"
"We'll never really know until we try, will we?
"But if you're willing to give it a fair shot, so am I."
"I tell you what-Roy.
"Why don't you call on me this evening, after supper, shall we say."
"Let's.
"That way, I can preside over the supper crowd tonight and then head on over to the Royston place."
And he stands up.
"Enjoy your lunch, and I shall look forward to joining you tonight."
"Looking forward to it myself," she says.
And ignores the stares of the others as she finishes her lunch.
*****
"You're very tense, Mrs. Harrington," Bruno, the masseur, says.
"That's why I 'need you to do your thing, uh, Bruno, and please, call me Cynthia."
"Okay, Cynthia.
"If I was you, I'd sure get myself to a chiropractor real quick, 'cause you got some misalignments back here won't quit.
"I mean, I'll do what I can, an' all, but you could use a real good straightenin' out."
"Why don't you try your hand at that, Bruno?
"Straightening me out, that is."
And Bruno represses a sigh.
Because her tone leaves no room for mistaking her meaning.
Straightening her out.
As in throwing a fast fuck to her, here on the table.
"Of course, I imagine you get a lot of women asking you for that, a big, strong muscle man like you."
"Just a few," he mumbles.
"And what do you do about it?"
"I try to get the job done by hand."
"That's rather unique, wouldn't you say?"
He shrugs, even though, lying there on her stomach, she can't see it.
"Long as it does what they want, what's the difference."
"As somebody said to me earlier today, admittedly in a different context-or perhaps not so different- we'll never really know until we try."
"You know I was referring strictly to your spinal column," he says.
"And you know I wasn't," she comes back. "An" you really wanna get taken care of-that way," he says.
"I really do," she confirms.
"Okay, but I'm not gonna risk my job doin'-you know what."
"Not asking-you to," she responds. "You've really got this finger thing worked out, though, huh?"
"We'll see what we'll see."
"We will indeed.
"How uh, how do you ... want me?"
"You just sit up on the side of the table and I'll sit next to ya."
Cynthia sits up, her breasts heavy before her.
Bruno sits next to her, clad in white t-shirt and shorts, muscles of arms and legs bare and bulging.
He puts an arm around her back, grasping her boob on the far side.
"Lean against me, spread your legs apart a little, .and relax," he instructs.
She complies, leaning against him, closing her eyes.
And he inserts two fingers into her cunt.
She drapes a leg over his lap.
And he begins at once to fuck her with his fingers, now sliding them in and out of her hot, juicy quim, now inserting them and rolling them around, reaming her pussy.
As his knuckles stay in contact with her clit at. all times.
So that now, he develops a regular rhythm, delving deeply into her flowing snatch each time he goes into her, pulling out most of the way each time, every so often staying all the way in, circulating his fingers round and round.
As the fingers of his other hand squeeze her big boob.
As she feels the heat of his body through the t-shirt stretched over his massive pectorals.
As she lets herself go, focusing her mind on the pure sensation which is generating itself from his delving fingers to the walls and lips of her flowing pussy.
And, she has to admit, it seems to be working rather well.
Because she can feel them, the surges of sensation, the sexual electricity, which flows in twinges of tingling warmth in ever-widening circles through her body.
It reminds her of a vibrator, in a way, a vibrator operated on her by somebody else.
So that there is this sense of the world, of reality, of other acting upon herself, two minds, two wills linked by a single intent.
So that Bruno seems to be the representative of the ultimate pleasure, like that super-pleasure a thing outside herself and yet, at one and the same time, within her as well.
So that there is this sense of otherness merging, uniting with herself for her own lascivious benefit.
And she finds herself becoming hotter and hotter, finds it working, or at least starting to.
How far can he go with her like this?
Because she feels the hand that is bracing and embracing her, squeezing her ample breast harder and harder.
So that Bruno too is, has to be, becoming excited, aroused.
She opens her eyes, twisting her head around, looking at his face.
And finding there a mask of concentration, the beads of perspiration forming on his forehead, his forelock curling with the moisture, brows knitted, lips taut, as though concentrating on some great internal struggle.
Ridiculous, she thinks. Why on earth would he want to put himself through such frustration, such torture ?
What does he think-that she would turn him in, along with herself, for violating some rule or other of this stupid club?
Let them expel her, dammit!
Best thing for her, really, she reflects.
That way, she'd be on her own, isolated, truly cut off.
And therefore and thereby free, free to wander the shore, the dunes, wherever, without the observation of her peers.
Her peers.
Who, she knows, are no better than she is, who have done a thousand times in their minds and hearts what she does, what she has the nerve and the means to do in the real world.
Ah, but he is good with those fingers!
Damned good, she thinks.
Because he is getting her hotter and hotter.
He is pushing her up the rainbow.
Not as smoothly, not as rapidly, not as comfortably as she would have liked, perhaps, but there is no question but that the feeling is solidly there, there and growing.
Is she being manipulated in other than the literal, the physical sense?
Is she allowing him to get off the hook, satisfying a member while not violating some rule, some code of conduct which seems to concern him deeply?
And she comes to a decision.
She will not.
Let him off the hook, that is.
She deliberately led Armando past the time frame for their dalliance, and this practically before a general audience of members, both male and female.
She is deliberately leading Roy on, with the delusion, the illusion that he is man enough to keep her on the straight and narrow.
And she is going to allow this Bruno his compromise, his half measure?
Nonsense!
She is not justice, Cynthia tells herself, but she is truth.
Time these fucking people faced themselves as they are, dammit!
She didn't and-doesn't want to be here, but now that she is, by hook or by crook, they will see themselves for what they are, by the time she is through here.
How many, Bruno, she asks him in her mind, how many women have come to you, have propositioned you in order to cause you to develop this technique as you have?
A lot, right?
Because this cannot be some casual thing, some contingency measure he has adopted to ward off the occasional hot number.
Rather, this is his standard, his tried and true method of catering to the heat while avoiding the deed.
Except that that isn't going to work here, Bruno, old buddy, she tells him mentally.
She will see to it.
And now, she reaches into his lap, beside where her leg is draped over it.
And feels there solid evidence, proof positive of his arousal.
This is ridiculous! she thinks.
"This is ridiculous!" she exclaims aloud, so loudly that her voice rings in the little room, off the painted cinder block walls.
She hops off of him and pulls the elastic away from the top of his shorts, releasing his long, thick cock from its imprisonment.
"You know what you want, Bruno," she says.
"Fuck it," he replies, standing up, taking off the shorts, letting them drop to the floor, hooking them with one sandaled foot, kicking them into the air and catching them.
As Cynthia climbs onto the padded table, the sturdy paper beneath her knees crinkling but holding.
So that he can take her from behind, doggy-style.
And he does, he does at once.
And Cynthia thinks, This is the substitute for Steve, her regular masseur, who also ends up thus vigorously massaging the inside of her cunt with his prong, two out of three of his weekly visits to the penthouse.
Except that there, she has her regular bed, where he can exercise the full, glorious range of his amatory skills.
And now, Bruno is fucking her from behind, anchoring her in place with a thumb firmly inserted into her ass hole.
And he lets himself go completely, holding nothing back, as he plows in and out of her with powerful, rapid piston motions of his rampant invader.
And now, with his other hand, he reaches forward and down, weighing her heavy breasts, one at a time, thumbing the nipples to rubbery erection.
And he is riding and riding her for all he is worth.
So that quickly, very quickly, he has propelled both of them to the peak of their capacity to contain the pleasure which inundates and permeates them.
So that now, they are both coming, the spurts of his thick, hot jism into her pussy alternating with the spasms of her series of multiple orgasms.
As her snapper of a cunt sucks his copious load out of him.
Over the rainbow they go-and down the other side.
Quickly, Bruno pulls out of her, going at once to the sink in a corner of the room, draping his slimy meat into it, washing and then drying it with a towel from the stack on the table at the back of the room.
"Shower's in there, you want," he says, pointing to a shower stall. "Care to join me?"
"Nah, why push my luck.
"Just luck nobody came in while we were goin' at it."
"I tell you what, Bruno-suppose you just write down for me all the members you fucked, by finger or cock.
"That way, if push comes to shove, if you catch any flack at all over me, we have the ammo with which to fight back."
"How's that?"
"I can organize a protest against any action the board of directors or Roy might care to take against you.
"It's going to be a long hot summer, Bruno, and I plan on getting a lot of refreshment."
"They'd only deny it," Bruno says.
"Except that they won't have to, Bruno.
"Because I'll give them something they've been wanting for a very long time, in the course of which they'll admit everything to me.
"I was going to get myself thrown out of this place, but I changed my mind.
"More fun this way."
Bruno shrugs, tears off a sheet of schedule paper and uses the lines on it to make his list, which he gives to her.
She dresses quickly.
"Where you off to so fast?" he asks.
"I want to get a similar list from Armando.
"You two ever compare notes?"
"Me, him, the lifeguard-sure."
"Excellent!
"I feel that I'm really getting somewhere now.
"By the end of summer, I should have the old club standing on its head."
"Why?"
"Because, my dear Bruno," she sighs, "I have been put upon, inconvenienced.
"And I feel that somebody should have to pay for it.
"In other words, the message has to go back to my dear, dear husband that he is not to so much as think of pulling this shit on me ever again.
"I am not a puppet on a string-not his, not anybody's.
"And to try and turn me into one, well, he has to know that that was a great mistake.
"In a nice way, of course."
"You uh, you're not gonna like try an' bring down the club, are ya?"
"Only to its knees, my dear Bruno, only to its knees.
"Fear not. Neither the membership roster nor the stability of the club itself will be permanently affected.
"And I think you'll find the working conditions considerably easier for you, or at least less frustrating.
"Fingers, indeed! Hah!"
*****
"I've got Roy on my case," Armando complains.
"I'm here to help," Cynthia says.
And Armando finds that bitterly amusing.
"Any more help like you gave me earlier and I'm history," he says.
"Don't worry about Roy.
"But I do need something from you."
"I gave at the office."
"No, I don't mean that.
"Names, I need. Names of the women you've boffed. Just the ones who belong to the club."
"What's going-"
"Please. It's a bit complicated to explain.
"Suffice it to say that I have everything well in hand.
"Just give me the list, okay?"
"Why not?" he shrugs. "I'm not ashamed if they're not."
"Good attitude!"
And she waits while he writes down the names.
"Quite an impressive list," she observes. "What is it-something in the water they serve up on the patio?"
"No," Armando sighs, "it's boredom, that's all.
"Lack of something better to do.
"Oh, I'm good enough at it; no need for false modesty, is there?
"But I know. I know it isn't just my irresistible charms that turns these women into fucking machines.
"It's basically that they're looking to still know they're alive, that they haven't died and are in some kind of purgatory where they can no longer feel anything."
"Poor little rich girls, huh?"
"Exactly.
"Isn't that the case with you?
"Yes, but in a way you wouldn't understand, Armando.
"I'm married to a man who's almost never around, so that I'm perfectly at liberty to, to ... be at liberty.
"And I know very much that I'm alive.
"The loneliness alone tells me that, this freedom tells me that.
"Except that my being here means that I'm not as free as I thought I was.
"You never miss a thing until you don't have it, Armando.
"Freedom is no exception to this.
"So that what I'm doing here now is to regain that which I lost."
"And you don't care who gets hurt in the process?"
"You're not hurt yet, Armando, and if things work out as they should, you won't be."
CHAPTER IV
"How very nice that you should be able to fit me into your undoubtedly busy schedule so quickly," Cynthia says, greeting Roy at the door.
"Yes, well, I always try to make our members feel welcome as quickly as possible," he replies. "It serves to remove any sense of isolation and estrangement they may feel upon arrival here and it keeps them from resorting to, shall we say, indiscrete behavior."
"Does it really, now?"
"I believe you'll find me capable of satisfying your wishes along those lines, yes."
"Those lines?"
"I think we understand one another perfectly, don't you?"
"We do?
"Oh, and would you care for a drink, Roy?
"I believe you'll find us well stocked, which is more than I could have said when we first arrived here last night."
"We?"
"Yes. Myself, my maid, my chauffeur."
"Ah.
"I'll have a gin and tonic, then."
Cynthia steps behind the bar, a built in, stone-fronted affair with a tiled top backed to the fireplace which faced the other half of the ultra- modern living room.
As she prepares their drinks, complete with twists of lime, Cynthia asks, "What did the Roystons tell you about me?"
"Only to expect you at the club.
"Since Chipper has a membership, I assured them there would be no problem."
"No problem," Cynthia repeats. "That's what Chipper said. Undoubtedly, it's what Sid Royston said as well.
"Amazing, isn't it, Roy?" she asks, handing him his drink, taking her own and seating herself on a couch, where he joins her. "Nobody has a problem with yanking me out of the penthouse and deporting me to this place."
Indicating this portion of the world with a sweeping gesture.
"Oh, I don't know, Cynthia, this isn't so bad.
"View of the ocean, your own private beach, the country club with all its facilities, this house itself which was written up in Architectural Digest, you know.
"Things could be much worse.
"I know."
An obvious bid for sympathy, Cynthia thinks.
"Okay, I'll bite, since you're so obviously begging the question-How do you know, Roy?"
"Oh, nothing to set you weeping, Cynthia," he replies, smiling wryly. "Dad didn't lose the house.
"The yacht, yes, most of the servants, yes, but it was mostly a fall back and long road to recovery-investment thing, it was-in the course of which Sonny-that's me, Sonny-had to actually go out and work for a living.
"But the connections were there and I did an excellent job running the yacht club.
"Still, with nothing in the water, I felt that there was a barrier there, so I accepted this opening when it came up and here I am.
"Dad expects to have something in the water in about one more year.
"And I am the heir apparent.
"There now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"
"Not even a lump in the throat," Cynthia concedes, before continuing, "So tell me, Roy, why are you really here tonight?"
"I believe you know the answer to that, Cynthia."
"I want to hear it from you, though. I want to hear you say it out loud."
"Very well then, Cynthia; in a word, containment."
"Like an oil spill?"
"Exactly like an oil spill, as a matter of fact, Cynthia," he replies, getting up off the couch, standing beside the sliding doors which overlook the ocean beyond the deck and pool.
"The club," he continues, "is a part of the quality of life around here.
"Quality of life, Cynthia," he repeats, turning to face her. "Have you any idea how difficult it is to maintain quality of life today?
"Do you know to what lengths someone such as myself has to go to in order to preserve the atmosphere of a place like the country club?
"You have the younger set who feel that they have the right to sew their wild oats, using the club and its facilities as a trampoline, as though youth originated with them, as if they are the first.
"Is there anything more trite than the young?
"Unless, of course, it's those who think they're young.
"The eternal boys, they are.
"Studs forever, lady killers to the grave, creating scandals with their amorous carryings on, escorting their mistresses to affairs at the club while leaving their wives behind or, worse yet, having an affair with a member's wife, spicing up their flagging inspiration with the sauce of the illicit.
"And then, there are the ladies who think it- what?
"Cute? Clever?
"Or perhaps their natural prerogative-their right, their due-to play around on the premises."
"Like me."
"No, Cynthia, not like you.
"You are unique, in a class by yourself, for better or for worse.
"You have no husband present or likely to be.
"You are, for all intents and purposes, a free agent.
"Calling a spade a spade, Cynthia, if you were old and ugly, then who cares?
"We do, in fact, have a few elderly widows who spend their days and many of their evenings in each others' company, seated in rockers on the veranda of the main entrance, fanning themselves, dozing, remembering.
"But what we don't have, Cynthia, is someone young, beautiful, and absolutely free as a bird, able to do whatever she wants, whenever she pleases-and practically with whom she pleases.
"What we also don't have, Cynthia, is someone who really doesn't want to be here, as is so obviously the case with you.
"You're angry, Cynthia; I know you are.
"It shows.
"It shows in the way you went after Armando- few complaints about that, by the way, then after Bruno, and yes, I know about that as well.
"Do you begin to see my problem, Cynthia?
"You are a one woman disaster, capable, all by yourself, of totally wrecking the atmosphere and reputation of the country club.
"We have women, wives of members, who simply can't compete with you, Cynthia, "We both know that's the truth, don't we?
"So that there's nothing between you and the men, except the wives, and, strictly physically speaking, that's not true.
"Administratively, now, that's another matter.
"Because they're not about to allow you to ruin their marriages-not the women, not the men either.
"I've had people cancel memberships over far less, Cynthia, believe me.
"You are a loose cannon, Cynthia, ridiculous as that may seem.
"Or perhaps, to you, it isn't all that ridiculous.
"But you know yourself that there are enough road houses, enough pickup joints around here, especially in the summer time, that the men who're looking for it won't have all that hard a time finding it.
"Maybe, maybe not as good as you, but not all that bad, either.
"I know. I've tried it and it works.
"My point is that you could very well wreck the atmosphere of the club, and to no good purpose.
"What I'm saying is, let me be your summer, okay?
"Let's work out all that anger and hostility away from the club and see if I can't make you glad, or at least not sorry you came here.
"And no more of this, this-lashing out, "I'm sorry the Roystons were unable to summer with us.
"I'm sorry you were forced to do so, apparently completely against your will.
"But it isn't my fault, Cynthia, nor is it the fault of the club.
"It's the Roystons' fault, trying to act more wealthy than they are, putting up this palace and now finding themselves, respectively, unable and -unwilling to live in it.
"Think about it, Cynthia.
"Think about it, about fairness.
"And don't blame the club, don't take it out on the club."
"You make it sound like I'm about to shoot the hostages, Roy."
"Well? In essence, isn't that what you're about to do?
"You've established your beachhead today as a hot number.
"And tomorrow, you'll begin cutting a swath through the membership, right?
"And in your wake, you'll leave behind the wreckage of a once distinguished and respectable country club."
"And you, Roy, you want to be the boy who stems the breach in the seawall, the one who sticks his finger in the dike, right?
"On the one hand, what I have to offer, they could find in any road house.
"On the other, I'm the supreme threat to the club.
"And you know what, Roy?
"It's all bullshit.
"You just need an excuse to get into my pants.
"You just want to be the one to escort me to the dances, the dinners, the full schedule of social events, so that all the members will say, 'That Roy- what a stud! Poor old Chip Harrington never stood a chance against our Roy boy.'
"Because that club of yours is rotten to the core and you know it, Roy.
"The only ones not playing around are precisely those who are too old.
"And they have the memories of when they weren't.
"Any disapproval they put out isn't out of tradition, Roy, but out of jealousy.
"And as far as the men, I can swim among them like a shark, and no matter how often I strike, I won't be giving them anything they're not already getting."
"Elsewhere," Roy amends. "They're getting it elsewhere."
"In some cases, Roy, not as 'elsewhere' as you think.
"I'd be willing to bet on it."
And Cynthia gets up off the couch, going to the sliding doors, looking at the surf lapping the shore in the moonlight, arms folded before her, glass in one hand.
"This whole thing is such bullshit, Roy.
"The Roystons, putting up a big front with this bunker of theirs, Chipper with his big deals throwing me" into the balance, the country club with its faade of respectability and exclusiveness, and you with this hokey heroism.
"I don't need it, Roy," she says, turning to face him. "The world doesn't need it, not any of it.
"All I asked was to be left alone to live my life.
"I'm left alone more than is decent or healthy as it is, but I've learned to accept this.
"But no, even that wasn't, isn't enough.
"I can't even be free, left alone to do my own thing.
"Instead, I have to fall victim to other peoples' false fronts, their shams, their pseudo-serious games.
"Which makes me nothing more than a pawn, a plaything.
"But at least, I'm not a hypocrite, Roy."
"No? I don't see you turning any of the benefits down, Cynthia."
"That's right, Roy, you don't.
"Because I want them, Roy, I want them all.
"I want more and more and more, Roy.
"Know what that is, Roy?
"That's my tax on the world.
"Hey, they wanna play the game, do they?
"Fine. But it's gonna cost 'em.
"They have to pay the toll, Roy.
"You get nothing in this world for nothing, Roy.
"And the more you want it, the more it's gonna cost ya.
"Law of supply and demand, Roy.
"So tell me, Roy, now that we've gotten beyond the lies, the ones you told me, the ones you tell yourself-how badly do you want it from me?"
How badly? Roy thinks. So badly he himself doesn't understand his emotion, but then he never has, not when it comes to sex.
He only knows that it took every ounce of his composure to overcome the lump of frustration, jealousy and raw lust that rose in his throat when he learned what she was doing.
He only knows that he could barely stand it, following her to her massage session with Bruno, knowing what they were doing while he, he could only stand by helplessly, doing nothing, getting not a bit of her.
But he will not allow himself to be reduced to jelly by this woman whose intelligence he has underestimated.
So-
"I'm on fairly safe ground here, Cynthia.
"I've nothing you want by way of money or possessions.
"I've got nothing to offer you in the way of material wealth.
"But neither did Armando or Bruno.
"Still, they must have had something you wanted.
"So here we are, the two of us.
"Whatever you got from them, you can get from me, guaranteed."
"Ah yes, Roy, but they didn't come on with heavy bullshit, you see. They didn't put up some big front.
"And that's the difference, Roy, that's what you have to pay for."
"Pay? Pay how? Pay with what?"
"Would you like to fuck me in the ass, Roy?" And he turns red in the face with a surge of passion at the sudden, explicit crudity of this.
"I'm not wearing any panties under this dress, Roy," she says.
"Would you like to see what you'd be fucking, Roy?"
And she turns her back to him, hiking up the back of the sunbacked dress, exposing her bare buns, framed by the straps of her garter belt and the tops of her black silk stockings.
"Want some of that, Roy?" she asks, straightening up, letting the dress fall.
"You know I do," he says. "What do I have to do to get it?"
"It's easy, Roy; all you have to do is handle the outbound traffic first."
"You mean-oh surely, you don't mean-"
"Ah, but I do, Roy.
"You've been a naughty boy, Roy, shining me on as you have.
"And it won't be too bad.
"You just rim me as you normally would and then, at a certain point, you get a little dessert before the main event.
"Of course, if you're not equal to the task, then I guess I'll simply thank you for coming and say good night."
And she advances rapidly toward the foyer.
"Okay, okay, okay!" he says, "I'll do it!
"Can we go upstairs now?"
"Upstairs?
"Oh, you mean to my bedroom.
"No, that's not necessary.
"There's a bathroom right there in the comer where you can wash up afterward - or whatever."
And Cynthia goes over to the couch, where she crouches at one end, holding onto the arm.
Roy moves jerkily, as though hypnotized, toward her.
He raises the back of her dress, draping it over the belled flare of her hips.
He looks at her large, rounded buttocks, hiked in the air.
And he feels his cock swell at once to full erection.
Distractedly, he unzips his slacks, freeing his lob of its confinement.
And now, he is on the couch behind her, face wallowing in the crack of her ass, mouth open.
And now, he is sucking her large, puffy ass hole, chewing as he sucks, his tongue rolling round and round the segmented surface.
And finding the center, the orifice.
And hardening his tongue, shafting it in and in and into it, feeling the ring of muscle slacken, relax, yielding to him.
So that now, he can feel her interior heat, can feel the moist, yielding tissues of her rectal wall against his probing tongue, which he rolls round and round, reaming her as he rims her, sweating profusely now, the beads forming on his forehead, his face bright red.
As he keeps his mouth sealed to her bung.
And now, he feels a pressure on his tongue, her anal sphincter trying to expel it.
And he withdraws it, or rather allows it to be forced smoothly out of her.
He cannot believe this is happening.
Surely, he tells himself, this is some erotic dream, some nightmare in which he is the prisoner of his own passion, his own prurient, salacious lust from which he will awaken momentarily, alone and panting and sweating, clutching his chest, his heart pounding a mile a minute.
Because how else explain his helplessness in the throes of his ardent desire?
How else explain as he sucks her bung avidly and not in vain?
As the tapered mass glides onto his tongue.
As he swallows it, feeling its solidity slide down his throat, a malleable lump.
Only to be replaced by another, as he continues to suck, mouth sealed to her ass hole, part of a closed system.
This too he swallows.
And now, a steady, continuous mass oozes slowly into his mouth, his gag reflex breaking it into sections as it descends, piecemeal, down his throat.
Yes, surely this is a dream, he tells himself, as it goes on and on.
Until, at last, a final, tapered tail and no more comes forth.
And he pulls his face back and bellies up to her buns as he guides his rampant invader into her ass hole, buttoning the bulb of the head, then shoving forward in and in and into her, all the way.
And grasping her hips with both hands, holding her steady as he fucks her in the ass.
In and out, in and out he shoves, dizzy, disoriented, his mind awhirl, unwilling, unable to think of past or future, of who he is, of what he has done, able only to fuck her, to realize-make real- his lust, to work it out in her ass, all of it.
And to summon the pleasure beyond pleasure from deep within his roiling depths.
And to allow it to overtake everything he feels, everything he thinks, everything he is.
So that there is no shame, no disgust, no utter revulsion at what he has just done, at what he has become as a result of having done it.
Yes, yes, yes, what's done is done and cannot be undone.
But he is in a separate, a closed world where nothing matters except the feeling and the feeling and the feeling.
He is in a place which is nowhere, in a time which doesn't exist, in a situation which is unreal, which is part of a separate reality, a universe apart from the mundane.
And there is only the pleasure and the pleasure and the pleasure, overwhelming him, taking him over.
And none of this is his fault, not any of it.
Because it is stronger than he is.
It.
Meaning this urge and its attendant pleasure, both of which were in him, were present from the very beginning.
So that he never had a chance.
But now, none of this matters.
Because the ultimate pleasure has seized him, is wringing him of his life essence, is milking him of his load as it blows his safety valve.
And there is not, never was, anything he could have done about any of this, puppet of pleasure as he is, slave as he is to his own ardent desire.
And what does it matter, any of it, anyway? he asks himself, as he zooms and soars through the realms of an intimate, lascivious, voluptuous, delicious sexual paradise, at once elated and disgraced, saved and damned.
And only when he has finished does he feel the revolt in his stomach.
Only when his last spasm has passed does he have to, have to-- He pulls out of her ass hole and dashes for the bathroom.
And Cynthia turns over and lies there, smiling, as she hears him vomiting heavily into the bowl of the toilet, the gushes hitting the water repeatedly as he flushes, again and again, operating the turn signal on the porcelain bus.
And now, she hears the sink running, hears him splashing around.
And she sees him emerge, red-eyed, cock hanging, long and flaccid from his slacks, buckled but still unzipped.
That is what she sees.
And what he sees is Cynthia, lying there on her back, one leg draped up on the back of the couch, the other dangling onto the floor, dress hiked up around her waist.
So that he can see her pussy, its chestnut thatch bisected by the pink lips.
Surely, he thinks, she cannot expect him to, to-
Clearly, she does.
And now, as though drawn to it, drawn to her, he shuffles over to the couch.
And drops to his knees beside it, beside her.
And leans over.
And seals his mouth to her pussy.
And begins eating it, tongue shafting smoothly, thickly in and out of her hot, juicy depths, in contact with her joy buzzer at all times.
He feels it engorge, bulge, turn rubbery.
"Don't make a mess, now," she cautions.
And he knows exactly what she is talking about, turning his face to one side so that the configuration of his mouth aligns perfectly with that of her pussy.
And he is sucking her like a lemon, extracting her juice from her.
And he feels it flowing, warm and salty and slightly metallic, into his mouth.
And he swallows and swallows, barely able to keep up with the flood.
As his cock twitches, then rises to the occasion.
So that when she has finished, he is ready to begin.
And he does, fucking her, feeling the pleasure whose slave he is begin to take him over once again, even as a part of his mind cries out in protest at the outrage, the disgrace of what he has done, at what can never be erased.
And he derides himself for his weakness, even as he yields to it, even as he lets it be submerged in the driving force of his passion, in the mounting floodtide of his pleasure.
And once again, that feeling of utter helplessness, of being in the grip of that which is greater than himself, takes him over.
And he is riding all out, is going up, up, up-and over the top, experiencing once more the ultimate pleasure.
But those are not the tears of joy which mingle with the perspiration running down his face.
CHAPTER V
"Where might I find Mrs. Iverson?" Cynthia asks, having checked the sign-in register at the front desk.
"Let me check the schedules, Mrs. Harrington," the white-jacketed attendant says, looking over the appointment books.
"Mmmm. No manicure, no pedicure, no hairdresser- ah!
"Here we are, Mrs. Harrington-tennis lesson with, with, ... Armando."
"Thank you," Cynthia says, and walks out to the patio.
Yes, Cynthia thinks, seeing her with Armando, she'll do. She will definitely do.
She watches the lesson, all the way through, sitting in the shade of a striped umbrella which projects from the center of the table at which she is seated, sipping a gin and tonic.
Roy strolls out onto the patio, smiling and nodding to all and sundry.
He spots Cynthia and his smile fades at once.
He ignores her gesture of salutation, her glass raised to him in salute, and disappears back inside, as though suddenly recalling something urgent he has to do.
Cynthia grins at this, shaking her head and taking another sip.
And turns her attention back to the courts, where Armando is explaining something one last time to Mrs. Iverson.
She nods and touches his wrist with a finger, saying something to him.
They laugh and Armando leaves the courts, returning to his own place, the closest of the series of small bungalows which cluster at one end of the courts, housing resident staff-Armando, Bruno, the head chef, the gardener, and so on.
Mrs. Iverson watches him, then turns, disappearing beneath the patio, headed, Cynthia would guess, for the women's locker room.
"Will you be having lunch with us?"
This from the waiter.
"Uh, I'm not sure just yet, thanks, uh, Raoul," she replies, reading the name on his white jacket.
And she gathers her straw bag and leaves the patio, heading for the locker room.
*****
Where she finds Mrs. Iverson undressing, stripping herself out of her tennis whites to reveal an all over suntan.
"Nice tan," Cynthia comments.
"Thanks," Mrs. Iverson replies, looking herself up and down, as though seeing if for the first time, then standing there, naked, looking at Cynthia, who has removed her sunglasses.
"I'm Holly Iverson, by the way," she says, extending a hand. "And you would be, quote-unquote, the Harrington woman, would you not?"
Cynthia laughs, shaking the hand.
"That's me all right.
"Here one day and already the Harrington woman, quote-unquote, huh?"
"Fuck 'em all," Holly says, with a dismissive downward flap of her wrist. "You'd think that money turned their blood to ice water.
"This place could use a good shaking up."
"Or tearing down," Cynthia replies.
"That too."
"So. Where'd ja get the tan?"
"Oh, a few of us like to go to a few secluded spots in the dunes over Fire Island way.
"If you'd care to join us, we'd be more than happy to--"
"I have a better idea.
"I'm staying at the Roystons, all by my lonesome.
"They have this fabulous pool, elevated from the beach."
"Oh, yes, the Royston place.
"That glass, steel and concrete horror that got written up in some magazine or other, as I recall."
"Oh good, then you know where it is.
"Why don't I play hostess to you all, say, this afternoon?
"You can simply move the party to there and have all the comforts of home, including someone to serve you whatever refreshments you require."
"What an excellent idea! And how very nice of you to offer!
"Can we invite you to lunch first?"
"Oh, no thanks.
"I want to get right home so that Juanita and Rufe can be put on notice.
"Hardly do to make a shabby first impression now, would it?"
"It's a bit late for your first impression, dear, but I catch your drift."
They laugh and touch hands.
And Cynthia finds Rufe in the parking lot, going over the limo with a chamois.
*****
"Cynthia, this is Sally, Sandy and Muffy."
Cynthia greets her guests wearing sunglasses, a straw hat and a short, terrycloth robe, beneath which she is naked.
They are all similarly attired, except that they have bikinis beneath their robes.
"Nice to meet you all. And please, call me Cindy.
"Can't be the only one present who doesn't end in a T now, can I?"
"No," Muffy replies gravely, "that wouldn't do at all."
"Well now," Cynthia says, "No need for towels, since I've draped everything with them.
"You can just pick your spot and Juanita will be right around to take your drink orders.
"The pool is right through ... there."
"I must say," Holly says, looking around as she walks through the living room, "the place isn't nearly as forbidding inside as it looks from out there."
"It is if you don't want to be here," Cynthia replies.
"Pardon?"
"Never mind."
She follows them out onto the deck overlooking the pool.
"Chaises, or the big pad there, suit yourselves."
Her guests strip at once, removing their robes, then their bikinis without hesitation.
"Obviously, I've got a lot of catching up to do," Cynthia says, removing her own robe.
So that Juanita, appearing on deck to ask, "Can I ge' joo leddies anythin' to dreenk?" is the only one with anything on.
"Just beers all around," Holly says. "We usually just bring them along in a cooler."
"And would you mind serving them to us naked?" Muffy asks.
Juanita looks from Cynthia to Muffy and back again.
Cynthia nods.
Juanita shrugs and disappears back inside the house.
"Trust Muffy to think of that," Holly says. "Well, ladies, shall we baste?"
And the sunscreen, a rather mild number four, Cindy notices, goes on all around, the women doing each others' bodies, even the parts they could easily reach themselves.
Especially the parts they could easily reach themselves.
And Cynthia sees that that's how it is.
"Why don't we all do Cynthia?" Holly suggests.
"We'll just put some of these towels down on the mat here, and Cynthia, you just lie down and let us take care of everything, okay?"
Cynthia gets onto the mat, lying face down on the spread towels.
And she feels the hands all over her, rubbing in the sunscreen.
They caress back, arms, legs, buttocks.
And now a finger goes in between the cheeks of her ass.
And fingers her ass hole.
And slides in and out, in and out of it.
And is joined by a second finger.
As the other hands continue to knead the rest of her, head to toe.
And now, they are turning her over.
But the fingers do not leave her ass hole.
So that she turns on them, as it were.
And now, face up, she sees that it was Holly who was doing the principal honors.
And at once claims her reward.
So that, as the others dutifully apply sunscreen to her arms and breasts and body, Holly begins at once to eat Cynthia's pussy.
She is eating her in earnest now, her long, thick, powerful tongue shafting deeply into Cynthia's hot, juicy cunt, rubbing her clit both ways, as she moves in and out.
And she is still fingering her ass hole, sliding the oiled ringers in and out, in and out.
As the others-she cannot see who, her eyes are closed, her brain dizzy with the heat of the sun, the voluptuousness of all those curvaceous bodies rubbing smoothly against her with their warmth, their softness.
As she begins her rise up the rainbow of her sexual arousal.
As the warmth within her glows, spreading to the surface of her body to meet the warmth of the sun, the sun and the other bodies, outside her.
As two of the others devote themselves to her breasts, each of them squeezing, kneading, fondling one with both hands.
As another leans over her now, shielding her eyelids from the sun, even as she dangles the doorbell nipple of a heavy breast in Cynthia's face.
Not insisting but testing, apparently, wanting to see the reaction, wanting to know if Cynthia has an actual taste for such scenes, or if she is merely tolerating what is happening here.
And whoever is making the erotic, physical inquiry is quickly satisfied.
Because, even now, Cynthia is reaching up to grasp the oil-slicked firmness of the breast.
Even now, she is sucking on the nipple.
Which tells the others what they have to know.
Especially Holly, apparently.
Because now, using the connection of tongue and pussy as the turning point, she swings her body around, as the others move back.
To allow Holly free access.
To allow her to swing one leg over Cynthia's body.
So that now, she straddles her, in reverse, continuing all the while to eat Cynthia's snatch.
And lowers her own crotch onto Cynthia's face.
Cynthia reaches up, one hand on each large, flared hip.
And guides Holly into position.
So that now, Holly's cunt is perfectly aligned with Cynthia's mouth.
With Cynthia's mouth and tongue, as Cynthia begins at once to eat Holly's pussy.
And to establish, even now, that empathetic magic, that correspondence between two like creatures which form an active closed circuit with one another.
As above, so below.
Whatever Cynthia does to Holly happens to herself, at practically the same time.
So that action and reaction become blurred, indistinct.
So that neither can say now who does what to whom first.
As the others watch, fascinated, getting hotter and hotter watching the two big, curvaceous bodies writhing against each other, hard at work with tongues to snatches, lips now pouted and drooling with the clear, hot juices of passion aroused.
Until they can stand to watch no longer.
Nothing will do but that they themselves form a daisy chain.
They form a triangle, joined mouth to crotch, beside Holly and Cynthia, there on the mat, covered with towels.
So that they very quickly catch up to the first two.
So that now, there are five bodies, glistening with sunscreen, there on the mat, busily eating each other.
And getting hotter and hotter, the sun beating down on them, sweat combining with sunscreen to form brightly glistening rivulets which run down the tan bodies, and limbs to soak the towels below.
As they continue to eat each other for all they are worth.
As they climb the rainbow together.
As time and place become matters of indifference.
As they form a world of their own, filled with sunlight and hot summer air and glistening, impassioned bodies, twisting and writhing voluptuously, slick against one another, tanned by the sun, flushed with the engorged blood of their sexual excitement.
As they elicit from within one another the ultimate pleasure.
As they conjure it forth, expanding it, filling themselves and each other with its almighty, inexorably advancing presence.
As it takes them over.
As it moves them now, this way and that, making of them heavy, wet rag dolls, limp puppets weighing down their strings.
As they glide smoothly in and out of each others' cunts with their tongues.
As they undulate, slowly slipping and sliding against one another, with that delicious, smooth, wet, slippery thrill of lubricated flesh in contact with itself.
Higher and higher they rise, up, up, up the rainbow.
Hotter and hotter they become, bodies and brains broiling in the heat of their common passion, their shared arousal.
Level after level of lascivious sensation they transcend now, greedily, hungrily.
As though each new flood of erotic feeling is but the springboard to the next.
And the next and the next, as they voraciously elicit, solicit, demand that next thrilling surge of raw sexual pleasure from within themselves by demanding it of the cunt they are servicing.
So that they are puppets, rag dolls, driven, maneuvered by the desire which saturates their very beings.
And they will not be satisfied, their hunger mollified, no matter how good it feels right now.
Because yes, it does get better than this.
And better than this and this and this!
So that there is no such thing as this being as good as it gets.
Unless, of course, it is the entire situation, the whole scene.
Because there is here a sense of completeness, of there being nothing absent, missing, lacking for their total pleasure.
So that it is simply a matter of using the tools at hand.
Except that their proficiency is not of their own making, is not under their own control, does not arise from within themselves.
Rather, it is a question of reflex, of automation.
It is as if their bodies know what to do without their brains being privy to that knowledge, without their minds directing, being in control of those skills.
So that they are being driven by a force outside themselves, by something totally powerful, completely other.
Which is, can only be, the pleasure beyond plea- sure.
Which is upon them all now, which is operating, manipulating, in full control of them.
So that they are not aware of there being any physical effort required to do as they are doing.
Rather, everything is being done for them.
Everything is happening within them without their conscious help, their active participation.
So that there is, can be, total concentration and total involvement on the part of each and every one of them, without distraction, without physical limitation.
As they rise, higher and higher, continuing the rainbow climb.
As vista after vista of lascivious delight opens up before them, each more intense than the one before.
As they exist now purely in order to generate the flood of sexual ecstasy which wells up within themselves.
Naught loves another as itself, so it is said, and now, they are serving themselves, are cramming, gorging themselves with all the pleasure their bodies can contain.
They are generating it, demanding it, receiving it, amassing, hoarding it while greedily, hungrily, insatiably going for more, more, more.
And their bodies are responding, are fulfilling the function which is implied by their form, are satisfying in form, in the body, that function for which they were created.
Because there is nothing, nothing, nothing which can exceed in the intensity of its excitement, the depth of its pleasure that which they are even now experiencing.
Nothing is lacking, nothing is missing.
All is complete, all is being accomplished, fulfilled.
As now the pleasure beyond pleasure comes over them.
So that, instead of driving them before itself, it is inundating, permeating them.
And they are coming and coming, all of them, the powerful contractions of their pussies milking the ever-working tongues of all the pleasure they contain, pleasure greater than that their bodies are able to sustain, so that they blow their safety valves.
Spasm after spasm, convulsion after convulsion, their bodies are jerked this way and that through the throes of their shared series of multiple orgasms.
Until, at last, the thrills, the irresistible, uncontrollable surges of raw pleasure, of sexual transport subside and they all float gently back to earth.
And Holly dismounts from Cynthia's face.
And Muffy, Sally and Sandy separate, lying at odd angles to each other, recovering temperature and respiration.
As Juanita, naked, sprawled in a chaise, watching them and guzzling from a beer bottle, raises it to them in salute, belching loudly.
She drains the bottle, picks up the tray of full ones, each capped by a glass, and passes among the bodies on the mat.
And each woman sits up, taking a bottle from the tray.
They sit where they are, pouring from the sweating bottles, their surface texture similar now to that of the women, drenched with rivulets of perspiration which the condensation on the bottles seems to emulate.
And now, they sit there, drinking their beer, each seemingly lost in her own thoughts, or merely savoring the aftermath of such an intense physical experience, like athletes after a particularly grueling but eminently, thoroughly satisfying contest.
Sprinters resting on the track, they are, or swimmers with their relays completed.
So that there is no hurry to recover, to move around.
And they are like figures in some surreal painting, nude women beside a pool under a flawless, cerulean sky.
And Cynthia wonders.
Do they feel it, the others?
Victory!
The triumph of the self over the world, over that massive other which confronts them and which they, in turn, have just confronted.
And wrung from it, forced from it, extracted from it that force which, summoned from their far inner distances, has advanced within them, has been prevailed upon to take them over and service them.
The pleasure beyond pleasure, and who shall know its heights, its depths, its rapturous vistas, if not those with the courage and the determination to reach out for them?
Let others bat balls around on tennis courts.
Let others lounge idly beside a too crowded pool and dream.
Let others make do, going to bed with inadequacy, in fulfillment of some legal or moral obligation, in some martyrdom of emptiness in the name of mutual best interests.
As they have.
As they will again soon, all too soon.
They will do all these things, all these meaningless things and more, soon enough.
Except, of course, for Cynthia, who is free.
So that she can serve them, serve them well, as living symbol, as the embodiment of that which they are not.
Because they are not free.
This is time out, recess, mini-vacation.
This is time out of time, a lacuna in the record of their lives, stolen hours, hours which cannot, which must not be truthfully recounted in response to the casual inquiry, "What did you do with yourself today, honey?"
Because to tell the truth would be to tell a lie.
Because their bodies have spoken to one another, have spoken those truths in that language which the body alone understands.
And to say what happened would be merely to outrage, to offend, and still not to tell the truth, not to put into words that which no words can comprehend.
So that this will be their secret, their increasingly open secret, open because too many people know about it, open because they make no particular effort to conceal it.
Yes, there is a closeness here peculiar to certain of them.
Yes, there are the constant possible snubs, when, for one reason or another, or perhaps for no reason at all, so and so is unavailable to do such and such at such and such a time and date.
And yes, something is happening at the club, something has been happening, has been going on, something which has nothing to do with Cynthia, but of which Cynthia is the prime example, the primo exemplar.
Holly is the first to use the outside shower, at one corner of the deck.
And the others soon follow, as Juanita goes around picking up bottles and glasses, disappearing inside the house to emerge, moments later, with replacements, placing the tray on an umbrella-covered table as the women, having showered, swim leisurely in the pool.
And slowly begin to pair off, Holly with Cynthia, Sally with Sandy, beginning to fondle one another, there in the water.
Muffy looks up at Juanita, who looks back at her, smiling faintly, brow cocked in inquiry.
Muffy beckons to Juanita with a crooked finger.
And Juanita, with an athleticism belied by her generously well-upholstered figure, dives, torpedo-like, into the deep end, gliding and kicking underwater, to emerge right in Muffy's face.
And Muffy begins at once to suck Juanita's tits, while Juanita fondles Muffy's breasts.
So that, very soon, three pairs of voluptuous female figures are entwined, two by two, on the mat.
And Juanita is on top of Muffy, reversed, Sally and Sandy echoing this position, as do Cynthia and Holly, with Cynthia on top this time.
As they perform the erotic ceremony of like with like.
As each services herself by servicing the other.
As above, so below.
And thus do they once again climb the rainbow of an arousal not so much shared as reflected, achieved not so much with another as with an extension of one's self.
As though it is her own pussy each is eating, her own arousal each is inspiring, her own pleasure each is summoning from deep within herself.
CHAPTER VI
"Mrs. Harrington, ladies," Roy says, leaning over them at their lunch table on the patio, overlooking the tennis courts, "how is everything?"
Holly deliberately takes a huge mouthful of her Caesar salad, munching it up in her mouth before replying, "Effafin if juf fie, Woy, ah fak you fo tnuf fo affin."
And they all laugh, including Holly, who causes Sally, Muffy, and Sandy to shriek as she sprays crouton crumbs and bits of red cabbage toward them.
Cynthia smiles and dabs at the corners of her mouth with her napkin.
Roy smiles thinly, clearly not amused by this display of deliberate and unnecessary crudity, apparently put on to impress the newest member of this inner circle of the club's hottest hot numbers.
"This is for you, Mrs. Harrington," Roy says, handing Cynthia a folded note.
And hovering there, waiting for her to read it.
Casually, Cynthia drops it in her purse, continuing to eat her lunch, ignoring Roy.
Who rolls his eyes, then walks slowly back into the building.
"Is he gone yet?" Cynthia mutters, mouth concealed by her fork.
"I don't see him lurking in the doorway," Muffy replies.
"Let's see what my fan mail has to say today," Cynthia says, retrieving the note from her open straw bag.
"Would like to see you tonight. R."
"My, my," Holly says, "from the man himself.
"And I didn't even know he played around.
"Did any of you?"
Mumbled negatives from her three friends.
But Cynthia merely keeps eating.
"Was that a yes or a no, dear?" Holly asks.
"That was a later because we're eating," Cynthia says.
"What's that got to do with it?" Holly asks.
"If I say yes, then you'll want details.
"And this is the lunch table.
"So we can save it until after dessert, all right?"
"At which time?" Holly prompts.
"At which time, I shall relate in as much detail as you care to hear the details of the adventures of Roy, the human toilet."
"No!"
"You have got to be kid-ding!"
"Really?"
Holly ostentatiously puts down her fork, saying, "Forget lunch, forget dessert, tell!"
"If you insist."
"We insist!" comes the chorus of reply, so loud that other tables turn to look.
As five heads lean into the table, bodies blocking the efforts of the busboy to clear.
*****
Roy watches them from the shadows of the Tudor arch covering the doorway.
He sees them all suddenly haul back, convulsed with laughter, only to go back into the huddle.
This happens several times, each one making his face turn redder and redder, the heat of it evident even to himself.
Damn the bitch! he thinks. She's telling them everything, in glorious detail.
Look at them, just look at them there, laughing and laughing.
He hears Holly say, quite distinctly, "And he wants to come back for se, se, seconds?"
And the five go into another gale of unrestrained hilarity, Muffy choking and having to have her back pounded.
And the laughter goes on and on, until, at last, they all sit back, red-faced, dabbing the tears from the corners of their eyes with their napkins.
As Roy surprises himself with the realization that he simply doesn't care.
He wants Cynthia, that's all there is to it.
And in fact, the thought of what he did, what they did the other night both sickens him and turns him on in spite of himself.
He cannot explain it, however hard he tries.
He seems drawn to her, as if by a magnet.
Even though, obviously, she has added indiscretion to her despicable treatment of him.
What is he, anyway, a pervert?
That you are, he tells himself.
Because, humiliation or no humiliation, the fact is that he popped his nuts twice the other night, and with almost no time in between hard-ons.
And the fact is that the image of what happened turns him on, is capable of giving him an almost instant erection.
So that he has to see her again.
Has to, as in overwhelming compulsion, as in dire necessity.
It is as if her very humiliation of him provides a dimension to the experience which he finds irresistible.
He didn't want to want her.
He didn't want to even have to see her at the club.
He has gone out of his way to avoid her.
And yet, he was frantic, is frantic to be with her again.
He doesn't even care that she tells her newly established girlfriends everything.
The important thing here is that she agree.
And he feels that she will.
He goes back to his office, feeling crushed, feeling ... elated.
While a part of him mocks him, ridicules him for his lechery, his perversion.
But what can he do?
The urge, the desire is there within him and will not be denied.
He sits behind his desk, surrounded by the elegance of deeply carved mahogany and genuine leather, holding his head in his hands.
He sits there and cannot move.
Because he can only wait.
Wait for-
Voices in the outer office.
His secretary and-
"Eight o'clock. Be there. Aloha."
Her head is in the door and out the door and she is gone.
And he doesn't care, because they are on for tonight.
Tonight, he will feel himself truly alive again.
Tonight, he will do whatever she asks, provided that he gets to stick his cock into her.
Because that's all that matters.
The rest-honor, reputation, normalcy-it's all bullshit.
No question.
No question at all in his mind now, but that being with her is the only thing that means anything in his life right now.
Later on?
When he has gotten her out of his system-and he very much wants to get her out of his system-he will have time to deride himself for the screwed up piece of shit he was.
But that time is not yet.
He is in the throes of his madness, at the moment.
He is in the grip of an obsession so powerful that its intensity makes him nauseous.
Because he is actually sickened by the whole thing, in several ways, on several levels.
Even now, a part of him cries out in protest and in vain.
Tonight.
Tonight, he will be with her.
And, much as the very thought of it sickens him, he is a happy man.
*****
Tonight, Cynthia tells herself. Tonight he will be with her.
And for tonight, she has something very special planned.
A salute to Chipper, she calls it.
Because there is a kind of homecoming ceremony she stages for Chipper's benefit, sometimes with help from Bruce's escort service, sometimes from amateurs-and sometimes from the hired help.
It works like this.
Chipper will hide in the closet of the master bedroom, watching through the louvered panels of the closet door, as the studs of the evening perform with Cynthia in bed.
Only when they have finished, only when they have injected their loads into her, will Chipper emerge, red-faced, excited, cock at the ready.
And only after he has eaten her thoroughly, has cleaned her out, will he fuck her.
Cynthia finds that this ceremony is a real turn-on for her as well as for Chipper.
So much so that she finds herself wanting to do it more often than Chipper's few and far between visits home allow.
So that she has been seeking ways and means to duplicate the experience sans Chipper.
So that now, having found an absolute patsy of a lover, if one may even use the term in this context, she is of a mind to take full advantage of his services.
And tonight, she will.
*****
Roy is naked, standing in the closet, the one which faces the foot of the bed.
So that he can see Cynthia, naked, waiting, very clearly.
And now, here comes Rufe, her chauffeur.
Big and black, and with cock to match, he joins her on the bed.
And she goes down on him at once.
Roy watches, as she gives him a knob job, his dusky plum inside her mouth as she rolls it round and round.
And now, her head bobs up and down, Roy looking at her in profile, his view of Rufe's cock, long and thick as she holds it upright, Rufe's big black balls draped below, between his massive thighs, legs spread, unobstructed.
And now, she raises her head.
And Roy can see Rufe's monster, huge and stiff, as he gets off the bed and stands beside it as Cynthia centers herself on her back, spreading and raising her legs.
Rufe moves around to the foot of the bed, cock hobbling rigidly before him at a sharp, upward angle, now head on, now in profile, now invisible to Roy as he faces Cynthia on the bed, muscular haunches practically in Roy's face.
And now, Rufe is on Cynthia, is on her and in her, in one smooth, fluid movement.
Obviously not the first time he's done this, Roy thinks.
But even that does not put him off, does not diminish his enthusiasm for Cynthia.
He wants her with an absolute intensity which will tolerate no compromise, a determination which will accept no argument.
He is glad that tonight is not to be a repetition of the other night, although if that's what it takes he would certainly have gone for it, without a moment's hesitation.
Although, even as it is, per Cynthia's detailed instructions, it certainly won't be all that appetizing.
But again, that doesn't matter in the least.
And now, Rufe is scooping up Cynthia's thighs with his arms, doubling her up.
So that Roy can see her ass hole, protruding below her cunt.
And he can see her pussy, turned now into a smoothly rounded orifice which clings to its thick, long, dark visitor, which sucks it as it pistons in and out of her.
As the big balls are locked tightly to the base of Rufe's cock in his sexual excitement.
And he can hear Cynthia moaning with pleasure as Rufe's fucking intensifies.
And he wonders how much of it is heartfelt, how much for his benefit as she puts on this bizarre show for him.
Or perhaps this exhibitionism is very much a part of the thrill for her, the idea that somebody not involved in the act-not yet, anyway-is just standing here, watching.
And he can see Rufe's head bobbing as he sucks Cynthia's tits, one at a time, feeding them to himself as he kneads her large breasts with both hands.
And now, the black column is disappearing and reappearing with ever-increasing rapidity.
As Cynthia's moans become louder.
And he wants to shout at her, to tell her not to come, to hold her climax for him.
But now, he reflects, that makes no difference either.
And in fact, he doesn't need this big black stud to do any of his work for him.
He is quite capable of taking her from ground zero to climax.
Granted, he cannot say for certain whether or not that happened either time the other night, but he is no novice when it comes to sex, when it comes to doing whatever he has to in order to put a woman over the rainbow.
How regrettable that things should have taken this turn of events, that she should have forced things to be this way.
Most unfortunate of all, perhaps, is what she has made him discover about himself.
Who would ever have imagined such a thing about him?
And yet, it's all only too true.
And he doubts that he has seen the darkest part of his dark side yet.
Because this is all so very easy.
No qualms, no hesitation.
True, he threw up both times-afterward.
But during the act?
Hey, it was part and parcel and all of a piece.
Took it right in stride, he did.
He can't say that he enjoyed it, would like to believe that he did not, in fact.
But it was a part of the deal he could and did live with.
And his puke was after the fact, both times.
As it could very well be this time, he tells himself.
But none of that makes any difference, deters him in the least.
Nor does the prospect of her no doubt detailed recounting to her buddies, those harpies with the hot pants, of everything that happens here tonight.
He knows now, how ridiculous he must have sounded, trying to lecture her on taking it easy at the club, on not degrading the club.
Who the fuck was he trying to kid?
Face it-the club is neither more nor less degraded from when he took it over.
Rich women with nothing better to do with themselves than make themselves available to whatever comes along.
Rich men looking for something new and different, or perhaps jaded to the point that there is nothing really new for them, but always something different, this being the sole indicator to them of the fact that they're still alive.
No, sex at the club didn't begin with Cynthia nor will it end with her, nor will it be the end of the club.
So that yes, that was all just a come-on, his entre to her boudoir, or so he thought.
But she knew better, even then.
And so did he, truth to tell.
And she made him pay for his presumptuousness.
And she was probably right to do so, he reflects.
Who was he to tell her how to act, what to do, after all?
He was playing out of his league and he should have known this.
He has been out of his league, all along, all his life, come to think of it.
He has always sought to move in circles above his station, above his income, above his character.
Face it, he tells himself, I'm a natural lowlife, nothing more.
But then, dammit, so were most of the others at the club, perhaps all of them.
Because this concept of nobility of person is bullshit.
That is a pose, an attitude left over from the age of chivalry, when a bunch of ass holes in tin suits went around bashing each others' brains out.
Man is not basically noble; far from it, in fact.
Man is base, is bestial, is in many ways lower than the animals.
What animals would have done what he and Cynthia have done?
What animal would ever think of doing what they are about to do?
As Rufe, enveloping Cynthia now, above her and below her, all around her, fucks her cunt and sucks her tits at the same time.
And now, he accelerates, going faster and faster.
So that Roy can see the mighty black meat piston going in and out of her sucking, clinging pussy in long, hard strokes.
And he knows, knows exactly how that must feel to Rufe.
Because he has been there many a time himself, with another partner, a partner not as beautiful, not as sexy as Cynthia, to be sure, but the feeling was there, was there for him, for her.
Was.
As though that is another life, a former life, the life of his former self, the he who was and is no longer.
As though he is no longer alive at all, but in a kind of somnambulistic suspension, a zombie-like state.
So that yes, he can move, yes he can feel, can sense dully, as though from some great inner distance the world around himself.
But his driving force is that which he sees before him, being serviced-well and properly serviced- by another.
And he realizes, ironically enough, that it is precisely this uncanny inspiration, this driving force which has reduced him to his present pathetic, sick mode of being.
Because here, here before his very eyes, is life as it should be lived, as life as he was once able to live it.
And yet, he has been slowly dying since he got here.
He is a mere figurehead, an employee, one of the hired help.
And they let him know it, make him feel it every day, the bitches.
His predecessor was one of them, don't cha see.
So that the approach to the management of the place was virtually hobbyistic, a casual, noblesse oblige sort of thing, kind of an excuse not to play that next boring round of golf, not to sit around in the card room talking about the old days, to to take off on some other sitting around type adventure, fishing and such.
Or perhaps it was merely that the old man actually enjoyed the work, as Roy does not.
Which, he reflects, may very well be his problem.
Because a task which is all detail, which affords him no joy whatever, is not one which will make him happy.
Still, how, can he ever be happy?
He isn't one of them, and he feels this every second of the day.
He is closer to the big black man on the bed there than to Cynthia, than to any of the members, any of the members' wives or children.
He has taken on the task of providing for an elite, for an upper class conscious of their status and interested in preserving it and exercising the prerogatives inherent therein.
He has, in fact, been appointed-as hired help-the task of assisting in the perpetuation of that distinction, that separation, that blatant and all but virtually insurmountable barrier between the membership and the rest of the world, which latter category happens to include himself.
And they think it so funny, so cute to behave like animals, to act like the common people, just like the lowlifes who inhabit the bars along the highway.
And some of them-the men especially-amuse themselves by going out and rubbing elbows with the mob-elbows and other body parts.
Roy has stayed away from the women at the club. And for all his good looks, build and surface charm, this has been surprisingly easy for him to do.
They have not come on to him.
He has taken his thrills, his kicks from the road houses, the taverns and bars, as and when he can.
And known all the while that he deserves better.
And now, here is better-but on her terms, not his.
As he sees them, both of them, rise those last few levels of their shared arousal.
As he sees them climaxing together, twitching and twisting, writhing together as Rufe discharges his no doubt copious load into her hot, streaming, convulsing pussy, wad after thick wad of it, in, in, into the depths of her vagina, keeping her doubled up, impaled on his monster of a cock as he does so.
And Roy can only stand there and watch, out of sight, for the moment out of mind, as it happens.
So much jism, so very much, the big black man must be shooting into her!
Look, just look at the way that thick, long meat of his plunges again and again, slimy now with its discharge.
As she clings to him, tossing and turning wildly, responding with her total being to his climactic thrusts.
And now, they are finished.
And Rufe pulls out of her, his still fully tumescent cock bobbing hugely before him, one hand cupped beneath the still bulging head to catch a string of stray sperm as he strides from the room, not so much as looking in the direction of the closet.
Dutifully, Roy is out of the closet and moving toward the foot of the bed, his own cock quivering stiffly in front of him, fully charged with this treacherous and incomprehensible obsession, this uncontrollable yearning he has for Cynthia.
Who raises and spreads her legs, pulling the bed pillows beneath her head.
So that she can watch Roy, as he does "his" thing.
With resignation, with disgust, but mostly with raw sexual hunger, Roy closes his eyes, opens his mouth and seals it to her whole hairy split peach, with a resounding, "Arrrh!" as though he is a predator savagely devouring its prey alive.
Even though no savage, no predator would do as he is doing.
As he eats her cream-filled pussy.
As his tongue shafts in and out of its slimy, oozing depths.
As he titillates her to renewed arousal while cleaning her out, while avidly ingesting another man's sperm.
As his cock assumes a rock-like hardness bordering on the painful in the searing heat of his uncontrollable passion.
And yet, he keeps the faith.
And not until the last of Rufe's load is out of her and into himself does he pull his face back and, with a sigh of ecstasy and relief, shaft in, in, into her.
And now, he is fucking her, pumping away with the frenetic intensity of a sexual madman.
And he knows that this, this! is why he is alive, what he lives for, what his existence is all about.
And yes, this time, at least, she is responding to him, her snapper of a pussy sucking his cock as it pistons in and out of her.
As she actively services his prick.
As she warms up to him.
I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! he sings to himself.
But the excitement proves too much for him.
Already the pleasure beyond pleasure is taking him over, forcing him, pushing him where he doesn't want to go, not yet, not yet, not-
And he is coming and coming, and those are not climactic contractions but controlled actions which milk him of his load.
CHAPTER VII
It Was a trick! Roy realizes.
He sees that now.
She has processed him like so much meat going through a packing house.
She has sliced him and diced him, grinding him up and turning him into sausage.
She has run him through the slaughterhouse.
("We use ever'thang but the squeal, folks!")
He pulls back from her, as soon as his last spasm has passed.
And yes, she is red-faced, yes she is clearly aroused. Still.
And he has not gotten her off, has not pushed her over the rainbow.
Whereas the reverse is certainly the case.
She has manipulated him, has wrung his sperm from him as though he were some rag with which a maid washes windowsills.
And now she lies there, her face calm if somewhat flushed, looking at him, a faint, Sphinx-like smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
As a milky film of his own jism fills the gap between distended pussy lips.
And she says, "If you want seconds, you'll have to clean your plate.
And of course, he does.
Of course, perverted, sick, miserable piece of shit that he is, he does.
He does, and she knows it, knows that he cannot resist.
Because she has seen, has known such male passion before.
And the thereness of her creates a magnetism of its own.
Because there is nothing, nothing, nothing between him and the object of his supreme desire.
As time stands still.
As the world stops turning, holding its breath, suspended by her, by the presence, the availability, the thereness of her.
Because that's all his body wants to know, really.
The fact that she is right, exactly right-there!
Meaning before him, in front of him, tangible, an unarguable fact, reality itself.
Who would have thought, a small voice within him asks, rhetorically, that things would have come to this?
Who would have thought?
Hell, who can think at all, under these circumstances?
Not Roy-boy, certainly.
Not this sniveling, addicted lump of raw urge which was once a man.
Or was he?
Was he ever really a man?
Did he ever have to face danger, physical or emotional?
Has he ever known real crisis in his life.
Has he ever had to be completely on his own, with nobody to turn to, no recourse, no path of least resistance to pursue?
Never. Not really.
Free, white, over twenty-one he has been, and this in the fullest sense of the words.
Because there is no freedom without economic freedom.
Oh, granted, he is not in the club membership's league, probably never will be, the way things are going.
Dad is rebuilding the family fortunes, but he is much too old and it is going much too slowly for Roy to truly believe that he will be anything other than rather well off.
He will never have the cash reserves, will never know that delightful flow of money making money, those statements arriving in the mail informing him that he was rich before and has just become richer through the passage of time, which is on his side, which, whatever else it does, certainly generates funds upon funds merely by marching on inevitably.
Still, he has no financial worries on the human scale.
He is in good shape, with no debts.
His problem is that he has no appreciable assets, appreciable in the literal sense, meaning assets which increase -themselves-appreciate-silently, automatically, dependably, and with no effort whatever on his part.
Still, he is a free male adult with the proper social background.
And yet, here, now, he is captive, a slave to his own passion-again.
As he crouches there below her on the bed.
And looks back and forth, from his own detumescing cock, still shiny with saliva and pussy juice and his own fresh come.
A drop of which even now oozes out of the ruddy eye of his melting monster.
And all he can think is that, at least, that's some that he will not have to eat.
Telling himself that his eating of her right now is as good as a done deed.
And telling himself also that there is somehow satisfaction for him with this knowledge.
Because it means that he will have her again, at least one more time.
And it means that this is not something in the nebulous future, whether near or far, something "iffy".
Rather, it has been nailed, as surely as if she and he had signed a contract.
You do this and, in return, you get this.
That simple, and yet, considering the disgusting nature of the required task, the pre-condition of his intercourse with her, that complex as well.
Why would he, why would any man-especially one who, after all, has only just popped his rocks- why should he want to subject himself to this?
And yet, with all his heart, and over the objections of a very minor portion of his mind, he does.
He does, and this with a compulsion which will tolerate no obstacle, will listen to no argument, will overcome any revulsion.
And now, he lies down on the bed, prostrating himself before her, in the traditional and ancient position of absolute subjection, of unconditional, surrender.
And he seals his mouth, his lips to those of her pussy.
In and out, in and out his tongue moves, gliding across her clit each way, noting its engorgement with sick satisfaction.
As he cleans her pussy of his own discharge, his own thick cream, still fresh, not yet beginning to melt.
As he suppresses his gag reflex, over-riding it with his intensity, his lust.
As a cynical, derisive voice within him says, That's right, you sick son of a bitch, you fucking loser, eat that stuff, eat it all, eat her out.
And his body answers it with a hard-on, as his belly rubs against his meat tube, there on the sheets.
As he feels the warmth, the life flowing back into it.
And he hates himself for this, at least a part of him does.
Loser! he shouts to himself in his mind.
Winner! his body answers him, arousal welling up within him as though he were a balloon being pumped up by an outside force.
Which is inflating his sausage.
Which is getting it harder and harder, bigger and stronger.
Until, once again, he is at the ready.
And now he is on her, on her and in her.
And he parodies Rufe, scooping up her thighs, doubling her up.
And the determination is upon him, as his hands grasp both her breasts.
He is a man, dammit, and enough is enough!
And he will control himself, will control the situation, will know what it is to get her off.
Because he was a stud before and he is a stud now and he will not-absolutely will not-allow her to emasculate him with her mind games.
Why is she doing this to him?
Because she's a mean bitch.
And this answer somehow gives him a spurt of added satisfaction.
Sick it may well be, sick he may well be, but there it is.
And if he is sick, then he is sick in a very healthy way.
Because he feels the power, the strength within himself.
He is unstoppable, invincible, dammit!
And he will ride this mean bitch, will ride her on and on, will ride this body, these tits, this hot, juicy cunt of hers into nicking eternity, is what he will do!
So that she will know.
She will know that she's with a real man, a stud among studs, a real gem, a veritable diamond of virility.
So that she will see, will come to see, come to want him as badly, as helplessly, as obsessively as he wants her ...
Has he not passed ordeals, tests, trials of his sincerity?
Has he not fulfilled whatever obligation he had toward her, exhausting her right and privilege of testing him?
Yes, dammit, yes!
And now, let's move on, let's get on with our lives, our relationship.
As now, he sucks her tits, feeding them to himself one at a time, kneading, squeezing, rolling her large breasts around and around as he does so.
What about it, bitch? he asks her, in silence. How does this grab ya, douchie?
Was the black guy this good?
Could he ride ya like this?
Because I could keep this up forever, you know that?
I can take you over the rainbow, time and again, until you beg for mercy!
And never mind what happened before, either.
What was, was.
That was then, this is now.
Welcome to the present and your future, babe!
Because this is what it's gonna be like, no question.
Me on the top, you on the bottom.
And yes, he will ride out the storm, will see this obsession through to its exhaustion, its disintegration.
He will go through this tunnel of love and emerge, whole and unscarred, on the other side.
He will become truly free, free of her as, right now, he is not.
But he is working on it.
How many more times, how many more sessions before he can look upon her as disposable, expendable, emininently replaceable?
He cannot say.
Because he doesn't know.
But it's coming babe, it's coming, he tells her, in his mind; count on it.
And now, he is riding her in long, powerful strokes, even as he continues to suck and fondle her breasts.
And now, he is looking up at her, reading the expression in her face, the expression and the color of it.
And yes, he is getting her hotter and hotter.
It's working, no question.
No question, but that he is getting through to her.
As he would have before, had she but given it a chance.
But no, she was too busy being tricky, too concerned with playing her silly, stupid, humiliating games.
So be it.
Because yes, he is that strong, he is that good, that he can over-ride her nonsense, her petty little tricks.
So you go right ahead, bitch, he tells her. Play your stupid fucking pranks to your heart's content.
But in the end, he shall overcome.
Hey, love may not conquer all, but how about this big, hot, hard, long, thick, working staff in your fucking cunt.
Here ya go, bitch, argue with this, why don'tcha?
And this, and this, and this!
As he drives himself in and in and into her, again and again.
As he drives her higher and higher up the rainbow.
He does.
He knows he does.
Because her face is getting redder and redder, her breathing becoming more and more labored, as, eyes closed, mouth open, a look of genuine sexual ecstasy on her face, he rams and jams and crams himself into her, relentlessly.
Yes, that's right, I'm relentless, douchie!
You thought you could gross me out?
You never stood a fucking chance, bitch!
Because I can take it!
I can take it, bitch, all you can hand out and more!
And why?
Because I'm a man, you dumb fucking cunt!
I'm a real man, something you never had before and never will again, not after I work out on you and then dump you cold and leave you crying, begging-yes fucking begging!-for more.
Then we'll see whose into fun and games!
Then we'll see who ends up with their tongue hanging out!
As he drives into her, his thrusts becoming more and more vicious.
I'm raping her, he thinks, and she doesn't even know it.
Yes, that's right, he's taking her, having her against her will.
Because she never intended to give him this much power, this much satisfaction-never!
But he is not, is no longer dependent on her will.
Rather, it is his will, his! which is prevailing here.
Oh, yes, just look at that face, just look at the way these big balloons of hers with those doorbell nipples are responding to his attentions, to his will.
His will, his!
That is the one with the upper hand right now.
And his body was right, was absolutely correct to force him through what he has done with her.
Because that's all behind him, behind them now.
And it's fucking payback time!
As he drives in and in and into her, again and again, not letting up for an instant.
Because he is tireless, he is all-powerful; he could go on just like this forever and ever, world without end, is what he could.
And she has got to know it.
And he knows she does.
Oh yes, he might have surrendered to her before; that part's true enough, in a way, he supposes.
But.
The shoe is surely on the other foot now.
The winds of change have done a smart one-eighty, no question.
His turn to tell the funny jokes, to play the games now.
As he sings to himself, to the beat of his fucking, Deep (thrust) in my heart (jab), I do believe (hump) I shall overcome (pump) someday (lunge, lunge).
And now, she is twisting and writhing, squirming around powerfully, even doubled up, surrounded, contained as she is.
Oh? he asks her in his mind. What's this?
Out of control, are we?
Riding on cloud nine, are we?
Well, well, well, and just how did this happen, miss smart-assed rich bitch?
Could it be, could it just be that we have met our match?
Tell this one to that circle of harpies you've gotten in with, why don'tcha?
But no-o-o, you wouldn't do that now, would] a?
Because that would show them that you weren't the queen of the fucking world after all, wouldn't it, wouldn't it just?
And now, her pussy is sucking his cock, not as it did, not as she made it do before with deliberate muscle control.
Rather, this is automatic, this is reflex, this is- perfect. This is the breakthrough, is what this is, he tells himself.
This is the old body communication.
This is cutting right through all her fucking bullshit.
This is nothing like before.
This is himself, being in full charge, controlling everything, making it all happen the right way.
On top of the world now, he is.
He can think, can see clear as a bell.
He has come into his own.
This, this! is life as it was meant to be!
And whatever he had to go through to get here is worth it, worth it with a vengeance.
And speaking of vengeance, bitch, he asks her in silence, how does it feel to get your comeuppance, to get back better than you gave?
You are mine, cunt, all mine, do you understand that?
And now, he rotates his hips, reaming her impaled pussy on his mighty marauder.
And oh yes, she does respond, her moans filling the bedroom now.
Maybe the black guy can even hear her from his room down the hall and know, know that she is getting her ashes hauled as they have never been hauled before- never!
Am I good, or what? Roy asks himself, rhetorically.
Because he already knows, knows that he is the best.
Yeah, babe, I'm the life of this party! he shouts at her, in his mind.
And now, he varies his technique, now pistoning in and out of her, now rotating round and round, fully inserted.
And he feels her every response-response with her body, response with her cunt, that talented cunt of hers, her snapper of a pussy, with its articulated, incessant, independent motion.
He can feel her with his battering ram of a knob.
He can feel her with the thick, flared flange at its rear.
He can feel her with the thick, turgid, throbbing shaft.
He can feel her, nerve ending for nerve ending, as cock and cunt communicate, speaking to one another, telling each other those truths which are of the body, truths which are of sensation and cannot be denied.
Because they are what they are.
They are the basic, fundamental, unspoken, perhaps unspeakable truths which are at the core of all existence, all life.
They are the heralds of the one true goal of human existence.
Which is the ultimate pleasure, the pleasure beyond pleasure.
Which is that toward which all that is strives, and of which all other achievements are (poor) symbol or (inadequate) substitute.
The real thing, this is.
The core of reality, this is.
And he will accept no symbol, no substitute.
And that, that! is what has driven him to do as he has.
And he forgives her her transgressions; she simply didn't know who or what she was dealing with.
So that yes, he can be generous in victory, even as he was determined and steadfast in defeat.
Yes, he thinks, he really has to give himself credit, sticking it out like this.
Not just with this one, but with the club, the whole scenario of his life.
One long act of tolerance, of putting up with it all, on the part of a truly superior being, just now coming into his own.
Because Cynthia is the epitome, the ideal, the representative of all that he doesn't have, of all that he is not.
And she is, therefore, his perfect compliment.
So that, together, they are a unity, a completeness.
To form a more perfect union.
The phrase pops into his head, he does not know from whence.
The Constitution? Whatever.
That is what they are accomplishing here-forming a more perfect union.
Surely she sees, surely by now she realizes that they were meant to be.
Surely she knows that all her life has been, in reality, nothing but a search for him.
Because look, just look! how perfectly suited to one another they are.
Even their height is right.
She is tall, but he is taller.
She is big, but he is bigger.
She is gorgeous and he is strikingly handsome.
So that this is right.
And she has her own money; he can tell about such things, just by looking.
And, with her husband being out of the country constantly, we're talking millions in alimony, from which no prenuptial agreement of any kind can exempt Chipper.
Sorry, Mr. Chips, Roy tells him, in his mind, hate to do this to a fellow man and all that, but these are the breaks.
May the best man win, as they say.
As he fucks on and on.
I must be setting some kind of record, he tells himself.
Because surely this is no ordinary staying power he is here demonstrating.
This is prowess such as few, if any, have ever displayed, and certainly not in Cynthia's experience, however varied and extensive it might happen to be.
Yes, the search is over for her now, and the party is just beginning.
He will leave the country club, of course.
Probably join the yacht club, maybe get a large sail job.
No, make it a large motor monster, one of those mini-liners, like the Steeles have, like his father once had.
Show dear old dad there's more than one way to skin a cat, he will.
Hey, marrying a fortune's every bit as good as making one, he reasons. Nice thing about money is that it never knows and doesn't care where it comes from.
And now, he feels it, the ultimate pleasure, rising within himself.
Well, he tells himself, guess this has gone on long enough, and besides, she is definitely at the peak.
So he too relaxes his mind, surrendering it to his body.
And allows (telling himself that he actually has a choice) the pleasure beyond pleasure to carry him away, to transport him.
And he knows it's okay, knows that he has played the game perfectly and has won.
Because, even now, she is coming and coming, that talented pussy of hers milking his cock of its load, wad after wad, his spasms alternating, one for one, with her series of multiple orgasms.
Thus do they fly together through the realms of a shared sexual paradise.
Thus do they float together back down to earth.
And he stays right there, keeping her doubled up, containing her in his aura, his presence, until his cock begins to slowly detumesce.
And he pulls it out, making sure that she can see it for the magnificent example of cockhood it is.
But she spreads her legs apart, looking down at her pussy, then back at him, the invitation clear.
"Go to hell," he grins.
And heads for the shower.
CHAPTER VIII
Armando and Cynthia finish lesson.
And Roy is standing there at the entrance to the courts, waiting, as they emerge at the end of it.
"Would you excuse us, Armando?" Roy asks. "I'd like to speak to Cynthia for a moment."
Armando smiles, nods, and heads back to his cabin.
"Can this wait, Roy?" she asks. "I mean, I'm really sweated up and badly in need of a shower."
"Wait?" he repeats. "Cynthia, all I've been doing is waiting.
"Why haven't you been in contact with me?
"Why haven't you returned any of my calls?"
"I don't understand, Roy; what could we possibly have to discuss?
"I mean, Chipper isn't late on the dues or anything, is he?
"Because I assure you, I really do like it here now.
"So if he's-"
"Please don't be flip with me, Cynthia,"
"Au contraire, mon cher, I'd say you're the one being flip with me."
"What, what do you mean, exactly?"
"Listen, Roy.
"You're the ranking man on staff here and as such I suppose you're due a certain amount of deference, over and above common courtesy.
"And you are the club's employee and not mine personally, so that I don't deceive myself that you work for me, any more than, say, a civil servant is considered to work for an individual citizen.
"But I have my circle of friends-a growing circle, I might add, notwithstanding your initial intimations to me that I'm the odd woman out around here."
"I believe I've more than made amends to you for that ... misconception.
"I really think that we're mature enough individuals that we can move on from there."
"We? Move on? Roy, I don't understand."
"Cynthia, don't hand me that crap-please!"
"Just look at you, Roy!
"I do believe you're actually getting angry with me."
"Cynthia, you know-what we've done, how, how-good we are in, at, you know what together.
"I mean, last time-"
"Last time, as I recall, you told me to go to hell."
"But I thought, I thought you were like ... kidding, you know?
"I mean all right, a test is a test and all that, and I don't blame you for questioning my ... sincerity, but we've worked our way beyond that, or at least I certainly think we have."
"We? We? What's with this we, Roy?
"I have my circle of friends, as I said before.
"I presume that you also have ... contemporaries, with whom you regularly associate.
"You're good looking, personable, charming and all that.
"But Roy, how can you possibly imagine that there's any such thing as 'we'?"
"After what we had that last time?"
"That word again.
"Is there unfinished business between us of which I'm unaware?"
"Cynthia, you know damn well what I'm talking about, so please don't insult my intelligence by pretending otherwise."
"I would say that if there's any insult here, it's coming from you, Roy.
"Or is the word presumptuous too large for your vocabulary?"
"Suddenly, I'm not good enough for you, is that it?"
"Not suddenly, Roy; the fact is, you never were to begin with.
"Now, if you'll excuse me-"
And she disappears into the women's locker room.
Great putdown, he tells himself, masochistically.
But he cannot, will not accept it.
He really thought, really hoped, as the days went by, that he had gotten over her, over that strange attraction she has for him, this, this ... thing that results in a suspension of his powers of judgment at the very thought of her.
It didn't happen, it isn't happening.
Instead, he wants her worse than ever, more even than before, if that's possible.
And he realizes that his getting over her wasn't even what he was really hoping for at all.
Instead, he was simply hoping that she would call, or come into the office; or see him en passant and say the magic words.
His confidence was high, after that second night.
Oh sure, it began with the customary ritual degradation-assuming that two dates is sufficient to establish a custom.
But there, toward End, he was sure he had her.
After all, he did manage to get her off.
And therefore that last invitation to clean her out was just a joke between them, hence his telling her what he did.
But now, she's pretending she meant it.
Maybe she was embarrassed at his having been so much better than she thought he would be.
Maybe she's still embarrassed by his having gotten through to her, his having actually reached her, and she wants to put him through a little more hell by pulling the upper crust bit on him.
But he cannot bring himself to believe that it's actually all over, finished between them.
Because he has too much to offer her.
He has shone himself both totally pliable and totally proficient.
And surely, that is a combination to be valued, especially in a world in which normal social relationships has been suspended.
Because, happy or not here, this is not her world, is not normally even her temporary world.
Next year, the Roystons will be hack.
Sid himself reassured Roy of this over the phone when he told Roy about the arrangements he made with Chipper Harrington for his wife to occupy the place for the summer.
So that this is time out, this is time out of time, this is time which does not count.
Whatever she does, it doesn't matter in the overall scheme of her life.
She wants a summer romance? That's okay with Roy.
Lowering his sights.
Now, he doesn't see her leaving Chipper to be with him permanently.
And that's okay.
One step at a time, slow and easy wins the day.
Give him two more months with her and he'll have her eating out of the palm of his hand, right?
Okay, okay, so they had a bit of a misunderstanding.
No problem.
He'll make amends.
He'll straighten it out, even if it means-hey, why not?
He did it once, he can do it again.
Even his throwing up was more a result of the mental image of his doing what he did than physical revulsion.
The mind fighting the body, it was.
And has he not proven to himself that it is the body which is above all to be served?
In the body, not in the mind, with its million and one conceits, its arrogance and self-deception-in the body alone does truth reside.
And to possess that body, to merge that body once again with his, to know that more perfect union, well, what would he not do, what test would he not pass, to achieve that?
He leans against the fence, watching the tennis players, despising the clumsy for their ineptitude, despising the talented for their unnecessary skill.
He hates the rich, actually, he realizes, even while aspiring to become one of them.
And he promises himself that he will not be a hypocrite, that he will hate them every bit as much when he is rich as he does right now, right at this precise instant, when his hatred is at its most intense.
"Oooh!"
This in stereo, from several mouths, near and far, as some debutante out there on the courts stumbles over her own feet and goes down, scraping a knee.
At once, Roy grabs a nearby house phone and calls Bruno, who, in addition to being a masseur, is also a registered nurse.
Within ten seconds, Bruno is on the courts, attending the fallen non-athlete, to scattered applause from players and patio above.
Roy stays where he is, unable to muster sufficient false concern to go over to where the action is, expressing superficial and caring interest.
And he is still there, watching as Bruno deftly bandages the scrape.
So that he is startled when a finger taps him on the shoulder, turning around to see Cynthia, dressed now in sunbacked flower print and sandals, moving away from him as she shouts, over her shoulder, "My place, tomorrow afternoon at two!"
Oh, fine, he thinks. Like running this place isn't a full time job.
Like he can just take off in the middle of the day like that.
It's true, he can, but how dare she assume that he can?
Or is she, on the other hand, paying him a compliment, considering him more one of her "set" than she did before, and thus able, as a member of the leisure class, to get away at will?
Whatever the case, he will be there.
If the club should catch on fire, in mid-blaze, he will be there.
He will show up there, ready, willing and able to do her bidding.
Which, he reflects, will probably be simply to go to bed with her.
A little love in the afternoon.
With, perhaps, a small confession of how unreasonable she has been and can he ever forgive her?
Which, of course, he can, not pushing his luck, not adding something flippant about not letting it happen again.
His little repartee, his parting, "Go to hell," however gay and fay, light and amusing his intent, has caused him enough trouble and he will not make that mistake again.
And now, he softens.
Rich people everywhere, all is forgiven.
And he goes over to where the young lady is gingerly testing her ability to walk, supporting herself on one of Bruno's broad, t-shirted shoulders as her partner, a girl of her own age, stands by awkwardly.
"Can I get you anything?" he asks. "A glass of something from upstairs, perhaps?
"Here, let me help you over to the bench."
But the girl is more embarrassed by her own clumsiness.
"I'm so stoo-pid," she wails.
"Nonsense," Roy replies, "after all, it's not as though you play the game for a living."
*****
Roy rings the chimes.
No answer, yet he can hear noises coming from somewhere.
Impatiently, he rings the chimes again, repeatedly.
Juanita, the maid, answers the door, looking back over her shoulder, beyond the doors which lead to the rear deck, laughing.
Roy, immaculate in blue blazer and grey slacks, looks her up and down.
She wears a brief terrycloth robe and colorful thong sandals.
"Can I help-oh, ees joo, Se$or Alleesohn.
"Joo are espected. Com een, please."
She closes the door behind him.
And he catches glimpses of naked female bodies, dashing by the sliding doors, laughing.
"I'm afraid I don't quite ... understand, Juanita.
"Is Mrs. Harrington, uh, that is-where is Mrs. Harrington?"
"Meez Seen'tia, chee ou' by de pool. We all are.
"Com! Look for joorself."
"We all-" he asks, allowing Juanita to take him by the sleeve.
There are five of them, four women he recognizes from the club, the intimates Cynthia has chosen, plus Cynthia herself.
All naked, lounging about, bodies shiny with sunscreen, or splashing in and out of the pool.
And Roy smiles at this.
All must indeed be forgiven, he thinks, and with a vengeance.
Because Cynthia has created a veritable harem for him.
Where else would such a thing be possible? he asks himself, adding, I love rich women!
"Joo a II'I overdressed, don' joo thin'?"
"Over-oh yes, definitely.
"I'll just go upstairs and change into something more comfortable."
"Ees a terryclot' robe for joo on de bed," Juanita says. "I biliv joo know de way.
"See joo ou by de pool."
And she leaves him.
Roy takes the stairs, three at a time, tearing his clothes off in the bedroom, hastily donning the robe.
And pauses a moment, forcing himself to calm down, to breathe slowly, to be cool, to take it all in stride.
Hef at the mansion, right, babe? he tells himself.
You're used to it, you see it every day, you're rolling in nookie, there's many of them and one of you, winners tell funny jokes and you rule the world, okay?
And he actually gives himself a reassuring pat on the ass before he starts down the stairs, barefoot, cock already at witch beneath the loose folds of the robe.
*****
"And there he is, girls," Cynthia exclaims, "the man of the hour."
Feeling more like the man of the year, Roy nods to one and all, saying, "Ladies."
But they don't look him in the eye, with the exception of Cynthia.
He wonders at this, attributing it to a natural embarrassment, since he is, after all, the manager of the country club, and they have a long way to go together in the clothed and civilized mode.
"Grab a swim, why don't you?" Cynthia says.
Good an excuse as any to get naked, he tells himself.
He strips off the robe and plunges athletically into the pool, swimming a few demonstration strokes, showing off the bod and like that, before coming up at the edge of the pool.
Where the five of them hover above him, standing, only Juanita ignoring him, sunning herself in a lounge chair.
Roy looks up, aware of them all looking down on him as from a great height, bushes and boobs prominent, faces visible above these, like those of statues on pedestals.
"I've invited you here to clear up a little credibility problem, Roy," Cynthia says. "It would appear that my friends have difficulty believing that you did what I said you did the first and second times you were here."
"Try to imagine how little I care," Roy replies. "And anyway, don't you mean what we did?"
"That's the other thing I wanted to clear up-your vocabulary.
"I want you to drop all reference to 'we', meaning you and I together, from your conversation, and I alse want you to take to heart the meaning of the word presumptuous, as it applies to yourself.
"So I thought we would kill two birds with one stone here today.
"Note that I have aligned the pad with the edge of the pool.
"Here's the drill: Each lady will get into the pool with you and lean over the edge, on the pad.
"You will be right there to answer nature's call, and to show them what a turn-on this really is for you, whenever you feel the inspiration-after doing your job, of course-you may then proceed to boff the object of your attentions."
"But-"
"Do this, and you may sleep with me tonight-all night."
And suddenly, Roy is feverish, dizzy, disoriented.
The whole scene seems to swim before his eyes, seems to undulate in and out in his mind.
And he cannot say what is real, what is impression, or if this whole scene itself is some sort of erotic nightmare of helpless desire and incredible humiliation.
Because there is Holly, her voluptuous hourglass figure descending the steps into the pool.
She swims in front of him, then drapes her upper body onto the mat on the deck, her hips broad and flaring, buttocks presented to him.
And Roy, as though in a dream, as if watching ' himself move inexorably, not under his own control, sees himself as he spreads Holly's ample buttocks, exposing her big, puffy bung, elongated and pale mauve.
He seals his lips to her ass hole, rimming her, his tongue probing the orifice.
And now, he feels the counter-pressure.
And he sucks the elongated mass into his mouth and swallows it, unbitten, untasted.
Faintly, as though from some far distance, he hears Holly say, "It's happening and I still can't believe it."
As she releases her next cigar.
And the next and the next.
And Roy tries to fight the feeling and the action, but fails on both counts.
As his cock goes erect, there in the tepid water, where he crouches.
He doesn't want it, doesn't want any of this, but it's all happening and there seems to be nothing at ail he can do about it.
He is as one hypnotized, as one dreaming, compelled, guided by forces outside himself, with no will of his own.
And yes, now he stands there, fucking her, ignoring the rumbling in his stomach.
And the sunlight and the water and the voluptuous body complete the inspiration begun by what went before.
So that he is coming and coming into her.
When she is done, she turns around, hikes herself up onto the mat, raising and spreading her legs.
And Roy knows what he has to do, what he has no choice other than to do.
As he vacuums her cunt with his tongue.
So it goes.
Sally and Sandy and Muffy are all converted, made true believers, knowing now that Cynthia has told them the truth.
As Roy performs like a machine.
"Hey, Juanita, care to join us?" Cynthia shouts.
Juanita stirs from her nap and says, "No thanks. Mebbe nex' time, okay?
"Anyways, I gotta start de sopper."
"Okay, but that'll just be for five. Roy already ate."
Everyone laughs, including, to the horror of one small corner of his brain, Roy himself.
Who is suddenly totally relaxed, completely indifferent.
Because what's done is done and cannot be undone.
You accept these things and you live with them, as the phrase goes around the club, apropos of everything in life, apparently.
Good idea, Roy thinks, total acceptance.
And he seats himself on the edge of the pool along with the others, dangling his feet in the water.
"So, ladies," he says, "are you all properly grossed out now?"
"Just don't kiss me on the lips and we'll get along okay, lover-boy," Holly replies.
And they all laugh again.
"Seriously," Muffy says, "that was pretty remarkable, getting it up and fucking four times in a row like that.
"Personally, I just wish that Ralph could perform like that.
"Say girls, you don't suppose-"
"Uh, Muffin, dearest, before you go getting carried away, I would definitely not suggest it.
"Just imagine how that would look on the divorce papers when Ralph dumps you," Holly says.
"Yes, girls," Cynthia sighs, "it would seem that we're definitely stuck with Roy here for that particular thrill.
"How does it feel to have a monopoly, Roy?"
"Don't do me any favors, Cynthia," Roy replies.
But his voice is flat, calm, expressionless.
"Ah, but I see that I did, Roy."
"How's that?"
"You just broke the shame barrier, Roy.
"I mean, just look around you. Just look at yourself.
"This is not a dream, Roy; this is reality.
"This is for the record, on the record.
"You know it happened, we know it happened.
"Unbelievable, but there it is, and nothing to be done but accept it as accomplished fact, which you have.
"And like Muffy says, four in a row?
"You're no longer a man, Roy-you're our demon lover.
"Am I right, girls?"
Mumbled assent.
"And now that we've gotten all the phoniness, all the bullshit out of you, I rather imagine you can look forward to quite a busy private life.
"See how it all worked out?"
*****
A toe on his shoulder, and Roy wakes up again, in the moonlit gloom of the bedroom, where he was asleep at the foot of the bed.
And, as Rufe goes into the bathroom and turns on the light, draping his cock into the basin of the sink and begins washing himself off, Roy wallows his face in Cynthia's snatch, moist now with sexual sweat, hers and Rufe's.
And he eats her cream-filled cunt, feeling his prick warm up, then twitch to full, vibrant life.
And he is on her and in her and fucking her for all he is worth.
And she milks his cock with her talented twat.
And she easily, quickly takes him up and over the top.
And he slides back down her body, his mouth once again sealing itself to her pussy lips, his tongue once again cleaning her out, the load much lighter and thinner this time.
When he has finished, he slides back down to the foot of the bed and sleeps again.
And this happens twice more during the night, before, finally, the three of them sleep through to morning.
The summer passes all too quickly for Cynthia.
It is with a profound sense of regret that, on the appointed day, she finds herself all packed up and ready to go.
"The place will seem empty without you," Roy says, standing on the front steps with her as Rufe and Juanita pass back and forth carrying out suitcases and garment bags.
"Perhaps I'll be back next summer.
"I can stay with Holly or Muffy or whoever.
"Too bad there won't be the pool parties, though."
"There's always Fire Island," Roy observes. "Less comfort, of course, but the setting is more natural."
"Well, you'll be a very busy boy, .Roy, so I don't imagine you'll really miss me all that much."
"Probably not," he agrees.
She looks at him sharply, but then laughs with him.
"You've only yourself to blame, Cynthia," he reminds her. "I mean, those lists of yours.
"Who would have thought there would be so many horny attractive women in the club?"
