Chapter 2
The new girl, Tony thinks. Destiny.
He knows her real name well enough; it's right on her application, on her W-2.
He knows where she comes from, who her parents are, at least by name, what high school she graduated from.
He also knows that this is her first job, the first place she has ever worked in her life.
Which fascinates him all the more.
Because she is his fucking star attraction, no question.
No question but that she is the one the customers take seriously. Seriously.
Meaning that the joking, elbowing, sophomoric surface enthusiasm they love to demonstrate for each others' amusement has no place in their deportment when Destiny appears.
He has seen it, over and over again.
Conversations cease-attention is directed toward the stage.
And then there are the remarks.
Because there are no remarks.
Not even from the loudest, the most unruly patrons in the place, the ones Rocco and Alphonse have to keep an eye on.
Calms them right down, she does, does Destiny.
Because all she ever wears out there is a g-string and high heels.
Very effective, that,-Tony knows.
He has had only one other dancer over the years who had an effect resembling Destiny's.
Darlene, her name was.
She was big like Destiny, only older, about thirty, maybe, maybe thirty-five at the time, as Tony recalls.
And she was brassy, as only a bleached blonde can be brassy.
Her hair-black or brown, Tony never saw it in its natural state-was bleached platinum, which looked good, at least on stage, against her naturally swarthy complexion.
And it made a striking contrast to her black bush, of just the right thickness, not so thick as to obscure anything, but showing the individual curls at the edges.
She trimmed it a little, but seemed to know just the right way to do it.
Anyway, she would come out on stage wearing a cocktail dress, topless, backless, frilly, summery.
But it would break away from her body.
Held in the back by Velcro fasteners, it was.
So that all she had to do was to reach behind herself, bending over in time to the music, of course, undo the two spots, and-ta-da!
There it was.
Big fuckin' tits, she had!
And that black bush with the blonde hair up top.
And it gave Tony-well, not just Tony, any guy who saw it, saw her and wasn't dead from the navel down-that quick zing, that sudden thrill, and, in Tony's younger days, which those were, an actual if faint flush to the face.
One minute, she was a large, attractive blonde, well worth the second glance.
But the next?
Magic!
There was no other word for it, because that's just what it was-magic.
She was every-man's dream, after if not before the fact.
Every man's dirty, lascivious dream, that is.
If you thought sex, you thought Darlene.
If she didn't already exist in your mind as the ultimate sex partner, she planted herself there in the flash of that first moment of revelation.
She was just-there!
And maybe that was part of the magic, that Tony could never figure out what he meant by that. The thereness of her. Meaning what?
Her reality, of course, the confirmation that yes, there is such a woman in the world, that she exists in nature and that she is not some impossible mental construct, some unattainable if droolingly lascivious ideal.
But reality alone did not explain it, did not explain her.
Because there was no explanation, not in words, anyway, not in ordered thought processes, not even when he tried, tried to figure her out, to discern her true meaning.
It was a, a ... thing of the body.
It was like a sensation, a complex of sensations, a million and one feelings coming together.
And Darlene would give you no peace, Tony recalls.
Okay, there was the magic, the mystical, the deep down sexual shock of suddenly seeing her there, solid, real, revealed.
And no sooner did she land that blow, leaving the senses reeling with the realization-the making real-of her sheer physical presence, than she would make her moves.
Her moves, Tony thinks, and a thrill stirs his groin at the memory.
Because she would put her hands above her head, as the music went into some middle eastern thing, with heavy tambourines and wailing flutes.
And she would move.
Or rather, they would move, those melons of hers.
Around and around they would go, circling clockwise, the crowd too agape at the sight to applaud.
Then, she would throw them into reverse, making them go the other way, all that gland, all that flesh moving with mechanical perfection.
And then, she would revolve them toward each other, cleavage appearing and disappearing as the twin monster mammaries formed and destroyed it.
Then, away from each other, in perfect muscular control at all times.
And she did not put on any airs.
She did what the rest of the nookie in the show did as well, at least up on stage.
Which was to bend over and show her goodies, all of them.
Front and back, she showed.
She smiled at the audience, too.
But it was an inward smile, the smile of somebody all alone, engrossed in their own thoughts, thoughts of their own self, their own image.
Because that was the other thing with her.
A completeness.
One person can never become another, of course, but still, there is an interplay, a reaching out, this thing that people do who acknowledge that others exist and are of some meaning, if not importance to each other.
With her, there was none of that.
She didn't need-anybody.
Tony fucked her.
But it was not because he fed her a line, not because she had any interest in him.
It was more like, Hey, why not?
Unfortunately, that's also what it was like in the sack as well.
She was there.
But the thereness of her was not like it was on stage.
Because that thereness was the confirmation of a reality which, otherwise would have existed only as a potential, an unattainable image in the mind.
Whereas this was totally lacking in such shock value, had in fact no spontaneity whatever.
It was like a song the Beatles were singing at the time.
If you want it, here it is, come and get it.
So that her thereness was that of an object, in the literal sense; in other words, a thing.
The body was there, was available, was his.
And yes, he availed himself of it, in the sense of a physical facility.
Oh, he explored her, her every contour, her every nook and cranny.
With eye and fingers, hands and tongue he covered all the bases.
And, even with her extreme passiveness, she was worth "doing".
The quantity and quality of those boobs of hers!
The taste of her body, even of her pussy!
So that Tony would become excited just handling her, fondling her, kneading, squeezing, manipulating and finally eatiner her out.
Yes, he would raise that big staff of his in a matter of, say, five minutes, and this with no help or response from her, other than her raising and spreading her legs when he went to eat her and keeping them there as he fucked her.
And fuck her he would, wallowing, losing himself in that fantastic body of hers.
And scooping up her big legs from beneath, showing her, showing himself that he was actually very well suited to her in the physical department, being a big, strong guy and all.
So that now, she was doubled up, impaled on his big boinker.
So that he could handle her jugs with both hands while holding her in position.
So that, bending his head forward, he could suck her tits and fuck her at the same time.
So that he could envelop her, could possess her completely.
So that he could be inside and outside, above and below and all around her, at the same time.
But he could not break that complacency, that completeness of hers, no matter what he did.
However great his staying power-and back then, it was great indeed, a matter of considerable pride for him-however fantastic his technique-and he used to drive the fuckin' bracchioles up the wall with it-she took him in stride.
He could not raise the flush of her passion.
He could not cause the sweat of it to form on her.
In short, he could not get through to her.
So that he was, in essence, masturbating himself with her.
That's right, he had to concluded, finally, what he was doing was jerking off, using her as the geeks and creeps would a rubber inflatable doll.
She was a walking hand job.
She was a way to jerk off without having to form the mental images.
She was an easy lay-the easiest in fact-and, for him, an easy come.
Pleasant enough in its way, he supposes, but what grown man wants to jerk off?
Especially when there was so much stuff around. Especially when you were a rising young business man like Tony.
And he could not even claim she was insulting him.
Because, at least after that first time, he knew what he was getting into.
And went for it anyway, hoping for a change. But the change never came. Not even when he tried fucking her in the ass. And more than tried.
And had a good time trying, a good time doing her, doing it.
Because face it, that great big, beautiful ass of hers has something.
Something to look at, something to feel with hands and fingers.
And something to spread, something to behold when he had done so, that big bung of hers, pink and round and evenly segmented and slightly protruding.
And yes, he enjoyed it, enjoyed it thoroughly, in fact.
As he sealed his lips to her ass hole, sucking it, chewing it, his tongue probing the juncture of the segments.
And then penetrating her, feeling her interior heat, feeling the soft, yielding tissues of her rectal wall.
And moving his tongue round and round inside her ass.
And pulling his face back, wetting the fingers of one hand and inserting two of them in, in, into her ass hole.
And moving them round and round, the pressure of his knuckles widening, slackening her entrance still further as he reamed her interior with his delving digits.
Until he was convinced that she could take him with ease.
And, in the event, she did.
With so much ease that it seemed to him that he was making no impression at all upon her, as though her mind were somewhere else or perhaps nowhere at all, but in any case not on the action at hand.
Still, he was excited.
Because this was, she was a marvel of female flesh, no question, never a question of that, his enthusiasm for her, for the image she projected and of which she was the realization never waning.
As he sat back on his heels, his knob hobbling stiffly at the end of his monster baton.
And he remembers, remembers every last detail of it.
He remembers how he polished his knob with a blob of saliva, even how it glistened, reflecting the light of her bedroom.
And he remembers the action, remembers the appearance and the feel of it, of her.
As he buttoned his cock head into her ass hole.
As he felt her vestibule caressing his knob, welcoming it.
And he remembers her ass hole, stretched now to a perfectly rounded, smooth orifice, clinging to his cock as though it were a mouth about to suck his prick.
And in fact, he recalls, it seemed to be sucking him in, in, into itself.
As he rotated his hips, both his hands on the swell of hers, as he pushed slowly forward.
So that he was literally screwing himself into her ass.
So that he was spiralling in and in and into her, the battering ram head of his cock parting the rectal channel, stretching it, filling it with his shaft as he advanced.
Until he was fully seated, the cheeks of her ass pressing lasciviously against the hard slab of his stomach.
And he was into her all they way, into this glorious creature's ass, the top man, the winner in this most intimate act of physical giving.
And he heightened the intimacy of it now, releasing one hip and reaching down and around to weigh one of those magnificent udders of hers, to thumb its large nipple.
Yes, he remembers playing with them as they hung below her, firm and massive and very, very heavy, the biggest, the heaviest jugs he had ever encountered.
As he began to fuck her.
As the image in his mind, he recalls, was exactly what was happening-himself fucking Darlene in the ass while playing with her tits.
The image of himself doing that while thinking of himself doing that, and so on, an endlessly introverting and introverted image which drove itself into the innermost depths of his consciousness.
And she took it all, took it even when, placing both his hands back on her hips to steady her, he began to go crazy.
Yes, he fucked her in the ass using every motion he could think of.
He pistoned in and out of her-hard, pounding thrusts which rocked her, which set up a seismic wave which coursed through her body, ass to shoulders.
And he rotated, round and round, reaming her ass with his mighty marauder.
And he rotated while ramming and jamming.
With an inner viciousness he acted, at one point, he recalls.
Teeth gritted, glowering at her expressionless back, he assaulted her with his turgid invader, battering her, hammering on her insides with its wrecking ball of a head.
And she took him.
She took everything he had to hand out to her. And remained rock steady, remained maddeningly calm.
And yet, he knew, is to this day convinced, that, on some level, in some manner, he was, had to be, getting through to her.
Nobody could take what he did to her ass and not feel-something.
So that that then became a part of his fantasy, became the fantasy part of that reality.
Which was that yes, in a manner unclear to him, then or now, he was reaching her, was getting through to her.
So that she was, she was ... enjoying it.
At some level of her awareness, of her body's awareness, it was happening for her.
Had to be.
Had to be, because it was impossible for her to be that sexy, to have that much, that much ... stuff, and not be impacted by the very acts for which she was, let's face it, made.
And yes, he remembers, remembers making one last attempt at getting her to show something.
And he succeeded, at last; or so he would like to believe.
Because he reached back down, down and around, the position awkward, his hand reaching beneath her belly, finding her hairy crotch.
And two fingers delving into it, searching, searching-
And finding.
Her joy buzzer, her clit.
Which he twiddled between the two fingers.
And which was not dry.
Which was slick with the juices of her pussy, of her warm, if not hot pussy.
And which was, granted, rather large of its kind to begin with, but which quickly took on a firmness, its engorgement, to him, an established fact.
So that it was being doubly stimulated, from within and from without.
So that it was, in essence, his prisoner, his captive, to thus amorously stimulate, to thus determinedly, delightfully torture.
Because she did, she absolutely did, give him her ass.
No question.
No question but that she was holding nothing back from him, that she was not tensing up, not in any way hampering him, was, in that sense at least, totally receptive to his efforts and attentions.
So that maybe, just maybe, he was getting through to her.
But so complete was she, in and of herself, so little in need of outside contact, so independent of anybody or anything beyond her own physical self that this was as far as she could go toward deriving pleasure, even the most ultimate of pleasure, from another.
Encouraged by this notion, Tony redoubled his efforts.
And pumped in and in and into her, all the way.
So that, very soon, spurt after spurt of his thick, hot, copious jism was injecting itself in and in and into the depths of her bowels.
As he came and came, continuing to drive his hard, thick, long, discharging intruder into her, again and again.
And yes, he rode her, all the way down.
And lay atop her, fully inserted.
And saw, or imagined he saw, a slightly heightened pinkness to her cheek.
And he lay there, watching it fade, which meant that it was not entirely his imagination.
As his cock slowly detumesced within her ass.
Until it was sufficiently flaccid that the peristaltic action of her bowels was able to expel him, turd-like.
And still he lay there, wondering at the size of her, the beauty of her, the raw sexuality of her.
And at the lack of responsiveness of her.
And preferring to believe, on the scantiest of evidence, perhaps even in the absence of evidence, that he had gotten through to her.
He never knew for sure.
Certainly, she never told him a thing, never said anything about what they did, before, during or after.
And that was the last time Tony fucked Darlene. Because a man has his pride, especially a large, strong, ruggedly handsome, virile stud like Tony. And he didn't need that.
He didn't need the lack of appreciation, no matter what the reason behind it might be.
Whether it was him or her, the fact remained that he could do better.
Not in the sense of physical partner; that would be impossible, as he would be the first to admit.
But in responsiveness?
She was, had to be, his worst ever.
And his pride at the fact of possessing her, of having her available to him any time he wanted, well, that would carry only so far.
Because, as far as that goes, there were plenty of other good looking heads, better looking than Darlenes, for that matter, heads that heads would turn to see him with, for sure.
So that he was not about to waste himself on her on the off chance that, somewhere deep down inside himself, in a manner unknown to him, she was in fact enjoying her sexual experience with him.
Even back then, he was running a club for the outfit.
And she asked him for a raise. And he refused. And she was gone.
And he never saw, never heard from her, never heard of her again.
The body that wouldn't quit, she had.
And it remained in his memory, the thought of her undiminished in all these years.
While the image and memories of other, hotter numbers faded, melting all into one.
To form the archetypal hot number, the stacked and sexy bitch in heat.
Hourglass figure, swivel tits and flaring hips, smaller than Darlene, but infinitely hotter than Dar-lene.
Yes, that became, is the one he holds in his mind now.
As he fucks whoever he fucks with his eyes closed.
Because Darlene is the last one he fucked with his eyes open.
Better to fuck the ideal than the real, it is.
And it is, perhaps, the main magic of sex, the joyous mystery of it, that it can encompass both worlds, the real and the ideal, while transcending them both.
So that, if Darlene taught Tony nothing else, she taught him that sex is all in the mind.
So that perhaps, in that sense, all sex is masturbation.
And the only difference between one sexual act and another lies in the devices we use to masturbate with.
Because, woman or hand, for Tony, the images remain the same.
Even when, as is his practice nowadays, he dates women who resemble his ideal-latin, stacked and sexy-he closes his eyes.
And of course, women do that anyway-close their eyes, that is-so they never know that he is not peering intently into their faces, his own becoming redder and redder, his expression goofier and goofier until, together, they go over the rainbow.
Togetherness and separateness, Darlene's other lesson for Tony.
Which is that, for him at least, there is no longer a true merging of bodies, no longer that losing of himself in another, in an entity comprised of both of them.
In the end, we have only ourselves.
So Tony believes now, AD, after Darlene.
But then, that's just as well, he reflects.
So that now, after all these years, there comes another which arouses within him what he felt for Darlene.
But this time, he will approach without high hopes, without great excitement.
So that, if Destiny proves as cool as Darlene, he will not be disappointed.