Chapter 6
Here is excitement, here is satisfaction, Rocco tells himself.
Because this is what he has made of himself, this superstud, creature of his own creation.
By his own will has he transformed himself.
And that, that other, that errant urge toward his former self?
Off base.
Way off base.
Nostalgia, sentimentality, is all. Not natural to him.
Because the past is the past, is dead, is gone forever.
And to dwell therein is to be stupid, to waste time, to waste the reality of now for a past which can never be again.
Onward and upward, through now and now and now!
Thus does he exist, now that he can no longer live.
Thus does he move, even though he is dead. If he's dead, then he's dead, and so what? This is better than all those other feelings, anyway.
Because this, this! is what it was all about to begin with.
He was convinced of it, or he would not have made of himself what he has.
This, this! is all there is that is of value in this world.
This is what all human endeavor, directly or indirectly, is all about, the goal and the activity, the feelings and sensations, toward which all men strive, whether they know it or not.
The tycoon is the superstud of finance.
The dictator is the superstud of power.
Mister Galaxy is the superstud of strength and form.
But what are these, all these, but symbol and substitute for the real thing?
And he, at least, has had the good sense to sacrifice his humanity in the one true and worthy cause.
And it is great satisfaction to know that he did not die in vain.
Because now he is risen, is resurrected, is transformed.
And was, has been, without realizing it until now, until this particular now.
And now, he honors Conchita by fucking her.
And surely, some part of her is aware of just what an honor that is.
Those other women, the women from the beaches were, he is certain.
He changes his attitude toward the beach scene now.
His image would not fade, would not suffer from overexposure.
But still, he will not overdo repetition.
Because he is habit-forming, he knows.
And does not want, certainly does not need, women clinging to him.
He hates clinging vines.
Always has, even as a human being.
But enough of these meanderings.
Back to the business at hand, or rather, the pleasure.
As he continues to piston in and out of Conchita's cunt.
As she concentrates, eyes closed, on the feelings which he is generating within her.
As she writhes and twists, rocks and rolls, squirming so much that only his length, his thickness prevent her from accidentally separating from him.
Here ya go, Conchita, he thinks, you like to rock and roll, do you? You like it on the wild side?
Let's just give you a real fucking adventure, shall we?
He unplugs, turning her over before she can react, pulling her to knees and elbows by tugging at her hips.
Quickly, he seals his mouth to her ass hole, his tongue probing powerfully, insistently into her depths.
Quickly, he pulls his face back from her.
Quickly, he shafts his mighty prong, slick now with her clear, hot pussy juices, in and in and into her ass.
And now, placing both hands on her hips, he pumps in and out with the same piston action with which he was fucking her cunt, moments before.
And now, he holds his own hips steady, lifts her pelvis, both hands clutching the flare of her wide hips, and rotates it round and round, reaming her ass with his prick by rotating her on it.
And now, he puts her back down and rotates his own hips, continuing the action.
And she is going crazy now, cries of ecstasy and passion ringing flatly off the walls of the spacious bedroom.
And now, he pulls his cock out of her ass, flips her over, plants a knee on either side of her body and leans forward, holding onto the headboard for support-
And feeds his cock into her mouth with one hand.
And now, both hands on the headboard, he is literally fucking her in the mouth, hips pumping as she takes his cock, as much of it as will fit, into her mouth, holding it open, merely maintaining the warm pressure of tongue and roof of mouth as he plows away.
And now, he pulls away, sliding back down her body, pausing only to suck and fondle her tits along the way.
And jams his cock back into her cunt.
And grabs her by the waist, holding her to himself, as he rocks back onto his knees, then gets off the bed, one foot at a time.
And walks her all around the bedroom, all around the condo as, arms around his neck, head on his shoulder, he carries her by the cheeks of her ass, legs wrapped around his waist, cock fucking her with the motion of his walking.
And she moans there in rapture, rapture at the flood of erotic sensation which rises within her, rapture at this ultimate expression of his macho power.
And now, back onto the bed he lays her, leaning forward, not for an instant breaking the erotic connection.
And she thought there might be a problem back there, when she first emerged from the bathroom? How very wrong she was!
Problems there may be, problems he might have-everybody does, after all-but not here, not now, not in the saddle.
No, here he is the perfect stud.
No question.
The sex could get better than this-it always does.
But certainly the man cannot.
That is, there cannot be a more manly man, a sexier man than this, Conchita thinks.
Insofar as she is able to think at all, that is.
Because her mind is awhirl.
She is dizzy, disoriented.
She is both relaxed and excited.
Because she has surrendered herself totally to this wild man of sex, to this passionate, powerful maniac of the bedroom.
Useless to predict what he will do next.
Clearly, he is capable of anything and everything.
So that all she can do, all she has to do, is to surrender to him completely, body to body.
Useless to think, to plan, to conjecture, to anticipate.
His power exceeds her imagination.
His power exceeds that of any man she has ever known, has ever heard of-except of course, from their own lips.
Which proved to be bullshit.
But there is no bullshit to Rocco.
Rocco has made no claims, has touted no boasts, has said nothing concerning himself, really, not now, not ever, at least not within her hearing.
And he makes none now.
What words are required here, for heaven's sake!
He is a man of action, of erotic action, or action which has the power to transport her through the rosy empyrean, the boundless, scintillating realms of one sexual paradise after another.
Hell, he can even-
Yes, yes, yes! Oh yes!
Because she is coming.
She is coming and coming, her series of multiple orgasms surprising her with the quick advent of that concentration of sensation, that pleasure within the pleasure which quickly reveals itself as the pleasure beyond pleasure.
So that now, her pussy, as though possessing the same arrangement as a mouth, is sucking his cock, is milking it of the ultimate pleasure.
The ultimate pleasure-and nothing else. Because he stays right up there. Why not."
If this is all there is, if this is what he has given up his life, his humanity for, then why not indeed?
Why not make it last?
Why not make it last and last?
Why not go on and on like this forever and ever, until, like a wind-up toy, like the robot he has made of himself, he runs out of power?
What wonder of the world has she found here? Conchita asks herself, rhetorically, as Rocco, not pausing, not missing a stroke begins at once to propel her right back up the rainbow of her sexual arousal.
He is like, like ... a rollercoaster.
He is a ride-in the amusement park of raw sex, taking her up, up, up and over the top, plunging her down, down, down to the irresistible thrill in the pit of her stomach, only to boost her to the next hill.
And the next and the next.
As here we go again.
And now, it is as though his hips have a life all their own.
In and out, in and out.
And now, round and round, reaming her hot, drooling cunt with his mighty marauder. Was ever woman fucked like this before?
She doubts it.
Was ever man able to do this before? She thinks not.
Because he is fucking her as no sane man would, as no normal man could.
He is going crazy on her, in her.
She opens her eyes and quickly closes them again.
She cannot look; it frightens her.
Because his face is purple, the rest of him bright red.
The veins of his neck stand out like pipes, exposed tubing.
His chest muscles are strutted, his head thrown back, his teeth gritted and showing whitely against his blood-engorged visage.
And the sweat is pouring off of him, running in rivulets, so solid that they seem to glisten in the reflected light of the lamps on the nightstands.
So that she must enjoy the feeling while it lasts, must savor the ever-mounting floodtide of lascivious sensation within herself, must get while the getting is good.
Before he fucking explodes.
Because it seems to her that he is committing suicide by quite literally fucking himself to death.
And she?
Well, she'll let him.
Because this is a once in a lifetime experience. This is like nothing she has ever had before or will ever have again.
And she is determined to ride it through, to see it through to the end, however spectacularly horrible that might be.
Not that she has any real choice.
She is in the grip of forces far beyond her own feeble powers.
There is this sexual madman, inside, outside, all around her.
There is this exquisite, irresistible feeling, the pleasure beyond pleasure, ever novel, ever familiar which is welling up inside her, becoming stronger and stronger with every heartbeat.
Even now, she feels herself losing control even of her own thought processes, once again.
So that the floodtide of pleasure is sweeping her away on the crest of its tidal wave.
So that she is being borne aloft, tossed this way and that, by the warm, surging inundation, the tingling, thrilling permeation.
And now, and now-
There she goes again!
She is coming and coming.
And this time, the milking action of her pussy's contractions yield-
His load.
Thick and hot and copious, he injects wad after wad into the depths of her streaming cunt.
He is a spurting fountain of jism, of pleasureful sensation, adding to that which he has already produced within her.
On and on he fucks, even as he shares this climax with her.
So that he is in the throes of a power even greater than his own right now.
He has been spared, has been permitted to blow his safety valve, rather then himself exploding, bursting a vein, popping an artery, perhaps suffering a heart attack.
Not that it wouldn't have been worth it, she tells herself, as twinge after twinge of ultimate pleasure convulses her body, her cunt, again and again.
But he has survived.
And just as well, she supposes.
Because, even as she floats back down to earth, she realizes that he is not for her, he is not for any one woman.
Useless, foolish, stupid on her part, it would be, to imagine, even for a moment, that she could have exclusive claim on something like this.
As he seemed to be, so was he.
Not man, but superman.
Maybe, she tells herself, maybe if he had done one human thing.
Like telling the truth, for example, claiming openly to be exactly what he was and is.
That alone would have been enough to humanize him, to make him a real person, a man like any other, in her eyes.
So that she would be able to say to herself, Bullshit!
And know that, no matter how good he seemed to be, he was not, is not superman, or he would not have had to make the claim.
But he makes no claims, not in words, anyway.
His appearance, his car, even this condo make claims, but not he himself.
No personal words escape his lips.
Even his complaints at the club are directed at that which is outside himself.
He is sick and tired of such and such.
Never, he himself is sick, he himself is tired.
Superman does not get sick, does not get tired.
Even now-
"Well, shall we hit the shower and call it a night?"
"Are joo tired?"
"No, but we do hafta go to work tomorrah an' you need jer beauty rest, right?" She gives up. It's simply no use.
He is intimate, but he is not personal.
They will go to sleep, not because he is tired, but just because it's time for that particular activity.
So she accepts his hand and accompanies him to the shower stall, the large, tiled, glass-doored enclosure which occupies one corner of his spacious bathroom.
She does not do the polite thing, does not compliment him on the condo.
He knows exactly what he has here and requires no evaluation from her.
Just as he desires no companionship on a personal, no relationship on a human level from her.
And she cannot find it within herself to resent this.
He is an elemental, a natural force, one of the powers that be.
More than a man, he is and, at the same time, less.
No jokes, no small talk.
Not here, not at the club.
So that, at least, she will be spared the hollowness, the emptiness of an affair with this, this living statue of a man, this mechanical fucking machine.
He is not stiff in his movements; if anything, they all seem a bit too smoooth, too practiced.
As though he were ... programmed to make them.
My living dildo, she thinks. Because this is what he is good for, all that he is good for.
She has used him and used him well.
And will again.
Why not?
Can't beat the Rocco One for getting your ashes hauled, right?
She looks at him, sees him looking at her as they wash up with soapy washcloths.
Studying her, he is, his gaze analytical rather than admiring.
And turnabout is fair play.
Yes, he has all the right stuff in all the right places.
And he still represents to her, now more than ever, in fact, the essence of the male principle-strength, potency, virility.
Only once did his image sag.
And, now that she thinks about it, not even then.
She was trying to arouse him.
She was.
As though she knew how to turn on a 747 or start the water flowing over Boulder Dam.
And she does not flatter herself that, eventually, he responded.
As well to believe that rain dances cause rain or prayer cures eclipses.
There was no cause and effect at work there, none involving her, anyway.
She was, she is out of her league here, sexually speaking, a new experience for her, a unique experience, perhaps, for any woman.
A woman can wear down a man, that is a well-known biological fact.
Any woman, any man.
But she is truly ready for some serious z's.
And she knows that, if he wanted to, he could take her again and again.
She knows it; she can feel his power, radiating from his presence.
She can see it in the way his cock is half erect, even as he ignores it, even as he concentrates on getting other parts clean.
They complete their shower and dry off.
They cover up in the bed, ignoring the still drying evidence of their recent copulation.
Each of them turns out a lamp and they are left there, side by side, in total darkness.
Conchita turns away from him, curls into the fetal position, and sleeps.
And Rocco lies awake, flat on his back, head resting on a pillow, staring up at the ceiling.
As he realizes that Destiny is his.
She is his to use, his to keep, if that is what he wants.
But he is no longer sure of that.
He is no longer sure of anything he wants.
Not now.
Not now that he is stuck in his own image, merging with it, becoming one with it, becoming it.
But his image is sure of Destiny.
Because she is very much a female, whatever else she might or might not be.
And the female desires, to some degree, the male principle, or a male principle, with which to join in mystical conjunction.
Which seems like bullshit, the way Rocco puts it, but he knows what he means, knows that it is not.
Call it what you like, the urge is there, within her.
And Rocco is but the reflection of that urge, that impersonal, universal, quintessentially female urge, made real, brought to life.
No, she will not be able to resist him.
Odd how that thought no longer excites him in the least.
But then, that figures; people get excited, images are what they are.
What you see is what you get.
The only trouble with that is, what you see is all you get.
Because behind that, inside that, there is no more, there's nothing else.
Destiny is young, therefore impressionable.
So that perhaps he will do her a kindness.
Perhaps, like Marley's ghost educating Scrooge, he will warn her.
Use me, but don't become like me.
Because something has caused her to call herself Destiny.
And he owes it to her, he supposes, to see to it that that something was not the urge to actually become that which, right now, she so exquisitely represents.
It's an act, honey; for your own sake, keep it that way.
Leave Destiny where she belongs, out there on the stage, under the spotlight.
Be Shirley or whoever at all other times.
Because that is where Rocco went wrong, and yes, he knows that to give up one's humanity is wrong-that is where he made his fatal mistake, where he killed the person inside himself.
His stage was the beach.
Any platform, any exposure will do, it seems, any making available of an image and nothing else.
Especially when aimed at a certain class of beholder.
In Destiny's case, the bored, lonely, frustrated men, in his own, the bored, lonely, frustrated women.
Not that he looks down on them, not now, now that he can take a lofty view. They were not, are not losers. Their condition is temporary. Meaning right now.
But then, that's the time frame within which images operate.
They will not always be bored or lonely or frustrated, at least not to the degree that they are when he encounters them, the women.
But sufficient to the moment that that should be their present state.
Because at that particular juncture of time and space, within that specific "now"-he has them!
As surely as fish in a net, droplets in a rain barrel, he has them.
And the course of action, from that point onward, is predetermined.
The thrill, the challenge?
Illusions, the last wishes of the dying man within him which was himself.
I died happy, at least, Rocco tells himself.
And he cannot go back.
As with all things in this world, what's done is done and cannot be undone.
That was then and this is now and never the twain shall meet.
So that now, all he is he can see in the mirror.
He began as a reflection of the urges of others.
He ended up by becoming his own reflection.
A walking urge, with nothing behind it; that's Rocco, and the definition thereof.
And there's nothing he can do about it, except to do that which this particular image does, and, if possible, warn others, lest they fall into the same pit.
Rocco was never what you might call a true believer; nevertheless, it seems to him that he has given up what can possibly be termed his immortal soul in exchange for superstud status.
And it was so, so ... unnecessary.
Because he was doing okay without going to that extreme.
And now, it's too late.