Chapter 8

It's happening, Destiny thinks, just as she had always imagined.

Rocco is the embodiment, the aggregation, the coming together of exactly what she always thought that every man thought, that every man wanted to do at the sight of her.

Not clothed, perhaps.

Because she is a big girl, who merely looks big, in street clothes, in bluejeans, in skirt and blouse, dresses, whatever.

So that it was always the smaller, pretty little things who got the attention, the second looks.

But with her clothes off?

There, there! was a horse of a different color.

Perhaps, she remembers thinking, perhaps it was better that way.

Because she was always firmly convinced that, naked, she was, had to be, irresistible.

And therefore an irresistible temptation to whoever beheld her thus.

Of course, she need have no fears about that.

Because ours is a clothed society.

But she began, early on, to try and discover the venues, the circumstances under which she could be seen naked.

And lo and behold, there was a nude beach a little over an hour's drive from home.

And so she went.

And saw and was seen.

And what she saw was disappointing and those by whom she was seen were enchanted.

And their lust flattered, even as their bodies repelled.

So that she did not choose to repeat that experience.

Still, for the right guy, under the right circumstances, she could envision the possibilities, the delights.

She was aided in such envisioning by her faithful dildos, both vibrator and solid rubber, procured at great personal difficulty following a conversation overheard in the high school gym locker room.

She was much alone, having neither girlfriends nor boyfriend.

The former were jealous of, the latter intimidated by her presence.

But she could care less.

Because, alone in her room at night, vibrator in her cunt or shoving the solid rubber job vigorously in and out of herself, he would come to her.

Ruggedly handsome, broad-shouldered and tall, hugely hung and tireless in his ardent and detailed attentions to her, she would summon him to her, not to do her bidding but rather his own.

Because he always knew exactly what to do.

Not her mouth but his sealed to the doorbell of her nipple.

Not her hands but his kneading and fondling her large breasts.

And not rubber but hard, hot, thick, long, living flesh lunging and plunging in and out of her hot, juicy cunt without stint or letup until it put her over the top.

So that she would roll around in the darkness, doubled over, breathing hard and sweating, her pussy convulsing again and again, milking the rampant invader of the ultimate pleasure.

Her phantom lover, her masculine ideal would come to her whenever she wished, in the stillness of the night.

But not otherwise.

Where was he to be found?

Not among the school jocks, for all their adolescent bulk, their supposed excess of hormonal activities.

The male may well be in his prime at that age, but if that is the case, then she was looking for something other than that prime in her partner of choice.

But perhaps, she thought, she was being unrealistic, unreasonable.

Perhaps that male image was but a part of her own mind.

So that, as alone as she was in the world, just that alone would she remain.

But if it had to be, it had to be.

And she was big enough, beautiful enough, that she was fully prepared to be her own best company.

But what is the sound of one hand clapping?

Does the tree make a sound if there is nobody in the forest to hear it fall?

Of what good was all this ultimate femininity, this abundance of perfection, if there was none to observe it?

So that yes, she wanted to show, to feel that desire, to get from the real world that which she accored herself in her own mind and thus know that reality itself supported her in her opinion of herself.

As she knew that it would, given the right circumstances.

The right circumstances.

Where men-not boys, but men-could see her, could desire her, could fuck and suck her in their minds, even as her body, her mind suggested.

An article in a magazine, decrying the absence of morality, alluding to nudie bars gave her the idea.

And sure enough, there in the newspapers were the ads.

She did not have to go to Florida.

But it was far enough away from her folks who would never understand, had never understood her.

And there were tourists and money, she knew.

So that she could dance here, or she could dance there.

Here, willy-nilly, she could and would remain herself.

There, she could be anybody she chose to be.

Even the image she chose to project.

So that there would be no more young girl left within herself.

There would be only every man's dream, the feminine ideal.

She would become the sexual fantasy made flesh.

Indeed, she already was, except that nobody knew it, for one thing, and, for another, there was this teen-aged girl within her, a shy and silly, know-nothing creature she would be much better off without.

So that nothing remained, once she graduated, but for her to drive south, her few meager possessions in the trunk, her saved allowance her only stake.

Her parents disapproved, but she promised to keep in touch.

And there, as she knew it would be, was the ad, the job.

And there, as she knew it would be, the stage for show and tell.

And there, as she knew they would be, her protectors, men whose job it would be to see to it that, while she was real and the audience was no less real, the men and their fantasies, never the twain would meet.

And so it came to pass, even as she envisioned it, even as she willed it.

So that she became the dancer, the dancing star, the main draw.

Naturally.

Because who is there to compare with her?

Who is there who has what she has, who can show it as she does?

Because how often, back home, had she practiced her exhibition, her exhibitionism in front of the mirror in her bedroom?

Until the dance, if such it could be termed, was perfected, even before it was a dance.

And dance she did.

And dance she does, now.

And Rocco?

The first time she saw him, there was something strangely familiar, a very strong sense of deja vu at work within her.

And every time she saw him thereafter.

He was the bouncer-and more.

Much more, she suspected.

He had to be.

Because there was too much of him. Too much presence, too much power, too much sexuality he radiated. He was single, of course. Naturally.

Because he was too much man for any one woman, that went without saying.

And he looked at her, she knew, he saw her.

And it was in fact to him that she played, at him that she aimed.

The others, the customers?

They were there and she drew the power of their lust from them to herself, drinking it in through her very pores, letting it make her stronger and stronger.

From girl to woman, she went.

From woman to superwoman, to the essence of feminine voluptuousness, of female sexuality.

The female ideal and the ideal female, she became.

So that whoever, whatever she was before shriveled up within her and was expelled, unnoticed and unmissed, so much waste matter.

Because she had evolved, was transformed.

And she could feel them, feel every one of them, all their imaginings on her.

A hundred tongues fought one another for the privilege of rimming her.

A hundred tongues licked her pussy.

A hundred mouths sucked her tits.

It happened, all of it, none of it.

As reality and fantasy, theirs and hers, melded into a mystical, magical world which flickered between imagination and existence.

And always, always, she was aware of Rocco, the conglomeration and the embodiment of all their desires, the man they all wanted to be, wanted to be and, somehow, were.

Because he, he! was, is their representative.

He stood for all of them, for the sexual, the physical best of all of them.

And he had the power, the virility of all of them.

But had he their desire, their raw, driving, driven lust?

He had the potential for it, certainly; but what was he thinking, what was he seeing when he looked at her through those impenetrable dark shades of his?

Was that superabundance of virility attracted to her correspondingly total femininity as opposite charges of electricity to each other?

It sounded right, certainly; but in fact she had no idea.

And she was crushed when she heard of his date with Conchita.

But still, her faith in herself did not die.

Because, after all, herself was no longer the girl she-was, but rather a superwoman, the essence of the feminine ideal.

So that she had to believe, had to-

And suddenly, there he was, beside her, talking to her, saying all the things that meant only one thing-let's get together and be all right.

Because if they were, then it would be all right-everything.

The world and they two within it, above it, ruling it, making it theirs. And now, it was going to happen.

He is every man who ever desired her. He is all the maleness in the world, concentrated into one image, one solid, real, three-dimensional presence.

And now, he is doing it, doing it for them all, for every man who ever saw her, every man with whom she has ever communicated with her body.

Oh yes, he is sucking her tits!

Oh yes, he is kneading her breasts!

Oh yes, he is doing it all for her.

And he does not stumble, does not grope, does not falter.

He knows exactly what he is doing.

Which is good.

Because he is the one man who is not overwhelmed by her, who is not in any way intimidated by her, who fears nothing, who is as strong and brave as a lion, in bed or out.

He has nothing to prove, but everything to gain here.

And he is gaining it, is taking possession of her as she yields herself, all of herself, to his attentions.

She is the female essence, he the male.

They are, like the ancient Olympians, more than human.

So that perhaps this is the ceremony between semi-divine beings, between the male and female principles, which is required to preserve the world.

Or to create it anew.

As he squeezes her breast flesh, more than a handful each.

As he brings the doorbells of her nipples to rubbery firmness.

Not only what is being done, but who and what is doing it, is she aware of.

As he travels down her torso, one mouthful at a time.

As he sucks and chews her, the reality, the flesh of her, the female essence of her.

And now, he draws closer and closer to her hot, juicy cunt.

And seals his lips to the whole thing, bush, labia, all.

And begins to chew it gently, even as his tongue seeks her clit. And finds it.

And now strums it with his tongue, flickering at vibrator speed, hands on the backs of her thighs.

And she knows that this is exactly, exactly, exactly as she imagined it would be.

This is what she has predicted, projected, willed.

She has known for a very long time that this is just what would happen.

And that Rocco was the one with whom it would happen.

Because that image was in her mind.

She knew the briefest moment of anxiety when he removed his clothes.

Because, after all, in spite of everything, what if?

But no, she saw at once that she need have no qualms, that he was indeed the worthy vessel, the symbol and living representative to her of all things male.

And now, now-

"Aaah!"

He is tongue-fucking her, sending thrill after thrill of sexual electricity coursing through her entire fantastic ultra-female body.

Surge after surge he sends through her, the intensity of these waves of raw pleasure radiating out beyond her in all directions.

Better than she ever did it for herself, better than she ever imagined it could be, this.

So that both reality and imagination are refined, are redefined within her.

The adventure continues apace, its heat increasing with each passing moment.

And this is right, she knows. This is exactly as it was meant to be.

So that all she has done has been correct, because it has led to this.

And she has been correct, her interpretation, her understanding of herself.

She was right to save herself, to think as she did, to do as she has done, all the way.

So that she knows that there is that within her which has guided her infallibly.

So that this, this! was her, her ... destiny?

A grandiose idea, that, but fitting.

And she would not reject it.

And indeed, this is no longer the time for analysis, for evaluation, but for acceptance. This is the time of yes-saying. And she does.

She opens herself up to him.

And knows that she is perfectly safe in so doing, because of who and what she is, who and what he is.

And now, he pulls his face back from her streaming pussy.

And he is on her, on her and in her, and her innermost being receives him, embraces him, accepts him.

And she can feel every contour of his cock as it pistons slowly inside the hot, wet, smooth, pressurized embrace of her cunt.

She can feel the engorged, taut head with its flared flange.

She can feel the rugged, long, thick, irregular cylinder of the shaft, vibranting with the essence of maleness.

She can feel and feel and feel, her body and his in communication in the language of the body, the language the body alone can speak and understand, the language of raw, voluptuous, delicious, erotic sensation.

And now, he is pushing her up the rainbow, his engine working away flawlessly, effortlessly.

Fucking as it was meant to be, this, he thinks. Fucking as I have always meant it to be, she thinks.

And now, he uses his specialty on her, scooping up her legs, doubling her up on his pounding prick, even as he leans forward and his hands feed him her breasts once again, one at a time.

The act of total possession, this.

And she feels herself totally possessed by him, by the male principle, by the embodiment of all things male.

So that there is no question now in her mind but that this was as it was always meant to be, a conjunction predestined, written in the stars.

And not for nothing has she called herself Destiny.

Because she is truly no longer who she was.

That girl no longer exists, was but the precursor, the pupa from which the present butterfly has emerged.

And the genie cannot be put back in the bottle.

So that there is for her only the here and now and the feeling and the action and Rocco.

Who is not Rocco at all, who is not any one individual but an aggregation of them all, a condensation of their collective power.

And now, he is applying it to her, the power and the power and the power.

And she is absorbing it, matching it with power of her own.

And the reality of it, the surreality of it, the fantasy of it all become one.

And she rises higher and higher up the rainbow of her arousal.

And the pleasure beyond pleasure is summoned from her depths by his mighty tool.

As the fountain of lascivious sensation gushes forth within her uncontrollably.

As he too rises through level after level of his sexuality, of the sexuality of the image he projects, the image with which he has merged, the image he has become.

Together now, they approach the peak of their capacity to contain within themselves this incessant torrent, this geyser of exquisite, irresistible sensation.

They cannot, and, at a certain critical point, they do not want to.

So that, together, they fulfill the promise, the implication of the images they have become and that in turn have become them.

And, male and female, they recreate the world, in a burst of ultimate pleasure and release.

And they are coming and coming in what seems to them the fulfillment of their shared destiny.

As Rocco injects wad after thick, hot wad of his jism into the depths of her hot, flowing, convulsing vagina as her snapping pussy milks his turgid invader, again and again, and Destiny knows that this is what it was all about, all along.

Down and dirty is the phrase that comes to Conchita's mind, again and again, louder and louder, as Tony fucks her for the third time now.

He cannot seem to get enough of her.

He is like a kid again, a teen-aged boy with his first sexual date, like this is the very first time that he is alone with a woman and exploring the wonders of her body and his feelings.

Not at all like Rocco, she thinks.

Not a superman, but a man, a man who is giving to her by taking from her, greedily, hungrily.

And not pushing her buttons, manipulating her, operating her as though she is some kind of sophisticated machine.

Which is what Rocco is.

He-and Destiny.

Conchita knows, and is not deceived by Rocco. Not that he would bother to try actually deceiving her.

Even that would be too great a concession to her, too much a waste of effort on the part of Mister Superstud.

No, she is far better off in the long run with Tony.

Who, for all his crudeness, his thoughtlessness, his vulgarity, knows what it is to get down and dirty with a woman, to animalize her, to go crazy with her, on her.

And this, this! is what Conchita needs.

Let Rocco play his conceited, sophisticated, expert, cool games with Destiny.

Because Conchita has seen the way he looks at her.

They deserve each other, Conchita thinks, deserve to play god and goddess, high priest and high priestess of that self-centered, self-seeking cult of arrogance they choose to call love.

Destiny and her big equipment that she displays as though performing some arcane and powerful sorcery.

Yes, Conchita thinks, let them have their moments.

Let them have their years, even.

Sooner or later the years will have them, she knows, the inevitable will take place.

Not that they give that so much as a thought, living as they do in a perpetual now, moment by moment.

There could never be a future with Rocco, because Rocco has no future, does not believe in the future.

Like Destiny who never has anything to say, has no thoughts about, no opinions concerning anything, who has no mundane concerns and therefore nothing to talk about, Rocco too exists one second at a time.

So yes, she thinks, let them live in their own little world, a sterile, empty place in which they have, they have-not even each other, but only themselves.

So that they live alone, now and forever, and they will surely grow old alone and die alone.

Better this way, she tells herself, better to live in the real world, among real people.

Still, eyes closed as Tony humps and pumps away on her, Conchita can see them making love on the viewscreen of her mind, Rocco and Destiny.

But they aren't real; they are merely characters in a porn flick, a piece of hot video, an exaggeration, almost a cartoon, a parody of this, what she and Tony are doing.

And they are not role models, not even instructors.

Rather, they are imitators, forms devoid of the real content, what Conchita would call the down and dirty feelings which she and Tony are generating within one another.

And she does not envy them their perfection, their no doubt absolutely exquisite performance, which is exactly what it is in their case, an act, perhaps ceremonial, fraught with meaning, the movements ritualistic in their perfection.

Because this, this! is the real thing, with and between real people.

She and Tony will talk, will know one another after this.

She could live with Rocco and not know him, never know him, if in fact there is anything within him to be known.

What you see is what you get, with Rocco, but that's all you get because that's all there is to be had. And Destiny as well, no doubt.

Rocco and Destiny. Two physical paragons who will live alone and die alone-if they're not already dead and don't know it.