Chapter 7
Back in bed, they are.
And he is whispering in her ear.
"Ever had a man fuck you in the ass?"
"Sho'!"
"Like it?"
"Had good an' bad. Depends on the preparayshun, y'know "
"Oh, I know, I know!
"Say I was to do it right."
"What would you say then?"
"I'd say, 'Le's get it own!"
And he does.
Gently, he rolls her over onto her stomach. She props her upper body on her elbows, huge breasts overflowing the area between neck and bed. As he slides down, down, down.
And spreads her large, heavy legs apart.
And spreads the cheeks of her ass to reveal her large, protruding ass hole, its configuration an elongated oval, the segments few and-puffy.
And King reflects that he may have hit upon her favorite way of fucking.
Because there is no way her bung could be in this shape merely from the traffic coming out of the tunnel.
So that he could have quite an easy time of it without any great preparation.
But now, hands clutching her huge mounds, keeping them spread wide, he looks, fascinated, at the view.
And bends lower and lower, sealing his mouth to the elongated ass hole, sucking it in, chewing it as his tongue goes in, in, into her, feeling her interior heat, the yielding tissues of the rectal wall.
He wiggles his tongue, feeling the distended ring of muscle go slack.
No problem here, he confirms.
And now, he grasps the belled flare of her huge hips.
And, still crouching behind her, mouth in full contact with her ass hole at all times, he elevates her pelvis.
So that now she is on knees and elbows as he burrows into the crack of her ass.
And he does so at great length, really taking his time.
And only when he has lubricated her entrance and opening thoroughly with his saliva does he sit back on his heels.
Polishing the plum of his knob with a glob of spit, he stands up on his knees.
And he frames the target between thumb and fingers of one hand, the other guiding his prod toward her fully prepared ass.
And he is into her with a single, smooth, hand-guided thrust.
And now, he is fucking her in the ass.
He goes to full stroke almost at once, so readily does she accommodate his massive monolith of meat, so perfectly does she seem suited to the action of his piston.
And quickly, they become a flawlessly functioning team.
And now, they settle down into the rhythm of his ass fucking.
So that the seismic shocks of his repeated thrusts into her rectal depths causes her whole body to undulate, again and again.
And she is devouring his cock with her ass.
Because his cock is speaking to her body, is whispering its secret truths, the truths of feeling and sensation, the truths of the body, to her rectum, along its entire length.
So that their bodies are once more in synch, once again in full communication.
And every millimeter of the surface of his rampant invader is stimulated with messages of pleasure, transmitted directly from her ass, which it stretches and fills.
And now, he feels it growing within him, his sexual excitement.
She is working his prick with her rectum, massaging it with her insides, clinging, grasping, caressing, rubbing, sucking it.
And now, he releases one hip, reaching down and around.
And what a contrast this is from Francine! Francine's breasts are large and firm, but finite. He can weigh them with one hand.
Not so here.
Because she fills his hand to overflowing.
Her massive mammaries weigh down on his palm, but extend well beyond the radius of his spread hand.
She is huge. She is excess. She is the bounty of nature expressed in human form.
And this inspires him.
So that now, he rolls his hips, reaming her ass' with his rampant. invader.
And she, taking the heat of this delicious motion, responds, rotating her own hips in the opposite direction.
So that she gets a still more active, still more thorough reaming effect.
Hotter and hotter they become now, King's face and body flushing with the engorged blood of his aroused passion.
Higher and higher they rise up the rainbow of their shared stimulation.
- And now, King varies his motion, now pistoning in and out, now going round and round.
And everything he can give her, she wants and can take.
And her heat is also rising.
And now, his exploring hand digs beneath her, sliding between thigh and belly, squeezing between them to get at her cunt.
Which it does.
So that now, his fingers find her labia, then her clit, walking up her hot, wet cleft to encounter the bud of her joy buzzer.
And finding it.
And twiddling it now between two fingers. And polishing it, rubbing them round and round over the engorged nub, wet now with her pussy juices.
So that her clit is being stimulated now, within and without.
So that he has closed all the circuits and they are a complete entity, a singularity, a unity, a world unto themselves.
And there is nothing else there, nothing that can interfere with what is about to happen.
As he continues to fuck her ass in strong, regular strokes.
And both of them realize that they have settled into their final pattern.
So that he will ride her all the way home.
So that there will be no more surprises, but only the swelling rise of the pleasure beyond pleasure.
Which is even now awakening in the depths of their innermost selves.
And which blossoms and billows within them, filling them now with ecstasy, now with rapture.
And which now transports them to their private, intimate, erotic sexual paradise.
So that now they are rising, being borne aloft on the wings of the feedback of sensations which surge through them now in a continuous, ever intensifying loop of sexual electricity.
And now, the heat within them builds and builds, far faster than it can be dissipated in the surrounding air.
And now, the pressure of their pleasure is exceeding their capacity to contain it.
Nor do they try.
So that they blow their safety valves.
And they come and come.
And the powerful convulsions of her cunt milk his mighty prong of its load, her spasms and his alternating to inject spurt after spurt of his thick, hot, copious jism into the depths of her bowels.
Until, at last, their climactic twinges subside and they float slowly, gently, back down to earth and reality.
And they are once more relaxed, depleted, limbs suddenly turned to jelly.
As she goes flat and he on top of her.
And they lie there thus, sweating and panting, his cock still all the way up her ass.
And they do not move, content for the moment to rest, perhaps even to sleep.
And in fact, they find themselves beginning to nod off, so calm, so peaceful, so fulfilled and contented do they feel.
But now, the peristaltic action of her bowels combine with the detumescing of his cock.
And she shits him, the action rousing the both of them.
And still they lie there, amused by this.
But now, she has a job to which she must return. And he has a day to get on with.
So that, difficult as is their inertia to overcome, they realize that they have to get up and, with great reluctance, moaning audibly in protest, they do so.
So that they shower together quickly, efficiently, more quickly than they would like, more efficiently than they feel.
And they get dressed.
"You gonna be around now?" she asks.
"Yeah, sure, from time to time."
"Well," she says, opening her apartment door, "don't be a stranger, okay?"
"You got it."
He follows her down the stairs.
Where Freddy, behind the bar, glares at them. "Fuck you doin', bitch, turnin' tricks on da side?"
"This guy look like he gots to pay fo' a piece, do he?"
Freddy looks King up and down.
"Sorry," he mumbles, clearly intending the apology for King and not to his errant barmaid. "Course not."
"You unnastan', right? I mean, dis heah's a place abusiness, an' she, like, done abandoned her pos'."
"I'm a fren' of da fam'ly," King says. "You got some kinda problem wif dat?"
"No, no, no! Jus'... fagit it, okay?"
King gives him a long, slow, expressionless look. And turns on his heel and leaves.
"You got one good lookin' boyfren'," Freddy says.
"Don' ah jus' wish!" King hears her reply, before he leaves the place.
He does not linger in the neighborhood. Suddenly, it palls on him, depressing him.
And besides, he realizes he has gotten the only thing out of the place it had to offer him.
So that it would be meaningless to tarry here any longer. What else is there to see, after all?
Anything that can happen here, other than what just did, is likely to be something he is better off not seeing, not knowing about.
No, this is a place where nothing good can happen.
Perhaps, when he does become rich and famous, he will come back here, will set up a program to reclaim territory from the drugs which seem to be everywhere, between buyers and sellers.
Maybe, he tells himself, it is already too late.
Perhaps the drug traffic is the new reality in the black neighborhoods, an economic fact of life.
He does not like it, in a way wishes that he had not come here, so that he would not have to see it, would not have to know Because, after all, what can he really do about it? Nothing, he tells himself.
The dope trade could well be the coming profession, even now establishing itself here, never to leave, an integral, a fundamental part of making a living in these parts.
Still, he feels that he should do something. And he vows that, if successful in his bodybuilding career, he will.
That said, and having gotten his pipes cleaned twice over by one who, if not beautiful or even attractive is, in her own way, nevertheless spectacular, he feels justified in going back to the suburbs and his apartment.
"I called you yesterday," Francine says.
And does not follow up on that.
Enough that he should know that she did not stand on ceremony, that she did not hesitate to give him a ring.
"Yeah, well, I uh, I felt the need to go back and take a look at my old neighborhood."
"How was it?"
"Sad. Worse than it was when I lived there. "Apparently, it's not about to become a part of a kinder, gentler America."
"Sorry."
"Yeah. Me too."
Then, changing the subject, "Where's our guide and mentor?"
"Right behind you," Rhino says.
And King cannot help reddening slightly as he turns to face him.
"Sorry, Rhino. Didn't see you there."
"We guides and mentors are an unobtrusive lot," he responds.
"I didn't mean-"
"Forget it.
"Okay, today we want to go over a basic posing routine.
"The purpose of today's session is simply to see to it that we' incorporate all the poses we want into the routine.
"We do that, then we can decide on the best order.
"Right now, the problem is to see to it that, for example, your most muscular pose looks like hers and vice versa.
"If you go low and she goes high, then-never mind.
"Let's just go into the aerobics room and run through what all we want to do."
"Will we be able to get to our regular workouts after?" King asks.
"Yes. I expect to very quickly get through what is to be included.
"Shall we?"
"Great! Very pleased! You two do the same things the same way, or so close that there's no problem making it look right.
"Tomorrow, we do it in posing trunks and make some sense out of the sequence.
"Anybody got any special problems? No. Then I'll leave you two on your own for the rest of the day."
Puzzled, because this is a Rhino first since his arrival on the scene, they shrug and go on about their business.
Only to find that Rhino is very much in evidence. Not for the first two hours.
But then, they see him emerge from the office with Randy Buck, Stan-and Steve.
"Mister Galaxy," Francine says.
King says nothing.
So, he thinks. This is how it's to be.
He is to be used to achieve this mixed pairs thing for the franchise, thereby giving Buck's interests their aura of glamor and romance, with all the new memberships implicit therein.
But the serious stuff, the nitty-gritty, Mister Galaxy, that he cannot touch.
Because Rhino is going to be making Steve the one and only, again, this year.
And that really sucks.
He is, he reflects, worse off than if he had been left on his own, if there were no mixed pairs deal coming up.
Who knows to what heights of effort an achievement his exercise would have led him, left on his own, with no intervening (interfering?) contest between him and the big one?
And now, apparently, management (and face it, now that he has given up his other job, is on the payroll here, they are his management) has decided to go with Steve again this year.
And he cannot for the life of him recall.
Did Buck or did he not make a commitment to King if he and Francine took this mixed pairs thing?
He thought he did.
But obviously, he was mistaken.
Because why should Buck suddenly tire of the (his) current champion?
Useless to speak to Rhino of these things. Rhino is, like himself, merely another employee, doing as instructed.
As for Buck, he is the last King can safely confront.
Still, he does intend to compete in the Mister Galaxy, whether Randy Buck likes it or not.
But for now, there is nothing he can do except compete and compete successfully in this mixed pairs thing with Francine.
That, at least, will give him some kind of a claim on other competitions, the Mister Galaxy obviously among them.
Damn demoralizing though, he has to admit, seeing Rhino there, talking with Steve.
What secrets is he telling him, what edge is he giving him, helping him out with, that will ultimately result in his once more winning Mister Galaxy?
On the other hand, what is he going to do for Steve that he has not done in other years?
Surely, he would have built Steve to the best of his ability.
Which means that, unless something new has been added, unless the sport is becoming so refined that, like automobiles, the model is changing from year to year, all that Rhino can do for Steve is to once again hone him to (the limit of Steve's potential) perfection.
So that, actually, willy-nilly, King has gotten more help from Rhino for the Mister Galaxy corn-petition than will Steve.
Because King is doing things with his body that have never been done to it before.
Whereas all Steve can do is repeat.
And King's improvements-the fine points-show.
So that he can look at himself in the mirror and realize and appreciate the changes which Rhino has wrought in him.
His serratus muscles were never in this good a shape before!
In fact, their diamond pattern covering his ribs are like a whole min-show, all by themselves, so impressed is he, so impressed must others be, with them.
He cannot, of course, see his calves as well as his ribs, even less can he see his own back; nevertheless, he can practically feel the difference.
And Rhino himself has commented on the great progress in these areas.
Perhaps Buck really is bringing him along.
Maybe he is merely going through the motions with Steve, feeling that he has an obligation there.
Is Steve really the better built of the two of them?
King really can't say.
Because that never is the real question in bodybuilding.
Where the real competition is with yourself.
Not are you built better than the other guy but where do you stand in relation to your own potential is the question to be answered.
If you have reached your peak and that peak is insufficient, then so be it.
The difficulty, of course, is that nobody really knows what his own potential is.
King suspects that others, experts, a Rhino, say, can do something along those lines, can actually recognize the ideal lurking within the real.
And he knows that Rhino wants, is under orders to see to it, in fact, his victory, his and Francine's. But that is not the Mister Galaxy.
The best he can win in mixed pairs competition is half a title.
The most that he can take credit for is half the victory.
And even then, that's dubious.
Will he have won because he held up his end or because Francine was so overwhelming a presence that she has carried him with her?
Who can say, in the event?
So that even there, even if he wins, a doubt would remain.
And now, he is working out with a vengeance. And the corrections to his technique that Rhino has made are second nature or they are not. Right now, he could care less.
He needs concentration, intensity.
He has to focus inward, on his own body.
He has to withdraw into himself, turning himself into a specialized hydraulic jack.
And he does so.
It weighs, oh how it weighs! but he handles it. Bulk and definition are served equally at a certain weight for any given exercise.
This spake Rhino.
And now, he is working on that, declaring that weight to be slightly heavier than ever before.
Would Rhino recommend or condemn this?
He doesn't know, doesn't really care.
He knows he needs a workout, and this one will do in the absence of his trainer, withdrawn now to assist the once and future Mister Galaxy, for reasons which, accepted at face value, are indeed discouraging.
"You're taking a hell of a chance, doing that with that kind of iron." Francine says, when at last he takes a break, mopping his brow.
"What can I do?" he pants.
"You mean about that scene over there?" she asks, nodding with her chin toward where Steve and Rhino are busily conferring.
"Something like that," he replies.
"Yeah, well, don't let it shake you up".
"I know what you're after. So does Rhino. So, for that matter, does Randy Buck.
"And if it's what you want, they can't really stop you."
"Yeah, right. And if Rhino pulls some technique, some dietary thing, some who-knows-what out of his ass?"
Francine smiles.
"Look. There are no miracles in this game. I mean, okay, some guys are superstitious, or they can psych themselves out that if they do this or that, then they have an edge.
"But unless `this or that' is something that's a really good, sound, substantial practice, then it's all in their head or just plain bullshit."
"I know that," King says. "I know that and still I'm worried."
"What the hell do you want?" Francine asks. "You want Buck to refuse Steve Rhino's services?
"That's not even common courtesy, much less common sense."
King sighs.
"I suppose you're right," he says.
Then, "What happens when Randy Buck asks me not to compete in the Mister Galaxy?"
"Buck's not stupid, y'know."
"Why would he do such a thing, knowing that you'll more than likely go ahead and compete anyhow?
"Besides, if you win, you're also on the Buck payroll."
"In a way, you're Buck's insurance."
"Something goes wrong with Steve, one of the judges gets a bug up his ass, whatever, he's got a backup shot with you."
"You stand up in front of the mike and say where you work out, you tell me how that's gonna make the old franchise here look." King smiles thinly.
"You make it seem better and better," he observes. "Well, it isn't the disaster you seemed to be talking yourself into."
And both of them look over to where Rhino has stopped talking to Steve and is standing behind the champion as he begins his first bench press.
"Think they're reinventing the wheel?" Francine asks.
Because Rhino is watching intently, almost as though he has never before seen a bench press. And yet, he says nothing as Steve, his set completed, cradles the barbell in the uprights and sits up, mopping his brow.
But, as they continue to watch, they see Rhino making a note on his clipboard.