Chapter 1
"You're bored, Helen?" Cynthia asked. "What about me?
"I mean, here it is, this beautiful day, and I'm stuck in the city, in this fucking mausoleum in the sky."
"Yes, but all you have to do is call up Bruce and have something with a big cock sent right over."
"Helen, that is so artificial, so contrived. "I'd rather use my vibrator.
"It's quicker, it's cleaner, it's cheaper, and it doesn't leave me feeling all that much different from the real thing.
"Which isn't all that real, when it's catered.
"I grant you, Bruce runs the best of all possible escort services, but believe me, even that gets old after a while.
"I mean, it's bad enough I have to pay these clowns, but I have to treat them like they're something special, something I've never had before, you know?"
"Now Cynthia, you know you must have manners, under all circumstances.
"Part of our good breeding, you know."
"I know, I know."
"I have an idea, Cynthia.
"Why don't you come out here, to Jersey?
"That way, we could be bored together, until Chipper gets back."
Cynthia sighed.
"May as well," she said. "Nothing is going to happen around here until then, that much is for it sure.
"Why so glum, chum? "It'll be fun. you'll see.
"I mean, we can even go to the nude beach and laugh at the creep and ugly show." Cynthia smiled. "We could at that," she agreed.
And glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Nine thirty.
Still rush hour in the city for another half hour. "Give me an hour and a half, why don't you? "I hate the rush hour, so I don't want to leave just yet.
"Another glorious feature of life in the big city, right?"
"Have your chauffeur drive you, why don't you? "Let him handle the traffic."
"No, thanks.
"He'd only have to come back here, then come and pick me up when I'm ready to return."
"So?"
"I'd ... rather have my own wheels.
"I'll take the Continental and leave the limo for Carlotta and Rufe to do the shopping."
"Sounds like you're planning a very short visit, kiddo."
"I'm not planning anything.
"That's just the point.
"With my own wheels, I'm free as a bird."
"Suit yourself. See you in-what? Couple of hours?"
"At the outside.
"I really do want to see you, Helen."
"Yeah. Been a while, hasn't it?"
"Too long.
"Let's see how fast I can wear out my welcome, shall we?" They laugh.
"Never happen, you know that, Cynthia."
"I know. Ciao, dahling."
"Ciao."
And Cynthia hung up.
And sat there on the edge of the bed, reflecting.
It had been a long time since she had gotten together with Helen.
Friends since college days, debutantes together, adventuresses together, best friends and closest confidantes, they had drifted apart.
So that Cynthia dwelt in a luxurious penthouse, a palace in the sky in the city, wife of Chipper Harrington III, international businessman and financier.
Whereas Helen had married the no less affluent Randolph (Randy) Rand, moving to a mansion in New Jersey.
But if Chipper was self-made, Randy had inherited his family's wealth and the corporation that went with it, a diversified holding company.
And that was not the only difference between them.
Because Chipper was indeed chipper, always cheerful, energetic, ready for anything.
While Randy was anything but.
Thirty-six and going on sixty, Helen said, and not in kidding tones, either.
So that they seldom saw each other, drifting apart, even though their husbands were out of town (in Chipper's case, out of the country) most of the time, hut in town often enough to make their getting together inconvenient, uncomfortable for all of them.
Because, while Chipper and Cynthia talked about things intimate quite openly, sex being their favorite and principal topic of conversation, stodgy Randy would obviously be embarrassed and anxious for the subject to change.
And, as for Chipper's homecomings, those were catered affairs, orgies professionally augmented by talent from the endless supply of Bruce, of Brute's ' Travel and Tours, an escort service with a travel agency front.
And these, of course, they could not mention, could not reminisce about in front of Randy.
No, it was up to Cynthia to give Helen the blow by blow over the phone.
Over the phone.
That was how they had kept their relationship alive.
But now-why not?
Randy was out of town, not due to return for at least a week. And Chipper? A month, at least.
He had left not more than ;i week previously and his return was so far off as to be unknown at present.
"Carlotta," Cynthia said, walking into the kitchen, where her breakfast was watting, "when Rufe comes up, check with him to see that the Continental is ready to go.
"I'll be going to Helen's for at least a week."
"Ees locky joo tole me.
"I was jus' gonna buy de groceries today."
"Yes, I know.
"So just get whatever you and Rufe will be needing.
"Oh, and you may as well restock the liquor and beer.
"The homecoming last week has probably put quite a dent in it."
"Jes, ma'am. Eet choor deed!" And they chuckle at the memory. Chipper's homecomings. Always a major event.
This time, with the help of Bruce's geeks, men with small brains and big cocks.
Who would fuck Cynthia, fore and aft, as Chipper watched from the closet in the master bedroom.
And emerge when they were finished.
To eat Cynthia, fore and aft.
And only afterward fuck her himself.
Three rounds of that, the last time, involving three separate two-man teams of geeks.
So that Chipper could be provided with plenty of what made it "interesting". Chipper.
So wealthy, brilliant, energetic, charming, personable-and perverted.
Perhaps it was the contrast between his presence and his absence that made life so boring for Cynthia most of the time.
Because she did not feel inspired to use Bruce's services in Chipper's absence.
It was his enthusiasm, the avidity with which he practiced his perversion that inspired her, rather than the size of the equipment of the oversexed cretins.
Without that, without the spark of Chipper's vivacious, exuberant, sick action, such sex was lacking in spontaniety, gaiety, life.
And life was, after all, what it was all about.
So that Cynthia had done well to describe the palace in the sky as a mausoleum.
Where, like a sleeping princess, she resided in temporary death.
And not all her luxurious surroundings, not all her shopping trips, not all her pampering of herself with private massage, with days at Elizabeth Arden improving on that which, for sheer natural, blonde beauty, could not be impmved, she was not alive.
Not really.
Not in the sense of caring about, of enjoying her next breath.
Or the next or the next.
No, life had lust its spice, its zest.
It was no longer even mildly interesting for her.
And the phone calls, the conversations with Helen did nothing to change that.
Unless it was to give her some small satisfaction at hearing from someone who, to hear her tell it, was even worse off than she herself.
Although she liked Helen too much to truly enjoy her tales of boredom.
But, perhaps they would get a few chuckles.
The nude beach was always good for some laughs.
Nothing major, but it passed a few hours in something other than utter boredom.
"I call down to de garage, ma'am.
"Rufe, he say de Continental ready when joo are."
"Thanks, Carlotta.
"Have Rufe give me, oh, half an hour and I'll have some luggage for him to carry down." Jes, ma am.
And Cynthia went to pack.
"How have you been!"
"Kissy-kissy!
"Oh here, let me help you with those! "Maid's on vacation."
And they carry the luggage into the master bed W room of the mansion.
And Cynthia said nothing as she realized that they will be sleeping together.
But Helen hesitated, halfway through the unpacking.
"This, uh, this is okay, isn't it?
"I mean, it's been a long time, so-"
"Some things can never change, Helen.
"You know that."
"Just making sure."
"I'm insulted."
"Hey, I'm not sure about anything anymore, kiddo.
"Being buried out here in the sticks will do that for you."
"Then I guess I'll simply have to do everything in my power to convince you."
"Won't we both!"
And they finished unpacking, smiling to themselves, looking forward to night, when they would complete the physical part of their reunion.
"So," Cynthia said, when the last of her cosmetics had been arrayed on the dressing table, "what's next on the agenda?"
"Lunch and the soaps."
"Just like home."
"That's exactly the point.
"I just want you to see what I go through out here."
Lunch and the soaps. Faute de mieux, as the French say. For want of something better. And Cynthia saw that Helen followed the same soap operas as herself. Channel seven.
Hell of a way to spend an afternoon. Hell of a way to spend a life. At last, supper time. Rock Cornish game hens and salad. "Tomorrow, we hit the nude beach, right?" Helen stated/asked. "Right!"
"But for tonight, I thought you might want to go to bed early."
"Just what I need-a good night's sleep."
"Me too.
"After the appropriate tranquilizer, of course." And Cynthia can tell by the way she is looking at her that Helen doesn't mean valium.
Helen's melons.
That's what they both called them, back in their college days, when they shared a dorm room.
Because Helen had-has-a pair of big ones.
Not that Cynthia's were not just as large, or perhaps even slightly larger, but there was no ma'am mary reference that rhymed with "Cynthia".
And now, Cynthia is sucking the doorbell-like nipples of Helen's melons.
As Helen fondles Cynthia's big boobs hanging down as she leans over Helen's heaving chest.
And both of them realize that it has been much too long.
And that this pleasure has awaited them in vain all that wasted time.
But perhaps it is better thus, Cynthia reasons, even as Helen's huge hangers harden heartily.
As the nipples turn erect and tubbery.
As the glands beneath them turn still firmer, their twin, milk-white, blue-veined immensities solidifying as though enlarged by surgical inserts.
And Cynthia feels her own breasts tingle to vibrant life.
So that her nipples are almost uncomfortable, so engorged do they become.
And Helen is juggling bowling balls, so hard are Cynthia's breasts. . And now, they feel it.
It.
The throbbing, pulsing warmth that spreads from breast to crotch and then surges back through them, branching out, exploding in slow motion like filmed fireworks run at the wrong speed.
So that their bodies tingle with the awakening of their lascivious reeling.
So that the libidinous luxury laps lavishly at their nerve endings.
As thrill after thrill of sexual arousal surges through them like electrical current, each one stronger than the last.
And they become stimulated, then excited, then delighted.
As the two women center themselves in the bed and Cynthia, on top, reverses herself over Helen, straddling her body with her legs, making herself into a bridge over her, their faces facing their crotches.
Which have become hot.
With warm juices beginning to flow.
With pouting, separating lips.
With clits that have also become hard, erect.
And now, Cynthia lowers her hips.
And Helen sees the chestnut-thatched twat looming, closer and closer.
And the saliva forms in her mouth as she drools in hunger and anticipation.
And, at the exact instant that Helen extends her tongue toward the target, she feels "Aaah!"
Because Cynthia has burrowed into her nest. She is wallowing in the hot, juicy, hairy snatch. She is searching with her tongue for Helen's joy buzzer.
And finding it.
And now, her tongue is rolling around and around on it.
Even as her lips are sucking it like a mini-cock.
As thrill after thrill of exquisite sexual sensation shoots through Helen, adding to the growing fund of stimulation already mounting within her.
And Cynthia is no less aroused by Helen's avid tonguing.
So that she rotates the broad flare of her hips, screwing herself onto Helen's titillating tongue.
Which serves to spur Helen to faster, harder efforts with it.
So that there is excitement, there is satisfaction, and a sense of luxurious abandonment at work here now.
And there is also the realization, gratuitous perhaps in the light of cold logic, but nevertheless seeming like a revelation in intense sex, that there is nothing, nothing, nothing between them and the object of their attentions.
So that everything stands open, available.
All is permitted.
There are no restraints of any kind on them. They have broken free!
So that the boredom, the frustration, the sense of imprisonment in the shackles of their own existence have been left behind somewhere.
Behind and below.
Cast aside.
Fallen away in the gloom and dust of their old world.
As they soar effortlessly upward on the wings of their ever-mounting passion toward the light of their own sexual paradise.
Hotter and hotter they become.
So that now, faces and bodies and backs become flushed with the engorged blood of their ardent arousal.
Up, up, up they rise, turning and twisting, borne aloft by the eddying swirl of the gentle cyclone of their sexual desire in the course of its glorious fulfillment.
So that they become dizzy, disoriented. They could no longer have said where they were. And they do not care.
Because they are with and in each other and that is all that counts. The rest is superfluous detail. And unreal.
Only this, the here (wherever that is), the now (whenever that is), themselves, each other, and the action between them.
In, in, in they go, and in and out, fucking each other with stiffened, darting tongues, thickened with sexual excitement, engorged as any sex organ should be.
And they ignore the clear, hot pussy juice which smears their faces.
Because it is as though each is able to stimulate herself with perfect control by eating the pussy of the other.
So that there is no differentiation between them now.
They are become a unity, a single entity with a shared consciousness, a common awareness, a unified will.
Which is devoted to only one thing now-the next plateau of pleasure. And the next and the next. And each is a revelation to their fevered brains. This is as good as it gets. Oh yeah?
Then how about-this!?
Again and again it happens.
Now a definite jolt, a clear increment, now a smooth, tingling, thrilling glide to the next level, the next vista.
So that stimulation becomes delight.
And delight becomes ecstasy.
And ecstasy turns into rapture.
As they rise.
Higher and higher they go, through realms unheard of, if somehow vaguely recalled.
Yes, yes, yes! their passion-raddled minds shout. This is what I have been seeking! No, this! No, no! This!
Yes, this is what I have been looking for, all along!
And again and again, their humping, undulating bodies prove them wrong.
So that satisfaction leads to hunger, to the anticipation of even greater satisfaction.
So that satisfaction leads to excitement, to grasping hunger, to insatiable greed.
For the next level of sensation and the next and the next.
And time stands still for them.
Each moment is exquisite, sensation-charged, unique.
To be surpassed by the next and the next, in (hopefully) unending succession.
But they are only human, their bodies therefore finite.
Meaning having dimension, capacity.
And, while it is true that pleasure of this degree has been long denied, a long time coming, it also has its limit.
Which they have reached.
And now, they hover there, at the summit.
They stand there (lie there, actually) at the pinnacle of their passion, the height of their pleasure.
But not for long.
Because the pressure has been building within them, faster than their bodies can radiate the heat, the intensity of it beyond themselves.
So that it has nowhere to go.
Nowhere, except It explodes within them.
It gushes out of them.
The pleasure beyond pleasure, which they cannot contain.
So that engorged tongues are milked by the reflexive spasms of their multiple orgasms.
As powerful vaginal muscles contract reflexively, again and again.
As pussy juice secretes freely.
As clits rub against tongues, hot, hard, slippery with the juices of passion aroused and now passion discharging, relieving itself.
And the series is long, intense.
And only slowly, gradually do the spasms come to a halt.
And only slowly to minds, thought processes, submerged, buried beneath an all-encompassing load of ultimate sensation, begin to emerge once more.
So that yes, they know where they are once again.
And who they are, as awareness of their mundane selves returns.
And that they have just radically overheated, as witness the rivulets of sexual sweat that only now begin to dry on their bodies.
As they slowly separate, Cynthia carefully dismounting, Helen tolling with equal care to one side.
And neither looks at the other, suddenly aware that they have become totally disheveled, albeit in a good cause.
So that Helen hopes that Cynthia is not looking at what has to be a rat's nest of a hairdo as she leads the way to the shower.
And even there, they are careful to let the powerful spray cascade directly onto their straight, blonde tresses, smoothing them out as they gently rub the palms of their hands against the messed up remainder of their makeup.
And only then, hair smooth and shiny, cascading evenly onto their shoulders, facial surface obscured by the stream from on high, do they face one another.
To observe large breasts, narrow waists, and the bell-like flare of big hips over large, rounded thighs.
And each realizes that time has not been physically unkind to the other.
So that their sense of time lost, time wasted, dissipates, goes down the drain with their soapy effluents.
They have lost nothing in time or in each other.
All is as it was with them, perhaps as it ever shall be, world without end.
And they "do" each others' backs, paying meticulous attention fn their large, rounded, firm buttocks, and to the deep cleavage in between them.
And now, as though simultaneously seized by same impulse, they embrace.
It is long and lingering, as is the kiss, their tongues engaged, their eyes closed.
And it is only as they dry themselves that they become aware that what they have done is internal, closeted, hothouse, and faute de mieux.
Done for the lack of something better.