Chapter 1
Brad wants something different.
Enough already, with the starlets, the TV soap opera heroines and villainesses, the reigning beauty queens: Time for a change of pace.
The star quarterback of the league's three season in a row championship pro football team is bored. He is bored with his life completely.
Everything is deja vu these days, it seems.
Whatever it is, he has seen it, he has done it.
And his only excitement, his only stimulation in recent days came the morning he awoke in a cold sweat, strode over to the window of his high rise condo here in the heart of the city, and realized that his boredom included a disenchantment even with victory on the field.
And that is 'a very dangerous attitude for the heart and soul, the driving force and undisputed leader of the team, the captain of the ship, to have.
Nevertheless, he realizes, it's true.
He is stale.
Life is stale.
There are no more thrills for him.
The beauties of the day no longer have the power to stimulate him.
And they were his last refuge against the ennui which engulfs him.
Yes, those first few years, the years of struggle, the years of driving the team to the top of the league were the good ones.
When victory was truly a thrill, a thing to be desired and worked for above all else.
And the crowning glory, the reward, the game trophy?
The beauty of his choice.
And now, he turns away from the skyline of the city, engulfed in early morning smog, the night lights still blinking, their light seeming tired, pale, polluted in the filthy air.
He looks at the bed, his bed, the one in which he slept alone last night, the night before that, many nights before those.
And this is by choice.
They just don't turn him on any more.
Sad but true.
Barely into his thirties and burnt out.
And yet, he knows.
He knows that this particular burnout is that of the spirit, of the mind, of the intellect and taste, rather than of the body.
Brad has never cared for replays, instant or other- wise.
And he does not have to look at re runs of plays to know what went wrong.
So he doesn't, eyes cast down in the darkness of the conference room when Anderson, the head coach, runs the films.
And as in the game films, so it has become in the sack.
Reruns.
Fucking reruns, in every sense of the word. Maybe it's because they are stars, or starlets, or have studies drama.
Perhaps they really are scripting themselves So that their artificiality is more than a mere perception, perhaps mistaken, on his part.
Hey, it could just be that such women are accustomed to working to a script, prepared in their minds ahead of time, to cover even this intimate a situation.
Why not?
In a crazy, convoluted, ultra-sophisticated way, it would make sense.
When you're "on" twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, everything is a part of your act. And who knows?
Perhaps it isn't even their fault.
Perhaps they are only doing what they think is expected and think that he is doing the same.
So that the practice corresponds to sex as performed by certain ancient kings, except that there is the privacy required by today's social standards.
But the ceremonial aspect of it is not to be denied.
Certain people in certain roles in life are expected to perform ritual sex between one another.
Sports celebrities and entertainment celebrities are to be seen in each others' company and there is to be the basis, the valid foundation, to rumors of attraction and affairs.
So that the only thing missing in the ceremony is a gaggle of attendant courtier-observers, holding towels, running baths, or merely standing around gawking.
And Brad is frankly sick: and tired of the whole thing. Why can't things be as they were? he asks himself.Because he remembers.
He remembers the days of his youth, on beach blankets, in back seats of cars, in woods and open fields.
And yet, even these incidents he remembers as though he is watching a film.
Was not he, were not the girls playing roles, even back then?
The high school jock, most popular, most likely to succeed, making out with precisely that stratum of the female student body with "qualifying" looks and equipment.
And after that, the college level, the same thing, only on a grander scale, in more elegant settings (private homes, motel rooms), the , best looking women, sorority types, homecoming queens and the like.
And even back then, everything but the act itself was public, expected.
Just as the closed door portion of the ceremony was expected.
Hasn't the time come, he wonders, to simply say, 'Enough!'?
Yes, maybe he should take the easy way, copping out.
Meaning that he should find some sweet young thing, not a starlet, not anything in particular, and treat himself to a so-called deeper, more meaningful relationship.
But should he?
Because isn't that too merely an act, an affectation on his part, a reaction, .a retreating from that which repels, or not so much repels as no longer attracts, no longer thrills him, toward, toward--- what?
An assignment.
That's right, calling things by their proper names, an assignment.
To coldly, calculatingly assign himself the task- and face it, that's what it would be, a task-of pursuing some pretty little nonentity, to which he would assign (that word again!) all his affection, lavishing it on her with the same intensity-the same proficiency-with which he carries out his assigned tasks on the football field itself, in the planning sessions and practices which precede and follow the games.
And have the house with the white picket fence and the cute, blue-eyed, blonde babies with their pink cheeks and a lawn mower and hedge shears and a station wagon.
Yeah, right. That is no more the real him than the picture of himself with the starlets, servicing their stellar snatches.
The real him.
Another bit of a cold sweat.
Is there any such thing as the real him any more And if not, where and when did he lose himself? And how can he find himself again?
No, he doesn't know himself, he reflects. Not really.
There was a time when he and his ambition were not synonymous.
But even then, a long, long time ago, it was the ambition which drove him, which merged with him, consuming him as it did so, ultimately becoming himself.
Yes, he tells himself, bitterly, he has become the dream quarterback.
All drive, ambition, brain and brawn coordinated to yield optimal results.
And Randy Buck, the owner of the team, could not ask for a better soldier, a better general, a better field marshal.
Good for you, Randy, Buck thinks. But what about me?
Yes, Randy is very happy with Brad.
Brad is one of the very few players Randy has ever taken into his inner circle.
And in fact-oh no!
Brad groans inwardly, remembering what day this, is.
Saturday.
Saturday in the traditional one month team hiatus, in which nothing is scheduled following the season, in Brad and the team's case, the championship season.
Resting on their laurels, their rivals still licking their wounds, the college drafts, the pro trades not yet begun, it is the time of rest and recuperation.
Except that Brad needs no rest, no recuperation.
He needs--something.
The nagging but nameless dissatisfaction eats at him.
And if that were not bad enough, Randy Buck expects him at the Estate, his mansion upstate, for lunch.
Where Brad can be appropriately responsive to Randy's effusiveness, to his plans for the future of the team.
And it's all such bullshit, such sheer crap.
And Brad throws himself back into bed, naked, as thought he had been sacked.
And lies there, face down, bouncing, until the resilient bedsprings return to rest.
"Oh! 'Scuse me! Din' know they was anybody still roan'!"
Brad raises his head, looking at her.
A large black woman in a blue-green smock, pulling a vacuum cleaner behind her.
And Brad does not move, is not embarrassed, even though his bare buttocks are on prominent display.
Wearily, he cranes his neck so that he can see the face of his clock radio.
"Geez! That late already?"
"An' gittin' laytah by de minute," she says. And he gets up, sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes.
And only then realizing that he is taking her picture with his cock, highlighted by his widespread thighs.
He covers up.
"Oh! Sorry!"
"Don' make me no nevamind. Ain' nuthin' ah ain' seed befo'."
"Mind tossing me my robe anyway?" Brad asks, pointing to a chair, over which the item in question is draped.' She shrugs, smiling.
And reaches for it, handing rather than tossing it to him.
And stands there, faintly amused, as he stands up and puts it on, loosely knotting the sash at his waist, so that the lapels hang loose and wide, most of his chest still exposed.
And he looks' her up and down.
Black she is, but of that cafe-au-fait shade that makes her lighter than a white woman with a good suntan.
With a .pretty face which; made up with the art of his usual female company, could easily pass for, beautiful.
She is a big woman, her massive bosom pushing at the fabric of her smock, her thin smock, he perceives, because he can faintly see the outline of her doorbell nipples as they push against the fabric.
And he sees no hint of panty line, scanning the large hourglass of her figure, down to where her wide hips stretch the fabric of the smock taut across the slight bulge of her stomach.
They stand there, not moving, in the aftermath of this chance encounter which should have embarrassed Brad but didn't.
And for that matter, should have embarrassed her but didn't.
And she is smiling faintly.
Telling him that she rather liked what she saw.
And he smiles back at her, telling her that he understands and that he finds the sight of her far from unattractive.
"Well," he says, "I suppose we had both better go about our business."
And he turns toward the bathroom.
"You ain't s'posed ta be heah, y'know,"she says.
"What?" he says, turning back to her,. incredulous.
Then, "Oh. Oh, that's right. I'm not, am I?"
Because it is he who has set up the schedule with the cleaning service.
And the specific stipulation in their brochure, as he recalls, was this matter of arranging for the cleaning when there was nobody underfoot.
Which, normally, he would not. be.
Except that he left the curtains open, the theory being that natural daylight would awaken him, an excellent notion, had the day not begun so dark and gloomy.
"Thass okay," she says, grinning. "It was worth the view."
"The-oh. Yes."
"Hardly seems fair though, does it?"
"Fair?"
"Hey. I showed you mine and you didn't show me yours."
"You gots ta be jivin' me, right? I mean, ah seed' those chicks you always be out an' about wif. Las' thang inna wort' you be wantin' is ta hab me back dis bus up in yo' face!"
"Oh, I don't know. Frankly, I find you very attractive."
"I go for a big woman."
"Yeah, right. Big stah you mean. Thass whut choo be aimin' at. Reg'lah fuckin' astronaut, thass you, Mistah Brad football stah."
"You don't understand," he says. "Guy in my position's got no choice. It's expected."
"Maybe so," she says, looking pensive.
Then, "But whut de cleanin' service be `spectin' fum yo's truly is to git ma butt in gear, get dis place cleaned an' move on ta da flex'.
"Gots me a whole fib' of an office ta do, no sooner ah finishes heah."
"Then don't let me disturb you," Brad says. But he does not move.
Instead, he stands there, continuing to watch, as she strips the bed of its coverings and adjusts the fitted sheet.
She sees him there, but ignores ,him, moving around the bed, pulling the sheet taut.
And now, her back to him, she is bent over, smoothing the sheet with her forearms, ass in the air. And Brad cannot believe himself!
He actually-yes! No mistake and what he feels is what he is getting.
He looks down, incredulous himself that this should be happening, as the battering ram head of his mighty prong parts his robe, below the knot of the sash.
And he looks at the fabric of her flimsy smock, stretched tightly over the massive twin mounds of her ass.
And he moves like a man hypnotized, with the floating, effortless, reflexive stride of a sleepwalker._ And, as if in slow motion, he kneels behind her as she leans over, smoothing the vast expanse of his king-sized bed.
And he flips the hem of the smock over the belled flare of her hips to expose- Her ass.
As he suspected, there is nothing beneath the smock.
He expects her to straighten up and turn, facing him, angry and indignant.
Instead, she freezes there, bent over, upper body supported on her hands, waiting for whatever is to come next.
She has not long to wait.
Because even now, she feels both his hands, those deft, professional football handler's hands, as their palms go flat, one on each massive buttock.
And he separates the cheeks of her big ass.
To expose the big, round, protruding bung of her ass hole.
To get an even clearer view of the pussy below it, outer lips dark, inner ones pink and parted and looking smooth and moist.
And now, the hypnotism of his lust drives him to- Seal his lips to her ass hole, sucking it as his tongue goes round and round over its few, puffy segments.
Later on, the clever, cunning part of his mind will tell him that he did this iii order to show sincerity. Yes, later on, when he can look back and analyse what has happened. At the moment, however, he is a man driven, a man possessed, a man who desires her, not with his mind but with his body, his body which is asserting itself, asserting control, claiming the upper hand.
Although later, he will give himself credit for his automatic, built in sensitivity and consideration toward her.
Because it is one thing to merely look, or even to look and touch.
That can be caused by mere curiosity, even lascivious curiosity which limits itself, which looks and touches, content with mere titillation at sight and feel, but feels nothing toward the object of its attentions other than a pruruient impulse to know by looking and touching.
In other words, sheer stimulation rather than actual and active desire toward the object of attention.
And it is somehow imperative at the moment that she know, that she believe and understand the truth.
Which is that he is not using her to become aroused but is rather genuinely aroused toward her.
And she must know, must understand this.
Because she is braced there, bent over, not moving, allowing him to do whatever he wants to and with her.
And not only allowing, but accepting his attentions.
Because now he feels her ass hole relax. So that the tip of his tongue can enter it. And does so.
So that now, he can feel the heat of her interior.
And his tongue can touch not only the entrance but the soft, moist, yielding tissues of her rectal wall. A big ass, he thinks, inside and out.
Perfect!
Because she will be able to take his salami up her ass with ease.
And his cock wants this ass, wants to be, in it, even as his tongue is right now, thrusting in and out, in and out.
So that he is fucking her in the ass with his tongue.
And now, grasping as much of each ass cheek as he can in each hand, he lifts up on them.
And she gets the message, sees at once what is wanted here.
So that she climbs onto the bed, moving slowly, careful not to break contact.
And Brad, with athletic coordination, follows her.
So that now they are on the bed, the two of them, she on knees and elbows, the bottom of her smock drapes over the flare of her hips, he behind her, on his knees, hands still grasping and spreading her buttocks, his mouth still making a meal of her ass hole.
And he could strip her so that he could wallow in the voluptuous abundance of her body, he tells himself.
And he could stand up on his knees and shove his throbber of an erection into her great big beautiful ass, he tells himself.
But he will do none of these things.
Because such sophistication, such artifice, have no place in his raw, natural, atavistically bestial desire for her at the moment.
No, right now, he is reduced to the primitive, the primordial.
And he does indeed stand up on his knees.
And he does indeed guide his mighty monolith of meat forward with one hand, its ruddy eye that of a heat-seeking missile.
But it is into her hot, drooling, juicy pussy that he shafts with a sigh of pleasure and satisfaction.
It is all the way into her big, pouting, cunt that he glides, his abdomen bumping against the large, protruding buttocks.
So that he is fucking her doggy-style.
But the important thing here is that he is fucking her.
And that he is doing so not as a result of some social convention, because it is expected almost to the point of prescription; rather, it is because he, purely and simply, wants her.
Actually, it is even simpler than that.
Because it is possible to want intellectually, adventuristically, perhaps even casually.
But these are conceits of the mind, cultivated or attitude type wantings.
Whereas this is a matter between bodies. Such that his wants hers, period.
Such that his body has surprised him.
Such that there is nothing at all planned or calculated in any of this.
And it can be argued that, between two people, nothing ever "just happens".
And somewhere, there is some deep-seated, well hidden, truly complex psychology at work here.
Perhaps there always is, whenever people interact, however they interact.
Be that as it may, this is a thing that has come upon Brad like a fever or a chill, unplanned and unbidden.
And now, he is humping her for all he is worth. And not using technique, expertise, what have you with her.
Oh, he knows very well all the advantages to this position, in which the woman's entire body is freely accessible to him.
But he is not interested in that at the moment.
Rather, what he requires is more and more of the pleasure, the next level of pleasure and the next and the next, as he continues to pack her hockey in an all out effort toward his objective.
And hers as well, in the event.
Because, even now, her pussy begins a series of powerful, delicious contractions, sucking his cock as though with a life of its own, as her clear, hot juices flow copiously.
And he rides her thus, both hands on her bared hips, all the way.
And now, they are coming and coming, the contractions of her cunt still more powerful, now become the spasms of her multiple orgasms.
Which alternate with his own explosive bursts of thick, hot jism into her hot, flowing cunt.
Again and again, they spasm, alternating, the twinges of pleasure beyond pleasure wracking the both of them.
This way and that they jerk and twitch as her pussy milks his mighty prod of all the pleasure it contains for her.
And the series subsides.
And then ceases altogether And they float gently back down to earth together And Brad rides her all the way down as she flattens on the bed, his eyes shut tightly, wanting to delay the inevitable reaction, as he imagines it.
The old what-have-I-done scene.
Followed by post-coital depression.
Something he is not looking forward to, he tells himself So he dismounts, eyes closed, opening them only when he stands beside the bed.
And he looks down and-- He still wants her, as much as ever.
He looks at those rounded, protruding buttocks and, even though he has just come, he is ready to plunge his face right back in there.
And she just lies there, letting him admire the view to his heart's content.