Chapter 3

Why did he hesitate? Brad asks himself. Perhaps, he reflects, it's because, really, what has !p ppened?

Nothing so fantastic, on balance.

Who is to say that it had to be him?

Perhaps it could have been any well-built, good poking guy in that situation.

Maybe he wouldn't even have had to be all that all that handsome.

Because she was wearing nothing beneath smock.

She was, in essence, ready for action on a moment's notice.

So that maybe she is simply a hot number look for a place-anyplace, and with anyone-to happen.

Red hot mama, available cock and away we go!

That simple, that... bestial.

Perhaps it's not even that.

It could very well be that, in her world, it is i so much a question of why she should as of why she shouldn't.

Like sharing a seat on the bus or a table in a cafeteria or a bench in the park.

That simple, that... casual.

But, he realizes, this makes no difference.

Not what she is or is not.

That is not at all what matters.

Rather, it is what happened within and to himself that made it so, so..: tragic.

But again, is he making too much of it?

Is he getting carried away, based on a single, fast fuck?

And this from a woman who has "seen it before" And who has no time for dalliance with ti world's greatest quarterback because she has to du and vacuum?

And who will see him when they both have nothing better to do, or rather, nothing to do at alP knd this by you is magic? he asks himself, with a cynical inner voice.

But she is what she is.

And he cannot put the image of her out of his mind.

The image of her, the image of the action, the image of possibilities with her not yet realized.

A territory well worth the exploration, for better or worse, he tells himself.

And it can only be for the better, really.

She loses her aura, her magic for him?

She's history.

Not even.

She's a never was, not a has been.

And that is why he didn't tell Randy Buck who she was or anything about her.

Not the only reason, of course, but the essential deciding factor.

He didn't talk about her because, as of yet, there is nothing to talk about.

So what was all that "creative juices" bullshit?

Smokescreen.

Camouflage, so that nobody knows what's there until he can figure it out himself.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow at ten, he will call her.

Across the river, in New Jersey, he will call her. And just what the fuck is your problem, man? he asks himself, his train of thought disrupted by the bulge and strain at his crotch as he drives.

The thought of calling Helen and he suddenly develops a boner?

Come on! Get real!

He can't wait to get home to take care of... things.

Something he hasn't done in a long time, in years, in fact.

But he has to do something to get control of himself.

Brad lies on the bed, there in the darkness, head on two pillows.

He is naked, spread-eagled in the center of the bed, the covers thrown off.

And his lob rests, long and thick and warm and flaccid, in the unpressurized but encircling grasp of one hand.

And he closes his eyes.

And does not have to summon her image, summon the replay of what happened this morning.

Because it is as though ongoing, requiring only the absence of external reality to assert itself full force, in intimate detail and glorious, living color.

Hot, hot, hot! he exclaims to himself, as his prod goes to full, vibrant erection, hard and stiff beneath his fingers.

And he can see and taste her ass hole.

And he can feel the flesh of the cheeks of her ass. And he can push her up onto the bed.

And he can feel her hot, juicy cunt as he shafts into her.

As his hand pumps up and down, up and down, holding his 'turgid invader upright, the eye of the bulging plum of his knob staring upward into the dimness of the room, the light-polluted night of the city streaming dully in through the picture window.

Hard as a fucking rock! he notices, even in the midst of the fevered images.

Oh yes, oh yes! Fucking her, he is.

Slamming the slab of his abdominals into her big ass, again and again, he is.

She is so, so... overwhelming, the feelings she generates within him not in any way under his control.

And he is-oh, wow!

Already, the thick, hot cream oozes from the great head of his cock, over knuckles and back of hand, dropping heavy and warm and sticky and wet onto his stomach.

And he becomes absorbed in the mechanics of making his way to the bathroom without leaving a mess on the bed or spreading that which is on him further.

One hand cupping the melting j ism on his abdominal muscles, the other awkwardly flattened, palm down, beneath the head of his still hard cock, he makes his way gingerly to the bathroom.

And drapes his lob into the sink, running his hands under the water and wiping them in the darkness before turning on the light in the bathroom.

He cleans himself up.

And the cleaner he gets, the more he thinks about what he has just done and what made him do it.

She is just too fucking much! he tells himself. He can't seem to calm down about her, can't get used to her.

That's what I should have done, he tells himself.

He should have cancelled out with Randy Buck and shacked up with her all day, fucking her again and again in every conceivable fashion, until he worked her out of his system.

Because this is truly ridiculous.

A grown man, a superstud; and she's got him pounding his pud?

Come on, pal! Get with it!

But tomorrow.

Tomorrow he will get her out of his system. Or at least have a lot of fun trying.

Just as well he did jerk off, he tells himself, justifying the practicality of his action, after the fact, as earlier he justified rimming her to show sin- ty Yeah, right.

He rimmed her to show her he was serious. And now, he jerked off in order to give himself re staying power with her tomorrow Geez! he thinks. I am one considerate guy.

So considerate, in fact, that he doesn't even realize that he is being considerate until after the. t.

He maybe-no.

That doesn't work.

He thought that, perhaps, by his relieving himself this way, her image would somehow be de-mystified,, and he might even manage to experience post-coital depression.

Because Helen both elates and disturbs him.

He is a man who prides himself on being in control of his situation.

Which, so far as Helen is concerned, is not true, at least not at the moment.- And a part of him knows that depression leaves him more in control than does obsession. .

So that now, he tries again mentally to put her down.

But that doesn't work any better now than it did this morning.

Maybe, he thinks, just maybe, if he does something truly disgusting with her tomorrow, live and in person, it will happen.

Because it is obvious that it will not, that she will not be stripped of her magic, yes, of her hold on him, in any other way.

The other thing, of course, is this Does he really want to be free of her?

Does he actually wish to return to his old quandary, the old meaninglessness, the emptiness of the last several months?

In other words, how far should he go, how hard should he try, in working through his obsession for her?

Because here is a situation in which the cure could very well leave him worse off than the disease.

So that he views with mixed feelings, almost with impartiality, his situation.

Yeah, right, pal, he tells himself. All this from one fast fuck.

But tomorrow, he will know better what is the true nature of their relationship, if indeed there even exists between them that which could rightly be called such.

And on that note, he sleeps.

And awakens nearly, with one hell of a boner. But he recognizes it for what it is, the old buongiorno, the good 'morning hard on that means nothing, except that his body is continuing to function normally.

So that he is not so much elated by its presence as he would have been disturbed by its absence.

He deliberately moves in slow motion, getting his breakfast, lounging around before taking his shower, performing the rest of his bathroom business, getting dressed.

He calls her promptly at ten.

They have not much to say.

She gives him the few added directions required to find her easily and will expect him at eleven.

She will fix them lunch, if that is acceptable.

It is.

And on that note, they hang up.

New Jersey.

And he sees why she would want to live here, rather than in the city, if her income is what he thinks it is.

He is, in fact, surprised at how nice the apartment complex in which she lives seems to be.

He finds her building easily.

He buzzes her doorbell.

And answering buzz and he is in.

He finds her door quickly and she opens it before he can knock.

She smiles and lets him in.

And he looks her up and down, eyes not believing what he is seeing.

She is wearing nothing but a transparent negligee.

Of a black, filmy material, he can see her huge nipples at the ends of her warheads as they tent the flimsy garment before her.

Telling him that they are going nowhere this afternoon.

Telling him that she is ready for action on the spot.

But instead "Shall we eat first? It's all ready."

Yeah, right.

Like he always has lunch like this.

Mozzerella cheese and tomato slices on whole wheat and red wine.

He pours for the two of them as she seats herself opposite him at the little table in her kitchen. They eat and drink.

And he drinks in the sight of her, seated opposite him, trying to get used to her size, her shape, her presence.

He can't.

Bottom line is that, try as he might, he cannot simply shrug off her presence.

There is too much of it.

And it corresponds to an image within himself that, prior to meeting her, he had not even suspected was there.

She is a new image to his psyche.

She is a total surprise, an assault on his mind. Because it is not as if he had -always dreamed of der or someone like her.

He has not. Not even close.

So that her appearance has engendered a totally tkew concept of the feminine ideal within him. She is a shock to mind and body.

Because his body didn't know that it wanted any- thing like this either, until it .reacted physically to ber presence as it did.

Crazy! he tells himself. Crazy, that a sophisticated man of the world, a celebrity athlete and accomplished stud, should be thus overwhelmed.

Why should it be?

She's just another piece of ass, right?

Except that she obviously is not.

Because, with her, it is not a question of going through the motions, of keeping up appearances in front of himself and others, of proving once again what a stud he is, of keeping score and increasing same.

Because this is something that he genuinely, with an ardent desire, a drooling hunger, wants to do for its own sake.

And he can't say when was the last time he felt like this, about sex or anything else.

Because always, always before him, ever in sight, near or far, is the objective, the ulterior motive,a the end of which the act is merely the means,-whatever it is.

But here, now, means and end have merged. And maybe that's it.

Perhaps the feelings of his youth are revived by her.

Because he never thought of beautiful girls, sexy girls, as being anything but "neat".

Neat.

Meaning complete, total package, lacking nothing for the purpose intended, which is the generation of mutual pleasure.

Even as he himself is neat, lacks nothing, is totally suited to the purpose of achieving pleasure through intercourse.

- That is both truth and image, he tells himself.

That is the be-all and end-all of sexual endeavor.

And it was only as he matured that he saw in these others-stars, starlets, beauty queens, whatever- their flaws, their incompleteness.

And perhaps it is true that she has caused him to once again become a child.

Because his judgment of her is totally uncritical.

Can it be that her completeness, that which he assigns to her, is merely an assumption based on her physical abundance?

But no, he questions this, doubts it very much.

He has seen other big women before and not been thus impressed.

So that there is something which his totality, mind and body, or perhaps body first, then mind, has recognized in her.

And he does not particularly welcome it in the strictly cerebral sense.

So that he will not be in the least disturbed if in fact their getting together today should prove to be an exorcism, leaving him free of her fascination for him.

And free to return to the old emptiness, the nameless frustration of his existence.

Because he is used to not needing other people, not depending on others for anything.

And Randy Buck saw this in him, on the one hand welcoming it, on the other seeking to control it, to control Brad.

Hence, Gary Fisher, a situation with which he would be freer to deal, far less distracted, if he can succeed in putting Helen behind him.

And now, they are finished eating and she loads the dish washer but doesn't start it.

"Damn place," she says, "use the dishwasher an' won' be enougha hot watah fo' de big clean-up detail."

Again, that practicality which has no place in true passion.

Oh, she is hot for him, no question; but her heat is relative, in context.

Whereas his for her is absolute, at least at the moment.

She leads him by the hand into the bedroom, where the covers are neatly turned down, waiting, inviting.

She removes her filmy gown and kicks off her slippers.

So that she is completely naked before he has begun to undress.

"Somethin' ah jus' know you bin wantin' to do," she says.

And turns around, grinding her big ass into his crotch.

Inviting him to fuck her in the ass.

And strips the covers from the bed.

And lies down in the center of it, on her stomach, big boobs balooning deliciously on either side of her, filling the space between body and arm as, leaning on her elbows, she looks at him, smiling in silent invitation.

Hastily, he removes his clothes.

And none too soon, either, since he must relieve the painful pressure on his cock from his bikini underpants.

Because he has a-fully erect hard-on by the time he slides that last garment quickly and efficiently, stepping out of them, catching them by one toe and kicking them onto the chair where the rest of his clothes are piled.

And he is on the bed, nestled between her big thighs, parted to admit him, her pussy lips clearly visible between the spread legs.

As her ass hole is not.

So that he places a hand on each big buttock.

And spreads them apart, to reveal her ass hole.

He studies the view a long moment, observing the big, protruding ring of muscle, its segments few and puffy.

And he wallows in the crack of her ass now, mouth open, first locating, then sucking her ass hole into his mouth, where he chews it gently, his tongue probing the center of her star.

And now, he takes his time, thrusting the tip of his tongue in and out of her ass hole as he continues to suck.

And the ring of muscle relaxes, so that he is able to thrust deeper and deeper into her ass hole, his tongue stretching the entrance until he is actually able to fuck her in the ass with it, sliding it in and out, in and out like a kind of cock.

And she is plenty big and plenty loose.

Still, he wants to give her a finger wave.

And he does.

So that he can watch, can see her ass hole forming a smooth, rounded orifice which clings wetly to his two fingers, surrounding the knuckles.

As he pulls on one flared hip, raising her to knees and elbows.

So that now she is ready.

And he has been ready, his erection a long, thick, bulb-tipped flagpole rising from his lap at a high angle.

And now, he polishes his knob with a blob of saliva.

And stands on his knees.

And guides his missile toward its target with one hand as the thumb and fingers of the other encircle her large, salivalubed, slackened, ready, waiting ass hole.

And now, he buttons the plum of his knob into her ass hole.

And pauses, feeling, the warm, wet caress of her insides against it.

The welcoming committee.

And now, he grasps both her hips with his hands. And rotates his hips as he moves slowly forward, spiralling in, in, into her.

And she feels the battering ram of his cock head as it parts the walls of her rectum before it, the flange at the rear as it spreads her still further, the thick shaft behind as it continues to fill her bowels completely.

Until he is all the way into her ass, his stomach bumping against her large, round, protruding butt- ocks.

And now, he rocks back and forth with her, staying right with her.

So that there is no movement of the mighty meat monolith within her.

But now, he steadies her hips.

And begins to fuck her in the ass slowly, in small, soft movements.

So that she can feel him now, an alien presence thin her.

Quickly, he accelerates, his strokes coming harder, faster.

Until he is fucking her in the ass full bore, pulling back until only the great knob remains within, then aging forward until he smashes into her ass, riding seismic shock waves through the undulating voluptuousness of her body.

And he is communicating with her, cock to ass hole.

A million messages, erotic, lascivious, intimate pass back and forth between them as her bowels exert their all-encompassing, even pressure on his piston of a cock, activating every nerve ending in his cock, in her rectum.

So that surge after surge of sexual electricity pass through them with each lunge.

And now, he jams it into her all the way and then rotates his hips, reaming her ass with his rock hard erection.

And now, he varies the motion.

And, holding onto only one hip, he reaches beneath her, down and around, to weigh her huge breasts in the palm of his hand, one at a time, to knead and fondle them, exciting her and himself with this added dimension of the action.

The abundance, the completeness of her! he thinks, playing with her mammoth mammaries until her nipples become erect and rubbery hard.

And now, he pulls his hand back, back, back, digging into her crotch, thrusting his hand into her cunt, finding her clit.

And twiddling it between two fingers.

So that her joy buzzer is being stimulated from within and without.

And they are getting hotter and hotter.

And now, he is finger fucking her in the front feeling her hot pussy juices ooze over knuckles and wrist.

As he himself is ascending through level after level of arousal.

As the pleasure beyond pleasure seizes him, seizes both of them.

And now, they are coming together, the spasms of her multiple orgasms alternating with those his climax.

So that she seems to be milking his cock with the twinges of her bowels as she contracts them, again and again, in unison with the convulsions her pussy, orgasm after orgasm transporting her, soaring and zooming, through her private sexual paradise.

At last, Brad's series of climactic discharges subsides, as do her orgasms.

And they float gently back to earth.

And she flattens out, he atop her, fully inserted. And they lie there thus, recovering their breaths, cooling off.

As his cock slowly detumesces within her, until the peristaltic action of her bowels shits him like a long, thick, flaccid turd.

And he raises the upper part of his body, looking at her.

And he knows that she has still lost none of her magic, her fascination for him.