Chapter 4
They shower together, even though there is very little room in the tub.
Still, that lends a note of intimacy.
And the shower curtain is transparent, so that they can see each other perfectly, as well as touch accurately.
And Brad cannot tell if Helen is merely doing an extra good job of cleaning herself up or if she merely putting on an erotic show for him, making sure that he sees it all, from every angle.
But, whatever the case, it is certainly having its effect on him.
Because, even now, he finds himself becoming aroused again.
As she massages the soap onto those big boobs of hers and then kneads them as the spray clears them of the foam.
As she bends over, scrubbing her ass hole with a soapy washcloth, not only the outside of her bung but up inside as well, spreading her cheeks apart as she bends over afterward so that the jet of the shower can do its thing.
And so that Brad misses none of the action.
And she even spreads her pussy lips, leaning back so that the spray can play on her pink interior.
And Brad knows that he is not nearly finished with this glorious aggregation of female voluptuousness.
No, he reflects, he and she have a long way to go together.
Together.
And the implications of the term hit him.
Together-where?
Casually dating, going around town together, seeing and being seen?
And sooner or later, talking to reporters, when he will say-what?
Because they will want details, intimate details.
And some of them will be satisfied with generalities, and some will not.
And some will invent that which he fails to provide.
And ascribe it to rumor.
"Rumor has it that... " Yeah, right.
Rumor that they themselves have thought up.
And my, won't the tabloids have a field day!
Because guaranteed, when Helen dresses for a night on the town, she will be showing a dcolletage second to none.
Front page stuff, she will be.
They will have her picture on the front of the rag, just so horny guys will buy it!
Yes, whatever else Brad may be, if he gets serious with this one, he is at least her ticket to fame.
And where there is fame, can fortune be far behind? He can see it now.
It might begin with voice lessons.
In which her dubious talent is more than compensated by her rampant sexuality.
So what?
Here's so what, he tells himself.
He will be good for her, obviously; but will the reverse hold true?
What will Randy Buck say about his dating the cleaning lady?
How will that affect his image with the public and the team?
And Gary Fisher is waiting in the wings, let's not forget that.
Gary Fisher.
Brad minus eight years.
Which means that he also will have a private understanding with Randy Buck.
Which means that he will be writing the playbook, in many cases over the objections of the head coach, but with Randy Buck running interference for him in that quarter, provided that the results are there.
And they will be.
They will be, because one of football's open secrets is that nobody can get a sense of what's needed out there on the field better than the man who's out there.
And all the coaching and managerial insights in the world can't make up for a single correct decision at the crucial moment.
A game of skill, `and the skill is in the playing, not in the coaching, there being only an approximate relationship between the two.
And he doesn't need this in his life right now. But, he tells himself, you sure as hell want it, pal! And want her he does.
So that he is practically drooling at the thought of what's coming next.
Time for the master of technique to go to work, he tells himself.
Time to turn her on like nobody else can. Time to make her as hot for him as he is for her. Time to wreck that composure of hers.
Who the hell is she to be so rock steady when he is so shook up, anyway?
She should be the one seeing stars, dizzy, disoriented, not knowing or caring where she is, in his presence.
Instead-well, maybe he's not all that lost, but still, he is pretty head over heels, if only on the gut level.
He is certainly not in love with her.
Even now, he doesn't even know her, really, nor she him, except by reputation, a reputation primarily on the football field.
But her fascination is that of an object, a treasure, a prize.
She is exquisite, perfect, complete, corresponding exactly to a powerful, archetypal female image within himself.
Naturally, since it is her very presence which has created that image.
But enough of this analysis, he tells himself. And slides down in the bed to tit level.
And rolls over on his stomach, reclining his upper body on her, an arm draped across the relatively narrow part of her heavy hourglass figure, even as he feeds a mighty mammary to himself, hand grasping the big jug as he sucks on the doorbell of the nipple.
And quickly raises it to erection.
And immediately goes to the other one, bringing it to full stimulation even faster, since it is. already almost there, out of sympathy with its twin.
And he wallows in her breasts, their warm firmness, their voluptuous roundness fascinating and titillating him.
And he slides down her body now, helping himself to mouthful after mouthful of her abundant flesh.
And he chews gently on her stomach now, lingering there before heading into the bush.
Which he now does.
And his hands brace themselves against the backs of her heavy thighs as she spreads and raises them.
And now, his tongue snakes out of his drooling mouth as though with a life of its own.
And finds her pussy lips.
And slides wetly up, up, up them to her joy buzzer. And begins strumming it at once.
And continues to do so, even after it has become even larger, firmer, clearly fully aroused, fully engorged.
And now he is fucking her with his tongue, sliding it across the big nub of her clit both ways.
In and out, in and out he goes, tasting her clear, hot pussy juices, feeling the pressure of her pouting pussy.
And she is getting hotter and hotter, rocking from side to side, kicking her lower legs in the air, twisting and writhing, rocking and rolling from side to side, only his powerful hands, gripped to the backs of her thighs, preventing her going totally wild.
And now, it is time.
Time for a masterful, meaningful, expert fuck.
And he braces himself with one hand beside her on the bed.
As, with the other, he guides his prong into her.
Smoothly, he shafts all the way inside her smooth, juicy, clinging cunt.
And he is very glad that he has a big one, to fit her big cunt, to stretch and fill it.
And now, he reaches down with both hands, scooping her great thighs from below.
He doubles her up, so that his prong is even deeper inside her with the foreshortening of her vagina.
So that he is in full possession of her, above, below, all around, literally tying her in a knot as he surrounds her.
And he changes his angle slightly, so that his mouth can reach her breasts, even as he fucks her.
And fuck her he is now, beginning with slow smooth strokes.
And accelerating quickly, so that he is pistoning in and out of her cunt in hard, powerful, regular strokes.
And now, he locks his nuts and settles down to what will hopefully be the greatest fuck of her life.
Because yes, he decides, he does wao put on ashow for her.
Why not?
Certainly, he has put on a show with a lot less inspiration than this.
So that the difference is that he really wants to do this, not because it is expected or to impress himself, but to prove to her how good he can be to and for her.
Which somehow seems important.
Because if he cannot strip her of her fascination for him, then what?
He is of two minds, but only one body.
And right now, it is the body which has the upper hand, which knows what to do.
And the mind need only restrain it, hold it back, lest it go out of control.
And right now, he is doing a very good job, feeling that strength, that exhilaration, that energy which tells him that he could go on like this forever and ever.
And she, already aroused to the point of being flushed in face and body, thanks to his oral administrations and her own hot nature, is appreciative of his stud service, as is evidenced by her increased moaning and contortions.
Okay, baby, Brad tells himself, here's where we go for the record.
And he rides her, transforming himself into a fucking machine, his piston performing with mechanical perfection.
Driving her up the rainbow.
As he looks on, as though watching himself, powerful, detached, in control.
Presenting his best argument in favor of-what? Why, of presenting as fact that she cannot possibly do better than him in the sack.
And telling her that it is important to him that she recognize this.
And, recognizing this, make the commitment to hold herself in readiness for him, as opposed to going around with anyone and everyone.
He is, he must be her best deal unless and until he tires of her.
As a part of him very badly wants to do. But certainly not the physical part.
And certainly not the sexual urge.
So that he wants her to want him, just this way. And she does, at least at the moment.
As he sucks her tits and fucks her, doubled up, ramming into her, again and again.
And each thrust, each withdrawal is a fresh thrill for the two of them.
On and no he fucks her, jamming it into her, ramming it into her, his piston strokes driving the two of them onward, ever onward, and up, up, up the rainbow of their shared arousal.
But now, his body stages a coup within himself..
As it takes control of his mind, thereby seizing control from his mind.
Because now, the hunger is upon him, the hunger which reaches out ahead of itself, above and beyond itself for the next level of pleasure, and the next and the next, no longer content merely to lie back and take it as it comes, as the mind, concerned with staying power, elects to release the body.
The body has managed to break these mental bonds, to release itself.
So that now, the stair-stepping action begins, hunger and satisfaction alternating, overtaking one another again and again as together they mount the ever-ascending scale of sexual arousal.
And mount it they do. This feels good, but better is to be had.
Very well, how's this?
That's great but still I hunger for better. And so it goes.
Because the ascent is self-propelled now, the very achievement of satisfaction implying that there is more to be had. More pleasure, and more and more, the hunger driving Brad on, on, on.
So that he can no longer hold back, can no longer make his clever little adjustments, slowing down at just the right moment, or speeding up, or deliberately allowing his mind to wander from its target, providing just enough distraction to cool down, to hold off.
No more of that now.
Because the pleasure beyond pleasure is within him now.
A tiny but concentrated presence, the nucleus of itself.
Which slowly, steadily balloons, becoming larger and larger within him.
The pressure of it builds and builds.
And it is exquisite, irresistible.
And yes, there is a part of him which still desires to prolong, to resist.
Because more is best, and he is headed toward discontinuity, toward disruption.
And he does not want, does not need this. He does not.
Meaning that part of him which is cerebral, which is planning and scheming.
And which is forced now to stand by, watching and helpless, as the body asserts itself, as it has its own way with him.
And they are both in the grip of the final phase of the act now.
Both of them are getting hotter and hotter, their sexual sweat first beading and now running off their bodies in rivulets, darkening the sheets beneath them.
As their breathing becomes labored, their faces and bodies more and more flushed with the unrealized exertions to which their shared passion drives them.
As Brad's hips accelerate as though with a mind of their own, assuming almost vibrator speed as he jack- hammers in and out of her flowing cunt.
And they are riding to their shared sexual paradise on the wings of their arousal.
Delight has become ecstasy, ecstasy rapture, the rapture of utter transport as they leave this world for one of their own, as they become a world, a universe unto themselves.
And they are riding on and on, zooming and soaring through the sexual empyrean as the pressure of the pleasure builds and builds within them.
Until they are at the height, the peak, the zenith of all the pleasure their bodies can hold.
And still it keeps coming, the pressure, the pleasure.
And they are not able to stop themselves, their wills over-ridden by the imperative of the pleasure beyond pleasure.
Which blows their safety valves.
And they are coming and coming, his hot, copious load injecting itself, wad after wad, into the depths of her vagina.
Even as her snapping pussy sucks his cock with the spasms of her series of multiple orgasms as she also comes and comes.
So that they are once again servicing each others' climax, she milking his from him, he lubricating hers within herself.
And he humps her all the way and beyond, not stopping until his last spasm and hers have passed.
And the body realizes its own exertions.
And is suddenly drained, suddenly out of breath, suddenly too hot.
And they once again descend slowly back to earth.
And he releases her legs, which she lowers slowly, stiffly to either side of him.
And he looks her in the face.
Is it beginning to fade, this fascination? he asks himself.
Not so's you can tell, he answers himself.
He wants her just as much as ever, wants now, not so much in the form of rampant desire, naturally, having only just popped his nuts, but in the sense of valuing, of appreciating this uncanny completeness of hers.
Which says to him, in essence, that to the extent that he likes and desires sexual intercours, to that extent, this is what he desires to have it with.
Not who, what.
Sex object, she is.
Embodiment of the female sexual principle, she is.
In short, the perfect fuck for him.
And he knows it, even without knowing the rationale behind it, assuming that in fact there is one.
He was hoping, a part of him, anyway, to work his way through her.
And that hasn't happened-yet.
Look at all the fun you're having trying, a small, cynical voice within him says.
And he has to admit it; that's true, as far as it goes. Because, whatever else comes out of this, he is having himself some goo-ood fucking!
And now, they are back in the shower.
And the thought occurs to him that she has planned this whole date in such a manner that they need never leave her apartment.
Why is that? he wonders.
Surely, any disadvantage to their being seen together would accrue to him.
He would be the one to be pressed for explanations, as he envisioned before.
So that it is almost as though she has read his mind, anticipating problems which he is not yet prepared to handle, not yet even sure that he wants to.
Oh, white man, black woman, at his level of celebrity, that's not really a problem.
There is some sort of unwritten law that says if a person is famous enough or wealthy enough, then the traditional racial reservations do not apply. In other words, if one is elevated enough in the hierarchy of fame, wealth, power, one has a license.
Except that, traditionally, that is as between two celebrities, and not where one is famous and the other not.
Then, the relationship is suspect.
What is the secret behind this particular liaison? He has what?
Gotten her pregnant, become the secret father of her child?
Done her some grievous wrong which can only be made right by his going out with her?
Been threatened by her family to "do right by" her after a night of seduction?
Because the famous are part of a world of their own, in which color is not a material factor. But this?
Oh, she would become famous soon enough, if the relationship were to continue, so that, in retrospect, she would be termed a "discovery", with respect to Brad.
As though he were somehow qualified to go out and about, discovering talent in areas other than football.
Yeah, right.
And if you believe that-never mind.
"Why aren't we going out somewhere?" he asks.
"Figured you fo' a busy man," she replies.
Meaning that she knows what he wants her for, accepts that, and has acted accordingly.
Meaning that she does not expect to be taken out, shown a good time, wined and dined, and only then surrender her charms.
In short, they have, as they say in the movies, cut to the chase.
And really, this happens to be exactly what he wants.
"Then I take it we're eating in tonight as well?" She shrugs.
"Tonight, breakfuss tomorrow, an' then you can jus' drive me over ta yo' place.
"Gots ta clean it firs' on de schedule anyways." How terribly convenient, he thinks. And how very well planned, too.
But then, there is that element of her personality. As if she too is of two minds, the one hot, passionate, desiring only perpetual intercourse, the other cool, calculating practical even in the midst of her passion.
So that they are both running on two separate etrgines, his those of desire and the wish to trans-send, to move beyond that desire, hers those of desire and the wish to place that desire within the wntext of present reality.
Amazing, Brad reflects, as they dry off, how there is that element within them both which militates against their having a true relationship, as opposed to their merely using each other.
As though both of them recognize, realize that this last is actually the preferable state of affairs, when all is said and done.
True, they are both people who have been around.
True, each sees in the other something special, something unique.
But both of them look beyond this last, to see the world, the future levelled out, as before, putting them right back where they started since, practically speaking, it cannot work any other way.
And her being black has not all that much to do with it.
Any cleaning lady, regardless of race, creed, or color, with whom Brad were to take up would be a problem from the standpoint of his image.
Not, he reminds himself, not that, if ever he were to decide that she is in fact the way to go, that she is truly to become his one and only, not that he would not be prepared to defy the world under that particular circumstance.
Which is what is disturbing him now Because things cannot long continue in this vein. What's it to be, then?
Days off shacked up together like this, now and forever?
That hardly seems fair, hardly, equitable, hardly fair to either of them.
Because this is not a question of hiding but of making up his mind, of deciding what he really wants.
If it's her, then that's it and fuck what anybody else thinks.
If not, then it's been real and no harm done. Not to anybody.
And now, she is back in the bed, extending her arms to him.
And he goes to her and enfolds her in his embrace.
And thinks, good. At last, I am becoming familiar with her body, getting used to it.
And he is, true enough, but in a way he did not anticipate.
Because, with this familiarity comes the confirmation of his desire.
First he saw what he was getting.
Then, he was getting it.
And now, having gotten it, he has gotten used to getting it.
In short, she has become the new standard.
Anything else, anything less would be unacceptable-now.
Or rather, for now.
Because there is still the possibility that he can work his way through her, through his obsession with her.
And the very fact that he wants her as badly as he does, even now, militates in favor of his accomplishing exactly that.
Or so he tells himself, as once again his prick twitches to life.