Chapter 6
"I don't think so" she says, lying in his bed, in his arms.
"Why not? Look how nice it is, your staying here with me tonight."
"Nice got nothin' to do widdit, Brad."
"If ah was to sleep wif you ev'ry night, that'd be the same as livin' heah."
"Ah mean, what would be the point of ma even keepin' the `pahtment ovah in Jersey?"
So that we could go over there for a change of scene."
"That what we be doin' fo' a change of scene, Brad?"
And he knows at once that he fucked up.
Why should he think that she would be willing to wait around while he makes up his mind about her, content to remain in his apartment or hers each night, when he himself cannot say, does not know how long that decision might take?
Obviously, if he does intend to make her his one and only, then he is willing to go head to head with Randy Buck over her, come what may.
But, for all he knows, the magic could vanish with his next climax.
And now, with his stupid remark about changes of scene, he has shown her that he really doesn't know where he's coming from right now, that he is not prepared, or at least not yet prepared to "go public" with her...
In the event, she has shown herself more farsighted than he.
Staying in that first date had been her idea.
He was fully prepared to show her a full-scale, traditional good time, not because he was ready to be seen with her, but as part of the price he was prepared to pay for his obsession.
Fortunately, she relieved him of that mental burden.
So that he achieved his initial objective witho having to risk the scandal he was so willing t confront-before.
Because now, he isn't.
How odd, the way things get twisted up, he thinks.
"I didn't mean it the way it sounded," he says.
"I just know that, right now, I want you, all of you."
And in a way, that happens to be perfectly true.
In a selfish, obsessed, childishly possessive way.
And Helen is no fool.
She knows this, she knows men.
She knows this and uses it.
But not in an evil, way; rather, she uses it to get great sex from him.
Because there is nothing like obsession as an augmentation to passion.
She knows men, knows them well enough to know that his sexual performance is out of the ordinary, for him, for any man.
And she knows the world, knows that he is not about to take her public, at least not until he is more certain of their relationship.
And she wonders if he even suspects that she feels the same way, that she does not want the publicity, the notoriety, if the relationship is ultimately leading nowhere.
No, let it be this way for now, she thinks.
And slides down his body until her face is opposite his cock.
The head of which she covers with her moist Iips, caressing it, even as the tip of her darting 'tongue explores the eye in the head, which now f bulges and throbs in response to her attentions.
Brad had more to say to her, a mixture of truths, half truths, and the good old bullshit.
But that is forgotten now All logic, all reason, all problems are set aside, shoved into the distant background, clearing his mind to receive the truths which are of the body, the sensations that are what they are and not otherwise.
Because there is an elemental purity, a fundamental simplicity in their sexual relationship.
Labyrinthine may be the personal and professional politics surrounding it, but the sex acts themselves?
They are pure delight, unrefined and yet pristine pleasure.
As, even now, she sucks his cock, rolling the head in her mouth, licking it like a lollipop, making it vibrate within her drooling mouth with rapid vacuuming and filling of her cheeks.
As her tongue explores the flaring flange at the rear, the split of the underside, the taut, hot, rounded surface.
As her head bends low to receive the mighty prong in her mouth, as far as it will go.
And now, she swings her body . in an arc, the connection of cock and mouth the pivot point, as she carefully straddles his body, he helping her, tucking his arms behind her knees on either side of him, leaving his hands free so that he can place them on the wide flare of her hips and guide her lower, lower, lower onto his face, where, with only minor hand adjustments, he can alternately rim her and eat her pussy.
A vague attempt at logic, at self-justification, a. flash of thought strikes him.
What more could they ask for than this?
But he doesn't choose to answer this rhetorical question.
Rather, he loses himself now in the sensations which flood him from cock and tongue.
Because now they are doing perfect sixty-nine, their efforts of the same and ever-increasing intensity.
And there is nothing, nothing, nothing between them.
Not the hovering, ponderous, threatening immanence of a Randy Buck, not the drooling, lecherous yellow press, not the traditional disapproval of society in general.
There is just the two of them, going at each other, expressing their hunger for one another in a direct, physical way.
And there is no symbolism at work here.
It is what it is, what they are doing. Man and woman, eating each other.
It is not, for example, Europe meeting Africa. It is not Solomon copulating with the Queen of Sheba.
It is not Othello in reverse..
Rather, it is Brad and Helen, unique in all the world, going at each other out of raw, abandoned lust.
And it could well be that there is within each of them that image, that symbol, that archetype of the masculine and feminine ideal, which each embodies for the other.
In Brad's case, whenever he thinks of Helen (and that is all the time lately), that is certainly true enough.
But that is irrelevant right now Right here and now, what counts with Brad is the shape and mass and feel of Helen's ass and her ass hole and her cunt.
Right now, the only thought of what is not involved in the immediate action is what is about to be.
Which is all, all, all of her.
Those mammoth mammaries of hers.
The inside of her cunt, of her ass.
The feel of her body, the flare of her hips, the beauty of her face.
Her reactions as she becomes hotter and hotter.
The moans she makes, the twitches and twistings and writhings of her body in response to his lovemaking These are all that matter to him.
That, and the flood of lascivious sensation she creates within him, by her presence, her actions and reactions.
These are the things that count.
These, to the exclusion of all else. So that he could not have said, at the moment, if he is a football player or a brick mason.
Or where he is or what day of the week or what time it is.
And Helen senses this, senses and rejoices in it, glad that she has the power to thus stimulate him into sexual frenzy.
Because that is her only attachment to him, and. she knows it.
Just as she knows that it might not last.
So that right now, right now is what she is enjoying.
She has had big propositions before, charmers of all shades, promising her this and that.
In one ear and out the other, their bullshit.
And at least Brad has not tried to pull any of that crap on her.
He made a suggestion, she rejected it.
And he did not insist, did not build a fabric of fabrications in support of his argument, did not present her with some long-range scenario of earthly delight for the two of them, in which they would live happily ever after and like that.
Because that would be sheer nonsense, total crap.
She would have seen right through that.
No, this will have to go on for quite a while yet, just as is, before she will know whether or not it will ever get off the ground and fly.
Will she be content to remain here, in the great indoors, at her place or here, all the while? Probably.
Why not? she reasons.
This is some damned good, truly inspired fucking, without the accompanying load of bullshit, without some macho bastard gloating inwardly at what he has managed to "capture" and manipulate.
As though she ever was some mindless piece of black trash!
She was ever with the others as she is right now with Brad, purely and simply because she feels like it, feels like getting her ashes hauled, feels like facing the truth that, of all the feelings, all the sensations the world has to offer, none can match in amount and intensity of pleasure that of sexual intercourse.
Not that she is driven or a nymphomaniac.
That isn't true.
She is very particular what man, what men she will go with.
The men have to have something to offer in the way of both physique and personality or they will not see her as Brad is at this moment.
High standards, she always tells herself, reminding herself whenever she sees a man and is tempted, measuring him against those standards, which are never defined but ever present and she knows if a man has what it takes with an innate sense that tells her whether he will pass or fail.
But she is manipulative in her own way.
Because, once they pass, once they have measured up, then, generally speaking, one man is as good as another.
The only thing really special, really unique about Brad is the intensity of his passion for her.
Which, at the moment, seems boundless.
As he becomes more and more aroused, wallowing in her presence, burrowing into it, surrounding himself with the aura of it.
So that he forms a whole new universe with her, a universe comprised exclusively by the two of them, merged, united, connected to form a single entity.
Whose two parts compliment each other perfectly.
Whose actions are perfectly synchronized, absolutely appropriate to the moment.
As his tongue strums her clit, enlarging, engorging it as her clear,.hot pussy juices lave his chin and the heat of her body combines with that of his own to make them physically as well as emotionally hotter and hotter.
So that now, they break their sexual sweat. And their foreheads are beaded with large, clear droplets.
Which combine and run in response to gravity.
So that the sheet beneath and around them becomes rapidly soaked, the dark outline of the wetness giving them a dark halo, a different spot in the world, a dark void surrounding the separate reality into which they have propelled themselves.
And Helen is warming to her task now.
So that she opens the back of her throat, wanting more and more of him, all of him that she can get into her mouth.
So that now, she is giving him deep throat, her head going all the way down, lips touching his bush, the tops of his balls as they lock tight against the base of his cock.
And he feels this, feels her going all the way down on him and pulling back until only the bulging head of his erection remains between her lips, only to repeat the process, tentatively at first, as though testing the action and reaction, but now gaining confidence, picking up speed.
So that now she is deep throating him in regular, even strokes.
And he finds this an added stimulus, a heightening of intensity of the pleasure, the sexual electricity which shoots through him in ever more powerful waves of sheer physical delight.
So that it is not merely his cock, but rather his entire body, his very being, or so it seems to him, that is involved here.
So that he redoubles his own efforts, on the one hand wanting to actually fuck her in the worst way, on the other unwilling to interrupt the action that is even now engaging him, engaging her, engaging the unity which they have become, which they are, in a building and building toward the next plateau, the next level of pleasure.
And the next and the next.
So that they are rising steadily through the various stages of their arousal.
So that, ever novel, ever familiar, delight becomes ecstasy.
So that the transition from ecstasy to rapture is so smooth as to be unnoticeable.
So that now, hunger will not be assuaged.
So that it grows and grows within them, ever out- pacing the satisfaction which attempts to catch up with it, only to find itself short of the mark once more, a donkey in vain pursuit of the carrot which dangles ever before it.
But this too is part of the pleasure.
This climbing of the rainbow, this scaling of the ladder of their shared sensuality, their shared sexuality, their shared totality.
And yet, it is also true that their sexuality is not the same.
Because hers is that of the female, of the opening up, the taking in, the receiving of the male principle, of which Brad is the physical embodiment, at the moment, in body, in action.
Yes, she is the receiving element, the pleasure inbound right alongside the activities which so exquisitely summon it.
Whereas Brad's sexuality is a giving in order that he might take.
The more you give, the more you get.
And his is not a drawing out of her so much as it is a generation within himself of the pleasure after which he chases with his actions and attentions, of which she is both subject and object.
And thus are the male and female principles combined and unified right now.
So that Brad is consciously radiating pleasure from his cock in order that it might experience the stimulation of its outward flow from within his innermost self.
So that Brad is aware of the rapture which is being transmitted to her clit from his ever-working tongue, a terminal of the generator of pleasure that he has become.
And thus do they rise, higher and higher, up and up and up on the wings of their shared, their unified pleasure.
Which even now fills them with its pressure, its overwhelming, irresistible intensity.
So that they are at the peak of their pleasure, their capacity standing at maximum.
And still she sucks more and more pleasure into herself, causing Brad to output still more.
They hover there at the zenith of their shared passion for a long moment, and then They come.
And she is grinding her cunt into his face, even as she pulls her head back until the bulb of his knob is resting on her tongue.
Even as it disgorges its load of jism, wad after wad spurting, hot and thick and copious, into her mouth.
Where she savors and swallows it, again and again.
Even as Brad feels her pussy lips squeezing his tongue as it shafts in and outof her hot, juicy cunt, the contractions, the spasms of her multiple orgasms convulse her, causing her to roll her hips, washing his face with her clear pussy juices.
And thus do they go over the rainbow together.
And thus do they ascend, leaving the earth, flying, zooming and soaring through their shared, private sexual paradise.
So that they must, eventually, descend.
Which they do, coming back down to earth as the twinges of the pleasure beyond pleasure subside within therm.
And only when they have ceased altogether, his spurts, her orgasms, does she dismount, allowing his still hard cock to rest on his abdomen as he releases it from her mouth.
.
As she climbs of off him to one side.
And now, they lie there, side by side as he wipes his face with a tissue from the box on the nightstand closest to him, expertly tossing it into a nearby wastbasket aftewrard.
And they lie there, side by side, recovering breath and color, the rosy glow of their exertions fading slowly.
They do not look at each other, both of them staring up at the ceiling, pondering their recent absolute unity and their present separation.
And Brad wants her as much as ever.
He realizes this now, just as he realizes as well that what he was doing, in addition to having great sex, was performing a rite of exorcism.
So that her power over him, which is that of her body might end.
So that his obsession might be cured.
But it was not, is not.
And, so far as he is concerned it will not be.
So that there is no questionin his mind now, but that he must continue on with her, even if that means that, for the moment, their relationship must consist of these, behind-closed doors rendezvous.
True, what they do together, as two consenting adults, is nobody's business but their own.
But if they are to keep it that - way, then they must go on getting together as they are.
Except that now, at the thought of that, Brad thinks, Fuck that shit!
Because, dammit, he can take her anywhere he damn well pleases!
And let the fucking cameras snap, and snap and snap.
And let the reporters write whatever they want, true or false.
And let Randy Buck do his damnedest, Brad knows what it takes for the team to continue its winning streak next season.
He knows what it takes, for that matter, for the team to win a single game.
And what it takes for them to gain a single yard. That, after all, is his business and nobody is better at it than himself.
Fuck you, ladies and gentlemen of the working press.
Fuck you, loyal fans and curiosity seekers all. Fuck you, Randy Buck.
Fuck any and all of you who have a problem with this.
Yes, Brad would like nothing better than to stand above the mob assembled, say, like the Pope on his balcony at the Vatican, the square packed, the world's TV cameras on him, and tell tutto mondo, urbi et orbi, to go fuck themselves and leave him and Helen alone.
And he clenches his teeth in anger and excitement and grim satisfaction at the thought of doing exactly that.
Just like that.
And you know something?
The world wouldn't come to an end.
The sun would rise tomorrow No question.
Of course, he could never really do that.
And to perform the equivalent, to respond to reporters' questions with a standard, "Fuck you!" would only be to play right into their hands, ensuring that he would always be "good press".
Stupid, really; and self-defeating.
If he wants privacy and still wants to go out with her-meaning into the outside world-then the thing to do would be to be as natural as possible about it.
And to handle the publicity in a very low-key fashion, smiling calmly, tolerantly, knowing that the press are basically dog-brained, creatures of habit and repetition.
So that they would inevitably ask the same questions, over and over again.
And thereby give him his perfect "out" with the press and public.
("I believe I already answered that question.") ("Nothing has changed since yesterday.") ("We really have to go now Have a nice day.") So that even they, press and public, would quickly tire, of it, once the novelty of the relationship wears off and there are absolutely no new developments, So that they would be in for-what?
A rough week?
A months, tops.
Unless- Celebrity status.
But that was just a passing thought for Helen. Still, would she be content to remain here, an ornament and a plaything?
Would she not want to be something, someone in her own right?
Hey, they can talk.
Even though, thus far, there has been very little of that going on.
They always seem to have better things to do, har har.
But now, showering together, reality seems to set in.
Their going out would seem to him, on balance, an act of defiance, of deliberate provocation.
What, they don't cook, the two of them, there's nothing on TV, they have to go runnmg around all over town to get their jollies?
Just to be going out to prove a point, what is that?
Some foolishness, a piece of conceit and a challenge to a world which already faces enough .challenges, of a far more serious and far-reaching nature than this, this... thing of theirs, is what it would be.
No, it wouldn't, he argues with himself.
And that face and figure, well, those are things. to be proud of, rather than kept a secret, hidden.
In fact, he would like for her to be his date at the next victory dinner.
And he is only sorry that this is the off. season, that there will be no triumph for the team to celebrate this week.
Because then, then! he would show them, would show her, would show himself that, if he wants to, he can make this thing come out right.
"Want to go cycling or jogging next weekend?" he asks her.
"Cain' ride no bike an' ah jus' does de 'robics fronta de TV to stay in shape," she replies.
Stupid of me, he thinks. He merely wanted an excuse to specifically go out with her, to be seen in public with her, to get the show-their show-on the road, so to speak.
So he went and suggested two activities which, upon reflection, it would be clear that she has neither skill nor interest.
Dumb.
And now, he runs through a catalogue in his mind of reasons to be in the great outdoors with her.
"How about a row on the lake in one of those boats they rent?"
"Fine," she shrugs.
And turns away from him, smiling.