Chapter 4
If only, Rufe thinks. If only it could always be this way.
A man and a woman.
A man, a woman, and a bed.
They need nothing else, really.
The rest is just so much bullshit.
And yet, he knows that this isn't so.
Even as he says this, he knows differently.
But for her wealth, but for the entire situation, he would not be here with her right now, in bed.
Big, strong, virile black stud and beautiful blonde woman.
Drawn to each other by sheer physical attraction in a celebration of their respective physical endowments.
But it isn't that simple; never was, never can or will be.
Because the whole of a quantity is equal to the sum of its parts.
Recipe: Take one black chauffeur plus one white mistress plus a bed and what you've got is the same two people in bed together.
There is no magic here; they have not been transformed, transported to another, parallel world.
Things are not different here; here is here.
So that his enjoyment of her is that of a lucky servant.
Her enjoyment of him is that of a wealthy, horny woman being serviced by prime black beef. Much like a day at Elizabeth Arden. Or at the hairdresser's.
That is, certain sensations will be experienced, sensations deliberately, directly stimulated, aroused within herself for her pleasure.
Except that this will be the ultimate pleasure, the pleasure of which all other pleasures are symbol or substitute.
And the fact that Rufe is perfectly equipped to achieve this, to bring this out of her, to raise this to the surface within herself, to make it happen, well, what is that, if not careful selection on her part?
So that he is the outcome of her expression of taste.
And of course, in this world, to be able to express one's tastes means to be able to afford to express one's tastes.
So that she is to be complimented on her good taste and on her initiative in exploiting the world in such fashion as to indulge that taste.
As for Rufe, his contribution is nothing more than a making available of himself.
He would have been available to take her to the airport and see her off to some exotic destination, if such were her wishes.
He would have been available to run to the dry cleaner's, the liquor store, the drug store, or the market, by himself or accompanied by Carlotta or even Cynthia herself, if that were what Cynthia desired.
Were she a voyeur, he would even have been available to put on a show for Cynthia with Carlotta, as Cynthia watched and commented and touched and instructed.
So that what is this, really, except another way to spend the time that the Harrington money has bought and paid for?
Still, he tells himself, at a certain point, all this, while accepted as a given, must be pushed into the background.
Yes, the hierarchy of the world must fade into the background, however temporarily, in favor of the action itself.
Because the hierarchy is cause, but here, now, they are concerned with effect.
So that there must be a giving in, a surrender here, and this on the part of the one who need never surrender, need never compromise, need never give in on any point, no matter how small.
And yet, she must, if she is to reap the benefit of that which she and the world have so elaborately sown.
And she does.
She lies there, allowing Rufe full access to her breasts.
Allowing him to linger over them, to give them his full attention, as though memorizing them in intimate detail with eye, with hands and fingers, with mouth and tongue and lips.
Now that he need not perform for an audience.
Now that she need not be concerned as to angle of vision and pace of action.
Now that the only show they need put on is for one another.
So that it's all right, any of it, all of it.
So that she can open herself up to him in mind and body.
So that they can let the rest of the world go by, that world which has made this possible, which has authorized and permitted this under its own standing rules.
So that there is nothing, nothing, nothing separating them from each other-physically.
And the physical is all that there is in the foreground of their shared existence, at the moment.
And yes, time out is allowed in the game of life- for those who can afford it.
And now, Rufe is taking full advantage of this.
He is tasting her, savoring her, experiencing her as he has never done before, as he has never before been allowed to do.
Mouthful after mouthful of her smooth, firm flesh he takes into his mouth, chewing it gently, running his tongue around and around on that portion of her he has captured between powerful white teeth.
And he releases it, only to help himself to the next mouthful.
And the next and the next.
As he descends down, down, down her body, his hands traversing her sides.
Down the ribcage to the indentation of the waist of her hourglass figure, as though he is a sculptor in the act of creating her.
Ah, but now his mouth finds the chestnut-hued bush, soft and curly, riding its mound, its split peach.
Which he takes into his mouth and chews gently, his tongue seeking the split, as she raises and spreads her legs, giving and giving herself to him.
And now, his long, thick tongue finds her joy buzzer.
And he lingers there, strumming it with the vibrating tip of his salivating tongue until it too is erect and rubbery as he has made her nipples moments before.
And now, he fucks her with his tongue as she sighs in ecstasy, rocking back and forth and moaning softly.
As the long, thick appendage shafts, long and thick and flexible, in and out, in and out of her hot, juicy cunt, sliding back and forth, back and forth over her clit, his hands on the backs of her thighs, helping her to keep them spread wide, to keep that target of her split, drooling pussy right up there, at just the right angle.
And yes, she wants to surrender herself to him completely.
And she wants him to know that she is doing just that.
So that she kicks her legs slightly, breaking away from his firm grasp on the backs of her thighs, freeing herself.
But only in order to give herself to him all the more.
As she turns over.
As she goes onto knees and elbows.
As she braces herself thus, ass as high and as far back as she can thrust it, waiting for him to service her as he will.
Because this is the ultimate act of sexual surrender.
The giving of the ass.
The trusting to another of that which is, which has to be, the ultimate penetration.
Which is not the imitation of the natural act, not the pseudo-performance of the biological function of impregnation.
No, the fucking of the ass has, can have, but one purpose.
Which is the taking and giving of the ultimate in lascivious pleasure.
So that there is, there can be, no misunderstanding here.
Especially when the act is voluntary, completely unsolicited.
And, in their case, not prompted by the presence of an observer. Not now.
Not this time around.
This time, it is just for them, for her, for him, together and alone.
And how he wants her this way!
More than he himself ever realized, now that they are truly alone, now that he is not putting on a show for Chipper.
.So that he is avid, hungry, drooling for her ass, even as he seals his mouth to her large, protruding bung.
So that he is eager, insistent, forceful in his chewing of her ass hole, in his probing of the center of her star.
As he goes in, in, into the yielding ring of muscle. As his tongue feels her interior heat, tastes her inner self.
And thrusts in and out now, deeper and deeper as she relaxes more and more, as her entrance becomes more and more elastic.
And there will be no finger wave this time for the delectation of a superior observer. No, she is in fact loose enough already.
So that he can pull back, eye fixed on the target at all times, and, seated on his heels, polish his throbbing knob, his plum of a cock head, with a glob of saliva.
And he circles the target with thumb and fingers of one hand, pressing and spreading, making her saliva- lubricated, slackened pucker stand out all the more between the perfect globes of her ass.
As he buttons the head of his monster into her ass hole.
And puts both hands on the belled flare of her hips.
And begins to rotate his own hips, round and round, drilling, spiralling in and in and into her, the battering ram of his cock head parting the channel before it, the long, thick, vibrant shaft, rock hard and hot, feeding in behind it, keeping her ass hole a smooth, rounded mouth.
Which sucks him in.
Which clings to him in wet, smooth, warm embrace as he enters.
Which stimulates a million nerve endings in the wall of her rectum with each millimeter of its progress and is in turn stimulated by her ass, by her insides, by her innermost physical being in the same fashion.
So that more and more pleasure shoots through their bodies, a fresh surge with each advance into her depths.
Thrill after thrill of sexual electricity shoots through them, more and more of his cock participating, the pressure on her already stimulated joy buzzer increasing from the inside as he advances into her.
Until, at last, he is fully seated.
And need not worry about the angle of the action, like some porno film star, for the benefit of the observer, be it the eye of a camera or the gaze of some pervert, watching from a closet.
No, he is perfectly free to concentrate on his pleasure and hers.
And he does.
As he slowly, much more slowly than is actually necessary for their mutual comfort, experienced at this as she is, begins to hump her.
Back and forth, back and forth he moves. And his rampant invader does the same within her.
Just enough.
Just enough to let her know, to let her aroused body be aware that it is a living, aliend presence within her, the ultimate physical expression of rampant sexual power and desire and drive, its existence, its being huge and vibrant and having but a single purpose, which is sexual gratification, its own and hers.
And it is there.
And the thereness of it, in all its monstrous dimensions, is the overwhelming fact of their shared existence.
It is strength and power.
It is pleasure and delight.
It is work and play, caprice and all-important purpose.
It is theirs and they are its.
It is that which unifies them and that which controls them.
As even now, it increases its stroke.
So that, very quickly, he is pistoning in and out, in and out of her.
He is lunging and plunging, his saliva-lubed shaft thick and smooth as her ass hole sucks him in and clings in slippery but firm embrace as he pulls back.
And now, he varies his motion, rotating his hips round and round, reaming her ass, easily and delightfully, with each rotation.
And sending grand surge after grand surge of still more sexual electricity coursing through the both of them.
So that now, it seems to them that they are rising, higher and higher, up the rainbow of their shared arousal.
As indeed they are, every molecule of their bodies alive and tingling with their rampant sexuality.
And now, that phenomenon of terrific sex seizes them.
The old hunger-satisfaction two step.
The more you want, the more you get.
The more you get, the more you want.
So that, no sooner has one level of sexual arousal been achieved, its wonders explored and absorbed, than the next is ardently desired, desired with a hunger which carries with it its own intensity, its own excitement, its own drive.
So that the body has a mind and will of its own.
It knows what it wants, in terms of pure sensation.
So that the mind soon pulls back, taking its guidance, its direction from the body.
From the hunger of the body.
From the pleasure of the body, that gathering of sensation which feeds on itself.
To attain and to use that level of attainment as a platform, as a springboard to the next level.
And the next and the next.
Climbing higher and higher.
Because, good as this is, it does get better than this.
And better than this and this and this!
It can, it does, it will, it must!
As miracle after miracle of sensation thrills them, radiates out beyond them in its intensity.
And now, one hand still holding onto a hip, he reaches down and around with the other to grasp her heavy, aroused breasts, going back and forth between them, squeezing them, fondling them, thumbing their rubbery nipples.
Completing yet another circuit, another group of circuits, in the wiring of the complex, living machine they have become.
So that now he is behind her and above her, around her and below her.
He has taken physical possession of her, has enveloped her completely, even as he continues to fill and stretch her interior to capacity and beyond.
As his powerful cock continues to fuck her ass, continues to reach into every nook and cranny of her innermost self, stimulating, exciting it to tingling, lubricious sexuality.
So that the opening up of herself is complete.
So that there is no gap, no separation now between him and herself.
As he continues, his whole body active, his prick most active of all.
Because his cock is in intimate communication with her body.
They are talking body to body in the language of the body.
Sensation.
One atop the other, thousands, millions being generated anew with each movement, each fraction of a movement on his part.
So that there is here a new language, a new contact, a new manner of speaking and thinking and acting.
And he is at one with her, is united with her, is fused with her now in a continuous feedback loop of sexual electricity.
Round and round it goes, getting hotter and hotter, even as they become hotter and hotter, their sexual sweat standing out all over their bodies, the shining beads getting heavier and heavier until they run down in response to gravity.
So that Rufe's body is gleaming wetly, his sweat running down, combining with hers to flow steadily onto the satin sheet, staining a dark circle around them, which spreads slowly.
But they ignore this.
They know nothing of how it looks, how they look.
They feel nothing of their own heavy breathing, of the effort they are putting forth, of the weight of each others' bodies.
No, all that they know is what can be known by their bodies.
Which is sexual sensation.
Which is pleasure, increasing, adding to itself in facets, in volume, with each passing moment.
More and more.
More sought, more coming, more even than was sought, but still they will take it, take more and more of it.
And now, it appears within the maelstrom of their shared pleasure. It.
Faintly, a mere glowing point of light within their abdomens, it is generated into being.
The pleasure beyond pleasure.
Which begins to grow, spreading in all directions, adding itself to the pleasure, the flow of stimulation already there within them.
Like the slowly blossoming cloud of an atomic explosion, silently, steadily, it fills them with its presence, the pressure of it adding to that which has been building all along.
So that now they are at the zenith, the peak, the capacity of all the pleasure their bodies can contain.
And they hover there together, right at the brink, the breaking point.
As Rufe's muscular buttocks continue to flex and unflex, maintaining the fucking motion inside her ass.
Not daring to push and pull any faster, any harder, with any longer a stroke, lest he lose his load.
Not that his body thinks about this.
His body knows only that it wants this feeling to last, forever and ever, world without end, amen.
Ah, but it cannot!
Because, even now, his body betrays him.
Because that appetite, that perverse, mindless appetite, that appetite which is not concerned with the limitations of its host, which knows only its own hunger, wants- More.
So that now, Rufes exploring hand slides rapidly from her breasts down the center line of her body. Two fingers find her clit. And twiddle it.
And of course, this is too much.
Too much for him, too much for her.
And they blow their safety valves.
And they are coming and coming, the powerful contractions of her vaginal muscles, caught up in the throes of her series of multiple orgasms, milking his fingers of all the pleasure they hold for her, even as her bowels seem to milk his lunging, plunging cock, now that it has no need to hold back, of wad after wad of his thick, hot jism as it injects itself into their depths, again and again.
So that they alternate spasms, his spurts, her orgasms.
As they soar and zoom through their private, shared sexual paradise.
Sensation after sensation of the pleasure beyond pleasure wracks them.
They are mindless, will-less puppets, rag dolls, jerked this way and that by their own pleasure.
Which is not their own.
Which is more than they can ever hope to possess.
Because they don't have it; it has them.
And will not release them.
And will toss them, twisting and writhing and mindlessly moaning, this way and that.
And will only slowly release its grip on them. As their bodies lose their super-charged sexual energy, their climaxes winding down now.
So that yes, now they feel, are aware of their sweat, of the over-heated state of their bodies, of their labored breathing, of the energy they have expended.
So that both of them feel weak in the knees, as the last spasm passes within them both.
And Cynthia can only fall forward, onto her face.
And Rufe can only ride her all the way down, cock still fully hard, fully inserted into her ass, stretching and filling her bowels.
And they can only lie there in a conjoined, sweating, panting heap.
Wondering where their strength, their energy has gone.
Wondering how they could feel so wonderful, so full of life, so all-powerful, actually, only moments before.
And now, muscles and joints turned to water, be unable to move.
And can only lie there, sweating and panting, recovering their temperature and respiration, at least, while doubting that their strength will ever return.
Slowly, Rufe's cock detumesces inside her ass.
Slowly, the peristaltic action of her bowels expels him, causing him to ooze out of her ass hole, long and thick and flaccid, a gigantic turd.
Still they lie there, recovering.
For five minutes, or perhaps for fifteen, who can say?
Until, at last, Rufe slides off of her, to one side. And offers her a hand up, off the bed. She smiles at him and goes into the bathroom, thinking him behind her. He is not.
Surprised, she turns around in the bathroom doorway.
He is gone.
Back to his own room, apparently. And here she was prepared to spend the night with him. Ah, well.
Just as well he knows his place, perhaps.
In the event, he has proven wiser than she.
Because, had she made her wishes clear beforehand, then he would be joining her in the shower, even now.
As it is, she will not have that dark, hot, prime beef to keep her company during the night, will not have that big, black boner to which to awaken, come morning.
Because he, at least, remembers his place.
He had no right to presume that she wanted him to remain.
And so, has done the correct thing.
No question.
Good man, Rufe.
Good man in the sack and he knows his place.
But of course, only insofar as he can.
Because, after all, she is the one who defines what his place is or is not.
So that what he has done is, in essence, a default action.
Absent other instructions, he has done what he must.
But she can and will change all that. She has plans for that boy.