Chapter 5
It's no good, Rufe thinks. No fucking good.
Meaning his attaching too much importance to what he and Cynthia-make that Mizz Cynthia- have just done.
He could have had her.
That is, he could have made her his, could have become her lover. He knows this. It was that good.
He was that good. But to what end? And for how long?
Because there is such a thing as the passage of time with which he must contend.
And to assume, even for one second, that he is capable of maintaining that same image in her eyes- whatever that image happens tc be, exactly-that image with which she is in a certain kind of love, to hold that over an extended period of time, well, that is simply not possible.
So that that way lies-unemployment.
Because he can see it all now, plain as day.
The brief, incandescent affair, followed by the cooling off.
Until she can no longer bear to have him around, a constant reminder and a reproach to her for having broken up with him.
And yet, she will not backtrack, will not reconsider.
Oh, no.
Because her basic problem, as he knows only too well, does not tolerate, will not support, repetition.
Cynthia Harrington has only one problem, you see.
Boredom.
Pure and simple boredom. Meaning the lack of meaningful activity, meaning the lack of meaningful existence.
Because it would not matter what the rest of the world thought, if she could find one truly meaningful thing to do, meaningful to herself, that is, then all of this sexual athleticism would disappear in a flash.
Cynthia Harrington is a beautiful, wealthy woman.
She has nothing to prove, nothing at all, except to herself.
And Rufe can see that, day by day, this becomes harder and harder for her.
Justify that you have the right to continue sucking air, Cynthia.
Prove to yourself that your getting up or not getting up today makes one iota of difference to yourself or to the world.
And she cannot.
He has seen the desperation come over her, time and again.
Not a pretty sight.
As she frantically dials up Bruce, that fucking pimp, and practically begs him for something new, something novel by way of living sex toys for her to play with.
And takes whatever she can get from him, knowing all the while that it probably will not solve her problem, even temporarily.
No matter how hard she tries to lose herself in the novelty, the diversion of the moment.
Because he will give her this much credit; she is no nympho.
Better for her if she were.
Better for her if she could know the satisfaction, the contentment, however temporary, could find meaning in her actions, however bestial and shallow.
But she cannot. She will not.
She will get herself off with Carlotta, with Rufe, during Chipper's homecoming ceremonies, even with Chipper himself.
But how very fleeting is that relief.
It has no afterglow, other than that of exhaustion.
And no residue, other than that of depression.
So that she is now and forever a being apart.
Apart from the world, apart from reality.
She is suffering a form of sensory deprivation, in which she views the rest of the world, views reality itself through an invisible but all-powerful protective barrier.
But the price of that protection, that invulnerability is a shell of emptiness, a vacuum which surrounds her.
And if others cannot get through to her, by the same token she cannot reach them.
With Chipper, she comes closest.
Her genuine affection is reserved for him.
So that she is truly happiest, even if not truly happy even then, when he is around.
And yet, even there, she must force herself to overlook much.
His long absences, and the personal reasons which undoubtedly underlie them, so constant, so protracted are they.
His perversion, which she actively supports and augments, which, on one level, cannot help but be construed as a constant insult, in which he tells her that she, by herself, would be, is inadequate to his sexual needs.
So that, in a way, Rufe supposes, she is fortunate that she is so invulnerable.
Because, were she the opposite, or even possessed of normal sensitivity, even the slightest touch of paranoia, she would undoubtedly have to be committed to an institution for the mentally disturbed.
Where she would begin by learning simple, tangible accomplishments, like making little clay sculptures, or something.
And who knows but that one day she will crack.
Meanwhile, they were good in bed together; too good, perhaps.
Because she felt, and felt deeply that time.
And Rufe knows that she is clutching at straws right now.
And so has taken a few personal days, which she could hardly deny him. And he does have to get back to his apartment, to pick up his mail, do his laundry, get caught up with such of his life as he can still call his own.
But above all, it allows him to escape from the claustrophobic atmosphere, the closed world of the penthouse.
It is a world which stays with him, clinging to him enveloping him, even when he is driving the limo.
Because it is a powerful environment, in its own way.
Elastic enough to hold him in his clutches so long as he wears the chauffeur's uniform, it is.
And more and more he feels the urge, the need to get away from it, for longer and longer periods.
To be his own man.
To be a man at all.
Because this is not an easy job, in the long run.
Rather, it weighs upon him, day after day.
If Cynthia is aimless and purposeless, and he but an extension of her, and a hired one at that, then just what the fuck does that make him?
Not much, he tells himself.
Only when he is out here, breathing the free air, that he enjoys so much as the illusion of being a human being, as opposed to living furniture.
Here, he can go out on his own, as himself, and function.
At least, he can play on his own.
As for working on his own, resigning, breaking away, well, that is no part of his options, at the moment.
Harrington money is too fucking good. And his problems are those that others wish they had.
There are guys out there busting their asses to make one tenth of what he does for driving a luxury limo, for working out in a private gym, for working out on some first class nookie.
Still, he can count the number of hours he can truly call his own in the course of a week on his fingers.
But at least, here, now, he can know freedom, albeit on a short leash. Freedom.
To be himself, to do the things he wants to do. Except that, even here, he is limited. He has no creativity, no hobbies, no interests. In that regard, he very much resembles Cynthia. So that he too is reduced to the sexual for recreation.
In which he is skilled at the use of himself.
In which he can, with great accuracy, refer to his prick as a tool.
And now, unfortunately, as a tool of his trade.
No, fucking Cynthia was not entirely a good idea.
He sees that very clearly now.
Perhaps, were he a little more perfunctory, a bit less involved, things would be different.
But no, the one thing he can be said to do really well he had to do. Had to.
Never did he have better material to work with, never was his vanity so greatly appealed to.
So that there was no question of his pulling his punches in that situation.
It would simply not have occurred to him.
Not until afterward could he perceive the potential danger to his continued employment that it represented.
But that is soon enough turned off and thereby corrected.
All he has to do is to continue to show affection and attention to Carlotta and Cynthia's own pride of place will prevent her pursuing him in more than desultory fashion.
He will continue to be her best stud.
Meaning best toy, best dildo.
Which is fine with him, although, before he actually had her as he did, this was not at all what he was willing to settle for.
Thus are our obsessions cured.
Thus are our desires killed by fulfillment.
And in fact, he could not wait to leave this morning, to jump into his own small compact and head across the river to Jersey.
And he could not have been happier than when opening the door to his very own apartment.
Where the furniture was plain, economical, his.
And opening the door to his refrigerator.
Where the food is-nonexistent.
Yes, he will have to head for the supermarket, getting himself a few days' goodies.
And kick back, watch some TV, maybe take in a movie.
And sleep when he wants and get up when he wants.
But first, he will need some food, if he is not to end up making his usual mistake, fast food three times a day, followed by stomach trouble.
Too much, she is, Rufe thinks. And he means that literally.
Who is she trying to kid, chain-hoisting a pair of tits like that to such heights?
Who is she trying to kid, wearing shorts intended for a quite different, much less ample figure?
Who is she trying to kid, balancing herself on platform sandals intended for someone much slimmer, much more agile?
And yet, there she is, pushing her shopping cart up and down the aisles, shopping for what would appear to be quite a large brood.
And she smiles at him, stopping her cart, saying, "Hello, there! I haven't seen you in here before, I'm sure, or I'd remember."
Isn't that supposed to be my line? Rufe asks himself.
Coffee and cream, she is.
A mama, she is, and that many times over, judging by the amount of breakfast cereal, the gallons of milk which occupy her heavily laden shopping cart.
Casually, Rufe checks his own basket.
Nothing perishable there, fortunately.
So that he will not have to feel guilty, abandoning his purchases.
Because this is a pickup.
And one he is not about to turn down.
Pretty face, fantastically exaggerated body and legs, thick thighs tapering down to slender ankles.
Hourglass figure, if a bit thick about the middle, with a roll over the waistband of the too-tight, too-short shorts.
Looking for it, she is.
Not really expecting to find it, going on about het daily chores, but the radar is active.
And he is a most suitable blip, he knows.
So that here he is, here she is.
"Lotta groceries there," he observes.
"Could use me some help puttin"em away, I s'pose," she responds.
Bingo.
And what else is new?
"What about the kids, mama?" he asks. She shrugs.
"School, day care, whatever," she replies.
Whatever, indeed. Definitely the loving, caring, motherly type.
"An' befo' you be axin', if you can fine the sumbitch, you doin' a lot bettah'n the fuckin' authawties."
"Mus' be kinda rough," Rufe says.
"Body know enough, know enough ta git by."
Wink, wink.
Double, maybe triple dipping welfare, probably, he guesses.
And using her body to make sure she takes care of the authorities.
As in fucking authorities.
Hey, no skin off, he reasons.
And it looks good.
And it's making the offer.
And it's been a while since he was himself, and not some brass-buttoned, capped and booted combination symbol of affluence and mobile appliance.
Definitely a target of opportunity, he thinks, appending, for both of us.
"Why don't I catch my stuff later then, babe?" he suggests. "I'll just jump in my car and follow you home."
"Soun' lak a winnah t'me," she agrees. "You kin wait outsahd whilst ah does the food stamp bit."
"You got it."
"Nice place," he says. And means it.
Surprisingly good quality, this apartment.
"Yeah, well, they fine'ly done sumthin' right about the fuckin' housing problem.
'"Course now, ah did use ma speshul influence here an' there, unnastan'."
Proud of having what it takes and knowing how to use it.
Hell, he doesn't blame her.
After all, isn't that how Cynthia landed Chipper?
Perhaps not so blatantly, but the principle applies, he is certain.
Although this one is a bit too frenetic in her movements, a little too rapid in her speech, a bit too anxious to show him that she is hitting on all cylinders, that she is aware, sur le qui vive, as they are so fond of saying at Cynthia's intimate little dinners with a few of her and Chipper's social circle.
A woman of this much drive and intelligence, and this is the way she applies it.
So smart and yet so dumb.
But, on the other hand, he can see her point.
This way, she is socking it to the system, full time.
And the system has no chance to recover its balance, to begin hitting her back. So therefore, why not?
And now, the groceries put away, she leads him into the bedroom, without further ado.
And unceremoniously, efficiently, begins to remove her clothing.
He follows suit.
And they eye each other up and down appreciatively.
And Rufe thinks, what are we doing here, the two of us?
We belong on some tropical island where we can use what we have for the purpose for which it-and we- were so obviously created.
A silly waste to do otherwise.
But in this world, it can't happen.
The only way something like that could would be me and her at Club Med someplace.
And with the kids, we can forget that.
Still, here they are, the two of them.
And he takes her in his arms, her huge, luscious mammaries pressing against his chest, just below the pectoral muscles, as he helps himself to two generous handfuls of ass cheek.
Together, they collapse sideways, onto the bed.
And she is on his cock at once, sucking him.
So that he can see the top of her head, her short, kinky hair neatly parted.
And he can see her lips as they protrude, busily working on his prong.
And her breasts, reaching to her knees as she crouches there between his legs.
"Slide down a little, an' ah'll show you ma goodies, she says, raising her head.
Not fully understanding what she means, Rufe complies.
And she quickly reverses herself in the bed, straddling his shoulders as she bridges herself above him, going right back down on his cock.
As she lowers her wide hips down, down, down.
Until he is able to eat her cunt, his nose almost up against her ass hole.
So, he thinks, not as confident as she would like him to believe.
Because he would have been more than happy to eat her pussy, servicing her as she had serviced him.
But no, she could only ask that of him if she were doing him at the same time, lest he refuse her.
And he suspects that some of the officialdom with which she deals so deftly and so corruptly are more concerned with ego satisfaction than actually getting down with some spade chick, however voluptuously designed.
So that they are anxious mainly to be able to say to themselves, because of their position, their power, "I did it!"
It.
Meaning that they got to fuck something this delectable precisely due to their position in life.
Marvelous, is it not, the power of power to satisfy the ego?
Marvelous, but restrictive.
Let it not be said that they actually ate her box or something even more, more... disgraceful.
No, there is no help for it but that they must maintain a certain distance, even in that most intimate of acts.
And only in their minds do that other.
Not so Rufe, however.
But still, she is so used to it, the distance that men put between them and herself, that this is the best she is willing to risk, lest he become offended and leave.
As though he would, before having his way with this bod of hers.
As now he does, first pulling his face back, then gently but insistently, a handful of cheek at a time, pushing her to one side.
And reversing her in the bed, as she, seeing what he is about, raises and spreads her legs.
And he shafts his plunger smoothly into her at once.
And begins at once to fuck her full force. But no, he tells himself, I can do better for her, better for myself, than this.
And he does.
He scoops her thighs up in his muscular arms.
He holds her doubled up like that with arms and shoulders, as he changes the angle of his continuous thrust slightly.
So that he can reach her boobs with his mouth.
So that he can suck those silver dollar-sized nipples to doorbell hardness.
So that he can reach around and squeeze her breasts with his hands.
So that he can be beneath her and above her and around her, possessing her completely.
And so that she has but to open her eyes and know that it is he himself and none other who is thus servicing her.
And himself.
Because, if this is a giving, it is no less a taking as well.
So that he is fitting her over himself as he fits into her. And a perfect fit it is.
Lubricated but pressurized, passive but responsive, it is.
And hot and juicy and intimate and very much impassioned.
As she begins to breathe heavily.
As her complexion goes from caf au lait to dusky rose.
As beads of sexual perspiration form on her forehead.
As she looks down at herself, trying in vain to see the juncture which affords her such pleasure.
Thinking that in this one she has herself a real find.
Handsome, built, hung, and potent as hell.
Her dream man.
Who must remain a dream.
She knows that, even as she milks the moment for all it's worth.
Because this is a class stud with more going for him than she will ever know.
So that this is a chance encounter, the work of a moment, of the present, without past or future.
And she is used to such arrangements, has long ago learned to expect this to be the case, no matter how much it may look otherwise.
Otherwise, how does she account for Henry, Walter, some whose names and faces she no longer recalls.
And they have all left their calling cards. Which are, at the moment, in school, day care, whatever.
While she is riding higher and higher up the rainbow of her sexual arousal, toward that ultimate feeling, toward the pleasure beyond pleasure. And Rufe is staying right up there with her.
Because this is one red hot mama.
She does indeed have what it takes.
And does in fact know how to use it.
As witness the way her pussy is sucking his cock as it pistons in and out of her, like some kind of toothless mouth.
Yes, this is one talented lady.
But this fuck is almost an accomplished fact.
Delightful, but accomplished.
Meaning over and done with and behind him.
Yes, he knows that, as soon as he pops his nuts, she's history. It can be no other way.
Because he cannot afford to have his life further complicated.
One shot, and it's a delightful interlude, an intermission, a recess, a time out from life.
But the other, and she becomes trouble on the hoof, a worry and a burden.
So come pleasure, come!
And it does.
Easily, smoothly, naturally, a drifting of his jism out of himself, effortlessly, as her hot, working pussy does all the work and more, as she herself goes into her series of multiple orgasms, her cries ringing flatly off the walls of the little bedroom.
Up, up, and over the top.
And they shower together in the tub, taking a last, long, goodbye look at what might have been, on another planet.
He dresses, and is just ready to leave when there is a knock on the door.
And the woman, an old bathrobe tied with its raggedy sash around her waist, opens the door.
"Oh, its you," she says, to the pasty-faced, bespectacled little fat guy in the cheap sport coat.
He steps in and casts a disapproving look at Rufe.
"Guess I'd best be movin' along," Rufe says, stepping by the little man and closing the door softly behind himself.
So that he hears, "Listen, Ruby, if you don't stop them from coming around, I'm going to have a most difficult time approving... "