Chapter 7
I fucked Up, Cynthia tells herself.
I haven't handled this, haven't handled myself at all well.
Chipper would not have been proud of me, the last few days.
And in fact, she reflects, Chipper has no reason to be proud of her at all.
Except as object, to be seen at the theater, the restaurant, on the street, the properly beautiful woman of a properly successful businessman, his major perk.
Face it, she tells herself, I am an object, a mere thing.
The living doll, that's me. But then, that is her function, her reason for being.
So that, viewed in that light, what she has done is not so terrible, not so disgraceful or disgusting.
It is in fact fully in keeping with her purpose, her function.
We sex toys must keep in practice, after all, she tells herself.
Must keep the juices flowing.
She is a kind of trained athlete, she reminds herself, now that she stops to think about it.
And athletes must do whatever they must, if they are to stay trained.
And yes, she thinks, as she moves to the bathroom, she has had quite a workout.
There has been strain on her innards, on her muscles, on her mind.
And she has survived.
She has- Gushers fore and aft, of such intensity and pressure as to disrupt her thought processes, explode out of her.
Thank you, Old Faithful, she says to herself, when she has finished.
She flushes and moves to the shower.
Where another surge and another gushes out of her, to be whirled down the drain of the shower.
The tingling needles of the spray bring her to her senses.
Carlotta, she will compensate royally.
And I suppose there should be a little something extra for Rufe, she sighs to herself.
For services rendered above and beyond the call, and like that.
But really, the important thing is that she pull herself, her act together.
Carlotta is no problem.
The house is a mess, granted; but no more of a mess than after, say, a medium-sized cocktail party, one of those soires she throws for their friends, hers and Chipper's, every so often.
As for Rufe- A wicked smile comes over her face.
She has not fdrgiven him for deserting her.
She was better than that.
Both of them, the two of them together, were better than that.
The only real unfairness in all this was that, his absconding from her presence when she could have used him most.
They could have been-never mind.
What's done is done and can't be undone.
Not now, not ever.
Legally speaking, he had every right to do as he did.
But is that what we're into here, Rufe, the letter of the law?
What about friendship and mutual desires and... need?
Hey, you wanna play the game that way, buddy boy, I can dig it.
And she knows just how to put him in his place.
She picks up the phone and punches in an internal code, ringing the condo of the Birmingham Steeles, ten floors below.
"Steele residence."
"Ah, Hortense! Cynthia Harrington here. Is she there?"
"Oh, yes ma'am. One moment please." Pause.
Then, "Cynthia dahling."
"Samantha dahling. It's been simply ages!"
"I meant to call," they chorus at each other.
And laugh.
"How have you-" A chorus again. More laughter.
"It's my nickel, darling, as they say," Cynthia says.
"You just go right ahead," Samantha says.
"Chipper is out of town, Samantha, and I have absolutely no more errands to be run and no plans to go anywhere.
"So I was thinking, if you and Brim would like to borrow the limo for the day-"
"Well, Brim's out of town. Again. As usual."
"Tell me about it," Cynthia says, voice tinged with bitterness.
"Yes, well, that leaves me also with no particular use for-um!"
"Yes?"
"Your limo, Cynthia. Do you still employ that chauffeur, oh, what's his name."
"Rufe."
"Exactly."
"Absolutely."
"Tell you what then, dear: Why don't you send him on down and I'll think of something, I'm sure."
"I'm sure you will, my dear. "In fact, that's why I called you. "Other than to hear your voice again, of course."
"Of course.
"So then, I can expect him-when."
"Half hour to an hour, I should think."
"Excellent! That will give me time to... prepare."
"You do that. Later then, darling. Ciao."
"Ciao."
Breakfast.
Carlotta and Rufe are in their uniforms, Cynthia in a silken robe and slippers.
Carlotta serves in silence. In silence, they eat.
"About today," Cynthia says, when they have finished. They eye her attentively.
"Carlotta, you of course have your work cut out for yourself.
"Rufe, you, on the other hand, do not have a great deal, or in fact anything at all, to do.
"So I'm lending you to Samantha Steele for the day.
"Please report to her at your earliest opportunity, as she is expecting you."
"Yes, ma'am."
Something new has been added, he tells himself. She has never loaned him out before. So that this is a message from her. You are property, to be disposed of as the whim strikes.
You are an object to be retained or loaned out.
You have been bought and paid for and therefore I am free to treat you thus.
But if these are her thoughts and intentions, if she thinks that by treating him in this fashion she is humiliating him, punishing him, then she has miscalculated.
Because Rufe is only too happy to get away from here for another day while getting paid for it.
And he is glad that Cynthia will not be using him as a crutch or whatever in the resolution of her personal crisis.
And he does not envy Carlotta.
Who, if she is lucky, will be left alone to do her housework.
And he thinks he sees envy in Carlotta's glance. He gets to get away, again. And he is out of here. "I'll go now, then."
"Very good."
"Uh, Hortense," Samantha Steele begins, hesitating. "Yes ma'am?"
"I'll uh, I'll not be needing you any more today, so I would appreciate it greatly if you were to uh, if you were to arrange to be out until, say, five- ish?"
"Yes, ma'am. Shall I leave right now?"
"Right now would be excellent."
"I'll just freshen up a bit, get my purse, and be on my way, ma'am."
"I would greatly appreciate that, Hortense."
Hortense does not reply, but goes quickly to her quarters.
Stop it, Samantha tells herself, just stop. Addressing these pangs of guilt which assail her, as they do each time she feels the urge to have the place to herself in order to have a certain kind of company.
Because Hortense knows exactly what she is up to.
Madame is about to have her ashes hauled again. But she will not attempt to justify herself to Hortense.
Because Hortense would never understand.
How could she, the dried-up prune?
Skinny as a rail, she is, is Hortense.
Straight up and down, she is.
Like Olive Oyl in the Popeye cartoons Samantha watches on TV.
Go explain to somebody like that the constant companionship of a pair of melons like hers own.
Or the round boulders of her ass cheeks as they grind together when she walks.
Or those rounded thighs which constantly remind one another of their presence, and of what is right there, where they join.
Or her hot, juicy cunt, so delicate, so excitable, so delightful when aroused.
And explain to the old maid the effects of her husband's prolonged business trips, the loneliness, the frustration.
What would the attempt to tell one such as her about these feelings accomplish?
Besides, it would come out like the whining self pity of some spoiled brat.
And Samantha has no need to humiliate herself in front of the hired help.
And, speaking of hired help, she cannot help but admire Cynthia's taste.
Many an idle moment Samantha has spent fantasizing about that big black chauffeur of hers.
And even that jolly latino maid. And even Cynthia and herself sharing either or both of them in the sack.
But then, there is nothing unusual in this.
Because Samantha's days are filled with sexual fantasies.
And actually, she compliments herself on her conservativeness.
Because Cynthia has given her Bruce's number.
So that she has used his services to order stud service for herself.
But she has not abused the practice.
Rather, she has very rarely, very sparingly used it.
And of course, she forgives herself for her initial indiscretions.
First dismiss Hortense for the day and then have the service in.
And not, as she did initially, have Hortense answer the door and only discover, as conversation ended and was replaced by the actual purpose of the visit, that Hortense's presence was de trop.
Because that lets Hortense know too much.
That makes her party to the illicit goings on.
Not good.
Not good, if something were to go wrong with the marriage and she should sue Brim for divorce.
Not that that is likely to happen, but why take unnecessary risks at compromising one's possible future position?
And so nowadays, Hortense must absent herself early.
And she does.
Perfect timing, Samantha tells herself as, five minutes later, there comes a knock on the door.
And there stands Rufe, cap in hand.
And Samantha finds herself somewhat overawed by his size, this close up.
So that she is assailed by doubts.
Because her fantasies may have been absurd.
She has no reason to assume that Rufe will construe as part of his duties simply removing his clothes and going to bed with her.
For all he knows, he is here to drive her somewhere.
And she momentarily considers having him do just that.
But her mind is awhirl.
She cannot think of a single place to have him take her. Except to bed.
"Come in Rufe, come in, uh, please."
He does, stooping slightly to get through the doorway, rotating his cap in his hands before him. "Sit down, Rufe, sit down."
"Yes ma'am."
And he sits down on the couch where she has indicated.
"I uh, I guess I spoke rather too quickly when Cynthia called me a few minutes ago, Rufe.
"About using you today, I mean.
"For one thing, as you can see, I'm not really dressed for going out just yet."
And she gestures down herself, dressed as she is in a silk robe and slippers in an instant replay of Cynthia's garb of the moment.
Oh no! Rufe thinks. She is not gonna send my ass back to Cynthia.
"I b'lieve she jus' didn't want me underfoot today, ma'am. House is quite a mess an' needs considerable straightnin' out an' I just be in Carlotta's way, y'see."
"Aha! So I'm to be the babysitter, then," she smiles.
He smiles back, looking down, saying, "Seems like."
"Well, now. Let me think. "Babysitting it is. "Too early for baby's nap. "So-what games does baby like to play?" And she uses both hands to suddenly widen her robe lapels.
And her large breasts with their doorbell nipples are exposed.
And Rufe feels the tingling of incipient arousal.
And his root crowding his shorts.
A voluptuous brunette, she is, older than Cynthia by about five years.
A delicious change of pace for him, she'll be.
And he is not slow to take advantage of the situation.
And does not know and does not care if Cynthia planned things to turn out this way.
He leans over and sucks her nipples, kneading her breasts with both hands.
Taking no chances.
Making sure that she won't change her mind.
Ensuring that she will move from whim to all hot and bothered.
And it works, as she gasps with pleasure, face flushed, leaning back on the couch, eyes closed.
And she does not resist as he gets up and, scooping her up in his arms, carries her into the master bedroom.
He lays her on the bed.
And she doesn't move, lying there, eyes closed, as he undresses.
And now, he is on her, face wallowing in her large, thickly haired snatch.
As he seeks and quickly finds her joy buzzer, already large, already engorged in her excitement, his tongue travelling up her slit, gliding over her pussy lips until he reaches his objective.
And he vibrates the tip of his tongue against it as, legs raised and spread, bent at the knees, she writhes with pleasure.
She rocks from side to side as he tongue fucks her, his long, thick tongue sliding across her clit both ways as he probes her hot, juicy depths.
Now here, he thinks, here is something I can linger with.
Here is something with which I can spend the night.
He is not on her payroll. Although-no. Too soon for that.
Time enough to see how things are going to work out upstairs, in the penthouse.
Time enough to see if Cynthia will get hold of herself or lose it completely.
Still, not too soon to begin working his points here.
Although he has never so much as seen Birmingham Steele in person.
Still, Mrs. Steele, Samantha here is the one who runs the household.
Although the rational behind that housekeeper of hers esapes him completely.
I mean, like, yech, you know?
Unless.
Unless he has been with Cynthia, with the Harringtons for so long he has begun to think like them.
So that he too has begun to look at the world through sex-colored glasses, as though reality had the same plot as some sleazy fuck book.
Just because the woman's a dog doesn't mean she can't cook and clean and shop for groceries and answer the phone.
But enough of this, he tells himself, as he continues to move Samantha higher and higher up the rainbow of her sexual arousal, using his tongue alone.
Time to let her know all about the main action. Which is what he is all about. And come to think of it, perhaps all that he is all about.
Too long with the Harringtons, he tells himself. A male Cynthia, he has become. And wonders if, like her, he is headed for madness.
But now, he must do his thing.
If he is to have the Steele option, he must make his best argument.
And he does.
Starting out slow.
Letting her feel his size first.
And then opening up, plowing faster and faster, accelerating slowly like a steam locomotive leaving the station, then building to his actual operating speed.
And doing his doubling up trick, scooping up her thighs in his arms, reaching all the way around them, locking his hands on her tits as he continues to fuck her.
So that now he possesses her completely, an act which seems to particularly impress the women.
Letting them know that he is going to absorb and be absorbed by them.
Telling them that he is conjoined with them in the experience, that he is not one to hang back and observe himself in action, that he is not Mister Cool tool.
He is a lover.
And if they are not his beloved, then at least they can reap the full benefit of his sexual attentions until the real thing comes along.
So he pulls out all the stops, holding nothing back.
Except, of course, his climax, careful to stay in control of himself at all times so far as that goes, to let the pleasure come upon himself only so fast and no faster.
As she gets hotter and hotter.
As the beads, then the rivulets of her sexual sweat form on her.
Because he is stimulating her all over at the same time.
He is sucking her tits, kneading them, manipulating them, even as his mighty monster reams her pussy, which is drooling its juices copiously.
And now, he rotates his hips, giving her a fresh set of thrills.
Never before and never again, babe, is the message here.
There is no time like that first time with Rufe, is what he is trying to say with his body.
You want, you need more and more of me.
As often as you can get it.
Addressing the heat of the moment, of course.
He does not need, could not handle her on a full- time basis.
But that consideration lies in the realm of practicality which, at the moment, is at a most distant remove from them.
No, what must remain-later for that.
Because now, the pleasure beyond pleasure is taking him over.
He is a strong man, but there is strength and then there is strength.
And the power of the pleasure beyond pleasure may be delayed in its action, but ultimately is not to be denied.
So that now, he has reached the point at which he must perforce surrender mind to body, must forego thought in favor of sheer sensation.
And he does.
For the last leg of the journey to their shared sexual paradise, he is humping her all out, his hips, his muscular buttocks moving at blurring speed as he pumps her all the way home.
And now, they are coming and coming, his spurts of hot jism injecting themselves, again and again, into her innermost depths.
Even as the powerful convulsions of her orgasmic spasms squeeze his discharging intruder repeatedly, milking it, milking him of all the pleasure he holds for her.
Because he has become for her the repository and the source of the pleasure beyond pleasure.
And her body knows this and is taking full advantage.
Which is fine with him.
As together they soar through the boundless empyrean of their shared sexual paradise.
And only slowly, very slowly, do their orgasmic throes subside.
And they float gently back down to earth together.
And land with his body still in full possession of hers.
And linger there while her mind tries to catch up with what her body has just experienced.
As his cock begins to detumesce, he peels himself off of her.
He offers her his hand, to assist her off the bed so that they can shower.
"Wait, wait here... a minute," she says, still recovering her breath.
And reaches for the bedside telephone.
And punches in the penthouse's internal number.
"Carlotta, let me speak to Cynthia, please. This is Samantha... Hello, Cynthia."
"Uh listen, darling, it would seem that I've a few more errands than I had anticipated, some late appointments, that sort of thing... what?... Why, how perfectly marvelous for you! And Chipper?... Meeting you there, is he, then! Fantastic, Cynthia! I'm really happy for you.
"Well, of course, darling,- he is your chauffeur, after all.
"I promise faithfully to have him on your doorstep at seven tomorrow morning.
"And uh, congratulations, I guess... Yes, I always knew Bruce had that capability, but I didn't think he ever actually... yes, yes, I understand.
"Ciao, darling."
She turns to Rufe as she hangs up.
"You're mine tonight and, as it turns out, for the next month, as needed.
"With the exception of tomorrow morning, when you are to drive Cynthia to the airport, where she leaves for Monaco on the ten thirty Alitalia."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Please, darling, we'll have a month together. Make it Samantha, won't you?"
"Okay... Samantha."
"Good! Now then, let's take that shower, shall we?"
And Rufe breathes a sigh of relief.
And surprises himself by feeling a warm glow of genuine happiness that Cynthia is somehow going to break out of her rut, at long last.