Chapter 8
She doesn't look very happy, Rufe thinks, as he loads her luggage into the trunk of the limo, down in the garage.
She looks almost as though she is some kind of a movie star traveling incognito.
No makeup, large, dark sunglasses, hair done up in a rather unstylish turban.
White blouse, black slacks and sandals.
No manicure, no pedicure, certainly no hairdo beneath the turban, and this is a woman headed for Europe?
Rufe has seen better looking boat people on the news, for heaven's sake!
He returns to the penthouse.
"Luggage all packed, ma'am," he says. "I'll jus' pull the limo 'round-"
"Never mind that, Rufe.
"We'll leave from the garage, thanks all the same. "No need to have the doorman know our business now, is there?"
"Whatever you say, ma'am."
"And uh, Rufe."
"Yes ma'am?"
"I hope you don't think that my sudden departure has anything to do with you, with... us.
"I mean, I wouldn't like there to be any misunderstanding between us."
"Ain' nuthin' to misunnastan'-ma'am," he replies, putting on his best faithful negro retainer accent. '"Sides, if this be whut choo an' Mista (he almost said Massa) Chip be wantin'-"
"What about Chipper and what he wants?" she asks sharply.
And Rufe understands.
The lack of preparation.
The nervousness.
Chipper knows nothing of this little jaunt. This is a Cynthia solo special, perhaps the first in their marriage.
This is Cynthia trying to cope with her situation, her life.
Best to stop playing games and give her some support.
After all, she was most generous with their bonuses and their advances, hastily writing the checks, along with the household expense check to Carlotta for bills and necessities during her absence.
"I meant nothing by it, ma'am. I didn't realize that this was to be a surprise for him.
"I'm glad you brought it up, ma'am. Sure wouldn't want to say or do anything to spoil it for the two of you."
"Yes. It's a... surprise for Chipper. "And uh, should he call, just tell him I'm out and you don't know when I'll return. "Do this for today only.
"After that, if he and I haven't yet made contact, you can tell him where I'll be.
"I'll call Carlotta from the hotel where I'll be staying.
"I understand that you are going to be rather... occupied while I'm gone."
"Yes ma'am.
"How long will you be gone, ma'am."
"I'm not exactly sure.
"I do have Chipper's itinerary, so I'll get in touch with him over there.
"Should be quite a surprise indeed."
I can imagine! Rufe thinks. Still, it's all for the best.
No sense his sharing her misgivings with her.
It's enough that she is getting up and doing something about herself.
And he is kind of glad, in a way, that she is not putting a brave face on it.
She's worried, she's on the edge of a breakdown, this is her last shot at preserving what's left of her sanity, and she knows it.
So that she has enough to worry about, without maintaining a facade on top of it.
The important thing is to go and to do.
And not to let anyone or anything stand in her way.
Why Monaco?
He hasn't the foggiest idea.
And now, he can see her in his overhead mirror, looking glumly out the window of the passenger seat, chewing a knuckle.
And Rufe himself can feel her tension, her anxiety.
And he knows better than to breathe a final sigh of relief until she is on board the aircraft.
He gets her to the airport at nine o'clock.
By nine twenty, her luggage is checked, her seat assigned.
"You need not wait to see me off, Rufe," she says. "Oh, I don't mind, ma'am."
"Let me put it another way then, Rufe. I'd rather you didn't.
"Nothing personal, but that's j ust the way it is." He understands.
What she doesn't understand is that he is on her side.
Because all she sees is this powerful, uniformed figure, who has driven her from the penthouse to here in the limo.
He is one of Chipper's appurtenances, one of his appliances.
He is, after all, the Harrington chauffeur.
And Chipper, for all his absence, is the head of the house.
His penthouse, his limo, his chauffeur.
And she wants, she needs a clean break.
And will not get one if Rufe is present, a continuing reminder of her situation, of her dependency.
Mrs. Chipman Harrington III is going abroad, in large part because here, at home, she can no longer stand being Mrs. Chipman Harrington III.
He wanted to stick around to be sure that she goes through with it.
But if she doesn't, what will his presence or absence do to influence that?
Except to make it easier, more convenient for her to turn around and go home the way she came, in the limo.
But he doesn't think he has to worry, really.
For one thing, she booked the whole deal through Bruce's Travel and Tours, making use of her procurer's legitimate front, a thing which surprised Samantha, also a regular Bruce user, apparently.
And she and Bruce are friends.
So that she would hardly want to embarrass herself in front of Bruce by losing her nerve.
But now, he tells himself, on to bigger, if not necessarily better things.
"Hortense, we will be having the use of the Harrington driver and limo while they are away in Europe," Samantha tells Hortense. "Rufus here will be staying with us."
"Yes, ma'am," Hortense acknowledges. "I'll prepare the guest room."
"Very good, Hortense."
Hortense goes off to do her thing.
"Actually," Samantha says, "I thought we would simply leave the limo where it is, down in the garage, and use my car.
"It's less, we're less... conspicuous that way."
"And we'll be wanting to be less conspicuous, ma'am, I mean, Samantha?"
"Exactly.
"At the beach, in parks and forests, checking into motels and such."
"I don't quite."
"I want you to-yes, Hortense."
"Room's ready, ma'am."
"Well, fine, Hortense.
"But I have some travel requirements and I don't much fancy driving myself when we have a perfectly good chauffeur at our disposal.
"So we shan't be needing the room after all."
And Hortense looks at her mistress dubiously, not at all comprehending this sudden inspiration on her part.
For that matter, Rufe doesn't understand it, either.
"Go upstairs and pack your bags for an extended road trip, Rufe.
"Hortense, I shall be calling in from the road."
"But ma'am, I haven't packed your-"
"I'll take care of it, Hortense.
"Most of what I'll need, I'll have to buy on the road.
"Hurry now, Rufe, so that we can begin our adventure!"
Spoken like a little girl, off on a lark to the zoo or something.
"Be right back," he says.
"Oh and uh, Rufe? Lose the uniform, okay?"
"I heard that, Samantha!" he replies, grinning ear to ear.
"Joo gonna have joorselves a what?" Carlotta asks.
"An adventure," Rufe says. "An' don' even be axin' me what that's s'posed ta mean, 'cause I ain't got me clue one."
"Joo know, Rufe, I never knew that bein' a woman weeth money ees the choores' way to go out of joor fockin' mine.
"Crazy, the two of them."
"Yeah, babe, but somethin' tells me they 'bout ta hannel it real well."
"I hope so.
"Well, see joo aroun'."
"Hey, when I get back, big reunion, right."
"Thin' joo gonna be een chape for eet?" she asks. "I sincerely hope not," he replies, grinning as he closes the door behind himself.
She wears sunglasses with garish, phosphorescent lime frames, a halter which is totally inadequate for her breasts, which strain and overflow it, and short shorts that make it appear that her cunt is trying to eat the crotch out of them.
And platform sandals, white, that bring her to almost Rufe's height.
And underneath, nothing.
She eats her sandwich in large mouthfuls, washing it down with beer right out of the bottle.
And the black bartender shakes his head in disapproval.
Not of her, but obviously of Rufe.
Who is much too good looking, has too much going for him, to get mixed up with this over-upholstered piece of white trash.
And Rufe, eating his lunch opposite Samantha in the booth, can only look apologetic and embarrassed.
As Samantha issues a resounding belch, followed by, "Scuse me," said into the back of her hand as she wipes her mouth.
Rufe offers her a hand as he rises.
And ignores the unwelcome sign on the bartender's face as they leave. He gets behind the wheel of the car.
"Mmm-mmm! Jus' look at all dat nice white meat hanging out dem sho'tes!" a passing black would-be lothario enthuses, pausing to look at Samantha's exposed halfmoons oozing from beneath the straining denim.
Mistake.
Because- "Burrrt!"
"Geez!" the street lover exclaims, "don't nobody light no match!"
Samantha laughs and gets in the car.
"Find a motel as soon as we clear the city," she instructs.
"That's it, that's it, right up my fuckin' big ass!"
As Rufe shafts smoothly, evenly in and out of her ass hole.
He uses the bottle of mineral oil she has thoughtfully provided as lubricant.
Because her sanitary habits do not admit of rimming.
They will shower after, rather than before and after.
Living sleazy, she calls it; something she has always wanted to do.
And is now going about it with a vengeance.
She has graduated from inadequate halters to thin tank tops with large armholes and nothing underneath.
So that, but for her hulking escort, she is an invitation to a rape.
Provided, of course, that the rapist is not in the least fastidious.
Shape and size, she has.
But she is obviously a skank.
And what that large, handsome black guy is doing with her, those who see them can only speculate.
To a man, to a woman, they think, Surely he can do better than this.
Little do they know that he can't.
Little do they realize that he is helping a society matron fulfill a lifelong fantasy.
As she puts on exhibit for all to see this alter ego.
As she goes out of her way to gross people out.
They walk through the woods, along a hiking trail.
And there is no help for it but they must detour off the trail.
Where she braces herself against a tree so that he can fuck her from behind.
And afterward, she continues walking, the stain at her crotch turning the faded denim a dark, damp shade of blue.
As her sweat, for it is a hot day, turns her thin cotton tank top transparent.
And the rangers can only gawk and leer and think of all kinds of clever things to say to one another about the sight which confronts them.
And Rufe?
He has changed his image to match hers. His sunglasses match hers, as do his tank top and shorts, except that they actually fit him.
So that there they go, Mr. and Mrs. Sleaze, bound to offend, regardless of race, creed, or color.
Except that nobody cares to go up against his size, his muscles.
"In the dunes," she says. "Take me in the dunes and fuck me."
They are at the beach.
The day is crowded and the dunes are- "Too shallow, babe. Somebody bound ta spot us."
"Only if they're looking for us."
Rufe does his best to get low, as low as possible in the dunes.
Still, he has but to raise his head and he can see the weekend crowd.
Which means that any who care to look can see him.
But Samantha doesn't care. The blanket is spread.
And Samantha removes the bottom of her ridiculously inadequate bikini, almost a g-string.
And raises and spreads her legs.
And her lust is apparently contagious.
Because Rufe, who has serious, practical objections to this, in theory, at least, in practice finds himself becoming thoroughly aroused.
So that he removes his own skimpy bikini as an alternative to letting it strangle his rampant erec- tion.
And goes to fucking her right there, in broad daylight, in brilliant sunshine, in shallow dunes.
And knows that the crowd can see the tops of her knees and his head.
And, in case one of the bathers is less than attentive, Samantha moans loudly, her voice carrying even above th brouhaha of the throng assembled there on the sand.
And Rufe, impelled by a sense of urgency-surely the beach patrol is going to come along and arrest them-gives her the fastest, most frantic fuck of his life.
And afterward, they are both laughing so hard they can hardly get their brief bathing suits back onto themselves, between sweat and pussy juice and melting jism.
And they do not choose to acknowledge the applause which accompanies them down the dunes and into the water.
"There she goes just a'walkin' down the street, singin' oo wa diddy diddy dum diddy daw!"
And the carload of teenagers in the convertible laugh uproariously at the singular appropriateness of what is blaring from their radio as they slowly follow Samantha up the street, paralleling her progress on her platform sandals. And she smiles at them. And goes over to the car.
Which stops as she leans on the top of the door on the driver's side.
"You boys want a better look?" she asks.
"Uh yeah, right, like sure, right here in broad daylight," the driver says.
"If I'm not chicken, why should you be?" Samantha challenges.
"Hey, Tom, lady wantsa do show an' tell, what is your problem, man?"
"What about cops?"
"Her problem, man."
"My problem,, man," Samantha echoes.
"Okay, go!"
She smiles at them and turns around, back to them, unzipping the fly of her short shorts. "Ooh!"
This from the six guys, as she backs up to them and slowly lets the shorts slide over her hips until they are below the cheeks of her ass.
"Hey, hey, hey!"
And whistles.
As she sits on the top of the car door, ass hanging over it.
'"Samatter, Tommy, don'tcha wanna give it a little kiss?" As Tommy leans back away from it.
Too late, he realizes what she is up to. When he does, he tries to re-start the car and put it in gear, all at the same time. A false start.
And the thick brown rope drops heavily from her protruding ass hole. "Oh shit, she's."
"Well get it the fuck outta."
"Hey, man, I am balin'!"
But the youth who spoke is the only one who does, jumping out of the car and taking off.
As the others sit there staring, transfixed, at the unbelievable sight as Tommy frantically tries to start the car, a growing collection of brown steamers piling up on the seat and floor and arm rest beside him.
"Have a nice day, boys," she says, sweetly, when she has finished, standing up and zipping up.
"Phew!" she says, standing beside the car. "Something really stinks around here. I think you flooded the engine."
And she laughs and joins Rufe as he emerges from the convenience store with bread and sandwich meat and snacks and beer.
And Tommy who, having carefully extricated himself from his car and was stomping toward her, face red, fists clenched, changes his mind and goes back to his car, studying the situation, door open, the sight of Rufe causing him to suddenly veer in his thinking from revenge to the far more practical-and safer- problem of how to get the shit out of the car.
"What uh, what happened?" Rufe asks, as he walks with her back to her car.
"Kid has a problem getting his car started," she replies.
"I can see why," Rufe says. "Got himself a real shitbox there."
Three weeks they have been on the road. Samantha calls home daily, but there is nothing urgent, nobody looking for her, nobody missing her. Hortense knows nothing.
She can suspect whatever she likes, but when Mr. Steele calls-if Mr. Steele calls-there is only the fact of a chauffeured, open-ended tour to report.
Let Brim make of that what he will, nothing can be proven.
Rufe can see that the trip agrees with Samantha. She is tanned, relaxed.
She goes to bed early, gets up early, is enthusiastic in bed at both times of day.
No fatigue, no stomach trouble, no irritability.
All in all, she is becoming quite a healthy person, in marked contrast to her rather doughy hue and tone when they started.
But enough is enough, she apparently feels, at last.
"Let's go on a regular shopping trip and get ourselves some decent clothes," she says, her words incongruous with her appearance, causing Rufe to smile.
"What's so funny?" she asks. "If you could get a look at what's doin' the talkin' here, you wouldn't have no need ta axe me that!" She leans over to look in the rear view mirror. She grins.
It's definitely time to go home," she says. And they do, driving straight through the whole night.
Rufe wallows in Carlotta's snatch.
He has awakened from his recovery with a hell of a hard-on and she is only too ready to accommodate him, even though it is mid-afternoon.
"Meesed joo," she says as he shafts into her smoothly, stretching and filling her cunt.
He says nothing in reply.
There is nothing he can say.
Later, he will tell her all about it.
But for now, he wants only to discharge his great boner.
And she apparently means what she said about missing him.
Because, very quickly, she heats up to her full arousal.
Fine with me, he thinks.
And lets himself go.
So that they climax together naturally, easily. And afterward, lying side by side, he asks, "What did you hear from Cynthia."
"Not a thin'."
"And Chipper?"
"Mus' be he keepin' een touch wl' the office, 'cause he for choor don' call here none."
"Strange," Rufe observes.
"I figger, che mussa gotta hole him een Joorope, somehow."
"Probably."
"But joo, scummo, I don' hear from joo neither, the whole tockin' time."
"You're not gonna believe this," Rufe says, "but this is the gospel truth about what happened with me an' Samantha... "
"Thass unbilivable!" Carlotta exclaims, when he has finished.
"Yeah, but it was sumthin' she musta really needed, judgin' by how much better she looks now than when we started."
Reech wimmens, go figger," Carlotta says.
"Yeah, well I jus' hope Cynthia's vacation works as well on her."
"Me too.
"Chee gettin' pretty eempossible, joo know."
"Tell me about it!
"And-by the way, why are we lyin' here, all sweated up an' scummy?"
"I dunno, Rufe. Mus' be a nasty habit joo peeck op somewheres."
They laugh.
And shower together, using the master bedroom's facilities.
"So," she says, joo goin' back down to Samantha tomorrow, or what?"
"Don't have to. Not no mo'.
"She wants me, she knows where ta find me."
"Joor idea or hers."
"Hers. She decided that my stayin' there in the guest room makes me seem too much like a servant."
"Bu' joo are a serv-"
"I know, I know. But I'm somebody else's servant, you dig?"
"Then what are you to her?"
"Her lover," he replies, adding, "at least, for the time being."