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The Story of X, Y, and Z
I have said that my Summers came in styles and flavors, complex as good wines, richly textured. One such was Z. I learned a lot from her. You've heard people describe gourmet wines, and they talk about the head, the aromas—coffee, chocolate, ash, tobacco, prune, vanilla, walnut, what have you—and the after-palate or whatever. In Z, a whole package came with the woman. She had money, style, elegance, everything. Seeing her on the street—striding down Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, let's say, in high heels and dark nylons, in a $1000 overcoat from the best department store—her full, wavy reddish-brown hair under a pillbox hat in dented plum with a broach of antique beaten silver and a mother of pearl hat pin—you would never imagine what happened behind closed doors. Most men would consider her unreachable, beyond sex, beyond anything so earthy as a kiss or an orgasm.
I was in Manhattan one rainy afternoon in early Fall. I had gone into the city on a job interview that had ended ambiguously—I might hear the result in a week, and it turned out I didn't get the job—but for the moment I was satisfied and window shopping before heading down to the Transit Terminal for my bus back to New England. I enjoyed the glitz, the glitter, the neon, the sullen reflections in plate glass windows. I enjoyed the fresh air, the smell of cars and passing perfumes and the occasional furtive cigar, as I wandered among rushing pedestrians. It was a dreary, dark-early, drippy day.
Coming toward me was this elegant, reserved woman in a plum hat. She strode on heels that made her look taller than she was. Nice coat, fine figure, fine everything, but it was her face that captured the imagination. There was drama in her expression. She had high cheekbones with smoldering dark eyes behind them. She had a tapering lower face with a large, aquiline nose and a strong, red-lipsticked mouth. Her mouth was large and determined, as if she insisted on having her way. From either arm hung the string handles of shopping bags emblazoned with great retail names. Her dark coat was slightly open at the top, revealing a subdued brown or mauve blouse that matched the hat. Dark coppery wavy hair spilled from the hat and she pushed the hair back. Her eyebrows were arched and supercilious. She looked, in fact, quite miffed. "Scoundrel!" I heard her say under her breath. "Is anything the matter?" I asked as she bumped into me, and one of her packages fell on the wet sidewalk. I quickly bent to pick it up, and tried to find a way to hang it back on her among the others.
"I'm having a terrible day," she said. "Could you please help me get these into a dry place so I can call a taxi?"
"Sure." I took several from her and we hurried into the nearest department store entrance. She whispered thanks and slipped her arm through mine. I almost felt faint—I'd had nothing to eat, and the interview had been a strain, and now this woman's sensuous perfume wafted around me and I felt the lightness of her suede-gloved arm against my ribs.
"I am so embarrassed," she said. "Thank you so much."
"Not at all," I said. "There is a phone over there. Here, I'll carry your bags over there while you call." This happened in Manhattan, which unfairly has the reputation of being fast and hard. It is both things, but the people are fundamentally good as people are everywhere. Same proportion of creeps, thieves, and other scoundrels. Well, too, it was my older woman phenomenon at work. She told me later that she had liked and trusted me from the very first moment, and that was something that never happened with her. She was a seasoned Manhattanite with a nose for danger and deceit. I struck her, I am embarrassed to say, as a lost puppy—as she put it, a good looking one, needing a meal and a bed.
It took an hour and a half for her cab to come. I assured her I had time, since my bus was not due to leave for hours yet. I had some sixth sense that this was going somewhere. She seemed to enjoy having me there to talk with, to protect her from unwanted advances. She was divorced and a former model, now an occasional actress in small off-Broadway pieces. She had been the only child of a German father and a Cuban mother, both very wealthy, and the wife of a newspaper publisher in Ohio. The publisher apparently collected women the way some people collect umbrellas or thimbles, so in five years with no children, the affair ended in a divorce. That left Z to fend for herself, a millionairess many times over, in the wilds of Manhattan. Whatever she did, she did well—she was, after all, an honors graduate of both Andover and Yale, with a degree in Art Appreciation—but whatever she did, she did because she wanted to, not because she had to. She did not do, she dabbled.
"I was supposed to be picked up by my boyfriend, but he chose to stand me up," she explained as we waited. The floors around us were beige wood, the display cases loaded with expensive clothing and jewelry, the sales people elegeantly dressed in dark suits. "At least we are in a suitable location. Are you sure I am not inconveniencing you too much?"
"I am alone in Manhattan, with no place to go while I wait for my bus. I can't think of a more pleasant place to be standing than right here. If I bother you, please send me away."
"Oh no," she said with a wink, "you are helping me greatly." She pointed with her chin toward a pair of men in jeans and cheap jackets who wandered by leering in her direction.
"Must be difficult being a beautiful woman," I said.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-four." I would be in two months. I didn't ask her age. I took her to be about 31 or 32.
"You seem mature for your age, and you certainly have good manners. How would you like to have a first-class dinner, followed by a glass of $100 wine, and maybe a show off Broadway?"
"Are you in the show?"
She laughed. "Not tonight. I'll be in MacBeth downtown starting next week. Right now I'm just enjoying a much deserved little bit of time off. Relaxing."
"The boyfriend—he doesn't want to relax with you?"
"Pah." She waved a hand. "He's an older, married man. I've made a few mistakes in my time. That's one of them. Was. I gave him the high sign when he called to tell me he has to take his wife to a podiatrist's appointment and can't see me."
"That doesn't sound very romantic."
"No, it doesn't. Are you a romantic?"
"I look for adventure in life," I prattled. I was in over my head, but swimming for my life. "We are here today, gone tomorrow. We must make the most of what there is at the moment."
"An Epicure?"
"Certainly no pedicure."
She stared at me, then burst out laughing. "A wit!"
"Not a twit."
She laughed until she had to hold her arms over her stomach. "Thank you. That's the first time in a long time I've had such a good laugh." She collected herself. "Look, Peter, if you'll help me get home, and help with all these things I bought to console myself, I'll feed you, wine you and dine you, and have you driven home all by yourself in total comfort in a long black limousine rather than a smelly old bus. That appeal to you?"
"Sounds great." "Oh thank you, sweetheart." She planted a kiss on my cheek. It left a faint waxy smell of lipstick. "You're such a cheerer-uppper. Do you come to New York City often?" She looked triste as I shook my head.
So the not-on-the-first-date rule would have to be modified, she must have realized as we sat in the back seat of a very clean, very expensive, very sharply tailored black car driven by a uniformed chauffeur. It was no touch as we sat on opposite sides of the back seat with piles of packages between us. She spoke at length on a cell phone with another woman. She briefly called schlepperman and read him the riot act before snapping the cell shut. Then she called another woman and chatted about her shopping. Once or twice, she reached across to pat my hand and nod reassuringly with a big friendly smile so I shouldn't feel ignored.
The limousine cruised along one river or the other, with piles of vast buildings and thousands of tiny rectangular lights. The wipers went swish-swish-swish, and the driver sat erect like some Brazilian army colonel. He drove as smoothly as I imagined a $100 wine must taste.
We alighted outside a kind of Venetian confection, a building that looked like the backdrop for an opera. I was to learn that she had a vast apartment in there, an entire floor to herself, in a building originally built as a four story hotel, and now turned into townhouses worth millions. The exterior was brick, with white marble trim including laugh/cry masks under carriage lamps on either side of an impressive entrance atop a flight of orange-slice stairs. The driver carried her parcels and accepted a wad of paper money in payment, for which he thanked her—a nod, a touch to the cap—before driving off in a wash of bleary red taillights. The rain picked up as she rattled keys and unlocked the door. A gust of wind drove us inside. We got the packages in just as the downpour started.
What a place. Mahogany floors, dark wood-paneled walls, Victorian wainscoting, faux electric candles in sconces. Oriental carpets, in some spots piled two or three deep for lack of space. Mirrors. Araeca palms in several varieties. "Let's sit here," she said, taking me into a large den. She waved a wand, and a wall opened to reveal a total entertainment complex. "I like movies and I hate that idiot who always sits in theaters and talks, so I had this installed. Want to see this?" The latest cable release was playing.
"I would enjoy just talking with you," I said.
"That's nice." She shut the thing down, and the wall slid shut. "I hope I am half as entertaining."
"I'm easy to please." An older woman, who looked short and dark and Mediterreanean, entered the room. "This is my cook." The woman and I nodded to each other. "What have you prepared for us?"
"I have made julienned carrots, a light salad, some green tea ice cream, and now you must tell me how you like your New York steaks."
"Medium rare," I said, while Z said "the bloodier the better."
We sat and talked, and then talked some more in a room shaped like a box car, totally paneled in age-blackened oak. We sat at one corner of a long table on which two silver candelabras flickered with dozens of white candles. The room smelled faintly of wood, like in a wine cask, and burning wax, and salted bloody pan drippings. The meat was tender, the salad fresh, the carrots sweet and sour. It was a light meal, accompanied by a well-aired Pinot Noir.
Afterward, as the old woman cleaned up, we wandered into a great room in which a hundred people would easily fit. Same polished floors, dark walls, elegant furniture, portraits on the walls, general air of gloom. "I bought this place from a stock broker who lost millions and retired upstate to become a small town banker."
I was speechless. She took my hand and led me to a smaller room beyond—totally modern, with a large screen on one wall. "Like to play computer games?"
We held joysticks and played for an hour or two while cartoon cars and cats and planes careened across the huge screen. The old lady brought a silver service with a bottle of wine and two simple crystal glasses on it. The cork lay beside the bottle. She bade us goodnight and left.
"We are alone," Z announced dramatically as she poured us each a half glass of Chateau Lafite-Rothschild Pauillac. I dared not ask what the bottle had cost, but it was well up into the three and almost four digits. We toasted each other and sipped sparingly. I rolled it around on my tongue—a moody, full swirl of drama in several layers, with fancy edges and a delightfully breezy end-scroll.
She looked me up and down. "I'm going to get into something more comfortable. I think you could fit into a men's sweat suit I have from my ex." She disappeared, and I played a few more runs on the machine while sipping sunlight from a Bordeaux summer of twenty or more years ago. She returned wearing a simple gray dress that hung loosely to her knees, decorative strips of lace on each sleeve. She wore high gray wool socks, black ballet slippers, and a wine-red pullover with a hood down the back. She handed me a men's dark green sweat combo and pointed to a bathroom nearby. When I emerged from the bathroom, she had put away the games and was playing romantic violin-driven orchestral music. The sound system was so true that it sounded as if a dozen or more musicians were in the room. "Do you like to dance?" Seeing that I had no such education, she said: "I will teach you."
A half hour later, we were tired. "It's been a long day," she said. I walked over to the sound system, switched to radio, and found a station playing soft, slow rock. She walked toward me before I had to gesture. She folded into my arms, rested her head on my shoulder, and slow danced with me. I had been careful not to overdo either the food or the wine, and she seemed to be a light eater and drinker, which is why she had a fine figure and beautiful face worthy of the stage. She was, in her own right, a very fine wine.
At first we held each other and swayed gently. As we warmed each other with our body heat, she looked up at me. Her eyes looked into mine, then down at my lips, and I leaned down to touch her lips with mine. She had removed most of her lipstick, though a faint, waxy residue remained. Her breath smelled of wine, and came in hot little bursts. I could feel her heart pounding against my chest. As our lips locked, our mouths opened full and hungry. We were in no hurry, but we were hungry for this. Her tongue met mine, and they wanted to devour each other. Our tongues danced together, and it was not a slow dance. She had her hand on my crotch before I could get my hand on her behind. We were still locked in that heavy, wild kiss as she squeezed my privates, almost as if to weigh them.
"We'd better retire for the night," she said and led me through that great, empty house. She pulled me by the hand—down carpeted halls, around corners where sconces illumined singing putti in the crown moldings, through other large rooms in which it almost seemed the band had just stopped playing. "The private section," she explained as we came to a small parlor with a dully shining brass door. She pressed a button, and the elevator slipped open. We stepped into an ancient wrought-iron cage and rode up inside a stainless steel shaft toward sanitized fluorescent lighting. "I think you'll like it."
We emerged in a wondrous place—round, modern, indirectly lit, very techno and Continental. "I had a team of designers fly over from Milan," she said with a bright look and a shrug. "And look here." She walked over to a kind of window in the wall and slid a door open. It was a dumbwaiter. There stood the silver tray with our wine and our glasses. The cork was gone, but a crystal tray of chocolates sat in its place. "I stuck in here. Easier than carrying it." She poured us afresh and brought me my glass while holding hers. She pressed a button, and soft guitar chords filled the air. "It's a little sentimental silliness from Jerez."
"That's in Spain," I said.
She stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips against mine. "You are a man of surprises."
"Home of flamenco as well as sherry. The word sherry comes from Jerez, down there on the sun-beaten horn of Spain, a quick leap to Morocco."
"I love it when you talk smart." She reached out with one hand to undo my shirt. I had no objection. She was short, now that the high heels were gone, but she had a way of striding authoritatively. She pulled me by my half-open shirt front toward a cube hanging from the high ceiling. On each of the cube's six sides was a photograph of a woman. Hers was one of them. They were all gorgeous. "Which one do you like best?"
That was a no-brainer. I pointed to her picture.
"Well done. Now which do you like next-best?"
The cube hung at eye level to her, chin level to me. Each side was about 8 x 10 inches. A slender steel cable was attached to a hook on one corner, and the cable receded into the shadows of the ceiling. I studied the pictures while slowly turning the cube. They were all beautiful women—young, probably all wealthy like her. "That is a hard choice because they are all so beautiful."
"Take your time, and make a good choice. You may be surprised." That was the moment when I realized this evening was a spectacular event I had never bargained for while killing time in the rain, hungry and waiting for my bus.
Since I had only faces to work with, I picked the one with the most alluring eyes. There was a black woman, two Asians, a blonde, a redhead, and a brunette. I turned it around and asked her: "Which do you liked best?"
She pointed to the redhead. I nodded. "That's the one." She pointed to one of the Asians. I said "Yes." She pulled out a cell phone and walked away from me, speaking into it. Her walk took her across the room, where she turned and walked back toward me. "Yes," she said, "put it on the silver account." She snapped the phone shut and took my hand. "Come with me, Peter. Let's wash off the sweat and grime of the real world. All that dancing has made us like animals."
She took me into an antique sort of bathhouse portion of her home. The air here was warm, moist, and smelled of chlorine. She flicked lights on as we went. There were rooms beyond rooms, and some of the switches made lights in further rooms flicker on. One entered the complex by heavy white doors with medicinally frosted windows. Inside, the floors were done in tiny black and white tile squares. The walls were in larger blue and white tiles, not Delft, but close—designs in tulips and other flowers. "Looks almost Turkish," I said in the dim greenish glow.
"You're close, darling." She undressed me and laid my clothes over a chair. Then she took hers off and laid them over another chair. Taking me by the hand, she led me down a hall that had two saunas on each side. We walked through a hot room in which steam drifted over wooden benches on either side. "That's your Turkish bath," she said. My eyes were all over her café-au-lait body with its firmly turning buttocks that were dimpled on the sides. She had firm calves, firm full thighs without any signs of aging, and a nice nice arched back with a shiny spinal arc. I liked the way the skin on her shoulder blades dimpled when she moved her arms, and the erect way she carried herself.
We came into a round room with a rectangular pool set into the floor. The floor was done in Roman-style mosaic tiles: a hunt in a fantastic garden, with tame lions and tigers running alongside fast dogs. Peacocks spread their glorious feathers in displays of their sexuality, while pink nymphs and sunburned farm hands or yahoos or whatever followed them with white eyes and unchaste grins. Z walked to the edge of the pool, which was about fifteen feet wide and twenty feet long. A number of tiny rectangular white lights gleamed in tiled pods along the poolside at regular intervals. Steam drifted lightly over the water's still surface. As Z stepped in, she touched a bank of controls. Lights winked on in the water creating an aqua glow like inside a lantern. "Come," she said, holding out her hand. I followed her into the rippled water, down some light green steps. "The water is specially warmed," she said. Still holding me by the hand, she pulled me along so that we walked around the pool waist deep on a ledge that ran around the edges. I noticed one or two Jacuzzi-like jets propelling heavy amounts of water against my legs. There was a ledge for sitting chest-deep, and another ledge for walking, also chest-deep on me, neck-deep on her.
"It feels very comfortable," I said.
"It should be. It is set to average normal human body temperature. Let me show you the controls." She showed me: there were six stations—two on each short end, and three along the long edges of the rectangle. The master light switch was on the station where the handrail and the main steps were. Each station had a sort of metal elevator button set in. "Watch me," she said. She pressed the button, and it when from white to blue. "Blue means it is about seven degrees below normal body temperature." She pressed again and it turned red. "Red is seven degrees above. If you get out of the pool and need to warm up a little, press until you see red. Feel the jet kicking in?" I noticed warm water being thrown against my legs. "If you get a little overheated," press for blue and it will cool you down a bit." She sat down on the topmost ledge, and had me sit beside her. She had small but full, hanging breasts and brown nipples. She had a long Venus mound that terminated in a dark bush between the fullness of her thighs. "I hope you like what you see," she said softly, opening her palms in the air.
"I do, very much." For me, as fine as she looked, the things that turned me on most were (first and foremost) the sultry Spanish-German elegance of her face, followed by her youthful tush, and then both the fine articulation of her shoulder blades and upper back, as well as the firmness of her caramel calves and thighs.
She picked up a silvery electronic wand that lay near the pool, by a stack of towels. "I think we will listen to some soft, nice music, if that is okay with you." Momentarily a magnificent sound system cut in, and the coy little darting advances and retreats of a Mozart symphony poured through the humid air. "Let's relax a little bit, shall we?" She spread her arms so that her elbows rested on the pool's concrete rim. Her breasts stuck out with firm nutty nipples. She let me come to her and kiss her. We were like kids petting in a parked car. "Honey," she murmured, "let's talk a few moments. You know that we're about to have guests?"
"Yes?" I was trying to figure out how, diplomatically and preemptively, to say no gay stuff for me if that came up at all.
She must have read my mind. "First of all, you are my date and I am yours. This is going to seem very strange to you, but I don't really need or want to have sex with anyone." Seeing my baffled look, she said matter of factly: "I plan to have sex with you, but if you don't want to—"
"—I do, I do—"
"—Good. Then I don't need to elaborate in that direction. Anyway, there are two very attractive young fashion models coming. This is where I thought I should explain. I'm into being watched. Can you understand that?"
I couldn't, but I shrugged lightly trying to accommodate her.
She laughed gently. "You are young and pure, in your own little sexed-up boyish way, Peter. No offense, you are sweet, and I hope I am not a bit too gamey for you. Yes, when you are very, very wealthy, you can indulge in many appetites denied to the average citizen. You have to be very, very discreet. There are a small number of very, very discreet entrepreneurs whom you pay very, very large sums of money to provide you with very, very covert services. It's all very, very natural if you think about it logically."
"Yes."
"You haven't been in a position where you needed to think about it, Peter. I need you to be very, very discreet."
"I promise I will be."
"I have nobody in my life right now, as in steady dating, so there is an opportunity here for you to have a foot on the ground in the city and some remarkable comforts for a while. You may get tired of it or I may get tired of it first, and we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Fair enough?"
"Sounds good to me," I said lightly. It did sound exciting, mysterious, and a bit scary.
"You are a very, very nice guy. You are very handsome and intelligent, and you will be a big man someday. Right now, you are a charming, lovable kid with a huge dick and an appetite to match." She laughed in a fun, girlish way and grabbed my swollen cock. Pulling gently, she propelled me toward her. She still looked very elegant and attractive. If she weren't letting me into her defenses, she would be a forbiddingly beautiful piece of exotica. "What do you think of me, Peter?"
I stood between her knees with my arms over her shoulders, getting ready to kiss her. She held my cock as if she were shaking hands with it, and looked up at me awaiting an answer. "Well," I said, "you are a beautiful, alluring woman." With each compliment, I felt her fingers squeeze my dick unconsciously, lightly, thrilled at what I told her. "You would intimidate many men, I think."
"Oh really?" Something told me she knew that. She rubbed my buttocks and pulled me down to sit on her lap. In the water, I was buoyant enough. She held me as I sat sideways, and continued to grip my cock. "I really love holding your cock," said. "Continue." She slipped her free hand down between my buttock and her Venus mound to play with her aroused organs as I told her things that turned her on.
"Z, you came down that street looking so gorgeous and wealthy...you are an exotic breed, you know, and you look very elegant. Were you a fashion model?"
"Faces," she said with a laugh. "I wasn't tall or thin enough for the full body stuff. They loved my face."
"I'll be," I said. I ran a fingertip lightly along her cheek. "You are the kind of woman who looks like she comes from somewhere where the men are cruel to their women but guard them with fanatical jealousy." "Oh, keep talking to me," she gasped.
"You are a woman that I would think twice about approaching, because I'd be afraid some guy with a huge black mustache and a cleaver would chase me away."
"What would you think about my ass, my legs, my private secret parts?"
"If I were not afraid to, I would picture running my tongue up along those firm legs of yours. I watched you as you walked ahead of me."
She stroked herself. "I was hoping you would be turned on."
"I was. I was turned on by your whole back, especially your shoulder blades and the brownish tops of your arms."
She rubbed herself and laid her cheek against my upper arm. She rubbed her cheekbone against my triceps, realized my muscles were strong, and kissed them before resuming brushing her cheek against my arm and continuing to arouse herself below. "When I was younger," she said, "I could come at the drop of a hat. Now it takes a lot more playing to get me up the slope."
"I'll help you," I said. I massaged her breasts, which just filled my palms, while telling her more imaginative stories. She continued arousing herself. At the same time, even wet, she maintained this brittle, contained beauty. Her lipstick was still red, her fingernails still glossy, her hair thick and dark-red. We kissed some more. Her tongue was wild for mine, and her hand stole up around my back while the other hand retained its grip on my cock. I reached down toward her privates, but she trapped my hand. "Slow and easy," she murmured. "We want the evening to last."
I was French kissing with her—she kneeling on the step beside me with her arms wrapped over my shoulders—when we heard the patter of naked feet. I looked up, startled, to see a man coming from one direction, and two women from the other. He wore a black tuxedo with a purple flower in the lapel. The two women, both tall and shapely, wore dark shiny evening sheaths. Z whispered to me: "Don't worry about Daniel. He is discreet and docile and does what he is told. He has no interest in men either, which is why I had him sent. The women will do anything you want, as long as you don't hurt them or scare them. You don't seem like the type to hurt anyone."
"That I can assure you," I said. "I am naked and embarrassed."
"Don't worry. They'll keep their distance. I just like them to show up in good form, and warm up my eyeballs with some attractiveness. Whets the appetite." The three very attractive young newcomers greeted us with cheery hellos, like old friends. Everyone greeted each other by name. Z introduced me as Peter, and I had no idea if these people's given names were real. The redhead was Y, and the Asian was X.
Z pointed to a cabinet in the wall. "Daniel, if you would be so kind, there are drinks in the fridge. " Daniel came from the fridge, lumbering with a tray of tall, thin glasses that appeared rimed with frost and contained juice. "Orange juice, fresh, not spiked," Z assured me. Daniel put two drinks by the poolside, squatting for a moment so that his shiny black shoes creaked. He took the tray with the remaining three drinks to the women, who stood quietly waiting by a small round table some distance away. They reminded me of young women who have gone out to the evening and are waiting to be asked to dance. They looked mildly full of ennui.
"I sent out for two," Z said with a quiet laugh, "thinking it might be more interesting for you." She dropped down under the water, took my cock in her mouth, and formed a perfect suction around the head. It almost hurt as she turned her head this way and that, like a mechanical socket on a ball bearing. All the while, the two women stood there quietly conversing while they held their drinks, maybe folding one long-gloved arm around the other. Z surfaced, pushing her hair back. She spewed a little cone of water. "I tasted a little shot of sperm, Peter. You are very hard." She wrapped herself around me and I held her as if we were slow-dancing, which is odd when Mozart is playing. She cupped my buttocks and nipped at my nipples with her teeth. I shuddered and bent a little, feeling both fire and pleasure. She said: "I invite you to use me, to explore every little place on my body that fascinates you." She added: "I'm not looking for an acrobat, darling, just a good fuck from a young boy with wild flying hair and the attention span of, well, a young boy who keeps looking over at the redhead and the slant. Which one interests you more?"
"I think the redhead. But you are the center of this evening for me."
"Thank you." She stood on tiptoes and kissed me. "You will make me happy tonight. Hold me." I wrapped my arms around her. She was small, and had hard edges with soft surfaces, that probably had all been hard when she was my age. She squirmed in the shelter of my embrace. She reached down and cupped my balls, weighing them, thinking about them. She slid her middle finger back a bit, past my balls, and tickled my sphincter. She looked downward, and I saw her face in profile. Someone seeing her in her subdued, expensive clothing, maybe at a fashion show, would never guess how she spent her evenings. Maybe there were many people like her in the ruling structure of our world.
Maybe I would never drive through a city at night again and see the magnificent skyline, skyscrapers aswim in hazy light, and think of it the same way again. I saw in her the height of power and arrogance, mollified by the absence of any need to be cruel, just the absoluteness of her power, or the power of her vast fortune. I saw in her the caudillo, the Negro, the Indio, the German Juncker with his dueling scar, all the components of mastery and slavery, all the oreo layers of power and submission. Here was the power and the ownership—in this chlorinated splace where aquamarine light wiggled in big blobs and reflected on the ceiling—sublimated into sex as a catering business. I did not turn away from it, or think badly of her, because she was as much a victim of the system as I or the blond guy or the two starving young models who hired themselves out for a thousand bucks a night.
"You think too much," Z said to me suddenly, flatly, as if she were reading a bus schedule to me. "That's what killed my husband. Learn to unwind, relax, go with the flow."
"I plan to do just that," I promised her. "Thank you for your concern."
She looked serious as she reached out to touch my cheek with trembling fingers. "You are a silly boy now, but you'll become a serious old man with an ulcer and a lot of financial worries. The more money you have, the more you'll worry. Don't let it do that to you. Enjoy life."
"You are being too serious now," I said, lightly pinching her nipple.
"I'm so silly," she breathed. She patted the edge of the pool. Daniel, who had been sitting on a stool by the two women, reading a book, rose and fetched a white foam rubber futon, which he lumberingly brought to the poolside before returning to his reading. Mozart played on and on, and the pumps in the pool seethed in their chlorinated churning. "Let's lie up there," Z said. We climbed out of the pool and lay on the spacious mattress. "Lie down," she said, and I lay on my back. She stood over me, looking down, and I saw hunger in her eyes, and wasn't sure what she was going to do next.
The two young women watched from a distance. Daniel kept reading that textbook of his without ever looking our way. All three remained dressed and somehow imprisoned in their expensive evening clothes as if they had turned to statues. The two women never took their eyes off us.
Z said: "Give me your foot. The right one." I lifted it, and she took it. She straddled me and my foot, so that the bottom of my foot was against her vagina. Legs apart, slightly bowed, she began grinding her cunt on my heel. Then she shifted her attention to the ball of my foot, which had more nerve endings, so that I could feel it nestled in the wet softness of her cunt.
Her eyes flickered and rolled up slightly, as if she were having spasms, and her lips were lightly parted and trembling with unheard words. I pressed up against her, supporting almost her whole weight at times, so that there was pressure on her clitoris. She moved up and down, grinding the ball of my foot in the wet, pink hole of her cunt entry, and then moving the ball of my foot so that she could deposit all that cunt soup on her clitoris.
The women watching sipped their drinks and looked on with rapt attention.
Z spoke in a faint, tiny voice. She spoke not to me, but to herself, as if at a séance. "I like when they watch. I like when they see me. I like to think that their cunts are wet and they wish they had your foot. I like how young and elegant they are." She was beginning to quake. The climax was arriving. She jerked and spasmed, tried to keep up the foot massage and the monologue, but her eyes rolled up and fluttered, and she grew weak. She talked as long as she could. "I like when they watch. I like when they see me. I like when they look at my ass. I like when you look up my cunt. I—" And there she started faltering.
I felt her grow limp, and pushed hard with the ball of my foot in her cunt hole to keep her from falling down. She was going down, slowly, coming toward me. Her arms were parted, and she wanted me to hold her. I lay back and held her as she fell into my arms. "Fuck me now," she whispered feebly. She straddled me, and I worked my dong around to slip it into her. She reached down with both hands to guide it in. I cupped her hanging tits in my palms. Her nipples were engorged as if she had milk for a baby. My cock-head crossed her threshhold, a wet and messy place, and traveled up into the dark corridor of her vagina. She moaned as my fullness pushed into her insides. I filled her up, the way a tree grows roots and fills the soil with its ever-expanding rootball. Resting her knees on the mat on either side of my hips, she rocked herself back and forth and cried while she held onto my shoulders. "Let me help you, baby," I said, raising and lowering my hips so my dick rode in and out on her foam. I was careful to time my swing with hers.
Together, we were an awesome machine rushing toward a grand tunnel climax. She was in ecstasy, with her eyes closed and face upraised, as she half-coherently gummed the words "I'm onna umm" and I cried "Let's come together baby" and we did. Great shuddering gasps, holding each other, we rocked through it and then collapsed side by side still holding each other. She grinned and said breathlessly: "Thank you, Peter, that was great." She breathed hard for a minute or two. "Darling, that wasn't planned. I was going to stretch it out for hours, but you got me all turned on and I just wanted to fuck and suck and have this huge fireworks orgasm!"
"And you did," I said.
She rested her arms on my shoulders. We lay face to face, my cheek resting on her right forearm. She glowed at me. "Darling, you deserve a little candy. I'd like to watch you fuck the redhead."
"Only if you are sure you are satisfied."
"I'm very satisfied. If I need more, I can jump in."
"I thought you said you didn't need the sex."
"I don't."
"Oh." Realization flooded in. For a person who can have anything, need is not an operative word. Want is the thing. When, and if. "How do I—?"
"Y," Z said in a crisp voice.
"I'm not ready," I whispered. "I just mega-super-fucked you, and I'm limp. My noodle is down. My hardware has turned into software."
"It doesn't matter," Z said. "Y and X will understand and provide whatever you need. It's okay if you can't come. Everything is okay. Nothing matters. It's all play. It's all air." We slid back into the water.
The two young women strode toward us as if they were on a runway with strobing lights and throbbing music. Their eyes were dark, their faces gaunt, their heads like those of cats on the hunt. They came to the edge of the pool, stepped out of their heels, and started undoing their dresses.
Y was a tall, slender woman with a fiery carrot top, lots of orange freckles, and large blue eyes. She was gaunt, and pale, with those hollow model eyes. X was a little, with thick, glossy black hair, almond eyes, and smooth custard skin instead of freckles.
Dropping their clothes on the dry concrete and tile, they walked around the rim of the pool until they came to the aluminum railings that curved like matching mastodon tusks of chrome.
They stepped down into the water and dove down to wet themselves. I saw their twin shapes approaching underwater like parallel sea animals. They were good swimmers, in this tiny space, and all this happened in seconds.
They surfaced once for air, and then dove down and swam around our legs. As Z and I stood holding each other, Y and X nosed around the calves of our legs. I felt hands on my thighs, my buttocks. I felt fingers gently touching my balls and dick as if minnows were swimming past. The girls surfaced with great grins. Apparently they felt at home with Z. "Hi, darlings," Z said. They kissed her one by one, and then embraced me. I had two women hanging from me as I sat back in the top underwater bench.
On my right was the Japanese girl, X. Her name meant hydrangea, a beautiful species of flower, and she was tall for her nationality. Y, the redhead on my left, was from Kent in the U.K., and struggling to make a go of it in Manhattan. Both girls were 22—two years younger than I. We moved about in slow motion, touching and feeling lightly, kissing each other and exploring orifices with a gentle fingertip, an inquisitive tongue.
I noticed out of a corner of my eye that the big blond man, Daniel, was sitting on a stool reading a book. He was still in his tux, and when I went to find the bathroom for a whiz, I noticed that he had a U.S.M.C. tattoo on one hand and was reading College Algebra, an Introduction. I stopped and quipped: "Going to night school, are we?" He didn't take well to my flippancy. "Listen, Peter," he said in a laboring tone, pointing toward Z: "If she tells me to fuck you, I will fuck you whether you like it or not. If she doesn't, I will study for my math test tomorrow. Whether I end up fucking you or not, it's just a job, okay? To me, you look like just another piece of roadkill, got it?"
"Got it. Thank you."
"So fuck off."
I felt relieved that he didn't seem to have designs on me. When I returned to the pool, the two girls had Z between them and were kissing her nipples while Z lay back with her eyes closed. I slipped into the water and hung back for some minutes, watching them pleasure her. Soon, Z rose from the water and picked up one of the hand towels in a pile. The two girls followed her, each with her own towel. Z waggled a finger for me to follow.
We went into a room in which there was a huge round bed. The walls and ceiling were covered with mirrors. We crawled onto the bed together. Z lay back and let the two girls work on her. She signaled for me to join. I had no idea where to start. Y was the longer, leaner, harder of the two girls, and she was licking Z's cunt at the moment. X, meanwhile, alternated between Frenching Z's mouth and kissing her nipples. Y pushed Z's thighs back so that Z's knees touched her cheeks.
Doing this, Y exposed the entire juicy panorama of Z's privates to our view. I crawled up behind Y, and under her, under her small bobbing breasts, to watch her licking Z's twat. Z had a brownie outtie smothered in hair like a Smith Brothers cough drop picture. I crawled up close and inhaled the wild forest smell of all that cunt hair. I dove in next to Y so that she and I were both licking the juice out of Z's cunt.
"I'm going to have Peter fuck me soon," Z wailed as the two girls pinned her and immobilized her in pleasure. As I was brushing tongues with Y, it occurred to me that her ass was pointing into space, and I moved back until I could inspect her skinny rack with its satisfying little pockets of meat. She had a pinkie outtie cunt. In fact she had nice pink labia, and she was really turned on over Z's twat. I had only to start my tongue licking up and down the moist canyons of Y's labia.
I was about to stuff my thick dick in Y's open and available cunt, or maybe her little pink asshole pucker, when I noticed X. The Japanese girl was a little shorter, a little meatier, a little more on the dark side, and she had a brownie innie cunt. That is, her cunt lips tended toward the brown end of the cunt lips scale, and her cunt was one of those that doesn't show much on the outside. No folded hands labia, no loosely open hole, but hairless, fatty skin parting in a slit covered the wet little treasures inside.
As X sucked on Z's nipples, her legs were pointed down parallel to Z's and a lick of my tongue around Y's asshole pucker afforded me a view of X's precious little apricot cunt. Given so many orifices, I chose at that moment to park my dick in Y's cunt while I leaned over to get my tongue into X's hidden treasure house.
At first, I thought X was totally ignoring me. Then, she reached down with a finger and parted the little ramparts to let me find the bud that was almost hard. My tongue encountered a lost little clitoris under a smooth, fatty hood, and I coaxed it with the tip of my tongue until it got bigger and moister and bigger yet and damper, until it was dripping wet. X began to moan with pleasure, and I helped her by putting the tip of my finger in her anus.
Soon, I was able to add a second finger as her sphincter loosened and her moans increased. During all of this, Z had turned onto her belly. Y was still sucking at Z's clit, but now X had Z's ass to occupy her. So she used her fingertips to part Z's ass cheeks so she could get her tongue down into Z's asshole, past the pucker and into the soft interior which of course Z had cleaned with copious enemas and fruit washes.
We made love for what seemed like hours, until first X and then Y fell asleep. Daniel read his book for a long time, until he grew tired. He fell asleep on the concrete still in his tuxedo, with his ankles crossed and one arm over his chest and the other arm pointed into eternity, in the same direction his snoring face appeared to be looking.
Only Z was still awake, the little bee, having taken a nap, and now gorging herself on my cock. She pushed me onto my back, mounted me, and had yet another orgasm while massaging her boobs and looking up into heaven.
Right about there, I didn't fall asleep—I passed out—and yet I woke during the night to the sound of cries, and saw Z giving Daniel a blowjob. Daniel, who had shed his tux and creaky shoes finally, was a very big, wrestler-looking blond man with blue eyes and very little body hair except a wavy slick on top and a bit of fuzz below. He was very pale, and had one of those banana whangs that curve slightly to one side. It was huge, with a tiny head on it, and probably half erect most of the time. Z had him standing over her with his powerful legs spread while she tongued his banana in huge lapping motions. I only caught a glimpse of all this before I feel back to sleep.
In the morning, I woke, dressed in my street clothes. They were all gone. There was in fact no sign they had ever been there. Also, I wasn't where I had fallen asleep. I was in a single-wide bed in what looked like a cell. I sat up and studied my surroundings with some alarm. Sunlight slanted in through heavy wooden blinds. The little room had white-washed walls and was barren except for the bed, a little desk, a chair, and my clothing neatly folded in a pile on the chair. I staggered to the door and turned the handle, afraid I might be locked in, but the door opened quite readily onto a silent, vacant hallway. I was reminded of an exclusive university club I had once visited with one of my older women. The walls were paneled in a kind of dark-red wood, much like Z's hair. The floors were carpeted, the windows barred, the ceilings bright with cold fluoro lighting.
As I peered left and right, a door opened and Daniel in his tuxedo lumbered out. "Peter," he said with that deadly serious voice, "she likes you and wants to see you again." He handed me a business card with her name and a phone number on it. "Keep this with you. Let's go." I had nothing to go back and get. "The driver will take you where you need to go."
"How will I ever find my way back here?"
"You won't," Daniel said. "Not even Y and X or any other girls know how to get here, or who Z is. The driver is the husband of the old woman who left the drinks in the fridge, and who cooked your meal last night. They are sworn to secrecy about this place and its owner. I am too. I would give my life for Z, and she is taking good care of me in her will. What this means to you is that you will take the elevator down, get into a van, and be driven away from here never knowing where you have been. You will be brought here and taken away blindly, never knowing where you are. That helps Z keep her affairs private." He poked me in the chest for emphasis. "Come here and enjoy yourself, but don't ever fuck with me, or this place, or any of the women here. It'll be the last think you ever do."
"I promise, I'll be good."
The funny part was that, when I arrived deep in the earth at a very private loading zone in the semidark, the redhead Y was waiting there too. She had overslept, and was about to take the same blind van ride. Having made love in a most intimate manner just hours earlier, we were quickly on personal terms.
The van arrived, driven by a Hispanic man of severe mien.
The van had no windows, and there was no way for us to know where we had been or to find our way back. Y took me by the arm when we arrived at her apartment in midtown Manhattan. She towed me out of the van and into her multi-female-roommate fun apartment. The roommates were all gone to work or classes. We had breakfast and then made love some more. That afternoon, I called Z's number, and requested a ride home into New England if possible. The service was provided without demur. I was part of Z's fabric now.
An even greater irony was that X, the Asian woman, had a connection who was a historian, and through them (with a recommendation from the wheel-chair bound professor in New Hampshire) I eventually secured a little graduate teaching assistantship that got me started on the road to a stable course of life. Thus, the blue doorway into Z's steam rooms became the doorway to my eventual success. What I did not know until I was to occupy it many years later, after I had lost all touch with her, was that Z had endowed the chair I would one day occupy, and she had been the force acting through X. It had not been X's connection, but Z's. Though she left me no money, Z had taken good care of me.
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