Scratched Manicurists!
by Unknown


CHAPTER ONE

"Now you girls must remember," Henri cautions, "what the customers tell you is to go in 
one ear and out the other.

"Nothing retained, nothing repeated.

"A woman will tell her hairdresser things she wouldn't tell her priest.

"Talk about true confessions, you ladies are about to hear it all.

"And that goes for you manicurists as well.

"For one thing, the customer will very likely be talking to the hairdresser, not to you. You 
are merely a machine, to be seen and not heard.

"Do the nails, hands or feet, that's all.

"Let the hairdresser do the talking with the customer and do not intervene.

"Remember, we have a business to run here, and time is money.

"You hairdressers, I've noticed that you do have a tendency to drag out the conversations.

"You are here to do the hair and to make the customer feel at home, so that she will want 
to return as soon as possible to the ambiance we are creating here.

"You are not--I repeat, not--to express opinions of your own, to disagree with the 
customer, or to do anything else that will cause her to spend more time in the chair, at the 
sink, whatever, than is necessary.

"Now, I want you girls to meet Annette.

"Annette is our newest manicurist--new to the city and to us that is, not to manicuring.

"She comes to us from New York City, the Big Apple, and is here on the gold coast of 
Florida in search of happy climes and good times, two noble ambitions which she will have 
ample opportunity to realize, if she follows the rules and plays her cards right.

"And now, ladies, to your work stations, if you will, since the day is about to begin and the 
appointment book, as usual, is chock full of the creme de la creme of high society.

"Go, go, go!

"Everyone in position?

"Marilyn, you have the book open?

"Excellent!

"Here we go, everyone, and remember--in one ear and out the other!"

And Henri unlocks the door to the large, elegantly appointed salon.

Nobody comes in, of course, but that is to be expected.

There is no waiting room at Chez Philipe (Henri is merely the manager; Philipe owns the 
place and he is not even French, but Cuban), and everything is done by appointment.

Annette checks her supplies and yes, they are all there, including her full kit of decorator 
nails and appliqus, an area of manicure she has developed to a fine art and which is the major 
reason Henri selected her for the opening.

There are three other manicurists on staff at Chez Philipe, but they are mainly traditional 
practitioners of their profession, whereas it is anticipated that Annette will bring a new and 
innovative dimension to the salon.

That was Henri's thinking.

But the clincher was when Philipe showed up to give his final approval on the selection.

Which he did with a swiftness which surprised Henri.

Explanation?

"Deed joo see the balloons on that babe!

"That ees wan beeg wooman, for choor!

"An' een all de rt' places!"

"You're, uh, you're not seriously thinking about, uh... dating her, are you Philipe?"

"My fren', when eet comes to weemen who look IP that, I am always seriously theenking.

"Joo got a problem weeth that?"

"Oh, no, no," Henri says, backing off at once, "I just thought, you know, with her being 
hired help and all--"

"Hire help? Not at all, Henri! I conseeder my gorls more like consultants.

"Thass eet, consultants. Thass exactly wha' they are!

"Ah min, choor, I pay them a salary, geev them a place to work an' II' that, but mos'ly they 
earn from teeps, can work anywhere, if they're good, an' are pretty much free to come an' go 
as they please.

"Speakin' of wheech, I trus' joo will expen' every effort to see to it that she is happy and 
comfortable here."

"Of course."

And so it went.

And now, ready to begin her first day on the job, clad in the bright yellow smock which is 
the uniform here, she awaits her first customer.

Who is-- "Good morning, Mrs. Harrington, Mrs. Steele!"

And Henri practically bows as the two women enter and he personally escorts them to side
by side chairs where their two favorite hairdressers await them, ready to attend to their every 
tonsorial whim or fancy.

Both are scheduled for manicures, but, due to a scheduling conflict, only Mrs. Harrington 
is able to have her usual manicurist, if they are to be "done", as is their custom, side by side.

So that Annette is scheduled to take care of Mrs. Steele's nails, rather than her usual 
manicurist.

"My, my, Harriet, who do we have here?" Samantha-- Mrs. Steele--asks the hairdresser, as 
Annette pulls up her low stool, prepared to administer the scheduled pedicure, and seats 
herself, her cleavage showing to excellent advantage in the vee neck (Philipe's idea) of her 
smock.

"This is, uh--what's your name again, sweetie?"

"Annette," Annette replies, casting a puzzled glance at Harriet, unable to believe that she 
could have forgotten her name so quickly.

As she very clearly has not.

Harriet's glance in return is unpleasant.

But disappears from her visage at once as she asks Samantha, "What can we do for you 
today, Mrs.

Steele?"

"Oh, just a trim on the bangs, I should think, Harriet, then a shampoo and rinse."

Then, to the occupant of the next chair over, "We're in a bit of a hurry today, aren't we, 
Cynthia?"

"Definitely!" Mrs. Harrington replies. "We have the fittings for our tennis outfits this 
morning, and Pierre gets nasty when he's kept waiting."

Tinkling laughter from the two socialites, joined in by their hairdressers.

"But uh, my tootsies are a bit of a mess, I fear, so you take your time down there, my dear,"
she says to Annette.

"We'll have you in and out in a jiffy, never fear," Harriet says, sponging down Samantha's 
bangs with speed and dexterity.

"Oh, do take your time, Harriet," Samantha says. "We're not in all that much of a hurry, I 
don't think."

And Cynthia's hairdresser must swiftly pull back her scissors as Cynthia suddenly sits up 
and says, "We're not?"

And follows Samantha's gaze and slight nod down to where Annette is working vigorously
with a pumice stone on one of Samantha's heels before sitting back, smiling faintly, and 
saying, "I guess we're not at that."

Which action is not lost on Harriet, whose scissors and sponge now move at lightning 
speed.

So that she can lean the chair back, placing Samantha's head over the sink and Samantha's
eyes consequently toward the ceiling, thereby cutting off the generous view of Annette's 
generous cleavage and jiggling jugs.

And this abruptness, this alacrity is not lost on Annette.

Apparently, there is something wrong here, something caused by Annette's presence and 
by the fact that Samantha is obviously taken with her.

To the point that, while Cynthia, at the next station, chatters on amiably with her 
hairdresser, her manicurist working in silence on her fingernails, Samantha has nothing to say 
to Harriet.

And indeed doesn't even smile until, after a singularly vigorous towelling of her head by 
Harriet, she is returned to the upright position and her view of the cleavage.

"You about done down there, Annette?" Harriet asks, vigorously combing Samantha's hair. 
"We're almost ready to move to the dryer."

"Mmm," Samantha murmurs, "I think I'd prefer the blow-dried look today, Harriet, if you 
don't mind. Gives the ponytail a fuller look, don't you think?"

"Of course," Harriet says, flatly.

And moves at once to comply.

Annette continues to work on Samantha's feet, aware now of the intensity of her gaze.

Conversation is impossible now because of the blow dryer, a furious hot air gale about 
Samantha's neck and ears.

Which comes to an abrupt end.

And Harriet grabs handful after handful of Samantha's thick, dark hair, brushing it to a 
lustrous finish before moving on quickly to the next.

"Really, Harriet, we've plenty of time," Samantha says, noticing Harriet's haste.

"Yes, ma'am," Harriet acknowledges, reluctantly slowing down.

"So, Annette," Samantha continues, "you're new here, I believe."

"First day, Mrs. Steele."

"Please. Call me Samantha--ouch!"

"Sorry," Harriet mumbles.

"Quite all right," Samantha says. "Probably good for the roots, anyway--once in a while."

"From out of town, I take it."

"New York."

"Ah! And just how does the New York pedicure differ from that of Palm Beach?"

"It doesn't, basically."

"And other than basically?"

"Well, there are several things we do with lacquers, with decals and so on."

"Really? How fascinating!"

"How's this?" Harriet interjects, holding a mirror at an angle so that Samantha can see her 
hair. "Yes, yes, yes," Samantha says, impatiently. "I trust you implicitly to do the right thing."

Harriet shrugs and begins gathering the ponytail as Samantha continues, "You know, my 
dear, I was only scheduled for a pedicure. But tell me, what would they do with these in New 
York?"

And she extends her fingernails.

"Well, I'd really have to show you some examples from my book."

"My goodness! There's that much of a variety?"

"I could turn your hands into an art gallery." Tinkling laughter, head thrown back, 
interfering with the capture of the ponytail.

"An art gallery, no less! Isn't that simply precious, Cynthia?"

"Precious," Cynthia responds, from the next chair.

But her eyes are on Annette.

"Tell you what, my dear," Samantha continues, "unless you have your next appointment 
scheduled soon, why don't you show me what you can do?"

"All done," Harriet says, removing the protective cover from Samantha.

"Perfect timing!" Samantha says.

Then, to Cynthia, "Why don't you run along to Pierre and tell him that I couldn't make it? 
Take the limo, since it's yours anyway, and I'll see you for lunch at Alfredo's, all right?"

"One-ish?"

"Ish."

"Excellent!

"Hand me my purse, will you, Harriet?"

Harriet does.

"Here, this is for the do and rinse. I'll settle up for the pedicure with Annette after we've 
gotten the rather serious matter of my fingernails attended to.

"Shall we?"

"My work station is right over here."

And Annette can feel Harriet staring daggers into her back as she escorts Samantha to her 
cubicle.

"I fear our friend Harriet is a bit piqued at me.

"Still, life is a matter of choices.

"And without taste and opinion, where would we be, after all?"

"Afraid you lost me--Samantha?"

"Well, suffice it to say that Harriet and I have talked in the most subtle, the most general 
terms about, about--certain possibilities."

"Possibilities?"

"Suffice it to say further that one cannot spend all one's time doing whatever it is one does
for a living.

"There are, as there must be, leisure times, good times, private times, during which one is 
free to be oneself."

"Wouldn't you agree, my dear?"

"Absolutely."

"Well. Let's see what you have to show me."

And she seats herself in the chair which occupies most of the narrow enclosure.

"Oh, my! These are fascinating!

"Iridescent! Never seen that before! However do you--never mind.

"So many things I never even dreamed of!

"Whatever shall I choose?

"Come, Annette, your opinion?"

Annette shrugs.

"You should try to match your personality," she says.

"That's very true.

"What do you suggest?"

"But I don't know you that well.

"Of course, I could suggest something, based strictly on appearances, but--"

"Tut, tut, my dear. Your point is very well taken. Very well indeed.

"Would you like to--get to know me better?"

Smiling, she adds, "It's fairly clear that Harriet would."

"I, uh, I noticed that."

"But, as I say, taste must ultimately prevail, other' wise where are we?

"So. Can we look forward to each others' company, or not?"

"Uh, yes, certainly. Only--when? Where? I'm not at all certain--"

"What is certain in this life of ours, my dear?

"Only taste, opinion, the other illusions, the self-delusions of our minds.

"To know anything is to fool oneself.

"And certainty is the greatest foolishness of all.

"So. To rephrase your question, when and where shall we two be foolish together?"

"One way of putting it, I suppose."

"Exactly.

"And please. Don't treat this as some big deal. Because it isn't, you know.

"How does the song go? 'Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.' "So what is 
the harm in dreaming together for a while?

"Tell you what: How about this weekend? Any plans?"

"Well, I was planning on getting some things for my apartment.

"I sold everything before I moved down.

"What couldn't fit in the car--went."

"Well then, there we are, you see?

"Something to do out there in the real world.

"A project, as it were!

"Tell you what: How about I pick you up at your place bright and early of a Saturday 
morning and we take care of that little problem?

"My treat--if that's acceptable."

"Oh, well, I, I'm not sure about--"

"Now, now, my dear. What did we just say about certainties in this life?

"And before I forget--" She reaches into her purse, unfolding a fat wallet and removing 
some bills.

"This is for the pedicure--" Annette takes the proffered money.

"And this--is for you."

Two hundred dollars.

Annette looks at the money, then at Samantha.

"Please! Call it a retainer as, as--beauty consultant!

"And do let's get your address and telephone down on paper, shall we?"

Samantha puts the money on the counter next to the sink and rummages through her 
purse to come up with pen and pad.

"Shoot," she says, poised for dictation.

Annette gives her the facts.

"Swell!" Samantha exclaims, popping pen and pad back into her purse and snapping it 
shut as though she has captured something.

"Shall we say nine-ish on Saturday?"

"Okay."

"Very good! See you then."

And Samantha walks out, humming a tune with which Annette is familiar.

"'Come Saturday morning, I'm going away with my friend... " Annette picks up the money, 
looks at it, then stuffs it into her purse beneath the counter.

Too big for a tip.

What was it Samantha called it?

Oh, yeah. Her retainer.

As beauty consultant.

Yeah, right.

Except that she knows what it really is.

And what she really is, for having accepted it.

But is she really?

What's the difference, in the final analysis? she reasons.

We have only one thing to sell, in the long run.

Our time.

And is the purchase of her time by Samantha all that much different from the same thing 
on the part of Chez Philipe?

And isn't this, in a certain sense, a more honest transaction?

Because yes, Henri has bought her time, and yet he has not.

If she were to depend on what he is paying her alone, she would be in sad shape, 
financially speaking.

He knows, she knows, the world knows, that she depends on tips to make out in this 
business.

And those tips depend in part on her just being herself, or rather, an image of herself 
presented to the world for its approval, said approval being measured in size of tip for services
rendered--and for being her.

So how does this differ?

Sure, it's easy to put the label on herself.

Whore.

Big deal!

What the fuck does that mean, anyway?

Just about anything the person who says or thinks it wants it to.

After all, did Samantha and her rich bitch friend call themselves that when they married for
money?

Probably not.

And would undoubtedly be shocked by that interpretation of their respective weddings.

And yet--and yet.

If not that, if not selling themselves for money, for image presented and services rendered,
then what was it?

And if you want to put a title on that activity, then hey, swell, be my guest.

I don't have a problem with any of this, she tells herself.

I don't-- "Whore!"

"What?"

And Harriet is standing before her, legs apart, fists on hips, glaring at her.

"You went for her, right?"

"What--what are you talking about?"

"Oh, don't play Miss Innocent with me, bitch!

"You think I don't know about Mrs. 'Call-me- Samantha' Steele?

"You think she hasn't hinted around about what she'd like to do with me?

"And I was playin' it cool, workin' my points!

"And it woulda paid off, too!

"With her helpin' herself to a handful of this and that when nobody was lookin'.

"An' I was just about to spring it on 'er, when in walks Miss Super-boobs, pretty as you 
please, and blows the whole thing for me!"

Annette says nothing.

What can she say, after all?

She's bigger where it counts than Harriet, she has a prettier face than Harriet, she 
undoubtedly keeps herself in better shape than does Harriet.

Not that Harriet is all that bad.

And in fact, Harriet does exude a certain energetic sensuality which, under other 
circumstances, Annette would not have found unattractive.

Not that she would have done anything with her, probably.

Annette swings both ways, plays all the games.

But ordinarily, she wouldn't fool around with anybody where she works.

Because Annette has one of those serious bodies, bodies that impress, bodies whose 
absence is always felt, once their presence has been experienced.

Now, however, she feels only the hostility, the rage, the hate emanating from Harriet's 
glowering presence.

And none of these things are small.

Rather, they are present in depth, reinforced by the frustrations of daily life, inevitable 
from forced and constant contact with the leisure class, the idle rich.

That, and the unlikelihood of joining them, becoming one of them.

So that all that remains, her only chance to participate, is to somehow earn their largesse, 
to inspire their generosity.

And to know all the while that, whatever they deign to throw her way is exactly that, 
something thrown, a throwaway, a crumb, a thing which is without meaning or value to them.

But yes, she would settle for that, was in fact angling for precisely that.

And all this, Annette has killed for her.

So that she must go back to square one, there to somehow resume her playing of the 
losers' game.

So that Harriet's fury is understandable.

And indeed, carries with it Annette's sympathy, or at least her empathy, for what that's 
worth.

Which right now, she sees, is not a hell of a lot.

Because Harriet is more than angry.

She is about to explode in her fury.

And such explosions, Annette is well aware, have but one safety valve.

Still, this is a place of business.

A very busy place of business.

And Henri is very attentive to that business.

So that surely he will miss one or both of them at any moment and come inadvertently to 
the rescue, merely by appearing at this tense moment.

Play for time, Annette tells herself. Temporize. Reason. But above all, delay.

For one thing, she needs this job.

She is new to the area, has had no chance to look around and is a virtual stranger to the 
management of this place.

And there are no witnesses.

If only there were, then they would defuse the situation by their mere presence.

But as it is, they are not, meaning that Harriet will not be deterred, if she attacks and that, 
afterward, it will be impossible to say just who started it, who is responsible, who should be 
dismissed.

Besides, this is a very confined place, with hard edges and metal everywhere, not to 
mention an assortment of tools which, seen in a new and ominous light, would make, if not 
ideal, then at the very least, most unpleasant weapons, in the wrong hands.

Meaning Harriet's.

CHAPTER TWO

Can't be helped, Annette thinks, as Harriet charges her, claws extended.

And the best defense is a good offense.

And, given the right conditions, Annette can be as offensive as they come.

And these are the right conditions.

No question.

Either stand there and get her face ripped off or seize the initiative.

And Annette is very glad she attended those self-defense classes at the gym where she 
worked out back in New York.

A classical, claws extended charge, this is.

Annette places her forearm before her face, as though to protect her eyes.

It is a feint, however.

Because, just as Harriet lunges forward, the forearm moves down and beneath the 
extended arms, striking lightly but firmly (the instructor's words) upward, causing Harriet to 
claw the empty air above and behind Annette.

Taking advantage of Harriet's (a.k.a., the opponent's) momentum, Annette places a 
shoulder in her midsection, encircling her thighs with a closed grip--and suddenly 
straightening up.

Too startled to scream, even though Annette wishes that she would, Harriet goes sailing 
upward into the air--only to land, startled but otherwise unhurt, in a perfectly seated position 
in the semi-reclining beautician's chair.

Alarmed at her opponent's skill but too angry to stop herself, Harriet grabs a nail file from 
the counter next to the sink and, holding it knife-like, whirls out of the chair.

On her feet, face contorted into a grimace of hate, Harriet advances, weapon in hand, on 
the warily circling Annette.

Cautious even in the midst of her fury, Harriet does not make the mistake of charging.

Rather, she makes an extended swipe at Annette, who pulls her upper body back.

But not far enough.

Because the file catches the cleavage of her smock and such is the force of the strike that it
rips it down the front.

"Aha! No bra! I knew it, ya fuckin' whore! I was right about you all along!"

And Annette knows better than to take the time to try and cover herself.

She must keep Harriet in view at all times, looking and anticipating her every move.

And better than this last one.

As Harriet raises the nail file again.

Suddenly, Annette is inside her guard, lifting and squeezing her in a bear hug.

She has scant seconds, she knows, before the other realizes what is happening, recovers 
from her disorientation, and begins striking back or, more accurately, down with the nail file.

So she tosses her.

And again, uncannily, lands her in a perfectly seated position, this time on the counter next
to the sink, her sliding ass managing to clear the counter of its contents, so that she is not 
even sitting on anything.

Startled once again at this display of luck or skill, Harriet sits there wide-eyed, looking 
down at her situation, then at Annette, as-- "What is going on here? I heard--good heavens!"

Shocked at the sight of Annette's heavy equipment, displayed and heaving the two 
doorbell nipples staring at him obscenely, he manages to tear his eyes away from her long 
enough to look over at Harriet.

"Please! Ladies!" he hisses, in sibilant intensity, "we 'ave ze--I mean we have a shop full of 
customers!

"You! Put yourself together! Get another smock from the linen closet!

"And you! Whatever you are doing sitting there on the counter, get up and get back to 
work, toute suite!

"Move, ladies! Move, move, move!"

Clapping his hands.

They do.

"You ain't heard the last of this, bitch!" Harriet mutters into Annette's ear, en passant.

Annette, clutching her ruined smock closed with one hand, sweeps out of her curtained 
cubicle and heads for the linen closet thinking, This could be the beginning of a very long 
week.

* * *

"It's okay, Samantha, it's okay," Cynthia murmurs, holding Samantha in her arms as they 
both lie there in bed, naked.

"Oh, but it's the middle of the day, all the servants are around, people are coming and 
going in the house, there's no privacy--"

"Shush!" Cynthia exclaims, covering Samantha's lips with her own, then pulling hack slowly.

"It's, it's just that she got me so hot for some reason, that manicurist.

"And after I left there, the more I thought about her, the hotter I got."

"So fine! We're taking care of it, right?"

"Yes, but what about... discretion?"

"With whom?

"Juanita? Rufe?

"They work for me, remember?

"And I've been in bed with the two of them, right? "In fact, if you wanted to, I could--"

"No, no, no!

"Good heavens, Cynthia. It's bad enough the two of us are here in the middle of the day, 
without turning this into an orgy!"

"Now, there's a thought," Cynthia remarks.

"No, it isn't! Besides, I just want to, to--" And Samantha slides down Cynthia's body until 
her mouth is at the level of Cynthia's large breasts.

And she begins kneading and fondling them, even as she sucks on them one at a time, 
avidly, hungrily, juicily.

And she lingers there, both hands occupied, as well as her mouth.

And now, she wallows her face against them, as though she wants to bury herself in 
between the big jugs.

And she cannot seem to get enough of them, even though her own are even larger, the 
nipples still bigger.

Such is the effect of the sight of Annette's generous cleavage and the outline of her major 
equipment.

As Cynthia, half amused, half fascinated, all aroused, humors her friend.

Samantha is a large, buxom brunette in her forties.

Cynthia is a big blonde in her thirties.

Samantha is the wife of Birmingham ("call me Brim") Steele III, a financial wizard, while 
Cynthia is married to Chipman ("call me Chipper") Harrington, an international entrepreneur.

They are both wintering in Florida while their husbands are elsewhere on business, Brim in 
New York, Chipper out of the country, as usual.

Occupants of the same high rise condominium in New York, the Harringtons the 
penthouse, the Steele's a few floors below, they belong to the same social set, the same clubs 
and charitable organizations, and would be considered best friends, except that their 
husbands are not all that close to one another, differing as they do in everything from lifestyle
(Chipper the swinger, Brim staid) to economic philosophy (again, Chip the swinger, Brim more 
conservative).

Samantha and Cynthia, on the other hand, cannot seem to get enough of one another's 
company, of which their present activity is a rather extreme case in point.

Not for them, however, since they have become quite accustomed to sharing their sexual 
adventures.

So that Cynthia's interest in Samantha and Annette and what might become of the two of 
them is far from altruistic.

Because eventually, if Annette goes to bed with Samantha, she will end up in the same 
place with Cynthia.

So that Cynthia is, to say the least, intrigued by Samantha's interest in Annette.

And even now is most anxious to cooperate in helping Samantha with her fantasies on 
that particular subject.

Because she does not flatter herself that, for all her charms, it is her that Samantha is 
seeing as, eyes closed, lips parted, tongue and hands busily working, she makes passionate 
love to her.

Rather, she knows that it is the image of Annette, the Annette of the mind, that erotic 
herald of the reality to come, which Samantha sees on the viewscreen of her brain.

Yes, it is Annette's (at the moment) ideal curves and flesh which Samantha caresses and 
attends to thus ardently.

Which is fine with Cynthia.

Which is perfectly all right because, in a few days, the real thing will be here.

And in a few weeks or months at the outside, they will have worked their way through this 
particular obsession and will be on their way to newer things.

Not necessarily better or even as good, perhaps, but merely different.

Variety is the spice of life.

Both women firmly believe this.

But there is also a certain comfort, a certain ease, a relaxation and true intimacy which 
comes from repeating with the same partner, especially when that partner is as amply 
endowed as are these two.

And indeed, so sensitized have they become to each others' bodies that they can perform 
that particular sexual magic which is the mirror imaging of mutual arousal.

So that they can do the same thing to each other at practically the same time and thereby 
achieve identical responses.

As even now, Cynthia reverses herself on Samantha, who is too far gone in her arousal, too
transported by the images of Annette in combination with Cynthia's body to do it.

So that, using her breasts as the pivot point, since Samantha is so very busy with them, 
Cynthia slowly turns her body in the huge bed until she is reversed and hovering over 
Samantha.

And Samantha, who still has sufficient awareness left at this point to be aware of what is 
going on around her, released Cynthia.

Who is now free to bridge the other's body with her own.

And who does so, straddling Samantha in reverse until she is on hands and knees over her,
crotch above her face, her own face poised opposite Samantha's snatch.

Quickly, Cynthia settles down on Samantha's face, even as her own tongue goes lower and
lower, seeking and rapidly locating Samantha's large, firm joy buzzer.

So that now, the two women are eating each other, their tongues working away 
enthusiastically on each others' clits.

And now, their tongues are fucking each other.

In and out, in and out they go, careful to maintain contact with the hot, engorged, rubbery
nubs of their joy buzzers.

And yes, Samantha sees Annette's cunt, feels Annette's clit in her mind, while Cynthia is 
content to see things as they are, at the moment.

Which are plenty hot, plenty juicy, plenty aroused.

And getting moreso with each passing second.

So that both women are becoming hotter and hotter, more and more aroused.

And now, clear, hot pussy juices flowing freely, they redouble their efforts.

So that their tongues are pushing rapidly in and out of each others' bodies, all the while 
flickering with vibrator speed and intensity.

As they move one another higher and higher up the rainbow of their shared passion.

As the pleasure beyond pleasure begins to add itself to that already present within them.

So that now, there is a sudden increase in the pressure of the ecstasy which is steadily 
filling them.

And which, even now, is reaching the full capacity of which they are physically capable.

And still the pressure increases.

Still the pleasure adds to itself, multiplying, compounding.

Higher and higher they rise together, on wings of shared arousal.

Together, they hover at the brink, at the pinnacle, the zenith of capacity.

And now, they blow their safety valves, the two of them.

And they are coming and coming, their multiple orgasms causing their hot, drooling 
pussies to milk their ever-working tongues with convulsive force, as spasm after spasm of the 
ultimate pleasure, of the pleasure beyond pleasure, jerks them this way and that, mindless 
puppets, slaves of sexual sensation that they have become.

Again and again, their orgasms shake them to their very foundations.

Again and again, they soar and zoom in the empyrean of their shared sexual paradise.

Where they could remain forever, forever transported, forever in ecstasy.

Except that they cannot.

Because slowly, surely the sensations subside in intensity.

Slowly, surely, they float back down to earth.

And, when the last spasm has passed, they separate, Cynthia slowly but nimbly 
dismounting from Samantha's face as her own rises off of Samantha's streaming pussy.

And lies beside Samantha on the pillows.

"Feel better?" she asks Samantha.

"At least now I don't feel so fucking frustrated at having to wait all the way until the 
weekend to see Annette," comes the reply.

"Really got you excited, doesn't she?"

"Yes, she does. And you know," turning to face Cynthia, "I cannot for the life of me 
understand why.

"Y'know, Cynthia, it's not as though I haven't been around, haven't had the handsomest, 
the most virile men, the sexiest, most gorgeous women.

"Because, face it, kiddo, I have.

"And so have you, for that matter.

"So you know whereof I speak when I say that there is absolutely no reason for me to feel 
as I do about some silly manicurist.

"Is there?"

Cynthia shrugs.

"You should just be glad the magic is still there," she replies, at last.

"Magic?"

"The enthusiasm! The inspiration!

"Because that means that you're not totally jaded, that there are in fact still people, people
and situations which are capable, which are able to turn you on.

"Still. Again. Whatever.

"The fact remains that you are still one sexy bitch.

"Still interested, still ready, willing, and able to pursue the dream, the erotic vision, 
whenever, wherever."

"And at my age, too. Remarkable!"

"Now, you know I didn't mean it that way, Samantha."

"I do. Just kidding.

"Seriously, though, why do you suppose that some people, you just take one look at them 
and bingo! instant turn-on?"

"Because before you ever meet them, before you ever even see them, the image of them is
already right there, in your head."

"Really?"

"Oh, nor in full detail.

"It's more like, like a set of features, specifications, whatever.

"Nothing as routine, as unexciting as a checklist, of course. But a composite image, with 
each vital part just so and not otherwise, with the whole thing put together in just a certain, 
exact way.

"That's in here," touching her head.

"And out there--" with a sweeping gesture of one hand, "--is reality.

"And within that reality, in the real world, are the people--all the people--who meet those, 
those... "

"Specifications?"

"Exactly!

"When what's in here matches what's out there, like you say, bingo!"

"Y'know, now that I think about it, you're probably right.

"Because take this, this... thing with Annette.

"It's not as if I was looking at something that just got invented.

"Oh, there was a thrill all right, but it wasn't the thrill of surprise.

"It was more like I'd been waiting, you know?

"Waiting for her and yet not for her, for those tits, those hips, that face, none of which I 
had ever seen before but all of which was familiar to me in a way I can't explain.

"Kind of as if I knew her.

"And what you say would certainly account for that."

"Sure would, if I do say so myself."

* * *

"Now then," Henri says, suppose you two tell me what this is all about."

The two women look at one another.

"Hey, don't look at me, Harriet, because I have nothing to say.

"You attacked me, remember?"

Thinking, At least let's get that down for the record.

"Yes, but who started it?" Harriet asks.

And Annette says nothing.

"Started what?" Henri asks, puzzled.

"Yes, Harriet," Annette echoes, "started what?"

Harriet looks down.

"It's personal," she says.

"Oh, thank you very much, Harriet. That tells me a lot!" Henri says. "Would it surprise you 
two that I had that part figured out from the start?

"Annette, you are the new girl on the block.

"Granted, Harriet attacked you and not the other way around, still the fact remains that 
this was not a bolt from the blue.

"You two know one another from before, by any chance?"

"No, but I know the type, know it of old, believe me," Harriet responds, bitterly.

"Now we're getting somewhere. What type is that, Harriet."

Silence.

"Look. I'm not trying to pry into your private lives or anything. Hey, you two wanna kill 
each other somewhere else, I have an objection to that kind of behavior, but I can't stop you.

"But I am responsible for what happens in here.

"And I have to answer to Philipe for it, for any and all of it.

"And too many people know about it, know at least that something happened in here 
today, for me to try and cover it up.

"Now, if you two never met before today, and I know pretty well everything that happened
out there on the floor today, I must confess I have absolutely no idea what to tell Philipe.

"And yet, I must tell him something.

"Come on girls, help me out, here."

Annette clears her throat.

"One of the customers expressed an interest in me," she says.

"And from this we go to the heavyweight championship of the world?" Henri asks.

Annette shrugs.

"As I say, she attacked me."

"Harriet?"

"She was my customer before she was Annette's."

"You lost me. You are a hairdresser, Annette is a manicurist.

"Presumably, the two skills compliment rather than conflict with one another.

"Are we saying that this customer--and I will get to her in a moment--are we saying that 
she somehow considers Annette a better manicurist than you are a hairdresser, although how 
one goes about making that kind of judgment I am sure neither she nor anyone else has the 
foggiest notion?

"Is that what we're saying?"

"Forget it, okay?" Harriet exclaims. "Can we just forget it?"

Henri sighs.

"Would that I could," he says. "But as I have just explained--"

"Look. I'm not hurt, she's not hurt.

"I ripped a smock, so take it outta my pay.

"Or fire me.

"I could use a couple months on the beach drawin' unemployment."

"If you feel that way, Harriet, why don't you simply quit?"

"Oh, right. Just like that. No job, no unemployment benefits, nothing.

"No, Henri, you want me outta here, you gotta gimme the axe."

Henri shrugs.

"It could come to that, depending on what Philipe decides.

"The better way is for you to simply tell me why-- one of you."

Annette shrugs.

"As far as I'm concerned, I was suddenly attacked without warning or provocation. You 
wanna know anything, get it from the one who attacked me."

"The customer," Henri says, moving on.

"Mrs. Steele," Annette responds at once.

"Harriet?"

"Mrs. Steele," she agrees.

"Then this I cannot ignore," Henri states.

"Because Mrs. Steele and Mrs. Harrington between them drop--well, you would not 
believe the bucks, sometimes lasting six months out of the year.

"To jeopardize that particular business, well, it would be the height of irresponsibility on 
my part. And I am many things, but irresponsible doesn't happen to be one of them.

"No, the matter must be resolved, and resolved in a way that makes sense, that will make 
sense to Philipe.

"And right now, it makes no sense to me.

"Harriet, I want to know why, and I want to know now.

"And I would remind you that brawling and insubordination are two causes for dismissal 
that carry with them no unemployment benefits, and certainly no letter of recommendation.

"So talk."

Harriet, cradling her bosom in her arms, sighs, looking everywhere but Henri.

"Mrs. Steele has been, like, comin' onta me for a couple weeks now.

"Suddenly, she's comin' onto the new broad, so naturally, I got pissed off.

"There, you happy?"

Henri stands there in silence, not moving, as though in shock.

"Just when one thinks he has heard it all," he says, at last.

"I hope it was a real thrill for you, then, learning that," Harriet says.

"I must speak with Philipe, what I must do," Henri says, to nobody in particular.

Then, facing the women, "You two will simply carry on your professional duties in a 
professional manner, at least for the time being.

"And I should not have to remind you that the next incident of any kind and the offending 
party is out on her ass."

"Just one more thing," Harriet says.

"Yes?"

"This, this... person didn't learn those moves of hers by bein' whatchoo call non-violent. 
She not only started it, she woulda finished it in short order, if I didn't grab somethin' ta 
defend myself with."

"I'll tell Philipe that, too."

CHAPTER THREE

"No chit!" Philipe exclaims, slapping his knee, delighted. "Not only a looker, but a scrapper 
as well!"

"Yes, well, but for what it's worth, Harriet attacked her," Henri says, his tone revealing that 
he is disgusted with the whole incident, including his boss's reaction.

"Hey, then points for Harriet as well," Philipe says.

"One of us seems to be missing the point here," Henri rejoins, "speaking of points."

"Which is?"

"Which is that we are about to lose two very good, possibly our very best, customers 
because we have two employees apparently fighting over the affections of one of them, which
is the best I can make of what has happened."

"Henri, my fren', joo worry too much," Philipe says, slapping him on the back. "Maybe joo 
shoul' start foolin' aroun' weeth the hire help.

"Put some lead een the pencil, geev some joy to the life, joo know?

"Lighten up, mayn! Ees no' the en' of the worl', joo know?"

"But Philipe, what is to be done?

"One more incident, even a hint of a scandal, and it could be more than just our two prize 
customers-- you know?"

Philipe glances at him sideways.

He is not a man who likes to be mocked.

But he can see that mockery is the farthest thing from Henri's mind.

The "you know" was merely coincidental.

"All right," he says. "Joo axe for my guidance, so here eet comes.

"What ees to be done? Notheeng! Nada! Zip! Joo got eet?"

"But--"

"Joo see, Henri, joo lef out one eemportant fact, wheech I deed not.

"We now know that Mrs. Steele propositioned Annette, right?"

"Right."

"But we also know one more theeng, do we not? "Wheech ees that Annette--assepted!"

Henri looks at him puzzled, and comprehension slowly dawns.

And Philipe slaps him on the back again as Henri nods his head.

"Joo see? Ah woul' have made the worl's greates' detective, no?"

"Still, it's a nasty business.

"Too volatile. Too unpredictable. I mean, what's next?"

"Whass nex' ees I gotta talk weeth Annette."

"We've got a pretty full calendar tomorrow, Philipe."

"Deed ah say a' de chop?

"No, no, my fren'. A little dinner, a little conversation--"

"Ahem!"

"Jes?"

"Oh, nothing.

"Just that uh, in French, the word conversation means, well, something else."

"Got news for joo, m'fren'. When ah juse de word, I jam espeaking een French!"

* * *

Philipe has been polite, even courtly, throughout the excellent dinner over candle light at 
an exclusive and expensive restaurant.

But Annette knows that something is coming.

Although exactly what, she is not sure.

She can do nothing but sit there, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"As joo know, Annette," Philipe begins, quietly, "Henri has reported to me a certain 
incident.

"Henri is a good man, a trusted employee, a man doing his job. Agreed?"

"Of course."

"And yet, like so many others--like most others, perhaps--he lacks a certain quality.

"Eensight.

"The ability to see beyond the surface of a situation or event to determine eets root 
cause."

"That's what insight is, all right." Annette concedes.

"I was not even there.

"An' jet, I know. I can safely say weethout fear of contradiction that I know what was the 
cause of Harriet's attacking joo."

"Which was?"

"No, no. That ees too direc', too seemple.

"Firs', le's say what eet was not.

"Eet was not because Harriet has been working her points weeth Mrs. Steele for some 
time.

"Eet was not because chee was more drawn to joo than to Harriet.

"Eet was not even because chee propositioned joo.

"Eet was because, purely an' seemply--joo assepted. "

"How do you--" Philipe shrugs, saying, "Elementary, my dear Annette.

"Mrs. Steele lef my establishment een very high spirits.

"Only one thin' coul' have made her that happy.

"Jus' as only one thin' coul' have made Harriet that violent."

"I... see."

"Of course. Joo are een full possession of the facts.

"More to the point ees that I see."

"And Henri? Does he see too--now?"

"Jes. But not to worry. Henri knows when to keep hees mouth shut."

"What must you think of me?"

Philipe shrugs.

"What is there to think?

"The worst, perhaps?

"Joo wanna hear labels?

"Lesbian? Whore?

"Oh, please. Sit down.

"Eef I believed that, we wouldn't be here now, like this.

"No, what I think is far less demeaning, far more practical, more... realistic.

"I see a beautiful, generously endowed woman, trying to make her own way in the world.

"Difficult world.

"World in which others will try to take advantage, to utilize, to manipulate what she's got.

"World in which to have is far more difficult, far more complex, than to have not.

"And joo?

"Joo have.

"Joo have and to excess.

"A blessing and a curse, depending on what use joo make of what joo have.

"Two approaches.

"One, the human fortress.

"Become a walking safe, closed to all who would attempt to juse you, for any purpose.

"The other?

"Eenstead of refusing to join the game, play the hand joo've been dealt, knowing eet to be
a good one.

"One way, you are like a man who hides his fortune een a secure place and retains it until 
he dies. He has kep' what he had an' that is all that can be said of his essistence.

"But the other, ah the other!

"Een which joo joorself juse tha' wheech nature has given joo, not as a hidden treasure but
as an investment, as an intelligent risking of joor mos' valuable assets!

"A whore?

"Was Mrs. Steele playing the whore when chee married Steele's money?

"I don' thin' so.

"Ees Mrs. Steele some kind of lesbian because she seeks a diversity of outlets for her 
abundant sexuality?

"I don' thin' so.

"I thin' chee merely optimized her options.

"Joo? Joor options are different, are not as good.

"Can't be helped.

"All joo can do ees to make the bes' of the situation.

"Wheech ees all that Harriet was trying to do, essep' that chee lacked the courage of her 
convictions.

"Chee fock aroun' an' fock aroun', playin' cat an' mouse.

"But no' joo.

"It took joo what? One day. Not even. A matter of minutes at the mos' to achieve joor 
tactical objective."

"You make it sound so... military."

"Sorry. I don' mean to. Thass jus' martial arts talk, really."

"Oh? You're into that?"

"Oh, jes. A bit rusty, perhaps, little out of practice.

"Still, I try to keep fit."

"That too. Remarkable!"

"No jet. But once joo ge' to know me, who knows?"

They laugh.

"Seriously," he says. "I believe we have a lot een common.

"An' I woul' certainly 'preciate the chance to chow joo a little more of what I'm all about."

Meaning, of course, that he wants to get into my pants, Annette thinks. And put those 
lesbian rumors to bed at the same time.

Which, on balance, sounds like a pretty good idea.

For her as well as for him.

Because Annette has found herself daydreaming about being in bed with Samantha, and 
the prospect is seeming more and more attractive for its own sake.

But then again, isn't it the whores who are supposed to assume an attitude of 
non-involvement and thereby preserve some vestige of their self respect, telling themselves 
that it's okay to do it for money, as long as they feel nothing?

On the other hand, just how does one go about feeling nothing?

But whatever, she could use the services of a good man in order to retain her perspective.

Not that she feels herself as homosexual or heterosexual, but to prove to herself, once 
again, that she is actually just plain sexual, and that sex itself is devoid of gender, where she is 
concerned.

So that she is a true bisexual, now and forever, world without end.

"Is this where you take me to your apartment and show me your etchings?"

"This ees where I take joo to my condominium an' chow joo that I have no etchings or any 
of those hideous paintings on velvet."

"Gee. Not even one bullfighter?"

"The only bullfighter of which I have a picture ees myself, running een front of the bulls at 
Pamplona, abou' five jeers ago.

"Eef joo weesh, I can chow eet to joo, but I was scared an' the camera caught that very 
well.

"However, contrary to popular belief, that ees merely sweat joo weel see staining my 
trousers. " They laugh.

"Well," he says, "shall we go?"

"I wouldn't miss a picture like that for anything!" she replies, as he assists her from her 
chair and offers her his arm.

* * *

He is off balance, engaged in a frantic, scrambling run.

And he is right about the camera reflecting his terror.

It shows in the way he is running, weak-kneed, stumbling, propelled only by his fear, his 
strength and courage things of the past, if ever he had them to begin with.

It shows in his eyes, in the position of the brows, in the way his pupils are centered, comic 
strip dots in the centers of white, circular, comic strip eyeballs.

And his jaw is hanging slack, appears slightly disjointed.

His hands are raised, as if in surrender.

He looks for all the world like a man being shot in the back while escaping.

Except that his pursuer is large and black and very, very sharply horned.

And the mandatory white shirt and trousers are indeed soaked, the stains showing quite 
clearly, even in this grainy blow-up.

Which he did not have to show her, does not have to display.

But there it hangs, not in a very central position in the brick-faced walls of his living room, 
but still in a prominent, highly visible place.

"Why?" she asks.

Because there it is--a framed, enlarged photograph of an incident which does him no 
credit whatever.

He has risked his life senselessly and come closer than he would have ever imagined to 
losing it in the process.

And did not have the fortitude to put on a brave face while doing it.

"Why?" he repeats. "To chow that I too have been foolish, have made mistakes, big ones, 
almost fatal ones.

"And to remind myself that I too have known fear, the kind of fear that is icewater which 
melts the center of the brain and the marrow of the very bones of a man, which makes heem 
no longer a man at all, but a cringing animal who longs only for his own safety."

"What you say is all well and good for yourself.

"But why broadcast it?

"Why tell me?

"Why tell anybody else, let alone, apparently, anybody and everybody who happens to 
come into your home?"

He throws his head back, laughing.

"Why tell the cleaning lady that I'm a coward and a big fool as well, eh?"

"I didn't mean--"

"No, no. Don't apologize. Joor point ees well taken.

"An' joo may well axe."

He pauses.

"I could say that this ees some sort of ploy to gain seempathy from visitors such as 
yourself. Joo know, help celebrate national adopt a fool week and like that.

"But to what end?

"Een order to get laid, for essample?"

"You don't have to do that.

"We both know that's gonna happen tonight."

"Thass true.

"So then why?

"Can eet be that I'm a lousy lay an' weel juse the eencident as an escuse?"

"It's a possibility, I suppose," Annette concedes.

Philipe laughs.

"An' eef joo biliv that, I got a breedge I can sell joo very chip."

"Then what's the answer?"

"Een due course, my dear.

"Firs', we mus' eleeminate that las' possibility of joors."

"Whatever you say."

"I like that attitude.

They laugh as he leads her into the bedroom.

Where the main feature is a king-sized bed, complete with a shelved headboard, the 
central feature of which is a statuette of a black bull, very much like the one in the picture, 
right down to his ferocious attitude.

In fact, it is this charging bull who will be right over their heads as they make love, Annette
notices-- and notices him noticing her noticing.

"What are joo estarin' at?" he asks.

"I was just thinking. If there was ever an earthquake in these parts some night, that thing 
would fall right on your head."

"I like to live dangerously," he says, smiling and shrugging.

"So you learned nothing from Pamplona."

"I wouldn't say that, essackly.

"A man can learn much by confronting his fears rather than avoiding them."

"Such as?"

"Later for that, okay?

"For now, I have quite a different point to prove to joo."

And Annette begins removing her clothes, even as he does.

When they are naked, Annette says, "I'd like to wash up a little. Been sitting, you know?"

"Thass all right. I like them een the natural state. "

"Suit yourself," she says. "If it doesn't bother you, it certainly won't bother me."

He is broad-shouldered, slim-hipped and in great shape, with a big cock, limber at the 
moment.

She has him figured for a jack rabbit performance, macho style.

Get it up, get it on, get it off.

Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am.

Which is probably why it doesn't matter if she is fresh as a daisy or has a stale, sweaty 
crotch.

He won't be touching it with anything but his prick anyway, so why waste time when he 
has a point to prove?

Which is that he is a terrific lay.

Let the record show, and like that.

In the event, however, the first thing he proves is that she was apparently wrong.

That, or he is a big breast man.

Because he cannot seem to get enough of her twin towers of tit.

He is sucking them and kneading and fondling them and pressing his cheek to them and 
putting one in his mouth, the other in his ear and playing telephone.

Except that he is very serious and incredibly aroused while doing so, judging by his hard 
breathing and ruddy complexion.

That, or he is having an asthma attack and doesn't want to take time out for it.

Because he is making snuffling sounds like a rutting boar, interspersed with deep gasps as 
he alternately sucks her breasts and smothers himself in the cleavage of her double 
enormities.

And yes, now he is sliding down her body, tongue extended, the tip tracing her center line.

And yes, now he is wallowing in her snatch, burrowing into her, his tongue busily seeking 
and finding her clit.

And yes, he is flickering his tongue, making her large, pink, firm joy buzzer it vibrate as it 
engorges.

Because he was good with her tits, but now he is proving an even better cunt lapper.

And he is certainly in no hurry, lingering there, servicing her steadily, as though intending 
to bring her all the way, just like this.

Because now his tongue is shafting in and out of her hot, juicy cunt, each thrust, each 
withdrawal a fresh erotic thrill, sending renewed surges of sexual electricity coursing through 
her body.

At first, her arousal was localized, confined to her breasts and then to breasts and cunt.

Now, however, all of her is aflame with erotic desire.

Now she is totally his, at least in the purely physical sense.

And there is here a giving and a taking, more the latter than the former, but that is how he
seems to prefer it.

Because he is clearly the aggressor, not pausing in the slightest to observe the degree or 
even the presence of response from her.

As he burrows into her, fucking her with his tongue, shafting it in and out, in and out, 
driving her higher and higher up the rainbow of her sexual arousal.

And now, so quickly that it surprises her, he is on her.

On her and in her, his long, thick salami of a cock now rock hard.

And she feels its vibrant mass, its potency, as he -pounds it into her full bore, right from 
the outset of his fucking.

And now, here is the sheer brute force performance she has been expecting.

Because he holds nothing back.

He makes no attempt, no pretense at expertise, or any other level of technique.

He is not the artist but the workman, intent on the diligent execution of the task at hand.

He fucks with his eyes closed, she notices.

At least he fucks her with them shut tightly, his face a grimace of intensity.

And yet, he continues to emit grunts, exclamations of pleasure, resembling for all the 
world those of pain.

But still, she can tell the difference.

Because nothing could hurt that mighty prong of his at the moment, she is convinced of it.

So total, so intense is the feeling, so complete his concentration on the action that she is 
convinced he does not know where he is or, for that matter, who is there with him, at the 
moment.

As he plows on and on with that odd combination of effortlessness and ultimate strain 
which is the hallmark of the male animal in full heat.

So that she too must let herself go, must allow her body to take over completely, must 
surrender herself totally to the flood of erotic sensation which permeates and inundates her, 
which radiates outward in all directions from every point on her body--and on his.

And they two become one, united in the pleasure beyond pleasure as Philipe summons it 
from within his innermost depths.

And they rise together now, higher and higher, into a shared sexual paradise.

Where the pressure of the pleasure becomes more than their bodies can contain.

And together they explode in the rapture of sexual climax, the powerful convulsions of her
vaginal muscles alternating with the spasms of his mighty baton as it discharges its hot, thick, 
copious load into her deepest self.

So that they are coming and coming, her multiple orgasms alternating with the spurts of 
his jism, seeming to milk him of his vital essence, seeming to suck it out of him and devour it, 
one body to another, in continuous transfer.

And he maintains his fucking motion the whole time.

So that not until he last discharge, her last spasm does the action stop, on the inward 
stroke.

So that now they are pinned together, still united by his fully tumescent cock.

And they Unger thus for a long moment, suspended in time and space.

Which both resume proper, real dimension as they float gently back down to earth.

And he opens his eyes.

And he pulls out of her.

And lingers before her, on his knees, his huge, wet cock arcing dangerously toward her as 
it slowly loses the pressure of its recent arousal.

So that she can see that with which he has only just pleasured her, gotten her off.

And yet, it is not at her that he looks.

Rather, it is over her head.

Where the black bull rests and does not rest, frozen forever in its angry, powerful charge.

Is it his lucky charm, she wonders, or the symbol of that which once reduced him to jelly?

Does it represent himself or his nemesis, once avoided but hovering over his existence, 
even as the statuette hovers over his head each night as he sleeps?

And what images played on the viewscreen of his mind as he fucked her?

To whom or what was he making love or perhaps raping as he pistoned so vehemently in 
and out of her hot, juicy cunt?

He did promise, after all, to reveal more of himself to her later.

How much later?

Tonight, perhaps, or after the second or third date?

Assuming, that is, that there is to be more of him and her seeing one another after hours.

And right now, she cannot even say whether or not she would want that.

CHAPTER FOUR

"Wha' do joo do thees weekend?" Philipe asks.

"I've got a date with Mrs. Steele."

And she is surprised at her calm, matter-of-fact response, at the unhesitating manner in 
which she has delivered it.

"Ah jes. The infamous Mrs. Steele.

"Chee of the roving eye and full purse."

Calling Annette a whore, ever so subtly, she thinks.

Telling her not to believe him when he makes excuses for her conduct, excuses which are 
mouthed as ritual, with neither of them taking them seriously.

But then, how sincere need one be with a fucking whore, and a lezzie one at that?

"Tell me, Annette," he sighs, leaning back on the pillow beside her, hands behind his head, 
thick, dark tufts of hair occupying his armpits as he stares up at the ceiling, not looking at her, 
not even glancing in her direction as he speaks, "tell me.

"Deed joo enjoy the fight with Harriet?"

"No. Although under other circumstances, I might have."

Why the fuck did I have to say that? she asks herself.

Even though it happens to be true.

"Other circumstances," Philipe repeats, pensively.

"Such as?"

"Well, like I say, I took a few martial arts lessons.

"Did quite well at them, actually.

"In fact, the instructor said I was a natural.

"Offered to give me private lessons at a reduced rate."

"Well, we know what that was all about, don' we?"

Still not looking at her.

But she looks over at him sharply, lying there on her back beside him, large breasts 
floating on her ribcage.

"It's about practically the same thing as my being here with you tonight, I imagine."

Telling him that if that is intended as criticism of her, it certainly comes from an 
inappropriate source.

"Truer than joo ml' sospeck, my dear," Philipe says.

"How's that?"

"Knowledge for sex.

"The ol' barter system, still alive an' well."

"I'm afraid I don't understand.

"He would give me karate lessons in exchange for, for... you know what.

"But you? What knowledge do you have to impart?"

"Joo woul' be surprise."

"Surprise me, then."

"Very well.

"Weeth the answer to joor question, the one joo axe me before--why?"

"Oh, yes.

"Why the picture of you, running for your life from the bull?"

"Why indeed?

"To chare with the world my moment of discovery about the world, is why.

"To chow what I have learn of the human condition from that esperience."

"Which is?"

Philipe laughs, continuing to stare at the ceiling.

"Ah, joo gringos are so amusing, so mix up.

"Joo II' joor sex long, drawn out, sophisticated an' joor facts direct, to the point, laid out up
front.

"Weeth me, ees jus' the opposite.

"To have sex, that ees to give free rein to the animal within ourselves.

"But truths, to be properly understood, mus' be constructed, soun'ly built, like the worl's 
great buildings.

"To biliv, to biliv een something, that is to embrace its components, to see, to feel within 
oneself that they are all real, all true, are not assepted een error.

"An' my truth?

"It began weeth a lie, an error II' the one I jus' described.

"The error, the lie?

"My own invulnerability, my own invincibility.

"Jes, there was a time when I could not be harmed, could not be defeated.

"So that what others do as a demonstration of their macho, their courage, that I could also
do, appearing to take the same chances as they, but in reality not at all subjec' to the same 
dangers.

"Others have been maimed or killed by the bulls.

"But me?

"Well, God, or fate, or destiny would shield me, would protect me from all harm, no matter
the presence of great danger.

"After all, I have fallen asleep at the wheel of my car, only to be jarred gently awake by the 
choulder of the road, I have jay-walked without looking, lost in thought, receiving nothing 
more than threatening gestures, verbal abuse and a lot of honking horns for my 
carelessness--I coul' go on and on.

"But the point ees, I was not chaken by any of these, these... eencidents. I assepted them 
as a matter of course.

"They were not, after all, close calls, but merely the reaffirmation of my, my... shield, my 
cloak of invulnerability.

"An' so, Europe, Spain, a lovely senorita een tow, the proper time of the jear--why not?

"Look good een front of the lady, rt'?

"An' there was nothing to tell me otherwise.

"Quite the opposite, in fact.

"Thousan's of guys in white, all of us looking alike, packed so tightly een the narrow, 
cobblestone street that no bull could ever reach me, centered as I was een this well ordered 
mob.

"But almos' at once, I began to sense something was wrong.

"There came a roar from the crowd as the bulls were released, dreeven from the corral by 
shouting men weeth switches an' ropes an' goads.

"There were shouts of horror as the bulls charged into this crowd, who could not get out 
of the way, who could not run before them, who, like myself, could not even move.

"Thass right, we coul' not move!

"Choor I woul' he safe, choor I woul' be invulnerable--eef I were free to run!

"Bu' there was jus' too fockin' many of us!

"Someone ees pushin' on me.

"I jam pushin' on this, this... wall of white-clothed flesh and bone, which is too heavy to 
move an' weel no' geeve.

"An' all the while, looking back over my choulder, I can see the crowd between me an' the 
bulls bein' chewed away by this mass of leather an' horns, their noise bein' like as eef it was 
part of their fonction to espress the cries of mortal agony of their veectims.

"Guys are bein' tossed een the air!

"Blood ees gushin' like fountains!

"An' these lousy dead-from-the-neck-up motherfuckers een front of me are not budgin' a 
fockin' eench!

"We are there, caught een the meedle, punchin' each other out while this mass of horned 
death is comin' closer an' closer!

"Why do these mineless bastards thin' they call it the runnin' of the bulls.

"I look over the runners--'n' I juse the term loosely--before me an' I see tha' this mass of 
leeving monuments is slowly, surely begeening to crumble at the outer edge.

"I look behine me an' I see maybe ten more guys between me an' the bulls.

"So I climb over these dumb bastards who are blockin' my path, wheech ees not their fault
because somebody else ees blockin' theirs, but who cares?

"I jus' need out, away from the wave of death that ees approachin' my ass.

"As I say, I climb--or try to.

"Because ees no good, really.

"One leg up, then I am knock back.

"An' the far edge of the crowd ees still not breakin' up fas' enough.

"Because now the bulls are workin' their way through the las' guys between me an' them.

"Ees now or never, I tell myself.

"Because now I jam protect no longer.

"An' the guy pushin' agains' me ees not under hees own power.

"He's under bull power, as the fockin' monster tries to get hees body off hees horns!

"Wheech ees jus' the extra push I need.

"I break loose, at las'!

"An' at tha' moment, the beeg, black bull flips the guy over his hump--an' comes rl' for 
me!

"An' it came to me, my death, greening, laughing at me, pointing hees feenger a' me, a' 
my foolish, empty conceit!

"An' I know, I know for choor, in tha' spleet secon', that ees all bullchit!

"I jam not immortal, not invulnerable, not anythin' essep' another human bein', one in very
real fear of his life an' very likely to lose it the very nex' second!

"An' all I can do ees run!

"Essep' that I cannot!

"Because I am like turned to jelly.

"Still, I mus' move or die.

"So I move, every atom of me wanting to be out of there, to be anywhere but there, with 
every ounce of its own awareness.

"I mean, my hair wanted to run!

"An' thass how I moved, cheer panic drivin' me, an' weeth the bull breathin' on my ass!"

"And who could blame you?"

"I could, ees who.

"I could have held myself above it all.

"I could have remained lordly, aloof, the girl by my side, looking down on it 
all--literally--as those focking jerks made total ass holes of themselves.

"We would have laughed, a little cruelly, a little unkinely, perhaps.

"An' gone back to the hotel, chowered an' dressed for cocktails an' deener, gone to a 
nightclub afterward, an' like that.

"Essep' ass hole here had a better idea."

"How did it end, then?"

"Chee was standin' on the balcony of our room, watchin' the big chow, rl?

"I see her stannin' there, lookin' down a' me an' the fockin' bull.

"As we go underneath, I jump, grab two of the rails, one weeth each han', an' the bull goes
by because he don' go' no choice, since all the other bulls are crowdin' heem.

"An' I hang there, while the whole fockin' herd passes below me.

"I drop down onto the street after, an' the door of the hotel ees onlock, once again open 
for normal business. "

"Who took that picture?"

"Chee deed.

"My idea.

"Record the beeg fockin' hero, in the act.

"Some hero! Some act!

"Chee even helped me onto the balcony.

"But eet was no goo' between us after that.

"I din' leeve up to my publeecity.

"Fact is, I couldn' even get it up that night.

"Nex' day, she went away while I slep', after a night without sleep.

"But not before she lef' the oreeginal of the picture for me.

"Sort of a going away present from the one going away.

"Nice, huh?"

"You seem to have recovered in due course."

"Recover?

"Hell, I was recover down there inna street weeth the bull!

"From my illusions concerning myself, that ees.

"Chee thought that was some kine of put-down, leavin' me the picture?

"Chee did me the beeg favor, an' thass de troot'.

"I am the smartes', the braves' man who ever leeved. I have absolutely no reason to biliv 
otherwise.

"An' eef that could happen to me, then it is a part of bein' a human bein', to know 
weakness, to know fear.

"To know it an', on occasion, to chow it.

"An' I deed.

"But.

"Ever since tha' day I have sworn to seek out the fear in others, which ees only the mirror 
of my own fear, my own weakness.

"An' to punish that fear, that weakness, to exorcise it from myself by punishing it in 
others."

"But that's, that's... crazy!

"That's sadistic and perverted!"

"Eet ees all joo say an' more.

"But I don' care.

"I have but to look at that picture, to recall that day, and know that I am lower than 
anything you could possibly think to call me, you or anyone else.

"An' that is the way I have chosen to deal weeth eet."

A sudden chill comes over Annette.

, Because if what she suspects is true-- "Are you sure, Philipe?

"Are you certain that you are not merely using that, that... incident as an excuse to do what
you say you do?"

"What I say I do?"

And now he turns, facing her.

"Ah, but I assure you, ees true."

"Then you didn't bring me here just to fuck my brains out, did you?"

"Mmmm," he says, hesitating, thinking it over, "not, not... entirely, no.

"I was going to work into it slowly, perhaps dating joo several times, perhaps even letting 
joo form an emotional attachment to me.

"After all, I jam wealthy, han'some, very well built, generously endowed, and loaded weeth 
masculine prowess een the sack, am I not?

"All in all, a fine catch for some estremely locky woman, no?

"An' then spreeng my little soosprise on joo.

"As eet ees," getting up off the bed, stretching himself luxuriously, "prepare to defen' 
joorself!"

She doesn't move, lying there, merely turning her head to face him.

"You have got to be kidding!

"We're naked, for heaven's sake!

"We just had sex!"

He shrugs.

"What can I say?

"I had to prove that I could.

"Otherwise, joo would be lef weeth the eempression that I kicked the chit out of joo 
merely because I have a problem een the area of sexual performance, no?

"An' now joo know tha' nothing coul' be further from the troot'."

She looks at him, puzzled and disgusted, and turns her head away.

"Hee-ah!"

At the sound, she is off the bed, standing on the opposite side of it from him, in slightly 
under one second.

He laughs and maintains his stance, one foot slightly advanced, pointing toward her, the 
other at right angles to his body, both hands turned palms upward, fingers formed into 
spears, forearms parallel to the floor, shoulders slightly hunched, head held erect and alert.

And she realizes, with a slight shock, that she has instinctively adopted the identical 
position, one of eight (or was it ten) classical opening stances for unarmed combat.

"A worthy opponent," he says.

And she knows that he knows that he is lying to himself.

He carefully gauged her level of expertise and undoubtedly found it inferior to his own.

So that the situation is rigged in his favor.

Just as he formerly thought that existence itself was similarly weighted toward his best 
interests.

So that it is only too clear what this madman is trying to accomplish.

He is attempting, in his own insane manner, to restore to himself the world which that 
situation in Pamplona, which that big, black bull, so definitively destroyed.

"The battle of the sexes," he says, smirking.

Another lie.

A perversion of a popular expression which refers to social customs and not the martial 
arts.

And she cannot escape.

He is between her and the door.

And even if he were not, she is naked.

Not that that would deter her, if she were in mortal danger.

And in fact, that might be one of the acceptable endings to tonight's little adventure, so 
far as he is concerned.

To see her running in wide-eyed panic, even as he had run from the bull those many years 
ago.

What could be more fitting?

Because it would mean that he had assumed the mantle of that which surely haunts his 
worst, most persistent nightmares.

And thereby--what?

Exorcised it, as seems his intent, assuming that he actually has such a thing as intent and is
not merely an insane pervert seeking any excuse or none at all to carry out his outrages?

No, she dare not play his game--at least not on his terms.

She at least must remain in the real world.

She must deal sanely with this madman.

Who even now makes slight, threatening motions, now this way, now that.

Threatening to come at her over the bed.

Threatening to dash round it and attack her.

Above all, threatening, threatening, threatening.

And now, that same cool sense of what she must do which had come upon her with 
Harriet yesterday once again makes its presence felt.

She is once again in class, karate class, even though she and her opponent are both naked.

Which means only that certain holds and falls which depend for grip or leverage on the 
ability to grasp the opponent's lapels are out.

That's okay.

She didn't need that with Harriet, she won't need it here.

And she even manages to grin inwardly.

Once more, Philipe has miscalculated.

He was prepared to run before the bulls at Pamplona, but failed to take into account the 
total situation.

Which was that the general potential for disaster there was mere illusion.

The real disaster consists of only two elements-- man and bull, in contact with one 
another.

So that the men are never really running before all the bulls, but merely the one who, 
should they fail, will gore them.

Once again, he has failed to differentiate the individual from the herd.

Her voluptuous curves, her big boobs--a hindrance rather than a help in situations such as
these, surely--have thoroughly deceived him.

Or perhaps not.

He could be good.

But she doubts it.

No, he is counting on her lack of proficiency.

That, and the bizarre nature of the situation he has created.

That, plus the panic, the terror the sane have of dealing with those who are their violent 
opposite.

Yeah, pal, you got a lot going for you, all right.

Let's just hope it won't be enough.

But we'll never know if you keep feinting and circling all night, will we?

Why is he hesitating?

Enjoying, savoring the moment, no doubt.

Except-- Another thought.

He has the statue of the bull, the picture--and what else?

Because he is attempting to destroy his nightmare by living in it, by living through it, by 
facing it in his own insane fashion.

So-- "Where is it Philipe?"

"Where ees what?"

"You know."

"Quit stalling, bitch!"

"It's long, isn't it, Philipe, a bull's cock?"

"I don', I don' know wha' joor talkin' about."

"Ah, but I think you do.

"Because looking at the picture, looking at the statuette, talking about it, these things 
alone are not enough for you, are they?

"Any more than scaring the shit out of some helpless victim before you clobber them is 
enough for the likes of you, right?

"So where is it, Philipe?

"Where is the big cock with which the bull fucks you in the ass in the middle of the night 
when your own stupidity and cowardice come back to haunt you?"

"Chut up, joo lousy whore!"

"What do you use on it, Philipe?

"Vaseline? Mineral oil? Or baby oil perhaps, you sick, infantile, overgrown spoiled brat?

"How big is it, Philipe?

"What model do you use?

"And where do you keep it?"

"I said chut up!"

"Not too far away from the bed, I'll bet."

"In fact, it's probably right here in this nightstand draw--"

"No!" he shrieks.

And dives across the bed at her.

Nimbly, she steps to one side.

But he manages to roll as he falls and is not injured.

And now, he gets to his feet and they circle at close quarters.

And he smiles at her.

"All for the bes', bitch!" he hisses. "Ees no problem.

"No' for me, anyways.

"I keep it in there, all rl', bu' no' for myself, okay?

"Ees for joo, babe!

"An' joo gonna get eet all, right up the old wazoo, guaranteed!

"Joo gonna know how eet feels to get focked by a real fockin' bull!

"Bu' firs', I gonna tear joo apart!"

"Yeah, right. Talk me to death, why don't cha?"

Taunting him.

Adding anger to his embarrassment.

Adding teasing, badgering, demeaning humor where there should be only fear and the 
desire to escape.

Throwing him off balance.

"Joo gonna weesh I kep' on talkin' soon enough-- whore!"

"That's right, Philipe.

"Whore.

"And lezzie whore at that.

"But you know what?

"This lezzie whore is gonna be the one who takes you apart.

"I lied about the lessons, okay?

"It wasn't a dozen lessons, it was a dozen years of lessons.

"I'm a black belt, ass hole!"

And she only wishes it were true.

"Joo are lying like a rug!"

Yes, but he can't know that for an absolute fact.

And he has not come up with a rating of his own.

Which can only mean that he is, in martial arts as in all other things in his life, merely a 
dilettante, an amateur of some talent, perhaps, but nothing even approaching proficiency.

Which, she reminds herself, puts him in the same category as herself.

CHAPTER FIVE

And he is afraid, she realizes.

Definitely afraid.

It is up to him to close with her, but he doesn't, he isn't.

And yet, is it not fear which drives him in the first place?

It-- It is.

And he is on her, closing with her.

Not karate, she notices, and is relieved, as she locks up with him in a classic wrestlers' 
opening gambit.

Big mistake on his part.

All this talk about dildos has made him overlook one vital fact.

Which is that the real thing swings (bull-like) between his legs at the moment.

And this is not a class for judo or karate or boxing or wrestling.

Rather, this is a battle between a woman and a madman.

In which each is free to make up the rules as things progress.

So that there is nothing to prevent-- "Yaah!"

And he staggers backward, clutching his groin.

And she follows up, raising the other knee, catching him squarely on the chin.

Which straightens him up, hands still holding the family jewels.

So that his abdomen, and the solar plexus thereof is exposed.

Providing a perfect target for a double spear.

One, two, left and right, delivered so fast that he has no time to react to the first deep 
thrust before the second is upon him, mercifully slightly below the first, rather than in the 
same place, thereby creating a bruise instead of a rupture.

Which a more advanced combatant would certainly have ensured.

Because she has no guarantees here.

He could very well kill her, given half a chance.

So that she does not mean to treat him lightly, to take chances, in other words, to fool 
around with him.

She would love to finish him off, the logical, coldly reasoning part of her, that is.

But her killer instincts have not been activated.

As with the fight with Harriet, she is basically defensive-minded.

Fortunately, she knows that the best defense is a good offense, hence her seizure of the 
initiative and the favorable (to her) result.

Because now she sees the fear in his eyes.

Not the fear of injury or pain (she has already hurt him where it counts the most), but of 
being defeated by her.

So that yes, this part of his nightmare has been reactivated in force.

He has made a mistake--again.

Once again, a miscalculation.

Once again, a piece of errant and arrogant stupidity.

Unforgivable.

But now, he feels a surge of raw anger.

He does not seek, does not want forgiveness, not even from himself.

What he wants is vengeance!

Yes, it is revenge, revenge against the world, against a world which has made him stupid 
and weak and afraid which he seeks.

And now, that world has once again attacked him.

Never mind the provocation, who started it, who is at fault.

We are dealing with fundamentals here.

The individual against a system which has him overwhelmingly overmatched from the very
outset of his existence.

No wonder she is defeating him!

After all, the whole fucking world is on her side, is it not?

And again, he has failed to recognize this in time.

So that he could have been her normal, latin lover.

But no, there is this, this... obsession.

Perhaps he is insane.

But in that case, so what?

He is what he is and not otherwise.

And it is neither good nor bad, right nor wrong that he is insane.

Or perverted or sick or anything else.

He is Philipe, and whoever, whatever Philipe is, he must prevail or die in the attempt.

Except that he must not die, not because he fears death (although he does, fears it above 
all things, now that he understands fully that he is not exempt), but because death is an 
absurdity.

It is a question when there is nobody there to get the answer.

But his cunning brain reassures him that he need have no qualms about that.

Yes, he has at least that going for him with Annette, however proficient in the martial arts 
she might be.

He can sense that much in her; she is no killer.

Whereas he has no such compunction.

True, he hasn't killed anyone--yet.

But the survival of his previous victims--battered and bruised, terrorized and shaken--was 
not, is not, of any concern to him.

So that now, he is free to give vent to his full fury, insane or otherwise.

And he does.

As he charges Annette (bull-like), his head lowered.

And Annette must admit, as she neatly avoids him, that, had he been equipped with horns,
he might have done her some damage.

But a man--even a crazy man--is not a bull.

Which is one reason why it is good tactics on Annette's part (remember tactics, Philipe?) to
go ahead and allow him to crash into the wall unhindered.

And he does.

But the collision does him no serious injury, indeed merely serves to spur him to more 
furious action, all the while rendering him oblivious to further pain.

Still, he cannot contact Annette to his satisfaction.

Rather, she either avoids or punishes his every attempt to come to grips with him.

So that now she merely gives him a little extra push en passant, and now she spears his 
ribs or a vital organ with her hand as he once more attempts to tackle the empty air where, a 
moment before, she stood.

"Stan' still, damn joo!"

Oh yeah, right.

And let him close those strong arms of his around her, getting her in a bear hug, crushing 
the life out of her.

And forcing her to put his eyes out, rather than allow this.

No, for his sake as well as her own, she cannot allow herself to let him grab her in earnest.

That initial wrestlers' lockup was as close as she will permit him to come to something like 
that.

On the other hand, this can't be allowed to go on all night.

The best defense, remember?

So she grabs a sheet from the bed.

And, on impulse, holds it before her, like a matador's cape.

And he cannot help, in the midst of his insane fury, grinning at the sight.

Because yes, he is the bull, the mad, raging, all-powerful bull.

And she the fragile human being, a matador without all those clowns assisting.

So that she has no chance against him, ultimately.

And he charges.

But she is not a matador, and a man is not a bull.

As she wraps the sheet around his head, deftly twisting it around his neck, so that it forms 
both hood and leash.

Which she uses to flip him onto the bed, face down.

So that he is struggling now, trying to free himself from the sheet.

But to no avail.

Because she is astride his back, keeping the sheet securely twisted, in fact giving it a few 
more twists, just for insurance.

And his rounded, firm ass cheeks against her snatch remind her of what she asked him 
about before, and to which he reacted so violently.

One hand holding the sheet tightly twisted around his neck, with the other, she reaches 
toward the drawer of the nightstand.

And cannot resist laughing aloud at the sight of the eighteen inch, double-headed dildo, 
flesh colored, solid latex, which reposes beside the squeeze bottle of baby oil.

Quickly, she pulls the rubber monster from the drawer.

"Sorry, baby," she says, "no grease job tonight, just the main event."

And she sees and feels his entire body stiffen in horror.

Or anticipation.

Or both.

So that he might or might not try something out of desperation or frustration or rage.

But she is not prepared to take any more nonsense from him.

Tightening her one-handed grip on the sheet, she threatens, "You move a muscle and 
you're going to have a very painful neck condition for a very long time."

Giving him the excuse to do what she knows a part of him, perhaps the largest part of him,
wants to do.

Which is to surrender, to accept the situation because he can do nothing else.

And this time, at least, he will not have to do it to himself.

As she knows he surely does.

And now, she reverses herself, careful to draw the twisted end of the sheet between her 
legs as she settles back down on his back, this time facing backwards.

So that she can see the cheeks of his ass, instead of merely sitting on them.

So that, first wetting one of the large, perfectly sculpted heads at one end of the rubber 
monster to make things easier for herself, not him, she can dig with it in the crack of his ass, 
one handed, while, with the other, she keeps the twisted sheet taut, holding his head captive.

"Unh! Ungh!" comes through the sheet, undistorted or muffled.

As she locates the ring of muscle and invades it with a steady pressure just behind the 
head of the dildo.

And feels it yield reluctantly (or has he relaxed his anal sphincter in order to permit ease of
entry?).

And feels it shaft into him.

And feels and sees his hips rise, in order to do-- what?

To make it more comfortable or less painful, which amounts to the same thing?

Or-- That's what it is! Annette realizes. To get more and more of it inside himself.

She will take the chance, she decides.

Slowly, cautiously, she dismounts, careful to keep the dildo in place and Philipe's head 
captive with the twisted sheet.

"Up, up, up!" she commands, tugging on the sheet.

Forcing him onto all fours, controlling his head by using the sheet as a bridle, careful to 
keep the dildo inserted, even though only about six inches of it are inside his ass.

"Head down!" she commands.

And he lowers his head, until he is on knees and elbows, head resting on his hands.

Still holding onto the sheet with one hand, with the other, she corkscrews the dildo in, in, 
into his ass hole, deeper and deeper, as he moans, in discomfort or delight, she cannot say 
which.

But she suspects it to be a combination of the two.

He is far too calm, far too docile not to be cooperating, at least in part.

"Cheer up, you piece of shit," she says, realizing that she is abusing him verbally for the 
very first time, "you only get half.

"The other half is for me!"

And she gets on her knees behind him and stuffs the other head of the double-headed 
monster into her pussy.

"Just like getting fucked by the bull, you crazy cretin!" she says.

Cretin, almost as in Cretan.

Crete, where the Minotaur, half bull, half man lay in wait in his labyrinth for the human 
sacrifices.

And yes, he devoured them--but Annette doubts that that is all that he did.

First, he fucked them, some of them, at least.

So that that is what she has become to him--his Minotaur.

She represents the bull, no question.

And now, it is the bull which has overpowered him, and not some cunt dumb enough to 
get herself into this situation.

Yes, it is the bull which even now corkscrews round and round, reaming him roughly with a
big cock that won't quit.

Yes, yes! he thinks. Fuck me! Fuck me hard! Ream my fucking ass! I deserve it!

Even the name she called him he deserves.

Except that she left out one part of it.

Worthless.

He is not only a piece of shit, he is a worthless one.

He is weak, stupid, cowardly, so why not the other as well?

Why not maricon, a queer, a fag, the ultimate insult, but one for which he is fully qualified, 
the lowest form of a worthless piece of shit?

And yes, he has at least that much courage, to face the fact of that.

Which is not courage at all, but a simple realization of the facts.

The central one of which is that he is not only not a superman, he is not a man at all.

And all his posturing, all this sick confessing will not change anything, will not exorcise the 
coward, the weakling, the fool from the shell which is himself.

Because these aspects are as much a part of him as is his insanity.

Which is that of despair.

He has been driven mad by the realization of what he is and by his inability to change it, 
any of it, any part of it.

Yes, that is the cause of his abuse of all those women. He is maricon, no question.

As the rubber cock makes love to his ass.

As it speaks to him, nerve ending by nerve ending, telling him what he knows is a lie, but 
which he must, perforce, accept, weakling that he is.

It's all right, it's all right, it's all right.

But he knows that it isn't, none of it.

Not it, not him.

It isn't all right, he isn't all right.

Isn't, and never, never will be.

And yes, he fears death.

But also, he cannot live with life, not his life as he now knows it to be.

So that this, this surrender, is a form of giving in, a kind of suicide, but without the fear of 
death, without the act of dying.

Except the little death.

Meaning the ultimate disgrace.

Which is that he will not only enjoy this, what is happening to him, disgraceful as it is, but 
that he will actually get off on it, will literally pop his rocks.

Because yes, he has done this before, excusing himself in his own mind in that, after all, he 
is the only one there, he is both the agent and that which is being acted upon.

As he lay there in the darkness, jerking himself off with one hand as, with the other, he 
reamed himself with the dildo.

And more than half of it, too, on his back in bed, bicycling his legs in delight, there in the 
dark where he cannot see himself, where nobody else can see him.

So that he is free to groan and moan in his self-induced delight.

He is free to make those faces which none must ever see, to speak the words and make 
the sounds which none must ever hear.

And prove, again and again, to himself, to the world, that he is still and nevertheless a 
top-flight stud, a man among men.

By fucking women and then by fucking them over, as the expression goes.

So that he becomes the bull, the stud, the macho honcho, the power that is.

Except that this time, something new and different has occurred.

On the one hand, a disaster, a blow to his pride.

Which is not real.

Which is but a mere facade, erected by himself, himself lying to himself.

But then, what is truth, what is reality, if not a series of lies which make sense?

Or perhaps something even simpler.

Perhaps these sensations of delight which even now inundate him, thrilling him as they 
warm his insides, extinguishing the fires of hatred and revenge, replacing them with soothing, 
delightful twinges of intimate eroticism.

Because here is truth indeed!

A truth, not about him, a subject which has begun to carry with it a faint tinge of nausea, 
which gets stronger and stronger each day; rather, it is a truth of the body, of sensation.

It is this bull cock inside him informing his body that this feels good.

And that each revolution, each rotation, each reaming feels better and better.

And it is not that it is all right.

Nothing is all right, not now, not ever again.

But so what?

Who cares, so long as this, this feeling can be created within himself, however it came to 
be there?

So long as he can feel this, can feel it as it is, can feel it getting better and better, can be 
here like this to receive it--then what else really matters, anyway?

So yes, he gives in.

And he is glad that his face is covered, that, opening his eyes, all he can see is a gauzy, 
indistinct, peach-colored world in which he is somehow floating and getting fucked in the ass 
and feeling sensation after sensation, each building on the other, charging him with sexual 
electricity, filling him with lascivious sensation so intimate that there is only himself, only what 
he can feel, in all the world.

So that there is nobody here, not even himself, before whom he must maintain an image 
of any kind.

What difference does it make what label he wears, what others think of him, what he 
thinks of himself, at this point in time?

Only it counts.

It.

The pleasure.

The pleasure that grows and grows within himself, the pleasure which has caused his big 
cock to engorge to ultimate hardness, so that it bobbles stiffly beneath him.

"Hah! Hah! Aha! Ummm!"

And yes, he is making those sounds of sexual ecstasy.

So what?

And she can hear him.

What does she matter, anyway?

Values, standards--all, all nothing but bullshit!

Only this, this! counts.

And goes on and on counting, goes on feeling better and better, goes on filling him with 
surge after surge of intimate, ultimate sensuality and utter delight.

Fools all, the world and himself, to think that anything else could approach this in 
importance, in desirability.

All lies, every accursed bit of it.

All but this.

The truth of the body, the truth the body knows, recognizes, constantly seeks without until
just now realizing it.

And now, he reaches one hand beneath himself, slowly, carefully, so as not to disturb the 
action.

And grasps his rod, long and thick and hot and hard.

And begins to pump it slowly, automatically, in time with the reaming action of the dildo.

As Annette feels herself becoming excited, feels her excitement mounting with each 
rotation of her hips.

Because, after all, she is reaming her cunt with the rubber monster each time she does his 
ass hole.

For every action there is a reaction, equal in force but opposite in direction.

How true!

As she feels her face and upper body flush with sexual arousal, her nipples harden, her 
breasts turn into firmly swinging boulders.

And to the erotic stimulation is added the thrill of victory.

This is far from some wimp she has overcome.

This is a fiery latino stud, twisted in mind but strong in body.

And in fact, being a madman, does he not possess a madman's strength?

But she was too skillful, too clever for him.

And she overmatched him, both physically and mentally.

Not hard to do, this last, but still, did not his very instability make him all the more 
dangerous an opponent?

So that she actually had to get inside his head to accomplish what she did, to be able to 
do to him what she is right now.

She not only outfought, but outthought him as well.

And yes, she has won before.

She won in her martial arts classes.

She won over Harriet.

But those are as nothing, compared to this.

This is better than a trophy, better than prize money.

This, this is... triumph!

And now, what?

What is he to her, now that she has conquered him thus?

Her sex slave?

Her human toy?

But no.

She doesn't dare make him any of these things.

He was and is dangerous and insane.

That is all he is, all he ever can be to her, she realizes with her last ounce of reasoning, 
before raw sexual pleasure inundates her brain.

And now, she is coming and coming, her vaginal muscles convulsing with each of her 
multiple orgasms, milking the rubber monster of the pleasure beyond pleasure, oblivious to 
the risk, the danger of being even temporarily out of control of the situation.

But she need not worry, in any event.

Because he too is coming, out of control, his very being engulfed, dissolving in the 
ultimate pleasure as he reflexively pumps his jism from his huge, discharging organ.

Which shoots spurt after spurt of his thick, hot jism onto the sheet below him, unseen but 
far from unfelt.

As he feels a delightful weakness engulf him.

So that he is melting into it, merging with it, becoming one with it.

Not for him the soaring of the spirit, the flight to sexual paradise; rather, he merely loses 
himself in the warm, intimate sea of the pleasure beyond pleasure.

And dies the little death, collapsing flat onto the bed as the dildo, held in place by one of 
Annette's hands, pops from his ass hole like a cork.

CHAPTER SIX

Postcoital depression, they call it, Annette remembers reading somewhere.

But it has never been so strong within her as right now.

Other times, other places and the sight of the tanned, muscular, masculine body, head 
covered by what appears to be a kind of turban done up in peach satin, its twisted tail draped 
erotically over one shoulder, would have excited her sexually.

And indeed, he seems a kind of erotic statue, lying there on his stomach, one leg cocked, 
the other straight down, his large testicles resting beneath the rounded masses of his firm 
butt.

Except that she knows that this is the man who has run in terror from the bull.

Not that she blames him.

Any man would, after all.

But not any man would have handled the aftermath of the incident so badly, would have 
been so sick in the head, so full of his own sense of macho as to be unable to forgive himself, 
to look upon it as an ultimate and irreversible taint to his very being.

So that he has turned into a madman and something much less than a man of any kind.

She would call him pathetic, except that that implies some sympathy is called for here.

And there he is--handsome, built, virile, wealthy, on top of the world.

And he cannot live with himself.

Go figure.

But she cannot.

And does not want to, wants, in fact, to be out of there, to be elsewhere, more than 
anything else.

She dares not risk a shower, in any event.

That would be insane on her part, and she is not the nut case here.

Yes, it is that monster there, in all his muscular beauty (and she must admit that, abstractly,
lying there like that, if she did not know better, did not know too much or anything else about
the scene, he would in fact be beautiful) which makes even so mundane an act as a shower 
after sex or sport-- and they have had both--impossible here.

So that Annette must, keeping a wary eye on his unmoving body at all times, get dressed 
and, sweaty and disheveled, leave his place, and as quickly as possible, at that.

Still, she cannot resist a jibe at him before she goes, so great is the contempt she feels for 
him.

"Well, guess I'll be going now," she says.

And adds, "Thanks for a lovely evening."

And he has at least enough sense, enough sanity left, to realize that she is being sarcastic 
and thus does not attempt to reply.

Or even to move, in fact.

Rather, he holds that pose.

And she cannot resist one last, lingering glance before she leaves.

So that she realizes that what she feels is not that all-pervasive disgust with herself, with 
her body, with the world in general that characterizes post-coital depression but in fact a 
sense of waste.

Because it is, he is such a waste.

The situation, the man.

To have what he has, and yet to be as he is.

Uncanny, it is. Simply incredible, that such a miserable creature could exist.

And yet, despite all this, all that has happened, he exerts a certain fascination for her.

She feels like uttering that combination of threat and promise used by Arnold in "The 
Terminator".

I'll be back.

But she does not.

She does not, even though she knows that she will be.

For a rematch, of all things.

But it would hardly do to tip her hand, to warn him.

And she cannot believe her own foolishness at such an impulse.

She should get out of there--escape--and count herself lucky.

And she finds it incredible that she should be planning to return.

Hell, by all logic and reason, she should quit her job, regardless of her economic situation, 
and seek another.

How can she even think about continuing to work for such a man?

And yet, she is.

And now, she takes yet another final look, as though to imprint the scene in her mind in 
infinite detail, and leaves.

She leaves quietly, closing the door silently, so that he will not know whether she is gone 
or still there.

And Philipe?

He lies there a long time, head wrapped, not moving.

He holds the pose, as though he is a statue.

Because this is how he has landed, how he has floated back to the surface, how he has 
coagulated his very being back to the level of reality, this reality, from that other, infinitely 
more pleasurable one.

And now, he lies there, in the real world, in the slowly spreading pool of his melting jism, 
revelling in this new truth.

Which is not the truth in which a man can glory.

But then, he is not a man and has the photographic evidence to prove it, He is something 
much lower than a man.

He is an animal, gifted with the attributes of masculine beauty.

But it is a beauty in which he can take no pride.

Rather, he can recognize, can accept it as a fact, but nothing for which he can in any way 
take credit.

Rather, he can merely accept it for what it is, can use it for what pleasure it brings him.

A humbling and enlightening experience, this has been.

Humbling, enlightening--and liberating.

Because now, he is free!

He is free of the necessity to put up a macho front.

He is free of all pretense and of all pretentiousness.

He is an animal and his pleasures will be those of an animal.

Let other men deceive themselves that they are something more, if they wish.

Not for him those games.

He will take care of himself, take very good care of himself indeed.

All animals do that, to the best of their ability.

But there will be no more of this craziness, of this fucking and fucking up, as he terms it.

With but one exception.

Annette.

He must see her again.

They must fight again, must fuck again.

He will give her a raise.

He will make it financially impossible for her to leave his employ.

Harriet can get along with her or leave.

Her choice, and he could care less which one she makes.

He will tell Henri on Monday.

That, of course, is the easy part.

The hard part?

Trying, with his new humility, to convince Annette to stay, to see him again, to do again as 
they have done.

What promises, what guarantees must he give her to achieve this?

Less violence?

But she can take care of herself.

He is no threat to her, nor does he want to be, not now.

Normalcy?

Why should she believe him when, in any event, that is not true?

The full revelation of total honesty?

There is no guarantee that she would understand.

Still, he must have her.

Must and will, whatever it takes.

Now, if only he could manage to figure out just exactly what that might be.

* * *

"Harriet, Harriet--oh, yes! From Chez Philipe, right?"

"Yes, Mrs. Steele, that's right," Harriet says, masking her disturbance that Mrs. Steele did 
not recognize her at once, even though they have never before spoken on the phone.

"I felt that perhaps we could speak more-- freely-- this way, since you indicated on 
previous visits that you had an interest in our, uh, getting together.

"Or did I misunderstand."

"Oh, uh, no, no, my dear, that was more or less correct."

Because things might or might not work out with Annette, Samantha tells herself.

"Well, I just wanted to let you know that I too would be interested in something like that."

"How very nice."

"Yes, well, I was thinking that perhaps, this weekend, we could--"

"Oh, how very disappointing! I'm afraid that's out of the question, my dear. I'm occupied 
with-- other matters."

"Annette," Harriet says, bitterly.

And realizes at once that she has made a mistake.

It just slipped out.

But-- "How very perceptive of you," Samantha remarks, her tone now cooler, cold in fact, 
very distant.

And she deserves it, Harriet knows. She isn't handling this at all well.

Still, not to make the call would have been a mistake.

She has every right in the world to protect her own interests, especially when those 
interests are so clearly being threatened.

"Look, uh, Mrs. Steele, Annette is very new in town. Her background is not at all 
established here. She's practically a perfect stranger, whereas I feel that you and I have come 
to know each other rather well over the past several months.

"We're built very much alike, Annette and I, and I just thought it would be more, uh... 
practical for you and I to build on what we've already established."

"And I suppose you've broached this very subject to Annette as well."

"Yes, and that's the other reason for my call.

"She suddenly became very defensive, even to the point of, well... violence."

"Violence, you say?" Samantha responds, clearly interested.

She was on the point of cutting Harriet off curtly for her impertinence, but now her 
interest is suddenly piqued.

"That's correct. She physically attacked me," Harriet lies. "And so I think you can see from 
that that she has a side to her none of us were aware of. "

"I just want to make sure I understand, dear.

"Exactly what do you mean when you use the term, violence? She and you exchanged 
harsh words, is that it?"

"No, no. We fought. We... came to blows."

"Over me."

"Well... yes. I suppose you could say that. Yes. Over you."

"How very... flattering."

And it is.

And Samantha is surprised that she should find it so.

People have wanted her most of her life, of course, but this is the very first time two 
people have actually fought over her.

And she finds it interesting, thrilling, exciting. So she doesn't cut Harriet short.

And the flare-up of indignation and anger within her dies out, replaced by something of 
which she herself is unsure.

Except that it is too delicious to let go of. "Who uh, who... won?"

"Suffice it to say that she is in a lot of trouble at the shop."

Being evasive.

And neglecting to add that she is in just as much hot water as Annette.

"Well," Samantha says, after a pensive silence, "that certainly puts things in a new light."

"I was rather hoping it would."

"Were you, now?"

This last tinged with frost.

And Harriet curses herself for a fool. She would have been far better off saying nothing.

"I only meant that I'm concerned for your safety."

"How very kind of you."

A little warmer, but not much.

And a protracted silence.

Then, "You wouldn't be interested in a rematch, I suppose."

A rematch?!

Whatever can the woman be thinking of?

What ever possessed her to come up with such a thing?

Still, it might be worth it.

Harriet is the one with the streak of sudden violence in her nature, after all.

And, while Annette showed that she has had some training, still, if the brawl had gone on 
long enough, who knows?

And besides, the only damage done was to Annette.

Granted, it was only her smock, not even hers, but the shop's.

And yet, there was that surface scratch, barely visible in the cleavage of those big boobs of
hers, but a quarter inch closer and-- Hell, she can take the bitch in a fair fight.

Why not?

But for what purpose?

I mean, being perfectly practical here, where's the advantage, the motivation?

"Why would I want to do that, Mrs. Steele?"

"Please. Call me Samantha. You did fight over me, after all."

"Very well, Samantha, why would I want to fight with Annette again?

"I mean, you're having a date with her rather than me this weekend, so I suppose you 
could say that, if the fight was over you and that's the end result, then the issue has been 
decided."

"Mmmm, not necessarily, my dear. After all, you are not unattractive to me. It was I who 
came on to you, remember?

"And you did not exactly respond with clarity or alacrity.

"As you say, we've known each other for some time now.

"Hence, my choice of Annette might be nothing more than a bird in the hand.

"And one date does not a relationship make, you know.

"Plus, in and of itself, don't you find the prospect of our bodies in naked contact 
somewhat... attractive?

"Or is that too brazen, too obvious for your tastes?"

Being very manipulative.

Coming right out with it, laying it on the table, take it or leave it.

Leaving Harriet no real choice.

If she says no, then this is the end.

Still, the ball is in Samantha's court.

Because the question remains, if she fights, then what?

So-- "Not at all.

"I like a woman who speaks her mind.

"Maybe if you had been a little more explicit-- never mind.

"If I go around and around with Annette again, then what?"

"Winner take all?"

"AH?"

"Well, not all, perhaps. Loser gets, shall we say, two hundred dollars?

"After all, If Annette can get that for the weekend, plus whatever It takes to furnish her 
apartment--well, need I say more?"

Definitely not! Harriet thinks. You've said more than enough already, lady.

Confirming what Harriet suspected from the beginning.

Which Is that Samantha, for all her voluptuousness, Is so used to paying for whatever she 
gets that this extends even to her sex life.

And it is frankly this, rather than Samantha herself, which Harriet was thinking about from 
the very beginning.

And It precisely this which had her so upset with Annette--not that Annette was taking 
away an Interesting sex partner, of which there were plenty around in any event, but that she 
was materially cutting into her income.

Because that's only the beginning with Annette.

There Is obviously plenty more where that comes from.

And Harriet wants in on it.

"How do you Intend to, uh, go about setting this thing up?" Harriet asks.

"Why, I thought I would let it be our little, shall we say, Sunday afternoon surprise for our 
friend Annette.

"We would come home from a night of love and voila! There you'd be, ready and waiting."

"But won't Annette resent that? I mean, it'll be like you and l are springing an ambush on 
her, after all."

"Annette can resent whatever she likes," Samantha replies, her tone cold, the implication 
being that this applies not only to Annette but to Harriet and the rest of the world in general.

Telling her that Annette is hired help.

Telling her that, if she wins, she will be the same.

But, speaking of hired help -- "You could have the both of us, you know."

"Yes, yes," Samantha replies impatiently. "Not my first, certainly not my last menage a trois,
should I choose to go that way. The thought has occurred.

"Now, back to the subject at hand.

"Are we on or off?"

"On," Harriet replies.

No choice, really.

This is too good to leave go of.

Annette is getting two hundred plus her apartment furnished for one fucking weekend 
and there's plenty more where that came from.

A bit risky, perhaps, because Annette has shown herself to be fairly tricky, but well worth 
the attempt. "Very well then, my dear.

"Do you have my address? It's... "

* * *

"Annette! And looking your usual, perhaps even your perpetually radiant self!"

"Do come in!" Annette enthuses, as they peck each other lightly on alternate cheeks. 
"Pardon the bareness of the place, but--"

"Not only do I pardon it, I welcome it, my dear!

"It will give me--us--more than ample opportunity to exercise our creativity.

"And, with price no object, we need not be limited in our choices.

"Well. Shall we go?"

"I'll just get my purse, and--"

"Nonsense! We'll use mine, all right?"

They laugh and exit the apartment, Annette empty handed.

* * *

It's no good, Philipe says to himself. Not even as good as other times.

Not nearly.

At least, he could bring himself off.

At least, the images of himself getting it from this brute of a, a... thing, half hulking, 
muscular bruiser of a man, hung with a bull's penis, a bull's testicles, his head that of a big, 
black bull were enough to excite him.

And then would come the moment, that magic instant of transference when he was no 
longer the victim, but the perpetrator, his victim, now that he was the Minotaur, a 
woman--nameless, faceless, barely glimpsed in the shadowy world of the labyrinth, to be 
fucked and then brutalized by him.

But now, that is no longer possible.

Reality had caught up with him, and in a way most unacceptable to him.

And yet, did he not accept the unacceptable?

Did he not endure the unendurable?

And not only endure it, but actually enjoy it?

He will try again, he tells himself.

Try, with a new image.

Try with--hey, why not? Try with the image of what actually happened to him, right here, in
this very room, in this very bed with Annette.

Who was not as she appeared to be.

Who, in the event, had proven to him what he wanted to prove to her.

She showed him that, victim though she might be, as are we all, because such is the 
human condition, within the hierarchy of victims, she was at least of high rank, higher than her
own victim, in any event.

So that yes, she was superior, his superior, his physical, his sexual superior.

And yet, one may become aroused, one may even pop one's rocks by having sex with 
one's superior.

Provided, of course, that one give's in to the feminine aspect of one's nature.

Which in his case, he suspects, was extremely easy, parading around as he is, a maricon 
pretending to be macho.

And yet, even the true queers are better off than is he, at the moment.

They know where and when and how and with whom to achieve their relief.

And right now, he is talking relief, not pleasure, not even that unbidden, unwelcome but 
irresistible pleasure which had swept over him at almost the same moment as the sheet.

Oh, how ashamed he was of himself!

And the crowning blow was when his body betrayed him, when his cock, his mighty staff, 
the centerpiece and representative of all that was manly within him-- betrayed him.

Yes, betrayed!

And a part of his soul cried out in outrage--and died.

Yes, a part of him died in this very room, in this very bed.

And he was an accomplice in that death, in the death of his spirit, the death of what he 
was or tried to be.

How sad.

How very sad, actually, this whole situation.

And the saddest part of all is the inescapable conclusion that he had somehow created it 
for himself.

But even that cannot be helped now.

Which is not surprising, helpless, hopeless wimp that he has become.

Or perhaps always was, now that he thinks about it.

So now, why not a new image, an image of the new him, or perhaps the old him sickenly, 
nauseatingly revealed at last.

Yes, yes, that's right! Wallow in your own filth, in the filth which is, always was, yourself!

Enjoy yourself as the vermin do, revelling in your own disgusting presence!

Who are you, after all, that you should resist the promptings of your true nature, which is 
lower than you ever imagined before now?

Go with the feeling, that same feeling of arousal that overcame you when you realized that
Annette was winning.

And he does.

And chuckles at himself in the darkness now, knowing that there will be no transference, 
that it is the bull-man who will fuck him in the ass and who, if he is a very good boy, will allow 
him to jerk himself off, right at the end.

And yes, there... there!

He feels his cock spring to full, vibrant life, there in the darkness.

But he will not touch it, not just yet.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"My gosh, Samantha!" Annette exclaims. "All that stuff!

"It would never have occurred to me to spend that much merely in order to furnish a small
apartment-- never!"

"Yes, well, one must exercise a certain taste, a certain judgment in these things.

"Which is why I picked you."

And an ominous cloud seems to hover over them suddenly, the brightness of the day 
notwithstanding.

Like one of those sudden, afternoon thunderheads which is so typical of southern Florida.

Except that this one is invisible, a thing of the mind, Annette's mind.

She picked her.

Not as one person would choose another in a relationship.

Not even as an employer would pick an employee from among a bunch of candidates.

No, Samantha has clearly picked her the same way she has selected the furniture for her 
apartment, not as person but as object.

As valued, perhaps eventually even to be treasured object, to be sure, but object 
nonetheless and therefore dehumanized.

She is Samantha's to do with as she pleases so long as the price is right.

And of course, it will be.

And why not?

After all, Samantha can afford it.

Probably, her expenditures on or in behalf of Annette are not even real money, in 
Samantha's estimation.

Rather, it is a matter of acquiring an object whose value in usage far transcends the 
significance of any incidental transfer of funds.

Because there is an aloofness to Samantha, There is a total unwillingness to open up to 
Annette concerning any aspect of her personal life.

She has drawn Annette out, throughout the day.

Oh, she has been most circumspect about it, no question.

There has been no third degree, no feeling even of prying, not once.

And yet, Samantha now knows everything there is to know about Annette, while Annette 
knows no more about Samantha than before she met her.

And yet, they are getting ready to go to bed together.

So that she is about to give her body over to the whim, the fancy of some perfect stranger,
in exchange for, for---money.

Other times, other places, with that face, that body, and they could have picked up one 
another, could have made love as equals.

Still as strangers, perhaps, but as one person, one human being to another.

But not now.

The credit card is run through at the last shop, the delivery schedule arranged, confirmed, 
promised.

Nothing remains now but to cab it back to the Steeles' winter palace.

"I really should stop off and pick up a few things at my place first," Annette says.

"Nonsense! You can stay the night, use my things, and run over to your place in the 
morning for what you'll need Sunday--and Sunday night."

"Fine with me," Annette shrugs, as though the hired help is entitled to a vote.

That is exactly how Samantha makes her feel-- like hired help.

Fire and ice, Samantha is.

And thus far, Annette can only see the ice.

Samantha is the snow queen, a character from a fairy tale Annette heard as a child and of 
which she remembers only that title.

Except that Samantha, with her dark hair, her sensuous good looks, her voluptuous 
proportions seems as though she should be anything but a snow queen.

She could almost pass for some hot-blooded, South American beauty, a creature entirely 
of passion and caprice.

And the caprice is indeed there.

But it is supported by a mind so manipulative, so calculating, so remotely cold as to be 
beyond belief, if what Annette suspects of her is true.

And now, they arrive at the house.

"Juanita, this is Annette.

"Annette will be spending the night here.

"You need not prepare a guest room."

Just like that.

Informing the hired help--the other hired help-- that they will be sharing the master 
bedroom tonight and whatever the maid thinks be damned.

"It's quite all right," Samantha says, as she leads her through room after room of the 
house, "I've slept with Juanita before.

"But she and I have explored that relationship to the hilt. Exhausted it, in fact, one might 
say. Although I must say that I never fail to be amazed at her degree of responsiveness.

"That, or she's a much greater actress than she is a maid.

"Still, one does tire after a time of the same predictably throaty moans, the same 
squirming movements of the same body.

"I mean, how many times can she experience sex as revelation, for heaven's sake?"

Every time, all the time, with the right partner, Annette thinks.

And she marvels at Samantha's unconscious self-degradation.

She should be flattered that she is able to turn on the voluptuous, sexy Juanita each and 
every time.

Instead, she doubts the reaction, thinking it possibly false, or, if true, finds it somehow 
inappropriate.

A most complex and difficult bitch indeed, is Samantha, Annette reflects.

But two hundred in cash and over three thousand in furniture is not to be sneezed at, and 
certainly not to be jeopardized.

And, for that matter, if Samantha should tire of her after the furniture has been delivered 
and paid for, well, she can handle that.

And never even look back.

Let this snooty cunt go her own way in a month or so, if that's what she wants, Annette 
thinks.

And perhaps that would be just as well, after all.

Because who knows what other opportunities await Annette in this area, to which she is so
new and vice versa?

And yes, she does resent Samantha's attitude, try as she might not to.

But then, they haven't yet been to bed.

Perhaps that will adjust Samantha's perspective considerably, she speculates.

Because, with Annette, what you see, great as it is, is much less than what you get.

Philipe found that out the hard way.

And now, Annette finds herself almost impatient to hit the sheets, to get it on with 
Samantha.

And if she is eager, then surely Samantha is no less so.

"I guess we could both do with a shower first," she says, when they get to the bedroom 
after what seem to Annette to be a series of living rooms or lobbies, each exquisitely well 
appointed and as impersonal as a hotel lobby.

They strip together and Samantha encloses them both in the spacious, glass-doored 
shower stall.

And each observes the other with renewed appreciation of her equipment, which looks 
even larger in the relatively small confines in which they now find themselves.

But even here, it is not the warmth of desire, of passion aroused which lights up 
Samantha's face.

Rather, it is matter-of-fact appreciation of what is, objectively speaking (and Annette 
doubts seriously that Samantha ever speaks or thinks other than objectively), outstanding 
female attributes.

And she doesn't know, cannot know, that Samantha's thoughts are on the fight she 
missed-- and on the one she will not.

But now, they finish showering quickly and dry themselves.

And Samantha leads Annette to the bed.

Where she strips off the covers and centers herself on her back.

And simply lies there, spread-eagled.

Obviously, the lady wants service from the hired help.

Service from a servant, Annette thinks. What could be more logical?

But Samantha has a body worthy of the most intimate attention, so this will not be 
difficult, even though Annette is used to being the one to be thus "serviced".

So Annette lies to one side at an angle to Samantha, on her stomach.

And almost casually leans over one breast, grasping it with one hand, feeding it to herself, 
holding it in position as she sucks the large, ruddy doorbell of a nipple to rubbery firmness.

And then does the other one, using both hands now, one for each breast as she alternates 
between nipples.

And Samantha begins to respond, moaning softly to herself, writhing gently.

Idly, Annette wonders if this is her standard reaction to such attention and how long it 
would take Annette to tire of feeling, hearing, seeing it happen.

Because servants are also capable of becoming bored.

But right now, she has to admit that she is not.

Samantha is prime female flesh, in quantity and quality.

And this is not lost on Annette, who appreciates sexuality in a bed partner, independently 
of gender.

And Samantha has a body truly worth revelling on and in.

So that it is almost with reluctance that Annette leaves the boobs behind orally, leaving 
only her hands to knead and fondle their sensuous expanse, as her mouth travels downward, 
helping itself to mouthful after mouthful of firm, responsive female flesh. So that now, she is 
travelling down the center line of Samantha's contorting torso, licking, sucking, chewing as 
she goes, appreciating, wallowing in every nuance of surface, of movement, of action and 
reaction.

And now, she arrives at the belly, just below the deeply indented navel.

And helps herself to the widest possible mouthful.

And closes her teeth on it partially, gently.

And runs her tongue all over the captured surface.

And sucks it into her mouth and chews it.

And drives Samantha wild with the unceasing movements of her tongue against it.

So that she is turning the belly into a sex organ, something new to even Samantha's vast 
sexual experience.

So that her twistings and turnings become more and more frenetic.

As though her arousal, her passion is driving her this way and that in some torture 
operating on the principle of pleasure rather than pain.

But leaving its victim equally helpless, reacting reflexively.

And Annette is proving a relentless administrator of the treatment, carrying on steadily, 
regardless of the increasing wildness of Samantha's helpless reactions.

Where is the cool manipulator now? Annette wonders, rhetorically.

Where is she who is so very much in charge?

Where is she who sees others as objects rather than people now?

Is it an object, some dildo, some vibrator which is doing this to her?

Is it some extension of her own will, of herself, perhaps?

Bullshit, if you answered yes to any of the above.

It is Annette and Annette's expertise, her intimate knowledge of the inroads of pleasure 
that is creating this effect.

She is a master craftsman, a virtuoso in the sexual arts.

Which Samantha cannot claim to be, cannot claim to know how to be.

Oh, she could have been, had she seen fit to bother.

And some small corner of her mind, the eternal observer, the perpetual evaluator within 
herself realizes this now and regrets not having taken the time and effort to accomplish.

Because she knows, with that part of her still capable of knowing anything beyond the 
pleasure which permeates her at the moment, that this is wrong, wrong, wrong.

Oh, she wants as much pleasure as she can get from others.

But she wants to control them, to force it, to wring it from them, to extract it level by level, 
to make them carry her up the rainbow, step by step, worked, manipulated by her, all the way.

And not at all like this.

In which she is the passive, the helpless victim of another's manipulations, no matter how 
pleasureful the result.

This is not what she is all about.

This is not her world as she envisions and intends it to be.

Not at all.

Far, far from it, in fact.

And she tries to fight back.

But it is herself that she is fighting.

It is nothing other than her own body which will not cooperate, but which insists on lying 
here, completely helpless, wracked by thrill after thrill being injected into her by the hands, the
mouth of another.

Stop it, stop it, stop it! the furious dictator within herself shouts hoarsely.

But the voice is small, weak, far, far away from her, from the reality of the flood of 
sensations which surge into her body, one after another, piling on each other, compounding 
one another.

And overwhelming her mind, her will, her very thought processes.

Which are eroded, worn away, a piece at a time, then swept away in the onrushing 
floodtide of sensations which her body knows, understands, recognizes as its own true goal, 
as that which it was seeking all along, lo these many years, through all the conniving, through 
all the manipulations of a conceited, pampered brain.

Which now can only stand aside in wonder.

Which now can merely observe and savor and appreciate the grandeur of the feelings 
which run rampant within her with such intensity that she senses herself radiating her pleasure
in all directions, and from every point on the surface of her body.

And Annette has not even turned her attentions to the main event.

But now, she does.

Suddenly, she is no longer to one side of Samantha's feverishly twitching body.

Rather, she is below her, raising and spreading her wildly bicycling legs.

And it is all Annette can do to hold her sufficiently steady long enough to seal her mouth 
to her cunt.

But she manages this, moving her head in the same directions at the same time as the wild
motions of Samantha's sexual rictus.

So that now, she has her snatch, both hairy, hot, juicy halves, firmly in her jaws, head 
turned to one side, both hands pressing firmly on the bottoms of Samantha's large, shapely 
thighs.

And now, her tongue seeks and finds the joy buzzer, already engorged, firm and hot with 
Samantha's sexual arousal.

Her helpless sexual arousal.

Because her attempts to regain control of the situation, at least in her own mind, meet 
with complete failure, becoming weaker and weaker until, at last, they cease altogether, dying 
from lack of interest.

As the thought comes to her, Why fight it?

Why not go with the flow, see where it leads you?

There's always later.

Later, when this one can be made to pay for such audacity, if that is really what is 
ultimately desired here.

Because, right now, Samantha is sure of nothing, knows nothing.

Only her body knows, knows its own pleasure.

Of which she wants more and more.

Because she has retained at least that much of her character, in that she recognizes no 
upper limit to whatever it is that she is acquiring, including pleasure.

So that there is no such thing as her saying to herself, It can't get any better than this.

Because it always does.

And now, willy-nilly, she has been taken, yes, led if you will, into a whole new dimension of
sexual pleasure, a place where she can somehow, and with a total lack of effort on her own 
part, acquire such sensations of utter sensual ecstasy, of such complete rapture that she has 
never before so much as imagined, let alone set out to actively acquire them.

So that now she lets go completely, convincing herself that, since she cannot do otherwise,
she may as well indeed go with the flow.

As Annette works her pussy diligently, one might say brilliantly.

Because she leaves no area untouched.

Rather, she play's Samantha's hot, juicy, quivering pussy as though it is some complex 
musical instrument.

No chord remains unplayed, no area, however remote stays unattended to.

Rather, Annette is everywhere at once in Samantha's streaming box.

She is fucking her with her tongue, shafting it in and out of the wet, hot, salty depths 
while, at the same time, never for an instant losing contact with the clit.

And now, Annette shifts position slightly, capturing both Samantha's thighs, pinning them 
back with one strong forearm, forcing her ass hole up, up, up.

So that she can stick a finger of the other hand into it.

"Unngh!"

And another dimension to this fantastic adventure has been added!

So that now, there is very real stimulation adding itself to that which already billows and 
roars through her.

Her body, as selfish, greedy, unreasonable in its own way as her ever-scheming, 
ever-conniving mind has called out for more and more.

And lo and behold, more and more has arrived, is here!

And it can and it will get better and better, of this she has no doubt.

She can reach that next level.

And the next and the next, no effort, no question.

She can-- "Ahaha! Oooh!"

And her body again betrays her.

By reaching its capacity for pleasure and blowing its safety valve rather than expand and 
thereby capture the pleasure beyond pleasure.

Which can be approached, can even be attained, but never held, never captured, not even 
by the likes of Samantha Steele.

So that now, the convulsions of her pussy, responding to the most powerful series of 
multiple orgasms she has ever experienced, and this in a lifetime of seeking the full variety of 
sexual activity, are milking Annette's ever-working tongue of the pleasure beyond pleasure, 
her body knowing that it can but taste of that which lies beyond climax, beyond orgasm, can 
savor but never retain, never imprison it within her grasp.

And yet, so thoroughly has she been aroused, so completely has she been swept away on 
the wings of a passion created within her by another, that she is still helpless in the throes of 
the result.

As spasm after spasm, orgasm upon orgasm, shake her, a helpless puppet in its relentless 
grasp, only to toss her to the next and the next, like vicious schoolboys with another's hat.

So that, frantically pursue control as she might, she cannot grasp that, either.

Helplessly, she gives up, lying back, letting her body have its crazy way with her, greedy, 
senseless lump of flesh that it is.

Go already, go!

Again! There!

And again and again!

Do your thing! Have a ball, you dumb fucking animal!

And it does--again and again.

And without her urging, either.

Until, at last, she floats gently back to earth.

And the trip has never before been so long.

And the landing has never before left her so drained.

Because the effortlessness of impassioned sex is an illusion.

The body has its truths, the real world its own.

The body experiences only the sensations, and not the work, the strain that it goes 
through in response to them.

And what is real, what is true?

Why, both, of course.

Except that mundane reality is not experienced until after this particular fact.

And then, it strikes, often with a vengeance.

So that now, Samantha has never felt so limp, so drained.

Oh, she can move.

That much of control, at least, has been restored to her.

But she has no desire whatever to do so.

Rather, she is content to lie there, to rest forever thus, just as she is, legs akimbo, arms 
limp spaghetti at her sides, breasts floating, soft and massive on her ribcage.

And Annette?

Annette is far, far away from her.

She doesn't even give her credit for being the author of what has only just occurred.

That will come later.

That, and her reaction to it, whatever that might be, of which right now she hasn't a clue.

Later for everything, even for herself.

Because right now, it's good just to rest.

To relax completely, for perhaps the first time in years.

And she does.

And she sleeps.

And Annette covers her with the sheet.

And calmly takes a long, long shower.

And helps herself to one of Samantha's vast silk dressing gown collection, and to a pair of 
bedroom slippers as well.

And goes off to find Juanita, who is in the kitchen.

"There'll be just you and I for supper tonight, Juanita, unless there are other servants on 
the premises.

"Oh, and I will be needing that guest room after all."

"Leesen, Annette, are joo choor?

"Because I gotta tell joo, Meez Samant'a, she don' .IF to have her 'rangements, oh, how joo
say--"

"Contradicted?"

"Yeah, thass the word, all rl'."

"No problem, Juanita. I'm sure she'd go along with this.

"On the other hand, if you were to disturb her for, say, supper, I doubt very much that she 
would appreciate it."

"Joo were that good, huh?" Juanita says, understanding at once.

"Even better," Annette replies.

They laugh.

And Juanita goes off to prepare the guest room for Annette.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Samantha is tempted to tell Annette everything.

So that she will not have to go home to "get her things", supposedly so that they can 
spend the day and Sunday night together.

Because what happened is amazing.

Annette is special.

Annette can do for her what nobody else ever has. Still, Samantha is unsure how to react 
to it, is not at all certain that such loss of control within herself as Annette is apparently able to
provoke at will is altogether the best thing for her.

So that what she has planned might resolve her quandary for her.

Obviously, Harriet would not have agreed to the fight unless she thought she had a shot.

And who should know better than one who has already fought the exact same opponent?

Yes, best to let things ride as is.

Besides, she planned it herself and she never contradicts herself.

Let them fight, she tells herself. And leave it to luck or skill to decide the winner.

Sure, Annette looked good to her.

But she never, never intended that Annette should get through to her.

Rather, she was looking forward to having it the other way around.

Yes, it was Annette who was supposed to be driven up the wall.

It was Annette who was supposed to fall madly in love with Samantha, such that she could 
not live without her.

And instead, if she is not careful, very careful in fact, it could well be that she could come 
to depend on Annette to do for her what nobody else ever has, what perhaps nobody else 
ever can or will.

But again, dependency on anyone or anything is not a good thing.

And the better it seems, the worse it probably is, in reality.

Still, if Annette should win, if fate should toss her into Samantha's arms, hey, what is there 
to be said or done?

No, best to leave things as is.

And she does.

"I thought it best not to disturb you," Annette says. "I mean, I could see how very tired you
were-- after."

"Yes. After," Samantha echoes, as they have breakfast together.

"Besides, we'll have the rest of today and all night together, as soon as I go home and get 
a few things. "

"Indeed," Samantha agrees.

They are both dressed in bathrobes from Samantha's closet.

"Well then, if you'll excuse me, I'll just get dressed and run along for awhile."

"You do that.

"Have the cab wait for you and I'll take care of it when you return."

A little insurance policy, lest "something" come up.

And Samantha lingers at the breakfast table, waiting to make sure that Annette leaves.

* * *

"Jes?"

"Samantha is expecting me," Harriet says.

"Jes, ma'am.

"An' jus' whom should I say ees--" That's fine, Juanita," Samantha says, coming up behind 
her. "Come right in, Harriet. Right on time, I see."

"Should I--" Juanita begins.

"You should go on about your business, Juanita, and leave us to get on with ours.

"Oh, and would you start with the master bedroom? I'm afraid we left it quite a mess."

This last for Harriet's benefit, no doubt, reminding her that she did not sleep alone last 
night.

"Jes ma'am."

And Juanita goes up the broad central staircase to do her boss's bidding.

"Well. Are you all set?" Samantha asks.

"Ready as I'll ever be," Harriet replies.

"Oh, dear! That doesn't sound at all like confidence.

"Are you certain you want to go through with this?"

Giving fate another chance to express itself.

But-- "If I wasn't, I wouldn't be here, now, would I?"

"I don't know whether to be flattered by that or, or... what."

"I just don't like the idea of her movin' in on-- never mind."

Geez! Harriet thinks. The fuck's wrong with me, anyway? Almost blew myself outta the box 
again before this thing even gets off the ground.

"Of her moving in on what, dear?"

Harriet was going to say, "my territory", but she knows it would be the worst possible 
thing for her to come up with.

Refer to Samantha Steele as "territory" and she may as well not bother risking her neck 
here today, because, no matter what, she will instantly become persona non grata, chez 
Steele.

"On someone I know I could make very happy."

"And you doubt that she can, is that it?"

"Listen, uh, Samantha, I know you two spent the night together, so you'd know the answer
to that one much better than I would at this moment.

"You tell me.

"Say the word and we call the whole thing off and no hard feelings."

"Is that what you really want?

"Because if it is--"

"No, no. What I really want is to turn back the clock to before Annette and give you and 
me what we both wanted then."

"And what I'm offering you this morning is the opportunity to do exactly that."

But the tone is almost cold enough, almost business-like enough that Harriet is tempted 
to call the whole thing off as she suggested before, and this time unilaterally.

And she surprises herself in that she doesn't.

"I guess I appreciate the opportunity, but not the necessity of having it in this particular 
form. "

"Then what would you suggest, dear, that I settle this in the bedroom?

"A sort of marathon fuckathon, in which I sample you both fully and then make my 
decision?

"Or better yet, the three of us get in bed and we all live happily ever after?

"I've already told you that I have no interest in doing things that way."

And that first suggestion is merely exploitation, Harriet thinks.

As, for that matter, is what will happen between Samantha and the winner of this, this... 
thing.

But at least it will be mutual exploitation, and this by Samantha's own arrangement. The 
money is, after all, her idea.

"I guess it would be best to leave things as they are," Harriet concedes.

After all, she reflects, I can hardly put my foot in my mouth by agreeing with her.

"Yes. That would be best.

"I've selected the atrium as the site of your, uh... combat.

"You will, of course, be naked, the two of you, thereby preventing any concealed weapons.

"You will have the advantage, as you do, of knowing about this ahead of time.

"And I think--yes, why not?

"You may prepare yourself and position yourself in the atrium anywhere you like.

"So that you will have that advantage as well."

"What if Annette doesn't go along with the program when you spring it on her?"

"Then, my dear, you will win by default."

"I'll take it any way I can get it," Harriet replies. "Excellent attitude! And uh, good luck to 
you. "You may disrobe in any of the upstairs bedrooms and the atrium is through there.

"Annette should be here in--oh, let me see," glancing at the clock on the mantle, "about 
twenty minutes."

* * *

"I don't, that is, I'm not sure that I... understand."

But she understands only too well, Annette reflects.

Fire and ice.

But strange fire and ice.

A creature from another planet, is Samantha. All passion and desire and reaction and 
bursting with rampant, uncontrolled sexuality one moment, devious, manipulative, conniving 
the next.

It takes a sick mind to come up with this, she tells herself.

And wonders if Samantha has ever experienced anything even vaguely resembling real 
danger or, for that matter, pain.

And it isn't as though she hasn't told her of her martial arts training.

Perhaps she should have been more explicit.

Maybe she should have spelled out that her teacher was a former military instructor, 
whose job in the Army was not to see how spectacular, how fancy or sophisticated his moves 
could be, but rather simply to train men to kill.

So that much of her training consisted of learning to hold back, to pull her punches, lest 
there be a horrible accident.

Which would be no accident, should she be attacked by, say, a mugger or rapist.

But she was tempted, severely tempted to let herself go a couple of times in her 
admittedly one- sided struggle with Philipe.

With Philipe, part of whom wanted punishment, perhaps even the ultimate punishment, 
for all she knows.

Not so Harriet.

Who hates her.

And whose strength, which is not inconsiderable, will be reinforced by her fury and, no 
doubt, her cunning.

And who awaits her in ambush in the atrium, with its statuary and its flowerbeds and the 
fountain in the center.

So that she has a hundred hiding places.

Hell, she could even be on the balcony which overlooks the atrium on all four sides, since 
the house is built around it.

So that she would have the advantage of height, from which to spring on her, even bare 
feet harmful or even lethal when plummeting from on high to strike the unwary opponent.

Why should I take the risk? Annette asks herself.

For this conniving rich bitch who is, perhaps, as crazy in her own way as is Philipe?

To teach Harriet a lesson in civility by engaging in the ultimate incivility, a physical 
beating?

For the money Samantha will give her for winning and thereafter for services rendered, not
knowing for how long Samantha will want to continue making it with her?

"Well, my dear, what do you say?"

"Once," Annette replies. "I will do it this one and only time.

"Should you tire of me later on, simply tell me and that's the end.

"But I will not maintain our relationship like some kind of a championship belt, to be 
defended periodically. "

"You know, I never thought of that?" Samantha says, as though surprised at her own lack 
of imagination in that regard. "That would be... fascinating, you know?"

And she pauses, lost in thought.

"Still," she says, "if you don't want to, you don't want to.

"A thought for the future."

And already Annette's suspicions are confirmed. Samantha is even now projecting into an 
Annette- less future.

And one in which some female champion will constantly do battle for Samantha's 
affections, like some twisted tale of knighthood in flower, a perverted version of chivalry.

And Annette knows.

She knows that Samantha will scheme and plan and explore the possibilities, will find her 
Amazon, will go to any lengths to make that happen.

So that, even should she win today, her time with Samantha, and the benefits thereof, will 
be limited.

Already, a new project has loomed, bright and enticing, on the horizon for this jaded, 
power-mad bitch.

Even less incentive to do battle with Harriet.

Still, Annette tells herself, she can be as cold, as manipulative as Samantha, given the 
chance.

The furniture is bought, but not yet delivered, not yet paid for, since the bill from the 
credit card company will not come for what? Another month?

And there is prize money to be had here today and a weekly stipend while Samantha 
undoubtedly spends every idle moment bringing to fruition the idea that Annette herself has 
planted in her head.

So yes, she will rely upon her skills which, at least against Harriet, should be more than 
adequate, her major concern being that she not do Harriet any serious injury.

"Very well," Annette says, "I'll do it."

"Excellent!

"You may use the master bedroom to disrobe--oh. One moment, please.

"Juanita!"

"Jes, ma'am?"

"Did you position the armchair on the balcony overlooking the atrium as I told you?"

"Jes, ma'am."

"Very good. And uh, you may pull up a chair beside it and join me. We are about to 
witness a most delightful exhibition."

"Jes, ma'am."

Another zinger, just to remind Annette of her status.

Not only is she hired help, but a performing seal as well.

Still, she will go on with it, for strictly financial reasons.

And she goes upstairs, without comment.

* * *

Perfect! Harriet thinks.

She is in the basin of the fountain, whose central gusher cascades, thick and white, into the
foaming water.

So that Harriet is all but invisible.

So that Annette, coming into the atrium, bare feet gripping the flagstones of the walkway 
between the flower beds, ready for anything, cannot see her, as she glances to left and right, 
before, behind, and up, where she sees Samantha, regally seated in a large armchair, who 
waves pleasantly at her and smiles.

And Annette experiences a twinge of hatred against her.

But quickly puts it out of her mind.

Because Harriet is a large and potentially dangerous woman.

Who is--nowhere to be seen.

She advances warily toward the fountain at the center of the symmetrical garden.

Where the fuck is she?

Behind that statue?

Crouched beneath that bush?

Swiftly, Annette turns around, lest she be sneaking up on her on silent bare feet.

Nothing.

She backs toward the fountain, slowly, eyes traversing a full half of the garden, left to right
and back, in systematic scans.

Still nothing.

The edge of the fountain is against the backs of her legs now, its cool stone kissing her 
calves, the spray splashing against her ass cheeks and back.

And still nothing.

She does not see the slowly rising apparition of Harriet as she looms above her, her 
shadow merged with that of the splashing plume of the fountain.

She does not see the grimace of utter hatred on Harriet's face as she raises both hands on 
high, hands become claws, the fingers separated and curved in menace.

"Ooo--" Juanita begins, as though watching a horror movie, only to be cut off by a 
restraining hand on her wrist from Samantha.

And Juanita bites her lower lip with the tension that has seized her, seated there beside 
her unfathomable mistress.

"Yaaah!"

A mistake, but perhaps inevitable, that shout of fury.

Because it gives Annette the split second of warning she needs to avoid utter disaster.

As it is, the cry was almost just the right thing.

Because, as Annette turns, looking wide-eyed at the sight of Harriet's wet body hurtling 
toward her, the two claws miss her eyes by inches, only to scratch deep gouges on her upper 
breasts, four identical marks on each, the pattern perfectly symmetrical.

So shocked, so surprised is Annette, that she commits the first no-no of hand-to-hand 
combat.

She looks down at the damage rather than at her opponent.

Who is quick to follow up, as she grabs Annette around the head with one arm and, 
bracing a broad hip against Annette's body, flips her over-- And right into the basin of the 
fountain.

Where she promptly disappears in the foam.

"Where--the fuck--are--you--you rotten-- bitch!"

This from Harriet, as she circles the fountain, punching furiously into the foam.

"Right here," Annette gasps, springing from the fountain to emerge on the opposite side 
from Harriet.

Who, encouraged by the apparent success of her surprise attack, is quick to run around 
the basin to where Annette awaits her.

And goes promptly for Harriet's wrist as Harriet smashes toward her face with a swinging, 
roundhouse right fist, intending to throw her with her own momentum, one of the simplest 
techniques in the martial arts.

Mistake.

Because, if Harriet does not connect, neither does Annette retain her slippery grip.

And Annette thinks, Any more mistakes and I could actually lose to this bitch, with who 
knows what damage?

And she simply cannot take the chance.

And Harriet, grinning now, confident, rushes her, attempting to close in a wrestler's lockup.

And Annette seems to be going for it.

But, at the last instant, it is only one arm that goes behind Harriet's neck as both Harriet's 
go around hers.

Because the other arm descends quickly, a hand between Harriet's legs.

And Annette can feel the pubic hairs against her wrist, even the warm, wet kiss of the 
pussy, as she lofts Harriet into the air and tosses her into the fountain.

Where she disappears into the foam, only to pop up a few seconds later, floating face 
down, buttocks wetly reflecting the sunlight of a surrealistically beautiful day.

Gingerly grasping her hair and pulling her head up, Annette sees that she is not faking.

And a trickle of blood flows from her scalp, down her face.

Evidently, she has struck the center column of the fountain.

Annette tosses her onto a strip of lawn, face up.

Samantha stands up on the balcony.

"Is she, is she--"

"Just knocked out. She'll be okay."

"I'll be right down," Samantha says. "Juanita, you look after Harriet!"

Juanita appears almost at once and goes to Harriet.

She listens to her heartbeat and looks at her scalp, parting her hair with her fingers for a 
better look.

"Chee gonna be okay," Juanita says.

"And you, Annette, you were more than okay! You were magnificent!"

And Annette turns at the sound of Samantha's voice to see her standing there, naked.

Which accounts for her delay in not arriving with Juanita.

She had to slip out of her sun-backed dress first.

And Annette stands there, bemused, as Samantha bends down to suck her breasts, first 
the nipples, then running her tongue over the bleeding scratches.

"Come! Lie down! Right here on the grass! Let me taste your body in the heat of victory!"

The woman is definitely whacko, Annette thinks.

But does as she is asked.

And Samantha is promptly crouched between her legs, running her tongue all over her 
body before zeroing in on her snatch.

Which she burrows into as Annette, shrugging, raises her legs and spreads them, giving 
Samantha a better target.

But Samantha is not satisfied with this, lowering Annette's legs so that she can bridge her 
with her body, in reverse.

And only when she is in position, legs astride Annette's body, crotch over her face, does 
she swim between Annette's legs, grasping and spreading them as she raises them herself.

And settles her crotch down on Annette's face, even as she wallows her own in Annette's 
hairy bush, her tongue deftly locating her clit at once.

So that now, they are eating each other, Samantha avidly, hungrily, Annette desultorily, 
but on target.

As Juanita splashes water from the fountain repeatedly on Harriet's face with both hands 
until, moaning, she stirs and opens her eyes.

And Samantha, as though a switch within her has been thrown, a button pressed, looks up
from her labor of lust to say, "There's an envelope with five hundred dollars in it for Harriet in 
the vestibule, Juanita.

"Please see to it that she received it, gets dressed, and is sent on her way."

And incredibly, just as suddenly resumes eating Annette's cunt.

And to think, Annette tells herself, I was going to try and figure out this crazy bitch!

And now, they are eating each other in earnest, both of them ignoring Juanita and Harriet 
as one supports the other and they shakily depart the atrium.

Because now, all that matters is the magic of the mirror image, that strange and exotic 
phenomenon in which, by eating the other's cunt, the identical action is performed on her 
own, as though they have become so merged, so united, that they are actually eating 
themselves.

And now, they climb the rainbow of their sexual arousal together.

And they rise higher and higher, their bodies becoming hotter and hotter, flushing face to 
crotch as they redouble their efforts, now flickering their tongues against their clits with 
vibrator speed, now fucking each other with their tongues, shafting them rapidly in and out, 
rubbing their joy buzzers both ways.

But, at a certain point, when it becomes evident that Samantha intends going all the way 
with the action, Annette becomes technique conscious.

And, concentrating on Samantha's clit, subjects it to a series of suckings and lickings and 
vibrations such that Samantha's own concentration is disrupted.

She cannot keep up, cannot match Annette's efforts, and does not even try, merely 
chewing on her snatch and tonguing her as thrill after thrill of a sexual electricity of that same 
extraordinary voltage as her first experience with Annette inundates her.

Try finding this somewhere else, bitch, Annette thinks, as she brings her to climax, 
managing to join her in her series of multiple orgasms.

And does not know that, in Samantha's mind, it is a hulking, muscular, huge-breasted 
Amazon, her new champion, who is doing the honors.


THE END
