That night, though, Clare slept fitfully. Her sex was sore and full of enough sperm to fertilize China several times over, while an equal ration slowly digested in her stomach. She couldn't help but think of Roderic. He wrote poetry all day and doted after his mother, whose wealth — Clare once read in Forbes—topped mid-eight figures. Most every night he'd pick her up in his conservative-gray BMW and take her to the best clubs, restaurants, and shows. Each week, too, brought an array of gifts — jewelry mostly, the best kind — plus he paid her rent, bought her a car, and left nifty little envelopes full of cash under her pillow. This was not a bad life for a gal nearing the bad side of the hill. But…
She guessed it was his mother — crimped-faced, rouged and stick-thin. Eternally sarcastic. Often Roderic brought Clare back to the mansion (for romantic chats by the fire, snifters of Cordon Bleu, and, to the disappointment of Clare's libidinal system, pre-ejaculatory sex) and his mother would always present herself when they arrived, nodding curtly from the sitting room and offering some cryptic remark which always seemed discreetly rude. Such as "Good boys like my Roderic are easily taken for granted, missy," or "I hope you're taking good care of my boy." Fuck you, Clare would respond in thought and then offer a big bright smile for Mama Roderic. And always hovering at the old woman's shoulder was the omnipresent Dallas — the manservant — who looked about as cheerful as a WANTED mugshot. He never said a word, offering only blank glances and subtle scowls, and he always dressed in thuggish black leather: driver's cap, mitts, a long-tailed jacket. Clare wondered how much the old hag paid him to keep her ancient pussy stocked with pork.
But the implication was clear: Mama Roderic would overlook Clare's gold-digging so long as Clare took "good care of her ‘boy.’"
In all, Roderic proved a loving, compassionate, and very romantic man. He was bursting with spirit, and true spirit was one half of any real relationship. Unfortunately, he fell a bit short with regards to the other half: the flesh. He was slack-armed and fat, pallid as a fishbelly, and… Well, if love could be measured in inches, Roderic sported about four and a half of them. Not that it generally mattered, though; more often than not, the rich boy's loins gave up their seed well before any serious amalgamation of pudenda could be made. Sometimes, while necking, Clare would make the grievous mistake of brushing his groin with her fingers. "Ooooops," he'd announce and then display the starchy wet spot on his custom Italian slacks. On nights when they actually made it to bed, "Oh, darling, I'm sorry," he'd apologize for the milkish puddle on her belly. "You excite me so much I just can't help it." The same too for Clare's mystic fondness for fellatio. In eloquence, it could be said that Clare found delight in the application of her oral cavity to male genitalia, and in less than eloquence it could be said that she liked to suck cock. But why bother when said cock spent its seminal freight before she could even get it in her mouth? Roderic's own gestures at oral service proved equally futile. Was he trying to imitate a kitten lapping milk? God! How could any woman get hot for such a piddling technique? Which left her instead to counterfeit her orgasms and entreat herself of her finger later, or go home and call on her personal doctor. That is, Doc Johnson, who always made house calls provided the batteries were good.
No, after nine months, fine restaurants and moolah just didn't cut it, and the interminable scowls of Roderic's mother and her poker-faced sidekick only helped speed Clare to her decision. Besides, by then she'd met Fudd, and he knew how to fill the places that Roderic left empty. I have to move on, she determined. I owe it to myself as a modern, sophisticated woman to pursue my introspective well-being as well as my sociological and spiritual actualization, not to mention my sheer, unbridled delight for Fudd's beautiful, gigantic cock. Why couldn't Roderic understand? She truly hoped that he'd one day meet some nice frigid little blueblood and live happily ever after.
But some men, she knew — particularly hopeless romantics like Roderic — would pine away for years over a lost love. They became obsessive. They would go to…extremes.
Perhaps that's what scared her a little. There was something about poor little jilted Roderic, something deep in his eyes that made her feel haunted by his forlorn and desperate promise:
I would do anything for you.
"Hey, love-muffin?" Fudd had wakened, and was nudging her with something other than his hand. "Mr. Meat Missile's a-jumpin'."
Oh, good, she rejoiced. Anything to get her mind off that look in Roderic's eyes, and that scary-sad tone in his voice. At once she pushed Fudd back and gave Mr. Meat Missile a welcome silo — in this case, her mouth. She hoped the distraction would serve her welclass="underline" all that burgeoning cock in her chops, that glans — large as a baby apple — squeezing her tonsils, and the indescribable flavor of her own womanly fluids melded with sperm "Bet that creamcake pissant wussy never gave you a cock like this, huh?" Fudd groaned deep in his throat, holding her head. "Good gawd, love-muffin, I say ya damn well shore can suck a good peter."
Quaintly stated. Yet on Clare sucked, pausing only to glaze an alternate testicle with her tongue, or to tease the tender peehole. "Aw, get it, sugar!" resounded Fudd's next erudite ingratiation. "Suck all that hot peckersnot right outta that there cock!"
And so she did. Fudd's vesicles jettisoned yet another copious allotment of semen into Clare's talking hole, as she slipped a pinky into his anus to prod the overlarge prostate. She got a mouthful, to say the least. Like ordering egg drop soup from The China Chef and tipping the carton all at once. Yet with all this earthy distraction, Roderic's promise effused in her mind. I would do anything for you. Would he? Anything? What did that mean?
Would he…injure himself? Would he…
My God, would he commit suicide?
Again, the promise fluttered.
I would do anything…
And as Clare sucked out the final vestige of her lover's "peckersnot," she dared to consider the dreadful question: Just what would Roderic do to prove his promise?
He phoned every day. Gratefully, Fudd was out at such times, discharging his "salesman" duties. Clare soon learned to hate the sound of her phone.
"Clare, darling please! Please come back!"
"We were meant to be together!"
"I love you more than any man on earth!"
And, ever the promise: "I would do anything for you!"
She'd never answer, he'd always leave messages. And at night he haunted her dreams. She'd seen him in a scarlet bathtub with his wrists sliced open. She'd seen him blue-faced as his BMW idled in the closed garage. She'd seen him gun-shot, poisoned, hanged by the neck. Roderic's mother would make scowling cameos. "You take good care of my boy, missy," she'd insist, shadowed by her leather clad Dallas, whose gloved hands creaked as he opened and closed his fists."…good care of my boy, good care of my boy, good care of my boy," the dream-crone would go on. But the nightmare always ended the same. Roderic's corpse, however dispatched, would come back to life, speaking in a death-rattle voice to reaffirm: