Chapter 26

The retreat proved longer to rebuild and more expensive than expected. The heiress kept insisting on better wood for the interiors and better equipment downstairs. The old flapper's ex-husband finally kicked in another 20% and admitted the donation would help come tax time.

When the earth softened around the retreat, I began farming. Others helped. My wife was too far along, but my sister, the young poet, his new lover, a couple other poets, the ranger, the math professor and some students aided me. Work demanded muscles none of us knew we had. But the fresh air and the newness of it helped people enjoy the work. My wife, Grandma and the ranger helped me build the hutch for the chickens and a shack/barn for the goat. As soon as they stood, livestock occupied them. We enjoyed our first fresh eggs and goat's milk.

The secretary visited frequently after work, occasionally pitching in but mostly hovering around me and noting whatever came to my mind.

As soon as school ended, the mulatto and the drummer arrived and helped. We gave them my sister's room and she slept with us.

My sister began her large painting of the dead heiress as soon as the library had lights. She did several studies using the photographs and a miniature the heiress gave her. My wife built her a large easel and a series of platforms and steps for her to reach various parts of the painting and helped construct the stretcher for the canvas. During the painting, my sister decided to do two smaller though still large paintings of the heiress and the old flapper, which the heiress humbly agreed to. The money encouraged my sister's decision, but she discovered she liked portrait painting. I understood why. They had the expressiveness of her abstracts and the emotional complexity of her drawings. Every surface contained realistic aspects, flesh for flesh and black for the hair and appropriate sunset colors of a Hudson Valley school background, but the blend of colors reminded me of the fields of subtly textured strokes she used in her abstracts, and the painterly quality made the realism seem abstract at the same time. I think they're masterful. It took her a long time.

My sister, the princess, the heiress, the secretary and I met several times to create the program booklet advertising our product which we finished by the end of June and it turned out great. Out of it, the heiress decided to install an old fashioned press and the math professor gave us the number of the lover of the piece of work and his wife and she became a member of the core group.

Being the last core member, the printer felt like the odd woman out. We got her a room at the Rhinebeck Inn a couple days to negotiate and decide whether she wanted the position. She loved the area, its artistic and quaint qualities, and loved the multi-media concept of the retreat, but felt uncertain about us. After the following week in which we talked a couple times by phone, she decided the opportunities, including fairly open expenses, the best pay she could find, and an embrace of unimpeded experimentalism, couldn't be passed up. She remained candid regarding her misgivings about the core group.

Once she settled into her room at the retreat, a belated entrance into our group necessitated by having nowhere else to stay, but moving in the moment her room became livable, I approached her with options. We could meet as a group and hash out her misgivings, or she could choose the person she felt most or least comfortable with and work through it with him or her or we could leave her alone and let time iron out things.

Contemplation ended in a question. She asked, "Are you all intimate with each other?"

The specific question had the potential of an obfuscating answer. At that point in time, except for the young poet, sexual partnerships consisted of my wife, my sister and me and the mulatto and the drummer. Of course I had in one way or the other been intimate with the other couple as had my sister, but we no longer were. Being transparent seemed more appropriate. "Right now we're not, but aside from the poet, I've shared a bed with everyone else and so has my sister." She knew from the beginning my adoptive relationship to my sister.

"Would you characterize the process of becoming a member, the rite of passage so to speak as involving intimacy with you and your sister?"

I couldn't help laughing. "You're forgetting the poet," I said when I recovered.

"I suppose I am," she said, sounding disappointed.

I looked at her carefully. Not a beauty by any means, she has a pretty face, maybe on the plain side, but pleasant to look at, almost cute, surrounded by wispy blonde hair, with a strong bone structure that attracts the eye. Of medium build, she hid a substantial bust in loose clothing and a waist similar to my wife's subtle curve, just a tad more pronounced. Her robust butt has a sort of squared off look. In her mid thirties, she exudes a youthful if slightly cynical vigor that lures the eye and then bounces them away. She seems sure of her intelligence to the point of being proud and egotistical. The secretary said she reminds her of her mother. I considered this to be a protective mechanism. I knew from her previous relationship that both the piece of work and his wife looked to her for comfort. Within protective pride hid compassion and warmth. Studying her didn't bring an answer, so I asked a question.

"What if this so called rite of passage existed?"

I saw a spark of hope. "I guess I'm being presumptuous if not downright rude. Except I feel at a disadvantage. First of all, I'm quite a bit older than the rest of you."

"If you want, I could have my secretary come here. She's older, but maybe being closer in age would be more comfortable."

"She seems nice. Is she part of the intimacy?"

I laughed. "No comment," I said.

"Meaning yes. Your sister too?"

"I can unequivocally answer that: no."

"I see. Why not?"

"My sister likes her women her age or younger."

"She likes women?"

"Yes, mostly."

"So this hypothetical rite wouldn't include her?" she asked.

"I'm afraid not," I said. "Sorry."

"I like being with women as you probably heard, but not nearly as much as being with a man."

"Is there a man in your life?"

"No."

"Really?"

"Honest."

"Why not? You're attractive, interesting and intelligent."

"Men are turned off by intelligent women."

"Stupid men maybe," I said.

"You'd be surprised. Intelligent men attract me. I don't attract them unless they're married. I'm the other woman." I laughed. "What's so funny?"

"I'm sorry. I'll tell you later. Go on."

"What can I say? Whatever they're missing I provide I guess, including conversation and confession, although I'm getting sick of the last aspect."

"But that's what keeps them coming back, isn't it?"

"Yeah, so it seems. And that's what ends up driving me away. I suppose if it went both ways I wouldn't mind, but it's like talking to a brick wall with a prick confessing my problems to them."

I decided chancing sitting beside her on the bed and holding her hand. "The prick makes it harder to let go of the wall," I said.

"Tell me about it," she said. She drew a deep breath when I brought her hand onto my lap where my prick had become obvious. "But it's not just that," she said, edging her knuckles along my length. "It's the intimacy I miss: being naked and comfortable and relaxed and giggly and profound and loving and everything." I kissed her. Though brief, I felt compassion in her gentle lips.

"Another married man," she sighed, looking into my eyes. Then she kissed me. It developed from soulful mingling to sexually powerful over several minutes. Gentle tongue taps became intense battles. By the end she lured my tongue deep into her mouth and began treating it like a small penis, her lips encircling it and moving back and forth while she sucked. She shoved me onto the bed and struggled with my pants until she freed my penis and worked the real thing better than the substitute. Her expertise proved undeniable, but being used to the Amazon's perfect understanding of my pleasure, I knew results weren't imminent. I pulled her away from my penis and laid her down. She resisted ending the blow job.

"Relax. Let me please you first," I said quietly. She let me. Removing my pants, I let her fondle my penis while I kneeled over her hips and unbuttoned her shirt. Her breasts impressed me with their size, but didn't thrill me like the Amazon's or my sister's. Once I undid her brassiere, I buried my face in her flesh and discovered the softness, smoothness and resiliency. She liked it, but manipulating her nipples didn't increase her pleasure. I massaged her breasts some more while I kissed around her neck and ear and found spots she did enjoy. Sufficiently heated, I turned my body around, leaving my penis for her to play with while I undid her pants and pulled them off. Only her hands reached my penis while I made love to her toes. Sucking the big ones gave her a thrill. Moving up inside her legs to her strong, surprisingly lean thighs, my hands began exploring her pussy hidden behind her panties. When my lips reached there, I pulled off her panties suddenly and pounced. She squealed with pleasure. Straddling her head, I let her pleasure my penis while I pleasured her pussy, gauging her pressures and releases to discover what she liked. Pulling her legs wide, my fingers pulled open and stroked her labia while my tongue darted around, then swept inside, then pressed her clit while fingers slid in to find the places she found exciting. I worked her to the edge, then flicked her clit rapidly and sucked on it until she writhed and arched and let forth her liquid pleasure. I removed my shirt and sheathed my penis and positioned it at the entrance; bringing her hand to guide it in. She led me into a narrow, seething space, full of heat and motion. I slowly drove in until seated as deep as I could go.

"Oh fuck, yes, goddamn," she moaned throughout the entering. Then she smiled at me and opened her arms. I hugged her and kissed her, hardly moving inside, enjoying the intimacy. "Thank you," she whispered.

"You're very welcome," I said, smiling. She felt great in my arms, her passage tight and lively and hot, and she kissed as well as anybody except my wife. I fucked her slow, learning every centimeter of her insides. She enjoyed my explorations. We moved to new positions, on her side with one leg high, her on top pulling me in and out with just her hips, and then doggy style, which brought me to her inner barrier and brought her over and me as well as I rapidly slapped against her wide ass and then pushed deep as she grunted her climax and I joined her.

Moving aside her sweat dampened hair, I gently kissed her thick shoulders and snuggled against her neck. My penis dwindled and slipped out. "Mmm," she sighed when she felt its last contact. Turning around, she let me lay back beside her and rested her head on my shoulder. We talked while she caressed my torso.

"That was brilliant," she said. "You seemed to find everywhere that turns me on. Most men get stuck on my tits. I wish I felt more there. But you moved on and found my spots. You're like a genius of love."

"I had a great teacher and lots of experience," I explained, beginning my story.

"That's why you laughed," she said early on when I explained my mother's career.

Within my story she told hers. For instance, like my mother she came from a small Midwestern town she couldn't wait to leave. Like my wife, she apprenticed for awhile in Woodstock, the married mentor becoming her lover. That's where she learned her craft of paper making and old fashioned press work. She let it go for awhile when living hand to mouth got to her. Moving to the City, she worked nights as a waitress and spent her days taking classes at the City Colleges. Not being able to afford full tuition, it took years before she got her Bachelors degree. She heard about a poet in Stoneybrook interested in small, homemade publications. She went there and met him and he provided the means to set up the paper press and the letter press and eventually made love to her. His wife suspected and confronted her, but surprisingly ended up becoming her lover as well. They both used her as their confessional. Not until they decided to go to Barrytown, escaping the distractions of the City, did the wife confess being abused. The printer had seen the bruises, but the wife made excuses about easy bruising and clumsiness until Barrytown escalated his madness and everything exploded. "She's with him again," the printer said sadly.

"Why?" I asked.

"She seemed happy with me for awhile, but like me she needed a man, and he's the only one she loves. I couldn't stand it. I felt relieved when she left. She made me too sad. I insisted she never reveal where we lived. I'm afraid he'd blame me for her leaving, the asshole, and who knows what he'd do to me. At least she did that for me."

Stories ended and sex recommenced. She returned where she started, sucking my penis. I suggested what I liked and she heeded me. I had her straddle my head and licked her until we both needed to fuck. We stayed with the missionary position, and my fucking strokes and my clit caresses and her playing with my testes and her finger fucking my butt brought us to our final climax, mine first, and I kept fucking until she got lost in hers.

"How often can we do this?" she asked as I dressed.

"I don't know," I said. "No more than once a week I imagine."

"And sleeping is out?" she asked.

"Sorry."

"I can't believe your wife is so forgiving."