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Ridged balls around his straining shaft, Abercrombie pounded Eileen's pelvis. She confided in him that his cock made her more alive. Once or twice, maybe, he'd asked for specifics. Useless. She left that mystery unanswered. Or just let her vivid enthusiasms suffice.
His picking up the beat, directing shorter, more urgent strokes triggered Eileen's own climaxes. She contracted enough that her ripples scaled his member.
Exhausted at the end again, both finished momentarily looped. Slightly crazed grins slanted their faces. They slumped back in the Jacuzzi. Arms and elbows brushed his head when she retrieved the second bottle of cold duck and cups. This time he shot the cork straight skyward. The escaping spray coolly misted their faces.
Cups filled, Eileen nestled in his lap. Her arm draped around Abercrombie's shoulder pushed their heads together. They sipped separately but shared steamy breaths. Eileen rubbed her nose and lips on his sweating profile. She also left several pecks there.
He accepted that was the closest she'd ever get to saying "thanks."
Hot churning water expanded their empty contemplation time. Had they been lovers instead of mere partners some sort of post-coital discussion ought have defeated their silence. Yet if truth be realized, beyond physical attraction Abercrombie didn't quite care about Eileen. Presented the opportunity she likely would've admitted the same regarding him. Probably couched just as curtly.
He inhaled deeply. She must've mistaken it as a sigh. Close as she sat, Eileen tried sidling closer. Hers a reflexive gesture both knew meaningless.
Farrell watched one of his truest friends split from the arriving locals and way out of season flatlanders. He had trouble deciding whether Abercrombie had lost weight or had absence weakened his memory. Always big, Abercrombie seemed less bulky. Apparently teaching treated him well. He appeared untroubled and ess gray than Farrell remembered sprinkled his buzz cut.
Abercrombie crossed into the less surveilled world. Farrell grinned stupidly but shook hands heartily. So much so the traveler felt obliged to re-shoulder his slipping carry-on. They walked and talked towards the luggage carousel.
" 'Otis P. Driftwood,' huh," Abercrombie deadpanned.
Farrell laughed. "I figured like a real movie-goer I'd put all those hours in the dark into trivia use. Besides, if little men in blacked-out offices were keeping tabs on my 'known associates,' Marx Brothers references would send them rushing off onto more false leads. That bunch so loves being deceived."
"You look like a real Captain Spaulding now," Abercrombie said.
One who'd done some serious exploring, not Groucho's larking portrayal. Argentine and later Mexican sun had basted Farrell healthy brown. It had also deepened his character lines and added silver on his temples. Other than that he stood just as straight and remained as enviably lean as ever.
The carousel quickly coughed luggage. Abercrombie grabbed his piece. It clacked behind them they followed signs outside to the detached auto rental pavilion. Until this assault good jet way seals and terminal air conditioning thwarted Arizona night. Past the door summer was furious.
While night had settled hours earlier open air still seared. Abercrombie sighed and sagged involuntarily. He reckoned the mercury topped 95. Fully aware of T-town's extreme season, its climate nevertheless socked and sapped him. He hadn't endured desert summer in nearly two decades. And that last had been during a tolerable May, not an oppressive July. Somehow triple-digit heat crushed less in late spring than high summer.
Farrell saw his friend's distress, had fun with it.
"You know those pounds you wanted to lose? After what, a month down here you'll lose 'em -- and more! You bring cotton underwear?"
"That's all I brought," Abercrombie said. "Just a bag full of boxers."
Spotting Abercrombie's class ring, the reservation clerk upgraded his rental.