Celeste stood in one of his many lounging areas, behind the glass pedestal table which bore the fishbowl, trailing her finger in the water, envying, pitying, empathizing with the fish, stared at him across the room, her eyes half shut, her mouth half-frowned, half-pouted, let her red robe drop to the white shag carpet, turned, flawless, naked, blond, cascaded down the hall to her bedroom, knowing he would follow.

Climbing into bed, a warm bed, neatly made, with pillows and covers and quiet, surrounded by pretty things on the wall, no hitting, no yelling, where death held no sway, Celeste awaited filling. She needed filling. There was so much empty to be filled, so much past, so much future to be held at bay by the endless childhood that only the smiling man in the doorway could provide. Only he could surround her, protect her. Only he could care without caring, attract without attachment, fill her without risk, transport her safely to her dreamtime.

This moment, before he filled her, before he entered her, this moment of anticipation was almost as good as the filling itself, almost, but not quite. He prolonged it, staring, smiling at her languorous sprawl, at her golden hair spread across the pillow, at her hands resting almost delicately on her magnificent massive breasts. She knew he thought she was smiling too, but she would not smile for real until he entered her, until he filled her, until he transported her. Even then she would smile only on the inside. She tolerated the staring, did not welcome it, but tolerated it. Her looks were an ambivalence. He had made her the lust of millions, but in the small Texas town of her past she was already the lust of hundreds, maybe thousands. Her looks had gotten her out of the bad times, her looks had gotten her into the bad times. Best not to go there. There were no bad times here, and as he crawled into her bed, ready to enter her, she knew the good times, the dream times, were coming.

He hovered over her, ready to enter her, ready to fill her. He did not kiss her. He did not speak. That she would not tolerate, and he respected her. She was already wet with anticipation, and there were other women he could speak with, other women he could kiss, if he needed it, if they needed it. He entered her, filled her, slowly, thoroughly, her legs wrapped around his back, pulling him in to her ecstasy.

They both smiled. Not at each other, at themselves. He was the envy of millions, and he made that envy real in each act of entering her, took what the millions wanted and could not have, gave what they wanted to give, what he had made them want to take, what he had made them want to give, by sharing with them what she had shared with him, her ambivalent beauty. And Celeste, Celeste smiled at her surroundings, at the rise and fall of her hips, slowly, patiently, hip against hip, hip against bed, a warm bed, neatly made, with pillows and covers and quiet, surrounded by pretty things on the wall, no hitting, no yelling, where death held no sway, smiled as her mind reentered the good times, the filled times, where living people played, and kissed and loved, entered it safely, entered it with patience, prepared to relish and revel in it without haste, knowing from experience he could fuck her this way for what seemed to her like hours, holding her in the magic past, for he knew it was what she needed, even if he did not know why.