The Book of Ruth: Eating Out

Author's note: This probably-final episode of an extended romantic memoir is probably fictional. All sexual acts involve humans of age 18+. Views expressed are not necessarily the author's. For readers' convenience, most non-Anglish-language communications are presented in loose Anglish translation.

You do not NEED to read the first two episodes (BEFORE RUTH and COMING FAST and the three chapters of the DOING RUTH) episode, but this will all make more sense if you do.

***** THE BOOK OF RUTH Finale: Eating Out *****

-- 1992 -- Sellwood autumn

Did you ever want to be rich and idle? You think you want enough money to live anywhere, travel anywhere, do anything, buy almost anything, and never have to do a lick of work or account for your actions? Just imagine: you could live a life of play, of luxury, of idle whims and passing pleasures.

Been there, done that. It gets old.

Not that we were really rich, not on any big scale. Sure, Ruth inherited a fair amount from her Hollywood-lawyer father, and I made a good pile of cash as a broker and consultant, and from my perfidious sister Jill buying out my share of our hard-commodities firm. Ruth and I were nowhere near billion-bucks territory but we were comfortable, very comfortable.

Ruth flipped her 'lucky' old silver quarter in the air.

"Heads!" I yelled. Yes, I was excited.

The coin landed and clinked and stopped with George's head showing.

"Cheater," Ruth pouted, scooping her coin off the kitchen table.

"How the fuck did I cheat? You're the only one who touched it!"

"I dunno, you used magnetic brain waves or something. You had your eyes crossed. I just know you cheated."

"Yeah, brain waves, right. If I have magic brain waves, how come you ain't screaming in ecstasy from me wiggling your clit? I'd do that in a flash, y'know. Give it up, luzer!" I gloated.

The stakes were high. That coin-flip determined who got to put their favorite collections where in the big old freshly-refurbished house. I won! Ruth's modernist art stuff would have to go on the south side where the light was harsher. My great ethnic artifact trove won the softer light of the north side. I rubbed my hands in wicked glee. Yes!

I have previously told why and how Ruth and I escaped Mexico City, abandoned our Los Angeles estate, and folded-up our prior lives. Prudence dictated that we relocate and live very low-profile. We found a century-old Queen Anne manor in the quaint, revived Sellwood neighborhood in south Portland, Oregon. This compact compound on the east bank of the Willamette River just west of Reed College would be our home base for the foreseeable future.

Ruth flipped her 'lucky' old silver quarter in the air again.

"Heads!" I said again, not so loud. I could stay calm.

The coin landed. George's head was face-down in the butter dish.

"Cheater," I groused, but my heart was not in it.

Ruth retrieved her greasy quarter and wiped it clean on a sauce-splattered napkin. "Yeah, well, I've gotta win sometimes, brain waves or not, dude." She held the coin to her olive eyes for close inspection and wiped it again, more gently.

The stakes were slightly lower now: Who won the wall opposite the west-side front door? I knew Ruth would hang her treasured Andy Warhol 1957 shoe-advert sketch there to give visitors a first impression. We compromised on the entry hall with some Frida Kahlo watercolors -- artisanal enough for me, modern enough for Ruth's sensibilities -- and a few transitional pieces.

We sexually consecrated every surface of the house before decoration was complete. That is just how we were.

Who are we? I am Randy van Ronk, six-foot-four tall, lean, my long nose and high cheekbones framed by dark brown hair, wire-rim glasses over my shifty hazel eyes, but average ears. Folks say I'm not bad-looking for a van Ronk guy. Ruth is a DNA model of the Shapiro women standing nose-high to me, dark, radiant, with sharp aquiline features and long walnut-brown hair in her usual ponytail; a slim-but-curvy hourglass figure, firm buns, fine legs. And great tits -- large firm stand-up-on-their-own melons needing no bra; big soft brown aureoles like beaded pads; stiff pencil-eraser nipples. Handfuls of happiness!

Ruth wanted me most of her life. She finally got me but only after her sister and mother and late best friend used me. So now she had me; what would she do with me?

Other than jogging and fucking, we spent our first weeks in the Sellwood arranging our living space and sampling the considerable cultural and gustatory delights of the Portland-Vancouver area. And entertaining a very few selected visitors.

My hot blonde cousin Jocelyn, the RN turned clinical psychologist who helped immensely following Ruth's Mexico City rape, came to visit, and to cum.

"Oh fuck yeah, Joss," Ruth murmured, my cousin's tongue actively stimulating my wife's clit while my mouth worshipped Ruth's tasty breasts. This involved a bit of contortion since my cock was currently embedded inside Jocelyn, her legs wrapped around me; we lay on our sides, nestled between Ruth's thighs.

I pistoned faster in Jocelyn and sucked harder at Ruth. I felt a climax approach. Oh yes... AAHH! I delivered a nice load into my as-yet-unsatisfied cousin and moved my mouth to my wife's other breast.

My softened slimy cock slipped from Jocelyn. I caught my breath and forcefully flipped the two tall women, shoving the blonde on her back and pushing Ruth to sit on her face. I dove in between Jocelyn's legs and worked my tongue into and around her wet pussy before concentrating on her clit. My hands reached up; my fingers tortured my cousin's nipples.

"Oh yeah Joss, oh yeah, oh Joss, oh fuck, oh, oh, OOOHH!!" Ruth chanted. I felt my wife's orgasmic contortions shake my cousin's body. After a minute, Ruth fell off Jocelyn's face and lay beside us.

I felt my cousin's passion rise. I lifted my face long enough to grunt, "Heads and tails."

I returned to a climactic attack on her joy buzzer. Ruth's mouth joined my fingers on Jocelyn's near breast. Jocelyn's scream was impressive. I slowed my mouthwork and cooled her down. She dug her fingers into my hair and dragged my head to hers.

"Cheater," Joss whispered, and kissed my mouth, wet with our juices.

Jocelyn was the one exception (so far) to Ruth's insistence on our married exclusivity. Jocelyn had a pass because Ruth loved her so much.

Ruth knew Jocelyn and I had a history -- but cousins are not really incest, right? Parents and kids, full and half siblings, aunts and uncles, are all closer kin than cousins. Hey, in some cultures, cousin marriage is required! Yes, she used The Pill. But please do not tell Jocelyn's brother Doug on us. He might bust my head -- or he might bust a gut laughing. Hard to say.

Jocelyn and Ruth both knew of my long-term affairs with Ruth's mom Deborah and older sister Rachel. I never had a mother-and-daughter threesome -- not with those two, anyway. Ruth knew of my hookups with her late best-friend Katia, with Katia's young stepmom and lover Juanita, and our incendiary three-way fucks.

Hopefully, nobody but my big sister Jill, our mom Nina, and Jill's lover Gabrielle, knew of my long-lasting sexual relationships with Nina and Jill -- and Jill and Gabby's noxious use of me, effectively rape. I had impregnated all these women except Katia and Ruth. I was surrounded by children I could not claim.

That phrase "surrounded by children" was a metaphor. Those kids were scattered from Santa Barbara to New Orleans, not around here in Oregon. No, right here, I was only surrounded by naked loving flesh and a red glow.

Red glow? That was because we were in the upstairs Red Room; bright red walls and hangings, curtains, carpets, lights, fixtures, furniture, sheets, book bindings, carvings, the whole enchilada -- and yes, a red enchilada etching. We all looked rather devilish.

"I want that thing inside me now," Ruth said, stroking my soft stick.

Jocelyn considered my limp Little Elvis. "Gonna need help, I think."

"I'm sure we can handle that," Ruth breathed. "Heads up!"

My cock could not stay limp under the assault of two determined mouths.

"Cheaters," I whispered, but I did nothing to impede them.

I was in my early thirties. Regaining stiffness took some time -- a very pleasant time, yes indeed. Once recovered, my balls took even longer to reload with joy juice. Which meant I stayed stiff and non-orgasmic for quite a while. Which made Ruth very, very happy; I perched between her spread thighs and pounded her pussy nearly forever while Jocelyn sat on her face and kissed me. My cousin tried to suck my tonsils down her throat. My wife's cunt tried to devour my poor overused cock. Yes, I was abused at both ends. Oh yeah, torture me more...

"Do you really have to go back to Omaha tomorrow?" Ruth sounded downcast.

Jocelyn stretched to kiss Ruth's breast and neck and then her mouth. "Yeah, 'fraid so, kid," she said. "I juggled this long weekend as it is. I have a serious case coming in, can't let it slide, even for you guys." She stretched again and kissed my mouth before sliding down to give my cock a slurp. "Not that I wouldn't love to stay longer." Her blues eyes peered at me before closing; she slurped me again. Damn, I would miss her!

"I know we can't stay with you in Omaha," Ruth said. "That would really freak your girlfriend, right?"

"Yeah, Lara is kind of, like, possessive. Good thing she didn't move in before I was with you two after." She meant, after Mexico, and Ruth's rape, and our rambling months of loving healing. I told that story in the previous episode. "She'd have scrammed then. She doesn't like to share me. Just like you don't share Ran, hey girl?"

"I'll share the bastard with you, Joss, but only you."

We would see about that. Situations evolve.

"But I ain't gone yet," Jocelyn grinned. "Get back here." She pulled herself between Ruth's knees and licked her inner thighs. "We ain't finished yet."

My cock involuntarily stiffened again. I sighed. Sometimes, it seems, a man's work is never done. I squinted in the red light, dragged my cousin's butt up, and started a puppy-fuck. Woof.

.

-- 1993 -- tourist season, baby-making season

As I said, we mostly spent our early Sellwood weeks arranging our space and exploring the Portland area. That got old pretty quick.

Our three-plus years together had been non-stop active: Me hopping around the Americas in my broker-consultant roles for Jill and my company TBI (ThunderBird International); Ruth as a rising-star curator at LACMA (Los Angeles County Museum of Art) both in L.A. and Mexico City, often traveling to negotiate art loans and acquisitions. We had no history as homebodies together beyond layovers. I also had no real "home life" past when I lived and slept and loved in the old Santa Monica home with Jill and Mom (I mean Nina) -- my sister Jill and I were constantly on the road. Could Ruth and I stand staying put in one place?

No, we could not. Not right away.

We winterized the house and hit the tourist trail. Just to be safe, I acquired new identities with finely-forged Canadian papers, not cheap. The world of pre-9-11 security checks knew us as Ransom and Ruelle Warfield. Mexi-mafia thugs would hopefully not notice those names. We only called each other 'Babe'.

We toured. Hawai'i, Tahiti, Bali, those Pacific paradises. Macao's casinos. Phuket, Thailand. Agra (the Taj Mahal) and Kerala, India. Dubai, before the overbuilding. Zanzibar (do not bother). Namibia, and safaris. Timbuktu, too. Cyprus, Malta, Mallorca. Macchu Pichu and Cuzco, Peru (a bit risky). Points between and beyond. Some were clothing-optional. Yes, we loved sunshine.

We did whatever we wanted, wherever, whenever; money was almost no object. No, we were not reckless nor wasteful -- we were not raised as slugs or drones. But we lived very, very nicely.

Alas, we could only stand that for half a season. We tried another season of more in-depth stays: Three weeks on the Amalfi Coast east of Naples. Three weeks back in Kerala in southernmost India. Two weeks around Kerry, Ireland, and then to Nova Scotia. Other leisurely stays here-and-there, long enough to gain a real feel of each place.

We especially loved our stay on Italy's Costiera Amalfitano, the old maritime republic of Amalfi. Millennia-old tiny towns built in notches in steep terraced hillsides laced with cobbled trails climbing to lemon-laden heights. Absolutely fresh food from nearby fields or the facing Tyrrhenian Sea. Cheap, tangy wine. Flashy, tangy beaches, often topless -- Ruth, too. Jet-set hangouts: Ravello, Positano, Capri. Glorious ruins from Pompeii to Paestum. And sunshine that almost felt like San Diego but with less smog.

That whole coastal region is lined with ancient trails paved in stone blocks for humans and burros to climb. We pierced the Amalfi town gate, up the main street's narrow medieval canyon, and hiked the steep cobbled trail to a hilltop hamlet on a warm, stormy spring day. The lean sexy English girls in short-shorts walking ahead of us were damp; we whispered about doing them, but did not. We all reached lofty Pogerola amid wet thunderbolts; we ducked into a bar for shelter and sustenance. We were cold and tired. We ordered espresso. So sorry, the power is out and the espresso machine does not work. No coffee. So -- brandy had to suffice. We were quite warm when we staggered back down the trail.

We spent a couple weeks on the western Hawai'ian island of Kaua'i with its almost-impenetrable wettest-spot-on-earth rain forest, the immense canyon, black-sand beaches, and relaxed people. Kaua'i was very tempting. A few Hawai'ians were tempting, too, but Ruth was not ready for more. Not yet.

We returned stateside. We continued to travel and play. We hit many clothing-optional events: Burning Man. Rainbow Family. Nude World. TesticleFest. We revisited sky-clad resorts in lovely domestic locales.

We liked many of these places worldwide but somehow our near-constant motion felt, what, empty? Not really fulfilling. Like we were marking time, wasting air, waiting, waiting...

Our 1993 birthdays rolled past; I was thirty-three, Ruth was twenty-seven. We had no kids. I worried sometimes but I was not about to press my lovely wife on the topic. Not yet. I would not try to force Ruth into motherhood.

Ruth brought up the subject.

"Babe, we've got to talk."

Our naked bodies wrapped together loosely on the big black-sheeted bed in the upstairs Fuck Room. The high walls were lined with erotic art, modern on the south side, traditional on the north. Mirrors lined the ceiling. For an intimate space it possessed a certain exuberant vibe, yes?

I sucked on her ear and bit her neck.

"So talk, already. I'm all ears."

I gently bit her wet earlobe.

"Hey, quit that! But really, Ran, it's time to get serious."

I stretched beside my wife and watched our overhead reflections. Our bodies looked fine. We gymned and jogged daily, did enough yoga and t'ai chi and kenpo, ate right, fucked enthusiastically, and all that good fitness stuff. We were buff, shit yeah. No six-pack abs, nothing extreme, only hard, healthy hominids.

My reflected hand probed her mirrored pussy.

"What kind of serious, babe? Money serious? Existential angst serious? Life-and-death serious? Sex serious?" My mirrored finger tried to slide into her.

"Mmmm, that's nice... but yeah, I think it's life-and-death serious." Her hand held mine and guided my motions.

"Life and death? You're not sick or hurt, are you?" I almost pulled my hand off. Ruth did not allow withdrawal; she pushed me further into her depths.

"Nothing like that. No, I'm thinking of new life. Of babies. Our babies."

My first finger tickled her velvety vagina. "This isn't how to make babies."

She slapped my face, not too hard, with her free hand. "Jerk. You know what I mean." She pressed my active fingers deeper in her wet abyss. "Don't stop, huh?" She writhed against my agitation. "Oh yeah, yeah..."

I decided to up the ante. I left my fingers in place, crawled between her thighs, and tongued her clit. She reacted nicely.

"Oh fuck oh fuck ohhh..." and more spasming and "OH FUCK ME AAAHHHH..."

Her scream and exhausted panting subsided. She raised her head and glared at me. "You turd," my wife whispered. "I've been too nice to you. I shouldn't have said anything. I should've just gone off The Pill and let you deal with the inevitable. You can handle the inevitable, right?" She rolled to face my cock. "Don't answer now. You'll get yours." She swallowed me. I groaned.

"Suck me dry, huh? Won't do you any good. Zygotes grow elsewhere."

Her teeth brushed my glans. I twitched.

"I know fucking biology, dummy. Shut up and squirt. Talk later."

I shut up.
She sucked.
Chrome off a trailer hitch, yeah.
I squirted.
Yow.

Our juices were now pretty well drained, so we talked.

"Yeah, that's right, babies," Ruth said. "I think I'm ready now. I don't feel... dirty, like after..." She shivered. We did not talk about the Mexico City rape.

"I know my professional career is shot for now. Maybe things'll cool off enough in a few years for me to go back, maybe not, but I'm not going to wait for that. And no, I don't believe that 'biology is destiny' horseshit but I am a woman and I do want the motherhood thing, I feel it. Am I wired for it? Probably, like you're wired for fatherhood. You've done enough fathering already -- or maybe not enough yet. But your next kids will be with me and only me, got it?" She slapped me again, harder.

"Okay, babies it is, then," I said. I rolled between Ruth's spread legs and moved my face close to her well-used pussy. I touched her engorged labia, traced an oval with my fingertips, spread her rosy orchid petals, and slowly swirled my first finger just inside her nether lips. "This looks like the place." My tongue licked at her. "Yes, right here." I looked to her eyes, bright eyes watching me. "I guess we should start practicing."

This entertainment provoked and stimulated me -- my cock hardened again. Again, already! I moved up and kissed my wife. Her hand guided me inside her. Her long legs locked around mine and pulled me into her. We fucked.

And that was our let's-start-a-family talk. More fucking than talking. Fun fun fun, and then, some more fun. Yes!

We had fun for days, weeks, months.

Well, the fucking was fun. Lots and lots of fun-fucking during and around Ruth's fertile periods through late autumn, winter and early spring. We continued traveling, with multi-week layovers in quaint places for in-depth exploration and languid lovemaking. We fucked in mountains, seashores, forests and gardens, in hotels, tents and gazebos, in beds, back seats, hottubs and hammocks. I squirted gallons of live goo into my willing wife.

Fucking was fun. Negative pregnancy test results were not.

.

-- Easter 1994 --

By early April we were frustrated enough for professional help. Two pros: we had seen a fertility specialist, and dirty-blonde and oh-so-smart (and sexy) cousin Jocelyn came to visit for most of a week. An obviously pregnant cousin Jocelyn.

"Hey, congrats, Joss! You and Lara found a sperm donor, it looks like." I hugged my hot, pot-bellied clanswoman.

A pale blonde blushes a brilliant pink. Jocelyn glowed neon-bright with embarrassment. Embarazada, yes, but chagrined, too.

"Um, well cuz, it's like this..." Her voice trailed off.

A little flashbulb metaphorically exploded in my head. "Oh, fuck."

Ruth also caught the signal. "You quit The Pill before your last visit here, didn't you." This was not a question.

She turned to me. "I won't say I'm not disappointed but I'm not surprised, either." She shook her head. "I invited it, didn't I? I'll be an aunty again soon." She joined my hug with Jocelyn. "Damn! Good thing I love you so much, Joss." Ruth kissed my cousin, hard.