Sport of Kings

by Livia Ellis

  Olga finds my mouth with hers and draws my tongue between her lips just as Ollie’s cock teases my hole. A little shove at a time, he enters me. As he presses into me, I press into Olga. Slowly he teases me with his cock until I’m filled. Then I become the one that’s ridden. Ollie pumps me hard from behind as Olga squeezes me with her cunt muscles. Olga pinches my nipples with her fingertips as Ollie sinks his teeth into my shoulder. Just enough pain to make the pleasure unbearable. When I come, it’s with my whole body. I thrust and press into the depths of Olga as Ollie grinds and drills me from behind. An animalistic moan startles me as it comes out of my throat. I’m sure I’ve never come like this before.

  When the throbbing abates, Ollie kisses the shoulder he’s taken his teeth to. Olga runs her smooth, silky palms over my sore nipples. They release me simultaneously. The chaise is just big enough for the three of us to lie together, our limbs entwined.

  “You two were waiting for me,” I say with a smile.

  “We were waiting for you.” Ollie reaches over Olga and takes my still stiff cock in his hand. He rubs it gently.

  “We’ve missed you.” Olga lies on her back as her arms drape over her head with us men pressed against her like pornographic book ends.

  I glide my fingers over her flat stomach, edging down to her pussy. She’s hairless once again. The last time I was with them, she had a full and glorious nest of black pubic hair. I rather liked it for a change. Burying my face in her curls was delicious. It tends to come and go, so I’m certain it will be back. “No more bush?”

  “I got bored with it,” Ollie says. “Too many hairs in my throat.”

  I finger her cunt, spreading her lips apart and then pinching them shut. This is the best way I can imagine spending a lazy afternoon in the sun. I’m sure I doze off. I wake to the sensation of a condom rolling onto my already erect cock. My day is just beginning. The week at the Roman villa in Tunisia will be one I will never forget…

  * * * *

  Olga is right. This is a good memory. The three of us together. Before it all got very complicated by my falling in love with Alejandro. Condoms are their first rule. I suppose the second is that they love each other above all others. The third is that they are completely honest with each other. Neither takes a lover the other doesn’t know about. They assume all people are as honest with each other as they are. I want to be furious at Olga for telling Alejandro I joined them at one of their parties in England when he was in Argentina. But the simple truth is she didn’t do anything she thought was wrong. She told him she had my black cashmere sweater, which in reality is his. This led to questions from Alejandro, which she happily answered. I’m the one that kept our tryst a secret. If I’d just been honest with Alejandro, it’s possible we would still be together.

  Chapter 2

  Alejandro

  Even if I hadn’t spotted Marcus across the field watching me as I put Cassandra through her paces, I would have sensed his presence. I lean down and whisper to Cassandra. “You see him too, don’t you?” Of course she does. She misses him as much as I do.

  I want to believe things like soul mates and destiny are the myths Marcus always insisted they are. His cynicism could be so irritating, but maybe he was right. Still, I can’t convince myself there isn’t magic in love. Not even after finding my heart isn’t unbreakable and true love don’t always last forever, I can’t give up on the promise of a happily ever after. What started so magically and progressed so smoothly was the relationship I’d dreamed of.

  So many people warned me about Marcus. So many people had delighted so completely when their predictions of doom came to pass. They warned me that Marcus was as changeable as the sea and as loyal to his lovers as a child to a new toy. I don’t know if it was stupidity or naivety that made me believe I was different.

  However it ended, I will never be convinced that Marcus’ affection for me was anything other than completely genuine. I was invited into Marcus’ personal world. Into the space beyond the stony exterior. I saw the vulnerable interior life my former lover kept so well protected.

  Nothing will ever convince me Marcus didn’t love me. That our love frightened him because it made him vulnerable was not unpredictable. That Marcus betrayed me isn’t even the shock it should have been. I did not choose to let myself fall for Marcus because I thought it would be easy. I went into the relationship expecting moments we’d have to work through. I expected these trials would only make us stronger as a couple.

  I think when the betrayal came, I just wasn’t prepared for how much it would hurt. I’ll admit it. Perhaps I overreacted. I knew what he was like. We spent hours talking about the life he led before we met. I wanted him to include me in the things that brought him pleasure. Not exclude me and lock me in a cage. Still, I loved him for who he was. Rabidly jealous, secretly insecure, overwhelmingly passionate, and filled with a core of pure romantic sensuality.

  No one appreciates the grand gesture as much as I do. He’s here. He’s supposed to be on vacation for another month. For Marcus, who hordes his time off like a freaky old lady collects cats, that’s a grand gesture. We began with a grand gesture. I didn’t realize it at the time, but later I learned that not only spending the whole night with him made me special but also staying with him for seventy-two hours over that weekend was unprecedented. When I think back on our first time together in St. Petersburg, I understand why it was I was able to get under his skin as effectively as I did…

  * * * *

  I’m in St. Petersburg for a reason. Playing polo has been a hobby. Being offered a spot on a professional team comes as a surprise. It’s not the money that got me on a plane to come and talk to the team owner. It’s the man. Not the owner, Vladimir the Russian knee breaker. The other one. The one I met during a charity tournament in Qatar. The American with the pretty eyes. The one that admired how I played and wanted to know if I had any interest in going professional.

  I didn’t get his name at the time, and he isn’t the first coach to ask me about signing up for a team. So I’m not sure if this current offer is from the same person. When he called, I couldn’t very well ask for him to friend me on Facebook so I could check out his profile picture before I agreed to the meeting. Only I would travel to Russia to see if it’s the same man.

  So I’m in Russia to see if maybe the man I had on the phone is the same one that got my heart fluttering in Qatar. In January. I must be insane. When I left Buenos Aires, it was a balmy eighty degrees. When I land in St. Petersburg, it’s twenty below. I very purposefully live my life in perpetual summer. This is by design. It’s a wonder my body doesn’t go into shock. A car meets me at the airport. I’m shivering it’s so cold. For certain I’m dangerously underdressed.

  I’m taken through the city in a tropically warm Rolls Royce Phantom. The city is layered in a blanket of snow as thick white flakes come down. It’s so beautiful I catch myself holding my breath, gaping out the window like a rube. Our destination is a mansion only someone as wealthy and nouveau riche as Vladimir could dream up. I’m not sure if it’s the layer of snow that makes it look like candy, but it doesn’t help the overall effect. If my mother were alive to see this, she’d probably drop dead from the shock of seeing something so gaudy. My mother, who had ties to the Spanish Royal Family and very distinct ideas about new money, would be horrified I am about to hire myself out. Charity she understands. Even playing polo with my club team for charity she understands. Hiring myself out as a player and working for money she wouldn’t. I don’t care. I need to make decisions about my life myself. I’m not a boy anymore. It’s my birthday. I’m twenty-three.

  When the car comes to a halt, a big man with no hair and no coat pulls open my door. This is no servant. I can tell by his watch and his shoes. Vladimir has come himself to greet me at his door. I like this man. He is friendly, warm, and welcoming. I am like family coming home, although in fact I am a stranger at his door. I understand he’s a criminal, but I like him. I have a fair number
of criminals in my family. People don’t get and keep vast fortunes without operating around the edges of the law on occasion. I’m not going to judge him for his reputation. He’s rough and unpolished and makes no apology about it. His money is his most attractive characteristic. He doesn’t need to learn manners. He can pay for them.

  “What are you wearing?” he asks me as he embraces me like a son. His English is like that of a guard working in a Soviet gulag in a communist era Hollywood movie. Or a Bond villain. The accent is completely unbelievable. He leans back and looks at me. “Welcome, welcome, welcome to my home.” I get a cuff on my shoulder. My father never would have shown me as much warmth as this man has. It startles and confounds me, but instantly I like it. Without meaning to, I find the camaraderie and friendship that had been lacking in my life.

  “You will freeze! Come boy!” I’m brought into the house, which has to have been decorated by a troupe of colorblind prostitutes. I am utterly nonplussed. My mother would have fainted. The main entrance of the house is carpeted in thick shag with a dizzying zebra print. A chandelier, which actually could have been lovely if it were hanging in a room with a distinct baroque theme, looms above. But what holds my eye and refuses to let it go is a larger-than-life-size, painted marble statue of Vladimir in the guise of Augustus, First Emperor of Rome. Complete with breastplate, tunic, and raised arm. I stare in horror. If it had been white, I might have been capable of ignoring it. In full Technicolor it is like a horrific accident.

  “What do you think?” Vladimir asks, his large hand, fully capable of snapping my clavicle, still on my shoulder. He pauses next to me to study his likeness. “I don’t know about the paint, but they tell me marble statues would have been painted in the past. I always think they should be white. But what do I know?”

  What does one say in these situations? I don’t think even my mother would have been capable of saying the right thing. So I am kind. Being kind is never wrong. “It makes you look imperial. Larger than life.”

  Vladimir clearly likes this. “Come. When we are finished negotiating, I will take you on a tour. I will show you my room that is an exact replica of the Jungle Room in Graceland. Do you like Elvis?”

  Do I like Elvis? The dead rock star? Not really. But I don’t want to say this, no matter how much I want to please Vladimir. “I—” In the end I don’t need to answer. Vladimir continues to talk whether or not I respond. After passing through several rooms, each very likely arranged by a schizophrenic holding a grudge against Vladimir, we enter a wood paneled office that is comparatively tasteful when held up against the décor in the rest of the house.

  My dream man is there on his mobile phone. The moment I see him my heart flutters. It really flutters. My wish has come true, my prayer has been answered. This is the trainer from the charity event in Qatar. The one that made me wish I was the sort to be bold with men. The trip to Russia is not a love-sick boy’s fool’s errand. I look at him across the room and smile. He stands naturally with the sort of casual, broken down ease most models spend hours trying to perfect. His indifference is elegant, and his appearance is either purposefully slovenly or casually disheveled. He lifts his fingers in a dismissive greeting before turning his back to me and continuing his conversation. My heart breaks a little. I feel like crushed bug.

  Vladimir has taken a seat at a large desk, which is surprisingly uncluttered. He invites me to sit across from him. He strokes the wood of the desk and tells me John F. Kennedy fucked Marilyn Monroe on it. I’m not certain how that would make a piece of furniture more desirable. It’s hard to keep my attention focused on my host. My eyes keep moving to the man on the phone. “How much money do you want?” Vladimir asks me, abruptly finishing his story about the desk and its value to him.

  I pull my eyes away from the God on the phone and look at Vladimir. “I’m sorry…?”

  He laughs as he looks from me to the other man. “That’s what you want. Marcus?”

  Marcus. Beautiful Marcus. Marcus. It’s like music. With those American looks. Why do they all look like George Clooney? It’s practically cliché. Those American men of a certain age and a certain lifestyle all have a sameness about them. I find him to be more than handsome. I find him desirable. I just don’t know what to do about it.

  “I…” I shrug. “I don’t understand.”

  “Never mind.” He chuckles. “How much money to you want to play on my team?”

  “I don’t know. How much should I want?”

  “Tell me you have very responsible people managing your money.” He looks slightly concerned. This is something I will learn about him. His players are his sons. He has five daughters. The polo team is his way of balancing out the amount of estrogen in his life. Polo is also something he perceives as classy. Vladimir is forever in search of class. Some things, unlike presidential desks, marble statues, and cars, cannot be bought.

  “Yes. My uncles take care of my money. I have people. Why?” I realize I’ve done it again. I’ve made myself look a bit precious and naïve. This is probably one of the reasons why I can’t get a man to take me to bed. This is why I still get asked for ID when I buy liquor in the states.

  He waves the question away. He’ll pay me what he pays everyone else on the team. Marcus joins us. I can’t stop stealing looks at him. For sure he catches me a few times. There’s that grin that lets me know he’s on to me. This unnerves me. I’m annoyed with myself. I want to be the one with the smug grin and the knowledge that I control the situation. I can’t stop from glancing at him. I’m aggravated that I’m not cool. I’m annoyed with my parents for raising me to be a dork. Who in this day and age makes a child wear short pants and a bow tie? Who does that? No wonder I’m socially awkward.

  A secretary that’s all legs walks in. She leans over Vladimir and whispers in his ear. He turns red and exhales like a steam engine out of his nose. A string of Russian comes out of his mouth. I don’t need an interpreter to know he’s furious.

  “I was going to take you to celebrate,” he tells me. “But my daughter, Ana, needs me. Five daughters. Not one son. Marcus, entertain Alejandro. Get the boys to the plane on Monday morning. If they’re late…” he slices his hand across his throat, “I chop their balls off.” Vladimir needs an anatomy lesson.

  “What’s Monday?” I ask.

  “You go to my plantation in Kenya,” Vladimir says. “You are my little secret weapon. With you, I will crush that dirty, lying, cheating, no good, snake oil salesman, Shi Gao. I hate him!” Vladimir slams his fist against the desk. Clearly it can take a pounding.

  “Who is—” Marcus shakes his head at me. I don’t finish my question. I guess I’ll figure out who Shi Gao is soon enough.

  “Hold on.” Marcus is on his cell phone again. “We’re going,” Marcus tells Vladimir as he rises from his chair. I don’t know what to do, so I follow him. He looks at me as he continues his conversation. “Just a second,” he says to the person he’s talking to. “Enrique.”

  “Alejandro,” I correct him politely.

  “Whatever.” He snaps his fingers at me. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

  I look down at my snug leather jacket and trousers. I do have a scarf. I’m not totally unprepared for the cold. “Yes?”

  He makes a small snort of a laugh. “Okay.” He continues with his conversation. He talks about horses to whoever is on the phone. Marcus understands horses. This is evident.

  We return to the car I arrived in. The driver takes us to a building with a doorman wrapped in a wool coat and thick leather gloves. Marcus is on the phone the duration of the trip. “Is this where I’m staying?” I’m not unhappy. This seems to be suitable.

  “No.” The phone goes into his pocket. “You have a room in the players’ house. This is where I live. You’re going to freeze to death, and I can’t have that on my conscience. I already have enough to atone to. One dead Argentinian added to the list won’t help. I also can’t be bothered to take you clothes shopping. We’re making a qu
ick stop here, and then I’m taking you to one of Vladimir’s clubs. As a rule they’re pretty vile and pole dancers aren’t exactly my thing, but the booze is free.”

  “You want to take me to a stripper club?”

  “It’s that or the ballet.”

  “I would much prefer the ballet.” This sounds like a wonderful plan. I’m very fond of Russian ballet.

  Marcus stares at me for a long moment. “We’re not going to the ballet.”

  “That’s a pity. Perhaps another time.”

  Our driver opens the car door. I go to the rear of the car. Marcus stares at the overstuffed trunk. My luggage consists of no less than ten bags, including two devoted to shoes, four specially made for me by Hermes for my riding equipment, and my messenger bag around my shoulder. Half the suitcases are empty. I like to shop. I came to Russia planning to spend. I hear good things about their menswear designers.

  “That’s all you have?” Marcus looks from the pile of bags in the back of the car to me. “Sure you didn’t forget anything?”

  “I’m very thorough when I pack.” I am. I make lists. I travel prepared for every contingency. Except, apparently, extreme cold. But I know that I have not one, but two, tuxedos and at least four pairs of riding boots. I have bathing suits complete with matching sunglasses. I think about these things.

  He looks at me and chuckles. “Any chance you have anything in there that’s meant for the cold?”

  “I have cashmere.”