“It’s not going to work, Ian,” she finally announced aloud even though he wasn’t there to hear.
Going to the closet, she rifled through her wardrobe, pulled out a dozen things she discarded, and finally settled on a slim green cotton dress that belted at the waist and would look terrific with the wrap sandals she’d purchased in Italy. Just so Ian couldn’t accuse her of flaunting herself, she tied the volumes of dark red curls into a scarf and applied scant make-up—though she didn’t need much enhancement to look inviting to any man. There was sex in her eyes. Like the dew of perspiration on her skin and moistness between her legs, it was subtle. That sexual allure was something that would remain inherently with her as long as she was swimming in this sexual ocean that seemed to have no pattern to its endless waves.
Early in the evening there were tourists in the village still meandering through the tiny streets in search of bargains. Jocelyn ducked into several shops picking up stray items that struck her fancy. She was living on mad money, that fund she’d created long before Reggie, that was intended to cushion her against some dangerous financial fall. Using it for its intended purpose she had no need to dip into her husband’s money or even try to extract cash from her defunct business. Her attorneys would probably eat away anything that was left after she tubed it all—and just as well. Better to have everything stay safely in the past where she didn’t have to think of it.
“Ah, I’d hoped to find you,” a man’s voice took hold of her thoughts in the middle of buying a hand-painted silk scarf.
“You!” she exclaimed, seeing her beach lover standing next to her.
He was clothed in white cottons that draped his dark complexion with a hint of purity—even though purity was hardly in his eyes. He smelled of man’s cologne and there was some minty toothpaste on his breath. His compact body wedged between her and a woman on his other side seemed instantly fused with hers, though he was still a few millimeters from touching her. That he corrected placing his hand tenderly at the top of her ass finding that she was wearing no panties.
“Would you like a drink?”
“If you’d tell me your name,” she said, all the while letting his roving eyes caress her as the images of sex transmitted over psychic wires directly to her brain.
“Andre,” he told her. A small, interesting accent accompanied his speech so she believed him not a Frenchman at all, and as much a foreigner on French soil as she was.
“Jocelyn,” she returned the pertinent information.
“What a lovely name,” he said. “It sounds as sensuous as your body looks.”
He took her hand and led her through a throng of people in that crowded shop, and held her close as they walked past the busiest part of the market to a near empty café. They sat in a corner by themselves and looked out at the other shoppers as they waited to be served.
“Something sweet?” he asked, when a man with a white apron across his middle approached the table. Without her answering, Andre turned to the waiter and ordered something in French she was not familiar with. Leaving a hand to fondle her thigh, his warmth penetrated through her dress and surged toward her crotch. She felt as one with him as she’d been on beach, making her believe that there was much more to gain from being close to this stranger. Even before the drinks arrived, he was toying with the hairs of her pussy, not trying to do more, but making his presence something she could not ignore.
“I’m sorry we had to leave so quickly this afternoon,” she said. “There was really no reason for me to go back to my hotel except that my lover is paranoid, I suppose.”
“Ah, I see. Then we won’t let him know what we’re doing tonight,” Andre said with a furtive grin.
They chatted about the resort while they finished their drinks. Then in a hurry he hustled her from the café without explanation.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
He smiled happily, while there remained a touch of mystery in his eyes. “A place to dance, but you have to get there early to find a seat. You do like dancing?”
He was whisking her down the street so fast that Jocelyn didn’t have a chance to answer, but the assumptions he made about her were accurate. Dancing would just be another delirium to dwell in for a while.
When they entered the disco, the music was already playing and the dance floor was full of moving bodies. Hips jerked in time to the rock beat, breasts grazed against chests, and hands were making pilgrimages to the altars of gratification between thighs. Though it wasn’t yet dark outside, the only light inside came from strings of tiny Christmas lights that flashed erratically, and one large strobe light that blinded the eyes every few seconds. Pushed against Andre’s body, Jocelyn found herself squashed from behind by one woman and two men alternately. With the woman, she was ass to ass, their hips moving to the same languid beat. The feel of the woman’s warm body was too enjoyable to beg off in embarrassment. And embarrassment would have been inappropriate considering the erotic tango of the room. Inhibitions seemed unnecessary. She had not one partner, but many, the mood so ripe with sexuality she half expected the disco to strip down to an orgy. Whatever drink Andre had hustled down her throat at the café came on strong in that charged environment. She was glad for wearing low-heeled sandals when she almost toppled into a woman beside her.
When Andre’s arms pulled her back to him they danced much closer. Jocelyn felt the heat of him, his pulsing groin perhaps most of all. Remembering the sizable organ inside his pants and how sweetly it had dealt with her sex hungry body that afternoon, she felt for it with her hands as much as her thighs. For what might have been an hour they moved together in the frenzy of the room. A few more drinks did nothing to dull her senses; rather with them heightened by the liquor, propriety fell away. She allowed Andre’s hands to meander freely about her body, and then at last, when they danced to a slower beat, his hand moved up inside her dress deeply enough to finger her clitoris. Pushed into a dark corner beyond the flashing lights, Jocelyn climaxed on his hand and collapsed to his chest ready to pass out.
Andre led her from the disco back to her hotel room, where the dark foreigner used her cunt and ass to massage his cock. She remembered him mostly when he breached her back door, arriving there with a smooth transition from her cunt. Well juiced, he was swift to plumb her depths. And while on hands and knees he probed hard, he held her by the hair with one hand, while he reached about so she could suck his fingers with her mouth. As he was about to come, he let go her hair and her shoulders dropped to the mattress. A fingernail etched a tiny line down her back to make her shiver. When he got to her wide open anus, he inserted that finger along with his cock. A second finger, and she thought she’d rip apart. But oh, what flames burned in her ass! As if lightning had struck the earth, she was the earth taking man inside to breed in her dark fertile soil. A split second of happiness exploded all her thoughts away as she felt Andre’s orgasm spew inside. Then a ripe spasm of pain followed as she realized how seriously he’d rent her backside.
Not immediately withdrawing, the cock and fingers remained inside massaging her. Then the easy in and out motion was joined by his punishing attentions to her swollen clit.
“Ohmygod!” she screamed. Her body jerked hard but didn’t jerk him out. He rode with her all the way to the final convulsion with her ass pressed against his invading hand.
“You’re a good fuck,” Andre whispered in her ear while he held her shivering body afterwards.
With the sex over, she trembled hard, tears streaming down her cheeks, her mind struggling to remember his face, not Andre’s face or Ian’s, but Reggie’s face, that aristocratic visage of haughtiness that meant love to her. She regretted that it was not her husband that had just defiled her ass. Then she would have kissed him. But with this stranger, she could only smile when she stopped crying and utter a silent thank-you.
“You whore!”
Jocelyn woke hearing Ian’s voice prick her consciousness with his violent temper.
&n
bsp; “Get your ass out of my bed!” he roared more, catching the waking attention of Andre, who was quick to dress and exit the den of terror.
Conveniently naked, Jocelyn went over Ian’s lap. For the second time in hours her ass felt the biting pain of a man determined to make a point with her rear flesh. Ian just struck the skin however, his wrath delivering a righteous spanking. He began with his hand until her rear cheeks were piping hot and she was screaming for him to stop. But deciding that basic measure was not enough to assuage his fury, he pulled her with him, she kicking madly, to the closet where he found a leather belt to deliver the rest of his message.
“You fucking whore!” he charged again, once he had her flung over the back of a chair so he could abuse her ass properly.
“I’m not a whore!” she roared back at him.
“You belong to me!” he bellowed, letting the double leather belt rip through the air defiantly. The end result, the punishment stung like wasps attacking her behind with venom. Strike after strike, a dozen, two dozen landed with such an angry abandon, she was too stunned to protest. Still feeling the inebriation of the evening cloud her mind, she took the punishment feeling all the guilt that Ian wanted her to associate with the act. But in her mind, it was not Ian she’d cheated on having anal sex with the foreigner, it was Reggie. In Reggie’s stead she was punished. Maybe in some time zone, in some altered dimension he’d know.
“I want you to stay put when I say so,” Ian continued his belligerent tirade. “That man might have murdered you!”
He was being irrational. That Jocelyn decided as she heard the repeated accusations and false concerns that spewed from his lips.
“You’re just jealous,” she cried when she got her wits about her.
“You’re damned right I am!” he confirmed, the belt adding a proper exclamation point hitting her squarely in the middle of her flaming ass. He didn’t stop there but peppered that raw spot with several more biting blows. “You want in my bed, you want my protection, you want this little romp of yours across the continent, you will not defy me again!”
He continued with the furious spanking making certain that his anger was finally spent—and because he liked admiring his handiwork. Standing back for some moments, he tortured her more by making her maintain the pose while he decided when he’d let her up. When he saw that the blush on her blistered bottom was finally beginning to fade, he began playing with her behind.
“He took your ass?” he asked.
“He did.”
“Then I’ll take it too!”
“No, Ian, it’s so sore.”
“Gee, that’s really too bad,” he said. His fingers were already at the opening, stretching the sphincter to make her ready—which she wouldn’t be. Not this morning.
It wasn’t even dawn, though Jocelyn could hear the birds singing outside, their battle for food already begun for the day as they flit from vine to bush to vine about the verdant greenery on the patio. Such was the backdrop for the pain of this second forceful ass rape of this strange night. He didn’t demand as much as Andre—only because he had no idea what that man had taken from her. But with no drug or liquor in her system to soothe the entry, the sensation was as sharp and more piercing. It took every ounce of courage, every conscious thought focused on letting go to make the penetration something other than brutal. She had no desire to feel pleasure from Ian at that moment, she simply wanted to avoid more pain. And yet, the man managed to ease her body into the joy of it and let it take her on another orgasmic ride.
However, Jocelyn didn’t get the chance to have her climax. When Ian was done with her, just seconds after he withdrew from her ass, he pulled her from bed, shoved her into the shower, then scrubbed her down as if she was infected with some disease after her night of loose living.
“I didn’t bring you along to have you cuckold me with any man admiring your physical attributes.” With his wrath diminished, his voice was much softer as he spoke, even though the message was no less pointed.
“Wouldn’t you have sex with any woman that suits your fancy?”
“Play around on you, no,” he replied. He stroked her back with the washcloth as the water poured over their naked bodies.
“Then you think this is a true relationship?” she said looking up at him through the water.
“It could be,” he said. “If you’d allow it.”
“But we don’t love each other,” she reminded him.
“That doesn’t matter right now,” he answered her. “Because eventually our love will blossom. I trust that as surely as I trust that you need me now. That need will grow to something more.”
“So you really think I’m a whore?” she asked, remembering that accusation.
“I certainly think despicable things of you when you misbehave,” he said. He made her turn so he could look at her face as the water beat down on her back. “The truth is,” he softened much as he spoke, “I find you so gloriously perfect, I can’t stand the sight of anyone having you without my directing that moment. You are so precious to me, Jocelyn. I regret that I ever allowed you to leave. And I will do everything to keep you with me this time. If it should take a lock and key, poetry, begging, loving you to death. I will do it.”
He was stroking her hair, running his fingers through the wet locks that stuck to her drenched skin. Kissing her, he seemed intent on swallowing her up. She didn’t tell him that she orgasmed as he massaged her ass and pussy. He was being strictly sensuous and tender, but with such fervor and sincerity, she took from him something sexual that she needed.
Chapter Eight
The opening for Will Kozak’s photographic expose was held in Dunning Sharrow’s loft which had become a first class art gallery. Dun had moved in all his favorite works of art. They now covered the make-shift walls inside the open spaces of the old industrial building. One entire floor of the gallery was highlighted by ceilings reaching into the heavens, fitted with pipes that went to nowhere any more, and dangling with old light fixtures that added classy elegance to the mix of contemporary styles sitting side by side in that venue. A warm glow of light from the old fixtures eased the stark quality of the black and white photography. It was Will’s most stunning showing to date. The images on paper were scenes of poverty, restless children attempting to laugh, bums on the street with sagacious smiles as though they knew something the rest of the world did not, and the heartbreak of institutionalized stupor on other faces—of men and women in a rundown old-folks home where meaningless lives ticked off the last ticks of their terrestrial clock.
The hard-edged quality of Will’s stills should have led to a somber mood in the gallery. But this opening was one of those affairs where few people took in the content of the work, except for the critics that had been invited to a more subdued showing that afternoon. By eight in the evening however, the showing turned into a party, and Alexandra Kozak could begin to relax and greet her husband’s guests.
She looked like a flower in the middle of the expanse of black and white. Her dress, a small summer shift showered with colorful flowers, was enough to accentuate the blonde hair she left long and falling to her shoulders. Will had asked her to keep her attire simple and casual, despite the black tux look of many that poured through the doors for champagne and hors d’oeurves. Will himself was dressed in black silk, draping pants and a collarless shirt, his graying hair shorter than usual, recently cut. He had a strong nose, soft yet deep-set eyes and a broad masculine smile. Alex noted how his face had aged over the seven years she’d known him. He aged with style as an artist would, and was for this night his most animated speaking with people who cared about the work he cared about. There was no clue about the man who could brood endlessly, sometimes leaving her feeling distant from him and edgy for that fact.
By the time the gallery was full of patrons, Alex was weary, something she wanted to avoid. And yet on nights like this it was almost impossible not to feel the strain of three weeks preparation catching up with her.
It had not been three good weeks for their marriage, but at least the event was almost at its end.
Will was at the far end of the loft, discussing a book of his photography with a publisher that had unexpectedly made a proposal. She wouldn’t be seeing her husband for at least an hour. Just as she was deciding where to take her amiable smile someone tapped her on the shoulder from behind.
“Reg!”
Alex gave the man a generous hug. The instant their bodies touched, a surge of submissive passion rendered her almost weak—as if she was expecting him to order her to the floor to take some man’s prick in her mouth. As long as she’d known him, the feeling had never changed. From the time she first stepped foot in his house as a nervous innocent on her way to being trained as a sexual submissive, to later in their acquaintance when she could call him a true confidant, that aspect of their relationship endured. Her previous submission to him, however, was often forgotten, since Reggie was also the husband of her favorite female lover; and he’d always been her husband’s best friend.
Parting from his embrace Alex noticed the woman at his side.
“This is Linda Holly,” he introduced a brunette with short, wispy hair, flawless white skin and full lips painted Chinese red. Alex despised her instantly and gave the woman a perfunctory nod. A little knife stabbed in her heart knowing that it should be Jocelyn beside him.
“And do you work with Reg?” Alex asked.
“I met at him the Steiglitz Museum opening a few weeks ago,” she said.
“I see,” Alex answered. The woman was not Reggie’s type being much too arty and dour. Those white white cheeks without a hint of blush, she looked ghostly—in an earthy sort of way. She was dressed in black, not the typical vision of beauty that would attract Reggie Harold’s eye.
“You know he’s married,” Alex stated flatly, the fact blurted out without thinking at all.
The Alexandra Series Page 64