“Would you want me to make hotel reservations, sir?”
“You know what? No. I want to be spontaneous.” I also didn't want there to be any kind of paper trail.
“Very good, Mister Petersen. I'll call you with the confirmation. Will that be all?”
“For now,” I told her.
I disconnected, and leaned back in my chair and spun it around to face the window. I put my hand against my erection, and started rubbing.
Chapter Six
MADDOX
Rohypnol. Also known as liquid ecstasy. Commonly referred to as a roofie, the date rape drug of choice.
I never needed to use the stuff before, and the bottle hidden in the far end of the desk drawer was never opened. I don't even remember where I got it, or who may have given it to me. The important thing was, I'd held on to it. Just in case.
She'd be tired of sink water. Hungry for more than a granola bar.
I bought a papaya smoothie from the commissary, an extra large double french roast espresso, a bagel, and a package of chocolate donuts – those terrible little things you get at a gas station – and wolfed down half of them just as the elevator reached the penthouse.
“You still here, Sofia? 'Cuz I got you something,” I said to the empty suite, humming as I stepped to the bar, took the Rohypnol from my pocket and dropped one into the smoothie.
No answer from the bathroom, of course. She was a prime pouter, this one. Most likely a little loopy, too, thanks to low blood sugar and high stress levels.
There were a lot of things working in my favor, already, but didn't they always? I smiled to myself, causing a shot of hot pain to rip across my cheek.
I gritted my teeth, and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the bar. The cut wasn't huge, maybe an inch long and not very deep. It stung like a bitch, though. And the swelling…the swelling was what bothered me the most. A light haze of purple beneath my eye had begun to form. I narrowed my gaze. Crazy Sofia had left her mark upon me.
No woman leaves their mark on me.
I glanced at my wall clock – an imported Rhythm masterpiece. I'd picked it up somewhere in Italy, I think, and was so very intrigued with the way it displayed its gears and inner workings, how at the top of the hour, numbers rotated away from themselves to reveal rearing horses and spirals. It was a fantastic piece of engineering. It was also a little after ten o'clock.
Sophia's special medicine would take about thirty minutes to kick in. Its effects would peak at two hours, and hang around for at least eight. I'd heard this stuff makes the recipient feel as if they're paralyzed.
How awesome is that.
Prescription meds and me have a long, sordid history, but in this one case, I was going to make an exception.
Crazy Sophia was a Latina hellfire. If I had to call on chemicals to help corral her, then so be it. I wasn't so proud that I couldn't admit I needed a little assistance here.
I threw down the rest of my espresso, wiped my lips, and took Sofia's special smoothie and the bagel to the bathroom. She'd be begging me for this stuff by now. I may let her beg a little longer than I had planned. After all, my fucking face hurt and there was no one to blame for that, but her.
For some odd ass reason, rather than pushing my way into the bathroom, I knocked on the door.
“Hey, honey. You decent?”
Again and of course, she didn’t answer.
I opened the door, and almost dropped the smoothie.
She was sitting on the toilet lid, naked. Really, really naked. No panties. Just my tie, still secured around her wrists.
Her hair was wet, dark and cascading past her breasts. Her body was glistening, goosebumps on her flesh, her nipples hard as lovely, pink stones. The shower tiles were beaded with moisture. I was so damn proud of myself, making sure I'd removed all the towels last night.
My cock knocked against my zipper, begging me so hard to give it something to slide into.
“Helped yourself to a shower, I see,” I said with cucumber coolness.
Once we got to Nassau, she'd be showering for me a lot. I'd be showering her, as well. Nothing better than lathering up a sweet pair of tits. Soaping her between her thighs, caressing her hips, her ass.
What time did our plane leave?
Noon. Noon, noon, noon.
This may be the best vacation I'd ever taken.
“Are you hungry, sweetheart? Thirsty?” I held out the bagel, and the smoothie.
She didn't move an inch. Her eyes flashed, though. A quick little glance to the bagel, another to the cup. It was sweating now, cold and refreshing drops of condensation trailing down to my hand.
I held it out a little further. “C'mon. It's papaya. Mexicans like papayas, right?”
Now the little flash in her eyes glowed with some serious hate. I wanted to grin, but the side of my face that held issue with that reminded me otherwise.
I held my indifferent countenance, smiling on the inside, still priding myself on my political incorrectness.
“You drink it,” she said.
“Pardone me?”
“You think I'm going to drink anything you bring me? You think I'm stupid like that, Petersen? You drink it. You drink it, then I'll drink it.”
I chuckled, pulled the wrapper from the straw, and took a nice, tasty sip. A little sip, which was fine. I was a big man, no way would a teaspoon's worth do me any damage to me. I swallowed, smacked my lips together. It was pretty good, actually.
“Es muy buena,” I said, and took a step closer to her, smoothie extended in trust and friendship. Wasn’t I just Mister Nice Guy?
“It's bueno, stupid. Drinks have no gender. Therefore, the masculine is used.” She shifted on the toilet seat, trying to get comfortable, crossing one leg over the other. Giving me a brief, but wildly satisfying look at her gender. “And if it's so bueno, why don't you drink more.”
She wasn't asking. She didn't need to. She knew what I was trying to do, and I was taking her stupidity for granted.
“Nah, I'm good.” I said, and stood beside her, taking some of her wonderful, wet locks in my hand. I brushed them over her shoulder so that I could better see her breast. God, you couldn’t buy breasts like these. “Do you remember what we were talking about last night? About the policia?”
She looked up at me, but didn't correct my Spanish this time around.
“What's fun is, no matter what funny little game you've got going through your lovely little head, I'm holding all the cards. I think you know this.” I straddled her, curled my fist in her hair, and pulled her head back. “You'll drink what I tell you to drink, señorita. You know why?” I paused a little for effect. I had none on her. “Because you have no choice,” I added.
I turned the cup so that the straw pointed to her lips. Her lips, which were mere inches from my crotch.
“Suck it,” I said.
Not surprisingly, she didn't open her mouth. Not surprising, either, the muscles in her arms tensing, ready to clobber my genitals with her clasped hands.
I was one step ahead, I wasn't stupid, either, and sat on her arms before she could carry out her intention.
She groaned, expelling a rush of air as my weight pressed against her. I was heavy. Not an ounce of body fat, mind you. Muscle weighs significantly more than fat. My physique was two hundred and ten pounds of toned perfection.
“It's such an ugly picture, isn't this? You, sitting on a toilet. Me, sitting on you. With a papaya smoothie in my hands. It's almost funny. But I’m not exactly laughing.” I held the tip of the straw toward her. “Are you going to play nice now?”
She was struggling for breath. But I'd fallen for her shit before. Fool me once, etcetera etcetera.
“There's a story about a boy who cried wolf. You ever hear that story?” I asked, not relinquishing my position. Wishing I was naked, too. My skin, her skin, all the wrongs that could happen with nothing separating the two. “He thinks it's cool and funny to fake out the townsfolk by saying there
's a wolf coming to eat everybody.” Her breath was hitched. Her breasts bounced as she struggled to breathe. Maybe there is something to say for erotic asphyxiation. “Anyway, when the wolf actually does show up, nobody believes him when he starts shouting about it. Just in case you’re wondering…in this story, you’re the boy who cried wolf. I’m the townspeople. Do you think I should believe you, right now?”
Another gasp, and her lips parted. She turned her head toward the straw. I placed it in her mouth, and held it for her as she sucked the liquid down.
From the suite, my Rhythm clock chimed the half hour. Ten thirty. Perfect.
“How's the papaya? Good, right?”
Her eyes were death daggers spearing their way through my head.
I didn't care about the pain in my cheek anymore. I smiled at her, nodding my approval as the smoothie disappeared, bit by bit by bit.
Chapter Seven
MADDOX
It only took ten minutes for the Rohypnol to work its magic.
I sat on the side of the tub, eating the bagel, watching her try to keep her eyes open. Lucky for her, I caught her before she went head first into the tile. Not that she deserved such niceties. After all, look at what she did to my cheek. Oh, and let’s not forget the fact that’s he came here with the intention of killing me.
As I scooped her body in my arms, it was as if we were on our honeymoon, and I was carrying her over the threshold. She seemed to know what was going on at first, but drugged to the gills as she was, kept her in a glorious state of cognitive brown out.
I laid her on the bed, and untied her. There was nothing she could do, anyway, and whether or not I wanted to, I would have to get her dressed. Eventually.
Her nipples were just as delicious as before, and I rolled them around in my fingers. Her flesh was soft, and silky. I drew the back of my hand down her torso, toward her sex, and played with her pubic hair which she'd kept nice and trimmed. What a gal.
I know you’re all thinking that I’m a nasty son-of-a-bitch. Some over-entitled rich guy who thinks he can do these kinds of things and get away with them. And poor, poor, Sofia, right? What you’re forgetting, though, is that she. tried. to. kill. me. That if she had succeeded, people like you would watch her ass go to prison and hope that the inmates did all kinds of nasty things to her. Consider me dead and then consider me the inmate. I’m just exacting revenge.
Regardless, there was no real response from Sofia. She was out of it, not able to conjure up so much as a moan. Honestly, I didn't understand what guys saw in Roofies. If the chick isn't going to even act like she's alive, what the fuck's the point? May as well be banging a corpse. It was much, much more satisfying to have the writhing, the struggle, the gasping for air as the climax strikes and with any luck at all, it strikes again and again and again.
I got up from the bed, and went to the wardrobe. There was a veritable Nordstrom in here, what with all the ladies who had left their things in the sad hope of waiting for Maddox Petersen to invite them back. Some, I did. But only once or twice. Never a third time.
I was deciding between the simple denim top and the linen peasant blouse when Phyllis' ring tone announced itself.
“Go,” I said, and selected the button up black silk. Tits look great in silk.
“Mister Petersen, I'm afraid Boca Raton hasn't got any private charters available at the time you requested. Are you able to postpone until tomorrow?”
I laid the silk shirt on the bed, and watched crazy Sofia breathing. Her eyes were at half-mast, glazed over, and it appeared she was trying to focus on me. Her flesh was taught, a sweet light mocha, and her tight little belly rose and fell with each deep breath.
I didn't want to wait until tomorrow. Hell, I didn't want to wait five minutes. I pushed her leg to the side, exposing her sex just a wee bit, for no good reason at all.
“Mister Petersen?”
“Yeah. Here.” I got up from the bed and crossed to the bathroom. “And I don't postpone, Phyllis, for the love of Christ. Give 'em three, no, four times whatever they're asking.”
I grabbed the bag of toiletries I had to pack up last night, and plopped it on the toilet lid and fished around in it for my razor.
“I offered them five, sir. They apologize whole heartedly, but their schedule has been booked for weeks and there really is – ”
“Nothing is impossible, Phyllis,” I reminded her, and pulled out my favorite blade.
Stainless steel, big wooden handle, the edge sharp enough to split a hair – the type used by old school barbers. Or Sweeny Todd.
I wanted to shave the senorita's pubic hair with it, make her slick and smooth. Nothing between her and my mouth but my tongue.
All in good time, Maddox. All in good time.
I tapped the speaker icon on the screen, squirted a dollop of cream onto my hand, and rubbed it over my scalp.
“I'm putting you on speaker, Phyllis, while we figure out a way around this latest inconvenience. You know how I feel about inconvenience.”
Phyllis' pencil drummed on her pad. “There's another option, but I don't know how you'd feel about it.” Her voice sounded tinny, and echoed off my tiled walls.
“Commercial airlines are out of the question,” I said, and noticed with the happiest of realizations that Sofia's lovely naked body was quite visible in my bathroom mirror. I turned to the side so I could see it better, and flicked out the blade.
Phyllis cleared her throat, and stopped tapping her pencil.
“Just a thought, Mister Petersen, but if you really need to be off to Nassau today, and since this is a vacation, technically, Atlantic Charter has a yacht available. All stocked and ready to go.”
I'd only shaved one strip on my head when I stopped. I wasn't keen on boats. And, boats aside, I wasn’t a big fan of the ocean, either. Call it reverse sentimentality, but the last time my family was in one place, intact, was on a private cruise ship to Hawaii.
For a week my brother had laughed his fucking ass off at me every time I heaved the all-you-can-eat buffet over the railing. Just to show him, I took a touristy crash course in sailing when we docked in Oahu. I wasn't that bad at it, actually, once the Dramamine kicked in.
I'd never be able to show off my seamanship skills to Josh, though. After he died, I never went back to Hawaii. Or boarded a boat, for that matter.
Also, I wasn't familiar with Atlantic Charter. I didn't like things I wasn't familiar with, or knew inside and out. With the exception of the naked girl on my bed, of course.
“Won't work, Phyllis. I don't want a captain, or a first mate, or whatever else.”
Mostly I don't want witnesses, I thought, pulling the blade over my scalp. I wondered if it was too late to buy a jet, hire a pilot, and be in the Bahamas by sunset.
“Need a more viable alternative, Phyllis. A private, viable alternative.”
“Well, it would be, Mister Petersen. According to Atlantic, if you have any sailing experience whatsoever, they'll charter you a craft.”
I ran the blade under the water. “Sounds fishy, Phyllis. Yachts are expensive. There's all the insurance and liability and bullshit. You're saying these guys will just hand the keys over to any yahoo who says they know how to drive one of those things?”
“I didn't say anyone, Mister Petersen. I said 'you'.”
Oh. Oh, I liked that. Liked, as well, my reputation. My privilege.
Everyone likes to say the shittiest things about 'privilege' nowadays, like it's a bad thing. All the pissing and moaning from the have-nots, the hating and despise of men like me who have… it's a fucked up, twisted bigotry. Sour grapes. That's all it is.
But here we were, with the truth of the matter being that at the mere mention of my name, I could have a big private yacht all to myself. At the mere mention of my name, I could have anything I wanted.
I was like my own damn genie.
“What's the name of the boat…, er, ship, Phyllis?”
I was just curious. My seafaring experienc
e was already surfacing. Old fart sea dogs got insulted as hell if you called their ships 'boats'. The rule amongst sea men was that a ship can carry a boat, but a boat cannot carry a ship. Size matters. In the ocean. In bank accounts. In bed. Size matters everywhere.
“Let's see,” Phyllis said, as the idea of sailing, sailing, over the bounding waves with my señorita began to appeal to me more and more.
Maybe it was time to leave the past behind, get back on the water and stand down the only remaining demon I had left.
“Oh, here we are,” Phyllis proclaimed. “It's called Insatiable.”
I couldn't help but grin. Using the unmarred side of my face, of course.
“She's called Insatiable,” I corrected. Oh, my God did I love the way that ran off my tongue. If I had any musical ability whatsoever, I'd write a song. “Tell Atlantic we're a go.”
Chapter Eight
MADDOX
It didn't take me long to pack. I'd spent years living in and out of suitcases, jetting from one meeting in Tokyo to another in Bangkok, LA to New York, business adventures like that, so this was totally second nature.
I didn't have to think too long or too hard on what I needed to bring for the señorita. She wouldn't be needing clothes. I did stuff a few essentials for her in a carry-on, some products left over from my female guests. There was this vanilla scented body cream I really liked, and the idea of spreading it over her tight, naked flesh almost made me take a masturbatory time-out in the bathroom.
That was rough. Almost masturbating, to me, was akin to torture. Cruel and unusual punishment. Without full release either by my own hand or other methods, I suffered unbearably. No lie. It was absolute anguish, nothing could describe it. I was a full fledged sexual addict, and like any addict denied their drug of choice, the withdraw is excruciating. Which was why I never denied myself. I couldn't. I'd die, I swear.
Forbidden Sensations: A Dark Romance Page 7