Icarus Rising

by Rob Manary

  I eventually grab a cab and go back to my hotel. I am moving through the lobby when the concierge hails me. I move towards the front desk and he has another package for me, this one substantially larger than yesterday’s. I tip him generously and take what is surely St. Claire’s latest present. I smile broadly. “Miss St. Claire has left several messages. She would like you to call her when you get in.” And this gets me to really smiling. I give the messenger another twenty. He thanks me profusely but I am already moving towards the elevators.

  In my room I don’t know which to do first, tear into the package or call St. Claire. I decide to call St. Claire. The phone rings once and she answers. “Hello, Icarus.” I can hear the smile in her voice.

  “A little eager, St. Claire.” I laugh.

  “A lot eager, Icarus. Where have you been? I’ve been calling all morning. Why is it that you’re the only person in the world who doesn’t have a cell phone?”

  I laugh once more. “I’ve been out, just out walking. I don’t have a cell phone because I don’t believe there is any reason why someone needs to get hold of me twenty-four hours a day.”

  “What if I had been calling to tell you I needed you inside me?” she teases.

  “Based on past experience I’d say that wasn’t very likely. Is that why you were calling? Do you need me inside you?” I jab back, enjoying the repartee.

  “I do need you in me, but no, that wasn’t why I was calling. But while we’re on the subject, yesterday I got a Brazilian for you.” She laughs.

  Again, she has won. I’m stunned, she has again taken me to the ropes. “Thank you,” I stammer.

  “That’s right “thank you”, Icarus. You have no idea the effort, and now the maintenance.” She drawls out the next, taunting, “Fuck, just fuck.”

  Visions of her Brazilian fill my mind. Picturing her sweet bald pussy takes my breath and I am silenced, only to be brought back to our conversation by her wicked laughter. “You’re thinking about it right now, aren’t you?”

  “Uh-huh,” I admit.

  She laughs. “Well, the reason I called was because my performance last night of “I Wanna Be Your Dog” has gone viral. It was posted on Youtube and got over 500,000 hits since last night. I never would have done that song without you. I owe you. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.” She giggles. “But, I’m sure you’ll have a few suggestions.”

  “A few.” I am happy for her, and in some small way I had contributed.

  “I want to go to a strip bar. I’ve never been to a strip bar. Then we’ll go back to my hotel where I’ll try and thank you. I’m going to cut rehearsal short today, finish up at nine or ten. I’ll pick you up at eleven.” Only St. Claire would think an eleven or twelve hour day was cutting it short, but I couldn’t help smiling. For whatever reason the idea of taking St. Claire to a strip bar caused blood to rush downward. There is another long pause. I know there is something else she wants to say. Finally, in a tone I can barely hear she says, “Icarus, I really love spending time with you. Don’t fuck this up. Don’t let me fuck this up.”

  She had said so much, I match her genuine tone. “I really love spending time with you too, St. Claire. I won’t, and I won’t.”

  Another pause before her tone grows light again. “I’ve been keeping track and I think it’s my turn to hang up.” I laugh as I hear the sound of her disconnecting.

  I unwrap the package to see what I will be wearing tonight. There is a black cloth coat that looks to fall to the knee with six black buttons running down both sides and a black silk shirt. There is also a pair of black pants and a black scarf. I smile, not what I would have chosen, but I have been told I am a horrible dresser. I like that St. Claire wants to dress me. That she takes the time to choose these outfits. I try on her newest offering. I have to admit that she picks clothes that fit perfectly, show off my ass, my chest, my biceps, hug my body to perfection.

  The long slow crawl to eleven begins. I start reading a novel I have wanted to read, but can’t focus, I keep thinking of St. Claire and her Brazilian. The T.V. offers little distraction. Tonight St. Claire and I will consummate our relationship. I grow hard just thinking of her writhing under me or her riding atop me and I flip through the channels again and again without seeing anything. I picture her looking up at me with those beautiful emerald eyes as she works my hardness between her lips. I wonder how her pussy will taste. I wonder if she will moan as I thrust into her, if she will scream as so many have, as I plunge deep inside her the first time. These thoughts are killing me. I can’t stop thinking of her bare womanhood, her labia exposed, her sweet clit barely hidden by the hood of her lips, how she might move, the guttural sounds she might make, and then my thoughts shift...

  I think of waking up next to her, not just tomorrow morning, but every morning. I think of a life with her. I see myself waiting at the altar as she walks down the aisle towards me, her flaming red hair only half obscured by a thin white veil. I have never had such thoughts before. A sense of unease and a sense of calm war within me. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. Tears start to roll from my eyes and I don’t know where they are coming from. I don’t know the cause. I stagger towards the mini bar and I down three of the tiny bottles of scotch before I stop shaking. The long slow crawl until eleven continues. I empty four more of the one ounce bottles of scotch before eleven finally comes.

  I am waiting outside the Ritz Carlton and St. Claire’s car pulls up at precisely eleven. I don’t wait for the driver to open his door, get out, and come around to open the passenger door for me. Just as the car comes to a stop I have my hand on the door and am swinging it open. St. Claire waits within. I am frozen for a moment as I get my first glimpse of her tonight.

  She is wearing a form fitting, zip up, black leather jacket with a high collar, and I guess, nothing on underneath. She’s also wearing jeans that cling to her petite frame. I slide in next to her and my lips are on hers quicker than she expects. “Eager boy,” she more than half moans between kisses. I want to tell the driver to take us to her hotel, but she wants to go to a strip bar.

  She pushes me down and I move backwards as she climbs on top of me. She takes both my hands and straightens on top of me. She slides my hands up her sides, then guides my hands under her jacket, to her full, firm breasts. My appraisal was right, she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Her nipples are hard and she moans deeply at my slightest touch. I trace tiny circles around her nipples with my fingertips, and then take her hard nipples between my fingertips and apply the slightest pressure. She throws her head back and gasps. She squeezes my hands as I apply more pressure to those tiny buds. A squeal escapes her lips. She looks down at me, eyes filled with lust, and she removes my hands from under her jacket. She bites her lip, sighs, and slides my hands back down her sides. Holding my hands she just looks at me. I just look at her. I could stare into those green eyes for a lifetime. I realize I want to stare into those eyes for a lifetime.

  We arrive at “The Brass Rail”, one of Toronto’s most well established and famous strip bars. It is well renowned and frequented by stars. St. Claire causes a minor commotion as she enters heightened by me being with her. It dies down and we take a table near the stage and I order a bottle of champagne. The selection is poor. I settle on a bottle of Dom Pérignon of no particular good year.

  I fill a glass for St. Claire and then one for myself. “And I’ll lay right down in my favorite place,” she half sings with a wicked smile. She makes the words ooze sex. It is no surprise to me her version of the song has gone viral. She moves to whisper the next line in my ear. “And now I wanna be your dog.” She holds her glass up.

  “That is a terrible toast, St. Claire,” I tease. We clink glasses and drink.

  We drink quite a lot. The shooter girl comes by and we take a couple shots. The shooter girl comes by again and we take another couple shots and this time we buy the shooter girl a shot. We tip the shooter girl extremely well and continue to buy her shots with every sho
t we take. The shooter girl is getting a little drunk. She makes her rounds then comes back to us. We drink more shots and the shooter girl sits on my lap. I put my arm around her so she doesn’t fall. We continue drinking champagne, and B-52’s, Orgasms, Blowjobs, Sambuca, and anything else that comes in the guise of a shot.

  St. Claire wants to buy me a lap dance. She flags down a girl she finds attractive and asks her to dance for me. The dancer asks St. Claire if she wants to watch. I am very drunk. St. Claire wants to watch. The dancer takes St. Claire and me to the back of the club and sits us on a couch partitioned away from the rest of the club for privacy. Like half a dozen other couches partitioned away. The dance is utterly forgettable even as the dancer grinds against me. St. Claire holds my hand and smiles, delighted. The dance finishes and the dancer leaves.

  St. Claire then surprises me by straddling me and grinding against me. I grow hard instantly. The back of the club is dimly lit; no one can see what we are doing in our little cubicle. “I want to see it.” St. Claire looks at the bulge in my pants, then to my eyes. She slides down slightly. “Can I see it?” She bites her lip.

  I am very drunk. I nod and St. Claire has my pants unbuttoned and my fly down almost before I can register what is happening. St. Claire is at least as drunk as I am. She pulls my underwear down and gently takes hold of my cock.

  “It’s so big,” she whispers, sliding her hand around my girth. “I’ve only ever seen Wolf’s and it wasn’t.” She struggles for words. “It was small,” she laughs. I can say nothing, her hand around me feels incredible. “Fuck, I need to get laid. I haven’t been laid in a year and a half,” she confesses. I feel pre-cum leaking out of me, it is excruciating, St. Claire notices. She scoops up my hot seed with a finger and places it to her mouth, licking my juice off her fingertip. It is probably the most erotic thing I have ever seen. Over her shoulder I see the shooter girl approaching. “Someone’s coming!” I whisper harshly. St. Claire reluctantly releases me. I zip up my pants just as the shooter girl arrives.

  We do more shots. The shooter girl seems to think she has found a home on my lap. I am very drunk. The shooter girl is whispering in my ear. What she is whispering I don’t know. Finally, it is last call and St. Claire is ready to go. She gave her limo driver the night off, but there are lots of cabs outside the club. We grab one. I open the door for St. Claire and she slides in. I follow.

  “The Royal York,” I instruct the cabbie. I try not to slur, but I’m not sure how successful I am. St. Claire is reaching for my fly again.

  “I want to see it again.” She bites her lip softly, those green eyes full of mischief. I don’t stop her as she unzips me, slides my underwear down again, and frees my hard cock once more. The cabbie is stealing glances at us in his mirror. I don’t care.

  She runs her nail from the base of my manhood all the way up to the tip. I shudder, squirm, and catch my breath. “I was sixteen when Wolf and I met. He was thirty-one. I lost my virginity to him.” She shakes her head as she tells me this. “He’s the only guy I’ve ever been with. And we haven’t been together for over a year.” I say nothing, just look at her. I don’t think I could say anything if I wanted to. She runs her nail around the head of my cock. I almost cry out.

  “Fuck,” I finally do cry out. She is driving me fucking crazy. I’m breathing in short gasps. She wraps her hand around my shaft again and begins to slowly move that tiny hand up and down my throbbing rod.

  “Tell me something about you. Something dirty. Something no one else knows,” she demands. If I had them, I would tell her nuclear launch codes. I move my hips a little into that hand of hers that moves painfully slowly up and down my dick.

  I can only think of one thing that might be considered a dirty secret. Something I’ve never told anyone. “I’ve never been inside a woman without a condom.”

  Her eyes go wide, but thankfully she doesn’t stop moving her hand up and down. I’m bucking my hips a little now in response to the movement of her hand. “Advantage, Icarus.”

  I close my eyes and selfishly let her work on me. She brings me to the brink and I hold her hand, forcing her to stop. We look into each other’s eyes until I can control myself again, and then I release her hand to continue. To the brink she brings me several times. There are few words, only her lips at my ear as she lovingly ministers to my need. “You have a beautiful cock,” she whispers. “I love your cock.”

  Finally we reach the Royal York. I tuck myself back into my pants, pay the cabbie, and we sprint through the lobby to the elevators. If we run into any of her entourage on our way to her suite, I don’t remember. I don’t much care, either. But, as we get to her suite, her confessions of earlier pierce through the fog of my alcohol addled brain. And the implication of what she said sinks in. She had only ever been with Wolf, and she hadn’t been with anyone for over a year. I couldn’t do this. Inside her suite I grow a conscience.

  The thoughts find voice. “St. Claire, I can’t do this. Not our first time. Not like this. You’re drunk. I’m drunk.”

  She looks hurt and lashes out. “You can’t fuck me?! The shooter girl! I bet you could fuck her, Icarus, couldn’t you! Fuck, Icarus, just fuck.” She is out for blood. “I’m sitting right there and she’s sitting on your lap? She’s whispering in your ear? What the fuck, Icarus? How do you think that made me feel?”

  I hadn’t thought anything of it. “I’m sorry, St. Claire, I didn’t think…”

  She is merciless. “You’re a slut! You’re nothing but a slut!” she screams.

  I pause; her words are true, what protest could I offer. I was a slut, nothing but a slut. “St. Claire, please,” I implore. I don’t know what to say. “St. Claire...” I hope to soothe her but I have no words.

  “You’re a slut!’ she wails, then pales. “I’m going to be sick.” She rushes to the bathroom and I can hear her dry heaving. I am lost. I do the only thing I can think of. I follow her into the bathroom and hold those sexy red curls while she dry heaves again and again. Between bouts I hold her, my arms around her, the two of us on the bathroom floor. Over and over she is struck with fits of dry heaves. Again and again I hold her hair while her body convulses. After one particularly violent episode she looks up at me with those green eyes, filled with tears from her latest effort, and she says, “Icarus, I think I’m falling in love with you.”

  “St. Claire,” I smile into her eyes. “I know I’m falling in love with you.”

  I remember nothing more until the morning.

  Wednesday, Day 10

  I wake with a screaming hangover, but this is not what wakes me. What wakes me is the feel of fingertips running up and down my hard manhood. I open my eyes and St. Claire’s eyes greet me. We are both naked. I have no memory of losing my clothes. We’re in bed. St. Claire is on her side, looking up at me. I prop myself up on my side to face her.

  I can see only the faintest outline of her womanhood, but as promised she is bare. I steal another glance at her naked body. I am left breathless. I try hard not to stare. I try to meet her eyes and am not very successful. She grins as my eyes trail back down over her body. She stretches a bit to give me a better view, a quick glimpse of her pussy. She grasps my hardness and smiles as I meet her eyes again. For a moment I panic.

  “Did we?” I ask.

  She slowly shakes her head and looks down to my thick cock. “I don’t think so....” A wicked grin. “I’d be sore.”

  One of my arms is stretched out over my head, she takes that hand. Her other hand tenderly holds my dick. “Icarus, I didn’t mean what I said last night,” she says.

  It is my turn to bite my lip, she seems to do it so often with great success. “About falling in love with me?”

  “No,” she says quickly. “That I meant. About you being a slut. I was really drunk. I didn’t mean it, Icarus.”

  My free hand moves to her left breast. She has perfect breasts, firm, full, and slightly upturned. At my touch I feel her nipple harden. I rub that nipple softly under
my fingertips. Her eyes are locked with mine, but she slowly closes them with an intake of breath as I massage her tiny nub. She had wounded me with her words last night and the sting is still in that word. I sigh much louder than I intend. “You were right, St. Claire. I am a slut, nothing but a slut. But I don’t want to be that person anymore. I want to be with you. Only you.”

  Lazily she opens her eyes, I can tell she loves the way I am tenderly rubbing her. In response she moves her hand up and down my stiffness. She laughs softly. “You sound like a Harlequin romance novel.” Then she grows serious. “I want to be with you too, Icarus, and only you.”

  We move to kiss but our lips lock for only a second before we break away from each other. Her breath is horrible. I can see she is thinking the same of mine. We both laugh. “Let’s not do that again until we find a couple of toothbrushes. Fuck, I’m hung over, fuck, just fuck.” she says, holding a hand to her temple.

  I bend my head to capture her other nipple in my mouth. She releases the hand that holds my cock and pushes my head away. “Only your hand.” She squeezes the hand she holds over my head. “And only one hand.” She smirks and moves her hand back to my throbbing thickness.

  I want to throw her down and take her. I don’t think she would protest if I did, but we are both hung over; maybe this is not how she wants our first time. Regardless, I am completely hers now. I will do whatever she says. She wants to play. I’ll play.

  I leave her nipple and push her shoulder, indicating I want her on her back. Willingly, she slides back. I’ve fantasized about her pussy for days now. I want to touch her, feel her, be inside her, if only my fingers. It is an effort to slowly trail my hand down her stomach. It takes a supreme act of will not to simply attack her sweetness. I stop at her bellybutton and circle it with my fingertips, darting a finger inside. She laughs and smiles into my eyes.

  Her hand is moving slowly up and down my cock once more. I am thinking only of her, the feel of her hand is incredible, making me ache to take her, to make her mine, but foremost in my mind is her pleasure. Her legs are slightly parted so I move my hand between them and tap her thigh. My eyes never leave hers. Her eyes never leave mine. A little hesitantly she spreads her legs. She hasn’t been with anyone in over a year, has only ever been with one man. I understand her reluctance. Her eyes tell me how vulnerable she is.