Wicked Desires (Vol. 1): Three Erotic Shorts

by Jennifer Simms

  She closed the phone and shook her head. Everything about this job was going whacky, it seemed. Why not the grand finale as well? She stood up on wobbly legs, smiling to have been true and rightly fucked for the first time in years.

  Driving into town, her hands around the wheel of her Jaguar -- her own Jaguar, the one she’d been driving when she and Richard first “met” -- she smiled and wondered what the afternoon held.

  The restaurant was in Malibu. Nothing fancy, but plenty out of the way. She liked that. Maybe this client wasn’t a complete idiot, after all. Though clearly demented, given the fact that he’d gone to much trouble to hire someone like Claudia to sabotage a man like Richard’s success.

  She drove by the restaurant twice, three times, looking for fancy cars or super secret spy mobiles and finding neither. Then again, she was early; Claudia was always early. She drove to the nearest drug store and bought some breath mints, a clip for her hair, another new disposable cell phone -- she went through about three a month -- and a bottle of vanilla hand sanitizer for her purse.

  Then she sat in the parking lot, filing her nails and sucking a mint, wondering if she was making the right decision. Not just about meeting her client, but about marrying the man she’d been paid to humiliate, crush and destroy.

  The clock on her dashboard ticked down, but she still had fifteen minutes. The windows were open, the sea breeze rushing in from the Pacific, the sky blue. She allowed herself to smile. By the time she finished her mint and fired up the Jaguar, she had made a decision.

  Yes, she would meet with the client. Yes, she would meet that commitment. No, she would not take his money. No, she would not apologize and, when the time came to marry Richard Laymon, she would do it, happily and for real.

  She smiled, walking through the front door of the jazz club, letting her eyes adjust. Her client, cliché though it sounded, would be wearing a ball cap and holding a carnation, sitting in the corner booth, waiting for her precisely at noon.

  The club was mostly empty, no surprise there. It wasn’t exactly the Palms. A quiet trio sat upon a small stage, groaning out The Girl from Ipanema as she walked deeper into the club.

  A man was sitting, in a ball cap, in the corner booth. As she walked closer, she saw a carnation on the table. He was fiddling with it in long, pale fingers.

  She immediately recognized them. “Richard?”

  He looked up, a sad smile on his face.

  She sat down in the seat across from him, quickly spinning a tale to explain why she might be… then she stopped. Why did he have the carnation? Why was he sitting here? In this booth? In that cap?

  At precisely noon?

  “Surprised?” he asked.

  She decided to hedge her bets. “About… what?”

  “It’s me, Claudia. I’m your client. I hired you.” He hefted a briefcase from behind him, startling her. She hadn’t noticed it sitting there. Once on the table, he opened it to reveal a large stack of bills. “Two hundred grand, as promised. You can take it right now, no harm done.”

  She shook her head, slamming the top shut. “What… why are you doing this, Richard? Who put you up to this?”

  Claudia looked around frantically, hoping to see a cameraman from some “Punked” show or some of Richard’s friends, having a go at her. When she looked back, he was still there; quite alone.

  “I meant it when I asked you to marry me,” he said, quietly.

  “Me too.”

  He chuckled. She sat forward, grabbing his hands. “I mean it, Richard. I came here today, to turn away that money, to tell the client to go to hell. To tell him that… I love you.”

  He tried to squirm out of her grasp, but she wouldn’t let him. “How did you find out?”

  “You remember that job you did last year? Harry Trumball?”

  Ugh. The very name made her sick. “How could I forget?”

  “Well, I met you once, at a party. You probably don’t remember, but… I did. I thought you were beautiful, smart, too smart to be with a creep like Harry Trumball. When I saw the video of him at the wedding, all those people, him standing at the altar, alone, well… I started doing some digging. That’s when I ran across this…”

  He wriggled one hand free and slid a black business card from his jacket pocket. She saw the foil lettering and didn’t have to read it to know it said “Corporate Concubines.”

  “Clever name,” he chuckled.

  She sat back, releasing his other hand. “Don’t look at me that way, Richard.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are, and let me tell you, your hands are dirty too, pal.”

  He stared across the table at her, head cocked questioningly to one side. “You think you’re the only one who can do a little digging?” she asked.

  A waiter approached just then, older and stooped; he’d probably worked there for years, decades even. She smiled and ordered for them; two margaritas, no salt, his favorite. When the waiter had gone she leaned back in. “I know all about how you stole the idea for HydroTech from your college roommate. How he’s been blackmailing you about it for years. How the only reason you were friends with a guy like Harry Trumball in the first place is because he had the connections, the muscle, to--”

  He held his hands up in mock defeat, just in time for the waiter to arrive with their drinks. Richard held up his glass and she followed. “Okay, so… neither of us is exactly an angel. Let’s toast to… starting over.”

  She picked up her glass and clinked it against his, taking an extra long drag and realizing she never had breakfast. She took another sip and then set the glass down, easing back in her seat.

  Richard followed suit, relaxing somewhat into the back of his aged leather booth. His eyes were sad, but he was smiling. She said. “What now?”

  He shrugged, toying with his glass on the wet, black coaster. “That’s up to you.”

  “Me?” Claudia finished her drink, pushed the empty away. “How me?”

  “Well, think about it Claudia. I’m your client. I set all this up. Why do you think I’d do that? To sabotage my own career?”

  She shrugged. “Why did you do it?”

  “Because I had to get to know you better. I had to get to know you as a person.”

  She was about to get indignant, then she realized they’d both lied to each other. She could only chuckle. “So, after getting to know me, you still proposed? Knowing what I’d do?”

  “That’s just it,” he said, calling the waiter over for another round. “I didn’t know what you’d do. I mean, I don’t know what you’ll do now. Do you?”

  She shook her head, realizing she had no earthly idea. “Well,” he hedged, “I’d like… I mean, I meant it when I asked you to marry me last night. I hope… I hope you meant it when you said ‘yes.’”

  “I did,” she blurted, reaching for her fresh drink but not sipping it. “I do.”

  He smiled. “Then I’d say we have some wedding planning to do.”

  “You mean, after all you know about me…”

  “And all YOU know about ME,” he added, pointing his short, frosty glass at her.

  “You still want to marry me? For real?”

  He nodded energetically. “I think it’s time we both faced our pasts and started living up to our futures, don’t you?”

  She’d never thought of it that way before, but it made her smile just the same. He reached a hand over invitingly, and she paused before reaching out to clasp it.

  They used their free hands to toast to their future. And, for once, both meant it…

  Conquered Love

  by Priscilla West

  Emma took the road from the market toward her small house in the village. She held her head high, kept her feet on the road, diverging neither right nor left. After their many years of occupying Emma’s small English village, the Viking conquerors already knew many of the village women on sight, especially the younger ones of childbearing age like Emma. And with her husband long dead in the
invasion, she knew she was vulnerable, unable to defend herself if any of the Vikings decided to take her against her will.

  Some of them watched her as she walked. They stood in groups of three or more, brutal with their long battle axes, fiercely bearded faces, and gigantic bulk. How could the village women lay with them and not be crushed to death. She shuddered with revulsion at the thought.

  The road was rough under her feet as she made her way through the rowdy afternoon throng. Villagers going into the market for their midday meat pie and ale, women like her getting items for the last meal ahead of the eventide crush when the market was virtually mobbed by Anglo-Saxons and Vikings alike.

  Emma adjusted her basket of foodstuffs in her arms as she walked, relieved to see the outlines of her cottage not very far away.

  “Ah, sweetling. It’s a pleasure to see you again.” One of the Vikings detached himself from the group he was chatting with. He came up behind her, his teeth bared in a fierce smile as he chatted her up in his rough accent. “Do you need a walk to your door?” he asked. “I can go inside with you, show you what a real man is like.” His smile widened. “I know you haven’t had one since that puny man of yours fell under Viking axe.”

  She flinched from him, willing herself not to run. If she ran, he would chase. She would not escape.

  “Thank you kind sir, but no. I’m already near my home. You are kind to offer but I must refuse.”

  She had learned from early in the invasion that above all else, she must be polite and deferential; otherwise she would likely suffer the same fate as poor Sara, a feisty widow who had dared to curse at one of the invaders and publicly refuse him when he wanted to lie with her. In a rage, he had flung her into the streets on her back and roughly taken her while the rest of the village watched in helpless horror. In the end, Sara took her revenge on the Viking, gutting him with her fish knife while he slept, passed out from drink. The Vikings knew she had done it. Rather than face their cruel justice, Sara took her own life. Emma did not want that for herself.

  The Viking walking beside her scowled at Emma’s denial of him. “You do not refuse me, wench.”

  He said the words almost conversationally, as if it was a foregone conclusion that he would walk her to her door, help her unpack the food, then rut with her on the floor of her cottage. Whether or not she was willing. She trembled with fear, wishing she had Sara’s courage.

  Despite her resolution, Emma walked faster. The Viking easily kept up with her. “You’re as eager as I am for this then, sweetling?”

  A sob of fear rose in Emma’s throat.

  “Snorri, leave the fair maid alone.”

  Another Viking appeared at their side, similarly armed, but larger. He spoke their rude tongue that Emma had forced herself to learn many years before as a form of protection. But something about this new Viking seemed familiar to Emma.

  “Or what Tryggr? You have put her under your protection but have yet to claim her.” The one called Snorri turned from Emma to face his countryman.

  Emma hurried away, unwilling to wait for the outcome of their confrontation. She ducked into a narrow street between the bakery and the cobbler, taking the long route to her house in case either of the men thought of following her. She knew it was a lost cause. Most of these men had been in her village for years. They knew where everyone lived, especially those they thought were of use. And from the way the Viking, Snorri, had looked at her, she knew exactly what use he was contemplating for her. She shivered in her thin summer dress as she hurried home.

  In all the years since the invaders had been in her village, she had avoided that ultimate violation. Mostly by staying out of their way, then telling anyone who asked that she had a man in the village. Soon enough, that lie had been uncovered when she could not produce a husband after being pressed to. But then something had happened. Just like today.

  Then she remembered where she has seen the new Viking before.

  When her ruse of having a far off husband failed her, he had been the one who appeared, much like he had today, out of the crush of tall men. He was bigger even than the one who had pressed his suit, the battle axe in its harness large and deadly. The men all seemed to both respect and fear him.

  “She is under my protection,” he had said to the other Viking who’d wanted her. “Leave her.”

  After her unwanted suitor had walked on with a look of wariness, even fear, at her savior, the big Viking had only nodded briefly in her direction before walking away. That was many months ago. Emma had almost forgotten that it happened, thinking perhaps she had dreamed it.

  That giant of a man, although he looked very much like his brothers, something about his manner stood out among them. And, she recalled as he’d approached her on the side opposite to Snorri, his eyes were the most incredible shade of green. Unusual among all these blue-eyed, blond men.

  It wasn’t long before she found her cottage, quickly stepped inside and locked the door. For many long moments, she stood behind the locked door, trembling. Fearing that at any moment, Snorri would appear, demanding entrance.

  But after a long wait, nothing happened. No man knocked her door down. No Viking appeared to tell her she had to submit to him. She breathed a soft sigh of relief and walked into the corner of her cottage with the hearth. She put her basket of food on the wooden table and took a pot down from its hook on the wall.

  A knock sounded on her door. She jumped. Her heart fled up into her throat. For a moment, Emma remembered Sara as she lay under the Viking in the middle of the muddy road, split open by his huge body as she turned her face away, refusing to cry out. Emma grabbed a knife from the table and slipped it into the pocket of her dress.

  At the door, she took a deep, trembling breath. Then opened it.

  Instead of Snorri, the other Viking stood in her doorway. Tryggr.

  Away from the others, he was still a giant. Still a Viking. And although he had just saved her from Snorri’s attentions and had protected her in the past, he was still one of the invaders. Not to be trusted.

  “May I help you, good sir?” She felt the handle of the knife in her pocket. Clenched her fist around it.

  “Fair maiden.” His voice rumbled low and deep. “You dropped this as you fled.” He held up a loaf of bread, still warm and wrapped in a cloth.

  She shook her head, confused. What kind of game was he playing? “That’s not mine,” she said.

  “It is a gift then.” He pressed the bread into her hand and stepped back from her doorway.

  “An apology for my countryman.” Then he turned and was gone.

  For a large man, he moved swiftly, leaving only the scent of leather and steel in his wake. In a daze, Emma closed the door. Why had he done these things for her?

  Against her will, a vision of his face came to her then, rough-hewn, but with a certain visceral appeal. And those blazing green eyes. She touched her stomach as an unexpected frisson of attraction moved through her. For a Viking?

  Emma shook her head. Impossible. Then, unwilling to trouble her mind any further with thoughts of any of them, especially the one called Tryggr, she went back to the hearth to prepare her meal.

  Emma sat in the bath tub behind her cottage, with the waist high water cooling around her. She would have rather gone to the river to bathe, but she knew the Vikings often visited there, perhaps hoping to catch helpless women at their bath, perhaps to take baths of their own. Whatever the reason for their preference for the river, Emma avoided it.

  Once, it had been her favorite place to visit. She enjoyed simply resting on the large rock on the riverbank, allowing her thoughts to roam while her clothes dried near her in the sun. She knew she should leave the bathtub and go inside. Lighting crashed across the sky while thunder rolled in the near distance. But though her water was no longer as hot as she liked, it was a balm to her battered spirit. Every day, she lived under the thumb of the invaders, in fear of one thing after another. And always alone. She needed something to soothe h
er.

  Many women of the village had taken Viking lovers to replace the husbands or betrothed who they had lost in the invasion. But Emma could find no such man of her own. She had not looked. And she knew many of the Vikings often looked at her, but none of them moved her. They were all brutish and wild, nothing more than pigs at the trough. Monsters in a field of innocents.

  Then against her will, she remembered the man who had saved her twice. Tryggr.

  She remembered his big bulk in her doorway, how his bright green eyes had blazed on her in the late afternoon sun, missing nothing about her. Not her fear. Not her tattered dress. Not the fact of her being a woman. Yes, she had noticed that he wanted her. Why else had he done all those things for her? But it was odd that he hadn’t tried to take her. It was odd that he hadn’t at least offered to ease her womanly aches.

  And that made her consider him. Cautiously. It was his kindness more than anything that drew her. It was rare among his brethren. And compelling.

  Emma looked up as a pattering of raindrops fell from the sky. Already? She sighed in disappointment, knowing she had to get out of the water before lightning came to close. She picked up her washrag and soaped it and cleaned her body. Her neck, face, her breasts. She stood up, washed her belly, between her thighs, down her legs, the soapy water washing off her skin beneath the steadily falling rain. Suddenly, she heard a noise, a sound of distress, she thought. Emma looked up, and saw a man. A giant of a man. Tryggr.