Unbeknownst to me, my father had invited her to our weekly Friday night Shabbat dinner. The night all things should be peaceful. But at our house, all hell usually broke loose. I did a quick silent prayer. Everyone behave. Please behave.
On Friday at six in the evening, the usual suspects were gathered at my parents’ dining room table. It was elegantly set with fine linens, crystal, china, and silver. My father sat at the head and my striking platinum-haired mother at the other end. I sat catty-corner, next to my father. The remaining chairs were occupied by my overweight older sister Marcy and her husband Matt, both gynecologists with a thriving Beverly Hills joint practice . . . their children, my six-year-old twin nephews from Planet Hell . . . and last but not least, my feisty eighty-five-year-old grandmother Muriel, who lived independently in the guest house on our property. Our house, located in the prestigious, gated Beverly Park area of Beverly Hills was huge—a twenty thousand square foot palace that included a screening room, full gym, and ten bathrooms. Many often mistook it for a hotel. It sat on six acres of land. In addition to the guesthouse, there was a swimming pool, tennis court, and a studio where my mother made pottery. Our A-list celebrity neighbors included Eddie Murphy and Sylvester Stallone as well as billionaire Haim Saban, the creator of the Power Rangers, a show I loved watching as a child.
There was one empty chair next to mine. It was reserved for Jennifer. She was unusually late. The Shabbat antics had already begun. The twins were whining about watching television; my sister was yelling at them, and my brother-in-law was yelling at my sister. Oblivious to it all, my grandmother was already on her second (third?) glass of wine. Technically, one was supposed to wait to drink the wine until after the Shabbat candles were lit and the prayer for the wine was said. But Grandma always said in her Yiddish accent, “Vy vait? Vait shmait!” At her age, she could not be challenged.
“Vhere’s your new girlfriend?” she quipped, after another loud gulp of wine.
I jerked slightly. “She should be here soon, and she’s not my girlfriend.”
“Vhatever,” responded Grandma, going right back to her wine. “You need to get married.”
Grandma was always on my case to settle down. My mother shot her a harsh look she simply dismissed with a wave of her veined hand and a roll of her crinkly gray eyes. Fortunately, I didn’t have to respond. I was saved by the bell. Literally. The chime of our front doorbell sounded. It must be Jennifer. My guess was confirmed when a minute later, she was escorted to the dining room by our longtime housekeeper, Rosa. Our eyes immediately made contact.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she apologized, her voice on edge. “I got a little lost coming up here.”
Indeed, it was not easy to get to our house. The gated community was very secluded, and one wrong turn off poorly lit, twisty Benedict Canyon could easily land you miles away in The Valley.
My father stood up. A warm smile beamed on his distinguished face. “Welcome to our home, Jennifer. No apologies necessary.”
My eyes soaked her in. Not wearing her glasses, she looked absolutely stunning in a knee-length, navy blue A-line dress with matching pumps that subtly showed off her curves and slender limbs. Why did she always leave so much to the imagination? It fucking drove me crazy.
Her eyes wandered around the antique-and-art-filled grand dining room. By the expression on her face, I could tell she was in awe of the grandeur of our house. I felt myself cringe, embarrassed a little by the blatant wealth of my family. It couldn’t be helped. My father, who had come from meager means, had worked hard to build Conquest Broadcasting into a global empire, and this house, along with others we owned around the world, was the prize for all his hard work. Whether I agreed with him or not over programming and business decisions, my old man was a force to be reckoned with—and to be admired.
Composing herself, Jennifer took reserved steps toward my mother. In her hand was a bouquet of pink lilies. Their intoxicating scent filled the room.
“These are for you, Mrs. Bernstein.”
“They’re beautiful,” exclaimed my mother. “Thank you so much and please call me Helen.”
Rosa immediately took the flowers from Jennifer, retreated to the pantry, and returned with them arranged in a vase. She set the arrangement on the credenza and then headed back to the kitchen.
“I guess that’s my seat,” Jennifer said nervously, eyeing the empty chair next to mine. My father escorted her to it. The heavenly cherry vanilla scent of Jennifer’s hair mixed with that of the lilies and made a heady combination.
“Hi,” I said softly in her ear.
She gazed at me and blinked her beautiful long-lashed green eyes. With a nervous little smile, she whispered “hi” back. The tension between us was palpable. And so was the electricity.
Returning to his seat, my father introduced my family to Jen. “Jennifer’s one of our rising stars at Conquest.”
Her face flushed the color of the lilies she’d brought.
“You’re too skinny,” shouted out my outspoken Grandma.
She’s fucking perfect, I thought to myself.
My father continued. “It’s customary in our household for the guest of honor to light the Shabbat candles.”
Jennifer flinched. “This is my first Shabbat. I don’t think I know how.”
Despite her protest, my father urged her to come to the head of the table to light the candles. My father was not a man who took “no” for an answer. And Jennifer smartly knew that.
“I’m not very good at lighting matches,” she stammered, taking the matchbox into one hand. Opening the box with her other, she pulled out a match and hesitantly slid it against the striker. Nada. She tried again. Nada. Strike after strike was met with failure. The twins began to crack up and count her misfires. Moving on to another match and then another, Jennifer grew flustered and flushed with embarrassment. Either Calamity Jen was going to burn down the house or burn herself to a crisp. I rose from my chair and circled behind her.
Wrapping one arm around her tiny waist, I curled my fingers of the other around the dainty wrist striking the matches. Her backside pressed into me, and I could feel the rise and fall of her chest. Her long ponytail tickled the sensitive crook of my neck, and that divine cherry vanilla scent of her hair trickled up my nose. Mmmm. She smelled delicious enough to eat. I could feel the beginnings of a hard-on beneath my slacks.
“On my count of three, get ready to light the match,” I breathed into her ear, resisting the urge to suck and nuzzle it. “One . . . two . . . three.” Aiding her, she struck the match and successfully lit it. “Yay!” cried the obnoxious twins. I gently led her shaking hand to the two Shabbat candles that stood tall and erect in the Baccarat crystal holders before us. One after another, the wicks caught fire, and I felt my body heat up with hers. My cock was on fire too.
“Thanks,” she mumbled humbly, setting the matchbox and used match down on the table. It was customary for the woman who lit the candles to cover her eyes with one hand and usher in Shabbat with sweeping gestures of the other and then recite a blessing in Hebrew. Readjusting my hands, I helped her do this and said the prayer since she didn’t know it. My large splayed hands covered her small ones. I loved the way they felt in mine. She trembled against me, and I wondered if she could feel my arousal. And my heat.
Symbolically, Shabbat was the union of man and woman—a spiritual wedding. God taking his bride. That’s what I’d learned when I was studying for my Bar Mitzvah. I’d never given thought again to this concept until this very minute . . . with Jennifer McCoy almost in my arms. I had the burning urge to cover her long, graceful neck with kisses but settled for breathing hotly on the nape. After everyone said the prayers for the bread and the wine, I forced myself to break away from her. My cock stiff, we both returned to our seats. Shabbat dinner was about to be served.
Shabbat dinner was always an extravagant multi-course meal. It began with the challah, a delicious egg bread, being passed around the table and was f
ollowed by Grandma’s melt-in-your-mouth matzo ball soup, and my mother’s scrumptious brisket—a secret recipe she guarded with her life. The tantalizing aroma of the meal to come wafted in the air.
“What’s your favorite TV show?” asked one of the twins while Rosa circled the table and served the soup.
“SpongeBob,” replied Jennifer, smiling.
What was with her and that stupid cartoon character? My brows furrowed, but she’d definitely earned brownie points with the obnoxious twins. My nephews’ faces lit up like light bulbs.
“Cool beans! That’s our favorite too!”
“Maybe you can watch it with us after dinner,” chimed the other little devil.
My sister shot him a dirty look. “You know darn well we don’t watch TV on Shabbat, Jonathan.”
The little boy frowned. He tore off a large piece of his challah in frustration and hurled it at his mother. It hit her in the face.
“Do something about him!” she yelled at my brother-in-law after stuffing the fragment into her mouth.
He shrugged, too busy eating his soup.
Fuming, my sister leaped out of her chair and dragged Jonathan out of the dining room. The little brat screamed. I almost felt sorry for him.
“Meanie,” shouted the other twin, clanging his soup spoon on the table.
Grandma dramatically pounded her heart. “Oy! Such tsuris! Your mother’s become such a klafte.”
Klafte was the Yiddish word for “bitch.” I inwardly cringed. I was thankful that Jennifer didn’t understand a word of Yiddish but regretful that she had to put up with our Shabbat shenanigans. I turned to look at her. To my surprise, she seemed amused.
“What’s this?” she asked me as Rosa ladled the steamy broth into her bowl, followed by two big dumpling-like balls.
“Matzo ball soup. It’s delicious.”
My eyes stayed focused on her as she scooped up a matzo ball into her spoon. She pursed her lush lips and blew on it and then she put the delectable ball to her mouth. Her lips parted and then descended onto to it. I desperately wanted her lips on my balls and fantasized what they would feel like in her mouth. So good. So fucking good. Heat pooled inside them. I squirmed in my chair, rubbing my cock and nuts on the cushion.
“Mmm,” moaned Jennifer as she consumed the matzo ball.
“Mmm,” I repeated, my balls mentally rolling around in her mouth.
And then she swallowed. Her eyes closed in ecstasy. I hastily took off my jacket. Had Rosa turned the heat up?
She complimented my mother. “Helen, these taste soooo good.” Her deft velvet tongue traced her upper lip.
Holy shitballs! I wanted to zip down my fly. My cock was raging. This girl had given me a major fucking hard-on. There was no way I could sit here any longer without coming in my pants. I jumped up from my chair.
“I’ll be right back.” I hurried out of the dining room before anyone could see the pitched tent between my legs and practically ran to the nearest guest bathroom. I couldn’t get my pants down fast enough. My full-on erection sprung from my boxers. Without wasting a second, I fisted my fingers around it and stroked it hard, up and down. Faster and faster. Harder and harder. In my head, I imagined Jennifer’s sensuous mouth wrapped around it, following my hand, as I raced toward orgasm. Groans escaped my throat; my cock was on fire; I was desperate to come. I squeezed my eyes shut and picked up my pace. I was close. So, so close. My face contorted; my heart raced like a Ferrari, and my cock filled up like a glass of champagne. And then with a jerk and a grunt, I exploded. All over my hands. Such a massive release of power. I sighed with relief and opened my eyes. Standing at the doorway was Jennifer, her body a stone statue and her mouth a frozen wide “O.”
Holy, holy fuck!
Chapter 10
Jennifer
I couldn’t get my feet to move or my mouth to close. In need of a good pee from the soup and the nerve-shattering ride up the canyon, I had followed Helen’s directions down a long, art-filled corridor to the nearest guest bathroom. The door, while closed, was unlocked. I turned the knob and swung the door open. My eyes turned as round as marbles while my heart leapt to my throat. Oh my God! My boss was in the middle of jerking himself off. His eyes squeezed shut, he was totally oblivious to me. I should have run, but it was if my feet were super glued to the pink marble floor and my eyes chained to his pink marbled cock.
I let out a gasp, but his groans and pants washed it out. The expression on his face was one of pure tortured ecstasy. And the one on my face was of pure, total shock. I couldn’t get my eyes off his cock. Holy cow! It was huge! A pink, veined, rigid monstrosity that seemed to have a life of its own. I’d never seen anything like it before. Bradley’s cock was the only other cock I’d personally ever seen, and it sure it didn’t look like this.
My mouth fell to the floor and a bolt of heat tore though my body as I watched Blake come in his hand. A loud feral grunt accompanied the explosion—a burst of creamy cum that seeped through his fingers. With a sigh, he opened his eyes. With one word, they met mine. “Fuck!”
Grabbing a wad of toilet paper, he scrambled to clean himself up while I stood there like a shell-shocked idiot, wordless. He hastily tucked his still semi-erect cock back into his boxers and pulled up his pants.
“I’m sorry,” I finally murmured as he fastened his belt buckle. Mortification raced through me. Doofgirl. Why hadn’t I knocked first? The door after all was closed.
Blake’s face was flushed. Probably the same shade of red as mine. He managed to get his mouth to move again.
“It’s just a cock. A wedge of flesh. You might as well get used to it because you’ll be seeing plenty of them in your new job.”
Okay, a cock is a cock is a cock. But this was no ordinary cock. It was totally beyond, in a league of its own, and it belonged to my boss. How could I ever face him again? Maybe I should just count myself lucky that he didn’t ask me to help him tuck it back in, though the thought of touching that pulsing pillar sent a chill of tingles skittering down my spine.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, almost as if it were an afterthought.
“Um, uh, I have to go.” Sheesh. I sounded like a five-year-old.
“Right.” He quickly washed his hands over the elegant porcelain sink. For the first time, I noticed how spacious and beautiful this guest bathroom was with its hand-painted chinoiserie wallpaper and rich bronze fixtures. My eyes stayed on him as he dried his hands with a monogrammed hand towel that was draped over an ornate bronze rack. God, his hands were beautiful with their long, manicured tapered fingers.
“I’ll see you back in the dining room,” he said as he headed toward the door. To my surprise, as he brushed past me, still motionless, he gave my ponytail a playful tug. “Wait till you taste my mother’s brisket. It’ll make you hungry for more.”
With that, he left me alone to pee and to ponder as I sat on the toilet why the tingles that had traveled down my spine were now gathered in the area between my thighs.
The rest of the Shabbat dinner transpired without a major incident. Blake was right—his mother’s tender brisket was delicious and could turn an herbivore into a carnivore as his father joked—but it took all my effort to eat it. I’d totally lost my appetite. My stomach was twisted and my heart was hammering. All I could think about was another hunk of meat—Blake’s mind-blowing cock and the explosive orgasm I’d witnessed. Why the hell hadn’t I just dashed out of the bathroom? Why had I voyeuristically watch him come? And soak up every orgasmic second of his orgasmic display? Maybe, this new job was doing a head job on me—no pun intended. Or maybe . . .
“My son tells me you’re getting married,” thundered Blake’s father, hurling me out of my perturbing mental ramblings.
“Who’s the lucky man?” chimed in his mother. “And what does he do, dear?”
I set my fork down. I could feel Blake’s eyes on me. “He’s someone I met at USC, and he’s a dentist.”
“I hate dentists!” s
houted out one of the twins.
Blake’s sister shot him a dirty look. “That’s not a nice thing to say, Jackson.”
“Well, it’s true. They’re super mean, and they won’t even give me a lollypop.”
I stifled a laugh. I’d always hated going to the dentist as a child, and now I was ironically marrying one.
Depleting her God-knows-what-number glass of wine, Blake’s grandmother got in her two cents. “Dentist shmentis. Bubala, with your looks, you could do a lot better. Get yourself a nice rich man with a big shmekel like that Christian Grey—or my grandson.” She winked at Blake, who had turned crimson at the mention of the word shmekel, whatever that meant. Likewise blushing, I squirmed in my chair and accidentally brushed my thigh against his. He didn’t flinch.
Helen’s lovely blue eyes, identical in color to Blake’s, widened. “Mother, you’ve read Fifty Shades of Grey?” Her voice registered extreme shock.
“Puh-lease. I’ve read them all. At my age, you have to get it anyvay you can. Blakela, sveetheart, you should make TV shows of those books.”
Blake’s father looked my way. “Congratulations, Ms. McCoy. You’ve just found your first viewer.”
With a smug, triumphant smile, I turned to face Blake. He smirked.
“Good luck, Ms. McCoy. But I’m still convinced your idea is absurd.”
“We’ll see.” The ratings war was on. May the best man—or woman—win.
Chapter 11
Jennifer
I had the worst night’s sleep. I tossed and turned, unable to get the image of Blake Burns’s giant glistening cock out of my mind. The same burning questions scrolled through my brain. Why did it have to be so big? Why the hell did I just stand there and watch him jerk himself off? How was I going to face him at work and not think about it? There was only one cock I should be thinking about—and that was my fiancé’s, Bradley’s. But truth be told, I never thought about his cock outside of it being inside me. Which lately wasn’t often.
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