by O. L. Casper
“Not really. Only enough to get by if I have to.”
“So beautiful. So intelligent. Why haven’t you married yet, Sophia?”
“I suppose I’m too introverted. I don’t get out enough.”
“I find that hard to believe considering, for one, you’re so outspoken.”
“What’s number two?”
“Oh, you’re attractive.”
“You already said that.”
“Hold your horses.”
“You hold them, you seem to do better at it than I do.”
“I’m not quite sure in what sense you mean that.”
“Take it in what sense you will.”
I didn’t let up in what had become something of a rapid-fire exchange. I came back quickly on the heels of whatever he said, not caring how outlandish I sounded.
“Number two: you have an easy grace about you not many women have. Especially women as young as you.”
I looked at him searchingly, trying to discover his motivation. But this was as elusive as most things about him.
“You should take that as a compliment,” he said.
“How else?”
I mirrored his magnetic smile.
You could cut the tension in the room with knife. I felt the tiniest dots of sweat form on my palms, and I could see tiny dots like salt crystals appear on his forehead.
He smiled now too.
“With that, Ms. Durant, I bid you adieu.”
Stafford made a small bow and walked off.
I shut the door behind him. Here I was thinking this might be our first sex scene. He was teasing me. Stafford had gained the upper hand. Damn. I played the audio from Stafford’s phone. I listened to the muffled Bob Dylan track, occasionally interrupted by a full-on rustling sound. Stafford shifting around in his seat. Eventually the music stopped. I heard a muffled: “Here.” Stafford’s voice. There were moments of silence before some doors have opened, and there was the onslaught of violent wind and more rustling sound. I could make out the soft crunch of footsteps in the sand and wind blowing through dry grass. Next the phone must have come out of the wind and back into the Escalade because there was a tremendous amount of noise followed by the sound of a car door slamming shut, followed by utter silence. That motherfucker put his phone in the car for the meeting. I looked at the soundwave on the bar of the timeline in the bottom half of the screen. It was flat for about forty-five minutes. I skipped through to make sure there was no sound contained therein that didn’t show up on the bar. There was not. I played from the point where the soundwave started fluctuating again: car doors opened, Stafford put the phone back in his pocket, more Bob Dylan, more rustling. I learned nothing at all from what I heard. But I did learn one crucial thing from what I didn’t hear. Stafford was aware of the possibility of outside observers listening through the mic on his phone and therefore he left it in his car the duration of the meeting. I knew then that whatever it was he was up to was definitely not above board. It was illicit without a doubt.
I closed the program, shutdown the computer and lay down to sleep. But I couldn’t sleep. My mind began whirling through all the strange events of the day, trying to make sense of them. The only thing I could come up with was that I had never really lived before that day. So, in that sense the day was a tremendous success. My mind also automatically drifted into sexual thoughts of Mark Stafford, but I ignored them and pushed them away. Pretty soon I saw myself as a lioness deep in the African jungle, hunting her pray, and I was out.
I awoke before dawn when the light of a bright yellow moon shone across my bed, bouncing off, and seeming to project strange images on the wall opposite my feet. My first thought was to wonder if today could be any stranger than the last and with that I drifted off again, this time into vivid dreaming, and Mark was there. He had crept into my subconscious in his subtle way and I couldn’t shake him no matter how I tried. In those early morning hours I didn’t have the will. I let myself be consumed by thoughts of him, which in these half-dreams morphed into other people: lovers from the past (the very few), men I’d fantasized about heavily, men I’d obsessed over, and some women too, including Julie and then Anna.
From an upstairs window I watched Anna and two porters pack Isabella Gardner’s travel bags into a Mercedes Benz limousine. I cradled Savannah gently and watched as her beautiful eyes turned toward oblivion. Her heavy lids sank and she urged them up with all her remaining will, but it was to no avail. They sank in one final rush to the bottom, and the ship of her soul sailed for dreamland. I swayed her happily, holding her close to my chest while enjoying the warmth of her small body. I had not seen a more beautiful baby and wished she was my own. After watching the departure of the Mercedes that carried Isabella I walked the baby to her room and set her ever so gently down in her crib. My heart overflowed with sentiment watching the glow of her little body lying face up in a deep sleep. I listened intently to the sound of her baby snoring and thought it the most heavenly sound I’d known.
I met Anna in the corridor outside the nursery. I told her the baby was fine and asked about Isabella’s departure.
“Everything is fine. She left without a hitch.”
“That’s good. I heard she was upset last night.”
“Yes. She is always upset before she travels…who did you hear that from?”
“Oh, Mark told me.”
When it slipped out I wondered whether I should have said it.
“So, you are developing a personal relationship with Mr. Stafford.”
“No, he—we have a professional relationship. He is just friendly.”
“He is a strange man. I warn you that whatever happens between you…keep the distance between your…corazon. Corazon?”
“Yes, heart.”
“Ah, you speak Spanish.”
“Not really. Only a little. A few words.”
“You are a very nice, modest woman. Some might say too modest.”
A mischievous smile curled around the edges of her lips. My memory flashed back to the scene on the beach. I felt the sensation of the touch of her lips to mine. Her hot breath on my neck. Running my hands along her body. I felt an overpowering urge to drag her off into one of those great empty rooms and have my way with her.
“What are you thinking about?” she said with a wry smile.
“A beautiful memory in a perfect place,” I said and smiled.
“What a dirty mind.”
“It’s beautiful, not dirty.”
The HTC vibrated in my pocket. I took it out and glanced at it. A new message from Mark Stafford showed up on the screen. I opened it.
MARK: Do you have some free time this evening?
“You receive a message?”
“Yes, it’s family. I’ll meet you downstairs in a bit to help out.”
“You don’t have to help. Just keep an eye on Savannah. Maybe we can do something together once the night staff comes on.”
Her eyes were gleaming.
“That would be wonderful.”
Anna headed off down the corridor. I admired her hourglass figure as she left, lifting up my phone to respond to the message from Stafford.
SOPHIA: Why do you ask?
I clicked send and the reply came seconds later.
MARK: Playing hard to get, huh? I just wanted to show you around a bit, if you’re interested.
He was the sweet, innocent Stafford I had first talked to that morning in the kitchen. Hard to reconcile with the ferocity I had seen on the cove.
SOPHIA: Are you flirting with me, Mr. Stafford?
MARK: Of course not. Never. Are you flirting with me?
SOPHIA: Never. I’m sorry. I’ve just been feeling a bit…out of sorts the last couple of days. A little on edge even.
MARK: What about?
SOPHIA: I don’t know exactly. Perhaps it’s being in a new place like this. Perhaps it’s adjusting to the family. I mean, I love it here. The family is grand. Wonderful even. I’m sure it’s just an adjus
tment issue.
MARK: Anything I can help with?
So many things you could do.
SOPHIA: No. I just wanted to let you know how I was feeling. Maybe it will explain my somewhat erratic behavior toward you since we got here. My moodiness.
MARK: You don’t have to explain anything to me.
He was back to his usual, compassionate nature. He’d lost the edge of the d’Artegnan restaurant conversation and the ride home after that. Of course I was being disingenuous in these messages. I wanted to appear vulnerable, in part to get him to open up to me and in part to spark his interest. I wanted to confuse him, play several angles at once so he wouldn’t know what angle I was really coming from. And I tried not to get into the humble pie act enough to actually believe it. If I did, I risked falling in love when he came back with nurturing responses. Falling for Mark Stafford would be the most detrimental thing I could do for my current objective. But not to worry, I was having too much fun to fall in love. I just had to remember my earlier aversion to him, and I would be fine.
I received a text message that evening when I was trying on different outfits in front of the mirror. I had settled on an velvet dress. It was simple, low-cut with small straps and long, draping past the knees.
MARK: Ready?
Why not?
SOPHIA: Yes.
MARK: Take the 911 you drove yesterday and meet me at the point where Queen’s Hwy meets Public Hwy. Can you do that?
SOPHIA: Naturally.
I wondered vaguely whether I would survive beyond this evening.
MARK: Meet you there in 15 mins.
SOPHIA: 25
MARK: Ok.
This gave me time to do a nice job on my makeup. I wore black eyeliner, thick like Brigitte Bardot to achieve the cat-eye effect, applying liquid liner in a thin line on the inside (toward the nose), then thickened it out toward the outside, extending it to a point just past the outer edge of the eyebrows. A little lip gloss and I was done. I let my hair down so there would be no messy undoing of it later, just in case.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror and admired the look I had created in a few minutes. I got the key to the 911 from Anna, claiming to be running an errand for Stafford. I suppose in actuality I was. I found the Porsche where I had left it, got in and started the engine. I was at the point where Queen’s Highway met Public Highway in less than five minutes. There was a barn in a field to one side of the road. Pretty soon I saw Stafford step out from the barn and motion for me to drive that way. I headed down the sandy road to the barn and parked inside as Stafford directed. I got out of the car and shut the door.
“This is my weekend car,” he said with a smile, pointing to a brand new Murcielago LP640. “Get in. I’ll take you for a drive.”
Chapter 4
Sophia Durant’s Diary (continued)
The surrounding jungle transformed into a motion blur as the Lamborghini went from zero to 180 in about eight seconds. I felt a nauseatingly quick adrenaline rush and butterflies in my stomach as the supercar clung to bends in the road without losing speed. This is the meaning of G-force. The engine roared and the interior vibrated hard. I looked at Stafford in a his English cap and shades. As rapidly as the supercar had accelerated, it decelerated, we took a right and pulled onto a winding sandy road that twisted into the jungle toward looming dark hills. This was when I first became scared that he really might murder me out in this Timbuktu of the Bahamas. With an ill feeling in my heart, I suspected that somehow he had learned of my presence at the cove yesterday. Just then he glanced at me, his chiseled features seemed to glow in the dusk light, and in his silver specs I saw a reflection of myself I was not comfortable with. Why had I worn such a nice velvet dress out into the middle of the jungle? I guess it will be a good one to die in, I thought. But, in my state of nervous tension, I couldn’t help thinking of all the “what ifs.”
We pulled into an open field with a sand floor and shrubbery scattered about.
“You ready?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Follow me.”
Stafford got out and with great hesitation, I followed. The sky was faded purple in the scintillating dusk light. At once the strangeness of the scene struck me, him in his cap, shades pocketed, and me in my dress and heavy cat-eyes in the middle of an island jungle.
I followed Stafford down a twisting path through palms and a plentiful variety of fruit and flowering trees. We entered deeper and deeper into enveloping shadows and I could not see clearly much of what was right in front of me. Stafford seemed to walk faster and faster ahead of me. I struggled to keep up. We came to a lagoon that seemed to drain out to one side, through some dunes and trees, into the sea.
Four massive waterfalls, fifty to a hundred feet tall, extended down into the lagoon from cliffs towering high above. It was something right out of movie. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I looked at Stafford and smiled, and he returned my smile.
“How did you find this place?” I asked.
“The baron I bought the villa from showed me this and a few other nice spots around the island. This is one of the best.”
“You mean there are others? This alone is so extraordinary it could be one of the wonders of the world.”
At this remark he was silent. He scanned the falls, the lagoon, and the surrounding jungle. The one drawback was that the mosquitoes were in full effect and I was getting attacked, especially around my ankles and neck. Oh, other than the fact that I was deep in the jungle with a possible killer.
“Ready?” he asked.
“For what?”
“A swim. There’s an interesting array of caves behind the falls. Let’s go exploring, shall we? Come, we haven’t got much light left. Only another hour or so.”
Stafford takes off his shoes. I remove mine. He watches in astonishment as I take off my dress. I’m wearing nothing underneath. I stand confidently before him in all my full-frontal glory. He eyes me carefully from head to toe, taking it all in.
“You’re not shy.”
He strips down to his boxer briefs. He looks at me with an expression of false innocence before he takes off his those too. My view of his member is fleeting as he turns and gets in the water and I try not to look too directly at it, but I can’t help a glance or two. I hang my dress on a tree branch and follow him in. The water is slightly cooler than the air and refreshing. He pushes himself back out into the lagoon, facing me and not taking his eyes off me, as I swim toward him. He looks stone faced so I smile to ease the atmosphere and he smiles without parting his lips.
“How does the water feel?” he asks.
“Probably about the same as it feels to you.”
“Feels good to me.”
“You come out here a lot? Bring different women each time?”
“Not really. You’re the first.”
“Am I? That’s got to be a lie.”
“Actually it’s not.”
For some reason I believe him.
Stafford dips his head under the water and stays under for several moments. I have begun to worry when I see him peer out from behind the foremost waterfall. He runs one hand through his hair, straight back, causing it all to spike up. He sees me and smiles. I muse on the strange fortune that brought me to this point in my life. Nothing logical. No chronological stream of reminiscence from living with Julie to now. Just the feeling of the inner twists and turns that brought me here, and the emotions that go with that. I almost can’t believe it. And if I look away, it seems like it will all slip away.
I take a breath and stick my head underwater, and can barely make out, in my blurred vision, where the foremost waterfall hits the lagoon. It’s a massive gray blur. I think I can make out Stafford standing next to it where the rock slopes toward the bottom of the fall. The rock and everything else appear a dark shade of blue apart from the depths of the lagoon, which appear black.
I swim toward Stafford and notice him getting up out of the water. When he
stops moving, his legs are the only part of him remaining in the water, dangling as though he is sitting on a ledge above the lagoon. I pop up, head out of water, before him. He looks down, dominating me with a broad smile. My feet touch smooth rock and I walk toward him to the point where the water is at my waist level, my breasts draped out in plain sight for him to drink in. And this he does. I walk closer to him, moving my arms out to touch his legs. Running my hands up his legs, I move them up to his chest. I feel the firm muscle under my fingertips. The stomach and the pecks.
Stafford’s hands find my sides above the hips and course upward along the sides of my breasts, but without touching them. He looks at the breasts as he does this, with a serious, concentrated expression. Then he traces my arms to the hands and takes hold of the fingers. Stafford pulls me up out of the water, guiding me behind the waterfall. It is a pleasant space under the crescent overhang, dark in the rapidly fading sunlight, on a sandy floor. The location and the lighting are so seductive, my moral compass falls into the lagoon and shatters. He has stopped walking backwards, hands down at his sides, and is looking at me. For a split-second I wonder what will happen next. I decide to take the initiative.
I reach out and find his member without taking my eyes off his. I grip it and begin to stroke softly. It’s large and throbbing, fully erect. Then I get on my knees, and get the first good look at what I’m holding. Large and very smooth, it glistens in the coruscating dusk light. Better than I ever expected, it’s humongous. I’ve never seen one this big except in films—porn star dick. Studying it, it seems light and heavy at the same time: light because the head floats in front of my face as if it has on angel’s wings; heavy because it is so thick and massive, it’s got girth. It’s a pretty appendage—absolutely beautiful—my new friend. Strangely, I imagine it being able to communicate with me telepathically; expressing its woes, how it doesn’t get out enough and so on. With both hands, I grip Stafford’s manhood and tug, at first gently, then harder, as it begins to throb, luminous in the near dark. I put the tip in my mouth. It tastes a bit like lagoon water. Then that taste disappears, replaced by a sweetness. Before I look up at him I imagine him with his eyes closed, enjoying the sensation with all his concentrative powers. When I do look up I see him looking back down at me, mouth open, eyes glazed. I touch his sack with one hand. Skin so soft, I take the massive cock out of my mouth and move down to kiss them. Removing my lips from Stafford’s pearls I stand up. I move in for the kiss, still grasping his wet throbbing member in one hand. My lips touch his and I feel the unfamiliar scratch of short stubble. I suppose I’m not used to this from kissing women more often than men. I lavish kisses on him and bury my tongue in his throat.