by Alexis Angel
“This, everyday. For the rest of our lives,” he tells me, his expression one of love and wickedness. “That’s what I want.”
“No,” I tell him, struggling to get the words out as my lungs work hard to get the air in. “That’s what I want.”
“And that’s exactly what you’ll have,” he responds, leaning toward me and laying his lips on mine. I brush my tongue against his lips, and he sucks it eagerly, cleaning it of the cum that covers it.
“I’ll hold you to that promise, Arsen.”
“You better.”
This right here… This is perfection. Happiness. And if I can have it, anyone can. Just make sure that if you want to go on a quest for a perfect man to stay away from Arsen Hawke… This man right here is mine, just mine. And I’m just his. And that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be.
Happy endings—oh, yes, they are very real.
Ashley
Epilogue
“Hi, I’m Tricia Loomis with Good Morning Manhattan, and today I’m at the company headquarters of Hawkelane Media Inc. where we catch up with two of New York City’s most dynamic and successful couples, Arsen and Ashley Hawke,” the news reporter says, standing in the center of the product display room.
Is it me, or is she being slightly condescending?
I’m in the product display room today of Hawkelane Media because Arsen and I are being interviewed by the television show Good Morning Manhattan regarding the runaway success of a revamped adult entertainment company.
Oh right, I may have forgotten to explain, this is one year after that evening at Del Frisco’s. In case you were wondering, my showing up actually was for the best. That’s right. I didn’t come in and ruin everything.
Actually, Mr. Mozorov couldn’t have been more understanding about it. Once he understood that Simulated Pleasures was only profitable because of me, and that I was going away, he lost complete interest in the phone sex outfit. When he realized that a majority of the profits had been created because Arsen was calling me, he also began to shy away from the industry in general. But through it all he was a very charismatic and friendly old Russian man. It was kind of surreal actually, one moment listening to him as to how he was going to bankrupt hundreds of women into sexual slavery and the next moment hearing him tell us stories of his growing up in St. Petersburg during the age of Perestroika.
But that was a year ago. Arsen and I were together. And back then, that was all that mattered. Its all that matters today, too. After that night where we were reunited, there was seriously at least a month or two where I wanted to be by his side every minute of the day. We had sex like five times a day until both of us were worn out.
But once that period ended, Arsen looked at me one day as we lay in bed after having a marvelous afternoon lovemaking session. I was still breathing heavily with my face nestled on his chest when I felt him play with my hair and move my head slightly so he could look me in the eyes.
“What do you think I should do with the last piece of Dad’s legacy?” he asked.
I looked hard at him. “Well, have your reasons for selling it changed?”
Arsen shrugged at me. “I used to feel that there was something wrong with openly hawking this stuff and that’s why Mom wasn’t around, even if she was dead,” he said. “But I get it now that this brings happiness to people’s lives. With my MBA, I could easily make Dad’s operation viable again,” he said.
I propped myself up on an elbow and looked at him. This is the man that I had fallen in love with. “And with my Art History degree, I could handle most of the creative branding,” I told him.
“You wouldn’t want to work the lines?” he asked me with a smirk.
I used my free hand to tickle him. He squirmed, and I moved lower. Without realizing it, my free hand grabbed onto his cock, and I began to squeeze it.
Within minutes, the idea of a reborn Hawke Media Group was being consummated quite noisily on that bed.
“Mr. Hawke, your company has really blazed a trail forward in bringing adult oriented entertainment even more mainstream than it has ever been. Many people call you a visionary. Others call you a smut peddler like your father with fancier technology. What are your comments to them?” the reporter asks Arsen as the news camera points to him. I’m standing to the side, content to let Arsen take the interview.
But he doesn’t listen to my directions.
“I couldn’t have done it without the help of my wife, Ashley,” he says, gesturing towards me. I gasp as the news camera swivels and takes a picture of me. “She’s the one that had the idea for a FaceTime app for our services, a Skype app, and a Facebook Live daily feed. She’s really harnessed social media.”
“Mrs. Hawke, any comments?” Tricia the reporter asks, looking at me. She’s looking triumphant. I don’t understand why she wants to make us uncomfortable.
I’m frozen. I wasn’t expecting to be put on the spot.
It’s true though on some level. Every time we had brainstorming sessions for what to do next, Arsen could execute like nothing else, but he came to rely on me for ideas. But I need to be honest, if it weren’t for his questioning, I would have never have gotten the juices flowing to come up with the idea. And before you start snickering, that’s mental juices, okay? Oh my God, talk about mind in the gutter.
“It’s more of a back and forth between Arsen and I that results in some of the ideas that we have coming to me,” I tell the camera sweetly, belying my thumping heart at being on television for millions. “If he weren’t asking the right questions, I wouldn’t be coming up with the ideas.”
“How did you come up with the idea to partner with Oculus Rift to provide on-demand virtual reality re-enactments of popular romance e-books?” Tricia asks.
“Oh, that’s easy,” Arsen says and the camera swivels back to him. “We were in the shower together, and having some fun, when I said everyone should be so lucky to have someone so good at…” Arsen trails off as he realizes just what he’s done. Tricia has a wide smile on her face, with a gotcha grin. Arsen’s just embarrassed himself on live television. This is what reporters live for.
But not if I can help it.
Taking a deep breath and summoning every last bit of courage I have, I take several steps over to my husband. The man I married six months ago in a wedding that the New York Journal called ‘the Social Event of the Year’.
I wrap my arm around Arsen’s and take my hand and move his face over to mine. He looks at me, and I smile at him. He see’s into my soul through my eyes – and I think he realizes that together, nothing can stop us.
That’s when I look to the camera.
“Arsen and I were having sex in the shower,” I say without any trace of embarrassment and I see Tricia the reporter gasp. “He was fucking me so good doggiestyle, when he said to me that if everyone had someone like me in their lives who could fuck so good then a lot of the problems in the world would be solved.”
“Uh-uhm, right…” Tricia says, starting to visibly sweat.
“That’s when I pulled out and got on my knees and began to suck him off,” I say to Tricia, making sure to look her directly in the eyes. “And I started saying what if we had a movie that went along with a dirty book. And then what if we could somehow take the step of creating that world one step further for people. And that’s how Naughty Realities was born. From shower sex.”
Tricia is visibly sweating. She didn’t expect me to get this raw. It’s only 8 am on the East Coast. People are still getting up.
“Although,” I say sweetly, giving the reporter a break. “If there’s anyone else in this world we rely on more than anything else, it’s Arsen’s lawyer and his beautiful wife and my good friend, Yasmine.”
Gerard and Yasmine smile from where they’re seated at the couch. They’ve just been married a month ago. It shows in how close they sit and the fact that they can’t stop touching one another.
The interview continues for a little bit longer, mainly with Gerar
d and Arsen answering questions on the business end. How the proliferation of high-tech phone sex has created a new industry in America. How readily accessible virtual erotic encounters have literally taken the fight out of ISIS when used successfully. And how the future looks for Hawkelane Media.
“Things are looking up,” Arsen says, looking at me as he smiles.
I look down. There’s a tent beginning to form in his trousers. I smile. Looking up indeed.
Within minutes, the interview closes and Tricia and her cameraman are out the door. Gerard and Yasmine follow soon after.
Arsen and I eventually make our way to his office, where he closes the door as I pull myself into him and kiss him.
I can feel my breasts mash against his hard body. I can feel his hands squeeze my ass and I gasp as a finger travels lightly over the opening to my pussy.
Unfortunately, I’m going to have to leave you here. Don’t worry, I’m not kicking you out. You haven’t seen enough yet. There’s plenty more to come. Don’t you ever worry about that.
There’s always more to cum.
Arsen and Ashley in Rio
On the night we arrived at Rio de Janeiro, the air was heavy and warm, and a gentle breeze blew in from the Atlantic, stirring the large leaves hanging atop the palm trees lining the waterfront.
Just like I always dreamed of.
When I was a little girl I used to dream of, one day, moving to Brazil. In these dreams, I hung by the beach all day, and drank caipirinhas all night. Of course, these were the kind of dreams I knew would never become true – in fact, I never expected I’d visit Brazil.
Sure, Arsen and I aren’t exactly moving to Brazil, but we’ve already bought a large flat here, in Rio. You see, we’re already dominating the English-speaking market so firmly that we’ve started looking into the foreign marketplace. Adult entertainment is needed even where people don’t speak English, right? Sex is, after all, the universal language.
And to think that this all started as a game, one where both our hearts were at stake. It’s been what, two years? God, it feels like it was a long time ago that my heart was torn between the voice on my phone and the man I knew as Arsen. But then God smile upon me, and both men turned out to be only one.
Every woman deserves an happy ending, and that was mine.
Of course, our story didn’t end there. More than just a couple, we turned into a team - one as efficient as profitable. Our company has grown so large that we’ve brought adult entertainment to the mainstream. I mean, we’ve already been on the cover of Times magazine (and a gazillion other magazines)! No wonder, though: we’re the biggest players in the industry when it comes to the States and Europe. And now we’re looking to expand.
After cutting a deal with China so that we could enter their marketplace, we then did the same with India, and now we’re looking for a foothold in the Portuguese speaking market. Of course, it also helps that Brazil is one of the most beautiful countries on Earth. And that’s why we decided to buy an apartment here. I mean, who doesn’t want to call Rio de Janeiro their second home?
I know this might sound crazy (and precocious), but even though I’ve never visited before I’m already in love with everything Brazilian. The samba and bossa nova, the people, the easy going attitude and their lack of embarrassment when it comes to all things sex. I mean, all you have to do is take a walk by the beach and you’ll easily realize that, here in Brazil, people aren’t ashamed of their bodies.
“You were right,” Arsen says, taking my hand in his and offering me one of his wide smiles. “This place really is amazing.”
“I told you. I spent enough time hiking through Google Images to know that we had to come here,” I laugh, squeezing back his hand as I let my gaze wander out to the beach, the soft sound of the waves like a sensual whisper. We’re walking through the waterfront, hand in hand, and unwinding from a long day of meetings. And when I say long, I really mean it – life moves at a real slow pace in Brazil, and that extends to the way business works in here. From what I’ve seen, being late is expected in such a way that it almost becomes mandatory.
After more than twelve hours of meetings (or twelve hours of waiting for meetings) we had dinner at L’Etoile, one of the best restaurants in the city, and then decided to go for a stroll at the waterfront. It’s December now, and I’m wearing a summery blue dress – for someone used to the unforgiving weather of New York City, it almost feels like I’ve travelled to Heaven itself. Even Arsen himself seems to have bought into the whole carefree mindset that seems to make this city come alive.
He’s wearing shorts, a black shirt that makes him look like the second coming of Apollo, and flip-flops. And, let me tell you, even dressed this casually… Arsen looks like the most handsome man on Earth. Yeah, I know you’re rolling your eyes right now. But don’t think that I’m saying all this about Arsen because he’s my man. I’m saying it because he’s my man and because it’s the truth.
“God, I love this place,” I say, taking a deep breath and allowing the salty freshness of the sea to make my brain dance inside my skull. “It’s even better than what I imagined when I was a little kid.”
“That’s because you’re here with me,” he says and, even though he’s teasing me right now, I can’t help but turn to him and smile. He stops walking and smiles back at me; I go on tiptoes and brush my lips against his, closing my eyes and allowing this moment to be engraved on my mind for all of eternity. Even though Arsen was joking, it doesn’t make it any less true: being here with him turns a beautiful moment into a perfect one.
To our left, tall apartment buildings rise toward the skies, their majestic silhouette towering over us; to our right, a large stripe of sand that leads to the endless ocean. Despite the late hour, there are still people in the street – shirtless men wearing flip-flops and women wearing nothing but an almost transparent dress over a skimpy bikini. It seems that, here in Rio, life is an endless stroll toward the beach.
Sitting on one of the stones benches in the waterfront, a young man with a velvety voice plucks at his guitar, his eyes closed as he allows his voice to shape up a quiet but beautiful bossa nova ballad. Forget about Paris – there’s nothing quite like the subtle and down-to-earth loving ways of Brazil.
“Wait,” I tell Arsen, holding him by his arm as I fish for the wallet inside my purse. Grabbing it, I take a one-hundred-dollar bill and lay it inside the guitar case laying at the feet of the young guitarist. I know that one hundred dollars is a lot to give for a few seconds of good music, but sometimes it’s worth it – besides, it helps that me and Arsen have more than few million sitting idly in our bank accounts.
“Obrigado, senhora,” the young man breathes out, thanking me in his singing voice, and I can’t tell if he’s still singing or just speaking. Brazilians talk in such a way that they always seem like they’re singing.
“De nada,” I manage to reply, narrowing my eyes as I try to remember the little Portuguese I know. I’m placing my wallet back inside my purse when the loud roar of an engine drowns out the bossa nova chords coming from the guitar. I spin around, trying to see where that loud sound comes from, and I do it just in time to see a motorbike jumping onto the sidewalk, two men riding on it. They’re just a few feet away from me now, and the guy riding on the back reaches for me with one hand.
I’m so stunned I don’t even move.
Grabbing my purse as they ride past me, the man gives it a tug and I feel the strap from the purse burning down my arm. I fall onto the floor as the purse is yanked from me, and I let out a cry of pain as my knees grazes the floor.
“Fuck!” Arsen cries out, looking from the guys in the bike to me. Going down on one knee, he then grabs me by the hand and picks me up from the floor. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah… I am… But… My purse! It’s a Lana Marks purse!” I tell him, running one hand through my hair. If there’s something thing that I hate, is when something comes between me, my shoes, and my purses. And if there’s
something Arsen hates, is when something between me and whatever I want.
“I got this,” Arsen merely whispers with a smirk and, before I can grab him and stop him, he starts running down the waterfront. The muggers steer the bike back onto the road (and straight into oncoming traffic), but Arsen has already anticipated their movements.
By the time they start swerving between the cars, Arsen’s already dashing between a row of cars lining up behind a red light. He’s running fast and, for a moment, I almost believe he isn’t Arsen but some super athlete out of the Olympics or the Super Bowl. Even though he’s wearing flip-flops, that doesn’t stop him from closing the distance between the bike as it swerves right and left between cars; extending his right arm, he grabs the guy riding in the back of the bike just as they try to speed up.
It happens in a fraction of a second.
Arsen hooks his fingers on the man’s shirt and yanks on it as the bikes jumps forward. Unable to resist Arsen’s hold, the mugger falls back while still clutching the guy riding in the front. Both men crash onto the road like bricks while, at the same time, the bikes keep riding itself for a few seconds before finally being stopped by an unsuspecting trash can.
“Arsen!” I cry out as I run toward him, afraid of what might happen, but he doesn’t seem to be listening to me. His smart eyes are narrowed into slits, and I can tell that he’s appraising the muggers as they go up to their feet. They’re both wiry and tanned, their eyes holding the promise of violence. Faithful to that promise, one of the men reaches for the pocket on his shorts and brings out a switchblade knife. “Arsen!” I call after him once more, completely forgetting about my stolen purse. All I care about right now is Arsen.
“Stay back,” he says as I finally reach him, holding his arm to the side and blocking me. He says it so casually that he almost seems to be commenting on the weather. There are a few moments of silence, and then the man holding the knife lurches forward, the blade aiming straight toward Arsen’s chest. Sidestepping him easily, Arsen then brings his fist up in an arch, connecting it with the man’s nose. I hear the sound of bones breaking, and then the man simply falls back, the knife forgotten as he takes both hands to his face and wails, covering his broken nose. His accomplice simply stares at the scene with wide eyes, almost as if he didn’t believe that a foreigner could have balls that big (oh, he has no idea); when he finally comes back to himself, he rushes toward the other man and, after pulling him to his feet, they both scramble toward their bike. Turning the engine on, they disappear into the road as fast as they’ve appeared, scared for their lives.