by Jillian Boyd
***
We are both on the bed now, taking a moment to catch our breaths. I need to go down to take the roast out of the oven, but I love these moments. He is naked, curled up in the foetal position on top of the duvet with his head in my lap. He is like a baby. My baby. The one to whom I devote the majority of my waking life. I run my fingers though his sweaty, thinning hair; for that one moment, I feel like this is what my life is about. I feel like my life does have meaning, like I finally get what love is about. The rope shifts a bit, and I feel it slip a bit looser.
The Privileged and the Rapture
Cèsar Sanchez Zapata
Well-earned reputation as a workaholic aside, I was not in the habit of taking meetings at six-thirty on a Friday night. Those evenings, with particular delight and relish, I reserved for what you might call cultural pursuits; I was partial to the theatre, in fact. I could always rely on the premium quarry dawdling round in their natural habitats, rigged to the nines. In many ways, I am the farthest thing from an élitist. Indeed, I have never harboured a preference for class or status, though I must admit to deriving a certain pleasure when it comes to unmasking those shrouded under cotton wraps.
That being said, I would never - never - be personally involved in outing somebody.
So I’d had a very quiet, very intimate night in mind with the Mayor’s oldest daughter. A liaison, I am not ashamed to admit, that had occupied my thoughts for the better part of the afternoon. A rendezvous now cancelled. The world will say what it will about me or my predilections, but I certainly wasn’t then, nor am I now, in the habit of sacrificing hedonistic amusement for a blessed payday. Nevertheless, one makes certain concessions - however minimal - when the person requesting an audience is Emma Delacroix. Oscar-winning actress, New York Times bestselling author - America’s sweetheart.
For her, the world laid out the red carpet.
I merely agreed to an exclusive meet-and-greet.
In three years, the Water Street building had never been this isolated so early in the evening, and I - better than anyone - would know. I rarely left before nine pm - Monday through Thursday. All the office lights were switched off now, except for mine; I’d sent everyone home, including the janitors. The hum of the air conditioning was deafening in lieu of the constant phones and chatter reverberating off the walls, the tapping of keyboards, opening and shutting of file drawers. I soaked in the silence, absorbed it; for once in my life, I rejoiced in being perfectly still...
...until the lift bell rang and the silver doors slid open.
She was thinner than I’d imagined; toned, not like an athlete per se, but like a dancer with long, slender legs rising to a delectable bum perfectly moulded for a handful and fit for a kneading. She was considerably taller than me, but that was no great wonder; I stood, after all, only five feet, four inches. That notwithstanding, where we differed most was in the outward nature of our femininity, of our bodies, because truly no two different marvels could God have designed. Mine was voluptuous, gifted in that regard with a harlot’s appeal and the power such overt sexuality wields in this world - an angle not lost on me, I assure you. Even as hers could best be defined as statuesque, for most the word that seems to spring to mind when describing me is: lascivious. She had her curves, she did, yet they were tamed by comparison - there was a refinement in her I couldn’t help associate with privilege, while mine - is pure sex.
She carried herself flawlessly, on a step reserved for royalty minus the stiff upper lip: that is to say, she strutted with an inborn ease and polish that plays exquisitely. Each leg, each arm, shifting as if choreographed, effortlessly in sync; a leisurely stroll through a garden of Eden. What struck me most - how positively cliché - was her face. Her eyes, especially, but within the broader context, how luminous they seemed sunken into her porcelain skin, invigorated by such wonderfully chiselled cheekbones and brilliant red lips.
If ever there had been a doubt in my mind, as I moved to greet her outside my office door I was convinced.
I had to have her.
She drew closer still, extending her arm, thrusting her pretty little bosom, and smiling when our hands touched. A smile as casual as any imaginable, as if we were chancing upon one another on a bright summer’s day in a meadow or some equally trite place to discuss the weather. That nature of ingenuousness attorneys abhor in clients, typically because it means the true weight of the crisis hasn’t yet sunk in.
The man beside her was - to be kind - portly, but the cut of his three-piece suit veiled his girth well. Immediately, he came across as the fretting sort, evidenced by profuse sweating and premature hair loss; no doubt the last few days had contributed to that significantly. I never entertained the thought of liking him; he reeked to high heavens of a sycophant. A glorified lap-dog with a six-figure salary. Over the years I’d met enough characters to brand him as the Manager.
I led them inside, gesturing for them to sit. I didn’t bother offering drinks; this wouldn’t be an extended meeting. We were each simply copping a feel.
Puppet or not, the Manager was efficient. He got right down to brass tacks. “Does she have a case?”
I lowered myself into the leather chair, angled myself so my sole line of sight was her. There was no need to measure my approach. I didn’t need to hear her side, her excuses, her account of things. The answer was clear, and now, it was only a matter of convincing her of it.
“Copyright Infringement without Fair Use exception, Right to Privacy and Right to Publish... those are the common causes in civil court. It’s enough to scare off hapless fame-seekers and moneygrubbers. Far as I can tell, though, Rowdy Entertainment is the only player.
“This might sound like good news but they’re the big boys of the adult industry with the resources to drag this out. They stand to make a lot of money, Ms. Delacroix; they’ll fight this tooth and nail. Alternatively, if you give me the word –
“I’ll broker a distribution deal that guarantees you get your cut and then some.”
“Ms. Hesston,” said the Manager, coolly; poor bastard thought he was in control. “We contacted you because you are the best. You’ve litigated five successful suits involving the publication of private home videos, and-”
“Sex tapes,” I interrupted, bluntly.
“Pardon?”
“Ms. Delacroix, what your ex-lover claims was stolen from his safe - what he more probably leaked himself after his last three movies tanked at the box office... was a sex tape. Let’s not mince words.”
The Manager pulled on the lapel of his jacket, suddenly feeling his shirt collar too tight around his neck. He cleared his throat, affording Emma a fleeting sidelong look, and then turned back to me. My gaze was unwaveringly on her. If he hadn’t done so already, I’ll bet it was at that instant he finally noticed I’d not paid him more than a glance, perfunctory or otherwise, since he stepped into my office.
“Our camp issued a public denial of her involvement. We thought perhaps a defamation suit might be appropriate.”
I shook my head. “That won’t play.”
“Why is that?”
For the first time, I acknowledged him directly. ‘Because that is your client fucking on camera, sir.’
Unfazed, Emma leaned forward, propping her elbow on the edge of my desk, studying me intently. “Have you watched it?” in a near whisper, as though the very question was lewd.
I nodded, clasping my hands at the knuckles. My throat went dry as I remembered how zealously this young woman sitting before me had crushed her lover’s face betwixt her legs, demanding the pleasure his mouth could bring, depriving him of air until he could bring her to the pinnacle. I breathed in deeply. “A little beyond my usual research. But necessary, given the circumstances.”
Emma cast her eyes down. Anyone else might have missed it, but I saw the skip in her chest, the minor swell of he
r breasts. She was a hard one to decipher, I’ll give her that - and this was no minor compliment. In all honesty, I couldn’t tell whether she was shamed or aroused by the fact that I’d seen, borne witness to her full glory.
“There’s little to do about the thirty-second trailer floating around on the Internet. Chances are everyone and their grandmother’s already had a good jerk watching it. The cat’s out of the bag, so we cut our losses. I’ll have the complaint drafted and ready to be filed on Monday, if you choose to go down that path. I’m not guaranteeing that a court will grant it, but I’ll also move for a preliminary injunction to prevent release of the full tape, pending resolution.”
I pushed away from the desk, rising. Without another word, the Manager stood and started for the door. She took her time, the same calm, sensual gait as before. Just as she’d reached the doorway, I called her back. She craned her neck around to me.
“There are two ways to handle your ex-lover.”
She chewed on that for a moment. Then grinned like evil incarnate. “Cut his balls off.”
I never presumed she’d walk out, then, when it would’ve been perfectly suitable for her to do so. She stayed as I expected she might, as I’d demanded of her without saying a word, with just a look. She was already compliant. I stepped around the desk, walking steadily. I still didn’t look at the Manager, who was frozen stiff outside my office, even as I shut the door in his face.
Her eyes were wide, timid yet awakened, awaiting my next move.
“Lift your skirt,” I said. She scoffed at me, smiling nervously, her face contorted with uncertainty. She was wound up tighter than a spring coil. I snatched at her elbow, gripping it like a vise. “I don’t care if you’ve never been with a woman or how confused you think you are. You wanted this. Your knickers would be soaked already... if you were wearing any. I can smell the excitement dripping down your thighs.”
She scoffed again - louder this time, like one who wasn’t accustomed to being commanded. To being spoken to so crassly. “This all seems a little self-serving.” But she didn’t pull away, she didn’t shift even an inch, as I pressed closer to her.”I am going to have you,” I said, slowly, though not in a whisper so she had to struggle to hear. I wanted her to know I was right, to feel that truth coursing through her veins, mauling her pussy.
“Look,” she said, but her voice was shaky and I noted that bit like a shark on the scent of blood. She cleared her throat. “Look, I know it’s the twenty-first century, and I’m open...”
I grinned, never turning my gaze away. In similar moments, I always reverted back to the giddy first-year law student sitting through an intercession lecture on fundamental transactional negotiation strategy. Don’t back down - not unless absolutely necessary. Never veer your eyes, unless you know you’re beaten.
I was far from it.
“You can fight it - but it’s a struggle against your own body.” I steered her back to me, pulled her tightly, her marvellous body fitting against mine. It never entered her mind how ridiculous a concept it was that a diminutive woman would wield such power over her; it was seamless, it just seemed natural.
“You’re taking several liberties, Counsellor.”
“Am I?”
“Yes”, she said, breathlessly. “And making more than your fair share of assumptions.”
She peered down into my eyes as evenly as she could manage, but I saw the twitch: the tiniest, most minute, tic in the corner of her mouth.
My turn - I smirked. “You can’t win that fight.”
She looked dazed, like she had no control over herself and that was utterly beyond her comprehension, as she pulled her skirt up and I plunged a hand between her legs. The first touch always carried an orgasmic current: a soft endearment, fingers, tips and nails, running up the insides of warm, silken flesh; her thighs trembling. Within seconds, my fingers were thoroughly coated in ambrosia, rolling in the dew with earnest. Her eyes rolled back into her head as I fondled that warm cunt; she didn’t struggle, not in the slightest, as my hand roamed farther down and slid along the crevice of her finely-formed bum, teasing a single fingertip around the rim of her arsehole. My left hand unsnapped the catch on her skirt, letting it drop to the floor.
At first I introduced two fingers, snaking them inside with a come-hither gesture, and had her writhing against the heel of my palm before I slipped in a third. And, my, her response was immediate; she let out a moan that made my nipples stiffen and she collapsed against the door with a loud bang. If the Manager was still outside like the twit that he was, he wouldn’t be able to see through the frosted glass - only silhouettes - but that, and the sounds escaping her, would do the job just as effectively. He’d be sporting a hard-on the likes of which he’d never seen. For her part, Emma hadn’t reached the summit, not quite, I could tell, but she was so very close, close enough that she could taste it bubbling just beyond her grasp.
Abruptly, I pulled away. She dropped to her feet with a start, as though she’d fallen from a cloud. I let myself revel in her expression a moment, that look of shock, oh so preciously laughable shock, plastered on her face.
“Later,” said I, inching farther away, one sticky finger waving her off.
She was flabbergasted. “Is this some kind of fucking prank? I...”
I silenced her with a finger over my lips. Again, she did as she was told. Then I wrapped my lips just over the tip of that same finger, tasting her essence. “I’ll leave the office by nine.”
“You must be joking.”
I tilted my head, slightly- and she was silent once more.
“Wait for me in the lobby.”
She bent down for her skirt, arranging it back over her shapely arse. “I have a dinner.”
I walked to the bar situated by my private lavatory and poured myself a Scotch neat. Her response amused me; after all, she hadn’t said no. My silence, I noted as I moved towards my chair, disconcerted her immensely. That, too, tasted wonderful.
“It’s been on the books for ages.”
“Cancel it. Move it up. I won’t tell you how to handle your business.” I sat down, pulling my skirt up high and crossing my legs, letting her feast her eyes. There is nothing as sensual, take my word, nothing so lascivious as a pair of legs, silken and bronzed to perfection, folded together flesh against flesh, to remind one of the marvels of sex; how heavenly a thing it is to be embraced in a real woman’s legs.
I could see the wheels turning in her head. She was weighing her options - how adorable - actually contemplating saying no to me. Naturally, she always had that as an option; I would never think to force myself upon her. Nor would I - let’s be perfectly frank - ever allow myself to be rejected by the likes of a spoiled Hollywood princess. I sipped on my drink, but kept my eyes trained coldly on hers.
“These people aren’t the understanding sort,” she said finally.
“Neither am I.” I swept my fingertip along my lower lip, tasting her again. “This may seem like a negotiation, Ms. Delacroix, but I promise you, it’s not. And I don’t repeat myself. Ever.”
I set the glass down like a gavel upon my desk.
***
At half past, I made it to the lobby. I spotted her as I walked from the lifts. There were twenty metres between us, and her eyes followed me the entire way. The dismay was there in her expression at first, the shame, the urge - that silly compulsion - inside to rebel, even though she’d already submitted, already surrendered the big battle.
The strong ones always despised themselves initially.
As I got closer, that self-hatred waned and evaporated. She was mine in that moment; she gazed at me with such enthusiasm, bordering almost on idolatry. The memory of my office, the heat enveloping us both, our bodies curling together . . . it was already burned into her brain.
I didn’t go to her. I didn’t stop to wait.
Five metres from her, I turned a sharp right and walked directly to the stainless steel and glass doors leading out to the street.
My car was already idling by the curb. The porter had my door open. Just before I slipped in behind the wheel, Emma walked out. She approached the passenger side, but he didn’t open her door. He didn’t even glance her way, as though he couldn’t see her; as though this warm-blooded, hormone-riddled man were totally oblivious to the drop-dead gorgeous woman standing directly in front of him. He kept his eyes glued on me.
I made her wait. I kept her standing there, exposed - fearing the ignominy of - rejection. It was just five seconds - maybe eight - but for someone like her, someone of her position, a heartbeat of invisibility was like a lifetime in Hell.
Then I took pity. But I made damn sure she knew it. I nodded ever so slightly at the boy and he finally pulled her door open.
“Have a nice evening, Ms. Delacroix,” he said, tipping his hat.
No sooner had he shut the door behind her, than the bile started spewing. “He knew who I was? He knew, and that... that arsehole had the gall...”
“Let it go.”
“-he had the fucking balls to ignore me?”
“Don’t blame him.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because if he had let you in without my permission, he knows I can do worse to him than you ever could.”
She watched me in the darkness. I felt her eyes undressing me, lusting for what pleasure I could give, though she had no earthly idea what the limit of that could be. I could hear her breathing and it spoke volumes.
“Can you imagine the scandal this would cause?”
I didn’t respond.
“They’ll paint me as a sexual deviant. Make up the worst stories.”
“They won’t.”
“How could I stop them?”
‘Not from publishing. But by the time I’m through with you - they won’t have to make anything up.’