by J. D. Chase
Maybe I’ll become addicted to fucking. I could get a job as a porn actor . . . or an escort. Anything’s better than working at Hotel Rouge Passion.
The thought of returning to work in a couple of days fills me with dread. Tomorrow I think I’ll give Belinda a call and find out what’s happening there exactly. That should help me to ease back in, even if I do have to work under the bar manager from Xander’s other hotel. But Veuve’s right. I need my job if I’m to escape from my mother’s apron strings. It seems I have a newfound taste for debauchery. I wonder if I can find a flatmate who’s in touch with his/her kinky side. I scan the room and feel my cock twitch at the various acts that are being performed. The whole place reeks of sex . . . and that’s just the way I like it.
I see her, striding across the club towards me. There’s no mistaking her, especially since people respectfully get out of her way. It’s like watching Moses parting the waves. Then I see him. Jones. Following her like a little lap dog. Okay so at around six foot four, he’s not little. He’s more like a stray following a bitch in heat . . . his tongue’s almost hanging out of his mouth.
Well, fuck off buddy. This is my time with her. And I know one thing: I’m not sharing her with him. Over my dead fucking body. I saw the way all of the women at work fawned over him when he was wandering around like he was James Bond or something with his stupid headset and his fancy suit. We all knew he was armed and I’ll bet that wasn’t a legal firearm. Belinda and Nadine joked about having a threesome with him and argued over who’d get his cock first.
I want that sort of attention. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind a threesome with the blonde receptionists. I wouldn’t mind that at all. Isla calls them the Barbies, because they’re blonde and very girly. She says it like it’s a bad thing. I used to laugh but now, I’m not so sure. They are both very promiscuous, getting off with different men when they’re out on the pull. They’re probably very knowledgeable and possibly quite discerning when it comes to fucking.
I know Nadine will put out. She’s given me the come on often enough but I only had eyes for Isla. I’m going to make sure that I can fuck for England before I bed her . . . she can’t keep her mouth closed about anything. It’ll be around the hotel in no time. Oh yeah, Isla is going to hear exactly what she’s missing. I’ll bet Xander doesn’t fuck her well. He’s too far up his own arse to give a woman what she needs. Jones too. He’s probably too worried about his hair getting messed up to give a woman what she wants.
What’s he doing here anyway? Any why did he walk in with Veuve?
They reach me and I see her eyes flick to the empty pint glass in front of me.
‘It’s my first,’ I say defensively. ‘And you’re late. Shall we get started?’
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I want to claw them back. I don’t know what made me talk to her like that but, from the scathing look she gives me, I know I’ve fucked up.
Her hand shoots out and grasps my chin in a vice-like grip.
‘We’ll get started when I say so. Is that clear?’ she hisses.
I try to nod but I can barely move my head. Fuck, she has a strong grip.
I can see him behind her, trying to hide the smile on his face. He fails. Well, fuck him.
She releases me and turns her back on me and begins to chat to Action Man. It’s horrible. I’ve been dismissed and I don’t know what to do. It feels like she’s punishing me by ignoring me and part of me feels like fucking off out the door, but another part of me knows that I deserve it.
I only said it because he was there. If she’d been on her own, I wouldn’t have spoken to her like that.
Five minutes later and nothing’s changed. Except for the fact that I’m well pissed off. This isn’t fair. She’s my therapist, not his and yet he’s getting all her attention in my fucking time slot. I’m stood here sulking like a naughty fucking child while they’re flirting in front of me.
Well, just chatting really. But he fancies her—I can tell. I wonder what they’ve been doing. Whether he’s fucked her. Whether he’s any good.
I can feel bitterness rising like bile in my throat. Why is it that some men get respect from women? We blokes can see them for what they are: fucking arseholes. But women, give them a few muscles and a pretty face and they throw themselves at them shamelessly. Take Jones and Xander Fucking Rhodes as perfect examples. And the barman, Gabe, who fucked Veuve as she sucked me off.
But I’ve got muscles—I’m not as pumped as them but I’m in good shape. And I’ve always been told I’m good looking. So why aren’t I fighting off the ladies? I get offers but I’m hardly drowning in them.
I’m going to ask her. Once he’s fucked off, I’m going to fucking ask her. Because I want that. I want to be surrounded by semi-naked bodies the second I walk into a club. I want a different woman in my bed every single night. And I want them to limp out of my bedroom every morning . . . yeah, limping because I’ve fucked them raw.
But even as I tell myself that, I know that I’d trade all of that to have the woman whose back is turned against me in my bed, every single night. And I’d gladly let her fuck my cock raw, hell I’d gladly let her do anything to any part of me, if only she’d give me a chance.
But right now, I’d settle for a little attention. For not being made to feel like a chastised child. Because right now, he’s got her attention. All of it. And it fucking stinks.
I CAN FEEL HIS animosity before we’ve walked halfway through the club. As I get closer, it’s written all over his face. I don’t bother to wonder what I’ve done to generate such hostility. I know.
My crime is walking through the door with his sex therapist and we’re late. And I can tell what he’s thinking because his animosity is born of jealousy.
Veuve is going to have trouble with him unless she’s careful. Something which is confirmed when he accuses her of being late and attempts to take charge of proceedings—I know he’s fluffing up his chest feathers because of me. He’s not so much got a chip on his shoulder as a whole fucking tree. And I can’t help but smile, no matter how much I fight it, when Veuve takes that tree and uses it as a battering ram . . . knocking him down a peg or six.
When she turns her back on him and completely ignores him, I’m glad to get a beer in my hand so that I can laugh into it. I’m not mean spirited but I can’t deny he had that coming. I get the feeling that anyone who takes on La Veuve Noire is a brave man indeed. Well, brave or stupid, one or the other. She handles him effortlessly. Just as she handles anyone and anything that comes her way. She has a gift—no wonder she took a psychology degree.
I get the feeling that I had a rare insight into her soul the other night in Battersea Park. I know it was driven by guilt and grief when she allowed herself to bare her soul and I know that I was privileged witnessing it. I’ve seen in happen in the field when men who are harder than nails cradle a fallen comrade in their arms and nurse him more tenderly than anyone would believe possible. Great big bears of men, sobbing their hearts out when the body in their arms falls limp and there’s not a damned thing they can do about it.
And just like them, she recovers quickly, taking it in her stride and not allowing it to weaken her. At least not outwardly. I think of the infamous training at Lympstone that Commandos undertake that’s not really changed since the Second World War. Men have died during the gruelling, initial selection course and few earn their green beret. Add to that the unavoidable frequency of such mental traumas in the field, both of which combine to harden them until moving forward and not breaking stride becomes second nature. Then I think about the woman beside me. No Commando training and no active service in the Marines. What prepared her to cope as she does?
She’s known pain and suffering. I can sense it. She’s either tougher than most RMs or she’s a fucking good actress. If she’s not acting then the Marines are missing a trick banning women from serving. The image of her reclined, naked in the bath, furiously rubbing at her clit floats behind
my eyes. On second thoughts, maybe her voluptuous body isn’t cut out for the thirty-mile endurance march over Dartmoor carrying a 321b pack. Nor would it manage the nine-mile speed march. But I can imagine her taking on the Commando slide at the start of the Tarzan Assault Course but there’s no way in hell that she’d make the thirty-foot rope climb at the end. Fitness issues aside, unless she’s hiding something, of course she’d fail the marksmanship test too.
She’s talking about something and nothing, I’m not really paying attention. I know she’s only engaging with me to make her point to Dean. Besides, I’m too busy imagining her body midway through the mud run along the estuary of the River Exe. I’d wrestle her in that mud any day.
But Commando selection requires mental stamina in equal measure to physical prowess. If there was a way to test my theory, I’m sure she’d score incredibly high with the mental challenges if they could be isolated. I chuckle when I imagine the DS (Directing Staff) getting on the receiving end of Veuve’s tongue. I can imagine she’d be very popular in the mess wearing the outfit she is currently squeezed into. And as for those long black patent leather boots she’s so fond of, I doubt she’d be short of willing volunteers begging to polish them to parade standard. And that’s not all they’d be begging for.
I’m desperate to talk about The Kid but not with an audience and Dean is definitely listening in. I’d never break The Kid’s confidence and go shooting my mouth off to Veuve but he’s giving me nothing to go on. A guy called Ross who isn’t his father—at least he doesn’t think so, nor does he think that Ross is his sister’s father. Ross works in London but The Kid isn’t sure where he lives. He drives big, fancy cars and has other men who work for him but The Kid only knows a handful of first names. That’s all I got out of him. Oh and that his sister is probably fifteen or sixteen now. When quizzed, it transpired that he only thinks he’s nineteen. That’s his best guess but it could be a year either side of that.
He’s insistent that his sister is in danger. Apparently, Ross is capable of doing some terrible things . . . well, the men who work for him do the dirty deeds on his orders. I know there’s more . . . much more, but it was an effort getting that far with The Kid. I knew that if I pushed, he’d most likely clam up. For today, I had to be patient. But if she’s in danger, I need to find a way to make him talk. He looked incredibly anxious being outside on the balcony—whether that was being outside or whether he was concerned his mother would overhear, I don’t know. I’d feel happier if she was in on it but I guess he has his reasons. It makes me feel so awkward.
It was tough enough keeping a lid on my own memories. And my own pain. His emotionally charged words took me back to the day the world turned on its axis and my life became infused with darkness. A darkness that still lives inside me.
You see, The Kid’s sister isn’t much older than mine was when she disappeared. Alexandra was beautiful, so kind and loving. Everyone adored her. I know that I’m biased and that everyone has to say nice things about someone when they’re no longer around, but it’s true. It was hard to be mad at her or to stay mad at her—it was impossible for anyone not to like her or for her to cause anyone offence. She was one of those people who light up the world, wherever they go.
For months after she’d vanished, I used to light a candle every single night and leave it burning when I eventually cried myself to sleep. A big, church type candle so that it was never dark around me. Not because I was afraid of the dark—I was sixteen—but because I wanted to keep the light that she’d shone. And, I thought it might help her to find her way home. It became a symbol of hope. I had to keep it burning . . . because I had to have hope.
She was my little sister, a pain in the arse but so adorable with it. I’d lived to torment her but I’d have died to protect her.
Only I hadn’t been able to. She was walking home from school the last time she was seen. I was away in college then, studying my A levels for a career in medicine. She’d said goodbye to her friends and then left to walk the last half mile to our home in broad daylight. Half a mile . . . it’s nothing. I could piss further.
She never arrived home.
I didn’t feel worthy to pursue a career in medicine—that’s if they’d still have taken me when my grades plunged and my record of good behaviour went down the pan. I was angry. At everything. Everyone. The slightest thing caused a fight. I went from planning a career saving lives to one where I could end them. Training knocked that out of me and I ended up with a career that aimed to save lives, even if I had to take some in the process. They were the bad guys. Bad guys don’t deserve to live. I was convinced that it was a bad guy who took my sister.
The truth is, we never found out what happened to her. I have no idea whether she’s alive or dead. That’s one of the hardest things to face. No answers. No closure.
I didn’t realise at the time how lucky I was that the Royal Navy allowed me to earn my green beret. I guess they took my exceptional circumstances into consideration and didn’t hold my final grades against me. I took to Commando training like a duck to water. I flew through the fitness elements and skilled up with relish. There was some concern at the beginning about my mental state, given all that had happened but I grasped the opportunity to succeed with both hands. I channelled everything I felt into passing that training. And I did. I fucking aced it.
I almost jump a foot into the air when something sharp digs into my ribs.
‘You’ve not listened to a word I’ve been saying,’ Veuve accuses.
I drag myself back to the present and grimace guiltily. ‘I’m sorry. I had something on my mind but that’s no excuse for ignoring you. I’m back in the room now. What were you saying?’
She pins me with a look that says, ‘Who the fuck do you think you’re kidding?’ and, not for the first time, I feel that I’m making her uncomfortable. And not because I was not listening to her but because . . .
Well, that’s the million dollar question.
She’s so dismissive of me. She always looks like she can’t wait to escape my company. She avoids eye contact.
And yet this afternoon I saw her studying me when I was sitting with The Kid on her balcony. She crept into the shadows, but my peripheral vision picked up the movement. I studied her more covertly than she studied me—unless my Commando skills have finally deserted me. Then she tiptoed from the room—her attempts to evade my attention making her stand out like Katie Hopkins in a finishing school.
I felt compelled to follow. I was too damned curious to find out why she stared at me for so long and then didn’t come to join us, but attempted to sneak away. I found her in the kitchen, head tipped back, neck invitingly exposed as she slugged that water down . . . and then, when I disturbed her and the water had sloshed onto her chest . . . trailing down between those voluptuous breasts . . .
My cock stirs at the memory. It took all my restraint not to lean over and catch the tiny stream of water with my tongue. But then her eyes, usually so evasive, locked onto mine and I heard her breath hitch. I felt a compulsion to step up to her and take her mouth. But I know it’s not what she wants—or at least she thinks she doesn’t. Oh, I’m fucked if I know. I could feel my resolve stretching so thinly that I feared it was going to snap. But then I felt it. Some invisible warning radiating from her.
So I played nice. I asked her for water bottles and I left her to it. Then I watched her checking me out as I walked away from her. Glass display cabinets are as good as mirrors, but she wasn’t to know that. I stepped into the hallway and paused, listening intently.
I grimaced when I heard her crush the water bottle in her hand. I thought that confirmed how much she despised me, that maybe I was reading her wrong. Then I heard her say, ‘Why does that body have to belong to him? And why can’t he act like a complete bastard so I can hate him?’
I grinned all the way back to the balcony. I don’t know what she’s got against me but at least she desires my body and she knows I’m not a complete bastar
d. That’ll do—for now.
So I sit and smile as she continues to waffle about nothing of significance. I know it’s all a front. That it’s for Dean’s benefit. But I don’t care. The more time she spends with me, the more chance she has of becoming acclimatised to my presence.
Eventually, she excuses herself, clicks her fingers right in Dean’s face and he follows her out the back like a lovesick puppy. I tell myself that it doesn’t matter whether she’s off to fuck him or whether they’re going to sit and chat like regular therapists and patients.
But all the same, I look around for something to take away the ache in my balls and the excess of blood in my cock. There’s nobody in here that stokes my fire like she does. I end up homing in on a skinny blonde who’s shamelessly attention-seeking as she wraps her long legs around a pole and exposes her overused vagina. I roll my eyes at her tasteless tactics. But what’s the point in trying to find someone like Veuve? They’re only going to come up woefully short. I may as well take what’s offered up on a plate.
So out back, I tolerate the blonde’s cheap perfume that irritates my nostrils but I don’t risk irritation to my genitals. Before I go anywhere near her cock-hungry cunt, I sheath myself in protective rubber and then I give her the attention she craves, or so it seems to her. I’m merely giving my balls the release they crave; she’s just a willing receptacle. I resist the urge to gag her whiny cries as I take what I need. Then I toss the condom in the rubbish bin and a twenty on the bed. A cheap fuck with a cheap slut, although we never agreed payment terms. She’s not worth any more.