Shades Of Obsession

by JR King

  “Dial it down a notch. Don’t be such a meanie.”

  “Then be a good girl. Behave, okay?” That made me smile. I closed my eyes and the image of Lily blowing me rapidly segued into an image of a young girl attending a masquerade ball. Ultimately, I jizzed like clockwork, and it took quite a while for the discharge to peter out.

  Alexander Turner

  The Prodigal Father

  Ever hit rock bottom? I have, and I don’t intend to let it happen again. I didn’t do the embarrassing things. The things that screamed for help; DUIs or public humiliation or family fights. Rock bottom meant killing myself a little each day.

  I woke slowly, and at first I felt nothing, no sensation. Then the grogginess hit me, my limbs felt like they were shackled to the bed, a rip current sucking in my sanity. One by one, hazy memories coalesced. The inside of my mouth tasted awful and the inside of my head felt even worse. The air around me was thick, not loaded with fern-like cologne. I had no idea where I was. I was lying on rumpled sheets, my suit wrinkled, I had a beast of a hangover, and I smelled women’s perfume on my trousers.

  Lily was asleep beside me. Regrettably, I had no desire to speak to her before vacating the premises. I jumped out of the bed way too fast, my left leg quaked when I put my full weight on it. I considered kneading the muscles, but thank goodness the cramp never came.

  Before I could take a deep, cleansing breath, the weirdest thing happened to me. My mouth started flooding. It was full of some thick substance, not gluey like spit, it was rather fluid. It was neither sharply acidic nor cold, it was warm and slightly sweet and citrusy. As my mouth became fuller by the second, I tasted the unmistakable metallic tang of blood. A trickle of unease started dancing in my chest. Then a sharp, hot sting surfaced as I took my breath. I bit my tongue and waded through it. Any way you slice it, this was a sign my innards were deteriorating. A sinking feeling hit my stomach, fear began scraping against the grain of my skin.

  When I spat in one of the mounted Villeroy & Boch his and hers washbasins, I expected a small gush of blood to come out. The sort of gush you sometimes get when spitting. What came out instead, by and large, was a thick stream of blood, and as it struck the ceramic, particles swirled around, little pellets coloring in a swirl of abstract patterns. I gasped for air and when I found it, it’d turned thick and rich with the smell of blood.

  I turned off the faucet. Pushed the lank lock of hair that flopped over my brow away with the back of my hand, and scrubbed both hands with anti-bacterial soap.

  My bloodshot eyes snapped up at the sound of a voice. “Are you all right, Alex?” Lily was on tiptoe, belly pressed against the lip of the second sink as she took a deep sigh.

  “Hell if I know.” I let out a miserable whimper.

  “I’ve found condoms.”

  My mind shot a blank. “Bad idea, Lily,” I turned down the offer, hoping my answer was curt and discouraging.

  “I’m not good enough for you?” Her shoulders sagged as she huffed out another sigh.

  “That’s not…,”

  She was already gone. I followed, saw her grab her handbag. She spun around and stood still for a moment. I was taken aback—well, mostly her skirt floating up a tad from the sudden movement had caught my interest. Instinctively I inspected, my eyes had a mind of their own and looked at her tits.

  “I had a nice time, Alex. Very nice.”

  Why I couldn’t let her go? Because cock; I had one. It was unethical to use my bedroom voice on a fragile girl, but the soft, silky, breathy murmur slipped out before I could stop myself. “Come here, sweetheart.”

  “I don’t need a pity fuck, dickbag.”

  “Oh, it won’t be a pity fuck. Far from it.” I grinned at her and removed my jacket, letting her see my hard-on. She cocked an eyebrow, clearly not expecting this. I moved over and gave her a light pat on the back. “Now, you’ve been a bad girl, disobeying an order.”

  She laughed and then I laughed. I shut her up fairly quickly as I made her take my cock into her mouth. I spanked and fucked her like a pro, she was that good. Her emotionally fragile appearance and shyness were just devious wrappings for a little slut. Girls like her were born to be in pornography, the really tasteful, high-end, Marc Dorcel kind of art.

  Just as we engaged in anal play, Tony entered the room. “Lily.” He leaned forward until their foreheads touched, and his finger traced a straight line over the curve of her cheek. “Did he leave the room?”

  “No, sir. That one line ko’d him.”

  “Good girl. Freshly fucked and sweet.” He looked up at me. “How do you feel? Tired of your shitty self yet? Wanna continue your Joe Schmoe streak?”

  “Help me fuck this little bitch, and I’ll tell you.”

  He gave me a dirty smile. “With pleasure.”

  A threesome is quite simple. Two tornados of lust sweep alongside the target’s body; one a slow cyclone of kisses and caresses that gradually increases, the other a dark storm that pillages the lusciousness. The touch of fingers and lips flow over the body in tandem, two mouths at a neck, teasing it, many fingertips deliciously tormenting sensitive parts. All Tony and I required is that Lily opened up to explore the borders of her own ecstasy. She did and, as her passion rose and her body craved hard cock, we both guided ourselves to where she wanted us. Restless in my own need to be done with it, I fucked her fast and hard.

  It was with a weary face that I went into my house, my tie loosened, my jacket out. I undid the buttons of my shirt, one by one as I climbed the stairs. Messily, I kicked off my shoes, but still bent down to gather them and put them back into their usual position in the dressing room. The tie, the shirt, the jacket, the trousers, the boxer briefs came off, and those I put in assorted dry cleaning baskets or laundry bags as need be before stepping into the shower. The hot water felt great on my bare skin, its warmth seeping into my pores.

  Sleepover time, Tony stayed with me, needling me about my future. They say talk and laughter are the best medicine. We talked, we laughed, we even cried. There was a time when I wanted to kill myself. Friends and family pulled me out of that mental shithole, and I hadn’t looked back since. I hadn’t entertained a suicidal thought in many years, not because moments when my existence felt inconsequential lacked, I just learned how to manage my mind in a sort that it couldn’t collapse like a house of cards. I learned to communicate with Tony and Aidan, share my fears with them. Also, after seeing Elena for the first time, I decided to stop abusing coke until the dust settled. Twelve years later, here I was. This was my chance to do something better. To marry Elena and have a family? To have children? I was sitting on the edge of my bed with a towel wrapped around my waist, thinking all these crazy thoughts. I leaned forward until my elbows hit my knees, my hands falling down between them. I inhaled deeply and exhaled, full well knowing what I had to do.

  Outside, turned leaves swirled gently around my feet and pollen of day lilies floated in the air. The white ducks around the lake disbanded at my approach. Sluggish waves rippled across the muddy-looking surface, and the sunrays reflecting off it made for a tangential glittering effect. I used the back of my hand to block out the harsh sunrays that were obstructing my view.

  Fucking enough already. I craved immortality—don’t we all? I’m not talking about anything mystical like the fountain of youth or leaving behind my writings and a prosperous business empire, imagine the emptiness of such materialistic shit! I’m talking about progeny.

  The very next morning I woke up to find that other than a residual soreness in my throat and a streak of dumbness in my mind, there was really nothing wrong with me. No malaria.

  Recrudesced, I took pleasure in stylishly wrapping myself in a newly minted Edward Sexton three-piece. The price was right, British tailors didn’t scrimp on quality. I opted for German efficiency, a SLR McLaren. At work, Meredith handed me a few Excel spreadsheets and a PPT document that went with the amount. I took it all and looked them over. The considerable budget covered a
construction project.

  “Alex, is everything okay with you?”

  “Why?” I glowered at her. Meredith was primed to put up with my surly demeanor and brusque commands.

  “Take a gander, there were a few inconsistencies on the spreadsheet regarding direct labor. The numbers were off. Given the timeframe and solitary contingency, if we want to ascertain profit…of course you don’t need details and such.”

  I had difficulty speaking. “Inconsistencies?” I ran my eyes wildly up and down the Excel tables, trying to glean some sense from it. “And I signed off on it?”

  She nodded and then shrugged. “I took care of it. I just wanted to make you aware of the changes I made.”

  Long story short, over a span of ten years, I’d personally examined each budget. For all intents and purposes, it seemed like I could no longer correctly calculate. Depressing news. Right, so all work and no Elena had made me a dull and stupid man. More accurately, at this point I was solely a cranky psychopath.

  My saving grace was that someone opened the door to my office without knocking. “He’s been working way too hard, love. And he hardly takes vacations. Ach, he never takes vacations.”

  My pulse pounded erratically. I shot out of my chair at the slick footsteps I heard approaching, then fell down again. My knee started bobbing up and down beneath my desk, a bad habit whenever this man confronted me. FYI, he was my father. I wasn’t polished like he was. I tried, but I didn’t always know the right thing to say in the right place. He did. I wished I were polished like him to be memorable with each passing second.

  I picked up the papers and made a noise in my throat. “Leave us, Meredith.” She acquiesced right away, like a good secretary was supposed to do, but also shot me a look that I recognized to mean we’d talk later.

  Dad came over to me. Everything about him contrasted: his presence was commanding, yet his voice was seductively warm; his hair was dark, yet his eyes were the lightest shade of grey. The slight bend of his nose and the spray of pale freckles across it added much interest to his facial features. I hated when he looked at me with disappointment in his eyes. Grey eyes that were much like mine.

  I forced myself to swallow. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

  He touched my shoulder. “I’m sure it won’t.”

  Violently thumping both fists on the desk, I let out a rush of air. “I’m such a fuck up.”

  “The Anderson girl really messed with your head.”

  I rubbed my face in exhaustion. “And you’re here to say the famous three words? Told you so?”

  “Bad news has wings. I’m here because of last night. Either you quell your nostalgic ardor and wash your hands of cocaine, or you’re not going near Elena. Pick a side, boy!” Enragement aged the features of his face further. “I’m pushing 60, and I’m tired hearing about you being doped as a gill.”

  I nodded listlessly, knowing full well he was putting me on probation. “I’m done with that shit. Good God, I let my rationality override my want to use, doing it with a dumbass perp I detest, then I coughed up blood.”

  “Well, whaddaya know. Wickedness has its own punishment.”

  I sighed somewhat in relief that this wasn’t going to be as big a deal as I thought. When he came into my office, I didn’t think I could muster up enough energy to care if he took the company away from me. But now I was in full Tyler Durden mode, minimalist approach and all. I felt like fighting for myself. “I won’t disappoint you, sir.”

  He wore a look of concern as he stroked my back. “It’s all my fault. I started it, champ.”

  My head snapped up, I shook it determinedly. “No, that asshole started it.”

  His expression turned stern. “Jerry showed you the tapings?”

  My inhaling was sharp. “Yeah. She didn’t make the call. Dad, I want to call her—,”

  “She’s like my daughter, Alex. Your stepsister.”

  Two feet apart or not, I shouted, “I don’t fucking care! She’s mine. She’s mine, okay? I mean, she’s so pink and fresh and clean.” I figured a hungry-chimpanzee-stare might work, if not, a sharp wail of a starved puppy being stepped on was next. “She’s so—,”

  “Magical, isn’t she? Just like her mother. See,” he paused for a long while, and I waited, “your mother didn’t just marry me for money, she married me for a lot of money. I had to keep it coming or else she’d move on to the next billionaire on her list.

  As the years went by, and with them the passion between your mother and I fizzled out, I became lost. I didn’t press her at all. Perhaps she was waiting for me to press her. Misfortune seldom comes alone. She fell in love with waiting itself while I fell in love with weakness.

  When I met Shirley, I forgot to tip her. She didn’t insist. I went back inside and she offered me a digestif on the house. Her father was the executive chef, she told me, very proudly. We started talking and I found her lack of materialism refreshing. She didn’t know who I was, nor did she care when I told her.”

  A leaden silence fell between us. I ran a hand along my cheek down to my chin, got up. “I remember I was a shaking mess the first time I saw Elena—it was right after Darren came to see me—and yet I felt like there was a string attached to the both of us, connecting us. It felt wonderful, exalted me. Gave me all the strength in the world to do something with my life just so I could acquire her one day. She’s mine, dad. Let the chips fall where they may.”

  “I won’t get in your way. I’ll let Jerry know when you may initiate. Before making her a Turner, I want to show D’Souza what his daughter’s like, living her independent life. Torture him a little longer.”

  I smiled at hearing that.

  “What if she doesn’t want you?” he asked. “Or your playroom?”

  The blood drained from my face, my legs faced difficulties supporting me. Laying my heart bare and saying aloud thoughts before processing were few and far between. Breathe, just breathe, I told myself. I willed myself to believe she was going to say yes. With my mental capability, I could do a general profile of someone after shaking their hand and having a fifteen-minute conversation. Having finger-fucked Elena, I knew she wanted me. “Hearing a no would be below the belt. I’ll do vanilla, all hearts and flowers. I’ll try my best.”

  His voice had roughened with emotion when he said, “I miss you, son.” His head bowed. I waited, showing forbearance. Finally, he surrendered a broad smile and caught me by the shoulders. He brought me to him, arms banding tight around me. I pressed my face to his throat. We held each other for a long moment, unmoving, untalking. I didn’t count. It didn’t matter. I didn’t mind women crying, if it were for the right reasons, neither did I mind men crying for the right reasons.

  I set my teeth and watched the elevator doors open. Inhaled sharply and asked, “When will you come back?”

  Elena Anderson

  The Moving Onward Solution

  There was a time when, right after the dinner with Alexander, I debated calling his office. I dreamt I was kissing the solid curves of his calves, on to the stiff ridge above his knees, on to the graceful slope of his thighs, on to the sharp angles of his hips. I was admiring his five o’clock shadow after a hard day’s work. I was scratching his back as he slid deeper inside me, digging my nails deeper to draw more blood while screaming his name.

  If wishes were horses.

  One evening my mobile phone woke me. My body jerked into consciousness at the vibrating sound, legs kicking the covers off so I could reach the pretty, exclusive device. Without reading the display, I answered it while moving closer to the nightstand, my free hand groping through the darkness for the lamp switch. “Hello?”

  It wasn’t him.

  It would never be him.

  Right?

  Over the years, I’d met plenty of geniuses. Complicated, layered, brilliant men. Stanford might have been stocked well, but Silicon Valley was chockfull. Just like the pro athletes, quite a few raided with my exclusive guild, so I’d personally me
t every make and model. For famous sportspersons, taking abstention and scandals into account, the ERP—erotic role-playing—aspect of the game might have lured them in, but arenas and raids melted their hearts. Whereas sports pros were blessed with physical strength and endurance vis-à-vis genetics, academic types were blessed with mental strength and intelligence but little to no social skills. And just like Wharton and Harvard, most Stanford graduates—I’m talking about the men—were pompous and insecure, faking confidence by vomiting intelligent yet tedious tidbits at every opportunity. Except for quiet type of geniuses, men never intimidated me. To ascertain your worth, such men notated every nuance of your character and speech for analysis at an appropriate moment. Alexander matched this portrayal to the tee, and being freakishly hot made him completely unapproachable. Nerve-wracking was an understatement here. I’d considered Schrödinger’s Cat many times, valid yet unapplicable.

  On a Saturday when the sound of the alarm’s jarring melody penetrated my dreams and eased me awake, the blinding certainty I’d had that Alexander would call me got eclipsed by radio silence. Feeling impotently sad, I went shopping. Retail therapy, Sara called it. I bought a Chanel bag and an obscene amount of shoes. A gorgeous diamond necklace winked at me and I purchased it without even looking at the price. Store and store blended together, and the only thing I was conscious of is the process of swiping my credit card. My mobile rang as I stood waiting at a pedestrian crossing. Flat-footed, I paused. Like many times before, my stomach clenched and adrenaline surged through my veins, but even before I looked at the caller ID I knew it wasn’t Alexander. It would never be him. Absently, I dropped my iPhone back into my purse, and stepped off the curb to cross the street now that the signal allowed it.

  Have you seen Forrest Gump? You should see it. I mean, Tom Hanks could read obituaries and make me cry, or laugh until I pee my pants. Or possibly both at the same time, if he wore a moustache à la Emiliano Zapata and cocked an eyebrow in that familiar way. In the movie, the actor plays the role of a sweet but slow-witted man, who’s good-hearted and brave, and unknowingly becomes a part of defining events of the latter half of the 20th century. At some point during the movie, Forrest goes for a run, which turns into a phenomenal three-year marathon. One day, out of the blue, he stops. And that’s what was about to happen to me. I’m exaggerating, of course. But just a little.