by King Key
Jessica’s eyes flickered before she willed her facial expression into calmness. “So?”
“He’s in a black sedan in the parking lot. A Lincoln. You can join him if you’d like. My driver will take you two wherever you want to go.” Gretel calculated that even after Jessica noticed Rich’s absence, Bruiser could con her into getting in.
Jessica’s eyes flashed. “Why are you trying to pair me up with Rich? You know our history. Are you tired of him already? Maybe you and I are after the same person—but not Rich.”
“Reconsider Rich. Don’t put your money on the wrong horse.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ll find out later tonight. When the race for Pacesetter is over. Speaking of race horses, and other studs, where’s Kurt?”
“Bitch!” Jessica turned and walked away.
Gretel let Jessica escape because she saw Judd Workman again. If she couldn’t bag Kurt, her biggest prize, she’d go after her second choice. She approached Judd with a stealth that did justice to her surname. Up close, he looked as if he’d lost weight. His coloring looked wrong: too pale.
But Gretel pushed those thoughts aside. “Hello, Judd,” she said slyly, “or should I say Jude? The patron saint of lost causes.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Tonight I’ll bring Kurt Merchant to his knees. You’re trying to help him.”
Judd had to bite his tongue to avoid criticizing Kurt. Despite Judd’s warning, Kurt must have been careless, and Gretel found out. “Kurt’s my friend.”
“Drop him. Save yourself,” she warned. “Or I’ll make you bow down to me, too.”
“You conceited b—Jezebel!” Judd’s consternation caused him to hack. He figured she’d try to bait him into vulgarity among the cocktail sippers. So, he avoided direct mention of her other bait: her body. “You have a way of wrapping guys around your finger,” he conceded.
“Thank you for the compliment.”
“My mistake.” He smiled at her poorly concealed anger. “You have it down to a science, Gretel. But science gets pretty cold. So, I’ll just steer clear of your traps.”
“Oh, I know how to get to you,” she taunted. “I’ll bet on it.”
He winced. “Think you’re pretty smart? Sure, I like to gamble. But not with the likes of you.”
She clasped her gloved hands together. “I know a secret. Should I share it with you?” She looked upward, as if seeking an answer. “Maybe later.” Winking at him, she snatched the crab cake from his plate and took a big bite.
Someone came through announcing that the Vanguard Society was gathering in the hold of the ship for the awards presentations. There would be no more refreshments.
“Nothing beats a Chesapeake Bay crab cake,” Gretel grinned malevolently. “Too bad I got the last one!”
“You little vixen!” He hacked again.
“Aptly put. That means ‘female fox.’”
“If I were young and healthy—”
“If you were young, I’d seduce you. If you were healthy, I’d ride you so hard you’d be feeble.” She took two steps, turned, and said, “Stick around for the awards. I’m sure you’ve sized up the odds. But, as they say, ‘It ain’t over till it’s over.’”
Suddenly Judd lost his appetite for crab cakes and all other food. He realized Gretel had devised a scheme to snatch Kurt’s award from him. Judd didn’t know how Gretel would rob Kurt, but he was thoroughly convinced that she would rip him off. He felt nauseated and too tired to fight. “Kurt rightfully won Pacesetter of the Year,” he said, approaching Gretel respectfully, if not humbly. “Tell me what I must do to keep you from robbing him of his award. Anything. You name it.”
“Aw, that’s sweet. Are you in love with him?”
“I ain’t gay! Let me get you in a dark room, and I’ll prove it!”
“You’re male animal enough, but not man enough. You’re not like Kurt. Bet he gives good tongue. I’ll find out. But I’ll make him beg for it first.”
Judd no longer cared whose prissy ears he offended. “You’re the nastiest bitch I’ve ever known. And I know every red light district in a fifty mile radius of six Army posts.”
“Who cares what you think? Your ass is mine, Judd. You can bet on it. In fact, you already have. That’s why I own you.”
Judd’s shoulders slumped. His gambling debts. Somehow, some way, Gretel had gained control of all of his accounts due for his biggest weakness. Judd was addicted to nearly every variety of wager known to man. He hacked several times.
To Judd’s complete surprise, Gretel asked, “Are you all right?”
Judd retreated into his thoughts. After all of his bragging that Gretel would never fleece him, because he could control his dick, she blindsided him. Instead of owing virtually all of his earthly possessions to a faceless loan company with the appropriate acronym of LAIR—Loan Acceptance Income Reserve—Judd owed Gretel everything.
“How did you do it?” he asked in bewildered amazement. He would consider it a moral victory if he could make it to his toilet at home before he puked his guts out.
She grabbed his elbow with surprising strength. “Let’s get you to the men’s room.” She ushered him toward the destination he suddenly coveted.
“You can’t go in here,” he protested.
“Try and stop me!” Gretel barged through the door, ignoring the staring patrons, and guided Judd into an empty stall.
He flipped the seat up. Kneeling and bowing low to confine the splatter to the inside of the bowl, Judd retched mightily. After a brief pause, he heaved again. And then a third time for good measure.
Gretel rolled off a good length of toilet paper. “Blow your nose.”
Judd honked into the paper, threw the tissue in the toilet, and spat several times. “Thanks.” The roar of the flush partially revived him.
Gretel’s solicitude intrigued, delighted, and confounded Judd, but she wasn’t through yet. “Come over to the sink and rinse your mouth out.”
Tired and weary, Judd meekly complied. The cool water felt good. Dabbing his lips with a paper towel, he observed, “You’re being mighty sweet. What’s the catch?”
Gretel jacked up her signature arrogance to rare form. “I know when I’ve whipped you soundly. I don’t need to rub you nose in it. Although that would feel good!”
But Judd departed radically from his ordinary crustiness. “I know when I’m beaten, too.” Kneeling behind Gretel, he took her hips in his hands and kissed her golden hind as vigorously as he would have kissed her lips.
Feeling the dampness of Judd’s saliva seeping through her dress and pantyhose to her skin, Gretel braced herself with her hands on the sink, spread her legs slightly, and leaned forward at the waist to maximize the contact between Judd’s lips and her ass.
A voice at the door boomed out. “My God, Judd! What in the hell are you doing?”
Gretel turned, and her green eyes caught Kurt like the proverbial deer in the headlights. She said disdainfully, “Obviously, he’s saving your place in line.”
Chapter Twelve
Stealing Glory
Tangled emotions coursed through the fibers of Kurt’s being, but several stood out in sharp relief: Outrage at Gretel’s towering ego; unbridled lust for Gretel in her shiny dress and domineering pose (even though she victimized Judd); embarrassment, pity, and disgust for Judd; and spine-tingling fear for his own future. Kurt never accepted a mentor, but Judd came as close as possible to that role. Kurt looked to him for strength. If Gretel could thoroughly humiliate Judd—in a men’s restroom that should have intimidated her—what chance did Kurt have against Gretel?
He wouldn’t have any chance as long as he stood there dumbstruck, solidifying Gretel’s subjugation of Judd and him with each passing second. Kurt lurched forward, uncertain of what he was doing until he reached Gretel. “Let’s get you out of here,” he said, putting his hands smoothly but firmly on her shoulders.
“Take your hands off me!” She
tried to brush his hands away, but he held his grip.
“Act like a lady and I’ll treat you like one.”
Gretel looked at Kurt with some approaching respect. “Treat me like a lady and I’ll act like one.”
He released her. “What are you doing in the men’s room?”
Judd stood up. “She took care of me while I got sick. All hell would’ve broken loose if she’d taken me to the ladies room!”
The three of them walked out of the restroom. “Thank you,” Kurt said to Gretel. “It didn’t look as if you were helping Judd.”
She smiled. “I gave him a kiss. But ask questions before you jump to conclusions. Excuse me. I have to make a phone call.” She walked down the corridor, took her phone out of her purse, and leaned against the gunwale of the ship.
While she dialed the number, Kurt leisurely admired her glittering rear end.
Abruptly, Gretel glanced over her shoulder, straight into his eyes, and shook her head disparagingly, as if to say: If you wish for me to act like a lady, act like a gentleman. Finishing her call, she returned to Kurt and Judd.
Taking a key from her purse, Gretel handed it to Judd. “Go to my house. My driver will take you there. He’s in a black Lincoln sedan. I told him to stand by the car so you’ll spot him.”
“Don’t make a fuss over me,” Judd said.
“You look terrible,” she said bluntly. “I feel responsible, after the news I gave you.”
“What news?” Kurt asked.
Gretel laughed mirthlessly. “Part of it is none of your business. You’ll find out ‘the rest of the story’ soon enough.”
Kurt made a sour face at Gretel. “Thank you, Paul Harvey.” He looked into Judd’s eyes. “What gives?”
Judd couldn’t face him. Staring down, he said, “Word of advice, kid: Run!” He raised his head long enough to wave and say, “’Bye” to Kurt. To Gretel, he said, “It usually pisses me off when people talk down to me. You beat me fair and square. So you can talk to me any way you wanna. And thanks for giving me a place to crash.”
As soon as Judd was out of earshot, Gretel explained, “He rents a room downtown. He’ll never get any rest there. Noisy neighborhood.”
“Since when?”
“Since his wife died. He sold his house.”
“Why are you being nice to Judd? He bad-mouths you. You don’t like him, either.”
“Judd and I have been bitter enemies. He was a noble adversary. Now he’s too sick to fight. You know that doctor’s appointment he told you about? For Monday? I doubt he’s visiting a doctor. Probably surgery.”
“Think so?” Kurt’s mouth dropped open. “How do you know what Judd told me?”
“Maybe I’m clairvoyant.” She grinned maliciously. “Or maybe you should lock your office door when you’re out.”
“Why you…!”
“You should dust your office for fingerprints,” she suggested. “Glad I wear gloves!”
Kurt caught his breath and licked his lips.
She peered at him intently. “That turns you on, doesn’t it?” She stared at his pupils while she spoke. “Do the shiny gloves excite you? Or do you get a kick out of a sexy woman getting away with cheating? Even if you’re the victim.” She simpered. “Judging by your reaction, the gloves and the larceny both arouse you.”
“I’m just amazed at your gall.”
Gretel looked incredibly supercilious. And, for some reason that Kurt couldn’t fathom, her sexual allure suddenly gripped him so tightly that the idea of cramming his cock into her obsessed him. Her hauteur bewitched him, her golden pumps hinted dominance, and her gloves connoted clever, sensual hands. But her shimmering golden dress enslaved him. The sensation of ramming into Gretel would transport him to the pinnacle of sexual ecstasy, at least for that moment, and her glitter would mesmerize him until they connected again. Kurt knew Gretel would bang him as hard as he banged her, and she’d undoubtedly coax every last drop of vitality out of him, leaving him depleted and still yearning for her. But what a way to go!
Emerging from his reverie, Kurt realized Gretel was practically reading his thoughts through his facial expressions. Or his growing erection.
“Poor lamb,” she chided. “The eyes really are the windows to the soul. But stop dawdling and let’s get to the awards ceremonies. Everyone says this is your night. I don’t want you to miss a second of it.”
“Go ahead without me,” he begged off. “I never used the facilities in the men’s room. Remember?”
“Watch my exit,” she commanded more than invited. “Nothing makes me feel more feminine than a man watching my splendidly shaped ass while I walk. Especially a man like you, a true connoisseur of prime rump.” She turned her back to him and began her sinuous stroll, peeking over her shoulder occasionally to make sure his eyes were still fastened on her.
The vision of Gretel’s ass cheeks, each alternately tilting higher than the other, like two glorious spheres of flesh on a teeter-totter, delineated and amplified by shiny gold, sent Kurt’s testosterone raging and yet fulfilled his nebulous ideal of the aesthetics of a woman’s perfect ass. The sexual magnetism of a well-contoured derriere, however, would always cloud Kurt’s judgment too much for him to recognize when he had actually seen a flawless rear end.
Gretel’s bottom, tautly covered in gilt material, provided Kurt with his own guilt material. He shouldn’t lavish his emotions on someone as corrupt as Gretel. Yet, he couldn’t ignore how the glistening fabric enhanced the appeal of her behind: sexually, by flaunting her magnificent ass and at the same time wrapping it up safely and denying Kurt access to it; and artistically, by smoothing out her curves. To Kurt, a woman’s naked buttocks punctuated by an anus equaled a plain butt. But a tight, shiny dress transformed them into a delightful derriere.
The bottom line—and Gretel expertly wiggled the exquisite symmetry of flesh in her voluptuous bottom line—was that Gretel thoroughly and irrevocably imprisoned Kurt while she walked away. He struggled with all of his might to keep from chasing her. And when he relieved himself in the men’s room, he had to grip his right wrist with his left hand, like a scene from Dr. Strangelove, to keep from playing with himself.
When Kurt joined the crowd in the hold of the ship, the Vanguard Society annual meeting was well under way. Bright lighting, carpeting, round tables accommodating six people each, and other modern conveniences mocked the ship’s original, Spartan nature.
As the outgoing Vanguard president, Sidney delivered a farewell speech so remarkably full of bromides that Kurt’s Herculean effort to stay awake prevented him from even thinking about sex. Any lively writing that came out of Chimera, as Judd noted, probably came from Gretel. At one point Kurt thought of listing all the clichés: “Everyone knows more than anyone. We can accomplish more together than we ever could separately. It takes two hands to clap.” Blah, blah, blah. “These meetings give us an excellent opportunity to shanghai talent from other companies”—Wait! Sidney didn’t actually say that, at least not out loud. But corporate raiding formed the cornerstone of Sidney’s support for the Vanguard Society.
Then came the seemingly interminable minor business awards: outstanding volunteer, top seller, best new company—And my personal favorite, Kurt yawned, Miss Congeniality. Any other year, without being nominated, Kurt would listen attentively to the recognition paid to up-and-coming businesses. They deserved their fifteen seconds (not even minutes) of fame. But after years of waiting to be named Pacesetter of the Year, Kurt could hardly bide his time any longer.
Finally, Sidney announced, “We’ve come to one of the highlights of the Vanguard Society Annual Meeting, when we name the Pacesetter of the Year. The nominees are listed in your programs. Rather than reading all of their names aloud, let me just announce the winner—Kurt Merchant. Come on up here, Kurt.”
Only the most inebriated members of the crowd could miss how phony Sidney’s enthusiasm sounded when he announced the winner—and especially when he tried to address Kurt
in friendly terms. Kurt didn’t care. He weaved his way through the tables, bounded up on the stage, and took the gold trophy from Sidney. The crowd applauded. Some clapped enthusiastically. A few board members looked surprised to see Kurt.
Kurt held the statuette in his hand: twelve inches in length, three inches in diameter at its thickest point. He vaguely wondered if Gretel designed the Pacesetter trophy. The base had room for a small metal plaque, currently at the engravers, to be affixed. Before Kurt could say a word of thanks, Gretel sprang her trap.
Stepping onto the stage, she said, “I hate to interrupt the proceedings.” She suppressed a sadistic smile that would betray her unmitigated glee in doing just that—slamming the brakes on the meeting, demolishing Kurt’s moment of glory, and stealing the limelight for herself. “As most of you know,” Gretel said pedantically, “the Pacesetter Award not only rewards performance but also loyalty. It is intended to recognize an individual as a representative of his or her company.”
Scattered members of the audience exchanged puzzled looks.
“As a result,” Gretel continued, “during last month’s business session, the Vanguard Society passed a bylaw that states: ‘The candidate must be a current employee of the company that nominated him or her to be eligible for the award.’”
The number of puzzled looks increased.
Gretel strained to put a concerned look on her face. “As some of you know, Mr. Merchant is no longer employed by BizMart. Consequently, he is ineligible for the Pacesetter of the Year Award.” She took the trophy from his hand and held it close to her breasts.
Some Vanguard members gasped in surprise. Others began to grumble.
Before the protests could build, Gretel raised her hands, still clutching the award. “Fortunately, there’s a happy ending.” The crowd quieted to hear what she’d say. “The new bylaw covers this contingency. If the winner can’t accept the award, it goes to the immediate superior. So, this year’s winner of the Pacesetter Award is Rich Leckie.”
A few society members shrugged off their disbelief long enough to generate token, sporadic bursts of applause. And then the rest, driven by the prevailing attitude of association members to conform rather than confront, joined in the applause.