Like a fisherman who feels the tug on the line, Alma knew she had something. Her line tugged on his features; his lips twisted upward, uncontrollably, into a smile. His eyebrows raised in the universal symbol of wanting to know more. His eyes widened in surprise and recognition. Yes, his expression said, finally, somebody sees me for what I really am. Somebody finally sees me!
He cleared his throat and opened his mouth, but Alma charged on.
“I do not see, Wallace – if you do not begrudge me using your Christian name – how a man like you is not an equal partner with Mr. DeBell and Mr. Gaston. How is it that your father, who should be resting and allowing his only son to take command of the business, has shunned you?”
He twirled his beard and narrowed his eyes at her. “You are a perceptive woman,” he said. “If any other woman had spoken to me like that, her life in this town would be over. But you . . . I do not even know your name.” She gave it. “You, Miss Abrams, are a different breed of woman. I can see that. How can one so beautiful be so perceptive?”
Alma glanced toward the door. He is not an ugly man. Nobody entered. They were alone. She rose from her chair and walked around the desk and stood beside Wallace. He looked up at her, his lips trembling. “Miss Abrams?” he said.
She didn’t say anything. Slowly, she moved her hands to his shirt and unbuttoned the top of it, to allow access to his skin. She slid her hands under his shirt and grabbed his chest. He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. “You need a woman like me,” she said, and moved her hands lower, lower, to his belly. “Don’t you need a woman like me, Wallace? You deserve a better position. You deserve more respect. You know you do. You just need somebody to help you.”
She removed her hands from his torso and fell to her knees beside him. With a quick movement, she twisted his chair so he was facing her – she was far stronger than she looked – and moved her hands up and down his thighs. He gazed down at her with wide forest-green eyes. “Miss Abrams?” he said, his voice shaky.
“Just relax, Wallace,” Alma said in her melodic voice.
Oh, yes, I can melodic or sonorous or whatever I have to be!
Her lips were aching, she had to admit, with that deep ache that came in the moments before sexual explosion. They ached so badly that she reached down with one hand and clamped it down on her sheath through her trousers. Her clit burnt as she rubbed. Wallace followed her arm with his eyes and when he saw what she was doing the front of his trousers went up as though with a tent-pole.
“Pull them down,” she told him, looking up into his face, rubbing her lips, massaging her clit. The room seemed hotter, more intense, closer. She knew this was part of her mission but that no longer mattered so much. She wanted this.
He did as she said. His cock sprung up. It was long, thick, and hard. She grabbed it with her free hand, grabbed it hard at the base, and then lowered her mouth onto its tip. She had complete control of this man, now. That was one of the benefits of being an attractive woman, was it not? Perhaps it should not have been that way, but Alma did not care for philosophical questions of that sort. She would use what weapons she had.
She rubbed her slit harder, massaged her clit with her fingers, pressed down on it like a button—all the while sucking Wallace’s cock, pushing her mouth down deep, to his base, and then withdrawing and spitting over the length of it. He moaned loudly. She moaned with him. This was not a performance any longer. Her lust had risen. Like a dormant volcano, the pressure had mounted, and now came the unexpected release. She moaned louder, louder, muffled by his cock but loud all the same. The orgasm rocked over her, made her body gyrate. As if responding to her, Wallace spilled his seed. It filled her mouth; she swallowed, fell back, panted.
They stayed like that for a few minutes, him with his trousers around his knees, her with her undergarment damp with her sensual release, her chest rising and falling. She smiled up at him. This was what she liked to think of as the Decisive Moment. Either this man would now see her as a whore – just another whore – or he would see her as something sensual and alien and worth learning about. There was not much one could do in the Decisive Moment but wait and look pretty. It was so horribly indecisive.
He smiled. “Wow,” he said.
Alma returned the smile and jumped to her feet. “I do not know what came over me,” she said, smoothing down her clothes. “I am positively astonished with my behavior. You, sir, have brought out the devil in me. Yes, I blame you utterly. You are a sorcerer of some sort.”
“Me, ha!” He stood and pulled up his trousers. “You are the devil, madam!”
“Perhaps so,” she conceded. She waited for a beat, locked eyes with him. She saw it; she had him. “Sir, if I may be so bold, I truly think your talents are not currently equal to your position. But I do not bring only problems. I believe I have a solution which you may find useful.” She did not wait for his response. Like a desperate soldier, she pushed on. “Hire me as your advisor. It would not be a well-paid position, but the joy of seeing you rise through the ranks would be pay enough.”
She forced herself not to bite her lip, though her lip twitched. She could not let him see that she was nervous. No, sir, she was not nervous. She was completely in charge. She was a confident woman, a widow making the best of it. She stood straight, looked straight into his eyes, and waited.
Now he bit his lip. “That is an interesting proposition,” he said. “And you would work directly under me? Not my father?”
“Exactly,” Alma said. “You are your own man, are you not?”
“Of course!” he broke out, with more violence than was necessary. That was good. Impassioned stallions were all the more loyal when tamed. He bit his lip again, and then – as though making a gut-wrenching decision – nodded quickly. “Yes, yes, return tomorrow at sunrise. Good day!”
“Good day, Wallace,” she said.
As she left the building, she ran into a man who must have been the senior Saville. He had a thick grey beard that reached down to his midriff and a shining egg-bald head. He grinned at her. Black holes flashed from between yellowed teeth. “And who might you be?”
“An employee of your son’s, Mr. Saville,” Alma said, with all the grace and submissiveness of a servant. Play your part but change it when needed.
“Oh, really?” he said, stroking his beard. “Ah, I see!” He winked at her. “He’s always liked a pretty face!”
Alma kept a rictus smile of innocence on her lips, though bile rose and fell in her throat.
“Very well, off with you.”
Alma walked through the door into the morning air. The town wide awake, but emptier than it would be tonight. Most of its residents were at the silver mines. Alma returned to Beryl’s hotel, went to her room and retrieved a novel she had been reading recently. She retired to the bar where she took a table in the corner, sipping from a short glass of whisky and reading the crumpled pages. She had been reading for almost two hours when the old whore sidled up, her legs like those of a veteran sailor, walking with pain each step.
“Hello, m’girl,” the whore said.
Alma laid her book on the table facedown, pages splayed. “Yes?” she said.
“My name is Elise.”
“And why would I be interested in your name, Elise?”
The crone licked her lips. Then she leaned in as a conspirator. Alma could not help but lean in with her. The woman’s breath was thick with whisky, but Alma could not judge on that front. Her head was already heavy with it. “I see things,” Elise said. “I may be old, but I’m cheap . . . and lots of folk think I’m pretty darned experienced. There’s one man in particular who has liked me an awful lot over the years. Avery DeBell. Wouldn’t say it in public, of course, an old wench like me. But he likes me a lot.”
“How wonderful for you,” Alma said dryly. “I still fail to see how this is any of my business.”
“I saw you going into their offices,” Elise said. She went on hurriedly: “Your business is your
business. I have no say in that. All I’m doing is – eh – promoting myself a little. If you are ever in need of a whore with a quick tongue and open ears, I’m here.”
Alma kept her face calm, but pushed her whisky glass across the table. “Finish that, if you like, Elise, and I will remember our conversation. If the need arises.”
Elise nodded her thanks, drained the glass, and left the table.
A potential ally, Alma thought, and then picked up her novel.
Chapter 4
“Look here, if my son wants to hire a . . .” Abraham Saville winked at the room in general, and then winked once more in Alma’s general direction. “. . . an advisor, then I think we should not begrudge the poor boy. Gentleman, honestly, just look at her. Can you blame him?”
Avery DeBell and Bill Gaston looked less than pleased, but Abraham Saville was a one-thirds partner of the Silver King Mine Corporation, and they could not stop his son hiring Alma. The general consensus was that Alma was a whore in all but name, and that suited Alma just fine. The less they thought of her, the more surprised they would be when something drastic happened. And make no mistake, old men, something drastic will happen.
Alma stood at Wallace’s shoulder, like the guard of a king, watching.
“We need to increase hours by an hour a day,” Abraham said, thumping the table.
“Increase pay by an hour a day, you mean?” countered Avery, who wore no beard and was even thinner than Alma. “I do not intend to squander our fortune on greed, my good man. Let us extract piece by piece, and stretch out the longevity of this mine to its absolute maximum. Why do you want to rush?”
“We are old,” Bill put in, who was round-bellied and round-faced and spoke with heavy, slow words. “You have to admit that, Avery. We’re older’n hell.”
Alma surreptitiously nudged Wallace in the arm. The man was revealing himself as a disappointment. She needed him to act, to draw attention. He was her tool in these matters. She had no use for blunt tools. If he felt her nudge, however, he gave no sign.
The meeting went on like this for an hour, and then Bill proclaimed that he was hungry, and like an English village when the bell has been tolled, everybody filed out of the office at this signal. It seemed Bill Gaston’s hunger was a timer by which the men kept their schedule. Alma allowed herself a small smile at that. It was the only thing she had smiled at today.
She and Wallace returned to his office. He fell into his chair like a man deflated. “I might as well not even be there!” He rubbed his eyes, bit his lip, fiddled with his hat, stroked his beard. “Ah!” he snapped, and proceeded to rub his eyes, bite his lip . . .
“Sit still,” Alma said, as she took the seat opposite him. “Are you a man or a child?”
He blinked at her. “Do not forget your place—”
“You are wrong, sir,” Alma interjected. “It is you who forget your place. You walk in a man’s skin, and yet you behave as a mouse.”
He would hit her now. Or he would submit to her. She was ready for either, had a plan of action for either. If he hit her, she would weep, and say she was sorry, and play the helpless woman. But if he submitted . . .
He sighed. “You are right,” he said. “I let them treat me like fools.”
Alma rose to her feet, walked around the desk, and massaged his shoulders. “You are a rich, powerful man,” she said, stroking his ego as she stroked his knotted muscles. “But you care for your father too much. You let your love for him cloud your judgment. I think – if I may be so bold – you should allow me to call on him in a private meeting. On your behalf, of course. I may be able to secure for you a more prominent position in the organization other than sitting in this office.”
“This office has its perks,” he said. He reached around and found her leg, squeezed it, and then moved his hand up, up, to her lips. He pressed his hand down. Alma told herself this was business. She had no time for pleasure. But she could not deny she liked his strong hands, his beard, his hungry demeanor. He rubbed her clit through her trousers.
Alma grabbed his wrist. “You have not given me your answer,” she moaned. “A man who leaves a woman waiting just might find himself submitted to the same punishment.” She pressed his hand against her cunt, pressed it hard, and then withdrew it. Give him a taste and then withdraw.
“Meet with him!” he huffed. “Yes, fine, fine!”
He turned the chair and grabbed her groin, pressed his hand down, and rubbed her until she reached orgasm. Afterwards, he looked at her in amazement. “I have never met a woman who does that,” he said.
“Does what?” she replied, casually stroking the length of his cock through his trousers.
“Who shows her pleasure as plainly as that—as honestly as that. Of course, whores will moan until the brothel falls down around them. But they are paid. I know you are paid, but . . . Am I making any kind of intelligible sense?”
“Of course,” Alma said, stroking him. She leaned into him, kissed him on the lips. His beard tickled her, but she liked it. “Will you make love to me?” she whispered. “Don’t you want to be inside of me?”
His gorgeous forest-green eyes widened. She could see into this man’s character through those eyes. He was just a naïve man with a rich father. He was just a naïve man living in a looming shadow. But that didn’t matter for now. All that mattered was the beauty of his eyes and the length and girth of his hard cock. That was all Alma cared about.
“Of course I do,” he returned, in a low whisper. “Now? Here?”
“Now,” she confirmed. “Here.”
She leaned over the desk and pulled down her trousers, baring her slit and her ass, and arched her back to give him a full view. She heard his quick intake of breath. Then she felt his hand on her ass cheek, tentative at first, and then confident, grabbing her flesh. “You are a siren . . .” His voice was low, whispered. Alma did not take it as an insult. She had led men to rocks and seen them dashed and broken before; she could not deny that.
His finger moved to her hole, wet – so, so wet – and slid inside of her. He stood up. She heard his belt unbuckling, and then the tip of his cock brushed her clit, brushed her lips, and then brushed her hole. “Do it!” she urged him. “Do it! Do it!”
He pushed his cock inside of her.
* * *
After the sex, Alma pulled up her trousers and stood by the door. She wanted to waste no time in making her play. Like a general, she needed to begin her operations, set her soldiers in place, get them marching. There was a lot to do. “I am going to see your father,” she said, her body aching from the rutting, her cunt throbbing from the orgasms.
“Okay.” Wallace was so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes open. His head drooped and his chin bounced against his chest. Alma left the room, walked down the hallway, and knocked on Abraham Saville’s door.
After a few moments, his voice came, gruff: “Come in!”
Alma walked into the office and stood with downturned eyes. It was better to seem deferential with this man. The very fact that he had kept his son from the business for so long spoke to his desire for power, for importance. He saw himself above other men, more important than them. Alma had learned long ago that men were simple creatures; if you treated them how they wanted to be treated they would take an instant liking to you.
“What is it?” Abraham said, sitting behind his desk. He gestured impatiently to the seat opposite.
Alma seated herself, faced the man. “First of all, sir, I would like to express my astonishment and my appreciation of the way you dealt with your colleagues in the meeting. I certainly learned a great deal just by sitting in.”
Abraham inclined his head. “Go on,” he said.
“But I have to say I feel it is beneath a man of your caliber to neglect his son in business matters. Not to be rude, sir, but you are no longer a young man. None of you are. It is my understanding that neither Bill Gaston nor Avery DeBell have sons. Who, then, does this business go to when you perish?
Your son, sir, and it is my impression – my conviction – that you have neglected your son in business matters.” All whilst his seed spills into my undergarments. She did not allow herself to smile.
She waited for his reply calmly, marble-faced: carved, implacable. Abraham Saville was a taut man. He reminded Alma of knotted rope. His arms and legs were tough, twisted with sinew, covered in thick grey hair. He stroked his long grey beard and then rubbed his bald head, as though it was a magical lantern and his reply would emerge. “Hmm,” he said, at length. “I have to admit I have never been spoken to like that by a woman. You, Miss Abrams, are a curious specimen indeed. A beauty, to be sure . . . the most beautiful woman I or anybody in this town ever laid eyes on. But there’s more to you than beauty, isn’t there?”
“I like to think so,” Alma said.
“What would you have me do?”
“Simply allow your son to take over from you from time to time. Oh, of course he does not expect to take over completely. But what if he worked in the mornings and you worked in the afternoons? Would that be so problematic?”
“Did he send you?” Abraham suddenly snapped. “Did my boy send a woman to—”
“No, no,” Alma laughed, like the very concept was hilarious. “He does not know I am here. He is too proud to ask you himself.” Too cowardly, more like.
“Hmm!” Abraham slapped the table. He leveled his gaze on Alma. She knew that expression well. He was searching for a weakness. He would not find one. Even if Alma’s heart beat marginally faster, even if her palms sweat a little too much, her face never showed a thing. He leaned his elbows on the table, and then nodded. “Fine, tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Alma rose and made to leave the room. She was at the door when Abraham called her back.
“Yes, sir?”
“You’re a widow, aren’t you? Who was your husband anyhow? And I can’t seem to place your accent. Where are you from?”
Romance: Pummel Me: A Boxing Romance Page 82