by JR King
Hungrily, I let out a whine of a whisper. “More.”
“What a greedy pet you are,” he cooed, sliding inside me.
It was violent and basic. We rabidly rutted against one another, each intent on purely getting off. It wasn’t making love, just plain sex. Feeling that wonderful rush of blood to the head, my body tightened as I orgasmed with a broken, hushed shout. Alexander wasn’t far behind, increasing his speed until he came in fierce spurts inside me. He kissed me and whispered fractured declarations of love as he came down.
“Do you think Hamilton heard us?” I failed to choke back my girlish giggle.
“I don’t know and I don’t care.” He primly retucked my skirt and neatened my dress before righting the both of us.
Before reaching Cape Cod, we washed down the acrid taste of car-sex with champagne. That’s where my grandparents went for the quintessential American isle experience. I knew the Gatsbyesque resort hotels and villas with private beaches and croquet lawns well. Together with Chatham, Orleans, which had one of the best beaches in the US, was one of my favorite hangouts. This cape was an idyllic slice of heaven that had activities such as whale-watching. Seeing a whale shark up-close was another one of my dreams, and not just because I’d defeated one in Vashj’ir—WoW expansion sector.
I’d taken day trips by ferry to Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard, but this time around, a helicopter transported us to The Vineyard. The four of us arrived at the Turner residence at 4 PM on the dot. It was located in West Tisbury, a quiet residential part of the island far enough from busy downtown Vineyard Haven. A ticker-tape welcome and beachfront suites awaited us. Not a summerhouse or a sprawling megamansion featured in Vanity Fair, this weatherproofed oceanfront estate had been quietly passed on to Turner family members for ages. Opulence never went over well on Martha’s Vineyard. Residents prided themselves on their discretion, bread and circuses to keep the masses of footmen happy, so specifics about the property had been kept hush-hush. One of the largest compounds on the island, an asset property that held a white-framed clapboard mansion, its size almost twenty thousand square feet, complimented by a helipad, a private spa, a basketball court, a tennis court, a bocce ball court, and—of course—putting green. It was a four-building complex with a dozen bedrooms and over fifteen bathrooms, and the chefs, masseuses, beauticians, stylists, tuxedoed butlers, and maids made it feel like paradise.
Bearing in mind its size, the house wasn’t grotesque. Capable of harboring as many as thirty relatives at once, it was quite tastefully done up, and the memorabilia and bequeathed artifacts gave it a strapping presence without rendering any of it gross. I squealed something about the impressive ocean view, becoming embarrassed when Alexander commented he owned islands with fresher ocean air and better view.
His face impassive, he paused to admire an artwork suspended in the lobby of our room. In good taste with the furnishings hung a simple painting of a perfume bottle. It was a close-up of the object against a yellow background, familiar all at once. Unfocused grey shadows highlighted the bottle against the fading backdrop. The writing at the bottom provided a glint on the matte canvas, and the gist of the painting.
“Are you a fan?” I inquired smoothly.
“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” he stated mildly.
“I’ve visited the Magritte Museum,” I revealed, an unwarranted giggle rising in my throat. “I’ll never forget that day, marathoning with grandpa. After the museum we went to Sablon, walking all the way up to Place du Châtelain. We stopped by an Irish pub before going to Rouge Tomate. No ID was ever requested, and waiters kept topping off my glass. I drank like a fishy fish.”
Alexander’s forehead was creased into deep lines, as if in great effort. “My mother painted this,” he said bluntly after a moment, and glanced at me. He waited for me to answer, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know what to say. It was hard to reconcile the image of a man I thought I knew, someone who was perceptibly unshakeable and unbreakable. This broken man before me was holding himself together through will alone. I couldn’t help but feel compassion and sadness for him.
Eventually, he gave up on waiting. He put his arms around me and rested his face against my hair.
Uncurling myself, I placed my hand on his. “I’m so sorry.”
He curled his fingers around mine but he didn’t look at me or acknowledged that I’d spoken. “Me and my pathetic state,” he confided to the floor, and sniffed.
“It’s okay, Alex. Together we can make it better.”
He swung his head at last, looking at me. “Come.” His mouth twisted into a parody of a smile. “I’ll tell you about the islands I own. They’re in Connecticut, Maldives, Oceania, and Bahamas.”
On the patio, I settled into a Pembroke chair, giving him a dignified scowl. “Impossibly arrogant. Why not tone it down? Vulnerability is an inescapable part of our nature.”
“Grows hair on my chest, babe—being vulnerable is being woundable. A macho man who exudes arrogance is perceived as a strong, fearless person who will keep his woman safe in the face of danger. Look at most animals that flock, their mating rituals, and their cubs seeking out protection. There’s always a single, superior male that’s the biggest and baddest of the herd.”
I listened to the birds trilling and chattering about, the cool sea air huffing benignly. “Humans don’t flock like animals.”
“Humans flock as well. We live in societal communities, don’t we? From my experience, women want to feel protected, and what others may deem as being arrogant they find exciting and sexual. Let me ask you this: why do guys like pretty girls? Look there,” he snapped his fingers beyond the small raised lawn edged by authentic stone balustrade, “and tell me.”
Amid the many architectural plants, the spiky, silvery plumes of pampas grass fluttering against the blue sky caught my interest. “Peacock’s feathers attract.”
“So what happens when you’re not a pretty girl?”
“I get that it’s analogous, Alex. I see your point. Guys go after the girl with the hot body as opposed to the nice girl who looks kind of average. Confidence and a strong physique I find sexy in a man, arrogance less, but the initial attraction is there.”
“Attraction isn’t a rational thing, it happens, but there’s a clear pattern. Just look at heroes and heroines in movies and fictional writing; Mr. Smith is smoking handsome and Mrs. Smith is fucking hot, thereby attracting each other. Just look at you and Jax at Stanford.
A guy doesn’t look at a girl and wonder if she’s a money-grubbing piranha or if she’s going to make a good lifetime mate, not at first sight. Who gives a fuck if the girl is nice when her physique bores the crap out of you? Nice girls—or guys—are like tattoos with a SO’s initials. A plain Jane is a drag, nothing else. Men would rather be with a gold-digging stunner that turns heads and makes you smile than a nagging, whining, wrinkled old prune that has no looks and has nothing to offer in the way of intelligent conversation than jealousy and comparison and establishing intelligence at every turn. Confidence rules.”
“Ouch.” I gave him a mock shocked look. “No I love Elena tattoo on your chest? I feel hurt!”
He shook his head. “Just chest hair and symbolic wireframes of something or other.”
I laughed. “I don’t want more hair on your chest. I prefer it as is, perfectly groomed by your team of pretty beauticians.”
The second headshake was one of disgust. “They’re not pretty. They’re,” he paused. For the first time around, my extremely arrogant and eloquent boyfriend was at a loss for words, walking toward me while staring at the floor as if searching for dust specks. “Efficient.” Having found his tongue, he smiled widely at me. “Not my team at all. Grandma handpicks the girls. Manicure and pedicure while drinking champagne?”
My turn to smile. “Only because you insist, handsome.”
Canting his head forward, his hand pulled me up by the nape of my neck until my ear crashed then pressed against his mouth. �
�Did you enjoy rendering me awkward and at a loss for words, my pet?”
“Totally.” We took to kissing as soon as his lips crushed to mine. Even the most playful of kisses always turned into more with him, hard to ignore his hard-on. I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him roughly against me. “You better be prepared to finish what you started.”
“Oh, I intend to do much more than that.” Pushing apart my legs, his body took its destined place between them. He rocked me, moved my hips back and forth against his pelvis, his heat rubbing off on me. On the red oak flooring, we rolled together as a unit until he lay atop me, kissing my temple as he stroked my hair. As his lips found mine again, they were fairly tender yet his hands were incredibly rough with me, shoving the sticky gusset of my underwear aside and pulling his boxer briefs down.
I asked, “What if someone sees us?”
Barriers between us gone, he pushed inside me in response, a first for him. Baring himself. No unease, just the sound of wet flesh clapping together. He angled his head right above mine, his kisses gentle and sweet in a way that made me forget we were making love on a balcony.
“Hmm.” He subtly exited and rubbed his cock-head against my perineum before plowing back in. “I don’t give a rip. When I’m done, then I’ll take care of you, pet. This is for me.”
“I love you, Alex.”
He savagely thrust himself into me so hard, my back smashed against the floor, my shoulders pinching against each unrelenting thrust. Repeatedly, he sent my body crashing into the wooden floor full force, which only seemed to erotically punctuate the pleasure he was availing himself of. I should have recognized something was off when he didn’t reciprocate. Without sweet words, it was only sex. A mind-blowing, toe-curling, emotionless act, but it was hot all the same. Love is blind, how cliché, and sadly true.
For our mani-pedis, a staff member led us to the southern part of the pool area that was topped with a massive Victorian pergola draped with purple wisteria and ivy covered-archways. There were six ivory beauty-treatment chairs, and each had its own side table. An antiquated candelabra hung overhead, and seashells, candles and lavender were scattered about. The entire thing looked like something out of a special issue of Better Homes & Gardens in collaboration with Organic Spa Magazine.
“Are those clipped acrylic nails?” a manicurist asked me.
I looked down at my fingers.
“No, she never uses fake nails,” Alexander said as he accordioned his tall frame into a chair. “Pretty thing, isn’t she? I’m so lucky.”
My cheeks were warm. I wished he wouldn’t flatter me in front of strangers.
I sat down, sinking lazily in the colossal chair’s plush, plump bolsters. Dwarfed in it, I studied the sharp lines of Alexander’s jaw. The line of his profile was stunning. In a while, a group of four men drifted toward us. A parade of elephants walking in lockstep. There was the boss, two bodyguards in civilian garb hard on his heels, and the PA. The star of the show wore a charcoal three-piece, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, his expensive shoes shining. My eyes traveled to his lips, which were pink and plump and curved in a smile. It seemed like my manicurist broke her neck as she watched him cross the space, but he kept his eyes on me.
“Look who’s here. Long time no see,” Alexander started right off the bat.
The man sank into the seat across from me and eyed the Voss bottle on the low table between us with amusement. Steely grey eyes flickered to me. “This is some hardcore stuff. Heavier than spiked punch. Are you trying to get my nephew drunk, Miss?” His gaze was intense and burning, like he knew something I didn’t.
I blushed, but only a little. “So this is what Alexander will look like when he’s old? Yep, I might as well give up now.”
There were hardly tightened lines around his mouth as he gave me a fierce grin full of white teeth. “Men are like a bottle of good red wine, they get better with age, darling. Their taste improves significantly,” he told me rather seductively, his voice deep and raspy.
My blush deepened. “Quite a few turn into sludgy-looking vinegar, no?” I managed to razz him.
The big whoop of a laugh that followed belonged to Christopher Turner.
Another love affair began.
Elena Anderson
The Gift of Submission
A good shower usually involves a tub with an overhead spout or some walk-in glass enclosure with a showerhead. On this estate, the shower was a small room with multiple panels on each of the four walls, and a partial raindrop ceiling. Walls were heated, the benches on opposite sides too, and plentiful natural light from the frosted skylight cinched the layout. Instead of turning levers, Alexander went to work on a remote control. Water began to drip down from the ceiling in a gentle but steady manner.
He said, “Is twenty-five minutes enough? Showerheads switch off automatically.”
“Yes, please.”
When streams of Brahms’ Hungarian Dance started filling the room, I could only assume it indicated the water had reached the desired temperature. Alexander moved to the middle of the room, right underneath the circular raindrop fixture. I moved in behind him. Both standing under hot water and billowing steam, he helped ridding my shoulders of the knots. His palms swept across them, on to my collarbone, and over the pertness of my breasts.
“I have a personal shower butler.”
He smiled back at me, kissing my forehead, and lathered more body wash between his hands. Fingers slick with soap closed around my shoulders, moving halfway between a massage and a wash, strong thumbs rubbing the stiff muscles of my neck. Open-palmed hands slid down to my tender behind, and I let out a little moue of contentment, leaning in against him.
“That feels reeeally good.”
“Want me to do your hair?”
I held his eyes. “Please, sir.”
He turned slightly, and as the flat of his palm reached out to the shampoo dispenser, his ridged abdomen and sculpted pectorals rolled and contracted.
Nature’s unfair.
With the Easter dinner scant hours away, we decided to have a drink outside. Strains of plaintive music drifted from the room. Édith Piaf’s inimitable voice belted out equal parts of heart-wrenching lament and a drippy diatribe against wild love gone wrong. A shiver of awareness coursed through me when I heard steps approaching. Alexander cradled a glass of white wine in each hand, and walked through the sliding doors. The wave of the ocean air was crisp, the air brackish. He handed me a glass, went back to close the doors, and took a place beside me on the wicker patio sofa. I was trying to figure out what to say, wondering if my anxiety was palpable.
“Elena, is it the sadism? Am I pressuring you?”
My forehead crinkled with the effort to understand. “Excuse me?”
“I’m into S&M. Crude, down-and-dirty hardcore fucking.” The irritation within the lining of the phrase and his sharply indrawn breath told me he wasn’t looking forward to this conversation. “You shouldn’t have to put up with it.” There was a duality in his gaze, almost as if he was trying to hide the dark look that was second nature to him.
“Put up with it? I love you through it all, Alex, sadism included. Not despite it.” My tone was reasonable and controlled when I asked, “Have I done something wrong?”
“Do you dream a lot about your exes? Jax?”
I blinked dumbly, because, ironically, I had not seen that coming.
“So that’s why you’re sulking. Thank God.” It all came out of my mouth before I even knew I was thinking it, and it was quite possibly the dumbest thing I’d ever said. A sliver of lucidity still existed in me, so I was able to suppress a grimace. “I don’t remember dreaming about any ex-boyfriend.”
He rose and stood beside me in an iconic pose of manhood: feet together, one hand on his hip, and glassy disappointment in his eyes. “Is it self-doubt or are you unsure of this relationship?”
“It was a dream, Alex,” I protested, aware of how weak it sounded. “I don’t even remembe
r it.”
He knitted his eyebrows. “Can you submit for a while?”
As I licked my lips, a substantial tease oozed over my tongue. “Will it fix things? Make you feel better?”
He dipped a finger into the surface of the wine in his glass and brought the drop to my mouth. I looked down at his finger before my lips wrapped around it and sucked. He curled his finger, its pad caressing the top of my mouth. Pulling it out, he tugged on my lower lip. “Most definitely it will. Come with me.”
I followed him into the bedroom, where he put on something beautiful, The Space Between by the Dave Matthews Band.
“You. On your knees, now,” he ordered as he brushed past me. “If you’re not ready for this, you need to tell me now, Elena. This one is going to be a different story.” He yanked his belt free, and the swishing of leathery material kicked up my heartbeat. Shoving his trousers down his thighs, his swollen cock surged upward.
A blowjob?
No longer fearing oral sex, I eagerly knelt down before him. Curtains and blinds were left open. I imagined the jaw-droppingly obscene tableau we made—a young girl kneeling down to pleasure an older, lean, well-dressed gentleman—and only became more aroused.
“Do you trust me, pet?”
“Ye of little faith. You sound like a broken record.”
“Don’t act smart with me.” My gaze found his and I saw thickheaded troublemaking shining in it. “This type of blowjob isn’t about making me come. It’s about submission. I’m solely going to use you for my pleasure.” His hand tangled in my hair and he drew me forward, pulling my head down to the burnished tip of his cock. “Don’t suck. Take it deep. All the way down.” My tongue tentatively found the slit where pre-come bubbled and beaded, and he groaned when I traced a path around the silvery, translucent pearls. “Such a fucking tease.” He curled his hand around my nape, stroking and massaging, offering both silent encouragement and guidance.