by JR King
Smug bastard.
A whisper of a fly unzipping followed, and then an erection entered my field of view. Brutal hands were in my hair, he didn’t give me any orders, and so I glanced up at him for direction. He shrugged out of his oxford shirt and tossed it over the armchair to my left. With drink in hand and a predatory smile, he pushed my head down. Letting him guide me, I slid my mouth over his length and started sucking. I’d barely been at it for a few seconds when I felt his hands tighten in my hair, and then he earnestly fucked my mouth. Tears pricked at my eyes. He pulled out when I gagged.
“Can’t even suck cock properly, this one,” he chuckled, “but she likes to listen in on people.”
His forefinger traced a line along my sex, flicking at my sensitized clit. “Fuck,” he murmured, almost reverentially. “You’re so wet. So ready to serve your owner. So eager to serve a man’s purpose.”
I nodded, belatedly realizing how misogynistic this was. Forget it; this wasn’t the right moment to ponder politics. “Please, Alex.”
“This,” he declared, giving my clit a sharp pinch, “isn’t yours. Your pussy,” he delved two fingers into me, “is mine.” Fingers were at my nipples. “Your tits are mine. And that mouth?”
“Yours. All yours.”
Two big fingers pushed into my sex, penetrating me with a roughness that made me gasp. “So fucking wet,” he growled, thrusting his fingers deeper before pulling them out and bringing them to my face. “Taste how much you want to serve me.” Laughing low in his throat, he parted my lips with his fingers.
I sucked the thickly coated fingers into my mouth, swirling my tongue around them the same way I did around his cock. My own taste didn’t repel me. If anything, it turned me on because Alexander cherished the sight.
I met his eyes, pleading. “I’ll never listen in again.” My breath came in short hitches, my chin slick with saliva. “Please, Alex…may I come? I won’t be able to—,”
He cut me off, moving behind me and pressing into me with such a suddenness and brutal force that I had to choke back a violent scream. He, on the contrary, let out the most gorgeous groan before his hand covered my mouth, and then he was fucking me from behind, hard and fast and rough.
“Not Claudia, I’m hard for you, baby. You fit me like a glove.”
I wondered how many women he’d taken just like this, and distinctly hated the thought. How many women had he fucked? Do not ask…do not ask…do not ask. How many spanked? How many tied? How many mixes-and-matches?
The answers would drive me insane for good—they really would. So, I concentrated on the sounds that filled the room. The rhythmic rustle of our knees on the rug grew louder, our breaths growing louder with it.
“This is all the pussy I need,” I heard a sexy rasp.
Ain’t that a kick in the head. I was the one who coaxed carnal sounds out of Alexander. Claudia was history, indeed, all my worries melted away. An orgasm was in its infancy, building up in me like water against a dam. I was begging, pleading for release, and for several moments I didn’t realize the hand on my mouth was gone. Alexander had gripped my waist with one hand, the other one brushing up against my anus.
“Is this what you like? Being stuffed full of cock, your ass getting fingered while you’re almost communing with the universe, windows open for all to see?”
God, yes. Squeezing him harder inside me, I was struck by a swell of hazy lassitude. Unable to stop myself, my heart thundered against my ribs, my toes curling as I came. Everything seemed to implode into that tight, sharp moment of pleasure and completeness, and I felt him shudder into his own climax. I tried to stop twitching my muscles and regain my senses, praying to the universe he hadn’t noticed.
When he pulled my head up, his expression was dark and flat, his mouth pressed into a hard line. “My little pet,” he began, pronouncing each syllable with exquisite, deadly care, “What did I tell you? You gave me your word.”
I didn’t know where to put myself, so I threw my body up against him. A clever girl like me could get away with this. “I thought…I thought…I thought I saw you say yes, sir.” It was my best Tweety Bird impression yet, his favorite Looney Tunes character.
Elena Anderson
The Monte Carlo Casino
Before crossing the square, Alexander dragged me back to the equestrian statue in the hotel lobby. Not a simple statue: it was Louis XIV on horseback, and gamblers seeking good luck had to rub the horse’s right knee that’d been polished to a golden sheen.
Rubbing its shine, I asked, “Does this mean I get to gamble?”
“But of course, Tweety Bird. Twice today I’ve had the best quickies.”
I grinned, proud. “That’s me, sir.”
The street appeared as if it were the boardwalk of Monaco. Casino de Monte Carlo’s exterior displayed the triumphant, demanding architecture of royalty, a palace reminiscent of both the Belle Époque and the Edwardian era. We passed a number of sleek Bentleys parked near the entrance, and Alexander showed our passports at the door. If you stay at Hôtel de Paris, he explained to me, you get free entry into the casinos, though you’ll still have to register; security needs a license or a passport since citizens of Monaco aren’t allowed to gamble, or even visit the casinos.
Stepping on Ocean’s Twelve ground, I was excited. The atrium abounded in a luxurious, inviting atmosphere. It was inlaid in 22-carat gold, had marble columns and sculptures in glass enclosures, and a double-height ceiling open to the second floor. The amalgamation of gold and silver made about a prismatic hue that ably delineated the moldings. It felt like we were at an ostentatious version of the Boston Opera, not a casino. Having spent some time on Google earlier, I knew that Charles Garnier, the architect who designed the Paris Opéra, had designed the main casino hall. From the detailed marble tile floor to the elaborate chandeliers hanging from the ceiling—imagine hundreds of candelabras covered with crystal—to the guests, the men in tuxedos and ten-thousand-dollar suits, the women in Dior gowns and Cartier jewels, it was a fairytale experience.
It appeared that Alexander didn’t have to announce himself in La Salle Europe, he was—literally—welcomed with open arms by the manager. “Ah, mais quel plaisir, Alexander. Qui est donc cette ravissante demoiselle?”
“Enfin, la femme de ma vie. Elena, voici Jean-Pierre.”
“Enchanté, Monsieur.”
“Ravi de vous avoir rencontré.” The French executed a perfect baisemain, a hand kiss performed with bent waist, lips stopping half a centimeter before contact with the skin is made.
In a room that had recessed ceilings, panache moldings, and sculptures and paintings worth fortunes everywhere, I was among Monte Carlo’s elite—the world’s elite. Blithering socialites, movie stars, athletes, investors, and Fortune 500 CEOs were wagering staggering sums of money, most for the pure sport of it. Whales, I thought.
Alexander’s grey stare, if I do say so myself, was always fathomless whenever it swept across a room, greeting each face with the barest amount of reaction. Tonight, in opposition, he was very charismatic, his charm relaxed and seductive.
“Where to begin, kitten?”
I pressed possessively against him as we strolled further inside the room. “Losing your touch, old-timer?”
He feigned an old man’s accent. “What’s that you say, ma’am?” He hit his ear. “Damn hearing aid.”
I almost spitfrothed myself. To see him as he really was; a sweet, funny guy, and not the ruthless businessman whose face he presented to the world, was a privilege in itself. “You are terrible. Funny, too.”
His eyes swept over a group of girls standing a distance from us in slinky, sparkling outfits, waving at a French high roller talking to Jean-Pierre. One of them called out a name, Vincent something, and the man turned and waved at them, sending them into hysteria before turning back.
“So what,” I asked, “are we going to do, Monsieur Turner?”
He cracked a smile. “Have you ever gambled for real, Mademo
iselle Anderson?”
I tossed my head back and let out a quiet laugh. “Yessir. Baccarat, roulette, and blackjack.”
“100k enough to start you up?”
“A 100k Euros stipend? Are you crazy?”
“With my SBM shares, we can afford it.” He clucked his tongue in disapproval. “This isn’t Vegas. In this room they play the two oldest Monte Carlo Casino games. The Trente et Quarante—a blackjack variant, and European roulette. I play poker, mostly, but I’ve been told that European roulette works like an aphrodisiac. Wanna find out?”
I felt beautiful in the gown he’d approved, and after the exhibition fucking, my mood was light. “Hell yeah.”
I was a gambler. You must have outlined that juicy, creamy little bit when I played it all out on my kidnapper. Whether I tanked or healed a raid, I was up for a Leeroy Jenkins anytime. This here is between you and me, lovelies. In Vegas, gamblers came in all stripes, and roulette had been watered down. Alas, not here, back to school it was. European roulette 101: the roulette wheel had thirty-seven individual pockets, numbered 0 through 36. Half the numbers were red and half the numbers were black. So, the bettor simply had to guess in which space the bouncing ball would eventually stop. The bets were placed on a board, you could bet on individual numbers; on a block of two or four numbers; on the first twelve, second twelve, or third twelve; on numbers one through 18 or 10 through 36; on an odd number or even; on a black number or red. Of course the payout varied with the degree of the risk you were taking. Winning on an individual number obviously had the biggest payout, thirty-five to one, whereas betting a number would be red, for example, was only a two-to-one payout because you had a fifty-fifty chance.
“Sit down, belle of the ball,” Alexander ordered. “Relax. Nervousness is a no-no in here.”
“Oui, Monsieur. True that.”
I took a seat and someone put down one hundred thousand Euros before the croupier, which drew the attention of the other four players and a small crowd behind them. Evidently, the women only had eyes for the tall man standing behind me. Each of the players, a Chinese in a business suit; an Indian in a tuxedo—looking yummy like SRK; a heavyset biker type with a beard and a ponytail dressed immaculately in white tie, tattoos covering his arms, one snaking up the nape of his neck; a leggy blonde—Connie Britton lookalike, tried to place me. Movie star or heiress? Another blonde stepped up to the biker, her hair a little more bleached, her body a bit curvier. Silicone assets, for sure. She gave me a gambleholic smile and said, “Monterey, honey.”
I smiled back at her. “Boston, ma’am.”
I had to suppress a giggle when Alexander murmured, “She looks like a ball-busting gunt.”
The croupier gave me a hundred yellow chips, making me think how odd it all looked. Plastic, Game, Set, Match.
“Go big or go home,” I mumbled to myself. I placed ten chips on the number 10, which was my lucky number. As a child, over the years, my mother had managed to buy me ten Beanie Babies. She and I always counted them before she tucked me in. I knew it was a bad bet. A straight bet always is, because the odds are terrible. The Chinese bet black, the Indian bet red, the biker took 10 through 36, and the blonde placed a corner bet, centering the chip at the intersection of square 5, 6, 10, and 11.
The dealer spun the roulette wheel clockwise and announced, “No more bets.” Then he dropped the ball into the wheel in the opposite direction of the spin. The ball bounced against the tide as the wheel spun, finally landing in the pocket for 8.
“Eight, black,” announced the croupier.
I stomped my heel in disappointment. The Chinese grinned as he’d doubled his pathetic little bet, and I flinched at that. Every one else had lost and looked depressed. I’d lost 10k, roughly twelve thousand dollars. A brand-new car, that’s what I just lost.
“Alexander.” I tilted my head upward. “I suck at this.”
“Aw, giving up so soon, my sexy kitten? Place an outside bet,” he told me. “Bet a column, or odds or evens or a color. Don’t just bet on a specific number, you’ll only have a 2.7 percent chance of winning. I agree that it’s low-hanging fruit, but it’s fruit worth picking.”
“Okay.”
“No more bets,” the croupier announced as our drinks arrived. Whiskey for Alexander, martini for me. Good choice, the vodka worked faster than the bubbly stuff, my blunder would soon be forgotten.
“Alex, help me out.”
“You’re good to go. Follow your instincts, pet.” It was short, precise and to the point, his voice betrayed no emotion and his gaze never shifted.
“Eight, red,” the croupier stated.
Good news for everyone but me.
I raised my glass to Alexander in a toast. “Help me out,” I repeated.
“A number between eleven and eighteen,” he offered.
I put five chips down on 16.
“No more bets,” the croupier announced. The ball tripped and danced, ultimately settling in the number eighteen pocket. “Eighteen, red.”
I wisecracked, “I’m getting closer.” When I pressed my head against Alexander’s hip, he disengaged from his position. As if losing fifteen thousand Euros wasn’t bad enough, now I was guilty of public display of affection, so moi’s head was on la guillotine’s chopping block. I imagined a row of Can Can dancers swarming out as the blade swung.
I placed another five on 35. The Indian put three chips down on square 35 as well, but covered his inside bet by putting five chips on red.
The croupier did his thing and the small ball did its torturous little jig. Two of the tablemates outfoxed the rest of us.
Alexander whispered in my ear, “I’ll get hard if you press against me,” and the croupier announced, “Thirty-three, black.”
The Chinese smiled winningly at me, his eyebrows dancing. That’s it. Casus belli, no more bullshittin’, I decided.
I put ten on 10, finished my martini, and in no time a waiter turned up with a cold one. I had the privilege of roughly dropping forty dollars for a bottle of water, mix in some liquor and you need a mortgage. These were the jetsetters, the heirs and celebrities and assorted speculators, and my boyfriend was the richest of them all.
I lost, sipped my drink, and bet another ten on 10.
It seemed as if I were under a spotlight, a crowd had begun to gather around our table. I was the callow American, infamous for throwing money away on thirty-seven to one odds, dropping 10 thou a pop on the number 10. No matter, I was a proud person, not some gutless, shitbag, slopebrowed coward. Every story, especially one that depicts a failed effort, needs a tough heroine. I was born for this role, the Beantown girl who kicked ass in Monte Carlo, books and a movie to follow.
Soon, I’d depleted my hundred thousand Euros, and a crony laid out another hundred for the croupier. People behind me murmured and giggled, none of it was flattering, I surmised. I didn’t care to be frowned on. If Alexander The Narcissist had started this, I was going to end it, with a bang.
He whispered in my ear, “Jesus, you’re making me hot, baby.”
I knew I emulated classic Turner behavior, seeking hard competition, sizing myself up against others, not shrinking from the dare. Albeit through me, I could feel he was enjoying himself, watching me act wild and risky and carefree. While other people were explaining my crappy odds to fellow onlookers, Alexander stood beside me, talking with a man who looked Italian. He paused, placed his hand on my shoulder and said, “Stick with ten, sweetheart.”
It was his money. Who was I to say no? I reached up and patted his hand. “Sticking with ten, sir.’
I was on my third martini, feeling a buzz.
It didn’t get any better, everything went black.
“Eleven, black.”
“Twenty-nine, black.”
“Two, black.”
“Thirty-five, black.”
“Six, black.”
People began to applaud with each bet I placed. I knew it was rather ridicule than encouragement, but drawing a
crowd had a huge effect on me. I was concentrating on memories of my mother. Everything was heightened, every wheel-spin faster, every sip of martini tastier, every loss more painful than the last.
“Alex, I’m sure they all think I’m crazy.” I poked my tongue out, a sliver of a laugh escaping me. “Cuckoo.”
Perhaps he’d developed a love for PDA in front of an elite crowd, because he bent down and kissed my cheek. “I don’t think you’re crazy, Elena. I know you’re awesome and awfully courageous.”
I gave a cursory nod. “Thanks for the support.”
Black was out, red became trendy, and another 100k found its way to the croupier.
I was down to thirty chips, betting against all odds once more, but hesitating—visibly. Now the crowd reacted with a strong audible disappointment. I’d been wrong all along; they admired my spirit, if not my strategy, that’s why they were egging me on. They were doing the same thing Alexander was doing: living vicariously through a girl, watching her take wild risks.
I rose, my Givenchy dress floating about as I turned to Alexander. “Do I change? I’d like to stop after this.”
“Do you believe in the number 10?”
I snared the latest martini and guzzled a third of it, quite noisily. Waited for the alcohol-brain-freeze to pass as I concentrated on the crystalline transparency clinging around a lime wedge at the bottom of the glass. “Terribly, I’m afraid, sir.”
By way of possessiveness, he pulled me against him, the words rolling off his tongue in a slow, innocent drawl: “Then bet on it, kitten. These are the last greenbacks.”
The croupier asked, “Mademoiselle?”
There was no audible reaction from the crowd. The patch of silence made me realize people were shilling for me. What the hell was I doing? Should I go for it? Or set out to find that proverbial rock and start living underneath it?