by JR King
For the second time, I pulled her away from the stream, and unwound my hand from the soaked, coiled mass of black ink that spilled and coiled everywhere. While Elena pivoted and coughed, I untangled the broken strands of her hair from my fingers with a good amount of disdain. “I think I dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s. Or do you need another lesson, baby?”
She shook her head and I gave her a moment to collect herself. I eyed her, her demeanor was calm, but her eyes betrayed her. There was a fucking sad gleam in them. Sadness—something I couldn’t bear seeing in her eyes.
“I’ve fucked you up, you said. Is that how you feel about me?” Worn down from my labors, I got off my feet, sitting in the shower. I undid my bow tie. “I shouldn’t have agreed to the sex club and Maya. I’m projecting a certain lack of ethics onto you.”
She slowly uncurled her fingers and raked them through her hair. “No…,” Her mouth hung open, leaving the sentence painfully unfinished.
“No?” I intoned, so low it was almost a murmur.
“Those were choices we made, and I don’t regret them. What I didn’t sign up for were the lies. Meeting Claudia behind my back, I cannot accept that. I won’t.”
I tried to relax. “Please call Jerry? He was with me all the time. Or Robert can get you security tapes. It was a business meeting, but because she’s an ex, I didn’t want you to…shit, I fucked up.”
“I believe you,” she said with a rising tone that meant yes. “Our clothes are ruined.” She turned off the shower and sat down beside me, the wet slap of her skirt against tiles resounding. “You lied to me, Alex. You broke my trust in every imaginable way.”
Clueless little girl. Fucking hell, if only she knew the story. I hugged her hand to my chest, cradling her fingers. “I won’t break your trust again, okay?” A leading statement, but she nodded.
“No more lies between us, Alex.”
A tremor bordering on a convulsion coursed through me. My lips twitched as I glanced sideways at her. “No more, I promise.” A beautiful illusion, but it seemed to comfort her just the same.
To fit the stereotypical uber-rich alpha male category, I understand I should be permanently erect and all that claptrap. Led by my penis, I should use a necktie on the angst-driven girl and whatnot to ravish her.
Guess what, I couldn’t do it.
I just held my girl.
I swear I hadn’t planned on manipulating her further. Really, I don’t know how it happened, but it did.
One moment, I watched her suck in a breath when I undid the button of my fly, and another when the zipper lowered. And the next moment, I allowed my trousers to fall to the floor, dragging my boxers extremely low while doing so. She kept staring at me for much longer than was necessary, so I splayed my hand across my abdomen, touching what she longed for, ghosting my way down to the front of my underwear.
“Not for all the tea in China,” she shooed, unlooking. “You’re goading the wrong person.” She acted as if she might as well have been on another planet, yet she glanced at my cock lurching out of my boxers.
“Hope springs eternal,” I chuckled to myself in low voice, loud enough for her to hear, “not sure a fig leaf can cover this puny thing up.”
I heard the tiniest muffled huff.
I yawned hugely, like a leopard, and sat on the bed and waited. I felt a little stiff. Once Elena fluffed up her pillow, I yawned again, even more widely than before. I was sitting languidly, one knee hooked over a vanity pillow. A bathrobe was casually placed over my lap, my generous erection patently visible through it, and one of my hands trailed lewdly between my spread thighs. “Care for some midnight delight?” I asked, smiling as her eyes went smoky with lust. She watched my hand as if hypnotized by the play of my fingers. I swung my leg off the pillow. “Tastes sweet, I promise.”
“What kind of idiot would fall for this?” She waited several minutes before she left the bedroom.
It’s all good, I deserved that.
Alexander Turner
The Grumpy Old Man
I sat and drank my espresso, thumbing the weathered edge of a book I was struggling to comprehend. Whatever happened to writers not being biased activists? I snapped the book shut and threw it on the coffee table. Undercurrents of political correctness and activism always spoil fiction, remind me not to write like that.
I spent the debut of noon nailed to the couch, reading emails and reports, stealing glances at my watch. Suddenly, there it was, a sharp rap on the door, courtesy of my bodyguard. I heard the beeping sound of the front door, and additional noises of Elena dropping her handbag and putting down shopping bags. She’d abandoned me for a good two hours. During breakfast, as soon as I’d given her Claudia’s last name, she googled then said she had a hankering for shopping. Claudia was a best-selling author, and a fashion icon. Supposedly, Elena wanted to spend my money to penalize me, which is a droll thing because I couldn’t really give a shit. I wanted her to spend my fortune, why else have it? Were this a Bill and Melinda Gates situation, odds are I would start sneering and huffing and puffing about how we could have spent the money on curing poverty, and maybe even send a vase flying across the room—or whatever object within my reach. Well, boo fucking hoo, I was no Bill Gates. Personally, I’d more in common with Jay-Z than Gates, the former was quite the businessman.
In one fell swoop, I stuffed the last bit of the croissant into my mouth and washed it down with half an espresso. “Back so soon, kitten?” I shouted, placing my cup on the Bianco Lasa Vena Oro marble slab for a side table.
“Alex.” She gingerly walked into the living area, the ugliness of her black wrap dress blinding me. “I did something horrible.”
That hit below the belt. “Have you met some European bastard and kissed him just to get back at me?” My gaze was trained on the sweat-beaded crevice above her lip.
“Let me finish!” she chided. Silently, I help up my hands and then dropped them. “Not quite the shopper I thought I was.” A dozen of diamond charms chinked as her bracelet slid down her arm and caught at her wrist.
“Cute, where’d you get that?” My eyes followed the bracelet, studying the gemstones and pendants. Prettier than the one she wore yesterday.
She eyed me warily. Her eyelashes—thick, curly fringes—kept moving. “I-I…that’s what I came to show you. Shopping was a total clusterfuck.”
“How much did you spend on it?”
“Decuple the price of…a Mini. It’s that poopsock shop girl’s fault! A lead paint-huffing shitgoblin, really, treating me like a panhandling freak who’s as sure as a pickle.”
“Please don’t make me look up gamer lingo.”
“The shop girl…made…suckered me into buying this. It’s just, she looked at me as if I couldn’t afford purchasing anything, a type of bitch who boos customers if they can’t pay top dollar. When I took out the Black Card, she became so sweet, telling me how good the bracelet looked on me, and she offered me champagne!” She laid a hand on my arm in a gesture of apology and resumed twittering. “I was a bit tipsy, I’m so sorry.”
“I’m quite old-fashioned, everything I have is yours.” I closed my mouth, thought for a second, then took a sip from my flute. Mimosas were the boisson du jour, brilliant, I loved Monaco. “But, you must learn to show the goods to me properly.”
“The receipt, the certification—yes, everything’s in the shopping bag.”
“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn about those.” The sadist in me was quiescent, and my mindset switched to playful. Elena giggled and turned coy when I told—not ordered—her to strip for me. Cocktails and stripping, what a beautiful day, isn’t it?
Elena’s eyes flickered away shyly as she began unraveling the cord of her dress.
“Look at me.”
Her eyes found their way back to mine. There was a look of brazenness in her stare as she held the two halves open and then slipped the thin cotton from her shoulders, allowing it to slide to the floor with a soft hush.
> “Don’t ever wear a wrap dress again. It’s unappealing. To the garbage.”
“O-okay.”
“Show me your breasts, hon.”
Giving me another coy smile, she reached behind and unhooked her bra. She let it slip off her shoulders without the elegance and confidence of a high-priced call girl. In fact, I concluded as I gazed at her appreciatively, she had no elegance whatsoever while stripping. She seemed rather uncomfortable.
“Don’t be shy. Don’t become shy. Show me your pussy.”
Flashing her behind, she dropped her thong and sat down on a French nailhead trim calico-upholstered wing chair, and slowly spread her legs. I’m beautiful, her sex seemed to tell me—I dare you to find me otherwise.
A slow grin lifted up the corners of my mouth. “Not shy at all, just deliciously manipulative.”
“You’re a good teacher, sir.”
I smiled at her haughtiness, and even though it was well merited, I knew a large part of me would take immense pleasure in bringing her haughtiness to heel with a paddle. The part of me that saw her as an exquisite Arabian mare, eager to experience its taming.
I slid my hands up the inside of her legs, feeling her thigh muscles quivering with tension as they approached her sex. My fingertips brushed against her sex, parting the soft folds, and then I circled the tightness of her tightly crinkled rosebud. “Do you want me to make you come?”
“Yes, please.” It was a quick retort, the words a clear answer to her inner need.
My tongue raked her swollen nub over and over until she reached back with one hand to clutch at my head, pulling me into her, desperate for release. Her hips lifted off the chair and she cried out my name as she came, giving me a spurt of salty-sweet moisture. Her sex was sodden, and I lapped at her like a parched man, even as she shuddered helplessly.
I stood up and took a step back from her. In the aftermath of her climax, she looked utterly sublime, a tinsel afterglow lifting the features of her face.
After a stuttered rip of the zipper, my cock sprang out aggressively. Elena scrambled to her knees. We both shared a smile.
“No blowing,” I revealed, murmuring sweet things against her neck as I lifted her. Her nipples felt like hard little pebbles. My tongue traced her collarbone, and then I blew softly into the dip at the base of her throat, before nipping at it. “Ride me,” I prompted her.
My glans slid in her liquid heat way too slowly. I held her on top of me and eased my entire length inside. She was tighter than any other woman I’d fucked. Her cry sounded like one of agony, and there was a sensation and afterimage of hitting her cervix before I was in her to the hilt. My hands found her breasts, toyed with their lightness and the arrogant, pebbly crowns. Her hips flexed back and forth as she used me. She was silent, and I wondered what she was thinking. “You’re very quiet, little one.” She reached behind her back, drew her neatly trimmed nails across my balls. Involuntarily, I shivered and propelled myself deeper inside her. “Do it,” I urged, and she did.
“God, this feels so good.” Her nails dragged across the taut flesh of my inner thighs and her teeth sunk into her lower lip, her eyes screwed closed as she succumbed. In the throes of her orgasm, she fell forward, her chest damp against mine. Her labored breathing brought about the onrush of my orgasm. I grasped het butt cheeks and fucked her savagely into my own climax, so hard that she had to bite my shoulder to stifle her rising scream.
“Shh. Take it.” Feeling the spurts rushing out of me, I gripped her tighter, holding her in place as I emptied myself, as though I feared she might try to jerk away.
Wonderful morning, things between us were going well. Can you imagine my expression when she said, “Could we go to Zürich? I want to open the safe deposit box.”
Give a man a break, will ya, sweetheart?
I waited for the last of my seed to shoot out before murmuring like a dumb fuck, “Oh, absolutely.” My eyes were full of whim as I blinked at her. “Certainly.” I kissed the delicate shell of her ear. My cock had completely softened, and dropped wetly between my legs.
*
Believe it or not, my day got worse. Dating was becoming a young man’s game. Elena made me feel old, a rusty pedal, a stuffy relic—doesn’t matter what.
With her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea, she said, “We need to discuss positions of the toilet seat.”
Wow wow, if she’s not putting it up for me, why should I have to put it down for her? Got a bang out of that when I alleged this. As a person who speaks from experience, I can tell you that it’s a bad idea.
Because the temperature was more heated up, she slid into a daffodil cotton shell shirtdress with matching flat sandals. I went for dark jeans, a polo shirt, and brogues.
We bought knickknacks in tourist shops. An odd-job Grace Kelly bobblehead, too. The brasserie on Rue Grimaldi was a far cry from my usual scene. Too many pansy-ass chiefs and not enough Indians. Within a few minutes of sitting down, I found myself fighting the urge to jump up and leave. I disliked establishments with large, industrialized menus. The overwhelming selection of dishes wasn’t entirely in proper French, or English. I concluded we were in a fucking hipster bar. A quick glance at Yelp confirmed we were in a very hip establishment, even TripAdvisor recommended the place. Johnny-come-latelies mostly frequented it.
“Babe, this is the first and the last time I’m letting you choose where we eat. Write it down, record it.”
In response, Elena blew me a smacky kiss.
Out of nowhere, and without a proper hello, we heard, “There’s also a quaint selection of craft beers, microbrews, and imported brews. Any lagers, ales, stouts, barleys, malts, and hops, are two for one. Sodas are unlimited, just like in America.” The Eurotrash server’s English was flawless. “Diet sodas are…,”
I wasn’t interested at all in hearing the server’s tedious explanations about twofers. I was a wine person, or whiskey—neat, through and through. Trying to order something so he would get lost, I thoughtfully placed my fingers on the front of the plasticized menu, flipping the bird at this tall guy wearing skinny jeans and a rock attitude. He had a round, stubborn face, with intelligent eyes and a Charles Manson helter-skelter hairstyle. Probably couldn’t tell the difference between bananas and plantains.
“I’ll order,” Elena told him.
A sadistic yearning coiled in me as I watched him take our order. I thought of the fastest way to break his legs as he flirted with my girlfriend. After he’d taken it, Elena and I exchanged similar expressions. How did we appear to them? An innocent girl and a rich American taking advantage of her? A man on the verge of insanity and a young girl who put him there? A dominant getting punished by his submissive? For once, for a change, I didn’t care.
In all honesty, sure, I shouldn’t have lied about meeting Claudia, but it was a goddamn private meeting, Elena had no business being there. To keep the trip from turning into a tears-filled fest, I’d traded my freedom. A deal’s a deal; after this sufferance, she and I would be even.
We struggled to make conversation over incongruously loud and apathetic conversations, and the odd selection of music was far more intrusive than it was an architect of ambiance. Cheap snack dishes arrived within ten minutes, positively not made-to-order, and yet they were amazingly tasty. Petits farcis: meat stuffed vegetables. Socca: a paper-thin savory pancake made of chickpea flour and olive oil. Pichade: a focaccia with tomatoes, olives, and fried onions. Pissaladière: the same focaccia but without the tomatoes. Fougasse aux olives et lardons: a bread sculpted like an ear of wheat with bacon and olives. They were meant to be enjoyed with alcohol. Pastis or Cointreau Royale cocktails, not BEER! Actually, fuck the dishes, I’ll take any hard liquor, thinking about cop-out excuses…
“This is carb-heaven,” quipped Elena. “I don’t think—,”
“Listen,” I stopped her mid-sentence with as much weight and patience as I could muster in a public place, but I suspected she didn’t appreciate my thoughtfulness, “w
e don’t need a dessert.”
“We’ll need to burn these calories, Alex.”
I processed her expression, and quietly proposed, “The Thermes Marins gym.”
“You gave me the entire afternoon, I get to decide.”
“This is painful for an old man like me. Have you no compassion whatsoever?” I groveled.
She ate her vegetables with neat little forkfuls, as if I’d never spoken. I watched her intently as she chewed the last bits of her sausage-stuffed fleur de courgette, staring down on the table. Taking no prisoners, she picked up a bacon cube and popped it into her mouth, her divinely plump mouth sucking on her thumb. Uninhibited. Indecent. Watching her cheeks hollow was a trigger for my lust, disturbing the softness of my cock. Instinctively, I smoothed the edge of my napkin about my middle, very aware that people surrounded us.
“I cannot do this in a Michelin-starred restaurant,” she giggled.
Fucking delaying tactics, she knew her erotic suctioning had compromised me. I sent up a silent and somewhat absurd prayer for no one to approach the table, and thanked whoever came up with the napkin in lap rule. Must have been a male since it wasn’t about spilling on or shielding cleavage, it was about guarding a man’s most cherished part. Or hiding a cock-stand.
I raised my gaze to hers. “You’d better stop messin’ with me,” I threatened.
She made a great show of licking her lips, and shrugged in an exaggerated manner. The deed compressed her breasts on each side, and she made sure I drooled over her cleavage before picking up her napkin to wipe her fingers and dab at the corners of her mouth.
My mind tracked a million miles a minute. “C’mon, let’s go back to the hotel. Old Town and Darse Sud is enough adventure for today.”
“Wanna try doing it on the terrace tonight? Make love underneath the stars? We could put blankets over the chaise longue.”
Her potent suggestion didn’t stump me, not even a little. “If I say yes, does that mean we’re even?”