by JR King
I groaned at the fallacy of chaining her to the bed only to use her as I saw fit. I moved up. “You don’t have to sound so happy about it. You, Ms. Anderson, are such a naughty girl,” I murmured against her lips. Reaching down, I placed my cock at her entrance and adjusted her position. “But, you’re right, kitten. A promise is a promise.”
In one smooth motion, I slid deep inside her again, and we both sighed at the feeling. My forehead fell to fell to her shoulder as she rocked her hips to mine, taking me further inside. Closing my eyes, I concentrated on sensations as they hit me. Her hard nipples brushing against my chest, her hair tickling my nose, the heat of her cunt wrapped around me; the combination seemed to make time stand still. I don’t know how long we stayed like that, rocking against one another, kissing and biting, but eventually the room became very hot.
“Please, Alex.” Elena’s voice was low and whiny.
I let my hand slide down her body to where we were joined, teased her clit with my thumb. The sight beneath me was breathtaking. Her head was tossed back in ecstasy, her skin damp and her hair a tangled mess.
The entire morning was just…sex.
In the bathroom, the steam was heavy with the scent of lavender. A memory dragged me back to the first time I’d grazed my fingertips over unpicked lavender, felt the complexity of its texture, and inhaled the sharp density of its fragrance. As steam-filled as the space was, through the droplet-spattered shower door I saw Elena clearly. There was a rush of cooler air as the walk-in shower enclosure door swung outward, and then I felt the springiness of her breasts against my chest. Her small, soft hands slid over my pectorals, pausing to seize the hard buds my nipples had become, and down to my groin. She grasped me with practiced care. One hand cupping my balls and the other ringing my shaft, she was arousing me for the third time this morning.
Things couldn’t be better between us.
Cohabitation was easy enough, but being the introvert in a couple was a little more difficult. Saturday afternoons were dedicated to myself, the evenings to my girl.
You think I never wore leather?
Think again.
FXRG leather and textile pant? FXRG leather jacket and gloves? FXRG performance boots? Hair gelled in a Heat Miser spike?
Check, check, check, and check: here I come.
The garage looked more like a showroom. I slotted the key in the ignition of my stygian million-dollar baby, pausing as I pulled in the clutch lever and turned the key. As the noise of a sweet engine running filled the lanes of the parking garage, I reached for the full-face helmet, put it on my head and flicked the dark visor down. Nerves jangled with excitement as I threw my leg over the seat and kicked up the side-stand to knock the bike into first gear. Feathering the clutch, I edged the throbbing steel beneath me toward the exit.
I swung the bike around the gate corner at reasonable speed, and then quickly sped up. Cold tires or not, the first few minutes of any bike ride is like tightrope maneuvering. When I got the feel for the bike, only then my mind solely concentrated on the road, instinctively reading its twists and turns. Nothing else mattered but the machine shuddering beneath me, and the tarmac ahead. This sounds trite, maybe, but this aloneness, this sense of unparalleled liberty made me feel at peace with myself.
Weston was made for motorbikes. Sharp corners dispersed right through long straights, crisp wind whistling through the vents in my helmet. I was riding like I was on rails, everything felt right. I’d moved here once I had enough capital to invest in some serious real estate. A safe investment; it was one of those nice suburbs where real estate value almost never went down. Close enough to Boston, all the major highways were within five to ten minutes, and first-rate police and private security made it a safe place—outsiders didn’t bother to disturb the quietness. Over the years, this town went from a solidly affluent town to a superlative wealthy neighborhood, gaining the hoary suburban utopia status. Statistically it was regarded as the wealthiest town in Massachusetts, largely because it had both the highest per capita income and the highest median house price. Or perhaps Dover had eclipsed Weston. I had to check.
Sure there were successful professionals and old-money types, but people were genuine. Fortune 500 CEOs, television news personalities, sports agents and athletes; no one went bragging around and, if one of them happened to live next door to you, they did invite you over once in a while. I liked that fast food chains didn’t corrupt Weston, there were no dodgy places where dropouts could hangout, there were no big commercial stores peddling adulterated or gnarly foreign goods, and because of the school system that provided excellent opportunities for high-quality educational-entertainment and artsy extracurricular activities, crime was practically nonexistent. Kids here got admitted to Ivies, and I couldn’t wait to see my own children attending one of the prep schools. Two or three, that was the question. Boy or girl didn’t matter. Oh, and first, I’d have to marry the girl.
I drove toward the center, which housed the typical Wild West combination of banks, barbershop, convenience store, hardware store, casual eateries, drugstore, etc. Bought some water and chatted with a few locals. A half hour later, give or take a few minutes, my foot hovered above the rear brake as the tires bumped across the garage door threshold.
A real bummer was that my alone time ended much too soon. Elena was waiting for me in the bike section, cracking her knuckles in that way girls did when they’d just sifted through your personal drawer full of thingamabobs and found pictures of an ex or condoms or love letters. To my knowledge, I’d cleaned up all that shit.
I parked the bike, smiled to myself within the safety of the helmet before removing it. Placing it on the warmed-up seat, I splintered the silence. “What, pray tell, could I be in trouble for this afternoon?”
Our gazes locked. She was gauging my mood. “What makes you think you are in trouble?”
I’d left my phone at home, and Elena had its passcode. “Say what you must.”
“I…uh…remember when you kidnapped me?”
Dum dee dum. “That shit again?”
“You pushed the envelope, that sounds better. Besides, I love the idea of you kidnapping me. Remember when I told you sometimes I was sneakily watching corny porn while you were at work? It felt like two-timing.”
This had to fucking stop. Let’s face this one. Women have a dumb, deep-rooted problem with men and their interest in porn. It might piss you off, but there your rights end, watching porn sure as shit isn’t cheating. All of this, Elena understood it well…but weakness. I despised how she allowed this guilt crap to eat away at her self-worth.
“What were you watching?”
“I feel guilty, Alex. I shouldn’t have…clicked. Sara sent me a link, and then things got…too hot to handle.”
I clucked my tongue. “So?”
“So? That’s it? I wasted my afternoon watching porn, and this is your response? Morals, Alex!”
“Make love, not war.” I strode to her and pulled her body into my chest. Our lips crushed against one another, tongues entwining and exploring. Her legs began to tremble, so before she could lose her balance I swept her up into my arms and carried her to the bike. Reaching it, I supported Elena on one arm and used my free hand to thrust aside the helmet, then positioned her on the seat.
“You look way better in leather than in a suit.” Her hand moved to the zipper that started at my neck area, tugging slowly but firmly. As the leather yawned open, the rasp of metal against metal resonated in the quiet space, mingling with her stuttered breaths.
“What were you watching?” I shrugged my shoulders to release my arms from the jacket. Roughly parting her legs, I looked down. She was pantyless, and dripping. “Was it a leather fetish clip?”
“It was just,” the hiss in her voice contained exasperation, “a little kinky. Light spanking.”
“Nice girls aren’t supposed to like dirty, kinky sex.”
“But good girls do enjoy it,” she laughed, her laughter vibrating al
ong my neck and beneath my skin.
I burst into laughter too, pressing my face into her neck to stifle the groan that followed when her hand came in contact with my cock. “Fuck, that feels good. Squeeze it, Elena.”
She licked up the side of my neck then nibbled on my lower lip. “You have the most beautiful cock.”
“Couldn’t fall in love with the one on your computer screen?”
“There were two, Alex, and no, I couldn’t fall in love with either one of them. I love this one,” she said in a hushed, lustful voice, giving me a stiff squeeze.
“First one’s free.” I slanted my lips over hers, kissing her deeply, yet unaggressively. She tasted of vanilla and decadent naughtiness. I broke off the kiss, but didn’t let go of her. “You’re irresistible when horny, if that,” I brought to light. She laughed, baring all her teeth. Sealing my mouth over hers, I took time plundering it. With slow swirls, I licked the inside of her mouth, and teased her tongue with languid strokes of mine.
I linked our fingers and ended the kiss. “Put your arms around me and hold me as tightly as you can. I’ve always wanted to fuck on this bike.”
Obediently, she clung to me, and wet noises and the clapping of flesh against flesh started filling the garage.
Now, listen carefully. I never cared if staff members heard or saw me having sex. Normally, they never interrupted our lovemaking, the custom was to walk away and never bring it up. At least, not to me: what they discussed between themselves is their business. I don’t mean to sound squeamish, but in my twenty years of sexual activity, I’d managed to not once be confronted with this. By first-hand sources, I knew they were a tactful bunch, so picture my surprise when footsteps approached.
I was a careful listener. I could snuff a familiar subtlety or nuance from miles away. It was Jillian, and she stopped behind me.
I stilled. “What is it, Jillian?” Elena buried her redder than red face in my chest, and the wrap of her legs around my waist became limp.
“DEFCON situation. Jerry called you several times.” Very matter-of-fact.
“Green? Yellow?”
“Red. There’s a big flap about something at work. You’re getting sued. Make it snappy, we have a call coming in from the Pacific Islands in about five minutes.”
Sued?
I can bet my ass that my father was willing to hang me from the highest yardarm.
Alexander Turner
The Jimmy Kimmel Talk Show
I’ll go ahead and give you the bad news. I’m not sure if you remember Mandy, the lollygagging temp I got fired a few months ago; she decided to sue me. Not for wrongful dismissal, she didn’t have a case. She was suing me for—insert drum roll here—sexual harassment. Allegedly, I’d requested a hand job, but not in so many words, I was classy throughout the awkward moment. Seriously, as if I couldn’t do that by myself! Plus, I’d do it better than her, better than any girl, so her claim made no sense.
Mandy went back to her native town to start selling lies: New York.
A possibility of a settlement, you think?
The day we’ll have a Jewish Pope, I’ll give that a thought.
Through some pro-bono attorney, Mandy communicated to Aidan that the pressing matter of confidentiality had gotten out of hand. Not Arianna Huffington, some cheap-ass tabloid was printing her story. Furthermore, a masseuse who’d willingly offered me a happy ending massage, and whom I’d paid 10k, decided to come forward and join forces with Mandy. They were pressuring me, so instead of flying to New York and concur to keep Mandy’s outlandish claim a secret, I went the other way to deal with the fromunda itch once and for all.
Hollywood, California.
Three words: Jimmy Kimmel Live!
Jerry had brought in reinforcements from Rogers & Cowan, a high-profile PR firm. Backstage, I was minutes away from pulling a Leeroy Jenkins—yes it was actually a coined term, I’d looked it up. My eyes were fixed on the screen as Jimmy delivered a short opening monologue that—once again—poked fun at Matt Damon. I was laughing somewhat apprehensively. Tinsel Town was all about mutable looks and ratings and profit. Unlike in Europe, here people lived vicariously through celebrities, treating the state of their household affairs as if it were their own. Pretty pathetic but also mutually profitable. In exchange for hearing me out, Jimmy was going to satirize my domestic bliss, animating his audience with a spoof of my playboy days. Neat clip: while a gaggle of geese and a clutch of chickens fought over me, the fight escalated when a comedienne posing as Elena bought the farm they lived on and announced their doomed fate. Jimmy had been informed that dialogues à propos Elena weren’t appreciated, so let’s see what he’d planned.
Three.
Two.
One.
“Our next guest—ah,” a team member set a memo sheet on the sheaf of papers on his desk, “how would I describe him? A corporate overlord? A master of the universe? Let’s just say he’s one of the country’s brightest businessmen and Boston’s most eligible bachelor. His television hiatus started earlier this year, I owe it to our long-standing friendship that he called me to overcome the lacuna.” With downcast eyes, he paused and feigned trying to decipher the doodle on the pink paper sheet before him. He stabbed a forefinger at it and looked up, “I’ve just been informed that Boston’s hottest bachelor is Tony Elliot, because his friend is,” he shot a glance at the memo again, murmuring, “whipped,” before raising his head and voice, “please give a warm applause to the one and only Alexander Turner.”
Jerry seemed positive, approval flared in his eyes, like a kind of triumph. “Go crush Mandy. Hate bugs, hate them.”
Elena, on the other hand, looked skeptical. “With respect to you both, I’m not sure I entirely believe in this course of action. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
You and me both.
I winked at Jerry and pecked Elena’s cheek. “Here I go.”
The audience erupted into frenzied applause interspersed with instructed Iloveyous as I walked out on stage. A megawatt smile in place, I waved at the crowd. As per requirement, a mandatory distance protected guests from the hysterical fans. I should have expected Jimmy to fuck with me; he mislaid the bubblegum pink memo sheet, heart-shaped no less, waiting for me to pick it up from the floor. I did. Go figure, the slew of bachelorettes in the audience went ballistic at the sight of my suited behind. Maybe I’d ripped my trousers when I bent over…though I would have felt the split on my ass cheeks. Maybe it was a Fashion Police matter, who knows. Either way, I congratulated myself for wearing black boxer briefs.
I quickly appraised the memo—it was blank—and straightened my spine, proffering my hand. “Here you go, Jimmy. I trust this was unintentional.”
Incredulity spread across his face like wildfire. “You know me, Alex. It was accidental. My crew expected your female fans to geek out, but miscalculated the rush of air this would cause. That’s what blew the sheet off my desk.”
To be clear, I’m not saying I condemned Jimmy’s sexual objectification, I’m just saying it rubbed me the wrong way. Elena was backstage, after all. “A message on pink paper? One can only wonder,” I observed testily.
“Didn’t you get the memo?” He was imitating Morgan Freeman’s famous drawl. “You’re off Beantown’s sexiest bachelor list.”
I managed to keep a straight face for a minute before I let loose with a guffaw. “Right you are, honeybunch,” I answered, working the crowd. “I’m off the market.”
“No jumping, okay? Stipulations in my revised contract, couple of provisos, boring stuff,” he stated, making the audience keel over in euphoric laughter. “I’m just joshin’ you. Good to see you, man. How’s it going? What have you been up to lately? Wait, what’s it been? Eight months?”
“Eight months sounds right to me.”
“How’s life on the other side of the fence?”
“I’m good, Jimmy, everything’s dandy and,” I crossed my ankle over my knee for emphasis, “groovy enough.”
&nbs
p; The camera panned in for a close-up when Jimmy asked, “Trouble in Turner paradise?”
“Something like that.”
“Tell us what’s going on. We’ll fix it. This is America. We like spackling here and there, we can fix anything.”
“I’ve got two words for you. Sexual. Harassment.”
The audience responded in kind laughter that built on hysteria. Amid the crescendo of hoot and holler, Jimmy looked fittingly shocked and spoke in his signature talk-show host voice: “No.”
“Do fish swim, Jimmy?”
“No,” he repeated, not slipping out of character.
“Here’s what itches; it’s Handgate all over again. As if we men can’t take care of ourselves. As if we don’t have hands capable enough to slap the salami. As if we cannot call upon Rosie Palmer and her five sisters. Because when we harass, we want your hands and not your pussy.” The bleep censor went off, and the audience with it.
Jimmy broke out of character to address the audience, “Choking Kojak isn’t the same with a girl!” Only when the applause died down, did he continue, “I haven’t read your story.”
“Tabloid rags are printing the glossy pages full of lies as we speak. I don’t usually care about tabloidy stuff, but obviously this is the kind of lie I don’t want being spread around.”
“Riding high?” He rolled his eyes at the crowd. “You don’t look so worried.”
“I don’t get in the mud to wrestle with pigs; I learned long ago never to wrestle with them. With the advent of the DSK situation, I mean, he makes it look easy,” I chuckled, playing the crowd like a ukulele virtuoso, “and this slack-ass person is from New York, too, I hear. Never fear, the buck stops here. Faux sexual harassment is exactly the gut-wrenching type of thing that should be frankly investigated. For this—for roadkill that seeks to profit from successful men, there’s a security camera in my office. My lawyer, this unknown guy called Aidan Carrington who’s never defended a case before the Supreme Court, can’t wait for the article to come out.”