by Ryan Ramsay
It then proceeds to give me a frame by frame account of how I masturbated to particular images on the secure network. It asks me whether it needs to keep going.
“No,” I say grimly, my fist firmly gripping the metal frame. “You have my full attention.”
Chapter 5
Peter
Blue and red are the colors of my sky. Big playful toys of mass transportation, ready at all times to fill up and spew out into any given unknown.
Soothing sounds from overhead systems. Callous baggage claims department clerks and always-smiling women and men in streaked uniform at every door.
Roasted coffee and overpriced snacks waft deliciously all over the whitened walls and grayed carpets. Angry fathers and disheveled mothers and hungry toddlers and angst-driven pre-teens with anxiety-ridden post-teens litter the corridors and fill the blue plastic seats and fill the brown leather couches and eat the complementary apples.
Whirring electricity all through makes the entire airport buzz with excitement. If I lived here, I wouldn’t know whether it was night or day at any time. Lucky for me, I only own the place.
I breathe it all in. It all makes me feel hot on the inside, right in the damn center of my lungs. I feel like a dragon, ready to burst forth its flame upon a plantation of peasants.
It wouldn’t be cool to do that, though. A band of robbers or oligarchs would suit it better. Yeah. A band of oligarchs.
In my chair, or the Black Throne, as I like to refer to her as, I swivel slightly upon the heel of my shoes. My soles feel warm, sore even.
It’s been an intense morning all over the airline. We are undergoing one of the largest mergers with Davenport Airlines, a conglomerate from up north that will make my own lovechild Angstrom 799 a force to be reckoned with across half the hemisphere.
Sheila gracefully walks in.
“They pushed the meeting to 3.”
“And you did the best you could?”
“Pete, if I went on any longer, I would have slept with him,” she adds with a huff.
I push my palms together and slam them on my thighs noiselessly.
“Oh, come off it, Sheila. You know he likes ‘em older. Like bottled peaches, I recall him once saying to me.”
She rolls her eyes and walks to my desk, placing the dossier in the tray right next to the desktop. I see the lines under her eyes. I say the obvious.
“Your leave days are coming up soon. Thinking of taking them this time?”
She stops short by the end of the visitor’s chair, allowing me the graces to look her through. She wears a modest skirt, gray with mild pinstripes.
Her blouse is similar, only with a tight button at the top. A scarf covers her neck and flows down to her bust. Her age allows some people to think less of her. Not me. I’ve seen her karate chop men larger than bouncers, and her kick to the shins is never something to be trifled with.
“Not this time, Peter.”
“You never rest.”
“Neither do you,” she adds. I sigh and get out of my chair.
“It’s not easy, I know. But you need this. Take some time off. I mean, it’s the holiday season, for crying out loud.”
Her arms cross over each other and the signature Sheila Roller comes on.
“I know. I know. I’m one to talk,” I add, with a calculated step towards the window wall, few paces from her beige flats. “But between you and I we have one family. I say you go to Tampa and see the grandkids.”
She keeps silent.
“Nothing? You’re gonna say nothing?”
Her arms fall to her sides. The Roller burns on. I keep to myself, though exasperated. A plane is driven by the window headed for the runway. We watch it as it moves silently across. It always mesmerizes me still.
“We have work to do, sir.”
I pop out of my reverie and crane my neck to her. Her chin is tilted slightly to the right, her eyes worried.
“I hear you,” I say with a resigned tone. “No rest for the wicked.”
I pause and burn my eyes through her pale grey ones.
“At least tell me you’re seeing Papa Fred tonight.”
Is that a hint of a smile I see there? Is it?
“Contrary to popular belief, Peter…sir,” she adds lazily, “that is none of your business.”
She struts to the end of my office, carefully placing her hand on the door and twisting the handle. Her face, in the light, looks as it did in her days of youth. At least, I can assume so.
“You need to get laid, Peter,” she says with utmost concern. “You’re so high strung it’s almost screaming through your aura.”
She glances at her watch and looks back at me.
“It is three hours till the next meeting. I’ll hold all calls till you get back.”
I move to hesitate.
She shushes me.
“Go get laid, sir. We need this merger to work.”
The door shuts behind her.
My God.
She shushed me?
**
Two hours to the meeting left. Just enough time.
I peel back the lock and ensure it’s in place. The window is simply one way. I can see out of it. None can see through it.
I stride purposefully to the right of my pine desk, past the potted cactus, to the right of the brown fuzzy carpet—imported from Casablanca, though I doubt it—and through the threshold of the supply closet, where the entrance to my private washroom stands.
The black door swings easily to the side. The bright, low lights invite me openly. I blink to take it in.
At the heart of the lavatory is my seat, my love-lazy-boy, suede brown and leathery. Carefully manicured around it is a patch of lawn easy to press on, easy to sit on. The walls are painted soothing purple, the color bouncing off the material roughness and sinking deep into the fake grass’ colorful hues.
I take my shoes off and breathe it in. The smells of woodland critters and wet savannah hit me hard, my sense heightened. I step lightly on one foot after the other, hastily taking my socks off.
Oh my. It’s cold.
The grass pierces my pores and grinds across my skin, softening me up. Mellow tones of windbreakers from the stereo surround relax my tense muscles.
I reach for the black cup holder and lean low, quietly taking my back all the way up the seat and into the hold at the nook. I lean back harder. The foothold rises and picks my feet up.
“Mmmh,” I smugly moan.
The screen slides down from above, the ceiling replaced momentarily with a purple reflective board. An image appears. A woman. She stands naked atop a sunny, sandy beach. Her hair is tightly wound at the back of her neck, her eyes piercing green and seductive.
Her skin is so soft, the edges of her moles beautifully matching the blanket of foamy sea behind her. I unzip my trousers and pick up a slab of lotion from the cup holder’s compartment with my free right hand.
I wait for it.
Then, it happens.
The image gathers motion. It changes, and if I blink, I just might lose the sight of it. Her thighs gyrate to the whispers of the ocean, her arms swinging side to side in tandem with her thin, supple arms.
I watch as the camera zooms in on her face, her lips slowly wetting to the smack of her tongue. I can hear her swallow. I can feel it inside my head.
She nods.
I grab my bulging underwear and pull it down, letting my hardening and quite painful cock free. It hangs solidly, upright with a slight turn at the top. The lotion feels cold against the veiny prick, and I lick my lips at the sight before me.
A man joins her. He is everything she needs.
They kiss.
Her tongue slithers across his lips to find his teeth. Dangerously she digs deeper. Her torso grinds harder into his chiseled chest.
His hands squeeze tighter at her thick thighs, her sweet ass. He pulls them apart and lets them go, and I watch as they smack together and dribble against gravity.
I slide my
fingers up and down my cock, gentle enough. Hard enough. My balls ache, begging, tightening, hoping for release.
He puts her head in between his thighs, her mouth finding home. She swallows it all. She comes back for air. Her lips are wet. His face is crunched up.
She gets comfortable in the sand, her breasts, her swinging, perky breasts, find solace in slapping against his thighs. Her hands twist and jerk up his shaft, sliding to the top and pounding hard to the bottom like a handmaiden pounding butter.
He groans.
She moans.
She hastens.
I hasten.
He holds her face in his hands, veiny and sweaty.
She does not stop.
I do not stop.
I feel her mouth, silky and sucking, like a vice that doesn’t want to let go.
She looks at me right in the eye. Her red lips curve at the edges, a smile protruding at the end of her tongue.
She moans.
I let go.
“Aaaargh!”
My knees stiffen, as do my thighs. My body lurches up and forward, my cock spewing thunderous amounts of cum into my hand, out of my hand, and onto the front of my pants. The buzz is enormous. The rush, divine.
I settle. I exhale. I blink back. The video is stopped, paused to an image of her beautiful green eyes looking through me. I sigh.
“God, I need to get laid.”
**
One hour to the meet.
The red light blinks at the side of my desk. I push the button and lean in my chair, relishing the feel of fresh and cool pants.
“Buddy, it’s me.”
I sit up straight. Arnold never calls.
“I just got the strangest invite. We need to meet. Face to face this time, bud. Make it soon.”
The message ends. The red light blinks nonetheless. I push the button once more.
“Peter, we have a problem.”
It’s Shem. Fuck.
“We’ve been hacked. Call me.”
The light blinks still. I feel like my stomach and heart switched places. I push it.
“Mr. Angstrom, so glad I could catch you at this time. Did the merger go well?”
The voice behind the receiver is young, female, and surprisingly knowing. I choose to play along.
“Who am I speaking with?”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is what you were doing in the bathroom thirty two minutes ago. Do you like our model? We made that video especially for you.”
What the fuck?
“I know what you’re thinking. How could I possibly know you have a video of yourself fucking a Haitian model from three years ago on a secluded island from a trip that never actually happened? It’s simple really. We know everything.”
“And,” I say coolly, “What do you plan to do with this information? Sell it?”
She laughs sarcastically. It hurts.
“Why on earth would I do something so silly? I don’t want to sell it, Mr. Angstrom. No. I want to invite you to participate in a game, as a matter of fact.”
It sounds like I’m being forced rather than invited but I try to focus on the essential questions, because she is sounding very no-nonsense.
“A game? What kind of game?”
She does not hesitate.
“It’s something of a treasure hunt. And it’s a special one I’m putting on for Christmas. I will be in touch. In the meantime, I suggest you call your friends. Goodbye.”
That’s the end of it. Both of my best friends never call, unless it’s beer or poker or making money. Now I know why.
My heart feels heavier than it did a few minutes ago. I push the button at the front of the desk and swallow a ball of panic down my throat. I have less than an hour to the merger meet. I need this resolved.
“Yes, sir?” answers Sheila all too quickly.
“Get me Pierre.”
“Sir?” she asks.
I can feel her clench through the intercom.
“Interpol is rarely one of your calls this close to a meeting. Is anything the matter?”
“Yes, it is. Now call Pierre. I have a situation.”
Chapter 6
Ashley
My head fucking hurts. This Popsicle tastes weird.
It was the start of exam week and my biochemistry professor just had to be a dick. Unfortunately for him, it is no longer a choice but an engraved trait in his DNA.
He came into class this morning around 9:23, twenty-three minutes late for the assessment tests. His sweater vest clearly made of wool looked sticky at the front, right above his navel, with some kind of green fluid.
His gray hair was disheveled. His breath was all but distasteful. I know, because he chose to sit right next to me while we all did a ten-minute assessment instead of thirty.
Brandy and moonshine are hardly the palette for an award-winning professor. And so, as good a student as I am, I meant well and leaned a little closer while submitting my paper, so that I could clue him in.
The man leaned in too and stared right at my breasts.
I hurried to get out of there before he tried to lunge at them. He was clearly in no shape for a talking-to.
I think it will be wise to keep it to myself, seeing how this could bring him down hard. Granted, the man was drunk. And, he’s never had a track record at all for indecency. I’ll give him a pass.
What’s giving me this headache, though, is my roommate’s sudden desire for my private items. I was on my way from a quick brunch back to my room when I caught her face down in my pillow, panties to her knees and a magic wand deep in her pussy and two of her fingers almost blurry on her clit.
My old novel was lying beside her excited hair. Water washing my eyes will do no such thing as induce amnesia, unfortunately.
“Sorry!” she said, once she realized I was there. “It was such a good book that I…”
“Sorry won’t cut it Sandra,” I said before rushing out with my purse.
I doubt she even heard me.
I knew it was a good book, but it was mine. She could get her own filthy kink books to get herself off to.
I spent the afternoon in the library listening to Bach and trying my hand at a light nap in the Aborigine History section of the second hall. The nap was constantly foiled by Miss Waltham, the chief librarian, who seems to take an interest in all the transfer students. Though she says it’s all for the betterment of the scholarships, whatever that means.
This left me two choices. To either go back to my room and face Sandra or head out to town and catch the latest attraction.
No way am I seeing Sandra the same again.
And so here I am, out and about walking the high streets. The evening is quite chilly, a downturn since the beautiful weather we’ve had this week. Most of shops are closed down for the evening, given the intense gloom from the clouds. I just hope the burger joint by the Walgreen’s is still open.
It is. I go in and place my order, oblivious by choice to the student surrounding.
The air smells of fried oil and chili sauce, something I think is alright for the occasional weekend. Lots of hunched and huddled up students in sweaters and coats giggle and laugh under the influence of ghastly brew from the best of the best at the counter.
Hands fly over plates and salt shakers in the journey towards self-fulfillment tonight. I choose to sit and look at the busy food getting prepped through the screen upward. The bright light is not as confusing, nor convincing, of my return to my dorm room.
“Here you go, m’dear,” says the lean man in the green apron that says Burgers Are Us in big bold yellow letters. I hand him his money and request that he keep the change. As I cower out of the red brick and cinnamon-chalk-coated establishment, a middle-aged man calls out to me with the audacity of a low whistle. I have better things to do.
The sun is getting lower now, and the wind crispier. I am outside the local theater, belly full and throat dry.
There are two selections of films to watch. One is a
recent Sundance film that won an award. The other is a simple romcom that stars the same kind of beautiful people as always. I choose the former and pay the price of admission.
With my warm hands in my already warmer jacket pockets, I walk through the red and purple carpeted walls and take stock of an evening well deserved. My headache’s almost gone now.
My thigh buzzes just as I get settled in.
It’s not a text.
I press the much-loved red button, swipe left and snuggle into the just recently disinfected seats.
It buzzes again.
This time it’s a text.
“It’s me. Please pick up.”
The intro movie ads light the screen up as well as the room.
“Fuck,” I curse under my breath.
This better be worth it.
**
“Yes?” I ask nonchalantly.
“I know it’s been a minute, but could you please show a little more enthusiasm when family calls you?”
I sigh and smack my tongue against the roof of my mouth.
“Fine. Hey, Mia. It hasn’t been a minute since we last spoke.”
“I know!”
Jeez! This much excitement can’t be good news.
“Um, I’m in the middle of something here. Mind telling me why you called?” I ask her.
The film looked really compelling. And I did pay for it.
“Quite simply put,” she goes on, unfazed, “I have a surprise for you.”
I scan the empty theater hall for any sign of weirdness. Clear.
“Okay. What’s the surprise?”
“It’s not at the theater silly. Why would it be?”
“I don’t know. Hey—how did you know I am at the theater?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes,” I answer harshly, heavily uneasy and staring at the cameras around me, “it fucking does.”
“Then get on the next flight to the States. I’ll tell you all about it.”
Bitch mode — ON.
“Okay, first of all, you don’t get to call me twice in almost half a decade and suggest I come visit you. Second, whatever you’re selling I’m not buying. Third, N. O. I have exams coming up in the next three weeks. I don’t have time to get on a plane headed for Newport for some silly little surprise. I’m sorry to be harsh, but that’s my truth.”