by L M Lovett
He nuzzles the back of my neck until I’m mindless with desire. He uncorks something and then I feel the smooth, slick sensation of oil coating my ass. I tremble with fear and longing.
“Shhhhhh,” he says, coaxing my ass to soften. “I need this and you are going to give it to me.”
My ass lifts up and he uses my cock to massage my want. I’m opening for him, unfurling, past the point of fear.
“Be a good girl for me.”
My body feels ripe and heavy and I am full of longing to submit to him.
He starts to ease a finger himself into my ass. I gasp from the twin sensations of pain and pleasure. He massages me until I soften and he adds another finger. I’ve never been so stretched or felt so full.
I whimper as he eases his fingers out. I’m on display for him and I love how exposed I am.
The wait is agonizing. The warm head of his cock brushes up against my ass again and I shudder with pleasure. He tells me to exhale and then he is gliding inside of me.
I can’t tell how far in he is but he feels enormous. The naughtiness of this moment – the oil, the kitchen, my ass – sends a wave of pleasure so right that I nearly black out. The world rights itself and we’ve arrived to this place of equilibrium.
“Soften and open for me. Show me what a good girl you are. This shouldn’t hurt. At least not in that way.”
“How far you are inside of me?” I can’t tell. He feels enormous, bigger than I could ever imagine.
He chuckles, his hands massaging everywhere they can reach. “Still more until you have all of me.”
I close my eyes from the longing that sentence evokes.
He is teasing me, stroking, repositioning, massaging. One hand finds my ready pussy and he thrusts his fingers inside. I hear myself wail with pleasure.
His fingers quicken inside of me and I feel the torturously slow push of him into my most secret place. His hands, mouth, and body are everywhere, completely attentive to my pleasure.
He pushes and pushes and I open for him until he can’t push anymore. He is so deep inside of me that every fiber of my being trembles with pleasure and delight.
“Look that at. Your ass takes my cock so well. Your body was made for me.”
“Yes,” I whimper, “give me more. Please, sir. Fuck my ass. I need it.”
He starts riding me, pausing to spank my ass, pinch my nipples, and bite my neck. I’m wetter than I’ve ever been before. I can feel my wetness coat my ass and I am turned on by the evidence of my lust.
His fingers thrust harder and harder inside of my pussy. His cock is so big and powerful in my ass. I shudder with pleasure.
“I can feel all of you,” he teases, “and it feels so good.”
When we finally come, it’s a tidal wave. He comes with a raw sound, taking me over the edge with him, and I crest a mountain, utterly, perfectly fulfilled.
Our bodies stay connected – sweaty, raw, suffused with pleasure, until we separate and I already miss him. I search David’s face tenderly.
His gaze is warm and soft. “I don’t want you working for me. I’m not ashamed of you. Inside and outside you are mine. And your body knows this. But you need more than that job.”
My body is as limp as a jellyfish and pleasure reverberates down my spine. “I understand, David. I need to have my own life, on my own terms. And I want you to be a part of it.”
“It won’t always be easy for me. I am opening the door for this,” he says with a rueful smile.
My body shakes and my mind is at peace. My doubts and fears are extinguished by the heat and rightness of our relationship.
Sixteen
David
Despite the early start to our day and our marathon sex, I decide that Maribel and I need dinner before tumbling off into sleep. And maybe a repeat of our fucking from earlier.
I realize that I’m already thinking of Maribel and myself as a unit. As a serial bachelor, I’m shocked. But I’m surrounding this tsunami of desire. And with this desire comes a heady, intoxicating promise of something permanent.
I can’t fight my attraction to her. I don’t want just her body. I want her heart, mind, and soul.
Maribel is so adorably relaxed and blissed out from her orgasms that she doesn’t even ask me where we are going. Instead, I pull her into my closet and gesture at the multiple garment bags I had delivered earlier today.
She looks at my expectantly and I then I unzip the first garment bag. I see her take in this sleek, sophisticated chardonnay colored dress which will perfectly accentuate her curves. I picked this dress out because it wasn’t excessively short and I didn’t want her entire body to be on display. Plus, my Maribel is a bit modest, if you discount her secret penchant for lingerie. But as I zip her up into the dress I can’t imagine her in anything sexier. The silky fabric doesn’t work with her underthings so I am aroused beyond belief knowing that she is bare under her dress. And that it’s all for me.
“Do you like it,” I say huskily and a bit cautiously. This is new. I haven’t asked her to change anything.
I didn’t buy her the dress to change her into something she’s not. I had asked Angelique, my secretary, to pick up something sleek and sophisticated. I wanted Maribel’s looks to be elevated but she to still feel like the same beautiful self.
I watch, fascinated, as Maribel smooths the fabric and traces the lines of the dress. She looks at the dress wonderingly.
“I should hate wearing this, you know? Having someone buy me something without asking. I’ve worn anything like this before. I bet this is more than my entire monthly salary. But I feel…confident in this. It suits me. I’ve never had anyone buy me clothes that suit me so well. Thank you, David.”
“You are welcome, my angel.”
“How did you get this so quickly?”
“I have my ways.” I toy with telling her that Angelique purchased multiple dresses and an entire wardrobe coming in the next few days, but I don’t want to open that door to that. I know there have been rumors at the office that Angelique and I are fucking. Angelique is actually queer and has been in a committed relationship for a woman for years. But that’s not my secret to tell, not even to Maribel.
Once Maribel slides into some black satin heels – sexy but not complete fuck me pumps – we head out. I drive us in my new Mercedes-Maybach to Ginza, one of San Francisco’s most exclusive sushi restaurants, located in the Marina District.
Maribel is stepping out of the car and I’m still talking to the valet when with an aggressive screech a flashy car nearly clips the back of mine. I’m shaking with barely contained rage and rush towards the car – my god, what hideous monstrosity of a Lamborghini is that – to confront the driver. To do what, I’m not sure. But I am ready to fight.
A man – a boy really – tumbles out and register a woman running out of the car. I take in his floppy blonde hair, his easy grin, and his playboy attitude. I growl.
“What’s good,” he has the nerve to say. Even though I can see him squaring up, I realize I need to walk away. This foolish boy is not worth it – I must be twice his age.
Then, I see his head tilt and he looks confused. He swivels around and searches around frantically until he sees the passenger from his car.
With a lurch of panic, I realize I’ve completely forgotten Maribel after going into fight mode. Well, not exactly. I only did what I did because I was so enraged that someone endangered her. But my first instinct should have been to see to her comfort, not to engage in this foolish display of masculinity. And even this foolish boy thought of his woman before I did.
I whirl around her and I see Maribel shaking by the door. There’s a slim Asian woman, who I now realize had been in the Lambo, with her arms wrapped around my Maribel.
“Maribel,” I say pleadingly, “are you all right?” She’s a little bit in shock.
The other woman smoothly extricates herself and rushes back to the Lambo. I hear any angry confrontation between her and the driver.
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br /> I register the curious gazes of a growing crowd outside the restaurant and I drag Maribel inside.
We are quickly seated into a private area of the restaurant; I’m known for my lavish tips. I take in Maribel’s trembling shoulders, her eyes welling up with tears, and her worried lips.
“I’m here, I’m here,” I croon to her. She stiffens.
“Why did you even have to confront him?”
“Because I couldn’t stand that he upset you.”
“But you didn’t even ask me if I was okay first.” I can see the tears welling up in her deep brown eyes and I feel like the biggest asshole in the planet. With that, I feel a wave of shame and the urge to shut this down, to move on, to blame, to do anything but sit with these feelings.
But when I take in her worry, sadness, and hurt, all of my protective layers melt away. Instead, I pull her closer to me and wait until we are breathing in sync. I look at her, my eyes completely unguarded, and in the most impossible way I say, “I know. I’m sorry. I messed up. Can you forgive me?”
I’m fascinated when I realize that saying these words causes the shame I was carrying dissipate. Could it really be this easy?
She presses her forehead to mine and I breathe in her sweet scent.
“Yes, I forgive you.”
With that, all of my tension disappears. We end up feasting on decadent sushi and other delights. I can tell Maribel is a little uncomfortable with the monied feel of this place. I’m glad that she doesn’t know the prices of what I am spending on dinner. But I’m happy to see her devour sushi rolls and try things outside of her comfort zone.
But more than anything else, I’m glad that Maribel shared her world with me and was receptive to seeing mine. We aren’t so different after all.
Seventeen
Maribel
After what was possibly our first and second fight, David treated me to the most decadent meal of my life. By the time we are on our way back to home, I’m drifting in and out of sleep.
The next morning, I wake with the memory of David carrying me up the stairs and undressing me. I am overcome by a wave of tenderness for this confusing, intoxicating, and sweet man.
Once again, I wake up to an empty bed. I really need to talk to David about his being MIA in the mornings. I need him by my side.
I pad downstairs, following the mouth-watering smell of breakfast food, and am startled to see David puttering around in the kitchen. He is relaxed in the way I’ve only seen him after sex. His hair is deliciously tousled and he is dressed casually for once, wearing what looks to be a cotton t-shirt and a pair of sweats.
“Man,” I say teasingly, “I had no ideas you wore anything but a suit.”
“Well, I live to surprise.”
“Maybe I should take a picture and email it to your employees,” I say playfully. “Then they won’t show up at your office quaking in fear.” I actually do take a photo, but just for me. I gaze lovingly at the photo. David looks so unguarded, young, and handsome in the picture that my heart glimmers with hope for us.
I realize I have a bunch of texts on my phone and I scan them absentmindedly.
Then, my heart hammering, I click on a link that a college friend sent me.
It’s from the Chronicle. My stomach bubbling with worry, I read the headline and start to skim the article.
Feuding billionaires; David Price goes berserk at Ginza
Exclusive reports reveal that David Price, San Francisco’s most enigmatic CEO, narrowly avoided a crash with playboy Logan Harris, at San Francisco’s famed Ginza Sush.
I scroll down and see a hazy photo of David, looking menacing and fearsome, next to the Lambo from last night.
Then, I see my name. “Fuck!”
The mysterious woman pictured as been identified as Maribel Flores, 24. The ambitious Flores is a new employee of David’s. It is unknown if interoffice romances are prohibited at the company. The sultry Flores, who…
David grabs my phone of my hand. His eyes narrow with rage as he reads the article. He’s furious, more furious than I ever seen.
“Maribel,” he says calmly – how can he be so calm – “I will take care of this.” He’s already dialing a number on my phone.
“Harry. Yes, I am aware of the issue –” He scowls. “I don’t need to explain why I wasn’t answering my texts. I’ve been occupied. And the devaluation is temporary once we get the story under control.”
The panic is rising quickly in me. It’s a big newspaper. And David Price is a huge name. I’m heartbroken that he’s getting bad press from our date. The company is already skating on thin ice with the privacy breach. David needs to be on his best behavior. Instead, I’ve opened up to scandal. David would have never acted like that at the restaurant he hadn’t been worried about me.
I also feel mortified and embarrassed. This article will be out there forever. I’m going to be know as some gold digging hussy. The whole world knows about our relationship. I picture my coworkers gossiping at this very moment. Maybe people think I’m some kind of escort? Or that I’m using him?
David is nodding and barking out orders on the phone. He grabs my wrist and mouths, “I will take care of this, I promise.”
“Bathroom,” I blurt out. I roam through the halls in panic. I don’t like being in the spotlight; I never have. And to have this scandal associated with me. My coworkers must be furious. Because of this scandal, the company’s already bruised reputation is threatened. David will be cast as some kind of predator. Or I will be. I think about my coworkers and the stress this will bring to their door.
Sure, the job wasn’t my passion, but it was my first job not working retail. God, I can hear the rumors already. That I’m a whore, a gold digger, a sugar baby…
Everything I worked for – finishing up my college degree even when I was blinded by grief, trying to create a life for myself, and now this burgeoning relationship is ruined. This is a scandal. This won’t die down.
I need to be by myself. David can’t be around me and this scandal. He will need to cut me loose. I’m a liability.
And I won’t be the one who is abandoned. First by mamá and then by him. A small voice inside of me whispers that they haven’t abandoned me but I squash it.
I have to get out of here.
Without letting myself stop and think, I dart up to the bedroom, grabbing my wallet. David still has my phone. I jam my feet into my sneakers, throw a coat on, and while David is occupied on the phone, slip out the front door.
Eighteen
Maribel
I’m so deep in my thoughts, I barely notice where I am going.
I’m a born and raised in San Francisco, so I force myself and look around. I realize that I’ve been power walking about the city with tears streaming down my face.
I look at the cross streets to orient myself and realize that I’m in the Richmond District. I don’t know what I’m doing here. My stomach gives an enormous grumble and I’m starving. With a lurch of my heart, I remember that David was making me breakfast. David. He must be so worried.
But I can’t let myself think of him. If I think of him, I break. I need to find a refuge. I can’t be wandering around like this.
There’s something nagging in the back of my mind as I stare at the cross streets again.
Then I realize I’m only a couple of blocks away from Tía Rosalía’s old house, if she even still lives around here.
Like most of mamá’s family, I cut out Tía Rosalía soon after I lost my mother. Or rather, I let the ties fray and then disintegrate. I couldn’t bear to see the reminders of my loss. It was selfish, I know, but instead of feeling guilty like I usually do, I feel sadness for my 19-year-old self – so young and totally cast adrift.
Growing up, my mamá taught me that family was everything. I realize now that cutting them loose and secluding myself was my own form of rebellion. I mourn for those lost connections now.
I almost decide against wandering by Tía Rosalía’s triplex.
The odds of her even still being there are low.
I have money. I can go back to my apartment. But the thought of that small, dismal place is depressing.
I wander past the increasingly familiar landscape, remembering weekend after weekend of walking here hand and hand with my mamá. Tía Rosalía’s house was always warm and lovely, with rose bushes crammed into every imaginable space outside.
She always smelled of roses.
I’m incredulous when I see the front of Tía Rosalía’s house with the very same rosebushes. I smooth my clothes hesitantly. I don’t even have the words to explain why I shut her out and why I’m here today.
I knock softly on her door and then I’m knocking harder. I realize I would give almost anything to see her kind, dear face. I would apologize and do anything to make our relationship right.
I’m about to give up when I hear the quiet sound of steps and the door opens.
Tía Rosalía looks older and wary. But as soon as she takes me in on her doorstep, all of her wrinkles seem to erase. She gives me the broadest smile imaginable and hugs me so tight it’s like I am in a cloud of roses.
“Maribel! Mi corazón. You look so much like her.” She hugs me tight again and even though I expect to feel the prickle of sadness at the reminder of my mamá instead I feel a bone-deep longing to talk about her and honor our memories.
“Come in, please, I will make you something to eat.” She clucks her tongue. “Maribel, mi cariño, all skin and bones.” I have to laugh at that. Some things never change. Many of my tías treat cooking like an Olympic sport, where feeding someone to the point of bursting is the gold medal.
Instead of feeling awkward with the weight of unsaid apologies and words, I feel my entire self start to unwind.
I follow my tía into her warm kitchen which smells irresistibly of mole. “I had a feeling I would have some visitors today! Not until later, but look, mija. Mole negro. You always loved this dish growing up. I must have known that you were coming.”
