I drain my beer before crossing the courtyard to my home. It’s warmer than usual, and under the dark cloak of night, I decide to take a swim to clear my head. After stripping off my suit and tie and changing into something more liberating, I dive into the turquoise water, letting the coolness drown the heat building deep in my gut.
This time feels different. I’ve been in this business for years, yet I feel oddly unprepared. It’s only the end of Day Two, and I’m already on edge, temptation closing in on the edges of my rationale. At this rate, I won’t last.
Ok, I lied before. Not lie-lie. Just didn’t tell the whole truth. When I said I endure six, sexless weeks during instruction, what I meant to say was that I try to endure six, sexless weeks. Sure, I’m nearly always successful, but I must admit, there are slip-ups. That’s why I always keep a girl on standby. Very few outsiders know where the property is located, and the few who do are given that information under special circumstances. No strings, no expectations, just someone to scratch that proverbial itch so I can concentrate on the task at hand.
I swim the length of the pool, feeling my muscles flex and pull, igniting an entirely different burn in my thighs, calves and biceps. I push off the edge once more, causing my body to forcefully slice through the water. Damn, it hurts good. I want to keep going—keep pushing—until I’m too exhausted to think about what I really crave. I want to feel this burn of exertion until it eclipses the fire currently licking up my spine.
Most think I’m some kinda health freak. They see me doing laps, running, banging out pushups like it’s going out of style. But in reality, it’s necessary. It’s the only way I avoid what I really want. Without that release, I’d combust from the inside out. Either that or jerk my shit until it falls off. No bueno.
“Wow, no wonder there’s no decent junk food in this place. The owner is Ryan Lochte.”
I spin around to take in a pair of pale legs draped in floral silk to just below the knee. My curious gaze trails those stems up to the bend of soft hips that taper into a narrow waist before flowing into the bottom curves of full, pert breasts.
A grand says she not wearing a bra. Two says her nipples are practically winking at me under that maliciously thin sheath of silk.
Saliva collects in my mouth like a hungry lion and I swallow, forcing myself to look away before I allow myself to know the answer for certain.
I don’t need to see the rest. I already know. I can nearly smell her perfume in the whisper of wind that’s followed her to me. Hell, I can almost imagine the smirk that undoubtedly rests on those delicate lips.
“Seriously, what’s a girl gotta do to get some real ice cream around here?”
From the corner of my eye, Allison bends down to sit at the edge of the pool and tentatively dips her toes in. I turn to watch, amazed at the sight of the fragile gazelle at the watering hole. She visibly shivers and those large, animated eyes smile with amused wonder.
I clear my throat, praying that when I finally grow the balls to open my mouth, actual words and sounds will come out.
“Perhaps the kitchen would be the best place to direct your request, Mrs. Carr.”
Too absorbed with every other (forbidden) part of her, I don’t even notice the spoon and small dish of ice cream in her hands.
“Yeah, but it’s some nonfat, soymilk crap that tastes like baby poop,” she replies, wrinkling that freckled nose.
I allow myself to take a few steps towards her. I’ve earned them. I’ve been a good boy…sorta. “And you know what baby poop tastes like?” I ask, cocking a cynical brow.
“Well, I don’t know, obviously. But based on how it smells, I would say this ice cream is pretty darn close.” She sets the dish down beside her after giving it one last, shaming grimace. “So what are you doing out here? I’d think you’d be exhausted from that very… hands-on lesson today. Very enlightening, Mr. Drake.”
“Well, we try our best, Mrs. Carr,” I respond with a blank face, though my voice is teeming with amusement.
Allison rolls her eyes and shakes her head, her auburn hair brushing her bare shoulders. “I told you—do not call me Mrs. Carr. I have no interest in eating my young nor nursing them until they’re old enough to pay taxes.” She brings her feet to the surface of the water and watches as she wiggles her toes. “So…is that how it’s going to be all the time?”
“What do you mean?” I take a few steps closer, a frown pinching my forehead.
“I mean, will you always be so intense with us?” Before I can brace myself, her gaze locks onto mine, piercing straight through my impassive façade. “Will you…touch us like that? Say those things to us?”
“All physical contact is specifically outlined in the contracts, Mrs. Ca-, excuse me, Allison. Now, if at any time you feel uncomfortable with the physicality or feel as though I’m being too demonstrative, say the word, and it stops. Understand? Are you saying I make you uncomfortable, Allison?”
I don’t even notice how close we are now, as if the ebb and flow of our chlorinated sea has somehow pushed us together. Only inches of water, breath and clothing separate us, yet I know any space we share will feel too intimate.
I know what I need to do. It’s what’s right, what’s responsible.
I need to tell her to leave.
I need to send this woman back to her cheating, piece of shit husband and let her work out her issues like the rest of America—with therapy, pills and the occasional bad decision. But most importantly, I need let her do it without my help. Because, right now, all I can think about is helping myself.
“No,” she says suddenly, as if those bright eyes have infiltrated my mind. “You don’t. And, remember, it’s Ally.”
She pulls her feet from the water and stands, collecting her now melted nonfat-soy milk-baby poop-ice cream. Before she turns to walk away, she smiles at me, not at all put off by my icy approach as I had hoped.
Note to self: Be more of an asshole.
And get real ice cream.
TODAY ON THE Hollywood Reporter, playboy billionaire, Evan Carr, caught with another woman while wife vacations solo at a spa?
Sources close to the couple say the pair had been having problems for months, amidst outrageous cheating rumors. Claims have even been made that wife Allison Elliott-Carr has not been at a spa retreat, but rather in rehab after a mental break. With her unavailable for comment, and whereabouts unconfirmed, Hollywood Reporter reached out to Evan Carr who did not deny, nor confirm, rumors of infidelity.
I click off the television and scratch the short layer of hair on my chin, my jaw tight with irritation. Fuck. This is exactly why all outside communication is forbidden during instruction: shit like this worms its way into the ladies’ heads, sucking out whatever tiny glimmer of hope they have left and sending them running back home.
Of course, they’d have reason to, since 95% of these stories have some truth to them. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and the Carr marriage has been a blazing inferno of lies and deceit since before Allison even said, “I do.”
I should know.
With a huff, I make my way toward the main house, just as the women are finishing up breakfast and morning yoga. One by one, they trickle into the great room, silently taking their seats. A few of them glance up at me through long, false lashes. Others knead their hands in their laps, their cheeks red and warm with memories of my hands touching them, coaxing their inner deviant to come out and play. Yet, I don’t notice it. I don’t see their longing stares. I just keep watching, waiting, until she walks in.
Once I see her filing in with the rest of the ladies, something hot and heavy collects in my gut. It’s torture. It’s relief. It’s goddamn confusing. I’m too edgy, too anxious, and there’s fuck all I can do about it now. Impulse takes over, and I’m striding toward her just as she takes her seat.
“Stand up,” I command. I don’t ask. I never ask for what I want.
“Excuse me?” Allison asks, with a frown wrinkling her forehead
. I want to reach out and smooth those tiny creases, but I don’t. I’m not a total narcissist.
“Stand up, Ally.” I extend my hand to her, which she studies cautiously before taking. Her palm is warm and soft…everything I imagined her to be. Simultaneously smoothing her dress down her backside, she stands, closing the small space between us.
I hold her hand a beat longer than I should, before pulling it back. “Turn around. Let me see you.”
“Wha-? Um, I don’t understand what you-”
My hands are on her shoulders, their boldness catching her off guard and causing her to gasp. I guide her, turning her body 180 degrees. “This. This is what determines whether or not a man fucks you, ladies. The packaging. The allure. The temptation.” I turn her back toward me, letting those questioning, blue-green eyes bore into mine unabashedly. I can’t turn away. I can’t even fucking blink. I talk to her like she’s the only one in the room, yet I make sure my voice carries to the other eager ears. “Men are visual creatures. They need to be enticed. Excited. And while A-line dresses and ballet flats may be sensible, it’s not sexy.”
“This is Alexander McQueen!” she scoffs.
“It’s ugly as day-old sin. Fuck the labels.”
Her eyes grow wide at first, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. Then my words sink in, and pain creeps onto that porcelain canvas of sandy brown freckles. I don’t want to hurt her, but shit, the truth hurts. Life hurts. Hell, it hurts like a motherfucker.
Before she can protest, I’m touching her hair, pulling out the silver pins that secure it in a practical bun. Flames cascade down her back, spilling into her face and kissing her shoulders. I coil an auburn lock around my finger and inch my face closer to hers so only she can hear these words I shouldn’t say. These words that threaten to eat away at the once steel fortress of my logic.
“I think you’re sexy as fuck, Ally,” I whisper, my breath tempting the skin right below her ear. “You just don’t know it yet.”
Just as swiftly, my touch abandons her, and I’m hurriedly making my way to the lectern, away from her. Away from the temptation to rake my fingers through that fiery mane before fisting the hair at the nape of her neck—pulling her head back so she has no choice but to see me. But is that what I really want? For her to see who I really am? Or do I continue to spoon-feed her, and everyone else, the illusion that will provoke their own inner temptress?
I clear my throat, fidgeting with the lapel of my linen suit jacket. Allison is still standing, still looking at me with eyes wide and mouth agape. That was necessary. I had to tell her that. Who knows what spin the tabloids will put on her absence from the public eye?
Yes, yes, all part of my teaching methods.
I’m full of shit.
A hand goes up, saving me from the turmoil of my fucked up inner monologue. “Yes?”
The sound of my voice prompts Allison to take her seat, and I force my eyes to Maryanne Carrington, the portly, middle-aged woman from Day One who has proved to be the mother of the group. Probably because her husband likes to fuck girls young enough to be their daughter. “It’s evident that I’m no longer a spring chicken,” she says in her endearing southern drawl. “I’m not a size 2, and gravity has taken its toll. There’s only so much nippin’ and tuckin’ I can do without looking like a circus clown. How can I be tempting? What can I do to make my husband find me sexy again?”
“Mrs. Carrington, forgive me, but do you have tits?”
“Wha-what?” she stammers, clutching her chest with phantom palpitations.
“Tits? You have them, right?”
“Well…yes. Of course.” Her cheeks heat with crimson, and she lets out a nervous chuckle.
“And ass?”
“Why…yes.”
“Then you can be sexy. You are sexy. You just need to believe it enough to make your husband see it too.” I scan the tops of every coifed head, speaking to no one, yet needing everyone to hear me. “It’s not about being the skinniest, or having the biggest breasts, or the best ass. We don’t give a fuck about pumping your lips full of collagen or threading extensions in your hair. We just want you. We are simple creatures, ladies. Give us something that makes our mouths water. Strut around in that frilly lingerie and heels while you dust the furniture, pretending to be totally oblivious to our stares. Bend over to pick something up with the top buttons of your blouse undone so we get a peek of that cleavage. Wear your hair down so we can imagine the feel of it between our fingers, pulling it while you cry with passion.”
Almost as if it were rehearsed, my eyes meet Allison’s lively gaze. She thinks these words are for her. She probably thinks she’s somewhat special. But what she doesn’t see is the real reason I am so drawn to her…so tempted to taint her perfectly poised façade.
I pity her.
Just as she believes that I’m an outsider, a mere spectator to her world, she suffers the same fate. This life of glitz, glamour and garishness is not for her. She and I are cut from the same cloth—misfits among millionaires.
She may have the money and the status, but she’s faking it. She can’t even be honest with herself, and that is why, as much as she intrigues me, she disgusts me just the same.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
I finish the class, shoulders tight with agitation, counting down the minutes, the seconds, until I can escape to the one place where I can be free. I’m already stripping off the restraints of Calvin Klein by the time I hit the front door. But I don’t change into my swim trunks or running shorts like I’ve done almost every evening. I head straight to the shower, setting the water to scalding temperatures even though it’s warm outside, the dry desert heat sucking the life out of my parched skin. The water burns, but I don’t register the pain. A different kind of heat consumes me right now, my body aching to extinguish the flame.
I take my cock into my slick, wet hand and squeeze, relieving some of the pressure. I feel it throb against my palm, urging me to put it out of its misery. Eyelids heavy and muscles taut, I stroke it slowly, grunting out a curse. That’s all I should give myself for being such a careless fucker, but I need this. I need to rid myself of this longing. I’m no better than those cheating bastards—I am those cheating bastards—but at least my alternatives don’t hurt anybody. Stroking my dick doesn’t make Page Six. E! News won’t show clips of me coming inside my palm.
I grit my teeth as I tug my shit, chanting the fire out of me with deep groans. Eyes tight, I come so hard that my knees buckle, hot seed spilling into my hand before dribbling down the drain. Under the scorching spray of water, I stand panting, bracing myself against the marble-tiled wall. Even with my skin flush and pink from the water, I feel cold. I feel empty. I feel…alone.
Hours pass before I resurface, towel draped over my shoulder and dressed for my nightly swim. It’s quiet tonight. Still. Not even a breeze to keep me company under the opus of sparkling, luminescent stars.
I swim until exhaustion greets me and my lungs burn. My muscles ache and quiver until they feel like jelly. Yet, I prolong my torture, pushing my body past its limits. Past pain, and pleasure, and feeling, altogether.
She doesn’t come tonight.
Maybe she pities me too.
“THERE’S ONE THING that a man wants you to stroke more than his cock: his ego. Throw in the money and power, and you’ve got a Hulk-size ego that needs to be fed around the clock.”
I step around the lectern, a devious smirk playing on my lips. I’m better today. My head isn’t clouded with bullshit thoughts that I shouldn’t be thinking. My balls don’t ache every time my gaze touches her. And, after killing myself with running and swimming, my body is just sore enough to be a physical reminder of why I shouldn’t give two shits about her, or her perfectly flawed face, or the waterfall of silken red that’s draped down her back.
It’s not for me. None of it is.
Allison didn’t come here because she wants Justice Drake to fuck her. She came because she wants Evan Carr,
her spineless fraud of a husband, to fuck her. She wants him to want her. She wants him to love her. She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t.
“Feed the beast, ladies, and it’ll come to you every time it’s hungry. Make your man feel like he’s the biggest, baddest motherfucker on earth, inside and outside of the bedroom, and he’ll adore you.”
Lacey raises her hand and speaks up. “So what if he’s not? What if he’s an old, wrinkly has-been that can only last 5 minutes before blowing his load?”
A few ladies giggle, but my expression remains stony. “Lie.”
“Lie?”
“Lie your ass off. Tell him how big he is, how full he makes you feel. Tell him it almost hurts when he’s inside of you. Tell him that it feels so good that you wanna die. Who’s ever faked an orgasm?”
Every head nods, and murmurs resound around the room, altogether less surprised and disgusted by my brashness. After a few days of instruction, my words have nearly lost their shock value. Still, every so often, I have to shake them up to keep them from getting comfortable. Because being in love, being locked down in the endless, spiraling purgatory known as marriage, is about as uncomfortable as it gets.
“Good. Then you can fake everything else. Shower your man with adoration, and you leave no room for another woman to take your place. Men are like children. They constantly need positive reinforcement. And if they don’t get that, they settle for negative reinforcement.”
“You mean, they cheat?” Lacey interjects, her ice blue eyes narrowed into slits. She purses her doctor-enhanced lips, making them look like two giant wads of bubble gum.
“Correct. Not because the woman is more beautiful or younger, but more so for the fact that she makes him feel like fucking Superman. Invincible. All-powerful. They want to believe the fantasy.”
Lacey stands so that every eye is drawn to her, and places a hand on her narrow hip. “So if it has nothing to do with age or beauty, why are they fooling around with these Pop-Tarts fresh outta high school?”
Taint Page 3
