by Alexis Angel
“No?” I ask, breathing nice and shallow.
“Fuck, no,” he repeats. “You’re not in charge here anymore, Sabrina. You asked for this, you fucking horny slut. Now, you have no agency in it. No fucking choice.”
Oh, god. I’m totally getting off on that. I’m like, beyond getting off on that.
“Gonna make me take it?” I rasp, watching the way his nostrils flare as his tip presses harder and harder against my cervix. “Gonna force me to get pregnant…Daddy?”
And let me tell you—that bit? That fucking does it for him.
I see a glint catch in his eyes. Like turning on the living room lights when you come back to a totally dark apartment.
Daddy’s home.
“That’s exactly right, you little slut,” Rainier growls, claiming my lips with his kiss. “You’re giving me a baby. Tonight. Right fucking now. And Daddy’s the one who’s in charge.”
It’s like making love to a jackhammer. A sexy, gorgeous jackhammer with the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. I wonder if our kid is going to have those eyes.
Then, he makes me cream so hard around his cock that I don’t have any bandwidth in my brain to think about anything at all. The orgasm leaves my whole body shaking.
No—not even shaking. Thrashing. I’m caught up in a seizure of pleasure—pleasure so intense and fucking foreign to me that I wind up in a spasm against the shores of his sexiness, like a fish out of water.
“That’s it, babydoll,” he says through his teeth. “Come for Daddy. Come. COME!”
It’s seriously too fucking much.
Because the second I stop coming, he starts ordering me to come again.
And here’s the really crazy thing.
Crazier than the ridiculous way we met.
Crazier than the fact that he’s going to put a baby in me when he sprays his thick, fertile, billionaire doctor cum into my slutty womb.
No, the really crazy thing is that when I finish coming, he tells me to come—so I start coming again.
Ovulation has left my sense of smell heightened, so every breath of him I breathe in is completely fucking intoxicating. My nipples are hard and tender, and they rub gloriously against his chest hair while he plows me so hard into the mattress that he might as well be fucking me into the floor.
And my cunt—my slick, hot, ovulating pussy is throbbing around him like it’s trying to jack him off instead of letting him fuck me. So when he comes—when he finally shoots me so full of his salty seed that I can practically taste it in the back of my throat—my pussy is so happy, I nearly fucking cry.
Hormones, right?
“God,” Rainier breathes heavy over me, wrapping me up in his thick, sexy arms.
“That felt amazing. In fact…it’s my professional opinion that we should do it again.”
His cock throbs inside me, making me gasp.
I raise an eyebrow at him.
“Immediately,” he adds, and we smile at each other like two teenagers freshly in love.
What can I say? Doctor’s orders.
Alexis and WineBar #4
After our first date, I couldn't get enough of WineBar.
He fucked me in the shower.
He would press me against the wall and bite my ear.
“Come for Daddy, baby girl,” he would whisper, and I would whimper and hold onto the wall.
He took me to Bloomingdales and sat down in the man chair as I traveled the lingerie section with the sales lady. Then we went into the fitting room where he had me try them on. He made me bend over and would slap my ass if he approved. When the lady thanked us as he paid, he looked over to her, grabbed me by the small of my back, and responded back with, “No. By the end of the night, we’ll be thanking you.”
We would go to dinner where he’d order for me when I told him what I was in the mood for.
My feet never touched the ground when I was with this man. He kept me cocooned up in a haze of pleasure.
I was his. And he was mine.
“You’re my queen, baby,” he would tell me.
I would nod.
And then he would tell me to come for him.
Margarita
“Hello,” the pajama-wearing young woman says, her breathing nervous and heavy. “You must be new to the neighborhood.”
There are some sights you expect to see in an old walkup somewhere down in the depths of the West Side. An aging tenement building on Eighth Avenue, perhaps. One that’s falling apart and carries the stink of neglect and decay going back decades.
This is one such sight, I’m sure of it. Except this sight isn’t in some rundown flophouse by Penn Station.
This sight is unfolding, as clearly as my eyes can see it, right here in what’s supposed to be the Upper East Side.
In what’s supposed to be a luxury building, complete with a doorman.
In what’s not only supposed to be, but very much is, the hallway just outside my apartment.
An apartment that’s goddamn supposed to be protected from this sort of thing. Both by geography and by a security staff who must’ve decided it was high time to stop taking their jobs seriously.
“Who are you?” I’m being calm, calmer than any rational person should be given such chaos. “What are you doing here?”
“My name is Mary. You must be new to the neighborhood!”
Oh, dear Lord and Taylor, this is what I get for living west of East End Avenue.
How did I ever let that walking sweater vest I call a husband talk me into it?
“I’m not new here, Mary. Are you?”
“I like to go skiing!”
“I hope you don’t wear those pajamas to your chalet in the Poconos. At least not until you get inside.”
“My name is...bye!”
Goddamn it—what’s really going on? Is she okay?
“Mary, are you…”
She’s already skipping down the hallway at quite a clip. Daring to poke my head out the door for the first time, I look down the corridor see several other young women waiting for Mary by the elevator.
All of them wearing cheap, drab pajamas.
And all of them giggling as she skips over.
And there’s Thomas, wearing a light blue cardigan, walking through that whole mess like it’s a perfectly normal thing to see in this building.
“I still can’t believe they let you wear that to work,” I comment as the Pajama Club boards the elevator.
“What you really can’t believe is that I have the status to get away with it.” Thomas is still several doors down the hallway, but he’s speaking louder than he needs to.
“You don’t need to brag so loud the whole floor can hear.”
“You think I’m bragging?”
“You know what, dear? You need to be more observant.”
“Why would you say that?”
Thomas reaches our open doorway and squares up to me. He immediately starts searching my eyes, trying to figure out how serious I’m being.
“Did you even stop to think why I was leaning halfway out our door when you got off the elevator?”
“I’m observant enough to know you weren’t leaning nearly that far out. And besides, I’m sure it had something to do with that improvisational performance art troupe wandering the hallway.”
“Is that what that was?”
“Just a guess. Are you going to let me in?”
Our routine is all thrown off. I’m supposed to be halfway through my martini right now. Thomas’s own martini is sitting next to mine on the bar.
Usually, I make them at the same time, but it’s well accepted that I need at least half a glass of gin and dry vermouth before having to talk to him in the evening.
This evening, thanks to Pajama Peggy and the Slumber Party Gang, we’re both starting our cocktail hour at the same time.
“And I’m stuck dealing with this lunkhead stone-cold sober.”
“You do realize you said that out loud, Margarita.”
“Oh, don’t act all wounded. You know I can’t get that drunk from half a cocktail.”
“Why, that’s just the perfect thing to say, my love. I feel so much better after that bit of reassurance.”
“Sigh...come on in.”
“You know,” Thomas breaks into one of his professorial rants the moment we start walking towards our drinks, “most people don’t say the word sigh. Most people just sigh. It’s a breathing thing—not a talking thing.”
“First question: Do you think I’m five? Second question: Do you not enjoy my quirkiness?”
“Do you not enjoy mine?”
There’s no confusion as to which drink is Thomas’s when we get to the bar. He eagerly grabs the glass with six olives—I know how my husband likes it.
“Don’t act like you were just playing along, Thomas.” I add a heavy French accent to his name before finally enjoying the first sip of my shaken cocktail.
“Mon cheri, je n'apprécie pas cette fausse déclaration de mon identité.”
Thomas looks so pleased with himself, tipping the rim of the martini glass to his lips.
“Oh, come off it. We both know you grew up in Gramercy Park.”
His smug look fades a little, but that ghost of a smirk is still on his face as he takes his second sip.
By now, I’m supposed to be well into my martini, and I never let myself forget to dim the lights before I spend time with my perpetually sweater-clad spouse in our front room.
But he got home earlier than expected, and I got distracted by those corridor crazies, and now I’m taking in the full, sober show of my Thomas standing so close to me under the full power of the LEDs.
There’s an abrupt twinge of warmth in my chest, right around my heart, and I’m compelled beyond reason to reach over and clean than little piece of fuzz from my husband’s left shoulder.
“Now, we wouldn’t want your sweet little sweater to get all frizzy, would we?” My voice sounds delicate and tender, at least to my ears.
But, apparently, not to Thomas’s. He takes a horrified step backwards and crosses his arms so fast he almost spills a precious drop of martini on the Brazilian walnut flooring.
“Uh-uh…I mean, what do you think you’re doing?”
Taking a step back myself, I suddenly don’t feel like finishing my cocktail.
We’re still young enough, and so is our marriage.
So how did we ever get to this point?
Thomas
Uh-uh.
It doesn’t matter who I’m speaking to, I owe them a better response than that.
Especially the woman I somehow convinced to be my wife. Those half-formed words just flew out of me, ahead of my thoughts—and the way I recoiled like that.
The martini glass makes a definitive clanking sound as I set it down hard, kind of like a judge banging a gavel to regain order. The idea is to demonstrate that I’m upset with myself for the way I just reacted to my wife’s touch.
But she also recoiled, shortly after I did, and my attempt at making a point may be pointless by now.
A strong moment of tenderness overtakes me. Seeing Margarita’s eyes uncomfortably scanning the floorboards, all I want to do is care for her, to take her dejection and discomfort away.
It feels kind of familiar—not passionate the way that it once was not too long ago, but warm and loving. I think that’s a good sign. I’m compelled to hug Margarita.
At least hold her tight and absorb…I don’t know.
She comes into my embrace fairly easily. Still clutching her own martini glass by the stem. She doesn’t wrap her arms back around me, but she leans in.
Okay…this is okay, right?
This is what it’s supposed to be about.
This is comfort.
Margarita’s not looking too comfortable after she backs away, though. She’s still studying the grains in the wood of our floor with a distressingly keen interest.
Now I need to win back her attention. And I don’t know if I have it in me.
Quick, think of something before you lose her for good.
“Hey!”
She looks up—that’s a start.
Now what?
Jesus fucking Christ.
The one thing I’ve fought for, since the moment I first caught this woman’s cloudy hazel eyes in the scarf section of Bergdorf’s, was to earn her attention and keep it.
And that script we seemed to be reading from, that easy way I could talk to her…I just lost it.
Quick, think of something else.
Maybe I can try to erase the damage by repeating that out-of-nowhere moment of shoulder-based intimacy.
Okay, take a deep breath, lean in nice and slow, take a good look at that pastel shawl she’s wearing. There’s a loose thread just above her shoulder. Bingo.
“Hey, mon cheri amour, you’ve just got a little something on your…allow me to get that for you.”
My eyes take a leisurely trip to find Margarita’s hazel bits of beauty, and my hand moves gently, smoothly towards the tiny strand by her shoulder, reaching delicately, almost grasping it…
And she jumps backwards.
“Ah! Ah! What are you doing? You startled me!”
The look we share in the next, tense moment is one of confusion, fading into a sort of understanding.
“Thomas, I-I’m…sorry. I’m just not used to you, out of nowhere, coming up to touch my clothes like that.”
“I’m not used to you trying to touch my clothes, either, oh dearest and loveliest one,” I say with a half-smile, trying to inject something light into this sad attempt at conversation.
Margarita shakes her head with just a touch of franticness.
“Okay, well, we won’t be trying that again, I guess.”
“I don’t see why not,” I shrug, “now that the shock has…”
“Fuuuuuuuuuuck!”
This time we both jump at the sudden, thunderous roar coming from the hallway.
Our curious, mildly fearful eyes find each other, and Margarita and I do a quiet, tandem little trot to the door to get a closer listen.
The hallway floors are carpeted to prevent neighborly footfalls from disturbing the peace, but there’s a pair of feet outside that just won’t be denied. They’re loud, slamming insistently against the carpet, clomping their way past our door to the other end of the hallway…
Then back.
Margarita and I choose the exact same moment to look at each other.
“Is it…more performance art?” She’s whispering, and she gets even quieter with those last couple words.
“You don’t need to whisper.”
There it is.
There it fucking is.
Wherever the fuck I left that script, I’ve fucking found it.
Margarita’s eyes are peering into mine, and what I need to say and do—and not say—could not be fucking clearer.
As the angry feet stomp past our door again, I tear that thread right off Margarita’s shawl, and when the yelling outside starts up again, our lips collide and our tongues entangle like fucking crazy.
“I can’t believe he…I can’t believe I…how could I be so fucking stupid? Again?” the woman outside shrieks.
“I don’t think that’s performance art.” We’re both panting, frenzied, after ending that mad fucking kiss. I’m taking the opportunity to explain whatever the fuck might be happening outside. “That’s a young woman going through some shit.”
“Fuck!” More shrieking.
“Young woman?” Margarita whispers. “You’re young! We’re young! At least too young to be acting like…like…”
She doesn’t need to think of the words, because our tongues are already working with each other again to invent a new kind of language.
“What are you doing on this floor? What are you so upset about?” There’s a man’s voice now, but I couldn’t fucking care less.
“I’m not ffff…I’m not falling for any of this shit, anymore,” the girl says. “I
t’s such clear bullshit.”
“This is so out of nowhere,” the man continues. “Weren’t we just…”
“Okay, I’m still whispering, because I want no part of whatever that is in any way.”
“They can’t hear us, my love, they don’t ca—”
“What on Earth is going on in this building today?”
“Just people living their lives,” I reply with a shrug. “The same as any other day.”
Margarita’s eyes dart towards the window across the living room, and then back at me. “What if I don’t want this to be like any other day?”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure, Thomas. Let’s go into the other room so we can get some peace and fucking quiet and talk about things.”
Margarita
“Come on, Emilia…”
The one voice is fading, thankfully, down the corridor.
“Fuck! I mean f...I mean, I don’t know.”
But her voice—I’d assume she’s named Emilia, but who even knows anymore—stays fixed just outside our door. Even after she finishes yelling, her voice is so loud, it’s making the entire hallway quiver. The latest in a series of realizations to hit me is that our bedroom isn’t going to be far enough to escape this little show being produced in the hallway.
“I need to deal with this, Thomas. Just meet me in the other room.”
“It’ll deal with itself. And which other room?”
“Oh, for…never goddamn mind.”
For the second time in the last half hour, I throw open the apartment door to deal with whatever bizarre scene is trying to play itself out outside. If the last one was wearing pajamas, I fully expect to see an even weirder costume in the hallway this time—if not a full-on goddamn Halloween parade.
“The peephole could save you a lot of trouble next time, my love.”
“Other room, Thomas.”
While growling that response to the lurking spouse behind me, I come within a mohair scarf’s breadth of gasping at what’s in the hallway in front of me.
“Oh, I was expecting to see something much less normal.”
