by Veronica Sky
The Society Series
#1
Submission
by Veronica Sky
Copyright 2014 Veronica Sky
All Rights Reserved
The Society Series
#1
Submission
Book Design by Veronica Sky
I walk through an old building. Vaulted ceilings, parquet floors, carved wood everything. Dusty but well lit. Gloomy opulence.
But I’m not in the middle of nowhere, as I can see city lights through the high windows, just out of reach as I drift down the narrowing hallway. Another room out of sight, glowing as if by fire, though above me crustal chandeliers shine bright with thousands of tiny electric bulbs.
It’s only now I notice the gentle tug of my underwear. I’m wearing my sexiest thong, with swirls of fluorescent blue, deep purple, and vibrant red accenting the sheer, low-cut material. I remember buying them in Paris, swiping daddy’s credit card at some expensive place…Chamel, Charmel…I don’t remember.
I don’t have much time to wonder, since I’m now in that room lit by flame. Figures in hoods, figures in masks. They approach me. Stone carved walls. Limestone I think. A carving like the letter seven with two orbs, one to each side.
I look down at the smooth floor. I’m standing in the middle of a circle with a large dot at the epicenter. I kneel. My knees hurt, the floor is cold. I’m suddenly wearing nothing but my bra and expensive panties. Or maybe I was this naked the whole time.
My bra is low-cut, the way I like it, exposing the perfectly rounded swell of my breasts, which I proudly flaunted all through junior and senior year at Canterbury Academy. An uptight, boring school with uniforms all the way down to the knee—but it wasn’t like I actually wore them that way.
Speaking of which, what was I doing in this weird place, on my knees, in front of—it was now apparent—hooded and masked men, chanting something in Latin (three years of texting during Latin class did not impart much proficiency in the language), when I had a boyfriend. After all, I had been with him since the middle of senior year, right when I turned eighteen. I upgraded after John’s shoulder injury relegated him to second string. He couldn’t catch like he used to. Turning eighteen, I had to get serious, so I set my sights on our celebrated and chiseled star wide receiver Trent. After all, I was rich and pretty and he was the captain (not even the quarterback, and still captain, that’s how good he was).
Trent was handsome and popular, not too smart, but he’d be a partner one day at Blackstar Capital, his dad’s investment firm. He and my dad did business all the time, everyone was happy, and I was able to secure my place at the top of the school social ladder. Of course, he’d wanted me to put out after three days of being together. I had to, since guys like Trent would otherwise just move on to some other girl. And there were a lot of rich and pretty girls at my school, even if I was the prettiest. Except my butt. I had great breasts, everyone always said so, but my butt was too big—it just wasn’t fashionable. I ran and did yoga all the time, I took the little bread crunchies out of my salads, and my stomach was flat enough to rest an apple martini on. But damn it, my breasts were equally balanced by my ass. In my social circle, it was better to have a top-heavy look, like a pre-pubescent boy with a modest boob job. I was always self-conscious about my ass.
The men didn’t mind. It was obvious, since they were all naked, stroking their shafts very eagerly at the sight of my nearly naked form. I was on my knees, they were hard and excited—I knew what was going to happen. But I was okay with it, nervous maybe, but ready.
Trent! What was I doing? I couldn’t be here…I had a great boyfriend, even if he only played football and lasted about three minutes in bed.
Then I felt a hand hold my arms together behind me, gently and securely tying a thick rope around them. The man’s grip was strong but smooth. He expertly knotted the rope and brushed his hands up my back, from the dimples above my ass to the nape of my neck. I was shivering already, even though the room was warmed by dozens of flaming urns, but then he reached around to stroke his fingertips across my exposed breasts. By the time he reached inside my bra and squeezed my breasts, I was flushed and quivering from his firm, deliberate touch.
Trent couldn’t do this. Instead of pawing at me like a starving grizzly bear, this man was running his hands over me like a renaissance sculptor. His hands were rough, his fingers strong, and his grip powerful, but he was in control, taking his time, like a master who always got what he wanted and had learned to delay the pleasures of life to gain the most from them.
He raked his fingers across my narrow, pointed shoulders, and up my neck to my cheeks, feeling my smooth skin and brushing past my full, shivering lips. His finger gently stroked at my lips until I opened my mouth enough to let it in. I heard him order me to suck on it, while he stood behind me with his other hand caressing my breast, four fingers cupping it fully while his thumb danced across my nipple. I could feel his naked erection resting across my neck, warm and heavy. He removed his hand from my breast and began, again, to stroke his cock. His finger exited my wet mouth as he walked around to face me. As I looked up, I froze in excitement and horror. Holy Shit! Mr. Donovan!
I woke up with my heart pounding and the faintest bit of sweat glistening on my body. As I reached down, sure enough, my panties were wet. Mr. Donovan! One of the only men I actually knew who was richer than my father, and hardly ever home at his mansion down the street here in Silvershore. He jetted back and forth between London, Moscow, Shanghai, and Singapore, coming home maybe once every two weeks to see his wife and kids. As managing partner of AOM Financial—the world’s largest private equity group—he oversaw a huge portfolio of international investments.
When I saw him, he was always wearing the best looking clothes I’ve ever seen a guy wear. I knew what a $10,000 suit looked like, daddy wore them all the time. But Mr. Donovan’s clothes had this otherworldly drape to them, like the material was harvested and spun into some custom fabric that flowed over his body like the surge of a wave, powerful and efficiently contained. He looked like one of those distinguished guys in the Ralph Lauren Purple Label advertisements. Hair medium length with just a hint of grey peppered through the brushed back wave, always the perfect length as if he got a detailed cut every day—maybe he did? His profile was amazing: perfectly straight nose and lightly tanned skin tight across his high cheekbones. His eyes were angular, concentrated, in a way that made Trent look like he was a clueless deer contemplating the approaching headlights of a speeding vehicle.
Yeah, I had a crush on Mr. Donovan. Every time I saw him at the country club or when my dad dragged the family along to Mr. Donovan’s golfing retreats in Scotland, I was impressed by his strong, powerful shoulders and the elegant, lean slope of his body. He wasn’t built up with young muscle like Trent, but in unbelievable shape for his age, since I’d guess he was in his 50’s. Probably because he didn’t eat all the crap the other finance guys at the retreat did. While they were guzzling dark beers and stuffing down fat laden Scottish meat pies, I always noticed Mr. Donovan would sit somewhat quietly, drinking his ridiculously old scotch—or I guess just “whisky” over there—and enjoying at most a slice of roast beef and vegetable sides. Probably did him good, since he always won the biannual tournaments as far as I can remember.
Then again, it could have been because everyone kind of sucked up to him. I mean, he was managing partner of AOM Financial. Even Trent’s dad, who ran a huge hedge fund, was always trying to get his attention, probably to throw Blackstar Capital some money to put under his management. Mr. Donovan certainly had pl
enty of it. AOM Management’s listing on the NYSE ten years ago had made him a billionaire, and he had more money than he, or his prodigal wife and spoiled kids, could spend. But he kept running around the world building his company, staying relevant and powerful—and powerful certainly suited him.
“Sweetie! Get downstairs!”
I could hear my dad shouting. I glanced at the clock… 9:30… shit.
“You’re already half-way through your first class by now. I really don’t want Mrs. Wilkmere to call me again at work. You know your mother won’t answer her phone while shopping and all of this crap comes down on me.”
“One second daddy!” I shouted back downstairs. Why was my dad in such a bad mood? He usually didn’t care what I did at school since his $10 million corporate gift last year pretty much made me suspension-proof.
I quickly rinsed off in the shower and grabbed my school uniform. I put on my La Perla balcony bra in lacy violet and selected a pair of nude Louboutins that I knew made my legs look a mile long. Four and a half inches of extra height evened out the curve of my butt. My legs were shapely but tight and long, and my breasts were pushed out nicely.
As I reached into my panty drawer, holy shit! Yeah, I randomly picked the ones from the dream. Good luck, bad luck—I don’t know. What I did know is that they framed my ass perfectly. And it was Friday—Trent’s big game. He was definitely going to want to have sex after the game and post-party, and I was feeling horny after that weird dream.
I grabbed my green plaid school skirt and a white blouse and draped them over the couch in the sitting room area of my room. With no time to sit down, I hunched over my vanity mirror and applied the usual: Guerlain foundation, a bit of contouring, nice glossy pink lips, and—of course—a little bit of light bronzer across my collarbone and down my cleavage. I twisted quickly to the right and left, admiring the way the shade caught the light, creating depth and drawing the eye up. I gave my glossy blonde hair a quick brush—it was still straight and under-control from my last keratin treatment. Now where was—
“I’m damn serious! Get the hell down here!”
My dad was really pissed off today. So I quickly stumbled down the hallway and the massive mahogany staircase my mom had installed (“money is no object,” she had said, which the contractor had taken quite literally) to make our house (built ten years ago) look like it was something from the book we were supposed to read in class and therefore the movie I actually watched: Age of Innocence, I think.
My dad was waiting for me in the marble foyer, holding a glass of orange juice and one of those muffins from the French bakery in Old Greenwich that I loved so much. He was wearing one of his best charcoal suits, which he got from the Kiton Boutique in London last year (I picked out the fabric), and a pair of John Lobb shoes, elegantly tapered in a deep, rich brown.
Everything seemed normal, except he was drenched in sweat. As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I noticed that he generally did not look well. His hair, usually brushed back sleekly, was as mussed as his shirt and tie. Clearly, he had thrown on another suit when he got home, very late by the looks of it, and that was about it.
“Jane, we have to do. Eat this in the car. I’m driving.”
“But daddy—” I began
“No buts. Something important came up,” he brushed some sweat from his face with the cuff of his shirt, “and I’m dropping you off at school on my way back to the office. To make sure you get there sometime before noon.”
“Daddy. My alarm didn’t go off…I’m sorry.”
“Here.” He handed me the keys. “Throw your bag in the car while I grab something from upstairs.”
I walked over the cobblestone circle drive, the Mercedes automatically unlocking as I approached, threw my bag carelessly in the back, and took a seat in the comfy S-class front passenger seat.
What was going on? Things were getting stranger by the minute. So much for a regular Friday and driving my light-blue Bentley to meet the girls for coffee while skipping out on math class (Mr. Franz was so old, he didn’t notice, or care much if he did).
My dad plopped down in the driver’s seat, and put the envelope he had retrieved in the little tray in front of the shift stick. As the car started and the air conditioning kicked in, I glanced at the envelope out of sheer boredom and caught the letters A O M stamped in the upper left. No surprise. My dad ran a corporate crisis firm and had been helping AOM Financial with some problems in Singapore after the US government started cracking down on all the untaxed money AOM was investing for some European heavyweights. Maybe my dad was stressed about that?
Wait! I scanned over the back of the envelope and noticed something embossed on the upper right corner. Oh crap! It was the “seven” looking thing from my dream. It couldn’t be! No…Yeah, it definitely was. Two orbs on either side of this figure that looked like the letter seven. What the hell was going on?
The Mercedes cruised down Silvershore, and we passed Mr. Donovan’s fantastic looking house, so I naturally turned my head to check things out.
There he was. He wasn’t supposed to be back for months. He just left for Singapore last week. So it couldn’t be him. But as we stopped at the intersection, and he approached his Aston Martin Vanquish, I was convinced by the immaculate cut of the suit and the even better cut of its wearer. He looked up for a moment and glanced at our car as we waited for two other cars to turn at the stop signs. I thought he was looking at me, so I naturally tossed my hair back and ran my finger over my bottom lip to give him something to think about. But, when my dad turned ghastly white and sweat even more profusely despite the air conditioning, it was clear whom Mr. Donovan was staring at. Was my dad in some kind of trouble with Mr. Donovan or what?
We finally arrived at the gothic looking main campus of Canterbury Academy, Connecticut’s finest secondary school institution for the sons and daughters of the tri-state elite—where everyone’s parents worked in finance, and if they didn’t, they somehow had tons of money anyway.
“Stay safe. Don’t leave until I pick you up after school,” my dad ordered as he smoothed his disheveled mop of hair in front of the car mirror.
“But daddy. The game’s tonight. Trent is captain and I promised him I would go to the post-game. I have to.” Why was my dad so worried? He was still very protective even though I turned 18 almost half a year ago. But he had never, ever driven me home. He was either working, or had something better to do.
“Jane. No if’s, and’s, or but’s. I’m here, 5:00. You’re here waiting 5:00. Sharp.”
“We’ll see,” I muttered under my breath and out of earshot as I climbed the stone steps to the main entrance archway.
Oh great… Laura. A lanky, awkward, bespectacled girl with no fashion sense approached me as I passed through the doorway into the long hall. She was always bothering me about getting invited to this party and that. I mean, granted, she did my math homework for me, since she was in second year calculus or linear algebra, or something. So, I kind of had to stop and say a few words here or there, pick up my homework, and get it to Mr. Franz’s collection box by end of class. Usually, I rushed in after missing class, met up with Laura and (exchanging as few words as possible) rushed by the office, and that was that.
But here she was, probably hoping to get some nod of approval for showing up to the party at Trent’s house.
“Laura, how are you? I have to rush. Thanks so much…” Hopefully that would send the message.
“Yeah,” she began, propping her glasses up, “it’s all done, bonus problems and all—but I used a simpler method for that, so you know, it would seem like you did—”
“Laura, I really have to go,” I started as I scanned the hallway looking for my friends…ah, perfect, Nicole. I grabbed the stapled loose leaf from Laura and approached Nicole’s locker, where she was rolling her skirt up and applying a good deal more make-up. I myself was in need of some e
xtra attention since I hadn’t gotten a chance to sluttify my outfit as I usually did after parking my Bentley in the Senior Lot.
“Nicole, have you seen Trent?”
“Jane. OMG! He’s so hot. He’s definitely going to be turned on after the game, and”—she glanced at my heels—“and even more turned on by you. Wow! Turn Around! Your ass looks AMAZING in those.” She applied even more mascara liberally. “You think Rob will go for me tonight? I mean, I heard he was interested, and he finally broke up with that slut Sandra”—she suddenly turned to the left—“oh, there’s Trent. We better hurry. Math’s in five.”
Trent strode casually down the hall, high-fiving the other football players, all in varsity jackets—the only deviation allowed from the suit and tie dress code.
“CanterburAY! Fucking AY!” He high-fived the quarterback, Rob.
“Language, Mr. Bolsh,” a passing teacher warned.
Trent was very good looking, if not too interesting. Pretty much the idea high school jock—tall, muscular (but as a wide-receiver not too bulky) with great textured hair and the confident smirk that came from winning football games and having a lot of money. Pretty much ideal for Canterbury Academy.
He staggered over in a way that showed off his nonchalance, and pushed me up against the locker to kiss me. (Great. Time to reapply my gloss again.) He was tall, probably 6’2”, so his body completely covered mine as we made out and the start of class bell rang, and everyone started rushing into their respective classrooms.
“Trent…” I murmured as he forcefully shoved his tongue around.
“Yeah…One. Sec.”
Now I could feel his hand reach around the back, between me and the lockers, up my skirt, to cup my ass cheek.
“Trent. Not here…” Like he would listen.
