by Derek
Unpredictable
It was too-fuckin'-early-o'clock, but Ross Adler had to get out of bed and get to work on a stakeout. Being a private investigator was nothing like the adventure and glamour of "Magnum, PI" or "Rockford Files." It was about having a telephoto lens to take pictures of cheating husbands and wives, poring over public records trying to find people's former high school sweethearts, and pawing through garbage cans for kiddie porn and damning financial records. He knew the job was going to be a pain-in-the-ass when he decided to go into it, but it happened to be a very lucrative vocation if you were careful which clients you took on, and if you were good at getting results. That didn't make it less of a pain, just more of a self-induced one. He could live with that; his Swiss bank account was proof.
Ross didn't like being led around by anyone or anything. He'd had enough of that when he was in the Marines. There was always some snot-nosed captain who had some unrealistic expectation for his special ops unit. By the time Ross made twenty-five years in SOP and had reached the highest rank he thought he could achieve in the non-commissioned corps, he'd had enough. His recon and infiltration skills had been very useful when he chose to take mercenary work all over the Middle East after leaving the service, so he couldn't knock those long and colorful years in the military.
But, at the same time, he had nightmares still, even after five years out of the military. He'd done some things as a Marine that would make the average person run screaming from the room. They were necessary things and he'd loved it at the time. It was exciting, dangerous and, for some of his fellow unit soldiers, lethal. The nightmares, though, he could happily do without.
Before waking, he often dreamed about the hostages they'd covertly released. Sometimes those people were in very bad shape. They were broken and embarrassingly grateful for being released from hell. The truth was, he didn't give a fuck for the victims. Ross was doing his job and wouldn't allow himself to get emotionally attached to anyone. With attachment, there was a long list of dangers and intelligence compromises. He didn't want to go there.
It was hard, sometimes, though. There'd been one young woman they'd rescued who had been naked and screaming when they'd grabbed her and took her to safety. He'd given her his flak jacket and never got it back. Like it mattered. He scoffed at the idea. The woman, and her hysterical screaming, the way she'd fought them as though they were also her kidnappers…she lingered in his subconscious. There had been the rescue op and that was all. He didn't care what happened to her—didn't want to know, in fact.
There were lots of women in those days, women who didn't mind that he was a one-night-stand-only man. They wanted his dick and he wanted their pussy and that was all there was to it. That was the way it was supposed to be. The only women he chose to be around more often than that were special women. Women who didn't mind that he had to be in charge of their relationship, who were eager to be humbled and kept poised on the edge. They stayed in line because they didn't know how to predict him. He liked it that way.
Predictability got you killed, and Ross was far from being through.
His father taught him well, in that regard. He had learned to be wary, to be unpredictable, and immune to wiles. A woman's guile had to be ruthlessly suppressed, or a man was sure to be pussy-whipped before he knew it.
It reminded him of his father's comments upon hearing that he'd taken a woman into his household. "Goddamn! Thought I taught you better, pecker-head. She'll be expecting diamond rings and expensive shoes next. You ain't got the sense God gave a slab of steak."
Ross hated that he looked like his father more and more as he got older. Ross' brown hair was a lot longer and he was taller, but when he looked in the mirror, the same brown eyes stared back at him. It was bad enough that he was named after the man.
He decided to tell his father the truth. "She's one of a set, Dad," he responded. "The second one will be moving in next week."
"Set?"
"Yeah. Claire's best friend Sandie. I can afford 'em and I'm tired of having to search out pussy when I want it."
His father's response was lukewarm, but he did back down a step. "What do you need a fuckin' harem for?"
Ross raised his dark eyebrows and smirked.
"Yeah, well, sex ain't everything," Ross Sr. muttered. "Don't let 'em gang up on you, boy."
"No, sir. That's not my way."
"Hmph. Don't you go forgettin' about how Maggie connived to freeload on you."
Ross was sick and tired of having his father remind him of his not-so-brilliant, albeit brief, relationship with Maggie Spitzer. She'd told him she was on the pill, but somehow got pregnant anyway. Now he was saddled with a son who sucked down resources through his mother.
She'd been a good lay, full of fire and conceit. Ross had enjoyed her lithe body and the quiver of her lips when he caused her pain during sex. Her pussy had been warm and tight. He thought that the only marks he'd leave on her were from his bamboo cane, but he'd fucked her without a condom—they were both drunk at the time—and now he was paying the price for that error. Child support payments flowed out like sap from a maple tree.
He wasn't so self-deceptive that he didn't inwardly acknowledge that he was proud of his son. They didn't spend much time together—Ross often had to go out of state to do his work—but the boy was a secret pleasure. He'd still been in the corps when Marcus had been born, but Ross had kept tabs on him. He needed to make sure Maggie wasn't being the slut he knew she could be. That would be bad for the boy. Ross knew personally exactly how influential a mother could be on her son, both a good influence and a bad one. His mother had been an alcoholic gifted with a way of turning off the world. Ross had often felt invisible. Now, he realized that ignoring him was better for him. He'd gotten stronger.
As a kid, he'd resented that she didn't come to his defense when his father got drunk and backhanded his son. But it hadn't mattered in the long run. There had come a day when Ross was bigger than his father, and could backhand in return. His father remained a thorn in his paw, but now he was so old that he was ineffectual. He didn't miss his mother. She was dead and there was nothing particularly special about her to remember fondly.
Ross' sisters had gotten away as soon as they could, and although they'd all banded together when their parents were at their worst, he now had no contact with Gwen and Leila. They had lives to live. He didn't care if he was included or not. They'd be a pain in the ass to deal with so things were better the way they were.
Yeah, things were better.
He gave the woman next to him a shove to wake her up, and rolled her onto her back. Claire came slowly awake as Ross pulled at her nipples and hardened them up. He pinched just hard enough to make her moan with pain and then he positioned himself between her legs and pinched hard enough to draw a gasp from her. Her thighs were slender, the skin soft. He liked that about Claire; she had a beautiful body. Her dark hair was long and thick, and her blue eyes were big, sometimes bright with the glimmer of tears. He slapped her inner thighs as she lay there, waking up. Her hands fluttered toward his as he spanked and he slapped them away.
"Wake the fuck up, Claire."
"Okay. Okay, I'm awake, sir."
He slid his cock over her gash and barked at her. "Not enjoying yourself?" He smacked her inner thighs a few more times. Although he couldn't see the color in the dim light, he knew her legs would be red. Ross could feel the heat under his palms.
Claire moaned and reached for him. Ross' answer was to take her small wrists in one of his hands and press them up over her head as he loomed over her, rubbing his cock on her pussy. "Don't fight it, Claire," he told her. "You like it rough."
She stiffened as he bit one of her nipples, but her moan was more pleasure than pain now, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He jabbed into her hard and her hips rose to meet the thrust.
"Yes…" she said thickly.
Ross gripped her wrists harder and pumped his hips, fucking her the way he liked it. He didn't car
e if she got off, as long as he did. Generally, the fact that he didn't care seemed to make Claire all the more wet and likely to orgasm. But she knew he was doing her a favor if he allowed her to come. He made sure she knew.
There was no fear of pregnancy with his girls. Ross watched them take their pills every day. He wasn't going to make the same mistake twice.
His rhythm increased along with her moans beneath him. The feel of her tight pussy was sweet…so sweet. Claire could be a bitch sometimes, but usually she was accommodating, and when she wasn't, he got out his cane and made sure she was better behaved for a while.
His other girl, Sandie, was likely sleeping soundly in the room next door. It had been Claire's turn to warm his bed. It would have been nice, at that moment, to have Sandie with them, massaging his balls as he fucked her friend. But some things were too much trouble to orchestrate at five in the morning, when what you wanted was a quick fuck before heading to the shower.
Claire was moaning and bucking, sucking him into her body with her warm, wet pussy. "No coming, Claire. I'll shove a butt plug up your ass for the day if you get off," he told her, just to torment her. He knew she hated that.
"No, no, please," she said, her voice rising at the end of her plea. "Please..."
He nuzzled her neck and enjoyed the floral fragrance of her hair. Ross knew the roughness of his overnight beard and his thick moustache would chafe her soft skin, but he also knew she enjoyed the sensation. Pushing her toward the edge of her obedience was a pleasure for him. A part of him wanted her to come, just so he could punish her later, but another part wanted her to obey him and be unfulfilled after their encounter. He might, if she was well-behaved, allow her to orgasm later in the day.
The idea of having her getting off with Sandie's face in her fragrant cunt sounded kind of appealing. But his own climax was getting closer, so he let himself concentrate on that as he pummeled Claire's pussy.
She was struggling beneath him. He knew she was fighting her urges. Her efforts to please him made him happy. Claire was there to please him, or she could get the fuck out. He kept her and Sandie in style because he it was easier to share his largess with them than to withhold it on a case-by-case basis. But they paid for the good living with obedience and service. Service like what he was wresting from Claire right now.
His orgasm neared and his mind clouded as his entire body focused on his prick and her pussy and nothing else for a few moments. This last minute or two of sex was the only time he let his guard down.
And then it was upon him. He slammed his hips against her and Claire squeezed him with both legs and sheath. His world disintegrated for a moment, and then organized itself, leaving him panting but with a more clear mind.
He let himself rest on her body for a few heartbeats, finally releasing her wrists. He knew she’d probably have some bruises on her wrists, and the thought only pleased him more. Claire stroked his back, his biceps, as she held him close. Her murmurs were like purring from a cat; they were soothing after his trip into dangerous release and back again.
Ross kissed his way up her neck and took her mouth roughly with his own. She returned his kiss eagerly.
Finally, he pulled back and loomed over her for a minute. "I'll call you this afternoon."
She wriggled beneath him with pleasure. Claire knew that his call would be permission to get off in some way or other. And, in these seconds after rapture, he felt like being generous, so why not? He might change his mind by noon, or maybe not.
Mostly, he wanted a cigarette and a hot shower, preferably in that order.
* * *
Ross was home by six o'clock that night, and it took him a moment to realize who the third woman in his house was. It was Wendy Castle, his friend Mac's girl. Mac was off to Iraq for about a year and wanted a safe place to park Wendy. Ross and Mac had been buddies together in the corps and went back a long way. When his friend asked if Ross would take care of Wendy for him, Ross pretty much had to say he would. Of course, he made it clear that he wouldn't take any guff from the woman. There had been some jockeying for position when Ross wanted to have Wendy available to him in bed as well as around the house, but Mac got stubborn about it and in the end, Ross respected his friend more than he needed another playmate.
So there she was. Ross had met her before, of course. She was a handsome, statuesque black woman with a genuine smile for him when he came into the room. He didn't return her expression—why allow her to think she could call the shots? He pointed down to the floor and Claire and Sandie both rushed over to kneel at his feet. He lit a cigarette, waiting.
Wendy's smile faltered as Ross raised an eyebrow at her and put his lighter in his pocket. The chair scraped against the tiled floor as she pushed away from the kitchen table and stood gracefully, her back straight as a poker. Ross hadn't said a word, but the message was perfectly clear.
Stiff pride mixing with submission, Wendy knelt on the floor near Claire and Sandie.
"Good. You're all released. Make dinner."
* * *
Ross left the women to clean up after dinner, and went to his home office to upload his stakeout photos and document the efficacy of the operation for the client. Fitting a CD into the player, Ross hummed along as he finished his cigarette. He spent some time on the phone, and checked his email.
To his surprise, there was an email from Kevin Watson. He knew Watson from a private SM group, Boys With Toys and, although they could hardly be called friends, they were acquaintances. It was, however, rather unusual for Ross to be receiving email from the man. Watson must have gotten his email address from some mutual friend, because Ross didn't give that information out to the BWT group generally.
The email was succinct. Call me regarding a business matter. K Watson and the phone number. Curiosity clearing the cobwebs of a rather long, dull day at work, Ross thought about it for several minutes before picking up the phone to call.
Their conversation was brief but Ross felt he'd kept the upper hand.
When he hung up the phone, he wondered if he'd done the right thing accepting the job. The money was good, no doubt about that, but working with a man as arrogant as Watson was going to stick in his craw. He usually liked to keep his professional life out of his personal life, and crossing the BWT-to-work boundary was new, uncharted territory. Why had he accepted the job? Money wasn't a big issue for him, though the more you had the less you had to struggle for it. He remembered too many school years when he and his sisters got their fall clothing at secondhand charity stores.
Ross thought about how he'd feel if one of his girls went missing like Watson's had done, and foul play was suspected. He wouldn't like it, but would he pursue it?
Yeah, he realized, he would. Although women were disposable, they were his women. No one had the right to take one away. Now, maybe in Watson's case, the girl had run away. Maybe there were some bad feelings between the two girls in Watson's household, or maybe the missing girl had run away to another man. Watson was adamant that those things were not the case, but Ross was going to be skeptical until more facts were in.
He lit another cigarette, logged into the secure site where his Swiss bank account deposits were recorded, and leaned back in his executive chair to wait.
As he stubbed out the cigarette, and reached for another one, the number on the monitor changed. A little smile quirked his moustache up at the corners. Now, he'd make some phone calls and start doing a little sleuthing. He wouldn't tell Watson about the ground work. Let the man think Ross was a hard guy to pin down.
Being predictable got you killed, and Ross was far from through.
The End
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