by Avery Aster
“Due to the Cannes Film Festival’s activities, Air Euro flights are oversold,” Jérôme snapped in a pompous tone.
“Are you certain, Jérôme? You can’t find me, Taddy Brill—your favorite media maven—one seat on your planes?” Didn’t he realize the dish she had on him?
“No. There also are no beds within thirty miles.” He laughed in a thick French accent at her. Taddy could’ve sworn he mumbled “stupid bitch” under his breath when he exhaled. The second she heard it, she stood from her chair and twisted her Nina Ricci four-and-a-half-inch Python Pump heel into the office carpeting.
“No flights or hotel rooms, are you sure…?” Honeybees are ready to be unleashed on your bare ass, Monsieur Grey Poupon.
“Taddy, s’il vous plaît, do not waste my précieux time with frivolousness.” He sat as the CEO to France’s leading airline, a publicly held company, with indirect shareholdings reaching over fifty percent.
What Monsieur Jérôme may not have remembered prior to pissing her off was something that happened last December. She’d taken Lex and Birdie to Vancouver, allowing Monsieur Jérôme to stay at her penthouse. Without her permission, he’d utilized her pleasure room. Monsieur Jérôme made a shitty mess with her expansive—and expensive—dildo collection. He’d stretched out her favorite corset and broke two imported leather BDSM whips gifted to her by her beloved cosmetic surgeon, Dr. Hugo Fassenbender. Her French guest also left behind videos and photos in action. Oh yes! Busted.
At first glance, Taddy had assumed the woman on the tape carried on as Manon Pésange, the teen mistress he’d screwed for years. No biggie, his wife knew about Manon. Until Taddy observed this lady, with stunning bosoms and crazy gorgeous hair—ramming his pecker into Monsieur Jérôme’s hairy ass. So busted.
When Kiki had turned the volume up on the video Taddy heard, “Take my cock, Jérôme.” The low voice ordered him in a New York accent.
“Dear heavenly father,” Kiki screamed. “I don’t understand.”
“Fuck me harder, Dupree. Ooh Dupree, that’s it,” Jérôme squealed.
“Holy shit.” Taddy had dropped her espresso. “Kiki, darling, find out who this Dupree gentleman is for me please,” Taddy called over her assistant’s shoulder as she wiped up the spill on the floor.
Fanning herself with a notebook, she stuttered, “Give me an hour, Miss Brill.”
After asking Kiki to research him/her online, Taddy discovered Monsieur Jérôme’s “friend” went by the stage name Dominatrix Queen-Dick Dupree, a notorious East Village transsexual. He owned The Dupree Club and charged nine hundred dollars an hour for sexual services. At Taddy’s insistence, Kiki contacted Dominatrix Queen-Dick Dupree and offered him five thousand dollars to confirm whether or not Jérôme du Tautou was a client. They learned not only was he a regular who kept a long-standing appointment when in town but he always paid using his company’s credit card. In gratitude for sharing this information with her assistant, Taddy booked Lex, Vive and herself for female dominatrix classes on Thursday nights at his club. Kiki declined an invitation, saying she had a schedule conflict. On those nights, she attended her study group at The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Jersey City.
“Jérôme, shall I call Mrs. du Tautou and see if she has any tickets for moi?”
“Pardon? I don’t follow.”
“You’ll follow me all right.” It was no surprise that when Taddy brought this Dupree oversight to Monsieur Jérôme’s attention, he’d secure Kiki’s first-class round-trip airfare. In addition to an all-accommodations stay at Hôtel du France, a Warner Truman Property, he gifted Kiki and DJ Dejon with two VIP tickets to attend Vanity Fair’s Cannes Party on the French Riviera.
Au revoir, Jérôme du Tautou… avec amour, Kiki et Dejon!
Determined to get her virgin assistant laid, Taddy reflected after the call on her own Candy Land and what was holding her back from having a little more fun in the love department. She hadn’t felt like playing Princess Lolly since St. Barth’s.
Chapter Nine
Rubies Return
May 15
St. Barth’s, French West Indies
St. Barth’s elite moved on to the Mediterranean and the South of France when the Caribbean winter and spring seasons came to an end. Warner returned to the Secrète de St. Barth, supervising the closeout with his executive team. Kip Von Scott had succeeded with a record-breaking year in room occupancy. Warner promoted him to Hôtel du France, a higher-profile property on the French Riviera. Secrète de St. Barth slowed down in the summer, staffing a skeletal crew for maintenance. Then the property ramped back up for the winter to repeat the cycle yet again.
He’d taken the remainder of the day off to relax and enjoy his free time.
Out by the pool, he walked into the spa. “Bonjour, Brigitte, comment allez-vous?” he greeted the spa manager as he closed the glass door behind him.
“Je suis bien. Et vous?” Brigitte replied from the reception desk.
“I’m having back spasms.” Warner strength trained, dropping the weight from high to low after each set. His goal wasn’t to get any bigger. He just wanted to maintain his build. At times, his workout caused his back and shoulders to contract.
“A deep tissue massage, monsieur?” She held out her hands at the empty spa. “We have many openings today.”
“Would you mind?” He rubbed his tight neck. “I just worked out.”
“Take treatment room nombre deux. I’ll be there in a moment.”
Going into the eight-by-ten, dimly lit treatment room, he closed the door. He inhaled a sedative aroma; the lavender helped him relax. His muscle tension started to subside. New Age music drifted from the walls’ speakers. Angelic tunes narrated Celtic legends. He felt as if a mythical fairy might fly out at any minute. All that New Age mumbo jumbo was one reason why he didn’t get massages very often.
He turned off the waterfall noisemaker plugged into the far wall. The machines made him want to piss. After undressing, he grabbed a terry cloth robe from behind the door and slipped it on. It was too short at the arms and legs. Warner walked over to the massage table, wondering why they made them so short. Spa tables never came long enough for tall people. He owned the joint, yet his legs still hung off the edge. He sat and lifted his foot to remove his gym socks.
“What the hell?” Half a dozen miniature ruby gemstones were stuck to his sock and shimmered at him. He’d seen them before. He pulled the crimson sparkles off his white cotton feet.
Warner rubbed the crystals between his fingers and placed them on his palm. Closing his hand into a fist, he’d seen these gems before. They came from Red.
Beauty. Warmth. Lust.
The words they’d exchanged to one another danced in his mind. He’d reflected on Privé Extreme, wondering if he’d hallucinated and Red hadn’t occurred at all. If not for the surveillance tapes, he might’ve believed he’d gone into a trance due to the holiday stress.
“I’m Red…I’d like to have whatever juice you’re serving…I do love intensity…You may…Dom Perignon Rosé…Back to your place.”
He’d checked with each hotel on the island. No resort confirmed the redhead. He never thought to check his own. Wasn’t that always the case?
Last January, Privé Extreme ran the entrance surveillance tapes showing Red arriving with a skinny blonde and leaving with him. The video confirmed he hadn’t lost his mind. The membership card Red had used to obtain club access was reported stolen, perhaps resold without her knowing.
Looking on the spa’s floor, he saw a gem trail that led to the side cabinet. He opened the cabinet. A colorful tray stared back at him in various blue, purple, green and yellow shades. But it was the red that spoke to him and echoed, “Hello, Big Daddy.”
Brigitte knocked on the door. “Monsieur Warner, you ready?”
“Entrez.”
“Prêt?” Brigitte’s face twisted in confusion. He wasn’t disrobed facedown under the sheet as expected.
&n
bsp; He held his hand out, showing her the rubies. “What are these?
“Monsieur, those are vajazzling.” She laughed, removing the crystals from his hands, closing the cupboard and shaking her head.
“Vajazz—what?”
“We are the exclusive spa in St. Barth’s offering vajazzling.” She explained the service women booked to decorate their private area with luxurious beaded jewels.
Unreal! He didn’t know such luxuries existed. “Could you please pull your client logs for New Year’s Eve weekend, say December 30?”
“Oui, is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“You mean…anyone. A woman who received the red crystal application to her…whatever you call it.” Warner hoped he finally found Red.
“Un moment.” She slipped out from the room.
Excitement charged through him. He sat down to control his breathing and closed his eyes. Relax, Warner, you’ll find Red. Inhaling the herbs, he listened to the pixie-like music and waited.
Anytime he’d seen a long-legged woman with red hair, he’d approached, hoping to find her. Wherever his travels took him, Warner’s mind wandered to Red.
I can taste you, Red. The tuberose smell in her wavy hair, her velvet tongue kissing his while he cupped those breasts. Her sensitive nipples responsive to his every touch—he looked forward to nibbling on them.
Warner imagined himself carrying Red to his bedroom and unzipping her from the dress. The sheer fabric, a second skin between them, dropped to the floor. He’d kneel, remove each shoe and admire her calves then kiss her inner thighs. She’d twirl her figure in his face.
Red, I can’t wait to make your body dance with me inside you. She’d hold her long hair over her bare shoulders. Pose for a minute—naked. Enjoying the view, he’d stroke his cock and ask, “May I?”
“You may.” He’d place her on his bed against the pillows. Her legs would spread for him. His two hands would scissor her folds as his tongue tickled her. She’d scream in ecstasy, holding on to his shoulders while he lapped at her cunt. Red, you taste sweet as fresh cream. Once she became nice and wet, wetter than before, wetter than she’d ever thought possible, he’d give her his cock…
“Monsieur.”
Fuck! At the knock on the door, Warner threw the sheet over his crotch and stayed seated on the table.
Brigitte returned. “Monsieur, the appointment books show it was I who waited on a young woman who booked the vajazzling.” Her cheeks flushed. “I’m embarrassed. I don’t mean to upset you.”
“What is it?” He sat up but dared not stand.
“I remember now waiting on her.”
“You do?” Warner could hear the herald angels singing.
“The client was tall, model-type, tipped me one hundred dollars. I’m not sure if she stayed in the hotel, but can assume. She came from the United States, Beverly Hills perhaps.”
“Makes sense.” Red had embodied 90210.
“May I ask why you’re inquiring about this client?”
“I met her on this island. I didn’t get her name but must find her.”
Her lips curved into a broad smile of approval. “I understand. I wish I could be of more help. I don’t remember anything else except she insisted on being vajazzled in red.”
Naturally. “What name did she book under?” Warner could see Red’s name being Eva, Penelope or Isobelle. He’d even be okay with Prudence, Alfreda or Drucilla.
“Mademoiselle Red.” Brigitte looked at him like, go figure. “She paid with a credit card, but I don’t have her file at this spa. Everything went to corporate at the year’s end on the thirty-first.”
“S’il vous plaît, call headquarters. Tell accounting I’m with you. Ask them to pull the spa service transaction records.”
“Oui, monsieur, un moment.” She left him alone in the room and closed the door.
His cock was still hard. Warner jumped to his feet, locked the door and then laid his head back down on the bed where his thoughts returned to Mademoiselle Red. He reached down under the sheet he’d thrown over himself and tugged at his dick, and continued.
Red, I’m going to fuck you. He visualized Red taking to his dick with the same pleasure she’d taken to his touches, kisses and affection for her. She’d lick the head’s slit, moving her juicy lips over the mushroom tip until he was rock-hard. Yanking on his balls, she’d stare at him with those captivating green eyes, hungry. Warner would hold her beautiful face in his hands, guiding her mouth over his shaft, helping her get comfortable. You want to taste me? You like my pre-cum, baby?
Warner jacked harder under the sheet.
He’d roll over, massaging her clit’s hood with his fingers. Warner would bring himself down over her, enjoying her moan in his ear, her pleasure, and he’d thrust fast and hard. It would be for her. Having her in his arms would be her experience. He’d drive into her vagina, sensing it throb and swell around his dick. Her slit swelled in response, she’d tighten her hungry cunt around him, ready to come.
“Fuck yeah.” He fisted his dick, throwing the sheet to the floor.
Biting his neck, she’d scream in bliss for him. Warner would lift her ass and get underneath. She’d climb on top, ride him, her vagina hugging his cock. He’d bury his face in her breasts and tug on each rosebud gently with his teeth. His body would thrust, drill and spread her ass apart with his seed. Red would hold on for dear life as she came while he flooded her with his cum. You wanna come. Come on, Red, I have you, let go, come.
Warner came as the orgasm rain fell on his abdomen. He felt his face bead sweat as he released. Red, please come back to me. I have to have you.
There was a knock at the door. “Monsieur, the door is locked.”
“One sec.” He washed his hands, tied his robe, grabbed the sheet, unlocked the door and sat back down, covering himself. Hoping Brigitte wouldn’t notice.
Eyes rolling, Brigitte’s face whitened as she mumbled pervers under her breath. “New York headquarters started the search. You’ll hear from them in about two weeks or a month.” Brigitte stood in the doorway playing with her wedding band, twirling the metal around her ring finger with her thumb. Perhaps afraid he’d fuck her if she came into the room, she made her commitment obvious. He wouldn’t. Truman Enterprises staffed attractive female employees at all of his properties, but none of them compared to Red, not even close.
That was just his luck. He gave a tight smile and sighed. “Thanks for checking.”
Over the winter, Warner had looked for Red while visiting his properties in Sydney, Australia. He could’ve sworn he spotted her sailing once on a boat not too far from Perast in the Bay of Kotor in Montenegro. In the spring, he’d walked on Xai-Xai coast in Mozambique catching the sunrise. Certain it was Red on the beach, he’d run close to half a mile along the muddy shore to catch her. It wasn’t. Maybe the universe didn’t intend for them to meet again. Possibly he’d never have Red. Warner remembered how the night had ended.
“I left crazy back home. I sure as hell have no interest in your St. Barth’s drama,” Red had blasted.
The memory of her as she walked away caused him to shudder. He’d given Red his number, slipped his business card in her handbag. Red never called. Why not—he’d asked himself on many occasions. He considered himself stupid to dwell on this a second longer. Warner wasn’t religious but he thought about the Biblical proverb, “For wisdom is more precious than rubies, and nothing you desire can compare with her.” God aside, his head required a new screw to put it back on tight.
“Monsieur Warner, they issued a tracking number for this ticket item.” Brigitte stepped forward, placing the note on the counter and then returning to her stance in the hallway.
“Merci.” He didn’t want what just happened to circulate amongst his staff. Especially if Brigitte gossiped about Truman Enterprises’ CEO whacking off in the treatment room. He hoped to change the subject and her mindset before he left. “What are your plans this summer while the resor
t hibernates?”
Her face warmed up. “A few of us from the spa are going to Hôtel du France on a spa mobile tour for beauté treatments.”
“I’ll be in Cannes for the festival as well. I hope to see you.” Although he found the Cannes beaches too celebrity-centric, Warner always enjoyed his time in France.
Hôtel du France remained Truman Enterprises’ most profitable property. How? The rooms were always filled to capacity during the Cannes Film Festival by corporate event sponsors.
“Did you want your massage, Monsieur?” She stepped into the room, hopefully putting his recent “door locked, beating off” session behind her.
“My back is better. I’ve changed my mind, thank you though.” He needed a cold shower.
“I’ll leave you be to get dressed. See you in Cannes, Monsieur Warner.” Brigitte closed the door on her way out.
“Au revoir.” Warner wondered if he’d ever see Red again. He took the ticket off the counter. It read, “Barth/Red/Dec30/Vajazz.”
Who are you, Mademoiselle Red?
Chapter Ten
Judith Leiber’s Clutch
May 17
Times Square, New York, NY
This blows serious chunks.
Like all the others that year, Taddy’s week rolled over into one big blur filled with work. Her elliptical grew dusty. Every night, she intended to leave the office early and attend Gilad’s Pilates class but never made it on time. She’d also no-showed two Botox parties hosted by Dr. Fassenbender.
There were only two men she’d seen on a regular basis.
The first was her San Juan beefcake chauffer, Jose del Torro. In a fire-engine-red Cadillac Escalade with her firm’s slogan, “Get fame, get glam, get Brill, Inc.”, detailing the doors, Jose drove Taddy wherever she needed. From her downtown meeting in the financial district with her clients’ investors to the garment district to help select designs and patterns for her fashion brands, Jose was there.
