Too Damn Rich

by Gould, Judith

  Under her ministrations, his phallus impatiently jerked and thrummed and leapt.

  "Cool it, Charley," she murmured, treating the slit of his penis to a swirl of her questing tongue. "What's the hurry? Can't you just lie back and enjoy the ride?"

  And opening her mouth wide, she closed it solemnly around the head of his penis and held it there, waiting until he was absolutely still. Then, and only then, did she yield, her lips and tongue working in tandem to treat him to the strong and unfaltering suction of her mouth.

  He responded in kind, pulling down her briefs and drilling his tongue past her glorious dark pubic nest, and through the fleshy outer lips of her pouting clitoris.

  She shut her eyes, happily refamiliarizing herself with every last vein and curve of his phallus.

  This—this sex act—was no mere lust, she knew. There was pent-up passion here; the perfume of bodies driven by desire; the sensation of time stopping so that this moment, and this alone, comprised the reality of living.

  Now she was no longer able to control the wild thrusts of her hips, and she sucked ravenously. Taking his cue from her, he lathed her vigorously, his own pelvis bucking upward in demanding, jackhammer movements.

  Oh, how right this felt! she thought. How blessedly, wonderfully right! And ah, how the remembrances of tangy smells and familiar tastes helped fuel the fires of carnality!

  Garments were deemed too constricting. These were mutually, wordlessly, speedily disposed of: some easily shed, others torn off in the throes of passion.

  Now they were naked. Regal. Gleaming.

  She could feel her heart pounding fiercely, the blood racing madly through her veins, the juices of life starting to build up inside her.

  Unbidden, tears sprang into her eyes. What was she feeling for him? Love, that woefully inadequate four letter word? Or mere lust, that craving so potent and possessive that beside it, all else in the universe paled?

  But these answers, she knew, must wait. Later, there would be time for introspection. Here and now, words were redundant; nothing existed except for flesh against flesh.

  Still gripping his penis by the base, she slid around to face him. Her eyes had a wild kind of look as she straddled his pelvis and raised her buttocks high.

  For a moment she seemed perfectly still, as though suspended in midair. Then, with a smooth, graceful elegance, she slowly lowered herself down upon him.

  Her eyes widened as she impaled her moist female warmth upon his tumescence. There was a jolt of pain, and then he was in, sliding all the way up inside her.

  Slowly, deliberately, she rose back up, as if to expell him, then lowered herself completely again. Beneath her, she could see him grit his teeth; heard him grunt involuntarily as slowly, rhythmically, she lifted and lowered her pelvis: up and down, up and down, up and down ...

  Suddenly he was no longer content to just lie there. Greedily, his pelvis rose to meet hers, and together, their movements quickened, their hips moving in a blurry, sensuous dance as old as time itself.

  Faster, faster, faster! Ever more furiously they took their pleasure, twisting their hips in delirium, consumed with but one purpose—to satiate unquenchable passions.

  More, more, more! It was as if neither of them could seem to get enough. Ravenousness begot more ravenousness; hips, hands, legs, breasts: all worked in feverish tandem.

  And then her eyes glazed over, her mouth opened in ecstasy, and a guttural cry issued forth from her throat. Locking him tightly to her, she felt the torrent rise inside her; the universe explode into dazzling pyrotechnics.

  It was but the first of multiple orgasms. With each she screamed in agony, yet each was like a regeneration.

  Still she proved insatiable.

  Never before had it been like this. But then, never before had she been celibate for so long. Every orgasm came as a thundering upheaval, each gaining in strength.

  And then it was he who could hold back no longer.

  It seemed the earth shook and the very heavens split asunder. With a primordial howl, he clamped his hips to hers, and his testes exploded, spilling forth his seed.

  And contracting her vaginal muscles, she orgasmed one last time, her screams merging with his as together they burst across the finish line in an apocalypse which seemed to have no beginning and no end.

  Thus spent, lungs bursting and breaths rasping, they clung to one another.

  Long minutes passed.

  Finally Charley stirred. As he let go of her, he felt his phallus slide out of a vagina. Then, recognizing its proprietor, he looked away before doing a classic double take.

  And very nearly choked.

  Kenzie!

  What the devil?

  Abruptly sitting up, he shook his head to clear it while trying to figure out what, exactly, had hit him.

  Only one answer was possible.

  "And with what," he demanded hoarsely, "did you spike my drink?"

  "Don't be silly," she said calmly. She lay there, the very picture of a nubile, blissfully satiated Venus. "I didn't even offer you a drink. Remember?"

  He scratched his touseled head and frowned. "Right. So what exactly did happen?"

  She smiled. "Why, I like to think I happened."

  "Jeez!" he exclaimed. "You know what's wrong with you?"

  "What?" She positively purred.

  "You've got an ego the size of Mont-fucking-Blanc!"

  "Aw," she said sweetly. "I ever tell you how cute you look when you get angry?"

  His scowl deepened.

  Kenzie wondered why that particular remark always got a man's goat, but it did. She'd never once known it to fail.

  Pretending to ignore him, she stretched luxuriantly, laced her hands behind her head, and wiggled her toes.

  "My God!" Charley, who recognized a direct lift from his own repertoire when he saw one, croaked hoarsely. She's imitating me! he realized. Fuckin' mimicking me!

  "Is nothing sacred?" he asked coldly.

  "Yep!" she replied, happily wiggling her toes. "Cows."

  Cows? He wasn't even going to ask what she meant by that.

  "You know," he said, "at times you can be a real pain in the ass."

  "Yep!" she repeated brightly. "But momentarily a very, very sexually appeased pain!" She blew him an extravagant air kiss. "Thanks, lover boy."

  Clenching his jaw to keep from exchanging another word with this vilest of creatures, he rose to his feet. Scanned the floor. Snarled: "Socks."

  Retrieved one. Savagely pulled it on his left foot as he hopped around on his right.

  Leaning up on her elbows, she watched with growing amusement as he stomped around—here, there, everywhere—plucking items of discarded clothing from wherever they had landed.

  Aware of her watchful gaze, he prudishly turned his back on her and set about getting dressed.

  Oh, great! she thought. Now the big stud needs privacy! She rolled her eyes and let her head drop down to the carpet. As if there's any part of his anatomy I haven't seen!

  She sighed to herself. Men. They really could be such assholes at times.

  Finally he was ready. Properly buttoned, zipped, tucked, and laced.

  Adjusting his tie, he marched stiffly past her, scooping his overcoat up off the floor on the way. Reaching the front door, he lost no time unbolting the topmost of the five Fichet locks.

  "Oh, Charley," Kenzie called out in a lazy drawl.

  She waited, but he was too intent upon unlocking the door to pay her any heed.

  Damn him, she thought with mild vexation. He's deliberately ignoring me.

  She sat up and placed her hands on her hips. "Aren't you forgetting something?" she asked, raising her voice slightly.

  He flicked her a sideways glance. "Like what?"

  "Like this." And jumping up, she snatched a thick Jiffy bag off the coffee table and flung it across the room at him.

  He was left with two choices—either to get coldcocked, or to reach out and catch it. Wisely he chose to do
the latter.

  "Jesus," he glowered. "What are you trying to kill me with? Lead?"

  Kenzie crossed the room. She was moving with an agile, unselfconscious grace, her breasts riding high and proud.

  Charley felt the blood ascend into his face. Quickly he averted his gaze. Christ! She had him so befuddled, he actually had to concentrate just to work his way down the row of locks! Why couldn't she keep her distance? Her physical proximity engulfed him like a palpable caress.

  "That package," she informed him, "contains the Holbein file."

  Now he had four locks open. He thought: One more and I'm outta here!

  "You should find everything you need in there," she continued. "Catalogue, appraisals, color transparencies, sales receipts, transfers of ownership, copies of correspondence ... you name it."

  The last lock cylinder clicked.

  "If there's anything else you need," she added softly, "don't hesitate to whistle."

  Like hell! he thought, and yanked the door wide. He tromped quickly down the stairs, the package under one arm.

  Kenzie poked her face around the door. "I'll phone you tomorrow?" she called after him.

  His head disappeared down the stairwell.

  Smiling to herself, she shut the door and locked it.

  This has certainly been an interesting evening, she decided. Yes. Most interesting indeed ...

  For not only had she corraled Charley into working with her, but she'd even been brought to multiple orgasm in the process!

  Which just goes to prove one thing, she thought. If you play your cards right, you can have your cake and eat it, too!

  And smiling with smug contentedness, she stretched luxuriantly. Why was it, she wondered, giving a mighty yawn, that making love always made her so sleepy? Really, if someone could bottle post-coital bliss, they'd be rolling in dough. Put sleeping pills totally out of business ...

  Crossing the room, her bare toes poked something silky. She stopped to investigate. Good Lord. Her red panties.

  She perused the rest of the floor. Oh, my. The carpet was littered with evidence of gratified debauchery, including her ripped, red jersey sweatpants. Oh my, oh my.

  She knew she ought to pick up her things now . . . fluff the sofa cushions ... do what had to be done to straighten the room up.

  She yawned blearily. Bah! What was the rush? Zandra wouldn't be home until—when? A couple of hours from now? There would be plenty of time to clean up ... oodles and oodles of it. And curling up on the sofa, she tucked a cushion under her head, and practically purred. Ah, this felt sooooo nice ...

  Her eyelids drifted shut.

  Sweet dreams soon followed.

  Such sweet dreams that she slept until Zandra returned.

  Then she awoke with a start.

  There was Zandra. Playbill in hand. Gazing about the living room floor with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

  "Whaa-!" Kenzie, momentarily disoriented, sat up suddenly. Realized she was buff naked. Grabbed the cushion and hugged it against her.

  "Ssssh!" Zandra put a finger to slyly smiling lips. "Go back to sleep!" she stage-whispered, making a production of tiptoeing past. "I won't natter." And with a knowing wink, she sang, "Mum's the word!"

  "It isn't what you think!" Kenzie growled, knowing full well that it was.

  Zandra pointedly detoured around the ripped sweats. She did not speak. But then, she didn't have to. The evidence spoke for itself, as did her raised eyebrows.

  Kenzie slumped. "Oh, God," she groaned. "I'll never live this down!"

  "Never say never," Zandra advised. "But, darling, you mustn't fret! Honestly, it's not as though you're underage. Gosh. I mean, long as it was good—it was, wasn't it? No, don't tell me ... right to privacy and all. 'Never complain, never explain.' That's the creed. So you see, darling? You don't have to explain a thing"—Zandra couldn't quite help herself— "though personally, I think it's awfully sweet. I mean, you and Charley actually kissing and making up." She gave a great sigh. "God, how marvelously romantic!"

  "Arrrgh!" Kenzie gnashed her teeth, flopped back down, and covered her face with the cushion.

  Zandra feigned a yawn. "Darling, the sandman calls. Isn't it simply awful, shows always putting me to sleep?" She drifted past, headed for her own room. "Want me to switch off the lights?"

  Kenzie was silent.

  Zandra interpreted that to mean yes. "Well, night-night!" she chirped, hitting the lights.

  The living room was plunged into darkness.

  "Shit!" Kenzie whispered vehemently. And curling up in the fetal position, she promptly fell back asleep.

  Chapter 26

  Late the following morning, at Park Avenue and Fifty-ninth Street, the smell of money was heady on the second floor of Christie's.

  On this particular exhibition day, less than twenty-four hours before the scheduled auction of Faberge, Russian Works of Art, Objects of Vertu, and English, Continental, and American Silver and Gold, the scent of wealth seeped from the silver-gilt and enamel tea sets, and emanated from the voluptuously gilded pairs of eighteenth-century royal doors, one of which depicted a full-length St. John Chrysostom, and the other, St. Basil. It wafted, like elusive perfume, from the sets of hand-painted Imperial Factory porcelains, and rose, like a provocative whiff, from the glass showcases containing intricate Caucasian daggers and centuries-old snuff boxes.

  Among objects of this quality, one was compelled to whisper—even a connoisseur as discerning as Becky V. Despite the decades she'd spent roaming the world's finest auction galleries, private collections, and museums, she never failed to thrill to the wonder of treasures whose provenances read like a distillation of Burke's Peerage, Debrett's, the Almanack de Gotha, blue-book society, and Who's Who—mere things which by virtue of certain temporary custodianships, had been imbued with historical or social significance and, in a very few, very special cases, truly magical auras.

  For what could compare to a silver goblet from which Marie Antoinette had once sipped?

  Or an enameled egg touched by a doomed czarina?

  Becky slowed in front of a glass display case. Prince Karl-Heinz, who only the previous day had returned from Germany, was following her around, coinhabiting her bubble of insular remoteness while contemplating samovars, Augsburg silver, and gold demitasse cups. From a discreet distance, Becky's Secret Service detail hard-eyed everyone else in sight.

  "So ... le vieil Prince?" Becky whispered in her mellow, whiskey- toned voice. She had temporarily lowered her guard and raised her mask: her ubiquitous, huge dark glasses rested atop her sable-haired head. "Your father's condition is at least stable?"

  "For the time being," Karl-Heinz replied in an equally soft voice, "yes. But it was a very close call." With a wry smile, he added: "I suspect my sister, Sofia, was devastated when he pulled through."

  "Naturellement!" Becky slid him a significant sidelong look. "Think of the billions she and that husband of hers ... what is his name—je oublier—Egbert? ... would have held in trust for their eldest son!"

  Karl-Heinz smiled. "Not Egbert. Erwein."

  "Erwein!" She pronounced the two short syllables as if with a surprised little cry. "Now why did I think his name was Egbert? Comment se fait-il que?"

  "Perhaps because it suits him?" he suggested.

  "Oui. It does." She smiled, without humor. "I met him once or twice, le malheureux. Dreary, dreary little man!"

  "Worse than you can imagine," Karl-Heinz agreed. "And he's so boring, which is perhaps the gravest sin of all."

  Becky stopped to study an exuberantly carved, eighteenth-century silver wine cooler. Then, frowning slightly, she shook her head and slowly moved on.

  She was wearing a short-skirted Chanel suit in sapphire blue with emerald trim, a perfect foil for her Nefertiti-like profile, and size-four body. Her earrings, bracelet, and necklace matched the trim on her suit. They were emeralds: carved antiques with cameo faces.

  "And you?" Karl-Heinz inquired politely, walki
ng in the Germanic fashion with his hands clasped behind his back. "You are well?"

  "You should know that life always agrees with me. Hmmmmm ... "

  Becky stopped at a table, where she covetously eyed an exceptionally splendid, two-foot-tall silver and enamel tabernacle. It was shaped like a Russian church, and had one central turquoise onion dome surrounded by four smaller, turreted ones at the corners. On three of its four sides was a hinged door with an embossed, chased figure of Christ.

  Peering at the lot number, she leafed through her catalogue.

  "Fine silver and enamel Darokhranilnitza, Nicolai Tarabrov, Moscow, circa 1910," she read aloud. She glanced at Karl-Heinz for his opinion.

  He was smiling. "Here at Christie's, it's a 'darokhranilnitza.' Anywhere else, it's a mere tabernacle."

  "Finaud." Smart-aleck. Becky pinched his arm affectionately. "With your twelve billion, you can afford to lack snobisme. C'est vrai?"

  So talking, she circled around the table, bending down to study the tabernacle closely from all sides. She fiddled with one of the tiny doorpulls, opened it, and peered inside. Then she closed it just as carefully and stood up straight.

  "Alors," she decided. "I am going to bid on it. Qu'en pensez-tu?"

  "It is very beautiful," he agreed. "A masterpiece in miniature."

  "Oui. One thing about Les Russes. They always were so very good at these kinds of things." She frowned slightly at the catalogue. "The estimate says six to eight thousand. I believe that's on the low side." She glanced at him. "Hmmmmm ... ?"

  "Definitely." He nodded.

  She slid an arm through his and led him to a wall of icons.

  "Now then," she said, pulling him into the privacy of a corner. "While we're on the subject of money ..." She let go of him and suddenly whirled around. "Heinzie! We must talk finances!"

  "Oh? Are you short? How much do you need?"

  "Finaud!" Her whisper was like a whiplash. "This is no laughing matter!"

  "Why, Becky." He looked both surprised and amused. "You sound so serious."

  "That's because I am serious." She sighed, placed her gloved hand on his chest, and for a moment lowered her head, as if to contemplate her gracefully poised fingers. Then, gathering her thoughts, she stared back up at him. "Heinzie, for your own good, listen to me! Please!"