Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  For now, Gil wasn’t accepting loans. He was in a cash-rich position. So, Tony came up with an alternative plan: he planned to open a similar club, one that would be bigger, better and more exciting than Fool’s Paradise. And shamelessly, he’d open the club across the street. Surely, such an attraction would lure the best dancers; and pay them more. It was a brilliant idea! That is, from Tony’s mouth to God’s ears. The question was, would the boss go for it? This was quite a proposal he was thinking up. His biggest ever for the family.

  “This is Brenda Feather, signing off. Hoping that your news is always good news . . . ” The channel 5 theme music for the nightly news jingled along to a close as Brenda shuffled and shifted her notes, waiting to walk off the set. She was focused for most of the broadcast, until the sports segment came on. “Ken Stevens this, Ken Steven that . . . ” Home runs. RBI’s. The bid for MVP of the playoffs. The many accolades just enhanced Ken’s image; the physical one that swept her off of her feet. Brenda reviewed a number of magazine articles. She watched a stream of video footage and couldn’t help but to imagine and fantasize how one day she might be Mrs. Stevens. And that one day might come real soon.

  The playoffs were in the final game (in the best out of five series) when she first had the opportunity to meet and interview the hot baseball superstar. Brenda even led herself to believe that it was her inspiration that caused Ken to hit the game-winning home run. Ken was known to shorten his interviews to 15 minutes, allowing for the preservation of his integrity. Hopefully then, the press wouldn’t have the opportunity to build him up just to break him down. And everybody in the industry knew the press could slam dunk a man due to any trivial foul. Ken was already hip to the “slam dunk strategy” that was put on his sports colleagues like Mike, Michael, Dwight, and Magic. And it wasn’t that sports icons didn’t ever error in their ways. It was how the media had exploited those errors, even the tiny ones, as if they were international catastrophes. As if jocks weren’t human. But things were different with the Ken Stevens interview. Ken gave Brenda a whole hour! She should have expected that, though, considering what she went through to prepare. She wore her favorite Kente pullover top. It was mixed with mudcloth and merged with tribal colors and patterns. She wore a pair of tight, black cotton leggings that hugged her ass and calves just right. And to accent that, she wore Cowrie shells, strung on a choker necklace of black leather strands and fixed with elaborate, brass medallions. Brenda did her best and succeeded at maintaining her on-camera composure. But whenever Ken moved his lips it was as though she could feel them on her—whenever. Every second of the interview was a tease for Brenda, as her loins curled and her folds turned moist between her clasped thighs. Right there in the studio, bright lights and all, she was getting hot flashes. She was going through more than facts and figures during the interview. More than dates and accomplishments, or the euphoria of the playoffs. It was there on the set that Brenda was wide open, with nostrils flaring. And it was also there that she decided she would become that extra umph in Ken’s life. Beyond the fame, the money and the notoriety, she’d become everything else that he needed in the world.

  The Cat Gets Out of the Bag

  So now, a few months into the off-season, Brenda thought it might be a good time to approach Ken from another perspective. Hers. Maybe he’d appreciate that she was interested in him, outside of the media hype. After all, he did give her his home number—of course, it was supposed to be business related. But maybe it was an invite. What the heck! You only live once, she ventured. And that attitude had Brenda scurrying through the production area of the newsroom, headed for her office. She organized her desk, poked at her Blackberry for Ken’s number. It was at that point, seeing his phone number, that Brenda got warm once again. Determined now, whatever it took, she’d get closer to Ken. She grabbed her Gap wind-breaker from the back of her door, flicked the light switch and returned the endearing waves from the production crew, suddenly appreciative of the admiration which she’d earned as one of New York’s top anchorwomen.

  If they only knew how horny I am!

  In the parking garage, secluded from the hype and tah-tah of her own celebrity status, Brenda made the shameless call to Ken. There was a half a minute of jazz on his voicemail, nothing more. Brenda guessed it was Charles Mingus. Orange-something, she recollected. Waiting for the beep, she keyed the ignition and turned it enough to activate the car stereo. There was a Mint Condition CD in the player.

  “Put your head on my pillow . . .

  And just relax . . . relax . . . relax . . .”

  Her favorite old-school song was a fresh reminder of the luxuries that she’d worked for. She lowered the volume, surprised that Ken immediately returned her call. A pleasant shock. Her fuck it attitude remained strong, and she laid it on the line. A late nightcap, she called it. How ’bout Birdland, on Forty-fourth Street? Brenda suggested. Ken seemed a little shook, but he went for her spur-of-the-moment get-together. It was a Monday night. A brisk winter evening, no wind. The streets were ashy from the city’s salt throwers of the past weeks. The moon was full, set against a clear, black and blue sky. Stars appeared to be as close as they were far. Meanwhile, Brenda commanded the smooth streets with her trademark platinum late model Lexus GS, soaring up 57th Street and down 9th Avenue as the traffic lights disappeared behind her. The night seemed to flow for her, with street lights brilliantly reflecting down onto the hood of her vehicle. So slick and presumptuous, she caught a slight chill, wondering what the hell she was doing, cornering a horny jock in midtown Manhattan for a booty call. Perhaps it was the lingering church-girl that was asking the questions. But as Brenda pulled up to the curb at Birdland, the devil had the upper hand, reminding her of her physical needs. She shifted into park and pulled the rearview mirror to check her makeup. Her evening wear was nothing but the routine broadcast fashion. Nothing near to what she wore on the day she first interviewed Ken, but would it matter? She pondered. Her black, meshed blouse was low enough to hint at her head-turning cleavage, and it played well against her black brassiere. The combination that was “flat” enough for the hot lights in the studio, but it was also provocative enough if close-up with a companion. Brenda also had on a matching skirt that barely concealed her thighs. Whatever the weather, whether Ken wanted to test the waters, or if Brenda needed to merely entice him some more, she was ready for business.

  By the look of things outside, considering the open parking spaces and half empty parking lot across the street, it was an intimate Monday night at Birdland. Brenda adjusted her bra and pushed her healthy breasts up a little before she hopped out of her ride. Then, as if she had an important appointment, she bleeped her car alarm, glided through the entrance, and easily melted into the opulence, soft music and warmth of her favorite jazzy spot. The maitre d’ escorted her to a rear enclave of the establishment where Brenda found comfort amongst an arrangement of couches and tables that were visible by candlelight only. She ordered a light salad and a Perrier water while she waited for Ken. Waiting and anticipating. A 3-piece band was working on stage, apparently overwhelmed by the opportunity to play at “the world famous” Birdland. In the meantime, the warm-up tunes they played amused Brenda to the degree that her nerves were soothed with her body sucked into the ambiance. She smiled at the intimacy here; the audience wasn’t thick and cumbersome, but average and sentimental to every element. Couples in the sunken dining area by the stage, and singles at the bar were all caught up in the mood that carried throughout the room. They were even too caught up to notice the tall, determined figured that suddenly slid through the front entrance. However, Brenda didn’t miss him. She already had her radar up for the ever-so-casual Ken Stevens. Although she had to admit that his attire tonight complemented her own. He had the white turtleneck, the black blazer, and the black denim jeans. When he got closer she also peeped the wing-tipped, snakeskin boots. Ken had a palm-sized cell phone clenched in one hand and he wore a white baseball cap with the NY insignia low, just abo
ve his brow. Now the movie that she played over and over in her mind was coming to life—Ken nodding and whispering to the maitre d’; Ken being told where his guest was seated . . . Ken gliding across the carpet, directly towards Brenda.

  Brenda inhaled as if to pull the tall, deliberate and masculine Ken Stevens ever closer to her. And for an instant, she could read his walk and expression; how he moved as though he knew himself, his capabilities and his wants. She hoped it wasn’t an act and she exhaled once he neared the table. He was now in her zone. She welcomed him with a kiss on the check; close enough to the lips to offer promise.

  “Thank you for coming out on such short notice,” she said. And they chatted briefly about the atmosphere and the music of Birdland. Eventually, the conversation eased into the evening’s broadcast. A post-season story, and that hint of contract renewal. Ken addressed the subject like it was a secret forthcoming soap opera episode. Yet, in so many words, Ken made it clear that he couldn’t discuss the issue at all. Meanwhile, Brenda watched his lips, smiling at him with her eyes and winking at him with her mind.

  Don’t worry, big boy. I’ll get it out of you.

  After some hot apple pie and cocoa, with the jazz winding down into the 1am hour, Brenda turned her head from the stage to catch Ken staring. It caught her off-guard and she feigned modesty and crunched her shoulders in with a slight giggle. The reaction, she felt, was overdone. But it was too late now. She was feeling like she was in college again; that dizzy, weather girl wannabe. But, at least she had his interest. And damned if she was gonna let that go.

  “Wanna get out of here?” By Brenda’s suggestion, the two left for Ken’s place. She told him that she’d never been to a village loft and was looking forward to the experience. Maybe more than that.

  And in their black and silver toys, the two complemented each other as Brenda followed Ken’s Navigator down 42nd Street to the West Side Highway. They raced each other playfully, aware that the road was virtually empty, until they reached Green Street, next to New York University. Is Ken tasting from the fountain of youth? Brenda wondered as she rolled down and into the garage behind him, the sub-level of Ken’s building. He explained that he owned the entire property, but that he only occupied the top floor—a penthouse overlooking the Hudson River. The first through third floors were leased to artists, performers and fashion designers.

  As the garage door automatically lowered behind the vehicles, Brenda’s eyes adjusted to the smear of lights that bounced off of a dozen or so vehicles that reached into the farthest corners of the basement and gave a fair indication of the massive length and width of the building.

  “Yours?” Brenda asked after parking aside of Ken.

  “A boy’s gotta have his toys,” was his reply as he led her into a freight elevator.

  “This is the only way to get from floor to floor,” Ken explained, very much into his property. “Unless you wanna use the long staircase to the side. And, trust me, you don’t ever wanna walk from the basement to the penthouse.” Ken pulled a gate across and reached up to tug at a strap until it pulled down half of a heavy, steel barrier. An identical barrier simultaneously lifted from below until the two parts met like closed lips. Brenda watched the ease with which Ken executed the process, wondering to herself (suddenly feeling captive) if she could do it like Ken did.

  As the car moved slowly and silently up, and to break the uncomfortable silence in the car, Brenda expressed her awe of Ken’s living arrangement. It was so rough and rugged. No personal driver or bodyguard, she noticed. No doorman or red carpet treatment at home. And that turned her on even more so, besides being the only other thing they hadn’t discussed besides sex. She talked enough to fill the void until they reached his penthouse loft. Ken went through the motions again, this time in reverse. The steel lips separating, revealing a dark cavernous room, with only blacklights in the far reaches, glowing against various framed artwork. The paintings were illuminated at different intervals throughout the loft. And the only navigation in the room was the reflection and hue from the art, along with the moon that glowed down through a huge picture window at the outdoor balcony. Tiny red indicator lights could be seen about the facing, some electronic devices here and there—all of this building an anticipation for Brenda. She couldn’t wait for the lights to reveal all.

  As Ken stepped from the elevator and onto a section of red-pile carpet fit for a king, the sensors reacted from the pressure of his foot, activating a series of mood lamps throughout the loft. Prerecorded music also began to play over the Bose speakers that were posted in various areas of high ceilings and expansive walls of the loft. Gothic, was Brenda’s first impression of Ken’s habitat. Her second impression was hulking. She could see that he liked to live large. She had a career full of Donald Trump sensations, Presidential invites, and at least one Kennedy interview—the extended family that is, but until now, she just didn’t know what large really was! Ken never exposed the true size of his world, and she never realized his absolute financial influence—how eccentric, excessive, and monolithic—until she came to his house. From the white Italian marble floors, to the towering ceiling and tanned granite. Part of the cavernous loft was sunken, with broad Aztec rugs, an enormous couch of suede and plenty of throw pillows. All of this was the setting facing a six-foot fireplace. Only Paul Bunyan could soak up so many abundant luxuries!

  A graceful, spiral staircase, with birch-wood treads and rust-colored iron, led up to a study that overlooked most of the loft. From the study, a walkway ran against the wall (opposite the entrance) and afforded access to tall, sliding glass doors. Outside was a balcony that contained an in-ground pool below, as well as the best-ever view of New York City’s twinkling lights in the distance. To the left of the entrance, Brenda could see a hallway. She was free to explore the stretch, and in doing so, discovered the kitchen and dining area. She could’ve fainted! Above those rooms, at the top of a hidden staircase, there were a couple of bedrooms; guest rooms, Brenda reckoned. Further sniffing lured her to Ken’s fairytale master bedroom. Cast-iron pillars spiraled up like four thick branches, leading to those high arches from which white chiffon was draped on either side. Adjacent to the bed was a huge, velvet curtain with golden tassels and ropes. Brenda was almost afraid to open them. But when she did, she was smacked with a higher-than-high, breathtaking view of the large living room down below. Just over the balcony, she could see where she had entered. Above where she stood, a 25-foot movie screen was tucked up to an angle, apparently commanded by some electronic remote that called it to swing down into vertical use. There was also a walloping, black wood stove to the side of the bed on a pad of ceramic tile.

  Brenda had all the intentions of concealing the impression Ken had on her. However, that idea went out the window along with every other possible prevention of falling, sinking, or submitting to the awesome realities and freedoms of the Ken Stevens universe. She wanted to dive onto the bed! She wanted to swing on the railing, and dance up and down his spiral staircase! And if Ken wouldn’t take possession of her in every possible way, then she hoped that his home would!

  Standing on the balcony, still soaking this all in, Brenda was rattled when Ken snuck up from behind and clasped his hands around her hips. He eased up even closer, brushing the small of her back with his bulge. Brenda began to relax, in his arms, and they just stood there, king and queen, discussing things. The conversation graduated into talk of groupies, the many what-ifs and myths about sex, celebrities and . . . well, just things that a top anchorwoman wouldn’t expect to discuss with a celebrity bachelor. At the two o’clock hour the two toasted, clasped wrists to sip at their drinks and dissolved into one another’s lips. Brenda almost spilled her martini. Ken took hold of the drinks and then, he took hold of her. Eventually, he spread her out on the floor, amongst the pile of pillows in front of a blazing fire. All of Brenda’s defenses and pretenses were abandoned. She didn’t just feel submissive, she wanted to be submissive. Either that, or else she had no
other choice but to be caught up in the spell, serving him unconsciously. But then, Ken must have wanted her that much more, because the way he took Brenda . . . he took her as if he had something to prove. He grabbed her and worked her body as if she was new, foreign, undiscovered land to conquer and claim. Again, again and still again, Ken robbed Brenda of all her sensibilities. He turned her out! Even as he spent all of himself inside of her, he desired more. And she was just as delirious and mindless with her own responses. Out of control, still writhing from Ken’s incredible abuse of her, Brenda extended the post play, nibbling at his torso, nipples, genitals and even his toes. The teeniest bites built to a crescendo of salacious slurping and sucking. Every plateau excited Ken more, not expecting Brenda to turn out this freaky; freakier than he’d ever imagined! Even as freaky as a groupie! And just to think, he saw a church-girl in her.

  Brenda fell half asleep somewhere between his thighs and his ass, not even aware when Ken got up to shower and complete his nightly rituals. Through watery eyes, Brenda later imagined that Ken was way across the loft, in the study, with a lamp over him. Writing? A question mark twisted in her face. The last expression of the night.

  She was the first to wake the next morning. 10am. And like a thunderbolt just struck, she jolted, thinking she’d overslept her errands and duties for the day ahead. Yet, that sudden impulse that woke her was merely a pinch of reality. She wasn’t dreaming. She’d lain with Ken. No. She fucked Ken like she’d never fucked anyone else. Like she’d never fucked anyone in her dreams! Not convinced, she told herself, “Hell no.” The truth was, Ken really fucked her. And he did it like a triathlon athlete. But then, he had to get out of the bed and write? Brenda was a maze of desperate emotions with the morning’s daylight disturbing her peace. She rose from under Ken’s draping arm and eased over to the window to fold the blinds upwards—pushing the “pause button” on Mother Nature’s sunny wake-up call.