Bad Twins

by Rebecca Chance

  His weight kept Charlotte from being able to do anything to speed him up, even as the frustration built and built; she couldn’t writhe seductively, dig her heels into his buttocks, reach for his balls and tickle them, slide a finger up him. His legs pinned hers down, his chest her torso; her arms were wrapped around his strong neck, and all she could do was kiss and kiss him, darkness behind her eyelids, focusing entirely on the point he was working, stroke by stroke, slow and steady, breaking her into pieces.

  It was almost an out-of-body experience. She knew by now that he could be trusted to get her where she needed to go, that the rhythm was exactly the right speed, the angle was perfect; all she could do was lie there and cling to his neck and kiss him. As he had said, it was utterly dominating for the male partner, and required huge self-control on his part. Thus ideal for a second bout of sex, where the first head of steam had burnt off and the fire could be stoked more slowly, with more control. She might as well have been tied hand and foot, blindfolded, as he worked on her; they were sweating hard again, his hips slipping against hers, lubricated with sweat, his pubic hairs grinding into her soft skin, the base of his cock stroking against her clit again and again . . .

  She was moaning now, her mouth open, with not even enough self-control to keep kissing him. All she could do was breathe his name over and over, a kind of prayer, a kind of entreaty: ‘Lee, Lee, Lee,’ she whimpered on every stroke, half-singing it, and he looked down at her and gritted his teeth and refused to speed up, drawing this to the absolute maximum of their mutual endurance, until sweat was dripping from his forehead onto her face, until their bellies were running with it, the coverlet under her back outlining her entire body with moisture, her cries unintelligible now, not even his name any more, but birdlike, wispy.

  Charlotte could have been flying, high above the man’s body crushing her to the mattress, soaring away just as she gasped and throbbed and felt the first moment of inevitability, when she was tipping and nothing would be able to tip her back again, the waves driving her along the river to the start of the waterfall. Lee groaned deeply, a sound that seemed dragged up not from the pit of his stomach but his groin.

  Until now he had made no noise apart from his even-spaced, ragged breathing; but now, finally, after what must have been twenty-five minutes of hard work, he allowed himself to let go. The groaning grew, and as Charlotte’s cries became even more unearthly and birdlike, Lee was almost bellowing as he kept up the rhythm to the bitter end, fighting himself, his impulse just to pull back and ram into her for a last few frantic strokes. His sweat dripped into her open mouth, salty and hot, almost like come, and the taste made her whole body clutch and tighten around his cock and then unfold, fall apart, her eyes rolling back behind her still-closed eyelids, a faint thin scream with all the breath she had.

  It was an extraordinary experience. With Lee’s weight still pressing her down inexorably, her pelvis could only rock fractionally back and forth as the orgasm flooded through her. Lee, feeling her convulsing, finally let go and came in such a hot stream that she could feel it through the condom; she sobbed at that, sobbed aloud, covered now in a slick of their sweat as his orgasm roiled and his cock swelled and pulsed as it shot inside her.

  Hers seemed to last forever. This was the benefit of this position; he swore his was intensified by the torture of the delay, but hers was not only stronger but very prolonged, his hips crushing her even as she kept spasming against them, on and on and on . . .

  Red blotches bloomed over her face, her neck, her chest. Lee, finally recovering from the aftermath of his explosion, looked down at her thrown-back head, her open mouth, and greedily fixed the sight in his mind for future solo sessions where he would replay this image as he pulled at his oiled cock. He lowered his head and slid his tongue once more in her mouth, forcing a deep kiss on her, feeling the response as her hips jerked against him, knowing that she loved the extra penetration.

  She struggled to breathe, which made her convulse more, which made her come even more, and he deliberately kept his weight on her as long as he thought she could bear, because the confinement of her body, they had found after prolonged experimentation, made her orgasm even more intense. Only when one of her hands balled up into a fist and hit his shoulder in desperation did he take his weight from her, reaching down, securing the condom and sliding out, flopping onto the coverlet beside her, drenching it with sweat.

  They lay there for a good five minutes without saying a word. Eventually Charlotte’s eyes fluttered open slowly, her pupils acclimatizing back to the light. Their chests were heaving as if they had just finished a triathlon. In fact, Lee eventually mumbled:

  ‘This is why I work out . . . got to know my heart can cope with fucking you like this as I get older . . .’

  ‘It’s my turn next,’ Charlotte managed in a half-whisper. ‘You did all the work this time.’

  ‘Hell yeah,’ he agreed. ‘I’m just going to lie there while you cowgirl me like you’re riding a bull! You better take extra spin classes to get your thighs in prime condition.’

  ‘They are in prime condition!’ she said indignantly. ‘How dare you!’

  Lee laughed. ‘Oh, I’ve always been daring, haven’t I?’

  He turned his head to look at her, and she mirrored the motion. They stared languorously at each other.

  ‘Always,’ she said, licking her lips, tasting his sweat again. ‘Always. But I made the first move.’

  ‘You’ll never let me forget that, will you?’

  ‘Never,’ she said with a wicked smile. ‘Oh my God, I’m going to have to text Paul to say I’ll be late. I won’t be able to walk for at least half an hour and I need some wine to help me pull myself together. Why did I leave the bottle so far away?’

  ‘Give me five,’ he said, his chest still heaving. ‘Or ten. I’ve got nothing right now. I can’t move a muscle.’

  ‘I want to wiggle over and put my head on your chest,’ she said, ‘but I can’t, because of my blow-dry! Paul’s fairly oblivious, but he’ll notice if I come back from a business meeting with my hair dripping like a fountain with your sweat.’

  She sighed. ‘I wish you could come inside me,’ she added wistfully.

  ‘We just can’t risk it,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Yeah, I want to as well, but we’ve been over this. I get tested every so often, but I can’t guarantee that you won’t bring something back to Paul.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ she said, without any rancour at the clear indication that she was not his only lover. ‘We’re doing the right thing. It’s just—’

  ‘I know,’ he echoed, grinning at her. ‘You want it all.’

  ‘I do!’ she said, and that stirred up enough energy for her to twist onto her side, curl up her knees and push herself up as yoga students did at the end of a class, the easiest way to sit up after a full-body relaxation in Shavasana, corpse pose, her head coming up last.

  ‘I have to talk to you about something. I’ll get the wine,’ she said, shaking back her hair. ‘I’ll text Paul and get the wine. You just lie there and listen.’

  ‘Bring the nibbles too,’ he said, teeth white as he smiled at her, his heels pushing him back to the head of the bed, his arms hoisting him up onto the stack of pillows at enough of an angle to sit sipping Sancerre and picking at the hors d’oeuvres. He looked down complacently at his still-big cock, dwindling gently inside the condom.

  ‘They’re going to have to wash this coverlet at ninety degrees,’ he observed. ‘We sweated like we ran a marathon in the tropics.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said over her shoulder with a knowing smile in return. ‘And not about the marathon. I haven’t used a washing machine in my entire life, unlike some.’

  Lee grunted in amusement as he reached out for the tissue box on the side table and started to clean himself up. Charlotte bent down to remove her thigh-highs, which had worked themselves down to her ankles by now. The sight of her doing that made him moan happily even as she strai
ghtened up and brought a glass of wine to the bedside table for him, tapped out a quick message to her husband, then joined him on the bed, glass in hand, setting the plate of nibbles between them.

  ‘You’re so red still,’ he said appreciatively, reaching out to touch her collarbone, where the skin was still mottled. ‘Red and wet. You start off so blonde and elegant and pale and by the time we’re done, you’re raw and red and wet and thoroughly fucked up . . .’

  ‘Ugh, you make me sound like a steak!’ she said, drinking some more wine and contemplating herself in the big mirror. ‘I do actually look like a steak. I’ll need a long cold shower to cool down and fade it away. Paul knows exactly what it means when I get red like this.’

  ‘Will your hair be okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, with the confidence of a woman very used to cheating on her husband and covering it up. ‘I brought a really good shower cap, and I have dry shampoo and spray as well as a whole fresh set of the same clothes. You wouldn’t think you could fit all that in a Birkin bag! But it was made for Jane Birkin because she complained to a guy at Hermès that she needed a travel bag she could fit everything in, so I suppose it’s meant to be a weekender . . .’

  She reached over, sank a finger into his belly button, drew it up the centre of his ribcage to the base of his neck, and licked off the sweat she had collected.

  ‘I hate that I can’t keep your smell on me,’ she said, ‘like I could in the old days.’

  ‘How’s Paul?’ he asked, his tone just as easy as hers, not a shred of awkwardness or jealousy in it.

  ‘Oh, just as always! He’s at home making courgette spaghetti for the kids! The perfect father and husband.’ She winked at him. ‘Quite unlike you.’

  ‘Quite unlike me,’ he agreed. ‘So? We haven’t got all the time in the world. What did you want to talk to me about?’

  ‘Having it all,’ Charlotte said simply. ‘You won’t believe what Daddy’s pulled! I’ll give you a quick rundown, but basically I have an amazing idea about how to pull it off . . . and I don’t think I can do it without you.’

  His eyebrows shot up, but he said nothing, though his dark eyes were now intent, his beautifully shaped lips no longer smiling.

  ‘I need you to do something pervy,’ she said. ‘Something you’ve never done before.’

  ‘That’s quite a short list,’ he said, ‘as you well know.’

  ‘Trust me.’ Charlotte’s blue eyes gleamed in wicked relish. ‘I know, a hundred per cent, that you’ve never done this before!’

  And bending over him, her small pointed breasts hanging delightfully close to his face, she began to tell him the plan she had been hatching ever since Jeffrey Sachs pitted his four children against each other for a prize only one of them could win.

  Chapter Eight

  LIKE FATHER LIKE SON!

  Two weeks after Jeffrey Sachs’s shock announcement that he’s divorcing trophy wife Jade for an Estonian nightclub hostess, golden-boy son Conway caught cheating with a Russian model!

  NAUGHTY BOY!

  Jeffrey Sachs’s heir-apparent son Conway hauled over the coals by Daddy for following in his footsteps!

  WHY SAMANTHA SHOULD HAVE BEEN MORE CAREFUL:

  by Marjorie Tucker for the Herald – The Woman Who Tells It Like It Is!

  They’re called ‘Natashas’. And every wife of a rich man should fear them like Ebola. Only wives of seriously rich men – ones worth at minimum in the high eight figures. You’ll find the Natashas at Sunseeker yacht launches, at Mayfair bars like Novikov, and at certain private members’ clubs – the ones that charge men much more for membership than women – the ones where you know not to ask the men what they do for a living, because they don’t like answering ‘arms dealer’.

  In Eastern Europe and Russia, the women are much more beautiful than the men. Lucky for them, as it’s their only currency in that brutal world. The Natashas were born in Kazakhstan, Estonia, Azerbaijan, the furthest reaches of Russia, in towns with names as unfamiliar as Ust-Kamenogorsk, Nizhny Novgorod and Arkangel. Literally weeks by train away from anything resembling civilization, they’ve grown up living on black bread and boiled broth. It’s no wonder that when they manage to reach the First World, they’re insatiable.

  I know one businessman who openly boasts about being married to a Natasha. You know why? Because it shows that he’s rich enough to afford to satisfy her every demanding whim: couture, a Sunseeker yacht, expensive jewellery. She’s the ultimate financial status symbol.

  I can even be sympathetic to them for using what they have to get ahead. Until what they’re greedy for is other women’s husbands.

  Now Samantha Sachs is the latest wife to learn about the Natashas the hard way. What was she thinking? Not even her aristocratic status, her family connections, her calm elegance, could save her. And maybe she should have known that! Maybe she should have spent more time with her husband and less time with her children?

  Stay-at-home mothers, harried multi-tasking wives may rise up against me for this! They have before. But I’m going to continue to warn them that you have to nurse your marriage as well as your kids! Yes, we saw Samantha on the red carpet with her very handsome husband. Yes, she always looked ladylike, chic, fashion-forward in her high-necked pussycat-bow blouses, her demure midi skirts.

  But where was she when Conway was at Morton’s in Berkeley Square, meeting the Natashas, who are equally expensively dressed, but not exactly ladylike with their low-cut tops and miniskirts? Did Samantha never ask herself where Conway was when he stayed out so late? Because those damning photos of him canoodling in the bar at Novikov with a young woman showing more skin in one outfit than Samantha does in ten, were taken well after midnight.

  Samantha’s family and friends will rally round her, of course. She’s the wronged wife, to whom sympathy and comfort is due. But next time – whether she decides to stay with Conway or move on – she’ll have been warned about the Ebola in high society. The Natashas. And she’ll be on high alert for signs of infection.

  ‘Ugh,’ Bella said, dropping the tabloid onto Charlotte’s lacquered white desk, where it fell onto the pile of other newspapers Charlotte’s PA had brought in. ‘Those women who write nasty stuff about other women while pretending to be sweet and caring make me feel sick.’

  ‘To be fair, this one’s not so sweet and caring!’ Charlotte said. ‘And she’s a hundred per cent right, you know.’

  ‘Poor Samantha,’ Bella said, grimacing.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Charlotte said briskly. ‘You saw those photos and you handed them over to me anyway. Remember what I said? Who knows how many girls Conway’s cheated with? He could be bringing all sorts of diseases back home with him! I hope she goes and gets herself tested. Actually,’ she added, pushing it now, ‘if you look at it that way, we’ve done her a favour.’

  ‘Charlotte,’ Bella said reprovingly, sitting back in her chair; she was facing her sister across the desk.

  ‘I’d want to know,’ Charlotte said. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Bella admitted. ‘But not like this!’

  ‘God, Bell.’ Charlotte was impatient now. ‘You did it. We did it. Daddy’s in Conway’s office right now, ripping him to pieces. We got what we wanted. Enough with the buyer’s remorse and fake guilt, please!’

  Charlotte’s PA tapped on her door, and, on hearing her boss call ‘Come!’, entered, carrying a tray on which sat a pitcher of filtered water and glasses, an exquisite Japanese bowl full of frozen grapes and strawberries, and two perfect cappuccinos, made in the bean-to-cup Magnifica S De’Longhi coffee machine that Charlotte possessed both at home and at work.

  ‘Cashew milk for you, Charlotte,’ the PA said, placing the oversized cup and saucer in front of her boss, very well aware that, despite etiquette, she was required to serve Charlotte first. ‘And skim milk for you, Ms Sachs.’

  ‘Oh, Bella, please,’ Bella mumbled. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You have to stop d
rinking that skim milk,’ Charlotte said to her sister: she didn’t even acknowledge her PA. ‘I keep telling you, it’s all sugar. This low-fat nonsense is so bad for you. They take the fat out, but they put in sugar instead, which is even worse.’

  To Bella’s mortification, the PA, who had just been comprehensively snubbed by her boss, nodded in agreement as she set down the frozen fruit bowl and turned to leave the room, tray under her arm. Both Charlotte and her employee were slim as wands, so could be presumed to know much more about nutrition than Bella did.

  ‘I don’t even like skim milk,’ Bella confessed. ‘It’s so . . . thin.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Charlotte said impatiently. ‘Of course it is. There’s nothing in it. Toyah! Make my sister a decent coffee, will you? Full fat, cashew or hemp milk, Bella?’

  And at Bella’s blank face – she had no idea which one to choose – Charlotte said:

  ‘Make all three and bring them in. Quick now!’

  Toyah shot from the room before Bella could protest that there was no need to bother. In any case, Bella told herself, it would have been a waste of time; Charlotte would overrule her.

  ‘So!’ Charlotte beamed at her twin sister. ‘I’m dying to sneak up to Daddy’s office and eavesdrop, aren’t you? I bet he’s yelling his head off at Con right now – maybe loud enough even to hear through that gigantic door!’

  Bella actually trembled at the idea. She was much more frightened of their father than Charlotte, who had been highly skilled, even when young, at charming her way out of trouble. Bella couldn’t even imagine being summoned to his office for a dressing-down without her legs going weak with fear.

  To be fair, this was partly because Jeffrey had designed his twentieth-floor office at the Sachs Building to be as intimidating to the visitor as possible. With its heavy oaken panelling, massive Victorian leather-topped mahogany desk and matching oversized chairs, it could almost have been a nineteenth-century court of law. The impression was intensified by the fact that the desk, and Jeffrey’s towering, almost throne-like carved wooden chair behind it, were on a small dais.