by Sasha Kale
Devon pulled her head back and told it was fine. Don’t worry about it. You did great. It’s not you, he repeated, it’s me. He stood her up and pushed her toward the door. He slipped her a couple hundred bucks and told her to buy herself something pretty. She looked like she was almost in tears. She wanted him so badly and now she’d gone and fucked it up. Couldn’t even suck his cock right.
“You’ll be okay.”
“Are you sure I didn’t do anything wrong?”
“Absolutely nothing. You did great. I just got a lot on my mind right now.” Like what am I doing with my life? How did I get here? Is this all there is?
She didn’t move. Just kept staring lustfully at his cock which was still hard and appetizing to her. “What are you going to do about that?”
“It’ll go away.”
Raven left his office, dejected and unsatisfied, but $300 richer. She already knew what she would spend it on. Make-up. There was this new eye-liner she saw at the cosmetics store called SUPERHEATED. Devon would love that, she thought. He’ll fly me to Bora Bora and we’ll eat sushi on the beach.
Devon’s father: Johan Albright
When Raven was out the door Devon took the block off his phone. Saw that his assistant, Heather, was trying to call him. She was pretty stunning for an older broad. Spent a lot of time jogging and biking. Marathon stuff. Devon's father had been her boss since she was fresh out college.
Recalled a memory from his early twenties.
Devon had asked him once, when he was young and dumb if his father ever stuck it in Heather. His father told him coldly that was none of his businesses. "Heather is my most effective employee. Go back to your drum circle, you fucking hippy. What I wouldn't give for a son who wasn't a pot-smoking communist."
"I'm not a goddamn communist, you fucking capitalist parasite."
"You don't even have a job so who's the parasite, Devon?" Devon walked away. Went outside to walk along the water and cool down. He heard his father yelling as the oak doors slammed shut. "I'm a provider! You hear me, boy? A mother-fucking provider!
Later they watched the Blue Jays game together and ate jalapeno popcorn. They got drunk on Heineken and 50-year-old whisky. No mention of the argument. It was that kind of fucked up relationship.
His dad just wanted him to turn out alright. Same thing every father wants. But like most things in life, Devon discovered that his dad’s version of “alright” was pretty fuckin’ far from his own.
The Jays got blown up in the eighth inning and lost 10 to 2. When the game was over his father told him he had a girl coming over. A high-class prostitute. "You should see this bitch. Frame like an hourglass. Perfect apple bottom. Slovakian or Ukrainian or some shit. Doesn't speak a word of the Good Lord's English but I said fuck-it and leased her contract from the Russians for the whole weekend. I'm gonna fuck her until she drowns."
Drowns? What do you mean drowns?
"That doesn't sound legal."
"Get off your high-hat, kid. Horse. High horse. Whatever." He scratched his balls. Saw his kid was looking at him funny. "I'm not gonna kill her, driftwood, I'm just gonna rough her up a little. Girls like that. What do you say we spit roast her in the hot tub?"
"No thanks."
Johan threw the whisky bottle at Devon’s head but missed terribly. It smashed into a Picasso (Devon would later learn was a fake) and punched a hole in it. Devon was shocked but his father just shook his head. "You fuckin' pussy."
The Ukrainian girl was dropped off by a Russian driving a Range Rover. She wore a black pantsuit and leather hooker boots. Her platinum hair was tied in a bun and held together with purple chopsticks. “19-years-old,” the goon said, “but maybe younger.”
Now the driver’s left and she’s by herself with the two Albright men. Her and Devon share some brief eye contact until his father steps in front and blocks his view. Holds the door open and she strolls inside. "My name is Olena." That was all the English she knew apparently. Johan gave her a tour of the mansion. She fawned and gasped at all the expensive shit. Spiral staircases. Marble busts of dead Greeks. Paintings of windmills in grass fields worth a million dollars if you’re dumb enough to pay it. Art, Johan told her, that cost more than shes'd make sucking cock in her entire life. Blazing eyes of a madman. He took her upstairs to his private quarters. They went into the master bedroom and Johan fucked the shit out of her. Olena’s moans and screams echoed through the vents and into the basement gym where Devon was doing bicep curls.
He hated having to hear them fuck because it made him hard. In a mirror he saw a tent forming in his pants. Couldn't jerk off to it though because that was weird. He just kept lifting weights until the humping stopped. Covered in sweat now, he took off his shirt and admired his firm body in the stand-up mirror. Chest muscles like a gladiator. Tanned. Ready to fight. Ready to fuck.
He did another set.
And another.
Still a bit drunk but it was wearing off. He heard the stairs creak. Olena came down and into the gym. She wore one of his mother's silk robes from Japan. White with cherry blossoms. She'd just gotten out of the shower. Looked totally revitalized. Even found time to put her face back on.
God, he thought, how long have I been working out? "Are you lost?" Puzzled look on her face. Right. "You don't speak English."
"Some words I know."
Devon laughed. She'd been holding out on his father. Probably a smart idea.
"Why tell me that?"
Olena shrugged and walked to the old fridge they kept for down there for ambiance and sports drinks. "May I?"
"Go ahead."
She opened the freezer and took out an ice pack. Put it to her right eye and sighed. It was starting to bruise. Shit. His father had walloped her. He did that sometimes. That's why Devon's mother lived in Saskatchewan with her cousin. Divorce takes forever and everybody loses, even hookers from Ukraine who had nothing to do with it.
"I'm sorry about that," said Devon. "He gets carried away sometimes."
"All things happen for a reason," she said. Her accent slow like tree sap. Pronouncing each word carefully while playing with a strand of blonde hair. Hair that is still wet. Only one purple chopstick holding it up now. Devon didn't want to know what happened to the other one.
She pointed at the barbells sitting on a rack. Heavy metal. "Can I watch?"
"I just finished." Plus he didn't like it when people watched him workout. Felt they were judging him.
Frowny face. "Oh well."
"You want to throw me a Gator-Aid?"
Confused, she offered him the ice pack.
"Never mind." He went to the fridge. His dad bought it at an estate auction. It was the same one that Indiana Jones hid inside in the fourth movie when the nuke went off.
Olena stepped aside but her robe snagged on a stupid piece of metal at the base of the fridge. It pulled on her robe and revealed the curves of her breasts. Soft. She smelled like shower gel. Clean. He loved that.
Devon stared at her like he would a fine piece of art. It took guts to make it in her business. So young and brave. Beauty like he’d never seen before. Exotic fruit from a faraway land. He wanted to touch her. Feel her to make sure she was real girl. Devon's found his hand pulling at the red belt holding her robe up. She put her tiny hand in the way. Fingernails painted yellow.
"No," she said. "It is not permitted."
They were both attracted to each other but also knew this was a bad idea. Against a lot of really good rules. If certain people found out they would both in heaps of trouble. Horny young people don’t really think about consequences though. They just want the fireworks. Devon hated himself for what came next. "I've got two grand upstairs. It’s yours if you let me…" You know. Fuck your brains out. He doesn’t say it but she knows what’s up.
Men, she thought. They are all alike. But money was money. And everything she could send back to her family in Odessa was important. If not for me they would starve. Two thousand Canadian dollars was mo
re than her parents made in six months. Things had been bad over there since the fighting started.
Nodding, she pulled off the robe and let it drop to the floor. A naked teenage Slavic goddess. She took his hand and put it on her young breast. Let him feel her nipples harden. Then took him by the hand brought him to the bench press. Grabbed the bar with her hands on the bar and wiggled her butt at him. Flashed her sexy eyes into the mirror. I have assumed the position. You may proceed.
Devon dropped his shorts and pulled out his massive hard-on. It was thicker and longer than any she'd ever seen. Purple head filled with lust. His father had needed help getting hard but Devon was rigid right away. He’d been soft when she came downstairs, but one look at Olena’s hot teenage body and he’d gone rock hard. She liked that. Knew she was pretty.
Devon tried to shove his cock inside her but he she said, "Wait." He didn't wait. Just tried to ram it in her like a teenage virgin. Stupid boy, I'm not even wet. Men always think a tight pussy is a good thing.
She spat in her hands and rubbed the spit onto his cock. Felt the warmth. Thick veins. He wanted her badly. With the spit he was able to slip inside her. He fucked her hard. Grunting and slapping her ass leaving big red hand prints. Grabbed her hip bones like handles.
It felt alright but this was not how she imagined this going. Tears formed. Softly she cried with her head bent down at the floor. What a horrible lot in life. Black tears zagged down her face and dripped onto the bench. Entire body lurching back-and-forth with each thrust. Almost smashed her head into the metal bar. She watched his powerful legs fuck her in the mirror. Strong like a horse. Hated herself at how good it felt. His cock was huge and filled her totally. For a moment she had thought this boy was different. The prince of darkness would whisk her away from her life as a hooker. Rags to riches. She thought they’d shared a moment on the steps when she’d first arrived.
Nope.
Devin groaned and pulled his cock out. Her pussy dripping. Legs on fire. Ass sore. Pussy sore. Used up like an empty roll of plastic wrap. He shuddered the way men do when they cum. He spurt his load onto her ass and the small of her back. Grabbed his cock and jerked himself until it was all out and her backside was covered in it. The sex lasted only a few minutes but he felt like a new man. Everything was gonna be okay. He sighed with pleasure and turned her around to thank her for the experience.
It was then he saw she had been crying. Her freshly applied make-up ruined by sad tears. Her bright red ass in the mirror. She shivered and asked for the robe back.
What have I done? he thought. I'm just like my father. If I'd seen her crying would I have stopped?
It was a bad memory for both of them. Shit happens, Devon’s mother always said. Memories like that have a way of living in our brains like toxic wreckage. They float around up there never vanishing like good memories do. Bad memories are always bobbing up to remind us just how fuckin’ stupid we are. That’s just the way it is.
Devon’s office phone kept ringing
It was that chirping sound from the TV show 24 with Kiefer Sutherland (a fellow Canadian.) Beep, beep, beep. Boop. His father had set it, and he'd avoided changing it even though it got on his nerves. Devon felt guilty about liquidating his father’s office and wanted to leave the old man his ring tone. For posterity or whatever.
His phone rang again and his hard-on was gone. Some of his cum that had failed to blow into Raven's teeth dripped onto his thigh. He wiped it off with the tail of his eggshell French cuff dress shirt. Nothing says timeless elegance like eggshell. Two years ago he would have thrown up in his mouth if somebody said that to him, but he was being pulled toward the life of a high-powered executive. When his father died he would inherit everything. The business. The private jet. Billions in real estate and millions in cash stashed away in offshore accounts. Devon’s family had been named in the Panama Papers leak but nothing ever came of it. He was operating within the law. Immoral, sure, but illegal? No way.
It’s just business.
He answered the phone and grabbed his pants. Put them on as he talked to Heather. "What I can do you for you, mother?"
"Don't call me mother, you little snot. I already got two grown-up kids who call me up at night to complain how tough life is. I do not need a third."
"What do you want, Heather, I was in the middle of something strenuous."
"I bet."
"You know one of these days you're gonna tell me if—"
"Moving on," said Heather. "There are two things that require your attention aside from slave-girls with raven hair."
Struggling with his belt buckle, Devin said, "I'm listening." He was glad to have something to do. The business ran without him needing to do much except sign checks and approve the new hires. Having not one, but two things, needing his attention made him feel good. Being needed makes everybody feel good.
Heather said, "They caught a reporter from the Toronto Star working undercover as a slave-girl. They're holding her down in security." It was the girl with the red-hair. Busted by Bristol.
"Confiscate her belongings and everything that's in her locker and throw it in The Shredder." The Shredder was an industrial-sized machine meant for eating cars and broken washing machines. Big metal teeth like a can-opening space alien. Devon figured his dad used to throw people in there. Bones would crunch easier than metal. There was even a furnace nearby for disposal of "chemical products" but if you scraped enough powder out of it you'd probably find DNA.
"All that's been done," said Heather.
"Then what are you still holding her for?"
Silence. An astronaut floating outside her space shuttle waiting for an order from the President to fire the space laser and vaporize North Korea. An irreversible final order: “Throw the bitch in The Shredder.” Something his father would have said without hesitation. But Devon said nothing.
Heather grew impatient. "Well?"
"Well? Well what? I said let her go goddamnit."
Sighing like a disappointed mother who watched her kid trip near the finish line. "You're too soft. She could talk and bring this entire place down."
"She won't talk."
"She's a reporter, talking is her job."
"The editor in chief of the Star had been a member here for at least a decade. They'd never run a story against us. It’d be a shitshow."
"Okay then, Mr. Genius, what if she shops her story someplace else? Or blogs about it. We don’t control the internet."
"Fuck the internet,” said Devon. “If it comes out in the real news we’ll deal with it. We're not doing anything illegal here."
Grumpy nose on Heather. "Fine. Moving on. There's a junior executive from accounting who’s insisting on face-to-face with you. I told her you were busy but—"
"Send her up. Actually scratch that. Put her conference room one. I feel like stretching my legs."
"Conference room one is occupied."
"Put her in two then." Jesus. “What’s her name?”
“Jennifer Stein. 25. Blonde. Nice legs.”
“Okay..?”
"I’m just saying.”
“What?”
“I’m just saying she’s pretty and I know the what Albrights do with pretty girls.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Just don’t fuck her in the conference room, okay? Other people use that room you know."
"Goodbye, mother." He hung up before she could nag at him some more.
I hope you didn’t forget about Deborah Ann
She still hasn’t gotten laid.
She got stuck in traffic on her way to that mysterious address Jennifer gave her.
It was a car accident that turned into a brawl and it happened like so: This 70-year-old Iranian woman was on her way to a bowling match and rear-ended a taxi. Both drivers got out and started arguing over whose fault it was. The taxi driver called the Iranian woman a “terrorist cunt” and they got into a pushing match. She smashed him with her bag that had her bowling ball i
n it. Knocked out three teeth and broke his nose. Blood splash. So the taxi driver pushed the old lady to the pavement and she cracked her hip on the curb. This Asian guy named Arthur Wong (who was selling hotdogs out front of a barbershop) sees this and goes ballistic. He beat the shit out of the taxi driver right in the middle of Yonge Street.
Everybody goes to jail.
Not Deborah Ann, though. She gave a statement to the police constable and went along on her merry way, still extremely horny. Almost rear-ended a truck thinking about the cop. She liked how Constable Dave stared at her like he wanted take her right there. His eyes ran up her bare legs to the hem of her prom dress and stopped at her crotch. She wasn’t wearing any panties. He must have known because he stammered through the whole interview. “What’d you see, uh, miss? Can you write it down for us, I mean me? Please? Here’s um a paper for you. Sure is nice weather, eh?” Crap like that. Horny schoolboy tongue. She was familiar with it.
Constable Dave was married though. Too bad, Deborah. The good ones are always taken or stonecold dead.
She leaned out her window and yelled, “What’s the holdup, huh?” at the blue F-150 that was stopped at a green light. Honked her horn. Shouted some bad words. That got him moving.
But she was running late now.
Put two cats in a bag and they will claw each other’s eyes out
Jennifer was putting the finishing touches on a PowerPoint presentation when Bristol came storming into her office. Jen put hand up like a traffic cop. "I don't what this is but I don't time for your shit today."
In Bristol's hand was a crumpled sheet of blue paper with perforated edges. She threw it at Jennifer's head. It bounced off her cheek and onto her desk. Look of disgust on both their faces.
