by JR King
Five-ways were awesome. The more I fucked and watched the girls being fucked, the better it felt. I was positively experiencing relativity in a manner Einstein had never imagined. Multiple orgasms turned my limbs loose, relaxing me almost to the point of being too cooperative. Or perhaps it was the dimwitted lateness of the hour, or my newfound CEO status corrupting my senses, or the twins’ curious familiarity with each other’s routine. Even after double-teaming and triple-teaming each girl, we didn’t feel burned-out. A curiously distant quality of the sisters, a union between them we weren’t able to understand, ultimately edged us.
There it is, you only become a CEO once.
Glad to have gotten the fantasy out of my system, now the arrow pointed in the direction of Elena. Of course I was predestined to be hers, to exist front and center in her life, but you have to agree that this was an earnest once-in-a-lifetime experience.
*
I woke up alone, feeling a little foggy. A little shaken up, too. Sunrise was always a special time of the day for me. Ideal to jumpstart mornings. I leaned forward and bent over, my forearms resting on the balcony’s railing, admiring the red orb breaking through the horizon and spreading its brightness across the sky. Boston’s skyline was reduced to a silhouette of gold and red hued shapes that were backdropped by a brilliant sun. Fifteen stories down, the rest of the world scurried back and forth, walking, running, cycling, driving, each person entirely oblivious to my dilemma.
A sultry voice asked, “Sleep well?”
I made a noncommittal noise and nodded. I didn’t look back, focusing on the kaleidoscope of colors created by the sun shining on the city’s skyscrapers. Admired the shadows office and residence buildings gave against the lower ground.
At length I turned to my side to see Katherine leaning on the railing and squinting. The rising sun brought about a crimson hue around her fair face. My cousin only wore a T-shirt, so I averted my eyes politely. “Did you?”
“Positive. Cuz our sleepovers rock.”
“Hamilton will drive us to the luncheon at the Lyman Estate.”
Another family-event in my honor, a lobster-fest, I think. The Turner family was as close-knit as they come. For the most part, I liked the social gatherings. We all got together every holiday, including Flag Day, and as far as the country was concerned, we were right up there among the Kennedys and the Waltons. Turners came from old money, which, as any educated person knows, came with an assumed stature of respect that no amount of new money could ever buy. I wasn’t about being rich per se, it was about having wealth. On us, it showed.
“Who is Elena?” A frown on Katherine’s face.
Not this can of worms. Double fuck. I smoldered silently.
“Alex?”
I was one of those people who said and did exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment. Thinking of the moment hours later and regretting was something weak people did. But right now I couldn’t think of anything better than, “Yeah.” And I’d said it in my most wiseass tone.
She looked at me askance. “ELENA. Who is she?”
I knitted my forehead with concern. “Why?”
“Is she your girlfriend?”
“Not at all.” My response was perfunctory at best, and Katherine fortunately had the good taste not to press the matter and humiliate me further.
“Forget I asked.” She held a hand up to prevent further inquisition.
Of the additional reasons why I liked living in Boston, one of the best was Modern Pastry’s cannoli. That pastry shop was a treasure trove, actually. Each cannolo got filled on the spot so the shell remained crisp and dry, contrasting with the creamy filling rather than soaking it. But right now I couldn’t bring myself to enjoy pastries. What worried me was that Sophia had told Katherine something.
Katherine said, “What’s on your mind? You’re awfully quiet.”
“This and that about work. Also, why’d you ask about an Elena?”
The question hung in the air for a while. In my shabbily rested state, I wasn’t in a good mood. “Answer me, Kate!”
There was a gentle chink of china on the table. “I had a look-see.” With the tip of her finger, she picked at the crumbs next to her espresso cup. “You sleep talk.” She turned her attention to a decapitated croissant.
With my God-complex, her answer stung like jellyfish. Sleep talk? I was a guarded, private, and sometimes even a somewhat paranoid man. All of this was a simple result of growing up with staff, guards, and a very strict father. I’d rather eat dirt than admit I was losing my mind.
After gulping a mouthful of coffee, I pushed back my dinette chair. “No more sleepovers, Katherine.”
“Ugh. Fuck you.”
Even if I was trying to quell the sudden urge of anxiety, I couldn’t ignore the baiting statement and the hateful gleam in her eyes. Fettering her jaw in my fist to control her, I forced her to look at me. “Come again? I must’ve misheard you.”
She shuddered like a skate in a frying pan. “You’re ditching me because of a girl! Why’s that? I hate her! I hate Elena! I hate her, Alex!”
That about did it. Kill me now. More family fucking drama.
“Fuck you, Alex,” she repeated.
“Fuck you back, Kate.” With that curtly snarl, I left.
I bee-lined for the bathroom. Brushed my teeth, took care of nature and my usual grooming. In the shower, I soaped away the layer of sweat and cigar smoke that had crusted on my skin, and the effluvia of the twins, of course. Throughout it all, my eyes were closed as I rinsed my hair and thought: eleven months and counting.
Alexander Turner
The Big Brother Element
Fast forward to early June 2010. A patchwork of blue peeked out between the clouds as soon as the rainy grey of the morning grudgingly relented. This Saturday, Elena Anderson was graduating. Jerry forbade me to go anywhere near California; I had a blind date of sorts.
I found the dating equation in a sexual relationship chore-like. Let’s face it, it’s just a big bucket full of stupid. Cutting to the chase and telling the woman what you need and the behavior you expect from her is far less tedious. If it boils down to the question of satisfaction, signing a mistress contract or paying a call girl to make sure both parties are righteously served made everything so much easier. Presumably, the same people in the world who feel uneasy about this type of arrangement agree with arranged marriage. A marriage of convenience is fine, but a sexual relationship of convenience is revolting?
Okay, I’m done ranting and raving. You’re right, it sounds pathetic. Everything written above came from a man who was dying to date one girl in particular.
On the blind date in question, I wasn’t seated at my usual table at L’Espalier. I was seated in one of the restaurants at The Liberty Hotel. I liked this place a lot, that’s why I co-owned it. Such a brilliant idea to turn a jail into a luxury hotel. The architects and patrons of the arts had kept the jail bars in the windows and doors for authenticity, and the huge central rotunda ringed with catwalks allowed for a cellblock effect. You knew what this place used to be at first glance, lest you were blind.
A waiter carried away the remnants of the meal, and another one served us espressos and traditional mignardises at my request.
Cassandra, a transplanted beauty queen, regarded me timidly across the rim of her porcelain cup, her lips sealed but curved in a smile. Her expression—a concoction of desire and admiration—was little different to that of any woman with whom I’d dined with since twenty years. She knew why she was here tonight. This was my modus operandi. As a man, I had to have the playing field level when it began. Love ‘em and leave ‘em fast. Leash ‘em—not in the literal sense here—for six months was only an option I offered to exceptionally trained women. The catechism of this practice dated back to my childhood, but then again, didn’t everything in everyone’s life? Thinking about it, it seems boring to rehash my past in particular, so let’s return to the present scene.
With most o
f the women I dated, I found it little endearing to watch them fawn. Not one had been able to captivate me like the enemy. I thought of Elena lying naked across the stark whiteness of my bed, her hair fanned on the pillow, plastered in a twisted shape over the white backdrop…
I returned to my date, regaining my focus after a brief shudder. Was Cassandra cute or was she ugly? I didn’t know what the woman in front of me was and you know what? I didn’t care. I wasn’t that into her.
Like me, she was a member of the Boston Brahmin. Her family had suffered much criticism when The Boston Globe broke the story of a local bank that laundered money for the Mafia. Mine had suffered much criticism when the same smooth-tongued fuckers speculated about my father having an affair.
My phone rang but I ignored it. When it vibrated again, I checked it and then set it on the table, facedown.
Cassandra swallowed some more of her coffee.
After what seemed like a long, thoughtful silence, I took a deep breath and, in an attempt to make conversation, I opened my mouth.
She beat me to it, which was sad because she should have let me lead the conversation. Now it was all a fluke. I was subjected to listening to blabbering about encouraging the promotion of traditional moral values and curb graphic and gay sex on TV, on the big screen, and in popular music. Her main social concern was that young people were exposed to silly pop music that had way too much sexual innuendo in it. She wasn’t even smart enough to confront the fact that there was sexual innuendo in just about anything; from clothes to food to a simple product like shampoo.
Does my hair feel silky to you? It does, hon, so let’s fuck.
First instincts matter, I should have stayed home and watched a football game after a heavy workout in the gym. Now I felt like shit sitting at this table. That being said, the good thing to having dinner here was that I had a Presidential suite at my disposal.
Let me tell you something, I wasn’t a very social person. I’m sure many of you have sorted that juicy bit out in your heads after reading certain paragraphs and the volume of words I use describing conversations with people. By dint of being clipped, I was considered a rude man—such is the life of an introvert. In the course of my life, I’d never sought out people unless I absolutely needed them. I had flair for small talk, but I only held long conversations if I was intellectually stimulated. Laughing alongside the likes of Tony and Aidan led people to believe I was haughty, Cassandra was no exception.
I started to reach for my espresso cup again before I remembered that it was empty. I took a sip of Perrier water, my favorite, and pretended to study the thin lemon rind curl.
Cassandra said, “It’s a misshapen twist of lemon peel, isn’t it?”
“Would you like another glass of champagne, sweetheart? A fresh bottle of Roederer, perhaps?” I looked for our waiter. Earlier, she’d gulped her champagne too greedily, draining glass after glass within minutes.
Being three sheets to the wind didn’t withhold her from smiling disarmingly. “No, it’s quite fine.”
Maybe she was smiling at my considerateness or my somber economy of inquisition, or maybe she smiled at the charming façade I’d put up. It’s not like I cared, and although I had a weakness for slender legs sheathed in black satin—and a suspender belt, I wasn’t in the mood. Were she even remotely related to Elena, it would have been a completely different scenario, I assure you. In its place—instead of sticking my dick in ignorant pussy—I decided to go upstairs and watch No Reservations.
Cassandra and I went our respective ways, but not before I politely declined to accompany her to the black-tie optional Gala for the Boston Pops. In the elevator, my pulse quickened when I read Robert’s message. Just one line: Jet’s in the air.
Honestly, I was floored. Sure, for all practical purposes, I had always expected Elena to come back to Boston, but still, this felt sudden.
Nevertheless, I no longer stewed in misery. This time around, I could watch her on any of the monitors in my homes, yachts, private jets, iPads and iPhones included. Robert’s men had placed cameras around the house, in the foyer area, in Elena’s bedroom, and a security detail tailed her when she set foot outside the gates.
The next day didn’t start like any other day. When I scrubbed my face with my palms and opened my eyes, Elena was back in Boston. I showered, and after breakfast, I got comfortable on the Ebersol balcony in a wicker chaise longue, iPad and tollhouse cookies in hand. Why tollhouse cookies were like mother’s milk to me?
Ah, but there’s a story in everything. It just has to be told at the right time.
I soaked up the early morning sunrays and watched Elena enter her room, saying, “Behave!” Looking happy and with a case of the giggles, she raised the skirt of her sundress to flash her behind in a twirl. “Be a sweet, clever girl,” she told her reflection in the mirror above a commode with a faux glare. The little minx snatched her bag, as if caught red-handed in the midst of a venial sin, and went to her walk-in closet on tiptoe. Her apartness was picture-perfect in the sweep of the designer bedroom, and her playfulness thawed my foul, fetid mood.
I had to pick up my jaw off the floor when she came out of the closet. She was butt-naked, looking damn fine like an ice-cold drink of water in the middle of the Sahara. Watching her made my cock swell within my custom-made trousers.
I regarded her carefully. She wasn’t terribly tall, she was lithe, her limbs long enough and slender, her breasts looking beautifully firm and deliciously petite. Sweet Jesus, I discovered she had hips like a grown woman, not too slim, not too large, her perfectly round tits were a deep pink, and her sex was completely hairless. That sweet behind of hers would fit into my palms like fucking glory. Her skin was flawless, tanned, inches shy of gold. The shock of dark, tousled hair gave her face an almost elfin appearance.
A bolt of raw lust shot through me. To scrutinize the beautiful curve of her body, for no other reason than to ascertain her dress size, I hit rewind and froze the screen. Perfectly proportioned breasts, waxed totally bare, slender body ready to take on the hard curves of a man.
Boy, is this the life or what?
Elena sprawled herself on top of the perfectly made bed, her skin contrasting against the whiteness, her hair disheveled. There’s a list of things you learn about a girl the first time you watch her sleep. Whether she was smart enough to remove her makeup; looked good without embellishments; stole the covers; had a cute snore; was a cuddler or a soloist.
Elena was a total sprawler, all limp arms and legs. I couldn’t wait to feel her whole body draped over me like a starfish. Even at so great a distance, my fingers twitched with a need to grab her and sin like Adam and Eve. In all these fucked-up ways that I was unlike an Average Joe, I do realize there’s a special corner in hell waiting for me.
Alexander Turner
The Lonely Saturday
Welcome to my neck of the woods. Of course I lived in a mansion in one of Boston’s high-end exurbs that’s out of your paltry price range. Remember the stereotype pattern? Worked in a tower, lived in a manor, was obsessed with a young girl…fill in whatever else you’d like.
Huge grounds, towering trees, sculpted shrubs, a house that was the ultimate cash cow for an architect. It was all but protected by a shark-infested moat, no ivy-covered walls either. Take the gate of the sprawling compound: impressive.
For Saturday work duty, I’d opted for German efficiency, the Audi R8 screeched to a stop before an ornately scrolled cast-iron gate beside a brick gatehouse built to resemble a miniature turreted castle. The brass plate on one of the piers announced Turner Estates. Beyond it were acres of maple trees and imperial buffalo grass, the spectacular putting green lawn accountable for my excellent short game. A Har-Tru tennis court, a five-bedroom guesthouse, an Olympic-size natatorium, an outdoors pool-cum-poolhouse, and a walk-in wine cellar that held five thousand bottles and was kept nearly full. With the electric mechanisms of the outdoor pool and the cellar—yippee—bring on the several grand electri
city bills. If I weren’t invited to Jerry’s tonight, the air would smell like a Kalamazoo grill. August summer nights were mostly reserved for barbecues. BTW, the grill had a propane tank, so I wasn’t adding to the electricity bill.
This posh estate was equipped with the priciest security you could get. Loonies couldn’t climb the tall wrought-iron perimeter fence, nor could my sex slaves escape the enclosed estate through them. Just teasing you, I didn’t have a dungeon à la Hamptons Beach House. As you can imagine, the fence had fiber-optic sensing cable concealed inside the top rail, pan-tilt-zoom thermographic surveillance cameras almost everywhere, and let’s not forget the motion-sensor intruder alarms and burglar blasters. Not a pastiche of Xanadu 2.0. The entire house had its own brain—controlled by my men and me. You get the picture.
With a career wherein I couldn’t cull vacation time for myself like any average job allows, I liked spending weekends at home. A bit of everything applied: quiet time, sexual excess, baking bread. Just like every other rich man, I was sitting behind my piano and played arpeggios; heaven forbid I leave any stereotypical holy stone unturned. Negative, I wasn’t a piano prodigy who started playing at the age of five, nor did my parents hire a music teacher for piano lessons. I had a reason to start playing the piano, and that reason was Valerie. As for my connection with her, she was my first, and she was the first woman I loved. The touchy-feely kind of love, and some facts couldn’t be outlined without a great deal of personal shame. Let’s keep them for a rainy day.
Shopping I did online, and every Saturday afternoon, in between receiving delivery goods, I restocked and downloaded movies, series, and music. The media drive in the screening room had everything from Quentin Tarantino’s entire filmography to HBO’s Rome in 1080p, and though I enjoyed listening to Frank Sinatra and Bob Dylan on vinyl, iTunes downloads were addictive.
