by JR King
To not paint her inner walls with seminal graffiti, I took the necessary precautions. Ultrathin condom in place, I clasped her hip with my right hand and drove deep inside her.
“I’m not wet enough, bastard.”
Annoyed by her gullible jabbering, I cut her off with a short kiss. With my mouth against her cheek, just by her ear, I said, “You will be, soon,” and the age-old waxing and waning of thrusts commenced. I ploughed into her over and over, pressing her against my hips. Her skin flushed light pink.
Coasting in and out, I necked her and got down to business. “Why’s Nathan short of money? Russian debts?”
She didn’t bridle at the question, and though she seemed unnerved, she still passively complied. “He doesn’t deal with Russians. His mistress sucked him dry. No one wants a lover who is a one-trick pony. I was the one who suggested she should blackmail him.”
Initial anxiety dissipated, my dick urged my brain to shut up and I urged my lips to quirk up in a radiating smile. “Fuck, that’s hot.” I exited and entered with exquisite precision, plundering her and pillaging her flesh, slamming my hips harder against hers, playing with her inhibitions. “You’re so nasty, I love it.”
She stifled her cries against the side of my neck.
“Let’s get this fucking straight, this is what you asked for.” I lodged deeper inside her to force the air from her lungs and, shallow strokes became brutal thrusts. She moved a little too hard, so I tried to mollify her with a, “Ma’am.” I uttered it as a plea and a warning.
She didn’t slow down. Instead, she let her head drop to my shoulder and rode me, plunging downward with increasing force.
“I asked you very nicely to slow down,” I murmured. “You didn’t listen, and now you’ll have to face the unfortunate consequence of your action.” I clamped my hand into her hair and wrenched her head back. Managed a devious smirk as I held her bewildered gaze, dark desire rising in me. “I’m going to fuck you very, very hard. Lighten up now.”
She bit my shoulder. “It hurts.” The bite would be a hell of a handsome bruise later.
“If that hurt, then the rest might just kill you.”
She bitch-slapped me awhile the crescendo of her cries rose unabated. “Kiss me again, boy.” Her eyes narrowed and glowed fiercely.
My tongue swept insistently across her lower lip, pressing on to claim her mouth, and an instant later, our tongues waltzed together, tentatively at first, then with mounting passion. She moaned louder when my mouth tugged on her lower lip, the tip of my tongue rolling over it. “Haven’t been fucked like this in a long time, have you? You wouldn’t be such a cock-tease if you were being properly fucked by your husband.”
“I’ve had better,” she taunted.
I pulled out just as she was about to come. “You really shouldn’t have said that, ma’am.” Real men eat pussy for real, I showed her how it’s done, among other things.
About a half hour later, she got out of bed, not bothered in the slightest that I was watching her walk around naked. She went into the bathroom, presumably to clean up, and came out in a sexy red playsuit. Back under the covers, she smiled at me and traced invisible circles on my chest, keeping her eyes trained on the slow, methodical loops she was making. She kissed my nipples softly, saintly at first. Then her kisses became open-mouthed and wet. Insatiable as I was, my cock sprang to life, at full attention once again. I was seconds away from tugging her on top of me and make her ride me when she started talking.
“What else do you need from me?” She lifted her head fully. Her hair brushed against the tip of my sensitive cock.
“That was it. The bit about his Russian friends.”
Her eyes searched mine, almost desperate to find lies in them. But there weren’t any. Her tongue, ticklish and tender, slid down to my belly button and ran a line across the bottom of my abdomen. Without any preamble, she took my cock deep into her throat. Holding onto my hip, she sunk her nails into my flesh.
My head fell back. I fisted the sheets, admonishing her. “Slow, you bitch! Slow.”
The sensation of her hair over my pelvis and the beads of her playsuit over my thighs was outrageous. My hand shakily clutched a bunch of locks, guiding her mouth down my shaft. She let me fuck it for a while and then straddled me so she could put on a condom with her mouth. Brusquely she swung her long hair back over her shoulders, and with that my cock disappeared inside her until her clit mashed against the root of my cock.
My hands raked upward to pinch her nipples before finding a home as they greedily cupped her breasts. Her eyes drifted shut; she looked like some ultrahedonist Greek goddess on top of me. Keeping her tethered to me, I rocked her up and down. Within minutes her burgeoning desire overcame her and I felt her muscles spasm and milk. Feeling her inner walls tighten up, another intense orgasm seized my body, sending pleasure from my toes to my head. Her appeased body became limp, hinged lifeless in my arms. A cheeky smile played on her lips before she closed her eyes. I tumbled her down onto the bed and stretched her legs out, brushing her luxuriant tresses away.
“Thank you very much,” I whispered.
After the delectable bedroom romp with a well-seasoned domme and married woman, I was driving to the Pru. A welcome deliverance of a passing cloudburst rinsed the city clean, leaving behind a concentration of ozone and wet dirt mingled with the smell of exhaust fumes.
“Might I help you?” The woman was stout and had a thick patch of wrinkles on each cheek, and mousy hair. She looked more like an effete academic than a proficient secretary.
“You may. Nathan Cooper.” My smile remained unfazed.
Her voice was bone dry, “Your name, sir?”
“Turner.”
“Ah. Yes.”
I was in for quite a surprise when she told me that Nathan expected me elsewhere. I was supposed to go back to my old stomping ground. This old classmate’s table at the Harvard Club was always the same, against the bluish plate-glass overlooking the city. Nathan was working on his iPad, wearing what looked like a Caraceni business suit. My custom-made William Fioravanti rivaled his suit easily, but shit, I should have chosen something more American. An Oxxford suit would have been much more patriotic in such an establishment. Even a Polo Ralph Lauren would be better than the one I was wearing right now.
“Alex!” The handshake was quick and light, making me wonder if it actually happened, which in turn made me wonder if he could help me get my pound of flesh back.
To my grand surprise, he didn’t bestow me that well-deserved punch when I told him I’d just fucked his wife. Instead he told me that sex with a married woman could become addictive.
I smiled.
And just like that, his company was in the black.
Elena Anderson
The Harassment Games
By the time my alarm blared my duties on the Monday of Christmas week, I’d been slipping in and out of sleep for hours. The sun had barely begun making an appearance over the skyscrapers in the distance. Half an hour later, I was freshly showered and dressed for work.
I walked out of the elevators in total distraction. My office was just the right size of spacious that gave me enough elbowroom, yet championed the integrity of a cozy hobbit hole. On my left side, a window overlooked the main street, and on my right side, the wall was lined with an ebony wall-length credenza. A chrome and glass desk with a leather office chair and two guest chairs centered the room, and a red orchid plant and pointillism-inspired artworks and a Saeco coffee machine completed the vignette.
My job was going well. I felt lucky to work in a positive environment. Today Thomas—Michael’s older brother—was giving a celebratory lunch in honor of Frederic landing a Russian billionaire’s account. I was invited as well. I told Frederic that I couldn’t possibly impose since I merely drew up papers while he’d done the fieldwork.
A beige envelope before my unibody iMac grabbed my attention. I always cleared my desk before departing. This was a Middle Ages affair. It was
heavy, made of parchment paper, the flap affixed with a dab of scarlet-red sealing wax on which an ornate family crest was pressed. I broke the seal and inside it was a white vellum note card, the fine lettering appearing to be written with indelible grey ink. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but I speculated its origin.
I had a deadline.
Quick question: who threatens to ruin your day unless you contact him?
A psychopath, also known as Alexander Turner, in my case. In a flash I saw him sitting at his desk, looking quite smug. For the next hours I was on pins and needles, restlessly waiting to hear how the signing with our Russian client had gone. When Frederic entered my office with a big, lazy grin and a spring in his step, I jumped up and applauded him with a drawn out yippee. His ebullience was infectious.
“No excuses. You’re lunching with us, Elenahhh!”
“Yes, boss.”
For me to enjoy the lunch, I had to deal with my stalker. I expected to hesitate and sit staring dumbly at the flashing cursor for half an hour, like starting a difficult paper, a thesis even. Actually, the words came out surprisingly easy. Dear Alexander, I started writing. I thought about your proposal over and over again. I’m not interested. So, so sorry. I’m flattered, it’s nice of you to offer, but my relationship with Mitchell has a greater chance of survival. A practical man like you surely empathizes. I’ll never forget our Ebersol dinner. All the best.
I cried. I so wanted to have coffee with him when he’d approached me at Copley, dirty sex coming off his body. I punished myself because I hadn’t told Mitchell the whole truth. I’d gone as far as wondering where the vehemence in my voice came from, when it was only meant to be a playful refusal. Although he was dangerous like a felid and certainly not the type of man I wanted to taunt, every time I opened my mouth I couldn’t help but bait him. His aviator glasses gave him huge, reflective silver-black eyes. Instead of showering me with scathing remarks, he’d chosen to walk away.
I sat through the gourmet seafood lunch like a zombie. Having grown up as grandpa’s official taster, piscatory dishes being his forte, I was all but weaned on locally caught lobster, candy-sweet scallops, and meaty yet flaky striped bass. The Oceanaire Seafood Room was à la hauteur. But even the ensemble of soaring ceilings, red leather seats, cherry wood and marble, and handsome white-coated servers couldn’t change my mood.
I declined the lift Thomas offered and walked back alone. Everything seemed to be unamplified. At present, I didn’t notice the billows of steam coming from exhaust pipes by a long way, or the relative noisiness from passing vehicles. I just kept moving right through the hustle and bustle. The wind pushed fiercely, and I had to hunch forward to fight off the disguised thrusts. It was snowing by the time I reached the street of my building.
“Look out!” a wizened woman shouted, her voice prickling like thick needles. The stiletto heel of my boot was a step away from crunching down an emaciated dead bird that lay miserably on the pavement. I hurried past it. I wasn’t one for superstition, but I shuddered at the possibility of an omen, portending something disastrous headed my way.
Once I sat down behind my desk, I realized I hadn’t clicked the send button. I trashed the email, emptied the can, and reached for my iPhone.
“Turner,” Alexander answered on the first ring. His voice was cold and impersonal, definitely his work mobile, not his private number, I realized. For a short while I found myself wondering how many girls sexted him on his personal phone. “Er, Alexander? I mean, Mr. Turner, it’s Elena Anderson.”
“Sweetheart, sorry ‘bout that.” His voice transformed into something warm and husky and oddly intimate. The sweet quality in it made me ache, my toes curled. “How nice to hear from you. My day’s been pretty fucked up, dealing with Mickey D type of scumbags who believe they’re doing this world a favor.”
I swooned for a moment, thinking of how nice it sounded to exchange banalities with such a powerful man. That’s what men like him did, didn’t they? They made you swoon, drew you in, and then discarded you like a ragdoll. Right. Got it.
“Babe, you still there?”
“You might as well have been asking for the moon. This won’t happen.”
“Lunch tomorrow, if that’s all right. We’re not doing this on the phone, do you hear me?”
With his distracting voice, I had trouble breathing. I was nervous and thrown, but managed to hastily add, “There’s no point. Nothing left to say. I can’t betray Mitchell.”
He mocked me with an effortless, “Nothing?” I could hear the smirk in his voice, discernable even through the electronic ether. “Tell me, baby, do you get off on my image at night before falling asleep? Moan my name when you’re coming underneath the covers?”
Of all the smug, arrogant bastards! How could he just presume I would touch myself while thinking about him? For some years now I’d cultivated certain aloofness when it came to touching myself. To a large extent, I felt ashamed. I should be. Well-educated girls don’t masturbate. I did it once, just once last week!
“I wouldn’t do that. That’s not how I was raised, and frankly, Mr. I-use-sex-as-a-weapon, it’s pretty rude of you to suggest such a thing. I’m in love with Mitchell. Goodbye.” I hung up before he could mock me further, put my phone in airplane mode, and switched on my alarm for the next morning. After nearly an hour, I allowed for data services, and found a text waiting for me: Noon tomorrow, new trattoria on Newbury. You wouldn’t want your family to find out about your extracurricular activities with Jane, eking out a royal living by selling your image, would you now? START FOLLOWING MY RULES.
Feeling too mush to call back, Dear Alexander, I started to reply, then deleted it, aiming for something more casual, Hi. Your threat was well received, okay? But that sounded too confrontational, so I selected a smiley giving the finger. I’d barely ticked send when then phone rang.
“Jesus Christ,” came out of me in a loud, exasperated whoosh. Didn’t corporate mucky-mucks have critical things to do?
I sighed with relief when I saw Sara’s mobile number light up the phone’s display. “Hi,” I peeped.
She ignored my greeting, barged in with, “Thought your mobile was on the fritz. I’ve been trying to reach you for ages! Are you okay?”
Distancing my phone from my ear, I breathed out. Honestly, I didn’t know how to answer that. Was I okay? Well, a billionaire with access to CIA-level tech was stalking me, trying to browbeat me a one-night-stand and humiliation; Mitchell might find out that this bastard made me come; my grandparents might find out I’d moonlighted as a showgirl, so no, I wasn’t okay at all. “I’m fine, Sara. I’m at work right now. One of our clients is getting audited. It’s a mess.”
“Job, career—call it what you may, but you need fresh air.” She sounded genuinely concerned. I felt the wave of affection toward her, this reassuringly down-to-earth friend who had no idea I kept fantasizing about a bad, bad man. “Can you break at four o’clock?”
“Certainly.” It was a sudden impulse, born out of a desperate need for familiarity. Even though Alexander was having me followed, I couldn’t conceive of the idea of letting him ruin my life like this, living in fear of hanging out with my friends.
“Coffee and fruit and cake?” It came out of her in a loud, exited line, and I had to smile. Somehow, her enthusiasm was reassuring.
“Cool, sounds good to me.”
“I’ll see you then. Toodles.”
“See you.” I’d never been so glad to talk to Sara. Everything will be all right, I chanted inwardly. Fractured thoughts were interrupted by the beep of incoming email. Sighing, I reached over to click on the email program, half-relieved to be distracted, half-nervous of what I might find. It turned out to be not one, but two emails, both from Alexander. The first one was a whole lot of greetings and sayings about how he was looking forward to spending time with me. Given the nature of the second email, I realized privacy was a foreign word to him. It was the same load of nothing, but with a distinctly impatient
tone: I’m not sure if that restaurant is to your liking or not—you never went back. Could you please confirm?
It only took me an hour or so to manually verify that the rest of the Excel spreadsheets were foolproof, and before long, I was heading toward a nearby coffee shop. Cool air was brushing gently passed my knee-length skirt that flared out from the waist. In winter, the projection of daylight fusing with the scent and rich profusion of dried wood and snow, to me, felt magical. A window display might have been a better niche to attach this decoration in a busy environment, and yet the barista at the cafe was hanging up the Christmas wreath on the front door. The tardiness also surprised me. For a trendy café to be behind the curve, I’d bet my money on ill management.
Sara was punctual to a fault. When she saw me, a bright smile spread across her face. “Hey kiddo.”
“Hey yourself.” I removed my coat, pushed my hair out of my face.
“Are you all right?” Her forehead was knitted with concern, her heavy eyebrows pulling in tight. “Why was your mobile phone switched off?”
I gave her a mock shudder as we joined the line at the hostess counter. “Ever heard of office phone numbers?” I wanted to go for breezy and relaxed, but it came out rather uptight. “Sorry. Heavy workload, that’s all.” She raised her eyebrows disbelievingly, and I rolled my eyes to repeat with more certainty, “Heavy workload, I assure you.”
A vague frown creased her brow. “Okay.” Her voice sounded dead, it was pretty obvious she was just saying it to avoid an argument.
“How’ve you been?”
Her vague frown turned into a well-defined scowl. “Night and day listening to Michael repeating the same thing over and over again.”
The bakery display case was filled with untouched cheese Danishes, lemon loafs, blueberry muffins, scones, and quiches. “Repeating what?” I eyed a basket of steaming hot johnnycakes as we ambled toward an unoccupied table. Steel girder ceilings, exposed brick walls, and concealed spotlights gave the venue an industrial feel.
