by JR King
Tears in my eyes, I arched and lurched into him, my fists beating his chest. “Stop!” I acted like I was going to hurt him, like I was fighting this man that looked like Michelangelo himself had chiseled him from marble. I didn’t try to close my legs, though. Every now and then, I moaned as I tried to scoot back and sit up, glancing at the huge cock going in and out of me and the vee of my abdomen pressing against his flat pelvis. I stared into the grey eyes. Their glassy expression aroused me, substantially. My own eyes began to glaze, and my cries, in time with the brutal thrusts, rose.
I gasped as he began rolling the sensitive tip of my breast between his fingers. An expert touch stimulating, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through me. He plucked and pinched and squeezed until mewling sounds escaped my throat. He released my throat and filled his other hands with my free breast. I threw my head back and moaned as both his hands harshly tugged at my taut nipples. I arched my back, thrusting my chest into his face, silently begging for his mouth.
“These are mine, Elena,” he stated hoarsely before sucking a nipple between his teeth. He fucked me as if I were a dirty slut that belonged to him, with whom he could do whatever he wished. As if he could order me around, and rather than telling him to piss off, I would drop to my knees and worship him. As if the merging of our flesh was his lifeblood, as if his life depended on burying himself in me, coming in me, an unspoken bond tying me to his will. “Do you remember what I promised you at the art gala?”
“How could I possibly forget?”
“Look me in the eyes and tell me.”
“You’ll fuck me,” I started in a low, sultry voice that I’d never heard before, “into incoherence.”
I jerked awake, wind-milling my limbs for a brief moment as I regained my bearings. “What the hell was that?” Clammed up by the breakneck pace of my dream, at first I sat in the dark, unmoving. My bed was a mess of tangled sheets. I tried to focus on the meaning of my dream. What the hell was that? I’d had more sex dreams about Alexander than I could count, but nothing could compare to this one.
“He raped me.”
Confused, when I ran my hand over my chest, I was surprised at its dampness. I tossed and turned for hours, constantly replaying the dream in my head. Then I was in a fitful sleep, re-dreaming it all, sheets damp with sweat. My thoughts swung between images of Alexander taking advantage of me, forcing me, and me losing control and practically begging him to fuck me.
I took a cold shower in the morning, and told myself to stop obsessing.
Alexander Turner
The End
Has been a while, hasn’t it? With Elena rejecting me—unfuckingbelievable, right?—and those fucking Bambi eyes pleading to let her be during Christmas, I had shit to tell you. Except for that I’m a pussy who spent his days reading an authentic copy of The Art of War by Sun Tzu instead of recreating a battle to capture a moldable sexual pupil. What a bust! Without her, inside me there was a hollow place, made me feel gutted, even. Felt like I dragged my intestines alongside me, leaving straight bloody patterns on the floor. And so I drank my nights away, sobered up every morning, and with smile went back to work.
Last time Elena had toyed with me in person, we were in a boardroom.
“I won’t ruin your Christmas. How about a date? Dinner at The Cliff on the Bajan West Coast?”
“That will never happen,” she scowled with regal arrogance. “Stop trying to woo me.” She ducked and tried to slip away, pushing my buttons harder.
“Not so fast.” I caught her by the elbow and tugged her backward. She jerked it away, the charm bracelet on her wrist jingling. I sternly declared a threat, “Don’t make me spank you.” Before she could scuttle off, I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her in for a hug, catching her by surprise and cutting her rant short. Given that I was tall and worked out on a regular basis, it was by no means a fair contest. Picture a spindly penguin bench-pressing a polar bear.
Lusting for her, I pulled up the hem of her dress. I’d never suspected she was the type to wear frilly La Perla boyshorts. They were white and lacy, nearly see-through, really meant to entice a man.
“Let go of me. I’ll scream.”
There are times when the best of intentions are overcome by circumstances. I’d been stupid plenty of times and easily recognized when someone was being it. Elena deserved this. “Do you want to be spanked? Is that it? While I’m not going to punish you for tonight’s nonattendance, I do need to address these little rebellions of yours before they get out of hand. I know you’re struggling to accept it, and though I can be a patient man at times, now isn’t one of them. I own you, Elena, and I never tolerate defiance. Stand up and bend over the table.” Cherry wood boardroom conference table with veneer marquetry logo inlay, a pretty tool for a spanking. Given that Elena didn’t budge, I had to improvise. “Elena. I can see this is difficult for you, so I’m going to go ahead and spank you right here.” My hand came crashing down on her backside.
She renewed her unwinnable struggle. “You hit my ass,” she mumbled, attempting to cover her bottom with her hands.
I slapped them aside. She was quite decorous in her choice of words in everyday circumstances, so I found it amusing to hear her say something earthy. “Spanking is the only explanation I can think of.” My palm came down harder and she screamed into my neck, unmistakably leaving lipstick smudges on my Brioni lattice-weave poplin dress shirt. “You’re not stupid, so I think you want to be punished.” I rained down one last harsh crack and the tears started pouring, like I swiveled the lever of a faucet. Thankfully, the boardroom was solidly built, no drywall partitions, the closed door keeping curious employees in the hall from hearing what had transpired. The girl who—supposedly—didn’t want me was wearing my handprint on her lovely behind. I could smell her arousal. “God, Elena. You’re so into this.”
“I don’t like this,” she cried.
I tried on a guilty wince, urged her to face me. She looked practically drugged, her eyelids heavy and her lips parted. “A good cry is a valid detox, baby.” I lowered my voice to a sharp growl, and was thrilled she didn’t flinch or back off. “Let it out and we’ll see each other after Christmas.”
She let out a sharp, halting gasp, “I’m begging you, Mr. Turner. Can’t you see I’m desperate? Please don’t ruin it.” I could feel her tensing and hear her breath coming out in tiny, sharp pants.
“I won’t.” I kissed her lips, and then each of her eyelids when she shut her eyes. “I promise I won’t.”
I was a man of my word, even say, all alpha and omega—never reneging on a gentleman’s agreement—so there you go.
A sudden pinging cut the thread of my thoughts. The doorbell kept ringing. For the reason that a private plane had picked me up at Hyannis earlier, I felt jet-lagged. To catch up with old acquaintances, Tony and I had stayed as guests at the Kennedy compound in Hyannis Port for two nights. Let me tell you that most of the day, right after first-time phone sex with Elena, I’d thought of ways to make her legs tremble around my neck. Can you imagine the position?
“Alex!” Katherine squealed like an overexcited teen. With a sweep of the hand, she invited me into her room.
“Miss me?” A conceited smile played around the edges of my lips.
She was preening in front of the mirror and shook her head, each strand of auburn hair following each snap of her neck. She wore a flashy floral print dress and twirled around to make the ruffles around the edges dance.
“All dressed up for whom, if you’d allow me the pleasure?”
She gave me a careless shrug. “Afraid no one. This loser guy cancelled on me. Gave me a cockamamie excuse.”
My lips tilted into a smile. “Until further notice?”
“Postponed.” She narrowed her eyes deeper. “There’s no need to laugh like a drain, you don’t have a date either.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Alex is a loserrr,” she burred. “Stayed in Hyannis, couldn’t find a lass, but found BP
S!”
Broken Penis Syndrome. Go figure.
I flung her stole to the floor and backed her toward the bed. She fell on it. “What did you say?” I reached out and tipped her chin upward with one finger. Nervousness and a longing to please me reflected in her big, expressive eyes.
“S-sorry…Alex,” she chipped in meekly to save herself.
I released her chin. “I’ll let it go this time.”
She went to the bathroom and slammed the door shut with a bang that shook the room’s walls. I heard muffled noises on the other side of the door. “I hate Christmas, total tripe. I hate Alex. Fuck him. Fuck the holidays, total tar pit.”
Sooo, Christmas. I’ll give you a heads up, I might possibly include bonus letters and exclamation points at times during this one, which is totally in violation of my own dearly held principles of punctuation, but I was pie-eyed. Forgive me?
At first Sophia had been designated to host the Christmas Eve dinner at her Nantucket estate. But, grandma staged a sneaky coup d’état à la Desi Bouterse—how does one become a president while being a criminal who’s high on the Interpol list?—in the final moment, and now the Turner soldiers were stranded at an exclusive estate on The Vineyard. You know, that summer colony for rich Bostonians where all that glittered was gold.
A federal-style clapboard shingle design served as the inspiration for all four buildings of this estate. Outside, orange-brown cedar shingles covered the roofs, and inside, beadboard, which was a hallmark type of Vineyard paneling made up of a sequence of thin vertical strips, covered most of the walls and ceilings. The full-floor entertainment area had a traditional oak wood sports bar and a roulette table, decorated with memorabilia like baseball bats from legendary Red Sox players and vintage golf clubs from New Zealand. There was a HDTV screening room, silk curtains swayed around, leather and burled wood furniture majestically throned about, fresh-cut red roses stood proudly in crystal vases, and the lounge harbored a covered belvedere to unwind in the open. A red cedar wood pergola ran alongside the inner perimeter of the compound, uniting the structures.
With my sadistic proclivities, I could carve meat beautifully, so I was glad that grandma appointed me as her sous-chef. Bad joke, I agree, no need to bust my balls over it! I excelled at baking, and for savory dishes I often opted for en croute preparations, anything from halibut in a salt crust to suckling pig in sourdough. Thus, the fish course was my responsibility. Don’t expect to find a Smithfield ham tucked away somewhere. Almas Beluga caviar, poulet de Bresse, turkey ballotine with Prosciutto, milk-fed pork roulade, and salt marsh lamb were on the menu.
You want gnocchi or gnudi, grandma asked.
Fuck it, I want both, I answered.
Every happy, dysfunctional family has a Swear Jar. I doled out greenbacks at the same speed Santa’s Little Helper handed out gifts. On this occasion, I resorted to child labor, paying way above the market price to make my own recipe potato pierogi. Over 500 dumplings, I needed, give or take ten per person. Dual tasking, I told the little ones a story about Santa Claus giving floggings and spankings to children who misbehave. When asked to consider a position, they all went with the dominant role. You know what they say, young children learn best in a loving environment…
Dinner was taxing, more so than I’d imagined it to be. Family-centric entertainment included bourbon and cigars for the men after opening gifts, brandy and board games for the women, beer and a heated pool for the kids. The babies might have scored a few drops of eggnog, doing the drooly, inane babble that babies do before exhaustedly falling asleep. I was sure the smart kids had brought fat spliffs for later, hiding them in double-bottom suitcases. Resourceful people, the Turners, I’m telling ya.
I digress. Have I told you previously that I enjoyed photography? My grandparents gave me—among the white elephants—a Greubel Forsey Invention Piece and a Leica S2, so lots of well-timed picture making ahead. Come now, not the dirty kind, get your head out of the mental gutter, you rascal. Landscapes I liked.
Oh all right, I confess. Artistic nudes were my second favorite.
“What about you?” Grandma was looking at me from the corner of her eye.
“Still single, grams.” I laughed and shoved an enormous serving of my bûche de Noël into my mouth, barely able to speak around all that genoise and chocolate buttercream. “Wearing the title with pride.”
“That’s gross.” Katherine pointed her dessertspoon at my face. “Remind us again how you ended up on the sixtieth floor of that building?”
“Fix your collar.” It was a moot point because grandma bridged the distance between us and brought her hands to either side of my neck. “What about that girl you were seen with at the Diamonds International sponsored Art & Charity event?” she persisted.
We’re two sides of the same coin, one cannot exist without the other…
I wasn’t all that keen to discuss my love life. Plus, I was drifting along a soaring cloud of relaxation and it could easily be tipped into something stupid, unintentionally revealing my plans to acquire pretty girl. So, I pressed my lips together and kept shaking my head.
Grandpa said, “Champ, don’t get close-lipped on us. A boy as careful as you are? I don’t believe it, ‘twas staged. Spill your guts.”
That, my headshake insisted, wasn’t going to happen.
“Elena Anderson,” dubbed Jared, one of my billion cousins.
Katherine’s face fell. I shot her a glance that told her what I’d do to her if she dared mentioning I sleep-talked. Just like guilt and regret came easy to me, cutting people out came easy to me as well. I knew and did it well. I could isolate, discredit, and eliminate people from my life with startling efficiency, unflinching at any given second. Katherine knew I’d done it with a few family members, several lovers, and one childhood friend—Steven, and her smart choice came out as, “I like that name!!!”
Knowledge from A-Z is power. Grandpa, who’d done his homework, eyed me with a thoughtfulness I didn’t want to see. “The one and only grandchild of Frank Anderson. Good one, Alex,” he probed. “Precious girl, that one. Prodigal daughter of the greatest trail lawyer ever.”
“Could we please change the subject?!” I snapped, surprising myself with the retort. Grandma glared, Sophia smiled, most likely at herself in the mirrors behind me. “This weak horse has been beaten enough,” I murmured an apology.
A series of grunts rose. I was way too drunk to make out if they were pros or cons.
“They’ll make cute babies,” aunt Henrietta snickered. Unlike my mother’s twin sister, bombshell beauty Sophia, Henrietta was neither ugly nor attractive, tall nor short, thin nor fat, soft-spoken nor loud, and so on and so forth. A classic average woman with bland features, physically plain and entirely forgettable. It occurred to me that if you walked past her in the street, you would look right through her.
“Babiesss, Alex,” picked up one of my uncles in a humoring-an-underling kind of way. “We don’t want a thirty-four-year-old virgin in the family.”
“Thirty-four? That’s just wrong,” another voice topped off. Aunts and uncles tittered way too empathically, like older family members do whenever a topic arises even distantly touching on a young one’s sexuality.
“He’ll do fine. Isn’t that right, Alex?” grandma remarked with the kind of soothing tone she used on cats and dogs.
I kept it zipped. Eventually, the attention turned to something else and I was left stewing in the remainder of Elena’s words. I’m begging you, Mr. Turner. Can’t you see I’m desperate? Please don’t ruin it.
Yeah, and I’m the pope. She didn’t look desperate at all in her Hervé Léger pencil dress, more like sex on heels. My cock hadn’t minded at all. It’d thickened and lengthened with honest appreciation.
I joined the festivities. I loved dancing, and Sophia knew how to dance. I loved and hated that she smelled like my mother. Have I told you that smell was very important to me? Feels like I have. Feels like I’m repeating myself.
I played Monopoly till the early hours of the morning. I’d just passed go and collected $200 when my iPhone buzzed like a trapped bee. In an attempt to conciliate, Katherine accepted to fill in for me. I hurried down the hallway that went to my bedroom, tearing at the buttons of my jacket and the knot of my tie as I reached it. I tugged them off and sank in the desk chair.
I saw Elena jerk awake, sitting up etherized. I contended with the image, her fearsome look cut the ground from under my feet. “He raped me,” she articulated confidently. Why was she dreaming about what Peter had done? Why now? I felt tears pricking at the back of my eyes as a feeling of hate and disgust wormed its way up my body.
Wishing heartily I could divorce the image from my mind, “Stop fucking with my bigger picture!!! Fucking please let me take care of you, baby girl,” I yelled at the screen of my MacBook. I pushed myself back from the desk in frustration, chair legs screeching across the marble flooring. Felt like my world had been smashed into smithereens. I reached for the crystal carafe and filled up a glass with two fingers of whiskey and tossed down the shot.
Then another one.
And another one.
The shots scratched each other’s back, and combined with the undertone of sweet darkness, I lost count. I needed to blow my load on some girl. I pitched the tumbler I held at the nearest wall, letting my loathing show. Thankfully there was no wet splattering, it was empty, and the weak hurl made it bounce off the wall and fall to the ground. The unavoidable impact set off crystal fragments against the marble, sparkling shards tumbling around.
In the early hours of the morning, I was slamming my forehead against a wall when quick, bounding footsteps disrupted me. Grandma came to check on me, and somehow I found myself staring at her collection of MEM and Bellocq teas, gourmet sugar in whimsical chintz tins abound.
“Chai, herbal blend, or Earl Grey?”
With my dick hiding behind my balls, “I’ll have you’re having,” I told her softly. I swear I didn’t so much as try to stitch together a puppy dog face.
