by JR King
“Ceylon OP. Spare me the hullabaloo and tell me about this girl. Do not—I repeat, do not—keep facts unemployed.”
Did I mention my grandmother was a fixer? Never mind household staff, she scrubbed carpet stains and touched up chipped porcelain herself. So, as poured my heart out, staining the floor, I already knew she’d clean it all up, fixing the problem in the process. I was certain she could even make the Pope consider my sainthood. On the long run, Sophia was in for the surprise of a lifetime.
Carina was on the island, too. I texted her: Your place, not mine. It was a harebrained decision, but oh well, boys will be boys.
I wasn’t in the mood to hurt her. I abruptly licked the top of her slit, making her shudder, then I buried my tongue in her sex, my hands reaching up to take hold of her breasts. I kept pinching her nipples as I lapped at her pert clit. I slid my tongue deep, swirling the tip around, trying to lick at the roof of her cunt. Her wickedly sweet taste thrilled me to my core. Undulating rhythmically, she was mere seconds away from coming when I released her nipples and halted my masterful attentions with a quick swirl of the tongue.
Looking at her, I was quite amused by her stricken expression. I wiped the wetness off my chin with the back of my hand. The sheer anticipation in her eyes as she saw me unzip was precious. I placed a finger under her chin to raise her face. “Cunt or ass?”
Her hand wrapped around the shape of my cock through my boxers. It wasn’t a great deal of pressure but, like I said, I’d been ready to blow my load for a better part of the evening. “Make me feel. Don’t leave me.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Can you handle this?” I scoffed, kneading the soft flesh of her breasts harshly. “Because if you can’t,” I rasped in her ear, “I’m gone.” I grabbed her chin and lifted her face to meet mine.
Her azure eyes sparkled pitifully up at me, her quivering lips opened and closed a few times before her mouth could form words.
“I don’t like waiting for an answer.” I slapped her. Her head snapped sideways, and her hand came up to cover her punished cheek.
Looking up at me, she smiled. “I can.” She picked up a condom.
Moments later, my nails dug into her, holding her firmly in place as I fucked her ass.
“This is the end,” she observed scornfully.
My fingers tightened around her throat. The tingling, rousing sensation crawling up my thighs intensified, savage throbs erupting within the taut sack behind my cock. It was all going too bizarrely; I had to disentangle myself from her. In a way, sex is like having a meal. When it’s good, it’s really good. When it isn’t, it still feeds you. But when it’s bad, well, that’s sickening. The end for us it was, indeed.
Alexander Turner
The New Year’s Eve Celebration
There’s no way I could tell you the following without sounding like a braggart, so I’m just gonna go ahead and tell it like it is. Bear with me, it’ll be worth it.
Trying to venture out of this endless work cycle I’d been on since I became a CEO, I took a little bit of time off from work to redirect my plans regarding Elena. Gasping without fail, arms pumping, I ran doggedly. I hard-pressed to go faster, my breathing heavy and ragged as I took out my frustration on my muscles until my calves burned. Yet I persevered, running mile after mile on the treadmill in an attempt to decipher my next move. I recognized I was in need of a small mental break from it all before taking serious action. Whenever I sought out solutions during long-term cardio exercises, I zoned out, placing my body into a self-hypnosis of sorts. I was an observer within my own skin, thinking only in terms of survival as I avoided objects in my path until I plowed into the solution.
And there it was. No further searching needed.
I decided to stay away from Elena and surveillance videos the last days of the year, thus, cancelling my plans to park Cara—a badass yacht—in front of Sandy Lane. I renamed it instead, and let it idle at the French Riviera.
For Christmas, Katherine had gifted me a Kindle that had various crap on it, but some good things too, so I’d been in mass reading mode: Cormac McCarthy, James Twining, John Grisham, David Baldacci, Joseph Kanon—to name a few. Three days later, I’d had enough. Reading from cover to cover while seated in a club chair with my legs stretched on an ottoman made me feel like Humpty Dumpty. It was almost ten cock-shrinking degrees below zero outside, so my cock was unhappily buried under several layers of warm clothing. What I wouldn’t give for favorable weather sightings: peek-a-boob blouses or flash-a-cheek skirts.
Optimization of the armada was my first project. I agree that whoever said money can’t buy happiness simply didn’t know where to go shopping. Customized orders for 2011 models went out, and by signing up for the Lexus LFA Japanese efficiency got added to my collection. What I looked for in a car—what any powerful man looked for in a car—was beautiful, slick design, concise styling, well-made and stealthy with streamline precision. I started another project. It involved tattoos. I had three tattoos, did you know? Not sure I’d made reference to them before. I spoke to Scott Campbell, a tattoo artist, who had an interesting design for my right upper arm. Talking to him gave me another idea.
You already know I hated talking on the phone. If someone’s personal call yammered on, I zoned out and yessed my way through the brouhaha, so whenever I made a personal call, I kept it short and to the point. Aidan, Tony, and I never made plans far in advance, last minute ones worked just as well. Through a Skype group video call, I lined them up. “Ladies, hope I’m not disturbing.”
“Not at all,” Tony assured me.
Asked Aidan, “What’s up?”
“You guys free for spelunking? I’m thinking foreign ground to ring in the new year. Standard revelry with basic L-type misdemeanors. Ladies, liquor, lewd and lascivious behavior, maybe even public drunkenness. We won’t be single this time next year. Bachelor Party? Road to hell is paved with good intentions, guys.”
Tony replied, “Absolutely in.”
And Aidan, “I’m postponing my trip right now.”
“Great. SOP of guys’ night out, with a New Year’s Eve twist. I’ll send details in an hour.”
I set to work. Essentials for a fine party were boys, girls, food and drink, and good tunes. Ever heard of a little city called New York? I often wondered what would have happened if the Dutch hadn’t traded New Amsterdam for Surinam. Tony and Aidan knew why the whole shebang was going to be my treat. If you haven’t already guessed it, they knew the story about Elena.
On the 31st of December, the Bentley stretch picked up Tony at JFK and Aidan at LaGuardia. Quite the impression I was making. The bar was stocked with Eagle Rare, Elijah Craig, Pappy Van Winkle’s, Old Pogue’s Master’s Select, Talisker, Cragganmore, Roederer, and Dom Pérignon.
Admit it, you do love my summations…
The music playing was Sinatra’s New York, New York—what else?—cliché, told you so in the beginning.
“Whoa.” Tony gave me a wink.
“Oh my lanta,” Aidan let out his patented shout. Between the three of us, he was the most hail-fellow-well-met. “Aren’t we too old for this?”
“The night is young and so are we,” I chimed in.
Tony said, “Get a load of fancy pants here. Did Nolan kill the article?”
“He ain’t got shit on my family, sidekicks.”
“Carina came through,” Aidan chuckled. “Lucky bastard. I’d love to tap that ass.”
I shook my head. “I finally did. Nothing special. Toast?” I set the ball rolling with a playful, “Here’s to the breezes, that blow through the treezes, and lift the skirts above the kneezes, to show us the place that teases and pleases, and gives us diseases. Here’s to the snatch, down the hatch!”
Tony, “Here’s to the whore behind the door, her eyes are as black a charcoal. She’ll skin your prick so god damned quick, make sparks fly out of your asshole!”
Aidan, “Here’s to the girls that love to take cock. They lick my balls til
l I’m hard as rock. They suck me off like a baby seal. Goddamn those girls are a big fucking deal!”
Glasses clinked, mouths savored, and then we started to sing at the top of our lungs:
“Start spreading the news, I am leaving today.
I want to be a part of it, New York, New York.
These vagabond shoes, are longing to stray
Right through the very heart of it, New York, New York.
I wanna wake up, in that city that doesn’t sleep.
And find I’m king of the hill, top of the heap.
These little town blues, are melting away.
I’ll make a brand new start of it, in old New York.
If I can make it there,
I’ll make it anywhere.
It’s up to you, New York, New York.
I stopped. “On a more serious note, when was the last time, for any of you?”
“Something tells me that we’re not going to Le Bernardin for a well-orchestrated dining experience,” Aidan hummed lightly.
For Tony it had been three days, and for me, a week. I hadn’t gotten a good piece of ass since the encounter with the domme! The last time I came, I was alone in bed, listening to Elena and thinking of our kisses, imagining what it would be like to have her naked between my crisp sheets.
By splitting the uprights of a British intern two days ago, Aidan won. “She set to work on her knees between my legs, doing what she does better than managing complex business presentations. I’d been on the verge of falling asleep throughout her mock presentation on how to enhance datacenters of telecommunication companies.”
On our way to the first stop, we started playing Beat That, which somehow turned into a debate about extended pleasure condoms.
Tony was saying, “That shit is a life saver with casual lays. My $o.o2, use a numbing condom if you want to jackhammer for 30+ minutes. Pop one on, go down on her for two minutes until you’re good and numb, and pound the fuck away. The all-around feeling is adequate, baby girl keeps you mentally aroused, and there’s enough feeling left in your dick to know which hole you’re fucking.
Without the numbing agent, I’m able to last infinitely, but only in positions with low and medium friction. With it, and in any position baby girl wants, she’ll be panting as if she were hyperventilating fifty minutes later. Pop off the condom and wipe the numbing agent off. Resume banging with a new, non-numbing condom, or go bareback if she’s tested. Wait for the switch to turn off, give or take a few minutes, and finish in your usual glory. Though, first time’s a bummer because the feeling comes back gradually. But, the slow buildup to the release makes it a reasonably good orgasm. Second time’s awesome, trust me.”
Time for my two cents. “Couldn’t agree more with you. Doesn’t matter if the girl’s a good lay or not, numbing condoms are perfect to fuck with low concentration. I only take slight breaks to catch my breath, readjust positions and pillows and sheets, or reach for my phone to register a business strat that crept up my mind. Baby girl won’t mind, not as long as you leave her in a sweaty, damp, breathless heap of afterglowy goodness. Resume, rinse, repeat. Fuck a whole lot while working very little.”
Aidan was stroking an imaginary beard. “Our mileage varies. I’m hard all the way, banging happily, but the downside is that the gel numbs me, tip-wise, almost to the point of complete loss of feeling.”
“Scoop some of the gel out before putting it on. Or switch from Trojans to Durex,” I offered. “Has anyone tried the Pjur Superhero Spray? Looks like repellant, why not make it sensual?” I waved my hand in the general direction of my groin. “That bottle scares the shit out of humongo.”
The joke didn’t fall flat. Boisterous chuckles and clinking of Baccarat Talleyrand tumblers followed. We definitely knew how to fuck like pornstars, not because we were born this way, but we educated ourselves about performance.
First stop was dinner at One Zero Zero, which was located in a Central Park West penthouse. Michelin did rate NYC, but this restaurant wasn’t featured in the guide. Too bad, really, because it would have gotten a big ol’ three stars.
I’d chosen this place for several reasons.
One, rather it wasn’t a classic restaurant but a luxuriously appointed penthouse less than ten minutes away from Times Square. There was one dinner table and one service, owned and operated by five high-end call girls. Two, they cooked, served, then polished off their guests. Male and female, mind you. There would be no bill by the end of the meal. The name said it all, for a dinner here you had to wire 100k to a Cayman Islands bank account. General word of mouth from European businessmen, an Italian ended up giving me the contact number. Given his origin, you can imagine he was heavily into the whole cooking and fucking scene. Ever met an Italian who wasn’t interested in an orgy à la Eyes Wide Shut? Wait, no, that’s very wrong. Ever met a man who wasn’t interested in an orgy à la Eyes Wide Shut? I had to hand it to Italians, or most French businessmen, for that matter. If smart American girls ran a business in Manhattan that involved all-time gourmet food and the solicitation of sex, they knew all about it, socioeconomic statuses aside.
Sounded too good to be true, maybe it was. Time to find out.
The girls welcomed us into their home with sultry smiles. The penthouse looked as stunning as the chicks, they didn’t have flapjacks of rouge on. Model looks without the silly, bland attitude. In fact, they all had a Master’s degrees and impressive CVs, another big turn-on. Balls of fire, truly, not because they talked as if they were educated but it showed in every move they made. Intellectually I knew they were good material for corporate America. First question I asked them was why they’d opted for this career path, and in their own words each one said they liked cooking and fucking without strings attached—without it being a chore. I told them it was a brilliant idea. My favorite answer was Natalie’s: “Sex is a cornerstone, a primary means by which men and women have continued to thrive upon each other for millions of years. It’s not solely about the procreation of a species, in fact, it’s not at all about that because procreation can be had by various artificial means. Sex is about realness.”
First things first. Being the perfect polite hostesses, they asked if any of us would like a blowjob before dinner, which, in itself, was nothing to sneeze at. Standing beside one another in a regal room with New York’s nightscape on display, each one of us raised a hand like a down-on-his-luck schoolboy wanting a freebie from the hot teacher. You should have seen it, like we were in a dimension of our own. The evening was the perfect combination of Quaalude and Novocain, worth the 100k I was shelling out for us to experience this, and that on a New Year’s Eve.
The blowjobs turned out to be hummers. Lovely ones at that, the best I’d ever had. God bless them. Most girls were clueless about this matter, so imagine my surprise at that, and at the bonus of her mouth functioning like an award-winning vacuum cleaner, one that’s right up there between Dyson and Miele. Jaw clenching with the decadent thrill of Elena’s memories, my knees wobbled and my vision darkened as I came.
“Was that okay?”
Summoning my kindness as Natalie lifted her head up to me, I met her gaze and smiled, “Best I’ve ever had, sweetheart.” I reached down, tentatively, the way one hesitates to touch an unfamiliar pet. “We’ll be doing this again, and more, after dinner, Natalie.”
To hear her addictive voice, I dialed Elena’s phone number while walking back to the living area. Bring out the treacly har-hars and tee-hees; she didn’t answer. Anyhow, it appeared that—in the kitchen—Natalie was better than a monkey. Let me clarify, coming from Amy Farrah Fowler’s objective standpoint, nowadays a trained monkey could make sashimi. A well trained simian, but a simian nonetheless. And I don’t say this apologetically.
Before I continue, for a moment—for the sake of the new year, let’s forget that the EU nations had decided to support a ban on international trade in Atlantic Bluefin tuna until stocks recovered. I know, driftnet fishing hurt our environment greatly, and
so I did support this treaty with heart and soul.
Now that that’s out of the way, back to sashimi and monkeys. Aidan made a similar observation: if a Japanese chef taught a preternaturally adult monkey the necessary knife skills, and then provided it with some fresh—and forbidden—tuna, you could have the best sashimi you could possibly dream of. Forbidden fruit tastes sweet, after all. Slicing fish is a meticulous job, sure, but it remains a technical job, not a creative one. Technique trumps creativity by far, take sex for example, but also, one cannot breathe without the other.
Natalie, who turned out to be a frigging walking wet dream, gave us a fine example of food evolution. By 2010, sashimi had moved beyond that sphere of being Japanese art. These days, the fish was dabbed or dipped or dolloped with Western-style sauces, and paired with exotic fruits and vegetables. Mark Twain’s cherimoya, Buddha’s hand, mangosteen, rambutan, kiwano, dragon fruit, carambola, jackfruit, and even jabuticaba had passed through the pipeline. Cheap sushi joints ridiculed good protein by using mayonnaise, and high-end joints all too often flavored their cuts with modernist foams, fancy vinaigrettes, and maximalist aerated emulsions. Through Natalie’s hands, the hamachi hors d’oeuvre hadn’t suffered. Demonstrating her knife skills at the wet bar, she explained that she’d learned cutting sashimi the hard way; alongside an entrenched Edomae chef who refused pairing any fish with modern technique and products. He taught her how to discover subtle nuances of texture and taste by bringing out the flavors in the fish without overwhelming it. In her repertoire were barrel-aged soy sauces, shiso-based marinades, different kinds of dashi flakes, and yuzu juice.
“Marry me, sweetheart,” I joked.
“Padlocking?” From behind the bar, she looked at me like I was durian.
The girls dined with us. Oysters Rockefeller were made the old-fashioned way, with absinthe and Tabasco sauce. Over seared foie gras and a bottle of Château d’Yquem Sauternes, the girls told us they preferred to forgo classic conversations—global warming, nuclear proliferation, natural disasters, emerging markets in China, EMP, dirty bombs, terrorism—in favor of describing the looks on some of their most memorable clients as they came during sex. Names of the horny buggers weren’t mentioned, evidently. A few of the positions they described could have made Hugh Heffner blush, but not us.
