He threw her onto the couch and she turned around and backed her buttocks to him. He parted her ample buttocks and stroked her anus with his tongue. He applied some lubricant onto it and then slid his massive erection into it. Her anus was accustomed to his now, and he slipped in effortlessly. He pushed his whole length into her and pushed her intestines back flat against her thorax. She panted for breath and cried. ‘Oh God! Fuck you! Son of a bitch! Yeah! I love it! Yeah, give it to me baby! Oh shit!’
Afterwards, she lay in his arms and affectionately stroked the curly hairs of his chest. ‘I love you so much I can’t explain it,’ she said seriously. ‘It is criminal to have these feelings for somebody.’
He kissed her lips and looked into her eyes. He gave her a smile that told her how much she meant to him. ‘I love you, baby.’
‘Do you mean that?’ she asked in a tiny voice. ‘I mean…do you really, really love me the way I love you, Jay?’
‘I do,’ he said, stroking her long blonde hair. ‘I love you, baby. I want to be with you. There’s nobody else for me in this life.’
Joelyn lay back down on the couch and stroked his stomach muscles. She was content to be just there with him, in a world of their own.
Chapter 4
SAUDI ARABIA/AMERICA
He sat at the edge of the bed and watched her sleeping peacefully.
Sleeping beauty. He had known Joseph Vermuelen while the man was alive. In fact, they had been involved in business together once. While Joseph Vermuelen had had the kind of face to make even the most courageous baby burst out in cries of protest, he had somehow performed a miracle by producing an extremely gorgeous child indeed. Jansen Vermuelen was a wondrous gem, possessing the kind of facial beauty that did not need artificial enhancements. Her body was lean, firm; an athlete’s body. He watched her sleeping face and thoroughly enjoyed the feeling that washed over him.
Jansen. Beautiful Jansen. She was his. No, not yet. She had given herself to him but it was a superficial offering, just a remedy to stem the sudden rush of blood in their bodies. She was not yet his, of that he was certain. He wanted her to be his. His and only his. He wanted to possess her and make her his own.
She stirred and awakened. He smiled and stroked her left cheek. She gave him a wan smile.
‘I want to marry you,’ he said, looking deep into her eyes.
‘Wrong choice of words,’ Jansen said to the prince’s son, looking at his dark, exotic eyes and marveling at his permanent tan. ‘I can’t marry you. You’re forty-two. I’m twenty-one. It just won’t work.’
He was hurt, but he fought hard not to betray that emotion. ‘You don’t love me?’
‘No,’ she said and sat up. It was true. She did not love him. The romance with him was driven in a large part by her sexual longing, and she had also been intrigued by the Arab prince and his exotic world. Although she had offered her body fully and freely to him for his pleasure, she had not opened her heart to him. Ever since she had been betrayed by Byron Taylor, Jansen was very cautious about exposing her heart to people. At times it was difficult to control the power of love, but with the prince’s son in particular, she found it easy to be emotionally detached.
At one time, when she found some time off her busy schedule, the Saudi prince’s son had flown with her in his Gulfstream G650 luxury private jet to the Gulf, where he took her on a tour of the family palace. They watched a display of the palace kestrels. They rode on camel backs across a short strip of the desert and drank from an oasis said to have healing powers. He took her around town to meet his extended family, and by the time introductions were over her head was reeling with all the names told to her. There were several sisters, brothers, nephews, nieces, aunts, uncles, children…and all their names sounded the same! There was a special feast prepared in her honor at the family palace on the eve of their departure for the US. The people gathered there, all of them related to the prince’s son in some way or another, were so plenty that five professional chefs had been imported from France to prepare food for everyone.
In New York, the prince’s son lived in an expensive apartment in the Chelsea area of Manhattan. It was a top-floor condominium with breathtaking views of the city. It was decorated in an Arabian style interspersed with Oriental themes. Jansen fell hopelessly in love with the exotic décor and enjoyed spending some of her nights there with her Arab prince. She was sitting on a large bed inside that apartment now, breaking the heart of her Arab prince.
The prince’s son was wealthy. His family controlled the oil riches of Saudi Arabia. In his country, he could have had any woman he wanted, but he preferred Western women. He had been with supermodels, American actresses, Hollywood starlets, and influential politicians’ daughters. All of them had been wild fun, but none of them had stirred him enough – either emotionally or intellectually – to think seriously about marriage. In fact, it was now a quietly accepted conclusion in Saudi Arabia that the 42-year-old heir would never marry. Within his immediate family, however, there was increasing pressure for the patriarch’s heir to find a wife and give her children to perpetuate the family dynasty.
For the first time in the later part of his life, the prince’s heir-apparent thought that he had found the perfect wife to produce beautiful children with. And here she was, rejecting his marriage proposal. The prince’s son was so used to having his way with people it was actually a shock to be refused by Jansen. He asked her why she did not love him and she provided him with an answer he could not fully comprehend. It was a lucid enough explanation by Jansen, but his numbed brain fuddled up the information and processed it inadequately.
Shock was a natural reaction for a man who, apart for a few instances, had never been rejected by a woman. He had gone through his life breaking women’s hearts. Now that the tables were turned, he found the pain and humiliation unbearable, more so because he had fallen hopelessly in love with Jansen. The heart always yearns for that which it cannot possess.
He sighed deeply and stared at her. His heart skipped a beat with the realization of how truly beautiful she was. Those blue eyes…that perfect nose…those sensuous full lips…And she did not belong to him…He choked back tears, and when he spoke, it was in the voice of a wounded man. ‘Why don’t you love me, Jansen? I’m ready to give my heart to you, my life…everything. I will be your servant. I am completely possessed by you. I don’t care if you don’t love me. Just marry me, please.’
‘I repeat,’ said Jansen in a calm but firm voice. ‘My hand has healed. I’ve decided it’s time for me to pick up my racket and go back to playing tennis. It’s the only thing I’ve ever known. And frankly, I don’t want to get married to everyone. I’ve some personal scores to settle with the game and I don’t want to be distracted by family issues.’
Chapter 5
AMERICA
After a whirlwind romance whose duration was limited to precisely two weeks, Joelyn Smith, Hollywood star, and Jason Kane, multi-millionaire professional baseball player, decided they loved each other enough to certify the existence of their love by obtaining a legal document to confirm this. They got married on the 14th of February under a very thick shroud of secrecy so spectacular the media only learned of it when the couple was already in Greece for their two-day honeymoon. While they were there, in America a bidding war by multi-national publishing companies raged over the rights to publish the Jo S – JK wedding pictures. The two stars’ respective agents could give no conclusive response to the magazine companies as the two stars-of-the-moment had switched off the phones. However, when they returned, they gave the rights to publish their wedding photos to Vogue magazine for an undisclosed sum, but it was rumored to be in the region of $3,5 million, which they both, by mutual agreement, donated to a charity organization of Joelyn’s choice.
When the night of the Academy Awards ceremony for 2012 arrived, Joelyn – affectionately known by the nickname Jo S – stepped onto the red carpet dressed in a flowing light-blue gown made by Oscar de la Renta. T
he fans, standing behind the security barriers, screamed, “Jo S! Jo S! Jo S!”
Lights flashed. The cameras snapped. TV cameras zoomed on her and anchor-personnel stuck their microphones in her face, demanding to know who the young man in an immaculate Armani suit with her was. She told them that the 16-year-old boy was a friend of hers whose dream she was making come true by bringing him to the Oscars. He was one of the children at a charity home in Brooklyn, New York, sponsored by her husband, Jason Kane, who couldn’t make it to Los Angeles for the Oscars due to commitments to Yankees activities. The live feed was instantly broadcast to millions of television viewers around the world. As intended by Brand Jo S’s PR people, the public was touched by that act of generosity and humanity. That night, Joelyn Smith did the public – a large section of whom adored this young woman who had come from nowhere to become America’s darling – even more proud by picking up an Oscar for Best Supporting Actress in the Chris Woodyard action-drama.
Later that night, Joelyn attended an “after-party” at a nightclub that had been booked weeks in advance and was closed to uninvited guests that evening. Joelyn got drunk on premium quality alcohol and high on premium quality cocaine. In the morning, she woke up in her hotel suite at the Beverley Hills Hilton with sparse recollection of the previous night. It was 10.09am. She had a severe headache. She was hungry. But most of all, she was alone on the bed and lonely in the hotel room suite.
When she went to the bathroom, the suite came alive with voices, and Joelyn discovered that five people who were on her payroll were there with her. They had taken their dangerously drunken boss the previous night from the after-party venue and transported her in a black limousine to the Hilton. Upon her specific instructions, they ordered room service now to bring her breakfast and a bottle of Dom Perignon premium rosé. When the food came, she banished all her people out of the suite. She gulped down half a glass of the rosé and felt her body return to life. She attacked the food ravenously and washed it down with the red wine. When it was empty she picked up the phone and ordered room service to bring another one.
When her husband arrived after 2pm, she had just opened her third bottle and was standing with her back to the door, pouring the rosé into a glass. Jason Kane stood at the door and smiled. ‘Hey, beautiful.’
Joelyn’s heart skipped a beat with excitement when she heard that voice. She spun around so quickly the action made her dizzy. She staggered and both the bottle and glass, held in each hand, slipped from her hand and crashed onto the floor. She recovered quickly and jumped over the shattered mess to run to him, but stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the look in his face.
He was staring at her with a look changing from curiosity to disdain. ‘You’re drunk.’
A fiercely embarrassed look covered her face. ‘Please don’t be angry with me. I was lonely…I...I…’ She choked on her words and suddenly burst into tears.
He stepped forward and pulled her into his arms. He pressed her head to his shoulder and gently stroked her hair. ‘Ssh. Don’t cry. I’m here, baby.’
‘I missed you, Jason,’ she sobbed.
‘I’m here, baby. I’m here. Flew outta New York as soon as I could. I’m here now. You don’t have to cry no more.’
She pulled back from him and wiped the tears from her face. ‘Do you know how much I love you?’ she asked in a small, childish voice.
‘I do,’ he answered compassionately, taking her small, soft hands inside his. ‘I love you too, baby, a lot.’
She fell up against his big frame and hugged him strongly. ‘Oh Jason! I’d die without you!’
They held each other like that for a while until their bodies communicated the need for sexual gratification. She dropped her hand down to his belt and unfastened it. She slid down his body and pulled his pants down his legs. His penis dangled in weak form between his legs. She took it in her mouth and it awakened. She wet its head and stroked it with her tongue for a while. Gradually it grew in size until it was standing at full turgidity. She threw back her head and stared with amazed eyes at the sheer strength and size of the thing. It was formidable when erect. It was no longer the pathetic little worm it had been moments ago. It was now a massive, thick slab of brown chocolate, and it was all because of her skill…
She rose to her feet and pulled off her blouse, exposing her naked breasts. He loved them. They were round, firm and natural. ‘My pussy’s hot, wet and ready for you,’ she invited him with naughty eyes.
He placed his hands on her waist and lifted her up. She giggled and wrapped her legs around his body. She threw back her head as he sucked on her taut nipples. He kicked his trousers off his feet and carried her to the bed. He placed her down and she frantically pulled off her shorts and spread her legs open. Her vagina was shaven smooth. Tattooed right above it in black ink were the words: JK’s Property.
Jason frowned quizzically at her. ‘When did you get it done?’
‘Day before yesterday. It’s my gift to JK.’
He laughed out aloud in amusement. JK was her nickname for his penis. He lowered himself to his knees before her proffered fruit. He cupped her buttocks in his hands and buried his head between her thighs. He took her vagina in his mouth and stroked it vigorously with his mouth. He licked it and prodded inside it with his tongue until she clasped his big head and commanded him onto her. He clapped shut her thighs and sliced his muscular rod into her cleft. He cut into her and she exploded in cries of pleasure…
Chapter 6
SOUTH AFRICA
In March of 2012, Jansen Vermuelen finished shooting the remaining episodes of her twice-weekly reality programme for ESPN. Free from contractual obligations for the moment, and unencumbered by romantic liaisons, she took a trip alone to her motherland and stayed at her late father’s Sandhurst mansion, where for a week she did some soul-searching and tried to figure out her future with regards to the sport of tennis. Her half-brother, Hudson Vermuelen, divided his time between the Sandhurst mansion and his Sandton apartment, but for the first time in five days of her visit he stayed with her at the Sandhurst house before a business trip took him to Cape Town.
In Johannesburg, Jansen took her brother’s Porsche Cayenne S Turbo and drove it to Heidelberg. Heidelberg is a peri-urban area that lies to the south of Johannesburg. Gary Speckman lived there with his partner. Speckman, a brutally honest character with a controlled temper, had married young and produced two children with a wife who incessantly berated his love of tennis, continually reminding him that he was not cut out to be a tennis star and actually applauding when at thirty-five he retired from the game altogether and took up full-time employment at an industrial firm in Liverpool, where he had been born in 1962.
For the following years he toiled for what he regarded as a pittance, determined to put his two children, both boys, at university. He had sacrificed his love of tennis for his children’s future. By 2003, Speckman had saved enough money to send his children to good universities in England, but his eldest son, eighteen years old and having just sat for his A-level examinations, stunned his parents into disbelief by going into modeling and taking up residence with a 25-year-old man who was his lover. Two years later, their second son, born in 1987, turned eighteen and celebrated his birthday amongst a group of British troops he was stationed with in a province of Afghanistan, after being trained in military operations by the British army, which he had joined at the age of sixteen. Two days after celebrating his eighteenth birthday the boy died after a roadside bomb detonated and sent the military van he was in with other soldiers flying into the air and landing on its roof, after throwing mangled bodies all around its immediate surroundings.
Speckman buried his child, wrote a strongly-worded letter to then-Prime Minister Tony Blair giving him a piece of his mind about both the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, divorced his wife and left the United Kingdom for good – in that order. With the money remaining after the divorce by mutual consent from his wife of 21 years, Speckman went to South Af
rica and opened a tennis academy in Johannesburg. A year later Ugly Joe Vermuelen, the bad boy of South African business, hired Speckman to train his daughter tennis. In 2010 Speckman had helped Jansen Vermuelen to the US Open victory. In 2011 they had parted ways.
Speckman had taken his savings that had accumulated over the years while training the young Vermuelen talent and used some of the money to buy a mid-sized landholding in Lanseria, where he kept horses and other animals. While it remained a mystery to Jansen how her trainer of many years had taken care of his sexual needs over all the years that they had maintained a working relationship, in Lanseria he lived with a strong-boned White South African woman with a badly spotted face he had met on a dating site and with whom he shared a passion for country living.
In 2012, Jansen Vermuelen had returned to South Africa to ask Gary Speckman to train her again. ‘I don’t want to call it a miracle, but my wrist has fully healed. I’ve been going to the Middle East, where a doctor practicing medieval medicine used acupuncture on the wrist. My doctor in America was impressed when he scanned my hand for signs of internal damage and found them to be fully operational.
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