PART TWO
One Martini, Two Martini, Three Martini…FLOOR!
Please join me for cocktails.
Where: The Drake Building, Penthouse Suite
When: This Friday
Time: 6:00 p. m.
Host: Kale Drake
Dear Dark Tales,
I read, and re-read the whimsical little card. It had to be delivered to my mailbox by mistake, so I turned around. I’d leave the invite with the concierge, Denny, who was manning the counter today. I knew he’d make sure it got to the correct building tenant.
Curious as to the intended partygoers, I flipped the festive invite over, and stopped dead in my tracks. 204-B was written on the back. The expression on my face probably resembled a round-mouthed trout. Hooked, I stood in the foyer of my building, trying to assure myself this invitation was actually for me.
For a moment, time ceased. I was aware that people were passing me by, but there I was, standing like a statue in tribute to dumfounded. It took a moment, but when my brain kicked into gear, one word kept popping up in my mind.
Why?
Why would real estate mogul, Kale Drake, be inviting me to anything? I didn’t run in his circles of the bold and the beautiful, or the powerful and the rich. His handsome face and million-dollar smile showed up in places like Fortune magazine, or on the local news stations during prominent events such as five-thousand dollar a plate charity dinners, and ribbon cutting ceremonies. I, on the other hand, kept to myself, and spent most of my time working in the archives for the Philadelphia Library. A big event for me was watching a movie, and chowing-down a burger from McDonald’s. The only reason I lived in the "Exclusive” Drake Building was due to my grandmother. When she passed, she left me enough money to purchase my one-bedroom, one-bath condo.
I gathered my wits, and made my way to the elevator. Embarrassed for standing in the middle of the building entry, looking like a cross between a moron and a landed fish. I shouldn’t allow the idea of someone like Kale Drake to send me back to my awkward days of being that self-conscious overweight girl with braces, but I felt out of my league, if I even had a league.
I swiped my tongue over my teeth. No braces. They’d been gone for years. Staring at my distorted reflection bouncing back at me from the polished steel elevator doors, I reconfirmed that I had indeed long passed the fat girl stage. So why did I feel like one?
Overwhelmed, I pressed the button for the second floor, and glared at the numbers on the panel that led up to the penthouse. While I knew exactly who Kale was, as did probably anybody who lived in the building or even most, if not all, of Philadelphia, I’d never actually met him face-to-face.
When the doors to the elevator opened, I stepped in. If there was one thing I did know for sure, the invitation would be the cause of several sleepless nights, trying to decide if I had enough guts to go to the one place I’d never dreamed of going before: The top floor.
Sincerely,
Roslyn Sumter
The Top Floor
Looking into the mirror I purchased last month from the Antique Barn at the flea market, hate was the word that came to mind. I hated my hair. It was out of control, and fiery red. Combing my fingers through it, and grumbling to myself under my breath, I decided this mess of curls was my nemesis. I’d fought with it my entire life, and somehow, no matter what I did, my adversary always seemed to win the war.
I grabbed some hairpins from my vanity drawer, twisted my hair up off my shoulders, and pinned it. But I knew from experience, before the night was over, one or two wavy stragglers would escape down my face and back, putting an end to the upsweep, and ruin any hope I had for looking sophisticated.
With my hair in place for the moment, I applied the last of my make-up, swiping gloss over the pink-passion color upon my lips, then put on the only dressy outfit I owned. A pink party dress with extra panache, overflowing with sequins, sleeveless, and cut short to above my knees. I wore it for my cousin’s Hollywood-themed wedding last year, and figured it would be good enough to pass for a cocktail dress.
Trying to control the elephants that were on a stampede in my stomach, I took a deep breath, sucked in my tummy, straightened my shoulders, and walked to the door of my apartment, where I stopped.
Can I do this?
I wasn’t going to know anyone at the cocktail party, not even the host. And if I somehow pulled off the good guest routine by mingling, looking interested in the conversations that were taking place, and hopefully adding something interesting or pithy to the tete-a-tete, how did I overcome the awkwardness that I always felt in social situations?
Don’t be a coward, Roslyn.
Easier thought than done. When it came to being the life of the party, that wasn’t me.
The last event I attended was my cousin’s bachelorette soiree, and the only reason I went was her threat of never speaking to me again if I didn’t show. Guilt got me there. A few drinks kept me from leaving, and those drinks on an empty stomach had me passing out while one of the male strippers shook his oversized package in my face. I don’t know how long I was actually out, but coming around, the room spun in time with the disco ball twirling on the ceiling. I swiped my crazed damp curls from my face, feeling hotter than a clam at a clambake as the bride-to-be, and her bridesmaids, crowded in around me. The next thing I knew, I tossed my cookies on the naked, hunky guy trying to pick my sweaty, limp body up off the floor. It wasn’t one of my better social moments, but I did learn a valuable lesson. Never drink on an empty stomach.
Reaching, I watched my shaking hand go for the doorknob. "Stop it. You need to do this, and not be such a recluse," I said to no one but me. Then I mustered up an ounce of courage, turned the knob, and stepped over my threshold.
****
I almost ran out of the elevator, but when a crowd of people entered, I scooted to the back corner. They thwarted my escape. Wedged in, I listened to them laugh and talk about their upcoming dinner plans, and when they cleared out on the fifth floor, I wanted to walk out with them, but I held myself in place, and watched the doors close. With a sense of panic, I counted the floors as the red numbers on the display changed. I came to a stop, and heard the bell ding. I stood there, completely still, and saw the doors open, giving me a narrow view onto the top floor of The Drake. This was it. I either stepped out, or hit the button for the second floor in retreat. The temptation to return to the quiet safety of my apartment pulled me forward like the polarized end of a magnet toward the panel. I reached out, put the tip of my finger on the 2, and….
A man popped his blond head inside the elevator. "I’m assuming you’re here for the party?”
I nodded.
“Well, come on," he said and held out a hand. For some reason, I took it. "I’m Shane West, Mr. Drake’s personal assistant. And you are?”
We walked into a plush lobby area, with a door looming a few more steps away.
“Roslyn Sumter," I said.
“Ah, yes. You are the lovely lady who resides in 204-B. Mr. Drake is eager to meet you."
“Me? Are you sure this whole invitation wasn’t some sort of mistake?”
He smiled. "There was no mistake."
“But why does Mr. Drake want to meet me?”
“I’m quite sure he will tell you."
Shane didn’t knock on the door. He just turned the knob, and walked us into the penthouse. I didn’t think I was late, but it looked as if the party had already started.
****
I was trying to blend in. Circulate. Look as if I belonged. And while I mingled, I kept an eye out for the host of this shindig, but didn’t see him. With a martini in hand, I glanced around the spacious living area then peeked out the open balcony doors. It was as I suspected. I didn’t know anyone. Well, I sort of knew Shane, but I couldn’t glom onto him all night just because he was nice and escorted me in. Besides, he was busy with the wait staff, the bartender, and the D. J.
I decided to spend some time on the balcony, and wat
ch the sun set over the city. I took a seat, and sipped on my drink as the sky turned into brilliant shades of orange-pink dusk. Mesmerized by the beauty of the evening, and rather content to be sitting alone, I lost myself until the music interrupted the tranquility.
I glanced around, and saw Shane. We made eye contact, so I waived him over.
“Are you having a good time, Ms. Sumter?”
“Yes, but I must confess I need to find the ladies’ room so I can freshen up."
“This way," he said. I rose to my feet, sat my empty martini glass on one of the side tables, and followed him. We went down a fancy, dark paneled hallway, and then stopped. "You can use the bathroom in Mr. Drake’s study. It will be more private." I liked private. "Just continue down the hall and take the last door on your right. You’ll know you’re in the study by all the books. Then look for the arch, and pass through it. Make another right. That’s the bathroom door."
“Okay. Thanks."
“Not a problem," Shane said and scampered off.
I started on my journey to the bathroom. It was like falling down the rabbit hole and ending up in an alternative universe. A universe where public displays of affection drifted into public displays of dry-fucking. Several people were making-out in the hallway. Mouths, tongues, hands, and a lot of grabbing took place as I passed. One couple was grinding up against each other with the bareness of the lady’s thigh pressed against her companion’s hand. I actually caught a glimpse of her light blonde bush playing peek-a-boo from beneath her hiked up dress. Obviously, she had an aversion to underwear, and waxing.
I breathed a sigh of relief when I found the door, opened it, and saw shelf after shelf of books. This had to be the study. Stepping inside, I closed the door behind me. The music, that was bumping, had muffled. I glanced around, and saw the arch to the bathroom. I tried not to be snoopy, but all those books called my name. Ignoring the arch, I walked down one of the stacks, tracing my finger over the bindings. It was like being in the library, only a scaled-down version of where I worked. I plucked The Island of Doctor Moreau by H. G. Wells off the shelf, leafed through a few pages, enjoying the scent of old parchment, and placed it back.
When I rounded the corner, I almost ran smack-dab into a huge walnut-looking desk. I started to walk away, but….
“I see you’ve found your note," a deep voice said.
My head shot up. Kale Drake was standing in the middle of the room, dressed in a pitch-black suit, looking at me lurking beside his desk, with a paper in my hand.
“I suppose you are wondering how I came into possession of it?”
Stupefied, I nodded.
“I saw you get out of your car in the lower parking garage last week, and in your haste, you dropped it. I picked it up, and tried to catch your attention, but you had already entered the elevator. When I called out, ‘Ms. ’, the doors had closed."
“I’ve been wondering what happened to this list," I said with a wobbly sounding voice. "It was something stupid I scribbled down over my lunch hour."
“Making a wish list isn’t stupid."
“I guess that depends on the list."
“After reading it, I was intrigued, and had to know who the beautiful, voluptuous, redhead was, so I asked Denny at the front desk. He told me your name, and that you lived in 204-B."
“You asked about me?”
“I hope you don’t mind."
“Um. No. I don’t mind."
“Good, because I’m pleased to finally meet you, Roslyn Sumter. I’m Kale Drake."
“I know who you are," I said.
He grinned. "I hope to become better acquainted."
“You do?”
“Quite," he said. "And I thought we’d start by you reading me item eight, nine, and ten on your list."
Instantly, I felt my neck and cheeks turn hot. I’m sure Kale could see the blush that overtook my skin.
“I can’t do that," I said.
“You can. Number eight," he said in a stern but sexy voice.
“I-I." I stuttered and glared at the words I’d written on the page.
"Eight. I want to hear number eight."
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, and considered bolting. Quickly, I blurted out, "I wish I could find a man to take control."
“Very good, Roslyn. Now number nine," he said.
What the hell. Just do it.
I kept my eyes welded to the paper in my hand. "I wish I could find a man to make me come in earth shattering, multiple orgasms."
“Ten."
“I wish I could find a man who wanted me so bad, that he couldn’t see straight."
“I’m that man," Kale said. And I realized he was standing right beside me as he said it. "Tonight, we’re going to mark a few items off that wish list of yours."
I pulled my nose from the paper in my hand, and looked at him. His beautiful chestnut eyes bore through me, and in that moment, as crazy as it sounds, I knew I’d do anything Kale Drake wanted.
“Okay," I mumbled.
Kale swiped his hand down my bare arm, and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear his touch charred me to the bone. "Are you wearing panties?”
“Yes."
“Remove them," he said.
Watching him, watch me, I tucked my hands under my dress, grabbed the sides of my tiny pink panties, and tugged, stepping one foot out of them followed by the other.
“Drop them on the floor, put your fine-looking ass on the edge of my desk, and spread your legs for me."
I hesitated for a moment, and then did it.
“Spread wider."
I lifted my dress above my thighs, and spread for him.
“Take your hands, and open your pussy for me."
Heat washed over me again. I imagine I was blushing from head to toe, but I did it. I teetered my ass on the edge of his desk, reached down, and spread myself with my hand for him.
Kale loosened his tie, took off his suit coat, and dropped it. "Stunning," he said. He reached over me, tugged out his desk drawer, and pulled a small black box from it. When he flipped the lid open, I saw inside. It was a silver clamp with dark blue beads hanging from it, and alongside of it sat a dark blue plug. My eyes had to have widened. Kale plucked the clamp from the box, kneeled between my legs, and began to stroke my exposed clit with his thumb.
I almost lost my composure. My right hand grabbed onto the edge of the desk. He took over the job of spreading me apart with one hand, placed the clamp to his lips to hold it, and kept rubbing my hooded nub.
“Your little clit likes this," he said in a mumble, speaking around the device between his lips. I couldn’t speak, but I moaned.
Kale rolled my flesh between his fingers. He placed the clamp on the desk, and licked me in long strokes of his tongue, plunging the tip into my tight hole, then working my clit in swirls, followed by nibbles. I closed my eyes and went with the sensations, then jittered when I felt something unyielding. He had placed the clamp onto my excited clitoris.
“Bend over the desk, and give me your ass."
When I stood up from the desk, my legs were shaking, but when the weight of the beads that were attached to the clamp dropped, they pulled at me in a way that made me tremble from within my stomach.
“I think I need to come," I said.
“When I say you can, you will. Bend over the desk, Roslyn."
I laid my torso over the desk, bare ass up, and before I could even blink Kale’s tongue worked my dark hole. I cried out in pleasure, but when he fingered me, the sensation changed to a deep stretching that I’d never experienced. In and out he plunged into my forbidden orifice, and when I thought I couldn’t take it, something slick and cool persuaded me to keep on going. I reached back, and grabbed my ass cheek, giving him even more of me. As soon as I submitted myself to him, I felt the pressure of him inserting the plug into my ass.
“Holy smokes," I said, breathless. He flicked the beads on the clamp, and twisted the plug at the same time. "Oh, fuck!”<
br />
“Now," he said. "You are going to give me a hand job."
I stood up, turned around, and observed Kale unzip his slacks. I reached in, and palmed his balls. He groaned. The sound was fantastic. I took him, and curled my fingers around his hard shaft, stroking up and down, paying attention to squeeze the head of his cock. With each pump of my hand, he got harder. Then he stopped me.
“Later," he said. "For now, you are going to accompany me to the party."
“Like this?”
“Yes."
“But, I can’t go out there like this."
“You can, and you will. Straighten yourself up, and together, we will attend the party, Roslyn."
****
I’d accompanied Kale to the party, walking rather stiffly, and feeling the building of need gather within my sex as he introduced me to people. After two more martinis, and God knows how many more introductions, I wondered if I would ever find the release I required. To my amazement, any social anxiety disappeared. It was replaced by sexual need, and my attempt to act normal with a plug up my ass, and a clamp dangling between my legs.
At two a. m. the penthouse cleared out. Shane was the last to leave, staying to make sure everyone who needed a cab ride home, had one. And when he left, Kale and I were finally alone.
“Kale," I said. "I really need—”
“To come," he said.
“Yes. Please don’t make me wait any longer."
Kale scooped me up, and carried me to his leather couch where he sat me down. He heeled off his dress shoes, bent over, and tugged off his black socks. Next, he took off his shirt, and smiled at me. It was that million-dollar smile I’d seen plastered across his face while watching him on TV. His black coffee-colored hair with mocha highlights looked tousled. And all I could think about was how totally gorgeous he was, with a washboard stomach, and biceps I wanted to lick. But when he removed his pants, I saw the enormity of something else I wanted to lick.
“Lift your arms," he said. So I lifted them. He pulled my dress up over my head, and off. He kissed my cleavage, removed my bra, pressed my breasts together, and took turns suckling my aroused nipples. "Lay back, Roslyn, but leave your heels on. I want to play."
Dark Tales Diaries: Volume Two Page 3
