by JR King
I’d started to wonder why girls always complicated everything. What did they need? What did they want? I’d even wondered about my cock, measured it, and then wondered some more. If only someone had told me I needed to reach puberty for it to grow fuller, it would have saved me the sweat-drenched trouble. Gotta love research, though. When it did start growing, I did my exercises and made sure it grew fully.
Try as I may, materializing fantasies, this particular fantasy remained untouched. The one fantasy I’d kept to myself, hidden in the far corners of my mind. All these years I held onto it in some variation or another, reminding myself that there’s always room for improvement as to what’s socially acceptable and what’s not for the human condition. But for the desk, it was nothing fancy, though. In a large and empty room, there was a desk made from Bianco Carrera marble and inlaid stainless steel. It had that flowing vein pattern, the angles wrapping around the edges. I sat behind it. Light reflected off the shimmery surface and revealed the smooth polish of the stone. The walls were white, the space itself clean but cold. A knock went on, I hit an oversized button that looked more like the placebo button at a pedestrian crossing, and the door opened. All the girls entered at once, all wore only black underclothes, all standing straight with their arms at their sides and their legs tucked together. Almost like the nostalgic trace of a sexy dance audition.
The first girl I studied stirred nothing within me. All shy smile and pink cheeks, she stood quietly before me, alert but entirely complacent. I didn’t touch her, I just took a few seconds to give her the once-over. I decided I didn’t want to play with her, moved on to the second one, but not before dismissing her. I decided I didn’t want the second girl either, and so on and so forth. It took me quite a short while to continue down the row, looking them over and dismissing them one by one. I spent a little extra time examining one or two I thought were pretty and I dismissed the ugly ones without even glancing at them. Very Ford Models type of audition.
As the dream would have it, amid the twenty girls or so, I found one I thought was reasonably pretty. The generous sweep of her dark eyelashes, its improbably long curve fluttering, enraptured me. The width of her mouth combined with a symmetrical fullness of her lips made for a beautiful pout to them. Her eyes were an unusual shade of blue, verging on the edge of green, and unlike most people’s eyes, they weren’t unforgettable. Her celestial nose was perfectly straight and symmetrical, the ogee curve of her cheekbones unclassically high. Her, I did touch. Sized up her bony shoulders and her nearly flat chest as I completed my inspection.
After one good glance at her face, I decided she was the girl I wanted to play with. Having discharged the rest of the girls, I faced her. No chatter, and she looked me straight in the eyes, which was something that ultimately had great impact on me. Until the day of today, I disliked clumsy girls who couldn’t look me in the eyes. Obviously Elena learned that the hard way.
I leaned down and pulled the girl’s mouth onto mine, which was—as expected—godawful. I couldn’t bend her to my will, and somehow ended up shoving my tongue into her mouth, brandishing it around like I was trying to reach the last bit of Nutella at the bottom of the jar with a rubbery and slippery object. Unattractive, overzealous tongue probing was the biggest letdown in my fantasy, so I knew I had to improve. I bought nice things for the room, ridiculously expensive flowers and chocolates I thought the candidates might like, and started all over again.
Months went by, the dream kept coming, and as I got older and gained tentative sexual experience, the fantasy became more explicit. Better said, it started defining me. The room and with it the requirement of a line of girls to be examined and dismissed remained the same, but the slutty tweens morphed into recent classmates. For the dream’s purpose, the chosen girl was generally the one who had a crush on me, following me around like a little lost kitty. That I had a crush on her didn’t matter, only her physique and behavior did.
When I got to my early teens, the winner in my dream started giving me a handjob. Hey, it had to happen. She looked fascinated as I unbuckled my jeans and splayed its front wide open, pulling my white briefs down. There wasn’t much pleasure, just enthrallment with the way the boys and girls dynamic operated. The yin and yang of sex. And, I did immensely enjoy exercising power over someone who was trying to please me; I was the master and she was my slave.
For all its pragmatism, change came in these dream fantasies. I’d barely hit puberty when my chosen girl found herself pushed up against the wall and got dry humped right there in the white room with red roses. With no control in my PC muscles and no knowledge whatsoever of Kegel exercises, yeah, I came faster than Speedy Gonzales moves.
Sadism started accompanying the dreams in junior high. Radical change, perhaps because I’d been fully educated about sex and in real life I had numerous girlfriends. How it occurred I couldn’t say, but now in the fantasy, a real life girlfriend—the prettiest and the one I had a crush on at that time—would stand at my side as I oversaw the audition processions. But wait, there’s more, the room was full of boys in white briefs rather than girls in black panties, perfectly lined up like dolls. With my alpha ego, what I went for was the most undesirable boy in my current class. Needless to say, the rules of attraction were classified according to size-me-up standards: kids understand best that physical attributes are Mother Nature’s scheme.
Almost always I ended up choosing a fat, dumb boy with birth-control glasses, pimpled and flaky skin, stained braces, and greasy hair. Cherry on top; he had skunk breath and smelled like piss. By making my girlfriend touch him, he served several useful purposes. She, as I estimated, ended up being terribly grossed out, and kept swearing she’d never look at another boy. Writing over all consent to me, if she cried louder when I forced her to touch him, then all the better. In my fantasy, after the forced touching of the hunched shoulder and the chubby belly, my girlfriend was rewarded some material good and, in real life too. Naturally, she had no idea why I’d done extra chores around the house, slaving the entire week to scrape together all the money I could earn after school to buy her the most expensive thing that was relevant to her at that time.
If ever, in my fantasy, I saw signs that my real life girlfriend enjoyed touching the chosen boy, she was up for punishment. I usually broke it off and made her time spent in class nightmarishly unbearable. Then came high school, and my audition fantasy saw all sorts of erotic teasing, dirty kissing, deep-throat blowjobs, and well…penetration. Once this happened, I feared I’d be left looking like a fool my first time. I wanted to be schooled about the trappings of sex by an experienced woman. The dream died down when Valerie taught me how to make love to a woman, and by the time she and I were through, I felt man enough to take the next step and explore sex with girls my age.
“…I might whirl back into your lives sooner than expected,” Elena snickered. Even with the smorgasbord of dishes—the Gravlax, the French pastries, the egg white omelets with green, yellow, and red peppers, the pumpkin scones, the blueberry pancakes; chocolate chip ones for me, I presumed—I wasn’t hungry. For the first time I wondered if Elena was playing me, if she was in cahoots with her grandparents.
Elena Anderson
The Cohabitation Catalyst
Charismatic hardness on face in tact, Alexander eased himself into the high chair angled across from me.
“Good morning, Alex,” I tried softly, toying with a blueberry.
“Mornin’, babe.” The collar of his Kiton tattersall woven dress shirt was undone, and he tore at it.
Grandma carefully carried a filled espresso cup to the island. “You kids enjoy breakfast. I’m off to a yoga class, and Frank has to stop by one of his restaurants.” A clink of porcelain on marble echoed when she set the cup down.
Grandpa came up to me and stroked my hair back like he always did. “She’s a precious kid, Alex. You’d better not mistreat my little girl.” He bent down to touch his nose to mine. There was a wildly annoying buzz of awkwar
dness in the room. I watched grandpa open the cabinet door under the sink to pull out the towel rack, hang the dishtowel over the bar and leave.
I wiped at invisible specks of dust on the island’s surface and watched my coffee’s faint vapor become less visible. We drank in silence. I reached for a mini pain au chocolat and Alexander grabbed a mini croissant. A cold draft was coming from the half-open kitchen window and I shivered. Somewhere in the distance, a dog gave slow, stuttered barks, and other usual morning noises seeped through the opening.
I speared a strawberry and stuck it in my mouth. We ate in harrowing silence, silverware clanking on tableware. It was then that I realized the refrigerator barely hummed.
Breaking the quietness with a conversational tone, Alexander asked, “A little bird told me that you might soon whirl back into their lives?”
Joylessly, I ate a couple more bites of fruit, thinking over my answer. To be honest, I was tired of apologizing. Fresh out of retorts, my voice oozed sarcasm when I spoke. “If you’ve already made up your mind, then there’s no point in me trying to explain myself,” was all I could bring myself to jeer.
I got up, quick-stepped to the other end of the room, opened the backdoor and decamped, careful to shut it behind me to keep the cold out. A chilly breeze slapped me in the face as the wind whistled past, whipping at my hair. Grayness was cast over the city, and it was damn cold. The brutal, dry air of early February carried little hints of snow, but mostly more of the sub-freezing temperature the city had been experiencing for weeks. Although it snuck under my sweater and frosted my breath, I didn’t give a flying fuck.
The chilly breeze resurged and I pulled up the collar of my sweater so the wind couldn’t find entrance to my bare neck. I rubbed my palms together for warmth. I felt lost. I was where I wanted to be, with the man I desired most, but I hated his mood swings.
I looked at the backyard, which was enclosed by an imperial wooden fence, the space itself pretty large for glamorous garden parties. The layout was simple and beautiful. The right side corner was dedicated to thickets of greenery, the one on left side chockfull of gardening plots that were trellised with wild flowers. In summer, the vegetable and fruit plots had aubergines in delicate whites and blacks, feathery pale green kale, seductive pear tomatoes swaying elegantly, and capsicum flushed a dark shade of red. I was picturing grandpa in his Wellington boots when the door opened and creaked shut. I heard footsteps shuffling behind me. Warm, muscular arms enveloped me, a hard body pressing against my back. I couldn’t help but sigh when his hot breath blew the unruly wisps of hair away from my face. Why are you angry? I wanted to scream, cry, yell—whatever else it was that women who lost it did.
Kneading the flare of my hips, his breath ruffled my hair, “My pet, I trust you won’t betray me. Good or bad consequences, remember?” He squeezed me painfully hard, bruising me—I was sure. “Don’t disappoint me.”
“How could I forget?”
“Elena, I ought to go. Early morning meeting. Frederic has been informed that you’ll be coming in late.”
I squirmed and wheedled as best as I could. “Please, please, Alex. I want to stay here for a few days.”
I felt his chin pressing against the top of my head. “I assume I may come back here every night, baby?”
I inelegantly shoved and flailed at his arms so I could turn around. “Yes, you have your own room, remember?”
“Thank fuck for that.” He squeezed me tightly and stooped to rub his nose against mine. “Actually, would your grandparents mind if we stay here the rest of the week? Land-office business with tough clients, I’ll need you to be soft and willing when I’m back home.”
I grinned. “We can stay here, no cardinal sins.”
“Will you do as I say at night in the bedroom?” He scraped his teeth on my lips, almost as if he were giving me an ultimatum.
Who cared what I had to do in the bedroom, it’s not like I earnestly disliked anything he did to me. “I know what you need…just maybe…you know…like…like I don’t have enough experience,” I rattled on.
“Is that all there is?”
Saying the truth about my eating disorder would be a mistake of edible, epic proportions, and also, I hadn’t thrown up in a month. “Yes, Alex.”
“I know I can be impatient. I should probably confess that I love teaching you things, little Elena. It’s tremendously erotic, and just the idea of teaching you, in particular, about passion and sexual positions,” he laughed, “it’s fucking hot. Wouldn’t have it any other way.” His eyes sought out mine, and then he lowered his mouth to mine. He was rough, his mouth urgent as he pressed my lips into parting. I could smell the peppermint that’d just dissolved in his mouth. Once I opened for him, his tongue slipped greedily inside to dominate, to take control. It swept through the corners of my mouth, harsh breaths escaping him, one after the other. When he let go there was no longer a feeling of doom hovering above my head.
Facing me, his voice dropped. “Never leave.”
“I’m more worried about losing you to someone else.”
“Nothing to worry about then.”
I loved the navy Lee Allison profanity tie he chose, proposed I tie it before he left. “Windsor, half, or four-in-hand?”
“First one.” Draping his hands around my waits, he chuckled like a schoolboy. “Of all the ways of getting your hands around my neck, this is by far the sexiest.”
I crossed the broad end over the slim, and brought it around. Then I passed the broad end across the slim, bringing it around again, pushing it downward through the loop. He straightened his shirt, pulled the knot tight, and I kept repeating until I slipped the broad end through the knot in front I’d made, tightening and drawing up to the collar. “There you go, sir.” I placed my fingers underneath the cape of his collar to trace it back to the nape of his neck. To make sure the tie was covered at the back, I tugged the collar down, three times, and then reversed my trail.
“I’m loving this, Elena.” He kissed my cheek, teasing his fingertips up my chest, tickling along my jaw while they found their way into my hair. I felt his lips curve into a broad smile against my cheek before he pulled away. “I knew I could trust you.”
I blushed up to the roots of my hair. I ran my hands down his sleeves, resting them on his cufflinks. Tiptoeing, I took care not to sully his cheek when I kissed him back.
“I want more.” He manipulated his actions with one of the most devious means of manipulation: a French kiss. Pulling away, his eyes bore into mine. “I’ve decided I want my come inside you so you can smell me on you all day long, working in that sweatshop.”
Had I been eating candy, I would have choked to death. His knee pressed between my thighs, and my hand lifted to his chest in an instinctual manner. Assailed by his sweet but spicy scent, my desire to stop him bottomed out almost immediately.
My throat tightened as I saw his eyes darken. Manipulating as only a woman can with tone and looks, “I don’t want to be late on my first day back, Alex,” I murmured, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Please, no haggling.”
I didn’t get the warm smile I wanted, but he did neutralize his darkened gaze. “Okay, see you tonight.” He kissed my forehead, got in the limo, and Hamilton sped off.
“Yes!” I squawked victoriously.
*
I was straightening my Vivienne Westwood fichu blouse and pencil skirt when I saw him. The man who pushed through the frosted glass doors and left my workplace looked exactly like one of Robert’s henchmen. I had gone through a lot of questions with Alexander only to discover these Russian men worked permanently for him. Ironically, what they did, within reason, didn’t matter to him as long as they did the one thing he insisted upon: get the job done.
“Look who’s back.”
I looked over my shoulder and Frederic stood in the hallway, his fatherly eyes staring at me with concern.
I painted a smile on my face. “Hindrance during my holidays. What’s up?”
“I’d like to discuss something with you. Would you join me in my office?” He smiled but it was off.
I followed him into his office as though I were almost—but not quite—following him to a funeral.
“Marla and I have hit a rough patch.” He stood by the window, with thumbs tucked in his waistcoat. On the whole, the salt-and-pepper hair and the soft signs of aging in his face gave him the right edge of maturity, and like any man of means, he looked quite a bit younger than he was, except for today. “She’s accepted a job at McKinsey. London offices.” He went around his desk and eased into his chair, shuffling papers. When he glanced up and caught my expression, he rolled his eyes. “I might follow,” he raved pithily.
I asked him if he loved her, and if his career was more important to him than growing old with her. He said he’d reflect on it. There was a strange vibe when I walked to my office, cloak-and-dagger discussions twirling about. I could have sworn colleagues peeked at me a few times before turning their backs at me, and they held their tongues when I walked past. No one, myself included, commented on my month-long absence. By noon nothing had been said and I decided to drop it, I was just being paranoid.
“Jesusomigod!” Sara accosted me the moment she walked in the door, all but bouncing off the walls. “Come on, spill.” She came bearing coffees from the Wired Puppy, maybe that’s why.
I tossed her an eye-roll. “Not much to say.” She shoved a cup of coffee in my hand before dragging me over to the chesterfield couch in the retired corner of the boardroom. “I’ve missed you. How are things?”
