by JR King
“Touch yourself for me.”
My will was unyielding. Maybe she was overwhelmed by my decadent passion, by my animal need for her, because in an instant, she succumbed.
On the table she went. “Put me in.”
As I stood there thinking, she put my cock—slick with her own lust—inside her. There was slight recoil as I breached the tight layer of muscle. I kept moving forward, slow, relentless, until I was impossibly deep, embedded within her, filling her.
I fucked her rapaciously, making it clear that it was my pleasure I was satisfying. Recognizing her impending orgasm, I clamped a hand over her mouth again as I pressed my somewhat stubbled cheek against the side of her neck. “Come for me.”
Timed to perfection. She screamed mutedly into my palm, and her flesh convulsed about mine, carrying me with her. My gasp of pleasure was controlled, yet pronounced. Her cries of delight increased as the hot, pulsing spurts of seed reached her visceral centre.
There was the disappointment of withdrawing myself from her warmth and wetness, and now the smell of semen was very strong. I rubbed my glans against thigh. “I love this. You smelling like me.”
She ran her fingertips through the viscous trail of my climax, rubbing it into her skin.
I swiftly adjusted my clothes, and picked up hers, helping her into them. To leave the room, she gave me a wide berth, walking backward and blubbering something about me being discourteous.
Switzerland was a country where the grass is always greener. The afternoon turned to evening. In the Maestro suite at our hotel, everything was prearranged. I’d chosen the Dolder Grand since it was located high above the city’s centre and the surrounding woodland, a faultless location that looked like a serene retreat from urban life for our busy-life visitors. It was almost perched above Lake Zürich, and the scenic backdrop of rolling hills made it an authentic historic landmark.
Everyone—Michael, Sara, Elena’s grandparents and mine, Tony, Aidan, Sophia—flocked on the lounge terrace because its panoramic views stretched far across the cosmopolitan city, the lake, and the Alps. The tablescape was common white, the only color was that of red orchids. The table had a day’s worth of champagne, and there were at least half a dozen accoutrements to the apéritif.
“Surprise,” everyone yelled when Elena and Christopher marched in.
Despite the familiar faces, tears streamed down Elena’s face.
“Look at me, sweetheart,” I told her softly.
“How? When?” She buried her face in my neck.
I grasped the sides of her head, thumbing away her tears. “Don’t cry, not on your birthday.”
Frank stepped up to us, so I backed off. “Dry your beautiful eyes, kiddo. We’re all here to share your special day.”
“Unless you want us gone?” Julie asked her with a frowned side-glance.
“No, no,” she sobbed, shaking her head. “When did you arrive?”
“This morning. Child’s play. Alexander deployed several jets to fetch each one of us.”
“Devil of a job, you over the top asshole,” Michael snapped at me as I stepped aside so people could greet Elena and wish her a happy birthday. “Four weeks ago she was happy and giggling, now look at her. You single-handedly managed to abet her into God knows what.”
“Something will give. Keep your ear to the ground,” I chuckled.
Both grandmothers were handing out champagne flutes, their husbands popping corks. I cleared my throat when it was Sophia’s turn to congratulate Elena.
“Elena,” she started openly, “I must apologize for my behavior—,”
“Don’t even think about it,” Elena hissed.
“I should go.”
“That’s not viable. Alexander needs you, and Christopher and I have a natural affinity for each other. No more one-dimensional sparring. You opened my eyes that evening, Sophia. Gave me a reality check, albeit classless like a prank-call. Thanks to you, there are no more lies and secrets between my man and me. Have some bubbly. And don’t thieve good moments.”
Sophia smiled then joined the animated discussions.
Amid the what happened in Monaco? hurly-burly, I held my flute aloft, facing the crowd. “Superb day. To all of you, thank you for coming here to celebrate Elena’s twenty-third birthday.” I raised the glass higher, and toward Elena. “To the love of my life, a happy birthday and many happy returns.”
I tipped my flute at Christopher, who nodded in recognition. A few strides to my left, Elena and Sara chattered like a bunch of teenagers. Mindful to be discreet, I peered over the lip of my glass to reassess their exterior. Sara had a charismatic, extroverted personality, the life and soul of a party. She was also somewhat disruptive at times. Unconditional kindness and attention to detail were her best attributes. Elena was…who cares? I loved her.
Elena’s hair was piled and pinned up, but two raven tendrils trailing down the nape of her slender neck pressed home the advantage. In my mind, I was pulling out the pins and watching her locks cascade over her shoulders.
When In Zürich, Kronenhalle’s wood-paneled room adorned with paintings of Matisse, Chagall, Miró, Picasso, and Braque, was my favorite spot for Swiss fine dining. For my birthday girl, however, I opted for The Restaurant. Word of mouth. Last year, Heiko Nieder was crowned the Most Improved Chef Of The Year, and this year he got rewarded two stars in the Red Guide, so let’s see.
The restaurant was busy. Two hostesses led us to the private dining room. Tools that we were, Michael, Tony, Aidan, and I, feasted our eyes on their behinds and sexy calves. Long, shapely legs, like those of a European ballerina were recipes for exhaustive sexual intercourse. It felt like a man’s world.
To begin with, our first course was the very exclusive Prunier Saint-James caviar. The meal was an audacious journey of sorts, I believe. Nothing too cerebral, the chef’s love for uncommon tropical fruits and exotic materials was scribbled all over it. Case in point, for blue lobster we went to Bretagne, for scallops and sea urchin to the center of the North Atlantic, for Iberian pata negra ham to Spain, for truffles to Italy and France, for beef to Japan, and the wild game, of course, was local.
Shortly after the venison with lingonberry and elderberry sauce, Elena began reciting her speech. She really drove her message home, repeating how lucky she felt to share this moment with family and friends. With a loud chime, the chanting started, and she cut into a two-tiered ruffled chocolate cake with lovely cascades of white chocolate roses.
Don’t you wonder about the wish she made as she blew out the candles?
“Keep some room for dessert,” I told her. “This is peanuts compared to what’s waiting in our suite.”
She took quite an unladylike lick of the dark chocolate and brandy mousse that coated her spoon. “This is the only dessert I want,” she said chirpily. She coated the spoon with white chocolate mousse, giving it another long, slow suck and smiling playfully at me.
I felt the corners of my mouth tilt up in a smile, grinning all by myself.
Michael performed an impromptu male version of Happy Birthday, Mr. President, charming the hell out of my girl. Proud that she had him as a friend, I man-hugged him.
“I’m jusht a little drunk. Don’t you dare make fun of me,” Elena said, pushing herself to her feet. She dusted the front of her skirt down.
I drew my jacket around her. “Shall we get this party started?” I swatted her behind and offered her my arm.
While the grandparents went back to their respective suites, we young ones were waiting for the chauffeured cars. The moon was a lucent orb in the sky. I took several deep gasps of cool air and found myself tired, aching for a shower.
“What happens now, Alex?” Elena was smiling incessantly.
“I haven’t the foggiest.”
Aidan flashed her a grin. “We’re going to a concert.”
We went to a Kraftwerk gig taking place nearby. Elena had never heard the band.
*
“How was it?” I lifte
d her Elena up and she broke out in a full belly laugh.
Watching me with slumberous eyes, she cocked her head and folded her knees outward, her arms flopping limply over my shoulders. “Best birthday ever,” she answered, bringing her lips to mine. “And you have the fullest, softest, most kissable lips.”
“The better to eat you with, kitten.”
“Euro lunch?”
For Elena I chose a Duvel, and for me a Blue Chimay, adding two plates of marinated pork roast with the chef’s special gravy to the order. The baked potatoes were steaming hot, the slow cooked pork juicy and expertly carved. I didn’t think twice about letting the juices of the meat soak into my dinner roll.
Elena shoveled the last heaped forkful of meat from her plate onto a thick slab of bread, and pierced it with the prongs of her fork.
“You want some?” she teased, bringing it right under my nose. Before my mouth could close around the utensil’s silver tines, she withdrew her hand.
I captured her wrist, cheeks bulging when I stuffed it all into my mouth. “Delicious.” I traced the tip of my finger over her neck, pressing my thumb against the visible quiver of the pulse at its base.
“Now what?”
I drifted my hand down to her shoulder, squeezing it. “Now we go home.”
“Before we go…,” She gripped my wrist and showed me the way between her thighs. I pressed two fingers inside her. I fingered her until she clutched my chest, her gasps hot and ragged against the side of my neck, her sex grinding relentlessly against my hand. Just after she came, I positioned her in my lap, guiding my dick into the center of her wet heat. Because she took my length in one slide, she cried out in pain.
Lastly, we napped the afternoon away on our way back to Boston; Elena in my arms, my lips pressed to the top of her head.
Elena Anderson
The Planning for Revenge
There’s something truly wonderful about watching a man with an erection step out of the shower. Take, for example, Alexander, who had a surfer’s back. The breadth and the thickness of his back’s longitudinal muscles were alluring, it curved ever so slightly inward before it became his butt. Divine physicalness. Long and heavy boned, shoulder blades rolling beneath bronzed skin as he toweled himself dry.
I let out a deep, thoughtful sigh while he whipped up the rich, creamy lather in a shaving bowl. I reasoned that go for military precision was the slogan he used for his classical shaving procedure.
He said, “Vegetating, aren’t we? Don’t just stand there with your bare face hanging out.”
“Need some help?”
“Sit here.” He perched me on the countertop and instructed me to use a circular motion to build up a thick layer of foam. I was careful not to put any lather into the corners of his eyes or up his nose, but the kid in me couldn’t resist. I drew the wooden handle brush toward the tip of his nose. I swear I felt a thundercloud gathering above my head.
“Little bitch.” He fixed me with a glare, darkness flickering across his face. What happened next was an immense surprise. His nostrils flared, but he didn’t tell me off, he pulled me in for a painful kiss, ravaging my perfectly made up face. Most of all, he made sure I tasted the shaving cream. The bitter, sour, gag-inducing tang was going to stick with me for a long time to come.
“Well, then.” He roughly wiped my face with a damp flannel, wholly ignoring my plaintive moue, and motioned to the bowl. “Let’s try that again, shall we?”
Quick as a wink, I reapplied and smoothened a rich layer of soft lather, and looked up at him with kind eyes, raising my eyebrows expectantly.
“Stay put.”
Even with the addition of eyelashes fluttering in horror, I wasn’t allowed to gurgle water.
His left hand settled around my waist, his eyes narrowing in concentration. “Don’t move, my pet.” The hostile slate seemed to have gone out of his voice, leaving it most playful.
At seeing a razor so close to—well—my hair, the wind went out of me.
Of course the bastard was slothful. He dipped the razor in the hot water and started on his sideburns, all the while kneading my behind. The blade went down on the cheek area, always shaving with the growth of his beard, alternating into the washbasin that was filled with hot water.
“Almost done, baby.” He was shaving sideways near the top and bottom lip, then finished with dexterous strokes in the direction of the growth close to and under the chin.
“Check for whiskers.” His hand reached for one of mine to dip it in the warm water.
I felt over and over again on his face for missed hairs, but there were none. My tongue was still cemented at the roof of my mouth, so I shook my head vigorously, eyes wide, tossing my loose hair from side to side. One might say I was laying it on thick with an overdramatic shake of the head. In my defense, it was a result of tasting shaving cream.
He drained the washbasin and rinsed his face with cold water, holding some out in the cup of his hand. “Rinse.”
All my good manners went out the window. I gulped and gurgled and spat very unattractively, splashing streaks onto the faucet. I had to get the taste out of my mouth.
He wiped the mess I’d made and pushed a bottle of moisturizer beside me. “Since my pet has learned how to apply creams, humor me.”
“Lighten up.” I was aware I sounded more than a little whiny. “Instead of being temperamental, why can’t you be more playful? Why rewards and punishments all the time? It’s a sickness, really.” After the vile ordeal he put me through, I had earned the right to whine a whole lot.
“It’s a way of life. Actions have consequences.”
I gently massaged the food for skin into his damp, shaven skin before moving on to the rest of his face. Looked flawlessly exfoliated.
“I’m not playful enough?” Not Houbigant, he was slapping on Clive Christian cologne behind his ears and further down his neck. “I shall fix that.” It was impossible to ignore the sadistic smirk he wore as he tightened the belt of his bathrobe.
“Feeling British this morning?”
“Feeling myself this morning. Elena, have you discussed Zürich’s developments with your grandparents?”
“Not yet.”
“Go downstairs and do it. They deserve it. Our dealings can wait.” The way his eyes were clouded with darkness and the way the muscle pulsed in his jaw told me the decision had already been made.
As you can see, we were back in Boston. From behind his desk, with an unreadable stare, grandpa was looking at the city’s skyline while talking on the phone.
Approximately five seconds after I put the black Leitz storage box the bank had given me down on the coffee table, grandma walked into the study. “I’m so glad you kids are staying with us this weekend,” she said cheerfully.
Terminating his palaver, grandpa unfolded himself gracefully from his chair and walked full force in our direction.
I pointed at the box and spoke as if I were captioning a picture: “My inheritance.”
The letters, superimposed on a haphazardly scattered pile in the middle of the box, grabbed their attention. I paced the room as they read and went through the contents.
When grandpa removed his reading glasses, I asked, “What should I do with the funds?”
“Make of it what you will, it’s your money. You know very well how to invest and grow capital.”
I smiled like the cat that ate the cream. “I sure know how to invest.”
“Elena, something’s missing.” His voice was thinly laced with contempt, too faint, and his typically placid face wore a veil of fatigue. “You didn’t leave your safety deposit box unattended, did you?”
His question came like a hammer blow. I almost fainted. Was I that deep in blissful denial and sugarcoated romance? I staggered over to him, and collapsed onto the chesterfield sofa. It truly was an out-of-body experience. “Nothing’s missing. It’s all lies, he was crazy.” I was nervously picking at my nails. Couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes.
“
Your father,” grandma began, “was far from being crazy. This proves it. He was after the man your mother was having an affair with. Someone informed him you were going to be taken away if your mother remarried. He loved her, but he would start a war for you. His mind snapped.”
Bug-eyed, I dropped my calm façade. “He was a writer, grammy! A fiction writer! Legal thrillers! He made it all up—where’s the proof?”
Her tone was all wrong—despondent, and her eyes were dead as she spoke. “Where, indeed, is the proof, El? In his final letter he speaks about an envelope with a recognizable logo. Just open it, and you’ll understand everything. So, did you leave the box unattended or not? Arguably, powerful people have eyes and ears everywhere. For the right price, anyone can become a foot soldier. Your father saw things differently. This letter is his last legacy to you, he wouldn’t taint its prose with a mentioning of your mother’s lover. That’s why there were separate envelopes.”
I couldn’t make sense of the immediate world around me. Were the walls always this beige? Why not white? And those sweeping valances and heavy curtains pooling on the floor were too extravagant. Grandpa made a noise and I was dragged back to reality, a reality that was far more significant than the décor of this house. I felt like a tool. Christopher Turner: the man who had rocked my world off its axis. For goodness’ sake, he didn’t deserve a lick of pity. He was so cavalier and cool altogether that I wondered for a moment if my mother had felt the same connection. Appalling. I fought for air, and in spite of my antiperspirant, my armpits were damp. I felt galvanized, sawdust was being poured down my throat, clogging my bowels.
“Kiddo?” grandpa prodded. I could feel the weight of his impenetrable stare.
I blinked back my tears. “The box was with me at all times, gramps.” My tone was totally off. “Daddy lost his mind.”
He ran a hand over his face, over the subcutaneous vein above his temple that was ticking. “I disagree, because the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. You’re smart like him, if not smarter.” A sweep of the hand stressed the statement. “You found ways to cope with your mother’s death, Peter’s disappearance, and you’re now dating a powerful man, living in the public eye. Surely there’s some ritual involved, just keep going. The Vanity Fair article—I’m the daughter of a murderer, so what?—was your way of telling the world to piss off and leave you alone, a beautiful thing you did. I have one question for you: don’t you want to find out what happened to your father?”
