Lisette is sobbing now into the bedspread, her grinding now an unconscious reflex to my digital pushing and prodding. Her legs are shaking and she can barely hold herself up. “Please, Amanda. I can’t stand this,” she cries.
I get up and go back over to the nightstand, wiping my wet hand on my jeans. I’m shaking because I’m so excited by the power I have over someone, but also because of something I spotted in Lisette’s nightstand. I pull it out, quickly strip off my jeans and underwear, and step into the harness.
The size of the dildo attached to it makes Tyrell’s cock look like a twig. No wonder she didn’t respond to him like your typical virgin.
I find myself wishing I had a real cock so I can feel Lisette from the inside when I fuck her, but know in the primal part of my brain it’s the pounding I’m about to give her that will send me over the edge. I adjust Lisette’s hips so she can accept the toy, then begin to slip the dildo in to her tight, slick cunt while reaching under her hips to touch her engorged clit. Unlike how she responded to Tyrell’s cock, her hole opens easily for me, accepting every inch of the dildo I carefully push into her. I slowly begin to move, testing the angle and rhythm, and then when everything feels synched, I grab Lisette’s hips and begin to grind myself into her sweet ass, pulling back and ramming her again and again as hard as I can.
The reaction she gives me is the one I’m looking for. She’s screaming out, begging me to stop, no don’t stop, harder, more, please, now, I’m coming now … it’s such a head-rush, looking down and watching her pert ass meet my every thrust, that I feel myself coming. Violent waves of release roll down my legs, up my belly, across my breasts. Lisette is thrashing about too, moaning, yelling out my name, reaching for my hand. I pull the dildo out and replace it with my fingers, where I can feel her pleasure quaking and pulsing against me, ebbing into stillness.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I’ve gotten out of the strap-on and we’re both slumped across her bed, like two Girl Scouts who’ve exhausted themselves at day camp. I’ve stripped off my remaining clothes, thinking it’s a little dumb at this point to remain half-dressed while my partner lies next to me, stark naked and utterly spent. Lisette’s got her eyes closed and a smile on her face. Her long lashes rest on her freckled cheeks. I can’t help it: a wave of tenderness rolls through me, and I reach out and smooth her hair down.
“Mmmm,” she says. “That was … spectacular. The best.”
“Better than Tyrell.” It’s more a statement than a question.
She cracks an eye open. “Um, yeah. Way better, Sherlock.” She notices I’m naked now, but as she reaches out for my breast, I grab her hand.
“Don’t,” I say. I can see the confusion in her eyes, but she pulls her hand back.
“Were you abused as a child?”
“Were you a psych major in college?” I dart back.
Lisette shrugs and bends her arms back to rest her head on her hands. The position makes her breasts both elongate and point prettily into the air, so I roll over on my side toward her and idly swirl my fingertip around her still-pert nipples.
“Are you going to go back to Staying In?” she asks. I want to correct her, that it’s Getting In, but remember she knows the Angstroms’ sex den under a different name.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s crazy. Have you ever thought about, you know, saying something to someone? Doesn’t it feel kind of wrong to you?”
Lisette rolls on her side to face me. “Why would I say something? I told you how much good it has done for me. I don’t see how it hurts anyone. They don’t ask for money, and it’s not like any of us are being forced to go against our wills.”
“That’s not true,” I reply, sitting up and looking down at her. I tell her everything, about Valerie Gowan back at Lexington, the card she gave me, and how my participation in the “program” would influence whether or not I get admitted, even though my father gave millions of dollars to the school. I can see Lisette’s eyes widen when I mention the amount of my father’s donation, but she doesn’t comment on that. I’m beginning to see that Lisette has some class, not to mention smarts. And I have to admit, I admire her for her openness about what she enjoys sexually. She certainly knows what she likes better than I do.
“But you heard Tyrell … they like you. Stefan, especially. And he doesn’t like anyone.”
“And that’s what makes it even weirder for me,” I say. “I don’t get that. He must have spied on me when I was there. But I don’t see why he’s gung-ho on me.”
“Maybe because you’re beautiful? And strong? And you can push his wife’s buttons or something like that?” Lisette reaches down to her breast to hold my hand, which I don’t pull away. “Maybe that’s why you shouldn’t be so hasty. Maybe because they like you, seem to think you’re special, you can figure them out.”
“Hmm.”
We’re quiet for a few minutes, then I lean over and kiss Lisette on the cheek. She smiles back at me.
“Really. That was in my top ten of pleasurable sexual experiences,” I say.
“Just top ten? Not even top five?”
“Top five. Possibly top three.”
There’s no way I’m going to tell Lisette the truth, that it was number one. By a long shot.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The man in tan breeches looks back at me with a blank expression as he continues to fuck the woman from behind. What a way to spend eternity.
I’m sitting in Jennifer Angstrom’s Liberace Room, staring at the creepy coupled figurine on the side table. Another card arrived at the apartment this week, and instead of tossing it into a garbage can, I decided to take another blindfolded trip—maybe my last one—if only to get some closure on this whole screwed-up situation. Lisette’s talk the other day convinced me it might be worth my while.
After I’ve been scowling at Mr. Blank Face for a few minutes, the door at the back of the room opens, and I hear footsteps across the carpet coming toward me. I turn in my seat, and when I see it’s Jennifer, dressed like an employee at the New York Public Library in that beige sweater, I turn away from her and take a deep breath.
“Amanda,” she says, holding a hand out. I ignore it, don’t even bother to make eye contact.
“Sit down,” I say. “I’m here for some explanations.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jennifer’s face turn red, her mouth open, then close. But she steps around the table and sits down on the pale blue velvet sofa across from me.
Neither of us says a word. I may have been a terrible student in school, but I did learn one lesson from my father: never be the first one to speak in a tense situation. I’m not even sure I’m here to negotiate, really. But I am ready to reassert any power Jennifer may think I abandoned the day I stepped into her circus world.
The silence goes on for a minute. Two minutes. Somewhere a clock ticks its incessant beat. I watch Jennifer and she watches me. You know those staring games kids play on the playground? I never lost. I keep my sight focused on her pupils, my gaze never wavering.
Another minute passes and she sighs. She glances away quickly, then back at me.
“Fine,” she says. “What do you want to know?”
“Who are you, for starters? And why you recruit college kids to act out your perverted fantasies?” I pause for effect. “And try to blackmail some of them—like me, for example—into thinking they can’t get into college unless they do your bidding?”
Jennifer’s eyes close and she leans back in her seat. I hear her whisper, “Jesus.”
“I don’t think Jesus is in this room. Start talking.”
She crosses her arms across her chest, and looks off at a distant point over my shoulder. “When you accepted our … my invitation, you did so freely and willingly.”
“I’m not so sure my father would see it that way.”
Jennifer’s pixie face pales, but she quickly regains her composure. “Probably not.”
Then she gives me the frank, direc
t look of the old Jennifer. The commanding Jennifer.
“But you enjoyed it, didn’t you, Amanda? You enjoyed almost every minute of your short time here. We let you peek into a secret keyhole, and you’ve seen a world you weren’t really sure existed beyond your pretty Park Avenue life. A world you suspected existed, even wished existed. We may not know each other very well, but I know more about you than you think. You want in to that world. You want to explore it, play with it, control it. And now you sit before me in your designer clothes, twiddling your $500 lowlights, and try to scare me into thinking I’ve done something wrong? No, Amanda, you’re the one who’s making the wrong move. I want you think carefully before you make one the most regrettable moves of your life.”
The last part comes out sounding ominous. I can see why some would find Jennifer Angstrom frightening and why she’s probably an effective at getting weaker people to submit to her demands.
But Jennifer Angstrom doesn’t even make my heart rate rise. I have zero fear of her.
“Here’s the deal …”
She laughs. “Oh, you’re going to negotiate, are you?” she sneers.
I hear the door at the back of the room open, and Jennifer looks up. She smiles, then quickly her face dissolves into a look of confusion, concern. I decide to keep my eyes straight ahead. In my peripheral vision, I see the figure of a very tall man.
“Amanda,” he says, pronouncing my name with a slight accent. “Amanda Prescott.”
I glance up. Stefan Angstrom stands there, his hands clasped together in front him, his expression almost … sad. My good manners suddenly kick in, and I start to stand up, but Stefan holds his hand out, as if to tell me to remain seated, which I do.
He stands silently, looking down at me with that mournful, serious expression, and I find myself looking back at him with equal intensity. Like I said, he’s tall … probably about 6’2” or 6’3”. The black suit he wears whispers of a private tailor in Milan. His entwined fingers are also long and thin; artist hands, my mother would call them. His hair, nearly black, is threaded with silver, which matches the silver on his wire glasses that give him an almost helpless, myopic look. Is he handsome? No, I wouldn’t say that. His features are even, his long nose is straight, his lips are finely drawn. I would say, though, that Stefan Angstrom is attractive in a very courtly, aristocratic way that you rarely see outside certain social circles in Europe.
I finally get why Lisette seemed so fascinated with him. His presence in this hideous salon actually transforms it so that the furnishings, the paintings, the gilt … all of it looks elegant and timeless. And in Stefan Angstrom’s presence, I’m aware of my heart pounding in my chest for the first time that night.
“A pleasure you could join us tonight,” he says, still watching me. “I’ve been watching you.”
His admittance is frank. He exhibits no embarrassment, no shame in it.
“Stefan, darling, I don’t know how much you heard …”
“I heard everything,” he interrupts in his accented English, suggesting of a boyhood education at Eton or Harrow. “I’m curious to hear what Amanda has to say.”
I swallow. I hope my voice doesn’t crack because my throat is so dry. “Here’s the deal,” I begin. “I’m in.” I can see out of the corner of my eye Jennifer relax. “But I have a few conditions.”
“They are …?” Stefan asks. He hasn’t moved a millimeter.
“First, I don’t obey. Anyone.”
“That’s not how it works …” Jennifer interrupts.
“Silence!” Stefan commands, holding his palm out to her. He doesn’t yell, but his voice is strong and deep. Jennifer blinks her eyes and looks away from both of us. “Continue,” he says to me.
“Second, I do as I like. And if I don’t like something, I can stop it.”
“And?”
“And I expect a Welcome to Lexington College letter in my mailbox by the end of the week.”
“Is there anything else, Amanda?”
I think for a few seconds. “Yes. In return I will remain silent about … Getting In, or whatever this is called, and I will honor your request for confidentiality. As long as my conditions are met, yours will be met, too.”
“These are your conditions?”
“And I’m free to make new ones as the need arises,” I add. “I think that’s it.”
I notice a small smile on Stefan’s lips. “Your terms are unprecedented, but acceptable,” he says. “We shall continue to work together.”
Jennifer looks as if she’s about to cry. “Stefan, this isn’t … this isn’t the plan we talked about.”
He looks down at her, his expression irritated. It’s almost as if he’s heard an annoying dog yap. “Nothing’s certain but change, Jennifer. You of all should know that.”
I stand up, taking the small clutch I’ve brought with me. I offer my hand to Stefan, but he simply looks down at it blankly, and I pull back awkwardly. Karma’s a bitch and all that.
“It has been a pleasure, Amanda. Good night. I will let Jennifer see you out.” He walks across the room and disappears through the door at the back of the room.
I turn back to Jennifer on the couch; she looks as if she’s been punched in the gut. I suppose in a way she has. However, she pulls herself together and stands up as Naoko enters the room. It dawns on me that some kind of hidden camera system must tell these people how to enter stage right and exit stage left around here.
“Naoko will show you out,” Jennifer says. She looks as if she’s aged twenty years in the last twenty minutes. Her eyes look tired, her face is gaunt, and the ugly sweater hangs dispiritedly from her thin shoulders. I offer my hand, and to her credit, she takes it.
Out in the entryway, Naoko and I go through the routine of exchanging slippers for shoes. I notice there’s been a delivery since I arrived. A small statue of a nude, a young male, half wrapped in padding and paper, stands near the discreet security counter. Before I slip the eye mask over my face, I study it. Its classical form is a major improvement over the French courtesan objects in the other room. There’s only one thing weird about it: the boy has no penis. And I know those dirty Greek sculptors liked the peens.
“Nice piece,” I say to Naoko. She studies it for a moment, and nods her head slightly.
“A gift for the mistress,” she says. “The boy is a little young, but you can never be too old to appreciate beauty. Will we see you next week, Miss Prescott?” Naoko looks at me expectantly.
I freeze.
You can never be too old to appreciate beauty.
It’s one of my mother’s favorite expressions.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Oh, A-man-da,” my sister calls out in sing-song, like my mother likes to do.
She stands in the middle of our kitchen, holding a nine-by-twelve inch envelope in her hands, bouncing and waving it around to tempt me. “It’s from Lexington College. I think it’s your big fat rejection package.”
I snatch the envelope from her hands and shoot her an evil glare. “Go stab yourself in the eye.”
“Nice,” she says. “Civilized.”
I take the envelope over to the kitchen island and begin ripping it open. Anne hovers next to me. It has been three days since giving the Angstroms my conditions. I haven’t heard from them since.
“Should I get Mom?” Anne asks.
I pull out a typed letter. “No,” I reply. “She’ll get all excited and want to throw a party or something.”
I begin to read.
Dear Amanda,
We are pleased to offer you a place in Lexington College’s freshman class this fall. Our incoming class of freshman is one of the most talented and brightest classes we’ve admitted, and we’re thrilled to be able to extend admission to you.
Enclosed are forms you and/or your parents will need to fill out should you choose Lexington this fall, all of which are due by June 1. Should you require financial aid, I have attached a financial aid screening form for your con
venience.
The college years are some of the most exciting and deeply rewarding years in a young person’s life. We hope that getting in to Lexington College gives you great pleasure.
Sincerely,
Valerie Gowan
Head of Admissions
Lexington College
“I guess it’s a yes?” Anne says.
“It’s a yes,” I say, folding the letter and sliding it back into the envelope with the other forms.
Anne snorts. “Getting in was the easy part. Now you’ve got to worry about staying in. Good luck with your track record.”
I smile, a secret smile. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ve got that totally under control.”
T O B E C O N T I N U E D . . .
DEDICATION
Another one for KMS.
It has been fun repaying my debt to you.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you to:
—Linda for your initial reading and suggestions, as well as your encouragement.
—Sarah Barbour at Aeroplane Media (http://aeroplanemedia.wordpress.com/) for your careful proofreading.
—James at Humblenations (http://humblenations.com) for another fabulous cover.
—My family for putting up with me when I’m writing and “in the zone.”
—Fleshbot (http://fleshbot.com), which provided inspiration when my imagination failed me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ISABELLA JONES is the nom de plume of an author and journalist who lives in New England. You can learn more about her erotic novels and short stories at www.isabellajonesauthor.blogspot.com .
Getting In (Amanda's Trilogy) Page 7
