by Livia Ellis
Where is she going?
She and the Doctor are having brunch then she leaves for Wold Hall.
Is my mother going with her?
No. She’s going early to do media interviews all afternoon. My mother and Harvey aren’t due until the morning. She thinks arrangements have been made to move my mother with minimal fuss and distress. Perhaps I should talk to my mother. Not a terrible idea. As long as I don’t say something moronic and upset her, of course.
How long will she be at Wold Hall?
A week? Maybe less. Maybe more. Possibly more. London is getting warm. She prefers the country air. Do I object?
Not at all.
Good. A star needs a place to retreat from her adoring fans.
She’s the star?
Of course! She’s the star!
She’s going to be brilliant in the show.
Of course she is. It’s going to be marvelous and open all sorts of doors that were shut. Now I’m going to be very good and not make a fuss.
Why would I make a fuss?
She hands me a box wrapped in burgundy paper with a large silk bow wrapped around it. I’m wished a very happy birthday.
I kiss her on the cheek. How did she know? I didn’t want anyone to know.
She knows everything about me.
Seriously. How did she know?
The Doctor told her. That’s from both of them and Lionel.
I open the box. Inside is an envelope. Inside the card is an invitation. The three are taking me to Spain for a weekend sherry tasting course. How very them. I love it.
Well?
I adore it. I hug her. I kiss her cheek. It’s perfect.
Good. I’m impossible to shop for. She’ll make all of the arrangements. I just need to give her the days when I’m free. Sometime before the wedding.
I’ll let her know by the end of the week.
I walk her to the waiting car. She offers me a ride, which I accept. Anything to get me moving from place to place faster during my tightly scheduled day is welcome.
In the car I send my mother a text. We need to have a conversation about her appearing in The Noble Service.
Almost immediately I receive a text back. We do not need to have a conversation about her appearing in The Noble Service. It was her decision to make. What’s done is done and there is nothing I can do about it. This is not the day to be having that or any sort of conversation like that with her. I, better than anyone else, should understand this.
The Actress pecks me on the cheek before dropping me curbside within walking distance of my next appointment.
I send my mother a final text before walking into the building. She is not going to use my father’s death as a bargaining chip. It’s not going to happen. I won’t have her dragging our family name down with her.
She sends me a text. It will happen. I need to just accept the fact our family name is forever tarnished by my shenanigans.
I text her. It is not forever tarnished. It can be repaired. We just need to keep our names out of the papers. It’s been weeks since we’ve been in the papers. Let’s put up one of those accident signs, like they have in factories, in Wold Hall – 21 days tabloid free. Every goal we throw a party.
She sends me a text. Have I seen the latest issue of Hello?
I text her. I do not read Hello. I refuse to support those people and their need to turn my life into fodder for their readers.
She sends me a text. 0 days tabloid free.
I text her. What now?
She sends me a text. She wouldn’t dare ruin the surprise. People in glass houses blah blah blah. She’s doing the show and I can’t stop her. Do pick up a copy of Hello. I should have gotten into modeling. I really am very photogenic. I get that from her. Dad’s nose never translated well to print. I should thank her that I got her nose and not dad’s. Before she forgets – Happy Birthday! Just to keep things in perspective, after fourteen hours of labour I should be the one thanking her.
I consider turning off my phone. I don’t respond. I will deal with her later.
I get a text back before I get on the elevator. Not from my mother. Renata needs me desperately. She’s desperate. She needs me. Elon and that jackass Roland stole her baby. She’s broke and she’s homeless. I need to help her.
I delete the text without responding. I’m officially off that crazy train forever.
CHAPTER FIVE
9:00am
The Banker has me booked for an hour, but I know from experience I’ll be in and out in thirty minutes tops.
The secretary, an Aryan blonde with a Frau Farbissina vibe, walks me into his office. She knows what I’m doing there. The office is so impersonal only a couch floating on air in an empty space could be less bare.
The Banker rises to great me. He’s smiling. His eyes are twinkling.
He has a surprise for me.
I try not to cringe. A surprise could be just about anything. The last surprise was a box of cream filled doughnuts I had to smear all over his body. On the upside, I haven’t been able to look at a pastry ever since. Cutting out the sugar has done wonders for my abs.
He slips into the toilet.
I look at the view. London City. The sky is perfectly clear and crystal blue. What a lovely day.
The door opens and closes.
I hear growling. Like a dog. I’m a dog person. I like dogs. That the Banker would be a dog owner does not surprise me. There is something eerie and human like in that sound.
Slowly, inch by inch, I turn.
It’s not a dog. It’s the Banker. The Banker on all fours with a dog collar around his neck and an attachable tail hooked to a belt cinched around his waist makes for an adorable human puppy. I like the headband with the floppy ears on his head. Details matter in these things.
Shockingly, this is not the weirdest scenario I’ve encountered.
He pauses for a moment. He forgot to tell me. There is a stack of £20 notes on his desk. I need to use those.
I take the stack of notes.
He sits back and begs, his little hands curled like paws in front of him.
I drop a £20 note.
He barks and picks it up with his mouth, and then crawls around in a circle, before depositing the bill on a low table.
I get it. I’m a quick study. I drop a trail of bills. He barks like a terrier and wags his bum like a tail.
He wiggles his tail at me.
He lifts his leg like he’s going to pee. I grab a salmon Financial Times roll it up and give him a whack. No peeing on the carpet.
Nein Hund! Nicht auf den Teppich pinkeln!!
He whimpers a bit. I pat him on the head. He’s a very good dog. I drop a £20 note. He’s a very good dog for not peeing on the carpet.
He lifts the leg again. I give him another smack. Böse Hund!
He growls and snaps at me. I give him another smack. Böse Hund!
He rolls on his back and whimpers.
I do what I would do with any of my dogs. I take off my shoe and rub his tummy with my toes.
He playfully swipes at my trouser leg with his paw.
He’s a very good puppy! Guter Hund!
I hold a note just high enough for him to have to jump from his knees to reach it with his mouth. Patting him on the head for being such a good boy gives him an impressive erection.
When he gets so excited he starts to rub against my leg, I lean down and smack his balls with the rolled up Financial Times.
Böse Hund!
He nearly screams with delight. He rubs harder.
I smack again and then again. I know the Banker. I know what he likes. Getting his balls smacked with a newspaper is his Nirvana.
He falls on his back, all fours raised up in the air.
I reach down and tug him off. His cum fires out of him, arching across the room and landing with a splat against the window. Guter Hund!
That was very good. He is very pleased. I make him so happy. He likes when I talk dirty to him in Ge
rman. Will I let him at least look at me a little naked?
Yes. But no touching.
He frowns a little.
Fine. He can touch my stomach. But that’s it.
I undo my trousers and lift up my shirt.
His fingers are like cold metal touching my skin.
He’ll give me one-thousand to touch my cock.
Two. (I’m not being an asshole. This is how we do this.)
Two and he gets to put my cock in his mouth.
Three and I’ll ejaculate down his throat. But only because I’m happy to be back at work and I like him as a dog.
He drops to his knees in front of me. The dribble of ejaculate running down the window disrupts my view of the city, but doesn’t totally spoil it.
I have planned to ejaculate four times during the day. There is room for a fifth if it becomes necessary. This is one of the planned ejaculations. I knew walking in the door what he’d want. The dog bit was a surprise, but the rest fairly predictable.
There is a happy place I go to when I need to ejaculate. Here’s the truth. The Banker is hit or miss when it comes to oral. Sometimes he does it, sometimes he doesn’t. This time I need my happy place.
My happy place is Olga. Specifically Olga in Brazil when we were there for a holiday.
There was this moment. Inconsequential. Intimate. We stopped at a café along the Copacabana for early evening cocktails. She let me look up her skirt. Very saucy. Just a brief flash, but it was enough. Odd that would become my happy place. A brief flash of her lady bits made such an impressionable memory. Perhaps because it was such a normal, albeit very naughty, thing for a girlfriend to do that it stuck with me. What is more normal than being on holiday with my pretty girlfriend and her giving me a peek after forcing me to bikini shop with her for enough hours to make any man hate swimwear? Nothing is more normal. For all of the kinky, randy, freaky things we get up to professionally, it is the intimate little peek that sticks with me.
I look at the sky and fall into that memory. It’s not the most impressive orgasm I have, but it happens. I fulfill my end of our unspoken agreement. It’s his turn to fulfill his.
He tells me to keep the stack of £20 notes as a tip as he hands me the envelope of cash that is my pay. I don’t need to count it. The Banker is one of my favorites because he treats me like a professional. He’s an odd duck. There is no denying that. He also respects my professionalism. What I do, in his mind, is a career worthy of being properly rewarded. Of all of my clients I get the most referrals from him.
I wonder if this is a German thing.
I walk out the door thirty minutes after I walk in. I have time for coffee. My day, which will go smoothly thanks to my precision planning despite the early morning hiccups, is scheduled in such a way as to allow me breaks between clients.
I buy a copy of Hello. Margaret in her wedding gown is on the cover. I knew this was coming. This is not a big deal. I do not consider this the family making it into the tabloids. I’m not happy about it, but this is something I cannot veto. Maybe a hundred or two hundred years ago they might have had to listen to me, but now I don’t have any authority. Margaret negotiated the Hello magazine spread and got the dosh to boot. Whatever. This is not me. I am still 21 days tabloid free.
I get in line for coffee. There may or may not be a muffin in my future. If they have the stem ginger muffins I’m all in. If they only have the raspberry I will lodge a formal protest.
My mother is unreachable. I need to discuss her career choices with her before she does something I don’t approve of. Here’s the shitty truth of it – it’s my name she fucking with and I won’t have it. She married it. I was born with it. I have more right to it than she does and I will not let her drag it through the mud so soon after I’ve just started to clean it off. 21 days tabloid free.
I send a text. We need to have a conversation about her agreeing to participate in that show. 21 days tabloid free. Let’s go for fifty.
She texts me back. She is participating in the show. 0 days tabloid free.
I text her. Not the issue. Margaret’s wedding pictures in Hello does not impact me.
She texts me. Have I actually looked at the pictures in the magazine and not just the cover? She’s getting her hair done. She’ll call me when she’s finished.
I text her. I do not want her to do it.
She texts me. I’m not the boss of her. :p Stop bothering her. She’ll call me when she’s finished.
This is ridiculous. I understand why she annoyed my grandmother as much as she did. It’s hard enough to keep a level of dignity as it is without her acting out. Just at the moment we are starting to get along, starting to relate to each other as adults, finally beginning to have a semblance of a relationship, she pulls this shit. She knows as well as I do the only reason she hasn’t said anything to me is that I would object.
The line moves glacially slow. There’s a new girl working the register. I flip through Hello. I’m fucked. I’m so fucked. I’m the most fucked person in this fucking world. When Olga gets her hands on me I’m a dead man. I’m 0 days tabloid free. This cannot go on. It needs to stop here and it needs to stop now. No reality TV. No more. Just no more.
I text my Former Fiancée. Has she seen Hello?
She texts me. No. She can’t be arsed. She knows we’re in it. Her assistant left a copy on her desk with the page marked. She’ll get to it eventually. After we get together probably. She might be too angry with me to copulate if she reads it in advance.
I text her. Probably wise. Coffee line is taking forever. I might be five minutes late.
She texts me. Not a problem. She needs to reschedule for later anyhow. How is four?
I text her. I am very busy. I penciled her in for two hours. Two whole hours of my day. I do not have time to reschedule. My day is packed. We are supposed to meet at ten. If she can’t meet me at ten then consider that one ride on the Ollie train she’s missed.
She texts me. I am an asshole. I can’t make twenty minutes later in the day for her?
I text her. First of all, I find that offensive on many levels. Since when did I only take twenty minutes? Second, I am busy. Just because she doesn’t respect my professionalism, I’ll have her know there is a German banker that pays me well to whack him with a newspaper.
She texts me. This is not about my sexual prowess and ability to satisfy. This is about impregnating her and nothing else. She just met with her doctor. The evening is better for the timing. Do I really whack a German banker with a newspaper?
I text her. Financial Times whilst he barked like a dog. Is this a timing thing? Are we timing things now? Is this where we are with this?
She texts me. Yes. She can’t take any chances. She’s cancelling her subscription to the Financial Times.
I text her. I’m done at seven. Does that work?
She texts me. Perfect.
I roll my eyes and stash my phone.
She did not get pregnant after the wedding. We are on round two. I owe her three more after this one. Maybe it’s four. I don’t know. There is an ongoing debate. The only thing that is for certain is that I’m off the hook the second she’s pregnant. I’m increasingly more and more uncomfortable with this arrangement. At the time I made it, it seemed like the right thing to do. Now that I’ve had time to think and reflect, I’m not at all comfortable with the thought of having a child out there in the world that I will not raise. It’s too much like what my parents did to me. They produced me because they had an obligation to do so, then they turned over all responsibility to a third party. Family means more to me than this. My name and my lineage mean far more to me than this.
Finally I reach the counter. I order my usual Americano. I give them my name. Mick Jagger. I move along with the rest of the caffeine addicted sheep.
I pull a fiver out of my wallet. I hand it to the trainee behind the counter. I hold the bill and her eyes as she stares at me.
I know her. How do I know her? I stare
at her and she stares at me. Her badge reads I’m Allison and I’m just learning. But I know her by a different name. She’s my Saudi Princess.
You are not a Saudi Princess.
She looks like a cornered cat.
You are not a Saudi Princess.
I reach over the counter and grab her by her black polo shirt.
Who are you?
WHO ARE YOU? YOU RUINED MY LIFE WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?
She screams and pulls back.
No one wants to get involved. Thank god for the wholly self-involved and apathetic public. They’re all too stunned and worried about their own personal safety to come to her rescue.
She pulls her shirt free of my grasp.
She runs.
I run after her. I throw my Hello magazine at her.
She’s short and frightened.
I catch her quickly on the street. I hold her by the arm. I don’t care how much my fingers digging into her bony bicep hurt.
Who are you?
I shake her a bit.
TELL ME!
She kicks me in shin and then the nuts. She shocks me enough to break loose of my grip.
This time when she runs she has the advantage. It’s hard to run when my testicles are throbbing. It’s also hard to pay attention to where I’m running.
I don’t see the fountain until I’m in it. Whoever thought it would be clever to design fountains that shoot water up from seemingly innocuous pavement is a special kind of sadistic.
Water, water everywhere and not an inch of me dry.
Most annoying of all - whoever she is, Allison or the Saudi Princess, stops on the outer edge of the wet pavement just long enough to turn and laugh at me.
She disappears into a crowd. I’m too much of a spectacle to continue running. I know what I need to know to find her. I know where she works. If she’s desperate enough to work in a coffee shop she’ll return eventually either for her final paycheck or her next shift.
CHAPTER SIX
10:00am
A woman I don’t know answers Elon’s door. She nearly closes it again without bothering to ask me who I am. I don’t blame her. I would close the door on the wet man too.
Don’t. Get Elon. Seriously. Go get Elon.
