by Tara Brent
I get in. Just lather up quick, I’m thinking, but as it turns out, I don’t get out fast at all, because Blake doesn’t want to wait any more than I do. I hear the bathroom door open, and I turn to welcome him into the big, multi-nozzled shower with me.
“Boy, when’s the last time you washed that thing?” (See if you can guess which body part I am looking at.)
“Gee. Can’t remember.”
“Well, somebody needs their dick scrubbed.” (You guessed right.)
“When you talk about this, and you will, be gentle.”
“Oooh. Nothing makes me hornier than Tea and Sympathy. And a hard cock, of course.”
There’s a kind of tingly fizz to the body wash as I lather up his balls. I’m gentle with the boys, and I avoid even touching his penis yet. For three grand, we’re entitled to as much hot water as we want, for as long as we want.
Apparently, he’s just as happy taking his time as I am. He steps back, gently drawing me toward him, out of the streaming water. “Never mind washing me. You’re the one who needs her filthy, hot body scrubbed pink.”
“Then get busy, you animal.”
His big, warm hands leave no part untouched. His touch slides, lingers, slides, lingers. “Arms up,” he commands. I am so compliant. I put my hands behind my head while he soaps my underarms, my ribs, my breasts. My tummy. His hands slide onto my hips. I am dying. Touch me there, my brain is screaming. Please, I’m going mad.
“Move your feet apart,” he directs me. “Wider. That’s better.” But his hands are still on my hips. Please, please please...
His hands move at last. Thank God, I’m thinking, but still, they are not going down into my groin. He encircles me in his oak hard arms, and his hands are on my ass now, kneading gently. Spreading the cheeks, then pressing them back together. Open. Close. Open. Close. His hands are just inches from my cunt, but he keeps up the gentle squeeze, release, pull, push motion of his hands on my ass. I let go of trying to will him, just allow him to handle me however he pleases. And once I relax, this open, close motion seems to expand, as I feel the motion ripple through me, feeling it now in my labia, rocking me with this gentle, tender rubbing. It’s spreading a warm, insistent pulsation through my vulva. It’s exciting, maddening, stimulating. I feel my jaw biting down, my teeth clenching, my breath is picking up the rhythm. I can’t take it. I start to moan, filled with pleasure, aching with demand.
“Touch me. Please, touch me there.”
Instead, he moves his hands up to my shoulders. “Turn around,” he insists, guiding me around, facing me the other way, handling me just as he wants.
And just as I want, now. He lets his hands slip down my slick skin, down my breasts, down past my belly button. Oh, God. Keep going. Please. He hands find the notch between my legs. I am dying. Put your finger in there. Two fingers. Your cock. Anything!
“Not yet,” he whispers in my ear. Did he hear my thoughts? Did I say that, or only think it? I can’t tell now. Only one thing is real. The demanding, pulsing desire between my legs. And I can feel the stiff, pulsing throb of his cock as he presses closer. “Spread wider,” he growls. I open my legs as far as I can without slipping on the tiles. The head of his cock is pushing against me, sliding up and down the crack of my ass, driving me even wilder as he rubs the glans back and forth, right up to the lips of my cunt, but still outside, maddening. It’s torture, and I want it to end almost as much as I want it to last forever.
Now he guides his dick with his hand to the slippery slit of my pussy. It’s going in, I can feel it rubbing, almost dipping in, but still not plunging it home. “Fuck me, you bastard. What are you doing? Fuck me!”
“Not yet.” He steps back again. Reaches around me, and pulls on one of the shower heads. It detaches; I see it’s one of those flexible hoses. The kind where you can twist the head and get a gentle spray, a pulsing stream, or a hammering rush like a fucking water pik on steroids. He sits on the tile bench, his cock sticking up like a newel post, and gently, slowly draws me down.
And finally, his cock is sliding home, ramming in deep as I sit, spread wide open, on his gently bucking lap. The relief is short. I have what I want, but I want more, and I speed up my rocking motions, up and down on that cock. Oh, Christ in heaven, this is bliss.
And then, I can feel the spray. He keeps fucking me, but now the shower head is hosing my cunt from the outside while he grinds his cock deeper inside. The need, the demanding heat of need, is rising in me. Click! He dials the shower head up to the next level. Dials me up to the next level, as the throbbing hot water blasts right over my clitoris. It’s so strong, too strong almost, but he has me pinned to his dick like I’m stuck on a spike. Click! Now the water is driving hard against my cunt, my clit, my crack, as he aims it up and down, up and down, matching the rhythm of his thrusting fuck stick. It’s intense. Insane. A wind is rising inside me, or a river. Roaring. Spilling over the banks. Flooding over and through me as I cry out in a wild, screaming orgasm.
My whole body is shaking now. I’m down from the heights, but still on the ridge, and the rush is climbing again. He is pumping fast and hard now, I can tell he’s getting near too, but I can’t wait. I’m dropped down a mine shaft – no, I am the mine shaft, dark and bottomless, as I cum again. And again. I am screaming. I have never screamed, but there is no way to hold this in.
Then his load blasts into my throbbing pussy as he huffs and puffs, the breath racking in and out, pushing with it his deep groans of ecstasy. He drops the shower head, and it swings around on its own, writhing like a snake. We are both panting, floating somewhere outside our bodies, even as our bodies are inside each other. His cock is still erect inside me, though it’s not as rock hard as it was before he came. Neither one of us wants to move. A minute passes. His dick is drawing back as the blood returns to a normal flow in the shaft. We both sit very still, letting it deflate, then at last, slide out, followed by a drip of his cum. I stand. My legs are weak. I offer my hand, and he lets me help him, pulling him up.
“My leg is asleep,” he observes. “It’s all pins and needles.”
I smile.
He smiles.
I only have one question: “Do you think it’s too late for room service?”
It is not.
We feast on steak, champagne and nachos. We gorge on it, our bodies demanding fuel to replace the awesome discharge of energy we’ve expended in that shower. Slowly, our worn out bodies begin to recharge. He catches me in a huge yawn. Laughs. Then reflexively, he yawns too.
It is time to turn down the sheets. Time to feel the cool, pampering texture of their ten billion thread count, or whatever.
But first? Its time to start testing that motherfucker out.
...Next morning. While we have not yet typed up the formal report, I can tell you, without equivocation or purpose of evasion, that the bed passes muster. It also proves to be an ideal location for ‘breakfast in bed’. As long as you are not too concerned with the salacious activities which, for us, made breakfast more interesting, if less efficient. And for the record, I would not kick Blake Okoye out of bed for dropping croissant crumbs on the sheets.
To business. Blake’s mission is to make a personal inspection, and a choice, between two luxurious private villas. The winner will house the honeymoon of Seb and Michelle for three weeks after the wedding. Because this is a surprise, his brother will not be consulted. It’s up to Blake to pick.
“Technically, this whole junket is wedding-related.”
“Your point?”
“Tax deductible for you.”
“Only if I incur some expenses. So far, it’s all on you, Mr. Pockets.”
“True, but I’d still love it if you’ll come with me. I want your opinion.”
“I’m not sure I know a whole lot about hideaway villas for billionaires. Isn’t picking out opulent, self-indulgent pleasure palaces more up your alley?”
“Yes, but you have good taste.”
“Okay. Tip Number One?
No heart-shaped beds.”
He frowns. “You sure about that?”
“Well, unless it rotates and there’s a mirror on the ceiling.”
“Obviously. What am I? A Calvinist?”
“How do you feel about snorkeling?”
“You are talking about the water activity, not the—”
“No, definitely not that. The one where you swim around looking at fish and stuff.”
“I like that, but we don’t have time, I’m afraid.”
“Really?”
“We have to hustle as it is, or we’ll be late for our first viewing.” I admit I’m disappointed at this. A trip to Maui without going snorkeling? It’s like going on a trip to Paris to get a gastric bypass, but then he adds, “Although... There’s no reason you have to go to both viewings. I’m the one who has to do the rental.”
“Oh, no. I should stay with you.”
“Why? It’s fine.”
“No, no. You didn’t fly me out here, just to have me ditch you.”
“We’ve already made great strides to achieve the purpose of flying you here,” he says. Then a little glint in his eye. “Although... You have established some impressive credentials when it comes to evaluating the playing field for a honeymoon.”
“We are not going to do any fuck tests.”
“Why? It’s not like this is going to be an Open House.”
I give him the dead eye. He puts up his hands in mock surrender.
“All right,” he says. “Then how about this? I know the hotel has a great half day snorkel package. Why don’t you do that while I check out the first place? Then I’ll give you the address, and you can meet me at the second viewing when you’re done watching sushi.”
“...Tempting.”
“Go for it.”
Why am I arguing about this? “Okay. Sounds great. I’ll meet up with you after. If you’re sure...”
“Get out. You are dying to go do it.”
“I am.” And I break out in a big grin.
The snorkel trip is magnificent. It is a curated experience. Even the equipment is incredible. The mask and snorkel are brand new, or they sure look like it. They bring a fabulous lunch. Skewers of grilled fish, fresh fruits in staggering variety. Juice, mineral water, beer, champagne. Veuve Clicquot, no less. And the fish?
They take us to a reef so clotted with fish it’s like being thrown into an aquarium. And to make sure I don’t miss anything, I have my own personal dive guide. One on one my very own hunky island boy, who looks like he could probably swim up Niagara Falls. It so great, it seemed like it was over before I could believe it. When we docked again, I almost floated off that boat.
Blake didn’t just get a rental car, of course. He got one that came with a driver. Hey, who wants to get lost on vacation?
And when the car Blake ordered pulls up (a fucking Bentley), I know I won’t get lost. Or robbed. Or kidnapped. Or even whistled at, for that matter. The driver, Pete Tuiasosopo, is the biggest Samoan I have ever seen. He looks like he could bench press this whole car. With me still in it.
We pull up to a gated drive that is almost smothered in orchids. I have the code, and tell it to Mark, our driver. He punches it in, and the gates part to admit us to Valhalla. When we pull up to the house, I am stunned. Flagstone, glass, copper roofing. It sits on a gentle slope above a sugar sand beach that is more private than Trump’s tax returns. The long, inviting pool glitters like the sparkling sea beyond. The house looks kind of like it was designed by ‘the Frank Brothers’ (Lloyd White, and Gerhy). Clean straight lines, open views, but with bold, almost industrial elements that angle off unexpectedly. It’s made for living in a way that blends indoors and outdoors in a seamless environment. Gorgeous.
“Blake?” I call from the patio. The gigantic glass doors that lead into the house from the pool deck are wide open. I walk up to the opening, stop just short of entering. “Hello?” I call again. No answer. Is this the right house? But it has to be. Our driver dropped him here, then went back to pick me up after the snorkel trip. Where is everyone? “Hello?”
Fuck it. I walk in. I’m looking for Blake, but my eyes keep getting pulled in a dozen different directions. Walls that blend fieldstone with sweeping elements of teak. Floors of black slate, many covered with spectacular art pretending to be rugs. I feel like a vandal just walking on anything so beautiful. Amazing Mid-Century furniture. Mies Van Der Rohe Barcelona chairs and couches. Wassily, Eames, Paul McCobb. All to die for. I wander through the living room, a den, a ‘great room’. All stunning. All empty of humans. “Hello?”
As I get closer to a hall that must lead to the bedroom wing, I hear something. A woman is walking toward me. I don’t see her face yet, because she is toweling off her hair. She is barefoot. Her long, perfect legs define slender strength. Her skirt is short, elegant, and expensive, and fits her perfectly. Her beautiful silk blouse would probably be a perfect too. If she were wearing it, but she isn’t. There isn’t even a bra – not that she would need one for those perfect breasts swinging in the breeze. Getting closer, she stops toweling her head and begins to wrap the towel around her hair in a turban. Then she sees me. She freezes like a jack-lighted doe. The little “oh!” that escapes her is very high, and very surprised.
“Hi there,” I say.
She is scrambling to get that blouse on, mumbles dripping from her reddening face. “Are you...” She stammers to a halt.
“Blake?” I say. “Is he here?”
“Blake? Yes, he’s—” She stops, but she almost turns to glance down the hall. She catches herself, but not before I am walking past her toward an open door to the Master Bedroom.
Blake is wearing nothing but a towel.
Chapter 14: Aloha Means Goodbye
Don’t get me wrong. He looks great in a towel. I am not sure I want Ms. Angel Tits to know that. Something suggests to me that she does. It’s the look of surprise that flickers over Blake’s face before he can cover it with a smile.
“Kira! Wow. What do you think?”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
“Isn’t this place perfect?”
“Did you test it?”
“What?” This time, his surprise morphs into a hurt look. Perfect innocence personified. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I glance at the bed. It’s neatly, perfectly made. So? Anyone can make a bed. I can even do hospital corners. “You’re realtor looks very clean. So do you, in fact.”
“Kira, you’re not serious. Are you?”
“Did you close the deal?”
“I was taking a shower to get the chlorine off. From the pool.”
“What is it about you and pools?”
“Oh, come on. There’s nothing going on with Callie.”
“Wrong. Her blouse is going on. Or back on, I should say.”
“Kira. Listen for a—”
“Don’t bother.” I turn, start walking away. I have more to say, plenty more; but I’m not going to let him see the tears starting to spill. I can hear him coming after me, but I don’t turn. I move quickly, back through the house, and out the way I came in.
I can tell by the slap of his feet on the stone deck he’s speeding up and about to catch me. I remember the day he grabbed me by the shoulders. I spin around and bark at him. “Do not even think about putting your hands on me. The last thing I want right now is to shove your ass into another swimming pool.”
He stops short. “Go ahead. The water feels great.”
“How would you know?”
“I told you. Why do you think I was taking a shower?”
“Post-coital hygiene?”
“I was rinsing off the chlorine. That’s the only thing wrong with the pool. It doesn’t get used enough, and there’s too much chlorine.”
“And your ‘realtor’?”
“He’s not here yet.”
That was a bump on my road to righteous fury. “...He...?” As I say it, I can hear another car coming up the driveway
.
“Harvey had an emergency with some escrow thing. He sent his daughter over to be here and let me in.”
“Angel Tits?” I turn to take a look at this Harvey character. Prosperous. 50ish with a bit of belly starting to grow on him. Angel Tits is hurrying up to him, obviously totally flustered.”
Blake waves at the guy, shouting “Hey, Harve. Over here. Give us a second, okay?” He turns back to me. “As long as I had to wait, I thought I’d get my laps in. And check out the pool.”
“Then take a shower with Angel Tits.”
“Please stop calling her that.”
“Okay. Showering with Angel Boobs.”
“Her name is Cassie. I’ve known her since she lost her front teeth.”
“She has them back now. And plenty more.” But I’m losing momentum. I feel my jealous anger ebbing, but I don’t want to let it go yet. “I know what I saw. Cassie just took a shower. Blake just took a shower. Hmmm?” Q.E.D. I told myself.
“Cassie has been here since seven this morning, cleaning. She was a sweaty mess. Harvey called me, says he’s on his way over. So Cassie wanted to clean herself up, but she was afraid to mess up the bathroom. I told her I was going to shower anyway, and she should go first.”
I want to believe this. So badly, but I’m still all wound up, and halfway to running amok. It is almost impossible to slow down and listen, but before I say any more, Blake is waving for Harvey to come over to us.
This isn’t over, I promise myself.
But I clamp down on my tongue, for now. I don’t want to become the next viral video of a public spat with Blake Okoye.
