Aeolus P. Cerigo

Now, as he watches her, her soft shirt is molded to her breast, not suggestively, but the rise of her breast is obvious. A small gap between two of the buttons down the front, shows a flesh colored bra, the lace across the top dips deeply between her breasts. Yesterday, her dark stockings did not hide her slender legs and the heels gave definition to the calves of her legs. Today, her jeans accentuate the length of her legs and cup her buttocks as he wishes his hands were doing.

Rather than yesterday's French braids holding her hair in order, today it is gathered on top of her head, probably held by a barrette or a elastic band, but hidden by a baseball cap. The bill of the cap shades her eyes, putting them in shadow. Dark haired, and dark of brow, he knows her eyes are a dark blue, fringed by long thick lashes, he looked.

He did not want a woman for this job. The number of times he must travel and the length of the trips make traveling with a female difficult. It is easier if the trip is within the United States, but international travel is not easy for a single woman. Accommodations must be given extra attention. Regardless of her skill, clients are often dismissive of a woman and are less likely to listen to a high pitched feminine voice.

Her size may command attention. She is not a tiny petite female. She has broad shoulders, an erect stance, and a graceful walk, without any suggestion of being artificially seductive. She may be assertive enough to overcome some of the problems other women have. But it is her voice, deep, and sultry, which sends chills down his spine, that will be her best asset. People will pay attention to what she says.

Cerigo stands still, his body turned slightly away from Alex. His growing erection hangs down against his leg. An air conditioning vent above him is doing nothing to cool him down. He slips his hands into his pockets, hunches his shoulders, and takes a deep breath. The erection will subside, but it will be back, by dark he will be agitated beyond the point of endurance. ****

After a day of feeling like she has spent her time with an angry man, Alex is unpacking her suitcase, looking for something more comfortable to wear. She has already removed her boots and socks. In fact, she untied the boots in the car, going back to the hotel. Her feet were tired of wearing the heavy boots, tromping through brush, and climbing over rocks. Her jeans are dirty from various falls, or simply landing on her knees when the ground underneath the heavy leaf coverage was uneven. Despite the cap, her hair is falling down around her face from a number of times when twigs caught at her hair, and low limbs scraped the cap from her head.

As she straightens from bending over her suitcase, pressing against the small of her back, she sees Aeolus Cerigo standing less than ten feet from the end of her bed. The connecting doors between their two rooms are wide open. Without a word he takes a few steps forward and opens the top button on her shirt.

"Mister Cerigo," Alex says tilting her head back to look into his face, and then closing her eyes, unable to bear the intensity she sees in his eyes. She is unsure if she can turn him down, not matter what he wants. Every time he touched her to help her up, looked at her when he offered her a bottle of water to drink from, or turned back to hold her arm when she stepped over a fallen tree limb, has been an agony. She knows he saw the change in her expression when he touched her, or said a few words to her.

"Paulous. Like this," he jerks his head toward the connecting doors between their rooms, "To you, I am Paul." He announces, his voice vibrating with intensity. He puts his finger under the collar of her shirt, lifts the point, and slides his finger down across the slope of her breast. "You will take this off. I will look at you."

As if her own hands are not being controlled by her brain, Alex reaches up and watches his face as she blindly continues down the front of her shirt, opening each button. She watches Paul as his hands slip inside her shirt and spread it across her shoulders, sliding the shirt off her. She does nothing to stop the shirt from sliding down her arms and falling away. As if he is more practiced than she is, he bends the front hook of her bra and slips the fingers of one hand inside the cup of the bra to slide across the top slope of her breast. Doing the same to the other breast, he finally pulls the bra away from her, allowing both breasts to fall free as he pulls the cups of the bra away from her, allowing it to slide down her arms.

Paul reaches down and opens the button on her jeans. "You will take this off. I will see all of you."

Beyond caring that she is very wet and he will smell her arousal when she removes her jeans, Alex lowers the zipper at the front of her jeans. Almost in slow motion, Paul goes down to his knees and lowers her jeans to the floor, holding them as Alex lifts each leg. With his hands going up the back of her legs, Paul rises to his knees until he rests his forehead against her stomach. He takes one deep breath, molds his hands around the cheeks of her buttocks then takes another deep breath. His hot breath, filtered through the fabric of her panties, sends a shudder through her body.

Tentatively Alex moves her hands to rest on Paul's head, threading her fingers through his dark hair, massaging his scalp. "Paul," Alex says his name for the first time, her voice shaking. All day, she has been "Miss Reardon" and the few times she found it necessary to speak to him, she addressed his as "Mister Cerigo".

With a strong sweep of his arm, Paul pushes her suitcase off the side of the bed as his other arm slides behind her knees, while his mouth presses against her, toppling her onto the bed. Before she can take a breath, his mouth is buried in the crotch of her wet panties. His mouth is open to suck cloth and both lips of her pussy into his hot, moist mouth. When Alex squirms to get away from him, it is a half hearted effort, bringing a full mouth chuckle from him as he holds her hips, preventing her from getting away from his mouth. He puts his fingers into the waist of her panties and drags them to her knees. His mouth returns to her, burying his face into her, moaning, and sending vibrations to her very core.

And then he is above her, his mouth on hers, his tongue pushing between her lips. Supporting his weight on his elbows, he moves his hands to hold her head so she cannot get away from him. She tastes herself on his lips and tongue. He kisses her, licks her lips, moves his mouth below her chin, and then drags his wet tongue to the soft spot under the corner of her jaw.

If someone was watching, they might think this woman is being attacked, because of the frenzy of his movements. But if they observe closely, they would see she is moving her head to the side, to give him access to the softness of her neck. They would recognize the arch of her back when she presses her breasts against him and her own hands holding his shoulders in a tight grip. And they might see one of her feet lifted to complete the removal of her panties, sliding them farther down her leg, and finally pushing them off her feet. In doing so, she separates her thighs, allowing him full access to the dark nest between her thighs. An observer might see him unzip his pants and moments later, with a near violent thrust, embed himself in her heat.

He is huge, he stretches her, his entry is almost painful, delicious pain. She feels him deep inside her, pushing against her cervix. She has never been filled so completely. She slowly exhales and shudders, and tries to relax as her body adjusts to accommodate him.

"Do not move," he growls in her ear. Mentally, he pictures her self portrait, showing her body to mid-thigh. Her hips are slightly turned to show more of her lower body. It was that part of the drawing that has driven him to near insanity since yesterday morning. Unlike many young women her age, she does not shave her pubic hair. However, the dark reddish hair visible in the drawing was closely trimmed, revealing a fleshy mound, full puffy outer labia and a bare hint of the inner labia. And she was moist. She even drew the moisture on her skin. He knew with a mere glance that she drew herself when she was aroused, just as she had drawn the male model genitalia in the various stages of arousal.

She does not listen to his command. Instead she places her feet on the edge of the bed and lifts her hips, taking him deeper inside herself, releasing a deep groan as if she has found something for which she was searching. He has but to partially withdraw and thrust once more to drive her over the edge. He feels her thighs tremble and her inner muscles contract, while her teeth grip the soft flesh above his collar bone, through his shirt. One more thrust, and he is unable to withhold his own throbbing climax. He grunts, several times. He jerks as he feels his cum throbbing along his cock, an almost endless stream, bathing her inner surfaces.

He wants to fall on top of her, to rest against her, to feel her shape beneath him, but he knows doing so will crush her, or leave her unable to breathe. Instead he rolls slightly to the side, and tries to pull her into his arms. Wildly pushing his arms away, she shoves his leg off her thighs and stumbles across the room, slamming the bathroom door behind her.

Standing under the hottest water she can tolerate, Alex rubs shampoo into her hair and rinses it. As she swirls the bar of soap in her hands, her tears fall. Once again she has allowed her animal nature to overcome her reason. Yesterday, she was in his office, when Aeolus Paulous Cerigo commanded, "You," followed by "Sit." She should have turned around and left his office. But it was already too late. She yielded to the man. She did what he told her to do. Tonight, she removed her shirt because he told her to do so. She unzipped her jeans because he told her to do so.

Alex walks out of the bathroom, rubbing the water from her hair. Except for the lamp beside her bed, the room's lights are turned off. Her suitcase has been placed on the dresser beside the television. The bed is neatly turned down. The connecting door between Paul's room, and her own, is closed. It is not locked, a faint line of light shows at the edge of the door. But the door is closed. Only Paul could have returned her room to order and she wonders why he went to the trouble.

She pulls a long t-shirt over her head, crawls between the sheets, and turns off the lamp. She can do nothing about what has already happened, beyond taking one deep breath, and shaking her head. If she was not so tired, she would comb her hair. Or, she would open the laptop computer and begin to customize it for herself. Or, she could open her sketchbook and work on filling in some of the details from their look around the future site for which Paul will design a house, and over which he will supervise the construction. However, she does none of those. After a very early start to a day of physical exertion, hours and hours of sexual tension, a heavy dinner with a silent man who barely spoke to her, and the hot bath, she is beyond exhaustion. Within minutes, she is asleep. ***

Somewhere, the deep rumble of men's voices seeps under the pillow covering her head. The smell of coffee permeates the air above her head as she stretches under the covers. Pushing against the mattress, she sits up quickly. She realizes this is not her apartment. She is in a hotel. On the nightstand beside her bed is a cup of coffee and a plate wrapped in a cloth napkin, which holds two large fresh rolls with a length of spicy sausage peeking out of each end. The connecting doors are fully open.

After a sip of the coffee, a quick trip to the bathroom and grabbing her briefbag, Alex is sitting cross-legged on the bed, the computer coming to life as she munches on the first of the sausage rolls. She pays little attention to the men's voices in the next room. She knows Paul is meeting with his male secretary and right hand man, Marklin Anders. The man slept during the entire flight yesterday. He later said he takes Dramamine to offset his problems with flying. He is responsible for the comfortable hotel rooms, the rental car they used to travel to the site, and the remaining details of the three intense days of this trip. As a general rule, he is not visible. He is in the background, doing what needs to be done, taking notes of conversations, and making the arrangements Paul does not have time to tend to. Almost as if he has a special sense, he appears when Paul looks for him, and will take his instructions in a few words, before turning to do as Paul asks.

Several times, Alex heard the buzz of Paul's cell phone. If he is occupied he does not bother to answer, but at a convenient time, without a word, he will listen to whatever message was left. If it is convenient, he answers with one word, "Yes?" listens and most often says a second, "Yes" or a plain "No," and does not wait for another word from the caller.

When Alex and Paul returned from tramping around, looking at several sites, searching for the best site on which to build the house, she sat for a few minutes with Marklin, while Paul talked to the future homeowners. She asked Marklin if Mister Cerigo's brevity of words on the cell phone bothered him.

Marklin chuckled, "No. Paul believes the telephone is for his convenience, not the caller's. If he wants to answer he will, otherwise he will listen to a message. But he expects the message to be few words and no questions." He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a small stack of 3x5 cards. "These are my assignments," he shows her one, on which is written, "Wed 5/9 3 days -- Boggs River -- Haroldson 5307 -- Marklin, Byron & Alex Reardon, Artist."

"Oh lord," Alex exclaimed. "He even writes in shorthand."

Marklin looked at her and smiled, "Yes, but there is no question to what he needed done, is there? There are often a large number of people affected by his plans, rather like a pebble dropped in a pool of water. And you must remember that he is not at the center of the ripples."

When the computer is fully loaded, she attaches the telephone line to download her email, which should include several attachments she sent to herself. She gives little attention to the men's voices coming from Paul's room, other than occasionally hearing his raised voice, sounding frustrated and short tempered and Harlan's voice sounds even and low in volume as if he is calming his boss. She is so involved checking her small notebook for passwords and adding the new ones she will need to use for some of the software, she does not realize the voices have become quite or stopped. When she looks up, Paul is leaning against one side of the open doorway, his ankles crossed, his arms folded across his chest, and the top of his head just inches from the top of the facing around the opening. Sitting cross legged, with her t-shirt around her hips, she knows he can see all the way under her shirt. Because she has never been able to sleep in underwear, she is fully exposed to his view.

Alex does not move, nor does she lower her eyes. It is not a stare-down between the two of them. It is a head to toe examination, a search for physical imperfections, an admiration of physical strengths and beauty. Tempted to lift her hands to push her hair out of her face and into some kind of order, Alex resists. She licks her lips and notices Paul's growing erection, which he makes no effort to hide. The pleated front of his khaki chinos is stretched across his hips.

"You should dress. We meet with the Haroldson's in one hour." He turns and walks into his room, not bothering to close the doors.

"Well hell," Alex breathes. "If he can handle it, I can too." With her back to the doors, she strips off the t-shirt, pulls on clean underwear and socks, and selects a clean shirt and casual pants from the hanging clothes in the open closet. Despite not combing her hair last night, she soon has the mass collected in an elastic band on top of her head. She slips her feet into a comfortable pair of loafers and is collecting her supplies into her briefbag when Paul once again steps through the connecting doorway, his large briefcase hanging from his shoulder. Without invitation he walks into her room, lifts the telephone and asks if the small meeting room is prepared for his use.

By nightfall, the entire hotel will know he used the telephone in her room, indicating the connecting doors have been opened, and that he feels free to walk into her room, unchallenged. He has effectively branded her as his "woman," simply by making a telephone call. Alex glares at him, which he seems to think is humorous. He smiles and lifts one eyebrow, as if he is saying, "So what? I pay for the room. I will use it as I choose."

Paul takes her arm in one hand and her briefbag in the other, waits for her to open the door and allows her to walk through before closing it behind them. He checks the latch and then takes her arm again. His actions are gentlemanly, old fashioned, and possessive. When he speaks to her, he inclines his head, bending to speak quietly and waiting for her response, before straightening up, while continuing their walk to the elevator. He stands beside her, or slightly behind her, and turns his body sideways, as if to shield her from the other occupants of the filling elevator. In doing so, his stomach brushes against her, with his building erection frequently touching her hip.

As they walk down the hall to a small meeting room, Paul instructs her. "Today is the easy day. You listen to Mr. and Mrs. Haroldson, to hear descriptions of the views they wish and how they want the house to appear. You draw what you hear them say. You try not to insert your preferences. This is sometimes difficult, but you learn."

"Do I ask them questions?"

"No, they may rethink their words. When the meeting is over, you show the drawings. They will select those to match what they want. Then you will work detail for me and I will do structural."

"How many drawings should I expect to make?"

"Ten, twenty, thirty, some quick, others a small special detail. You should work fast, turn pages, start again, and then again. Give no attention to great detail, merely basic lines and angles. One page may be the window, another for a roofline. A different drawing is a pool or gazebo, and again another roofline. When you can, you watch the hands move. You will have your eyes on them, not on your work. You watch the body language, she have a shrug of the shoulders to indicate indecision, a spread of the hands to show something large, the head back to mean indulgence. This, I also watch, for the interior, room sizes, details, finishes, materials of roughness, glass, wood, and trim. From this discussion, we will develop an artistic masterpiece, yes?"

Alex finds a small table in the corner of the room. She takes a stack of loose papers and lines up several pencils. When Mr. and Mrs. Haroldson are shown into the room, it is as if Alex is part of the woodwork, she is not seen or acknowledged. She finds the task easier than she expected and harder than she could have ever imagined. Soon she is sitting back in her chair, her bag on her lap and a growing stack of partial drawings on the table in front of her. After the first hour, she is twisting her neck in agony.

Cerigo calls for a break to allow a waiter to bring a fresh pot of coffee, a bucket of ice, and a selection of soft drinks. The wealthy couple excuses themselves to visit the restrooms, while Alex sharpens her pencils. Almost instantly, Paul is across the room, massaging Alex's neck, his warm hands moving and pressing across the top of her shoulders. "This meeting is half finished. You can continue?"