Frumusețe în Toate Lucrurile

Nassir Khan, heir to the fortune of one of the wealthiest businessmen in Kuwait, finds a life of negotiating over vast quantities of money uninteresting. His wandering eye, always eager to find beautiful things everywhere he goes, lands upon Larissa, a Romanian former domestic worker to his father. She's no longer folding laundry or serving dinner on this yacht off the coast of Greece, but Nassir finds her enamoring even in spite of their setting.

Frumusețe în Toate Lucrurile

Spoiled rotten by money in Kensington, educated by the finest of English teachers in British schools in Kuwait, witness to stunning renaissance structures and art in Italy, Nassir Khan feels very victimized by the judgmental eyes of those around him who seek to question his ability to see beauty in all things. The peering, narrow eyes of those around him in the business world, many of which have seen him grow from a loud mouthed toddler in England to a ... still rather loud mouthed adult. Maybe not loud mouthed—perhaps snarky is the correct word. But Nassir does not see the world in the way his cynical tone would suggest. On the contrary, he loves everything around him. It's unbearable for him to sit through endless meetings discussing the ins and outs of building massive skyscrapers when there is already gorgeous architecture around them to be seen.

He is acutely aware of his own image within this world that he was born into and is currently expected to succeed his father in. Even at the age of 31, he is a prissy adolescent, with a raucous youth spent in London, partying to the remnants of whatever was left of the grime scene even though he grew up in a different world to the artists he so enjoyed. Nassir Khan, the boy who really likes vodka, tablets handed to him by mysterious girls in velour bikini tops in clubs, and waking up somewhere in South America missing his passport and several thousand pounds. But he has matured a bit since then, and far be it for these distinguished international businessmen and Kuwaiti elite to prohibit Faisal Khan's son from fulfilling his prescribed destiny. No, the only person that could really stop Nassir from putting his round peg in the square hole of the business of making ungodly sums of money was Nassir himself. And boy, was he rapidly approaching making some rather nuclear decisions so he could do so.

But that could come later. Right now, he is on a slightly more sophisticated partying vessel in the form of French textile magnate Frédéric Besson's yacht off the coast of an island in Greece whose name has skipped Nassir's mind. Right now, Nassir is going to have a manageable—but sizable—quantity of fancy alcohol and admire everybody on board. Frédéric's CFO Penelope, the girl in the flashy bodysuit serving alcohol, Penelope's cousin (Bridgette? Bridget? Bernadette?), even Frédéric himself. In the warm glow of fancy vodka, everybody could be beautiful to Nassir, even the old bastards with obscene amounts of money unable to buy taste and unwilling to get rid of their potentially cancerous hairy moles. Nassir was in one of his moods, where he was in love with everybody, and wanted everybody to love him back, even if they were all complete strangers. And to be certain, they nearly all were.

One vaguely, confusingly familiar face emerges from the lower decks of the boat. Hazel eyes, rimmed on her upper lids with black eyeliner and fake lashes (one of which is hanging on by a thread on the inner corner), full lips coated in glossy mauve, and wavy chocolate brown hair tied back into a messy ponytail at the back of her head. Oh, he is in love. But more pressingly, in a state of mild frustration as he tries to place her in his mind. She may be on this yacht now, collarbones ever so slightly obscured by the straps of a silver chrome bikini top, long legs in go-go boots now, but this isn't how he knows her. No, it's something far more mundane.

He motions her over with his hand, trying not to seem rude or demanding but his slightly mushy brain demands an answer. She raises a curved eyebrow, then heads over his direction.

"Is there something I can help you with?" she asks, blunt but not intending to be particularly rude. Her accent, not Southern European but not Slavic either, shifts the pieces slightly in his brain.

"Yes, sorry! I recognize you, but I'm a little bit tipsy and I'm struggling to place you," he replies, London accent thicker with the vodka and booming sounds of the partygoers around him.

"Don't worry, I recognize you," she says with a laugh. "Nassir Khan, yes?"

"Yes!"

"I'm Larisa. A few years ago, I worked in your father's house in Kuwait. Obviously, I've since left," she says with a chuckle, flipping a piece of fringe from her eyes.

"Yes, I gathered that," he says, laughing. "I've since moved into that house. He's semi-retired, back in Pakistan. He's become a bit more religious."

"I read that a bit online since I left. I had to go back to Romania a few years ago before he retired, but I do remember you visiting Kuwait," she says, still standing before him, leading to be at his level. Suddenly aware of this inequality, Nassir begins to gesture for her to sit on the chair beside him.

"I'm sure I was a right buffoon when I came to visit," he laughs sheepishly. "Clearly, I'm still a bit of a buffoon now. On a ... slightly seedy yacht."

She shrugs. "Well, I'm right there beside you."

Blush colors his cheeks. Right buffoon indeed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply anything—"

"Don't worry, it's fine. We're here together, aren't we? I'm not embarrassed. I'm sure 21-year-old me in Kuwait would be embarrassed of me now, but I'm well. Are you well, now that you're the one in Kuwait?"

"I suppose," he says with a shrug. "A bit entitled and bratty of me to complain about it. But it is a change. Do you miss it?"

"Sometimes. But I did miss Europe. Well, I missed Romania. I get to experience Europe now. Even if it's on 'seedy yachts'."

She gives a blinding smile, and he returns his own. He doesn't remember too much of Larisa. He remembers Zahir, the young man who constantly did all the heavy-lifting and yard work, lean and strong from years of working in the rice fields, dark skin beaten on by the boiling Bengali sun. He was lucky enough to inherit Zahir, the witty little bastard (literally—but Nassir would never joke about the poor lad's parentage), the object of his desire for many of the fleeting weeks he would spend in his father's estate. Larisa was always pretty, with a nice accent and perceptive eyes, but he was too fixated elsewhere. Now, on this boat in an unknown location, Nassir fixates on her.

"If you don't mind me asking, what do you do on these seedy yachts?" he asks as if he's a schoolboy gossiping with a friend.

"Mostly serve drinks, but if you're asking if I've had sex for money, it depends on your definition of sex," she answers bluntly.

"Oh! Good to know."

"It's mostly stripping and sometimes using my hands," she explains, shaking her aforementioned hands. He leans closer to her, eager to share a secret.

"It's been a long time, but I've very much been in the same position as you," he says, not quite in her ear but close enough to keep the knowledge between the two of them.

"Oh, have you?" She gives a slightly wolfish smile.

"Like I said, it's been a long time. I'm not so much of a lithe little party boy anymore, but it brings back fond memories."

"I think you've still got the figure for it," she chuckles.

"Underneath this crisp suit, I'm all fat rolls and sweat," he jokes, gesturing to his pristine, structured Parisian attire.

"Everybody has their own fetish." Fetish, fe-tish, feh-teesh. He soaks in the way she says the word with her Bucaresti tongue.

"Yeah, and what's yours?"

—

Underneath his suit, as it turns out, is fawn skin, slightly copper-toned from his persistent sun exposure, and a still toned body, even if his metabolism and exercise have slowed down in recent years. Sparse black hair runs along his sternum, drawing more shadow to his pecs, trailing into a line bisecting his stomach leading to trimmed pubic hair. He prays that his foray into the business world doesn't completely kill his figure—no offense to his beloved father but he'd hate to become grey and out-of-shape as quickly as he did. Larisa drapes her hands around his neck as he shimmies off his pants, taking in his body, comparing it to the faint memories she has of him years prior in a swimming pool in the desert sun, back when he was more of an amusing nuisance than anything enticing.

Once mostly undressed himself, Nassir takes to untying her swim top, releasing its grip on her breasts. They fall to her side, puffy pink nipples turning hard with the sudden exposure to the colder temperature in the bottom of the boat. He immediately kisses her exposed clavicle, then takes a nipple into his mouth and the other between his thumb and forefinger. She tastes so slightly of saltwater (he imagines he must as well). A faint moan escapes her lips, quiet enough that he might not have noticed if he didn't feel it in her chest. He releases her nipples to pull down her shorts, exposing a thong with less-groomed pubic hair trying to escape through the edges. He is enamored.

She palms him through his boxer briefs as caresses the outside of her thong.

"Is this okay?" he asks, running a knuckle along the outline of her clitoris and labia.

"Yes," she answers with a nod. He pulls down her panties, slowly, careful to not get them caught along the way. He dips one index finger into her wetness, then the other, bringing them up to her nipples, now relaxed and acclimated to the temperature. He dips his head into the dip of her neck between her jaw and shoulder.

"You have beautiful tits," he gasps as she begins to pull down his underwear, ever so slightly scraping his cock with the elastic waistband. She playfully jiggles them, inciting him to lick up the sweat between them. "Maybe I'll have to put my cock right here, fuck them," he mutters as she gently strokes it.

"Why don't you?" she asks with a dangerous glint in her eyes. Oh, he loves her. Never one to ignore such a go-ahead, he finishes pulling off his underwear, kicking them off of his ankles. He gives a playful kiss to her thighs as he mounts her again, bracing his weight with the wall behind them so as to not crush her. She strokes his cock back and forth, rubbing the precum over the head. Carefully arranging his cock to sit between her tits, she presses her arms together to corral them. He begins to gently thrust with his eyes screwed shut, not quite courageous enough yet to open them. Once he does, he feels himself drip again, coating the space between her tits. They're not exceptionally large and it's a bit of a chore to get them to really completely surround his cock, but they feel marvelous, look marvelous.

"I don't like to give blowjobs much," she warns as the head gets closer to her lips, lipstick only staining the very edges of them now.

"That's fine, dear. I certainly hope you like to receive oral sex, though." She smiles.

"I think that can be arranged."

He grins, swinging his leg back over to the same side as his other leg. "I think that will have to happen rather soon, or else I'm going to cum all over your gorgeous tits."

"Maybe later," she suggests. He gets on his knees on the floor nudging her legs open with his hands. He presses his nose to her, breathing in the sweat and faint soap smell of her pubic hair before dipping down to taste her. And oh, does she taste divine. Many food analogies come to his mind, including the slightly sour winter soup she used to make for him and his father, but he shoves them aside so he can indulge in her, not his own silly experiences and ideas.

He laps up her taste with his tongue, teasing at her entrance with it before devoting his attention to sucking her clitoris, prodding it with the very tip of his tongue while he does so. When he gazes up from his work, she is playing with her breasts, running spit-slicked fingers around her areola. Fuck, fuck. He spreads apart her labia with his right hand while he frantically tugs on his cock with his left, eager to get some sort of relief from the overwhelming arousal threatening to spill over the surface. He gasps a hot breath onto her before returning to drink her in, discharge dripping down the sides of his face. She holds his head in place, winding strong fingers into his long black hair.

"Would you like for me to be inside of you tonight?" he asks, words muffled. She hums in thought.

"Yes," she agrees, and he grins, even more eager to make her cum. With a whine, he takes his hand off of his cock and puts his thumb on her clitoris, rubbing soft circles into it while he runs his tongue along the rim of her vagina. She moans, an unexpected sound erupting from her. He grabs her hips with his hands, dragging her down to press harder into his face, her legs wound even tighter around him. She reaches down and begins to stroke her own clitoris, at a slower pace but harder pressure than he had been. "Do you want to fuck me?" she asks.

Yes, yes, yes please, Nassir thinks before remembering to vocalize it. "Yes, absolutely," he says breathlessly, quickly stroking his own dick to get it back to full hardness. He frantically searches for his discarded, very tailored pants, pulling a condom out of his traveling wallet (he's finally learned how to not get mugged). He rolls it over himself, making sure there are no gaps. He returns to his feet, and gripping the base, he rubs it along the soaking lines of her vagina, tapping it on her clitoris, making her huff. He leans over to quickly bite one of her nipples, releasing it as he teases his cock inside of her, afraid to hurt her. The room stills as they both adjust to the sensation of each other, before he releases a breath he didn't know he was holding and slides in all the way. His black hair is plastered to his forehead, the rest of it hanging around his head as he pants above her. Larisa's own ponytail has long since unraveled, leaving much of her hair splayed around her on the pillow.

"You feel amazing," he says, dropping his head down to suck a deep kiss to her flushed collarbone. She nods her thanks, mouth dry, and resumes rubbing at her clitoris, using one hand to spread apart her labia. He matches her pace, wanting to make her cum all over his cock. She knows her body best, and it sounds like what's best for her will be more than sufficient for him. Oh, will it.

As she gets closer to climaxing, her pace quickening, her muscles contract around him, and he prays for a brief second that he outlasts her because it feels heavenly.

"You have," she gasps, "a very nice cock, Mr. Khan."

An unexpected laugh escapes his lips, a small decorating his face. "Thank you Ms. ..."

"Georgescu," she supplies.

"You have an amazing cunt, Ms. Georgescu. I imagine the finest east of Paris and west of Istanbul," he quips.

"You have a lot of experience with Eastern European cunt?" she banters back, feeling the word along her tongue.

"I never said that. After this, I doubt I'll have to try again. Why try bologna when you've had prosciutto?"

"God, you're very strange," she muses, feeling her orgasm quickly approach. She squeezes her arms together, framing her tits for his viewing. Taking the cue, he removes his head from her clavicle to suck on her nipple. And that's what finally does it. She climaxes like an earthquake, one big rush and the little shockwaves following it, squeezing his cock like a vice. Without thinking, as if pulling his hand from a flame, he pulls out of her, stripping off the condom. She reopens her eyes, a bit dazed, before climbing off the bet to get onto her knees. She steadies herself by holding onto his thighs as he strokes himself, cumming on her breasts like she had suggested. He feels like he's stood up too fast, seeing stars and a white vignette around his vision as he watches his cum drip down onto her nipples and finally the carpet below them.

"Fuck, fuck," he pants, mouth full of cotton and head full of nothing.

"Good?" she asks.

"Incredible."

—

Not particularly eager to return to the deck above, the two lie together on their sides on the too narrow, unfamiliar bed.

"Does Zahir still work there?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, yeah he does," he replies, worried she can read his thoughts, or at least could when she still was in Kuwait.

"I liked Zahir," she muses. "It seemed like you really liked him yourself. You always complained your air conditioning was broken, or there was a strange smell from the pipes."

"Well, I was a brat who wanted to relax in the utmost luxury."

"Oh, was that it?" she rolls her eyes playfully.

"What are you suggesting, Ms. Georgescu?"

"I never had eyes for you in Kuwait, not really. I didn't quite like your personality. But I know someone did. Zahir will never do such silly things for just anybody."

A headrush hits Nassir, hard. He's afraid if he has any more shock or excitement today he'll just stroke out and die. His body will be shipped back to Pakistan, rejected, and dumped in the ocean on the way to England.

"That's interesting," he observes, adding nothing of value to their little conversation.

"Very."