Life as a New Hire Ch. 17

I doubt he complained, or even thought to complain. Who would have taken his place? A smaller sister, aunt, or daughter? Had other males objected? Sure, the battle line in Amazon tactics was not the place of glory. The striking arm were the horse-riders. Countless times adversaries had spent the last minutes of their lives with the echoes of horses, hooves and female Amazon war cries seemingly all around them.

Some wise old dead fucker once said 'defeat starts in the mind'. I wholeheartedly believed in that – except my version was 'having sex with me starts with my insidious nature'.

"Defeat starts in the mind," I stared intently into Oneida's eyes. Love poetry is a matter of emotional context, not actual words.

I pulled Oneida to me, letting her straddle my lap because I desperately wanted her to understand my tortured soul. Grinding her vulva against my hard-on was totally accidental, as was our renewed French kiss and me grabbing two handfuls of her ass. There was no rushing of things. Oneida was a skittish mare and I had to keep her feeling safe despite her sexual peril.

Any woman who bothers to get to know me knows I am not a complicated guy. Case in point: by the time Oneida was feeding me her left nipple, Odette already had the security types sweep my bedroom (again) then the three retreated to Timothy's room and shut the door. Were Oneida's guardians worried about Oneida's carnal violation?

No, why would they? Amazons had dick on demand. Virginity didn't hold any religious significance for them; killing things did. With the speed and efficiency those other two Amazons made themselves scarce, I imagined they were happy that Oneida had stopped mooning over me and getting a good grip on reality. A righteous dicking was in the offing.

Oneida's open eyed, opened-mouth countenance when she found herself naked on my bed with a naked me hovering over her was precious. That look always was. It did necessitate a question.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" I whispered. My aroused cock brushed along her thigh. The question was a courtesy.

The answer was always the same because girls want to have sex. They also want to believe they have a say in the process from beginning to end. I say 'believe' because sex done right is passion and passion is the rejection of reason. At some point in the seduction, intercourse becomes an avalanche. Logic can scream all it wants; the hormones are not listening.

I slipped into Oneida's velvety liquid embrace. She gave up a sigh of relief. She'd made the jump into intimacy. Any other explanation for what was going to happen would have implicated me as a 'Player' – which everyone else thought I was. Oneida had this romantic ideal of me that no amount of evidence appeared to shatter.

Personally, I was starting to dread ever going to her bedroom. I wasn't sure of her 'My Little Pony' comforter would be a turn-off for me. I had done in it on Pocahontas and The Little Mermaid, so odds were I'd pull through in the clinch.

"I am not hurting you, am I?" I moaned.

Said for emotional impact alone. If I was causing a girl pain, I would have stopped first.

"No," happy murmuring, "I'm wonderful." The most powerful organ human's possess is the brain. Oneida was a 'talker'. She wanted to express her feelings during intercourse – not give to directions, but as an effort to increase her participation in the sex act itself.

Slow, steady strokes followed, withdrawing my glans half way along her labia, moved up and down slightly then gradually pushed back in. Every entry held something new for her. I added to the process by tilting her thigh and leg forward so that my next penetration tantalized a whole new series of trigger points in her vagina.

On the next pass, Oneida began her own experimentations, twisting and adjusting the angle of her hips as I worked my rod in and out. Oneida began crying. I wasn't upset and that didn't make me a callous bastard. She was shedding tears of joy and regret; joy because her first climax was in the offing; regret because she wish she had done this with me sooner.

She had been a Havenstone employee so we hadn't done the deed. We still had to keep our liaison secret. Why? I'd think of something. The real reason was pure politics. I never knew what wacky dame hated another wacky dame for reasons I couldn't even get into, but I knew it would curtail my dating opportunities.

I'd pay the price of deception later. What I couldn't take was being denied sex without having done anything wrong first.

"Am I making you happy?" Oneida gasped. No flippancy here – romance was the key.

"You demand things from me few other women do," I replied breathlessly.

I wasn't going to lie to her. Prettying up the truth was good enough and it made her happy. I also got something new – to her, not to me. She orgasmed. Whatever she'd been satisfied with before, I obliterated in a few quick, decisive strokes. OH GOD did she go off! It has happened to me before – the door being kicked in; just not in mid-orgasm. Guns being pointed at yours truly while the girl was in mid-scream was new.

And Oneida was still carrying on and on.

"I was trying to tell you!" Odette was screaming. "He does that to us all the time...please don't shoot him." The whole 'girl screaming at me in Old Kingdom Hittite' was also new. My mentor preferred Minoan.

"I have come back from Death," Oneida rasped. Her skin was flushed deep red from her exertion, she had bathed us both in sweat and she was coming up with any form of vocalization from Goddess-knows where she had screamed for so long. She looked at me with love in her eyes – damn it. She looked and looked and looked and...finally noticed the two women at the foot of the bed.

"Is – some – thing – wrong?" Oneida panted while gazing at her two guardians with worry. There was someone pounding on my apartment door.

"Neighbor – door – I'm on it," Odette called out. Seconds later the deadbolts clicked and the door opened. "Hello, Mr. Finnes."

"You God-damn Whore!" he screamed. "Where is that homo and his butt-buddy? The cops are on their way and this time you are all in the street." He had a good head of steam on tonight. Slayer of Testicles #1 looked at Slayer of Testicles #2, nodded and left. "Who is this bitch," Finnes got out. It was so wrong that I recognized the next sound.

It was the barrel of a gun being inserted into a person's mouth.

"Listen and listen carefully," SoT#1 spoke softly. "You are going back to your hovel. If I get word, or even a bad premonition, that you are causing this apartment a hint of worry, I am going to come back and end you in a fashion the New York City's Coroner's Office will find memorable."

"I do not care if you have to puncture both eardrums to drown out the noise. I am not a compassionate person. In fact, I am considered sadistic by those who know me well. Now go back home, tell the police who show up this was all a mistake and give a prayer of thanks to whatever deity you grovel before that I didn't simply ram my firearm up your anus and decorate the ceiling in what passes for brains in your pathetic bone-sack of a body," she menaced.

There was a choking/gagging noise then the sound of heaving.

"Mr. Finnes...are you okay?" Odette worried. As a wonderful counter-point.

"Have you given me your seed?" Oneida asked hopefully. I was still hard. It had only been ten minutes of sex after all. I gently rocked my penis deeper in. "Oh," she happily babbled.

"Again?" SoT#2 questioned. I made a few more penetration cycles instead of speaking. "Do they train you in some sort of Sex Academy for this? Are there more males out there like you?"

"Is having a viewing gallery a real damper on the mood?" I asked her while looking into Oneida's eyes. I was actually proud of Oneida for not sending the other woman away.

It showed me she respected the woman's job. I also heard the apartment door shut.

"Wow, your threat was nice and spooky," Odette snickered.

"Threat? Child, what do you think I do for a living?" SoT#1 asked.

"You are one of those wacko, psycho-chicks Cáel Nyilas works with," Odette was undoubtedly smiling.

"Correct, I am one of those wacko, psycho-chicks..." SoT#1 left that hanging out there.

"You weren't playing with Mr. Finnes, were you?" Odette grew quiet. Pause. "There is really a job which allows you to do that kind of stuff?" Pause. "Can I apply?"

"This is not something you apply..." SoT#1 began, but then, "I guess if Cáel wants to..."

"Cool," Odette was truly irrepressible.

"If he does that, there will definitely be consequences and repercussions," SoT#1 cautioned.

"Oh, I think I had better stick with being his fuck-buddy," Odette conceded.

"Wise choice," SoT#1 agreed. My bedroom door shut. SoT#2 had slipped out.

Do you often have sex with an audience?" I teased Oneida.

"Yes," she answered matter-of-factly, "I do. Don't you?"

"Now that you mention it..." and I got back to the pleasure that encompasses so much of my life.

(Note: some events in Chapter 18 happen before the events of Sunday Night. For the sake of the tale this sequence worked better in my eyes)

(Sunday Night)

"Cáel," a voice purred over my phone.

"Hey Nicole," I greeted my lawyer not-quite a hook-up anymore. Also, unless you are SURE you know the female caller, don't take a gamble with the name.

"So, do you have something going on tonight?" she queried.

"Nope. My normal engagement had to cancel so I'm sitting back with some friends who do not appreciate the depth of my depravity," I sighed.

"Canceled?" She laughed. "On you? Have your recovered from the shock?"

"Actually, they had a death in the family and had to go to South Carolina," I explained.

"Oh...sorry," Nicole apologized. "Well, if you are feeling lonely and neglected, you could come by work and do me a favor."

"I am feeling neither lonely, nor neglected, but I am certainly missing you right now. Give me a half hour and I'll be there," I promised. She thanked me and hung up.

"Who is it this time?" Odette snickered. Man, I was becoming so used to her hanging around.

"Nicole the lawyer," I replied. I trekked back to my bedroom to prep. I opted for the 'Bad Boy' look – worn jeans, high-top tennis shoes (equally worn), my Plant Smashers t-shirt (Quebecois ska band – yes, I will road-trip to another country for sex) and my Bolingbrook bomber jacket.

Yes, I was going to an Ivy League Law firm dressed like a carjacker. Every other male was going to be dressed in finely-tailored silk and I had to stand out. Since I couldn't outspend them, I was going to make them look like effete pussies by dressing like I just didn't care what anyone thought. I was coming over to fuck Nicole and there would be no doubt about it.

"Isn't that chick rich?" Timothy teased me.

"Yeah. I'm packing the glow in the dark Trojans tonight – cause she's special," I grinned.

"Oh! I love those," Odette squealed. She really needed to trust me less. I walked over, cupped her ears with my hand then kissed her on the forehead.

I did the same to Timothy. His look suggested that I had best make a hasty exit before he kicked my ass. I caught a taxi a block away. It turned out he was from Qatar and he asked if I was sure about the address I gave him. I grinned then told him I could outrun 95% of the NYPD so was feeling good about my chances.

He snorted, countering with 'If you were an Arab, they'd shoot you.' Not to be outdone, 'I'd claim to be a Syrian anti-government protester – you know, because we all look alike to these Caucasians'. We laughed for a bit then he said he had a younger sister back in the homeland. I insisted I was immoral – a wicked man.

'Was I religious?' 'Only when it suited my purposes.' 'Would I consider converting to Sunni Islam?' 'Only if the girl was cute enough.' He showed me her picture – dammit, she had a really beautiful face. I got her name, his name and the name of his mosque. I considered it. Yahweh, Christ, Bacchus (wine, an orgy and 'bull' testicles – long story) and Jehovah all had reasons to barbeque my butt already.

Why not add Allah to the mix, besides it being an incredibly stupid thing to do for a man in constant mortal peril like me? In theory, three of the four definitely had the possibility to be the same Omniscient and Omnipotent Galactic Being so the odds were I wouldn't get too much more screwed.

I finished up my journey imagining Buffy in a burqa. That evolved into a vision of me being force-fed a burqa – in private – where no one could hear my muffled cries for help. Buffy – murdering me – made me horny. I am a sick puppy.

"Buffy," I called her as I paid the cabbie.

"What – huh – are you okay, Cáel?" Buffy muttered.

"Yes, I'm fine. I was dreaming of you and decided to give you a call," I related in a sleepy voice.

"Oh..." she sounded affectionate.

"Yeah. In the dream you were murdering me. It was so romantic – so you," I related.

"Shit-for-brains, do you have any idea what time it is?" Buffy turned all savage in an instant.

"Hmmm...11:45?" I offered up.

"Call me this late again when it is not an emergency and your dream will become a reality," she growled.

"You know you sound so..." and she hung up on me. I called Nicole and warned her I was at her building, pursued by two FDIC investigators and could she please come and rescue me. She snickered, came down and retrieved me, but not before the NYPD stopped by for a casual conversation and I hadn't even been standing there two minutes.

In my neighborhood you were lucky if you saw a patrol car every thirty minutes and short of offering them some crack cocaine, cheap nookie, or shooting a gun off, they never stopped. Was I my normally fuck-wad self? No. I told the man/woman team the truth. Some upper crust weenies I worked with dragged me off to Yuppie Hell. I hooked up with a lawyer who I screwed repeatedly in the Women's bathroom and she was calling me for round 2.

Second question (the first one was name/ID/reason for being in this part of town dressed like I was)? Was she paying me? 'No'. Was I practicing safe sex (female cop – married even)? 'Yes'. Was she the red-head at the door behind me? 'Yes she was and goodnight.'

"What are you dressed like that for?" Nicole smiled.

In her mind she already knew the answer – I had come here to fuck her – raw and primal.

"Ballroom dancing was not on the itinerary you gave me," I smiled. We went inside.

"My co-workers are still here," she hinted seductively.

"Whoa now!" I protested humorously. "I am not here to pull a train – girls only."

Nicole nearly fell over laughing. She was so embarrassed by me and my attire, she dragged me straight to the conference room 'her' team was working out of. Everyone else was eating. Two of the lawyers were clearly the top dogs – a man and a woman. The woman had a vague resemblance to one of the portraits I'd seen coming in – a legacy.

The man screamed 'serial killer'. It probably made him one hell of a lawyer, but spooky to live with, or work for. The other nine people in the room were in two groups. Two were obviously paralegals. They dressed in what must have started out as clean, starched clothing from off the rack as opposed to tailored.

The other seven were lawyers in their own dual set-up. My amateur guess was two different branches of law. This group was dressed in fine clothes now wrinkled from a long day's work, plus it was a Sunday. They were not at their best yet they were still better than most of what I had. The most endearing part was how they looked at me.

Even the female contingent thought that I was trash. I had certainly given them the opportunity. Seriously, they should have paid more attention to Nicole, her intelligence, competence and tastes. Come on now; there was no way she'd bring some grease-monkey from Flatbush to her workplace. They needed to engage their brains and not their social bias.

A murmur slithered through the crowd. Amusement and condescension were the clear messages shot my way. I imagine the poor soul who delivered the food got less crap because he/she was providing a tangible service.

"Nicole, who is this?" the woman asked. Sex.

Outside of her being a soulless cancer on the hopes and dreams of mankind, she was an alluring forty-something.

"This is my friend Cáel..." Nicole began, both her arms wrapped around my right arm.

"Cáel Belafonte," I interrupted. You could tell who the trial lawyers in the room were. Their expressions told me they knew I was lying.

"Fascinating Mr. Belafonte," Mr. Serial-Killer droned on. "What do you do?"

"I am an Ichthyologist," I met his gaze. "I'm involved in a twenty year study to determine the cause for the reduction in the size of Tuna fish scales." That had them stumped.

"That sounds like yet another great waste of government funds," a young male lawyer with more bravado than combat-sex experience fired off.

"Oh," I shrugged. "Smaller scales, smaller full-sized Tuna, a spike in tuna prices and an eventual world-wide restriction on Tuna fishing, similar to the one currently covering virtually all whale species. Now, I doubt you know which people will decide who the recipient of those lucrative Tuna contracts will be, but I do. By all means – mock what you don't understand."

"Government research project results will be in the public domain," a woman joined the struggle.

"Yes – and?" I asked in a bland tone.

"Your research will be available to all kinds of commercial concerns," male asshat grinned.

"Your ability to show that you are as smart as any pre-law student must make someone, somewhere very proud," I grinned back.

Confused looks. Nicole was struggling to keep it together.

"He never said he was in any manner part of the government, or a government program, Mr. Cherrie," the female lead barracuda gave me her own hungry look. The guy looked pissed.

"Oh, Mr. Belafonte, are you a private researcher, or a government one?" she female junior lawyer asked. "Heather Pulaski," she gave her name.

"Call me Cáel, Heather, and I am in no way associated with any government, I barely know what an Ichthyologist is and I'm certainly not one. Rude, arrogant people annoy me when they treat my friends like they are stupid; especially when they should know better. I can rarely stop myself from ridiculing them," I grinned.

"And now you think you are better than everyone else in the room for tricking us with this juvenile prank," the Serial Killer sounded bored.

"No. The lives of strangers are not my concern," I bantered back. "I did what I did to make Nicole smile. If my antics remind the rest of you what a hotshot lawyer she is so much the better."

"Mr. and Mrs. DeYoung, Cáel, Cáel Nyilas, is a joker. He's is also brilliant and just joined Havenstone Commercial Investments in their Executive Services Division," Nicole bragged. She got points for the 'Executive Services' part. More smirks – some people never learn.

"Havenstone doesn't employ too many men, does it?" Mrs. DeYoung said.

Maybe she was looking for a Discrimination lawsuit.

"Five men to be precise and two of us are out of the country," I enlightened her.

"So you are brilliant," Mr. DeYoung seemed barely engaged – and was Mrs. DeYoung's Mr. DeYoung. "What are your insights on DNA ownership, Cáel?"

"DNA ownership is a fallacy," I stated. "People are not pigs, soybeans, or corn. You cannot create a financial liability for your offspring because that amounts to slavery and is forbidden by the 14th Amendment to the Constitution. DNA is a person – their blueprint. Only the person owns it and they can't even sell it outright."

"That is hopelessly naive," he snorted.

"Not really. If you apply an accepted price tag to every human being on Earth, the anarchy will begin. Crimes like murder, torture and mutilation are based on the concept that human life has an unspecified value. Give something a value and you can trade in it."