Redemption Ch. 01

Author's note:

While this can be read as a standalone story, it is the first chapter of a three-part sequel to Emergence, which I published in September of 2022. Scenes include the use of alcohol, experimental medicines, voyeurism/exhibitionism, and anal sex. This is a fictional story in which all characters are over age eighteen.

I have written all three chapters, so you may read with the confidence that you won't have to wait too long for the next two installments.

Enjoy!

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Almost no one realizes the extent to which their lives are shaped by DNA. I don't mean the obvious traits like eye color or height; even those with public school educations can penetrate that mystery. Nor am I referring to the invisible perils of those genes that predispose us to cancer or depression. I mean everything in between.

Consider my friend Jan, for example. He's a good looking man with strong, straight features, a square jaw, and blue eyes like I've seen in few other men. Those inherited traits fall into the first category. The way he fucks me is a different matter entirely.

Tonight I've cornered him in his cabin. It's been explained to me that I have an extremely strong sex drive, stronger even than Jan's and he's a male at least ten years younger than me. So if I want some dick I may have to work for it. This particular evening 'working for it' means bathing in his outdoor shower while he tries to ignore me from his deck chair just feet away.

"How was your day, my love?" We aren't in love, not really, but I like the way it sounds. Plus we fuck, which is often referred to as making love, so by association he's my love.

Jan doesn't answer right away. He's staring toward the horizon, sipping a vile Dutch aperitif which soothes him, and which he claims reminds him of home. "Pumps are still a shit show," he replies at last. He sneaks a peek at me and I reward him by running my soapy hands from the tops of my thighs to my breasts.

"Good thing your guests don't come here to swim."

Jan grunts, then clarifies, "But they expect to be able to from time to time."

I let him brood a bit. Jan Versus the Pumps has taken on a Sisyphean quality in my mind. I like to think of him at the pump house exhausting himself day after day so bungalow number three can go for a dip before they either saunter down for the evening's entertainments or stay in their room to fuck. That's what I want to do with Jan right now so I flip my hair back dramatically and step out of the shower.

By the way he doesn't avert his gaze this time I know I have him. My arrival at the resort three months ago was serendipitous for both of us. Jan gets access not only to a woman of my education, intellect, and charms, but to someone who isn't going to catch a flight home in a week or less. I get an on-demand fuck with a hot Dutch guy.

Jan isn't tall, or especially heavy of frame, but the physical labor half of his resort duties keeps him lean and hard. In recognition of the Aruban heat, or to pique my interest, he's shirtless, showing off a torso sparkling with a touch of perspiration against his chest and abs. The shirtless bit works in my favor because not only do I appreciate the view but there's really no point in him putting on a shirt when I'm just going to tear it off of him in a few minutes.

"Go on then," Jan says. Like me, he's figured out that we're going to have sex. He raises himself with a weary groan and puts down his drink. What he really wants, I know, is to sit on the deck another half hour and have another drink. And although he would never admit it, he wants to fall asleep in his chair until the mosquitos drive him inside. Not tonight.

Our lovemaking is beginning to settle into a routine. Once in the bedroom we snuggle and start to make out. Jan is a fine kisser, but he likes it maybe five or ten percent more than I do and soon I'm obligated to urge him along. He kisses slowly down my neck, which is nice, with little darts of his tongue sprinkled in like Caribbean spices. But he's too gentle, too tentative.

"Suck harder, or bite," I tell him. "It's okay."

He grunts in acknowledgement, and for a moment he obeys, capturing a nipple between his tongue and teeth. But it's as if he's hard-wired to be cautious and soon he's back on script.

And here's where my overactive mind begins to betray me. I find myself wondering if Jan's technique is nature or nurture. Did early experiences calcify within him until they became defaults, or did his genes dictate from conception that he would be a gentle lover? Much the same thoughts run through my mind when we start to fuck. He's fond of missionary. I am too in this case, because like I've said he's a handsome man and in missionary I get to look into Jan's eyes and admire his expressions of pleasure and release. But just once couldn't he do me doggy without being asked?

Today I have to ask. "I want it from behind," I tell him.

Jan obliges. He's an obliger. He kisses me, pulls back, and lets me flip over to offer my ass. He doesn't smack it, which I think he should every so often, but that isn't in his character. Instead he eases his cock into me, strokes my lower back, and begins to pump.

"Yeah, harder." If I'd wanted it slow we could have stayed in mish.

Honoring my request, Jan picks up the pace. It's still quite warm in the cabin, the product of the Caribbean sun blasting the walls most of the day. Soon Jan is showing signs of his exertions, drops of sweat falling onto my ass or running down his abs. He rests his hands on my hips as I push back against him in time with his thrusts.

"Hmmmhh," Jan groans.

"Yes, like that." My ass meeting his hips with a slap.

"Hnnnh."

I reach back to touch myself. The scent of frangipani is slipping into the room, to mingle with the potently citrus scent of whatever detergent the housekeeping staff is using. Just outside, the calls of birds I have yet to identify mingle with the rustling of palms.

"Mmmmh." Jan is creeping toward orgasm and he isn't the only one. With fingers at my clit I'll be right there with him. He's pumping faster and faster, the heat of his body adding to that of the room, the air. Any reserve he had earlier escaped long ago. The man has respectable staying power but he's now in that realm of coitus where he's no longer pacing himself.

"Oh Jan," I say, and for some reason that simple phrase puts him over the edge.

"Elaine fuck, oh... fuuuck!" Jan bursts inside of me, pumping wildly. Even his normally respectful grip on my body tightens.

My own orgasm ripples out, spreading from my pussy down my legs and through my trembling core. With fingers teasing my slit I coax out every spark of pleasure to be had, clenching around his still pulsing cock. We share this thing, this intimacy which will strengthen our bond for another day or two.

Later, when he's collapsed on me and we're laying in a tangle of bodies too hot to bear, but too comforting to disrupt, my mind once again kicks into gear. I can't help but wonder how much of our session could have been improved if our genes were just slightly different. Could Jan fuck me harder or more intensely? Could I cum multiple times? Could our orgasms be more consuming?

I wonder because that's who I am. I'm a doctor, geneticist, disgraced CEO, and criminal.

I'm Elaine Salan.

***

My press isn't that great right now, courtesy of that journo bitch Ava Tanner. Not that I want to dwell on it, but let's review what happened to me since her little expose. What was left of KapGen, the company that I founded with that weasel Kapp, collapsed entirely. The FDA charged both of us with fraud and false claims about the patents we filed for sexual enhancement medications. Separately, we were charged with kidnapping, and I was hit with running an unlicensed 'place of entertainment' in the basement of my home, which frankly I don't think should be illegal.

Kapp is totally fucked, as is that pet thug of his, Markus. Neither of them was bright enough to make the right plea at the right time. I, on the other hand, offered up the rights to the cancer medication we developed. I developed. It's potentially worth many millions, but I went free, so... draw?

I kept my house, by which I mean that I immediately sold it for several million dollars and fled to Aruba. I take that back. 'Fleeing' has a pejorative connotation. I chose to take an indefinite vacation to the islands. The most worrisome of my legal troubles have been resolved, and the rest are at worst in a sort of limbo that will drag on for years. Aruba would extradite me if pressed to do so, but at least I'd see it coming.

All of which takes us to how I came to meet Jan and to stay indefinitely at Glisten resort. I'm not claiming my memory is perfect, but it went something like this:

"Ms. Salan? You're in bungalow seven, right? Checking out?" Jan is at his customer service best at mid-morning.

"No."

"No?" Jan shuffles papers on the lobby counter, before putting on his best 'winning' smile. "Perhaps you'd like to extend your stay another week?"

"Perhaps," I say, meeting his eyes. Over the past week I've checked him out, and he's checked me out. At a couples' resort of course the male owner notices the solo female traveler. "Perhaps more than a week."

I can see the arithmetic in his head, both monetary and sexual. "Well, we do consider repeat customers to be the highest form of recommendation." He licks his lips. "I can't keep you in bungalow seven, someone else has it booked. Buuut," he says, tapping against the smartscreen, "I can move you up to number ten, which is even nicer."

"How much nicer?"

Jan's eyes flick again to his screen, as if he needs to check. "You were paying two fifty a night for bungalow seven. I can put you in ten for two seventy-five."

"I was thinking more like one fifty."

At this Jan freezes. "Ms. Salan, uh, I'm afraid that we don't have any rooms at one fifty. I can probably find something for less than two seventy-five, but you obviously enjoyed bungalow seven and I'd hate to see you in a room unworthy of a woman so discerning."

It's an articulate response. I'm always surprised to find that Europeans, despite having mastered their national language, also speak English better than many Americans. This admiration doesn't stop me from making my play. "Jan. It's Jan, isn't it?"

He nods.

"Jan, I reviewed your availability calendar. Glisten had at least one spare room every week going back more than six months, and that includes the busy season. Giving me a deal on a room won't cut into your revenue."

"I see." I doubt anyone has ever tried to negotiate a rate in-person and it shows in Jan's hesitation. "Well, I'm an optimist, Ms. Salan. You're a new client and you clearly like it here. I'm sure we'll continue to attract other new clients as well."

"I'm sure of that, too," I say. "You get mostly couples, right?"

"Mostly, yes."

"In your marketing, this is a couples-only, intimate resort."

"That's our demographic."

"Ever get any single men?"

"Very few," Jan says, drawing out his response carefully.

"Any in the last year?"

"Some place reservation requests."

"But you don't accept them, do you? If you did you'd risk being swamped with creepy men ogling the couples."

"You're a perceptive woman, Ms. Salan."

"But you accepted my reservation."

Here Jan releases a sigh. "Ms. Salan-"

"You may call me Elaine."

Jan nods. "Elaine, I'm going to tell you something that I strongly suspect you already know. Unattached men are only welcomed at gay sex resorts. But unattached women..."

There's no need for him to finish. "And that's exactly what I'm offering. This is a small resort. Even just one unattached woman will be noticed. The men will fantasize about me. The women will be curious. You'll get better reviews."

He's considering my proposal. What I'm sure he'd like to ask is whether or not I plan to take part in the resort festivities, but that wouldn't suit his sense of decorum. Instead, he asks, "Would you want housekeeping every day?"

***

My experience during the first few months at Glisten follows a predictable arc. Early on I'm pumped. Aruba is, in almost every way that I can imagine, different from Boston. I savor the hot days, mild evenings, and inviting surf. There's an autonomous shuttle that takes tourists into town and I ride it repeatedly, searching out restaurants, clubs, and other distractions. And Glisten itself, with the weekly turnover of guests, is lovely for people-watching.

But then, quite unexpectedly, I realize that I'm bored. I've spent my entire adult life pursuing cutting-edge science, and now the most challenging part of my day is deciding which swimsuit to wear. I've kept up my digital subscriptions to professional journals, but with no project at hand my curiosity is waning. Soon I'm only reading trashy novels left behind by other guests.

Seducing Jan helped, although it was completely irresponsible. If fucking him goes sour then this tidy little bubble I've built for myself will pop. But for now it's nice, and it keeps me out of trouble with the guests. Week three I thought I had found a couple that wanted to play. Turns out they just wanted to flirt. Once I took my top off they showed me to the door. Well, the wife did, anyway.

But hooking up with Jan also highlighted the sexual limitations of my tidy bubble. He's a fine lover, really. Handsome, in good shape, respectable staying power, and frustratingly vanilla. I used to run a sex club, a role which allowed me an excellent selection of partners and scenes. I could take it rough one night with a hand locked around my throat, and the next night ride the best hung guy in the club, keeping him on edge until he begged to cum. And now I have this one man.

Not that I can blame anyone but myself. A long stay at an intimate resort sounded like a wonderful change of scenery with lots of opportunity. Perhaps that would have been true at a swingers' resort, but Glisten isn't one of those. There's plenty of exhibitionism, but very little crossing the lines. I really should have read the brochure.

But the arrival of my GENiE finally pulled me out of my funk.

"What is this?" Jan asks as he hands over the boxes. Any packages have to be shipped to his care. Another good reason not to fuck things up with him.

"Come by my bungalow tonight and I'll show you."

Jan offers the most subtle of eye rolls. He knows how most visits to my bungalow end, but he's a curious man. By the time he arrives later that evening the compact devices are softly humming, with a row of green status lights.

"It's an air purifier?"

"Funny, Jan. It's a gene sequencer."

"The part that looks like an egg?"

"Yes."

"What about the one that looks like a shoe box?"

"That's a PharmaPhab."

"It makes medicines?"

"Oh, very good. Especially gene-based therapies."

Here Jan's face tightens somewhat, probably because he knows that gene-therapy-anything is something I should stay away from.

"I thought you said-"

"In the States, Jan. In the States the FDA has been quite clear that I'm banned from genetic research. But I'm no longer in the States, am I?"

"You're still an American citizen." He's eyeing the devices as if they might be radioactive.

"They'll never know." Having to soothe Jan is detracting from the pleasure of the reveal. "In any event it's just a hobby. I had a few projects in the works when I got shut down. Nothing says I can't send a few anonymous formulas to another researcher if I figure something out."

"Doesn't that sort of research require large datasets?"

I make a note to myself that Jan has been paying closer attention to my ramblings than suspected. "There are large anonymized datasets available to researchers. Or hobbyists. I can, for example, extract those sequences where the subject developed thyroid cancer then look for patterns in their genes. It's from such patterns that cures are proposed and tested."

"Mmm hmm." Jan and I fucked last night, and I can see from his reaction to the medical equipment that we won't be having a repeat this evening. Uncharacteristically, this doesn't trouble me. My mind is on fire again.

***

By now I'm unofficially helping out at the resort, something I do both to ease my own restlessness, and out of guilt. Glisten is slowly failing. When Jan's family bought the land and developed the resort, Aruba was offering generous tax incentives. After five years, though, the incentives are expiring. Now, even though the occupancy rate is respectable, they're operating in the red. Helping out here and there is my way of trying to stop the bleeding.

The new role works in my favor as well. It's astounding how friendlier and less guarded the guests are when they're approached by a uniformed worker with the ambiguous title 'Client Bliss Specialist' than they are when the same woman is a fellow resort guest. I guess I'm less threatening as staff, less likely to steal someone's husband. Or wife.

Case in point is bungalow number six. I've noticed that while they check off some of the 'happy couple' boxes such as holding hands and hanging out together in the pool, there isn't a lot of energy between them. Both are as likely to be on their phones as they are talking to each other or joining an activity. I bring them a complimentary pair of Afternoon Delights, which is just a screwdriver with a splash of grenadine and a dash of bitters. The husband, Josh, does little more than glance politely up from his phone, but Caitlin is talkative.

"Hey, thanks. It's Elaine, right?" She assesses her husband before picking up his drink and handing it to me. "Join me? I think you'll enjoy that more than Josh."

I do join her, settling myself into one of the spare loungers outside their bungalow. "I hope you're enjoying your stay."

"The resort is great," Caitlin assures me. "It's more personal than the larger resorts, but there's still plenty going on."

"Is this your first stay at an intimate resort?"

Caitlin blushes. "Yes," she says, "we thought that maybe..." She must think better of what she was going to say because she trails off and changes the topic. "You and Jan are more than just co-workers, right? You're a couple?"

"Of a sort." I sip the drink. "We aren't married. We aren't even dating, really. But, we both have needs. Me, especially."

Caitlin's eyes flick briefly toward Josh, but he has earphones in and has tuned us out. "That sounds nice."

"Hooking up with Jan?" I ask, with a twist to my smile.

Caitlin's own smile almost turns into a laugh. "No, I mean wanting it more than your man."

"Mmm." I think I may know why they've come to the resort. "You two are looking to rekindle the flame?"

"I guess?" Caitlin makes a face. "I mean, we're good. Our relationship is stable. Josh takes good care of me."

"Buuut?"

"I just... I'm not really interested in sex lately." She says it in a whisper, as if afraid Josh will hear her over his music. Hear something that he already knows.

I give them both a deeper look. They're a passably attractive couple, not gorgeous or head-turning, but pleasing to the eye. Good genes. "Well," I say, turning over a new idea in my head, "is it working so far?"

"Working?"

"I mean since you two arrived have your drives been better matched?"

"Oh, right. Well, we did have fun the first night."

"Fantastic! I look forward to another favorable review."

"Sure," Caitlin says, but she's not at ease.

"'Sure' as in everything's okay now?"

Instead of responding Caitlin just gives me a defeated look. The imbalance between her sex drive and that of her husband isn't a problem that will be solved by one week at a sexy resort. So instead of continuing my charade as a relationship counselor, I turn our conversation to the upcoming event schedule.