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"Speak," she said quietly, and in a manner that suggested she had expected me to know that the time was passed for me to begin.
I took a breath and took the plunge. "You were right, Miss Atkinson," I told her. "Your fiancé is not a very faithful man."
She did not move for a long moment. And then she took a sip from her drink. And then she slowly removed her white Gucci shades and set them next to her on the couch. Her eyes were brightest gray, like silver storm clouds, and very cold.
I continued, "We searched through his records and discovered real estate not mentioned on the list you provided. It seems he also owns a beach-front bungalow in Malibu, which we believe he purchased solely for the purpose of seducing young women unbeknownst to you."
She caught my meaning immediately. "Young women?" she asked softly, and though her voice was also sweet, I knew better than to think, despite the tone, that the woman before me was in anywhere close to a sweet sort of mood.
My ears were burning and my pulse was racing. This conversation was very intense already, and hardly anything had been said. It was a hell of an introduction to client control, which I suppose is why Caroline had me go by myself in the first place.
"It appears your fiancé has a taste for younger women, college-age girls and high school girls, and also for professionals," I replied.
Her stare was firm. "Hookers," she clarified, and it was not a question.
"Yes," I replied.
"And you have proof?"
I nodded and opened the manila envelope I was carrying, and handed her the photographs. "My partner and I observed your fiancé last night at the Malibu bungalow. He had a girl with him."
Those gray eyes roamed over the photographs as she shuffled them around. "She's only a girl," she whispered, almost to herself.
"How would you like us to proceed, Miss Atkinson?" I asked, and for the first time, the woman's eyes came up and actually seemed to see me. Where before I had been just one of her hired hands, for the first time it felt like the woman was seeing me, Ben Merriman.
"You are the owner's son. Ben, is it?" she asked, her voice as soft as ever, and I nodded. "And you are how old?" Again, I responded truthfully. "In high school, I suspect?"
"A senior, Miss Atkinson," I replied.
She waved another dismissive hand. "Please, call me Jacquelyn. After all, I am only a few years older than you, myself. If you would excuse me a moment . . ."
She did not wait for a reply. She rose and walked back to the bathroom, and everything was silent for a few blissful moments, until a bloodcurdling scream ripped through the room. I was on my feet instantly, ready to charge across the room and into the bathroom, ready to help Jacquelyn with whatever had happened, when the door to that very room opened, and the woman herself came through.
And she was grinning.
Not grinning happily as people sometimes do, not grinning at life or the absurdities therein, not grinning because of some funny joke. No, Jacquelyn Atkinson was grinning at me, and it was a grin I had seen before, but never would have expected to see on her.
It was the grin of a predator that knows it has found its prey, and the prey, it seemed, was me: those hard gray eyes were staring right at me.
"Was the girl last night attractive, Benjamin?" she asked, as nonchalantly as if she were asking about the weather, and she was walking again with that sashay-wiggle. Her use of my full name was not lost on me.
"Yes," I answered truthfully; she seemed the kind of woman who could smell a lie. She was still moving in my direction, and I watched her come at me with growing concern, and a growing something else, as well.
"More attractive than me?" she asked, as sweetly as ever.
"No," I answered, and again I was being truthful. The woman before me was a forest fire, the girl a mere candle beside it.
"Do you like what you see?" Jacquelyn asked, running her hands over the toned flesh of her stomach.
"How could I not," I said. "You're breathtaking."
She walked right up to where I was standing. I could smell the traces of alcohol on her breath and the herbal scent of her hair. Even in heels, the top of her head was right at the level of my eyes.
"My husband-to-be underestimates me," she said, and now her voice was sweet and cold and frightening as all hell, "if he thinks he can fuck around and not pay the consequences. And there will be consequences. You see, as I said, infidelity will be a major strike against him when I hit him with divorce. The courts do not look to kindly upon it. He will have to pay, and big. Once we're married, of course."
She smiled and lay a gentle hand on my chest. This was no high school girl looking for sexual experience and experimentation; this was a well-trained seductress, an artist of highest degree.
Everything fell into place for me then. The question we'd been asking had been why the woman had chosen the man, which was completely wrong; it was quite obvious why she was with him, now. The question really was, why was the man, an obvious philanderer, had chosen a woman who demanded what he could not give, commitment?
The answer lay in the fantastic figure before me: the woman was built for sex.
"His payment will start with you, Benjamin," she cooed, and suddenly she was close enough so that her wonderful breasts were grazing my chest. "He is off fucking high schools girls in his secret bachelor bungalow, but I will do him one better. I will fuck a high school boy right under his very nose, starting now."
Heaven help me, I thought.
* * *
Jacquelyn Atkinson is a sexual talent of the highest order. When you have fortune on the sizable scale of her family, normal types of schooling seem irrelevant. She realized from a very young age what type of life she wanted to have and what types of skills she would need to secure it.
And so she spent her summer after high school graduation -- quite unbeknownst to her parents, who thought she was on a European vacation -- with one of the most renowned and reclusive madams in Paris, as well as the most expensive and highly sought gigolos in Venice, and had learned everything there is to know, and more, about how to please a man. Not only please, but to read and understand what each man desires without having to ask.
There is so much more going on inside her head than anyone could have possibly imagined. Cool, calm, and calculating, she knows exactly what she want and what will get her there.
Of course, fucking the boy standing before her at present will not necessarily gain her any kind of monetary bonus or practical advantage, nor would it further her social or political standing. It is revenge, pure and simple, the basest emotion.
It is revenge against the man who promised he would remain faithful if she agreed to marry him. It is revenge against the man who'd likely broken that promise the very next night, while she had remained steadfast and not fucked another in six months, which was an absolute eternity to survive on one cock alone for someone as sexual as she.
And here is fresh meat standing before her: an attractive young man with stars in his eyes. She comes to notice three things about Benjamin Merriman in that moment: first, that his eyes are a deep shade of gray, like hers, but dark where hers are light, dark like thundering storm clouds; second, that a lump quivers in the crotch of his jeans, and that it is a sizable lump; and, third, that his face is full of anticipation and appreciation, and she loves to be appreciated.
She will make his dreams come true.
Her pussy goes instantly wet and soaks the bikini bottoms taut between her legs. Without another word she reaches for the lump in his pants, her fingers trace the outline of his cock, and she grins.
"Very nice," she purrs.
Sex is the only time she ever acts in any way soft, demure, or submissive. The rest of the time, she is hard as steel, a manner in part calculated to ensure that those who fucked her were that much happier having seen her so soft with them in bed. It was something she learned from the madam.
The boy starts to speak, but she silences him with a look. She does not want to talk; she wants to suck and fuck and orgasm, in that order. He will enjoy the process, she knows; she is not selfish in bed. She lifts his hand and slips a finger between her lips.
Jacquelyn knows exactly what men like; she studied the gigolo well. She sucks the finger with a sultry exaggeration no man can resist: pouting her lips, sucking her cheeks, swaying her body with eyes half-closed, as if the thought of having his cock there, instead of just a finger, has her completely on fire. She is on fire, but not for that.
She rubs his cock through his jeans, and feels the object of her affection grow harder and larger; she decides she must see it for herself. Deftly she undoes the zipper and reaches inside, gently drawing his cock out from its concealment. He moans lightly as she wraps her fingers around his shaft, one by one, and begins to stroke it up and down.
His cock is thick and hard, just the way she likes it, and large at what looked like more than seven inches. It's a wonderful cock -- and she had seen her fair share -- which is one of the main reasons she expects she will fuck him more than just this once, doing things to him he has only dreamed of, paying Bobby back in spades for cheating on her and living down to her expectations. She might even bring a woman in, something she had never let happen with Bobby.
When the cock is fully hard, she releases it and steps back, letting fall her robe to the floor. Her bikini top follows shortly thereafter, leaving her in just her bottoms. Her body is fantastic, she knows, lean and tan and perfect, and her face is gorgeous. She is not one of the most powerful young women in the city for nothing. Her tits are on prominent display, and impressive: 34DD, augmented to perfection, and very full and round.
She steps forward and leans in, running her hands up his body, her face next to his. She is close enough to kiss him, but when he leans in to kiss her -- boldly, which she likes -- she slithers back down his body to her knees, her eyes locked on his, her hands trailing after her, until she comes face-to-face with his cock.
It is beautiful, she admits, and she admires it for long moments as she unbuttoned his pants; his underwear and jeans soon fall to the floor in a heap, leaving him naked below the waist. She reaches out and takes hold of his penis with both hands, gently rubbing it like a fire stick. Hunger overwhelms her, and she cannot wait any more.
She is, after all, a sexual creature, and simply has to have a taste; her tongue roams over his cock, moistening every inch, flittering over it with speed and surety even as she strokes it with one hand, pulling the skin up and back, stretching it tight.
Her mouth drops lower and goes for his testicles, which she knows men adore. She teases the heavy balls, running the tip of her tongue over the wrinkled sack and beneath to rarely touched places, and he moans for the first time. Few women bother with such spots, so far below, but she knows what men love, and will bestow it.
His fingers run through her long blonde hair and take hold of her head. He is not a novice, it seems, and she is thankful for that; such aggression might suit him well later, and perhaps she will get more pleasure from this than she expects. She laps at his balls, the flat of her tongue pressed up against them, and sucks first one, then the other into her mouth, all the while keeping her fingers on his shaft.
She glances up and catches his eye, and holds his gaze as she tilts her head and slowly presses the flat of her tongue to the underside of his shaft. She begins at the base and slurps a wet stripe from end to end, rounding the tip and closing her soft lips over the head. She holds there, the mushroom crown like a tootsie pop in her mouth, and proceeds to do what any normal person would do with a tootsie pop in their mouth: she suckles it, hard.
And rolls her tongue around it.
And purrs with pleasure.
Jacquelyn loves the power of sucking a man off. The common male perception is that they are in control in such a situation, with a woman on her knees, subservient, before them. Ha! She is the one with the power, not them. She is the one pulling the strings, and she can get anything, have anything she wants with a cock in her mouth. True power, she knows, lies between the lips and legs of a beautiful woman.
She feels his hands against her head, pushing her forward, urging more of his meat into her mouth. She complies willingly; aside from the power and control of it, she does actually like to suck dick, and knows she is talented.
She bobs her head up and down, taking more of his cock deeper with every stroke. Her free hand sweeps her luxurious blonde hair up and flips it back over her shoulder: she knows the boy will want to watch her suckling him, with her luscious red lips wrapped around his shaft.
Several strokes later she feels the purple head nudge against the back of her throat, and almost simultaneously his pubic hair tickles her nose; she very nearly has him completely inside her mouth. Only two inches left, but she would definitely finish the job. She pulls back and slides down again, and this time when she feels pressure at the back of her mouth, she swallows and lets the head of his cock slip down into the depths of her throat.
The boy moans and grips her hair tighter, pulling almost painfully at the roots. She holds him there, her tongue flittering about the shaft, her lips smacking at the base, her hand gently massaging his balls. She suckles him harder and faster now, her hair whipping furiously around her head as she bastes his meat with her mouth.
Surprisingly, the boy leans into her, bucking his hips at her. One of her darkest secrets is the pleasure she derives from having her face fucked, a truth unlocked and known only by the gigolo, but very few men were confident enough to initiate it themselves; this boy, she realizes, was no ordinary young lover.
He growls suddenly, a sure sign of an approaching male orgasm.
She is right, of course; she always was. His cum pours into her mouth and she eagerly gulps it down, taking all of what he gives her, and she feels it gush down her throat. She must have been good; the boy's cock is like a geyser. She loves the feel of the sticky liquid as it fills her mouth and coats his cock with a thin layer of spunk.
As his climax subsides, she finally drops his cock from her mouth and tenderly cleans it with her tongue; all remnants of his seed must go. She does not mind, really; his syrup actually tastes quite good. His fingers ease their way again through her hair, stroking softly, and she gazes up into his grateful eyes as her tongue laps away.
He pats her head gently -- oh, he is a bold one -- as she takes his soft penis back into her mouth. This is a favorite of hers, and a challenge she gives herself: how fast can she rejuvenate him.
And so she works her wonders on him again, sucking him, teasing him, rolling her tongue over the limp appendage. She purrs as she works, lavishing her affections on him, and it is less than a minute before he slowly begins to stiffen again, and she smiled.
Benjamin groans and speaks for the first time since she began, and there is something new and different in his face, and in his eyes. "Well, Jacquelyn, aren't you the talented slut."
She is shocked by his words. Very few men would ever speak to her so, especially after she had just given them such a fantastic blowjob. This one, she can see clearly, is different; different, she knows, is either awful or intriguing. She does not answer, thinking more the latter, and not wanting to pause for even a moment in her oral ministrations.
He chuckles and lifts her chin with his fingers, forcing her to look up at him. The balance of power is shifting, she feels it keenly, and while not always her way, she goes with it this time and softens the look of her eyes; she will see what the boy has to offer.
His eyes widen as he notices the change; he is definitely a sharp one, and does not waste the opportunity she's given him. "You love sucking cock," he says. She nods, his cock in her mouth. "But that's not what you really want, is it, Jackie?"
No one calls her Jackie, not ever, but his voice is commanding and his eyes so intense, his dominance so unexpected, that she allows him to have his way with her. His fingers tighten suddenly in her hair and pull upward, and she winces in pain as his cock falls from her mouth.
"No," she whispers in her throaty post-blowjob voice.
He continues to pull her hair, dragging her to her feet. He leans in, his face barely an inch from hers, and says fiercely, "I'm going to fuck you, Jackie. Not on a bed, not on a couch, not on the floor. I'm going to fuck you on the desk, and I'm going to fuck you hard."
He shoves her backward and she bumps up against a small writing desk. She nods obediently, and grins defiantly, and waits.
"You like it hard, don't you?" he growls. His hand slips down her body and plucks aside her bikini bottoms, and his finger slips deep inside her without warning.
Her head drops back and a whimper breaks free. She can scarcely believe the change in the power dynamic; he'd been putty in her hands a few minutes ago. He is good, very good. Her eyes flutter shut as his finger explores her, expertly twisting and turning, and caressing her from the inside out.
"Time for a little taste," the boy says, and with that he grabs her waist and spins her around, and with a hand between her shoulder blades, shoves her shoulders forward and down, bending her over the desk. The shoving hand trails down the curve of her back, past the dimples upon her back, and over her rump.
Whack!
The vicious blow he levels at her ass catches her off-guard, and she growls angrily. Then she feels his hand reverse course, sliding back up her side and over her neck to take firm hold of her hair once again, and she knows there is no time to complain. He is moving too fast, keeping her off her guard, and she can hardly think straight, which never, ever happens -- and yet thrills her tremendously. He tugs at the strings of her bikini bottoms and lets them fall, deftly relieving her of the last of her clothes, everything but her high heels.
"Spread 'em," he orders, and she spreads her legs obediently.
He pushes her down against the table, her breasts flattening against the surface. She cannot see what is happening, but suddenly feels him fingering her sex. She tries to turn, but he holds her down. He is in command.
Again he runs a hand over the tight, toned curve of her bottom, and she shivers with desire. He slaps her ass then a second time, one swat only and hard on the butt, and she can feel the hand print tingling on her cheek.
She shrieks and growls again at him, but he pays her no mind.
His fingers trace up and down over her skin, his fingertips grazing ever so gently, tickling her, leaving no inch untouched. She purrs as he strokes her, anticipation nearly overwhelming her. She does not like to be teased, but this boy is doing a masterful job of it. She is bent over and displayed, and she loves it.
"Taste me," she begs him, and cannot see him grin.
* * *
It was an unbelievable butt, I have to admit, and when she pleaded for me to taste her, I knew I had to get started, despite the torrent of wickedness running rampant through my mind, so fiercely it actually startled me. Ah, the things I could do to such a finely wrought rump.
Let me describe the sight.
Bent over at ninety degrees with her upper-half squished against the desk and her legs locked at the knees, nude except for her high heels, Jacquelyn Atkinson looked like a porn star placed in the prime position to allow viewing of her nether region, and it was an eyeful. A thin swath of fine blonde hair, neatly trimmed in a triangle small enough to hide beneath a string bikini, sat just above -- or below, since it was upturned -- the actual pink of her vagina, which was shorn completely clean. Her pussy lips were pursed tightly together, but the folds were wet and juice dribbled slowly from the slit.
