The Vance Venture Ch. 06

Author's Note:

Time to meet the subject of this little tale, and have a little fun. More story than anything else in this chapter, so I had a little trouble classifying this one... no toys, but there is some solo playtime. As this is only a small part of a larger tale, should you find yourself a bit lost, I do recommend perusing the previous instalments.

Thanks for reading, and enjoy...

o

THE PRINCIPAL

Violet Vance couldn't sleep. She glanced at the emerald glow of the clock radio display, shining 3:17 from the shadows atop her dresser, and sighed.

Why was she so restless? Her father went on these 'business trips' all the time. Why did she feel so anxious about this one? He wasn't even leaving until the day after tomorrow. A weekend in Cuba, a week-long trip to Japan, three days in Colombia, ten in Hong Kong; this was how daddy did 'business.' She knew little about the many facets of the many businesses her father was involved in, and wasn't particularly sure she wanted to know any more, for she had come to suspect over the years that not everything he did was on the up and up. She was no little girl any more, no matter how much he wished it were so.

But why the bodyguards this time? Usually she just stayed home alone, no big deal, but last night over dinner her father had mentioned—casually, like one might comment on a cloudy sky—that while he was away this weekend she would be in the care of a special security team. He wouldn't say why, of course, and closed the conversation by leaving, his meal half-eaten, when she pressed the question. It intrigued Violet, this need for bodyguards. What was her father up to that required her to be under the protection of a team of bodyguards? Should she be nervous? Scared? What threat was she being protected against? More importantly, why wouldn't he tell her?

Not that he ever told her much. Not that they spoke much at all.

They were the only two people living in this ridiculous mansion, this monument to Maximilian Vance, but spent little time together. With its twenty-six rooms of posh elegance, spacious pool and spa house, four-bedroom guest cottage, generous staff quarters, and underground twelve car garage on fourteen acres of meticulously manicured seaside property, her home was littered with places to be alone. Her father was always working, always busy in one of his three offices, always on a conference call or in a private meeting or 'in the middle of something important.' Forever chasing the dream of more wealth, he had little time in his busy schedule for a daughter, which left her more often than not to fend for herself on the massive estate.

She didn't mind it so much now, but it had been hard when she was younger. Her mother had left when she was ten, and she had not heard from her since. Her father had remarried two years later, to her horror, only to lose his new wife in a car accident eight months later. Violet had not treated the young woman very nicely, had blamed her for replacing her mother, and had often wished, both aloud and in secret, for her death. There were still days, five years later, when she felt guilty about that. When he had again remarried, two years ago, Violet had eagerly voiced approval, had even, eventually, grown to like the woman, though the fact that her new 'step-mom' was only four years her senior remained a sore spot. She had certainly grown fond enough of the woman to be crushed by her passing, barely three months ago now, in a helicopter crash in the Swiss Alps. She and her father had been on a ski vacation.

That had been three weeks before her eighteenth birthday, casting a pall on that whole affair. No parties, no festivities; instead her father had swept her away on a weekend in Hawaii, where they had both brooded over his wife's passing, usually separately. They had spent some time together, surfing and snorkelling, trying to feel better, or at least comfortable around each other, and had made some happy memories together that weekend, something they had not done in a long time. Since then, they had rarely spoken outside of necessity. It was like she was invisible.

School should have been a relief, an escape from the solitude, but she had no friends there. She had changed schools again this year, halfway through her senior year of high school, just as she had done twice the year before and once the year before that. It had been going on since her mother left. Her father would have only the best education for his daughter, and saw to it that she was placed in the schools where she would be under the tutelage of the absolute finest teachers and professors, and he seemed always to be searching for better educators. For second and third term last year she had attended the Barclay School, which her father told her had a Pulitzer prize winning English department, but which was too far away to drive to. You'd think it'd be easy making friends at a school when you arrive there each morning in a helicopter, but such was not the case. The school she attended now, the school she supposed she would graduate from in just over three weeks, the exclusive and high-brow Carollon Point Private School, was much closer, but still a forty minute drive in the morning. Wherever they were, she hated them all; institutions populated with cliquey, unfriendly, elitist children, every one.

Violet looked again at the glowing green numerals upon her darkened dresser: 3:21. The radio would come on at 6:30. She had to be out of the house by 7:45 to be sure she made it to school on time. She had to get some sleep.

How she hated the restriction, the conformity! Get up at this time, be there at that time; structure, structure, structure. She detested going to a school where she was a stranger, she loathed living lonely in an empty shell of a house, and she was getting damn tired of being told what to do, told where her life was going, told how to live it! And now, to top it all off, she was going to have to endure babysitters for the entire weekend? She couldn't wait until she got out of school and out of this stupid mansion!

Violet frowned. She had to chill out or she was never going to get any sleep tonight. She turned her mind elsewhere, trying to think of something more soothing. As it often did, her mind turned to the future, to a time when she would be free to make her own choices.

She wanted a small place, a little apartment, maybe. Something cozy. A little place on the beach where she could surf whenever she wanted, but close enough to the city so she could go dancing all night long. And something permanent, an address she could give to the friends she made and tell them they were always welcome. She would come and go as she pleased—no driver. She would eat what she wanted, when she wanted—no cook. And she would answer to no one, least of all her father.

Then life would be good.

She would surf and sunbathe all day, lie on the beach, the hot sand beneath her and the ocean breeze cooling her sun-drenched skin. She would tan naked, for the whole world to see, and gorgeous bronzed men would ogle her tight athletic body, their beautiful girlfriends, jealous of Violet's perky breasts, lean legs and tight ass, would smack them and pull them away, and Violet would ignore them all. Her friends she would meet in the clubs at night, where the bodies pressed together and you could smell the sweat, and they would dance, dance until their clothes were soaked to the skin and their legs were rubber, dance until it was the close press of the crowd holding them up, their bodies writhing with all the other motion maniacs.

Violet's eyes fell closed against her darkened bedroom as her hand crept slowly behind her panties, her imagination taking her to a strobe-lit nightclub where her body was pressed up against a big strong man, a muscular black guy, maybe, his taut muscles grinding against her as they joined together in dance. Her other hand found its way to her breast, as she envisioned his would, his long fingers caressing up her side, fondling the supple flesh of her breast through a thin silk shirt, stroking the nipple softly, teasingly. She could feel the thick bulge in his pants against her leg, against her hip, against her aching mound as he held her close, driving her mad as they shook to the beat, making her hot as they writhed to the music.

She wanted him. She was free to take him.

They were in a restroom suddenly, the men's room. It was filthy. She didn't care. She pulled him into one of the stalls and kissed him. Hard. He kissed back, his tongue daring into her mouth. She tore his shirt off and ran her hands over his hard ebony muscles. She pinched his nipples and his pecs flexed. His hands went to her tits, groping lewdly. She scratched her nails down his naked chest and grabbed the waistband of his jeans, pulling him closer, pulling their hips together. She could feel his rock hard dick behind the denim. She rubbed against it. He moaned into her mouth. She bit his lip. She undid his jeans and yanked them open, shoving them down on his hips. His hands left her breasts and travelled to her ass. He pinched each cheek before grabbing firm hold of them as she freed his thick dick from his boxers. She grabbed it in her hand and squeezed, feeling the heat pulsing through it, hot against her palm. Their kiss finally broke wetly, breathlessly, as he picked her up and planted her against the wall of the stall. Her free hand shot up to grab the overhead support as she stroked him fervidly with the other.

"You want it?" she whispered.

In her bed, Violet's fingers moved away from teasing her clit and probed lower, deeper. In the dingy bathroom stall, she stopped stroking the big dark dick in her hands and guided it instead into her wet, waiting pussy. She stopped him when he wasn't half way in, her hand still wrapped around the base of his thick shaft, and stroked him in and out of herself, tugging and pulling on his rigid tool, popping the engorged head in and out of her. He groaned achingly. She squeezed him, hard, and then let go and grabbed the top of the stall with both hands. He eased himself all the way inside, and she gasped softly as he filled her tight teenage pussy. He rocked his hips a little, wiggling around inside her playfully.

He slipped in and out of her slowly at first, measuring his strokes, but was soon moving faster and faster, his thrusts harder and harder. She gripped the support tightly and he was soon crashing into her like a jackhammer, slamming her into the wall with wild abandon. She risked dropping a hand to her pussy, eagerly massaging her clit as his dick sank into her again and again. She closed her eyes tight. Her legs were tingling. She felt it coming. Her fingers moved faster and faster, her pussy was fucked harder and harder. Ooh, she could feel it coming...

Like the blossoming of a thousand fireworks Violet's orgasm exploded within her, and drawing a shuddering gasp, her eyes sprang open on her darkened bedroom as the sparks fell across her nerves, coating her body in sensually sparkling illumination. She bathed in the glow of the shimmering sensations, her left hand cupped over right, of which two fingers still pleasured her simmering pussy. For long minutes she remained, her eyes falling closed as the sparks cooled to glowing embers, and at last she felt sleepy, soothed and comfortable in her warm bed.

But it seemed she was not yet destined to sleep this night.

She heard a sound, distantly, as if through a fog, and tried to ignore it. Then another, a soft and subtle tone, reached her ears through the murk. She recognized it the third time, and opened her eyes to the sound of the fourth beep.

She laid stone still in her bed, her eyes searching the darkness as she listened intently.

Violet's bedroom was directly above the games room, which had a pair of French doors opening onto a small ground-level patio near the driveway. Her father often used it as a secondary entrance into their home, for his office downstairs was right next door, and if she was quietly reading, or it was late at night, she could sometimes hear the tones from the alarm panel as he punched in the four-digit disarm code upon entering.

But her father was asleep in his room across the hall, she was sure. He had bid her goodnight, an offhand word in passing, as he went to bed just before midnight. She had still been up studying, and had not slept a wink since. She would have heard him had he gotten up.

She continued to listen intently to the darkness, but heard nothing. No door closing, no jangle of keys, not the faintest sound from below.

She considered checking on her father, but decided against the idea. If this was some attempt on his life... she didn't want to get caught in the crossfire. She supposed she could get out of her room though. She knew how to move quietly through her own house; it was still pretty new, and there weren't many creaky boards, except for that one on the—

Faintly, from down the hall, she heard a short creak, as of an old floorboard underfoot—the seventh step up from the landing, on the way upstairs from the living room. She was suddenly sure she would recognize that particular creak anywhere.

Violet's eyes grew round in the inky darkness of her room. The vertical blinds were closed, cutting out most of the moonlight, and the glowing emerald digits on her radio cast little luminescence. She strained to see her door, across the room, through the shadows, but couldn't be sure where shadow ended and door frame began. She knew she had closed it before turning in, but would she see it if it opened?

Her ears answered her question, reporting a subtle click of metal touching metal, almost imagined yet devastatingly real, from across the room.

Tensing under the covers, Violet's eyes plumbed the abyss of the shadows in that direction while her alarmed mind fumbled feebly, trying to decide what she should do. She suddenly wished her security team were here a couple of days early.

She saw nothing, she heard nothing, but something in the air changed, a current, or a smell maybe, and she knew her door was open. She closed her eyes in an attempt to feign asleep.

She felt, more than heard movement in her room, first near, then closer. She remained still, straining to keep her breathing even and relaxed. If she were so much as touched, she would have to go crazy. It was the only option her mind presented her with that had any chance of success. If this intruder laid a hand on her, she would just flip out and try to claw the bastard's eyes out before he shot her, or stabbed her, or raped her, or did whatever the hell he was here to do!

Then again, maybe she was just working herself up for nothing. She hadn't actually seen her door open, hadn't actually seen anyone standing in her room (a few feet away from her bed now, studying her), but then she had heard the creak on the stair—and the door.

Hadn't she?

The silence swallowed her nerve as she fought to both stay still and calm and to decide whether she was paranoid, or whether someone really was out to get her.

After what seemed an eternity, she thought she heard another faint metallic click from across the room, but wasn't sure. Was she alone again? Had she ever not been? The real question: dare she open her eyes?

What choice was there? Eventually she would have to. She sure as hell couldn't sleep now.

Slowly she opened her eyes, first to slits, her pupils searching for some sign in the dark, then wider as she strained to see anything in the murky blackness. She looked at the clock: 3:44.

Violet was scared, but she had to check this out.

Tentatively at first, expecting someone to jump out of the shadows at her, she carefully folded back the sheet and rose from her bed. She began moving more fluidly once she was sure no one was there. She wasn't about to be attacked. She made no noise as she moved to the door, not worried about stepping on anything or stubbing her toe—she knew her own bedroom like she knew her own face. Her bathrobe hung on the back of the door, but she ignored it and softly placed her fingers on the doorknob, putting her ear gently to the wood. She wore only white cotton panties and a white tank top, but that would suffice. Her robe would only hinder her if she had to hide quickly.

She listened intently at the door for several moments, but knew she would hear nothing. Ever so slowly, like someone carefully picking a combination lock by ear, she turned the knob. With her thumb she pressed on the door slightly, shifting it just enough so the latch would clear without any sound. Then she opened it slowly, knowing these hinges wouldn't squeak. When it was wide enough, she hesitantly poked her head out into the hall.

It was considerably brighter outside her bedroom. A large window at the end of the hall, overlooking the staircase and level with the hallway, bore no curtain or blinds, and let the moonlight stream into the upstairs hall freely, casting a silvery illumination all the way to the other end, where hung her most recent school portrait.

Softly closing her door behind her, Violet turned to her father's bedroom, across the hall and closer to the stairs. She carefully crept across the hall, inching her way closer to his door, which she noticed was part way open. Just as she approached the door frame, eager, but nervous to look around the corner and into his room, she heard something, some phantom sound that signalled movement on the other side of the door, so she darted past it and flattened herself up against the wall in attempt to hide. She held her breath.

A monster of a man, a huge, dark-skinned hulk in black pants and a black tee shirt, exited the room right next to her. He paused in the hall, his completely bald head turned toward her closed bedroom door, and then turned away from her and walked noiselessly back to the stairs and descended. He did not repeat the mistake of stepping on the seventh step.

Violet watched him go, waiting until he was out of sight before releasing her breath and carefully, hesitantly, entering her father's bedroom. She didn't know what she expected to find, but it was certainly not this.

Her father, Maximilian Vance, was sleeping soundly in his king-sized four-poster bed, his subtle snoring too quiet for her to hear until she was closer, but snoring he was. She looked around the room, but nothing seemed disturbed. Even the Monet on the wall above the bed, behind which she knew was hidden his most precious and impregnable safe, appeared untouched.

She stared down at her father, relieved but confused. He slept on peacefully.

Swiftly and silently she made her way out of the bedroom and down the hall. She listened at the top of the stairs, but heard nothing below. She crept down the stairs, avoiding that seventh step as if it would kill her.

The living room was deserted, but a soft white glow emanated from the doorway of her father's office. Violet moved across the room, not toward the door, but parallel to it, just so she could better see into the rest of the office. When she was behind the sofa she saw him, so she dropped to her knees and hid there, watching him intently.

The big man sat behind her father's desk, facing the door, working at one of the laptops. The pale luminescence of the screen lit his face beautifully, and Violet saw in the flesh the man she had fantasized about not fifteen minutes before. Not exactly, but the similarities were startling. He was vastly muscular, dark-skinned, and his face was hard and chiselled, like the rest of his body, she was sure. His lips were generous, his chin strong, his jaw angular, his nose straight; he was a good-looking guy. The man of her fantasy had hair, perhaps, but now she found herself unsure about that.

The house was dark, as was the night outside, and yet he was for some reason wearing sunglasses. Peculiar.