An American Houseguest Ch. 01bypetitmort©
"Hey Jake, time to go."
I'm jolted awake from my catnap in time to hear the female voice on the loudspeaker:
"Lufthansa flight 229 now boarding at Gate 22A."
I sit up in my Mies van der Rohe chair and get my bearings. My friend Peter and I are encamped in the first class lounge at JFK on our way to Zurich. I grab my bag and follow Peter to the gate.
Before you get the wrong idea about me, let me explain.
First, I'm not a first class lounge kind of guy. On the contrary, this is the first time I've ever flown anything but economy. No, I'm definitely a fish out of water here, sampling canapes from crisply-dressed German frauleins.
I'm also not a jet-setter who's prone to jetting off to Zurich, Switzerland for a week's vacation. Oh, I've done the backpacking trip to Europe, and spent a semester in France in my junior year, but that's different. You don't fly off to Europe for a week on a writer's income.
No, the only reason I'm here at all is because of my friend, Peter.
Peter and I met in college and have been hanging out for a couple of years while we both lived in New York. I'm an aspiring writer who supports himself doing the odd temp job. Peter works for Lazard Freres in international finance and comes from a whole different world.
It was Peter who had the idea for us to go to his family's vacation home in Switzerland. It's autumn and we were both burnt out on the city. He said his family met up there every year and I was more than welcome. They had plenty of room. He was even paying for my plane ticket. "I always fly first class" he explained. "They serve better wine there."
Peter comes from old money and he has the noblesse oblige that attaches itself to the upper class. He had gone to boarding school, studied at Oxford and Yale (where I'd met him), and had gotten his position as a top-tier financial consultant through his father's connections. He's cynical but has a good heart. And he makes me laugh.
I come from humbler stock. I was a scholarship kid at Yale, raised in a lower middle class area outside Pittsburg. My Dad was a machinist and my Mom taught school. I was determined to make a go of it as a writer of fiction. So far, all I had to show for it was a handful of rejection letters and a scanty bank account. No, Peter and I were from very different worlds.
As we settle into our leather seats in the nose of the Lufthansa jet, I ask Peter about what to expect in Switzerland.
"So who else is going to be there? At your parents'?" I ask as the flight attendant pours our welcome glass of champagne.
"There'll just be us, my Mom and Dad, and my sister. Plus any guests they might have."
"And you're sure there'll be no problem with space?" I inquire, imagining myself sleeping on the floor in the laundry room.
Peter just laughs. "Don't worry. There'll be room."
"More champagne?" the sexy flight attendant asks. Her German-flecked accent is competent yet friendly, businesslike yet familiar. She bends over to refill my glass. Twenty-four, twenty-five tops. Hair pulled back tight from her face. Beautiful body.
Is it my imagination or are the flight attendants sexier in first class than the ones I usually get in economy? Something about the form fitting uniforms and the solicitous manner. The one assigned to Peter and me is hot as hell. She moves like she knows our eyes are trained on her.
"You know, you have the honor of serving a very prestigious writer." Peter says grandly, having some fun.
I shake my head, embarrassed. Here we go again.
"Jake's a novelist. Watch out or you'll end up in his latest work. He's always looking for material."
The flight attendant smiles and flashes her gorgeous eyes my way. I give a little shrug as if to say "what can I do?" We watch her as she glides back to the galley.
"She's definitely into kink" Peter whispers with a sly grin. "Shall we invite her to the lake?"
I wouldn't put it past Peter to do just that. He has this way of saying or doing whatever he wants, when he wants. A healthy ego and a well-developed sense of entitlement. But he gets away with it more often than not. I decide to use the opening to find out more.
"Tell me about the lake. What's your place like?"
"It's been in my family for generations. My great, great grandfather bought the island around the turn of the century and they built the house in the late 20's. It's rustic but quite livable."
"He bought the island? You own an island? How rich are you anyway?"
Peter laughed. "It's all illusory. A vestige of fortunes past."
That's how he talked. In riddles.
"Well, I never thought I'd be vacationing on a private island in Switzerland" I said shaking my head.
"An island's an island, Jason" said Peter with an insouciant shrug.
At the very least this will be an experience to remember, I thought.
"What's your family like?" I asked.
"My family" he says with mock drama. "Where do I start with my family?"
"Your Dad, for instance."
"Dear old Dad's not much of a Dad I'm afraid. Too busy making deals and fucking the servants" Peter was getting a little tipsy. "Naturally, that doesn't make my Mum too happy. But he's a mighty good provider." His voice dripped of sarcasm. "He never had a problem money couldn't fix."
"And your Mom?" I ask quietly.
"Mum's a piece of work. She was a real beauty in her time. World class. 'Veronique La Belle.' She was a top fashion model back in the day. That's why Dad snagged her, I guess. Good genes. Then she popped out a couple of kids and Dad started to cast his eyes elsewhere. It's not easy being thrown over for les jeunes filles. I guess that's why she became a drunk."
"What kind of Mom was she?" I ask.
"Oh, first rate. She loved us kids so much she put us in only the very best boarding schools. She's a real peach."
"Tell me how you really feel" I say wryly. Peter just shrugged.
"Like any family. I find I do best when I approach these visits with lowered expectations."
"And your sister?"
"Ah, Isabelle. She's an angel." His voice is quiet now, sincere.
"You'll like Izzy. She's an artist. Like you. A prima ballerina. Or at least she was. Mom's got her on a short leash, it seems. Wants her to marry well, you know. Doesn't see the payoff in pursuing the pas de deux."
He looks down in his glass, thoughtfully.
"She's a good kid." He closes his eyes. That's all for now, I sense.
I think about the world I'm about to enter. The world of old money. The ordinary dysfunctional family distorted by extraordinary wealth and advantage. It'll be interesting if nothing else. I close my eyes and drift off to the steady hum of the jet's engines.
When I awaken, the first class cabin is dark. Shades are shut and most everyone's asleep. The curtains are drawn and the flight attendants are getting some well deserved rest. I get up to stretch my legs.
I go to the galley which joins the two sides of the plane. I stretch and twist my back. These red eyes are no fun. From the opposite entry, our flight attendant appears.
"Mr. Scott. May I help you?"
"Did I sleep through dinner?" I ask.
"You did. Your friend said not to wake you."
I nod and let out a little laugh. "That sounds like him. A real practical joker."
She steps closer. "Would you like me to give you something? Make something special for you?"
I look at her for a moment. Oh boy, would I. "What have you got?"
She smiles and goes to one of the storage compartments. She reaches up and starts to look through some sliding trays. As she reaches up, I take in her lovely body. God, what a beauty.
She assembles a tray with chicken picata, rice pilaf, vegetables, and a glass of white wine. She asks if I want her to serve me at my seat but I decline, preferring to eat standing. She chats with me while I do. We exchange names. Marta. From Berlin.
"So, are you really a writer?" she asks casually.
"Yep, or at least I try to be."
"What do you write?"
"What kind of things do you write about?"
"Just...life. My experiences. Things that interest me."
"I'd love to be in a novel. A form of immortality, no?"
"I guess it is. Yes."
Her eyes are green and catlike; her hair auburn. She has a knowing confidence beyond her years. And that body.
"What do I have to do to get in your novel, Mr. Scott."
I look at her for a moment.
"Well, let's see. Do something memorable, I guess."
"What would be memorable enough to make it in your novel?"
I smile. "That's a good question. It would have to be something out of the ordinary. Something leaving a lasting impression."
She takes a step towards me. Her hand reaches out to smooth my collar. I realize her fingers are still on my chest.
"I'd like to do something memorable with you."
Her hand moves from my chest to my mouth. She runs her fingers across my lips.
I feel my heart start to pound. "I have a few ideas. A writer always has ideas."
"And what ideas do you have, Mr. Scott? For me and you."
I reach out and gently run my finger from her mouth, down her neck, over her luscious breast, down her tummy, to her crotch.
She smiles and gives me a sexy look.
"It'd be my pleasure to serve you."
She gestures to the bathroom behind me. I step into the small compartment leaving the door slightly ajar. Can this be happening?
A moment later the door opens. Marta steps quickly in and shuts the door. The small room illuminates. She's holding the bottle of white wine and two glasses. She pours the wine into both glasses and hands one to me. We toast and she gives me a megawatt smile. Then she gives me a ripe, juicy kiss, pressing her chest against mine.
"Let's do something memorable, shall we?" she purrs.
Stepping back, she pulls out her hairclip and shakes her hair to her shoulders. She lowers her eyes at me and starts to strip. She unzips the side of her form-fitting uniform and lets it drop to the floor. Lacy black bra and panties grace her incredible body. I move to her, kissing her, cupping her breast. She pushes me back against the bathroom wall.
"I'm here to serve you, Mr. Scott" she smiles. With that, she starts to slowly unbutton my shirt, sliding her hands over both my pecs and nipples. Electricity. She's undoing my belt now.
I decide to let her drive. I lean back and watch her. Her hands are deft, no wasted movements. I look in the reflection of the mirror over the sink. Her bikini panties try and fail to cover her butt. It's exquisite. My cock is growing hard.
My pants drop to the floor. She kneels down to lift them off my feet, stroking my legs as she does. She gives me a sly look and then starts to pull down my boxers, slowly. Little by little, she slides the cotton fabric down my thighs, tickling the head of my penis, which is growing long and hard. She lets the descending shorts slowly reveal my cock, an inch at a time, until it is finally free and springs out.
"Mmmmmmmmmm" she says, licking her lips. She removes my boxers and soon her hands are on my ass and her mouth on my cock. I let out a moan.
She's sucking my cock now. Circling the head with her tongue. She sends shivers down my spine. She wraps her full lips around the head and slides up and down the shaft. I'm fully erect now and her eyes are fixed on mine. Those gorgeous eyes. I lean back and thrust out my hips. She takes me deeply into her throat. I moan loudly.
Fully hard now, she lifts her head and stands before me. Slowly she slips the straps of her bra off each shoulder. She unclasps it and it drops to the floor. Her breasts are perfect, ripe melons, high-standing with pert, pink nipples. I reach out to touch them but she pushes me away. Slowly, she starts to pull at her panties. First one side then the other. God, she's sexy. My cock stands straight up, at full attention. I couldn't get any harder.
Her panties on the floor, she stands fully naked before me. A beautiful, young creature with fire in her eyes. She's moving sensually, rocking back and forth, touching herself. She slides her fingers over her breasts, pausing to play with each nipple. Then her hand finds her crotch and she slips a finger into her slit and slides it in her crack. She runs the moist finger over my lips and I taste her scent. It's intoxicating.
She turns to the counter and takes a glass of wine. She turns to me with a naughty look. Then she takes the glass and slowly pours a little bit of the wine on her breast, so that it runs down her milky white skin and across her nipple. The chill causes her nipple to stand up.
"Would you like a sip, Mr. Scott?"
"I would, very much" I reply and I lower my mouth to her breast. My tongue caresses her nipple, which is hard and supple. My lips encircle the rosy flesh and I suck it and the wine into my mouth. She leans back against the counter, her legs spread, her back arched, and her chest out. I reach around to hold her ass as I suck. Her fingers are in my hair.
I lift my head and she does the same to the other breast, pouring a dollop of wine so it trickles down and over the nipple. Again, I suck hungrily. She's breathing heavily now. Her hand grips the back of my head and pulls me to her breast. My fingers find their way to her pussy.
I'm massaging her labia, sliding my finger into the wet folds of her pussy. She's wet and tight and so very hot. I slide two fingers inside her and she moans. I'm watching her face now. She's leaning back against the sink, legs spread, and her nipples are both large and glistening from my sucking. She's a sight to behold.
I kiss her breasts and stomach and drop to my knees. She stands on her tiptoes with her legs spread so my tongue can find her pussy. It's mostly shaved, with a little landing strip. I tongue her, probing her insides and dragging it over her swollen clit until she shudders.
I stand and press my naked body against hers, my chest against her breasts, brushing the nipples, my cock pressed between our stomachs. I kiss her deeply and my tongue finds hers. As we separate, she bites my lower lip hungrily. She's on fire.
I lift her and she wraps her legs around my hips. I guide my cock to her pussy. God, it's so hot and wet. I slowly press it in her. She lets out a gasp and my tip pops inside her.
She's wetter than any pussy I've ever felt, yet she's tight. Really tight. Her eyes squeeze shut as I push into her. I watch her face as my long, hard cock slides into her pussy. Her mouth opens and she lets out a muffled cry. I thrust myself deep inside her and she moans, her eyes rolling back in her head. I start to stroke her, long, slow strokes with the full length of my cock. It feels like she's squeezing my cock with her tight little pussy.
I'm holding her weight in my arms, but it's no effort. She's arching and undulating her body now, meeting my thrusts with her own. We're like two perfectly integrated beings, moving as one. I'm thrusting my pelvis now, sliding my cock in and out of her, pulling it out so the head spreads her lips, and then pushing in again until I feel the tip press against her cervix.
Her little cries are increasing now and I sense she's approaching orgasm. She leans back, with her hands on the counter. One leg stretches out to brace against the wall, the other is around my waist, pulling me closer. I watch her as I pump her. She's biting her lip, her eyes are ablaze, her breasts are heaving. I have one hand under her butt, supporting her, while the other is on her pubis, my thumb massaging her clit.
She tilts her head back and moans. Her body shakes and I can feel her pussy contract around my cock. She's coming now and I look in the mirror to see the two of us, she with her head tilted back, breasts bouncing, and legs spread, and me, pumping and thrusting and ramming my cock into her, again and again. The sight is such a turn on I feel the electrical charge surge through my limbs and body and fire straight through my groin and cock. I explode inside her. Again and again, I spray my cum into her wet, tight pussy.
"Excuse me, Mr. Scott?" I open my eyes and see the flight attendant standing over me. "You need to fasten your seat belt for landing." I look around and see Peter sitting next to me, reading his magazine. It's light outside and we're approaching Zurich airport. I've been sleeping ever since I first drifted off.
End of Chapter 1