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27
The flight attendant was the same, the water far below--the Indian Ocean--and the direction--west toward Dubai instead of east to Shanghai--different.
It all washed back over him. Everything he had felt on that earlier flight while Carol was being gangbanged. The all but irresistible urge to grab her, fuck her until her eyes bulged, make her scream. To humiliate her husband as he was being humiliated.
“Would you like another drink, Mr. Edwards?”
“Yes, please.”
“Gin and tonic?”
“Yes.”
When she returned and set the cool glass down on the arm of his first class seat, he said, “You’ve changed routes.”
She smiled, pleased at recognition. “No. I’m still on Shanghai. Just covering today for a friend on vacation.” The name tag on her stylish uniform read ‘Lorie’. She did look like Carol. Some. Enough. Ross glanced at her left hand. Good. She was wearing her wedding ring. That was important. After a brief moment, Lorie added, “I remember you on the Shanghai route often.”
Ross smiled back, making eye contact. “How long are you in Dubai?”
“Two nights. We fly back Thursday. You?”
“The same. I’m staying at the Dubai Creek. I’ve seen Singapore Airlines people there in the past. Are you?”
“Yes.”
“If you don’t have other plans, join me for a drink this evening.’”
Lorie hesitated only briefly, before, “I’d enjoy that. I can’t go to any of the hotel bars alone or even with the other girls.”
It is common knowledge that almost all Dubai hotels have squads of imported prostitutes who frequent the bars to accommodate visiting Saudis and others.
“Good. The Jockey Bar at 7:00.”
…
The jockeys in the photographs and oil paintings on the bar’s walls were riding camels not horses. Some of them were mere children, six or seven years old. Though the minimum age to ride professionally had been raised to fifteen to appease international child welfare groups, enforcement is lax when camel racing is favored by the highest ruling family members in feudal societies.
Ross had never seen a camel race, but remembered hearing that one sheik alone owned more than 10,000 camels and employed 6,000 men to care for and train them. He found himself wondering if the walls of the Kricket Klub were covered with pictures of crickets instead of cricket players.
He had just taken the first sip of a Plymouth Gin martini when he followed the movement of the head of a Japanese businessman at the next table and saw Lorie. She was wearing a sleeveless dress that she wouldn’t wear on the streets of Dubai, but which was by Western standards modest.
Ross stood as she approached and pulled out a chair for her.
“You look lovely,” he said. “More relaxed than on the plane.”
She smiled thanks, asked what he was drinking, and said she would have the same.
Ross’s plan was simple and his intentions not much different than those of any man thrown together with a pretty woman in a foreign city. Up to a point. He would seduce her if he could. His techniques were traditional: he was charming, he listened to her, drew her out about herself, appeared interested, and he had already tipped the bar tender to keep the drinks coming. Lorie Hornby did not notice that he had barely touched his second martini while she was finishing her third. She did notice that this nice man, who was successful enough to fly first class and had told her he was separated, with a divorce pending, which might or might not be true, but didn’t really matter, was looking at her with increasingly open desire, and through a gin haze that was fine with her. More interesting than watching bad television in her room. And no one would ever know.
Ross had learned that Lorie was from Fremantle, in Western Australia; her husband, Stan, a flight engineer for Qantas; they had lived in Singapore for two years; and had two daughters, Pam and Charlie, short for Charlotte, aged 3 and 5. Good, thought Ross. If she goes to my room, she will be a slut mother as well as wife.
Unsteadily, clutching his arm for balance, she did and was.
Inside the room, bodies embraced, lips locked, clothes fell.
Naked, Lorie Hornby was as expected. Child birth had left only slight marks on her body. Her abdomen was flat and firm. Her breasts high and full. Not as big as Carol’s, but more than a handful. Her legs almost exactly like Carol’s. Stan was a lucky man. Or not.
Falling on the bed together, her head moved without urging to his groin. To Ross the back of her rising and falling head, sensation of lips and tongue, she was Carol. He almost came and had hurriedly to reach down and pull her away.
He pushed her onto her back and reciprocated. Her pussy was like Carol’s before shaving. The almost blond curly hair. The taste. He hadn’t licked a cunt in months. He hadn’t had sex other than masturbation since all this began. His badly damaged self-esteem began to rise with his cock.
Lorie moaned as he straightened up, circled her ankles with his fingers, separated and bent her long legs, and entered her. She was sopping wet. He slid slowly all the way in. Slowly back. Not wanting to come too soon. Her eyes were closed, not bulging. And she had not yet screamed.
He moved his hands to her breasts and squeezed as he gradually increased the rhythm. Lorie didn’t seem to mind. In control, knowing there would be a second time, that he wasn’t going to let her go until he had done everything he wanted to, he slammed hard and came with a roar.
Lorie groaned, convulsed--Ross wasn’t sure if she had come and didn’t care--and fell into open mouthed sleep.
…
An hour later Ross rolled the sleeping Australian onto her stomach, arranged her arms to the sides, outstretched, pushed her legs together. A naked crucifix. Swinging one leg over, he knelt on the back of her thighs. From this angle, unable to see her face or breasts, she was Carol.
Hands spread cheeks. A glob of spit landed on crinkled anus. Probing pressure. Sensing something wrong, Lorie woke. Groggily, “No. Not there.” And then she screamed quite satisfactorily.
“Yes. There.” grunted Ross Edwards.
Pain quickly sobered her.
“No. Get off. Stop. This is rape. Report...you.”
“Maybe in Australia or America, but you’ve forgotten where you are. Adulterous women are not treated well under Sharia law. And people saw you join me at the bar.”
Lorie struggled to throw him off, to escape agony. Ross twisted her arms behind her. “I’ll break your fingers. Good. That’s better. Don’t you take it up the ass?”
A whimpered no.
“Never?”
“Once. Twice. Stan wanted to. It hurts too much.”
Ross was pleased. “That’s what my wife used to say. She seems to have changed her mind.” He paused and reached for a necktie he had slipped under a pillow just in case.
“What are you doing?”
“That’s obvious.”
She struggled. It was too late. Finishing the knot lashing her wrists together, he pulled his cock from her ass. There was blood and something else. He flipped her onto her back, captured flailing legs, pushed them toward her ears and shoved into her ass again.
“AggahHH! You’re ripping me.”
“Yes.” With satisfaction. “I am.”
Hands moved past breasts that still bore earlier red prints to throat. Long before he had learned from THE ENGLISH PATIENT that it is called the suprasternal notch, Ross had thought that the vulnerable hollow at the base of the throat one of the loveliest parts of a woman’s body. He wrapped both hands just above Lorie Hornby’s suprasternal notch and, continuing to fuck her ass slowly, squeezed until her eyes bulged.
In time with inward thrusts: “Carol. Carol. Carol.”
Red face turning blue. Mouth open in silent scream. Tongue lolling.
…
“Why?” Lorie sobbed as she gathered her clothes.. “Why did you have to be this way? It could have been a bit of fun. You’re a monster.”
‘Why, indeed?”
…
Lorie Hornby was not on the Thursday flight from Dubai to Singapore. Another attendant, a pretty Asian woman, brought his gin and tonic.
“I thought Lorie was working this flight.”
“You know Lorie?”
“Yes. We had a drink together the other night.”
“She was scheduled, but had to fly to Australia unexpectedly. An Illness in the family, I think”
“I hope it is not serious. If you see her, give her my regards.” And he handed the attendant, whose name he notice was Xin, a business card.
“I will.”
Xin smiled and moved on.
Sipping his drink he gazed out the window. A string of atolls far below must be the Maldives. Ross Edwards smiled. He was very pleased with himself.
28
This simply is not possible, thought Carol Edwards. But she’d thought that before.
“AggahHH! You’re ripping me.”
“No. I’m not,” replied Faye, as she forced more of her hand into Carol’s ass.
“No. NO! Please. Stop.” And then knuckles passed and Carol Edwards was proven wrong again.
I can’t believe that there is a hand up my ass.
The audience gave the hand a hand.
Carol could glimpse only a few of the woman staring down at her naked on her back on the floor of the Fur Ball, a lesbian club in Laguna Beach.
Faye had driven them up from San Diego that Friday night, promising a new experience.
Carol had never before seen Faye in a dress. Black, simple; having nothing to cling to but shoulders it hung sadly straight. Faye also was atypically wearing lipstick, eye shadow, and shoes with 2” heels.
Only ten miles from her parent’s house, Carol had often been to Laguna Beach. With college friends she had checked out the gay bars for kicks. The Fur Ball was new. So was this Carol.
Faye had told her to dress as though for the office, but had her remove the blouse from beneath the two piece peach colored business suit. With Carol’s breasts, naturally this exposed some but not excessive cleavage.
The Fur Ball’s decor was Hemingway’s Paris. The bar was zinc topped. The stools and tables bistro small. Most of them were occupied; and Carol felt an anticipatory gleam in many of the eyes passing over her as they entered.
On the way to an empty table that seemed to have been reserved for them, Faye was greeted by several women, all of whom like her were dressed as if for a ladies’ tea, in deliberate parody of their own mothers. No leather. No pants. No boots. Nothing even slightly butch.
Without asking what Carol wanted, Faye ordered two glasses of white wine.
Conversations resumed around them. They seemed to be forgotten. But the room spontaneously hushed when Faye finished her wine and took Carol by the hand and led her to a small dance floor between bar and tables.
“Hello, ladies.”
“Hello, Faye.” came the response.
“This is my...friend, Carol. Say ‘hello’ Carol.”
“Hello.”
“Hello, Carol.” Enthusiastically.
“I’m sure you all will agree that Carol is very beautiful.”
“Agree.” “Agree.” Laughter.
“And innocent. Well, at least she looks innocent.” More laughter. “Turn around so that everyone can see how innocent you look.”
Carol Edwards turned, facing the women at the bar who were behind her, then again those at the tables. Some eyes met hers. Some were lower.
“We all know that looks can deceive--though I doubt anyone thinks I’m straight.” Laughter. Then to Carol, “What are you?”
Confused. “What am I?”
“Your job. What do you do?”
After momentary hesitation, “I’m an architect.”
“Is that what you wear to the office?”
“With a blouse, yes.”
“The only change is the addition of a blouse?”
“Yes.”
“What are you wearing beneath that suit?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? You go to the office that way.”
“You know I do.”
“How many people have you had sex with in the past week?”
“I...I don’t have any idea.”
“None? Five? Twenty-five? One hundred?”
“More than twenty-five, less than a hundred.”
“How many today?”
“How many people or how many times?”
“People. We wouldn’t want to strain you to count the times.”
Laughter.
“Five men and you.”
“Woo.” “Way to go, Faye, girl.”
“How?”
“I sucked off two. Took two in the ass. One of them in both. And I went down on you.”
“You’re not so innocent.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
Spade hand slapped face.
“Don’t be impertinent.
“You said you are an architect, but you really are a slut, aren’t you?”
“Both.”
With one hand, Faye grabbed a fistful of Carol’s hair, and with the other slapped her face again.
“But mostly slut.”
“Ye..yes.”
“Say it.”
“I’m a slut.”
“Show us. Strip.”
Stripping was easy. Two buttons undid her suit jacket, which was pulled from her shoulders by a woman behind her and placed on the zinc bar. A snap, a zipper, and her skirt fell. Habits of neatness. Someone picked it up and folded it carefully, before laying it on top of the jacket. Carol shivered as a fingernail traced a path down her spine to the cleft of her ass.
“Turn again so that everyone can see it.”
‘It,‘ Carol thought and did. This time no eyes were on her face.
When she was again facing the tables, Faye reached out and hefted Carol’s right breast, fingers beneath, thumb caressing, before bending and taking the sensitive nipple in her mouth. Faye bit gently. Carol’s head went back and she moaned. Attracted by exposed throat, Faye’s mouth moved upward and her tongue licked Carol’s suprasternal notch, bringing eager sounds from the audience and a deeper moan from Carol Edwards.
A hand on her shoulder exerted only slight pressure. Enough for the well-trained to go to her knees. Faye lifted her black dress and spread her feet. Carol’s head moved forward. Tongue extended. Licked.
“Hold my dress,” Faye gasped to no one in particular. Hands obliged, enabling her to pull Carol’s face tighter, using the kneeling form to balance her own trembling legs until with a guttural groan and copious juices she came.
When Faye regained her breath, she shrugged her dress back into place.
“I promised this beautiful slut with, I must say, a very talented tongue, as I’m sure many if not all of you will agree before the night is over, a new experience. That is not so easy. She already has done almost everything imaginable.”
Someone giggled. “I’ll bet I can think of something.”
Another voice, “So can I.”
“Perhaps, ladies. Perhaps. You’ll get your chances. But for now, not so little lost Carol, on your back.”
“Take her ankles and pull her feet till her toes touch the floor beside her head.” Volunteers were eager to assist.
“Spread your ass.”
Bowed in two, Carol reached up to her elevated ass. Something wet and slippery poured over cracks, dribbled down her back and belly, reached the lower slopes of her upside down breasts. Faye’s fingers spread and rubbed, circled Carol’s anus, opened, poured oil in. Fingers followed. Carol Edwards thought, ‘This is not possible.”
When her hand was entirely in, Faye said, “You can let her ankles go.”
Legs flopped forward. Carol’s body straightened. Feet now flat on the floor on either side of Faye. The fist felt even bigger in this position, but hurt less. Until Faye began to move.
Carol’s hands scrambled frantically for Faye’s forearm. “Please. No.”
But Faye was too strong.
“Touch yourself.”
Carol gave up her futile efforts and did. Fingers on clit. Pleasure beginning a familiar mix with pain.
“Can I come?”
“Yes. But not that way.”
Faye stopped moving her arm. “Fist yourself.”
Carol’s eyes widened.
“You’re not the only woman in this room who fists herself. Do it.” Emphasizing the command by squeezing her own fist.
“Wait. Please. Don’t. I’ll try.”
Normally to fist herself was no longer difficult, but her body was crowded. Her fingers encountered the bulge of Faye’s hand. Pushed. Flesh stretched. Organs shifted. Sweat formed on Carol Edwards’ face. What must child birth be like? Something slipped. She was in, and she was in shock. Two hands. The sound of one hand clapping. The sound of two hands clapping. But they couldn’t quite, separated by wet tissue.
“Now you can make yourself come.”
Faye’s arm began to move. Carol’s too. She stared up into a sea of feral faces.
29
“Hello, Ross, from Las Vegas, fun capital of the world.
Flew up for the long weekend. Staying at the Galaxy. On the forty-forth floor. Beautiful view. Views. Outside is spectacular. But I like the one inside better
Say hello to Ross, girls.”
Two voices, almost simultaneously. “Hello, Ross.”
“ ‘Brandi’ with an ‘i’ and Roxanne. Brandi is 21, blond, 5’4”, stacked and interested in preserving the rain forest. Roxanne is 6’ 0”, red haired, also stacked, a former college diving champion, and collects stamps. Secretly I always wanted to MC a beauty pageant.
Both young ladies are beautiful, naked, enthusiastic, and, take my word for it, talented. They are spending the night with me. They are also, as you must have guessed, shall we say ‘professionals’. Do you girls mind being called ‘hookers’?
They don’t care for ‘hookers.’
I don’t pay for it. Must have some principles. They are a gift from you lovely wife, who is earning them for me.
We spent some time downstairs, Brandi, Roxanne and I, watching her work the bar. Woman is a natural. But then we knew that. I know some people at the hotel, so no problems. We rode up in the elevator with Carol and her third client. From your part of the world. Chinese. Japanese. Can’t tell. They got off on the thirty-ninth floor. Oriental man not inscrutable. Oriental man very excited. Very. Be surprised if his yellow dick isn’t buried in her ass this very moment. Don’t you think so, ladies?”
“He certainly couldn’t keep his hands off it in the elevator,” said Brandi or Roxanne.
“That’s all for now, Ross.
Brandi and Roxanne are deservedly high-priced. Carol is going to have a long night.”
Ross Edwards turned off the answering machine.
‘That’s all right. Sell her whore ass.’
His cock was hard, but he didn’t masturbate. Upon returning from Dubai he had almost thrown away all his toys, but then the thought occurred that he might want to use them on others. And he had kept the card to the Kricket Klub. That might be interesting, too.
He left his apartment on his way to have an innocent, or not, lunch with the wife of a friend.
As he waited for the elevator, he found himself wondering if Brad Tomalin had a daughter.
30
Not all hands on asses are equal.
The hand of a customer groping a call girl’s ass in a Las Vegas elevator is hardly noticed. Another hand on that same ass in a different situation can be life-changing.
Rik Cronin decided to hold the annual company retreat at a spa in Indian Wells. Three days, two nights of corporate fun and bonding, with a few seminars thrown in to make it tax deductible. As he, and Brad Tomalin intended, word quickly spread that he had specifically instructed that Carol Edwards be lodged in the suite next to his with a connecting door.
No one has a face that can actually stop a clock; but a few women are beautiful enough to stop traffic. Carol Edwards was one of them. It had happened many times, beginning in her teens. Literally. Standing on a corner waiting to cross the street. Men behind wheels, looked and were lost, not noticing when the light changed until someone behind them honked.
When she entered a restaurant. Heads turned. Conversations were interrupted. Not always. But often.
But even by those standards, the world stood still when she walked out to the spa pool.
Rik Cronin and almost all the other staff were already out there. He told her to wait ten minutes before joining him in attire provided by Brad Tomalin.
Carol Edwards was wearing four inch high backless sandals. That was certain. Whether she was wearing a bathing suit was open to debate. Some might say ‘yes’; most would probably say ‘no.’ A few inches of flesh colored string; the postage stamp top not wide enough to completely cover her areolae, which extended on either side; the bottom vanishing in clefts.
Behind sunglasses her eyes were the only part of her not visible.
The world watched breathlessly as she walked to Rik Cronin and stretched out face down on the lounge chair beside his.
When she seemed comfortable Rik said, “Could you help me, Carol, with this sun tan lotion? I can’t reach my back.”
She rolled over, sat up, leaned toward him and took the tube, squeezed lotion onto his mottled back, and rubbed.
“Lower,” he muttered.
Long fingers moved lower, down to the roll of fat protruding above the elastic waistband of his trucks.
“Ahh. That’s good.”
Rik sat up.
“Now I’ll do you.”
It was difficult to tell. Something seemed to flicker behind her dark glasses, but Carol Edwards lay back on her chair.
Every eye watched. Lotion squeezing from tube seemed somehow obscene. Rubbed into shoulders, slopes of breasts, belly, thighs, calves, feet.
“The other side.”
Carol rolled over.
Fingers untied a knot. A string more symbolic than concealing fell away.
Rik Cronin’s efforts to protect the already tan Carol Edwards from sun burn were as comprehensive as they were exemplary. Finally satisfied, he stopped, and lay back, a beached whale wearing Hawaiian shorts, on his own chair.
And the world exhaled.
...
A half an hour was long enough, Rik thought impatiently. Beyond the half moon of his belly, Hawaii had sprouted a new mountain peak.
“Let’s go,” he said as he bent to retie strings.
Carol rolled over, sat up, slipped on her too high heeled sandals.
As they walked around the pool, Rik said, “You know everyone is picturing us naked together in five minutes. And the great thing is, no matter what they image, you have and will do worse.”
“Yes.”
He dropped one hand to her essentially naked ass and let it rest there casually and proprietarily, feeling undulations as one long leg took a stride, then the other.
‘This is the end of whatever professional credibility I had left,’ Carol Edwards realized. ‘The end.’
Which was just what Brad Tomalin wanted.
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