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“You ready for this, Liz?”
“Yes.” My voice is breathy and hoarse.
He lowers his penis into my open mouth. I accept his ramrod flesh eagerly. It fills my whole mouth, crowding everything within it. The taste of his flesh is slightly salty and I lap at it with relish, feeling the corded veins that snake along its length upon my tongue. Its head encroaches onto my throat, and he’s not even half in – not by any semblance of distance.
At the same time, he dips his head to my pussy again and resumes his oral loving. We are now joined to each other at two ends – an alpha and omega of flowing carnal delights. The air is rife with the sounds of licking and sucking. His hips move back and forth, easing his cock slowly in and out of my mouth. I close my cheeks around his stiff flesh to afford him greater friction.
I think I can come this way.
His fingers worm into my hole again – moist, sticky, messy, sweet. Two . . . no, three. He’s filling me with the fingers on one hand, and simultaneously teasing and massaging my clit and sex lips with the other.
I squirm and moan against his cock. From the way I’m creaming, I think I’m going to come.
Oh take me, Alex. Take me. I need need need you so badly inside me.
We are so concentrated on achieving our respective es orally that we fail to register the tread of footsteps behind the trees.
“Pak!” hisses a voice.
I freeze, Alex’s cock still in my mouth.
“Oh shit.” Alex scurries off me, his luscious rod whipping out of my mouth.
We both quickly scramble to put our clothes back on – not that we had much to put on in the first place.
“Pak, it is very important!” I recognize the voice of our interpreter, Joti. Pak is the local word for ‘sir’.
Alex checks to see if I’m decent. I’m still stringing on my bikini top over my wet nipples when Joti steps through the trees. The diminutive man almost backpedals as he sees me, but the fright on his face makes him stand his ground.
“What can I do for you, Joti?” Alex says without a trace of irritation at being interrupted on our afternoon off. He’s like that with all the locals. Polite, generous and respectful.
Joti licks his brown lips. “Sir, there was a phone call . . . from your mother. It’s your father. He had a heart attack.”
2
We are in a plane back to Moldovia. The only seats we could get were economy, so we are seated at the back of the plane by the window. No private jet with the Moldovian state crest for us here – it would take too long to fly it out and we are in a dreadful hurry.
No one knows who Alex is, of course, as he is rarely one to throw his weight around. He prefers to “blend in with the crowd” – as if a man who looks the way he does can possibly blend in with any crowd. We resemble two suntanned backpackers with our disheveled hair and worn clothes.
Alex is all thumbs, which is unlike him. When he almost spills his coffee for the umpteenth time, I take the plastic cup away from him.
“Talk to me, please,” I say. “What is it?”
He takes a deep breath. He is seated by the aisle and his hand grips the metal armrest.
“I’m wondering if his heart attack is because of me . . . because of what I did.”
A mental image of the robust statesman I had seen in the grand ballroom of the hotel I worked in sits in my mind’s eye. I imagine him weak and frail upon a hospital bed, hooked up to electrodes and wires and catheters. My stomach does a queasy turn.
“Alex, you can’t blame yourself for that.”
“But what if it is? What if he worked himself into a state with worry and it finally tipped him over the edge?”
I take hold of his knotted fist. “You can’t allow yourself to think of what might or might not have been.”
He refuses to meet my eyes. His brow is creased and his head is bent, as though he is deep in thought. He has adopted this pose since we boarded the plane – six hours ago.
“I don’t know,” he says in a low voice. He shakes his head slowly. “I just don’t know anymore. I thought I had all the answers, but maybe I don’t. Maybe my father was right about me.”
It physically pains me to see him torturing himself like this. “What did he say?”
“He said I was a good-for-nothing who would never amount to anything much. He said that if I was half the person my sister was, Moldovia would have a far worthier heir to its throne.”
“Oh Alex, he doesn’t mean that. Sometimes parents say things they don’t mean. My mother does it all the time – wear her emotions on her sleeve. And she’s right sorry afterwards.”
“No. My father pretty much means everything he says.”
I keep silent. Alex may be right. His parents are like no parents I have ever known, and I can’t even begin to fathom what it is like growing up in a royal family.
The stewardess comes over and smiles brightly at Alex. “Would you like me to clear your tray?”
Alex has barely touched his food – beef strips with wild rice and soggy vegetables. I can’t say I blame him. The food is pretty awful.
“Yes, please,” he says.
He doesn’t notice that she hasn’t taken her eyes off him. I suppose I’ve got to get used to having a boyfriend who draws admiring stares wherever he goes.
I ask, “Has your father ever had heart disease?”
“No.”
“Then you couldn’t have known.”
He leans his seat back as far as it would go, which isn’t much. “Do you believe in karma, Liz?”
“I don’t know. I’m not religious, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Not religion, but karma. What goes around comes around. I’m getting punished for what I did, and someone else I love is paying the price.” His voice cracks a little at the end. “Despite everything, I love my father, Liz. I love my family. We don’t always see eye to eye. Hell, we certainly don’t – ” he gives a short, humorless laugh, “but I love them nonetheless. And because I walked away from them, bad things happen to them.”
Tears fill my eyes. His expression is so anguished and torn that I cannot reconcile the happy, relaxed man I’ve made love to and spent a glorious month with to this shadow of a person. I can only grip his white knuckled fist as the plane heads west into the murky unknown.
*
When we disembark in Moldovia, whose capital is also called Moldovia, being the city state that it is, several officious aides in dark suits are waiting for us at the gate. They wear ear and mouthpieces like Secret Service agents in movies I have watched.
“Your highness,” says one, stepping forward.
Passengers all around us turn to stare. Thank goodness we were among the last to disembark, being seated at the tail end of the aircraft, or there would be more people stopping in their tracks.
“Please,” Alex says, looking embarrassed, “let’s go quietly and not make a fuss.”
An aide reaches for my backpack. “If you would allow me, Miss.”
“No thanks,” I say, “I can carry my own.”
“As will I,” Alex says.
Seemingly ill at ease, the aides fall behind us as we walk ahead with our gigantic backpacks strapped behind our backs. I make to follow the other passengers down the travelator towards the Baggage claims and Customs, but Alex stops me.
“This way will be faster.” He indicates a sign that says ‘VIP’.
This is the first inkling I have that things are not going to be normal for either of us in this country.
When we speedily clear customs (“Welcome back, your highness, good to see you again”) and exit the airport, a multitude of reporters and paparazzi are waiting for us. There are TV crews and Internet crews and the shutter clicks and flashes of multiple cameras going off at once. I recognize the logos of a dozen different crews – CNN, Al-Jazeera. Oh my God. So the press coverage is not confined to Moldovia.
The police have set up barricades everywhere, clearly demarcating the lines between the common people and our entourage. Alex has his arm firmly linked through mine, as though he is afraid I would go astray. Although the aides flank us, shielding us somewhat, the paparazzi still click away furiously. If it wasn’t daylight, I would be blinded by their flashes.
Most of the questions from the reporters are hurled in French, but there is a smattering of English ones that I can understand.
“Your highness, where were you the past month? Speculations have been that you were holidaying in Bali.”
“Would that be a spa you were in, your highness? Because you had a mental breakdown?”
“Your highness, your father is extremely ill. Why did you stay away for so long? Do you think you contributed to your father’s sudden attack?”
