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He bends down and seizes both her thighs with his strong hands. He presses her against the tree as he hitches her knees up and splays her thighs wide open. Her feet dangle from his grasp, the nose of her shoes pointing downward. The tip of his extremely erect cock nudges her pussy, sending a shock wave coursing through her clit and groin.
“Ohhhh,” she moans. She wants him so badly.
He doesn’t ask for permission. Without letting her go, he positions his cock – without his hands – at her pussy hole. Grunting, he thrusts himself suddenly into her. She’s already very wet, and as he spears his rod deep inside her, a hoarse cry escapes from her throat.
He fills her – oh so wonderfully. His girth expands her orifice. Every part of her is stretched maximally. His cock head pushes against her cervix, lifting it.
She closes her eyes in the utter bliss of it.
He begins his frenetic rutting. Using the tree as leverage, he grinds his hips against hers. His rhythm is measured at first, and then it rapidly picks up speed. As does his breathing, which ascends into a rhythmic panting.
She whimpers and trashes her head against the tree. Her hair whiplashes against her shoulders and falls around his shoulders like a spray. His chest is compressed against her breasts. Her nipples are squeezed between their two heaving bodies.
“Oh, oh, oh,” she keeps crying. His face is beside hers, and she can smell his sweat. She wonders if he would let her kiss him.
He slams and slams himself into her, as though he’s trying to pound her into the very bark. It’s extremely rough sex, and her buttocks are being grinded repeatedly into the wood. She can feel her soft skin begin to chafe. She can’t help crying out with each thrust, each grind, each undulation of his energized hips.
His cock whacks against her G-spot even as his pubis pistons against the tender nub of her clit. She ascends dizzyingly, buoyed by the peaks of sharp sensations that keep cresting her higher and higher . . . and higher. Her head spins with a kaleidoscope of everything that is melded together into sound, sight, taste and smell.
“Ohhhhhhh!” she screams into the foliage above her. She screams into the reddening sky. She screams and screams as her fingers claw against the bark, against one another, against anything she can get her nails into.
His warm sperm jettisons into her – a flow of molten liquid that is oh-so-satisfying. She can feel it swarm into every crevice, every hidden valley, and just as soon as it gushes in, it trickles out – its fortunes prey to gravity.
For a fleeting moment, she wonders what it would be like to have a child with this man. It would be so easy. Just stop taking the pill and let his sperm do the trick.
But of course, that would be deceitful. He trusts her – his future VP. He trusts that she is keeping herself unfertilized with the pill.
He puts her legs down carefully, and her heels sink into the ground, stumbling over the uneven roots. Her thighs ache from where he has grasped her and from the sheer act of being kept wide apart for so long.
He leans into her, resting his forehead against the bark. His breath comes out in short pants. His slightly stubbled cheek brushes against hers. She’s panting as well. Her sweat is being rapidly evaporated by the cool breeze that blows in from the meadow. Her racing pulse is slowly trending downward, and she can feel her heart drumming down into a steadier beat against her ribs.
She turns her face to his and kisses him lightly on the cheek. It’s more of an unconscious act than a conscious one. It’s something she would do to a lover post-sex – nuzzle against him with sweet kisses.
He freezes.
Too late, she realizes what she has done.
“No,” he murmurs, and draws away.
Their eyes lock. Mesmerizing blue against soft brown.
She whispers, “Why won’t you let me kiss you?”
He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, and moves away – his now semi-turgid cock pulling out of her wet, wet pussy. Her inner thighs are streaked with their combined juices. The expression on his face is the very same one she has glimpsed yesterday – one of vulnerability and soft, bruised confusion.
The Adam’s apple on his throat moves.
“Let’s go,” he says abruptly.
“I would like to, but you’ll have to untie me first,” she reminds him.
He manages a laugh. Once again, it’s a rare moment that she is seeing – one in which he is not dominant and overpowering. It hints at multiple layers within the man – a nice surprise.
“Of course,” he says, going to the back of the tree.
He loosens her bonds and gathers the rope while she rubs her mildly chafed wrists, indented with rope striations. They put their clothes silently back on again and get into the car.
5
They drive through the country tracks once again, the wheels of the car trundling over uneven hillocks.
“Where are we going?” she asks him.
“I thought we’d explore the non-sexual side of our bargain.”
She wonders what that means.
After a while, she remarks, “There’s no one around for miles.”
It’s true. They haven’t seen a single soul or structure or car in these golden meadowlands, now sunken in purple twilight. There are only trees and grassland and flowers rippling in the wind. Birds wheel in the sky.
“That’s because it’s private property. I own it.”
She’s astonished. But of course, she tells herself, there should be nothing surprising about it. He can own anything he wants – he’s a billionaire after all. But to own acres and acres of wide open space like this –
She gazes out of the car window, savoring the possibilities.
“You’re not afraid of trespassers?” she says.
“There’s only so much you can do. I don’t fence it up, but there’s a natural border of trees and hills further south. There are signs here and there, but like I said, there’s only so much I can do.”
It strikes her that this is as close to having a normal conversation with him than she has had. She doesn’t want to spoil the moment. She glances at his profile. In the setting sun, he is a glorious silhouette in repose. Truly, he is a sculptor’s dream.
They finally approach a pair of wrought-iron gates. These crank open to the touch of his remote button. A wall of iron spikes stretch out from either side of the gates for as long as she can see.
“You live here?” she intuits.
“Yes.”
“So it’s an enclave within your own property?”
“Sort of.”
She has never heard of such a thing, but she supposes they exist for the very rich.
They drive in. There are gardens beyond gardens – a profusion of bushes and hedges and trees and crazily paved mosaic paths. The shrubbery has a tinge of wildness to them, much like their owner.
The house looms up. It’s an imposing manor – two stories with gabled windows and a sloping roof. Ivy creeps all over its walls. It looks old, as in centuries old.
“Do you live here alone?” she asks.
There’s so much she wants to ask him. She is naturally curious about him – this strange, mercurial and phenomenally rich man.
“Yes. I have a housekeeping team which comes in during the day, and a gardening team which comes in three times a week.”
“No security?”
He flashes her a glance. “You do ask a lot of questions.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not. I have no security as in manpower, if that’s what you are inferring to, because I value my privacy. But the house is well guarded with state-of-the-art technology.”
He parks the car in front of the entrance. In an open garage built like a pavilion with Doric columns and with a white Grecian roof laden with ivy, she sees a bevy of other luxury cars – a Merc, an Audi 500, a red Ferrari, a Maserati, among many more. He obviously likes his cars.
They get out. She stands in front of the twin oak doors. The house is like something from another era. It emits an air of mystery, of secrets lurking within its shadows. This is not to say she thinks it’s haunted – by it is certainly haunted by a patina of a forbidding past.
Much like the owner himself.
“Is this your family house?” she asks. She can’t help himself. She wants to know everything.
“No. It came to me six years ago when its previous owner lost a bet.” He raises an eyebrow. “Never place a bet unless you know you’ll win it.”
“What was the bet?”
He grins. “You’re reaching, Susan Chalmers. No more questions, OK?”
“OK,” she says contritely.
When the week is up and she’s VP, she’s going to ask him all the questions she wants. It’s up to him to decide if he should answer them, of course.
There’s a boxlike grey panel beside the door – a piece of ultra-modern equipment in stark contrast with the rest of the house. Channing depresses a button and it slides open. Red and green flashing lights wink within. With a whirring sound, a lever protrudes outward, displaying a fingerprint pad. He places his index finger upon it and something clicks within the doors.
He opens one door. “Step right in.”
She’s impressed. “What if someone breaks the windows?”
“They are made of unbreakable glass.”
“You’re not secretly Batman, are you?”
He laughs.
She grins back. She’s enjoying these non-sexual moments with him. It’s as though they are having a real relationship. Well, as real as he would allow it, anyway.
