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MAN NEEDS A MAID Chapter One
Thanks again to my editors, Alianath Iriad and Lastman 416, for their support, constructive criticism and diligence. Any remaining errors are mine.
***
Present day.
The third time I saw her, she smiled at me.
I was just coming into the building, and she was apparently on her way out. Her head was slightly tilted, so that her golden-blonde hair partially hid one eye, but I saw the other: it was light brown, or possibly hazel. She was pretty, too. The term 'cute' didn't quite do her justice, though she might have been just short of 'beautiful'. Adorable?
Yes, adorable was the right word. For whatever reason, I thought of a duckling. No, not an ugly duckling. The adorable one, with the cheeks. The one you want to hug.
So of course I stood there, frozen, like a complete idiot as she walked by, still smiling.
You have to understand: the only women that have ever smiled at me were waitresses, saleswomen, and Jehovah's Witnesses, and I leave it to you to guess how many of those smiles were genuine, or because they were interested in me, rather than my money.
***
Past
I grew up in the States (never mind which one). High school was an ordeal, because I was short, scrawny, and ugly. I actually considered trying to finish in three years instead of four. It can be done, but you need to get a summer school credit after Grade 8, before your freshman year.
Okay, you really do need to know the hideous backstory. I promise it's all relevant.
My father could have been the inspiration for Bruce Springsteen's song 'Glory Days'. Dad was the high school quarterback, and had a spectacular Senior game against our crosstown rivals. He took the team to within a game of the state final. He won a college scholarship, and was a backup at State for three years. His picture is still in our trophy case at school. Now he sells cars at the Ford dealership.
Mom was the head cheerleader, Prom Queen, and naturally married the star quarterback. She didn't expect to have three children and become a homemaker so quickly, though. Her dreams were shattered, and she took refuge in drink. She also cheated with Uncle Dave. Dad caught them, forgave his brother, and 'sort of' forgave his wife (think of the scandal, his reputation, etc.). He still holds it over her head. She drinks a bit more. That was an asshole move by Dad, because he was banging one of the secretaries at the dealership, and didn't stop.
If you google Neanderthal, you'll find a picture of my brother Chad. He's built like Dad, and followed in his footsteps until senior high, when he blew out his knee. It was a convenient excuse for his failure to become starting QB. Chad wasn't that good, and he was far too stupid for college. Dad got him a job in the parts department at the dealership. Chad fucked that up, and now works at the Hardware Depot. I'm not saying that you have to be stupid to work at the Hardware Depot - but Chad is.
My sister is a stuck-up bitch. She has Mom's looks, and a store of nastiness all her own. She was popular at school.
My family had one thing in common: they all shit on me. Short, scrawny and unattractive? Dad called me 'the black sheep of the family'. I wondered if he suspected Mom of having a second affair that produced me. Chad called me the 'butt end'. Mom was happy enough to have at least one person that ranked lower in the family pecking order than she did.
Chad was a senior when I was a freshman. He could have protected me, simply by stretching out his hand and saying 'Leave my little brother alone'. Instead, he called me 'loser' or 'retard'. That gave other bullies carte blanche to come after me. He just laughed. Some of the assholes picked on me hoping to get into his good books.
Dad told me to stand up for myself. When I came home with torn, bloody clothes, he would just make a clucking noise and say 'Why can't you be more like Chad?'.
My sister just ignored me. If anyone mentioned my name, she would roll her eyes and stick a finger in her mouth as if she was trying to make herself throw up.
***
Present
The next time I saw the smiling girl, three days later, she was just entering the building as I was leaving. She smiled, again, and then nodded to me in greeting. I nodded back.
I realized then that she was the quintessential girl next door. Prettier than cute. Better than attractive. Wholesome, fresh and unspoiled. But still appealing enough that in a year from now, some agent or photographer or talent scout was going to spot her, and say 'You could be a model'. Then she'd move away, and you'd see a picture of her years later, when she was light years out of your league.
***
Past
I worked my ass off all through high school. I didn't believe in luck. How lucky could I be, to have been born into that family? Hard work was obviously going to be my only escape route. Yeah, I was going to have dig a tunnel, like in Shawshank Redemption, even if it took years.
I got straight A's at school. Honestly, it wasn't that hard. My teachers thought that I was gifted; my family were practically embarrassed. Dad just rolled his eyes, and made it a joke: 'He's no son of mine'.
I got two part-time jobs, which initially killed two birds with one stone. First off, the less time I spent at home, the better. Second, I needed the cash because there was no way that my parents were ever going to spring for a decent computer for me.
Up to that point, nobody in my family cared what I did, except to point out that I was embarrassing them by being such a hopeless nerd/geek/dweeb. Mom noticed the computer I bought, though. She must have told Dad.
- "Holy shit." he said. "If you can afford something like that, you can definitely afford to pay rent."
- "What?" I said.
- "Rent. Your contribution to the family finances."
- "Chad doesn't pay rent."
- "Are you talking back to me?"
From then on, Dad garnished roughly half of my wages. It set me back. To continue the Shawshank comparison, he hadn't found my tunnel, but he'd confiscated my rock hammer. I was tempted, momentarily, to chuck it all and quit my jobs. I just couldn't. I would need some money when I graduated. I had a plan. I just needed to survive one more year.
***
Present
Two days later, I was just entering the building when I heard a voice - a female voice - call out. "Oh! Could you hold the door? Please!".
What would you have done?
Of course it was her. Blonde hair flowing in the wind, loaded down with three shopping bags. No, four. So, obviously, I held the door open. It wasn't like I did a Walter Raleigh, and threw my cloak over a puddle so that she could step over it. I just held the door open.
- "Oh! Thank you so much!"
The shopping bags, I noticed, were from high end boutiques. Expensive shops. Not your Giant Tiger or Bargain Basement. Well, she had to have some money, to live in this building. She was still pretty, even up close.
French Canadians have an expression (for all I know, France uses it, too): 'Belle de Loin, Loin de belle'. In English that would be 'Pretty from far (away), but far from pretty'. Yeah, not so nice. But it also didn't apply, in this case. She was just as adorable up close. And she smelled great, too.
- "You're a life-saver." she said, with a shy smile. A dazzling shy smile.
She managed to hook her third shopping bag over her shoulder (proving that she didn't really need me to hold the door; she could have managed it on her room). But she did it so that she could extend one small hand.
"I'm Alex." she said.
Okay. In my own defence, she had the adorable face, the blonde hair shielding one eye and one side of her face, the perfect features and unblemished skin. What was I supposed to do? I took her proffered hand.
- "Mark. It's no trouble."
- "Still." she said, with another smile.
There was nothing to do except follow her through the lobby, and push the elevator button for her. We got on together.
"Fourth floor." she said.
When the elevator stopped on the fourth, she smiled at me again. "Thank you, Mark. I hope I'll see you around again."
- "I'm sure you will." I said.
***
Past
Okay. More about my life before Alex. Yes, it's sad. Fuck you if you think I'm whining. I'm only telling you this shit so that you'll (maybe) understand why I am the way I am. And if your reaction is 'Fuck this Beta nerd', then I hope some 'Alpha' male fucks your girlfriend. And your mother.
Okay, so with an attitude like that, I didn't have any friends. Part of that was thanks to my wonderful siblings. Nobody wanted to be associated with me if it meant being targeted for bullying by Chad's younger friends, or exposed to the scorn of my sister and the mean girls.
But I didn't really try to make friends. Fuck them. In Grade 8, I confessed to my buddy Graham that I had a massive crush on a girl in our class (who was, obviously, light years out of my league). He told everybody. Then, enjoying his new-found (and very temporary) popularity, Graham embellished a bit, and told people that I had admitted to jerking off three times a day over her. Of course, I became a laughing-stock, and the story followed me to high school.
Dad's only comment? 'Well, at least the little perv isn't gay'.
In Grade 9 (or my freshman year of high school), Marco Correa tried to claim the credit for a project we'd done together. In fact, I'd done three quarters of the fucking thing. I supplied the teacher with two simple questions for Marco. If he'd done everything, then surely he would know the answers, right?
He didn't. From then on, my teachers allowed me to do group projects by myself. It was just easier that way. First off, only the laziest losers wanted to be in my group. Second, Marco tried to get even by claiming that I was gay, and that I'd hit on him. Well, half the mud stuck on him, and he ended transferring to another school. Of course, some of the mud stuck to me, too.
I survived high school. Physically intact, if not mentally. My full scholarship came through, because I had the highest grade point average in our graduating class. No, I wasn't valedictorian. In our school, the valedictorian was elected. There were three criteria: an average over 80%, participation in extra-curricular activities, and a vote by the student body. Obviously, I didn't qualify for the second two.
My grade point average was unknown to anyone who wasn't a teacher or counselor. My family certainly had no idea. It was announced at the Awards Night Banquet (which I didn't attend). But Dad ended up hearing about it.
- "You some kind of brainiac, then? What're you gonna do now?"
- "I'm going away to University at the end of August." I said.
- "Where?"
- "What do you care?"
I probably shouldn't have told him any of that. It gave him time to think, and he got clever.
The end of August came, and I started packing my stuff. Dad came into my room.
- "Don't box that up." he said, pointing at my computer. "That stays."
- "My computer? That's mine. I paid for it with my own money."
- "While living under my roof, eating my food. That's family property."
- "You charged me rent." I reminded him.
- "You think that paltry amount covered the cost of raising you? Don't be stupid. Just leave the computer."
I didn't answer. Dad gave me a smug smile.
I plugged the computer back in, and called up a couple of files. I printed them out, and then went into the living room, where he was watching TV.
- "What the fuck is this?" he said, after I handed him the printout.
- "A record of all the rent I paid, this past year and a half. I'm going to apply for a tax credit, naming you as my landlord."
- "The hell you will."
I handed him the second page. "These are copies of all the cancelled cheques." I'd been smart enough to pay him by cheque, and to write 'Rent' on the memo line. Every single one was dated on the first of the month.
He snarled at me, and jumped out his chair. "Think you're so smart, don'tcha? What if I smash that precious computer of yours?"
- "The information isn't just stored there. It's all been saved to the Cloud. You can destroy that computer, but I can access these documents from any computer. Ask your daughter; she knows what the Cloud is."
- "You're full o' shit."
- "Try me. Touch my computer, and I'll send copies of all these cheques to the IRS. They'll be really curious about why you didn't report all of this additional income."
He swore a blue streak. "You ungrateful little freak! You're no fucking son of mine!"
You've got that right, I thought.
Mom heard the noise, and came to see what was going on. That inspired me.
- "Speaking of which," I said, "if you cause me the least bit of trouble, I'll sue Uncle Dave for paternal support. I'll be sure to put the whole shit-show on social media - that you probably aren't my biological father."
- "You little bastard."
- "Maybe. Want to find out? Better still - want the whole town to find out?"
That was the kicker, of course. He didn't care if everybody knew how he'd treated me, but damned if he wanted them to find out that his wife had fucked his brother.
I packed my computer, my socks and underwear, and all of my nerdish clothing (all bought by me). I wasn't old enough to rent a car, so I had to ship my computer, and take a series of buses. I moved away from home, and never went back.
***
Present
I saw Alex a few more times, almost by accident. Usually, we ran into each other in the lobby. She would smile, and say hello.
One time, though, she looked visibly upset.
- "Are you alright?" I asked her.
Alex managed a weak smile, and brushed away a non-existent tear. "I'm fine. Just... bad day at work. Thank you for asking, though." She sighed. "Not looking forward to microwaved left-overs, I guess."
That was an opening. I only realized it afterwards. It was an invitation for me to step up and ask her out to dinner, or something like that. I completely missed the bus. I had a good laugh about it later.
***
Past
They say that all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. In university, I was the dullest of them all.
In one of his books, Malcolm Gladwell attempted to explain the concept of genius. He tried to quantify it, in a way. He concluded that what it required was natural talent and about 10,000 hours of practice. That's how you become Mozart, or Wayne Gretzky.
I'm not laying claim to genius, but I certainly put in my 10,000 hours. I studied computer science, computer engineering, programming, analysis, and software design. They also made me take several math courses, a 'hard' science, and a couple of electives. They were mostly boring, but ridiculously easy.
Honestly? It was like high school, without the bullying and the peer pressure. Memorize and regurgitate. Meet the requirements, and then exceed them. Business Admin, Marketing and Management were a laugh. I gained a few insights that I could have picked up on my own in about a quarter of the time.
Yes, it's fair to say that I was arrogant. A complete asshole? Pretty much. I didn't need friends, so I didn't have any. Girls didn't notice me, and I wasn't going to have any success with them anyway, so I didn't waste any time trying. There were a couple of profs and one grad student who could be helpful to me, so I 'cultivated their acquaintance' on a professional and intellectual level.
I worked part time, and upgraded my own computer equipment. By my third year, I was working as a TA (teaching assistant), making decent money and ingratiating myself with my professor. I may have learned a thing or two about dealing with people.
Except for that one girl. She was trying to hint that I could improve her grade in the course, and that she would 'make it worthwhile for me'. I kept trying to explain that the Professor marked the exam, which was the largest part of her grade; my help would be of limited value. By the time that I realized she was offering a blowjob, we were both too embarrassed to proceed.
***
Present
I saw Alex again. She seemed a bit preoccupied, so we only exchanged hellos and a quick smile. But a couple of days later, I saw her waiting for the elevator. She was trying - unsuccessfully - to hold back tears.
- "Alex?" I said. "Are you okay?"
She turned, and flushed when she saw me. "Hi, Mark. I'm... I'm fine."
- "I've seen you looking better."
She tried to muster a smile. "Yeah... it's just... the date, you know?"
It was February 14th. It took me a moment to remember why that might be significant.
- "Oh. Valentine's day?"
Alex sniffed. "For most people. For me, it's the anniversary of the worst breakup of my life."
- "Wow. Somebody broke up with you on Valentine's Day? That's... that's awful."
- "Mark? Would you tell me the truth? Am I ugly?"
Now, there's no accounting for people's self image. I met a guy at university who was a bigger asshole than me (by a wide margin), yet remained convinced that he was God's gift to women. So the idea of an adorable, pretty woman who thought she was ugly... well, I suppose it was possible. Barely.
- "No, Alex. You're beautiful. Don't let anybody tell you otherwise."
She smiled through her tears.
- "Thank you, Mark. That's... sweet of you."
I saw her again three days later. She smiled, and came straight over.
- "Hey Alex. How are you doing?"
- "Hi, Mark." she said. "I'm... much better, thanks. In fact, I wanted to thank you. For... you know. Valentine's Day."
- "I didn't really do anything."
- "You did, though. You picked me up when I was feeling really low. So... I was thinking that I'd like to show my... appreciation. Could I maybe... take you out for lunch? Or dinner, or something? My treat."
- "You don't have to do that."
- "Please?"
It wasn't just the fact that she was adorable. She also did the puppy dog eyes thing. I dare you to do better than I did.
- "Well... nothing fancy, right?"
She smiled. "Nope. Local. Only a short walk. Cheap, but good. Is tomorrow too soon? Lunch?"
I gave in. She met me in the lobby at noon on the dot. "You okay with Chinese?" she asked.
- "Better than okay. Love it."
- "Good to know." she said.
Her short walk led us straight to one of my favourite local eateries, a Dim Sum place that hadn't spent a penny on decorations, except for the Lucky Cat next to the cash register. It was cheap, and tasty. I'd been there at least fifty times before.
- "Mistah Mahk!" said the waitress. Yeah, they all knew me. No, I'm not making fun of her accent; her name was Ruby (so she told me - I'm sure she thought that I couldn't pronounce her real name). She had only been here for six months. You try learning a foreign language in six months.
There's a bit of a giveaway. I'm not a complete asshole. I can be polite to strangers, or to people who kind of 'have' to be nice. I can sympathize. Until I see that look of contempt or condescension in someone's face, I have no reason to dislike them.
- "Oh, no." said Alex. "You know this place?"
- "I do. I know it well."
- "I'm sorry."
- "Why? I like it here. The food is great - and cheap. Close to home. The staff are nice. What's not to like?"
- "You're not... disappointed?"
- "No, Alex. Thank you for picking a place that I already know I'm going to like."
We sat down, and immediately began comparing our favourite dishes. She was sort of a 'mainstream dim summer'; I convinced her to try the crispy squid and Su Er (tofu skin stuffed with several types of mushroom).
She asked me a few open-ended questions. I'd had this type of experience exactly once before. Is this what women do? Get a guy to start talking about himself, because it's his favourite subject? Or something that he knows about?
I took the first opportunity to ask about her. Alex told me that she'd grown up in southern Ontario, with strict parents. She wanted to prove herself, so she excelled at school, and won a partial scholarship to the University of Waterloo in Kitchener.
- "What was your major?" I asked.
- "Psychology, at first. But I gravitated to pre-law. I work in a law office here, three days a week. I guess I'm still deciding if I want to work in the law."
She might have seen my face. Working three days a week, and living in a building as expensive as ours?
"I have the luxury of... not being in a hurry." she said. "Daddy set up a trust fund for me years ago. I... it's a little embarrassing. I don't really have to work. But I feel like I should, you know? I think I want to... make some kind of contribution."
- "Understandable."
I was far more accustomed to eating by myself. I'd probably shared a meal with someone else less than 10% of the time since I'd left home. But in a familiar setting, and with a companion as adorable as Alex? It didn't hurt, of course, that she was making an effort to be as pleasant as possible.
She liked the crispy squid, but wasn't as crazy about the tofu skin roll with mushrooms. She also admitted that she'd never had the Lo Mai Gai (sticky rice), but loved it. We drank Jasmine tea with our food. When we were done, Alex excused herself to use the washroom.
I called Ruby over.
While Alex and I were eating and talking, I'd noticed a young couple sitting close to the door. He was wearing some kind of army surplus parka, while she gave off the look of someone who shopped for clothes in second-hand stores. It might have been her preference, but they both looked like poor students, or starving artists.
- "Ruby, could I pay their bill, please? Don't tell them, though."
Ruby nodded. "You do this again, Mistah Mahk?"
As far as I could remember, I'd only done this here once or twice before. It's just something I think of as paying back - or maybe paying it forward.
I have money. It's supremely, vitally important when you don't have much of it, and especially crucial when you don't have enough. When you have lots, though, it's not such a big deal. It shouldn't be, anyway. Those two students could obviously afford to eat here, but me picking up their $48 dollar tab (including a generous tip for Ruby) was going to come as a pleasant surprise to them.
They weren't going to know who'd done it, because Alex and I would be gone before they finished their meal. If they wanted dessert, that was on them.
Alex returned, and apologized. For using the washroom? She wasn't pleased that I'd paid the bill.
- "I wanted to treat you."
- "You can next time, if you want."
She arched one eyebrow. "Next time?"
- "If you want."
We walked home together, talking about nothing in particular. Alex was asking what other kinds of food I liked. We got into the elevator in our building together. I pressed the button for the fourth floor (hers), and then the ninth (mine).
The elevator stopped on the fourth. She stepped out, but then immediately turned around.
- "Thank you." she said. "For letting me take you to lunch, and then paying anyway."
- "You're very welcome."
I held the door as she walked down the hall to her door. No, I wasn't stalking. I just wanted to make sure that she got home safely. Alex turned around, and saw me still there, watching her.
She smiled - one of those golden rainbow smiles - and then trotted back down the hallway towards the elevator. She stopped right in front of me.
- "Thank you, Mark. You're sweet." She leaned in, and kissed me on the cheek.
Then she trotted (or skipped, or ran) down the hall to her apartment door, and let herself in.
***
More recent past
I did a Masters. It only took a year, and basically paid for itself. I got another gig as a TA, plus a healthy scholarship and an additional fellowship. I made about $16,000.
Professor Lemay told me that when he began his career, the University used to have 'Business Day' in April. Local companies came looking to interview aspiring graduates, to hire the best and the brightest. In his first year, 122 companies showed up. Five years later, only 17 businesses signed up, and the event was cancelled.
Twenty years on, he knew how things worked. He set up four interviews for me, with two established players in IT, an up-and-comer, and a promising start-up. If I succeeded with them, it would reflect well on him.
I got two offers. The contracts included stock options, and benefits, plus a few articles I wasn't so keen on. Intellectual property? Basically, anything I thought of belonged to them. I wasn't interested. Professor Lemay told me that that was standard.
Not for me. I counter-offered: I would agree to sign a two-year contract as a consultant, at the same salary, with the same benefits, but gave them an option to renew or decline to renew the contract after the two years. That would eliminate any need to pay me severance. But I insisted on removing the intellectual property clause.
The suits just smiled. "It's standard." they said.
- "I may be working on my own projects in my spare time." I countered.
- "You won't have any spare time." they said, smiling even more.
I smiled back. "If I did develop something, I would of course give my employers first option to buy it."
They laughed, and then we signed a contract. My contract. They'd done the math, and realized how much money they would save.
They gave me a desktop and a laptop at the office, and a desktop and a laptop for my home. All four were slightly ahead of state of the art. They figured that I would use them because they were so much better, so far ahead of anything I might already have.
The company agreed that I could work from home four days a week. They monitored my mail, and the number of hours I spent on their computers. They could access all of my work.
A problem came up after only three months. They weren't happy with my hours. I was only putting in about fifty-five to sixty hours a week. For the first month, I'd had to work 12-14 hours a day, but I'd steadily reduced that.
- "Are you unhappy with my productivity?" I asked.
- "No, it's not about productivity."
- "Is there a problem with the quality of my work?"
- "No. It's just that... in the evening, you're not accessing your desktop or your laptop."
- "Because my work is done."
- "Yes, but..."
They chose to renew my contract. A year later, though, they wanted to have the same conversation. They arranged a face to face meeting with several high-ranking suits who barely knew me. They only saw what I'd produced.
Year four is coming up, they said. We want to renew your contract, but... what they really wanted was to renegotiate my contract conditions: hours, reporting, supervision...
- "That's okay." I said. "I'm declining my option to renew."
That immediately changed the conversation. Oh, wait, they said. We have a new offer. No conditions, and a substantial increase in pay.
"No, thanks."
I'd been working on a program of my own. For the next year, I lived off my savings, and polished and perfected it. You probably don't care what it was. Let's just say that it was an internal office server that was entirely secure. Employees could communicate, and share information, but couldn't export it. Internal mail and file-sharing was completely separate from external mail and the internet.
I offered it to my former employers. After some consideration, they were willing to pay $600,000 for it. Idiots. I offered it to their main competitors, who were willing to go to $2.6 million. I visited with a hungry up-and-coming company. They agreed to pay me $3.7 million. Sold.
***
Present
Alex wasn't available on Mondays, Wednesdays, or Fridays - the days she worked at the Law Office. She was usually too tired those evenings. I was fine with that. I just scheduled my own consulting work for those times.
Then she was away for two consecutive weekends. One to visit her family, and the next to attend a friend's wedding. I didn't think about it too much; it was far too early in our relationship (if we even had one) to be inviting me to a wedding as her date.
***
Not so long ago
I sold my program, and then immediately went back to work on its successor. I lived off my savings for a year. My first program was good, but I knew that I could do better. Refine, re-work, finish. I went back to my original employers, but they were still too angry to make a reasonable offer. I shopped it around, got a quote of $8.1 million, and then suddenly found myself in 'closed' negotiations with a client who cannot be named. No, not Voldemort. Let's just say that I had to sign a non-disclosure agreement, and they demanded that I hand over all relevant hard drives.
They paid me $9.7 million. I was 28 years old, and had over 12 million dollars.
I wasn't interested in power or fame. I had plenty of money, and no real drive to get stupid rich. I didn't drink or smoke, and really didn't know how to lead a crazy lifestyle, even if I'd wanted to. My privacy was important to me.
The bulk of my money was invested. I cleared over $400,000 the first year, $650,000 the second. It was hard to break the habits I'd established over the years, so I worked part-time. Industry insiders knew who I was, so I got offers to consult on various projects, at ridiculous rates. Let's just say that I didn't have any financial worries. I could live in considerable luxury.
I hired a couple of accountants and financial advisors, to help me manage my investments, and the steady income that they generated. I ended up owning three properties, including a three-bedroom apartment in an exclusive building in Toronto. That was where I decided to live, because I didn't need a mansion. I kept one room as my bedroom, the second for a den/workplace, and the third for my workout gear.
That habit had started years ago, when I worried about eye strain from all the time I was spending in front of a computer screen. I took frequent breaks, but rather than read or watch TV (more eye strain), I started exercising. Push ups, sit ups, isometrics. I tried yoga, too, and found it very helpful in terms of reducing stress and temporarily forgetting about whatever project I was working on.
Why Toronto? Well, first off, I didn't care for New York or California. No offence, if you live there, but they just weren't for me. I probably thought that the grass was greener in Canada, then discovered that it really wasn't. A little, maybe, but not as much as some people may think.
What really made me decide to move was the fact that my family had located me. They wanted a share of my money. Dad found a lawyer willing to take a shot at suing me. It was laughable, really, but it cost me money to pay lawyers to run them around. In the end, my lawyers made money, while Dad and his lemon shark got nothing. I sent Dad the computer that I'd had in high school.
Then I discovered that I had an extended family, uncles, aunts and cousins who wanted to 'get back in touch'. Aunt Suzy needed a breast reduction, Cousin Pete had a great idea for a start-up if I could help with the initial funding. Fuck 'em. Uncle Dave managed to contact me by old fashioned mail, to ask if we could meet. I wrote back.
Uncle Dave, you're not my Dad. Even if you donated some sperm, you're still not my Dad. Please fuck off and die.
People from my old high school or from college wanted to re-connect with me. That was funny; we'd never connected in the first place.
I got a new accountant, financial advisor, tax specialist. Gary wasn't going to change my investment strategy, but he warned me that family and friends would come calling with their hands out, and that I might encounter some gold-diggers, too. I had no 'social media footprint', but my consulting business had a phone number and email address.
Gary's advice was good. He recommended some lawyers to handle unwelcome callers, and a private security company for good measure. I hired my own choices (not the ones he'd suggested). I wasn't going to put all of my eggs in one basket. I trusted him with my investments - to a point - but I don't actually trust anyone completely, so I hired a second accountant.
I'd already moved, but I legally changed my name, and changed my looks (contact lenses and a hair cut, for a start). It was a bit like starting a new life.
***
Present
In between her weekends away, Alex and I had lunch a couple of times. She chose a roadhouse-type chain restaurant, with fake cheeriness and inflated prices. She insisted on picking up the tab. I let her. Then I took her to a Vietnamese restaurant, and got her a bowl of Pho soup so big that she could have bathed in it. She couldn't finish it, of course.
I happily picked up the tab. It was under thirty bucks for the two of us.
- "How do you find these places?" she asked.
- "Just lucky." I said.
The truth? It was a mixture of poverty, inertia, and a limited range. Until my mega-deals, I couldn't afford the roadhouses, let alone anything upscale. Inertia may sound strange; what I mean is that once I found a cheap, tasty meal, I tended to go back regularly. Creature of habit, I guess. My range was limited because I didn't have a car.
Never learned to drive. Never bothered, because I couldn't afford a car, the gas, and especially the insurance. I got around by subway and buses when necessary, but mostly I walked. If you live in inner-city neighbourhoods, you can find cheap but good eating options.
Alex was apparently fascinated by everything I told her. Her own upbringing, she said, had been very, very different. Her parents were well off, but they thought that throwing money at their kids would buy them affection and obedience (not necessarily in that order). Many of the guys she knew, who met with parental approval, were self-obsessed, entitled jerks.
- "I didn't want to be like that."
- "I don't think you're entitled. Not at all." I told her.
- "Thank you, Mark." she said, with that beautiful little duckling smile. "I don't want to be." She looked down at the table. "Is it too early to say that I really enjoy spending time with you?" Then she looked up, a hopeful expression on her face. She seemed to be tamping down her eagerness. Still, it felt like there was a lot riding on my reply.
- "I like being with you too, Alex."
Good answer, Mark. Very suave.
The following Monday, she invited me out to dinner on Friday.
- "Don't you work on Fridays?" I asked.
- "Yes, but I found this cute little bistro within walking distance of the office. It's probably overpriced, by your standards, but I think that the ambience makes up for it. And it's my treat. Please?"
I could only chuckle. "Alright."
Alex called me on Friday afternoon, in a bit of a panic. "There's a bit of a rush on. I'm sorry, but I won't be able to get away until late. They're already planning to order pizzas, and... I'm sorry."
- "It's alright, Alex." I said. "I've done my share of all-nighters."
- "But I feel bad. And... I was really looking forward to seeing you..."
- "Don't worry about it. Rain check." Or is it rain cheque?
- "Wait." she said. "What if I make you dinner? Tomorrow. My place, tomorrow. At six? Would that be alright?"
- "Sure. Sounds good. What can I bring?"
- "Umm... a bottle of wine?"
- "What kind?"
- "Whatever you like. A red?"
Okay, so Alex hadn't noticed that I'd ordered a coke when we were at the roadhouse restaurant. The fact of the matter is... I don't drink. Or smoke. But it didn't bother me if she did. It just meant that I had to guess what she might make for dinner, and then try to pick a wine that wouldn't spoil it.
After twenty minutes searching the internet, I had it narrowed down to twelve options. So I went down to the liquor store, and found ten of the twelve. I picked a Sangiovese because... I don't know. I liked the name.
I knocked on her door at precisely 6:07. Not too early, so she had an extra seven minutes for last second rushing, but not too late, so that I wasn't in danger of ruining her plans. I think.
Alex opened the door, and stood there just a bit breathless, as if she'd been running around. Her makeup was understated, but she was wearing a very distracting dress, or frock... I don't know what to call it. It had straps that left most of her shoulders bare, and revealed a lot of upper chest, plus some cleavage.
This was new. She'd always dressed... modestly? Maybe it was the season; you don't go out in Toronto in the winter in a light dress. But tonight her whole look just said 'we're not going out, so I'm not all dolled up, but I did make an effort'.
- "Ooh, you're a bit early." she said. "Don't you know that when a girl says six, she means six-fifteen?"
- "I can come back later."
- "Okay. But leave the wine." Then she smiled. "Kidding!"
Alex's apartment was a just like her. Good taste, with money, but understated. Not too flashy, not trying too hard to impress.
"Ooh. Sangiovese. I think I'll like this. Is it one of your favourites?" she asked.
- "I don't drink. But I hope that it goes with what you have planned."
The conversation that followed was predictable. I don't drink? No, never did. How did you pick out a wine? Part research, part I liked the name. She laughed, all the while finishing a homemade dressing and pouring it over the salad she'd made. I hoped she hadn't gone to too much trouble. It's a Saturday, and she loves to cook, when she has the time. Plus it's for me, and she's really sorry that she had to stand me up last night.
- "These things happen." I said.
- "I want to keep my priorities straight." she said. "Work is not number one."
Dinner was a pasta with a moderately spicy tomato sauce. She'd seen me punishing the sriracha sauce over dim sum, and at the Vietnamese restaurant, but she didn't want to overpower me. I wondered if I should have gotten a different wine.
- "It's perfect. You're perfect." she said.
I complimented the chef, and even let her pour me a small amount of the wine so that I could taste it and 'see how it paired with the food'.
She had lemon sorbet for dessert, to 'cleanse our palates'.
I offered to help clean up.
- "No way. That's what dishwashers are for."
- "Pots? Utensils?"
- "Forget about it." Alex then offered me a choice of coffees. One of her few extravagances, she said, was her coffee maker. It was built into the wall, and looked futuristic. She talked me into a cappuccino. Then she asked me to sit on the couch with her.
It was very... distracting. Her hair, her pretty face, and her cleavage (which I couldn't miss) were all competing for my attention. When she sat down, her dress also hiked up quite a bit, revealing a fair bit of leg. I had just about zero experience with this sort of situation. Thing.
- "You know," she said, "I've been wondering about you."
- "About me?"
- "Yes. You're kind, and courteous. A perfect gentleman. But I also sense that... you're attracted to me. Yet you haven't... made any sort of advance. I know it's a bit forward of me, but... are you, Mark? Attracted to me?"
- "I'm not dead, Alex." Okay, maybe not the best joke. "Of course I find you attractive. But you're also kind, and courteous. I didn't want to rush -"
I stopped talking because Alex leaned in and kissed me. She simultaneously took hold of my hand, but I was more than a little disoriented. You see, it was my first kiss.
Okay. Shut up. I'll explain. But my train of thought was derailed - right off the tracks. Alex was kissing me. Her lips were soft, and warm, and if I'd had a plan, it had just blown up in my face.
How could I have known that kissing felt like this? There hadn't been a lot of positive physical contact in my life; how was I supposed to know that being this close to her would be so intoxicating?
Thankfully, Alex didn't give me enough time to think about it. I couldn't get analytical with her lips softly pressed to mine. The sensations were overwhelming. Body heat. Body proximity. The influence or effect of what was probably saliva on kissing. She was still holding my hand, and squeezing it intermittently. When she turned towards me, and brought her opposite hand to rest on my arm, I felt a little light-headed.
Then suddenly - just like that - she pulled back. Broke contact. Ended our kiss.
- "I'm sorry." she whispered.
I didn't have an answer. I didn't have a coherent thought.
"I'm really not like this." she said. "I don't know..."
- "It's okay."
- "I'm sorry."
- "You have nothing to be sorry about."
It was fairly uncomfortable from there on. She wanted me to go, and I could sense that. I tried to extricate myself as politely as possible. Thank you for dinner. I'm sorry - I'll call you. You don't have to be sorry. Okay, but I'll still call you. I hope so. Goodnight. Goodnight.
Awkward enough for you?
***
No, I wasn't a virgin.
When I sold my first program, and became a millionaire, I decided that it was time for another milestone. I bought myself some time with a very expensive prostitute.
In my mind, I equated expensive with 'high class'. She would be exotic, intelligent, and irresistible. I must have been imagining some kind of classic courtesan. The reality was very, very different.
She was attractive. Maybe about 30, but since I hadn't considered age as a factor, it didn't immediately strike me as a problem. She was clean. Scrupulously clean. She insisted that I shower, first. She let me know that condoms were mandatory, not optional.
She stroked my cock, using some kind of lotion as a lubricant, until I achieved an erection. Then she climbed aboard, and...
It was expensive, impersonal, and completely fake. I don't know why the impersonality bothered me; I'd been mostly impersonal with everybody my whole life. But I thought - okay, I'd hoped - that for my first experience, there would be some kind of connection.
Nope. It was over way too quick. It was embarrassing and disappointing at the same time. I was mortified. I'd paid her, but I could barely speak to her afterwards. Thank goodness, she didn't say anything to add to my humiliation.
Supposedly the Earl of Chesterfield said it best: "The pleasure is momentary, the position is ridiculous, the expense is damnable." Maybe he didn't say it (the list of people who might have is... interesting). But I could certainly relate.
Maybe that first time was an anomaly. I'd read a bit about other people's disastrous first times. It hadn't been... horrific?
I tried again, with a slightly younger sex worker who bore a better resemblance to her online photo. I paid her, went through the clinical cleanliness routines, and took charge a little more, as I'd decided. It was partly a tactic to disguise my inexperience, and partly to make the experience last longer. I fondled her breast implants, rubbed the head of my dick on her pussy lips, and then penetrated her. I lasted a little longer.
It still felt like I'd paid inflated prices for an unmemorable restaurant meal, with indifferent service. Do you leave a tip, under those circumstances?
Two years later, I decided to ask my accountant, Gary, if he could recommend an escort service. I will readily admit that I was testing Gary a bit. He was a sharp-dressed young man (around my age). He exuded charm, savvy, and confidence. Gary warned me about gold-diggers (more on that later), but never mentioned a girlfriend of his own. He didn't wear a ring, so I guessed that he wasn't married.
- "Jesus Christ, Mark!" he said. "Why would you ask me that?"
- "Because I have limited experience with this sort of thing."
- "But you think that I have more?"
He did. He absolutely did. Methinks he doth (didth?) protest too much.
- "Sorry." I said. "Didn't mean to offend you. I was just looking for some help."
- "Jesus, Mark. That's not the kind of thing you just..." He shook his head. "I'll ask around, alright?"
It didn't take Gary long to get me a number. Ask around, my ass. First Class escorts had a password-protected website, where you could see photos of the escorts. Just about every page featured a disclaimer; the women (and a couple of men) weren't prostitutes. They were escorts. If they chose to have sex with a client after a date, that was entirely up to them, and no financial renumeration was expected for that. Disclaimer disclaimer.
I chose a woman using the name Carolina. It sounded less pretentious and fake than Delisha or Aphrodite. We met at a restaurant where I'd offered to treat her to dinner. I was paying her a small fortune just to show up, and then a smaller but still considerable sum to feed her.
She was very attractive. She began by asking me about myself.
- "I'm much more interested in you." I told her.
She wasn't shy. 'Carolina' told me about her family, her university years, and how this was just a temporary gig to help her get started with her career as an event planner. If this was a GoFundMe page, I could have passed without the slightest qualm. I might even have laughed; really? The world needs more event planners?
"Do you have sex with your clients?" I asked her.
From her reaction, I'd asked much too soon. She recovered, though. Only very rarely, she said, and even then only when she felt a 'true' connection. That kind of 'essential link' took time to build...
I got it. I would have to pay for multiple dates, over a prolonged period of time, to establish a connection with Carolina. Basically, I would have to fork over roughly $20,000 in her fees alone before she condescended to tell me if she'd be willing to fuck me. She was prettier than the hookers I'd been with - but not that much prettier. I also found her attitude revolting. The prostitutes were much more honest.
***
I never answer my phone. Scambots keep calling if you answer. They don't give up. But some of the scammers cross your number off the list if a human being never answers. So I cycled through the scams, and got to a message from Alex.
- "Mark... I'm sorry. Could I... try to explain? Please call me?"
I sent her a text. "You really have nothing to be sorry about."
She answered within ten minutes. "I do. Dinner? My place. Saturday at 7?" I had very little time to think about it before she texted again.
"Please?"
- "Of course. I'll be there."
She hadn't told me what she was making, so I bought a bottle of red wine and a bottle of white. I was only going to taste them a bit, so she could drink them herself whenever she wanted. I was already beginning to suspect that I wouldn't like the taste of any wine.
Alex answered the door with a shy smile. She was wearing a light white sweater that dipped in front, but showed next to no cleavage (unlike her previous outfit). She was also wearing shorts, and going barefoot. Her blonde hair was shining, and she wore a bit more makeup, but I was struck most by her eyes: they were sparkling. Had she had a glass of wine before I got there?
- "Hi." she said.
I believe I've mentioned that she was adorable. I'd originally classified her as a cute duckling, but tonight, for some reason, I was thinking of a cute chipmunk. Was it her cheeks? Or her teeth?
I gave her the wines, she said 'You didn't have to do that', I disagreed, and she led me to her kitchen, where she opened the red and poured us both a glass. She was about to apologize again, so I cut her off at the pass.
- "You've nothing to be sorry about, Alex."
- "I... I still feel like I should explain." she said. I gave in. "I've only been in one serious relationship before. It... it started quickly, and I probably should have been thinking more clearly. If I had... well the warning signs were there from the beginning, if you know what I mean."
I nodded. I had no earthly clue what she was talking about.
"I was rushing in again. I just sort of... panicked a bit. I was afraid of getting hurt again. I mean, I know that you would never intentionally hurt me..."
- "Of course not."
- "I wasn't trying to be a tease, Mark. I like you. I like you a lot." She blushed a bit. "I guess I just don't have much experience with... this sort of thing."
- "There's no rush, Alex." I told her. She didn't need to know that I had zero experience. "We're not in a hurry. Somebody once told me not to worry about the destination, but to enjoy the journey. So far, I've been very happy."
- "You're so sweet." she said. Alex stood up, and came around to kiss me on the cheek.
She'd made lamb chops, with mashed potatoes and green beans. It was pretty good. I don't know that I'd ever had lamb chops before; I'd certainly never tasted mint jelly.
I helped her clean up afterwards, over her objections. Then she made me a coffee and we went to sit on her couch. She blushed again. Then she looked up, and reached for my hand.
- "I'm going to kiss you again, Mark. It's not an impulse this time. I've thought about it, and I want you to know that I won't chase you out. I'm not sure where we're going, but I'm not afraid."
She kissed me. This time she released my hand, and put her arms around me. Once again, I was drowning in the sensations. She kissed me for a good five minutes, until she pulled back, and drew a deep breath. Then she laid her head on my shoulder.
I had one arm around her (my right). My left hand was awkwardly resting on my leg, because I didn't know what to do with it. Alex saw it, because she covered it with her own. She squeezed my fingers. She raised her head, and looked into my eyes from a foot away. Sparkly green eyes.
Then she lifted my hand, and drew it to her breast. She pressed my hand into her boob.
She wasn't wearing a bra. It took me a moment to realize that, because her breast was incredibly firm. Later on, I figured out that that was the reason she wasn't showing so much cleavage. The prostitutes I'd been with had both worn lingerie, including very sexy bras which lifted their breasts and pushed them together, but those hadn't stayed on for long, and I'd never felt a tit through clothing.
She kissed me again, while I gently squeezed her boob. Now I felt her tongue slipping past my lips, carefully questing after my tongue. French kissing. I understood the attraction immediately. In fact, it was so exciting that I think I might have come in my pants, if I hadn't jerked off twice already - once just before coming over to her apartment.
After a few more minutes, Alex tugged at her sweater. I saw just a bit of naked skin between the bottom of her sweater and the top of her shorts. Now, I'm inexperienced - not terminally stupid. I had my hand under that sweater very quickly, and a bare tit in my hand shortly afterwards.
Her skin was smooth, and warm. Her boob was firm, but not like the fake ones both prostitutes had had. When my hand closed around her breast, Alex moaned into my mouth.
She put her hand on my leg. My thigh, actually. Despite the French kissing and having a breast in my hand, I noticed. I mean, it was awfully close to my package. Then Alex moved her hand, and her fingers brushed over the bulge in my pants.
She moaned a little. I might have, too. She stroked it a few times, and then gave it a gentle squeeze. It was hard as a rock.
Alex continued to kiss me, with tongue, but she slid her arm from behind me. She needed both hands to hold the waist band of my pants, and to undo my zipper. She decided to unbutton my pants while she was at it.
- "Lift your hips." she whispered.
I did, and she pulled my pants and my underwear down. I sat back down, bare-assed on her couch. If she wasn't worried about it, then I wasn't going to be either.
Alex broke our kiss, and looked down as she gently took hold of my dick.
- "Mmm..." she said, stroking my ego at the same time she stroked my erection. She was either admiring my dick, or her work with it. Her eyes were partly closed, but her mouth was partly open. Then she scooched over a bit, moving her butt and her leg a little further from mine That gave her a better angle to lean over and...
Sweet mother of mercy. She breathed on the head of my cock, and then licked it. Her tongue circled it. And then she took it in her mouth. Alex was sucking my cock, and I hadn't paid her anything.
I couldn't comment on her technique. I'd had a grand total of two blowjobs in my life, and one of them was part of a 'half n' half' (meaning not to completion). This was amazing. I put my hand on her back - not to push her down, but to stroke her.
- "Oh, geez Alex..." I said.
She didn't need the encouragement. She drooled over my cock, so that she could take me deeper, and began bobbing her head up and down. It was too good for me.
I reached my hand around her back, took hold of her breast, and gave her a last second warning as I fired my load into her mouth. She took it all.
There was some heavy breathing after that. She looked a little unsure, so I pulled her closer, and kissed her.
- "I want you to come to my room," she said, "and make love to me."
- "I want that too."
She stood up, and offered me her hand. I had to pull up my pants as I stood, so it wasn't a particularly smooth move. Alex didn't complain, though. She led me to her bedroom.
It wasn't all pink, but it was pretty girly. Didn't matter. I pulled Alex to me at the foot of her bed, and kissed her. I began to remove her clothes, beginning with her sweater.
Her breasts were amazing. They weren't huge, but their shape... she had conical tits, that thrust forward, only to tilt ever so slightly upwards. She might have failed the pencil test, but her nipples and areolae could have won awards. Change of plans: I had to kiss, lick, and suck on those. Alex cradled my head with her hand, and cooed.
After a good ten minutes of that, I unsnapped her shorts. Her waist was surprisingly thick. No, I don't mean her hips. Her waist was just about as wide as her hips. Her ass was sizable, too. No matter: she had an adorable face, sparkly eyes, remarkable tits... and her pussy was clean-shaven. Considering my intentions, that was good news.
Do I sound like an asshole? Wait. I am, but don't rush to judgment. Give me until the end of this chapter, at least.
I had Alex sit down on the end of her bed, and then knelt at her feet. I spread her legs, and kissed my way from her knee to her pussy. This was another first for me, and I meant to enjoy it. Even though I'd never gone down on a woman before, I had read all about it. You can find out how to do just about anything online, and oral sex is no exception.
I took my time, for one thing. No slobbering, no jamming my tongue into her, and no going straight for her clit. I kissed her lips, licked and sucked gently on them. Alex wasn't very tall, so I was able to reach up with one hand and play with her boob while I ate her.
Now, I've made it pretty clear that my experience with women was severely limited. I'd thought, from the reading I'd done, that I'd be able to pick up on her responses and figure out what she liked and what she didn't. She cooed and moaned almost the whole time; did she actually like everything I was doing?
When I finally did concentrate on her clit, she grabbed hold of my wrist (the one holding her boob) with both hands, and squeezed tight. Then she started panting, and both of her legs began to quiver.
- "Oh, yes!" she called out.
Score one for me. I think.
Alex had me come up on the bed, and lie on my back. She rested those pretty tits on my chest as she kissed me, Then her hand went to my groin, where my cock was already rising to the occasion.
- "Do you have a condom?' she asked.
- "Umm... no. I wasn't expecting... you know."
- "It's okay. I do." She reached into the top drawer of her, and produced a little foil packet. She placed it next to me, and returned to stroking my cock. She gave me a lick and promise, for luck, and then put the condom on me.
Alex swung her leg over, and straddled me. She made sure to make eye contact with me, and smiled shyly. Then she tucked the head of my rubber-clad clock between her lips, and slowly sank down on it. Her eyes fluttered, and she let out a little 'Ahh...' sound. Then her eyes opened again, and she smiled at me.
I might have groaned a bit myself. It was another major milestone for me, in a night of firsts: my first time having sex without paying. Alex was hot, and willing. I found that I was enjoying the sight of her pretty face and wonderful breasts almost as much as the sensation of being inside her.
She saw where I was looking. With another smile, she leaned forward, making her breasts available to my hands - and my lips. I wasn't about to turn down an offer like that.
Alex began to alternate her hips movements; at one point, she'd be grinding her pelvis against mine, or sliding back and forth, and then she'd lift up and come back down, like she was masturbating me with her body.
It was the best sex of my life, and I did myself proud, lasting quite a few minutes. It helped that it was my fourth orgasm of the day, I suppose. I came, and it felt good, but I was happier about the whole idea of what we'd done.
Alex lay down on top of me, squishing those conical masterpieces against my chest. She rested her head on my shoulder.
- "That was fantastic." she breathed.
- "You were fantastic." I said.
- "Worth the wait?"
I was about to say 'You didn't keep me waiting that long' when I realized that she might take that as a suggestion that she was slightly slutty. I had no wish to offend her; not if I planned to keep fucking her.
She cuddled with me for a bit, but then rolled a bit further away.
- "Mark? I hope you won't take this the wrong way, but... I'm not ready to invite you to spend the night. It's... it's a big step, for me."
- "I understand." I said. Truthfully, I didn't need to sleep in her bed. I wasn't sure that I could sleep in her bed.
I got dressed again, while she slipped on a robe, and then she escorted me to her door. She kissed me gently.
- "I wasn't exaggerating." she said. "That was fantastic."
- "It was even better for me." I don't know - it sounded like the kind of thing you might say to a woman who'd just sucked and fucked you for free.
I smiled all the way back to my apartment, and then slept like a baby.
Alex texted me twice the next day (Sunday). I didn't reply until the evening, but I thanked her for a wonderful evening, and asked her to lunch on Tuesday. Her answer came back within ten minutes: 'Love to. Where are you taking me?'. I sent another text: 'Surprise'.
I took her to a Greek restaurant only four blocks from our building. The decor was a bit chintzy, and they did the showy things, like setting the saganaki on fire, and having all the waiters yell 'Opa!'. But the prices were more than reasonable, and they did a superb lamb souvlaki dinner that was hard to finish, because it involved so much meat, potatoes and rice, not to mention the Greek salad. I was often full the next day, and barely needed to eat.
They also served grilled calamari (not breaded and fried). I ordered that, while she had a salad and the grilled octopus, with a glass of red wine. Over dinner, we talked about almost everything except our last night together. I don't know if she was waiting for me to address the subject, but I was prepared to outlast her. She ended up caving in first.
- "Mark, I... I want you to know: I haven't been with many men. You're only the third, actually." She did the eyelash flutter thing. I wasn't sure what that meant, so I didn't say anything.
She went ahead. "But I find myself wanting to spend more time with you. All of my time, if I'm being honest."
Okay. To make a long story short, we went back to her apartment, and I fucked her again. She was impatient, and couldn't wait, so we went straight to her bedroom. She let me take off her sweater and bra, and play with her boobs a bit, before steering me onto her bed.
I'd brought condoms, this time. I reversed the roles, or the positions, and put her on her back. I licked her pussy a bit, rolled on a condom, and penetrated her in the missionary position.
I can understand the attraction. You can see your lover's face - and Alex was very pretty. You can also see (and reach) her breasts, and Alex had exceptional tits. They were so firm that they didn't spread out on her chest. They settled a bit, but at least half of her boob still pointed at the ceiling, and her nipples were just begging to be be kissed and sucked on.
Alex really got into it. She clutched at the sheets, and cried out more than once. I fucked her fairly hard (at least I think I did), but she seemed to love it. I didn't last as long as our first time, but then again, it was only my second orgasm of the day, rather than my fourth. All told, I wasn't disappointed with my performance.
Alex's performance, on the other hand, was Oscar-worthy.
***
A month earlier, I'd handed the case to Tom Mercier. Tom was a private detective I'd used once before. He was prompt, and professional. I hired him to check out my accountant, Gary. Tom came back with a report in less than three weeks. But he didn't stop there; a month later, he provided a supplementary report (free of charge), with three interesting new pieces of information. Why do you think I'd asked Gary about escorts?
Tom looked into Alex for me. Do you remember the first line of my story? That was the third time I'd seen her.
The first time I saw Alex (also in the lobby of my building), I noticed her because she was a pretty girl. But she noticed me, too - and did a bit of a double-take. People don't look at you that way unless they know you. Sort of. It was the look of someone who realized 'Wait: I know that guy'. It certainly wasn't because of my good looks or rugged physique.
The second time I saw her was also in the lobby, where she was loitering. Suspicious, right? Why would a pretty girl be killing time in the lobby? Well, she was waiting for me. Alex used her phone to surreptitiously take a picture of me.
The third time I saw her... well, she smiled at me. Okay, you know the rest. Why would a pretty woman smile at a short, scrawny, ugly dude? By the time we got to the lunch phase, I was very suspicious. That was when I put Tom onto her, aided by a photo I'd snapped of her with my phone.
Facial recognition is a thing, now. It was probably (most likely definitely) how Alex had figured out who I was. Did you really think she was interested in me for my sparkling personality, or my looks?
Tom found her.
- "I'm sorry, Mr. T." he said. I'd told him my new name, but he insisted on referring to me as Mr. T. "You were right. Her real name is Elizabeth Wheeler. Her father is a lawyer for IBM, based in New York."
IBM had made an unsuccessful bid for my program. If Wheeler was high enough in their hierarchy, he might have known about me. And he might have told his daughter something about me. Dinner-time conversations at the Wheeler mansion: 'Look at this lucky prick. He just made $10 million.'
Elizabeth had chosen her path early. She went to Columbia University, and then to work for a moderately prestigious law firm in New York. It took her a year to seduce and marry one of the partners. She stayed with him for a year and a half, and then took him for $700,000 in the divorce settlement.
She changed her name, moved to Toronto, and set her sights on another lawyer, at the firm where she worked three days a week. But then she saw me.
The lawyer she was working on might net her another million, whereas I was potentially worth five or six times that. Mr. Lawyer was put on the back burner, while I became the primary target.
So do you still think I'm an asshole? (Hint: I am.)
*****
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Interviewing in Berlin
Author's note:
This chapter contains undiluted German, a little French, and some other British use of language. I'm not going to translate, but I'm sure a certain well known search engine will do it for you.
To be honest, much will be translated in context, and very little is essential for the narrative....
Hoevid 01
--------------
My phone rang as I sat at my desk in my room doing my homework.
I looked at the caller ID to see it read Kylie Brooks causing me to smile before I accepted the call and answered, "Yellow."
Kylie's voice came over the phone sounding frantic, "Sebastian, I need your help!"...
Every picture tells a story: Part 4
Note to readers: Read Parts 1, 2 & 3 first; you will enjoy this so much more if you do.
Pete has a recurring nightmare that Bill and Mary cuck him. In it, Bill invites his friends over to bang Mary as Pete is forced to watch. Pete realized how close he came to losing everything. This chapter is far darker than the others. Love it or hate it, please leave a comment....
Sweet Payback
Chapter One
After 7 years of marriage our sex life was becoming somewhat predictable and even a little stale, not surprising I suppose after 9 years of sex with the same person. Samantha my beautiful blue-eyed blond-haired wife with her still perfect figure 36-24-36 turned heads wherever we went, I still felt the luckiest guy in the world....
Introduction
Love isn't loud here.
It doesn't knock things over or scream down the hallway.
It tiptoes in the back door with groceries, kisses your neck while you're brushing your teeth, and learns how to say "I'm sorry" before the silence sets in.
Zariah and Malik are finally building something solid....
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