Power Games. Victoria Fox
got her tits out? After it went in?
He stroked her hair. ‘You like me, don’t you?’ he warbled.
‘Yes,’ Marie choked.
‘I bet you never thought you’d be here, right?’
‘N-no.’
He leaned down. ‘I’m going to have sex with you,’ he whispered.
Marie’s eyes were pools of lust. She tried to kiss him.
‘Not yet,’ he told her. ‘Take your top off.’
Her fingers trembling, Marie undid the buttons of her shirt. Underneath she was wearing a plain white bra. Her stomach was pale and smooth and she had a constellation of freckles on her chest. Kevin reached to touch them. Slowly his hand moved lower, cupping her breast. It felt heavy in his palm, like a balloon filled with water. He handled it enquiringly, as if he were testing the weight of a bag of sugar. He moved to the other one, and her nipple stiffened under his thumb.
Marie tucked her arms behind her back and released the clasp. Her tits sprang into view, full and white. Kevin registered a faint ripple of longing, obstructed before it reached his groin: a message that wasn’t quite computing.
He continued to fondle distractedly, like a chef oiling a cut of pork.
‘Do you like them?’ Marie asked in a small voice.
He supposed so. ‘Yeh.’
For Marie it was a green light. Quick as a flash, she was fumbling into his underpants, attempting to release his coiled-up dick.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked when he pulled away.
‘Nothin’,’ he grunted. ‘You done this before?’
Marie lifted her chin. ‘Course.’
‘Good.’
As if to prove it, Marie shuffled out of her skirt and knickers and stood before him in all her naked glory. Kevin watched the triangle of fuzz between her legs, warily, as if it were an animal about to pounce. Still he felt nothing.
Maybe he should speak to Sketch about increasing his vitamin dosage.
One blue pill, one red pill, every day like clockwork—he had to stay healthy, Sketch vowed, keep ahead of the competition. The pills were a special formula designed to soothe, relax and nourish. Kevin had been guzzling them for as long as he could remember. Given how out of control he had felt lately, he dreaded the thought of what he would be reduced to without them. Without them, he might die.
Joan had made sure in those early days that he never missed a pill. Do what Sketch says, honey; Sketch knows best. Of course Sketch knew best. Sketch always did. It was gruesome how much of a brownnose Joan was—all yes, Sketch this and yes, Sketch that. Her head was so far up Sketch’s ass you could practically see her toenails in the seat of his pants.
‘Can I give you a blowjob?’
Kevin looked down at his dangling appendage. Maybe once it got in Marie’s mouth it would start doing something. But that never happened in porn. The guy’s penis was already an upright, splendid spear—not a flaccid, starved little thing that resembled a gerbil at the bottom of a cage. He wanted to weep.
Kevin backed up. ‘Actually, I don’t think—’
Marie moved like lightning. She was a substantial size, the same height as him easily, and threw him against the dressing room door. Tits smashed against his chest and her glossy lips attacked his face. He could feel her warm, fruit-scented breath, and before he knew it she was clasping his dick, rubbing it with the flat of her hand, up and down, up and down, until the friction started to burn.
‘Stop it.’ He took her wrist. It hurt. ‘Back off a second.’
‘Let me, Kevin, please,’ she begged. ‘I promise it’ll be good—’
‘No—’
‘I’ll swallow. I promise to swallow—’
‘Stop!’ Kevin pushed her away. Marie stood, helpless, attempting to cover her modesty now the glow of their union was off the cards.
Her bottom lip wobbled. She was about to cry. Great.
‘Get dressed,’ he told her, as kindly as he could. This wasn’t her fault.
‘But …’
‘Just do it!’ he roared. ‘Get dressed and get out. Now!’
With a series of whimpers, Marie took her time pulling on her clothes, waiting for him to change his mind and ask her to stay. When he didn’t, she miserably hauled open the door and slunk outside, her eyes brimming with tears.
Kevin closed the door. He sank to the floor, his head in his hands, trembling.
He felt awful. What a fucking disaster.
Eve Harley paced her Kensington apartment and decided that she would do just about anything right now for a glass of wine. Scratch that, a bottle.
Orlando was due in thirty minutes. She was trying everything she could to distract herself, tidying things pointlessly, rearranging possessions, even attempting to settle down with her item on Mitch Corrigan, but nothing could train her mind.
Their encounter hurtled towards her like a nuclear explosion.
It wasn’t Eve’s style to be nervous. Her job landed her in dozens of compromising positions and she knew how to handle herself. But this wasn’t work.
For once, her private life was centre stage. It was an uncomfortable spotlight.
Her anxiety at seeing him wasn’t helped when she flicked on the TV and caught him live at his London engagement. Orlando was opening a restaurant in Chelsea with a popular TV chef, out on the carpet shaking hands, cameras scattering the night with stars, and his pristine, moneyed grin flashing white in the storm.
In the end, he was late. An hour passed before the buzzer sounded.
Eve had never invited him to her home before. Personal space was off limits, always had been with her boyfriends (not that he was one of those), and the arrangement with Orlando was no exception. As if she was giving something away by letting him see where she’d come from. There wasn’t a great deal of personal memorabilia about the place, and certainly no family photographs, but even so.
Predictably he grabbed her as soon as he walked through the door.
‘I’ve missed you,’ he said, gathering her into his arms and nuzzling her neck. He smelled expensive, of leather and cashmere scarves, of warm winter coats.
She pushed against him, went to begin, but he stopped her with a kiss.
‘So this is new,’ Orlando murmured, enjoying the game, ‘calling me up out of the blue—what’s going on?’
Eve stepped away. He mimicked her frown before realising she was serious.
‘Is everything cool?’ he asked.
‘Not really.’ A beat. ‘We need to talk.’
‘Sounds serious.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘OK if I take off my coat?’
She nodded, watching him shrug out of his jacket and hang it on the back of a chair. At last his eyes roamed over her flat, refined by nature of its postcode but still scant compared with the opulence to which he was accustomed. The entirety of it amounted to his en-suite bathroom. Nevertheless, he broke the tension:
‘Nice place.’
Eve wanted to blurt it. Knew she shouldn’t.
‘Can