The House Party
https://interracialerotica.net/erotica/articles/299/1/The-House-Party/Page1.html
By Tracy Ames
Published on January 23, 2011
Cast of Players
The Bellamy Family:
Stanley Bellamy: The late, much adored and admired patriarch of the Bellamy family. He was the husband of Vivian and father of Winston, Dean, and Sadie. Unlike his miserly father, Stanley is universally remembered as a good-natured and responsible family man with a keen sense of social duty and one who valued erudition. Through his shrewd business practices, the family fortune was taken to its zenith. He passed to his sons ‘the Bellamy looks’: height, emerald eyes, dark hair, and dimples. He also instilled in them a violent sense of pride.
Vivian Bellamy: Wife of the late Stanley Bellamy, Vivian is the matriarch of the Bellamy family (which she finds a blessing and a curse). She married for love and regrets not starting a family straight away, choosing rather to travel. She is clever, thoughtful within reason, and judicious. And she is also deceptively tough as nails. Coming from an extremely wealthy aristocratic family, Vivian prefers the company academics and abhors ‘foolish and frivolous women with no conversation’. She is attractive, cunning and executes her family duty without compliant.
Winston Bellamy: ‘The lesser of two evils’, Winston is the eldest of the formidable Bellamy twins. Though he is headstrong and often selfish, Winston is also sensible and has a strong sense of honor. This, coupled with his ponderous exterior, efficiency of words, and general indifference to those he deems unintelligent, is often misperceived as callous and uninterested. But his forcefulness makes him extremely appealing and sensual. Like his father, he is magnetic and charismatic. He has no interest in society beyond what his demanded of him, and only makes appearances when absolutely necessary. His insistence on privacy causes him to be judged as idle and aloof. He confides in no one, however, he and Dean share an excellent sense of humor and enjoy talking rubbish in an effort to baffle their mother whom they love dearly.
Dean Bellamy: Five minutes younger than Winston, Dean is mad, bad, and dangerous to know especially if you have a vagina. Beyond his dashing good looks, fickleness, and scandalous love affairs, lies a complex personality. He is sometimes superficial—often obnoxious—and never without a biting, sarcastic word. While he isn’t conscious of class differences (everyone is beneath him) he adheres to social order, and he is fiercely proud of his kin and puts no one and nothing ahead of his younger sister. He is both socially and sexually dominant and he isn't prone to collecting unwanted females past their expiration date. Like his father and brother, he is magnetic and charismatic. He and Winston are resolutely single. When Vivian presses the issue of marriage, they threaten to convert to Catholicism and join the priesthood. This usually shuts her up.
Sadie Bellamy: At fourteen years old, she is the youngest of the Bellamy siblings. She has great reverence and affection for her overprotective brothers. She is friendly, accomplished and more often than not she sees situations clearer than those around her.
Maureen Bellamy: The younger sister of Stanley Bellamy, sometime companion of Vivian, and mother of Bart. She enjoys making others feel inferiority to her and dishing out unwanted advice and critiques. She is short, slightly pudgy, yet attractive.
Bart Bellamy: The son of Maureen, Bart is the redheaded cousin of the Bellamy siblings, and nephew of Vivian. He is self conscious of his “non-Bellamy’ looks and sometimes feels out of place around Winston and Dean. Though they’re months apart in age, Bart admire them. He’s a savvy businessman and he works within the family’s organizations.
The Graydon Family:
Henry Graydon: The aging, happy-go-lucky lord of the manor and Godfather to the Bellamy twins. Once a year, he opens the doors of his estate in the French countryside, Lion’s Head, for the patrons’ house party—a week long event held in their honor. Since he has no children, his estates will be divided between Winston and Dean upon his death.
Susan Graydon: Long suffering wife of Henry, and Godmother of the Bellamy twins. She is an amiable and good-tempered person; she often sneaks away, preferring to spend her time behind closed doors—thereby leaving Vivian to play hostess.
The Mitcham Family:
Hamilton Mitcham: Husband of Rhonda, and father of Andrea. Dr. Mitcham is a pedio-cardiothoracic surgeon whose creation of advanced surgical tools revolutionized microsurgery. He is good-spirited, levelheaded, proud, and regards his social distinction as byproduct of his brilliance. Coming from a wealthy African American family, he is utterly colorblind, valuing strength of character over class. He is also acutely aware of his daughter’s resentment towards him.
Rhonda Mitcham: Wife of Hamilton, and mother of Andrea. Dr. Mitcham is a renowned genealogist from a prosperous family. She dislikes going out into society, preferring to spend time with her books. However, she is regal in manners and speech, extremely pleasant company, and she is greatly admired by Vivian. She and Andrea share a sisterly rather than parental relationship which often leads to her being disrespected and belittled by her daughter. According to Winston, she bears a striking resemblance to Phylicia Rashad.
Andrea Mitchem: The quick-witted, sharp-tongued, bold and brilliant daughter of Hamilton and Rhonda. She is a gifted neurosurgeon with months left in her fellowship; this fact is a bone of contention as she feels trapped her father’s shadow and longs to be judged on her merit alone. She is good-looking, and is especially distinguished by her smoldering eyes and grace of speech (although it can be rather harsh and lashing out at others is never a problem). She is influenced by her vanity and insecurity, she judges others rashly and often without reason, and sees no equal to herself. However, when she let’s down her guard, she is genuinely kind and good-tempered. She detests the idleness of her social class (especially the Bellamy) and while she is concerned with propriety she is not impressed by mere wealth or titles.
The Lockwood Family:
Emerson Lockwood: Husband of Trudy, and uncle of Rebecca. Before Emerson’s birth, his father invented a tram system which overnight secured the family’s fortune—all of which Emerson inherited. Though he is wealthy, Emerson is humble, fiscally cautious, well-liked, and oblivious of his high social status, preferring to travel light and freely.
Trudy Lockwood: Wife of Emerson, and aunt of Rebecca. Trudy steams from a middle-class family but she has ‘the airs and graces of an aristocrat’. Bringing her husband around to accepting his position in society is her sole endeavor—so far she’s failed fantastically. She, like her husband, is humble and kind and married for love. After discovering she was unable to have children, she welcomed Rebecca, Emerson’s cousin, into their home. Trudy is gutsy, petite, and charming.
Rebecca Lockwood: The virginal, golden haired, fresh faced, jeweled eyed twenty-one year old daughter of Emerson’s third cousin. Trudy plucked her from obscurity, and made her the sole heir to the Lockwood estate. She is sweet and selfless, and liked by all. She refuses to judge anyone badly, and makes excuses for others faults. Trudy is concerned that her tendency to give people the benefit of the doubt will lead to her being hurt by insincere men looking to take advantage of her. However, Rebecca knows how to get and keep a man.
Supporting Players:
Spencer Hunter: The Graydon’s butler. Referred to as “Hunter”
Isaac McDowell: The Graydon’s hapless first footman who inadvertently walked (literally) into the middle of the action. Handsome, young, incredibly nervous around Andrea.
Part one in a three part series
The House Party follows the exploits of three modern day patron families attending a week long house party hosted by the Graydon family on their estate in France. Almost immediately social lines a drawn, judgments are made, and tempers heat up long before the first stitch on clothing come off.
Cast of Players
Cast of Players
The Bellamy Family:
Stanley Bellamy: The late, much adored and admired patriarch of the Bellamy family. He was the husband of Vivian and father of Winston, Dean, and Sadie. Unlike his miserly father, Stanley is universally remembered as a good-natured and responsible family man with a keen sense of social duty and one who valued erudition. Through his shrewd business practices, the family fortune was taken to its zenith. He passed to his sons ‘the Bellamy looks’: height, emerald eyes, dark hair, and dimples. He also instilled in them a violent sense of pride.
Vivian Bellamy: Wife of the late Stanley Bellamy, Vivian is the matriarch of the Bellamy family (which she finds a blessing and a curse). She married for love and regrets not starting a family straight away, choosing rather to travel. She is clever, thoughtful within reason, and judicious. And she is also deceptively tough as nails. Coming from an extremely wealthy aristocratic family, Vivian prefers the company academics and abhors ‘foolish and frivolous women with no conversation’. She is attractive, cunning and executes her family duty without compliant.
Winston Bellamy: ‘The lesser of two evils’, Winston is the eldest of the formidable Bellamy twins. Though he is headstrong and often selfish, Winston is also sensible and has a strong sense of honor. This, coupled with his ponderous exterior, efficiency of words, and general indifference to those he deems unintelligent, is often misperceived as callous and uninterested. But his forcefulness makes him extremely appealing and sensual. Like his father, he is magnetic and charismatic. He has no interest in society beyond what his demanded of him, and only makes appearances when absolutely necessary. His insistence on privacy causes him to be judged as idle and aloof. He confides in no one, however, he and Dean share an excellent sense of humor and enjoy talking rubbish in an effort to baffle their mother whom they love dearly.
Dean Bellamy: Five minutes younger than Winston, Dean is mad, bad, and dangerous to know especially if you have a vagina. Beyond his dashing good looks, fickleness, and scandalous love affairs, lies a complex personality. He is sometimes superficial—often obnoxious—and never without a biting, sarcastic word. While he isn’t conscious of class differences (everyone is beneath him) he adheres to social order, and he is fiercely proud of his kin and puts no one and nothing ahead of his younger sister. He is both socially and sexually dominant and he isn't prone to collecting unwanted females past their expiration date. Like his father and brother, he is magnetic and charismatic. He and Winston are resolutely single. When Vivian presses the issue of marriage, they threaten to convert to Catholicism and join the priesthood. This usually shuts her up.
Sadie Bellamy: At fourteen years old, she is the youngest of the Bellamy siblings. She has great reverence and affection for her overprotective brothers. She is friendly, accomplished and more often than not she sees situations clearer than those around her.
Maureen Bellamy: The younger sister of Stanley Bellamy, sometime companion of Vivian, and mother of Bart. She enjoys making others feel inferiority to her and dishing out unwanted advice and critiques. She is short, slightly pudgy, yet attractive.
Bart Bellamy: The son of Maureen, Bart is the redheaded cousin of the Bellamy siblings, and nephew of Vivian. He is self conscious of his “non-Bellamy’ looks and sometimes feels out of place around Winston and Dean. Though they’re months apart in age, Bart admire them. He’s a savvy businessman and he works within the family’s organizations.
The Graydon Family:
Henry Graydon: The aging, happy-go-lucky lord of the manor and Godfather to the Bellamy twins. Once a year, he opens the doors of his estate in the French countryside, Lion’s Head, for the patrons’ house party—a week long event held in their honor. Since he has no children, his estates will be divided between Winston and Dean upon his death.
Susan Graydon: Long suffering wife of Henry, and Godmother of the Bellamy twins. She is an amiable and good-tempered person; she often sneaks away, preferring to spend her time behind closed doors—thereby leaving Vivian to play hostess.
The Mitcham Family:
Hamilton Mitcham: Husband of Rhonda, and father of Andrea. Dr. Mitcham is a pedio-cardiothoracic surgeon whose creation of advanced surgical tools revolutionized microsurgery. He is good-spirited, levelheaded, proud, and regards his social distinction as byproduct of his brilliance. Coming from a wealthy African American family, he is utterly colorblind, valuing strength of character over class. He is also acutely aware of his daughter’s resentment towards him.
Rhonda Mitcham: Wife of Hamilton, and mother of Andrea. Dr. Mitcham is a renowned genealogist from a prosperous family. She dislikes going out into society, preferring to spend time with her books. However, she is regal in manners and speech, extremely pleasant company, and she is greatly admired by Vivian. She and Andrea share a sisterly rather than parental relationship which often leads to her being disrespected and belittled by her daughter. According to Winston, she bears a striking resemblance to Phylicia Rashad.
Andrea Mitchem: The quick-witted, sharp-tongued, bold and brilliant daughter of Hamilton and Rhonda. She is a gifted neurosurgeon with months left in her fellowship; this fact is a bone of contention as she feels trapped her father’s shadow and longs to be judged on her merit alone. She is good-looking, and is especially distinguished by her smoldering eyes and grace of speech (although it can be rather harsh and lashing out at others is never a problem). She is influenced by her vanity and insecurity, she judges others rashly and often without reason, and sees no equal to herself. However, when she let’s down her guard, she is genuinely kind and good-tempered. She detests the idleness of her social class (especially the Bellamy) and while she is concerned with propriety she is not impressed by mere wealth or titles.
The Lockwood Family:
Emerson Lockwood: Husband of Trudy, and uncle of Rebecca. Before Emerson’s birth, his father invented a tram system which overnight secured the family’s fortune—all of which Emerson inherited. Though he is wealthy, Emerson is humble, fiscally cautious, well-liked, and oblivious of his high social status, preferring to travel light and freely.
Trudy Lockwood: Wife of Emerson, and aunt of Rebecca. Trudy steams from a middle-class family but she has ‘the airs and graces of an aristocrat’. Bringing her husband around to accepting his position in society is her sole endeavor—so far she’s failed fantastically. She, like her husband, is humble and kind and married for love. After discovering she was unable to have children, she welcomed Rebecca, Emerson’s cousin, into their home. Trudy is gutsy, petite, and charming.
Rebecca Lockwood: The virginal, golden haired, fresh faced, jeweled eyed twenty-one year old daughter of Emerson’s third cousin. Trudy plucked her from obscurity, and made her the sole heir to the Lockwood estate. She is sweet and selfless, and liked by all. She refuses to judge anyone badly, and makes excuses for others faults. Trudy is concerned that her tendency to give people the benefit of the doubt will lead to her being hurt by insincere men looking to take advantage of her. However, Rebecca knows how to get and keep a man.
Supporting Players:
Spencer Hunter: The Graydon’s butler. Referred to as “Hunter”
Isaac McDowell: The Graydon’s hapless first footman who inadvertently walked (literally) into the middle of the action. Handsome, young, incredibly nervous around Andrea.
The House Party
“I hate this place.” Winston murmured at the twinkling Parisian lights as they past.
“Keep your voice down. The chauffeur will hear you.” His mother waved her gloved hand.
“Please,” Dean added. “He doesn’t speak English …” he looked toward the front of the limo. “…do you, monsieur?” The driver grinned but said nothing. “God, get me out of here.” He raised the tinted partition, eliminating the chauffeur’s very existence. He smiled at his mother’s scornful frown and was, as always, forgiven for his cheekiness. Such was her children’s affect on her.
“Winston?” She straightened her gloves at the elbow and adjusted her beaded evening gown. “Will you be attending Westminster next month?”
Winston pulled his emerald eyes inside the car. “Does father’s will bequest I go?”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“There’s your answer.” He smiled and winked at his younger sister, Sadie.
“Don’t say such things. Sadie might take you seriously.”
“I doubt it. She doesn’t listen to a word we say.” Dean kneed his sister causing her leaflet to crinkle.
“Are you coming?” His mother asked him.
“Not if I can help it.”
“Listen to this!” Sadie kneed Dean back. She cleared her throat and mocked a British accent. “All proper society will be attending tonight’s The Graydon Charity Ball. Mister and Mrs. Graydon are pleased to announce their longtime friends, Mrs. Stanley Bellamy and their recently introduced daughter, Sadie, will be escorted by the Bellamy twins, Dean and Winston. This is the Bellamy family’s first formal engagement since the death of their patriarch last November …”
Winston snatched the paper from her hands and read in horror. “Following tonight’s ball, the Bellamys will join several other patrons at Lion’s Head, the palatial estate of Mr. Graydon, for a week long house party …” he turned an exhausted eye to Dean. “Why would they print this shit? Why not just fly it overhead!”
“Well well well. The sharks are circling.” Mrs. Bellamy said. “Does it mention Dean’s trip to Monaco after the funeral?” Her eyes narrowed on her son. “I knew where you were. You and Winston have your father’s good looks and charisma—it’s a shame you don’t use your powers for good. Your words and behavior cut like knives, and everyone still loves you.”
“Of course they love me. I’m your son.”
“His greatness lies in his ability to appear genuinely gracious and vulnerable while simultaneously not giving a fuck what people think of him.”
“Why thank you, sir. Capital assessment.” Dean’s dimpled smile mirrored his twin.
“That’s more of a family trait than a singular accomplishment.” Sadie snatched her paper from Winston.
“You’ll be thirty-five next year.” Her sons stared at her as if she was an alien life form. “You have to settle down. The both of you.”
Winston and Dean looked at one another. “She … she isn’t serious, is she?” Winston asked quietly.
“No …” Dean studied his mother more closely. “… the blue vein in her forehead isn’t throbbing; she’s not serious.” He placed his hand lovingly on his mother’s knee and spoke loudly. “You’re not serious, are you, Mum?”
“I’m not deaf and I’m perfectly serious,” Mrs. Bellamy said to Sadie’s amusement. “Winston, you’re the ‘good’ twin … well, you’re the lesser of two evils. You should put your head in the noose first.”
“What?! I’d planned on waiting until I was an old, embittered alcoholic.”
“You drink?!” Sadie’s doe eyes looked cartoonish.
“No, we don’t drink.” The twins replied in unison.
“Mother, you make marriage sound so appealing when you refer to it as a noose. No wonder we avoid it like the plague.” Dean corrected his bowtie in the overhanging mirror. “Beside, cousin Bart said marriage is the leading cause of testicular cancer in our family—or something to that affect.”
“What does he know? He doesn’t have any balls.” Winston rolled his eyes.
“You’re wrong; he has balls. He told me about them just last week.” Dean lifted the mirror back in place. “Apparently, he had his first wet dream and wanted to know if I’d ever had one. I told him no—I was too busy having the real thing.”
“I don’t want you labeled as a womanizer.”
“Mother, Dean isn’t a womanizer—serial flirt, maybe, but not a womanizer.”
“Thank you, Winston. And I have no intention of marrying or even serving breakfast, for the matter, to any woman I sleep with. Catch and release is what I do. You see, Mother, I have it all: I’m well versed both socially and scholarly, and I have pedigree and capital. And I doggedly adhere to the acceptable codes of conduct which maintain my position. And thanks to you and Father, I’m quick-witted and I have rapier-sharp intellect—and might I add, I’m damn good looking.” He paused for affect. “Still, I’m a humble renaissance man—a progressive, even.”
“Which means you’ll fuck your way through social barriers.” Winston interjected.
“Exactly!” Dean said then turned back to his mother. “Any woman fooled by the likes of me isn’t worthy of being your daughter in-law.”
“See, Mother. There’s a method to his madness.” Sadie beamed.
“Just … don’t come home with any illegitimates. The Rickmans are going through hell with their little bastard—you can’t buy back your past.” Mrs. Bellamy sighed as the car came to a stop and the ballroom’s doorman reached for the car door. “Please behave yourself. Remember, Sadie’s future husband may be in attendance.” The door opened and she took the gloved hand presented her.
Sadie shook her head at her brothers.
“Don’t worry …” Winston stepped from the car and took Sadie’s slender hand. Her tiny chocolate ringlets pushed up in something resembling a French roll and her rosy cheeks made it difficult to believe she was fourteen. “… we won’t let her marry you off—not for a very long time.”
Mrs. Bellamy’s concerns for her sons were well-founded. They had long, slim, yet well-defined bodies; smooth, strong legs, and asses you could bounce quarters off …. and they knew it. How could they not? Everyone told them so, including her and her late husband. In truth, Winston and Dean were exceptional: precariously smart, devilishly charismatic, and intuitive beyond their years. Even amongst their circle they were somewhat of an enigma, where it is often said had they not been born with silver spoons in their mouths, there was no doubt they would’ve built their fortune themselves. But fate is a funny maneuvering thing—Winston and Dean had it all based solely on their ability to snake their way down the birth canal and land comfortably in the doctor’s hands without putting up too much of a fuss.
Such is life.
*****
Winston stood at the far end of the ballroom watching the old guard pay their respects to his mother and the arriviste fawn over his brother. Sadie and her gaggle of debutantes slipped outside past their former chaperones and were happily lying on the grassy hill under a blanket of stars, destroying their finery.
“Hello Winston!”
Just as Winston pushed the mindless dribble of a group of men standing nearby out of his head—just as he was beginning to mellow and enjoy the evening, Bart, the hyperactive dwarf, appeared, virtually pissing on his mood. “Hi … Bart.” he said, steadying himself for the inquisition.
“Your mother and sister are staying with my mother. Are you staying in Paris?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“Lion’s Head.”
“Lion’s Head? Why not Dean’s place?” Bart asked.
“The contractors are two weeks over schedule.” Winston felt as if he were on trial for murder. “Besides, we patrons—we must try and play nicely with others, no matter how annoying they are.” he said snubbing a passerby.
“How long are you in town?”
“Just the week. You?”
“Same. We’ve been here all week.” He nodded at a young lady. “Mother assumed you’d arrive much earlier than today.”
“How does anyone know when we arrived? Why do they care?” Irritation seeped into Winston’s tone. Bart was unaffected.
Bart gave their family smirk. “You’re a Bellamy. Our presence is heralded by the angels, though some are heralded louder than others.” He took a sip from his snifter and gestured across the room towards Dean and three people he identified as Mr. and Mrs. Lockwood and their niece, Rebecca. Bart, annoyingly informed and privy to everyone’s personal business, had his uses. “Mr. Lockwood’s father made the family’s fortune quite literally in shoveling shit … or at least that’s where it began, on the dust heaps. Like most things, necessity breeds innovation, and he invented a tram system that sold like hotcakes. The present Mr. Lockwood inherited everything. Then, five years ago, when it became apparent that Mrs. Lockwood couldn’t conceive, they plunked Rebecca, the golden haired, fresh faced, jeweled eyed twenty-one year old daughter of his third cousin, from her obscure country upbringing in Canada and she became his sole heir.”
“She’s pretty. When she inherits his estate, she’ll have her pick of husbands.” Winston pointed out.
“She’s a romantic. Champagne, flowers, chocolates,” Bart scoffed. “She wants to be wooed.”
“Woo her then. You obviously have a thing for her.”
“Me? Go up against Dean?” Bart laughed aloud. “I don’t stand a chance. Besides, I don’t have the energy to woo anyone.” He looked up at Winston blankly. “We share a last name, the dimpled smile, and large bank account—but that’s where our similarities end. I don’t have the dark hair. I’m not tall or handsome or clever, and my sense of humor resembles sawdust. So, no, my aspirations are much, much lower. Unlike you and Dean, I understand my last name and my money are my calling cards.”
Winston looked, really looked at his squat, redheaded cousin for the first time in years. He was right, of course. He was a Bellamy in name only. Unlike Bart’s quest for love, Winston and Dean possessed a dangerous edge that worked to their advantage in the bedroom and boardroom. It was unfair, Bart was good natured; and whereas he dedicated himself to the family’s organization, Winston and Dean were obliged to limit their duties to the fundraiser ball and mandatory annual meeting. They loved Bart—yes, there were times when he annoyed them—but things were noticeably less interesting when he wasn’t around. “Ah, pygmy …” he wrapped his arm around Bart’s shoulders. “… you’ll find your piglet.” Just then, a black couple appeared in the entryway of the ballroom, waiting to be announced.
“Drs. Hamilton Mitcham.” The attendant called out. The gentleman whispered to him. “And their daughter Dr. Andrea Mitcham.”
A brandy complexioned lady with expressive eyes joined her father’s side. Her pale yellow dress dotted with crystals seemed to cascade over her delicate frame, with only a single string of diamonds calling attention to her slender neck. She corrected a curl which had fallen from her updo just as Mr. and Mrs. Graydon greeted her. She smiled warmly and tucked her arm into Mr. Graydon’s elbow as he went on to introduce her and her parents to a group of people nearby.
Winston was immediately struck dumb by her simplicity and quiet confidence. She, unlike the other women present, had a natural sense of self worth. She was above it all; however, when she spoke and laughed, she genuinely listened to the conversation. Try as he might, Winston couldn’t peel his eyes away from her.
“Who invited darkie?” one man from Winston’s left said. Winston and Bart turned stern eyes on them. “Sorry.” One of the men apologized.
“No, please, say it again.” Winston said coldly, silencing the men. Finally, one man spoke up.
“I asked who invited darkie.” The older of the men spoke up. This time his statement didn’t garner so much as a snicker.
“Thank you. Bart …” he said without taking his eyes off of the men. “… you know what to do.”
Bart handed Winston his glass and hurried off; returning minutes later with the host himself.
“Mr. Graydon …” Winston said, his eyes trained on the offender. “… I’d like you to introduce me to the Mitchams’ after you’ve escorted this gentleman off the premises.”
Though Mr. Graydon, who looked like Santa Claus, was old enough to be Winston’s grandfather, he didn’t question him. He nodded and walked the man through the crowd and out the door while the other men stood bolted in place.
“Excuse me.” Winston returned Bart’s glass and met Mr. Graydon half way across the floor.
“Does he always get what he wants?” a man asked Bart once Winston was out of earshot.
“Yes.” Bart replied with that Bellamy trademark detachment.
*****
“Do you live here in Paris, Mr. Bellamy?” Mrs. Lockwood asked Dean.
“Periodically. I keep a townhouse. However, my mother and sister see it more than I do, I’m afraid.”
“So, you’re close to your family?” Rebecca cut in abruptly and soon wished she hadn’t. “I … I ask because you’ve mentioned them a few times.”
“Yes, I’m very close to my family. I have a twin brother, Winston. He’s somewhere around here. I’ll be sure to introduce you later.” Visions of her tied to his bed having her brains fucked from her skull forced his lips into a smile.
“I’m trying to convince my husband to invest in a piece of property.” Mrs. Lockwood chuckled. “Staying in the grandest of hotels wears on you sooner or later.”
“The places in Paris are too small and there are no kitchens.” Mr. Lockwood grumbled.
“We don’t cook. Why do we need a kitchen?”
“It’s the principle of it all. Homes must have kitchens.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Lockwood; I must agree with your husband. I renovated last year.” Dean clasped his hands behind his back. “We’re here for the next three days if you’d like to take a look around. Who knows, Mrs. Lockwood, you could win this battle.” He caught his mother’s eye; she fanned him over. “I should go. You have an open invitation.” He shook Mr. Lockwood’s hand and kissed Mrs. Lockwood on both cheeks, then turned to Rebecca. “Ms. Rebecca.”
“Wait,” she caught Dean’s wrist. “You were going to introduce me to your brother.”
Mentally, Dean patted himself on the back. Snagging Rebecca had taken only half the time he allotted. Mr. Lockwood nodded his approval, and then Dean placed his hand on Rebecca’s. “I’ll introduce you to my mother first.” He turned to her as he walked through the crowd. “So have you ever sucked cock?”
“No.” Rebecca blushed prettily.
“Would you like to suck mine?”
*****
“Drs. Mitcham,” Mr. Graydon said as he and Winston approached. “I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Winston Bellamy.” He gestured between them. Winston was the picture of decorum, giving each of them his undivided attention. “Mr. Bellamy, this Dr. Hamilton Mitcham and Dr. Rhonda Mitcham.” He stopped short of introducing Andrea, prompting her father to speak. Silly archaic customs reduced perfectly sensible adults to sniveling children.
“Mr. Bellamy, this is our daughter, Dr. Andrea Mitcham.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Mitcham. Please call me Winston.” He queued up his formal manners. Andrea’s stunning eyes unnerved him more than he dared show. She, like many others, was judging him. Sadly, for Winston, her summation was correct; his blood was tainted with a smidgen of narcissism. But there was more, much more if she cared to look—which, given her indifference towards him, she did not. Andrea was intelligent, smolderingly sexy, and independent, but she also struck Winston as being fiercely proud.
“Nice to meet you, Winston,” Andrea extended her hand. “You can call me Dr. Mitcham.”
Winston acknowledged her jab with a slight lift of an eyebrow before turning his attention to her parents and making polite conversation. Dr. Hamilton Mitcham was the pioneering genius who bettered the instruments used in microsurgery; Dr. Rhonda Mitcham, who bore a striking resemblance to Phylicia Rashad, was a noted genealogist; and Andrea followed her father’s footsteps, specializing in neurosurgery. Their properties dotted America and the continent. They weren’t new to the social circle; however, they were particular about the company they kept; none more so than Andrea. Judging by her father’s colorful account of her blowing off a snotty barrister at last year’s Armory Art Show, she was a force to be reckoned with. And like himself, abhorred patron functions.
“I take it you’re lodging at Lion’s Head.” Winston said.
“Yes, this is our first year,” Hamilton replied. “It sounds like fun.”
“It’s an experience you’ll never forget.” Winston bit back his nasty comments about the drafty rooms, poor lighting, and noisy plumbing. They’d find out soon enough. “The grounds are lovely this time of year. I know them better than my own. I’d be happy to show you around.” He leaned into Hamilton and lowered his voice. “There’s rumored to be a Hellfire Club.”
“Sold,” Hamilton gave a broad, James Earl Jones toothy grin.
“Are you in Paris often?” Rhonda asked.
“No, I don’t care for Paris.” Winston replied, realizing too late the tone of his reply had been less than measured.
“If you don’t care for Paris, then how are you familiar with the gardens at Lion’s Head?” Andrea shot off curtly.
“Andrea!” Rhonda hissed.
“I’m not trying to be rude.” Andrea looked through Winston. “I’d like to know what sort of man I’m dealing with. Was your remark meant to impress us or are you a liar?”
“I’m neither.” For a man who wore his brutal honesty like a crown of thorns, Andrea’s pontification pushed her dangerously close to getting her ass told off. His voice was cold; and though his brilliant eyes were devoid of life, they lacked anger. A thin crescent smile curled his lips. “I don’t care for Paris. The gardens at Lion’s Head happen to be one of the few attractions I enjoy.” He turned to Hamilton, his demeanor light. “Mr. Graydon will attest; my father planted a number of trees in his park.”
“Oh yes!” Mr. Graydon broke his silence. “Stanley sent trees and landscape designs from his travels. I have a pineapple tree! We move it inside the conservatory during the colder months, but I have one!” His jolly tone lightened the mood.
Through the sea of people, Mrs. Bellamy summoned Winston. “I apologize for cutting our conversation short …” he gestured toward his mother. “It was a pleasure to meet you. I’m sure we’ll see one another at the house.” He shook Hamilton and Rhoda’s hands. Andrea received a dry, half-hearted nod before he left.
“Keep your voice down. The chauffeur will hear you.” His mother waved her gloved hand.
“Please,” Dean added. “He doesn’t speak English …” he looked toward the front of the limo. “…do you, monsieur?” The driver grinned but said nothing. “God, get me out of here.” He raised the tinted partition, eliminating the chauffeur’s very existence. He smiled at his mother’s scornful frown and was, as always, forgiven for his cheekiness. Such was her children’s affect on her.
“Winston?” She straightened her gloves at the elbow and adjusted her beaded evening gown. “Will you be attending Westminster next month?”
Winston pulled his emerald eyes inside the car. “Does father’s will bequest I go?”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“There’s your answer.” He smiled and winked at his younger sister, Sadie.
“Don’t say such things. Sadie might take you seriously.”
“I doubt it. She doesn’t listen to a word we say.” Dean kneed his sister causing her leaflet to crinkle.
“Are you coming?” His mother asked him.
“Not if I can help it.”
“Listen to this!” Sadie kneed Dean back. She cleared her throat and mocked a British accent. “All proper society will be attending tonight’s The Graydon Charity Ball. Mister and Mrs. Graydon are pleased to announce their longtime friends, Mrs. Stanley Bellamy and their recently introduced daughter, Sadie, will be escorted by the Bellamy twins, Dean and Winston. This is the Bellamy family’s first formal engagement since the death of their patriarch last November …”
Winston snatched the paper from her hands and read in horror. “Following tonight’s ball, the Bellamys will join several other patrons at Lion’s Head, the palatial estate of Mr. Graydon, for a week long house party …” he turned an exhausted eye to Dean. “Why would they print this shit? Why not just fly it overhead!”
“Well well well. The sharks are circling.” Mrs. Bellamy said. “Does it mention Dean’s trip to Monaco after the funeral?” Her eyes narrowed on her son. “I knew where you were. You and Winston have your father’s good looks and charisma—it’s a shame you don’t use your powers for good. Your words and behavior cut like knives, and everyone still loves you.”
“Of course they love me. I’m your son.”
“His greatness lies in his ability to appear genuinely gracious and vulnerable while simultaneously not giving a fuck what people think of him.”
“Why thank you, sir. Capital assessment.” Dean’s dimpled smile mirrored his twin.
“That’s more of a family trait than a singular accomplishment.” Sadie snatched her paper from Winston.
“You’ll be thirty-five next year.” Her sons stared at her as if she was an alien life form. “You have to settle down. The both of you.”
Winston and Dean looked at one another. “She … she isn’t serious, is she?” Winston asked quietly.
“No …” Dean studied his mother more closely. “… the blue vein in her forehead isn’t throbbing; she’s not serious.” He placed his hand lovingly on his mother’s knee and spoke loudly. “You’re not serious, are you, Mum?”
“I’m not deaf and I’m perfectly serious,” Mrs. Bellamy said to Sadie’s amusement. “Winston, you’re the ‘good’ twin … well, you’re the lesser of two evils. You should put your head in the noose first.”
“What?! I’d planned on waiting until I was an old, embittered alcoholic.”
“You drink?!” Sadie’s doe eyes looked cartoonish.
“No, we don’t drink.” The twins replied in unison.
“Mother, you make marriage sound so appealing when you refer to it as a noose. No wonder we avoid it like the plague.” Dean corrected his bowtie in the overhanging mirror. “Beside, cousin Bart said marriage is the leading cause of testicular cancer in our family—or something to that affect.”
“What does he know? He doesn’t have any balls.” Winston rolled his eyes.
“You’re wrong; he has balls. He told me about them just last week.” Dean lifted the mirror back in place. “Apparently, he had his first wet dream and wanted to know if I’d ever had one. I told him no—I was too busy having the real thing.”
“I don’t want you labeled as a womanizer.”
“Mother, Dean isn’t a womanizer—serial flirt, maybe, but not a womanizer.”
“Thank you, Winston. And I have no intention of marrying or even serving breakfast, for the matter, to any woman I sleep with. Catch and release is what I do. You see, Mother, I have it all: I’m well versed both socially and scholarly, and I have pedigree and capital. And I doggedly adhere to the acceptable codes of conduct which maintain my position. And thanks to you and Father, I’m quick-witted and I have rapier-sharp intellect—and might I add, I’m damn good looking.” He paused for affect. “Still, I’m a humble renaissance man—a progressive, even.”
“Which means you’ll fuck your way through social barriers.” Winston interjected.
“Exactly!” Dean said then turned back to his mother. “Any woman fooled by the likes of me isn’t worthy of being your daughter in-law.”
“See, Mother. There’s a method to his madness.” Sadie beamed.
“Just … don’t come home with any illegitimates. The Rickmans are going through hell with their little bastard—you can’t buy back your past.” Mrs. Bellamy sighed as the car came to a stop and the ballroom’s doorman reached for the car door. “Please behave yourself. Remember, Sadie’s future husband may be in attendance.” The door opened and she took the gloved hand presented her.
Sadie shook her head at her brothers.
“Don’t worry …” Winston stepped from the car and took Sadie’s slender hand. Her tiny chocolate ringlets pushed up in something resembling a French roll and her rosy cheeks made it difficult to believe she was fourteen. “… we won’t let her marry you off—not for a very long time.”
Mrs. Bellamy’s concerns for her sons were well-founded. They had long, slim, yet well-defined bodies; smooth, strong legs, and asses you could bounce quarters off …. and they knew it. How could they not? Everyone told them so, including her and her late husband. In truth, Winston and Dean were exceptional: precariously smart, devilishly charismatic, and intuitive beyond their years. Even amongst their circle they were somewhat of an enigma, where it is often said had they not been born with silver spoons in their mouths, there was no doubt they would’ve built their fortune themselves. But fate is a funny maneuvering thing—Winston and Dean had it all based solely on their ability to snake their way down the birth canal and land comfortably in the doctor’s hands without putting up too much of a fuss.
Such is life.
*****
Winston stood at the far end of the ballroom watching the old guard pay their respects to his mother and the arriviste fawn over his brother. Sadie and her gaggle of debutantes slipped outside past their former chaperones and were happily lying on the grassy hill under a blanket of stars, destroying their finery.
“Hello Winston!”
Just as Winston pushed the mindless dribble of a group of men standing nearby out of his head—just as he was beginning to mellow and enjoy the evening, Bart, the hyperactive dwarf, appeared, virtually pissing on his mood. “Hi … Bart.” he said, steadying himself for the inquisition.
“Your mother and sister are staying with my mother. Are you staying in Paris?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“Lion’s Head.”
“Lion’s Head? Why not Dean’s place?” Bart asked.
“The contractors are two weeks over schedule.” Winston felt as if he were on trial for murder. “Besides, we patrons—we must try and play nicely with others, no matter how annoying they are.” he said snubbing a passerby.
“How long are you in town?”
“Just the week. You?”
“Same. We’ve been here all week.” He nodded at a young lady. “Mother assumed you’d arrive much earlier than today.”
“How does anyone know when we arrived? Why do they care?” Irritation seeped into Winston’s tone. Bart was unaffected.
Bart gave their family smirk. “You’re a Bellamy. Our presence is heralded by the angels, though some are heralded louder than others.” He took a sip from his snifter and gestured across the room towards Dean and three people he identified as Mr. and Mrs. Lockwood and their niece, Rebecca. Bart, annoyingly informed and privy to everyone’s personal business, had his uses. “Mr. Lockwood’s father made the family’s fortune quite literally in shoveling shit … or at least that’s where it began, on the dust heaps. Like most things, necessity breeds innovation, and he invented a tram system that sold like hotcakes. The present Mr. Lockwood inherited everything. Then, five years ago, when it became apparent that Mrs. Lockwood couldn’t conceive, they plunked Rebecca, the golden haired, fresh faced, jeweled eyed twenty-one year old daughter of his third cousin, from her obscure country upbringing in Canada and she became his sole heir.”
“She’s pretty. When she inherits his estate, she’ll have her pick of husbands.” Winston pointed out.
“She’s a romantic. Champagne, flowers, chocolates,” Bart scoffed. “She wants to be wooed.”
“Woo her then. You obviously have a thing for her.”
“Me? Go up against Dean?” Bart laughed aloud. “I don’t stand a chance. Besides, I don’t have the energy to woo anyone.” He looked up at Winston blankly. “We share a last name, the dimpled smile, and large bank account—but that’s where our similarities end. I don’t have the dark hair. I’m not tall or handsome or clever, and my sense of humor resembles sawdust. So, no, my aspirations are much, much lower. Unlike you and Dean, I understand my last name and my money are my calling cards.”
Winston looked, really looked at his squat, redheaded cousin for the first time in years. He was right, of course. He was a Bellamy in name only. Unlike Bart’s quest for love, Winston and Dean possessed a dangerous edge that worked to their advantage in the bedroom and boardroom. It was unfair, Bart was good natured; and whereas he dedicated himself to the family’s organization, Winston and Dean were obliged to limit their duties to the fundraiser ball and mandatory annual meeting. They loved Bart—yes, there were times when he annoyed them—but things were noticeably less interesting when he wasn’t around. “Ah, pygmy …” he wrapped his arm around Bart’s shoulders. “… you’ll find your piglet.” Just then, a black couple appeared in the entryway of the ballroom, waiting to be announced.
“Drs. Hamilton Mitcham.” The attendant called out. The gentleman whispered to him. “And their daughter Dr. Andrea Mitcham.”
A brandy complexioned lady with expressive eyes joined her father’s side. Her pale yellow dress dotted with crystals seemed to cascade over her delicate frame, with only a single string of diamonds calling attention to her slender neck. She corrected a curl which had fallen from her updo just as Mr. and Mrs. Graydon greeted her. She smiled warmly and tucked her arm into Mr. Graydon’s elbow as he went on to introduce her and her parents to a group of people nearby.
Winston was immediately struck dumb by her simplicity and quiet confidence. She, unlike the other women present, had a natural sense of self worth. She was above it all; however, when she spoke and laughed, she genuinely listened to the conversation. Try as he might, Winston couldn’t peel his eyes away from her.
“Who invited darkie?” one man from Winston’s left said. Winston and Bart turned stern eyes on them. “Sorry.” One of the men apologized.
“No, please, say it again.” Winston said coldly, silencing the men. Finally, one man spoke up.
“I asked who invited darkie.” The older of the men spoke up. This time his statement didn’t garner so much as a snicker.
“Thank you. Bart …” he said without taking his eyes off of the men. “… you know what to do.”
Bart handed Winston his glass and hurried off; returning minutes later with the host himself.
“Mr. Graydon …” Winston said, his eyes trained on the offender. “… I’d like you to introduce me to the Mitchams’ after you’ve escorted this gentleman off the premises.”
Though Mr. Graydon, who looked like Santa Claus, was old enough to be Winston’s grandfather, he didn’t question him. He nodded and walked the man through the crowd and out the door while the other men stood bolted in place.
“Excuse me.” Winston returned Bart’s glass and met Mr. Graydon half way across the floor.
“Does he always get what he wants?” a man asked Bart once Winston was out of earshot.
“Yes.” Bart replied with that Bellamy trademark detachment.
*****
“Do you live here in Paris, Mr. Bellamy?” Mrs. Lockwood asked Dean.
“Periodically. I keep a townhouse. However, my mother and sister see it more than I do, I’m afraid.”
“So, you’re close to your family?” Rebecca cut in abruptly and soon wished she hadn’t. “I … I ask because you’ve mentioned them a few times.”
“Yes, I’m very close to my family. I have a twin brother, Winston. He’s somewhere around here. I’ll be sure to introduce you later.” Visions of her tied to his bed having her brains fucked from her skull forced his lips into a smile.
“I’m trying to convince my husband to invest in a piece of property.” Mrs. Lockwood chuckled. “Staying in the grandest of hotels wears on you sooner or later.”
“The places in Paris are too small and there are no kitchens.” Mr. Lockwood grumbled.
“We don’t cook. Why do we need a kitchen?”
“It’s the principle of it all. Homes must have kitchens.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Lockwood; I must agree with your husband. I renovated last year.” Dean clasped his hands behind his back. “We’re here for the next three days if you’d like to take a look around. Who knows, Mrs. Lockwood, you could win this battle.” He caught his mother’s eye; she fanned him over. “I should go. You have an open invitation.” He shook Mr. Lockwood’s hand and kissed Mrs. Lockwood on both cheeks, then turned to Rebecca. “Ms. Rebecca.”
“Wait,” she caught Dean’s wrist. “You were going to introduce me to your brother.”
Mentally, Dean patted himself on the back. Snagging Rebecca had taken only half the time he allotted. Mr. Lockwood nodded his approval, and then Dean placed his hand on Rebecca’s. “I’ll introduce you to my mother first.” He turned to her as he walked through the crowd. “So have you ever sucked cock?”
“No.” Rebecca blushed prettily.
“Would you like to suck mine?”
*****
“Drs. Mitcham,” Mr. Graydon said as he and Winston approached. “I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Winston Bellamy.” He gestured between them. Winston was the picture of decorum, giving each of them his undivided attention. “Mr. Bellamy, this Dr. Hamilton Mitcham and Dr. Rhonda Mitcham.” He stopped short of introducing Andrea, prompting her father to speak. Silly archaic customs reduced perfectly sensible adults to sniveling children.
“Mr. Bellamy, this is our daughter, Dr. Andrea Mitcham.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Mitcham. Please call me Winston.” He queued up his formal manners. Andrea’s stunning eyes unnerved him more than he dared show. She, like many others, was judging him. Sadly, for Winston, her summation was correct; his blood was tainted with a smidgen of narcissism. But there was more, much more if she cared to look—which, given her indifference towards him, she did not. Andrea was intelligent, smolderingly sexy, and independent, but she also struck Winston as being fiercely proud.
“Nice to meet you, Winston,” Andrea extended her hand. “You can call me Dr. Mitcham.”
Winston acknowledged her jab with a slight lift of an eyebrow before turning his attention to her parents and making polite conversation. Dr. Hamilton Mitcham was the pioneering genius who bettered the instruments used in microsurgery; Dr. Rhonda Mitcham, who bore a striking resemblance to Phylicia Rashad, was a noted genealogist; and Andrea followed her father’s footsteps, specializing in neurosurgery. Their properties dotted America and the continent. They weren’t new to the social circle; however, they were particular about the company they kept; none more so than Andrea. Judging by her father’s colorful account of her blowing off a snotty barrister at last year’s Armory Art Show, she was a force to be reckoned with. And like himself, abhorred patron functions.
“I take it you’re lodging at Lion’s Head.” Winston said.
“Yes, this is our first year,” Hamilton replied. “It sounds like fun.”
“It’s an experience you’ll never forget.” Winston bit back his nasty comments about the drafty rooms, poor lighting, and noisy plumbing. They’d find out soon enough. “The grounds are lovely this time of year. I know them better than my own. I’d be happy to show you around.” He leaned into Hamilton and lowered his voice. “There’s rumored to be a Hellfire Club.”
“Sold,” Hamilton gave a broad, James Earl Jones toothy grin.
“Are you in Paris often?” Rhonda asked.
“No, I don’t care for Paris.” Winston replied, realizing too late the tone of his reply had been less than measured.
“If you don’t care for Paris, then how are you familiar with the gardens at Lion’s Head?” Andrea shot off curtly.
“Andrea!” Rhonda hissed.
“I’m not trying to be rude.” Andrea looked through Winston. “I’d like to know what sort of man I’m dealing with. Was your remark meant to impress us or are you a liar?”
“I’m neither.” For a man who wore his brutal honesty like a crown of thorns, Andrea’s pontification pushed her dangerously close to getting her ass told off. His voice was cold; and though his brilliant eyes were devoid of life, they lacked anger. A thin crescent smile curled his lips. “I don’t care for Paris. The gardens at Lion’s Head happen to be one of the few attractions I enjoy.” He turned to Hamilton, his demeanor light. “Mr. Graydon will attest; my father planted a number of trees in his park.”
“Oh yes!” Mr. Graydon broke his silence. “Stanley sent trees and landscape designs from his travels. I have a pineapple tree! We move it inside the conservatory during the colder months, but I have one!” His jolly tone lightened the mood.
Through the sea of people, Mrs. Bellamy summoned Winston. “I apologize for cutting our conversation short …” he gestured toward his mother. “It was a pleasure to meet you. I’m sure we’ll see one another at the house.” He shook Hamilton and Rhoda’s hands. Andrea received a dry, half-hearted nod before he left.
The House Party
“Mother! Come see my room!” Sadie shouted down the hall bustling with footmen ushering patrons to their room. Of course, the Bellamys were given the choice second floor rooms, full of magnificently lush trappings befitting their station, and were settled in well ahead of the others. Sadie ran across the marble floors in her stocking feet, and then leapt on her bed as if she were doing a belly-flop. “What ya think?!” she asked excitedly as she turned over and made snow angels on the pale blue duvet.
“I think you’re too young to have your own room.” Dean said, joining his mother in Sadie’s doorway. They both stepped through when Winston materialized from thin air. “Not bad.” He took inventory of the room. As one would expect, there was a lounge, large and plush and rich with sateen and velvet upholstery. A dining room for six adjoined it, the table set with a massive floral centerpiece, fresh fruit, and a silver ice bucket bearing chilled water bottles. A room to one side served as an office, and at the far side of the suite lay the master bedroom where a generous king-sized bed piled high with pillows anchored the spacious room. No expense was spared—not even for Sadie.
“How are your rooms?” Mrs. Bellamy asked as her sons who were still in their tuxes and collapsed beside Sadie. “We’re all on the same floor, I suppose.” She wandered to the adjacent bathroom.
“Like they’d put us anywhere else.” Dean took Sadie in his arms and began systematically removing hairpins from her hair. “You have plans for the night?” he asked her.
“The other girls are coming over. I’m the only one with her own room.”
“You’re too young. You should be staying with mother.” Winston picked blades of grass from her dress. “Where the hell did this come from?!” He sat up on his elbows and called, “Mother!”
“What?” Mrs. Bellamy came from the bathroom.
“Have you seen your daughter? She’s covered in grass.”
“Maybe she’s taken to eating it … again. She liked it as a child, remember?” Mrs. Bellamy said dismissively and started for the door. “I’m just down the loggia. Don’t stay up too late.”
“I’m leaving too.” Dean shifted from under Sadie’s weight and kissed her head. “I’m at the end of the corridor. I’ll check on you before I go to bed.” He tapped Winston’s foot. “Come on. Her friends will be here shortly.” He went to the ice bucket, double checking for alcohol. “She’s good.”
“Goodnight, gorgeous.” Winston kissed Sadie. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.” Sadie stood, brushing off her dress. “See you in the morning. Don't go to breakfast without me!”
Dean and Winston passed a group of giggling, grass covered girls as they strolled down the loggia. They parted ways at the stairs—Dean went to his room and Winston headed downstairs to commandeer something for his transatlantic headache. Yes, it could’ve been delivered to his room, but circumventing the chain of command saved time and forwent unnecessary arrogation.
Returning from the lower servants’ quarters, Winston heard the unmistakable sound of a female perilously close to bitch slapping someone. He’d like to say he was shocked to find Andrea was at he root of the squawking, but he wasn’t. He proceeded upstairs but curiosity got the better of him; and he asked a passing footman what the commotion was all about. Due to unforeseen plumbing issues, the West wing of the house was sectioned off thereby leaving several guests misplaced. The Graydon’s estate manager offered Andrea a smaller, less stately room but she wasn’t hearing it nor was she willing to lodge with her parents.
“Are there no other rooms available?” Winston asked.
“No, sir. We’re bursting at the seams. The upper servants have given up their rooms and moved to the top of the house with the rest of us.” The footmen drew closer to Winston. “The hall-boy is sleeping in the pantry.”
Winston sighed, watching Hunter, the Graydon’s butler, buckling under Andrea’s full wrath. Sadie could move into their mother’s room, he thought, but this was her first taste of freedom and her girlfriends undoubtedly planned on spending the night with her. He could share a room with Dean—but he wasn’t keen on hearing some woman getting her pussy turned inside out. And, oddly enough, he’d hate to see the situation escalate, and ruin the Mitchams’ stay. There was no alternative. “Grab a couple of footmen and have my bags moved to the room they offered Dr. Mitcham.”
“Um, sir …” The footman froze with fear. “I can’t … I don’t have the … Um, I ...”
Yet again, Winston circumvented the chain of command. He should’ve gone to Hunter instead of dragging a hapless footman into matters; however, the pounding behind his eyes deemed the strict adherence to protocol futile. “What’s your name?”
“Isaac, sir.”
“Isaac, let’s not make a show. Tell Hunter there was a mix up and offer Dr. Mitcham my room. I’ll explain everything to Mr. Graydon in the morning. Please see to Dr. Mitcham—she’s … not herself.” Winston started down the stairs, grappling with why he defended her behavior. “I’ll wait in the parlor.”
“Sir, should I tell your family where you’ve gone?”
“No, I’ll tell them.” Winston nodded. “Hurry. The sooner she’s settled the better.”
A smaller, less stately room indeed. Winston thought surveying his new accommodations in the servants’ quarters: a room the size of his linen closet and just as dark. There was a child-sized chair, a dresser that’d seen better days and a slanted picture hanging above a tiny, hard twin size bed. To make matters worse, there was only a communal bathroom down the hall. Looking around at his shabby new digs, Andrea’s outburst seemed perfectly rational. Winston would never allow his mother and sister to sleep in such a place. He removed his shoes and dressed for bed.
Meanwhile, Andrea nursed her headache from the comforts of Winston’s old room while Rhonda rubbed her feet and gabbed on about something inconsequential. Andres had larger fish to fry. In less than four months, her fellowship would end and her career was no more fixed than it had been six years ago. Stepping from her father’s all consuming shadow was more difficult than she supposed and finding another career was out of the question. She loved her work, it was her passion but she pined for the day when she’d be judged on her merit not her father’s. While other residents vied for positions, her mailbox overflowed with letters of acceptance; not one of them inquired of her specialty or questioned her ability. They didn’t want her, the person who spent countless nights studying and honing her craft, the person who volunteered for crap assignments to prove her worth, the person whose self doubts drove her to levels of perfection that left her father in awe. They didn’t want her—they wanted her name, influence and prestige therein.
Then, there were families whose idle members accomplished nothing and know even less—yet somewhere between swanning around the world on their massive yachts waiting for their next elderly relative to die and securing their thumbs up their asses, they find time to amass fortunes greater than the gross national product of a small country. In Andrea’s estimate, the Bellamys were a prime example of such wasteful indulgence. Stanley Bellamy, their much loved benevolent patriarch, was the last of his kind: a shrewd businessman with a keen social conscious. Eight generations ago, Oswald Belkowitz was an unpaid law clerk of a East End nobody. He hustled his way into a risky housing scheme which netted the family’s financial future. Oswald shed his East End past and ethnic surname, and arose in fashionable circles as Oswald Bellamy, self-reliant and untouchable. He returned to the East End only once before he died—returning to tear down his childhood home. The annihilation of his past was so thorough there are no records preceding his birth … and even that’s shrouded in secrecy.
Since then, his descendants moved into banking, the railroad, and mining; however, they never lost sight of the root of their wealth. And under the custodianship of Stanley Bellamy, the family’s loot grew to monstrous proportions. When he passed away last fall, he left behind a fifty-nine billion dollar inheritance to his children alone. Like his predecessors, his will decreed the family’s net worth never be publicly disclosed. No one, not even their family attorney, is any the wiser.
To Andrea, the Bellamys were a bunch of spoon-fed, shallow plutocrats, void of any human emotions beyond greed and lust. Winston, more so than Dean, exemplified everything she despised about their class. At least Dean owned himself without disguise; whereas, Winston used a rare act of kindness as his smokescreen.
“You were incredibly rude to Mr. Bellamy.” Rhonda kneaded the ball of Andrea’s foot. “You should learn to hold your tongue.”
“Hold my tongue with Winston Bellamy? Please.” she spat. “I was speaking for the poor, unfortunate soul who’s ever cross his path. I’m sure his mistreatment of inferiors is far worse.”
Rhonda, aware Andrea’s venom was misdirected, asked patiently, “Why do you hate the Bellamys?”
“Hate them?!” Andrea laughed. “I don’t know them enough to hate them. I hate what they represent.”
“Wealth is not a sin.”
“It is when you don’t put it to good use. Or hang it over people’s heads. Or have an army of people at your beck and call without regard for them. Or …” Andrea stammered. “… or in the case of Mrs. Bellamy …”
“… to keep people at arms length.” Rhonda huffed. Andrea fell silent. “She has no more feeling than a dog. She’s cold and unyielding—she’s vain without cause—and she’s raised her children to spit on those beneath them. Isn’t that what you were about to say?” she stopped and went to the ice bucket, searching for champagne. “Before you cast judgment on people you don’t know, remember what people say about me. Mrs. Bellamy and I have more in common than you think.” Finding only bottled water at her disposal, Rhonda sighed.
“I know,” Andrea rolled across her mammoth bed and reached for the phone. “I meant to ring a footman before you came. There’s not a drop of alcohol in the suite—the bar is stocked with apple juice.”
“Apple juice?” Rhonda kicked her shoes off and slumped on the chaise while Andrea spoke to the butler. She hung up. “Andrea, I don’t mean to chastise you, but the way you carried on tonight …”
“The way I carried on tonight is how I’ve felt for the last few years. I’m frustrated and I lashed out.”
“Lashed out?” Rhonda held her chest. “You showed your natural black ass! I heard how you ripped into the butler.”
“Sorry about that.” Andrea smiled then burst out laughing. “I’ll apologize in the morning.” The footman knocked on the door. “Come in.”
Balancing a silver tray carrying champagne and flutes, Isaac opened the door and went about exchanging the beverages as quickly and quietly as possible. Once his task was complete, he said goodnight and made his get away. His heart patted to a stop when Andrea asked why her room hadn’t been stocked as the other.
“Sorry, Madame. It was my fault,” Isaac nervously lied. “In my hurry to get Madame settled, I forgot to stock your room. My apologies for the inconvenience.”
“Good. I won’t speak to Mr. Graydon this time but don’t let it happen again,” Andrea said to the quivering young man. “Goodnight.”
Isaac’s throat closed. He nodded and said goodnight. As he walked downstairs, he kicked himself for being pulled into this mess.
******
Dean toweled himself off and wandered sleepily to his bedroom, surprised to find Rebecca standing in the middle of the room stark naked. His natural reaction came in waves of questions: How the hell did she get in his room? Did she walk there naked? How the hell did she get in his room? Why didn’t he pick up the twenty-four count box of condoms rather than the sixteen? He’d deplete his stash before sunrise. And last, but most important, how the hell did she get in his room?!
Rebecca sauntered over to Dean and smoothed one palm across his chest, conscious of the heat his skin emitted against her hand. “I want you,” she tipped her chin to look into his face.
“Here I am. What’s on your mind?”
She smiled up at him and lowered her hand to the towel draped around his waist. She ran one fingertip along the trim of the towel, softly touching his skin. He stared down at her, watching her caress him. “Remember when you asked if I wanted to suck your cock?”
“I remember.” He pulled in a long breath.
Her fingertips slipped inside the towel, mapping his warm skin within. Watching him watching her made her clit throb. She released the gathers holding the towel in place—it fell to the floor leaving them both standing nude. She ran her palms down the length of his hips, onto his thighs and then around to his crotch. His body was magnificent. “Can I taste you?” she whispered innocently, stroking his long cock.
“Oh shit,” A bolt of excitement caught Dean off guard. “Say that again.” He smoothed one hand over her hair, pushing it to the side to give him an unimpeded view of her face.
Her eyes trained on his, she sank to her knees, and wrapped one hand around his hard shaft. “Can I taste you?” She licked his head softly, causing him to draw in a sharp breath. She sucked his head, marveling at how it glistened. She gave it a few wet licks along his length with the tip of her tongue and applied one slow lick to the underside--flicking her tongue on his hole, and moaning as she savoyed his pre-cum while he watched.
“Oh, fuck!” Dean banged his fair share of women in every possible orifice, but none of them coaxed this visceral response from him. He glanced down at Rebecca’s expectant eyes with one thought in mind: I’m gonna fuck you til’ the cops come knocking! “Suck it.” He wound both hands in her hair, clenching his fists in the golden tresses. He watched her lips with intense concentration.
She drew his hard cock into her mouth, alternating between licks and gentle sucking. She looked up into Dean’s eyes, her tongue played around his base—he rewarded her with a gasp and another ‘Oh fuck’. She licked around his head, then slid him in and out of her mouth. She stroked him with once hand and cupped his balls in her other hand, gently stroking them in her palm. His breathing was shallow and he began bucking and jerking passionately in and out—in and out of her welcoming mouth.
She released him with an audible puff of air and continued stroking his cock, “You like it?”
“Hell yeah. Open your fucking mouth,” Dean tightened his hold and eased slowly between her wet lips. “Relax your throat.” He made a few measured thrusts. “Just relax. I’m gonna fuck your throat.”
She pulled away. “Will it hurt?” Her scalp ached where his fingers were knotted in her hair.
“Only if you stop sucking again.” He braced his feet apart, his muscular legs flexed and released as he began to move his hips against her face, using her mouth to pleasure himself. “Deeper—shit—slowly—not so fast--just like that.”
Rebecca caressed his balls in one and held his ass with the other. He filled her throat, she gagged, then relaxed and allowed him to do as he saw fit. She moaned a strangled wordless song, making him shiver and fists in her hair until their slurping, sucking, moaning and groan filled the room. His arousal grew to a fever pitch. She widened her knees to combat his lunging thrust. Her head swam—she wanted him to cum in her mouth. She purred.
“Is sucking my cock making you wet?”
She nodded.
“Show me. Touch yourself.”
Rebecca slid her hand down her belly. Two of her fingers easily slipping inside her pussy. His groan followed hers.
“Make that sound again,” he rasped, fucking her face.
She fingered herself and rubbed her clit, crying with orgasm around her mouthful of cock.
“Oh God, suck! Make me cum…” He hissed through his teeth, watching his cock pump in and out of her fucking head. “Suck it—oh fuck!” He released his fist and held her head tenderly. “I’m cumming—I’m cumming.” He ground against her mouth, shooting strings of hot cum down the back of her throat. Another squirt, then another, and another. Rebecca swallowed and sucked feverishly as Dean rudely used her mouth until he had nothing leave to give. He gazed down at her still sucking his cock, still seeking his approval as if a mouth full of cum wasn’t proof enough. “You did well—very well.” He caressed her hair before helping her to her feet.
“Seriously?” Rebecca retreated into the bathroom to freshen up. “You’re not just saying that to spare my feelings?” That comment alone showed how little she knew of him. Sparing the feelings of others wasn’t his strongpoint. “Well?” she said coming from the bathroom to find Dean toweling his hair as if she hadn’t said a word.
“Well? What?”
She blew a sigh and put her hands on her hips. “You weren’t listening to me?”
“Um, no,” Dean shot a ‘duh’ look, as if the notion of him listening to her was absurd. “Lie down. Spread your legs. And masturbate for me.”
Rebecca chuckled, but Dean was dead serious.
Dean knew that this was the moment of truth. If Rebecca was in fact a virgin, as she was rumored to be, and he plunged straight into her he would hurt her physically and mentally. On the other hand, if he seduced her he would have a hot little, rich convert whom he could fuck and suck at his leisure.
Rebecca climbed on the bed, laid back and opened her legs wide. “Are we going to make love?”
“No.” Dean gave a sinister grin. “I thought we’d get fucking out of the way first.”
“I think you’re too young to have your own room.” Dean said, joining his mother in Sadie’s doorway. They both stepped through when Winston materialized from thin air. “Not bad.” He took inventory of the room. As one would expect, there was a lounge, large and plush and rich with sateen and velvet upholstery. A dining room for six adjoined it, the table set with a massive floral centerpiece, fresh fruit, and a silver ice bucket bearing chilled water bottles. A room to one side served as an office, and at the far side of the suite lay the master bedroom where a generous king-sized bed piled high with pillows anchored the spacious room. No expense was spared—not even for Sadie.
“How are your rooms?” Mrs. Bellamy asked as her sons who were still in their tuxes and collapsed beside Sadie. “We’re all on the same floor, I suppose.” She wandered to the adjacent bathroom.
“Like they’d put us anywhere else.” Dean took Sadie in his arms and began systematically removing hairpins from her hair. “You have plans for the night?” he asked her.
“The other girls are coming over. I’m the only one with her own room.”
“You’re too young. You should be staying with mother.” Winston picked blades of grass from her dress. “Where the hell did this come from?!” He sat up on his elbows and called, “Mother!”
“What?” Mrs. Bellamy came from the bathroom.
“Have you seen your daughter? She’s covered in grass.”
“Maybe she’s taken to eating it … again. She liked it as a child, remember?” Mrs. Bellamy said dismissively and started for the door. “I’m just down the loggia. Don’t stay up too late.”
“I’m leaving too.” Dean shifted from under Sadie’s weight and kissed her head. “I’m at the end of the corridor. I’ll check on you before I go to bed.” He tapped Winston’s foot. “Come on. Her friends will be here shortly.” He went to the ice bucket, double checking for alcohol. “She’s good.”
“Goodnight, gorgeous.” Winston kissed Sadie. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.” Sadie stood, brushing off her dress. “See you in the morning. Don't go to breakfast without me!”
Dean and Winston passed a group of giggling, grass covered girls as they strolled down the loggia. They parted ways at the stairs—Dean went to his room and Winston headed downstairs to commandeer something for his transatlantic headache. Yes, it could’ve been delivered to his room, but circumventing the chain of command saved time and forwent unnecessary arrogation.
Returning from the lower servants’ quarters, Winston heard the unmistakable sound of a female perilously close to bitch slapping someone. He’d like to say he was shocked to find Andrea was at he root of the squawking, but he wasn’t. He proceeded upstairs but curiosity got the better of him; and he asked a passing footman what the commotion was all about. Due to unforeseen plumbing issues, the West wing of the house was sectioned off thereby leaving several guests misplaced. The Graydon’s estate manager offered Andrea a smaller, less stately room but she wasn’t hearing it nor was she willing to lodge with her parents.
“Are there no other rooms available?” Winston asked.
“No, sir. We’re bursting at the seams. The upper servants have given up their rooms and moved to the top of the house with the rest of us.” The footmen drew closer to Winston. “The hall-boy is sleeping in the pantry.”
Winston sighed, watching Hunter, the Graydon’s butler, buckling under Andrea’s full wrath. Sadie could move into their mother’s room, he thought, but this was her first taste of freedom and her girlfriends undoubtedly planned on spending the night with her. He could share a room with Dean—but he wasn’t keen on hearing some woman getting her pussy turned inside out. And, oddly enough, he’d hate to see the situation escalate, and ruin the Mitchams’ stay. There was no alternative. “Grab a couple of footmen and have my bags moved to the room they offered Dr. Mitcham.”
“Um, sir …” The footman froze with fear. “I can’t … I don’t have the … Um, I ...”
Yet again, Winston circumvented the chain of command. He should’ve gone to Hunter instead of dragging a hapless footman into matters; however, the pounding behind his eyes deemed the strict adherence to protocol futile. “What’s your name?”
“Isaac, sir.”
“Isaac, let’s not make a show. Tell Hunter there was a mix up and offer Dr. Mitcham my room. I’ll explain everything to Mr. Graydon in the morning. Please see to Dr. Mitcham—she’s … not herself.” Winston started down the stairs, grappling with why he defended her behavior. “I’ll wait in the parlor.”
“Sir, should I tell your family where you’ve gone?”
“No, I’ll tell them.” Winston nodded. “Hurry. The sooner she’s settled the better.”
A smaller, less stately room indeed. Winston thought surveying his new accommodations in the servants’ quarters: a room the size of his linen closet and just as dark. There was a child-sized chair, a dresser that’d seen better days and a slanted picture hanging above a tiny, hard twin size bed. To make matters worse, there was only a communal bathroom down the hall. Looking around at his shabby new digs, Andrea’s outburst seemed perfectly rational. Winston would never allow his mother and sister to sleep in such a place. He removed his shoes and dressed for bed.
Meanwhile, Andrea nursed her headache from the comforts of Winston’s old room while Rhonda rubbed her feet and gabbed on about something inconsequential. Andres had larger fish to fry. In less than four months, her fellowship would end and her career was no more fixed than it had been six years ago. Stepping from her father’s all consuming shadow was more difficult than she supposed and finding another career was out of the question. She loved her work, it was her passion but she pined for the day when she’d be judged on her merit not her father’s. While other residents vied for positions, her mailbox overflowed with letters of acceptance; not one of them inquired of her specialty or questioned her ability. They didn’t want her, the person who spent countless nights studying and honing her craft, the person who volunteered for crap assignments to prove her worth, the person whose self doubts drove her to levels of perfection that left her father in awe. They didn’t want her—they wanted her name, influence and prestige therein.
Then, there were families whose idle members accomplished nothing and know even less—yet somewhere between swanning around the world on their massive yachts waiting for their next elderly relative to die and securing their thumbs up their asses, they find time to amass fortunes greater than the gross national product of a small country. In Andrea’s estimate, the Bellamys were a prime example of such wasteful indulgence. Stanley Bellamy, their much loved benevolent patriarch, was the last of his kind: a shrewd businessman with a keen social conscious. Eight generations ago, Oswald Belkowitz was an unpaid law clerk of a East End nobody. He hustled his way into a risky housing scheme which netted the family’s financial future. Oswald shed his East End past and ethnic surname, and arose in fashionable circles as Oswald Bellamy, self-reliant and untouchable. He returned to the East End only once before he died—returning to tear down his childhood home. The annihilation of his past was so thorough there are no records preceding his birth … and even that’s shrouded in secrecy.
Since then, his descendants moved into banking, the railroad, and mining; however, they never lost sight of the root of their wealth. And under the custodianship of Stanley Bellamy, the family’s loot grew to monstrous proportions. When he passed away last fall, he left behind a fifty-nine billion dollar inheritance to his children alone. Like his predecessors, his will decreed the family’s net worth never be publicly disclosed. No one, not even their family attorney, is any the wiser.
To Andrea, the Bellamys were a bunch of spoon-fed, shallow plutocrats, void of any human emotions beyond greed and lust. Winston, more so than Dean, exemplified everything she despised about their class. At least Dean owned himself without disguise; whereas, Winston used a rare act of kindness as his smokescreen.
“You were incredibly rude to Mr. Bellamy.” Rhonda kneaded the ball of Andrea’s foot. “You should learn to hold your tongue.”
“Hold my tongue with Winston Bellamy? Please.” she spat. “I was speaking for the poor, unfortunate soul who’s ever cross his path. I’m sure his mistreatment of inferiors is far worse.”
Rhonda, aware Andrea’s venom was misdirected, asked patiently, “Why do you hate the Bellamys?”
“Hate them?!” Andrea laughed. “I don’t know them enough to hate them. I hate what they represent.”
“Wealth is not a sin.”
“It is when you don’t put it to good use. Or hang it over people’s heads. Or have an army of people at your beck and call without regard for them. Or …” Andrea stammered. “… or in the case of Mrs. Bellamy …”
“… to keep people at arms length.” Rhonda huffed. Andrea fell silent. “She has no more feeling than a dog. She’s cold and unyielding—she’s vain without cause—and she’s raised her children to spit on those beneath them. Isn’t that what you were about to say?” she stopped and went to the ice bucket, searching for champagne. “Before you cast judgment on people you don’t know, remember what people say about me. Mrs. Bellamy and I have more in common than you think.” Finding only bottled water at her disposal, Rhonda sighed.
“I know,” Andrea rolled across her mammoth bed and reached for the phone. “I meant to ring a footman before you came. There’s not a drop of alcohol in the suite—the bar is stocked with apple juice.”
“Apple juice?” Rhonda kicked her shoes off and slumped on the chaise while Andrea spoke to the butler. She hung up. “Andrea, I don’t mean to chastise you, but the way you carried on tonight …”
“The way I carried on tonight is how I’ve felt for the last few years. I’m frustrated and I lashed out.”
“Lashed out?” Rhonda held her chest. “You showed your natural black ass! I heard how you ripped into the butler.”
“Sorry about that.” Andrea smiled then burst out laughing. “I’ll apologize in the morning.” The footman knocked on the door. “Come in.”
Balancing a silver tray carrying champagne and flutes, Isaac opened the door and went about exchanging the beverages as quickly and quietly as possible. Once his task was complete, he said goodnight and made his get away. His heart patted to a stop when Andrea asked why her room hadn’t been stocked as the other.
“Sorry, Madame. It was my fault,” Isaac nervously lied. “In my hurry to get Madame settled, I forgot to stock your room. My apologies for the inconvenience.”
“Good. I won’t speak to Mr. Graydon this time but don’t let it happen again,” Andrea said to the quivering young man. “Goodnight.”
Isaac’s throat closed. He nodded and said goodnight. As he walked downstairs, he kicked himself for being pulled into this mess.
******
Dean toweled himself off and wandered sleepily to his bedroom, surprised to find Rebecca standing in the middle of the room stark naked. His natural reaction came in waves of questions: How the hell did she get in his room? Did she walk there naked? How the hell did she get in his room? Why didn’t he pick up the twenty-four count box of condoms rather than the sixteen? He’d deplete his stash before sunrise. And last, but most important, how the hell did she get in his room?!
Rebecca sauntered over to Dean and smoothed one palm across his chest, conscious of the heat his skin emitted against her hand. “I want you,” she tipped her chin to look into his face.
“Here I am. What’s on your mind?”
She smiled up at him and lowered her hand to the towel draped around his waist. She ran one fingertip along the trim of the towel, softly touching his skin. He stared down at her, watching her caress him. “Remember when you asked if I wanted to suck your cock?”
“I remember.” He pulled in a long breath.
Her fingertips slipped inside the towel, mapping his warm skin within. Watching him watching her made her clit throb. She released the gathers holding the towel in place—it fell to the floor leaving them both standing nude. She ran her palms down the length of his hips, onto his thighs and then around to his crotch. His body was magnificent. “Can I taste you?” she whispered innocently, stroking his long cock.
“Oh shit,” A bolt of excitement caught Dean off guard. “Say that again.” He smoothed one hand over her hair, pushing it to the side to give him an unimpeded view of her face.
Her eyes trained on his, she sank to her knees, and wrapped one hand around his hard shaft. “Can I taste you?” She licked his head softly, causing him to draw in a sharp breath. She sucked his head, marveling at how it glistened. She gave it a few wet licks along his length with the tip of her tongue and applied one slow lick to the underside--flicking her tongue on his hole, and moaning as she savoyed his pre-cum while he watched.
“Oh, fuck!” Dean banged his fair share of women in every possible orifice, but none of them coaxed this visceral response from him. He glanced down at Rebecca’s expectant eyes with one thought in mind: I’m gonna fuck you til’ the cops come knocking! “Suck it.” He wound both hands in her hair, clenching his fists in the golden tresses. He watched her lips with intense concentration.
She drew his hard cock into her mouth, alternating between licks and gentle sucking. She looked up into Dean’s eyes, her tongue played around his base—he rewarded her with a gasp and another ‘Oh fuck’. She licked around his head, then slid him in and out of her mouth. She stroked him with once hand and cupped his balls in her other hand, gently stroking them in her palm. His breathing was shallow and he began bucking and jerking passionately in and out—in and out of her welcoming mouth.
She released him with an audible puff of air and continued stroking his cock, “You like it?”
“Hell yeah. Open your fucking mouth,” Dean tightened his hold and eased slowly between her wet lips. “Relax your throat.” He made a few measured thrusts. “Just relax. I’m gonna fuck your throat.”
She pulled away. “Will it hurt?” Her scalp ached where his fingers were knotted in her hair.
“Only if you stop sucking again.” He braced his feet apart, his muscular legs flexed and released as he began to move his hips against her face, using her mouth to pleasure himself. “Deeper—shit—slowly—not so fast--just like that.”
Rebecca caressed his balls in one and held his ass with the other. He filled her throat, she gagged, then relaxed and allowed him to do as he saw fit. She moaned a strangled wordless song, making him shiver and fists in her hair until their slurping, sucking, moaning and groan filled the room. His arousal grew to a fever pitch. She widened her knees to combat his lunging thrust. Her head swam—she wanted him to cum in her mouth. She purred.
“Is sucking my cock making you wet?”
She nodded.
“Show me. Touch yourself.”
Rebecca slid her hand down her belly. Two of her fingers easily slipping inside her pussy. His groan followed hers.
“Make that sound again,” he rasped, fucking her face.
She fingered herself and rubbed her clit, crying with orgasm around her mouthful of cock.
“Oh God, suck! Make me cum…” He hissed through his teeth, watching his cock pump in and out of her fucking head. “Suck it—oh fuck!” He released his fist and held her head tenderly. “I’m cumming—I’m cumming.” He ground against her mouth, shooting strings of hot cum down the back of her throat. Another squirt, then another, and another. Rebecca swallowed and sucked feverishly as Dean rudely used her mouth until he had nothing leave to give. He gazed down at her still sucking his cock, still seeking his approval as if a mouth full of cum wasn’t proof enough. “You did well—very well.” He caressed her hair before helping her to her feet.
“Seriously?” Rebecca retreated into the bathroom to freshen up. “You’re not just saying that to spare my feelings?” That comment alone showed how little she knew of him. Sparing the feelings of others wasn’t his strongpoint. “Well?” she said coming from the bathroom to find Dean toweling his hair as if she hadn’t said a word.
“Well? What?”
She blew a sigh and put her hands on her hips. “You weren’t listening to me?”
“Um, no,” Dean shot a ‘duh’ look, as if the notion of him listening to her was absurd. “Lie down. Spread your legs. And masturbate for me.”
Rebecca chuckled, but Dean was dead serious.
Dean knew that this was the moment of truth. If Rebecca was in fact a virgin, as she was rumored to be, and he plunged straight into her he would hurt her physically and mentally. On the other hand, if he seduced her he would have a hot little, rich convert whom he could fuck and suck at his leisure.
Rebecca climbed on the bed, laid back and opened her legs wide. “Are we going to make love?”
“No.” Dean gave a sinister grin. “I thought we’d get fucking out of the way first.”