“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.”