[Summary: She was waiting for him beside the pool at his Southampton estate. Even the security system of a hedge-fund billionaire, like Pascal Lapin, can be evaded by the powers of darkness. She wants to know if he would like to win the $542 million lottery, guaranteed? No, not especially; Lapin passes up the deal and asks if Venus (that's her name) can make his real dream come true: sex with the receptionist, Rebecca, at his office. That is a ridiculous thing to call a dream, she argues—and argues, and argues. Well, um...does she have to get back "there" this evening? Nope, and that isn't even how "it" works. There is no "down there." So, after her routine assistant-satanic powers have made him a martini, he slips off her bikini.]
Her lips slipped from his dick with a soft "plop." She had been looking up at him in state-of-the-art cock-sucker style. He was trying to decide if she were more than humanly lovely, when she said: "You know, I can make your dick bigger." Her fathomless dark gaze held his.
"You already did make it bigger."
"You know what I mean! Do you always play these little word games? It can be quite irritating, you know."
"I've always thought I had a great dick."
"But some guys you know...never big enough dick. Never rich enough."
"Would you be more excited if it were bigger? I mean, we could give it a try just for this time."
She held him closed in her fist. About five inches stuck out above her hand. She gave it a vigorous shake. "No, this will be fine." With ladylike finesse, Pascal thought, her face lowered toward him, her pink lips parted.
He frowned. "Anyway, that would require a 'deal,' right? I'd have to give something..."
He regretted asking. The soft lips stopped short of his dick. She said, "Yes, that would be granting a wish—I mean if that were your wish. Whereas this," as she gave his patiently waiting pecker a nod, "is just between us."
"I feel very honored," said Pascal, and heaved a sigh. Now, her mouth was busy, again, so she only nodded her head in acknowledgment. Pascal was gazing across the terrace and the dunes beyond, out to where the ocean was lost, now, in the dusk, the sound of the surf disembodied. He was used to concentrating on something when the pleasure threatened an explosion, prolonging it a few moments before whipping away with a cry—or coming in the woman's mouth, if that were the scenario.
But now the pleasure—oh, shit, the ecstasy—kept mounting like notes on a banjo string, plucked pitch to pitch toward some end-note never reached. Jesus! His hands seized her head on either side, his fingers curling convulsively in her short, soft hair. The explosion would not come! He heard his own voice in little gasping screams. He was crying "No! No! No!" but he could not pulling away!
Like building toward a violent sneeze that would not come, the tickling shot the length of his prick, into his balls, into his asshole—but he was not coming!
SHE was doing this! Tormenting him to madness. He felt all concentration, coherence, slipping away. Something between his brain and his hands had snapped; he could not even pull her mouth away!
His chest rose and fell in frantic panting. His heart...his heart was ricocheting off the walls of his chest like a soccer ball shot from a cannon into a handball court.
Convulsively, his body jackknifed doubled, his chin almost hitting her bare back. He screamed! And somehow that unfroze his muscles, so he shoved her head away from him, and, at the same moment, heaved himself backward with all his remaining strength.
He would die. Drown, right here. Water had flooded over his head; the world was being inundated and he with it. He thrashed like a crazed animal.
No, no... No, just the pool! He had propelled himself backward into the pool! The world was not flooding, he was not drowning. The pool!
