Chapter 2: Testing, testing: one, two, three (holes, that is)
Just after nine o'clock Ruslan rolled out of bed and did a straight set of one hundred sit-ups. Next he stepped into the shower. The water was steaming and cleansing (the dried cum on his belly vanished in seconds) but not even the heat or the exercise could cleanse his mind of the dirty thoughts that still plagued his mind. Not even five hours ago he had been caught up in a firestorm of nasty, raging circumstances that had led to him jerking off while thinking of his aunt....
Things could not have been more confusing. He hadn't given any thought to all of the pussy he wasn't able to tap since skipping the club. When he shut his eyes he didn't think of the young honeys swaying their bodies to the heavy beat of a club song, he saw only the sway of his aunts nipples as she walked in the mist of the pool. He didn't think about what young slut he could have bent over the hood of a car, he though only about the expressions on Jeri's face as she climbed to the peak of orgasm.
The images of her toying with herself beneath the water moved behind his eyelids like a lucid dream. He could smell the chlorine again and feel the leaves of the bush against his skin...
He shuddered and shut off the shower before he was tempted to rub out another batch.
He dressed as quickly as he could, ran his clippers over his scalp and shaved his jaw. To further take his mind off his aunt's swaying hips he did an additional two hundred sit ups. Like a morning fog his aunt slowly faded from his mind, with each pant and grunt it became apparent to Ruslan that he would be able to push through the perverted memories.
Smiling, he slung a loose Nike shirt over his torso and tugged on a pair of checkered shorts that were baggy and held on his narrow waist with elastic.
He stepped into a pair of flip flops and walked confidently from the step of his guest house, past the hot tub (still doing good,) and even managed to get as far as the kitchen door before he had to stop and lean against the wall.
Jeri was sitting at the kitchen table, golden hair tied up loosely; bits of it fell down her curved forehead and around her ears.
Fuck
.
His eyes shut tightly and he clenched his fists, thinking that if he forced hard enough he might
will
his cock to ignore the fact that her bathrobe was splayed open and he could see the tops of her breasts and how they were catching the full stroke of morning light.
He shook his head like a quarterback shaking off a sack and unclenched his fists, stepped around the doorway and through the threshold.
"Good morning, Ruslan," she smiled through a piece of red fruit, the juice of which was making her mouth look unsettlingly like the blushing wet lips of an aroused pussy. "Sleep okay?"
He nodded, stiffly at first but found her body language to be calming...there wasn't a reason to worry was there? She didn't see him.
She asked him if he wanted anything for breakfast, "I usually only eat fruit and bran cereal, I'll have Rosemont pick up some sugary cereals today."
"Fruit is fine," Ruslan insisted, sitting across from her. The table was just a small circle of polished (to a mirror-like sheen) oak and he mistakenly bumped her shin as he sat. "Sorry."
"No worries," she smiled, nibbling on another cut of fruit.
He ate in silence, keeping his head down. This proved to be no help however because of the reflective nature of the tabletop. No matter where he looked he had to look at his aunt, and simply looking at her brought up the torrent of arousing images from the night before.
"I'm going to the sunroom," she said abruptly, standing and adjusting the lapel of her bathrobe. "I like to hang out there in the morning when the light hits it. Leave whatever you use, it'll get cleaned up."
She walked out of the room, bare feet padding softly on the tile. Ruslan watched her go and pushed aside the fruit, hunger was the farthest thing from his mind.
Something was bothering him. Something threatening.
With ears straining he moved to the open doorway and listened for the sound of the sunrooms French doors closing.
Click
.
He was off down the hall, grabbing the great banister and ascending the stairs so fast he nearly tripped at the top. Down the hall, he counted the windows as he walked. There it was. Her bedroom.
The door was ajar almost as far as the hinges would allow and he passed into the room with only the quickest of backward glances. The bed was unmade, a bunch of small pillows were on the floor beside a crumpled up black nightie. Past the bed and around the corner was the closet he had lost her in the night before.
His fears suddenly became completely and horrifically true.
The pulsing white aura was not a night lamp. It was television screens.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He was desperate, shoving aside hanging clothes and finding a central control panel. Dials, buttons and toggles, numbered screens and DVD trays.
It all reminded him of a Las Vegas surveillance room. With anxious fingertips he pushed the power buttons on all the screens, watching the outside world flash into existence in front of him. There were only three video monitors, but a row of buttons below them suggested there were probably ten cameras.
With rising panic he hit the first button, then the second, faster with the third. The pool flashed to life with the fourth, the time stamp matched his watch almost to the second.
His finger hovered over the tenth and final button. It clicked softly as he pressed it.
The bed he had slept in flared onto the screen, every single pixel lashing out at his senses like a whip.
Slowly, painfully, he reached for the dial marked REWIND. In front of his eyes time rolled backwards. Suddenly he was on the screen, doing sit-ups like a mad man, and then he rolled up through the air to the mattress. Then he was tossing and turning, blankets coiling around his legs and pillows being unknowingly shoved off the bed.
And then he was masturbating...
He closed his eyes, feeling the gravity of defeat pulling his pulsing heart into his stomach.
She had seen him...all of him.
Another click, the sound of a door closing.
She's come back to change,
he thought, whipping around.
Before he had totally turned Jeri was shoving him. She was no weak woman, her shoulders were strong and her arms were toned, with the right angle and a little effort she shoved her nephew against the wall of the closet. He fell against her dresses and hanging delicates, hitting his head on an overhead rack holding boxes of shoes.
"What the
fuck
," she yelled, "do you think you're doing?"
The boxes of shoes fell, sandals and pumps and cross trainers and sneakers raining on his shoulders and head.
He was speechless; his muscles wouldn't operate in the way his brain telling them too.
Run, you stupid motherfucker, run!
Jeri grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him through the clothes and tripping him up at the same time. He collapsed against the far wall of the closet, a familiar object dug into his ribs.
