"Why won't you tie me up, dammit?"
Hmm...I know she thinks I can be a bit, well, reserved sometimes. But I think near-shouting that in a restaurant might be a bit much. Especially considering that it took two months to get a reservation in this place. And considering that she always complains I don't want to go anywhere.
I take another piece of the, frankly, divine fois gras before I answer.
"Do you really want to know?"
She nods, her eyes blazing. Windows to the soul, they say. With her, it's true. All the maelstrom of emotions in her headstrong brain just ooze out of those eyes. Pain, impatience, lust...yes, lust. I've seen it from her a couple of times, but frankly not as often as I should, for a couple who've dated for six months. My friends are all insanely jealous. She's a drop-dead gorgeous brunette, who dresses to entice, and just moves with that ex-professional-dancer feline grace. The vertical motions point to horizontal ecstasy. And they're right. Occasionally.
And yet, for all that, I can't say that I'm that happy being with her. It started out as an ego thing – something I'm not proud to confess, but honest enough to admit. And it squares with her attitude of going with the guy who had the most expensive Porsche. So we're both dammed by our own cynicism, I suppose. She's very demanding, in the look-at-me, be-amazed-by-me, kind of way. And she has low expectations of both me and our relationship. I feel like a rung on a ladder.
"Because, my dear, that would be too easy. And it wouldn't teach you a lesson."
Boy, that got her attention, in all sorts of ways. She moves back in her chair, wide-eyed. She's so damn – what's the word – impressive to look at, I don't think she's used to anything but fawning. I'm supposed to fall at her feet. An average-looking, albeit rich guy, I'm supposed to be so grateful she's wasting her beauty on me for a while.
Looking at her half-feigned astonishment that I would dare to suggest she needed to be taught a lesson, I realise something significant. She pisses me off. It's as simple as that. She has no interest in who I am, what I am, what I aspire to be. She's interested in those isolated points where the curve of her life touches the curve of mine. We met by accident, got together by accident. The parting – and I know it's going to come – will be very deliberate. On her side, naturally. Mr Right won't be waiting for her (because he doesn't exist), but Mr Next will have the engine of his more-expensive-than-mine car running on my driveway. That's how I'll know. Before she even invents some spurious reason why it's no longer working.
So...I've decided to try to have some fun. And maybe, just maybe, put a little dent in that supreme arrogance of hers. The indifference to others' feelings that only comes from being told you're beautiful, every day, from your first sentient moment.
It's showtime.
"You heard me, baby. Teach you a lesson. Frankly, honey, you're boring me in bed."
She's almost choking now. I can hear her internal voice. Nobody, nobody has ever spoken to me like that. Nobody. Nobody has ever dared. It's disgraceful. Who does he think he is? With that crappy haircut. He didn't know his Armani from his fucking elbow when I met him. Does he even realise how many men want me? How many fucks I turn down each week? Does he have a clue?
"Yeah, bored would be the right word. You see, you don't know how to please a guy. Beauty doesn't do it, you see. Hell, I can go on the 'Net and see a hundred women as good looking as you. You lack a basic technique."
My words are measured. I'd expected to be breathless by now, as her agitation rises and rises. Or just expected that I couldn't carry it off at all. I think the realisation of my indifference has given me an edge. It's all in the balance now. Time to go for the jugular.
"I could show you how to please a man. But I doubt you could actually pay attention long enough to learn. I think you're doomed to fail on that score. Just go through life, being a bit of a disappointment to each successive boyfriend. Of course, when the looks go, and the surgery and botox can't hold your face up, the boyfriends will go too. I hope you bank the money you steal from my account, 'cos you're going to have a long old age to spend it in. That age starts in about ten years."
Her crystal champagne flute hit the floor, and I swear the obsequious little asshole waiter had it swept up and into the oh-so-trendy recycle box before it had time to shatter. Fifty bucks for a starter, but the service was shit hot.
Her mind was ticking over the alternatives. I'd known she was stealing money from a joint account she'd suggested we set up. It was into six figures by now. I didn't mind too much at first. I was smart enough to keep most of my investments well away from it. I was intrigued. She fell into that classic embezzler's trap of starting small, and getting bigger. Either because she got over-confident, or because the amount wasn't looking big enough, early enough. She wasn't especially clever about it. She didn't invent very plausible reasons why the amount ebbed and flowed as it did. What irked me – and still does – is that she thought so little of my intelligence that I wouldn't notice, and so little of my integrity that I wouldn't care. Hence tonight.
I watched the change sweep across her face like a storm front. She'd taken the bait. She'd worked out that the loathsome pained expression on her face, as if she had any innocence to be injured, wasn't going to hack it. She couldn't deny it. I could go to the cops and sort it out really easily. You don't make a fortune in the security business, especially in Vegas, without knowing a lot of cops. And a lot about some of them. I knew she already had rap sheets. Prostitution, blackmail. All a few years ago, but a leopard...She just got better at it, that's all.
She was going to try the sweet thing instead. The oh, honey, I'll do anything you want honey, anything you wanna do to me, I just hate fighting, honey. It wouldn't work either, but her flimsy opinion of my mind (and whether it was in my head or my dick) meant she'd give it the ol' college try anyway.
It's a strange smile she has, now that I look at it. Too perfect. Not crooked enough. And never moving above the lower half of her face. It's dazzling in the abstract, across a crowded room, on the dance floor. Simply because it's directed at you, and not some other guy. When you're a true recipient, you see how empty it is. My indifference is starting to turn towards contempt.
She takes my hand in hers.
"Let's skip the meal, babe. Take me home and show me how to please a man like you."
I didn't miss the double meaning. She laughed at my dick the first time she saw it. I mean, outright laughed. Collapsed back onto the bed. I mean, there's surprise, and then there's cruelty. At first, I was grateful she'd gone through with fucking me, considering I'm only four inches at best. And even with my limited experience, I knew a badly-faked cum when I heard it. But each time we fucked, I got a little replay tape of that laugh, somewhere in the back of my head.
In the limo she moves to suck me off as we drive, but I push her head away. She does a fake – and annoying - pout. Fuck, how could I ever have found her attractive? I realise what a low ebb I was truly at, when I met her. Six weeks after Ellie left. Cute, smart, funny, wonderful Ellie. Yeah, maybe it was only right that I would fuck up, trying to replace that. And me, with my heart ripped out and beating in an apartment somewhere in Florida. In Ellie's hands, as always.
So beautiful, shallow Roberta was the rebound bimbo par excellence. God, I was such a cliché. Rich, ugly bald guy loses true love, dates a bimbette who rips off his money when she thinks he isn't looking. Christ, I was a caricature of myself.
The limo glides to a halt, and as Roberta clicks her stilettos towards the house, I tell Danny, the driver, to wait. He will. Even if I don't say anything for a week, he'll sit outside. His brother's into me for ninety thousand and counting. I only loaned him ten as a favour to Danny. The rest is debts to every crappy casino in West Vegas, which I've paid off without telling. Danny thinks his brother is in Reno, but he's actually holed up in New Mexico while I dry him out. Danny is a childhood friend. But hey, don't expect me to be a nice guy tonight, because I'm not. As Roberta is about to find out.
She's kicked off her shoes, shed the dress, and draped herself into what she thinks is the most erotic position I can imagine. It's not. She's sat in a large easy chair, legs spread, licking her lips. Sooooo porn star. I'm not averse to fucking like a porn movie – love it, in fact – but I'm disappointed that she thinks this is the only way to be really sexy. Besides, I know she doesn't mean it. She's not into it, not like Ellie was. She's doing it because it's her idea of what a guy like me will find sexy. It's an obligation, and no thought has gone into it at all.
I smile at her. It's the smile of someone who knows they control the situation. But to her, it's a middle aged man smiling at his oh-so-foxy young girlfriend's pussy.
I bend towards her and whisper.
"Grab hold of the back of the chair, close your eyes, and listen."
She smiles and does this. She's expecting a little pin-prick from a little pin prick, her going ooh and aah in the right places, and all will be forgiven.
She's a great looking woman, to the uninitiated. A photograph of this would be good fuck fantasy material to most guys. Her body is lean and smooth, tanned to perfection in a golden honey colour. Her tits are still pert, thanks to a slight but well-judged touch of silicone a few years ago. Her stomach is flat, and her legs are well toned. Her pussy is shaved, although I've never insisted or even asked. She has a nice, firm round ass that begs some attention.
"One hundred and twelve thousand, seven hundred and two dollars."
Her eyes snap open.
