Chapter 1 - Housekeeping
The sun hit Trent's face as he woke up. A welcome change from the grating beeps of the alarm clock. Dreams still ghosted images across his sleepy eyes. Images like shooting jism across Jocasta's tits. Images like topless girls playing on the beach, the water coating their smooth breasts, their nipples erect from the cold breeze. Images like Jocasta's face when he fucked her, her face combining agony and ecstasy into one expression.
Trent rubbed his stiff neck as he sat up on the bed. Too many days being too stressed out. That didn't stop him from having an erection this morning. A combination of arousal and the need to urinate.
He did not notice the china blue sea and sky as he turned on the TV. Not bothering to turn up the volume, he scanned the headlines. Below the talking head, he read the crawl. Bombing here. Protest there. Then he remembered: it was Saturday, stock markets were closed. That gave him a couple days to patch things up should the deals go sour. Pretty soon all that glad-handing and number crunching would result in a fat commission deposited to his bank account. Play money.
He stared at the sea. On the night table his cell phone rested. Inert. Picking it up, he saw no messages. She hadn't called.
It was 10: 30 am. 'She should have called by now. Fuck,' Trent thought.
Getting up, he walked to the shower. No need to feel ashamed of his nakedness, he left the door open as he peed. Then he combed his black hair and shaved. For the first time he didn't look like a complete wreck.
'When was the last time I was caught up on sleep?' He thought.
For some reason, the thought of Jocasta having a fiancé bothered him. He felt oddly possessive. He didn't want to share her. Maybe because she said he worked for Vector Enterprises. As long as no one gossiped, he'd be fine.
Possessiveness did not normally intrude into Trent's relationships. Not like fooling around with another man's wife was a big deal anymore. The AIDS cure was old news now. As were the earlier cures for herpes and other biological nasties that got in the way of promiscuous fucking. And among the hyper-competitive business elites Trent socialized with, promiscuity was a badge of honor. A man or a woman wasn't considered executive material unless they could have multiple affairs, while still frequenting the swinger scene.
Before the business deals left him with no social life, he had been an active swinger. The swingers in the Cannes-St. Tropez area, near the headquarters of Vector Enterprises, were insatiable. For all his thoughts about Jocasta, he wanted to reenter the swinger scene again. Maybe she could join him. Then they'd really have fun together.
The thought kept his mind occupied as he walked down the staircase into the kitchen. He ate a piece of toast in the master kitchen. Unlike this particular kitchen with its smooth lines and chrome fixtures, there existed a larger kitchen in the beach house's sub-basement. The kitchen staff toiled over the ranges and boilers, the walk-in freezers, and produce lockers that encompassed nearly the entire floor. It had never been used this summer. Sad really. Trent walked into the living room, turning on another plasma screen TV. He sat in a large black leather couch, vacantly nibbling on his toast. Flipping through the channels, he stopped on an auto race. Possibly a Le Mans series. Hard to tell mid-race. He enjoyed the race for its simple pleasures: watching Ferraris, Lamborghinis, and Porsches hurtle around the winding track, bound only by the driver's determination and reflexes.
If he hadn't been drafted into the family business, he'd have been a professional driver. The Ferrari's lines reminded him of Jocasta, the line leading from her thigh to her waist. He could almost taste her nipples and feel her warmth between her legs. Just thinking about her made him hard. As cars swept around the tight corners, he caressed his hardening cock beneath his sweat pants.
'If she's not going to call, obsessing about her won't do a damn thing,' Trent thought, 'Plus this race is boring.'
He walked out on to the concrete deck that surrounded the beach house. Then he stripped off his shirt and sweatpants, then dove into the swimming pool.
*
Veronica Vanuschka's job was housekeeping. Hired shortly after Trent acquired the beach house, she joined the cohort of maids, cooks, chauffeurs, and valets needed to make Trent's life less strenuous. Since he spent his nights either in the downtown apartment or The Residence, he reduced the cohort of domestics to the bare minimum. Three or four maids to perform general clean up duties. An on-call cook. And a small security team. The beach house was empty, not an invitation to squatters.
Today was Veronica's day off. She spent yesterday polishing the silver and dusting the furniture. With those dreadful tasks complete, she used the afternoon to sunbathe. Because the house was empty she decided to sunbathe naked. Sitting on the chaise lounge, she rubbed suntan lotion on her body. She had a voluptuous body and a beautiful Slavic face. Her hands rubbed her ample breasts and her large nipples became erect from the cool lotion. In the winters she let her hair grow long, but when the summer heat became too sweltering she shaved her head. That was a couple months ago, in late May. Now late August, she teased her black hair into a sexy Caesar cut, the hairs long enough to slightly curl on her forehead.
The sun beat down on her naked skin. She cleaned off her hands on the nearby towel and picked up her book.
Between her legs the smooth oyster of her cunt craved satisfaction. During the long weeks when Trent slept elsewhere, she spent the nights jumping from bed to bed. She attained ornate pleasures with the other staff members. Some nights she coupled with another staff member. The delicate tongues of the other maids were her favorite. Other nights, she dove into sweaty knots of limbs, tongues, and teeth. One night, Ilya, an older maid, perhaps in her mid-thirties, held her wrists down while Nia and Tania licked her nipples. The security men took turns pounding her, the fucking as powerful as it was uncreative. When it was all over, the sun barely peaking over the indigo sea, the four men rested on the floor like ruined Roman statuary, their sperm spent over the faces and bodies of the four maids.
That was last week. Veronica couldn't remember whether it was Wednesday or Thursday.
Ilya was still asleep. Last night she had a wild threeway with Cain, a new man hired for security, and Janosz, the Carpathian cook. Veronica's bedchamber was next to Ilya's. She heard everything. The bed knocked so hard, she couldn't fall asleep.
'Finish up your business and go to sleep!' She thought.
When she tried to read from her book, she couldn't even do that. By this time, Nia and Tania joined in the action. In their bedchambers they masturbated. Their groans filled the corridor. Lacking all restraint, the pair became noisier.
'I need to buy earplugs,' Veronica thought, her sore hand traveling down her flat stomach to her moistening pussy.
Her fingers still sore from polishing the silver, they gently caressed the folds of her cunt, her clit throbbing like a hummingbird.
As people eventually climaxed, Veronica remained unfulfilled. It took her a few minutes. When everyone else slept, she silently came, her body jerking as if possessed by a violent demonic spirit.
*
Hearing a splash, Veronica woke up with a start. She rubbed her eyes, woozy after a highly erotic dream. Her clit throbbed, this time from perverted after-images dancing in her mind. Skin sensitive from an afternoon in the sun, it felt especially tender when she remembered the dream.
The details became clearer: Ilya, Nia, and Tania feasting on her murky cunt while Rod, her boyfriend hammered her from the rear. His long cock slid in and out of her asshole. The three tongues sliding and gliding against her hairless slot, lapping up the liquid that seeped from her.
She stared at the waves in the pool, her mind elsewhere. Then she realized she had a goofy smile on her face while she looked at Trent.
Trent. Her boss.
He emerged from the pool, the water dripping off his naked body. He appeared completely unselfconscious of the fact.
Veronica screamed in fright. She quickly put a nearby towel over her exposed tits and crossed her legs.
"You don't have to do that," Trent said. "Don't be embarrassed."
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Mr. Mr. ..." She couldn't remember his first name. 'I must look like a complete idiot," She thought.
"Don't be ashamed. I rarely visit this place anyway. It's not your fault,"
Veronica smiled, the towel remaining in its strategic position. She tried to not stare at his cock.
He walked over, ready to shake her hand.
"You can call me Trent," He smiled, brushing stray hairs from his eyes. "You must be Ilya, right?"
