The Rolls And The Pipe Ch 04

Wotcher. Welcome to the fourth installment of

The Rolls and the Pipe

. Noticing that I was only writing one page on Literotica screens, I will be trying to write more per installment. This is a personal preference: I like continuing to read. Longer stories (I'm reading "Drumbeats in His Soul" right now) are my preference. In fact, I only own books over 300 page because I read them in only four hours or less. I rip through a Lit. story in fifteen minutes.

I will be trying to show a little more of Kaiser's "ugly" side in this story, and showing a bit more of his insecurity. Paige will blossom, I hope, and I encourage any female who reads this to give me feedback – I know how men's minds work, and I have a good idea how women's work, but I am always seeking to improve my knowledge.

Enjoy.

*****

Kaiser's Perspective

I don't think I was angry. Actually, my rage had played itself out the night before, so I guess I was in a post-fury state of insensitivity. As I led Paige out of the newspaper's main doors, I could feel the stares of her coworkers on me, on us. My conscience caught up to me just before I pushed the doors open, bringing me to a halt. I took a deep breath, lowered my arm, and turned around.

Just as Paige caught up to me, throwing her jacket haphazardly around her shoulders, I said, "Sorry. I guess I should talk to your boss first."

"Yes, you damn well should!" she said indignantly. So did her boss.

"What the hell is going on here?" he asked. "Who the hell are you?"

"Kaiser Mattanthas."

"What's a Kaiser Mattanthas, and why should I care?" he yelled. "Scratch that! Who are you to be coming barging into my newsroom and shanghai one of my reporters?" His face, normally ruddy with well-fed, mid-life health, turned a rainbow of purple as he turned lividly to Paige. "…And what the hell do you think you're doing running off with him!? Eh? You have work to do, and I can't have my reporters running off after some dorked up wallbanger on a crazy whim!!! Get back to work!"

"Sir, I think we should go into your office – I was just coming to speak with you. It would not be wise to speak here, surely," I said.

"And why the hell not?"

"The media is abroad." He blinked. He looked like a surprised fish.

"Well, what do you want to talk to me about?"

"The employment of Miss d'Lephant, the safety of said employee, and, perhaps, the survival of yours truly."

"So?" I think he was determined to be belligerent.

"Uhm," I thought fast, "…and the survival of your job." With any luck, he'd be worried about his own job security already, and apparently he was, for he said:

"Ah. Right this way."

Paige's boss (I assumed) led me to his office, and I waved Paige in before I shut the door. I answered his inquiring look with a rock-solid expression of my own. "Paige," I said, "I think this gentleman and I need to be introduced."

"Uhm, Dave, this is the gentleman I interviewed last Tuesday, Major Mattanthas. Kaiser, this is Dave Williamson, Editor-in-Chief." She turned to me. "What's this about?"

I coughed delicately and smoothed my beard. "Do you still have the necklace?"

"Yes," she said warily. "Why?"

"It turns out that I was right."

"Oh God."

"Nope. A hit man, actually."

Mr. Williamson interrupted. "What? Why does Paige have a hit man after her?"

"Because of me."

"What?"

I sighed. "It's a long story, Mr. Williamson. Do you have a moment?"

"No, but I won't let you take her –"

" – And I won't leave without her –"

" – So I guess I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

"Nope."

"Let's sit down, shall we? Can I get anyone a drink?" This from Paige.

"A rye and coke," said Williamson.

"Water with a twist, please."

"Right."

As Paige busied herself with the drinks, I related my information to her and to her boss.

"The night Paige interviewed me for the feature page, I informed her of the inherent dangers of associating with me. You know little about me, Mr. Williamson, but suffice it to say I am a very, very powerful man. As with all powerful individuals, I have equally powerful enemies.

"Last Tuesday, a man by the name of Jim Bregure was sighted near the café where we dined. He has been hired by one of the syndicates who are dedicated to my eradication to shadow me . . . and by proxy, eliminate anyone I associate with. Apparently, the syndicate had been informed that we were dining out that evening, and Paige became their newest target.

"The necklace she wears is a gift from me."

"I thought so," commented Williamson.

"Yes, well, it's a security device. Camera, tracking device and a microphone are hidden within it, and the data is sent to me via an encoded FM tightbeam. It works off of a similar system to a cell phone. Wednesday, Miss d'Lephant was eating at a McDonald's restaurant on The Loop, and Mr. Bregure was sighted, through the camera, nearby. He's been prowling around her apartment for the last two or three days, and lately she's been followed by a hit team. We don't know who they are, but there you go. She's been marked out as a target – the usual plan is kidnap, interrogation and one of three things will follow: torture, blackmail or, unfortunately, death." These things are not easily said, and I tried to make it short and sweet. I did not want to be telling Williamson this, but for Paige's protection, he needed to know. A little information here and there, a diligent prod in the side, and you can manipulate someone's reactions as surely as a computer game. Manipulation has always been one of my strong points.

"Ah."

"Yeahumm."

"Paige? You knew about this?"

"Only vaguely. I signed a sheet of paper, without reading it, and apparently it waived my security over to Kaiser's companies."

"Right." Williamson sat back and thought. I crossed my ankles and nursed my Twisty. I waited for Williamson to respond, and passed the time gazing out of the fourth-story picture windows behind his desk. Not a pleasant sight, really. The 'paper is across the street from a decrepit women's clothing store. Plus sized lingerie stared out at me from bulbous mannequins and Rosie O'Donnell's ruddy face and whisky-soaked nose shone out at me. I shuddered. At least it wasn't Roseanne.

"So my star reporter is a target for the mob, her only chance is with a conceited nancyboy who's big enough to kick my ass from here to Vegas, and I can expect her to be out of circulation for weeks."

"That's about it, except for the loss of work thing."

"How do you mean?"

I uncrossed my legs and rested my elbows on my knees. "Essentially, you hire a free-lance photographer to partner Miss d'Lephant. The photographer will be a personal body-guard packing some serious baggage and orders to do anything to protect your employee. You will provide documentation to allow Miss d'Lephant travel permits, and she will continue her feature series."

"Where do you come into this?"

"Two options – she could accompany me to various functions and interview the celebrities and government officials I meet with on an exclusive basis." I left my sentence hanging.

Paige piped up. "And what's the second option?"

"I could be the photographer."

"WHAT?" They yelled.

LATER…….

I sat back in my chair and puffed slowly. I let the smooth, cool smoke of the tobacco sift upwards through the stem and circulate in my mouth. I ran my tongue over it, tasting it and enjoying its texture. I puffed out, creating a long line of narrow smoke rings that faded as they floated out the window.

As you can probably tell, I have some fairly strong (and eccentric) tastes – I drive a used Rolls-Royce, I wear work boots and I smoke the finest tobacco of the finest tobacconist in the world in a pipe made by the finest pipe maker in England. One of the pipes I smoke is one of Alfred Dunhill's pieces of art – a briar pipe with a silver military-style spigot and a chestnut-coloured acrylic stem. The quarter-bend pipe was a good friend of mine for years, starting with a storybook character. For years I'd emulated the fictional character Qwill Qwilleran, and I had the pipe, the cats and the literary interests to prove it. Now, I also had the money. I was set for life. Except for one thing – and I was now closer to achieving that then at any other time in my life. This is what happened:

After I'd barged into the newsroom and scared the metaphorical piss out of Paige and her boss, I'd taken Paige home to discuss details. I brought her to my place out of courtesy – when you nearly kidnap a woman, you should at least grant her the courtesy of allowing her into your inner sanctum. My wealth is staggering (to most, anyway), and I prefer to live as simply as possible while maintaining a decent comfort level. As I said before, my Chicago suite is a 2000 square-foot apartment, consisting of a good-sized kitchen, a study, comfortable bedroom, a bathroom to drool for and a delectable living room. As Paige walked in the door, she had to stop for a moment to take in her surroundings.

I took her coat and placed it in the closet next to mine. That doesn't seem like much, but I believe in symbolism – it's a test to determine how perceptive people are. She was awed, so she didn't notice. Don't blame her, frankly. She walked down the hallway to the den, carefully avoiding stepping on Cleopatra's tail (she is my other Siamese) while Mac stared at her forehead from on top of the bookshelf. Flopping down on the nearest couch, she tried nonchalance:

"So. What did you want to talk to me about? WOOP!" Apparently she'd miscalculated the depth of the cushions.

"Well, you need to know a bit more about me if I'm to protect you, don't you?"

"Not really."

"Oh? No trust issues then? Not concerned that a virtual stranger has imposed himself on your life? And, by proxy, is threatening your life? I'm impressed." I have a dry sense of humor, and sarcasm factors heavily into this type of situation.

"Okay, fine. I do want to know. I want to make sure that I'm not putting my life in the hands of a psychopath."

"Well, I'm owned by cats, so I can't be too much of a psychopath," I joked. "Before we start, can I get you anything to drink?"

I stood up and walked to the mini bar at the end of the den and got her drink, and poured a double-malt scotch for myself. Handing her her drink, I leaned back against the smokestack of the fireplace behind me.

"So what did you need to know?"

"Promise?"

"Of course. Trust is definitely necessary right about now."

And so it went. She wanted to know the scope of my security systems (the majority of which I kept from her), my influence in the government (not a lot, but enough), my control of the military and police forces (total, when in demonstrated need). She wanted to know about my social life too, and I indulged her in that.

"I'm an introvert by nature. I don't like people, but I like individuals. Large numbers of people make me paranoid, and I'm scared spitless by women. End of story."

Of course she wouldn't let THAT one go: "Scared of women?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Do you care?"

"What?"

"I'm not about to tell you something that personal unless you're willing to accept the ramifications of it. Wanna know what they are?"

"Uhm, okay…" Paige sounded uncertain.

"I learned years ago that I needed to become more private. My friends in school knew one side of me, and refused to accept the real me. You know I'm intense, but I'm a lot less so now than I was then. They saw the part of me that was happy-go-lucky and loud. Someone like me is…an anomaly, and not well cared for by society. I was in a very, very bad relationship in senior high, and I was emotionally scarred for a long, long time. I still am." I sighed. "That said, I don't give my 'self' freely to anyone anymore. You see what I want you to see, and nothing else. Telling you why I'm afraid of women – of relationships – would be tantamount to me putting my life and soul in your hands."

"Oh."

"Intense, eh?"

"Yeah."

"Do you still want to know?"

"My life and soul are in YOUR hands. I think it would be a fair exchange."

"Maybe. If a choice I made caused you to get hurt, you'd likely recover. If you made a choice with MY soul…I would die. Emotionally, and physically soon after."

"What?"

Now, I know that sounds melodramatic, but you'll understand why in a moment….

"This is the problem – I'm a one woman man. Telling you that would seal a bind on my heart – and I've been very careful not to let that happen." I took a deep breath.

"It was my first overtly sexual experience, and well, I'm kind of embarrassed about it."

"Don't spare the details. I don't mind."

I sighed.

"When I was in high school, I wasn't well liked. I know, boohoo. I was born five weeks early, and the doctors figured that the part of my brain that deals with social learning didn't develop. I didn't clue in to signals from the opposite sex until I was 20. Which is not to say I didn't notice girls – quite the opposite. Puberty hit me at eight."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. Anyway. I nearly got suspended a couple of times for 'stalking', and after I realized what the definition of it was, I stopped. People are weird: I was only trying to find out why these girls were refusing my admittedly clumsy advances. The bottom line was that they didn't want to speak to me. At all.

"This one girl, Ilsa, took a liking to me. Cute girl, I guess – 'bout 5'2" and one-twenty, maybe one-thirty in weight. She was pudgy. That was okay, then. She wanted to spend time with me, and I needed company. After about four months, she started getting fresh. We'd flirted a couple of times (well, all the time really)," I parenthesized. "Finally, in February of my graduating year, she got overbearing, and I started avoiding her. One time, she caught me 'napping' in the library and she kissed my cheek, thinking I was asleep. I don't sleep easily, so I was resting a bit. I nearly exploded right there. Another time, she cornered me in a foyer and tried making out with me right there. Wasn't the best time, really.

"Just after my grad ceremony, she was over at my place. She was trying on some dresses I'd designed the previous year, and she got horny."

"Don't stop. Tell me it all." Paige sounded kind of breathless, but I shrugged it off.

"You asked for it. She peeled the dress off of her torso and pounced me. I grabbed her around the waist – and I lost control. I tossed her on the bed and jumped on her. Well, beside her really." I was getting agitated, and started pacing. I put the tumbler of whisky on the counter and strode back and forth, gesticulating with my hands.

"I hoisted myself up beside her and – with typical virgin abandon, seized her breasts. I was going crazy. My sight ended up flickering like I was near a strobe light and I zoned in. I think I was a bit rough, but I don't really remember. I ran my hands under her breasts, up her sides and tickled her rib cage. I caressed the bottom curve of her breast and drew her nipple into my mouth. I suckled for a moment and moved over to her left breast. Massaging her right breast – "

"Use the word tit. It's easier."

I quirked an eyebrow. "Alright. I caressed her tit and tweaked the underside of the left as I drew it deep into my mouth. I pinched lightly as I sucked. She was going wild. Leaving her chest, I worked down toward her belly button and flicked my tongue around it before plunging in. She moaned really loud at that point, as I remember.

"Just as I was moving the dress down from around her hips, I received a mental slap upside the head. She started muttering with a false British accent, huskily, and started urging me on." I took a deep breath.

"That, I think, is what caused the mood change. Ilsa had a boyfriend, a guy who was one of my 'sort of' friends. Big and ugly as a brick. I have a moral code that I live by, and she nearly destroyed it – I nearly had sex with another man's girlfriend. I froze up and backed off, nearly cracking my head open on a bookcase behind me. She asked what was wrong, and we entered into one of those deep soul-talks. She removed the dress and replaced her clothes, and we spoke. She was frustrated – I know that – but I just couldn't go on. She was a Wiccan, and held some very fundamentalist views. I, well, I disagreed. She said that she would do all she could to take on the world's problems onto herself, and would not allow anyone to get hurt.

"I took a very literal view of that. To prove a point, I sliced my arm open – this one." I pulled my sleeve back and fingered a two-inch long scar on my left arm. "I ended the relationship that day.

"Ilsa had severe mental issues – she was sexually frustrated, disliked her parents, and had severe personality disorders. I was struggling with the same problems, and she was pouring all of her problems onto me. I like to think I'm a kind, helping sort of person, and I was trying to solve her problems for her. I discovered that day that there was no way in hell that I could do that. As the relationship progressed, my behavior issues became worse and worse, and I needed to stop. I'm glad I did." Paige started to interrupt, and I waved her silent.

"It took me the better part of three years to recover from that relationship. When I came through, I realized that I'd put so much of myself into her that when the relationship was broken off I essentially killed part of my essence. I can't afford to invest that amount of emotional energy into someone unless I can be deadly sure that I'll be safe in a relationship." I breathed deeply and picked up Mac from the counter. He'd found my whisky.

"That's a part of it. I hope it answered part of your question."

"Kaiser, I –" It was her turn to sigh. She unfolded her legs (I saw – discreetly, mind you - a small wet patch on the inside of her jeans) and walked toward me. She reached out and took Machiavelli from my hands. After she put him on the floor, she turned to me and put her hands cautiously on my shoulders. Her voice was soft as she spoke.

"That was a little more information than I needed to know, but I'm glad you told me. I think I know a little bit better who I'm going to be spending my time with."

She looked me in the eyes as she ran her hands down my chest and around under my arms. She leaned in close, stepping between my feet, and hugged me. I put my hands around her and just held.

I just held her.

To the Reader:

Wow. Uhm, I hadn't expected to write that!!!

You may have guessed by now, but this episode is largely autobiographical. Ilsa's name is not Ilsa, but the events are true. One of the most traumatic experiences in my life.

For those of you who have asked: I do smoke a pipe. I typically smoke a Brigham 2pt, an estate pipe from the '60s. I have never met Greg Pease (maker of G.L. Pease tobaccos), but he helped me a great deal when I started pipe smoking last September. Great guy, and the moment I can afford to buy some Bohemian Scandal, I most certainly will! The pipe Kaiser smokes is a real pipe, and Greg has promised to help me find it. Some schmuck in Italy bought it in December. Wank. If you know him/her, let me know!!!!

I don't own cats, but I hope to someday. Nor do I drive a Rolls!!

Anyway, Thanks for the votes – at the time of writing, Ch. 2 has the highest rating at 4.62. Thanks all!!!!!!

Please keep the feedback coming, and I will be working on Ch. 5 soon!!! I have ideas, but your thoughts are more than welcome.

Darrikk