Take 2: on the Beach
It hadn't been the best of flights and that was hard to do when the mode of travel was a private Lear, the weather conditions perfect, and the service excellent. After all, two attendants for two passengers rather guaranteed that no one had to wait. That flight was still on her mind as Clare paced around the guest suite, oblivious to the tropical breezes wafting through the open balcony doors and filling the room with scents of the sea and lush vegetation. Stomping was probably closer to the truth than pacing and she'd really like to be throwing things; big, sharp, pointed things but that wasn't going to happen so she kept stomping. Stomping, pacing, what difference did it make; nothing was helping to calm her down. If anything, she was getting more riled by the minute and beginning to think that when she returned to LA (and that could not be soon enough), she was going to throttle Martin for the sick kind of practical joke that he'd played on her.
From beginning to end, it had been a set-up; the cocktail party, the sudden appearance of Brad (damn, damn, and triple damn), and Martin, the grateful client, lending his private plane to whisk her off to a secluded island so she could spend a few days just resting. (It's nothing, Clare, a small thank you for saving my life... well a big chunk of my net worth at least. Considering that I really can't afford another divorce until this studio power plays works itself out, I'm just going to keep the bitch wife for a couple more years). Who knew that Martin Gray and Brad were old friends? When she got back to LA, she was going to expunge Martin from her client list. The next time he got caught playing around on his wife (and there would be a next time because Martin was great with the big picture but lousy with the details), he'd be some other lawyer's headache. She'd miss the 80 grand a year retainer but all she'd have to do was remember last night and the dirty, rotten, sneaky...she was running out of adjectives and about to segue into expletives which she hated using. It was one of the remaining vestiges of her Catholic education. She could still hear Sr. Angela equate profanity with small minds, stupidity and lack of control and, damn it (damn didn't count she'd decided years ago), Clare Marshall was always in control. That was Platinum Rule #1.
Right, Clare, and weren't you the girl in charge last night? You stumble into a freshman fling from your college past and decide to teach the guy a lesson. Does he slink off properly cowed by your success, your charm, your beauty? Not a hard question and it has a simple answer: no. No, no, no. Anyway you want to look at it, Brad did not slink, was not cowed. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Clare stopped mid-stomp and cringed at the memory of herself stripped naked, twenty stories above Wilshire Blvd., tied with her own sash to a chaise lounge while Brad fingered her pussy and fucked her brains out, stopping intermittently to sip her scotch. Did you at least have the presence of mind to scream, to scratch, to pretend you didn't enjoy it? No, to all the previous, your Honor; I came three times. I can only plead...she wasn't sure what the answer was to that. Honestly, it had been the most erotic experience of her life and in some small, private, I will not tell a soul, corner of her innermost feminine being, she wanted it to happen again and with Brad. Clare commenced the stomping. Knives maybe, large rocks... definitely throwing something sharp and painful at Brad and Martin, the bastard; that would help. Thinking about Brad stripping and tying her and putting those knowing fingers into her cunt and following that up with his cock: that was only going to lead to more swearing and, damn it, there had to be something that she could control.
Clare stepped onto the balcony and looked out over an ocean that gleamed turquoise blue in the morning sun and lapped at sugar white sand. It was as private a home as you could ask for; quiet, secluded, staffed by servants who were efficient and unobtrusive. The only sounds were a few gulls and the rhythmical washing of the waves. Too quiet; Clare could hear that little voice in her head, the ruthlessly honest one who always waited for the ranting to subside before delicately pointing out the cold, sobering truth.
"You didn't have to get on that plane, you know. It wasn't as if you were pushed, or bound and gagged then," the little voice whispered.
"Right. After I cancelled a week's worth of appointments and scheduled painters to come into the condo. I'm supposed to stay home all because Brad Rivers shows up. He should have had the courtesy to bow out."
"Courtesy," the little voice said. "The man tied you up, had his way with you (prissy little voice at the moment) and you expect him to cancel his reservation to the Bahamas and, what, go back to Omaha? Do you know how cold it is in Omaha right now? Face it, Clare, you got on that plane because you wanted a rematch. Or, you just wanted him again? Hmmmm, is that it, Clare?"
Resting both hands on the balcony railing, Clare closed her eyes and swallowed hard. She liked having the answers, liked knowing the score, liked playing the game and she was good at it—as long as the game was law. She truly sucked at love and sex, well, she hadn't exactly been a virgin for the past fifteen years but she was definitely more show than go. She never really got the knack of casual sex; she'd learned how to fake an orgasm pretty well. She hadn't faked last night and, if she were really going to honest, she rather liked being tied, being told. So, yes, maybe all the stomping and swearing really wasn't aimed at Brad or Martin.
"Yes," the little voice echoed. "So now what? Here you are for the next six days. That's a long time to stomp. Maybe you want to consider the alternatives."
Okay, Clare thought, alternatives it is. Turning back into the suite, she walked into the dressing room where the helpful staff had already unpacked for her, even added a few things by the looks of it. A handful of skimpy bikinis were folded into a large wicker basket, long flowing beach dresses dangled from padded hangers next to short flirty ones. She opened the dresser drawers to see piles of delicate bras and panties, thongs and silky nighties. By comparison, her own stuff looked...stuffy. Martin did have good taste she noted running her hands over the piles.
Fifteen minutes later Clare was walking down the shaded open terrace that bordered green lawns that extended to the sea, past a pool, umbrella tables and unto the sand where a couple of chaises were already laid out under a large morrocan style tent whose sides were held open with ties. A narrow table held a pitcher of icy water, plates of fresh fruit, glasses and flowers. Huge fluffy towels and robes were piled on upholstered chaises. No sign of Brad and that was just fine with Clare. He was probably just a mite wary. Sure, he really struck her as the wary sort. She didn't care. It had been one night, she was here and she was not going to be scared off by someone from Omaha. She spread a towel over a chaise, kicked off her sandals and lay back, feeling the breeze waft by. She'd barely closed her eyes on the plane and now it was so peaceful here, maybe she'd just take a quick nap. It was only moments and she had drifted off, lulled to sleep by the waves.
