Some Housekeeping: No editor. Please forgive mistakes or post the error in comment section. The erotic, fleshy stuff is toward the end, the pacing somewhat leisurely, as I prefer the psychological/situational side of sex. Minor changes--eye color--have occurred, but nothing major. All characters are over the age of 18. Story picks up after limo ride from funeral
.
The limo cruised through the outer gate of the compound, rolling down a long, winding driveway paved with cobbled stones. Simon's home was a sprawling estate fixed upon a bluff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. It was defended by an assortment of security measures headed by a German mercenary, Zigmund. The luxury vehicle slowed as it veered parallel to the front door. Zigmund and several members of staff stood waiting in front of the mahogany doors.
The moment the limo stopped, the butler, a small Asian man called Raine, glided like water to Sarina's door in front of him, opening it with smooth, effortless movements. The German, however, stalked around the vehicle and opened Simon's door brusquely, greeting him with a crisp, "Sir."
Simon walked clear of the limo, gazing at the blue sky as the door clunked shut behind him. He'd just buried his father. Michael Vess, the man he'd loved and envied his whole life, the overbearing presence that had shaped his world, was dead. So how was it, then, that the sun still shined; that birds and dragonflies continued to flitter their silvery wings in trees and shrubs; that the crashing waves below the shoreline could sound their ever-present roar?
Life never stops or waits, so grab the bitch by the waist and let her buck
. Words from Father.
The old lion was dead. The family's pride and the burden of leadership: passed to the son. Simon clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed his new domain. Though he'd lived here most of his life—knew which spiked points of the gate were dull, the trees each guard dog preferred to mark—it all seemed new to him: the difference between following a jungle path and stomping through the bush with a machete.
The deep purr of the limo's exhaust broke him from his thoughts, reminding him of the pleasurable ride from the funeral. His mother's mouth and the driver's skill. He'd have more of both, but later; there were more important matters to address.
"Thanks, Zig," he said, feeling the German's eyes behind him. He could feel the others as well.
Zig came forward, stopping a step short of standing beside him. The German was a six-seven battle-scarred tower. His hair was short and sharp, like chopped wheat. Eyes, cold blue. He was dressed in his customary dark blue suit and crimson shirt, standing close enough so they wouldn't be overheard. "Opening your car door is part of my job, sir," he stated with a slight German accent. "A minor part, but my job nonetheless." He and his security detail had remained at the compound at Simon's behest.
"Not for the door, Zig," Simon said, staring at the oversized fountain in front of him. It resembled a golden candle holder. "For not busting my nuts about today. You could've insisted on security at the funeral, forcing me to dress you down or reluctantly agree—either way, making me look a kid."
The proud German clenched his jaw, staring down at the back of his young master's head. "In all honesty, Simon, I'm busting my own for not doing just that. I promised your father that I would keep his family safe."
Simon looked down at his leather shoes, the sunlight melting into the rich leather. His father found Zig over a decade ago. To say he was down on his luck was like saying that the Treaty of Versailles had been tough on Germany. Murder, torture, drugs, general mayhem—Zig had did it all. But Michael Vess gave him an opportunity to reclaim his life; and a chance to right a few wrongs, as well.
Turning, Simon saw Sarina, Raine, and three maids waiting between the ivory columns that framed the front door. The five, elegant figures cut a striking picture beneath the open balcony swathed in wines. They were dressed stylishly in black—the maids, though, wearing two-inch heeled monstrosities.
Hold up; it appeared one had sauntered from the herd, standing atop a pair of shiny Mary Janes. A dirty blonde, her mouth slightly ajar, eyeing him with open admiration. She was new, pretty, and blatantly busty.
"I wanted my mother to see me as a protector," Simon said, turning to Zig, ignoring his new toy, for now. "And not as a child. A difficult thing to do around the German Grim Reaper."
-----
A survivor of countless military incursions, scars peppered the German's body, the most grievous covering his left cheek and jaw. A grenade thrown by a now deceased, religious zealot had shredded nearly half of the German's face. He'd been living on the streets for two years when Simon's father found him. When his jaw was fully extended, gaps showed through the hamburger-meat threads of tissue left of his cheek. The gruesome scarring made him fit to play a zombie on cable; but nothing an expensive surgeon couldn't fix. Zig, however, wanted a bare-bones service. He now bore a Grim Reaper-like half-grin, his left, upper and lower jaws lined with platinum teeth.
-----
"I won't interfere with your job again," Simon continued. "And though I haven't said it," he began, as he held his hand out and looked the German in the eye. "I'm sorry for your loss, Zigmund."
The German stood rim-rod straight, his expression severe, as he firmly shook Simon's hand. "Yours too, sir," and nodded. With that out the way, the two men turned to waiting ensemble at the front door. Before drawing near, Zig said, "We live and die—that's life." He nodded at Sarina and said, "And your old man had a wild one."
Eyeing the hourglass figure of his mother, feeling the ghost of her plump lips around his cock, Simon nodded. "I don't doubt it."
After receiving curt bows from the staff, he held his arm out for Sarina and walked inside. They entered the main living area, which resembled the entrance of a luxury mall. Gilded accents gleamed like a gold mine opened to the sun. Forty feet above them hung an immense chandelier with the brilliancy of falling diamonds. The room's centerpiece was a multi-tiered fountain. Beginning at the wide bottom, four jets fed the smaller tier above it, and so on, until a final stream leapt into the air and dove to the bottom tier, where it became four again. Two walnut staircases with white balustrades swept around the spectacle like arms.
During peak hours the area was a hub for busy maids going about their duties. It now was a reception area, as every member of the staff stood facing the door—black suits and dresses up and down the winding staircases and manila walls. Over fifty souls. They had come to show their respect and get a first impression of their new master. The mood was somber yet unmistakably tense. Most knew him, knew him well, but only as the heir apparent, not as he was now: Mr. Vess—their new boss.
Zig cleared his throat, prompting Simon to pat his mother's hand and step toward the fountain, alone. He looked around the room, at all the eyes watching him in anxious anticipation. Like the fountain, his father's death had made him the focus of everyone around him.
"Today I buried my father," he began, pleased how his voice boomed inside the large room. "I won't lie or leave it unsaid: He was a difficult man to love. He demanded perfection from everyone around him—for them to go the extra mile. Come to him with anything less, and he'd tattoo your head with an ashtray. He's gone but many of us still carry the scars, have the number of stitches etched into our soul." Simon nodded, seeing a few smiles. "I was twelve," he began, "proud and cocky after passing a business class. He smiled and raised his cigar to me . . . Then I bragged about skipping the final exam." Simon pointed to his right temple. "I saw a plume of ash—then WHACK. Eight stitches along the hair line. After that, I learned to be perfect, go the extra mile—or duck."
Simon paused to let them chuckle. Then he slipped his hand inside his pants pocket while raising his index finger over his head a dictator.
"PERFECTION!" he declared, looking each of them in the eye. "Is within my reach—is within each of yours—because of
him!
He made us do more than what was enough. He made us go the extra mile. He
forced
