Author's note:
While this can be read as a standalone story, it is the first chapter of a three-part sequel to Emergence, which I published in September of 2022. Scenes include the use of alcohol, experimental medicines, voyeurism/exhibitionism, and anal sex. This is a fictional story in which all characters are over age eighteen.
I have written all three chapters, so you may read with the confidence that you won't have to wait too long for the next two installments.
Enjoy!
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Almost no one realizes the extent to which their lives are shaped by DNA. I don't mean the obvious traits like eye color or height; even those with public school educations can penetrate that mystery. Nor am I referring to the invisible perils of those genes that predispose us to cancer or depression. I mean everything in between.
Consider my friend Jan, for example. He's a good looking man with strong, straight features, a square jaw, and blue eyes like I've seen in few other men. Those inherited traits fall into the first category. The way he fucks me is a different matter entirely.
Tonight I've cornered him in his cabin. It's been explained to me that I have an extremely strong sex drive, stronger even than Jan's and he's a male at least ten years younger than me. So if I want some dick I may have to work for it. This particular evening 'working for it' means bathing in his outdoor shower while he tries to ignore me from his deck chair just feet away.
"How was your day, my love?" We aren't in love, not really, but I like the way it sounds. Plus we fuck, which is often referred to as making love, so by association he's my love.
Jan doesn't answer right away. He's staring toward the horizon, sipping a vile Dutch aperitif which soothes him, and which he claims reminds him of home. "Pumps are still a shit show," he replies at last. He sneaks a peek at me and I reward him by running my soapy hands from the tops of my thighs to my breasts.
"Good thing your guests don't come here to swim."
Jan grunts, then clarifies, "But they expect to be able to from time to time."
I let him brood a bit. Jan Versus the Pumps has taken on a Sisyphean quality in my mind. I like to think of him at the pump house exhausting himself day after day so bungalow number three can go for a dip before they either saunter down for the evening's entertainments or stay in their room to fuck. That's what I want to do with Jan right now so I flip my hair back dramatically and step out of the shower.
By the way he doesn't avert his gaze this time I know I have him. My arrival at the resort three months ago was serendipitous for both of us. Jan gets access not only to a woman of my education, intellect, and charms, but to someone who isn't going to catch a flight home in a week or less. I get an on-demand fuck with a hot Dutch guy.
Jan isn't tall, or especially heavy of frame, but the physical labor half of his resort duties keeps him lean and hard. In recognition of the Aruban heat, or to pique my interest, he's shirtless, showing off a torso sparkling with a touch of perspiration against his chest and abs. The shirtless bit works in my favor because not only do I appreciate the view but there's really no point in him putting on a shirt when I'm just going to tear it off of him in a few minutes.
"Go on then," Jan says. Like me, he's figured out that we're going to have sex. He raises himself with a weary groan and puts down his drink. What he really wants, I know, is to sit on the deck another half hour and have another drink. And although he would never admit it, he wants to fall asleep in his chair until the mosquitos drive him inside. Not tonight.
Our lovemaking is beginning to settle into a routine. Once in the bedroom we snuggle and start to make out. Jan is a fine kisser, but he likes it maybe five or ten percent more than I do and soon I'm obligated to urge him along. He kisses slowly down my neck, which is nice, with little darts of his tongue sprinkled in like Caribbean spices. But he's too gentle, too tentative.
"Suck harder, or bite," I tell him. "It's okay."
He grunts in acknowledgement, and for a moment he obeys, capturing a nipple between his tongue and teeth. But it's as if he's hard-wired to be cautious and soon he's back on script.
And here's where my overactive mind begins to betray me. I find myself wondering if Jan's technique is nature or nurture. Did early experiences calcify within him until they became defaults, or did his genes dictate from conception that he would be a gentle lover? Much the same thoughts run through my mind when we start to fuck. He's fond of missionary. I am too in this case, because like I've said he's a handsome man and in missionary I get to look into Jan's eyes and admire his expressions of pleasure and release. But just once couldn't he do me doggy without being asked?
Today I have to ask. "I want it from behind," I tell him.
Jan obliges. He's an obliger. He kisses me, pulls back, and lets me flip over to offer my ass. He doesn't smack it, which I think he should every so often, but that isn't in his character. Instead he eases his cock into me, strokes my lower back, and begins to pump.
"Yeah, harder." If I'd wanted it slow we could have stayed in mish.
Honoring my request, Jan picks up the pace. It's still quite warm in the cabin, the product of the Caribbean sun blasting the walls most of the day. Soon Jan is showing signs of his exertions, drops of sweat falling onto my ass or running down his abs. He rests his hands on my hips as I push back against him in time with his thrusts.
"Hmmmhh," Jan groans.
"Yes, like that." My ass meeting his hips with a slap.
"Hnnnh."
I reach back to touch myself. The scent of frangipani is slipping into the room, to mingle with the potently citrus scent of whatever detergent the housekeeping staff is using. Just outside, the calls of birds I have yet to identify mingle with the rustling of palms.
"Mmmmh." Jan is creeping toward orgasm and he isn't the only one. With fingers at my clit I'll be right there with him. He's pumping faster and faster, the heat of his body adding to that of the room, the air. Any reserve he had earlier escaped long ago. The man has respectable staying power but he's now in that realm of coitus where he's no longer pacing himself.
"Oh Jan," I say, and for some reason that simple phrase puts him over the edge.
"Elaine fuck, oh... fuuuck!" Jan bursts inside of me, pumping wildly. Even his normally respectful grip on my body tightens.
My own orgasm ripples out, spreading from my pussy down my legs and through my trembling core. With fingers teasing my slit I coax out every spark of pleasure to be had, clenching around his still pulsing cock. We share this thing, this intimacy which will strengthen our bond for another day or two.
Later, when he's collapsed on me and we're laying in a tangle of bodies too hot to bear, but too comforting to disrupt, my mind once again kicks into gear. I can't help but wonder how much of our session could have been improved if our genes were just slightly different. Could Jan fuck me harder or more intensely? Could I cum multiple times? Could our orgasms be more consuming?
I wonder because that's who I am. I'm a doctor, geneticist, disgraced CEO, and criminal.
I'm Elaine Salan.
***
My press isn't that great right now, courtesy of that journo bitch Ava Tanner. Not that I want to dwell on it, but let's review what happened to me since her little expose. What was left of KapGen, the company that I founded with that weasel Kapp, collapsed entirely. The FDA charged both of us with fraud and false claims about the patents we filed for sexual enhancement medications. Separately, we were charged with kidnapping, and I was hit with running an unlicensed 'place of entertainment' in the basement of my home, which frankly I don't think should be illegal.
Kapp is totally fucked, as is that pet thug of his, Markus. Neither of them was bright enough to make the right plea at the right time. I, on the other hand, offered up the rights to the cancer medication we developed. I developed. It's potentially worth many millions, but I went free, so... draw?
I kept my house, by which I mean that I immediately sold it for several million dollars and fled to Aruba. I take that back. 'Fleeing' has a pejorative connotation. I chose to take an indefinite vacation to the islands. The most worrisome of my legal troubles have been resolved, and the rest are at worst in a sort of limbo that will drag on for years. Aruba would extradite me if pressed to do so, but at least I'd see it coming.
All of which takes us to how I came to meet Jan and to stay indefinitely at Glisten resort. I'm not claiming my memory is perfect, but it went something like this:
"Ms. Salan? You're in bungalow seven, right? Checking out?" Jan is at his customer service best at mid-morning.
"No."
"No?" Jan shuffles papers on the lobby counter, before putting on his best 'winning' smile. "Perhaps you'd like to extend your stay another week?"
"Perhaps," I say, meeting his eyes. Over the past week I've checked him out, and he's checked me out. At a couples' resort of course the male owner notices the solo female traveler. "Perhaps more than a week."
I can see the arithmetic in his head, both monetary and sexual. "Well, we do consider repeat customers to be the highest form of recommendation." He licks his lips. "I can't keep you in bungalow seven, someone else has it booked. Buuut," he says, tapping against the smartscreen, "I can move you up to number ten, which is even nicer."
"How
much
nicer?"
Jan's eyes flick again to his screen, as if he needs to check. "You were paying two fifty a night for bungalow seven. I can put you in ten for two seventy-five."
"I was thinking more like one fifty."
At this Jan freezes. "Ms. Salan, uh, I'm afraid that we don't have any rooms at one fifty. I can probably find something for less than two seventy-five, but you obviously enjoyed bungalow seven and I'd hate to see you in a room unworthy of a woman so discerning."
It's an articulate response. I'm always surprised to find that Europeans, despite having mastered their national language, also speak English better than many Americans. This admiration doesn't stop me from making my play. "Jan. It's Jan, isn't it?"
He nods.
"Jan, I reviewed your availability calendar. Glisten had at least one spare room every week going back more than six months, and that includes the busy season. Giving me a deal on a room won't cut into your revenue."
"I see." I doubt anyone has ever tried to negotiate a rate in-person and it shows in Jan's hesitation. "Well, I'm an optimist, Ms. Salan. You're a new client and you clearly like it here. I'm sure we'll continue to attract other new clients as well."
"I'm sure of that, too," I say. "You get mostly couples, right?"
"Mostly, yes."
"In your marketing, this is a couples-only, intimate resort."
"That's our demographic."
"Ever get any single men?"
"Very few," Jan says, drawing out his response carefully.
"Any in the last year?"
