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Aeolus P. Cerigo

By: 2Xwidderwoman



In a sleep rough voice, Alex answers her ringing telephone, "Yes?"

"Alex Reardon, please," the female caller asks.

Not caring to offend the caller, Alex does not clear her throat, although the temptation to do so is great. "Yes, may I help you?"

"I am calling for confirmation of the 10:30 appointment with Mr. Aeolus P. Cerigo."

"Yes, I can confirm that time," Alex says, prepared to answer further questions, hoping her rough voice does not make her sound ill.

"Thank you," is followed by a click, and then the dial tone.

Alex groans as she sits up and puts both hands on her cheeks to idly brush her hair out of her eyes, finally able to clear her throat. "Damn," she croaks, and walks across the room to close the window. When she stays up late, she sleeps on her back, her mouth open, and wakes up with a raspy voice and a dry throat.

After a shower, extra time spent French braiding the sides and back of her hair, and a light application of makeup, she is moving from her dresser drawers to the open door of her closet, mumbling to herself. "Suit, make that a dark suit, white blouse, no cleavage, plain underwear, dark stockings, and low heels." After closing the latch on her wristwatch, the last thing she looks for is a piece of jewelry to wear on her lapel of her suit. She wants something plain, sedate, but definitely not frivolous, "Oh yes, the antique silver filigree bow. Now where are those earrings?"

Standing in front of the full length mirror, she takes a deep breath and a critical look at herself. Although she is slender, at less than 120 pounds, the double breasted suit hides some of her figure, which is the intent. It is impossible to hide that she is a female, but the cut of the coat, which she had tailored to fit, disguises her generous breasts without allowing the front of the coat to gap. It was well worth the expense. The slight flare of the skirt, rather than being pencil thin, hangs straight, without being skin tight and fully covers her knees. If she does not stoop, her 5 foot 8 inch height will not intimidate any man, unless he is very short, and there is no solution for that event.

Alex considers wearing the dark framed glasses, to appear more business like, but she does not put them on. Instead she puts them in her briefbag, just in case she changes her mind. She uses them for magnification, not vision correction. In her opinion she looks as much like a business person as is possible, for someone her age. Short of drawing artificial lines to her face, she cannot hide that she is just barely twenty-two years old. This is, after all, her first job application. She has no work experience, absolutely none, not even flipping burgers in high school, or even a research assistant in college. 

Catching the door before it closes, she goes back into her apartment and takes her large artists portfolio case, too. She submitted the drawings the letter asked for, but Aeolus P. Cerigo may want to see more of her work. She will show him all of the work she did before she selected the four to send with her application. ****

Suffering through the typical job application process, most of which she managed to do by mail, and telephone, Alex hopes this is the final step. She arrived a few minutes early. Although the middle aged woman sitting at the desk seemed a little unsure Alex was in the right office, she did look at the list of names on a printed sheet at the corner of her desk and acknowledged that Alex has a 10:00 o'clock appointment. Now, Alex has sat through four other applicants going in and out of the door at the other side of the room. One after another, each applicant followed the middle aged woman who opened the inner office door, announced the applicant, closed the door behind the applicant, and returned to her desk, where she has sat typing on a computer keyboard, while listening to a dictation machine. Without exception, each of the four applicants to precede Alex has remained in the inner office for less than fifteen minutes. Alex sits, as patiently as possible, growing slightly more nervous as the minute hand on the clock slowly moves upward.

A few minutes before 11:00, the woman stands and asks, "Alex Reardon?" She turns and walks to the inner office door, opens the door, steps inside and announces "Alex Reardon."

Across the room, a man is sitting behind the desk, with several large sheets of vellum spread on the surface of the desk. From behind one drawing, which he is holding up to eye level, he announces, "This job you will have, if you match this signature. This drawing, I like. Others, they are childish trash."

"That is my drawing," Alex acknowledges. She can see through the vellum. It is her drawing of a staircase inside a historical building downtown.

The hands holding the sheet of vellum slam the paper on the desk as the man rises to his feet, "You are a girl." His eyes flash at Alex. If she were any nearer the man, she would be singed around the edges by the flames of his anger.

Swallowing, Alex lifts her chin, "Actually, I am a female. I am a little old to be called a girl."

Growling, the man advances around the desk, "This position is not for a female." His faint accent makes each word hard and crisp, leaving no doubt to his preference. He did not want a female as his artist. His slightly lopsided mouth smirks at her. She suspects it is an effort to intimidate her.

"That, Mister Cerigo, is discrimination." Alex reminds him. Her knees are wobbling. She is sure of her information, but the man's size and anger is startling. 

Alex had expected to meet a man much older than the one she sees standing before her. Aeolus P. Cerigo has a local, national, and international reputation, for the work he does in designing private residences for the famous and infamous. He is at least 6 foot 4 inches tall, or more. He is dark haired, dark eyed, and the suit he wears makes him look like he has football pads on the shoulders, if not on the thighs, hips, and across the chest. The man is intimidating. He knows it. And he is using it, right now. 

Tempted to take a step back, because this man is towering over her, Alex stands where she is. 

This is the best job she could ever hope to have and if she has to challenge this man, she will do so. Before applying for the position, Alex studied his work, spent hours in the library looking through reference books and out of date magazines, at descriptions and photos of some of his creations. His style, use of materials, design, and follow through on his projects, is legendary. To work with a man like this would be a dream come true. Alex is not going to allow a little fear to keep her from giving every ounce of effort needed to convince him she can do what he wants. 

"What is this name, Alex? Isthis the feminine of Alexandria, Alexia, Alexis?" He spits each name out, disdain in every syllable, as he waves one large hand in the air.

"No. My name is Alex Maria Reardon. Alex is not a shortened form of any other name."

"Who would do this to a girl? The father, he would do this, expecting a son?"

"I'm not sure that is any of your concern. But I will answer. I do not have a father."

Grinning, instead of laughing out loud, the man looks her up and down. "This is not possible. The woman does not have the child without a man."

Gritting her teeth, Alex stares at him, "He was killed before I was born." She is not going to give him any more information. 

"You," he commands, pointing to a chair in front of his desk. "Sit."

Alex takes two small steps forward and must stop because the man stands in her path to the chair he wants her to occupy. "Excuse me?" Alex looks up at the man's dark eyes, indicating she wants him to step aside. She is not going to give him the satisfaction of walking around him and the chair to do as he asks.

His about face would satisfy any drill sergeant. Although he returns to the other side of his desk, he does not sit down. Instead he lifts the 24x36 drawing and turns it, sliding it across the desk. "This? This is your work? You sign this, again, now. I watch."

Alex slides to the edge of her seat and holds out her hand. As if it is not a part of her body, she dares her hand to tremble. "May I have a pencil, please?"

Rather then place the pencil in her hand, the man slaps it on top of the drawing. Alex picks up the mechanical pencil, tests the lead on the lower right corner of the paper, where several other test marks appear and easily signs her name, directly below the signature she applied before she submitted the drawing. Rather than return the pencil to the man, she lays it down and slides back in her seat. She crosses her ankles, moves her feet to the side of her chair, and folds her hands loosely in her lap.

Finally resuming his seat, he pulls the drawing toward him and turns it around, placing it on top of several others. Taking his time, he glances through the stack of drawings on the top of his desk. The corners of his mouth occasionally turn down with disgust, or disappointment. He takes his time going through the stack. After all, it is his time.

Using the knuckle of his forefinger, he taps the top drawing, "You have more? Like this, there are others?"

Alex nods, picks up the large artist case she placed by her chair, places it on her lap and begins to pull the zipper along one edge.

"Here," Cerigo commands, slapping the top of his desk. Startled, Alex lifts the flat leather case to the top of his desk and catches her breath when he takes it from her hands. He pulls it toward him and finishes opening the case. With a practiced flip of his wrist, he lays the top over and proceeds to go through every drawing in the case, one at a time, lifting them, and examining each one. Some are rough drawings, incomplete sketches, black and white, and a few are color. He examines some of the landscapes, laying one or two hands on the drawing as if to block out one small portion of the drawing to see what remains. There are others, unique structural details of houses around the city, which she completed for this application and decided, for one reason or another, not to submit. He examines one other drawing she did of the staircase, taking a moment to look at the top step, where a portion of the upstairs floor is included. He nods as if he agrees the one she submitted is a better drawing.

As she sits watching the man examine her work, Alex thinks to her self that the man's name, Cerigo, fits his personality. He is "Sir Ego". Bringing her attention back to the man, Alex's face pales when he picks up the next drawing. She can see through the opaque paper. It is her drawing of the discus thrower. It is not the drawing of the male model that disturbs her. She knows it is good, showing muscle definition, the male model's serious expression, and good anatomical size relevance between the length of his leg, the size and tilt of the head, and the width and angle of the shoulders. Her concern is the eight different drawings surrounding the model, of his penis, scrotum, and pubic hair.

The drawing was done for a private class. The model was hired for three hours. At one point during those three hours, the male model had an erection. Alex roughly sketched the man's erection as it progressed. Before she left the studio, she completed the small drawings, adding more definition and shading. In two of the small depictions, she used colored pencils to show the faint tracing of blood vessels, the ruddy color of the scrotum and the lighter shade of the head of his penis, as it began to emerge through the foreskin.

Alex did not recall this drawing was in her case and hopes the other life series drawings are in the thicker folio at her apartment. When Cerigo slides the discus thrower aside, she knows she should have looked through the case before she decided to bring it. The man's swiftly indrawn breath is proof he has found her self portrait.

He looks up from the drawing, stares at her hair, and compares it to the drawing. Similarly, he looks at the neck, face and hands. She is sure he would like to ask her to stand and turn around, just as one of her fellow students asked. It took her own full length mirror and one she borrowed from the girl in the next apartment, to get all the views she wanted as she worked on the drawing. 

Holding the drawing in his hands, Cerigo leans back in his chair. Alex can see the top edge of the paper slightly wavering, as if his hands are trembling. Unconsciously, he licks his lips, takes a deep breath, and slowly exhales.

"This is you, no?" he asks and then answers his own question. "This is you," he announces. "Yes," he agrees with himself.

"I apologize," Alex says, fighting a deep blush which works its way up her neck and across her cheeks. "I did not recall I left those in my case. They are part of a series. There are several others, children, an older man and woman, and a baby." What else can she say?

As if it is a fragile piece of china, he places the drawing back on his desk. He puts his elbows on the arms of his chair and tents his hands together, lightly tapping his forefingers against his wide, full, lower lip as he looks at her. He looks down at the two drawings on his desk, and then back at her face.

Sitting forward in his chair, he taps the drawing of the man. "This man, you know this man? He is your lover?"

Alex shakes her head. "No, he was a paid model."

Shaking himself, as if he is coming out of a daze, he slides her drawing of the staircase from under the case and places it on top of the discus thrower and the self portrait. "This is what I seek, this stairway, I know it. This is the Beaufort House, yes?"

Alex nods as he lifts the staircase and looks at the two nude drawings, which lay side by side beneath it. She is tempted to fold her case, take it from him, and walk out the door. 

Gently, he pats the drawing of the staircase and one of the landscapes he set aside. "For me, you can do similar work?" 

"If you are asking about architectural details and landscapes, then yes, that is what I can do for you." She does not know why she equivocates, perhaps it is because of his reaction to the two nudes, or she just wants to get back at him for his dismissal of her, as being a "girl".

Cerigo reaches to a button on his telephone and tapes it two times. The woman from the exterior office appears and takes notes as Alex's new employer issues instructions. ****

"Stupid," Alex grumbles as she follows the driver, who is carrying her luggage, down the stairs. "Five o'clock in the morning is too damn early to fly anywhere," she mumbles and hears the driver snicker. The 3:30 alarm awakened her from a sound sleep, in the middle of a dream, where Cerigo had looked through her case, examining every sketch she made for her self portrait. He was walking around the pedestal where she stood, examining her body to see that her drawings were true to what he was seeing and touching. His warm hand was much more erotic than the drawings detailed. The alarm sounded when his hand was slowly sliding up the inside of her thigh. She awoke wet, throbbing, and breathing hard, her thighs tingling from dreaming about the man's hand as it moved across her skin. She knows it was his hand. The heavy ring with the large coin, showing a Greek god's profile, held securely in a custom shaped bezel, disappeared between her legs as he cupped her sex. It was the ring he was wearing while she was in his office.

She is further agitated when the driver leaves her at a private airport lounge, where Cerigo sits, comfortably working on a laptop computer. He does not speak, but he does nod when Alex sits in a nearby club chair. A steward appears with a tray, offering her a cup of coffee, served in a delicate china cup, with a matching saucer. There is no disposable Styrofoam in this rarefied atmosphere.

People, who travel by private jet, do so with one, or two pilots, lounge and flight attendants, and more luxury than most people will ever know. Everything is new and strange to Alex. Her employer does nothing to help explain what is happening. He is in his own world, shut off from what is going on around him, his face a solid, solemn mass, without expression, or comment. Occasionally consulting a paper or photo taken from a large briefcase beside him, he seems to be using some industry specific software to add design details to a room or several rooms. Only when he turns slightly, to go through the briefcase, can Alex see the monitor. However, the image is so small she cannot determine any detail. 

Alex spent several hours with the middle aged woman, completing her employment documents and receiving instructions on clothing to pack for a three day site examination. The woman, who introduced herself as Miss Compton, shepherded Alex to an office, asked for a list of supplies she would need and arranged for some of the paper, pencils and a few other items to be delivered to Alex's apartment because she would need them for this trip. Mister Cerigo did not intend to delay the planned trip, just to allow his combination artist and sometimes draftsman to acclimate herself to her new job. 

A laptop, provided by the company, is in her personal briefbag. It will take her hours to become familiar with some of the software. She had less than an hour with the technician to get the laptop customized for her own use. She gave the technician a list of the software she frequently uses and found the laptop on the seat of the car which picked her up less than an hour ago. 

As Alex sets her coffee cup on the small table beside her chair, a young woman steps out of a glass enclosed office and suggests Alex visit the ladies room, as their plane will load in about ten minutes. When she returns from the restroom, a young man is carrying her briefbag and larger portfolio case to the airplane. He is followed by a second young man, carrying Cerigo's obviously heavy briefcase and computer case. The man, himself, is wandering around the long waiting room, occasionally stopping to look out the large windows at the airplane and landing strip. It is the last opportunity they will have to walk, or stretch their legs, before they get aboard the airplane. 

Alex may not be aware that when Cerigo stops at a tinted window, he watches her, almost as if he is looking in a mirror. She stands near the door, watching the final steps taken, by the various airport personnel, before take off. Her arms are wrapped around her waist, with her elbows cupped in her palms. Nor is she aware of the number of times he looked up from his work to examine her, from head to toe.

He is not immune to the charms of a woman. He is pursued, for his size, a challenge to some women to see if the old adage of what is behind a man's zipper is related to the size of his hands and feet. Or he is pursued as a man, available to pampered women who are not satisfied by what they find at home, or elsewhere on the estates where they live. He has had his flings, accepting them for what they are, temporary, exciting, and often enhanced because of the clandestine atmosphere in which they take place.

However, none of those sexual encounters affected him as violently as Alex Reardon. She has already crawled under his skin. She managed to do that by walking into his office and contradicting him when he called her a girl. He had an almost instant arousal, hard and throbbing. At the veiled threat about his discrimination, his arousal grew. When he saw her drawing of the progress of the man's arousal, his own went beyond the final drawing and he could not withhold his question asking if she had experienced sexual pleasure from a man who was not circumcised. He barely managed to avoid a groan, when he saw the self portrait. It shows three quarters of her slightly bent back, with a glimpse of the side of her breast and erect nipple. Her chin is nearly touching her shoulder, with that arm raised and her hand rested at the back of her head, holding most of her hair off her neck. A few soft curls, with their hint of warm auburn color, hang down her neck and beside her backbone. The arm hides most of her face, but he knew, instantly, it is a self portrait.


Aeolus P. Cerigo



Now, as he watches her, her soft shirt is molded to her breast, not suggestively, but the rise of her breast is obvious. A small gap between two of the buttons down the front, shows a flesh colored bra, the lace across the top dips deeply between her breasts. Yesterday, her dark stockings did not hide her slender legs and the heels gave definition to the calves of her legs. Today, her jeans accentuate the length of her legs and cup her buttocks as he wishes his hands were doing. 

Rather than yesterday's French braids holding her hair in order, today it is gathered on top of her head, probably held by a barrette or a elastic band, but hidden by a baseball cap. The bill of the cap shades her eyes, putting them in shadow. Dark haired, and dark of brow, he knows her eyes are a dark blue, fringed by long thick lashes, he looked.

He did not want a woman for this job. The number of times he must travel and the length of the trips make traveling with a female difficult. It is easier if the trip is within the United States, but international travel is not easy for a single woman. Accommodations must be given extra attention. Regardless of her skill, clients are often dismissive of a woman and are less likely to listen to a high pitched feminine voice. 

Her size may command attention. She is not a tiny petite female. She has broad shoulders, an erect stance, and a graceful walk, without any suggestion of being artificially seductive. She may be assertive enough to overcome some of the problems other women have. But it is her voice, deep, and sultry, which sends chills down his spine, that will be her best asset. People will pay attention to what she says. 

Cerigo stands still, his body turned slightly away from Alex. His growing erection hangs down against his leg. An air conditioning vent above him is doing nothing to cool him down. He slips his hands into his pockets, hunches his shoulders, and takes a deep breath. The erection will subside, but it will be back, by dark he will be agitated beyond the point of endurance. ****

After a day of feeling like she has spent her time with an angry man, Alex is unpacking her suitcase, looking for something more comfortable to wear. She has already removed her boots and socks. In fact, she untied the boots in the car, going back to the hotel. Her feet were tired of wearing the heavy boots, tromping through brush, and climbing over rocks. Her jeans are dirty from various falls, or simply landing on her knees when the ground underneath the heavy leaf coverage was uneven. Despite the cap, her hair is falling down around her face from a number of times when twigs caught at her hair, and low limbs scraped the cap from her head.

As she straightens from bending over her suitcase, pressing against the small of her back, she sees Aeolus Cerigo standing less than ten feet from the end of her bed. The connecting doors between their two rooms are wide open. Without a word he takes a few steps forward and opens the top button on her shirt.

"Mister Cerigo," Alex says tilting her head back to look into his face, and then closing her eyes, unable to bear the intensity she sees in his eyes. She is unsure if she can turn him down, not matter what he wants. Every time he touched her to help her up, looked at her when he offered her a bottle of water to drink from, or turned back to hold her arm when she stepped over a fallen tree limb, has been an agony. She knows he saw the change in her expression when he touched her, or said a few words to her. 

"Paulous. Like this," he jerks his head toward the connecting doors between their rooms, "To you, I am Paul." He announces, his voice vibrating with intensity. He puts his finger under the collar of her shirt, lifts the point, and slides his finger down across the slope of her breast. "You will take this off. I will look at you." 

As if her own hands are not being controlled by her brain, Alex reaches up and watches his face as she blindly continues down the front of her shirt, opening each button. She watches Paul as his hands slip inside her shirt and spread it across her shoulders, sliding the shirt off her. She does nothing to stop the shirt from sliding down her arms and falling away. As if he is more practiced than she is, he bends the front hook of her bra and slips the fingers of one hand inside the cup of the bra to slide across the top slope of her breast. Doing the same to the other breast, he finally pulls the bra away from her, allowing both breasts to fall free as he pulls the cups of the bra away from her, allowing it to slide down her arms. 

Paul reaches down and opens the button on her jeans. "You will take this off. I will see all of you." 

Beyond caring that she is very wet and he will smell her arousal when she removes her jeans, Alex lowers the zipper at the front of her jeans. Almost in slow motion, Paul goes down to his knees and lowers her jeans to the floor, holding them as Alex lifts each leg. With his hands going up the back of her legs, Paul rises to his knees until he rests his forehead against her stomach. He takes one deep breath, molds his hands around the cheeks of her buttocks then takes another deep breath. His hot breath, filtered through the fabric of her panties, sends a shudder through her body.

Tentatively Alex moves her hands to rest on Paul's head, threading her fingers through his dark hair, massaging his scalp. "Paul," Alex says his name for the first time, her voice shaking. All day, she has been "Miss Reardon" and the few times she found it necessary to speak to him, she addressed his as "Mister Cerigo".

With a strong sweep of his arm, Paul pushes her suitcase off the side of the bed as his other arm slides behind her knees, while his mouth presses against her, toppling her onto the bed. Before she can take a breath, his mouth is buried in the crotch of her wet panties. His mouth is open to suck cloth and both lips of her pussy into his hot, moist mouth. When Alex squirms to get away from him, it is a half hearted effort, bringing a full mouth chuckle from him as he holds her hips, preventing her from getting away from his mouth. He puts his fingers into the waist of her panties and drags them to her knees. His mouth returns to her, burying his face into her, moaning, and sending vibrations to her very core. 

And then he is above her, his mouth on hers, his tongue pushing between her lips. Supporting his weight on his elbows, he moves his hands to hold her head so she cannot get away from him. She tastes herself on his lips and tongue. He kisses her, licks her lips, moves his mouth below her chin, and then drags his wet tongue to the soft spot under the corner of her jaw.

If someone was watching, they might think this woman is being attacked, because of the frenzy of his movements. But if they observe closely, they would see she is moving her head to the side, to give him access to the softness of her neck. They would recognize the arch of her back when she presses her breasts against him and her own hands holding his shoulders in a tight grip. And they might see one of her feet lifted to complete the removal of her panties, sliding them farther down her leg, and finally pushing them off her feet. In doing so, she separates her thighs, allowing him full access to the dark nest between her thighs. An observer might see him unzip his pants and moments later, with a near violent thrust, embed himself in her heat. 

He is huge, he stretches her, his entry is almost painful, delicious pain. She feels him deep inside her, pushing against her cervix. She has never been filled so completely. She slowly exhales and shudders, and tries to relax as her body adjusts to accommodate him.

"Do not move," he growls in her ear. Mentally, he pictures her self portrait, showing her body to mid-thigh. Her hips are slightly turned to show more of her lower body. It was that part of the drawing that has driven him to near insanity since yesterday morning. Unlike many young women her age, she does not shave her pubic hair. However, the dark reddish hair visible in the drawing was closely trimmed, revealing a fleshy mound, full puffy outer labia and a bare hint of the inner labia. And she was moist. She even drew the moisture on her skin. He knew with a mere glance that she drew herself when she was aroused, just as she had drawn the male model genitalia in the various stages of arousal.

She does not listen to his command. Instead she places her feet on the edge of the bed and lifts her hips, taking him deeper inside herself, releasing a deep groan as if she has found something for which she was searching. He has but to partially withdraw and thrust once more to drive her over the edge. He feels her thighs tremble and her inner muscles contract, while her teeth grip the soft flesh above his collar bone, through his shirt. One more thrust, and he is unable to withhold his own throbbing climax. He grunts, several times. He jerks as he feels his cum throbbing along his cock, an almost endless stream, bathing her inner surfaces.

He wants to fall on top of her, to rest against her, to feel her shape beneath him, but he knows doing so will crush her, or leave her unable to breathe. Instead he rolls slightly to the side, and tries to pull her into his arms. Wildly pushing his arms away, she shoves his leg off her thighs and stumbles across the room, slamming the bathroom door behind her. 

Standing under the hottest water she can tolerate, Alex rubs shampoo into her hair and rinses it. As she swirls the bar of soap in her hands, her tears fall. Once again she has allowed her animal nature to overcome her reason. Yesterday, she was in his office, when Aeolus Paulous Cerigo commanded, "You," followed by "Sit." She should have turned around and left his office. But it was already too late. She yielded to the man. She did what he told her to do. Tonight, she removed her shirt because he told her to do so. She unzipped her jeans because he told her to do so.

Alex walks out of the bathroom, rubbing the water from her hair. Except for the lamp beside her bed, the room's lights are turned off. Her suitcase has been placed on the dresser beside the television. The bed is neatly turned down. The connecting door between Paul's room, and her own, is closed. It is not locked, a faint line of light shows at the edge of the door. But the door is closed. Only Paul could have returned her room to order and she wonders why he went to the trouble. 

She pulls a long t-shirt over her head, crawls between the sheets, and turns off the lamp. She can do nothing about what has already happened, beyond taking one deep breath, and shaking her head. If she was not so tired, she would comb her hair. Or, she would open the laptop computer and begin to customize it for herself. Or, she could open her sketchbook and work on filling in some of the details from their look around the future site for which Paul will design a house, and over which he will supervise the construction. However, she does none of those. After a very early start to a day of physical exertion, hours and hours of sexual tension, a heavy dinner with a silent man who barely spoke to her, and the hot bath, she is beyond exhaustion. Within minutes, she is asleep. ***

Somewhere, the deep rumble of men's voices seeps under the pillow covering her head. The smell of coffee permeates the air above her head as she stretches under the covers. Pushing against the mattress, she sits up quickly. She realizes this is not her apartment. She is in a hotel. On the nightstand beside her bed is a cup of coffee and a plate wrapped in a cloth napkin, which holds two large fresh rolls with a length of spicy sausage peeking out of each end. The connecting doors are fully open.

After a sip of the coffee, a quick trip to the bathroom and grabbing her briefbag, Alex is sitting cross-legged on the bed, the computer coming to life as she munches on the first of the sausage rolls. She pays little attention to the men's voices in the next room. She knows Paul is meeting with his male secretary and right hand man, Marklin Anders. The man slept during the entire flight yesterday. He later said he takes Dramamine to offset his problems with flying. He is responsible for the comfortable hotel rooms, the rental car they used to travel to the site, and the remaining details of the three intense days of this trip. As a general rule, he is not visible. He is in the background, doing what needs to be done, taking notes of conversations, and making the arrangements Paul does not have time to tend to. Almost as if he has a special sense, he appears when Paul looks for him, and will take his instructions in a few words, before turning to do as Paul asks. 

Several times, Alex heard the buzz of Paul's cell phone. If he is occupied he does not bother to answer, but at a convenient time, without a word, he will listen to whatever message was left. If it is convenient, he answers with one word, "Yes?" listens and most often says a second, "Yes" or a plain "No," and does not wait for another word from the caller.

When Alex and Paul returned from tramping around, looking at several sites, searching for the best site on which to build the house, she sat for a few minutes with Marklin, while Paul talked to the future homeowners. She asked Marklin if Mister Cerigo's brevity of words on the cell phone bothered him.

Marklin chuckled, "No. Paul believes the telephone is for his convenience, not the caller's. If he wants to answer he will, otherwise he will listen to a message. But he expects the message to be few words and no questions." He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a small stack of 3x5 cards. "These are my assignments," he shows her one, on which is written, "Wed 5/9 3 days -- Boggs River -- Haroldson 5307 -- Marklin, Byron & Alex Reardon, Artist."

"Oh lord," Alex exclaimed. "He even writes in shorthand." 

Marklin looked at her and smiled, "Yes, but there is no question to what he needed done, is there? There are often a large number of people affected by his plans, rather like a pebble dropped in a pool of water. And you must remember that he is not at the center of the ripples."

When the computer is fully loaded, she attaches the telephone line to download her email, which should include several attachments she sent to herself. She gives little attention to the men's voices coming from Paul's room, other than occasionally hearing his raised voice, sounding frustrated and short tempered and Harlan's voice sounds even and low in volume as if he is calming his boss. She is so involved checking her small notebook for passwords and adding the new ones she will need to use for some of the software, she does not realize the voices have become quite or stopped. When she looks up, Paul is leaning against one side of the open doorway, his ankles crossed, his arms folded across his chest, and the top of his head just inches from the top of the facing around the opening. Sitting cross legged, with her t-shirt around her hips, she knows he can see all the way under her shirt. Because she has never been able to sleep in underwear, she is fully exposed to his view. 

Alex does not move, nor does she lower her eyes. It is not a stare-down between the two of them. It is a head to toe examination, a search for physical imperfections, an admiration of physical strengths and beauty. Tempted to lift her hands to push her hair out of her face and into some kind of order, Alex resists. She licks her lips and notices Paul's growing erection, which he makes no effort to hide. The pleated front of his khaki chinos is stretched across his hips. 

"You should dress. We meet with the Haroldson's in one hour." He turns and walks into his room, not bothering to close the doors.

"Well hell," Alex breathes. "If he can handle it, I can too." With her back to the doors, she strips off the t-shirt, pulls on clean underwear and socks, and selects a clean shirt and casual pants from the hanging clothes in the open closet. Despite not combing her hair last night, she soon has the mass collected in an elastic band on top of her head. She slips her feet into a comfortable pair of loafers and is collecting her supplies into her briefbag when Paul once again steps through the connecting doorway, his large briefcase hanging from his shoulder. Without invitation he walks into her room, lifts the telephone and asks if the small meeting room is prepared for his use.

By nightfall, the entire hotel will know he used the telephone in her room, indicating the connecting doors have been opened, and that he feels free to walk into her room, unchallenged. He has effectively branded her as his "woman," simply by making a telephone call. Alex glares at him, which he seems to think is humorous. He smiles and lifts one eyebrow, as if he is saying, "So what? I pay for the room. I will use it as I choose." 

Paul takes her arm in one hand and her briefbag in the other, waits for her to open the door and allows her to walk through before closing it behind them. He checks the latch and then takes her arm again. His actions are gentlemanly, old fashioned, and possessive. When he speaks to her, he inclines his head, bending to speak quietly and waiting for her response, before straightening up, while continuing their walk to the elevator. He stands beside her, or slightly behind her, and turns his body sideways, as if to shield her from the other occupants of the filling elevator. In doing so, his stomach brushes against her, with his building erection frequently touching her hip. 

As they walk down the hall to a small meeting room, Paul instructs her. "Today is the easy day. You listen to Mr. and Mrs. Haroldson, to hear descriptions of the views they wish and how they want the house to appear. You draw what you hear them say. You try not to insert your preferences. This is sometimes difficult, but you learn."

"Do I ask them questions?"

"No, they may rethink their words. When the meeting is over, you show the drawings. They will select those to match what they want. Then you will work detail for me and I will do structural." 

"How many drawings should I expect to make?"

"Ten, twenty, thirty, some quick, others a small special detail. You should work fast, turn pages, start again, and then again. Give no attention to great detail, merely basic lines and angles. One page may be the window, another for a roofline. A different drawing is a pool or gazebo, and again another roofline. When you can, you watch the hands move. You will have your eyes on them, not on your work. You watch the body language, she have a shrug of the shoulders to indicate indecision, a spread of the hands to show something large, the head back to mean indulgence. This, I also watch, for the interior, room sizes, details, finishes, materials of roughness, glass, wood, and trim. From this discussion, we will develop an artistic masterpiece, yes?" 

Alex finds a small table in the corner of the room. She takes a stack of loose papers and lines up several pencils. When Mr. and Mrs. Haroldson are shown into the room, it is as if Alex is part of the woodwork, she is not seen or acknowledged. She finds the task easier than she expected and harder than she could have ever imagined. Soon she is sitting back in her chair, her bag on her lap and a growing stack of partial drawings on the table in front of her. After the first hour, she is twisting her neck in agony. 

Cerigo calls for a break to allow a waiter to bring a fresh pot of coffee, a bucket of ice, and a selection of soft drinks. The wealthy couple excuses themselves to visit the restrooms, while Alex sharpens her pencils. Almost instantly, Paul is across the room, massaging Alex's neck, his warm hands moving and pressing across the top of her shoulders. "This meeting is half finished. You can continue?"




Aeolus P. Cerigo



"Yes, thank you."

The next hour is easier. The couple is providing more information on their preferences for interior details. Alex does not realize the change in the interview. She continues to draw, a vanity wall with wide mirrors surrounded by lights, large ceiling to floor windows to allow the morning light into a room, and a bedroom with a master bed on a raised platform. Alex makes an occasional note, giving a name to a room, or about a special piece of furniture, purchased in Europe, a hand woven silk carpet, a painting or a portrait the woman will hang. The woman hands Paul a stack of photographs as she indicates some detail that is important to her.

There is a short break of a few minutes as the hotel sets the table for the catered luncheon. Alex abandons her meal as Mrs. Haroldson continues her description of something she saw somewhere and liked. Paul had indicated Alex might have a short time during lunch, or immediately after, to complete a few details of the most important elements, but as the staff is clearing the remains of the meal, Alex is surprised when Paul asks her to spread her work around the table.

Instead, Mrs. Haroldson says, "Here girl, give me that paper you've been working on all morning."

Paul shrugs his shoulders and Alex places her work in front of the woman.

"Oh my, so many," the woman looks at Alex, and then at Paul. "Well, let's see if this little girl can draw." Her veiled insult is followed by a widening of her eyes as she goes through the papers, looking at each one and occasionally looking at Alex or Paul. A few papers she lays aside, as if they are of more importance than others. Some she probably does not understand, but she looks at every one of them. Alex sits in her corner, trying to keep her hands from shaking. Her head is buzzing, she has a roaring headache, and her neck is so stiff she can barely move it.

Mrs. Haroldson stands, hands all but three pages to Paul and says, "These will do. Those," she waves a hand at the three pages, "They are trash." She turns to her husband, "Come, dear. We have guests coming for dinner."

Without looking at them, Paul folds the three discarded drawings and hands the full stack to Alex. "We go now," he announces, his expression is dark and brooding. 

When he takes Alex's arm as they leave the room, she jerks her arm from his grasp, "Don't allow your anger at that woman to bruise me." Alex is eight or ten steps down the hall before she looks back at Paul still standing beside the door. "Well?" she asks. "I need food and a place to lay my head before it explodes." 

After an almost wordless meal, Paul is silent in the elevator. Alex follows him into his room, throws her briefbag on his bed, and walks through the open doors between their rooms. He can open the bag and look at the drawings when he wants to. At this point, she could care less. Tomorrow will be different. After a quick visit to her bathroom, she removes her clothes, pulls the long t-shirt over her head, and is under the covers of her bed in less than two minutes. Just before closing her eyes, she sees Paul standing in the door, looking at her. "Go away," she says, rolls over, and closes her eyes. 

Alex awakens from her nap, with no idea how long she slept. Her headache is not as bad, but her neck is still aching. She is on her back, and has probably been sleep with her mouth open, because her tongue is dry and her throat is slightly sore.

When she turns her head to the side, Paul's face is resting beside her own. He moves slowly, his lips resting against hers as his arm slides across her to pull her closer to him. "I do not like this Haroldson woman," he announces and kisses her again.

"Is her money good?" Alex asks. When Paul nods, she says, "You don't have to like her to take her money, do you?"

"I will not make this house," he says, as his mouth captures her lips, his tongue moving slowly across her lower lip.

Alex breaks the kiss, just long enough to say, "Yes you will. I will not allow her to win. I will see her living in a house based on MY drawings. That is my revenge for her insults."

Paul chuckles and resumes kissing her. He is soon up on his elbow, leaning over her, his hand moving slowly from her hip, under her shirt to rest on her breast, and then across to do the same to her other breast, his fingers rubbing slowly from side to side, across her nipple. He pulls the covers off her, raises her shirt over her head, allowing it to fall to the floor beside the bed. His mouth moves to one breast, drawing the nipple, the areola, and much of the surrounding soft flesh into his mouth. He lifts his head, increasing the suction while his tongue brushes across the hardening nipple. He allows the breast to slide from his mouth, leaving it wet in the cool air of the room and treats the other breast to a similar stimulation. He moves over her, separating her knees with his own. His hands move to her sides, slightly lifting her body so he can bury his face between her breasts. 

Sitting back on his haunches, his hands slide down her sides and continue along her hips and the outside of her thighs, and then under her legs to lift her knees. Alex watches his face as he looks at her. He leans over and places both hands around one breast to push it into a peak and sucks the nipple into his mouth. His movements are slow and gentle. There is none of the rough, near violent, treatment of the previous evening. This is a worship of her body. He moves to the other breast, holding it in both hands, blowing his hot breath around the nipple, teasing her until she arches her back in a silent plea for him to touch her.

"Patience," he whispers. He touches her nipple lightly with the tip of his tongue, leaving it wet when he lifts his head and blows his hot breath across the moisture left behind. His head goes down to enable him to lay his flat tongue on the nipple and then encircling it, going around and around, before pulling it into his mouth as the tongue continues to stimulate her nipple.

Alex lifts her hands to hold his head against her. He permits it for a moment, but is back on his haunches, taking her hands and spreading her arms out leaving her fully exposed. He moves back, his mouth trailing wet kisses from between her breasts, across the flat plane of her stomach, until his chin is resting on her pubic bone. He turns his head and rests his cheek against her as his hands slide under her hips, holding her, slowly and gently squeezing her, molding her to his hands.

Paul's chin brushes across the short hair of her sex, and is soon replaced by his hot breath. The flat of his tongue goes down across the outer lips of her pussy, ever so lightly, barely touching her, an agony of teasing and tempting. His tongue separates the lips, dragging upward as he savors the taste of her and lightly brushes across her clit, as if he is testing her arousal. He sucks one lip into his mouth flips his tongue up and down the lip and moves to the other lip, stimulating her lightly, agonizing, slowly, while he lifts her hips to give him the access he seeks. 

Over and over he drags his tongue between her outer lips, stopping short of her clit. Alex groans as she pushes herself against his mouth, but he holds her hips allowing her only a minimal of movement. He points his tongue and pushes between the inner lips, sucking her juices into his mouth, feeling her collecting heat and hearing her wordless moans of pleasure. He does not rush. He savors her. He pleasures her. He stimulates her. And he feels her trembling. 

He stills his movements as she has a small climax and then returns to his slow movements, steadily building the stimulation. He slows down for the next small climax, with his lips buried in her sex the muscle contractions vibrating around his mouth. He sucks her clit into his mouth, pulling and pulling on it, feeling it harden against his tongue. He tickles it with the tip of his tongue, harder and harder, faster and faster, until she has a crashing climax. Her hips move up and down, her thighs clamp around his head, and she grasps his hair, pushing his head against her. 

As her climax is subsiding, he is on his knees, slowly pushing into her. Paul feels her heat and wetness surround him. He withdraws and pushes farther into her. Another withdrawal, until only the head of his cock is inside her and then he thrusts again until she is lifting her hips to accept him. He braces his arms beside her shoulders and the dance begins. When he moves his hips away from her, she lowers her hips. When he thrusts into her, she raises her hips to meet him.

Her head is back, her chin is up, and her hands are on his shoulders, her fingers digging into him, bracing herself. The squish of his movements, the slap of his balls against her, and her wordless voice are the only sounds in the room. On and on their movements combine, as Paul's arms burn from holding himself above her. He watches her face as her mindless movements join and retreat from him. She smiles, licks her lips, and her face turns intense, beautiful, yet almost ugly with her approaching climax. 

He slows when he feels her climax crash upon her as he presses her down, holding her in place beneath him, enjoying the depth and heat of her surrounding him. He is taking her with him to another height, before allowing her to crash around them, holding her, moving over her, in her, changing the angle, pushing shallow and then deep. His mouth moves across her face and down her neck, he murmurs to her, encouraging her, and he listens to her pleading. 

He slams into her harder and harder, not sparing her from his ferocity as he leans over her. His hands slide under her back, his fingers going up and over her shoulders, to hold her in place. He keeps her from moving away from him as he pounds into her. His head is down. Perspiration collects on his back and drips off his chin. 

Paul knows his own climax is approaching. He looks down at himself, moving in and out of her. His cock is heavy, filled with blood, huge inside her, purple with sex, and slick with her juices. There is a dull emptiness at the base of his cock as his balls draw up tight, no longer loose and slapping against her. He is unable to continue with the even movements. He jerks and jerks again. And then he is pouring his cum into her, the spasms jerking through him, his head going down and jerking back, shooting his cum against her cervix, jerking against her, as his legs tremble. And then, he is still, holding himself above her, the feel of her muscle contractions an ecstasy he does not want to end. 

Her hands come up to his face, smoothing across his cheeks, brushing across his forehead, and one finger moving gently across his lips. He levers himself down to her mouth, resting against her for a moment, before he rolls to the side, almost angry he must be separated from her. His breathing is labored, lights flash beneath his closed eyelids. 

Barely able to stand on shaking legs, Paul pulls Alex to the side of the bed and carries her to the bathroom. He washes her hair, soaps her body and his own, dries her off and takes her to his bed. He takes his time, feels the softness of her skin, and glides his hand down her arm, down her thigh and across her belly, appreciating the beauty of this woman. He may need to have her again before morning, his erection is already building. He nests her against him, holding her as tight as he dares, slides his hand down to hold her sex, nuzzles the back of her neck, and closes his eyes. ****

In the darkness of his room, Alex hears Paul whispering to her. She does not understand the language. When she can think clearly, she must remember to ask him what the words mean. She has been sleeping on her stomach, or he turned her over in her sleep. He is resting much of his weight on her hips. He is massaging her shoulders and rubbing his warm hands up and down her still aching neck, his fingers pressing into the stiff muscles and soothing her with his touch.

She hears her own voice, a deep groan, each time his hands move up her neck, to press into the aching muscles. She is too relaxed to move, but he seems to know she is awake. "You watch a cat, the pet, as you stroke the animal; there is the purr of contentment. This, you give to me as I touch you, eh?"

His hands continue to move across her back as he slides his body down and separates her legs with his knees. She feels his erection against her, he is hard and throbbing. "You will give yourself to me, like this?"

He has not asked before, he has taken, albeit with her cooperation and unspoken consent. Alex raises her hips and feels his hands under her, lifting her, and then on her waist as she is being pulled back against him as he enters her. He moves her slowly, back and forth until he is fully sheathed inside her. His movements are slow. He takes his time, stroking her deeply, with his balls swinging against her in a gentle rhythm. He pulls back, all the way back, until only the head of his cock is inside her and teases her with shallow strokes. When she tries to move back against him to take him into her depths, he chuckles and moves away from her. He is playing and enjoying the game.

"To find joy in the giving of pleasure, a man must know what a woman wants. This is true, is it not?" He asks, bending over her as he slides his hands up and down her back. The rhythm of his movements is mesmerizing and his words are relaxing. Alex feels the heat building inside her as he moves in and out. How long can this last? His hands are on her hips holding her as he moves. He is not breathing hard. He is not straining. He is giving her more pleasure than she has ever felt before. "This body you allow me to touch is of a goddess. You give this softness to soothe the anger from a man, yes? This I take from you. What you would wish I give in return, huh?" 

He moves in and out of her, a slow, rhythmic, gentle slide, his thighs pressed between hers, holding her open for him. He presses her shoulders down as he moves against her, changing the angle of his penetration, stroking into her. He places his hands on her breasts, cupping them in the warmth of his hands, pushing against her to bend her back, changing the angle of penetration again. Alex hears a whimper or a moan, not realizing the sounds are her own. 

How he does it, she does not know. He moves, his arms under her breasts, lifting her against his chest as he slowly lowers his back to the bed, leaving her sitting astride him, facing his feet. "Now the goddess takes from the mortal, eh?" He rubs his hands up and down her back, lifts her hips to show her she can slide up and down his shaft. She takes over giving herself the stimulaton she wanted. She leans forward feeling him inside her as he seems to grow longer and harder. Paul lifts his own hips to thrust against her, his movements increasing, and increasing even more, faster and harder.

Alex shudders through her climax. She feels him jerks against her as the heat of his sperm jets into her. Her breathing is hard and labored. Paul holds her hips in place, lifts his knees, and pushes her against his thighs, giving her a resting place against him. His cock is still inside her, no longer hard and rigid, but still firm. She squeezes her inner muscles and hears his quickly indrawn breath. She does it again and feels his lower stomach muscles quiver.

"The goddess would demand more sacrifice from her slave?" Paul asks and chuckles, as his hands slide up her back, move across her shoulders, and down her arms, leaving chills on the surface of her skin. He holds his hands against her back and rolls to his side as his softened cock slides out of her. He moves behind her, his hands stroking her, calming her. 

"I have no wish for you to leave me, but I must return you to your bed." The words are whispered in her ear as she sees the clock on his nightstand shows it is not yet five o'clock in the morning. In a near somnambulant state, Alex is led back to her bed, covered up, and her last sight of Paul is his bare butt going back through the connecting doors. ***

Experiencing déjà vu, Alex awakens with sunlight streaming into her room through the fully opened drapes which covered her windows the previous evening. Male voices speak her name, Vivian Haroldson's name, and the word "airplane". This is day number three of the preliminary consultation. After this visit Paul will begin to work on the details of the house design. But first, Alex must survive Day Three, and retain her job, despite the fact that she is sleeping with the boss. 

Unlike Day One, when the clients appeared at the beginning of the day and then again later, while options for the site of the home were considered, today will be intense. Day Two was easy, with only a few hours of listening to the woman describe some of her preferences. Today is in the woman's home, on her turf, seemingly under her control as she shows off her possessions, demonstrates her wealth, and demands her wishes be met. 

Only people who can afford what Aeolus P. Cerigo charges will put up with his ill temper on the third day of the preliminary consultation. Every article Alex read, where a previous client was consulted, described the man's irascible attitude, quick temper, and querulous character, most of which was reserved for the third day. 

He has been known to walk out of a house in mid-tour, demand transportation, and disappear for a week, before returning, occasionally unannounced, to pick up the tour where it was halted. A tabloid newspaper reported that one client, so indoctrinated in the religion of having Aeolus P. Cerigo design her future home, she dismissed her husband's objections to the interruption of his annual board meeting. She insisted he return home within the hour or she would divorce him and expose his sexual peccadilloes to the very same board he left. In his absence he was discharged, much to his wife's delight. She saw to the dismissal of the entire board, saw herself ensconced as President of her father's company and proceeded to enlarge her original expectations of the house Aeolus P. Cerigo designed.

Between the time Alex leaves her bed, and returns from the bathroom, a cup of hot coffee and a napkin wrapped plate of warm bagel, cream cheese, and a bowl of scrambled eggs, is left on the small night stand beside her bed. Unlike yesterday, Harlan's voice is raised, making objections, and Paul's is calm, refusing to yield, making his demands without heated words, expecting his assistant to make the arrangements.

Once again seated in the middle of her bed, Alex is reading email messages, one of which included a link to an enhancement to one of the software programs the technician loaded on her computer. She is downloading the upgrade when she hears the hall door of Paul's room click shut. She looks up to see him standing in the opening of the connecting doors between their rooms. He is wearing boxer shorts and a t-shirt. The beginning of an erection is pushing out the front of his shorts. 

He looks at her, his head cocked to one side, watching as she lowers her eyes to the laptop and types on her keyboard. When she stops and looks at him again, he glances down at his erection. "The mortal slave wishes to worship his goddess, eh?"

As she shuts down the computer and disconnects the telephone line, she asks, "Why, Paul?"

"You do not know?" There is surprise in his voice, as if he expects her to read his mind, crawl inside his head and see how he thinks. "Perhaps like me, the goddess wishes to be a mortal and does not care for the sacrifice her slaves offer, eh?"

Alex shakes her head, "I don't think you are my slave. I am mortal, as you said, certainly not a goddess."

"This man you draw. His hardness is for you," Paul declares.

Alex shakes her head, "No, he was a paid model. There were six other people around the room drawing him."




Aeolus P. Cerigo



"Yes," he demands. "The hardness of the man is for you. I see the eyes you draw. They look at you. There is nothing in his sight, but you. There is worship on his face." 

Before she can think of what she is doing, Alex is across the room opening her folio, pulling the drawing from her case and looking at it. She looks up at Paul and looks at the drawing again. As he said, the model's eye are drawn to the front and center as if he is looking straight at something or someone right in front of him. His mouth is lightly open and there is the look of awe on his face.

"You will tell me what you see," he asks, not quite as demanding as before. "When you draw yourself, eh? You see this drawing of the man? You see him worship you?"

In fact, Alex had the drawing of the discus thrower pinned to her easel while she posed for the self-portrait she was working on. She looks at Paul and looks back at the discus thrower. "How ... how did you know?"

"The hand you draw, holding your hair. It is the hand of the man. You think of him holding your hair when he comes to you, eh?" 

Alex puts the drawing of the discus thrower aside and pulls out the self-portrait. She examines her hand, and the model's hand raising the discus behind him. Paul is right the hand at the back of her head is a copy of the man's hand.

"This man, he is your lover?" It is the same question he asked when she was in his office, more firmly asked this time, as if the model is his rival.

"No, he was a paid model," she gives him the same answer. "I had never seen him before, or since, the day he posed for the class." She shakes her head, looking at the drawing. "I don't even know his name."

"As you draw yourself, you imagine this man coming to you." He may have meant the words as a question, but it does not come out that way. He sounds sure of what he said.

"Yes," she whispers as she looks at her drawing. 

"You imagine my hand on you, eh?" He holds out his hand, the gold coin bright in dim light of the room. "You look at my hand, lick your lips, close the eyes, and the chills come to your flesh." 

"Yes," she tells him the truth. It does not occur to her not to answer his question. 

Standing beside her as she examined the drawings, he has watched her. Much as she had dreamed of him doing, he slips his hand between her thighs and touches her as his hand goes upward to cup her sex. He asks her, "This is what you think of? How I will touch you?"

"Yes," she whispers her answer, her head going back as her eyes close. 

He leans toward her, his mouth near hers, breathing on her, but not touching, "You think of my mouth on you?" His finger enters her and moves back and forth. He hears her indrawn breath. "You see me grow hard for you and you prepare yourself for me?"

"Yes," her answer is little more than a breath of air. She is unaware she licks her lips.

His breath is hot on her face. "You imagine the taste of me, yet you do not take me into your mouth." When Alex shakes her head, he asks, "You have done this for a lover?" Alex shakes her head again. "Ah," he breathes, understanding changes his tone of voice. "The goddess has a fear of her slaves. Yet, she draws the object she wishes to take into herself, yes?"

Finally Paul's lips slightly touch hers, linger for a moment before moving to her cheek and then to the softness beneath her ear. It is a slow exploration of her, as he tastes her and savors her. He lifts his head and looks at her for a moment. His hand leaves her sex and comes to rest against her cheek, a quick partial smile coming and going across his face.

He drops his hand and takes one step back, speaking as if the sexual interlude never happened. "This will be a difficult day. You are ready?"

She shakes herself as a fine tremor goes down her back and lodges at the base of her spine. She answers his question, trying to keep her voice from shaking. She cannot turn it off as quickly as he seems to do. "I think I am ready. If I understand, we will spend most of the day in the Haroldson home?"

"Yes," he nods. "This woman is selfish and rude. You will not mind?"

"I'll be alright. I'll just imagine she is a woman with a big ass, naked, and does not know it."

Suddenly, Paul erupts into loud boisterous laughter. It is the most natural moment Alex has seen the man have. There is no artifice to his solemn expression. His dark brown eyes twinkle. His heavy chin comes up from its usual downward angle. "Big ass?"

"Yes," Alex says, putting her hands on her own ass, as she wiggles it from side to side, "I have a small ass." She shrugs her shoulders. "It works for me." ***

As Paul said, Mrs. Haroldson is selfish and rude to everyone, except Aeolus P. Cerigo. She is dismissive of Alex, "Oh, he brought you again. Well, stay out of the way." And then adding "If, you can," while showing a great deal of doubt that Alex has the manners to remain silent when important details are being given to the renown designer.

Likewise, Vivian Haroldson is disdainful of Marklin Anders, Paul's assistant. However, when she learns Marklin is taking notes for Paul, she often links her arm through his, disregarding that she interferes with Marklin's ability to write on the notepad he carries. Marklin's frequent, slightly confused, glances at Paul, tells Alex something is different about the way Paul is acting. However, Alex has no experience to determine what that difference might be. 

A tour through a home owned by people who enjoy their space and care for their investment could not be farther from the morning spent in the current home of Harold and Vivian Haroldson. As the woman explains it, every room they enter is too narrow, or not large enough. Each room has too few windows and ceilings are too low. Colors are dull, carpets are drab and old, paint is not fresh, and nothing is modern or comfortable.

The short man, who spends most of the morning walking in step with Alex, is the photographer, Byron Pleasant. He spent half of the previous day in a helicopter, taking photos of several selected sites for the future construction. He gives Alex a number which she writes on her page and a name, which she learns is the name of the room. He gives her similar information as they move from room to room. The photographer takes his pictures as Alex listens to Vivian Haroldson talk. As the woman talks, Byron photographs the room's problems and Alex sketches what the woman describes for her preferences. Page after page her sketch book fills. At the mid-morning break she begins a second sketch book. At the noon break, Byron changes the memory cards in his digital cameras, and has a short conference with Marklin, both of them shaking their heads after glancing at Paul. However, they are ready for another session of listening to a woman, whom none of them like, talk of her wants and wishes, without a care given to cost or difficulty. Cost will be handled by her husband and difficulty is left to the expertise of Aeolus P. Cerigo. 

Near mid-afternoon the cars are on the road to the airport where they wait in another lounge while the airplane is given the final inspection before the passengers fill the small cabin. The atmosphere in the lounge is fragile, with Marklin and Byron avoiding Paul as if his fuse is short and they fear they will be annihilated by the explosion. Both of their faces show the strain of three long and difficult days. The two men are startled by a sudden movement, jerk at a flash of light, and are agitated by a loudly spoken word. No one is interested in talking. It is as if they are individual turtles who have pulled their heads into their shells, afraid to come out for fear there is danger they cannot escape. Their caution is transmitted to Alex, who is also quiet. 

As the airplane begins to taxi to the end of the runway, Marklin is sleeping, his Dramamine keeping him from nausea. Byron is sorting through his memory cards, putting them into individual envelopes he marks with notes for Paul. Alex is leaning back as far as her seat will go, slowly stretching her neck, flexing and relaxing her shoulders, and trying to find a comfortable position to relax. And Paul is staring straight out the window beside his seat. 

When the airplane circles to align itself to its home landing strip, Paul leans over and taps Alex's knee. "You will give your apartment key to Byron. Miss Compton will pack a bag for you." Alex looks at Paul as if she is ready to explode. He raises his eyebrow, similar to the expression he gave her when he used the telephone in her room, "I pay the bills. I own your services." But, he does explain, "We will work at my home. There is the preliminary design to make."

Paul precedes her down the steps, jumps down the final step, turns around to put his hands around Alex's waist, and lifts her to the ground. He takes her arm and leads her straight through the lounge to the open rear door of a car waiting by the front door. She hears the trunk slammed shut and a moment later the car begins to move. 

When Paul asks, "You can rest in the car?" Alex nods. He turns her around to face him as he slides into the corner of the rear seat, leans back and pulls her halfway across his lap, with her head resting on his shoulder. He tells her, "Put you feet up, we will be two hours." 

Alex awakens as Paul is carrying her. "Sh-h-h, sh-h-h," he tells her. "I take you to the bed." Still half asleep, she raises her arm, puts it around his neck, and relaxes against him.

Sometime in the night, she rolls over and feels herself being pulled close to a warm body. She has a vague memory of lifting her hips while her clothes were removed, her head on a cool pillow, and warmth surrounding her.

As a faint light begins to fill the room, Alex hears a toilet flush and moments later, hands lift her to her feet, taking her to the bathroom. Her head is fuzzy, her shoulders hurt, her neck is stiff, and Paul is so gentle and caring of her needs that she wants to cry. He puts her back into the bed and curls himself around her. The next time she is awake, the room is filled with sunlight. Paul is pulling her from the bed, leading her through a sliding glass door and down the steps into a large tub full of swirling hot water.

"Oh, thank you," Alex says to Paul as he holds her hands until she settles in a deep bucket seat, with the hot water swirling just below her neck. "Heaven could never be so wonderful."

Alex chuckles. "In the days, when a goddess walked the land as a mortal, there were many slaves to care for the one they worshiped. You have but one humble slave."

"Why do you call me a goddess?"

"Ah, the goddess doubts her powers, does she? To honor his goddess this slave is polite to the Haroldson woman, despite her insults to the goddess. To show his regard for the goddess this slave does not show disdain for the monstrosity of a house. The slave protects the goddess from the shrew. This slave frightens his minions by his mild manners. Marklin and Byron are surprised to see the slave is tranquil. Only because the goddess is near can the slave be calm."

"Paul, you are a charlatan. Slave and goddess are foolish labels you have created to snare me into your web."

He grins and holds out his arms, "You will come to the slave for his sacrifice?"

Gingerly, Alex stands and takes one step until he can take her hands, pulling her to sit astride his hips. She rests her head in the crook of his shoulder. "Thank you for taking such good care of me. I am so tired." "Until Marklin arrives with your bag, I will keep you naked in my bed, so I can touch my goddess." She feels his body shaking as he chuckles in her ear. "Alas, we must then work." 

Wearing only terrycloth robes, Paul and Alex are eating breakfast at a patio table set for three when Marklin arrives. He takes his seat as a plate of food is placed in front of him by one of the older women Alex has seen moving around the house, doing various household chores.

"Thank you Mattie," Paul acknowledges the food. "Can you unpack Miss Reardon's bags and show her to a room after breakfast?" He looks at Paul to say, "Based on the drawings Vivian Haroldson looked at, before we left yesterday, she has increased the size of the house by about twenty-five percent."

Paul nods, a faint smile on his face, and asks, "More or larger rooms?"

Marklin shrugs his shoulders. "She still wants that elevated, glass enclosed sunroom, to look out over that deep ravine. She has a grounds keeper who assures her he can partially divert a nearby stream through the ravine and create a pond. She has some idea of watching wildlife from her sunroom."

Paul puts his fork down on his plate and leans back in his chair. "They can obtain approval for this?"

Marklin nods, "Yes, Haroldson has a Senator in his pocket. When I asked, he said they will have approval before construction begins."

Paul nods, takes his eyes from Marklin, looks at Alex and smiles widely as he stands. "So, we will make the house for the shrew, eh?"

Finishing her coffee, as Paul leaves the patio, Alex notices Marklin is grinning. Because she has heard Paul call Mrs. Haroldson a shrew so many times, she cannot resist asking, "What is with this "shrew" he keeps calling her?"

Marklin lowers his voice. "He gets tired of the artificial hero worship these people heap on him. To diffuse this he has some idea in his head that each woman exhibits the characteristics of an animal, or in a few instances, an insect. It sort of helps him avoid using the word "bitch" all the time." He tries not to laugh, but Alex can see he likes Paul's nickname for Mrs. Haroldson.

"Oh, well," Alex explains, "I use a physical characteristic." When Marklin raises his eyebrows to question her, Alex grins and says, "I told Paul I just imagine she is a woman with a big ass. She's walking around naked, and does not know it."

Much as Paul had done, Marklin leans back and laughs, long and hard. He finally takes his handkerchief from his back pocket and wipes his eyes. "Oh goodness," he complains. "No wonder. That is priceless." He looks at Alex and knows she does not understand. It takes him a few minutes to explain that he and Bryon spent the whole day wondering if Paul might not be feeling well, or had already made up his mind he was not going to build a house for Mr. and Mrs. Haroldson, because he was being so easy to get along with. They waited all day for his explosion, fearing the later in the day he vented his anger, the worse it would be. He finally says he hopes Alex stays around a very long time. She is better at taming the tiger than anyone he has ever worked with and he has been with Paul for fifteen years.

For the remainder of the day, Paul, Alex, and Marklin spend their time in a room, the walls of which are covered with corkboard. Before noon, Byron's photos, Alex's drawings, and some of Marklin's descriptions are tacked to the walls, beginning to be grouped into rooms, exterior elevations, and interior design elements. Marklin often moves aside and watches, with a surprised look on his face, as Paul arranges a group of exhibits. 

Arguments are frequent, good natured, and often heated, when there is a disagreement over which room the woman was speaking about when she talked of something she wanted. Only when Alex downloads all of Byron photos and compares the small numbers on her drawings with the numbers on the bottom of the photos can they figure out some of the half written notes Marklin struggled to write, with Vivian Haroldson holding on to his arm. Marklin stops, with his mouth half open in surprise, when Paul corrects him about something the woman said.

When Alex asks why someone wasn't carrying a voice recorder, Paul's face turns red and Marklin laughs. "Do you want to listen to her say all of that a second time?" He laughs again when Alex violently shakes her head.

Despite the various breaks during the day and for a leisurely served and enjoyed late dinner, all three of them are back in the windowless room, until late in the evening. They move a photo, tilt a head to look at a drawing, or stand behind Paul to watch his pencil moving. Alternately, he listens to suggestions, or seems to ignore what it going on around him. All the while, a rough sketch of the front of the house begins to appear on a large sheet of vellum, mounted on a tilted table Paul rolls around the room, while he consults the grouped exhibits on the walls. A small dusting is brushed aside as the cordless eraser removes a line, while another appears in its place, longer, shorter, or at a different angle.

He often abandons the front or rear basic design details of the house and walks around the large tables in the center of the room. He stops before another drawing and adds a detail or changes another. It is as if he can see something in his head and cannot make his pencil draw the lines he imagines.

Late in the evening, Marklin takes Alex's arm and leads her from the room, walks her to her bedroom and bids her, "Good night."

Catching his arm before he can walk away and whispering, although she need not do so, Paul is a long way from her bedroom, Alex asks, "How late will he work?"

Marklin shakes his head. "I've returned to that room after breakfast to find him still working. He will stop for an hour or a day. But his mind is working during that hour and all of that day. Get some rest. It takes us poor mortals a few days to recover from the last few days. Good night, Miss Reardon."

"Good night, Marklin." *** 

"The goddess can give attention to her consort?" The words are whispered in her ear as Paul pulls Alex over on top of him and holds her head against him. She feels a fine tremor in the muscles of his arms wrapped around her and across his bare chest under her cheek.

"Paul, you will make yourself ill if you don't get some rest," Alex says as she lifts herself up and kisses him gently. He holds her head for a much deeper kiss, and then allows her head to come back to rest against him. 

"Your slave, you have concern for him? You wish for more from your slave than the worship of his body?" His hands go up and down her back, resting on her hips for a moment, pressing her to himself, his growing erection resting between them. 

"No, you are not my slave. You may be a slave to your art and your skill, but not to me."

"Ah yes. I step down to place you upon the pedestal. I can be the man, the slave. I can worship and adore the goddess. I can be mortal." He moves his hands to her shoulders and then down her arms, taking her hands and placing them on himself. "Marklin tells me I must not abuse your time. You have need of rest." His voice grows rough and intense. "I must have your touch. To feel alive again, you give me this?" 

As gentle as he was, he becomes fierce. His arms go around her, crushing her to his chest as he rolls her over and kisses her. His mouth is hungry. He pushes his tongue between her lips and under her tongue brushing her tongue upward, swirling the tip of his tongue around the tip of hers. He sucks her tongue into his mouth and uses his to push it back into her mouth. He rubs his tongue on the roof of her mouth, with an intensity he does not seem able to control. And then he begins all over again, he cannot get enough of the taste of her and wants to share himself with her.

As suddenly as he seemed to attack her, he slows. His breathing is heavy as he grows gentle. His lips move across her face, touch her eyes and caress her forehead before moving to the tenderness of her neck. 

He moves between her legs, his hands sliding up her torso under her shirt to cup her breasts in his hands and rests his face in her cleavage as his breathing slows. He takes deep breaths and blows through the material covering her. As a carefully controlled movement, he pulls the shirt over her head, drops it beside the bed, and smoothes her hair from her face. 




Aeolus P. Cerigo



"This beauty you have brings men to you, as I come to you." He moves his mouth to one breast and places his flat tongue across her nipple, leaves wetness behind, and moves to the other breast to do the same. 

"This softness soothes the hardness in me, destroys the shell, and nourishes the man." He places his mouth over her breast and draws the areola into his mouth, sucks on her breast, raises his head and allows the breast to fall from his mouth. 

"You must not take yourself from me." He moves to the other breast, suckles as if he is taking nourishment from her, cupping her flesh with his tongue.

He moves down her body, a trail of moisture from his mouth spreading across her as he moves from side to side, lavishing her with his mouth. He reaches to softness of her mound and rests his mouth against her. "You will allow a humble man to worship you?"

Barely understanding what he is saying, Alex asks him, "Why do you ask now? You did not ask before?"

"Before? Ah yes, I thought I was a god. I could take as I wished, with none to refuse me. Today, I am but a man who desires a woman. I ask her to give to me. You will give to me? You will take from me?"

Alex raises herself up on her elbows and look at him. "What, Paul? What do you want me to take from you?"

Like her, his sits up. He raises his arms and spreads them out beside him. "You take from me, all that I have, all that I am, as I have taken from you. Do you not see me? I am but a man, a man who desires a woman. I have the need of you to touch me, not to have fear. You will make the demand of me, not simply yield to me?" 

Alex scoffs, "I do not fear you."

Paul lowers his arms and leans toward her, "Is it that you fear yourself?"

Her quickly indrawn breath answers his question.

"Ah," he breathes his understanding. "The first night, I come to you like an animal. You are wild, angry, you escape. When next I take you, I struggle to hold you. Two times your size I am, yet you would overpower me like an animal. Yet, when I care for you, you are the cat, the pet, you purr, the fire is gone. I seek your fire."

If there was better light in the room, or if he was watching her, he would have known he touched a fuse he might have wished he had not. As he said, he is twice as big as she is, but she is not a pet, nor a cat, she is a tigress, a wild untamed woman. Before he can take his next breath, she slams her body into him, screaming at him.

"I am not an animal." 

Her hands are in his hair, holding him for her kiss. She bits his lower lip, grinds her mouth against his, bruising his lips and her own. With near superhuman strength she pulls him over on top of her, and lifts her hips as she guides him to her. He pauses for a moment and looks at her face, and then slams into her. In a near repeat of the first night, he is above her, holding her down as she arches her back and bumps against him, demanding he go deeper. He pounds against her cervix, as his erection expands and swells inside her. Her climax is hard, but he does not stop for her, he continues to hurl his body against her.

A second climax shakes her as she growls at him. She pushes against his shoulders for leverage to lift her hips to meet each of his thrusts. He cannot last long, but he does not care, he will have this woman, like this, again and again. He watches the wild beauty of her face as his balls grow tight. There is a hollow feeling at the base of his cock and he explodes. He jerks against her again and again as she screams when his heat pours into her, tipping her over the edge of a thundering body shaking climax, while her muscles squeeze around him, pumping him. 

He will not move. He will not separate himself from her. The muscles in his arms are burning. His legs tremble. She twitches beneath him as he lowers his body to rest against her. She holds him, her breath hot on his shoulder, on his neck and against his mouth. 

Paul rests his head beside hers. His voice is rough and deep. "The goddess is once again a mortal."