The Privileged and the Rapture

Cèsar Sanchez Zapata

Well-earned reputation as a workaholic aside, I was not in the habit of taking meetings at six-thirty on a Friday night. Those evenings, with particular delight and relish, I reserved for what you might call cultural pursuits; I was partial to the theatre, in fact. I could always rely on the premium quarry dawdling round in their natural habitats, rigged to the nines. In many ways, I am the farthest thing from an élitist. Indeed, I have never harboured a preference for class or status, though I must admit to deriving a certain pleasure when it comes to unmasking those shrouded under cotton wraps.

That being said, I would never - never - be personally involved in outing somebody.

So I’d had a very quiet, very intimate night in mind with the Mayor’s oldest daughter. A liaison, I am not ashamed to admit, that had occupied my thoughts for the better part of the afternoon. A rendezvous now cancelled. The world will say what it will about me or my predilections, but I certainly wasn’t then, nor am I now, in the habit of sacrificing hedonistic amusement for a blessed payday. Nevertheless, one makes certain concessions - however minimal - when the person requesting an audience is Emma Delacroix. Oscar-winning actress, New York Times bestselling author - America’s sweetheart.

For her, the world laid out the red carpet.

I merely agreed to an exclusive meet-and-greet.

In three years, the Water Street building had never been this isolated so early in the evening, and I - better than anyone - would know. I rarely left before nine pm - Monday through Thursday. All the office lights were switched off now, except for mine; I’d sent everyone home, including the janitors. The hum of the air conditioning was deafening in lieu of the constant phones and chatter reverberating off the walls, the tapping of keyboards, opening and shutting of file drawers. I soaked in the silence, absorbed it; for once in my life, I rejoiced in being perfectly still...

...until the lift bell rang and the silver doors slid open.

She was thinner than I’d imagined; toned, not like an athlete per se, but like a dancer with long, slender legs rising to a delectable bum perfectly moulded for a handful and fit for a kneading. She was considerably taller than me, but that was no great wonder; I stood, after all, only five feet, four inches. That notwithstanding, where we differed most was in the outward nature of our femininity, of our bodies, because truly no two different marvels could God have designed. Mine was voluptuous, gifted in that regard with a harlot’s appeal and the power such overt sexuality wields in this world - an angle not lost on me, I assure you. Even as hers could best be defined as statuesque, for most the word that seems to spring to mind when describing me is: lascivious. She had her curves, she did, yet they were tamed by comparison - there was a refinement in her I couldn’t help associate with privilege, while mine - is pure sex.

She carried herself flawlessly, on a step reserved for royalty minus the stiff upper lip: that is to say, she strutted with an inborn ease and polish that plays exquisitely. Each leg, each arm, shifting as if choreographed, effortlessly in sync; a leisurely stroll through a garden of Eden. What struck me most - how positively cliché - was her face. Her eyes, especially, but within the broader context, how luminous they seemed sunken into her porcelain skin, invigorated by such wonderfully chiselled cheekbones and brilliant red lips.

If ever there had been a doubt in my mind, as I moved to greet her outside my office door I was convinced.

I had to have her.

She drew closer still, extending her arm, thrusting her pretty little bosom, and smiling when our hands touched. A smile as casual as any imaginable, as if we were chancing upon one another on a bright summer’s day in a meadow or some equally trite place to discuss the weather. That nature of ingenuousness attorneys abhor in clients, typically because it means the true weight of the crisis hasn’t yet sunk in.

The man beside her was - to be kind - portly, but the cut of his three-piece suit veiled his girth well. Immediately, he came across as the fretting sort, evidenced by profuse sweating and premature hair loss; no doubt the last few days had contributed to that significantly. I never entertained the thought of liking him; he reeked to high heavens of a sycophant. A glorified lap-dog with a six-figure salary. Over the years I’d met enough characters to brand him as the Manager.

I led them inside, gesturing for them to sit. I didn’t bother offering drinks; this wouldn’t be an extended meeting. We were each simply copping a feel.

Puppet or not, the Manager was efficient. He got right down to brass tacks. “Does she have a case?”

I lowered myself into the leather chair, angled myself so my sole line of sight was her. There was no need to measure my approach. I didn’t need to hear her side, her excuses, her account of things. The answer was clear, and now, it was only a matter of convincing her of it.

“Copyright Infringement without Fair Use exception, Right to Privacy and Right to Publish... those are the common causes in civil court. It’s enough to scare off hapless fame-seekers and moneygrubbers. Far as I can tell, though, Rowdy Entertainment is the only player.

“This might sound like good news but they’re the big boys of the adult industry with the resources to drag this out. They stand to make a lot of money, Ms. Delacroix; they’ll fight this tooth and nail. Alternatively, if you give me the word –

“I’ll broker a distribution deal that guarantees you get your cut and then some.”

“Ms. Hesston,” said the Manager, coolly; poor bastard thought he was in control. “We contacted you because you are the best. You’ve litigated five successful suits involving the publication of private home videos, and-”

“Sex tapes,” I interrupted, bluntly.

“Pardon?”

“Ms. Delacroix, what your ex-lover claims was stolen from his safe - what he more probably leaked himself after his last three movies tanked at the box office... was a sex tape. Let’s not mince words.”

The Manager pulled on the lapel of his jacket, suddenly feeling his shirt collar too tight around his neck. He cleared his throat, affording Emma a fleeting sidelong look, and then turned back to me. My gaze was unwaveringly on her. If he hadn’t done so already, I’ll bet it was at that instant he finally noticed I’d not paid him more than a glance, perfunctory or otherwise, since he stepped into my office.

“Our camp issued a public denial of her involvement. We thought perhaps a defamation suit might be appropriate.”

I shook my head. “That won’t play.”

“Why is that?”

For the first time, I acknowledged him directly. ‘Because that is your client fucking on camera, sir.’

Unfazed, Emma leaned forward, propping her elbow on the edge of my desk, studying me intently. “Have you watched it?” in a near whisper, as though the very question was lewd.

I nodded, clasping my hands at the knuckles. My throat went dry as I remembered how zealously this young woman sitting before me had crushed her lover’s face betwixt her legs, demanding the pleasure his mouth could bring, depriving him of air until he could bring her to the pinnacle. I breathed in deeply. “A little beyond my usual research. But necessary, given the circumstances.”

Emma cast her eyes down. Anyone else might have missed it, but I saw the skip in her chest, the minor swell of her breasts. She was a hard one to decipher, I’ll give her that - and this was no minor compliment. In all honesty, I couldn’t tell whether she was shamed or aroused by the fact that I’d seen, borne witness to her full glory.

“There’s little to do about the thirty-second trailer floating around on the Internet. Chances are everyone and their grandmother’s already had a good jerk watching it. The cat’s out of the bag, so we cut our losses. I’ll have the complaint drafted and ready to be filed on Monday, if you choose to go down that path. I’m not guaranteeing that a court will grant it, but I’ll also move for a preliminary injunction to prevent release of the full tape, pending resolution.”

I pushed away from the desk, rising. Without another word, the Manager stood and started for the door. She took her time, the same calm, sensual gait as before. Just as she’d reached the doorway, I called her back. She craned her neck around to me.

“There are two ways to handle your ex-lover.”

She chewed on that for a moment. Then grinned like evil incarnate. “Cut his balls off.”

I never presumed she’d walk out, then, when it would’ve been perfectly suitable for her to do so. She stayed as I expected she might, as I’d demanded of her without saying a word, with just a look. She was already compliant. I stepped around the desk, walking steadily. I still didn’t look at the Manager, who was frozen stiff outside my office, even as I shut the door in his face.

Her eyes were wide, timid yet awakened, awaiting my next move.

“Lift your skirt,” I said. She scoffed at me, smiling nervously, her face contorted with uncertainty. She was wound up tighter than a spring coil. I snatched at her elbow, gripping it like a vise. “I don’t care if you’ve never been with a woman or how confused you think you are. You wanted this. Your knickers would be soaked already... if you were wearing any. I can smell the excitement dripping down your thighs.”

She scoffed again - louder this time, like one who wasn’t accustomed to being commanded. To being spoken to so crassly. “This all seems a little self-serving.” But she didn’t pull away, she didn’t shift even an inch, as I pressed closer to her.”I am going to have you,” I said, slowly, though not in a whisper so she had to struggle to hear. I wanted her to know I was right, to feel that truth coursing through her veins, mauling her pussy.

“Look,” she said, but her voice was shaky and I noted that bit like a shark on the scent of blood. She cleared her throat. “Look, I know it’s the twenty-first century, and I’m open...”

I grinned, never turning my gaze away. In similar moments, I always reverted back to the giddy first-year law student sitting through an intercession lecture on fundamental transactional negotiation strategy. Don’t back down - not unless absolutely necessary. Never veer your eyes, unless you know you’re beaten.

I was far from it.

“You can fight it - but it’s a struggle against your own body.” I steered her back to me, pulled her tightly, her marvellous body fitting against mine. It never entered her mind how ridiculous a concept it was that a diminutive woman would wield such power over her; it was seamless, it just seemed natural.

“You’re taking several liberties, Counsellor.”

“Am I?”

“Yes”, she said, breathlessly. “And making more than your fair share of assumptions.”

She peered down into my eyes as evenly as she could manage, but I saw the twitch: the tiniest, most minute, tic in the corner of her mouth.

My turn - I smirked. “You can’t win that fight.”

She looked dazed, like she had no control over herself and that was utterly beyond her comprehension, as she pulled her skirt up and I plunged a hand between her legs. The first touch always carried an orgasmic current: a soft endearment, fingers, tips and nails, running up the insides of warm, silken flesh; her thighs trembling. Within seconds, my fingers were thoroughly coated in ambrosia, rolling in the dew with earnest. Her eyes rolled back into her head as I fondled that warm cunt; she didn’t struggle, not in the slightest, as my hand roamed farther down and slid along the crevice of her finely-formed bum, teasing a single fingertip around the rim of her arsehole. My left hand unsnapped the catch on her skirt, letting it drop to the floor.

At first I introduced two fingers, snaking them inside with a come-hither gesture, and had her writhing against the heel of my palm before I slipped in a third. And, my, her response was immediate; she let out a moan that made my nipples stiffen and she collapsed against the door with a loud bang. If the Manager was still outside like the twit that he was, he wouldn’t be able to see through the frosted glass - only silhouettes - but that, and the sounds escaping her, would do the job just as effectively. He’d be sporting a hard-on the likes of which he’d never seen. For her part, Emma hadn’t reached the summit, not quite, I could tell, but she was so very close, close enough that she could taste it bubbling just beyond her grasp.

Abruptly, I pulled away. She dropped to her feet with a start, as though she’d fallen from a cloud. I let myself revel in her expression a moment, that look of shock, oh so preciously laughable shock, plastered on her face.

“Later,” said I, inching farther away, one sticky finger waving her off.

She was flabbergasted. “Is this some kind of fucking prank? I...”

I silenced her with a finger over my lips. Again, she did as she was told. Then I wrapped my lips just over the tip of that same finger, tasting her essence. “I’ll leave the office by nine.”

“You must be joking.”

I tilted my head, slightly- and she was silent once more.

“Wait for me in the lobby.”

She bent down for her skirt, arranging it back over her shapely arse. “I have a dinner.”

I walked to the bar situated by my private lavatory and poured myself a Scotch neat. Her response amused me; after all, she hadn’t said no. My silence, I noted as I moved towards my chair, disconcerted her immensely. That, too, tasted wonderful.

“It’s been on the books for ages.”

“Cancel it. Move it up. I won’t tell you how to handle your business.” I sat down, pulling my skirt up high and crossing my legs, letting her feast her eyes. There is nothing as sensual, take my word, nothing so lascivious as a pair of legs, silken and bronzed to perfection, folded together flesh against flesh, to remind one of the marvels of sex; how heavenly a thing it is to be embraced in a real woman’s legs.

I could see the wheels turning in her head. She was weighing her options - how adorable - actually contemplating saying no to me. Naturally, she always had that as an option; I would never think to force myself upon her. Nor would I - let’s be perfectly frank - ever allow myself to be rejected by the likes of a spoiled Hollywood princess. I sipped on my drink, but kept my eyes trained coldly on hers.

“These people aren’t the understanding sort,” she said finally.

“Neither am I.” I swept my fingertip along my lower lip, tasting her again. “This may seem like a negotiation, Ms. Delacroix, but I promise you, it’s not. And I don’t repeat myself. Ever.”

I set the glass down like a gavel upon my desk.

***

At half past, I made it to the lobby. I spotted her as I walked from the lifts. There were twenty metres between us, and her eyes followed me the entire way. The dismay was there in her expression at first, the shame, the urge - that silly compulsion - inside to rebel, even though she’d already submitted, already surrendered the big battle.

The strong ones always despised themselves initially.

As I got closer, that self-hatred waned and evaporated. She was mine in that moment; she gazed at me with such enthusiasm, bordering almost on idolatry. The memory of my office, the heat enveloping us both, our bodies curling together . . . it was already burned into her brain.

I didn’t go to her. I didn’t stop to wait. Five metres from her, I turned a sharp right and walked directly to the stainless steel and glass doors leading out to the street.

My car was already idling by the curb. The porter had my door open. Just before I slipped in behind the wheel, Emma walked out. She approached the passenger side, but he didn’t open her door. He didn’t even glance her way, as though he couldn’t see her; as though this warm-blooded, hormone-riddled man were totally oblivious to the drop-dead gorgeous woman standing directly in front of him. He kept his eyes glued on me.

I made her wait. I kept her standing there, exposed - fearing the ignominy of - rejection. It was just five seconds - maybe eight - but for someone like her, someone of her position, a heartbeat of invisibility was like a lifetime in Hell.

Then I took pity. But I made damn sure she knew it. I nodded ever so slightly at the boy and he finally pulled her door open.

“Have a nice evening, Ms. Delacroix,” he said, tipping his hat.

No sooner had he shut the door behind her, than the bile started spewing. “He knew who I was? He knew, and that... that arsehole had the gall...”

“Let it go.”

“-he had the fucking balls to ignore me?”

“Don’t blame him.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because if he had let you in without my permission, he knows I can do worse to him than you ever could.”

She watched me in the darkness. I felt her eyes undressing me, lusting for what pleasure I could give, though she had no earthly idea what the limit of that could be. I could hear her breathing and it spoke volumes.

“Can you imagine the scandal this would cause?”

I didn’t respond.

“They’ll paint me as a sexual deviant. Make up the worst stories.”

“They won’t.”

“How could I stop them?”

‘Not from publishing. But by the time I’m through with you - they won’t have to make anything up.’

***

Fair to say she never imagined my home to be a 5,100-square foot estate on Blue Jay Way, seemingly soaring over the incandescent glow of the Sunset Strip. An old lover, an architect by profession, had designed the house entirely from a rough blueprint I myself sketched on her naked back. In my life, there were priceless few things I was coy about. Any advantage, no matter how seemingly small, could be employed, could be used to the utmost. My true friends, few as they were, knew where I lived; my enemies could get my address with a click of a button. Fair use. Nothing was personal in my world; not because I didn’t want it so, but because sooner or later, in our digital world, secrets were bullshit and everything was bound to come out. Therefore what was the use of secrets?

Emma followed me to the front entryway across the glass bridge hanging over the pool, her stiletto heels clacking on the white Carrara marble as we crossed the living room, through the French doors, to the back yard. Along the left side of the patio, there was a row of three plush daybeds with rattan canopies. A narrow strip of grass to my right angled towards the kitchen. Beyond the pool’s edge, my bedroom drapes billowed in the breeze creeping through the open floor-to-ceiling glass doors. I felt her beside me; I felt her eyes trained on the bed.

“Get out of those clothes,” I directed.

She tilted her hips haughtily, her arms crossed over her chest. “You’ve seen the tape. You know I don’t take orders in the bedroom.”

I grinned. “You’re not with that weakling now. And I’ve told you already - I don’t repeat myself.”

I snapped my finger, and she came alive, tearing at her clothes, baring her marvellous body save her white, silk laced panties. I pointed at the daybed. She stared at me as she parked her derrière, so lost and vulnerable. I felt the mildest pang of tenderness.

I eased her on her back, prodding my knee up between her thighs. “This is your free lesson,” I said, affectionately. Her eyes fixed on my mouth, even as her own trembled with need, drunk on the promise of a kiss. “Tune your senses. Internalise every beat. There will be a test afterwards.”

Before she could respond, I rolled around and heaved her right leg like a scarf over my lips. I was pecking, then, on her cunt through her skivvies, inhaling her scent, effecting feverish gasps and blessed, magnificent vulgarities that gushed forth from her like honey music to my ears. She didn’t know what to feel or think; from the waist down she squirmed like an eel, clutching her loins around my mandible, drawing my tongue in deeper, and yet her arms flexed and her nails gouged at the back of my neck.

I couldn’t be bothered with her indecision. I wrestled her arms down, pinning the wrists to her cheeks as I spread her wider, buried myself and sought out the tiny button peeking through a curtain of flesh that would render her completely, unquestionably, under my spell.

Crooning, she started to toil her haunches against my nose and mouth - but I gave her a healthy cuff on the backside to set her straight. I was the choreographer, and best she remember it.

It happened just so. A gentle flick and she was mine - docile as a mouse.

She needed just a moment to collect herself, then climbed off me. She stood at the foot of the bed, disoriented like waking from a dream, her face slackened but flushed red, and her knees unsteady.

I slid my hand down her shivering arms. I loved that she towered above me; I loved that she had to bend her head down to see me, and that through narrowed eyes and the pleasure-fuelled gloss, I could see I’d become her world.

Quickly, I undressed, and her eyes gawked hungrily, mouth salivating.

“Now - your turn.”

I forced her down on her knees in front of me. No resistance whatsoever; how sweet that was. I didn’t move again, not until I felt certain she understood who was in control, who wielded the power. Then I placed my hand on the top of her head, pulling her into me.

Her tongue moved slowly, bestowing me with soothing, luxurious strokes. As my own eyes shut, I revelled in the bliss wading inside me - the gentle ripples before the wave of orgasm. She burrowed as deeply as I had, lips pressing against my clit, and the tip of her tongue fondling parts of me I’d never taste myself. It was obvious, somehow, the taste of a woman was alien to her, but she was ravenous, like she was anxious to gorge on me, frantic to have her tongue coated in my juices.

“Lie on your back,” I ordered, grazing my hand across her face, shutting her eyelids. “You’re only just beginning.”

Leaving her eyes closed, she obeyed. She lay perfectly still on the lawn - the ideal pupil. I kissed her, finally, lips moulding together beautifully. Then I lifted her arse, slipping her knickers to her knees. I bent my head down, and I breathed a path of warm air across her chest, filling her navel with the aroma of twelve-year-old Scotch, to her pussy.

She groaned, writhed. But I held her ankles down. I drank from her, lapped the nectar greedily, as my hands busied themselves elsewhere. She was oblivious, ensnared in the euphoria. In the grass, the leather cuffs and pinions were imperceptible. Even if she’d dared to resist, she wouldn’t have known until it was too late, until the binds were locked and her limbs were shackled to the ground.

Without speaking, I walked inside and poured myself another Scotch. I drank slowly, letting her smoulder outside in the open air, naked and glorious under the moonlight. I grabbed what I needed from a kitchen drawer. When I emerged with my tools in hand, I stood over her - how lovely and picturesque she was, peering back, not scared or angry but anxious, hungry. She saw what I held, and it both thrilled and terrified her.

Before her widened eyes, I tied the leather strap around my waist, pulled it taut, so the rubber dildo bobbed wildly, monstrously. I gripped it in one hand, rubbing it from base to tip; and in my little hands, it did truly appear like a horrid beast.

“Not a peep,” I warned. “I have neighbours.”

I spread her legs, sidled close on my knees, and watched her smooth, slippery folds slowly envelop the crown as it slipped in. Then I butted forward, hard, embedding the full length so our pelvises crushed together. She wrenched her eyes shut, breast racking. Her mouth burst open in the most breathless gasp. I stabbed the prick again and again, with force, with fury, sweat running down my brow. I must’ve looked like an animal myself, fangs bared, but damned if she didn’t keep begging, and begging for more. She gasped and wheezed and thrashed, reincarnated on the head of that cock, transformed into the same filthy whore from the tape.

When I had her good and pummelled, I withdrew the brute, wiped its brow along the hammered lips, grazing the clit, puckered and swollen, and getting her riled up again.

“Do you want to taste yourself?” I asked, and she nodded keenly.

I held the prick out to her like an offering, and I reached down and seized her long, lustrous hair in one hand, held it high over her head, tipping her face up; she opened wide and let the beast slide over her tongue all the way to her throat. Such a sweet and innocent little mouth, yet stifling, and, eyes bulging, she gobbled nearly every inch, amazingly, even if her jaw looked ready to come unhinged. When finally she ran out of breath, she exhaled; the cock popped out covered in drool and slapping against my belly. She smiled at me, and beside myself, I smiled back.

I’d seen the look a dozen times, but it never failed to delight. I dread to label it as reverence, but few words could better describe it. I don’t think she even noticed that I’d let go of her mane until she felt the sting of the crop. I rained the blows, then, upon her breasts, her knees, her legs and pussy. She squealed as the leather connected, yet the lust in each of her groans, the squelch of sweat fused with dripping excitement was the sweetest harmony. She was overflowing, her back arching and her chest heaving rapidly, as another orgasm took hold.

It wasn’t her pleasure, naturally, but mine that needed to be fulfilled. And once it had been, I released her and, naked, we walked back inside together. She started towards the bedroom, then halted when I didn’t follow.

The red message light on my phone was flashing brightly. I switched it on, eyes scanning and focusing on the screen. My reaction was anything but concern; I was still too euphoric. But she must’ve seen something in my expression. She ambled over to me, alarmed, and I handed her the phone.

I thought she’d faint when the whole thing finally registered for her. Judging from the angle, the wily little cunt had set up in a tree behind the high gate on the west end of the estate, zoom lens capturing my entire backyard. There was a good shot of me with the crop brandished in mid-air. The rapture in the flesh.

“Oh my God...”

“Gets worse. Check the sender,” I said. The shock on her face nearly made me laugh, then it nearly made me sick. “That’s right - your personal email. Your phone’s been hacked. It’s easier to do than you’d think.”

“I had personal information, documents - private photos.”

“Not any more.” I grabbed a sheer wrap from the dining table and wrapped it around my shoulders. “The photographer works for the Times, goes by the name Lilith.”

“I was careful not to be followed.”

“It wasn’t you she was following.”

The realisation hit. But I didn’t let her ask why.

“I’ll take care of it,” I said, already moving to the door.

Never ceased to amaze me how far some people would go to climb into my bed. Precious Lilith with the caramel skin and the superbly Latin curves. Normally, I’d have cherished her submission, treated her like a pet rather than a slave. She should’ve known I wouldn’t respond to force. Beware what you wish for.

Now I’d have to teach the trollop a lesson.