Guardian Girl (The Chronicles of Staffordshire) (22 page)

“So you want to sweat, eh Miss Nichols? Well I think I can arrange that. Hop up and sit on the steps again. Move close to the railing so I have something to hold.”

Sonia repositioned herself close to the railing, hunching her buttocks low on the step, giving Rory a target he could hit safely without slamming his balls into the step.

Rory came in, lifting his right leg over Sonia’s left to get some upward leverage, placing his other foot firmly against a lower stair and pressing up under her other leg. The “Twister” maneuver positioned him for maximum depth and grind. On his first dive into Sonia’s pussy Rory took his time and tortured his eager-to-please employee.

“YESSSS!” Sonia screamed. “YESSS!!! Ohhh… This feels... amazing! Ohhh… Yesss… Ohhh please… Go faster, Rory… Faster! Do me, Rory!”

“As you wish, milady…”

Rory picked up the pace. The position was perfect for Sonia, letting her feel full on every thrust. She screamed again, not caring how much volume she poured into the vacant mansion.

“Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Ohshit! Ohmygod! Uh huh! Uh huh! Fuck! Oh fuck me! Fuck me, Rory! Uh huh! Uh huh! Ohmygod! Harder! I said HARDER, you horny son of a bitch!”

Rory’s passion exploded, possessed with a single goal. Sonia was going to have a stair-shattering, sweat-drenched orgasm if it killed her.

Five minutes passed. Sweat dripped from Sonia’s forehead, running past her clenched eyes and flushed cheeks.

Ten minutes passed. Rory’s sweat fell from his face, mixed with Sonia’s, and ran down her tits. Sweat flowed in co-mingled rivulets from Sonia’s chest to her stomach, dripping into and drenching her already sopping snatch.

Fifteen minutes passed. Their combined sweat poured down Sonia’s back, past her sweat-soaked bottom, causing her sweaty legs to slip back and forth across the stair step. Salty brine ran down her calves and over her shoes.

“Holy Shit! Holy Shit! Ohhhh holy fuck! Rory! Fuck me! Fuck me! Holy shit!”

Rory could no longer contain the pressure building in his groin. A gusher was seconds away. “Sonia! I’m about to come! I’m going to come!”

“Fuck me! Keep going! Harder! I’m almost there again! I’m almost… Ohhhh yes! YES! Uh Huh! Uh Huh! Uh Huh! Keep going Rory! Yesssss! UH HUH! OHHHHH FUHHHHHH…”

Sonia erupted in a back-arching, leg-jerking climax. It curled her toes, causing her to throw her head back so violently she nearly cracked her skull on the step above. Rory threw out his hand and caught her just before impact, gently setting her head to the step as rocking waves of release spread over her body.

Rory pulled out, yanked off the condom, and sprayed his seed across Sonia’s chest. Some spurts shot high, landing squarely on her cherry flavored lips, some dropped low, dribbling across her sodden fur pie. In a haze, Sonia lifted herself grabbed his cock and pumped, pulling him forward to lick away the lingering goo from the tip of his dong. Sonia smeared Rory’s leftover joy across her body, occasionally licking her fingers to savor the boss’s pineapple flavor jizz.

Rory turned and collapsed on the stairs. He lifted his right leg and draped it over Sonia’s lap. His chest heaved.

“Ohhh… my… GOD!” Shouted Sonia. “Oh… My… Fucking GOD! That was amazing! That was insane!”

Sonia rolled her sweat-soaked head to look over at Rory. “MY GOD! Rory, that was fucking amazing! Are you absolutely, positively, one hundred percent certain I can’t talk you into marrying me?”

“No, dear,” Rory managed between cleansing breaths, “but don’t worry. I’ll make sure you always go to bed satisfied.”

The marathoner’s breathing settled quickly. She reclined next to Rory, rubbing her hand up and down his thigh, amazed at how quickly a job interview turned into sweltering sex with the hottest star on Madison Avenue.

“Rory…?”

Rory scanned the foyer, enjoying the way the fading afternoon light bounced through the crystals of the chandelier, painting every surface with brilliant hues of purple, red, and gold. He turned toward Sonia and smiled. Her naked, drenched body was awash in a rainbow of bent light.

“Yes, Miss Nichols…”

“You don’t need to worry about a bonus plan. Just give me one of these every couple of months and I’ll be juuuuust fine.”

He laughed.

“By the way, sir…”

“Yes, Miss Nichols?”

“Don’t you think your future wife might have a little problem with you boffing your personal assistant all the time? I mean… Don’t you think she could get a little jealous?”

“Miss Nichols, I suspect that after I get married I won’t be the only one in this house ‘boffing’ their personal assistant.”

“Good! That’s a relief. Another one of those ‘stipulations,’ sir?”

“Oh yes, Sonia. Definitely one of those ‘stipulations’.”

Part 5

No More Promises

Fifteen

“Damn, Freaky, I thought
Paulson
was tough! This place is insane! How the hell do these sadists expect us to finish 100 pages
in one night
? In
three subjects
, for God’s sake!
300 pages!
I may not survive three years of this shit! When are we ever going to get some sleep?”

Lena shoveled an overloaded fork full of Greek salad into her ravenous gob. A
huge
clump of feta cheese crumbled on its way in, loose bits dropping back to the plate and down between her legs. Lena dodged backward as the cheese fell, sparing her typical white T-shirt and painted-on jeans ignoble fallout.

In a navy blue Lycra dress and cropped, gold jacket, Lenore rolled her eyes and shook her head in mild disgust, delicately dabbing a smidgen of dressing from the corner of her mouth.

“Stop complaining, dear. You well know that we have it better than most. Many of our classmates must work their way through school. All
we
must do is write a few checks, attend class, and turn in papers. We do not work because we must, dear. We work because we enjoy it.”

For emphasis, Lenore flipped her fork back and forth between the pair, politely putting the Wild Child’s whining in proper perspective.

“Look at us, Lena. I remain fit and I walk runways. You remain fit and swing your racket. I do a few shoots each year to keep Shalamar’s endorsement. You play your silly little game and your signature lines are selling better than ever. And do not forget...! You are still worth more than
twice
what I am worth! So let us face facts, dear… Whining does not become you.”

Lenore stabbed a few leafs of Jake’s Irish Pizza’s drool-worthy house salad and placed them into her mouth.

“I know, I know,” Lena relented mid-munch. “But still… This is insane! Whose idea was Harvard law, anyway?”

Head down, chewing quietly, Lenore pointed her fork at Lena.

Lena masticated a large grape leaf. “Yeah, yeah. I know.
I
wanted Harvard law. But
you
wanted Harvard law, too, Freaky Baby. Seems to me
one
of us pushed the
other
one along. Now
who
would
that
be, pray tell?”

Consuming another elegantly sized portion of salad, head still down, Lenore lifted her fork and pointed at herself, same as she always did whenever Lena got on the, “Who’s idea was this, anyway?” subject.

“So am I just dreaming this, or was it
your
idea that we
both
wind up at Harvard and
stick
to law?”

Lenore took another small forkful and slipped it past her lips. She wiggled the fork at Lena.

“What the hell does that mean? What’s with the fork wiggle? Are you accepting your culpability in this matter, Ms. De La Fuente? Is that an admission of guilt?”

Lena turned to an imaginary jurist on her right and begged the court’s indulgence. “Your honor... Permission to treat the witness as hostile.’

With a deep, stentorian voice, Lena responded to herself. “Permission granted, counselor. Kill the bitch.”

Lenore giggled, dabbed her lips, and returned her napkin to her lap. Lifting her head, she engaged her pestering prosecutor.

“Yes, Ms. Sardi. I confess. You trapped me with your cunning and superior cross examination skills. It was
all
my idea that two
total
strangers would arrive at Paulson, room together all four years, miraculously pursue identical courses of study, double-major together, graduate from said college #3 and #4, apply to the same graduate school, get accepted together, move to Boston together, get an apartment together, room together, and take identical classes together on the path to graduating together, one day founding their own law firm together.

“You broke me. Guilty as charged on all counts, counselor.”

Lena pounded the table with her palm. “Your honor, I rest my case! Ms. De La Fuente has admitted her guilt! This freaky supermodel pushed our sweet, innocent, tennis pro into pursuing an insane quest to graduate in the top five from Harvard Law.”

Lenore put on a serious, deep voice. “And what, Ms. Sardi, do you recommend as a punishment befitting the crime?”

Lena shook her fork at her still-working runway roommate. “Throw the book at her! I say make the freaky supermodel do Ms. Sardi’s homework for a year!”

Lenore smiled broadly at the antagonistic future litigator. “Lena, dear, in case you had not noticed, we have the same homework. We are in the same classes. I do not think that solution will help you much. The plagiarism might stand out a bit.”

“Yeah, but at least I’ll feel better knowing you’re throwing the book at yourself.”

Lena elicited another hearty laugh from her roommate. Lenore’s eyes sparkled with infatuation gazing at her “more than life itself” love.

Lenore delicately put down her fork and covered her plate with her napkin, politely pushing it away. Lena forklifted one last shovelful of Greek salad, tossed the fork to the plate with a loud clank, and shoved it aside.

“Okay, Freaky Baby. I’ll quit whining. You’re right. There are a lot of people here who have it a lot tougher than we do. But it’s not like we’re not working hard for it. Walking down a runway may not be tough for a born hip-wiggler, but tennis… now that’s a
real
woman’s sport. I’m exhausted trying to keep up with everything. Studies… Tournaments… BLEH!”

Lenore wagged her finger. “No, no, no, Wild Child. We both have the same workout regimen remember? Let us not start the, ‘Who is the better athlete?’ competition again! You know how it always ends. I win with my cat-like reflexes and smooth, graceful moves,” Lenore smirked and extended her hands side-to-side, floating them above the floor.

“Swords and horseys! You call those sports? HA! Cat-like reflexes my beautiful Italian ass! Tennis! Now THAT’S cat-like! Have you ever tried to receive service from Martina or Chrissy? Good luck, runway girl! Try taking a 110 mile per hour service on clay from the crazy Czech before you talk about ‘cat-like’ reflexes, sister!”

“Okay, okay… I concede. You are absolutely right. Avoiding and deflecting the point of an oncoming saber is not
nearly
as difficult as a baseline shift. You are absolutely right, my dear, doddering friend.”

Lena slammed her palm down on the table. “Ohhh… Now you’ve gone and done it! You think I’m past my prime, is that what I’m hearing, Freaky?”

“Oh, no… I would
never
suggest you are past your prime, my ancient, withering roommate.”

Lena reached behind her head and put her palm against her upswept hair, tossing her head back and pointing her elbow to the side. “Ooooh… Look at me! I’m a middle-aged model! I can still swivel my hips on this treacherous runway. OOOH! OUCH!”

Lena threw her hand to her side and grabbed her hip. “My osteoporosis! That last swivel broke my hip! Where’s my walker?”

Lenore giggled again. She never won taunting contests with Lena. “Okay, okay! I give up! You win!”

“No, dear… I think a little humiliation is in order. Arm wrestle?”

Waving her hand back and forth, Lenore knew a lost cause when she saw it. “With
these
arms? You said it yourself, tennis girl, my genes are tuned for horses and runways and sabers, not backhand smashes. I give up. You are too powerful for me, my Amazonian friend.”

Arms thrown in the air, Lena fist-pumped. “I WON! I WON! I’m the new world’s champeen of smack!”

The five people scattered here and there throughout Jake’s Irish Pizza looked in Lena’s direction for a split second, shook their heads, and returned to their slices and suds.

The tennis-taunter propped her face on her palms and leaned forward on the wobbly pizzeria table. “So, Freaky, how do you like Bean Town so far? Do you still think we’re going to make it through that little vision of yours? You still think we’re on track for world-dominating greatness?”