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The kitchen is dark, angular, masculine, glinting stainless steel. It said contemporary. It said wealth. Presiding over the living room, an enormous fish tank, Caribbean aquatic wonders ablaze in vivid color, mouths agape, apparitions in a slow ballet.
Julia would not forget Craig D’Amato’s spectacular ultra-trendy apartment in the super-posh city centre. She would forget nothing about Craig D’Amato. He was an unforgettable sort, peculiar, funny, sometimes distant, with a perceptible hunger about him, his blue eyes set like sprung tigers about to pounce. He carried himself with an erect, easy confidence garnered by success, galvanized by achievement at such a young age.
She remembered their first meeting, the way he filled his tailored suit, deeply tanned from skiing at Vail, silk shirt spread at the collar, tall, strong hands, a way of looking at you and filling you. Julia would carry a piece of Craig D’Amato three steps past eternity. Images, splintered in her mind. The slow, expert swirling of his tongue over her flaming clitoris, the agonizing slow lengthy thrusts, her ankles draped over his shoulders, fingernails raking his ass, his smell, the way his back sheened with sweat, the long afternoons whiled away inside her, his hunger for food and drink and sex.
Craig was an exceptional lover, the perfect blend of charity in coaxing her to aching, arching orgasm, and selfishness, the way he would pump her vigorously, withdraw, and feed his cock into her mouth, as sweetly as fish through water. Craig’s bedroom, when she came to know it as a carnal home, was equally lush as the kitchen, a mammoth Californian bed, a sea of pillows, an eiderdown duvet. Julia would remember the way they lit the bed afire, the bedsprings singing a symphony, the way Craig would get behind her, facing the bureau mirror, pumping rhythmically, his fingers twined in her hair, cupping her sweating tits, his breath hot on her neck, whispering in her ear. They would watch each other, Julia’s silver eyes wide in the mirror, her full breasts swaying, Craig’s hands cupping her shapely ass as she frantically fingered herself, then feathered her fingertips across his swollen balls. There was a beauty in their coupling, framed by the mirror, her cries of abandon as she came, his breath thieved as she brought him to climax, with a jerking hand, with an enthusiastic mouth, between her breasts. She would always remember her own joy in Craig’s orgasm, the tightening of his stomach, the way he came, shooting thick, hot, endless ropes of come, flooding her nipples, filling her smoldering pussy. As their bodies became familiar friends, they parted with reservation. Julia remembered his cock, turned iron from her manipulation, always ready. She would awake in the morning, sleepy-eyed, the sheets twined around her like a python, sleepy, sated from kinetic sex into the middle of the night. Craig slept late. He had an unfathomable capacity for sleep, when he pried himself from work. He would awaken with Julia’s mouth piston-pumping his shaft, looking up at him with mischievous, half-lidded, dreamy eyes. When he was running late for work, he would bring her off before he left, with a sense of religious duty, his tongue working her with vigor, her heels digging into his back, arching off the bed, her hands clutching his hair, calling his name. Those timeless mornings, with the bed lit with a rectangle of sunshine through the window. She wouldn’t forget.
For Craig, Julia was a woman at the wet end of a thousand of his dreams. She was a small girl, voluminous figure, great tits, a delicious, expressive ass. She had eyes the color of duckponds, frozen in November, dark hair, and skin as smooth as a sea-worn beachrock. Julia was young, funny, bright, playful, and never seemed aware of how the landscape of her body, with its undulating swell of breasts and taunt thighs, could awaken such fervor in a man. Craig would remember her willingness to please, the way her face would flush scarlet in the wake of a pulsing, grinding orgasm, unleashed as she rode her pussy across his stiffened tongue, or ground herself against, him, his hands overfilled with her breasts. They never forayed into the edges of sex, where whips and accessories reside – their sex was too good based on the simplest of elements. He loved the way she kissed him, tongues intertwined, her readiness for sex, the beauty of collapsing on top of her. Julia would make an indelible mark on Craig.
Many years later, he would make mental reference of those unforgettable stolen moments, the slow, torturous circles she made on his dick, lying back in his easy chair, pants to his ankles, as she bounced enthusiastically, touching herself, talk urging him to go deeper, harder, slower, to seek out her sensitive places. There were nights that he would not even make it to the bed, such was her hunger for him, to drop his pants, pull his hard dick from his shorts, swabbing her nipples with its tip, taking it deep in her mouth, sliding it between her cleavage, flickering perabet his balls with her tongue. Sometimes, before he could even respond to her, he was off, the blood threading his veins like lava, as he unleashed a torrent of come into her mouth. He was apologetic, she would smile wanly, satisfied.
But we’ve gone too far ahead. The beginnings were suspect. Julia slept in Craig’s bed alone before they ever joined in it. That something so beautiful sprang from tainted ground, really, was hard to comprehend.
“So you are finishing your Masters?” Craig had asked. They were in his kitchen, he was scratching emergency numbers onto a piece of paper. “What’s it on?”
“Agricultural Export Economies of the Third World,” she said, offering a nervous laugh. “As boring as it sounds.”
Craig smiled. His smile had an assuring charm, Julia decided.
“I’m sure it’s quite interesting,” he said. “Makes for good conversation at cocktail parties. When do you graduate?”
“September. Hello freedom,” she said.
“Hello reality of the workworld outside of college,” Craig added.
Craig outlined the housesitting rules. The exotic fish would require a complex system of feeding and observation. Beyond that, he seemed comfortable with everything short of a riot in the penthouse apartment.
“Whatever is in the fridge is yours,” he said, swinging the frigde open. The fridge was stark, a monument to bachelordom, a lot of wine, beer, a virtual army of condiments, no food. “As you can see, work takes me away for travel a lot. I’ve got some great wine and champagne here, help yourself. You can collect the mail. I’ve told the doorman you will be here. Never mind the Philistine neighbours, you can play music, set off fireworks indoors, whatever you college kids are doing these days.”
Julia thought it funny Craig would distance himself from “college kids”, he could be no older than 26, just a few years older than her.
“I assure you, I’ll be on my best behaviour. You have a beautiful place here, I’ll treat it like my own,” she said.
“Great.” Craig led her down a hall to an unusual steel doorfront. “Now, behind this door is the reason I need a housesitter. This is a climate controlled storage room, custom built, had a vendor over from Florence to set it up. It contains a pretty significant art collection than I’m rather fond of and am hoping to retire upon when I grey and wither.”
Julia laughed. “So that’s where you keepDogs Playing Poker?”
“I got outbid for that one,” Craig said. “But there are some pretty good pieces here. It’s not unknown for private collections to be targeted by thieves. So I do like a warm body here when I leave, I could really give a fuck less if you cook the fish up for supper. The door’s locked, so you can’t get in there, okay? Nothing personal.”
Julia shrugged. “Sure.”
“Are you married, have a boyfriend, friends in the city?” he asked.
“Not married, I have a few friends who stuck around for the summer,” she said. “And defineboyfriend.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Craig said, dismissively. “I just want you to feel comfortable having guests over. This place is yours for the next five weeks.”
“I really appreciate it,” Julia said. “So nice to be away from dorms and dinners cooked on hotplates.”
“I’ve been out of college three years, and I’m still trying to kick my macaroni and cheese dependency,” Craig said.
He picked up his keys, suitcase, and began threading on his necktie in the mirror. He turned, posing. “How do I look?”
“Gorgeous,” Julia said, with more admiration than she had wished.
“You’re too kind. This tie looks like a pizza exploded, in my opinion, but whatever.”
He was off, holding the door open with his knee, juggling luggage in one hand and place ticket clamped in his mouth.
“Mr. D’Amato?” Julia called.
“Craig. You never told me what you do for a living.”
“When I’m not exotic dancing with the Chippendales?” he smirked.
He sighed. “I facilitate mergers and hostile takeovers for massive industrial firms,” he said, dispassionately. “In the last six months, I’ve brokered three deals worth almost $2.5 billion. My commission on each of these deals is seven figures. I am now going to some steaming shithole in Nigeria to negotiate offshore oil interests between grossly corrupt Africans and swaggering, greedy Texans. Then I am going to come home, feed my fish, face myself in the mirror and say, ‘I wish I had a job where I did no one any harm on a given business day’.”
He offered a weak smile, and searched her face for a measure of understanding.
“Got it,” Julia said. “Happy travels, and I’ll see you in five weeks.”
With that, he was gone in a flourish, hand aloft in a jaunty salute.
By the time Craig D’Amato left the car park below, Julia had rummaged through half his personal belongings, jumped on his bed with the enthusiasm of a sugar-fueled child, perabet giriş and was wondering whether Julia D’Amato had a sweet tone about it.
She had wandered through his massive closet, combing through Egyptian cotton dress shorts, immaculately tailored suits, imported dress shoes, Gucci ties. She then waded through his underwear drawer, got a jolt of excitement upon discovering a roll of condoms, and then scrutinized his photo collection: Craig spelunking with a flashlight, Craig and a Nordic beauty of a blond in a pool in some tropical haven, Craig accepting some sort of award.
Julia flopped on the bed and exhaled. That Craig D’Amato, she said to herself, let me dare to dream.
Three weeks of intensive thesis later. Visions of Craig D’Amato and trade data for bananas destined for US markets were competing for Julia’s attention. Craig D’Amato was winning.
She fashioned a fantasy of him in the lush terrain of Africa, soiled, sweaty, virile. It was a ludricrous fantasy, and she scolded herself. She thought to call Craig and check in, on the premise of a manufactured crisis – the fridge was dead, the fish were lonely, anything to hear the rich timber of his voice. She couldn’t. So she called Shaun. When Craig had asked her romantic status, and she had asked him to defineboyfriend, she was thinking of Shaun. Shaun, the doting ex-boyfriend. The ex-boyfriend she had let go a year ago, but still connected with for occasional sex in the absence of time to find a new romantic interest.
“Shaun,” she said, when he picked up the phone.
“Julia! How are you keeping? I haven’t heard from you in weeks.”
“Not bad, I guess. Grinding through the thesis.”
“Hang in there. I’m sure it’s a snap for a bright, beautiful girl like you.”
“Uh, thanks. What are you doing this evening?”
As far as a lover went, you could do worse than Shaun, Julia thought. The problem wasn’t really with the sex. Their sex was efficient, productive, but lacked a certain primitive spark, or real hunger. Shaun tended to fuck as if he were on film, in a softly-lity B-grade movie where the camera pans to raindrops on the window as things get good. He could bring her off, but his performance was that of a violin virtuoso with only one song in his repertoire.
He must have been aching to get laid, because he didn’t last very long when he came over that evening. They had a pizza, and clumsily sort of fell into bed in an awkward hug of bramble of buttons and clothes. He was inside her in a second, and she had to focus very hard to try and generate some semblance of an orgasm. She closed her eyes and imagined Craig inside her, it was his skilled hands kneading her breasts, his mouth on her neck. But the fantasy went away, a wisp of a ghost of a dream, as Shaun came to ragged climax and fell atop her, spent. She resolved, before his penis had even stopped twitching, to never do this again. Romeo and Juliet it was not.
Later, after Shaun had thankfully departed, looking rueful and seeming to understand he could no longer hang on to the sliver of hope that she would call again, Julia lay back on Craig’s Elysian bed, and though of Mr. D’Amato, touching herself, bringing herself to a vigorous orgasm, and calling Craig’s name aloud.
Saturday unfolded, a blank canvas awaiting painting, and no brush to be found. Julia could find no excuse but to work on the thesis, even though the sun was hung hot over the cityscape. She wandered the apartment in her underwear, sipping green tea. Did yoga. Skimmed the paper. Misted the ferns, fed the fish, cut her finger wrestling open a can of tuna for lunch. She went to find a bandaid in the kitchen drawer, and found Craig’s passport. Passport?
She had an excuse to call Craig’s cellphone and did so.
“Craig D’Amato,” he answered tersely, his voice thick, as if poured through gravel.
“Craig, it’s Julia calling. I found your passport here, and wanted to make sure you didn’t need it or maybe its an expired one or whatever.”
Craig cleared his throat, “ah, no … I have a diplomatic pass for here, as guest of the government, so I’m immune to the typical customs clearance thing.”
“Oh, okay. Just wanted to be sure you weren’t in some prison somewhere,” she said.
He sounded distant. “Thanks. Thanks for the thinking of me. How’s that thesis coming?”
“I’m knee deep in commodities-based natural economies as it relates to income level in the third world economy, since you’re so desperate to know.”
“Yeah, right. Basically, industrialized countries as buyers, shrink margins based on currency discrepancy and expected standards of living, so wages are surpressed.”
“You’re good,” she said. “I’m taking notes.”
“Finally butting the ol’ MBA to use. Um, so I’m due back noon next Saturday, so I guess it’s best you just leave the key on the counter there.”
Julia’s heart sank. The last month had been anticipating his return. Now she wouldn’t see perabet güvenilir mi him at all.
“Okay,” she managed, barely.
There was a crackle of dead air.
“Yes?” she felt near tears, half of it fueled by anger at herself by letting her imagination swirl her off in a maelstrom of fantasy.
“Do well on your thesis. You’re a smart woman.”
“And very beautiful, too.”
Was he drunk? Julia was flooded with confusion. Then he hung up.
Julia was rummaging Craig’s big, yawning apartment again, looking for answers in his belongings. She found them when she found the tapes. She stuck one in the bedroom VCR and pressed play, watching tape of Craig delivering the Valedictorian’s speech upon graduation at Cornell. She flicked in another. Craig skydiving in the Mojave with a group of testosterone-soaked buddies. She flicked in another tape. And stopped.
It was a bird’s eye, top-down view of Craig, naked, lolling on the bed, absently stroking a straining erection. Then a lithe brunette crawled, catlike, across the bed, taking his dick in her mouth. She watched Craig and the mystery brunette fuck in several Kamasutra-inspired positions, at the end of it, as he thrust into her, he cupped a hand over her mouth to stave off her extreme cries of pleasure.
There were more tapes. Craig with different women, a gaunt, long-limbed vampish 30-something, an ebony sultress, an obviously drunken party girl he brought home from a nightblub, doubtless. Despite herself, Julia had her fingers sunk into her pussy. All the women seemed oblivious to the camera. Then Julie looked up. The ceiling fan above the bed was turning lazy circles in the mid-day heat. She saw a solitary glowing red light, no bigger than a pen tip, at its centre. This was where the camera was concealed.
Julia left Craig’s apartment five days earlier than scheduled. If the fish died, so be it.
Craig arrived home to the keys on the counter, and, disappointingly, no note from Julia. His overcoat was soaked. The heavens had opened up and unleashed a hellacious rainstorm on the city, with a wind that picked up a scent of dust and soil. The city was as dark as night and cowering from the thunderstorm.
Craig took off his clothes, dried his hair a bit, and wrapped himself in a towel. He then went into the room where the art was stored. Craig was not an art collector, nor an art lover. This was his veil. The off-limits room was a hive for the sophisticated camera system he had wired thoughout the apartment, with an expensive extended digital recording device.
He sat back in the leather chair, and fast forwarded through the footage. He laughed at Julia leafed through his clothes and personal effects. He found himself smiling as he watched her mime-dancing in his bedroom, using a hairbrush for a microphone. He was fascinated as he watched her touching herself in the moonlight. God, she was such a beauty, how had he ever become so lucky to get five weeks footage of such a subject?
Then the doorbell rang. Howard the Doorman always buzzed up. Who was at the door? He shut the art room and locked it, strode to the door, and peered into the eyehole. It was Julia. He tightened his towel.
He let her in. She was soaked with rain, her clothes were drenched and her hair hung in wet tangles at her eyes. She strode past him, chattering and arms folded.
“My God, you’re soaked. Let me get you a …”
“I want to see it,” she demanded, in a mechanical voice.
“See what?” he asked, getting a robe to cover himself up.
“The tapes,” she said. “I want to see the tapes.”
Craig signed, leaned against the chair, rubbed his temples. “How do you know about the tapes?”
“What does it matter? I saw the camera. I saw the tapes.”
Craig flopped into the chair.
“I’ll explain …”
“Can you sit down then, and here me out.”
“I don’t know if I could believe a solitary word you’ll say.”
“I can’t fault you for that, Julia.”
“How could I? Who are you? Is there anything real about you? Normally, I wouldn’t care, but I’m the one who’s been well, violated, here.”
“I don’t want yourempathy,” she shouted. “I want to hear thetruth. Are you a pornographer?”
Craig groaned. “God, no.”
“How many girls did you audition?”
Craig winced with the wordaudition. “They were not auditions. I wanted a housesitter who was well … I don’t know, I was looking for an extremely attractive young woman who made an interesting subject.”
“Subject!? I’m a subject? You’re a phone call away from a court case, here.”
“Please. I’m not a pornographer. I’m not a criminal. I’m just … I’m just a guy with a big sexual appetite who has a tinge of a voyeur’s streak I guess. Please try and understand.”
“I though you were into big mergers.”
“I am,” he said. He went and fetched his wallet and produced a business card and handed it to her.Craig D’Amato, Senior Partner, Whittingham Financial Services. He swept his hand around the apartment. “I couldn’t afford this apartment on a pornographer’s salary. I do exactly as I told you for a living, but I haven’t told you the truth about my personal pursuits.”
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