Dirty Aristocrat

She was wearing a lime green dress. It wasn’t tight, or short, or revealing, but it made me actually crave her body. The desire to have her, open her silky legs, and get my dick inside

her was so strong I wanted to pick her up like a Neanderthal, throw her over my shoulder and carry her off to my cave. In fact, I hadn’t had a hard-on like that since I was a teenager.

Then Robert looked at me with shining eyes and proudly introduced me to her. She was his fucking wife! My stepmother.

The revelation was a punch in the gut. I had to fight not to let my jealously show. Fuck, I was insanely jealous. I thought of his frail body over hers, and I wanted to throw up.

I turned to her and … oh, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. She smiled innocently at me with those wide blue eyes and I knew then.

This one’s not figuring to leave your ass and take half.

This one’s gonna stick around until you fall on your ass and take it all.

A year later he asked me if I would take care of her after him.

‘Just protect her until she’s twenty-one,’ he pleaded.

I said, ‘No. Ask some other fool,’ and walked out.

But you know what? I was fucking dying to do it. Even the idea of him asking someone else made me feel sick to my stomach. But I couldn’t just give in. I had to prove to myself and him

that I wasn’t soft on her.

I wanted the old man to beg me. And I wanted to agree reluctantly. Let her understand that she was never going to twist me around her little finger like she had done to him. I guess

Robert knew me very well. He was a crafty old bugger after all. He played my little game and eventually I did the right thing.

I promised to take care of her after he was gone. The responsibility sat on my chest for a while, then without me realizing it seeped into my heart. I had taken her under my wing and

though I hated to admit it, I liked it. I wanted to be her protector.

I put the brush back on the dresser and the doorbell rang. I went to answer it.

‘Wow! You’re pretty unrecognizable in a suit,’ Chloe drawled.

I let my eyes wander down her body. She definitely looked the part. Perfectly cut black dress, skin-tone court shoes, black pearls and scarlet lips. ‘And you look like you buy your

tampons from Gucci,’ I replied.

‘What makes you think I don’t?’ she countered.

I looked her in the eye. ‘You won’t think because I asked you to a funeral that we’ve got something going, will you?’

‘Of course not. Actually, I thought you had a funerals fetish and I might come in handy.’

I smiled and she smiled back.

‘Do we have time for a quickie?’ she asked, cupping my crotch.

‘Does a dog need to be taught to fuck?’ I asked, and pulling her in, tore her panties off, slung on a condom, and fucked her right there in the corridor.

‘What, I wonder, would all the proper Lords and Ladies say if they ever met Ivan the Terrible?’ Chloe purred.

I didn’t bother to respond. I just leaned my forearms against the wall, my dick still deep inside her, and felt glad I was taking her with me. Anytime I felt like my dick growing hard

for Tawny Maxwell, I would just drag Chloe into the nearest closet and fuck the shit out of her. Besides, it would tell Tawny Maxwell not to bother going ahead with any poor-little-

rich-widow act she might have planned.

In time I’ll fuck Tawny, of course. That was always the grand plan, but it would have to be on my terms. She would be nothing but a toy. My toy. One of my many toys. Eventually when I

got tired of her, I would walk away.

I was not making the mistake Robert made.

I was not falling for her.

No. No. Fucking no.

Never.

No woman would ever make me stay.

Tawny Maxwell

The day dawned, freezing cold and white.

I stood in front of the mirror in full black: felt hat; knee length, two-piece suit; tights and shoes. My nearly waist-length, straight hair neatly knotted at the nape of my neck.

Yet, I did not look very funereal.

Black simply accentuated the smooth alabaster of my skin, and made not only the blue of my eyes dazzle like the brightest sapphires, but my blonde hair shine like spun gold.

I went back into the walk-in closet and stood looking around it. At the white carpet, the lovely French oil painting of a young ballet dancer, the velour tailor’s dummy, the pure white

doors and drawers that moved or swiveled noiselessly to expose the expensive designer clothes, bags, shoes, belts, scarves, hats, and accessories.