Filthy Dirty Laundry (Filthy Dirty Laundry #1) (7 page)

Chapter 11

          I hold my breath as
Philip takes me all in, devouring me with his eyes, contouring me with his
fingertips. He isn't kissing me, isn't pressing his hands against me, isn't
giving into this passion, this savage attraction which we surely must both
feel. Instead he's painfully, agonizingly, in control, holding himself back
from his desires and holding me back too. I can't stand the way he's so cold –
even in the hottest furnace of passion. Like he's enjoying the way he makes me
moan, just a little bit. He runs his hands down my chest, onto my stomach, then
lower, through my thighs. I feel myself getting wet and hot yet he isn't able
to tell. Why do I want him so badly? Why – when I know how wrong, how
inappropriate this is? When I know how dangerous it is?

          “Oh, Sidney,” he
breathes. “You may write about A-List stars for a living, but the truth is that
you outclass any of them. You shine like a star – you glow with sex appeal. You
have what the old screen sirens back in the day used to have, Sidney. What
Clara Bow and Marlene Dietrich had. What we used to call IT. We've come up with
more elaborate names in the modern age for it, of course. But none of them so
evocative, I think, as that one little word IT. That thing you have....as
nobody else in the whole city has. You should be a star, Sidney. You're wasted
here...”

         
Wasted on the dog
food stories you assigned me, you mean?
My conscious self is raging against
his seduction, railing against his arrogant assumption that he can have me any
way and any where he wants. My conscious self is getting angrier and angrier,
telling me:
run, Sidney. Get as far away from this creep as possible.
But
my body is telling me a different story. It's singing a whole different fucking
tune. And he knows this. And I know he knows this. And it's absolute fucking
agony.

          What's going on here,
anyway, I wonder? My head is spinning. How can this be? This gorgeous, sexy man
– who can have anyone he wants – is devoting his attentions to me. But why?
Surely there are tons of other girls in the office he could have, girls who are
more experienced than I am, who are more beautiful, who dress like this all the
time and don't need their Aussie roommates to paint them up like an Easter egg
before they look good. This has got to be some sort of joke, some sort of
prank, some sort of game.

          Then it hits me. My
stomach plummets. This must be one of Kendall's pranks. Even now she hasn't
grown up past high-school. What is this – she's convinced her brother, the
ultimate charmer, the consummate playboy seducer, to...turn my head. Break my
heart. Take dirty pictures of me, for all I know.

          I can't let myself get
close to this guy. He'll only hurt me, I think. He'll only break my heart.

          “That's what players
do, isn't it?” I say aloud, forgetting that I'm talking to Philip.

          “What?”

          I take a step away.
It's the hardest thing I've ever had to do, but I power through my body's
carnal ache. “All this...Philip. What is this?”

          “What are you talking
about?”

          “Getting me all dolled
up, using your position of authority to get me to come all the way over
here...for what? SO you can make love to me, get it all on tape or on video or
whatever sick thing you're planning just to hand them over to Kendall?” I am
almost in tears. Anger brings heat to my cheeks and makes my throat close up.
“We're in our 20's, and even now she's still trying to make my life miserable.
And if you're part of that...”

          “Sidney,” his voice is
sharp and sure. “Why the
hell
would I send pictures of myself having sex
to my
sister?
I may be...unconventional in my desires, but that's
just...well, it's just disgusting. What the
hell
are you talking about?”

          “You. Me. All this.”

          “Are you saying you
don't want me?”

          My face falls. I can't
say that. He knows it isn't true. I do want him.

          “If you wanted me so
much,” I say angrily, “You could have asked me on a date, a real date. Except
that you're my boss. Which means you having me over like this, telling me I
have
to be your guide – like you're trying to conquer me. Like you're trying to
get me to be submissive to you. And I don't like it –
sir
– I don't like
it at all. I'm not going to sleep with you because I'm afraid you will fire me
if I don't. I'm going to sleep with you because I want to.

          No sooner have I said
the words than I realize what I've said. I blush, but Philip smiles.

          “You're right,” Philip
says. “I apologize. You're right – I was wrong to invite you out here like
this. As your boss, that was wrong. But as a man...” he sighs. “You weren't
wrong about one thing, Sidney. I do want you to submit to me. I like
that...very much. Nothing to do with Kendall. She doesn't even know I've asked
you here tonight. I tend to keep the details of my sex life as far from my
little sister as possible. As far as I'm concerned, she's still playing with
ponies. But I am a straightforward man, Sidney. And I won't pretend I don't
want what I want. I want to fuck you. I want to do filthy things to you. I want
to conquer you, utterly, and make you mine in a way you never thought
imaginable. And I want to get to know you better, too. I'm familiar with your
work. Read plenty of your articles. I didn't imagine the author of that
incisive piece on celebrity culture and Marxism would look anything like you.”

          “Well I didn't imagine
you'd look like yourself either,
Mr. Trell.
”

          He smiles a bit. “I'm a
grown man, Sidney,” he says. “If you refuse me because you truly do not want
me, it will not affect our professional relationship one whit. I think you're a
damn good journalist and I would never be stupid enough to risk an asset like
you. But if you are attracted to me...you're damn right I will make you submit.
I will punish you, but you will love it. You will crave it. Are you attracted
to me, Sidney?”

          I nod wordlessly.

          “I'm not saying I’m
agreeing to anything,” I add.

          “Well,” Philip says.
“Now that we've cleared the air about this attraction thing, there are a few
things you should know about me. I have very little patience for things. I like
speeding things along. I like taking control. And if things aren't going so
well, I like to use a few...motivators.” He glances at the door leading to what
I can only imagine is his bedroom. I gulp.

          Clearly Philip is
worldly and experienced in far more ways than one.

          Philip leans over me.
His breath is hot on my face. “I don't care about social norms, either,” says
Philip. “If something is taboo, forbidden, impossible...that only makes me want
to do it even more. I like breaking taboos. I like doing the forbidden. And I
like making the impossible possible. So Sidney Stone...have dinner with me.
Explore. We don't have to do anything you don't deep down want to do. But I
promise, by the end of tonight, you'll be begging me to do things to you you’d
never imagine. Before you guide me...there's a hell of a lot I'd like to guide
you. What do you say?”

         
No no no no no
my conscience is screaming. But clearly some biophysiological chemical anomaly
is taking place in my body, because I find myself nodding
yes.

         
“Good,” he says. He grabs my hand
and leads me to the kitchen. “So let's have dinner.”

          Then, it's like he
hasn't said a single thing. All the quasi-dirty talk, the threats, the hints
about punishment and submission – they vanish. He pours me a glass of wine –
the nicest wine I've ever tasted --- and starts to prepare a delicious dinner:
lobster fresh-boiled in the pot. Scallops sauteed with garlic and shallots in
white wine.

          Before we start, Philip
presents me with a dozen raw oysters. He presses each shell to my lips, lets me
taste. I've never had oysters before – never been able to afford them – and the
taste is mindnumbingly good.

          He pours me another
glass of wine, and then another. I don't know what happens. The room starts to
spin. But it feels...nice. Calming. I find myself drinking more and more,
letting myself get drunk – something I never do. Letting myself go.

          Images pass before me:
his hands on mind. Me sitting on his lap. His massaging my shoulders, brushing
his lips along my neck, never kissing me but coming close, so close, so
tantalizingly close. Whetting my appetite, my desire. Making me feel things
I've never felt before. Setting me aflame. With each glass of wine we consume,
we get more relaxed. Feeding each other – he tastes lobster and I can feel his
lips tighten and suck around my fingers.

          I'm getting drunker and
drunker, but I don't care. I feel good. I feel free.

          “Enjoying yourself?”
Philip fixes me with a wicked grin.

          “Mmm....” I moan.

          “Good,” he says. “You
should take care of yourself. Treat yourself better. That dog food story? It
was punishment for coming back to the office before you were ready. You should
have gone out and brought me a great story, pitched me something when you were
well. I told you, Sidney. If you stick with me, you should expect a little
punishment now and then.”

          He taps my ass. A
surprisingly good feeling. It's harder than I expected, almost a slap, and I
let out a yelp as pain and pleasure merge.

          Then he's back to the
old, easygoing Philip again. He pours me another glass of wine. I'm getting
sleepier and sleepier. How many bottles have I even had at this point? I'm not
sure.

          “Sidney Stone...” It's
the last thing I hear as I start to doze, as he leans down to kiss my forehead.
“You bewitched me...”

Chapter 12

          When I wake up, I have
no idea where I am. Everything is hazy, confusing. My head is splitting: an
agonizing feeling. It's like a bomb has gone off in my brain. I moan softly,
feeling nauseous. I try to move, but that doesn't work, either; instead, bile
rises up in my throat. I am parched – absolutely parched. My body feels like a
sponge that's been squeezed so tight that there's nothing left but petrified,
stiff, coral.

         
Ugh....

         
I've been hung over, before, of
course. In college, when we used to down cheap beer out of solo cups, but
somehow this feels different. This
is
different. This is more than just
a hangover. It's that feeling you get when the entire world is collapsing in on
itself and you're at least 99% everyone who ever existed has died and you've
just woken up in an apocalyptic wasteland populated entirely by robots and
cockroaches. If you've ever been as drunk as I have, you know
exactly
what
I mean.

          And so when I wake up,
in a mysterious white room, on a mysteriously pristine white sofa, staring at
some white walls flanked by white curtains looking out onto a window from which
the white sun gently streams eastwards with the coming of dawn, the first thing
I think was
is this heaven?
Then I try to move again and thought
oh
God please let me be dead.

         
What can I say? It's bad.

          Where am I? Could I be
in the hospital again? No, that couldn't be right. I'd left the hospital the
previous day...checked myself out...gone into the FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY offices
to get my story assignment...

          Then it all comes
flooding back to me. The memories of Philip's supercilious stare as he assigned
me that crappy dog food story, the insistent text, the way he commanded me to
dress for his pleasure in a pink body-con dress...so that's what I'm
wearing...the way he had me come over to his house, the filthy, thrilling
things he said to me, the way he withdrew and became at once the model of
English politeness, of English gentlemanliness,  and was so sweet as he poured
me glass after glass after glass of fine white, nicer than any Chablis I had
every tasted, as we steamed the lobster together and then feasted on every part
of the shell, sucking the soft white succulent meat from the flaming-red shell.
I remember feeding him, letting his lips close around my fingertips as he
tasted the lobster, tasted
me.
I remember him feeding me, tantalizing me
by lightly tracing the delicious morsels around my lips, allowing me to garner
a taste –
just a taste
– of whatever it was that was driving me wild,
making me moan in unfulfilled desire before at last he would give me what I
craved, dropping the meat straight onto my tongue, pouring me another glass of
wine.

          “Intoxication
complements sensual pleasure quite nicely, doesn't it?” he'd purred then,
filling my glass to the brim so that the very top spilled over onto my wrists,
my forearms. He'd licked the wine off me, then, his lips sucking every last
drop from my inner wrist, tasting my pulse. “Your heart is beating so quickly. I
can tell this is what you wanted, isn't it? Yes...” he'd started kissing my
neck, then, nibbling gently at the contours under my cheekbones. “Yes, Miss
Stone, I can read your body like a book. I can tell exactly how much you want
this. You may think of yourself as a prude – but I know deep down there's a
fire in you. A desire that perfectly complements mine. And I ache to see how
far it will go...”

          Nothing had happened.
Or had it? I look down. My underwear's still on. My pink bodycon dress is hiked
up high, so that the bottom of my ass cheek is exposed, but I think that's just
a matter of my having fallen asleep on this sofa.

          I look across the room
to the other sofa, across the coffee table. And then my mouth falls open.

          I'm staring straight at
a rock-hard cock. The biggest cock I've ever seen in my entire life. Philip
LaFleur is naked and dozing right in front of me.

         
Did we....

         
I don't remember us having sex. I
don't remember us even kissing. But what I see before me fills me with terror
and desire at the same time. His muscular thighs, his tanned, smooth skin, the
golden brown of summers in Italy, his enormous cock, agonizingly hard. I can't
stop myself. I go over, take a closer look. I'm still a little drunk; the
liquor of the previous night has far from been absorbed into my system, and so
it seems like the most natural thing in the world to do to give into this
strange, wild yearning, this need for him. His cock is so large, so round, so
full. The veins that pop out from the side only serve to increase the
appearance of girth. And a hunger in me I have never before known takes over. I
want to touch him, to wrap my fingers around it, to feel the weight of it in my
hand.  I can't stop myself. Desire and alcohol both make me bold. I reach
forward. I touch it. The feeling is like an electric shock. He jerks, suddenly,
in his sleep, and I almost withdraw my hand, but the sound he makes is a groan
of pure ecstasy, real joy. He's enjoying this sound. The moan he makes is one
of undeniable pleasure.

          I can't stop myself. I
don't want to. I reach out and touch his cock again, wrapping my fingers all
the way around it, in a fist. I've never touched a man's cock like this before.
In college, there had been some drunken fumbling, a few furtive hands
underneath a man's boxer shorts, but this is different. He's completely naked,
and in the cool morning light I can see his loins in all their Adonis glory. My
first is all around him, and I find myself growing aroused, wet, at the sounds
he's making, the low, soft moans of need.

          Then, with a groan, he
opens his eyes. And the bright blue piercing gaze is boring straight into me.

          “Phil!” I cry.

          All at once I'm
overcome by embarrassment and shame. How could I have let this happen, I think?
For all I know, he'll call the cops on me – think I'm some creepy pervert who
just assaulted him while he lay sleeping.

          And what's he doing
sleeping naked next to me anyhow? Unless we...

          But I don't
think
we
had sex? If we did, I'm sure I would know.

          “Miss Stone...” Phil's
expression is inscrutable. His face is unreadable, like the stone of a Greek
statue. But some archaic smile twitches at the corners of his lips.

          “I....Phil...” I'm
trying to think of words that don't sound like “I'm a bloody pervert, sorry.”
“I...didn't mean to...I don't know what got into me...”

          There's a terrible
pause.

          You've really done it
now, I think. Way to go, Sidney. If you're lucky, he'll have you resign from
the paper quietly. If you're unlucky, he'll probably file a sexual harassment
suit and have your ass on the street before the next staff meeting.

          I'm so mortified I
can't even meet his gaze.

          Then I hear it. A low,
dark chuckle. Laughter. Philip LaFleur is laughing at me.

          “What?” I ask. A
defensive anger rises up in me. “What's so funny?” He's the one who had me over
to his house, who stripped naked while I was asleep, who said all that stuff
about unconventional desires and making me submit...why should he be so
surprised that I thought this was the logical next step?

          “Clearly your own
desires do surprise you after all, Sidney,” he smiles a cat-like grin. “Clearly
you don't know yourself as well as you thought.”

          “What are you even
doing – sleeping naked like this?”

          “It's my house, isn't
it?” He shrugs and grins. Like his logic is impeccable. Like there's nothing to
argue with here. “And a man can do what he likes in his own house, can't he?”

          “But did we...”

          “Your touch – it felt
good, you know. Perhaps unschooled, but with the passionate fervor of a devoted
amateur. And I'd love to teach you some...greater expertise. I almost climaxed
in my sleep under those shapely hands of yours.”   

          “Did we...” My voice
gets forceful. “Philip, I was drunk, I don't remember a lot. Did we have sex or
not?”

          “My dear – of course
not!” He smiles at me. “I'd never try anything of the sort with you
incapacitated. I want you to feel every single sensation of what I do to you –
when I do it. I don't just want you to consent – I want you to
beg
for it.
A woman in a dazed state isn’t my idea of a good time.”

          “Oh...” I breathe a
sigh of relief. My cheeks burn pink. “Of course. Of course not. So...nothing
really happened. Thank God...”

          He frowns suddenly.
Like he's offended that I'm
quite
as relieved as I am. And my cheeks get
even hotter.

          “So, you don't want me
to fuck you, Miss Stone?”

          “I didn't say that,” I
look down, unable to meet his eyes. “I mean...I'm not saying that I do, either.
Or that...even if I do want to, that I think it’s a good idea.”

          “Giving into your
desires is always a good idea, Sidney.”

          “Not when it's with my
boss,” I say.

          “Ah. Yes. That.” He
looks slightly wounded. For the first time, he shows vulnerability. “I told
you, I'm a professional.”

         
If we were
professionals we wouldn't be in this situation to begin with,
I think.

          “Look, it's your
house,” I say. “Be naked, or not naked...it's up to you. But...I work for you,
Philip. And whatever's going on with us...” I sigh. “I love my job. I really
love it. And I don't want to risk it...”

          “By you touching my
cock? Looking at it like you wanted more than anything to taste it?”

          “Stop it...”

          I'm embarrassed,
overwhelmed, ashamed of my behavior. At how drunk I got. At how I let all this
happened.

          “I have to go...” I
murmur.

          “Must you?”

          “I need to get to the
dog story,” I say. “Do whatever I can. You know – this whole job thing? I need
my job.” I don't have a rich family to bail me out whenever the going gets
tough.

          “Let me at least get my
driver to drop you off...”

          “No!” I say. My voice
notches higher. “Please. Just let me...I can't accept anything else from you,
Philip. Not until I figure this out.”
Not until I get control over myself
again.

          “I have to go, sir,” I
whisper, tears streaming down my face.

          Then I bolt.