The Milk b***h Trilogy

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

She’d f****d up badly and was going to pay. Why had she done it?

Gina sat in her office, attempting to work. Instead, every few minutes she came to herself with a start and realized she’d been staring into space. Each time she drifted off, the image of the man in the restaurant passed through her mind. He had been so thoroughly in command of the situation that she’d only managed to get a sense of him. An unusual sensation. She was always in charge, even with very powerful men. His effortless control over her was a little frightening, a little thrilling and very enticing.

What was it about him? He wasn’t particularly memorable. Medium height, medium weight, medium hair colour. A pleasant face. Nice angular jaw though and beautiful grey eyes. Still, she didn’t think she’d notice him in a crowd.

But since that day she’d thought about him constantly, to distraction. She felt drawn to him in a way she’d never experienced. It had elements of desire and also intense curiosity. She felt compelled to know him, to have his attention. Her article for Vanity Fair was going nowhere. This was no good. She did not need this kind of thing in her life. She had to do something about it.

She picked up the phone and called the most gorgeous and masculine man she knew, a 6’2” tall retired Navy SEAL, wounded in action, now a senior government official. She swooned a little every time she thought of his spectacular ass and shoulders and his fluid walk, like his joints were greased. Intelligence was not a requirement for SEALs but it helped and he had a remarkable amount of it. All in all, the perfect man. She would probably have married him if he wasn’t married already.

His deep sensual voice answered the phone. At one time in her life she’d called his voicemail every time she m*********d. “Ted, I need you.”

She hadn’t spoken to him in months but he knew her immediately. He laughed. “Of course you do. Where and when?”

She booked the room at the Mayflower and they arrived separately. He always surveyed the space before they settled down to business – to determine the escape routes, she’d thought. She didn’t mind. She got to watch his glorious body on the prowl.

She always wore the battered SEAL leather jacket he proudly kept as a trophy over her naked body when they f****d. He enjoyed eccentricity. God knows he could be strange and kinky ... and sometimes dark and emotional. So she pretended she was one of the many groupie slut SEAL camp followers. (Well, maybe she was.) He liked to let the big jacket fall open around her and unmask the hefty mounds of her breasts.

He was spectacular!

But for some reason this time something was missing. She didn’t know what. She’d even managed to c*m – a serious challenge. Fortunately Ted was used to her peculiarities and always up for challenges. Yet when they finished she wasn’t satisfied, not deep inside.

Monsieur Paul was relatively easy to fix. A lot of grovelling and a box of fine Cuban cigars. She knew just where to get them ... the horny Israeli diplomat reputed to head the Mossad in the U.S. He brought anything he wanted into the country and was never without an exceptional cigar between his lips, much to her previous annoyance.

It wouldn’t even involve f*****g anyone. Not that she minded. She’d have enjoyed f*****g the Israeli. He was a wonderfully male little peacock, a little Napoleon, with tons of charisma not to mention power … but he also had an oh so dangerous wife. So Gina’d simply stick her t**s in his face, firmly squeezed his thigh close - but not too close - to his balls and tell him for the hundredth time, “Honey, you know I’d love to f**k you. Just have your wife tell me it’s okay. I don’t want her coming after me with an Uzi.” She would not be surprised if the wife did appear at some point, no doubt to say she wanted Gina to f**k both of them. But so far it hadn’t happened.

It was the restaurant’s owner, no, actually the old man’s son, Philippe, who now ran things, who’d be the problem. He’d not only have to forgive her but he’d have to do it publicly. What would she have to do? She was pretty sure she knew.

Gina slipped through the restaurant kitchen door one morning before opening time, carrying her package. She had dressed in her most ladylike suit, suitable for an audience not with the President but with the Queen. Presidents, she’d discovered first hand, often preferred something more risqué. The kitchen staff didn’t stop her as she passed but looked at her knowingly. Some seemed positively invigorated, eager for the impending fight.

Paul’s glare at her was incandescent. She raced across the room before he could throw her out, babbling apologies all the way. “Please! Monsieur Paul, I am so sorry! I don’t know what came over me. My behaviour was unpardonable. I swear to you it will never happen again!”

“And Monsieur,” He had drawn himself up to full height, which though only 5’10”, seemed gigantic at this moment. Still, she dared to place her hand on his arm, “I will not be able to survive if I am banned from your restaurant. It is not only that it is THE most important restaurant in DC ...” She saw him soften slightly, “... but the food is unsurpassed.” More softening. “Can you ever forgive me?” She smiled into his eyes. He was, after all, French. “And I brought you something very special – very difficult to find – to attempt to make up for it.”

He looked down at the box in her hands then took it from her slowly, reverently. He broke the seal and removed a cigar. He rolled it between his fingers, head c****d to the side, then ran the cigar under his nose from end to end, deeply breathing its earthy fragrance. Carefully he repositioned it in the box, focused again on Gina and raised his forefinger to her. “Never again!”

“Oh Monsieur Paul, thank you so much! I swear, Never Again!”

Monsieur Paul turned to continue his duties but Gina hesitated. She’d won this battle and knew she was insane to pursue a subject now sacrosanct. But she was suffering from some mysterious and unquenchable inner compulsion. She felt herself tremble with the tension – she didn’t know, was it from the conversation with Paul or her irrational need? – but the words burst from her mouth. “One other thing ...” He turned back to her, Gallic eyebrows raised. “The second gentleman at the table. Can you tell me who he is and how I can get in touch with him?”

He stared along the bridge of his sharply aquiline nose, clearly communicating her unsteady ground. “Mademoiselle! We never break our patrons’ confidence.”

She again placed her hand on his arm. “Please, Monsieur Paul. It’s very important.” Again she looked into his eyes. “Is there anything I can do to change your mind?” She kept the question neutral, allowing him to decide what she’d meant.

For a moment he searched her face, then turned his back to her and walked away, throwing the words back definitively over his shoulder. “Mademoiselle Gina, we do not give out our patrons’ information.”

Philippe required no bullshit. She called him at home. “I’m sure you’ve heard about my unfortunate faux pas and know I’ve already placated Monsieur Paul.” Her voice was replete with heartfelt sincerity. “I truly hope you’ll forgive me as well. But I also need you to help me make it all better with the town. What’s it going to cost me?”

The man seated at the desk in the Gothic lobby was utterly indifferent to her appearance despite the advanced age of most of his tenants. Philippe was, after all, an extremely eligible man in a city of single women.

“Come in, my dear.” Philippe greeted her at the door in a green silk Chanel dressing gown and matching leather slippers. He took off her jacket and looked appreciatively at the impressive volume of her bare breasts jiggling unsteadily with each breath over the top of her black leather corset. “You look lovely ... Of course the skirt will have to come off.” He ushered her across the wide pale foyer.

The venerable penthouse Philippe inherited from his grandmother was now stunningly – and his grandmother’s few remaining friends said vulgarly – contemporary. The apartment occupied the entire top, roof and all, of the most beautiful building on the ornate Connecticut Avenue bridge in wealthy, archaic Kalorama. Philippe swore he’d kept, “stored” he said, all the original architectural detail he’d stripped off every square inch from hardwood floors to 13 foot ceilings. The original twenty five rooms were now seven sweeping spaces, bare and angular.

Gina paused in the doorway, the expanse of the room the town called “The Ballroom” and the city beyond spread wondrously before her. “Glorious!” she thought as her senses absorbed the scene. “The most romantic spot in the entire city – despite the starkness and weird furniture.”

The huge space occupied the southern end of the building, one third of a floor. Rectangular ten foot tall windows denuded of trim filled the walls in three directions. During daylight, the lush greenery of Rock Creek Park filled the eastern vista. Now after dark, the brilliant panorama of Connecticut Avenue stretched straight down the hill to the south to within a few blocks of the White House and the lights of Rosslyn sparkled in the sky to the west.

The sharp edges of three massive industrial-looking chandeliers twinkled like tiny gilt stars in the firelight, shimmering on the shiny synthetic tabletops to light the way through the strange clumps of furniture. Philippe led her through the mosaic of muted yellow-gold flooring, walls and ceiling to one of the room’s two blazing fireplaces. The “floating” floor, set on springs for dancing, gave a bit under Gina’s heels. “Looks like the day’s first piss,” a wit at one of Philippe’s many parties had commented on the colour, carefully out of his host’s earshot. Philippe wouldn’t have minded the joke. He enjoyed old-fashioned Washington’s abhorrence of his décor.

Despite the unusual shapes, Gina knew the furniture was luxuriantly comfortable – not that it mattered tonight. Philippe sat in one of a pair of space-age chartreuse armchairs positioned on either side of a transparent dark orange table. He seemed to float in the darkened room in a pool of light from the fire and the minimalist silver table lamp on the orange tabletop. He smiled up at her. “Lovely view, isn’t it?” He glanced toward the southern windows. “ ... and I want to give Homeland Security a good look when they fly by. Now everything off but the shoes and corset, then come here.” He pointed to the floor between his legs.

Phillipe had been quite clear. A revealing corset – she could choose which – was not negotiable. She’d been pleased with this corset’s effect when she’d peered into her bedroom mirror. She’d enjoyed the obscenely voluptuous curves it gave her, forcing exaggerated roundness into her bottom and accentuating her breasts’ pendulous mass. Unlike most, its front was uncompromisingly flat, constricting not only her waist to “waspish” proportions but also disallowing any abdominal excesses. Now, though, she was clasped stiffly straight, brutally restrained at every forward bend. As she manoeuvred to her knees between his legs and opened his robe, already gasping slightly, she was certain she’d regret her vanity.

Despite the rich food served in his restaurant, Phillipe’s stomach was hard and flat. Gina couldn’t resist running her hand appreciatively across the hard muscles along the way downward. “Really, an extremely stylish and sexy man.” She was just a little startled by the tingling burst of lewd moisture the thought elicited. She wrapped her fingers around his thick shaft, enjoying the wonderful softness of the pliable blue veined skin, and ran her thumb over the swelling cap, “and a great c**k!” With a frisson of pleasure, she remembered it deep inside her, so efficiently making contact, stimulating her. Gina squared her shoulders a little and breathed deeply before she bent her head. “Just hellishly hard work!”

Philippe was what Gina called a ‘strenuous’ blow job. It once took him two hours to c*m and she had worked hard the entire time, used every ounce of her prodigious skill. That his c**k was large didn’t help. Her jaw ached for days afterwards.

She sucked his c**k into her mouth and instantly it was full sized and jammed into the back of her throat. With him it was a matter of energy and maintenance – he f****d her mouth and she did her best to take it. Her hardest jobs were to accommodate her motion to his rhythm, to open her throat so he could slide into it without hardship ... and to breathe, a requirement the corset tortuously impaired.

He leaned back in the chair and stared at or at least in the direction of the skyline, his hands on her head, continually easing himself deeper into her mouth. The hardness burned against the back of her mouth, burned as it first filled then stretched her throat. Oddly, she felt a certain gratification in the extremity, in the oral fullness, even with its excruciating effort.

She tried to content him by licking the shaft and sucking the head, shallowly so she could breathe but he grabbed her ears, moaned and gave a really hard push into her throat. She struggled not to gag – did gag, retched, then succumbed to a peal of coughing and gasped hard enough to wheeze like an asthmatic. The corset made getting enough breath impossible. He was relentless. The scenario repeated so many times she lost count. His c**k seemed to never leave her throat, pounding the tissue, stretching far beyond normal use. Her eyes watered, her nose ran, saliva flowed down her chin.

After about twenty minutes and then again every fifteen minutes thereafter she paused for the miniscule instant Phillipe would allow, squeezed his c**k in her hand and said in her most provocative voice “You’re making me so wet. I need you to f**k me,” or some variation. Really, she was wet and she did yearn to have him f**k her, not only to get a little rest. Again she remembered how great his c**k felt inside her. The memory was visceral and accompanied by another burst of moisture. He smiled dryly down at her, shook his head and motioned for her to continue.

After one hour and seventeen minutes (the diamond markers on her watch sparkled clearly in the flickering light) he bellowed like an enraged bull and filled her mouth with c*m. The fluid was thick in her mouth, gelatinous and slightly acidic tasting. She felt a moment of panic as it coated her mouth like glue and threatened to choke her. She stared up at him wide-eyed and pulled back off his c**k, careful though not to spill a drop.

He used his own hand to gentle his throbbing. With the other he grabbed her chin and held it until he was sure she swallowed it all. The slimy mass slid down her throat like a raw but slightly warmed oyster.

She licked her lips and looked up at him. She could feel she was a mess, her face wet with tears, saliva and running makeup, her hair utterly dishevelled. She didn’t care. Had her obsession actually increased? “Philippe, I have another favour to ask.”

His eyes darkened momentarily but then he laughed. “Another favour? I haven’t given you enough tonight?”

“I need the name and phone number of the man who ate with Michael and his wife.”

She was startled by what she saw in his eyes. He seemed resolute, as if he knew her request was coming. “I promise you, you do not want to meet him.”

“Why not? What’s wrong with him?”

He hesitated. He didn’t seem to want to tell her. She waited, surprised. Finally he said, “Well ... he’s quirky ... dangerous.”

“What is he, some sort of Special Ops type? You know I’ve had my fill of those.”

“No,” he said softly, “he’s a very different sort.”

Gina laughed. “You know I can handle anyone.”

But Philippe did not share her amusement. She’d never seen him so serious. For several minutes he looked into her eyes, worried she thought. Whatever he saw, at last he shrugged. “Fine. I’ll get it for you and then you’ll do something else for me.”

Philippe’s apartment was the colour of piss, Gina discovered when she was on her hands and knees in Philippe’s yellow-gold tub and was being covered with it. Philippe pissed in her face, in her hair and all over her body. He seemed to have an endless supply and to take particular pleasure in aiming into her eyes.

His piss was warm. It might have been pleasant if she hadn’t known what was drenching her. Except for the odour. Really, it was quite peculiar this close up – acrid and strange. It seemed to create some odd sort of chemical reaction with her body, which was heightened by the sensation in her mouth. She couldn’t keep the liquid out of her mouth and the smell changed on her tongue. A profoundly different flavour seemed to pervade all of her cells. It was a powerful, awful taste she would not forget.

The thought of what was happening, what she was trying not to inadvertently drink, disgusted her. Gina pushed it from her mind. She would take it because, above all else, she didn’t want to offend Phillipe. He could help her in so many ways – and she needed to get back into the restaurant. Being ostracized could destroy her in this insular little town.

She looked up at him and spat discreetly. She saw the amusement in his eyes, so she gave in to her revulsion. She sputtered and spat and shook her head. The warm yellow liquid drenched her skin before it vanished against the marble.

Afterwards, Phillipe gave her a snifter of Benedictine and Brandy. The golden liquid shot sweet fire into her head and from there along the pathway of veins into her body. He kissed her softly on the cheek. “I’m so sorry, my dear. I hope you’ll forgive me and that I’ll see you again.”

She laughed. “Of course you’ll see me again.” For a moment his words nagged at her. Forgive her? She didn’t understand and it all seemed so final somehow. Then she was gone.