Sex Du Juor: Come Play Bang, Bang With Me

It is so humorous and funny and side-splitting and waggish and jocose that sometimes I feel like mewling and howling and howling my eyes out because of it, don’t you? I have a peculiar and eccentric and porangi mania and phobia and hobbyhorse with Stian’s underclothes and the alike unmentionables, don’t you? Occasionally and from time to time and every so often, I believe that I am foolhardy and idiotic and quixotic for it, don’t you opinion and hold that too yourself? The manner and style and fashion that his underwear or smalls embrace and twine round and brace on to his seductive, irresistible, and alluring bottom and thighs and impeccable light-like skin itself—it implodes and splits apart and to nonexistence my senses and aura and smarts all in all. Doesn’t it to you?

 

Yes. Stian and I are tonight going to fuck and funk and turn tail with him dressed in his snazzy, stylish, dashing, and ritzy underwear. That is very good and cracking schmick, aren’t you of the similar and alike view? I do so myself; yeah, I assuredly and for certain do. Accept it or not. Hmnnn. Stian’s underclothing is the most jazzy and schmick and flashy and attractive kind that I have ever seen. Ever, I mean.

 

I am peering and monitoring on him as he stands vertical and upright and on his feet not a mile or great distance away from where I am slumped and lolled and drooped on our monstrous, mountainous, and behemoth bedstead or couch bunk. Yeah. He is frocked and garmented in nothing but his sensual and voluptuous and come-hither and beddable underclothes or men’s lingerie. Yeah. If you did not have knowledge of it, men have their own sort and type and brand of lingerie and their own frillies or smalls too. Yeah. That is just the fashion and way and style that it is! Yup!

 

I am spellbound and entranced. In what respect and custom and manner, you may puzzle and cudgel your brains? I don’t exactly know; I am just in awe and fascination and stupefaction and wonderment. Exactly. That approach and technique and mode that you can only baffle and bemuse and faze at. Or cannot you do that?

 

As Stian nestled and perched and located himself—still erect and standing up on his two busy and energetic and bustlingly strenuous feet—in a standpoint and viewpoint where he was capable and qualified to place and set and lay his hands on the expensive, wide, and large window of our spacious and voluminous bedroom itself, he toned and voiced out to me behind, “Does my spartan and unfussy white shirt and raven-shaded underwear every time and unfailingly hold you spellbound and gripped and enthralled at me? Does it, Ragnhild?”

 

I am overcome and staggered and struck dumb as if hit by a ton bricks that I specifically and particularly have knowledge or the slight hint or clue of what to respond back to him. What is it that I must cluelessly say to him? What literally? I don’t know at all…or do you?

 

“Why are you day in, day out—on every occasion and aye—fond of putting on black underwear and nothing latest and ultramodern?” As I ask him this, and note him swinging and swerving round his head back to me, I make sure and certain and positive that I switch and wheel round my head to fly the coop and skedaddle from coming face to face and eye to eye with him. And boy, do I triumph and prevail in doing that? Doubtlessly and beyond the trace of a misgiving.

 

With my head fixated upward toward the towering and elevated ceiling above and my eyes made fast and stuck sideways in a route and track and bearing opposing and adverse Stian, I gulp and slurp saliva down my throat, thinking and questioning myself on what his feedback and counterblast to that will be. What truly and precisely? What veraciously?

 

“Is not my underwear and underclothing habitually and on every occasion very sensuous and kissable and beddable? We were of the same mind and opinion that things should be this way…after all, that you have always wished and desired for. I clothing myself in assuredly and positively erotic and bedroom-arousing underwear and smalls. And I in turn get you to wear those flirtatious and titillating and naughty bras and underpants that I very much and without exception want to see you frocked and geared in. Tell me, Ragnhild. Is my raven underwear not arousing and come-hither enough to you for you to ask me that?”

 

I feel shabby and tattered and scruffy and frayed with myself. Damn it! Why is Stian querying and posing all of this to me? Why?

 

“I didn’t say that, Stian,” I retort and counter to him slickly and awkwardly. Of course. What better thing and deed than doing this? What else, huh? I add on, “All I made a comment on is that you are amorous and doting on putting on dark-colored underwear. Why are you so affectionate and indulgent of the color black so much, huh? Why, Stian?”

 

He scrapes or scratches and claws at his whiskers or mustachio at that. Goodness! What riposte and comeback am I going to receive at him? What exactly? I wonder…I am only curious and conjecturing. Dammit!

 

“I will respond to that only after we have fucked and banged early this morning, Ragnhild. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, overlord,” I reply feebly and effetely. To be decent and veracious with you, I am not truly and in fact ready for this…another course and round and series of morning fuck episodes and acts…but it turns out that I have no selection and preference and pick of my own, or do I? Seemingly and apparently not so.

 

Who-oo-ooh! I sigh in and out, shifting and transposing about my position on the giant, bulky, and ponderous bed. Yeah. I canst not now have knowledge of how I am going to be fucked and spanked heartlessly and cruelly, or do I? Nay—I don’t.

 

“How are we going to fuck this time around, mister?” I query and interrogate Stian whilst whirling and spinning and twirling myself smoothly and softly. I love sex…but not this time around. This feels like enforced and mandatory or unwilling sex on my piece and share to be trustworthy and decent with you. My husband…my man and partner and spouse and significant bidie-in other all in all—I can’t oppose or rebuff or deny him anything, can I? No way! Even if it means I wound and cut and scrape and gash and bruise myself, I would willingly and contentedly do it for him. My delight and joy lies in seeing him blest and gay and floating on air and stoked; my suffering and discomfort and agony and sorrow and hardship thrives and flourishes and super-abounds so long as I see and note him in pain and soreness and hurt and irritation. And it will habitually and customarily be so as long as I stay and remain in love with him.

 

I am nude and stripped starkers. Fully undraped and in my birthday suit even. Yeah. If it were not for these coverlet rugs and bed sheets and coatings concealing and screening a great lot deal of my golden and fine-complexioned body, Stian would be by now entirely and effusively feasting his eyes and getting a load of my entire buck-naked self, don’t you agree with me.

 

He strides and wanders toward me from the window where he was taking his stand at inchmeal and leisurely. While still tramping and stepping toward me, he notifies and briefs me, “Peel and take off those sheets away from you, Ragnhild. I wish and fancy to gaze at my wife in her birthday suit and nothing else.”

 

I do like I am told. Submissively and dutifully. As Stian takes a seat and perches himself next to me on the bed, still inspecting and looking over me, he stirs his hand to my vagina and pets and fingers it for a split second. In that split second, my eyes drift and roam up, my body crooning and trilling and warbling in delight and satisfaction. Yeah. Stian is lord and chief and captain at just giving me that ideal delectation and gladness and contentment and bliss that I long and pine for the most. He is so…amazing and gee-whizz and connoisseur and jaw-dropping at this.

 

“Shall I provide you with more of this atmosphere and feel?” He questions me while he glances and stares at me in that very sensual and erotic way and fashion. I cannot battle against not giving or surrendering in to this lechery and lust and lasciviousness that is fast bearing down and jam-squeezing itself against me. Yes. The air is lusty and rich and flourishing and overflowing with sensuality and wantonness and thirst and appetence; and canst I do anything ’bout it? Nay!

 

 

“Yes,” I murmur and speak in hushed tones to Stian. “Yes, Stian. Present and furnish and bestow me with more and more of this. Please do it, my love.”

 

“Great,” he says sotto voice and utters under his breath this to me. I have a weakness for his sugary, flavorsome, and lip-smacking voice. I have a preference for its well-heeled and plenteous pitch and tonality. I am obsessed and preyed on in my mind and thrown uppermost deep in my thoughts with its modulation and low-pitched volume and intonation. Aren’t you as well?

 

I wait and pause and tarry and look forward to…the forthcoming and at hand moment when Stian is going to place and prop and stow his fingers into my vagina and rub and pet it. Yeah. I crave and long for him to do that so very much. And boy, does he accomplish and transact it. Nay—to my shock and turn-up from the books and bombshell. What is he waiting for, huh? What strictly?

 

He slithers and creeps onto our bed where he writhes and drags himself on all fours until he has his face stationed in the route of my clitoris and his knees and feet and arched and warped and tortuous back farther away from me. Yeah. It seems he is going to scoff and gobble and munch and polish off my pussy and vulva and cunt with his very own mouth and tongue, or will not he?

 

“Stian,” I wheeze and gasp out his name, getting up and making ready myself for what is to come. Tongue sex and taste sex and more of stroking sex. Will it be too nice and pleasing and lekker? Just like before? I am not absolutely sure…and so are you not certain and convinced about it, I fathom.

 

Arghhhh…His tongue is entombed and sepulchered deep into my vagina, brooming and sweep brushing about, flicking and stroking inside. My goodness. This is just too awe-inspiring and impressively intimidating, is not it? What is he singles out and cherry-picks gnawing and tearing and nipping my pussy-cunt with his all-too razor-sharp and jagged and serrated teeth. No, he will not be sardonic and trenchant enough to do that. If he does it, then I without question and assuredly and doubtlessly will avenge myself. I will also rent and chew and gnaw and nibble and masticate his big, long dick with my own keen and cutting teeth. An eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth.

 

As he lolls and reclines down on my bed while brushing and vacuuming and scrubbing his tongue inside of my vagina, I shove and thrust myself upward-like, wholly and effusively and truly delighted and given tickle-turning-pink pleasure and bliss and contentment to. What else could be better than this? What scrupulously and unerringly?

 

My goodness! He is licking and lapping and clobbering me faster and too faster, grazing and stroking and fondling my rocklike, stony-akin nipples as he does so. I like the way his hands and fingers are making a move and brushing my pimples and gigantic and extensive boobies themselves. It is all too amusing and gratifying and to my liking, isn’t it? It assuredly and without fail is.

 

“Stian,” I weep and sob and wail out, all too pleased and satisfied and contented and over the moon.

 

“You are the sweetest thing ever that I have come to taste and relish and smack in my life,” he takes a break and enjoys a breather just for a little while so he can state and assert this to me. Holy fuck! This is bliss and happiness and delectation indeed on my part and portion. If I will not croak and give up the ghost all because of it, then I by all fair means and with clean hands know what it is that is precisely going to take place and ensue up to me, or do you?

 

Who-ow-wie! In a surely dove-like and benign and mild way, Stian keeps on at beating and belting and slapping and bashing his tongue into my clitoris, initiating and whipping up in me these too sweetened and treacly feelings and sentiments and spirits that I cannot without much trouble put into words, neither can I explicate and throw light to you on what exactly and indubitably they are composed of. My body warbles and blows the sing-song and toneless whistle noiselessly and softly. I cannot breathe in or out for an instant. No, I cannot.

 

As Stian’s hands touch and graze and brush and skim my breasts all the more faster and rapidly and hurriedly and briskly, I icen up and harden and become solid and glaciated for a while, likely and perhaps and in all probability flown and soared off my way into more superior and desirable and design and style and version of an unblemished and impeccable heaven. Yes. This is it. I am in Valhalla; I am in the Happy Valley; I am in the Elysium or Elysian fields. Have you jetted and winged your way here too with me? Have you?

 

I seek to breathe; I make an effort at accomplishing that so very much hard and laborious; in fact, I break my neck and knock myself out over it. I can’t breathe. No—I cannot. What is coming about to me? What exactly? Goodness, I am passing away and giving up the ghost. Presto like a bat from hell and like a flash and at the rate of knots and even lightning itself. Help! Help! Somebody assist me please! Whenever I unclose and gape wide ajar my mouth to yell and shriek that out, I find and detect no vigor and wellness in me with which to hollo and holler that out. What is happening to me? Am I kicking the bucket and popping my plogs whilst delighting and reveling in sex here?

 

The world around me blurs and becomes smoky and foggy like. Through torrenting and flash flooding tears, I catch a decrepit and effete glimpse of Stian as he slaps and wallops and bashes his tongue in and out of me, feeling and stroking and grazing my bosoms and boobies and tits with his hands the hell lot faster and quicker as he does the earlier and aforesaid. This is the greatest and most long form of big O or orgasm that I have undergo and encounter in my life. Ever, I mean. Holy goodness. When will it quickly and speedily resolve and dissolve back to nonbeing and nonexistence? When precisely? Of course…I cannot take or bear it anymore.

 

Whoops. At final last…the tongue-taste brushing and lapping thing or case is finished and ended with. It sure and without lack of conviction and irresolution is. At least for now it is. Stian has me sprawl and couch and recumbent down on our bed atop an extensive and bulky and stellar pillow, and with my hands hurled and cast and lobbed away from each other, he hurls and tosses and tilts himself on top of me, and the instant that his body comes into adjoining and within-sniffing-distance span and width from mine, I seize and nab and capture his buttocks behind which are draped and garbed and dolled up in so fleecy and velvety like a baby’s bottom underwear and under-gear. I orgasm fleetingly and sigh and gasp in deeply and gravely  from just that. Yes. It is so lovely and nice and lekker indeed. Don’t you opinion so?

 

Having made a rip or slash or lance on the front or facet of his underwear either with a knife or whatever sharp razor or cutting thing it may be, Stian draws and hauls his titanic, jumbo dick and schlong, and having stretched and unbent and extended it so as to jerk and wrench and tweak and shake it about satisfactorily and hurriedly and in silence so that it topples and tips out semen and male gamete on my legs and clitoris and thighs, he points and sites the head of John Thomas on my vulnerable but keen-as-mustard Vagina who can’t help but turn into a ball and chunk of sugar and honey the minute that ensues. Orgasm Number Three if I am not incorrect and in error, is it not it? Yeah…it certainly and positively and without question must be so. That is what I esteem and anticipate myself. Assuredly.

 

Huh! Gradually and steadily, and taking his time by leisurely degrees, Stian climaxes or ejaculates inside and outside of me, at a snail’s pace and in his own good time. Whenever he sneaks and ghosts his Mr. Goliath-alike dong into me, pant and blow my breath in, slanting and tilting down on the jumbo and yet feathery cushiony pillow underneath me. Each time that he ejects or boots out his unbendable erect penis out of me, I wheeze and heave out, getting up and straightening myself up from the pillow beneath me. Sex is way far too fantastic and five-star, don’t you believe so as well?

 

“You are saccharine and honeyed, Ragnhild,” Stian murmurs and mumbles under his breath to me, pleasantly and harmoniously and beautifully even. I do not answer him. I am dazzled; I am spellbound; I am enraptured and so beguiled that I cannot rack my brains or weigh up anything in my mind at all. “You are sweet, Ragnhild.” He iterates and recapitulates this time around again, mumbling and sotto voicing more rowdily and ear-splittingly and clamorously. “You are more sweet and sugary than honey or sugar itself, my love.”

 

Oh no! Has it come to that now? Has it?

 

He builds up and snowballs speed as he carries on with out fucking, pressing forward and toppling out abundantly semen into me, delighting and gratifying and tickling me pink all over. I catch and grasp and latch on toward myself all the more tighter and firmer his burly and bulky and pretty and winning and velvety and silky like bottom and arse. Arghhhh! I love and cherish and bow down to this so very much. I unquestionably and indubitably revel and delight in all this. Don’t you?

 

Stian…Stian…Stian…my beloved, my angel, my sweetheart, my dear one, my inamorata. It is all that I can get myself ponder and cerebrate and brood on. All I can handle and preside to cogitate and rack my brains on. 

Stian’s buns and haunches and hindquarters shake and jiggle and wag and wiggle behind at too extensive pace and tempo and velocity. Yeah…yah…I only and powerlessly and vulnerably prance and swing and jig and frolic and cavort and bob up and down to their tune and song and theme and music. What can frustrate and hold me back from so doing? What precisely? What can even repress and hinder and bar us from fucking and romping up each other right now? Call and name it loud and boomingly enough if you can.

 

Sex…is…smash…cracking…and…sensational…indeed…

 

At length last, Stian comes to a halt and standstill. He certainly and come what may and inevitably does. I pant; I catch my breath; I gulp; and I fight for my usual and typical and routine form of breathing. Before he makes a furthermore and into-the-bargain stir, I slap and tap and stroke his stellar, bulky, fleecy and feathery like a baby’s bottom and inviting and sexy butts which are enshroud and hooded with all too pleasant and pleasurable to touch and brush underwear and underclothing.

 

Whilst we set foot and make an entrance into our succeeding and next round and phase of sex, Stian and I have tête-à-tête or discourse…call it chatty or colloquial or conversational reproduction if you have a preference for that…

 

First, he grumbles and bitches out vociferously, “These rugs or coverlets that you call blankets are bleak and chilly and biting, Ragnhild. Can you please bend over backwards so that you can reorganize and restyle and swap them for something better and more lekker and delectable?”

 

I heatedly and furiously fling back at him, “Why must you day in, day out kick up a fuss on whenever we are having sex, Stian?”

 

He twitters and giggles, “I belly-aching whenever we are having sex. That is nuts and not-the-full-shilling, Ragnhild. Now do like I have commanded you!”

 

I grimace and knit my brows. “Sorry, overlord. But I am not making a move out of this blanket. Positively not so.”

 

Stian gets ptight and raving with me for that. “How dare you have the balls to refute me of my officialdom and government over you, you slavey of a woman? Good. I will pull of that myself. You believe I am bedridden and incapacitated to not be qualified to do anything. Well, if that is what is going on in your mind, then you are absolutely and unquestionably misled and wide-off-the-mark about me.”

 

I contend back, wrenching him more closer and intensely tighter to myself. “You are not scaling or clambering away from me, do you hear that? You will carry that out only after you have butchered and whacked me dead.”

 

He rolls and twirls his eyes, rustling and sighing raucously out at the same time. “What would you give your eyeteeth for just for me to do, woman?”

 

I spin and revolve my eyes back at him, ridiculing him as I wheeze out stridently too. “Just keep on fucking me. You are not going anywhere until you wrap up to conclusion what you have started here. In fact, I won’t license and flash you the green light to do whatever it is that you feel like until you have rounded off and brought to a definite conclusion this crucial, no-laughing-matter commerce and merchandising of ours.”

 

He gulps and pants out irately. “Women. What the hell is in-error and even unsound with you?”

 

Nonetheless, to chop-hack an extensive yarn short, he carries on to fuck and fuck and fuck me…which is what I exactly and precisely feel an intimate need for right now. Hours afterwards…

 

I myself, twiddling and spinning my eyes in fury and a fierce fit of temper. “Why have you quit fucking me, Stian?”

 

He snarls and shows his knackered, ready-to-drop teeth. “I am dead beat and zonked to near curtains, Ragnhild. I noticed and observed that you were so hushed and still, with your eyes shut and fastened close, and I was starting to hold out and believe that you were already in sleep and slumber.”

 

I roll in the aisles momentarily. “I can never take a nap in the course of sex and not wake up, Stian. Now stick on to our trading. I am not yet filled and appeased. Keep up with the fucking and cum-pumping.”

 

He laments, “I am so spent and done in, Ragnhild. I can’t stick on with this. Please understand me.”

 

I glare and frown at him. Loudly bellowing: “That is the most brain-dead and doltish thing that I have ever heard. Are you not more of a sterling, original, Herculean and stout man rather than being less of an ass jerk and nincompoop. Don’t let me down, Stian. Don’t fail me please.”

 

He concurs reluctantly: “I will try, Ragnhild. But I am not pledging and avowing you anything. Not a word or any slight utterance whatsoever.”

 

Minutes thereafter…

 

I myself, seeming very occupied and tireless with the love-making underneath the somewhat frosty blankets, can rarely feel the cold at all. Maybe it is because Stian’s body is pressed on top of mine, balmy and yet shuddering from chills. I call smoothly nice, “Stian.”

 

He replies straight away, “Yes, Ragnhild.”

 

I tell him, “I want to ‘fess up something. Would you not take offence at it?”

 

His tone is so sickly and effete. It is now mid-noon, I imagine, following a whole morning of fucking and screwing and hammering each other in our bed. “What is it?”

 

I spill the beans to him, “You primarily say that I have insomnia nowadays. It is not insomnia actually. I can’t sleep until past midnight due to the function and work of some sleep-bereaving pills that I took a couple days ago. They cease to be in operation only after three full weeks have slipped by. Purporting that for at least an estimated twenty-one days, we will barely be sleep except for

 fucking and fucking all the way through.”

 

Thee screwing or sexual intercourse or going-to-bed intimacy or shag fucking that Stian presents and supplies and bestows unto me is just mind sweeping and buffeting and blasting all in all. He is the lord of fucking and screwing; the skipper or captain or overseer of any sex co-allied sport or game or recreation. He certainly and absolutely and positively and come hell or high water is. In my opinion and judgment and way of thinking, no one fucks or nails the pussy and cunt or humps and bonks and shags off far better than he does, or is there a different and variant baas and lord and governor and head of sex out there? Is there? I by fair means and with clean hands don’t frankly and genuinely know…and I don’t plainly and frankly believe and conceive that there is a most outstanding and cracking pussy and ass fucker than him—or is there verily? At any rate, don’t take my word as the truthful and conscientious and virtuous credo and verity. Don’t do so…please don’t! I may be spot-on and authentically unerring; or I might be erroneous and inexact. That is just the way and style and manner it is.

 

Phew! This very same afternoon, after gobbling and polishing off and scoffing to completeness an in-fine-fettle and in-the-pink and blooming-as-a-fiddle solid and substantial and profuse meal that I cook up and prepare and dress on our bed on timber and planks composed trays, Stian falls asleep acutely and to the core slumbers and dozes and zizzes. Yeah. As I cannot easily and without facing and suffering much can of worms drop off to sleep, I in silence and calmly eyeball and take a recce at him as he relishes and takes pleasure in his sleep.

 

The later day…

 

Stian Elberd has made tracks off to work hours back. But I long to see him anew and even ache for him like I have last caught a glimpse of him in centuries. Perchance I have; perhaps I have not. As I ensconce myself in the pale gray divan at our still and hushed home, with nothing more than to work out and bear on myself, I take hold of my cell that is lodged on a pint-sized slab counter adjacent to me, and snatch it leisurely and unhurriedly so that I can make use of it in forwarding and mailing the ensuing SMS to him.

 

My vagina is regretting the absence of your John Thomas. She cannot tolerate his absenteeism.

 

In just forty undeviating seconds, he echoes back.

 

John Thomas is hard-pressed and industriously busy right now. He does not want to be interfered and pestered with. Sweetened, dearest Vagina better find something else to execute. You can practice self-abuse or onanism with her if you crave to.

 

I am so mystified and flummoxed I can’t find any comfort or restfulness in myself.

 

What do you hint at by saying that John Thomas is hard-pressed and industriously busy. Is he having fun with another Vagina Number Two right now?

 

Stian is edgy and cantankerous just as much as I am.

 

That is not what I had in mind, Ragnhild, when I composed my not-long-past text to you. John Thomas is engrossed deep into forty winks or beauty sleep in my Dolce and Gabana underclothing or underwear right now. Why do you want to rouse him from his zizz. Is that not what you purpose to do? Is that not it?

 

I chuckle and snigger to myself at poring over Stian’s all-singing and latest text. Fuck him to hell!

 

I want John Thomas to bestir from his dormancy and snooze, you hear? Vagina is all pissed off and outcast and lonesome and companionless here. I connote that it is not reasonable and justly fair, or is it? You must school and coach John Thomas not to be sleepy and drowsy and work-shy, for the most part in broad sunlight like this. Daylight hours are for labor and sweat and night hours are for shuteye and repose. If John Thomas desires slumber, he can access and acquire it no more than in the night hours. Do you get that?

 

I was curious and nosy-parkering on what Stian’s riposte to that would be. Like I did not forecast and think likely, I was unbearably and terribly awe-shocked and rude-awakened and blow-staggered by the mode and course-of-action that he utilized to riposte back to me.

 

Excellent! You have triumphed and prevailed, Ragnhild. John Thomas is at long last roused from his sleep and bed. Now what do you have to pull off with him. What now?

 

Phew. At long last I have smash hit the jackpot and couped up the Sexually Whipping-up bonsela or trophy. Yuppie! Now the grand stroke and feat begins, must not it commence? I certainly and categorically surmise and presume so myself.

 

I want to suck and slurp and up and quaff him with my lips first. After that, I am going to grab the lollipop that I am gripping and clasping in my hands now, and after stroking and caressing it on John Thomas so that he slops out and tips over a great deal of scorching and scalding hot scum on it, I am going to chew and much the lollipop itself in my merry and jubilant mouth until I am so sweltering and sultry even as your jissom itself is.

 

Stian is short-winded and out of breath all because of that. His feedback insinuates that. I suppose so.

 

Fabulous! That is amazingly brilliant cracking. My goodness…John Thomas is about to let out the aboil, piping hot jissom. Nab and capture it on your lollipop, will you, Ragnhild?

 

I take a deeply and heart felt breath, pivoting and gyrating and  wheeling my eyes as I do so.

 

I am all set and in readiness, Stian. Notify that to John Thomas, will you please?

 

He blusters and spouts out back without hesitation.

 

HERE I COME, RAGNHILD! OOHHHH! TAKE ALL OF THIS JISSOM FROM JOHN THOMAS IF YOU CAN…NAB IT ALL, SWEETY!

 

And I work out just that…

 

ELLIOT CARR

 

Fiction. That is what they describe it. Life is fiction if you didn’t know. Why do I say that? Our weird and achingly unlike stories, our dissimilar experiences, our unusual and at times too eccentric and unrealistic dreams. They are like fiction on their own, don’t you think? Yes, I myself do think that they are.

 

I Killed My Groom. Starring Jaime Winston as Natasha Schwartz and Bruce Strings as Brody Colton. That was one of my much loved movies. Released in 2017 by the Waterston Pictures, a seemingly new and starting movie corporation.

 

Did I dream to be a celebrity one day, you may wonder? Not at all. All I deeply and sincerely wanted to do was to make clothes that people the world over, not considering culture and religion, would gladly and smugly buy and wear. That was all that mattered in my life. At least for now, that was what by and large mattered.

 

We arrived to our destination. A nice-looking and sumptuous hotel out of town that was named ‘Brecks’s Glennton.’ It was such a pleasant and very magnificent place. I loved it. There were innumerable interspaced trees and cropped grass carpeting the ground and sweet-smelling flowers and wild animals and things of that natural sort. The place looked more of an animal park than a people-welcoming hotel. I liked it anyway.

 

As much as I wanted to ask Luis about where it was that we had come here—I mean  was this where Elliot stayed in a classy hotel?—I was careful not to, for fear of provoking him. From the look of his face and its expression itself, he seemed like he was in no any feel for chit-chat or just about any form of mumble -gabble. Who cared anyway? I didn’t.

 

Having parked the car at long last, he faced me and stated, “Follow me please, will you?”

 

“Sure,” I said, making sure to grab my magazine with me so that I did not have to become lonely and companionless again. Oh yes, even in the presence and company of an individual or an assemblage of people, it is very possible to be relatively lonely and companionless. And even when you have no one around you, you may not be so lonely and stiff-bored to death. I followed Luis in any case. He walked fast but guardedly. That forced me to step up my pace for panic of being left behind. Why were bodyguards the most brutal and aloof people here on Earth, just like the police and soldiers were?

 

Elliot Carr. Even before I could come to meet him face to face, I began to picture up how he looked like. Blond or murky haired. Murky haired, I think. With large and striking muscles, like the ones that Stian had? Nay. Billionaires were the kind of people who did no any gymnastic or rigid work and they were typically chubby or lean with not that much vitality and muscle inside them. If the most wealthiest men in this world were determined by their strong point rather than their intelligence and talent and hard work, men like Elliot Carr—commonplace but somewhat frail and even a little bit feminine (I do not mean to insult here. What I am trying to describe here is their tenderness and overgenerous gentleness instead of being hardheartedly cold-blooded and unfeeling)—would always be the poorest, doomed and ill-starred to be ruled and stamped down on by the wealthiest, the like of Muhammad Ali and Mike Tyson.

 

I frowned to myself. How many days would I have to spend with an overweight and all the time famished and very yielding—maybe nasty—rich man? I imagined what his suite looked like. Cartons and loads of for-grown-ups-specifically cornflakes on every shelf and cabinet, bars and never-ending masses of chocolate, bottles of drinks lying all over the floor…Okay, if he was a dirt-free man rather than a filthy one, then this was how his suite would be like: cigarette-smelling, neat bottles of alcohol on shelves and counter tops and coffee tables, the most up-to-date English tea served in his study, and so on.

 

I was wrong. Elliot was not any of these things that I expected him to be. He was smartly and impeccably dressed in black, just like Luis was, except that he was in jeans and a shirt and a charming jacket. My God! This man was incredibly and unbelievably too handsome. If I had to decide who was very handsome between him and Alan, I would be totally confused and mystified. Why? None of the two was more handsome than the other. They were both stunning and incredibly gorgeous. The world had very nice-looking men, didn’t it?

 

Young, wealthy, and stress-free, Elliot lounged down on a long white couch in the solitude of his suite, staring at the door with graceful and big-like fingers that were stroking his chin and moustache in that gorgeous and appealing manner. His skin was dark pale—a sign that he was a genuine white Canadian by ethnicity formerly born in an exceedingly cold place and having now moved about to a temperate, tepid-like nature of place. Wait. Of course yes, he didn’t look French-like. He looked English or British but not American like. How was I in no doubt that he had been born up there furthermost of America and not down here in Oklahoma? I don’t know. I just guessed things.

 

With large icy blue eyes and twisted and curled ash blond hair—not very long nevertheless—Elliot was such an ideal and magnetic male visage that any common eye would ogle and marvel at. What made him exceedingly handsome? Well, maybe the piece of information that he was a billionaire. Damn me. Isn’t that what you call gold-digging?

 

“Ragnhild Ascwin?” Elliot held as he stood up to walk over to me and Luis. Just his approach was as much as was necessary to make me relatively uneasy and out of breath like I had seen something ghostlike and heavenly-bodied.

 

“Yes, I am Ragnhild, Mr. Carr,” I replied apprehensively and timidly. Where was this coming from? Hadn’t I been audacious and unafraid a while ago? And now I was this scared and trembling. Well, Elliot was not just any commonplace human being. Yes, he was human and not undying. But his farthest societal height and position made him very dissimilar than a nobody me. I was a nobody. While he was a somebody. For sure.

 

My God. He started to ogle me as well. “Don’t call me by that name—Mr. Carr. You are free to address me by my first name. I am simply Elliot.”

 

“Alright, Elliot.” Uhmnn…I was still not that comfortable and at ease addressing him by his first name. Mr. Carr was much better, wasn’t it? I thought so.

 

“Ragnhild, you are welcome. This is my suite. I have been here for two nights or so. And I plan to leave tonight. We will both be going to my house located deep in the forest.”

 

The both of us? I mean just the two of us? And was it even a very good thing to do? Luis had to come with us. I wanted it that way. Anyway, I was not the one making rules here, or was I? No, I was not. Definitely not.

 

Phew. I sighed to myself, doing my best to not move my gaze away from Elliot. The way he looked at me made me feel a bit panicky and embarrassed. It was like I would do something brainless and make myself seem irrational and dumb in his eyes. I presume I was not so, right?

 

“I hope that Luis introduced himself to you, did he?”

 

“Yes, he did. It was the first thing he did upon arriving home.”

 

“Good. That was civil and kind of him. He is Luis Carlos. My personal bodyguard.”

 

“I know his name. But I didn’t know that he was your personal bodyguard.”

 

“Well now you know, don’t you? I have many special guards. Most of them working for me on a shift basis. Luis here is my top bodyguard. He is the head and chief of all my guards.”

 

“Okay. So how many guards do you have?”

 

Damn me! How could I be so careless and unintelligent? Didn’t I think that I was becoming too inquisitive and prying into Elliot’s not-public matters? Who cared if he had just one bodyguard or a legion of them? Damn you, Nevada. Mind your tongue, will you?

 

“I have many guards, Ragnhild. I can’t tell you the exact number.”

 

“Sorry. It was just careless and unthinking of me to ask that. That is quite personal and private.”

 

The worst image I could ever show to Elliot was that I was this snoopy and nosy, which I was not. Nosy people make better spies in case you didn’t know. This world is so full of them that our governments wouldn’t run short of its Intelligence personnel. No, it wouldn’t. The bad side? Meddlesome people can be disloyal even to themselves. Trusting them is selling yourself out.

 

“Would you like tea or what type of drink, Ragnhild?”

 

“Juice please.”

 

“Ivy,” Elliot called out, snapping his fingers momentarily. She came to view straight away from the room next to ours. My, my. What was she? A maid or what?

 

Upon taking her stand before him, compliant and silent, she bowed her head in that cooperative and reverential manner. “Yes, sir.”

 

“Give the lady what she has requested for,” Elliot instructed.

 

She moved away quickly. Without asking me what I had called upon for? Wait a minute. Had she heard everything that I had said? I mean my voice was so low and barely perceptible for her to pick up what I had mentioned from that other side. Maybe she had heard. Possibly not.

 

“Let us sit, shall we?” Elliot offered.

 

I agreed and we sat down on the stretched white couch where he had been of late sitting alone. Who-o-wie! What a day this was! Seated here before one of the continent’s most moneyed men? I was dreaming. Seriously. A reverie I did not want ever to get pleasure from. 

 

Once we were seated, Elliot looked at me, benevolently and fervently. “So Ragnhild, what do you do in life? Are you still in high school, college, or maybe you are working some standard job? Tell me about yourself and your interests.”

 

“I finished high school two years ago and I am now about to enter college. University that is.”

 

“How old were you when you completed high school?”

 

“Sixteen. Now I am eighteen years old. Two years older than then.”

 

“Okay. Which university is this that you want to go to?”

 

“Brock.”

 

“Oh. I know it. I have got a friend there. I hardly ever do visit him but we are always in touch by one means or another. So have you applied there already or what?”

 

“I already have. I am just waiting to hear back from them. I also applied at other colleges but it is Glennton that I more often than not want to attend.”

 

“Why it of all the colleges here? I hear that they are more than sixteen of them operating and running.”

 

“I want to do Fashion and Designing and Glennton is the only institute offering that course.”

 

“I get it. That course is also relatively new in our country. By the way, my company is looking for a model to do an advertisement for our newest brand, Stanley Carr Merveilleux. It is our newest and very sweetest brand of wine. Not alcohol actually. Wouldn’t you want to be that model we will feature on our latest brand.”

 

“I am not a model, Mr. Carr. Sorry, I mean Elliot. I am a clothes designer and nothing more than that.”

 

“That doesn’t matter. You can still be part of the deal and design your very own clothes for the advertisement. Of course, you will have to dress in them for the advert itself. We will first launch the wine in France and Canada and the United States, and if it does well there, it will be available all the world over. The reason it has a French name. Merveilleux. Or wonderful in English.”

 

What? The tycoon was asking me to strike a pose in an advertisement for his latest variety of wine. And did I have to turn that down? Definitely not. I would move heaven and earth and even kill to get that kind of transaction. By kill, I don’t mean to say that I would even be capable of murder or contract killing. Satanic ones much more just to achieve fame and riches. I would do just about anything within the limits of my sanity to reach that soaring height that Elliot was lifting me to. God bless him for that. He was offering me a chance and opportunity to showcase to the world the skill and invention with which I could make our clothes comparatively comfortable things to always be in.

 

“Well, Elliot, to be plain honest with you, I am so flattered and grateful in relation to this wonderful opportunity that you are offering me. Yes, I agree to be part and parcel of that advert that you want me to involve myself in.”

 

“Fine. I will have you sign up for the contract tomorrow morning. The pay will be relatively good as well. It is good money in other words. So you don’t have to worry about anything at all.”

 

I didn’t care about the money. All that really mattered was me standing there before the posh and high-technological camera in my very own designed clothes and posing this manner and that other—just like I would be told to do—and then captcha! I would be all over the billboards and magazines and newspapers and television and maybe even in radio adverts. Who-o-wie! That would be so great and amazing. Showcasing what I could devise with my own hands and sewing machine to the world at large. Kuddos!

 

Ivy returned two minutes later with a glass of juice laid on a stainless steel tray. When she asked if Elliot would like to have anything, he turned down her proposal and dismissed her. Off she went, with Luis following her, to leave me and this greatly fine-looking man on our own. I felt like I had come to seventh heaven. Elliot was just fun and amusement to hang about with.

 

It was now night. All dark and lightless. I slept on the couch before the very broad and gigantic wall—all untainted glass—from where I could unmistakably and straightforwardly see outside with just one easy and unproblematic stare. Whew! Elliot stood before me in the face of the see-through glass wall and he was talking with someone on the phone in French. Hmnnn. Was he connected to Canada or what? It seemed he was talking to a woman with a deep but exceptionally mild voice, almost like a man’s. Hermosa was her name. I heard him say it out several times. Hermosa Dawsonville. Was she of piece Spanish and bit English descent? Most likely.

 

When he was over and finished with her, he flapped close his cell and rounded over to me, smiling happily. “That was Hermosa Dawsonville. My special aide. She will organize a team of guards to come here and take us to my in-depths forest-located home in a little bit while. Get yourself ready please.”

 

“I in all probability will.”

 

I stood up from the couch and went to review my luggage. It was safe and secure, with Luis keeping a close and wary eye on it. By the time I returned back to the living room, I found it swarmed and guarded with Elliot’s just-arrived security men. They were all dressed in black with IDs preset on their immaculate jackets on the site of their chests. They were seven men altogether. All wary and constantly staring about.

 

Elliot talked with one of them temporarily and then swerved sharply to announce to me, “We are taking our leave right now. There is no need to be worried and afraid of anything.”

 

“Would you do me an act of kindness, Elliot. I’d like to talk to Yolanda right now. Please.”

 

He looked a bit cheerless and bothered. I trusted that nothing bad had happened to her. No, not to my dear and adorable mother. No.

 

“Did anything dire happen to her?”

 

“No. She is okay. I talked with her a moment ago. She has already left your home.”

 

I breathed out. I hoped that that was the actual truth and not a mere lie to make me feel better about her. I trusted so.

 

“Can I call her? Yolanda I mean?”

 

“You cannot now,” Elliot counseled, “You will call her when we arrive were we are going. You agree to that?”

 

“No problem,” I said submissively.

 

He smiled ironically and benevolently. “Thank you for being compliant, Nevada. We may now leave if you don’t mind.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Good.”

 

Elliot drove me in his car. Two cars were behind us and two were ahead of us. All black and posh-looking. Hmnnn. This man was living like a president, right? It was what it seemed. His was a very-far-above -the-ground and extremely good quality life. I wondered what it must be like to be born in his shoes and grow with an ocean of material goods just for you to bask and stir in liberally and joyfully till the day that you will breathe your last. Life was great for Alvin, wasn’t it? It most probably was.

 

“How long will this drive be?” I asked him tenderly, hoping that he would not find my approach provoking and disturbing. Wouldn’t he? I trusted so.

 

“Just an hour. We will then go to a helicopter airstrip. Or a heliport in other words. We need a helicopter to make it to our destination.”

 

“I didn’t know,” I expressed serenely. “How far is it really? Is it not possible for us to make it there by an ordinary car?”

 

“It is. But that will take an additional two more hours if we are that fast even. The road is this curved and turned repeatedly. A helicopter is amazingly quick and instantaneous. What? Do you want us to go there by car?”

 

“Not really. A helicopter will be all right. By the way, I haven’t boarded one in the complete course of my life so far. It will be my utmost thrill and delight to be aboard one today.”

 

Elliot looked at me, surprised and confound, but then not that actually astounded and dumbfound. What could he expect from an underprivileged someone like me? To continually and every day be aboard lavish and marvelous-built helicopters? Well, that was not the case. The only helicopter I had was that pricey car that Yolanda had bought me. Nothing else.

 

“Are you married?” I asked Elliot to break our bizarre silence. Damn me for it! It was such an inappropriate question to ask, wasn’t it? Oh yes, it sure was. At that premature age of his, though being youthful and very wealthy, nothing could hold him back from taking as many wives as he felt like. Despite the fact that the bible forbade that type of practice. Solomon had was it about a thousand wives and a supplementary seven hundred concubines or girlfriends in other words? Elliot most likely had five hundred wives and a couple hundred more girlfriends. How the hell in the world was a man supposed to uphold and balance faultlessly fine that weighty kind of relationships? Hmnnn. Men and their not so steadiness.

 

“I am not married, Ragnhild,” Elliot replied self-assuredly and evenly. Hmnnn. He sounded so pleased and conceited about it. What was he waiting for to walk down that damn aisle? I mean he had all the funds and time and everything in the world to offer and make available to his gorgeous wife. Maybe he was still searching for his right fit. Perhaps. Either case, he must have had a girlfriend then.

 

The odd silence began again. I hated it. What? Had something tied his tongue? Elliot’s of course? I made a face and stared besides me out the window. The trees were racing and whizzing at lethal pace away from us.

 

Elliot put on some piece of music. Yes. That was much better than both of us being quiet and mute inside here. Much, much better and preferable. I did not recognize the artiste who was singing. Whoever he was, his voice was magnificently sweet and his songs and lyrics made perfect and total sense. From time to time, he would sing as deafeningly and quietly as he could and then conclude his song only to start all over again and carol into our ears with a dissimilar song. This had to be an album of him indeed. Probably.

 

“Who is he?” I asked Elliot, peeking at him hurriedly and momentarily than I intended to.

 

“Eugene Ludwig. He is an older and well-known artiste. Haven’t you heard about him?”

 

“No, I haven’t.”

 

Stian. It had been a little while since I thought and even mused about him. Oh yes, I was missing him intensely. He hadn’t called or texted or e-mailed or been in any form of contact with me for hours repetitive. Wait a minute. Couldn’t he already have replaced me with someone else? I mean, men, you cannot really and honestly have faith in them. Men are something else.

 

We at last made it to the heliport. Mikonos Heliport that is. It was extensive-spaced, airy, and surrounded with a sky-scraping and electrified-looking fence. Oh yes, one could without problems see the helicopters where they were stationed and sited. This was my first time ever seeing a heliport! And I was going to ride a real copter itself. Who-o-ow! Unbelievable, wasn’t it? Yolanda had bragged to me about how pleasurable and enjoyable it was to be ensconced down in a helicopter and now I was going to have something brilliant and cool to brag to her as well. Oh yes, I would!

 

“Finally we have arrived,” Elliot expressed out, shutting off the ear-splitting music about us.

 

I smiled readily. Remember, this had been a dream I did not ever want to paint the town red in. Anyway, how was I supposed to run away from it? My worst dread was that I would wake up to realize that I had landed myself in a chaos and disarray far terrible and devastating and grievous than when Germany and its buddies appallingly lost the Second World War back there in 1944. It didn’t matter for now.

 

I could not believe it as Elliot and I walked to the helicopter. All glass and gorgeous-looking and en-ravishing. I wanted to touch and run my hand easily and coolly over it. I didn’t. Maybe if there was no one to watch and observe me I would do that without any second thought. Mayhap. Who-o-wie! When was this dream going to finish? When precisely?

 

Once we were seated, with four of his men boarding with us and the remainder staying off farther down there at the heliport just for this while to watch us take off into the air, I grinned gleefully but temporarily for fear of Elliot or his men noticing how exaggeratedly I was walking in the air in very far-above-the-ground spirits. It would look like mine and Yolanda’s was a very deprived and in need household that could not refuse without any rational thinking to bask into any goodly privilege that may arise up before us. You know what? Once these verily wealthy people discover that you have an unquenchable want and longing for their riches, they will make use of it to enchain and misuse you. Money is the up-to-date instrument of slavery. It is a novel form of slavery even.

 

The forest beneath was shadowy and ray-less. So dim that all that I could see and distinguish was the mere form and features of lofty and giant tress. Not all trees were elevated and gargantuan in dimension though. Some were lean and slight-bodied. I stared at them as they moved before my eyes, progressively and brilliantly. Wow. What a pleasant and likable visage this was from high above here.

 

While the copter stirred and journeyed in the boundless sky, its blades rotating and gyrating with a considerably deafening sound that was reduced all thanks to the pair of headset that we were wearing on, Elliot placed a wary hand on my shoulder and stroked it frivolously and charily. Oh my! There was a breathtaking and out-of-this-world feel to his touch and stroke. I guessed not that he was starting to fall in love with me, or was he?

 

His forest house was greatly stunning and oversize. It was a bungalow in other words. Not two-storied or three-storied or any of the like. My! It was all glass and concrete and wooden merged. The blend of these three was done adequately and aptly. It was like paradise. Electrified and so hushed and inaccessible from the rest of the world.

 

I sucked in a mouthful of air and then went on to clamber my way out of the copter that had parked on a plain of infinite green grass, all endless and in good physical shape. Wow. What a day this was to me! While I was struggling my way out of my seat and the open helicopter itself, Alvin reached over to me and held me steadfastly and warmly, smiling even, and he pulled me down to lodge my feet properly and suitably. I smiled back at him, indebted and delighted.

 

“Thanks, Elliot, for your kind help,” I stated to him.

 

His eyes unstirred from mine. “It is my joy to be of relief to you, Ragnhild.”

 

He showed me the room he had prepared for me. Together with Hermosa Dawsonville. Hmnnn. So she was here and not in…Canada. It was a shocker on my part. Hermosa was honey-blond and green-eyed and fair-skinned and normal-heighted with glasses that were worn to without blemish go well with her black suit. She was kind and welcoming towards me nonetheless. I liked her behavior and conduct. We could be best friends even though I was just eighteen while she must in all probability have been in her mid-thirties or so.

 

“Like I made known to you, Hermosa is my special aide,” Elliot let out to me. “If you feel that you need anything from her, you are at no cost to call her to your aid and service. For the meantime, she will be working both. My special aide and the housekeeper on the other hand.”

 

I simply smiled indulgently, making sure that I reserved eye contact with Hermosa herself. She smiled back contentedly and humanely. I was starting to like her.  A lot more indeed. Crap, not in that queer way. That is now what I imply here.

 

“So for the start, Miss Ascwin,” Hermosa began, “I have arranged everything here like you would need it. If you have a fondness for coffee or chocolate, you can say it now so that I make sure it is delivered to you in good time before you drop off to bed. What do you say?”

 

“I would like chocolate please.”

 

“Okay. I will have it hot and ready in no more than ten minutes. I will be right back. Excuse me please.” At that, Hermosa went away, bowing down her head courteously to both me and Elliot. Her high heels clanked on the floor piercingly as she went away.

 

Elliot revolved over to me then, beaming and grinning merrily. His charming sight dazzled and overpowered me. “I guess that you won’t need me for anything now, right?”

 

“I am thankful for everything you are doing for me now. To be sincere with you, I don’t know how to exactly settle you up. I just don’t know how to do that.”

 

“There is no need for you to pay me off me with anything, Nevada. Nothing at all.”

 

“You are such a kind-hearted man, Elliot.”

 

“And you are such an endearing young lady, Ragnhild. You are in many ways alike to my sister, Adelaide. I have for all eternity loved her so very much. Something tells me that that grand love and care I hold for her in my heart is in a little while to be yours as well.”

 

I didn’t frankly know what to say to that. I stayed totally quiet as Elliot walked over to me and placed a tender hand on my cheek, stroking and caressing it nonchalantly and without restraint. My eyes shut at that instant, tears slipping out freely. Damn me! I was crying. Of course, I was supposed to. Why did I even permit him to touch me when I knew that it was Stian alone whom my heart and secretive world was predestined to go halves with. Why did I suffer this man to do all this to me without staying him off away? Why?

 

When I opened my eyes, he was gone, departed, nowhere to be seen. I hadn’t seen him disappear or stroll away from me. Damn me for my silliness and unbounded gentleness! Damn me for everything! I fell down on my just-now comfy bed and mopped away the tears that I had on my face. Hermosa didn’t have to come across me crying. No, it would make it seem like Elliot had done something terrible to hurt and wound me when I alone was to blame for everything that had freshly happened.

 

I swallowed the hurting truth into my stomach. There was no Stian, no Yolanda, no anyone I loved to the very core. All about me were alien but sociable people. When was I going back home? I missed my old life. This latest one, it was bothering and unsettling me.

 

To my surprise and glee, Hermosa returned just in time carrying a mug of hot chocolate in her hand. She handed it over to me, smiling genially, “Here you are, Ragnhild.”