The Beast of Bell Island part 11

It was a very intimate thing, sitting on his shoulder like that, she realized. Through her jeans she could feel the cordage of his neck and shoulders and the hard ridge of his collarbone. At her elbow was an ear the size of a small plate, and his loose hairs tickled her shoulder. In the silvery light of the sun through the cloud cover, his hair was not a vibrant blond, but a dull sandy flax. This was the first time that she noticed the grays, though, sprouted up here and there at his temples.

Brooke set the palm of one hand on the great expanse of his shoulder, and the other at the nape of his neck as he began to walk again. Jack seemed to walk with deliberate care so as not to jostle her around too much, taking his time finding his footing along the dirt path.

“When was the last time you shaved?” she asked.

“About three months ago… with a pair of garden pruners. Was a pain in the ass.”

“What if I helped clean you up a little bit? Maybe that would make you feel a little bit more like the man you used to be.”

She watched it in his eyes as he considered this. “You’d do that? I mean, I’d pay you for it, and…”

“You don’t have to pay me,” she laughed. “I’d do it because of the good and sufficient reason that I wanted to.”

“Oh. I, uh… Thank you.”

She looked down, spying another white sheet clinging to his hips. “I could help you make something a little sturdier to wear, too. I’m not too handy with a needle and thread, but I could at least try sewing a couple of those together with a proper tie so you don’t feel like you’re wearing a piece of tissue paper.”

He laughed, looking down at himself and grabbed the “hem” of the thing as a gesture. “To be honest, I normally don’t wear anything if the weather’s good like this. I rigged this up when your dad came ashore. It’s not the most comfortable thing in the world, but…”

Brooke’s face turned beet red as she imagined him going about his business completely naked. She imagined those thighs, those hips, and the thing between his legs that she’d caught a glimpse of the evening before. Suddenly, her brain took a turn for the naughty and she couldn’t stop herself. Jack was in her mind’s eye, now with an erection standing long and firm, high above her head…

“Anyways, don’t worry about it. You’ve only got a week.”

His voice snapped her out of it, but she still shifted her seating on him a little to ease the building discomfort between her own legs.

Brooke cleared her throat. “OK, yeah, sure thing.” Then: “I, uh, I think I’d like to be put down now, if you don’t mind…”

He wrapped his big, strong fingers gently around her and lifted her from his shoulder to set her onto the ground. “There you go.”

She laughed nervously. “Thank you.”

“…You alright?”

“I um… it was a little high for me up there. Good to have my feet on solid ground again, you know what I mean? Anyways, I think I need to use the restroom.”

Jack nodded. “I should too.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes!”

And like that she took off for the house, still aching in her belly for release. When she looked behind her, she saw him remove the sheet, throw it over his shoulder, and step off the path. “Why does he have to be so hot?” she whispered to herself, ripping her eyes from the sight of him doing something so banal as taking a piss, and darted into the nearest bathroom.

Thank god there were no Amos terminals in the bathrooms.

Brooke looked at herself in the mirror. Her face and shoulders were framed by deep brown hair, her cheeks and slim shoulders sprinkled with faint freckles. She was very obviously aroused: face flushed, eyes dark, and even the way she stood seemed to accentuate her modest chest and rear end. She didn’t even know she was doing that!

Quickly she shimmied her pants and panties off, and laid herself down onto the floor. She sighed when her fingers traced her own opening, stroking the lips and circling her throbbing clit. Distantly, she couldn’t believe she was doing this. Masturbating in somebody else’s house, over a man she had not 2 minutes ago been engaged in pleasant conversation with. This is fucked up, she thought as she dipped two fingers in.

Brooke bit down on her lip as she stroked and fingered herself, afraid of making even the slightest sound. Her mind was buzzing with image after image of debauchery; she imagined his massive cock in his hand, pressed to her belly, oozing sticky rivulets of clear pre-cum. She imagined that deep voice of his, grunting and growling as he pumped his fist around himself, looking down at her and rumbling sweet, dirty nothings…

She didn’t take long; she never did. The smoldering fire in her belly suddenly ignited into full-on flames, and her hips bucked against her own little fingers. Brooke moaned in her throat, not daring to open her mouth as her orgasm washed over her sending every nerve ending abuzz with white-hot pleasure.

A few moments later and she lay there, panting, staring up at the ceiling and wishing that it was him.

She put her pants back on, washed the smell of her fluids off her hands; threw some water on her face. She still looked flushed, and her hair was a little messy, but Brooke at least hoped that the worst of it was over. Jack Ilyin would provide masturbatory fodder for her for years to come, she knew – but making any moves was simply out of the question.

Mostly, this was because Brooke was still a virgin. Not for any particular reason, she just never got around to it, and never found the right guy to do it with. She’d fooled around some – she knew her way around a cock – but there was something about initiating sex that didn’t come naturally to her, and that left her to rely on the impetuses of other men. And when you relied on a man’s impetus for sex, it was always a gamble on whether or not it would be at all worth your time.

Of course, there was, too, the fact that Jack may not be emotionally stable enough for sex. He’d gone from being a type-a socialite to a completely isolated hermit literally overnight – and that also surely meant the sudden cessation of his sex life, with likely no cessation of a sex drive. Suddenly, the thought occurred to her that he had regularly been doing during her stay what she just did – slipping into the sound-dampened obscurity of the trees around the property and gotten himself off to lecherous imaginings of his small, young guest. The idea made her heart race with both excitement and unease. She was acutely self-aware now, moreso than she’d been at any point before, of how her ass fit into these jeans, of the way this bra cupped her breasts, of the way she might have been walking or talking or looking at him. Had she been unconsciously showing tells of attraction that she didn’t know she was experiencing? Had he noticed?

And besides, he was huge! It would never work, she – nor any other woman – would be able to give the man what he so deeply craved: stuffing his cock inside a tight, warm hole. She didn’t have a hole big enough to accommodate… well, any of him.

So that was that, then.

Brooke realized that she’d spent altogether too long in the bathroom and decided that the most sensible thing was to go back out there and finish their walk.

“Platonic,” she chanted under her breath. “Strictly platonic.”

They did finish their walk around lunch time, and with no further mishaps. It was beginning to be a struggle to keep her heart rate down around him now, and she was vigilant about finding any signs in his face or body language that might tell her he was experiencing the same thing she was. So she could nip it in the bud, of course.

The other problem was that she found her eyes constantly wandering to his hips, to see if she could catch a glance of an outline through the sheet – which she did several times as he walked. This was not at all what she needed, but Brooke just couldn’t help herself.

“I think I might take my lunch upstairs,” she said when they approached the house again. “I should catch up on some emails and send a note to my dad.”

Jack looked a little disappointed, but he nodded. “Of course, go ahead.”

So she did. Amos made her a rye sandwich, the same kind that she’d made herself that first day on the island only better, and she took it up to the third floor with her. Going over emails was a welcome distraction, and she found herself calming down. Brooke looked over the notes that she’d taken regarding the charities, and decided to call them up. There wasn’t a phone, so she figured Amos what who she needed to ask.

“Amos? Are you the.. phone around here?”

“I am,” said the light at the computer.

“OK, I have some numbers I need to call…”

Just as she expected, none of the charities knew of any such person as Zelda DuBoix, nor did they ever have someone in their employ who looked like her. Once she was done a little over an hour later, she sat, swiveling around in the chair, and thought.

“Well, there goes all my damn leads,” Brooke mumbled, throwing her pen onto the desk and watching as it rolled onto the floor. “Ugh.”

Her father often spoke of the value in talking to people face-to-face, asking questions in person. But she couldn’t exactly do that, nor did she have any clue as to where to start, even if she did have the option.

“Amos,” she called.

“Yes, Miss Foster?”

“Were you around when Jack had that party? Do you remember the woman he’s talking about?”

“My facilities were limited before the change, but I do have a few primitive memories in my databanks of that night. Mostly voice requests from guests, however, wanting to know where the bathrooms were, which wine paired best with which hors d’oeuvres, that sort of thing.”

“Do you remember any odd requests? From women, that is.”

“Give me a moment to search.” It ‘disappeared’ for the better part of a minute, before returning. “I’ve come across four results which might pique your interest.”

“Lay ’em on me.”

Amos didn’t just repeat the queries told to its old self, it replayed the recorded queries for her. She could hear the murmuring of guests in the background of them all, laughter, music.

“Amos, are there any secret passageways in the house?”

“Amos: How much money does Jack Ilyin have? Was he ever married?”

“Hey, Amos! How big is Jack’s dick!”

“Amos, where’s the nearest tattoo shop that specializes in dot-work?”

Brooke hummed and hawwed, quickly deciding the third voice query was just silly. The first and second were spoken by women who sounded just as drunk as the third, so she discounted those too. But the fourth voice was level, cogent, and oddly sober.

“Amos,” Brooke asked. “Was that question asked before or after Jack’s public altercation with the strange woman?”

“It appears that this was asked of me at 11:49pm that night, at the unit just outside the front door. This was mere seconds after I recall Master Ilyin telling her to leave.”

“She sounds awfully composed for just having been sexually harassed in front of 100 people, doesn’t she?”

“I might say so, Miss Foster.”

“What tattoo parlor did you direct her to, by the way?”

“The Furious Ink studio in Seattle. It’s quite famous.”

“Hm. I wonder if their dot-work artist would remember a client from 2 years ago…” Brooke spun around to face the computers, and clapped her hands together. “Ring them up, I’d like to talk to them.”

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