Chapter Four
Bastian
Not So Simple
“I don’t care what it takes, just get them out of the way.” I grind my teeth, trying to stave off a headache that’s been threatening to morph into a full-blown migraine all morning. I pay people to take care of shit like this, and I don’t want to listen to any more doom and gloom from my Ops manager. It’s the third day he’s called to inform me of a human blockade on the haul road up to the new North Cape mine.
I’m not above sanctioning the use of force against those who stand in my way. But any perceived hostility or injustice toward South African nationals would have the human rights commission all over my ass, not to mention some opportunistic would-be warlord calling for my head on a spear.
“By any non-violent means necessary,” I clarify. “Offer them work, food, livestock, a goddamn swimming pool if they want; whatever they’ll take to leave peacefully. I want us to be seen as allies, not aggressors.”
It’s not the first time my OM and others have questioned the wisdom of another South African enterprise. There are far more vast and lucrative diamond-producing fields in the world now, and I intend for GeoRock to exploit them when the time is right. But regaining the trust and acceptance in North Cape is critical before any kind of expansion will be welcomed, or even possible.
While my self-imposed exile hadn’t placed any significant stress on the corporation’s financial reserves, my low profile and questionable silence on the incident seven years ago certainly did. My face had been mostly forgotten, lost to the public memory behind a veil of suspicion. Hence my reappearance on the industry landscape was being treated with caustic apathy, especially on the part of investors. In short, no one particularly gives a shit about GeoRock’s faltering stock points or its has-been CEO anymore.
That’s one reason to return to Africa. But I know it isn’t the only one.
Deep down, deeper than I want to admit, the real reason for my stubborn fixation with North Cape is to lessen my deep-seated guilt. Guilt over failure; over professional negligence.
Over loss and death.
I disconnect the call, pinching the bridge of my nose in an attempt to clear the pain in my skull. It doesn’t really work, and out of habit, I reach into my desk drawer for some pain relievers. Empty space meets my fingers. Frustrated, I glance around my office that takes up almost half the floor space on this level. It’s practically an apartment, with couch seating and a fireplace. It even has a bedroom with a separate bathroom large enough to land a surveillance drone on its glossy expanse of tiled floor.
I’m guessing there’ll be something for my head in the medicine cabinet, and push back from my desk, my legs stiff from sitting for hours. And they’re not the only things stiffening up. My cock is chafing at the restraints of my tailored pants and underwear. I’d gotten used to short-sleeved linen shirts and Jamaica shorts while basking in the warmth of the French countryside. It would be so easy to go back there, lose myself again in blissful oblivion and raise my son without the concerns of the corporation constantly on my shoulders.
But that’s fantasy. This is reality.
The bathroom feels cold and sterile, like my heart. Against my better judgment, I allow myself to think of Celine as I pop two ibuprofen tablets into my mouth. My pain would be much better alleviated with a good blow job instead of drugs. God, I miss her still.
On a whim, I lift the toilet seat and unzip my fly, freeing my throbbing dick from its confines. It feels good. I give it a few exploratory strokes, massaging the ‘kinks’ out, and I know I’m not going to stop. I brace one hand against the tiled wall and close my eyes, stroking and pumping myself to full mast. Goddamn it, I’m lonely and frustrated and pissed off, and if nothing else, jerking off will take my mind off all that for at least a minute or two.
Fuck, it’s not happening fast enough. As the heat builds up from the friction between my hand and my thickening rod I have to visualize something else so I can get off quicker. To my surprise, it’s not Celine or some random porn image that enters my head; it’s the little brunette I met a few days ago, her pink lips parted in naïve, adorable ignorance. I picture shoving my dick down that little open space while I grip her pretty head by the hair and force her to her knees.
I tilt my head back, enhancing the image in my mind, fine-tuning it like a radio signal. Oh yeah, she’s good. She’s on the floor, knees apart, her hands full of my balls and her mouth full of my cock, practically choking on it. Her blue eyes are wide, brimming with need and glossy with lust. I pull her head forward and back by the sleek brown hair that’s fisted in my hands. She’s undone her blouse for me, revealing the creamy mounds of her tits covered by lacy bra cups. What color? Red, I think—No, pink. Yeah—pink lace with a scalloped edge.
Getting close now… She’s panicked about being in here with me. She’s just told her supervisor she had to slip out to the “ladies” but really came up here because I ordered her to. I’m glad she’s so obedient, but I’m expecting the members of the Board to come in any second for a big meeting… They mustn’t see us here. Gotta hurry. Come on, baby, suck harder.
I’m squeezing and yanking my dick so hard I’m seeing stars… In a second I’ll be seeing goddamn fireworks when I blow this load… Shoot it all over that pretty face and watch her lick it up. Or maybe I’ll pull her off me before I come; turn her around, bend her over the fucking toilet bowl and shove that tight pencil skirt up to her waist. Pushing aside her matching pink thong, I take her from behind, my groin slapping the round moons of her delectable ass each time I drive inside of her, building up to detonation.
Fuck, yeah… Fuck… Fuck! I let out a groan that echoes in the hollow, tiled cavern of the bathroom. My cock pulses as it fires the first salvo of hot cum over my hand and into the toilet. My skin is slick with it as I jerk the last few strokes to finish the job. God, that feels so fucking good, I don’t want it to end. I ride out the waves of glory as long as I can, emptying my mind at the same time I’m emptying my balls.
In a minute it’s all over, and I can hear myself breathing like I’ve just run a marathon. Christ, I didn’t think it would take that much energy to get off; I must be out of shape.
I zip up and flush, but the lingering image of… What was her name? I retrace the mental thread back to our first encounter. Mara. Mara Snow. Her picture is vivid in my mind now, especially that look of lust and supplication I pasted on her face in my fantasy. Pure as the driven snow.
I chuckle at the irony of the old saying. Is she really so pure, untouched, untainted… a virgin, perchance? I doubt it, but maybe that’s part of my fantasy… an old man’s fantasy… deflowering some innocent blushing virgin who worships the ground I walk on. Unlikely I’ll find one of those in this day and age.
And what the hell am I thinking anyway? I’m on the back side of my fortieth birthday. I’ve got no business entertaining visions of young pussy like Mara Snow’s. What is she, twenty-five at the most? Probably even younger, full of her own ambitions and ideals. I’m a widower with an eight-year-old son and a struggling corporation both reminding me there may be fewer days ahead than there are behind. My time for chasing corporate floozies and satisfying my own needs first is long past. If Mica needs a mother figure, it won’t be a modern-day Fraulein Maria singing and dancing her way from the nearest convent, looking young enough to be his big sister.
Add to that her resemblance to Celine, in more ways than one, and there’s an Olympic-sized red flag being waved in my face. Mara’s dark hair, pretty face and open, meek manner draw me in like a fisherman’s reel. But her enthusiastic interest in her field, and such an unlikely one as earth science, is a coincidental and painful parallel to my late wife I don’t want to think about. It’s setting off an alarm reminiscent of the horrifying sound of the emergency warning system that blared through the mine at Praetoria that fateful day seven years ago. The one that came too late to save my Celine.
I remember with a pang of guilt how I’d purposely ignored Mara as she waved at me through the lab window the other day, partly because of the aggravating phone conversation I was engaged in, but more likely for all of the above reasons. Too young. Too smart. Too much of a reminder of my weaknesses and mistakes. Ones I can’t afford to make again.
I wash my hands and straighten my clothes, and chastise the reflection of my conflicted, middle-aged self in the mirror. The striking profile and magazine-cover-featured good looks of Bastian Kingsley’s face will fade soon enough. There’s no room in my future for another woman, young or old. So, for the moment, I declare GeoRock’s basement laboratory officially off-limits.