The Saint

No one noticed her watching from the entryway. Why would they? The people f**king were rather occupied with the f**king. And the dozen people in the room with them did nothing but cheer them on and throw more cash on the table. People checked their watches, but not out of boredom. There seemed to be some kind of bet going on about how long the guy could last. Eleanor watched the girl. Her face was passive, as though she couldn’t care less that she was completely naked in the middle of a room full of people getting pounded from behind. Eleanor had never seen anyone having sex before. She’d read about it in her books, saw pictures of it in magazines. But never had she seen it like this—live and in living color and so close she could see the woman had blue eyes.

The man grunted and pulled out of her. The woman laughed as she swept the money off the table. Still naked and wearing only her black high heels, she stood up and grabbed a glass of something—wine probably—and drank it while she casually wiped the wetness out of her with a linen napkin. She seemed in no hurry to put her dress back on.

Another woman in a red dress yelled that it was her turn. She lay back on the coffee table, hiked her skirt to her waist and lifted her knees to her chest. Another man opened his pants and mounted her right on the table. Once again, all bets were on.

Eleanor heard footsteps behind her and spun around. A couple—two men this time—came laughing and kissing into the foyer, tumblers of something in their hands. They paid her no attention as they headed down the hallway past the grand main staircase. She followed behind them, staying out of their line of sight as they entered the kitchen. While shadowing the men, she peeked into the cavernous dining room. A naked man lay facedown on a huge ornate table. A woman dressed head to toe in leather stalked around the table periodically whacking the man on his back with some kind of long thin cane. He winced and she laughed. He cried out in pain and she laughed louder. She ordered him onto his back and when he turned over, he had already come all over himself. The woman in leather climbed onto the table between his thighs and began to lick the se**n off his stomach and thighs with the prissy precision of a cat lapping at a saucer of milk.

“Oh, holy f**k,” she whispered to herself. “Toto, we are not in Kansas anymore….”

15

Eleanor

ELEANOR CREPT BACK DOWN THE HALL TOWARD THE main staircase. In another room, one that held a piano, a woman stood with one leg over the back of a leather chair. A man knelt between her legs and pressed his face into her vulva while another man, standing behind her, played with her br**sts and ni**les. All the while she carried on a conversation with another equally well-dressed woman sitting on an elegant black-and-white striped couch. In every single room of this house, someone was having sex with someone else. Eleanor could hardly breathe. Heat pooled in her stomach and dripped down her legs. Even as aroused as she was by the sights and sounds and smells, Eleanor didn’t forget her mission. She’d come here to find Søren. She’d seen his motorcycle, but where was he? And what the hell was a Catholic priest doing at a party like this? And why didn’t she get invited?

She marched up the stairs trying to act like she knew where she was going. No one questioned her presence in the house. No one stopped her or asked to see her ID or an invitation. At the top of the first flight of stairs, Eleanor found even more people in various stages of undress engaged in various acts of debauchery. A woman sitting in a leather chair with one leg draped over each arm was allowing a man at least twenty years older than her to slowly work his entire hand into her body. The woman giggled and wiggled and lifted her hips to help him with the whole process. Two men wearing nothing but pants around their ankles engaged in some kind of mutual dick-sucking that required both of them to lie on the floor on their sides. They blocked the entire hallway, so Eleanor had to step over them. They didn’t seem to notice or care.

Finally, Eleanor found an empty bedroom. Ducking inside, she pressed her hand into her stomach, closed her eyes and breathed through her nose. She’d been in the house almost twenty minutes according to her watch, and she’d yet to see Søren. Her heart pounded so hard it threatened to burst out of her chest. She’d never been so aroused and so scared in her life. She couldn’t tell the difference between the two anymore. Was it fear that made her heart beat like this or desire? She wanted to shut the door, lock it, lie in bed and give herself the orgasm her body demanded.

A door inside the bedroom opened. A man emerged from the en suite bathroom wearing nothing but a white towel around his waist and water on his skin.

“Hello there,” he said, a wide smile crossing his face. He spoke with an accent, Australian maybe, and didn’t seem the least bothered to find a strange, panting girl standing in his room.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right, love. What’s your name?” He shut the door and locked it.

“Um. Elle.”

“Elle. Pretty name. Pretty girl. I’m Lachlan. Everyone calls me Lockie. Everyone but you. You call me sir.” He winked at her and Eleanor nearly hit her knees from the erotic power of that wink.

“Sure. I mean, yes, sir.”

“Did King send you?”

She didn’t know the right answer to that so she lied and said, “Yes.”

“God, I love that man. What are you into, gorgeous?”

Eleanor had no idea what that question meant.

“Everything?” she answered. Seemed a safe bet.

He laughed and the rich, warm sound sent something like hunger pains rolling through her stomach. He had a rugged handsomeness to him and nothing but muscle on his nearly naked body. He looked about twenty-eight years old. Her mouth had gone dry talking to him, so she licked her lips in nervousness.