The kitchen is dark, angular, masculine, glinting stainless steel. It said contemporary. It said wealth. Presiding over the living room, an enormous fish tank, Caribbean aquatic wonders ablaze in vivid color, mouths agape, apparitions in a slow ballet.
Julia would not forget Craig D'Amato's spectacular ultra-trendy apartment in the super-posh city centre. She would forget nothing about Craig D'Amato. He was an unforgettable sort, peculiar, funny, sometimes distant, with a perceptible hunger about him, his blue eyes set like sprung tigers about to pounce. He carried himself with an erect, easy confidence garnered by success, galvanized by achievement at such a young age.
She remembered their first meeting, the way he filled his tailored suit, deeply tanned from skiing at Vail, silk shirt spread at the collar, tall, strong hands, a way of looking at you and filling you. Julia would carry a piece of Craig D'Amato three steps past eternity. Images, splintered in her mind. The slow, expert swirling of his tongue over her flaming clitoris, the agonizing slow lengthy thrusts, her ankles draped over his shoulders, fingernails raking his ass, his smell, the way his back sheened with sweat, the long afternoons whiled away inside her, his hunger for food and drink and sex.
Craig was an exceptional lover, the perfect blend of charity in coaxing her to aching, arching orgasm, and selfishness, the way he would pump her vigorously, withdraw, and feed his cock into her mouth, as sweetly as fish through water. Craig's bedroom, when she came to know it as a carnal home, was equally lush as the kitchen, a mammoth Californian bed, a sea of pillows, an eiderdown duvet. Julia would remember the way they lit the bed afire, the bedsprings singing a symphony, the way Craig would get behind her, facing the bureau mirror, pumping rhythmically, his fingers twined in her hair, cupping her sweating tits, his breath hot on her neck, whispering in her ear. They would watch each other, Julia's silver eyes wide in the mirror, her full breasts swaying, Craig's hands cupping her shapely ass as she frantically fingered herself, then feathered her fingertips across his swollen balls. There was a beauty in their coupling, framed by the mirror, her cries of abandon as she came, his breath thieved as she brought him to climax, with a jerking hand, with an enthusiastic mouth, between her breasts. She would always remember her own joy in Craig's orgasm, the tightening of his stomach, the way he came, shooting thick, hot, endless ropes of come, flooding her nipples, filling her smoldering pussy. As their bodies became familiar friends, they parted with reservation. Julia remembered his cock, turned iron from her manipulation, always ready. She would awake in the morning, sleepy-eyed, the sheets twined around her like a python, sleepy, sated from kinetic sex into the middle of the night. Craig slept late. He had an unfathomable capacity for sleep, when he pried himself from work. He would awaken with Julia's mouth piston-pumping his shaft, looking up at him with mischievous, half-lidded, dreamy eyes. When he was running late for work, he would bring her off before he left, with a sense of religious duty, his tongue working her with vigor, her heels digging into his back, arching off the bed, her hands clutching his hair, calling his name. Those timeless mornings, with the bed lit with a rectangle of sunshine through the window. She wouldn't forget.
For Craig, Julia was a woman at the wet end of a thousand of his dreams. She was a small girl, voluminous figure, great tits, a delicious, expressive ass. She had eyes the color of duckponds, frozen in November, dark hair, and skin as smooth as a sea-worn beachrock. Julia was young, funny, bright, playful, and never seemed aware of how the landscape of her body, with its undulating swell of breasts and taunt thighs, could awaken such fervor in a man. Craig would remember her willingness to please, the way her face would flush scarlet in the wake of a pulsing, grinding orgasm, unleashed as she rode her pussy across his stiffened tongue, or ground herself against, him, his hands overfilled with her breasts. They never forayed into the edges of sex, where whips and accessories reside – their sex was too good based on the simplest of elements. He loved the way she kissed him, tongues intertwined, her readiness for sex, the beauty of collapsing on top of her. Julia would make an indelible mark on Craig.
Many years later, he would make mental reference of those unforgettable stolen moments, the slow, torturous circles she made on his dick, lying back in his easy chair, pants to his ankles, as she bounced enthusiastically, touching herself, talk urging him to go deeper, harder, slower, to seek out her sensitive places. There were nights that he would not even make it to the bed, such was her hunger for him, to drop his pants, pull his hard dick from his shorts, swabbing her nipples with its tip, taking it deep in her mouth, sliding it between her cleavage, flickering his balls with her tongue. Sometimes, before he could even respond to her, he was off, the blood threading his veins like lava, as he unleashed a torrent of come into her mouth. He was apologetic, she would smile wanly, satisfied.
But we've gone too far ahead. The beginnings were suspect. Julia slept in Craig's bed alone before they ever joined in it. That something so beautiful sprang from tainted ground, really, was hard to comprehend.
***
"So you are finishing your Masters?" Craig had asked. They were in his kitchen, he was scratching emergency numbers onto a piece of paper. "What's it on?"
"Agricultural Export Economies of the Third World," she said, offering a nervous laugh. "As boring as it sounds."
Craig smiled. His smile had an assuring charm, Julia decided.
"I'm sure it's quite interesting," he said. "Makes for good conversation at cocktail parties. When do you graduate?"
"September. Hello freedom," she said.
"Hello reality of the workworld outside of college," Craig added.
"Indeed."
Craig outlined the housesitting rules. The exotic fish would require a complex system of feeding and observation. Beyond that, he seemed comfortable with everything short of a riot in the penthouse apartment.
"Whatever is in the fridge is yours," he said, swinging the frigde open. The fridge was stark, a monument to bachelordom, a lot of wine, beer, a virtual army of condiments, no food. "As you can see, work takes me away for travel a lot. I've got some great wine and champagne here, help yourself. You can collect the mail. I've told the doorman you will be here. Never mind the Philistine neighbours, you can play music, set off fireworks indoors, whatever you college kids are doing these days."
Julia thought it funny Craig would distance himself from "college kids", he could be no older than 26, just a few years older than her.
"I assure you, I'll be on my best behaviour. You have a beautiful place here, I'll treat it like my own," she said.
"Great." Craig led her down a hall to an unusual steel doorfront. "Now, behind this door is the reason I need a housesitter. This is a climate controlled storage room, custom built, had a vendor over from Florence to set it up. It contains a pretty significant art collection than I'm rather fond of and am hoping to retire upon when I grey and wither."
Julia laughed. "So that's where you keep
Dogs Playing Poker
?"
"I got outbid for that one," Craig said. "But there are some pretty good pieces here. It's not unknown for private collections to be targeted by thieves. So I do like a warm body here when I leave, I could really give a fuck less if you cook the fish up for supper. The door's locked, so you can't get in there, okay? Nothing personal."
Julia shrugged. "Sure."
"Are you married, have a boyfriend, friends in the city?" he asked.
"Not married, I have a few friends who stuck around for the summer," she said. "And define
boyfriend
."
"It doesn't matter," Craig said, dismissively. "I just want you to feel comfortable having guests over. This place is yours for the next five weeks."
"I really appreciate it," Julia said. "So nice to be away from dorms and dinners cooked on hotplates."
"I've been out of college three years, and I'm still trying to kick my macaroni and cheese dependency," Craig said.
He picked up his keys, suitcase, and began threading on his necktie in the mirror. He turned, posing. "How do I look?"
"Gorgeous," Julia said, with more admiration than she had wished.
"You're too kind. This tie looks like a pizza exploded, in my opinion, but whatever."
He was off, holding the door open with his knee, juggling luggage in one hand and place ticket clamped in his mouth.
"Mr. D'Amato?" Julia called.
"Craig."
"Craig. You never told me what you do for a living."
"When I'm not exotic dancing with the Chippendales?" he smirked.
"Yes."
