Beautiful You (6 page)

The fact never left her mind: None of his famous romances had lasted longer than 136 days. That couldn’t be by accident. They had all lasted exactly 136 days.

And it wasn’t as if Maxwell had pressured her for sex, either. He was so detached, so pleasant, but he was so distant that Penny wondered whether Alouette D’Ambrosia had been lying when she’d claimed he was the greatest lover she had ever known. The French beauty must’ve been with better men, hotly passionate men. Maxwell wasn’t exactly aggressive. He did little
more than watch and listen and jot notes in his little book. At yachting parties, women whom Penny didn’t even know glared at her. Pencil-thin supermodels sneered at Penny’s normal hips. They wagged their high-cheekboned heads in disbelief. The men leered at her. They assumed she had some erotic skill that bewitched Maxwell. Their lecherous stares suggested the scenes of unbridled sodomy and expert fellatio they envisioned. How funny it would be to tell them all that the world’s richest man had taken her skiing in Bern and to bullfights in Madrid, but he’d never taken her to bed.

Penny wasn’t a virgin, not when she and Maxwell had first met. She’d had sex with boys in college, a few. But only one at a time.
Only
boys. And
never
from behind! She wasn’t a pervert, and she wasn’t a slut. Her boyfriends were mostly Sigma Chis who played at being gentlemen by opening car doors for her. They’d brought icy orchid corsages and had pinned them to her dress with nervous fingers. In her experience every man thought he was a natural dancer, and every one thought he was good in bed. The truth was that most men only knew one dance step—usually the pogo—and between the sheets they were like a monkey in a nature film poking at an anthill with a stick.

She’d had intercourse, but she’d never had an orgasm. Not an
orgasm-
orgasm, not the kind of earth-moving orgasm that made your teeth go numb, the kind she’d always read about in
Cosmopolitan
.

No, when Penny graduated from law school she wasn’t a virgin, but neither was she looking to settle down.

In Paris, at an exclusive dinner party on the top deck of the Eiffel Tower, Penny had her chance to meet Alouette D’Ambrosia in person. With a private supersonic jet at their constant disposal, Paris seemed no farther away than midtown Manhattan. Maxwell could zip her almost anywhere in the world for a quiet supper, then return her to her squalid apartment in Jackson Heights by midnight. Seeing the same troop of resentful and lustful faces of the international jet set night after night, at parties and movie premieres, made the world seem even smaller. Even at the top of the Eiffel Tower, with glittering Paris at her feet, Penny sipped a glass of champagne, too timid to engage with other movers and shakers. The night air was warm, but Penny felt a chill down her spine, exposed by the plunging back of her Vera Wang gown. Maxwell, usually so attentive, had been called away, and she sensed hostile eyes upon her. Looking around, she wasn’t wrong. Like twin lasers, they flashed from across the tower’s open terrace. It was the movie star, the winner of four Academy Awards. She’d been nominated this year, and she was the front-runner to win a fifth Oscar in a few weeks. Here was the woman Penny had seen fractured in the tiny screens of countless cell phones. Now there was only one of her, and she loomed huge.

A confrontation was imminent and every guest was gleefully watching as Alouette strode closer. Circling, she was clearly stalking her prey. The actress moved like a panther in a curve-hugging black leather catsuit. Her lovely nostrils flared. Teeth bared, she was seething.

The Bonwit Teller saleslady had done as she promised and introduced Penny to haute couture designers who dressed her to look fabulous, but compared to this approaching man-eating predator she felt like a bag lady. As always, she fought the urge to flee the battlefield. If only Maxwell would return. Monique
would know how to fight off a furious Amazon. Jennifer Lopez or Penelope Cruz would be ready to kick some French ass. All Penny could think to do was turn her back and brace herself for the impending impact.

“Little mouse,” a voice said. The heavily accented voice, recognizable from so many films.

The sharp points of long fingernails clutched Penny’s shoulder and slowly pulled, turning her to face the speaker. Those impossibly soigné features were now distorted with hatred.

“Are you frightened, little mouse?” Alouette D’Ambrosia thrust her chin forward. “You should be very frightened. You are in grave danger.”

Penny tightened her grip on her glass of champagne. If push came to shove, she’d throw the sweet, sparkling wine in the actress’s eyes. Then run like heck.

“Whatever you do…,” Alouette said. As she wagged a long manicured finger in Penny’s face, she warned, “Do not sleep with Max. You must
never
have sex with Maxwell.”

The crowd was visibly disappointed as the film star turned away. As she slinked across the room people stepped aside. Before anyone spoke, she’d stridden into an elevator and disappeared.

It was clear to Penny that Alouette was wildly jealous. This French goddess was still very much in love. Penny laughed to herself. She, plain Penny Harrigan, was the envy of the world’s most enticing sex symbol. In another minute Maxwell was back and standing beside her. As usual, he was scrawling notes in his little book. He could be such a space cadet.

When Penny didn’t speak, he asked her, “Are you okay?”

She described the scene he’d missed. How Alouette had approached her. How the actress had threatened her.

A strange look crossed Maxwell’s bland face. It was something
Penny had never seen, anger mixed with another emotion. Possibly love. The warm wind tousled his blond hair.

Whatever it was, she couldn’t resist. Whether it was physical attraction or the prospect of enraging Alouette, Penny couldn’t resist the idea of sleeping with Max. She took his hand in hers. “Let’s not fly back tonight.” She brought the cold hand to her lips and kissed it, adding, “Let’s stay over and go back to New York in the morning.”

In bed, Maxwell’s touch was so exact it was almost clinical. The way he used his fingers, they were almost calipers, there only to measure her. Like a doctor or a scientist, his fingertips gripped her as if he was testing her blood pressure. Often he’d pause midcaress, lean over to reach the bedside table, and scribble a note in his mysterious, spidery shorthand.

That first night in Paris, Penny found herself slightly drunk, naked in his bed while he knelt between her spread legs.

The bedside table held a strange combination of objects. There were faceted crystal bottles, like perfume bottles, each holding a different vivid color of liquid. They looked like massive rubies, topaz, and emeralds. They reminded Penny of the huge sapphire she’d seen on the neck of Alouette D’Ambrosia. Among these colorful bottles were plain glass beakers and test tubes of the same sort Penny had always associated with high school chemistry classes. There was a small cardboard box, like for facial tissues, but it appeared to be full of latex gloves, and one sprouted from the top, ready for the plucking. One flask held an assortment of wrapped condoms. Maxwell’s notebook was tucked among these items. Of course it was. That notebook was almost an appendage. The final object Penny could identify
was a small digital recording device, something a busy executive might dictate his thoughts into. The nearest item was a bottle of champagne.

Maxwell was already erect, but he hardly seemed aware of his aroused state. Only inches away from Penny’s nakedness, he was leaning half off the bed. First he uncorked the bottle of champagne and poured some into a beaker. It fizzed pink. Pink champagne. He handed the beaker to Penny. Lifting the bottle, he made a toast: “To innovation and progress.” They each drank from their respective bubbly.

“Don’t guzzle all of it, my dear.” Maxwell snapped his fingers to indicate he wanted the beaker back. He poured in a smidgen more champagne and set the bottle aside. With great deliberation, he picked among the crystal flasks. From some he poured dribs and drabs of richly colored syrup into the beaker of pink wine. He paged forward and back in his notebook as if consulting a coded recipe.

As he worked intently, Maxwell mused, “People are so misguided. They will devote themselves to the study of everything except what is of most importance.” His lips curled into a wry grin. “I have studied the infinitely finer points of the sensual realm. I’ve learned from physicians and anatomists. I’ve dissected many cadavers, both male and female, to understand the mechanics of pleasure.”

Sloshing the beaker to thoroughly mix its contents, Maxwell gave Penny a frowning look and asked, “Have you ever enjoyed an orgasm?”

“Of course,” Penny answered quickly. Too quickly. It was a lie, and it sounded like a lie.

Maxwell smirked. He continued, “I’ve apprenticed myself to the world’s most accomplished sex experts.” There was no boasting in his words, just a determined resoluteness. “I’ve studied with tantric shamans in Morocco. I devoted myself to
mastering the kundalini energy. To understand the coefficient of friction between different types of skin, I consulted the world’s leading organic chemists.”

Penny let her eyes roam over his naked body. She knew from the
National Enquirer
that he was forty-nine years old. He was old enough to be her father, but his lean frame looked almost insectlike. Each limb was as defined and well proportioned as that of an ant or a hornet. His pale, hairless skin was as perfectly tailored as his clothing, without a wrinkle or sag visible. She searched his shoulders and hands for freckles or moles but found none. The way he talked about his sexual quest, she expected to find his nipples pierced. His torso busy with tattoos or the scars of consensual torture games. But there was no such evidence. This was a child’s pristine skin stretched to cover the musculature of a man’s body.

“My own secret recipe,” he said, offering the beaker for Penny to sniff. The wine, mixed with mysterious extras.

It bubbled less, but it still looked like pink champagne. It smelled sweetly delicious. Like strawberries. Penny peered doubtfully at the full beaker and said, “You want me to drink this?”

“Not exactly,” Maxwell said. From a drawer in the table he produced something that looked like a squeeze toy. It was an ovoid ball made of soft red rubber, roughly the size of a grapefruit. One end of the ball sprouted a long, white nozzle of some sort. “A vaginal syringe,” Maxwell said, holding it up for her inspection. He demonstrated how the nozzle unscrewed from the ball, revealing a threaded hole in the rubber. Into this hole he poured the pink champagne concoction. As he screwed the nozzle back into place, Penny realized what he had in mind.

“It’s a douche?” she asked nervously.

Max nodded.

Penny squirmed uneasily. “You don’t think I’m clean?”

Maxwell stretched his hands into latex gloves, saying, “You don’t want to get this stuff on your skin.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. Wasn’t he planning to squirt this pink stuff inside of her?

“Don’t worry.” He chuckled softly. “It’s just a very mild neural stimulant and euphoric. You’ll love it.” He rubbed the thin nozzle between her legs.

The nozzle slipped deep into her. “Enjoy yourself,” he said, and began to compress the rubber ball. The syringe.

Penny could feel the cold, effervescent bubbly filling her.

With his free hand, Maxwell held her in place, stroking her belly in slow circles. His entire body was as chilled and hard as his fingers.

When the bulb was empty Maxwell withdrew it. He used a soft, clean towel to wipe away the pink trickle that escaped her. “Good girl,” he told her. “Just hold it inside for a minute.” He was biting the plastic wrapper off a condom and rolling it down his erection. “You’re doing very well.”

Penny tried not to imagine dignified President Hind subjecting herself to a similar magic champagne cleansing.

Still kneeling between her spread knees, he said, “I love you because you’re so average.”

If that was a compliment, Penny had heard better.

“Please don’t be hurt,” he said softly. “Look at yourself. You have a textbook vagina. Your labia majora are exactly symmetrical. Your perianal ridge is magnificent. Your frenulum clitoridis and fourchette …” He seemed at a loss for words, pressing a hand to his heart and sighing deeply. “Biologically speaking, men treasure such uniformity. The proportions of your genitalia are ideal.”

Under his gaze, Penny felt less like a woman than like a science experiment. A guinea pig or laboratory rat.

It didn’t help that Maxwell added, “Women in your age
group and economic stratum are the target consumers for most of the world’s manufactured goods.”

Something, perhaps the douche, made Penny’s teeth feel as if they were dissolving in her mouth. The bones in her legs were melting.

“This will heighten your amusement.” He spread his knees, forcing her legs farther apart. His erection reared over her, already sleeved in one condom. Rolling a second condom over the first, Maxwell spoke idly.

As he spoke, he again eyed the array of sparkling bottles on the bedside table. Selecting one, he put a few drops of something clear into the palm of his hand. To this he added a few drops from a second and third bottle. “The pH of your skin is slightly acid. I’m mixing exactly the right lubricant for your erotic needs.”

He slowly wiped the oily handful around her vulva, careful not to dip his fingers too far inside. The last of it he spread on his erect sex organ.

Penny giggled, limp as a rag doll.

From the table he plucked something. It was the mini digital recorder. Pressing a button, he said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to record our session for my research.” A tiny red light glowed on the device. Dictating into it, Maxwell said, “Based on the test subject’s somewhat
playful
behavior, it’s safe to say the vaginal wash is having its full effect.”

And now he mounted her, thrusting his hardness against the pressure of the fluid. He was driving it higher into her. Stirring and churning the mixture.