Bad People

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Griff crouched low on the balls of his feet and rocked side to side. A single, clear bead rolled off his chin and darkened the scuffed, brick-red surface between his shoes. He looked up. With a loud pop, a ball spun quickly in his direction and dove sharply toward the ground in front of him. One jab step and an upward swing of his powerful left arm caught the fuzzy sphere at the height of its bounce and sent it screaming past the reach of a grunting, white-clad opponent. “Nice shot, Griff.” Olivia winked at her partner as she backpedaled to the baseline to receive serve. “Haven’t played in a while, huh?” “When was the last time Nick strung this thing?” he grumbled, ignoring the compliment. He knitted his brow and bounced the racquet strings on the heel of his hand. “Sucker plays like mush.” “Love-fifteen,” pronounced a smug, cultivated voice across the net. “Enjoy it while it lasts.” “Eat shit,” muttered Griff while toeing the chalk on the service line. “What’s that you say?” called Brock. “Just tell your girlfriend to hit the ball.” “Easy, Gri-iff.” Olivia sang quietly. “Remember Ni-ick…” Michael Griffin didn’t belong here. He didn’t want to belong here. He had crossed the gold plated threshold of the oldest and stuffiest yacht club in Connecticut only as a favor to his best friend. A combination of essential loyalty and a guilt trip born of an obscure drinking episode compelled him to agree to the match. Grudgingly. “Yeah,” Griff repeated to himself sourly. “Remember Nick.” He thought about the naked girl he’d left in his bed that morning, the effervescent coed waiting tables at the beach for the summer. He’d awoken to her face nuzzling his neck and his fingers resting over the warm, moist crack of her ass. She caressed the round muscle of his shoulder while her lazy tongue tasted him between kisses on the chin and throat. She was way ahead of him, nipples poking his skin, crotch grinding on his thigh. The fog of slumber lifted slowly. He inhaled deeply and twisted his hips and shoulders in an elaborate stretch, smiling at the spray of electric blue hair unfurled gaily across his chest. He probed between smooth cheeks and found his way to the slippery heat of her sex. She lifted a knee. With a throaty groan, he pulled her higher and they kissed, wet and noisy. Her breath carried the stale scent of sleep and on her lips lingered the unmistakable taste of pussy. The hostess, he remembered. He tried to look around, still locked to her mouth. She bit his lip, jolting him out of his drowse. She left, silly. Concentrate on me. A wiggled tail drew his fingers more deeply into her. She steadily brushed his hard nipple with her thumb and he felt his cock begin to straighten and rise. Please put it in me now, she whispered. That’s what I left, he thought, for… for what exactly? For my friend, he answered. For my fucking friend. Brock’s partner let loose her serve to Olivia’s backhand. She set her feet, turned her shoulders and, with picture perfect form, sent her return directly into the net. Griff bit his lip. “Hmmmgh… fifteen all, people!” announced the smarmy voice that, to Griff’s ear, was growing increasingly effeminate as the match wore on. “Sorry, Griff.” “No problem, babe.” Olivia was seventeen when Nick brought Griff home to meet his family. Seven years later, bouncing around on the Har-Tru surface in a white dress that flared over her tanned thighs, she looked good enough to eat. That would never happen, he thought, turning around to see her lips tense and eyes narrow in concentration. She was Nick’s sister and that was that. The match had been arranged more than a month earlier. Nick was to have teamed up with his sister to have a friendly go at Brock and his fiancée, Sloan. He worked in the trust division of a Wall Street bank and had been cultivating the well-connected lawyer as a source of business for more than a year. The Lathams had been members of the club for generations and it was one of the rare venues that could impress the notoriously haughty Mr. Brock Rogers-St. John. That was before Nick announced that he had injured his shoulder in a bicycle accident. And that’s where Griff came into the picture. Griff looked up at the veranda. Three sets of enormous blades turned slowly above linen covered café tables. The edges of cocktail napkins fluttered, held in place by tumblers scored with icy trails of water. Seated in a wicker rocking chair, Nick hoisted his Long Island iced tea in silent salute to his friend. Griff hardened the corner of his mouth and shot Nick a lethal look. If there was one thing Griff hated more than a polite game of tennis it was losing a polite game of tennis. He tried to remember the last time he had played. It might have been two years earlier when Nick had dragged him out for a weekend bacchanalia at some transitory girlfriend’s place in the Hamptons. He was pretty sure that was the last time he had seen his racquet at any rate. He had picked up the game in the teeming playgrounds of lower Manhattan where the Recreation Department lent prehistoric metal racquets to anyone who could produce a New York City school ID in lieu of a deposit. By the time he was thirteen he was making pin money by hustling paunch bellied accountants and off duty cops for five dollars a set on the public courts. “SET!” Brock bleated fifteen minutes later as Griff’s forehand missed long. The pairs stopped to towel off and take some water as they switched sides. “I really expected more of a match,” Brock chuckled at Griff. He lowered his voice before glancing in Olivia’s direction. “Better pick up your game if you hope to get a sniff of what lays beneath Miss Latham’s damp little tennis whites.” Griff could handle the thinly veiled condescension that had issued from Brock’s lips all afternoon and he couldn’t care less that he was dismissed as irrelevant by the patrician asshole. He was even amused by the lawyer’s vainglorious prattle about prep school tennis championships. However, the ugly remark about Olivia was a casus belli. He planted five iron fingers wide on Brock’s chest and stopped him dead in his tracks. “You wanna run that by me again?” The color drained from Brock’s face. He swallowed hard with a forced smile pasted on his lips. “I… ah…” “Oh Brock doesn’t mean anything by it, Mr. Griffin.” It was Sloan’s syrupy Charleston drawl. Her fingers lightly touched the arm that prevented her fiancé from passing. “He has the most scandalous sense of humor.” Tea green eyes cast a dazzling essence of light that distracted Griff. Her hand lingered momentarily before she smiled shyly and removed it from the knotted bicep. He allowed his gaze to fall over the swells beneath her featherweight top and the slinky curve of her thighs before removing his hand from her man. She pushed her short blonde hair off her brow and pinched her lower lip between her teeth before following her shaken fiance onto the court. ***** Sloan studied the stranger talking quietly to Olivia on the other side of the net. All she knew about the stand-in was that he had apparently achieved some measure of celebrity as a college basketball Tunalı escort player. He had improbably befriended the incurably scrawny and devotedly un-athletic Nick during their undergraduate days. He was a specimen; that much was obvious. A complex network of lean muscle was visible beneath the microfiber shirt that clung to his sweat dampened core. His quadriceps nearly burst the seams of his shorts each time he bent a knee extending for a ball. Olivia giggled at something Griff had said. Sloan idly wondered if Brock had stumbled upon something with his crude remark. Could there be something physical between the Latham girl and him? She scolded herself for the misplaced hint of envy. She coolly told herself to calm down. What she felt, the rapid heartbeat and the tingle between her legs, was simply a biological reaction. The way Griff had looked at her, his obvious sexual interest, affected her the way nature had intended, nothing more. She had to admit he would make a desirable mate physically. His dark, intelligent eyes and noble jaw line complemented a body built for speed and power. And what woman could resist wondering how much meat swung between those long, muscled thighs? She’d only engaged in casual intercourse on a handful of occasions. Of course, that was over now. Still, she would have enjoyed breaking this one in, she mused, never having bedded an unqualified stud. Sloan knew how to control men. He would be taught how to please her and would yield his exceptional body to her will. She imagined straddling his narrow hips, leaning back on her hands and grinding on his large erection. “New balls.” Brock held up an optic yellow sphere as he prepared to serve. But this is not the jungle, Sloan thought. While Brock may have lacked certain physical qualities, he possessed the raw material Sloan needed to shape her future. He was bright, articulate, and perfectly willing to push aside anyone in his way. The Rogers-St. Johns were the Brahmin of the legal universe, having begotten prominent jurists, scholars, and statesmen since the dawn of the republic. His future was promising. However, Brock needed a guiding hand, someone who could see three moves ahead without the opaque veil of emotion. Her family, with interests in tobacco and shipping, wielded significant power of its own. Together, she had concluded, they would get to the statehouse and beyond. “Concentration, Sloan.” Brock tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at her as Olivia’s return skipped between them. “That was your ball.” “Right. Sorry.” Sloan watched Griff move over the court effortlessly. She and Brock were winning the match but something was off. Griff was always coiled and poised for a ground stroke well ahead of even their best placed balls. When he lost a point, which he did at precise intervals, he was consistently a foot long or wide. The match continued in predictable fashion. Their opponents played with enough skill to win, yet steadily fell behind. Brock was delighted, Sloan could see, no doubt already fashioning the story he would tell about how he had bested the all-conference star. She grew uncomfortable as he discarded his false bonhomie in favor of more biting commentary when victory appeared inevitable. Stepping up to handle a short return, Brock fired an overhead volley directly off Olivia’s right arm. “Game. That makes it five-two,” he announced perfunctorily, tapping an extra ball over the net. “Your serve.” “BROCK!!!” “Sloan?” “The fuck was that, dude?” Griff glared across the net, holding Olivia’s wounded wing in his hands. Sloan could see the ugly, scarlet mark below her elbow begin to swell. “S’okay, it’s just a bruise, guys,” Olivia haltingly assured them. “I’ll get some ice on it when we finish.” “It’s called tennis… dude,” Brock replied with a snarl. “And watch your language here. You’re not at home, wherever that is.” “That’s how you like to play? Unload on a girl fifteen feet away from you?” Griff moved toward the net as Olivia tugged on his arm. “Brock, I think you should apologize to Olivia,” said Sloan steadily, lifting her eyes toward the concerned, wrinkled faces on the veranda. “It was just a missed shot, right? Tell her.” “Oh come off it! She said she’s fine,” he barked. “Besides, Olivia understands. Don’t you, dear? She comes from the kind of family that knows what it takes to win. Look around this place.” Griff stood at the net with his arms crossed, listening to the exchange. He raised his eyebrows in mock enlightenment and plastered a surprised expression on his face. “Ohhhhhhhh… winning!” he exclaimed. “That’s what you’ve been doing for the last hour?” He picked up his racquet and walked to the baseline. “My serve, right?” “Griff…” Olivia pleaded. “Forget it. I’m fine, really.” Griff flicked his left wrist, sending the racquet spinning into the air in front of him. It rotated in a blur before the handle landed securely in his right mitt. His eyes never left Brock. “You know, my left elbow is flaring up again,” he explained. “I’ll just have to get by with my right hand.” He tossed a ball high in the air, bent his knees, and unleashed a leaping serve that sizzled past Brock before he could react. The ball didn’t pop; it sounded like the report of a firearm on contact. Couples on nearby courts stopped to watch. Sloan suppressed a smile as she waved at a second service ace. So the son-of-a-bitch was playing with his off hand all this time, she marveled. She and Brock fared no better when it was again their turn to serve. She watched her increasingly desperate partner flail and lurch as if he were set upon by angry bees. He winced as Griff’s murderous ground strokes continued to zero in on him. Part of her enjoyed seeing Brock get his comeuppance. It might actually do him some good, she thought. This was the man she would spend the rest of her life with and she was strongly attracted to his unfailing confidence, his unfaltering belief in his superiority. Still, she thought there was a valuable lesson to be learned here. Do not underestimate your enemies. The set was tied in short order, five-five. Brock’s chest was heaving and the seat of his tennis whites was covered with red clay dust. “Why don’t we make this the final game, boys and girls?” It was Nick, standing courtside. He shifted nervously in his Tattersall vest and brown linen slacks. “Since Sloan and Brock won the first set, they’ll win the match if they take this one. Otherwise, it’s a tie. What do you say?” The competitors looked around at each other silently. “C’mon, there’s a bartender in the clubhouse who’s just dying to meet you.” “Of course, Nick,” replied Sloan, impatient at Brock’s hesitation. “That sounds like a marvelous idea.” As the players moved back to their places, Sloan turned to look at Griff. He had fixed Nick with a sideways look and one raised eyebrow. She saw Nick glance at her fiancé, who was busy wiping off a round, rust colored mark in the middle of his chest, and then back at Griff. He winked and walked away. She understood. The game would be over in a matter of minutes. Griff ulus escort bayan had his friend’s permission to complete Brock’s thrashing. Far from being upset, Sloan appreciated the stratagem. Nick had enlisted the star athlete to feed Brock’s ego by losing to him in heroic fashion. She was certain now that the so-called bicycle injury had never occurred. If Brock hadn’t lost his composure he would have been savoring his fraudulent, two-set victory at that very moment. Sloan didn’t mind the deception; not at all. Nor did she concern herself with the thumping her intended had been forced to endure. Served him right for his stupidity, she thought. What disappointed her was Nick’s failure to see his plan all the way through. He had allowed useless sentimentality, his brotherly instinct in this case, to keep him from accomplishing his goal. It was yet another sign of male weakness as far as she was concerned. Brock bounced a ball three times and blew out a long preparatory breath. Across the net Griff was coiled low, shifting his weight from side to side. White teeth illuminated his broad, tanned face. “C’mon, Princess, haven’t got all day.” ***** Griff sunk his hands deep into the pockets of his neatly pressed khakis and felt the price tag he had removed from his navy blazer just minutes before. The collar of his broadcloth shirt felt like a noose. How do people wear these things all day? He wondered. He took in the vast space that contained the bar. To him, it wasn’t a room so much as it was a cathedral built to worship the excesses of the idle rich. The soaring ceiling, some thirty feet above his head, featured a celestial stained glass fresco of two-masted transoceanic racers flying upon stormy seas. The walls were covered with scale models of sailboat hulls climbing from the inlaid oak floors to the sculptured, Beaux-Arts moldings and arches overhead. His party was standing among a grouping of sofas and wingback chairs in front of a carved sandstone fireplace. Still damp from the shower, he tucked his sandy blonde hair behind his ears and set out across an ocean of Tabriz and Kashan. “Griff!” Olivia threw her arms around his neck and pulled herself high on the toes of her gladiator sandals. “Mmmm… you look so handsome dressed up this way. Smell nice, too.” “Whoa… easy Liv.” He felt the crush of her soft breasts through the cotton dress. Not knowing where to place his hands, he looked at Nick who smiled and rolled his eyes. Griff refused to acknowledge the nascent surge in his loins while the young, fresh body pressed tightly against him. Settling on her hips as a safe haven, he gently created space between them and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Aren’t you two adorable?” Sloan liquidly approached them, champagne glass in hand. “How long have you been together?” “We’re not.” Griff wrapped his arm around Olivia’s shoulder and she settled at his side. “Liv’s too smart to get mixed up with me.” “We’re not together yet.” Olivia’s smiling eyes twinkled up at him. “One day I’ll get my daddy to give him a sinfully extravagant dowry and he’ll just have to marry me.” “It’s true.” Nick approached the trio with scotch in hand, trailed by a sullen Brock. “We think he’s been holding out for the place in Vail.” “Vail?” Brock weighed in, his voice dripping with boredom. His eyes wearily played over Griff’s outfit. “Does he even own a pair of skis?” Griff beheld the resplendent Mr. Rogers-St. John. He was bedecked in a burgundy striped regatta blazer over a starched white shirt and white gabardine trousers. His bow tie was an alarming collaboration of maroon and pink. Griff initially mistook white wingtips on his feet for golf shoes. “Hey,” Griff lifted his chin at Brock. “How ya doin’ Gatsby?” Nick cleared his throat loudly and threw Griff a look that all but begged him to lay off the wisecracks. “Let’s all have a seat.” He waved his arm over the upholstered leather furniture. “It’ll be a few minutes before our table is ready.” “Please tell us, Mr. Griffin, what it is you do,” Sloan inquired, finding her fiancé’s hand as she settled next to him on the sofa. Her eyes were wide with interest. “Nick has been so mysterious concerning your appearance today. Are you in banking as well? ” Griff looked back at Sloan. Poison, he thought. She was the apple Adam had pulled from that tree, dooming us all. Shimmering, straight blonde hair suggestively fell over the corner of one eye. Her mouth was perfect, like a remembered kiss. Her pale frosted lips were slightly parted, anticipating a smile. He had observed her carefully all day. She played her part almost flawlessly, the winsome second fiddle to her virtuoso hero. Yet her bearing betrayed her; she couldn’t hide the aristocratic carriage and the discreet air of superiority. He saw it in the eyes that flashed at Brock, and the unheard utterances spoken into her hand with her head bent toward him. She possessed the most dangerous sort of ambition, he thought, the kind no one else could see. “Banking? No, I give blood, mainly,” he replied. “I also volunteer for clinical trials. You know, to test out new medicines, devices… that sort of thing. The money isn’t bad.” Nick choked on his single malt and coughed into his fist. “Stop… stop it,” he sputtered before chuckling. “Jesus H., Griff! Don’t listen to him Sloan. He makes a respectable living despite the occasional lack of civility.” “Griff builds and restores custom wood boats,” chimed a beaming Olivia. “What he can do with his hands… it’s amazing.” Sloan raised one eyebrow. “Oh, a tradesman! Well that’s just splendid, isn’t it?” Brock perked up, delighted at the news. “We’ll have to get you over to the Southampton place, right dear? It’s positively falling apart. We desperately need a sturdy handyman who doesn’t mind getting dirt under his fingernails.” Griff smiled and thanked the waiter for delivering his pint. “Griff isn’t a handyman, Brock.” Olivia put her beer down and frowned. “He’s a craftsman… an artist.” “It’s outrageous what’s going on out there these days.” Brock was addressing Nick now, ignoring Olivia’s objection. “The bloody contractors are driving around in Audis now. It’s as if they… well, as long as we don’t run into them on the first tee some day, eh?” “Oh I don’t know, Brock, I don’t have a problem with…” Griff tilted the glass of amber liquid to his lips and raised his eyes to Sloan. She nakedly returned his gaze as the others carried on. ***** Sloan stepped out of the chart room and onto the covered porch, the breeze off the sound pulling diaphanous white curtains behind her. Dusk had begun to thicken into night and a faint carpet of grey spread across the wide lawn that ran to the water’s edge. She and Brock were weekend guests at the old Latham estate, the place Nick and Olivia had summered as children. The elder Lathams had left on a three month Mediterranean tour. Old money, she thought; the best kind. She had left Brock upstairs with a cold, wet cloth over his eyes, having changed into something more comfortable than the ridiculous costume he had worn to dinner. She Escort yenimahalle made a mental note to start paying more attention to his wardrobe. It had been a difficult day for him, she thought. After the humiliation of tennis, he was by turns morose and belligerent. He had made a perfect ass of himself repeatedly trying to wound Nick’s friend. She’d had to step in to put an end to it. Worst of all was the demeanor of that boat builder, she recalled. He had treated Brock, his better, with an air of amused indifference, hardly making the effort to respond to him. She grudgingly admired his easy confidence. His speech, his laughter, his movements… it all seemed so unforced. But, as far as Sloan was concerned, his eyes moved over her altogether too freely whenever she spoke. It had bordered on inappropriate. She walked to the end of the porch and leaned on the railing. She pictured the way his muscles flexed when he moved over the court and the trails of sweat that ran through the sun bleached hair of his arms and legs. She kicked herself for feeling turned on by his brief flashes of attention. When Griff locked on her with those dreamy brown eyes, she knew he wasn’t interested in her conversation. He wanted to strip her naked, bend her over that beautifully set table, and thoroughly fuck her in front of Brock, their hosts, and the fully assembled membership of Clear Harbor Yacht and Tennis. The vivid image produced a flutter in the pit of her stomach and a warm release between her legs. Sloan smiled, knowing what her big sister would say to all these thoughts. Sloan, you need a proper rogering. “Hi Sloan.” “OH!” She jumped, wondering for an instant whether she had spoken her thoughts aloud. Griff stepped out of the dappled, evening shadow of a lilac tree and laughed good-naturedly. He had changed clothes. The tails of a lightweight flannel shirt hung outside his blue jeans. “Sloan, I’m sorry… really. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He lifted his thumb in the direction of a pebbled path. “I was just going for a walk. I’ll leave you alone… or…you’re welcome tooo… join me?” ***** Olivia said goodnight to her boyfriend and tossed her phone on the bed, distracted by what she had just seen from her second story window. Griff had disappeared down the boathouse path with that royal bitch. What in hell? She asked herself. Sloan and that creepy boyfriend of hers had spent the entire day treating Griff like a servant who didn’t know his place. She was furious with her brother for having anything to do with them. It was a good thing Griff knew how to handle himself. He had avoided an ugly scene while managing to keep his dignity intact. Why in the world would he even talk to her? She walked to her closet and slipped the straps of her dress off her shoulders. She smiled inside as she stepped out of the crisp pile of cotton bunched around her feet, recalling the way Griff had defended her. No one had ever done that before. She curled one corner of her mouth and shook her head, thinking Brock was lucky it had happened at the club. Had they been anywhere else, she was sure Griff would have shoved a racquet up his ass. Olivia stretched out on her bed in her panties and folded her hands behind her head. She reminisced about the summers Nick invited Griff to the old homestead. He was possibly the worst sailor she had ever seen but the three of them had riotous times together out on the sound. Damp, salty air drifted through her window and she could almost hear the heavy rustle of sails as the wind snapped them tight. She thought about a time the two of them had taken out the Sunfish, blinding licks of sunlight glancing off the water. Griff used to make a game out of capsizing the fourteen-footer. He was three years older than she but acted like a big kid. She loved the fact that he dropped his tough guy act and let down his guard when they were together. On their way back in, Griff turned with the wind and the two of them tumbled overboard on top of one another. They popped to the surface gasping and laughing. She held his wide shoulders and wrapped her legs around his thighs while he tried to keep them both afloat. His lips looked so kissable and, for a moment, she thought he might finally do it. That’s when she felt it, a hard bulge pressed against her crotch. It so took her by surprise that its meaning hadn’t immediately registered. By the time she realized that that their genitals were separated by microscopic layers of nylon, Griff had pulled away, quickly dunking her to cover his embarrassment. They righted the little craft and sailed home, making uncomfortable small talk along the way. Olivia couldn’t get it out of her head. By the time she reached her bedroom she was in a joyful panic. Griff had an erection, a big one! Because of me! ME! She wanted to call her best friend and tell her the news. She’d had a crush on him from the very first time she saw him and a knot formed in her stomach whenever she heard his name. Yet, until this day, he had shown no sign that he thought of her like… like that. From across the hall came a squeak of turning handles and the familiar hiss of the shower. Griff’s room was part of a Jack and Jill suite with a shared bath. Before she knew what she was doing, Olivia’s feet carried her into the unused guest room. The musty smell of stale linens filled the darkened room, gold-threaded brocade blocking the soft afternoon sun. A ribbon of light angled across the floor and illuminated a narrow slice of vapor tumbling slowly in the air past a partially open door. She stood in shadows and peered through the four inch gap. She drew her breath so sharply she was sure he must have heard. Griff was completely naked, leaning over the tub with his hand testing the cascading water. Even now, lying on her bed with a wet finger teasing her nipple, she could recall every detail. The roundness of his buttocks and weighty suppleness of his penis were in such stark contrast to the sectioned sinew of his athletic frame. His fluffy pubic hair, which began as a trickle from his belly button, matched perfectly the light brown spray across his chest. She had never seen a cock before that day, not in the flesh. His cock. God, his cock. It draped across the two fat ovals that bulged in his dangling sac and swung below them. Her mouth watered at the memory of the meaty shaft adorned with plump veins and a faintly darkened ring. It was turned ever so slightly to one side and it jiggled as he stepped inside the curtain. She pictured the flared, pink head with its curled ridge and ached to feel its texture and shape on her tongue. Olivia lifted her bottom and pushed her panties down to her thighs. She wondered if his beautiful organ would grow even longer when it became aroused… aroused by her. She massaged her outer folds while she imagined how thick it might become. He would smile down at her with his sleepy eyes and tell her it was okay, looking cute and nervous. He’d allow her to see all of him, to play with him, fully erect; no secrets any longer. I’m yours, he’d say. Her fingers moved in a circle over her clit. He would be too big at first. I won’t hurt you, he’d promise. I’ll never hurt you. The stiff penis would glide into her slowly, deeply, taking her breath away. His heat and muscle would become a part of her. Olivia pulled off the panties, pressed her soles together, and spread her knees wide.

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