Erica The Edited Pt. 01

On the bed, inside her, Sam found his thoughts turning to Erica, not out of concern, more from curiosity. She'd kicked him out of the house. He could go back anytime, technically; he owned half. It's just she'd seemed more pissed than usual.

So he liked to dip his wick once in awhile, what did she expect? He was a man and the college was swarming with hot coeds like this one. Nothing wrong with jumping a few bones, so long as it was out of sight.

So maybe he had one indiscretion too many, but was that an excuse to kick him out? She was tolerant before, but now . . . "Something's changed." Ah well, "Wait 'til she cools off, then we can discuss the house. Meanwhile . . ." He had this slut to keep him warm. The banging continued.

In another part of the city, at roughly the same time Sam Garrett was catching a case of chlamydia from a somewhat incautious college student, Henry Collins, current CEO of Coverton Technologies, adjourned the quarterly meeting scheduled for that day.

George Riley was there, mostly as an observer, part of his public relations training. "Ordinarily it would have been Erica," Collins sighed with a tinge of regret. "Yes," he acknowledged, "We fucked her."

John Weston, the former public affairs head, had sung his praises of Erica for years. It was easy to see why. Erica was smart, talented, beautiful, and ambitious. John lost count of all the public relations fires she put out with her quick thinking and innovative tactics.

The rumors of Erica's sleeping up the ladder were bullshit, George knew. It was the corporate culture. Some of the bull came from execs getting back at her for having the nerve to practice sexual integrity, (.i.e. not sleeping with them). Others came from the Martha Bennings and their variations trying to undermine and claw past her to the next tier. "Jealousy and corporate politics," Henry snorted.

It was the latter, plus a touch of old boy, that fucked Erica more than anything. "But what could I do?" Henry asked himself.

George was the son of Frank Riley, his pledged frat brother from college. They'd gone through hell (week) together, and Frank was assistant Secretary of Commerce for Asian trade, a potential foothold into China.

Moreover, Martha Benning, for all her so-called Christian generosity, was actually a paranoid hypocrite, a borderline personality, and fiercely protective of her position. Any other woman was a potential rival and, therefore, a threat to be crushed. She was also very, very good at her job.

Still, it was obvious to Henry the company most likely lost Erica, a regrettable development. The difference between Erica and George was the difference between a rose and the manure that fed it.

Erica would take down copious and thorough notes at the board meetings. She'd ask pointed questions, challenge and develop strategies with board members, make brilliant suggestions that were sometimes adopted.

George doodled, stayed mute, displayed more interest in the hot stenographer, and gaped like an aquarium fish when Henry asked for his input.

"We should have handled Erica better. Maybe given her a better paying position in another department, at least." Henry felt like they'd traded a prize horse for a jackass because the owner had potential access to a herd of stallions. "Yep, we definitely fucked her. Maybe we can clean this up when she comes back . . . if she comes back."

And while these two men contemplated how, in their own way, they'd fucked Erica Sellenos, the well-oiled and nude subject of their thoughts was laying on a beach blanket in Mexico, moaning, licking, and alternately biting her lower lip, as she watched a man she never knew existed just an hour ago, slide his thick, wet, throbbing cock into her oiled and wet pussy.

He made not a sound as he did so. That triumphant, mischievous smile was still on his face. Erica, who in other circumstances would find that look annoying, didn't care. His flesh inside her, his skin against her body, was what mattered. She wanted him more than any man she'd ever known. Her ex-boyfriend was less than an afterthought compared to this man. Erica's overwhelming lust would unsettle and confuse her, ordinarily, but her questions were drowned under a flood of thoughts, waves washing back and forth, "You want to fuck me. I want to fuck him. You want to fuck me. I want to fuck him . . ."

Her hands were on his shoulders, her legs, wrapped around his waist. The lovers' bodies gleamed; his with sweat, hers with oil, and while his muscles were tense, her muscles quivered from belly to pelvis, as she drew him in.

His touch, his skin, his cock against her moist walls were sensations she never before felt with such intensity. She felt new to this sex, almost virginal. The man had only just started.

Their groins merged together, hairless and moist. He was warm down there, his heat blended with hers. He hesitated, taking in the pleasure of her flesh wrapped around his own. Then he pumped her.

He thrust in and out. His hips, his ass, clenched and flexed. He made no sound; most of the sounds came from Erica. "Ughn! . . . Ugh! . . . Mmmm! . . . Uck! . . ." soft grunts and sighs with each thrust of his cock.

Other sounds, the whisper of the breeze through the palms, the soft rush of the surf, the occasional call of a seagull, natural sounds harmonized with the carnal notes of the lovers; the smack of his body against hers, the rustle of the beach towel, and the soft gasps and sighs.

The man's body, its details, etched into Erica's memory. The soft, quiet way his muscles moved under her arms, the piston force of his cock, sinking to the hilt, withdrawing, slick with her juices a second later, thrusting again, slamming his balls against her skin.

Her own body moved in sync with him. She was boneless with rippling torso and quaking breasts. Her hands flowed over the muscles of the man's back. He was as hard and firm as his cock plowing her flower. His groin made light "Smacks!" as it pounded against hers.

She wrapped her legs tighter and drew him further to her body. She wanted to feel as much of him against her skin, feel his muscles, as possible.

A deep part of herself was confused by this need. She'd never felt this overwhelming lust, not for anyone; not for her ex-boyfriend or the ones before him, nor the boy bands of her youth. This compulsion for the stranger felt surreal, so outside of her own actions, yet so much a part of herself, as if she'd always known him.

Every time a fading part of her mind tried to question her uncommon attraction, a thought, at once intrusive and alien, seeming to emanate from herself would say, almost command, "Don't question. Go with it. Accept it. Fuck me. Fuck every part of me. Let me fuck every part of you. Do not resist. You're mine. Do everything I say." And she let him, without any other thought.

He pumped, she grunted. Sometimes she would bury her head in his shoulder and suck the sweat. Other moments would see her lean back and ululate a soft moan. The orgasm between the two was simultaneous, intense, and inevitable. She knew it was coming.

Only a day before, in another life, she would be shocked by her actions. She made her former boyfriends either pull out or wear condoms. Here, with this man, she hugged him tighter, wanting to feel him cum, wanting to feel his seed. Liquid heat flooded her womb, reciprocated by her cum soaking his groin. The lovers quivered as one. No sound, except a grunt or two, passed between them.

They stopped for a moment, locked together, gasping. Erica's face bore a look of wonder. No one before made her cum this hard, certainly not her ex. Moreover, the man was still hard and inside her; most others would have deflated and withdrawn. "They may have been good but I'm the best." Did he say something? No. He was panting too, but his look was of triumph and mischief. "Why did I think that?"

Erica wasn't inclined to give points or praise to her partners for sexual prowess, reluctant to feed their male egos, but she also recognized good sex when it happened, and this man was beyond good, and yet . . . She never knew this man existed just over an hour ago, and within a half hour of meeting him, he was fucking her brains out.

Things were moving so fast, she barely had time to think. "Don't think. Go with it." Once again, a random thought, seemingly from somewhere else, appeared in her head. "Who-are-you?" she asked haltingly.

"Doesn't matter now. Later, maybe. Let's fuck."

He answered her, didn't he? She couldn't remember seeing his lips move. A few seconds later, it didn't matter. He pumped her with greater intensity than before. Her response equaled him. This time her moans were loader; her grunts more energetic.

Her arms and legs wrapped tight around him, as if she wanted to merge into his body, and a part of her did want that merging. Her grunts rose to screams of ecstasy each time she climaxed. Her orgasms came with greater frequency, and lasted longer each time.

The man played her, body and mind, as a fine instrument, composing a concerto of sex and dominance. He was inside her body physically and psychically, flooding her womb with his seed and her mind with his command.

She bit his skin, the ear or shoulder, she didn't know, not enough to draw blood, tasting his sweat, tasting him, if only to confirm the reality of his presence.

He finished, ultimately, maybe from exhaustion himself, holding her quivering body for several minutes. She gazed at him, no longer aware of where she ended and he began.

"Wow," he smiled, "That was a good fuck."

She couldn't say anything. Every time she tried to think, his presence overwhelmed everything.

"I think I used too much, sorry. I get carried away sometimes. Better tone it down. I don't want to break you."

The Erica of an hour ago might wonder what he was talking about. An hour ago, he would not make any sense. An hour ago, Erica was another woman. It mattered not what he said now. At that moment, on the beach, HE was her world. It was not love, just simple fact.

The couple unclenched. He slid out of her and stood, his cock hanging and wet. She lay propped on her elbows, skin gleaming with sweat and oil; her pussy wet and leaking his cum and hers. Her shocked mouth and her eyes wide with wonder at this . . . man.

He smiled his puckish, superior face. "Get up"

Erica got up.

"Follow me."

Erica swayed some. The intense fuck left her weak and unsteady. "Damn! No one's ever done that to me before."

"There's always a first time," he said, or so she thought.

"Did I just say that out loud?" she asked.

"No you didn't; neither did I. Now let's go to the ocean."

Erica didn't question her present circumstance. She simply accepted it. That, in itself, should disturb her, but she couldn't even question her acceptance either. Something caused her to treat the strangeness and improbability of the moment as normal. She didn't question following this stranger into the water, after he'd fucked her to within an inch of her life. Questions bubbling up with her brain were immediately erased.

They waded waist deep to wash the sweat and cum from their bodies. His hands roamed over her, across her shoulders, over her breasts, and down her back, tracing the curve of her spine. She reciprocated with similar roaming hands.

They drew each other close and kissed, touching tongues, standing in the water, flesh pressed from groin to breasts. "Who are you?" she murmured, asking the same question into his mouth. "Please tell me."

"You'll find out later." She didn't remember if his lips moved.

Erica wondered, standing in the water, with his overwhelming presence, was she dreaming? Hallucinating? Was this man magic? "Sort of." That strange thought echo again.

"Well," the man said. "Much as I'd like to fuck you in the ocean, I'd rather do it inside. So let's go."

The old Erica would ask, "Go where?" with some degree of annoyance and no small indignation. Erica now, didn't question; she simply followed, without resistance, or stiffly like a robot. Her strides were casual, walking out of the ocean, as one would on a beautiful summer day at the beach.

If she manifested any hint of uncertainty, it was through a brief glance towards her bikini, laying with the crumpled towel and discarded bottles of lemonade and suntan oil.

"Forget those," the man said. "In fact, you can forget about wearing anything for awhile . . . or at least until I say you can."

She didn't question, he was in control. "Okay," she responded in acknowledgment.

They walked, together, to the strange house. "We're going there? Why? Don't worry about it." That thought echo again.

The door did not have a handle, or a window, or so it seemed. Erica thought it strange, two naked trespassers, outside an extremely modern and obviously expensive house. "Um, I don't think we should be here," she whispered. She tried looking in the window next to the door but the reflective glass obscured the interior. A "click" sounded next to her. Somehow the man had opened the door. "How did you . . .?"

"Just a little magic," the man chuckled. "Well, let's go in."

"But . . . Don't worry about it. Come in. I guess there's nothing wrong if they don't know."

The house's interior reflected the outside's modernity. "White electric," popped into Erica's head when she saw the layout: the living room table of clear glass and chrome; the white leather couch; chairs reminiscent of Eames and Saarinen; and the art.

The gleaming lacquered white walls hung with paintings. She recognized quite a few Lichtensteins and Shimomuras, but one large picture, a mounted black and white photograph hanging to her left, sent a chill up her spine, and a gasp to her mouth.

It depicted two men, posing in brotherly fashion with arms around each others shoulders, laughing jovially at the unseen cameraman. She recognized them both.

The man to the left, silver-crowned, patrician, was Stephen Ford, CEO of Blossom Technologies, the tech and information development giant. The man to the right, the one who sent the chill, with his bushy dark beard, curly mane, and the same mischievous twinkle in his photo gray eyes: "Cameron Hayes," she whispered, stunned.

He was pudgier in the picture. His bushy beard and hair reminiscent of a college student; not the mad genius who designed and built the revolutionary tech that powered the company he founded.

The puckish twinkle combined with his pudgy, hirsute body reminded her more of a satyr than a genius inventor, but she recognized the eyes, the nose, those lips. It was a revelation beyond stunning. "Oh! My! God! I fucked the fifth richest man on the planet!"

"Actually I'm the third, as of the latest Fortune Five Hundred," Cameron said, sliding behind her.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her body back to his, skin to skin, so his cock rested against her crack. A sense of outrage and anger welled up for the briefest of seconds. "You're not outraged. You're not angry. Go with it. Submit."

She was curious, however. Cameron stayed out of the public eye for most of the decade, leaving Ford to run much of the company. He'd had some work done, obviously.

"Not much work," he said. Erica was startled. "Did I think out loud again?"

"No you didn't. I decided I didn't like the way I looked, and my lifestyle was unhealthy. So I started running, working out, changed my diet, and had my hair lasered and electrolysized. It's worked out pretty well for me, at least some people think so, and I don't even have to make them."

Erica agreed with his assessment. She noted the hints of the present man in the picture, and she'd seen how a change in lifestyle could lead to physical transformations. A co-worker she knew was once rail-thin, a twig, until she began working out, increasing her protein and fat intake. Now she sported a robust, athletic look that drew the eye. She was almost completely unrecognizable from just a few years earlier.

"Hmmm," Cameron said. "Interesting; I'd like to meet her someday."

"What?!" Erica was surprised she thought out loud once again. "It's getting to be a habit today, on top of all the other weirdness."

Cameron moved his fingers between her thighs. She moved back against him, moaning, already wet, mildly surprised to be so aroused so soon again. "Why this game?" she gasped.

Cameron's fingers entered her pussy; two teased and massaged her clit. "I love to play people," he replied. "I especially love fucking them, always have, at least since my teens. Kind of inherited it from my parents."

He moved his cock over her crack, grinding his hips. "I like to edit people's brains really. Draw out bits of information, push them into new ways of thinking." He was whispering in her ear, moving against her body, similar to how Sam used to do, but her ex was never this sensual. Erica was already quivering with passion.

"My parents had this gift too but they were never as strong as me. I guess I inherited both their gifts and boosted them."

Erica had no idea what Cameron was talking about, and didn't care anyway. What mattered was his flesh against her skin, his body with hers, her need for him to be inside her, so bad it made her ache.

"Your wish, my honor," he said. "I will fuck you so hard and deep, I'll obliterate you." Erica barely noticed Cameron pick her up and carry her twitching, squirting body to the bedroom.

He fucked her. He fucked her body, he fucked her mind. Everything she was, is, and will be, in flesh, in mind, in soul, he penetrated, he flooded. It was how he worked. He didn't break down her barriers. He slowly, subtly pried them open and let her believe she did it herself; and once she was open, he roamed through her mind with all the ease of a cuckoo invading a nest.

At the end, Cameron decided to pull back. He liked her, and what he saw inside. She was a prize, but when he finished, she was a quivering vessel of cum-filled flesh.

****

Erica came to, her sweaty body next to his, her head on his warm chest. It was late, and night. The bedroom lights were on, suffusing it with a soft amber glow.

She was in complete erotic languor; a kind of soporific daze she'd never felt before, like a heroin induced high.

Cameron was snoring softly, a low purr she found hypnotic. The room smelled of sex and incense, moist and fetid. She ran her hand across his belly. "Hard and smooth."

His cock rested flat over his balls. She gave no thought to her next move. She'd done it with her ex, occasionally, blowing him while he slept. It seemed merely the thing to do. She simply accepted fucking this man as a facet of her existence.

His cock tasted of cum, hers and his. She tasted sweat with a nutty flavor as well. In the back of her mind came a vague thought. "I can taste all of him here. There's no hair."

Cameron woke to warm, wet walls caressing his cock. He grinned and looked down. She'd swallowed him to the hilt. Her tongue slid along the skin of his groin. He reached down and stroked her silky black hair. He smiled.

The Erica of yesterday would not have been this . . . wanton. Old-fashioned yes, but apt. That's how he worked. All he needed was to remove, "edit" he called it, a few pesky inhibitions, a little prodding here and there, and let her natural creativity do the rest. Speaking of editing.

Erica felt Cameron's fingers in her hair. "Mmmm, what are you doing?" she asked, which was odd, as Cameron's cock occupied her mouth at the moment.