Simon's Jungle

First offering. Thanks to HeyAll for edit assist. Mistakes are fault of author.

*****

Murry Fassler Vess was a lion of a man. Ruthless, and with few moral scruples, he was feared by friend and foe alike. But he was wealthy and powerful, fabulously so, and possessed a rare and priceless charm—a bright flower whose bloom towered red-wood high over the weeds of his character: he was a loving husband and doting dad. A beautiful wife and son. He loved them, adored them, and was a different man around them. Everyone knew his philosophy: Business was business and business was war; but family was family and family was why he fought dirty to be the undisputed victor of said war. Double-cross him in business? Fine; okay. But snub a charity dinner hosted by his wife after accepting an invite? Fire-sell your assets then hideout with the Amish.

But he was eighty with a heart that didn't want to beat anymore. The lead cardiologist joked, privately, the organ was recovering from Stockholm syndrome. Finally it gave out, slitting its red and blue wrists in a final act of defiance. Mr. Vess cursed it with his last breath. "Ungrateful little bastard."

His Last Will and Testament was simple—everything went to his son: assets, debts, obligation, everything . . . and his enemies, especially those. The old lion was dead and the hyenas were circling the pride, grinning, laughing and unafraid. Their covetous snouts salivating at the sight of lush territory, whose bounty could fill their bellies trice over.

The ensuing carnage would result in a corporate safari replete with spectators, white-collar enthusiasts, who, instead of four-wheel jeeps, binoculars, and cheap African guides, were partial to Maybachs, I-devices, and secretaries with stocking thighs. Like meerkats in executive suits, they were watchful, curious to see what the young cub would do. Would he rally and keep the scavengers at bay, or be devoured? Would he follow in his sire's paw prints, or beat his own path? Would he be the cruel, ruthless beast his father was or, God forbid, worse. Be it royal protector or bloodthirsty dictator, the hyenas were approaching, snickering, laughing, wanting to snap and shake his neck. Survive or perish: the fiscal circle of commerce. This is his story.

Simon and his mother sat quietly as their limo circled down the hill that held their protector's remains. Murry F. Vess, loving father and husband—protector, no more. They were alone, away from the somber, botox expressions and the engraved daggers those aftermarket faces disguised. They'd bared it stoically, mother and son, stone-faced, proud, never leaving the other's side, even now.

It had rained, during the funeral, essentially poured. Everyone knew it would. Even though the forecast called for Sunny skies—and it had been; it was sunny all morning, right until two o'clock when the funeral started. Those who didn't know, commented on the freakish weather—black suits and dresses further darkened under the deluge. Those who did know, graciously shared their umbrellas: the very same that were looked upon curiously when the sun was high and bright. "Thanks," one said to another. "Woke up this morning and knew it would rain, huh?" A stately man with a jaw lined with silver bristles beneath a black felt hat replied, "This morning? Yes. This morning and countless ones before it."

Droplets still fell, huge gray beads that shattered against the roof like tossed rice at a wedding. Simon nodded as he stared out at the burly limbed trees lumbering by. With Father gone, the businesses, accounts, stocks, and employees were his veiled brides awaiting consummation. Barely eighteen years old and betrothed to more responsibility a man even trice his age would ever have.

Responsibility, obligation . . . power. It was in his blood to carry all three. Father told him so, repeatedly, and Father's word was law . . . He was Father now.

Simon stared at the ghostly blue eyes watching him from the window pane. "I'm ready," he whispered.

"Did you say something, dear?"

Simon turned to his mother, having momentarily forgotten that she was beside him. Right beside him: the warmth of her body and stocking leg enveloped his left side like a warm unwavering breeze. Dressed in an elegant black dress, she was the quintessential trophy wife-turned widow—the Italian version, at mere age of thirty-three. He stared placidly into her dark, almond-shaped eyes, commanding himself to look no farther down. Busty. A term he learned at eight; and knew immediately what it meant, that it would be applicable to her even at half her size.

She'd worn a funeral hat at the grave, wide-sweeping and low, revealing only her lips through the mesh veil. Lips that were as lush as grapes being pressed into red wine. And they were pouty and dutiful, too, as if a plea or an apology were waiting there: the lips of a loving wife desperate to please.

Simon turned to his window. "No."

That he could forget that she was within reach his reach was a testament of the occasion's enormity. She was irresistible even while mourning.

When standing, her dress stopped several inches above her knees—but seated, crossed-legged, stocking left over stocking right, the hem was above her mid-thigh. Without turning from the window, Simon placed his left hand on her stocking leg, his open palm on her raised thigh. She made no acknowledgement which he could see or hear. But when he squeezed her thigh, working his thumb back and forth where the smooth fabric ended and the black sheer stockings began. Her leg jerked, ever so slightly, rolling a delicious ripple down the center of his palm. He rubbed her thigh, savoring the textured, smooth sound that played from her leg. His suit was dark but certain protrusions show even against black. He wondered if she noticed his growing erection or was purposely looking the other way. And he wondered if she knew what he expected from her now that Father was gone. Would she resist him, submit, or attempt to flee?

None of that mattered, really. He was Father now. The will, the attorneys, Father—they were clear and conclusive on that point. And if Simon wanted a trophy instead of a mother, then, his word was law. She could leave, sure, and receive enough to live in luxury. Though, a crumb to the whole.

The hilly road leveled out, arresting their gentle sway inside the cabin. On the highway, and the driver accelerated to merge with traffic, persuading the exhaust to offer up a satisfying rumble. The adjacent lanes were occupied by soccer moms, weekend warriors, and teenagers on dates. Simon watched them with the same quiet awe he had the trees that covered the hill. They all were following their nature, which made them beautiful, since beauty, by its nature, obeyed nature, always—as anyone who's ever played chicken with a tree will know. If a tree violates its nature, it rots and dies. Those commuters have their natures, and Simon has his.

"I will yield to no one," he whispered.

His mother shifted slightly but made no comment; instead, clasping her manicured hands in her lap—inches from Simon's restless thumb. He glanced at her hands: slender and feminine, the progenies of countless fantasies and quicken breaths. They were colorless, her nails, for the funeral. Father forbade her to look 'loose', but Simon liked color . . . among other things.

The limo slowed, deliciously so, before taking a ramp. Around they went, and Simon felt the warm softness of his mother against him as inertia pressed her towards his door. Abruptly the limo accelerated with a deep vroom, sucking them back into their plush leather seats, and held them there, and held them before easing them into a nice and easy cruise. A damn fine driver.

Simon made a mental note to learn this driver's name. But for now, his thoughts returned to his mother, as his hand slid the length of her thigh. He gave it a push. Silently, and reluctantly, she uncrossed her legs, giving him access to her inner thighs. She made no acknowledgement while he rubbed her legs and squeezed and pinched her. Simon wasn't surprised. It was a game they'd played for years. Simple rules: not in sight of prying eyes, and never around Father. A game Simon loved to play. And now it was time for new games. Simon stared through his transparent reflection in the window and smiled.

He worked deeper into her black skirt, his hand eel-slick between her stocking thighs. He moved slowly, two fingers sliding past the silk nylon onto sensuous skin. Heat seeping out from her orifices met his hand like a close, dear friend. And he pictured the lace panties smothering the mink-soft hairs adorning her mound. The panties were dark purple with a frilly band, bikini back. The ones he'd choose that morning.

The rest he'd allowed her to choose—the dress, the hat, the heels. That morning, she entered his room in her robe, those stilettos clacking in the hallway outside his door. He opened it and she slipped inside without a word or glance his way. The servants weren't allowed on his wing without permission, but he closed and locked the door. She stood before him—several feet away. Her eyes were pleading but loving—as they always were—the pained look of a mother burdened with a troubled son. Him handpicking her panties and bra was a humiliation she endured only as a compromise of a greater one: foregoing his bed the previous night. "Allow me this dignity, Simon, please." A plea sparingly used, and one he'd heed for another in exchange. And so, resigned, she looked away and disrobed, turning and bending when he told her to turn and bend, in only heels, panties and purple bra.

Back in the limo: Her body tensed—a flower shocked by frost—and her thighs clapped closed around his hand, allowing him to go no further.

"Thank you, Simon," she said casually, facing straight ahead, calmly, as if his hand wasn't inches from her mound, "for canceling the wake. I simply could not endure their daggers today."

Simon slipped his hand free and placed it atop hers, and she raised it to her lips and kissed it, her body relaxing as if a foreign object had been removed.

"You don't have to thank me, mother," Simon said, her hand caressing his in her lap. "Your well-being is now my responsibility."

She rubbed his hand. "I know you loath to appear weak." With great hesitance she added, "Many will assume that you are emotionally overwhelmed, especially after . . ."

"Seeing me cry at my father's funeral?"

"Yes."

Simon nodded. He, too, was surprised by those genuine, three tears—along with the immense sense of loss he felt, even now, against all he was to gain. He wondered what the old man would think. When it came to affection, Mr. Vess was a romantic pragmatist. While he never cared if he was loved, he demanded its display from family and friends. And to the incredulous expressions and cautious reminders of his unlovable traits, he would say "If a woman can win an award for playing a man of film, then, you, ungrateful shits can pretend to love me until I'm dead."

But the show of emotion and announcing that he and his mother would spend the weekend in mourning was not without its advantages. Yes, the young cub appeared to be weak, eager to suckle at the delicious, dark-nippled teat of his caring mother. Good. Let them think that. And when they were close enough he'd leap down and rip out their weasely necks. Then fuck their wives and daughters over their goddamn corpses.

Simon closed his eyes and breathed, loosening his grasp on his mother's hand. His head was hot with blood. He had his father's temper but his mother's soft fragrance, the very scent of her was a textured kiss on his temples. Her touch, her mere presence calmed him, always. He'd loved her since the earliest of his memories, and he'd never felt shame for desiring her.

Shamelessness—another gift from Father.

He brought her hand to his mouth, pleased by her compliance, as she surrendered her arm to him. He kissed it then, held it in front of him, admiring her olive skin that looked caramel next to his, the soft ridges where her fingers bend, and the natural pinkness of her manicured nails. He kissed her fingers, rubbing his tongue against each joint, while she sat demurely, looking straight ahead.

He asked, "Do you love me?"

"Of course," she answered. "You are my son."

He nodded and kissed her hand as he squeezed it, firmly, almost too tight. "Many will undoubtedly continue to see me as my father's son," he said, his erection hardening as her breath hitched at the pain. He relaxed his grasp, just a little, and kissed her reddened hand. "And some will rather abandon me than see me as a man." He looked to her questioningly, with ice blue eyes. Confusion swept across her face, parting her lips. Then she glanced at his groin.

She turned away, looking meekly down at her lap while he held her hand. "I love you, Simon," she whispered. "You are my life, my dearest."

Simon, pleased by her acquiescence, kissed her hand again, savoring the soft warmth against his lips. "And I love you, Sarina," he whispered. Then placed her hand on his erection.

Instantaneous pleasure rushed his body from out his loins. He sat back, his head rolling to the ceiling, weighted against the cool leather headrest. He squeezed her hand, thus squeezing himself, and her fingers grasped him on his upper left thigh. She faced straight ahead, staring at the mirrored partition above the black leather seats across from them.

Simon looked out of his window to ascertain their location from the compound: middle-income homes and vehicles, fast food restaurants—plenty of time. He rolled his head to Sarina, staring at the black waterfall of hair rolling down her back, a million joined ripples reaching the small of her back.

And her breasts: Busty. The older he got the more inadequate the word seemed describing her. Today it felt like an insult, a gross understatement, like calling the universe a large place.

He stared at them—the right one jutting out from her narrow frame, a pregnant melon on a thin vine. Could only see the top-half of the other one. No visible cleavage, the collar of the dress was nun-high. He pictured her dressed like one of his secretaries. Blouse cut low, hair styled high, nails bright and slutty. Tonight, perhaps.

His chest was heaving now and he moved her hand along his length—an uncomfortably painful, profound erection. After establishing the preferred pressure and speed, he released her hand and she did not stop or slow. Her olive hand continued, twisting where it could, and looked pale and ethereal against his black Armani slacks.

Her hand glided back and worth, slid down then up, gripping, twisting, then down again. All the while, she stared straight ahead, her face resigned, her ample chest jingling with her moving hand. He looked to the partition, and her eyes were staring at his, almost resentfully. But she kept jerking him. He moaned. She was a beautiful goddess under an Italian moon, and she was his.

Her hand stopped, but only briefly while he unbuckled his belt, unclasped his pants, undid his zipper and pulled his boxers back. His rigid erection sprung up, now excruciatingly taut with blood. All the while, she grudgingly licked the pads of her fingers and thumb, before spilling a clear pool of saliva into her palm.

He was not averse to a dry handjob—she knew this. He was uncircumcised—she knew this, too. So lubing her hand was a courtesy, a kindness—a generous gift that made the sinful act sublime.

Hand wet with the warmth of her mouth, she glanced at his erection, gripping him high to let the warmth drip down. She stroked him softly, smearing it over, twisting her palm around. Stopped. Spilled another pool then gripped again, stroked again, turned straight ahead and began again.

Simon was nearly paralyzed with pleasure while she jerked him with her gentle hand. Finally he let out a ragged breath. He stared at the side of her face; it faced straight-ahead, resigned, reluctant, and obedient. And the rest of her.

Simon put his arm around her, between the slick leather and her shoulders. She leaned forward. His hand slid down her side, then waist and hip, then found the soft mound of her butt and squeezed as he reached over cupped a breast. Not a sound from her or a batted lash, but she scooted forward enough for him reach around to the other breast. Now she slowed her hand, instinctively knowing him holding her breasts would heighten his sensitivity and hasten his climax.

Still, he rested his chin on her shoulder as the erotic pleasured pulsed between his legs. Cupping her breast while she jerked him with a velvet-soft hand. Here he stayed, breathing in her rose-water perfume, squeezing her soft breasts through her dress and bra, running his fingertips over her bud-like bumps.

"Simon?"

He opened his eyes and saw her face reflected in the partition. The strip of glass wasn't high but their seat sat low. He saw the bridge of her nose, her dark eyes, eyebrows, and the blunted arrow of her widow's peak.

"Yes, Sarina?"

"Do you love me? Genuinely?"

He stared at their reflections, their eyes. His, so cold and ice blue, predatory with gray sharks circling beneath. They looked vicious next to the angelic dark almonds that were her eyes. Hers were liquid black—a moonless, starless night brought to a boil—the thick liquid you'd give a man who was nearly frozen—what you'd give a sick and shattered soul. There was no hiding from her eyes, no chance of deceit. They cut through lies like a blade whet with truth. Nothing could withstand them . . . not even Father. "Never look an Italian woman in the eyes, son. Never! . . . Damn witches."

Simon looked away, furious that she used that on him. Why would lie to her?

But he knew he would never had told the truth in whole. A truth he'd known since twelve. A truth he'd would've taken to his grave.

He kissed her. Lips full and firm at her cheek. Eyes closed and hid, but his soul painfully naked. "Yes, Sarina," he whispered at her ear, and he swore her hand tightened. But that truth wasn't the whole. "I love you, but I'll never let you go. You're mine now. If you run I'll track you down. And I'll kill any man who touches you. You're mine, Sarina." Then whispered urgently, "Mine!"

Gentle kisses of her face, her soft olive skin. He hated upsetting her. But why look at him in such a way? His eyes were closed and even there he saw her beseeching eyes. She breathed heavily now, her chest pushing against his hands while she jerked him erratically, moving tight and grudging slow, then quick and loosely gripped. He wanted to be sorry but how could he be? With her ever-expanding breasts in his hands while she pleasured him?

He opened his eyes. Her face had reddened and her jaw was clinched, and yet he was still aroused. Monstrous. He kissed her softly: the stud of her earring here, the clasp of her necklace there. Trying to sooth her, to ease the dawn of her new reality. But it wasn't his all fault.

"You should've stopped this before it began, mother," he whispered with soft kisses. "Now it's too late. I must have you—I must. Love me, pretend if necessary, but be my Slut Mother, my Italian Whore, and I'll be good to you." He kissed the edge of her mouth. "Yes?"

Her face collapsed, her hand stopped, and she hung her head and closed her eyes. How painful this all must be for her. If only she hadn't asked. He allowed her only a moment to grieve, to mourn whatever decency left of her motherhood. Monstrous. He grasped her face, forcing her to face him, to show him her eyes, and she stared at him, pleading silently.

So close they were, her sweet breath against his lips—warm breezes from a tiny oasis of cinnamon, her stilled hand wrapped around him.