Simon's Jungle Ch. 02: Lion Devours Lamb?

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Simon shows docile maid the Lion's Den.
11.2k words
4.68
22.6k
19

Part 2 of the 2 part series

Updated 06/08/2023
Created 07/01/2017
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silkcita
silkcita
123 Followers

Some Housekeeping: No editor. Please forgive mistakes or post the error in comment section. The erotic, fleshy stuff is toward the end, the pacing somewhat leisurely, as I prefer the psychological/situational side of sex. Minor changes--eye color--have occurred, but nothing major. All characters are over the age of 18. Story picks up after limo ride from funeral.

The limo cruised through the outer gate of the compound, rolling down a long, winding driveway paved with cobbled stones. Simon's home was a sprawling estate fixed upon a bluff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. It was defended by an assortment of security measures headed by a German mercenary, Zigmund. The luxury vehicle slowed as it veered parallel to the front door. Zigmund and several members of staff stood waiting in front of the mahogany doors.

The moment the limo stopped, the butler, a small Asian man called Raine, glided like water to Sarina's door in front of him, opening it with smooth, effortless movements. The German, however, stalked around the vehicle and opened Simon's door brusquely, greeting him with a crisp, "Sir."

Simon walked clear of the limo, gazing at the blue sky as the door clunked shut behind him. He'd just buried his father. Michael Vess, the man he'd loved and envied his whole life, the overbearing presence that had shaped his world, was dead. So how was it, then, that the sun still shined; that birds and dragonflies continued to flitter their silvery wings in trees and shrubs; that the crashing waves below the shoreline could sound their ever-present roar?

Life never stops or waits, so grab the bitch by the waist and let her buck. Words from Father.

The old lion was dead. The family's pride and the burden of leadership: passed to the son. Simon clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed his new domain. Though he'd lived here most of his life—knew which spiked points of the gate were dull, the trees each guard dog preferred to mark—it all seemed new to him: the difference between following a jungle path and stomping through the bush with a machete.

The deep purr of the limo's exhaust broke him from his thoughts, reminding him of the pleasurable ride from the funeral. His mother's mouth and the driver's skill. He'd have more of both, but later; there were more important matters to address.

"Thanks, Zig," he said, feeling the German's eyes behind him. He could feel the others as well.

Zig came forward, stopping a step short of standing beside him. The German was a six-seven battle-scarred tower. His hair was short and sharp, like chopped wheat. Eyes, cold blue. He was dressed in his customary dark blue suit and crimson shirt, standing close enough so they wouldn't be overheard. "Opening your car door is part of my job, sir," he stated with a slight German accent. "A minor part, but my job nonetheless." He and his security detail had remained at the compound at Simon's behest.

"Not for the door, Zig," Simon said, staring at the oversized fountain in front of him. It resembled a golden candle holder. "For not busting my nuts about today. You could've insisted on security at the funeral, forcing me to dress you down or reluctantly agree—either way, making me look a kid."

The proud German clenched his jaw, staring down at the back of his young master's head. "In all honesty, Simon, I'm busting my own for not doing just that. I promised your father that I would keep his family safe."

Simon looked down at his leather shoes, the sunlight melting into the rich leather. His father found Zig over a decade ago. To say he was down on his luck was like saying that the Treaty of Versailles had been tough on Germany. Murder, torture, drugs, general mayhem—Zig had did it all. But Michael Vess gave him an opportunity to reclaim his life; and a chance to right a few wrongs, as well.

Turning, Simon saw Sarina, Raine, and three maids waiting between the ivory columns that framed the front door. The five, elegant figures cut a striking picture beneath the open balcony swathed in wines. They were dressed stylishly in black—the maids, though, wearing two-inch heeled monstrosities.

Hold up; it appeared one had sauntered from the herd, standing atop a pair of shiny Mary Janes. A dirty blonde, her mouth slightly ajar, eyeing him with open admiration. She was new, pretty, and blatantly busty.

"I wanted my mother to see me as a protector," Simon said, turning to Zig, ignoring his new toy, for now. "And not as a child. A difficult thing to do around the German Grim Reaper."

-----

A survivor of countless military incursions, scars peppered the German's body, the most grievous covering his left cheek and jaw. A grenade thrown by a now deceased, religious zealot had shredded nearly half of the German's face. He'd been living on the streets for two years when Simon's father found him. When his jaw was fully extended, gaps showed through the hamburger-meat threads of tissue left of his cheek. The gruesome scarring made him fit to play a zombie on cable; but nothing an expensive surgeon couldn't fix. Zig, however, wanted a bare-bones service. He now bore a Grim Reaper-like half-grin, his left, upper and lower jaws lined with platinum teeth.

-----

"I won't interfere with your job again," Simon continued. "And though I haven't said it," he began, as he held his hand out and looked the German in the eye. "I'm sorry for your loss, Zigmund."

The German stood rim-rod straight, his expression severe, as he firmly shook Simon's hand. "Yours too, sir," and nodded. With that out the way, the two men turned to waiting ensemble at the front door. Before drawing near, Zig said, "We live and die—that's life." He nodded at Sarina and said, "And your old man had a wild one."

Eyeing the hourglass figure of his mother, feeling the ghost of her plump lips around his cock, Simon nodded. "I don't doubt it."

After receiving curt bows from the staff, he held his arm out for Sarina and walked inside. They entered the main living area, which resembled the entrance of a luxury mall. Gilded accents gleamed like a gold mine opened to the sun. Forty feet above them hung an immense chandelier with the brilliancy of falling diamonds. The room's centerpiece was a multi-tiered fountain. Beginning at the wide bottom, four jets fed the smaller tier above it, and so on, until a final stream leapt into the air and dove to the bottom tier, where it became four again. Two walnut staircases with white balustrades swept around the spectacle like arms.

During peak hours the area was a hub for busy maids going about their duties. It now was a reception area, as every member of the staff stood facing the door—black suits and dresses up and down the winding staircases and manila walls. Over fifty souls. They had come to show their respect and get a first impression of their new master. The mood was somber yet unmistakably tense. Most knew him, knew him well, but only as the heir apparent, not as he was now: Mr. Vess—their new boss.

Zig cleared his throat, prompting Simon to pat his mother's hand and step toward the fountain, alone. He looked around the room, at all the eyes watching him in anxious anticipation. Like the fountain, his father's death had made him the focus of everyone around him.

"Today I buried my father," he began, pleased how his voice boomed inside the large room. "I won't lie or leave it unsaid: He was a difficult man to love. He demanded perfection from everyone around him—for them to go the extra mile. Come to him with anything less, and he'd tattoo your head with an ashtray. He's gone but many of us still carry the scars, have the number of stitches etched into our soul." Simon nodded, seeing a few smiles. "I was twelve," he began, "proud and cocky after passing a business class. He smiled and raised his cigar to me . . . Then I bragged about skipping the final exam." Simon pointed to his right temple. "I saw a plume of ash—then WHACK. Eight stitches along the hair line. After that, I learned to be perfect, go the extra mile—or duck."

Simon paused to let them chuckle. Then he slipped his hand inside his pants pocket while raising his index finger over his head a dictator.

"PERFECTION!" he declared, looking each of them in the eye. "Is within my reach—is within each of yours—because of him! He made us do more than what was enough. He made us go the extra mile. Heforced us to be perfect. Yes, he was hard to love, damn near impossible sometimes, but that's what I loved most about him. Because when he finally congratulated you, it meant something."

He looked around and saw most of them nodding with pride, a few even with tears . . . That dirty blonde at his three o'clock, staring at the side of his face with awe, clasping her hands together like a fervent nun with a wicked taste in shoes . . . Wicked rack too. Fuck, what were they: D cups?

"And I'll expect the same," Simon said, regaining focus. He looked around at the stiff figures around him. They reminded him of the black candles around his father's coffin. "Rest easy," he said, wanting to lighten the mood. "No more flying ashtrays." Timid laughter. "I don't smoke, and doubt my aim is as good as the old the man's." Laughter, more robust now, some of the stiff wax figures starting to bend. Simon grinned and nodded. "Now then. That concludes the sappy, feel-good speech. It was for the people who will continue to be perfect and go the extra mile. We're family," he said, pounding his fist against his heart. "We war within and without these walls so we can eat and live well."

Here Simon paused and saturated the room with his gaze. "This next part is for you other people," he declared with a hardened jaw. "The mediocre leeches who skip exams. Like most CEOs in the country, you're glad my father's dead. Inwardly, you're smiling ear-to-ear. The old man's gone and left his kid in charge. You probably threw a little party last night. Made a piñata of his face and threw an ashtray at it," he said, looking around the room. "Then laughed," he spat. "Laughed like a goddamn hyena!"

The room went dead quiet, as silent as a lion den, as they froze under the smoldering fury of Simon's golden-brown eyes. They knew that look and held their collective breath. Out of habit, many checked for possible projectiles in his vicinity, having it now confirmed that he was indeed his father's son.

Simon looked down to floor, his jaw twitching, mildly distracted by the chandelier's reflection on the floor. He tried calm himself, to not drift off, to stay in this room with the giraffe-size fountain. But he could hear them laughing—the whispers that he was too young, that he hadn't been sufficiently groomed.

-----

Suddenly he was at the grave site, standing next to his mother as the casket was being lowered into the ground. It seemed the deeper it got, the more brazen their enemies became. He put his arm around Sarina, watching the final sliver of the chrome casket disappear beneath the earth. They were now alone. He could almost hear his father's enemies popping champagne, toasting to his cold, dead corpse while busty assistants in short skirts served hors d'oeuvres. Simon vowed to destroy them all—every single one of the bastards. He would make them bleed, not stop until even their mistresses filed for bankruptcy. If they thought his father was a ruthless asshole, he would show them a merciless beast; one who'd assfuck their wives and daughters over their fucking corpses.

-----

Simon blinked and returned to the room. He was staring down at his shoes, seething, resentful of having to prove himself to anyone. "Some friendly advice," he said. His eyes snapped up with undisguised malice. "Quit. Because if you cross me, I will treat you like I'd treat an enemy sitting across from me at a conference table. I will destroy you."

The mood was somber and tense again. Simon glared at as many as he could, his golden-brown eyes daring one of them to challenge him. Then he said, "Thank you all for being here today. Those of you loved my father, you have my condolences. Those on duty, get to it. Everyone else, enjoy your weekend."

There was a resounding "Sir" before the din of departing hard soles and heels filled the cavernous space. Simon felt Sarina by his side and he turned to her. They embraced: bereaved mother and son. With his hands resting at her slender waist, she kissed him, her pouty lips pressing solidly against his cheek—calming him, arousing him, instantly.

"I'm exhausted," she said, looking up to him. Her face was a veil of sadness. Simon didn't know if was the funeral or the ride home or both. "I would like to rest for a few hours," she said.

"Of course," he said, and leaned down and kissed her olive forehead. "I have some matters to discuss with Raine . . . I'll check on you tonight." He savored the slight tremble in her jaw as she looked pleadingly into his eyes. He gave her waist a subtle squeeze: Unlike the days of old, there would no reprieve for the widowed queen. He would have her, tonight.

"Thank you, dearest," she said, giving a tight smile for the others' sake.

The remaining staff offered their condolences as she left the room. Zig slapped a heavy hand on Simon's shoulder, sparing him the torturous task of not staring at Sarina's departing ass. Her curves were luscious and noticeable even in black. He faced the German, seeing the others retreat farther back.

"Fine speech," Zig said, looking down at him. "I wish you could've seen her face when you recounted that ashtray bit."

-----

Simon grinned, remembering awaking on his father's office floor, Sarina kneeling over him. She was so worried. Movies and reality stereotype Italian women as passionate creatures. Indeed, when it comes to food, sex, life, and a child bleeding from their head, they're like social justice warriors: easily triggered. It was the first time he saw someone have the balls to threaten his father. Sarina's face was all scowls and furry while she let loose in her native tongue. Fargli del male, e ti ricongiungerò subito con la tua puttana!

-----

Zig continued: "But I'm surprised you warned them."

"The staff?" Simon inquired. "I meant every word."

"I know," Zig said, a frosty gleam in his pale blue eyes. "But I figured you'd want a few to step out of line. You know," the German said, smiling like a sadistic Grim Reaper with platinum teeth, "to have some fun."

Simon glanced at the dirty blonde who stood beside Raine. Nice lips with the angular cheekbones he liked. "There's still time."

Zig, his eyes missing nothing, said, "Eat healthy, Simon. You have the old man's temper and libido. Maybe his heart, too. Now, you remember our talk, eh?"

Simon closed his eyes and groaned, already feeling the crown's annoying itch. "Procedure."

"Affirmative," the German said, his crimson shirt widening at the collar as he crossed his arms. "No more solo excursions outside the compound or going M.I.A. You're king now. That means I know where you are and where you're headed. At all times, eh?"

"Zig," Simon sighed, pinching his brow. His favorite perk of not being the head of the multi-billion-dollar conglomerate was hopping on his sports bike to attend late night conferences with a certain redhead. No more. "Has anyone ever told you that you put the 'Aryan' in 'authoritarian'?" Simon looked around at the walls and high ceilings and felt constrained. "I feel like a prisoner in a three-thousand-dollar suit. All I need is a tattoo on my wrist."

The German grimaced, clearly unamused. "Make sure it says 'American Pussy.' Don't forget our two o'clock on Monday . . . Sir." Zig about-faced then exited through the front door, passing the staff who gave him a wide berth.

Raine walked to Simon after the door closed, light from the chandelier playing across smooth porcelain skin that seemed younger than a man over forty. "He's going to put your ass to the mat come Monday," he said, referencing the German's distaste for Nazi references. "And not in the good way."

"He wasn't even alive then," Simon remarked, glancing back at the door. No one knew the German's exact age but he didn't look a day over forty-two. "And even if he was, he had plenty time to get over it."

Looking up to him, the vertically challenged butler regarded Simon with sleek eyes. "My, my, my," he said, in a singsong voice. "Self-harm paired with excessive humor—your father did the same whenever he was depressed. All you need now is someone to torment."

"Someone's been pillow-talking with Dr. Phil," Simon quipped.

The butler curled his lip. "I hate his mustache. Now," he said, smiling, his thin lips revealing small white teeth. "Introducing our newest member." He turned now to the dirty blonde as she came forward. Wide-set eyes gave her face an innocent quality. As Simon shook her hand, Raine said, "I present, Ms. Heather Lambert. She was an accomplished volleyball player before . . . circumstances forced her from University."

"Heather," Simon said, shaking the maid's nervous hand. "I'm Mr. Vess. Pleasure to have you aboard."

Her eyes were tree-bark brown and her shapely legs were tone. Mid-Western tan, almost Californian. Her shoulder-length hair was up-styled in double Dutch braids. She gazed at him with big, trusting eyes as if he was walking across water, holding bright balloons.

D cups, at least, Simon thought, taking a leisurely glance down at her chest

While his boss leered at the fawning nineteen-year-old maid, Raine dismissed the nearby staff and said, "Ms. Lambert is on loan to us from the Midwest. She first applied for an internship with the company."

Simon's brow rose. The maid was attractive: heart-shaped face, peachy lips, and an athletic body with breasts a half ounce too full for her frame—the perfect physiology for an assistant.

Seeing his perplexed expression, the maid cheerfully explained: "The email said I had poor analytical skills and an outstanding personality."

"Then why even apply?" Simon asked sharply, freeing his hand from hers. His company was infamous for its stringent hiring process. Beautiful smile and outrageous rack notwithstanding, for someone to apply for a position beyond their capabilities repulsed him.

The maid handled the rebuff with the poise of a child slapped by their favorite hero. His scowling face and the indifference in his golden-brown eyes made her nervous. Things were desperate for her family, and working for his company, even as a maid, was all that kept them from losing their home.

"An employee within the company encouraged her," Raine explained, wrapping his arm around the crestfallen maid.

Simon slowly turned to Raine, eyes incensed. "Name."

"A former employee," Raine amended, who was all but immune to the infamous 'Vess glare.' "Wife of one Timothy Pummel."

Simon raised a thick black brow again and turned to the maid. "You're friends with Cat?"

"No," Heather said, before quickly adding: "I mean, we're not not friends. I never knew her; I mean, I knew her but we weren't close," she added. Seeing Simon's increasing frown the flustered maid looked down at her shoes.

Raine reached up, placing a small, glove hand on the girl's shoulder. "So when the internship proved unfruitful, Ms. Lambert was advised to apply for another position. Who knows," the butler said, holding her before Simon, "she may prove herself worthy of second look . . . I now draw your attention to her uniform. I have some ideas." The staff's uniforms, aside from Raine's, were a formal affair. Dark slacks, vest, and tie for the men and knee-length flocks for the women. "Give a little spin, if you would, Ms. Lambert—slower. Perfect. Notice the four-inch Mary Janes. More aesthetically pleasing, I think. Not that Ms. Lambert needs any help."

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silkcita
123 Followers