The Wrong Thing To Do Ch. 04

Catherine took her seat at a table next to a painting depicting George Washington charging up a mountain toward the hopes of a free America. She noticed the splendor and richness of her surrounding, but more than that she noticed the absence of two important guests. "Where's Mark and Abbey?"

"He's at Presbyterian Hospital visiting his father; they're going to be a little late."

Clair continued to talk, but Catherine's focus had shifted to the other side of the room where a well-chiseled waiter served parched guests. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five, but her lustful eyes still lingered.

His short black hair and caramel skin made him glow in a room dominated by inflated one-percent egos.

Purposefully, Catherine decided to walk discreetly toward the Latin waiter, but before she could move a war-hardened man in a dark tuxedo marched her way and eased to a stop under the backdrop of America's emancipator.

He gently ushered Catherine into an isolated huddle. "Ms. Porter, I was going to contact you today but then I remembered my wife scheduled me for this cock show. So here I am. It's always better to ask these questions when you can look in a man's eyes. I don't like to be lied to!

Catherine had been focused on her Latin eye candy and had to search her tired mind to place the aged man draped in militaristic regalia. 'Where the hell is Clair?' she thought.

However, it didn't take more than a few seconds for her to recall who he was, her memory aided by the black naval dress tuxedo and the ever-present golden Joint Chiefs' badge affixed across his chest.

"Admiral Campbell, I would have expected you to be wearing, or at least be waving, white. Isn't that the tradition of the Navy?" Catherine asked with a smug smirk. She loved messing with the admiral as he always reminded her of her ex-soldier grandfather.

"We have different uniforms for...wait...was that an attempt at a joke, Ms. Porter?"

"My Grandfather, his father, and mine all served as army officers in World War One, Korea, and Vietnam so I grew up as an army brat hearing tales of the Navy contrasted against an Army that never failed," Catherine said.

"The Navy is always the first in and the last out. Surrendering is an Army game we don't play. Talk to your papa about Dugout Doug's policy of abandonment."

Catherine loved rattling Admiral Campbell, not the smartest thing to do since Bryce's shipbuilding division had billions of dollars worth of contracts with the U.S. Navy, but he reminded her so much of her grandfather.

"Admiral, I know what this is about. You don't need to guide me like I'm a child; we're on schedule."

"No one's ever on schedule."

"Why would I lie to the United States Military? Trust me; I don't need the headache of a Senate enquiry. Take me on my word, Mr. Vice Chairman. We're on schedule."

"Let's say I believe that you'll keep the deadline. What about cost overruns?"

"Well there are going to be overruns, of course, as we have put every resource into the project to meet the deadline. This is a brand new stealth class and the largest aircraft carrier ever built." Now whispering, Catherine continued with, "Plus, we're installing our new shield system, rendering submarine surface and air vulnerability a thing of the past."

"The U.S. Navy is not willing to pay more than four times the tendered estimate."

"Four? It's nowhere close to that, Admiral, but if you're offering, I'm not refusing."

The Admiral squinted. "Contractors usually increase the cost six-fold. John Bryce loved to do that weekly." Now himself whispering, "To be frank, I don't give a horse's ass about cost overruns. Time is my biggest concern. Peace can only be achieved by those prepared and equipped enough to scare others away from war."

"Look, Admiral, I'm personally handling this file. The infrastructure and supply chain is in place, plus we're maximizing labor and equipment efficiency twenty-four-seven. We're pulling people off other less time-sensitive projects for this, so extra cash won't hurt." The Admiral responded with a grin.

"All I care about is putting my unsinkable carrier out to sea. That's good...very good. Now, what about my space-capable stealth fighters?"

"That's another story."

Admiral Campbell brushed his tongue over his teeth—thinking, deciding, and agreeing. "You're right. You've certainly made an impression on me; that rarely happens."

With that the old tactician was off with a hidden smile and a bounce in his step. It was the first piece of good news he'd heard all week.

Catherine now tried to find her eye-candy waiter, but she couldn't spot him. That's when she felt a brazen hand brush her smooth ass. He had caught her keen stares earlier and had decided to take a bold risk.

The waiter, unseen by others, continued running his fingers along the dress's rich fabric. You wouldn't have guessed it from his actions, but his heart froze for a second while awaiting her response.

Their cat-and-mouse chase lasted for half an hour. Catherine, hidden from view and therefore more brazen, grabbed the waiter's crotch. A smile appeared on her face as shock appeared on his. Talking quietly, they exchanged names. He already knew hers; everyone did. She found out his name was Marco Mata.

Minutes later they had escaped from view, having done so free from the view of others. Catherine was lucky that as a child she had conquered her claustrophobia. Things became heated in the Met's spacious toilet stall as their lips opened over each other's and his tongue dominantly twisted over hers.

Marco's shirt was the first item of clothing to go, showcasing his solid pecks. His hands roamed Catherine's supple, smooth flesh while her little fingers continued Marco's disrobement, pulling at his belt.

She reached for his boxers, but instead he held her, twirled her around, and dropped his boxers down himself. Standing behind her, he dominantly pulled her cloth-covered ass into his long, hardening cock.

Marco's lips kissed along Catherine's neck as she released her French twist, causing her hair to flow just above her shoulders. His large strong hands rubbed her shoulders and pulled away her scarlet straps causing her gown to gently cascade downward and land atop the growing pile. Well-practiced masculine fingers swiftly released her sumptuous breasts from their encasement.

His hands reached forward and grasped her pear-shaped breasts. Teasing her nipples with gentle pinches, Catherine responded with whispered soft murmurs of encouragement.

She wanted to turn towards him but he held her in place, his cock rubbing against her panties. Her head turned as he dove in for a slippery, salacious kiss. They kissed their way into a long clashing storm as his large fingers worked her sheer black panties down which she then kicked away.

With his tongue deep in her mouth and one hand on her breast, Marco guided his thick hard shaft to Catherine's soaking crevice—the tip holding ready at the wet, underused entrance.

Marco broke from the kiss abruptly, causing saliva to leak to the floor. "Get ready," he warned. Catherine's right hand gripped the upper stall door while her left hand braced the bathroom wall to hold herself in place. The tip of his hefty manhood pressed into her taut pussy. Feeling her immense wetness he switched gears and plunged in deep, knocking the air from her lungs and causing her mouth to hang open.

The musky scent that Catherine had craved for so long drove her wild. With one hand she held onto the wall of the stall, her pussy stretching under the endless Latino cock. Her senses ran wild, her audacious pussy now forcing her thighs and hips to roll back to meet his feverish thrusts.

The smacking sounds of Marco's flesh colliding with hers resonated throughout the otherwise empty room. Catherine craved it all, missing him when he would pull out to slam back in.

Sounds of pleasure fell from her lips, "Hmmm...yes...oh...yes...yes!"

Catherine moaned, trying not to scream in elated eruption.

Marco now worked in deeper—fucking her harder than before until he fell back—shooting his cum all over her ass. He began to groan, collecting himself.

Catherine didn't say anything; she shook her ass and backed into him.

She couldn't see Marco, but he was all smiles. His cock was ready to breach her tight gate once more, but this time he was going to make her beg. He slapped his heavy meat teasingly against her ass, his rigid tool wanting entry again just as much as her wet pussy did.

He pushed in closer, pinning her up against the wall, their naked sweaty bodies sticking together.

"Fuck me!"

"With what?" he asked, pushing three fingers up her pussy—twice in close succession.

"Fuck me with your big cock!"

Moans of ecstasy emanated from Catherine's lips like puffs of smoke from a well-crafted Cuban cigar as his fingers were replaced by his much wider cock.

The moment was soon accompanied by the sounds of Vivaldi's Four Seasons. The music seemed to arouse him further as he quickened his pace. Gripping Catherine's sides, Marco rocketed deeper and deeper, his balls smacking against her pussy.

He hammered away, leaving her breathless, panting, and craving more.

This time ended quicker as she moaned hysterically. "Ohhhhh...fuck...God," she uttered uncontrollably as her legs weakened and her body shook. She fell back into Marco, dazed and disoriented, as eruption after eruption flooded her depths.

Turning around to face each other, Catherine kissed Marco's lips as his strong fingers glided along her neck. He dropped his hands to her ass, making a deep imprint in her flesh and pulling her into a snaking kiss. Her nails ran along the Latin god's chest, replicating his marking of territory.

She bit his ear playfully as she collapsed onto him. "That was great!"

"I know," Marco said, pompously confident. Drifting his head to her firm breasts, he licked her areolas intently as his fingers ran along her hot body.

"Hah! Well after that I guess you're allowed to be proud."

"You want to go again?" he asked Catherine as she dressed.

"Christ, you're kidding, right?" she asked while stepping into her dress and pulling it up.

"Does it look like I am?"

She peered over at his hardening cock.

"I'm going away for a few days. Put your number in my phone."

"Sure," he said, accepting the unusually designed glass Lintex phone.

He stepped behind her placing her straps in place, running his hand over her shoulders.

"Who are you? she asked, grinning.

"Marco Mata. I told you," he said, kissing her ear.

"No...where are you from...how old are you...what do you do?"

"I'm twenty-five if that's what you're worried about."

"I want to know about you," she said turning, looking into his eyes.

"Alright...my mom brought me to America when I was thirteen. We lived in California until she died, then I moved to New York to live with my uncle."

"Sorry, that's awful."

"It happened a long time ago."

"Still..."

"It happens...people die and we move on. You're the one that wants to know this shit. My boss is gonna kill me if I don't get out there."

"Wait. Is this what you want to do? Or are you going to school?"

"I want to fuck you again. That's what I want." Catherine smiled.

"Be serious."

"I work for a catering company as a waiter right now but I'm going to City College, training to be a chef."

"You should cook me something sometime." Catherine glimpsed at her golden watch and surmised the same as Marco. "I have to go...sorry."

"No, I know. Me too. I'll just wait until you leave."

"Smart...I'll call," she declared.

"Oh, I know you'll call," he said with a smug smile.

Upon exiting the washroom Catherine was surprised when she found Allen guarding the bathroom door, having placed a closed sign over it. No sign of emotion was on his face...no smirk...no movement of his eyebrows. He simply did his duty and stood at post like a Roman centurion but for some reason Catherine felt an uncharacteristic coldness from him.

PART 2

At the very moment that Catherine Porter's designer heels had propelled her past the Romanesque pillars into the Met an hour earlier, twenty-two year old Mark Bryce was on the other side of Manhattan past 3rd Avenue, exiting the main lobby of New York Presbyterian Hospital on East Sixty-Eighth Street next to the East River.

Mark had become accustomed to all the idiosyncrasies of the hospital. After two months in the Coronary Care unit, it had almost turned into a second home. During that time Mark's father John was still locked away in a coma with no sign of reversal in the near future. The surgery two months prior had stabilized him, but he still hadn't returned to consciousness.

Mark's summer days consisted of internships at the company he owned, and would one day run, followed by visiting the hospital and falling asleep while reading to his father.

The large glass exit doors were held open for the twenty-two year old heir as he walked out of the hospital with the inescapable presence of his own tuxedo-clad bodyguards.

Outside under the cover of a fast approaching night, Mark's exit was met by two identical black Range Rovers and an imperially elegant Rolls Royce Phantom. Tyler Casper, Mark's head of personal security and a man he'd grown to respect, stood by the large sedan with his redundant sunglasses plastered to his ears.

The dark-skinned Casper took his place in the front seat of the Rolls Royce with all of its handcrafted opulence.

In the back seat of the Phantom Mark pulled down the overhead mirror to check his red bow tie. His hair had been freshly cut that morning. He was ready for the gala and everything seemed in order.

He removed his state of the art glass panel cell phone from his pocket to alert his girlfriend, Abbey, of the location of the Rovers.

"On FDR now will b there in 10 U ready?" he texted.

"When you arrive we need to talk."

Mark took in the weight of her full words. "about what?"

"We just need to talk."

Mark had a distressed feeling in the depths of his gut. Abbey's character and her appearance had proven to be nearly flawless, a rare trait for an eighteen-year-old. In their two months of dating, they hadn't had a serious fight. They did not have everything in common, but her soft, accommodating nature stabilized the relationship.

Tonight was not going to go as planned, Mark reasoned. His stomach rumbled and his smile turned into a frown. He peered through the thick glass of his protective shell into the dark unpredictable night. "Ahh!" he exclaimed in lament.

The Range Rovers and the opulently stretched sedan rolled to a stop, pulling up to the chic three-story Soho townhouse owned by Abbey's dad. The Rolls Royce's heavy suicide-style door swung open under Casper's diligence. Mark's legs turned outward as he reluctantly placed the leather soles of his black bespoke Berluti Derbies onto uncertain ground. He was no longer in a rush.

However, as usual when he visited Abbey, Casper stood ever vigilant just outside the door while the others stood nearby or near the cars. Standing observantly, their eyes circled the darkened stylish street—their fingers inches away from deadly force.

Mark did a double take as Abbey answered the door, something she rarely did. He had become accustomed to being welcomed by their maid, Anna. Abbey was dressed in a robe and silk pajamas and prepared for bed, not a night of ego petting as was intended.

Mark wasn't an idiot. He knew what was coming his way. Other than beating her to the punch he had no out.

"Hey," she said with a sheepish reluctant smile. Mark moved closer for a kiss but she turned her lips away from his.

Her jaw and facial expression projected her anguish, but her wide eyes soon showed her resolve.

In spite of this, Mark found a little hope and shook off his cynicism.

"You're not dressed for the gala!" he said, standing in the entryway lined with wilting plants.

"We should have a seat in there," Abbey said, directing her boyfriend toward the great room.

Mark entered the family room and Abbey rolled the sliding doors shut, blocking the private conversation from her twin sister, Blair, and all others in the house.

"We should sit," she said again, once the two of them were in the room.

"No, I'm fine."

"Okay," she said, getting control of her wits and composing herself with a long pause.

"Abbey, before you—" Mark began to say, feeling there was time to salvage this due to her lack of words.

His defense, however, allowed her to kick-start her well-reasoned offence. "We barely see each other. I'm making too many sacrifices, and it's always me working to keep this relationship alive. This is just not working, Mark."

"What are you talking about? We see each other."

"Most of my time spent with you is holding your hand while you read to your Dad. He's in a coma. I understand that."

"Then let's spend more time together. I can do this; we can fix this together." Mark moved towards her as she sat down and sat next to her in an attempt to reason with her.

"When we met on your birthday, at Richie's place, you were spontaneous and exciting. Two months later and it's like you're a different person. We've done nothing, nothing the whole summer. You spend all your time interning in the office and after that all your spare time and mine is spent with your dad at the hospital. I understand...I do...but I can't keep doing it...I can't." Abbey forced out her words, her eyes brimming with tears.

"We can fix this. I can do better. Just give me some time, Abbs."

Finding her resolve, she continued, "In a few weeks, I start at Harvard and I want to enjoy the rest of my summer."

"About that, I chose to go to graduate school there so we could be together," Mark said as his tone peaked. "I'm trying here; this isn't easy for me, Abbey. I have obligations and you're breaking up with me because I'm not fun?"

"Mark, are you serious? Don't lie to yourself; you're smarter than that. A Harvard MBA isn't a death sentence. You didn't make some grand sacrifice; you were going there either way. I just made sure you didn't miss out on a year because you wanted to be near your dad. It's tragic, I know, but you still need to live your life and I need to live mine. I start my college experience in a few weeks. I want to be able to enjoy it, and you've already had yours!"

"So this is about me being four years older than you?"

"No, I'm eighteen and you're twenty-two. So what? Our age difference was never an issue. Stop! Stop simplifying this, Mark. This is about you always being so distant and so sad to be around when we are together." Abbey's face was now beet red.

"So we don't spend enough time together and I'm boring. That sums it up then?" Mark asked, pulling himself to his feet and coming to terms with not changing her mind.

Brushing away the loose strands of her lengthy blonde hair that showcased her beautiful face and eyes, Abbey's small fingers gripped his forearm. "Look, it's not that you're boring. It's not. The root of everything is that you blame yourself for what happened to your dad. You had sex with your slut stepmom, you told your dad, and later he had a heart attack. You messed up royally. We all do, but you tried to fix it and that's what matters. You didn't cause your dad's heart attack. He did!"

Mark's eyes opened and he listened intently, but he couldn't take in her words.

It's turning you into somebody who's not fun to be around. You blame yourself for it and it's a burden on you. You need to forgive yourself."

He took a deep breath. "So this is it?" he asked.

"No, I hope we can still hang out together. When you move to Cambridge to go to business school, I hope you cross the river and visit me at Harvard Yard and if you want...if you'll allow me, I'll do the same."