Claudia hadn’t smiled all through dinner. It was a simple trick: keep at least one aspect of herself hidden until the right moment. Experience had taught her that most men fell for stealth refusal, especially powerful men. The fun part was figuring out their unexpressed, sometimes unaware, desires and keeping it from them. Only later, after a client’s initial curiosity had been satiated and penetration was near, would she finally reveal that hidden part, whatever it was.
Usually it was physical and obvious: a particular view into her shaved, fat cunt from behind – pale brown and glistening; or leaning backwards into the pillows at the head of the bed and fully extending a well-formed foot. Some wanted other senses involved: a strategic pressing of her firm ass into open hands; a low utterance and grabbing of a forearm or shoulder as the client neared orgasm. Women loved to have their hair and bodies caressed and to feel her own skin tremble in response to their touch. Faking was harder. So she’d learned to climax only with them.
One thing she discovered early: nearly all men are terribly vain. Some want to be mothered, others ogled, a few both at the same time. She serviced 30-somethings yearning to be babied, frustrated husbands looking to feel free or wanted, authoritarian middle-aged managers craving abuse or with the ever more frequent requests for golden showers – which cost extra – and dirty old Viagra addicts trying to convince themselves of a vigor and appeal that had left them decades before. Claudia had become very good at unleashing the desires that turned her clients on, that gave each a special pleasure. Most of the politicians who called on her longed to have their perceived extraordinary intelligence vaunted and vaunted again. Particularly the short ones. Which meant most of them. This one loved to be adored.
Il Presidente, Mister B., looked up into Claudia’s eyes, dark and almost smoldering. Her black dress, elegant and tight, highlighted the perfect lines of her well-kept body. Her long blond hair – colored of course, but to a pleasing effect – gently wove its way down over her naked shoulders and fabric of the dress. He smiled. She responded by tightening upward the corners of her lips, still only using her eyes, mostly, to express her feigned approval. “I’m going to take a shower,” he told her. “If you want to freshen up there’s a second bathroom over there. Wait for me in the big bed,” he finished, pointing to the double king-sized mattress framed within an impressively large, carved canopy.
She began stepping very slowly toward the indicated bathroom, pointing her black high-heeled shoes directly forward and tilting her head down as she went. With her left hand she slid off one shoulder strap, then repeated the gesture on the other side. When she reached the bathroom door she turned, lifted her arms high and let the dress slide effortlessly to the floor. She straightened her head and then, finally, flashed her lips open and wide, making sure to let the wet tip her tongue show through her bright white teeth. To her client it was as if she were saying, “You are so adorable.”
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Mister B. opened his mouth broadly in his usual hyena-like way. He was delighted. “Mamma mia,” he uttered with feigned surprise. “You want to kill me. But don’t worry, you can’t kill me. My heart is bionic.” Claudia backed away and gently shut the door. Il Presidente turned and whistled happily as he skipped into the other bathroom.
Once inside, he undid his tie, took off his dark blue suit and sat down on the gilded bench resting against the wall to the left of the door. As he unbuttoned his shirt many things passed through his mind: making sure he would have the numbers in the senate for the vote coming up at the end of the week, (regulating access to the satellite TV market. We need to stop that old Australian shit,); the nomination for CEO of the state oil company the in 2 months, (finally that idiot Schiaffo is toast. Just who did he think he was, saying ‘no’ to the contracts? Deals have been agreed upon, the Russians want their cut and it certainly isn’t coming from my pocket. Everyone agreed that, ah, what’s his face, would replace him. He always laughs at my jokes. A reliable man, that, Scori, Scari, uh, what’s his name again? Bah, anyway someone who understands his place and the business. Schiaffo. A sense of humor of a cactus plant.) His ex-wife, (ha. There won’t be anyone in that old whore’s bed tonight. Nothing like what’s waiting for me.) And of course the delightful smile of the girl in the bedroom, her lush red lips, wonderfully smooth skin, (I just bet she’s shaved and smooth as a baby down there. And wet. But not too wet. And not so big inside. That Brazilian girl yesterday was just too…open. She felt like I was sticking it into St. Peter’s. Like the Pope saying mass, ha, the Pope saying mass in a cunt. All that space. What was her name again? Wanita, no, Anita…anyway. God I hope she’s good and tight.) “Let’s take this shower,” he muttered to himself out loud as he stood up from the bench, his belly sagging down as he bent slightly forward. He slid off his large white boxers revealing a small, crumpled penis, dark but with a reddish-hued tip from the tanning lamps. The ex prime minister looked at it and breathed out. Then as he awkwardly lifted up the boxers with the toes of his left foot he loosened his red-tipped dick up by shaking it gently with his right hand, (common, big guy. It’s show time.) He went toward the shower.
After a few steps he noticed he wasn’t feeling the coolness of the marble floor on his right foot. He looked down. His right sock was still on. Mister B. shook his head in disbelief (I was sure I’d taken my socks off. Both socks. Didn’t I?) So he bent over to pull the other sock off as well. One of the many mirrors in the room reflected his flaccid rear as he did. It was smooth, Il Presidente’s ass. He’d made it a habit years ago to shave all his intimate parts, even though of late from time to time he’d forgotten to, resulting in what one of his ‘Daddy’ girls amicably described as his ‘fuzzy’ look. Il Presidente lost his balance and slipped a little as he reached for the sock, his hairless, flat rear wobbling in the mirror when he did.
Once he finally pulled the sock off he tossed it aside, reached into the glass-enclosed shower stall and turned the water on. After feeling the temperature, he adjusted the flow, making it warmer, and then turned his eyes back to the shelves above the bench on the other side of the bathroom. He looked straight at the bottom shelf to the right where the red and black jar that held his blue pills was supposed to be. The shelf was empty, (what the hell?)
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Il Presidente then scanned the shelves and there, on the third one to the left, high up, was his jar. (shit. It must have been one of those two new staff, those short, retarded Sardinian girls. I knew it. I just knew it. I should have waited and found some Philippines. They know service, goddamit, not Sardinians. Sardeenians, hahahaha, Sardeennians. Sardines are smarter than Sardinians. There’s gotta be some joke there, something about inbreeding and all those fucking Sardinian sheep.) Steam had begun to waft out of the shower, resulting in little beads of vapor forming on all the colder bathroom surfaces. Il Presidente waddled over below the shelves.
He stretched up with his hand, arching onto the tips of his toes to gain as much height as he had – which wasn’t much, and certainly not enough to grab hold of the jar. He sighed, (shit,) and stepped onto the bench. As he reached up again from the bench, a knock came from the door.
He hobbled down off his perch, grabbed one of the thick, clean white robes hanging on the wall and wrapped it around his wide torso. Then he opened up. Claudia was there, her white robe instead untied so that her pale breasts hung over and out when she leaned in, (brown nipples, firm tits. Good. I thought they’d be pink.) “Ciao. You know, it’s cold out here. Want some company?”
When she stepped in, Claudia’s robe opened just enough to give the prime minister a glimpse of her intimate parts. Claudia was shaved, just like he’d expected, (I knew it!) the slit between her legs visible and baby-like. “Certainly,” he answered, “but hold on a sec. I have do something first. You know how it is. Wait outside a minute.”
“Ah,” Claudia opened her eyes, a little surprised. She was used to men who couldn’t wait to pull off their clothes in their haste to penetrate her, particularly the first few times. She wondered if her usual trick hadn’t worked. Maybe he’d already seen it with another girl. After all, he was the Mister B., that Mister B. He’d seen a lot of girls. Claudia figured it was time to pull out a stand-bye. She tilted her head back, exposing her neck, closed her eyes slightly as she looked into his, let her tongue slip out again, pressing it against the bottom of her front teeth, and said “OK”. She spread her legs a little, making sure he had an unobstructed view at her shaved pussy, and pulled the door slowly until it closed. Then she turned and rested against it, hoping her trusted old neck and pussy maneuver had worked. She knew Il Presidente had chosen a series of well-rewarded favorites through the years. She was aiming to be the next. The latest, Irina, that slick Romanian bitch, had even managed to squeeze an apartment in New York out of the old geezer and Claudia was certainly prettier and better than her. Like, a way better fuck. And waaay smarter. She was Italian, after all.
After the bathroom door shut, Il Presidente turned to his right and stepped up again onto the bench. The steam from the shower had gotten thicker. He bent back a bit, reached up and grabbed the jar, was pulling it down when the jar slipped from his hands. Instinctively he tried to catch it before it dropped to the pavement, quickly twisting his body and shuffling his feet on the bench as he did so. His right foot slid on the bottom of the open robe that had gotten trapped beneath. Mister B. lost his balance and began falling from the bench.
As he did his eyes were still fixated on the jar – which in turn would fall and shatter when it hit the pavement, unevenly spreading blue pills all over the bathroom. Il Presidente would also hit the pavement but not before altering the path of his descent with his left foot. That alteration prevented his body from landing directly onto the floor, unfortunately for him, because then his fall would have resulted in a merely bruised ego. But once his foot deflected the trajectory, he instead found himself going backwards out of control toward the double sink. The lower back of his head wound up squarely finding the hard Ferrara marble edge of that sink, which in turn caved in a small but essential part of his brain.
As the rest of Mr. B.’s body then completed its downward path, his pace maker kicked in, giving him the subtle ‘boom-boom-boom’ sensation that he’d only felt a few times before: during a speech he’d given in Genoa, (was it Genoa?); once last August in Sardinia when he really had overdone it, (such fun, what a man, what a man, what a man,); and then after the keynote address at the party congress a few weeks ago. Each time his pacemaker had started up like a Toyota, convincing him even more of his invulnerability. (See. My heart is bionic,) he vaguely consoled himself as he landed with a muffled thud while the jar made a loud crash. He lay there motionless in the steam, the shower still running, as Claudia knocked and asked if everything was all right.
When she finally opened the door and saw his body on the ground she hesitated for the slightest of moments. Not because she was shocked or because she wondered if she’d still be getting an apartment in New York or anything like that. It was because Il Presidente’s bathrobe had fallen open to the side, leaving everything below his waist visible. Though his legs were about as hairy as she’d been expecting, she noticed his rear – wrinkled but with smooth skin, like a baby’s. Then she called for help.
link- Berlusconi in the Brain: https://www.ted.com/talks/iain_mcgilchrist_the_divided_brain/discussion