Mackenzie Grierson

"She named him Jonas?" I asked, surprised. "Isn't that a Germanic variant of John?"

"Yes," said Farah. "Elizabeth must have felt at least a bit guilty for what she did. She was obsessed with Jack and her son was her one permanent reminder of him."

"I suppose so."

"Jack served his term in the army, came out, and got a job in his father-in-law's corporate group. St. James got him to sign this permanent contract whereby he was paid nothing and everything he used and had access to belonged to the company -- where his wife Carmen had a major ownership stake. He wanted to rub Jack's nose in it, to make it clear that he was totally dependent on the St. James's."

"I'm so glad you killed him," I said with feeling.

"Jack rose rapidly by dint of his performance, St. James certainly did him no favors. He expanded the corporate group, bought into numerous high-tech sectors, and within ten years, he was the chief operating officer. He'd maintained his status in the army as an active reservist and when the surge was ordered in Afghanistan, he thought it was a chance to finally win the war. He was almost forty, far too old, but managed to convince the army brass to deploy him. Even though he was a senior corporate executive, his father-in-law blocked attempts to get him an officer's commission. Jack didn't care -- he went to Afghanistan as a sergeant -- his father's rank. He fought in the Valley of the Five Lions, the bloodiest battle of the war. He was wounded again, in hand-to-hand combat this time, a deep gouge in his shoulder with a knife --"

"I've seen that scar!" I exclaimed. "When he was in his swim trunks at our beach house. It's nasty!"

"Yes, he lost a lot of blood but refused to be evacuated. He held his forward position with just one squad for three days before they were finally relieved. He won the Silver Star for that action."

"My dad was man," I said.

"He was a hero," said Farah. "I talked to men who served with him. He saved so many others, took so much punishment himself, ..."

She choked up and could not go on. Tears ran down her cheeks. She cleared her throat several times before finally saying, "There. You know what I know. Everything else just fills in details; you can read those in my notes."

I put my arms around her, and we sat in a clinch for several minutes before I stood up to leave.

"I'm going to do this over again in a few weeks," she said. "With Jonas. I invited him to come down to New York from Boston. He agreed."

"What did you tell him to get him to come? Does he know who his real father is?"

"He knows Elizabeth Smythe's husband is not his father. I don't know how much he knows about Jack. But I'm going to tell him everything. Like I told you."

"May I meet him? After all, he's my brother, sort of."

"By all means. He's your half-sibling, like Noor and Darius."

"I have a crazy family," I said.

* * * * *

I did not go home from Farah's office. I went to the offices of Brewster Bailey Hamilton & Lovewell and approached the receptionist, a superbly made-up platinum blonde.

"I'm here to see Ms. Gretchen Lovewell," I said.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No. But she'll see me. Tell her Mackenzie Grierson is here to see her."

"I'll give her a buzz, please have a seat."

I sat in the waiting area and the blonde receptionist came over a few minutes later.

"She's in the corner office at the end of that corridor," she said, pointing. "She'll see you now."

I went down the corridor, noting the plush carpet, the mahogany doors and wall trim, the expensive-looking paintings on the wall, and the heavy furniture. The office reeked of money.

There was a set of double doors at the end of the corridor with a brass plate that read 'Gretchen Lovewell, Senior Partner'. I opened the door and found myself in an outer office staffed by an admin assistant.

"I'm here to see Gretchen," I said, purposely using her first name. "She's expecting me."

"Yes, please go in."

There was another set of double doors behind the admin assistant. I opened one, stepped inside, and shut it behind me. It was a massive corner office and I looked around, taking in the floor-to-ceiling picture windows that made up the two exterior walls, the enormous dark wood desk in the corner, the full conference table with chairs, and the booklined interior walls.

Gretchen sat at the desk. She stood up as I entered, and I walked toward her. She wore a very thin black chiffon blouse with several buttons undone, revealing the bridge of her black bra, a black silk choker, a tight, short skirt with a side slit, and black stockings. Her makeup was understated, and her red hair was brushed and shiny. Even though her advanced pregnancy was obvious, she still looked gorgeous.

She came around the desk as I came near and put out her hand saying, "Mackenzie Grierson?"

I knew she was a marathon runner, wiry and strong, but lean and light. She wore high stilettos, and I wore pumps with short one-inch block heels, but I was still considerably taller than her, and much stronger.

I had no firmly thought-out plan, but everything happened so naturally, it seemed like I did. I caught her by the throat with one hand and used my weight and strength to drive her back against the heavy bookshelf on one of the interior walls. I squeezed hard as I did this, choking off her cries and calls for help.

Once I had her back pressed against the leatherbound lawbooks, I squeezed harder, even as she struggled and fought. Her hands were on my forearm which was choking her, trying to free herself. But as my fingers tightened, her face grew bright red and she weakened, making gurgling sounds.

"You fucking bitch," I hissed. "You got my father killed. Your partnership in this firm is your thirty pieces of silver. Look at you, dressed like a whore, ready to be fucked by one of the other senior partners to keep your job."

The shock in her eyes told me my words struck home.

"Which one is it? I bet you're fucking Charles Bailey."

She took one hand off my forearm and tried to use her nails on my face but I easily batted it aside.

"My dad impregnated you. You're carrying my half-brother. That's the only reason I feel anything other than hate for you."

Her face was turning scarlet now, and her eyes were pleading with me. I loosened my hold just a touch to let her breathe.

"My dad made you cum, didn't he? I'm his daughter, I can, too."

"No, no," she wheezed with an edge of panic in her voice.

I put my free hand in the slit of her skirt and rucked it up around her waist. I traced my nails on the sensitive skin of her inner thighs between her stockings and her panties. Her panties were small, black, and lacy. I kneaded her crotch through them, under the overhang of her swollen belly. She disengaged one of her hands from my forearm at her throat and caught my wrist in her nether regions. But I knew I was too strong for her.

I worked her steadily, her thumb manipulating her clit through the lace. I felt her panties begin to grow damp and her clit grow into a hard, prominent lump. Her resistance began to fade, and I further relaxed my chokehold, allowing her to breathe a bit more freely. Her breath came in pants.

"Omigod!!" she said hoarsely.

I knew I had her where I wanted her. I pulled her panties down around her ankles to both give myself access and restrain her. Then I pulled her blouse out of her skirt and unbuttoned it all the way, exposing her black silk bra. In her advanced pregnancy, she had begun lactating and her small runner's breasts were fuller with mother's milk, though still extremely firm.

I pulled down her bra cups -- her nipples were dark pink and stood out, proud and hard. I knew she was getting turned on, for her struggles slackened.

I unbuttoned my own blouse and rubbed my breasts on hers. Our nipples touched, separated only by the thin silk of my black bra. Our nipples stiffened, stood out even more, and hers began leaking milk. I felt her milk dampen my bra.

I took a nipple in my mouth, pushed two fingers into her damp pussy, and choked her hard again. I thrust into her as I sucked, savoring creamy mother's milk for the second time that day. I worked my thumb on her clit, massaging, kneading, and stimulating.

She began to mew through my chokehold and her body began to twist in my grasp. Her hands ceased resisting me, and grabbed my head, her fingers entwining in my hair. I kept sucking and thrust into her harder and faster. She held me to her breast and her hips began to rotate and then judder.

I released my chokehold, and she began to cry out in German, her voice raspy from being choked, "Omigod! Omigod! Ich komme! Ich komme!"

I felt her pussy contractions on my invading fingers but kept up my tempo. I drained one breast and started on the other as I kept thrusting into her. I added a third finger to create a thicker invasive piston.

Beads of sweat formed on her brow and slid down to drip off her jaw. Her pussy was now copiously leaking her sexual juices. And she came again, a second orgasm more powerful than her first and her whole body shuddered. Her pussy gripped my invading fingers spasmodically like a fleshy clamp. She clung to me like she was drowning. Tears started from her eyes, and thin, watery fluid ran from the corners of her mouth and her nose.

"Mein Gott! Nimm mich! Nimm mich!!" she cried in a voice that grew thin with hoarseness. (My God! Take me! Take me!!)

Sated with her other breast, I released her. She slid down the booklined case to lie on the plush carpet, still breathing heavily. Her eyes were glazed, and she looked like she was in a stupor. This woman is a sexual animal, I thought. I can't even imagine how wild she must have been when my father fucked her brains out.

I pulled up a chair, sat down, and watched her. Her breathing slowed and she sat up, back against the bookshelf, legs splayed out in front of her swollen belly. She pulled up her bra cups and plumped her breasts in them. Then she pulled up her panties, patted them in place with a hand on her pussy, and stood up, unsteadily. She made her way back to the chair behind her desk and sat down, her blouse still hanging open.

"Is this what you want?" she asked, looking pointedly at my unbuttoned blouse and my bra. "To play at being your father?"

"No, Gretchen," I said, buttoning up my blouse again.

"I can have you thrown out now. And never let you near me again."

"You don't mean that. I can see in your eyes that you want to see me again."

"Fuck you, Mackenzie! You're so like your father -- your manner, your looks, your calm self-confidence; the way you can make me act like a wild woman, cum so hard! I hate you!"

"You're saying I've got Jack Grierson in me," I said, pleased.

"Yes, you're incredibly attractive, just like him. And mesmerizing."

"You think I'm pretty?" I asked.

"You're beautiful! But I'm not a lesbian!"

"Neither am I."

"You could have fooled me," she said scornfully.

"I just wanted to show you what I can do to you. It's just the first step in punishing you."

"What's the next step? You want to kill me? Like Farah killed St. James?" (See my story, See my story, Farah's Revenge: Reginald St. James.)

"No, Gretchen. Killing you would be too easy, almost merciful. I want to make you suffer for what you did. But I won't have to do much -- you've already done most of it yourself."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll give birth to Jack's daughter in a few weeks. And bring her up are your own. That lovely girl will be a reminder of him, just like me. Every time you look at her loveliness, you'll recall your treachery to her father. And when she is old enough, you will tell her what you did -- for if you don't, I will. And your daughter will hate you, just like me."

"You think I loved your father?"

"Did you?"

She slowly buttoned up her blouse and looked out of one of the picture windows. I followed her eyes to watch a ferry crossing the river to New Jersey.

"I never knew where I was with Jack," she said. "When he first forced me to cuckold my husband, I thought I hated him. But almost as soon as he was gone, I wanted him again. When he took me again -- so violently, you can't imagine -- I was writhing, twisting, resisting, fighting, but he knew, he just knew I didn't want him to stop. He impregnated me and was gone again. That was Jack. When he was with me, when he was in me, so deep, so very deep, he became one with me, and I needed him to make me whole. But I knew I couldn't keep him." She paused. "You asked me if I loved your father. Does it even matter?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. But you miss him. You want whatever's left of him. That's why you agreed to see me today."

"Your name isn't obviously female. But you're just his daughter, not his son."

"I'll see what I can do about that, Gretchen," I said, standing up. "I'll be back."

* * * * *

By the time I got back to the beach house in New Jersey, it was past eight. Mom and Kenny had already eaten but there were leftovers for me on the kitchen island. I made up a plate and went out on the deck to eat. The sound of the waves on the beach was soothing. Mom came out and took the lounge chair by mine and put a hand on my arm.

"I was worried about you," she said.

"Worried I'd crash your Porsche?"

"Of course not. You were all by yourself in the city and wouldn't answer my texts or calls."

"I didn't want to."

"Why?"

I didn't answer and kept eating. I didn't look at her but I knew she was looking at me.

"Why?" she asked again when I finished eating and put my plate and fork on the wooden planking of the deck.

"You have some nerve, asking me that."

"I don't understand."

I turned to her, and she saw the anger on my face and in my eyes.

"You stole my father, Mom! You made me think this fucking loser, Kenny was my father. A man I've been ashamed of since I was a little girl. When my real father was ... was ..."

I started crying. Mom stood up, sat on my lounge chair, put her arms around me, and kissed my hair, my cheeks, my eyebrows.

"It wasn't my choice, sweetheart. That's the way Jack wanted it. He wanted you to have a stable family. He didn't think he was good enough for you."

"Not good enough? Are you kidding?"

"That's what he thought. He wanted you to have everything he never did -- a loving mother, opportunities to excel that were denied him, to be wealthy and coddled. That's why you have a trust fund, while he never had a penny to call his own."

"Why did you do what he asked? You knew he was wrong, you must have known! You kept him to yourself, denied me my wonderful father. You spent a month in Switzerland with him when I was ten -- supposedly on business. But it was a vacation with him, wasn't it? From which you excluded me."

"We did do a business deal in Zurich," said Mom defensively.

"Was that all?"

"No," she admitted. She looked out at the waves for a while. "Jack took me to Zermatt, we stayed in a little cottage in the mountains for a few weeks. On a whim, he decided to climb the Matterhorn while we were there. I sat on a hotel balcony along with hundreds of other tourists and all of us watched him climb up that sheer cliff face. I was scared shitless that he would die, and I would lose him."

"Jack was a climber?"

"Of course. He was in special forces -- he said climbing was a lot easier without anyone shooting at him."

"Did he fuck you that week?" I knew my tone was nasty.

"Yes, several times a day."

"Did he impregnate you?"

"Yes."

"Why don't I have a sibling?"

"I lost the baby. At four months. It broke my heart. And his."

There was another silence.

"Jack climbed the Matterhorn," I said, my voice tight. "On a whim! This is the father you kept from me! The father I never got a chance to know. You bitch!"

I stood up, stormed off the deck, and into my room. I slammed the door so hard that the walls reverberated. Kenny came by a few minutes later and tried to come in but I had locked the door.

"What's the matter, Mack?" he asked through the door.

"Go away, Kenny," I said. I had called him 'Dad' my whole life, but I knew I never would again.

"But darling --"

"Just go!" I shouted.

A few minutes later, there was another soft knock, and Mom said, "Please let me in, Mack."

"No," I said.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I wish there was something I could do."

"You never loved him," I said, spitefully. "You just used him, like so many others."

I was crying again and let the tears run down my cheeks without wiping them.