Read Shameful Reckonings Online

Authors: S. J. Lewis

Tags: #Erotica

Shameful Reckonings

Table of Contents

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Shameful Reckonings

by S J Lewis

ISBN:
978-1-939916-28-0

A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication

Copyright © 2013, All rights reserved

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the publishers.

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Giancarla

Chapter One

Giancarla stood up on her toes, wiped the mirror clear with a hand towel, and leaned close, looking for any trace of wrinkles around her dark brown eyes. Even in the steamy warmth of her bathroom the edge of the sink felt cold against her thighs and belly. She turned her head from side to side, contemplating her appearance. She could see no wrinkles, and felt relieved. It was a little foolish, she knew. She was only in her mid-twenties. Any wrinkles should be years and years away yet. But all of the trophy wives in her husband’s circle of friends obsessed over the least sign of a wrinkle, and she supposed she had caught some of that insecurity from them.

She giggled at her reflection in the mirror. Those trophy wives were all a couple of years older than she was and seemed to have been turned out of the same mold: Tall, thin, pale, blonde, blue-eyed and loaded with silicone and collagen. The blonde hair was probably as fake as their tits. It was almost always an off-white color that Giancarla doubted ever appeared in nature. She herself had thick, dark brown hair that showed off reddish highlights whenever the light caught it just right. Her eyes were large, liquid and a brown so dark that they almost seemed black. She had an olive complexion. She was not especially tall. In fact, she considered herself a little on the short side for a woman. She was not especially thin. Her hips and thighs were nicely rounded, but nowhere fat. As for her tits… well, they weren’t really especially large, but on her small frame they looked it. Someone might honestly make the mistake of thinking that they were fake, but they weren’t. She was rather proud of them, even if it meant that time and gravity were not going to be her friends. She had nothing at all in common with all those other trophy wives except for one thing. Like them, she was very high-maintenance. It seemed only fair that her husband should lavish money and presents on her, given how much time and trouble she had to go through in order to keep herself youthful and attractive.

She sighed. For the past several months she’d been wondering just why she was going to all that time and trouble. Nicholas spent so much time traveling on business now that they hardly ever saw each other. He called her every night from wherever he was, and on the rare occasions when they were alone together he still had that same hungry look in his eyes for her. The problem was that she got to look into his eyes so infrequently lately. He kept telling her that his absences were both necessary and temporary. Once or twice he had tried to explain why this was so to her, but business talk always bored her immensely. She listened to his explanations without paying attention. In the meantime, she was alone and lonely. Didn’t Nicholas realize that a passionate young woman such as herself had needs and desires? She was certain that he had a mistress somewhere to satisfy
his
needs and desires, but he was clever enough and probably devious enough that she had nothing even approximating proof. There was never a whiff of another woman’s perfume on his clothes, never a trace of another woman’s lipstick, never a stray long hair – or short hair – where it shouldn’t be.

She turned away from the mirror with a sigh. She wondered if the other trophy wives were similarly treated. None of them ever spoke of it to her. Hardly any of them ever spoke to her at all. She supposed it was because she looked so different from them. Even though they were all in the same circumstances, she stood out. If they did not exactly shun her, they certainly didn’t go out of their way to seek her company. The only conversations she ever had with them were about hair, nails, health spas and health clubs.

She faced the long mirror set on the back of the bathroom door. It was still steamed over from her long, hot morning shower and her reflection was indistinct. She wriggled her shoulders, enjoying the feel of her breasts waggling slowly back and forth from the movement. That used to drive Nicholas wild. She hadn’t done it for him in quite a long time, partly to punish him for being away so much. If he apologized for that, and started paying her the attention she deserved, maybe she’d start doing it for him again. It wasn’t fair that he had all the money and power in their relationship, while the only power that she seemed to have was sex, and for that to have any effect she had to keep herself fit, trim and attractive. She had to do all the work! She sighed again. She had a busy day lined up. It was time to get dressed. She wrapped a towel around herself and opened the bathroom door.

She had her own bedroom suite and had decorated it to suit herself. Nicholas had once mentioned how expensive her tastes were. She’d pouted and sulked for a week until he had relented. The make-up sex had been wonderful, the more so because it had happened only when
she
had permitted it. Giancarla gave herself a moment to get used to the cooler and much drier air of her outsized bedroom. She couldn’t quite suppress a shiver as that air came into contact with her skin. The chill only lasted for a moment, but it, and the contact of the rough terrycloth of the towel, was enough to make her nipples swell. She doffed the towel and let it drop to the floor. The house had a maid: She might as well have some work to do. The previous maid had been very meticulous and efficient, but also far too young and attractive for Giancarla’s peace of mind. At her insistence, a much older and heavier woman, Octavia, had replaced Janine. While she now was unworried that Nicholas might have an affair with the maid, Giancarla found that she had simply replaced one problem with another. Octavia moved slowly, spoke slowly – English was not her first language – and seemed to think slowly. She also had a habit of never placing any of Giancarla’s clothes in the same place twice.

This particular morning she had to search through every dresser drawer to find her tennis outfit. For some reason, Octavia had elected to put it in the lingerie drawer underneath all the bras and panties. Giancarla suspected that the older woman had some personal dislike for her, and these small annoyances were the way she expressed that dislike. In return, Giancarla made a point of giving Octavia more work than was necessary. Sooner or later she’d have to have the woman replaced, but at the moment Giancarla had too many other things on her mind. If she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for her tennis lesson. She rummaged through her lingerie drawer, searching for a bra. There were plenty of them in the drawer, but most of them were made to enhance her cleavage. None of them would be suitable for dashing back and forth across a tennis court. She found her white sports bra over in a back corner of the drawer, took it out and put it on. It flattened out her breasts dismayingly, but it also held them firmly and securely. Next came a thick pair of white cotton panties. They weren’t very sexy, but the skirt of her tennis outfit was so short that it made them necessary. On the other hand, she turned to look at herself in the full-length mirror on the wall, the panties did mold themselves to her rump very nicely. They covered up a lot, but sometimes less really was more.

Time was wasting. She donned the rest of her tennis outfit and stuffed a change of clothes into a gym bag. The last thing she picked up before she left her suite was her tennis racket.

Nicholas rarely let her drive herself anywhere. He said that it was for her protection, and he might have a point there. He was wealthy enough that his wife might be an appealing target for kidnappers. On top of that, he came from an old noble family in Eastern Europe. Officially, he was a count. Giancarla rather liked thinking of herself as a countess or would it be contessa? She wasn’t sure. Nicholas never flaunted his title, and he frowned upon his trophy wife if she did. It was probably just as well. The family estate, so far as she knew, had been reduced to a crumbling old castle somewhere in the Balkans and a handful of small towns that performed small services for or sent small gifts to the family from time to time. These were kept up more out of tradition than out of any actual power that the family had to compel the towns to do it. Nicholas was an astute businessman, though, and had found markets for some of the things that the towns produced. That worked even better than tradition to keep the gifts and services coming. The countryside surrounding the towns had many vineyards, for example, and Nicholas had arranged to import the local wines, with his family’s name on every bottle. It was a small thing, but guests were always impressed when those wines were served to them. It had been a thrill to Giancarla as well, at first. Since then she had learned that being a countess, even if only by marriage, tended to limit what she could do. Like now. She liked driving, but her husband insisted on her having a driver any time she went to one of her regular appointments. The driver was a big, burly bald man who habitually wore a dark suit, a white shirt, no tie and sunglasses that hid his cold, grey eyes. She only knew him by his first name: Boris. He looked more like a bodyguard than a driver, but as long as Giancarla didn’t wander out of his sight for too long he stayed in the background and didn’t interfere too much with her social life. Still, she always thought of him as being in the way. She also suspected him of spying on her for her husband.

He also wouldn’t talk to her. Oh, he’d answer questions politely, but “Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am” made up most of his vocabulary. If she went shopping, he was always with her, and he always politely but firmly refused to carry any of her packages.

On the one hand, this constant shadowing of her was annoying. On the other hand, she’d noticed that none of the other trophy wives she knew ever got any of the same protection that she did. Maybe if they were kidnapped their husbands would just write them off and order another, younger model from wherever they got them. There must be plenty of young women willing to get implants, injections and dye jobs to step into the pampered, privileged lifestyle.

Boris was waiting for her, as always. He helped her into the car, a long, black Cadillac sedan and put her bag and tennis racket in the trunk like he always did. One thing he didn’t do like he always did was drive her to the country club. It was only ten or twelve miles away, but somehow he’d found many different ways to get from here to there. If Giancarla had any interest, she could have seen different landscapes and neighborhoods every time Boris took her to her tennis lessons, but the novelty of the thing had worn off long ago, after Boris had politely but firmly refused to tell her why he did things that way.

There was a parking spot at the club reserved for Nicholas, but Boris never parked there. Giancarla thought that this was not only silly but a downright nuisance, because when they used the visitors parking area it always meant a longer walk to the club facilities. And could she just take her stuff and walk there by herself? No, she couldn’t. She always had to wait until Boris got her gear out of the trunk and handed it to her, and he always walked along with her, a big, ominous shadow in dark sunglasses. It wasn’t until she’d actually entered the main building that he gave her any room at all. Even then he was always around, lurking somewhere in the background. The one place she could go where he wouldn’t follow was the ladies’ locker room, and even though she always came here dressed for her tennis lessons that was the first place she always headed. Well, she had to put her change of clothes somewhere, didn’t she?

She had a locker reserved for her. Boris had suggested that she not use it but store her stuff in a visitor’s locker instead. She had thanked him for his suggestion and then ignored it. Security was one thing, but paranoia was quite another, and what was the point of a locker with her name on it if she couldn’t use it? She tossed her bag into her locker and sauntered out onto the tennis courts. She checked her watch on the way. She was just on time for her lesson.

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