Back To The Stars: ROMANCE: ALIEN (Alien Invasion Abduction SciFi Romance) (Fantasy Anthologies & Collections) (55 page)

Chapter 3:

So in case you’ve been living under a rock for the past 20 years, let me fill you in on who exactly Dylan Powell is. During the begins of the computer age, there were three key people who moved the industry forward and into the homes of millions of Americans. They were Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, and Dylan Powell, albeit his innovations would come decades after Gates and Jobs . Most people know who both Gates and Jobs are. I mean, even if you don’t own a computer or a smartphone or any other kind of electronic device manufactured in the last 20 years, you know who Gates and Jobs are. But, without Dylan Powell, neither one of those men—or their iconic companies—would exist, especially their mobile divisions.

You see, Gates and Jobs's teams mostly concentrated on creating the hardware of their various machines and they more or less outsourced the software development to Powell and his team of code monkeys. Luckily, unlike the teams that worked with Gates and Jobs, Powell didn’t work for peanuts and held onto the copyrights of all of the software he developed for both companies. It was only after the personal computer boom was in full effect that he sold out to Bill Gates and Microsoft for a cool $5 billion dollars. The sale of his products was one of the tech booms truly legendary stories, especially since 6 months after, the dot.com bubble burst and Powell came out of it completely unscathed.

After that, Powell started more than a few successful startups, but none of them in the tech industry. He opened an airline, a publisher—he was also one of Amazon’s earliest investors—a chain of movie theaters and was one of the top financiers of two incredibly popular streaming services. Yes, Dylan Powell is a true capitalist hero in every sense of the word. But on top of all those money making accomplishments, he’s also a dedicated philanthropist who supports several climate change and underwater preservation organizations. Like Gates, he was the type of billionaire who you couldn’t help but admire for all they’d done for the world other than just exploit it. So when mother asked me to come and meet my new, soon to be step-father (Albeit he was only two years older than I was. Yeah, it’s kind of gross), there wasn’t a chance and hell I was going to say no.

But one thing bothered me about the whole situation. How did mother meet Powell and how the hell had he been caught under mother’s spell? I, of course, couldn’t resist asking her this as we made the cross country trip in one of Powell’s—and now my mother’s—dozen or so private aircraft.

“Do you remember the plot of land Kyle owned in Tennessee?” She asked.

“The Ranch? Of course, I remember it! Kyle and I spent a few weeks every summer there.”

The “Ranch” as Kyle called it, was 3000 acres of pristine, undisturbed forest and wetlands located in northern Tennessee. Kyle had grown up on the land in a small house that his great-grandfather had built and subsequent generations add onto over the years. And when he heard the state was planning to sell the land off to developers, he swept in and offered double the price what the developers were buying it for, and the state wasn’t about to turn down that kind of money. It was easily one of the most beautiful areas of the country I’d ever stepped foot on. Suddenly, I started internally fuming, wondering if mother had decided to sell off the land?

“Well,” she continued, “last year I decided to turn the whole thing into a nature preserve dedicated to Kyle’s memory. One of Dylan’s organizations maintains the area, so we met on the day of the dedication and have been together ever since.”

Who was this woman standing in front of me? Had Powell’s influence changed her so much that now at this late stage in her life she had somehow developed a soul? We spent the remainder of the trip discussing her new life with Powell and all of the causes they sponsored together.

As we began to descend down to the Powell compound just outside of Hartford, Connecticut, I marveled at the vast green swaths of land and the massive mansion equating right in the middle of it. I’d never seen such a large home before. It was hard to believe that only my mother and Powell occupied it.

As we departed the jet, we were greeted by Powell and perhaps the single most handsome man I’d ever seen.

Powell and mother gently kissed one another. She then turned to me and made my introductions.

“Dylan, this is my daughter, Emily,” She said.

“It’s very good to meet you at long last,” Powell said as he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek, which lingered just a bit too long. Not that I minded, because when it comes right down to it, I knew that Dylan Powell was the man of my dreams.

Chapter 4:

Thanks to my mother’s various divorce settlements—and from a small inheritance from my grandparents—my mother has always been well-off. But the fact is that well-off is the type of money that you can blow through during an extravagant weekend in Las Vegas. It’s what most American’s would consider rich, but the truly wealthy consider it nothing but pocket change. My mother has always aspired to be one of the truly wealthy, the elusive 1%, and now she was. All of her base wants and needs were now completely fulfilled and you could tell that she was bored to tears by it. With Mother’s ambitions now completely fulfilled, the spark of life had now left her. There were no more challenges, and even though she would never say it out loud, she passionately hated it. Her pursuit of her ideal was what drove her, and now that she had it in her grasp, she found it utterly abysmal.

Personally, I found Powell to be absolutely fascinating. Yes, I had been around money all of my life, but nothing like this. The 1% do live differently than the middle class. For most people, every moment of the day is about survival. You don’t go to work because you enjoy what you do for a living, you go to work because you need to eat, you need to keep a roof over your head and clothes on your back. But with everything the 1% does, it has no value to it, because it is nothing but a leisure activity. Work, play, volunteering, it’s all one in the same to them; they’ve made their money—or their grandparents or parents did—so therefore they don’t have to contribute to society if they don’t want to. They can spend their days confined inside of their homes, never venturing into the outside world and never having to worry about a single thing.

Admittedly, Powell was far humbler about their wealth than I imagine most of the 1% are. Dylan came from a middle-class background like Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg, well off, but not rich. He understood the struggles of everyday people, even though his parents were able to provide him with a house in a good neighborhood and send him to good schools and had most likely never gone hungry a day in his life. But he understood people worked hard, and he’d instilled his moral beliefs in his son. So much so that Dylan was incredibly passionate about income inequality and the need for a fairer society, and he did everything in his power to make it fairer.

A month after I arrived at the Powell compound, Dylan hosted a charity gala/birthday party for himself. Dylan’s birthday parties were legendary because of the sheer number of people who showed up for it. Actors, musicians, scientists, and politicians came from all over the world to pay their respect to Dylan and, of course, drink and dine on the finest food the world had to offer. But along with being a decadent evening of celebration, but it was also a $15,000 a plate fundraiser that benefited several of Dylan’s charities. Growing up—when all of these social events still mattered to me—I dreamed of attending one of his parties. They were basically the Moby Dick of social occasions and invitations were highly sought after even though they came at such a hefty price tag.

Being the newest member of the family, I was acting as a co-hostess along with Dylan. We were put front and center and greeted each of the guests as they arrived by limousine or via the Powell’s private airfield. As each guest entered, I was literally star struck because I knew that nearly 80% of the world’s wealth was present. These were people you read about in celebrity magazines, or in financial journals and on television talk shows. These were people who not only populated the dreams and aspirations of most Americans, but they were also held up as our finest examples. After everyone had arrived and Dylan and I retired to the party, I almost felt drunk.

The whole of the night was a blur. We sat down at the head table and dinner and hundreds of gallons of champagne were served.  People kept coming to our table wishing Dylan a happy birthday and I would smile and speak with each guest as they waited their turn. At one point in the evening, I was speaking with the both the President of the United States and the Prime Minister of France at the same time! Before I knew it, dinner was over, and Charles and I were on one of the 3 dance floors that had been set up for the party.

We had chosen the north lawn dance floor that feature a full brass orchestra that played music from the 30’s and 40’s; lots of Benny Goodman and Duke Ellington. Dylan had been the one to ask me to come out for this particular band, which surprised me, considering that one of the most famous DJ’s in the world was playing on the south lawn.

“I wanted something quieter,” He whispered into my ear, “something where I could hold you in my arms.”

My mind suddenly went blank with what he had just said. Had he been having the same feelings I’d been having? Once I finally gathered my wits, I stared into his eyes and asked:

“What did you say?” As if his words were some kind of auditory hallucination.

“Ever since I met you I can’t stop thinking about you, Emily,” He said as he led me off of the dance floor. “Every minute of the day, you occupy my every thought.”

My head was swimming as he led me from the dance floor and towards the woods surrounding the properties. I had no idea where we were going and I didn’t care as long as he was with me. We walked what like seemed for miles until we arrived at a  green clearing, the night sky bright and silvery from the full moon. Dylan turned to me, my hands in his.

“Emily, I know—“I stopped him with a deep and sudden kiss. I didn’t want any more words, I only wanted him on top of me, buried deep inside of me. I pressed my body against his and felt his weighty bulge threatening to rip through his pants. I pushed him away, never taking my eyes off of his and unzipped myself from simple, elegant black party dress, letting it fall to the ground and puddle around my heels. He stared at me, his eyes taking my body in all at once, his hands exploring the ivory smoothness of my hips and suddenly, his mouth was on my breasts, gently, playfully nibbling and tugging at my nipples. My panties were suddenly soaked through as he began to trace my clit through them.

I pushed away from him and went to my knees. I quickly unzipped his pants and pulled his member through the opening and greedily took it into my mouth. The heady, earthy taste of his penis filled my mouth and with each stroke I took it deeper and deeper down my throat. I began to taste the thick sweetness of his sperm and I quickened my pace. Suddenly, with a shuddering moan, I felt his thick seed explode down my throat. He tried to pull out, but I forced him to stay put as I milked him dry; I didn’t want to waste a drop.

As I continued to stroke him, he practically ripped himself out of his tuxedo. Once he was completely naked, he pushed me down into the dewy grassy and buried his face between my legs, his tongue moving hot and fast across my clitoris. I grabbed two fistfuls of his thick brown hair and pressed myself hard against his mouth as my first orgasm shuttered through my body. He then buried two of his fingers inside of me as he licked, the soft pads of his fingers finding my secret place and I thrust myself hard against them, the pressure becoming almost unbearable with the need for release.

Just as I was about to climax again, he scrambled on top of me, pushing his hard shaft deep inside of me and I spasmed hard. My juices erupting out of me, soaking us both from the waist down. I had never experienced an orgasm so intense in my life. I wrapped my legs tight around his back, willing him to go deeper and harder inside of me. I felt his pace quicken, and I pulled his mouth to mine, our lips hungrily devouring each other, and then I felt him explode deep inside of me, his seed filling me to overflowing and my eyes filling with stars.

Chapter 5:

It was the morning after our first time together that mother announced the exact date of when she and Dylan were to be married.

After breakfast, I stormed up to my room—or the room I was staying because there was no way I would be staying here permanently—and locked myself in. Charles and I were supposed to go mountain biking, but, obviously, those plans were now very canceled.

How could he do such thing to me?

How could he use me like that!

I’ll admit that during my high school years, I played multiple boys against one another and at the time I thought it was incredibly funny. But that was high school, you almost expected that kind of behavior from girls, but not from a fully mature adult! But I guess people really don’t change all that much, they just get older, but not wiser.

I started shoving my sparse belongings into the duffel bag that I had brought with me. Even though mom and I were becoming closer than we ever had been, I had to go back home to California. I had to get away from the Powell compound and back to the life I knew, where men were my servants and not the other way around. My life had been perfect and I had utter and complete control over myself. I had been a fool to come out here and an even bigger fool to allow myself to become involved with Charles.

As I packed, I heard a light tapping at the door and I heard Charles’s voice on the other side of it.

“Emily, are you in there?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

I rushed to the door, wanting nothing more than to fling it open and beg him to stay with me. This thought made me feel weak like I had no control over my emotions, and I wasn’t going to have that anymore.

I opened the door and Charles stood there, stooped over like a broken man.

“Emily please let me—“But I cut him off before he could go any further.

“Don’t you have a wedding to plan,” I said coldly and then slammed the door in his face.

***

I left the Powell compound without saying a word to anyone.

Without a doubt, I had overstayed my welcome and it was time to go back home, my real home, the one that I had made for myself with help from no one. As the cab took me to the airport, I couldn’t help but start mentally kicking myself over what a fool I’d been. Life had been so good for me out in California. It was simple, straightforward, and I was the one who was entirely in control. I let in who I wanted to let in. True enough, there hadn’t been that many people who I had allowed into my life and that was perfectly fine with me.

The fact is, I’m the type of woman who’s perfectly fine without people cluttering my life. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t like people, I just happen to be a lot happier when there aren’t a lot of them around. This was particularly true when it came to men. Men were a burden, pure and simple. So many people—particularly the mainstream media—who paint women as being emotionally needy; of constantly needing reassurance that they matter, especially when it comes to relationships. But in my experience, it was the exact opposite, it was men who needed to be coddled and handled with kid gloves, otherwise you would collapse their fragile egos and their internal vision of themselves. Women were the strong ones and men the week.

Maybe it hadn’t always been this way? Maybe at one point in history men were the stronger personality, the dominant ones. But something had changed, it had shifted when we started having men examine their “feelings” too much. What had happened to the John Wayne’s of the world? The Clint Eastwood’s? Had we, as women, poisoned the well of manhood because we wanted our men to be more like us? Or maybe they had always been exactly like us and they were just plain better at hiding their emotions and not wearing them on their sleeves like women always have?

I know I’m starting to sound like a militant feminist, but I was angry. I was angry that I had gone to the Powell compound with mother, I was angry that I had allowed someone into my closely guarded world, I was angry that I had been lied to (By the way, not being told something is the exact same thing as lying.). But most of all, I was angry because of how much I wanted to let someone in. I wanted Dylan, and for me, that was my greatest sin, that I actually wanted—needed—his love.