Page 2 of Beautiful Small Things

Once I’m sure I’ve milked every ounce of her pleasure, I withdraw and lift her in one swift movement, turning her around, bending her over the counter, and slamming back into her.

She lifts her head and watches me in the mirror as I thrust in and out in rough strokes. I look down at where we are joined and take a moment to appreciate the sight. “Your pussy looks so pretty stretched around my cock,” I say, again meeting her eyes in the mirror.

I’m right on the edge when I meet her stare. She bites her lip and gives me a half-smile as if she’s always known this would happen.

The arrogant look is my undoing. I release inside her in three wild pumps as she watches and smiles, rewarding me with another moan when she feels me empty inside her.

Afterward, I pull out and slump over, kissing her skin exposed by the partially backless dress, trying to catch my breath and get my brain to start working again.

She nudges me back as she stands, and without saying a word, she smooths the fabric of her dress back down her hips and wipes her smudged lipstick. She looks completely unaffected as if we didn’t just have the most cosmic, orgasmic experience ever two minutes ago.

She meets my eyes again in the mirror, and the look on her face morphs into a stern gaze. “Do not tell anyone about this. Ever.”

Then she turns and walks out of the restroom without another word, leaving me standing there with my dick still hanging out, wondering what in the fuck just happened.

Chapter one

The Letter

Iris

The Lochner Awards have been awarded annually since 1927 to living persons who have made significant medical contributions to medical science or who have performed public service on behalf of medicine.

You have been tasked with informing the committee why the candidate in question is deserving of such an honor.

I stare at the blinking cursor and consider the question. The prompt gives no other information. I would have assumed that an award that is essentially a precursor to the Nobel Prize would be far less vague.

I wonder if I simply type the sentence, “I am the only child of Marcus Sinclair,” they would ask me to elaborate. It would seem that should suffice. After all, I’m a notable figure in academic circles in my own right at the age of seventeen.

Marcus is known for many reasons. He’s over-the-top and larger than life. He gave me life. Ergo, he is a rad individual.

I type those exact words on the screen and smile to myself. The urge to hit “submit” calls to me like the salty sea air calls me when I haven’t surfed in several days.

Hitting that button may release endorphins to make me happy, excited, and sated. At least momentarily. But I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge.

The fact that the committee reached out to me for more information on my father is an honor. Not many teenagers are tasked with writing a compelling essay that will propel their parent into international prestige.

Ironically, my father doesn’t care about the award. When informed that he was being considered, he simply thanked the committee secretary, ended the call, and made a sandwich. I looked at him incredulously as he took a big bite, and a piece of lettuce found its way out of his mouth and onto his shoulder. He simply looked at me and mumbled, “What?”

That is what makes him extraordinary. His motivations and accomplishments are intrinsically motivated, with no motivation of honor or notoriety. He certainly doesn’t need the $250,000 prize money that accompanies the award. But I still want to give this task its due, because ultimately, he deserves it.

I push my chair back from my computer and stand, looking out the window over the courtyard. Gnawing on my pencil, I consider how far back I should go in this diegesis. Should I tell them my father’s life story? There’s so much more to him than people know. I have a broad knowledge of my father’s life, and I can always glean what I don’t know from those closest to him.

Although my IQ is 145, my memories start around the same age as everyone else. I have what is known as an eidetic memory, but even that is limited based on the brain’s ability to convert electrical and chemical information before the age of seven. I have flashes of early memory, more than most people, based on emotional responses and external stimuli, but it’s not as if I can recall the first days of my life.

For example, I don’t remember traveling through the birth canal, taking my first breath, or taking my first steps. I don’t remember my mother or being dropped off on my father’s doorstep at three days old. But the highly animated stories I asked my dad to recount repeatedly are firmly imprinted.

Shifting my weight to my hip, I wonder if they would be interested in my creation story. After all, I was abandoned by my birth mother and left with my unprepared and highly immature father. It’s a compelling rendering of who he is as a person, not just a famous physician and researcher.

He didn’t know what to do with me, and the first few years were challenging. Is that a story worth telling? I cock my head to the left and shift my eyes in the same direction, an automatic response to accessing the visual information from my memory.

Perhaps it’s interesting. I return to my computer and begin to type.

My name is Iris Raye Sinclair. You have asked me to tell you about my father from a perspective no one else can offer. I am excited to share his story with you, as I’m sure you will find him to be as fascinating personally as he is intellectually.

I have no intention of wasting your time or my own by introducing my father through statistics and public knowledge.

Everyone is aware that Marcus Sinclair is a prominent physician, researcher, and philanthropist. He won the Gideon Scheltzen Award last year for his work on Noprizon, a drug showing considerable promise in the treatment of pediatric lymphocytic leukemia. He has established his own foundation, the Prince Foundation, which awards other physicians and researchers for their work in pediatric oncology accomplishments.