PART 11 - HOME MOVIES
I sat back with my champagne. Miles prefaced the footage with a little family history lesson.
We’re gonna start at the beginning with how I met Bear, he said. I was a Freshman in High School at St. Andrew’s in Boca. My older sister, Dani, was a senior.
The massive Panopticon screen winked on to display what looked like drone footage of a mansion somewhere in Florida.
This was our house, said Miles. Or one of our houses. My family is a bunch of uber rich Jews. Predictable, right? Some kind of international shipping business. I could go into detail but who the fuck really cares.
The footage changed and now we were inside the mansion flipping between cameras monitoring the various living rooms, kitchens, saunas, pool, bars, foyers and bedrooms. The place was enormous.
I was a really smart, really bored kid with a lot of money, said Miles. “So I started to get really into filmmaking. Or at least documenting. Recording absolutely everything. Our house had its own security system, of course, but what my family didn’t know about was the secondary camera monitoring system built and installed by yours truly.
Miles did a little curtsy with a flourish. His cheekbones, his big blue eyes. He was really very pretty.
I watched everyone. The drivers, the maids. My mom, dad and especially my sister. I literally have thousands of hours of footage, but I made this edit years ago to help streamline the explanation process if I never needed to show the story to someone sitting right where you’re sitting.
And have you ever showed this to anyone? I said.
Well. One person. I’ve showed it to Bear. But he doesn’t really count.
I snorted. So why me?
Miles smiled. Let’s just say, I have high hopes for you Brooke.
We kept scanning through the mansion until the footage landed in the downstairs home theatre. Stretched out like a lithe cat on a big sofa watching Gossip Girl reruns was none other than teenage Miles. He still looked exactly the same.
Mile laughed. Good lord. Hey there. It me.
I asked him how old he was.
Fourteen. I’ll never forget that year. It was the year he came to live with us.
At that moment teenage Miles looked up from the couch and smiled. Because entering the frame from off-camera was none other than Bear.
I dribbled champagne down my chin.
Is that…?
Oh yes.
Of course, it wasn’t Bear as I knew him now. He was much younger, more slender like a swimmer, not nearly so built, but still tall and chiseled with the unmistakable swagger. His hair was longer, dark and wavy, a few strands swinging across his face. No beard. No chest hair. A beautiful boy in swim trunks.
This was one of the first nights Bear lived with us, said Miles. Study abroad exchange from Brazil for his senior year. He could hardly even speak English back then.
Sure enough, when Bear opened his mouth his accent was super heavy, his speech faltering. It was so sexy to see this boy and to know what he would become.
In broken English Bear asked if it was alright for him to use the pool.
Teenage Miles sat up on the couch. He gave Bear his full attention.
Yeah man of course, whatever you want. It’s your house too. You want some company?
No, it’s no problem, said Bear. Just for a workout.
I grinned at Miles. You were all about it!
Girl, fuck yeah. Look at him.
I stared at the screen. A perfect Adonis just waiting to become a Viking king. He was gorgeous. Long and lean, smooth tan skin. And under this trunks…I shuddered to think. A chill up my spine. I thought I knew where this might be going, but I was wrong.
Bear left the theatre and the footage on the screen switched to camera feeds following him down the long marble hall, through the locker room and then outside to a green-lit Olympic lap pool.
As soon as he left I grabbed my iPad and started watching him on the cameras, said Miles. What you’re seeing now is the same as what I was watching unfold in real time that night.
Bear stood at the edge of the glowing pool. His skin luminous in the warm Florida night air. The camera zoomed in close. As he stretched, you could literally count his abs.
I heard he was actually a pro-surfer for a while in Brazil, said Miles. I mean just look at that body.
I was looking. I was drooling. This was already the best porn I’d ever seen and no one had pulled out their dick.
Bear launched a perfect dive and swam the length of the pool underwater, flipped and went into a breast stroke. He was definitely a strong swimmer, chewing up the yards. He didn’t seem to tire.
The picture cut away to the front of the house. The exterior gate. A black BMW pulled into view and the gate swung open. The sedan shot toward the house, swerving over some topiary landscaping, clipping an electric lamp pole, skidding around the circular drive and stopping just shy of smashing into the garage. The driver door popped open and a girl tipped out, landing on her hands and knees.
Miles lifted his glass of champagne. And now, he said. Let’s have a big warm welcome for my sister. The one and only.
Dani Rosenberg.
Balancing on the car door, she pulled herself up, wobbling on six-inch black Loubuitton heels. She wore a white backless bodysuit and black leather skirt, hair cropped short kinda like 90s pixie cut. As the camera pushed in I could tell she was super fair. Pale, milky skin. Big eyes and a red mouth. Very petite with almost no breasts whatsoever and a narrow waist. But where the bodysuit met the skirt her hips flared out dramatically, suggesting what I thought might be a serious ass pumped up in the heels. She was definitely a babe. She was also definitely white girl wasted.
Dani fell three times trying to walk to the front door. Finally, a young Cuban woman in an apron appeared at the service entrance, lifted Dani up and helped her inside. Then she went back and shut off the BMW, which Dani had left idling with the lights on.
That’s Layla our cook, said Miles. She made the best paella.
Inside the house, the cameras showed Dani laughing hysterically, bouncing off the walls, careening down the hallway toward her bedroom on the second floor, which was the size of a small apartment.
Some people might say it’s morally wrong to have secret cameras in your sister’s bedroom,” said Miles. But those people didn’t have Dani for a sister. So fuck them. Our parents stupid spoiled her. Look at her closet.
Dani stumbled into her room and peeled off the heels, tossing them into a massive closet stacked floor to ceiling with enough red-bottoms, Balmain & Birkin bags to pay off your first mortgage. She opened a box on her vanity and pulled out what looked like an ounce of chronic in a glass jar. Even in the video you could see the pristinely frosted orange-haired buds.
Homegirl did whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, said Miles. Our parents were in China or Tahoe or New York or wherever way more than they were in Florida. The only supervision we had were the maids and cooks, but Dani always paid them extra to keep their mouths shut. By the time I was a Freshman she’d fucked basically dude at St. Andrews. I had to hear about it from everyone. Guys wanted to be my friend just to get at that ass, because look –
Dani loaded a gorgeous white ceramic bong with a fat nug and took a rip. She put on Drake and started dancing around her closet, admiring her array of Gucci, Burberry, Versace and Goyard sacks. More bong rips, more clouds. Then she unzipped her skirt and let loose one of the most immense asses I’ve ever seen. Heavy mounds of smooth porcelain flesh bouncing on thick thighs. Her body was almost a perfect pear shape. It was the kind of ass you could definitely see from the front. Not sculpted or toned, just fucking huge. The kind that swallowed the bodysuit whole. And now she was wiggling, dancing, tracing the outline of her pussy.
Goddamn, I muttered.
I know,” said Miles. Now you see the situation we’re dealing with. You can probably guess where this is going.
Sitting on that couch, watching Dani dance to “Non-Stop,” and factoring in what my own experience had taught me about Bear, I could definitely make an educated fucking hypothesis as to what lay in store for young Dani that night.
It made my palms sweat, my pulse quicken, my clit tingle.
More champagne, please.
