Mackenzie Alexandra Lovato (Grierson)

I think of the day my mom, Amy McAdams, revealed that Jack Grierson was my real, biological father, as the first day of my adult life. I spent the next several days thinking and looking up information on the internet. So many things that had never made sense before began to make sense. Even though Mom was five foot ten, I was a full inch taller, nearly six feet tall. Mom’s husband, Kenny, was only five foot eight and I’d always wondered where I got my height from. Jack was six foot four. Mom was super athletic and had been a varsity swimmer in college; I was on volleyball and basketball teams, and also rowed crew in high school; I had a college scholarship to row in the women’s eight at a prestigious Ivy League university, coincidentally, the same one that Jack had attended for two years. Kenny couldn’t even throw a baseball straight, whereas Jack was a superb athlete, super fit. It made so much sense that Jack was my dad – and the more I thought about it, the more I was relieved that Kenny was not.

A week after Mom told me, I went to see Farah Hojjat, Jack’s long-time executive assistant. She had set herself up as a consultant with an office in a tower in midtown. When I went in to see her, she sat behind a desk with a picture window on one side. There was a crib in a corner with her baby son Darius and her four-year-old daughter Noor was sitting on the sofa coloring a book.

She rose from behind her desk and gave me a hug.

“Mackenzie! How lovely to see you. What brings you into the city?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” I said. “About my father. About Jack.”

“Oh.” Her expression grew serious. “Sit down, darling. This will be thirsty work, so let’s have some tea. Or would you prefer coffee?”

“Coffee, if it’s not too much trouble,” I said.

Farah buzzed her intercom, and her admin assistant came in. She was a young Hispanic woman.

“Tea for me, Rita,” she said. “And a coffee for my guest. How do you take it, Mackenzie?”

“A latte would be great,” I said. “But just black would be fine, too.”

“Tea and a latte,” said Rita, turning and leaving.

“Did you ask your mother about Jack?” asked Farah, after the door closed.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“She knew him for a long time. But you’re the one that did all the research on him. You know more about him than anyone.”

“You’re a clever girl, Mackenzie.”

“Call me Mack. All my friends call me that.”

“What’s your full name?”

“Why?”

“You’re Jack’s daughter, so you’re special to me.”

“My birth certificate says ‘Mackenzie Alexandra Lovato’. That’s Kenny’s last name, he’s Mom’s husband. I really can’t think of him as ‘dad’ anymore.” I paused and my brows knit. “But that’s not who I am.”

“No, you’re Mack Grierson.”

“Yes.”

Rita returned with the cups, gave them to us, and retired. Farah sipped her tea. My latte was very hot, and I blew on it before doing the same.

“It will be a long morning.”

“I don’t have anything else to do. But you probably do.”

“For Jack’s daughter, everything else can wait.” She reached forward and put a hand on my arm. “I will probably cry, many times. I’m just heartbroken. And angry, so very angry.”

“I know,” I said. “You killed Reginald St. James.” (See my story, Farah’s Revenge: Reginald St. James.)

“Self-defense,” she said automatically.

“Of course.”

“Now then,” she replied, recovering her poise and tapping a few keys on her computer. “You already know a fair bit about your father. You know he impregnated Professor Elizabeth Anne Smythe after which she falsely accused him of sexual assault, forcing him out of college. You know that he joined the Army as an enlisted man, was selected into the Special Forces, and deployed to active war zones all the around the world.”

“Yes,” I said.

The baby Darius began to fuss, not loudly, but gurgling with increasing emphasis. Farah went over to his crib and picked him up.

“I’m sorry, Mack. He’s hungry, I’m going to have to feed him.”

“Go ahead,” I said. “You’re a mom, that’s your most important job.”

She unbuttoned her blouse, revealing a wispy, translucent silk and lace bra. She pulled down a cup, exposing the plump globe crowned by a thick, meaty nipple. There was a bead of milk in the nipple pore. Baby Darius’s eyes lit up when he saw it and he eagerly took the meaty teat into his mouth. His eyes closed as he began to suckle.

I found the scene strangely erotic, and my eyes were drawn to Farah’s other breast, still covered by her thin bra cup. I saw a small circle of wetness around the clear bump her other nipple made in the thin fabric, indicating where she had leaked milk.

“May I?” I asked. I couldn’t understand why my voice was hoarse.

“May you what?” she asked.

“May I suckle on your other nipple?”

Farah looked at me through her glasses, and I couldn’t read her expression.

“You like women, Mack?”

“Not particularly. I just want to join my half-brother at your breast.”

She pulled down her other bra cup in a mute offering. I went down on my knees by her chair and ran my tongue over her firm milk-engorged breast. Her nipple grew harder and longer before my eyes. I tongued it drawing the tiny milk seepage into my mouth. It tasted sweet and made me want more. I began sucking and worked my tongue around her nipple at the same time. A stream of creamy milk spurted into my mouth and Farah sighed deep in her throat.

“Oh, Mack!” she purred.

She unbuttoned my blouse and traced the line of my black silk choker ribbon. Her fingers teased my nipples through my black bra, causing them to stiffen and poke out through the thin fabric.

“You have the breasts of a bra model, Mack,” she whispered.

I kept suckling and put my hands on her firm breast, gently massaging it to milk her. The rich flow into my mouth increased and Farah kept sighing. I suckled and kneaded her breast till I felt the flow begin to slacken and sat back on my haunches.

“Do you want me to go down on you?” I whispered.

“Have you gone down on a woman before?” she asked.

“No, but I want to please you, make you cum.”

“You’re talking like your dad.”

“I’m glad.”

“Would my pussy turn you on?”

“You’re an attractive woman, Farah, so it wouldn’t repulse me. But it wouldn’t turn me on, either.”

“Then no, Mack, I don’t want you to.” She put her fingers in my hair, drew me up to my feet, and kissed me on the lips before whispering, “You’re stunning, Mack, a girl just turning into a woman. You have your father’s animal magnetism. All men and many women will be drawn to you, they won’t be able to resist you. So you must be careful and choosy when deciding who to let into your bed.”

Darius was done and fell asleep. Farah returned him to his crib, and came back, plumping her breasts into the cups of her bra.

“Don’t rebutton your blouse,” I said. “You’re incredibly sexy with your bra uncovered like that. I like looking at you.”

“All women like looking at other women,” she replied, leaving her blouse hanging open.

*

“Let’s go on,” said Farah, after she reseated herself. “Jack’s father was Sergeant Henry Grierson, he’d qualified as a Ranger, but was serving in a special NATO unit based in England. That’s where he met Jack’s mother, Lady Amanda de Waynflete-Beaumont, the daughter of Lord de Waynflete, the 12th Earl of Beaumont.”

“Wait, Jack’s mom – my grandmom – was a –”

“Not was, is. She’s very much alive. She’s married to the Duke of Airor. Your grandmother is a duchess.”

“Fuck!” It escaped me before I could stop myself. “Oh, sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s quite understandable,” said Farah with a smile.

“How did Jack’s dad –”

“Long story but can be told very simply. In England, Henry Grierson participated in some joint exercises with the British Coldstream Guards regiment. Amanda’s younger brother, Edward de Waynflete-Beaumont, was a young subaltern in the unit – it’s famous for being chockful of British aristocrats. Henry led a crucial surprise attack that outflanked the British and the Americans won the mock battle. Edward took it badly and accused Henry of using unfair tactics. There was some pushing and shoving that led to a fight. It was a fair fight, but one-sided. Edward was no match for Henry and was thrashed.”

“That couldn’t end well,” I said.

“Of course, not. In addition to being an officer, Edward was extremely well-connected. Henry Grierson was a nobody and striking an officer was a major issue. The American military was going to break Henry, put him in the brig, and throw away the key. But Edward persuaded them to let him off on the condition that he apologized. Henry refused.”

“How do you know this?”

“I talked to some British celebrity press people, and they gave me leads to reporters that covered the story at the time. I also got several photos of Henry Grierson from American military records.” Farah drank the last of her tea and looked out the window before continuing. “Amanda sent her maid to the barracks where Henry was cooling his heels before his sentencing and asked him to come to her hotel.”

“Whatever for?”

“Amanda had seen him in the altercation with her brother. He was very good-looking and had that animal magnetism that he passed on to his son. I can only conjecture that was the reason.”

She tapped the keys on her computer, brought up pictures, and turned the huge screen on her desk toward me on its swivel stand. There were three pictures, and I recognized my grandfather Henry, and grandmother Amanda immediately. Jack was a clear blend of his parents. He had his father’s chiseled chin, and distinctive brow, along with his mother’s aquiline nose, dark hair, and bright gray-blue eyes. Both his parents were spectacularly good-looking, and Jack combined some of their best features. Even on the cold computer screen, I could see Henry’s appeal and Amanda’s beauty. Edward looked haughty and looked out of the screen with an air of superiority.

“How old are they?” I asked. “In those pictures?”

“Henry is twenty-three. Amanda is twenty-two, and her brother is twenty-one. Close to the ages they were when they met.”

“Just kids,” I said.

“Says the girl who’s eighteen,” teased Farah.

“When people have these titles and long names, I always assume they’re old.”

“A fair assumption,” responded Farah, judiciously. “In any event, Henry arrived at Amanda’s hotel to find an exclusive ball in progress. Her parents, Lord and Lady de Waynflete, had thrown it to entertain the top British and American brass. He wasn’t an officer, so the guards wouldn’t let him enter the hotel. He was on the point of leaving when Amanda saw him and escorted him in. Her parents were furious.”

“A bunch of stuck-up snobs,” I snapped, angered on behalf of my newly discovered grandfather.

“Indeed. All societies are like that, the sooner you learn the better. Thanks to your mother’s success, you’re upper class, and won’t have to fight battles like that.”

“Mom’s success is all because of Jack,” I said.

“The fates were cruel,” said Farah sadly. “They allowed Jack to elevate and rescue everyone around him. But not himself. All he owned when he died was his father’s watch.”

“My dad was a prince,” I said fiercely. “No matter what anyone else says about him.”

Farah reached over and petted my hair.

“Your mannerisms are so like his,” she said. Her voice was soft, and her eyes were moist. “No one could doubt you’re a Grierson.” She cleared her throat. “To go on. When Amanda stopped her parents from having Henry thrown out, they got her to take him out of reception hall, out of sight.”

“How kind of them,” I said, sarcastically.

“She took him up to their hotel suite. Once there, she tried to get Henry to agree to apologize and get off. ‘I won’t apologize,’ he said. ‘Not for beating up your brother, and certainly not for fucking you.’ He knew she wanted him – and he acted on his instincts. She fought him, but he mastered her at the cost of being raked and bloodied with her nails. He carried her to her parent's bedroom – it was the biggest one – rucked up the skirts of her evening gown, tore off her panties, and went down on her with his mouth to her nether lips.”

“How did reporters get these details?”

“Her maid was there. She sold her story to the papers. She said her mistress was wiggling and struggling in Henry’s grasp. When they asked her why she didn’t summon help, she said, ‘But my lady was crying out, Oh my heavens! What are you doing to me? I’m cumming!’ Then Henry moved up on her, and her maid described his erect organ as being the largest she had ever seen – gigantic, veined, more like metal than flesh. ‘I feared for my lady,’ she said. ‘When he began to push that massive phallus into her. She screamed and screamed, but then he smothered her mouth with his and muffled her.’ They asked her what she thought she was seeing, and she said her mistress had orgasm after orgasm, over and over. Thrashing, sweat covered, her gown around her waist, her bra pulled down, her stockings undone.”

“You sound like you know what you’re talking about,” I said.

“Jack fucked me so many times,” said Farah. “I know what it’s like to be cum so hard and repeatedly that time and space lose meaning.”

“You’re such a good storyteller, Farah,” I said. “You’ve got me excited.”

She laughed before going on.

“Lady de Waynflete came up to find what was keeping her daughter. She arrived just as Henry climaxed and began gushing his heavy load of semen deep into Amanda. His cock was buried deep in her daughter’s pussy, and his tongue probed deep into her daughter’s mouth, as she twisted and bucked and came yet again with him. Lady de Waynflete shrieked her outrage, Henry and Amanda had to come down to earth quickly, get their clothes back on as best they could. Her daughter immediately claimed she was sexually assaulted, and Lady de Waynflete was absolutely beside herself with rage. However, she was an experienced society lady – she knew that no lawful punishment meted out to Henry was worth the ensuing scandal and the damage to her daughter’s reputation.”

“So everything was just smoothed over?” I asked.

“Not at all,” said Farah, her anger evident. “Amanda wanted him, there could be no doubt of that. It’s why she invited him, why she took him up to the privacy of the suite. I’m willing to bet he gave her the most pleasure she has ever had in her life. But she couldn’t bear the thought of people knowing she was with a man she considered so far beneath her. She fell in completely with her mother. Lady de Waynflete had Henry spirited out of the hotel through the service entrance and returned to his barracks. She swore her daughter to secrecy and kept her husband and son in the dark. She was unaware that Amanda’s maid had witnessed the whole thing.”

“Good for the maid,” I said. “She got the whole story out in public.”

“Yes and no. The maid sold the story to the papers, so she made money. But the Beaumonts are a powerful family. They got the story killed to protect their daughter – it was never published.”

Farah paused, poured herself a glass of water from the carafe on her desk and drank before going on.

“Both Henry and Amanda were strongly affected by the encounter. He tried to see her again, and she tried to send him messages. But her parents would not allow it. Neither of them could get through the cordon of security her parents put around her. He accepted what she wanted him to do, swallowed his pride, and apologized to her brother. His disciplinary hearing was canceled.”

“But I get the feeling all was not well,” I said.

“No, it wasn’t. A few weeks later, Amanda discovered she was pregnant. Her parents put enormous pressure on her to have an abortion. But she must have had strong memories of how she had conceived the child. One can only assume that these memories were not unpleasant. She flatly refused to terminate the pregnancy. Her parents took her to Switzerland under the pretext that she had contracted a rare illness. They kept her sequestered in a private Swiss clinic. That’s where she gave birth to Jack. The only record he kept of his origin is his Swiss birth certificate. It’s got his official name, the one his mother wrote down for him – John Henry Beaumont Grierson.”

“My father was born in Switzerland? And carried Beaumont in his official name?”

“Yes. The Beaumonts repudiated Jack, but they can’t deny his Beaumont blood – he can trace his descent to King Edward III, just like they can.”

“Wow!” Royalty was just theoretical to me, the sort of thing I saw in movies. But my father actually was descended from the kings of England! And through him, so was I!

“Amanda’s parents took the newborn from her – they literally tore baby Jack from his mother’s bosom – and brought him back to England. They gave the baby to Henry saying, ‘This is yours.’ That was it. Jack never saw his mother again.”

“Didn’t she try to see him?”

“At first, she was prevented from seeing him by her parents. But as the years passed – I’m conjecturing here – she began to think it was best for her to pretend she’d never had a child.” Farah paused and cleared her throat. “As soon as Henry got Jack, he was posted to a non-family high-risk station in the Middle East. Even as a baby, Jack spent considerable time in Army foster care. Even so, by all accounts, Henry was a model father and Jack worshipped him. The Beaumonts...