Archive

Archive for May, 2015

Marissa: Act 1

May 31, 2015 Leave a comment

My name is Barbara Goldstone. I’m a sociopath.

I’ve kept my ex-husband’s family name because my maiden family name is from Eastern Europe, and a tortuous conglomerate of consonants. I was divorced from my husband because he was afraid of me. I was somewhat sexually experienced, and he was not. He actually asked me to teach him how it’s done. He was a wimp and I was a tramp, that’s why we married. He was afraid of women, and he lived at his parents’ home and worked in his family’s hardware store. No proper, sane man would have married me, so it was me and the wimp. After the divorce I got an apartment in a suburban triplex that my father owned.

I had moderate secretarial skills, so I took a job at a ‘temp’ company. They send you to different companies that need temporary office assistance. It’s mostly typing and filing… super boring. Before my marriage I did a turn as a stripper. I also had an abortion. So I was generally thought of as a tramp. Promiscuous, I guess I mean. I can’t help it because it’s what I believe: any person should be able to enjoy sex with any other person any time, as long as they both want to. I guess that’s a sign that I’m a sociopath.

It seems that a psychopath and a sociopath are really the same thing. I’ve always thought there was a difference though: a psychopath would kill and maim without feelings of remorse, regret, or any feeling, actually. A sociopath, such as I believe I am, will do selfish, cruel things with no feeling of any kind about it. The difference is the violence. I would never do physical violence of any kind, but don’t care much about other people’s feelings. I remember one time I was dating this guy and he told me he loves me. I told him I didn’t know what love is. I know now that I am not capable of knowing what love is. I’m a sociopath.

One time the temp company sent me on a job in a large advertising agency. I was to fill in for vacationing personnel in the secretarial pool on the third floor. It was the area where the account managers, account directors and account executives had their offices. Down the hall there were offices all along one side. That was the creative department where art directors and copywriters had their offices, as well as production department offices.

I seduced a couple of the senior account directors just for fun. One day when I was carrying a tray of coffee to the screening room, this guy from the art department came up behind me and cupped my breasts from behind. I was carrying the goodies tray, so couldn’t do anything. I wouldn’t have anyway, and Peter knew that. He could sense that I’m a dirty girl, but he couldn’t know I’m a sociopath.

Categories: exhibitionism, sex, whores Tags:

Lemonorange

May 29, 2015 Leave a comment

It wasn’t his real name. I just called him Lemonorange because the first time I met him he was selling fresh-picked citrus fruits on the roadside in Georgia. We were headed to Florida from Canada in November, and we were giddy with the pleasure of warmth and greenery all around us. Florida was just a few miles on down the road, and we were in no hurry to get there.

I drove within the speed limit on this secondary highway, just to be safe. I’d been stung by the Georgia Patrol before, and have reason to believe that they don’t conform strictly to the rule of law. The requirement to pay fines immediately, on the roadside, was enough to make me comfortable driving within the law. After all, I figured, it’s the right thing to do, anyway.

Something about the way Lemonorange looked, standing beside his produce cart in sagging trousers, soiled suspenders and tattered shirt, made me decide to stop to buy some fruit. The impression I got from him when I got out of the car was one of warmth, happiness and satisfaction. I approached his fruit stand and he rocked from side to side on his old, bowed legs and lit a path right to him with a broad, bright smile. His eye’s danced with mischief and his teeth flashed as he extolled the virtues of his oranges, lemons, limes, grapefruit and lemonoranges.

“What are lemonoranges?” I said. He picked one up from a box on his cart and held it out to me. “It looks like an orange,” I said. He chuckled with glee.

“She does, you’re right, sir. She surely does look like an orange,” he said. “You give one to your friend so he can bite into it… but you better be able to run fast.” He laughed heartily at his little joke. “They surely tastes like lemons, them lemonoranges.”

I looked up the long dirt driveway behind his fruit cart. I saw a 1963 Pontiac coupe with a big number 63 on its side. There were several commercial decals on the fenders that were too small to read at that distance.

“Is that your car?” I said.

“Yessir, it is,” he said, looking at it with pride. I watched his face. He was very fond of that old Pontiac. His face had the ruddy glow of a man who works outdoors. He must have been about sixty, with the creases and rivulets carved into his face by a life of work and satisfaction. Some older people develop a sour facial look, with a downward turn to their mouths. Lemonorange wasn’t like that. He was a fairly big man, about five-eleven, but evoked a feeling like he was an elf, a gnome, a playful rascal.

“Do you race it?” I said.

“Yessir, I do!” he said. “Every Friday night over to the speedway.”

“There’s a stock-car track around here?” I said.

“Sure thing! Two miles down County Road 6 to Gatton. On the edge of town, under the lights we race around a mile oval called Gatton Speedway. The next races are tomorrow night. If you ain’t on the run or nuthin’, y’all ought to stick around for the action.”

10. Beryl O’Flies – Confidential Investigator

May 26, 2015 Leave a comment

I assumed Bianca’s inappropriate offer of sex for favours was because she was an illegal immigrant. She must be in this country without a visa or other documentation. I believe her when she says she was pretending to change a front tire as she was instructed by her employer, Kimberly Rashid-Monterrain. I don’t think she knew that it was a setup as Beryl and I now believe it was. Rashid-Monterrain was putting Bianca’s life in danger because it was a murder plot.

We spent a week looking for the truck as described by Bianca. Of course, it’s understandable that she would have only vague information to give us because it was night, and the truck’s headlights would have blinded her until it passed. She could only tell us it was white, the kind with the flat front and a frame on the back that would normally haul an eighteen wheeler type trailer. So we searched for a white cab-over tractor type in body shops. We assumed that the truck would require repairs after wiping out an Alpha Romeo and a man’s life.

We split up so we could cover more ground in less time. I didn’t find the rig in any of the twelve shops I checked out but Beryl spotted it parked among trees behind a rural body shop. I rushed to meet her when she called to tell me. She waited for me before going into the shop to ask questions because she feared a killer might be there. I question her wisdom. What did she think I could do about it? I have nothing but a camera. ”If I take his picture, it ain’t gonna help.”

The shop was labelled “Mighty Rite coachwork repairs” by a sign in cracked and faded red, white and blue paint. Looking at the broken stucco that covered the exterior, I thought the owner must have a sense of humour. He boasted an elegant phrase like ‘coachwork repairs’ on a dump called ‘Mighty Rite’. I gathered my guts and led Beryl through a dented metal pedestrian door beside the huge, truck-sized overhead doors.

The interior was like a gigantic, dark cavern. It was crude, with greasy work benches along a wall and the obligatory calendars presenting naked girls pinned above the benches. On the left was a crudely fashioned cubicle of unpainted, oil stained plywood. Inside the enclosure was meant to be an office of some kind. I peered over the edge of the cubicle and saw a young man in greasy coveralls, sleeping in an old office chair with his workboot-shod feet on an ancient oak desk.

“Excuse me,” I said rather loudly. His eyes popped open and his first act after taking his feet off the desk was to pop a greasy cap onto his head. Through the grease I could see the logo ‘Carruthers’ on the cap.

“What! What?” he stammered. Beryl pushed me aside.

“Who brought that white truck in?” she said.

“What white truck?” he said.

“The one hidden in the trees,” Beryl said.

“Oh, that’s the one that little lady brought in,” the kid said.

“Lady?” Beryl and I said in unison.

“Yeah,” he said.

“What’s her name?” I said.

“She didn’t leave no name. All she said was that if we can fix it, we can have it.”

“Isn’t that a little odd,” I said.

“Damn straight it’s odd, but the boss ain’t gonna sweat too much over getting’ a free rig like that.”

“Describe the lady,” Beryl said. The kid looks at the ceiling and muses.

“First off, she was a really lush piece, y’know. A bit older, but still, really hot,” said the kid. “I figure she’s rich, not just ‘cause she gave away a valuable truck, but she was wearing spotless suede pants, jacket and boots that all matched. I don’t usually notice that stuff, but this babe was really sweet.”

“Anything else?” I said.

“A Volvo was waiting out front for her when she left, and it looked like another dish was driving it.”

9. Beryl O’Flies – Confidential Investigator

May 22, 2015 Leave a comment

Kimberly Rashid-Monterrain looked magnificent in a flowing white housecoat when we sat together in her salon. I had agreed with Beryl O’Flies that she should lead the questioning. She charged right in with the first suspicious clue we’d found at the car pound when we viewed the wrecked Alpha Romeo.

“How do you think it’s possible, Kimberly, that the right front tire of the Alpha in which your husband was killed was fully inflated when it was supposed to be flat and require replacement?” Beryl said.

“You’ll have to ask Bianca, the driver,” she said. And I set out to do that at once. I found Bianca in the mansion kitchen having a snack and coffee with Carmella the cook. I told Bianca that we had to talk about the day of the accident. She looked nervously at Carmella for a moment then turned to me.

“Not here, please,” she said. “Come to my quarters where we can talk.” I followed her to her ground floor suite where she had her own surroundings and easy access to the garage when a car was called for. She had a small parlour where she could read or watch television. She took my hand and led me into her bedroom. “I feel more secure in here,” she said. She was wearing her leather uniform pants without the jacket. She asked me to sit in a chair in the corner of the room. She knelt in front of me and reached to pull my zipper down.

“What are you doing?” I said. I pushed her away and stood up. “What’s going on, Bianca?”

“I want to show you how good I can be and all you have to do is leave me out of the investigation,” she said.

“I can’t do that,” I said. “You have to tell me why you had to change a right front tire that was not flat.”

“I was instructed by Mrs. Rashid-Monterrain to do that. Please, sir, let me pleasure you and forget about the accident,” she said.

“It doesn’t work that way, Bianca,” I said. “Who was driving the truck that destroyed the car?”

She swore she never saw the driver of the truck. She saw it coming fast up the shoulder of the road and leaped out of the way just in time. She stripped down to nothing while we talked. I told her to stop but she ignored me. She posed herself on the bed and I can tell you she was magnificent. I was obviously tempted to take advantage of the situation but thought better of it. I left Bianca looking gorgeous on the bed and wondered what kind of an idiot I was.

Categories: adventure, crime, sex Tags: , ,

8. Beryl O’Flies – Confidential Investigator

May 21, 2015 Leave a comment

I admit that I fell asleep in bed, naked, with two naked, desirable women surrounding me. The whole truth is that the ladies aroused me from my lethargy and we became a menage a trois. A good time was had by all. In the morning, the ladies were at ease and comfortable with the knowledge of our all-night antics. Women are much bolder than men, and I was quite embarrassed to be there with my two overnight lovers.

Kimberly Rashad-Monterrain left our suite in her mansion so Beryl and I showered together and made ready for the day’s work. She wanted to prepare for the interview with Kimberly, and I had a first step in mind. I wanted to go to the police auto pound to have a look at the wrecked Alpha Romeo in which deMonterrain had been killed. Beryl had to agree that it was a logical first step. We asked the head servant, Martin, to see if we could the driver to take us to the pound.

Martin went to see Mrs. Rashid-Monterrain. He returned a few minutes later to tell us the Bianca would bring the car around after we had breakfast. Kimberly didn’t join us as we breakfasted on an excellent cheese omelette. As soon as we finished our last cup of cappuccino Martin told us the car was ready when we were. Bianca held the door as we climbed into the back seat of the Volvo 760 that was waiting at the foot of the front stairs. Bianca closed the door and went around to get behind the wheel.

I was interested in watching the passing scene as we drove through Rome’s suburbs on our way to the completely destroyed Alpha Romeo. It had been folded up like and accordion by the truck that hit it.

“Were you the driver when Mr. Monterrain was killed in the car?” Beryl asked Bianca.

“Yes, I was,” Bianca said.

“So it’s lucky you weren’t also killed,” I said. “How did that happen?”

“I was out of the car, on the shoulder of the road to change a flat tire,” she said.

“What tire were you about to change?” said I.

“The right front. I was lucky, because if I had been on the left side of the car, I would have been destroyed for sure,” said Bianca.

I took a photo of all four wheels on the wreck. The left rear tire had been torn right off the car by the impact. I called Beryl over to show her something interesting… the right front tire was not flat. We elected to not mention this irregularity to Bianca until after we had completed an interview with our client. Something was not right in this death.

Categories: seduction, sex Tags: , ,

7. Beryl O’Flies – Confidential Investigator

May 20, 2015 Leave a comment

Dinner was, of course, delicious. We enjoyed squab with asparagus and a wonderful white sauce. The wine was a white dry, and seemed perfect with the squab. Conversation was cordial and casual. Kimberly Rachid-Monterrain did not shy away from speaking of her hard-working days as a model before the great film director and producer fell for her. Alberto de Monterrain was directing a French film about the life of a fashion model. Kimberly was cast in a background part, not much more than a daily. Monterrain saw her in the background and became obsessed with her. He pursued her until she caught him.

I thought it better to wait until morning to ask the hard questions of Kimberly. I begged off after dinner while Beryl O’Flies and Kimberly drifted into a gab fest as if they were teenaged girls. I was not really looking forward to the ‘interview’ with Mrs. Rachid-Monterrain. It was not going to be easy interrogating the gorgeous, wealthy and famous woman. It was made worse because I saw flaws that worried me in her statement.

In our suite I watched television for a few minutes to catch up on the news. There was nothing of interest to me so I switched it off and went to my shower. I then went straight to my bed and was asleep in just seconds. Jet lag had set in, it seemed. I don’t know how long I’d been sleeping when I was semi wakened by Beryl sliding into my bed and spooning against my back. It felt great to have those soft, warm breasts resting against my back.

She slung her arm over me and closed her hand around little Willy. Willy began to grow in her hand. My blood flow built up in the rush to lift Willy and I became aroused, sleepy no more. I rotated so I could feel her body, front to front with me. Suddenly I noticed that her fragrance was different. It wasn’t Beryl’s fragrance… it was Kimberly’s fragrance. I opened my eyes and even in the dark room I could see Kimberly’s famous face in a glow from outside the window.

Kimberly buried her face in my neck and seemed to be trying to melt right into me. Her long, slender body touched the length of me with gentle warmth that captured my emotions. I simply indulged myself in the serene pleasure of having her in my arms and dozed happily while I caressed her alabaster satin skin. I was lost in reverie when I felt Beryl get into the bed at my back. At the same time, Kimberly turned around and pressed her back against my chest and positioned herself so Willy snuggled against her vagina’s lips.

Beryl O’Flies spooned against my back, her substantial breasts giving me a warm, comfortable feeling. Here I was, with the magnificent Kimberly Rachid-Monterrain in my arms with her ass in my pubic hair and the substantial and sexually liberated Beryl O’Flies with her arms around me and my ass in her pubic hair. I wondered briefly if they had planned to do this when I left them chatting. I wondered a lot about what they expected of me. What was I to do in this wonderful situation? The answer came automatically – I fell asleep like a slice of salami between two rolls.

Categories: romance, sex Tags: , , ,

6. Beryl O’Flies – Confidential Investigator

May 16, 2015 Leave a comment

I quickly washed my face and hands. I dressed in a fresh pair of light grey pants, a white T-shirt and a black cashmere sport jacket. I went to the sitting room to wait for Beryl O’Flies. I walked around to peruse the fine art paintings in ornate frames and furniture more elegant than any I’d seen before.

Beryl emerged looking fabulous in an emerald green evening dress with a forest green wrap around her shoulders.

As we descended the curved staircase, Martin the servant appeared below us, ready to show us to Kimberly Rashid-Monterrain’s salon. We followed him across the vast entrance foyer which could have contained an average bungalow. Martin swung open the tall, arched double doors and stepped aside for us to enter. Ms. Rashid-Monterrain stood looking out a window with her back to us as we entered. She turned on her heel and strode quickly to us, her hands outstretched. I took her left hand in both of mine and Beryl had a proper handshake with her.

“I’m very grateful that you have made this long journey to help me,” she said.

“We’ll do what we can, Ms. Rashid-Monterrain,” said Beryl.

“Please, Beryl. I’ll call you Beryl, please call me Kim or Kimberly,” she said. She smiled at me, “You too. Call me Kim, any time at all.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Can you tell us about your suspicions now?”

“My husband, as you know, is… was the famous film director, Alberto de Monterrain. He was being driven to his studio in the Via Veneto when the driver detected a tire losing air and pulled off to the right shoulder of the six-lane AutoRoute. Alberto sat in the car reading his paper. It was still dark at six in the morning. The driver went to the right front tire and prepared to change the wheel for the spare. To get the tools and the spare wheel the driver opened the trunk of the Alpha Romeo sedan. Suddenly, the scene was lit up by the headlights of a large truck that was roaring up the right lane, straight at the parked Alpha Romeo.

The driver leapt back at the last moment before the impact. The truck was large and heavy. Its front bumper was almost level with the Alpha’s rear window. It was going fast, too fast, and when it impacted the Alpha, the car was crumpled and thrown like a child’s tin toy. The truck, unscathed, continued on and disappeared. We don’t know who was driving the truck or why they murdered my husband.”

“We’ll compile a list of questions, Kimberly, and come back to you for details and clarification,” said Beryl.

“That will be fine,” said Kimberly. “We can do that tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ll see you at dinner at eight. Bianca will come for you. I hope your quarters are comfortable.”