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The Black Lion – act 3

June 28, 2015 Leave a comment

It seems strange even to me that my favourite time is when I’m at home alone in my tidy little apartment making preparations. My legitimate press certification enables me to search in some exclusive websites that civilians can’t access. On this occasion, I learned of a man who had a wife and a mistress. He beat the wife and treated the mistress like a princess so I did some research. He was a bigshot music producer that usually worked on movie soundtracks.

I dug into Arturo Miodotti’s personal life. He lived with his beaten wife on a palm tree shaded street in Beverley Hills. The home on Malibu Beach is enjoyed by his mistress. She’s a married airline pilot who’s enjoying two lives. She has the luxury of Miodotti’s Malibu Beach House at one end of her travels and a lovely town house on City Island in New York at the other end. That home was shared with her husband of five years, Chad Thornton, a financial journalist.

I’ve always wondered why, when a man or a woman is a cuckold he or she goes after the other man or woman. That seems weird to me, because the other person, the lover, has made no covenant with the cuckold. The spouse or mate or significant other might have made a vow of exclusivity but the external lover made no such agreement. In fact, the lover might be unaware of the other’s commitment. Even if he or she is aware that the other party is in a committed relationship, it shouldn’t have any power over the lover’s actions. If a wife wants him, if a husband wants her and it’s reciprocal, why not?

I once had a boyfriend who believed it was right for a man or woman to simply enjoy sex anywhere, anytime with anyone. This dork couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t marry him.

The best information for me in Arturo Miodotti’s personal life is that he takes walks on the beach alone, from sunset until darkness falls. I descended to the water’s edge to wait in the darkness. I saw him in the glow from the windows of surrounding homes when he was returning to his own place. He was unable to see me in my black lion costume. I wanted to be seen as a man so my boobs were strapped down. I’m almost six feet tall, so my size would be believable as male. With the hood over my head the black wool shag hung like a male lion’s mane.

I followed silently and when he ascended the stairs to the entrance I bounded up behind him. As he slid the glass doors open he heard me and turned. When he saw me, like a black lion reared up to strike, he shrieked and turned to run inside. I jammed the Taser into his lower back. He straightened up, got rigid and fell on his face just inside the door, vibrating like a tuning fork. I closed and locked the door and dragged Arturo into a bedroom. I assumed it was his because the walls and ceiling were all mirrored. I took off my hood and stripped all the clothes off of him. When he was stark naked I tied his hands to the headboard and his feet to the footboard. He was beginning to stir so I drew a chair up beside the bed and watched him wake up.

“Who are you,” he croaked. He tried to rise and discovered his bindings. Then he discovered he was stark naked. He looked at me. “What’s going on?” he said.

“Do you hit your wife?” I said.

“What’s it to you?” he said, and tugged at his bindings. “I’ll get you for this. I recognize you now. I’ve seen you on that crappy news show.”

“Well, you’re quite a dramatist,” I said. “What might it mean that I don’t care if you know who I am, but I take care that no one else knows who I am?” He thought about that for a moment. He began to thrash and tug to break his bonds.

“It means you’re going to kill me,” he said.

“That’s right,” I said. I brandished the Black Lion branding iron before him. “But first…”

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Categories: cuckold, lover, malibu Tags: , ,

The Black Lion – act 2

June 28, 2015 Leave a comment

I got a bit of a lucky break. I hadn’t known that the three victims had lived with black girls before they married white girls. When the police announced it, it was the first I’d ever heard of it. That had nothing to do with the fact that they had to be stopped. Their lives had to be stopped. The cops will now be trying to figure out what might have motivated the perpetrator. They will soon find out that their former relationships with black lovers were not motivation to eliminate them. The next victim will have no personal relationship with a black woman, I’m sure.

I was in a perfect position to follow the police activities as they investigated the murders of three prominent and popular men in the small, exclusive enclave of Malibu Beach. A neighbourhood of movie stars, movie moguls and other sorts of overly wealthy people. As crime reporter for a relatively obscure cable news show, I was welcomed into many official places where I might otherwise be banned, while still reporting hard news.

I’m not going to pretend, at least with you, that I am unaware of one very important reason why I have access. I have been blessed with a good face, good complexion and good figure. When I enter the detectives’ offices, conversations cease and several pairs of eyes are drinking me in, obliterating whatever it was they were discussing. I just had to greet a couple of the guys and go over to the coffee machine and they would resume their conversations. I sat at the small table in the rest area and just listened. When I heard talk of a case that interested me, I memorized the information.

At home alone in my small apartment I eagerly read all I could about crimes on the Internet. Sometimes there were stories of behaviour by wealthy senior executives that should not be tolerated. Sometimes they abused women, sometimes they abused children, even sometimes abused their own families. The authorities are not able to respond to many of these abuses because of laws and because of lack of evidence.

I know when I reported the rape that was done to me, little action was taken. I was nineteen when three bikers kidnapped me and took turns with me all night. When they took me home, I couldn’t walk. They left me on the front walk of my parents’ home but I couldn’t walk to the door. My father came out to take the garbage to the curb and he found me there beside the road. I don’t know if the police tried to find my rapists or not. I didn’t care, because I was going to do it myself. I wanted to.

The Black Lion – act 1

June 24, 2015 Leave a comment

Malibu Beach is exclusive, but lately it seems not as exclusive as the rich and powerful residents might prefer. One mysterious murder in the beachfront community set the pot to simmering under the local homicide authorities. A second homicide along the same stretch of exclusive Pacific Ocean shoreline set the stew to bubbling. When the third victim showed up, we had a rolling boil bubbling fiercely as the California Bureau of Investigation was called in.

The community was stirred up, and when this community gets stirred up, officials act. Along this strip of prime real estate are homes that belong to dot-com billionaires, movie stars, producers, directors and a few writers. There was the question of connection among the victims, and there certainly was, from several points of view. One thing is obvious to all: each victim was very wealthy and powerful. That’s the only kind of people who can afford to live there. Each victim was a white male and owned a self-earned fortune. No inheritors or lottery winners among the three. One thing that might be involved is that each was known to have lived with black women for several years before eventually marrying white women.

I was following the cases for The Malibu Story, a local cable news show. My name is Angel Cooper and I want to be a major crime reporter. I graduated journalism at Tulane at the top of my class. I chose to work on a small cable show because it’s Malibu Beach with all the special people. I hope to someday work for a major network. These three murders on my territory might be my ticket to ride. I look right with my café au lait complexion and fairly Caucasian features. From the neck down, I have nothing to worry about for visual appeal.

I was among the mob of journalists when the Chief of Police made his statement about the murders. They were quite certain they’re connected with each other, he said. As usual, they gave out as much information as they thought they safely could. They always hold back a vital piece of information, so if a suspect mentions the holdback fact, they know they’re looking at a participant in the homicide.

In this case, the holdback info was much more interesting than usual. In this case, every victim was found face down on his bed. Each was completely naked, with his mouth filled with his own underwear and gagged firmly with duct tape. I was the only person other than the police that knew all the details of all three murders. Most interesting of all, each had been branded on his right buttock with a silhouette of a black lion.

Autopsies revealed that each had been branded with a hot branding iron before he was killed. That explains the overstuffed mouths taped over to muffle screams of agony. Obviously, the perpetrator intended to inflict a lot of pain before ending the victims’ lives. How do I know all this if the police didn’t release the information?

(to be continued)

Unscheduled Meetings (conclusion)

June 17, 2015 Leave a comment

Riding down the Champs Elysees in a cream-coloured, classic Mercedes cabriolet was a rare experience. Add to that the fact that behind the wheel was an elegant, beautiful older woman and I was enjoying an experience very few men would ever have.

“Do you want to go to your hotel,” the lady asked, “or somewhere else?”

“The hotel will be fine, if it doesn’t take you out of your way, thank you,” I said.

“Nothing is out of my way,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“David Goldstone, what’s yours?”

“Rita Schwartz,” she said. “You’re Jewish, aren’t you.”

“Not really,” I said. “My parents were Jewish, so my heritage is Jewish, but I was in my teens when I became certain that there’s no god and religion is a very lethal thing.”

“So you’re an atheist,” said she. She manoeuvred the large Mercedes off the busy main streets that were crammed with traffic. Suddenly we were cruising along beside the river, the wind tousling our hair. I didn’t know where I was when suddenly she made a left turn and I saw the magnificent golden statue of Joan of Arc in the square in front of my hotel. She’s the reason the hotel is named the Regina.

“Thank you for this,” I said. “I’d have been in a fix out there alone. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “You can thank me enough. Don’t forget, you’ve already given me a stack of euros when I was destitute.”

“Anyone would have done it,” I said. She looked at me sharply. “In Paris? Are you crazy?”

Rita Schwartz guided the open cabriolet gently up to the curb in front of the Regina. The doorman strode up quickly and opened the door for me.

“Il est agréable de vous revoir, madame Luxembourg,” the doorman said to the woman.

“Merci, Gaetan,”she said and switched to English. “Take care of my young friend, won’t you?”

“Of course, Mrs. Luxembourg,” He said.

“You said your name was Schwartz,” I said.

“I lied,” she said. Laughing heartily with a sound like musical bells, she drove off in the direction of Boulevard Honore.

I was tired. It had been a long day. I put the rich lady out of my mind and realized that I hadn’t eaten properly since sunrise. I hadn’t even taken much from the craft service table. I called down and asked for supper to be sent up to my room. Grilled trout, baby potatoes, green beans and coffee were on their way.

My room was fabulous. All the other guys on the shoot stayed on the fifth floor because the elevator stopped at the fifth floor. But there’s a sixth floor and that’s where I wanted to be. My deck was like a section cut out of the roof so I could pass through the French doors and look down into the courtyard. The walls were thick with ivy and tiny yellow birds flitted in and out among the greenery. Far down at the bottom of the courtyard a few people were enjoying drinks at small tables in the open air. I could almost smell the Pernod.

My supper arrived. I barely looked at the server in the white jacket while the meal was laid out on a table on the balcony. I was looking across roofs and saw the backs of some buildings where people were on their small balconies, relaxing after a day’s work. I looked down at the table setting. It startled me to see that it was laid out for two and I was dining alone. There was a bottle of Crystal Champagne that I had not ordered cooling in an ice bucket. I looked up to question the server. It was the woman from the Mercedes.

“What’s going on here?” I said.

“I thought it would be fun to share supper,” she said.

“Mrs. Luxembourg…”

“Please,” she interrupted, “call me Cecillie.”

We shared what turned out to be a terrific meal with a view over the rooftops of Paris. I had this exciting woman across from me, and I just decided to enjoy it. I don’t usually drink, but I put aside my usual rule and shared the really fine wine with her. Of course she became even more attractive as the bottle emptied, and simultaneously my inhibitions diminished. It didn’t matter that she was twenty years older than me. She was exciting, funny, and damn good looking for any age.

Cecillia was also relaxed by the excellent Champagne. When supper was done, she rolled the cart out of the room. I wondered how she’d got it up the stairs from the floor below where the elevator ended but didn’t say anything.

My room was “L” shaped, and around the corner from where I was on the balcony I couldn’t see her. A moment later she came into view wearing my terrycloth bathrobe.

“I’m going to shower,” she said. “Care to join me?”

It was a huge shower, all small white tiles everywhere but the ceiling. There was room for five people in there, but it was just the two of us. She shrugged off the robe and handed it to me. She walked off to the bathroom proudly naked. She looked marvellous, to be honest. Her age was visible, but not unattractive.

I stripped down right there in the living room and entered the bathroom naked. The shower hissed and steam swirled in the open area. I stepped under the spray face to face with her. She took my face in her hands and drew me to her kiss. I took the soap and lathered her whole body. Slowly, with the hot water dowsing us, I explored every inch of her body, spreading lather over her satin smooth skin.

She rinsed herself off and took the soap to lather me up as I had her. Her hands were strong and gentle, and she knew very well how and where to touch. When she had rinsed me off, she knelt in front of me. The water beat down on her. Her hand cupped my scrotum while she delivered oral caresses.

We turned the shower off and towelled each other dry. The lights from the city gave slight illumination when we slipped into the bed. I kissed my way down from her lips to her toes, with special pleasures around her nipples and rather flat tummy. I circled around to take her toes into my mouth for a moment. It made her giggle. I slowly kissed my way up her legs until I got close to the thick, curly hair.

The fragrance of her nectar was irresistible. I did not resist. We made love deeply.

Categories: life, Paris, society Tags: , ,

Unscheduled Meetings

June 13, 2015 Leave a comment

A sunny afternoon in Paris, I made my way to an Automatic Teller Machine to get some pocket money. I was in Paris supervising the production of a television commercial I had written back in Canada. It was late Friday and the crew was released for the weekend. We were in a suburban area and one of the guys on the local Paris crew told me there was an ATM machine in front of a supermarket about a block away, so I walked down there. I figured the guys would be a while taking down all the equipment and securing it, so I was confident I’d get a ride to the hotel in one of the vans when I got back.

The supermarket at the next corner was small by North American standards and would not be called a ‘super’ market back home. In a covered alcove outside the front of the store I saw the ATM. A woman was at the machine conducting a transaction as I approached. I stood a couple of meters back to respect her privacy when she suddenly turned to me and brandished her bank card while showing frustration on her face.

“Quel est le problème ici? Ma carte ne fonctionnera pas!” she said.

“Je suis désolé, je ne parle pas français.” I said. I had to use that phrase a lot during my two weeks in Paris. I was staying in Paris for the next week then we flew to Rome for another shoot for a week, then back to Paris for a final week to finish shooting the series of spots for Dentyne gum. The editing and finishing would be done back home.

“Excusez-moi? Oh. Are you… what… English? You speak English?” she said.

“Yes,” I said. I noticed that she was a very elegant lady about fifty years old. Perhaps wealthy, judging from the quality of her knee-length A-line coat in a magnificent grey tweed. I’m no clothing maven, but I recognize quality when I see it. I could see that I was speaking with a very high quality person, and the natural beauty of her face became apparent when I really looked. I saw no trace of eye shadow or mascara, no makeup of any kind, not even lipstick on her beautifully shaped mouth. Her hair, too, was natural; a lovely balance of straight black and obviously natural touches of silver. It was cut short and fell close to her cheeks to form a frame for her tanned face.

“This damn card,” she said and thrust the object of her frustration into my hand and turned away. In profile, she had a fine, aquiline nose that balanced beautifully between her full, pink mouth and her deep blue eyes. Blue eyes with black hair have always been a trigger for me. I looked down at the bank card and saw at once that it had expired the previous week.

“It’s expired,” I said. I handed the card back to her.

“Mon Dieu!” she said. “What a fool I am!”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Nothing for you to be sorry for,” she said. “Thank you for showing me my foolishness.” She began looking around, as if desperate to get out of her uncomfortable situation. She had no cash and she needed some but didn’t know what to do about it. She was obviously a woman who was unaccustomed to being caught short.

“Allow me to help you,” I said. I stepped to the machine and withdrew twice as much Euros as I needed and held her half out to her.

“I can’t accept that,” she cried.

“Of course you can,” I said. “Please.”

“How will I repay you?” she said. I felt she was teasing a bit, the way she said that.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said.

“What if I’m a… you call it hustler,” she said. “I take your money and disappear.”

“If you disappear, I lose nothing but a few Euros. If you return to me, each of us has a new friend.” I said. She looked at me for a long moment. It made me feel warm, the way she looked at me. It was a look that showed curiosity, like she was puzzling through this unique situation to form a way to end it.

“Do you know Tuileries Garden?” she said.

“Yes. I’m staying at the Hotel Regina,” I said.

“Excellent!” she said. “You’re right across the road. Can we meet tomorrow morning at the model sailboat pond? About nine o’clock?”

“Sure,” I said.

“See you tomorrow then,” she said. She turned on her heel and walked away down the side street.

I walked back up the block to our shooting site and found the place deserted. I guess I spent more time at the ATM than I thought, so the crew got the job done and took off for their happy weekend. Meanwhile, I was standing on a suburban corner I knew not where, wondering where one might find a cab in this neck of the woods.

A gleaming cream coloured Mercedes cabriolet came out of the side street where the woman had gone. She saw me at the same moment I saw her. The car’s top was down and the woman’s hair was tousled by the wind. She looked alive, fresh and exciting. Her age was evident in happy crinkles around her eyes and lips, but the impact was of energy, beauty and confidence, and that must have come from inside her. I thought she must be a spectacular person to know. She stopped in front of me and smiled up into my face with those wonderful eyes.

“Allow me to help you,” she said, mimicking my rather stilted earlier offer to her. I got into the car. “Are you going to your hotel or can I drop you somewhere else.” It wasn’t overt, but she made me feel like she was flirting. Maybe it was just me, thinking wishfully.

Categories: life, romance, sex Tags: , , ,

Marissa Act 3

June 4, 2015 Leave a comment

It was stupid of me, I know, but I couldn’t stop stewing inside over the fact that Peter was fucking that boring bitch Rhoda while ignoring me. Men never ignore me! It was a new experience and I wasn’t enjoying it. The frustration grew within me, and grew and grew until it almost occupied my whole life. I know it was stupid. I know that I should have just picked up another guy and it would be over.

At that ad agency where I was sent as a temp, there was a senior vice-president who looked a lot like Paul Newman. Really – believe it or not. So I decided to fuck him and I did. He took me to a really nice hotel suite where we showered together and had as much sex as a forty-year-old married man could deliver. In the shower, before and after the sex, we lathered each other, caressed each other and it was really fine. Very nice, and the guy was a generous lover as well, and really loved eating me, which was great, of course. There was only one thing wrong. It didn’t work. I was still tortured with frustration over Peter’s insulting rejection and his preference for that Rhoda bitch.

I used to date a cop, an old guy who was a detective inspector. I knew he’d run to me if I asked him to. I got him into my bed that afternoon, and I showed him a real good time. His last good time. As usual, he fell asleep after I’d fucked him dry. I went over to the chair where he’d thrown his clothes and stuff and took his gun out of the holster that hung on his belt. It was a Smith and Wesson .38 revolver and it was loaded with six live bullets.

I walked over to the bed and got my pillow which I wrapped around the gun to muffle the bang. Up close to the old guy’s face, I blew his life away. I went into the shower, refreshed myself and dressed for the office.

About ten that morning Peter came in and went to his office. I watched from the secretary pool to see if he crossed the hall to Rhoda’s office or Rhoda to his office. Sure enough, it was less than fifteen minutes until he went to Rhoda’s office. I took the gun out of my purse – nobody noticed, of course – and got up from my desk. I walked straight down the hall and turned at Rhoda’s office. She and Peter were chatting when I appeared at the doorway. They both turned to look at me.

I stepped up to Rhoda, too close to miss and blew her face away with her life. Peter was, of course, frozen with disbelief. He tried to knock my gun hand aside, but I dodged his swing and shot him in the heart. When I walked back to the secretarial pool they were all freaking out and running down the other hall away from me.

I had given a lot of thought to where to put my bullet. I didn’t want to ruin my face or my hair, so that ruled out anything like the gun in my mouth or something. I also didn’t want to ruin my lovely boobs. In the end, I sat down at my desk and snuggled the .38 under my left boob and put the bullet through my heart as I did through Peter’s heart.

I guess it’s true after all that there’s no difference between a psychopath and a sociopath. I never felt I was a psychopath who would use violence, but I knew I was a sociopath because I never cared, really, about anyone or anything. I wish I could have cared about the loved ones of the people I’ve killed… but I couldn’t so I didn’t.

Marissa Act 2

June 2, 2015 Leave a comment

Peter, the guy who groped me in the office, was not a pig. He was good looking, with a good body and a wonderful ass. He was married to a nice little typical suburban girl who worked in a bank as a teller. He was a rebellious type, even though he had the lovely urban home. It wasn’t typical. It was in a little-known enclave of shaded, tree-lined streets and solid brick homes near the heart of the city.

Peter’s persona was very bohemian. He wore faded jeans, a neatly trimmed full beard and a shaggy mane of thick, black hair. His tight t-shirts revealed his lean body and the arms that extended beyond the short sleeves were well muscled and tanned. He had many t-shirts it seemed, because he wore many different ones. They always had witty phrases or interesting artwork on them. Never the typical rock group logos, but unique, rare things like historic sailing craft or natural wonders.

I was pissed off when the word around the office was that Peter was fucking one of the girls every day during lunch hour. When I found out which girl, I was furious. It was the girl who runs the projector for screenings, and does all the filing and storage of video production crap. She was… like… a dog. Not at all pretty, she had a pock-marked face and a shapeless body. He must have been giving her mercy fucks, because half the girls in the office were hot for him, so why Rhoda?

I was alone in the coffee room one day and Peter came in to get coffee. He sat across the table from me with his coffee.

“I hear you’ve been fucking Rhoda,” I said. He looked at me with a bored expression on his face. He said nothing.

“Why would you do that,” I said, “when a piece like me is right here?”

“What’s it to you?” he said.

“I’m just curious. After all, you gotta admit she’s a dog,” I said.

“There are different kinds of dogs,” he said. “Rhoda is a good person. She’s gentle, sensitive and intelligent. Her external package is not her fault, but the internal goodness of her is all to her credit. The package is not all bad, either,” he went on while I was doing a slow burn. “She’s super clean and fragrant and her skin is so soft and smooth it appears to have neither pores nor hairs. Except, of course in the pubic area; there she has lovely, wispy, golden curls. Her nectar is as sweet and generous as her nature.”

“What am I, chopped liver?” I said.

“You, my dear, are another kind of dog.” He put his hand on mine. “You are not a good person. You’re not gentle, sensitive or intelligent. You’re a sociopath in a lovely package that contains very little in redeeming qualities.”

Needless to say, I threw my coffee in his face and walked out. The sonovabitch just smiled at me calmly with coffee dripping down his face onto his stupid t-shirt. It was a green t-shirt with something about preserving the rain forest on it.

Categories: Morality Tags: ,