Boddiford Affaire

Chapter One

Angela Boddiford had it all – a glorious house, an expensive car, the finest clothes, a fully stocked vintage wine cellar, and a filthy rich husband to pay for it all. Her house was staffed with people to cater to her every whim – a cook, two house cleaners, a pool boy, a gardener and a personal valet who took care of anything that she could possibly dream up. Her house was in the finest area of town, and if she had children, they would have gone to the most exclusive schools in the country. She was the president of the homeowner's society in her gated neighborhood, the head of the country club women's auxillary and the chairwoman for more high society fund raising galas than she could remember. Angela was an important person...or so she thought.

If there was one word to describe Angela, it was "bitch". Angela cared little for anybody except herself. She had been determined to be a rich woman since her childhood days. She fought her way up the ladder, and didn't care who she had to step on to get there. Two days after her 23rd birthday, she got her wish. She became an official Trophy Wife when she married Olin Boddiford, an 85 year old entertainment industry titan, who was seemingly on his last legs. While Angela professed her love for him to the world outside, the story behind closed doors was entirely different. Olin was not allowed to touch her, or even gaze upon her naked body. Their marriage had never been consummated, as the thought of his decrepit old body on top of hers filled Angela with disgust. She spent their wedding night locked in the bathroom of their luxury hotel suite, crying. This was not to say that she wasn't having sex, however. Quite the opposite. Angela had taken her pleasure with an unending string of pool boys, golf pros and delivery men, all the while denying her husband what was rightfully his. Angela was in love with one thing, and one thing only – money.

Olin, to his credit, kept up the façade. For him, being seen with this gorgeous piece of arm candy at his side was like a shot of pure adrenaline for his career. Once seen as a washed-up relic of Hollywood's past, Olin's company had seen a recent resurgence in activity and investor interest in the wake of his marriage to Angela. In keeping with the underlying belief of Hollywood, appearances are everything. To be seen as virile and active was like writing a blank check. The offers of investment into long written-off projects began to come in, and Olin's production company once again began to rise in industry importance. This sudden increase in work seemed to have the exact opposite effect on Olin as Angela had intended. She had been sure that he was on the decline, and would not last any longer than five years before he died and left her all of his money. Unfortunately for her, Olin' resurgence seemed to re-energize him, and he was attacking the newfound activity with the exuberance of a much younger man. So much so, that Angela wondered if he would ever die.

So it was, that now – some 10 years after her marriage – Angela found herself trapped in a mansion she did not own, and married to a man she did not love. With no children to raise, and no real friends to turn to, Angela had little recourse for her anger and disappointment other than the man who was her lifeline. Olin had taken her abuse and scathing comments without retribution or retaliation for a decade now. He knew she hated him, and he knew she was just in it for the money. But he could just not bring himself to cut loose the one thing that brought him success. For him, Angela was more than just a trophy wife, she was his good-luck charm and his fountain of youth. Still, through it all, he was determined to hold her tight and make her love him. Angela had no such plans to wait that long. With 10 years of impatience behind her, she dialed the phone...

"Hello? Is this Carlos?"

"Who wants to know?"

"My name is...well, let's just say my name is 'A'...and I understand that you are a man who can perform certain services if needed"

"Who did you hear that from?"

"I have my sources. I also have a rather large check and a need to find someone who can handle the job required to obtain said check"

"What did you have in mind, lady?"

"I need my husband dead by Friday night."

"Friday? Three days from now? That's an awful tight schedule. How did you want to make this look? Accident, murder, suicide?"

"Accident for sure – the insurance won't kick in if it's a suicide"

"Okay. Meet me at Oscar's Bar at noon tomorrow, and bring a check...a big one."

"Oscar's? Where is that?"

"Compton."

"I can't go into Compton! I will send one of my people."

"No way, lady – it's either you or nothing. I'm not about to have some cop walk in and bust my ass. I've got enough troubles."

Sigh. "Okay. Noon tomorrow. But it's in and out, and you go do the job."

"No problem – see you then."

Carlos hung up the phone and turned to look at the man sitting to his right.

"Well, you were right. She wants you dead. What should we do about it?"

Olin Boddiford just smiled.

Chapter Two

The next morning, Angela ate her breakfast in bed, as usual, then had her valet select a suitably "common" outfit for her to wear to her noontime meeting with Carlos. A pair of 300 dollar designer jeans and a silk top were about as common as Angela owned, so it would have to do. She showered, dressed, and walked down the marble staircase to find her husband and kiss him goodbye. For the last time, she thought.

Olin was in the spa with his therapist, working his joints and 95 year-old muscles. His naked body, while still repulsive to his wife, was much more fit than most men who were almost a century old. His curvaceous Puerto Rican therapist, Rita, had been taking care of Olin for years now. She had started as a housekeeper in the days before Angela arrived, but after completing her Physical Therapy training during her off-hours, she had now become Mr. Boddiford's personal trainer and therapist. As such, she was working his legs extra hard today. Olin was enjoying her ministrations more than usual. As Rita's hands slid up his thighs during the post-exercise massage, Olin began to feel that stirring in a man that never fades no matter how old, when touched by a woman. As his towel fell away, Rita noticed a stirring in the old man's ancient package. Surprised by this action, Rita did what any good physical therapist would do, and reached up to massage the newfound area of muscle activity. Olin's eyes rolled back as he felt her strong, feminine, brown hands encircle his once-proud shaft. It was the first time anyone besides himself had touched it in years. He wondered if he could still achieve an erection. Those thoughts were soon answered when Rita's hands were replaced by her full red lips. Rita had seen the look of surprise on his face when she touched his cock, and had been overcome with the desire to see the old man happy.

As she sucked on his wrinkled cock, she half expected it to lay there like a dead worm. Her skilled Latin mouth soon had him writhing and grabbing her hair in appreciation. She sucked and sucked as she felt the blood rush to his glans. Rita's hand moved from the base of his cock down to his balls, and she gently caressed them as she continued to suck the old man's cock. This was more than Olin had expected, and more than he had felt in years. He began to feel the old familiar boiling sensation in his sack, and he knew the orgasm wasn't far behind. Rita's sucking picked up in intensity as she sensed it, too. Olin arched his back and grabbed two handfuls of Rita's hair as he began to see stars. His world exploded as jet after jet of his white-hot cum shot into Rita's eager mouth. Rita, being a true professional, didn't miss a drop.

Angela swung open the door to the spa just in time to see Rita wipe her mouth with the back of her hand, but the thought that Rita was actually wiping off Angela's husband's cum never crossed her mind. She was just perturbed that Rita was there at all. Angela hated Rita. Not for any good reason, but mostly because Rita was the only woman on the staff that had bigger tits that Angela. What angered Angela most was that, unlike her own silicone-enhanced rack, Rita's was 100% natural. For this, Angela had decided that Rita was the worst, the laziest, and the most money-grubbing of any of the household staff, and had begged Olin to fire her for years. For some strange reason, Olin had continually refused to allow her to fire Rita, while he said nothing about the constantly changing cast of maids, butlers, pool boys and gardeners. In the back of her mind, Angela always suspected Rita of having an ulterior motive for the reason she took such good care of Olin, but she had never been able to prove anything. She just didn't trust the gorgeous, curvaceous Puerto Rican. Angela shot Rita a look of venomous hatred as she leaned over to plant a peck on what she hoped would be her soon-deceased husband's head.

"Good-bye honey – I'm going to run down to the salon and get my mani-pedi. I should be home in a few hours". And she kissed him on the forehead – barely noticing the fact that his lap was uncovered by a towel, and his usually wrinkled and ignored cock seemed to be a little more full of life than usual.

Olin, still lost in a post-orgasmic haze, just nodded his assent, then smiled a wry little smile and closed his eyes.

Chapter Three

"In five hundred feet, turn left"

The factory-installed GPS in the dashboard of her Bentley told Angela in its prim, proper computer-generated British accent.

"In one point four miles, arrive at address. On left."

Angela looked around at the neighborhood she was driving through. It was certainly not the gated community in the hills she was used to. There were no Rodeo drives to be seen – no Versace stores, no expensive jewelry boutiques, no haute cuisine cafes on the sidewalks. Instead, she saw only broken windows, dirty sidewalks, brown faces and despair. The people stopped and stared at the Bentley as it rolled past. The only people in this part of town who drove a car like that were the drug lords and pimps. Even they were hard pressed to afford the quarter-million dollars it took to own a Bentley.

"Arriving at location 'Oscar's bar' – on left"

Angela slowed the car and swung into the parking lot of the run down bar she found herself in front of. Her internal alarms were screaming at her not to get out of the car, but the thought of those millions of dollars in a bank account in her name overcame the alarms, and she got out of the rich, luxurious leather interior.

The first thing that hit her was the smell. The smell of old booze, urine and vomit was strong in the parking lot. This was not a place for the head of the Beverly Hills Women's Republican Convention to be lurking at noon on a Wednesday. The fact that the sun was still up gave her some sense of comfort, as she knew this was not a safe place for her, or any female for that matter, to be when the sun went down. Cautiously, she walked to the door of the wretched bar, and reached for the handle.

As she pulled the door open, the sunlight flooded the dank and the few souls inside cried out in pain and suffering

"Close the fuckin' door!"

"Jesus Christ – what tha fuck? Shut the door!"

Instantly terrified, Angela quickly pulled the door closed behind her. As she turned towards the bar, she found her path blocked by a large object. An incredibly large object. She looked up, and realized that this object was actually a person. A large black person. Quite possibly the largest black man she had ever laid eyes on. He must have been nearly seven feet tall, and was built like an oversized refrigerator. He looked straight down at her and said,

"Whatchoo want, bitch?"

Angela blanched at being called a bitch, but thought better of telling this mountain of a man exactly how angry she was. Instead, she craned her neck up in the general direction of where his face must have been and said, "I'm here to meet Carlos".

"Hey – Carlos! This here bitch says she wants to talk to you. What the fuck? You got an appointment with a rich bitch today?" And he laughed.

This infuriated Angela to no end, but she kept her mouth shut. From the back of the bar, she heard a voice say, "Back here, chica..."

Realizing she was outnumbered, and totally out of her element, Angela did not voice her outrage at being called a "Bitch" and a "Chica" in the same conversation. She held her head high, and walked to the back of the dingy barroom, towards the voice she had heard.

In the back of the bar, sitting at a table, was a greasy haired Mexican with gold on his front two teeth. He smiled widely at the out-of-place woman standing before him, extended his arm and said, "Please, chica...sit down with Carlos."

Angela took a seat on the slimy naugahyde seat next to Carlos. She looked at him and said, "Can you do the job?"

"Not so fast, Chiquita – first you must have drink with me"

Angela had no intention whatsoever of having a drink with this nobody in this dive bar, and wanted nothing more than to leave and get back to her gate-protected home. However, her desire to be socially secure for life was more overpowering than her will to leave, so she slowly nodded her agreement to the offer.

"Das' a good girl...Jerome – bring us two beers and two shots of Patron!"

The broken-down black man behind the bar shuffled over to the table with a couple of bottles of Budweiser, and two shots of high-end tequila. He placed them in front of Carlos and Angela and stood there, waiting.

"Pay the man, Chica."

"What?" stammered Angela

"I said, pay the man, bitch. Jerome don't like it when people don't pay their tab. Do you, Jerome?" Carlos looked menacingly at Angela, who was looking at Jerome, who was lifting his t-shirt to display the pearl-handled revolver stuck in the waistband of his filthy jeans.

"Twenty-six bucks, white bitch" snarled the barkeeper.

Angela was now totally flustered. She reached into her Gucci purse and found her wallet. She fished out a Platinum Card and handed it to Jerome. "Just put it on this."

"Don't take no plastic. Cash only. Can't you read, bitch?"

Angela had a sudden flash of fear as she looked up at the bar. There, taped above the ancient cash register was a handwritten sign that said, "No Checks, No Cards, No Tabs – CASH ONLY!". Angela knew she was in trouble. She never carried cash. In her world, nobody used cash. The more exclusive the card you had, the better service you got. Gold cards were laughed at, as Platinum and Diamond cards were the norm. But nobody but the lowest of the commoners used cash. This was quickly becoming an issue for Angela, as she sensed the mood in the room turning.

"I...I...I don't have any cash.", stammered Angela , "just take the drinks back and we wont' drink them."

"Too late" said Jerome, and Angela looked over just in time to see Carlos slam his shot and chug his beer. He set down the empty bottle and smiled.

"Twenty-six bucks, bitch...CASH!"

Angela was now terrified. She knew she was in deep trouble. Her mind began to race a hundred miles an hour, trying to figure out some way out of the mess she now found herself in. She looked over at Carlos, in hopes that perhaps he would bail her out of the jam. Carlos just smiled, then produced an oversized knife from somewhere under the table, and began to clean his fingernails with the tip.

"I...I...I..." Angela stammered again. "I guess I can go find an ATM and come back with the money"

"Ain't no ATM's in this neighborhood , bitch. Don't you know where you is? You is in Compton. Besides – your white ass walks out of this bar, I'll never see you again, and then I'm out twenty-six bucks. No, you is payin' NOW. Cash."

Panic was setting in. All she had wanted to do was to come down here, hand a Mexican a check for a hundred thousand dollars to kill her husband, and then get back in her car and drive home. It was a simple plan. A plan that was being completely ruined by factors that had spiraled completely out of her control. Carlos just smiled...always a smile, as Jerome began to get more and more angry.

"Look bitch, where is my money? You either pays me now, or I am gonna take twenty-six dollars out of your rich ASS!"

The threat caught Angela right between the eyes. What did he mean "take it out of my ass"? What was he going to do? Am I in serious danger here? Her hand began to slowly reach for her purse to find her cell phone to call for help, when Jerome saw her move. With speed and agility that belied his broken-down body, Jerome reached across the booth and grabbed the purse.

"Hey – give that back! That's mine!"

"You mean it's yours once I take my twenty-six dollars out of it, don't you, Bitch? T-Bone – come keep an eye on this white bitch while I find what she owes us."

The mountainous man from the front door thundered to the back of the bar and loomed over Angela as Jerome emptied her purse on the bar. T-Bone began to look at Angela with a hunger in his eyes that could only be described as "primal". It was as if he hadn't eaten in months, and Angela was the first meat that had walked into his reach. He looked her up and down – from her perfectly done hair to her silicone breasts, to her perfectly manicured toes, and licked his lips. Angela saw it, and more importantly, felt it. She knew she would be nothing but a snack for this giant man if he were allowed to have his way. She looked nervously at Carlos, still hoping for him to put an end to this terror, but he just sat there and smiled.

Jerome began to sift through the contents of the purse. "Credit cards...Jesus, bitch – you've got twenty different cards in here. I bet you's a rich bitch, ain't you?"

"That's none of your fucking business, you asshole!" The words escaped her mouth before Angela had realized what she was saying. A crushing, white-hot flash was the last thing she remembered, as T-Bone's ham-sized left fist made contact with the side of her head.

Chapter Four

Angela slowly opened her eyes and tried to focus on the world around here. Where was she? What was she doing there? Why did her head feel like it had been crushed in a vice? What was she laying on? She slowly reached out and touched the soft fabric under her face and tried to place it. It was unlike anything she'd ever felt before. What was this? Where WAS she? From above the fog, she heard an eerily familiar voice –

"Is dat bitch awake yet? Jesus, T-Bone, you gots to not hit dem bitches dat hard!" followed by laughter.

The memory of where she was, and more importantly, the predicament she was in, began to dawn on Angela. She was still in Oscar's bar, and she was still in danger, but she was now laying down on something. A quick check with her hands let her know that her clothes were still there, and a glance down told her that someone had laid her on the pool table at the back of the room. She quickly sat up, narrowly missing the low-hanging light over the table, and looked over at the table she had been sitting at. Carlos was still sitting there, smiling as usual.

"What the fuck happened to me, Carlos? What did you and your asshole friends do to me?"

Carlos just shook his head at her, as she felt an enormous hand wrap around her throat and begin to lift her off the table.

"T-Bone! No! don't kill that stupid bitch! She just ain't smart enough to realize how much trouble she in. Set her down".

T-Bone grunted at Jerome, and set Angela back on the pool table, unwrapping his mighty hand from her throat. As the welcome rush of cool air flooded her lungs, Angela gasped. "I..I..I'm sorry". She muttered.

"I would sugess' that choo be a bit, um, nicer, to my friends" smiled Carlos. "They can be very, very unpleasant if you rub them the wrong way."