Kicking the Dog

He would never forget that day, for as long as he lived. Every time he thought about it, his cheeks burned with shame and his eyes flashed with anger.

It was just a casual get-together for her and her friends, celebrating a college graduation. The drinks flowed liberally, as liberally as the piano music in the background, as liberally as the laughter and merriment. He had gone to the bar to fetch them both some drinks. As he approached her and her friends, she smiled at him. He returned her smile, never believing how lucky he was to be with her.

* * * * *

Christine Hanna was easily the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Her dark hair hung down in asymmetrical bangs and layers, framing her round face and dark eyes and button mouth to perfection. Her slender frame sported a light tan all year around, and while muscular, were not overly so, thanks to her tennis and horseback riding and golf. She was of perfect height at five feet and six inches, and her clothing was always in the height of fashion.

He'd first laid eyes on her in their Economics 395 class and had been instantly smitten. When he learned that her father was Skip Hanna, Financial wizard and guru, he knew that she was way out of his league. Their professor, Doctor Eisenbaum, recommended Brad Thompson to internship with Skip, and Christine and he often crossed paths.

"Bart, I need you to do me a favor and pick Christine up after her tennis match tomorrow," Skip intoned as he dashed to the conference room.

"Uh, it's Brad, sir," Brad said.

Some 'favor,' having the intern pick up Christine at a tennis match on a Saturday. It was Saturday, a day off, and Brad and his girlfriend had made plans to go to the beach. As an intern, Brad wasn't getting paid for the work he did at the office, and wouldn't be getting paid for picking up Christine and ferrying her wherever she wanted to go after her match. And Brad would be getting no recognition or accolades from Skip Hanna either.

What he did get was the loss of one girlfriend; Amanda just didn't understand Brad's willingness to put Skip Hanna and Skip Hanna's daughter ahead of his own personal life.

"Amanda, any sacrifices I make today will pay off in the long run," he had argued.

Christine got into the twelve year old Toyota he drove and asked if he would be a dear and run her to Winston's for a light lunch she was supposed to be having with her step-mother. He could tell she had played well and defeated her opponent; she was in a happy, playful mood. She could also tell that he was not in a happy, playful mood.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "Bart, right?"

"It's Brad," he mumbled.

"Oh, I am so sorry, Daddy said some guy named Bart would be picking me up," she apologized.

He proceeded to tell her, truthfully, that he and his girlfriend had made plans to go to the beach that day, but he'd had to cancel because of picking her up.

"Let me make it up to you," she said and dug her cell phone out of her purse. "What's Amanda's address?"

She ordered a bouquet of flowers to be delivered to Amanda within the hour.

"She'll be ready for you," Christine smiled and fumbled in her lap for a moment. "And you'll be ready for her."

Thus saying, she dragged the middle finger of her left hand under his nose. The smell of arousal was unmistakable and she giggled as he gulped nervously.

"Ta ta!" she gaily said as she got out of his car. She smiled mischievously and sucked her finger clean while looking at him. He nearly pulled out in front of a taxicab and she laughed merrily and disappeared into Winston's.

Amanda was appeased, until the next time Skip foisted another extracurricular assignment onto the intern.

"Aw, what's wrong, Brad?" Christine cooed as she flounced into his car.

"Same shit, different day," Brad said and put the car into drive.

"This Amanda is completely unreasonable," Christine announced. "But, don't worry, I'll make it up to you."

She had him pull over by a clump of trees. She leaned over the console of his car, so close he could smell the horse's scent on her, smell her sweat, and the smell of the bloody marry she'd just finished drinking.

"Did you like the way my pussy smelled " she whispered.

His erection was immediate and hard.

"Then you'll love the way it tastes," she whispered and giggled as she kicked her boots off, then struggled out of her jodhpurs.

He shot a load into his shorts while he feasted on her sweaty, hairy pussy. Finally, she grunted in a short orgasm, petted him on his head, then pulled her riding slacks back on.

"Here," she giggled and shoved her panties into his shirt pocket. "Now, come on, I need to get home in time for the Westminster showing. It comes on at three, you know."

He got to his feet and brushed his knees clean of the grass and debris. She giggled again and closed his car door. She pulled her riding boots on and playfully snapped her fingers at him as he climbed back into the driver's seat.

"Come on, I don't want to miss the opening rally," she smiled.

"Hey Bart," Skip called out as Brad downloaded the latest files from a newly acquired account. "Christine needs an escort to the Metropolitan Ballet tomorrow night."

"It's Brad, sir," Brad mumbled.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, of course, my mistake," Skip said as he strolled away. "Black tie, you know."

He was introduced to her circle of friends, all young people born into their money, all with no real idea of who to work, how to support himself. He felt included into their circle, though, as Christine did not introduce him as 'My Daddy's Intern,' but instead as 'My dear friend, Brad.' If they thought him out of place, they did not let on. They listened intently as he discussed the merits of diversifying, making sure to parlay some into precious metals. They discussed politics and did not belittle his position against abortion.

The evening was finished and he walked her to her apartment door.

"Thank you, Brad," she gushed at her door and opened it.

"I had a lovely time," she whispered into his ear, then lightly pressed her lips to his.

"Hi Daddy," she chirped as Brad and Skip sat at the breakfast table on Monday morning, going over the week's agenda. She kissed her father's cheek, and then stepped back.

She smiled at Brad over Skip's shoulder, and raised the hem of her sundress. After showing him the slightest hint of her profuse bush, she dropped it again and giggled at Brad's consternation.

"Daddy, I have another tennis match this Saturday, okay?" she said and leaned over to show Brad that she was not wearing a bra.

"Um, okay, okay, um, a tennis match, that's the twenty third, right?" Skip mumbled as he looked at his PDA.

"Gee I wonder who'll be picking her up," Brad muttered to himself.

It came as no surprise to him when he was delegated that task on Friday.

"Oh, poo, I lost," Christine sniffed when Brad asked her how it went, then brightened considerably. "But Ned's having a party, a little get-together at his place tonight. Please tell me you can come! That is, if Amanda won't mind?"

"Amanda's history," Brad admitted. "So, black tie, suit, what?"

"Blazer and tie is fine," Christine said and squeezed Brad's thigh, dangerously close to his cock.

When his internship with Skip Hanna ended, there was no party, no fanfare, just a handshake and a 'good luck with your future, young man.' But a moment after he left the building, his cell phone rang and Christine invited him to a luncheon the following Saturday.

"Don't think you're going to get rid of me, now that you're no longer Daddy's intern," she waggled her finger at him over the artichoke salad and watercress sandwiches at Winston's.

Even though it had been Christine had invited him, Brad was stuck with the forty-nine dollar bill.

Their relationship progressed over the next five months; often he was an overnight guest at her private apartment. She never allowed him intercourse, but was fine with him performing oral sex on her. Once, she performed a hand job on him, and screwed up her face in disgust at the sight of his semen.

"Oh, hi, Bart," Skip said as he walked past Brad and Christine as Brad, Christine, and Christine's step-mother, Dottie, sat at the breakfast table on the veranda.

"Daddy, it's Brad," Christine snapped and Brad's heart leapt with joy; his woman was defending him.

"We're just having a little get-together; Ginger's graduating from college," she cheerfully said. "Coat and tie's fine. Pick me up at nine, okay?"

'Ginger' was the not so secret name they called Jennifer O'Brien behind her back. Her father, Doctor John O'Brien was a world-renowned plastic surgeon, very instrumental in the advances in non-invasive fat removal. Unfortunately, there was little he could do for his daughter. Ginger was a fitting nickname for her. Her pale skin was nearly non-visible under the splotches of orange freckles. Her long, limp hair was a bright carrot orange in color. But she was sweet, funny, and her father was beyond wealthy, so she was deemed 'one of them' by the crowd that Christine ran with.

"Here, be a dear and get us some more drinks," Christine said and thrust her empty glass into his hand.

She smiled at him and he returned her smile as he approached the small throng.

"Here, boy, come on, here boy," she said loudly and several people laughed. She whistled and patted her thigh, as if calling a dog.

He put the drinks down on a low table, turned and left the party, the laughter ringing in his ears.

>>>

Brad graduated with honors, then sought a Master's Degree and again graduated with honors. A small investment firm considered themselves lucky to acquire him and he immediately set to work. Within two months of his coming on-board at Norman's and Associates, their clientele had doubled and the profits of their clientele had increased as well.

Skip Hanna frowned. The reports that had come over from his London affiliate was disturbing, to say the least. According to them, someone at his firm had authorized the unloading of several key stocks, at a time when their values were artificially depressed. His Tokyo branch called, highly irate over his unwarranted withdrawal from their holdings. Tel Aviv did not bother to call or e-mail, simply sent the files via courier.

"What in the fuck is going on here, Hank?" he thundered at Frank, his newest intern.

Within a month, Skip Hanna's personal investments were wiped out and he was in arrears to the tune of five billion dollars. The investment firm that he had built from the ground up was bankrupt and filing for Chapter eleven. This filing was denied and their assets were seized and liquidated.

"Don't worry," he smugly told Dottie. "I've got about one hundred million in the Bahamas, we'll be fine."

"You mean, the money you had transferred back to our U.S. accounts?" she shrilled at him.

He paled as she waved the bank statement under his nose.

"If you leave me now, you leave just as broke as you were when you got here," he snarled at her.

"Bull shit," she laughed. "My attorney said if I filed before a judgment is levied against you, I own everything I received in the marriage."

She was right, but the judgment was filed ten days prior to her petition for divorce.

"Mother of God," Skip groaned as he glanced at the empty safe deposit boxes. Dottie had beaten him to the vault by three days. Unfortunately for her, the US Marshals anticipated the existence of safe deposit boxes and had picked up up right outside of the bank.

Skip locked himself in his bedroom. Outside, the Marshals were removing all things of value.

"Ma'am, if you do not step aside, I will have you arrested," one of the marshals told Christine as he dumped her handcrafted tennis rackets into a box. They both heard the gunshot.

They had to kick the door down and inside they found Skip Hanna, gun stilling his hand, eyes wide open and unseeing. The Marshals were unperturbed as Christine screamed at them, declaring them all murderers.

Skip's funeral was a somber one. Most of his business associates, having abandoned him in the last days of his life, also abandoned him in death. They too were being stripped of their earnings, judgments were being levied against them, and clients that had lost their own investments were suing them. Many of them put the blame squarely on their mentor and leader, Skip Hanna.

Christine Hanna sat primly and tearfully accepted the condolences of the few that did attend. She squinted, a little surprised, at the appearance of Brad Thompson at Skip's funeral. He looked at the casket, the meager floral arrangements, and the sparse gathering of people, and nodded in satisfaction.

"Bet you remember my name now, self-centered bastard," he said to the corpse, then with a smug smirk to Christine, turned and left.

Brad was actually surprised at how easy it had been. Like most people in power, Skip believed himself to be invulnerable and used the same password for all of his accounts. Like most people, he never believed it could happen to him. But all it takes is someone with the right information and a cell phone and laptop computer.

Christine was thoroughly unprepared to be a pauper. She had a college degree, true enough, but had never worked a day in her life and did not have the faintest idea of where to go or what to do.

As many of her friends were suddenly in the same shape as herself, Christine had nowhere to turn when the court ordered her from her home and her apartment. Jobless and penniless, she was now homeless. Dottie Hanna had simply disappeared, back to Omaha, Nebraska, and did not return her former stepdaughter's repeated calls.

"What do you mean, 'denied?'"? Christine shrilled as the waiter grim-facedly told her that her credit card had been denied. Fortunately for her, a nearby patron graciously paid her bill.

"Christine, I'd love to help, but I'm looking for work too," friend after friend told her.

"I'll do my best," Christine tearfully promised the unsympathetic woman at the employment agency. She'd seen more and more of these spoiled little brats tramping in here looking for work ever since the financial institutions in New York began folding and collapsing.

Brad enjoyed a leisurely lunch at Winston's, enjoyed the fawning treatment the waiters gave to him. He dropped a hundred dollar bill and did not wait for the change.

"Oh, thank you sir," the waiter practically lapped at him as he left the restaurant.

"Ginger!" he called out as a familiar face strolled past.

He remembered her; it had been at her party that Christine had thoroughly humiliated him. He remembered all the faces at that party, all their reactions at his humiliation. All had laughed at him, except Jennifer O'Brien. She had looked absolutely stricken at Christine's cruelty. For that reason, and that reason alone, Doctor O'Brien had been spared Brad's skillful manipulations and buyouts.

"Sorry, I know Ginger's not your real name, but I never did hear anyone say what it was," he said as he walked up to her.

"Uh, it's Jennifer," she stammered. "I'm sorry, do I know...?"

"Brad, Brad Thompson. I dated Christine Hanna shortly," he said and began to walk with her, step for step.

"I'm sorry," she shook her head again. "I still don't..."

"At your graduation party," he said tightly. "'Here boy! Come here!'"

"Oh, my God!" she laughed out loud. "How have you been? You look great! When did you grow that beard?"

She told him that she was working at Simon and Schuster, translating literature from French into English; her major had been French Literature. With smiles and hugs, she agreed to see him for dinner that evening.

At dinner, Jennifer smiled and laughed and Brad found that hard veneer he'd put on after Christine's humiliation fading away.

"Thanks, Brad," she smiled as he walked her to her apartment. "I don't remember when I'd ever had so much fun!"

"Well, I hope we can do it again," he smiled at her as she unlocked her door.

"You mean, like a date?" she gasped and looked at him.

"Uh, yeah, yeah, like a date," he stammered. "I mean, what did you think this was?"

"This was a date?" she asked, in awe. "I've never been out on a date before!"

Her kisses were clumsy but very enjoyable and she breathlessly agreed to a second date. With a few more kisses, she finally let herself into her apartment and he walked down to his Mercedes-Benz with a smile and an erection.

The next day, Jennifer was absolutely stunned by the elaborate floral arrangement that was brought to her tiny cubicle. It was too large to fit on her desk, so she had to set it on a table in the employees' lounge. She had difficulty walking with it, but refused to let even one petal fall from it as she lugged it the thirty-two blocks to her apartment.

"Oh, Honey, I am so sorry!" Brad moaned when she laughingly told him of her trouble getting it home. "Next time I'll have them delivered to your apartment!"

"Better not!" she laughed. "Everyone at work was so jealous!"

If they were jealous of the flowers, her new diamond bracelet really raised the jealousy bar to a new level. She laughed and cried at the simple note that accompanied it. "This may be a little easier to carry home."

^^^

Christine walked home tiredly. The first time that bitch at the employment agency had called about the waitress job, Christine had told her that was too far beneath her. A month later, witnessing wasn't beneath her. But the manager had told her that someone new had just bought the diner and her job might be cut.

"I mean, I could be persuaded to try to keep you on," he said while looking at her chest.

^^^

Brad smiled as he looked around at his newest acquisition. He'd bought the diner with his own personal wealth; Norman & Associates had nothing to do with this. The manager was trying to grovel and assert himself as a leader at the same time, quite amusing to Brad.

"And here's Betty, she's been with us for, what, going on ten years?" the manager was saying.

"Yeah, you know, while I'm waiting for Broadway to come calling," the brassy blonde said and smiled.

: There is one more waitress, Christine, but she's not on duty right now, just got off in fact," the manager said as Brad looked over the work schedule.

""Uh huh," Brad said and smiled. The manager shivered; it was not a nice smile.

^^^

Jennifer looked around at his apartment in awe and in trepidation. They'd been dating for three months and she was finally in his apartment. They were going to do it; they were going to make love. The furnishings screamed wealth; the carpet alone, she knew, had to cost well over fifteen thousand dollars. She knew the hardwood floors that went from his foyer through to the living room were Australian hardwood, at least thirty five thousand per room. Yet, none of it was ostentatious or pretentious.

He smiled at her and handed her a glass of champagne.

"We don't have to." he began softly.

"No!" she cried out, and then softened. "Brad, I want to. I think I'm in love with you."

"Baby face, I KNOW I'm in love with you," he smiled and lightly kissed her fingers.

Christine had taught him well; Jennifer was completely spent from the many orgasms his tongue brought her to. She curled up into his arms and wept silently at how good love felt.

"But you didn't, um, we didn't," she murmured as he pulled the covers over them. "You didn't stick your weenie in me."

"What?" he laughed out loud.

"You know," she blushed hotly. "We didn't fuck."

"We can fix that right now," he smiled and she gasped as his cock rested against the mouth of her pussy.

She looked down into his soft brown eyes and smiled. Suddenly her smile dropped and her green eyes opened in shock. The pain was sharp at first, and then slowed to a dull throbbing. His fingers touched her face, her shoulders, her back, and her arms.