Regime Change Pt. 01-02

Author's note: *** indicates a break in the story.

PART 1: PUSH BACK

The Movers and Shakers of America were enraged at only winning some battles but not the war. The men who pulled the strings behind the scenes could look back on 50 years of success on the economic front. But on the cultural front the enemy prevailed. And the enemy rubbed their victories into the faces of the Patriarchs.

No more. The men who called the shots knew if they were going to take back the nation, the only way would be fighting house-to-house, in hand-to-hand combat.

The initiative came from certain right thinking members of the judiciary. They formed a special, secret court, similar to the Star Chamber of medieval England. They named it the Court of the All-Seeing Eye.

The Court discretely recruited patriots to be their special investigators, their special, secret agents. They picked men who were resolute, capable of the most intricate planning and off-the-cuff improvisation, ready willing able to go under cover, to deeply penetrate enemy territory. To overcome all resistance. To get their hands dirty.

When the recruitment was over, the agents were issued special warrants commanding them to take back their neighborhoods, by any means necessary.

PART 2: COMEUPPANCE

Alexandra Cappodocia felt a warm glow from the head to the toes of her ripe body. The warmth wasn't just from the beams of California sun that tanned her almost nakedness (her red bikini was barely within the vicinity of community standards). It was also the warm glow of accomplishment, for she was well and truly in the catbird seat. Today was her fifth wedding anniversary and now it was time to get divorced. Her plan was coming to fruition.

Sandra reflected on the last five years of her life as she lay on a lounge chair beside her husband's pool, her third passion-fruit daiquiri of the morning dangling from her right hand. She looked at the large diamond of the wedding ring on the third finger of the hand wrapped around the sweating cocktail glass and murmured, "Sucker."

Not bad for a 35 year old former diner waitress, a high school drop-out from Venice Beach, the grand-daughter of Greek-Turkish immigrants, thought Sandra, gazing blankly into the depths of her husband's Olympic-sized swimming pool.

For such a rich man--a self-made rich man he never stopped droning on about--John Smith was dumb as shit, Sandra smirked slyly to herself, bowing her head forward, causing her shoulder length, messy black hair with dirty blonde high lights to partially cover her chin and her somewhat saggy oily breasts.

"Next time I go to the salon, I'll get a different 'do instead of 'bed-head,'" she laughed out loud at her own joke.

Sandra had immediately recognized John Smith when she asked him for his order: the millionaire who hated hoity-toity food had been profiled on-line. Smith's eyes went level to Sandra's large breasts and then up to her brown eyes and he had gulped, "What do you recommend?" Sandra saw her chance. She said, "Three crispy strips of bacon, two eggs sunny side up, white toast: there's nothing better in this world."

A month of Smith visiting the diner and unbuttoning two more buttons on her blouse was all it took for the thirty year old Alexandra Cappodocia to become the wife of 55 year old John Smith.

Funny, I never think of myself as "Mrs. Smith," thought Sandra as she looked up to the sky. John is a nice man, too nice for his own good. He's completely clueless that the reason he hasn't got me pregnant is I've hidden from him that I'm on the Pill. Sandra simultaneously rolled her eyes and snorted.

In the first year of her marriage Mrs. Smith was self-disciplined enough to not have any flings (a dildo she hid inside a large monkey plush toy helped in this regard).

But after a year (whenever Mr. Smith was out of the house) of gasping to herself, "Think about the money, think about the money", her head filled with a vision of her yoga instructor eating her out, sliding the dildo in/out of her slickness, the dam burst. Her decision to start having flings was made easier by her belief that her husband was a fool.

Sandra started having flings when she began working in the restaurant industry. When Sandra was honest with herself, she knew they weren't really affairs or flings, but more accurately described as one-morning or one-afternoon or one-night stands. As is well known, old habits are hard to break.

Starting with her yoga instructor (the first of many instructors over the last four years) whenever Sandra got what she called "the craving", she fed herself to the fullest. Her husband believed her when she told him the reason she started waxing her pussy silky smooth was to please him.

Sandra had "flings" with young men who she easily got under her thumb, be they white, Latino, black, single, married. Jiggling her breasts and not wearing a bra when she prowled LA in one of her husband's Beamers opened many doors and...zippers. She even seduced a few illegal immigrant pool boys (who were always arrested by ICE soon after the flings).

"Pool boys," she mumbled, "what a cliche...I'm such a cliche," she laughed at herself and then drank the daiquiri to the dregs.

"Now I'm going to get me the right kind of lawyer, milk Smith of his last bottom dollar and be filthy rich for the rest of my life." Sandra was a bit tipsy, unaware she had said spoken out loud. She yawned, stretched all her limbs, curled her toes and arched her back like a waking cat. On each of her legs, just above the ankles, were tattooed flames, all the way around, like shackles. The first time John Smith saw the flame tats was on their wedding night--and he was dismayed. Sandra didn't care.

"I know the perfect lawyer for the job. A real shark. My husband's lawyer. The twins will work their old black magic once again and lickety-split I'll be free of that fucking pussy." Sandra jiggled her breasts, laughing.

Smith's lawyer was named Del Toro. She didn't know his first name. But she knew Del Toro was a man; bottom-line, that meant he would be putty in her hands, she believed. "Well hopefully not putty..." she moaned softly, starting to imagine what not just her hands would do to Del Toro to get him to see the light.

It suddenly dawned on Sandra that it must be nearly high noon and it was time to get into the shade. She swung her legs over the lounge chair, turned, sat up, facing her husband's mansion. Sandra froze like a cougar caught in the head lights of a Jeep Cherokee. Del Toro was looking down on her from the window of her bedroom on the second floor of the mansion. (Six months after they got married Sandra convinced Smith that it was his idea that they should have separate bedrooms.)

How long has he been watching me? Sandra asked herself, looking up into Del Toro's (always menacing) black eyes. He had a hard stare. Sandra shuddered.

Wait, this is a sign that somebody up there likes me, Sandra got a jolt from this line of thought. No time like the present, let's commence Operation Get Them By the Balls.

Not breaking eye contact with Del Toro, Sandra slowly stood up, smiling widely. He did not acknowledge her.

After a quick stretch, Sandra scampered over the hot stones of the patio in her bare feet into the shadows of her husband's mansion, her heavy breasts bouncing, glistening with sun tan lotion and sweat.

Sandra stood in what her husband called the "Rec Room" of his mansion, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, the air-conditioning cooling her skin, making the nipples under the red triangles of her bikini perk up.

"Rec Room--he's so old fashioned," she muttered, blinking, her long eye lashes fluttering quickly.

"There's something to be said in defense of the old fashioned," a basso profundo voice boomed out from the blur in front of Sandra. The frightening voice focused her vision: there stood at the foot of the marble stairs her husband's lawyer.

Del Toro was a blunt man. Both in words and looks. His head was always shaved. His large nose had been broken more than once. Mr. Smith said his lawyer had "Roman features" (whatever that means Sandra had said to herself at the time). He was six feet tall, his strong shoulders taut under his tailored suit. He had big hands with blunt fingers. Whenever he visited the mansion (which was frequent due to her husband's business dealings all over the globe) he looked at Sandra with black eyes filled with contempt. Sandra had a vague recollection of her husband telling her recently that Del Toro had been made a partner in a big firm and got married for the first time at age 45. "He's a blunt instrument," was Smith's assessment of Del Toro.

And now Mrs. Alexandra Smith stood under the glowering gaze of her husband's lawyer, for all intents and purpose, naked. Sandra was 5 feet 2, 130 pounds, with large, all-natural somewhat sagging breasts, a rounded belly with an innie and what used to known as "child-bearing hips". Most men were too distracted by her tits and ass to notice her shapely legs. The glistening sun tan lotion that covered her accentuated the lushness of her body, its ripeness.

Sandra always had carefully plucked eyebrows and always wore magenta eye shadow. When people said she looked Mexican, she sharply corrected that her hazel eyes her face, with its slightly pointed nose and slightly too wide mouth, was the best of Greek and Turkish femininity (much to every one's bafflement). She rarely smiled.

"John's not here, he won't be back until eight, to take us for our anniversary dinner party at Hell's Kitchen," Sandra spoke in her usual near whisper. Just thought I'd put that out there, she said to herself.

"I know that Sandy," the lawyer replied, bluntly. Sandra winced.

"You know I prefer to be called Sandra," she said, raising her voice.

"I know what you prefer," Del Toro replied sharply, dressing her down with his eyes.

The heat, daiquiris, and the vision of her husband's millions had gone to Sandra's head and she missed the implication of Del Toro's declaration.

Turning her back on Del Toro, Sandra gave him an eye full of her ass, which was bare except for a red thread that disappeared between its cheeks. Sandy's tanned full round ass quivered deliciously as she walked across the Rec Room and went behind the bar. She tried but failed to not look surprised to see that Del Toro was now seated on the left side of the white couch, which was between the bar and the base of the marble steps.

"What can I get you...to drink," Sandra purred as she unscrewed a bottle of vodka, "I'm having a Screwdriver." Then she looked for OJ in the mini-fridge behind the bar.

"I'll have Scotch on the rocks," the lawyer ordered.

"Whatever gets your rocks off," she joked without a smile.

Del Toro looked at her stonily and said nothing.

As she made their drinks Sandra smiled to herself when it dawned on her that Del Toro had never seen her in a bikini during his previous visits to her husband's mansion. He'd never before seen so much of what Sandra called "the goodies".

She took her own sweet time walking, a tumbler in each hand, to the white couch. Though he would have seen a lot of the twins at social events where I wore dresses with always favored plunging necklines, Sandra laughed inside as she bent down to give the lawyer his Scotch on the Rocks and an up-close-and-personal look at her swaying tits. Then she plopped down next to Del Toro and sucked on the red straw of her Screwdriver.

"I have a proposition for you," Sandra blurted out.

Del Toro arched his left eyebrow and made a gesture with his right hand, which grasped the glass, that said go on, making the ice cubes rattle.

Sandra licked her lips, her cheeks were getting flushed. In spite of the air-conditioning, the temperature was rising in the Rec Room.

"Del Toro, John is a tired old man...you're an absolutely...brilliant lawyer...if anyone in the world could figure out how to...release me...from the Prenup--it's you," Mrs. Smith purred unctuously, looking shamelessly into the lawyer's eyes.

Del Toro's eyes flared but he otherwise sat still as a statue of a Roman emperor. For a full ten seconds neither of them spoke, not taking their eyes off each other. Then the lawyer asked in an emotionless voice: "I'm an officer of the court--what you propose would be unethical."

Sandra couldn't stop herself from smirking and then pulling a face that said Oh come on, seriously?

The millionaire's wife chewed on her bottom lip a moment, her face growing a deeper shade of red.

"I'll make it worth your while," she sputtered.

"How?"

"You--you make a plan to make the Prenup meaningless--and get me a di...divorce, take John to the cleaners and I'll...I'll give you...give you," Sandra looked down at her breasts, which were heaving because she had started to pant, "Half of every I, we, take off of him." Sandra was lying.

Del Toro drank all his Scotch and put the empty glass on the floor beside the end of the couch he was leaning on. He then grabbed the Screwdriver from the startled Sandra's hand, took out the red straw, threw it across the room, and drank the Screwdriver in one loud gulp. He then slowly put the second one into the tumbler on the ground.

Del Toro stood up and moved about a foot in front of Sandra, who turned and leaned back on the couch to be able to see the lawyer clearly. Sandra put a well-manicured hand on top of each thigh. Each of her finger nails was painted a different shade with fancy patterns. She had a worried look of her face.

Del Toro slowly took off his jacket and threw it over the armrest furthest away from Sandra.

"I have a counter proposal: I fuck you," Del Toro's deep voice boomed like the crack of doom. Sandra felt it resonant in the pit of her stomach. It made her nipples grow harder.

"I--told you, I'll, I'll make it worth your while, of course if--" Del Toro curtly cut off the flustered, panting woman.

"Either I fuck you before I leave here, or I'll give John some evidence ICE discovered during an apprehension, that I intercepted before it got to him," he snarled as he pulled a smart phone from his shirt pocket. He held it up for Sandra to see a video clip of two people, a man and a woman, who looked vaguely familiar, their naked bodies dappled with sunlight in an otherwise dark room, they were...

"I'm sure you were remember the Guatemalan pool boy, it was two and a half months ago," Del Toro sneered at Sandra, who shuddered with alarm.

"I thought he was Mexican!" Sandra bit her lip. "That vid is a deep fake!" Sandra voice was shrill as she tried to use something she saw on YouTube.

"This? A deep fake? No!" Del Toro bellowed like an ox as he shook the phone, "You're the deep throat-ed fake Sandy." The lawyer laughed mirthlessly.

"It only happened that one time," Sandra simpered, sweat starting to appear on her brow, making some of her disheveled hair stick to her forehead.

"Once is all it takes--according to the Prenup, proven adultery on your part, means John can and will divorce you and you won't get anything, not even the shirt on your back, and there won't be a damn thing you could do about it, Sandy," Del Toro laughed derisively into her face and then leered like the Big Bad Wolf in the French version of Little Red Riding Hood. (Pushing down the panic, Sandra said to herself, clutching at straws: He only knows about one of my flings.)

The blunt man, his black eyes shining, towered over the sitting woman. Silently he dropped the smart phone on to the carpet. He slowly undid the slim black tie that dangled from his neck and let it slip through his fingers on to the carpet. He flicked off his leather shoes.

Del Toro barked an order: "Strip!" Sandra nearly jumped out of her bikini from the savagery of his voice. She blinked rapidly. Sandra suddenly brightened. Some people can think on their feet; some can think on their back; the way out of this sticky situation comedy is to blow his mind; he'll come around to my point of view, Sandra told herself.

Looking at Del Toro, Sandra still leaning back on the couch and keeping her bare feet on the carper, raised her ass off the seat of the couch and slid her bikini bottom to her knees. She sat up, bent down and pulled the panties from first one, then the other foot.

Interesting, Del Toro thought, she exposed her cunt first. The lawyer began to quickly unbutton his crisp, white shirt.

Her hands slightly trembling, Sandra reached behind her neck and untied the straps. The weight of her breasts pulled the opened straps down in a flash flood. Freed from the red triangles that had held them at bay, Sandra's tanned tits sagged even more appetizingly. Each breast was rounded off with bright white triangles in the center of each were large aureoles. Sandra's nipples were large. They were as hard as ripe grapes.

Del Toro laughed, thinking: It looks like she has the Great Seal of the USA on each tit--how ironic.

Sandra arched her back, awkwardly undid the ties behind her and threw the red bikini bra at Del Toro's feet. Mrs. Smith now sat completely naked in front of her husband's lawyer. She panted like a bitch in heat.

Del Toro rolled his shirt off his shoulders, revealing his broad shoulders, hairless barrel chest, thick forearms and a stomach that looked like a Barbecue grill.

When Del Toro reached for his belt buckle Sandra suddenly felt a stab of fear: Oh God, he's going to whip my ass! That fear vanished when Del Toro threw the belt across the room and Sandra noticed for the first time--unbelievably--the big bulge in the front his pants. That's not just a tent, that's a Cirque du Soleil tent, she moaned inwardly.

In one efficient move, Del Toro pulled off his pants and his boxers.

Sandra face blushed beet red. Her eyes bulged out her head. Sandra had seen and sucked a lot of cocks since she enthusiastically gave away her virginity to a friend of her parents when she was eighteen. Del Toro's cock was one-of-a-kind. It was cock-of-the-walk-all over-her. Del Toro circumcised cock didn't curve in any direction, it jutted out straight, ram-rod straight. His dick was thick, ropy, ugly. But what most arrested Sandra was how angry, no!, enraged Del Toro's shaft looked. It was a scepter of imperial purple, topped by a bulbous red crown, hell-bent to go berserk.

Well I've had a lot of black males, I should be used to the taste of blackmail by now, Sandra told herself, as she contemplated Del Toro's totem pole. Sandra's body writhed, the aching of her nipples, the taunting of her cunt, blotted all thought of the future from her mind. Mrs. Smith eagerly reached forward with both hands, her mouth agape, her nostrils flaring, her eye filled with blind lust. But before she could get her hands on his rod, Del Toro roughly shoved Sandra back.

"I don't want you to suck me off," he growled, his dark eyes flaring.

"That's a first!" Sandra nonplussed, blurted out, and made an exaggerated pout, unbecoming her thirty-five years. Ooh, he wants the Main Attraction, he can't help himself--God don't let it be a wham, bam, thank ma'am.

With a serious look on her face Mrs. Smith spread her legs open, giving her husband's lawyer an unimpeded view of her smooth pussy, it pinky folds accentuated by the white oval left by the bikini. Del Toro gave her a penetrating male gaze.

Del Toro pointed a thick forefinger at his jacket and in a nasty tone told Sandra, "There's a bottle in one of the pockets--take it out and hand it to me--now!" Sandra was startled, looked unsure of herself. Then she stretched over to the side of the couch furthest away from her, her breasts banging against each other like bells, and with some difficulty pulled out a large black squeeze bottle labelled in red capital letters: VLAD'S LUBE. She handed the bottle to Del Toro.

Eagerly, Sandra near whispering, "You're not going to need that, I'm wetter than a, a, a...swamp right now--just shove it into me." She leaned back, again, and spread her thighs open widely, again.