tagLoving WivesWilmington Woman's Club Ch. 38

Wilmington Woman's Club Ch. 38

byParis Waterman©

Money Laundering

On the drive home Joe talked almost constantly. Val sat silently beside him, mentally rerunning her adventure with the older man. God, she had been so easy. He'd kissed her once and she let him fuck her. Joe had talked her into it before they ever got there and it happened. And it had been so deliciously good being bad.

They were about two miles from home when Val broke her silence, saying, "That Kimberly was something. She was certainly very sexy. Was she really a model?"

"Yeah, she is," he said, drawing out the words. He coughed, and followed with, "Yeah, nice looking too, I agree. She wants to have lunch sometime and talk about me handling her stocks and other funds. I gave her some ideas. Did you like her?"

"Did you handle any of her other assets, Joe dear?" Val asked, fighting the impulse to laugh in his face.

"Shit, Val, you know damn well I did her."

"So you take me to a party, tell me to fuck the host and go off with some... was she really a model?"

"Maybe... I don't know. So... did you and Gerry...."

Val chose to ignore him, and asked, "And you screwed Kimberly. Don't try telling me otherwise."

"You're right. Gerry gave her to me to keep me company while he was with you."

"Thanks for the honesty, Joe. It means a lot," Val said with a certain sarcasm Joe was all too familiar with. "Now tell me, what did you get from Gerry for my services?"

"I'll tell you, but it's a long story. Can it wait awhile?"

"I guess," she replied.

"So... did you and Gerry?"

"Yes, you know we did. You saw me in the window."

"That was you?"

"Come on, don't act so surprised, Joe."

"But, Val, I didn't know, I couldn't tell who it was...." he finished lamely.

"Is Gerry good in your business world, or just someone with a lot of money?"

"Gerry's very good in banking. Actually, he's one of the finest minds in the field."

"He's got a hell of a lot of expertise in bed too...I thought I'd clue you in on that aspect of his abilities while we're talking about him."

"Oh," Joe mumbled under his breath, he had thought Gerry a horny, old man, incapable of arousing his wife to any appreciable degree. He began to regret using Val to get what he wanted from Gerry.

Val sensed he had some regrets about committing her to Gerry, and decided to wait to hear just what her body had bought them materially. Still, she couldn't resist goading him a little. "I'm seeing him again one day next week," she said, her tone did not invite further comment from Joe.

"Well, I guess that's all right," he said after a moment of silence, just as they pulled into their driveway.


Val went straight to the shower, and later slid into bed nude and curled up next to Joe. "So, Val, still interested in what I needed to get from Gerry that was so important?"

"I certainly am," Val replied.

"It begins with Iran...well, what happened in Iran after the United States and other countries placed economic sanctions on them in 1978. This triggered a severe balance of payments pressure on them because they also had to deal with the revolution, capital flight, and by an overall decline in the exportation of oil.

"Now, stop me if I'm boring you," Joe said, looking at her to determine if he should continue or not.

"Go on. I understand this so far."

"Okay, the decline in oil accounted for almost all of their exports during the period, say, 1978 through the present. Iran responded to these pressures by imposing severe controls on capital and added a multiple exchange rate system before they caught on and began to trade oil for drugs. They developed a system for laundering the resulting monies with several Fortune 500 companies, including several prominent US oil companies.

"Have you ever heard of the parallel market?"

"No, I can't say that I have."

"Neither had I, until very recently. But parallel marketing is really an illicit form of importing certain goods or materials. Companies set different price points for their products in different markets. Parallel importers ordinarily purchase products in one country at a price, say $100.00, which is cheaper than the price at which they are sold in a second country, say $150.00. Then they sell the product in a third country at a price which is usually between $100 and $150, and the profit is the difference between the market prices.

"It's called arbitrage. But the reality is that these companies are selling their stuff to launder Columbian drug money. Any company with a high priced product: oil, booze, cigarettes... anything along those lines, can contact the drug lords in Medellin and cut a deal."

"Jesus Christ!" Val blurted. "I see it! Maybe I ... you better explain it some more."

"Okay," Joe said, warming up to the subject now that his wife was obviously interested. "Let's just say that Carlos in Columbia has ten million sitting around in Miami that requires laundering. There are a lot of factors involved, but I'll try to keep it short and sweet."

"I like the sweet part, baby," Val cooed and squeezed his cock.

"Mmmm, nice, but better let me finish."

"Sorry, go ahead, baby."

"The key thing is they want the money to wind up in Columbia with them, understand?"

"No, not really."

"Well, there are a bunch of foreign trade companies that do this on a daily basis. They operate in the duty free zones all over the world. They've been doing this stuff for years already."

"And no one's bitched about it?"

"Very few people have the slightest idea it's going on."

"Jesus, talk about keeping a secret."

"It's in their best interest to keep it quiet. It's not that very powerful people don't know about it. It's exactly the opposite. Powerful people are in on it, and want to keep it going. They'll do almost anything to keep it going, understand?"

Val nodded her head vigorously.

"Anyway, let's say we have ten million dollars, right? What are we gonna buy, oil, cigarettes, or booze? They're the main commodities, although there are many others. Let's say booze. So a company that produces Scotch is contacted. We buy ten million dollars worth of Scotch. Well, not actually; some commissions come out of it, so it's approximately 10 million. Okay?"


"Arrangements are made to deliver the Scotch to a duty-free zone. We're discussing laundering drug money, so the zone would most likely be located in the Caribbean because of the proximity to Columbia. There is still some smuggling going to take place, but that entails almost no risk. Usually they pick an isolated town near the Columbian border. So they buy the Scotch with drug money and use the duty-free company as sort of a middleman. When everyone involved agrees on their cut, the ten million is handed over to the carrier who delivers it to a friendly bank. That's me.

"I deposit it, then wire it to one or two other US banks, thereby wiping out the paper trail. Next, I wire it to a bank in the Cayman Islands where it's held and earmarked for the scotch company to pay for the Scotch when it arrives in Columbia. What makes this deal especially sweet for the Scotch maker is that there are little if any taxes paid for their product. They simply sell it to the druggies for the retail price, with taxes added on.

"The druggies don't care so much; I mean, they may lose about thirty percent off the top, but can claim they're legitimate booze brokers and not worry about being prosecuted by law enforcement agencies."

"So where do you come in?"

"Gerry is putting me in touch with a couple people who will introduce me to the necessary contacts to the big companies and a drug lord or two."

"You're not getting involved in drugs, are you?" Val said, suddenly alarmed.

"Ah, no, and that's the sheer beauty of parallel marketing. When the druggies receive the booze, all I do is pick up their money from a Cayman bank and wire it to the Scotch company. For this little service the duty-free zone takes three percent. Me? I rake in 18%, or close to two million; and there is no record of the deal taking place."

"Jesus Christ, that's incredible!"

"You bet it is. Now do you understand why I agreed to... as you put it, 'give you to Gerry?' Do you forgive me?"

"Yes, I forgive you. I would have done the same under the circumstances. Tell me something else."


"Was that hooker, Kimberly, a good lay?"

"She was, but then not nearly as good as you are."

"You're just saying that."

"No. I mean it. You're a great lay... the best I've ever had."

Val giggled.

"What's so funny?"

She was still giggling, but managed to say, "That's what Gerry said too."

Joe started to laugh along with her then almost choked as he said, "Great minds think alike."

"Joe, Honey," she whispered in his ear. "I am still so horny. I want you, baby. C'mon, play with me."

"What did you have in mind?" he asked, perking up.

"I want to suck your big old cock to start with."

But Joe got to her first.

"Ohhhhh, Joe, you naughty boy!" Val cooed, as his fingers manipulated her pert breasts. She quickly retaliated by blowing a sheet of warm air across the top of his velvet covered glans. Joe's cock reacted swiftly, stiffening sufficiently to permit the appearance of his purple crown.

Val's fingers deftly pulled his foreskin back allowing the wet flat of her tongue to press down firmly, and then licked slowly across his slit, forcing it to wink as her tongue passed from one side of his glans to the other.

Joe's head lolled back and his eyes rolled in his head, as the electric charge from her oral and finger massage jolted him. His hands went to her hair, and he had to restrain himself from pushing her head hard down upon his aching cock.

Reveling in the total control that she possessed, Val smiled - her eyes two dreamy almonds as she looked up at him. She knew he liked what she was doing for his cock was twitching beneath the feather soft touch of her fingers. She closed her eyes as her lips returned to his glans, and slid down to the soft bunching skin at his ridge. Joe's slit oozed with precum. Val's taste buds were reawakened, and dancing with delight.

His hand caressed her face, as she tightened her lips, forming hollows in her cheeks. Her head began to bob up and down. The saliva in her mouth along with Joe's salty, sweet nectar made his cock a slick tool, tasty and pliable. Moreover, she was starving for him.

Joe's breathing grew loud and labored, with intermittent moans of obvious pleasure. Slurping wet sounds emerged from Val's throat as she slithered up and down the slippery velvet of his pulsating root.

As she continued blowing Joe, Val's nose began to brush the nest of his pubic hair with each downward slide. Her palm and fingers worked in perfect unison with her lips. Up and down she went, a virtuoso flutist, inspiring the sweetest music. The tempo increased as Val's head bobbed up then down on his musk-ridden cock, her spittle running down his balls and into the crevice of his ass.

"Suck it, baby, suck it!" Joe's muffled voice cried out, for his face was tucked into his shoulder.

"Oh, yeah, that's it, baby!" he crooned; his fingers tugged at her hair, even as her lips slid slowly upwards on his ever so rigid shaft.

Pausing for a moment, Val admired how his foreskin puckered at the ridge. Oh, I'm giving him the best blowjob ever, she thought happily, and followed it with, And I'm gonna get laid a hundred times tonight. Then she began turning her head from side to side, permitting her lips to bathe in the silky, softness of his velvet skinned prick.

"I don't believe this, Val," Joe groaned. "What's come..." he lost his voice momentarily, then croaked, "Ohhhh, suck it! Suck that cock! Oh...Christ all mighty!"

Val's tongue flicked out and swirled over, around and under his glans. Joe's pelvis lurched upward. Her palm slid down his thumping dick, pulling the foreskin taut at his base. Heat and friction rode the entire length of his cock, and then ignited into a fiery, almost unbearable sensation as her tongue flicked across the underside where his sensitive "T" stood out like embossed lettering.

Val rubbed at the small of Joe's back and gently squeezed his aching balls before taking him deep. She'd realized she'd never done this before and began to fear the consequences as the tip of his glans rubbed against the soft palette of her throat. She managed to overcome her fear, and ventured on.

Both husband and wife were lost in their own pleasure.

As Joe drew closer, he violently thrust his hips upward and his legs began to stiffen. Val was air humping, squeezing and releasing her thighs as she played his skin flute. She knew her panties were soaked with her fluids, and actually felt her juices seeping into the crease of one thigh. Have I peed myself? she wondered, and then answered her question. No way. I must have squirted! Damn, I haven't done that since that night with Ling!

Joe gasped, and then bellowed, as he released the first spew of his load. Val started to gag and pulled her head back in alarm. Then she felt a warm tingling in her clit, as Joe's scalding jism began its descent down her passageway. She took a deep breath, and swallowed. Satisfied she was not going to choke, she continued to milk his wildly throbbing, still spurting cock. Her lips popped over his slick glans bringing his foreskin with it with each swallow. Both Joe's hands were in her hair as she pushed his foreskin back and allowed her tongue to swirl around as she sucked the head of his cock clean.

"I never knew you could suck cock like that. All these years and only now?"

"Well, I guess Gerry taught me a thing or two," she said, deliberately teasing him.

"That makes two solid reasons for offering you to him," Joe said, caressing her face with his fingertips. But she knew he was only teasing her back.

Val grinned at him, and then kissed him tenderly. "Of course we're not finished with tonight yet."

"For sure," he replied with a big grin. "I owe you a good head job."

"Only one?"

The Prison Riot

Marty took inventory of his prison cell. The walls and floor and ceiling were made from concrete. There were two barred and wire grated windows on one wall. There were two iron bunks welded to the wall, and that was it, save the bars along one side of the cell.

During the past summer the cell had been damp and foul smelling from sweat and lack of ventilation. November brought an end to the dampness, but the foul smell remained. Marty laughed to himself as a trustee entered his cell and began using a powerful disinfectant. This happened once a month as far as Marty could figure. But it did little good. Once a month they scrubbed the place with brushes and sand, even whitewashed the walls and ceiling. As a final flourish, they sprayed the cell with insecticide, but it was useless. Everything in the cell had that same thick, sour odor to it. It was true for the entire prison.

The routine was the same every day, adding to the boredom and suffering one endured year in and year out. At seven in the morning, trustees wheeled food carts into what passed as a cafeteria. The prisoners were allowed out of their cells and into the cafeteria. The guards stood in the two doorways and watched them line up with their tin plates and spoons for breakfast and lunch. There was no supper. There was a white line painted on the floor and no one was allowed past it, or they would be knocked to the floor by one or more the guards. Any infraction saw the culprit beaten and dragged off to the hole, which was a cast iron cage, with enough room for only two men.

Marty had learned quickly that he was a member of the minority group at Rahway State Prison. More than 50 percent were Blacks, most of whom were Muslim. About 20 percent were Hispanic, leaving 30 percent Caucasian. Of the later group, 70 percent were Aryans, leaving Marty, who was not a member of that particular group, in one of the smallest groups in the prison.

There were over 2200 prisoners, looked over by 380 correctional officers, who were all White, and openly racist, and split down the middle with respect to the Aryans. They frequently assaulted the prisoners with their batons, which they dubbed "Nigger Sticks."

Marty had been beaten across the soles of his feet shortly after entering the prison, and had not been able to walk normally for three weeks following the beating. He had no real friends and only a few associates with whom he could pass time.

The only news he received from the outside world was the weekly letter from Gloria. Initially, every letter was upbeat and cheerful, bringing the latest neighborhood gossip, about people Marty scarcely knew, but had to imagine. But because of her letters, he would remember them the rest of his life.

Although Gloria tried to hide it, her recent letters bore signs of depression, and Marty risked a phone call to Roger, but it was Fats who answered, and he made do with him.

"Fats, I think my Gloria needs some kind of help, or assistance. Could you ask Roger to look in on her?"

"Consider it done. I'll take care of it myself."

"Thanks, Fats. Conrad was going to keep an eye on her, but he must be busy."

"Yeah," Fats replied, "he must be busy."

Marty realized that Fats was telling him he'd better not count on Conrad. And Marty made himself a promise that should anything happen to Gloria, Conrad would live to regret it.

His time up, Marty hung up and made his way back to his cell.


It was two days before Memorial Day when Roger called Marty and told him that Gloria had committed suicide. All Roger knew was that she had been acting strangely the past few days. A neighbor said she'd seen her picking through the garbage as if looking for something to eat. She had offered Gloria some left-overs, but Gloria had declined them. The neighbor suspected she didn't want it known that she was going through the garbage looking for scraps, for she claimed to be looking for a ring she had lost.

Goddamn Fat's, Marty thought, I'll kill him and that son-of-a-bitch Conrad when I get out, even if I don't get my money.

But Roger called him again four days later with more news about Gloria's suicide. "This ain't what you wanna hear, Marty, but I figured I better tell you before you hear it from someone else. It seems Gloria was into crack."

"No fucking way!" Marty yelled into the phone. He quieted down when the guard made a move toward him, waving to the guard that the situation was under control and that he would behave himself.

"So how'd she get hooked on that shit?"

"Ain't nobody talking about it, Marty. I asked around. No one's ducking the question. It's just that they don't seem to have an answer. I figure she copped her shit someplace outside the neighborhood."

"Plenty of it around the hood," Marty said tersely. "Roger, I want you to keep asking around. See what you can find out. Wait a few days, people tend to relax, maybe someone will talk."

"I'll try Marty, but you know the hood."

"Try," Marty said, and Roger knew how much it meant to Marty; how he was all but helpless while incarcerated. "I know. I know," Roger said comiserating with him. "She was a sweet kid. Everybody liked her. And from what I can tell, Fats looked after her, and even Conrad gave her some scratch on a weekly basis. You know... pay the rent, buy some food, no big bucks, but enough to get by."

"So how'd she get hooked on that shit?"

"Ain't nobody talking about it, Marty. I asked around. No one's ducking the question. It's just that they don't seem to have an answer. I figure she copped her shit someplace outside the neighborhood."

"Plenty of it around the hood," Marty said tersely. "Roger, I want you to keep asking around. See what you can find out. Wait a few days, people tend to relax, maybe someone will talk."

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