The Pretend Sophisticate

I guess I've always fancied myself to be an "international man of mystery," a little bit like James Bond, my hero. In fact, I look a little like the new James Bond: slender build, short close-cropped blonde hair, a serious-looking face. Like Mr. B, I'm very fond of martinis and expensive tailored suits. Actually, I have only one suit, but it's a dark blue wool worsted that cost me $800, tailored. I wear it with my $500 Ferragamo shoes.

Also, thanks to the ease of firearm purchase in America, particularly in Maryland, I have a .38 cal. Beretta automatic, the same kind as Mr. B. I had the suit tailored to allow room for the Beretta in a comfortable shoulder holster. I'm "British" of course—at least as British as anyone born and raised in New Jersey can be. I've never been out of the states, but I've worked on my British accent for many years, and it's very good.

Because of my expensive suit, you probably would think that I'm well-paid at whatever it is that I do. I like to imply to girls at pickup bars that I'm a hired assassin for the CIA. But in reality, my "cover job" is working as a gasket maker at a small plant in Camden, New Jersey. I don't know if you've ever been to New Jersey, but it's the hellhole of the earth. It looks like a bombed-out city after World War Two. I make $10 an hour making gaskets, or $400 a week. I know this doesn't sound like a lot of money, but since I live by myself in a free apartment over my uncle's garage in return for taking care of his yard and other things, I have no other expenses other than myself, so I can afford to indulge.

And my indulgences mainly are: fantasy, deception, and sex. I am able to engage in all three of them about once a month, and here's how I do it:

I like the idea of high-priced real estate, particularly out in the Hamptons of Long Island, a place that I never visit otherwise. I like houses that run into the millions, which you might think would be a little pricey for someone making only $400 a week, but the house is not the point.

The first thing I do at the beginning of that month is to pick up a copy of Forbes, the money magazine. I look through its pages to get the name of some wealthy Brit who may be planning to invest in the U.S., and then I get to work.

This month, I had decided on Malcolm Mowbray, the young CEO of Mowbray Industries, which manufactures airplane electronics and who the magazine said was considering locating a plant in the U.S. Cheaper labor, he said, and fewer union problems.

Next, on my three-day-a-month unpaid leave, I took the Trailways from southern New Jersey to New York City. I picked up a copy of the Long Island monthly magazine at the bus station and sat down to peruse it. The back of the magazine was filled with real estate ads for extremely pricey houses, many of them out in the Hamptons. I was not interested in the pictures of the houses as much as I was interested in pictures of the real estate agents on their pages.

Here was one. Linda Jameson, a very pretty blonde who looked about 30, of Island Realtors. It appeared she was handling a nice little house priced at only 2.5 million. I called the real estate company and asked for her.

Using my best English accent, I told her who I was, Malcolm Mowbray of Mowbray Industries, that I had just flown in from London on the Concorde, was staying with friends, and that I was planning to locate a plant in northern New Jersey but preferred to live in the Hamptons. I had seen the house listed in Long Island and thought that it just might do. I asked if she might be able to show it to me that afternoon, since I had to take the Concorde back to London the next day. I told her I could get a limo or taxi and meet her at her office.

As we know from history, whenever greed is involved, all caution is thrown to the winds. I knew that she would of course check my name out on the internet, which is the reason why I had given her a legitimate name, but it was very unlikely that she would go to all the trouble of trying to call Mowbray Industries in England, and apparently she did not.

Unable to schedule a limo on such short notice, I took a taxi out and met with Ms. Jameson at her office. Naturally, I was carrying my briefcase with me. Ms. Jameson was as her picture indicated: blonde, pretty, and about 30.

BUT—and this is a big but—sitting at her desk was a junior version of her, a girl of 18, blonde, exceptionally pretty, beautiful figure, and dressed in some kind of a private school girl's uniform: white shirt with a blue striped tie, blue blazer with some kind of a stupid crest on the breast pocket, gray pleated skirt, blue knee socks and black low-heel shoes.

"This is my daughter Jennifer," Ms. Jameson said, "She's just back from Hasbrouck for a spring break and wanted to see what I do."

"How do you do, Jennifer," I said, extending my hand. "You're a very pretty young lady."

"Thank you," she said shyly. Hasbrouck, I gathered, was some kind of a fancy girl's school.

"I'm going to take Mr. Mowbray out to see the Tasselhof house. You should see it, Jennifer. It's absolutely beautiful." She turned to me. "Would you mind very much, Mr. Mowbray, if Jennifer came along with us? She wouldn't be any trouble."

My God, she was playing right into my hands; I should have paid her for this. "No, of course not," I replied. "I would be happy if she came too." You bet I would be happy. In fact, my plans were changing very rapidly, with little Jennifer perhaps as the star of my show.

"I'm a little concerned," I said later on the way out in Ms. Jameson's car, "That this property, price-wise, seems to be on the lower end of the scale?"

"It's part of a divorce case," she said, "And both parties want to sell as soon as possible. They still have all of their furniture there."

"I see."

The house was very nice of course, and it was exactly the kind of place I would have wanted to live in if I had any money—which of course I didn't. But alas, after viewing the property with Ms. Jameson and her daughter, when we finally got to the bedroom, and I admired the large poster bed there, I realized it was time for me to get down to business.

"Well, this is all very nice," I said, "But I just have one question: Do you and your daughter like sex?"

"I beg your pardon?" she asked.

"Well, both of you seem to have really nice tight little asses and apparently cute tits, so I naturally was wondering if you both like to fuck?"

Ms. Jameson stared at me. "I don't understand, Mr. Mowbray."

"Then perhaps you understand this." I pulled out the Beretta. "This is a Beretta 38, the same kind that James Bond uses, and in case you think it's a toy, let me show you this." Knowing that the house was too far away from its neighbors and too well insulated for any sound to carry, I aimed the Beretta at the large mirror at the end of the room and fired. The mirror shattered with a crash into a thousand pieces.

"AHHHHH!" Ms. Jameson cried, and her daughter jumped.

I turned back to them. "So, as you can see, I mean business, and I would advise the two of you to do exactly as I say if you want to get out of here unhurt." I used to say "alive", but I found that it scared people too much. I reached into the briefcase and pulled out a roll of duct tape and a pair of scissors. "Jennifer, I would like you to take this duct tape and scissors and secure your mother's hands behind her back to one of the posters at the end of the bed. And make sure you do a good job because I'll be watching you."

"What are you going to do?" Ms. Jameson asked.

"Just have a little fun, and I can assure you that neither one of you will get hurt—as long as you do what I say."

Reluctantly, Jennifer took the duct tape and the scissors and secured her mother as I had instructed her. While her mother was facing out, she could look over her shoulder at the bed.

"You'll never get away with this," she said.

"Oh, I think I will. I have many times before. I suppose you've never heard of the Real Estate Rapist, but that's me."

I saw that Jennifer was finished with her work. "And now, Jennifer, I would like you to take off that silly schoolgirl's uniform."

"I won't," she said defiantly.

I took a step over and put the business end of the Beretta against her mother's forehead. "I think you will, and I assume that your mother has already figured out that this house is too far away from its neighbors for a scream to do you any good, so don't try it. Now undress."

Again reluctantly, she took off the jacket, let it drop to the floor, unfastened the tie and tossed it down, unbuttoned her shirt and let it drop, and finally unzipped her skirt and let it fall to her ankles. Now she was clad only in a white bra and white panties, both of them apparently of good quality. No torn underwear for this lass.

"Now, you can take your bra and panties and shoes off," I said. "You can leave your socks on." I always like to leave them with a little something, to preserve their modesty as it were.

This time, with a look of defiance in her face, she unfastened her bra and let it drop, then pushed her panties down and kicked them away. She had beautiful small breasts with coral nipples the size of quarters and a honey-golden bush that proved she was a real blonde.

"Tell me, Jennifer, are you a virgin?" I asked.

"No."

"Ah, what a pity. It's a little more effort, but I have always enjoyed plucking virgins. But I'm sure I will enjoy you, and since you're not a virgin, I assume you know how to suck cock. Why don't you get down on your knees and come over here and show me."

Defiantly, she did as I said, so I unzipped and took it out. "I'm usually good for two times," I said. "So the first time, I would like to come in your mouth and the second time in that pretty little bush of yours. So the sooner you can get me to come, the sooner this will all be over with." She took my already erect cock in her hand. "Needless to say, any attempts at severe biting will get you a bullet in the head."

Recognizing the realities of life, she went at it with a will and turned out to be a really good little cocksucker. It was not long until I had filled her mouth with hot cum, causing her to choke and spit a little. But I knew that she had swallowed some of it.

"Your daughter is a wonderful little cocksucker, Ms. Jameson," I said. "You ought to be very proud. I'll bet you're good at it too."

"You're disgusting!" she said with contempt.

"Ah yes, well now it's time for the main event. Up on the bed, Jennifer, and spread those lovely thighs of yours."

Knowing that she had no choice, she did as she was told.

"You're welcome to watch, Ms. Jameson, if you like," I said, but I had the feeling that she would not.

"I hope you spend the rest of your life in prison for this!"

"Well, I wouldn't count on that if I were you."

Seeing that Jennifer was spread out nicely on the bed, I felt comfortable in placing the Beretta on the dresser on the other side of the room and taking off my jacket, my pants, and my Calvin Klein shorts. Despite coming in little Jenny's mouth, my cock was nice and hard again.

"Well, here we go, Jennifer," I said. "If you put your heart into it and show me a good time, I can guarantee you that I will be out of your life within the hour."

I knelt between her thighs to admire her. God, she was a lovely sight, with the most beautiful little trimmed blonde pussy I had ever seen. The sparse hair on her nether lips was like peach fuzz. I stuck two fingers of my right hand in my mouth to get them wet, then inserted them in her tight pussy. Surprise! She was already wet! Well, wasn't this interesting?

I leaned down, took my turgid member, and eased it into her. It was pretty easy, and she drew up her legs, which made it even easier. I enjoyed pumping her a dozen times, and then I saw her look over to make sure her mother was not watching, and to my surprise, she whispered in my ear: "Fuck me. Fuck me hard."

And that's what I did, finally coming in her in hot spurts. After that, I withdrew, wiped off, and got dressed again.

"I just wanted to tell you," I said, going back over to Jenny, "That was one of the nicest fucks I ever had in my life. I hate to do this to you, but for my own protection, I'm afraid I'm going to have to spread-eagle you and duct-tape your hands and feet to the bedposts. But don't worry: As soon as I'm out of the area, I'll call the Hamptons police from a pay phone and have them come over and rescue you. I'm sure it will be quite a treat for the first officers arriving."

After I had duct-taped her, she gave me an interesting look, almost as if she didn't want me to go now that she was helplessly duct-taped. So I gave her a tender kiss on both sets of lips, got up, and retrieved my Beretta.

"One final step and then I'm gone," I said. I took Ms. Jameson's purse and dumped it out on the bed. "Let's see what we have here...credit cards, don't want those, too easy to trace their whereabouts...a wallet. Aha!" I counted it. "One hundred and sixty dollars in twenties. Well, I can use those." I pocketed the money and put the wallet back. "Also, I see we have the car keys here. I'm going to have to borrow your car for a little while, Ms. Jameson. But I'll leave it undamaged where it will be found. And one final word about the house: Actually, I was looking for something a little more expensive."

"You'll never get away with this," Ms. Jameson said bitterly.

"Never Say Never, Ms. Jameson. I think James Bond said that."

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