So, what do I do now?
I was staring at the check from the European Lottery Company. £75m or about $150m was the sum I'd won. It was as tense a time having the money as it was the week before having nothing but a monthly pittance of a wage from my business and no sense of what direction I was facing in. However, this tension was of a different sort.
I began to think again about what Nirvana had said to me two weeks before. We'd had yet another difficult discussion. It followed me asking her for the umpteenth time to marry me. To be fair, she was nothing but straightforward and honest.
"Paul, I can't take the risk of marrying you when you are so poor. I'm a single mother and I have to protect my daughter. Your business is too risky and I can't see us living in my tiny house."
And then she had followed with something that I now realized gave me possibilities, options.
"Look, I love you dearly, don't mistake me, and I would do anything for you but not marriage unless I can have security. If you've got that, then I'd do anything in that marriage as well."
She said that with such a 'come-on' in her voice. Then she had snaked her long dark-skinned legs over me, straddling my thighs and kissing me lustily and long. No more had been said. She'd slipped her hand down between us, feeling my rapidly hardening cock before lifting her already hitched-up skirt even higher and guiding me past flimsy panties and between her ready cunt lips. There was that perpetual contrast between the protective mother and the sensual, hungry whore in the bedroom. Yet, even in these sudden switches of mood, I sensed Nirvana still not really letting go, keeping a bit of herself back. Where was she going in her head and body at those times?
"Ok," I said to myself, "I'll find out. I know what to do."
Yes, I'd had a flash of sheer inspiration. I was on the 'phone like a shot to my old friend and personal lawyer, Imogen Banks-Golden. I know, what a name! She was from a very poor family in Lancashire, like me, but had got to University and latched onto the ugliest, fattest but richest student in the College. Keeping her name of Banks, she'd hyphenated it with the 'Golden' part. Now don't get me wrong readers, there are fat people who are incredibly beautiful including a few BBW's whom I have loved and fucked happily and enthusiastically, but this guy had been in the way when the ugly stick was being pointed.
His family had been Goldenstein up to the Second World War when they left Germany and settled in the East End of London. It was an apt name, as dealing in precious metals and stones was their trade and they built a significant international empire. However, little Hymie was their only son and heir, and he was fussed over and spoilt rotten by his mother in true Yiddish style. So, by the time he met Imogen, he was a bloated, spoilt and arrogant man with a face ravaged by poor diet and too much acne.
They married quickly, and Imogen made it her duty to fuck him daily, through period and non-period days. She was Oxbridge's Wife of Bath, leaving him exhausted and unable to get to most early lectures.
How do I know this? I was the other man she fucked for fun. I was the lover who really serviced her true needs; for domination, for masochistic pleasures that Hymie could never be persuaded to take part in. I was the one who sent her back to him with deep red stripes across her shapely arse, cunt lips stinging from punishment and nipples aching and breasts bruised. He knew he was part of her masochism, to be the ugly man who humiliated her by walking out with her, by letting her sit naked and splayed over his enormous frame and fuck with the layers of fat rippling rhythmically over his body. But he loved her so much. With him she was the first woman who had ever shown a real interest in him, listened to his stories, cared for him, and most significantly, given him the strength to stand up to his fussing mother.
When University ended and they left with Imogen achieving a First that guaranteed she was going on to study Law, and worn out Hymie a third rate degree and a ticket straight into his father's company, I drifted away to various relationships. Eventually I married a woman from the other side of the tracks with no money, no interests, no intellect, and just the best ability to fuck as if it was the only way to exercise. That was until the baby clock started ticking, and then she joined the legions of mothers who forget their spouses and put their lives into the mewling, puking brat in the buggy.
Imogen continued to stay in touch, sometimes making excuses to come see me. She'd join my wife in sado-masochistic games; always ending up whipped and striped from those full breasts to the souls of her feet. Karen, my then wife, would lie in front of her, her shaven cunt open, receiving the administrations of Imogen's wonderfully long tongue that lathed across her swollen labia and down to
her anus. She loved to humiliate Imogen, lifting her knees to her equally full breasts to make her other hole as open to our friend as possible.
"Yes, lick my arsehole, lick it, whore!"
With those words what could I do but 'punish' Imogen for being such a perverted woman? I would increase the power of my strokes, my cock standing hard to my belly as I took pleasure in the growing matrix of red stripes that rose like scars over that firm, smooth landscape.
But why do I mention this, apart from feeling the instant hardness grow in my pants as I recall it? Well, Imogen had continued to provide all my legal advice over the years, always in exchange for me providing services in kind that only the Marquis de Sade could rival. I also gave consultancy services to their Company, especially after the Father-in Law died and her husband took over the business. Imogen insisted I be paid at the top rate in the market. Hymie never batted an eyelid at my charges, always seeming pleased that I had served (or was it serviced?) his wife so well; probably because in the weekends she came to stay, he got a rest from her endless demands to fuck. However, Hymie had died a few months ago, not surprisingly in bed during one of their ritual morning sessions. Yes, The Wife of Bath had a killer cunt! She'd rung me sounding genuinely distressed the morning it happened, though once his body was cold she was in my office displaying some very inappropriate behavior for such a recent widow. She'd left his grieving mother to sort out the funeral arrangements and 'had to get out, because the bitch is being such a pain, darling.'
A few weeks later Hymie's will was read out and she had been left the Company in its entirety and a lump sum of £10m from his private funds. That was on top of the five houses, the yacht in Monaco and the chateau they had begun to renovate in the South of France. She asked me to do a review of the business and consult her on what was best to do with the houses and businesses. Of course she added her own brand of bonus payments, and the Chateau D'Or near Beziers, which took on a whole new building plan on my direction, became our favorite place for me to collect.
Now I needed her consultancy and help to develop a very special contract for me. We arranged to meet the very next day.