OC Press Erotic Ebook Selection
The Women Who Made Me: A Taboo Love Story
A sample from the erotic novel by Dick Anson
PROLOGUE
Most people assume the worst about Wall Street Sharks like me.
Totally Amoral. Even Sociopathic.
Greed-driven to the point where people can’t help laughing at us (unless they happen to be our victims).
So perverse, we’d rather make $10 illegally than $100 legally.
Like some imaginative Marxist radical designed us from the ground up to completely discredit American Capitalism.
Little do people realize.
We’re even Worse than they think.
Even here in the Federal Prison where I’m serving a term for Securities Fraud, we’re regarded as the Lowest of the Low among the inmate population. And since no one will talk to us, we always stand out as solitary figures shunned by Everybody. Total Pariahs.
But they all still want to know how Sharks like me got so FUCKING RICH.
“How in Hell did that Big Swinging Dick Robert Gardner make so many Fortunes on Wall Street?” they keep asking each other.
Well if they asked me in person, I could tell them.
Just another variation on the old Child Abuse scam, I’d say.
Child Abuse?
Sure. You find a big, fat Fortune 500 Corporation sitting there in the sun like an Innocent Child. Kidnap it. Sodomize the hell out of it. Then sell off what’s left for Big Money to sucker dentists in places like Iowa by issuing new common stock. It’s called “Doing a Leveraged Buyout.” Or if you don’t want to bother being polite, “Being an Aggressive Corporate Raider.”
Now just a minute…
All right, look. Here’s this Fortune 500 Corporation. Been around Forever. Good balance sheet. No debt to speak of. But its stock’s been Going Nowhere for years.
Okay.
So you offer to buy out the stockholders. For a nice premium over the stock’s current trading price.
With what money?
Oh, you get that from short-term bank loans. Banks fall all over each other to get in on such deals. Then you get the corporation’s board of directors to give your buyout offer a Big Smile. Maybe slip a few dollars here and there to key board members. And you end up Kidnapping the corporation.
And then?
Well, first thing is to have the corporation issue long-term debt so you can pay off your bank loans. With a few million left over to pay you for your time. Then you start the Sodomy part.
Oh come on…
Call it what you want. But the results are the same. You move several divisions to sweatshop countries in Asia or Latin America to save big on Labor Costs. Shut down the American factories, leave their workers standing in breadlines.
In other words, Export American Jobs?
Yeah, if you want to sound like an egg-head economist. But the main thing is, this shows the rest of your employees how serious you are about cutting Labor Costs to boost profits. So you start whacking away at employee benefits. Make workers pay for their own pension plans and medical insurance. Force the Unions to link wage increases to so-called Productivity Improvements. You get the idea. Sodomize the hell out of that Corporate Child you Kidnapped. Until the Profits are rolling in like crazy.
And then what?
Cash-Out Time. Do an Initial Public Offering of new stock to the suckers. With an Offering Statement full of wildly optimistic numbers. After all, the Fairyland of traditional Accrual Accounting gives you plenty of room to play games with the numbers. So you walk away with another Fortune. See?
Yeah. Piece of Cake.
Until the 2008 Financial Apocalypse, of course. When Markets went Totally Non-Linear during that fatal October. Blowing up the world and leaving America moaning on its knees.
So naturally, they all looked for somebody to blame.
But they couldn’t blame Me.
After all, I was in Prison in 2008 when America got its ass thoroughly kicked. Perfect alibi.
Yeah, sure.
Too bad such simple logic can’t stop my Nightmares.
Endless Guilt Dreams about how the things I did on Wall Street helped send America down the drain from the full sink of its Glory Days. Forcing me to work overtime trying to remember the few Good Things in my life.
Like when I was a high school kid back in Madison, Wisconsin. And Mom told me Aunt Martha was coming to live with us.
To become the Great Love of my Life.
What? You think Miserable Schmucks like me can’t Love?
Can’t Want? Can’t Crave? Can’t Go Crazy with Longing?
Well, you’ll see.
CHAPTER 1
"Martha's so smart and well-educated, Bobby," Mom said. "She'll be a wonderful influence for you."
"But why is she leaving San Francisco to live here?" I asked, wondering how anyone so smart and well-educated could possibly do such a thing.
"This is where she grew up. Madison’s her home town."
"Yeah, but..."
"She’s found a teaching job. In the same high school where you go."
"What's she going to teach?"
"English. And that’s perfect for her. She was always reading novels and writing poetry when we were growing up."
"Why did she leave Madison in the first place?"
"Oh, you know. She wanted to see something of the world after she graduated from the university. Not just marry right away, like I did."
"Didn't she ever get married?"
"Not yet. But she's a lot younger than I am. And she's had a chance to live in New York, Paris, San Francisco..."
"Is that why she never visited us?"
"I guess so. They're such exciting places when you're young and attractive like Martha. But now she's coming home. To live right here with us. It's a lot better than having to rent the upstairs front room to a perfect stranger."
"Then she'll be paying rent? Like that graduate student last year?"
"She insisted, Bobby. I tried to talk her out of it, but she absolutely insisted. Not that it really matters. She's family. And such a marvelous influence for you. With all her experiences."
Mom was starting to make Aunt Martha sound almost like a house that had just come on the market. But I was used to that.
Real estate was Mom’s whole life. For as long as I could remember, she’d been making a nice living selling and re-selling the same group of big, old houses to faculty members at the university. So enthusiasm was her stock in trade. And probably the secret of her success. Each new person, like each new house, was something special and wonderful to her.
Three years earlier, she'd even bought one of those houses for us. Got it at a bargain price because it needed a fair amount of work. And whenever she had a good run of sales, she’d call in contractors to build us a new kitchen. Or replace the oil burner. Or add a modern shower stall to the vast, old bathroom on the second floor.
The phone rang at that point, and Mom got into what I knew would be a long conversation with one of her real estate colleagues.
So I walked out of that relentlessly modern kitchen where we seemed to spend the bulk of our lives together. Ended up in the big, dim living room. And stared, once again, at the enlarged snapshot standing at one end of the marble fireplace mantle for as long as I could remember.
Of two women flanking a man.
The woman on the right was a very young Mom, smiling eagerly in out-of-date clothes. Her right hand hooked through the arm of a man in a tweed jacket who was also smiling, though less eagerly.
The man was my Father. But I could barely remember him. He married Mom when he was an assistant professor at the university. And a few years after I was born, got a more prestigious appointment at a major Eastern university.
I was never clear about why Mom didn't go with him instead of staying in Madison and getting into real estate. But I didn’t ask her because I sensed it was something she didn't enjoy talking about.
The woman on the left in the photograph was Aunt Martha. Not smiling. Not hooking her hand through my father's arm. Standing a good foot away from him, in fact. Taller. Slimmer. Much younger and more elegant than Mom. Looking patiently bored and a little grim and maybe even regal. Just like everybody expected a school teacher to look, I guess.
For some reason, I shivered. Then turned away from that photograph for what must have been the thousandth time. Wondering, as always, what there was about it that left me feeling vaguely unsettled.
CHAPTER 2
But Aunt Martha turned out to be nothing like her image in the photograph.
Two weeks later, Mom and I met her at the Milwaukee airport. When we reached the terminal, she was already standing there surrounded by suitcases. Looking very tall and elegant in towering high heels with pointed toes. Wearing a plain, dark dress that was over-dressed for Madison even at the city's finest restaurants.
"So this is Bobby," she said brightly after Mom introduced me. "How are you, Bobby?"
"Fine thank you, Aunt Martha," I said, putting on my best manners. "Welcome home to Wisconsin."
"Isn't he sweet?" she said to Mom, then smiled back at me. "Do I get a Welcome Home kiss from my Favorite Nephew?"
"Oh Martha, he's your only nephew,” Mom said, sounding like a bossy older sister.
"All the more reason," Aunt Martha said, presenting me with her left cheek and pursing her lips.
I kissed her on the cheek. Tasting the faint, powdery sweetness of her rouge for an exhilarating second before she straightened up and turned back to Mom.
"Oh Alice, I can't believe you have such a fine-looking son," she said. "You must be so proud of him."
"Yes, he's very well-behaved," Mom said. "Now why don't we get your suitcases out to the car."
That night in the large formal dining room where we usually ate only on holidays, I sat at my end of the long table. Listening to them talk about things in the past that meant nothing to me. And watching Aunt Martha with increasing fascination.
I decided she looked a lot like Barbara Stanwyck. Maybe because I’d seen an old Stanwyck movie on television a few weeks earlier. Same round face and dark hair and urbane demeanor. But taller. With bigger, stronger bones. And a discretely larger bosom that moved intriguingly beneath her dark dress when she laughed or changed her position.
Almost like she wasn't wearing a bra.
Most of all, she had startling Green Eyes.
I’d never in my life seen a woman with green eyes. Didn't even know such an eye color was possible. But Aunt Martha's eyes were a Deep Emerald Green. They glittered and glinted and flashed all through dinner as she exchanged ancient memories with Mom. Adding an exotic touch to a room that never before sparkled with anything more than the down-home cheeriness of conventional holidays like Christmas.
Later that night, as I lay upstairs in my bedroom, I could hear them talking in the living room below. Most of the time, all I could make out was the low mumble of their voices. But the house had unpredictable acoustics. Sometimes their words reached my ears so clearly they could have been standing just outside my half-open door.
"But you could have married him," I heard Mom say at one point.
"And end up like you? No thanks," Aunt Martha said with what seemed like a trace of bitterness.
"But at least you..." and the rest of Mom's words were lost in mumbling.
I turned over in bed. Trying to position myself to hear them more clearly. Straining to learn what I could of the secrets shared by these two women.
"Damn it Alice, I lived in Paris for two whole years," I heard Aunt Martha say a few moments later.
"I know, but..."
"I learned to speak French as well as any French woman."
"Of course you did."
"And let's face it, I learned to Fuck as well as any French woman."
"Oh Martha..."
"Well it's true."
"But...to say such a thing. Even to me."
I was shocked. I never realized women used words like Fuck when they talked to each other. Especially women like Aunt Martha. Who was so elegant and well-educated.
"Why shouldn't I say it?" Aunt Martha's voice echoed, clearly and adamantly. "I Fucked all over the Left Bank and loved it. And if San Francisco hadn't been such a Goddamn Fairyland, maybe I wouldn't..."
"Martha, please. Let's change the subject."
"You're still an Emotional Virgin, aren't you. All right. Tell me about the Three, Big, Earthshaking things that happened in Madison since I left home."
Their voices were lost in mumbling again. But it didn't matter. All I could think about was Aunt Martha saying she’d Fucked all over the Left Bank in Paris. And loved it.
I didn't know women ever loved it. I thought only men loved it. Women simply put up with it to have babies when they were married. And sometimes, on rare occasions, to endure it before they were married. In order to hang onto their over-sexed boyfriends.
What was Aunt Martha saying? In words she couldn't possibly realize I heard?
CHAPTER 3
Two days later, the three of us drove over to a downtown auto dealer so Aunt Martha could buy herself a car.
Mom and I took it for granted she'd choose a nice, practical second-hand Ford or Chevy sedan. So did the salesman who steered her down the rows of such cars parked in the dealer's lot.
But the car that caught her eye was a little white 1958 Triumph Roadster with a black convertible top.
"Oh Martha, are you out of your mind?" Mom said in astonishment.
"This car doesn't have an automatic transmission, Lady," the salesman said warily.
"Fine. I don't like automatic transmissions," Aunt Martha said. "Can I take it for a test drive?"
"You sure you can handle a stick shift?"
"Of course. Come on, Bobby. Let's go for a ride."
"Me?"
"Sure. You can watch out for the cops while I put this little baby through its paces."
"Martha, for heaven's sakes, be careful," Mom said.
"It's all right, Alice. I know what I'm doing. Let's go, Bobby."
I climbed into the passenger seat while Aunt Martha slid behind the steering wheel. Grasped the wheel with both hands and stretched her legs to the pedals. Moved the seat forward slightly. Checked her reach to the wheel and pedals again.
Then abruptly slipped off her low-heeled black pumps and handed them to me.
"Here Bobby," she said. "Hold my shoes for me."
"You're going to drive Barefoot?"
"Of course. I used to date a professional race car driver when I lived in Paris. He taught me all about sports cars. Insisted driving barefoot gives you better control."
"No kidding?"
"It's all in the toes, he said. All in the toes."
She started the engine. Revved it several times. Then slipped the gear shift lever into first and eased off on the clutch.
We glided smoothly forward. I caught a glimpse of Mom and the salesman as we paused before turning onto the street. Mom was shaking her head wearily. The salesman just shrugged his shoulders.
Aunt Martha wasn't kidding about her knowledge of sports cars. She sped us through the streets like a Real Pro. Steering and braking and changing gears with a smooth, sure grace that amazed me.
I always figured only Men could drive a car like it was a natural part of them. But that was before I watched Aunt Martha downshift with a lightning quick double-clutch technique to slow the car for a smooth turn at an intersection.
In her Stocking Feet.
Finally, she turned into the large parking lot of a shopping center. It was nearly empty of cars, so she had plenty of room to give the Triumph a real work-out.
She did racing starts and sliding turns and quick slow-downs. Moving up and down through the gears with never a jerk or grab. Simultaneously pressing the accelerator and brake with the heel and toes of her right foot while she pumped the clutch with her left foot. Curling her toes around the pedals. Her long, slim, nylon-sheathed toes that seemed as agile as the most experienced fingers.
Half an hour later, we were back at the automobile agency and Aunt Martha was signing the papers to buy the Triumph. Mom had given up trying to suggest a "sensible" car. And I couldn't stop thinking about the masterful way Aunt Martha had driven.
In her Stocking Feet.
CHAPTER 4
By pure chance, my English Class in high school that year was taught by Aunt Martha.
I could have been assigned either of the two other English teachers. But I got Aunt Martha's class from one to two each afternoon right after lunch. In room 212 at the far end of the school building.
She began the first class session by seating us in strict alphabetical order. I wound up at a desk halfway down the second row from the windows.
Then she passed out a four-page course outline for the first semester, showing the reading assignments for each day. It looked like an awful lot of work.
Finally she stood there at the front of the classroom. Looking tall and severe. And told us exactly what to expect. In a voice very low and controlled and intimidating.
She wasn’t an Easy Grader, she warned us.
No one would get an automatic "B" just for showing up and behaving.
We should expect to be questioned at random on the reading assignments.
Class participation would count for one-third of our final grade.
Written assignments would count for another third. And those not turned in on time would automatically receive an "F".
Unannounced quizzes and scheduled exams would count for the final third of our semester grade.
Any questions?
We were too cowed to have any questions.
"Jesus, what a Witch," I heard Tommy Carling moan to Frank Rush after class as they walked just ahead of me down the hall.
"Yeah," Frank said. "But at least she's not bad looking."
"Are you kidding? She’s a real Ball-Buster."
"Yeah. But did you see her legs? I never had a teacher with legs like that before."
Frank's words made me blush, and at first, I didn't know why.
But then it hit me.
I’d been stealing glances at Aunt Martha's legs and feet ever since we took that test drive together in her Triumph sports car. Legs that swooped elegantly from beneath her skirt. Feet that were long and slim and had the Highest Arches I’d ever seen.
I knew it was wrong to look at her that way. She was my Aunt. Mom’s Sister. I wasn't supposed to look at her like she was a Calendar Model. But I couldn't help it.
No wonder Frank's words made me blush.
Maybe I would have gotten over it if Aunt Martha hadn't insisted on doing such compelling things in English class.
Like sitting with her legs crossed while she read to us. With the hem of her skirt sliding an inch or two above the beige curves of her knees. Displaying a tantalizing hint of endless, graceful thighs.
And absently flicking her loose black pump off and on the heel of her dangling foot with subtle movements of her toes.
Letting it slip off a little farther each time as she read us a story or essay in a strong, educated voice.
Until she lost control of the pump and it slid with a rush down to her toes. To swing gently back and forth for a second or two. Then hang motionless from the tips of her toes. Revealing almost the entire length of her slim, stunning foot.
In those days, a lot of women like Aunt Martha still wore seamless beige stockings with reinforced toes and heels. The darker beige reinforced nylon seemed to emphasize the perfectly sculpted roundness of Aunt Martha's heel. The breathtaking curve of her elegantly high arch. The shadowed beginnings of her long, supple toes.
I kept wondering why I couldn't help gaze at her exposed foot at such times.
Why I got the most embarrassing hard-ons when I watched her arch her foot up and down or twist it this way and that.
Why my pulse raced when the pump dangled precariously from the tips of her toes. With her stockings forming intriguing nylon wrinkles around her sharply protruding ankle bones.
I’d never heard of any guys my age getting turned on by a woman's Feet. It was always Bosoms. And Aunt Martha had a very attractive bosom. Generous and nicely shaped.
But it was her Feet I kept staring at.
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Copyright February 2012, Dick Anson. Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.