The Perfect Wife

Chapter One Summer in the mountains Mr. Roy Chambers, the most important man in May Belle Livingston’s hope for stardom, swiped the key card to his top floor condominium penthouse and stepped inside the door. “You ready, sweetheart?” he asked with a shout. Roy wasn’t the handsomest man ever to grace a trim tuxedo, but in West Virginia, he was one of the wealthiest. “Out in a few minutes, sweetie,” the melodious voice of last year’s Miss White Water Beach called back. “I’m putting on makeup.” “Don’t forget n****e rouge.” “Cherry douche too?” asked May Belle. “You sure he’s kinky?” May Belle had turned nineteen two weeks earlier. She had lost her virginity so long ago, she forgot with whom and now made sure she was available to Roy Chambers whenever he wished. Without Roy’s interest in her talent, she’d be selling her body over on Madison Street along with the twenty-dollar crack whores and girly boys. Instead, she sold it at the Cat’s Eye, one of Roy’s adult dating places, for much, much, more. With a successful screen test, by this time next year she’d be an in demand movie star. Doug, Dirty Dog, Bensigong, besides being the owner of West Coast Pictures, kept a home up on Walton’s mountain with a sound stage for out of the way fun and owed Roy favors for underwriting several of his adult movie flops and investment busts. In consequence, he had promised to screen test Roy’s latest live-in piece of p***y girlfriend. “Dirty Dog’s middle name is kink,” Roy said with a bark, before crossing to the cabinet bar by the grand piano and pouring a hefty drink; single malt scotch, no ice. Then, just to make sure she hadn’t snuffed cocaine early, he padded to the master bedroom; his master bedroom, where occasional hopefuls had short term squatting privileges, and long-term hopefuls never got invited. Roy took up light in the doorway. “You’ll do whatever he wants, right, May Belle?” “Him and the horse he rides,” said the hopeful. May Belle dipped her middle finger into a fragrance jar and spread a bouquet of cherry pie delight liberally onto the naked crease of her invitation center. “And May Belle—” “Yes, Mr. Chambers.” “No drugs. Doug requires compliance, not dopers.” May Belle stood and whirled as the hem of her black party dress danced high on her thighs and her black party pumps shined intrigue to anyone who noticed. “How’s my dress, Mr. C.?” She curtsied. Roy supposed the best feature of May Belle’s dressing ensemble supported t**s. Roy loved t**s, big t**s, little t**s, pointed t**s, hanging t**s. He loved t**s. “I’ve had it,” he said. “Doug hasn’t; make sure he’s the one who likes what you offer.” “Yes, of course, sweetie-pie…” Moments later, Roy clasped her elbow, moved her from his elegant in the city residence, into his private elevator and then his car, a two-month-old red Lamborghini. “And May Belle,” he said as she slid into the black leather bucket passenger seat. “This doesn’t work out… Your ass is mine until we’re finished with the dean of students, Reynolds, or you’re too old to fuck.” “Yes, sir—” By then, May Belle had been bedding John Reynolds for a month and soon, she expected to bed his wife. Roy had promised her a new apartment when she took up with little wife Joan, so her association with the Reynolds’ had importance. She nodded and added cherry lip gloss. Then an hour later, on a rented sound stage in an abandoned movie theater, Roy sat next to Dirty Dog well out of reach of the hot overhead light bars, as cameramen wrote video tracks to disks and May Belle Livingston pulled a flesh train; not just any old plain vanilla flesh train either. White, black and brown c***s moved this train, always kept hard by an extraordinary older d**k-fluffier named Gina; and an occasional gorgeous young serving girl for backup. “Who’s the girl?” Roy asked. “She should be your star.” “Name’s Paula; don’t know her last name; but just like May Belle, she’s a great f**k, though she can’t act a lick. Her eyes can’t stop finding the camera lens.” “Someone’s mistress…?” “Not anyone from here. I’m told she’s been with lots of guys. Sells her ass; over sexed, you might say. Right now, the word is she’s f*****g her physiology professor.” “College girl…?” “Education, over at the teacher college…” “Shame,” said Roy. “She could make a fortune in the movies.” “Two kids in foster care, and broke, I’ve heard… You interested?” Roy said, “Don’t think so,” but keeping his eyes interested, he was so intrigued by the girl; his d**k was hard and his testicles were banging against each other like billiard balls seeking a bumper. p***y is a dime for a dozen in today’s society, he thought. Still, this little piece of p***y had caught his interest and twitched his memory. Not that he wanted Dirty Dog aware of his interest. “Camera man found her; we pay her six dollars an hour and she charges extra for the other.” “Which one…?” “Steve Griffin, over on camera one…” The movie producer, three hundred and sixty pounds of him, swaddled in Gorilla black, pointed. “Best sound and picture specialist in the state; I tried to shunt him to L.A. but he likes the hills.” Dirty Dog snatched up his megaphone and yelled, “Action!” He ignored the action and cast his eyes on Chambers. “Want her to suck your d**k. She sucked mine for fifty. She can use the money.” “Griffin?” “Most likely—” “The professor…?” “A cheapskate…” “May Belle will take care of me later.” “May Belle will be comatose later.” “Steve does moonlighting?” “I’ll give you his card.” “Why, thank you, Dog.” Roy no longer considered cameramen. Instead, he watched May Belle take a long thin c**k in her asshole, a c**k in her p***y and a c**k in her mouth from actors in front of the cameras. Then he switched attention to the serving girl. Paula, without a last name, had her succulent red lips wrapped around a makeup man’s appendage as he stretched her mouth to the limit and powered his c**k toward her unplugged esophagus. *** The brass wall plaque beside the dark oak door read Smith, Smith, Jacobs and Bernstein, legal accountants, but the firm inside was a partnership dealing in so much more than taxes. Roy Chambers pushed open the door and entered. It had been a month since May Belle failed her audition, half that time since she moved into her new apartment, no longer staying at his condo, and a day since Steve Griffin’s hidden camera recorded her mouth munching Joyce Reynolds’ p***y. On retainer and a promise, Steve had placed surveillance equipment in places those being surveyed frequented. “Bernstein in his office…?” Roy asked the middle-aged, bottle blond short woman filing her nails. Startled, the nail filer sat upright, rearranged her tailored business attire, and slid the nail file into the desk lap drawer; her movements amalgamating into one fluid motion. “Yes, Mr. Chambers, in the canteen with Mr. Jacobs.” “And the others, Doris…?” “Saturday morning golf, sir; shall I have Mr. Bernstein join you in his office?” Roy stomped further. “No need, the canteen is fine.” “They’re with a guest.” Roy stopped. “Important?” he asked. “New applicant, sir…” “p***y…?” Doris nodded. “One of my girls…?” “Mary Lou.” “The red head…?” “Yes, sir,” Doris said. “Will it burden you to leave the law office and work for me only, Doris?” “Less wear and tear, Mr. Chambers,” Doris said with a chuckle. “My husband will be appreciative.” “Next week, then…” Roy turned and started toward Bernstein’s office. “In Boonville…?” The secretary asked. “Yes, Doris.” Roy again stopped and swiveled his neck. “Need more time to move?” “George is loading the U-Haul.” “My stepmother’s demanding.” “So is George when he engages his mind.” “Thank you, Doris.” “No; thank you, Mr. Chambers.” “I expect you to tame my stepmother.” “I understand, sir.” Thirty minutes later, Bernstein and Jacobs found Roy sitting in the straight back, fronting Ben’s mammoth desk with his ankles crossed and looking tired. Jacobs, dressed in rumpled off-the- rack casual clothes and smelling of cheap K-mart perfume, crossed the plush blue carpet to stand out of the way without a word. Bernstein, clothed by Brooks Brothers, rounded Roy with a head nod and sat in his desk chair. He had a Cuban stuffed in one corner of his mouth, unlit, but chewed and soggy. He asked, “What brings you in so early on this fine sunny morning, Roy?” Even after ten years, Ben was indebted to Roy for getting him out of prison for embezzling. Ben was forty, and Roy had just turned thirty-five back then. The Smith brothers joined the firm soon after and former police captain, Bill Jacobs, accused but not charged with statutory r**e, followed a month later. “How was the interview?” asked Roy, coming to ramrod posture. “f*****g ducking,” smirked Bill as he slouched against the left side book shelf opposite the right side picture window, commanding a view of the brick building next door. Why is the window even there? Roy wondered. It only viewed the adjacent brick building. “Hired,” said Ben. “College girl,” said Bill, narrowing in on Roy. “Sucks better than a vacuum cleaner…” “Young enough for you…?” “Younger than that hag at the reception desk…” After twenty years as a street urchin, peddling her ass in alleyways and eating slop at soup kitchens, Roy hoped that hag and her defrocked Catholic priest husband were the missing puzzle parts to keep his alcoholic stepmother’s head on business and not on booze. With Lila satiated, she performed. When she wasn’t, she drank; hence Roy had hired the Nichols’ to babysit and keep her head on straight. He refocused on Ben. “And Doris…?” “Six months’ severance, as you suggested.” “What else you got for me?” “What’s with the real estate?” “Because we made too much money last year and expect to make more this year, you told me to spend. I’m spending.” Roy glanced at Bill mid-sentence; then at Ben, whose jaw had dropped. “Why have you bought an apartment building?” fumed Ben. “A few of my girls need housing accommodations near the college.” “College housing for whores…?” “Why not…? Whores need educated too.” The frostiness in Roy’s retort caused a chill. “How’s the restoration going on the house?” “Finished in June…” “You’re not moving back to Booneville, are you?” “Maybe part-time later in the year…” Roy redirected his attention to a slouching Jacobs. “What have you got, for me Bill?” Finally, thought Bill. Wasn’t his information the most important reason to meet? Bill worked best under time constraint and excelled in the spotlight. He took charge of the light and read from his notes. “Ralph McGregor and his wife Cleopatra manage the North Shore Steel Products Trust. Rupert McGregor and his wife Dawn set it up to support their only daughter, Paula, if needed because of their death. Ralph and Rupert were brothers. Cleopatra, called Cleo, and Dawn were sisters.” The two families lived in neighboring old money mansions in an eastern suburb of Cleveland, Ohio. Ralph and his wife are childless. Rupert and Dawn died in a commuter airplane crash eight years ago. Paula’s aunt and uncle adopted her at sixteen and have control of her trust with Servile Family Bank until she’s thirty. “You say Servile?” interrupted Roy. “Small-town bank, Michael R. Servile, President…” “Continue.” “Six weeks after graduating from high school, Paula’s aunt disinherited her when Paula’s pregnancy became obvious. Paula now lives in a one room on the lower east side of Morgantown. She works the streets, attends Morgantown state teacher college, and will graduate next June. She has twin boys; wards of the court.” “Unusual…” “Yes.” “Drugs…?” “No; but heroin at one time…” “Boyfriends…?” “Her boyfriends are sleepovers, paying for the privilege.” After a noise smashing pause, Bill blurted amazement. “She’s a skank boss. Why you interested in a skank?” “That skank, Bill,” said Roy, holding the heat under his collar in check, “has put herself through college without a nickel from her stepparents, probably doesn’t even know she owns a steel company, and I suspect has provided for her children the best way she can. She’s a woman who makes men like us millions. Who’s the father?” “No clue.” “Find a clue.” Bill blanched. “Sure boss.” Roy at least now understood why he thought he recognized Paula at the movie shoot. He and her mother had dated in college before she married a jerk-off, named McGregor, he now suspected. What a hot-piece of ass she was. Chambers wondered if her daughter burned up the bed sheets, too. He made a spur-of-the-moment decision and reengaged Ben. “I intend to extract North Shore Steel Products from the trust and own it outright. Swirl your magic fingers.” “Limits…?” “You can’t kill them.” “Time table…?” “No hurry…”