Prequel: This is a story of misunderstanding, conflict, and two people's journey to true love.
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Introduction:
A private corporation, accustomed to getting exclusive government contracts; the kind of contracts people never read or hear about except in the quietest corners of the Pentagon had run into trouble. Enormous sums of money, Federal money, unbudgeted money, and important highly secret information had disappeared. After a discreet internal investigation by key members of the innermost circle of the corporation's leadership a culprit had been identified. However, the criminal activity had been so carefully planned and so meticulously carried out that proving the transgressor's guilt without full blown public disclosure was virtually impossible.
Further investigation had become vital. Ultimately guilt had been proven, and the villainy had been unequivocally assigned. Yet to guarantee the malfeasance never leaked extreme precautions had to be arranged. Guilt was shown, the villain was caught, but their identity could never be made public, their perfidy never exposed. For the sake of the company, for the sake of national security their future had to be tightly regulated, and above all, they had to be punished.
Punishment was a ticklish task. Since no one must ever know of the crime, retribution had to be prudent. Repayment in this matter had to be well thought out, thoroughly planned, and absolutely air tight. There could be no possibility for error, investigation, or even rumor. Vengeance had to be harsh and irrevocable, but done in such a manner no one would ever suspect the treachery that inspired it.
The two kingpins of the business, co-founding brothers, hatched a plan they believed would protect their business, guarantee there will be no leaks, and would not only bind the thief, but would humiliate and destroy the evil doer forever. The plan was simple, thorough, and vicious beyond imagining. It would start with a party, but where it would all end was anybody's guess
A Luncheon is Planned:
The Guest List:
The first phase of the trap was to be sprung at an afternoon luncheon. The party was planned for a Saturday afternoon. Steve, an American technical expert was the host. As many as twenty people were expected.
They included Steve Hammer, the host, and his wife Cynthia. Steve was an up and coming yuppy type businessman. His wife Cynthia was the classic southern debutante.
There was a Canadian couple; Pearce Vasquals and his wife Collette. They brought their nearly grown son Flail. Pearce was a brilliant computer technician. His wife doted on him hand and foot. Their son Flail was a licentious monster in his late adolescence.
An Australian was present, Charles McNamara. Charles wasn't married, but had brought his girlfriend, Denise. Charles and Denise were both from Sydney. They'd been sweethearts since high school. Charles didn't know it but Denise had been bisexual all her life.
An English couple was also on hand. That was Charles Coburn and his wife Gwyneth. The Coburn's both represented old money and English traditional values. Next to Warren and Mildred Hanson, they were the oldest couple on hand. On first impression they appeared conservative and somewhat staid. In reality they were quite a couple.
Other key guests included Warren Hanson and his wife Mildred. Most people referred to Warren as the Colonel owing to his military record. He was the founder of the company, its largest share holder, and biggest stake holder. He was to be a central character to the plot of the story.
The Colonel's younger brother was there also. His name was Fletcher Hanson, if this story had a male protagonist that would have been Fletcher. He was the second largest share holder. Fletcher was a widower at the time the story began. He had three children who were attending a field day activity at their school, and would not be at the party. Fletcher had come to the party alone. He had been alone most of the time since his wife died two years earlier. Fletcher was a very complex man; a very lonely man.
The next to last invitee was Florence Henderson. Florence was the corporate comptroller, and the person who had first uncovered the culprit's scheme. Florence was a spinster, but had for years loved Warren Hanson from afar. She owned no shares in the company, but she behaved as though the company was her personal fiefdom.
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A closer look at all the participants above could have revealed a great deal more. Every family had its own story. Over time, if the story unfolds as expected some will become major participants in a tale of manipulation, cruelty, and perhaps love, deep abiding, all consuming love.
Regardless, the story was to be primarily about one woman. She was the last to come to the party. She was the guest of honor, the person for whom the whole gathering had been planned, our heroine Sorrel Sullivan.
Sorrel:
The guest of honor; that was to say the person for whom the picnic had been planned and around whom the story revolved was Sorrel. Sorrel was last to arrive. This was by design, for everyone knew Sorrel had a lot to answer for.
Sorrel was a beautiful woman. She stood a tall five foot five, and weighed a slight one hundred twenty pounds. Her hips were a little on the broad side, but she had a waspish waist.
Her breasts weren't large, only thirty-four B, but she'd learned to keep them firm and supple. The exercise regimen she followed guaranteed they stayed that way. She eschewed the use of fraudulent cosmetics and implants. She found hard work and exercise were the preferred courses of action.
She had a beautiful face, ravishing big blue eyes, a pert little nose, neither long and aquiline nor broad and flat. Her chin, with its tiny dimple right in the middle, gave her a mischievous look. Her ears were small, round, and lay flat against the side of her head. She'd had her lobes pierced just once, and always kept just a small ring affixed in each. She thought men liked hooked earrings; perhaps imagining it inferred a submissive nature. Men she believed liked submissive women; something she definitely was not.
She had magnificent hair. She wasn't a blond; nothing like the flaxen haired beauties one saw at the beach. Her hair was a hazel brown but with lustrous wisps of saffron yellow. It was thick, luxuriant, and when not tightly confined in a bun or braid, willfully undulant. It was the kind of hair women paid large sums of money for, and the kind men wanted to grab and wrap their hands in. It was always well coifed. She preferred a traditional bun, but on special occasions a French braid worked.
Sorrel never had many men friends, that was men with whom she could or would confide. She'd found men a nuisance; an interference regarding her prime objective which was to become as successful as possible. She wasn't a lesbian; she was just driven by forces other than sex.
Certainly her most absorbing quality was her intellect. She was brilliant; an I.Q. well above the Mensa minimum. When people spoke she listened, and she remembered. Nothing escaped her steel trap analytical mind.
She didn't just have the ability to listen. She could talk too. She knew how to talk and flatter men and women. She knew how to assess the ebb and flow of a conversation. No matter the topic she could always blend in with grace and charm.
There were other aspects of her personality. Her sex appeal, one couldn't discount. She knew how to dress, and she knew how to dress for men. She believed men liked to see women in clothes that exposed as much skin as possible, but she also knew most men had little regard for women who deliberately dressed that way.
She thought the smart way to dress was to wear clothes that hinted at sexuality without being overtly sexual. She knew she had to dress for men, for it was men who controlled the offices and boardrooms, and that was where the real power was. That was just one of those dirty little facts of life.
She avoided clothes with excessively short hemlines or exposed cleavages. Men made assumptions about women like that. However, a soft pleated dress or skirt that rested just above the knee; and blouse or top that hinted at but didn't reveal a woman's upper bodily enticements had a supernatural effect.
Sorrel understood the visual nature of the male animal, and she knew that, after her hair and eyes, it was her breasts that drew the attention of most men. She thought she had found the right bra. Thick padded push up bras and tightly structured bras with pointy nipples were avoided. The best bras were those that allowed a certain amount of freedom, and gave just a hint of aureole. They were the best. She believed men liked to watch a woman's chest as she breathed. They liked the slow swell, the fresh and gentle undulation of small firm breasts. Even the oldest men would bend over backwards to get a brief glimpse at the hint of nipple pressing against soft fabric. Yes, good clothes certainly went a long way at helping a woman get what she wanted. Sorrel knew that, and she kept a magnificent wardrobe.
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Sorrel was a magnificent woman, beautiful, talented, smart, and gifted in every way. How could this magnificent woman, a woman with all the physical, emotional and intellectual qualities that she possessed possibly end up facing complete ruination? Well, that's part of the story we're here to tell.
In Her Own Words:
"Just three years ago I was on the move; upward and ascendant, a rising star. I was on the verge of bagging the biggest juiciest contract of anyone's dreams. Perhaps I was a little over confident, but at the time I didn't think so. It involved a cabal of businessmen at the corporation where I was working. We were all shifting money around on the markets like it was candy. It was the height of the corporate banking bundling era, and we were in the thick of it. Derivatives were the thing. In the midst of this were these four cheeky businessmen and me. Among the men there was an American, an Englishman, and a Canada, and an Australian. Together the five of us were about to make the biggest market killing of all time. I had worked my buns off to get everything just right. We were all going to make millions of dollars. But then it all blew up. It blew up right in my face. How did it happen? At the time I didn't have a clue."
"I know this; my whole life unraveled one afternoon at a luncheon; a luncheon that was supposed to be held in my honor. Little did I know at the time where it would lead me? But one never knows."
