By EgmontGrigor2020
Chapter 1
Midsummer heat in recent days led Augustine Jones to speculate that she should be in Iceland at leisure, although she wasn't sure if that country was set up as a tourist destination.
Such mind-wandering was just a tease because her physical and financial assets were diminishing although not quite with the velocity of a roller-coaster on a downward dive. No way could she responsibly buy a return air ticket to Iceland, providing that place had an airport.
Augustine sighed, dropping an ice block between her partly-exposed breasts.
Soon, assisted by gravity, the slowly melting ice blocks seeped coolant through to the bottom of her swimsuit and into that hot apex at the top of her legs.
Normally there would be the relief from money-chewing air-conditioning of course, but today not in her part of the city. Extensive electricity usage to combat the heat-wave had precipitated an electrical supply outage, as least she thought that was the technical term for it.
In plainer language, the fucking electricity supply had cut.
A grateful sigh of drawn-in hot air and its reverse escape from between Augustine's still very kissable lips sounded as she felt a tiny flush of iced water penetrate through the blonde hair; she no longer shaved pussy, there being no purpose.
A cooling dribble managed to channelled a little relief to crawl between her ass cheeks, a minuscule cool dampener that made her think she'd survive this ordeal and emerge a stronger person.
Augustine's life had been hell since Arnold, her benefactor of nine years, had creamed out his company's bank accounts and disappeared offshore from Australia with the latest kitten to have wormed into his affections.
Obviously, the wicked woman must have been the daughter of a bandit to have suggested to thick Arnold to grab every dollar he could lay his hands on and scoot with her to some paradise overseas.
By himself, Arnold never would have generated the courage to evilly pocket his company's liquidity of $3.61million according to the latest reckoning, although the auditors were still digging. Investors would have cheerfully topped him, given the chance.
That criminal and lover-betrayal happened almost three years ago and balding Arnold and fluffy kitten were still on the run or more likely were bunkered down somewhere and considered themselves safe from Interpol or whatever.
Because being treacherously dealt with by the spineless man who used to dribble that he loved her dearly, Augustine had been forced to retreat on to the back-foot on life. She no longer read newspapers or magazines and apart from a welcome pre-paid breast uplift operation (Arnold had booked her in for that), was living virtually in isolation.
That frigging nasty kitten had pounced, more or less while Augustine was under the knife.
The first thing Augustine knew about it was a telephone call from Sylvia Brenton-Oliver, Arnold's treble-chinned and near brain-dead wife. Augustine was surprised to receive the call because she was unaware Sylvia had her phone number although she was aware that Sylvia would have known that Augustine was her husband's mistress.
That was because everyone knew. Augustine's photo regularly appeared in the media as the glamorous face in Arnold's business life and his trophy to put on display at seminars and high-powered business meetings around the globe at exotic locations.
"Where's my Arnold!"
"Who's speaking?"
"Sylvia Brenton-Oliver, you insolent bitch."
Augustine had decided to let that one go because she wondered what the call was about.
"I've been a little poorly so haven't seen him for ten nights, I mean ten days."
"Ah, suffering from an STD no doubt," was the triumphant response. "I guess you know he's skipped abroad with his office bunny and taken a trunk load of cash -- more than 3.5 million and still counting, I've been told. Investigators have spent two days here at the mansion doing it over but as far as I know they found nothing of interest apart from pornographic literature."
"Goodbye Sylvia," Augustine said, as her door buzzer was sounded.
Augustine, feeling ready to deal with Arnold severely, leaving a necklace made from his severed testicles around his neck if his body was delivered to her, recalled that doorbell sounding as the only luxury installed in her modern but rather small apartment, had been the next development.
At the door were a leering guy too big for his suit and a slim and officious-looking woman who appeared to be his senior officer. Both held up ID badges and were blathering something.
Augustine invited them in to hear their story.
They left inside an hour after informing her that she had 48-hours to leave the apartment that belonged to Arnold Brenton-Oliver that would be seized and frozen along with his other assets.
"Mrs Benton-Oliver, is she being thrown out of her home?"
The smirk Augustine felt evaporated into a scowl when the asshole male cop showed his teeth and said, "Sylvia was smart enough to ensure the mansion was legally untouchable and in her name. Obviously, you weren't that bright."
Arnold you jerk, Augustine had gritted, only then realizing she was being thrown out on the street without plentiful assets and no immediate future.
* * *
For a someone from a family without abundant means, Augustine had managed to get through college with her parent's partial support plus seriously generous donations from her father's older brother in return for, well, quite dignified services really as he was content with just fellatio.
As Augustine remembered it, Uncle Harry had never kissed her lips and not had he sighted or even touched her pussy. Being a church official, he'd believed he was more or less keeping within the standards of morality expected of him.
Augustine had flowered late and at high school had just missed out being named the Fairy Queen in the traditional play the graduating students put on for the school's parents.
She'd landed the wicked witch part on the rebound, and although horribly made-up for the part, her straining breasts under her cloak contrasting with her blackened teeth, caught the eye of the Daily Read photographer and his illustrated review featured on the front- page next morning.
No burst of fame resulted from that. But that suddenness of being lifted to the status of a five-minute celebrity awoke Augustine to the fact that to some people, her blossoming body had some special appeal.
At college, she joined the swimming club, the dancing club and the theatre club and naively joined her dorm's underground hot bitches club in which she flourished and later would admit the decision to join that elite group of largely inventive and athletic women was the most useful decision she'd made at college.
Her friendly Uncle Harry enrolled her into a short modelling course. The agency's photographer was the same one that has used Augustine as an 18-year-old for his model to get him his first photograph to be published in a highly rated newspaper. He remembered her and in return for bedding with him for two hours, he compiled her first photo portfolio.
The quality of the electronic photographic images left her in awe and with pleasure she drove the poor guy drained from his sexual encounter to his home in his car and she lied to his wife that Thomas had over imbibed in champagne after photographing the eight models including her for his client and all the models had raved about the quality of the images he'd captured so brilliantly.
She had to call a cab to return home with a battered pussy but had had brilliant photo portfolio without paying a dollar for something that would usually cost a model a thousand or two dollars.
Good luck and a willingness to put her body on the line helped advance Augustine at modelling school. Eventually, she was one of six senior students to be auditioned by a thin and very expensively dressed woman of about sixty.
One of the invitees walked out immediately the woman announced she was connected to the sex industry and two other girls appeared rather flaky. As soon as Augustine -- then still using her given name of Bette Haig -- complied to the request to form her lips into a big 'O' and she was told to wait outside in the foyer.
Later she was joined by Macy Malcolm who, when the five of them had posed fully nude, Macy had displayed a shaven vulva that impersonated a magnificently ripe peach.
The 'model' scout Mrs Miller took the two selected young women into her office and offered them contracts, which were accepted. To the surprise of Macy and Bette, they first attended a 'finishing academy' rather than going on to be filmed with some guys dicking them or just one guy doing them both.
Macy and Bette boggled at what they learned at the academy and moved in to live together, Bette (soon to adopt Augustine Jones as her name) had happily dumped her current boyfriend Jerry, who'd turned out to be a mommy's boy.
Her pathway took her into soft porn while Macy went straight into hardcore porn where she earned her fortune, becoming the celebrated Macy Nash and later wedded a Sheik who'd been paid to leave his country permanently by his mega-wealthy parents because of his disgraceful conduct as an international playboy.
Augustine left the industry to fall into the very welcoming arms of Arnold Brenton-Oliver, who she'd met when sitting on a park bench. He sat down away from her and farted. That led to them conversing after she'd held her nose and complained.
Arnold set Augustine up in her own \apartment 'for life', and he lived with her for weeks at a time over the ensuing relationship. Augustine had convinced herself she was practically married to Arnold and virtually lost all contact with her friends and people generally of her age who were not in the soft porn business.
Being in soft-porn, Augustine had been mainly engaged to promote 'the face' of the porn industry which at that time had not been swept into study and bedroom prominence by the fledging Internet.
She progressed to largely working with a bevy of young women appearing at business conventions, clutching the arms of men of influence on their yachts idling away the summer in the Bahamas or the Mediterranean or the Black Sea and being with headline-making sportsmen at ski resorts, international motor races and big football, cricket, baseball and equestrienne events, the latter often being photographed on the arms of horsy-looking lesbians.
There was sex, of course, far more than one comfortably wanted in fact, but not the hard, orifice-stretching poundings experienced in the hardcore industry.
Augustine had much to thank Arnold for, including being plucked out of soft-porn while she'd been in pristine condition and thus avoiding being abused and commencing the downward slide.
She'd never considered herself anything but a model actress and when paid generously for sex considered that was simply a donation to pay for her upkeep. It had never occurred to Augustine to save for her later life.
She'd paid for her parent's retirement home of their choice and paid off the house mortgages of her two younger sisters, and those actions had given her a feeling of worthiness above that which she'd never before experienced.
Then Arnold ran, collapsing her world, leaving her and presumably his wife, dumfounded and it tears over being betrayed.
