I've never submitted a story in the Loving Wives category, and I'm doing so now with great trepidation. Frankly, the commentators in this section are brutal. Many, though, are very insightful and offer genuinely thoughtful comments about writing style, character development, and the like. My only complaint with this category is that much of the basic plot lines appeared to have been thoroughly explored. Moreover, many of the themes are beyond cliche. Though it may be true, I long ago tired of every poor cuckolded bastard bemoan that his "slut" of a wife had violated their marital vows to foresake all others. No, I wanted to write something different. I don't really think I've succeeded, and I'd appreciate the readers' thoughts on this.
Finally, much of this is a courtroom drama, and quite a bit of law is present. For those of you who watch too much Law & Order, I should tell you up front that the vast majority of the law as set forth in this story is an accurate depiction of the law in the State of Illinois and under the Federal Constitution, particularly the final bit at the end. I am an experienced attorney, and I have tried to keep as faithful to the law as possible.
Finally, I fully realize that almost no lawyers act as depicted in here, but enough do act like this to make the story believable. (Remember the sleazy prosecutor in the Duke LaCross Team Rape Case? Or how about all the mob lawyers serving time in prison for conspiring with their own despicable clients?)
Though I realize this is a very long story, I didn't want to drag it out so you're getting it all in one fell swoop. Please take some time to comment and let me know what you think.
CHAPTER ONE
"That was nice," she said, regaining her breath.
Alain Broussard only grunted, too winded to speak. Instead, his fingertips traced over her distended nipples. He loved her nipples. They were tiny, surrounded by small, light pink areolae, but they got hard as pebbles when she was excited and stayed that way.
"You remember what we talked about this afternoon?" she said after finally settling her breathing. "Over lunch?"
"Uh huh," he said, not really remembering.
"Well," she said, rolling onto her side and facing him, "I think I've got an idea."
Broussard was alert now and flipped onto his side to face her. "Let's hear it."
Her eyes blazed with excitement as she began.
"All right, here's the deal." She sat up, sitting Indian style. He looked at her pussy, the bare mound and lips now slick with sweat, semen, and arousal. He focused back on her eyes and caught the sly smile.
She gets me going more than any of them, he thought. So comfortable in her body, flaunting it and knowing how to get him aroused.
"Concentrate, Alain," she said. "This is important, and it'll make us a bundle."
He shot his eyes back to hers and nodded.
"Good boy," she taunted. "So, everyday we calculate interest. Every day. On all deposits, investments, mortgage loans, short-term and long-term commercial paper. On all of it, and we do it every . . . single . . . day."
He nodded. "Yeah. So what?"
"Right down to the ten thousandth of a cent, right?"
He nodded.
"Well, let me ask you something. When you get your savings account statement, does it show the fractions of a cent? Or does it just show the actual cent?"
"Just the cents."
She nodded. "Exactly. Your statement says, like, twelve dollars thirty-four cents, right?" He nodded. "Not twelve point three four two nine six three, right?" He nodded again, not seeing where this was going.
Her grin got bigger. She enjoyed playing him along like this, but he was getting impatient, wanting to look back between her legs. "You'd never know if someone took the fractions off of the cents, would you?" He opened his eyes, realizing the import of what she was saying.
"So we set up a dummy account, funnel all of those fractions of a cent from every single account–every single day–into the dummy account. Then we automatically funnel the dummy account balance to a numbered account, maybe Switzerland or the Caymans. It's only fractions, but–"
He finished the thought for her, unable to contain his excitement. "But on millions of accounts every single day, it's. . . . Jesus Christ, it's a goddamned fortune."
She nodded, pleased with herself. "Actually, it's about nine hundred grand a month, give or take," she said. "Some months the fractions will average lower, some months higher. But on average, we're looking at nine hundred grand a month."
He nodded, all thoughts now on the treasure about to be amassed rather than the treasure between her legs. "But can it be done? I mean, I'm sure it can be done somehow. But won't we get caught? Who checks this shit? And, frankly, I don't know shit about computers."
She nodded and bit her lip.
"Out with it," he said.
"Well, we've got you to cover our ass from on high. You're a senior vice president in commercial paper, so you routinely sign off on overseas transfers."
"Yeah," he said. "And that raises the first problem. We'll have to create a whole mess of new accounts, not just one. The system will trigger IRS flags on any daily transfers from one account in excess of ten grand. So we'll have to set up, what, four or five accounts just to be safe."
"Good," she agreed. "And we've got me. I'm in audits. Not a big wig, mind you, but I can keep an eye on things there. So we've got two out of three bases covered. We've got the money out covered, and we've got hiding the trails covered. Now we need someone to break the computer security and program the system to do what we need." She raised her eyebrows at him. "Any ideas?"
For the first time, he felt a smile coming over his face. "I think I do," he said. "And we're going right to the top."
"Richards?" she said.
Broussard nodded. "It's perfect. He's the best, that's why he runs electronic security. He's a fuckin' genius to hear Jensen go on about him."
"But will he do it? I was thinking someone a bit more . . . I don't know . . . vulnerable."
Broussard rubbed his hands together. "Oh yeah, given the right amount of enticement he'll do it. Just got divorced. I heard him talking in the executive dining room, and he's getting clobbered on child support and alimony. He needs the money."
She frowned. "Yeah, but will he get in on this? I mean, we get caught we go to prison. And we're ruined, professionally and financially."
"You chickening out already?"
"Hell no," she said. "I know the risks, but I'm willing to take them. And you know them, but it won't stop you. Our chances of getting caught are slim–especially with all bases covered–but there's still a chance. And he's a mousy little shit. He'll be scared off by the down side, no matter how small the chances of getting caught."
"That's where you come in," Broussard said. "You see, he's also lonely. And I've seen him look at you. We play this right, you'll have him wrapped around your finger in a matter of weeks."
She frowned, mulling over what this meant. Broussard laughed, getting hard at the thought.
"Think about it," he said, "it'll be like banging a high school virgin. You'll have your own little sex slave to keep you pleased. Train him to do what you want."
She laughed back. "I've already got one of those," she said. "He's called my husband."
"Then what's another sex slave?" He reached his hands to her head and jerked her head–and that wonderful mouth–to his now throbbing erection. "I'll make sure your other needs are met," he said, then groaned as his cock sank to the back of her throat.
CHAPTER TWO
Alain was right: Jeff Richards was a lost puppy dog. His divorce had caused a crushing financial burden that required him to give up half of his net income in child support and alimony, he was displaced from his five-bedroom home on the North Shore to a one-bedroom apartment further from the city, and he hadn't been laid in over a year.
At first, she was subtle. A smile, light touches on the arm, leaning into him for his answers to her innocuous questions. After two weeks, she sat with him in the executive dining room and chatted gaily about work, music, movies, and art. Soon, she was sitting with him every day, and the conversations got more personal. When he told her how crushed he was by his divorce, she even managed a tear as she stroked his arm.
The seduction was complete a month after it began. They were leaving the office together, and she invited him for a drive along the lakefront. Thirty minutes later, after stroking his thigh and murmuring her sympathies at his continued tales of woe, they were parked in the far corner of a forest preserve parking lot, away from other cars and prying eyes.
"Jeff," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "I want to do something for you."
"What?" he replied, confused.
She was enjoying this. He hadn't made a move, and she knew he would do nothing even if she was stark naked beside him.
"I want to help ease your pain," she said, her fingertips now running over the growing bulge in his pants.
He yelped, almost a squeak. "But . . . but . . . you're married," he stammered.
She lowered her head, closing her eyes. Her voice went lower. "I know," she said. "But this isn't about that. I want to help you, and no one ever needs to know. I'm . . . well . . . these past few weeks, the pain you're under, I feel myself. . . ."
She pressed into him, hugging with one hand and tracing his bulge lightly with the other. After a minute, he hugged her back, running his lips lightly through her soft blonde hair.
"I can't explain," she said. "I just have to do this. You've become . . . someone special to me. Please?"
She unbuckled his belt and slacks, then drew his zipper down. Reaching her hand in, she pulled his cock from the fly of his boxers and stared at it. She smiled. It was enormous. Experience taught her that, unless it was really small, size made little difference in actual sex. No, technique was far more important. Still, it was one hell of a visual turn on, and she was happy to see that Jeff Richards was certainly well above average in the endowment department.
"I don't know," he said, his breath coming shorter.
But his body knew, she realized. His cock was throbbing with the pulsing blood, and his hips were rising toward her lowering mouth.
She took him into her mouth, sliding her lips slowly up and down, sucking in as she did so. With her hand, she firmly grasped the base of his cock and began stroking him up and down in time with her mouth, feeling his pulse quickening and hearing his breath shortening to sharp gasps.
"I'm getting real close," he warned after little more than a minute.
In response, she picked up the speed of her hand and mouth, taking him in deeper and sucking harder.
"Oh my God," he groaned, shooting torrents into the back of her throat.
In response, she pushed her mouth down as far as she could, feeling his release on the back of her throat and around the head of his cock. She tried to swallow as quickly as she could, but his buildup was too much, and she felt the fluid escaping from her lips and onto her cheeks and chin.
"Thank you," he whispered as she released him and looked up. He reached into his pants pocket, withdrew a handkerchief, and licked the end. Then, as she sat up and looked at him, he dabbed the semen from her face.
