The Prenuptial Agreement

(The second boring part. There is sex, though probably not enough to keep anyone's interest.)

I lay on top of her, breathing hard, spent. Her hand reached under me and lifted my cock out of her, holding carefully the base of the condom.

"Sorry," I said. "That was my job."

"Mmmmm. Don't worry about it." She arched her back and stretched her legs out. Then she wrapped them around my back and said, "Kiss me."

"Yeth," I muttered in an affected French accent, with a lisp, "Kith me, my leetle few-el." I pressed my tongue against hers. "Zou aire vairy thexay. Zou weetle minx-cat ting, you aire." She started to laugh and we fell into a deep kiss.

Later, after we'd washed the smell and taste of sex off our bodies, we lay naked under the sheets as she rubbed her calf along my leg. I didn't dream that night. Or more likely, I fell into such a deep sleep that I could not remember my dreams.

For much of your life, waking up horny with an erection is a waste. You either have no one to put it in or your partner is busy sleeping and waking her for sex is not in the cards. This was not one of those times. I woke up with a cock like a stick and when I pushed against her in bed, she murmured and whispered, "I'll get on top." She turned away to reach a condom, deftly unrolled it on my erection - which was almost bursting with energy - and eased herself down on it, guiding it in with a little moan. She was already wet and the condoms were lubricated.

She felt warm and heavy with sleep and my cock felt enveloped by her pussy. She raised up and I pumped it in and out, holding the firm, smooth mounds of her ass. We fucked in the dark, her lips pressing at times to mine, her breath in my ear. Her tits soft and the nipples hard against my chest. I fucked that woman. I didn't last long and again she held the base of the condom as she pulled me out of her. Then she curled up against my chest and we slept.

A high quality escort is a good investment if you have the spare cash, want a good fuck and don't want to work at bedding a girl who might actually expect more. An escort will want a second and a third and a fourth date but only because you're a good customer, not because she's expecting to come over for Thanksgiving. A quality escort chooses clients carefully. She checks out references. When she fucks you, her hope is that you become a regular, a dependable source of income and a pleasant, perhaps even very enjoyable "date". Having regulars means not chasing new clients, not taking more risks with more strange men, not fucking more guys she can't stand.

Nadia was a very good escort. She seemed to like me - she said she did but salesmen always say that suit looks great even when it doesn't. She fucked with the appropriate combination of enthusiasm and practiced athleticism. She made the right noises and at least acted like she enjoyed it tremendously.

But when you have $50 million, almost every woman will make those noises when you touch her. Pick a woman, any woman, point her at $50 million and she'll fuck with enthusiasm which crosses into the ecstatic. Is it me or is it the hope of diamonds? Is it my cockmanship or my bank balance which makes me a fantastic lover? This isn't an academic question. Money is an aphrodisiac. A real aphrodisiac. She may not be faking that orgasm. She may mean it when she says, "You've taken me places I've never been." She may not be as turned on by my body as by some other guy's. She may not be as thrilled by my kisses. But put my body and my kisses together with $50 million and the combination may honestly send her into multiple orgasmic overload.

That is one good reason for fucking Nadia. She may fantasize about my cash. She may dream about me saying "Let me take you away from all this. Your past means nothing compared to my love for you" but she's hard-headed enough to know I'll tip her well and I appreciate that she's very clean-tasting and that she uses an enema before I fuck her ass.

Nadia has the kind of Russian beauty you never thought existed before the end of the Cold War. Where did these women come from? Where did those huge, stolid, butch women of the Soviet empire go? Nadia's breasts, which aren't large, sit perfectly on her chest. Her face is a work of art, all cheekbones and soft blue eyes and wide lips in a perfect pout. Her legs can reach all the way round me. Her ankles are slender. And of course, she's a part-time model, part-time whore.

Having money, if you work at it, is a lot like being famous without the crowds cheering. You can get women easily and you can't trust them at all. They have that look of hunger, like they haven't eaten in two years and you're the vegetarian lasagna.

Blondes with perfect make-up and expensive implants. Redheads with clingy dresses and implants. Raven-haired beauties with elegant bare arms and implants. All of them probably born brunettes.

The blonde who gave you the sexy look as she put on her lipstick before going down on you so she could leave her lip imprints the full seven inches down your shaft. The Asian temptress who traced circles on your chest with her lustrous black hair as she rode you. The one with the huge perfect natural tits who held them and played with them and rubbed them against your face as she moaned and begged for you to cum. I may be the greatest lover in the western hemisphere or I may be a young guy with $50 million.

I have met other very rich men's wives. A goodly portion were probably Nadia's at one time or another. Maybe they didn't actually have a website quoting rates for a "donation" but they were in the pussy selling business before they married the money. In fact - and I'm spilling an inside secret - some of them still are, very discretely and more for their enjoyment than for the money. All whores, high end or on the street, love the excitement of looking in the envelope that was left open on the bathroom counter. They love knowing that for this, this blow job and a fuck, for getting eaten out and having an orgasm, they'll step out the door with a purse full of cash. It's an addiction. They love being wanted by strange men. They love being paid for their looks and their time. They love that strange men want to lick their clits while a big envelope of cash sits in their purse. The pussy always meets the purse.

When I married Jenny, we agreed on a prenuptial agreement that would have left her with very little if we divorced before having a child. If we stayed together for five years, she got more. If we stayed together for ten, she got even more. And so on, very much like a pension plan that would pay her back for years of companionship. I would be responsible for paying for any children if we divorced, but through generous trusts for their benefit. She would not get very rich from the marriage no matter what.

Jenny wanted it this way. She wanted me to know that she loved me, not my money. I say that with the following caveat: we would live very well together, so if we stayed married, then she would have all the benefits of wealth without it being in her name. Maybe she didn't love me and she realized the best way to get me was to play this game. If the marriage went well, then she could be another Nadia playing at caring and I would never be the wiser.

Would I care? I don't know. Does it matter if Nadia loves you if she acts like she does? If she is faithful and caring, do you care if she is pretending?

When Jack first heard my story, that I had been seeing the twin sister my father had sexually abused, he knew that if we were able to present our case, we would win. So why get divorced? That was Jack's question. Jenny had a good reason to be suspicious of my conduct but she would soon learn she had very little financial incentive to continue with the divorce. What did I want?

I wanted a divorce. I had been followed by a private detective hired by my wife to learn whether I was cheating on her. She had kept her suspicions secret from me. She had received the detective's report and had not discussed what it said with me. She had consulted lawyers without talking to me. She had filed for divorce, had obtained a restraining order barring me from my house and had sought to throw out the prenuptial agreement, all without talking to me first.

Five minutes. That's all it would have taken. If Jenny had taken my hand and made it clear enough that she knew - not crystal clear, not 100% telling me everything but enough so I would know she knew - then in five minutes I would have explained about Susan and my father and mother.

One minute. If she had taken one minute to lay the detective's report on the table in front of me, if she had taken one minute to show me a picture of Susan and me hugging, then I would have explained.

Even if she had consulted with her lawyers and had decided to go ahead and divorce me, if she had even then decided to give me one last chance to come clean, one last chance to explain how I could have broken her heart, then I would have explained.

None of those things happened. I was handed papers and that night I had to enter my house in the company of a sheriff. I had to sleep in a hotel - a very nice hotel but still not my house and my bed. I had to explain to my lawyer about my sister. And then I had to watch my sister's abuse be revealed in court.

Jack told me it was only time before reporters picked up on the divorce filing and began investigating the allegations. Technically, he told me, we were required to file a response and all those filings would be public information. His idea was to get a quick hearing, without any preliminary filings, and then have the judge order the records sealed.

The morning after the hearing, sitting again in his conference room, he told me how it went in Chambers. I slowly rotated my cup of coffee and listened. Jack was expansive. "The Judge wanted to know why he'd had to sit through that. He was pissed. Well . . . not really angry, more upset. I jumped right in. I told him we saw this hearing as the best way to preserve your sister's privacy while getting her story on record. I brought up a protective order and he bought that. There's something about getting involved in a powerful family's business that turns on some judges. Then I asked him to seal the records and I pointedly - this was good - included Jenny's original filings because they would only embarrass her. Michaels agreed.

"I'll give the Judge credit. He noted that our motion to enforce Section Six was still waiting to be heard. I said we were prepared to argue it as soon as the Court was ready, but . . . get this . . . but we would drop the motion if Mrs. Hinton would agree to a divorce under the terms of the prenup. The Judge sat back and Michaels stuttered a bit about discussing this with his client. The Judge asked if we were prepared, in view of the circumstances, to go through with the divorce. I told him we were ready to proceed after the recess. Michaels turned white. He had no idea if we had anything or not. Can you imagine his situation? His client had led him into a complete disaster and for all he knew he could walk out and be hit again. The Judge - like I said, I give him credit - then told Michaels that from what he could see his client had very little choice. That ended it." He leaned back, pleased with himself. "What do you want to do?"

"I want to move on with my life."

Jack looked up at the ceiling. "You sure?"

"I want this over as soon as possible. If I can write her a check . . . "

And that Friday night I spent in bed with Nadia. And that Saturday night was with Keiko, with her brown nipples and incredibly firm thighs. Her abs were athletically hard and she could pull her legs over her own shoulders. She lay there, three holes in a row and leaned her head forward to nuzzle my cock with the top hole, then placed the condom on me and guided me into her pussy and then, after begging for it, gazed into my eyes as she jammed the head of my cock into hole number 3.

As I fucked her ass, she closed her eyes and puffed oh oh oh. I watched the planes of her flat Asian face with the whiteness of her teeth beyond the red rims of lips that had been sucking me. I could plunge all the way into her and with each stroke she seemed to relax more, moving into a trance-state, eyes half shut, mouth open, the oh oh oh sound soft and regular as deep sleep. My eyes followed the length of her stockings to her high heels dangling over her head, bobbing slightly up and down with each of push of mine. I could feel her hand resting lightly on my side as though we were dancing in a court ball. I asked her if she needed me to stop and she said "Fuck me" in a silken whisper.

I stayed away from Jenny. All the necessary paperwork was completed in days. The divorce hit the papers two weeks later, but there was no interest because there was no story.

A divorced rich man is more attractive to women than a young, unmarried rich man. The bachelor is untested. He may be sowing wild oats. He may be gay and hiding it. He may have a "fiancée" and he's only using you for sex because he can get away with it. Those are all possibilities with a divorced rich man, but at least you know he's been hogtied and dragged to the altar once before. He's chosen to wear some girl's brand. If he's been herded once, you can herd him again.

And a divorced rich man draws from a wider base of eligible females. So I'm 26. Since I'm divorced, I might go for that 35 year old who can play young. I might go for that exquisite divorcée - with the house in Aspen and the sable coat - even though she has two kids from the first mr. money. In her mind, she's a proven breeder with mommy skills. You have to turn every negative into a positive.

That's why I left town. I took Susan for a long vacation. We didn't lie on a beach in a deluxe resort. We trekked in Nepal for a month. Then we went bicycling in Vietnam. We grew as close as twins.

In Ho Chi Minh City, I fell in lust with hundreds of gorgeous women in their tight, elegant dresses. Susan understood when I fucked a few. I splurged one night on two of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen. Though I've never been particularly excited by lesbian fantasies, the variations of three way sex with these women drenched the erotic receptors of my brain. One girl's perfectly formed features pressed side by side against mine as our tongues licked the clit of the girl who was sucking my cock. Fucking one from behind while the other was in 69, watching the girl I was fucking lose control as her friend ate her clit with my fingers up the pussy in front of my face and then rubbing the juices over the mouth of my fucking partner. I took a pill - probably bootleg cialis - so I could take full benefit of their beauty all night long and I've never been so pleased by any investment.

My rampant sex romps had a side benefit; they helped Susan and I discuss the after effects on her life of sexual abuse. She had trouble trusting men with her body. She had trouble relaxing. She had recurring feelings that sex was bad. She had tremendous guilt because she had not stopped our father. She still blamed herself. She blamed herself for enjoying the physical contact. She blamed herself for mom's death. She blamed herself for my not seeing mom again. She blamed herself for being a troubled teenager who'd given her mother trouble.

I was able to confess my own, lesser problems. The divorce had left me suspicious. I had gone through adolescence without a friendly voice in the house, only my domineering father. I hadn't experienced much warmth and giving warmth was hard for me. Then I'd had to deal with the revelations that my father was a monster, that my mother had been able to save her daughter only at a very high cost, that my mother had died not knowing that her children would get back together.

I would like to say that talking about these problems made them go away. I had a fantasy that we had been sitting in a restaurant in Hanoi when a young American exorcising the ghosts of his father's war experiences had walked in. His eyes met Susan's and in that look they saw the end of each other's pain. It didn't happen, but I had my sister and she had me.

The divorce became final when Susan and I were in Kyoto. Jack called, partly to remind me, partly to make sure I was feeling all right and partly to relive his glory. I didn't mind. Two days later, we were looking at the Kinkakuji, the Golden Pavilion, when the caller ID on my cell phone showed Jack's office number. It was Connie. She told me that Jack had died a few hours earlier from a massive heart attack. Susan and I flew back the next morning for the funeral.

My father has figured little in this story, except as an off screen villain, for good reason. I avoid him. Even not knowing that he abused my sister, I had grown tired and resentful and full of anger at his verbally abusive manipulation and his efforts to control me. When I took control of the first third of my trust, I struggled with my feelings about him. Was he trying to build my character, knowing that I would be inundated with money at a young age? Or was he trying to control me, so he could retain effective control over my assets? I never figured it out, but I became convinced that no matter his motive, his methods were brutal and wrong. There's an old saying: you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. He never heard it.

I thought about my father at Jack's funeral, as I listened to his brother give the eulogy, and then at the graveside as the rabbi said prayers. At Jack's house, the mirrors were covered so the bereaved would not need to see themselves. I picked at a plate of a sweet, baked noodle dish in a sea of black suited-men and black-dressed women. Jack's oldest son had come home from Penn, Jack's alma mater, and was taking his responsibilities seriously, acting as host. His daughter sat with her mother on the living room sofa, one hand protectively touching her shoulder at all times. His youngest son, the only one I really knew, spent most of his time on the deck in back, talking to the cousins of his age.

With more than a little bitterness, I thought about what I had missed in life. Jack had a family, a real family, with a wife and children who loved and respected him. My family was based in fear and money. When my mom died, I hadn't even known. I didn't doubt that I was privileged. Almost no one could afford to take months off to wander the world like I had been doing. If privilege costs this much, I'd rather be poor.

I had sold my house and was settled temporarily in a condo attached to the Ritz. Same services, more room and an actual kitchen that they kept stocked for me. Susan had gone back to her home, but we talked every day on the phone. Our mother had put her in therapy years before, but Susan hadn't invested much in it. Now she was ready to try again. Most encouraging was that she wanted to be happy.

Many people have lived through terrible times. Jack's father was a Holocaust survivor. He'd seen his sisters executed in front of their own doorway when they were caught outside after curfew and then he, almost alone of all his family, had lived through the work camp. How do you close your eyes at night with those images in your mind? I went to high school with a guy who lost control of his car and killed three people on a sidewalk. I know a man who ran over his own son backing out of his driveway.

How do you turn out the lights with those memories? How you get around them or past them to live a happy life? Whenever I close my eyes, I hear my father's voice yelling at me, at mom, at the people who work for him. "He's a screamer," people say, as though that explains it all and makes everything all right. He's a screamer and I hear him screaming in my dreams. I can't imagine what Susan hears. Or sees.