Thanks to SexyKitty_B for editing.
My name is Jack, and I am an 'independent legal consultant', which is a fancy term for problem solver. I basically use the law creatively to get a specific job done, no matter which side of the law my client is on. As I have never been bothered by things such as a morale center, compassion or remorse, I was damn good at my job!
As a result, I had a booming career, a fierce reputation, a huge house and three cars to show for my hard work, not to mention a gorgeous trophy wife, Tina. Granted, she only let me near her pussy once a month, but still, I was doing better than most men my age.
This story started when I was hired by a land developer, who was having trouble with one of his projects. He had acquired some land next to a series of old houses, which he had started buying and demolishing, incorporating those properties into his prestigious project. Unfortunately, one of the home owners, a middle-aged black woman, refused to sell.
My client was willing to pay a price well above market value, but to no avail. All attempts at negotiation had failed. It was time for a different approach. Four out of the six luxurious villas of the project were already completed, and construction on the remaining two, as well as a large, green oasis and two tennis courts were now at risk.
If no deal could be struck with the last home owner, my client was going to start hemorrhaging money. I was brought in to find a solution as quickly as possible. The first thing I did was send over a representative from the bank to appraise the property again. There were already two appraisal reports on file, but this time I would be tagging along.
Officially, I was there to provide legal support, but my real focus was to find leverage for one of my 'creative' solutions. If, for example, the building was not up to code, that would give us an edge. I had yet to come across a house which was one hundred percent up to code, but just in case, I had a few other aces up my sleeve. Fire and safety regulations, a 'sudden' rodent infestation, blackmail, an inexplicable fire... you name it; my big bag of tricks was pretty much endless.
In this particular case, the home owner was somewhat of an enigma. There was very little factual information available about her. Most of it was rumors and speculations. Some believed she was a devil worshipper, others that she was a witch or a voodoo priestess. I soon realized that I was going to have to figure this one out all by myself.
The guy from the bank was waiting for me in front of the house when I got there.
"Good morning. I'm Harold McEntire," he said, introducing himself.
"Jack Desmoin," I replied as I shook the guy's hand.
"Alright," he said, as he opened his file, "Let's see what we've got here. Esmee Nicolson, 47 years old, no known relatives, husband was a cop, killed in the line of duty 14 years ago. Living on his pension. Looks like an open and shut case to me. She'll never sell. We could have saved ourselves the trouble of getting out of bed this morning."
"I am more of a the-glass-is-half-full kind of guy, Harold," I replied, "Could you give me fifteen minutes alone with her?"
"Uh yeah," he replied confused, "And exactly what is it that you do?"
"I am a... legal consultant. I consult." I replied cryptically.
"Riiiight," Harold smirked, realizing that the less he knew, the better.
After ringing the door bell and introducing ourselves, Esmee glanced us up and down briefly, then reluctantly invited us in, telling us in advance that she wasn't going to sell. The first thing that I noticed was that she didn't look 47. Granted, she could have done with a haircut and some new clothes, but still, it was obvious that she was a good-looking woman.
After making us a cup of coffee, Esmee joined us in the living room. When Harold asked if he could take a look around, she agreed, but then added - for a second time - that she wasn't going to sell. While Harold walked into the next room, making notes on his iPad, Esmee looked straight at me. Her stare felt weird; it was as if she was looking straight through me.
"Were you born in this house," I asked, trying to strike up a conversation.
"No," She replied, not giving any more information.
"So, your husband was a police off..."
"Don't talk about my husband!" she interrupted me, not angry but just determined.
"Alright then, I'll get right to business," I stated, "You realize you're in the way of progress, Mrs. Nicolson. My client just wants to build some homes so families, people with children can live here. Why would you want to stand in the way of that?"
"Families, children, yeah right... those houses are for the super rich," she replied.
"Those people have a right to live somewhere too," I replied. As I was too much in love with the sound of my own voice, I didn't pay any attention to her hand, grabbing a handful of purple dust from a little box on the mantle piece.
Suddenly, she leaned forward and blew the contents of her hand into my face, as she quickly recited some words in a language I had never heard before. I stumbled back into a nearby chair, trying to get my bearings. The room was spinning and all of my senses were scrambled for about ten seconds - at least what I perceived to be ten seconds.
"Jesus Christ woman, what the hell is wrong with you?" I shouted.
"Apologies Jack," she chuckled, "I haven't dusted in a while."
"Bullshit, what the hell was that?" I insisted.
"You're the one, Jack," she whispered, "The one I've been looking for."
"What are you babbling about, woman?" I asked, ready to get up and leave. But then, Esmee bent down, grabbing the hem of her long, plaided skirt and raised it all the way to above her waist. As I gawked at her, shocked and stumped, she hooked her fingers behind the waistband of her white briefs and pushed them down, letting her skirt fall back into place.
As she kicked her panties under the couch and sat down, I stammered, "Wait... what?"
"Ssssh, don't speak," she replied, shutting me up. As I heard Harold walking around in the kitchen, Esmee grabbed the fabric of her skirt and started crumpling it up, slowly raising it, showing me more and more of her black legs. The whole time, she kept looking at me with an intimidating confidence.
After about forty seconds, her black cunt came into view. She held her skirt against her stomach with one hand, making sure that I had a clear and unimpeded view of her black twat. As we heard Harold leaving the kitchen and heading up the stairs, Esmee used her free hand to pull up her sweatshirt, as far as it would go.
