Michael Broderick's attorney had showed him a copy of the suggested ruling that his wife's attorney had provided to the judge hearing their divorce case. "Good God, they can't be serious. I know that this is California, what with the community property rules, but I earned most of my money before I married that witch," He had moaned out when he saw the request for forty-four million dollars.
Louis Nizer cast a sympatric glance at his client. He knew that look of total despair only too well. "Michael, I am afraid that there is more. She wants your Rolls Royce, as well as your home in Malibu. If her Honor stays true to form, Greta will get it. I'm sorry. The one bright spot is they are not asking for your place on Catalina Island, or your condo in New York."
"I paid six million for the Malibu estate."
Just then, Greta Broderick made a grand entrance into the court room, trailed by her attorney, the sneering Brenda Woodbury. Greta was bedecked in an original Pasdivi creation. It was subdued, by Greta's standards, but still cost a cool three thousand. She never walked out the door without twenty thousand dollars worth of diamonds on.
"All rise." Her Honor entered. Michael knew that he was dead meat, when her Honor maintained her stone face when looking in his direction, but gave Greta an old friend's smile.
Her Honor gave the clerk copies of the divorce decree. It was nothing more, or less, then Brenda Woodbury's suggestions, with the exception that Michael was ordered to pay Woodbury's fee of five million dollars.
Michael is forty-two years old. He had divorced his first wife, Sheryl, when her nude photos were splashed all over the "Enquirer." It was known that she screwed every man she co-stared with, but getting caught, both nude, was too much for his public image. He was getting tired of her anyway.
Greta was an up and coming starlet. Sure, he knew that she was a gold digger. But, what the hell? She had a body that men could not keep their eyes off. That face, with her smoldering beauty was unequaled. Damn. She was the ultimate trophy. He had thought that it would take her five years to become a star in her own right. He always thought that he would lose her someday. In the meantime, having that on his arm bolstered his super star image. In the bedroom, he put his cock into her three, four, sometimes five nights a week. He would give her that, she was a good fuck.
Then that Chad Ward came alone. They had been at Clooney's home. Mike had become tanked, as was Greta. Chad was dancing with her. She could hardly stand up. Soon, Greta and Chad were missing. When he finally found her in the upstairs bedroom, she was alone. She was out, laying on her back. Her dress was up to her waist. On the floor were her pantyhose, panties, shoes. From her pussy, there was a stream of cum running down her ass.
Mike was pissed. He suspected that it was Chad, but he had lost track of time. He went looking for the fucker. I'll ask him right out, he thought to himself. Well, Clooney's is a big place. Twenty rooms. By the time that he was back in the basement, his anger had subsided. He refreshed his drink.
There were fifty guests. He spied Chad Ward with his arm around Charlie Sheen. They both were laughing. Jim Carey was just walking away. Michael whispered in Chad's ear, "Did you get some pussy upstairs?"
Charlie and Chad both burst out laughing. Michael contained his anger. He went so far as to smile.
Chad, "I don't know what Greta had to eat. All the time that I was fucking her, she was letting out one fart after another. Does she do that all the time?"
Michael had to admit, That was funny. He was enjoying their company, when it suddenly dawned on him that Jim Carey had hurried off in the direction of the stairs. He hurried to the third floor. Carey passed him, coming down the stairs, zipping up his zipper. He peeked into the room. A man was between Greta's legs. His thrusts were fast. Greta's feet were on the back of his legs, as her ass was meeting his every thrust.
Michael walked into the room. He did not recognize the man. Greta's eyes were closed. With each thrust, her body was pushed forward. Her breast would slide up and back. The impact of his body hitting her ass caused a ripple.
Just then the man groaned. With several hard thrusts he pumped his cum into her. As he rolled off, He said to Michael, "She's all yours."
With irony in his voice, Michael answered, "Yes, I know."
Michael used a wash cloth to wash the cum off her pussy, and her ass. Still drunk, she leaned on her elbows looking at him, as he washed her. "I needed that," she said referring to the three men who had fucked her." Defiantly, she added, "I am going to have some more of that Chad Ward. He has a nice thick cock."
True to her word, Greta begin to sneak around to meet with Chad. Michael begin to hear that they were being seen together. The divorce followed.
It did not take a genius to understand that now Chad Ward would be able to fuck her every night that he wanted, in Michael's own bed.
That night, watching the sun set from the porch of his home on Catalina Island, Michael got very drunk. Stinking, puck up your guts in the toilet, drunk. He woke up at three AM. A milk glass of straight vodka. He was out again.
His hatred of that Bitch seethed. Many of his friends knew well enough to not even mention her name. Ever the tabloids got wind of his resentment of her. Greta's picture was in "People Magazine." She was promoting her newest movie, "The Song is You." Next thing he knew, she was on the "Tonight Show."
A few weeks later, the phone rang one evening at nine o'clock. It was on his unlisted private line.
"Yes."
A man with a distinctly English accent intoned, "Is this Michael Broderick?"
"Yes it is."
"Mr. Broderick, There has been a discussion of you between myself and your attorney, Mr. Nizer. I and my associates offer a service, unlike any other in the world for men who have received deceitful treatment from their wives, as well as unfair treatment by the courts. Would you be interested in learning more about our services?"
In a low, even voice, Michael answered, "Where are you, my English friend? I will visit with you, as soon as I can get there."
"Mr. Nizer thought that would be the case. I am in the Bahamas. You should fly into Nassau. I will have you flown by seaplane out to our island. We will be starting a "Game" tomorrow at noon. You will be able to observe just what we have in mind for Greta."
"I will be airborne in my private jet within the hour."
At quarter after ten AM, The seaplane touched down near a sixty foot cruiser anchored a half mile off an island. Once aboard a crew man escorted him to the captains quarters. As he entered, a tall, distinguished, lean, weather-beaten, man stood. Offering his hand, he said, "I am Geoffrey Mann. Mr. Broderick, I presume?"
Michael, "I am here on the strength of your mention of Mr. Nizer."
"Indeed. I am a man of few words. This is an aerial photo of the island off our port bow. It is twenty-five acres. You will note that it is covered by high grass, a few trees, and has a raised cabin in it's center. Scattered around the island are ten comfort stations for those playing the Game. At each is food, and water.
The raised cabin is sixty feet in the air. From it, one can see all over the island. It is equipped with high power telephoto equipment, lounge chairs for those of us watching the Game, as well as radio receivers which catch every word the players utter."
