(Thanks to everyone for all the comments and suggestions so far. This is the first part of a mini arc within the series, I hope you enjoy it!)
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The three storey mansion before me was the very image of Beverly Hills wealth; white plastered walls, marble pillars, a well kept garden in the front, and a party pool in the back. There were two cars in the open garage: a Porsche 911 convertible and an SUV. To a prospective car thief, they looked ready for the taking. Such a would-be thief, however, would have to contend with the 3 metre high fence surrounding the property, the wrought iron gates that blocked entrance to the winding driveway, and the suite of security cameras scattered around the perimeter. There was probably a state-of-the-art alarm system inside as well. This house would be a serious challenge to break into, which was partly why I had chosen it for my next 'project'. Many people call me different things depending on which identity I happen to have assumed. At least one person calls me 'sir'. You know me as the 'intruder'.
The name on the deed to this particular house was Katrina Ziegler, née Cuomo, a 44 year old divorcee who got to keep the big house when her husband left her for a younger model. Browsing through her digitised medical history, graciously provided by the woefully inadequate firewall around her local health clinic's database, I could see that she had had cosmetic surgery done on her breasts and her labia in the past few years. She had also been treated for an eating disorder and been referred to a physical therapy clinic as part of her treatment. Most people understandably prefer 'all-natural' women, but to me, yoga plus boob job spells MILF, to put it somewhat crudely. Unfortunately, medical records don't come with photo galleries; I needed to see her in the flesh before I fucked her. When I finally got into the house, it wasn't through the window, or a secret entrance, it was through the front door.
"You're on time, at least." Katrina said, in an unappreciative New York drawl, "this way."
I followed Katrina through the magnificent house, admiring her shapely legs and even more shapely hips and ass, accentuated by her tight jeans rolled up above the ankles. The strutting gait she had in those 3 inch high heels of hers made her look sexier still.
We passed through a lavishly equipped kitchen, through a sliding glass door, and into the back garden. Even in the middle of September the glorious California sun smiled down from a cloudless sky. The swimming pool had an elliptical shape and wasn't more than five feet deep, it was a party pool after all. Katrina turned to me, giving me a full, frontal view of her surgically enhanced bust, her guitar-like model's figure, and her flowing dark hair and Mediterranean features. She tossed me a key without warning, and I caught it against my chest.
"All the stuff you need is in the shed," she said flippantly, gesturing to a small shack on the other side of the pool, "help yourself to a beer in the kitchen if you're thirsty. I'll be back in an hour; you get your 300 bucks when it's done." With that, she strutted off. The pool was hardly Olympic sized, and would not take an hour to clean; even so, I needed the extra time.
I headed back into the kitchen and found the fuse box; not for the entire house, just for the kitchen. Removing the panel, I took out the perfectly functioning fuse and replaced it with a special, custom-made one. My work complete, I helped myself to a beer, and then got to work on the pool. I checked and replaced the filters, scooped out a couple of leaves that had floated onto the water, and in 15 minutes I was done. Katrina could have done this herself for free if she had been so inclined. My job done, I fetched another beer from the fridge and reclined in a deckchair in the shade, waiting for Ms Ziegler to return.
As I relaxed and enjoyed the California weather, I heard a muffled splash. Looking in the pool's direction, I saw two figures paddling aimlessly around, giggling and gossiping together. One of them was undoubtedly Zoë, Katrina's 18 year old daughter; I didn't know who the other one could be. The two girls splashed and laughed before one of them swam to my side of the pool and clambered out, walking straight across my field of vision.
I recognised her face as that of Zoë Ziegler. How she failed to notice me watching her from the shade was a mystery, but I certainly noticed her. I noticed her toned swimmer's body clad in a skimpy, two-piece bathing suit. I noticed her brown hair with blond highlights tied into a small bun. Most of all, I noticed her jewelled belly piercing which twinkled in the sun.
My masculine urges surged to the fore when I saw her bejewelled stomach. Navel piercings turn me on almost as much as raping the women who get them done. The irrational urge to ambush this young lady and screw her senseless momentarily flooded my mind. I wanted to pounce on her and force her to the ground, then rip that slutty outfit off of her delicious body, force my cock into her barely legal teenage pussy, and make her scream as I rammed into her. I wanted to ravage her till she came and then ravage her until I came, deep inside her snatch.
Snapping back to reality, I removed my hand from my groin and tried to covertly rearrange my shorts in such a way as to conceal the great tent that had appeared. Thankful for Zoë's apparent obliviousness to my presence, I mentally added her to my list of targets. By the time I was finished, mother and daughter would both be expecting.
Zoë reappeared with an inflated swimming pool lounger big enough for two, and tossed it onto the water before re-entering the pool. Both girls clambered onto the pool lounger and lay down together, idly paddling the water until they were spinning in lazy circles. I was starting to wonder how long it would take them to start playing with each other when the sliding door to the kitchen opened.
"I'm not paying you 300 bucks to laze about." Katrina snapped imperiously.
"No, you're paying me 300 bucks for a job that took me barely a half hour to finish," I answered in a calm riposte, perfectly mimicking an American accent.
"You're done already?"
"Yeah," I passed the time it was taking Katrina to grasp this simple concept by admiring the new outfit she had on. She now sported running shoes, a pair of skin-tight, Capri jogging pants, and a hefty sports bra keeping her surgically enhanced bust in check. This left her entire toned, tanned midriff exposed, making her look at least 15 years younger. Sadly, she didn't have a belly piercing, which would really have put the cherry on the cake.
"Oh," Katrina said, her moody expression softening somewhat, "you were actually on time, AND you got the job done fifty times faster than the last guy. Can you believe that lazy son-of-a-bitch called me up this morning saying he was too sick to come in today? I mean what the fuck kinda bullshit does he think he's playing at?!"
I felt, but did not show, some sympathy for poor Hernando. That kind of 'bullshit' usually happens when your food is spiked with a liquid emetic drug and an extra powerful laxative. My predecessor would be indisposed for several days until he recovered from what closely resembled a serious case of food poisoning. I did spare the guy a guilty thought for poisoning him and stealing his job, but sacrifices had to be made.
"Anyway, I told that piece of shit he was fired, of course," Katrina pouted indignantly, unconsciously shifting into a model's pose, "Here. I've got your cash inside." Her imperious rant over, Lady Ziegler strutted back into the kitchen.
I followed her inside and quite deliberately switched on the kitchen lights. They flashed for an instant before a loud crack was heard and the fuse box door blew open with a puff of smoke. Katrina was incensed.
"What the fuck just happened?!" She demanded angrily to no one in particular. I marched confidently over to the fuse box, waving the smoke away, and made a big show of inspecting the switches. Using the hem of my shirt, I gingerly removed the defective fuse from the socket and presented it to Katrina.
"Blown fuse," I announced.
"What do you mean a 'blown fuse'?" Katrina demanded, as if such inconveniences never befell the rich and privileged.
"When did you last have these replaced?" I asked her, though I already knew the answer.
