A Short-Term Lease

Chapter 5: Bitches, Blackmail and Black Cocks (Cuntinued)

Where was I? Oh yeah, my first BBC. All good things come to an end. Eventually, sweating and panting, he finally came inside me, the biggest load of the whole fuck session, shooting his cum deep into my cunt so hard it was like a machine gun. After a minute to recover his breath, he gave my tits a final hard slap, spat in my mouth again, rolled off and got dressed.

‘I fuck sluts like you all the time, coming here with your noses in the air and looking oh-so demure and respectable, but you’re all the same, cheap white whores looking for black cock,’ were his final words as he walked out, not bothering to close the hotel door behind him, leaving me lying on the bed, legs spread wide with his cum oozing out onto the sheet.

I loved it, the contempt, the debasement, discarding me like a used cigarette stub. Right then and there, I hoped some other BBC passing by might avail himself of the invitation to fuck me. But no, the door slowly closed. Time to get up. I had religiously (irreligiously?) kept up to date with all my vaccines but, even so, I douched my cunt with every anti-microbial known to medical science: that cock of his had been in a lot of cunts, which might have had a lot of cocks in them before him, and those cocks had been in other cunts, and so on. Biologically speaking, I might have been fucked by tens of thousands of cocks. Apart from copious cum, what else might Mandingo have deposited in my cunt? Nothing, as it happened.

It took a long day to review all the videos and combine them into a single movie. No way was I letting Sam see his slut employer doing the dirty: I was afraid our professional relationship might not survive him seeing his employer being fucked up, down and sideways in a raunchy Porn movie. So it was all my own work and the end result, if I say so myself, was a masterpiece of a mandingo flat-out fucking his white bitch. The sight of that tight black spotty arse rising and falling so fast that it’s a blur is something to behold. And underneath is a white body so exquisite, perfection beyond all those ugly hollywood celeb Cunts. Fuck, I should be nationalised by the UN and sent round the world so that every man on the planet gets the chance to sink his cock into a goddess.

Enough about fascinating me: back to all you boring farts out there. Sure, my movie was a Fuckterpiece, but made for the private viewing of just one man, the Mandingo. And his would-be Wife and her father if he didn’t deliver access to his bank’s computers. It showed every inch of my body, lingering on my tits, cunt and arse-hole when he was setting me up for the doggy-style fuck. Plenty of close-ups of his cum gushing out of my cunt as he eased his glistening cock out. But more importantly, his face was almost constantly on screen as he fucked and badmouthed me. The camera hidden in the bedhead captured in close-up every grimace and grunt as he came in me. But my face was never shown. Even when I was sucking his cock, it was just the top of my head bobbing up and down between his thighs, a split screen showing his face at the same time.

Loaded down onto a flash drive, with a few screen captures printed out at a self-service photo booth, a young woman speaking English with a pronounced Russian accent, her face hidden from security cameras by a broad-brimmed hat and dark sunglasses, was admitted by a certain bank’s security guards for her appointment with one of its rising stars, ostensibly concerning a large sum of money she wished deposited with the bank. She was also wearing gloves matching her summer dress. Just for fashion, you understand: nothing to do with leaving no fingerprints, in case anyone later tried to identify her. Like the island’s bought police force.

Once in Mr Mandingo’s office, it was just a matter of drawing out from my bag my favourite holiday snaps showing him in full fuck mode, face crystal clear. Before he could recover, I slid across the flash drive and a sealed envelope containing Sam’s little black ops device together with instructions on insinuating it into the bank’s computer system.

‘View the video on this flash drive in private and then destroy it and the photographs. The envelope contains instructions as to how you can prevent your prospective Wife and her father being sent copies. You have 24 hours to comply. Once you have done so, we will destroy the originals and not trouble you again, but be warned that my superiors have a long reach and do not like to be thwarted. Enjoy the rest of your day.’ Still using the Russian accent.

Without another word, leaving him pale as, ah, a white man, I stood up and walked out of his office and the bank. But Mission Blackmail was successful and we were into the bank’s secrets. And what secrets! Not just our target back in London, but so many others in public and commercial life across the world. Politicians, film stars, major sports figures, and oodles and oodles of people from the business world. All trying to spare their respective tax authorities tiresome paperwork.

Before I go on, maybe you’re wondering about the video. That bit about destroying the original? Never trust a whore. I put it on the internet a month ago and, fuck, do I look Hot. Okay, not much sexpertise shown at cock-sucking, but I was an amateur. Beautiful beyond your wettest dream, almost virginal untouched territory in that first Free-fuck shot of my naked body, transforming into a total animal once his cock was in me. And you will never get to fuck me! But feel Free to wank away. Pity you never see my face. No chance to dribble your pathetic tribute stream of thin cum into my screen capture mouth.

So, the bank details. A secretive company four hundred years old can accumulate a lot of dosh, by my estimate anywhere between £350 and £500 billion ($460 – $655 billion). That’s if you exclude the extracurricular interests in narcotics, arms-smuggling, people-trafficking and prostitution. All owned by one man, and totally unknown to the world. Lying bastard. He could have bought off his Wife with a few million, even a billion, and hardly noticed. Instead, the shit was willing to pay out fancy legal fees to give her nothing. Can’t say I blamed him: she was easy to hate. But, instead of just fucking her, he had put a ring on her finger and a metaphorical ring through his own nose. His cock had led him to the bitch shafting him.

This is where we come to the really nice bit. Strain your wholly inadequate brains. Remember me mentioning my research-based degree? I’d be hurt if that wasn’t at least a half-dozen wanks ago. My Degree is a Doctorate. Yes, I’m a Ph-fucking-D, and smarter than a hundred of you drooling tools. Correction, that one’s not my Ph-fucking-D. Six months as a slave of Owner has made me a Ph.D. summa cum laude in Being Fucked.

Back to the official Ph.D. It was a study of archaic English laws forgotten about and never rescinded even if they contradicted later laws. One particular law, enacted in Elizabethan times, prohibited all trade with Spain’s Caribbean possessions, under penalty of confiscation of the offender’s possessions and a traitor’s execution by hanging, drawing and quartering. Regrettably, the HD&Q had been abolished (could think of some in need of a good HD&Q) but not the embargo on trading. Joy of joys, this particular island happened to have been Spain’s at the time. Even more joy of joys, whoever denounced the traitor would be rewarded with one tenth of his possessions.

Okay, I was the one who had discovered this egregious betrayal of Her Majesty (God bless her! And her Revenue and Customs.). But I was working for a client, so the tenth would belong to her. A quick renegotiation of my legal fees to 0.1% (plus expenses) of what I anticipated the Wife would receive. 0.1% doesn’t sound much, but 0.1% of even the lowest estimate of £35 billion is £3.5 million.

A tedious set of negotiations worked its way up through successively higher layers of Government minions until I arrived at a meeting with the Home Secretary, Chancellor of the Exchequer and Prime Minister. They were initially disbelieving, despite the reports from their minions and then reluctant to act. It was an archaic law after all (nothing to do with their Party having a long history of being in the pockets of Big Business donors. Like Mr Bankrupt). But £350 billion is, well, £350 billion, and closing down the illegal activities would make them look good. Despite that, they still didn’t want to move openly. We’ll have a quiet word with him over brandy and cigars, maybe have him make a public donation to some worthy cause, and carry on with contributing to the Party funds.

Unfortunately somebody, maybe a Civil Servant although no-one ever found me out, leaked some of the juicier details to the Press. Can’t trust anyone these days. The Opposition and, to be fair to them, many of the ruling Party’s own MPs tore the Government apart and forced it to take action. A British Protectorate that had for decades been allowed to go its own sweet way woke up one morning to find that, although the British Empire was dead, its ghost still had a long reach. An army of ‘move your black arse’ squaddies had stormed ashore, followed closely by an army of Government accountants and Serious Fraud Squad detectives. The records of every single bank and financial institution on the island were forensically dissected. Mr Bankrupt turned out to be worth a little in excess of £500 billion, including the profits from his illegal activities. But the other tax dodgers caught in the sweep brought the total up just beyond £1.2 trillion. Yes, trillion. That was just the Brits. All over the globe, countries were catching up on their own tax-dodging offenders, courtesy of data being shared out. A favour now for a favour returned later?

Things happened very quickly after that. Maybe it was because I refused to sign the Official Secrets Act until the finder’s fee had been delivered and advised my client to do the same. When the money arrived and we swore ourselves to secrecy (oops!), the whole affair was trumpeted as a triumph of British diplomacy (and, er, the Serious Fraud Squad). The divorce also went through very quickly, an uncontested case that attracted no media interest. Plea bargaining with the husband? You can spend your upcoming long sentence in a low security prison or else in one of Her Majesty’s less salubrious hostels for the most violent hard cases with a penchant for sodomy.

When it was all over, Zolo (you remember Zolo, my Russian client?), dearest Zolo marched right into the office with a cheque for £5 million as settlement of her legal fees, loudly announcing her thanks to me personally as she handed me a cheque in my name for £20 million, followed by a burst of Russian that sounded anything but complimentary as she glared around at everyone else in sight. She knew exactly how the Firm had treated her, passing her dismissively down the line to last in the queue me. Have I ever mentioned my dearest, dearest best friend, Zolo? Yeah, we go way back forever. All that bit about her being a shrill gold-digger? Total nonsense. Must have been a misprint. I just Love her to bits. And the Russians. Always have. She practically frogmarched out of the office, dropping into my hand the hi-tech keys of a spanking brand new, top of the range Ferrari (in red, of course) sitting outside the office front door. My brand new Ferrari. Have you ever seen a stationary car doing 200 mph? Well, now you know.

I also became the slightly embarrassed (almost slightly embarrassed) owner of a very attractive flat in one of London’s most desirable and priciest areas, a gift that Zolo would not countenance me refusing. If she weren’t my dearest friend, I might possibly have heard a touch of the shrill in her voice at that point. Priciest? Like worth at least double the legal fee going into the Firm’s coffers. The Four Cunts were not pleased, despite the £5 million being way way more than any fees that had ever been earned, to use the word loosely, in every other case conducted by the Firm.

Bit of a stand-off. You want my flat? Sue me and I’ll counter-sue. The only contract I had signed was for a probationary first month and, with the prevailing hate-fest attitude throughout of the firm of ‘if I can be obstructive, I will’, the contract had never been upgraded. So, technically I had been acting as a Free agent and the money was mine.

Bit of a stand-off. And, like the Seventh Cavalry coming over the hill, arrived at my desk two friends of Zolo in sore distress at the unreasonable financial settlement offered by their mean, lawyered-up, soon to be ex-husbands. It was me as their lawyer or nobody. There’s something incredibly attractive about Russian gold-diggers–, I mean, young women with high Slavic cheek-bones and necklaces worth a couple of million pounds around their necks. Not to mention the diamond earrings and bracelets, Parisian haute couture, diamond-encrusted mobile phones, Christian Louboutin six-inch stilettos and sable fur coats (very cold in Londonski, its streets at the time covered by a heavy layer of bright sunshine). The height of restrained fashion.

Showdown at the Bitchery, the name by which the firm, MY firm, would come to be known and flaunted as a badge of honour. I put the new reality to the 4Cs. It was them out the door or me, taking my clients with me. Outrage, red faces, cursing, spittle-Shower mouths, threats, pleas, offers of full partnership. All wasted: they were going. In the end, they agreed and I bought the entire business from them for more than it was worth (to them) and far less than it was to me. A purge followed, all the deadest wood tossed out, pour encourager les autres. No, I’m not going to translate that, you fucking monoglot illiterates. Wow, I hadn’t insulted my readership for pages and pages. Must be losing my warm and cuddly personality.

Zolo’s two friends? Of course I won them oodles and oodles (and oodles). Oodles for me, too. Over the next three years, I built the Bitchery into the imperative go-to for every gold-digger cashing in the usual couple of years work lying on her back (and other positions) and maybe sucking his cock if he was lucky, together with the semi-obligatory brat-dropping for maximum return on her investment. Legitimate wives wanting out for whatever reasons came too. Maybe she was just tired of him, maybe he had been sticking his cock in the wrong cunt, maybe it had been the wrong cocks going in the right cunt. I didn’t care, just so long as he was rich enough to be squeezed dry and my fee was big enough. That’s not to say that the cases of wives ditching less well-endowed husbands weren’t taken on, but those were conducted by the cadre of eager young Associates recruited into the Bitchery.

That was another thing that had changed. The firm was now a happy place to work in. People wanted to stay, people wanted to join. Increasingly, I drew the pick of the crop of young female Law graduates applying to be trained by me in The Bitchery Way and become Associates or go back home to their own countries with the accolade of BTTB to add informally after their names. BTTB? Academically ambitious Brit medics used to joke about getting their BTA qualification, Been To America. Those days long gone. Look up international tables of Health Care and find out why. For foreign female fortune-hunting legal fuckers, the must-have qualification had become Been To The Bitchery.

So why did they want to come? Because I am fucking brilliant (as well as a brilliant fuck, but you’ll never get the chance to prove that, losers). And why did they and the permanent staff Love working for me? Not the slackers and under-deliverers I booted out the door. Have you heard of Niccolo Machiavelli? Of course not, you insular, ill-educated ignorami. Well, they loved me because good performance was handsomely rewarded, far above the going rates elsewhere. Everybody. The ultra-Butch security guards Sam the Sleuth had recruited for me from some shadowy Special Forces Army unit, the receptionists, cleaners, maintenance crew, secretarial staff, Legal Clerks, Probationers, Interns and Associates. Everybody. Plus trifles like Free cradle to grave private Medical Care for them and their families or lezzer partners (okay, husbands of wives, too, through gritted teeth), big pension, company car and annual Free holiday at a 5+ Star hotel owned by dearest Zolo. Spoils of War. We took over the entire hotel complex for a month in the summer, the whole firm decamping en masse with partners (so long as they had cunts) by private Airbus. I did so Love Zolo, that sweet, gentle, generously grateful, multi-billionaire gold-digger with the penniless, disgraced ex-husband. Have I mentioned multi-billionaire?

By the way, when I wrote earlier about taking the cases of women with less well-endowed husbands, I meant financially. As for the kind of endowment that matters to me now, while gaining my present proud status of a Three Thousand Cocks Cunt, I have been fucked by some of the richest men on the planet but also by some of the poorest. Believe the word of a super-whore when I tell you there’s a rough general rule working here: the bigger the fortune, the smaller the cock.

I know what I’m talking about. There was that African brothel I had been lent out to by Owner. His idea of Foreign Aid. What a week that was! Many punters, multissimo many, all slavering for a once-in-a-lifetime chance to fuck a white woman. They were mostly so poor that paying the brothel-master’s tiny price meant their families going hungry that day. Yeah, real fucking men, like all you shits out there. But fuck me sideways into next week, were those black bastards well-endowed! Not one less than eight inches of iron hard thick cock, even pervie old bastards up into their 70s and above in age.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Wet cunt. Fulminant Uncontrollable Cockaemia. That’s medical jargon for sudden overwhelming fuck lack. No, it isn’t, you gullible twats. What it really means is I have the Need, the Need for Seed. I must, absolutely must go next door right now and solicit like any whore standing at a street corner, flaunting my cunt at Hector to see if he’ll rise to the occasion. Like there’s a chance in hell he won’t. This is a cock-magnet super-highway between my legs. But bye for now. More important things to do right now than spend time with you waste of spacers.