Fraud: A Stepbrother Romance (4 page)

Robert King wiped his flaccid penis across
the face of his paramour.

Peg opened her mouth, and her pink tongue
lolled out and licked the worm-like thing. She feigned pleasure, moaning and
gurgling, sounding like the cheap whore she felt she was. She sucked on the
sour thing, and smiled at him, her eyes cold and lifeless. She hated sucking a
cock, but King had been quite the catch, and his largess had to be rewarded
some time. She saw a white pearl form at the tip, and made a show of licking it
off and swallowing it. In the back of her mind, she wanted to spit it right
into his stupid face, but her consummate acting skills convinced King that she loved
to eat come more than anything in the world.

The house where they had just finished
their mutual act of masturbatory pleasure was worth almost fifteen million
dollars, and sat on a spit of land that jutted into the Intracoastal Waterway.

Outside, a large yacht was moored along
the dock, next to three smaller craft, including a wave runner. There were
times when there would be a seaplane there as well. The house was one of many
just like it - castles built by recently acquired wealth. They had all been carved
from the sides of the water’s edge by callous dredges, the secret flow of
campaign contributions and graft greasing the process that allowed the
devastation of protected species.

The owners cared nothing for the welfare
of a pelican or some near-extinct species of fish. The occasional manatee found
floating outside their dock-houses was quickly removed and put on less-hallowed
ground. They had earned the right to be masters of nature, and of their lesser
humans.

Four cars decorated the huge, arcing
driveway, and another four sat inside the air-conditioned garage on an
immaculate parquet wood floor. The cars were worth more than the garage and
house combined.

“Baby, you’re the greatest!” opined King.

Peg’s head bobbed silently up and down on
his limp shaft for another few minutes.

She almost gagged, because it tasted so
bad. Had the man never heard of soap? She held her breath, imagining she was
blowing an inert and tasty salami. It was difficult to keep up the charade, so
she finally raised her face from King’s crotch, and smiled, so that he could
see she had eaten all his issue.

He bent over her ass, and licked it.

Then, he gave it a hard smack, leaving a
hand-print as her flesh wobbled.

Peg was proud of her physique.

She was often mistaken for a much-younger
woman, usually by almost twenty-five or even thirty years. She had been blessed
with a tight ass and good genes. She took care of herself, not drinking nor
smoking too much. She stayed away from the sun unless she had at least SPF 50
sun block available.

She kept her pubic hair well-trimmed, and
applied a nice coconut oil lineament to the folds of her labia and her rectum
every night before going to bed. She loved getting fucked in the ass, and even
would sometimes suck on her lover’s cock after he’d ejaculated in her. It was
the only time she felt any enjoyment when she gave head, and she shrugged
mentally as to why that was. No matter…

Robert King slid off the satin sheets of
the bed, which was adjustable and very expensive. He stood above her, as she
lay face-up. He gave her lips one last pass with his shrinking dick, and Peg
lapped at it and laughed as though she’d been given the tastiest treat in
existence.

King chuckled and went to shower off the
sweat and sex smell from their frantic coupling. As he did, he thought that all
of their couplings were frantic. He didn’t know why. It was his house, and he’d
fucked so many women here he’d lost count. He’d fucked young ones, old ones,
black, yellow and white, and every variation he’d been able to come up with.
He’d fucked as many as five at once, and even had one or two young men once or
twice. He didn’t consider himself gay, but a couple of hot women liked being
double-teamed, and he saw no harm in participating, just so it was made clear
there’d be no ball-to-ball contact.

He actually surprised himself one night
when he realized he was sucking some dude’s cock. Luckily, everyone was so
stoned and drunk that the event was ephemeral. Since that time, he’d only
strayed once or twice more. Certainly didn’t make him gay…not like his
attorney, Floori.

King washed his balls and under his ass as
he contemplated the problem he now found himself facing. Peg’s stepdaughter was
close to discovering a major flaw in his well-crafted defense. It was one thing
to have won in court with that old fuck Turner. That was merely a matter of
some well-placed cash and the threat of uncovering the old bastard’s habit for
black poontang. His wife certainly would not be pleased to know old Ike had
been fucking the maid in their marital bed.

King was amazed at the ability for old men
to fuck like that until he remembered that Viagra and other dick-enhancers had
been invented to allow old geezers to do just that.

He thought again about Megan, and went
down a mental checklist of how he could solve that problem.

Most of the solutions were certainly
illegal, and many were too complicated to actually put into play.

He came time and again to the most obvious
and simple conclusion.

He never liked having to choose that
particular method, but it was foolproof and final.

Once he came to the realization that Megan
was a real and valid threat to his empire, he’d made up his mind.

Now, it was just a matter of finding the
right time and the best way to cover it up.

He thought of a few names of associates he
felt he could trust to make his problem vanish. As he thought, he rinsed off
some more soap, and then decided to wash himself one more time. He knew he
sweat profusely, and found it irritating that, despite his best efforts at
hygiene, he always had a whiff of uncleanliness to him. He’d consulted doctors,
changed his diet and drinking habits, and gave up smoking cigars. All to no
avail. His body odor, like a few of his elderly women lovers, just wouldn’t go
away.

He chuckled again, and felt a slight swell
in his groin as he thought back to his latest sexual encounter, and of Peg
eating his dick. He knew she thought she was fooling him, but he’d gotten
first-class blow-jobs from older and younger than her, and he could tell when a
gal just didn’t like a penis in her mouth. And, despite her protestations to
the contrary, he knew Peg hated sucking cock.

That made it all the sweeter when he shot
his hot load into her throat.

He imagined grabbing her by the hair just
behind her ears, and thrusting his dick into her mouth until he would give a
final lunge, filling her from her stomach to her full mouth, the jizz cascading
down her cheeks and shooting out of her nostrils, while she gagged and choked
it all down, the tears from her bulging eyes mixing with his sticky come.

He saw that he had become aroused again.

“Peg! Get that sweet ass of yours in
here!” he yelled out to her. “I think I can go one more time, babe! Time for
another protein shake!”

In the other room, Peg rolled over, and
knelt on all fours, her neck and jaw tired from the previous cocksucking
action.

“Shit!” she mumbled under her breath.

She still tasted the sour, salty juices
from King’s last climax.

She hoped she wouldn’t puke…

“Coming, sweety! Just give me a minute to
get ready!” she yelled back.

Peg gathered herself together, and pinched
her nipples to get them erect.

She walked into the steamy bathroom.

She knew the fixtures in this bath were
worth more than the most expensive car in the driveway, and counted her
blessings that she would likely never have to live or sleep in an ordinary
house ever again.

She stepped into the shower, and smiled at
King.

The warm water felt delicious, and she
opened her mouth to rinse out the foul taste that still remained.

Then, giggling and acting as though she
were about to receive manna from heaven, she genuflected in front of King’s
rising penis.

She took hold of the shaft, caressing his
soapy balls, which still stank in her nostrils.

Her lips parted, and she was startled to
discover that she was wet and aroused, her clit burning and needing attention.

She rubbed it with a finger, sneaking the
tip around to her ass.

She gently inserted it, then quickly
sucked it clean.

 She smiled inwardly at the sharp,
forbidden taste.

Then, Peg bent to her task, earning her
keep.

King laughed, the hot water washing the
soap and stains from his body, but not his soul, as his cock shoved, again and again,
in and out of the mouth of his latest conquest.

DEREK

I stood on the bow of my speedboat,
peering across at the marina.

I could see my quarry through the military
binoculars I clutched tightly.

I knew that I only had a short time to
perform the delicate maneuver, and I judged the rapidly closing gap between the
other boat and my own.

I guessed that I could maybe lean over and
put the tracking device onto the other boat as it slipped past, in the dark.

The yacht was named “
Disco Inferno
”,
and it belonged to a man named George Tanner.

My mission was to place a tracking device
on its hull, in an inconspicuous place. I’d been trying to figure out a way to
do that for five days.

There were armed guards on-board, and sonar
equipment. That meant that approaching the boat with scuba or snorkel were out.

I had finally decided a frontal assault
was the approach most likely to succeed, but it would take some balls and luck
to pull it off.

I’d done it before, and I knew it could
work.

But, that was in a calm harbor, and the
target was a freighter, about six times larger than the “
Inferno
”.

And, the current conditions would
complicate matters.

There was a moderate chop, and it caused my
boat to bounce a few feet every now and then, despite my slowing it down.

The best way to deal with it would be to
lean over the rail, with the tracker in my hand, and then slap it to the other
craft as the two boats passed each other in a trough.

Navigating and timing it perfectly would
be very difficult, indeed, given the current conditions.

Lowering the binoculars, I watched the
surface of the water.

The stern flags on the yacht blew south,
and west, and I noted the direction and intensity of their motion.

I than came up with a brilliant idea.

If I made a high-speed pass, I could
essentially flatten the waves next to my prey for a few seconds. The problem
was getting my boat back to that area quickly enough so that I could attach the
tracker.

The answer came to me in a flash – I’d
just drive the boat backwards alongside the other, and then past the stern.

When I got about forty feet away, I could
shove the throttles full open, then kill them as he came abreast of the other
boat. I’d have a split second to smack the tracker onto the hull, then I would
accelerate and leave them behind.

I quietly maneuvered to the other side of
the marina, to see if he could test my theory. After a few tries, I felt I knew
how to best control the throttle. I then drove across to the other side, and
positioned my boat ahead of my target.

Tying myself to the railing, I ducked low.

It was good it was pretty dark, even with
the few dock and boat lights.

I knew the guards were watching, and I suddenly
had another flash of brilliance.

Grabbing a beer from the cooler underneath
my console, I popped it and chugged half of it. Hey, I don’t like to waste
beer!

Driving erratically at the yacht, I began
waving at the guards, trying to attract their attention.

I noted a couple of the guards turned to
look at me, and I started to yell obscenities at them.

“Fuggin’, towwl-head camel-jockies, comin’
here to ‘Murica and takin’ our oil and wimmen!” I shouted inarticulately.

I was trying to sound like a drunk,
red-necked asshole, who’d decided that one too many immigrants were in my
country.

The guards gestured and even laughed at me,
as I waved my beer at them. I chucked the beer can at the yacht, and it fell
short into the water.

I was trying to act as crazy as possible,
throwing all kinds of strange and idiotic antics into my performance while
calculating the perfect time to take action.

Just as I finished the throw, I
overbalanced, and ducked down.

As I did, I secured the binoculars, and
put the boat into reverse.

“Whoops!” I yelled, and then looked as
though I were fumbling with the controls of my boat.

The guards laughed some more, until one of
them felt I might pose a real hazard and cause a collision.

Then, they all began waving at me, and yammering
that I should leave.

“Move back! Move back!  You’re going to
kill us all! You crazy fool, get away from our vessel!” one of the guards
yelled.

I stood up, and yanked my pants down
part-ways, mooning the guards.

Shouting some more drunken slurs, I
watched as the guards took up positions.

One of them was on a hand-held radio, but I
knew my on-board electronics were quashing any radio or cellular signals that
were being transmitted within three hundred yards of the “Inferno”. I could see
the guard switching frequency on the handset, and shaking it as if it were
broken.

I bent back and forwards, as though
drunkenly trying to get my balance. Pretending to fall into the cockpit, most
of the guards pointed and laughed harder at my foolish antics.

I mashed the throttles, the boat whooshing
backwards, gaining speed.

I guided it unerringly alongside. The
stern of my boat sent up geysers of water, soaking him.

I grabbed the tracker, quickly making sure
that it was activated.

As my boat’s bow passed the stern of the
other craft, I jammed the throttles full ahead.

There was a weird sound, like a jet engine
spooling up.

My speedboat was almost to the stern of
the “
Disco Inferno
” again, and I cut the engines, then had a brief
moment of insight and threw them back into reverse before cutting them off.

My speedboat stalled in the water, and I
smiled because it was perfect timing.

I leaned down, smacked the tracker on the
hull of the other boat, and then reversed into the cockpit.

Looking up I couldn’t see any of the
guards, and I was confident they couldn’t see me either. There weren’t any
surveillance cameras at this level of the ship.

Nobody had seen me place the tracking
device.

Seconds later, I slammed the boat
full-reverse, spinning it around completely a couple of times, to make it look
as though I were really drunk.

As I did, the jet boat’s engine revved and
then I aimed the rooster tail onto the yacht’s aft deck.

The water splashed harmlessly on the deck,
drenching the tender and stern of the “
Disco Inferno
”.

A few wet guards menacingly raised their
weapons, but by then I was off, who’d giving  them a final flipping of the bird
and waving a fresh beer at them.

On my way back to a secluded mooring area
for my boat, at the marina, I smiled hugely, observing the tracker’s signal as
it rhythmically beeped.

*****

“Mission accomplished,” I said into my
Jawbone headset.

“Roger that,” came the reply. “Good work!”

“Come home to Mama,” I heard over the headset.

“Time for a status report and update.”

“Roger,” I replied.

*****

I guided the boat down the waterway, and
considered the situation.

Robert King was obviously involved in a
massive fraud.

He’d somehow managed to bilk billions of
dollars from a considerable collection of A-list celebrities, old-moneyed socialites
from Palm Beach and other such hangouts of the very rich, and not a few fairly
sophisticated bankers.

His methods were unclear, but we had put
together a likely scenario for the way the money was being gathered and
disbursed to King’s many shell companies. Our main problem was linking his
activities to any manner of
criminal
behavior.

So far, the man had been uncannily lucky,
and his reputation as a hard man to beat preceded him.

He had made fortunes in real estate in
both New York and New Jersey before settling in Florida.

His mansion in Boca Raton overlooked the
Intracoastal, and he always had several boats and occasionally his yacht moored
out front.

The best we could figure, at this point,
was that King had at least seven shell companies that were involved in moving
his money around ten different banks. The banking records showed that most of
the money was originating from offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands, and
from an obscure branch of the Bank of England, located in Monaco.

How the money was made and deposited to
those accounts remained shrouded in secrecy.

However, a seaplane landed at least four
times a month and taxied up to King’s mansion. It would stay for only a few
hours before taking off again.

The DEA had tracked it as far north as
Bermuda, and as far south as the Dry Tortugas.

From either of those locations, the
seaplane would fly to either Freeport or Jamaica.

When it had been intercepted at one point,
the only cargo was some luggage and sundries that were being transported
legally. There was no evidence of illicit goods, drugs or anything amiss. The
cargo manifest, such as it was, correctly identified the sundries as tanning lotions
and some souvenir seashells.

The drug sniffing dogs didn’t alert, and
nothing seemed unusual.

The seaplane did sit in the water a bit
lower than might seem unusual, but we checked and the pilot had made a note of
the FAA flightworthiness directive for that particular make and model plane
that explained that, depending on float design, the draught of the pontoons
varied considerably.

None of the agents was well-versed enough
in seaplane manufacturing to sense any irregularities. For the next few months,
although the seaplane was monitored and traced through its flight paths with
some regularity, the only practical outcome was that the flights became fairly
routine. Eventually this avenue was considered too expensive to continue
investigating, and my team sought other measures.

And, King’s fortunes increased in any
event.

King was a very careful and smart man.

If one were so inclined, one might think
that King was just a shrewd businessman, who had been clever and lucky and
amassed a fortune through a combination of skill, hard work and some ability to
charm the ‘Grande dames’ of charity with his wit and possibly a bit of discrete
bedroom proficiency.

If one were so inclined, one could
overlook the interesting and odd transaction history, and the fact that almost
every one of his investments had, over the years, gone bust.

Yet, King himself had continued to amass a
huge amount of personal wealth.

And, if one were so inclined, one could
even believe that all of this was completely above board, as all the failed
lawsuits and financial records showed no hint of collusion, or conspiracy to
commit fraud, or even the vaguest smell of the improper.

Of course, I knew better.

There was a very long list of all the dead
partners and associates of Mr. Robert King.

I had even seen one of these associates
murdered.

Robert King and George Tanner killed Sam
Parker.

And, I knew that my stepsister, Megan, was
King’s likely next victim.