The Giant Deal

[Miltone]

All’s fair in love and war … but what about business deals? It’s a proven fact that opposites attract in science and romance! But who will win out when a pair of conniving business rivals, who hate each other in real life but who also find each other sexually irresistible, battle lawyer-to-lawyer for the next bauble for their jeweled crown. Please join the lovely Chanaud and myself as we tell this wicked little tale!

IC: Blair Wellington IV

“Shall I take your coat, Sir?”

Blair Wellington IV slipped off his gloves and sloughed off his cashmere topcoat into the waiting hands of the tall, angular valet, who carefully arranged it onto a hanger and with charming ease hung it perfectly onto the rack behind the hatcheck stand.

“Yes, thank you, Giles,” Wellington replied. “Pity they have you working on such a gorgeous evening.”

“I don’t mind, sir. I wouldn’t miss this event for anything. This is the Commodore’s Ball after all.”

“Yes it is,” Wellington remarked, nodding toward a familiar face circulating in the teeming crowd. The Commodore’s Ball, the first Saturday in December, a longstanding annual tradition.

“So good to see you again, sir,” replied the older, very proper valet as he brushed Wellington’s tux jacket smooth over his taut muscled shoulders. Giles had worked many years for Wellington’s late father before taking a job at the El Rico Bay Yacht Club. “Is this a St. Laurent, sir?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“I thought I recognized it. Very good fit, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Wellington glanced around the cavernous crowded marble foyer. The chatter of the excited gathering seemed to double as it rang around the alabaster columns that lined the hallway leading toward the ballroom. His eyes weren’t focused on any one person or thing, but seemed to be searching for something or someone who wasn’t within eyesight.

“She’s upstairs, sir,” the older gentleman whispered discreetly. “Powdering her nose I believe.”

“Thank you, Giles,” replied Wellington, slipping a crisp Jackson into the valet’s hand almost without notice. “Now, I’d best go and mingle.”

“Enjoy your evening, sir.”

“I shall, and you do the same.”

“Very well, sir.”

Wellington stepped away from Giles and into the crowd, appreciating the way it parted as he made his way toward the bar, nodding at familiar faces to his right and left. A Glenlivet on the rocks with his name on it was reserved at the bar. No sooner had he acquired said and taken a sip then Wellington heard a murmur pass through the crowd. There She was, traipsing down the heart-shaped white marble staircase with none other than Muffy Collinwood in tow. He knew She would be here, She always was.

Look at her, Wellington thought, floating down the stairs in that gorgeous silk gown from some European designer with too many vowels in his name! The sparkling necklace from Winston or Cartier was new, her dark lustrous hair swept up immaculately, her dark eyes glittering, and the perfect smile? Devastating! One might think she owned the place! But of course she did. She had made her debut here; her family’s yacht was the largest one moored outside on the sparkling waters of the bay; her father practically owned this club and the town that surrounded it; she was an insufferable, arrogant bitch used to getting her way no matter the circumstances, who owed her success only to her family's money and influence. Wellington resented her … he hated her … he wanted her!

As if on cue from a Hollywood director, the milling crowd parted, the balding husbands in seldom worn tuxes and their overbearing fat wives stuffed into outrageously expensive and inappropriate gowns stood aside, and the two of them were suddenly brought face-to-face. Although there were still snippets of conversation sparking about the huge breezy lobby, a general hush fell over the room as if they as one had sucked in all the air and were waiting for someone to breath. Who would be first?

“Why, hello, darling,” She said. “I wasn’t aware that the Shanty Line Streetcar dropped off this far from town.”

“How nice of you to notice my presence,” Wellington replied with his famous winning smile, the one that was guaranteed to highlight his boyish dimples. He boldly reached over and ran a fingertip over the delicate strand of fine diamonds set in white gold that encircled her neck. The tip of his finger flirted with her warm flesh, raising just the barest noticeable Goosebumps. “My, my, isn’t it amazing what they can do these days with recycled soda bottles.”

“And old household drapes as well,” She said, her hand darting out to fondle the lapel of his tuxedo jacket. “I must admit that is a terrific find. Salvation Army was it?”

“Actually, Volunteers of America,” Wellington replied. “The very same place you must have found that darling old Chevy in which you arrived. I must admit that the body rust compliments your coloring so well, dear.”

“But as you well know, that is only today’s vehicle. One must always endeavor a way to keep in touch with the common man,” She replied smartly. “Is that why you drove that ghastly old Sherman tank tonight?”

“Sorry, but it was an Abrams,” Wellington retorted with a quick glance at her feet. “I was certain that someone so familiar with combat boots would know the difference. But then, you know me all too well, darling. Nothing but the best for my friends and family.”

Her hand remained on his chest, fingering the lapel of his jacket while his hand was reluctant to retract from her sartingly warm and succulent flesh.

“Speaking of which, has your mother been released from the Betty Ford?” She asked with a mockingly strong twinge of interest. “You know the Founder’s Society is sooo concerned about her.”

Wellington laughed with great effect.

“Oh, you know Mumsey,” he replied with a shrugging modest wave of his hands. “She couldn’t wait to get out. After all, who else would be able to arrange bail for your Father and his pregnant teenaged girlfriend?”

“And no telling which Mafia warlord she had to go down on her knees before to borrow that sort of quick cash,” She replied.

The gasps and sighs of their audience were growing in depth and decibels. Wellington couldn’t help but notice the growing impatience of Muffy who tapped her foot sharply against the sumptuous marble floor. Wellington nodded toward her companion.

“So your dance tickets are going for what these days, Muffin? Ten cents?” Wellington smirked. “Perhaps this will keep you busy for a set or two.”

With one fell swoop Wellington pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and stuffed it down deep into her Van Ries gown between her firm and cool-to-the-touch store-bought boobs, while She chuckled with amusement.

“Ladies,” Wellington said with a courtly nod and a wink.

It had been a draw at best, a minor victory for him on Her home court. When his drink was empty, he patted his good friend Frank Toomey on the back and headed toward the Men’s. It was then that he next saw her. There was that indecipherable moment of indecision when their eyes met, so very opposite in color and wetness and emotion. But then they twirled together and Wellington pulled her into the unlocked nearby office of the assistant social director. Within the first minute her tight little ass was boosted up onto the desk, her gown was shamelessly lifted, her dainty silk panties were dangling from an ankle, and his trousers were pooled around his Florsheims.

“You are an infuriating bastard!” She said.

“And you,” Wellington replied, “are an absolute BITCH!”

“Fuck me, you God-damned bastard! Fuck me hard!”

Soundlessly, Wellington bent her back onto the desk, the pencils and papers and meaningless memos soon scattered across the floor as her moans and cries filled the room. Her soft sleek thighs were clamped tightly about his hips, and her dreadfully expensive heels dug deep into the cheeks of his ass.

“I hate you, you fucking bastard,” She said. “Now, fuck me! Fuck me good!”

 

[chanaud]

“Yesssss!!!” Whitney Rose Howland Palmer, sole heiress to the Palmer family, and a short branch off the original Mayflower's Howland tree hissed out in ecstasy as her perfectly coiffed chestnut hair swept back gracefully.

“Fuck me, you dirty rotten bastard!”

Welling was used to her obscenities. It was what turned him on; that and the fact that he loves fucking uptight blue bloods. And none were any bluer or tighter than Whitney Rose Howland Palmer.

Her screams were heard all the way to the ballroom. A good number of the guests were just too old and was unable to hear the ruckus. Some were appalled and would have complained, except they knew it would have fallen on deaf ears. The Palmers founded the club and had commandeered it since. The rest snickered. They were used to it whenever Whitney and Wellington attended the same function together. This was surely to be the talk of Marjorie North’s Society Page in the Times tomorrow!

Whitney grabbed Willington’s silky hair and pulled him down. Their lips pressed against each other as tongues wrestled violently.

“Take this you Bitch,” growled Wellington as his cock grinded forcefully into her pussy. “Tell me how much you love it!” He demanded.

“Fuck you!” She answered. Even in the height of passion, she wouldn’t admit his worth.

With that Wellington pulled out quickly. Instinctively her spiked heels dug into his flesh making him wince with pain.

“Wha??” Her long elongated fingers reached out to his hard cock and squeezed. Her moisture was seeping through her tightening fingers and shimmering in the dimly lit office. As if he was a dildo, she tried to jam it in her hungry pussy.

“No..”

“What?” It was more of a demand than a question.

“You’re not going to have him,” Wellington replied. “Not until you tell me how much you love it.”

“Never.”

“Well.. I bet Muffy’s ear is at the door right now salivating right now. I bet she wouldn’t deny some of Well’s cock. I bet…”

“Stop it you bastard. You know I desire your cock as much as you desire my tight, wet pussy. By the way, did you notice how tight it is?” She asked, her fingers manipulating his cock back into her pussy again. It entered easily. And this time he wasn’t going to let him get away. Her pussy held a death clamp on him.

A deep, guttural moan emitting from his throat assured her of her answer.

“You have Sven to thank. He's been working on tightening my pelvic muscles."

"So is Adopt a Swede your new pet project?" Wellington's cornflower blue eyes glowed evilly. Each syllable was met with short, demanding thrusts. And with each thrust, her pussy tightened into a fist. The only thing that saved him was her wetness. Otherwise he was sure his cock would have fallen off while fully embedded in her and never seen again.

"I'll tell you what. You don't make fun of my philanthropic responsibilities and I won't make fun of the fact your father bought your way into this club."

"Deal."

"Now shut up and fuck me before your grandfather comes by to pick up the trash."

The next day...

Whitney woke just as a young woman, clad in heavily starched black Calvin Klein suit, black stockings, and shiny black heels stepped onto the plush white carpet. Her dark auburn hair was swept back into a tight bun, and her black rimmed glasses accentuated a hint of Eurasian eyes. The woman set a tray down by Whitney's bedside. It was strategically placed with the usual - a pot of steaming hot imported English breakfast tea and a white bone thin china of homemade oatmeal with a side of organic raisins and freshly granulated brown sugar.

"Good morning, Whitney."

"Good morning, Anne. How does my day look?"

As Whitney took the first sip of her tea, Anne sat at the Chippendale chair next to her.

"Your day is full. Sven is waiting for you downstairs. He is extending your class to 180 minutes. There is a board meeting at 10:00 with the Palmer Foundation. Then you have to cut the ribbon to the Palmer Ward at All Children's Hospital. Your father requested lunch at JB Winnebrie's at 1:00. You had called a director’s meeting at 2:30 to discuss the latest update on your new building. Then you have three hour break, which I had scheduled a massage before the 'Ex-Mayor Giuliani’s Feed the Hungry' banquet."

"Finally a light day. Cancel Sven this morning. I want to go over Hines proposed blueprints again."

"If you like him, why don't you hire him?" Anne asked.

"Because he's outside of the family, which father would definitely disapprove of. Boynton and Ward have been our architects for generations. They're family and will do an efficient job for me. But this time I need more than efficiency. I'm tired of them. I need something else." Whitney replied, her voice trailing off to a deep thought as she finished her tea.

"Any notable news?" Whitney asked as she placed the empty tea cup down.

"You and Wellington are on the front page of Marjorie North's Page.”

Instantly, Whitney frowned. Anne quickly remarked, “Your gown is beautiful, and hair is flawless. You will be proud of the picture."

"Shit. I do not need to be seen with that scum bug. Please send a note to Ms. North stating that if she ever publishes another photograph of us together again, she will no longer have a job with the Times. And I will see to that."

"Will do, Whitney." Anne replied as she jotted down the message onto a notepad. "Timothy Mara is ill. He was hospitalized yesterday.”

"Tim?" Whitney's voice perked.

"Yes, it is rumored that he was given less than a week."

"He doesn't have a family, does he?"

"If my memory serves me correctly... No, he doesn't. Why are..."

Whitney jolted out of bed. She threw on a robe and demanded. "Tell father I must see him immediately. I can't wait until lunch."

"What about Sven?"

"Oh... you take the class for me." Whitney called after her before stepping into the oversized bathroom. "Oh and Anne, if you guys do anything, make sure he wears a condom."

It's great to be writing with you again!

 

[Miltone]

Blair Wellington IV

OOC: It’s always great pleasurable fun to write with you, Chanaud!

IC: “… Now shut up and fuck me before your grandfather comes by to pick up the trash.”

“He’ll be here only if your grandmother doesn’t wreck the garbage truck on the way up the service drive!”

The grip of Her pussy was as tight as the grip of her hands on him, her long, finely manicured nails digging into the rippling flesh of his shoulders. With each deep hard thrust up into her, a lock of her elegantly coiffed hair loosened. Eventually all of it tumbled free and fell over her shoulders, cascading off the edge of the desk. Her firm proud perfect breasts bounced in rhythm, popping free of her gown. When he bent down to suckle each tasty bud, She screamed loudly.

“I don’t want passionate love-making you son of a bitch! I want you to fuck me! Hard!”

She always had a way with words, a way that made his blood boil with hatred and lust, an evil and addicting mix. Wellington grasped her hips and stuffed his long thick cock into her like a wild madman, ratcheting up her cries of passion several decibels. Eventually, She came three times (faking one rather convincingly) before he exploded up deep inside her. For a brief moment they remained together, her cries fading as she struggled to regain her breath, while he left a warm wet trail of complimentary kisses along her neck and shoulder.

And then it was over. Wellington stepped back abruptly, pulled up his trousers and adjusted his cummerbund and tie. She sat up and arranged her clothes, taking off and tossing her ripped silk panties at him.

“These are no use anymore,” she said with a richly disgusted tone. “Why don’t you give them to your sister. She could use something nice for a change.” She sighed deeply when catching her reflection in the mirror. “And my hair? Jesus, I don’t know why I put up with you, you … you bastard.”

Wellington grinned but saved his retort. She had such an odd way of expressing her deepest feelings of intimacy. But then rich spoiled uptight bitches like her were that way and Wellington was long beyond sympathy. But politely, he did help her re-arrange her hair before they exited the disheveled office, scented with the remains of their clandestine sex. Of course, a wandering press photographer happened to catch them walking together down the hallway and they were coerced into blessing him with a cordially polite smile before heading in completely opposite directions.

It was much later, long after She had left when Wellington and Frank Toomey were bellied up at the bar along with Skip Tighe the sports editor of the Times.

“So what’s next for you, Blair?” Skip asked.

“What do you mean, Skipper?” Wellington replied. “Aren’t one America’s Cup, two World Series, three Stanley Cups, and three out of four Kentucky Derbies enough for one lifetime?”

“That leaves one finger bare,” Frank noted holding up both hands and wiggled thumbs and fingers.

“That’s right, Blair,” Skip shot back. “There’s one trophy you haven’t bagged.”

“I suspect he has better luck bagging rich bluebloods than the Lombardi Trophy,” Frank said with a subtle nudge to Wellington’s ribs. Tighe chuckled noticeably.

“But the ante is high in the NFL game and there isn’t a team available that I’d care to own,” Wellington said with a slight resignation.

Skip took a deep sip of his scotch and smacked the glass down on the bar before squaring his shoulders toward Wellington.

“You know,” Skip began, “Tim Mara is not in good health. Before I left the newsroom tonight, I heard that he was taken today to St. Grace’s. Rumor has it the team may soon be up for sale.”

“The Giants?” Frank asked. Both he and Skip could see Wellington’s eyes broaden, and there was no mistaking the big grin that slowly spread across Wellington’s face. For a moment he grinned, but then the grin disappeared.

“Gee, that’s too bad about Timmy,” Wellington said. “I’ve always gotten along well with him and his family. Is it serious?”

“I hope not,” Frank chipped in. “Tim is a good guy.”

Skip Tighe shrugged. Wellington growled softly. A good young team, a capable coach, solid financials. The NY Giants, the lone remaining jewel to complete his sporting crown?

“Thanks for letting me know,” Wellington said. “I’ll be sure to drop by and visit him first thing.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Wellington smashed the tufted yellow ball smartly over the net, just out of reach of his lanky opponent who grunted and threw his body, arm and racquet extended, toward the blurred missile but to no avail. The ball sailed wide and bounded into the corner.

“Ha, ha!” Wellington crowed. “Game. Set. Match!”

His opponent pushed up from the court and knelt for a moment as Wellington waltzed around the net and extended his hand.

“That keeps the old winning streak alive, eh, Danny Boy?” Wellington said, pulling his assistant to his feet. “Although I had to admit that you had me going during that first set. Almost thought you finally had the stuff to take one from me.”

“How do you know that I’m not having mercy on you and letting you win?” came the reply.

“And why would you do that?”

“Because I can … and because I’d like to keep my job.”

Wellington smiled. “Good answer, Danny. Good answer.”

Wellington clapped him on the back and they continued into the dressing room for a shower and a change of clothes. When Wellington knotted his stylish maroon Umberto Bossi necktie, Daniel glanced over quizzically.

“So where are you off to first? We have a luncheon with the Dynatech Board at one. Remember?”

“Just paying a courtesy call at St. Grace’s. Tim Mara has been hospitalized.”

“So I had heard.”

“Yes, and I’d like you to run a check on something for me. I’d like you to trace the ownership of the Giants. I want to know whose hands are holding every share of stock.”

“Everybody knows Bob Tisch owns the majority …”

“Yeah, but I want to make sure that there aren’t some stray shares floating around. There’s always some shares stashed away in some pigeon hole somewhere. Do that for me, won’t you, Danny?”

“Yes, sir.”

The next hour found Wellington at St. Grace’s. The Mara family was there in full force. Cards and flowers were flowing in every minute and an entire anteroom was taken over as a reception area.

“So glad to see you, Blair,” greeted a tearful Tiffany, the eldest daughter and a longtime family friend.

“I didn’t hear the news until late last night so I came first thing this morning,” Wellington said, embracing her warmly. “How is he doing?”

Tiffany shook her head and didn’t reply.

“Well, if there’s anything I can do … for the family … anything … just let me know.”

Tiffany nodded and Wellington brushed away her tear.

“Your father has a lot of friends, Tiff. I’m sure there are a lot of prayers that will be answered.”

“I hope so,” Tiffany said weakly. “Everyone has been so kind. Why even Whitney Palmer was just here. Such a dear sweet lady she is.”

“She … she was here?”

“Oh, yes, she brought this lovely bouquet and card. I wish Daddy were awake enough to read it. Such a sweet dear she is.”

“Yes, she is,” Wellington replied stiffly, glancing at the beautiful cursive handwriting. Probably written by what’s-her-name, that mousy assistant of hers.

What was She doing here, the phony sniveling Fifth Avenue society princess?! Sucking up in a time of tragedy just to get another mention in Marjorie North’s column no doubt. Wellington lingered to pass on his best regards to the other family members. Just about the time he felt his welcome running out, there was a rush of doctors and nurses toward the patient’s room. From experience, he knew what that meant. Just a matter of time that’s all.

 

[chanaud]

“Good Morning, Daddy,” Whitney greeted the tall silvery gentleman cheerfully.

A taller masculine dark gray suit stood up, gave her a kiss on the cheek and held a chair out for her.

“Have you read Marjorie’s columns?” He asked, pointing the folded Times on the table.

A waiter immediately appeared with a white wine and set it in front of her. “Would you like to hear the special, or shall you have the usual?” He asked.

“The usual,” father and daughter answered in unison.

Whitney nodded at the paper and answered sarcastically. “She makes a living off of our family.”

“Are you dating him?”

“Oh good god, NO!”

“He’s not one of us, dear girl. I’ve heard the guys talking at the club. They say he’s a fortune hunter.”

“Oh, Daddy. He has his own money. Money magazine rated him as the 29th wealthiest person in America,”

“You can’t believe everything you read, Whit. There are people who can create a portfolio for him. And don’t you know that half of those listed in Money magazine are one step away from bankruptcy? Look at that Trump fellow…”

Bernard paused for a sip of his afternoon Martini – straight up, with a single olive. Whitney took the opportunity to change the subject. After all, she didn’t call for a meeting with her father to discuss Blair Wellington.

“Daddy, did you hear Tim Mara is in the hospital?”

“I heard. Poor guy is on his last breath. Mother sent flowers,” he answered.
“I paid him a visit this morning.”

“Oh?” Bernard’s eyebrow rose inquisitively. “It’s nice of your to pay your respects.”

“I thought so. The whole family is there just waiting for him to die,” Whitney said sadly.

Then her tone changed quickly. “How well do you know Bob Tisch?”

“Very. We sit on the Northern Trust Board together.”

“He owns 39% of the Giants, Northern Trust owns 25%, the family owns the rest,” stated Whitney. Her emotions were completely expressionless. But she couldn’t fool her father.

“Yes, I know that. We all know that. What are you getting at?”

Whitney leaned in closer.

“Think about it. When Tim passes on, do you honestly think the family will leave the team in Tisch’s hands?”

Before she allowed her father to answer, she piped in. “A few members of the family never trusted Bob. They’ve only tolerated him because they knew Tim had a good handle on him. When he’s gone, the family will demand a sale.”

“Bob will buy the team from them.”

“Not if I get to them first.”

“You? Why would you want to own a NFL team?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Just call it a pet project,” she answered vaguely.

Bernard Palmer’s eyes narrowed. His daughter was up to something. When she just sat back and smiled secretly at him, he gave in.

“I hope you know what you’re doing. Tell me what I can do it help.”


Father and daughter pulled their heads together and talked in hushed voices.

 

[Miltone]

“So this is complete and accurate?” Blair Wellington IV asked pointedly, thumbing through the thick bound folder on his lap. His assistant, Daniel, had presented it as they rode together in the plush back seat of the stretch Hummer limo en route to a charity fundraiser at the trendy exclusive nightclub Sevin. The muted hum of passing traffic couldn’t break Wellington’s concentration as he flipped through some of the latter pages, then back to the executive summary.

“Yes, sir,” replied Daniel. “Everything’s been double and triple checked.”

Daniel and his staff were notoriously thorough. That’s why Wellington paid him so handsomely and overlooked his tawdry debased dalliances with impressionable and innocent young women.

“The family holds 36 percent, mostly in Tim’s name.” Wellington’s comment wasn’t meant as a question.

“As you can see that is split up amongst various family members,” Daniel remarked.

“Yes, but it’s not enough to get control. We’d need more to force Tisch into a sale. Who do we know on Northern Trust’s board?”

“Richard Myerson, Dieter Nickel, Werner DeRoi, Bernard Palmer …”

An explosive laugh erupted from Wellington at mention of the last name.

“I hate that bastard almost as much as I hate his spoiled little brat.”

“Are you sure about that? You’ve been getting a lot of high-octane mileage out of that little affair. Look at the society page of the Times.”

Daniel tossed over Section C of the afternoon edition and Wellington glanced briefly. Where did they come up with such crap?! Another unsubstantiated rumor or just another juicy innuendo, it didn’t matter, press is press. Yet the picture was flattering for them both although if one looked close enough they could make out the mark where he had nibbled her neck in the harsh throes of passion.

Yet Wellington felt a fiendish delight of being linked to Her. He had heard all the jealous rumblings from the members of the Four Hundred, a covey of old money, interbred, wrinkled old farts with their insufferable Harvard and Radcliff progeny. So what that his immigrant great-grandfather had made his money selling lumber and fire insurance; so what that his grandfather had doubled the family fortune running rum from Canada during Prohibition; so his father had spent his lifetime laundering it into legitimate manufacturing and energy resource businesses; and so Wellington himself had shifted their investments into high tech computer and communications companies long before the average American had learned how to turn on a PC or had even heard about cell phones. Maybe his family didn’t have the Mayflower pedigree, but they had the wealth, and with that wealth came power. And if there was one thing that Blair Wellington IV knew, it was how to leverage power.

“So what’s the plan, Blair?” Daniel asked.

“See what we can pick up from the family. Every share counts.”

“What about Northern Trust?”

The Northern Trust nut would be difficult to crack, and it wouldn’t help that Bernard Palmer was on the board. Wellington knew the way the old bastard talked about him behind his back and Lord knows what the old fuck would say if he knew that Wellington was picking up shares of the Giants. Wellington might not have the hallowed old money reputation, but he had startling good looks and sexual stamina, money and power, which combined as the most potent aphrodisiac in the City. He would need every ounce of it all if he was to work this deal.

“Contact Rich Myerson, Nickel and DeRoi. See if we can set up a meeting,” Wellington replied. “Myerson owes me a big favor for that Cisco Systems deal we worked last year. Nickel is in my back pocket. DeRoi I’m not sure about.”

“And Palmer?”

“Leave the son-of-a-bitch out of it,” Wellington remarked. Then he chuckled. “He may not be able to keep his daughter's panties on when I'm around, but he would rather freeze in hell than let me get something he really values.”

“Who knows, maybe he’ll do that no matter,” Daniel interjected wryly.

“Yeah,” Wellington laughed.

The limo pulled up at the awning of Sevin. The tasteful artistic neon signage splashed across the front of the club. A long line of hopefuls huddled and shivered in the chill evening air. The doorman waited as Wellington and his assistant climbed down from the Hummer. There was an appropriate murmur from the onlookers as they strode directly toward the door held open for them.

“So have you heard what’s offered at the silent auction tonight?” Wellington asked.

“A Degas, some minor Rodans and a Frank Lloyd Wright desk and chair,” Daniel replied.

“Hmm,” Wellington grunted.

“If you need me, I’ll be surfing … as usual,” Daniel said with a curtly evil laugh as he melded into the young mingling crowd in the lounge.

Wellington headed into the main room where the charity affair was in full swing. He loved arriving fashionably late; it made for more conspicuous entrances. Tonight was no exception. A few lovely old charity mavens doted on him, a few wrinkled old farts shook his hand, and the chairwoman of the affair welcomed him lavishly. A glass of Glenlivet, neat, was pressed into his hand. He had nearly finished a tour of the room, pausing to chat with Llewellyn Hanford of the Hampton's Hanfords, when Lew’s eyes widened and darted toward Wellington’s left. When he turned in that direction, Wellington felt a chill scamper down his spine. Or was it a tingle?

There She was on the arm of Carlyle Windsor, a slender but foppish Anglophile whose family claimed some sketchy shirttail relation to the British Windsors. Radiant in a black silk Halston gown, interwoven with delicate golden thread, 24 carat no doubt, her firm breasts surged up from the gown naturally unsuspended and alluring. The rich silken fabric fit tightly to her every curve and when she turned toward a friend, Wellington could see through her sheer wrap that the gown was cut down her back nearly to the crack of her sumptuous ass. Alternately haughty and condescending as she worked her way through the crowd, Wellington realized that no other beautiful woman could ever inspire such hatred inside him … and such incredible desire.

“Oh, darling! How are you?” she said holding out her hand toward Wellington. “What was that thing you arrived in? Cinderella let you borrow the pumpkin tonight?”

Wellington grinned and nodded in her direction.

“And it’s so nice to see you again, darling,” Wellington replied, taking her proffered hand and kissing it gentlemanly. He turned toward her escort, reaching out to exchange a handshake with the limp-wristed man. “And it’s nice to see you again, Carlyle. Eighteen months in rehab does wonders for a fella, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, Blair, I was just talking about you,” She said. “I was telling Carlyle here that that infamous Internet video of your sister and those West Coast movie stars was completely faked.”

“Oh, no, dear, that was a real disaster,” Wellington laughed cavalierly. “Sort of like the boob job your mother got last summer. Has she managed to recover yet?”

“Well it is always such a pleasure to see you, Blair,” She said with a little wave. “I hope you enjoy finishing off your evening with Mr. Hand.”

“Be sure to say hello to kiss Steely Dan goodnight for me, will you?” Wellington added with a nod as they parted. “Insufferable bitch!” he muttered under his breath. Suddenly he felt a hand clap on his back and he turned to see Roger Clairborne and his wife.

“Wellington!”

“Roger!” Wellington slipped his had around Clairborne’s shoulders. “Does your brother still sit on the board of Northern Trust? He does? Excellent! I have something very important to talk with you about.”

~~~

A half hour later Wellington was returning to the bar when he felt a tug on his sleeve followed by the light scent of an expensive perfume.

“You bastard!” came a hushed familiar female voice. Wellington grinned and turned toward her. She took his hand and pulled him down the hall and into a small restroom, locking the door behind her. “You fucking bastard!”

“Come now, darling,” Wellington responded. “Is that any way to talk to your Daddy?”

She slipped her sheer wrap off and Wellington found the clasp of her gown behind her neck and deftly unfastened it, letting the luxurious silk slip down over her flawless body. He draped the gown over the towel rack hummed at the sight of her standing before him in just stockings and heels.

“No panties tonight, darling? Don’t you think dear, sweet Carlyle would faint if he ever found out?”

“Shut the hell up and fuck me, Blair!” She leaned forward and gripped the counter firmly with both hands, the splendid curves of her ass inviting him forward.

Wellington glanced at her reflection in the mirror as he lowered his trousers and held his thick surging manhood in his hand, teasing her moist slit with the head.

“Come on, darling, you can tell me. Who’s your man? Who’s your Daddy?”

“Don’t be so pretentious, you son-of-a-bitch!” She said looking at him in the mirror, her ice blue eyes struggling to contain the flames burning inside. “Shut the fuck up … and fuck me for Christ’s sake!”

“Wellington suddenly thrust his hips forward and She gasped loudly.

 

[chanaud]

Wellington’s mouth came down onto hers. Whitney twisted her head away crudely. After seeing his shocked expression, she explained. “I left my lipstick in the limo."

Wellington grinned. She’s such a cold hearted bitch. For that, he thrust even harder inside her, loving the harsh gasps coming from the back of the throat. The walls of her pussy gripped him like a tight vise, almost choking him. It was a power game between the two, which they got off on.

“Oh yesssssss… that’s right,” Whitney hissed.

Her hips were thrusting back, meeting his. The sound of bare skin slapping together echoed in the marble tiled bathroom. “Fuck me; Welly… fuck me like a cheap ass whore.”

Welling pulled out suddenly, leaving her panting and moaning in protest. He grabbed her ass and spun her around against the hard, cold wall. Then with one hand, he grabbed her wrists and lifted it above her head. He lifted her full skirt and admired her bare ass for awhile. It wasn’t the range fake tan that seemed to be the rage with all the socialites and celebrities. No... hers was a beautiful alabaster white. So ripe and round, and not a mark on it. Her ass was a perfect heart shape. He could admire it all night long. Until, that is, she opened her mouth.

“You have about three minutes to fuck me. I’m going to bid on the Degas tonight.”

Bitch!

With one hand on her hip, he plunged in. Whitney screamed in sheer ecstasy. The full force of his weight pushed her against the cold wall. He grabbed her hips and continued to thrust in and out… in and out… lifting her ass high in the air with every thrust.

“Oh fuckkkkkkk….” She screamed. Every nerve in her body was on fire. She loved the way he filled her completely. She loved the way he knew where all her erogenous zones were. He was hot tonight. And so hard. She can feel his veins pulsating and rubbing against her sensitive walls.

“Yesss…yessss…that’s it.. Oh Welly…fuck me…that’s it baby, fuck me rawwwwwwwww…”

Rap, rap

They almost didn’t hear the polite rapping on the door.

Rap, rap

“Yes!!” Whitney answered through gritted teeth. Her body was about to explode and some old woman with a bad bladder probably wanted to use the bathroom.

“Whitney… the Degas is on stage now.”

Fuck!

“I’ll be right out,” She sang out.

“Hurry, you bastard.”

Wellington did as commanded. He fucked her like he was a young boy with his first prostitute. And it helped that Whitney was acting like one. She was thrusting back like a pro. For a brief moment…they didn’t know who was doing the fucking.

“Yessssssssssssssssss..” They cried out in unison. Mere seconds later, and still panting, Wellington pulled out and helped her straighten her dress and her hair.

“There you look good as new,” he announced. He couldn’t resist kissing her fully on the lips though. Whitney’s eyes grew round as saucers, then closed as she relished in the moment.

When he finally let her go, she slapped him across the face. “You bastard, you know I don’t have my lipstick with me. Now I’m going to have to face everybody out there… practically naked.”

Wellington laughed as she stormed out.

The night was a disappointment. She didn’t win the Degas. The winner didn’t have the nerve to show his face. Probably a private collector, she sighed. It would have been nice to have this particular piece in her new building. Now she’s just going to have to seek another piece. At least the fundraiser was a success; the Degas went for $2.5 million. Then there was the Carlyle issue. He pulled all moves on her. If she hadn’t been with Wellington earlier, and could feel his sperm dripping down her thighs, she probably would have fucked him. After all, it’s been rumored he’s a kink, despite his coke habit.

The episode between Whitney and Wellington wasn’t enough to satisfy her. The thought of the way he pushed her against the wall and fucked her with full force made her take out her secret stash of toys from under her bed. The pink vibrator called “The Rabbit” reminded her of Wellington. They were about the same size and fucked her fast and furiously. After hours of screaming out his name, she was finally sated.

The next morning…..

“Good morning!” Announced her assistant, Anne, balancing a breakfast tray and a flat package wrapped in brown paper.

“Morning,” chirped Whitney. “What do you have there?”

“A package for you accompanied by a handsome card,” Anne answered.

Whitney tore the envelope linen blue envelope open and recognized the handwriting immediately. It was from Wellington. She smiled secretly and tucked it away in her nightstand drawer. Jumping out of bed, she asked. “Shall we open it?”

It was the Degas painting! That bastard, she thought. Then she remembered the card and his generous gift.

“Oh my, is it a real Degas? Is it from an admirer?” Anne asked in astonishment.

“Oh…. You might say that.” Whitney answered coyly, and then quickly changed the subject. “What is on your agenda for today?”

“I have a stack of invitations to accept and deny. They are arriving by truckloads…”

“Anne...” interrupted Whitney. “Is Jim Mora still pursuing you?”

“Yes, he calls constantly. But.. I don’t think he’s right for me.”

“What do you mean?!?! He’s handsome, very wealthy, is kind and charitable, and is famous for being a good catch. You would be the envy all of New York.”

“Oh… I don’t know. Do you really think he’s a good catch?” Anne asked hesitantly, and blushing furiously.

“Yes. Why I would be dating him if he hinted a little bit of interest in me. I know… why don’t you invite him to the dinner party Daddy is throwing next week. I know its very last minute, but I know he won’t mind if he knows you’re there. Better yet... I’ll invite him. We don’t want him to think you’re chasing him. Let him be the hunter..”

Later that afternoon….

Whitney walked into the Trump Tower and pressed the elevator button for the sixth floor penthouse, right below Trump’s own private quarters.

She was wearing a long black coat and black spiked heels. Her hair was swept neatly in a loose bun, clasped with a diamond and ruby comb. Her hair was flawless with the exception of bright red lipstick. Guests and employees stared at the beautiful woman, but she just ignored them. She was deep in thought of her destination

When the doors opened to the private suite, Whitney stood sans the coat and nude with the exception of the comb and black heels.

“Thank you for the Degas, darling…” she said in a sultry voice.

 

[Miltone]

From his vantage point in the great room Blair Wellington had heard the sound of the front door open and close and heard the click of a pair of heels echo through the foyer and down the hall.

“Thank you for the Degas, darling…” came Her voice, simmering and calescent.

With an amused grin Wellington looked up to see the tall, elegant, and quite naked form of Whitney Palmer. Her shoes were expensive, her hair beautifully coiffed, and her expression of lust priceless. For her sake, he was grateful that the little impromptu breakfast meeting was between only himself, his executive assistant, Daniel, and his VP of real estate development, Kerri Welling. Kerri chuckled, blushed and covered her embarrassed smile with her hand, Daniel eyed the tall pale naked beauty with slight appreciation (she was way too old for his prurient tastes!), and Blair simply replied cordially, “I’m so glad that you liked it. And may I add that you have such a remarkable way of showing your appreciation.”

Given the obvious surprise of seeing Wellington’s associates gathered with him, any other woman would have blushed, screamed, covered herself, and retreated madly toward the door. But not Her. No, Whitney Rose Howland Palmer, in all her naked splendor, simply assumed that she was in charge. She stood tall and smiled proudly for a moment, knowing that all the eyes in the room were trained on her. And had someone so much as asked, she probably would have had to admit that she looked and felt spectacular, tall and slender with firm, perfectly formed breasts with small, pert—and now fully erect—rosy nipples, a trim delectable waist, a womanly flair to her hips, and of course her long, long flawlessly shaped legs. But it might have been her skin tone of which she was proudest, creamy, silken, soft, glowing. And she surely must have seen the lust roiling up in Wellington’s eyes as he squirmed in his chair, wanting to relieve the cramped confines of a suddenly raging erection.

Wellington cleared his throat. He watched Her sling her black coat over her shoulder and slink sexily across the room toward the window. Her pale, alabaster body swayed seductively in the sunlight streaming in through the drapes as she sashayed across the room, tossing her coat casually over the full-sized replica of the Stanley Cup and sinking down into a plushly upholstered leather armchair.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” she said, swiveling around to take in the million-dollar view from Wellington’s favorite chair and gazing out at some of Manhattan’s priciest real estate. “But I haven’t got all day, darling.”

“Ahem,” Wellington said, struggling to regain control. “We won’t be but a few more minutes.” Turning back to Daniel and Kerri, he said, “We have to move quickly on this. The IPO goes out before the end of the month and we have to have all the bricks and sticks in place for the press conference. We can’t just have great ideas and flashy software. We need to look solid and substantial.”

“What if we have trouble with the unions?” Daniel asked. “It’s the off-season and they like the work to drag out real slowly in the winter.”

“We have an iron-clad agreement with the contractor,” Kerri chipped in. Wellington noticed that as she spoke, her big blue eyes kept darting over toward the armchair, where She sat, swiveling back and forth, flipping through a magazine and giving Wellington unparalleled shots of her exquisite and quite bare beaver. “We have a performance clause in the contract that will cost them if the project isn’t complete on time. In fact, there’s a huge bonus if the work is completed ahead of time.”

“This project is our first in Phoenix,” Wellington remarked. “Need I remind you that we have to make a good solid impression. Several other very big deals are hanging in the balance.”

Wellington saw the eyes of the others look up just as he felt the rush of air and smelled the scent of precious French perfume.

“Welly, darling,” She purred. “That sounds so boring and cliché. Aren’t you finished yet?”

Wellington felt her arms around his shoulders and the warmth of her breath bush against his cheek as she whispered into his ear.

“Can’t you tell your little playmates here to run along because we have something more important to attend to?”

Shamelessly, She bent down, shoved the empty plates and papers out of the way, eased around to straddle his legs, slipped her sweet ass onto his lap, and grabbed Wellington’s necktie. It was hard to ignore the glistening folds of her freshly shaven sex winking at him right before his eyes.

With a wry grin Daniel spoke up. “I think we’re about through, here, Welly darling. You two obviously have something to discuss in depth.”

Kerri giggled as she quickly gathered her papers and folders together. Daniel helped her with the blueprints.

“We have lunch at Kittichai at twelve-thirty,” Daniel prompted as he slipped his PDA into his jacket pocket. “We have that um, other major deal to discuss.”

Wellington nodded as he watched Kerri and Daniel move toward the door and down the hall.

“You’re having Thai for lunch and haven’t invited me?” She asked.

“It would be even more boring than breakfast,” Wellington answered as the door closed behind Daniel. “Just routine business.”

“The girl is cute,” She remarked as the door clicked shut. “But he’s a drip.”

“Should I have asked her to stay and watch?”

“If she had stayed, she wouldn’t have been watching, Welly.”

Whitney eased her naked ass down between his legs, her hands roaming feverishly all over his lap. Wellington had to admit that She did know how to do this and she knew it. He hated her, he resented her family’s haughty position and condescending attitude, he envied the grace and élan with which she floated from one dinner party to the next and yet, each time he came face to face with her, he felt such overwhelming lust and desire for her. Somehow, in the back of his mind he knew that she must feel the same way about him, but for different reasons. But that didn’t keep her from deftly parting the fly of his Brooks Brother’s pinstripe trousers, extracting his fully engorged and throbbing manhood, and engulfing it entirely…

That afternoon…

The chic Thai restaurant Kittichai with its tasteful wood frames, sumptuous swags of Thai silk, and authentic cuisine was still bustling given the late luncheon hour. The dining room was centered, more or less, on a limpid reflecting pool, floating with lit candles and water lilies that the wait staff kept pushing back and forth, possibly to give the impression that all were drifting down the Chao Phraya River in Bangkok, on some grand royal barge. Luminous bottled orchids decorated the front of the room, along with many auspicious Buddhas and a glassed-in birdcage housing an exotic population of goldfish.

Picking their way through the succulently fatty and tastefully meaty chocolate back ribs, Thai beef salad, pan-roasted Cornish hen, and pineapple fried rice, Blair Wellington and the ever-present Daniel dined with Chandler Clairborne, Richard Myerson, and Anthony Mara. Also present was William Rosevear, Bob Tisch’s right hand man. While the others were chatty and polite, Rosevear went straight to the point.

“So, Blair, you’ve been a wonderful host this afternoon, but it’s obvious that you have something on your mind.”

“The companionship of good friends and associates never fails to warm up a chill wintry afternoon,” Wellington replied with a mock effusiveness that kept the timbre of the gathering breezy.

“Actually,” Daniel interjected. “Blair hates to eat alone.”

Rosevear put down his napkin, pushed aside the cheap disposable chopsticks, and rested his elbows on the table. He looked straight across the table at Wellington. “Looking around the table, it’s obvious that this is all about the Giants, isn’t it?”

“Not all, Will. But now that you mention it…”

Rosevear laughed. “You’ve got the family represented here, you’ve got Northern Trust, and you have me. It’ll take more than a decent lunch to warm us up to selling.”

“I’m not asking you—any of you—to sell. I simply want to make you aware that should a sale of the team’s stock become an issue that I would appreciate being given the opportunity to bid.”

“But what if word gets out about your interest?” Clairborne asked.

“It won’t,” Wellington insisted sharply. “This is to be completely on the sly. No one must know I’m interested. You all saw what happened when word got out about my interest in the Cavaliers.”

“And we all know how you are when you are going after something!” Myerson chortled.

“You usually end up bagging it, no matter the cost!” Clairborne replied.

“Just like Bernard Palmer’s daughter!” Anthony Mara chuckled.

“Gentlemen! Some things have a price tag and other things … are priceless,” Wellington retorted and everyone else except Daniel laughed. “But seriously I’m simply making sure that you are all aware of my interest.”

“You are aware that there are other interested parties, don’t you?” Mara stated.

“I’m sure there are a lot of tire kickers out there. But when the time comes to ante up, most of them will choke at the first sight of the price tag.” Wellington felt confident as he glanced around the table. “I’m the best choice. I love the team, I love the game—”

“You’d love the income from the suites at the new stadium,” Rosevear replied.

This time Daniel joined in the laughter.

“But there is another very interested party,” Mara said earnestly.

“Who?” Daniel asked.

“I’m not sure. My cousin James was saying something about it last night. You know, friend of a friend of a friend sort of thing.”

“Whoever it is, I’ll take them to the mat,” Wellington boasted, “and win.” He reached underneath the table and rubbed his fingertips over the lucky coin taped there. He didn’t really believe in luck but to bring off this deal he might need every resource possible.

After another round of chuckles and drinks, the conversation turned to the woeful Knicks and Larry Brown and the Giant Deal was set aside. Wellington ordered a Thai tea ice cream sundae for everyone. The conversation drifted freely from sports to stocks to women and back again. After Wellington had warmly bid everyone a hearty goodbye, he walked with Daniel back to the street and climbed into the waiting limo.

“Blair, you know what the Giants are worth, don’t you?” Daniel asked.

“Eight-hundred sixty, give or take a hundred grand. We’ve discussed this, Danny.”

“Are you sure that you want to make that sort of commitment?”

“What do you mean? I’m worth it several times over. We can pull this deal off. I can feel it in my gut.”

“But what about the other potential suitors? The price is liable to escalate is the competition gets stiff.”

“Danny Boy, you know me,” Wellington remarked with a sheer certainty. “Once I want something so much that I can taste it, I turn on the charm, grease a few palms, feather a few nests, and there will be no competition. If there are any suitable rivals, they’ll end up rolling over on their backs and begging me to rub their bellies.”

Blair Wellington leaned back into the plush leather cushions. He closed his eyes and could see his name on the bottom of the deed. He could see himself strolling out to midfield of the opening game of the season. He could envision the streamers and confetti and the roar of the crowd at the Superbowl as he accepted the Lombardi Trophy. He could picture the gleaming trophy sitting on his dresser while a naked Whitney Palmer crawled onto the bed on her hands and knees begging him to take her strong and hard from behind—the way She loved it most!