Its several years since I lost the writing bug. My Power Broker Series was reasonably successful, but frankly I ran out of ideas. I might revisit the Power Broker universe at some stage, but in the meantime, here is another universe to get your teeth into.
The following story is for the entertainment of ADULTS ONLY,
and contains descriptions of explicit sex.If you are not an
adult, or reading sex stories upset you, do not read any
Lifestyle Restructuring - Profits from a life of crime
Few people have the opportunity given to me. My father was the biggest gangster in Europe. His empire covered all the UK, and most of northern Europe. Starting as a typical wartime Spiv, he progresses to trading black-market goods before inheriting gambling dens, whorehouses, drug supply lines and distribution networks from his father, building them into an Empire of untold riches. Unlike others of his kind, he recognised the need to clean his money early. By the time he died, 5 years ago at the tender age of 64, he owned three small regional banks, and huge swathes of the centres of Manchester, Leeds, Birmingham and a dozen other European Cities. As a result I am twice as rich as Bill Gates. Unlike Gates, my wealth is hidden, well under the Radar.
I suppose a bit about me might be in order at this stage. My name is Graham Stoddart. Actually its SIR Graham (I was knighted ostensibly for services to Charity, although many would say the Charity in question was the Prime Ministers political party. I'm 40 years old, good looking (allegedly) and very very rich. Oh, and I'm a psychopath.
Not, you understand a jack the Ripper, or a Dexter, with an uncontrollable urge to kill. I'm a real psycho. I have absolutely NO empathy with people. I really don't care about other people. I don't understand feelings, sympathy, love, pity or any other of the social attributes. As a result, from a very early age, I learned to act out, or mimic what I knew to be the essential graces. I am, in short, an unfeeling Charmer.
My Dad decided that gangsters had nothing to offer a growing youth, so at the age of 19 I was encouraged to join the Army. As you might have expected, Dad's influence extended to the upper reaches of the hierarchy, so it was inevitable that I would join the SAS, and served with special forces in both Iraq and Afghanistan. Virtually all of my key employees have some connection to that part of my life.
After I left the Army, I rejoined my father, and spent the next few years fighting aspiring crooks, and bullying the weak.
I really got bored.
When Dad died unexpectedly, the time had come to review my life. I decided that the thing that really floated my boat was the use and abuse of power. Exercising power was something I did every day, but I wanted to do it in a less obviously illegal way. I divested as many of my operations as I could. The Albanians inherited my people trafficking ops, The Russians took over the prostitution, Malayans bought the Gambling activities, Nigerians took the Heroin, and so on. By the time I was finished, I had liquidated all of my illegal activities and held vast amounts of money and property in more than 250 different companies, all small enough to avoid the attention of the major agencies, and none easily traceable to me.
It was time to formulate a plan. It took two years to find it. Dwyer Valley - A medium sized (pop:3500) fully self-contained town, one road in and out, economically dependant on a single large company, Utilities provided by individual single companies,
Even the TV station and newspaper were locally owned and operated.
If ever I was going to be King of my own Town, this was it. The Major industry in the town was timber. The entire town was surrounded by rocky escarpments and pine forest, and the Sawmill provided primarily sawn products to the building trade.
You can't hurry a successful venture. 40% of the mills profit came from a chipboard company just across the State border, some 200 miles from the mill, so I bought it, and cancelled the contract ... The loss of such a large customer would normally trigger manic action, but the Jones family, who owned the mill seemed to be oblivious to the consequences. It took a year before they let it be known that the mill may be for sale.
Another two weeks, and I was the new owner of 95% of the shares. Time for the fun to begin.
I attended my first Board Meeting along with my CFO Emmet Waring. Emmet is a quiet, understated but imposing 6'4'' black man, good looking, a fully qualified accountant with a Harvard MBA and a history of special forces service second to none. When he and I took our seats at the end of the table, it was Emmet who attracted all the stares. We both sat quietly waiting to see what would happen. Four members of the Jones family still owned shares. Most were held by Margaret Jones, a stately, well built attractive woman in her early forties, widow of Jimmy Jones, the latest in a long line of family owners. It was, however William Jones, her stepson, who took the chair. It took just 10 minutes to gain a full understanding of the dynamics within the family. The youngest daughter, Heather, 22, was completely ignored. She clearly had been treated to a life of idle affluence, doted on by her mother, but regarded as a wastrel by Michael and Anna, her older sister. Michael spent the full ten minutes either patronising his stepmother, or denigrating the constant flow of ideas from Anna.
I leaned across the table and banged it hard with my fist.
"Enough!". I've heard all I need to know. Its time for a few home truths.
The Company has debts of $32m which I have settled. I now own the Company. I own the mill. I own your houses. I own your company cars.
In short. I own YOU!.
I will be holding individual meetings with each of you today, here is the schedule. Be there. Don't be late.
Meeting 1 Margaret.
Margaret had expected a civilised discussion about the history and prospects for the mill. Instead, she had undergone 20 minutes of what can only be described as gentle interrogation about her and family. It was clear she recognised that the end was coming, but even that wouldn't go as she expected.
"I have a contract for you to sign." I pushed a single sheet of paper across the desk.
"I'll get my lawyer to look it over and let you have it tomorrow. " said Margaret.
"You clearly don't understand the nature of our new relationship, Margaret. You will read it now, and you will sign it." If you don't I will make you a gift of $5000 and you will leave Dwyer Valley now."
The colour drained from Margaret's face. Her hand began to shake as she lifted the paper to read it. She couldn't believe what was on it. If she signed, she would receive a salary of $500000 p.a. and retain her Company House, car, and servants. Her delight was palpable until she read the terms.
"This is slavery! You can't expect me to sign this!"
You are absolutely correct. You will do anything and everything I or my designates tell you to do. Your only task is to keep me happy. If you choose not to sign, you know the terms.
I could see her wrestling with the options. I tried to see it as she would, prostitution or destitution. Not an easy choice if you have pride. And Margaret had plenty of that. I left the paper with her, giving her whatever time she needed to make up her mind. After what seemed an age, she made her mind up. There was no going back now.
"I suppose I have no option" she muttered, reaching across the desk for a pen.
"Just a moment, I think it would be more appropriate if you signed in the nude."
"I said Take off your clothes."
Margaret glanced sideways at Emmet, standing quietly in the corner.
"Don't worry about him, lets see what we've bought"
I moved around the table, and slid her jacket off her shoulders.
Her fingers reached for the top button on her blouse. As she did so, tears began to fall. She hesitated, hoping that she would be told to stop, but no such instruction came. Slowly she undid the buttons and allowed the blouse to fall open, exposing her bra.
"Come on, Woman, we have the rest of the family to see today, so get a move on."
I took a leisurely stroll back to my seat as Margarets stubborn fingers struggled with the buttons at her waistband. The skirt dropped to the floor to join the blouse, leaving her standing in bra and pants. Her flesh-coloured tights covered her to the waist.
Emmet walked slowly across the floor, placed his fingers on either side of her mouth, and twisted her face around so that her gaze met his.
"So, you're a tights person."
She never saw the slap coming. The pain shot across her jaw, jerking her head back as far as her neck would allow.
"Yes ... Sir!"
"Excellent. You're a quick learner. So learn this. No tights. Lose 'em now, and never replace them. Stockings or nothing is the dress code from here on."
Her ungainly wriggle accompanied her breathless "Yes Sir" and the tights joined the skirt and blouse.
Emmet took a step back and gave her a withering look.
"Next? Drop the granny pants. French Camiknickers giving full access, or, of course nothing will be the future. Understand?"
More tears slid down her cheeks as she slowly lowered her pants, providing an unintentionally erotic display for both Emmet and I. Emmet saved her the trouble of removing her bra, deftly flicking open the clasp and sliding it to join the rest of her clothes on the floor.
.... There is more of this story ...