Chapter 1

Caution: This Action/Adventure Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Heterosexual, Fiction, Interracial, White Male, Oriental Female, Slow,

Desc: Action/Adventure Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Melissa is a gifted forensic accountant, an innocent, under threat... and a catalyst.

The man – middle-aged but looking older – finished his embarrassing account and looked at his daughter.

"Oh, Daddy ... I told you your gambling would lead to trouble."

"I'm sorry, Baby. I know you did. Now, though, the trouble could spill over to you. You need to get away. Get out of town. Find somewhere they won't catch up with you."

"But ... what about you? They'll..."

"They can be most unpleasant. But I brought it on myself, and I don't want you to suffer."

"There's one thing I can try," she said, "which would be a lot better than prostitution or making porn films for them."

I sat in my office, studying the report in front of me. My PA entered and placed a cup – fine bone china, with a saucer – full of steaming black coffee to my right.

"Will there be anything else, sir?"

"Thank you, Stacey. No."

I watched her delightful rear end undulate out of the room. Like most of my staff, she was blonde ... in her case it was genuine ... of medium height, with a classically hour-glass body.

When you're wealthy, and influential, there's no problem getting sex. I always laid it out from the start; no permanent relationship. When I, or sometimes she, got bored, she would have either a job in my organisation (only if I'd seen her potential), a gig in glamour modelling, perhaps, or an introduction to film. One or two did porn, but I didn't encourage that. Anyway ... after a night, a week, a month ... occasionally more ... the girl got a leg up and I moved on. I was rarely without a bed companion. No live-in girlfriends.

Stacey wasn't the current one, though I was pretty sure from her comments she wouldn't object to another go round. Perhaps I'd go for that, as my last had just run its course.

Perhaps I need to emphasise ... a woman only got a place in my organisation if she had what it takes to do the job. Having said that, I only employ men if I have to. I like to surround myself with beauty. Functional beauty for the most part, though I do have a collection of art. Art described by art snobs as 'eclectic and random'. I like it, I collect it. I don't like it, someone else can have it.

I turned my attention to the document in front of me with a sigh, and began to read. My right hand reached for the cup and I lifted it to my lips without turning away from the text. The drink was excellent, as usual; Ethiopian Mocha.

A discreet buzz from the intercom penetrated my concentration. "Yes, Stacey?"

"Sir, there's a Ms. Melissa Sharpe here, of Kelso and Son. She has no appointment."

"Do I have time?"

"There's that Cokeham Development Project meeting in ten minutes."

"They don't need me there for that. Show her in."

The door opened and a tall, dark-haired woman entered. With the slight heels she was wearing, she was maybe a couple of inches shorter than my six feet. A flared skirt to just above her knees revealed shapely legs. Her hand was at the closure of her blouse; she was just undoing a third button.

"Come in, Ms. Sharpe – take a seat, and tell me what I can do for Kelso and Son."

"Thank you." Her voice was mellow, but the pitch was such I couldn't decide if she was soprano or alto. "It's Miss Sharpe," she went on, "I'm old-fashioned. And I'm afraid I misled your receptionist. I am employed by Kelso, but I'm not here representing them."

"Then, Miss Sharpe, suppose you tell me why you are here?"

"I hear tell that a young woman can sometimes get help from you in exchange for ... favours. I am in a difficulty. A six-figure difficulty. I'm asking ... begging ... for help."

I was stunned for the moment. "You," I began eventually, "let me see if I have this right. You're offering to have sex with me, in exchange for a six-figure sum of money?"

She coloured darkly and looked down. "That sounds horrible, doesn't it?"

I was angry. Of course my money, my power, meant I had access – intimate access – to women, but I'd never paid for sex. And certainly ... I stopped that train of thought. This wasn't a slut and I had no business judging whether she was worth any amount of money.

"Yes," I agreed, "it does. I'm not sure you have the right idea about me. Do you think I need to pay for sex?"

She met my eyes, shaking her head. "No. I'm sure you don't. And I know I'm not, well, I don't look like a model, or a film-star. So..."

"So tell me your trouble."

"Really? I mean..."

"I'm intrigued as to how an obviously respectable young lady could find herself in such an expensive ... difficulty."

She snorted. "Respectable? Once, maybe." She took a deep breath. "My father is a gambler. For a long time, it wasn't a problem, though it was a factor in my mother leaving home. But then ... I don't know the details ... he got in over his head, borrowing money. I think, maybe..." she trailed off.

"You think the people he owed money to were intending to get it back by using you."

"Yes. Dad implied as much. He wanted me to leave town. But ... my life is here. Friends, job ... It's my home."

"Quite." I thought for several minutes.

"Should I be going?" Her voice interrupted my thought process.

"What? No. Just a moment." I jotted some notes. "Right, Miss Sharpe. I'm not going to just give you money," I saw her expression change, "don't worry, I'm not refusing to help. I just don't think trying to pay off your father's creditors is going to work. Have you a friend you can stay with tonight?"

"What? A friend? I suppose so, but..."

"I need to work on this. Tell your father you're staying with a friend – don't say which one. Come back tomorrow, mid afternoon. I'll see what I can do." I turned to the intercom. "Stacey, Miss Sharpe will be leaving in a moment. Fit her in tomorrow afternoon, will you? After three. Thank you."

I stood, and she copied me. I held out my hand. She took it, and there was a little shock. 'Static electricity', I thought. 'Who'd have thought it?'

"Thank you, Mister Carpenter. Thank you. I feel ... It's a relief. Even if you can't do anything. To be listened to. Taken seriously."

I suddenly realised I was still holding her hand. I squeezed it gently. "You might like to button your blouse before you leave."

She blushed again. "Oh, yes. What you must have thought of me..."

"Nothing bad," I smiled. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," she echoed.

I shook my head as she left. What was I doing? I turned to the intercom. "Stacey, I want Jen and Dave in here ASAP. In the meantime, get me Jake Roberts on the phone, please."

Shortly after that, the phone rang. Jake Roberts, the PI I use most often. "Jake. I need a quick read on a Miss Melissa Sharpe and, if you have the time, her father ... No I don't have her address, but I'll be needing it shortly. She works for Kelso ... No, I don't need anything in depth right now, just an overall read. What she does, how well she does it, any noticeable skeletons in the cupboard ... Yes, you can carry on to get a better report, but I need the basics by mid-day tomorrow. The address ASAP ... Thanks!"

He rang back no more than five minutes later with the address. It was in a pretty decent part of town. Surely he could mortgage the house? The obvious answer to that, of course, was that he already had.

I turned back to that report. Might as well make use of the time. Not that the report made gripping reading.

The buzz of the intercom was welcome. "Ms. Song and Mister Jones are here, sir."

"Good. Thank you, Stacey – send them in." I stood and walked round the desk, stretching.

The door opened and a tiny oriental woman entered, followed by a much larger man. A less likely pair could hardly be imagined, but they were almost supernaturally attuned to each other. "Thank you for coming so quickly."

Jen Song gave a little dip of the head. "Of course, Boss. What's up?"

The petite woman, barely five feet and slim, gave no outward indication of her mastery of, what, three or four martial arts, and weapons skills, but she was both the most dangerous and most skilled of the pair, a natural leader, too.

"I need you to make a visit to a Mister Sharpe at this address," I handed her a slip of paper. "He's apparently caught up in some serious gambling debt. I need you to find out who he's in debt to, how much he owes. Then I want you to put the fear of God into him about gambling. You can say it's not about him, it's about his daughter. Offer counselling. But make it clear that, while his daughter has sought help – and don't mention my name, please, just say a prominent businessman – that help is conditional on him staying out of trouble in the future. Then, I need you to make a call on the creditor or creditors. I suspect it's the Stevens brothers, but whoever it is, I need you to negotiate a reasonable settlement. No more than twice the original loan. Then tell them to blacklist Mister Sharpe from their betting offices and warn them off pursuing him ... especially warn them off his daughter. You can use my name there. I shouldn't need to tell you to watch your backs."

"No, boss, you don't. But if they try anything I think we can cope."

I chuckled. "I pity anyone who takes you on, Jen."

"Boss! Anyone would think you don't love me any more."

I shook my head. Jen didn't like men. She was decorative ... and lethal, like a Japanese katana. "If something happened to you the world would be a less beautiful place. I trust you but I want you to take care."

She didn't answer, just raised an eyebrow and smiled before turning to Dave Jones and indicating with her head that it was time to leave. I never decided, and really it's none of my business, what her relationship was with Dave, but as long as they worked well together; that was all that mattered.

"Mister Carpenter," Stacey appeared in the doorway before I sat once more at the desk. "It's mid-day. You have the Korean trade attaché at two. Will you break for lunch, or shall I call for a sandwich?"

"I think I'll take a break. Would you call Charlie for me? I'll go to Le Bistro."

It took only about five minutes poring over that report before Stacey buzzed again. "Ms Kowalski is here, sir."

Charlotte Kowalski is of medium height, a little stocky, dark haired and very attractive. She is also older than me – mid thirties – and ex-military. US Marines. She greatly dislikes being unable to carry a gun, but her expertise with multiple forms of unarmed combat is extreme. It doesn't show, except perhaps to the expert eye. To me, she moves like a ballerina. Like Jen Song, she is one of the few among my female employees who I had never slept with, though as far as I know she's hetero. She's also my principal personal security, though Jen and a couple of others will step in from time to time.

We walked together the quarter mile to the little restaurant, where Charlie was served Pesce Spada, and I had Chicken Parmesan. We had to upset Emilio, who wanted to accompany the meal with wine and pouted that we wanted water, and coffee to follow. We both needed clear heads. The food, as usual, was excellent and Emilio was somewhat mollified when I praised it.

The Council representatives at the meeting I missed were, apparently, disputatious. I dislike having to reiterate the logic of a particular budget, particular procedures, but sadly many Councillors are unwilling to part with cash for infrastructure investment. I suppose it's cynical of me to think that's because they want to spend it on themselves. However, Cokeham Council badly needed to develop the Brownfield site and I was the only developer willing to take it on. I am willing to take a risk, but I want a profit at the end if the risk works out. The heads of department who had been in the meeting spent half an hour filling me in before the Korean diplomat arrived. I thought they'd go for it in the end.

Mister Kim was, by contrast, most agreeable and we spent a couple of hours discussing various ways my company could benefit his country's economy. Even so, by the time we'd finished, four-thirty, I was ready to go home.



"Anything planned for this evening?"

"Nothing I can't put off for you." Her voice betrayed what I hoped was enthusiasm.

"Fancy a drive into the country? Dinner?"

"Love to. Formal?"

"Pub casual," I said. "Pick you up about seven?"

"You're on." Yes. Definitely enthusiasm.

Charlie was waiting in the car-park and threw her leg over her big v-twin Ducati motorcycle as I slid into my Miata. Okay ... it's not exactly CEO image motoring, but it's fun. I would have liked an RX8, but couldn't justify it ecologically. (The model was discontinued because it was unable to meet new emissions standards).

Charlie has a small apartment in the same building as my penthouse, and parks her bike in the same row as my Miata and the SLK. She has some sort of warning system and knows if I leave my apartment; she is invariably waiting for me when I get to the garage. If she isn't, Jen, or Dave, or another competent bodyguard will be.

I hate that I need to be followed around by a martial artist. It's not that I'm anything special, I just ... have money. And just like women – some women – are attracted to money and power, so are some people who want a short-cut to wealth.

Charlie – in black leather, which really suits her – followed me as I drove the Miata to collect Stacey.

I told her 'pub casual', but she was in a pleated skirt which nearly reached her knees, and a cashmere jumper. She looked stunning, her make-up subtle but perfect. I opened the door with a little bow and she got in – flashing those perfect pins in the process – with a brilliant smile.

The drive into Derbyshire was not fast; the roads are mostly narrow and winding, but it was fun piloting the nimble Miata through the bends. I kept an eye on the mirror ... well, half an eye ... to make sure I didn't lose Charlie. There wasn't much chance of that anyway.

The Dog and Partridge near Buxton is not large. They wouldn't normally take reservations, but for me, and money, they did. Fortunately there was a place in sight where Charlie could eat and watch us too. I always feel guilty when, as sometimes happens, she can't eat in comfort. In a restaurant I'd usually book a single place for her.

We ate venison, both of us. One small glass of wine for me – Stacey had rather more. Black Forest Gateau to finish, with coffee; not as good as Stacey brewed, but quite acceptable. We didn't talk a lot, or linger over our meal, though I made sure Charlie had time to finish, but Stacey would never do on a permanent basis. Other than work ... and, occasionally sex ... we have little or nothing in common interests. What's Sandra Bullock's line in 'Speed'? Something about basing a relationship on uncontrollable lust? Whatever.

The drive back was interesting. Ever driven a small sports-car on a narrow winding road with a randy woman, tipsy and determined to distract? On the A6, which is, okay, two lanes, she took my left hand from the wheel and placed it on her thigh high enough I could tell she was wearing stockings, not tights. I almost had to fight to get it back when I needed it to change gear and steer.

"Stacey, sex in this car is almost impossible. If you don't let me drive, you may end up on your back on the grass verge."

"Well, you'd better get me home quickly, then, hadn't you?"

It was almost an hour from the pub to my apartment and by the time we were in the garage I couldn't help but be aware that she had on no panties, her hand was busy between her thighs, and the scent of her arousal filled the little car.

Somehow, I contrived to get us home without marking the car or getting a ticket. By habit, I backed into my space, half noticing Charlie parking her Ducati.

I got out, intending to walk round to open the door for Stacey, but she beat me to it and we came face to face at the front of the car. For an eternal moment, we stared at each other, then our lips were locked together. Her hands were busy at my belt and trouser closure – mine at her thighs, lifting the hem of her skirt until it was bunched round her waist. Then somehow, I was pressing her, sprawled, legs akimbo, onto the bonnet of the car and entering her. There was absolutely no finesse, but both of us were primed, on the brink, and we came, moments apart. I could barely support myself to prevent myself from crushing her against the unyielding metal. We were both panting.

I levered myself up, vertical; Stacey was lewdly spread, her sex swollen and pink. I held out a hand and helped her up. Her skirt dropped to cover her.

"What will Charlie think?" she giggled.

"You'd never get her to admit she'd seen anything," I shrugged. "Let's go inside."

"Like some more wine?" We stood in my lounge.

"Your stuff is running down my leg," she pretended to pout.

"That's what you get for teasing."

"I know. I'm not really complaining. Shower?"


I led the way to the bathroom and handed her a shower-cap. She dexterously coiled her hair and tucked it away as I adjusted the temperature of the water. By the time we'd finished I was more than ready for round two. We dried each other and she took my hand and led me to the bedroom.

There was little doubt who was leading. In the bedroom, she flipped the duvet back and pushed me back onto the bed. Her head swooped down and her mouth wrapped round my rigid erection; I couldn't help the resultant groan.

That didn't last long, though. She drew off with an audible pop and a cheeky grin. "Move back," she commanded. I did as I was told, and she straddled me and impaled herself.

She didn't move, though, and I lay there feeling the pulse in my hardness, the velvety grip of her pussy, until I reached to caress her sides – she shivered – and pinched her nipples, producing a groan and provoking motion. Even then, she moved slowly and our progress to completion was almost torturous. But the end, when it came, was incredible. She toppled forwards and lay on me, her breasts soft cushions on my chest, her rapid heart-beat slowing as she drifted off to sleep. I pulled the duvet over us, reached for the remote on the night-stand, and dowsed the lights.

Melissa Sharpe tossed in her friend's spare bed, in and out of sleep, wondering what the new day would bring. Would he? Wouldn't he? If he did, what would it be like? Would she be able to get the creditors off her father's back, if...

'I'm only doing it for Dad', she told herself. 'It'll be worth it for that.' But as she thought it, she knew it wasn't entirely true. There was that electric shock as she touched him. And his eyes...

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