Edited for historical gold price accuracy and other flaws.Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

October 2014

I just needed a salt shaker, of all things. It used to be you could find a plastic, pre-filled salt and pepper shaker set, my preference, at just about any damn store, for a couple of bucks. Or the cardboard tube picnic set, for a dollar.

Not any more.

My local Walmart? No. Plenty of choices in glass or metal refillable shakers, but none of the disposable shakers.

My local grocer? Same.

Spur of the moment, I stopped at a Dollar Store, as I was on the way home.

SCORE! $1.06, including the government’s cut.

Head to the cashier, so I can pay, and GTFO.

Shit. ONE cashier, SEVEN in line ahead of me. And every one, with a full cart. Le Sigh...

“Nice bucket hat,” a smokey contralto voice said.

I looked up at the very pretty young girl in front of me, in the line, who had commented.

Five feet nothing, tall, elfin faced, cafe au lait complexion, below the shoulder curly brown hair. Picture a young Ariana Grande, here.

And pregnant. At least eight months pregnant.

With her slim build, her baby bulge, carried rather high, was very prominent.

“Thanks,” I said. “Six bucks, at Walmart”

“Ain’t the cost,” she responded. “Most folk don’t wear ‘em right, with the brim all floppy. You do.”

“Been wearing nothing but Boonie hats, since my Uncle gave me one of his, he brought back from Nam, back in the sixties,” I rejoined. “So, ever since I was a kid, the only kind of hat I wear.”

“My Gramps was there. If he wears a hat at all, he wears it just like yours. He’s why I know how they should be worn.”

I smiled. I had no idea why this young, pregnant high yellow girl wanted to strike up a conversation with me, an overweight, 65 year old white widower, who dressed like a bum, even though I have enough to buy chrome, but I wasn’t going to complain.

Girls like her, though not usually pregnant, were my bread and butter, after all.

You see, I’m a ... Procurement Specialist, for lack of a better term. I have a very select and discrete client list of people with wants, that do NOT want their wants known to the public.

Red shoe people.

Very rich red shoe people.

And I was aware of an open order for just such a girl, that was still active. Wanted young black woman, at least eight months pregnant. Small stature preferred. Contact via secure e-mail: mabram025AT▄▄▄▄▄▄mailDOTcom (redacted for MY safety)

The contact was none other than Marina Abramovic, whom I’d dealt with on a few prior occasion, so I was guessing some Satanist wanted to make an offering.

“Could you hold this, a moment?” I asked, holding the salt and pepper shaker package up, as the cashier finished the present customer, and the line moved forward.

“Sure,” she replied, and took up my burden.

I pulled my wallet, and extracted a business card. “Ever thought of modeling?” I asked, as I put my wallet away.

She snorted, “What girl hasn’t?” she replied.

I handed her my card, which reads: Nosy Old Man, nosyoldman@myself.com.

“I know of a photographer, A performance artist, who is looking for a girl like you, right now,” I stated. “Specifically she wants a pregnant girl, to shoot nudes of. Think you’d be interested?” I asked, as I retrieved my purchase.

Her suddenly confused look was gratifying to me. NEVER let the prospective cough client cough have the time to figure out what, exactly, you’re selling. Obfuscation and circumlocution are my basic tools.

“Nudes? That’s like, no clothes, right?” Dumb Bunny asked. “I don’t know if I could do that.” She said.

I slapped my forehead, and said, “I’m sorry. My name is Pieter Haselhoff. I am a Talent scout. A head hunter, if you will. And you are?”

“Latoya Jackson,” the girl blushed. VERY prettily.

“Let me guess,” I said, “your parents were Fans of the Jackson Family singers.”

“Mom is,” Latoya stated. “I never knew my Dad.”

“Sad,” I stated. “Then again, if you’d had MY father, you might think yourself ahead, right now.”

She arched an eyebrow, in question, so I said, “Fundamentalist Southern Appalachian Christian. VERY puritan.”

She laughed. “Yeah, I see your point. He’d have issues with an unwed 19 year old pregnant girl.”

Another data point.

“The boy gonna marry you?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? I don’t want anything from that man, but his dick, on a skewer. I won’t say I was raped, but he sure got me drunk before he fucked me. So drunk I couldn’t say no.”

“He raped you, then. I take it you know who he is?” I asked.

Latoya hesitated, then said, “Yeah, he’s a Deacon and teen guide, at the church I used to go to.”

“Any brothers or sisters?” I asked.

“Two older brothers,” she said. “They both in jail, for stupid shit.”

More data ... So far, very favorable, from my POV.

The line moved, again.

“So,” I continued, “think you could stand being nude, for a photographer?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “I never been naked in front of no one, before.”

“Is it that?” I asked, “or is it that there would be pictures?”

“Both,” Latoya said. “But more that she’d see me naked.”

“Nude,” I replied. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” she asked, quietly.

“Yes. Nude means that you aren’t wearing any clothing. Nothing more than that. Naked means a kind of being helpless. In danger, maybe. There’s no danger in being nude,” I obfuscated.

The line moved again. Three more until Latoya’s turn, then me.

She thought about it, a few moments, then said, “You’re slinging a good line of bullshit, so I gotta wonder, what’s in it for you?”

Called out, I smiled. “I told you,” I said. I’m a scout. In your case, I’d also be your Agent, repping you to the artist. If you took the job, I’d get a fee of twenty five percent of what the artist paid you. In other words, if the artist paid you one hundred dollars, I’d get twenty five of that, and you’d receive seventy five.”

“A hundred bucks?” she asked. “I ain’t taking my clothes off for that kind of small change.”

I laughed.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” I said. “I was just using that as an example.

“If that was the kind of money we were talking about, I’d not bother talking at all. At my rates, twenty five was used up by the time I gave you my card.”

She laughed back at me, and asked, “So, what kind of money are we talking about?”

“Don’t know,” I stated. “I’d have to negotiate with her. I do know that her models starting pay is at least a thousand, and that’s just to show up. She also pays an hourly rate, but you’d be working hard, those hours.”

“And you’d do that, for me?” she asked, skeptically.

“Not unless we had a contract,” I replied. I don’t work for free.”

The line moved, and Latoya started putting her shopping on the belt.

“Why do I think that’s not all you want to get?” she asked.

“Probably, because I can’t stop staring at your tits,” I said. “I can’t help it. You have a fine pair, all pumped up, ready to give milk to that baby.”

Latoya looked at me, dumbfounded. “You want sex with me?” she asked. “I’m a fucking cow!”

“You stop that shit, right the fuck now!” I exclaimed. “There are too many people in this world that will talk like that, just to hurt you. Don’t do it to yourself. You’re a beautiful woman, carrying a miracle. There’s no reason in the world, to be cutting yourself down.”

“What he said,” said the cashier, an older black woman. “Even if he is a Cracker, what wants in your pants, he’s right.”

Latoya looked startled, and asked the cashier, “He wants me?”

“Judging by the lump in his jeans,” the woman told her. “Old man like him, don’t waste hard-ons on just any woman they see.”

Looking at me, but still talking to Latoya, she continued, “A lazy eye. Bet he already had a small stroke, caused by high blood pressure, and is on pills for it. That makes it difficult for a man to get stiff, in the drawers. Takes a lot of incentive, if you know what I mean. Yes, that Cracker wants to fuck you, and I admit, it makes me a bit jealous.”

First time in many years, I blushed. Looking at the cashier, a woman in her early forties, but still a fine figure of a woman, without any of the fat normally seen on black women, I stated, “It might take a while, but I’d give you no reason for jealousy.”

Now it was her turn to blush.

“Got one of those cards for me?” she asked. I dug one out, for her.

“No phone number?” she asked.

“And no spam calls. Send me an e-mail, with your number, and a good time. I’ll call back.” I looked at her more closely. “Zulu,” I stated. “I think I shall call you, ‘Ayize.’” (Ay-eye-zeh)

Her blush deepened, and she gasped. I think she knew what the word meant.

“How you know Zulu?” she asked.

“Ten years a commercial hunter guide in KwaZulu-Natal,” I said, quietly. “I am pleased your family got out in time.”

“Damn it all!” Latoya suddenly said, startling both Ayize, and I.

“What,” I asked, automatically searching for a threat.

“I missed my bus,” she said, sadly.

Ayize said, “I’m sure you ask, Inkosi will give ride.” She smiled at Latoya, “Of course it will probably cost you.”

Latoya immediately turned to me, and asked, “Can you give me a ride? It’s about a mile from here.”

The old black gentleman behind me in the line, whisper shouted in my ear, “Make her go topless in the car, and suck you off, when you get her there.”

I smiled at Latoya, who couldn’t help but overhear. Her blush showed that.

She met my eyes, then quickly nodded assent.

Ayize finished Latoya’s transaction, and the girl swiped her EBT card to make payment.

“Wait for me outside,” I stated. Latoya gathered her bags and strode out, as I place a dollar, a nickel, and a penny on the belt, next to the salt and pepper shakers.

“You’d do me?” the cashier I’d named Ayize asked.

“Like the man behind me, Owesifazane, I’d do you or die trying,” I stated. “As long as I don’t have to chase you.”

Said man laughed, and said, “Yup! Me too! But I ain’t ready to die yet, so I’ll leave it to this young Cracker.”

I’m 64, and he calls me young? I guess that’s fair. I think he might have helped Noah build the Arc. Explaining cubits, hammers and such.

Still, I saw his humor, and smiled.

“I’ll send an e-mail from my phone, so you’ll have the number,” Ayize said, as I was preparing to leave.

I reached up and stroked the side of her face, with the backs of my fingers. She shivered.

So, I lowered my hand and palmed her right tit, squeezing gently. “I look forward to your message. Why don’t you go ahead and write me all those nasty things you’d like me to do to you.” I smiled, and continued, “Be explicit, though. Don’t say, ‘make me give head.’ Say, ‘please choke me with your cock, so deep in my throat, I can’t breathe, until I pass out,’ or something. Mm-kay?” I winked at the orgasming woman, and departed.

I could hear the old man laughing, as I led Latoya to my car, installed her groceries in the rear seat, and herself in the front passenger seat, before closing the door.

As I got behind the wheel, I noticed she had removed her blouse and bra. I honored the implied invitation, by running my right hand over both her tits, feeling the nipples grow hard and long. No milk yet, though.

I caressed her baby bump, and asked, “Boy or Girl?”

“They think it’s a girl, Sir,” she replied. “They couldn’t see a tallywacker on the ultrasound, but they did say it still could be a boy.”

I smiled again. “A shame I most likely won’t live long enough to break it in,” I said.

Latoya smiled back, “That is a shame. I haven’t ever had anyone open a door for me, before.”

“Yes, I know. Chivalry is dead,” I said. “The feminists killed it, saying that to do such things, or for women to accept such things as common manners, is Toxic Masculinity, or something.” I sighed.

Starting the car, I said, “Which way?”

She guided me to her welfare sponsored apartment building, where she had a ground floor one bedroom studio apartment. This is NOT a place I would be comfortable to be in, if it wasn’t daylight.

As I parked in front of her door, Latoya asked me, “Do you want to come in, for me to suck you off? Or, would you rather I do it, here? I have to admit, I’m not very good. I’ve only done it, three times.”

I thought about it, and said, “How about you let me help you get your groceries in, and I’ll decide then.”

She nodded in agreement, and reached for the door handle.

“If you open that door,” I stated, “I’ll spank your bare ass, right here in this parking lot, until your water breaks.”

Latoya looked at me, and said, “Sorry. Force of habit.”

“If you don’t demand gentlemanly behavior, you’ll never get any,” I said. “You’ll only get more punk behavior.”

“Wise words,” she returned. “I’ll have to remember them.”

I got out, and walked around to her side and opened the door for her. I noticed that she’d put her blouse back on, while I made the trip.

I handed her out of the car, then retrieved her shopping.

After closing and locking the car, I gestured for her to lead the way.

In Latoya’s apartment, I set the bags on her counter, and turned to watch her.

She took her blouse off, again, then said, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to pee.” She laughed, and continued, “Seems like I been going every fifteen minutes, for ever.”

“Mind if I watch?” I asked, as I followed her to the bathroom.

“You are one kinky old man,” she stated, as she lowered her pants, and sat.

“You have no idea,” I stated as her stream started, and I fished my cock out of my pants to feed it into her mouth.

She was correct. At sucking, Latoya sucked. That’s okay, though. That’s why irrumation and throating was invented.

Her gagging didn’t bother me in the least, as I enjoyed her tonsils, and played with her surprisingly long fat nipples.

Because I’m old, and not in the best of health, it took me a long time to come, and there wasn’t a lot.

I was satisfied, though, and as she tried to not puke on my spend, I pulled her to her feet and started frigging her cunt. When my thumb hit her clit, I thought she was dying. I had to hold onto her so she didn’t crash to the floor. I set her back on the toilet, and held her there.

When she could talk, the first thing she said, was, “Thank you. That’s the first orgasm I had that I didn’t give myself.”

I smiled, and said, “You are more than welcome. I look forward to giving you many more.”

“I look forward to that, too, because I liked that. I mean, I REALLY liked it.”

“Well, I have more arrows in my quiver, than just my fingers, but I want you to shave or wax off that rug, first,” I said, pointing to her mons. “You might have to get a friend to help.”

Again, the shocked look at me, for asserting my dominance.

“But, I don’t have any friends like that, here. I only moved her a few months ago, when this apartment opened up.”

“I don’t care,” I stated, firmly. “I want it all gone. As smooth as your baby’s butt going to be. Ask around. I know some hair stylists do waxing. Find out today, how much it will cost, and let me know in that e-mail you are to send me. Oh, and send me a nude picture of yourself, from the knees up. A picture of you in a mirror will be fine.

“Bye, for now!” Not giving her a chance to respond, I left her sitting on the throne.

As I started my car, I just had to smile. I almost certainly had her. If she followed even one of my orders, I had my prey captured. Now, I needed to see just what price I could get, so I headed home to search the Slack Channels for Ms. Spirit Cooker, to start.

Fire up my TAILS laptop, I began.

Oh, my. $100,000 plus expenses (not to exceed ten thousand), Delivery at St. Thomas airport, US Virgin Islands, no later than 3:00 PM local time, October 30^th.

I bet a cookie, the end user was Jeffrey Epstein, for one of his parties. A Halloween party on Pedo Island. Yeah, I’d be glad to miss it.

Six days.

Or, I could sell her to one of the Open Society’s hidden adrenaline labs, for less than half that. Understandable, really. Those at the labs want barely pubescent boys and girls to harvest.

Side note: Ever see the kids film, Monsters Inc.? A lot of truth in that flick. Harvesting fear ... Harvesting for Adrenochrome, the oxidation product of epinephrine (adrenaline), produced by fear in humans.

They always need new sources, because said sources tend to be used up rather quickly by the methods they use to induce fear and panic.

I rejoined chat with Ms. A, where I negotiated for half of the funds to be in Gold Eagle coins, @1232.00 per Ozt. My stated preference was for the fractional ounce coins, the more 1/10th oz, the better. That should end up just over forty and a half troy ounces, or just over two and three quarters pounds.

The rest of the money was to be wire transferred to a holding company of mine on St. Kitts. Basically, that company was nothing more than a bank account that I could draw on with a debit card. I liked to have off shore banking in the Federation of Saint Kitts and Nevis, because their banking laws keep information more private than even the Swiss.

First thing I’d need are some photos and video of the girl, to send to Ms. A, for her to decide if Latoya is suitable to their needs.

Once approved, I’d have no problem fulfilling the sale, if Latoya accepted the offer I’d made.

Okay, then. I need to do a full court press, to get this done.

Turning to my main PC, I printed out a Model’s Representative (Agent) contract, that was 40 pages of legalese that gave literally ALL rights to me, and none at all to the client. It didn’t sound that way to the average person. The English stroked you, the Latin fucked you.

Two copies, into a large envelope. Check that my Ebony and Ivory MontBlank (Registered Ivory with ICE, a decade ago) had a fresh ink cartridge, and these, into my McKlein 342 Attache case, ready for tomorrow.

If Latoya signed this contract, She would be nothing more than a commodity, like a bushel of corn, or a barrel of oil, to be bought and sold. I would own her, one hundred percent. The funny thing is, the document was based off those used in the music industry. Ask any recording artist about their contracts with their Agent, or their recording company...

My e-mail alert pinged, telling me I had new mail. A quick check showed it was from the cashier at the Dollar store. I’d read it later.

I went and poured myself a finger of good Canadian whiskey, over ice, and sat in my comfort chair, to contemplate the next week. I had four days I could have fun with my prey, then a day of travel, and the best payoff I’d ever managed, and the return travel. I was contemplating those four days.

If Latoya went for it, first thing tomorrow would be the contract signing, then getting her waxed bare, below the neck. Then to my studio, for some pictures, ‘just to get her used to being nude in pictures.’

In that photo session, I’d introduce her to hand cuffs, and other bondage. I’d had her mouth, and I’d use it again, to get hard, then I’d try to put dents in her baby’s forehead.

I’d follow that, on Friday, with a nice raw ass fuck, with her tied down over a sawhorse, or something.

Plans made, I heated myself some left-over meatloaf and veggies, for supper, before logging onto my favorite on-line story site.

Nope, nothing new since yesterday, that I want to read. I thought to re-read Lazlo Zalezac’s John Carter series, because it has been a few years.

Just as I was about to prep for bed, I got her e-mail.

The picture attached was all you’d expect from a cheap Obama phone. Still, it was a full frontal nude as she’d been instructed.

Latoya informed me that there was a salon near her that would do a Brazilian hot wax, for sixty-five dollars, that she was interested in the job I’d talked about, and included her phone number.

I called her, immediately.

When she answered, I told her that I’d be over at nine o’clock, with a contract for her to sign, and that I expected her to be dressed as I’d last seen her. I also told her that I would pay for her to be waxed, and that she shouldn’t have any other plans for tomorrow. That I had plans for her. It might be a long day.

Latoya agreed, and I hung up.

I heard a question from the back, yes I called from my landline. So? My phone spoofs another number to caller ID. If you try to call back, you get the IRS Major Fraud Task Force office.