Gold & Silver
Chapter 1

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, BiSexual, Spanking, Harem, Black Couple,

Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - This story follows "Susan & Jake NIS", but it's not necessary to read it to enjoy this one. It's my first new posting in a while, so I hope my readers enjoy it.

My name is Catherine Smith and I live in Norfolk, Virginia. My story opens in 1984 and I’m at home.

I’m always at home. One could say I fear to venture out in the world, and one wouldn’t be far wrong. If I were to be described as a frightened mouse, that wouldn’t be inaccurate either.

It was a late spring day and was already becoming quite warm. I shuddered slightly at the prospect of the summer heat because my home — almost unique in the area — was not air-conditioned. The wiring couldn’t handle the additional load. In fact, the wiring and the electrical system couldn’t even handle all the installed lighting. We had to be very careful to turn out lights because if too many were left on, the main fuse would blow. We bought those fuses by the dozen!

Who is “we”? That’s me, my cook and my man of all work. They were a married couple and had been married for nearly 50 years. That was a problem, too. In fact, it was a couple of problems. In the first place, they didn’t marry at the age of 10. Both were on the shady side of 70 and were slowing down ... to say the very least. They should have been pensioned off years before, but I didn’t feel I had the money to do it.

I made my way — very carefully — down the driveway. I was to meet a taxi that was to pick me up at the curb. Although there was a circular drive up to the front door, it was in such awful condition I was afraid any vehicle short of an army truck might get stuck. Reaching the street, I looked back at the house. Its lines were lovely. But they were the only things that were.

The house had been built in 1840 on a very large piece of land. Oddly enough, the neighborhood was quite prosperous and mostly quite up to date. This resulted from a series of fires and other occurrences that at one time or another had destroyed most of the surrounding homes that had originally dated from the same period.

While waiting for my taxi, I looked at the property and felt ill. The house was over 140 years old, and showed every year of its age ... and then some! As I said before, its lines were beautiful, although the overall appearance wasn’t far from an overgrown jungle. Foundation plantings and shrubs had grown out of control over the years until much of the house itself had become obscured.

I really needed to renovate the property, but it was apparent that the amount of work required would have made it uninhabitable during reconstruction, and where would we live in the meantime? Of at least equal importance, where would the money come from to pay for the work? That was one of the reasons for my venture out into the world that morning.

My reverie was interrupted by the arrival of my taxi. Getting into the back seat — the driver had just sat there watching — I directed him to the headquarters of United Virginia Bank here in Norfolk. The driver merely grunted an acknowledgment and we drove off.

While in transit, this might be a good time to tell you about myself. The startling fact — it would be unbelievable to people who know me — is that I was 34 years of age. Why would that be startling? Because I looked my age ... plus about 40 years. In the first place, my hair is gray. And I don’t mean that shiny prematurely-gray, gray, I mean the yucky drab, lost-its-color-with-age gray. Then there’s my figure. Oh, sure ... my figure. Everyone is supposed to have one, and I guess I had one, too. I was shocked when a doctor measured me after forcing me to stand up straight — I never do — and told me I was five feet nine. In my normal slumped-over posture at the time, I appeared about five-four. In short, I was a physical mess.

I was raised by my grandparents. My own parents were both killed in an accident when I was 10 years old. You may not believe this, but I was actually raped when I was eight and gave birth at the age of nine! I never saw my baby and know nothing about it. I don’t know if it was a boy or a girl. My parents knew — they disposed of it somehow — but never told me and they were killed about a year later. Whether my childhood pregnancy had anything to do with their death, I never knew. One thing did happen, though. The doctor said I was so young when I delivered that I would outgrow the stretch marks and I did.

By the way, at the time this story opens I was the only person alive who knew I had ever been pregnant.

I guess the combination of the rape coupled with being raised by my grandparents colored my life. In the first place, I was and remained a shrinking violet. Furthermore, most people thought I was my grandparents’ daughter rather than their granddaughter. Coupled with my appearance, as soon as I was grown they thought I was at least 20 years older than I really was.

The second factor resulting from my rape was a fear of men. I wasn’t very attractive and went out of my way to look as unattractive as I could. Whenever I had to buy clothes — one must wear something, after all — I went out of my way to get the least-attractive items I could find, usually in at least a couple of sizes too large. I was the despair of every clothing-store salesclerk with whom I ever had contact.

Oh, yes ... I did — and do — have brilliant blue eyes, but I had learned to squint to hide them as much as possible.

Finally we arrived at the bank, so end of background on Catherine Smith.

I was really quite nervous. The reason for my excursion was to meet with Ann Stockdale, the new Executive Vice President heading the bank’s Trust Division. And the reason for our meeting was the abysmal performance of my investment portfolio. Between money I inherited from my parents and later from my grandparents when they died, not many years ago I had had about fifty-million dollars.

I said the bank’s investment performance was poor? Let me put it a different way: Last year, if its performance had been twice as good as it was, it would have been disastrous. I started the year with twenty-million dollars and ended it with only ten. Another year like that and I would be destitute.

In fairness, while I was hard-hit last year, I wasn’t the Lone Ranger. Comparable results had been achieved for the rest of the bank’s investment clientèle. Thus the housecleaning and Ann Stockdale’s being hired for the position. The entire investment management staff had been fired.

I entered the bank building’s elevator lobby and took the elevator to the Trust Division floor. Getting off, I was facing an impressive-looking reception desk behind which sat an equally impressive-looking receptionist.

“Good morning,” I muttered. “Catherine Smith to see Ann Stockdale. I have an appointment.”

“Good morning, Miss Smith!” the receptionist cheerily replied. “Mrs. Stockdale is expecting you. You may take a seat if you wish, but her secretary will be right out.”

I remained standing — or more accurately, slumping — in front of her desk and moments later a woman appeared who greeted me and ushered me back to a cherry-paneled corner office. The secretary entered, then stepped aside as a woman rose from behind the desk to rush around to greet me.

I was amazed. From what little I had read, I knew that Ann Stockdale was a grandmother, but she was the youngest-looking grandmother I had ever seen. At about five feet nine she was quite tall. She was slender and had a perfect figure. With her golden hair worn in an urchin cut and brilliant blue eyes, she appeared to be in her twenties.

She greeted me, ushered me to a leather-covered sofa, and then took a seat on a side chair beside me.

After exchanging pleasantries, I asked about her grandchildren. (I had heard somewhere that the safest thing to say to a grandmother was to inquire about her grandchildren.)

She startled me with her reply. “I’m too damned young to be a grandmother!” she wailed. “And my damned daughter dropped one just a few months ago, and already there’s another bun in the oven! Can you believe it?”

“But ... but,” I stammered, “I thought it was your son. I didn’t know you had a daughter, too.”

“Hah! I took care of that months ago. Just in case my son turns out to have rocks in his head and somehow lets Emily get away I adopted her as my daughter.” She shook her head and added, “Can you believe that girl? She’s nursing her first, is expecting her second, but her weight and measurements are back to almost her measurements before her first pregnancy! The only difference is that her tits are just the slightest bit larger. And can you believe it? She still doesn’t even wear a bra! She supports her milk-laden tits without the slightest sag. Can you believe it? She can pass the pencil test today! I hate her!”

“Pencil test?” This was a test I had never heard of.

Ann grinned and explained, “It’s a test that’s popular in college, or was. You lift a girl’s tit and put a plain wooden pencil under it against her chest. If there’s any sag at all, when the tit is released, the pencil is trapped by its weight. Normally, about the only girls who can ‘pass’ are the flat-chested ones. Emily is a solid B, she’s nursing, and she passes! And I hate her!” Ann repeated.

Clearly this woman was jerking my chain. Changing the subject slightly, I asked, “Tell me about your grandchild. Is it a boy or a girl?”

“She’s the most beautiful, most perfect little girl God has ever created,” Ann replied in a tone of voice that brooked no argument. It was an established fact. “And you realize,” she added, “that’s an objective determination. The fact that I’m Susan Ann’s grandmother, and she’s named after me has nothing to do with it at all.” Her eyes were gleaming with happiness as she very cutely stuck out the tip of her tongue.

“This pencil test you mentioned ... I’m not sure I understand.”

Ann rose to her feet and went to her desk. Returning, she stood before me and unbuttoned the double-breasted suit jacket she was wearing. I’m sure my eyes must have gaped when I realized she wore nothing underneath. I found myself looking at a perfect pair of tits with her engorged nipples upthrust. Taking a plain wooden pencil she had retrieved from her desk, she put it horizontally under her left tit after first lifting it up with her left hand. When she released it, the pencil immediately dropped to the floor.

“And that’s the pencil test,” she said as she re-buttoned her suit jacket.

I’m certain my eyes must have been as big as saucers at that moment. “But ... but you passed,” I stammered, “and you’re a grandmother!”

“So what?” she retorted. “I haven’t nursed a baby in over 25 years, either. I’ve had time to recover. Emily passes while she’s still nursing!”

But then she changed the subject. “Before going upstairs to our dining room, Catherine, there are a couple of points I want to cover:

“First of all, there will be no bank charges of any kind against your account for last year.” She swallowed hard and her eyes flashed as she added, “Our services for last year are free. All they cost you was about half of your net worth, or about ten-million dollars.

“Second, we will be meeting a young woman named Martha Stone. I am proposing — we are proposing — that she take over the management of your trust account and your investments. I will go into this in more detail when Marty is present, but for now I will only say that, although she is quite young — not quite 25 — she may be the finest money manager alive in the world today. You’ll hear more at lunch, but I have the numbers to prove it.”

She paused at that point and studied her hands, which were folded on her lap. Then speaking very softly she continued, “Marty is one of the first of my girls to finish school.” Again she paused. “That requires some explanation. You see, in western Virginia there’s a settlement — that’s really all one can call it — that’s been essentially cut off from civilization for generations. What they do is raise girls, primarily for sale to whorehouses.” She paused, grinned wryly and continued, “Out there they think I’m a madam. I’ve been visiting every year to buy up intelligent-looking girls. I bring them back and enroll them in private boarding schools. I continue paying all their expenses as long as they choose to continue their education.”

Again she paused before continuing, “Marty may choose to tell you more about it ... or she may not. What I’ve just told you is all I’m going to say on this subject.” Then with a smile she rose from her chair and asked, “Are you ready to eat? I’m sure Marty is dying of impatience while waiting in the dining room to meet you.”

So off we went.

When I first laid eyes on Martha Stone, I was utterly stunned. She was the most beautiful person — male or female — I had ever seen in my life. Believe it or not, I could actually feel myself straightening up from my normally hunched-over posture. That was because she was about five feet ten, and since she was wearing two-inch heels, she was almost exactly six feet tall. Not only was she tall, she was very slender with very long — and perfect — legs along with brilliant blue eyes and golden blonde hair. In short, she was a knockout!

We exchanged greetings, but I’m sure all I did was mumble something or other. In her presence at the time that was all I was capable of doing.

We were in a small private dining room with a single table set for three. Ann Stockdale indicated seats and ordered white wine from the waitress standing by the door. Taking my seat, I noticed that there were no menus. Apparently our lunch had been pre-ordered.

While sipping our wine Ann asked Marty, “Would you care to tell Miss Smith what you think of the bank’s investment performance on her account?”

“With respect to last year,” she began, “if it had been twice as good as it was, it would have been disastrous.”

I was amused. Those were almost exactly the same words I had been thinking while being driven to the bank.

Ann began, “Miss Smith—”

“Please call me Catherine,” I interrupted. “Or ... or Cathy.” No one had ever called me Cathy in my life. But for some reason — perhaps it was the Martha/Marty thing — I really liked the sound of it.

“Cathy,” Ann continued with a lovely grin, “last year, while the bank was losing half your money, Marty was running a series of phantom portfolios. She’s been doing that for me for years. The way they work is that I give her an assumed starting value for each one (each has it’s own investment objective, ranging from ‘widows & orphans’ — your money — to aggressive growth). Last year, her most conservative fund — the ‘widows & orphans’ — gained over 30 percent.”

“How ... how did the aggressive growth fund do?” I stammered.

Ann looked at Marty with a question in her eyes but replied, “Up about 130 percent, wasn’t it?”

Marty did not reply verbally. But she did blush and nod her head once.

“You see, Cathy, she’s very good ... and she’s made a bundle for me.”

Marty was obviously startled by Ann’s last statement. “And how in hell did I do that?”

Ann giggled, and it was the loveliest sound I’ve ever heard. “It was easy, really.” Then with her eyebrows raised she continued, “You might have been playing for fun, but I wasn’t.” Again she giggled and went on, “For four years now, whenever you made a paper move with your aggressive growth portfolio, I mirrored it with real money. So I got that 130 percent last year for real!”

Marty was stunned speechless.

Ever since I first laid eyes on the girl, I was strangely attracted. Then I did something totally out of character for me. I asked, “Do you have a permanent place to live here in Norfolk? Ann tells me that you’ve spent the last years in school.”

I received a strange look from Marty in return. “No, I really don’t. I’m living in a garden apartment until I can find something more permanent.”

“How about coming to live with me?” I heard myself asking. “I have lots of room...”

Before Marty could even open her mouth, Ann interjected, “Don’t do it! That place is falling apart.”

“That’s something I wanted to talk to my trust officer about,” I said. “I’m going to need a few thousand extra this year to fix the place up—”

“A few million is more like it,” Ann interrupted. Then to Marty she said, “It’s an utterly gorgeous historic old home, but renovation would cost millions.” Then shaking her head she said to me, “Cathy, as much as it pains me to say it, you just don’t have that kind of money anymore.”

Then we were both shocked when Marty interjected, “But I do.” Then to me she said, “I have a proposal for you, Cathy: Why don’t you come and live with me while your house is being renovated, and then I’ll come and live with you.”

Wow! It was apparent that my attraction to her wasn’t one-sided.

I was further shocked when her face reddened and she said, “I must withdraw that invitation. There’s no way you would care to associate with me, let alone live with me.”

I was stunned. “You are the most beautiful young woman I’ve ever seen, let alone met, and Ann tells me you are the most capable money manager alive.”

Marty’s hands were folded on the table in front of her. I could see her knuckles whiten as she continued, “It’s my background. Miss Smith, I’ve been looking through your file here at the bank. As you know, we have been managing your estate for generations, so the file is quite comprehensive.

“I learned, for example, that your family dates back to the first governor of Virginia. You’re FFV [First Families of Virginia] in spades! I’m sure that your home is virtually papered with portraits of family members who fought in every American war people have ever heard of and more than a few that they’ve long since forgotten.”

She was correct. There were more portraits of uniformed men than I ever bothered to count.

Marty continued, “In rather stark contrast, not only don’t I know anything about my family, I don’t even know who my mother is!

“I was raised until the age of about 10 in a tiny community in the hills of western Virginia. The only ‘industry’ there is raising girls for sale, mostly to whorehouses.” She grimaced and continued, “Let me tell you a bit about it.

“In the first place, about all you see there are women and young girls. There are some men who are used as breeding studs. Many of the women appear to be in their late 60s or 70s, yet there’s not one who’s older than her early 30s. Why? Because typically they’re toothless. In college I took enough biology to figure out that they lose their teeth due to a lack of sufficient calcium in their diet. Moreover, the older ones have sagging lower bellies — they look almost like a female kangaroo without a baby in her pouch — resulting from being constantly pregnant. By the age of 30, a woman might have already had 20 children beginning when she was about 10. The timing of the babies is that they’re often only 10 or 11 months apart in age.

“The women who aren’t noticeably pregnant sleep in a dormitory. Their beds are odd, to say the least. The women’s torsos are on a downward slant and their lower bodies are over the edge while their legs are down and held wide apart with ankle clamps. (Festering sores on the ankles resulting from the clamps are standard; every woman has them and no one seems to notice.) They are exposed to any man — any stud — who happens to be passing through. If they’re there for a while and don’t get pregnant, they’re disposed of.

“Children after weaning are also raised in dormitories. I’ve thought about it a great deal, and have come to the conclusion that there’s a certain ‘survival of the fittest’ element at work. The kids have to fight for food at the feeding trough — that’s really the way they eat — and I guess the weaker ones just don’t make it.”

“What ... what about the women?” I asked. I was utterly horrified by her tale.

“They ... just go away,” she replied softly. Then she looked into my eyes and added, “You know what? I’ve seen a number of them going away — to their death, I suppose — and the look I see is really one of relief. Their lifetime of torture is about to come to an end.”

“You said the community is almost all women. But what about the boys? Surely all the babies aren’t female...” I let the sentence hang.

“Most of the males just disappear like the older women,” Marty replied impassively.

I thought for a bit about what I had just learned. Meanwhile, Marty and Ann remained silent. Then the realization of what was going on hit me. “But ... but...” I stammered, “what’s going on out there is slavery! And this is Virginia, after all...”

Marty laughed bitterly and replied, “That’s a long-standing tradition here, although it’s not one people talk about very much.” She paused for a moment and then continued, “In the antebellum days — about the time your home was built — Virginia plantations were pretty well worn out. The fertility of the soil had been essentially destroyed. So many plantations here turned to breeding slaves for sale to plantations farther south.

“After all, virtually no slaves were brought over from Africa after 1820; the British blockade of the Slave Coast was far too effective.

“So for the first 10 years of my life I was raised to be a slave ... primarily a sex slave.

“Do you really think you could stand to associate with a slut like me?” she demanded.

I could feel tears flowing down my cheeks. “I would be the proudest woman in Virginia if you would consent to live with me, Martha Stone.”

“Wait a minute,” Ann interjected. “Marty, before you began telling Cathy about your history, I said she doesn’t have the money to renovate her home, but you do! How could you possibly have so much money?”

“Miss Smith—”

“Cathy, please!” I interrupted. With a tiny smile I added, “Since we’re going to be living together, don’t you think we should be on a first-name basis?”

With the warmest smile I’ve ever seen, Marty began again. “Cathy, I have no idea how much Ann has spent rescuing waifs like me, but it’s got to be a great deal. She already told you that she pays all our expenses as long as we continue our education. What she didn’t indicate is what she thinks of as an expense.

“For example, we get lavish gifts for Christmas and for our birthdays. Incidentally, where and how she got a birth certificate for me I never knew and don’t know. I really think she just picked a plausible date at random.”

Then to Ann she said, “The answer to your question is your gifts and some good luck investing.”

“Where investing is concerned, your results are never luck, Martha Stone. But I still don’t understand...”

“It’s simple, really. The other girls used the money you gave them to pay for lavish trips, to buy cars, furs, jewels ... After taking care of my clothing — and I never wore much anyway — I invested mine.”

“And how much do you have now?” Ann pursued.

“Something north of $20 million.”

“What!” Ann nearly screamed. “You ... you can’t! I mean ... I may have given you a few thousand from time to time, but ... And just remember, young lady, I’ve been tracking your portfolio performance and as good as it is, it’s not nearly that good.”

“That’s the performance of the portfolios you assigned me. But that’s not where my own money is.”

“Oh?” Ann inquired with a raised eyebrow.

“Mine is in my Swinger’s Fund,” Marty replied with a grin. “It’s ... it’s done pretty well.”

“Like how well last year?”

“It grew by a factor slightly greater than 10.”

“Okay for you, Martha Stone,” Ann said with her eyes gleaming. “You’re fired!”

Marty was utterly stunned and so was I. The girl looked like she had been poleaxed. “But ... but why?” she finally managed to stammer.

Ann didn’t answer directly. Instead she asked, “How many job interviews did you take in graduate school?”

Clearly, Ann’s question took Marty by surprise. Her eyes widened but she replied, “None.”

“Why not?”

“Because you offered me a job here.”

“You graduated at the top of your MBA class at Wharton with a major in finance. I know a bunch of your classmates took positions on Wall Street. How do their starting salaries compare with yours?”

“Higher, I guess,” Marty replied slowly.

“You guess? What utter bullshit! You know! And so do I. The fact is that a couple of those kids started at about five times what I’m paying you. So why did you come here?”

Marty didn’t reply. Instead, she just looked down at her hands, still folded on the table.

“You came here out of gratitude, didn’t you? And you gave up very big money to do it, too. Now admit it!”

Still no reply from Marty.

Suddenly Ann’s attitude changed dramatically. “Martha Stone, I love you like a daughter and I always have. I really hate to say it, but you’ve always been my favorite. I had great expectations for you, and you never met them—”

Marty looked at Ann in a state of shock on hearing her words.

“—you always far exceeded them, as high as they were,” Ann finished. “And that’s not just academically, it’s in every way.”

To me she said, “I told you that Marty has her MBA from Wharton. She was also Phi Beta Kappa at Yale and graduated in the top 10 with a major in economics. She also has varsity letters in two sports and her physical beauty is apparent.”

Then to Marty, Ann continued, “I just fired you because, given the bank’s salary structure, it’s impossible for me to pay you anything close to what you’re worth.”

Marty raised her hand to demur but Ann ignored it and continued, “But as an independent money manager, we could pay you in soft dollars and pay you what you are worth. And what you’re worth is a substantial multiple of what I’m making. Okay?”

At that Ann jumped from her chair and went down on her knees beside Marty. Taking the girl in her arms she proceeded to kiss her with all her power unleashed. Initially, Marty’s arms flailed in the air but then she wrapped them around Ann’s neck and unloaded with all her passion.

It was really beautiful to see. And then I thought, why am I not shocked? Here are two women kissing passionately — anything but mother-daughter kisses — and I wasn’t shocked. It really was so utterly lovely!

Finally the two eased apart and Ann returned to her chair. We continued eating and talking. At the end of the meal Marty said with a grin, “Since I’m no longer working here, I guess I’ll clean out my desk — there’s so little, it will fit in my attaché case — and Cathy and I can take a look at her house.”

We finally finished up and Ann and I returned to her office while Marty packed up her things. When she rejoined us, the two of us went to the garage and got her car. It turned out to be a new white Toyota Camry. She commented that it was a nice conservative sedan for a banker. Off we went.

On the way to my home, I raised the question of my staff. Again it turned out that the young woman had really done her homework and was way ahead of me.

“I don’t think there will be a problem,” she said. “I learned that the Campbells’ children are all in the Charlotte area now. And,” she added with a grin, “not everyone on the bank’s payroll is a fool. It turns out that way back when, when the Campbells first came to work for your grandparents, the bank set it up so that all the money the two earned was paid to Charles.

“The difference is that it will result in them receiving far higher Social Security payments than they would have if both had been paid. It’s one of the ways in which a working couple can get screwed. If you assume each receives about the same pay, each of their Social Security accounts would have about the same money credited. But when they start to draw it out, they’re only paid on the larger of the two; the second payments just disappear into the fund. But the way their compensation was handled they’ll receive far more.

“Furthermore, I’m nearly certain that, because they’re both over 70, they will receive more than if they had retired at 65. In the same way a person who retires early at 62 receives less than if he waited until 65, a person who waits till he’s older before starting to draw payments receives more.

“I don’t think there will be any problem.”

We arrived at the house, but before I could say anything, Martha drove up the driveway ... very carefully. As soon as the car stopped, Charles and Janet Campbell came from the house to meet us.

Introductions were quickly made — I introduced Marty as my new business manager — and Marty wasted no time to bring up the subject of retirement. She told them they were both to receive lifetime pensions as well as their Social Security. My heart was in my mouth as she told them of the plans.

The Campbells initial reaction when I mentioned retiring was one of fear. But as Marty continued her explanation of the finances, they relaxed and ended up almost euphoric. Since the subject of a pension had never come up, it turned out that they had been saving for their own retirement for years. Furthermore, they had even found a new small house in the Charlotte area that was centrally located with respect to where their children lived. They would be able to use their savings to pay cash for their new house, furnish it, and still have some savings along with social security and the pension. They could not have been happier.

Charles and Janet accompanied us on a tour of the house and grounds. The house didn’t take very long but the grounds did. Frankly, I had forgotten — if, indeed, I ever knew — just how extensive they really were. Behind the house were the barn, stables, and even slave quarters. All together the outbuildings occupied a great deal of space. Again Marty surprised me when she produced a 300-foot tape measure and started taking measurements all over the rear of the house.

“Neat!” she finally declared. “The swimming pool will be here, the tennis court over there, and the garage will be largely underground. The building for the emergency generator will be in the back corner so we won’t be bothered by the noise when it’s running.”

With a lovely warm smile she looked at me and declared, “This place is going to be great!”

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