Have you ever entered a pub or a bar for simply a cold beer to quench your thirst and down the other end of the bar was a small group of people, all huddled around one man who was telling a story? The words he used were mesmerising even though all there knew there wasn't a truthful word being spoken. It was the rhythm and narration technique being used, which drew you in. He'd swear on his honour, that every word he uttered was true, may God strike him down if they weren't.
The following story, I swear on my honour, is true, may God strike me down if it isn't.
Harry was forty when Salli and he met and married. She was twenty five, newly out of uni and struggling to make a living in the business world. Harry hadn't achieved a higher education; he hadn't had the time, the patience or the need.
He had been orphaned at twelve and his inheritance from his parents was a house and a very large cash sum including two very large life insurance policies due to mature when he turned eighteen.
The relatives from both sides all thought they knew best, and tried to place his newly found wealth where it would do them, individually, the most good. Harry didn't like his relatives, never had, so he paid them no mind and made sure he was independent from them all.
Salli was cute, not pretty, what Salli's major assets were, were her greed, her hunger for bettering Salli and her acting ability. What Salli wanted, Salli got. Salli saw the, to her, old man, with all that money which he didn't use to its full advantage, to her advantage that is, and ... Salli wanted.
Harry took his time. Due to his non-involvement with his relatives, the government people (who didn't want his money, they just wanted control of him and his money) said he had to have an adult to look after him, as he was too young to control his own life. They, of course, tried to supply him one or actually an adopted family. But, when they attempted to put him into a foster home, they found he had already employed some responsible adults to run his home, and had taken out a court order forcing the government, to desist. The adults were a married cook/maid and handyman/driver, and they were employed to do as they were told.
Salli had ostensibly been at a company seminar at a town in the wine country: Pokolbin. At least, that's the story she had told him Friday. She'd said she would be home about seven tonight, Tuesday. She was tired when she arrived home, suitcase in hand, needing a long soak in the bath. She gave him a quick peck on his cheek and went directly into their bedroom, then the ensuite, and then into the bath.
Harry followed her, five minutes later. She had emptied her overnight bag onto the bed, put her dirty clothes in the hamper, and had laid those that required dry cleaning draped over the end of the bed. Her mistake was in not being very neat and tidy.
Harry had ideas, very clever ideas, even at that age of twelve. While he was doing the required schooling, he invented ... things. These ... things ... he applied for patent rights. Then he created and registered a small company to exploit the patents for these ... things.
At the outset he invented hundreds of ... things. They had all been small. They would make life easier, and provide more efficiency for the big companies, that just hadn't yet gotten around to realising that they needed the ... things, yet. These ... things, only took him a few months to invent. Often it was only minutes at a time, each. They weren't particularly newsworthy, nor were they complicated.
Harry had seen the way technology was heading. He saw that once the high end products were on the market, the little low end products would become essential requirements for the big boys.
International patenting took most of the time: the searching, the time wasting, etc. However, by the time Harry left high school, and had turned eighteen (and was deemed an adult by the 'Powers That Be'), the inquiries had started to roll in.
By the time the big companies realised that certain small products would be required for their new inventions to efficiently operate, they found the product already existed. They would have to either buy the existing patents, or the rights to use the patents, from the inventor.
If it had been only one or maybe two of these things, it would have been seen as an accident, or possibly just luck or even simple happenstance. But, for over almost thirty years, Harry had invented thousands of these ... things.
The inventor's company storefront, was simply a contact point. It provided no more than a space of separation between him and them. He employed one secretary: a fifty five year old veteran of someone else's secretarial pool. When she retired, he employed another, through an agency ... someone just as efficient.
After a few years, he employed a junior to help her, a kid in her thirties. He was almost never seen by them, or anyone else, but he paid top-plus, wages to have the simplest office jobs in the world done, discreetly. By the time he was thirty, he was a billionaire, and he had produced nothing but patented and patentable ideas.
Salli had staged their meeting like a professional stage play. He didn't dress like a billionaire. He was a hick, an ignorant, simple mug, to be taken advantage of. She believed one dressed to impress, he believes one dresses to leave an impression, the impression he wishes to leave. He drove an early model Toyota Corolla for Christ's sake, his mansion was a twenty year old three bedroom brick veneer bungalow at the end of a middle class cul-de-sac in the western suburbs of Sydney.
Salli didn't know what Harry did to earn his billions and, quite frankly, didn't care. Harry watched her target him, she thought she was being subtle, but he had been targeted before and was aware of his shortcomings, and she was as subtle as a fart in a lift. To him Salli was a front, like his current secretary who Harry actually preferred to Salli, as a person.
Salli was seemingly good in bed but Harry has had many lovers, short and long term. Without fuss he had travelled world-wide, placed his inventions where they would do the most good, for him, not the buyers. Harry could spot a good act a mile away but he still required that front to take the increasing pressure off him to marry and appear normal.
A single billionaire became a target for more hostile, less ambivalent, more intelligent versions of Salli. He decided that she would do in the medium to short term, certainly no longer than five years.
Harry knew it was coming, long before Salli became careless. They had been married five years, and her acting out having enthusiastic sex with him, had waned almost to non-existence. Her 'use-by date' had expired. He had been waiting for a focus, a catalyst for her inexpensive disposal to become his ex. Her skin clinging, body hugging cocktail dress lying on the bed, was it.
The dress was split up both sides, from the floor to above her pubis, and down at the back to show the beginning five centimetres of her posterior cleft. The bust usually included a built-in bra, which he noticed had been removed, and was needed, because the décolleté displayed so much and the insert kept her breasts concealed; without the bra, the breasts swung intermittently on full display.
The décolletage continued so far down into her pubic mound she had to be depilated. She told her unworldly husband that it was a 'Brazilian, ' thinking Harry wouldn't know what she was talking about. When she told him, his eyes watered, and he internally cringed. He understood only too well what a 'Brazilian' entailed.
She said she wore it for Harry, but you can be sure she wouldn't go through a 'Brazilian' for the likes of him. She always wore special laced panties which hung high on her hip bones so they wouldn't be on display, outside the dress.
This dress, in royal blue silk, Harry called her 'hunting dress.' It wasn't draped on the bed as carefully as it should have been. On the inside, at the back, in line where her sexual organs would be, was a dried, white as nacre, stain. It was like a string of pearls, pooling in the centre, and running down off the pool in strands and beading. By the size and quantity, it represented more than one, probably several efforts. Maybe even a number of trysts, in the same dress-wearing, therefore in the same evening. It was an impressive effort by someone.
For a fact, the dress was extremely difficult to get on and off. Without assistance, it kept sliding off. If one was going to do something ... indiscreet whilst wearing this dress, one most certainly did not remove it. You would think, though, that she would have at least raised the flap at the back as well as the front. Harry looked inside the dirty clothes hamper, and nodded to himself.
Salli had told him from the start of their relationship that she was allergic to the pill, was too young to have children, as she wanted a career first. Harry had to either have a vasectomy, or use condoms. Initially they consumed a most of a large box of condoms a night, this was a surprise to Salli as she hadn't thought someone of his years would be so interested in sex. However, this was the stabilisation stage of her plan; so, a girl does what a girl's got to do.
The condom usage had dwindled to a box every two months, which was what she believed was more than Harry deserved. She was tapering him off to a box a year, next year, and nothing like that extravagance the year after: all in Salli's plan.
Harry collected up Salli's dry cleaning into the bag that usually carried it, except for the hunting dress which he secreted in the laundry, a place Salli didn't realise even existed within the house, and had no idea how to use.
She had left her shoulder bag on a side table in the foyer. He opened it in place and found the minute lace fringed panties scrunched into a tiny saturated ball in the corner. He sniffed them: purely Salli's Bartholin fluid. He put them into his pants' pocket. They were so small they were undetectable. Next was her purse. Under her purse was a flat, half used foil sachet of... 'the pill.'
Salli lay back and luxuriated in the huge bath which she had demanded that Harry buy. She was tired and relaxed after having had her ashes hauled by Tony and Therese almost nonstop over the weekend.