I happened to be at the club for lunch the day her world collapsed so I was around to pick up the pieces, as it were, and tuck them into my bed. I watched the waiter approach Claudette, saw her blanch, stalk across the room and then heard her yell at the manager. I quickly took her arm, led her to my table and sat her down, sputtering and red-faced. "Sanderson, right?" I asked.
She nodded, and I flipped on my phone, found the story and showed her. She shook her head and sobbed, "It can't be true."
"I saw them towing a Corvette Stingray from the lot as I came in; yours I believe, the yellow one."
She nodded and wiped away tears. I had seen her in it, a great car. At eighteen she was broke; she had gone from the status of a rich woman to a poor beggar in less than an hour. Her home, car, clothes and jewelry had been taken, her credit cards voided. She was a lovely young widow with nothing but her beauty. But that, of course, was worth a lot to the right people.
She had married Michael Sanderson, only son of Jefferson Samuelson the now-disgraced entrepreneur, about a year ago when she was seventeen and he was twenty-four. He and his handsome lover had drowned together while swimming into a riptide and a mass of nettles off the family's Chesapeake Bay island. Their bodies were never found.
She became her father-in-law's mistress, one of several, and he ensconced her in a shady Chevy Chase shingle-style and shared her, off and on, with his more prosperous clients while she was still in mourning black.
Now his Ponzi scheme had blown up, and he had disappeared along with his voluptuous secretary and two suitcases stuffed with money, owing tens of millions, most of it to friends, neighbors and business acquaintances.
I comforted her, paid her bar tab, took her home, stripped her bare, admired her luscious body and mounted her doggy in the middle of my big bed. She squalled and blubbered as I slowly buried my thick shaft in her but soon joined her ripe body with my demanding one, and we had a fine fifteen minutes or so of fleshy delight, lots of gasps, a few screams and the continuous smacking of flesh as I grasped the headboard and dug in my toes. To say I plundered her would to be a bit weak. She was an absolute pleasure.
As we lay gasping for breath, my slimy cock in her hand and my hand cupping her soft mound, fingers exploring, we discussed the future after agreeing not to talk about the past. I pinched her clit out between my fingers and suggested that she come and live with me so that I could rent her out from time to time. "Just until we find you a mate or a master," I said calmly. "One that can afford you."
"I always wanted to be a librarian," she said, gently squeezing my prick, her thumb exciting its head, going round and around, "you know like in the Music Man, Marion."
"Did you finish high school?"
She nodded. "Sort of; it was a school for girls, a finishing school. Taught some Eastern sex techniques as well."
"Still in business?"
"Oh no, the crash got it, vanished when I was fifteen. That's when Mr. Sanderson took me in and then married me off to his queer son." She sniffed. "He didn't like girls, his son that is."
"We could look into community colleges, see if they can find some records."
"Really. I think I'd like that." She slithered down my hairy body, licking and sucking and nibbling. She was skilled, very well taught.
"OK, on Monday, but right now if you'll just stroke a bit more. Yes. with your tongue, very good, and tickle the balls, I think I can mount you, and we can get back to work. You're awfully tight, you know?"
She nodded as I rolled atop her and eased it up into her. It was a trying weekend. I lost track of the number of times we coupled.
Dressed in the same clothes she wore to the club Saturday, after going without clothes for 36 hours or so, we found the admissions office of the county's community college and explained the problem and were told, "She'll have to take some tests, see if she can do the work. If you can't, we have zero level courses you can resister for."
She agreed, went to another room and took two tests on a computer, passed both and signed up for the first semester which started in about a week, 18 credit hours, the basic load. I wrote a check for the tuition and fees.
She was all smiles as we drove to the mall and then she did some shopping, casual clothes for the college girl she said as she ran up two thousand dollars in spending less than an hour on jeans, leggings, mini skirts and lots of tops and sweaters and a dozen panties; no bras. Then we went to Victoria's Secret and got some play clothes including several half-bras. And a couple of teddies, lacy ones.
We ate in the food court and discussed the future as every boy or man that went past ogled her.
"I can't afford you," I lied. "You'll have to earn your keep."
"I have some contacts, some favorites," she said.
"Yes, but they may have invested with Samuelson you know."
"I think college girl is a good pose. Maybe we should get you a cheerleader outfit."
"How'd you get started?" I asked, curious.
She leaned back, licked her lips and smiled. "Oh, I remember the day and the night too, but not here. OK?"
On the way home, she began: "Let's see; I was eleven, almost twelve when I figured things out, had two or three periods and a 7th grade sex ed class and, of course, a talk with my Mum. I thought I understood most things, the birds and the bees and the boys. Men, you know. My mother said a lot about boys. She bore me when she was fifteen. Never was sure who the father was."
I waited for more, feeling my cock getting very interested as she sat there in her short denim skirt and lacy blouse, looking young and desirable.