Chapter 1: Meet Helen Larson

I was living in the same garden apartment in South Kensington that I had moved into when I started my studies at Imperial. In the seven years since I’d settled here, I’d obtained a MEng in computer engineering and an Honors Diploma in law at London Southbank University. With THAT degree, I went to the Middle Temple to qualify as a Junior Barrister.

Getting the credentials was the easy part. The hard part was deciding what I was going to do with the rest of my life. Children of wealth face special problems when they finish with the obvious steps. Please don’t get me wrong. That was not self-pity talking. I’d be a gold-plated hypocrite if I complained about my life. I have beauty, sophistication, and a well-rounded social life. I know that I’m extremely lucky.

I also have the two best parents a 25-year-old girl could ever ask for. My daddy made his money through some shadowy deal with the government. I didn’t know him for my first nineteen years because everybody thought he was killed in action in the first Gulf war. His return to us was something out of a storybook.

My mother is just filthy rich. She’s an American blue blood, all the way back to the Mayflower on both sides of her family. Nevertheless, she works like a field hand on anything she does, and she has never acted is if she is even slightly entitled. She met my father in a very romantic way during her days at Wharton. He was the Army helicopter pilot with a PhD, and she was the most beautiful woman on campus. She also just happened to be as smart as he was.

After two hitches in the army, my daddy is intimidatingly strong. He also happens to be a huge powerful man, but he is the sweetest kindest daddy a girl could ever ask for. He’s sixty-one now; with a rugged face, a year-around deep-water tan and close-cropped white hair that he wears in a Caesar style cut.

His overall appearance is striking, but his eyes are the only thing anybody notices about him. They are the deepest azure blue. My mother said that the first time he turned his eyes on her she actually gasped. Daddy’s eyes are the only body part that I inherited from him. All of the rest of me is my mother.

My mother is English on both sides, but her people are descended from the first inhabitants of the island, the Celt-Britons. So, she is dusky, almost Mediterranean looking. Her hair is the darkest, most beautiful shade of auburn. Her eyes are hazel as a cat’s and her mouth is very wide. But the thing that is most striking about her is her face. It is perfectly proportioned.

As a scientist, I know about the golden ratio; 1:1.618 which is also known as Phi. There have been studies as far back as Pythagoras that cite the golden ratio as the definition of symmetric beauty and it has been used to judge everything from Nefertiti’s timeless statue through the design of the Parthenon. My mother’s face is dead on that ratio. So, to say that she is “beautiful” is a scientific fact.

Of course, she has a body that is a product of a lifetime of dance training combined with two of the biggest breasts in womanhood. The word “voluptuous” is an understatement. At age 53 everything remains in its proper place. Still, if you know her for any period of time, her remarkable good looks will quickly fade into the shadow of her powerful female spirit, with its lifetime of wisdom. She has been my dad’s lover, friend, and companion since he returned from the dead and in HIS words, “She has made him who he is today.”

I might add that it is hard for a girl growing up in the shadow of such a woman to think that she is beautiful herself. However, most people say that I am my mom’s spitting image, just a little taller. The chief difference in our appearance is that my eyes are azure blue. Most people think that the contrast between my dark complexion and my bright blue eyes is striking. I know that it has gotten me any man that I want anytime I want one.

My only real companion is my cat Bastet. She is named after the cat goddess of ancient Egypt, who was most fittingly their goddess of warfare. Bastet is actually not a cat. She is an Egyptian Mau. They are in the same family as domestic felines. They can even breed with them. But they are bigger, and they are much more feral. Most Egyptologists believe that Bastet the goddess’s image is actually a Mau. Bastet has bonded with me and she follows me around like a dog. But unlike a dog, Bastet’s view is that she is accompanying me on the hunt.

My dad has a big smelly war-dog named Buster. He was my dad’s companion and friend since they found each other in the market on the island of Corfu. That was six years before we even discovered my dad was still alive. Daddy said that, the moment they met he recognized that Buster was an ex-member of the French Foreign Legion, and a vagabond soldier of fortune. And he also claims that they talk together in legion French. I don’t know whether I believe that or not. But I DO know that Bastet communicates with me in heavily accented Egyptian English. She even hisses when she talks.

My dad and mother are “landed gentry.” They live in south Buckinghamshire on an absolutely beautiful estate that would technically qualify them to be called Lord and Lady Larson. At first, I was appalled when they announced they were going to settle down in England, rather than America, since in my opinion parents stalking the teenaged child should be a criminal offense in every civilized country.

But it seemed like my dad was settling down there for a number of complex reasons that involved some agreement with the U.S. government. Plus, my poor dear old dad struggles with the English language; let alone any other. So, he would be at a disadvantage living in foreign countries.

I go up to their estate when I have a little free time and when I do, I usually take one of my special friends with me. I do not use the term “boyfriend” to describe the men in my life. There are a number of them, and I enjoy some of them more deeply than others, if you catch my drift. I continued a correspondence that I had started with a man I met on the island of Mallorca seven years ago. His name is Philippe, and he is both exotically beautiful as well as very kind and sensitive. When he visits, we typically just stay around my flat and fuck.

My mother likes him in particular because his family is of the same social standing as hers. So, we are essentially the same kind of blue blood. I like him because he is smart, funny, and absolutely gorgeous and he can make me come in ways I had never conceived of.

However, Gavin is my MOST special friend, and a guy who I hang out with almost constantly. I met him in Monaco. I used to play at the international level in women’s soccer and I occasionally trained with professional men’s teams when I was younger, just to keep sharp. Gavin played for AS Monaco at the time and I met him there during a practice session. He tried to take my head off with a shot because of a misunderstanding during that session. I easily handled his pathetic attempt to maim me and we eventually got our differences sorted out.

Then we had a very steamy night. I have never shared the fact that it was my first real experience with sex. He thought I was an old hand given the performance I put on for him. He transferred up to White Hart Lane to play for the Spurs the following year. It made him a lot of money in the transfer, nothing like mine I might add. But it also gave me a gorgeous man when I needed one.

He is the handsomest guy I have ever met; very tall and perfectly muscled. He is the Spurs starting center back and a force on the field. I might have even contemplated falling in love with him if he was anything but a professional football player. He has asked me to marry him several times. But I have my own destiny to pursue and it doesn’t involve him or any of the current men in my life. I think my parents’ marriage has spoiled me.

Those two have been inseparable since they found each other after my daddy’s miraculous “resurrection.” He doesn’t seem to need anybody besides my mother and my mother, who is a little more social than he is, is devoted to him. Having seen how happy two people can be, just with each other, I will not settle for anything less in my own lifetime commitment and I can’t conceive of making that commitment to simply “get married.”

I was at the Ministry of Sound with a couple of friends from Southbank University. Southbank isn’t exactly Cambridge. In fact, it isn’t even the University of London. However, it IS a vibrant campus full of really cool middle and lower-class kids, who are a lot nearer my attitudes about life than the people at the Oxbridge schools.

I did the law diploma there, mainly because the people at Imperial are so fucking nerdy that I couldn’t stand to be around them. Hence, my personal friendships were all formed across the river in Southwark. I met my two friends Melissa, whom I call Mel, and Prudence, Pru, in a study group there.

Mel is an Anglo-Indian girl, slightly over five feet tall and with a perfect little petite body; the kind that bigger women like me envy. She has black hair and black flashing eyes that are a dead giveaway of her origins. Her little body might be petite, but she has a pair of hips and boobs that rival mine for size and with her tiny frame they look HUGE. She is almost as smart as I am and that is saying something.

Pru is an exquisite English rose. She is tall, fashion model slim with no hips and perky little tits. But her facial beauty is like something out of a Hogarth painting, superb does not begin to describe her looks.

She has a perfect round English face with huge cornflower blue eyes and a dainty brow that leads to long silky blond hair that hangs down to her butt. Her nose is a nub with a long straight bridge and her lips give her wide and very sensual mouth the ripest, lushest mouth ever kissed. Pru’s lips are as naturally red as most girls would be able to achieve with lipstick.

Pru’s neat little pointed chin and long swan neck put the finishing touch on an exquisite china doll; except Pru is anything but exquisite or breakable, especially when she dances. She gets wild on the dance floor, whipping that incredible blond hair around like a floozy in a rap video and moving her tiny little hips in ways that suggest boundless energy when she is in the horizontal position. She is a couple of inches taller than me and it is all leg so her dancing can hint at many things, most of them erotic.

I am in the middle of the two. I have Mel’s hard body and a huge rack along with Pru’s height and skill on the dance floor. What I DON’T have is their total lack of inhibition in club settings. I have always been a lot cold-blooded and analytic than any girl I know. I get that from my dad. And I want to be in total control of every situation, just like my mother. Both Mel and Pru like to fuck and they will frequently go off with any loser who asks them nicely. So, I often find myself fulfilling the role of “Mother Superior” on our nights out.

I had come over from Kensington to Waterloo and walked the half mile along Webber and Lancaster Streets to Borough road in Southwark. I was doing it in my clubbing gear, four-inch heels and a little four-thousand-dollar dress that I had picked up at Harrods. I was dressed for a night of hunting men.

The dress showed off my legs without leaving my boobs hanging out. That was a little trick that I had picked up from my mother who is the master of dressing provocatively without looking like she was trying to do so. Rather than putting my large breasts on display, they were neatly concealed under a top that came up to my neck, with a thin gold diamond necklace that my mother had given me. The bulge in the front of the dress just suggested the delectable mounds that were underneath.

I like my nipples. They are dark brown, puffy, and super sensitive rather than the usual jutting pieces of cartilage. In my opinion, the light wool silk dress that I was wearing with no bra underneath showed them off without looking cheap. My legs were on display from mid-thigh on down. I know they are my best asset because they are better than my mothers.

Pru and Mel were waiting for me in the street outside. The club is some sort of converted warehouse. I am certain that we all would have gotten killed in the area 25 years ago. But now that the south side of the Thames has become totally hip-happening every one of the old buildings are being rehabbed for clubs, bars, and restaurants.

Both of my friends looked a little nervous. I asked them what the problem was, and they said, “Gavin is in there dancing with some slut who looks like she wants to have his baby.” I WILL admit that that gave me a slight twinge of jealousy because we have been more-or-less special together since he moved up to the Spurs. But he is a big star now and frankly I have no interest in being his woman. So, it was understandable that he would have his pick of football groupies.

We went into the club and there he was all right. He was easy to spot because of his height. And I had to admit that the little hottie he was dancing with definitely had sex written all over her sleek little body. But I was there to dance. So rather than waiting for somebody to ask me I used my mother’s favorite trick, which was to simply appear on the dance floor dancing by myself. Pru and Mel followed me out and we were dancing in a little circle that soon filled up with men and other women.

There were probably eight of us bumping on each other in a random fashion and it was glorious. I looked in Gavin’s direction and saw him disappearing out the door with his new friend draped around his neck like a scarf. Since I really didn’t want the responsibility of exclusiveness with the guy, I wished him well, and wrote him off.

One of the men in our circle was a lot older than the others, perhaps in his 40s. He kept eyeing me like he wanted to talk, not dance. Pru had taken over the job of entertaining the rest of the group with something that looked like a cross between a rap music video and an aboriginal fertility rite. Little Mel was energetically bumping up against an Arab kid, her huge jugs bouncing up and down and back and forth to the beat.

I looked at the older guy and made a gesture with my head toward the bar. He nodded and followed me. I walked over and ordered a gin and tonic. I was hot and thirsty. He ordered one too and we walked over to a part of the club where you could at least hear yourself think. I said, “So what do you want to talk about?”

He said, “You’re Helen Larson.” It was a statement not a question. I said, “Yeah that’s right.” He said, “This might seem like an odd time, but I have to be discreet. I would like to talk with you for a minute.”

I said, “I can’t hear my own voice let alone yours, how about outside?” He nodded again and I walked out into the courtyard. He was studiously NOT following me out. I stood there for a second or two and then started back into the building. At that point, he came out and walked past me gesturing. I thought, “What the fuck!!?” and followed him.

He said, “Can we meet at this address tomorrow?” He handed me a card with a Westminster address on it. I looked at it and said, “I suppose so, what time?” He said, “Any time after nine in the morning.” I said, still very puzzled “I’ll be there at nine o’clock.” He said, “Thank you” and walked away.

I was flabbergasted. I didn’t think I was going to be drugged and sold into white slavery. He was far too straight looking. But at the same time, it was a little too mysterious for my tastes. I shrugged and went inside to see what was going on with my friends. Neither was anywhere to be seen. So, I headed out onto the dance floor again.

I have been trained in every form of dance since I was four and I still keep a rigorous workout schedule. That accounts for my superior strength and reflexes and I suppose to be honest, my “wonderful” body.

Most people in a place like this club haven’t a concept of how to dance. So, people stop and stare when I really try to express myself. I was dancing completely alone, with my hands over my head and doing snap turns, whipping my mane of auburn hair around and rotating my hips in a suggestive manner. People were staring and some of the men were salivating. That put a smile of smug satisfaction on my face.

Mel ran up to me wild with anxiety. It was just as I was getting to the part that was designed to melt every man in a twenty-five-meter radius into a puddle of drool. I nearly fell over her, since I was in mid-air doing a kick turn into a spread landing that would show off my superb thighs and give them all a glimpse of my panties. After I had gotten untangled from her and stopped being pissed off, she said, “Somebody drugged Pru!!”

I said, “Excuuuuse ME!!??” She said, “I saw it! Some guy brought her a drink and the next thing I knew she was leaving with him. He was mostly carrying her like she had joined the living dead!!” I said, “Did you see which way they went?” She said, “No but they couldn’t have left more than fifteen minutes ago, and she was deadweight, so they weren’t walking very fast.”

I hustled out onto Gaunt Street and looked both ways. Mel was bouncing up and down like a Jack Russell Terrier on methamphetamine, which she kind of resembles in an Asian sub-continent sort of fashion. I was thinking to myself, “If this guy has a nearby place, we are not going to find Pru. But if I were a pervert who was planning a crude date rape, I would take my victim to Newington Gardens, which was right down the street and around the corner.”

So, I headed off in that direction at a dead run. The heels were getting in the way. So, I shucked them, and I was running in my stockings holding my shoes. I could hear faithful little Mel puffing along behind me. We turned the corner at the Newington Causeway and ran a short distance down to Avonmouth and into the park.

It was too dark at the back of the park to see much but as I started into the area under the trees, I heard a loud groan and then regular sounds of a woman being loudly and vigorously fucked. Mel and I stopped and began to track the sounds. I presumed that it was Pru, but I knew it would be very bad form if we interrupted a couple who had actually chosen that spot to legitimately have sex. The woman was getting louder by the second.

As we parted the last branch of shrubbery that lay between us and the happy couple, I heard an anguished, “Ahhhh I’m coooooming” and the sound of slurping and frantic bucking noises. Sure enough, it was Pru and some guy. He had his pants down and was lying between her widely spread knees.

She was convulsed almost into a bow, her feet wide apart, legs bent and her knees almost touching the ground, the orgasmic pressure on the muscles of her chest and stomach was obvious. Her head was thrown back, her mouth in a perfect “O” and she was hyperventilating riding the waves of a monster orgasm. Since my friend Pru does not normally have orgasms lying on her back at night, in the dirt, in a public park I immediately suspected foul play.

Hence, I stepped decisively out of the bushes and delivered a kick to the offending person’s balls with the pointed tip of my “fashionable” black pumps. I was glad I had put them back on to navigate the shrubbery. The force of my very strong legs was concentrated in a small area at the tip of the shoe. The kick was violent enough that males all the way from Adam forward winced.

Pru’s rapist yelled something inarticulate, shot straight up in the air and landed on his back next to her. In the meantime, she was still bucking through her orgasm, her dress pulled up to her waist and her hoo-ha on full display with her long, beautiful legs pushing frantically against the ground as she processed the sensation.

At that inopportune moment, her ravisher let out a strangled cry and shot a rope of spunk three feet in the air. It landed all over his still neatly buttoned oxford cloth shirt. I hoped he had enjoyed himself because the next kick I delivered was similar to the one that I use to drive the ball downfield 60 yards to our forwards. He pissed himself, threw up and went out like a light.

Pru wasn’t in any better shape. She was fully unconscious now as the full effect of the drug set in. I looked at Mel and she was crying. Mel is that sort of sweet, sympathetic person. We got Pru decent and sat her up. I retrieved Pru’s panties from the branch that they were hanging from. The dude must have been in some kind of hurry.

She was in the throes of the drug and so she couldn’t walk. But she is very light for such a tall girl and I leveraged her up and carried her, with her arm thrown over my shoulder like the wounded warrior that she was.

Faithful little Mel was in front of me, out in the middle of Bath Terrace Road, frantically flagging down a cab. I took both of them back to my place. I didn’t know what kind of shape Pru was in and I wanted to make sure that we could keep an eye on her all night. And it never crossed Mel’s mind to leave her.

So, the cabbie, who kept glancing in the back in a way I didn’t like, dropped us at my apartment. Mel had never been there, and I don’t think she actually knew who I was. So, she was standing in the entrance with her mouth hanging open goggling at the place and its décor while I took Pru back and put her to bed in one of the spare bedrooms.

Bastet came out and said, “Did you kill thisssss one sssssister?”

I told her to shut up. Bastet looked at Pru with contempt and said “Ssssshe is weak.”

I said, “No woman wants her body invaded like that, you stupid feline.” Pru’s actions were the natural response of her subconscious under extreme stimulation and she was absolutely no virgin. But she would nonetheless hate herself if she ever found out what had actually happened to her.

I stripped her naked. Pru’s body was so skinny I could count each rib. I could see her tiny boobs with their delicate little pink nipples, like rosebuds, and her hip bones and mound jutted prominently out of her toned lower belly. Her hips were narrow, almost boyish, but there was nothing boyish about those long, gorgeous legs, which are, heavily muscled’ incongruous for the rest of her. I swung her legs onto the bed between the clean sheets and pulled up the covers. Then I folded up her filthy clothes and went out to swear Mel to secrecy.

Mel was sitting on one of my big “L” shaped couches looking dazed. I said, “Get a grip my dear. I know Pru will hate herself in the morning, but she won’t remember what happened and we are just going to tell her she got drunk and passed out.”

Sometimes when she gets excited Mel slips back into the language of her mother, who is a stunning Tamil beauty herself. So, Mel was babbling to me in that tongue. I said, “Slow down baby, I don’t speak Tamil.” Mel is gorgeous and very dark skinned, but she somehow still blushed, and she said in her singsong way, “I’m sorry Hilley. The whole thing is so depraved.”

I said, “Men are shits. I think we can all agree about that. This one will probably get the functioning of his balls back some day, but I envision him sitting on a lot of ice packs before he does. Best part is that he never saw it coming and I don’t think he is going to blame Pru since she was the person he was raping.”

Mel started to cry. She is very tender-hearted and sweet to the very core of her being and these kinds of uncivilized incidents are difficult for a person like her to understand or accept. I don’t know why, but I have a savage streak that is totally ruthless and without guilt. That is especially true when I have exacted my particular brand of frontier justice, like tonight.

My only regret was that I didn’t actually geld the asshole. I have a feeling that I inherit that savagery from my dad, who can be a total Viking when people he cares about are threatened. All I had to do was think back to the one night that he thought I was being assaulted in Rome and the look on his face. But there is a part of me that thinks that maybe my absolutely merciless lack of empathy for sexual predators comes from my mother.

I have seen mother’s face as she was intimidating huge men on my behalf. She inherits her savage fighting rage from our Celtic ancestors. Combined with the iron discipline of the Roman Legions, which is also part of our heritage, we don’t back down from anybody. That was the way I felt tonight. I got up and poured a couple of big shots of Johnny Walker Blue for us. Mel took it and sipped it and said, “What is this wonderful liquid?”

I laughed and said it is something my dad drinks. It costs two-hundred quid a bottle, but it is worth it. Mel looked at me like she didn’t know me. I said as matter of fact as possible, “I’m filthy rich Mel. It doesn’t affect our friendship or how I view the world. It is just something I have that makes my life a little easier.”

She said, “I’m the daughter of a man who owns a fish and chips shop. How could you want to hang around with me?” I said, “Because you are sweet and kind and funny, very smart and steadfast; that’s why.” We finished our drink and I said, “Why don’t you spend the night here. I want to keep an eye on Pru. I’ll sleep sitting up out here.”

Mel said, “But how will you be comfortable?” I said, “I did dozens of night watches when we were sailing the Mediterranean. Dozing on my own couch without having to worry about being plowed under by a cruise ship will be a breeze.” She looked like she wanted to stay up with me, but I said, “My bedroom is back there, relax and get a little sleep. I’ll call you if I need you.”

I was settling in when it dawned on me that I was still in my $4,000 dollar dress and Mel might need a nightgown. I walked back to my room and she was already getting into bed. She was naked, her hard, little body was a study in muscle definition and her enormous boobs were swinging back and forth as she shifted onto the bed. She had big very dark brown nipples on those tits, puffy like mine and I could not help noticing that she had a large jewel embedded in her naval. She was stunning.

I said, “Do you need a nightgown?” She said, “Do you have one that will fit me?” I said, “It will fit in the chest, but it will be long on you.” She said, “Thank you, I’ll take one then, I do not like to sleep with my body uncovered.”

I rummaged around in the drawer that holds my night things and found her a black silk number that she slipped over her head and down over her very full and round little hips. The top was a perfect fit over her boobs, but she was swimming in the rest of it. I laughed. She laughed. I took off my club things and hung the dress up.

I have no problem being naked in front of anybody, but it felt like Mel was checking me out. So, I quickly jumped into panties and grabbed my U.S. National Team tee-shirt, which I wear around the house. I looked at her and she was gazing at my body in wonder. That was disturbing so I pulled the t-shirt over my upper body turned off the light and made my way back to the living room. I arranged myself on the couch so I could respond if I heard anything from Pru’s room and closed my eyes.

I was the first one up the next morning. I will normally wake up with the sun and I know that 6:30AM is a little early for somebody like Mel. I was certain that Pru would be out for some time still. I was thinking about the appointment I had made with the mysterious gentleman from last night.

The incident was a little too spooky, in the CIA sense. I am absolutely NOT interested in working for an outfit like that. But I am fascinated by the kind of zero knowledge exploits that they do. So, I was curious about what the guy would propose.

I started cooking breakfast. Cooking is my favorite hobby. But I’m a real nut when it comes to mechanics. I have two cars that I keep at the apartment, a Range Rover 600LE that I drive when I need to make an impression and a Lotus Super 7 that I drive all of the rest of the time. But I keep another eight vintage cars at daddy’s estate, all of them I rebuilt myself and none of them is under 60 years old.

Mel made her appearance as the smell of the bacon began to waft through the house. She was still in my nightgown which made her look a little ridiculous. So, I said, ““ Would you like some tights and a t-shirt. The legs are elastic so they will fit you?”

She said, “That would be wonderful. That is my only good dress, and I don’t want to ruin it.” As I went back to my room to get her some tights and a shirt, I made a mental note that Mel and I were going to pillage Harrods one of these days soon. There is no point in having infinite amounts of cash if you can’t spend some of it helping out a friend.

Mel whipped the nightie over her head and stood there for a second naked. Then she pulled the t-shirt over her head. Her boobs were moving around under the shirt without a bra. The stimulation of the shirt sliding on her nipples made them jut prominently. I had not anticipated that problem since my tits are so firm, they don’t move around like that. But Mel’s are big and soft and very fluid.

Mel then began to roll on the tights. She is only five feet tall, so her legs look stocky, but they were perfectly muscled, and her hips and flanks were slabs of muscle. I said with curiosity, “How did you get such a tight little body?” She looked embarrassed. I said, “I hope my talking about your figure doesn’t bother you, if so I’m sorry.”