Chapter 1: She rode horses and had opinions.

Heart pounding, Cassidy Townsend opened her laptop and used her fingerprint to log on to LOST — Leading Online Sex Tales. Today was the day. Finally. The annual Golden Pussy winners would be announced. And, for the fourth year in a row, she was a finalist in the Writer of the Year category.

Before she clicked to see the results, she told herself, “It was an honor just to make it to the Final Ten. Hundreds of other writers didn’t get this far.”

Finger poised, she nodded to herself, “An honor, a real honor.”

Tap.

“FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Cassidy was seething. Her vision blurred, her heart thudded. She slammed her laptop closed, pushed back from her desk, and stormed around her loft.

She barely remembered to grab her keys before she burst out of her fourth-floor home, took the stairs two at a time, and flew out the door to Greene Street. Fists clenched, she speed-strode to Spring, turned left, left again on Wooster, left on Broome, back to Spring, around and around the block.

Cassidy had been raised in the Episcopalian faith — a congregation so undemonstrative it was known as the Frozen Chosen. But now she furiously stalked the sidewalks for almost an hour. She paid no mind to the other pedestrians; they in turn, sensed something foreboding and edged out of her way.

She used to love her SoHo neighborhood, but this morning all she saw were fucking tourists, chainstores, overpriced restaurants. The edges of her vision were turning black.

Gradually, her breathing came back under control. She forced herself to think back, to reconstruct what she had seen on the screen. The only image she had retained was one of failure, dismal, gut-wrenching failure. In her dismay, she hadn’t even registered who had won the award. All she knew was that she hadn’t finished First, Second, nor Third.

For the fourth humiliating year in a row, she had been shut out. She hugged her arms against her tummy, hunched over even further, and muttered to herself, “I bet I know who won. Some of those same fuckers.”

Back in her loft, she glowered darkly at her stylish home office. Poured herself a tot of Dalmore single malt — the Port Wood Reserve. It was now eight in the morning.

Cassidy sighed, “Get it over with,” and sat down at her MacBook Air. Slowly opened the lid. She nodded grimly to herself — First place had gone to Carl Moonbeam. Second, Micky Luck. Third, G Older.

She logged out; no sense in dwelling on the unfairness of life.

Then, despite herself, she began going over the litany of inequities. Again and again.

Boys voted and boys won. Inferior writers prevailed because they included crude sex scenes. Science fiction was favored over real writing. Cassidy didn’t have any proof, but had long suspected that bribes were involved in awarding the Golden Pussy. How else to explain her exclusion from the winner’s circle? Graft, subornation, palm-greasing ... that would account for why the same small subset of writers kept climbing up on the winner’s podium.

It certainly wasn’t skill. She had read a few paragraphs of each of their sorry offerings. They were, admittedly, decent enough scriveners, but hardly at her level.

Those fuckers. Those same fuckers. If only something could be done about them.

Cassidy called her best friend, her closest ally, “Kaitlyn, let’s burn some herb.”

“I’m at work, ducks. We have the Tesla presentation at 10.”

“The Golden Pussy.”

“Oh.” Then, “Oh, not again?”

“Again.”

“Okaaaaaaaay, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

At the very bottom of the state of Mississippi, there was a remote town on the Gulf that was isolated geographically and culturally. Sausalito was Cajun, fiercely independent, and definitely blue-collar. There was only one road into town — the oddly named Andre Previn Boulevard. To the south ... the Cajun Bayous, navigable only by shallow Jon boats and even shallower pirogues.

A young woman Marie Guidry — who was as ambitious as she was tough, intelligent, and resourceful — had clawed and fucked her way to the top of Sausalito’s power structure. She and her 14-year old sister, Eulalie, ran the place, with the enthusiastic assistance of Rémy Thibodeaux, the chief of police.

During a months-long series of events, a con artist named Lucy Danube, and her mentor, the internationally renowned Chase Windsor, had become involved with the Guidry sisters. To everyone’s mutual benefit. And profit.

Chase came to view Sausalito as a laboratory — a place where he could conduct personal, social, cultural experiments. Where he could quite possibly learn techniques and procedures that could well become valuable in one future venture or another. In particular he began focusing on the local strip club. He smiled at his protégé, Eulalie Guidry.

“Okay, Eulalie. I was wrong about Miss Kitty’s. I shouldn’t have dismissed the influence that a strip club could have on Sausalito. You and Marie were right — it’s fascinating to see how it reshaped the ethos of that little town. Dinner table conversations about the Blowjob Room became common.”

“And all the kids talk about how all the dancers swallow. It’s just a given these days.” She winked at Chase, “That particular conversation migrated from Sausalito High to John Lee Hooker Middle School down to both elementary schools.”

Chase, who particularly savored young pussy, looked her in the eye, “Tell me about that.”

She unbuckled and unzipped him, “We don’t want you to splatter your slacks.” Eulalie gently stroked him as she went into some considerable detail about the explicit conversations that fourth and fifth grade girls were having about BJ Room activities.

Later, after she had tongued up the last drop, Chase said, “When you talk with the owner, here’s a new policy for Kate Broussard to implement.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“Tell Kate to introduce a MOMs WEEK. A contest to see who gives the most blowjobs in seven days. A $500 prize, open to mothers only.”

Eulalie listened carefully, giggled out loud, and said, “I love it! Especially the mothers-only part.” She frowned, “Although after the first contest, maybe I’ll have Kate let the teachers start competing against each other too.”

“Yes, but focus on the moms first. Can you get some coverage in the Sausalito Chronicle?”

“Sure. Shannon Trudeau still has the hots for me. The Chronicle and WZYD too. Oh, here’s another idea.”

Chase smiled; his little charge was becoming more and more creative. “Tell me.”

“I’m going to have Kate start recruiting elementary school teachers.” Eulalie didn’t have to state the obvious — that would generate considerably more chatter among the youngest students.

He nodded appreciatively, “Tell her to offer a $500 sign-on bonus. I’ll cover the costs. In fact, set up a fund that she can draw on for our future projects.”

“And I’ll get Ray-Ray Fontenot to start passing out photos of the new dancers to both schools.”

Chase started stirring again. Eulalie smiled to herself and took him back into her mouth. As she sucked, Chase said, “I want you to push that little town further and further. But persuade, don’t force.”

Eulalie raised her head and smiled, quoting one of Chase’s mantras, “The art of manipulation.” Then, as she went back to work, she mock-sighed, “A little girl’s work is never done.”

To Eulalie, sexing up the little town of Sausalito, Mississippi was more than just a giggle. She did enjoy manipulating the tenor of conversations. Knowing that the families — husbands, boyfriends, and, most especially, the children, of every woman who applied at Miss Kitty’s would understand that sucking cock in the Blowjob Room was a prerequisite. Almost every kid in the school system knew that the girls swallowed cum, no exceptions. And, that the price was $40, while the amount of the tip varied from customer to customer.

But, as her tutelage under Chase Windsor took her around the world and expanded her possibility-horizons, she began looking at Sausalito, at his laboratory, through more sophisticated eyes.

One concept in particular stuck with her. Chase hadn’t told her to listen carefully; she did that automatically now, soaking up his experience, wisdom, and fertile creativity.

“Eulalie, people all over are wired pretty much the same way. Centuries of evolution haven’t changed how our brains work all that much. But there are some — and I was surprised to learn how many — there are some men and women whose ... well, the seal between the on-duty part of their brain and the off-duty section is a little porous. Leaky.”

Eulalie, who was learning from Chase’s Socratic method, and who sopped up new intel like a sponge, said, “Example?”

“Think of that finely hewed, highly trained, killing machine — a military sniper. In America, chances are he grew up in the South — a rural, isolated section of the country. His eyesight is extraordinary — he could see a raccoon’s eyes at a distance that most people couldn’t make out even a blurry smudge.”

“Okay.”

“Unlike most people, he has the ability to lie motionless for hours. He could drop his heart rate into the 30s.”

Eulalie considered this. Chase’s was regularly in the 50s, and that was considered low.

“The military, say the Army, spotted how unique Mr. Sniper is and sent him to a series of specialist schools, and then on to Delta. Hard work wouldn’t have been enough to make him a star, a superstar, in the shadowy world of black-ops. That took raw, inborn talent, and Mr. Sniper has it in spades.”

Eulalie nodded.

“That, all of that, was shooting at artificial targets. To move into the theater of live combat, to actually aim at, to squeeze the trigger, with another human-being in your sights, requires self-permission. Permission from deep down, down in some ancient part of the brain. That’s a section of our soul where fundamental inhibitions are either enforced or released from duty.”

Eulalie, fascinated, nodded again.

“Mr. Sniper’s brain lets him — compels him — to believe: Do it! This is your personal enemy. You are better; he is inferior, and deserves to die. You are the best in the world — anyone who opposes you ... well, you get the drift.”

Eulalie looked thoughtful, “He doesn’t have an off-switch.”

“Or it doesn’t close all the way.”

Eulalie thought about Mr. Sniper for several long moments. “And, back in Sausalito that’s what you want to ... take advantage of. Women who should say no to ... say, intimate interactions with their children ... you want to identify and use those women who don’t have the usual, um, off-button?”

“Crudely put, yes. Money pressures, increasingly naughty opportunities that arise at Miss Kitty’s ... those and more are influencers, stress points, that contribute to a ... a lapse in the core of traditional willpower.”

Eulalie smiled conspiratorially, ““And you want some of those sweet mamas to eventually agree to give you access to their youngest girls.”

“Of course, but that’s just a sidebar bonus, not the crux of our experiments.” Chase looked off into the distance, thinking. “Okay, we’re talking about two distinct jurisdictions — the town of Sausalito, around 10,000 people.”

“And the Cajun Bayous. Maybe another two or three thousand.”

“Yes. And to oversimplify our discussion, let’s say I want to transform the culture in Sausalito to become more like down in the bayous.” He waited for Eulalie to catch up.

“Oh. Okay, the bayous are even more isolated, more independent, more proud of Cajun ways and traditions.” She thought some more, “And the bayous are matriarchal — women rule and have done for generations.”

Chase made a keep-going gesture.

“Nudity at home is fairly common, especially in the heat. Let’s see ... sex. Mothers don’t want their little daughters getting knocked up, but that’s true in town too. Probably all over the country.”

“But in the bayous...”

“It’s not all that common, but it wouldn’t raise a single eyebrow down there if a mom announced she had started jacking off Junior at bedtime.” Eulalie winked, “And it’s even rarer, but that mama wouldn’t even get tsk-tsked if she admitted to her girlfriends that she finally had to start blowing Junior to keep him out of Sissy’s panties. If she’s even wearing panties.”

Chase nodded, pleased with his star pupil. “Now, by nudging Sausalito in that direction, I’m not talking about town-mothers blowing their sons. Well, that could be one of the fortunate byproducts, but I’m talking more about a general loosening of inhibitions, of tiptoeing into once-forbidden territory.”

Eulalie looked pensive, “Okay, Kate has, I believe 12 or 13 mothers dancing at Miss Kitty’s. Your MOMs WEEK cocksucking contest. I’ll have her tape their photographs in her front windows. And post a running total of how many blowjobs they gave each day.”

“That’s my girl.”

“And Shannon will run a front-page article on the winner. Interview her on WZYD.”

“Tell me where I want to go with Miss Kitty’s.”

“That’s easy — eventually you want all of her dancers to be either mothers or teachers. The moms will have a direct influence on their own families. And on their neighbors who have kids. The teachers ... let’s see, they won’t be that ... um, directly influential, but they’ll affect far more kids — classroom after classroom.”

“And one of the techniques we’ll employ — both in town and down in the bayous — is to exploit those women who have a bit of perforation between the Yes and No parts of their brain.”

“Like a permission slip.”

“Hey, I like that.”

Permission Slip.

As Cassidy Townsend waited for Kaitlyn Kelly, she reflected on their lifelong friendship. One of Cassidy’s earliest memories was playing games in preschool. Simon Says. Duck, Duck, Goose. She and Kaitlyn were the most competitive in their class — one or the other usually won in Musical Chairs.

Their parents enrolled them together as kindergartners in the Spence School on East 91st Street. The two girls were inseparable through their senior year. And both went on to graduate from Smith, where they had roomed together.

These days, Kaitlyn was married, had two toddlers and a live-in nanny. She was an associate art director at the prestigious ad agency, BOBO Worldwide.

Cassidy was content living alone in SoHo, making pretty good bank as a restaurant, bar, catering, consultant. She had built a good rep and advised clients on everything from interior design to menus to staff hiring and training. She worked on a wide range of joints from popups to dive bars to 18-course tasting menus to corporate dining rooms to catered affairs at the United Nations. She was among the first to offer QR menus and digital payments at the table. But those kinds of projects were hardly on her mind now.

Around noon, she heard two courtesy buzzes — Kaitlyn was here; and she would let herself in with her own key. As usual, Kaitlyn had a calming effect on Cassidy — the two 32-year olds embraced warmly.

They were so close, could finish each other’s sentences, knew the most intimate details, shared everything. Both were around 5’ 6” tall, both slender, although Kaitlyn had slightly larger breasts. She had flaming red hair; Cassidy was a brunette.

Kaitlin had even, almost perfect features until she smiled. The smile was just a little bit off, just enough to make her look a bit wonky. A few charming bubbles off level.

Cassidy held up the bottle, “Want a pop?”

“Sure.”

They clicked glasses and Kaitlyn smiled and spoke with a credible Irish brogue, “May your troubles be less, and your blessings be more. And nothing but happiness come through your door.”

Cassidy smiled back, “And here you are, come through my door. So how did the Tesla thing go?”

Kaitlin gestured at her short skirt, “Peterson had me give most of the pitch.”

“And?”

“It was interesting. Tesla videod the entire thing. Doesn’t mean we’ll get the business; They don’t even have a marketing department.”

“Then why did they ask you to pitch ‘em?”

“Oh, we might get a piece of the action, a crumb. They do use a boutique shop once in a while, but we’ll never be their agency of record. Plus ... I think they like to have people bidding on their business — might get some new ideas to steal.”

“Fuckers.”

“So, show me this Golden Pussy nonsense.”

Cassidy handed her a vaporizer, “Let’s loosen up first.”

Kaitlyn giggled, “I know that look.”

“Why, whatever do you mean?”

As they scrolled through the LOST site, both girls frowned in annoyance. Kaitlyn, “It’s a boy’s club.”

“Yeah, good ole boys, no girls allowed.”

“You wuz robbed, girlfriend.”

“Yeah, those three fuckers.”

“Yup. The winners this year. But also arrowserb and Annabelle and Thorny and...”

“They’re on my list too. But I’m focused on this year’s winners.” She frowned darkly, “For now.”

“Understood.”

Cassidy sighed dramatically, clasped both hands to her heart, “Take me away from my troubles, transport me.”

Big grin, “I knew it!”

Both girls undressed quickly, and, holding hands, strolled over to huge bed on the west side of the loft.

Cassidy and Kaitlyn had been lovers for years, dating back to their time at Spence. It was sex, sure, but more than that, they were besties. Preferred each other’s company to everyone else.

They dated boys, and enjoyed. them. Kaitlyn even married one. But no one else quite measured up to the love they felt for each other.

Since they both were playing hooky from work, it felt almost like a vacation ... they took their time, made slow languorous love. Lying in each other’s arms, kissing deeply, slowly using their hands on each other. No hurries, no worries.

They got each other off, touching and smiling contentedly. Cassidy was usually a little more aggressive, and she worked her mouth down Kaitlyn’s body. Probed with her tongue and middle finger, brought Kaitlyn to the brink, and held her there.

Kaitlyn moaned softly — pleasure and need intertwined. Cassidy slowed her pace even more, content with teasing her lover, then pleasing, teasing and pleasing.

Later, they took a shower and, still naked, made a huge Caesar salad. As they ate, Kaitlyn said, “So, what’re we gonna do?”

“Starting now, starting today, I’m going to be proactive. No more sitting around and hoping a rigged system will cure itself.”

“Understood. But what, exactly? How?”

“I’m gonna focus on those three fuckers. Cocksuckers.”

Kaitlyn nodded, ‘“Makes sense. They’re not only part of the problem, they may well be the problem.”

They stood side-by-side, rinsed off the plates, cleaned up the kitchen. The two friends spent an hour or so throwing out ideas, discarding them, walking around the vast loft, holding hands, plotting and scheming, hardly aware of their nudity.

Kaitlyn kissed her buddy on the cheek and grinned, “I’m spending the night.”

“Good. But call Ty.”

“Oh, I will.”

“How’s Hardscrabble doing these days?”

“His business is booming. Now that the fucking pandemic is winding down, Wall Street is hungry for warm bodies again.”

The two friends worked through the afternoon, refining and then rejecting one LOST plan after another. Around five, Kaitlyn called her nanny, “Gracie, I won’t be home until ... oh, ten or eleven in the morning. Be a darling and throw something together for Ty, that’s a dear.”

She listened for a moment, then laughed, “Tell the little outlaws that their mama’s in jail.”

Next she called her husband, “Bunking with Cassidy, see you sometime. Maybe. Depends on my mood.”

She hung up, and smiled, “He’s coming by for a cocktail. Should we let him in?”

“Oh, why not?”

Ty Harding arrived around seven. He was a tall man, 33, with the still undefined face of a grumpy baby with a wet diaper. People, business people, often underestimated him. But he had the wisest, kindest eyes Cassidy had ever seen. She adored him.

Cassidy had donned a flowery silk kimona; Kaitlyn hadn’t bothered.

Ty had forged a niche in lower Manhattan. He and his two junior partners were executive headhunters for the financial services industry. Hardscrabble, LLC distinguished itself by turning down more opportunities than they accepted.

Their street creds escalated year by year. When they recommended a candidate, that person — more often than not a woman these days — was more than qualified. Hardscrabble looked beyond education, experience, talent. They were also interested in fitting the person to the personalities and to the culture of the firms they worked with.

The philosophy had cost them some business, and some money, in the early years, but was paying off handsomely these days.

Ty accepted a chilled martini and cheek kisses from Cassidy and his naked wife. Kaitlyn smiled warmly, “What’s the latest cornball from the Street?”

“If Mary had Jesus, and Jesus was the lamb of God, does that mean that Mary had a little lamb?”

Twin groans, and they led him into the kitchen area. “Gracie’s going to feed you, but Cassidy has some ham and cheese for nibbles.”

Cassidy grinned, “Pule and Jamon Ibérico.”

The three of them sat, noshed, giggled. That Cassidy and Kaitlyn were a couple was a non-negotiable fact of life before Ty even entered the picture. It wasn’t part of the prenup agreement; neither he nor Kaitlyn bothered to include it. Cassidy and Kaitlyn were ... settled law.

That night, the two buddies drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms. As they had done so many times over the years. But the LOST problem hadn’t been forgotten. They would start re-strategizing in the morning.

Morning showers, then a light breakfast of espresso and croissants. Kaitlin said, “All right, we need to ... um, negate three LOST authors. Let’s consider the options.”

They sat at Cassidy’s kitchen table, nude and focused. Cassidy said, “Corrupt their future stories. Degrade them.”

“Okay, how?”

“Find a hacker. Rewrite scenes as they’re posted.”

“Lame.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Leverage. We need leverage.”

Cassidy brightened, “Blackmail?”

“Yes, diplomacy’s other side. We could, um, plant some kiddy porn on their computers.”

“Hackers again.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I don’t like involving a third party if we can help it.”

Cassidy, “For starters, we need to identify them — the ... the Unholy Trinity.”

“You’re right! Get real names and addresses. Then we can dig into their lives, their backgrounds, their peccadillos, their vulnerabilities.”

The two girlfriends batted possibilities back and forth, finding a flaw here, another one there. Finally Kaitlin said, “We need to step back, take a break, come at it from another angle.”

They smiled at each other, held hands, went back to the unmade bed. This time they lay on their backs, side by side, and caressed each other between their thighs. No need to rush, they knew each other so well. One gentle climax would softly roll into the next, and the next after that.

It was Ty Harding who came up with a contact for Cassidy. Kaitlin had explained the problem, the LOST problem. He got a thoughtful look, and then said, “I know of a woman who ... well, rumor has it that she’s connected. To unorthodox ... um, problem solvers. To people who take an oblique approach to unusual challenges.”

The next morning at 10 sharp, Cassidy was seated across the desk from a middle-aged woman named Constance Grayson. They were in a modest office on the third floor of the Goldman Sachs international headquarters.

Ty had told Cassidy, “Constance is a native New Yorker, but spent her career as the chief of staff to a United States senator. From Montana or Wyoming, one of those states.”

“So, a glorified paper-pusher?”

Ty shrugged, “Maybe. But she has a rep for getting things done. And Goldman let her hire her own team.”

Cassidy nodded, “That says a lot, Goldman.”

In a small, nondescript conference room, Cassidy studied the woman: smartly dressed in a quiet way. Composed, perhaps even serene. A small smile, waiting patiently for her visitor to state her business. Cassidy suddenly felt a bit foolish at the inanity of her mission. A silly sex story site, for Christ’s sake.

But she was there so she plowed gamely on. As she listened to herself, she sounded a bit hollow. She concluded, “Well, there it is. It’s hardly earth-shattering, but it’s been eating at me for years.”

Constance Grayson kept a straight face. She had been renowned in DC for seeing around corners, for anticipating consequences, for foreseeing possibilities. And, she was a curious woman. As petty as the sex-story challenge was, it was new territory — a different horizon.

She smiled at Cassidy and handed her an embossed business card, “Call this number on a throwaway phone. Someone will answer stating the day and date. You respond by saying ‘Wednesday is inconvenient.’ You’ll receive a call back within the hour.”

Cassidy read the card, “Lacy Davenport.”

The former Eulalie Guidry — now Bijou Lacroix — had been left behind in Sausalito, Mississippi. Her new persona journeyed out to see the world with Chase Windsor. And, to pull off an audacious con.

In Marseille, Bijou studied her naked self in the full-length mirror. She no longer thought of herself as anyone other than the 11-year old French girl whose mother had given her up for adoption when she was two days old.

Chase Windsor was conscientiously redoing her lovely, tan, oval face. The process would take years off her 14-year old countenance. When he finished, Bijou would look even younger than 11.

He had begun with the subtlest of foundations followed by Elizabeth Arden’s Eight-Hour Cream as the highlighter.

Next he started the contouring process, gently applying a dark powder on each side of Bijou’s nose. “See how much narrower your nose looks?”

Bijou nodded, still staring into the mirror.

He paused to move from side to side to observe his work from different angles. “Now I’m going to use the merest hint of a lighter color to draw focus to your cheekbones and philtrum.”

Bijou stared as the transformation reversed the aging process; she began looking younger and younger. In a way, it was similar to watching a film running backwards in time.

“Remember my signature look — I call it Downy Glam. High-fashion models use it — airbrushed skin, sculpted cheekbones, a peachy blush.”

Bijou was riveted by the process. She knew she’d have to duplicate it on her own once they were in Lyon.

As he worked, his face was full of concentration.

“Longer eyelashes. A dewy highlighter.” He nodded to himself, “Time to bake it all in.” He glanced at Bijou, “That means we set everything with a loose powder ... imagine the shell of a plover’s egg.”

She nodded, completely focused.

“Eyebrows. The key to shaping them is a latex adhesive. Use it very sparingly. Next, and last, eyeliner. Black of course.”

A few minutes later, he gestured toward Bijou’s face, “You remember all the makeup I used, all the products. But you can’t see any of that now. These techniques — layering and blending — make you look softer, younger. It’s a Park Avenue Face. With a Lolita body.”

Bijou hefted her perky little boobs, “Too bad we can’t do anything about these.”

Chase shook his head and smiled, “No, don’t worry about your breasts. Girls are developing earlier and earlier these days. Some — depending on genes and environment — start growing mammary glands as young as five years old.”

Bijou tilted her head, still gazing into the mirror, still trying to picture herself as her birth mother would.

Chase said, “Besides, your pussy looks like it could be on a six-year old.”

Bijou nodded; that was true.

Chase and Bijou had arrived in Marseilles via a circuitous route. The first test of her new passport was at Kennedy where they boarded a United/ANA flight to Tokyo. They’d spent three days there resting from the 14-hour flight.

Some sightseeing, some sashimi, some side excursions. Then on to Singapore, Sydney, Christchurch, and back to Asia. Hanoi, Phnom Penh, and two weeks in Beijing.

There, Chase took Bijou on a tour of the Forbidden City, the backdrop for a long con that he and Lacy Danube had pulled a few months earlier. Lacy had been ‘discovered’ to be the illegitimate great-granddaughter of P’u Yi, the Boy Emperor.

Ordinarily Chase didn’t discuss past triumphs, big nor small, but he was inculcating Bijou into the Life.