Chapter 8

The next morning we went over to Nordstrom’s and saw Kay Snyder again. She was glowing, and I noticed her bottom was more than a bit sore. But did she ever look happy and well-fucked! We picked up all the new things that had been flown in overnight and then took our leave. The only disagreement we had was when I gave Kay ten hundred-dollar bills with instructions to buy something very nice for herself. I stressed it was for her, not for the kids and not for the house.

I finally threatened to call Nordstrom’s headquarters and tell the chairman that he had a manager — Kay turned out to be merchandise manager for women’s wear — who wouldn’t accommodate the simplest request from a customer.

“Bastard!” she whispered as she kissed me full on the lips. Believe me, Kay Snyder knows how to kiss. It was almost as good as one of Kris’s.

She took the money.

Before heading out to the airport and Orlando, we made a stop at Tiffany’s after leaving Nordstrom’s. I figured Kris should have a few odds and ends to finish off her resort-wear wardrobe she had just accumulated. The one item that she insisted upon was the one she wore out of the store: an 18-kt. gold necklace, although she insisted it wasn’t a necklace, it was a collar. It was quite heavy being made of a wide band of interlocking gold links, and quite wide, nearly an inch. She insisted on having the large catch at the back engraved with the ornate lettering, CS.

“And what does CS mean?” I asked.

“I’m not really sure, honey,” she replied, “it’s your choice: either ‘Cam’s Slut’ or ‘Cam’s Slave’. You choose.”

I just shook my head.

As the limo took us out to the airport again, it was sort of funny. When we had arrived, I had a small overnight bag, while Kris had only a makeup case. Now the trunk was full of new luggage loaded with Kris’s loot. The fine folks at Nordstrom’s had even packed for her with Kay Snyder supervising.

That woman was really too much! She actually had a checklist which she carefully ticked off as items were packed. And it was comprehensive! The result was staffers were running all over the store to pick up odds and ends that had been overlooked. But of one thing we could be certain: Kris was going to be the epitome of resort fashion for the next few weeks.

As the luggage was being loaded in the aircraft — her boxes had been taken up to New York in a northbound Executive Aviation jet heading for “the barn”: Teterboro Airport in New Jersey — Kris raised an eyebrow.

“I thought this was sort of a potluck operation,” she said. “Reading about it on the Net, when a client wants to go somewhere, the nearest available aircraft is dispatched to handle the run.”

“That’s true,” I agreed.

“Well, why is it that we have the same plane? This is the same one that took us from the Yucatan to New Orleans and then over here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Unless they have more than one plane with the same registration number, I’m sure.”

“They’re all pretty similar, and their numbers are pretty close together sometimes.”

“Similar, but not identical. And the numbers aren’t close; it’s the same one,” she insisted.

The pilot was doing his final check, so I asked him. To my surprise, he appeared embarrassed. “Uh ... Err...”

The first officer was nearby and had overheard my question. Coming over to us he said, “The game’s over, Guy. You might as well level with Mr. Harris.” Then he added with a wink at Kris, “Wouldn’t you know it would be a sharp-eyed chick who would tumble to it? I’m sure we could have continued fooling Mr. Harris for years.”

At that point the pilot explained that, of course Kris was absolutely correct with respect to Executive Aviation’s normal operations. “But, sir, although I guess we’re not supposed to know, we do know that you own the whole damned thing. That being the case, this is your personal aircraft, and it’s the one that all the seniors most want to fly. First of all, by a very wide margin, you’re the most considerate client we ever fly. But beyond that, this is the greatest plane in the whole fleet. It has everything! And it’s maintained at a level that makes it even better than brand new. After all, sir,” he ended with a grin, “we really do have to keep our owner happy. Not to mention the owner’s fiancée.”

“The correct term is ‘mistress’,” Kris said. “I’m Cam’s very happy mistress.”

“Fiancée,” Guy repeated.

Boarding the plane, we were soon airborne. Because it was nearly noon by the time we were in the air, Kris and I were delighted to find that there was a picnic lunch prepared for us. We had cold Southern fried chicken with a salad and a very fine white wine.

It was funny, really. Since it’s only a shade over 400 miles from Atlanta to Orlando, Guy had to dawdle and even zig out over the Atlantic to give us time to enjoy our lovely lunch without being rushed. Ain’t service wonderful?

Again a limousine was waiting for us at the executive terminal to take us to our hotel at Disney World. For my part, I was getting a great kick out of Kris’s enthusiasm and excitement. As we approached the huge park, she was so excited she was almost bouncing on the seat. It had come as no surprise for me to learn earlier that she had never been to an amusement park of any kind in her life.

Arriving at the hotel, an assistant manager ushered us to our room. After showing us its features, he handed me a packet with our park tickets and left. But Kris continued to look around the room everywhere, even under the huge bed.

“Whatever are you doing?” I asked.

“Where is she?”

“Who?”

“Our room steward, silly!” Then Kris’s face fell and she appeared to be close to tears. “My gosh! Don’t tell me...” Her voice trailed off.

“Tell you what?”

“That I’m supposed to ... entertain you... all by myself? I mean ... Don’t I even get a night off sometimes? And you’re so big and you stretch me so much...”

“Golly, sweetie,” I replied while trying to keep a straight face, “they seem to have overlooked that one.” Then I brightened and added, “But I’ll bet the concièrge on the floor could arrange for something ... And then you can have your time off!”

“Neato!” she exclaimed. “Of course, I’ll have to cut off your cock and balls before I go, to make sure you stay out of trouble. But you wouldn’t mind, would you? I mean ... you and your lady of the evening would just want to talk and maybe have a drink or two, right?”

Not being nearly as quick with the repartee — after all, it had been only about a week that I had been able even to speak to a lovely woman — I replied by sticking out the tip of my tongue.

Kris couldn’t wait to visit the park. She put on shorts and a golf shirt, while I wore a pair of Bermudas and a golf shirt. We were wearing Nikes designed for heavy-duty walking. Off we went.

That afternoon and evening were the most fun I can ever remember having. Kris’s beauty consistently stopped traffic and her joy and ebullience captivated everyone. She was like a 10-year-old girl in the body of a gorgeous woman. What a combination!

She was literally bouncing up and down when the Mickey Mouse character came up to her. Each was captivated by the other. An alert park PR girl, recognizing Kris’s overwhelming beauty, called over a professional photographer to take pictures of the couple. Since he was using a professional-quality electronic camera, it was easy for me to see the pictures he was getting. After showing a few of them to the PR girl, she got on her communicator and other Disney characters started showing up.

Kris was simply great! She mugged with them, danced with them, exchanged hugs ... She was having a ball!

Finally the girl, recognizing what she had stumbled into, approached Kris with a model’s release permitting the Disney organization to use the pictures in their promotional material. It was then that I was reminded that Kris was a lawyer — among other things — and admitted to practice at the Federal bar. She instantly agreed, but then, seemingly as an afterthought, added, “At regular model fees, of course.”

The girl’s eyes widened and she got on her communicator again. A few minutes later we were introduced to an older woman, the park’s PR director. She took a few minutes to look at some of the pictures already taken and then nodded saying, “Where do I sign?”

“Oh, there’s just one more thing,” Kris added. “Checks are to be made payable to W. Cameron Harris, III.” She gave the woman my address.

There was another benefit of that experience, though: The director detailed her assistant to escort us around the park for the duration of our stay. What this meant was that we never had to wait in line for anything. She would just march to the head of the line, show a very special pass to the operator, and we were next.