Chapter 1

My name is Catherine Smith and I live in Norfolk, Virginia. My story opens in 1984 and I’m at home.

I’m always at home. One could say I fear to venture out in the world, and one wouldn’t be far wrong. If I were to be described as a frightened mouse, that wouldn’t be inaccurate either.

It was a late spring day and was already becoming quite warm. I shuddered slightly at the prospect of the summer heat because my home — almost unique in the area — was not air-conditioned. The wiring couldn’t handle the additional load. In fact, the wiring and the electrical system couldn’t even handle all the installed lighting. We had to be very careful to turn out lights because if too many were left on, the main fuse would blow. We bought those fuses by the dozen!

Who is “we”? That’s me, my cook and my man of all work. They were a married couple and had been married for nearly 50 years. That was a problem, too. In fact, it was a couple of problems. In the first place, they didn’t marry at the age of 10. Both were on the shady side of 70 and were slowing down ... to say the very least. They should have been pensioned off years before, but I didn’t feel I had the money to do it.

I made my way — very carefully — down the driveway. I was to meet a taxi that was to pick me up at the curb. Although there was a circular drive up to the front door, it was in such awful condition I was afraid any vehicle short of an army truck might get stuck. Reaching the street, I looked back at the house. Its lines were lovely. But they were the only things that were.

The house had been built in 1840 on a very large piece of land. Oddly enough, the neighborhood was quite prosperous and mostly quite up to date. This resulted from a series of fires and other occurrences that at one time or another had destroyed most of the surrounding homes that had originally dated from the same period.

While waiting for my taxi, I looked at the property and felt ill. The house was over 140 years old, and showed every year of its age ... and then some! As I said before, its lines were beautiful, although the overall appearance wasn’t far from an overgrown jungle. Foundation plantings and shrubs had grown out of control over the years until much of the house itself had become obscured.

I really needed to renovate the property, but it was apparent that the amount of work required would have made it uninhabitable during reconstruction, and where would we live in the meantime? Of at least equal importance, where would the money come from to pay for the work? That was one of the reasons for my venture out into the world that morning.

My reverie was interrupted by the arrival of my taxi. Getting into the back seat — the driver had just sat there watching — I directed him to the headquarters of United Virginia Bank here in Norfolk. The driver merely grunted an acknowledgment and we drove off.

While in transit, this might be a good time to tell you about myself. The startling fact — it would be unbelievable to people who know me — is that I was 34 years of age. Why would that be startling? Because I looked my age ... plus about 40 years. In the first place, my hair is gray. And I don’t mean that shiny prematurely-gray, gray, I mean the yucky drab, lost-its-color-with-age gray. Then there’s my figure. Oh, sure ... my figure. Everyone is supposed to have one, and I guess I had one, too. I was shocked when a doctor measured me after forcing me to stand up straight — I never do — and told me I was five feet nine. In my normal slumped-over posture at the time, I appeared about five-four. In short, I was a physical mess.

I was raised by my grandparents. My own parents were both killed in an accident when I was 10 years old. You may not believe this, but I was actually raped when I was eight and gave birth at the age of nine! I never saw my baby and know nothing about it. I don’t know if it was a boy or a girl. My parents knew — they disposed of it somehow — but never told me and they were killed about a year later. Whether my childhood pregnancy had anything to do with their death, I never knew. One thing did happen, though. The doctor said I was so young when I delivered that I would outgrow the stretch marks and I did.

By the way, at the time this story opens I was the only person alive who knew I had ever been pregnant.

I guess the combination of the rape coupled with being raised by my grandparents colored my life. In the first place, I was and remained a shrinking violet. Furthermore, most people thought I was my grandparents’ daughter rather than their granddaughter. Coupled with my appearance, as soon as I was grown they thought I was at least 20 years older than I really was.

The second factor resulting from my rape was a fear of men. I wasn’t very attractive and went out of my way to look as unattractive as I could. Whenever I had to buy clothes — one must wear something, after all — I went out of my way to get the least-attractive items I could find, usually in at least a couple of sizes too large. I was the despair of every clothing-store salesclerk with whom I ever had contact.

Oh, yes ... I did — and do — have brilliant blue eyes, but I had learned to squint to hide them as much as possible.

Finally we arrived at the bank, so end of background on Catherine Smith.

I was really quite nervous. The reason for my excursion was to meet with Ann Stockdale, the new Executive Vice President heading the bank’s Trust Division. And the reason for our meeting was the abysmal performance of my investment portfolio. Between money I inherited from my parents and later from my grandparents when they died, not many years ago I had had about fifty-million dollars.

I said the bank’s investment performance was poor? Let me put it a different way: Last year, if its performance had been twice as good as it was, it would have been disastrous. I started the year with twenty-million dollars and ended it with only ten. Another year like that and I would be destitute.

In fairness, while I was hard-hit last year, I wasn’t the Lone Ranger. Comparable results had been achieved for the rest of the bank’s investment clientèle. Thus the housecleaning and Ann Stockdale’s being hired for the position. The entire investment management staff had been fired.

I entered the bank building’s elevator lobby and took the elevator to the Trust Division floor. Getting off, I was facing an impressive-looking reception desk behind which sat an equally impressive-looking receptionist.

“Good morning,” I muttered. “Catherine Smith to see Ann Stockdale. I have an appointment.”

“Good morning, Miss Smith!” the receptionist cheerily replied. “Mrs. Stockdale is expecting you. You may take a seat if you wish, but her secretary will be right out.”

I remained standing — or more accurately, slumping — in front of her desk and moments later a woman appeared who greeted me and ushered me back to a cherry-paneled corner office. The secretary entered, then stepped aside as a woman rose from behind the desk to rush around to greet me.

I was amazed. From what little I had read, I knew that Ann Stockdale was a grandmother, but she was the youngest-looking grandmother I had ever seen. At about five feet nine she was quite tall. She was slender and had a perfect figure. With her golden hair worn in an urchin cut and brilliant blue eyes, she appeared to be in her twenties.

She greeted me, ushered me to a leather-covered sofa, and then took a seat on a side chair beside me.

After exchanging pleasantries, I asked about her grandchildren. (I had heard somewhere that the safest thing to say to a grandmother was to inquire about her grandchildren.)

She startled me with her reply. “I’m too damned young to be a grandmother!” she wailed. “And my damned daughter dropped one just a few months ago, and already there’s another bun in the oven! Can you believe it?”

“But ... but,” I stammered, “I thought it was your son. I didn’t know you had a daughter, too.”

“Hah! I took care of that months ago. Just in case my son turns out to have rocks in his head and somehow lets Emily get away I adopted her as my daughter.” She shook her head and added, “Can you believe that girl? She’s nursing her first, is expecting her second, but her weight and measurements are back to almost her measurements before her first pregnancy! The only difference is that her tits are just the slightest bit larger. And can you believe it? She still doesn’t even wear a bra! She supports her milk-laden tits without the slightest sag. Can you believe it? She can pass the pencil test today! I hate her!”

“Pencil test?” This was a test I had never heard of.

Ann grinned and explained, “It’s a test that’s popular in college, or was. You lift a girl’s tit and put a plain wooden pencil under it against her chest. If there’s any sag at all, when the tit is released, the pencil is trapped by its weight. Normally, about the only girls who can ‘pass’ are the flat-chested ones. Emily is a solid B, she’s nursing, and she passes! And I hate her!” Ann repeated.

Clearly this woman was jerking my chain. Changing the subject slightly, I asked, “Tell me about your grandchild. Is it a boy or a girl?”

“She’s the most beautiful, most perfect little girl God has ever created,” Ann replied in a tone of voice that brooked no argument. It was an established fact. “And you realize,” she added, “that’s an objective determination. The fact that I’m Susan Ann’s grandmother, and she’s named after me has nothing to do with it at all.” Her eyes were gleaming with happiness as she very cutely stuck out the tip of her tongue.

“This pencil test you mentioned ... I’m not sure I understand.”

Ann rose to her feet and went to her desk. Returning, she stood before me and unbuttoned the double-breasted suit jacket she was wearing. I’m sure my eyes must have gaped when I realized she wore nothing underneath. I found myself looking at a perfect pair of tits with her engorged nipples upthrust. Taking a plain wooden pencil she had retrieved from her desk, she put it horizontally under her left tit after first lifting it up with her left hand. When she released it, the pencil immediately dropped to the floor.

“And that’s the pencil test,” she said as she re-buttoned her suit jacket.

I’m certain my eyes must have been as big as saucers at that moment. “But ... but you passed,” I stammered, “and you’re a grandmother!”

“So what?” she retorted. “I haven’t nursed a baby in over 25 years, either. I’ve had time to recover. Emily passes while she’s still nursing!”

But then she changed the subject. “Before going upstairs to our dining room, Catherine, there are a couple of points I want to cover:

“First of all, there will be no bank charges of any kind against your account for last year.” She swallowed hard and her eyes flashed as she added, “Our services for last year are free. All they cost you was about half of your net worth, or about ten-million dollars.

“Second, we will be meeting a young woman named Martha Stone. I am proposing — we are proposing — that she take over the management of your trust account and your investments. I will go into this in more detail when Marty is present, but for now I will only say that, although she is quite young — not quite 25 — she may be the finest money manager alive in the world today. You’ll hear more at lunch, but I have the numbers to prove it.”

She paused at that point and studied her hands, which were folded on her lap. Then speaking very softly she continued, “Marty is one of the first of my girls to finish school.” Again she paused. “That requires some explanation. You see, in western Virginia there’s a settlement — that’s really all one can call it — that’s been essentially cut off from civilization for generations. What they do is raise girls, primarily for sale to whorehouses.” She paused, grinned wryly and continued, “Out there they think I’m a madam. I’ve been visiting every year to buy up intelligent-looking girls. I bring them back and enroll them in private boarding schools. I continue paying all their expenses as long as they choose to continue their education.”

Again she paused before continuing, “Marty may choose to tell you more about it ... or she may not. What I’ve just told you is all I’m going to say on this subject.” Then with a smile she rose from her chair and asked, “Are you ready to eat? I’m sure Marty is dying of impatience while waiting in the dining room to meet you.”

So off we went.

When I first laid eyes on Martha Stone, I was utterly stunned. She was the most beautiful person — male or female — I had ever seen in my life. Believe it or not, I could actually feel myself straightening up from my normally hunched-over posture. That was because she was about five feet ten, and since she was wearing two-inch heels, she was almost exactly six feet tall. Not only was she tall, she was very slender with very long — and perfect — legs along with brilliant blue eyes and golden blonde hair. In short, she was a knockout!

We exchanged greetings, but I’m sure all I did was mumble something or other. In her presence at the time that was all I was capable of doing.

We were in a small private dining room with a single table set for three. Ann Stockdale indicated seats and ordered white wine from the waitress standing by the door. Taking my seat, I noticed that there were no menus. Apparently our lunch had been pre-ordered.

While sipping our wine Ann asked Marty, “Would you care to tell Miss Smith what you think of the bank’s investment performance on her account?”

“With respect to last year,” she began, “if it had been twice as good as it was, it would have been disastrous.”

I was amused. Those were almost exactly the same words I had been thinking while being driven to the bank.

Ann began, “Miss Smith—”

“Please call me Catherine,” I interrupted. “Or ... or Cathy.” No one had ever called me Cathy in my life. But for some reason — perhaps it was the Martha/Marty thing — I really liked the sound of it.

“Cathy,” Ann continued with a lovely grin, “last year, while the bank was losing half your money, Marty was running a series of phantom portfolios. She’s been doing that for me for years. The way they work is that I give her an assumed starting value for each one (each has it’s own investment objective, ranging from ‘widows & orphans’ — your money — to aggressive growth). Last year, her most conservative fund — the ‘widows & orphans’ — gained over 30 percent.”

“How ... how did the aggressive growth fund do?” I stammered.

Ann looked at Marty with a question in her eyes but replied, “Up about 130 percent, wasn’t it?”

Marty did not reply verbally. But she did blush and nod her head once.

“You see, Cathy, she’s very good ... and she’s made a bundle for me.”

Marty was obviously startled by Ann’s last statement. “And how in hell did I do that?”

Ann giggled, and it was the loveliest sound I’ve ever heard. “It was easy, really.” Then with her eyebrows raised she continued, “You might have been playing for fun, but I wasn’t.” Again she giggled and went on, “For four years now, whenever you made a paper move with your aggressive growth portfolio, I mirrored it with real money. So I got that 130 percent last year for real!”