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AUTHOR’S NOTE:
This story is dedicated to the devastating, delightful, delicious, developed, delectable, devilish, dominating GODDESS MISTRESS MARQUESA DE SADE.  It should not be read by any minor.  It should not be read by anyone who is ethically, legally, morally, religiously, or personally {for any reason(s)} prohibited or proscribed from doing so.  It should not be read by anyone who is fearful of, or uncomfortable with, the subject of feminine influence/control/domination/superiority/supremacy/inspiration or the topic of mind control in any of its forms or both.

I absolutely love my twin sister’s family with all my heart and soul.  Fortunately, I’m well-heeled enough to fly them here for summer vacation.  I’ll do my darndest to make sure every wonderful one of them has the time of their lives.

One snowy Thursday night, my once upon a time so-called handsome, used to be successful mostly due to his family and mine, lazy freeloader, much too ignorant and stupid to be as smart as less than a halfwit, good-for-nothing, half-baked, good riddance to bad rubbish ex-brother-in-law (His mother found out she was pregnant with him on April Fools Day and it was expelled to torture the world on Halloween.) went to the store for some booze like he always did when he wasn’t gambling illegally.  Only this time, he never came back.  If only he’d had the compassion, moral fiber, and commonsense to plow his car {whose payments he defaulted on after starting off by giving the dealer a credit card backed with an identity theft-created cosigner} into a guardrail or something harder.  And don’t loan sharks or bookies at least break deadbeat clients thumbs anymore?  I’d gladly have paid all his debts with interest and a ‘mondo’ gratuity, if they’d done everyone with any sense who was twice cursed to know him that little favor.

Instead, he ramshackle shacked up with his fake booby prize of a rabid and mad white elephant; fool’s gold-plated, gold digger, trophy girl-fiend whose only insolvent bankable commodity is giving the sleaziest sluts and cheapest crack whores a bad name.  The least that eventually toothless, gruesome twosome could’ve done is slink away lickety-split and exterminate each other anonymously in the smelliest dumpster rejected by the filthiest Skid Row somewhere in the worst town in the poorest nation on Earth.  But then, how would he collect the alimony checks that misbegotten jackasshole of a judge awarded him because of that manipulative, knows how to work the system, crocodile tears in tidal waves-fake crying leech’s so-called disabling condition?  Since lawyers have to pass the bar exam, as far as I’m concerned judges should have to do at least that much.

I’ve never found a woman I wanted to marry and who also would put up with me–so far  as the whole husband-and-wife lifetime commitment thing goes.  I suppose I’m destined, fated, doomed, cursed, blessed, or whichever ones it is to be the bachelor’s bachelor.  Even so, I still persistently and sometimes sharply feel the need for some of that cozy embracing and being cuddled in your family’s loving bosom kind of life.  I’m so happy we could all make this come together this year.  You just never know what might happen these crazy, mixed-up days.

Once they agreed to come visit, I dove in with both feet into working out every possible detail I could plan to make their vacation something spectacular they’d always remember and never forget how out of this world it was.  I checked out with a fine tooth comb every kind of entertainment venue any member(s) of my sis´s family might want to experience in these parts.  Sports, concerts, swimming, museums, sightseeing, boating, restaurants, parks, fishing, shopping, playgrounds, hunting, water parks just for starters.  Nothing that could be called good, clean fun was off my list of possible amusements.

Getting the time off was a snap.  Starting up Blossoming Enterprises Unlimited and holding onto the reins as it has expanded, matured, and transformed into one of the most successful firms in this neck of the woods and doing everything I can think of to assemble and keep as happy as possible the best dang staff of the most competent and conscientious profit sharing employees to run things like cesium clockwork does have its perks.  When I announced I’d be mostly out of the office for a minimum of the next couple of months, two of the biggest pranksters on my staff nearly did cartwheels over their desks to celebrate.  I’d have gladly given them a bonus for going through with it.  One of them in particular would have been well compensated.  Just in case some of that “when the cat’s away, the mieces will play” ribbing everybody gave me is anything more than unsuccessfully trying to get my goat, I’ve installed several types of the right software from several independent vendors for each genre [redundancy! redundancy! redundancy! …] on the computers to let me know what’s up.  And I’m the only one who can access any of the multiple security camera systems that can only have any one of the video cams turned off by me.  I can do either or both wherever I can establish any of my secured, password protected, multiple encrypted internet connections.  I may be trusting and easygoing, but this tech head man around here didn´t lead this firm and everyone in it to unparalleled success by being so trusting that I’ve become completely naive and idiotic.

From the moment the airport shuttle van they’d be the only ones using arrived at their door to whisk them here, I did everything I could think of to make it first-class carte blanche every red carpeted step of the way.  My sister chastised me for spoiling her kids rotten.  {She still assumes she’s in charge, just because she’s 17 minutes older.}  Considering the crap pile they’ve had to dig out of, nothing I do to give my loved ones the no holds barred superstar treatment is a bad thing.  Besides, if uppityness rears its ugly headache, I can always ship my sister home.

They were wild about and even more wildly appreciative of everything I did.  Well, almost everything.  Nobody was happy about me burning the breakfast that one morning.  My sister got a couple of good belly laughs out of it.  All those culinary school classes I took.  I was sure I could strut my stuff in the kitchen and knock their socks off.  All I did was prove she’s still a better cook than I am so far … at least this once.  I’ll come up with some way to redeem myself in the kitchen–I’ve got to.  Her brood did get to see the town’s first-rate fire department in action.

* * *

Now I know what granny and grandpa meant when they said things like, “Youth is wasted on the young.”  I’m about to drop on my feet and we haven’t even come close to finishing all the thrill rides in the amusement park my nieces and nephews voted to go to first day out of the shoot.  (I tried putting this off as long as possible.  Children are more dedicated to what they truly want than we adults frequently give them credit for.)  Don’t get me wrong, I still enjoy a good roller coaster now and then with the best of them.  But that last one really took something out of me while it was spinning me dizzy.  And my stomach can’t forget the triple somersaulting me out of what few wits I’ve still got left.

While they’re running and I’m happily dragging myself to the next thriller around here, I hear something unexpected coming from I’m not sure where at first..  It’s a bit of music from a song I haven’t heard in years.  It’s taken from the chorus and I hear “Sign, sign everywhere a sign” sung over and over.  Just as I’m sort of getting used to hearing this little melody snippet, I see this rather attractive woman carrying a sandwich board.  Aha!  She’s the source.  I smile at her cleverness.  Even if I’d never buy what she’s hawking, I’ve gotta investigate this as it turns out quite striking, Glamazonian, and shapely saleswoman.

When I catch my sister’s eye, I tell her I’ll meet them at our rendezvous point at our previously designated time.  My sister asks, “So what’s her name?”  All I do is smile.  “You don’t even know her name yet?” sis asks.  I stick my tongue out at her.  As I’m turning and starting to walk away I hear her say, “A pretty woman pops up and you horny guys are all alike.”  So what if she’s telling the truth.  I won’t let this possible chance of my lifetime slip through my slightly sweating fingertips.

I pursue my Junoesque desire.  While strolling through the park one day I may never forget, if I’m lucky, I notice something else.  There’s something different about her sign.  The sandwich board’s pieces aren’t being draped over her very nice body.  She’s got them fixed up so you have to raise your eyes above her head to make out what they say.  By the time I can catch up with her, she’s stopped walking for a moment.  And the thing is, when I take a gander at her signage in front of her, it doesn’t say anything.

Okay, this is kind of unusual but I’ll just move around and check out her rear–I mean her rear sign.  As I’m starting to maneuver around her position, she turns a bit so her backside (Sir Mix-a-Lot would get at least a decuple-platinum-selling quadruple CD by doing justice to her foxy moneymaker that can pay off every financial debt on Earth at least twice over) is right in my line of sight.  When my eyes move up her body to reach her other sign, it’s blank too.

Now I’m truly confused.  What is she selling.  There’s one way to find out for certain.

Slowly I walk over towards her approaching, and I hope not encroaching in, her personal space’s safety zone.  I try to act casually and not be threatening in any ways.  I’ve got to do my best to not come off as all creepy older man trying to pick up a hot-bodied, much younger babe in this public place.  If I fail, I’ll get screwed royally instead of getting to know, and who knows, maybe having a good time with an eye-catching woman.  And if things really work out of sight, both of us may get royally screwed like never before.  And in the best of all worlds where wet dreams come true to larger than life-size, there’ll be a whole lots more fun and games for the two of us.

She looks sort of Polynesian to me.  Yet, there’s something about her that isn’t usually associated with people from that ethnic group.  Her complexion is somewhat paler than most of the Pacific Islander people I’ve ever seen.  By the time I nearly reach her, I’ve decided to sincerely compliment her cleverness in salesmanship before I even think of trying to make my first foray that’ll hopefully close the real, big deal with her ASAP.

“Hello, Miss.  I think you’re an extraordinary saleswoman.”

I could have smacked myself senseless and hopefully knocked some sense into me when I heard that obviously much too sexist word for this modern sensitivity-saturated new age of enlightenment pass my lips.  And I compounded my ‘faux pas’ by calling her Miss, not Ms.  I’m starting out verbally on the wrong foot while putting the other one in my mouth.  Way to go right into swan diving into a crash and burn you silver dross-plated tongued doofus.  Obviously, no Blarney Stone kissing for you yet.  It’s time for damage control.  Do it now, yuh big dummy!!!

“Oh, excuse me.  I guess I should have said, “Ms., you are a great salesperson.””

She smiles pleasantly at me.  Then she reaches out her left hand and gently pats my shoulder.

“It doesn’t bother or offend me that you recognize, acknowledge, and respond so delightfully to my womanhood.  In fact, I rather enjoy it and you!! are attracted to me.  Too many people nowadays seemed to be preoccupied with protecting themselves in political correctness.  I like involving myself with a high caliber individual who’s in close contact with his perceptions and who also speaks his truthfulness forthrightly.  Being seen and accepted as an extraordinary saleswoman is a wonderful treat.  What compels you to believe this is a fact about me?”

“Your sign for one thing.  It’s the opposite of every other sandwich board I’ve ever seen.  Instead of it covering you, you’ve got it suspended over your head.  And rather than spelling out what you’re selling, it’s completely blank.  You’ve definitely stirred up my curiosity.  So tell me, what are you selling?”

“Exactly what my sign says,” she answers while surreptitiously moving her eyes all over me.

“But your sign doesn’t say anything.”

“That’s right,” she responds looking right into my eyes and then winking.

“But you just told me you were selling what’s written on your sign.”

“And that’s because what is written on my sandwich board is exactly what I’m selling.”

I feel we’re lost in conundrums wrapped in riddles enclosed in enigmas or misunderstandings while going around in circular logic labyrinths of confusion minus even a clue to finding a GPS device or at least a map.  Maybe I need to make myself clearer.

Hmmmmmmm.  Now what’s that word I learned in philosophy class?  …  Oh yeh, a “syllogism” is made up of a major premise, a minor premise, and the conclusion.  Wait a minute, that’s not quite it.  What I’m looking for is a little deductive reasoning that sorta resembles those mathematical rules about if A has such and such a relationship to B and B also has such and such a relationship to C then A also has such and such a relationship to C.  Okay, here goes.

“But if you are selling what’s written on your sign and both pieces of your sandwich board have nothing on them, then that would mean you are selling nothing!!”

“Your perceptiveness is right on the money again.  I am selling absolutely nothing.  You are a perspicacious admirer, aren’t you””

Now she stretches out her right arm and that hand gives my other shoulder a gentle yet firm squeeze.  Her fingers subtly explore that part of my body as I see the tip of her tongue sliding along her lips.  My masculine ego assumes her fingertips linger on my shoulder and she’s tonguing because she likes the good shape I’ve always prided myself on staying in.  I may not be “in like Flynn” yet, but I haven’t been roundhouse swift kicked to the curb by one of her gorgeous, shapely legs that go on for miles, and I’d follow for parsecs, sporting those really sexy, jet black stilettos.

I know, or at least I think, I’m not part of a Seinfeld and Twilight Zone episode combo platter.  And thank Providence she doesn’t look or sound like any of the Costanzas or Rod Serling.  As I stare at her now, my being bewitched and bothered by this beguiling, king-sized dish of five-star and five-diamond gourmet cuisine is overshadowed by my becoming absolutely bewildered.  “But aren’t you a saleswoman?”

“Saleswomanly charms play a large part in what I have done for many a weary person and may also do for you–after you accept my proposition.  But selling you something is not what I do so well indeed.”

When she said the word “proposition” if I didn’t know better I’d swear she was flirtatiously smiling slyly and batting the longest, curliest, darkest lashes I think I’ve ever seen at me.

“Since you apparently aren’t selling anything, what do you really do?” I inquire.

“Allow me to show you how marvelous it all is and how wonderful you’ll feel.”

Before I could decide, she brought her blank sandwich board to the ground and disconnected herself from it.  Then she started unwinding the dress that held up her sign.  During her second or third unwrapping, I was wondering what I’d see underneath it all?  Marcia Queen of Diamonds’ Dance of the Seven Veils can’t hold a candle to what I´m lasciviously fantasizing while never taking my eyes off her moves.  She´s sending those kind of extra special shivers up and down my spine is turning to jelly.  Something more privates is getting harder than Mr. Happy’s been in quite a spell.

TO BE CONTINUED…

***  end of CHAPTER #1  —–