Deep Down Inside - Part 15 - Kim and Bob

Bob felt his heartbeat pick up as he gazed at Kim through the office window.  She had been poolside for hours now, baking away in the heat of the Phoenix sun.  

While the sharp light and shadow of mid-day sun accentuated the curviness of her entire body, it was her massive chest to which Bob's eyes always migrated first.  Perhaps the periwinkle-blue triangles of her bikini would have been large enough to provide adequate coverage for any other chest, but on hers the triangles of cloth looked absurdly tiny.  The ends of those nipples must be 10 or 12 inches higher than her ribcage, Bob thought to himself.  He could have spent hours watching the rise and fall of those generous orbs.

Tearing his eyes away, he was reminded that the rest of Kim’s body was no less remarkable – endless, toned legs, perfectly rounded hips, and that stomach.  How many hours and days had she spent in the gym getting those abs so flawlessly defined?

Earlier that morning, she had disappeared in one of his cars, only to re-appear several hours later with four large shopping bags in her hands.  As she had placed the bags on the kitchen floor, he saw the names of the stores – Bloomies, Neiman, Nordstrom, H&M.  By all appearances, Kim had given his credit card a good workout.  The hot little bluish purple number that she wore to the pool must have been one of her finds.

Bob could have become further lost in the sensuous curves of her supine body, but he had work to do, he reminded himself.  

The SEC inquiry was bad news.  It would be followed by a lawsuit, and the suit would allow the Treasury Department to freeze his funds.  He needed to get all of his money out of the reach of the regulators, and he needed to do it fast.  Bob dialed a number on his phone.

"Hello, Bank Cayman. Can I help you?"

"I need to transfer funds into my bearer account," Bob explained.

"Certainly.  If you would be so kind, I have several questions I need to ask you in order to facilitate the funds transfer."

As Bob recited the answers into the phone, he couldn’t resist allowing his eyes to take another ride down the roller coaster of Kim’s body.  She was indeed stupendous.  She could be a world famous model, if she so chose.

When his gaze got to her face, he was surprised to see that she was looking back at him.  Unlike many women, she did not seem at all taken aback by his ravenous stare.  Instead, she waved, with a coy smile, and then shifted slightly on the reclining chair, giving him an even better view.  What a showoff, he mused.  There's something a little bit too confident about her.  

Bob hung up the phone with Bank Cayman and dialed his lawyer.  "Hi, it's Bob.  I transferred all my funds to a bearer account in the Caymans."

"Good," the lawyer replied.

"Where do we stand with the mansion and grounds?"  Bob asked.  "I think that's the only significant asset we still need to protect."

"I have a solution" the lawyer explained.  "I can create a fully revocable trust, with you named as the trustee."

As Bob spoke, he noticed that Kim continued to face his direction.  She seemed to be watching him very closely.  And she had taken her earphones out.  What was she up to, Bob wondered?  Was she trying to see what he was doing?  Trying to hear him?  That would be absurd.  The pool was at the other side of his generous landscaped garden -- a good 35 yards away.  And he was standing behind a double-paned glass window.  

"OK, if we put the house in a trust, then who's the beneficiary?"

"It doesn't matter.  Anyone you like-- me, your stock broker, the mailman, or even that chick you've been screwing.  It doesn't matter because you can revoke it whenever you want.  The only scenario where your house actually goes to the beneficiary would be if you died before you remembered to revoke the trust."

"And in the meantime, the government can't touch it?" Bob asked.

"Right.  I'll fax you over the documents for signing, with a blank for the beneficiary."

Bob's continued to discuss legal mechanics with his lawyer as he continued to monitor Kim.  She was definitely watching him.

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"You asked me to come?"  Kim asked innocently as she strode into the office.  She had tied an ankle-length sarong around her waist, but her unbelievable torso remained fully exposed, save for the bikini top that seemed challenged to contain its contents.  Her nipples poked distractingly into the light bluish purple fabric of her top, to the point where they even cast small shadows.  The edges of her aureoles could even be perceived just outside the bounds of her bikini triangles.

Damn it, Bob thought, this will be hard.

"I moved all the money out of harms way," he announced.  

"I know," she said approvingly as she sat down on his leather couch.  She had a drink with her, which she now raised to her lips -- a vodka and Red Bull, he could tell.  Why did kids drink that shit, Bob wondered to himself?  It was a reminder of the dramatic age difference between her and him.  

But given how much younger she was, why did she seem so damn confident all the time?  She rested an elbow on one of the couch's arms and splayed her legs down the length of it, she almost looked like she was posed for a fashion shoot.

"And the SEC investigation?" she asked languidly.

"I'll handle it," he replied with confidence.  "Now that the money is out of Uncle Sam's reach, there is little to worry about.  The only thing I can't figure out," he continued, "is how the SEC got contacted in the first place.  It all happened so suddenly, the snitch must have been someone close to me."  Bob circled around to the back of his desk and opened the top drawer -- the drawer with the pistol in it.  He made a silent wish to himself that he wouldn't have to use it on this exceptional woman.  Bob steeled his resolve as he waited for her reply to the accusation, but he didn't have to wait long.

"I called them," she replied plainly, sipping her drink.

"You what?"  Bob's voice was incredulous.

"I called them."

Bob stood in stunned silence.

"You're OK in the sack, Bob, and I love your money.  But when it comes to business, you're a creep.  Building substandard houses and then trading them to buyers that never suspected a thing.  Shorting a stock using insider information -- you should be ashamed of yourself."

"You bitch!" he seethed, seizing the gun from the drawer and raising it to eye level.  "You came in here to ruin my life?"

"Bob, Bob, Bob,” she laughed.  “I'm not that bad a person.  You can still redeem yourself.  Compensate some homeowners, make right with the partners you screwed, plead guilty to the SEC, and pay the damn fine.  You wouldn't even have to do any time.   If you did all that, I promise I won't keep ruining your life."

Bob wondered why she wasn't reacting to the gun.  She didn't seem scared.  "Who the hell are you, some 22-year-old slut, to come in here and tell me how to live my life!"

"I don't like your use of the word 'slut', Bob.  It implies that using sex for personal gain is a bad thing."

"Oh I see," Bob accused.  "You're more than happy to fuck a few guys, if it gets you somewhere in your pathetic life."

"Right," she smiled.  "And for the right size checking account, I’m even willing to bend my standards a bit, looks-wise.  Otherwise, you never would have made the cut."

Bob leveled the gun at her, his hands shaking with anger.

"Don't do this, Bob.  You'll ruin your career, your personal life, and even worse, my bikini top."

"Fuck you," he seethed, squeezing the trigger.  

The gun was a Glock -- an automatic -- so the shots rang out in rapid sequence.  Bang, bang, bang, bang.  Bob saw four impacts on her chest area, but there was no blood.  She sat there unharmed, a smirk broadening across her face.

"The risks are even greater than you think, Bob.  You could even put a hole in my beautiful leather couch.  That would really piss me off."

"What the fuck is happening here?" Bob said desperately, re-aiming the gun at her.  The back of his mind wondered why she referred to his couch as hers, but the more immediate need to eliminate her dominated his thoughts.  He fired again - bang, bang, bang, bang.  The first three slugs sounded an ineffective "thud" as they impacted her body, but the fourth made a "poof" as it went wide and hit the couch, sending a cloud of couch stuffing into the air.

"OK, now you're in trouble," snarled the mysteriously unharmed woman.  

As she rose up from the couch, Bob finally admitted to himself that not a scratch was on her.  Her movements turned into a blur of tanned skin and periwinkle blue.  Before he knew it, the pistol had been painfully wrenched from his hand.  

A moment later, Bob felt himself being grabbed forcefully by the upper arm.  The room spun as the ground went out from under him.  He landed with a crash, on his back, on the hardwood floor.  As he winced in pain, he felt a firm warmth around his torso.  He opened his eyes to see her straddling him, gun in hand.

"God, it feels so good not to be holding back anymore," she sighed.  "I want you to watch this very carefully," she said affectionately.  "I want to see the expression on your face when you realize how overmatched you really are."

The woman held Bob's gun out in front of him, one hand on the handle, one on the muzzle.  Bob heard a squealing sound and then a snap.  

She had pulled the gun clear apart.

"Do you have any idea how easy that was for me?" she sighed.

She didn't wait for a reply, which was good, because he didn't have one.  She dismounted his torso and flipped him over.  He felt his wrists and ankles being bound, and was soon hoisted up into one of the straight-backed guest chairs that faced his desk.  There was some more tugging and pulling, and he suddenly realized that he was hog-tied -- wrist and ankle bindings connected to each other, so that even standing up would have been impossible.

"Tell me about all this money in Caymans," Kim asked from behind him as she walked away, towards the hallway.  "You said last night that they are bearer accounts, right?  Show up with the right password or something, and the money is yours?"  He could hear a rustling as she pulled something out of her shopping bag.  

"It's more secure than that, you fool.  You don't just show up with a code.  It's not like the movies.  You need the actual account passbook, and there's only one copy," he shouted.  "And even if you kill me, you don't have a prayer of finding it."

Kim sauntered back into the office and placed a white brick of something on the desk in front of him.  She then stood in front of him, between him and the desk, facing away.  Kim shifted her weight to one leg, hand on her hip.  She seemed to be glancing around the room, looking for something.  Even in these desperate circumstances, Bob couldn't help but drink up the view of that heart-shaped ass.

After a quick glance at the far wall, she ambled directly to the spot where the safe was hidden.  How did she know?

She laughed.  "Man, you really have a death wish.  At some point I would have thought you would stop trying to fuck around with me."

Bob watched her fist and arm slam into the wall like a piston.  This was followed by a crash as she pulled her arm back out, bringing the safe with it.  As the safe erupted out of the wall, the wood wall paneling exploded into a shower of hardwood splinters.

Kim walked back toward the desk with the safe dangling in one hand.  The object was easily three feet in each dimension, full of thick steel, but she acted as if it were no heavier than a clutch purse.  She slammed it down on the surface of the desk, cracking not only the glass surface, but the desk itself.  The two ends of the desk began to sag unnaturally towards the center.

"I assume the passbook is in here.  Any chance you want to give me the combination?"

Bob shook his head defiantly.  Her immense strength was scaring the life out of him, but he tried not to show it.  "You triggered a silent alarm when you pulled that safe out of the wall.  Now the police are on their way.  And that safe is four inches of steel.  Even if you had an industrial blowtorch, there's no way you'd break into it before the pol--"

A loud groaning sound cut him off.  Kim had dug her nails into the steel of the box and had begun to separate her arms, ripping wide a hole in safe.  Her face was showing no more strain that it would if she were separating the wedges of an orange.

"Oh, that's so cool!"  Kim giggled as she continued to bend back the safe's walls.  "Your eyes are wide as saucers right now."

Over the groan of the safe's thick steel, Bob heard himself hyperventilating.

Finally, the groaning of steel stopped.  Kim tucked some errant hair behind an ear, better revealing hear breathtaking facial features.

"Let's see what we have here," Kim mused as her hands delved into the mangled steel, which was now opened up before her like a blooming flower.  "Papers, papers, papers, and oh, what's this?"  She held up something the size of a baseball card.  "Is this the passbook?"

Bob struggled against his bindings.

"I'll take that for a 'yes'.  And let's see what else we have.  Cash!"  She held up two bricks of it.  "You're a man after my own heart, Bob.  How ever did you know?”

She continued to rummage through the mangled steel box.  “And here’s an extra set of keys to that awesome Mercedes convertible.  Do you have any idea how much I’ve lusted after that thing?  And, oh!  An extra set of keys to the mansion!"

"I've seen how you looked at this place, you bitch.”

“This place must be worth $20 million.  What girl wouldn’t want it for her own?

“$30 million,” Bob corrected her.  “And there’s nothing -- absolutely nothing -- you can do to get your hands on it."

"Actually, Bob, you've done most of the hard work for me," she purred dropping the keys back into the mangled safe.  Her heels clicked on the hardwood as she strode over to the fax machine and  grabbed the papers off it.  "You had your lawyer draft up these trust documents -- only one little signature here, one little "Kim DeLuca" there -- and the entire estate is mine the moment you die."

"So you really are going to kill me."

"No," Kim sighed, running her elegant fingers over the saran-wrapped white brick on the desk.  "You're going to kill yourself."

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Bob now frantically pushed and tore at his bindings, but they held firm.  

"Oh my god," she laughed, picking up a piece of the mangled gun, "it's so funny to watch you struggle like that. Did you actually believe that if you break those bindings, you have even the slightest chance of survival?  You know how weak and pathetic you are compared to me."

He watched her run a jagged edge of the broken gun along the surface of the brick, cutting through the plastic as she went.

"Cocaine," she explained.  "You should feel lucky.  This is pretty high grade stuff.  You'll go out with a smile on your face."

He watched her scoop a bit of the powder into the upturned, perfectly shaped nail of her index finger.  She approached him.  He then felt her other hand on the back of his head, grabbing a wad of his hair.  He was hoisted violently out of his chair, his hog-tied legs dangling a foot above the ground.

"So, are you going to inhale this shit voluntarily, or do I have to force it into you?"

Bob answered her by trying to turn his head away.  There was no way she was going to get him to inhale that stuff.

"I thought as much," Kim smiled.  

She drew him closer to her, the intoxicating scent of her skin tickling his senses and sending his dick straining skyward.  How could his body be so susceptible to her, even in this desperate moment?

“Looks like you need a little bit extra,” she said to herself, reaching over to scoop some more.

The motion of her twisting to reach the desk brought his head carelessly close to her left nipple, and he seized the opportunity.  He bit down with all his might, with enough strength to tear the nub clear off and create a bloody mess of her tit.  It would cause her enough pain for him to perhaps make an escape.

But when Bob sank his teeth into her nipple, it hardly gave.  He heard a delighted, “oooohhh” escape the young woman’s lips.  Then, the nipple hardened instantly to the consistency of a granite pebble.  He bit down desperately on the inch-long protrusion, but was rewarded only with searing pain as his tooth cracked under the strain.

“Oh god, Bob, that’s awesome.  I had no idea you were going to pleasure me on the way out!”

Bob continued to bite down, but nipple expanded further to the size of a shot glass, and the pain soon became overwhelming.  He gave up.

Her firm hand on the back of his head, Kim then lifted him higher and rested his chin on top of her immense mammary. With his feet dangling above the floor, the full 200-pound weight of his body was being born solely by his chin resting on her boob.  Was this even possible?  Women's breasts are tender, fragile.  You can't hang a 200-pound mass from them.  And yet, hers didn't dent a bit.  He felt like his head was being pressed into rolled up towel -- only to find that the towel was wrapped around a bowling-ball.  There was some give at first, but it was rock-solid underneath.

Out of his peripheral vision, her cocaine-laden finger approached his nostrils.  He struggled to hold his breath, but could only hold out so long.  He struggled to breathe through his mouth, but she was jamming his mouth closed by pressing his chin downward into her boob with her monstrous strength.  

"I love how defiant you are," she purred.  "It so awesome to watch you struggle."

Bob tried to hold his breath longer, so as to avoid inhaling the white powder.  But when he couldn't do it any longer, Bob finally, involuntarily, inhaled through his nostrils.  The cocaine rushed in, and his brain began to swim, ribbons of light and darkness dancing through his mind.  He found himself back in the chair, in a psychedelic stupor, with some sort of document on his lap.

"Sign your name here," he heard her say.   He didn’t remember what the document was; his mind was swimming.  Deliriously, he felt his hand signing his name.

As he put the pen down, he saw her approaching him with more cocaine in her hand.  But this was not a half-teaspoon amount like the first time, this was something closer to a half-cup.  It filled her hand.

Bob’s words were slurred, but vehement.  “The police... coming now, bitch...arrest you...”

Kim smiled as she raised the absurd amount of cocaine to his nose.  “Yes, I can’t wait to see them,” she sighed. “Apparently, you entered your office to see that the safe had been robbed.  In your depression you consumed some cocaine -- way too much, as it turns out -- and died from the overdose."

Bob thrashed wildly but Kim ignored him.  He felt her fist slam into his stomach, knocking the air out of him and then leading him to inhale involuntarily.  The deadly volume of powder went in.

"Your hot bitch girlfriend came in from the pool, and screamed and cried when she saw your slumped body.  She was beside herself with grief.  But, luckily, a few big strong police officers showed up.  They wrapped their arms around her, consoled her and wound up sharing some other... special moments... with her.  Now, they're friends for life."

Bob continued to thrash and struggle, but it was more frenetic, less coherent.

"Isn't that cool, Bob?  It's one of the best parts of being super.  Ten minutes with a cop, and I can have him all but begging for sex.  Fifteen minutes with him and he'll risk his job just to have me.  Twenty minutes, and the law is suddenly working for me."

The sound of sirens could be heard in the driveway.

Bob's eyes remained open even as he could feel death quickly approaching.  Amidst the fear and trauma, a part of Bob's mind was nonetheless glad that his last memory would be the soft almond color of his girlfriend's mesmerizing eyes, jewels set in the center of her flawless, angelic face.