The quaint three-bedroom, three-bathroom house in Del Mar Estates was her hideaway when she desired a break from networking, her boyfriend, and assisting her parents in LA. Helping her fellow Asians to get citizenship was at times a twenty-four-hour job. An unexpected call could come at noon or midnight.
Meeting with the girls was fun but tending to the details for Brooks’s upcoming campaign was weighing Storm down. Saturdays were seemingly growing closer together, and March was fast approaching. With five and a half weeks left before the big announcement, at least everything was going as planned.
Storm loved laying with Chancelor, but having him around in her spare time left little quality time for herself. Thankfully, when she really needed relaxation or in the event of an emergency, she had this place to escape the madness.
Like men with money, she believed that rich women should own more than one residence, sex more than one lover and not feel guilty about their pleasures. Now Storm was in the San Diego area, because that’s where she’d agreed to meet Randy since his schedule didn’t permit him to meet her in LA.
She sat on a blanket, legs folded, palms faced up on her thighs, giving thanks as she admired the world-famous thoroughbreds exercising along the shore. Storm smiled, reminiscing about when her parents had bought her first horse, for her thirteenth birthday. She missed going to the Del Mar Race Track. Maybe she’d go before her return to LA but definitely not before entrapping Randy. Randall Wallace would be at her house in a few hours.
Inhaling the fresh morning breeze, her eyes trailed the sun rising from the horizon. Layers of orange, red, and yellow blended like the perfect portrait, illuminating the sky. Her days of racing were behind her. The competitions for her retired award-winning horses were over. She gazed out over the Pacific Ocean, wishing there were more moments when she could enjoy her solitude. Embracing nature’s beauty fed her soul. Yet, as breathtaking as the morning was, Storm realized everything that was good could also be bad.
Too much water could drown. Too much air could suffocate. Too much sun could burn. Too much love could…wow. She shook her head at an astonishing epiphany.
Storm had never been in love.
Sure her parents loved her, but their love was tough. “No man wants to marry a not so smart woman. You must get straight A’s,” her father had always demanded. “Nothing less. And your mother will teach you how to please a man in and out of bed. That’s your real job. Rich black man, wealthy white man, Asian man with lots of money, they all love beautiful Asian woman. You give them happy ending they love you more. Always let them love you more. You manage all the money…you’ll be happy and never broke. That’s how your marriage will last. Even if he divorces you, you might get heartbroken, but like Jordan’s ex-wife, you be happy you not broke. Woman happy. Husband happy. Woman no happy. Husband no happy.”
Her mother’s thoughts had been the same but her approach was different. “You love horses, honey. That’s your passion. Let’s learn how horses can make you money.” And riding horses was a good way to learn how to please a man.
The thought of marrying for love was discouraged. Her mother would say, “Do not marry a man unless he has millions with an ‘s.’ Your money is your money and his money is your money.”
Storm wanted to know what being in love felt like. She thought she’d come close once in college. Thought he was the man she’d marry despite her parents’ disapproval. She’d dreamt of giving birth to his babies. But when she realized she was committed to him but he was busy showing other girls the sex skills she’d taught him, the fairy tale crumbled.
Men, politics, and sex blended more smoothly than flour, eggs, and milk. Men were slick like butter, or so they thought, but they couldn’t outsmart her. And Storm’s mother’s recipe for how to sex a man senseless was easier to follow than her grandmother’s instructions on how to make funky chicken with sesame noodles. Too bad she didn’t have a recipe for love or a prevention for heartache.
Storm stood, shook her blanket and folded it, then headed to her black convertible Corvette. Del Mar was only 2.1 square miles with less than five thousand residents. It was a safe place to live. She could come and go without worrying about her neighbors spying on her or about burglars breaking into her home when she was away.
She parked in her garage, lowered the door behind her car, then opened one of the other garage doors for Randy to park his car. She decided to leave the kitchen door leading into the house ajar so he could let himself in.
Randy had briefly informed her he had had other obligations and couldn’t stay at her house long. Storm didn’t want to risk letting him leave before she had what she needed so her plot to entrap him was elevated.
Filling a flute with chilled champagne she added a splash of orange juice to her glass then filled a large crystal pitcher with the remaining juice. She dissolved a sedative in water, stirred it into the juice, placed the pitcher in the freezer, then headed to the bathroom and filled her deep tub with cool water.
It was noon and the temperature was already seventy-five degrees with a projected high of eighty. With her guest’s arrival only an hour away, Storm removed her clothes and relaxed in the tub, thinking about her girls.
Being a member of the Rich Girls’ Club gave her what money couldn’t: sisterhood. She didn’t see Brooks as African-American, Morgan as Caucasian, Hope as Native American, or herself as Asian. Collectively they were the most powerful foursome in Los Angeles. The best part of their sisterhood was they had nothing to hide and they accepted one another’s flaws. Some women would consider her high sex drive and the outrageous things she did to men degrading, but her sisters didn’t. They understood that she loved giving pleasure to others and having multiple orgasms herself.
Storm inserted her finger deep into her vagina and twirled it around several times. In small circular motions she gently rubbed lemongrass body scrub over her arms, breasts, stomach, between her thighs, and down her legs to her feet.
Damn, my pussy feels good. But there was no time to masturbate or call her man for phone sex. Sometimes it was better to wait. She’d save her sexual energy for when she got back to LA and saw Chancelor.
She rinsed in the shower, dried off, then selected a few sex toys to use on Randall. By the time she was done with him, like a black widow spider she’d screw him then politically devour him.
Storm eased into her bright red bikini and tied the bottom on each end. She looped the halter straps around her neck, and the other two straps in front underneath her breasts. A woman couldn’t go wrong with red. The Rich Girls knew that hues of red excited men—lipstick, polish, lingerie, shoes—and especially thongs. The brighter the better. But like a matador tempting a bull, the alluring movement of the woman was the main attraction for the man.
Massaging tanning oil on her arms and legs, she’d ask Randall to cover her back when he arrived. Storm checked the security monitor in her office. All of the indoor and outdoor cameras were functioning properly.
“Hello,” a manly voice called from her kitchen.
She wrapped a sheer sash about her waist before trotting in the direction of his voice. “Hey, Mr. Wallace, glad you could make it. I’m excited about supporting your campaign. My family is excited as well.” Storm removed the pitcher of juice from the freezer. “Grab those two glasses for me, will you?”
Randy was comfortably dressed in a navy polo shirt, neatly tucked inside khaki pants, and casual shoes. His Padres baseball cap was creased in the center of the bill. Placing his shades on the brim of his cap he picked up the glasses. “Just a reminder that I can’t stay long. I have to catch up to a few other contributors. We’re teeing off at three. I love golfing.”
Following her to the patio, he sat on the edge of the cushioned seat, interlocked his fingers, then placed his elbows on his knees. His short black hair was tapered, sideburns well-trimmed against his pale complexion. He appeared somewhat unorthodox for a Republican with his extra facial hair.
“Your acceptance of this generous donation means you will keep your promise to make immigration a priority?” she asked, standing a few feet away, fingering her sash. She poured him a tall glass of orange juice before sitting sideways on a lounge chair across from him. Hopefully it wouldn’t take long for him to pass out.
“Sure. Of course,” he said, taking several gulps of juice. He looked around. “Excuse me for asking but why do you have four beach chairs? And you’re wearing a swimsuit—which looks great on you, by the way—but where’s the pool?”
Storm smiled, watching him down the rest of his juice. He refilled his glass. Randy was making this easy.
“This must be freshly squeezed. It’s amazing.” The second glass of juice slid down his throat faster than the first as he leaned back against the chair. “Aw, man. All of a sudden I can barely feel my legs. What’s in this juice? I know I ran five miles this morning but—whoa—what’s happening to—?”
“To answer your questions, yes, it is freshly squeezed, and with the beach so close by,” she said reclining on the lounge chair, “I don’t need a pool.” She raised her leg in the air, pointed her toes, and layered on more tanning oil. “You mind getting my back?”
Randy placed his cap and glasses on the table. His eyes widened, his body swayed to the left. He rubbed at his eyes and looked around as if looking for something or someone. Did he think he was being watched?
“Not at,” he yawned, stretching his arms above his head, “all.” He staggered toward her.
Handing him the bottle, Storm lay face down. “Oh, and that’s your check on the table in the white envelope,” she said, pointing next to the half-empty pitcher of orange juice. “I know you have to leave so when you’re done with my back you can see yourself out. I’ll be in touch.”
His ass plunked down beside her. His slippery hand roamed up and down her back. His palms dug a little deep. “What the hell. I think I’m having…call 9-1-1.” With each stroke, his touch slowed, became heavier.
“Whoa,” he said, slipping and falling across her back. “Sorry about that. I don’t know what just happened. Please call for—” His body slumped on top of hers and stayed there.
Storm eased out from under Randy and rolled him over. His eyes were shut. “Randy,” she sang, waving her hand in front his face. He didn’t respond, didn’t flinch. She wasn’t trying to kill him. Perhaps the sedative had made his heart race.
Just to be sure, Storm checked his pulse; it was normal. She removed his shoes, then undressed him from head to toe. “Cute purple boxers, little dick, though. You never know,” she murmured to herself. If she tried riding him, her pussy would swallow his walnut-sized balls.
After neatly placing his clothes on an adjacent lounge chair, she removed her swimsuit, letting it drop to the ground. Drenching his body with oil, she massaged him all over, except for his genitals. She didn’t want a mouthful of grease slipping down her throat when she sucked him up like an oyster.
Holding the vibrating cock ring in one hand, she stroked his miniature penis. Up and down she maneuvered, trying to give him an erection. She cupped her wet mouth over his dick. With each strong stroke she vacuumed him hard and deep into her mouth. His erection eventually began to grow—slow, skinny, but steady.
Storm glanced up at the camera, smiled, then resumed bobbing her head. Editing the tape later would make the footage flawless. “Yes, Randy this is nice,” she moaned. “Randall, you taste so good. I’m so glad you asked me to give you a blowjob. I know you’re going to win the race. And when you do, I’ll give you another blowjob, baby.”
When his cock was almost standing tall on its own, she slid the ring over his head and down his shaft. Storm pressed the remote, leaving the vibrator at mid-speed. That should be enough stimulation to make him hard enough to ejaculate.
She continued easing his dick in and out of her mouth. Removing a dildo from her bag of toys, she squeezed lubrication onto the black silicone, then gently slid the head of the dildo into Randall’s ass. His body twitched. As if he were having a prostrate exam, his cum instantly shot into the air. She soaked up his sperm with her bikini.
Her work was almost done.
She washed his body with shower gel to remove the oil then hosed him off. Patting his body and the lounge chair dry, Storm redressed Randy, dragged him back to the chair he’d sat in earlier, propped a pillow behind him, placed his cap on his head, and left him there.
Now her job was done. Well done. She’d let him sleep off the sedative; his contributors would have to tee off without him. And no matter how much money he received from them or anyone else, Randall Wallace’s race to become governor was now headed down a dead-end street.