Billionaire and the Sisters Ch. 45

A note to readers: This is a long story that unfolds chapter by chapter through the eyes of two protagonists - Mark and Elsa, and as in many of my other stories involves a growing spate of horny characters.Every ten chapters or so I will provide a short summary at the start of that episode to bring new readers up to date (see start of Ch. 40). This story could appear in a number of genres (Loving Wives, Incest, Lesbian, Fetish, and more) depending on the chapter, but the overall theme is Group, so I have applied this moniker to all chapters. The story is still being written, yet I intend to post a new chapter every couple of days. Enjoy.

Mark

Veronica Baldwin, the head of human resources for all of Worthington Industries, sat on the edge of the cushion on the sofa in my office early on Monday morning. Under other conditions I might have entertained a really subtle seduction, but that day I had something else on my mind.

"Veronica, every employee has had their picture taken, right?"

"Right. Even you, sir."

"Are they digitized?"

"Yes, in each employee's record."

"And previous employees?"

"Yeeeessss. What do you need, sir."

"I need to find who this individual is." I pushed two pictures across the table. One was the artist's sketch the police did based on input from Elsa. The other was a nice clear photograph in three-quarter view from one of the security cameras in KC's gallery; unfortunately, the man wore a disguise.

"In the past five years we've had almost four-hundred-thousand employees, and that's in this country alone."

"Well, can't you just tell the computer to do the comparing?"

"I'll have to talk to our HRIS manager and see if he can do that on the computer. I don't think the system will work that way. It's old and needs replacement."

"Why?"

"You put out an edict that you didn't want money spent on staff functions unless it was critical in some way. At the time, a new system wasn't critical and by your standards hasn't been since then. I'm sorry, sir, but we're only one small step up from manila folders and a lot of paper. The current system was created in 1989 and has been patched and glued together since then. It belonged to a company you bought in 2000. It's over twenty-five years old."

I nodded, acknowledging that I was hoisted on my own petard in this case.

Veronica offered, "It might be easier to send an email out to all managers asking if they remember this person."

I paused and added, "Do it. There's a lot riding on finding out who this person is. He's dangerous, and we need to stop him before he really hurts someone. The police are involved." I briefly explained what had been going on.

Veronica left with the pages in hand. I made a mental note to get her a new HRIS.

Wednesday morning, I took the limousine to city airport for a flight in the smaller jet to New York. I had a meeting with some Wall Street analysts about the company's growth and whether we could sustain more quarters of good earnings. Muhammad had to go to the mountain.

When I got out of the car at the airport, I found an ongoing commotion of my two pilots and several mechanics and linemen from the FBO where we kept the two planes.

John Morris, the senior pilot, came over to me. "Sir, we can't take this plane. It's been damaged."

"Damaged?" I asked.

John said, "We've found two bullet holes through the fuselage. Repairs have been ordered up, but we couldn't take the plane over ten thousand feet or pressurize. Even if we did that, we're not sure whether any of the systems or controls were compromised by the bullets. We have to pull things apart, inspect everything, and patch the holes. It'll take a day or so."

Lucas was with me. He was already on his cellphone calling the police. Like me, he'd made the connection to our stalker.

I asked, "What about the 737?"

"We haven't checked it out yet. We'll get right on it."

We waited about twenty minutes to discover that N1MW, my large Boeing 737, also had several bullet holes through the fuselage and one shot right through the pilot's windscreen.

I asked, "What would happen if we flew one of the damaged planes?"

The pilot answered, "Assuming we made altitude without noticing, a sudden blowout could have occurred. Depressurization. Very dangerous. Deadly, in fact. There have been planes it's happened to and people died. One famous situation about two decades ago was when pro golfer Paine Stewart's Learjet depressurized; it kept flying until it eventually ran out of fuel and then crashed. The investigation believed those onboard had already asphyxiated. Six dead."

I turned to Lucas who had been racing around the area. "Any other planes hit?"

"Apparently not. You were the target ... or the planes were. Detective Sam Gunthrie is on his way here. What would you like to do?"

"Can we use one of the other planes?" I gestured around at the other expensive corporate jets nearby.

The pilot responded, "Yes. We've got one flying in right now. It should be here within a half-hour. I'm sorry for the wait. We should still be able to make your meetings on time, if I properly understand your schedule in New York. I'll alert the limousine service and security on that end."

I waited in the limousine, taking time to call Brita and give her an update on our stalker's activities. I warned her that she also might be rising on his agenda of people to harass. I also let the girls know what had happened.

Eventually, we had an older Cessna Citation fly us into Teterboro Airport. By the time we got there, a large contingent of security personnel were waiting along with a caravan of war wagons and limousines. I made my meetings on time, and was back at the condo in time for a late dinner with the girls.

That night, I realized that the stalker and the various mischief he'd done occupied an inordinate share of everyone's thinking, so much that we didn't engage in sex. While the thought occurred to me, I didn't miss the activity because I was worried about the girls and what would happen next.

Friday, in the office, Veronica Baldwin came into my office at noon. She hadn't been on my schedule. Melanie, Izzy, and Sheila followed her in, but stood behind her. I'd been reviewing the strategic plan for our commercial electronics division.

"What's going on?" I asked. Because they were calm, I knew no great calamity had occurred. Melanie would be broadcasting trouble if there were any.

Veronica looked pleased, "We've got your stalker. His name is Myron Tanner. He was laid off for performance problems six months ago."

I looked to Melanie. "We should let Detective Gunthrie know."

She smiled at having anticipated my request, "He'll be here to meet with us any minute. Do you want to sit in?"

"Hell, yes. This is the most important thing I've got going on."

Gunthrie arrived thirty minutes later. He, Veronica, Sheila, Melanie, and I sat with him in the conference room. Izzy took over the phones, but since it was lunch hour things were a little on the slow side. He was given a complete copy of Tanner's personnel file, including performance evaluations and supervisory letters and comments.

Gunthrie asked, "Could I talk to his supervisor?"

Five minutes later, David Evans, a middle manager and aerospace engineer in the avionics division joined us. He summarized what he'd written about Tanner. "He was unstable, and I suspect he was bipolar and not under treatment. He'd go along for a week or two and be fine and productive, and then fall off the cart. His work would become erratic and prone to major errors; he'd have tantrums and almost assault someone he worked with. More than once he threw things around the office in a tantrum. We couldn't count on him to do even simple tasks. We worked with HR to turn the situation around, but he refused to go to counseling or see a doctor; the company even volunteered to pay for it all and give him time off to go to sessions. Ultimately, we documented a case and had to let him go for performance issues. We all worried about retribution in some way. This is the first we've known that he was doing something to get back at us."

Gunthrie stayed another hour, asking a wide variety of questions to each of us. I made sure that David Evans and family had some security around them as well.

An hour after he left, I got a call from the Detective. "Mr. Worthington, I just thought I'd let you know that we went to talk to Mr. Tanner, and he left the last address you had for him about the time he got dismissed. We are working on tracking him down now. Be vigilant."

Elsa

Greg, Sean, and I worked late, ostensibly to start on some rough designs for a new town house project out in Osage County. We had a relaxed timeline on this one, so the project had become one that we spent the odd few minutes on here and there during the week.

When we were the last ones in the building, except for my security detail, I turned to Sean and Greg, "All right. Enough with work, I need to get fucked right here, right now." I looked at the two men with my hands on my hips and a sexy stance I was sure attracted attention and started the development of some serious hard wood.

Greg smiled broadly and instantly got in tune with my agenda. "On my desk and office sofa, please. I want to create some memories in my office, and I've had this fantasy about you since you mentioned the idea. Hell, I've had fantasies about you since you started work here and I was a junior architect."

We trooped into Greg's office and shut and locked the door just in case somebody came back into the building for any reason. A few seconds later, I was naked and holding the cocks of two nearly naked men as they fondled, rubbed, and kissed me all over, paying particular attention to my needy breasts. Both cocks were the consistency of rebar steel, even feeling of the ridges and bumps that were about to bring me a lot of pleasure.

I don't remember who ate my pussy first, maybe it was both men vying for my taste sensations. It didn't matter; they were good and I came several times as I lay moaning atop Greg's large desk; lots of fingers got involved deep inside me along with their tongues. I think at one time I had four fingers sawing away at my pleasure; two from each man. Eventually, I was sucking on two meaty cocks, as I lay back excited about the prospect of having them feeding my sexual appetite. I'd been horny all day.

The men worked well as a team. One would fuck me while I'd suck on the other. We had a pretty gross application of 'dirty talk' too, a point that I loved in prurient terms. At one point Greg said, "I will never work at this desk again without imagining this beautiful woman stretched out here with my cock inside her and my colleague's dick down her throat as she tries to suck his insides out. Elsa you are spectacular."

In the spirit of openness and eroticism, both men had the other take a photograph of them fucking me, and they immediately texted it to their wives. I had them add Cindy to the text destination.

Sean took over for a while, and then we moved to the sofa where I straddled one man while I sucked on the other. I got DPed for a while, but then we want back to single-man fucking. Greg took first honors, filling my pussy with a boatload of cum. Sean followed that performance up less than ten minutes later with another generous contribution to the cause of sexual goodness. I insisted that both men take turns cleaning up their combined mess.

Pam texted Sean, 'Save some for me. I want to do cleanup.' Kim said, 'Oh, now I'm really hot. Take me out later to pickup some stranger and fuck his lights out.' I knew both women were fine we me fucking their husbands otherwise I would have put the brakes on to my libido much earlier.

We made out for a little while, but then Sean had promised Pam he'd be home in time to take her to a late dinner. He had to go, so we all dressed, locked up the building, and left for home.

Cindy winked at me when I finally got home. She whispered, "Those that give at the office still need to give at home." I must have had that freshly fucked look about me. I couldn't hide my pleasure from anybody, and this wasn't the first time.

"Oh, I have something for everyone. I'm still horny. After dinner, let's get people inspired."

Cindy laughed, "Not hard to do with this crew."

That evening we were able to forget about the cares of the world and have a little love orgy with Mark and the five of us. Between some fine wine and candles in the bedroom, romantic music, flirting, and six loving people, we made up for a lot of lost time with each other and reconnected in so many ways and in so many dimensions. I loved my family so dearly. I felt so lucky that we were able to be physical with each other.

I knew that other people had marriages that had become stale or lost their zip. I couldn't ever see that happening with Mark and my sisters. There were constant shifts or additions to our mix that kept things alive and vibrant.

Melanie kissed me awake the next morning, and we shared some kisses together and gazed happily at each other as the others slept. I whispered, "I love you."

She kissed me, "The feeling is very mutual, Elsa. I love all of this." She motioned to the others who were just starting to awaken.

On Thursday, I got a call from a realtor named Billy Sawyer. I'd put the word out about our search for houses or parcels of land zoned residential for a large private residence. I did not use the Worthington name, because I figured the price would automatically rise twenty or thirty percent. I hadn't been too specific either, being open to what might be out there instead of creating a set of rigid specifications for house or land or both."

"Miss Conners, I have three properties that might interest you. Might you be free tomorrow morning? I could show them to you." I loved how solicitous real estate people could be, especially if you were planning to spend several million with them, which I appeared ready to do.

Cindy and I shifted around our work schedules plus some martial arts and weapons training classes, so we could meet Billy Sawyer on Friday morning. He was going to pick us up at my work in his large Mercedes, but we chose to follow him from there in the limousine with one of war wagons following us. Sawyer was a brash man in his thirties, and very full of himself. He obviously saw the limousine as a symbol of our wealth.

When we stopped at the first property, Sawyer probed repeatedly to try to find out more about us before going into his sales spiel on the house, "Where do you live now?"

"The city. Condo."

"Oh, which building?"

"One of those high rises, you know. There are a few shops and offices on the lower level." That description narrowed it down to about fifty buildings.

"How much will you be financing?"

"Maybe none. It depends on the property and the deal you put together for us."

"These properties run well into the millions."

"I should hope so, otherwise we'd be looking at swamp land or inner city Detroit."

"I assume you are good for this kind of money?" Asked as a question not a statement.

"I am," I just nodded strongly to confirm the statement. Cindy did too. Mr. Sawyer was starting to think of us as two young but eccentric sisters.

"Errr, is there a Mr. Conners?"

"Not yet," I crooned. I was sticking with my ploy to reveal as little as possible without bold face lying.

"Errr, do you know your credit score, by chance?"

"I do." I wanted to see if he was so confrontational as to boldly ask what it was. We were frustrating him and having a fun time doing it.

I engaged Cindy in a refreshing discussion about the requirements for the new house to which Mr. Sawyer paid rapt attention, especially after I mentioned again that we were looking at something in the fifteen thousand square feet under roof arena, with suitable out buildings. Of course, I'd already told him this information on the phone the day before.

The first property was an aging mansion on twenty acres of land in the town of Nottingham. The house had a chopped up room arrangement and smelled of cats. Mark had a cat allergy. Reject!

The other two properties were land only. One was on the wrong side of the city from the airport, so that got looked at so that we built up some feel for property values, but rejected.

The third property was only about eight miles from city airport, consisted of about six hundred acres of rolling farmland, had a beautiful river running through it that wasn't polluted. Further, the property at one point had a grass runway that just needed to be mowed and rolled to restore it for small plane use. Except for the runway, it had been farmland up until the farmer had passed away four years earlier. His children were in distant states and had no interest in farming. The estate had finally been settled and the property listed. They put the property on the market as a single block, expecting that a developer would come along and buy it. The only problem with that idea was that it was zoned as single-residence farmland since no platting had been submitted or approved. The family was asking twenty million for the entire parcel.

I shook my head after reading my iPad. Sheila had done a quick study back home about the property, and then texted me a series of bullet points to use in negotiations. Based on her emails, I told the agent, "This is the right property, but the price is way off base. This property is totally unsuitable to command that price. It has no utilities, no access roads, the boundary markers have been put in question by adjacent properties, a major surveying project costing thousands will be required just to establish and post legal boundaries, and we are far enough from the city and away from major routes that the benefits of the property are diminished to all but other farming and local operations, which in this day and age is highly unlikely to takeover this land. A property developer is unlikely to buy the land given the topography and the expense to have it platted into individual lots.

"Further, the family has held the land for several generations, and my guess is that the land title is not clearable without considerable expense and effort due to the way property records were kept at the end of the Civil War in this region. This is a highly shady piece of property, and nowhere near deserving of a twenty million price tag. We are interested, however."

Billy Sawyer's jaw had dropped as I'd laid all this on him. That's what he gets for telling me ahead of time what we're going to look at. He asked, "What do you think is a fair price?"

I shook my head and looked out over the land. "Well, part of the property is wetlands, and can't be built on; that reduces the overall utility. Where the old hanger used to be is likely polluted with waste oil and gasoline products; I bet the EPA would like to know about that. Overall, I'd say this isn't worth a cent over twelve million."

I liked the idea of taking about forty percent off the asking price.

I told Sawyer, "Well, thanks for showing us the place. If the family is willing to put a reasonable price on this, then we could talk further. In the meanwhile, I have some other appointments to see some better land in a private sale tomorrow."

Of course, I did not have any further appointments. That was first egregious lie of the day.

Sawyer backpedaled and guffawed all the way back to the cars. My security detail, a bit of mystery to Sawyer but something he took as an indication of some wealth, carefully observed him. I shook his hand, thanked him again, and we left in our own limo followed by one of the bulletproof black war wagons. I'd given Billy Sawyer until tomorrow morning to put a deal together at my price.