E-Written: The Murderous Bridegroom

In the meantime, I thought maybe I'd give Hank, or more likely his private detectives, a little treat. I always undressed when I changed for bed, but on this particular night, I hung out for a while totally naked, except for my panties, which stayed on, brushing my hair and removing my make-up. Then I slipped under the covers, extinguished the lights, turned onto my side, closed my eyes, and patiently awaited the blissful release of sleep.

**

It's rare to be summoned to Grandma's apartment, but it seemed lots of strange things were happening, and as usual, I simply went with the flow. I got dressed to look all proper, something that's important with Grandma, who is a society lady through and through. Sometimes I think it's even in her DNA. I don't mean to imply she is judgmental, because there is no doubt in anyone's mind that she is. It's smart to stay on her good side. Besides, bottom line: She's my Grandma, and I love her, and she adores me.

I headed over, arriving a little early, since I was terrified of being late. Being early was also not easily forgiven, so I walked around the block. It was quite a neighborhood, in the East 60's of Manhattan, full of gorgeous cut-stone townhouses.

Grandma lived a few townhouses away from Jeffrey Epstein's old place, but of course he was now dead, having committed suicide (or so we're told) when in jail, awaiting trial for sex offenses. I sneered correctly as I strolled past his former den of iniquity, and presented myself to Grandma's building's doorman at precisely two o'clock. I was quickly ushered up, taking the elevator to the fifth floor. I looked forward to her wonderful view of Central Park.

As soon as I saw Grandma, my traditional love for her rose to the surface. I knew she had been a piss-poor mother to Dad, and I also knew she was a complex person with complex needs. She had given birth to my father during the late 1960s, when mores were different than now, yet she too had been subject to the constraints that great wealth brings to one's lifestyle. Nevertheless, I could imagine her back then, stoned with her cute little naked boobs hanging out in the breeze, in San Francisco, with a head bandana, a flower in her hair, and singing along to a rock musician practicing on his guitar, in one of the more isolated areas of Golden Gate Park. What better way to rebel? I had seen the photos. That's Grandma. Sometimes I wonder if she even knows what man is the biological father of my father, you know?

I smelled the waft of freshly baked cookies, and I knew she had baked them herself, in anticipation of my visit. She never lets her cook bake cookies.

Grandma offered me coffee, decaf, tea, or what she called, using the French term, tisane. Normal people would have called it herbal tea. Grandma had quite a few of those little linguistic idiosyncrasies, and at this point of my life, I interpreted them all as a kind of charm. She had a plate of her special chocolate chip cookies (my favorites) on the coffee table, and when I asked for a "tisane," she had Mrs. Daniels, her servant woman, make some up for me, using the super fancy Marriage Frères brand of teas and "tisanes." I got linden flower tea.

"I heard you're to be married soon," was Grandma's opening gambit. "An interesting choice of

fiancé, I have to say. People say he murdered his first three wives, and you want to be his fourth?"

"Dad wants me to marry him. It's related to a merger of their two companies; but Grandma, as it turns out, he's wonderful, and I really like him," I said.

"Well, at least he's younger than your own father. That's something, even if it's only by a few years. I had him checked out, you know," she said. I would have expected nothing less.

"How'd he turn out?" I asked. Grandma's inspections leave no stone unturned.

"Well, he's good in bed, but then you probably know that already," she said.

"Grandma!" Grandma chuckled at my mock outrage. "Actually, I have yet to verify that particular little part of his character."

"Time's a wasting, Izzy," she said. Grandma was the only person in the entire world I allowed to call me Izzy.

"I invited him in to my apartment after a lovely evening, but apparently he wants to wait until after the marriage. Weird, right?" I said.

"No, not really. Your apartment is probably bugged every which way but Sunday. He'll take you to the beach, and fuck you on the sand, surrounded by his bodyguards, I suspect," she said.

"Grandma, it's December," I replied.

"So what?" she said. "Love knows no limit in its endurance, no end to its trust, no fading of its hope."

"Corinthians, right?"

"Wow, I'm impressed," Grandma said.

"Don't be. Seven years of Sunday School takes its toll," I replied.

"Your father's doing -- the Sunday School?" she asked.

"Yes, of course," I replied.

There was a pause in the conversation as Mrs. Daniels brought in the tisane for me. Once she left, Grandma's mien changed to one of an even more serious nature. "Listen carefully, my dear. This Glitch man is going to test you, once you're married. Your very life might depend on how you respond. Have you ever had a threesome with two men? Or a gangbang with more than two men?"

"No, of course not!" I said, rather shocked that my own Grandma could ask me such a question.

"He'll want you to have one. Or two. Or three. He'll want to watch. Your life may depend on how you respond. His first three wives blew it, and we know the results. You don't want to blow it," Grandma said. She was quite matter of fact. "Watch out for his right-hand man, who in his case is a woman. Have you met her yet?"

"You mean Margaret Mitchell-Moore, who goes by the name Maggie?" I asked.

"Yes. She is in fact rather strange. She was born Margaret Sadowsky, but she's a snob and liked the sound of Mitchell-Moore; I guess she thought it sounded British, and aristocratic," Grandma replied. "She had it legally changed when she turned 21."

"She's a financial genius and very protective of Mr. Glitch," Grandma added.

That was Grandma's way of saying that Maggie was both essential to Glitch's company, and a danger to me. I think I was in a state of shock. I barely heard what she said next, advising me on how to behave. I was worried Grandma had lost her sanity. There was a long silence.

Grandma finally broke the silence. "Have some more cookies, my little muffin. You're awfully thin."

"I've tried to gain weight, but when I do, all my weight goes to my boobs," I joked.

"So I see," Grandma said, smiling and checking out my boobs in some detail. Look, I have one more piece of advice. "You can't cheat on Mr. Glitch once you're married, unless he sets it up. So, if there's anyone you want to fuck now, go ahead. Get it out of your system. Fuck up a storm with every man you've ever wanted to fuck, or might want to fuck, as if you were born a slut. You probably are a born slut too, I would think. It's in your genes. Enjoy it now, because once you're married, you can never do it."

I just looked at Grandma. I had, of course, never heard her talk like that before. I never even knew she ever thought about sex! She wasn't finished, however.

"My mother, your great-grandmother, gave me the same advice before my marriage to Grandpa, and I gave the same advice to your mother, but she's not a Hansen, of course, and she just slapped my face. She won't give you the advice, so I'm afraid it's up to me. So, my little sweetheart, there it is. Please heed my advice, about having some premarital sex with every man you ever wanted, and especially about how to treat Mr. Glitch's bizarre sexual requests after marriage."

"Yes, Grandma. Thank you for the wise advice," I said, wondering if Grandma was suffering some kind of senility, or dementia, or something.

"One last thing. Your mother agreed to a threesome and a gangbang that your father wanted, after the marriage. She was wise to have done so. Now, they're still happily married," she said. "Oh my! You're having a vagal episode. Mrs. Daniels! Espresso with two sugars!"

It's true that I had begun to faint, when Mrs. Daniels magically appeared with espresso with two sugars, and -- amazingly -- the home remedy worked! Recovered, I managed to eke out, "Really? Did Mom really do that?"

"Yes. Your Dad would not have murdered her had she refused, but he would have divorced her and left her with nothing. She realized, correctly, that it was a small price to pay to keep his love. He even let her pick the men, which I doubt Mr. Glitch will let you get away with, my dear. I played a role in convincing her as to the wisdom of cooperating. She thanked me later. It turned out, she quite enjoyed it, even though she's not a Hansen."

"Grandma, why do you keep speaking as if it's somehow special to be a true Hansen woman?" I asked.

"You don't know?" Seeing my face, she added, "My goodness, child. So, can I now assume that I need to explain everything? I guess I do," Grandma said, and then, bless her soul, she explained to me the blessings and the burdens of being a Hansen woman.

We talked for two more hours.

Grandma finished by saying, "I met with Mr. Glitch. I explained to him that I would speak to you. I also explained to him that if anything happened to you, anything at all, I would first castrate him, and then slowly and painfully put him to death."

"Oh, my goodness! What did he do?" I asked. Was there no end to these shocking surprises?

"Why, he said, 'Okay,' of course," she said.

"Did he believe you?" I asked. Grandma was a sweet, old woman. I couldn't believe she would say such a thing, let alone do such a thing. Probably Hank was amused by her, and managed not to laugh at her until he was out of her hearing, and of her sight. How could she threaten the man I love? The man I was set to marry?

"Trust me, Izzy, he believed me. I showed him pictures of your Aunt Marianne's first husband, one taken during his castration, and another one taken while he was slowly bleeding to death in a quite empty part of the Sonoran Desert," Grandma said, evenly, and without emotion. "It's quite dramatic, with the buzzards circling overhead. Have you ever seen buzzards do that?"

My Aunt Marianne was, of course, a Hansen. She was my father's sister, may she rest in peace, after her untimely death at the hands of a rapist/thief/murderer. The rapist/thief/murderer was never caught, but rumors were rife at the time that the thug was her dead husband's brother, and his decomposed body was eventually found in, yes, an especially bleak part of the Mexican Sonora Desert. His bones had been picked clean and bleached a horrible white.

I stared at my grandmother, stupefied.

Grandma and I then discussed clothes, good books we had read, and the new season of the Metropolitan Opera. I left her apartment after the sun had set, in a state of shock, and not trusting myself, I took a taxi home. Grandma would have killed me if I had used Uber. She would have known, too. She knows everything.

**

Mr. Tebbs removed the bugs in my apartment. He found twelve of them, most of them truly sophisticated little numbers, military grade stuff: Cameras, microphones, motion detectors, the whole nine yards. I asked him how long they'd been there, and he said he couldn't say. I asked him if he got all of them, and he said, "Probably." Finally, I asked him if he could access anything from the tiny bugs, and he kind of looked at me.

"You mean like your intimate encounter the other night? Isabelle, you're one hot little number!" he said. I blushed, thoroughly embarrassed and ashamed. Still, I'm a Hansen woman, so I snapped myself out of it, and looked at him with my head held high.

"Who else might have seen it?" I asked.

"You'll have to ask the bastard who planted the bugs," he said.

"Who might that be?" I asked.

"How should I know? Some pervert, most likely. Look, you need some better security in here," he said.

"Could it have been the media? You know, like the NY Post?" I asked.

"Nope. That much I know. The bugs are too fancy. They're military grade, like I said. Nobody has access to them. It's illegal to use them within the U.S.," he said.

"And yet, they're in my apartment," I said.

"True. Someone super-rich must have placed a bribe, to get them," he said.

"Like my Dad? Or my brother?" I asked.

"Yes, someone like them. Not them, I'm sure, but someone like them," he said. He gave me a flash drive containing a compilation of what he called "the best scenes."

"You know, you could do porn. The fake rape in the video compilation is priceless. You could be a star," he said, and he winked at me. He actually winked at me!

I just smiled, and took the flash drive.

I thanked him, and he left. I noticed there was a big lump in his slacks. I guess he had enjoyed watching me humiliate myself on camera with Tim. Damn it all. It's a good thing I'm not shy. In fact, it's almost impossible to embarrass me. I wondered if that was part of my 'Hansen woman' legacy? I made a mental note to ask Grandma.

**

The next day came with its own surprise. If it's Monday during my engagement, I get a surprise. If it's Tuesday, I get a surprise. The same goes, apparently, for every single other day of the bleeping week! This time it was Dylan Strasbourg, my long-ago boyfriend from summer camp. Not just long ago; it was ages and ages ago!

It was a sleepaway camp, for two weeks duration, and Dylan made his move to win my affections on Day One. We were very young. He won my heart and soul, and the last day of summer camp we were making out furiously, both fully clothed in jeans, me with my legs spread and Dylan between them. Now that I'm older, I realize what we were doing is known as frotting, but back then it was new to me. Hell, back then everything was new to me!

Dylan kept thrusting something hard (obviously I now know it was his erection) at my kitten, over and over again, as he almost drowned me with his sloppy kisses. His hands snaked under my top and found my nascent breasts. Back then a bra was optional, and I wasn't wearing one.

It was all a big surprise to me, and I had no idea what had happened, but when it came it was totally wonderful. I felt all tingly, and I realized that this must be what love feels like. Yes, Dylan had given me my first ever orgasm at the tender age of -- well, let's just say we were both young.

I never saw Dylan again. He sent me some emails with lots of hearts and things on them, and I reciprocated, but when school resumed and other boys surrounded me, now that I finally had boobs, Dylan faded in my memory, all except for that wonderful orgasm, which I'll never forget. Even now, twelve years later, the memory is as clear as a bell.

Dylan was at my door. Older, taller, beefier, but unmistakably Dylan, still with his amazingly fetching tiny speech impediment, steel blue eyes, and shy smile. I melted all over again, just from the sight of him.

"Dylan! Well, this is a surprise!" I said, quite accurately, too. I have a penchant for stating the obvious.

"I was afraid you wouldn't remember me," Dylan said.

"Well, you obviously remembered me; why wouldn't I remember you?" I asked.

"You've played a big role in my imaginary, and now the word is out that you're to be married. Everyone is mourning like it's the burning of the library at Alexandria," he said.

I giggled. Dylan always was good with words. He had the gift of gab of the Irish, even though he was American, through and through. "Who is everyone?"

"Me, myself, and I, and some others," he replied.

"Look, I can't invite you in. Apparently since I'm a society girl, everything I do is noticed, and becomes food for gossip," I said.

"Can I invite you out?" Dylan replied.

"I'll get my coat," I said. I shot a glance up at the window across the street that Hank had indicated to me, where someone was watching me. Sure enough, I saw a flurry of movement in the window. I wondered if we would be followed, too?

Dylan took me to lunch. (Yes, we were followed. It was subtle, but since I was looking for it, it wasn't subtle enough.) I knew a place, a small neighborhood diner on Second Avenue, where they really should serve Tums with their food, but if we sat at a table in the back, our backs to the wall, then we could see everyone else in the diner, or anyone peeking in from the street, through the windows.

The wait staff knew me there, since they had the best French toast in New York, at least in my opinion, and I was often there for breakfast or brunch. The waitresses all checked out my date Dylan, and I got approval in a subtle girl code. Well, Dylan was in fact good looking, after all.

Even the gay waiter conveyed his approval by winking knowingly at me when he refilled our coffees. Part of the charm of the place was that nobody there knew I was a rich, single, socialite. For them, I was just another nice girl. I wish I could have been just another nice girl. I hate being rich.

Dylan and I had a wonderful time together. We had so much catching up to do! We literally talked for hours. It was magical, and I came to realize Dylan was a great guy. He was also single, having gone through a number of long-term girlfriends, but nothing had ever lasted more than two years. After lunch (or in my case, brunch) we left by the rear entrance, going through the kitchen, which I had done a few times before, to escape stalkers, real or imagined. Life's not always a bed of roses for an heiress in New York.

When I was at Stanford, Dylan was "spending a short period at each of several Ivy League Schools," he had said.

"Which one was the last?" I asked.

"Cornell, obviously," he said. "I seemed unable to concentrate on my studies, with all those pretty girls all over the place. Finally, my Dad found a solution and he sent me to Wabash College."

"Where's that?" I asked,

"It's in Indiana. Crawfordsville. It's one of the last colleges that has only male students. The only females to distract you are the teachers," he said.

"How many professors did you lay?" I asked him, rather crudely, trying to tease him.

"Only one. How did you know? She almost got fired because of it, too," he said.

I looked at Dylan. Who knew?

Dylan and I went for a walk. We walked down to Tompkins Square Park. There aren't any of the right kind of lonely spots in the park, but at one point, Dylan stood me up against a tree, and he kissed me. We stood there, kissing, for quite some time. He got his leg between mine, and began to knee my groin, and I began to laugh.

Dylan looked me quizzically. "You don't remember, but that last day of camp when we were making out, the friction of your pants with your hard cock inside, against my pussy, drove me to a climax, my first one ever," I said.

"Oh, I remember, Isabelle. I've never forgotten it, even for an instant. I've always loved you," he said. "I still do."

"Oh, Dylan, don't be silly. Anyway, I'm to be married right soon, so it's time for you to move on to other women. New York has a lot of them, you know," and I giggled some more.

"Do you love him?" Dylan asked.

"That's not an acceptable question, Dylan, but yes, I think I do indeed love him. I admit he's strange, but I love him. You can't explain love," I said.

"They say he murdered his first three wives. Doesn't that give you pause?" Dylan asked.

"I'm not risk averse," I replied. "Life is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short."

"Thomas Hobbes, right? I didn't go to Stanford, like you, but you can learn things at any decent university, even Wabash College," Dylan said, sounding a little defensive, I thought. He should not have; I'm confident Wabash is an excellent school. We left the park, and Dylan walked me home, but I didn't him kiss me goodbye, due to the spies all around the place. What a drag!