The White Box - Sex Stories

The White Box

... “Today’s the day, genius (ping); today’s the day I sell your company (ping). I’ll have everything done by two o’clock this afternoon and then I’ll be the billionaire (ping) and you’ll be even a bigger nothing than you are now. Now get back to work. I want this place to sparkle by the time I return.” She walked out of the bedroom and out the front door, driving my new BMW M6 convertible down the street. I continued to dust, removing each piece from the shelves as I had been taught. I vacuumed once that was done and walked down the hallway to put the vacuum away. I passed the door and stopped. Turning slowly I pressed the numbers---6-8-7-3-1-9. The tiny light changed from red to green and a hidden panel slid down. Automatically, I pressed my left thumb against the glass. The door clicked open. I walked in tentatively only to be PINGED repeatedly as I entered what had been my inner sanctum. This had been my safe room, walls, ceiling, and floor constructed of half-inch thick steel before being covered with rich Brazilian rosewood paneling and a thick mauve carpet. I had all of my top secret financial and business information as well as a small fortune in cash here—more than $25,000. On the walls were photos of me with presidents, governors, and senators. My brain was pinging non-stop until it all came flooding back—everything---not only my identity--but also what Dana and Rolf had done to me. I walked over to an original Renoir, pressing the secret latch and revealing the safe ...

... behind. It was open just seconds later. Looking at the clock I realized I had only a bit more than two hours to stop Dana. I removed $4,000 from the safe and used the phone to call a cab. Fifteen minutes later I walked into Milton’s Menswear. Handing the cabbie two hundreds I told him, “Wait for me.” If he had been shocked by my apparel the money convinced him to keep his mouth shut. Milton himself came to the door just as he did with almost every customer. “Milton, I don’t have a lot of time. Get me some boxers, khakis, and a decent golf shirt. You may have to measure me. I’ve lost a lot of weight.” “I can hardly believe my eyes, Mr. Bellamy. I heard you had a stroke and were confined to bed.” “Just goes to prove you can’t believe everything you hear. Now, let’s get going; I have an important deadline.” Milton was an expert so actual measuring wasn’t needed. He selected a blue and gold shirt by Ashworth—size large--and a pair of 34 x 34 khaki microfiber slacks along with a pair of grey silk boxers. A brown Coach belt, tan socks, and cordovan loafers by Gucci completed my outfit. I dropped $1,800 on the counter as I ran out, telling Milton I’d cover any shortfall the next time I was in. Back in the cab I told the driver, “Stan’s Barber Shop—Third and Main--and step on it.” I dropped another hundred in his lap. Ten minutes later I walked through Stan’s door. There were four men ahead of me. “I’m in a life-or-death emergency. I’ll gladly pay for everyone’s haircut and give you ...