The Billionaire's Toy:Extreme Taboo Horror BDSM Erotica - Remy Elliot - ebook
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Then the thread, a new needle. And sitting on her belly like some jolly tailor, I stitched the lips of her c**** shut with wide basting stitches, the pain less acute here, as the holes were more or less permanent in the way some women will have their ears pierced. When finally her c*** was totally sewn shut, inaccessible, an elemental part of Cosette's sexual predilectionsExcerpt: 18 January: At long last, dear diary! It has finally happened! All my long years of waiting, of preparation and scheming have finally been rewarded. All my days of study, my nights of debauch shall now bear fruit. Now all those self-mortifications and wallowings--endless seductions, sluts on parade--shall have been worth it.Today I finally met the mighty Sloan Jagger, Esq. Yes, the fatuous fool actually had the affectation lettered on the door of his Fifth Avenue offices. "JAGGER INDUSTRIES, Sloan Jagger, Esq., President," the caption read. And quite a sumptuous layout it was, the enterprise taking up an entire floor of the DePaige Building. As one of his hot-hipped secretaries--a lip-smacking tart, and no mistake--led me to the Emperor's office, I evaluated the ostentatious show completely; there wasn't the slightest doubt that dear Mr. Jagger rolls in it; the times have been exceedingly good to him.

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The Billionaire's Toy

Remy Elliot

Copyright © 2017

18 January: At long last, dear diary! It has finally happened! All my long years of waiting, of preparation and scheming have finally been rewarded. All my days of study, my nights of debauch shall now bear fruit. Now all those self-mortifications and wallowings--endless seductions, sluts on parade--shall have been worth it.

Today I finally met the mighty Sloan Jagger, Esq. Yes, the fatuous fool actually had the affectation lettered on the door of his Fifth Avenue offices. "JAGGER INDUSTRIES, Sloan Jagger, Esq., President," the caption read. And quite a sumptuous layout it was, the enterprise taking up an entire floor of the DePaige Building. As one of his hot-hipped secretaries--a lip-smacking tart, and no mistake--led me to the Emperor's office, I evaluated the ostentatious show completely; there wasn't the slightest doubt that dear Mr. Jagger rolls in it; the times have been exceedingly good to him.

Which caused my gorge to bubble. He has all this, I thought. While I...

I allowed his simpering receptionist a penetrating smile as she stood aside to admit me to the seigneur's suite, actually let the back of my hand graze the heat-radiating mount of her cunt as I passed. The smile the whore sent me! I believe she would have sucked me off then and there had I asked her to.

Anyway. The illustrious Sloan Jagger: I had never seen the man before. There were newspaper and financial magazine photos, of course, but precious few, as Jagger fancies himself somewhat of a mystery man, only slightly more accessible than Howard Hughes.

Thus the sense of monumental achievement wrangling an interview with the titan, the reason my heart dances as I write these words.

He was just as I might have dreamed him to be. Those among my intimate friends who know him, have had business dealings with him (much to their detriment), people with good cause to fill me in on certain weaknesses the tycoon possessed, briefed me on same. Sloan Jagger was fifty, bland-faced, shaggy-browed. Only first tending toward portliness, he was distinguished, almost handsome, his jet-black hair touched with gray ravens-wings. And yet, beneath that imperious, coarse exterior--his origins are lower-class Manchester, after all--I thought I detected a slight effete weakness, a soft underbelly which the casual observer might miss. But then, I might be deeply prejudiced, you see.

His office was the sort of thing a movie mogul might inhabit; his suit, shoes and accessories represented at least $1000 on the hoof. The supercilious bastard wore a patronizing smile to match.

He partly stood, extended a limp hand to me. "Mr. Vincenzi?" he said pompously. "So good of you to come." Immediately he opened a manila folder on his desk, scanned an affidavit within. "You were recommended by Mrs. Cyril Blodgett, I believe. Wonderful woman, Alvina. If she recommends you... " The English accent became more pronounced, more Blimpian, by the moment. "You know what I'm looking for, I assume."

I assured the self-enchanted ass that I did.

"It's a thankless task, you understand. My children have been shamelessly indulged, I'm afraid; they need a stern taskmaster. I wonder if, at your age... " He ducked back among his forms. "Twenty-six, sir," I volunteered.

"Yes, twenty-six. That's rather young for all these degrees. The Sorbonne, Heidelberg, the University of Bologna. Cited by the Academy. Very impressive credentials, these." Of course he had to undercut me, in some way. "One might have wished for some English schools here... Oxford, Cambridge or some such... but... " His voice drifted off. "You certainly have a diverse background. All this art, literature and history. The languages. Pure mush, of course, but very helpful for our immediate purposes. Never took much stock in extended education myself. A man should get out in the world at twenty, knock heads."

He sighed sadly. "But Thalia puts so much stock in it. Mrs. Jagger, that is. She says she won't have her children brought up like barbarians. So far they've disappointed her grievously. Thus the full time tutor. There's that much catching up to do. All that Continent gadding when they were little.

And I do mean full time. There'll be days off, of course. I'm sure... " he harrumphed self-importantly, "... that is if I should choose to engage you... that you've got your hands full for months on end, summer and all."

"I quite understand that, Mr. Jagger. I'm prepared to give the task full devotion. I'll get the children back to level by fall or die trying. Considering that the stipend is satisfactory, of course."

It wasn't. In fact it was quite niggardly, and I had quite a time concealing my surprise and disdain. I eventually cadged $50 more from him, but the salary was truly inconsequential; I would gladly have worked gratis just for the chance to infiltrate his household. But there is the adage that maintains a man is worth the value he sets upon himself. Had I accepted Jagger's offer without demurral he certainly would have had no respect at all for me.

"Highway robbery," the self-centered pirate protested nevertheless. "Especially for a man just starting out. But since Mrs. Blodgett recommends you so glowingly." His gaze turned sly suddenly. "It's enough to make a person wonder if perhaps you and Alvina might not have been... " He chuckled. "Just chaffing, old boy. Nothing personal. You are a dashing chap, you know. That dark, curly hair, those blasted dark eyes. I'm sure you've charmed many and many a woman off her feet in your time, right?"

I chose not to answer his accusation.

"No offense, Vincenzi? That is Italian, isn't it? Never trusted the breed, myself. A man can't be too careful, you know. After all, the oldest girl is eighteen, quite taken by herself. At that age, if you know what I mean. And Thalia might even be inclined to partake, I suspect. She's forty-two, still a looker. I'm no angel either, believe me. I've had my day. She knows that. You couldn't blame her. After all, married to an old walrus like me all these years... "

"You carry your age well, Mr. Jagger," I deliberately flattered. "You're a handsome figure of a man." Which made the ass beam as I affected hauteur. "However, if you entertain doubts about my character, I can supply other recommendations. You know Mr. and Mrs. Justin Fredge?"

He was immediately all apologies. "Not at all, my boy. Just a little joke, Vincenzi, can't you see that? Pulling your leg."

"Perhaps, if you could tell me a little about the children," I changed the subject. Which was superfluous to the extreme, as I already possessed an exhaustive dossier on the Jagger clan. Denise, a willowy, blossoming blonde. eighteen, as Jagger had just said. Then Christian, a shy, introspective boy of eighteen. And finally, Chessy, a precocious child of eleven.

Of course I didn't, for a moment, discount Thalia Jagger, the mother of the brood. I'd heard much about her, knew her to be beautiful, vivacious--a cold, suspicious and self-contained bitch.

Nevertheless I sat patiently through Jagger's boastful rundown. In fact I was uncharacteristically moved at the old bastard's obvious love for and commitment to his children. His love surprised me, added that much more spice to my quest. There was nothing new to be gleaned from the monologue. Other than the fact that the children were independent, selfish cubs, would definitely have to be won over. Over which I gloated cruelly, thought of any number of ways I might choose to woo the brats, some of them very vile indeed.

Perhaps five minutes later the interview was over. Rising from his ornate desk, Jagger once more extended his hand. "I'll be getting in touch with you, Vincenzi," he blustered. "There are other applicants. You are holding me up, you know. But I'm certainly amazed by your credentials. It's almost as if you've been preparing all your life for this one position."

It took considerable effort on my part to suppress an ironic smile at that.

"How long?" I ventured. "Before I know?"

"A few days, no longer. I have your number?"

"You have, sir. I'll be looking forward to hearing from you."

Moments later I was going out that great, teak-wood door; I was enduring the tongue-lolling appraisal of his sex-hungry receptionist once more as I made my way from the Jagger Industries offices. Briefly my prick twitched, partially rose and I thought to turn back, honor the piggy with offer of a date, a sniffing of my malodorous crotch at any rate. Elated as I was at the interview's outcome, I shunted the thoughts aside, left with not so much as a backward glance.

I was sure, nevertheless, that the bitch sneaked a furtive hand underneath her skirt, massaged her swimming cunt even as I left, a consolation prize of sorts.

18 January: Today Sloan Jagger called. And though anticlimactic (I'd been sure of the job from the start), the news was worth celebration just the same, and I chose to share my joy with Cosette Onofrio at her sumptuous penthouse on Gramercy Place.

"It sounds wonderful, darling," the forty-year-old woman (faded, her face slightly puffy, her latest rinse a bit too red) said as she almost immediately snuggled between my legs where I sat on her enormous, white davenport. "I'm so happy for you." She stared up at me beseechingly. And when I nodded my agreement, she feverishly unzipped my trousers, dug inside for my flaccid prick. Producing it, clucking sympathetically over its inert condition, she drew back the foreskin with a flourish, pounced upon it, wrapped gnawing, tugging lips around it. Very shortly Cosette gurgled happily in her throat, as the prodigious hank stretched, nudged her pharynx. Slavishly, noisily, her stripping mouth ran up and down its length.

"Lovely, lovely," she said, pausing in her labors. "How I love to do you like this. You've been ignoring Cosette lately, darling. Don't you love me any more?"

"Of course I love you, angel. Especially when you're like this. What would I ever do without you?"

Which was so much unadulterated horse-shit, and we both knew it. There was no love here. Perhaps a smidgen on her part, but certainly none on mine. It was an arrangement, sweet and simple. I called her at frequent intervals; I took care of her very perverted sexual needs with all the bravado the dumpy clown could wish for. For which she paid me a generous weekly allowance, assumed the role of patroness of the arts. Very black, very anomalous arts at that. In addition she was confidante and mentor to me; she had thus far, during my four months in the United States, been very influential in opening certain important doors to me.

Doors like the one belonging to Sloan Jagger.

"Please, darling," I protested as Cosette sucked me perhaps a little too avidly, "control yourself. You're slobbering all over my trousers. This is a new suit, you know. You bought it for me yourself."

She drew back, dabbed at the saliva stains with her fingers. "Sorry, pet. I do get carried away, don't I? What must you think of your perverted little slut?"

"That she's a perverted little slut," I replied coldly.

Which insult made her jitter, brought a weird, expectant simper to her lips. "You darling," she sighed, instantly beginning to undo my belt, work my trousers down my hips. "Here, we'll get these off you."

I peered solicitously into her eyes. "Is it that bad tonight, Cosette?"

She shuddered. "It is. I've wanted to call you for days, but I couldn't. I do have my pride, after all."

I laughed mockingly. "Do you? If you could just see yourself now. All eyes and mouth. A mouth jammed-to-bursting with fat, brown cock. Cock all the way down your dirty, cocksucking throat."

There was no real cruelty involved in my words. If anything, the cuts were compassionate, exactly the sort of thing the twisted-up pig wanted to hear. As evidence, the way she writhed and shuddered at my words, fought all the harder to impale herself completely upon my pole, wrong-end-to.

Which was de rigueur so far as dear Cosette was concerned; she seldom varied her routine. The more she could grovel, the more awfully I used her, the happier she was. Just as now, as she undressed me, stopping every few moments to slip back to my drooling stem, lap away new seepings of my fuck-oil, she went into slavey paroxysms of joy.

When I was finally naked, sprawled arrogantly before her, my nine inches throbbing, pumping rivulets of my crystalline liqueur forth like silver lianas that twined down its grainy, veined length, I knew an even greater pride. For Cosette fell back on her haunches, appraised me intently, her eyes flaming with sick adoration. A look that made me feel like a cannibal's feast. Her face twisted, and her jaws clamped with lust.

"Beautiful, Donato," she whimpered. "Oh, God, you're so handsome, so young and smooth. That body of yours, those muscles. There's no fat on you anywhere."

"Except one place," I snickered.

Her eyes swept down, took in my slimed pecker anew. "Yes," she gulped, applying her tongue, "one place."

"Tell me," I coached.

"Your big, fat cock." Her mouth worked faster; her lips dragged a shattery groan from me. "Your delicious, jawbreaking cock."

"Baby," I gasped as she truly became mean, "stop now. Not like that. Not so fast. You know what I like." But she wouldn't let loose. Until I leaned, slapped her sharply beside the face. Here Cosette sighed thickly, fell back, her face rapt. "Enough, I said!"

"Yes, darling," she purred. "Anything you say. Please, make your naughty girl mind."

"I could use a nice cool drink," I snapped. "Get out of those clothes while you're up."

We talked as she scurried about the apartment, making us both a potent, double martini. In the meantime she stripped away her dress and slip, promenaded in just her devilish, black silk corselet, a thing that made her body look slimmer than it really was, made her breasts stand up like twin torpedo-heads, gave the pneumatic rounds of her ass a maddening, scintillating sheen. There were panty hose beneath--the wet look, jet black--then the wicked, pointed-toed pumps she refused to give up on.

By then my cock dripped like a maple during sugar-off time.

She gave me a quick tidying, then handed me my drink. "You're sure you want to go through with that thing with the Jaggers?" she said in between rasping, skin-flaying lickings. "Must you, precious? Stay with me; let me take care of you. I have all the money either of us will ever need. Why don't you forget it? That's all in the past; let sleeping dogs lie. It's not worth all the trouble, all the risk. Sloan Jagger's a powerful, vicious man. He can get back at you, hurt you badly. He'll stop at nothing."

"Neither will I," I said, slumping further on the couch. "I'll hurt him worse than he hurts me." I raised one knee so she could nuzzle my balls, lick them, eventually take them, one at a time, into her mouth, loll them on her tongue. "I've waited this long; I'm not turning back. Not now, when I'm so close to my goal." Rage and hate blurred my words. "Just thinking about that filthy bastard... No! He won't scare me off."

Cosette came up from my testicles with a slurping sigh, nipped the underside of my prick from scrotum to tip. I thought the sight of her crouching there as I leisurely sipped my drink, her black-glossed body in serpentine curl between my legs especially enchanting, and lust rampaged within me. She paused, looked up at me. "Remember what I said. About getting yourself an ally once you're established. One of the servants. They're the best; they're always willing to help bring down the castle; they've got scores to settle.

"I will, darling. And how about you?"

"I'll be out here, Donato, with my ear to the ground, trying to find out anything I can. Any little thing I can do to help you win out, I will. I swear it. For when you're finished there... " Her voice snagged. "Maybe you'll come back to me. Maybe then you'll be mine, body and soul. I don't ask you to love me, I don't ask anything but to.."

I had heard the tiresome refrain before and cut her short. "I know, darling. Someone to whip your ass, someone to break your masochistic little heart."

"Don't be cruel, baby."

"You wouldn't want me if I wasn't."

"When? When do you go?"

"In two weeks. I start the first of February."

Her face collapsed. "Only two weeks? Is that all I've got left? Oh, how will I ever exist when you're gone? Who'll take care of me? Only you know how I really like it; only you... of all my men... are strong enough. You never relent, never show your worthless trull the least bit of mercy." A hard shudder ripped her. "We'll have to crowd so much into these next few weeks. So much filth."

I knew what she was leading up to, recognized those first signs, and thought to commence our travesty of love. Suddenly, the gin getting to me, I was as eager for it as she was; I was wild to punish, to put the crawling slug of a woman in her proper place. "Finish up that drink, whore," I snapped. "I've got another drink for you. All this excitement, the gin... "

She fell back, her face contorted with desire. "Oh, Donato, love... you wouldn't! You wouldn't make me drink... " She sank deeper into her fey charade, both of us aware that she was crazy to have me vilify her this way. "Darling, no! Oh, please."

She shuddered as I locked my fingers in her hair, jammed her head to my prick, slid my glans on the clenched keyboard of her teeth. "Yes," I chuckled, loving the way my flesh mashed up against that slippery barricade, "I would. I'll make you do any dirty thing that comes to my mind. Open up." Then my cock slid into her hot, juicy mouth, snaked itself down her throat.

"Please," she whined muffledly a last time, her plea more for defamation than reprieve. "Oh, darling."

Then her throat muscles began constricting expertly on my cockhead. I sighed, fell back. And putting martini in at one end, letting it out at the other...

Cosette hummed contentedly, greedily took my hot stream down her gullet. It is one of the most delightful sensations this life of ours affords. The hot, close channel of mouth, lips and tongue, a suffocating sheath in which the prick is contained. The lips and tongue massaging, suctioning in hot, steady cadence, the gulping of the throat as it hurries the piss down. Can anything be more heavenly?

Still my phallus throbbed and jerked as I forced those last few drops of piss out, and Cosette gratefully swallowed them, milked me for still more. Now her tongue swabbed my corona, removed the last salty residue. She gasped, came up for breath. "Gorgeous," she sighed, "simply gorgeous. Donato, you're so evil. So gorgeously evil. More, now! Anything you say. Command your slut."

I sank deeper into demented torpor myself. "That was a very evil thing you just did, Cosette," I seethed. "A very filthy thing. You should be punished for that." My eyes turned malevolent, made her squirm with expectation. "The strop, harlot! Bring it!"

Eagerly she crawled across the floor, to the desk, where, rummaging in one of the drawers, she produced the black, wide, leather strop, a memento (she'd once told me) of her father, the very same strop he'd used to whip her as a miscreant child. She brought it to me dutifully, laid it in my hands. Immediately she turned, offered her plump derriere, her entire body spasmed with need by then.

I gave her one token slice across the back of her thighs with the strop, made her moan. "Not like that, whore! Your undies. Get them off."

"Please, darling," she protested, cowering before me, "don't make me undress. You mustn't see me. I'm ugly, I'm crippled... maimed."

Another cut with the strop, the dull splat hanging richly on the air, and she began to zun zippers, rape fasteners. Then her ruddy, scarred back and derriere were exposed. Even more hideous, the mutilated knurls of her nipples, the thickened, tattered folds of her cunt lips. The shoes were kicked off; the panties and hose were dragged away. And then, Cosette totally naked, standing docilely before me--We could proceed according to preset ritual.

I whipped her with the wide strop. Standing, I flailed her toward the center of the room. Where, the hi-fi turned up loudly enough to muffle the sound of Cosette's pinched squeals, the whack and whistle of the strop, I truly laced her with it, gloried in her corybantic dance. The strop curled about her buttocks, about her waist, about her legs and thighs. Even as she seemingly hung in the air, gasped for breath after each new slash, I flayed her anew, thrilled to the squashy sound of the blows when the strop curled around her belly, landed on the great mounds of her breasts, left a wide, red welt completely across the hemispheres, darkened nipples and all. She squealed in definitive glee as the strop caught her full across the face. And still I kept her dancing.

"The ropes, trollop!" I snarled, as, arm weary, I suspended the flogging. "Bring them!" A last whack exploded. A happy yip broke from her as she ran for the ropes.

I was waiting for her in the bedroom when she appeared with the white, silk cords, the small case containing the alcohol, the needles, the special thread tucked under her arm. Handing them to me, she tremblingly flung back the covers, arranged herself on the bed. Her eyes adoring, she watched as I spread-eagled her, tied her wrists, then her ankles to the four-poster. Now I opened the case, drew the first needles from their alcohol-filled vial.

She moaned in ecstasy as I began puncturing her nipples with the needle and small drops of blood speckled the curiously mottled, disfigured caps. "I'm evil, I'm corrupt," she wheezed as I tortured her. "Punish me! Punish your filthy girl! My face! Sit upon it!"

I straddled her shoulders, let my ass settle back into her face. Then I groaned in delight as I felt her nip my scrotum where it mantled her mouth. Moments later her educated tongue probed my asshole, her nose nudging and champing in attempt to spread my cheeks even further, win greater purchase for her demonic tongue. Even as I drove a needle completely through one of her nipples, I felt her hard, pointed tongue go deep into my anus, a sensation impossible to describe.

"Glorious, my lover," I heard her muffled tones carry. "I love it, love it. The other one now. Another needle!"

Her body flopped and writhed as I made a slow, cruel rite of pincushioning the other nipple. Now two needles impaled the dark tips, a single drop of blood tipping each of them. Every time I moved the needles in the maimed meat of her nipples, she moaned joyously, sent her tongue that much deeper up my asshole.

Then the thread, a new needle. And sitting on her belly like some jolly tailor, I stitched the lips of her cunt shut with wide basting stitches, the pain less acute here, as the holes were more or less permanent in the way some women will have their ears pierced. When finally her cunt was totally sewn shut, inaccessible, an elemental part of Cosette's sexual predilections, I straddled her shoulders again, fucked her in the mouth. At her adjurations I drove myself deeply into her, ravished her throat, the gagging, coughing cries my prick drew from her integral to her rapture also. In and out I went, with Cosette gasping with delight, praising me, begging me to shoot my load into her suctioning mouth.

Not too much later, my balls feeling like they'd explode from the fantastic pleasure, I did just that. Pumping like a runaway steam-drill, I actually grazed her tonsils. Any other woman would have vomited, would have strangled in her own mess. But not Cosette. After all the pricks which had plundered that throat, very little could astonish or repulse her now. Now my jazz erupted, and I pumped even more fiendishly; her tonsils dripped with my muck.

If Cosette knew anything but sublimest joy at my abuse, she never let on. Crooning dreamily, she gulped down my sperm, continued masticating my prick, clamping hard every time I tried to withdraw, until it began to harden anew.

Then I untied her, dragged her from the bed. And with her nipples still skewered, her cunt flaps still drawn shut, I tied her wrists behind her back, forced her to kneel on the carpet. Standing over her I worked my greasy prick in her eyes, in her ears, under her nose before I inserted it in her mouth another time. Shortly, as her mouth began pumping and suctioning, I knew it was that time.

With a curse I pushed her face into the floor, ground it into the rough carpeting. Then I came behind her, made cruel show of opening her buttocks, corkscrewing my greasy finger in and out of her asshole. Again and again I poked the stinking digit into her mouth, where she sucked it avidly, spat on it to provide further lubricant. And not too much later she groaned hideously, attempted to gnaw swatches out of the carpeting as I drove my tube deep into her ass. Shortly the pain diminished, and her groans turned to sobs of delight. As I drove myself the more swiftly, more brutally, she chose to answer my thrusts with backward swivelings and lurchings of her own, using her face for purchase, her ass churning like a coffee grinder. Needless to say, it was only a matter of moments before her trained sphincters milked me dry, and though my load was diminished, it still came with furious propulsion; I felt Cosette shudder and whimper with each hot throb and jet, my cream scalding the depths of her bowels.

Even then I remembered the final touch, and fingering the needles in her breasts, I brought her to the desperately-longed-after orgasm. Incubated these long minutes in her sealed cunt, her orgasm was now detonated by intermixed pain and humiliation, and she squealed, thrashed, fell flat on her belly on the floor, the added pressure on her skewered nipples adding the ultimate ecstasy to her orgasm.

She lay sobbing beneath me, even as I (over-excited, crazy to exercise this ultimate sadism) relieve myself again, this time in her anus, the bite of my piss in the ravaged grotto truly making her moan, making my prick feel like it was being marinated in brine. She went limp, savored every hot jet; she sighed thickly as my urine began backing up, squeezing out around the bung of my prick, splashing my belly and thighs, dribbling down her thighs.

When I finally withdrew, I forced Cosette into a random corner of the room. Where, her legs curled under her, her spine bent at painful arc, I once more put my prick into her mouth, demanded a final cleansing. It was a task which the depraved harridan accepted with glee, and she attacked my pod famishedly, smacking her lips over the accumulation of fuck-oil, sperm, piss and shit.

She went into even more animalistic frenzy when I led her by the hair to the place where my piss had drained from her ass, when I forced her face into the sodden nap of the carpet, ordered her to lick up all she could.

Even as I hovered over her, listened to the happy click-click of her tongue and lips, to her happy hummings, I was struck by a singular thought: It was, I adjudged, the best of all possible ways to celebrate a happy event. Even as dubious a juncture as the one I would soon be embarked upon.

Now I put my hand to her ass, caught the feeble last flow of intermixed crud from her asshole, fed it to her slurping, vacuum-cleaner lips.

"Good," she gulped gratefully, "so good. Oh, baby, I do love you. I will miss you. You're so wonderful, so very good to me!"

--FEBRUARY--

5 February: I have been at the Jagger estate in Piedmont Hills for five days now, and I have every reason to believe that I am making wonderful progress with my charges. In more ways than one. I have decided that Mr. Jagger exaggerated unnecessarily when describing the renegade capacities of his progeny. Granted, they are independent and headstrong children (Denise, especially), but nothing an assertive, persistent and consistent man cannot cope with. I have especially come to like little Chessy, who is a sweet, loving little imp. Indeed, I shall find it hard to inflict retribution upon her when the time comes. But if it must be, it must be; I shall not be diverted from my holy purpose.