THE CONSOLATION PRIZE



Leticia Humphrey wasn't the world's richest woman. She wasn't even close.
All the same, two and a half billion was nothing to sneeze at.

Ruthlessness -- that was what had brought her this far -- utter and
completely cold-blooded ruthlessness. (Her birth name had, in fact, been
Ruth, but she had purged herself of *that* in a hurry, you betcha.) She
always got what she wanted, no matter what the price, always. And
everything had a price.

Lonely. She was terribly lonely. She'd been married six times and at
one time or another had sampled the wares of scores of lovers. Even at
61, rustling up someone to warm her bed was no problem. She could buy
all the casual sex she wanted, but usually she didn't need to resort to
that expedient. Her reputation sufficed. She was extraordinarily skilled
in the erotic arts and few indeed were the variations thereof that she
hadn't mastered. Men staggered from her embrace drained of desire and
passion . . . and life force.

Another husband -- maybe that was what she needed. A good and decent man,
not like the spoiled, rich jerks she'd been married to. Smart, steady,
sensible, kind, and having a good sense of humor. A good listener.
Sympathetic. And, of course, an enthusiastic and virile lover, willing
to try anything, capable of fulfilling her special needs. She had quite
a number of special needs.

The trouble was that she was looking for an exceedingly rare breed
of animal. Those few men possessing the right attributes were already
spoken for.

Take Zach Whitman, for example. He met or exceeded all her specifications,
but there was one minor problem -- he was married. His wife adored him,
and with good reason.

Zach was a promising mid-level executive in one of her many business
ventures. Only in his early thirties, he had the type of maturity and
solid judgment that translates into top leadership potential. He earned
good money, but a stock market slump and an extended illness had all but
wiped out his savings and left him deeply in debt. He was vulnerable,
and therefore eminently buyable.



"Zach, I have a special assignment for you. It's confidential, of course."

"You can count on me, sir."

The executive vice president handed him a sealed envelope.

An hour later Zach sat alone in the room. The armchair was comfortable.
The only other furniture was a small table and a queen-size bed. It was
spartan, but clean.

This was all rather mysterious, and with a bit of cheap melodrama thrown
in. The instructions in the envelope had directed him to a certain motel
on the outskirts of town. He was to rent room 223 for one night, and
await an unspecified visitor. At that time, he would find out more.

Zach crossed his arms and closed his eyes. The monotonous thrumming of
the air conditioner was lulling him to sleep. He jerked awake as the
door opened.

A woman walked in. Leticia! The real power behind the firm, and, if what
he had heard was accurate, behind a number of other outfits as well. She
was wearing a stylishly casual blouse and skirt, and she smiled warmly
as she motioned for him to sit back down.

"I've been following your career, Zach. It's impressive. We need talent
of your caliber at the upper echelons of the organization. However . . . "

There was a long pause.

"Thank you for your confidence, ma'am. I'm here in pursuance of company
business, as you are no doubt aware. As such, I stand ready to carry out
my assignment."

"Zach," she whispered softly, as she began unbuttoning her blouse. "*I* am
your assignment. You know I'm the owner of the company, the top honcho."
She was stepping out of her skirt. Underneath, she had nothing on.
"Please, don't compel me to *order* you to do what should come natural
in a situation like this."

He stood up and walked to the door. He was blushing.

"I'm a married man, Leticia. A *faithful* married man. As much as I
value my position in the company, I won't do anything to hurt my wife or
jeopardize my marriage. Nor will I compromise my integrity. I'm sorry,
but I'm afraid I find myself unsuited for this particular assignment."

"Zach," she said. "I'm not asking you to betray your wife. I'm asking
you to *leave* her. I want you. I want you to marry me. I'm offering -- "

He turned the knob and opened the door.

"Wait! At least stay to listen to my proposal. Your future depends on it."

He hesitated then turned around. "This had better be damned good. You've
just delivered a mortal insult. It leaves me precious little alternative -- "

"Shut up. Sit down. Listen. I know how precarious your finances are.
You need money to pay your bills. You have no chance whatsoever of
fulfilling your potential unless you get money. That's what I'm offering
-- money, lots of it. Marry me, stay married to me for a year, a single
damn year, and I'll make you a millionaire. That's right -- I'll give
you a million dollars in cash, free and clear."

Zach laughed softly. "You think I'd sell myself to you, *prostitute*
myself? You think I'd give up a wife I love for money?" He got up again.

"Look, Zach. If you love that little wifey of yours so much, I'll let you
visit her after we're married. *Conjugal* visits. See? I'll even let you
fuck the little slut once in a while if that's what it takes to . . . "

"Goodbye, Leticia. Oh, and by the way, you look much better with
clothes on."

The vase she threw shattered on the door after it had closed behind him.



"A million dollars, Zach? You really think you're worth that much? Are
you *that* good in bed?"

"You ought to know by now, Shelly. We've been married six years."

"Yes, Zach. You *are* that good. Come here. Hurry."



The next morning at work, there was a written reprimand waiting for Zach.
The regional manager warned him that his job was in serious jeopardy. Zach
had been expecting something of the sort. It was to be pressure and
threats then. Genteel extortion.

The office boy brought Zach coffee and donuts. He was a good kid, just
barely out of high school. Eager to please, but not terribly bright. The
likelihood was that he'd still be an office boy when he retired.

Zach had a sudden thought. The boy was a handsome, athletic young fellow,
just the type an older woman might look upon as "arm candy." There might
be some interesting possibilities here. . . .

"Darl, would you mind taking a message to the front office? Deliver it
in person, to Miss Leticia. Oh, and straighten up your tie before you go."



As expected, Leticia summoned him.

"And what's the bloody meaning of *this*?" She flung the note at him.

"Don't waste my time, Leticia. You're well aware of what this is about.
You'll never possess me, despite bribes, machinations, threats, or the
Byzantine plots you're so fond of. But if you're willing to settle for
the freshness and enthusiasm of youth, rather than my tired and worn-out
self . . . "

"Get out," she snarled.

"The consolation prize," the note read.



"Mr. Whitman, I don't know what to make of this. Miss Leticia had me up
in her private office. She went over and locked the door, then told me
to *take my clothes off*."

"Well, did you?"

"Of course. She's the big boss, you know. And I do need this job."

"And then?"

"She looked me over like I was some kind of pure breed dog, like at a
dog show, you know."

"That's pure-bred, Darl. Did she do anything else?"

"She just said, 'You'll do,' and told me to meet her in the lobby of
the Hotel Corinthian tonight. Maybe you can clue me in on what this is
all about, Mr. Whitman."

"You can call me Zach, Darl. What's going on, I imagine, is that you'll
be getting an audition -- a tryout. I suggest you shower, put on clean
underwear and wear your best cologne. Use mouthwash, too. It wouldn't
hurt to pick up a bouquet of roses on the way."



"So, how did the evening go, Darl?"

"Uh, well, I don't know for sure, Zach. We both got naked pretty quick.
She doesn't much care about the kissing and the holding part of it. Then
she went into the bathroom to get ready. I dunno, I thought she was gonna
pretty herself up or maybe take a leak or something. But she came out
and she was wearing . . . I couldn't believe it. She had on one of those
leather strap contraptions around her hips, and there was this *thing*
sticking out of it. It looked just like a *man's cock*, but it must
have been plastic. And there she was, looking down at me with this big
shit-eating grin, and then she asked how I'd like *that* up my ass. I
must have turned green, 'cause right then she put her arms around me and
snuggled me up to those big, baggy boobs of hers, and that felt kind of
nice, you know. Kind of like being hugged by your mom. She took off that
strap thing and we ended up doing it in the regular way, except that she
had to be on top, you know, and that was all right, too. I was tired, and
didn't mind letting her do all the work. But right when were were leaving
to go, she told me something else, something that's still bothering me."

"What?"

"She said I'd have to get used to taking it in the ass, and learn to like
it. She'd make it worth my while to please her and make her happy. Or I
could find myself out of a job and out on the street with just the clothes
on my back. And speaking of clothes, when I put them on to go, I found two
hundred-dollar bills in the pocket of my pants. She's paying me to be her
whore, that's what she's doing, and I don't know if I much care for that."

"It's your choice, guy."

"Damn it, Zach, I know I don't have much in the way of talent and I'm no
genius either, that's for sure. The only thing I've got going for me is
being young and looking good. If selling my bod is what it takes for me to
make my pile while while I'm still young enough to enjoy it, well . . . "

"Well what?"

"Well, where do I go to take lessons in being ass-fucked?"



Zach just happened to have an acquaintance whose specialty was instructing
novices in the art of gay sex.

"You come highly recommended, kid. Darl, is it? I like that. Would that
by chance be the diminutive of 'darling'?"

"No way, Mick. I think it's just another way of spelling 'Darrell.' Dad
named me after this wheeler-dealer he worked with once, out west, in Utah
or some place like that. The guy called himself a corporate facilitator,
or some such bullshit, though he was really nothing but a scam artist. But
who cares?"

"I sure don't, Darl. Now bend over and brace your elbows on the bed.
Relax. This won't hurt a bit. . . . "



Leticia had been in a good mood lately. The word was that she had a
new boyfriend. On the infrequent occasions she showed up at the office,
people noticed her extra vitality. She seemed to have an inner glow, and
at times would absentmindedly shut her eyes and smile to herself. It was
infectious. Company productivity and profits surged. Bonuses and raises
were in the pipeline.

Zach had a new supervisor. They got along quite well.

"You've certainly come a long way in a short time, Darl. Think you can
handle being regional manager?"

"Well, yeah, Zach, it sure does feels funny having you report to me.
Leticia's been taking a special interest in my career, though. And I
guess I really owe it all to you."

"Think nothing of it. I hope you'll find happiness and fulfillment as
you climb the company ladder. And by the way, are those lash marks on
the back of your neck?"

"Leticia says I need what she calls 'discipline.' Part of the price I
gotta pay to get ahead, I guess."

"Look at it this way, Darl. If you can't find a woman worthy of your love,
then success in business is the consolation prize."