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 Fixer {DaddyDom} (Mf teen oral Fembot ScFi) [1/?]
   When Walter Winston landed on the private island in the chartered
Cessna, he was ready to see what he liked to refer to as "shady shit." Walt
had been seen and heard about a lot of shady shit in his forty-two years.
It was his bread and butter, so much so in fact that should the entire
planet suddenly become upright and moral citizens he might have to find a
real job.  Walt was a fixer, for lack of a better term.  There wasn't a
real name for what he did, but there were hundreds of people in his
business, and any good politician, CEO, or high-profile attorney needed to
know a few of them.  He called himself a fixer because, well...  he fixed
shit.  He specialized in the sexual dalliances of the rich and powerful,
mostly because there was that or embezzlement, and embezzlement bored the
shit out of him.
   When two term senator Wilfred Huxley's housekeeper caught him dipping
his wick in not one but two girl scouts (in an election year for Christ
sakes) his campaign manager would call Walt.  When a famous alien
worshiping movie star was photographed in Thailand vigorously mentoring
several nude Thai boys while on location, his rich little cult would send
Walt a plane ticket.  And when a prominent Massachusetts political family
did...  well...  anything, Walt's blackberry would start to vibrate.  That
group of bootlegger-wealthy politicians had a running tab with Walt.
   The girl scouts would get ponies, and the housekeeper would be
threatened with deportation (and given a raise, of course.) The
photographer would find a few Thai girls of his own at his door (who'd
ransack the room after he passed out from exhaustion and steal his camera
and laptop.) And the well known New England family, well...  beyond driving
a girl off a bridge most most all of their problems were fixable by giving
the right people jobs in the right places.  Everyone got a raise, or a
present, or a promotion.  Everyone went home happy.
   He didn't normally take jobs sight unseen, but he'd been sent to the
island by his long time friend and mentor, Harrison Kane, and for Harrison,
he'd do anything.  It wasn't out of loyalty, though he owed the old man a
lot of that, he wanted to impress him.  Harrison Kane could turn sewer
water into cognac, as far as scandals were concerned, and if he was calling
Walt in privately to handle something without giving him any of the
details, it was bound to be big.
   Harrison had been especially discreet on the phone, fearing bugs, and
had only told him that there was a wealthy, if slightly eccentric, client
who needed his services.  Eccentric, not weird.  Poor people were weird.
   Harrison had warned him that it was going to be a bit of a shock to him,
but even if he refused the job there was a free jet ride to the Caribbean
in it for him.  He didn't have to bribe Walter with perks (though it was
considered common courtesy.) If it wasn't for Harrison, Walt would never
have become as good at his job as he was.  Harrison was a God to Walt. 
He'd recently retired to Tahiti to make an exhaustive study of the effects
of wealth on pretty French tourists and island girls.
   Harrison had once given him sage advice over a bottle of hundred year
old single malt scotch, (a gift from none other than the President of the
United States) for finding a new job for a favorite (but unfortunately
chatty) stripper farrrrr from the beltway.  Harrison was a legend in the
field of scandal removal, and he'd schooled Walt like a drug dealer
teaching a favorite lieutenant the dope game.  Walt remembered the speech
vividly, because the words had become sort of a personal mantra.
   "Man is by nature corrupt and weak.  If you don't believe that, I'll
show you my bank account some day," Harrison said, pausing to dip the end
of a Romeo y Jullieta Havana Rubusto cigar in the scotch.  They were
sitting in Harrison's private booth at the "Candy Shop", a popular strip
club of the day which catered to the specific dalliances of Washington
Democrats.  Republicans went to "Kitty Kats" across town, sort of an
unspoken agreement between the two sides.  Nobody wants to get a hand-job
next to the guys trying to get him fired.  It's unnerving.
   Smoking was not allowed in the Candy Shop, unless of course you'd helped
the owner deal with the fallout of hiring a pair of sixteen year old twins.
Harrison could have lit up a crack pipe in the Candy Shop and nobody would
have bothered him.
   "If that were not enough, the men and occasionally women we serve:
politicians, actors, musicians...  famous people, are vain.  Corruption
plus vanity equals scandal and scandal-" the distinguished older man
paused, letting Walt finish his sentence.
   "Scandal pays the bills," Walt said, lighting a cigarette.  On the table
in front of them a busty young girl writhed to a Def Leopard song, but the
two men barely paid attention to her.  As Harrison loved to say "Pussy is
pussy and business is business." This was business.
   "Exactly," Harrison said, blowing a perfect smoke ring.  "Their handlers
will spend all their time giving good advice.  'Don't do this, don't smoke
that, stop seeing so and so.' That's their job, not yours.  We don't deal
in advice, we deal in solutions." He set a crisp fifty dollar bill on the
table, creased in the center, and the young girl bent nearly in half to
pick it up with her teeth.  Walt still remembered the sting as the older
man slapped the cigarette out of his mouth for being distracted.
   "Jesus!" Walt said, frantically snatching up the burning cigarette
before it set his slacks on fire, "What the fuck was that for?!" The old
man laughed.
   "See what I mean," Harrison said, winking quickly at the girl who was
wriggling out of her panties in direct violation of Virginia law.  "Weak.
If you want to succeed in the business, the first step is to stop being a
human being.  Develop some goddamned self-contol.  Man doesn't make good
fixers.  You, my boy, need to become a reptile."
   "Cold blooded," Walt said, lighting a fresh cigarette.  Harrison slapped
his back in old-boy network fashion.
   "Exactly!  This pretty little thing here," he said, pointing to the
girl, "Bet you'd like to fuck her.  But always remember that she's the
enemy.  That sweet thing between her legs has felled empires, ended
careers, and brought the mighty low.  No gun in the world scares me quite
so much as pussy." It was true.  Harrison had been married twice, lost half
of his money twice, and that was it for him.  There would be no wife number
three for Harrison.
   "Well women aren't all like that," Walt argued.  He was twenty two at
the time, fresh out of college with a political science degree, and had not
yet been properly stripped of his idealism, or his political correctness.
Harrison laughed and put another bill on the table, a hundred.  Ben
Franklin glared at them with obvious disapproval.  This time Walt kept
focus.  Barely.  Out of the corner of his eye he watched the girl carefully
step off the table and slide under it.
   "You're right and you're wrong," Harrison said, topping off Walt's
drink. "Most women are good, honest, communist fearing citizens of the U S
of A.  But if you want to work politics, and do what I do...  well...  This
is a full time twenty-four seven three-hundred and sixty-six on a leap-year
job.  And in THIS line of work, the men, the women, hell the fucking
transvestites you're going to be working with, and working on-" he paused
mid-sentence to blow another smoke ring, "None of them are going to be good
people." Walt's eyes went wide as he felt hands on his belt under the
table, but quickly put his face back into a mask of passive nonchalance
when his mentor's hand came up for another slap.
   "That uh," he stammered for his thoughts as his zipper came down and
warm hands pulled his cock out of his slacks, "That may be true but..." A
warm pair of lips circled and then slid down him till he felt tiny teeth on
the base of his cock.  The blond head started to bob in his lap.
   "Ok, test time," Harrison said, a look of amusement on his face as his
student was fellated by the young stripper, "How many potential jobs do you
see in here right now." Walt bit his lip to keep focused, scanning the
room. The girl had started humming along to the music, and she kept running
her nails across his thighs.  He took a deep breath, and concentrated.
   Two tables down a prominent television evangelist who spent most of his
time railing against the evils of porn magazines was sitting at a booth
between two Asian girls.  They were clearly giving him a happy ending.  The
editor of a major democratic newspaper was on his way out the door, holding
his keys in one hand, and the ass of a perky redhead in the other.  Neither
looked sober enough to drive, let alone do what they were probably about to
go do at a hotel.  An influential Senator from New York sat in front of the
stage with his feet up and a bottle of imported beer in his hand, his face
just inches from the pussy of a black dancer of questionable age.  Any one
of them would make the worlds worst photo op.
   "Three," Walt said, laying out the sinners and their sins while having
the life sucked out of him by the stripper who was clearly half vacuum. 
Harrison laughed and dipped his cigar again.
   "Not bad for a rookie, but look closer.  I count nine wedding rings
minimum, and that's the ones I can see.  How much do you think divorce
costs in this town, politically AND monetarily.  If you ever had the
misfortune to marry, think you're wife would allow you to visit a place
like this?"
   "Well I," Walt said lamely, trying to keep his eyes open as the stripper
pushed the head of his cock into her throat and started rhythmically
swallowing.
   "No sir she would not.  And what about the fellow who just walked into
the champagne room with that Dominican girl a second ago?  Why didn't you
count him?" Harrison put out the stump of his cigar and cut a fresh one
with his silver cutter, a gift from a pop musician with a real fetish for
young boys.
   "Well he's...  I mean...  he's a nobody," Walt argued as the girl
wrapped her fingers around his balls and caressed them gently.  He was
close to cumming and really wanted to focus on that.  But business was
business and pussy was pussy.  This was business.
   "Who is he?" Harrison said.
   "Shawn Benton, he's a page or an aid or something for Congressman
Shelly, right?  But Shelly is a boyscout," Walt argued
   "Who is ran on what platform?" Harrison drummed his fingertips on the
table impatiently as Walt scanned his memory.  He'd taken Walt under his
ring precisely for his near encyclopedic knowledge of the wheelers and
dealers in Washington.
   "Aww fuck.  Family values and decency," Walt said, slapping his
forehead. Harrison slapped his back again, and then lit the fresh cigar.
   "He did the research and drafting on the Anti-Profanity bill that's
going through committee as we speak.  How much political capitol do you
think Shelly'd lose for one of his staff members poking a teenage girl in
the back of a strip club.  You gotta remember Walt, my boy, in this town,
hell in this COUNTRY, you're judged by the company you keep as much as what
you do.  The Boy Scouts need us more than anybody."
   Walt groaned, not because the young stripper had started to slide her
tongue out to caress his balls while she deep throated him, but because
he'd fucked up.  He'd felt like he'd never get the hang of politics. 
Harrison saw the look of concern and gave him a fatherly smile.
   "Don't worry.  Once your name gets around in this business, you won't
have to find problems.  They'll find you.  Then all you have to worry about
is finding out what everybody wants to shut the fuck up about and let
everyone get paid.  Because that's all it is in the end.  Getting paid. 
And not just cash.  Pussy works as well as cash for most men." Walt nodded,
keeping his face as emotionless as possible as his balls tightened and
started to fill the sucking mouth of the teenage girl below the table.  She
kept him buried deep in her throat, rhythmically swallowing his cum while
she cooed gently.  He couldn't hear it over the thumping music, but he felt
the vibrations.
   "Get everybody what they want so everyone can go home happy, and you'll
be a legend in this town," Harrison said, dropping another hundred in
Walt's lap.
   And he had.  Walt learned never to choose the carrot or the stick, but
instead give the carrot and remind that the stick was available should he
need it.  Pregnant interns weren't fired, they were promoted (and found
suitable boyfriends who refused to take paternity suits.) Congressional
pages who'd been harassed by wandering hands found lucrative jobs in
lobbying firms.  The ten year old extra who'd spent a little too much
quality time in the directors trailer ended up with a three picture deal at
Paramount or a show on Fox (guaranteed to run for at least two seasons.)
Photographers and muckrakers found more fulfilling employment working on
their target's campaign.
   If someone had a useful skill, Walt put them to use.  If they didn't, he
found them a place where they at least couldn't do much damage and got a
weekly paycheck.  Nobody talked, pictures disappeared, and everyone kept
making money.
   Walt had kept in touch with Harrison after he moved to Tahiti (where the
only change would be he'd drink and smoke on the beach with the nude women
were French) and it was through Harrison that he still got quite a few
jobs. Harrison's clients would contact him, and he'd farm the work out to
Walter, who'd pay him a kick back of thirty percent or so.  Finders fees
were normally much lower, but Walt took the biblical view of "Render unto
Cesar."
   He'd known that for Harrison to call him up in the middle of the night
the job would be enormous, but he had no idea how enormous until he stepped
off the jet and stood face to face with four identical blonde girls, nude,
and staring at him with looks of obvious lust.  In front of them was a
short, toad-like bearded man in a suit, puffing on an expensive looking
briar pipe.
   "Hello!  Welcome to the island.  I trust your flight was smooth?  Yes?
Good, good.  My name is Thaddeus Hood, and I'm responsible for everything
that goes on in this little island.  It's a pleasure to make your
acquaintance, Mr.  Winston," the man said, reaching out to shake his hand.
"You must be here on behalf of the investors, Mr.  Winston?" Walter shook
it, keeping his poker face as two different, redheaded girls, identical to
each other, took his bags from him.  They too had the same erotic looks on
their faces, and Walt was frankly baffled.  Was this some sort of
twin-fetish resort?  It had to be a sex club of some sort, and inside was
probably something bad.  Walt let his mind wander, imagining some senator
ODed on coke and neck deep in a pile of campfire girls.  If Harrison wanted
him out here personally, no questions asked, it was going to be serious.
   "To be honest Thad, I'm not sure why I'm here.  But when Harrison Kane
calls...  well...  I answer.  And Walt is fine, Mr.  Winston was my
father's name," he said, recycling an old joke.  He shook the man's hand
and found it to be firmer than he should expect from his age.  The man
giggled.  Not laughed, actually giggled, then took another puff on his
pipe.
   "Mr.  Winston was my biology teacher's name.  Well, Professor Winston.
What are the odds of that?" the toadish little man said with obvious
delight.  One of the redheaded girls made an abrupt hundred and eighty
degree turn with his suitcase, and started wandering off towards the ocean.
   "About one in three hundred, it's a common name- um..  sir your... 
assistant," Walt said as the girl stepped onto the sand and started walking
into the water with his suit-bag.  The Thaddeus cursed and ran off after
her, turning her around and pushing her back towards the grouping of steel
buildings deeper inside the island.  It looked to Walt like some sort of
compound, high security mixed with inexpensive island bungalows.  She
walked a few dozen feet, stopped, turned in a neat circle, and then fell
flat on her face and didn't move.  The little toad man cursed and kicked at
the sand.
   "Jesus," Walt said.  He ran over to the girl and touched her throat,
searching for the artery.  He found it, but felt no pulse at all.
   "Call a doctor," Walt said insistantly, turning the girl over in the
sand.  A little blood ran out of her nose, and when he touched her lips
checking for her breathing, a tiny spark of electricity burnt the tip of
his finger.  "Quick, I think she might be dead!"
   "She's dead alright," the little toad man said, strolling up to them. 
The four identical girls followed behind, watching impassively, the look of
animal lust still on their faces.  "But she's not a she, exactly.  She's a
clone.  The fucking salt water in the air wreaks havoc with the circuitry
of the brain.  And I am a doctor." Walt stared dumbfounded as Dr Hood
pushed her back onto her stomach and lifted the back of her hair, exposing
a metallic circular portal in the back of her skull.  Cursing quietly he
pulled from this a long metallic cylinder, threw it into the surf, and took
another one out of his pocket.
   "She...  she's a...  I'm sorry a what?" Walt said, temporarily losing
his game face.  The doctor pushed the cylinder into the back of her skull
until it made an audible popping noise, and then he twisted it slightly to
the right.  The girl twitched, then stood, picked up his bag and continued
on to the cluster of buildings as though nothing at all had happened.
   "Clones, Mr.  Winston.  Come, we've got quite a lot to see before
dinner." With another long puff on the brier, Dr.  Thaddeus Hood and his
strange entourage lead Walt to the compound.
   --
   If you like my stuff, check out: http://collarsandsense.blogspot.com
   
  
fixer1