Joseph Moretti was a self-made man. First generation off the boat, and sixty-five years in the city, had only rounded the edges of his "old world" habits. He still wore flannel shirts and suspenders. His rough-hewn hands bore the unmistakable callouses and scars of a laborer and the cement dust took years to finally scrub out of his skin.
These days he mostly puttered in his garden with his flowers and vegetables. He no longer needed to work every day but was still in his office each morning at 6:00AM.
Moretti Construction had over fifty employees. He also owned apartments, Cadillacs for both he and his wife, the homes his three children lived in, and a new boat, THE BRICK HOUSE. Not quite a yacht, but the new, main, interest in his life. His father had always wished to retire early and sail the Adriatic, that dream was cut short.
Joe's son, Young Joey had convinced his father to take it easy after he got comfortably ahead, and talked him into buying the big sailboat. Old Joe was now just a figure-head at the business though treated with respect by both the workers and his community. He no longer kept close tabs on the day-to-day assignments.
Young Joey was now clearly the boss. He could not hide his swarthy complexion and dark, shiny hair and eyes, but he had no love for "The Old Country" or it's customs. He wore tailored suits and Alligator shoes. Smoked Cuban cigars instead of his father's Danoblis. His desk was oak and gilt-framed pictures studded the deep-paneled walls. He had two secretaries, a personal driver for his Mercedes sedan, and a cook and trainer to keep his wife entertained and occupied.
He reviewed blue prints and attended Chamber of Commerce meetings. But his true calling was as a "slum-lord." He bought old properties for a song and the city was happy to relieve the blight and add to the tax rolls. For that, he received courtesies with permits and write-offs.
His people could do solid work when called on, but for his low-income residents, the material was second-rate and the craftsmanship shoddy. The poor and elderly apartment dwellers had nobody to turn to and Joey's close relations with bankers and politicians kept complaints to a minimum.
Sandee Russell was one of the poor, unfortunate souls reliant on Joey's good graces. Married, pregnant and divorced by nineteen. She was now 35 with an eighteen year old daughter and a low wage job.
Both women worked at the same family restaurant and after each shift they rode the bus back to their small apartment. Among the missing amenities were air-conditioning, elevator and cable television. The water pressure was okay in the afternoons and it wasn't too drafty in the winters. In summers the entire building was fumigated for roaches.
Sandee was resigned to ironing on the kitchen table, warm baths rather than hot showers, and lugging groceries up four flights from the market six blocks away.
It was her daughter Rachel, that she suffered for. Rachel had the same shining blonde hair and sparkling crystal-blue eyes of her mother. She was lithe and tall with the muscle-tone of the volleyball player that she was. Not very hippy, but round, pert 34B's and long, strong legs that reached all the way to her tight, firm ass.
To Rachel, sports and a possible scholarship were her driving passion. She had lived in many low-rent places, one was like another. Her three waitressing shifts kept her in decent, trendy outfits and paid for her cell-phone minutes. Workouts and homework kept her busy. She was mostly concerned for her mom.
Sandee's good looks were still there, though slightly worn down by age lines, gravity and sensible shoes. She still hoped to win the lottery and had a few nice dresses and skirts for special occasions, though these were few and far between. She was curvier than her daughter with wide hips and legs just as long but with a little more meat on them. But her eye-catching attribute was a spectacular set of 36D boobs. They had sagged abit with age and the skin was not as tight as Rachel's, but when she let them show, all eyes turned to her neckline. Her work attire was a routine server's dress with no frills and flat, rubber-soled shoes. But when she wore her Mother's Day present, a scarlet and black boustier, her tips would easily double. Her fleshy globes, sprinkled with light freckles, rode up high and bounced enticingly. Work and life were a struggle but both women felt that better days were ahead.
Then Sandee fractured two small bones in her wrist and was unable to write orders or carry a tray. A seven week layoff meant no appreciable income and extra bills for clinics, x-rays and pain killers. It took only two months to fall more than two-thousand dollars behind. After the third notice went unanswered, the management company (Moretti, Inc.) alerted Joey. Normally he had little concern about the travails of others and even less compassion. But his partner at the rental office knew to always inform him if a good-looking woman was in desperate straits.
Joey was pleased to hear that Sandee was in debt, behind on bills and avoiding all calls. This was just the opportunity he was always looking to exploit. He had one of his flunkys tack an official-looking warning to her door with a hand-written note that he may be able to offer some help. The phone rang later that day and Joey's wheels began to turn.
Sandee explained in a halting voice about her series of bad breaks: her account was overdrawn, the doctor said her hand wasn't healing well and there was no money for further treatments, and ofcourse, she was now nearly three months behind on the rent.
Joey made a great show of listening to her heart-felt rundown. He sympathized with each setback and acknowledged that none of it was her fault and it all could have happened to anyone. After about ten minutes of him feigning care, he dropped the first bomb on her. "Yeah, yeah. I know. Bad things happen to good people. Yeah I'm sorry, too. But you know, business is business. Hey, my kids gotta eat too!"
He gave her a moment to catch her breath, blow her nose and regain some composure. Then he hit her with the second shot. "You know, Babe. The worst thing is you didn't think to call me first. You know I like doing favors for good people. Maybe if you had reached-out earlier, I could have made some calls. Now I'm
scrambling to find something." He sat back in his high backed padded chair and eased his stubby legs onto the corner of the desk, careful not to scuff his Italian leather slip-ons.
It gave her a moment to digest his words. Was he hinting that maybe he could help? She is "good people" and they could really use a "favor." She fought back her tears and struggled to collect herself. "Please Mr. Moretti..." He interrupted, "No call me Joey. All my friends call me Joey. Only my old man is Mr Moretti."
She started again, "Thank you, Joey. Please help us. I don't have anybody else to turn to. We don't want to be put out on the streets. The bills are piling up and nobody is hiring. Please, umh Joey, I don't know what else to do. I'll do anything at this point. Please help us, Joey." She whimpered and sniveled as she pleaded. She believed she was throwing herself at his feet looking for mercy. If she only knew that was not what he was offering.
He drew in a deep breath as if he were pondering some profound decision. While at the same time, he readjusted the big cock, swelling in his pants. He then loudly shuffled some useless papers on his desk to let her think he was considering some options. Then he landed the big one. "There is one thing, maybe. I may be able to offer you something, it's a last minute thing so you better jump on it if you're interested. I have some free time tomorrow around four. So, if you put on a sharp, sexy outfit, professional like, you can take an oral interview. But I gotta know now."
He had set the bait, now he just waited to spring the trap.
"I'll be there at four o'clock sharp. And thank you very much Joey. I'm sure you'll be pleased."
She had no idea. Joey lit up a big cigar and buzzed his young secretary to bring him in a scotch on the rocks. She saw his ear-to-ear smile and heard his chuckle when she entered, and worried, because this could only mean trouble for somebody.
The following day Sandee soaked in a leisurely bath, rehearsing how she would express her lack of job skills but eagerness to learn or try new things. She dusted herself with scented body powder and let Rachel put her hair up in a formal sweep. They picked out a knee length leather skirt, slit up the side for a glimpse of her tanned, shapely thighs. She borrowed Rachel's knock-out "come fuck me pumps," her painted toes showing at the tips. And topped that off with one of her daughter's cream colored silk blouses in a pastel shade that picked up the color of her dazzling blue eyes. Matching it with a sheer ice-blue bra.
