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Review This Story || Author: AlwaysCocked

The Richest Man in the World

Chapter 1

THE RICHEST MAN IN THE WORLD

Richie, bag slung over his shoulder, stepped off the moving walkway and entered the Cuba West Air terminal. His gate was near the back. The two women behind the counter, one a blonde, the other a redhead, were gorgeous and dressed in Cuba Air's blue retro-styled uniform, complete with little caps perched atop their heads. They looked just like stewardesses from the 1960's, which had been the goal.

There were two guys in line ahead of him and when it was his turn Richie handed over his ID. He watched the two guys, dressed in 'casual' clothes that cost more than his car, being led away by the redhead.

"Good morning!" the blonde said cheerfully. Her short uniform jacket was straining at the buttons over her healthy chest. She swiped his ID card and as his personal info filled her computer screen her eyes lit up.

"Very nice to see you Mr. Palmer!" she gushed. "Are you checking any luggage? Just the bag? Splendid." She typed for a few seconds, then a small box next to the keyboard spit out a silver-edged plastic card. The blonde punched a hole in it and threaded a red cord through the hole.

"This'll be all you need on the island," she told him cheerfully, handing the card over. He draped the cord around his neck as he'd seen the other men do. The redhead returned and smiled at him. Her eyes went from the card around his neck to the young man's sloppy attire and back to the card. She blinked twice, but her smile never wavered.

"You can wait in the VIP Lounge," the blonde told him. "Suzy'll escort you. We'll be boarding in just a few minutes."

"Thanks." Richie followed the redhead toward an unmarked door. Her short skirt was so tight she had to take tiny steps, not that she was likely to break into a trot in her four-inch heels.

The VIP Lounge was all leather and dark stained wood and chrome. He guessed there were twenty-plus guys in there, average age fifty, drinking whisky and smoking cigars. They were all dressed like they were about to hit the links of their favorite country club, and he caught more than a few curious stares. Then one of them caught sight of the card around his neck with its silver borders and suddenly they were all smiles and questions. Who was he, what did he do for a living, was this his first trip to the island. Richie noticed all of their cards had red borders.

He muttered a few vague responses, found a leather chair in the corner, and sunk into it, hoping to be left alone. He kept himself occupied while waiting to board by surreptitiously ogling the lounge's hostesses as they served drinks. They were in ridiculous French maid outfits complete with teetering high-heels, fishnet stockings, push-up bras, and frilly skirts so short their white satin panties showed every time they bent to set a drink on a table. Richie saw more than one of the erotically-clad women being groped by the increasingly boisterous men without complaint.

"C'mon, whaddaya do?"

"What?" Richie looked up to see one of the country club types standing nearby, weaving slightly.

"Internet? Actor? You don't look familiar," the rosy-cheeked man said, squinting at Richie, slurring his words slightly. "Inheritance?'

"What are you talking about?"

The man grabbed the plastic card hanging around his neck and waved it. "Cost me a hunnerd grand just to get a red package," the man said defiantly. "Gold's a quarter mil. How much it cost for a platinum?"

"I don't know. It was a gift," Richie told him honestly.

The man blew a raspberry through juicy lips, clearly not believing him, but just then the door at the far end of the room opened and it was announced that they could board. The men lined up and filed through the doorway, the pretty stew checking all of their ID cards around their necks before allowing them past.

The airplane was like none Richie had ever been on. It was a small passenger jet, maybe a 737 originally designed to hold 150 passengers or so, but had been converted. Instead of thirty rows of narrow seats crammed together, the jet featured fifteen rows with just one seat on each side of the aisle. And the seats! They were full-size leather recliners, each facing its own flatscreen monitor, with its own wet bar and a curtain that could be pulled all the way around for privacy.

Richie was given the first seat on the right. Next to him was an elderly gentleman sporting a gold-edged card who couldn't seem to stop smiling. Richie's bag was stored in the overhead compartment for him and a beautiful blonde stew who smelled like peaches helped him with his seatbelt. He stared down into her impressive cleavage as she snugged the belt around his waist and patted the buckle affectionately, which was positioned right above his crotch. Richie cleared his throat nervously as she smiled at him warmly and moved on.

He counted over half a dozen flight attendants for their small group, every single one of them a beautiful woman. Their uniforms had to be individually tailored – they fit each woman perfectly, snug but not too tight, the skirts just above the knee, their stockings the old-fashioned kind with the line up the back.

The screen in front of him lit up as a brunette flight attendant with sensuous lips stood in the aisle near the front of the cabin. She demonstrated the use of the seatbelt and oxygen masks and pointed out the emergency exits as a corresponding video played on all their screens. Halfway down the fuselage another stew was doing the same for the men in the back of the plane.

"Gentlemen, this is your captain," a warm voice said overhead. "If you'll take your seats we're next in line to takeoff. Seat-belt light is on, and please no smoking until that lamp goes out. Flight time will be three hours and twenty-one minutes, maybe less if the jet stream cooperates. Flight crew please prepare for takeoff." The captain clicked off.

Ten minutes after wheels up the airplane leveled off and the captain extinguished the no-smoking and seatbelt lights. The all female crew stood up and Richie watched four of them at the front of the plane. As a group the flight attendants unzipped their skirts and tugged them down over their hips. Even when the airplane swayed they didn't lose their balance as they stepped out of their skirts, folded them, and put them away in a cabinet. Underneath they all wore black g-strings over the stockings. Their uniform jackets came off next, revealing their white button-down blouses. The blouses turned out not only to be midriff-baring, but nearly see-through as well, and not one of the flight attendants seemed to be wearing a bra.

No drink carts for this plane; the stews emerged carrying waitress trays. Many of the men hooted when they saw their new attire.

"I'll be your flight attendant, sir, unless you'd prefer another girl."

Richie blinked at the blonde in front of him. Her tits were huge, straining the front of her shirt. "Uhhh, my . . ?" he began.

"Platinum package guests get their own flight attendant," she told him, guessing from his appearance that this was his first Pleasure Package trip to Cuba. "My name's Tiffany."

Sure it is , he thought. "No, you're fine," he told her.

"Something to drink, sir?"

"Uhhh . . . " Richie tried not to stare at the stews big nipples visible through her shirt. "Diet Coke, please."

Maneuvering through an airplane in flight in four-inch heels was no mean feat but the flight attendants never once stumbled. In less than twenty minutes they had every passenger aboard stocked with a beverage and snack of his choosing, and were comfortably over international waters.

Richie had brought a book to read and was twenty pages in when he saw shapely legs in front of him once more. He looked up to see Tiffany, this time without her tray. She squatted down in front of him so that they were nose to nose.

"What would you like now, Mr. Palmer?"

"Uhhh." Was there a meal on the flight?

"A striptease? A handjob, or blowjob, some sort of sex? I can service you while you read, if you like," she told him softly with a smile.

"Ummmm . . . ." Richie looked around. A redheaded flight attendant was just pulling the privacy curtain closed around the elderly man's chair across the aisle. The other six attendants were moving into the passenger compartment, and everyone but him seemed to have known this was part of the package. He was in so far over his head it wasn't funny. "Surprise me," he told her finally.

Tiffany grinned and stood up, grabbing the edge of the curtain. They'd told her to take special care of him, and she knew what that meant. "Oh, I will," she assured him.

Two and a half hours later Richie was staring out his window at the coast of Cuba. He was exhausted, but he was too excited to fall asleep.

His balls ached. He'd come three times in seventy minutes, once in each of Tiffany's orifices. Her ability to deepthroat was truly amazing, but his favorite part had come when she'd reclined his seat, sat on his lap facing away from him, and laid back against his chest. He played with her huge tits and hard clit while she worked her hips up and down like a piston. Her ass was slick and tight as a fist and if he hadn't come twice already he wouldn't have lasted more than three minutes. He was pretty sure she came twice, although he always had trouble telling. She'd cleaned him up first with her tongue and then a hot towel before putting her abbreviated uniform back on and serving him another Diet Coke.

As the plane descended in a lazy turn toward Havana International Richie stared in awe at the massive, spectacular casinos and clubs with their neon and holos visible even in broad daylight from a thousand feet.

Cuba's recent history was legendary. Fidel Castro was one hundred and three years old -- weak, suffering from the early stages of Alzheimers, but still in control -- when the privately funded mercenary army six thousand strong invaded from Costa Rica, where they'd been training for six months.

The shooting was over in two weeks, and that's when billionaire Lawrence Cross, bio-pharmaceutical visionary, proposed a deal with the Cuban people. He had the might to rule Cuba by force, but had other plans. He asked for ten years. Ten years to turn Cuba into what it had been, the jewel of the Caribbean.

If any other man had asked for such a thing he would have been burned at the stake, but Lawrence Cross had earned his billions in such a way as to make his a household name.

A decade before anyone thought it could be done Cross' bio-technology mega-conglomerate came out with Bountifull. The synthetic hormone derivatives inside that little yellow pill safely and permanently increased the size and firmness of a woman's breasts. As it was prescription only, the dosage could be adjusted to produce the desired cup size within three weeks. No more implants or cosmetic breast lift surgery.

He first marketed the pill overseas, where he knew he could get it on the shelves quicker. The FDA dragged its feet, as usual, but after a documentary described how fifty-thousand American women a month were traveling to Canada to get a prescription for the drug they saw the writing on the wall. Four years later, when he came out with Bonus, a pill that did the same thing for penises, the FDA was a little quicker with their approval. After Bonus had been on the market for six years it was official – Cross was the world's third richest man.

Next was Meta-Life, which prevented the user's body from turning any of the food they ate into fat. Definitely prescription-only, this little blue miracle made fat people thin and kept them that way.

Two years later one of his companies came out with Arouse – the first effective, legitimate aphrodisiac. It worked on both men and women and was almost frighteningly effective. Richie more than suspected Tiffany had taken her share of yellow pills to get her chest, and wouldn't have been surprised to learn she was a regular user of Arouse, she'd certainly been wet enough. It was rumored to be addictive but Richie had never seen anything substantive on that. He himself had tasted a few Bonus pills, just enough to get him where he didn't feel undergunned in the locker room. The makers of Bonus had discovered there was a genetic-level line in men that couldn't be crossed when it came to penis size – they could only get it so big, no matter how many pills were swallowed, because any larger and there wouldn't be enough blood in the body to get it erect. That was still damn big, though, and at first many a man had found to his surprise he was too big to get a proper blowjob anymore. Women didn't have the same problem, however, and Richie had seen a number of girls his age or younger who'd gone crazy and made Tiffany look flat-chested.

By most estimates it actually took him fourteen, but by the end of his ten asked-for years the votes were in. Americans alone were spending thirty-five million dollars every day in the new casinos, not to mention the restaurants, clubs, and brothels. Every Cuban was guaranteed health care, and high-paying jobs were found for every man, woman, and child willing to work. Hundreds of multi-national corporations, including Cross' own pharmaceutical enterprises, attracted to the island's almost non-existent legal restrictions and amenable tax-rates, built there. The Cubans loved him, and called him El Rey, the king. No one seemed to care anymore about his army, which hadn't disbanded, the legalized but strictly regulated prostitution which brought in as much cash as the gambling, or that he was, for all intents and purposes, the King of Cuba, taking ten percent off the top.

Now Cross' story was the thing of legends. He'd killed Castro thirty-five years before and Cuba's GNP was now larger than California's. Between Bountifull and Bonus, Meta-Life and Arouse, Cross was soon the undisputed Richest Man in the World.

Ten years after taking over, after receiving the blessing of the Cuban people, Cross had disappeared from the public eye. Just like Howard Hughes had a century before him, Cross had become a recluse, a hermit, that hadn't been seen in public in fourteen years. Some people wondered if he was still alive.

By the time the wheels touched down the flight crew had their skirts and jackets back on, their hair and makeup fixed, and looked nothing less than the professionals they were. The captain thanked everybody over the PA, hoping they had an enjoyable flight, and rolled the airplane to a perfect stop at their gate. The crew lined up at the door to greet the passengers as they deplaned. Richie saw the men tipping the flight attendants with big wads of bills and felt like an asshole because he had no cash. Tiffany didn't seem to mind, she just kissed him on the cheek and shook his hand. In the concourse he checked out the card she'd put in his palm. A business card, with her name and phone number and one word, ENTERTAINMENT.


Review This Story || Author: AlwaysCocked
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