Summary of this Story:
Sam and I chased scammers Cleave and Hoss, unmasked as Vickie and Matteo Daenzer in their Westmont McMansion. We staked out from a park picnic table, blending with PDA amid manicured oaks. Sam dug property records, nailed their Basel account loaded with $6.2 million from twenty-one victims. Tension built as we weighed draining it for Bosworth’s cut while jailing the pair. Hearts raced over risks, cops, crooks, our future wedding. Binoculars caught Matteo’s scarred ear and golf getup pulling into the garage. Back in the Chicago condo, Sam’s dashboard sliders divvied the pot by sleaze rankings. That hotel night after our stakeout, I buried my face between her thighs, lapping her gushing wetness until she arched and flopped limp.
Here is your Story: I Ate Out Sam After Our Stakeout in the Hotel
Chris. Sam dug in and soon had some workable data. She found receipts for steakhouses across the Midwest and high-end shops on Michigan Avenue in Chicago.
Westmont, about six miles southwest of Chicago, looked like a solid town to check out. The couple hit several spots in or near town as well as two farmers markets they visited at least weekly. No other place matched up as well, so we geared up to head there and start asking questions.
Sam was pumped. She felt like a key player on a crime-fighting squad and wanted in on every step. Unless we bumped into Hoss while we snooped, this wouldn’t get hairy, so I packed just a concealed Glock, you know, for safety.
The first move was to nail down both suspects for sure. The next phase could turn tricky. We’d kicked around a bunch of plans over the last few days.
Our main aim was to get Bosworth’s cash back. He footed the bills, and the more we handed over, the fatter our cut. Second aim: We’d chatted with plenty of victims and wanted most of them to recoup as much as they could.
Sure, we wouldn’t call the shots on that split, but since Bosworth stayed off everyone’s radar but ours, we had to sneak his two million out without the victims or cops catching on. Third aim: Lock Cleave and Hoss away for good. Fourth: Get our asses out safe and dodge any blowback. And they lived happily ever after.
Fifth aim: Head home, figure out steady work together, set up house, tie the knot, pop out kids, grandkids… the whole deal. I kept number five to myself. Truth be told, four ranked highest for me.
We rolled into Westmont and started flashing our photos. It had under 25,000 folks, and a good chunk recognized them right off. People knew them as Victoria (Vickie) and Matteo (Matt?) Daenzer.
We could ditch Cleave and Hoss, though we still didn’t know if those were their real handles. Folks said Matteo had a thick German accent and wore a wedding ring on his right ring finger.
Figured they wouldn’t stay undercover every damn minute, so on home turf they’d loosen up. Smart enough to use a P.O. box for mail, though, so Visa statements didn’t pin down an address.
No way was I staking out the post office for days to spot box pickups. None of the locals we talked to counted as friends, so nobody knew where they crashed. We bet they lived in town, so Sam fired up her laptop and hit the property records.
She nailed an address for the Daenzers. Now we were rolling! She Googled too. Both had solid jobs until they didn’t.
Cracking the Daenzer Profile
Vickie had been a lawyer, Matteo a banker, perfect setup for scams and stashing cash. As U.S. citizens, they scored a mortgage with barely a down payment. Pay stubs from those gigs proved clean income, which let them open that numbered account in Switzerland.
Once open, nothing stopped them from dumping dirty money in. Cops couldn’t touch those accounts legally. Hackers, who don’t give a shit about laws, could.
Sam basically made us co-owners of the Basel account. The timeline from her digs went like this: Three years back, both quit jobs and “retired” to Westmont, a suburb full of ex-pats.
They’d saved decent nest eggs, but couldn’t keep up their lifestyle without extra cash. From outside, even the IRS saw them as rich retirees.
When our GPS droned, “You have reached your destination,” we stared at a sleek McMansion with glass walls, manicured lawn, flower beds, and oaks everywhere at the end of a cul-de-sac. A park with picnic tables sat close for a prime house view but far enough not to draw eyes.
We parked and shot the breeze. This was America, so we added some PDA to blend in. We hashed out our future while side-eyeing the house.
At 2:43, Vickie stepped out the front door to her Ford Escape. Sweats, Nikes, everyday look but with killer tits. Mousy brown hair in a ponytail. Sunglasses and a Cubs cap finished it.
Soccer mom to a T. She drove off steady, no rush, no crawl. No point tailing her, but we shifted spots to stay low-key.
After a late lunch at Potbelly, we hit the bathrooms to swap into “disguises”—fresh clothes, shades, hats. I floated fake mustaches; Sam didn’t laugh.
She wasn’t the pro tail I was and fretted about getting spotted. New perch: farther from Vickie’s place, tucked in a clump of birches. Binoculars out, waiting for her return.
We traded the glasses to share the boredom. No Ford, a black Cadillac Escalade pulled in, nosing the right garage door.
Huge guy climbed out in godawful plaid golf pants, neon polo, and a denim bucket hat. Holy shit! The crook played golf! Wondered how far a beast like that smashed a Titleist.
Binocs showed the scars and mangled ear, we knew we’d cornered them. For proof, we snapped shots with a Nikon and telephoto lens. Emailed to victims for ID.
All confirmed: right pair. We drove back to Chicago and hunkered in our “office” at Claude’s condo. Sam and I listed what we knew: where the couple who fleeced twenty-one across Europe lived; their house purchase price and current Zillow value; each victim’s hit; exact bucks in the Daenzers’ numbered and regular accounts; and the total we could grab fell short of victim losses.
What we didn’t know: Any other players in the cons? Next marks on their list, we figured they weren’t quitting? How to pay Bosworth, nail the Daenzers, and skate clean?
Chatting it out, we saw victims ran clean to crooked. Bassett topped the sleaze chart. Since Bosworth’s two mil came first, not enough left for full payback, so some got scraps from the remaining Basel pot, we called it that now.
Some deserved more, so straight loss percentage times pot didn’t sit right. Unsure how courts would divvy, but we could do fairer.
Divvying the Pot
Ranking victims and splitting the pot was math. I cracked Excel on my MacBook, sure I could build a sheet for it. Sam cracked up, doing her best Crocodile Dundee: “That ain’t a spreadsheet, this is.”
She unveiled a slick dashboard with twenty-one sliders she’d whipped up while I dithered on my first cell. Each tied to a victim’s name. Sliders ran zero to a hundred percent, red line at their loss share.
Right-side window showed each payout; sliders started at red lines for pro-rata. Total across twenty-one hit the pot exact.
Sam’s math: Daenzers stole $7.7 million in three years. $6.2 million in Basel, rest blown. Post-Bosworth, $4.2 million for $5.7 million losses.
Sliding bars felt godlike, deciding fates. Nudge one left, others scooted right, dollars shifted but totaled $4.2 million. Pure beauty, like Sam.
Sam profiled each victim; we built the “sleaze ranking.” Final tweaks: biggest crooks under sixty cents on the dollar, innocents near full. No cut for us figured in.
We’d bill Bosworth straight. Next up: Arrest Daenzers without explaining the vanished $6.2 mil? Needed slick moves, we’d brainstorm tomorrow.
Tonight, late dinner with the Bissets. Then shower, bed. Washing up beat kidhood bubble baths with my yellow ducky.
Now topped my day, bed a close second. We honed foreplay with every trick. Pinpointing hot spots from dead zones mattered.
They flipped sometimes, daily adventure. I craved that slick juice between Sam’s legs. Mid-fool around, I kissed down her body.
Lingered on her tits, I couldn’t get enough. Teased her navel, got squirms and laughs. Skipped to toes, then crept up her thighs.
Nearing her pussy, Sam tensed. No clue what brewed. Feared she’d shut it down if she overthought, so I buried my face and dragged my tongue along her lips.
Responsive as hell, she popped off fast, no time for no’s. More wetness gushed; I lapped it, triggering wave after wave. Last one hit when I sucked her clit.
Back arched rigid; breath stuck; face flushed beet; then she flopped limp. Fun stuff! Her last word before lights out? “Interesting.”
Next morning, business mode: biggest hurdle. Draining the account alone meant Daenzers hunted us.
We’d blabbed to too many locals, they’d track us easy. Easiest fix: off them both. But I’m the good guy!
Arrest and jail sounded simple, wasn’t. Feed cops our intel, maybe a case sticks. Victims wait years for pennies.
Bosworth gets zilch, off the books. Daenzers pulled the same con twenty-two times; feds clueless on IDs, so we’d hand-feed tainted fruit or whatever.
Trials drag years. We wanted out fast. Wedding to plan, kids to make.
Emptying Basel trashed proof, sent Daenzers underground, painted us targets for crooks and cops. What about a sting with FBI and Interpol?
Fake mark, record from bank setup to wire, transfers, funnel to numbered account. Maybe they jump at it to hide years of flops.
Sam said run it by Jean-Pierre. Damn right I loved her. Pulled his number, hit call.
Last call pissed him off, Saturday. Now Sunday, worse. Too late to bail, he picked up.
“Christopher, you save weekends for begging favors?”
Sucking up hard: “Forgot the day. Started hanging up, but you grabbed it. Quick version: big snag, need your take.”
“So, I’ll just set a meet for tomorrow, off-site, lay it out. Solution helps you as much or more than me. Greenlight a time, we’re out of Paris now.”
“Hit Zürich by mid-afternoon, chill evening before.”
Jean-Pierre paused. “Scam hunt, right? You’re jammed in some off-books mess, need me to yank you clear. That it?”
I mumbled. “Big progress, barely bent laws. Show you findings, next steps. Trust your call, your straight-shooter rep.”
“Want these bastards caged, you getting props. Plan’s got snags. Hear us out?”
“0800 tomorrow, Botanical Garden. Near work, if your tale stinks, flowers mask it.”
“Looking forward to your Samantha. Worried about her man-pick; I’ll steer her straight.”
I winced, speaker on. “Don’t call her ‘mine’—sounds like owning. We’re partners; she’s the upgrade.”
J-P laughed. “Touché, Christopher! Back to family now, day of rest. See you both.”
Night alone again. No toys, but we improvised. Sam dug my tongue work last night.
She spilled the “aha” and rope trick bit. She’d felt my hard dick against her ass pre-climax. Clicked: textbook limp dicks stretch to fit tight pussy.
Rope trick lost me. Anyway, she eyed my stiff cock. No loupe, so she leaned in close.
Tongue out, tip-touch. Zap. Spotted precum beading, trickling down the head. Tongue again, taste-test.
Told her folks call it pre-cum, lube for fucking. Waited for “Interesting”—got “Delicious.” Filed away.
Lick two: cock jumped, more drop. She stared; I throbbed. Quit drop-chasing.
Head in mouth, suck, more pre. Hand-pumped while tongue swirled inside. Soon my balls unloaded straight down her throat.
Surprise hit us; she held it all. Tongue worked, swallow gulp. Popped off, grinned, flashed empty mouth, lip-lick.
New tricks till fucking greenlit. Eased blue-balls hell. Dawn: back chasing Daenzers.
Sleep time now, earned.
Handing over the reins – Sam
After Chris hung up, we said bye to the Bissets. “So glad I met your family. Those shared meals rocked, and the room you gave us helped huge.”
“Nell, you’re one special kid, I’ll think of you through high school, college, after.”
Nell lit up. New pal made. Not done yet.
“But remember, no matter your age, he’s mine. Wedding invite open? No push, we got no date locked.”
“Chris swore early he’d marry me, dropped to one knee, so no backing out.”
Laughter erupted; Nell squeezed tighter than she did Chris. Car packed, every inch stuffed, but it fit.
Headed to Zürich for Jean-Pierre meet. Bet he’d fix it. Ours half-assed, risky.
Not scared of risk, but hated Chris jailed or hurt. Parents wouldn’t love a barbed-wire wedding.
I drove. We tossed half-baked Daenzer schemes, mostly yapped lives like fresh lovers.
Fessed up: two weeks, big self-finds. Who knew I’d crave closeness? Not just sex, we hadn’t gone farther than prom night, minus curfew.
Meant total ease with Chris. Talk, jokes, quiet, I felt it. Shay and I swapped secrets, but lover-BFF? Different league.
Spilled Shay’s biz pull. “Chris, I’m no idea gal. I code others’ visions.”
“Shay spots that, feeds ideas. Lands clients, gets their ops better than they do. Her smarts bust their ruts, shows company potential with us.”
“Scenarios, projections, they pick comfy. Magic’s my custom code for their fit and skills.”
Chris: “Wish I grokked code to dig your talent. Every job’s got stars, most average to crap. Shay bets on you full.”
The Ford Escape sat parked in the right-hand garage slot. Chris squeezed my hand once before letting go. We watched Jean-Pierre crunch numbers on his phone under the garden’s oak shade, nodding slow as the sting plan clicked. By dusk, he’d looped in a fed contact, clean path ahead, no loose ends. Back at the hotel, Chris cracked a Bud, clinked my Sprite against the chipped nightstand glass, the faint hum of the AC kicking in behind us.
