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Everybody makes mistakes.
God created heaven and earth and every living thing under the blessed sun. He created bees–the perfect swarm. And for each curvaceous female bee there was an affected but rock-hard male bee. Then for some reason we mortals can’t fathom–he made an extra bee. That was his mistake. Life became a game of musical chairs. Circle all you want; someone will be left out when it comes time to sink your stingers. When left out enough, you compromise, you rationalize, and rearrange priorities. When I answered my phone “Wadword Investigations. Bobby speaking,” Allison Nichols responded in a voice that would make an overcooked spaghetti noodle hard.
“Are you available?”
A question open to interpretation to say the least. My infallible intuition said: no, but I heard myself answer, “Yes.” That was my mistake.
She rattled off an address in Belmont Shores, another southern California marina community–this one tacked onto Long Beach–and I dutifully penciled it into my empty appointment book. An hour later, like a starving puppy, I showed up at Beachside Way ready to kiss this queen’s ring or whatever else she offered.
“Who is it?” the intercom asked after I rang the bell.
A series of clicks followed, the door cracked open, and by the time I had stepped into the foyer, Allison Nichols was halfway back across her den.
Without a calculator and graph paper to measure precisely, it was part guess, but from where I stood Mrs. Nichols had a perfect ass. It was wrapped in black slacks, and as she walked, it threatened escape, pushing against the fabric in all the right places.
“Would you like a drink?”
Nine in the morning is a little early for me, but I’m easily swayed. The glass she held contained only cubes and a hint of amber in the bottom. Somehow I didn’t think that had been her first and she was on her way to the bar no matter how I responded.
In an earlier life, I drank scotch. In a fit of honesty one day, I decided camel piss couldn’t taste any worse.
“Bourbon if you have it.”
Apparently unconcerned if I preferred a cola or water accompaniment, she glanced up as she stuck a bourbon on the rocks in my hand. Allison Nichols had blue eyes that could pierce a kevlar vest; and something told me maybe I should have worn one.
I sat on the puffy red love seat behind me. She folded one leg under the other as she sat on the matching sectional sofa. Her chest wasn’t large, but my intuition, which is usually excellent, told me there was something unusual and exceptionally beautiful beneath her shirt.
“My husband is cheating on me.” She came to the point.
“I didn’t know Marilyn Monroe was still alive.”
“Is that a joke?” she answered. When I didn’t respond, she went on. “He’s fucking the little two-bit, adolescent bitch at work and I want to divorce the bastard!” “This–adolescent–she is…?”
“He calls her a secretary, but she couldn’t spell ‘cat’ with a two-letter head start.”
She caught me glancing at her legs, even the tucked under one. It was only about the hundreth time I had done so. Women like Allison Nichols are accustomed to being stared at.
“The cost won’t matter. Just get me the goods. Victor has money, for now. But not for long.”
There was no haggling over price or even if I was right for the job. Apparently, my membership in the communist party and my eight bankruptcies didn’t matter. Also, I didn’t mention the deep discount she would get if she let me break off a piece of that heaven she had shrink-wrapped in those black slacks.
Armed with a picture of the “lout,” a description of the “little bitch,” and sugar Daddy’s addy in hand, I was soon cruising back to downtown Long Beach, a little glow in my tummy from the bourbon and a half-awakening a little further down from watching Mrs. Nichols show me a thing or two about wearing pants.
You know what they say about real estate: location is everything. Weatherby Towers, where her husband worked, was only a couple of par fives off Ocean Boulevard, but this thousand yards made all the difference. Someone had built the faux marble ten-story at the edge of “planet gangland” in hopes that progress would push the cess pool back. It looked as if the tide had turned the other way and the building was in the lead cell on rental death row.
Every private dick carries a piece, and yeah I have a nine-mil strapped to my chest. Sometimes at Tim’s Gun Emporium I shoot it just to blow the cob-webs out of the barrel. My main weapon though is a camera. Specifically, my passenger seat carries a digital with a regular, a zoom, and a behemoth tele if I need it. A small palm-sized video cam was in the back seat, if I felt the urge. I racked on the zoom lens and settled in next to the curb one block west of the Weatherby Towers.
About thirty minutes later I was rewarded when Romeo exited with his executive secretary on his arm. I could see how canlı bahis he was interested: thick blond hair, small waist, big tits, long legs. I lowered the window and aimed the zoom at them as they walked to the parking lot.
“Don’t turn around, Mr. Peepers.” I felt something cold behind my left ear. “Step out of the car, Cecil B.; I’d hate to get the seats bloody.”
I moved to lay the camera on the seat. “Let me see your hands!” the voice quickly corrected me. I raised my hands in front of the steering wheel. He opened the door and I stepped awkwardly from the car.
“Okay hot shot, we’re going for a ride.”
My “ride” was in the elevator, to the top floor of Weatherby Towers. A gun in someone’s back attracted no attention in this neighborhood. Apparently, the metal detectors were off in the building as well. We encountered no one in our march from the front door to a large unused office on the top floor. The room held a metal desk, a broken copier bigger than the desk and one chair. Oh–there was a coil of rope laying on top of the desk.
Mr. Congeniality shoved me down in the chair, a blue plastic thing with metal legs and no arms. He bound my hands behind the back of the chair with a plastic tie. As added insurance, he wrapped the rope around me and the chair until I felt like a moth with a kink in it’s back and no way out of the cocoon.
My captor sported hair that rose four inches straight up, a way too tall flat top. He wore a mixture of checks, solids, and a pair of white pants that were an inch too short.
Without so much as a good bye, he marched out of the room. How long would it be before anyone missed me? Having entered the world as an urchin found in a shoe box, the list of attendees at my family reunions was usually sparse–as in me! My part-time secretary, Irene, wouldn’t miss me for two months. Irene was a lucky hire. The second week after she went on the payroll I discovered she was a nymphomaniac. For some reason she cut me off the first week in October; here it was December. Things had gotten so bad, I even considered trying to get a date. My worries about being missed faded when my host returned two minutes later, Vic Nichols’s heart-throb, the blond centerfold from out front, trailing behind him.
She gave the gum a rest when he placed his gun in her hand. It toppled around; she wasn’t accustomed to lifting anything heavier than a martini. The boxy, black automatic wavered as she tried to balance it. Finally, she wrapped both hands around it.
“If he so much as twitches, you shoot his ass! We’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“A couple of hours!”
“Yeah, two hours! I know it’s hard for you to be useful for two hours but try, will ya!
“Kiss off, Donnie.”
With that, he left the room. His firm slam of the door left me a bit somber. I was left exchanging glances with Miss–I wasn’t sure which month. After about ten minutes, she seemed to relax.
The gum started up again. “You’re kinda’ cute.” In between smacks. “I always look my best when I’m strapped in a chair.”
“Do you think I’m cute?”
She sat on the desk. The knit sheath she was wearing rode well above her golden thighs. As she checked out my eyes, her knees eased slightly apart. She held the gun up and touched the sight with the tip of her tongue.
“You’re one of the better looking models I’ve seen, and I’m not talking about trains.”
“Vic says I’ve got the best body he’s ever looked at.”
“I’m sure he’s surveyed it several times.”
“Nah, he don’t do much. He works all the time. He likes money better than fun.” Her tongue was flicking at the sight.
“I can’t imagine. You look like more fun than an erector set to me.”
“Hum. Would you like to see?” When I didn’t answer, she laid the gun down and stepped off the desk.
She turned her back to me. Using the tips of her middle fingers, she teased the hem of her skirt up. Her ass moved to music only it could hear. Finally, she gripped the dress and pulled it to her waist. Lacy panties were shockingly white against her ass. Not a thong–panties that were cut high on the side. No lines anywhere to be seen. She lifted the dress over her head. Her back was flawless. A narrow, white bra strap spanned it. Her flawless back flared into that beautiful ass. Suddenly I felt the confines of the rope. The chair creaked a little as I tried to move.
“What’s the matter?” she asked over her shoulder as she flicked the bra strap open, like someone freeing party balloons. She backed toward me, her ass keeping that rhythm all the while. Coming closer. She turned to face me. Her breasts were a bit large but there was nothing wrong with her nipples. Those pink candies were inches from my face. She slowed her dance and I reached out with my tongue. She came just close enough for me to touch the tip of the left. It jutted out as if awakened from a sleep. She eased in and out, sometimes giving me enough reach for a lick or a suck and sometimes hardly a touch. I strained bahis siteleri against the chair.
“Is baby uncomfortable,” she teased.
“Undo the rope!” I pleaded.
“Noooo. No. No. I can’t do that. Donnie will be pissed.” As she stared at me with eyes too blue and too pure for such a bitch, her tongue came out to touch her upper lip. Somewhere under that cascading hair, the wheels were turning. She knelt beside me. She managed to scoot the ropes aside enough to run my zipper halfway down. Through that opening, she half-doubled my cock before pulling it free.
A guttural laugh escaped her lips. “Hum, look at that.” She lowered her head and when I thought she might take me in her mouth, she spit. Stroking me, she worked the moisture onto my shaft. She licked her other hand and used both to work me up and down. Something about her hands, about the way she moved them–I tensed, pulling back to keep from cumming.
Suddenly, she turned and slid her panties to her ankles quicker than I could suck in a breath. She held my cock and lowered her pussy onto it. The head slipped inside her but the rope kept me from going deeper. I’m not monstrous but the dick police have never ticketed me for being too short. As quickly as her panties had come down she stood and turned for the rope.
“Actually, I was thinking of someone else,” I suggested.
She smiled, he lower lip held by her teeth. When the last of the rope fell away from the chair, she retreated to the desk. I turned for her to undo the plastic tie.
“No,” she replied. “Come here.” With her feet pulled up on the desk, she undid my pants and pushed them with my boxers to the floor. My cock sprang free between us. She didn’t have to pull twice, beckoning me into her pussy. The desk was a perfect height. Her cunt was much tighter than I anticipated. Despite that it was dripping wet and juiced up, I had to work the head as she guided it in–she was that tight. It slipped past walls, past doors inside her. With my hands bound, I couldn’t pull, but she hooked her legs onto my hips and placed her hands on my waist. Each time I move in she pulled herself up tight on my dick. Finally I was rocking and pushing, trying to bang her ass hard. In an unbalanced kind of jump/shove, I was in and out of her. A long awaited knot of cum gathered at the root of my rod. With a mighty heave, she pulled me in deeper, past some ring inside her. I bucked against her until I felt my dick launch the massive wad.
“Fuck!” she yelled as I emptied my balls. I held it for a moment, deep in her. My knees began to buckle, and I staggered, finally stumbling back to the chair. She rested back on her hands, with her feet still up and her head thrown back. A stream of white cum ran from her pussy down onto the desktop. Her nipples glowed neon pink.
She came back to my chair and had barely finished wrapping the rope around me when Donnie returned. “Some things went in our favor, so we’re cutting you loose,” he said. “Buy a lottery ticket; this is your lucky day.” And just like that, I gave a wink to Aphrodite and walked out to my car.
Maybe I wasn’t so lucky. I always approached my office from two blocks south. Their lights weren’t on, but I saw the two patrol cars as soon as I turned. I made certain I stopped at the next light. While I sat with my right turn signal clicking, I saw Irene on the walk in front of the stairs that led to my second-floor haunt. Her eyes had turned to slits; she was holding nothing back as she preached to a rotund guy in a brown suit and hat between the two patrol officers. Occasionally, her hands flew up for extra emphasis. The suit looked ready to cuff her or flee–I couldn’t tell which. In my case I did the latter and made my right turn.
Jimmy’s Diner was exactly five blocks from my office. He made good coffee; everything else was a heart attack waiting to happen. A thin film of grease, visible to anyone without a cane, coated the large windows that fronted the street. Like always, I left the coffee black, not trusting the faded packet of creamer he insisted on placing by my cup. As I took the first sip I hit speed dial for the office.
“Bobby Wadword investigations.”
“Hey, it’s me. Don’t let on, if they’re still there.”
“I’m sorry. Mr. Wadword is not in at the moment. May I take a message?” Irene spoke way too loud. Then she whispered, “It’s Crane from homicide. Something about a dead guy–Vic Nichols. Did you kill somebody?”
“No. Only in my dreams, but maybe I know who did. Clock me out for a while.”
“That will be fine,” she yelled again. “If I can be of further help, please let me know.” We both hung up.
For the second time in twenty-four hours I drove to Belmont Shores. Beachside Way looked peaceful enough: no flashing lights, no goon mobiles. Allison Nichols swung the door wide. The smile that had started to form on her face quickly turned to confusion when she saw my face.
“Expecting someone else?” I quipped.
“Uh. bahis şirketleri No. Did you–. Did you catch them?”
“You might say that, but it was sort of a catch and release. You know how it is with game fish.” I stood in the doorway while she cleared her head.
I stepped into the middle of the den. She closed the door and walked past me to the patio door that opened onto a deck overlooking the marina. The drapes and sheers stood open inviting a breeze off the water.
She slipped two rings off the business finger of her left hand. I’ve sucked on jawbreakers that were smaller than her diamond. “That means I don’t have to worry about this damn thing anymore.” She held them up, kissed the sparkler on the engagement ring and flung them both over the deck railing. I fought off the urge to dive after the one with the rock. It dropped out of sight, falling into the waiting mitts of some creature in the deep six below.
“Aren’t you interested in what happened?” I asked.
She placed the tips of her fingers together and paced a couple of steps in front of the door. Even as I could hear the wheels turning, she said, “Of course, I’d like to know and I’d also like to see what you have. Do I owe you more?” As soon as the words left her tongue, a light seem to come on. She smoothed her slacks and walked toward me, facing me from two feet. There was no question that in between her other adventures, her thighs had made several trips to a gym. “I hate to pay more money,” she said as she stepped toward me, “but maybe we can work something out.” From that distance, there was no mistaking the impish smile that teased the corners of her lips. “Would you like a drink?” She turned toward the bar.
Two months is a long time, and even though I had been with Miss Blonde Universe earlier in the morning, there was something about Allison Nichols that sent my common sense and the tattered remains of my morals fluttering away like the gulls that sailed over the marina. I grabbed her shoulder, spun her and threw an arm around her.
Aside from the morning martinis, her mouth tasted like–Monte Carlo, baccarat, caviar, and five-figure suites. In that embrace, I found her back to be lean and the top of her ass ever so firm. Finally one of her hands pulled at my shoulder and the other went up to my hair, holding my lips on hers. I couldn’t resist sliding my hand to one of those thighs. It was firm, trim, and fit so neatly into her hip–no excess anywhere. From there my hand traveled up to her stomach. It was so taunt the skin felt as if it were on a bongo instead of an abdomen. Her breast weren’t large but perfectly shaped. I paused from squeezing the left one to strip her blouse and bra off of her. A gentle gasp left my lips as the fabric came away, revealing raspberry nipples. My hand went to her left breast and my thumb rubbed the tip. It responded immediately, darting out at least an inch. The dark red aureolas, a little bigger than a quarter, were gorgeous. As I teased and kissed them the nipples bloomed, she dreamily closed her eyes and let forth little moans.
My control evaporated. After quickly unfastening them, I hooked my thumbs in her pants as well as her panties and shoved them down. With one foot I held them to the floor while she pulled one foot and then the other free. I pulled her leg over my hip.
“Wait,” she commanded. She dropped to her knees. The intricacies of men’s wear were no problem for her and soon my dick sprang free. She stroked it, pulling the skin over the head, staring at it a bit before taking it into her mouth. Her tongue made a couple of orbits around the head and then four inches of the shaft disappeared behind her lips. We set up a rhythm my ass seem to know by heart. I grabbed her hair, sinking my fists in it and pulled her on my cock. Finally I arched my back, placed one hand on the back of her head and shoved her on it. She gagged in between pumps. With each sloppy shove I could feel the head enter the opening of her throat.
Suddenly, there was the unmistakable sound of a key in the door. Donnie came bounding into the room. He was practically dancing until he saw Allison’s nails sunk into my ass, a sure giveaway on where my cock was.
“What the hell are you doing, baby!” he exclaimed.
I disengaged and met him with a five-knuckle hammer that sent him sprawling across the floor. Allison looked up momentarily at Donnie lying near the door, as limp as last week’s laundry. Her lips were pouty and the wetness had worked it’s way down on her chin.
“Fuck me,” she said as our eyes met again. She stepped to a fat chair covered in plush red in one corner of the den. She turned her head down into the seat and placed her knees on the front edge of the cushion. This left her ass waist high. My cock was still rock hard from the pleasant surroundings of her mouth. I worked it between her pussy lips until I found her opening. She was so wet and hot. I slid in….deeeeep. She moaned “yes” as I started to fuck her. The head of my cock was pushing against some wall at the end of her tunnel.
Donnie moaned and rolled over on the floor. Allison reached behind me, grabbed a buttock and pulled me deeper. Donnie staggered to his feet.
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