In private eye fiction, there are always so many babes throwing pussy at the protagonist that he has to carry an umbrella.
It ain’t necessarily so, Porgy.
Nevertheless, once in a while…
I landed a job as an operative for Worldwide Investigations, Inc., and spent the first month or so tagging along with R.C., the chief investigator, taking notes like mad. One misty grey morning in early fall, he finally gave me something to do on my own.
We tooled down to the south side in R.C.’s midnight blue Barracuda to pick up a retainer from a new client, a Mrs. Jackson. She wanted us to find her philandering husband and serve him with divorce papers. Or so she said. Who knows what the real story was?
Serving him was cheap and easy. It was the finding him that she was paying us for.
We located her address easily, pulled to the curb down the street from the house, sat for a minute, scanning the horizon for enemy action.
“Think you can handle this, lad?”
Knock on the door. Smile and say hello. Get the check. Say “Thank you, Ma’am.”
Yeah. Big challenge.
“I think I can manage,” I said. I was young and cocky in more ways than one.
“Good for you. Watch yourself. I’ll be right here. Take your time.”
Evergreen shrubs flanked the door. I stepped up, pressed the button. I could hear chimes ringing inside like Big Ben’s mini-me.
A moment later, the door swung open.
I smiled and said,” Mgwftmphthjjj…” or something close to that.
She was unspeakably gorgeous and she was wearing an unspeakably transparent teddy, the most negligible negligee I’d ever seen in real life. It was sheer, black and lacy, and floated around her like the morning mist, only barely obscuring what it covered.
Her skin was the color and texture of melted bitter chocolate. Her coarse ebony hair was tortured into a copy of Diana Ross’s latest do. Her eyes were of the darkest brown, almost black, and glittered like a kid’s anticipation of Christmas. With a broad nose set off by high cheekbones that made her cheeks concave, and her thick, full lips, daubed in red, she had a permanent cocksucker look.
She was what we used to call “voluptuous.” Full breasted and wide-hipped, designed for childbearing. And associated activities.
She was a goddess.
Afro-dite.
I would guess she was around forty, which technically made her old enough to be my mother, and fuck you.
I could feel my face grow hot, my ears buzzed, and distant appendages stirred. I hoped I was being subtle and suave.
I wasn’t.
“Mrs. Jackson?” I handed her my card.
She let a smile tug at her mouth. Her teeth were so white that she was required by law to dim her smile within 100 feet of an approaching vehicle.
“Mr. Manning,” she purred.
“You can call me Joe,” I squeaked.
“Please come in, Joe.”
I followed her through the house to her office, oblivious to the dozen or so guys on phones in the living room, scribbling down bets on small slips of paper. None of them gave me more than a quick eye flick, either.
She slid into the luxurious leather chair behind her desk, opened a large black cash box and thoughtfully shuffled green.
“Was that five hundred dollars?” she asked, knowing damn well that it was.
“Yes, Ma’am,” I replied, trying to make my voice drop down a couple of octaves.
She furrowed her brow as if deep in financial analysis, and leaned way back in her chair. Waaay back. Letting the negligee fall away from her lap. Letting her thighs part.
Predictably, my eyes bolted right to the bright pink bull’s-eye barely visible between heavy purple lips pouting their way out of a dense forest of curls. I focused in on her cunt like Sandy Koufax getting ready to throw a fastball. Steee-rike ONE!
“I wonder,” she said, as if the idle thought had just drifted into her mind, “is there any way we could make that four hundred dollars?”
You bet your ass there was.
I think, in retrospect, that she probably anticipated a quickie. A fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust and a hearty “Hi-yo, Silver!”
But she didn’t know me.
I’m not a big fan of the wham, bam, thank you, Ma’am sham and the pharaohs.
I love cunts.
I love everything about them. I love the infinite variety of shapes. I love the rich palette of colors. I love the gradations of textures. I love the scent. I love the taste. There’s nothing I’d rather do than go down on a woman, and I can never get enough. I’d rather give her head than fuck. Every time she comes, there’s a fresh new serving of delicious juices.
Ambrosia.
I started at her throat.
I nuzzled and kissed my way to her breasts. Her areolae spread out around her erect nipples like the atomic blast at Bikini Atoll. They were hefty breasts. Much bigger than titties, somewhat larger than tits, but smaller than bazooms and nowhere near gazongas. For their fullness, they were surprisingly firm. I paid homage to each nipple in turn. With one hand, she stroked my hair as she might a kitten, and, with the other, raised her breast up to me. Taking the hint, I treated myself to a mouthful.
“Mmmmmmm…” she said, maternally.
I suckled harder and the harder I suckled, the more she moaned and squirmed, pulling my head tighter against her bosom, until she grudgingly allowed me to relent.
I kissed my way down her belly. Fine hairs at her navel tickled my nose. Sinking to my knees between her legs, I breathed in her scent, vaguely reminiscent of vanilla. She propped one leg up on her desk, and I pushed the other aside, and went to London just to ride the ponies.
She was already wet.
I lightly kissed, and flicked the tip of my tongue all around it, tickling her lower belly, her inner thighs, avoiding the cunt proper, teasing her and teasing myself. Slowly I closed in, little by little, like Indians circling a wagon train in a shitty B western.
When I finally reached the center of the universe, I exhaled a slow, hot breath against her meaty lips, getting as near to them as I could without touching, and I could feel her suddenly tremble.
Then, on advice of a certain snake squirming in my shorts, I took a huge bite of the apple. I sucked her pendulous lips into my mouth and at the same time sent my tongue on reconnaissance deep into enemy territory. She was succulent and tasted salty and slightly sweet like a chocolate-covered pretzel.
Moaning softly, she pushed her cunt up against my chin, clutching the back of my head with one hand, pulling me harder against her.
“Ahhhhhhhh….”
Sweet be-bop to my ears.
I slid a finger along the split of her cunt until I hit a bump. Her clit was engorged to the size of the tip of my little finger, and was peering out groggily from under the hood like somebody who wanted to sleep late on a day off, but found that they couldn’t because of construction noise next door.
I gave it some attention to get it out of bed. I found that what she liked best was when I pressed my palm against her pubic mound and rubbed it around in a circle slowly — and alternated that with hard, fast, north and south stroking. I polished her lamp so hard, I thought a djinni might emerge.
When she was coming, she arched her back, stiffened her legs, grabbed my hair with one hand and the edge of her desk with the other, shaking all over like Johnny Kidd and the Pirates, breathing in short grunts, “Ah. Ah. Ah. Ah. Ah….”
After the orgasm had swept through her, she fell limp as a campaign promise, while her astral body floated back down from the ceiling. Slowly, she recovered her breathing.
She started to say something. I don’t know what, because it never made it out of her mouth. I sort of cut her off at the pussy by taking long slow licks of her lips, like I was licking a three-scoop ice cream cone. Chocolate, of course. Stretched completely out, her lips formed a perfectly symmetrical butterfly. Very light pink at the center, darkening outward to a rosy hue, and trimmed in a dusky purplish brown.
For me, after I come the first time, successive orgasms require increasing amounts of focus and effort. She was quite the opposite. After the first time, every time after that seemed easier. I ate her to a number of orgasms. I don’t know how many. Seriously, who keeps count? At one point she shivered with aftershocks, and tears streaked across her temples, fucking up her mascara.
“That’s all I’ve got,” she whispered, voice parched.
“Want to bet?” I said. I can’t pass up a bet on a sure thing.
Somewhere in the distant land of not giving a fuck, part of me realized that my boss was still outside waiting in the car. But he had instructed me to take my time, and I had a sudden and uncharacteristic inclination to follow orders.
I guess I had decided I was going to get my money’s worth.
So had she.
Somewhen during the course of these human events, I had taken the liberty of divesting myself of my jacket and tie, and had rolled up my sleeves in workmanlike fashion. Mrs. Jackson stood up, took me by the belt, and led me over to the sofa that matched her desk chair. Perching on the edge of a cushion, she deftly unfastened my belt, tugged down the zipper, and let my trousers fall to puddle around my ankles. I stepped out of them.
She eased my boxers down slowly until my rigidly swollen cock popped free of them. It practically bitch-slapped her, but she slipped it like Sugar Ray in his prime. Then she opened her mouth wide, and swallowed it up in its entirety, the way Jaws would devour a tuna sandwich.
And I’m wry bred.
She gripped me tightly with lips and hands, running deep, slow strokes. Wrapping her fingers around my balls, she squeezed and tugged in rhythm with her vacuum sucking, until I was light-headed. Then, nestling down lower until she was sitting on the plush white carpet, she took one of my balls into her mouth and sucked gently while still stroking the head of my cock — a gesture I found quite endearing.
And inspirational.
I pivoted around so I could stretch out on the sofa, seized her soft hips and pulled her up on top of me so that she straddled my chest.
If it’s true, as Three Dog Night asserted, that one is the loneliest number you can ever do, then certainly sixty-nine is about the happiest. As she continued sucking me without dropping a beat, I spread her ass wide, opening up her cunt. It gaped as if mouthing a surprised gasp. The spread also exposed the perfect pink asterisk of her anus to probing by finger and tongue, an opportunity of which I took full advantage.
I noted that her luxurious, rough and tumble bush, which had sanded several layers of skin from my chin, ran from high on her pubic mound, all the way astern. Hair surrounded her asshole like shrubbery a month or so after the gardener had quit. There’s something suggestively wicked, wild and bestial about hair around a lady’s asshole.
I like it.
I burrowed into her cunt with my tongue, spreading her more apart, pushing my face harder against her until I could reach no deeper using that particular tool.
Luckily, I had brought another.
By the time Mrs. Jackson inched her ass down toward my hips, my cock was dark-blushed with raging blood, aching pleasantly, and throbbing with its own heartbeat. She expertly guided the head, navigating the complex folds of fleshy lips, until it slipped smoothly into her.
She leaned forward grasping my shins for better leverage and began posting, bucking, rotating, grinding. She had a repertoire of moves that made twerking look like a Viennese Waltz at a Quaker retirement home.
With my head propped up on the sofa arm, I had the perfect vantage point for a voyeur. Her skin was so dark and her gash was so contrastingly pink, that her churnings looked almost as good as they felt. The sight of her lips — swallowing my cock down to the hilt and then slip-sliding away only to return again as if my cock was the mission at San Juan Capistrano — was a mesmerizing mantra. Beats all hell out of transcendental meditation, I guarantee you. In that relatively passive mode, with Mrs. Jackson doing most, if not all, of the work, I could definitely fuck almost indefinitely.
I supposed if I had walked in on me fucking her on that sofa, lying there with my shirt all askew, and still wearing my boots and socks, I’d have laughed out loud. But at the time, it didn’t feel silly at all. It was one of those you-had-to-be-there fucks.
Her juices had swabbed my cock in a white, creamy lather and when she came again, her cunt squeezing me like a tiny fist, ripples of orgasm ran through her like a tsunami. She sprawled forward, resting on my legs while she caught her breath.
I was enjoying this extended play, but I began to feel in the mood to come, myself, and I needed to be in a more assertive posture to do it. I looked around and began to select my rhymes.
The desk was too high. The chair was too low. But the arm of the sofa was just right according to the Kama Sutra of Goldilocks. It put me right where I wanted to be and exactly how I wanted to get there. I guided Mrs. Jackson to the end of the sofa, and bent her over, her hips supported by the sofa arm. She leaned on her elbows, turning her head to rest her cheek on her forearms. Her eyes twittered closed.
The slick coating of vagina juice on my cock was starting to dry out, but she was still very wet so it wasn’t difficult to slip back in. After being out of her for a moment, on re-entering, her cunt felt incredibly warm, almost feverish, but I had only one thermometer to check her temperature with.
I nudged her feet further apart. At this angle, I was able to really get my hips into it, like throwing a good, stiff jab. By locking my hands around her waist, I could pull her toward me to meet each thrust, and drive into her harder and more deeply, and I wanted to be as deep as I could get. My thighs slapped against her ass in a steady staccato rhythm like palmeras clapping a tango flamenco. Mrs. Jackson supplied rhythmic counterpoint with her now-familiar series of soft grunts, “Ah. Ah. Ah…” and I knew she was coming along for the ride. I was glad enough that she was entertained, but at that moment, I didn’t really care. All I cared about was me, and not even all of me. Just the cock. Just the ravenous pile driver of engorged meat with a mind of its own and no conscience at all. In a way, I was just along for the ride, too.
I teetered on the edge a while longer, like Sisyphus trying to push that damn boulder over the crest of the hill. But then I was in free-fall, and I could feel the semen spurting out of me, coming in a series of a dozen pounding throbs like Ali hammering Liston in that last round, defiantly demanding, “What’s my name? What’s my name?”
With each spurt, I rutted in more deeply. I wanted to shoot into her so deep that she would taste it. The feeling was almost electrical, running up and down my spinal cord like a cat chasing a mouse along the keys of a piano.
Even fully spent, it felt good to be inside her, and I lingered awhile, reaching forward to lightly stroke the back of her neck and shoulders.
Poetically speaking, I could have stayed there with her forever. My cock was comfortable in her, as if her cunt was the home that there’s no place like.
Practically speaking, however, I had shit to do.
I’d completely lost track of time and had no inkling as to how long I’d been inkling. It was time to reassemble myself. I slowly eased my dormant dick from her cunt, and when I unplugged, a small stream of semen trickled from her pussy and ran down the inside of her thigh.
I found my boxers way over in a corner — how the hell did they wind up over there? No idea. I remembered to put them on under my trousers, which I considered pretty cool and collected thinking under the circumstances. I tucked my shirttails in. Tie. Tie. Where the fuck was my tie? My kingdom for a tie.
Mrs. Jackson also started to pull herself together, climbing unsteadily to her feet not unlike a guy in lead coveralls pulling himself out of a swimming pool filled with blackstrap molasses in late fall.
She lounged back on the sofa, wrapping her thin negligee around her, hugging herself as if she were cold. If she was, that ridiculously frail thing wasn’t going to help any. Lying still, using only her eyes, she watched me get dressed the way an entomologist might examine the behavior of a hitherto unknown bug.
“Boy,” she said, “Where are you from?”
I searched my mind for a witty answer. I even looked behind the ventilation grates and checked for something taped to the underside of the dresser drawers. I came up empty. So I pretended it was rhetorical.
Maybe it was.
Outside, R.C. was asleep, or feigning sleep, in the car. Seat tilted back, his snap-brim fedora tilted forward over his eyes. He roused himself as I climbed in. He pretended not to notice my raw chin or the cloud of sweet home funk that clung to me like a neurotic ex.
I turned over the five hundred dollars in cash.
“Well done, lad,” he said. He checked traffic and pulled away from the curb. “If you don’t mind my asking, how much of that came out of your own pocket?”
I never did tell him.
A couple of weeks later, we located Mrs. Jackson’s errant husband for her and someone had to swing by to pick up a check for the balance due.
I volunteered.
-30-
