The Case of the Vindictive Cuckold

This is my contribution to the Mickey Spillane HAMERRED series. Anyone who has ever read any if the Mike Hammer novels knows that they are gritty and often predicated on characters and situations that are morally ambiguous. All of the characters in this story are morally reprehensible. I have eagerly embraced this tradition in a satirical farce that I hope will be humorous. I’ve melded inspirations from other fictional detectives that I hope will add to the humor.

*

It was another scorcher of a day in the city. Looking down through whirling fan blades from my opened window, I watched a group of kids literally frying eggs on the sidewalk. My air conditioner would have picked this day to die on me, but I didn’t have an air conditioner. Ordinary people like private dicks can’t afford air conditioners. An electric fan was all that I could afford. The marquee on the theatre across the street didn’t bother to announce what movie they were showing. It just reminded everyone that the theatre had air conditioning. I’d have to go see some B movie if I wanted to get cool. I felt around in my pocket in a futile search for enough loose change to buy a ticket to the movies.

Fortunately; I did have ice in my refrigerator. I rummaged around in the sink to find a glass that wasn’t to filthy then dropped three cubes into it. Just to keep myself honest, I measured in two fingers of rye whiskey using my index finger and little finger. I then added another finger of water to fill the glass.

As I looked down on the street through the whirling fan blades, sipping my whiskey and waiting for my newest client to show up, I had a hunch that the shit was about to hit the fan. A sizzling sound then a puff of foul smelling smoke heralded the death of that feeble reprieve from the heat. Maybe the shit wasn’t going to hit the fan, at least not today.

I was on my second cigarette and halfway through my whiskey when I was alerted to the arrival of my prospective client by the clicking of her high heels as she walked down the full length of the long hallway from the stairs. The elevator was on the fritz, again. The slow rhythm of the clicking conjured up images of a woman who had legs all the way up to her armpits.

I reluctantly buttoned my shirt up and straightened my tie so as to look at least somewhat presentable to my newest client. The feel of stubble on my neck reminded me that I hadn’t shaved, again. It was too late to worry about that. When she phoned me, she had sounded to desperate to care about how presentable I wasn’t anyway. I knew that I wasn’t going to turn her away, even if she turned out to be trouble. I had bills to pay.

The Blonde that finally walked through my door was not a disappointment, but she was a mystery. While her legs didn’t go all the way up to her armpits, they stopped at a spectacular pair of wide hips that flared from a narrow waist that only accentuated her amazing breasts. The obvious impressions of her nipples through the fabric of her dress combined with the gentle swinging and swaying revealed that those magnificent mammaries were unrestrained by a bra. That was a reasonable compromise with the heat. The unfastened buttons of her normally demure dress that revealed the white lace bodice of her slip as well as her stocking tops was also a reasonable compromise. I sure as Hell wasn’t going to complain about it anyway.

In spite of the enticing expanse of deep cleavage that the woman presented to me, she looked respectable enough. A rather impressive diamond glittering on her left ring finger proclaimed that she was not only married but married to serious money. Her wide hips combined with her gently rounded belly and somewhat pendulous breasts revealed that she had rewarded her rich husband by birthing a baby or three.

I gestured towards the only empty chair in my office as I invited her, “have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.” I thoughtfully pushed my glass of whiskey across the desktop, silently offering her a drink.

The dame sat down like a lady. However; as she demurely crossed her legs, her partially buttoned dress and the lace hem of her slip revealed not just a not so brief glimpse of her stocking tops and garter belt but confirmation that her carpet matched her drapes. I found myself regretting the vast expanse of my Partners Desk that blocked me from getting a closer look. The lack of panties was no slander to her virtue in my book. I private dick has to be an astute observer of details. It had become obvious to me in recent days that most of the dames in town were going commando, just to beat the heat you understand.

The high class dame eagerly took a long sip from the glass that left it only a quarter full before she spoke. “Mister Mallet, I need your help,” the dame pleaded. “My husband is plotting to kill me.”

I asked the doubly obvious question. “Why would any man who is married to a dish like you want to kill her?”

Perhaps she was desperate, but the dame ignored my vulgar observation. “My husband suspects that I am cheating on him. He has hired private detectives to follow me to get proof, real or fabricated. He has told me that if I ever cheated on him or tried to leave him, he would have not just the other man but me buried alive.”

I asked the next obvious question. “So what do you want me to do about it?”

“I want you to follow me. I want you to be my witness that I’m doing nothing wrong,” the dame explained. “I’m also hoping that you can spot the detectives that have been following me. When you discover who these detectives are, I want you to get them to stop following me.”

“How am I to stop them from following you? Should I just sweet talk them or do you expect me to lean on them?” I explained, “I’m not a copper. I can’t force anyone to do anything for you, at least not legally.”

“You’re a detective. Certainly you would be respected by the detectives that my husband has hired,” the dame fantasized. “They would listen to you, wouldn’t they?”

“They might if I offered them enough or leaned on them hard enough,” I lied just to suggest the possible need for bribery or a felonious assault. “However; it will cost you serious money.”

The blonde pulled a bankroll of bills out of her purse as she said, “I have a thousand in cash that I have saved up from my household allowance. I can get you more after my husband has calmed down.”

I contemplated the cash. Prices have risen since the end of the war, but a guy could still buy a brand new Ford, Chevy or Dodge for less than a thousand. I wasn’t in the market for a new car, but I had other bills to pay. The cash tempted me, but I was wary. That was an awful lot of dough for the wife of even a wealthy husband to save up from her household allowance. “That thousand might do for a down payment, but I would need some type of security deposit. Maybe I could hold some of your jewelry as security?”

The dame lost it. She burst into tears. She got up from her chair and came around the vast expanse of my double deep Partners Desk to kneel before me. I was treated to a closer view of her deep cleavage as she sobbed incoherently. A lingering look at a dark brown aurolae and swollen nipple confirmed my suspicion that she was a mother. I took pity on her. Then she put her head in my lap. Her sobbing provoked more pity. Her face pressed against my groin was even more persuasive. The dame felt me swelling against her cheek. Although she was obviously quite respectable, she wasn’t stupid or even naïve. I felt her unzipping my pants and reaching into my briefs.

I might not be the most gifted private dick in the city, but if there is any detective who’s more gifted than me, I’ve never bumped into him. She gripped my shaft with both hands while kissing and licking my knob. She released her grip with one hand so as to take me deeper in her mouth. She sucked me as if she was a pro. She even took my balls into her mouth to suck on them. I began to suspect that she must have worked in a truck factory during the war, dechroming trailer hitch balls. I might have lasted longer, but I wasn’t trying to please her or impress her. I held her head firmly to restrain her. She didn’t struggle as I began to spew into her mouth. She gamely continued to suck on me until I was finished. “That will do as a security deposit, if there is more where that came from,” I gallantly suggested.

“There is,” the dame assured me. “Would one or maybe even two security deposits a day suffice?”

“That would do nicely,” I agreed as I put her proffered bankroll in the inner breast pocket of my suit jacket.

The dame got up to stand before me. She lifted the hem of her dress to inspect her stockings. They were obviously expensive silk stockings rather than cheaper nylons. She was relieved that she hadn’t snagged them. I was pleased by the lingering, close up view of her blonde carpet that truly matched her blonde drapes. Unfortunately; after providing me with more information and answering a few questions, she lowered the hem of her dress so she could go about her business.

I had a bad feeling about this case. Getting sucked off by some dame that I had just met normally wouldn’t provoke my suspicions, but she obviously wasn’t any ordinary dame. A woman who wears ten grand worth of jewelry doesn’t casually suck off strangers in lieu of paying cash. This dame was serious trouble. I needed to be prepared for trouble.

I opened the two top drawers on each side of my Partners Desk, then lifted up on the desk top. As the desktop rose on springs, the secret compartments between the twin fronts of the desk rose with it to reveal my arsenal. I contemplated my choices.

While God might have made man, Samuel Colt made them equal. John Moses Browning made some men more equal than others. While this dame was obviously trouble and the Ma-Deuce is about the most comforting gun for a guy to have when trouble rears its ugly head, there was no way I could comfortably lug around a fifty caliber machinegun much less its tripod. The Browning Automatic Rifle would be almost as indiscrete. Any gunfight involving my war souvenirs would provoke questions about failure to pay the two Cee notes in transfer tax not to mention theft of government property.

Although I’m partial to Browning firearms, I’m not a snob. My Thompson, forty-five caliber, submachine gun beckoned to me. Unfortunately; the Thompson is also indiscrete unless I wanted to carry it around in its violin case. Bad guys usually aren’t considerate enough to allow a guy time to get his Thomson out of its case, insert a magazine and maybe attach the stock so that you can have a fair gun fight.

Ignoring my war souvenirs, I considered my selection of pistols. The Colt nineteen-eleven pistol was normally a reasonable choice. Unfortunately; given the heat any private dick worth his salt should be able to spot anyone carrying a forty-five under an unbuttoned coat from a block away. The Browning Hi-Power in nine millimeter would be equally indiscrete.

I selected my favorite concealed carry gun, the Fabrique Nationale Model nineteen-ten. The three-eighty cartridge is disrespected by many armchair gunslingers, but the compact cartridge is usually just as persuasive as a nine millimeter. The compact, hammerless, striker fired pistol wouldn’t get snagged on clothing so easily, even if I needed to carry it in my pocket. The Browning Triple Safety system with manual safety lever, grip safety and magazine disconnect safety had saved my life more than a few times. I doffed my jacket so I could don the appropriate shoulder holster. With a six round magazine in the pistol plus one in the pipe backed up by two extra magazines nestled comfortingly in their pouches under my right arm pit, I was ready for any reasonable amount of trouble.

Since the dame had told me where she would be going to pick up her children, I had time to grab a bite to eat. It had been days since I had eaten anything. Rosie’s diner was right across the street from my office. The food was better than most greasy spoons’s, but Rosie was the seasoning that made the meals so flavorful. Rosie wasn’t a high class dame like my new client. Rosie also had wider hips that only partially obscured her thicker waist. However; Rosie was blessed with even bigger breasts that she left unharnessed even when she didn’t need to beat the heat. Rosie was also a grandmother, but that was only because Rosie and her daughters were floozies who had started pushing babies down their chutes when they were still teenagers.

Rosie wasn’t pleased to see me until I whipped out my wad while casually allowing her to see my pistol that was holstered under my coat. I had run up quite a tab in recent weeks, but now I was obviously on the job again. My tab to Rosie was just one of my debts that needed to be paid. I paid my tab, with serious interest. Rosie reached inside her blouse to tuck the cash under one of her heavy breasts then she took my order, eagerly. As she knelt before me to get a coffee cup from under the counter, she casually parted her thighs to reveal her stocking tops and her dark carpet that matched her drapes. Rosie might be a floosy, but she is an astute businesswoman. She understands that there is nothing like a flash of boob and kitty to stimulate a guy’s appetite. I ordered a steak with all the trimmings, a milkshake as an appetizer, and pie for desert.

When I was finished eating and got up to leave, Rosie invited me into the backroom so she could thank me for the interest on my tab. She slipped off her apron and unbuttoned her dress to reveal that she wasn’t even wearing a slip. She then knelt before me to take my Johnson into her mouth, just as the high class dame had done barely an hour earlier. Rosie must have also worked at the same truck factory during the war, but she had more in mind than just dechroming my balls. Rosie rose up to sit on the counter then spread her thighs invitingly.

My fat Johnson slipped into Rosie’s chute easily enough. It was immediately obvious that I wasn’t the first guy to take a ride in Rosie’s chute this day. Rosie was also on the rag. I didn’t care. I buried my face between her big tits as I began pounding her. Rosie has the kind of tits that a guy can really sink his teeth into. She doesn’t mind if a guy is gentle.

Rosie came easily. She always does. When I was ready to pop my nuts, I sank all of the way into her. She hadn’t asked me to pull out and the first guy or guys to take a ride in her chute today obviously hadn’t pulled out either. Rosie doesn’t worry about guys pulling out when she is on the rag. When I finally pulled my Johnson out, she sopped up the leaking semen and blood with her apron, buttoned her dress, then put her apron back on. I didn’t bother to wash the blood and semen off of my Johnson before I tucked it back in my trousers. I peeled a few more bills off of my bankroll. It was just extra interest on my tab, you understand.

Finally feeling drained, I got in my thirty-eight Chevy coup to catch up with my newest client. I arrived at Saint Mathews Catholic church just as she was ushering her brood out of the daycare center. Her kids were not yet in school but they were out of diapers. She and her husband had apparently been busy. She loaded the kids up in her Cadillac sedan. It was a brand new, postwar model with lots of shiny chrome. With the war over, Uncle Sam didn’t need so much chrome for tanks and airplanes anymore.

I dutifully followed the dame for the rest of that afternoon and into the evening. She had explained that her husband was out of town on business. She took her kids out to dinner at a nice restaurant, not some greasy spoon like Rosie’s Diner. I didn’t spot any private dicks that were following her. The only noticeable people were a couple of nuns and some guy in a ridiculous plaid suit. No private dick worth his salt would be caught dead wearing plaid. I then followed her to her house where I parked down the street to wait and watch. I still had not seen any hint of other gumshoes following her. Just another pair of nuns and another guy in a plaid suit.

I had finished a pack of cigarettes and was half way through a pint of bourbon when the high class dame came out of her house. She walked right to me. I had shown her my car from my office window so she could recognize it. She got in on the passenger side.

The high class dame didn’t waste any time before reaching for my zipper. She was soon sucking on my Johnson again. She was giving me another security deposit, you understand. If she noticed the flavor of semen and blood from Rosie’s chute, she didn’t seem to care. I lasted much longer this time. I wanted to impress her and I was hoping that maybe her jaw would get tired so she would invite me to take a ride in her chute. No luck. She kept sucking until I blew my nuts again. As I watched her ass retreating to her house, I found myself wishing that she would pay some principal.

I awoke at dawn. I peed into a mason jar, then opened my car door just wide enough to discretely dump it in the gutter. An hour later, the high class dame with her brood emerged from her house and loaded up in her Cadillac. I followed them back to the Catholic church. With the kids safely under the care of the nuns, the dame drove off.

The little voice that had been telling me that this high class dame was trouble got louder when I followed her into the worst part of town. It was dark town. It was the type of neighborhood that even the Mafiosos avoided. What was a high class dame doing in dark town?

The high class dame seemed to be walking towards Sam’s Pool Emporium. Sam Spade, or Sam Spade the Spade as he was usually known, was the crime boss of dark town. His pool hall was merely the least illegitimate face of his many, more criminal operations. I’d had dealings with Sam Spade a time or three. I’d gotten my ass kicked every time, but I still respected him because he and his boys had respected me enough to not kill me. Sam was packing a Johnson that is even bigger than mine.

The high class dame had barely walked a block before she was accosted by a group of teenaged toughs who obviously wanted more than just the rocks on her fingers. They wanted to give her an introduction to Black cock. They knocked her down and maybe out as I was getting out of my car. I counted four of them as they began ripping her dress off of her.

I’m the type of guy who can really handle himself you understand, but I’m not stupid. I drew my pistol, slapping the butt as always to ensure that the magazine was fully seated as I took a two handed grip. I’m not one of those idiots who fires one handed from the hip. One of the toughs pulled a thirty-eight caliber revolver to menace me. I thumbed off the manual safety on my pistol while instinctively holding the pistol tightly to ensure that the grip safety was disengaged. He emptied his gun without even nicking me. I didn’t so munch as shoot the gun out of his hand as shoot his hand that was holding his gun. He ran away, clutching his wounded hand, leaving his revolver along with three black fingers on the pavement. His three friends followed him.

I pocketed the compact, five shot revolver then grabbed the high class dame and her purse, but left her torn dress. I loaded her and her pair of thirty-eights into my thirty-eight Chevy coupe and drove her to my office. A quick check of her pulse assured me that she was still alive. In an effort to be somewhat discrete, I covered her with my overcoat as I carried her up to my office. This kind of thing happens often enough that no one would get to curious. I cant afford to rent an apartment, so I have a Murphy bed in my office. I pulled the bed down then laid the high class dame out on the blankets. The lace bodice of her slip wouldn’t have done much to hide her thirty-eights even if one of the straps hadnt been broken when the street toughs roughed her up. The lace hem of her slip had ridden up high enough to fully reveal her kitty. I pushed the hem of her slip up above her waist so I could get a really good look at her.

Since the dame was still knocked out, I decided to check her purse. In addition to a somewhat extravagant amount of cash in her wallet, she had a bankroll. I counted another thousand in the bankroll. The high class dame had been holding out on me. I didn’t mind because she had been paying security deposits, you understand.

Rummaging around in her purse, I found a round plastic case. Opening the case revealed a round piece of thin rubber with a thicker rim. It was one of those diaphragm thingies that respectable married women often use when they want to make their husbands happy but don’t want to have another baby just yet. It wasn’t as handy as a rubber, but a lot more fun. Her priest would no doubt require her to say a few dozen Hail Maries if he knew about this. What was a high class dame doing dropping her kids off at the church then going to a seedy neighborhood with her diaphragm in her purse? Her husband’s suspicions might not be so crazy.

There are a lot of ways to wake up a woman. Smelling salts are usually considered best. A pitcher of cold water to the face works well too. I woke her up by massaging her breasts. It worked like a charm, as always. Even better, she woke up already in the mood. It wasn’t long before she was unzipping my trousers and reaching into my briefs for my Johnson. She began paying a security deposit again, in earnest. The thought that I still hadn’t even rinsed myself since taking a ride in Rosie’s semen filled, bleeding chute should have provoked guilt, but it didn’t.

I pulled my Johnson out of the high class dame’s mouth then positioned myself between her eagerly spread thighs. My Johnson didn’t slip into her chute as easily as it had slipped into Rosie’s chute, but I sure as Hell wasn’t complaining. The high class dame was an even better ride than Rosie. It was obvious that she wasn’t on the rag and I was probably the first guy in her chute today. The high class dame came just as quickly and easily as Rosie had. She kept cumming again and again. I’d be a liar if I claimed that I didn’t think about the diaphragm that I had discovered in her purse. However; I didn’t allow that to dissuade me from filling her chute with my spunk.

I laid back next to the high class dame and lit two cigarettes. She eagerly accepted the lit cigarette that I offered her. Neither of us said anything as we smoked our cigarettes. When the high class dame was finished with her cigarette, she suddenly reached for her purse. I didn’t understand why until she opened the round plastic case.

The realization that her diaphragm was still in its case caused the high class dame to burst into tears. I noticed her counting on her fingers. I guessed that she was counting the days. She counted to ten. The Catholic church teaches young women how to play Vatican Roulette so that they will not be to fruitful and multiply to abundantly, at least until they are safely married. I tried to comfort her as best I could by massaging her breasts then slipping her slip off of her. The high class dame responded by rubbing her blonde kitty against my swelling, stiffening Johnson until she worked it into her chute. While she was distraught, she was pragmatic. She glanced at her diaphragm only once before beginning to ride me without it. Although I was feasting on her bountiful breasts, I lasted much longer this time. I can honestly say that I warned her when I was about to blow my nuts. Fortunately; she was a devout Catholic who wasn’t going to commit the sin of Onan. She impaled herself on me as I filled her chute with a second load of my spunk.

With our lusts satiated, at least temporarily, the high class dame finally remembered her children. She slipped on her slip, but realized that it was inadequate to safeguard her modesty. I gallantly offered her my overcoat. We walked out to my car. I needed to drive her home so she could get another dress. As she was laying two dresses out on the bed to chose which she should wear, the lace hem of her slip rode up high enough to expose her butt. Seargent Johnson immediately came to attention. The high class dame thoughtfully pulled the bedcovers down as a lifted her up onto the bed. She slipped her slip back off while I stripped off my own clothes in record time.

Fucking married women is exciting enough, but fucking a married woman in the same marital bed that she shares with her husband is always a special thrill. She assumed the position on her hands and knees. I got behind her and sank my Johnson into her for the third time in as many hours. The high class dame and her husband must be a little kinky because they had a mirror in the headboard. I was able to watch her thirty-eights wobble to and fro as I pounded her. Although she glanced at her purse as I was finally about to blow my nuts once again, she didn’t ask me to pull out. I gleefully filled her chute with a third load of my spunk.

The high class dame collapsed on her bed. She laid there for a while as my spunk seeped out of her chute to soak the sheets. After glancing at the clock, the high class dame quickly put on her slip and one of her dresses. I gallantly drove her to where she had parked her Caddy. My shooting the guy’s gun hand must have made an impression on everyone in the neighborhood because her Caddy was still where she had parked it, unmolested.

I dutifully followed the high class dame to the train station where she picked up her husband. Curiosity rather than duty compelled me to follow them. Rather than drive directly to the church to pick up her children, the husband drove to a secluded spot near a stream. It was the local lovers lane.

I watched through binoculars as the husband made love to his wayward wife. I had pumped three loads of spunk into her, but he didn’t seem to notice the aroma and flavor. Maybe he was accustomed to his wife serving him sloppy seconds? When he was ready to take a ride, she interrupted him to get her diaphragm out of her purse. He dutifully inserted it where it belonged. The husband didn’t last long, but she had told me that he had been out of town all week long. She didn’t orgasm again, but after the tongue lashing that he had given her, she had no right to complain.

I was putting my binoculars back into the glove compartment when I felt something being looped around my neck. All I could see was black and white as I was dragged out of my car. It was a bunch of nuns! It wasn’t goons dressed in drag to masquerade as nuns, it was really a bunch of nuns.

I’m the type of private dick that can really handle himself, you understand, but I was outnumbered at least four-to-one, I was being strangled by one of the nuns, and the nuns were tough bitches. It was like being attacked by a pack of rabid penguins. Two of the nuns pulled my suit coat down off of my shoulders to restrain my arms. They slapped me, hit me, bit me and kicked me. They pummeled me with Bibles and stabbed me with Crucifixes. Real professionals would have kicked me in the balls first thing. The nuns might not have been professionals, but they were gifted amateurs. They finally pulled my trousers down to take better aim as they took turns kicking me in the balls.

The beating became even more serious when one of the nuns grabbed my gun out of my shoulder holster. Fortunately; the church doesn’t teach nuns much about guns in the convent. Her first efforts to shoot me were futile. She fumbled with the Fabrique Nationale Model nineteen-ten, almost accidentally then intentionally rotating the safety lever back and forth from the safe position to the fire position. I was certain that I was going to die when the nun kept pulling the trigger, but she wasn’t holding it properly to disengage the grip safety. As she continued fumbling with the gun, I was relieved to see the magazine slip free of the mag well in the grip. She had accidentally pressed the magazine release button. The nuns either didn’t notice or didn’t understand that without a magazine inserted, the gun was just a paperweight.

Frustrated by their inability to shoot me, the nuns resumed beating me. Obviously; the nuns disapproved of me leading a leading lamb of their flock astray. I was once again pummeled with fist and feet, Bibles and crucifixes. They once again took turns kicking me in the balls and stomping on my Johnson. Then I felt something being inserted where the sun don’t shine.

I thought I was going to die until the cord of the Rosary that was wrapped around my neck broke. I was finally able to break free of the rabid nuns. I grabbed my pistol then slipped an extra magazine out of its pouch of my shoulder rig and inserted it in the magazine well. The gun was once again more than just a paperweight. Perhaps it was God who commanded the nuns to bravely run away.

I tried to pursue the Satanic Sisters, but I was hobbled by my pants as well as my coat. I was also woozy from the beating and being strangled with Rosary beads. I staggered around until I passed out.

It was dark when I finally came to. I was laying face down in the creek. I was lucky that I hadn’t drowned while I was out cold. I felt a sharp pain in my backside. I reached down to grab ahold of something, then pulled. The nuns had shoved a Crucifix up my ass. Those nuns really were vicious bitches!

After pulling my pants up and buckling my belt, I wadded out of the creek. After a bit of searching, I found my pistol where I had dropped it then the magazine where the nuns had dropped it. I thumbed the safety on and slid it back into its holster. I was going to need a gun if I got attacked by those nuns again.

The weight of the thirty-eight that I had liberated from the street thug in my coat pocket reminded me of the need of a backup gun. My Chevy coupe was still where I had parked it when the nuns attacked me. I rummaged around under the rumble seat until I found some ammunition for it. Revolvers are great until you have to reload.

The door of my thirty-eight Chevy had been left open. The glow from the dome light made me worry that the battery might be dead. When I turned the key on, pulled out the choke and pressed down on the starter pedal, the straight six cylinder groaned and struggled before firing up. I struggled to ignore the pain in my privates and my ass as I shifted from low gear, to second gear, then when I got onto the highway I shifted into to high gear.

Fearing for the safety of the high class dame, I drove to her house. I was just in time. I was surprised to see that she wasn’t being accosted by the nuns who had almost killed me. A half dozen guys, all dressed in plaid suits, were pulling the struggling dame out of her house while her cuckolded husband encouraged them to rough her up more than just a little. They stripped her naked except for her silk stockings, spanked her and slapped her breasts around as her husband questioned her. He wanted to know who her boyfriend was and where they could find him. She finally told her jilted spouse where my office is when they started spanking her kitty and yanking on her blonde carpet.

The goons wearing plaid loaded the high class dame in her Caddy. Her husband drove his Cady while the goons wearing plaid drove the high class dame in her Caddy. The goons kicked in the door to the building then busted into my office. They did a good job of trashing the place. I didn’t take kindly to the goons trashing my office, but I backed off when the goons in plaid opened their violin cases and pulled out their Thompson submachineguns, seated fifty round drum magazines, racked their slides then emptied a drum of forty-five caliber slugs into my bed.

I didn’t try to be a hero. A Thompson with a drum magazine is almost as intimidating as a Browning Automatic Rifle although no match for a Ma Deuce. The goons were also still holding the high class dame.

Everyone went back out to the street. The goons loaded the high class dame in her Caddy again while her enraged cuckold got back in his Caddy. I followed them out of the city and into the desert at a discrete distance. Eventually; they came to a secluded spot in the desert where they thoughtfully had a hole already dug. If you are going to whack someone then bury them in the desert, you should always have the hole dug already. If you whack them first then dig the hole, someone might come along while you are digging the hole. You would then have to whack them too then dig another hole. You could end up staying up all fucking night digging holes!

While the cuckolded husband and his goons wearing plaid were obviously going to kill the high class dame they wanted to have some fun first. The goons allowed her to get down on her knees to plead for her life. The high class dame did her best to persuade the goons. She really dechromed their balls for them and gamely swallowed their spunk. The bulge in her husband’s trousers made it obvious that he was enjoying the show.

I was reluctant to interfere. There were half a dozen of the plaid clad goons. All of the goons were packing Thompsons. Even with the thirty-eight revolver as backup, they had me seriously outgunned. I found myself wishing that I had my Ma Deuce or at least my Browning Automatic Rifle. I was also certain that if there was a gun fight, the high class dame would end up catching a stray bullet.

They high class dame must have swallowed a gallon of spunk before the half dozen plaid clad goons were finally drained. She remained on her knees to make a final appeal to her enraged cuckold. He was appreciative, but not persuaded.

The plaid clad goons picked the dame up and threw her into the hole. Three of the goons set their Thompsons aside and picked up shovels. The goons started shoveling dirt into the hole. The high class dame tried to climb out of the hole, but they had dug it deep. She was going to end up eight feet under rather than six feet under. The high class dame gave up on trying to climb out if the hole when one of the goons threated to whack her with a shovel. The goons continued shoveling dirt into the hole. The cuckolded husband really was going to have the high class dame buried alive!

I struggled to decide what to do. The high class dame had hired me to find out who the private dicks that her husband had hired were, not to get into an epic gun battle. I’d already had to shoot a guy’s gun hand to save her from being gang raped. The three rides in her chute had made that worth while. However; three of the goons wearing plaid were still holding their forty-five caliber Thompsons loaded with fifty round drums, and the other three goons had their Thompsons leaned up against the Caddy. All I was carrying was my three-eighty Fabrique Nationale Model nineteen-ten with only one round in the pipe, six rounds in the loaded magazine, and two more six round magazines for back up. Nineteen rounds of three-eighty from a semiautomatic pistol was no match for three hundred rounds of forty-five from full auto Thompsons. The thirty-eight revolver in my pocket was only token comfort.

My mind was made up for me when the high class dame once again tried to climb out of the hole and one of the goons swung on her with his shovel again. He missed her head only because she blocked it with her arm. Her arm was obviously broken. As she collapsed in the hole, I realized that she was probably safe from any stray bullets and maybe intentional bullets. Only three of the plaid clad goons where holding their Thompsons while the other three kept shoveling. The three with shovels might as well have been playing with their Johnsons.

I focused my attention on the three goons with Thompsons as I drew my pistol while stepping out from behind a rock so I would have a clear field of fire. It was like a classic target drill. I double tapped each of the three goons that were holding their Thompsons in the chest, then put a third round into the one who was still standing. The third goon was still falling to the ground as I was ejecting the expended magazine and reloading. I got the fresh magazine seated and hit the slide release just as the other three goons who had dropped their shovels got to their Thompsons. It was the same drill all over again, a triple double tap against three targets. Unfortunately; I either missed or scored only marginal hits on one of the goons.

I might be crazy but I’m not stupid. I dove behind the high class dame’s Caddy. A car body will not stop a forty-five caliber slug from a Thompson, but an engine block or transmission will. I struggled to stay down as I reloaded my pistol with my last magazine while the Caddy was riddled with forty-five caliber slugs. When the gun fire paused, I came up above the hood shooting. I emptied my little pistol in the last of the plaid clad goons as he was loading a fresh drum into his Thompson. Who says that dead men don’t wear plaid?

I was still celebrating my victory as the cuckolded husband was picking up one of the loaded Thompsons. My celebration was premature. It was the first time in my life that I had ever been premature. Ever! Fortunately; the cuckold didn’t know how to handle a Thompson any better than he knew how to handle his Johnson. His continuous fusillade of heavy, forty-five caliber slugs went high and to my left as the recoil from the submachinegun pulled the Tommygun off target.

I struggled to decide between fight or flight. If the Thompson was empty, I would just kick the shit out of the vengeful cuckold. However; if he still had a few bullets in the fifty round drum, he would probably kill me. I was about to run when the weight in the pocket of my suit jacket reminded me that I had the little thirty-eight caliber as backup.

As I was drawing the revolver from my pocket while still running, I noticed the vengeful cuckold pulling back the charging handle on the Thompson. I was reminded that the Thompson fires from an open bolt! When loaded with a twenty or thirty round stick magazine, the bolt is locked back in the open position when the magazine is empty. When a Thompson is loaded with a drum magazine, the bolt remains closed when the magazine was empty. The bolt had been closed! The Thompson was now just a club!

I left the thirty-eight in my pocket as I moved in to fight the cuckold man to man. Unfortunately; while the empty Thompson was now just a club, it was a damn good club. He jabbed the muzzle into my guts then as I doubled over, he swung around to hit me in the jaw with the buttstock.

Fortunately; I was able to get ahold of the Thompson and wrestle it away from the vengeful cuckold. It was my turn to swing the buttstock into his jaw. I then gave him a few backstrokes with the buttstock into his guts. I then gave him three more backstrokes to his groin, one for his Johnson then one for each of his boys. As the vengeful cuckold went down, I pushed him into the grave that his plaid clad goons had dug for his wife and me.

The high class dame beckoned to me, obviously eager to express her gratitude in spite of her broken arm. I helped her climb out if the grave. As I was taking her in my arms, I felt a shovel hitting me in the back of the head. Fortunately; it was the flat of the shovel, not the edge. I was down but not out. I looked up to see Sam Spade the Spade standing over me!

It finally dawned on me that I had been right to suspect that the high class dam was trouble. She had played me for a patsy. Her husband had been right about her. She had been two timing him, but with a black cock that was even bigger than mine. She had hired me and seduced me so I would be a diversion. She had wanted her cuckolded husband’s plaid clad goons to report that I was the other man. The nuns that had almost beaten me to death would back up that story. Her husband would then have his goons kill me, then she would implicate her husband in my murder. If I somehow prevailed in the gun battle that would have resulted in an attempt to kill me, she would implicate me as a murderer. Whichever way the dice rolled, either her husband or I would be dead and the other would fry in the electric chair. The high class dame would have everything her husband owned as well as her real boyfriend, Sam Spade the Spade.