Case Taken
A large thunderstorm rushed through the city’s outskirts at a loud and angry pace as a thick fog crept in from the sea. The lights flickered and then dimmed at the Motel Magnolia, where accommodations had lost its bloom.
The stale motel smell of past indiscretions of all types lingered in the dimness, as the camera panned to a table. On the table, a voice recorder and a pad of paper with a stolen executive pen set from some far away company. At the table, a motel chair that had seen better days and a lot of duct tape. In the chair sat a woman in cream and beige with the scent of soft vanilla and a charm school posture. With manicured hands, she pressed record while in a soft and determined tone whispered, “Shall we begin?”
The question dangled in the air as she side-eyed to her left. The camera slowly panned to darkness, the light whir of cool yet stale air came at her from her right. The subject in the darkness inhaled her scent before he let go of the pause to answer. “It was Tuesday. Amazing how normality is such a crutch that leans into boredom. I took the train to the city to go to the office. Looking at it now, I was completely unaware-so used to the sound of the city-that I was being followed by The Trenchcoat.” The deep voice responded with such calm, ease really, after the melee that had just transpired, not forty-five minutes before.
Not to let him prattle, in a moment to clarify such a bland opening, but allowed the trauma to deflate itself; she interjected amidst her smooth short hand, “Mr. Kay needs all information to properly handle what is required. You must be clear who is ‘The Trenchcoat’?”
He chuckled lightly and took the erection her perfume had given him out of his dingy gray suit pants. He stroked with thought and response. “Yes. How vanilla my life had become! Not as sweet, though, as your scent. Touch it, Miss Plum. I can do things to you no other man could ever imagine to do.”
She didn’t flinch, but raised a waxed brow for seriousness and gave a sterner tone. “Then begin with The Trenchcoat. Although, you must remember, to successfully solve this mystery, time is crucial.”
The sound of sprung bedsprings as he adjusted his rhythm at this task cut into the realization that this situation was truly more complicated than he could have ever thought to relate to another. He continued to stroke his large, long, and rose tattooed dick in the darkness as the bed lightly creaked with the movement.
“Begin again,” she commented sternly, beginning a new page as the camera zoomed into the abyss of his dark masturbatory nature.
The Trenchcoat
He first saw her that rainy morning on a train into the city.
Was it a Monday? Friday? Everyday held the same dread, empty boredom of routine, but it had to be done, it was the . . . only way to live. One repetitive world of gray suits, black hats, one-liners by rote, sales, wins, losses, all kinds of crazy, yet lackluster tension. . .was it the way she swayed without a sound into the train, closed her wet umbrella with a skill like a made fist?
The rain came down like a huge waterfall. The paper he held was pulp as he realized she seemed to breathe a quick breath into him and she was already in the damn silver beer can of a train.
Was it the blue hue from her black hair? Was it the bright, red, pouty lips? He couldn’t determine her shape but the gray coat gave way to a nice cello figure. He figured she smelled like sin before the dream got wet. He shook his head-maybe he was just hung over. How many had Shelley given him last night? That bastard and his whimsical foreign nature! All the thought and roughly slanted walk amid the closing sliding doors drew her attention just barely; she was so. . . out of place.
Those blue eyes-not limpid, not steely-so relaxed and ecstatic at the same time. He passed her. Those pouty lips that could snarl or suck within seconds-maybe he was just bored? He collapsed two rows behind her left. Shit, maybe he was LONELY! He shook his head-the rain interrupted his daydream and irritated his neck. He felt greasy and rumpled. He looked at his stained gray suit.
The train jutted forward, but it didn’t faze her.
She rose like she owned gravity in motion. The eyes held ease and rigid focus. She gave him no regard whatsoever. Her heels clanked on the metal floor in time with the click-clack of rail.
Lucite heels with thin black leather-didn’t whores wear those? He was confused. Shoes threw him? His full disgust with himself was complete, but the shoes bothered him. They were out of place on a woman out of place.
Why did he care?
He chose to leave it unanswered. He understood why Shelley got him plastered-he probably blurted his thoughts out about Rose and was lucky no one shot themselves after Shelley got him beyond slurring.
She stopped a row behind his right. All he could do was side-eye as he couldn’t tell, but he thought he saw her whisper something to the aisle-seated man in gray Armani. He imagined her breath was floral and she weaved a gardening tale in the man’s ear. Chicks were always so damn stuck on the poetry of a quickie. Armani moved over to the window in a quick slide. Armani was so plain he needed the suit to help him. She remained standing as she untied her trench coat. Armani, sheltered from view by the open coat as it spread open like butterfly wings when she crouched over, quite ballerina-like, into what would appear to be Armani’s opened crotch. Her body posed in a pretend-bound position with her arms behind her back, her legs made her posture a “Z”.
On the aisle seat, he looked fully at the view as everyone else on the train slept around them. He felt cheated by the scene, but that wasn’t unusual, so he settled back into the window, faced them and pretended to have passed out, but watched the scene through slits between lashes. Her lips were imagined on his shaft, not Armani’s. A soft experienced tongue against rigidness in an oral ballet as he inhaled her scent as her skills encouraged further growth, a higher state toward bliss. Armani had his eyes closed as the slow cha-cha of her head drew him to greater heights. Slit lashes could not believe a real high class whore was on his morning commute-maybe it would be an every morning occurrence? Maybe he should buy an Armani suit?
Armani made sounds that were quick and almost entirely muffled. The crescendo neared just as the train reached the first tunnel.
Blackness for ninety seconds, then back to the morning rain.
Armani was in the aisle seat again. Chin down to his chest. He appeared to be asleep with hands folded in his lap. His suit still perfect. The lashes opened-eyes confused. He looked around for The Trenchcoat, but she was gone. He looked back at the man and realized there appeared to be drool on his lapel. The drool grew darker and spread faster-could such talent drive a man to a drooling vegetable? Then he really looked at him and moved over his row of seats to get a closer look to realize he wasn’t staring at a drooling blissful zombie. He vomited when he realized he stared at a bleeding- from-the-right-ear-complete-with-brain-matter-dead-Armani.
His whole world went dark, but not as final as Armani’s had.
The Detectives
Balls deep inside the tight orifice of one, Miss Peach Plum, could only truly mean the case of The Lost Wife was solved.
Kay didn’t know if he could stop himself much longer.
His muscled physique pummeled her softness roughly from behind as his left gripped her dishwater blonde mane to pull her head back so he could nip her neck as his right gripped her erect nipple and pinched with pull. She moaned and neared her second wave as her inner walls tightened around his expansive and invading cock, the plastic sheeting crinkled beneath them. Her arms were locked as she grasped the cheap head board to the point the wood was about to give, her moans were on the verge of cries as the tension within neared a great release; he could feel the kernel inside her engorge as his head hit with a ferocity that almost made him question if he was in the act of assault.
He smiled at the thought of cunt obliteration and what kind of health insurance covered it, but he realized he was so close to ending round one. He thought about the morgue, his grandma, his dead children, the Ukrainian who almost killed him, the meet with Shelley later. He couldn’t understand all of the disgusting language coming out of Miss Plum’s mouth, but what he could make out made him want to come even more. He let go of her hair and double D’s to grip her unblemished by pregnancy hips and drove deeper as he yelled, “You better come, Whore, or I will come so deep inside you, your life will be destroyed.”
It was a mouthful, but it worked with the right angry tone and inflection. She came so hard the impact on the sheeting was immense and she rode him to the point his unwrapped cock had to give. He pushed her so hard off of him, she landed in the large puddle face first, he scurried his cock into her drenched mouth and shoved it in with a hair grab as she pushed her head toward him. He was so far down her throat he felt he was coming right into her stomach as he cried out a few Hungarian phrases from some kind of race memory because he’d never heard that shit ever in waking life.
He stroked her hair lovingly as he pulled out of her throat. He kissed her left cheek as if they were full time lovers. “Baby, we can’t wait to fuck till the end of the case-it’s too violent.”
He stroked her curvy body as she caught her breath and let her body recover and seep the remnants of round one. She finally spoke after he handed her a sip of wine and she sat up in the pool on the plastic sheeting, her breasts bounced with enthusiasm. “I absolutely love this kind of sheeting. Alex was evil, but he sure knew his plastic.”
Kay looked at her with angry hazel eyes. He didn’t like hearing about another man when they fucked after a case-it always led to a very violent round two, yet she always taunted him and he always wanted her to do it. His index and middle fingers slid inside her abruptly as she dropped her glass on the sheeting.
“We don’t, ” he sunk his fingers to the swollen mass inside her and pulsed his fingertips against it to give further depth to his clenched teeth verbiage,” discuss previous cases during our matches. Why do you make me want to hurt you? Why do you force me to make you come this way?”
She smiled at him with complete cock drunkenness. Enraptured in his movements, as her multiples set her up for further release, she whispered; “We share the same darkness.”
He kissed her deeply as she came. Then he broke away and grabbed her hair to force her face first into the large puddle in the middle of the sheeting and held her there. “Drink or drown will be our interlude until Round Two.”
Shelley’s
The bar was full with business, underworld, and tourists in the neighborhood-feel to a city watering hole. The chatter overrode the music by a bare margin. The lights were low, the pool games were in full swing in the back, and the dynamics of all present were at full force. The mixture of cigar and cigarette smoke would kill any amateur.
“Shelley, I can’t pay full price for the lasagna! If my party is big enough, can I get a group discount?” said a half drunk and full flustered, septuagenarian white guy so animated on his bar stool there was a high probability he was floor-bound.
Shelley wiped down the part of the bar in front of the bald patron and refilled the man’s Vulture-which was gasoline with a hint of lime. “Stanley, calm down. What about that loan?”
Stanley, in his best Monday-night-silver-velvet-track-suit, swayed with his drink-no drop spilled. “I couldn’t get it-even when I offered them Dory’s ten carat urn-what kind of country do we live in where you can’t use your dead wife for collateral? I have a list of guests-what if I got them lined up like I was taking a picture? One bullet-the best bullet, I mean, lasagna-wouldn’t that be the most economical for everyone? Your overhead is practically zero!” His mood swung from angry to mindful to exasperated within the same breath of thick city accent. “Shelley, I need this lasagna party! How about they get grazed? Isn’t there a price for grazing? How about maimed? How about half grazed and a quarter maimed and then a quarter left to tell the harrowing tale? Wait-did I do that right? Did I miss a quarter? Shelley, help me!”
“Rochelle!” Shelley called out into the crowd and spotted the platinum blonde on the other side of the place as he tapped the bar spot near Stanley. “Help Stanley with some calm talk and a calculator.”
“I ca’ hep!” the drunk in the stained gray suit next to Stanley muttered with his face in a bowl of cheesy popcorn on the bar. “Rose, damn you! I ma’! I ma’!”
Shelley refilled the pint before Sad Sack, put in a shot of Vulture, and then lit it afire. It burned purple and then was out. He put a straw in it and put the bendable end to the drunk’s lips. Like a babe to tit, the drunken mess got drunker.
“Shelley’s always here for you, Little Brother,” Shelley cooed at the youngest Alan, his best customer. He looked up to see Rhonda, with her dishwater blonde hair in a tight pony tail, in a stare. He gave her a sneer and she returned to her table with the gray Armani suit. He relaxed when her back turned, but almost raged out when he saw Manchester’s paws slide up her stockings and stop at the edge of her tight black skirt. Shelley calmed by a glance at the clock. Kay’s presence was soon and everything would be set. He patted the brown hair in the large bowl and made his way down the bar with a wipe and a slight grin.
Rhonda and Rita wenched the tables as Rochelle weaved her way from the bandstand while they each sang along to their father’s foreign band that played on the small stage. Few knew of the old songs anymore, but their mother had taught them before she had gone, so they sang every lyric as a metaphorical grasp at the memory of their mother, sweet dear Shelley de la Mer. The de la Mer sisters were a force to be reckoned with: Triplets-Foreign style. They kept their heritage quiet because their father, Roman, had and because their mother had been murdered by it. They kept themselves plain, with no make-up or wild hair, with their c-cups and athletically-cello frames. They dressed down, not up. They were schooled and still single at the old age of twenty-three. No one would suspect they were Foreign-they would be safe in an American Bar with American Characteristics on the fringe of a Multicultural Neighborhood. Everyone thought they were from one country or another and the triplets never corrected-similar to how everyone called their father Shelley because he owned Shelley’s. The de la Mers had discovered usually the best cover was what society’s misinterpretation gave them.
The large, stained oak door opened to reveal a thirty-something in a gray suit and black fedora tilted to the right, stride in with unemotional countenance and confidence. Rita met him as he entered and handed her his hat,” Mr. Kay, your booth is prepared.”
Kay acknowledged her with cool blue on hazel and followed her to the back booth in the corner, away from the stage and everyone else in the bar. Shelley would appear soon, no doubt, to make certain his daughters didn’t fawn over the quiet PI who tipped well. Shelley despised the thought of his girls sapping over unreachable constructs. Kay was seated for a full minute with Rita, the redhead of the moment.
She spoke quickly, “Did you present her with a gift that would explain your feelings?” Rita had advised him to present Miss Plum so she would open up and declare LOVE, Rita LOVED LOVE. Everyone should be in LOVE in such a glorious and deadly world.
He sighed as she set his fedora on the table and sat across from him. “An executive writing set. She assured me it would ease her travels greatly.”
Rita was horrified and her face showed. “A PEN SET! WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING, MR. KAY?”
His cool eyes widened and his chest muscles flexed against his white dress shirt. “She kissed me on the mouth with tongue. I call it a success. She won’t touch me while on a case. I gave it to her in the middle of a case. She crossed her own values to kiss me. That’s her romance, Rita.”
Rita closed her mouth, her eyes, and shook her newly red strands. “She is some kind of woman to find it a romantic tribute.”
He looked at the young girl with ease. “She’s some kind of woman. Maybe just my-”
“RITA! TEND BAR!” Shelley’s deep bellow resounded over the cacophony of the establishment to assure Rita would know a lecture would be forthcoming. The slender, hairy, dark figure threw a towel on the bar and began his journey to the booth Rita scurried away with Kay’s hat.
“Yes, SHELLEY!” she exclaimed before she straightened her scurry to saunter toward the bar. She looked back at Kay, her body taut against her server’s tight uniform, and said,” Where did you get it?”
Kay was taken aback by the question because he didn’t want to discuss Miss Plum, whose vanilla scent lingered in his nose. “I nicked it from my last case. Some guy in Maryland with a drink for a name.”
Rita gave a horrified glance back and turned back to the bar with a mutter, “You stole something to express legitimate emotion. Shame!”
Shelley interrupted with a scowl and sat across from the blond Hungarian-rooted PI. “Don’t listen to her wild preoccupation with Love. She’s got too much of her mother calling present.”
Kay shrugged as he relaxed his chiseled body against the booth’s smooth dark leather. “You sent me to ridiculousness, but I appreciate the ease of the case. I found Rose in Hartford shacking with Tooley. She’s back now though.”
“Is she going to give him peace or torture him another decade?” Shelley received the club soda from Rochelle, who served in silence with her tall frame.
She placed a club soda in front of Kay with perfect server detachment. She winked at the raised hazel eyes before she left to continue her discussion with Stanley. Kay sipped and hoped it would get the stain of Plum out. He couldn’t work correctly immediately after their matches-maybe Plum was right-but it was better than walking into the triplets with the rage of a hard on for his secretary. He always tipped well for his angry mood even though he was usually so laid back one might think him dead or an excellent sociopath. “Shelley, she is an A-1 prima donna bitch who rather deny him existence until she needs something. She insisted he had the jewels, but we know otherwise. The jewels are located with Samuel Manchester.”
Shelley was speechless, and then his large eyebrows became one with anger. In a hushed tone, “That prick is over by Rhonda, fondling her ass. Let’s kill him tonight!”
Kay raised a STOP palm. “Cool it, Roma.”
The jump to a reminder of his paternity of three always meant to get back to business.
Kay continued as his palm fell to a sip of soda. “Rhonda needs to get her coat because she has jewels to devour.”
Shelley straightened in his seat, hands in his lap, and kept his gaze steady. “You know he has them? For certain?”
Kay nodded as he leaned into the table. “I’d rather give details to Rhonda about placement and what-not along with the plan. Less you know the better for all.”
Shelley nodded as he looked at his soda with concentrated anger. “You get her killed-”
“Shelley,” Kay cut off testily. “Doesn’t Manchester remind you somewhat of Burgdorff?”
Shelley’s brown eyes went yellow and his arm hair straightened. He fought the desire to curse in native tongue. He calmed at the thought of Rhonda finding peace. “Yes, he has the anonymity that bastard disappeared into.”
“Let’s give Rhonda some peace, “Kay said smoothly after another hit of club.
“Sumatra is such a volatile place,” Shelley commented with a smile after a moment of thought.
Kay relaxed as a brawl behind Shelley began and held back a laugh as he deadpanned,” If the shoe fits, then the assassin should wear it.”
Sisters
Rhonda threw up three rubies in their vomit pot before she undressed.
Rochelle removed the dirty, gray trench coat as Rhonda heaved violently. The smell of incense was heavy in the air and the sound of calming ocean waves filled their ears. Rita unlatched the straps of the deadly shoes.
They were in their large studio apartment above the bar. None of them spoke to each other as the opera of madness took over. They would all have peace in turmoil. They had killed their mother’s murderer, again.
Rochelle and Rita slowly undressed Rhonda and began the bathing ritual to cleanse the despair. The trench coat would be burned. The shoes would be dismantled and the heels soaked in vinegar and herbs. The slicing had been clean as volcanic amorphous glass would do. She had escaped seamlessly through darkness and sliding door. Atop the train, she had gone to tunnel and echo, then out again to wind and light rain, then a smooth slide off before it entered the depot without any the wiser. They had taken back their mother’s rubies, but they also knew they had put into motion something grander, something so much bigger than a vendetta.
The trip to Rose’s had been as smooth as a messy situation could be resolved. Rhonda tried not to think about him-he had been the saddest part of the whole day, possibly her whole life. She smiled inwardly. She had been selfish and wanted to kiss Sad Sack, but didn’t risk the DNA. She left him with dreamy thought and she imagined one day he would meet her and really notice her. Really want her as much as she had always wanted him, and in her best wig with her most expensive perfume!
Rochelle and Rita held Rhonda at her sides as they placed her into the large claw-foot in the center of the studio. The bath had been filled with hot water, salt, vinegar, and cleansing herbs. Her blue-black wig was removed so they all looked the same: young, naked, bald-one fragile as the others strong.
“Dearest Sister,” the two chanted as Rhonda stepped into the steaming tub. She slid into the soothing depths. “Dearest Sister, let us cleanse you and bring release.” Their bare hands rubbed her tired and bruised body.
The two each took a soft wool mitten and began to cleanse her body with soap they made by Mother’s instruction. They crouched to bring her head out of the water and kissed her moist fragrant cheeks. “Dearest Sister.”
They each began to stroke her sides with soap laden mittens, so tender and sweet. She responded with her body raised in the steamed water by gentle strokes and soft moans.
“Dearest Sister, let us cleanse you.”
Rhonda only moaned with lustful pupils. Her back, her stomach, her legs, her feet-all generously cleansed, then came softer parts. They removed the mittens and brought out large sponges. Their sister would be rid of the sin she had taken for their peace.
Soap and cleanse they did with her softest glistened folds as she gasped by their care and felt the rising of something even more cleansing as Sad Sack continued to float in front of her eyes. “Dearest, Sweetest Sister, let us show you our gratitude.”
The fingers intruded in a glide, one in her pussy, the other her ass, as she leaned forward in the tub, taking the soothing water to her face. They traced lines on her glossy back with free hands. “Feel our appreciation.”
The rhythms countered each other which gave Rhonda a rise fall in rise fall of pleasure. “Cleanse by our touch.”
She felt the pressure within her, so built and so ready. She gripped the edge of the claw foot and moaned as deeply as they slowly brought her to release. The fullest feeling achieved as her body expanded to take them in and let the sin out.
“Release by our steady.” She wanted to push back, but they held her in place. She wanted to ride their hands, but she was bound by their grips at her neck. She wanted to express her joy, but it would break the ritual with her selfishness.
She cried out by the expert frustration built in the bottom half of her body. She begged to be allowed selfishness, but they wouldn’t allow it. They would make her do what had to be done. “Dearest Sister, come for us.”
It was a chant with pace, a deepening statement for her release of what she had just committed. The pressure increased as fingers accumulated and sought the core of her. Soon fingers became sodden fists as they each increased the rhythm and pressure-the sweet pain as her muscles gave way to completeness. She cried out, but was muffled by a soapy wave.
“Sweetest Sister, let go for us. Let us own you, let us continue to have you.” She rode their hands until they decided to pull out and drain the mess of the tub. Rhonda continued to grip the edge of the tub in shuddered pleasure.
They helped their unsteady sister dry off and led her to the circular bed near the large window to the north. The sheets were green silk with matching pillows. She was placed in the middle. Rochelle went high as Rita went low.
Sloppy kisses and skilled clitoral swipes spread Rhonda out on the round as the strokes chanted,” Dearest Sister, we will fuck you back to safety.”
Her nipples ached by touch and tongue. Her cunt seeped to every suck, lick, and finger spread. She was brought back to her purity. Brought back to her family and away from the ugliness that their father brought them to for vengeance, she gave a final hard cum and the sisters completed the grips, sucks, and kisses to nap in wetness and love for a better tomorrow.
Back in the Motel
“Neil, my brother, took me out of the scene. He never wants scandal. He wants to be as far up Mulholland’s ass as he could be. I work for Mulligan-where everything is quiet.” The springs sprung as if it would lead to a more serious discussion in stale-sex darkness and pensive masturbation.”Long ago, when I had just been divorced, he made a presentation about Rose-he’s obsessed with slide presentations. I didn’t want to hear it. Rose meant something to me then.”
The vanilla soft voice interjected,” She means nothing to you now?”
There was a stealth pause. Seconds counted.”Not anymore. No matter how I served her or loved her or what I let her do to me. . .She deserved what she got. I killed her. I did this. Whether The Trenchcoat was ever real or just my sick way of dealing with Rose-I’m not afraid to admit that without her alive, I feel free.”
Plum continued her notes as she adjusted in the worn seat. “I believe we can help you with a new start, Bob Shamrock.”
“My brother?” He gasped at the possibility of getting away with everything. Had Neil given him an Ace like all the other times Neil had saved him from himself? How could he exist without Neil?
She sighed with great movie presentation. “Bob Shamrock is a clean slate. There is no brother, ex-wife, or anything of the bland life you led. Today, Bob Shamrock is. You are no longer Neil Alan’s younger brother. You begin life solely your own.”
She heard him exhale a breath of freedom. “Please don’t let Bob be a virgin.”
She smiled in a light laugh. “Heavens no, Bob Shamrock. What you are is the antithesis of virgin. I must warn you though; Rose sold you out in the best way for the life you will lead now. You will be desired. You will be wanted. You will be devoured. You have no choice and yet have all choices. How do you spell pleasure?”
“With you,” he responded immediately. He fought the wooziness the concussion from his collapse gave him. He wanted to show her his new confidence. He had to have her, taste her, and penetrate her.
She smiled in the darkness. “I am not an option, but I appreciate I would be a definition.”
The broken bed shifted in unease. He would not lose her. His stained gray suit pants caught a spring and ripped loudly as he lunged toward her. “I can never imagine a woman beyond you.”
She softly laughed at his tethered state and sales pitch. “All you can imagine is the grace you and I share.”
She pulled away from the desk and packed her belongings in a bag. “We shall never meet again, Bob Shamrock. I hope you better future than your past. You are going to a new place and you make your life-your wants, your desires. I implore you-stay within lines and stay away from trains.”
“Please, let me kiss you,” Bob ripped his pants away and sprang to her form from darkness. She took him to STUN.
As he shook to the floor, she softly explained, “You are not my darkness.”
She left the dark room without sound and with all technology. He spasmed while he shit and pissed himself, still hard at the thought he would make their paths cross.
She was his and that was all.
Trauma
Voicemail. Voicemail. Voicemail.
Rose, raven haired and red laced, tossed her phone into the water of the vibrant rose garden. Samuel didn’t answer and she knew he was dead. She could never trust a man with safety of her future. She had made plans. Neil would ensure her future in case of disaster. He would never stand for his brother in scandal.
Then she saw her ex-husband as if her last thought conjured him. Disheveled gray suit, broken posture, fatigued face, and he acted panicked in a shocked kind of way. She spat as he stumbled into the back door of the expansive atrium. He couldn’t keep balance on the dull brown stone.
“Rose?” he looked around rapidly and called out in a mess of fear, vodka, and a confused body about a hangover. He tried to focus on his Mistress as she angrily made her way to stop him. “Something awful-”
She slapped him when she closed in distance with her red lace see-through robe and red furry heels. “Why bring Sad Sack to My Eden?”
He gave her a wounded look as he tried to straighten his stance with great struggle. “Something bigger is happening. I don’t-”
She took her cattle prod from behind the glass atrium door and stood behind his pitiful mass. “You don’t know how much I have wanted to seal you. Today, I brand you closed so even the doctors can’t save you. I want you to die. You have plagued me for the last decade and I’m finished with you. Your brother is so much better inside me and serving me.”
He was out in shock-fell hard to the slate floor-her victory stolen.
“UUUGGHHH!!” she bellowed in wavy lace and nakedness as her long, black locks swing in anger. Where the fuck was Neil?
She left the exquisite atrium with loud clacks of her heels into the vibrantly hued media room. She called the cell in the bookcase behind Classics.
“Baby?” Neil answered in horny anger as he sat in his office and prepared for a meeting he had only learned a moment before from Mr. Mulholland’s secretary he would have to attend. He had a presentation to give-no time for his brother’s ex-wife’s and his lover’s rants.
“You’re shit-ass brother tried to rape me!” she screamed into the phone. She didn’t hear it. She was taken, suddenly, from behind. Not rape, bondage. A mask fell before her face. She felt the prick in her neck and then an unbelievable float in pale nothing.
“No, I just pulled him from the train-he’s confused. I’m on my way after a meeting. Lock yourself in the Panic Room, I will be there shortly,” Neil replied smoothly as the call ended. He would not have a scandal no matter what he felt. Neil left his office quickly in a curse to Shelley. How had his little brother escaped Shelley’s attention? He had left him at the bar after he got him away from the train. Shelley babysat his little brother on a regular basis over the last decade all on Neil’s dime-it was no time for failure or scandal!
Time slinked by and Rose’s head felt cottoned and huge. She heard familiar sounds. She knew she was in the media room; everything was dim, except for the blurry scene that held the sounds-the videos. The secret videos she had made and used against her ex-husband over the past ten years.
She tried to call out, but couldn’t-her mouth was taped. She focused her eyes as best she could-Tape 12-she had the largest red dildo she owned at the time as far up her then-husband’s youthful ass as the milking machine was attached to his dick and worked away as he tried to scream with pain and pleasure, but another large red dildo jutted in and out of his mouth with the help of a machine. In a few minutes, she would have him eat cum from her snatch-the cum his older brother had put in her an hour prior to the taping. Where was Neil?
Suddenly, a soft whisper and tickle of long hair against her ear broke her thought. “You are a very interesting ex-wife.”
Rose finally focused. She was bound in her black leather straight jacket and secured to her exercise inverter locked crossways. She realized she had been out for a while for whomever the female was that spoke to move the equipment from the workout room at the other end of the large house to the media room.
“Why you have my mother’s jewels in the first place made no sense, but what you did to this poor guy? For years, he’s gotten drunk and tried to explain what happened to him and how he could never get over you. He never had any idea about you and his brother. He never really got the idea that you hate him so. Normally, I wouldn’t interfere with relationship foolishness, but you involved me with my mother’s jewels. Now it’s time for peace.”
The slice was quick and away enough from Rhonda that not much splatter was on the trench coat.
Rose’s body frenzied as Rhonda walked away. Rhonda held the silver letter opener steady as she walked back to the sleeping man on the atrium floor. She placed the opener from her gloved hand to his empty one.
Soon he would be awake. His head bobbed back and forth to fight the sedative one of her sisters had placed in his drink earlier. She decided to give him some advice to sink into his subconscious mind. “You are over dark haired women. You want dishwater blondes now. You want vanilla scented women. You want to fuck them, own them, and will have the greatest confidence to make it happen.”
She slipped Kay’s business card into his jacket pocket and then left the scene without hesitation. As she walked into the darkness of a stormy afternoon, she lightly heard the sound of a man’s scream in the distance as Neil Alan had finally arrived.
Case’s End
The smell of aged paper was hidden by the dozens of large, bloomed roses and the hot wax of the hundreds of candles that burned for illumination. She sauntered into the ancient room and seductively raised her eyes to him as he sat behind the desk and handled the accounting. He had noticed her, but pretended not to as his body language gave him away. He had his black jacket off, black dress shirt opened to a scarred and sinewy chest. She placed her beige bag on the floor next to the large desk and leaned over to look at his numbers. “Did Mulligan pay or Mulholland?”
He leaned back quickly with a laugh. “As if it makes a difference? We are lucky they didn’t get cut us for the mess you left him in.”
She took a step around the desk as he rolled his chair back. “Would you have preferred I fucked him to calm him down? Would you ever want me to peg you like Rose did him?”
His face grew serious-slightly worried and pissed at the thought of her fucking Sad Sack. “Not for me right now to both questions. Would it be something that you like?”
She shrugged as she leaned forward so her inhale was his exhale. Her blues gave his hazels a sex eyes glance. “I believe the Case of the New Lunar Transporter is closed.” She touched his naked chest lightly by her fingertips.
He meshed his lips to hers in agreement as he stood up and pushed her onto the desk. He ripped her cream button down open to the white lace underneath and nursed her large breasts with bites. Her hips rose against him as he pushed her beige skirt up and ripped the white lace from between her legs. He leaned back to rub his erection into her wet mound. “Helping Mulholland get a new drug dealer makes you horny?”
She laughed as she folded her arms behind her head. “You know how a library, roses, and candles turn me on. It’s been a long time since we played here. We did just solve the case.”
He pulled his dick from his black suit pants and entered her in a quick move that made her jump and askew the papers beneath her. He pumped hard as the juicy sounds of her tiny orgasms began. He would prime to her to a large climax. “You know, this really wasn’t much of a case. We set him up, took him out, and then set him free. It’s a technicality-more like sport fishing.”
Her vaginal walls gripped him and she sat up halfway as she paused her climatic ascent. Her face was lightly serious. “Should we stop?”
He bit her lower lip fiercely and forced his way in deeper as he savored her clench and pushed her back down with his muscled body. He released her lip after a hard suck. “You don’t want me to stop and neither do I.”
She relaxed slowly into his forceful thrusts. She knew she would cum all over his papers and hoped the M-Check was in the bank. She also knew he was bringing her to a large orgasm that would make everything around them not matter. His fingers rubbed her clitoris and labia as he leaned against her short legs she held in the air so he could go deeper. Her body began a series of shudders as he took her higher and higher until she felt like she should burst apart a million ways. She cried out at the enormity that his skill brought her to and he railed into her muscular massage. As she came down, he spilled into her with a force and furious grunt that set her off again and they rubbed into each other as if they would meld together and never let go.
He gripped the edge of the desk above her head and pinned her body with his with his dick locked inside of her. “Sleep with me tonight.”
She caught her breath and tried to kiss him, but he turned away.
“Answer me,” he growled and thrusted into the slickness. Anger always cut his refractory period short and she knew it.
She looked at him with a lost, orgasmic-glazed pensiveness. “I don’t know. You’ve never put me to bed. What if I hate it?”
He lightly tapped her right cheek with his wet fingers. “Then we won’t do that ever again.”
He got off of her and pulled his pants up. He reached out his right hand and she took with both hands to sit up, still shaky from the round. “Come on, Peach, we will still have the same darkness when we sleep.”