Sex Detectives

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."