The Chronicles of Ben Merriman #01

I grinned happily. "Character? No. Background? Yes. I dug up property records on the guy and discovered real estate not on the list given us by his fiancée. It's on the beach in Malibu and he's owned it for only a year, less than the span of his current relationship. And I know where he is -- his wife says he has an important business dinner tonight."

One of Caroline's eyebrows arched thoughtfully. She studied me and I waited, wondering what exactly she would say. What she did say surprised me. "Ok, grunt, let's go."

I was somewhat confused. "What?" I asked lamely.

She smiled mirthlessly. "We're going to check out the guy's house."

Which is why, one hour later, I was scaling a twelve foot wall covered in what looked like ivy, trying to sneak my way onto what looked to be Bobby Phelps expensive Malibu beachfront bungalow (or secret bachelor pad, as it were). Luckily, the guy was only twenty-eight and had not yet developed a need for security personnel, so once I was over and in, I opened the side gate to let Caroline in with me.

She had that glow about her, the same jazzed-up look she always got when the thrill of the chase was about her. "Amazing," she said. "I thought this guy, being as wealthy as he is, would have armed guards and security cameras. The idiot is completely exposed. But we are technically still trespassing, you know."

I shrugged. "Only if we get caught."

She remained silent, which meant she was impressed against her will (the only time she does not speak) at my bravado. I scored it as a rare point for me in a very difficult game to score points in. The door was locked, but there was no alarm to be seen, so I bent and picked it clean, impressing her again.

I grinned at her shocked expression. "Dad taught me years ago," I revealed.

It was the typical bachelor pad: the main room had a black shag rug over hardwood floors, leather couches, a massive plasma flat-screen television, and an extensive wet bar, among other things. Bobby had obviously read the How to Get Chicks Naked Once They're Back in Your Room series and followed its decorating instructions to the letter, which meant the room was ridiculously childish, boyish, and tacky. I could only imagine what the bedroom looked like. Probably leopard sheets and a ceiling mirror.

"This guy must have lots of money," Caroline said, looking around with obvious distaste, "if a woman like Jacquelyn is marrying him."

"No arguments from me," I agreed. "The guy is . . . a real catch."

"Great location, great place, and he does this with it." She actually seemed to be getting upset. Caroline was one of those people who deplored people with money who used their wealth wastefully or unproductively, and this guy probably used it heavily in both of those ways.

And so we began to look around, careful not to move anything out-of-place enough to arouse suspicion. For several minutes, it was completely worthless, until I ran across a tiny black telephone logbook in a drawer in the bedroom. Written across the front in gold letters were the words Little Black Book, which I thought I must have imagined because . . .

"Who the fuck actually has a little black book with the words 'Little Black Book' on the cover?" Caroline exclaimed disgustedly, reading over my shoulder and plucking the words right out my head. "This guy is a joke."

I was busy flipping through the pages, thinking to myself how much money the idiot who owned the place would have to spend to clear his name and work his divorce. There were many, many names of women, few I had any real idea about — that is, until I got to a section titled H.S.

"Look at this," I said. "What do you think?"

She stared at the page. "I don't know," she admitted, "could be lots of things, I guess."

I pointed at one of the names. "Cindy Buck," I recited. "She graduated from Rembrandt last year. I think the heading stands for High School, meaning girls this guy met who were in high school when he met them."

"Jesus," she whispered as she took the book. She studied it a moment. "Here's a name I recognize: Hannah Sebastian. She's an escort, as top-of-the-line and professional as they come. Gorgeous and insanely expensive. Makes over four hundred thousand a year. She's done some work for us in the past."

"Apparently, Miss Atkinson is right," I said. "She definitely does not have the only hole on the green; this prick is sticking his flag into anything he can find."

"He seems to like . . ." Caroline began, and then she trailed off. The sound of car could easily be heard, followed a moment later by the flash of headlights across the ceiling. She looked at me with a hard expression. "So much for the business dinner. Nice work, grunt. He's home."

"Closet?" I suggested, and Caroline cursed under her breath. I took that as a yes, and moments later she was shoving me into the small coat closet off to the side of the room.

I went face first into a plethora of thick winter coats (not pleasant) and spun around just in time to watch as Caroline followed me in. Her body pressed against mine (heaven!) and the closet door shut behind us. My hands instinctually went around her waist, while hers pressed into the wall behind me. We were, effectively, packed together like sardines.

"Ok?" I asked.

"Fine," she whispered back, and the word was a bullet.

It was quite the situation. The closet was no more than four feet by four feet, and that was without the hanging clothes. Caroline, of course, smelled incredible, and her body felt fantastic pressed against mine.

Aside from how she felt, there was another thing worth noting: the closet door was not constructed of one solid piece of wood. A large section of the door employed the use of down-turned wooden slabs, running width-wise the door and set a very short distance apart. The effect of this design was to add a touch of the unique to the door itself and to allow the clothes within the closet to breathe. It also, as a curious but fortunate side effect of the angles of the slabs and the darkness of the closet, allowed a person inside to view the outside, but not vice versa.

We barely made it inside; mere moments after the closet door closed, the door to the bungalow opened and two people stumbled inside. One of them, the female, was speaking.

"What do you want to show me, huh?" the girl was asking, and she sounded young.

"In a minute," Bobby Phelps said reprovingly. "I'll show you in just a minute."

I tilted my head down slightly and found myself staring directly in the eyes of Caroline Rae, our faces no more than six inches apart. I was struck, very suddenly, by how bright blue her eyes were, visible even in the relative darkness.

"Don't make a sound," the woman whispered in her softest voice. She inched forward until her face hovered over my left shoulder, her cheek just brushing mine, her breath was warm in my ear. "Give it a minute," she suggested, "and when they hit the bedroom, we'll leave."

I nodded silently.

"Show me!" the girl outside chirped. "I really want to see!"

Bobby Phelps grinned. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

The girl giggled. "Show you my what?"

"I think you know," the man said. "I want to see."

Caroline grunted under her breath. "Ridiculous," she breathed.

The other woman in the room did not think so, apparently, and promptly stripped the thin black shirt she was wearing up and over her head. She was not wearing a bra, and a pair of grapefruit-sized breasts spilled out and bounced into position.

"Do you like them, Bobby?" the girl said, her voice all at once demure and submissive.

Phelps studied the girl thoroughly, seeming very intense and determined. "Put your hands behind your head," he ordered suddenly, "and turn around."

The girl complied, lacing her fingers behind her head and turning so that, coincidentally, she faced the closet. Her face held hints of apprehension and excitement, and clear indications of drug or alcohol use. Her skin was flushed, her eyes glazed. She also looked mildly familiar.

Of course, her position granted me a perfect view of her body, and never once to waste an opportunity, I took a moment to admire her breasts: round and moderately-sized, they were well-shaped with large pink nipples. They captured the attention of the other man, too; moving in behind her, he reached around each of her sides and slid his hands over her breasts, cupping them in his palms.

"Take a breath and hold it," he told her, and the girl sucked in a deep breath, drawing air into her lungs, and held it, pushing her chest out. His hands began to move, his fingers kneading and squeezing the soft tit-flesh.

"Release," he said, and she let the air out in a whoosh. "Again." She sucked in another breath, holding it as he fondled her for long moments. "Release," he said for a second time, and she let her breath out again in a heavy gasp. He gave her boobs one last good squeeze and said, "That's a good girl, now get down on your knees."

It was at this point that Caroline swore silently under her breath, and so it was that I realized what she had realized first just by listening: the two lovers would not be moving to the bedroom anytime soon.

They were stuck.

Caroline lifted her face, met my gaze, and an unspoken acknowledgement of our predicament passed between us. I nodded and she sighed, softly but with more than a little displeasure, and leaned forward to whisper once more in my ear.

"We may be here a while," she said, her breath hot on my skin, "and this is not comfortable."

This could be interesting, I thought, as I whispered back, "Straighten up and turn around, and you can use your arms to support yourself against the doorframe."

The look she gave me then was quite clear: she wanted me to shut up. Even so, my suggestion had been a good one, and so slowly, very slowly, she twisted her body, her breasts pressed hard into my chest as they slid across its width, until finally she had maneuvered around. It worked, as far as I could tell: Caroline was facing the door and, therefore, much more comfortable.

The off-shoot of this action, however, was that I was suddenly now more uncomfortable. This was due entirely to one fact; Caroline's incredibly firm bottom, the object of much of my youthful lust, was pressed against my groin. The worst-case scenario would be an erection in this instance, and so I struggled to keep myself as far from contact with her as possible.

"Shhh," she whispered fiercely as I shuffled around behind her.

Outside, Phelps had wasted little time. His pants were around his ankles and the girl was on her knees before him, her head bobbing up and down. I could not see the graphic action, but it was clear what was happening; we could hear the slurping and sucking sounds.

"Tongue my balls," Phelps told the girl, and for the first time I caught a glimpse of the action as the girl turned her head to the side and nuzzled her mouth up under the man's scrotum. Her tongue traced the wrinkles it found there, and he shuddered at the sensations.

"Good girl," he said with a sigh.

"What a prick," Caroline whispered, her grip tightening on the doorframe. This had the unfortunate consequence of pushing her further back into me, and I struggled valiantly to keep my manhood in check. It was a little swollen, but nothing overbearing, and Caroline was showing no hint of being bothered by it, which I was sure she would do if she knew.

It was several minutes of sucking and tonguing before Phelps pulled the girl up by her hair and dragged her over to the couch. He pushed her down roughly over the wide leather armrest, bending her over, and reached under her dark red mini-skirt. Moments later, her panties were stripped down around her knees and his fingers were active upon what had been covered, although it was difficult for us to see the intimate touching from our position.

"Are you going to eat me?" the girl asked with eagerness in her voice, glancing back.

Phelps laughed. "Not a chance," he laughed, and slapped her hard on the rump. She shrieked, and as she shrieked he forced her head back around to face front.

Caroline growled angrily, but did not move.

"Get ready," he warned, and without further words, buried his cock deep inside the girl from behind, and began to fuck her mercilessly over the arm of the couch.

His hips slammed into the cheeks of her bottom, rippling its flesh, and he grunted and she whimpered with every stroke. She began to moan, although whether from pleasure or pain at the rough treatment, I could not be sure. Phelps reached around and clutched one of her breasts, and squeezed it hard, and the moaning for an instant turned to an undeniable whimper of pain.

It was then that I became aware of another sound, far quieter than his hips smacking into her, the squishing of his cock as it penetrated her, her moans and whimpers, or his loud grunts and groans; no, it was the sound a labored breathing, quiet but unmistakable, and coming from Caroline Cassidy. In short, she was kind of turned on, and the revelation that an ice queen like Caroline did, in fact, have a sexual side was one of the greatest moments of my young life.

I did not get to dwell on it long, however.

Phelps cried out and then pulled out, and sprayed a helping of white seed across the back and bottom of the girl splayed out before him, getting some of it on her skirt. I do not think she had achieved her own orgasm yet, but that did not stop the man, apparently.

He stumbled back and plopped down into a chair, his face contorted in a pleasured grimace. The girl pushed herself to her feet after a moment, and asked, "Bobby?"

He opened his eyes. "Clean yourself up and hop in the shower. I'll be there in a minute."

She was a little confused, but nodded and left the room. Phelps did not sit long, thankfully enough. As soon as we heard the shower burst to life in another room, he hauled himself up, shuffled forward, kicked his pants finally off his ankles, and walked out of the room.

When Caroline finally deemed it safe enough for us to exit the closet, with the man and his young slut enjoying more sex in the shower, we tumbled out of the closet and swiftly made our way out the door and back to the car, and sped safely away.

It was not long before the reprimand.

She reached into her pocket and, for the first time, I saw the little mini-camera in her hands. I'd been oblivious to it while we were in the closet, but apparently Caroline had taken the liberty of snatching a few photographs. I grinned happily, knowing our case was progressing nicely.

"We got some good photos," she admitted, "which will prove very useful, both in satisfying our client and in helping her towards her ultimate goal. It was smart to search his real estate holdings; the revelation of the Malibu residence will also serve our client well."

She turned to face me then, those beautiful eyes sharp as spinning drill-bits as they bored into me. At that moment, before she spoke, I realized one thing with crystal clarity: Caroline Cassidy was absolutely gorgeous when she was angry.

"But that does not," she continued, "excuse what just happened. When you are skirting the edges of legality, you must know exactly what is going on around you. There can be no surprises. You must know the window of time you have to act. It's partly my fault, but the responsibility is ultimately yours. Do you understand?"

I completely understood and agreed with her. "It won't happen again," I said.

Caroline nodded. "Good," she said simply.

I grinned. "Do you forgive me?" I asked.

The beautiful blonde rolled her eyes. "Drive, grunt," she said, and off we went.

* * *

Caroline had pressing work the next afternoon, so she sent me off by myself after school to develop the photos and present them to Miss Atkinson. Basically, I had no idea what to expect.

"Tell her the story," Caroline said, prepping me. "Show her the photos. Ask her what she would like us to do. Make no commitments and tell her you have to speak to Frank to approve her requests. Thank her and come back here. Simple."

Which is exactly what happened, as far as she knows.

Jacquelyn Atkinson lived in the Pacific Palisades, one of the most affluent sections of Los Angeles located in the hills above Santa Monica and Brentwood, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Her family mansion was gated with significant security personnel and vast, sprawling grounds. Her marriage to Bobby Phelps, however, was going to take her from a family with a small fortune ($50M) to one that was really, really big.

The guard stopped my Range Rover at the gate and I was allowed inside only after being thoroughly checked out. A cul-de-sac stood at the end of the long driveway with a fountain in the center of the circle, and a valet waiting to take my car. I hastened up the steps and knocked on the door, which was answered by an elderly, tuxedo-clad man who bowed and bade me follow.

Which is how I ended up by the Olympic-sized swimming pool mere moments after my arrival. I could not see my client anywhere, but that did not stop the butler from leaving.

"Hello?" I called out.

"Just a minute," a mellifluous voice echoed from inside the pool house. "Like a drink?"

I grinned; she had no idea how young I was. "No, thanks," I said, and soon she appeared.

Jacquelyn Atkinson looked nothing -- and yet somehow everything -- like she had the day before. She wore white Gucci sunglasses and another hat, this one wide-brimmed and white and made of finely stitched straw, and her white high heels made little clacking sounds on the concrete. But it was what lay in-between head and toe that stirred me in more ways than one. She wore a wispy see-through robe, open in front and hanging from her shoulders, which did little to hide the rest of her body.

And that amazing body, which had been hinted at subtly by her outfit the day before, was on full display in a tiny white string bikini. She was tan and trim with huge fake tits and long succulent legs, and the woman walked with a kind of a half-swoon, half-sashay that was whole-sexy, wiggling her hips and jiggling her breasts in mouth-watering ways.

She casually sipped from a margarita glass, filled to the brim, and walked right up and past me, heading back into the main house. I was rooted to the spot, however, unable to move, because when she passed I learned that her string bikini bottoms were actually thong bikini bottoms, and the woman's scrumptious ass was right there to behold. It was an incredible sight.

"Coming?" she asked, knowing full well the power she had.

"Not far from it," I said without thinking, and my ears went hot with sudden concern, until I heard her give the lightest little laugh. She did not even break stride.

She led me into the house, across the massive, marble-tiled entry hall, up the wide circular stairs, down one of several long and branching hallways, and into a room with broad double-doors. It was a bedroom, whether the master or not I had no idea, with a raised section for the four-post bed and a separate step-down lounge area, much like a fancy resort suite might have, with plush leather couches, glass coffee table, television, and floor-to-ceiling windows. There was also a balcony, accessible through one of those windows, overlooking the ocean. It was very swank and very stylish, and decorated almost exclusively in white and pink.

"Sit," she said, waving her hand loosely in the direction of the couches as she walked towards a side-door. I seated myself and waited, and several minutes later she returned, still carrying her margarita glass, which was now only half-full. She seated herself on the couch across from me, legs crossly demurely in front of her, one arm stretched out along the cushions, the other bent to allow her to sip her drink. She looked very comfortable and very relaxed, and very much at home. Not to mention, smoking hot and very aware of it.