The Geek Will Inherit the Earth

I'd wanted to see a glass door, with 'Private Detective' written on it. The reality was so disappointing I nearly gave up, but something made me push the buzzer on the plain, wooden door and wait. An unmistakeably African male voice asked if I had an appointment, and asked me to come up to the second floor. A buzz signalled the door yielding, and the fatigue of two dimly-lit flights of stairs made me remember I'd really not slept as long or as deeply as I needed to.

As I met the face behind the voice, I was surprised. The kid rose from his desk to welcome me into the office, and looked very much younger than I expected. He'd have looked totally out of place in fifties movie with a trilby and trenchcoat. My illusions were disappearing.

"So, what can we do for you here?" he asked warmly, and I started to explain very simply that I was looking to get some information about a guy that wasn't who he seemed.

"Is it just background information you're looking for, or are you looking for something more... personal?"

I nodded. "I want to know what he's up to. He's a guy in his forties, living and working here in the city, and I need to know some details."

"You know, these things cost money," he said courteously, "and lots of it. Ms Donahue would be charging about £400 a day for an investigation of this sort."

"Ms Donahue?" I coughed. "So, you're not the detective?"

"I am a detective," he answered, "but this sort of thing is precisely her speciality. She'll do the job better and faster than me, and have a lot more fun doing it. She's with a client at the moment, but should be available in about 15 minutes. You're welcome to wait, or you can come back if you've anywhere else you need to be. Just to emphasise though, she'll be wanting cash in advance -- at least two weeks, as I said, at about £380 a day for however many days you want him monitored."

"Cash is no problem. I'll wait here, if that's okay, Mr...?"

"Okay, cool. Call me Cipher, or Mr Kelly, if the boss is listening. Do you want a coffee, or a tea? I'm just making one now."

"I'd love tea. Milk, no sugar. Thanks."

The tea came and went, and it was unsurprising to find that the magazines in the sparse but pleasant office (which I now realised served as a waiting room rather than the entire establishment) were all oriented towards a female readership. When a lady in her forties entered the meeting room, eyes still red with tears, from a door off to one side, and left quickly, head down beneath a horrendously out-of-place faux fur hat, I knew I'd be heading in soon.

Cipher disappeared through the door, and reappeared a moment later.

"Head on in, if you like. Gem... I mean Ms Donahue with be with you in a second."

I went through the door, and found it led to a corridor. I realised I'd had the architecture of this building all wrong. As I followed it down past a store room, I came to an office, and my faith in Hollywood was restored as I saw a small metal plaque that read 'G Donahue - Private Detective', and the door creaked open as I turned the handle.

I don't know what I'd been expecting. My brain had pictured a matronly figure my Mum's age, like a wizened old GP who you wouldn't mind inspecting your junk, because you'd know there was no way you'd get an accidental boner. As the Hepburnesque brunette strode into the office, sophisticated knee-length deep purple dress pulled tight across her calves and slender hips, I saw that her own cheeks were flushed. She saw me staring immediately, and smiled.

'Not what you were expecting?' she asked, sounding less like a question than a statement, but with a friendly, rather than defensive tone. She walked to her filing cabinet, and took out a new file, giving me a moment's view of her sculpted yet petite ass.

'You must be Ms Donahue?' I opened, lamely.

"And you must be the 'walk-in'" she answered jovially. "Grab a seat, I'll be right with you."

"That last lady seemed gutted. I'm guessing most people who come here are expecting bad news though, huh?"

"Not everybody finds what they're expecting, though. How can I help you, mister..."

"Alton. Call me Tony."

"Hi Tony. I'm Gemma Donahue. I'm a private investigator. What do you need to know?"

I brought Gemma up to speed on the man sharing Mum's life, but treating her like shit. I put the details I knew on the table -- birthday, approximate age, car number plate, place of work. Gemma got round to the subject of payment quickly, and visibly relaxed when I didn't balk at the figures. I produced three grand to cover the first ten days or so in cash, but explained that I needed the details of any affairs, any illegal activity, any dodgy contacts, and I wanted a full background check. Exes, criminal records, dodgy history, anything she could find. I needed enough to make sure that if Mum wanted him out of her life, she had every ace up her sleeve.

'Here's his Facebook profile', I offered, pulling it up on my phone and handing it to her. 'She made a quick note, and passed the phone back. 'I added him a while ago, when he and Mum were first dating,' I explained. 'Now I just use it to keep an eye on him.' I forwarded her the profile picture in an email.

'Okay, that's all I need to know. Let me take this evening to do the background research, and we'll talk on the phone tomorrow about the next step of the plan. One thing you need to know, though: if I uncover anything particularly nasty or illegal, I am duty-bound to inform the police. I don't have the option of sitting quietly on it without leaving myself vulnerable to prosecution. If that happens, I'll let you know, obviously, but just as a courtesy. I'm about finished for the afternoon, so I'm going to head home. Want to walk and talk?"

Looking down at my watch, I suddenly realised the day had gone, and that it was 5pm. Mum and I had talked longer than I meant to, and I'd made no progress towards buying a car, as I'd planned. I guess I was enjoying the world passing at a steady pace, but thought it might be time to start moving faster, or I'd lose the chances to do things I would enjoy with my time and money.

As we went through reception, I saw Cipher had gone, and Gemma let us both out into the hallway.

"So, Tony, I'm interested. You've suddenly come into money." Again, this wasn't a question. "Given that you must've just turned 18, I'm guessing it's an inheritance? And given that you're doing all this for your Mum, with no mention of a Father figure, I'm guessing this was from him. I'm guessing you've just cashed in your trust fund."

I tried not to look like I wanted to laugh, and before I answered, it occurred to me that this kind of cover story might be helpful. I decided to roll with it, and perhaps embellish a little.

"Dad was well-invested, they say. The trust component of his will paid out much, much better than the cash Mum got when he died. I guess I don't need to worry about cash just now."

Gem seemed to be testing her theory, and getting a measure of me as a man. "Aren't you thinking of investing it? Property, or a business, perhaps? You might have something you're good at, that you could do for a living, and a bit of capital might set you up for life. You might not want to blow all this on my services before you know what you're getting."

I knew what she was saying made sense, and for a moment, I started to regret my rashness. "Let's spend what we've agreed so far, and review." I said. "I suspect the dirt isn't deep below the surface."

"You really don't trust this guy, huh?" she teased.

"Not as far as I could kick him." I said as I held the front door open for Gemma. The chivalrous gesture gave me another chance to admire her Brown hair, narrow waist and long legs. The usual feeling that this woman, at least ten years my senior, was way out of my league came and went as always, but since meeting Bex, I was starting to believe anything was possible. "Okay, I'm going this way. Do I wait for a call from you?" I checked.

"If you're right, you won't have to wait. These background checks won't take long. I might even get to do some surveillance this evening."

I thrilled at the mental image of her sat in a car, watching him through a window and snapping photos, but taking in her laptop bag and smartphone, I wondered just how out of date that image really was.

As I was on the bus back to the flat, a text message arrived with a photo attached. "If I'm right, and this is him, he's on Tinder!"

I texted back. "Yep, that's him. He's a total shit. How'd you search for him on there?"

"I didn't. He's just on my local matches," came the answer.

The realisation that this glamorous, intelligent and sophisticated woman was not just on tinder, but reviewing matches on the bus-ride home both defeated every prejudice I'd formed about women who might use that app, and struck me as funny to the point of being hilarious.

"Wouldn't have had you down as a Tinder user... Surprised if you're struggling for dates!" I messaged, perhaps feeling a little less reserved by text message, and without her terrific body reminding me how far adrift I was of having a shot with her.

"You'll be surprised who you can meet if you're out looking," she bat back. "You not on there? I'd swipe right." Things had suddenly taken an unexpected twist. "Obviously, if you weren't my client," came the follow up text moments later.

"HAHAHA. You're fired, then. How about dinner? (kidding)", I sent, giggling in my chair.

"Not tonight. Work to do. Thanks for that. ;-) "

As I pulled a microwave meal out of the fridge and stuck it on to cook, I wondered about Bex. It'd only been a few hours since we'd spoken, but with Mum right there, it'd hardly felt like we had a proper chat. I dropped her a quick text.

"Thanks for your help today, and for not freaking out my mum. She's just getting used to the idea I have money. She's not ready for the fact I'm seeing a hottie like you "

I was surprised when she rang a few seconds later.

"Not wanting to sound cheesy, but I was kinda thinking about you," she offered. "Are we going out tonight? I mean, we could do tomorrow night if you prefer, but Friday's always been my favourite night on the town. You have more time to recover."

"Do you have a favourite venue?" I asked, silently searching for an excuse to have a quiet night in instead, and failing. "How about Spritz?"

"Too trashy. Nobody goes there who isn't underage or over 40. What about XOYO? Think you can handle it? It's a bit, what can I say, alternative, and maybe a bit... sultry? I'm sure it's nothing you can't handle. Smart dress code, but 'Nerd Chic' will do, if you've got money to spend."

"It sounds like the place to go to celebrate. Is 9pm too early?"

"Why don't I come to yours for 9, and we can go on later. A little bit of pre-celebrating might be in order."

I let the image dance in my head for a few seconds.

At the other end of the phone, I heard an uncharacteristic uncertainty in Bex's voice.

"What is it?" I asked

"Well, I was kinda hoping you'd want me to come back to yours afterwards, but it's been pretty fast, and... I mean... you're not gonna freak out if I bring an overnight bag, are you?"

"I think that sounds like a great idea. You can leave it at mine, and we can share a cab home."

Bex arrived on the stroke of 9. She had a small case on wheels with her that disappeared into the bedroom while I made her an espresso (I'd spent the morning googling how to use some of the appliances so I didn't feel like a foreigner in my own place). She was in skin-tight leggings and a close-fitted, flattering white top, and looked at the same time relaxed and casual, yet enlivened and exciting, like a coiled spring that was on holiday.

'Hey, Tony', I heard her call from behind the wall a few seconds later. 'Which of these dresses would you like me to wear this evening?'

It's said that women take forever to get ready, but in these short few seconds, Bex had opened the case, and got out two of the slinkiest, sultriest dresses I'd ever imagined, and now stood before me, at the doorway to the bedroom, with one in each hand. Between her hands, each of her perfect, now fully naked breasts heaved silently with patient expectation, a slight sheen of sweat glistening across each perfect curve. My eyes traced the line between them down, and drank in her naked, shaved pussy and her legs that felt long and majestic even though she was only petite. Time stood still, as the reality that my naked beauty of a girlfriend was, of her own free will, inviting me -- a socially incompetent nerd -- to join her in my bedroom.

"Oh my God," I muttered just a little too loudly, "I am never going to make it to midnight!"

I did my best not to drool, and to walk calmly over to her, but in just those few moments I was as hard as I had been that first time I saw her breasts, or the first time we fucked, in that quiet little office in the bank. I made a point of stopping in front of her, and taking a pointed look at each of the outfits she was offering. Both were dazzling; one gold, and one black, both short; but neither held any sway over me compared to the spectacular sight that lay between them.

"Hmm. I think I'm going to have to take some time to think about this in detail. And I think I'm going to need to see them in action" I said, as I closed the distance between us. At this distance, I could see a sheen of sweat across her neck, glistening and dancing into the valley between her breasts, and the contentment and excitement in her eyes. I thought about the night ahead of us.

"Why don't I sit down here, on the edge of the bed, and you take your time modelling each of the outfits for me. Then, I can take you out of them, and work out which one I want to take you out of again, later?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she asked in reply. Behind her eyes, the evening spanned away into the future. "Okay, but one rule: You can't touch. Look, listen, talk by all means, by you can't touch... and that means you can't taste either!"

As I sat, dumbstruck at her instruction, Bex disappeared into the en-suite, turning to shoot me a sultry grin as she did, and carrying both dresses. I had sat for a few minutes, fantasising about what lay behind that door for me, when the thought crossed my mind to whip out my phone and set it up on the dresser to record what was to follow. Had I worried that this might be the only time I ever get to be tantalised and enthralled by this utter stunner, I might have gone ahead, but no: I felt like I knew Bex wouldn't appreciate it, and that such things could come later, when we decide to do them together.

The door opened a small way, about 6 inches, and her bare foot, then thigh, then calf appeared, and wrapped itself around the edge of the door. She ran her leg up the edge of the white door as if it was working its way up my inner thigh, and the tingling arousal I'd been feeling in anticipation took a leap up the scale. I knew

The door swung open, bringing her into full view. The black dress was as elegant on her as anything I could imagine. A tight bodice emphasised yet concealed her bust in what was at the same time modest, yet scintillating, with a skirt stopping short of mid-thigh, giving an overall 'midnight tinkerbell' look that was both demure and downright savage in its sexuality.

"So... how does this one feel?" I asked, rising from the edge of the bed. "And if I may ask, what are you wearing under it?"

"Oh no you don't. This is a show, not a touch. Back in your seat!" Her voice was both stern and playful, and I laughed as I sat back down.

"This number," Bex continued, "is in silk, and by Versace. If you think I'm letting you make a mess of it, you've got another think coming."

I watched in silent admiration at the sheer splendour of the beauty who moved around the room before me.

"This one undoes from a single zip, at the back. Be careful -- I don't want it ruined."

I didn't hear the rest of her instructions, as my mind danced through the fantasy of unzipping, and seeing that elegant article slide to the floor, unveiling the skin, and excitement, within. I took a moment lost in the cleavage that stood out between her breasts, and in which I would happily have spent the evening.

At the very limits of my self-control, Bex started to talk about her other outfit, and her fingers reached behind her back, and undid the black, silk number from top to bottom, allowing it to slide down her shoulders, over her forearms, and to hang from her waist, leaving her breasts covered only in the most intricate, delicate lingerie I'd ever seen. Her darkened nipples were clearly firm and taut beneath the fabric, and every fibre of my being wanted to bridge the gap between us, and ravage her where she stood, for at least the few minutes I would manage before erupting over those fabulous tits, but control myself I did.

The second outfit was also lovely, but blacks were replaced with deep crimson reds, and there was no cleavage to be seen, although the skirt was noticeably shorter, and legs were very much the order of the day. It occurred to me that, whilst I was might stretch the definition of 'man' in some ways, I was very much a breast man, rather than a leg man. I mean, the thought of walking alongside such a stunner, with these fabulous pins turning heads wherever we want was exhilarating, but I was suddenly plagued with the thought that every man around me would be thinking the same as me, and she'd have to continually choose me over other men throwing everything they had to offer.

Bex saw my hesitation.

"You prefer the black one", she said. It wasn't a question.

"Bex, you could be wearing a primark onesie, or a potato sack, and you'd still be the most beautiful sight I've ever seen. I'm just seeing you, in all your glory, and feeling myself swimming in disbelief that you'd want to be spending a party night like tonight with me! I reckon I'm the luckiest guy in all the world."

"Oh God, Tony. You do know how to say the right thing, sometimes, don't you?" She leapt into my arms and kissed me, until we overbalanced into the deep carpet of the bedroom floor. I never got shown how to remove the red dress -- I'm sure it was equally valuable and exciting as the last, but it was cast into a heap within minutes, as the phenomenal, yet concealed cleavage was re-exposed.

Her delicate, yet elaborate bra fastened at the front, and it joined her dress on the floor just a few kisses later, yielding her perfect nipples to my thorough, elaborate attention.

I could see her excitement was building, as mine did, but I was keen to give her a headstart, as the hours of foreplay meant I was nervous I wouldn't do her justice when it came to it. I scooped her into my arms, and carried her to the bed like a bridegroom. The soft bed sprang her away from me as I lowered her a little too excitedly onto it, and her parted legs fell either side of me, showing me her panties; delicate, matched to the now discarded bra, made transparent by moisture, and through them, the outline of her pussy clearly prominent.

I cupped her ass, and lifted it from the bed, sliding her panties down her beautiful, sculpted legs as I did, and as I lifted them up, over her feet, I saw her pussy again in full, smooth and welcoming, yet all-consuming. I leant in with my lips and tongue to begin a slow dance of teasing and titillation around her soft folds and tender clit.

Whether it was four minutes or forty I'll never know, but long before I would have chosen to stop, Bex dug her hands into my hair, and began to moan and sigh. "Oh, Tony! Fuck, that's good... Mmm. You need to stop. You can't finish me yet."

I persevered as her voice's pitch and volume climbed climaxed, until she forced herself up, off the bed, and out of the reach of my flailing tongue.