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The Chronicles of Ben Merriman #01

By: pseudonym2005



Short Story: The Chronicles Of Benjamin Merriman #01 

Author Note: This story is an original work of fiction. All characters featured herein are at least eighteen, if not expressly stated, and certain characters may also be found in other works by the authors, published or forthcoming. Feedback is desired and greatly appreciated. Email comments to the address in our profile. Thank you for reading.

Copyright 2011 by Jack and Josephine Cutter.

This story stars: Benjamin Merriman, and features Caroline Cassidy, Courtney Daly, Jacquelyn Atkinson, Robert Phelps, Melissa Golding (unnamed), and Frank Merriman.

This story contains: male-female erotic couplings, fellatio, cunnilingus, anal and analingus, cheerleaders, bikinis, male dominance, deadbeat dads, socialite brides, philandering fiancés, beautiful women, and a budding private detective with significant sexual skill.

This story begins on Friday, September 9th. 

* * * * *

It goes without saying that my high school life was not what you might call normal. I was eighteen and a senior, and that is where much of the normalcy ended; typical high school seniors do not have the kinds of experiences that marked my first year of official adulthood.

They do not have to deal with crime rings, sleazy politicians, wealthy socialites, corrupt cops, dangerous criminals, deadbeat dads, missing persons, corrupt cops, illicit dealings, breaking-and-entering, infidelity, secret gambling halls, drugs, high-priced escorts, underground brothels, etcetera, etcetera. I've dealt with those things and more, and all before I graduated.

My name is Benjamin Merriman . . . and these are my stories.

The Chronicles of Benjamin Merriman, Volume the First 

It is my belief that each person in the world is blessed with some definable characteristic that sets them apart from the rest. An inherent advantage, above and beyond the norm. Some might be blessed with unusual speed or strength. Others might find they possess heightened intellectual. Some such talents are easily discovered, but many are difficult and thus never fully realized. Mathematical skill, brute power, keen wit, an artistic eye; these things are definable blessings, and if you look back through the annals of history, you'll find plenty of folks who had them.

I'm going to go right ahead and be honest with everyone from the beginning, and likewise throughout; I've got a few special talents myself, but there is one above the rest: it seems I'm blessed with an inordinate amount of luck. Simply stated, I'm a pretty lucky guy; things always seem to work out well for me, no matter how difficult they might seem.

Take high school, for example.

It did not begin well, let me tell you: my first two years were not the best. I was invisible, a tall, gangly kid with skin troubles and a warbling voice. Girls, therefore, were a complete non-starter. Introverted, shy, unexceptional in every way, and with limited fashion sense, I was the typical invisible high school male, quietly walking the fringes. It was what I knew, however, and I was content with my situation because I knew nothing different.

The summer between my sophomore and junior years, however, changed everything. Physically, I sprouted: my body filled in, my gangly limbs took on definite shape, my skin cleared up, and my voice deepened into its adult range. A series of interesting and rather fortunate events, which shall be later revealed, really did a positive number on my self-esteem, too: my confidence grew by leaps and bounds, to the point where by the time I returned to school the following September for the start of junior year, I was a completely new person.

High school is high school, however, and once established roles and reputations die hard; my transformation went largely unnoticed at first by the students at my school. While I did start to get my fair share of odd, who-is-that-guy-and-where-did-he-come-from looks from a few of the more astute girls as junior year wound down, I remained mostly a fringe-guy, content to slip through the high school cracks. I can honestly say it did not bother me, for while the girls inside my own school did not pay much attention to me, girls outside the school certainly did -- and those girls had no knowledge of my unimpressive formative years. Let's just say my confidence was high.

It wasn't always this way, however.

Like I said, before that fateful summer times were tough, and not just at school. My mother passed away when I was eight years old, leaving me and my father and my older sister to figure things out as best we could.

My father is Frank Merriman, forty-six years old, and he owns Discretion Investigations, a private investigative firm here in my beautiful home city of Los Angeles. We're based out of Beverly Hills, which is nice as it provides my father plenty of wealthy-person business. My dad is an ex-cop, which means he is well-informed, well-connected, knows his way around, and is very good at what he does.

My sister's name is Keri. She's twenty-two years old and will soon be graduating from the University of Southern California, and she's going to be a lawyer. She is currently applying to lots of big-name law schools. My father says she looks exactly like her mother, which must have been awesome for dad because everyone pretty much agrees that my sister is one of the hottest females on the planet. For a pair of opposite-sex siblings not too far apart in age, I have to say the two of us have always been close, which is really nice and has helped me greatly over the years.

After nearly a decade, Dad finally remarried last year, which is an interesting story and worth recounting. My mom and dad were sweethearts from a very young age, and he's always made no bones about the fact that my mother was the one true love of his life; this, of course, turned many women away from a man who was, to use a rather overused cliché, the most eligible bachelor on the block.

While some women might (and did) feel threatened by or uncomfortable with a man who puts such information out there, Angela proved a different sort right from the start. She's thirty-six with an early twenties body, blonde, beautiful, and pampered, and that's exactly the way she wants it. My father has money, she wants money, neither is looking for love everlasting, she gets the creature comforts, and my dad gets a gorgeous wife in the sack every night. It's a fantastic arrangement. In fairness, Angela is also a nice woman, very easygoing if a little spoiled, and she and my father make each other very happy.

Heather, however, is another story all together. Angela's eighteen year-old daughter is a real piece of work: hot and blonde (just like her mother), but a total bitch. She's not only hot, she's hot and she knows it, and she acts like she knows it. I can count on one hand the number of times I've talked to her for longer than two minutes in the past year. She couldn't care less about unimportant people, which is practically everyone, and lets the unimportant people know it.

Back to me for a bit.

It's well-known that ever since I was old enough to walk, I've wanted to follow in my father's footsteps. While my father has not tried to encourage my interest in private detection and investigation, allowing me the luxury of deciding for myself, he has not discouraged it, either, and I know he is excited by the prospect of having his son follow him into the family business.

One of my counselors at school once asked me how I thought a shy and introverted guy such as myself could possibly become a private detective, where it would seem such qualities would be a hindrance. They are a hindrance, of course, but not for me; you know how some people act and feel in different ways given the circumstances? That's me. In school, my school, I'm still the shy and introverted guy I've always been. Like I said, it's hard to shake reps in high school once they've stuck. Outside school, however, I'm the complete opposite: no problem talking to girls, outgoing, aggressive, confident.

It's an interesting dichotomy.

The deal with my dad was this: when I turned eighteen and it became legal for me to do several things important to investigative work but not permissible by law for minors, I could begin training on an official basis with my father's firm -- I'd be unofficially training for years, of course. He also did this to ensure I got decent grades, which I could have gotten standing on my head in the corner all day long; school was always just an easy thing for me.

Well, the bottom line is I turned eighteen on August 09, and as such that is when my story begins to unfold. The speed at which things began to happen truly amazes me, thinking back on it, and I doubt anyone would have guessed that one year later, I'd be where I am right now.

The Discretion Investigations team is as follows: Veronica Thompson, 28, a member of the investigative team who has been with the firm for six years; Beau Nivens, 38, one of my dad's best friends, has been with the firm for twelve years, and became a family friend after my dad busted him as a kid trying to boost car stereos in South Los Angeles; Harriet Edmonds, gray-haired and grandmotherly, the firm's administrative and secretarial person; and last, but certainly not least, is Caroline Cassidy.

Caroline deserves her own special paragraph, because throughout my most important teenage years (fourteen, my age when she was hired, to eighteen, my current age), she has held the distinction of "Go-To Fantasy Girl". In other words, most fantasies I've had growing up, as long as I have been having fantasies, have involved Caroline Cassidy.

When I turned eighteen, Caroline was a newly minted twenty-four year-old. Perhaps I should describe her for you: take Marisa Miller's body, add Brooklyn Decker's fantastic tits, and the incredibly sculpted ass of Jessica Alba, and then imagine the hottest chick you've ever seen with natural, golden blonde hair and bright blue eyes, and maybe you have an idea of just how smoking hot Caroline is. The woman is a fucking Barbie doll come to life.

A goddess, in other words.

Which is why, of course, she is a complete and utter ice queen. Not a bitch, mind you, because she does not go out of her way to be mean to people, but an ice queen. When you're that hot, you're allowed to be. To clarify further just to make sure you understand the distinction, she is not a bitch like Heather, who feels superior and acts like it; Caroline is simply not interested in dealing with the crap of other people, nor making pleasant chit-chat with them, nor pretending to be interested in talking to them.

However, she is very intelligent and very perceptive, and an excellent detective (not to mention an excellent writer who has done some free-lance work for the Los Angeles Times and uses information connections there to help with her tougher cases).

Everyone at Discretion knew my eighteenth birthday meant I was joining the team. Unfortunately, the only one who was not that excited about it was the one person I was most perpetually excited about. My father had told Caroline some time ago that she would be primarily responsible (along with himself, of course) for overseeing my training. It was the way at Discretion: the youngest member of the team trains the rookie. I, of course, was thrilled, since it meant spending more time than I'd ever thought possible with Caroline.

Basically, I was to act as her shadow, which was fine by me.

Case File #001: The Case of the Deadbeat Dad 

My first real day on the job came one month to the day after I turned eighteen, late on a Friday night in early September. I remember this clearly because when Caroline called, there was warm flesh next to me and I had to leave it behind.

The girl's name was Courtney and she was a senior at West Mountain School, one of several ritzy elite private high schools in the Los Angeles area. My school, Rembrandt, had played its first varsity football game of the year against West Mountain earlier that night and I, being a football enthusiast, attended the game along with several hundred other fans.

I noticed her almost immediately (she was an opposing team cheerleader, after all, and it is requisite at games to size up the opposing talent) and could not take my eyes off her. She was a petite brunette with perky breasts and lovely light brown eyes, but that was not what hooked me; cheerleading outfits leave very little to the imagination these days, to the delight of all males in attendance, and this girl had an excellent rump, apple-shaped and very tight.

I'll admit it openly, I ogled her ass all night long.

By the way, I'm not a virgin. I reached my milestone of manhood at the hands my sister's best friend, who sort of acted as my personal sex teacher with, surprisingly I would later discover, my sister's consent. It happened in the midst of my physical transformation, and spurred my mental one. Since then, I've experienced two sorority girls at USC (also friends of my sister, who showed me even more of the ropes), plus a handful of high school girls. None of the those were from my own school, of course; the girls there would probably have died of shock if they knew how experienced I was, as my social status at Rembrandt at the time was one small step above invisible. Which, I must admit, was fine by me.

Back to Courtney, I waited for her in the parking lot after the game. Most of the cars were gone by the time the cheerleaders came out of the stadium side entrance, where the visiting locker rooms were. She was with three other girls, still in her cheerleading uniform, and they noticed me watching them right from the start.

I was leaning against my car (a black Range Rover, which girls love), dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, looking older than my age and feeling pretty good about it, I have to say, and smiling in a particularly mischievous way. West Mountain had crushed us, of course, which meant Courtney and her friends were in good spirits, which I felt could only help my chances.

The girls giggled and whispered as they walked toward me, but stopped a few feet away. One of them said, "Why are you staring at us?" There was a grin on her face.

"I'm not," I said.

The girls giggled again. "Yes, you are," another girl said.

I grinned and looked Courtney right in the eye. "I'm not staring at you," I told them politely, "I'm staring at HER."

Courtney blushed but her eyes, wide and wondering, never left mine, and I knew I had her. The other girls were a little disappointed, but continued the game for their friend, which I admired.

"At Courtney? She's out of your league," the first girl said. It was a good response, and I made a mental note to circle back to that girl, a redhead, sometime in the future. She was hot, too, after all, but right then I wanted Courtney, whose name I now knew.

"She's out of most everyone's league," I replied, "but that might get very lonely. Every now and then, beauty needs to slum it."

Courtney blushed again and the girls giggled.

Long story short, in a few minutes Courtney and I were in my car heading off to find a quiet place to park and talk. Which we did, because I am a gentleman, and I always get to know someone at least a little bit before engaging in carnal congress.

Twenty minutes after that, however, Courtney was squirming in her seat. She was a hot little piece, I have to admit, and very ready for what we both knew was coming. When I kissed her for the first time, she whimpered softly with need, and it only took a short time after that before she reached between my legs and easily found my zipper.

Clearly, despite being only eighteen herself, she was not unaccustomed to cock, which was excellent. I started the engine as she unzipped and reached in, her dainty French-tipped fingers trembling (all rich girls go French-tip) as she gently withdrew my manhood.

At which point she smiled happily, noting my size; it's not a behemoth, but at just over seven hard inches it is longer than many, and decently thick, and definitely makes girls feel good. It also helps with my confidence; four inches limp is nothing to cry about.

Courtney's fingers wrapped gently around the base of my shaft and it pulsed in her hand, and she giggled softly. It was a reaction I was not unaccustomed to. She worked her fingers slowly up the length, squeezing at intervals, more inspecting than trying to make feel good, and she could feel it beginning to grow in her hand. When she reached the mushroom head, she pinched it from various angles, and something clear and sticky dribbled out from the small opening.

With one hand firmly holding my rapidly stiffening shaft, Courtney cupped my sack in the other. My balls are large, too, and sensitive, and she began to probe and prod and press and squeeze each of my testicles between her fingers, which felt really good.

No blushing virgin she, the girl definitely knew her way around that region. I was hard in no time. She stroked it slowly a few times at its full length, and I sighed and struggled to focus on the road as she lowered her head into my lap.

I'll tell you, there's nothing like that moment right before a girl's lips wrap around your cock. My heart was pounding and nearly burst from my chest when I felt her graze her mouth over the mushroom head, and I groaned loudly. A hot young slut in a cheerleading uniform I'd known for less than an hour was peppering my shaft with feather light kisses and blowing gently on it. She licked around the head, her tongue like a butterfly's wings as it fluttered about the tip.

In moments Courtney took the head into her mouth and began to suckle it gently. I sighed again (what else to do besides sigh and drive) so she would know I was enjoying it. I had to admit she had excellent technique; when she began to swirl her tongue slowly around the head, I knew she was a real talent.

I put my hand on her as I drove and caressed the small of her back, where the uniform bared her flesh. Her skin was flawless and it felt good on the palm of my hand, but whatever she was doing with her mouth was even better, the most incredible feeling. I knew if she continued like she was, I would not last, which was fine by me. My hand went up to the back of her head and I gently pushed her head down, so she could take more of my cock into her mouth.

Courtney had likely not been ready to take me deeper, but she was so talented she did not resist. My cock slid inch-by-inch past her moist glossy lips and filled her warm, wet mouth. She firmly gripped the base of the shaft and started to lift her head up. I was having great difficulty concentrating, but steadfastly kept my gaze fixed on the road.

Courtney held the tip in her mouth and started her tongue around it again. She took me out of her mouth and began to lick the underside of my cock up and down in long sensuous stokes. This drove me wild, and soon I realized it would be all over. She must have realized it, too: her fingers started to work up and down my cock much faster.

She took me back to her lips and then, incredibly, and for what seemed like an instant and somehow endless moment, slowly slid her lips down my shaft until she had the entire length of my cock in her mouth. That, my friends, was incredible; seven inches of rigid manhood. She worked her lips and tongue vigorously up and down while she held the base, letting her fingers stroke my balls as she hummed softly to herself.

I was in heaven. Courtney was expertly sucking me towards climax, her brunette head bobbing up and down in my lap. She pretty much went to town at that point, sucking for all she was worth, and I felt the familiar stirrings.

Put a fork in me, I thought, I'm done.

I exploded into her mouth, which I am still not certain she was prepared for. She took it like a champ, though, after a moment of surprise, gulping down ropes of my cum like a newborn babe at the breast. Cum trickled down her chin, and once she was through with the main blast, she pulled back and wiped it onto her finger.


The Chronicles of Ben Merriman #01



She looked at the sperm a long moment, then looked up at me and said, "You're cum tastes good." She sounded surprised. "Really good, actually."

"I've heard that," I told her, and that was the truth.

Then she sucked the last little bit from her finger and sat up, at which point I was pulling into the driveway of my house. We did zero-to-sixty from the car to the front door, and immediately I led her into my bedroom, practically devouring her as we went. Our hands and mouths were all over each other; in the end, we settled my clothing situation by me stripping off my jacket and her tugging on my jeans.

Courtney was all fired up again, scrambling to get me naked, begging for another taste, and once my cock popped out she fell to her knees and was all over it, licking and slurping. It was like she couldn't get it in her mouth fast enough. Feeling the warm mouth suckle my cock yet again, I decided I simply could not wait to bury myself somewhere else. I grabbed her by the waist and lifted, and threw her bodily onto the bed.

"Clothes," I ordered. I was in charge, and we both knew it. As Courtney stripped, I hit the iPod stereo and set it to a soft reggae mix, the perfect score for fucking, in my opinion.

I turned back to the bed to find the girl almost completely naked, her legs splayed wide; she still wore her short white cheerleading skirt, which covered nothing and looked incredible. She was gazing hungrily at me, waiting. Her pussy was pink and puffy, and soaked. Her swath of brown pubic hair was trimmed into a cute little letter "V".

"Get your ass in the air," I told her, and she willingly complied. After all, the ass was what had gotten me to notice her in the first place, I might as well fuck her from behind first, right?

A moment later she was on her hands and knees, hair tousled and tossed about her head, and glanced back at me over her shoulder, over her sleek and sexy back, and over the rounded curve of her ass. Her eyes were like little daggers of lust and sexiness.

I went to her.

"UNNNNNNNHHHHH!" she groaned as I grabbed her by the hips and impaled her with my shaft. She was incredibly tight, but also incredibly wet, and I bottomed out instantly, my hips smashing into her ass.

That first hard thrust gave me the greatest pleasure, feeling the girl quiver beneath me as she squealed at the feel of seven thick inches invading her depths. I gave it to her, hard, everything I had from the very beginning, my strokes deep and long.

My hips slapped up against her over and over, sending thin little ripples down the taut flesh of her ass. My hands were like wild animals running over her body, down her back, around the front to palm her wonderfully pert breasts, all over her smooth well-tanned skin.

Mostly, though, I slapped and grabbed her ass as I pounded her, my favorite part of her body, and she moaned and gasped and whimpered with each ferocious thrust. The walls of her vagina sucked at me, tightly gripping my shaft, milking me, and every time I withdrew I could see some of her interiors come with me before I shoved them back deep inside her.

It was indescribable, truly fantastic.

Courtney wiggled and rocked and squirmed beneath my grasp, but I did not stop. I fucked her steady, letting her have it for a very long time, using her yielding, responsive body in every way I could imagine. We changed positions often and always at my suggestion: after I fucked her like a dog, slapping her ass, she rode me like a stallion, working her hips as I bounced her tits up and down in my palms; I flipped her onto her back and threw her legs over my shoulders, and bent her in half as I hammered home; and on and on it went.

Courtney never refused me, eagerly and enthusiastically complying with my every request, no matter how kinky, and she became more and more submissive as the night wore on. I groped her, fondled her, twisted her, curled her, and fucked her as I saw fit, and she begged for it.

Orgasm flowed into orgasm for her, and I lost count very early on how many she had. And in between every session, she would suckle gentle on my cock until I was ready to go again. I came four more times (four!) after that first time in the car: inside her pussy, across her breasts, in her face and hair, plus a fourth place.

It was after one o'clock when I saved the best for last, deciding it was the perfect time to try something new. I decided to fuck her ass, my first full-on intercourse anal experience, and who better to butt-fuck than a cheerleader (still in her skirt) with a perfect ass? She closed her eyes at my command to return to her hands and knees, knowing instinctually what was coming. Again, I do not think it was the first time someone had gone down that particular canal; she was far too willing to let me up there.

I slathered lubrication from a tube onto my shaft, and then her ass, pushing a finger past the tight ring of her anus. She mewed as I touched her, wiggled her hips just a bit from the sensations. When everything seemed ready, I placed the tip of my cock at the entrance to her rear passage and pushed forward, easing myself past the wrinkled pink skin of her back hole. Several inches buried into her ass on that first try, another indication that this was nothing new for her.

"AAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!" Courtney cried as her ass was penetrated.

I fucked her vigorously for as long as I could, taking as much pleasure as I could in my first foray inside a woman's rump, and it swiftly grew too much to bear. It was Courtney's sudden stillness, however, followed by a shriek and spastic convulsions as orgasm overtook her yet again, that sent me hurtling over the edge after her.

And with that, I was an anal addict for life.

I pulled my cock out, preferring to splash warm white jizz all over her undulating back as she continued to shriek and moan beneath me.

"Wow," I managed in-between ragged breaths.

Courtney smiled lazily and moaned as her legs buckled, then sprawled forward onto the mattress on her stomach. I slapped her roughly on the bottom (couldn't resist) and a red-hand print appeared above the already flushed and battered flesh. The toll was taken, and physically and mentally exhausted, I collapsed onto the bed next to her.

The next thing I knew the phone was ringing. Courtney was asleep next to me, naked and warm, cum caked onto her back as she slept soundly on her stomach. I murmured something into the receiver and the voice on the other end of the line instantly woke me up.

"Get up, Benjamin," Caroline said without greeting of any kind. "You're grunting for me tonight." Grunting was the term Caroline used to describe grunt work.

"Where are you?" I asked, and Courtney stirred beside me.

"Is someone on the phone?" she asked sleepily, and there was a long and silent moment on the other end of the line before Caroline asked, "Are you with someone right now?"

Honesty is always the best course. "Yes," I told her, "but it's ok, I'll be there as soon as I can."

Another silence. "225 Ridge Water Drive, Santa Monica. And bring me coffee, hot and black," she added, and with that, hung up the phone.

I turned to Courtney. "I have to go somewhere, sweetness," I said. "Sleep tight, I'll be back before you wake up."

"M'kay," she murmured, and was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

And so, twenty minutes later, I found myself, weary but quite satisfied despite being very sore in the groin, pulling my black Range Rover up behind Caroline's black Mercedes SL 500 (dark cars are not as conspicuous, you see) with her coffee (hot and black) in tow.

I climbed into her passenger seat and was treated to an appraising stare, which I always seemed to come up on the lacking end of. She was dressed all in black: tight black spandex that went down to mid-thigh, a tight black shirt, black socks, and dark tennis shoes. Obviously, a little sneaking around was on the docket.

"I hope I didn't interrupt anything important," she said in her usual lofty manner.

I grinned. "No, we were done," I said, and her eyes widened with momentary outrage. She turned away and said nothing. "What's the story here?" I asked, trying to change the subject, and with Caroline, you always changed the subject to work. The girl lived for her job.

"Deadbeat dad skipped out on his ex-wife. She wants him located so the authorities can be brought in and force him to pay. Low stakes stuff, but we have to treat it the same way as we would a high-profile celebrity case: with honesty and integrity, and hard work. We're waiting for activity in Unit Three."

She pointed at an apartment complex across the street. Unit Three was downstairs in the southwest corner, and the door was plainly visible from the car. And so we sat there for over thirty minutes, and the whole time she was at best polite, at worst condescending in her haughty way as she explained some of the nuts and bolts of the business, much of which I already knew, but that she had to go over again to make absolutely sure I knew what I was doing.

When the car pulled up and two people got out, a man and a woman, and went into the right apartment, Caroline for the first time since I had known her appeared energized and excited. It was like a switch had been flipped; she was no longer an ice queen, but giddy and jazzed and anxious like she was about to play competitive sports. The job is what did it for her, I realized; thrilled her to the max, while the rest of the time she was just bored.

"Come on," she said, "we need pictures."

And so I followed her as she crept across the street, which was fine by me because I just kept my eyes trained on her spandex-clad ass the whole time, which was, amazingly, even better than the one I had just spent the majority of the night with.   

We hopped a short fence and moved into some bushes just outside one of the windows that looked into the apartment, and when we peered inside, we were treated with quite the shock: the two were already naked and fucking like jackrabbits on the sofa.

"Christ," Caroline muttered in a low voice. She took out her camera and snapped a few photos.

"This type of thing happen often?" I asked. "Watching people have sex, I mean?"

Caroline turned to me and pursed her lips disapprovingly. "Sometimes," was all she said, then went back to her photography.

I grinned. "I've got déjà vu," I whispered.

It was meant as a joke, and a little bit of a risk given Caroline's penchant for seriousness and a not-so-slow-burning temper, but ultimately it was as if I hadn't said anything; she pretended like she didn't hear.

"Back to the car, grunt," she ordered, and back we went.

And that was, in a nutshell, my first night on the job, helping Caroline take photographs of some deadbeat dad. Not too shabby, in my opinion, since it meant spending time with her. While not an actual case of my own, it was a nice little intro into the actual actions of a private investigative detective.

I went to my house and crept into my room, and found Courtney right where I'd left her, still soundly sleeping. I crawled into bed and snuggled up next to her warmness, and fell asleep myself, and my last thought was of just how long I would eat her the next morning, and of how many times in the process I would imagine it was Caroline I was tasting.

Case File #002: The Case of the Bride-To-Be 

Six weeks after my birthday, ten days after the deadbeat dad, my father pronounced me ready to try my hand at a case of my own. Beautiful Caroline had been instructing me incessantly, taking me with her to observe her on more assignments, grilling me non-stop on protocols and procedures, quizzing me with hypothetical situations to see how I would handle myself; you name the teaching method, and she employed it at some point.

Although way ahead of the normal curve at the outset (having grown up with my father and learned much by proximal osmosis), I have to admit she was very effective filling in specific details and gaps, not to mention good at setting a blistering pace. Life had basically stopped for me. It was study for school (easy) and study for Caroline (hard), and all other activities ground to a halt. Courtney called me twice wanting to get together, but I reluctantly took rain checks. It was hard, but I knew everything would be worth it in the end.

Which is why, when my father told me I was ready, I was so excited I jumped up and wrapped my arms around Caroline in a big bear hug, which she was completely not expecting and not altogether happy about. Instantly, I became aware of the way her fabulous breasts squished against me. I was also made aware (less instantly) of her great distaste for public displays of affection, as she jammed her palms square into my chest and shoved me away.

My father cautioned, "Now that you are a junior member of the team, however -- and I stress the junior part -- that doesn't mean you stop studying. You cannot know everything in a few weeks. You can't know everything in a few years. Hell, I myself still don't know everything."

The three of us were in the conference room of the Discretion offices in Beverly Hills, just off Santa Monica Boulevard. It was after school on a Tuesday.

"Caroline will continue to act as your handler," my father went on as we took seats at the conference table. Handler was what they called the person training you. "She will assist you on your cases, and I expect you to follow her recommendations when provided. Understood?"

My father, the boss, was far less friendly than my father, the father. I nodded obediently, and punctuated the sentiment with a word, "Completely."

"Good," he said, at which point, seemingly on cue, Veronica knocked on the glass door and entered with three files in her hand.

Women in the investigative field were all supremely attractive, or so it seemed to me, and Veronica Thompson was no different. The woman was an absolute knockout: high cheekbones, luscious red lips, enchanting brown eyes, shoulder-length light brown hair that cascaded off her head in waves, wafer-thin limbs, and generous curves in the right places. She was a sharp and conservative dresser, very business-like, and very good at her job.

"The Atkinson woman is here, Frank," she said as she set the files down on the conference table.

"Good," my father repeated, with new reason. He looked up at his first female pupil and smiled. "Are you off?"

She nodded. "My flight leaves at eight tonight." Veronica was working a hush-hush celebrity case based in Scottsdale, Arizona. The client was a big-ticket actress, but I had no idea what the details of the job were. "I'll update you on the situation and status tomorrow morning. The background work and profiles are on your desk."

My father nodded. "Have a safe trip," he said, and when she was gone, he turned his attention back to us. He passed me one of the files, handed the second to Caroline, and flipped the third copy open in his own hands.

"Jacquelyn Atkinson," he said, reading, "twenty-five years old. Engaged to be married to Bobby Phelps, twenty-eight, son of wealthy software tycoon Richard Phelps. The wedding is Saturday. The bride-to-be has doubts. We did some work for her father, Edward, a couple of years back. She called us and arranged today's meeting. Let's hear what she has to say."

It was clear from the moment she walked into the conference room: Jacquelyn Atkinson was a spoiled, pampered little princess. Much of this assessment was spurred by her appearance; she was dolled up in the immaculate sort of way reserved for very wealthy, very vain women. Every platinum blonde hair was in its proper place, every item of clothing in complete coordination -- bright yellow sun dress, large beige belt, beige designer clogs, and a ridiculously large white hat with yellow trim -- and every hint of makeup perfectly applied. Her breasts, mounds of flesh that jutted off her chest, were assuredly fake, and her cleavage was a perfect display of tasteful exposure. The rest of her body was tight and toned; personal chefs, nutritionists, and trainers tended to have that effect.

My father rose to his feet and Caroline and I followed suit. "Miss Atkinson," he said warmly, "so good to see you again. Please, have a seat."

The woman regarded the three of us as we all sat down again. She was clearly someone used to getting her way. She was also clearly someone used to setting the tone in any conversation.

"I do not have time for small talk," she said, her voice light and feminine. I was fully expecting her to say something about an important salon appointment, but she did not. "You did some work for my father and he spoke highly of your firm, and now it is I with need of your services."

"How can we help?" my father asked.

"You are aware of my impending wedding." It was not a question, but we all nodded. "You are also aware, I'm sure, of the groom and his family." More nods. "It will be an important union in more ways than one."

I struggled not to laugh. It sounded like she was talking about a business venture. Which, as it so happens, was exactly how she viewed it.

"Let me be frank with you," the woman said, leaning forward. "I do not love my fiancé, and it is unlikely that he loves me. He wants an undemanding wife and I want his money. It is a perfect arrangement."

"But . . ." my father said, guiding.

Jacquelyn smiled thinly. "But every arrangement has its sticking points. Mine happens to be infidelity. If I am to marry him and share his bed -- the one thing he does want from me, and often -- and do things with him that I do with no one else, I require that he remain completely faithful to me. He knows this; I have made it perfectly clear. He can have my body and no other."

The woman was definitely a ball-breaker.

"And you do not think he is keeping up his side of the bargain?" my father asked.

"No," she said coldly, and for a moment real anger flashed across her face, "I do not. I would like you to prove it and provide me with lots of visual evidence, both before and after the wedding. If Bobby is cheating on me, he and his family will pay through the nose."

My father nodded. "Very well," he said, "we can do that for you. Caroline and my son Benjamin here will be the associates handling this case for you. If you would come with me, we can discuss the terms of our contract in my office."

When the two were gone, Caroline turned to me with a cold smile and said, "Get to work, grunt."

And that is how my first case began, with a pissed-off rich chick. Of course, I would come to realize that the majority of our cases, no matter what directions they might lead us in, begin with pissed-off rich people.

* * *

It was Tuesday when Miss Atkinson met with us. The wedding was Saturday, but the rehearsal dinner was Thursday night and a large family party was Friday night, which meant there was very little time to act.

Detective work usually begins with research, whatever form and fashion it may take. These days, the world is tech-happy, and I got on the computer and dug up some information on Robert "Bobby" Phelps, heir to the Phelps software fortune. I already had the information Miss Atkinson provided us with addresses to all his primary points of contact (house, work, gym, social club, etc.), but every little bit helps.

Caroline walked up and stared over my shoulder as I read an archived article from the Times about Bobby's "hot bachelor" status. The article was two years old.

"No time for character background, grunt," she said after a moment. She was close enough that I could smell her citrus perfume, which was lovely. An image flashed suddenly before my eyes: Caroline in black spandex, creeping across the street, her ass looking spectacular as I followed behind. "You'd better find the guy, and quick, and tail him."




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.




The Chronicles of Ben Merriman #02



Author Note: This story is an original work of fiction and the second part of an ongoing series. It is highly recommended the reader reads Chronicles #01 prior to Chronicles #02. All characters featured herein are at least eighteen, if not expressly stated, and certain characters may also be found in other works by the authors, published or forthcoming. Feedback is desired and greatly appreciated. Email comments to the address in our profile. Thank you for reading.

Copyright 2011 by Jack and Josephine Cutter.

This story stars: Benjamin Merriman, and features Caroline Cassidy, Courtney Daly, Beau Nivens, Danny Salvatore, Elizabeth Macintosh, Keri Merriman, Heather Simpson, Angela Merriman, and Frank Merriman, with a special guest appearance by Addison Cross.

This story contains: male-female erotic couplings, fellatio, cunnilingus, anal and analingus, cheat-sheets, bathtub sex, van sex, showers, staff meetings, car swaps, cheerleaders, post-shower nakedness, homosexual roommates, beautiful women, and a budding private detective with significant sexual skill.

This story begins on Thursday, September 22nd.

*  *  *  *  *

It goes without saying that my high school life was not what you might call normal. I was eighteen and a senior, and that is where much of the normalcy ended; typical high school seniors do not have the kinds of experiences that marked my first year of official adulthood.

They do not have to deal with crime rings, sleazy politicians, wealthy socialites, corrupt cops, dangerous criminals, deadbeat dads, missing persons, illicit dealings, breaking-and-entering, infidelity, underground gambling halls, drugs, high-priced escorts, affluent brothels, etc. I've dealt with such things and more, and all before I graduated.

My name is Benjamin Merriman . . . and these are my stories.

The Chronicles of Benjamin Merriman, Volume the Second

Dinner at my house is always an interesting affair, but the truth of this fact is most unmistakably exhibited when all members of the family are accounted for, and on this particular night of nights, a Thursday as it happened to be, the whole of our eclectic little household managed to attend, not to mention Beau (who came to dinner a lot) and Caroline (who did not). Beau, as you might recall me saying, is a member of the Discretion Investigations team and a close friend of the family for going on twelve years.

My father was seated at the head of the table with my stepmother, Angela, at the other end. Keri, my sister, and Heather, my stepsister, were on one side of the table, while I was between Caroline and Beau on the other. It was Thursday, as I mentioned, one day after my remarkable tryst with Jacquelyn Atkinson—which, of course, was the first thing my father wanted to talk about.

"Ben did field work on his own for the first time yesterday," the man said, and it felt good to see the evident pride on his face. "He met with the client, relayed information, submitted evidence, and returned with new instructions. All in all, a very successful day on job."

Keri clapped with genuine joy. "Great job, little brother!" she bubbled, ever cheerful and warm. She was like an effervescent Energizer bunny, and everyone loved her for it. "Isn't it exciting, daddy? Ben's in the family business!"

"Exciting," muttered Heather under her breath. 

It should be noted here, if I have not told you already, that Heather is a big-time bitch. She cares little for the feelings of others, nor their well-being; she cares only about her own social standing (she's a cheerleader), her looks (she's gorgeous), and her bank account (she's not poor).

It should also be noted that Heather had been eyeing me strangely for a few days, and that this dinner was no different. Every so often I would catch her glancing at me, a weird look on her face, as if trying to figure something out. This odd and somewhat unsettling issue, however, did not stop her from acting very much the bitch.

Back to her comment, which garnered little reaction from the rest of the table. By this point the family knew how to handle Heather; she was what she was, everyone knew it, and so everyone ignored her. Simply stated, no one cared what she said anymore. There will undoubtedly be more such commentary from Heather in the course of these stories, but I won't waste time again detailing why no one ever answers—not even Angela, her mother, who spoke next.

"How wonderful, Ben," she said, and while there was a hint of emotion in her voice, it was mostly monotone; the woman was rather indifferent to most things beyond the scope of my father and her own life. Not rude, just indifferent.

"Blondie says you're picking it up quickly, kid," drawled Beau, who had been calling me 'kid' for years. He's just one of those guys who has a nickname for everyone. Blondie, of course, was Caroline.

"She also said you're a little aggressive," said my father reprovingly.

Beau laughed. "Just like you, eh, Hefe?"

My father grinned. "In my youth," he admitted.

"How do you like it, Ben?" asked Keri, hazel eyes still sparkling with enthusiasm. 

I smiled. "I love it," I said. "It's everything I thought it'd be. Of course, Caroline's been a great teacher, and I can't complain when I get to hang around with her all day."

Keri, my father, and Beau all laughed, Caroline rolled her eyes exasperatedly, my stepmother sipped from a wine glass, and Heather texted away on her cell phone.

Like I said, we were quite the group.

* * *

Frank Merriman lies in the bathtub, eyes closed, relishing the feel of the warm water as it laps around his body. Jets below the surface caress his flesh, soothing, soft, and rejuvenating.

His wife, Angela, is moving around in the closet, modeling some of her new purchases. She had gone shopping earlier that day, as she is often prone to do, this time to a few of the boutiques along Rodeo Drive. Frank wonders fleetingly how much her little trip cost him. Not that he cares, mind you; whatever makes the woman happy.

As he is prone to do, he begins to think about Lynn. It's over ten years since she passed away, but the ache remains. She was the love of his life, the mother of his children, the other half of his soul, and he would love her above all others for the rest of his days, and reunite with her in the heavens when his own ending came.

Angela knows all this, of course—Frank considers himself an honest man—and does not mind. They met three years ago at a parent meeting at the high school of his children; she has a daughter the same age as his son. The two clicked immediately: he thought she was the most beautiful woman in the room (she was) and she knew of his reputation as the wealthy owner of an elite Beverly Hills investigative firm.

And so they began seeing each other, slowly at first and then more frequently, and marriage followed. Each is very satisfied with the arrangement: Angela is beautiful and uninhibited, and very sexual and affectionate, while Frank is an attractive older man who is very generous with regard to both his character and his wallet, and very skilled between the sheets. She wanted the financial security he was willing to provide and he wanted the companionship she was willing to share. They love each other in a certain kind of way, though nothing nearly as deep as what Frank had experienced with Lynn.

Footsteps along the hardwood floor, just barely heard above the whir of the jets and the pop of the bubbles, break him from his reflections. He opens his eyes and is pleased to see his wife come into the bathroom, sipping from a glass of red wine. A short silk robe covers her body, accentuating her long and supple legs—much of her five-foot-ten frame lay in those legs—and her full black hair is pinned up on top of her head in an intricate series of folds.

"How's the water?" she asks, smiling softly. He knows well what the look on her face means and it has its intended effect instantaneously.

"Lonely," Frank replies.

Angela sets down her drink and stops in the center of the room, just a few feet from the tub. She tugs at the sash of her robe, untying it slowly, letting it fall to the floor, and proudly displays her fantastic body for her husband to view.

She watches him drink in the sight of her long legs, the trimmed swath of soft black hair covering the pubic mound where they met, flat stomach, and full, firm breasts. Her dark brown eyes flash with the kind of sudden hunger that comes for her only after a long day of spending money. She steps into the water of the tub and sinks down into his arms.

"Mmmm, yes," she sighs as the water envelops her. She gasps sharply, suddenly when she feels him press into her side, and adds, "Oh, Frank!" Her fingers sweep under the water to clutch his shaft, and gave it a quick and pleasurable jerk.

She rolls over in his arms and their slick, naked bodies mold together. Frank leans in and kisses her softly, only to be nearly devoured by her response: she is hot and horny, and ready to go. He knows spending money has this effect on her, so he really isn't too surprised.

Frank runs his hands down the smooth curve of her back and digs his fingers into the taut flesh of her rump, and pulls her tight against him. Angela breaks their kiss, preferring instead to tackle his exposed neck, kissing and nibbling it all over.

"Mmmm, yes, baby, oh yes," the woman mews as she pushes his legs together and straddles him, slithering her body up his to offer her fleshy breasts to his active mouth. 

Frank wastes no time, releasing his hold on her ass to grip her round and ripe melons and squeeze them together. His tongue flicks back and forth over the shriveled, distended pink crests as her hand tightens its hold upon his seven-inch cock.

He smiles, knowing what comes next.

Angela's hips slide further up his torso as she guides the purple head of his manhood to the folds of her pussy. His hands travel down from palming her tits to grab hold of her hips as she lowers herself onto his column. 

"Ahhhhhhh," Angela groans as the familiar thickness spreads her pink lips. One of the draws of the man in her mind—aside from his warmth, generosity, and wealth—is his fantastic cock, and skill with its use.

Her hands clutch his thick shoulders as she sinks further and further down into his lap, impaling herself so pleasurably. When she bottoms out and the undersides of her creamy thighs settle upon his legs, she knows his cock can go no deeper, and she sighs.

Frank bends his head once more to lavish her glistening body with his tongue. He attacks her breasts, his tongue lapping at the valley of her considerable cleavage, even as his hands slip around her waist to grasp, once again, the cheeks of her ass. 

Angela grabs his head and yanks back suddenly, for she has unique skills of her own, and brings her mouth down to devour his even as she begins to grind her hips in little circles. She is in charge this time, he realizes, and lets her go to work. The beautiful raven-haired woman pulls her tongue out his mouth and leans back, dark eyes locked on his as she slowly, ever slowly, slides herself up and down on his substantial shaft.

Frank brings his hands up to touch her breasts again, holding the flat of his palms like little shelves so that with every downward motion of her body, those luscious mounds come to rest heavily upon them. At the same time, he moves his own body just enough, thrusting his hips up to meet her. Water splashes and slops about, and Angela loves it.

"Just like that, darling," she whispers breathlessly as she slumps against him, crushing her bountiful breasts into his chest but raising her hips until only the tip of his cock remains within the snugness of her sex. "Give it to me, hard!"

Frank needs no further encouragement. His hands return to the flesh of her ass and spread the cheeks wide to allow him greater access, and forcefully he begins to pound his cock into her velvety depths. Angela gasps softly into his ear with each powerful thrust.

"Yes! Oh, god, yes!" she wails, taking everything he has to give her.

She grinds her hips in skillful circles to take his strokes at different angles, increasing both of their pleasure, her left arm wrapped around his neck to hold on for dear life, while her right hand slips down the groove between their wet bodies and over her mound. She strums the swollen clitoris vigorously, her nails titillating his shaft as it continues its barrage of her pussy. The churning of the jets and the splashing of the water is scarcely heard above his grunts of exertion and her steadily rising squeals of pleasure.

"Oh, god . . . so close . . . yes . . . yes . . . yes! Yes! Yes Yes Yes Yes YESSS!" Angela screams as her sex explodes, quaking violently around his thick cock at the crest of her climax.

Frank holds her forcefully by the hips and does not stop, hammering his unflagging erection into his delirious second wife. He keeps her in the throes of climax for an excruciatingly long time as she trembles in his arms, breasts jiggling, pussy twitching, ass shaking, eyes fluttering, until finally she returns to earth and slumps wearily against him, his cock still embedded within her.

"Oh, Frank," she whispers as she nuzzles his face with her own. "How did you survive that?" She gives his still hard and unsatisfied cock a squeeze with her vaginal muscles.

He grunts. "I have more in store for you, my dear," he informs her. "Now flip that sweet ass over so I can take you from behind."

"Oh, Frank," she says with a new and seductive grin, and obeys.

Case File #003: The Case of the Classroom Cheat-Sheet 

I suppose I should go into my school life some. Up to this point I've only really hinted at it, but it would do some good for you to know more. Also, it will tie in nicely to the story I have to tell about something that happened the next day, Friday, the day before Jacquelyn Atkinson was set to be married.

My school is the Rembrandt School, an ultra-elite private institution in Beverly Hills, one of a handful of top private high schools in Los Angeles. I have been a student there since ninth grade, the first grade the school offers, and like I said, my first two years were not the best from a social perspective. I was gangly, awkward, and shy, and relegated to the uncool part of the populace.

I remember wondering at the time how much of a part my beloved step-sister played in all that. When Angela and Heather came onto the scene, we were just starting ninth grade. Naturally, I was not in my prime—Heather, however, was fully bloomed, and instantly moved to the front of the popular crowd line. I wondered at the time if she was helping to urge, accidentally or even overtly, my lack of any kind of consideration by those in the elite social circles.

After my physical transformation, while certain students seemed more willing to talk casually with me, I did not make any kind of definitive push up the school's social ladder; I was fairly sure that Heather was influencing this, too, but there was little could be done—and so I remained on the social edges well into my senior year, to which point we have come in my narrative.

And like I said, I was happy with that, which is why I harbored Heather no ill will. For one thing, it was still purely speculation on my part at that point, and I was not going to hold something against someone without more concrete fact. Perhaps this was due to my investigative training, perhaps just something innate within me; either way, it amounted to the same. I continued to treat Heather as nicely as I could, given her difficult attitude.

The Friday of this story—two days after Jacquelyn Atkinson fucked me in her familial mansion and three days after I wound up stuffed inside a closet with Caroline Cassidy—began like most the others. First and second period classes, math and English, passed slowly; both teachers were extraordinarily dull, and often times I found myself drifting off in class. Third period was free time for me, spent this day studying a pair of case files Caroline had given me the past afternoon. Fourth period was science, followed by physical education fifth, lunch sixth, more free time seventh, psychology eighth, and history ninth.

The action started ninth period. My history teacher was Mister Edelstein, a real pain-in-the-ass instructor with a bad attitude and a boring, often abrasive style. In short, he was one of my least favorite teachers ever. On this days of days, the guy was giving us a test.

The test went well. In fact, I was pretty sure I'd aced the thing when I raised my hand half-way through the hour to have him collect it. That was how the man operated—you raised your hand for everything, every minor and miniscule thing, even turning in your test. 

Mister Edelstein walked over to my side of the room and, in doing so, noticed a small white strip of paper on the floor in the middle of the aisle. I watched him bend to pick up the sheet of paper, watched his face go red, and then watched him return to his desk, taking my test with him. It was a little strange, but did not seem to be much more than that. 

Boy, was I wrong.

Once everyone had turned in their tests—he never let anyone leave early, ever—and the stack was neatly placed in front of him, Mister Edelstein turned to my side of the room and said, in a tight voice with an unhappy face, "Miss Jensen, Mister Mickelson, Mister Henderson, Miss Macintosh, Miss Smith, Miss Towne, and Mister Merriman, remain in your seats. We have something to discuss." He faced the rest of the group and added, "Class dismissed."

Trouble.

When the rest of the class had departed, the teacher turned again to address our small group of seven students, all of whom were located on the same side of the room, which to say not more than a few feet from where that little piece of white paper had been found—the piece of paper that Edelstein raised for us to see right before he spoke.

"I found this on the floor during the test. Would any of you like to lay claim to it now, before this gets unpleasant?"

I decided a little levity was in order. "If it has any kind of monetary value, Mister Edelstein," I said, "I'm pretty sure it's mine."

A couple of students snickered, but our teacher was not amused. "It does not, Mister Merriman," he said sharply. "What it is, I am sad to say, is a cheat sheet. It means one of you attempted to cheat on this exam. It means we have a serious problem."

"Whoa," said Stevie.

I immediately took an examining look at the rest of the bunch: Tara Jensen and Heidi Towne were cheerleaders, popular "in-crowd" hotties—and friends with Heather—with big tits and great legs, the former a brunette, the latter a blonde, and likely not half a brain between them; Stevie Henderson was a stoner, likely half-baked at present, and a slacker of significant renown; Elizabeth Macintosh was a quiet, bookish sort of girl without much fashion sense—baggy clothes, grandma glasses, no make-up—and no real desire to revel in her femininity, but she was also intelligent, very nice, and one of my better friends at school by virtue of multiple shared classes; Susan Smith was a brunette with big brown eyes and a lovely face, not to mention a varsity volleyball player which assured popularity, but she, too, was very smart and, to my knowledge, a very caring sort of girl; and last but certainly not least—as he himself would certainly argue—there was Adam Mickelson, one of the school's "smartest" students, the son of a powerful State Senator, and an utter snob.

Mister Edelstein continued. "One of you is the perpetrator of this dishonorable act, that much is obvious; the evidence was found in your vicinity. Therefore, I will keep the seven of you after school, effective immediately, in detention in this room. You will only be allowed out of detention when one of you confesses to ownership of this sheet. If no one confesses, you will all fail the test."




The Chronicles of Ben Merriman #02



"Whoa," repeated Stevie.

Adam was immediately up in arms. "Punish everyone! Mister Edelstein, you can't do that!"

The man was unmoved. "I can," he said coldly, "and I will. I will not allow cheating in my classroom."

The investigator in me reared its head. "Is the sheet handwritten?" I asked. "Writing style may tell us quite a bit."

"It is typed," the man replied.

"What color font?"

"Black."

"How can you be sure it came from one of us? What if someone else dropped it?"

"No one else was in range."

"Circumstantial," I said with a shrug. "Even so, you are willing to punish six innocents in your quest for the justice of one? Does that end justify those means?"

Mister Edelstein was very angry now. "This discussion is over, Mister Merriman. There is a cheater among you and that person will be discovered. In thirty minutes, I will return. By then, perhaps, the perpetrator will have come forward."

And with that, the man left.

"Whoa," said Stevie, for the third time.

Adam rounded on the group instantly. "Who the fuck cheated?" he cried. "If you fucking cheated, you'd better come clean."

"Calm down, Adam," I said. "Let's talk about this rationally."

He was unmoved. "No! I will not calm down, especially when it's obvious who did it." He pointed a threatening finger at Stevie. "You're the fuck up here. Edelstein probably knows it's you already. Just confess and let us go. I have important things to do."

Stevie spread his hands. "Dude," he said in his typical stoner drawl, "chill. I didn't do anything, man."

"Right," Adam pressed, "like we're supposed to believe that."

"Look," I interjected, growing tired of Adam's grandstanding and realizing that something needed to be done, "from where I'm sitting, Adam, you're equally as likely to be guilty as Stevie. In fact, you're more likely, since you have more to lose should you get a bad grade. Stevie, come to think of it, is the least likely person to have cheated. What does he care about a bad grade."

Adam opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. He realized I was right, and that shut him up.

I examined the women, who had yet to raise their voices. Tara and Heidi seemed to be watching intently, although in truth, they could've been staring off into space for all I knew. Susan was paying attention, I knew, and looked concerned, but not overly so, while the always shy Elizabeth had her eyes rooted to the desk, which was also not uncommon.

"Anyone have any ideas about how we settle this?" I asked. Tara raised her hand. "I'm not a teacher, Tara. You can just tell us what you think."

Tara lowered her hand. "We have cheer practice in, like, twenty minutes, so we need to speed this up."

I rolled my eyes. "I don't think you people understand something here. Mister Edelstein is a petty, mean-spirited teacher. He'll keep us here as long as he wants, and will definitely follow through on his pledge to fail everyone if no one comes forward."

No one spoke for a long moment, and when someone did finally speak, the speaker and subject were very surprising.

"Were you at our football game against West Mountain?" Heidi asked, looking at me with a weird sort of look on her face. It was the same look Heather had been giving me for days, and suddenly things began to click into place.

"When was that?" I asked, even though I knew the answer.

"Like, I don't know, like, a week ago?"

I pretended to think. "Yes, I was."

"What the fuck are we talking about?" Adam cried. "How is any of this important?"

Tara got in on the action. "Did you meet . . . I mean, like, did you see . . . do you know anyone from West Mountain?" she asked.

I figure the following happened: after our night together Courtney told her friends about it, those friends told other friends, and soon the whole West Mountain cheer squad knew we'd hooked up. Cheerleaders are usually popular and have friends from other schools who are also cheerleaders, and so the story spread until it reached the girls from Rembrandt. I knew, however, that no one knew my last name; Courtney and I had not given them to each other. But there were only a few Benjamins to choose from, so it could not have been too hard for the cheerleaders at school to narrow their list.

I shrugged. "A few people," I admitted.

Heidi and Tara were leaning forward, as if this was the most interesting thing they could think of hearing—no doubt, if able to confirm the rumor, the whole detention experience would be considered worthwhile in their eyes.

Heidi asked, "Any cheerleaders?"

"A few," I repeated.

Right on the heels of that, Tara asked, "Do you know a girl named Courtney? Courtney Daly?"

So that was her last name. "We're friends," I told them, and that was as far as we got before being interrupted. Really, though, it was all they needed if they had half a brain between them—which, as I said, was not likely.

"Excuse me!" Adam's voice was shrill, much like an angry mouse might sound if it knew how to speak. "I don't care about whatever the fuck you idiots are talking about. Can we figure out what the fuck we are going to do?"

"I never knew how foul your mouth was, Adam," I said casually. "You've always seemed so controlled. Might be tough on a young politico to go places and accomplish things if he's constantly peppering his discourse with the word fuck."

It might not have sounded like much, but it hit him harder than if I'd used my fist. Luckily, he did not have to respond, for at that moment there was a knock on the door.

Knocking meant that someone other than Mister Edelstein desired to speak with us—the teacher himself wouldn't knock to his own classroom, and in any case the thirty minutes were not up yet. I had a pretty good idea who our mystery visitor was, however, and when Principal Cross entered with a soothing smile upon her face, my guess was proven correct.

"Hello, students," the woman said. 

Addison Cross was not your average, every-day educator. She was young and attractive in a sexy librarian kind of way: brunette hair tied up in a bun, sharp, conservative clothes with just a hint of playfulness beneath. There were plenty of on-going jokes among the male populace regarding how hot the woman was, not to mention what she'd be like in the sack. Personally, I'd always figured her as the type to know about each and every story out there, and revel in them.

"How are we doing?" she asked as she moved to the front of the room.

Surprisingly, it was Susan who answered with a tiny little laugh, saying with plain amusement, "It's been a very interesting discussion so far." Yes, I thought, the girl was a smart one.

Principal Cross leaned back against the desk in the front of the room, and said, "Mister Edelstein has communicated the situation to me. It's unfortunate that someone went to such great lengths to create a cheat-sheet, when that time could have more effectively been used to actually study. It's also unfortunate that this incident occurred ninth period, which allowed for the decision to keep the seven of you after. I am fully aware most of you are faultless. However, I must back my teacher for the time being and leave you here to try and resolve this issue." She studied the room before her eyes fell, surprisingly, on me. "I'm sure you can figure out what to do."

And then she rose, nodded her head, gave another compassionate smile, and left. Which left me to wonder exactly why that last comment had been directed at me.

"What do we do now, dudes?" asked Stevie.

"Wait for you to confess, moron," Adam sneered.

And then it hit me. "I'll confess," I said, and Adam turned slowly to face me.

"What?"

"I'll tell Edelstein I did it."

"No!"

The word had not come from Adam, but rather from Elizabeth Macintosh, who had been very quiet up until this point. She was staring at me with wide eyes before she realized what she was doing and lowered her gaze again as she said, "Um, you're a smart guy, Ben. You wouldn't need to cheat. Why would you tell them you did?"

I smiled at her. "For exactly that reason. I will confess to appease Mister Edelstein, but make it painfully clear to Principal Cross that I find this whole thing ridiculous. Also, that I am innocent. If they still want to punish me, knowing I am innocent, well . . ."

"You would do that?" the girl asked, and this time her eyes were raised and locked on mine.

"Of course, he would!" Adam exclaimed loudly. He jumped all over the opportunity to be exonerated and be done with the whole thing, even if it meant sending another man in as a sacrifice. "It's a great idea!"

Tara and Heidi just continued to stare at me with confused expressions. It was obvious they still had not wrapped their heads around the fact that it was, in fact, me whom Courtney had been talking about. Fleetingly, I wondered what the ramifications of such information getting out about me were going to be.

It was shortly thereafter that Mister Edelstein returned. His face was grim. "What have you accomplished?" he asked coldly.

I raised my hand. "I would like to speak with the Principal, sir. I have something I would like to tell her."

Mister Edelstein stared at me. "You are going to confess?"

"I will only speak with the Principal, sir. You might as well let the others go."

"I want a confession now, Mister Merriman."

I kept my tone civil, but firm. "You won't get it, Mister Edelstein, and you'll have fourteen angry parents breathing fire down your neck by dinner. I will speak to the Principal, or not at all."

The stare continued, but I did not back down. I stared right back, dead in the eye, and won. "Very well," he said at last. "The rest of you may go."

Which is how I found myself in the head office, sitting in the chair opposite Principal Cross while Mister Edelstein waited outside. She was looking at me, curiosity etched on her face, and then she said, "I am surprised, Benjamin. I would not have expected someone to come forward. Nor would I have expected that someone to be you. In fact, as you might have noticed when I visited the classroom, you were the one I expected to come up with some sort of positive solution."

I shrugged. "I have, Miss Cross," I told her. "I've not confessed—not yet, at least—so as of right now, I've done nothing wrong, except perhaps in the eyes of Edelstein. I am prepared to take the heat on this, however, but there are three things you should know first."

A slender eyebrow arched inquisitively. "I'm listening," she told me.

"First, Edelstein only required someone to confess to ownership of the cheat sheet, not to its use. I am prepared to confess to the ownership of it, as he wishes. Second, you should know it was not actually mine to begin with, nor did I cheat in any way on the test. Also, I don't think any of the others did, either."

She frowned. "I'm not sure I understand."

I shrugged again. "I know who actually did create the sheet; I figured it out when we were all talking. I don't think this person used it during the test, nor deserves to be punished. This is not a person I think has it within them to cheat. I guess I could be wrong, but I'm not."

"I see," she said thoughtfully. "And the third thing?"

"That the method used by Edelstein is ridiculous."

She was with me until that point; it's not like students can go around speaking ill of teachers, even behind closed doors. She was about to raise an objection, about to say exactly that and admonish me for it in her own easy way, but I continued too quickly—I knew I needed to finish before she spoke again.

"Punishing innocents for the crimes of one," I added, "which he would've done and is within his authority, I guess—something you might want to reexamine, by the way—is a poor way to seek justice. Therefore, I decided the best course was to speak with you directly, so that you may deem what course is suitable—and know the truth, which is that I'm doing this to protest his actions, and to protect the other students in that classroom, whether they realize it or not."

It was quite the speech. I was amazed at how level and logical it sounded.

She was silent a long moment, her brown eyes still thoughtful as they studied me. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms beneath her breasts, which I realized just then were clearly quite large. She was, truly, a very beautiful woman.

Finally, she said, "You've put me in a difficult position, Ben." I opened my mouth, but she held up a hand and I stopped. "I know, I know: that was your intention all along. You believe your innocence and sound reasoning will protect you." She sighed. "You're right, of course. Very impetuous and very presumptuous, but right."

I grinned. "I figured you'd say that."

"You're a smart boy, Ben. Your classmates are lucky to have you on their side. I'll take your word for it—no small thing, mind you—that the person you think wrote the sheet will not do it again, although I would like you to get back to me if you learn more. All this does not, however, answer the question of what I should do with Mister Edelstein. He is out for blood." My grin widened, and she added, "Let me guess: you have a suggestion."

"Actually, I do," I told her. "Suspend me for a day. Tell Edelstein I confessed to ownership, but you're satisfied I did not actually use it. Tell him he is barred from speaking of it, that the suspension will serve as punishment enough, and you will report back to my parents about it. Do not put the suspension on my record."

She considered for a long moment. "You've thought this out, haven't you? Given those conditions, the suspension would amount to a day-off from school."

I grinned again. "Consider it my reward for chivalrous behavior."

She chuckled, finally, and I knew my plan had succeeded. "I might have to keep an eye on you, Benjamin," she said. "I had no idea you were so . . ."

"Intelligent? Brilliant? Charming?"

It was her turn to grin. "I was going to go with cunning, but those work, too."

And that was how my visit with the Principal went, which was as good as I could have expected.

* * *

There was someone waiting for me when I left the Principal's office. She was sitting just outside the administration building, on a stone bench overlooking a grass quad, eyes rooted to the ground in front of her, and she was alone. School was long since over.

I walked over and sat down next to her before she even knew I was there. She jumped, startled, and when she saw it was me, her eyes widened even more. She was waiting for me, but she was obviously nervous about it, and so I took it upon myself to jump-start the conversation.

"Why'd you do it?" I asked softly, looking at her.

Elizabeth raised her face and met my gaze. We were good friends, her and I, though in a casual kind of way, much in the way two people on the social fringe might share a common bond and find friendship. We shared, as I said, several classes together. She'd never had a problem speaking to me in private; it was speaking in any kind of public setting that terrified the poor girl.

But there was strength in her, I'd always thought, if only she could see it.

Her eyes were wide and brown behind her glasses. Not for the first time, I wondered what she would look like if she took even the smallest pains to make herself look presentably feminine. Her eyebrows were a too thick, her hair not that well taken care of, her skin shiny, etcetera, but she was kind and warm to those who knew her well, a good person, and very smart.

Which is why it had come as a shock when I reasoned out that she was the guilty party, and why I really wanted to know what had prompted the desperate measure—although, in truth, I had my assumptions.

"I . . . I didn't . . ." She was having a difficult time of it and her eyes dropped to the ground again.

I reached out and took hold of her chin, and lifted her head. "Don't worry," I told her, "your secret is safe with me."

And then something unexpected happened: Elizabeth Macintosh flared to life. 

"I didn't cheat!" she cried. "I made it, yes, but not to cheat! I've always made little cheat sheets to help me study, and I keep them in my pocket for good luck! I've been doing it since eighth grade! I never looked at it, not once!"

I smiled. "Good to know. I had wondered why."

She looked at me then, curiously. "If you knew it was me, why didn't you say anything? Why did you turn yourself in?"

"It seemed the right thing to do," I told her with a shrug. "I knew Cross would see it my way once I talked to her, and Mister Edelstein has no right to act that way, and once I figured out it was you, I knew there had to be a good explanation for it. I'm just glad you didn't say anything."

She whispered, "I was so scared."

"I know, it was one reason I figured you out."

She looked at me for a long moment, blushed, smiled, then lowered her eyes again. "Thank you," she said softly. "Thank you so much. You have no idea what it means to me. I'll find a way to make it up to you, I promise."

I shrugged again. I found myself shrugging a lot these days. "No worries," I told her. "We're friends, and friends look out for each other."

Surprisingly, she leaned over and wrapped her arms around me in a hug. This was surprising on many levels: one, she'd rarely shown an affinity for affection; two, she was extremely shy and the hug she gave was anything but; and three, she sighed girlishly as she did so, and Elizabeth very rarely acted girly. I did not mind, however, and hugged her back.

And with that, the school day ended.

*  *  *

There was a staff meeting scheduled at Discretion for five o'clock, so it was a good thing the whole Edelstein mess cleared itself up with relative speed. The damn thing could have taken hours had we not come up with an agreeable solution.

"First order of business," my father said as Beau, Caroline, and I settled into our seats in the main conference room, "is an update on Veronica. As you all know, she is working the Christy Tyler case in Arizona. Christy is being blackmailed by unknown subjects; Veronica is out there running down leads. One of those leads back to a Los Angeles strip club, the Red Velvet."

Beau whistled. "That place has ties to the Mora crime family," he said.

"True," Frank agreed, "though Veronica has reason to believe Giovanni Mora is not involved and has no knowledge of the scheme. I would have to agree. Giovanni is under significant heat from the feds right now; I doubt a blackmail scheme by an underling would be approved. Blackmail's never been one of Mora's things to begin with, much less the blackmail of a Hollywood starlet."

Caroline asked, "You think someone within the organization is acting alone?"

My father shrugged. "Veronica seems to think so. At least, she thinks a Mora man is acting as brawn to someone else's brain. The blackmail evidence is a series of pictures with Tyler . . . well, let's just say she's cozying up to another scantily-clad female at an A-list house party in the Hollywood Hills. A Mora man could not have been in position to take such photographs."

"There have been rumors of her bisexuality for some time," Caroline said thoughtfully.

"Exactly. Our client does NOT want those pictures circulated, nor does she want to have to pay two million dollars to retrieve them."

I have to admit, working with my father's firm was the most exciting thing I could possibly imagine: gorgeous movie stars, crime families, blackmail. Every day brought something new.

"What's the plan, Hefe?" Beau asked.

"Two-fold," my father replied. "First, we speak with Giovanni Mora."

Beau whistled again as Caroline asked, sharply, "Why?"

My father grinned. "He needs to know what his people are doing. He does not want additional heat from the feds brought down upon him. Mora himself is a source of information, and an easy way to ensure the photos never surface."




The Chronicles of Ben Merriman #02



"And second?" I asked, getting in on the talk.

"We gather information on-site," he replied.

"How exciting," Caroline muttered unhappily.

"We're still a ways away from need for that course of action, my dear," my father said with a smile. "Let's move on, then, shall we? Status reports. Beau?"

Beau flipped open his folder and looked at some notes. "Waiting on payment from the attorney with the adulterous wife. I testify next week on the rape case from last year. Current case load includes work for Saul Fishman, a convict who says he's innocent, and Terry Ventura, the jeweler, who had some merchandise high-jacked in transit. Cases progressing."

"Caroline?"

"Closed the file on the delinquent father last week. Closed the file on the stolen briefcase, too, the one with the scrawny yuppie businessman and his lost three thousand cash. He misplaced the damn thing; took me all of twenty four hours to figure it out and find it. Awaiting final payment there. Current case load includes new work for Timothy Stone, the senator whose daughter went missing two days ago from UCLA. Also, Watkins wants me to info gather an underground gambling ring in Chinatown. It might be worth more than the usual fee."

Jack Watkins was one of the higher-ups at the Los Angeles Times. Like I said, Caroline often did some work for the paper on what were considered tougher assignments.

My father nodded. "Good. What about Ben?"

Caroline glanced at me. "He is . . . doing well."

Considering the source, it might have been one of the best compliments I'd ever received. Caroline was not one to compliment, much less a grunt like me. I was thrilled, and by the wide smile on his face, so was my father. "Excellent. Ben, anything to add?"

I looked around, not really knowing what to say, and decided after a moment to just follow the lead. "Jacquelyn Atkinson wants us at the wedding. We've already got pictures of her fiancé with another woman, but Atkinson wants us there to document any improper action before, during, or after the ceremony."

My father nodded again. "Ok, keep me posted as things continue to develop. All right then, people, let's get back to work."

* * *

I had not planned to go out. It was Friday night, but the high school football team was on the road some two hours away, the Atkinson wedding was the next day, there was no party I was keen to attend, and there was no girl I was planning to see. It was to be mellow sort of evening.

Was to be, I said.

When the phone rang, I considered letting it go through to voicemail. I did not recognize the number and figured, therefore, that no good could come of it. I was wrong, of course, which was known to happen from time-to-time; the voice on the other end of the line was girlish and familiar, and somewhat anxious.

"Hi, Ben!" 

"Hi, Courtney," I replied. Amazingly, it'd been only a week since our carnal encounter. So much had happened since then. She was fun, though, and it was good to hear from her, so I said so. "I'm glad you called. What's up?"

Her voice dropped low. "I want to see you again," she said conspiratorially.

I grinned. "Why are you whispering?"

"My dad's in the other room. I don't want him to hear me. I want to see you again."

Two soft, round ass cheeks popped into my mind. Yes, I thought to myself, I could definitely go for some Courtney Daly again. "Let's do it. When?"

"Tonight," she said breathlessly, relief in her voice, "after the football game."

And the devil in me reared its head yet again. "No, during the football game."

"During the game?" She was suddenly very, very nervous.

"Come to the parking lot at half-time, after your routine." I got hard just thinking about it.

There was a long moment of silence, and then she said, softly, breathlessly, "Ok."

There was an important call I needed to make as soon as Courtney hung up. I dialed the cell phone number, hoping he was available, praying he had nothing better to do. "Hello?" the man asked as he picked up, and I thanked the heavens above.

"I need your van," I said hastily.

"What?" Beau asked, a little confused.

"Important stuff to do tonight," I told him. "I need your van."

"My van?"

"Your van."

"What will I drive? I can't use the Harley, engine's busted."

"We'll trade for the night."

"The Range?"

"The Range."

The man thought for a moment. "What do you need it for? Would you dad approve?"

"Can't tell you," I said, "and probably not."

I heard a chuckle. "You got yourself a deal."

Which is how I found myself pulling into the football field parking lot of West Mountain School right around eight o'clock that night, and parking the car in as isolated but visible a spot as I could find.

The roar of the crowd let me know the game was still progressing through the first half of play. Sometime later, whistles rang out and speakers blared to life, pumping some kind of hip-hop dance mix. It was my guess (correct) that the cheerleaders were performing, which meant it was only a few minutes before Courtney showed up.

And then she did.

She was wearing the same outfit she had been when we met, that insanely sexy high school cheerleader outfit: tight white sweater with the letters "WMHS" emblazoned in red on the front and an ultra-short pleated mini-skirt, white with red trim. Her tummy was bare, as were her legs, all the way down to her tiny white socks and sneakers. Her brown hair was done up in a ponytail. Her skin was flushed and a thin layer of perspiration shimmered in the light.

It was insanely hot to witness her in all her cheerleader glory.

She walked briskly up to me and began to speak, but "I only have a few minutes before—" was as far as she got. I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to me, and without a word pressed my lips against hers. She stiffened, surprised, but instantly melted into me, her soft lips parting to allow my tongue to slip into her mouth. She was an excellent kisser, I had to admit; I could get lost kissing her for hours. But on this night, I had other plans.

"Get in," I ordered.

She was confused. "What do you mean?"

"The van," I told her. "Get in."

Courtney stared at the thing for a long moment. Then she grinned, and leaned in to flick her tongue out just across my lips.

I was grinning myself as she accepted my hand and gracefully climbed through the door into the back section of the van. I had to hand it to Beau; he did keep the place clean and versatile. Currently, there was nothing in the back except a couple of plastic storage crates and the blankets and pillows I had brought along.

I followed her and seated myself on one of those crates, and pulled her to me again. We had very little time, minutes at best; it was going to be a quick, hard, nasty fuck. And by the start of the fourth quarter, I assumed, all her friends would know about it.

She straddled me and threw her arms around my neck, and her sweet uniform-clad body pressed against mine. My hands went to her hips, helping to hold her in place as my tongue trailed up her slender neck. I could taste the salt of her sweat from the game as I traced the line of her jaw, all the way back to nibble at her ear. She moaned and yanked my head back, smashing her lips onto mine, shoving her tongue into my mouth.

My hands roamed over her and she took the hint; up went her hands, straight above her head as I peeled off the tight sweater-top and unhooked her bra to liberate her fantastic breasts. They were handful-sized mounds of delightfulness, and instantly my mouth closed over the left crest, savoring once more that salty taste. She shrieked and her fingers clawed at my head and hair as my tongue danced rings over the shriveled nipple. The other nipple was not far behind; I switched to the right, then back to the left, then back to the right.

After several seconds of suckling, it was Courtney's turn. My shirt was off in no time and the girl was licking down my chest, her tongue fluttering across my skin. My jeans and underwear followed as I lifted my ass to allow her to undress the rest of me, which left my fully naked body completely exposed to her. She still wore her cheerleading skirt, socks, and shoes.

I watched as her eyes took in the sight of my swollen cock for the second time, and nearly exploded from the anticipation as she languorously lowered her head. Her sweet lips parted and the mushroom crown slipped into her warm, wet mouth, and all was right with the world.

She cupped my balls in the palm of her hands, teasing them even as she was teasing me with her mouth. Of course, there was not enough time for teasing, so I placed my own hand on the back of her neck and guided her further down my shaft. Her tongue fluttered as she descended.

It was an incredible sight: imagine a beautiful, half-naked cheerleader in your lap, eyes closed with her lips wrapped around your cock. The sight alone nearly did me in.

My fingers took hold of her ponytail as she pulled back and dropped lower, lapping at my testicles with the flat of her tongue. I moaned, which made her smile, and also made her decide to spend some additional time down there as she licked my balls repeatedly with long, soft strokes. She took one into her mouth and suckled it, then grinned as it plopped out.

"My turn to get naked," she said with a playful grin.

Courtney rose to her knees and tucked her fingers into the waistband of her skirt, not to mention the white spandex underwear beneath, and slowly swiveled around. She bent forward and ever-so-slowly started to slide those garments down over her wondrous ass.

I do not think it was possible to stare any harder than I was as the top of her crack came into view, and my eyes did not leave their target as the shorts and skirt dropped around her ankles. There, beguilingly displayed for me yet again, was her gorgeous pink pussy and sweet little rosebud of an asshole.

The look was not a long one, however. She turned back to me, grinning, and moved forward – breasts jiggling as she came – then straddled me again and cried, "Fuck me now!"

And you can guess what happened next.

Courtney's fingers wrapped around my rigid cock, holding it straight and steady as she lowered herself onto it, and the mushroom head parted her rubbery pink lips and surged deeper as she impaled herself completely. She was tight, very tight, and burning hot, and she began to grind her hips, forcing my meat deeper and deeper inside her hole.

I kissed her again, our tongues dueling as her sweaty tits rubbed up and down my chest as she rose and fell, and my hands took hold of the fleshy but firm cheeks of her ass, pulling her even closer against me. My hands were like wild animals as they rambled over her flesh, and swiftly made their way into the crack.

And yet they could not stop there. Even as Courtney gyrated her pelvis in my lap, grinding her pussy down onto my cock, her breasts like paintbrushes coating my torso with her sweat, my hands wanted more.

Which is why they grazed lightly over her little back door hole, and why Courtney moaned loudly and pushed her tongue even deeper into my mouth at the new sensation. Encouraged, my right pointer finger pressed harder, taking up residence right there on the wrinkled skin of her anal opening, and began to massage little circles against it.

She was very close to orgasm, I knew, as the grinding increased. She pulled away and buried her face in the side of my neck, and emitted a series of low whimpers. Her hot breath tickled my skin.

"Do it," she whispered, and I knew exactly what she meant.

I plunged my finger into the beautiful cheerleader's ass and held on for dear life as she exploded from the pleasure. Juice poured over my cock, so much it trickled down the shaft and onto the crate. She rose to the highest heights for long moments before returning to earth.

And then she did another incredible thing, just another mark in the favor of this delectable girl of limited inhibitions. Before her orgasm ended, before I even knew myself what was happening, Courtney had taken charge, pushing me off the crate and flat onto the ground. She straddled my face and sank her slick pussy down over my mouth in the classic "sixty-nine" position.

Immediately my tongue extended, eagerly looking to taste the sweetness of her nectar, and I was not disappointed; her ass tilted forward to allow more room, and I assailed her delicious pussy with gusto. Meanwhile, and once again, my juice-covered cock found its way into her mouth; Courtney licked up and down, up and down, gently suckling the head before swallowing nearly the entire length down her throat.

But as sweet as her pussy tasted, I had some other nasty ideas and time was running short. Her puckered little anus looked so sweet and tender, I decided to switch up my tactics. I tilted my own head this time and my tongue touched down tentatively on the rim of her anal opening, and the moan I received for my efforts was twice as strong as her others had been.

"Lick my ass!" she cried, and I was more than happy to oblige.

My tongue swiped lazily across the wrinkled, pink skin. I spread the toned cheeks with my hands and stabbed my tongue into her hole, and my cock dropped from her mouth as she wailed and moaned, and pushed her ass back into my face. The girl absolutely loved me licking her ass!

Somewhere nearby, we could hear the music of the halftime period change, which meant we were now running very much out of time; a couple of minutes left at most. Courtney groaned and cursed, and pulled away, allowing my tongue to slide from its place in her ass.

She dropped forward to her hands and knees and I wasted no time scooting and rising to position behind her, and with one hard thrust my cock was back into her oven-hot cunt, embedded to the hilt. My strokes were hard and fast now; my thighs slapped up against the cheeks of her ass, and my hands held onto her hips for dear life.

"Wait!" she panted, very much out of breath. "Stop!"

Which is why I immediately pulled my cock out of her, because above all things I respect the wishes of the women I am with. I wondered if something was wrong; it was not, I surmised, when she glanced back over her shoulder with a naughty, wickedly nasty grin on her face.

"On your back," she ordered breathlessly, and instantly I complied.

Courtney hovered over me, grinning devilishly, looking down at my naked body and the rock hard cock between my legs. Then she dropped low and slithered up my body, her tongue drawing a line of fire from my navel to my lips, where she finished with an immensely intense kiss. My cock was right next to her pussy and I wiggled my hips in vain to get it inside.

"No, no, bad boy," she said with a grin. "Wrong hole." Here we go again, I thought to myself as she shifted her body forward and guided my stiff cock right to the opening of her ass. Her grin widened. "This one, please."

Courtney closed her eyes and bit her lip as she reversed direction, pushing herself back onto seven inches of waiting meat. She relaxed, and the head of my cock popped past her anal ring, and she moaned louder and louder with every inch of depth. Then she leaned back fully, putting her hands on the floor of the van behind her.

"So nice," she half-whispered, half-groaned, eyes still closed as she wiggled her hips to get every last bit of my cock into her greedy hole.

It was another one of those sights you could never forget: hot cheerleader, uniform discarded but for socks and shoes, sitting on my lap with my dick in her butt, glistening pussy lips swollen and twitching, body and hair a sweaty mess, eyes closed in euphoria as she rocked back and forth.

I could not help it: I began to hump my hips up into her. Courtney responded by clenching her ass down hard on my shaft, which very nearly snapped it in two. In the most pleasurable way imaginable, of course.

"Fuck my ass, Ben! Fuck me harder!" she screamed, and I prayed there was no one in the parking lot close enough to hear her.

She threw her head back, feet and hands firmly rooted to the floor, and began to really go to town on my cock, bouncing up and down, up and down, harder and harder with each passing moment. I watched, amazed, as her bowels sucked up my cock, only to spit it back out again an instant later. How her tight ass could handle such a load was simply amazing.

Then she brought one finger to her clitoris, and that simple little touch sent her over the edge. Her body tightened and her bounces became tight little thrusts as she spasmed with the force of her orgasm, whimpering all the while about how good it was; she mentioned god several times. 

It was the end for me, too, when I felt her ass clench with orgasm around my cock again. My dam burst and wave after wave of hot white cum spewed up into her depths, unloading the full contents into her ass.

She sprawled forward onto me, the sticky sweat feeling of our togetherness very much noticed as my softening cock plopped out of her ass. "Wonderful," she breathed into my ear, not moving. 

"Indeed," I said.

The music from the stadium ended and Courtney immediately perked up.

"Shit!" she squeaked, and scrambled to find her clothes on the floor. "I have to go. Call me, ok?"

She sounded serious, which was a plus in my book; I would definitely call her, even just to hang out together without sex. She dressed quickly and, after another searing kiss, was gone and back to cheering for her team, which meant it was time to return the van to Beau.

Who, of course, had no idea what it was used for.

* * *

Caroline gets home late, just before midnight to be exact. 

The day has been several hours of work on the Melissa Stone case, which she is not feeling good about. The college student and daughter of Senator Timothy Stone had gone missing two days earlier. The police had no leads. Background work and police interviews produced very little. She is going to have to think outside the box.

She shoves away all thoughts of work as she heads through the apartment and back to her room. She has two roommates, both of whom are likely asleep. 

The room of Caroline Cassidy is simple, unlike the room of a typical female. She spends little time there, which explains its scanty decor. There is a large four-post bed, a nightstand, a chest of drawers, and a computer desk and chair. The walls were blue and the bed covers white. It is clean, and little else can be said of it.

Caroline drops her bag and keys and strips off her clothes without pause; she's been in them for close to eighteen hours. She moves into the bathroom, a trail of discarded garments in her wake.

She catches sight of her naked form in the full-length mirror on the bathroom wall, and stops to appraise herself. She is quite fond of her appearance, there is no denying that, even if it means she has to deal with idiot men hitting on her or trying to smooth-talk her on a constant basis. Unlike other beautiful women, she likes the root, but not the resulting attention.

Her breasts are round and firm, and real; this a main reason why guys of all leagues approach her, to stare up close at her tits. The rest of her body is lithe and lean – she was an athlete in high school – with a hard stomach and a golden tan. 

Her own personal hygiene is very important; she brushes her teeth three times a day, showers more than necessary, and goes to pains (sometimes literally) to keep herself neatly groomed, and in some places waxed. In fact, she thinks as she studies it, the blonde swath of tiny curls set just above the hairless pink area below it could use a trim. She turns to the side and her palms cup her buttocks, and hefts them; her bottom is as firm and tight as it was when she was eighteen.

She opens the glass door to the shower and twists the shower head to hot. The nozzle gurgles and sprays a cool stream across the tiled walls, and soon steam rises from the liquid as it cuts through the air.