7 comments/ 36104 views/ 9 favorites The Case of Carla’s Cheating Husband By: ronde It was the kind of bar you like when you just want an intimate evening with a bottle of really good scotch; not many people, not too much light, no waitresses in short shorts and tight T-shirts, and no fucking jukebox. I was at Barney’s to drink away the pain in my head caused by having been hit on the head with a pantyhose mannequin. I’m Jase Conford, and I’m a private investigator in Nashville. I’m kind of a laid back guy, no frills, living in my office/apartment above a drugstore, and making a decent living for myself by digging up information other people are willing to pay for; my afternoon’s gainful employment had been to observe a saleswoman suspected of padding her income at the expense of a local department store owner. I had saddled up with my favorite surveillance camera, a very small, digital camcorder, and, by noon, was innocently browsing through the racks of men’s wear across from the cash register of the women’s department. I had to admit, her method was pretty good... not brilliant, but hard to prove unless the store wanted to take a complete inventory of the women’s department. She rang up each purchase, palmed the cash, and after the patron walked away, she simply voided the sale. My little video friend had recorded it all, and she would soon be looking for a new job, and maybe some jail time if my client wanted to push the matter. She spotted me as I was zooming from her face to the register display that said “void sale, $87.44”, and walked over to ask, “Why are you taking my picture?” I made my standard “spying in the department store” excuse, which went something like, “I’m a customer service auditor for the home office, and I’m recording each clerk so we can pick our salesperson of the month,” when she said, “You’re a goddamned cop, aren’t you?” She stepped across the aisle, picked up the half-torso with legs, and beaned me with it before running out of the store. Luckily, store security caught her before she got to her car, and I turned over my tape to them as her eyes burned holes through my back. I got paid my hundred dollar fee, and promptly headed to Barney’s to re-evaluate my career choice. The sign over the door to the stairs that led down to the basement under the appliance store said “Barney’s Grill”, but Barney was really named Joyce, and Joyce was the best friend I had in my own small piece of the world. Joyce had bought the bar from the original Barney several years ago, and had never changed the name. Not that it would have mattered; if you didn’t know where Barney’s was, you would never find the faded sign anyway, and Joyce didn’t advertise. Barney’s was one of those bars supported by the regulars who come in every night for a couple of drinks and one of the best, if not the best, cheeseburgers in Nashville. Inside, the long, narrow bar was full of character and the comfortable feeling of a favorite old recliner - a long, wood topped bar that you could really slide a mug down, tables with real wood tops, booths with red vinyl upholstery, a dart board on the short wall, and walls and ceiling painted the subtle but refined color of eggshell white mellowed by forty years of cigarette and cigar smoke. I like Barney’s because it’s like I imagine myself - same age, not the greatest to look at, a little burned up around the edges, but full of character and determined not to quit. It’s also only two blocks from my office/apartment, which means I can usually get home as long as I’m in good enough shape to walk. Joyce is the same as her bar - no advertising with hot clothes or fancy cosmetics; she has that natural beauty that needs no artificial enhancement, and forty plus years of life have mellowed her into the intelligent, graceful, sensual lady she is. Joyce is also a confirmed lesbian, which works out well for both of us; our friendship is the best kind of friendship, uncluttered with thoughts about past, present, or future sexual liaisons. We can talk about anything or have dinner together, and not worry about false expectations or impressions. I always hold out hope that she’ll one day find me more than her body can resist, and drag me into the office to rape me, but hey, everybody’s entitled to their fantasy. I tell her that all the time, and she gets a kick out of the proposition. As Joyce refilled my glass with more golden, smoky tasting pain killer, she laughed, “Told you not to go taking pictures up girl’s dresses, didn’t I? Serves you right. What was it again... a plastic ass?” I shifted the hamburger bun wrapper filled with ice to a different painful place on my head. “No, damnit, it wasn’t just the ass, there were legs too, and it wasn’t plastic, more like Styrofoam, but it had this steel frame. And I wasn’t taking pictures of her underwear. I was engaged in the pursuit of a professional investigation of cashier fraud. You could at least be a little sympathetic.” Joyce patted my shoulder. “Poor baby, let Mommy kiss it and make it feel better.” She planted a hard kiss on the primary impact site, and laughed again when I yelped “ouch.” “Have this one on me, honey. How’s your ice doin’. Need some more?” “The ice is doing fine, it’s my head that hurts. Say, I got paid for this headache. How ‘bout dinner tonight? There’s a new barbecue place over on Dickerson.” “Thanks, Honey, but you know my evenings are for Sheryl. I’d invite you over, but you know how it is. All that girl loves girl stuff, naked, hot bodies and wild sex. Would really hurt most men; probably kill you, and I’d hate being responsible for that.” She laughed again; Joyce’s laugh is one of the reasons I come here. It helps adjust my attitude, along with the scotch, of course. Sheryl is Joyce’s pretty, blonde, close friend-lover-roommate and waitress at Barney’s for the Friday night after work crowd. Actually, Joyce and Sheryl are about like any middle aged married couple, comfortable with each other, and very much in love. Sheryl didn’t like me, at first. Joyce says she thought I was trying to move in on her, but we get along fine now. I was nursing my free scotch, and the pain in my head, when I saw her walking from the open door to my table. I say walking, but the motion was the fluid sway of full hips on long, long legs in unison with the soft bounce of large breasts straining against the short, tight, white slip dress. Long, dark brown, shoulder length hair, and tanned skin contrasted nicely, I thought, with the dress, and expensive looking jewelry flashed blue and red neon beer sign light from her ear lobes, neck, wrist, and fingers. She looked about thirty to thirty-five, and her face could easily have been on one of the old movie posters that served to decorate the bar walls. I saw Joyce watching; she looked at me, ran her tongue over her top lip sensuously, and then grinned. The legs stopped in front of my table, and I mentally photographed from the white spike heels to the dark eyes, pausing only to make a professional investigation of the firm, rounded butt and ample bosom. “Now that you’ve checked out my tits and ass, are you Jase Conford?” “Yeh, I’m Jase Conford. What can I do for you?” “May I sit down, or you going to keep me standing here?” “Sorry, forgot my manners. Have a seat. Would you like a drink?” “No, thanks. I called your office, and the answering machine said to look here. I had a hell of a time finding it, and now I wish I’d gotten a vaccination first. God, this place is grungy.” “It’s an acquired taste. Now, what was it you wanted. I have a headache and a lot more scotch to go through tonight, so if you please...” “You’re a private investigator, right?” “That’s what my license says. Need one?” “That’s why I called you.” She paused. “You’re awfully damn full of yourself, aren’t you?” “Sorry, it’s just that today’s been a bad day. Let’s start over. I’m Jase Conford, private investigator. How can I help you?” “My name is Carla Hampton. My husband’s in the record business, my record business, to be exact, and I think he’s screwing around on me. I want you to find out and bring me proof. If he is, I’m going to divorce the little bastard, and make sure he doesn’t get anything more from me.” “Well, I might be able to save you some money. Most of these suspicions turn out to be false; usually, the guy is just working late, or out with the guys at some bar. What makes you think he’s not just doing that?” “Well, I think an intimate little card with a woman’s handwriting found in his wastebasket is a good, or rather an incriminating sign, and recently, he’s signed some young female artists for record deals that are not really good enough to make money with. The agents will tell these girls to do anything to get them in the door, and he wouldn’t be the first to sign a girl in exchange for a couple lays. Doesn’t cost him anything, but I have a small, niche market recording company, and it costs a lot to find out the singer’s a flop. Where do you think those three dollar clearance CD’s come from?” “You searched his wastebasket?” “Not personally, my security did, as they do every other person with the authority to sign contracts. Just a routine security precaution. This business is difficult at best, what with changing music tastes, competition for talent, and all; I can’t have good talent going to other companies, or afford to risk money on artists that aren’t a pretty sure bet. I also have email and phone conversations monitored; surprising what you can find out from those. By the way, his are both clean.” “Why me? I’m not the best known investigator in town.” “I called our regular agency, Sanders and Knox, first. They really don’t like doing this sort of work, or so they said. They gave me your number. Said you might be interested.” Damn that Sanders, anyway. We know each other from the local PI organization. He keeps sending me all the crap they don’t want to do, and I usually end up doing it, because it keeps TV dinners in the fridge and scotch on the bar. I didn’t like domestic investigations either. They tend to require lots of surveillance, which means nights and weekends, and it’s easy to get stiffed for the bill if you don’t find anything, but Carla was a strong woman, and I have a soft spot for strong women. All right, call it a mental handicap, but she seemed to be convinced, and I thought she had enough money that she wouldn’t miss the five hundred or so that this was going to cost her. “I’ll need three hundred dollars up front, as a retainer, and I’ll need to interview you and have you sign a contract. Can you come to my office tomorrow morning?” “Why can’t you start now?” “Sorry, lady... excuse me, Mrs. Hampton, but it’s Friday night, and like I said, I’ve got one hell of a headache, and a lot more scotch to drink before I feel better. Come to my office at ten if you still want me to do the investigation. Eighth and Union, above the drugstore.” “Call me Carla. Mrs. Hampton makes me feel old. I like your style, Mr. Cocksure, so I’ll see you tomorrow.” I started my morning routine, as usual, by falling off my couch when the alarm went off; I really ought to get a bed one of these days, but my method does wake me up fast. A quick shower and shave came next, and by 9:30, I was sorting through my hamper for recyclable clothes. I located a shirt and jeans, but no shorts so zipping up was a carefully done operation. My socks from yesterday weren’t too bad, and my boots covered them anyway. By the time Carla arrived, I had made coffee, and managed to cover up last night’s scotch breath with some foul tasting, blue mouthwash. Evidently, Carla kicked back on the weekends. She flowed into my office in jeans cut off at the crotch seam and a crop top T-shirt that showed more of her than it covered. She was obviously sans bra, and two large nipples kept speaking to me through the cotton fabric. She wore mules over her bare feet, two painted toenails peeking through each open tip, and her feet connected to legs that my waist begged to be wrapped by. I shook her hand across the desk, and offered her a chair. She slumped down, crossed those long legs, and her white lace panties promptly leered at me from their hiding place inside the half inch long leg of her cut-off jeans. “I suppose you’re enjoying your view of my crotch, but don’t we have an interview to do? I believe that’s what you wanted me here for.” I noticed she didn’t change position; she was smiling as she enjoyed my stare. That must be why she dressed this way; she was an exhibitionist at heart. “Yes, well I need to know your husband’s usual routine, you know, where he goes each day, about what time, where he goes for lunch, does he leave the house at night, that sort of stuff, and if you can manage it, his itinerary for the next few days. If I’m going to catch him at something, I have to have an idea of what’s not part of his daily routine. That way, I won’t follow him when he picks up his cleaning, or tail him to the dentist.” She dutifully answered all my standard “get to know your suspect” questions, even throwing in some information I would have to remember to ask for when I did the next one of these. “Now, what was the first thing that made you suspect your husband was cheating on you? Cheating spouses usually aren’t very careful for the first couple meetings; they get more cautious as the risk of detection increases.” “He left, about ten o’clock, one evening. Said an agent had called him about a new male CW singer at one of the local clubs. I didn’t hear the phone ring, but it could have been his cell phone, I suppose. Anyway, he didn’t get back until two in the morning, and I smelled his aftershave when he crawled into bed.” “What’s suspicious about that. Doesn’t he have to do that, go to clubs, I mean?” “He never wears aftershave, so he must have been trying to cover up another smell, like perfume maybe? Also, if you’ve ever been to a country bar, you know that you come home smelling like smoke. He had to have put the aftershave on as soon as he got home.” This and the card in his wastebasket were the only facts she really had to found her suspicions, but she knew her husband, and I didn’t, at least not yet. She signed my standard contract, wrote a check for three hundred dollars, and promised to send a copy of his appointment book for the next week. I was treated to the sight of cute little soft butt cheeks hanging out of her shorts as she walked out the door. For a recording industry executive, the guy was amazingly stupid. I guess the old joke about men having only enough blood to operate one head at a time is true. His appointment book said “meeting with Jillian Brogan, agent, 11:00 - 12:30” on Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday of the next week. Two minutes with my phone book told me that there was no agent by the name of Jillian Brogan in Nashville, or at least she didn’t advertise in the Yellow Pages. That’d be as rare as a stripper without silicone jugs. A hunch and quick check of my free copy of the local entertainment rag gave me her standard, hundred dollar publicity picture; she looked about twenty, kind of cute and a lot innocent, with long blonde hair. My call to directory assistance lasted three more minutes, during which time the operator informed me that Ms. Jillian Brogan lived at an address near the local university, and that her phone number was 259-8176. A young female voice answered my call. I completed this part of my investigation in my best lying voice. “Jillian Brogan, please.” “This is her.” “Jillian, I’m a signing agent for a recording company here in Nashville. I think I caught your show at the Roundhouse a while back. Liked your stuff, and been trying to find you. Got your phone number from...crap, got it here somewhere...oh, here... a guy named Phil, Phil Hampton I think it was. Said you were fantastic, and I ought to have another look. Where’s your next gig?” “Wow, Phil said he could help. I’m at Gerry’s, on Sixth, next weekend, from six to seven on Friday, and six to seven on Saturday. He’s suppose to be here Monday, at eleven, if you want to talk to him. You can come on over, he won’t mind.” “Hey, thanks for the offer, babe, but don’t tell him we talked. It was supposed to be his surprise, but he forgot to tell me where you were playing. Just thought I’d call for myself. Don’t spoil his surprise, OK?” “Sure... I mean, OK I won’t tell him.” Well, gotta go. See you at Gerry’s.” Funny how a simple device like a phone can make people tell anything to a perfect stranger, isn’t it?. I love investigations like this; fifteen minutes flat and I knew where the little mistress lived, and had confirmed Phil’s arrival time. I called the local constabulary and told them I would be parked in my minivan near the apartment building where Jillian lived, and that I was conducting surveillance for a client. It always pays to do this; you never know when some block patrolling grandmother’s going to call 911 about the suspicious man who’s been sitting in his car for the last four hours. A squad car can really blow your cover. Checking the call box told me Jillian lived on the ground floor, and some casual peeping through my compact binoculars yielded Jillian looking out the North window, watching for Phil, I guessed. I had lucked out with a perfect view through her window, and my mini-cam captured her for Carla. About five ‘til eleven, Phil drove up in his Caddy, and parked a way down the block. As the mini-cam whirred softly in my hand, he walked quickly to the door, pushed her buzzer, and after a moment, opened the door and walked in. As I viewed the window through the zoom lens, I saw him enter the room and walk into Jillian’s embrace. After a lot of wet looking kissing, during which he squeezed her breasts and she rubbed his crotch, she unbuttoned her blouse and tossed it aside. Nice tits, not too big, but nice. He had taken off his shirt, and unhooked her bra while she fumbled with his belt. He took over, and his pants slipped down at about the same time she slipped out of her bra and then her jeans. Really nice tits, kind of perky, with cute little nipples, and a firm little ass. They embraced again, with more sloppy kissing and the same fondling as before, except this time I could just make out her hard little nipples in his finger tips. He was in the process of removing her white, cotton panties when she put a hand to her mouth, and quickly pulled the blind. End of show, but I had enough to guarantee Carla wouldn’t have much trouble with the financials. I called Carla, and asked her to meet me at my office at six to view the evidence. I could get the report typed by then. I could have strung her out for a couple more days, just to keep all the three hundred, but I do have a few ethics; they tend to change, depending on circumstances, but I don’t pad my costs... well, not usually. Carla showed up promptly at six, and I gave her the report. She read with the concentration of one practiced at reading and understanding quickly. When she finished, she asked to see the tape. As the scene rolled on, she kept whispering, “You son of a bitch, you fucking bastard.” When the screen turned blue, she turned to me. “Well, you got him. My lawyer will have a ball with this, and that asshole will get what he deserves. How much do I owe you?” “As my contract states, I charge fifty dollars an hour. I worked on this for four hours, so that’s two hundred. You gave me three as a retainer, so I owe you a hundred.” “You can keep the hundred. It’ll be worth a hundred to see the look on his face. Say, how ‘bout dinner at that little bar you love. The only thing that did smell good in there were the cheeseburgers. You can spend some of that hundred on me.” Joyce raised her eyebrows when we walked in, and then smiled. Sheryl was sitting at the bar, and giggled when Joyce whispered something in her ear. I felt a little strange, sitting in my jeans and denim shirt across from Carla in her business suit. I ordered scotch, neat, plus a cheeseburger and fries with everything, and Carla said, “make it two.” We made some small talk about the recording business as we finished the first drink, and I ordered two more when Joyce brought our burgers. Carla was loosening up as the scotch took hold, and we talked about my business. The Case of Carla’s Cheating Husband “I always thought you guys were just a bunch of legalized peeping toms,” she laughed around a mouthful of cheeseburger. “Sneaking up to windows to take pictures of people screwing. Must be loads of fun. Bet you get your rocks off watching the movies afterward.” “Actually, its boring work. That’s why your regular firm doesn’t like domestic surveillance. Most of the time, you tape the guy going into the girl’s place, and then you sit in your car until morning, waiting for the guy to come out, because you couldn’t get video of him in action. I just got lucky. She was too naive to close the blind before I got them on tape.” Carla’s face grew contemplative, and her voice softened. “Maybe she knew you were there, and liked being seen. Sometimes, I fantasize about being seen, you know... naked.” She quickly snapped back to her confident self. “Can’t though; too many people in town know me. They’d ruin my business. Softly again, “still, it would be a real trip; maybe naked in the Parthenon, or in an alley down on Second. That would really turn me on.” She giggled, “I’ll bet you think I’m crazy, don’t you. Well, I’m not. I’m just your common, ordinary, everyday, exhibitionist.” She giggled again, and unbuttoned the top three buttons of her silk blouse. “Don’tcha think guys would like to look at these puppies?” She opened the blouse giving me a look at two soft, tanned breasts cradled by transparent black nylon. “Know what, they’re real, too.” As I looked around to see who else was in the bar, I saw Joyce and Sheryl laughing themselves silly. We were basically alone, except for them, but this was going to get out of hand in a hurry if Carla continued. “Maybe we should get you home, Carla. You’re having much too good a time.” “Guess you’re right, but I forgot and left the tape in your office. Let’s go get it, and then you can call me a cab.” I found the tape, still on my desk, and handed it to her. She took the tape, then layed it back on the desk and said, “Do you have a bathroom in here? I gotta pee.” She was gone for about ten minutes and I messed around with some papers, just to keep up my professional image. “Oh, God, that feels better. Thought I was gonna wet myself if you didn’t have a john. Didn’t wanna go in the bar; not very good at hovering when I’m tipsy. I splash all over the place.” Without looking at her, I reached for the phone to call the cab. A slender hand pushed the receiver back down in the cradle. “Got any more scotch? I’d like another drink before I leave, and you could at least look at me when I talk to you.” She had lost the suit and blouse somewhere between the can and my office, and wore only the lacy bra, a tiny black thong, black stay-up hose with lace tops, and black heels. The effect was devastating, even to my scotch mellowed ethics. “NEVER GET INVOLVED WITH A CLIENT” screamed my old PI textbooks, but then...well, maybe they never had a client like Carla. I fished the scotch bottle out of the file drawer in the desk and sat it in front of me. Glasses were going to be a problem; usually, I don’t entertain ladies in my office, so I just swig from the bottle. I did have a glass, once, but it fell off the desk and broke, and I never got around to replacing it. “Got scotch, no got glasses. Sorry.” “Not a problem, honey.” She unscrewed the cap, and lifted the bottle to her pouting, ruby lips. She sucked in about three inches of the neck of the bottle, and then pulled it out, her tongue licking it along the way as her eyes stared at me from under half-closed lids. When her lips reached the opening, she tipped the bottle up, and pulled down about a quarter-inch of the golden liquid. “Mmmmmm, you buy the best, sweety.” She handed me the bottle, and I followed her lead, but I decided it would have been unprofessional for me to suck on the neck; I’m really not that in touch with my feminine side. I just matched her pull, and handed the bottle back. “Are you tryin’ to get me drunk? If you are, you’re doin’ a pretty good job. Maybe you want to take advantage of me? Well, you might as well see what you’re... getting into.” She giggled as she cleared a spot on the desk in front of me. She giggled again as she slipped up on the desk and then swung one black heel over my head and turned to sit on the spot with a tanned leg dangling on each side of me. In this position, her thighs were spread, and the little “Y” of material that formed the crotch of her thong stared at me only inches away. “Bet you like this black one better than the white one on Saturday. It’s littler; almost doesn’t cover me up. Bet you’d like to see the top, too, wouldn’t you?” She took another pull on the scotch, sat the bottle down, and arched her back as her hands unhooked the front clasp of her bra. She slowly separated the cups, and her large, full breasts dropped softly to her chest, forming two tanned mounds with dark pink upturned nipples. “Thirty-eight C, in answer to your first question, and yes, they love to be touched, in answer to the second.” Damn, great looking and she could read minds, too. She stuck her index finger in the scotch bottle and shook, wetting the finger. She placed the finger on one nipple, and rubbed slowly in circles. The large, wrinkled nipple grew larger, and stood at attention at the caress. “Mmmmm,” she purred. She cupped the breast to her mouth, and cleaned off the scotch with her tongue. Another “mmmmmm”. “Wonder if that’s where the buttery nipple drink came from?”, she giggled. “Not much like butter, but mighty tasty, honey. Ought to try for yourself.” Carla lifted her long legs and rested a spike heel on each arm of my chair. She opened her thighs wide and the little, black “Y” stared at me again, the openings of the lace forming skin tone eyes. “Carla, I don’t think this is such a good idea. You’re my client, and...” My voice stopped working as her slender fingers reached down and pulled the fabric to one side. The shaved little slit looked up, and, I swear, it winked at me. It just opened by itself, and then closed up again. “Not many girls can do that, you know. Takes lots of practice in front of a mirror. And God, do I love to practice.” The other slender hand separated the lips, exposing pink petals glistening with dew, and her small clit hiding under its hood. Two fingers trapped the hidden little bud between them, gently squeezed, and then slid down and disappeared between the pink inner lips. Carla pulled her fingers out, now shining with clear liquid, and transferred them to her waiting tongue. “Mmmm, maybe they should call this drink buttery pussy. Ought to taste this too, honey. Do wonders for you, not to mention for me the way I’m feeling right now.” Now, I have ethics, as I said, but they do allow for a certain amount of flexibility, depending on circumstances, as I also said. Here I sat, contemplating the attractions of a very sexy, very ready, woman only inches from my face, I hadn’t been laid for a while, and had just enough scotch in me to forget the fact that Carla was a client. I’d have probably forgotten she was my client, even without the scotch, but it was a more professional sounding excuse than “man, do I ever need a good fuck.” I leaned forward and started kissing my way up the left tanned thigh. The skin erupted in goosebumps at my touch, but as I got closer to my goal, the little bumps receded into very warm, soft, thigh skin. Her scent reached me as my nose touched her smooth mound, a very erotic perfume mixed with the sultry, musky odor of her sex. She leaned back on her hands, and opened herself to me, and her now soft voice said, “The door is open, honey, please come on in.” I nibbled on her smooth slit with my lips, tasting the puffy softness. The lips opened again, just a little, like before, and my tongue slipped in to taste the inner surface, the smooth, wet skin that cradled the large wrinkled petals of her inner sex. I tasted every fold of those petals, savoring the flavor and texture of this woman who, at the moment, was softly moaning as her hips rocked up at me. “Damn, honey, that feels good. Mmmmmm, yes. God, your tongue feels great.” As I searched for her opening with my tongue, my hands slipped up her soft belly to her full breasts. Gentle squeezing and caressing brought more little, soft, love sounds, and when I gently rubbed the tips of the nipples, her body shook. “Oh, yes, baby. Play with them. God, I love that.” My tongue found her clit, hiding under its hood, and began coaxing it out with soft licks on the sides. I slipped the tip under the hood, and gave the little bud a teasing touch as I gently pinched one nipple. Carla’s body arched into me and she groaned in ecstasy. The little clit was deciding to come out and play, so I wrapped both lips around it, and suckled it out of its little tent as I gently rolled and tugged her nipples. I felt her moisture coating my chin as it nestled between her pink petals. “Ahm...ahm...ah,ah,ah,ah...yes, baby, suck it. I love to have my clit sucked. Ah,ah,ah,ah... oooooooh... yes honey, don’t stop...not yet. I felt the little bud standing up between my lips, and rasped my tongue over it as I suckled. Carla’s hips bucked against me, and a tiny shriek of pleasure escaped her lips. I rasped a second time, and the buck and shriek came again, her voice lower and softer this time. Again, and Carla began pushing into my face, trying to dictate the rhythm of my lips and tongue. “Don’t stop...oooooh...yes...yes...oh God...yes...mm...mm...oh God, fuck me, please. I want you inside me now...mm...mm...God, please...now.” I pride myself on being a quick undresser, and in a few moments, I had kicked off my boots, slipped out of my shirt, and dropped my pants. It’s times like this that I don’t regret not having clean shorts, because Carla couldn’t have waited for me to get rid of those. She had replaced my tongue with her long fingers, and was stroking herself as she watched me undress. “So hot...mm, pussy so hot...wet...so wet...mm,mm,mm,mm...fuck me...mm, mm, mm...fuck me...hot, hot pussy...fuck me...” Her head was thrown back as she mumbled the words in a soft whisper and her fingers began to flutter across her clit. I lifted her hips and she helped me slide her to the edge of the desk, and I slipped off the thong. Carla felt my cock bump her fingers in its search for her entrance, and she gently encircled it with soft, slim fingers and guided it to her wet, throbbing entrance. I slid in until the head was buried in her, and then pulled back out, her swollen inner lips coming with it as if attempting to hold it in. “Oh, God, put it in...please be inside me...I need you inside me.” I slipped in until the dry skin of my cock rolled the pretty petals back inside, and pulled back out, coating it with her wetness, then back in, deeper, over and over, until my cock gleamed with her nectar, and slid in easily. Her inner passage was like oiled silk, and tiny contractions rippled around my cock as it lay encased in her belly. When she moaned “fuck me” again, I started slowly stroking, in and out of her, loving the sight of the pink lips clasping me as I withdrew. She balanced on one hand, as the other found her clit again, and began rubbing. I leaned forward to kiss her, and her mouth tried to devour my lips as her tongue searched for mine. Little moans hummed inside my mouth as our tongues met, and my stroking fingers on her nipples and breasts caused the frequency and volume to increase. She broke the kiss, panting. “Ahm...hah-uh-hah...ah...ah...oh God, hah-uh-hah, mmmm,mmmm, hah-uh-hah, mm...mm...mm,mm,mm.” Her body tensed, and the first spasm crawled up the length of my buried cock, milking it for seed. “Ah.” Tension again, and another spasm pulled me deeper inside her. I increased the speed of my strokes as I felt my own release coming. “Ah... OH, GOD.” I was holding on, but not by much. Her pulsating pussy and caressing lips were making it difficult to wait for her. Then, Carla pushed against my cock, hard, and her body shook; “NOW...NOW” I pushed deep into her, and Carla pushed back, forcing my cock in until my balls were squeezed against her lovely ass. Her orgasm started in shudders as she wrapped her arms around me and pulled her breasts against my chest. Her pussy released it’s hold on my cock, and I stroked out, and back in. As Carla tried to impale herself on me, I splashed my seed inside her. Her high pitched wail, drove me to stroke in and spurt again. “OH, FUCK ME, PLEASE FUCK ME.” Carla convulsed against me, shuddered and tried to push against me as I stroked in again, and again, spent, but loving the feel of her rippling passage and grasping lips on my cock. “OH, GOD... NOW... NOW... NOW, AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.” After one last quivering spasm, she stopped moving, and kissed me, long, and open mouthed, and wet. She kept me in her embrace, her head on my shoulder and her lips nibbling my neck as my cock shriveled, inched out of her, and finally lay, wet with both our fluids, on the desk as my sperm leaked out of her. She opened her eyes, looked at me, smiled and whispered. “Jase, you were great. You have no idea how much I needed that. Phil hasn’t made love to me in six months, and my fingers just aren’t the same. Thank you.” “It was my pleasure, Carla, but why me? A woman with your looks and money could have any man she wanted.” “I scare most men off, because I own my company. I have to sound hard and tough to run my business, and besides all the men are either gay, or think twenty year old girls screw better than thirty three year olds like me. I guess they like hard the little butts, and blowjobs, which I do very well, by the way, but not for just anybody. Anyway, they’re all a bunch of wimps when they come up against me, and I can’t get turned on by a man who cowers. You put me in my place, that first night, and I decided you would stand up to me anytime. I really need to be with a strong man to get excited. You excited me, that night, and so I tried you out in my shorts and T-shirt. When you looked at me, at my crotch and nipples, I mean, and didn’t try to hide it, I knew you would be the one.” “So the shorts were a test, so to speak?” “Kind of, but I enjoyed it too. I really do like being seen, naked and otherwise. I wasn’t kidding about the Parthenon; I just love being naked in front of other people, just like I am now, with you.” This was sounding like, “I’ll divorce my husband, and come live with you, forever” talk, so I decided to put my ethics and personal rules back on. “I apologize if I’m assuming too much here, but I’m not into long term relationships. They always turn out messy for me, and I hate breaking them up.” “God, Jase, you really do have an ego, don’t you. I’m not looking for anything permanent, either. I’m not even looking for love. I don’t have time for lovey-duvey stuff, my job takes too much time. I won’t bother you again, if you don’t want me too, but I would like to say you’re my friend. I need a friend that won’t take my attitude when it needs adjusting, just so I can come back to reality, and if he should be pleased to sleep with me from time to time, so much the better, but no strings come with this package. It’s free for the right man, and I think you’re the right man, for now, at least.” “How would we arrange all this? A woman in your position wouldn’t want to be seen with a common private dick like me; I would ruin your social standing.” She laughed, “Always wanted a private dick, but I had hoped not to be standing when we meet. I suppose it might be an interesting challenge though...” She looked at me, serious again. “I can always find you at Barney’s. I could get used to that place, and the great cheeseburgers, if I don’t look around too hard. It’s dark, no one else I know would ever go there, and unless I miss my guess, your lady friend who runs it is, shall we say, inclined toward the softer side of life. She wouldn’t be jealous of me, so she wouldn’t say anything to anybody. Hell, I might just get adventurous some day, and ask her out. Her name’s Joyce, right? Never done that before, but I’ve heard it’s pure heaven with the right girl. Would that make you jealous?” “No, people should do what their comfortable with, and what they enjoy. Go for it, but I should warn you, Joyce and Sheryl come as a set, so you might get more than you bargained for.” “The pretty little blonde is Sheryl? Well, I could probably get comfortable with her too. Right now, I’d like to get comfortable on your couch. I’ll stay here tonight, unless you don’t want me around any more...around you, that is.” I lifted her off the desk, and carried her to the couch. “I’ve got a sheet and some blankets here, somewhere. Let me find them and you can get as much of you around me as you want, as often as you want, any time you want.” She kissed me, and then breathed in my ear, “Fuck the sheets, fuck the blankets. Fuck me... again...long and slow this time.”