0 comments/ 50522 views/ 2 favorites I Spy With My Little Eye By: adoration Stan Manuel's the name, I'm a private investigator and yup, my office girl and all my friends call me "Stan the Man". You can call me Stan. I once did a job for a retired admiral. He wanted me to find out who his wife was having an EMA with – sorry, that's my shorthand for extra-marital affair. Turned out it was the guy who used to be his flag officer here at Pearl, on Oahu. That's Pearl Harbor for those who don't know their history. Well, the admiral was so grateful he not only paid me my fee, plus a nice little bonus, but he also gave me a gift. It's a pair of Russian binoculars. Seems the admiral was once stationed up in Anchorage, and the Russian navy called in on some goodwill visit. "They're basically good guys," said the admiral, "but they drink a helluva lot too much vodka." Anyway, the admiral's Russian equivalent gave him this pair of binoculars as a parting gift. "You got any use for these, son?" the admiral had asked me. He called everyone under the age of 60 "son", but although I was 36-years-old at the time, I didn't mind. I liked the old codger, felt sorry his wife was cheating on him. "Sure could come in handy some days, admiral," I said and he thrust them into my hand. "And don't think that 'cos they're made by our friends the Russkies they ain't any good," said the admiral. "When they overran Germany at the end of the war up in Europe, they grabbed a lot of experts from the Carl Zeiss Jena workshops. That's why they make such goddam good glasses, if you'll pardon my language, son." Well, that was a couple of years ago and they've sure come in handy since in my particular hobby. And in my line of work, but more in my hobby. But they're big bastards - crikey those Russian sailors must have been ironmen just to lift them above their shoulders, so I had a tripod made of beautiful Hawaiian koa wood for them to stand on. They now stand just on the edge of my lounge, inside from the lanai, looking out across the valley from my 20th floor apartment. And very useful equipment they are too! Because of a lot of the ladies who live in the posh houses way below my place aren't exactly careful about being careful, if you get my drift. Still, a lot of them have secluded, beautiful big homes. We're talking millions, fancy big places a 20-minute drive from downtown Waikiki. And I don't suppose they'd ever think that little old me, more than a mile away can count the number of pubic hairs on their pussies as I perv on 'em through my trusty Russkie binoculars. I'd just finished a long, boring inquiry for an international yachting skipper whose wife was having affairs with studs all over town. It involved long hours of observation, so I was taking a week or so off. This afternoon I was sipping on my mid-afternoon mai tai, sitting on a bar stool which was perfectly placed for me to look through the binoculars without having to bend. You spend a lot of time perving – er, looking, through these things you need to be comfortable. As usual I was doing my scanning of the properties across the valley in the nude. I'm 38, as you've probably worked out, but speaking of "working out" I go to a private gym just 10 minutes away and I've got a body that's almost as toned as when I was a Navy Seal. I'm six foot, I'm tanned, I've got a shaved head and I'm eight inches of manhood down there, uncut and shaved, too. I don't like a mass of pubic hair sprouting around the edges of my thong. I am, according to women like Miranda, my office help, a "hunk". Hey, who's gonna argue? So anyway, there I am, sitting naked on my bar stool, sipping on this mai tai – and I only drink one a day, but I do it as a sort of nod to my adopted home, I've tasted better drinks – and I came across this vision as I scanned along the back gardens of the properties about three-quarters of a mile away. I damn nearly missed her. You see, she was lying on a dark-brown coloured beach towel on this recliner and her body was so beautifully, deeply, richly tanned, her figure and its great tan sort of melded into the brownness of the towel. But I flicked back and saw that I was looking at the most magnificent specimen I'd come across in months! Usually it was an array of ladies of a certain age, as the French have it, who have pot bellies, sagging tits and sloppy thighs and who do nothing for me, or youngies aged anywhere from their late teens to their early 20s, who do nothing for me either. I'm 38, I fancy people in the same sort of age range. Don't know about you, but to me that means anything from around 30 to 45, give or take a year or so, depending on that certain something. You with me? So to get back to Ms Magnificent, she was a stunner. Till she stood up I didn't have an idea of what her height would be, but it looked as if her legs were long, although the angle I was looking at her from wasn't the best to judge that. Her belly looked toned and taut, although – again – the angle and the fact she was lying down meant she would look flat there till she got up. She had superb breasts, though, and that I could tell without seeing her stand up. She was sitting in the recliner, her back was almost straight and her breasts were pressed upwards, the nipples large and almost black, the areolae around them almost black too. Although I was pointing my bins directly at her, I'd estimate them around 36 inches, give or take. She had long, lustrous black hair. She wasn't the prettiest woman I'd ever laid eyes on, but she had deep brown eyes – yup, these binoculars are that good – and she was attractive in a hard sort of way. I guessed she was part-Hawaiian, although she might have been foreign. Either way, local or an import, she was Grade A "fuck me" material. During my perving – let's not beat about the bush any more, eh? – my cock had stood up and I was now stroking my hard-on, which was seeping pre-cum in what the porn writers call "copious quantities". I kept the binoculars trained on this marvellous vision, who was lying back relaxing in the warmth of the sun, sipping from time to time on a long glass on the table beside her. It had chunks of ice in it, plus a wedge of lemon floating on the top. Gin and tonic, vodka, possibly. Then, to my delight, she stood up and stretched on tip toe. Fuck, was she great! I'd estimate her at around five 10, supermodel height, anyway, and her legs were those of a supermodel's. For the first time I got a look at her pussy, as she stood with her feet wide. There was a small patch of deep black pubic hair on her mons, then I could see her pink pussy lips peeping out from the darkness of her crotch. But then she turned on her heel and, displaying a sweetly kissable pair of cheeks, she walked swiftly into the house, taking her drink with her. I locked the binoculars into position so when I needed them later they'd be perfectly targeted, then went to my street map of Honolulu. From the map I found two streets which could have been the address of Ms Magnificent. Then I checked through the binoculars again. Her house had a tiled roof, lightish sort of brown, and a distinctive red-painted edging on all the woodwork. Next door on one side was a sort of old-style Colonial mansion, to the other a two-storeyed modern monstrosity. I went down to the basement and climbed into my battered old Datsun. In my kind of work there are cars that you don't want remembered, and there are cars that you want people to think "Hey, this guy's arrived!" That car I did not want this evening. I drove across the valley and selected what I thought was the most likely of the two streets and as I cruised down at an "I'm just looking at the lovely houses" sort of speed, I came across Ms Magnificent's abode. I noted the number, 1080, and drove home. I did absolutely nothing to arouse any suspicion. Back home I called up my database and dragged a file which is very useful in the private investigation business. It gives the details of ownership of every property on the island, the owner's occupation, whether it's freehold or leasehold, land size, and so on. The first snag in my hunt turned up. The property was registered to a Dr Marcus, someone or other, and his occupation given as "retired". I needed to do some more research. Calling up the white pages, I found the good doctor's phone number, with the matching address, and dialled it. "This number has been disconnected," a metallic voice informed me. My next job was simple. I took an advertising brochure from the pile of mail that had arrived this afternoon, and chose one glossy pamphlet plugging cruises out of Victoria, British Vancouver. Crap about glaciers, whales and great food. I found an envelope which it fitted into perfectly, then inserted the envelope in my trusty old IBM. I typed: "The occupier, 1080." Inside, I put a sheet of A4 which I printed out from my word processor: "From the occupier at 1030, opened in error, sorry." The typeface was my good old Apple Mac's New Times Roman, millions like it. I didn't even bother to wear rubber gloves while handling it because the chances of her being suspicious about it were almost non-existent and, anyway, if I was spotted "posting" it in her letter box, it would look pretty darned strange if I was wearing rubber gloves! Now you may wonder, why I was going to all this bother to find her name? Well – that's obvious, of course. I wanted to get her name to get her number to give her a call. But why did I want to call her? Simple. I wanted to get into her pants. And, of course, you'd be curious as to why I wanted to do that. My actions could be extremely risky for my licence if she complained to the authorities. She could report me for obscene calls, or making a nuisance. If the cops could trace me, it would be not only embarrassing, it would mean goodbye to my licence. So, why bother? Well, it was a bit like that Limey mountaineer, Irvine, Irving, one or the other I think, who was asked why bother climbing Mt Everest. He said: "Because it's there." That's my answer. Because she was there. And besides, it was the thrill of the chase, or in this case, more precisely, the hunt. I'm not exactly a monk in my sexual behaviour, I get around, I sleep around. But I wanted Ms Magnificent. That's why I wanted to talk to her. To charm her. To get into her panties. Of course, when I spoke to her I might go off her. She might sound like a whore. She might not, though. Hell, she was probably married. Or had a partner. More research was needed, so I poured my first Grey Goose and tonic of the day and resumed my perch on the bar stool. It was now getting on for 6.30 in the evening and the sun was slipping its rapid way beneath the horizon. Inside 1080 the lights were on. She was watching TV, drinking from the same glass, there was no one else in the house. I checked on her a couple of other times, loving the way her simple black dress hung around her fantastic figure. She cooked herself a steak on a large, all-mod-cons barbecue in the yard by her large pool. She sat in front of her television, ate the steak, a baked potato and a green salad, and drank a bottle of red wine – not even the Russian binoculars could make out the lettering on the label – and walked steadily into her bedroom, stripped naked – what a body! – climbed into bed and the lights went out around the house. The next morning, I got Miranda, my office help, to check to US Post about the time she could expect a mail delivery in Ms Magnificent's street. She explained she was looking after the house for a friend and was expecting some important papers and wanted to be there when it arrived. Some 10 minutes before the mail was due to be delivered in the street I checked Ms Magnificent's home and found the place closed up. No sign of her. About five minutes before the mail, I walked down to the basement and climbed into the car I wanted to be seen in. It was a blazing, fire engine red Ferrari. No, not shades of Tom Selleck. This Ferrari was a front-engined Daytona. Very rare, very stylish. This afternoon, though, if I was to be seen I wanted to be seen as someone who had "arrived" and could have come from the street. I entered Ms Magnificent's street just in time to see the little blue US Post van driving out of it. I gunned the Ferrari to 1080, climbed out of the car and went to her large letterbox. It was set in a large brick wall, but the mail was still stuffed in the box opening. Casually I pulled the bundle out, very casually, not trying to be furtive about it at all and as I placed my envelope for Ms Magnificent on the top of the mail, I shuffled through the addressee slips. All were made out to a Laura Lazorides. Pushing the bundle back into the box I made sure they all fell into the box, then turned back to the Ferrari. No one was watching, as far as I could tell, and I drove home. My next task was to call directory help, and I soon had the phone number for Ms Magnificent. I decided to forego the sickly sweet mai tai this afternoon, this was a job for a fuckin' big Grey Goose! The first words in a call to an unsuspecting woman are extremely important. You can totally fuck it with a word out of place, you have to grab their attention, hold it and – if it's possible with such a call – make 'em laugh. The next morning around 11, Ms Magnificent walked out to her recliner, pointed it slightly off to an angle from my vantage point, undraped a large beach towel from her body and lay naked on the recliner. On the table by the lounger I saw a phone and hoped it wasn't her mobile.Then she started to stroke her pussy with the fingers of her right hand. I picked up my phone, set the attached tape recorder going and punched in her number – I'd memorised it, no way I was going to put it on my speed dial. I saw her lean over and pick up the receiver. I took a deep breath and in as friendly and sexy voice I could muster I said: "That's such a waste, a magnificent-looking woman like you having to resort to such habits." She looked startled, her eyes searched the immediate neighbourhood. "Who the fuck is this?" she demanded. "An admirer from afar, you wonderful woman," I said. She then looked up towards the apartment blocks – there's three of 'em looking over the valley, I'm in the middle one. Then she snapped: "Well, you can fucking well remain from afar, you pervert." And the connexion died. Then, draping the towel around her, Ms Magnificent stormed back into her house, taking the phone with her. Oh well, I thought, chalk it all up to experience. Another failure, another chapter in life's rich tapestry. Then, to my amazement, five minutes later she re-emerged into the sunshine. This time she was wearing a wet-look sort of plastic bikini. I guess it was PVC. The cups to the bra were small and gleamed in the sun. The bottom was just a narrow strip along her sex trench, her buttocks were bare – it was a thong. She marched out carrying the phone and as she did she shifted the recliner so it was facing directly at the three distant apartment blocks. Then she seemed to be looking directly at me – an illusion, of course, no way she could have seen me – and she waved the phone as if to say "Here I am again!" My suspicious mind thought first that she'd called Honolulu PD to arrange for a tap to be done for incoming calls, then immediately dismissed it. Modern communications can do a lot of things, but they can't set up a tap that fast. I dialled her up again. "Hi, Ms Magnificent," I said, when she answered. "That's a very, very sexy little bikini." She ignored me. "So, Mr Spy in the Sky, you caught me masturbating," she said, in a husky, sexy voice. "I guess that's exactly what you're doing with your pathetic little prick right now, isn't it?" "Actually, yes, it is," I said. "But I'm disappointed you think eight inches is pathetic." I saw her shrug. "Tell you what, Mr Spy in the Sky," she said, coolly, calmly, "I'll show you what I think of you and your oh-so-mighty prick." And she stepped to the edge of her pool, grabbed at the gusset of her thong, pulled it aside and leaned back a little. Then a strong arc of yellow liquid streamed into the blue water. "There," she said, adjusting her bikini bottom and returning to the lounger, "what did you think of that, Mr Spy?" I laughed, making it as deep and sexy a chuckle as I could manage. "Well for starters it was an awful waste of your wonderful nectar," I said, "but it also reminded me of that old line from W.C. Fields about why he didn't drink water." "The line being?" she asked, still cooler than the iceberg that hit the Titanic. "He said he never drank water because fish fuck in it," I told her. And then she laughed. And then I hoped I might be making progress. I took the opportunity to dive in, as it were. "Oh, I'm simply a repository of W.C. Fields' lines," I said. "Such as?" she said, sounding a little less pissed. "Well," I said, pondering, "he once said 'I'm free of prejudice, I hate everyone equally'." "Hmm," said Ms Magnificent, "right now I'm not so keen on you, Mr Spy." "Let me get this right," she went on – at least she hadn't hung up! "This handsome hunk with an eight inch cock, a wonderful sense of humour and loads of W.C. Field quotes, a marvellously toned, sculpted body and oodles of money has decided to spy on me, call me, offer me his wonderful body for the most magnificent sex I've ever had." She paused for breath, then added: "Is that it? Or are you 65, with a beer belly, a three-inch cock in full extension, nicotine-stained teeth, a bad case of flatulence and halitosis." I laughed. "I'm nearer 40 than 30, I'm an ex-Seal, I'm trimmed and toned, I'm not rich and I just happened to come across you while I was adjusting my binoculars a couple of days ago," I said. "So how come you got my phone number?" she snapped. "Found your name from the land registry," I lied, "called directory inquiries and bingo, I called you. And saw you masturbating. Why does a gorgeous young lady like you need to resort to her fingers?" We were now having a conversation. Could lead to nothing, but shit was I working at it! "Gorgeous? Young? Buster, you need to get those glasses of yours checked out," she snorted. "I'm no oil painting and I'm 30 fucking 5." "You're stunning and 35 is young in my book – like I said, I'm 38," I said, desperate to keep her humour going. "I'm also on holiday, I know where you live from land registry. What say I bring round a bottle of Krug Blanc de Blanc and say I'm sorry and we can kiss and make up?" "You mean kiss and fuck?" she said. "What happens, happens," I said. "How about it?" "Email me some pictures of yourself," she said. "If you really are what you say you are – ex-Navy Seal, eight-inch cock, I might, just might, be interested." "Whoa," I said, "wait on. What's to stop you going to the authorities and handing 'em over. Look at the filth this snooping spy emailed me." She sighed: "OK, I'll email you some pictures of me. Better views than what you've seen through your fuckin' binoculars, buster." I thought, Could be risky, even in that great big world of the internet people can be traced. Then, and I mean this honestly, I thought what the hell? Life's just a oncer, this ain't no rehearsal. Go for it. I gave her my email. "Give me 10 minutes, then log on," she said. "Enjoy." And she snapped the connexion closed. Ten minutes dragged by, then I went as slowly as I could and clicked onto the mail. "One new message," read the little panel at the bottom of the screen. I flicked on to it. "See, I keep my promises," said the message, signed "Laura" and I opened the first of three attachments. All three were similar, all three were obviously taken by a professional photographer, all three showed Ms Magnificent in stunning sheer lingerie, wearing no panties and pointing her magnificent pussy lips at the lens. I Spy With My Little Eye I punched out her number and heard her crisp "Hello". "Not fair, Laura," I protested. "My pictures will be taken on a timer by my digital camera and may well be out of focus, your pictures are superb, professional jobs." "I kept my side of the bargain, Mr Spy," she snapped. "Now put up or shut up." And the line went dead. Well, she had a point, I guess. I got out the digital camera, set it up on a stool and pulled on a white satin thong by Frederick's of Hollywood. It contrasted superbly against my tan, cupped my balls tight and allowed my cock to lay across the front in what I hoped would be an outline of eye-popping semi-stiffness. I took a full frontal picture, then a three-quarter side shot to reveal my tanned, toned butt, then a naked full frontal. My cock was stiff as a policeman's nightstick by now. I checked 'em out. All were sharp enough, so I loaded 'em into the computer and fired off the email. Ten minutes later, I called her. "Get round here, and make sure you've got that Krug with you," she snapped. Well, of course it could have been a trap. But hey, I'm an ex-Navy Seal, I can handle myself, I'll take the chance. I splashed some Envy for Men, by Gucci, on my face, pulled on a pair of white Polo by Ralph Lauren shorts – so white they almost made you squint – and a Tommy Hilfiger "Hawaii" T-shirt, the one with the Hawaiian islands above the logo. Very touristy, but I like it. On my feet I slipped near-new Sperry TopSiders, and strapped my Omega Seamaster on my wrist. From the kitchen hook I took the Daytona's keys – this was definitely not a job for the Datsun! I wheeled into her large yard in front of the house and heard the gates behind me clicking shut. Well, if she was surrounded by a bunch of goons, I'd soon find out. I climbed from the Daytona, walked as casually as I could to the front door and heard the doorbell chimes – it sounded like the start to Beethoven's fifth symphony, but then I could have been wrong. The door swung open and there stood Ms Magnificent, still clad only in her PVC bikini and high heels. She looked even more superb up close, her face was hard, perhaps, but had once been beautiful. She was wearing too much mascara, but hey, who gives a fuck? "Peace offering," I grinned, in my most winning smile, handing her the chilled bottle of Krug. "Sorry I didn't dress up like you," I tried to make a feeble little joke. She stepped back and let me in. "I was going to put on a shirt and jeans," she said, "but it's so warm here in Honolulu and you've seen everything there is to see, so I thought what the hell. Come in." In her sumptuous kitchen I sat on a barstool. "What's your poison?" she asked, stowing the Krug in her fridge. "I'm a Grey Goose man," I replied. She sniffed. "Over-priced and over-praised," she said. "Have an Absolut – half the price, twice the taste. Or, if you're a real vodka drinker, you can have a Stolichnaya straight." "Too tough for me," I laughed. "Absolut and tonic's fine." As she poured our drinks, Laura looked archly at me. "OK, buster, time you levelled with me. How'd you get my number – and cut the land registry crap. Dad's still the registered landowner, he owns the house and the land, only he's gone back to retire in Boston." "What's he a doctor of?" I asked, thinking what my response should be. "He used to lecture on philosophy at Princeton," she said. "Now, how'd you get the number?" I decided in the old "honesty is the best policy" ploy and explained everything. The phoney "wrong address" trick, finding her name, the whole deception. "And your line of work, as if I couldn't guess," she said. "You're a cop, right?" I shook my head. "Nope, a private investigator." "Christ, I could have done with you a year ago," she sighed. I relaxed a tad. "How come?" I asked, sipping on the Absolut. It wasn't bad, but it was no Grey Goose. "Marriage went belly up," she said. "The fuckin' private dick I hired was incompetent. The divorce I'm going through is a mess." I raised an eyebrow, and she ploughed on. "The bastard left me for his office girl. She's 18, an improbably busty blonde. He even sent me an email with a video attached of her going down on him! I'm not a big cocksucker." Then she laughed again. "I mean, I'm not huge on sucking cocks." It was my turn to laugh. "And you're here on holiday?" I asked. "Dad's lent me the house for a couple of months just to get away from it all," she said. "I've been here a fortnight and just mooch around, I'm not into the social scene, clubs, eating out. "So I lay around here in the nude all day – as you've seen." Then she paused. "And I drink vodka all day ..." Then her voice trailed away and she began to sob. I didn't know what to do, so I did the gentlemanly thing and stood up and put my arms around her quivering back. She slipped off her stool and pressed her face into my chest and howled. Her body was firm and warm against mine. I stroked her hair, saying silly things like "It's all right baby". Stuff like that. Hey, I'm a private dick, not a poet, for crying out loud. Then she pulled away and looked at my T-shirt. "Oh, sorry," she sniffled, "I've got gunge all over Tommy." I looked down and saw enough mascara on my shirt to supply the entire Dallas Cowboys cheerleader squad. "Forget it," I said, pulling the messed up T-shirt off. She stepped against me and ran her hands over my upper back. It's a finely chiselled upper back, I can tell you. Then she stepped back again and moved past me towards the door into the hallway. "Walk this way," she smiled. "Well, I'll try," I said, "but you've had years of practice." She looked back at me over her shoulder. "Hey," she said, "that's not W.C. Fields – that's Groucho Marx." The tears were still streaming down her face, but she was smiling. Make 'em laugh, remember? Upstairs in her bedroom she flicked her fingers at me. "Get out of that stuff and get up here," she said, slipping out of her high heels and climbing onto the bed, before leaning over and pulling a tissue from a bedside table box and cleaning her eyes. I lay beside her in my white satin thong. She bent over and calm as you like slipped it away from my groin. The eight-inches I have down there couldn't control himself, of course, and pointed directly to my chin. She bent lower, planted a very tentative kiss on his lips, then sucked him, slowly, then pulled away. "Sorry, Mr Spy," she said, "I'm not really into that. I far prefer it the other way round." I leaned across her body and started to pull her bikini thong down, but she placed firm hands on my shoulders and pushed me away. "Down, Mr Spy, down," she said, "I prefer to be on top." Then she arranged the two big pillows on the bed so they were lined up pointing down the bed. I fell back onto them, my upper torso and my head quite high off the mattress. Laura shucked off the thong and placed one knee against my right armpit, then swung across me until her right knee was snuggled against my left armpit. Now, in even more detail than I'd seen through the binoculars, I could see her stunning pussy. I first kissed the crinkly little thatch of black pubic hair on her mons, while cupping her heavenly buttocks in both hands. Then I licked my way down from the thatch to her clit – it was hard – then down between her lush labia lips to her cunt. It was heaven there. She was dripping sex juice and it tasted tangy. An aroma that only a mature, on heat woman can exude, invaded my nostrils. Then I delved deep down her sex, my tongue seeking, then finding her musky anus. From above me, Ms Magnificent let out a sharp hiss, followed by an exclamation: "Oh god, I love that, please don't stop. That's so arousing." I had no intention of stopping. As my nose buried itself between her lush labia, inhaling her sexual perfume, my tongue worked its way into the outer lips of her anus, tasting the brackish flavor, licking hungrily. She tasted so hot! Finally, though, I had to pull out and work back to her cunt, otherwise I'd have passed out through lack of oxygen. My tongue again worked into her cunt, still dripping wet, still smelling so sweet. Then I lifted my game to her clit and began to suck and nibble on it prior to what had to be an early orgasm. Ms Magnificent was thrusting on my face now, humping me with her groin, face fucking me with her marvellous minge. I tasted every salty sweet-smelling blob of moisture and soon she was sobbing, then screaming at the arrival of her climax. "Oh yes, Mr Spy, yes, keep licking it, I'm coming, don't stop, don't fuckin' stop," she implored. As if I had any intention of stopping! Then, with a grunting gasp, she fell away from me, pressing her steamy pussy firmly against my right shoulder, shuddering on me as her climax subsided and faded away. She lay down beside me and I saw her glorious globes standing firm against my mid-chest, the nipples pressing their suckable erections onto me. She had obviously removed her bra during our cunnilingual congress. Laura leaned over and kissed me on the nose, then wrinkled her own nose up. "Ooooh, you smell so, ooh, so smelly!" she said. "It's the most wonderful smell in the world," I said, kissing her hungrily on the mouth. Then I pressed my cock against her thigh and whispered in her ear: "My turn now, I think." Ms Magnificent smiled at me and said: "Sure, but for our first fuck I want it to be the missionary. I know I'm a prude, but it's my favorite way." She'd get no arguments from me, I thought, as I climbed on board, pardon the nautical term. Her cunt was still sopping wet from my oral adoration and my cock slid into a velvety-smooth vagina like it was made for me. She lifted her thighs and planted her heels on my buttocks and I started to ride her smoothly to a climax. I was so tense and so intent on enjoying myself that I didn't give a fuck if I came quickly. "I'm gonna come quick, that OK with you, Ms Magnificent?" I whispered in her hot ear as I pumped up and down on her toned, tanned figure. "Fine, Mr Spy," she said, with a big smile, "we've got all day for you to slow down." And that did it for me. I kissed her warmly on her lovely large lips and pumped my seed deep into her, grunting loudly as I felt my spunk shoot from me and into her vagina. She allowed me a soft cuddle for a while as my cock went limp on me, then she slid out from under me. In the shower, we soaped each other and kissed like schoolkids. Then we towelled down and I went downstairs to fetch the two Absoluts. Back on the bed, sipping the vodkas, I asked: "Why did you let me visit? Why even allow me to chat you up?" Laura took a deep draught on her Absolut and eyed me up and down. "It was a combination of things. First the sheer audacity. Then your voice. It's a deep voice, it's not a creepy voice. And you made me laugh. "I used to do research for a behavioural scientist – well, two of them, actually, they were working on a book together. In the research I learned quite a lot. "With phone creeps, either just obscene perverts who want to masturbate while they speak, or really creepy bastards who want to rape or strangle, there are certain buzz words, certain timbres of voice inflexion. "You had none of them. You sounded sane, although, of course, that can be faked. You sounded about my age, although that can be faked, too. "And I'm in such a mess with my life, I've not had a fuck in months, no make that a year. I don't get out to meet people. I thought I'd take a chance with you. I was right. I guess I was just lucky." With that she drained her Absolut, then knelt on the bed, gripping the headboard, her knees wide, displaying her gorgeous ass and pussy to my gaze. "I love it when you go down there, Mr Spy. Do it again and then take me from the rear," she ordered. Who was I to refuse? This time I started at her rosebud anal passage. It was no longer so musky, following the shower, but I licked and kissed her until it was again very moist, then I pressed my tongue an inch or two into her. Again she hissed her pleasure at this anal penetration. Then I moved my tongue up to her lovely cunt, which had again begun to leak sex juice, the same sweet tasting flow that I had experienced before. Now if only you could bottle that, you'd become a real competitor for Grey Goose! As my tongue laved at her cunt, my nose was close to her anus, then as I moved between her labia lips and began to suck on her clitoris, my nose buried into her asshole, inhaling a faint trace of musk. I panted at my work, breathing through my mouth as my nostrils were blocked by her buttocks flesh, then she writhed and moaned as she came again. The cries and whimpers of her second orgasm were continuing as I rose and placed my cock against her still-wet anus. I probed her, sensing she might react to an anal intrusion, but she pushed against me, and then I slid the first two or three of my eight inches into her back passage. I felt her sigh again and her body relax, then I drove up her, my pubic bone banging against the bottom curves of her ass as I entered her fully. I moved my hands up and cupped her sensationally heavy but firm breasts, tweaking her lovely nipples between thumb and forefinger as I do so. This time I managed to control my animal urges much better and for five minutes I pounded her ass, long strokes, short, jerky strokes, and then the surge of ejaculate flowed through me and I pumped seed deep into her. My cock fell from her back passage with a "plop" and we lay back, sweating and exhausted on the bed. Now it was my turn to answer her queries about my Seal experiences in the navy, then we went downstairs, both still naked, Laura in her high heels, though, and she prepared a lunch of smoked fish sandwiches, olives and capers, little wedges of white bread with caviar and the bottle of Krug. Then she dragged me upstairs again. I say "dragged", hell, I wasn't protesting. We made love again, missionary position, then I pulled out before ejaculation and laid back to allow her to kneel above me for her orgasm. After she had panted to her pussy-pleasuring climax, I had a question: "I know you don't like going down, but will you permit me a tit fuck, Ms Magnificent?" "Well, Mr Spy," she smiled, "I've just enjoyed another great Big O, so it would be churlish of me to refuse. But don't expect me to suck you down, I'm not into that." I kissed her gently on the mouth. "No sweat," I smiled, "I'll just spray your throat with my sweet-tasting jism. You don't know what you're missing, Ms Magnificent." She punched me lightly on the chest. "Oh shut the fuck up and get on with it, Mr Spy!" she said, lying back and waiting for me to mount her mammaries. I placed my eight inches between her lush 36-inch breasts and pushed up towards her throat. As I did, Ms Magnificent cupped her glorious globes with her palms, pushed inwards and trapped my cock between her breasts. As I moved up, the tension between the twin peaks dragged my foreskin back almost to the ring, in a deliciously erotic move. Then, on the down slide, the foreskin slipped back to cover my helmet. It was a sensational feeling and soon I couldn't hold back. With a grunting cry of "Here I come, Ms Magnificent" my cock splattered three sprays of spunk onto her chest, just below her throat. After another clean-up in the shower, we lay back, exhausted, looking up at the ceiling and the fan as it made its lazy way around and around above us, sending slight wisps of breeze down onto our naked bodies. "Tell me about your office, how many people you employ? What do they do?" she asked. "Well," I began, "there's Miranda the office manager. Her father was a minor criminal here in Honolulu and she's got terrific contacts in the crime scene, and also with the Honolulu PD. She's also street smart, is part-Hawaiian and gorgeous. Naturally she wants my body." Laura laughed and punched me in the ribs. "Every woman does, you egomaniac," she laughed. "How old?" "She's 26, so she's far too young for me," I told her. "Then there's Dean – we call him Deano, though," I said. "He's another part-Hawaiian who is our skip tracer." She frowned: "Skip tracer?" "Lots of people skip town leaving behind all sorts of bills. Deano can pick up a phone and work it like a conductor works a symphony orchestra. He can trace people just by using his skills on the phone. To listen to him is like listening to a Beethoven symphony," I said, remembering her door chimes. "Oh yes, that fucking door chime of dad's," she grimaced, "it's got to go. "So that's it? The girl and the skip tracer? And you?" "And Mr Fyffe," I said. "We call him Mr Fyffe because I've never bothered to find out his first name. He's monosyllabic but he could follow you in your car all week and you wouldn't have a clue you're being tailed. He's indispensable." "It all sounds fascinating," said Ms Magnificent, stroking a cool nail down my chest to my cock. "Much more interesting than behavioural science." "I don't know," I said. "I reckon with your experience, I could find a job for you in the outfit. That's if you're interested, of course." She looked me straight in the eye. "Now that's one of the nicest propositions I've heard in ages, Mr Spy. You know I think I might take you up on that." I kissed her on the nose, feeling my cock starting to surge again. "The offer will always be open, Ms Magnificent," I said, taking her into my arms, then lowering my mouth to her astounding tits. "And please stop calling me 'Ms Magnificent', the name's Laura," she said, as I sucked her nipples to erection. "OK," I said, "but only if you stop calling me 'Mr Spy'." "But you're my secret agent," she pouted, as I resumed licking her breasts, while one hand probed her sex trench. It was seeping sex juice! "You're my James Bond-type – Bond was ex-Navy, wasn't he?" she asked. "He certainly was, Miss Moneypenny," I said, attempting my not-too-good imitation of Sean Connery's Bond accent. "Then I'll call you 007," said Laura, as I mounted her and slid my cock deep into her cunt. "In view of how well I'm hung," I said, "you'd better make that 008!" Laura pealed off into laughter so intense I thought I'd get dislodged from her pussy. "Shut up and fuck me," she grinned. See what I mean? Make 'em laugh!