The first thing I noticed was his cock.
It was huge. Nice, plump, and long. Just like I like 'em. Still firm, too. Still hungrily pointing skyward. I like 'em like that, too.
The second thing I noticed was that he was dead. I'm not proud it took me a second to figure it out. It's my job to be observant, so I'm a little ashamed my eyes were naturally drawn to his schlong first. Even the best of us get distracted.
My name's Marilyn McCoy. I'm a private dick.
Don't ask me how I got invited to the party. I'll be damned if I know. I didn't even know the guy, but when I received the invitation I decided it couldn't hurt to liven up my social life a little. Being a private investigator doesn't leave a lot of time for romance. You have to put in long hours, mostly in your office, waiting for someone to walk in the front door with fistfuls of money and a case for you to crack. I log twelve office hours a day. But the only fistful I've had the past few months is my own, holding a big black dildo that I spend an obscene amount of time slipping into my crotch while waiting patiently behind my desk for the door to open. That's what I was doing when the postman slid the engraved invitation under my office door. I'd like for him to slide me something else, but I guess I'll have to wait until I have certified mail or a package…something I have to sign for. Then I can answer the door in my detective uniform, the one I wear around the office…trench coat, yellow fedora, crumpled white shirt and tie…and nothing on below the waist. Aside from the occasional strap-on vibrator.
"Mr. Boddy requests the pleasure of your company on Saturday the third of October," the invitation read. "Please wear your finest. We will be celebrating the upcoming Broadway premiere of the young ingenue Ms. Scarlet, and you may be assured it will be an evening to remember."
So, slightly ashamed that I wasn't able to dry clean my trench coat, I ironed my white shirt and showed up on the front door of the Boddy Mansion, trying to get used to wearing pants and hoping for an evening to remember.
Mr. Boddy definitely didn't disappoint. The power had gone out well before I had a chance to muscle my way into any party conversations, and when the lights came back on, our host had rather rudely died on us. Butt naked at the foot of the stairs.
"Damn shame," I sighed, bending over the body and looking at that fabulous cock. Mrs. Peacock had found the body, and her screams had brought the rest of us from the lounge. Colonel Mustard had taken up the challenge of trying to comfort her. She was wailing hysterically.
"There, there," he said. "Chin up, my dear."
"Oh my God, Oh my God, he's dead, he's dead," she squealed, dabbing at her eyes with a blue handkerchief. She was the kind of woman that liked to look older than she was. I guessed she dyed her hair gray to look more mature. Hiding underneath her garish outfits, wrapped in scarves, frilly hats and veils, I couldn't imagine she was more than thirty. But from what I'd overheard, she'd already been through four husbands. Part of me was suspicious. The other part of me understood that constant, unrestrained exposure to tits like hers could kill any man.
Colonel Mustard was a hearty slice of beef, big, barrel-chested, and manly. I'd heard he'd spent a lot of time in Africa. Maybe wrestling lions, maybe porking native girls, I never got the details. Before the evening went south, I was thinking about reaching into those yellow khakis of his and taming his wild beast. I certainly would have liked to feel that bushy mustache of his tickling the inside of my thighs.
"Is he dead?" Professor Plum asked, adjusting the glasses on his nose and peering over Mr. Green's shoulder. A nerdy guy, dressed in purple. My first thought was that he was a queer, until I saw him eyeing Mrs. White's cleavage while she served drinks. Then I noticed he had big hands and big feet. It's always promising if a nerd is well hung. They always work harder in bed.
"I think so," I said, still unable to take my eyes off Mr. Boddy's thick prick. I was thinking about grabbing it, just to get the feel of it before it collapsed forever, but that would be in very poor taste. I am a professional, after all.
"Where are his clothes?" Mr. Green asked, straightening his tie. Not everyone can wear lime, but Mr. Green managed to pull it off. He looked like he was wearing an emerald Armani. And silk, no matter what color, always turns me on.
"That is a mystery, isn't it?" I said, tearing my eyes away from the organ occupying my imagination and trying to get my brain in gear.
"He's hung like a bull," Mrs. White said breathily. "An excited one," she added. Mrs. White was the new maid at the Boddy mansion. She had taken over the job from her mother. She was nineteen years old and her French maid uniform took advantage of every smooth curve and sleek muscle she had. I wished I was nineteen years old again. I never needed a dildo when I was nineteen.
I nodded in agreement. Her observation was making it hard for me to get down to the business at hand.
"Where's Ms. Scarlet?" Professor Plum asked.
