It was a beautiful may morning, sunny, not too hot, with a cooling breeze blowing in off the lake, but I couldn't enjoy it because I had my eyes closed. I had my eyes closed because I was enjoying something else: the sensation of a pair of big soft lips and a wet tongue slobbering all over my stiff prick.
It's our morning ritual. I come into the office about 8:30 every morning, and walk past the desk of my secretary/receptionist, Priscilla McCall, to my private suite. Priss rises and follows me in, locking the door behind her. She's usually wearing something low cut to show off the generous slope of her breasts, something high cut to emphasize the length of her curvaceous legs.
She leans against the door after locking it and murmurs, "Good morning, boss."
"Good morning, Priss. Any appointments in the next half-hour?" I ask.
"New client coming in at nine," she might reply, as she did this morning. She licks those aforementioned lips and smiles wickedly, the white of her teeth flashing in contrast to the glossy red lipstick, the deep ebony of her skin. Pushing herself away from the door, she approaches me slowly on stiletto heels.
"Then we have plenty of time, don't we?" I ask. My jacket is off by this time, draped around the back of the chair. I am still standing beside my desk, watching her approach. Her breasts, full and firm, sway slightly with the swing of her round hips.
She stops in front of me and presses her chest against mine, and reaches for my zipper. With those heels on, Priss and I can look each other directly in the eye.
The combined effect of watching her chocolate-colored body walk, and the thought of what she is about to do, has already made me hard, so she has a little trouble pulling my cock out of my pants. I assist her by unbuckling my belt and unbuttoning my waistband. My trousers fall to the floor, forgotten in a puddle around my ankles.
Priss's cool fingers wrap around my manhood, stroking and squeezing, and our lips meet in a deep kiss. My own fingers caress the flesh pillows exposed at the top of her blouse. I sit on the desktop and kiss my way down from her neck to those glorious twin globes, pulling her blouse up so I can appreciate them better.
She doesn't let me linger very long, however, for soon she is on her knees, the way she is now, on this beautiful morning, whispering huskily that I have the biggest cock she's ever seen on a white man, and begging for me to feed it to her. Of course I oblige – who am I to deny such a hard-working employee?
My name is Busy Walken – that's a nickname, the "Busy" part. I'm a licensed private investigator, a shamus, a sleuth. My mother, who was brought up reading Charles Dickens, thought Ebenezer Walken was a perfectly appropriate name. It was quickly shortened to "Beezer", and then, when in high school I earned a reputation with the girls, to the name that is painted on my door.
So as I started telling you, my eyes were closed as Priss engulfed my Johnson with her soft, wet mouth, and squeezed my nuts with one hand while she used the other to jerk me off.
I don't always close my eyes, of course. I love to watch my cock fucking her mouth, watch it disappear between her thick red lips and down her throat; then reappear, tinged with lipstick and wet with her saliva. And, of course, I love to watch my cum spurt thickly out and cover her greedy tongue, with not a small amount splashing onto her face and dripping down from her chin onto her ripe, black melons.
This was what was happening now, and I opened my eyes in time to see her pull her mouth about an inch away, the better to catch the jets of spunk that my intense orgasm produced.
Priss maneuvered the stray ribbons of white jizz from her dark cheeks into her mouth with a manicured finger and swallowed seductively, lifting her chin and massaging her throat with one hand. That which had landed on her tits was rubbed into her skin with the other hand. What a sight!
And this was the sort of thing that happened every morning before we officially started our business day.
On rare occasions Priss would let me, after the ritual blowjob, feel how wet her pussy had gotten while sucking me off. I would take my time with this, running a palm slowly up her magnificent legs, then gently parting her pussy lips with my middle finger, sinking it deep into her tight, sopping hole. Then she would pull away, composing herself for her return to the outside office, leaving me to suck my own middle finger and dream of the day she would allow me to take her completely.
This was not to be that day, however, and after she'd straightened her clothing and given me one last peck on the head of my pecker, she glanced at the clock and said, "Put yourself away, Boss, your client's going to be here soon."
I was put back together in no time, and a few moments later a soft knock came at the door, which opened immediately and revealed my first client of the day: a woman, Priss had told me beforehand, who was looking for her runaway daughter.
Rising to meet her, we exchanged pleasantries and I indicated a chair opposite my desk. As she sat, I quickly looked her over and found her to be, for somebody's mother, quite a beautiful woman, though she was trying hard to hide it. Blonde hair pulled severely back in a bun, scant makeup, wearing a high-button suit dress that attempted to mask her voluptuous frame, and low- heeled "sensible" shoes.
She couldn't mask her eyes, though, which were colored a deep amber, like those of a lioness.
These feline eyes bored into me now as we sat across the desk from each other. She appeared to be assessing me as well. I said nothing. Finally she inhaled sharply through her nostrils and glanced away. I figured I had passed whatever test she'd given me.
"What can I do for you this morning, Mrs. Chandler? My secretary said only that your daughter had run away."
"Yes, Mr. Walken," she replied briskly. She didn't look all that broken up about it, really. "I'd like you to find her, if you can."
"Well, I don't usually do runaway cases, ma'am. Have you tried the police?"
"Um, no," she hesitated. "I felt that the police wouldn't bother with it. You see, my daughter is twenty-five years old."
Twenty-five! This gorgeous creature in my office didn't look much more than twenty-five herself. Some quick mental math told me that if she'd given birth to her daughter at the age of 18, she'd be 43 now. The next thought that entered my head was, "good plastic surgeon".
As if reading my mind, Mrs. Chandler said, "I had Cherisse when I was twelve. An unfortunate story, the details of which I won't bore you with. I'm thirty-seven years old, Mr. Walken." Which was more like it, I guessed.
"No," I agreed, "the cops wouldn't bother. In fact, they'd probably laugh you out of the station house. But somehow," I continued, "I get the feeling that you want me to find more than your daughter."
