Foreword: This story was meant to be an entry in the Mike Hammer tribute event, but I screwed up by writing too slowly. Then I set it aside, a little disappointed in myself. Now I think I'm ready to get back at it, but I figured I'd publish a couple chapters at a time, in hopes of some positive feedback to motivate me to write the second half of the story (shamelessly seeking reinforcement, I guess).
So here are chapters one and two of the six I've written so far.
Ch. 1 Back to Work
My office that year was on the third floor of the Hammett building on Chandler Blvd. The door had a frosted glass window with "Mallet Associates, Investigations" on it in plain script, and a bell that jangled when it opened. There was a waiting room with two unused chairs and a coatrack, and almost enough room to take your coat off, if you were Houdini. The four-panel wood door of the office opened out into it. The office had couch that had seen more action than the crack whores down on the corner, a filing cabinet with a coffee maker on top, a closet hiding a john and a sink, a visitor's chair, a desk, and my swivel chair.
I'd been out for a week while the place was fumigated by pest control after the giant rat of Sumatra case. I was sitting at the desk with one foot propped up on a drawer, going through the mail, and scaling every piece at the wastebasket. The mail didn't offer anything to justify having a secretary/receptionist, but every time Velda walked through the door two outstanding references preceded her, and every time she walked out she wrote a compelling argument for keeping her on.
She was kneeling between my legs, getting reacquainted with my cock by rubbing it all over her face, while I looked through the mail. She worked her two little white hands up and down its length, saying, "I've missed you so much."
I said, "I've missed you too."
"And I've missed you too," she replied. "but mostly I've missed this." She poked her little nose in my pee-hole, then slid her lips over the tip. Nothing turns me on more than watching Velda suck my cock. Her Cupid's bow mouth opens into a wide O; her eyes widen too; her rosy cheeks flush more deeply; her tongue works at the underside like a beckoning finger. If you've ever seen one of those wildlife documentaries where a snake dislocates its jaw to swallow a feral hog you have a rough idea what her face and neck look like when my private dick bottoms out in her throat.
In no time at all she was gurgling her rapture around my shaft, and I was trying to remember the batting averages of the '69 Red Sox to keep from blowing my load straight into her stomach.
She pulled her head off, leaving a lipstick ring around the base of my cock, and ropes of saliva dangling from her lips to the head. Giving the tip a little last love peck, she slithered out of the knee hole, turned around and laid herself across the desk. Reaching back with both hands, she flipped her skirt up onto her back and pulled her ass cheeks apart. Velda never wore panties to the office.
"Rail me, Rick!" She said. "I need your cock in my cunt."
I stood and pushed the chair away. I ran one hand up between her legs. She was wet, spread, and ready. I thumbed her clit and gave her mound a few slaps while I admired her ass. "Velda, your backside is the eighth wonder of the world," I said.
"You can ate it later," She cracked. "Fuck me now."
