It was the first rule in the Business Handbook for Detectives: don't schtup the help. So why was I in this
position
with my secretary, Irene. For heaven's sake, this was Irene, whom I had barely noticed the first few months she worked for me, who had stuck with me when another dame, Dana, had seduced me, made me do things I ordinarily would not have done, and then tossed me away like used gum. Dana had a body that would stop a clock. In comparison, Irene had seemed--I won't say dumpy, but a bit too much woman for her average height. In the last few months, something had transformed her. She had changed before my eyes, with me hardly noticing, and now she was trim, athletic, muscular even.
The position I refer to is Irene seated on my desk, her strapped high-heeled-sandals resting one each on the arms of my chair, her panties hanging on her left ankle, and the skirt of her billowy summer dress--a light blue and white check--pushed above her waist.
Her butt was on my black desk pad. She leaned back on her hands, fingers spread and flat on the soft brown wood of the desk, and her feet were pulled up in front of her on the desk's edge. Though I was busy below, her eyes were closed and her face turned toward the ceiling. A pleading moan was coming from her throat.
Somebody in her family tree had given her a thick head of brown hair, and the lower half of her body, now right in front of my face, had not been left out. She had shaved, straight across the top of her triangle, everything on her legs and to within an inch of her lips. The hair merged into a dark river than ran the center of this "landing strip". Using my thumb as an oar, I rolled the lip on my right back to reveal the pink inside. That was where I put my mouth. I started at the bottom of her slit and ran the stiff end of my tongue up the inside of that lip. It seemed a crime not to maintain balance by doing the other side, but instead, I sucked the other lip into my mouth as much as I could, pulling it between my lips and massaging it with my tongue.
My suit coat was somewhere behind me: on the chair, in the floor, out the second-floor window (as if I gave a shit). I had pulled at my tie making the loop larger, slipped the noose over my head, and unbuttoned my collar.
Irene was squirming now. I clamped my mouth down on her clit, sucking against it and curling my tongue up inside her at the same time. She was humping against my face in earnest, a steady stream of occasionally intelligible sounds coming from her lips.
"Hello?" A cheerful voice came from the front office. Irene shoved me away, stripped the panties from her ankle, leaped to her feet and smoothed her dress. She gave me the most admonishing of looks--as if I'd raped a nun--and stalked to the door. As she opened the door, she turned back to me again: steely eyes beneath a pinched brow, nostrils flaring, and a blush that would surely tell whomever was on the other side of the door exactly what we had been doing. And of course, it was all my fault.
While Irene and the lady in the front office were yapping away, I pulled the tie back over my head and retrieved my coat from the floor. The panties were going in my bottom drawer when Irene opened the door, wisely leading the way into the room.
"Mr. Wadword, Mrs. Washington--" her voice trailed off--"is here to see you." But Irene didn't yield her position in the door. She was making an angry nodding motion. I didn't know what the hell she meant. She continued dipping her head; finally, I looked down and saw the large wet spot in the middle of the desk pad. I wiped it with the sleeve of my coat. At that, Irene stepped aside and Mrs. Duckworth entered the room.
"Come in, Maam," I said to the large lady coming through the door. She was only about 5'6" but very heavy. Her hair, perhaps dark at one time, was now gray and given nothing more than a single pass with a comb in the morning. She walked with a sway, as if trying to lift her right leg. She appeared to be only in her fifties, so this affliction was, perhaps, not entirely attributable to age,.
"Please, have a seat," I motioned at the red leather guest chair. "What can I do for you?"
After adjusting her glasses and clearing her throat, she began, "Well, you remember my Robert. He cleaned your car from time to time. He always thought highly of you."
"Yes," I replied, recalling her husband. Indeed, he had detailed my car at a price no one would match now and, it seemed to my eye, did a better job.
"Well, you know he died last November. He had that truck--a good truck! You know how he was about keeping stuff clean. After Robert passed, Dante's eye fell on it, 'cause he knew I couldn't drive--I always take the bus. He kept on and kept on; so I let him have it. He's banged it up, drove it hard, practically ruined it in just three months. And you know how much he paid me for that truck?"
I knew the answer but I waited for her to tell me. She stared at me for a moment, the anger seething within her. This was about revenge for Robert, about erasing an affront to his memory.
"Not a red cent! That's what he gave me. He promised me $6500, but not a red cent."
I started to tell her I was not a collection agency or a lawyer. But everyone in the community knew that, and she was woven into the fabric of the community. So was I.
"I want you to get me my money."
After she was gone, Irene came back in, but the mood had changed. She sat in the red leather chair facing my desk.
"Are you going after Dante?" Irene knew everything that was said in my office--that was no secret. In answer to her question, I shrugged.
