The Retainer

Irene was late again. I couldn't fire her ass because I couldn't afford anyone who would be on time. I decided she could wake me up when she came in. Sliding a little further down in the chair, I adjusted my feet on the desk, and eased my hat down a bit. As I was about to nod out, I heard the bell on the office door.

"Hello?" a voice too sexy to be Irene's called out. A woman of about 33 stepped all the way into the front-office the moment she saw me.

She looked as if she'd stepped off the cover of a magazine a guy with my income had no business reading. The top of her tan suit had padded shoulders and an unreasonable number of buttons centering the front--all fastened. The three-quarters sleeves revealed an inordinate amount of jewelry. The suit skirt wasn't like a second skin but tight enough to require kick pleats next to her knees.

"Hello," I answered. "My secretary's a little late." I nodded toward Irene's empty desk.

"Steel City Investigations?" That voice! The accent was mid-west, Chicago maybe.

"That's me. Bobby Wadword." A smile teased her lips and I added, "I guess my dad had something going other than his name."

She didn't answer and I realized she was still standing. "Come in," I said and motioned toward my empty office. Though there was still no sign of Irene, I closed the door. As I turned back, I saw she hadn't bothered to sit in the red leather guest chair and her eyes were cruising to my shoes and back up, taking a little longer than my six feet required.

"I need you to solve a murder for me," she stated flatly.

"Well, I prefer missing diamonds, but I seem to get more than my share of homicides lately. "Who's dead?"

"Nobody yet. I want you to tell me what you would look for if a certain person was murdered." Her heels looked much too high to be comfortable, but she didn't bother with the chair just to her left. I didn't bother with moving behind the desk; a heavenly scent not found on Irene and secretary crowd floated across the three feet between us.

"How do you mean?" I asked.

"I want you to take a look at a situation and tell me what might give the killer away."

"No one's dead yet--right?" As I spoke she was already replying: correct.

"I may be willing to do this thing. You saw my rates in the front room?" She looked as if she could more than afford them, and what did it matter if she were crazy as long as her lettuce was green.

"Oh, I can't pay you," she responded, much to my consternation. "He has all the money." Okay, so the woman had one serious flaw.

"I can't work for free; maybe I'm not the right one for you." The words came out painfully.

"You're the one I'm looking for, alright," she answered cheerfully.

She closed the distance between us. Her red lipstick looked wet from inches way. I could feel her breath on my throat. Her hand closed on my crotch and sent twitches through my body. Junior, already awake inside my boxers, obviously loved her touch.

"Maybe I can give you a sort of retainer," she purred. She lowered the zipper on my suit pants and her hand ducked inside. Finding what she was looking for was no problem, but she had to tug a little to pull it through my fly.

Her lips were much too close and I couldn't resist kissing them. She tasted good, not like candy or mouthwash but like honeysuckle on the wind.

Her hand was squeezing me below. My pants zipper was rubbing me underneath, so I reached between us and unfastened my belt and the hook in my waistband. She caught the .357 magnum revolver holstered on my belt and placed it on the corner of my desk next to my dusty light-house paper weight. The britches dropped to just below my knees, held up partially by my BUG (i.e. back-up-gun), a .32 caliber Ivers Johnson revolver strapped to my calf. She turned me and pushed me back on the edge of the desk. Her hands grabbed the waistband of my shorts and pulled them down to be with my pants.

"Ummmm" she sighed. "It's so long."

No shit, I'm thinking. With a dame like you, who wouldn't be long. She began stroking me in earnest. I watched her nails, as red as her lipstick. She gripped and re-gripped my cock, twisting her hand slightly as she pushed the skin back down along the shaft.

Her brown hair fell alongside her cheeks as she leaned over me. She didn't spit; she just parted her lips and saliva rolled off her shiny red bottom lip and dropped dead on the head of my dick. She used both hands, twisting and stroking the slick moisture over it. The head of my cock was swollen tight. I could see the engorged veins on the shaft as her hands moved.

"Do you like that," she cooed.

"Oh yeah, but I feel like I should do something for you."

"Don't worry, you will. Just relax now." Her tongue curled onto the edge of her upper lip as she added, "I like your dick."

"Not as much as I like it, since it's attached to my body."

Very unladylike, she spit on me and started stroking faster. My balls were bouncing against the bottom of her fist. Then I heard the office door open.

"Bobby, are you in there?" a voice that was definitely Irene's called from the front office.

The mystery lady never looked up. She stroked faster, now, with her right hand. With her left, she reached across my stomach and around to my balls, which she teased and pulled.

"Y-y-yes," I croaked through the door to Irene between breaths.

The lady's hot hand squeezed me and stroked me fast and hard. I could feel it rising up to the gate, pushing against the door. Just as my office door opened, I shot a thick long stream of cum across the red leather chair.

"Oh, my," Irene said, peeking around the partially open door.

***

Her "old man" was just that, a leathered old geezer of sixty. Dana--that was her name, Dana--somehow had taken my role from advisor to planner to THE GUY. My reward would be the consummation of what had begun in my office and a cut of her old man's millions. Irene, who didn't exactly die of shock, agreed to help after I offered her a bonus, to be payed by Dana when the job was done.

So rich that work was no longer an issue, Arthur, Dana's "husband", had reduced his life to the few activities he enjoyed: golf with three old geezers like himself, bourbon with a cigar at Tavern on the Green, and an occasional trip to the coast for sailing.

Arthur's unrest was essential for the plan to work: I told Dana to cut him off. She indignantly replied that she had not slept with him in two months. "Loverboy" was presumably ripe for Irene.

Irene preceded to reveal a side of herself I had not previously seen. She "bumped" into him at Tavern on the Green. Her mission was to lure Arthur to the coast. Sporting a sweater that showed off tits I never knew she had and wearing a skirt so tight she was forever having to hike it up to cross her surprisingly good-looking legs, she had him in heat within a week. In order to get Arthur to the coast, she convinced him that she had an aunt who lived at Foley, and she explained rather than endanger his marriage by leaving town with him in his car, she made a date to meet him at the marina in Orange Beach.

Dana and I left Birmingham at three in the morning. We would be back by four that afternoon and Dana would have hardly been missed. At 7 a.m. we were at the marina watching from across the parking lot as Arthur readied the boat for his outing with Irene (who was shopping back in Birmingham). When the thirty-two foot black sailing beauty was ready, I strolled across the lot and along the pier. Arthur conveniently turned his back to face the cabin; I stepped onto the stern and with my .357 pressed against his spine forced him inside the cabin. After securing Arthur inside, I used the motor to maneuver the boat out of the harbor and around the jetty. A novice sailor at best, I continued to motor far off shore.

Dana followed in a center-consoled motor boat several minutes later. There was a brisk breeze and plenty of chop, a prelude to the latest tropical storm being passed off to the gulf from Cuba. The empty boat would be discovered, it's pilot lost at sea. Even if the body was found, there was no trauma, no gunshot wound, just an aged man lost at sea.

***

During the first five minutes with Dana at the Overlook motel on the city side of red mountain east of Birmingham, I was convinced it was worth it--she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She went to the bathroom first and then I. When I returned wearing only my boxers, I found her in her bra and panties standing beside the bed. We kissed. My hands roamed her back.

I unsnapped her bra with one hand. Her breasts were flawless, adorned with cherry-plum nipples. My thumb brushed the left one and they both grew hard, extending more than I thought possible. I pinched them and pulled them out further.

I bent my head to suck on her right one, sucking hard, trying to pull her whole breast into my mouth. With one hand on her back and my mouth on her tit, I pushed her onto the bed.

When my hand touched the band ofher panties, she used her feet to raise her ass off the bed and with both hands quickly slid her panties off, kicking them free of her foot. I kissed from her tits down across her flat stomach. She had trimmed her pussy hair. It was incredibly thick and would have been extremely long had she not cut it. She had shaved the edges, leaving a "landing strip" on the lips.

I nibbled at the lips, pulling them one at a time to the side with a gentle bite. I ran my tongue along the inside of each lip. Intermittently, I slipped the tip of my tongue into the hole. She squirmed against my mouth when I sucked on her clit.

Unable to resist her moans, I turned, held my stiff cock in my hand, and rubbed it up and down in the door of her pussy. When her hips came up, I backed off and kept the head just between her lips.

"Fuck me," she said. "Damn you, fuck me!"

Raising my chest slightly, I slid my cock into her. Pushing was not required; she was so slick and wet, my dick slipped inside her. When I did push, I went deep, deep to the back or her pussy. She moaned.

Seldom are we really changed by people, but she had changed me. A man was dead by my hand, a man I didn't even know. I drove my cock in her. Up on my hands, I pounded at her pussy, forcing her toward the headboard. I feel the head of my cock hitting the back of her pussy with each stroke. There was a detachment I felt, as if I could see myself with her, looking from above, a man I barely recognized, obsessed with this woman.

Her fingers dug into my back. Her red nails pierced my skin as she came. That she could be wetter I would not have thought possible, but I felt the gush of her cum around my cock as the walls of her pussy clamped down on me like a tight fist.

My eyes rolled back. When they came down and focused I noticed my pants--along with my .357 magnum--had been moved from the side chair by the nightstand to the credenza at the foot of the bed. That meant something but I couldn't think of what with my dick six inches inside this gorgeous woman.

I went faster. Up on my hands, I moved in and out. I felt the head start to swell and then the shaft. A bolus of cum accumulated from the deepest tissues inside me, possibly from my soul and squirted out the end of my cock into the back of her pussy. I felt the hot juice pulse against the wall at the end of her tunnel.

Resting on our sides, facing each other, our lips brushed occasionally. She alternated between running her hand through my hair and scratching my shoulders. I softly rubbed her back down to the curve of her ass.

"It was almost the perfect crime, don't you think?" she asked.

"Almost?" I replied.

"There's only one link between the haggard old man and his restless wife," she answered.

"And what might that be?"

"Why it's you, my dear."

At that moment I heard a key slip in the door. Just as quickly my hand closed around the Ivers Johnson revolver where I had placed it beneath the pillow.