The Jennifer Jones File

I called Jen as I drove from the airport to my office downtown, the 105 to the 110 to Fourth and Broadway, jammed as usual.

"Darling," she said. "Did you get the goods?"

"I did."

"Do tell."

I reminded her that a condition of my agreeing to take the case was that I would first share my observations and any evidence obtained in the course of my investigation with her daughter Betsy. She was an adult. She deserved to hear it directly from me rather than her mother.

"Oh, come on, Jake," Jen protested.

"That was our deal, Jen. Tell her to call me to make an appointment."

My cell phone rang two minutes later.

"Mr. Gillam, this is Elizabeth Salazar."

She ended her last name with Valley Girl uptalk, turning it into a question. Maybe it was a question. Her voice sounded both innocent and knowing, sweet but calculated, like her kiss might kill. I hadn't yet met her in person. I'd only seen pictures. But I wanted to kiss her immediately.

"Jen Jones's daughter," she said. It sounded like another question. Maybe it was.

I realized I had been drifting in the ambiguous space left in the wake of all of the possible connotations in the intonations of her voice and the way she mouthed words and sentences, although she'd spoken only two.

"Hello, Mrs. Salazar. How can I help you?"

"I'd like to come see you this afternoon. I believe you know what this is about."

"Yes, would 4 p.m. work for you?"

"I'd rather come earlier, if you don't mind, to avoid the rush back to the westside."

I didn't have a thing on my calendar except her now.

"No problem. How about two? I should be in by then."

"My office is in the Bradbury Building, fifth floor. You can park halfway down the block opposite the Grand Central Market."

"See you then," she said. That time it was not a question.

I went straight to my office and wasted an hour researching bathhouses in Los Angeles and bathhouse etiquette, which I should have done before my foray yesterday into the city of night in San Francisco. Clean towel, lube, condoms, safe words. It all seemed pretty intuitive and prosaic. I hadn't broken any rules, yet.

I looked up photos of bathhouses. It was pretty much what I had witnessed firsthand the night before. I started feeling my cock stir.

I unzipped my trousers and pulled my dick out, stroking it softly. I surfed over to some photos of cocks. The papa bears and muscle men didn't do it for me. I liked the youngish looking ones. That's how I remembered my first, when I was young, too. Some of the hairy ones looked good. But I found myself turned on by the shaved ones most. I could imagine licking the tight balls and taught cock like the hippy licked me last night. I wondered what his cock was like. I regretted not reciprocating. I thought maybe I might go back to find him. I knew I wouldn't.

I was edging along, admiring my own cock as well as those on screen. It wasn't aging badly, even if my own age was showing most everywhere else. It still stood straight and hard in the hand. It didn't seem that big but some of my lady friends complained, nicely, as it went in. So maybe it was. I hadn't done any firsthand comparisons in years before last night.

A knock on the door jolted me from my reverie.

"Just a minute," I said. I had lost track of time.

I closed the browser window, shut my laptop, and tucked my cock away. I put on my sport coat, grabbed the newspaper and folded it to cover my boner, and went to the door.

"Mrs. Salazar."

"Call me Elizabeth," she said as she extended her hand.

Her handshake was firm and warm. Her fingernails were simply trimmed and clean. Her brunette hair with highlights of red formed a carefully coiffed but still informal looking halo around a genuine smile, dimples in her cheeks, a sparkle in her blue eyes. She was dressed in a translucent, white short peasant dress and sandals. Her toes, too, were simply trimmed and clean.

That she was seven months pregnant wasn't just obvious. It was radiant. Her round belly seemed to glow inside the white blouse. Her breasts were not big, but she was not wearing a bra, and they nicely complemented her belly. Or should I say, complimented. I wanted to compliment her body, too. I wanted to do more than compliment it.

"May I come in, Mr. Gillam."

"Yes, of course, please," I stammered. How are you doing? Did you find the parking okay, and my office?"

Of course, she had. She was right on time.

"And, please, call me Jake."

I gestured toward the chair in front of my desk. I sidled behind my desk trying to obscure my hard-on with the newspaper.

"How can I help you?" I asked.

"I think you know, Jake, though I'm not sure it's going to help me."

"Yes, yes," I said. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure where my mind went."

"Are you sure?" she asked with a quirky smile that looked almost like a wink.

I tried to gather my thoughts quickly. It wasn't easy with the Madonna sitting right in front of me. The smell of her came across the desk carried by the slight breeze from the open window in my office. It was a pure, clean, cool, fresh smell, with a hint of something complex and feminine, coastal, oceanic, carried on the stale, hot, dirty, corrupt, urban air.

"Mrs. Salazar," I began.

"Elizabeth," she said.

"Pardon me. Elizabeth. As I believe you know, your mother hired me to investigate the activities of your husband, Ronnie, when he is on the road for away games. She told me you were aware of this investigation, approved of it, and want to know the results."

"Approve is a strong word, Mr. Gillam."

"Please, call me Jake."

"As I believe you know, my mother tends to get her way, one way or another." She shot a wry smile my way. "I humored her."

"So what did you discover in your investigation, Mr. Private Eye?"

I suppose I could have taken that as a hostile question, but it didn't seem hostile coming from her. She seemed amused. I was confused.

"After the game yesterday, your husband left the team hotel and visited a gay bathhouse. I have photos of him leaving the establishment. I was not able to take photos inside, but I did observe him in flagrante."

"You watched him have sex?" she said.

It wasn't clear if that was a question or a statement coming with her Valley Girl uptalk ending again.

"Did you enjoy it?"

That was a question. I felt my face blushing briefly. She flashed that quirky smile again.

"You don't seem surprised," I said.

"Mr. Gillam, sorry, Jake, I'm frankly more surprised that you enjoyed it. I would not have guessed that from your reputation. Did you get off?"

"This isn't about me, is it?" I said.

"Maybe it is," she smiled.

"Did it look safe?" she asked. This she asked with some with genuine concern.

"Do you want to know the details?"

"No," she said. "Unless you want to tell me what happened to you, too."

She sat silent for a moment and then continued quietly, calmly, "Jake, I know my husband is homosexual. We have an arrangement. He's a great husband in every respect but one. We haven't had intercourse for seven months, he was tested before that, and we probably never will again. We agreed to have one child. He loves kids and he's great with them. He'll be a good father. My mother may never understand that. At least now she will know now. I haven't had the nerve to tell her before. So, thank you. That's why I agreed to this investigation. Just, please, don't tell her the details either. And I won't tell her you were inside, too. You just watched him go in and come out."

"Okay. Would you like to see the photographs?"

"Sure," she said with a resigned sigh.

I passed her a manila envelope with the digital printouts. She opened them and flipped through the photographs. Ronnie emerging from a dark doorway in a dark wall, backlit by a faint light. It could have been anywhere in the world. It wasn't proof of anything without the story. And she didn't need the story, it turned out. She already knew it.

She passed the envelope back to me.

"Do you mind if I lie down for a moment?" she asked, gesturing with her cute chin to the beat-up leather couch under the windows. "I'm feeling a little faint."

"Make yourself at home," I said.

I got up and rushed over to move the magazines, books, and sweater strewn on the sofa. I took her elbow lightly as she wobbled a little, her hand on her belly.

I sat in the easy chair across from her.

She rubbed her belly pushing her blouse up so that the tight skin over her domed midsection was bare. Here in my office, the afternoon sun was coming through the dirty scrim of a window looking out on a corrupt cityscape. But the sunlight on her belly made it glow like a peaceful temple rising from a pristine meadow under a robin's egg sky in some far off heaven.

"So, are you really such a hard-boiled dick, Jake?" she asked.

As she put one lovely, folded leg up on the couch and kept the other on the floor, I saw she, like her mother, favored going commando. Her bare shaved pussy peeked from behind the hem of her short white dress as it fell down to the top of her thigh.

Naturally, calmly, she watched me, looking at her. I swallowed hard.

"Would you like to feel my belly? He's kicking now."

I moved to her side and put my hand on her warm skin. I felt a soft thump and then another.

She smiled.

"Listen," she said, pulling my shoulder.

I lowered my ear to her belly. I listened enraptured by a cauldron of gurgling movement, the thump, thump of life eager to get out and live it up, her heartbeat softly doubled. I felt myself falling into that space inside her, falling foolishly in love. The smell of her now engulfed me, briny fresh, minerally. I was a fish swimming in the ocean of her body.

She took hold of my hand and moved it down to her pussy. I felt like I was really touching a woman for the first time again. My fingertips were alive to the sensation of each wet fold, the curious shape of the two enfolded curves meeting at the tiny hard bump at the top, and the bottom, where they met and gave way to her smooth perineum and the tight little buttonhole below, as the taught tendons of her inner thighs stretched from her pelvis.

She moaned softly. "I haven't been touched like this in so long."

She spread her legs wider lifting one leg to the back of the couch and the other to the coffee table. She pushed the top of my head down to her pussy and pulled on my hair to bring me to her tightly.

I lightly licked the fresh folds of her sea anemone, sipped her sweet salty juices, my mouth filling with the essence of her. The shining globe of her round belly rose above my forehead. I reached up to fondle her tits, which she had freed from her loose blouse. They were swollen, taught, more than a handful, with hard erect nipples, leaking a little, which made them slippery.

I don't think I had ever had so much pure womanhood in one sitting.

Her clitoris was getting harder, emerging out from under its hood. At first it was the size a lentil. Now it had grown into a small peanut, a small penis shaped peanut. I tongued it and sucked on it. She moaned and pulled my head hard against her pelvis. I used the tip of my tongue to vibrate her clitoris vigorously. Her thighs clamped hard against my head trapping me between her legs, and then her body shook violently, she cried out, and her pussy gushed with salty sweet fluid.

The spasms continued for what seemed a very long time as she held my head tightly between her legs, her wet, now loose, relaxed cunt against my mouth. When it was over, and she pushed my head away from her sensitive clitoris, I realized it was probably like an earthquake. While it was happening, it always seemed to go on much longer than it did objectively according to any clock.

She sat up and reached for my belt.

"Let's see that hard-boiled dick," she said.

She unbuckled my belt, unzipped my pants, and pulled down my drawers. I didn't even have time to take my shoes off. She pulled my hips to her.

"Put it in," she said. "Now."

I watched my hard-on slip between her pretty lips. It was a sight worth lingering on. I wished I could take a picture of it for the evidence files. A hard cock, entering a beautiful bare pussy, under a full, smooth, pregnant belly, topped with tight tits, wet, hard nipples, and the blissful face of a young woman with shining in her eyes. I could die in heaven right now, I thought.

But I didn't. I thrust all the way into her carefully, with her belly between us.

"Ummmm," she said. "That feels so good. It's been so long."

She held me still deep inside her. It felt wonderful, but a little awkward, with her baby bump between us.

"Let's try something else," she said.

She pushed me away from her. My cock came out shiny and wet, looking very proud of itself and eager for more.

She rolled over and leaned on the back and arm of the couch and presented her ass and pussy to me. It was another view of the perfect, fecund, female form. The roundness of her ass. The hourglass of her back. The curve of her belly. The echoing curves of her breasts. Her tight pink asshole. And below that her swollen labia, open and waiting.

I stood up, stepping out of my shoes and pants and underwear.

Then I kneeled down to tongue her inviting asshole. She moaned pleasantly. But when I moved down to taste her pussy again, she swatted at me.

"No, put it in again."

I did, lining the head of my cock up between her labia, I entered her slowly, carefully. All the way in with my crotch against her ass, my balls against her bare mound, I paused. I could have stayed there forever.

"Fuck me," she said softly.

So, I did. Slowly, softly. I reached down to cradle her full belly and fondle her tits. My cock felt like it was getting bigger and harder inside her. There was something so pure and beautiful about making love to a young, pure, beautiful, pregnant woman.

I was an idiot, of course. It should have seemed complex, difficult, even dangerous.

Instead, it was just two bodies on a sunny afternoon in the City of Angels doing what bodies are meant to do.

"Harder," she said.

I fucked her hard then, holding her hips in my hand, my pelvis crashing into her soft ass, my balls slapping against her with each stroke, my cock getting harder and harder, the head growing bigger inside her. Her groaning. Me moaning. And then exploding inside her.

I hallucinated hot molten lead gushing from a steely dan, bullets bursting from the barrel of a .38 special.

I collapsed on her sweaty back.

She squirmed out from under me and turned around to take my cock in her mouth and suck the rest of me dry.

I let myself go blank for a moment. I may have passed out briefly, blissfully. When I came too, she was standing, rearranging herself.

"Will you walk me to my car?" she asked.

"I don't think I want to run the gantlet of wolf whistles on Broadway again. I barely made it to your wolf den in this get up on my way here."