Case Taken
A large thunderstorm rushed through the city's outskirts at a loud and angry pace as a thick fog crept in from the sea. The lights flickered and then dimmed at the Motel Magnolia, where accommodations had lost its bloom.
The stale motel smell of past indiscretions of all types lingered in the dimness, as the camera panned to a table. On the table, a voice recorder and a pad of paper with a stolen executive pen set from some far away company. At the table, a motel chair that had seen better days and a lot of duct tape. In the chair sat a woman in cream and beige with the scent of soft vanilla and a charm school posture. With manicured hands, she pressed record while in a soft and determined tone whispered, "Shall we begin?"
The question dangled in the air as she side-eyed to her left. The camera slowly panned to darkness, the light whir of cool yet stale air came at her from her right. The subject in the darkness inhaled her scent before he let go of the pause to answer. "It was Tuesday. Amazing how normality is such a crutch that leans into boredom. I took the train to the city to go to the office. Looking at it now, I was completely unaware-so used to the sound of the city-that I was being followed by The Trenchcoat." The deep voice responded with such calm, ease really, after the melee that had just transpired, not forty-five minutes before.
Not to let him prattle, in a moment to clarify such a bland opening, but allowed the trauma to deflate itself; she interjected amidst her smooth short hand, "Mr. Kay needs all information to properly handle what is required. You must be clear who is 'The Trenchcoat'?"
He chuckled lightly and took the erection her perfume had given him out of his dingy gray suit pants. He stroked with thought and response. "Yes. How vanilla my life had become! Not as sweet, though, as your scent. Touch it, Miss Plum. I can do things to you no other man could ever imagine to do."
She didn't flinch, but raised a waxed brow for seriousness and gave a sterner tone. "Then begin with The Trenchcoat. Although, you must remember, to successfully solve this mystery, time is crucial."
The sound of sprung bedsprings as he adjusted his rhythm at this task cut into the realization that this situation was truly more complicated than he could have ever thought to relate to another. He continued to stroke his large, long, and rose tattooed dick in the darkness as the bed lightly creaked with the movement.
"Begin again," she commented sternly, beginning a new page as the camera zoomed into the abyss of his dark masturbatory nature.
The Trenchcoat
He first saw her that rainy morning on a train into the city.
Was it a Monday? Friday? Everyday held the same dread, empty boredom of routine, but it had to be done, it was the . . . only way to live. One repetitive world of gray suits, black hats, one-liners by rote, sales, wins, losses, all kinds of crazy, yet lackluster tension. . .was it the way she swayed without a sound into the train, closed her wet umbrella with a skill like a made fist?
The rain came down like a huge waterfall. The paper he held was pulp as he realized she seemed to breathe a quick breath into him and she was already in the damn silver beer can of a train.
Was it the blue hue from her black hair? Was it the bright, red, pouty lips? He couldn't determine her shape but the gray coat gave way to a nice cello figure. He figured she smelled like sin before the dream got wet. He shook his head-maybe he was just hung over. How many had Shelley given him last night? That bastard and his whimsical foreign nature! All the thought and roughly slanted walk amid the closing sliding doors drew her attention just barely; she was so. . . out of place.
Those blue eyes-not limpid, not steely-so relaxed and ecstatic at the same time. He passed her. Those pouty lips that could snarl or suck within seconds-maybe he was just bored? He collapsed two rows behind her left. Shit, maybe he was LONELY! He shook his head-the rain interrupted his daydream and irritated his neck. He felt greasy and rumpled. He looked at his stained gray suit.
The train jutted forward, but it didn't faze her.
She rose like she owned gravity in motion. The eyes held ease and rigid focus. She gave him no regard whatsoever. Her heels clanked on the metal floor in time with the click-clack of rail.
Lucite heels with thin black leather-didn't whores wear those? He was confused. Shoes threw him? His full disgust with himself was complete, but the shoes bothered him. They were out of place on a woman out of place.
Why did he care?
He chose to leave it unanswered. He understood why Shelley got him plastered-he probably blurted his thoughts out about Rose and was lucky no one shot themselves after Shelley got him beyond slurring.
She stopped a row behind his right. All he could do was side-eye as he couldn't tell, but he thought he saw her whisper something to the aisle-seated man in gray Armani. He imagined her breath was floral and she weaved a gardening tale in the man's ear. Chicks were always so damn stuck on the poetry of a quickie. Armani moved over to the window in a quick slide. Armani was so plain he needed the suit to help him. She remained standing as she untied her trench coat. Armani, sheltered from view by the open coat as it spread open like butterfly wings when she crouched over, quite ballerina-like, into what would appear to be Armani's opened crotch. Her body posed in a pretend-bound position with her arms behind her back, her legs made her posture a "Z".
On the aisle seat, he looked fully at the view as everyone else on the train slept around them. He felt cheated by the scene, but that wasn't unusual, so he settled back into the window, faced them and pretended to have passed out, but watched the scene through slits between lashes. Her lips were imagined on his shaft, not Armani's. A soft experienced tongue against rigidness in an oral ballet as he inhaled her scent as her skills encouraged further growth, a higher state toward bliss. Armani had his eyes closed as the slow cha-cha of her head drew him to greater heights. Slit lashes could not believe a real high class whore was on his morning commute-maybe it would be an every morning occurrence? Maybe he should buy an Armani suit?
Armani made sounds that were quick and almost entirely muffled. The crescendo neared just as the train reached the first tunnel.
Blackness for ninety seconds, then back to the morning rain.
