A Tracy Dew Mystery Ch 01

CHAPTER 1: A MYSTERIOUS NOTE

Tracy Dew, her hands stuffed into the pocket of her hooded sweatshirt, paused in front of the Simmons residence and gave a soft call. Instantly, the front door burst open and Beth Simons raced down the front steps, followed by Samantha Payne. The three gathered on the sidewalk.

"Am I late?" Tracy asked as the three chums greeted each other.

"Almost a whole minute, Tracy," said Beth with a roll of her big brown eyes. She tugged at the bottom of her pink tube top, pulling it down over her rounded belly.

"Come on, Tracy," Sam chimed in. "You know you're totally on time." Tall, blonde, and athletic, Sam hitched up her dark blue running shorts. "We could set a clock by you." She bumped Tracy with an affectionate shoulder. "On time every time, that's you."

Tracy was relieved. "Well, it's just that things were a little busy at home. Dad had to leave town on business rather suddenly, and I helped him pack."

"Does he have another big case?" Beth asked eagerly. Like everyone else in Beaverton, she followed Goliath Dew's legal career with avid interest. A gifted tax attorney, his clients included some of the biggest names in show business, along with the CEO's of several major multinational corporations and several prominent politicians. Just last month, he had won a major victory when the judge dismissed all charges against his client, Bucky Slayer, whose latest release Ass Kickin' had just gone platinum. Bucky had been on the news last night live from the rehab center he called home to publicly thank Goliath Dew for saving his career.

"I guess so," Tracy replied, tucking a tress of her long black hair behind one ear. "He doesn't always tell me what he's working on, you know." That wasn't exactly true; her father often consulted Tracy, sharing the most intimate details of his work. But recently he had become more secretive, and this morning he'd offered no clue as to the reasons behind his sudden departure.

"Well, I sure wouldn't mind if he decided to work on me," giggled Beth, adding a long feline purr. "I hate to say it, Tracy, but your dad is hot."

Tracy regarded her friend, taking in her heavy breasts in the tight tube top, her round, rolling hips in a short, flounced skirt. Beth had been boy crazy since Tracy had first met her in seventh grade. Now in their senior year at Beverton High, she hadn't changed a bit. "I'll tell him you said so," she said dryly.

"You do that," Beth said, arching her eyebrows for emphasis.

"So what did you need to meet us for?" Sam interjected. The complete opposite of Beth, she wasn't particularly interested in boy talk. "It sounded pretty important."

"It is," said Tracy, lowering her voice. Her two friends instinctively huddled closer. "Check this out." From the pocket of her sweatshirt she pulled a post card. On the front was a photograph of three young women in thong bikinis, their backs turned to the camera and their rounded asses pushed out invitingly. She flipped it over to reveal several lines of text formed from printed words clipped from magazines and taped to the card. "Meet me at the park in the place you're not allowed," she read. "1:30 sharp."

"Oooh," Beth breathed, pointing at the words. "It's like a ransom note or something."

"Whoever it is doesn't want us to recognize their handwriting," Tracy said matter-of-factly.

"Hold on – let me see that." Sam took the card from Tracy and turned it over to inspect the photograph. She stared at it intently for several minutes, a strange faraway look in her bright blue eyes.

"Are you finished, Sam?" Beth sniped, snatching the card away from her chum and handing it back to Tracy. "So, super-sleuth, what does it mean?"

Although they often kidded Tracy about it, both Beth and Sam had considerable respect for their friend's abilities as a detective. Tracy had a quick mind and a great eye for detail, and she was often able to solve mysteries that baffled the authorities. They waited now as she regarded the card thoughtfully before answering. "Well, where in the park are we not allowed?" she asked.

Beth flashed a rueful grin. "After last fall's pep rally, I'm not allowed in there at all." The others remembered how Mr. Grimsby, the high school guidance counselor, had found her in a rather compromising embrace with three very excited freshmen. The episode had only added to Beth's reputation.

"Tracy meant where are girls who aren't nymphos allowed?" Sam snapped. "I mean, there's the concession stand, the slides, the baseball field ... but girls are allowed in all those places." She looked a question at Tracy, who suddenly flashed a smile of triumph.

"I know!" she ejaculated. "The men's bathroom!"

Her two chums exchanged a look of admiration. "Damn she's good," whispered Beth as Sam nodded agreement.

Tracy consulted her watch. "And whoever it is has dared us to be there in ... twenty minutes. What do you say, girls? Are you game?"

"I'm in," said Beth. "I'd love to know who'd send such a weird note."

Sam tipped the card in Tracy's hand to take another look at the photograph of the three perfect asses in their thong bikinis. "Me, too," she breathed.

Fifteen minutes later, the three girls were striding purposefully through the Adolph Goldberg Park. They passed a newly sodded area cordoned off with bright yellow tape, following the path out of the bright spring sunshine and into a copse of tall trees, heading for a small, secluded, windowless brick building. A sign outside showed a crude male stick figure in white on a blue background and an arrow. "This is it," said Beth excitedly. "Where we're not allowed."

Tracy slowed and checked her watch again. "We're a little early, guys," she said. "Maybe we should just wait outside and see who else shows up."

"Good idea," said Sam. She pointed towards another, similar structure nearby. "I have to use the ladies' room anyway." Without waiting for a response, she sprinted away down the path, her long, toned legs pumping effortlessly beneath the baggy nylon of her running shorts. It's no wonder she lettered in track, Tracy thought as she watched her friend go.

"I beg to differ," Beth pouted, her hands on her wide, firm hips. "We could go in now and hide. You know, get the drop on the creep."

Tracy was torn. Sam was gone, disappeared around the concrete wall that shielded the doorless entrance to the other restroom. But Beth had a point. From years of sleuthing experience, Tracy Dew understood the value of surprise. Impulsively, she made her decision. "Let's go," she said.

The two girls stepped into the shadows of the concrete men's room. Along one wall was a row of porcelain urinals, cracked and stained; farther down were several stalls. "Come on," Tracy hissed, pulling Beth's arm toward the first stall. "We can hide in here."

Beth recoiled, unsure. "I don't know," she replied, peering into the dark and musty space. "They look pretty nasty." Tracy gave her another tug, but the chunky girl dug in her heels and refused to budge. "Maybe we should wait outside after all -"

"What are you girls doing in here?" came a voice from the doorway.

The two chums wheeled to see a hunched and elderly black man holding a bucket and a mop. His thinning hair and goatee were streaked with grey, and his green parks uniform bagged about him. A sly smile flashed across his sharp features as he set the bucket and mop on the floor and approached them. "Girls aren't allowed in here, ya know."

"Oh, I guess we're lost," Beth breathed, her large brown eyes glued to the bulge in his trousers below his belt buckle.

"That's right," Tracy declared, hoping her voice carried the necessary authority. "We thought this was the ladies' room."

"Guess you missed the sign outside," said the janitor with a leer. "It's on a post – right in front of the door." He shuffled closer, inspecting the girls like a fox eyeing two stunned chicks.

Tracy was determined to maintain the upper hand. "Well, as long as we're here, do you mind answering a few questions?" She pulled the card out from her pocket.

The old black man's eyes glittered as they looked her up and down, and Tracy was glad she had worn the baggy school sweatshirt and her long khaki shorts. She tended to dress practically, without much concern for fashion. Besides, with her slight figure, she wasn't likely to turn many heads anyway. With an inward sigh of relief, she saw his eyes flicker back to the far riper – and more scantily-clad – figure of her friend.

Beth bridled under his gaze. "So," she said with a coy glance from under long lashes, "are we under arrest or something?"

The old man had reached her by then, and he reached up and placed a grimy hand on her ample right breast, squeezing it through the thin stretch material of her tube top. "I guess y'all could say that," he grinned.

Beth's eyes glazed over and she seemed to melt. "Oh, dear," she said faintly. "I guess I'm being detained." The janitor placed his other hand on her left breast and began vigorously kneading them both, sampling them like cantaloupes in the produce section.

"First question," Tracy said, keeping her voice level. "Do you know us?"

The old man dropped one hand to Beth's hip and turned her slightly, so her side was toward him. Still tugging on her breasts, he began working her wide, luscious ass as well. Beth arched her back, pushing herself into his strong grip. "All I know," he said, as if to himself, "is that you all are a coupla sluts who got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time." Beth whimpered as he lifted her skirt, revealing a pale, quivering flank.

"But you don't know who we actually are, right?" Tracy pressed on in her best interrogator's voice. "And we don't know you, right?"

"Not yet," came the answer. He turned the pliant Beth so her back was to him and, holding her flimsy skirt up across her lower back with one hand, gripped her pink silk panties with the other, drawing them upward into the crack of her round, wide ass. "But you will."

"Very well," Tracy said over her chum's moans. She held up the card. "So you didn't send me this?"

The old janitor's hand, gnarled and roped with veins, disappeared between the trembling globes of Beth's ass as he rubbed her shaven mound through her panties. "Oh, my God," Beth breathed as she leaned forward and rode his calloused fist, her broad hips grinding convulsively.

"Did you?" Tracy was insistent.

"Whatever," came the answer. Tracy could see that the old man was momentarily distracted by the task of unzipping his fly one-handed, using the hand that had been knuckling Beth's tight pussy. With the other, he gripped a handful of her hair and pulled her head back around towards his belt buckle. As his bulge came into view, Beth began to help him, frantically fumbling at the fastenings of his pants. "I didn't write nuthin'," he said huskily as she freed his swelling cock.

Although she was trying to keep her mind strictly on the matter at hand, Tracy had to admit she was impressed. As the old man's member hove into view, it looked to be one of the biggest she had ever seen, perhaps eight inches of thick black cock. Beth gave an excited squeal before sucking its purpling head between her pouty lips. "So you're saying you didn't send this?" Tracy said, trying to nail the point down with certainty.

The old janitor may not have heard her. Beth was now slurping noisily on the head of his cock, which had now reached the size of a small plum. She squatted before him, her knees outside his scrawny shins, so that her skirt fell back to her waist and Tracy could see her pussy clearly outlined in the crotch of her red silk panties. A thin line of moisture had soaked through along the vertical line of her slit, and she dropped a hand to rub the top of this line feverishly as she sucked.

The old man placed his gnarled hands on her curly red hair, twined his fingers into it, and then abruptly thrust his skinny hips into Beth's face. The girl gagged loudly, and then rubbed faster, her plump inner thighs quivering. She reached around with her free hand, placing it on one of the janitor's buttocks, squeezing through the seat of his stained uniform pants. As he withdrew from her mouth, she pulled him back in greedily, deep-throating his massive tool.

Tracy moved around so that she could see the two of them from the side, so as to study the old man's grimacing face while she repeated her query. "Answer the question, please," she challenged, holding up the card so he could see it. "Did you or did you not send me this card?"

The rhythms of Beth's moans matched that of her bobbing head. Tracy could see the tumescent black shaft of the old man's cock, shining with spit, sliding rapidly in and out between her friend's tightly-pressed lips. Beth's cheeks caved in with the pressure of her suction, and a rope of drool tumbled from her chin onto her heaving breasts below.

The old man turned a pair of glazed, red-rimmed eyes to look at the card which, Tracy realized too late, she was holding incorrectly, with the photograph showing instead of the makeshift lettering. He stared at the row of perfect white asses and let out a moan. "Ooooh, shit," was all he managed to say.

His eyes then lost all focus, his jaw dropped, and he let out a low animal growl. Beth's hand on her pussy was a blur now, and her knees, thighs, and heavy round ass shook and jiggled as her pleasure built to a crescendo. She was panting raggedly, her moan now a high-pitched whine as she drew desperate breaths around the iron ebony shaft pumping her mouth. The old man gave another huge thrust with his hips, and then another, burying Beth's nose in his graying pubes and slapping his pendulous balls against her chin.

"Give it up, bitch," he snarled. "Suck it, you little whore."

Then he gave one final, lingering thrust, clutching Beth's head to his crotch and gyrating his hips wildly. Then, with a series of huge jerks, he bent over her and let out a howl. "That's right, slut! Fuckin' take my loooooad!"

Tracy could tell from Beth's breathing that the old janitor had just flooded her hot, wet mouth with cum. A second later, a gout of thick white spunk gushed from the corner of her mouth and fell squarely into her deep cleavage and slipped out of sight between her bobbling breasts. She almost lost her balance in her deep squat, steadying herself with both hands on the young man's hips. Her mouth and throat worked frantically to swallow as much as she could.

"Hey! Answer the question! Did you send this card?"

The old man straightened languidly, his body relaxing as he drew himself to his full height. Beth now gripped his slick shaft and puckered her lips on his cock head, noisily sucking the last few drops of cum from his pee hole. Looking down at her, the old man watched appreciatively as she ran her tongue around the ridge at the base of his cock head, and then ran her lips and tongue first down one side and then the other, lovingly licking him clean. Gently stroking his shrinking shaft, she looked up at him with her bright brown eyes, pleading for his approval.

"Nice job, slut," he said huskily. "You really know how to suck dick."

"Thanks," she rasped, her throat still sore from the face-fucking she had so happily endured. After a parting kiss on the tip of his limp tool, she stood and began arranging her scanty clothing, checking her hair in the streaked mirror over the row of dirty sinks.

Having put his cock away and zipped up, the old man finally took the card from Tracy and gave it a long, hard look. "Nope," he said at length, shaking his head. "I never sent nothin' like this to no one." His eyes bored into Tracy's with a sudden urgency. "Say," he said tightly. "Mind if I keep this?"

"No way," Tracy replied sharply. She wasn't about to part with the only clue she had. "Thanks for cooperating." She tucked it back into the pocket of her sweatshirt and, seeing that Beth had composed herself as best she could, she led her friend into the light and air outside.

Sam met them there, and they filled her in. Her eyes narrowed as she listened, and she hurriedly interrupted Beth's description of the young man's magnificent equipment. "Well, while I was on my way back from the ladies'," she said in a rush, "I saw someone we do know come down this path, peek in the men's room, and then take off like his ass was on fire."

"Who?" the two girls asked together, Beth's voice still a bit hoarse from her recent adventure.

"Billy Conrahan, that's who." Sam absently reached up and flicked a drop of cum from Beth's lower lip with her thumb.

"Billy Conrahan? The kid whose dad owns Club Sinn?" Tracy was stunned. Everyone knew Billy, a bright and popular classmate of theirs from school. If the old black man in the janitor's greens hadn't written the card, it was almost certain that this new development was a significant lead. But why would Billy do such a thing, and, if he had, what did he want to tell the girls so urgently? She fought down her impatience. This case was getting more complicated by the moment, and she would need all her wits about her if she was to ever unravel its threads. "There's only one thing to do," she said, setting her narrow jaw.

It was Sam's turn to look mystified. "What's that?"

"Pay a little visit to Club Sinn."

Beth was the first to break the silence. "Sounds good to me, Tracy. Just one thing."

"What?"

Beth fingered the cum stain on her flushed, generous breast. "Mind if I clean up a little first?"