This tale is about an incident that occurred in my hometown. Objectively, it isn't a particularly interesting story. It never would have made the newspaper back in the good old days.
So why recount it? Well, no one is paying me these days, and that means I can write about anything I like -- and I like this story because it involves a lot of sex. Despite being in my sixties, I am still a dirty old man.
As you read this yarn, you might wonder how I'm so capable of narrating this story and providing what is at times incredibly in-depth and personal information. The truth is, I'm a retired investigative journalist. 'Retired', in this instance, is just a nice way of saying 'recently sacked due to the rapid decline of print media'.
My sources are varied; from stalking social media to official records, to conversations I've overheard at the pub, supermarket and post office and of course, old fashioned interviews. You don't survive forty years in journalism unless you are skilled at both forming relationships and extracting information.
There is also a farmhand, whose name shall remain unknown, who had a habit of logging into Cameron's phone and reviewing the contents. This is where I gathered a lot of salacious information about what went on between Cam and Andy in the bedroom.
There was no malicious meant by the farmhand; he's simply a nosey fellow. Cameron is the sort who is trusting enough to share his passcode with farm staff so they can log into certain apps on his behalf. He's also the type who has a terrible habit of leaving his phone unattended, so it is not surprising that a curious person might pick up his old iPhone and peruse the contents. Lastly, Cameron is one of those chaps who talks to himself, and it so happens that many of his soliloquies have been overheard.
Where I've lacked insight or the story has become tedious, I've engaged artistic license. I've also changed all names, both for privacy reasons and because the two female protagonists have eerily similar names in real life, which has caused a huge amount of confusion at times and would doubtlessly confuse you, the reader. While this may make you wonder if this less of a formal record and more of an erotic novel, rest assured that the bones of the case are intact.
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Paul O'Brien was born into a working class family in Queensland's capital city, Brisbane. Paul's morals were as lacking as his family's finances, and he decided at a young age that the honest struggle was not for him.
At various times he'd worked in security, debt collection, liquor manufacturing, book-making, payday loans and insurance. At the age of fifty-five, after having been sued numerous times and narrowly avoided criminal prosecution only a handful more, he had somehow procured for himself a private investigator's license and commenced work in a satellite city, some forty kilometres from Brisbane.
His time was mostly spent tracing delinquents and collecting debts from tradesman. In addition to this, he worked as something of a go-between for bikies and their would-be recruits, arranging for Pacific Island and Middle Eastern kids to show their stuff to earn entry into the outlaw motorcycle gangs. A classy fellow, I'm sure you'll agree, but he's also pretty cluey. Back when I was working, I always made a habit of catching up with him for a beer every few months. If and when it suited him, he passed on some very useful titbits of information.
The business was reasonably successful, and to assist him he employed a murky young bloke with a sinister group of friends, a sensible secretary of mature years, and a very good looking blond woman aged somewhere around thirty -- Cleo Lawson. A critic would say Cleo was just a touch too hard around the mouth, and her surgery far too obvious, but that didn't stop most men from having a very good look. Perhaps one of Cleo's most endearing qualities was that she didn't give a shit that men eyeballed her; she loved it. She knew what they wanted, and certainly wasn't above taking advantage of it for her own gain.
It so happened that three or four months prior to the start of this story, a farmer named Ivan Radovitch had gone missing after attending a soil health workshop in a neighbouring town. Now, Ivan owed some money to a very unsavoury characters and that unsavoury character was an old mate of Paul's, so after a few months, when the police failed to identify whereabouts Ivan or his corpse were, it came to be that Paul was hired to see if he could rummage up any details that the local coppers could not.
Cameron Atkinson, who worked at Atkinson's Flowers, had been one of the last people to see Ivan on the day he went missing. The police had interviewed Cameron and ruled him out as a suspect, but in Paul's eyes, that didn't mean he wasn't holding onto valuable information.
It was around one thirty on a Tuesday afternoon when Paul and Cleo made their way to the Atkinson family farm. It was a good few hours in the car from their office, but Paul liked driving. He also liked interviewing people he thought he might be able to manipulate, and from everything he'd heard Cameron Atkinson was not a hard or tough man. He was just a regular sort from a country town, perhaps -- hopefully -- a bit on the naïve side.
As they drove, Paul eyeballed Cleo while wondering when it would be a good time to ask if she needed any financial assistance. She had a great set of boobs, and he knew she'd traded sex for money in the past, but he was being cautious in his approach. She was a good employee. Men almost always wanted to talk to her and Cleo, who had a surprisingly intact work ethic, was always careful to lead the conversation in the direction that Paul had briefed her on.
Cleo was acutely aware of what Paul was thinking. She was a long way off naïve, and she knew she looked good. She was never short of male attention.
She just wished the men she'd slept with would stay. They never did, though, not the ones who paid her, not the ones she fucked for free. Perhaps they were worried she liked sex so much that she'd cheat on them, but that wasn't true. She'd never cheated on a boyfriend. Nonetheless, she couldn't keep a man. Her longest relationship had lasted three months. Tim. She still missed him. She'd called him for months after he moved interstate. She'd got in the car one Friday night and driven down to see him, but he'd told her to fuck off or he'd call the police. She'd been heartbroken. And that was how it always was; she could get all the sex she wanted, but never love.
She sighed, adjusted her top so her chest was less visible to Paul's wandering eyes, and crossed her legs. She was wearing blue jeans, low heeled boots, and a top that would have been modest had she not been a surgically enhanced E cup.
Cleo stared out the window, dreaming of a better future, while Paul stared at her tits and dreamt of playing with them while she bounced up and down on his prick.
They pulled into a driveway and parked in a large carpark out the front of a busy café. The Atkinson's farm was well known in the area, not because they were terribly successful flower growers -- these days, most flowers sold in Australia are imported, because overseas labour is cheap and regulations loosely enforced, whereas in Australia the opposite often applies - but because they ran an award winning café on the premises and they allowed customers to pick their own flowers. Neither Paul nor Cleo had ever been there before, but they'd both heard of it.
It was a busy day and the tables were filled. Women were scurrying around everywhere, delivering coffees and sandwiches. As they walked into the café and up to the counter, several heads turned. It was Cleo that attracted the attention. Cleo smiled at one of the head-turners, and in his pants, the old age pensioner's cock began to thicken. That was the impact she had on men.
The woman at the counter was less impressed with Cleo, and only slightly less unimpressed with Paul, who himself didn't exactly exude the air of a respectable businessman. He was arrogant and smug and wore a suit that was better suited to a race meeting than a trip to a flower farm café.
'Table for two?' she asked.
Paul smiled what he felt was a broad, powerful smile. 'No, not today thanks. We were just after a quick word with Cameron Atkinson.'
