This story is part of an ongoing series.
The chronological order of my stories is listed in WifeWatchman's biography.
Feedback and
constructive
criticism is very much appreciated, and I encourage feedback for ideas.
This story contains graphic scenes, language and actions that might be extremely offensive to some people. These scenes, words and actions are used only for the literary purposes of this story. The author does not condone murder, racism, racial language, violence, rape or violence against women, and any depictions of any of these in this story should not be construed as acceptance of the above.
There may or may not be discussion of political issues in my stories. If you are a Snowflake that feels you need to be protected from any mention of politics, then click the Back button now, and never attempt to read any of my stories ever again. You've been warned.
***
Dedicated to Dame Agatha Christie, with apologies for the riff of the title of one of her greatest stories.
Part 1 - Prologue
Saturday, October 30th. The rutting couple humped savagely, almost desperately, each trying to out-do the other, They were practically hurling their bodies at each other, tearing into each other. It was adversarial sex at its best as he plunged into her again and again with relentless power.
"I'm going to give you what you
need!
" the fit, muscular dark-haired guy yelled as he relentlessly slammed his throbbing hard cock into the sopping wet cunt of the hot blonde beneath him.
"Yes! Yes! Fuck me, fuck me! I gotta have that dick!" the woman cried out as she spread her legs wider to receive all of his six inches as deeply into into her womanhood as she could get it.
For him, the savage copulation was practical. His cock was sheathed in a condom, and he rarely climaxed while wearing one. He was desperately trying to get his nut, and she wasn't helping him very much beyond letting him pound her pussy into a creamy lather. Every time he lowered his head to kiss her full, luscious, lipsticked lips, she turned her face away, and he ended up nuzzling her cheek, jaw, and neck.
For her, she was enjoying the deep, hard fucking he was giving her, but it wasn't getting her off. She could tell he was struggling to reach the crest, but she wickedly didn't do anything to help, like grab his hard asscheeks, or wrap her shapely legs around him, or kiss him. She was naked except for the bright white very-high-heel pumps she was wearing, and she didn't want to risk stabbing him with her heels and bringing everything to a screeching halt.
Their well-matched bodies were glowing with sweat as he grunted and began shoving his meat into her with shorter, stabbing thrusts, and he finally felt his nut rising. "Gonna come." he gasped. Seconds later, he felt the painful ecstasy as his loins pulsed. Streams of thick, ropy jism fired out of the end of his pulsing piss-slit, only to be captured by the end of the condom, and rendered useless.
They collapsed together, and he rolled off of her to her left side, both of them breathing heavily. He did not ask her if she had orgasmed; now that he had come, it did not matter to him.
"That was good." she finally said dispassionately. "But we gotta go."
"Yeah, we do." Chip Blake said. "I've gotta confer with my clients. So, are we on? Are we doing this?"
"Yes." replied Savannah Fineman. "If we can get the trial date moved up."
As they relaxed in post-coital bliss, neither of them noticed the little black cylinder under the door of Room 202 of the Sunrise Hotel that had recorded the video and audio of the legal beagles
in flagrante delicto
. They also did not realize that the tiny camera secreted behind the A/C vent had been recording as well.
After retrieving the camera under the door, Eddy the Bounty Hunter returned to Room 204 and preserved his recordings on his laptop, and also copied the files to jump drives...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Saturday, November 13th. The Usual Suspects were gathered at The Cabin. We had watched college football games all day. What South Carolina did to Tennessee not only ended the Volunteers's hopes to make the College Football Playoffs (CFP), but was a humiliation almost as bad as the existence of the Atlanta Falcons to the city of Atlanta.
"I think Carole was right a few weeks ago, when she said Tennessee needs a new Defensive Backs coach." I said. "Their current one is louuussyyyy."
"No Crystal Trophy for them!" Jim had said.
"It's that ugly metal thing that looks like a bull-horn now." Carole had replied.
"Actually..." I said, "you're both right. They still give out the Crystal Trophy, just not on TV." (
Author's note: That is true. Georgia has Crystal Trophies as well as the ugly yellow CFP trophies for their 2021 and 2022 National titles. I know this because I have seen them with my own eyes.
)
Teresa and Todd had brought their boys, who were doing 'boys' things with my boys in the attic room. Little Jack Burke tried to play Zoning Commissioner when a dispute over Railroad rights-of-way began, but he was shot down by Judge Tasha Troy-Patterson's enlightened ruling... enforced by the Future Iron Crowbar, Carole Troy, who 'intervened' when little Jack tried re-zoning by destroying a railroad bridge. Jack was still rubbing his hurt shoulder when his mother gave him a talking-to about respecting the Judge's rulings...
Teresa had invited Chaplain Alberto Romano to join us, and he did. Buddy took one for the team by letting the good Father give him skritchins, which the good Father lavishly applied. The supper of hamburgers, hot dogs, and other 'tailgating' items managed to quickly vanish, and the prime suspects in the disappearance of the food were boys with hollow legs. Good grief! do they eat a lot! I lamented to myself... then counted my blessings to have boys and the means to provide them with food.
Teresa had invited Chaplain Romano because Notre Dame was playing a big game against Clemson. "Are you a Notre Dame fan?" Maggie Ross asked him as we watched.
"No, I was always a Boston College fan." replied Father Romano. "I'm a Bruins fan, too. And I like the Celtics, though I don't watch basketball very much."
"What about the Pay-tree-uts?" asked Carole.
Father Romano said "No, not them. They cheat too much. Their head coach and especially that quarterback of theirs are dirty. The quarterback destroyed his cellphone's SIM cards rather than cooperate with the NFL during an investigation of him cheating. And he cries like a baby if a defensive player so much as breathes on him."
"Like the Bull-dogs quarterback in the Wild-cats game?" asked Carole.
"O-kayyyy," interrupted Cindy Ross, "let's find something else to talk about..."
Now it was 8:30pm or so. Father Romano, Sheriff Griswold, Teresa, Cindy, and I were on the back deck, in a semi-circle around the fire in the fire pot. Laura had provided us a bottle of wine and glasses, and we were drinking more of it that we should have been.
Teresa said "Father, tell Cindy that golf joke. She played golf in high school."