A Simple Art

The woman came through the door wearing big bug-eye sunglasses, a hat and a rain coat wrapped tight enough around her body that you could see every curve. She threw the hat on the peg by the door, yanked off the shades and let the coat fall open. The red dress she wore was clingier than the coat, cut high below the waist, low above, so whether I was a breast or a leg man I was covered. She obviously wasn't wearing a bra, and I wondered if she had on any panties.

"They short-changed you on that dress, sweetheart," I said. "About two would almost cover you."

Stacy smiled at me, white teeth flashing behind lips redder than the dress. She shook her head lightly, her blonde hair tumbling into a spill that looked expertly coiffed. She shrugged the coat off slender, lightly tanned shoulders, the movement making her breasts thrust out and up at me so that I had to restrain myself from cupping them with my hands.

"Well Joe, you know I never wear my best when I'm slumming it."

My cock was hard just from the sight of her. "So either you're a spy or you're here on business."

She sat on the chair in front of my desk and leaned forward. The red dress moved down a little over her pale lush breasts, showing just a fingernail's width of flushed pink. The movement stirred the air, brought me the soft, musky scent of her body, awoke memories. I remembered the texture of her firm nipples on my lips, the smell in the carefully tailored narrow band of downy blonde hair above the pert lips of her cunt. I remembered the sweet acid taste of her when I parted her labia with my tongue, the way she almost gushed when I lapped at her hard clit.

"Joe," she whispered, "I need your help."

***

I'd called Mrs. Rodgers and spun her some story about a distant relative, a family tree with some tangled roots and a reasonably sized legacy that she might have some chance of snagging. I told her I was a PI hired by the attorney handling it - I don't know if that ever happens, but I'd seen it in a movie once and it's amazing what you can get away with when you're offering people free money. Anyway, it meant I didn't need to get fake business cards printed.

The house was three storeys, and white as a wedding cake. It sprawled about on a lawn soft and green as the felt on a pool table, which was enclosed by high hedges and sprinkled randomly with trees and shrubs that probably took more water in a day than I used in the shower in a week. When I rang the doorbell, feeling kind of nervous about the damage my battered car was maybe doing to their property values, the door was thick enough that I didn't hear the bell.

The woman that answered had dark copper skin, jet black hair and rich brown eyes. She was wearing a green maid's uniform that did its best not to flatter her figure. "Joe Fox," I said. "I have an appointment with Mrs. Rodgers."

"Mr. Fox," she said, her voice dusted with a faint Guatemalan accent. "Yes, you're a little early, but I'll see if Mrs. Rodgers will see you."

She took off into the house, her flat shoes clapping on the lambent white tile floor. As the sounds got fainter I could hear changes in the tenor of percussion as she moved from one surface to another, then a clap as a door closed and the sounds disappeared completely. I edged into the house, scraping my shoes over a pristine rug and peered at a Vermeer that probably wasn't a reproduction.

The maid came back, wearing a smile on her lips and a frown on her brow. Very deliberately she said, "I'm instructed to show you into the solar lounge where Mrs. Rodgers will receive you." She paused then added, with a hitch as she gave the job title, "Her personal trainer is there at the moment."

I followed her down a corridor off the hall, my close inspection of her ass regularly interrupted by glances into rooms rich with the scent of buried treasure. Finally, she paused at a door, rested her hand on the handle and said, "This is the room." Then she turned and headed off.

I opened the door. The maid had called it a solar lounge; to me it was a mutant sun porch. It was hemispherical and must have abutted the rear of the house like a pimple on an ass. The ceiling was all glass for which I could see no supports; the walls likewise but the panes separated by slim bars of brushed steel. I vaguely took in the outdoor pool I could see through the doors, but the bulk of my attention was on the personal trainer.

He must have been a specialist in theory rather than practice, because he made me look buff and the closest I ever get to a gym is when my cop buddy James and I get drunk and talk about our feelings. He had a spare tire where his belly button should go and his chest looked to be sporting a good B-cup. His arms were lacking in muscle tone and his thick thighs were slabbed with something other than muscle. He was naked, and between his legs I could see his flaccid cock perched on his balls so that the slit seemed to be squinting at me. On the plus side, he seemed to have a nice face.

He was asleep, breathing lightly and reclined on a leather couch that probably cost enough that there wouldn't be a detailed impression of his ass when he got up. Unless the water here was really dirty, he had a half glass of scotch resting on the arm of the sofa. "Mr. Fox," I heard a sweet, smoky voice say.

Like the man, the woman was naked. Unlike him, I could imagine getting a bit erect looking at her. Her long red hair was natural, going by the dense patch of the stuff between her legs. Her large breasts weren't, though. As she walked towards me they hung hard and unchanging, with cleavage like she was wearing a push-up bra. She had big fiery red nipples that were obviously erect. Her body was slick with sun lotion but a more lubricious fluid seemed the source of the glow of her spread cunt. She had a tattoo of a cartoon rabbit just above and to the right of her vulva.

"Mrs. Rodgers," I said, "are you trying to seduce me?"

She either didn't get the reference, didn't have a sense of humour or perhaps I just wasn't as funny as I thought.

"I hope you don't mind," she said. "I'm working on my tan. Murray hates lines. Oh, and call me Elaine."

I thought about telling her that you can't get a tan through glass, but I wasn't really minding the view that much. I sat down in the chair opposite the sofa and she sat close to her personal trainer. I ran off the spiel I'd written about the will and she listened and nodded and looked pleased when she caught me staring at her more intimate parts.

The trainer yawned and stretched one arm up and I thought maybe he was about to begin his morning work out. Instead, his arm sprawled against Elaine's left breast and he moaned and went back to sleep.

"This some new fad diet? Like Atkins maybe, but instead of all the meat you start drinking in the morning and sleep it off" I asked.

The trainer's hand was now toying idly with the woman's nipples, and I could see a flush on her tanned cheeks. "No," she said. "My husband is much older than me, and though I love him very much he isn't able to satisfy me any more." She paused, then, for the hard of thinking added, "Sexually, I mean."

I looked at her - late twenties, a body sculpted by scalpel but probably maintained by a regime of diet and exercise that would be a war crime if she didn't undertake it voluntarily. She was a centrefold made three dimensional, at least physically. Then I glanced over at her trainer.

She saw me looking. "I know, he doesn't look like much, does he? But..." Her hand slipped between his legs and wrapped around his soft cock. It was a few inches long, maybe average size or a little bigger. She stroked it and it began to grow inch by inch. "A friend of mine found him in a certain club off ______." She had both hand on him now, the stretch of her arms pressing her breasts together. Her red-tipped nails dug into the shaft of his cock, kneading him as she caressed from base to tip in an ever longer journey.

Elaine smiled. "You know I never thought I was a size-queen. I'd fucked plenty of guys, and if I'd thought about it they'd all been different sizes. Size really didn't matter. Until I heard about him."

Given the hoarseness of her voice, she was also the kind that liked talking about it, unless she'd swallowed a fly. Her hands could no longer wrap all the way around his shaft; lengthwise they covered maybe half of it. His cock-head was big and swollen. Elaine knelt in front of him. I saw she had a good ass, too, decorated with a slick tramp stamp in spidery black ink. Turning so I could see she yanked her mouth wide open and engulfed maybe a third of his cock before gagging. I thought of a snake I'd seen swallowing a large animal. When she slipped it out of her mouth, it looked even bigger.

"Nine and a half inches long," she said. "Seven inches around. I get off just measuring it, he doesn't even need to touch me with it and I come harder than I ever have." I believed her - already she was panting, her fake tits heaving. She had one hand supporting his immense cock; with the other she was fingering her pussy and clit. "You'll have to excuse me," she said.

"We' were done anyway," I said. I wasn't sure whether I was disgusted or amused, so I just added, "I'll call if it turns out you are related to the deceased."

She nodded, but I don't think she heard me. The trainer had finally woken up. He saw Elaine before him, spread his legs wide, then noticed me. Judging by his reaction, this wasn't the first time Elaine had shown off her oversized human dildo to an unsuspecting caller. He nodded but didn't say anything. As I let myself out the door, Elaine was slowly taking his huge cock into her pussy. She was giving out a long, high Ooh, he was silent. Seemed like a nice guy.

Well, it wasn't how I had expected to distract her but I wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak. I made my way through the mansion, trying doors, listening out for the maid. Finally, I found it - Murray Rodgers' study.

***

"You need my help? Sorry, doll, but funding a movie's a bit outside my price range and I only write one-liners for myself."

Stacy's face grew serious, and I could see tears beginning to form in the corner of her eyes. She was a pretty good actress, but this was real enough that a man with a heart would feel bad for not being kinder.

"Okay," I said. "Tell me the problem."

"The problem is I finally hit it big," she said.

"Sure, all my success has got me so daffy I can't decide which part of the office I should improve first."

"If you were funnier," she said, "maybe I wouldn't have left you." But she grinned, and I saw the tears recede. "Well the news is you're going to be seeing my face a whole lot more. First on billboards, and then as the star of a new show by ______." She named someone even I'd heard of.

"See," she said. "Even you've heard of him." Her face got sad again. "But I did something really stupid and it's going to hurt me."

Stacy had told me that, a few years earlier, before she got an agent but after she got fired from a restaurant job for slapping a big actor who'd taken a big liking to her body and felt he had better appraise it by hand, she'd posed for some naked pictures. "I was about to be on the street," she said. "And a sort of friend of mine had done it and she had a number I could call."

It was for a septuagenarian lecher called Murray Rodgers, who'd made a fortune in property and spent only a little of it getting himself a trophy wife. "He has this huge house outside the city with a studio in it. He had me send him my headshot, then invited me out."

There had been a heart-shaped bed, costumes, lingerie - but nothing sexual. He'd explained what he wanted, named a figure that would keep her landlord from evicting her, and she'd agreed. She posed and he took photo after photo, using many reels of film. The photos were nudes, erotic but not pornographic. He expressly forbade her to touch herself, and she told me the studio was especially warm apparently so that no erect nipple should suggest arousal. But while he snapped the pictures with one hand, Stacy noticed his other ferreting around in his trouser pocket. When he finally called an end to the shoot, his trousers were discoloured by a big, fresh wet patch.

"You know what it's like these days," Stacy said. "Everyone with a computer's seen Lindsay's vagina. There was that actress from that musical. And it killed their careers. Nobody minds if a picture maybe hints that it's possible that Nicole Kidman might have nipples, but if you've not made a name already?"

"You could become the next Paris Hilton," I suggested. "Just shave it all off and buy a ticket machine so you can charge admission."

"Please Joe," she said. "Sure he doesn't need the money, but what if he sends the pictures to one of those websites just for kicks. Who knows what gets him off?"

***

I had some idea now, of course. I'd been prepared to search the whole office carefully, but it was almost pathetically easy. I was looking at the huge mahogany desk, wondering if everything in the house suffered from gigantism. It had a fine leather blotter on it and, maybe I was just lucky, but the Sun was casting a shadow over it that bent funny. I lifted the blotter and found a safe key. Still disbelieving my luck, I pulled at the edges of a marine painting until it swung out revealing the safe. Clearly he was a security nut.

I turned the key and opened the safe. There were a couple of sealed letters from lawyers, two big stacks of large denominational bills and, just like at a kiosk, on the top shelf were two thick photo albums. I opened the top one first.

There were only two or three photos of each woman, with perhaps one girl in thirty meriting four photos. Each girl had one page. I must have selected the older album first, because the photos started off black and white, the women pictured more ripe than today's, with hourglass figures and wild, untrammelled manes around their sex. Slowly, as I flicked through, the women's waists slimmed and their bushes were deforested. The photos flicked into colour, like in the Wizard of Oz.

Unsurprisingly, I didn't recognise most of the women. Near the end of the first book I saw a picture that bore a striking resemblance to an actress who'd been in a pretty big TV show a few years back. The woman had made a big deal about how real her breasts were; this photo proved otherwise, and also suggested that Stacy would have been all right without me going to all this effort. I caught her photos a few pages from the end.

She had four photos. She was wearing a peek-a-boo bra in black with a pair of black crotchless panties. The photos captured each of her attributes with great skill, and I thought about a book an ex had given me on the Male Gaze. Then I took out my pocket knife and cut the page out of the book.

I flicked through the last few pages, but there was nothing more of Stacy. I folded the page I'd taken and stuffed it into my pocket and opened the second album. They were all photos of the same woman, hundreds of them, chronicling her body from sometime in her early twenties to what must have been her mid forties. She seemed familiar, and with a shock I realised it was the maid.

Two small hands wrapped around my chest and I caught the smell of gardenias and jasmine. I felt plump lips graze my neck, felt soft black hair tickle my face. "There are cameras everywhere," the maid said. She let go of me and I turned around. Now, instead of the maid's uniform she was wearing only a sultry smile.

Her nipples and areola were the colour of charcoal. The nipples were hard and round as Maltesers, her areolae were perfect circles with a diameter of about two inches. They were perfect caps for her big, obviously real breasts. Her belly was smooth and faintly rounded, less sculptured than Elaine's but more inviting. A delta of rich chocolate curls surrounded the dusky folds of her wet cunt. She was so beautiful that I could understand the obsession that had led Murray Rodger's to document her in pictures.

"I'm tempted to ask if this is some kind of a bust, but that would be your line," I said. "What's your name?"

"Isabela," she said. She pressed her body against me and kissed me. She kissed well, used her tongue delicately. Her lips tasted of honeydew melon, her tongue of peppermint. She was forcefully grinding one hand over the solid iron bar I was packing in the front of my trousers. My hands were cupping the soft skin of her cheek and the softer skin of her ass. "Come with me," she said and led me through a door in the wall of the study opposite the one I'd come in by.

It was the room from the photos. Isabela hit a switch and it got very bright. On one wall were a table of photographic equipment, a closed wardrobe and a double cupboard with metal doors. The bulk of the room was made up like a bedroom, with a king-size bed with brass fittings and white satin sheets. It was like a crazed constructor had built half a bedroom, half a lab then glued them together. Probably did a better job than most new builds, at least.

Isabela pushed me back until my knees were resting against the mattress then with nimble fingers undid my belt and slid down my trousers and underwear. My hard cock bobbed free and she caught it and stroked it. She knelt in front of me and kissed it once then, looking up and holding my gaze, she swallowed down about half. Her mouth was hot and wet around me, and she sucked like she was parched and needed a drink. Then she let me slip out of her mouth and she pushed hard against my stomach and I fell back on the bed.

We arranged ourselves on top of the sheets, me feeling kind of put out that this seldom used bed was considerably more comfortable than the one I had to sleep on every night. Isabela lay on top of me, and my hands ran over her like a blind man reading a thriller in Braille. She took hold of one of my arms and reached up and clamped a fuzzy pink handcuff around it. The other end was wrapped around the headboard. I rattled it and it felt like it would probably break if I got the shakes, so I let her clamp the other one to my free hand.

"I could do anything to you now," she said. She wasn't holding a knife, so my cock stayed hard. There were condoms on the table by the bed and she grabbed one and sheathed me with it. Then she mounted me, her back to me, resting on calves and thighs that bulged with firm muscle. "Lrigwoc me' edir," I thought about saying but figured she wouldn't get it. She guided me inside her.

She fucked me, first slowly, then harder and harder as her pleasure grew. I watched the smooth clean motion of the muscles in her back, the lilting sweep of her long back hair across it. Her head was haloed by the lights in the room, five blazing spots and one blown bulb. My hands tingled from wanting to touch her.

Isabela began to moan, and I could feel the grip of her pussy clamp tighter around me. Her cries were like growls and her hands kneaded my hips until they were sore. I came instants after she did, my come seeming to boil out of me with a heat and force I'd rarely experienced.

Isabela collapsed on the bed next to me, supporting her head on one of my chained arms. "That was amazing," she said and kissed me.

"For me too," I said.

We rested for minutes, saying nothing, mingled sweat cooling on our bodies. I could feel Isabela's breath slow against my ribs in the motion of hers. I'd begun to think she was asleep when, with a lithe coil of her legs, she got off the bed and went to my clothes. "Let's see what you took," she said.

She found the picture of Stacy and, still chained up, I explained. There's a school of thought that a PI should never discuss his client's business but, on the other hand, I was naked and handcuffed to the bed of a private citizen's private sex studio. Isabela unfolded the page, unstuck one of the photos and read a number off the back. Then she went to the double cupboard in the back of the studio and opened it.