It's a commonplace that opposites attract and I can confirm it.
I'm an insurance investigator. I have a PI's license and a degree in accounting. Usually, insurance investigation involves taking your laptop to the business park, where the criminals serve you coffee and vending machine snacks.
This case wasn't like that. Instead of days exploring the limits of forensic accounting, my partner Aaron and I were detailed to a tony little California beach town. The fraud involved a string of short-term rental units, mainly cottages, that were being used for money laundering. There were hints of drug money, illicit gambling, and prostitution. The bad guys were more blue-collar than white.
We couldn't quite get the dope on this group, so we were on a stakeout. We'd rented a cottage--ironically from the suspected "syndicate"--across from where our putative kingpin had his residence. It was all very cloak-and-dagger stuff, especially when compared to our usual gig.
Aaron and I are pretty much opposites. He's invariably known as "Aaron from Wisconsin", because that's how he introduces himself. Except that it's in a nasally voice in which "Wisconsin" (Wis-caaan-sen) rhymes with Aaron somehow. He's short, fat, bald, and dresses like a mob figure from a Scorsese movie. He's got a thick gold chain, a loud striped shirt with a too-large collar, polyester slacks, and he carries a.38 revolver under his left armpit. He's crass and you can hear his loud mouth coming six blocks away. He can also make Excel do things that actually are illegal in 10 states. He's also married and talks to his "sweetie pie" pretty much every night for an hour.
I'm tall and fairly thin, just some extra mid-line bulk (business park vending machine Twizzlers are my downfall) and originally from Santa Fe, New Mexico. It's a state. You can look it up. At thirty-eight, I think I look pretty good. Normally I wear a decent suit to work in, but this job had me in sweatshirts or t-shirts, depending on the weather. I'm more of an introvert than Aaron. I'm divorced and my daughter Jill, who's 20, only calls occasionally.
We'd settled into our stakeout and had plans to milk this job for it's month while we figured out what was up. The cottage had a single bedroom, so I was on the couch for the duration, but it beats fleabag motel, which is our usual demi-monde, all to pieces.
A few days in, our mark up and left town for a few days. The L.A. office had him tailed, but it gave us a breather from watching the empty cottage in shifts. There was a local bar and eatery, so we walked down to see if beer is still served cold on the coast.
It was a good joint, hopping, but all vacation goers. We had a table near the bar when in walk two women. They'd rented the cottage next to us and I'd done the "howya-doin'" routine with one of them.
The one I had met--her name was "Rose"--was maybe 5'10" and her skin was naturally brown. I couldn't tell if she was South Asian or maybe Latin American, not that it mattered. Her hair was mid-length, brown, and kind of wavy. She was wearing lavender colored lipstick and a long beach dress in navy blue with white piping and white buttons down the front. Not too much going on up-front, but not nothing either.
Her friend--she introduced her as "Marie"--was like Aaron's mirror. She couldn't have been five feet even and looking at her next to Aaron as like looking at two bowling balls. Her hair was pulled straight back with a colorful band and her eyes, mouth, and boobs were all perfectly circular.
We invited them to sit with us, since we had a table. They had rented the cottage next door for a month: they were getting away from their teaching jobs for the summer. Rose taught kindergarten. Marie taught English Literature for a junior college. They were escaping interior heat by coming to the seaside. They were also both single and they made it obvious they were looking for male companionship.
That would've been great, except, you know, we were undercover and watching some somewhat serious guys. Being on a stakeout isn't like you have free time either. You have to look like you're doing normal shit while keeping your eyes peeled twenty-four-seven. Any down time is spent sleeping.
So, I was all ready to point out the available selection of surf bros and vacationing suits, but Aaron wasn't having it. I mean, he loves his sweetie pie, but his eye doesn't just wander, it's downright lost. He was hitting on Marie like a six-year-old on a pinata.
What the heck? Rose looked good and we could make up excuses later. There was some drinking and, after a bit, I took her for a spin on the dance floor. She moved beautifully and, in the slow dance we found some lovely symmetry between our bodies. Aaron and Marie were similarly congruent.
The problem was, though, that our conversations were at ninety degree angles. My cheesehead partner was having a good time talking sports with Rose, and then about cars, and then about guns. Marie couldn't have identified a member of the Packers to save her life, owned a Prius, and was into salmon fisheries rescue. She also loved, in no particular order, old movies, manga novels ("but the really dark stuff"), and politics--all topics I enjoy.
So as the night started to close down and, by silent agreement, we all decided to walk back to the cottages and figure it out from there, we paired up in a way that ignored geometry.
At their doorstep, Rose took the lead. "Gentlemen, I know it's frowned upon to, uh, do anything on a first date. But we're all here for a limited time. I think you should come inside and... yeah. Sound like a plan?"
I looked down at Aaron. He looked up at me. We glanced at the still dark target house across the street. "Yeah," he said. "Let's do that."
We went in, another bottle was opened, and we sat down to have some more intimate conversation. Rose surprised me by snuggling back up to me. "I like talking to Aaron a lot, but I'm not looking for anything verbal tonight, hon. I think you're hot and I need you to take me in the bedroom and take me hard on the bed."
Marie seemed to be outlining the same course for Aaron, so I went.
The room was dark and she was slippery as an eel in my arms. She wanted both of us out of clothes right away and I don't think a stitch was left by the time we found her bed. Her mouth was wide and, when we kissed, it was willing and wanton. Her brown skin was warm. My hand found a ripe round buttock that filled it so nicely. Our legs scissored together, crossing and uncrossing. I felt her dark, aroused teat with my other hand. It made her moan when I lightly squeezed it. She arched her back and rubbed her pubes across mine. I knew she could feel my arousal. I felt a bit of wetness on my thigh, when it slipped into her crack.
"I need you to fuck me. Now," she said. I lined up and let her feel me at her tight hole. Rose bounced the wet opening on my tip once and then twice, making sure I was in position. The third bounce and I was in her, just a bit. Now both our backs arched a few times. The tool was perfectly fitted to the job.
We moved together for a good long while. Sometimes kissing. Sometimes moaning. We danced horizontally as we had danced a few hours ago: in perfect symmetry, a perfect coupling. She panted a bit, growing close to hers. She had me getting close too. "I'm not on the pill..." (sharp intake of breath) "... but I want you to cum in me..." I heard, but I didn't slow. "Get it deep in me, man... fill my fertile hole..."
The accountant inside me was pulling up the actuarial tables for conception odds as I moved to consider pulling out. She was climaxing right then, though... "Oh... oh..." and her body rumbled and thrust perfectly against mine.
I filled her.
As we were lying there after, I could hear Aaron and Marie doing it in the other bedroom. She squeaked with excitement as he plumbed her.
Listening to them got me going a little. Rose was done resting too. It was a long night with little sleep.
The target came back that morning and we were in position to observe him. The gals had gone out to the beach, imploring us to come with them. We allowed as how we had to get cleaned up.
"We're going to have to take them into confidence," he said, once we were back in our own cottage. "Otherwise, it'll be a problem. If we play our cards right, though, it could work great. We look more normal if there's some bed swapping going on."
"It's also dangerous as hell," I reminded him. "These baboons (gesturing to the target's house) aren't messing around. We can tell them what we're about, but we shouldn't involve them. Besides, won't sweetie pie get butt hurt if you're getting it on the side?"
"You leave her out of it. But, yeah, we'll be careful, right?"
