Bone Picked Clean

This story is for

The 2024 "Hammered: an Ode to Mickey Spillane" Author Challenge

. It's more inspired by the genre than a direct tribute, a hard-boiled detective story, with sexual themes and situations in the way you might expect from this site. If you enjoy this, you also might want to check out my story from last year's challenge, "Bone in the Skeleton's Closet."

-N2P

I pulled my spent, semi-hard dick out of the freshly fucked redhead and stepped back to pull up my pants. She stayed frozen on the bed, ass up, face down, then collapsed over onto her side to stare at me as I tucked in the tails of my white dress shirt. Her hair was a tangled, sweaty mess, with a few strands plastered across her face. She had kind of a dazed expression. I turned to leave.

"You're not a nice man, Mr. Bone."

"Never said I was."

I opened the door and stepped out of the dimly lit, cheap hotel room into the searing bright of the LA sun. It felt warm on my face. They say the sun is a natural disinfectant. UV rays or something. Under my clothes, under the heat of the sun, I could still feel her funk all over me, but on the outside everything was crisp and clean. This town is all about appearances. I put on my sunglasses to cut through the glare. Time to get to work.

My work is private investigations. It's not as exciting as you see in the movies, but then again not much is. It pays the bills, mostly. I like to think I'm good at what I do. The redhead back at the hotel? She was one of my clients. I don't fuck all my clients, but when they want it and they look like she does, let's just say I believe in keeping the client happy, within reason.

It was two in the afternoon and I had to be in Santa Monica before three. No time to waste. I rolled out of the parking lot and onto Sunset Blvd. The top was down on my 15-year-old Mercedes. I prefer a convertible, but there aren't a lot of them out there anymore. The old Mercedes was my best option. I get a lot of that, picking the best option out of choices that are less than ideal. While I drove, I went over the upcoming appointment in my mind.

I was heading west to meet a wealthy woman named Evelyn Draper. How did I know she was rich? She had a house on the beach at Santa Monica. This wasn't new territory for me. Rich women make up a healthy portion of my clientele. This one scoped out as pretty basic. She thinks her husband, a bigshot Hollywood type, is cheating. She wants me to get the proof. It's not because she needs it for a divorce. Those have been no-fault for years. It's for herself. She just wants to know.

You might think it's not fair how a woman can use a guy's own money to hire somebody to get information to use against him. I see the point. But them's the rules. I didn't make 'em. And the way I figure it, the guy ain't blameless. Whether he's screwing around or not, he married her. He made that bed. Now he gets to lie in it.

These aren't nice people, my clients. They're rich people. You don't get rich by being nice. You don't stay rich by being nice either.

There's a gate on the driveway, so she had to buzz me in. Her houseboy or assistant, whatever he was, greeted me at the door. First step inside I could see clear out to the ocean. Ten steps in and it was panoramic, a million dollar view, probably more like ten million would be my guess. She was seated at a small table in the corner by the window. She stood to greet me, tall and blonde, stacked. I made her to be about forty-five, classy, sleek, well-preserved.

"I'm Evelyn Draper." She shook my hand with just the right amount of friendly. "Can I get you anything to drink, Mr. Bone?"

"Scotch and soda."

"Manolo, scotch and soda for Mr. Bone, please."

The houseboy, or whatever he was, retreated. I saw that Evelyn already had a glass in front of her. She motioned for me to sit down.

"Oh my! You are a big one, aren't you?"

"Six-six, two sixty."

"Minnie said you were...big."

Minnie's name tipped me off to the insinuation more than her delivery of the line. "You get my name from Minnie?"

"That's right. My friend Minnie Tuls. She said you helped her out when she and Derek had their little...falling out. They're back together now."

"Is that so? Well...happy ending I guess." Minnie's husband Derek had a sugar baby stowed away in the Valley. I confirmed her suspicions. She paid me, then fucked me a few times to get even with him. That was two years ago. I hadn't seen her since. "My assistant, Velma, said you're looking for something similar. You think your husband's cheating and you want me to provide the proof?"

"That's right. I know he is. I can feel it. But before I confront him, I want to make sure I've got him dead to rights. What do you need from me, Mr. Bone?"

"I'll need as much on him as you've got. Name, birthplace, driver's license, social security, cell number, bank numbers, credit cards, where he works, all that. Is this your only house?"

"We have a condo in Vail, another in Kauai, and a boat at the marina that sleeps twelve. I'll see that you get everything you need."

"There's also the matter of my fee. $1000/day, plus expenses. Three thousand up front. It always takes at least that long."

"Of course. Minnie said you prefer cash. Shall we settle that now?"

"I've modernized. I also take Venmo or Cash App, but if you've got paper, I'm happy to take that too."

"I'm prepared." She reached into a purse and handed me a roll of bills. "That's five thousand. If you can find me what I need early, you can keep the rest."

"Thanks. I'll see what I can do." Manolo returned with my drink and I stuffed the roll in my pocket.

"Wait here, please, and I'll see what I can gather for you." Evelyn left me sipping my drink, and gazing through the tinted windows down at the beach and out at the sea. I liked that she jumped straight to business after that first little tease. They don't always do that. After about 10 minutes she returned with some papers. "This will get you started. Can I text you the rest?"

"Of course." We exchanged contact numbers. I also made sure she still had the number for my assistant. "Velma gets copied on everything."

"Very well." I thought I detected a little reluctance in that response, but I let it slide. Evelyn sat back in her chair.

"Mr. Bone...now that our business is almost concluded...Minnie said you also helped her with some 'physical therapy.' She told me you gave her a real workout. I could also use a workout, if you're interested."

"I might be able to help with that."

"And a large dose of Vitamin D?" Her insinuation was unmistakable.

"I can arrange that. If I recall, Minnie asked real nice. And had a nice way of saying thank you."

"I can be nice too, Mr. Bone. Should we discuss this further on Thursday, let's say 9pm? We can meet here. You can provide me with an update. And bring those vitamins for me."

"I'll have to check my calendar. The case comes first, of course, but I think that could be arranged. Pencil me in for Thursday." I finished off the last of my drink and Manolo saw me out.

These rich women are my meal ticket. It seems like they got a network. I help one and she tells a friend, and so on. They like that I get results, and they like my special qualifications too. I fill a need, or at least a hole anyway. It might not be the hole in their heart, but I can stuff it tight enough that, at least for a little while, they don't feel quite so empty inside.

What am I saying? If you need me to spell it out, I've got a big dick. It's 10 inches long and almost as big around as a beer can. I'm not saying this to brag. It's just a fact. Truth is I wish I was a little more average. Maybe then I could have had an average life, with a good woman who loves me and kids and a regular job instead of the sleaze and junkies and low lifes I hang around with now. And the rich ones, the ones with money like Evelyn? They might seem nice enough on the surface, but when you dig a little deeper you find out they're usually worse than the girls on the streets.

When I run across one of these rich women who doesn't want to fuck, that's fine too. I know it won't be long until I run across one that does. I've been doing this for almost 20 years. I can smell the desperation. They coasted this far in life on their looks alone. They can see their looks starting to fade and when they look inside themselves, there's nothing there to make up the difference. Just so many empty boxes covered up with pretty wrapping.

Average is not my life. I have a big dick. It gets me laid a lot, mostly from lonely rich women past their prime. When I was younger, it got me into porn. That's right, I did porn for a while, then I got out. A regular life was never in the cards for me. That's just how it is. I'm playing the cards I was dealt, winning a few hands, and losing a few too. I can't complain. Wouldn't do me any good if I did.

The first step in staking out Draper was to run his financials, see what we could find there, and put a tracker on his car, or cars, and see where he goes. Track his phone too, if he didn't have it masked or he wasn't paranoid enough to pull the battery. It's pretty much child's play nine times out of ten. The poor bastard has no idea he's being followed, and if he does, it's usually because we've fucked up pretty bad.

When I need computer and electronics work, which is usually, I go see Zack the Hack. Zack's like the Saul Goodman of computer geeks: billboards, late night tv ads, bus stop benches, he does what he has to do to get his name out there. I know Zack from porn. This town is full of people with a little porn in their past. You might be surprised. Land of broken dreams and all that. Anyway, Zack's about 5'6", 140 lbs soaking wet, and his dick is almost as big as mine. We used to call him "Tripod." He and I even did a scene together once. Him railing some chick with a big, juicy ass while she sucked my dick. We made quite the team. Comedy porno back when they used to do that. Fun for the whole family.

Zack tells me the money in computers is better than porn, but the pussy is worse. Funny guy, that Zack. He still dips into some fringe shit on the side, mostly just to get his dick wet. I didn't want the details. I told him in the P.I. game, the money might not be better, but the pussy definitely was. I almost wasn't lying about that either. A lot of those young girls in porn just look good. They don't really know what they're doing, and they're not always into it.

With these older trophy wives like Evelyn Draper, it was a different story. Looks-wise, they might be a notch past their prime, but they still look good. They're clean. They smell nice. They know what they're doing and they know what they want. They want to get fucked by a fat 10-inch dick, preferably connected to a guy who'll walk away and tell no tales. I enjoy fucking them. They cum. I cum. Everybody gets what they need. Case closed. Oh...I dig up the dirt on their husbands too.

I gave Draper's cell phone, email, and credit card info to Zack. He gave me trackers to put on the guy's cars. The signal would send straight to my cell. Meanwhile, he'd let me know what he could find. Zack and I had an understanding. Yes, there are laws about this shit, what you can and can't do. We're both licensed, and you have to be careful. But for friends, you might go a little above and beyond. We'd helped each other out that way a few times over the years. Enough said.

Stakeouts are boring. Sometimes even Hollywood gets that right. This one was no exception. Draper went to his office. He went to the gym. He went to a couple meetings at hotels and fancy restaurants. For the first two days, everything seemed legit. Zack got a tap on his cell. I don't ask how. But that all checked out too. No suspicious contacts. If this guy was calling someone or taking calls from a girlfriend, a boyfriend, a dealer, a pimp, whoever, he was doing it on a burner.

The financials finally gave us a lead. Every month for the past six, it seems ten grand had been dropping out of his accounts with no trace of where it went. Sometimes it was a cash advance on his credit card, sometimes a direct withdrawal from the bank, sometimes Apple Pay. But for six months, every month, 10K went out and no receipts came back. A guy like that can blow through a lot of walking around money, but Draper was too tight. He expensed his haircuts and his tips to Maitre' Ds. Unless he was dropping cash into envelopes and sending them through the mail, plain old tailing the guy seemed like the most likely path to finding out what he was buying for 10K/month.

What's the most powerful force in the world? What can ruin a guy's life, destroy everything he has? You probably think it's earthquakes, or hurricanes, or even volcanoes? Nope. That "act of God" shit can take all a guy's money, but there's insurance for that. Nothing gets a guy into more trouble than pussy. Pussy will haunt a guy's dreams, wreck his soul—and take his money too. So when Draper dropped an envelope through a car window into the hands of a hot young blonde parked in the lot outside the trendy lunch spot Chez Magnifique, that got our attention.

I don't hate women. I'm not a misogynist. Yes, I know what that word means. But it's true that in this line of work I do run across a few I don't exactly hold in high regard. My mother, rest her soul, was practically a saint. If I believed in angels and all that shit I'm sure she'd be there. It was just me and her until she died young. Then I lied about my age and got the Army to take care of me for three years while I finished growing up.

Uncle Sam taught me I didn't much enjoy taking shit from pinheads. Really, my mother was the only person who could get me to do something I didn't want to do. The only thing I've got against her, outside of dying on me when I was 16, is that when she named me Richard it never even crossed her mind what kids would do with that. She was innocent like that. She couldn't have known how I'd grow into that name, either. At least probably she didn't know. Did I get my size from my father? I don't know. Never met the man. She told me my father was Superman, and he was never around because he was out fighting bad guys. For a couple of years growing up, I even believed it.

Outside of my mother, the other good woman in my life is Velma. She's my right hand. While I'm out getting into trouble she holds down the office, pre-screening clients, collecting information, keeping me organized, and dodging the occasional bill collector. I wish I could pay her more. She puts up with my shit. She gets me. She knows I fuck half our clients and she doesn't care. Velma's one of the good ones, but she plays for the other team. She and I actually fucked once years ago when we were both drunk. She says that was the night she swore off dick forever.

Anyway, the blonde in the parking lot drove a Honda registered to one Erica Kincaid, with an address listed out in Ventura. A background check on Kincaid showed she was the daughter of Bambi Brinks. If that name sounds familiar, then you just told me something about you. Bambi Brinks was a mid-level porn actress back in the late '80s. I would have headed out there that night to check the address but it was Thursday. Time to report back to Evelyn, let her know we had a solid lead, and give her that vitamin D injection she was waiting for, and that, if we're being honest, I'd been kinda looking forward to.

I sent my guy Hoskins to keep an eye on the house in Ventura in case Draper showed up. My associate, Reed, was watching Draper in case he moved, but it looked like he was headed home. I was thinking Evelyn might have an interesting time explaining to him why I showed up at their house when I got a text. She wanted to meet me at the Four Seasons, room 612. Explanation averted.

I knocked. She answered. It was just the two of us. Nice and cozy. She gave me my pick from the mini-bar and joined me as we sat down to review the facts. The photos of the blonde in the Honda and the envelope passing hands seemed to be enough to confirm her suspicions, but the porn mama past iced it for her. Evelyn jumped to all the predictable conclusions. Lucky for my bank account she was greedy, though. She wanted more, and she was willing to pay me more of Draper's money to find it, every sordid detail.

I sized her up pretty quick. She did a good enough job of pretending, but it wasn't her suspicions of infidelity that were really motivating her. She knew that even if Draper was fucking the blonde, she herself was guilty of the same thing multiple times over, and she was about to offend once more. What did she want most? A thrill, and a little salve for her ego.

What could I give her that her husband or other guys couldn't, apart from the obvious? I was betting a big strong girl like Evelyn wanted to feel what it's like to be somebody's rag doll, a fuck puppet, thrown around and dominated like the petite girls. And I, at 6'6", 260lbs., and with a 10-inch dick, was just the guy to do it. She knew that even if it got a little rough between us, it's still just play time. I won't hurt her because she's got the money. She can feel safe enough to slide into the role, and to really let go.

Evelyn handed me another 5 grand. I stuffed the roll into my pocket, then picked her up off the ground and backed her into the wall.

"Oh!" she voiced her surprise, but her eyes, and the fact that she wrapped her legs around my ass as I ground into her, told me I'd made the right move at the right time. I kissed her, hard. She kissed me back, ground back against me, and then bit my lip, just barely enough to draw blood. Since that's how she wanted it, I set her down, and ripped open that expensive blouse. She barely had time to drop her skirt before I picked her up again, carried her over, and threw her down on the bed. Manhandled it would be. Rode hard and put away wet.

I let her watch as I peeled off my shirt and unbuckled my pants. I don't wear underwear so she saw it right away. Her eyes got big. I removed my shoes and socks. She had stockings and garters, black ones, but no panties. My kind of girl. Always ready.

"Oh My God!"

"Don't worry. It'll fit." I grabbed her by both legs and pulled her to the edge of the bed. Now it was my fat, throbbing, cock grinding against her exquisitely manicured and well-lubricated snatch. I squeezed her breasts and made the nipples pop out over the edge of the cups on her bra. I worked those soft tits and stiff nipples with my hands while I stared straight into her eyes. I could tell she was starting to feel it. "Now grab it. You do it. Grab my cock and put it where you need it."

She grabbed around the base like it was a dildo, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled as she pulled me in and I helped her. She winced once, but not a whimper, adjusting inch by inch until I bottomed out. The look on her face was priceless: amazement, lust, and satisfaction in her achievement all rolled into one. This is what she wanted. This is what she gets. I started to thrust. I backed all the way out to make her crave it before I slid back in. That's my move. It makes me feel more welcome. So I repeated it a couple times before I got into a rhythm we could both enjoy. She looked like the type that wanted a hand around her neck too, so I added that to the mix. My hand added to the excitement for her, the thrill. Her breathing got rapid, her moans turned into grunts, then she came.

I backed off and stood there, hard cock waving in the air as I waited for her. She knew what she had to do. She slid off the bed like the minx she wanted to be, a kitten purring for her milk. She grabbed me with both hands and rubbed the head all around her face before she stretched to take me in and started to suck. I'll say this for her, she knew how to suck a big dick. I was pretty sure she'd had plenty of practice, but mine was still a challenge that excited her. She knew how to work it pretty good. She looked me in the eyes, hungry.