I woke up that morning and discovered my dick was gone.
I leaned back into my chair and rested my sleek black shoes on the shoddy desk of my tiny office. The peeling wallpaper and tiny window showing the streetlights below did little to illuminate the square room. In the dim lights cast by a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, I thought back to that morning, casually lighting a cigarette as I did. I had woken up the way I slept, poorly. Kicking off the covers of my bed, tangled to my legs like a jealous lover, I head pounding like I'd just gone ten rounds in the ring with Ali, I stumbled blearily to my bathroom sink.
I brushed slowly and absentmindedly, the better to get rid of the taste of bad whiskey and regret. I could scarcely remember the previous night, lost amid a haze of cheap booze and cheaper women. I could remember playing a hand at poker at some point; I did poorly, if my empty wallet was any indicator. It was at this point my bladder made a pest of itself, and I did as any man would. I dropped my boxers and hobbled over to the toilet, swaying like a branch in the wind. But when I looked down for that familiar lump of flesh, only smooth skin remained. Shaft and stones, gone, just like that. Nearly bit my toothbrush in half with surprise.
I let out a pained sort of moan then, exploring the area gingerly. It was a queer sensation, no mistake. I could feel my dick in my mind, sure as if it were attached and in its usual home. But when I moved a hand to my crotch, I felt only bare skin and air. There was even a gap of hair where it had been. A few more minutes of frantic searching in my apartment hadn't borne fruit, pardon the phrase. After ten more minutes searching, the strain on my bladder became overwhelming. Terrified of the consequence, I let loose those muscles on the dick that was no longer attached.
As urine rushed out of me, relief poured in. In my head, I could feel the urine leaving the end of my dick, pressure easing by the second. The urine itself was nowhere to be found, though. It didn't puddle on the floor or stain my boxers. Near as I can tell, it went wherever my dick was. Seemed just because it was on vacation didn't mean my dick couldn't still work.
A delicate knock on the door woke me from my reverie. I glanced at the door, my pride and joy. Solid oak, a glass pane set on it with the words DOMINIC DENTENE, PRIVATE EYE inscribed in reverse. It had cost me a pretty penny, but worth every cent. Always have a good door, my father had said, it's the first thing someone sees about a man. Through the frosted glass I could see a blurry silhouette outlined by the hallways lights.
"Mr. Dentene?" A voice called, dark and dusky as a good bourbon. "May I come in?" She was asking, which was a good sign. If it was one of Scholl's goons, they wouldn't have bothered knocking. Whoever this was, she came to play nice. Without moving my feet off the table, I slid open one drawer on my desk, revealing my trusty revolver and a half-empty bottle of rye. Playing nice didn't mean I was safe. One way or another, the stuff in that drawer could save my life.
"Come in." I said warily. I rested my hands in a nonchalant manner that put my right hand close to the open drawer. I had debated not coming to the office today, given my current situation, but I needed the money, or soon I'd be out a dick and a bed both. Rent was late as usual, and my landlord was giving me grief, as usual. I'd have to search for my dick in my own time, on my own dime. My office door swung open, and in she came. My jaw dropped, and I nearly lost my cigarette in the process.
First to enter were her legs. Long and shapely, they must've had a full minute to enjoy the office before the rest of her arrived. When she did though, I was glad they'd taken their time. Those legs ended in a rear that made me curse and praise the sleek red gown that clung to it at the same time. Up and up, that gown went, wrapping itself around every curve, hugging her chest to thrust it forward heroically. A valley of cleavage was topped by the ends of her long red hair, falling like waves about a heart shaped face. Clear blue eyes, the same color of the dress, pierced me, pinning me to my seat with their intensity. She quirked a red lipsticked smile at me. Incredibly, I felt my disembodied dick get hard, wherever it was.
"May I sit?" she said in that husky contralto, setting my ears afire. I gestured for her to sit with one hand, feigning cool and calm. You don't get far in my line of work by falling for every pretty face that walks by. Or every pair of legs. Or breasts that are so pillowy that they just beg you to hold them, support them, caress them. Ahem.
"Help yourself." I said, voice even, not revealing a trace of the arousal I felt in my pants. Or, well, not in my pants anymore. As she took one of the two seats in front of my desk, I gave her another look. No ring on her finger. Some jewelry, but nothing too fancy. The dress, though perfectly tailored, was worn at the ends. The handbag she clutched in both hands was of good quality, with conspicuous bulges in the sides. Seems this dame came prepared. "What can I do for a fine woman such as yourself?"
She blushed at the compliment, her cheeks matching her fiery hair. She fiddled with the clasp of her handbag nervously and shifted in her seat. I pegged her as here about an unfaithful husband. She was a pretty gal. Men always cheat on pretty gals.
"I need your help, Mr. Dentene, but it is a bit of a...delicate nature." She said, eyes speaking of a fear her calm voice couldn't mask. I nodded comfortingly. I was already deciding how to nab this cheating spouse, and what my fee was going to be. I've let myself be persuaded to reduce unreasonable prices in the past. Very intimate persuasion. Even without my trusty dick by my side, I could still get my restitution. A determined man can get whatever he wants, my dad used to say.
"Discretion is my middle name, Missus...?"
"Pump. Gladys Pump." She said obligingly, shifting in her seat. "And it's Miss, not Missus."
"
Miss
Pump, then. I am the very soul of discretion." I said, coolly, not betraying the satisfaction of discovering this new information. "I can't help you with whatever your problem is without knowing what is." She shifted in her seat again. I didn't comment on her fidgeting. The movement was doing wonderful things to her cleavage.
"Very well, Mr. Dentene. I suppose I've got to trust, you, don't I?" She relented. I said nothing, merely raised my eyebrows to let her continue. She continued.
"Two days ago, I was at my work, singing at a high-class restaurant, when a man accosted me. Big, with a bad haircut and worse breath. A long winding tattoo trailing from his ear to his neck. This odd john even had shades on, despite the time and being indoors. He and I had a...disagreement, and he took offense. There was an argument, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up in my room with my...problem." Here she hesitated, eyes guiltily flicking to meet mine, then darting away. I tapped out some of the ash from my cigarette into a tray. Here was the heart of the matter. I could smell it, sure as I could smell the perfume wafting gently off her. Cinnamon, with a touch of musk. I nodded for her to continue.
