“Leather and lace,” the man mumbled to himself without a trace of irony. He patted the mask of chamois hide and needlework frippery that decorated the face of the sculptured bust of a Roman Venus that stood on a pedestal just inside the peachmarble foyer at Charity House.
“They get one look at this Halloween outfit,” he said bemusedly, “and it’s an open-and-shut case as far as the police are concerned.”
His voice echoed unexpectedly loud.
He shrugged.
Laughed.
Gave Venus a hug.
Peeked under the mask.
Looked about to make sure no one else was within sight. Bussed Venus’s cheek.
He then laced the marble face with a quick French kiss. Licked up underneath and into the nostrils of the Goddess of Love.
“Too bad this tootsie stops just below the neck,” he muttered. “I’d like to get a mitt on some marble tits.”
“Pardon the wait,” Constance’s voice crystallized behind him. “I see you like the statue.”
“The mask. I like the mask. Dame’s got not such a bad mug on her, either. But I like that mask.”
“Try it on?”
“Oh, no. I don’t go in for any of that kind of stuff. Not for real. But I like to sorta read about it though sometimes.”
Constance drew her breath in deeply.
Held it.
Her tits popped up from between the padded lapels of her hand painted silk kimono.
Edges of colored nipples were seen.
There was rounded titflesh as smooth and pure as the marble from which the Goddess of Love had been chiseled. The man chucked his chin thoughtfully. Felt the bristle he had not shaven off again that morning scrape across his finger.
“Look before you leap,” he peeped.
His head seemed to clear abruptly. “I don’t know why I said that. Must be a habit.”
“I know what you mean,” Constance said, extending her hand. “Restraint is always a virtue. Anything unleashed can mean trouble.”
“Ask any masochist about restraints-that what you call the ones who like to be tied up?”
“Tut-tut.”
The man peered back at the pert nips that peeked at him out of Constance’s cleavage. Took her loose fist.
Shook her wrist.
“Pleased to meet you,” Constance said. “Me too. Which one are you?”
“Pardon?”
“You the rich bitch or the little witch?”
“Excuse me?”
“In your books. There’s usually two nifty numbers. One dame’s real cold-calculatingly manipulative. The other gash just makes hash of the arrogant male romantic interest through her naive, offhand sexuality.”
“You knew?”
“I’m a fan, Madame.”
“How did you know?”
“I get a call in Manhattan to come out and converse with a babe at this address-from your books, I know you’re familiar to some extent with the workings of my profession-so you can probably guess the rest.”
“So you already-uh-investigated me. Mister-uh-Griffith.”
“Poindexter. Griffith’s the first name. A lot of people just call me Gruff. It pays me to know who might be hiring me.”
“I see, Gruff.”
“I forgot to tell you. I don’t necessarily like for people to call me Gruff-but they do.”
“Cute. Griffith?”
“Fine. If it’s all the same to you-”
“Constance. Although-I guess like you-I’m used to being referred to by my professional name, Jasmine Hyacinthe-”
“As well as, in other circles, the Lady Farnsworth.”
“That’s good, Griffith. You do your homework. Tell me. Since you’re such an aficionado of my literary works, what drives you to read about the interior lives of unfaithful wives?”
“I like that murderous attitude they have. And all those lesbian overtones-you know-between the icy rich bitch and the hot little witch.”
“I do believe you’re simplifying what I admit is something of a literary formula. No one in my books or even in real life is simply a rich bitch or a whorish witch.”
“Not simply. But they seem kind of that way as I read it. Sisters in crime and in the head. What else do you need to get someone into bed?”
“My female characters are often at odds over affections or finances associated with men. I do not recall their having been explicitly portrayed as being hot for each other’s bods.”
“But it’s in there. That dyke stuff. I’m waiting for you to really show it.
Maybe in your next book? You know. One of the greatest male fantasies runs something like this. May I?”
“If you insist.”
“Hey, man-he says. My girlfriend calls me up last night.”
“Mind if I smoke?”
“Go ahead, choke. So the guy says to listen to this, man. His girlfriend says she and her girlfriend were just sitting around sucking down some carbonated grape juice-champagne to you. The two girls-they’re kinda tipsy. Bored. Getting all giggly. They embrace. Start to play kissy-face. Tug-the-titty. Get into a pillow fight. Tackle each other. Wrestle a little. Tear each other’s clothes off. But that’s not enough.”
“So far, so bland.”
“Can you get this? These girls-there was a tape they wanted to hear. Or maybe a video they didn’t have. They call up the dude-they know he’s got the tape, say-and tell him they’re both nude. Tell him he might as well come on over for some joy juice and bring along the electronic entertainment while he’s at it.”
Constance sucked down smoke.
Piped it from her lips.
Drew it furling into her nostrils.
Constance’s mouth flared as she interrupted his speech. “Allow me to complete your dissertation. Our hero walks in on the awful sluts, just oh so gross fucking and sucking on each other. He saves them from their Sapphic affliction-which rather turns him on indeed. Shall I go on?”
“I wish you would.”
“You want me to tell you how he realizes that what they really need is some good pure cock? How he flicks them both? “That’s it-”
“Shoots off into their mouths, up their asses, and creams their cunts in easy succession-all the while maintaining an eternal erection.”
“Sounds good.”
“Or maybe he watches them for a while first. They suck each other until their tongues are raw. His hormones are blasting out of control. He rolls his hips.
There is only one thing our hero can think of to do to save all their souls-”
“You got it.”
“Of course. So simple. I could write that easily. But I don’t. I want to hook you the reader by playing to your fantasies. I want to keep you buying my books by never really satisfying you fully. It’s called titillation.”
“Literary cocktease.”
“And cuntsqueeze. Most of my readership is female. You a faggot, by the way?”
“Thought I heard you say-”
“Queer. You seem to read a lot. That’s suspect these days for real hard guys like you.”
“I guess you could say I’m gay. But don’t let that get into your way. I’m not real delicate with the poetry these days.”
“More straightforward.”
“Guess you could say.”
“Anyway. Hate to cut off the literary chitchat, Griffith, but it seems there’s real work to be done around here. I’ve got some trouble. A real problem for a change.”
“Well, trouble is my business. So that’s good to hear. And the main problem I run into is when somebody hires me for no particular reason. Maybe they have too much money and too little to do.”
“That is a sad state of affairs.”
“Believe me. Boredom is the root of much evil. These people simply want somebody to have around to play with. Then if they’re romantically inclined they might come up with jacked-off schemes involving undercover work.”
“Undercover. That is romantic.”
“Not when you see how it actually works. Or maybe they’ll want me to try to set up dangerous liaisons to entrap their spouse-so they can have documented grounds for divorce. Or else-believe it or not-they might even want to try to seduce me to see how mercenary I can be.”
“The games the rich do play-”
“See. I know that all the stuff you write there in your books is not strictly fiction. Cause I’ve seen it myself.”
“Do you want to hear my situation? Or do you want me to continue to pay you to be my personal literary critic?”
“Either way. I’m game.”
“Pearls are a nuisance.”
“I heard that one before.”
“If the plot is jaded, Griffith, I’m sure that the money is not.”
“Correct. Shoot.”
“The pearls in question were to have been included among the pieces to be auctioned as part of a charity ball I am organizing.”
“Oh, really. Socially concerned, are you?”
“That’s neither here nor there. I tell you quite frankly that I am hosting this ball in order to clear my name-so to speak.”
“Now this is interesting. Have anything to do with your married life?”
“Mister Griffith-I mean Poindexter. Gruff. Shit-I let it slip. Please pardon me, Griffith, while I blush.”
“You’re too much.”
“So of course you know about Arturo.”
“Claims he should be King of Spain.”
“Cuban, isn’t he?”
“Wasn’t sure you knew.”
“I do.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have said those last two words so often.”
“I married Arturo because of young love. I didn’t care whether he was royalty.
I have my own money and I did not particularly care to hear about his. It was there.”
“Didn’t you wonder how he got it?”
“Not at first. You know all fortunes are first gained through ruthless amorality. Sometimes such activities may be sanctioned as acts of war. But exploitation is part of the heritage of wealth.”
“Like the nobleman’s private game preserve. The master may pillage wildlife indiscriminately as he pleases. But if you are a hungry peasant-no dice.
Poaching shall be punished by death. Like the street gangs. Protecting their turf.”
“I’m sure getting my money’s worth from this discussion. However, Mister Griffith, what do you know about pearls?”
“They’re for girls.”
“You know how they can be faked?”
“Porcelain. Bone china with special glaze. Places in Belgium and East Germany used to do the best duplicating jobs. Now some Swiss and British contacts are first-rate.”
“Hmmmmm.”
“Okay. Yours are taken and you weren’t sure they were real anyway. How the insurance reads is actually the more important factor-”
“Ah, let’s see. t may have only misplaced them. But once they’re recovered, I think they should be kept under guard.”
“If they weren’t stolen-why now?”
Constance was silent a split second too long.
“Let me help you,” Griffith said. “You want to maybe let on to the press that they’re valuable. Tell them how the pearls were recovered and how it was so upsetting that they were lost. Nice little column in the newspaper with a nice big picture of you with the black bangles hanging over your boobs. Draw some big spenders to the charity ball. Am I okay so far-or am I off the wall?”
“I haven’t announced yet that I’m planning to auction them. I only thought of it, in fact, early this morning. I went to look for them. They were not where I normally keep them-among my lingerie, as I am sure you’d ask anyway. I crashed about for about twenty minutes trying to locate them. Then I asked Morrigana to ring up your office.”
“Why me?”
“I knew you were already somewhat familiar with my affairs through your work for Arturo Mondragon during the negotiations for our divorce.”
“Figured you knew that one.”
“Since you did such outstanding work peeping on me, I thought you might do the same good deeds spying in my service.”
“Tough lady.”
“I use only the best. Whether it’s champagne, bodycream, or private Ds.”
“Smart lady.”
“It’s simple logic. Only the best works best for me. What’s that look, Griffith? I assure you that the pearls are not in their usual place. Stolen?
Misplaced? That’s what you’re here for.”
“Who’s this Morrigana?”
“She met you at the door, I believe.”
“Your-uh-maid?”
“Secretary. Though I shouldn’t call her that- she’s much more. Morrigana helps me put my books together. Helps me a Lot in other ways too. When I’m out here at Charity House I try to get along without any servants unless I have a larger formal gathering. They’re so much work to managing servants by yourself that they’re sometimes hardly worth the trouble at all.”
“Until you want to empty the garbage or make the bed. So why do you keep the marbles out here? Kinda wide open spaces, no one around-”
“Because that particular set of pearls is not really that valuable.
Monetarily.”
“You mean besides that they might be fakeroonskies.”
“The pearls are heirlooms. They’re black. Way out of current fashion.
Supposedly brought from Europe with the bride of a great-uncle. But that’s hearsay. There are one hundred sixty-seven of them-relatively small, but evenly matched in size and blue-black coloration-on one strand with a lock-type closure in platinum. Simple. Elegant.”
“I see. So the butler didn’t do it cause there’s no butler.”
“You don’t think Morrigana-”
“She’s gotta be covered. And I tell you I have to do it straight. You can warn her first that I’m gonna question her, but don’t let her escape, babe. Hate to do it, but I have to chat her up. Who else you got running around here?”
“Veronica Van Damme. I know her through my fund-raising work on behalf of international athletics. She’s a synchronized swimmer and diver in the combined watersports events.”
“Veronica? Did I hear of her? Win any medals? Or is that someone else?”
“Not the Olympics-yet. But she’s won a lot of other titles. As a swimsuit model she’s been on the covers of quite a few magazines-though perhaps not any that you might lead. She’s highstrung, but I’ve found her to be a simply delightful girl.”
“And it shall be delightful I am sure to converse with her-relative to the perhaps-purloined string of shiny ballocks. Who else? Maintenance personnel?”
“Boy comes by for the pool three times a week. Gardener once a week.
Deliveries-but none of the above ever get in past the door.”
“That you know of. Maybe they cased the joint.”
“I thought of that. I have no servants, but I do have the place electronically protected.”
“But on the other hand, you don’t want to think it’s an inside job. I understand. But I gotta do my job.”
“Who do you want to start with?”
“Who’s closest?”
“Morrigana?”
“Yes, Constance?”
“This is Mister Poindexter. Griffith. I believe you two have met?”
Morrigana leaned back from the computer monitor and keyboard. A set of tight tits started up underneath the sheer blousing that covered from high about the neck down to her ankles.
“Sorry,” Morrigana said. “I couldn’t hear what you were saying.”
She pulled the earphones from her ears. Made sure the audiocassette filled with Constance’s morning musings was on hold.
She took in Griffith’s gaze boldly.
Coldly.
Her toes twitched.
She mechanically dangled a pair of slipper sandals laced in gold piping.
Crossed her ankles.
“I don’t know what I should say, Morrigana. But there has been a disappearance here-as you know-about the pearls-uh-”
“I understand,” Morrigana said. “Griffith wants to talk to me about it.”
“Enough said,” Constance sighed. “I’ll be outside. On the sundeck.”
As Constance left, she left the door to the study open wide.
Griffith took a look around the room.
“Aren’t you going to close the door?” Morrigana said, burning the end of a cigarette with a fizzing matchstick. “Give us some privacy.”
“So soon?”
“Thought I might as well get it over with. Do you want me to record our conversation?”
“No. I think my memory will do.”
“Constance thinks the pearls might be fakes. Did she tell you that already?”
“Do you?”
“Don’t know. I’ve only seen them once or twice. Constance never wears them.”
Morrigana blew out a trail of cigarette fumes toward Griffith’s face. “Mind if I smoke?”
“You know what you like. What were the occasions upon which you viewed the pearls?”
“Going through some of her things-you know, rummaging through her clothing-”
“You’re her secretary?”
“Oh. More like a-her advisor. On literary matters. But, yes-we do have a bit of a personal relationship as well.”
“Going through each other’s clothing.”
“Something few men could understand. I have been with Constance for a number of years.”
“And she seems to find you trustworthy. After all, she did have you call my office to set up this appointment. You didn’t jack that assignment around. You had no hesitation meeting me at the door before. All obvious signs-says to me that you’re innocent. But I gotta go through this routine for the record. Think she lost them?”
“Misplaced them-I hope.”
“Want to show me around this office here? Library, study-whatever you call it.”
“Of course.”
Morrigana smirked.
Slid from her seat.
Sucked the cig real hard.
Blew out a scarf of smoke through her wide grin.
“Let’s do a few turns,” Morrigana said. “Tell me where you want to look first.”
“Under your skirt,” Griffith blurted.
“Is that your idea of flirting?”
“It’s called a joke.”
“Only if it’s funny.”
“How’s looking where she keeps the money?”
“Safe,” Morrigana said smoothly. “I can open it for you. Underneath the desk here.”
Morrigana hunkered down to the floor.
Griffith inspected the crack of her ass as she bent forward and twiddled with the knobs on the front of the file-drawer-sized metal box. The material of her dress was gauzy enough to show off not only that she wore no underpants but also the wooly contours of her pubic flocculence erupting from underneath her rump.
Griffith saw her hips pump.
She grunted once.
The door to the safe sighed open.
“Get down, Griffith. Look inside.”
Griffith stewed in his groin.
Shot a finger to his nuts. To loosen them up.
Got down beside her like a pup.
“Sure enough,” he said. “Lots of bucks. Few little trinkets-diamonds, emeralds.”
“But no pearls.”
“Why did she keep them with her lingerie? If she kept her other jewels in here-”
“You’ll have to ask her.”
Morrigana’s breath was thick as a fog.
Hot as a hog in rut.
But yet Griffith knew she was no slut.
He said, “Thought maybe you’d know. Being so close to Constance and all.”
“We’re friends. But not that close.”
She threw her head back haughtily.
“Watch your noggin,” Griffith said as Morrigana’s head bumped the underside of the overhanging desk.
He brought his palm up to cup the back of Morrigana’s head.
“It’s okay,” Morrigana said. She paused a long second. “But you can kiss it to make it better.”
Griffith wettened his lips with his tongue. Brought Morrigana’s head forward.
Applied a kiss to the point of her skull.
As Morrigana’s head dropped straight into his lap.
He sucked the back of her brain through her waved tresses. She sucked his cock through the seam of his trousers.
The zip released his prong with a zinging sound. Griffith felt the wetness descend from the crown to the top of his scrotum.
Morrigana’s tongue rotated about the tip.
Then she suckered the entire shaft of Griffith’s dick into her yip.
She held the dong firmly in her grip.
As though to prevent him from giving her the slip. Her hands tightened about the neck.
Prickhead popped out wider beneath her eyes.
Increasing in size with the ingestion of pulses of the thick blood of erection.
“Help me come off,” Morrigana wheezed. “I’m dying for an orgasm.”
“Will it make your day?”
“My hour, anyway.”
“Let’s hope.”
“Reach back into the safe. Way in the back. Feel it? It’s leather and-”
“Lace,” Griffith said, whisking the mask out into her face.
“Tie it on me.”
“Don’t you want to see me?”
“I want it to be dark.”
“But-”
“I want to see. Of course. But it’s more romantic if I want to and I can’t.”
“Sure. Here goes.”
“Yesss. Slide it on over my head. Make sure my eyes are covered.”
“It’s loose enough-”
“No. Tight.”
“This all right?”
“Uh huh. Now do the rest.”
Griffith grappled with her dress.
Hiked it over her hiney.
Morrigana lifted it over her breasts.
“Now the other accoutrements,” Morrigana seared through her lips. “You’ll find them in with the other valuables, lover.”
Griffith reached into the interior of the safe. Pulled out twined strips of leather with lace dangles on either end.
Morrigana wrapped her wrists together behind her back. Whined aloud.
“Tie them, please,” she breathed.
“Tight, I take it.”
“Yesss. So sweet.”
Morrigana pumped the crack of her rump into the air at Griffith. Shot her heels out, wiggled her toes, and crossed her ankles.
Griffith began to wrap Morrigana’s feet with two lengths of the braided leather twine.
Griffith rolled Morrigana out from underneath the fruitwood desk. Trussed her wrists with a strand. of twine down the split of her behind, running it to her tied ankles.
“You want me to bend you like a pretzel,” Griffith said. “That it?”
“Aaaaah, yesss,” Momgana slathered. “The best. Give me the best.”
“There’s another mask in here. Want me to wear it? It’s got eyeholes.”
“Yes. Put on the black mask. So you can see me. But I can’t recognize you.”
“You won’t be able to recognize me anyway, with that blindfold mask on you.”
“It’s the thought that counts. And I’m thinking of your cock. In my cunt. At me front and back and all over.”
“Stick it where the sun don’t shine.”
“Inside me. Stick your prick inside me. Fuck my mouth. Fuck my ass. Fuck my cunt.”
“That all?”
“Fuck me quickly.”
“In which order?”
“Take a spin.”
Griffith slashed his pelvis in an arc. His prick speared clear into something.
He felt her body open up.
His thick prick jerked right up her ass with a rutting shudder.
Morrigana felt her clit stutter.
Griffith pulled his twanger from her backside slowly. With no additional lubrication, Morrigana’s ass mucus had proved too little to offset the friction.
“No!” came Morrigana’s harrowing scream.
“Shhhhh. I just want to pack my pecker with a little liquid from your slit.
Then I’ll go right back in.”
“But I want it to hurt so much,” Morrigana said. “So that it ruptures to the touch.”
“Sorry. Too late.”
Griffith struck up inside her cunthide. The lips spread apart.
His legs spread athwart her hips.
Morrigana’s bound wrists jacked Griffith off as he fucked her from behind.
The twine about her ankles scraped his ballocks as she crushed into them with her heels.
“Now hit me,” Morrigana said.
“First give me the news.”
“Beat me to a fucking pulp, you sniveling gumshoe. Blind me with your come first. Then maybe I’ll tell you a story.”
He smacked her temple gently with his open palm. Continued the rutfuck in her cunt.
“Unh,” Morrigana sighed.
“Okay?”
“Again. Isn’t there a sap in there? A little leather club-the kind that cops use?”
“Here we go.”
Thwap! “More.”
Wap! “Harder.”
Ssshlat! “Hit me harder, fucker!”
Zeee-ap! “I’m come-ming!”
Griffith battered away with his honker up Morrigana’s quim. The cuntjuices ran in flourishes down the insides of his thighs.
His balls knocked against her bound wrists. She took them in her fists.
Snapped his testicles as he frigged away. His nuts shook like stirred pudding.
He felt scum brewing within them.
Morrigana twirled Griffith’s testicles with her tied ankles. Kicked them with her bound feet.
The rush of jissom flared first in his brain. Then the train pulled out of his groin.
Come sped along the track to the engine.
Fuck-fuck-fuck the cock chugged.
Jizz whistled into her tunnel.
“Ana-na.”
Morrigana’s tied limbs cranked and curlicued uncontrollably. Face hidden by the mask of leather and lace. Limbs bound. Cunt gagged.
She couldn’t leave him if she tried.
“Morrigana.”
“Mmmmm.”
“Morrigana. Hear what I’m saying?”
“Hmmm. Oh, fuck. Please whack my bloody brains to jelly, you’re a good fellow.”
“I can’t get it out of my head that there’s some obvious reason why Constance should have kept that string of gumdrops where she did-and not in the safe. But I can’t for the life of me get a hang on what it is. You wouldn’t be able to help me on that, Morrigana?”
“I told you I don’t know. Will you fuck me more? I’ll say anything.”
“Could you take a guess for me? About that pearl nonsense. From what you know about Constance on an Amiga level.”
He fucked her cunthole.
“I don’t think so. You’re the private investigator. I’m sure if you take a crack at it you’ll come up with something better than I could ever. That’s your livelihood.”
“So you really don’t know.”
“Ask Constance.”
“I will. But I’m talking to you now. Let’s see. Who besides Constance does know?”
Morrigana chewed her lips.
Sucked the damp leather of the mask encasing her face with leather and lace.
“Maybe only Constance does.” Morrigana mewed.
Her pussy stewed.
“How about a little hint, Morrigana?”
“Ummm-you know I don’t want to implicate anyone. If I were a private dick I’d have to consider everyone in town-not just friends or the people hanging around-”
“You won’t be implicating anyone, Morrigana. I’m just trying to ascertain our lady’s rationale for her unsafe hiding place.”
With dick exploding come inside her bound form, Morrigana coughed out.
“For goodness’ sake. I’m coming off now without even being hit. You really can work that stick. Why don’t you try the lady in the lake?”