Chapter V

Baroquely curlicued cockgrin caged in his pants, Griffith Poindexter danced a few jigsreps in place on the crest of the hillock overlooking the greenhouse off to the side of the uninhabited sundeck. He had sensed the boiling cuntoils of passionate pussy-inspired plots upon his first entrance to the foyer of Charity House.

And right there from the start Griffith had a few surmises about the possible disposition of those black pearls. As well as why the lady might have preferred to keep them close at hand in the boudoir, nestling among her lingerie.

It was true that nothing Griffith had learned had actually confirmed any of a number of variations on his theory.

But nothing quite contradicted it, either.

“Supposing confidentially, milady,” Griffith practiced confidently, “that I do have an angle on where those pearls might be at present?-Naw. If it’s gonna wind up in one of her books, Constance will want it to come out more indirectly. Slow, tantalizing build-up. That’s how I’ll go.”

With this change of heart, Griffith kisses the wind. Griffith next takes a turn over the field where, on other days, polo ponies graze.

No recent tracks. No dropped gloves, hankies, jewelry, or pens to identify the escaping thief like in the old-lady mystery stories. In fact, there are no material clues thus far anywhere at all as to the whereabouts of the missing baubles. Except in the literary sense that the piles of horseshit surrounding him in the field seem to be a figurative expression- mute commentary as though to confirm Griffith’s ultimate suspicions.

Alone on the polo playground, Griffith hefts his well-worn twanger in his hand.

He examines the head.

Swollen and red.

Anything but underfed.

The facelike expression of the sculptured pricktip exudes satiety.

The helmetlike hoghead a rounded, tapering wedge with convoluted edges.

Curled crown slanting along the sides of the dong in a smirk.

Blue veins running throughout the ivory length like swirls of specially selected marble.

He gives the penis a jerk.

Ballocks bounce like a sack of baubles.

Griffith gives his testicles a tap to see how they react.

He jumps at the sudden movement of the sac. The self-transformation of his yarbies gripped within their shrinking skein of scrotum that draws up tight underneath his belly.

Nougats protected within the wrinkles of a ballsack crinkled like a nutshell.

Perhaps Griffith’s balls are telling him something. Speaking in the only language they know. Saying to him, “Do you really like the flavor of the brand of witch’s cuntbrew you and the rich-bitch are getting into? The word is this:

When in doubt, brother dude, get out. And if you can’t do that-at’ least curl up your cock and balls beneath your belly and protect yourself.”

Well, well.

Was Griffith going nuts?

Or were his nuts going-? Anyway, one thing was for sure. If Constance Charity Eastwick-Westbrook, the Lady Farnsworth (husband rarely around), former princess to the reputed Spanish prince (after the divorce-she hasn’t seen him since-at least not too often), and the lady responsible for some of the more salacious novels of upper-class sexual predation in print-if this frail mistress has indeed lost her marbles, Griffith means to return the favor. He owes her one.

Griffith strolls across the gray washed wooden planking of the sundeck. Checks for indications of Constance’s whereabouts.

He slips his hands into the pockets of his still- moist trousers.

Jogs his balls.

Scans the surrounding greenery.

He grins thinly as he kicks a dried curd of horse manure with his heel. With a final glance across the greensward, he turns and walks across the edge of the end strip of the polo field.

Trains his ears toward the ululations of unseen feathered species.

Squeaks a walk toward the swinging screen vestibule door set into the side of the dome of transparent emerald-colored slats faceting the nearby greenhouse.

Peeks inside.

Spies Constance, stripped to her hide, watering plants and uttering birdcalls.

“Oh, Griffith,” she cried, squinting her eyes over the spray of insecticide.

“Come on in. Be sure to shut the door, wilt you? Spring must be broken on it again-have to remember that and get it fixed. Don’t want the birdies to fly out.”

“This an aviary too?”

He had a jaunt to his march.

An arch to one eyebrow.

“Nice cockatiel,” he said as a greenish-white crested parakeet tweeted in flight. “They’re frail, aren’t they?”

“Maybe if you’re a big bad predator-and quick enough. But if so, please remove yourself from this habitat,” Constance tittered as the bird alighted on her extended finger. “This one’s a robust little chick anyway. Capable of putting up a good fight.”

“Any cock could tell you that one, ma’am.”

“As I presume you should know. However, I take it you’re here primarily to talk about something besides birds.”

“I like talking birds-”

“So let me-”

Constance kissed the cockatiel on its beak and sent it twittering among the overhanging branches.

“Hang on a sec, Griffith. Got to shut the waterworks down. Meantime, fetch yourself up something to drink if you’d like. Under the table over there by the loveseat.”

“Got any cups?” Griffith said as he inspected a clear jug half-filled with a liquid the color of chamomile tea.

“You don’t want that stuff,” Constance said. “It’s nectar for the hummingbirds.”

“Hmmmmm hmmm hm,” Griffith emitted from between tight lips.

He shot his tongue toward the jug of hummingbird nectar, raised his eyebrows and watched for Constance’s smile in response.

Constance watched Griffith reach into an ice bucket as he watched her wipe her gritty brow. Ass juddering, she shut down the water with a flick to the nozzle of the hose. Clamped off the spray of insecticide mixture with a twist of her wrist as her tits jigged in time.

Dark soil striped her face.

Sweat streaked her stripped body from her underarms to her waist.

Filthy as this, Constance looked less like a wood nymph than a pig in a poke.

Still and all, her jugs were no joke.

“Pamper with champers,” Griffith mumbled as he held aloft a magnum bottle of thick green glass, dripping with water and butt shedding ice.

“You’ll have to take it straight from the bottle,” Constance said. “We are destitute of manners here, I’m afraid.”

Griffith twisted the bottle into his teeth.

Breathed up a cottony ball of bubbly into his craw.

“Thirsty boy,” Constance chattered.

“Save you some?” he gurgled.

“Finish that one off, if you like.”

“Will do.”

“Should be another bottle icing there in the bucket,” Constance said, absently tweaking a nipple with her thumb.

“I’ll crack ‘er open.”

High, tautly nippled tits swayed as Constance shunted her hips through the density of low foliage. The cork soles of her high-heeled espacirilles oinked wetly as she slithered her toes through the soil and gravel.

The high heels plumped her assmeat out like a plover breast. A streak of peaty liquid snaked from her buttocks break.

Constance sat her wet fanny onto a quilted pillow framed by the armrests of a wrought-iron loveseat that sat beneath an archway constructed of peaty bark profuse with cuntlike blooms of hybrid orchids the size of a woman’s pompadour.

“Hot in here,” Constance said. “Excuse my use of the bucket.”

She picked up the ice bucket and rubbed its coolness to her sweltering tummy.

Sat it onto her lap, oozing her thighs apart.

Griffith shot the newly opened bottle into Constance’s grasp.

She suckered foam.

Reached toward Griffith’s mouth with the bottle in her fist.

After Griffith’s guzzle, Constance gave herself another slug of champagne.

Returned the bottle to the space between her legs where the ice bucket now nestled.

Constance next clicked on the flame of a decorative blowtorch brazier that rested on the clear glass top of the white-painted cocktail table beside her.

Using her fingernails, Constance sliced a minuscule wedge from a cake of pitchlike gum displayed on a saucer held aloft by a jade statuette of a seemingly self-satisfied nude of ambiguous gender.

She spread a serving of the black resin into the recess of a shallow brass cup affixed to one end of a slim bamboo tube.

Constance then inserted the tiny pipebowl into the brazier’s flame and sucked deeply on the narrowly tapering brass mouthpiece that shanked the opposite end of the hollow reed pipesrem.

Her boobs rose and fell. Nipples achingly hard. Tempting for the touch.

“I like the opium pipe,” Griffith remarked.

“So do I,” Constance said. “A curiosity I picked up in a Hong Kong junkstore.”

A wisp of black smoke feathered from the pipe. Constance nicked the pipestem against the rim of the table, nudging a turpble of ashes out into the gravel.

She pressed another gooey dollop into the pipebowl as she breathed out a whisper of invisible fumes through her pulsing nostrils.

“By any chance, Griffith, are you familiar with Oriental calligraphy?”

“Somewhat-on a conversational level.”

“More than I am. What do you make of the design painted along the pipestem here?”

“Chinese. The writing was most likely done with a panda-bristle brush in indigo ink. No breaks in the linestrokes that make up the individual characters. But you can see how the ink at the beginning of the initial stroke after every third character is darker-”

“Uh huh.”

“The artist worked quickly and accurately, systematically completing each character in one unintemipted freehand brushstroke. After each set of three characters the brush was dipped again into the ink before starting the next set.”

“What’s it say?”

“Same thing over and over again. Quotation from a verse often attributed to Lao Tse: Physical and spiritual bliss together are like a kiss in the mist. Same principle as the fortune cookie or an engraved beer mug.”

“Know where the pipe was made?”

“See the way the symbols line up vertically along the bamboo stem? That’s Shanghai style, circa 1919.”

“Really?”

“Could be. Or a copy. Can’t tell. Been used a lot, though.”

“Smoke?”

“Thanks. But not right now. I was okay with the fuzzwine-”

Constance dredged the dripping magnum of Dom Perignon champagne from within the ballast of the silver ice bucket.

She shot some froth down her gullet.

Passed the deep-greeen oversized bottle to Griffith’s waiting fingertips as he sat in a wobbly chair across from her.

Their hands touched.

Constance grinned like a gunman.

Edgy and tough.

“How’s the investigative front, Griffith? Is that horseshit I see decorating the soles of your deck shoes?”

“Just now took a canter across the polo field.”

“Anything show up?”

“No more than what you see on my shoes.”

“Any luck elsewhere?”

“After my chat with your assistant Morrigana, she was eager to tour me through Charity House. Plenty of places to hide-but no pearlies.”

“Surprised?”

“Not at all.”

“Your clothes look rather damp-uncomfortably so, if I do say, Griffith. Been yachting?”

“Clothes feel okay like this,” Griffith shrugged. “Little round of water sports with your friend Veronica. When I interviewed her poolside-well, I guess I just fell in.”

“I’ll bet the little snit pulled you into the pool with her. She’s like that.”

“Thanks for warning me.”

“I figured you’d make out okay with her anyway.”

“I did do that.”

“But no pearls.”

“Reet.”

“Anything pop up at all? Still haven’t told me whether you turned any clues or whether you’re given up or what.”

“No clues. I haven’t given up.”

“So what’s the story, Sherlock? Or are you stiff?” Griffith sucked down some bubbly. “I say. Good stuff you got here for the thirst. Now these pearls of yours. The ones you say are missing. You see, I say I haven’t seen ‘em around.

You say you haven’t seen ‘em around. Your housemates-ditto, they say no see.

But that doesn’t mean they aren’t around. Doesn’t mean they are. What’s your guess?”

“You think they’re gone from Charity House?”

“You mean the house itself? Yeah, they’re gone from there for sure-wouldn’t you say?”

The hunches are your department.” Constance sucked on the pipe. “So, Mister Dick Tracy, why don’t we get to some more of your undoubtedly learned and fertile ideas-about the pearls, unless you’re more interested in discoursing on opium pipes or parakeets.”

“Maybe later you want me to discuss orchids7”

Constance looked up dreamily into her forehead. She yawned as she crossed her ankles, extending her long gains toward Griffith.

“But, oh, milady-of course! To the marbles. These pearls of yours-they could be out somewhere on the grounds buried in the dirt. Or someone might conceivably have spirited them away entirely.”

He took another swig. “But I don’t think that’s likely, Constance. Do you?”

“Again-I really don’t know. Were the girls of any actual help to you at all?”

“Oh, yes. They helped eliminate some obvious doubts about the pearls’ whereabouts.” He slugged away at the bottle again. “And they also more or less pointed the way I maybe should pursue this gig. Conceptually, anyhow.”

“But no material goods.”

“Correcto.”

Images of Morngana and Veronica-wet and labile-flickered through Griffith’s internal vision. Recollection of rubyfruit Lips-burned with kisses, passionate and vicious.

Griffith popped out a cigarette. Stowed it between his choppers. He bent close to Constance, smelling her rising rut as he lit the cig in the opium brazier.

“Didn’t know you smoked,” Constance said.

“I don’t. Not when I’m working.”

Constance took the champagne bottle in her hand. Hoisted it above her head.

Drained the crisp liquid into her snout.

Poopped the bottleneck from her maw.

Sat it in her lap.

Cooling her cabbage patch.

She twitched as Griffith rose from his seat.

“Time to pack it in, Griffith?”

“Guess so. Abyssinia. My work is finished.”

“Griffith-”

“Yes?”

“I think not. Not by a long shot.”

“I think so. Police involvement is the only way you can go convincingly from here-if you want to keep up your end of whatever publicity act or insurance con you got going.”

“Bullshit, Griffith. Thought you were going to show me your good stuff. Thought you said you hadn’t given up.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t take my leave now.”

“I say not yet for day one. You have not met your professional obligations to me today, Griffith.” Constance wiggled her fanny in her seat. “Not anywhere near completely. In fact, hardly at all. You certainly haven’t looked everywhere-not by any means.”

“I looked everywhere that counts. Process of elimination. And everywhere’s out.”

“Bullshit, Griffith. Whatever are you saying? Have you no imagination?”

“Don’t need any. Not for this set-up.”

“What is this, Griffith? A stall?”

Constance felt a chill roam at will over her head, shoulders, and hinders.

“No stall. Just let’s say-that’s all, folks. I’ve searched Charity House and its grounds-not completely, but enough to get the drift. Browbeat everybody who was anywhere-except right in here. And, thank you, I will have one for the road.”

Griffith stooped to the gravel between Constance’s ankles. He snatched up the bottle of champagne from the bucket between her legs. Drained it to the dregs.

Shoved the empty bottle into the bucket.

“You tell me, lady. Am I getting warm? Those pearls feeling a little hot by now?”

Griffith stood, turned, walked.

Constance called out.

“Aren’t you going to see if-for instance-the pearls might be in the ice bucket?”

“Not when I know they’re in yours.”

Griffith snapped about-face.

He drilled his eyeballs into hers for less than a second.

Dropped smoothly into a crouch. Griffith slid a hand into the frigid liquid hugging the butt of the empty magnum bottle of Dom Perignon. Constance shivered as she saw him make a fist-as though grabbing up a handful of melting shaved ice.

Griffith brought his soaking arm out into the open in a trice. Whipped his hand through the air in a lazy slice.

Brought it home like a hammer between her thighs.

Her twat fluttered.

The ice bucket tipped topsy-turvy into the gravel as Constance’s buttocks rose off the seat. Griffith’s cold paws mauled hot meat.

“Unh.”

“Sure,” Griffith said. “I’ll go for it, honey. How much money we talking about?”

Constance’s well-versed anus opened wide.

The sphincter slid on over his thumb and forefinger. None too gingerly, Griffith twirled his fingers higher into her haunch.

“Anh.”

“Sorry, cookie, about this intrusion on your privacy. But then you know that Griffith only aims to please his client’s fancy.”

He folded his three spare fingers against the side of his palm.

Wrenched his arm.

Constance’s fanny bounced.

Her hiney humped.

Her asshole snickered on over his fist.

Constance sat impaled.

Griffith was buried to his wrist.

Constance chewed her ups. Licked her tongue furiously across her face.

“Okay,” Griffith said. “I think maybe one more twist. Let me make this good.”

“Eaugh!”

“Gotcha.”

Griffith snaked his fingers higher within Constance’s bum until they coiled about what felt like- unseen-a connected strand of smooth spheroids. He clanked them together.

“Pearls, are they?” Lance chewed. “Black pearls, by any chance?”

His forearm probed, fist deeply embedded in her haunch. She rutted her flanks.

Griffith gave his forearm a crank.

“Ouch!”

He drew his arm out in a yank.

There was a rustle in Constance’s buttocks as Griffith’s fingers flew forth.

He trailed a set of dank beads from the bud of her bung. Black pearls gleaming deeply, wrapped about his thumb.

Constance smiled smugly, the beads burping from her anus as Griffith twined them upward through his hands.

Setting off her glands anew as each pearl popped through her chuckling pucker.

“You knew I had them up my ass all along, didn’t you, Griffith?”

“Not hard to figure-I mean, especially after the way your girlfriends were so protective. They just had no idea why you might have been keeping those beads so close to yourself-”

“Wrapped in my lingerie. Secreted in my boudoir. One guess goes far.”

“No guess. Not with you. Not with those other two around. Incidentally, I appreciate the dress code you ladies endorse around here.”

Griffith wound the long strand of inky-black pearls around his fist.

Dropped them into Constance’s lap.

“Fun game you had with me, Constance. Hope you got your money’s worth.”

“One more thing before you go, Griffith.”

“There a hitch?”

“No. You’re hired.”

“Thought I heard-”

“This pearlie show wasn’t the real job. You checked into me. You know the rest.”

“Or I can guess.”

“You willing to get mixed up in this?”

“Depends, Constance. On a number of things. Such as how strictly and to whom and when does your dress code apply? And how well do you Like to be fucked up the ass by fists?”

“And-?”

“And you know my fee scale”

Constance played the pearls around her face. Draped them over her boobs.

Dangled them to her pubes.

“As long as I’m paying, Griffith, see if you can play it my way for a little while.”

“You’re tight. We’ll see.”

“See these pearls? You know where you got them. Why don’t you put them back.”

She parted her legs.

Spread her asscrack.

Threw her head back.

“Now you can start by taking those fucking mucoid clothes off.”

In an instant, Griffith had pitched his duds into a dingy heap to the side of his feet.

Constance reached up and gave his nipples a tweak. Griffith bent into her and kissed the crack of her mouth lips.

Constance’s asshole went slack.

He gave her clit a whack.

Saw the ointment pulse from her snatch.’

Constance wrenched her body around and her asshole and vulva were displayed before Griffith’s face. She flexed her legs about his neck to draw him closer.

Griffith snagged her bum hole with one end of the ink-colored beads. He pressed the strand in, working quickly, uninterruptedly.

Constance twinged with the insertion of each pearl into her anus.

Spasms flared her limbs.

With several pearls dangling from her rim, Griffith brought her open-faced snatch down the head of his curlicued cockhead.

Constance’s cuntlips hogged on over the scrollike flare at the rear of the prick’s helmet like carapace.

Cataclysmic seizures took place at the forefront of Constance’s cunt.

Twatlips jabbered and juddered.

Constance shuddered with each slight cock stroke.

“Come again?” Griffith said.

He reached beneath Constance’s hobbling haunch. Snatched the dangling line of pearls.

“In-ni-ni!”

Griffith popped a pearlie spheroid from her pumping poopdeck. She tightened her neck.

The prickstem stabbed her once more. One more pearl popped from her asshole.

One more stipple of the initial tides of orgasm burst in Constance’s clitoris.

“Unh,” she sighed.

The prick did drive.

Her hips did writhe.

Fpth!

Another black pearl blew from her blowhole.

“Aw-naw-naw.”

Another mini-limax brought tears to her eyes.

“Now that we’ve gone on a ways,” Griffith said.

“How well do you know your lady friends?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like we have to watch them from now on. What are their habits. And don’t tell me you really don’t know what I mean.”

“Where should I start?”

“How about Morngana? Any visitors? Phone calls? She smoke locoweed, blow candicaine?”

“Yeah. Everything you said. Same for Veronica, to save your asking. How you gonna tail those two?”

“Customarily, you and I would brief one of my operatives-maybe one male and one female. But for this operation, I think I had a better idea.”

“Fuck harder while you talk.”

“Only while I talk? Better keep talking then. You know how in some of those mystery books there’s a mystery writer who accidentally gets mixed up in a real case?”

“Yeah. Asinine premise, isn’t it?”

“That’s why I think it’s a good idea. You helping me out on this investigation, I mean.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“No. You’re shitting pearls.”

Griffith rubbed her rump.

Her ass melted in his grip. He pipped several more pearls from Constance’s asshole.

Griffith humped fiercely into her cunt. Then pulled the pecker out to the tip.

“Like for instance?” Constance said.

“Where’s Veronica going after she leaves here?”

“London. Tomorrow morning. She’s connecting with the rest of the national team there to practice for an international competition.”

“You planning to accompany her?”

“Actually, I was planning to meet her there later in the week. I am on the finance committee of the national team. And it would give me an excuse to drop in on my husband-”

“Which one? Current husband or the ex?”

“The lord.”

“Just checking it out. Can you keep an eye on Veronica at all times?”

“She’s traveling with the team-officially. But I could set it up so that she would actually be staying with Morrigana and me-even on the nights prior to her events.”

“Better that way. At least both bitchmeats would be operating out of the same digs.”

“Operating?”

“You know I know the story that Morrigana’s supposed to be some kind of poor relation to your first husband-the Drug King Blood Royal of Cuba.”

“So she sees Arturo. What would you expect?”

“That you do too.”

“On a business level. He funds our charity work. Whatever else he does-”

“Tell me about it. It’s her we watch. But first let me tell you about how the tush of that Veronica involves a lot of hairy involutions.”

“That I don’t know? She’s an American cousin to my present husband.”

“You know all about her and the lord.”

“Shee-suss H. Fuckingchrist the bloodyfucking third. That’s her business. And his. Also mine, but I choose not to interfere in what are after all private interpersonal matters that only involve the flesh.”

“Involves more than flesh.”

“You think any actions other than stupid ones are influenced by love?”

“The rich are in general more genial, I am sure. But sexual manipulation and other fun and games have been known to play their parts-”

“In many a schemers heart. Now ream me out.”

Constance’s rectum exploded its nerve endings as Griffith’s fingers burbied the remainder of the strand of pearls from her rectum. Her fannycheeks shuddered and her assrim quavered.

Her tongue savored sweat.

Griffith’s cockhead grinned as it bit in again to the chin of her quim.

The prick slid within.

Constance’s ass shimmied as the inky nacre of the dank pearls belched from her bum.

She hummed.

Twirled her tongue.

Griffith fobbed her buns.

Pulling the baubles out.

Pearl after pearl.

Orgasm after orgasm.

Griffith’s penis backed from Constance’s cunny.

He jacked once.

Scum barfed from the hoghead.

Semen streaked like liquid pearl through the softly tinted sunlight.

Parrots screeched “Fistfьck! Fistfuck! Fuck again, honey. Fuck! Fuck!”

The nacreous spermlets snaked against Constance’s face.

The pullulating pussy smacked against Griffith’s hefty ballocks.

The string of black beads bobbled against the front of Griffith’s thighs as he continued to ejaculate juice onto Constance’s tits.

She took one more hit of jizz in the face.

Come draped from her eyelashes. Lined her cheeks with pearlescent streaks.

Dashed onto her chin as the remaining chunks of jissom tumbled from his pricktip.

“Tell me more,” Constance said.

“Why? You sore?”

“Not sore enough. But I want to be bored. That really hurts me a lot.”

“I’ll tell you how you’re going to set up a tail on your lady friends in London.”

“Tell it to me later. On the way there tomorrow morning on the plane.”

“Oh, no. That’s your solo gig.”

“You wouldn’t think I’d undertake this jaunt without you-”

“It’s an easy stint. I’ll just give you a few hints and you can handle it.”

“Why don’t you wrap those beads around your balls real tight? Then collar your pecker with the other end. I want to suck them.”

“First tell me something I don’t know about you or the girls or these pearls.”

“Like what? You seem to be keened in on everything.”

“Offhand, in their present state, I cannot tell for sure if the pearls are fake.”

“Guess.”

“Yes.”

Constance wove the strand of baubles about Griffith’s ballocks.

She noosed the neck of the prick and pulled the nacreous bead into a tight cockring.

“No, these are not the fakes,” Constance said.

“I keep the fake ones as decoys and backups in the safe, as you certainly know by now.”

“See what I mean about your friends, Constance?

There were no pearls in the safe. And the spring to the screen door of this greenhouse wasn’t broken either. Tell me something, Lady Constance. Is either of us smart enough to fuck and talk at the same time or what?”

Загрузка...