Coyote Hides
Chapter 1

Caution: This Mystery Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Mult, BiSexual, Crime, Group Sex, Interracial, Prostitution,

Desc: Mystery Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Our intrepid undercover PI gets a slippery assignment trying to hold on to a man who has supposedly killed the daughter-in-law of a wealthy Tacoma scion. Sexy hi-jinx ensue with gorgeous, dangerous women. Best to read the earlier stories in the series/universe, but I have described returning characters to make it easier.

When I entered Sandy’s and my office at Waikiki PI, the dynamics of the two strangers there could be cut with a plastic knife. The young man, blond and handsome, though less so from a weakness in chin and expression, stood kitty-corner to our large, neat desk. Standing made him a nervous presence in itself, because he had a perfectly comfortable desk chair to sit on but didn’t seem able to rest there. He moved his glance from me back to my lovely partner, middle aged but showing no sign of succumbing to any lessening of her svelte appeal. Her body still taut in a Haoli surfer girl sort of way. Her face still deeply tanned, similarly. Deep azure eyes held their intelligence and intensity, with lines radiating out towards the temples the only real clue of the actual years she had moved gracefully through. The hair that partially hid those temples bleached by the sun to a straw blonde, the thickness and the roughness of the sea on it making it nearly untamable, wisps of it uncaptured by the golden scrunchy she wore. He looked like the sort of man who liked his women younger and more easily impressed by whatever he might have to impress: a little more knowledge of the world; a lot more money; drugs. Some of which currently moved through his veins. Cocaine most likely, with his sheen of sickly sweat, and his cloudy, nervous eyes. His gaze at my partner, his interest in her, may have added confusion to his list of weaknesses, attraction to this much older woman who could put him down both verbally and physically without all that much effort on her part. Shouldn’t be his type, but nevertheless, he gazed.

The other man who stood--he had been seated--looked like a much stronger version of his son, despite being decades older, or maybe because of it. A couple inches shorter than me made him a tall man. His son actually equaled my height. Both had long, lean bodies, though the father revealed roundness the way his expensive aloha shirt draped his belly like a woman mid-pregnancy. That and his silver hair, replacing the blond of his son, and the start of jowls, showed his age. Aside from its color, the hair revealed no other sign of age, being full with no suggestion of balding. Not long, by any means, but expertly coiffed, and the bit of firmness to it revealed its recent acquisition. It made me think of my former girlfriend and still occasional lover, Michi, and her mentor, Paul Brown, figuring it to be the latter, or at least someone in his salon, who had done the deed.

As expected, the elder had an overly firm handshake when he introduced himself. “William Whiteman,” he told me proudly, adding, “You can call me Bill.” And far less proudly, he introduced his son, “My youngest, Jason.” Jason didn’t offer his hand. Thankfully. Slimy sweat doesn’t make for an agreeable handshake. Just the most subtle of nods, which I returned. Since he decided not to sit, I sat where he would.

I hid my amusement at the perfect surname. “Whiteman indeed,” I thought.

“You know we have a mutual friend,” Bill continued. “Or did have, since his terrible demise.”

“Charles Russell Boyle IV,” I thought. “The Monster.” No surprise, he confirmed it.

When he said, “We had similar interests,” I could feel hair rise at the back of my neck even though I realized he couldn’t mean those interests, the ones that had eventually led to his demise for which my beautiful best friend had been blamed and for which I helped exonerate him, and which led to my friend’s suicide most probably.

“You’re in real estate as well?” I asked.

“Among other things. Similar things. Buying and selling.”

“Ever bought from Charlie?”

“A bit too rich, even for me. Washington’s mostly my territory.”

“The state?”

“Of course.”

“Cool,” I thought. “I can visit my friends.” Still, I had to ask, “You know, even if she doesn’t look it, my partner’s as capable as me handling situations.”

“Fuck you, Joe,” Sandy smirked. I winked. She chuckled and shook her head.

“That may be, and she’s most pleasant to look at,” Bill explained, “but, like I said, I knew Charlie.”

“He recommended me,” I nodded. “Expecting trouble in paradise?”

“He said you could be trusted to be discrete as part of his high praise. If I needed someone to look at things from outside of my territory. Not influenced by those inside it.”

“You’ve made enemies,” I thought, and again kept it to myself. I also kept Dotty to myself. She would be closer, living in Oregon, and cheaper because of it, as well as being more familiar with Washington and having the same exceptional resource, Kenneth, hacker extraordinaire, who actually lived in Washington, and, despite his distance, I considered a best friend, and she had a similar fondness for him. But, obviously, her gender would be a factor.

“What problem can I help solve?” I asked.

“Finding the murderer of my son’s wife,” he said. “Surprising, considering my son, I had become quite fond of my daughter-in-law. She was far better than he deserved.”

Though sotto voce, I heard Jason’s grumble, and his father probably heard too, although age brings hearing loss. “Fuck you,” had been those words.

“What was that?” his father growled.

“Nothing,” the son grimaced, as if scolded and slapped by a rolled up paper, a disobedient pet disciplined by its owner. “I ... agree. She was better than I deserved.”

“Damn right,” his father rubbed it in.

“We don’t solve murders,” I responded, not exactly truthfully, but it wasn’t supposed to be our duty.

“Solving isn’t the problem,” Bill muttered. “Finding is. You find people, don’t you?”

“Yes, but not fugitives at that level of crime.”

“Well, the police have proved useless, and I’m certain he left the state.”

“Then that would be the FBI’s jurisdiction.”

“Not much better there.”

“They have a great deal more resources than I have,” I pointed out.

“But maybe not the resourcefulness. Besides, Jason thinks he might be in your neck of the woods.”

“Who is this suspect?”

“Not a suspect,” said Jason. “The murderer.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes. I saw him at her body before he ran off.”

“Him being?”

“Kyle Oates,” Bill answered. “At least that’s what he called himself.”

“An alias?”

“Apparently. The police could find no reference to him. No background. What’s weird was, I’d grown to trust him.”

“I never did,” Jason proclaimed.

“You just brought him into our house.”

“My sister did.”

“He was friends with your sister?” I asked.

“And Emily. Emily was my sister’s friend. They went to Reed together.”

“And Kyle was a student there as well?”


“Let me guess. No Kyle Oates registered there.”

Both father and son shook their heads. “Your daughter’s name?” I asked Bill.


“Not married?”

“Still Whiteman.”

“So you said it was weird that Kyle didn’t check out,” I stayed with Bill.

“I was thinking about hiring him as an executive,” Bill explained. “He had an exceptional business mind. Unique, certainly. Nothing like the conservative mindset I prefer in my executives, but more than once his advice proved exceptional.”

“So you listened to him.”

“He could be ... persuasive.”

“Apparently,” I said, getting more shakes of heads. “So why Hawaii? It’s not the first place I’d escape. Not exactly a porous border, even if it’s a state.”

“A couple reasons,” Bill muttered, frowning out his son. “Jason?”

“Uhm, a couple of friends of Kyle’s visited,” Jason explained reluctantly. “Like great gusts of wind they sort of swept us up in their ... enthusiasm.”

“Go on,” Bill prompted, distaste in his mouth.

“Yeah, uhm, so, these two wild ladies insisted we visit a strip club.”

“Two women suggest two men join them at a strip club,” Sandy interjected.

“Yeah. They said they had an amateur contest. Turns out they didn’t, but that didn’t stop them.”

“And Emily joined you?”

“No. She had no interest in it. But my sister did.”


“She didn’t dance, but she acted like the guys tossing dollars at them.”

Glancing at his father, seeing the grimace, I asked, “So your sister...”

“No! It was just fun.”

From his father’s grimace I guessed otherwise, but left it alone. “So afterwards?”

“Yeah, so, uhm, I got convinced to rent a suite in a downtown hotel...”

“By Kyle?”


“Your balls convinced you, son,” Bill muttered.

“Kyle encouraged it,” Jason argued, “saying it would be our little secret. The suite had two rooms: one for me and one for Kyle. One of the girls joined me. Later, the other girl joined in. I awoke with the first girl, worried about sleeping. She told me we could just say we got too drunk to drive. After ... playing some more, she told me it would have cost me a mint if this had been Honolulu.”

“They were prostitutes?” I asked.

“Even worse, stripper prostitutes,” Sandy added. We knew they tended to cost more to turn teasing into reality. I noticed her typing on her computer, suspecting her purpose.

“And you think Kyle was close to them?” I asked.

“They seemed quite fond of him. And quite enthusiastic in the next door bedroom.”

“With your sister?”

This time both Whitemen cringed. “Yes” Jason answered.

“But ... you had one of them in bed.”

“Not the entire night. I woke up at least once hearing sex, and the bed without my girl in it.”

“Okay. So Bill, you said two reasons you suspect Kyle to be here.”

“Yeah. Though I haven’t found the FBI all that helpful, they did get a match to Kyle at Hawaiian Air a couple days after the fact. A ticket agent and a stewardess recognized his picture. Though the stewardess seemed reluctant.”

“How do you mean?”

“After the agent remembered him, and they figured out who the stewardess would be, they gave her a sort of lineup to look at, pictures, and, even though the agent could see her eye focusing on Kyle, it took him reminding her of the price of aiding a fugitive before she pointed him out.”

“Hunh,” I said. “Interesting,” I thought.

“Interested?” asked Bill.

“Before answering,” Sandy interrupted. “You should know Mr. Whiteman offered twice our rate and no questions regarding expenses. And an extra ten thousand in reward for finding our man.”

“You want him that much?” I asked Bill. I glanced at Jason, and found a weird expression. Guilt maybe? Could have been paranoia with all that cocaine running through his system.

“He killed my daughter-in-law and betrayed my trust,” Bill said coldly. “And I can afford to be encouraging. And I want him found where I can confront him. No arrest until then.”

“And if finding him causes us to protect ourselves?”

Bill shrugged.

“So, dead or alive, a bounty hunter’s most clichéd expression.”

“Yes, but I’d prefer him alive.”

“Why?” I thought to myself, but didn’t ask. I glanced at the son and saw a similar expression of puzzlement. Hmm.

After signing the contract, writing the extra-large retainer, and shaking hands again, and thankfully again not the sweaty palms of the son, Sandy turned her monitor to the young man. “See anyone you know?”

My longest friend, and briefly a lover, George, had been an expensive prostitute, and continued the work, extremely exclusively. She also provided information on colleagues, often offering unlicensed therapy and advice for some of them, but also letting us know who the current flock of escorts were, including those who probably did more than dance for clients at strip clubs. These had their own file which Sandy brought up. Jason found both of his brief acquaintances in the photos.

“So,” Sandy smirked after the men left. “Undercover work?”

“If I must,” I shrugged.

Being Thursday, not a weekend, but the busiest weekday, I figured the ladies would be working. I proved right for at least one of them, the brunette. Pretty and curvy, not too much to be fake curves, her picture depicted her in glasses. “Going for the smart look,” I thought. A particular niche of attractiveness, appealing to the intellectual john.

Julie, or Laura as her dance alias, ended up being one of the more aggressive dancers, going from table to table soliciting private lap dances. Luckily I had come early enough for there to be a sparse audience. I had managed to find out before I sat that May, known as Maura, whom Laura often danced with both onstage and off, happened to be absent. It had been their infamous pairing that brought the question to the bartender. I pretended to be there because they had been recommended as a set. Aware of their lesbian tendencies, I decide to invite George to grease the wheel for renting the girl after her more legitimate work ended.

So when Laura looked at me, I beckoned her with eyes hooked to hers between glances at her body, easily discernable underneath a tight mesh mini dress, blue/violet accentuating her remarkable eye color that seemed to match Elizabeth Taylor’s legendary shade, and she sat her sexy ass on my lap, firm and just full enough to not overdo it, much like her breasts, and purred her come-on directly into my ear over the loud, suggestive dance jam, asking if I wanted to get to know her more privately, I replied, “I’m waiting on a friend, but I think we both would be interested.”

She smiled and nodded. I saw the smile tainted by something beyond the pretense of seduction or its mercenary purpose. A touch of sadness with a dab of concern.

“Will you be dancing soon?” I asked her.

“After the next dancer.”

“I look forward to it. Perhaps a drink will coax you to stay until then?”

“That would be very nice of you,” she smiled a little brighter.

“And this,” I handed her a hundred.


“I can tell you’re a smart girl,” I said, looking through her glasses which held no magnification. “Smart ones tend to be the most interesting, and being beautiful on top of it. I don’t want you monopolized by another man. Promise?”

“Promise,” she smiled.

“Good,” I said, handing her another hundred.

“Wow,” she grinned.

“And we’ll pay for the dances,” I whispered.

“You want the VIP room?”

“Most definitely.”

“Your friend...”

“Will be allowed to join us.”


“You’ll see.”

She ordered a 7up, which I figured was a code for vodka and 7, something I learned from bartending and waiting tables briefly at one of the Monster’s former restaurants, though coded as water there, but a bottled water wouldn’t do. The drink doesn’t smell all that alcoholic. Her wink at the scantily clad waitress promoted my suspicion.

We talked over the loud music. She remained in my lap as much to be heard as to be enjoyed. She did have a nice ass, and it squirmed with delightful subtleness. My excitement couldn’t help being felt. Our conversation held truth within the lies probably for both of us.

She claimed to be born and raised on the island. Though absent of local slang or anything pidgin, middle or upper middle class Haolis tended not to resort to it, especially with visitors, unless they wanted to pretend it, like some misguided white man attempting Ebonics. But she had the accent of her class, though its similarity to southern Californian didn’t specifically place her here.

Her erudition and surprising knowledge about various unexpected things made her claim to be paying her way through graduate school more believable. Of course it would be what the smart girl trope would claim. That unexpected knowledge led us to our first connection. She knew jazz.

“I listen to Fresh Air,” she said, explaining it, referring to the local University station for which I once DJed.

“Then you might have heard me,” I said. “I called myself the Sour Mash Kid.”

“Yes!” she exclaimed, her eyes for the first time thoroughly delighted. “Sometimes you go out there, but I learned to enjoy even that music, in a way because I heard you explain how you enjoy it. How you let it be visceral. Not intellectualizing or challenging it, but letting it move you. The same way you appreciate abstract expressionism. It opened my mind to both things. You taught me.”

“I’m glad,” I smiled back. “Did you listen to the show that preceded it?”

“Penny for your thoughts? Of course,” she chuckled. “She could be even wilder than you got.”

“She’s a good friend.”

“She seems really cool. And nice.”

“She is. And not nearly as crazy as she sounds.”

We shared a laugh.

She lifted herself off my lap. I missed her there despite her weight, which gradually felt more but never too much. “Gotta get ready,” she smiled and kissed my cheek. I watched the way her ass moved when she walked away. Mesmerizing.

George arrived half way through Laura’s performance, still a beautiful and sexy petite raven haired bombshell. Petite in height, not in bust size. Her oversized augmented breasts challenged her gorgeous face for focus.

She kissed my lips before sitting beside me, tossing a twenty on the stage. That got Laura’s attention, nude by then.

Laura danced athletically and gracefully. Her music selection had been slower songs, chosen to match her slow movement. Her strength became evident in the slowness, especially on the pole. Clutching the pole in hands or thighs, she stretched out from it or went upside-down on it, holding firmly, always with a slow grace. Unlike others, whose tricks would be contortionism, or slamming down on the stage floor like some sort of self-induced wrestling take-down, she chose grace as her unique allure. She danced like a trained modern dancer whose choreography focuses solely on seduction. And she had neither the slim litheness of a ballet dancer nor the fleshiness of a burlesque queen, but an absolutely perfect medium. For a man, neither an average sized penis nor an average body would connote appeal. For a woman, a stripper, it meant perfection. At least for me. Though in one sense, she wasn’t average. Her firmness, her lack of anything resembling fat, on her stomach or her thighs or anywhere else, completed her feminine perfection.

Like I said, the twenty garnered her attention. But George garnered more. I heard what sounded like a squeak, and Laura grinned broadly. She recognized my friend. The usual reward for tipping, breasts brushing across your face, or a mouth moving suggestively down to your lap, or a pussy spread open and an asshole winking at you inches away became more. Because in the logic of strip joints, while a man can’t touch, a woman can.

They kissed. George suckled Laura’s breasts and twisted the nipples. The mouth that went into her lap found only panties in the way of licking pussy. And when Laura bent over and exposed her pussy, George rose up and tasted it.

Laura’s grace suddenly disappeared. She turned around and pulled George onto the stage, guiding my friend to lie on her back while Laura danced over her, pulling things aside to expose George’s amazing rack, and her juicy pussy, until the audience watched a sixty-nine. Tips no longer brought the expected reward. The audience, voyeurs all, were getting their reward. Bills filled the stage.

The song ended. Laura helped George to her feet and kissed her deeply. They whispered into each other’s ear and nodded. George covered her breasts and restored her panties to full coverage while Laura collected the substantial loot their show had provoked.

“I need a drink,” George said to me, pulling me away from the stage. “We’ll meet her at the bar.”

George never had been bisexual, much preferring the opposite sex to the point of being a certified nymphomaniac. The taste of pussy just didn’t appeal to her. The bartender gave her her white wine spritzer on the house, while I overpaid for my gin and tonic. George drank most of her drink in one gulp.

“You don’t have to go down on her again,” I offered.

“I don’t mind a skilled female sucking my cunt,” she agreed. “Luckily you’re almost as good as a woman.”

Laura arrived looking refreshed. A washcloth I imagined. Her makeup looked freshly reapplied. Tasteful, though with the dark lighting; it might not have seemed so in bright light. She led us to the doorman and I counted out the five hundred that would give us an hour with her. He gave me a receipt. She took George’s hand and led us upstairs where curtained booths would hide our goings on. The music downstairs had been piped in, but quieter. The booth had a couch almost long enough for my tall body, and a small table to place our drinks.

“What can we do here?” I asked.

“Anything,” Laura smiled at George. “You prepaid.” She began divesting George of her dress, which had a built-in corset, exposing her large firm breasts immediately, which she kissed and suckled the nipples.

“Is that normal?” George asked.

“I tip the management,” Laura answered quietly. “There’s a small light in the corner which flashes in case of a raid. It does it normally when time’s up.”

“And maybe a camera beside it?”

“As far as I know, they don’t record.”

“As far as you know,” I said.

She shrugged. “It’s there to protect us.” She knelt in front of George, removing her panties. “I always wanted to taste you,” she purred.

George gently pulled her to her feet after one lap. “Joe first,” George insisted.

“He has been hard for quite a while.”


I unzipped and pulled my pants and boxers low enough to let my cock bounce free. Both ladies spread my legs wide. Both began sucking me. I reached down to fondle Laura’s firm breasts, which she paused to free for me, pulling the mesh dress below them.

It didn’t take long for me to cum, and I generated a substantial amount of it from all that time building fluids. George, the old pro, swallowed it all. She didn’t bother sharing. She could tell Laura would have spit it out.

They coaxed me to lie down. George stripped the stripper and had her straddle my face. I enjoyed Laura’s flavor despite the mix of sweat and the hint of urine I’m sure much more than George had. Meanwhile George managed to position herself above me so that her pussy could be eaten by Laura and she could suck my cock back to life. It felt weird having my pants pulled down my thighs but otherwise dressed while two luscious ladies had become naked. Weird but understandable. If that light did blink, I could button up, and, continuing the double standard, the ladies would be fine discovered naked.

The brilliantly skilled George had me hard soon. “My purse,” moaned Laura. I had my own skills. “Go ahead and get a rubber. I trust you.”

George had hopped off. She had my cock covered seconds later.

“How do you want me?” asked Laura.

“How do you want it?” I asked.

“Doggy style with George underneath me.”

I looked to George who nodded. I had a feeling she would focus on my balls with her mouth, and only fingers would touch the other woman’s clit. I guessed right.

I lasted long enough for George to achieve a couple orgasms via Laura’s mouth. George and I made sure Laura got off a couple times as well before I filled the little bulb at the end of the rubber with my cum.

“I’d ... like to continue this later,” I asked tentatively.

“How long?” Laura asked.

“All night if possible.”

“That would be a thousand.”

“Even if George came with?”

“I thought that was implied. It would be more without her.”

“I’m not into women,” George confessed.

“But I love your sweet pussy,” Laura almost whined.

“And Joe loves yours. And for a man, he’s quite adept.”

“For a man,” Laura admitted, and we laughed.

“How do you want to do this?” I asked.

“I don’t live far from here,” Laura explained. “Usually I walk home with my girlfriend slash roommate and a bouncer. She’s not here, unfortunately.” I saw that pang of sadness and concern again. “Pick me up in front of the club at 2:30, unless that’s too late. Or you stick around.”

“I don’t know if I can afford to stick around,” I chuckled.

“Too bad,” Laura pouted, looking at George. “I wouldn’t mind another show with you, George.”

“Very profitable,” George smirked.

“And fun! I could just do you.”

“Sure,” George grinned.

Laura looked delighted. Turning to me, she suggested, “You could sample the others. I heard Salomé gives an awesome lap dance. She’s the black girl with the big tits.”

I remembered her. Hot and intense. Built thick, but voluptuous. Amazonian. Not in the least fat. She did the contortion thing and the slamming down on the stage thing. I shrugged. “Maybe. But I will need to go get some more cash.”

Removing the condom, she tossed it in a coffee can she pulled out of a corner and replaced the cover. I didn’t want to think what else might be in there.

“How much time do we have?” George asked.

“A couple more songs.”

I thought it a unique ability the way dancers seemed to know how much time elapsed.

“Perhaps you could show us your lap dance?”


She actually put on her dress and panties, though her breasts remained naked. As expected, she danced slowly and sensuously for me. Her panties she used as a peek-a-boo device. Being VIP I could touch her and taste her. Even though I had enjoyed her without her wearing anything, I found the teasing just as erotic as the actual fucking and sucking, if not more so. At George’s insistence, she only danced for me.

I actually did need to get some more cash, so I headed to my office not that far away to open the vault there. I hoped our client accepted my request for remuneration. I had receipts for the entrance fee, the VIP room fee and the drinks, but this was costing much more than that. He said he would. I figured he would. Both desperate and rich would make him agreeable to anything. I don’t know if he trusted me, or if our bad guy had made him trust people even less than he had before, but none of that mattered. Even if he knew me enough to learn of my trustworthiness. He would pay me because he wanted me on his side doing my best to find the man. I would have anyway even if he stiffed me. He didn’t know that, and it didn’t matter if he did.

Sandy expected me. She knew I’d need to get some petty cash, and she knew I’d probably have things to discuss or plan. She also knew how horny I would be. Going undercover always makes me horny. We had a surprisingly comfortable futon that reconfigured into a couch for nights like this. My horniness might have been sated by the threesome I just left, but the sight of her on the futon enflamed my libido immediately. She wasn’t alone.

Sandy normally preferred her boyfriends to be of the white hat variety. Good boys. Nakamoto had been her longest running lover. A police detective when they met, he had become lieutenant by the time of these events, and married with a kid and another on the way. Unlike before, when both fucked around, he had become exclusive with his lovely hapa haoli wife. A petite mix of native and Filipino. Despite jealousy of Sandy at first, Sandy, always up front, gained the wife’s trust and they actually became best friends. To the point, on one drunken evening, the wife suggested a threesome, admitting she had once played with girls and liked it. Sandy could see Nakamoto not opposed to the idea, so Sandy had to be the one to shut it down. My partner had a way of making endings definite and irreversible. “You get rid of the loser and you can crawl into my bed anytime,” she told the woman. Kidding of course.

But that’s neither here nor there. Of course it wasn’t Nakamoto in bed with her, fucking her, or, since she rode him, she fucked him. It was one of her few bad boy lovers. In fact I can’t recall any other. Even Kenneth, when she took his virginity, despite his hacking causing havoc and near death, had never been bad. Just frustrated. A horny nerd angry at the world for being ignored or taunted by girls and bullied by boys. Sandy tapped that anger as she tapped his cum. He might not have been overloaded with it, probably masturbating often, but it needed to be cum with purpose. Cum not caught by tissue, but entering a real female’s mouth or cunt.

“At last,” Sandy moaned. “Fuck my ass, Joe.”

Jesse, the bad boy underneath her just smirked. A common expression for the lightly tattooed, heavily muscled biker with a rough, macho handsomeness making him popular with the ladies. Jesse wasn’t a member of a biker gang, at least not anymore. He was too independent for that. And too smart. With his charisma and intelligence, he could lead one if he wanted. He didn’t. He did better on his own. Better as a thief. Better as a strong man for hire. Although what he did had never been proved. He made brilliant choices. Robbing bad guys. Hurting bad guys for other bad guys. Reporting him would prove detrimental to his victims, even if they could figure out he did it. His modus operandi was the brilliance of his work and his impeccable disguises. Like the finest of actors, he could transform his features and the way he moved, becoming unrecognizable. Add a hat and a scar or a pair of sunglasses, and any witness would see those things and not him. And being bald and clean shaven, he could wear a wig and apply facial hair. Those applications could have worked against him if found, but he had a stash no one had ever discovered.

So what made him unique in being Sandy’s only bad boy? And how did they meet? In a word, intelligence. In two meanings of the word. A handsome man with a great body attracts Sandy just like it attracts any heterosexual woman. But what keeps it from being a one night stand is intelligence. To sustain interesting conversations. To be smart enough to want to find out what a woman wants. An intelligence that seeks to grow more intelligent. To not be too arrogant to learn. To listen. Confident in himself, both physically and mentally, another attractive trait, and thus the frequent smirk, Jesse still listened to Sandy or even to me, in fact to anyone whom he respects. This trait made a bad boy actually a pretty nice guy.

And the other meaning of intelligence brought Jesse and Sandy together. He gave us intelligence, either of the workings of a specific villain, or of the probabilities of what this villain might do in certain circumstances. He grew up in their milieu. His family had been bikers who sold drugs. He knew the ins and outs of such trafficking. He no longer did that. He never spoke of why, but I believe someone he loved, a girlfriend or a family member, died because of it, because of him and what he sold.

Sandy slowed her ride while I stripped and fetched the KY. Her bad boy, in order to compensate, suckled her tits and stroked her clit. Once fingers loosened her, I entered her slowly. “Yes!” she approved.

I felt Jesse’s cock move beside mine. It filled her well, probably thicker than my fairly thick cock. Sandy definitely loved being filled so full.

We started slow, but that didn’t last. Sandy had already been on edge. She bounced between us like a ball in a pinball machine bouncing off buttons or bumpers, which like that ball seemed to quicken her movement, and instead of adding points, it added to her pleasure. Her first orgasm didn’t slow her, at least while it sustained, After, though, she became more lethargic, and both Jesse and I took over, continuing the assault inside two orifices, bringing her to a second and third orgasm, the last being joined by Jesse.

“Are you good?” I asked her when both of their orgasms diminished.

“I feel amazing,” she answered.

I chuckled. “I mean, have you had enough?”

“What about you?”

“I’m good.”



“Then I’m good.”

I moved my cock slowly out. It receded when I washed it in the basin in the small bathroom (or shower-room to be more precise).

When I returned, Sandy wore a robe while Jesse remained naked, lounging on the futon, a sheet covering his lower body. I addressed him, “So, you’re being here isn’t a coincidence.”

“I thought his insights might be useful,” Sandy answered for him.

“You don’t know this man?” I asked.

“No,” he responded in his low, surprisingly soft voice. More seduction. “It doesn’t sound like his type of work and mine would cross.”

“But I thought he might have a similar character,” Sandy explained.

I nodded. “Clever and a ladies’ man.”

“Sounds like he makes use of it more than I do,” Jesse said. “Of course I don’t actually use it at all. The bad boy attraction doesn’t actually promote trust. His is a softer presence. A compassionate smile that melts the heart, while my predatory smile moistens the loins. He’s one of them while I’m all man.”

I chuckled at his confidence before speculating on our target’s confidence, “A different type of con.”

“It sounds like it’s useful, but I don’t really see him as seeing it that way.”

“What do you mean?” Sandy asked.

“I think he genuinely loves women. Conning men is a whole other level of challenge for him. I suppose gaining support of the women doesn’t hurt his cause, and I’m sure he has made use of it, but that’s the easy part.”

“If he loves women...” Sandy started.

“He could never kill one,” I finished. “Except love and hate can be two sides of the same coin.”

“Maybe,” said Jesse. “Probably in long term relationships it can be like that. But if he felt ambivalent towards women, I don’t know if his ability to gain their trust and support would be nearly as effective.”

“You take on roles,” I pointed out. “Brilliantly convincing.”

“No comment,” Jesse smirked. “But it would be beyond my ability, or anyone’s I think, to gain allegiance with almost any woman the way he can. He didn’t kill the woman.”

“I know,” I said. “It would never make sense any way you look at it. It seems completely arbitrary.”

“Unless she threatened to expose him to her father-in-law,” Sandy argued.

I shook my head. “He would have just moved on. The way he wandered into Reed when they met. He’s a wanderer I think.”

We nodded.

“The son did it. He killed his wife.”

“Almost certainly. The problem is proof. And discovering why. We need to find this man to find out these things. And, as the father wanted, we need him to confront the son in his father’s presence.”

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Ma/Fa / Fa/Fa / Mult / BiSexual / Crime / Group Sex / Interracial / Prostitution /