2: Tag Bonewell: The Murder of Wendy Wilde!


Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Heterosexual, Humor, Group Sex, Interracial, Oral Sex, .

Desc: Sex Story: WENDY WILDE wrote deliciously wicked novels of the sexual kind. Novels so hot, so prurient, they made her legions of fans. And haters. No subject matter was beyond her writer's fertile but kinky imagination. Her books made her rich and infamous and loved and hated. And now, dead and gone. Tag Bonewell, house dick at the Wellington Hotel, had never heard of her. Until the Wilde woman was found in suite 912 with three very neat, and accurately grouped, holes in her chest . . .

ALMOST NO ONE has ever heard of Ms. Jennifer Penelope Deaux-Fontaine, but plenty of folks know her alter ego, her nom de plume, her pseudonym, her pen name, Wendy Wilde, the wicked writer of sexually explicit novels and articles. Yeah, that Wendy Wilde. The same offbeat writer who had more people hating her than even Adolf Hitler could ever have imagined.

But, as of today, everyone's heard of the woman behind the Wilde mask. Anyone, that is, who bothered to read last night's evening paper. Or even glance at the front page. The two-inch high headline said it all:


And, just in case you've been living in a cave for ten years, a full page photograph below the headline showed Ms. Wilde, or Ms. Deaux-Fontaine, at a nudist camp and as naked as a jaybird. She was sporting a wide shit-eating grin that just screamed out how much she loved being sans clothing under the California sun. There were two other people in the photo, but they had been cropped in such a way no one could tell who they were.

Because the newspaper had thoughtfully airbrushed out her important private parts, the photo made her look ghastly and grotesque. It was obvious the retoucher had had a hard time trying to hide those very large breasts of hers. In the final result, she looked as if she had had a twin mastectomy performed, a bad one at that. Why they simply didn't just show her face is beyond any guess. Of course, nude pictures, even sloppy looking ones, do sell more papers.

The photo caption read: Wendy Wilde, second from left, bared it all in 1962 at the Suncatcher's Nudist Camp, San Francisco, CA. Story page 2.

1962. Yes, a long time ago. Ms. Fontaine was thirty-five years old in the photo, which means she was pushing sixty-five when her body was found.

Her publisher and lifelong friend, Hamilton Worthy, Ham or Hammy to his friends, was also her confidante at the time of her unscheduled demise. He was quoted saying just how much he was going to miss his longtime friend and best-selling author.

For over thirty years, Hammy did his best to keep her identity a secret. His best was good enough up until a year ago, when some hacker tracked her down through the internet and began e-Mailing her threats.

Who he is, isn't yet known, but one thing is; the cat was now out of the old bag. And yesterday, someone had shot the cat. Or the old bag, if you want to get crude about it. And she was shot three times with great and deadly accuracy. In her very own suite at the Wellington Hotel. And with much malice aforethought.

"YOU TAG BONEWELL?" Tag looked up from his desk. A man stood in the doorway. A man in his forties, with brown hair and brown, sad looking eyes. He looked to be around the six foot tall mark. He also looked quite fit, with not a sign of flab on him, if you didn't count the slight belly paunch, that is.

The guy was wearing an inexpensive, off-the-rack, dark gray suit and an equally run-of-the-mill white shirt. His tie was a nothing to rave about solid black. Sensible shiny black patent leather shoes finished the sartorial picture. Tag smelled cop.

Tag said, "That's right, sir. How may I help you?"

"I'm Detective Hunger, Jack Hunger, I'm here about the murder." Murder?

"What murder?" If Tag looked genuinely puzzled, he was. He hadn't read the newspaper yet today.

Detective Hunger fished a small note pad out of an inside suit pocket. He looked down at it. "Guess you haven't heard yet. Well, anyway, the vic is one Jennifer Deaux-Fontaine, aka Wendy Wilde. One of your room maids, a gal named Freda, called it in. About an hour ago." He approached Tag's desk. "Mind if I sit?" Tag motioned him to take the chair in front of the desk. Freda flashed briefly through Tag's mind. They had only done it twice now, but each time had been fantastic. She had that European...

When Detective Hunger was seated, he said, "Ah, that feels good! Been on my tootsies all morning... now, I came by your little office place here because I like to work with the house dick when a hotel's involved. I'm savvy to the hotels need to protect their rep and I find it works out better for all parties concerned, Tag, if I give the house cop a headsup. I can call you Tag, can't I?" Tag nodded. "Good. And why don't you just call me Jack, without the detective up front. OK?" Tag nodded again. He liked Jack. The man had real down-to-earth class.

Tag said, "I was in blue, too, Jack, a few years back. Six years in. Threw it in to do some private gumshoeing, but you know how that goes, feast or famine. Well, I had a feast of the famine, if you get me." He grinned at the detective.

"Yeah, Tag, I know all about it. Heard about you, too. You were a wee bit of a hotdogger, I'd say, and had a mite of trouble following police protocol. From what I've heard, you were downright naughty at times." He grinned at Tag.

"Guilty as charged, Jack. Now, tell me, what is it you need from me?"

"Nothiing really, but I thought you might like to come along with me when I enter the Wilde suite," He looked at his notes. "Room 912, and, who knows? You just might spot something these old, tired eyes of mine miss. Of course you shouldn't... "

"Touch anything. Yeah, I know, Jack, but I do keep disposable latex gloves in my desk." He opened the desk's front drawer, took out a box and held it up. "See?"

Hunger stood up. "Good boy! Shall we go? On the way, I'll fill you in on this Wilde woman, and I mean wild in the feral sense of the word. I popped her name into my PC's search engine and, man, she was a pip! C'mon, I'll tell you all about it on the way."

As they passed by Lucy's desk, Tag said, sounding most businesslike, "Miss Fern, hold all my calls, I'll be out a while." Then, to Hunger, he added, "God, I've always wanted to say that!" Hunger said, "And now you have. Come, I'll tell you all about her publisher, one Mr. Hamilton Worthy. A real gent, that one."

Tag sensed there was a Colombo side to DetectiveHunger. He was cagier than he appeared to be. He had made it seem to Tag that he had just arrived on the scene, but now it looked as if he had taken the time to talk to one Hamilton Worthy.

You're slick, Detective Hunger, Tag thought, real slick...

SUITE 912 was unoccupied, if you don't count the corpse of Wendy Wilde. Which had three neat, closely placed holes in its chest. Hunger pegged it as a.22 calibre job. Tag agreed. They had found the body in a small room that Wilde had used as an office.

She was lying in the center of the room, on her back, totally nude, with a large white towel lying alongside her. Her hair and the towel were damp. Hunger took a quick glance into the bathroom. One look at the wet tub told him she had obviously just come out of the shower, mere minutes before her killer had pumped three into her.

Her wig, a brunette one, was pushed forward and covering her right eye. She reminded Tag of Veronica Lake, a sultry, sexy actress from the 1940's.

Hunger asked Tag if he would go through her desk while he did whatever it was he planned to do. Tag, with his brand spanking new latex gloves on, opened the top middle desk drawer and whistled. "Jack, I've got a.45 here. With a very expensive-looking pearl handle. What you want I should do with it?" Tag looked down at the pearl handle. It looked like a custom job, with a purple capital W on each side.

"Empty the clip, so some kids don't get to it loaded, and just leave it there, would you?" Tag would. He stripped the clip and slid it back into the gun's handle. Then he had a question for Jack.

"Jack, how come this place isn't crawling in blue? You breaking cop protocol?"

"Look who's telling me about protocol! Listen, Mr. Pot, this Mr. Kettle is going by the book. This is a closed crime scene, of which I am in charge. Now, because I prefer to have an early look-see, before there are two dozen pairs of shiny shoes mucking it up, I tell forensics to wait for my call. They'll be along shortly."

"Yeah, Jack, but you don't even have anyone guarding the..."

"Door? He's on his way. I called just before I went into your office. Any more question, nosy?" Tag had none that he could think of. For now, at least.

The two men checked the place very carefully and, besides some of her published books and some paper files, they found nothing to speak of. No weapon, no casings, no perp hiding in a closet.

While Hunger was placing the necessary calls, Tag wandered back into the living room and went over to the large bookcase that housed her published writings and personal reading matter.

The first book of hers he laid his hands on, was titled, Pandora's Box. He opened it to somewhere in the middle and began reading.

Janet moaned. The large cock inside her making her do so, and making her feel full, packed with him. He pulled halfway out and plunged it back in, all the way to its base. Janed screamed, "Aayyyeeeeeee!" Charlie then...

Tag flipped a few pages and read some more.

As Jose's hot, boiling cum hit the back of her throat, some of it actually going down to her stomach, Carla spluttered. The next blast, equally as strong as the first, seemed to fill her mouth up. She swallowed quickly, as if not to do so would make her drown in his...

He flipped a few more pages.

The feeling was overtaking her. "Oooooooh! She screamed out. Then she...

Then a voice behind Tag spoke.

.... There is more of this story ...

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Consensual / Heterosexual / Humor / Group Sex / Interracial / Oral Sex /