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:
AUTHOR WENDY WILDE MURDERED! Story page 2.
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.
"That was her first, Pandora's Box. Her best, too, in my opinion." Tag turned and saw the man. Tall, elderly, with jet-black hair that had a white swirl running down the middle. The hair reminded Tag of a skunk. The man himself reminded him of nervousness. He was also impeccably dressed in a tone-downed medium-gray suit and vest. It looked custom-made. The man had the overall look of money, and lots of it.
Tag said, playing real dumb, "She read a lot of this type of, uh, literature then, I take it, sir. Bit steamy reading for a lady of her caliber, don't you think?" That sounded dumb enough to Tag.
"Read? Oh, I see, you don't know, do you? No, I suppose you don't. Ms. Deaux-Fontaine wrote that book and four more just like it under her pen name, Wendy Wilde. You'll find her photograph on the back cover." The man twirled his fingers, a signal to Tag to turn the book over.
Tag turned the book over and saw the same face he had only recently seen in this very penthouse suite, only this time she looked much happier. Scrawled across the bottom of the picture, and looking as if it was written by her, was XXX Wendy Wilde. He thought: Hot kisses from a corpse, now. Then he realized it could also stand for the triple-X used in the porn trade. Both seemed to fit, and Tag surmised that that was probably the whole idea.
"You must be Hamilton Worthy." Tag said. "Detective Hunger mentioned you to me. Said I'd be bumping into you soon enough."
The man nodded. "Guilty, sir. And you are... ?"
"Tag Bonewell, Mr. Worthy, and I'm at your service, sir. I'm the Wellington's house detective." God, he thought, this guy brings out the formal in me. I'll be bowing at the waist any minute now and sticking a dainty pinky out whenever I drink my Scotch.
"Then you're not the police. Where are they? Shouldn't they be here by now?"
"Well, Detective Hunger is somewhere else in the apartment. I'm surprised you missed him on your way in. But you shouldn't really be here, sir. Crime scene and all. Why don't you say hello to Detective Hunger on your way out? He'd like that, sir."
Worthy got the message and, without even a sweet goodbye, turned and left. Oh, well, Tag thought, that went smoothly. He then heard multiple voices coming from the other room.
The forensics team, it seemed, had arrived...
TWO DAYS LATER, and long after the body had been removed and forensics had crawled all over suite 912, taking every thing that wasn't nailed down with them, including her PC, Detective Hunger paid Tag another visit.
After some chit-chat, Hunger said, "Tag, you should see the video tapes we took out of Wilde's place! Dozens of 'em, with people doing all kinds of nasty stuff on them. And sweet little Wendy is on every one. Au naturel, to be sure." He laughed as he added, "And they're all labeled, ha ha ha, research!"
Tag chuckled, and then said, "Research, huh? Well, Jack, I guess some writers take their work extra seriously." He laughed.
"So do we cops, Tag. Hell, I've had to force myself to sit through at least, ha ha ha, a half dozen of 'em so far. Taking copious notes, too, mind you." He grinned at Tag.
"I'll just bet! And with a very hard pencil, no doubt!" He chuckled.
"The hardest! Well, at least for the first twenty minutes of note taking. Then I have to drag it into the John to put a new point on it!" They both laughed, heartily, with Tag rapping the edge of his desk with an open hand several times.
Then Hunger said, "Say, Tag, how's about I send you over a handful of 'em? Pardon the pun. That is, if you can find a decent pencil in that mess you call a desk."
"Great, Jack, I'd like that. And, you know, since I became the house dick around here, I haven't had to sharpen my own pencil in a while, so it'll be a nice change of pace. It'll take me back to my roots... pun intended." He chuckled.
Hunger grinned, then said, "Yeah, I guess as house dick, it wouldn't surprise me to know you have a pencil sharpener on every floor... even the penthouses, eh?" He was fishing for information of the prurient kind, but Tag got cagey on him.
"Well, detective, I ain't sayin' anything more without my lawyer present, but as you yourself well know, what the fuck good is a pencil with a dull tip?"
The boys laughed it up a bit before Hunger took his leave, promising the films would be sent tomorrow and, this afternoon, some books and notes Wilde had made.
"Look her books and notes over, Tag, and see what you make of 'em. Maybe you'll spot something this harried old copper misses. Never know." He left Tag's office and Tag could hear him stopping by Lucy's desk.
Through the open door, Tag couldn't see them, but he heard Hunger say to Lucy, with a laugh in his voice, "Does that slave driver boss of yours make you sharpen his pencil?" If he only knew, Tag thought. Then again, Hunger is a good detective.
"Huh?" Tag heard Lucy say, then quickly add, "Oh, I getcha! For your information, Detective Hunger, Mr. Boneher-all-the-time needs lotsa pencil sharpening. He's a diligent note taker, don'tcha know?" She giggled. That Luce, thought Tag, smart as a whip.
Hunger said, "I know, Ma'am, and it takes one to know one!" He then went out the front door, laughing loudly on his exit.
"Luce?" Tag hollered out. "Could you come in her a sec? And bring your best sharpener with you, would you, please?"
He heard her yell back, "Be right in, slave driver boss... just gonna lock the front door first and turn on the answering machine... "
AS LUCY ENTERED, she saw Tag was naked from the waste down, his semi-hard penis in evidence. This signaled he was either in the mood for a blowjob or a quick doggy style. The choice, she knew, was all hers. Tag, that darling, was easy that way.
"Well, Mr. Boneher-in-the-office, is that a pencil in your hand or are you just glad to see me?" She giggled. As she approached him, he said, "Both!"
She reached out and gave his pencil a squeeze. "My, my, my, you've got one big pencil there, sir." She looked at him. "Why don't I just put my sharpener at your disposal and you can stick that big, old pencil right in and get a good tip on it?"
"Mmmm," he said. "Sounds like a plan to me." She assumed her familiar position.
Bent over the desk, as she was, Lucy got playful from the getgo. Right after Tag had pushed his throbbing cock into her just an inch or so, letting it soak, she said, "Rrrrrrrrrrrr! Rrrrrrrrrrrr! Rrrrrrrrrrrr!" It was her imitation of a pencil sharpener. It sounded a mite hoarse and guttural, raspy even. Tag played right back at her.
"Sounds like it needs a little oil, Luce!" He chuckled.
"Just you wait, Mr. Boneher-from-behind, it'll soon be awash in oil and purring like a kitten!" She giggled girlishly. Then she rotated her hips a bit.
"I hope so!" Tag said. "Wouldn't want the tip chewed up now, would we?" He plunged to the base into her, pulled back and did it a few more times. Then he heard her say:
"Purrrrrrrr! Purrrrrrrr! Purrrrrrrr!" She rotated her ass with each purrrrrrrr, making small and sensuous, clockwise circles.
"Oooh!" Tag said as he plunged to the hilt once more. "That's one fine fucking pencil sharpener you have there, lady!" He moaned hoarsely. Then he plunged deeply in and out a dozen more times or so, her pencil sharpener rotating all the while.
With a firm grip on both her hips, he jackhammer fucked her. Small groans, deliberately toned down in decibels, came out of her. Although a room separated them from the outer front door, they both knew it was best not to take the chance of being heard. Then Tag slowed it down and finally stopped altogether, his cock half in and half out.
He watched, fascinated, as her pussy lips chewed their way along the cock shaft toward its base. It reminded him of a hairy mouth. She moved herself back and forth this way for a few hearty nibbles and, sensing he wasn't moving at all, said, "Just like a man, a fucking man at that, let momma do all the heavy work!"
"Ha ha!" he said as he helped momma out by pushing it all the way in, his groin slapping into her fleshy buttocks, and then all the way out. He was back to work.
"Ooh, daddy, I'm glad I woke you!" Lucy spit out breathlessly. They continued this way for a dozen or more eight hunka-dunka-inch-deep plunges by him.
As Tag signaled with a low, male-like groan, that he was about to cum, Lucy said, "Purrrrrrrr! Purrrrrrrr!" Then, "Rrrrrrrrrrrr! Rrrrrrrrrrrr! Oh, oh, Mr. Boneher-fiercely, she's cummin' up dry! More oil! Use your squirt can on her!" Tag obliged. Suppressing the urge to laugh, he squirted and came. And squirted some more.
Lucy said, "Purrrrrrrr! Purrrrrrrr! Purrrrrrrr!" He then collapsed onto her back, his head near hers, and placed kisses all over the nape of her neck. Lucy twisted her head around and kissed him on the lips. A long, wet, tongue-flashing kiss.
As they broke from the kiss, Tag whispered into her right ear, "I love you, Lucy Fern!" He kissed her neck again. And once more.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, you always say that right after your pencil's outta lead!"
Was she being funny or was she being sarcastic? Either way, Tag stood up and said softly "Turn around, sweetheart." She complied, standing and facing him. He looked into her eyes. "You're right, Luce, sorry." He took her into his arms and kissed her again. This kiss seemed for real, just like the ones longtime lovers always use.
After a seemingly long interval, they broke from the kiss, her hands still around his neck, his hands resting lightly on her hips. She looked at him, a small grin on her face.
"Geez, Taggie, don't go gettin' all mushy on me. OK? I was just funnin' ya."
"All the same, I think it'd be nice having a little upfront, foreplay mushy. And, for some strange, unexplainable reason, way beyond the comprehension of most mere mortals, I like saying the words to you, Luce. Love ya, love ya, love ya. So there!"
She kissed him quickly on the lips, pressed a hand to the left side of his chest and said, "Holy shit, Mr. Boneher-oh-so-mushy, I do believe your heart's plumb stopped!"
He shammed a scowl at her. "Get your ass out of here, crazy woman, and scream out any appointments I have for this afternoon. OK?"
She saluted him. "You got it, slave driver boss. And zip up, wouldya? Your pencil's hangin' out... again!" She briskly headed toward the door. Without turning, she added, "And it's oozing lead... again!"
He looked down. Sure enough, it was slightly tip-soaked. He took a tissue and wiped if off. As he headed toward his private bathroom to give it a proper wash up, he yelled out to her, "Thanks, Luce, I might have scared my next appointment!"
Lucy mumbled something that he didn't quite catch, but it had a snide and sarcastic tone to it...
DETECTIVE HUNGER walked right into Tag's inner office. It was late afternoon. Tag looked up at him. The detective had four large, manila envelopes clutched in his hands.
"You're unguarded, Tag, your gal Friday is AWOL." He sounded disappointed.
"Lucy's at the hotel salon getting her nails done or something. What's up?"
"Brought you all of Wilde's printed books and some of her random notes... as promised." Tag nodded as Hunger dropped the envelopes onto the desk.
"Tag, old bean, these'll really teach you a few new wrinkles. They did me!"
"Hot stuff, huh?"
"Hot? Shit, pardon my French, Tag, but she could prove to Satan that he didn't know squat one about the heat thing! Wear asbestos gloves, OK?"
"Geez, Jack, you're scaring me!" He threw his hands up and shammed a scared look.
"For your own good, son. Now, Tag, I gotta be off, but tell me something, if you don't mind, that is, is your gal Friday seeing anybody special?" Ho ho, thought Tag.
"Oops, I forgot to introduce you two the other day. Sorry. Her name is Lucy, Lucy Fern. And, far as I know, she's not hooked up with any one... special. If you're interested, and I assume you are, she loves Italian food and French. Food, that is!" He laughed.
"Then you wouldn't mind if I asked her out? I thought you and... "
"Nah, we're strictly business, the two of us. Go for it, Jack." Tag felt like a matchmaker, but he also felt he had no right not to give Lucy the opportunity to say yes or no to a guy. He didn't own her, after all. And he had shared her on more than one occasion in the recent past, could still be sharing right now, for all he knew.
"Thanks, Tag. Well, enjoy your reading." He turned and headed toward the door. As he passed Lucy's desk, Tag heard him yell out, "And don't forget the gloves!"
At the front door, Hunger yelled out again, "They're for handling the paper, Tag, not your pecker!" Tag heard Hunger laugh as he went through the door.
Tag looked at the pile of manila envelopes before him. He started to open the top one when he remembered. He was taking Lucy to dinner and then home to his bed.
Shit, he thought, these can wait for tomorrow...
TAG AND LUCY was sharing a bed. Tag's queen-size bed. They had just finished going at it like two hippos in heat and were watching Leno on the tube. They had the sound set down low, just in case either one had something to chat about. To them, the TV was just audible wallpaper. Both were sitting up, nude as babies, with piles of large, fluffy pillows behind their backs.
Tag looked over at her and said, "Hey, Luce! How's about I fix us a couple of our usual nightcaps?" Lucy, not taking her eyes from the TV screen, nodded. They had done this particular scenario many times in their relationship.
As Tag headed toward the door, Lucy turned the TV's sound up a notch. Leno was delivering a joke during his monologue:
"A doctor has come up with a new diet based on masturbation. He came up with the idea all by himself!" Leno paused to let the audience laugh. "I believe he calls it Weight Whackers!" The studio audience laughed again. Lucy giggled. She liked watching old Leno. His large chin reminded her of an adequate landing spot for pussy. An idea she had once shared with Tag, who whole-heartedly agreed with her.
Tag returned, carrying the drinks on a wooden tray. Lucy turned the sound back down. She told him the Leno funny and he chuckled a bit. He liked Leno, too, but maybe not as much. And the chin didn't do much for him, either.
He handed Lucy her drink, cleared his side of the bed of all the pillows and set down the wooden tray in their place. He pulled a side chair up to the bed, turned it to face the TV, and plopped his still naked ass down in it. All was comfy now. Just like married folk.
He grabbed his Scotch and soda from the tray, lifted it, and said, almost in a whisper, "Cheers, baby!" Lucy threw back, "My bottom's up!" Tag chuckled. They sipped.
Tag broke the short silence that followed. "Out of curiosity, Luce, you still tagging that Oliver guy? The one you said had the hairiest balls you'd ever laid eyes on?"
"Nah, he's history. I got me a new steady fuck. A real good one!" She smiled at him, looking very Cheshire cat-like.
"W-Who is he, Luce?" Shit, he thought, that came out a tad hoarse, nervous, and edgy. Just like a cuckold who's wife has just told him she's been doing one of his twenty pals.
"He lives in my building, on the same floor. You know him, you even met him a few times. Horace Viking. Ring a bell?" It rang a bell all right.
"Him? That guy? Christ, Luce, he's an outright dweeb! A Dweeb Hall of Famer!" Horace sure was, if any one was, but Tag now felt he had been a tad jealous sounding.
Lucy shammed huffy. "Horace is not a dweeb, Taggie! Nerdy, I'll give you, but he's no dweeb when it comes to fucking away! He's hung like a horse and he knows how to use it, too. So there, nosy ass!" She sniffed and took a sip of her gin and tonic.
"Lives up to his last name, eh?" She nodded, grinning. He added, "Minus the horned helmet, I hope!"
She nodded again, and then said, "Well, he's sure horny, in both heads, but neither one wears a helmet. Then again, his cock head is sorta shaped like one. The kind the firemen wear. Ha ha!"
Tag's curiosity took a prurient turn. "How big is the horse part of horny Horace, your Viking man?" She held up an arm. Tag said, "Your fist, wrist, or forearm?" He chuckled.
"Wrist, silly, although I wouldn't complain if his cock's head was either of the other two. But it's also long. Soooooo long! It goes from here," she pointed to her wrist, "to here!" She pointed to the crook in her elbow. She now chuckled. Tag wasn't done exploring the sex path just yet.
"Geez, Luce, that's about a foot long and two fucking inches wide! Horace sure is a fucking Viking, a superman fucking Viking, at that!" He exhaled loudly. Lucy started getting into the spirit of it all.
"He knows how to use it, too. Makes me cum oodles. In puddles. He's also very gentle and loving, just the way you pretend to be now and again." She shot him a quick scowly glance. "And he lets me do my slow, sensual suck and finger, too. Just like you," she paused for effect, "always do." Tag shammed a grimace.
"Geezy peezy, sweetheart, I'm getting envious of your Viking."
"Relax, schmucko, you're both great, but in different ways. You're very manly compared to Horace, shit, way more virile, too. And I love that. But he's more needy than you are, that's needy, not nerdy, and I like that because he makes me feel like an adored queen. And, as I said, he let's me do my suck and finger routine on him, and he really appreciates it, if you can picture that?" Oh, Tag could picture it, all right.
Tag knew what she meant by her slow, sensual suck and finger routine. Lucy didn't just suck a cock, she made love to it. Slow and easy. Moaning throughout. As if she was worshipping the dick. In love with it. While she masturbated herself. Suck and finger.
Tag would lay back, his hands behind his head, and watch her, totally rapt and mesmerized. Her delicate right hand would be wrapped around his cock shaft's base, her palm pressing into and cupping his balls. Her other hand would be somewhere down in her nether regions, fingering away.
With the cock head in her mouth, she'd go up and down on it, slowly, so sensuously, so deliberately, so deliciously feeling. Her tongue would slowly, and oh, so sensuously, trace out his cock's underside. Exploring him, tasting him, enjoying him. While constantly moaning.
Here and there, as the mood struck her, she would deep-throat him. Staying down on it for a minute or so, her nose and lips buried in his pubic hairs, she would moan constantly, a low moaning, the kind of moaning that only comes from one receiving great pleasure. And Tag would moan, softly, right along with her.
Tag always felt as if he was the recipient of one of the world's great and secret gifts. If a noise from the real world should happen to intrude, a car horn, a loud voice, he would always think: Millions of guys are out there getting blown right now, but not one of them has ever had anything like this. Or ever will.
Sometimes, Tag would be super tired, or all fucked out from a recent fuck session with her, so he would just lie there, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders, or behind his head, and let her do her suck and finger thing.
He knew that if he should lose his erection, or even fall asleep, she would still be gently sucking on him, enjoying herself. He liked that idea. It removed all performance pressure and made it all the more uncomplicated. Uncompetitive, even.
And Lucy had taught him something, too. He no longer just ate pussy, he made love to it. With his tongue, his lips, his chin, even his nose. And he let himself go with the flow, moaning the way she did, enjoying it, falling into it, being hypnotized by it. It made their sixty-nining unbelievably unselfish and trance-like. Even their moans were in sync, rhythmic even.
Many times, he would awaken to find her sucking on his flaccid cock, in the 69 position, her legs spread wide on each side of his shoulders. Her sleep-warm pussy just inches from his face, the muskiness of it filling his nostrils. He would put his arms around her waist and draw her down to him, his lower face finding her heat, entering, getting soaked and awash with her juices. And they would suck away. And rhythmically moan.
On these occasions, half awake, half horny, when he came, it was different from his usually hard-jetting way of cumming. It would seep, very slowly, out of him, as if being drawn out by an invisible force with no rush in mind. And, whether sleepiness had a role in it or not, it would seem to last longer than usual.
Lucy took a sip, held the glass in place, and peered at him over the rim. "And Horace the Viking cums a ton, too! Much more than you do, Mr. Boneher-and-piddle-a-liddle! Ha ha!" She was enjoying herself. Tag, knowing he usually came a full tablespoon, sometimes more, was curious. But not competitive. If a guy was better than him in someway, any way, fuck it was his mantra.
"You've told me, Luce, that you sometimes have to swallow two times with me. You saying he makes you swallow more than that?" He felt his dick stir.
"Yes, Mr. Nosypants... usually three times and, if my Viking man hasn't had an orgasm in a week or so... four times! And his cum is thick and lumpy... just like Dannon yogurt!"
"No fruit on the bottom though, I assume!" She giggled and sipped.
"No, but it does taste sweet. He says eating bananas does that. Yours is more acrid, more pungent like."
Tag said, matter-of-factly, "You saying I don't eat enough bananas?" He took a sip. His dick was still trying to say something to him. It just hadn't found its full voice yet. Then Lucy got its full attention.
"Bananas shmananas! All this cock and cum talk has me boiling hot. How about some suck and finger? OK?" Sometimes, old Tag doesn't have to be asked twice...
SUCK AND FINGER followed its usual pleasant route, the not-of-this-earth route.
After Tag had cum, with her swallowing it all, and swallowing just once he figured, because his rest period hadn't been that long, she crawled up and kissed him full on the lips, the taste of his own cum mingling with their saliva. They broke from the kiss and she snuggled up into his right arm's space. Lucy broke the silence first.
"You were a little on the pungent side, Taggie, but anyway, how's your Wendy Wilde murder case coming along?"
"It didn't taste pungent to me, Luce, but as far as the murder goes, it's not my murder case, it's Detective Hunger's. I just fart around the edges and try not to stink things up too much for him." He squeezed her to him.
"Guys can't tell their own cum taste, Taggie Waggy, just like they can't tell when they have bad breath, but anyhooha, how's Hunger's murder case going then?" She snuggled into him.
Tag chose to leave the cum trail for now. "Don't know. He hasn't arrested me yet, or anyone else for that matter, so I assume he's still hot and heavy on it. Oh, he told me he has some films of the Wilde woman in action and he's sending them over to me. I should have them first thing tomorrow. Wanna watch them together?" He felt her head nod vigorously. Lucy just loved hot flicks...
THE NEXT DAY found Tag up to his ears in hotel business. For a change.
A domestic squabble in suite 233. Another squabble in 411. He worked them both out to every one's satisfaction. Then some woman, a Ms. Cavendish, called to say she was missing a little jewelry. He said he'd be right up. On the way out of his office, he ran into Hunger. Hunger said hello.
"Can't chat now, Jack, small jewel robbery on the tenth floor. Anything overly important?"
"No, Tag, run along. Besides, I'm not here to see you. Oh, you won't get the films until tomorrow. Some of the boys want to watch them again. For clues!" He grinned.
Tag grinned back. "I see! Well, good luck, old man."
Hunger nodded as Tag took off in the direction of the elevators...
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON by the time Tag got around again to the Wilde envelopes. He opened them all first, then dumped their contents onto his desk. There were five printed books, a cover layout for a new one, and a printed galley of another book's front and back covers. There were also some neatly typed sheets of paper. And one sheet with handwriting on it, in blue ballpoint pen ink. It was a list of sex categories. He placed it, for no real reason, on the bottom of the pile.
He started with the finished books first. Although he had seen all of them neatly lined up in suite 912, he just now noticed that, except for Pandora's Box, they were in numerical order. A large, tall number had been printed in the lower right hand corner of each cover. Two through five. He organized the five printed book that way, with Pandora's Box sitting on top of the pile.
Then he put book number six's printed galley of its two covers together with book number seven's rough cover layout. He backed these up with the typed out sheets and the handwritten page. He now had two neat piles. He decided to start with the finished, printed book pile. He grabbed Pandora's Box, looked at the cover, wondered if it was Wilde herself, then turned it over to read the back cover blurb.
Besides the usual sales puffery, he came away knowing she had written it from her real-life experiences with a swinger's group. The group, called The Stroker's Club, knew Wilde as simply, Pandora. There were usually thirty couples in the group. Most of them married. Wilde, using a male friend as an escort, had been a member of the group for one year, meeting every Saturday evening. Simple math told Tag she had swung with the Stroker's exactly fifty-two times. Averaging, he thought, four men a meeting, that's...
He grabbed the next book, Brother Balling and, after glancing at the cover, turned it over to find the sales blurb. This one said it was, once more, from her real-life experiences. At aged 12, with her brother, Hal Fontaine. Hal was 15 at the time. They did everything imaginable up until she turned 16.
Tag took book three from the pile, Doggy Doing!
Again, it was from her real-life experiences. This time with a well-hung St. Bernard. And three other breeds. A dog trainer named Faith was also mentioned. Wilde had experimented with poochy love for a full year, getting it doggy style once a week.
He took the next book, Lover's Loops.
This covered her, you got it, real-life experiences with a sex slave master named The Big Whipper. For a year, twice a month. Seems old Whip had a bevy of willing sex slaves at his beck and call. Even had his own newsletter: The Whipper Says! And a Web site.
Tag went for the next book, Pleasure Pains.
Real-life again. With another so-called master named El Sade (He pronounced it ell sod). Wilde put up with El Sod's pain and humiliation of her for another one of those full years. Four times a month.
It seemed to Tag that Wilde did everything by the year. A year doing this, one doing that. Of course, he realized, it could all just be hype, something to snag more sales. Or, could be, a mix of truth and lies.
He was down to pile two. He picked up the Stiffing Stiffs! sheet, which showed both covers printed.
Tag read the back cover blurb. It mentioned necrophilia, corpse fucking. He surmised the book was finished, but had yet to be published, other than these two covers.
It was, unlike all the previous, not from her real-life experience, but was from interviews with one Mr. Michael Elver Dodwright Halvers, a convicted mortician. His cosmetician, Julie Havens, caught him, flagrante delicto as it were, with the very dead blond wife of the Mayor, no less.
She testified in court that she had seen Mr. Halver's ass buggering, her words, the dead woman. For some unknown reason, Tag turned the covers over. There, on the back, was a sheet of paper, neatly typed, and Scotch taped in place.
It fleshed out the bye-bye paragraph. The last paragraph in the book. The one geared to sell her next, upcoming book, Kissing Kiddies, which she said was a scathing diatribe on pedophilia, blah, blah, blah. There was some other stuff about publishers and books and such, blah, blah, blah, but Tag felt too tired to read the whole long thing now.
He reached out and picked up the cover design board, with the artist's rough layout for book seven, Kissing Kiddies. Tag yawned. Lordy, he thought, Lucy just had to wake me in the middle of the night, didn't she?
It was a mock up on illustration board. Tag flipped it over and saw a handwritten note attached. He read, his eyes tiring, the blue ink swimming around.
Cov. design approved by me, but plot and dialogue in very rough outline form. Notify Marty: Will have finished, polished ms. to him no later than Mon, the 5th of next month. Should be 22 chapters, one ch. more than last.
Tag yawned and grabbed one of the typed pages. At the top of the sheet, Wilde had typed: Future novel ideas, book 8 and beyond. Inform Marty of my next project.