Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Cheating, Rough, Humiliation, Anal Sex, Spitting, Violent,
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - They're watching you, They see your every move.
My name is Sarah Price, I was on my way to the airport and already running late when I stopped at the house. I only stopped here because my boss, Arturo insisted. I've never liked to meet the clients. I've always felt that it's a mistake. I prefer to simply do my job with a detached and emotionless attitude. I don't want to know the clients or the targets. It makes what I have to do easier. That way I can refrain from developing any opinions on the cases and stay professional.
Helen Harris came to the door. I asked her who she was and when she confirmed her identity, I sent her to get a form of identification to prove it. When she returned I'd already, unfortunately formed an opinion of her.
"I'm Sarah price, Mrs. Harris," I said. "I work for the Arturo Rios agency. Here is the tape of your husband's most recent week of cell phone calls and messages."
The woman standing in front of me just nodded. "Is there anything juicy on it?" she asked. "Time is getting short. You people need to dig something up soon or I'll be expecting to get all of my fucking money back." I heard a male voice from the other room and she thanked me and closed the door.
As I walked back to my car, I started wondering again why I did what I did for a living. The woman today was one of the reasons why I liked to avoid meeting the clients.
There were no two ways about it that woman was the lowest form of scum.
Helen Harris appeared to be in her late thirties, but could have been older or younger. She'd had a thin housecoat on and was naked under it. I truly wished that she'd taken the time to look at herself in a mirror before coming to the door because she had dried semen on her face and the smell of sex in the house was overpowering.
The male voice from the other room urging or ordering her to "Get her ass back in there," couldn't have come from her husband because he was currently in Detroit at some kind of automotive supplier's convention. I knew that because he was my intended target. I'd been given the case because the current operatives weren't able to turn up anything and Arturo didn't want to lose this case.
Judging by the question she'd asked me, Mrs. Harris seemed to believe that her husband was cheating on her. She was obviously cheating on him, so I just didn't understand her actions. Why couldn't the two of them just get a divorce and move on?
Of course I was sure that this was about money. Somehow these couples all started out very much in love, and they always ended up squabbling over money.
After a few years in this job, was it any wonder that I didn't date any more. I'd gotten to the point where I could tell by looking at a guy what his quirks were, and how our relationship would end up.
I simply no longer believed in love. I thought heavily about that as I waited for my plane to be called at the airport after checking in.
I have no illusions about myself. I'm pretty. I'm not bragging, I'm simply stating a fact. I was lucky enough to be born with a set of features that men find pleasing. I also have a well toned body that seems to please men as well. I just consider myself a normal girl. I can't help it if men's minds are constantly focused on sex.
Realistically, when it comes to men, a girl doesn't really have to be attractive to appeal to them. If she is though it only fans the flames hotter.
As I sat down on the plane, I noticed a guy two rows behind me get up and switch seats to sit next to me. "Hi," he leered. "Looks like good weather for flying."
I looked up at him, and in the most cheerful voice I could muster, politely answered him.
"What's your name?" I asked, opening my laptop.
"Frank Compton," he said flashing me a mouthful of yellow teeth. I quickly entered his name in a database that P.I.s use. Then I turned the screen and showed him the file on himself. He looked shocked that all of his personal information was so readily available.
"First off, Frank," I said. "I don't give a flying fuck about the climate. So your skills as an amateur weatherman are being wasted on me. Second I'm not interested in pleasant conversation or netting any new friends so take your fat, balding, beer bellied ass back to your original seat, or I'll call your wife Gladys and have divorce papers waiting for you before the plane lands. Do you have any questions?"
For a fat guy Frank really could move. He muttered "Dyke," and was back in his seat in less time than it took me to close my laptop.
I opened my briefcase and looked at the picture of Chris Harris. According to my information, he was only 28 years old. He was about 10 years younger than his wife. My first thought at seeing his picture was that he was pretty good looking.
As I read the file I realized that all of my first impressions were wrong. Before I'd even looked at the file, I was sure that he was cheating on his wife. I guess that I'd come to that conclusion because she was the person who'd hired us to get evidence of his infidelity.
Looking at the picture and reading through the file, I saw a young, good looking man with an older, less attractive woman. I was sure that he'd married her for her money. After a closer look at their finances, I realized that he was the one who was supporting her. She had no money, and didn't work.
Next I thought that maybe there'd been some kind of accident, and he'd married her for the sake of the child. They had no children, so that was out. This case seemed to be even more interesting as it went on.
A couple of hours later, as the plane descended, I still couldn't get the picture out of my mind. He was tall and handsome. He was also only a few months older than I am. Why would he saddle himself with that woman? She was 10 years older than him. She was short and chunky. Her ass was too big and her boobs were too small. It certainly couldn't be her personality. And to top it off, she was a slut. It just didn't make sense.
I checked into my room at the Westin hotel in Detroit. The Hotel was part of the Renaissance Center, in Detroit's Downtown area. Luckily the convention was being held less than a mile away in a conference center called Cobo Hall. I was sure that my target would have hated being in the Renaissance Center. It was GM's headquarters and he was supposedly heavily into Mustangs.
The room was nice as hotel rooms go, but I've been in so many of them over the years that the details have started to blur. I'm also so rarely home for any considerable period of time that I really don't remember many of the details of my apartment either.
I called the office back in Chicago to let them know that I'd arrived. Carla our office manager and Arturo's wife answered the phone.
"Hey, Sarah," she said. "How's Motown?"
"It's the same as every other crumbling industrial city," I said. "It's loud, aggressive and full of itself."
"Carl is really ready to hand the case over to you," she said. "His wife is due to go into labor any day now. Darryl will stay and assist you. He knows that you're in charge. Happy hunting, Sarah."
"Carla, there's something weird about this case," I told her. Carla, besides being a colleague was my friend.
"Sarah, there's something weird about all of them," she laughed. After hanging up the phone I brushed my long honey blonde hair back away from my face, and dressed in a very conservative skirt suit. The jacket and skirt were tan colored and set off my hair well. The skirt was below the knee in length, so very appropriate for a business setting. It was also tight enough to really show the curves of my ass. The silk blouse I wore under the jacket had large gaps between the buttons so glimpses of my lace bra would be available if my audience was looking for them.
I grabbed my laptop and headed for Cobo Hall. My laptop and cell phone both had very powerful digital camera functions so if I caught Mr. Harris misbehaving at the convention, this could be over in a heartbeat. I entered the large hall and put on the visitor's badge Arturo had bought for me. It would be easy for me to blend in by posing as a distributed or buyer just as my target was.
Of course he didn't have to worry about finding one particular person among a crowd of thousands of people as I did. And he also didn't have to constantly dissuade men who spent all of their time staring at his ass or his tits either.
I strolled along appearing to look at displays by different manufacturers of automotive components. I pretended to be very interested in some of the displays, although truthfully, I was even more convinced that men were out of their fucking minds.
I mean I consider myself more in tune with reality than the average woman, but I was flummoxed. Why would anyone rip a perfectly good and adequately functioning exhaust system off of a car, just so they can install another system that looks exactly the same but sounds different, usually louder?
Who cares what the exhaust system sounds like or looks like? Cars are just supposed to get you from one place to the next, with all of your stuff intact and without breaking down. The rest of the stuff that these people were buying and selling was pure bullshit.
I was just mulling that concept over in my head when I spotted him. It seems funny to me but the first thing I thought of was that he looked even better in person. The pictures I had of him already had me thinking that he was good looking, but seeing him in person simply underscored that fact.
There was also something different about looking at a real flesh and blood person as opposed to a picture. Sometimes people didn't look as good as their photographic representations. Like when you look at some of those supermodels. In pictures or on television they appear to be some almost alien, other worldly beauty, but then in person they turn out to be just some tired looking Brazilian woman with an overbite, a big nose and an attitude problem.
Chris Harris was the opposite side of the spectrum. He looked even better in person. He was more muscular than I'd expected, but not in that hulking gym rat way. He also moved with an efficiency of movement that was almost ballet-like. Watching him winding his way through slower moving people as he visited different displays was awesome.
Here and there he lingered and spoke to a person or two at a display. He often took notes and promised he'd return to a specific booth or product that he was interested in.
Though following people without their knowledge of my doing it was a part of my job, I have to admit that following him was difficult. I was also nearly caught several times.
Party of the difficulty came from the fact that he moved so quickly, though it seemed effortless on his part. It was as if he had a different sense of balance and muscles than the rest of us did.
Several times I nearly had to run to keep up with him, or try to find him again when he seeming disappeared into a gap in a crowd of people, that I simply couldn't follow him through.
He would also simply stop and stare at a product or booth that he found amazing or somehow distasteful.
The thing he did once that scared the shit out of me was when he suddenly, without warning, simply turned around in mid-stride and went back to a booth that had barely registered on his mind. As he turned he moved so quickly that I thought he was going to run into me.
In fact there was no way to avoid the collision so I had braced for impact, only to find that he had somehow gracefully avoided any contact with me at all.
The avoidance was also all him. I'd just stood there waiting for the impact only to find out that there wasn't one. "Sorry," he offered sheepishly.
His heartfelt yet tentative smile made him appear shy, yet friendly at the same time. The very vulnerability he displayed in offering an apology when he hadn't actually erred was part of his charm.
If I had really sat down and thought about the way things were going, I'd have given up the case right then. Whether I knew it or not, that one word, "Sorry," had punched through my facade of professional detachment like a hard dick in a soft pussy, only I didn't realize it at the time.
I was so busy trying to pretend that I wasn't interested in him, that I didn't realize I was. While I tried to pretend to be bored with all of the proceedings, I did notice that more than a few of the women there were definitely interested in my target. A few of the models in the booths went out of their way to call his attention to themselves.
While it seemed like a promising development for me, it soon proved fruitless. On the other hand it made sense to me in another way. When does a man turn away from the attention of pretty, well developed young women? There are only three possible scenarios in my reasoning.
The first theory, he was gay; was immediately discarded. The second that he was too busy concentrating on work or another obsession, I let sit for the time being, but did not discard out of hand. That just left the last and most promising, that he was in love.
I liked that one because it made the most sense, and possibly the most dollars. If there was some woman somewhere that he had an ongoing relationship with, we could report this to the wife and earn our payment. But then she'd be eager for us to get details and information and possibly evidence on the relationship etc. That would earn us even more money.
He'd been extremely careful in covering her up thus far because some of our top operatives had yet to turn up anything. But now I was on the job and the game was afoot. It was corny but the song started running through my head.
"Private eyes, they're watching you. They see your every move. They're watching you, watching you, watching you, Private eyes..."