Caution: This Action/Adventure Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Fiction, Voyeurism, Slow, Violent,
Desc: Action/Adventure Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Voyeur private dick Frank Stern takes topless shots of a TV star on a public beach for his own pleasure. Unfortunately, he never foresaw the trouble that this simple action would lead to.
Everyone has a hobby, and mine happens to be voyeurism. Over the years I've built up quite an extensive collection of pictures of unsuspecting women and couples in compromising or revealing positions. Some I took in my capacity as a private detective, most were just for fun. It's a dangerous hobby - that's part of the attraction, of course - and I've gotten myself into some pretty sticky situations and even been arrested once or twice. Embarrassing, but no big deal. Until recently, that is. I took some pictures a few weeks ago, some nice topless pictures on a public beach, and those pictures very nearly got me killed.
Thinking back on it now makes me feel queasy inside and short of breath. It would have been a stupid, shitty way to go. Anyway, it's a long story, and I better start at the beginning if I'm going to get it all down right. I'm not going to change any of the facts, though God knows some of the facts make me look pretty bad. I'm the first to admit I'm not the second coming of Sherlock Holmes, and I've already admitted to being a sexual voyeur, but I'm not a liar.
I was between cases at the time, a situation I find myself in all too often, and I had spent the morning moving furniture to make the rent. I was on the freeway, heading back to my apartment for lunch, when my cell phone rang. I reached behind me and fumbled through the mess of packing straps, tools, and boxes that litter the back of my van, finally coming up with the phone.
"Frankie, there you are. It's Vic. Got a hot one for you, buddy. I'd take it myself, but I gotta meet my parole officer in twenty minutes. So naturally I thought of you."
Vic is a fellow voyeur, a lot more hard core than I am. That's not why he's on parole though - he's a burglar by trade, and a bad one. "So what's the story?" I asked.
"Two words for you, Frank: Claire Ingleford."
"No kidding, really?"
"Yep. She's on Sparkle Beach right now, catching some rays with her world-famous hooters on full display."
"As seen in Playboy magazine."
"You got it. So whattya say?"
At the moment I was heading east, away from Sparkle Beach. It would take me at least half an hour to get there, by which time the show would probably be over. I was tired and hungry, and I had another moving job scheduled for this afternoon.
But this was Claire Ingleford, star of the prime-time drama "LA West," voted "TV's Sexiest Vixen" by People magazine two years running. Not that I'm a big fan of the show, but the fact that she's a celebrity does add to the attraction.
"I'm all over it, Vic. Wish me luck." I disconnected the phone and cut across two lanes of traffic toward the next exit. Such is the pull of the voyeur.
I made it in twenty-five minutes flat, and this time I was lucky. Claire Ingleford was still there.
Sparkle Beach is one of the less crowded public beaches, since it's no good for swimming or surfing. The waterline is littered with jagged rocks, and the incoming waves throw up fountains of salty spray, often creating rainbows or glittering sheets of luminescence. Sparkle Beach is also known for another kind of glitter - celebrities. The unwritten rules here are no autograph requests, no gushing conversation, and absolutely no cameras. I always followed the first two.
After taking off my shirt and pulling a faded Dodgers cap down low over my eyes, I wandered along the beach, scanning my eyes back and forth. It didn't take long to find what I was looking for: a loose circle of people standing around trying to look like they weren't gawking.
I wandered over and joined the group, and got my first look at Claire Ingleford in real life. She was sitting on a chaise lounge under a big multicolored beach umbrella, and despite the overcast weather she was wearing sunglasses and a straw hat and had her nose painted white with zinc oxide. Next to her was a big, tan man with dark, curly hair. They were both reading magazines, pretending to be oblivious to the dozen or so gaping onlookers. They were sitting only about ten yards from the waterline, which was clever positioning, because anyone who tried to linger in front of them to get a better view would get wet from the spray.
But you could still see plenty from the side. Claire was wearing only the bottom half of a bikini, and I could see the firm round curve of her left breast extending out past her upper arm. I had my little Olympus cupped in my hand, covered with a folded towel, and I slid the shutter open with my thumb and aimed it by feel. I snapped off a few shots, the towel muffling the snap and whine of the motors.
Some dolt yelled out "Claire, you're beautiful!" She looked up from her magazine and smiled briefly. This caused a bit of a titter from the onlookers. Claire has a distinctive smile - the corners of her mouth turn up sharply, exposing her upper teeth and giving her an almost feral look. Jack Nicholson smiles the same way. When Claire's bad-girl character on "LA West" smiles at someone, it's like a Mafia don giving the kiss of death. With any luck, that smile would now be part of my personal collection.
As I worked my way along the perimeter, taking pictures as I went, a throaty voice called out "Claire, how about standing up for a second?" This was greeted by some nervous laughter.
The Sparkle Beach privacy conventions were obviously going to be no match for a topless TV star who had recently posed for Playboy, and I figured I had only a few minutes left, if that. I decided to cut between Claire and the ocean, spray be damned, to get some frontal shots.
But just as I was about to go for it, Claire and her companion stood up. I shot a rapid-fire series of shots as she took off her hat and shook out her glossy brown hair and then raised her arms up over her head in a languorous stretch. A few people clapped and whistled, and I didn't blame them. Claire Ingleford has a truly first-class rack: firm, grapefruit-sized breasts capped with pink areola the size of silver dollars and large, pouting nipples. With her arms raised over her head and her back arched you'd swear they were fake, but then when she relaxes and moves around you can see they're all-natural. The rest of her isn't bad, either, although she was shorter than I had imagined, maybe five-four or five.
I was in nirvana for thirty seconds or so, as Claire turned this way and that, taking off her sandals, folding her towel, putting away her magazine. It was like she was posing just for me, and I fired off shot after glorious shot. Then two things happened at once. Claire and her male companion started walking directly toward me, and I ran out of film. The automatic rewind seemed as loud as a chain saw, and I swore under my breath and wrapped the towel more firmly around the little camera.
They passed within a few feet of me, holding hands, and then they waded into the light surf. I could hear Claire laughing and shrieking, and I figured they must be frolicking and splashing, but I was on my knees in the sand, desperately fumbling with the Olympus, trying to get the old roll out and a new roll in.
"Hey, what do you think you're doing? You're not supposed to be taking pictures on this beach."
A middle-aged woman was looking down at me indignantly from behind a huge pair of sunglasses. She was wearing one of those modest one-piece bathing suits with the little ruffle-skirt around the middle, and she was holding a Judith Krantz novel. I got the impression she would just love to see a pervert like me strung up from the nearest lifeguard tower.
I gave her a cold stare, and said "Ma'am, I'm with the FBI. I'm going to have to ask you to step back and allow me to conduct my business." She gave me a disbelieving look, but didn't say anything else. Bold-faced lies like that can be surprisingly effective, if all you need to do is buy a little time.
The new film loaded, I got to my feet and rejoined the crowd, the middle-aged woman following behind. Claire was standing knee-deep in the water with her back to ocean, her legs spread to brace herself against the waves. Her oiled body was beaded with glistening drops of water, and the cold Pacific had tightened her skin and made her nipples even more prominent.
A wave crashed into her at waist level, and seawater gushed up her back and over her head. She let out a little shriek of surprise, and then she shook her head back and forth like a dog, her thick, wet hair whipping around her head. Her breasts swung and wobbled enticingly.
"Jesus, this water is freezing!" she said.
"We can tell," said one wit.
At this, Claire crossed her arms over her chest and turned around. Then she looked back over her shoulder at the crowd of people, as if noticing for the first time that she and her boyfriend weren't alone. I suddenly realized that I wasn't taking pictures, and I snapped a few shots.
"Are you all staring at me?" said Claire. Her eyes were wide and innocent. It was sort of a silly performance, but I was enjoying it anyway. She turned around and put her hands on her hips, and thrust her chest out provocatively. I remembered a very similar shot from the Playboy spread that came out last year. I took another quick shot and then decided to work my way closer.
"I really shouldn't be doing this," said Claire with a smile. Her tone was conversational, but her voice was loud enough for everyone to hear. "I have a movie opening in a few weeks, a serious big-budget movie, and the producers told me to behave myself."
"Are there nude scenes?" asked someone. It sounded like the same guy who had asked her to stand up.
Claire chuckled, not put out at all. "Of course. We shot some very steamy love scenes, but I'm not sure how much ended up in the movie. They told me it would be tasteful, but I'm kind of worried that they'll show too much. I guess we'll all have to go to the theaters and find out. The title is "Wishing Her Life Away," and it has Alec Baldwin and Gene Hackman in it too."
Just as she finished her little plug, a big wave smacked her in the back, knocking her forward onto her hands and knees. As her dark- haired companion helped her back to her feet, I got some nice unposed shots of her breasts swinging and swaying. The rush of water had driven her bathing suit into the cleft between her buttocks, turning it into a thong, and this had exposed the rose tattoo on her shapely left buttock. I got a shot of that before the man straightened out her suit for her. Claire was laughing at the little pratfall, but the man seemed to be upset, and they exchanged a few private words.
"OK, everyone, I've got to get going," said Claire. "Don't tell the Warner Brothers people I've been running around half-naked, OK? I'll get in big trouble."
As they started walking back towards their umbrella, there was a little round of applause from the crowd, which had grown to maybe forty people. The applause seemed appropriate, since the whole thing had the flavor of a staged event. I wondered if it was a publicity stunt to promote the movie, but the lack of any media seemed to preclude that.
Just as the clapping died down, the woman with the Judith Krantz novel called out "Miss Ingleford, that tall thin man right in front of you has been taking pictures of you all along. I just thought you should know."
There was a moment of truly dreadful silence. I looked around, as if trying to spot the shmuck with the camera. A lot of people were looking right back at me.
"Who? Who's got a camera?" It was the boyfriend, and he sounded very angry. I started to melt back into the crowd.
"That man right there in the baseball cap! He's got it hidden under that towel."
She was pointing right at me, and a tight circle of curious people formed around me, marking me as clearly as if I had a target painted on my chest. I decided that a graceful exit wasn't going to be in the cards. I barged right between a young couple holding hands, wove through the rest of the crowd like a tailback, and broke into the clear, heading back toward the parking lot at a sprint.
Once you make the decision to run for it, the best thing to do is go all out. People are rarely willing to chase after someone on foot, and a sudden cheetah-like explosion will get you out of a variety of unpleasant situations.
I glanced back over my shoulder and saw the boyfriend giving determined and athletic chase, his jaw locked with effort and his bare feet kicking up little sprays of sand. There are exceptions to every rule, and they are what make life interesting.
My loosely-tied sneakers were sloshing around uncomfortably on my feet, and I knew the boyfriend was gaining on me. But the parking lot was in sight, and I still had a good lead. I put my head down and concentrated on maintaining my form over the last fifty yards or so. I hurdled the low cement wall separating the beach from the parking lot, and made a beeline for my van.
I had left the van unlocked for this very reason, and I gave myself a mental pat on the back for my crafty foresight as I wrestled the rusty door open and slid inside. I fumbled the key into the ignition and started it up, and wasted no time heading for the exit. In the side mirror I saw the aggrieved escort picking his way gingerly along the hot asphalt, staring angrily at me. I resisted the impulse to thumb my nose.
Back on the freeway, I cranked up the radio and wailed along with the Stones as they complained about the Honkytonk Blues. The brief, heart-pounding chase had sent a cleansing flood of adrenaline through my body, temporarily washing away the malaise and irritation that had dogged me for the past few weeks. I patted the little cylinder of film in my pocket like a druggie who has just scored a week's worth of his favorite potion.
I showed up at my afternoon moving job right on time, and for once everything went smoothly. A old guy with a giant china cabinet in his dining room, a hideous old piece in ink-dark mahogany with ornate carvings of stags and boars all along the top. Probably worth at least ten grand.
The thing had been looming against that dining room wall for something like forty years, but now the owner was moving into a smaller place and putting it up for auction. The brawny meatheads from Atlas movers had told the guy it was all one piece, and that he'd have to call in a specialist mover.
So I show up with my partner, a wily Italian guy by the name of Alonzo, and we see right away that unless they built the house around the thing, it has to come apart. Alonzo knows his furniture, and he remembers that these old German cabinets have a special inside attachment holding them together. He takes out a few drawers, pokes around with a flashlight and a screwdriver, and ten minutes later we have the thing in two pieces and the job is a piece of cake.
There's a moral there somewhere, but damned if I know what it is.