A Scandal in Beverly Hills - Cover

A Scandal in Beverly Hills

Copyright© 1997 by DG. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

Mystery Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Franklin Stern is a down-and-out private eye with a passion for surveillance and a voyeuristic streak. His newest (and only) client is a beautiful blonde with a bad marriage and worse morals. Are they made for each other? This is a long story filled with unpredictable plot twists and wild, kinky sex.

Caution: This Mystery Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Fiction   Cheating   Humiliation   Interracial   White Male   White Female   Hispanic Female   Oral Sex   Anal Sex   Fisting  

The blond woman in the Mercedes convertible pulled into the strip mall and parked in front of the Busy Bee dry cleaners. Both the car and the woman herself looked out of place in this rather seedy section of Los Angeles. After looking around for a street address with a doubtful, slightly nervous expression on her face, she got out of the car, straightened her short designer skirt with a little shimmy of her hips, and went into the dry cleaners.

Just inside the entrance was a discreet sign reading "Franklin Stern, Confidential Investigations" with an arrow pointing to the left. She took a deep breath and then walked along a dimly-lit hall that led toward the back of the building.

When the knock came, Frank Stern was leaning back in his chair with his feet propped on the desk, a donut in one hand and a mail-order catalogue for photographic equipment in the other. He dropped his feet to the floor with a thud and called out "Come in," quickly putting the half-eaten donut into a desk drawer and sliding it shut.

The door opened and a stunning blonde woman came into his small office. She looked around at the dusty metal file cabinets and the battered wooden desk with its untidy stacks of paper and seemed vaguely satisfied.

"Mr Stern?"

Stern was standing behind his desk, a look of lively interest on his face. "Yes, I'm Frank Stern — can I help you?"

"I hope so. I'm thinking of hiring a private investigator."

"Well then, you came to the right place." He slid a heavy wooden chair out from the wall, positioned it across from the desk, and brushed the dust off the seat with his hand. He was a tall man with long arms and legs, and he filled the room with a flurry of motion.

"Please have a seat, Ms..."

"Link."

They both sat down, and Stern gave his prospective client a closer look: early thirties, thin and rather athletic, judging from the muscles in her legs, but with full, round breasts. Perfectly made up and coifed, well-dressed in a tight designer suit, a gold chain as thick as his little finger around her neck and a large diamond sparkling on her ring finger.

She was quite a dish, and she was dressed to kill, but something about her, maybe her wide blue eyes or the way she sat perfectly straight in her chair, gave her an aura of childlike innocence.

Stern composed his face into an expression of polite interest, and said "Why don't you go ahead and tell me what sort of investigative work you have in mind, Ms Link."

The woman was chewing nervously on her lower lip. "I had some plastic surgery done recently. Breast implants," she said, looking down.

No kidding. "Go on."

"I'm worried that I might have been cheated, but I don't have any proof. I paid a lot of money to have these new implants put in — they don't leak or break like the old ones."

"And you think maybe your doctor gave you the older, cheaper implants and pocketed the difference?"

"Exactly!" She looked amazed, as if Stern had correctly guessed her birthday.

He smiled modestly. "What makes you think you were cheated? They don't feel right?" He thought about offering to give them a squeeze, see if he could feel anything suspicious.

"No, they feel fine. It's the doctor that got me thinking — he seemed sort of evasive and shady, especially after the surgery. I talked to another plastic surgeon, and he said my doctor didn't have a very good reputation. The problem is, the only way to tell what kind of implants I got is to have more surgery."

"Ah, I see. So you want me to investigate the guy, see if he's dealing in shoddy boo — uh, implants?"

"Right. Can you take the case?"

Stern pondered for moment. His specialty was chasing philandering spouses, not medical malpractice. On the other hand he was in desperate need of money, and Ms Link looked like she had plenty of it. It wasn't really much of a decision.

He swallowed hard, and said "My normal fee is two hundred dollars an hour, plus expenses. This initial meeting is free, but I'll need a retainer before I start."

She didn't even blink. "That sounds fine, Mr Stern. I hope you can start right away."

He let out his breath with a silent whoosh. "Absolutely. As it happens, I'm not overly busy at the moment." He found a pad of paper and a pen among the clutter on his desk and cleared a spot in front of him.

"Could I have your full name and address?"

"My name is Amanda Link. Is my address really relevant?"

"You going to pay cash?"

"Yes."

"Then I guess it isn't relevant. Let's move on to the doctor."

"His name is Martin Westphal." She referred to a slip of paper. "His office is in the Rancho Prado office complex in La Brava, and he lives at 315 Carneros Drive, in Beverly Hills."

"Beverly Hills, eh?" Stern figured it must be nice, looking a tits all day and making a fortune doing it.

After a few more questions, he put his pen down and sat back in his chair. The question he really wanted to ask was "If you can afford two C-notes an hour, why come to me?" But that wouldn't really show the proper self confidence.

"What I figure I'll do is follow him for a couple days, get a feel for his routine, see if he's doing anything suspicious. If that doesn't work out, we're going to have to infiltrate his operations."

"Excuse me?"

"You know, send in an undercover operative. A woman pretending she wants her — wants some surgery."

"Oh, I see. Well, the following part sounds good. I'm sure you'll come up with something. You'll take pictures, right?"

"Of course. Why don't you give me a call in a few days, I'll let you know how we're doing."

"Great." She gave him a wide smile, revealing two perfect dimples, and took her wallet out of her purse. "You said you needed a retainer?"

"Yes — should we say, uh, five hundred?"

"Certainly." She handed him five crisp notes, which he nonchalantly folded and put in his shirt pocket.

He walked her back to the front entrance and watched her get into the little red Mercedes, back carefully out of the lot, and drive away.

"Mr Han!" he called to the gray-haired man hanging clothes on the big metal racks behind the counter. "Good news, Mr Han: I can pay you last month's rent now."

"Ah, very good Mr Stern. Then perhaps we can discuss this month's rent."


The Rancho Prado office complex was a series of sprawling Spanish-style buildings surrounded by sago palms, that ubiquitous symbol of southern California. Stern, who was originally from the East coast, had always admired them, associating them with romance and exotic Pacific islands, until his ex-wife told him that the ones around LA were infested with large rats.

The lot was almost empty and it was starting to get dark when he heard a throaty growl from the underground garage and a blue Lexus with tinted windows came flying out of the exit. Stern read the license plate and hurriedly started the ignition. By the time he had the van pointed in the right direction, the Lexus was almost out of sight. Swearing under his breath, he pushed the accelerator to the floor and careened dangerously out of the lot amid angry honking.

Watching Westphal make yet another violent, unannounced lane change, Stern decided he was one of those men who considered driving to be a sport. Stern probably would too, if he was driving a high-performance status symbol instead of an underpowered van with worn brake pads and a loose suspension.

After a ten minute chase that took ten years off Stern's life, the Lexus finally pulled off into the parking lot of the Happy Oasis motel. With a sigh of relief, Stern followed it around to the back of the pink two-story building and watched Martin Westphal get out of his car and take a small duffel bag out of the trunk. He was a good-looking man with thick dark hair and a deep tan; he looked to be about forty but was probably older than that, considering his profession.

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