Chapter 1

I was sitting at my office desk with my hands behind my head, my size twelve gunboats propped up on the stained green blotter, looking out my fifth story window at the evening rush hour traffic jam on the freeway below. Huey, a black tomcat and the building's resident mouser, was snoozing on my stomach, draped over me like a wet tea towel.

It was the highpoint of an otherwise dull day.

Then somebody knocked on my office door.

Huey frowned and his long whiskers twitched but he didn't open his eyes.

"Come in!" I said to the shadow on the other side of the frosted glass.

The door opened and in rushed a very distraught ... and very statuesque ... blonde dressed in Christian Dior widow's weeds.

Huey and I both jerked to attention. Before I could drag my shoes off the desktop, Huey leaped from my belly and made a beeline for the weeping woman, his tail curled in a sift question mark. He wound himself in a sinuous figure eight around her slim ankles, rubbing his cheeks against her sleek, black high heels, his green eyes slitted with pleasure, purring like a maniac. The lucky devil!

"Please, Mr. Grue," she said, sobbing, lifting up the edge of the veil that masked her pale face and folding it up, out of the way, over the round crown of her broad-brimmed black velvet hat. She dabbed at her small, aristocratic nose with a mourning hanky of black lace. "Please, I need your help desperately!"

I stifled the urge to break into a wry smile. You see, everybody who comes through that relic of a door emblazoned "Bascom Grue, Investigations" needs my help desperately. Ninety-nine per cent of them are desperate to find out for sure whether or not their better halves are cheating. They want me to get the goods on their spouses ... photos, tape recordings, motel receipts ... the stuff divorces are made of. Being a P.I. is not nearly so exciting in real life as it is on the boob tube; it's not Harry O or Rockford Files, but it is lucrative and generally non-violent, which is exactly how I like things.

I didn't smile at the woman's delivery of the all-too-familiar line for a couple of reasons that should be obvious to any competent armchair detective. First off, the lady in black was not one of the aforementioned ninety-nine per cent. Her hubby was clearly beyond the reach of divorce court and in no condition to sign any alimony checks. Second, any female who could raise Huey from the dead like that ... and get me to take my brogues off my desktop ... had to be a stone fox. She was a stone fox!

And old Christian-baby must've been short on black satin material the day he designed her dress. In front it was cut very low, in a wide "V" that exposed fully half of some exceptionally large, firm and smooth tits. Every time she sighed they pushed up against the tight bodice, threatening to burst up and out. The dress was also quite tight around her slim waist and across the lush contours of her hips. The hem of the garment barely came to her mid thigh and her long, slender legs were encased in matching black nylons. Draped carelessly over her shoulders was a 'forties style, lynx fur coat, tawny brown and cream, that must've set the late hubby back a bundle. Her face was very pale, even her full lips, which were rose pink. Her cheekbones were high, her chin small but firm, her large eyes a shockingly light shade of blue. She wore her platinum hair long, but coiffed up on top of her head, up under the black hat.

The lady radiated class ... and something else. Something quite the opposite. Something that set my supposedly cool, calm and collected P.I.'s cock a-twitching. Without a doubt it was all due to her necklace. About her slim throat was a very odd choker, a band of super soft black leather a half inch wide that was pierced by a single silver stud. From a hole in the stud hung a small silver ring, making the neck adornment look very much like a high fashion dog collar. Was this the mythical Society Bitch-In-Heat? The debutante to whom degradation was delightful?

"Call me Bascom ... please," I said. "Can I get you a drink, Mrs. ... uh?"

She flashed me a weak smile and shook her head. Then she dropped her hanky back into her silver sequined handbag. "My name is Knutsen ... Marta Knutsen," she said.

"And how can I help you, Mrs. Knutsen?"

"It's my daughter, Hildy. She's missing."

I brought my eyes up from a quick recon mission over Tit City.

"That sounds like something the police would be better able to handle than me, ma'am," I said seriously.

"Oh, but ... but I've tried them and they said they couldn't help. That nice officer, Detective Ramon, suggested that I contact you."

I squirmed in my chair. Ramon and I weren't exactly bosom buddies, having bumped heads hard a few times before. "I don't understand," I said. "Why couldn't they help you?"

Mrs. Knutsen took a deep breath ... but not deep enough to suit me. "Well, you see, Hildy is missing, but I think I know where she is."

"And where is that?"

"Have you heard of the Church of the Waning Moon?"

I nodded my head. It was one of your typical, oddball, West Coast religious cults. Lately it'd been getting a lot of play on the six o'clock news because of the "Urban Relief Centers" it was setting up in the funkier parts of the city. You know, free hot dogs and brown rice if you listen to their spiel. According to the newscaster, the cult's founder was an ex-realtor from Daly City; its doctrine was based on "Love They Neighbor"; and most of its followers were young and female and known affectionately as the "Lunies." How long has she been involved with them?" I asked.

"She left home ... moved out ... two weeks ago to go live in that hideous pink mansion of theirs on Hyde Street. I haven't heard a word from her since." She opened her purse and took out the hanky and wiped the corners of her eyes, careful not to smear her mascara.

"Look, Mrs. Knutsen, I understand how you must feel, as a parent and all that, but unless you think Hildy is being held against her will, I don't see how I can legally do much to help you, either."

"There's more," she said, reluctantly. She reached back in her purse and drew out a manila envelope. "I'd hoped that I wouldn't have to show you this. The instructions were very specific ... and besides, well ... you'll see." She handed me the envelope, shuddering as it left her fingers.

I took from it a single, 8x10, glossy, color photograph. And nearly swallowed my tongue. "This is your Hildy?" I asked.

The Widow Knutsen nodded her head, retreating behind the black hanky.

The picture showed a very young, very lovely girl with facial features similar to Marta's. She was blonde like her mother and she wore her hair in a long ponytail. She was dressed only in black high heels, nylons, garter belt, and a cut out bra. The latter was so tight that it not only forced her breasts to flatten on her chest like full moons, but it also caused her pale pink nipples to jut from the constricting holes cut in the peaks of the bra cups, to appear as tender, swollen knobs of flesh. Her body was not as lush as her mother's but it was very firm and nubile, taut of titty, flat of tummy, round of hip, long of leg. She was being held on her back on a floor by two naked, white, hairy men wearing black masks over their eyes and nose, like the Lone Ranger. One of the men was kneeling behind her head, holding her wrists pinned down. Her head was propped up against his hairy crotch and his huge, erect cock ... dark red mushroom cap, thick, arching shaft ... was rubbing her cheek. The look on her face as she tried frantically to lick the hot bulb ... stark wild with the sex hunger ... made my balls ache. The other masked man was kneeling between her widely spread thighs. In his mouth he had one of those New Year's Eve party favor whistle toys, the kind that when you blow on them, they extend and a feather flips out at the tip. His cheeks were bulging, the whistle's tube was fully extended, as was his big prick, and he was in the act of teasing her naked, nearly hairless cunt with the feather. Her pussy looked super-loose and ready for a fuck or two. The outer labia were swollen and gaping, hot pink petals pouting; the inner lips were slick with lubricant.

I shifted my legs, trying my best to conceal the great, hulking boner I'd sprung. "How did you come by this?" I said.

Mrs. Knutsen looked up from her hanky, sniffed and said, "It was stuffed in my mail box. Later the same day I got a phone call from a man who said he wanted ten thousand dollars or he'd give the picture to all the wire services. He said if I told the police, he'd distribute the photo whether I paid him or not."

"You think he was from this Church of the Waning Moon?"

"I don't know. He didn't say. Mr. Grue, I'm so scared. I think they've done something to Hildy's mind. She was a good girl. She'd never have let those men let them do that to her if she wasn't doped up."

I looked at the picture again. Hildy certainly seemed to be enjoying herself. There was, of course, the slim possibility that her enthusiasm was drug-induced.

"Please, Mr. Grue," she said, bending over my desk, showing me about as much soft, ripe titty as I could handle, "I want you to stop them. To destroy the negative to that picture and any more like it. I want you to find Hildy and bring her home to me."

I squinted at her. "You realize, Mrs. Knutsen, that this kind of thing is way out of my line. I really think you should go back to the police and tell them the whole story."

"No!" she said, thumping my desk with her fist, making her tits shudder deliciously. "I don't care! The picture ... my reputation! I'll give you however much money you want." She drew a crumpled wad of fifties from her purse and thrust them at me. "Here!"

I waved away the proffered money. I had a much more pressing need than the mere stuffing of my wallet. My cock was pitching a tent in my double knits. I smirked at her Gucci dog collar, letting my eyes roam blatantly over her lush curves. "How long have you been a widow, Marta?" I asked.

Mrs. Knutsen got the picture instantly, but, being the classy dame she was, she pretended not to. "About three months, but I fail to see what that has to do with...."

"Everything, Marta. Everything," I said, smiling. "You're obviously very tense."

"I am?"

"Oh, yes." I stood up from my chair, making no attempt to hide the swollen rod straining against my fly. It looked like I'd crammed a baseball bat down my pants.

Her eyes dropped to the tell-tale bulge. "Oh!" she said, her hand fluttering to her mouth.

"There! See that? See what I mean?" I said, circling around the desk. "You need something to relax you...."

Huey, who'd heard that line enough times to know what came next, scampered for the comparative safety of my bookcase.

"Evidently so do you," she said. A hint of color came to her cheeks. "What exactly do you have in mind?"

"Something deeply satisfying."

"Like that, I suppose?" she said, pointing at my distended crotch.

"Why not?" I slipped my arms about her waist. She was very warm and the satin felt slinky and the scent of her perfume raised my blood pressure to the danger point.

She made a sour face and put her hands flat against my chest and tried to push me off. One hundred ten pounds trying to move two hundred fifty. All she accomplished was pushing her expensive coat off her shoulders and onto my desk.

I pulled her closer, mashing her fine tits into my chest, grinding my aching bone into her svelte pudenda. "Would you rather take it here, on the fur, or over on the couch?" I said huskily.

"You mean I actually have a choice?"

"You know you want it, Marta," I hissed, my mouth four inches from hers. "You know you want all that hot meat ramming up your juicy little pussy."

When in doubt, talk dirty.

Her cheeks blushed crimson. She stopped pushing. "And, if I do...." she said, her face suddenly all soft, her breathing very deep, "...will you take the case?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Maybe." I said, slipping the tip of my index finger between the black leather choker and her smooth throat. I turned my finger, tightening the neckband, making it into sort of a decorative garrote. "...if you tell me what this is for."

Her face from the neck up turned a shade of strangulated scarlet. Her lips pursed. She slid her hand down my chest, right down over the pulsing head of my cock. She squeezed me hungrily. "Ooooh!" she said. "You're so big!! "

I twisted the choker tighter. "Tell me about it."

"Uhhhh!" she groaned, suddenly leaning against me, rubbing the whole front of her body, her tits, her belly, her plump mons, into me.

I took the opportunity to slip a hand down over one of her resilient buttocks. I kneaded the firm dome vigorously.

"Ooooh, baby, that feels so good," she cooed, tipping her ass up for me to explore more thoroughly.

I lifted the hem of her dress and shoved my hand inside the diminutive seat of her diminutive, black lace, mourning panties. Her buns were smooth as silk and the crack between them was a tight, hot crevasse. I fondled her greedily, dragging a fingertip down the deep cleavage until I touched something blazing hot, something slightly moist, something that puckered out from between her cheeks, something that flexed marvelously under the pad of my finger.

"Uhhhh!" she moaned, twisting her ass, making my finger rasp over her tender anus. Then her fingers were ripping at my fly, sharp red nails clawing at my dick head, dragging the whole rigid length of my manhood out into the light.

I swear I nearly squirted instantly. She had incredibly talented fingers. Fingers that pinched and tugged at the pendulous drapery of my nerve bundle, the smegmatic folds that hung beneath pulsing pudcap; fingers that encircled my throbbing idiot stick, milking it passionately, drawing from it the first sputtering dribble of pre-come.

"The collar," I reminded her, putting even more pressure into the stranglehold.

Slowly, the scarlet of her face darkened to purple; her eyes bulged out; her hips began to flip, frantically bumping her pussy against my thigh. She reveled in the mistreatment.

"Oooooh, baby. Baby!" she whimpered, trapping my stiff cock between her hot, smooth palms and rolling it back and forth rapidly. "My purse! Give it to me!"

I did as she asked. She dropped my tingling tool and rummaged through her handbag, coming up with a short black leather training leash with a silver snap. I watched in amazement as she attached the snap to the ring in her choker. She put the looped end of the leash in my hand, her eyes shining with joy.

"It was Newton," she said, breathlessly, "my late husband, who broke me to the leash." She lingered over the word, relishing even the feel of it rolling across her palate. "But he wasn't half so masterful as you, Bascom...." Her hot hands dropped to clutch at my arching boner.

"You bet your sweet ass!" I said, my brain pan on fire, the gray matter suddenly as tender and distended as the stiff meat she rolled furiously in her palms. "Take off that damn dress!"

Wordlessly, she obeyed. The black garment fluttered to the floor, to be joined quickly by the hat and veil. She stood before me trembling, clad in a black lace push up bra, garter belt, nylons, and panties.

"The panties, too!" I ordered.

She rolled the skimpy undies down over her round hips, exposing a super dense ruff of dirty blonde pubic hair. She was too slow in her stripping.

I reached out, grabbed the lacy bikinis, and jerked. They came away from her hairy snatch with a ripping sound.

"Oooh!" she crooned as my hand covered her sex.

Below the hairy hummock, up between her thighs, she was wide open and ready to screw. Her labia were absolutely dripping with woman goo, swollen up like they'd been stung by bees. The smell of bitch-in-heat mixed with the sweet stink of her perfume. I teased the juicy entrance with a fingertip and she resumed her frantic cock pumping, using both hands, making her doubled fists fly up and down my pole.

"So you've been to Obedience School, huh?" I said, blinking through the red fuck haze that obscured my sight. "Let's see you heel...." I put the handle of the leash between my legs and caught hold of it in back as it protruded below my ass. Then I began to pull. To pull the foxy mama to her knees. To drag her aristocratic face right into my raging hard on.

Her pouty mouth opened greedily to receive the engorged head of my dick, but I denied it to her. I dragged her hot lips down, down, dragged her face into the shaggy hair that shrouded my balls. My cock thumped on her hairdo; she nuzzled into my scrotum, her tongue flicking wildly over the pale pinkish brown chicken skin flesh, laving my swollen orbs. I jerked the lead and she whimpered ecstatically, turning her head to the side, opening her mouth as far as it would go.

"Uhhh!" I moaned as both my nuts slipped into her blazing, wet mouth. My cock flexed spasti-cally, sending streamers of thick pre-come belching over the side of her head. The bitch was actually nursing on my nasty bag, bobbing her head. I could see her cheeks hollow as she applied suction to the trapped testes, see the crisp pubes, dark with her slobber, abrading her nose, her puffing lips could take no more. My need to orgasm was devastating. I shoved her back on her heels, forcing her to give up her wrinkled prize. Then, yanking on the leash, I headed for the couch. The trained cunt trotted on all fours at my side.

"Get up there and spread 'em!" I snarled, stripping off my shirt.

Whining through her small nose, Marta obeyed. She sat on the threadbare couch and opened her thighs, showing me a cunt in a near-terminal heat. The woolly ring of hairs surrounding it was dark and dripping with pussy juice; the sex lips were an enraged red color, a steaming vortex of fuck need, and between them, at their nadir, I could actually see the convulsing entrance to her tube.

My cock thumped insistently against my sternum. It needed a home. I gave it one. I threw myself on the shivering Widow Knutsen, pulling on the leash, twisting her body to suit my pleasure.

Something searing hot and so very slick slid against my nuts. I moved my hips lower and said, "Put it in!"

Fingers pulled at my cock and then a marvelous heat washed over the tender bulb. I snapped my ass and groaned as the mouth of her cunt gave way, as it slid up over the shaft of my tool, sputtering its febrile joy.

"Oh! OH, GOD, YES!! ! " Marta screeched as I spitted her, her hips churning, pumping, making the juicy fuck tube gobble more and more of my meat. "Fuck me. FUCK ME!! "

I did just that. My body moved automatically, ass flipping, cock thrusting, parrying, balls flapping against the silky smoothness of her ass. Her squishy pussy sputtered and fumed under the onslaught of rigid pecker, so greedy for another tube-splitting lunge.

"Uh ... uhhh ... UHH-YEEEEEE!! ! " she shrieked, locking her thighs about my hips, clawing my back unmercifully. She was coming!

I shuddered at the power of her cunt muscles. They locked on my slogging cock, squeezing it, slowing down its rampaging in-out tempo, making the ridges and convolutions of her pussy bump over nerve bundle and pudcap, creating a friction so powerful, a suction so devastating, that ... that my balls exploded with joy. It rippled up over my belly, sizzled up my spine, and gobs of bubbling gizm rocketed from my dick, washing her tube in boiling sperm.

She thrashed under me, wallowing in the waves of sticky stuff, flipping her sweaty ass, causing my hot come to ooze out around plunging cock and gibbering cunt, to ooze down over her winking bunghole in a steaming rivulet.

Finally the thrills came to an end and I rolled off her come-sodden saddle, looking for something to mop up with. She lay there with her thighs still spread, holding her leash in her fist.

"God, that was fantastic!" she said, looking down at her ravaged cunt, at the pale seepage. "Bascom, you are a monster!"

"I know," I said, wiping my gooey cock on her dress.

"Will you take my case now?" she asked hopefully.

I smiled at her. With my cock satisfied ... momentarily, at least ... it was time to turn to the pressing needs of the wallet. "We haven't discussed my fee, have we?" I said.