Chapter 6
I was pissed at myself, at Merc, at Shitty Dick, and I was as horny as a rhino in heat. I decided to give Charmane Pervis a little visit to see if she could be of any service in apprehending the fellow who had raped her asshole and her husband's mind. It seemed like the right thing to do, given the circumstances.
The circumstances ought to be clear to you by now. They were as clear and sharp to me as a fistful of rusty razorblades. It was now late Tuesday morning, almost afternoon-I had wasted a good deal of precious investigative time leering at Merc's aquarium style display in the Ladies toilet, and a good deal more time jawing with the leperous, unreliable lowlife himself-I had three and a half full days left, and then one weekend to sweat through, and it would all be over.
I'd be back on salary, with no fringe benefits, no liquid lunches, no secret ninny lustings in the Sultan's Helmet, and my doubleknits would fall prey to the moths in the closets of my apartment. That would be my feeble Fate upon my failure to bring the hogtied corpse of Shitty Dick into the stationhouse come Monday morning. Milhaud would snort down pounds of hot snot as he picked up the dispatch phone and ordered a set of transfer documents for me. He would watch coolly as I squirmed in his office in the pits of utter humiliation and degradation. It would be one of the high points of his entire career.
These thoughts assailed me as I negotiated my oversize, un-airconditioned hulk of Detroit shit through the sweltering, packed streets. I had not even the faintest clue as to who it was I was after-I had no description to work from, only a specific, but thoroughly commonplace modus of operation-the quick, blunt attack, the exposure of the genitals, the forced sodomistic attack on the lingual region, followed by the brutal and prolonged plumbing operation in the rear end, and then the mandatory coup de grace-the hardcore loop style "cum shot."
Images came to my mind as I rolled down all of the windows in the unmarked black Polara to vent the odors of the melting vinyl interior. I saw the faceless enemy in sihlouette, the angry, righteous organ of forced entrance at the ready, in hand, poised in a dripping, arched state before the face of the anonymous victim. I heard his snickers of sadistic delight as his prey feebly attempted to pinch her nostrils and thus avoid the clouds of grey, acrid smegma stench wafting up from his moi??ure damped crotch.
Then, with a nifty hooking motion, he impaled the sickening sword up to its furry hilt in her heaving, gagging gorge, and began to pummel full length, back and forth into her unwilling throat. I stepped down on the gas pedal and burnt a few fractions of inch off the rear tires as this image soaked in, and the squealing of the tires seemed to echo the pathetic choking and gagging of the paralyzed, yet, unbound victim.
It was morbid that no one could provide me with help. Milhaud, who had access to all of the Depart mental forensic skills, he had come up with nothing. Pervis, who had been assigned to the Shitty Dick affair from the very beginning-he had wasted away his previous time terrorizing the victims with his Kojak style interrogations, and in the end, he had succumbed to the lure of the enemy's own method of operation-had had become that which he sought to destroy.
The phenomenon is not that rare. Our late and sorely lamented Generalissimo, He Who Resigned, he suffered the same fate. He had merely sought to guarantee the National Security, and, yea, lo, in doing that, in securing his madate, he had stepped across the line and become at one with the methodology of the Commie buttlicker.
Pervis suffced a similar fate, I thought, but his was spiced with a devious, conscious awareness of the essentially evil nature of his own means, and the way those means stacked up against those of this sworn foe, the shadowy Shitty Dick. Pervis had gone one step further than our former fuerher-he had identified his authoritarian persona, his cop identity, with that of the criminal-he had stepped across the line of wimp morality as a kind of dare, and a challenge to his own ability to withstand the strain of bearing up under twin identities within a single corpus. Pervis had been rent assunder by the strain.
He hadn't flipped out, however, until ironic justice had been done, until the enemy had slipped behind the lines and hit him in the supply depot Charmane's seemingly willing rectum. Perhaps in that sorry household I would find some clue, some tiny shred of a lead as yet undiscovered in the playing of the obscene tapes. Perhaps.
I thought about Pervis, how he had performed in the Sultan's Helmet with the twin rented meathooks. He had rigorously and strenuously followed in Shitty Dick's footsteps. A common law enforcement tactic, by the way. We often take recourse to following down to the last revolting detail the progress of a crime in hopes of determining some flaw in the criminal's character, some sure way of making hirn show his stained and greedy hand.
Perhaps that is exactly what Nick was doing in the massage parlor. Perhaps he was not so mad, and there was meaning in his actions aside from the decadent influence of the cagey rapist bastard.
Perhaps. Perhaps I should try it myself.
I squelched the thought with another wild foot to the floorboard antic, and once again, ironic justice stepped forth to compound my embarrassment and lay additional stumbling blocks in the path of my quest for the turd smeared, mother-raping son of a bitch. Bright red lights appeared in my rear view mirror-just what I needed, a pair of overzealous rookies zeroing in on me like a common scrape racer. I'd give them a taste of doubleknitted and Dryiooked detective cool.
I pulled over and did a nice sliding brody to the curb, taking the right front wheel up over the sidewalk and putting a nice crease in the right front fender against a freshly painted and pissed-on fire hydrant. The rookies in the mirror both left the squad car, placing their nightsticks in their belt loops TV style. I practically gagged with laughter. I'd make them pay for their sins.
"May I see your driver's license, sir," the twirp asked.
"Maybe," I said, looking straight through the windshield.
"Let's not make things worse than they are, sir.
You were going forty in a twenty-five Mile per hour zone and putting on what we like to call a "show of speed" to boot. If you wanna go downtown in the back of the squad car, that can be arranged. The license." He stuck his beefy hand into the open window. The other rookie walked back to the squad car and started to dial in for the long make-the call to Sacramento computer headquarters for registration, priors, acne, warts, tumors, bad breath, etc.
"Wanna die, kid?" I asked, giving my voice the proper chilled tone that instantly provokes an officer of the law to terminal hand gun hysteria.
"Listen, asshole, I've had enough from you. Get out."
He began to pull open the door.
I let him.
When it was all the way open, he found a revolver, my revolver, pressed tightly against the regulation bulge in his black rookie monkey suit.
"Don't move kid, just act natural, if you can remember how."
He snarled like a baboon deprived of his heating pad in the midst of a stirring wetdream. I laughed and snorted brittle clumps of dry, smog-stained mucus down my parched gorge.
"Call for your buddy, kid. Don't try nothin' funny if you ever want to jack off again."
He called, and junior came running. Junior geeked the glint of my blue nosed barrel jutting out from underneath the kid's crotch and froze solid.
"Good boy Junior," I spat at him," You got that sense of self-preservation. Now lets talk business. You guys ever been on the local news?"
Two negative shakes of the head.
"How'd you boys like to become Network quality stuff?"
They eyed each other, shrugged a couple of times, looked around for anyone who might be observing the scene, and began to grin and nod like tourists on the Universal Studios promotional hype. They were hot for it, just like all of today's crop, more interested in headlines than in hunting for illicit and sleazy head in parked cars and telephone booths. They just don't have the same gusto as the Old Guard.
"OK. I got Magnum dum-dums in this piece of blue of mine, it'll be over real quick. I'll make it painless for you, Junior, and you, Kid, I'm going to give you a dum-dum to the liver. You'll last about forty-five minutes, just long enough for you to tell the mop-up crew that it was a seven foot nigger in a Caddy who done you in, then they'll take you to County General where you can die with a TV camera shoved up your ass. How's that action grab you? Better than wiatin' for leukemia, eh?"
I rubbed their noses in it, knowing full well that I was going to have to let the scumbags go.
"Sure as hell beats leukemia, mister, but I was kinda savin' myself for the SWAT team. My mom always wanted me to die storming a barricade, or calling in an air strike against the Symbionese. But hell, this beats it all to shit. Fire at will," the Kid signed off, all ready to meet his Maker. I gave Junior heavy eye-contact, implying that he should busy himself with his parting words. Junior performed.
"Gosh, mister, I was going to join SWAT just next month too. But shit, this is a whole lot better, dying in the street, being on TV and everything just like Police Story. Shit, can't you give me the slug in the liver so that I can writhe in pain for awhile, and maybe that cool fox on Channel Six, that Kristine Hundt will get my dying words and I'll make Network." Junior had class. He had gusto.
Greed was getting in between the rookies, however. The Kid wanted that prolonged death agony I had promised. They started to argue.
"Hey, I got two weeks more seniority than you, Junior. I'm gonna take the liver shot. Maybe Marcus Welby will perform a miraculous cure on me. You never know," said the Kid, turning to me with a smile. I shrugged and yawned, and clicked the safety off on my gun.
"Gimme the liver shot, Mister," pleaded Junior, stepping dangerously close. It was time to pull the strings on this pair of yo-yo's-show'em who was boss.
"Allright, allright. Assholes," I started in, deftly drawing the snub nose out of the Kid's crotch and extricating myself from the front seat as I spoke, and dipped into my ass pocket for my ID, "The show's over, twirps. Narsky, detective, 67th Precinct."
I flashed the heavy badge. They began to gawk, and aweshucks like a pair of crackers caught with their fingers in a poontang pie. I kicked them both in the shins, and then knocked their shades off as they stooped like braceros for their hats. It was a tasty sight, deeply satisfying.
"You punks want to die?" I questioned them, getting firm and fatherly on them now that my cover was securely blown out my ass.
"Aw shit," said Junior, guffawing and shuffling his feet in a conditioned infantile response, "Not now, you took all the fun out of it."
"Yeah," chimed in the Kid, "What's the point of getting blown away by another porker? That'd just make asses out of all of us. No glory in that scene. No Network coverage behind that gross bullshit."
I snarled in my wisdom. They still hadn't got the ropes on PR.
"What the fuck. You'd make the best "parting shot" for the Networks they'd ever had. I can see it now, Walter Cronkite chuckling like Santa Claus, telling how two puke-sucking rookies were blown away by an irate detective who they stopped for some petty traffic violation while he was in hot pursuit of a raping cunt thumper. The Networks pay for jewels like that, asshole," I sneered. They hung their heads and began to sway like Krishna freaks on Quualude.
I shoved them back from my car and got back into the driver's seat and started it. I gave them a final taste of experienced advice.
"If you want to die, you gotta die with gusto, ya hear? Get yer priorities straight, punks. Make up yer minds. Are you gonna be wimps, or are you gonna be Chimps? You gonna deny that urge to splatter yourself all over the street and get fifteen seconds of local coverage for your efforts, or are you gonna go all the way, with gusto, and call in an air strike on some barricaded puke? It's up to you."
I floored the Dodge and left them spluttering in a cloud of blue haze, cautiously feeling for the remnants of their masculinity. They'd ponder the vagaries of my last words for a few weeks, then they'd stash it in their sick memories, and soon they'd be out on the streets again, blissfully unaware of the potential for stardom that lurks behind every trash can in every stinking alley in this city.
I felt a whole helluva lot better after that refreshing reaffirmation of my value as a member of the Team. I still had some worth, some use, even if Milhaud couldn't see it. My story would make a fine episode in any sensitive portrayal of a policeman demoted through bureaucratic crassness. I gave serious thought to quitting the force right then and there and making a hot beeline to Studio City, where slick fruits in Pierre Cardin suits had a healthy respect for mordant melodrama, where my story might succeed in wrenching a nice double figure salary out of the studio moguls who understood the value of authenticity when scripting made for TV action. I didn't necessarily have to be at the mercy of Milhaud. I might do better on celluloid. Others had done it. Why not me?
Why not? Because I had pride. I was out to bring in my man. I wasn't going to wind up in the booby hatch with Pervis, I wasn't going to wind up rolling around on Milhaud's office floor whining for mercy, and I certainly wasn't about to head out to the Valley to throw away an entire career based on the feeble hope that some manicured Arabian swine might hire me on as a technical advisor to some non-existent TV series. I still had my sense of priorities. I wasn't any lame as a rookie, out for a martyr's death, out to have Kristine Hundt palming my sweaty brow as I strained over a bedpan in the terminal wards. Fuck the hyena that dwells in our genetic laundry bag, the furry beast that whines for comfort. Fuck 'em all. I was dead set on choking the truth out of Charmane Pervis, come hell or high water.
I wheeled the now overheating and badly disfigured service Dodge onto the freeway for the final approach to the Pervis tract home. I secretly hoped the bitch was primping her pubic bush out in the backyard, waiting for a return engagement by the Backdoor Man. After hearing that tape, my sympathies were entirely with Nick-he may have disgusted me when he went bozo in the massage parlor, but compared to his wife's open invitation to the rapist, he was as clean as a cookie cutter. She had some explaining to do, some serious explaining.
I cruised in the left lane with my right foot against the floor and my left palm on the horn ring-the only way to negotiate the freeways, in my opinion-puts the psycho fear into the herd, gets 'em outa your way in a hurry. The truckers are the only tough customers when you're using straight ahead horn tactics, but if they get salty with you, all you've got to do is flip out your badge, and they crawl back into their Buck Owens stupor and start to yessir nosir you to death.
Just thinking about truckers brought back the image of Merc Fenton to me, he being made of the same fundamentally corrupt horseshit as your average long distance man. The squirmy little turd had told me nothing short of to go fuck myself watch the TV-was he for real? What kind of collosal gall was it that propelled that worm along through the sewer of life? Where did he get off, giving me advice like that? What the fuck, he was a paid informant-he was supposed to suck ass with his peers and then spill dingleberries when we came around to collect. I didn't need any advice on my viewing habits. I knew what to watch. I knew where the action was-certainly not on the fucking TV.
Sure, those sick bastards thrive on police work. Where would they get all those tasty wreck shots, those stories about the pachuco baby that locked itself in a freezer in a vacant lot, the numbers about some flit's Siamese cat that treed itself and had to be rescued by the paramedics? Sure as shit they depend on us for their daily bread, but for chrissakes, we don't have to suck their raw hemmies to bring home the bacon. AH that shit-it's second rate. It's just slimy pablum for all the ornery bastards in rest homes who have to have a little blood letting before they can get it up enough to attack the night duty nurse. Sure as shit the likes of Narsky ain't going to get any hot leads from the local news.
What ever it was Merc was trying to say, all he succeeded in doing was pissing me off. I was dead set on shaking his tree after Friday rolled around. If I hadn't caught Shitty Dick by then, Merc Fenton was going to fry in the same rancid grease that I was destined to be browned in. He'd regret every wise ass perverted quip he'd ever made once I got through spreading the word on him.
Times flys when you're pissed out of your mind, and before long, I was at the offramp to the Pervis estate. My temper was rising nicely to match the ambient air temperature-by the time Charmane got around to opening the front door, my breath would be hot enough to melt her seethrough polyester pantsuit. Served her right to suf fer. Served her right to be alone. Slimey. Twotimer. Son of a bitch.
I wheeled the hulk pig of a car down the tree-lined suburban street going easy on the accelerator now that steam was visibly rising up from underneath the hood and I could hear the freeze-plugs wailing in agony in their rusty sockets, waiting for that perfect instant when they would attain freeze-plug liberation, and blast themselves into the asphalt in a cringing crescendo of malfuntioning, inorganic hysteria. I spotted Charmane's gross pink Mark IV convertible and brodied my steed into the driveway behind it.
I was dripping with sweat as I walked briskly up the flagstones to the front door, and I was ready to begin my interrogation of the 'victim' with an impromptu choking session-I'd get my foot in the door, and follow quickly with both sets of hands I'd fling myself upon her in a righteous rage and wring the truth out of her cum-stained vocal chords just like Conrad Nagel swore to do it to Greta Garbo in Mysterious Lady. I'd settle the bitch's hash. I'd make her realize that her wanton ways would not go unpunished, that her responsibility for what happened to Nick would trail her, and dog her to the ends of earth.
I pressed the Buffum's semi-antique, semimoderne door buzzer and waited on the thick, black rubber doormat, my wingtips shuffling nervously as I played a quick, dual-handed game of pocket pool, attempting feebly to disengage my sweaty scrotum from its deathgrip on my left thigh-with my last paycheck, I certainly owed it to myself to go down to the local Ah Men franchise and buy at least a dozen pairs of those fishnet posing straps they advertise in the back of Esquire perfect foundation garments for directing traffic in a black wool uniform.
Since the Pervis home was fully carpeted with deeply piled shag, from toilets to sunken living room, I did not expect to hear the telltale clicking of high heels as Charmane made her way to the front door. I was all set to pounce the minute it swung open, but when that fateful moment arrived, I remained paralyzed and open-mouthed, rivers of tickling sweat running down both sides of my nose, the portrait of glandular hypnosis.
Charmane opened the vast colonial door and greeted me with her deepthroat husky whisper of welcome. I yammered nonsensical babooneries at her flexing neck-she was bedecked in Frederick's of Hollywood from her purplelacquered toenails to her high fashion harlot hairpiece.
Mother of the urine bloated consciousness that sprayed wild oats from here to Tierra del Fuego Charmane was a knockout-she wore seethrough Toreador pants of some obscene doily material and a cleavage enhancing top piece of similar material. Her heels elevated her to such a degree that my nose was pointed right at the polished depths of the deeply bronzed slot betwixt her heaving, and excruciatingly well-defined breasts. I whined in primal tit-fixation staring into the blackness, wishing, hoping, praying that I would be allowed thereupon to lower my zipper, and place my leaking eddifice betwixt those wondrous globes and rock slowly back and forth till sweet release came unto me....
"Steve! How thoughtful of you to come by," she said, joyously lifting her cocktail glass high in one hand, and cocking her head to one side to give me a nice sidelong shot at her cleavage. Rivers of pre-coital slop began to pour down the insides of my legs, co-mingling with the sweat to form a vertical viaduct of sensual sleaze that might soon be forming into puddles around my ankles.
"Nargrumphhh," I said, opening my nostrils and daring to take a sniff at the lavender cloud of precious mating scents she was unleashing from her powdered, oiled and polished breast crack.
"Excuse me," she laughed, reaching out with her free hand to rub my stomach, "What did you say?"
I steeled myself to prevent dysfunction. Oh cursed by the day that God wrought the primal differentiation between male and female and granted the weaker sex internal organs, organs protected by layers of fat and muscles against embarassment, engorgement, and the awful, visible remnant of premature ejaculation. I snapped both of my hands over my swollen crotch and went into the fetal position on the doormat, moaning and rocking and nodding like an addict in the terminal stages of Pablum withdrawal.
Charmane let out a low-pitched grunt of alarm. She had no idea of what was happening. She went into a made for TV matriarchal response.
"Are you hurt? Did you receive a wound in the line of duty? What the hell's wrong with you Narsky, you're going to have all the neighbors wondering what's going on if you don't straighten out this minute. Get to your feet! Act like a mench, for Chrissakes!" she hissed at me, looking up and down the street as she hunkered down on her high heels and pulled on my lapels.
I refused to budge. My hands were locked between my legs and my head was nodding uncontrollably. I was happy for the first time in weeks. The sight of that cleavage-the scent of her massage parlor quality body-the slick, greasy quality of her voice-the weight of her recent cassette experience-the fate of her hubby-all of these factors melted and flowed together in my hatefilled and overheated mind, and I spitefully refused to cooperate.
"Hmmmmmm," said Charmane, letting go of my suit coat, and thoughtfully posing for a second while she wrestled with the dilemma of a detective on the doormat, "This can't go on, dear. Think of my reputation, think of the scandal. If you must over-react, who can't you at least do it indoors, instead of on the doorstep?"
She cocked her head again as I peeked at her quizzically smiling face. She raised her eyebrows, polished off her drink and set the glass aside, and then stood up and stepped over my cowering body and turned her back to the street.
"Sorry, Steviepooh, but you're asking for it," she whispered with a shrug, and then she began to brutally pepper my back with kicks from her heels. I squealed in pig agony, and began to writhe across the doormat and into the living room. Within a matter of split seconds, I was totally within the cool comfort of the hallway, and Charmane slammed the door shut behind her back and stood there, towering over me, slightly, and very sensuously out of breath, her cleavage expanding and contracting with ball wrenching precision.
She wiped her brow of the tiny beads of sweat that had formed there, and with a huff she stepped over my fetalized body and asked if I wanted a drink. I went into another spasm of cramping and brute lust, and she rolled her eyes heavenward in despair and bounced into the kitchen to drain a couple of icy drinks from her pitcher.
When she returned bearing her cocktail glasses, I was seated with my back against the wall, still nodding like a junky, feebly cupping my crotch with one hand.
"Here, dear," she said, bending over and placing the rim of the glass between my parched lips, "This ought to do you some good."
I quaffed like an infant, fiercely sucking up the ice, vodka and mixer as if it were nectar offered from the hand of Aphrodite herself. It had a wonderful, soothing effect on me, and when I had drained the glass, I shook my head, and managed to stand up and smile sheepishly at the wise and beaming Charmane, who stood with one out-thrust hip against the wall, the drink poised between her jackoff fingers.
"Gosh, Charmane," I guffawed like a Boy Scout caught in the act of spraying hot spinal fluid over the lingerie pages of the Sears Catalogue, "It must have been the heat or something. They oughta put air-conditioning in those goddamn cars."
Charmane nodded and grinned lasiviously, reaching out to wipe the drool off my chin like Mommy with Gerber baby.
"They ought to put a spoonful of saltpeter in your morning coffee, too, Steve. Just look at that wet spot on your pants," she whispered coyly, reaching down to finger the dark stain, and then coquettishly licking her fingers.
My face turned red as a baboon's asshole, and I went into a tooth grinding jaw clamp. What the hell are you supposed to say to that kind of remark? I opted for sheepish silence.
"Do you always leak like that when you see a pretty girl, Steve? I thought only teenage boys did that," she remarked rather matter of factly, reaching out again to squeeze the damp clump of polyester below my central pouch. I almost went up the wall with hardcore tension. I gnashed my teeth and growled at her.
She giggled, sent her tongue flying over her face and winked at me.
"Why don't we sit down in the living room. It's cool in there and we can talk," she said, giving her butt a mighty twitch and leading the way. Her rear cleavage was all the equal to her front-even more inviting in many ways, especially since a small rivulet of sweat was trickling down it and past the waist band of her low-slung pants, into the warm valley between her buttocks. I locked my molars together and hobbled along behind her, my eyes fixed on her flexing, grinding buttocks beneath the transparent fabric of her pants.
She beckoned me to sit down on a broad sofa, again in the luxurious decorator style perfected by Buffums, and I did so, staring out at the sliding glass doors and the cool pool beyond.
"Shall I bring the pitcher out, Steve?" Charmane asked, running a finger around inside the rim of her own glass, and then fellating the digit with her lips as she continued to question with her animated, wide blue eyes. I nodded like a chimp that has been offered a banana split, and she strutted out to the kitchen.
Thankfully, the first drink was now taking effect, and I could feel the slow return of my cool welling up from my chilled gut. The drinks would do me well, and they might serve to loosen up the bitch's lying tongue. I was almost fully collected, with wits at the ready when she returned with the full, dripping and dew covered pitcher of vodka, ice and mixer. It would be a worthwhile afternoon.
"Christ, Charmane, I don't know what the hell came over me out there on the porch. It had to be the fucking heat," I said, shaking my head, and stretching my neck.
She nodded, and then bent down right in front of me, giving me an awful overdose of moist, dark cleavage. I went haywire inside my doubleknits, the prickly heat running over my body like trained ants.
"Well, Steve," she said, standing up straight after having poured two full drinks. "I don't really think that the temperature has much to do with it. I mean, the kind of heat you seem to be feeling is more like the kind you see at the zoo. Do you follow me. Steve?" she asked, strutting around the coffee table and sitting down practically on my lap. I could feel her thigh against mine like a blowtorch. I almost went paralytic again.
"Yabbayabba. sure thing. Charmane." I spluttered, twisting in my pants like a snake soaked in corn starch.
She decided to show me a little mercy by thankfully changing the topic.
"What brings you out this way Steve? Are you here on business, or just pleasure?" she asked, accenting the last word in such a way that I began to see lingerie ads in my mind's eye.
"I'm here for a bit of both, Charmane. I thought if d be nice to pay you a little visit to see how you were doing under the strain of the past few days, and I wanted to ask you a few more questions about the, ah incident with, the ah, yeah. The sodomistic attack." Stick to the jargon, Narsky. Keep cool.
"How nice of you. Why the last time you came by must have been at least three months ago. Do I look different to you?" she asked, turning so that her sultry face was in front of mine, and her ample right tit was sensuously squashed against my shoulder.
"You look fine, honey. Christ, it's amazing how well you look considering what's happened. A woman loses her dignity one day, her hubby the next, and shucks, she looks good enough to eat in spite of it all. You're made of quality stuff, Charmane," I said, strategically working with her feminine psychology, loosening her up for the kill.
"Why thank you, Steve," she hummed in response, placing a well manicured and highly skilled fistful of fingers over the damp spot on my trousers, "I figure there's just no sense in letting myself go to pieces over all this. I've got to keep my chin up, and concentrate on the positive things. Sure, Nick will be away indefinitely, but I've got a nice income from the disability checks, and I've got the house, the pool, and the car. My backside is still a little tender, but I'm almost fully recovered now, honey," she whispered, starting the slow back and forth motion on my trouser leg, keenly and coyly avoiding direct contact with the rigid pole that was prominently out-lined by my pants.
"That's swell, Charmane," I hissed through my teeth, "Say, do you mind if I kind of loosen up my collar a bit?" I asked, practically choking on the waves of electrical energy that were rising up from my crotch.
"Steve!" she squealed in surprise, "Feel free to relax. Here, let me help you with that jacket."
She swivelled on her ass and threw her arms around me, mashing her cleavage in my face, my nose went right between her tits, and the lights went off. I was immersed in the softest, most pliant cushions a man could ever hope to suffocate in. I went apeshit with my tongue, licking at the sweat between her jugs like a lap dog in a frenzy. She giggled, and struggled with my jacket and tie, exploiting the opportunity by rotating her bust on the axis of my nose.
As quick as she had advanced, she withdrew, standing up, and dangling my jacket off one finger in front of my face. She threw it over the back of a nearby chair, and then motioned with her finger for me to stand up. I rose like a zombie, and Charmane attacked my tie. In a jiffy, it too was dangling from her finger, and hurled over the suit coat. She then went at the buttons on my Arrow pin stripe shirt, and had that one unbuttoned down to the navel in seconds. She inserted both hands inside the shirt and roughly jerked it out from beneath the tension of my belt.
"There," she said, standing with hands on hips in front of me, licking her lips as she went over my furry chest with her eyes, "Aren't you more comfy now, Steve?"
The cool breeze wafted over my skin and made me tingle with arousal. I could see her broad, fat pink nips underneath the fabric of her fetishy top and the dark, mysteriousness of her pubic thatch beneath the transparent crotch of her pants. I was ready for interrogation action, standing there with my tent pole pressing painfully against my zipper.
"I sure am, Charmane. Say, why don't we pour another drink, and then I'll ask you a few short questions, and we can call it a day?" I said smartly, sitting down, and almost breaking my prick off at the root. Charmane picked up on my blunder immediately, and began to chuckle mischievously.
"You better watch your moves, officer, or you'll snap your twig," she said, resuming her seated posture next to me, this time immediately placing her hand right in my crotch, and gently rubbing there with fingers precisely tuned in on the whereabouts of my still dribbling helmet.
I went into my interrogation act, refusing to submit to the feelings of seductive pressure.
"Did you get a good look at this guy, Charmane? Be honest. At least you know whether he was a Caucasian or not, right?" I asked.
Charmane took a swig of her drink, and lowered her active palm so that now she was fondling my eggs as she replied.
"Don't be silly Steve. Of course he was a Caucasian. Do you think I'd have submitted to that treatment from a Spade?" she asked, as if it were toally self-evident.
I nodded, and fired another barb at her.
"Tell me, Charmane, did you see his face? Could you pick him out from a line up if we went down to the station and showed you mug shots, or a line of suspects?" I asked, lifting my entire butt off the couch to increase the pressure of her nimble fingers.
"Harder, Steve? You like it rough?" Charmane asked, grabbing hold of my root and beginning a really intense up-and-down whack-off rhythm. I gritted my teeth and hissed for her to answer the question.
"Not really, Steve. You see, it was exactly like I said. All I got a look at was the reproductive equipment. Now if you were to show me some close ups of naked suspects, I might be able to help you, but as far as I know, from what Nick told me before his nervous breakdown, you don't have a suspect. Right?"
Hmmm. She was right, and I was quickly losing all interest in verbal intercourse. What I wanted, and evidently, what Charmane craved, was a little intimacy between bereaved friends. A kind of soothing, brotherly-sisterly exercise in the relief of mutually shared grief and tension.
She batted her big eyes at me, and I followed them as they lowered slowly and stared at the hand vibrating and squeezing in my crotch. She looked up briefly, licked her puffy lips again, and reached for the handle on my zipper.
I sighed, spread my legs, and clamped my teeth together with all possible force. I squeezed my eyes shut tight momentarily as the noise of my zipper filled the room, and then I dove full force at her, planting my face in her cleavage and wallowing there as she deftly extricated my red hose from its subterranean locker, and she began to pummel its length with her fingers....