tagHumor & SatireDirk Hammer – Private Dick

Dirk Hammer – Private Dick

byjomar©

Dirk Hammer -- Private Dick: The Case of the Old Flame

With thanks to Vermilion.

I was still crazy for her. You know, my high school girlfriend, though actually she was my grade school girlfriend too, but she was stacked like a middle schooler even back then.

I hadn't seen her in years, the last time being in our twenties when she threw a glass of whiskey at me and cut my skin, leaving a winsome little scar on my forehead which hurt less than the waste of the 12 year old Laphroaig that splashed across my face.

So when she sashayed into my office I couldn't believe it, but had the presence of mind to log off classmates.com and look her over properly, and what a looker she was. Small feet wedged into high heels attached to those luscious long legs that went from the floor to the sky, taking a detour via heaven toward their way to paradise before ending at those divine hips that curved upward to her perfect breasts, unfettered by a bra, and not needing one anyway...

Yep, I'm a breast man, you know, but then again I'm an ass man and a leg man too -- hell, maybe I'm just a woman man 'cause I love the taste, smell and touch of all God's feminine types, except for the boy-girl types, the hemos if you know what I mean, though a little tête-à-tête with a couple of flexible shemos sure goes down smooth.

...and lastly, I took in her gorgeous heart-shaped face surrounded by a blonde pageboy haircut. She smoothed down her skintight skirt, drawing my eyes back along her form so I'd be sure to notice she'd kept her womanly, yet athletic figure all these years.

She brought her hand, and my eyes, back up that luscious bod and brushed her face with a manicured nail and smiled seductively at me with light mocha-colored lips that promised an eternity of pleasure, just like that really hot woman at the club with the strangely deep voice and lumpy Adam's apple that made me wonder if she was a he-she, which seemed impossible because of her beauty and the way she slow danced with me, though maybe that was just my wishful thinking. Either way, the woman standing in front of me now outclassed the dame from the club by exponential magnitudes rather than by degrees.

I gulped and gave her my full attention when she breathed my name after all these years and said she wanted me to find her dead husband, who she never really loved, having never forgotten me even though we only fooled around a bit after school when the folks weren't home and took way too long to get to the good stuff as far as I was concerned, even though we never really completed the deal.

Staying cool, I leaned back in my creaky old leather chair, folded my hands across my still flat stomach and asked her whether she couldn't just find him about six feet under, pretty close to where his headstone was. She just gave a small smirk, explaining, well, that was kind of the problem.

You see, he didn't have a grave and he'd been gone for seven years without contact. Before she had him legally declared dead and could officially inherit his millions she had to be sure, as sure as she could be, that he was a goner. So that's why she wanted me on the job, insinuating that we'd be working real close with each other, probably nights, which held its own delicious promise.

I stood up and approached her, watching as she took in a quick breath when I stopped in front of her, inches away, maybe millimeters, but my senses were clouded so who knows how close I was. I saw her pupils dilate and the way she vibrated desire and lust and sensuality took me back to eighth grade, and ninth and tenth, even eleventh and twelfth grade for that matter.

But I shook off the fog because there was something fishy going on here. Why would she waltz into my little one man shop after all these years and reach out to me, what with all the other gumshoe dicks around? Even though I've had plenty of successes, even made some national splash with that jewelry theft ring, it just didn't jibe explaining her interest in me.

And yeah, I've been around the block a time or two and this definitely had a three day old stink to it, but I couldn't quite place the smell so I'd have to get a lot more information before I could decide whether I wanted to help her or not. Or just maybe I'd go ahead play along with her game and try to find her sugar daddy.

Hell, maybe she was setting me up for a fall, though I'd rather have a tumble with her. Or maybe she really did want to relive old times. At least those times before she ditched me and broke my heart and took off with that eurotrash trust fund jerk after I accidentally slept with her best friend that time when I got drunk and her friend came on to me.

I mean, jeez. I'd apologized like my life depended on it, but no, she had to go and get all emotional, like she'd never flirted with my friends before. Anyhow, I guessed I'd have to see if that was water under the bridge and let bygones be bygones, or whether we'd have to open that can of worms again and hash out our old baggage before starting fresh. I was hoping we wouldn't go anywhere near a can opener myself -- it made me tired just thinking about it.

Oh, I've dated my share of hot dames in the past, models and starlets and such. A few even hit the big time, but I won't name names 'cause that's the kind of guy I am -- loyal, maybe to a fault. Perhaps that's why I was having such a hard time seeing the reality of the situation before me. But I sure wasn't having difficulty seeing the vision of splendor standing in front of me.

As I stood this close to her, her nipples almost touching me as she breathed, a delicate hint of something musky, the good kind, wafted off her and hit my brain like crack cocaine and at that moment I knew I'd help her, knew I'd risk it all to rekindle whatever it was we once had. But since this was risky business and she was set for life I tripled my fees and told her I was in before taking her in my arms and kissing her hard, for old time's sake.

After I broke the lip-lock I could tell she was all flushed and jelly-legged and I wasn't surprised 'cause I still got it, though maybe it was partly due to some mound mash she got from the all grown-up me. You see, I had a growth spurt after we broke up and her hands couldn't but help try to take the measure of the new me. But while I was looking forward to a strip down memory lane, I needed to know about her missing husband if I was gonna help her and, by the way, also see if the magic was still there after all these years.

Oh, I could tell the heat was there, but would it flame out or be like that eternal one up in good 'ole Washington, DC where I had a lot of contacts that might come in handy on this case. Not that I can tell you who, but they all work for those three letter agencies, some of 'em you don't even know about so don't even think of asking. You know what I mean.

I knew I was gonna have to dig deep on this one, because while her husband had been AWOL for seven years and the stink might have died down on him, this whole mess was smelling like the fishing pier at the beach where she and I used to go and canoodle a bit.

I asked her what she had and she said she knew of a sordid tale of family dysfunction and corruption. I got a bit defensive and told her that if she came here just to insult me then maybe we should just part ways now, much as I hated the thought. But after the homicidal stripper, I needed that kind of relationship again like I needed a return trip to face that soccer mom's husband in their bedroom -- and I you can take it to the bank that any old pea shooter looks big when it's pointed at you, especially when you're naked -- but she smiled and gave me a, "No silly, his family."

So I played it off like I was kidding all along and told her to carry on. She told me all about his parents divorce, his estranged sister and emotionally unstable stepsister and there may have been something about sexual indiscretions and incest and financial blackmail and other important clues. I might have even heard most of it but after few seconds I was simply lost in her sultry voice.

I imagined myself nuzzling her earlobe, nibbling down her long, sensuous neck, kissing those luscious lips, unzipping her dress and letting it fall to the floor and gazing at her amazing body in nothing but a sheer bra, tiny matching panties, garter and stockings, floating in those amazingly high heels -- her, not me.

I pictured me taking her into my arms, kissing her for an eternity before unhooking her bra with one hand...

If she had one on, that is, I have some skills. Just ask those A-list actresses I used to date who still call and ask me for the treatment when they pass through town. Hell, a few have made a point of coming half-way around the world to pass through town and my talented hands. At one point some had passed my name on to friends and it was fun for awhile until it began to be an every-night thing and I don't care what you say, there is such a thing as too much sex, because when I start hallucinating giant hooters chasing me around the room due to sleep deprivation I have to draw the line.

...then driving her to a frenzy by playing with her nipples with my lips, teeth, tongue and fingers. I'd have her begging me to make love to her on the oversized leather couch I'd gotten from that grateful housewife whose husband cheated on her and who didn't have any money, but worked out a payment plan that satisfied us both...

Because that's my specialty, spending enough time on the right spot to make it almost a religious experience when I get to THE spot after the appropriate amount of begging -- again her, not me.

...then I'd make sweet love to her on the couch until she cried out an even number of times plus one before I found my release in her because she begged me to.

And as I adjusted myself in my pants she said that was all the information she could give me. I told her I was on it and got to work right after I watched her fine ass saunter out the door.

Well, to make a long story short, yeah, it turned out that the stepmother was screwing her son who was sleeping with his sister and they forced out the real daughter then drugged my-ex's missing hubby, who had control of all the money as his dad was dead, which is why the stepmother was furious, and moved his hand across the signature line of some documents then poisoned him with belladonna and topped it off with arsenic just to make sure.

And, if you can believe this right-out-of-Hollywood B-type movie plot-twist, they plopped him in a freezer in an out of the way mountaintop hunting lodge, but because they popped pills and drank so much and lived in a woozy-boozy fog they forgot to get rid of him.

So I'd called in a few favors and my guys in DC did their thing and we had a body and confessions and my girl got her money and through it all my gal was true and on the level and our heat burned bright. I just knew I couldn't let her get away again, so on a moonlit night on an old fishing pier I told her I was done free-lancing -- with the ladies that is, I'm still a private dick -- and asked her to marry me. Out of respect for the moment I filed the 'dick' joke for later 'cause that's the kind of guy I am -- respectful.

She threw her arms and legs around me, squealed like the co-ed I used to know in the back of daddy's Caddy and said she'd always loved me and would love me forever and would have my babies and we'd live happily ever after -- just as soon as I signed the pre-nup.

*

Thank you for taking the time to read my story. Please take a second to vote and leave a comment if you want.

Some history: Originally this story consisted of two really, really long sentences as a response to a long sentence challenge thread on the Author's Hangout. Some periods were added and it was donated to Vermilion, who was raising money for a very special wedding dress, and who did some editing. Unfortunately, her website fell through. So a bit more tweaking and here it is. I hope you found it entertaining.

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