Acquaintances, Bygones, Ethics, and Life

"You're amazing," I managed, "But you'd better stop or it'll..." There was another giggle, and fingers dipped between my thighs, cupping and gently squeezing my nuts as she held her nose in my crotch, sucking more forcefully. "Ahhh!" I cut loose, but she was ready, never paused, never feigned shock or anger. Hell, the ex once threw up just trying to fellate me. And that's not bragging.

I glanced at the speedometer when conscious thought returned... I was still within 5 of the limit, no risk of being stopped with a too young woman's head in my lap tonight, even if Thomas was looking to punish me for refusing him. But as the performance tires hissed over the humidity slicked streets in the even more run down portion of town I called home, I really was not thinking about Thomas Cane or his wife, my ex.

***THURSDAY

Grumpy that I cut you out of the... festivities? Tough. A guy does not kiss and tell. Why would I let you imagine how impossibly beautiful my too young blonde secretary looked slipping out of that dress in the small kitchen of my loft style condo, padding naked through the shadows of my empty warehouse of a home with a confidence known only to Instagram Influencers and Hollywood elite? Why would I let you enjoy the way the moonlight leaking through the dust and grime caked skylights created shifting patterns in her flawless lightly tanned skin. Why would I want to detail what tricks a former cheerleader and dancer and gymnast has in store for a broken down PI with a closet full of skeletons? You would not believe it if I told you she insisted on doing it right there in the kitchen, pushing my trousers and boxers to the floor, while deftly getting me on my way for round two with her mouth before lithely scaling my legs. I do not want anyone else to be able to imagine the momentary pause as her fingers caught my surging erection, pressing it to her wet and ready crease, or the low moan from us both as she settled onto me with a grace that left me a speechless statue for her to gyrate and pump herself against.

You might believe I had to turn after another minute, bracing her firm ass on the island and then coming up on tip toe to find the right height at which I could begin to thrust. God, the image of her spread out on the island, hair fanned above her head, arms languidly askew, hands gripping the chipped edges of the Formica, offering her traction to thrust back.

"You're quiet," you might have heard, as she smiled in the darkness, tilting her pelvis, welcoming my urgent thrusts. And then her own cries, urging me on, announcing her own climax, just a few moments later.

I'm no Casanova. No Ron Jeremy. But she had taken the edge off, so to speak, so if I was offering 'just the facts' I would be able to tell you she did not stop and I did not have to stop for another fifteen minutes before she paused, shivering, levering her naked body up against mine, hands twining behind my neck, as she whispered, 'Take me to the bedroom.' And that I managed the trip without falling or losing that most intimate fusion, thrust into her heated depths.

Have you ever had a woman impaled, standing by the bedside, only to have her tell you to turn, so that instead of assuming the usual missionary style screw it's 'girl on top'? Has your partner then proceeded to gyrate and pivot and impress? Ever had a woman do the splits while you were buried in the tight little quim? I have now, and if I had invited you in you would have seen her laughing as I gasped that I was going to cum, welcoming it in the same way she had my first load into her mouth, never slowing never stopping. When I was spent, she climbed off, murmuring that she wished she had chosen to come into my office weeks before as she padded out of the thin walled bedroom and out, I could hear to the kitchen. And when her silhouette, partially illuminated by the streetlight outside the window, curled sexily in the edge of the open door...

Well, if I told you I had managed a third erection that she enjoyed for another half hour in a doggy style coupling before finishing me off like the missionaries we all seem to wind up? See, you would not have believed it.

Hell, I could not believe it when the sunlight woke me up. It had been years since a woman was still tangled up in my bed, snuggled against me the morning after. It felt so right it could have progressed to an encore performance then and there, what with the aid of my morning wood. But there was the more pressing issue of my bladder, so I carefully disentangled myself, amazed she could sleep through that, as I used the facilities and went out to the kitchen.

I'm no chef, but had the makings for pancakes, eggs, and coffee, the distinctive aroma of which did eventually waken sleeping beauty. I had never cooked or eaten breakfast naked, but had not bothered with clothes when I got up, and Lacey was clearly uninhibited, padding around my little corner of the gateway city examining, cataloguing, but without interrupting my preparation. Somehow she was right there beside me when I turned to let her know breakfast was ready, and looking down at her, so much of what she wanted to know seemed not to be real.

"You wanted to be filled in." She is uninhibited and appreciates entendre, as well as my sarcasm, which surprised me in the first days after I hired her, sort of like finding that unicorn of a woman who likes Monty Python or the Three Stooges. She nodded, steaming coffee mug hiding her face.

"I can ask or you could just tell me the story." I considered, pleased to be offered the choice.

"I met my ex wife in high school," I began, "we were married the same summer I graduated the police academy. I took night classes and got a bachelors in the first five years. By my decade anniversary as a cop I was a detective. And Thomas Cane was my partner from... well, from sometime my third year, I think.

"We were a good team. He is more... calculating and analytical. I see the loose ends and tug at the things that should not be. He was always tha hard ass interrogating suspects, and I was... less hard." Lacey giggled at that.

"Then IA came up with an informant who claimed I was on the take. They found money in an account in my name that I knew nothing about, and got a warrant and voila there were drugs in the house, and suddenly I'm being pulled out of an unmarked car while Thomas is standing, hands raised, calling the arresting officers every name in the book while I'm cuffed and Mirandized and taken away. They did not fool around, either, I was on trial for being a dirty cop three months later. I spent a couple VERY uncomfortable weeks in the same jail cells I had been bringing guys to for years." Lacey winced at that.

"It was bad?"

"It wasn't good," I smiled, trying to lessen the way that sounded, "But there were guards who sort of looked out for me, and I can take care of myself one on one. So no, I was not victimized in the shower, but it would have been different if I had ever gone out of county ro the state penitentiary." It was my turn to shudder, "I hate to imagine what would have happened."

"So you were proven innocent."

"Oh no. Innocent until proven guilty is a nice cliché. In practice, I was told the cloud of suspicion meant other cops would not work with me, lawyers would question whether I was telling the truth or setting up innocents for my supposed bosses. And frankly my boss thought I was a dirty cop despite the ruling, because I was not found innocent. Thomas said he had found evidence to clear my name, but he got stuck on the way to court, and instead a judge threw out the evidence because there had been no warrant for the search of my locker, car, and home. And the rest was hearsay. So the case was tossed... no way to prove my innocence, but no risk of being imprisoned. I could even still vote and carry a gun, just not as a policeman.

Lacey had been quiet, listening intently, watching with those smart eyes.

"That doesn't explain your wife."

"My EX wife," I corrected, "She felt the same as the Captain and most of the rest of the guys in the squad. Hell, I guess even Cane had decided I was not the boy scout he always taunted me for being. So she left me, and sometime between then and the time our divorce was final... did you know they make you wait for six months 'to be sure both parties want the divorce to proceed?' They were married the same year she was divorced, so I'm probably a fool imagining it happened in the order I choose to believe. But I got a small settlement thanks to the police union, and it was the stake to open my office."

"I was surprised how busy you are," Lacey had finished her pancakes and most of her eggs while she listened.

"It wasn't that way for a long time, believe me," I told her, "There were years I thought I would have to close, a couple more where I was working other jobs to keep things afloat, and until the last couple years I had to do the sorts of domestics Thomas was looking for last night. God, I am glad those days are over."

"It was dangerous?"

"Not particularly... I mean, it can be, but mostly it was just soul crushingly sad, seeing people cheating each other. I stopped pretending my clients were the wronged victims early in the first year I was open. Clients lie, clients cheat, their spouse lie and cheat. Corporations may be perfectly willing to step on you for their own good, but it's less personal, you know?" I glanced at my watch, which embarrassingly I had left on throughout whatever acrobatics you might imagine we had enjoyed the night before, "I think we had better get to work."

"Not just yet," my new but already familiar lover purred, coming around the table to press her body against mine where I stood in front of the sink, "I think I need to get filled in just a little more before work." And a gentleman knows better than to argue.

The perfect morning came crashing down almost before I was seated behind my desk. I had asked myself how long it would be before the seeming nymphomaniac of a secretary came in to the office for more, so I was surprised when she was almost through the door before it had closed.

"We have trouble," she said curtly.

"Something with the video feeds?" One of her daily tasks was sorting and storing the wireless camera footage from our clients' systems. It automatically uploads, but having someone to tag it and make sure there were no problems saved me a couple hours most days. Which mean that could not be the issue. I took the notes she was holding-- phone messages. Four clients had called before 10 AM, severing ties with Abel Security Services. Fully half of my corporate work had evaporated in a morning. I am no fool, I could see message, even if it was too late.

Even so I called the Machine Shop Union head, who had been a cop on the beat when I had first started 2 decades before. He was blunt, 'We had a call from city hall, asking if we were aware our security contract was with a company under investigation.'

"What bullshit," I was too mad to just listen to that, "What investigation? There IS no investigation." He was apologetic, even suggested if I could get City Hall to call and rescind their assessment he could get it changed. "You have six weeks, it's in the contract," he pointed out. I thanked him, assured him I would do just that, and signed off.

The rest of the morning was a sour stomach that Pepcid did not touch as I carefully generated a letter denying any investigation, insinuating there had been lies told to hurt my business, and assuring four now former clients I was going to fulfill my contractual obligations and appreciated their past trust in me. None of it was going to change anything. There was only one way to do that.

Thomas arrived right at lunch time. I had selected a table outside, under an awning off to the side that afforded two bench seats with a wall behind for both our comfort. I did not care about his comfort, but he would have made it an issue.

"Changed your mind pretty quickly," he did not bother hiding the smirk.

"Fuck you," I was not playing games, "You're fucking with my livelihood." He feigned shock. "That's two-thirds of my business." A lie but no sense having him go searching for more targets if this went south.

"I'm sure I can help you iron out whatever problems have arisen," he eased into his seat, "After we have my problem sewn up." He eyed the pair of empty pilsner glasses in front of me. "Or maybe I was right that there should be concern." I waved for the waitress, a bottle blonde trying desperately to look half as good as Lacey.

"Your associate is not along?" I ignored the barb. It would not have surprised me if he had demonstrated a knowledge of where she had been the night before.

He ordered a diet soda and the special. I opted for the steak sandwich and added a grilled chicken to go with their air fries for me and a salad for hers.

"You're picking up the tab," I told him, motioning for her to bring another beer as well.

"He'll have a water," Thomas corrected and the waitress wisely ducked her head and left without seeing if I would argue. "You didn't drink before."

"I had not learned how shitty staying sober 24 7 can be." He looked around, deciding I had been appropriately careful in our seating. The closest diners were more than fifteen feet away.

"So how do you do it?" I snorted.

"No, you don't get trade secrets. How do you think it happens, asshole?"

"No need to get your panties in a bunch..." he rocked back in his chair, "Ah, forgive me, blue balls this morning?"

"Fuck you." And then just to pick at what he wanted me to believe was a scab, "It isn't like you're getting any if your wife is stepping out." He seemed puzzled, and I laughed, "Tell me you aren't taking sloppy seconds... tsk tsk, better get tested, wouldn't do for the councilman elect to have the clap." He seemed surprised at the prospect, and then honestly concerned.

"Another reason to find out quickly." I let him stew until the food arrived, then asked again how he thought we should proceed. "Well," strategy and policy had always been where his head was, "I can give you the places she goes, you know, the gym, the salon, restaurants..."

"Try again." He was puzzled, and I was already tired of his company,

"You don't have to have proof. You don't even need circumstantial guess work. Just file for divorce for irreconcilable differences." He shook his head adamantly. "The court won't care that they work out at the same place, or the same time. Or that they had lunch. Hell, they won't care if they drive to a motel and walk in hand in hand." Thomas was clearly unconvinced.

"Which of us has been doing this?" No change in his demeanor. "Okay, one of my early cases, I got hi res video of a woman administering road head. Clearly licks her lips, fiddles in his lap, then plants her face in his lap. All in living Technicolor. The judge agreed with the asshole's lawyer, that the images did not constitute proof of sexual activity. And not just because Slick Willy convinced the nation oral sex is not sex." Thomas seemed convinced.

"I'm not letting that bitch have half of my retirement."

"Asshole, it's a no fault state. Fifty Fifty division of assets." I held up a finger, "Hell, even if it's another cop the old alienation of affection claim is fiction everywhere except like Utah and Hawaii and Louisiana or some other southern state. Just divorce her, take the lumps, hell you'll get sympathy from a lot of guys and there are women who want a rescue."

"There's a pre-nup." I stopped arguing. No, I changed tack.

"I'm sorry... but that changes nothing. She'll deny she was cheating. Her lawyer will say emotional affair which no court will apply in upholding a pre-nup. Believe me, it's nothing I want to contemplate seeing, but there has to be... let's just say photographic evidence of tab A inserting slot B. That or a signed confession, which we both know you won't get."

"The pre-nup is specific," he insisted, "Proof of adultery and she gets nothing."

"That road head that wasn't road head case?" Thomas nodded. "That was a pre-nup case. Until you know where they are hooking up, ruining my business is a bit premature."

"You mean find their... what did you call it, love nest?"

"Yep. Thinks, a girlfriend willing to look the other way could provide a love nest. His place. His buddy's place... His employer's place... His office... Do you have a vacation home?"

"Not one she could get to for a quickie," Thomas was distracted, so he missed my surprise they had a second home. "She does not have friends who would let this happen without telling me." Short social leash: check. "I can't believe it would be at home. I have security cameras." I shrugged.

"Not inside. Not where they would bang or you would not be here asking for me to do this. And if he was on the cameras already you would not have come to me before you saw your lawyer."

"What makes you so sure I have not spoken to my lawyer?"

"Oh, I'm sure you have a lawyer ready to go. But if you had asked they would have already told you all of this. And they certainly would have recommended against hiring your wife's ex husband to get the evidence."

"So find out where they meet," he could be so obtuse, "Tail her, don't get seen.

"I'm a 6'2" ginger, man. I stand out. I shared a bedroom with her for a decade. There's exactly zero way I can tail my ex-wife for any time at all."

"So it's my house." There was concern in his tone.

"Sounds like it," I pushed my plate away, "But that's not all bad... Fewer cameras, means it'll save you money." He cocked an eyebrow.

"I was expecting the... friends and family discount."

"Of course you were. I can't buy the equipment necessary to do this with that sort of discount."

"You mean we have to wait until an order gets filled?"

"No, I mean I have to pay for the equipment I use."

"You don't have... used pieces available." What a skinflint.

"You want me to use last year's stuff, bigger, slower, worse picture, shorter battery life, more prone to fail..."

"Okay, you made you point." I could almost see the wheels turning as he figured how to pay for it. "How much are we talking about."

"Well, I always suggest two cameras per location."

"They really do break a lot."

"No, but two lenses means two angles... Keep thinking of the road head story." I flashed on natural blonde hair moving up and down in my lap, lit by the rhythmic strobe of street lights. "You just need to tell me where." He was not tracking, and I felt suddenly tired. My ex wife chose him? "Where would you have sex in your house if it was new and exciting." He blinked. "You know, the stairs, the kitchen... is there a hot tub?" He considered.

"Those... maybe the rec room."

"OK, I have lots of cameras," no point in dragging this out, "And they set up pretty quickly. When can I get access?" He stood up, throwing several twenties on the table.

"I can take you now."

"Or you could give me the keys and I can do it... with more subtlety."

"There's not a chance in hell you're going in my home without me being there."

"Okay. Sure, I can follow you." I shrugged into my jacket, that had the Abel Security Services logo with 'home division' splashed across the bottom where a gas jockey's shirt read 'Bob.' "This won't be 007. We stand around outside. I take notes. I walk in the front door with you." He was skeptical. "Your neighbors will tag sketchy activity. They won't give service people a second glance." And then we were off, leaving me time to wonder just what I had done to this asshole that he was so distrustful. He had to know I had not done the shit that ruined my career. Hell, he was the one that took his partner's wife. I would have been fuming about it by the time we got to their place in the suburbs, if not for the new... development in my personal life.