J the Sleuth Ch. 02: A Shark

Eyes closed, toes digging into the sheets beneath her, J felt her climax building. She relegated the sounds of the man's grunting to the background of her mind, so as not to be distracted from sensations in her own body: her taught stomach and rock-hard nipples; the cool air against her skin, soothing her even as it tantalized her; the grip her pussy had on the shaft, which was plunging into her faster and faster, with abandon, at the same time her clit was being stimulated. She was in that place where the climax is imminent, and the heat from her clit was threatening to drive her mad. It was coming... oh god, just a little longer, and she'd get the release she was craving...

And then, at just the right moment, she turned on the Lelo's vibrate mode.

"Oh fucking GOD!" she finally screamed, as she bathed the instrument with her juices. She rode her orgasm to its end, shuddering, legs bucking, until finally collapsing back onto the bed, spent, panting, and satiated. For a while. The man continued to grunt away, until she managed to gather the strength to pull the Lelo out, and then reach over to switch off her tablet, silencing Pornhub. It would be there when she needed it again.

Which, if she was being honest with herself, wouldn't be too long, because her toys were nowhere near as satisfying as a real person. God help her, she even missed the sensation of semen running down her breasts, as she'd just seen on the screen before closing it; any form of sexual contact would be welcome right now.

What she really needed was a case! If she didn't get some work soon, she'd end up dithering her entire life away masturbating to internet porn. Hell, she'd probably end up dehydrated if she wasn't careful. Speaking of which...

She got up from the bed and padded naked to the kitchen to find the Glenfiddich. True, alcohol wasn't going to help with dehydration - quite the opposite - but she was only kidding about that, and goddam it she needed a drink. She poured a couple of fingers of scotch into a clean glass, and leaned against the counter to sip. She was feeling looser after her orgasm - maybe she could keep her hands off herself for a couple of hours, this time - and it reinforced, for the hundredth time that week, the fact that her lithe, fit body was simply going to waste as she wiled away her time alone. She didn't have to chase down bad guys, or climb up buildings to snake into 3rd story windows; she didn't have to fight; she didn't even have to lift paperwork, let alone her gun.

In the months since she'd saved Dr. Ben Martin's life - from her own super-secret Agency! - she'd had to move quickly to stay a step ahead of the law, as well as to set herself up financially. Luckily, having just killed The Boss, she knew ahead of everyone else that the Agency was suddenly rudderless, and used that head start to embezzle a few million dollars from his private accounts into her own, before anyone else even knew he was missing. She'd managed to avoid detection on that one - if the cops had followed that particular money trail they would have known to suspect her in The Boss' murder - because she was one of the very few people in the world who even knew about those accounts in the first place. The cops hadn't gone searching for money they didn't know was missing.

Despite the fact that she had suddenly become independently wealthy, however, J herself was also left rudderless. The only job she'd had since university had been as a spy/agent/whatever at The Agency; what was she to do now? Life as an agent didn't exactly prepare one for other jobs. (Well... it did, actually, but not in a way that you could properly articulate on a resume...) So she decided to do the next best thing: she became a private detective.

She didn't advertise - she didn't want the authorities to know what she was doing, since she hadn't exactly gone through the legalities of getting an actual private eye license - but with the right word to the right people, she'd managed to get some work under the table, and was developing somewhat of a reputation.

Another decade or so, she thought to herself, and I'll be the Repairman Jack of Toronto...

The downside of doing things in such a secretive manner, unfortunately, was that she had to keep dealing with these dry spells, during which the boredom would start to creep in. She was living in a combination office and apartment - also not quite legal, but less worrisome than the other laws she was flouting - and, despite herself, was constantly keeping an ear open for the sound of a knock at the door, even as she was wringing orgasms out of her pussy on a regular basis.

She was disturbed out of her thoughts by the very thing she'd been waiting for: a knock at the door. She was about to go over and open it when she remembered that she was standing there naked, drink in hand, probably with masturbation hair. In short, she wasn't a model of professionalism and efficiency at the moment, more like a wino in the making.

"Just a second!" she yelled, rushing back to the bedroom.

A minute later she was in a summer dress, and her hair was... well, it wasn't good, but it was good enough.

"Sorry about that, come on in," she said, as she opened the door. "Have a seat."

The young woman who entered was not her typical client: young (maybe early 20s, maybe late teens), achingly beautiful, and obviously nervous about coming to see a not-so-legal private eye. There was an air of desperation about her, which only augmented her beauty. J could imagine any hetero man on the planet tripping over his own dick to give this girl whatever help she needed. She led the girl to a chair, in her living room cum office.

The first problem was going to be getting her to explain her problem, and by the looks of her, she was more likely to change her mind and bolt out of there than she was to open up. Luckily, being female, J had an advantage over her male colleagues: the girl would probably trust her much easier.

"Can I get you something to drink?" she asked, in her best soothing voice. "You look like you could use it."

"I... uh... sure," the girl responded, barely above a whisper, not even bothering to confirm what kind of drink J would be putting in her hand. J sized her up, and then decided to bring her more of what she herself was drinking: she came back with a couple of ice cubes in a tumbler, and the bottle of scotch. She poured the girl a couple of fingers, then topped up her own glass. She clinked the girl's glass and took a sip, but the girl knocked back her drink like it was nothing.

"Why don't I refresh that?" J said, with a smile, which elicited a smile from the girl as well.

Phew, J thought. Maybe she'll talk after all.

She leaned back in her chair, and continued with her soothing voice. "So what brought you here?" she asked.

"I think I'm in danger," the girl finally replied. "We all are!"

"We 'all' are?" J repeated.

The girl swigged back her second glass of scotch, and started to get herself under some semblance of control.

"No, sorry, I mean... 'kay, let me start at the beginning.

"I'm an escort. I work under the name Staci. I used to advertise on Craigslist, but then they got rid of that, so I went to Backpage, but they got rid of that, so it's been getting harder and harder to find and screen clients. So us girls have started to band together. We try to help each other out, if we can, since nobody else will. We have a WhatsApp group that we use to communicate. And, even though 'escorts' and 'street walkers' haven't always gotten along in the past, we've started to forge those bonds, lately, too.

"But over the last couple of months, I've started to notice girls disappearing from the group. They don't actually leave, they just go silent and stop posting. Maybe not so weird, girls leave this industry all the time, but some of the disappearances seem too sudden to me, and they're happening too frequently for it to be the usual turnover of working girls.

"And then, yesterday, I saw this."

She pulled her smartphone out of her bag, fiddled with it for a second, and then handed it to J. On the screen was a WhatsApp conversation, which Staci had scrolled to a particular message:

+1 (xxx) xxx-xxxx ~unknown

Who's next? It could be you! I'm not done. Not by a long shot.

"I've asked around, and nobody knows who that is," Staci said, as J looked at the screen. "The number was added to the group yesterday morning - by a girl who had recently disappeared from the group."

"I didn't think you could even use fake numbers in WhatsApp," J mumbled to herself.

"What?" Staci asked.

"Nothing... anyway, how did you hear about me?" J asked, still lost in thought.

"Oh, you'd be surprised what guys will tell us, after a good orgasm," Staci responded, smiling to herself. "Combine a rush of endorphins with a situation in which he doesn't even consider the girl he's with to be a real person - just a hooker - and guys devolve into frigging idiots. They tell us all kinds of embarrassing shit, thinking it'll never get out. 'Who's going to tell?' they think to themselves, as the girls file all of this information away in the back of our minds, just in case.

"We don't use it!" she rushed to clarify - as if J had been voicing concern. "If we started sharing all of our clients' secrets, they'd be afraid to come see us. Most of it is trivial shit anyway; cheating boyfriends and husbands, mostly. But, for our own protection, sometimes it's good to have an insurance policy.

"Anyway, a guy came to see me a couple of months ago, and afterwards, as we laid in bed together, he started talking about this private dick he'd seen, who'd gotten him out of some situation. He was chuckling when he said 'private dick,' as if it was an inside joke, so I asked him more about it, and he told me about you."

"Yeah," J responded, "most of my male clients think it's funny to call me a 'private dick.' They never grew out of thinking that the word 'dick' is funny. I'm just waiting for some humourist to start calling me a 'Private Dyke.'"

"I'm sure they do, behind your back - at least, the ones you won't fuck!"

J laughed.

"So," Staci continued, "like all of the other information I receive, I filed that little tidbit away in the back of my mind. And then I started worrying about the disappearing girls; and then I saw that message in WhatsApp. So... so here I am."

"Well... I'm sure there was a step in between, but I can probably guess how that went," J said.

"Yeah, I'm sure you can," Staci continued for her, ruefully. "Yes, I went to the cops, and told them everything I've just told you. And got exactly what you're expecting I got: Nothing. They didn't believe me; 'Girls leave the business all the time,' the guy said, 'You should probably leave yourself.' Then he offered to 'protect' me, if I'd give him a weekly blowjob."

"So here's the thing," J said, after a moment. "I'm happy to help. If this is what we're thinking it is, this dude needs to be stopped. If it's not - if we're somehow overreacting, and something more innocent is going on - it'll still be better to find that out, and then you and the other girls can rest easier. But," she continued, "if it is what we think it is, and I find this guy... I'm not a cop, and the cops can't even know that I exist. You understand?"

"I understand," Staci responded.

"What I mean," J elaborated, "is that when I find him, I might not have a good way to bring him to the attention of the authorities. So I'd have to take care of it... in a different way. KnowwhatImean?"

"You're being very clear," Staci said, "which I appreciate. Now let me be clear: if our fears are true, and there's someone out there stalking working girls, I'll have no qualms whatsoever about anything you decide to do with him. All I ask, if it's possible, is that you do it slow, and make him feel it."

J smiled. "Then we understand each other," she said. "Now... let's talk about next steps. First, let me add myself to the WhatsApp group." She fiddled with Staci's phone, as she continued. "Second, is there a way you can put me in touch with some of these girls, outside of the group? Like, in person? If this guy is on the group, then I don't want to send messages there; for now, I'd prefer to stay under the radar."

"Sure," Staci responded. "There are a few girls I can put you in touch with. Some of them are just as worried as I am, and others think I'm just being paranoid. But, like I say, we stick together. They'll all talk to you, for my sake, whether they believe me or not."

"Good," J said. "Then let me do some digging. I've added my number to your contacts, too, under 'J.' Text me when you line those meetings up, or give the girls my number, if you want."

"There's one more thing," Staci said, after a moment. "I'm... well, I'm not sure how much you charge."

"Don't worry about that," J responded. "I'm not taking this one for the money. If I'm able to find the guy, and we're able to stop him from doing what he's doing, we'll find some other way for you girls to compensate me."

"Shouldn't be a problem," Staci said. "You're pretty hot. I'm sure some of the girls would be happy to do you. I can even take care of you right now, if you-"

J cut her off, laughing. "No," she said, "that's not what I meant! I'm talking about information. That's more use to a private dick than orgasms. Tempting though your offer is," she finished, with a wink. "Okay, I'm going to do some digging on our unsub, see what I can find, and I'll get back to you."

"Unsub?"

"Sorry, short for 'unknown suspect.' Trade jargon." J had actually read it in a novel, but it stuck with her, and it sounded good, so now that she had a chance to actually use the term it had popped out.

As they got up, Staci looked visibly relieved, compared to how she'd looked when she entered the office. She started to move toward the door, before suddenly pivoting back to hug J fiercely. "Thank you," she whispered. "Don't let him get any more girls."

"I'll do my best," J whispered back, touched at this girl's need, and pretending that she wasn't turned on by the physical contact. She hoped working on an actual case would dampen her recent, out of control libido...

--

A couple of hours later, J again found herself lying naked on her bed, panting and glistening with sweat, after another self-induced orgasm. She hadn't wasted the time in between, however; quite the opposite. Putting herself in the shoes (or pants?) of a man looking for illicit sex - which was probably how the unsub had found the girls - she'd embarked upon an intensive search, starting with Google and branching out anywhere else her browser took her, trying to figure out the best way to locate and hire an escort. During her searches she'd even come across Staci's website, finding out in the process that, under those clothes, Staci was fucking hot.

After exchanging some texts with Staci, she'd then gone specifically to the sites of some of the girls suspected to have gone missing. Using a newly created Gmail account, under the name "Jack," she'd messaged them to enquire about meeting, just in case one or more of the girls wasn't actually missing, but had just gone silent in the WhatsApp group. So far she hadn't heard back from any of them, but she had no idea whether that fact was significant or not. Did escorts usually respond immediately? Would they check their messages once a day? Were some girls more "flaky" than others - and could that flakiness correlate to the girls who'd gone missing in the first place?

What J had been looking for was a pattern between the girls, but she hadn't been able to discern one. The girls' faces were all very beautiful, but they didn't seem to fit into any kind of a type: they were of different races, they had different body types, they even had different "vibes" - some had the friendly, innocent "girl next door" look; some were going for a dirty, pornstar vibe; and one was putting on more of a dominatrix persona.

Needing to think, therefore, J had followed her usual technique: endorphins are great for the brain, so she'd stripped off her clothes and put her Lelo back to work. It hadn't worked, unfortunately - as she came down from her orgasm, she had no further bright ideas - but that didn't put her off. Time spent having an orgasm is never time wasted.

It was time to pound the pavement. J got dressed again - actually taking the time to put on a bra and panties this time, since she'd be going out into the world - grabbed her bag, and headed out the door.

--

Her first stop was the morgue. She let herself in the back door and made her way to the office. She was in luck: the only person there was Bill.

J had helped Bill out of a mess a few weeks ago, and had started an on-again off-again physical relationship with him while she was at it. The combination of his gratefulness and the occasional, yet intense, bout of fucking made Bill more than happy to share information with J anytime she needed it. He'd even managed to surreptitiously wrangle a security badge for her, so that she could come and go as she wished. Accordingly, his eyes lit up when he saw her enter.

"J!" he called out. "How are you? What brings you to my little corner of the world?"

"Oh, a couple of things," she responded, "but first things first..."

She came around to his side of the desk, kneeled down in front of him, and freed his cock from his pants. Bill was a grower, not a shower, but after a few moments in her mouth he was at full mast. She got up, lifted her skirt, pulled her panties aside, and impaled herself on him.

"Oh god," she mumbled, "That's more like it..." She lowered herself down on him, bit by bit, letting his girth stretch her, until he was all the way in.

"I've missed you too," he responded, with a smile. He slid her dress down her shoulders and pulled up her bra to get access to her breasts.

J started to slide up and down on him, eyes closed, focused on the sensation of the cock that was now at the very centre of her being. She bit her lip, focused on sliding him in and out of her, gradually increasing the intensity, until she was fucking him, slow but deep, in his chair.

Bill removed his mouth from her breast and looked up into her face, enthralled by the look of rapture painted there. But then she opened her eyes, looked down at him, and leaned over to kiss him. She was getting close, and they could both feel it, but she was trying to put it off, even if just for a moment, to enjoy this pre-orgasmic anticipation for a long as she could. But then the damn broke, and she was cumming, oh god she was cumming so good, clinging to him as if for dear life, her moans of pleasure were almost pitiable whines - was it pleasure, or desperation?

She was starting to come down from her climax, but still clinging to Bill, when he changed up the pace. He grabbed her ass and stood up with her still impaled on his cock, seated her on the desk, and then the roles switched: now she was the one getting fucked, and he the one doing the fucking.

Where J had gone slow and deep, Bill now switched to fast and hard. Immediately the office was filled with the sounds of their bodies slapping together, along with their moans and grunts, which were timed with Bill's thrusts into J's sopping cunt. The change of intensity hit J hard, and her climax was quickly followed by a second one, more intense - and louder! - than the first.

Bill kept it up until he could hold back no longer, and started filling her with his seed. Bill was one of the few lovers J had had who continued the pace of his fucking as he came; usually guys would either stop altogether, or begin to time their thrusts with the jets of cum ejecting from their throbbing cocks, but Bill simply continued to fuck J with abandon. It could make things messy, at times, but they did most of their fucking right here in his office, so if there was a mess, it was Bill's problem to clean up, not hers.