Never Trust a Beautiful Blonde

I ran my fingers up her thigh, over her hip, and up to her breast, brushing the tips against the nipple. She moaned softly, pressing closer to me. My hand worked its way downward, coming to rest in the soft patch of hair at the union of her thighs. Another moan escaped her lips, as I slid a finger deep into her pussy. Her eyes slowly opened, and a smile crossed her lips as she began stroking my cock. "My God, Duncan, you are insatiable. What must I do to satisfy this friend of yours?"

"I'm sure you'll think of something."

She rolled over on top of me, her silky hair draping over me as she kissed me. My dick, with a mind of it's own, slid easily into her dripping cunt. There was no urgency this time; instead, she rocked back and forth slowly, lazily, drawing every sensation out like an erotic torturer. I had never known anyone so purely sexual as this girl was, so able to both give and receive pleasure. Most women put about as much effort into sex as they do into sewing up a shirt. Why do you think I track down so many cheating husbands?

But Gabrielle was different. Totally different. She didn't merely enjoy sex, she allowed herself to be consumed by it. She simply sat back and let it overwhelm her. She was incredible.

And, at that moment, what she was doing was overwhelming me. She had gradually quickened her strokes, only to slow them again. Over and over again, she repeated this process, alternatively pounding the hell out of my dick, then slowing down until I could barely feel her slick snatch moving up and down, back and forth. I squeezed her gorgeous breasts together until her erect nipples were almost touching, then slid my tongue across the rubbery tips. It seemed as though an electric current was passing through her body, as the muscles gripping my hard shaft began to spasm. She collapsed onto me, completely exhausted, the sweat dripping from her body, mingling with mine, the juices from her pussy flowing down my cock as I continued to thrust into her. She moaned softly, moving her hips to meet my thrusts, and raised her head to look me in the eyes. "Would you like to cum on my breasts?"

In response, I pulled out of her tight cunt, rolling her off of me, and onto her back. Straddling her waist, I began to stroke my slick cock between her lovely mounds. She pressed her breasts together, forming a tight tunnel for my dick. Within seconds, I felt my own orgasm begin, and I pulled back, shooting what little cum I had left onto her right tit. As I faded into unconsciousness, the last image I saw was Gabrielle licking my cum from her nipple.

The August heat already had my apartment stifling when I woke up, and when I looked at my watch, I was surprised to see that it was almost 11:30. I lay there for several minutes, watching her sleep, her naked body glistening with sweat, her extraordinary tits rising and falling with her gentle breathing. Despite the exertions of the night before, I found myself with a rapidly growing erection. As if on cue, her eyes fluttered open and she caught me eyeing her with obvious hunger.

She groaned softly, "My God, Duncan! Is it always this hot in here?"

"Sorry, doll. Sixty-five bucks a month doesn't pay for much in the way of luxury. Not exactly what you're used to, is it?"

"I'm sorry, Duncan, I didn't mean to make it sound that way. Please don't be angry."

She looked as though she expected me to backhand her for complaining about the heat. Something else I owed that son-of-a-bitch Hennessey for. "Hey, honey, calm down. God, I'm not going to get angry with you because you said it's hot. Shit, I know that it's a fucking oven in here. No need to apologize for saying so."

She leaned over and kissed me, gently at first, then with growing urgency. Her hand closed around my erect penis, squeezing the first drops of precome from it. Slowly, deliberately, she licked the fluid from her fingers, then began licking it off the head of my cock. I put my hand on the back of her head and began thrusting into her mouth, desperately wanting to cum inside it. She swallowed every inch of my cock, as her fingers played with my balls. Everything, the heat, the faint headache, the dull ache of sore muscles, the persistent nagging feeling that something didn't quite ring true, all of it disappeared from my mind with the sight of her blonde head pistoning up and down on my hard dick. I felt the tension building in my balls, and knew that I was about to fill her mouth with cum. She knew it too, and began to stroke the base of my cock, jerking me off into her waiting mouth.

As my trembling began to subside, she got up, and headed into the bathroom. A few minutes later, I heard the shower start. I rolled over and lit up a cigarette. It always helps me think, gets me into the proper frame of mind to sort things out. I knew that she wasn't telling me the whole truth, and I knew that, in my line of work, that could be dangerous. I hated to just come right out and accuse her of lying but I needed a few more answers before I went head-to-head with Hennessey. When I finished the smoke, I got up, heading into the bathroom to help Gabrielle with her shower.

Later, as we were in my car heading towards the photographer's house, the rumbling in my gut was louder than the Pontiac's straight-8 and it wasn't because I was hungry. "Gabrielle, what aren't you telling me about this?"

"Nothing, Duncan. I promise you. I've told you everything I know."

"You're certain of that?"

"Duncan, I wouldn't lie to you! I need your help too much."

We didn't have much more to say to one another until we reached the photographer's. Being a slimeball photographer must pay a hell of a lot, judging by the house we were parked in front of. At least, it paid a helluva lot more than being a private cop. I went around to open the passenger door for Gabrielle.

"Duncan, can I please wait out here? I don't think that I can face him."

"You sure?"

When she nodded, I closed her door, patting my pocket to make sure that I didn't leave the key in the ignition. I walked up to the door and started to knock, when I noticed that it was ajar. I felt like I was in a Dick Tracy serial but I had to go in. I drew my Colt, easing the door open.

The day before, the price of the carpet that covered the living room floor would have probably paid my rent for a year. Now, though, the three-foot-wide bloodstain likely devalued it quite a bit. The silk dressing gown the stiff was wearing was probably worth a bundle, too. Only not with those four neat little holes in the back of it. I rolled him face up, and, instead of four neat little holes in front, there was a single, big, ragged one where his heart and lungs used to be. Only one round does that kind of damage; .45 cal. softnose slugs. That why I carry them. I was starting to feel like a mouse nibbling on a piece of cheese, and wondering why it was on a big wooden plate, with all kinds of springs and wires attached. It was time for me to get the hell out of there.

As I started to leave, I noticed the stiff's face; it was familiar somehow. Then it came to me, it was the guy in the picture that Gabrielle had shown me, the one with his cock buried in her cunt. He was stiffer than he was then, only now there was no smile on his face.

I had almost made it to my car when the black-and-white pulled up behind it. Both cops got out, service revolvers drawn and pointed straight at me. While one cop went into the house to find the man I'm supposed to have killed, the other one checked my piece. "When's the last time you fired this pistol, Mallory?"

"Why don't you tell me, Scarpetta. You guys seem to be a step ahead of me, anyway."

He pulled the clip. "You got four rounds missin', smartass. Mind tellin' me where they are?"

I just shrugged; they weren't the only thing missing. Gabrielle was nowhere to be seen. Scarpetta's partner returned just in time to hear the last. "I think I found 'em, Tony. He gave 'em to some guy inside. Right in the back."

Within a predictably short time, I found myself in a holding cell at Central Booking, waiting for a detective to let me know just what was going on. It took a while but finally Jerry O'Brien stuck his thick mick face in the door. He unlocked the cell, and took me into one of the interrogation rooms. I had barely sat down before he started. "Why'd ya kill him, Mallory?"

"I didn't kill anybody, O'Brien. Even you should be able to figure out that I was framed."

"C'mon, Mallory, I thought you'd be a little more original than that. That one goes all the way back to Cain and Abel. You're fond of taking dirty pictures. What were you doing, trying to blackmail him? He didn't want to go along with it, so you decided to get some target practice?"

"Shit, Jerry, you think I'm stupid enough to shoot some asshole, then stick around admiring my handiwork until the cops stroll in? Give me credit for some sense, please!"

"What do you call these, Mr. Hot-Shot private dick?" He said, laying a large envelope in front of me. Inside were pictures, remarkably similar to the one that Gabrielle had shown me about a lifetime or so ago. It was Hennessey in every picture, always nude, with a variety of women. There were pictures of him with one woman, two women, all the way up to him, another guy, and five women. The only thing I didn't see in the pictures was Gabrielle. I looked at the backs of the photos. There was a date, written in ink, with my initials, on each one. I had been fucked like a pro, in more ways than one. I noticed the dates; if they were right, then there were at least thirty photos, in a three-week span. This guy had a real monkey on his back. I had heard of guys that were addicted to sex and he must've had it bad.

"I didn't take these. I've never even seen them before."

"You'll pardon me if I don't exactly believe you."

"Look, first of all, I had no reason to kill the guy. Besides, he was dead a long time before I got there. Ask the Coroner. You've got nothin'!"

"I got nothin'!? I got a dead bigshot with four holes from a forty-five in him. I got you comin' outta the guy's house, with a warm forty-five, that's been fired four times. I got evidence you were trying to blackmail the stupid cunthound. I got your ass, and I got enough to strap your ass into the electric chair. Time to say goodnight, Gracie."

Something O'Brien said set alarm bells jangling in my head. "What do you mean, 'a dead bigshot'? Just who was this Hennessey, anyway?"

"Hennessey? Don't you keep track of who you kill? The guy's name is Donovan, Thomas Donovan. His Daddy stands a real good chance of bein' the one to sign your death warrant."

Well, it was all pretty downhill from there. You'd be surprised how little evidence can get a conviction, especially when the right kind of power is behind it. That was five years ago now, and, according to my calendar, I've got three days left, barring, as the chaplain is fond of saying, a last-minute reprieve from the Governor. Between you and me, I'm not holding my breath.

As for the grieving widow, I figure she must've drugged my drink, then gave my pistol to whoever popped her husband. Then he brought it back, and between the drug and the sex, I was none the wiser. The last I heard, she was enjoying the sun in Havana, with just her late husband's chauffeur, and her late husband's nine million dollars, for companionship.

The chauffeur, they say, accompanies her everywhere. A good man, they say, named Hennessey. They say he's one hell of an amateur photographer.